Bless the world on Christmas night

Hope was born one wild night
Beneath a star and angel-light
He stretched and shivered with delight
And darker forces flexed their might.
His mother wrapped him warm and tight
And shepherds worshiped at the sight.

On being here, he'd set his sight
He'd planned and dreamed about this night
When he'd be held, and holding tight
Heaven's gift by candlelight
Awash in pain, with human might
But forward-looking with delight.

The prophets hailed him with delight
And wept and sang out at the sight;
The wise men spoke of Herod's might
Angels warned his dad by night
They fled to Egypt, traveling light,
And his mother held him tight.

He kept his secret sealed up tight
Until his mother in delight
Brought his holy gift to light
Water to wine, with none in sight
How many lips drank deep that night
A cup of bliss, and well they might!

Pharisees fought with all their might
Gatekeepers tried to hold on tight
But the day star dawned, goodbye good night
From tears came joy, from sorrow, delight
The mourners cheered, the blind found sight
And Jesus said, Follow - his yoke is light.

So every year we string up lights
And give - and give - in case we might
Turn back the dark, and offer sight
And hold our loves, like Mary, tight,
And lift a cup that cheers, delights -
And bless the world on Christmas night.

If your hopes are out of sight, hold tight -
He came that we might know delight;
May his light be born in you tonight.

Give

Jesus wasn't rich. 

Right? We know this. He was born a poor baby to a pair of poor parents, from a poor town.

But He said -  Give, and it will be given to you. They will pour into your lap a good measure—pressed down, shaken together, and running over. For by your standard of measure it will be measured to you in return.”

He didn't just say this to the rich. 

He preached it to His followers, He lived it out, and He celebrated generosity.

There's an older lady who lives in my neighbourhood. By any objective standard, she is poor. But she regularly shuttles our car-less neighbours to and from the grocery store, doctors appointments, the pharmacy. When any of them end up in hospital for an overnight stay or longer, she cares for their pets. A neighbour's mom recently passed away, and this lady took in her cats. 

She's a poor woman from a poor town, and I know she feels the pinch as prices rise. But still she gives.  She isn't a religious person, but she loves like Jesus, and our neighbourhood is better for her presence in it. 

May we know people like this.
May we be them.
For Jesus' sake.

Merry Christmas, friends. xo.

A Birch Wood

When I was younger, I had a dream that I met with the Lord in a forest of birches. We sat on a bench and talked, and I was filled with the most expansive peace.

For a long time after having that dream, whenever I would pray or pause to be in His presence, I pictured meeting Him in that grove.

It's been a long time since I thought of it, but the other morning when I woke up, it was on my mind. I paused to pray for the day, but for the life of me, I could not picture the forest, the bench, the green canopy of leaves. There was just - nothing.

No imaginary chapel in the birches, and no Jesus.

"Where did you go?" I asked, "Why can't I find you?"

But there was just silence.

The kids began to stir and I was catapulted into my day, ready or not.

I can't remember what happened - I was in the kitchen, and probably listening to music or maybe a podcast - and something made my heart soar upward. And suddenly I was very aware of Jesus' presence, He was right there - right in my busy morning, in my unfinished kitchen, with spiderwebs in the corners of the ceiling. 

Immanuel. God with us. 

Not God with us in church.

Not God with us in our quietest moments.

Not God with us in our best clothes.

Not God with us when we Stop To Pray.

God with us.

"I am with you always," He said. No birches required.

 

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo

Ode to my Favourite Heart Surgeon

He has been a heart surgeon for years
Carefully slicing into students and
Clearing the calcifying facade of apathy from their veins,
Jumpstarting their imaginations,
Restoring the link from pulse to ink.

He reads aloud like a
Pacemaker, steady and rhythmic,
And says the voice inside his head reads the same way.

His instruments are precise and sharp -
He is both expert and empathic, for
He knows whereof he speaks:
He, too, wrestles ideas down like alligators
And pins them to the page.

At the end of the school year
He scrawls post-operating instructions on every final packet.

WRITE! He wrote on mine,
Or I will hunt you down like a ghost across the misty chasm of time!
WRITE! WRITE! WRITE!

And the doctor's advice
Has stood me in good stead.
My heart beats, and I write.

💓

Thankful for Mr. McKay, who came through heart surgery of his own this week. 
Merry Christmas.

On creating and loving

 Undignified
(with apologies, and thanks, to Rachel, for pointing it out.)

Have you ever seen a daddy
Playing good guys versus baddies
Getting caught by little boys
With imaginary ropes?

Have you ever seen a papa
Play charades and making up
A bunch of crazy words and scenes
To pull gleeful from a hat?

Have you ever seen a dad
Tell his kids it's not so bad,
Check their closets, pray for good,
Before he sends them off to bed?

Have you ever heard your pops
When he showers, maybe mops,
Sing a silly song or rhyme
Because his heart is full of joy?

Have you ever seen an artist
Or a baker or the smartest
Person in your class intent
On unraveling their craft?

D'you think God, when making rainbows,
Or giraffes, or frosted windows
Keeps his face all prunes-and-prisms
 - or when He sings, is it with glee?

I can see Him with his tongue out
As He shakes a sheet of rain out
So that one drop - just right there -
Slides on your cheek from off that tree -

When you love you dive in face-first
Watch the light of joy like grace burst
When your mind is racing busy
When you're all wrapped up love -

There's nothing dignified in love
It's silly; you can shove
That word straight out the window -
There's nothing dignified in love.

WWF (weekend wrestling family)

 

Inspired by the playful and loving dad who parents our kids, and by my friend Rachel's characterization of God in Zephaniah 3:17 -
For the Lord your God is living among you.
    He is a mighty savior.
He will take delight in you with gladness.
    With his love, he will calm all your fears.
    He will rejoice over you with joyful songs.

Family Heirlooms

When I was little, my sisters and I would read for hours
Sharing a sleeve of saltines and well-worn paperbacks.

When my aunts were small, they would cuddle back to back
Dipping into the crinkly sleeve with one hand and turning pages with another.

Today, my kids leapt on the Premium Plus box with joy
And hied themselves couchward, post-haste.

Nobody passed this on intentionally.
There was never a ceremony of handing over the salty reins.

And yet, I am certain that in some glossy Christmas future,
I will find my grandkids curled around a sleeve of saltines, reading.

(Some of you might have a watch, a war medal, an immigration record
But I wouldn't trade my heritage of saltines and stories for anything.)

Today I Unpacked a Dish

Two and a half years ago, we packed up our kitchen for a 2-month reno. It all went terribly wrong (see old posts for more context and whining). 

Now our cupboards are almost all installed, so we've put our temporary dishes in them, but I haven't been able to unpack our boxes full of all our true kitchen dishes because -

Well, because I had packed them up in a whirl of hope. I had imagined unpacking them, starry-eyed and grateful, tucking them all into their crisp fresh homes. 

I haven't been able to unpack them because the world they were supposed to live in doesn't exist yet.

Today Vava and I did a little baking, and suddenly realized I didn't have the baking dish we needed (I've been really really good at making do for years - but we needed this one). We were halfway through the recipe. 

I knew that dish was packed up in the porch. I asked Patrick for help, and he cleared off the most easily accessible box, then opened it up.

My heart stood still. They had waited for me. They were all right there, dishes and tea towels, pots and pans and lids.

Vava asked me why I was crying as I washed the dish. "Is it special to you?" she asked, and she sounded incredulous.

"It IS me," I shrugged, laughing.

And I think it's actually all of us.

I know that on one hand you haven't been in limbo with a reno that maybe will never get finished, but on the other, I think maybe you have. I think we packed our usual lives up when Covid came, full of hope and eagerness to stop the spread. We genuinely thought an end date would come. But Covid turned out to be a really shifty contractor, making promises and taking money and delivering less and less. And we didn't ask for this and we didn't want this and it took way more from us than we imagined and we still don't have the world we'd bargained for and we still have Covid. 

How do we move forward? How do we unpack ourselves into a world we didn't pack ourselves up for?

Maybe you, like me, will do it with tears. Maybe, like Patrick, with gentleness. Maybe, like Vava, with open-hearted nonchalance. And maybe you won't even do it yet - not yet. (It's okay. There's no deadline on unpacking your own stuff.)

Because the life you packed away - the routines and plans and clothes and work you pressed pause on - that person is being unboxed into a different world than the one they dreamed about.  And I think that's a big deal.

It's not the one we hoped for.

But it's the one we've got. 

And so maybe, when you're ready - and you know you need to - 

Take a deep breath and open that box.

I hope that your unpacking will bring more joy than sorrow. I hope you will find treasures you didn't realize you cherished. And I hope you will find peace as you unpack.

Merry Christmas, friends.

❤️

All is Calm, All is Bright

There's something of the magic
In the stillness of the night
When snow has been fast-falling
And the world is drenched in white.
When the air is soft and muffled,
And the cold feels almost warm
And every set of tracks and prints
Buried by the storm.
Nothing out there's moving
And I could see it if it was -
The brightness glows from flake to flake
A billion lacy stars.
He wove it all, with weather
With stormy clouds and air just right -
God Himself lays down this blanket,
God Himself sings silent night.

De Sterrenacht

My favourite painting is De Sterrenacht (The Starry Night), by Vincent van Gogh. I'd never read van Gogh's life story, although I could identify his Sunflowers, and his self-portrait with a bandage over the ear that I'd heard he cut off himself in a fit of madness. (But after all, aren't all artists a bit mad? This is what they say.)

Today I saw a collection of stills from a Dr. Who episode about van Gogh, which left a rumbling curiosity behind. Mostly because I was fresh out of something to watch on Netflix, but also because I love The Starry Night, I decided to satisfy the rumble. (I poked around on a few places on the internet, but my biggest source was Britannica - click here to read their comprehensive entry.)

Van Gogh was born into a Protestant family. He was a quiet kid who liked the outdoors. At age 16 he began to work with his uncle, an art dealer. 

At age 19, he suffered a heartbreak, being rejected by his love.

The encyclopedia doesn't say why, but he moved to England and worked as a teacher and lay preacher. I am pretty certain he was trying to get as far away from his pain as possible. He wanted to share the gospel, and ended up doing missionary work in southern Belgium, where he gave away everything he owned to the poor.

Upon learning he did that, the church told him he was interpreting the scriptures too literally, and dismissed him from his missionary post.

Rejected by his love, and rejected by the church that he loved, van Gogh gathered up his twice-broken heart and began to dedicate himself to painting, not to wallow in despair, but wanting to "bring consolation to humanity through art." 

“I want to give the wretched a brotherly message,” he explained to his brother Theo. “When I sign [my paintings] ‘Vincent,’ it is as one of them.”

He painted - a lot - for ten years. 

Then came the madness of the ear-episode. This is what we know.

On Christmas Eve, 1888, van Gogh and Gaugin had an argument. Britannica says "van Gogh snapped." The original story was that van Gogh chased Gaugin with a razor and then cut off the bottom half of his own ear. Then he took the severed earlobe to a brothel and asked the women there to guard it carefully.

Two art historians in 2008, however, published a work called Van Gogh's ear: Paul Gaugin and the Pact of Silence. They claim that Gaugin cut off van Gogh's ear with a sword, but the two men made a pact of silence and van Gogh took the blame for it. (I feel like this action is a lot more likely and in keeping with the character of his life so far than that he chased Gaugin down only to cut off his own ear.)

Anyway, after this he was checked into an asylum, and once he was released, checked himself back in in order to be under medical supervision. It was there he painted De Sterrenacht. He continued to experience periods of calm and despair.

He painted. He wrote long, detailed letters to friends. He wrote about seeing the steady luminous morning star, which he included in The Starry Night. He worked and he trembled with loneliness.

Eventually, the despair loomed larger than he could bear, and he shot himself. He died 2 days later.  

I did not expect to find that the now-famous painter had once been a passionate preacher. I did not imagine that the theme of despair and consolation, which see-saws so heavily in my own life, was also the see-saw in his.

I did not expect to cry over an Encyclopedia Britannica entry.

But here we are.

And apparently I'm not the only one his life has spoken to. He is now considered one of the most widely influential artists of all time.

(ps if you want to cry over a song, here's one.)

And here's a screen-grab of the stills I saw that started me down this rabbit hole:

The thing about stars is, you can only see them at night. You can only really see them when everything around you is really dark. 

And hope shines steady through the starry night. 

(Did we miss it? We did not. God splashed the metaphor all over Bethlehem's night sky. The gift of the darkness is this: hope shines on.)

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

On missing the Christmas concert

I shivered in bed
Three friends sent me videos
Looks like love to me

Thanks, friends. xo.

A star and a lump in the throat

 A hope, a wish, a dream,
A baby
A cat and a saucer of cream,
A baby
A longing, a hunger,
A thousand years late
A light and a shepherd
A loaf, a gate
A prophet is sighing
A fig tree is dying
The soldier is stoic
But his wife won't stop crying
A fish and a boat
A lamb and a goat
A star and a lump in the throat
A baby

If a snowflake falls down slow

If

A snowflake falls down slow
And gentle to a spot down low
And snow piles up on top of snow

And

Sunlight shafts through curtains pulled
From far-off star to distant world
And light falls down without a word

And

Wind whips wild a kilometer high
And paints her sails across the sky
Yet skims your earth-bound laundry-line

Then
(I think)

Gravity likes holding things
Close to her breast, a treasuring
(And even, once, a holy king).

Never once did I ever walk alone -

Last night, we made our kids put on their boots and jackets and walk to the corner to watch the Santa Claus parade. After a week inside fighting the flu, they were pretty low on energy. Two of them gave up and walked home, and two stayed til the bitter end. (And it was bitter! The wind had bite.)

Near the end of the parade, a young mom with a teeny tiny baby joined us. "Better late than never," she laughed self-consciously.

And just - that little baby all bundled up, that young mama with her unzipped jacket and breathless evidence of hurrying - it took me right back to when Sam was a baby and I didn't yet know how to juggle my needs and his needs and if I showed up to anything at all I was usually late, underdressed, and flustered. 

I smiled at her and told her how cute her little baby was. "It's his first parade," she beamed, "he's three months old."  He was looking around so alert, so bright - the flashing lights and Christmas music a thing of wonder.

"Do you have your phone?" I asked her, "can I take a picture of you guys at his first parade for you?"

She directed me to take the phone out of her purse, and teared up a little bit. "His dad's at work, and I didn't want him to miss it," she said, "could you take a little video too, so he can see it? Thank you so so much!"

"Moms have to have each others backs," I laughed, "no problem."

And she told me how hard it was to be raising him away from her family, wishing she could be closer to her mom, especially during Christmas. And I told her I knew that feeling too, raising four kids with my own mom far away. 

And today I was thinking about that, and I was thinking about all the ways other moms have stepped in and had my back. I haven't had my own little mama, with her readiness to laugh and play and just relax into a moment - but I have not been momming alone.

All the women who showered me with gifts when Sam was born and we couldn't afford a thing. The neighbours who made birthday cakes and passed treats over the fence as they watched the kids grow. The playgroup moms who offered a breath of fresh air.  The ladies from church who brought meals for two weeks after the birth of each child. The dinner club moms who shared their stories and prayers, hopes and fears. The bus stop moms who shared a chat on both ends of the day. The Sunday School moms who took turns teaching the kids Bible stories and songs. Online moms who have cheered my kids on through the screen. The park moms who became friends. Neighbour moms who let the kids play together in fun backyards. The teachers and staff at school who loved my kids like their own. The beach moms who shared sunscreen and shovels and floaties. The friends-with-older-kids whose advice is worth its weight in rubies. The kidless friends who bent their schedules around our kids' bedtime routine to make game night happen.  

Never once did I ever walk alone. God sent me so many moms.

I have been loved and held by all the people who have had my back - who have cheered me on, laughed with me, passed me extra baby wipes when I didn't pack enough. 

And friends who have taken my picture when my hands were full of babies.

Thank you, friends - you are treasures, one and all.

Merry Christmas. xo.

(*I also need to say, Patrick is an incredible dad, and I have never felt like I am raising the kids alone. He is hands-on, patient, funny, and so so loving. He works hard all day at work and comes home and jumps right in. I could not ask for a better partner in all of this.)

It sure is nice

Sam is tall and quiet, with a goofy sense of humour that comes pouring out when he's around his favourite friends. He loves funny YouTube videos, he loves to read, he loves to play with figurines and set up epic battles. 

When he got out of bed this morning, he just happened to come out of his room when everyone else had converged in the hallway. 

I was stepping into the bathroom so I called good morning, and the others all hugged him hello.

When we met in the kitchen a few minutes later, he was grinning.

"You look happy today," I said.

"It sure is nice to start your day with a bunch of people who love you," he said.

A gift like that can warm your heart all year long.

Wishing you a moment of knowing that the people you love loved to be loved by you - 

Merry Christmas friends ❤️

Xo.

Known

Mary said to the angel: how will this be, since I am a virgin? (literally, I do not know a man) (Luke 1:34)

Mary had never known a man. I love that old-school phrase, because it carries in within it an acknowledgement of the togetherness that is kerneled up in oneness: knowing, and being known.

God knows us.

He knows us.

We are not alone.

He came to us.

Immanuel, God with us.

Merry Christmas friends. Xo.

Common Grace

If you find yourself some freedom,
With ability, and time,
And this freedom coincides
With a moonlit night like mine -
Take your dog and take your leash
Slip your arms into your coat
Stuff your feet into your boots
Zip your zip up to your throat.
Walk or skip or run as sprightly
As your boots and bones allow
To the closest wildish place
And - if your dog stands still somehow -
Tip your head up to the sky
Let the wind caress your face
Drink the beauty and the stillness
As you bathe in common grace.

It's a beautiful night out there :) 

Merry Christmas, friends.

xo.

$50 000

I was blown away this week when I read that a local business donated $50 000 to three local food banks during the Christmas food drive. They could have put it in their own pockets -

And since I was already mulling over the idea of Jubilee and Sabbath years, it tangled together in my head and I realized - I've never really thought about what Jubilee would be like from the perspective of a wealthy person.

When I read "all debts are forgiven" and "anyone with extra food opens their storehouses so no one goes hungry," I unconsciously imagine myself as the person whose debt is forgiven, the person who can fill up a waning cupboard again. 

And Jubilee blew my mind all over again, because it obviously blesses both the poor and the wealthy.

The poor? Their prayers are answered, food is available, and their debt is erased. They can start working forward again - building their future with joy and reaping the reward of their work. This seems like the obvious benefit of Jubilee to me - to feed and clothe and offer respite to the poor.

But the wealthy? What do they get out of Jubilee? They have to open their storehouses and share any abundance. They have to let the land rest from its constant cycle of planting and harvesting. They have to let the labourers rest too. So their stockpiles ebb, maybe entirely away. Their next few years will be leaner. 

I think this gives them the blessing of community, and sets them free from being envied. (When you know your landlord will open the silo and share the grain with you, you celebrate their success.) And it releases both the poor and the wealthy from worshiping money as the road to freedom or esteem, and sets them free as co-recipients of common grace. They can both rejoice when the crop succeeds, when the business booms, when resources pile up - because they will not be ground down by it. There will be sharing, and rest. And they can both be free from temptation to despair - because the highs will be made lower and the valleys will not be as steep. 

Jubilee reminds us that all blessing comes from God and is not God. It reminds us that we're stewards of the blessings we have received, and reminds us to freely give, as we have freely received. Jubilee resets our focus to remember to love God and love our neighbour.

And clearly, I'm not an ancient Israelite. I'm Canadian.

Jubilee isn't Canadian law. It has no legal claim on me, on us.

But His law is love, and His gospel is peace. God opened His heart and shared His Son with us. He gave his best and loved His little neighbours as Himself. And at Christmas, especially, I get a frisson of delight every time I see a snapshot of Jubilee. 

Throw open the storehouse doors! Forgive debts, feed the hungry, rescue the oppressed. Donate to the food banks, volunteer at a shelter, welcome refugees. Because our Jubilee - Jesus - has come. 

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

Shmita, Yovel

I've been reading about the Jewish Shmita, the sabbatical year, when the land and produce and debts and indentured servants should all be forgiven, and given rest and release.  I wanted to know if Jesus could have been born during a Shmita year, or maybe even Yovel - the year of Jubilee, a mega-sabbath, which was supposed to be observed (after? in lieu of?) every seventh Shmita.

It turns out there's a bit of argument about what year is a Shmita year, and even more argument about Yovel years - should Jubilee be marked every 49th year, as the seventh seven? Or on the 50th year, as the year after the year of Shmita. I read theories about Jesus being born in April, and theories of him being born in September. Some speculate he was born on what we now count as 1 AD (or CE), some think it was year 3, others say year 6-7. But nothing conclusive about him being born during a Shmita or Yovel or plain old ordinary year.

To me, it doesn't matter. I was just curious because Jesus seems so Jubilee-y to me.

 Maybe my favourite and most-chewed-over passages of scripture is the Sermon on the Mount, where Jesus teaches his followers to offer forgiveness and renewal and freedom to others, just like the Hebrews were commanded for the year of Jubilee. Forgive debts. Feed the hungry. Welcome strangers. Live graciously and generously toward others, the way God lives toward you.

Our culture does this most at Christmas, I think. Just today I saw two notices about free Holiday meals for any and all, and sign-up sheets for donations for Christmas gifts for the needy have made their rounds from the school.  It's a mini Jubilee to celebrate His birthday.

During Jesus' first recorded sermon, He read this from the Isaiah scroll in the synagogue in Nazareth:

The Spirit of the Lord is on me,
    because he has anointed me
    to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners
    and recovery of sight for the blind,
to set the oppressed free,
to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favour.

And then he told everyone, "today, this scripture is fulfilled in your hearing."

What's the year of the Lord's favour? Yep, you guessed it: Jubilee 😊. 

Merry Christmas, friends. 

xo.

Who are dear to us

Today Kachi was bored. 

The kids are all sick again, just ten days after getting over fevers. Kachi, who'd been the most sick last time, is the least sick this time. He's got a cough and less energy, but no fever.  So while the other kids have been drifting in and out of naps on the couch, Kachi hasn't had a lot to do.

So, instead, he has spent a lot of time and diligence writing books. They are heavy on stick-figure illustrations with lots of action and weapons, and a few words. 

His fourth book was about himself and his best friend. He illustrated as many playdates as he could remember, one after another. After he'd finished, he climbed upstairs to find me and threw himself at me with a deep sigh. 

"I'm feeling so emotional now," he explained, eyes a little full, "Just from thinking about my best friend."  

And part of me wanted to laugh. (I did not. I hugged him tight and told him I was so glad he had such a wonderful friend.)

And then I wondered why - why did I want to laugh? Did I think it was silly, that an 8 year old should feel the weight, the magnitude of examining his closest, dearest friendship? Has it been so long since I did the same? 

Just last night, I teared up over friends who decorated their lawn stump.

I, too, sit down and write stories about mine.

Jesus, too, teared up over his friends.

Jesus, too, told stories about them. 

God, too, filled the universe with pictures and wonder and mysteries and people that make him - yes, a good word choice - emotional.

And at Christmas we sing and retell. We bring gifts and retell. We reenact the story of love given and feel the weight of it, year after year.

I kissed the top of Kachi's head.
"Same, little apple," said the tree.

 

Merry Christmas, dear, dear friends. xo.

The Festive Stump (with apologies and thanks, to P&A)

My friends posted a picture of their house and yard all aglow with Christmas lights. And right down at the corner where the yard meets the street and driveway, there's a squat mass all wrapped up and glorious in a tangle of brilliant colours.

Guys.

They have a Festive Stump.

They wrap it in lights like a favourite tree. No matter that it's short and branchless.

No matter.

Thirteen years ago, in one terrible summer, Patrick and I lost our jobs, lost our apartment, and miscarried our baby. On moving day our family was busy, but these friends showed up at our door. 

We had packed up most of our things, but I hadn't been able to deal with the room full of unused and unusable baby things.

They came in and started helping. My friend gently and kindly helped me choose the special things I wanted to keep, while her husband and Patrick moved the furniture. They were so helpful and spacious and ready to laugh and ready to cry with us.

Truly, my heart was not prepared for happiness that day. But the thing that stands out the most was after we had worked and sweated and worked some more, we sat down on the floor in the empty apartment and scavenged snacks from the mostly empty fridge. We ate pepperettes and drank ciders and laughed until our stomachs hurt.

That day echoes with joy, because they were with us.

They've got a history of wrapping heartache in beauty. 

It looks like a Festive Stump.

It looks like love.

Tomorrow I'm going to find the ugliest part of my house and put some lights on it. I'm going to make like Peter and Angela, and make it special. 

Merry Christmas, friends. 

Xo.

It might feel scary

My friend recently shared her testimony at church. The service was on YouTube, and she sent me a link so I could hear her speak.

After I'd finished listening to her piece, the link stayed active in my YouTube library, and when I was searching for music to listen to while I worked on my kitchen, I saw the video and decided to listen to the rest of the service.

I was mixing up waterproof concrete, working on my own artsy/industrial style backsplash. (I do not want to be working on my own artsy/industrial style backsplash. But I am. We paid for a full kitchen 3 years ago, and our contractor lost our money in his addictions. So we have been living in this unfinished state and it has been breaking my heart away in chunks. Our brief renovation has turned into a massive part of our lives - a full half of Pascal's existence - and the things we have completed since then keep breaking down too. New stove. New sink. The van. Even my foot has decided to break down.  Anyway, I'm not telling you this because I want to dwell on grief, but because I want you to know the frustration and resentment that was colouring my mental space when I was listening to this message. I was not feeling hopeful or glad.)

Suddenly this sentence sliced through my fog.

 

It might feel scary to let yourself believe something again, but that's what Christmas is.  

I backed it up and listened to the message again. The preacher was speaking about hope. 

Before Jesus was born, the Hebrew people had been waiting to hear from God for over 400 years. This God, the one who spoke the world into existence, who spoke in storms and stillness, spoke through prophets and donkeys and little slave girls, spoke to kings and judges and embittered concubines ... This God of theirs who speaks and speaks and speaks hadn't spoken to them collectively for over 

Four

Hundred

Years.

Fear not, the angel told Zechariah, the angel told Mary, the angel told Joseph, the angels told the shepherds; He is with us.

They needed to be reminded - and I need to be reminded - not to fear the believing. Because it's scary to believe, and it's especially scary to believe after hope deferred. (Hope deferred makes the heart sick, says Proverbs 13:12. That's exactly how it feels. Heartsick.)

It might feel scary to let yourself believe something again, but that's what Christmas is.

And these people who had waited and waited and waited for a word from God? They got their word.  The very Word they had longed for came into the world and cried and loved and spoke -- spoke to priests and prostitutes, fishermen and widows, people of all types, rich and poor and eager and reluctant and fearful and brave.  And those who believed were filled with joy.

Hope deferred makes the heart sick, says Proverbs 13:12, but a longing fulfilled is the tree of life.

It is scary to dare to hope - it is scary, and hard, to stand in the middle of broken dreams and fruitless work and choose to hope, anyway. It might feel scary to let yourself believe something again, but that's what Christmas is.

Merry, brave Christmas, dear ones.

Xo.

Candles in the window

My parents had these candles when I was little. Every year when we'd start bugging them about putting up Christmas lights, they'd drag them out of some box somewhere and plug them in, setting them in the windows.

I remember - oh, maybe back in grade 7 or 8 - walking home in the gathering dark after play practice, looking at all the different lights in all the different houses. I didn't have music to listen to, and this was at least a decade before phones, and it was too dark to walk and read - so I'd just walk, and think, as the stars winked on overhead.

Not every house had Christmas lights, but many did. My favourite were always white lights - not the bluey white lights, which made my eyes hurt, but warm white, which felt a little more like candles. 

And it always felt like something special, coming up the street and seeing the candles flickering in the windows. The very world felt alight, holding back the dark in ways both literal and metaphorical. 

I spied on it all, walking through the still blue evening, listening to my backpack scritch against my winter jacket, wind purring against my face.

Anyway. I mentioned to my parents last year that I missed the plastic candles from my childhood, and this summer they brought them to me. When my kids started asking when we were going to decorate for Christmas, I heaved a sigh. (I hurt my foot in November, and climbing stairs is extra sore). But I went up into the attic and dragged down two boxes full of decorations. We plugged these candles in and -

Instant Christmas magic.

For a few moments, I felt that giddy wave flash over me - the excitement and freedom of being young, walking home alone in the dark, looking at Christmas lights. 

I hope you feel it too.

Merry Christmas, friends. 

Xo.

I don't know why it's a swimming metaphor either, sorry

The waves haven't stopped crashing
And I am finding it harder and harder to swim.

But tonight, a raft:
A gangly dog heard my tears
And climbed up onto my couch,
And insisted on being right on top of me.
She wrapped her forelegs tight around my neck
And pressed her whiskered cheek against my hair.
She hugged, and hugged, and hugged.

May many rafts, furry or otherwise,
Make their way to you when you need them
As you row, or paddle,
Or swim through many waters.

(If you are a new reader, welcome. I keep my own little advent calendar here on this blog, by opening up doors and peering inside and sharing what I see. Today is Dec 1, and the first post in my 24-day series.)

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

The people who sat in darkness have seen a great light. And for those who lived in the land where death casts its shadow, a light has shined. - Isaiah 9:2, and Matthew 4:16

How tall was Jesus?

 My friend sent this funny joke 

Which of course made me google how tall Jesus was, and then I found myself plunged into the baffling, hilarious world of religious people arguing.

I know, I know - never read internet comments. But some of them made me laugh so hard.

The consensus seems to be that historically, the average height of a poor man in Jesus' society was between 5'1" and 5'5".

This seems to not sit well with some people. Someone commented that it's blasphemous to say Jesus was short. (I don't know how or why they came to that conclusion. They probably don't either.)  Someone else commented they were certain he was over six feet because God made mankind on the 6th day. You know. The usual wild conjecture.

The Bible doesn't give us any physical description of Jesus. It says he had hair on his face, so we're guessing a beard. And it says he wore sandals, and had clothes that the soldiers gambled over. 

Anyway, those thoughts and ideas were fresh in my mind when I went to church, and the homily was about ... how tall was Jesus. What? I almost laughed out loud.

The sermon started off with a caveat that we don't know how tall Jesus was, but then pointed out something I'd never heard before. 

Do you know the story of Zacchaeus? He was a tax collector, a rich and ruthless man, but when Jesus came to town he threw his sense of personal dignity to the wind and climbed a tree to see over the crowds.

Apparently, Greek has unspecified pronouns like English does.

Who does the second "he" belong to, in this sentence? Zacchaeus wanted to see Jesus, but he could not because he was short.

Grammatically, unclear. It could be either Zacchaeus or Jesus. 

So next we turn to context clues: so Zacchaeus climbed into a sycamore tree to see him. Still unclear.  If there was someone short in a crowd and you wanted to see them, climbing into a tree would be one way to do it.  On the other hand, if you were short and wanted to see someone taller in a crowd, climbing into a tree would be one way to do it.  The context doesn't clarify anything.

So yeah. 

This story might have been about a short tax collector, or - as much as we're not used to thinking it - a short Son of God. 

The message pointed out that in the same way that Zacchaeus gave no thought to maintaining his status or dignity and clambered up a tree, Jesus gave no thought to maintaining his status or sense of dignity. He came all the way down to us - God with us. He wasn't a glorious, beautiful, radiant human. There are no words describing how handsome he was, or how strong or - or anything. Whether he grew to be a 6'1 man or a 5'1" man, he came to us as a baby (and we all start off pretty short lol). 

No matter how you look at it, he climbed down an impossibly long way.

And sometimes looking for Jesus means we have to climb a bit. Throw our serious sense of self to the wind and just do whatever unexpected, unusual, even shocking thing is needed - look past the crowds of people and the religious noise and so many silly arguments until we meet him for ourselves. 

In a tree.

<3 

 

Can Do

I sprained my foot two days ago.

I've been sitting or lying down almost exclusively since then.

(Today I stood at the counter to pack the kids' lunches, and felt it was quite the accomplishment).

But I've definitely been consumed by thoughts of all my body can't do.

Can't walk the kids to school.

Can't take the dog to the park.

Can't go sledding in this gorgeous heap of snow that just fell.

Can't shovel.

Can't vacuum.

Can't mop.

Can't exercise.

Can't can't can't.

But.

And this reminded me  to look at what my body can do.

I walked home, more than a kilometre, after I injured it.

It's been only 36 hours since a huge crunchy sprain, and already it has healed so much. The constant throbbing is gone. I can curl my toes down and even wiggle them a bit. And I swept a section of the floor today. 

This old bod has been healing and repairing like crazy.

Gonna celebrate the can do, and not worry so much about the can't do.

🙏❤️

Rise Up

If you feel like a cry, click over and listen to this song 

It hit me like a Mack truck tonight, and I was left a sobbing wreck because Patrick carries me this way.

Maybe always, but especially lately, my persistence has been faltering. 

(Well ... almost certainly always.)

I do not think it has been easy for him to be married to me, to be carrying me when my hope is weak and my weaknesses many.

But he does, and with so much joy.

Let me share an example.

I have this task to do and it has been overwhelming me. I can't seem to make sense of the instructions and I get overwhelmed and my heart slumps down. I want to do it - but I can't seem to take the steps, I can't even see the steps, that I need to do in order to succeed at this task.

So Patrick printed off this 17-page document full of instructions, and read through it.

He highlighted relevant parts and made notes, drawing my attention and asking me questions, and he made a checklist for me to go through. 

No pressure. No deadline. Just supporting and encouraging and enabling.

Being loved like this is both humbling and glorious. He does not just hold me.

He lifts me up.

❤️

and love your neighbours as yourself

 A few years ago, it poured so completely on Halloween night that only Sam went trick or treating. Then for the past few years, Covid has prevented regular crowds of trick or treaters. 

But last night, the sidewalks in town were full of kids in costumes

At every stop, people were exclaiming about how nice it was to see so many neighbours out and about, how it felt like a return to normal, how happy they were to see kids playing and having fun. Costume compliments flew thick and fast.

Vava was knocking at one door, when I overheard a conversation at the house next door. 

A man popped out of the door to speak with a woman sitting on the porch. 

"Was that two more?" he asked.

"Three," she said.

"Yesssss," he replied, pumping his fist enthusiastically.

And I was just flooded with a wave of glory. Look at this night. People sitting by their doors to give to others. Friends, strangers - no matter who. Nobody asked if you support Trudeau before deciding whether or not to put candy in your sack. Nobody asked your opinion about vaccines or immigration. Differences, sides, opinions that sharply divide us - none of it mattered. Trick or treating is just neighbourliness and generosity and joy.

And this man was gleeful about giving out more.

Sometimes all I can see is the heartwrenching brokenness of our world. But in the jack-o-lantern light last night, I saw so much beauty.

Happy Halloween, friends. 

Special

Pascal's friend at school gave him a well-loved and very crumpled Pokemon card. 

Pascal knows nothing about Pokemon, but he knows the big kids love it. And his friend told him the card was special, so he absolutely treasured it. Three different times this weekend he pulled it out of his backpack and showed it to me, saying, "look at my card. Isn't it special? Don't you love it?" 

Sam, of course, being more familiar with Pokemon, knows more about them. 

When Pascal was showing me the card again this morning as we were climbing into the van, Sam overheard Pascal calling it special.

"That's a ripoff," he told Pascal, "it's not really special."

And Pascal's face fell.

Because there is no voice more authoritative and important to a little kid than their Big Sibling.

When I came back home, I found the Pokemon card crumpled in the driveway.

And like -

Guys.

Careless words can shave joy off a life in the blink of an eye.

Will Sam remember this morning's brief conversation? Not likely. Will it play in Pascal's head every time he encounters a Pokemon card?

I mean - my big sisters probably have no idea how much their opinions and tastes influence me. My favourite authors are their favourite authors, my favourite recipes are the ones they loved, my favourite music is the music they played in their cars. And my dislikes are their dislikes. Did someone say something mean to one of my sisters a million years ago? I still dislike that person. Do they think something is funny? I think it's hilarious. Did I believe their words like gospel, no matter how trifling? You bet.

Obviously, it's less common now that we don't live under the same roof. But in my formative years, any of their likes or dislikes were the mould I poured myself into. But maybe because I treasured their opinions so much, I began to ignore my own opinions of myself. Maybe listening to them without question made me listen to all of my critics without question.

One of my most damaging habits is letting any criticism into my heart, whether it is groundless or not, and carving myself around it. But the Lord brought it sharply to my attention this year and reminded me I do not need to let that in. I do not need to let all criticism flood in, willy-nilly, and wash my unique self away just because someone else throws careless words in my path.

Check out this excellent verse in Proverbs:  It is a badge of honour to accept valid criticism. (chapter 10 verse 4)

Not all criticism.Valid criticism.

I need to take the time to hold up criticism to the light, look it over. Is it valid? If it is - then I can get to work. Valid criticism makes me the best version of me - attunes my heart to be more like His, makes my hands busy with creating, makes my voice speak words like honey- sweet and nourishing. 

Invalid criticism, though? It doesn't belong here. It has no place living in my heart, crumpling me up and changing me into a less true version of me. I can ignore that freely.

So pick up the card, Pascal. Smooth it out and tuck it back into your backpack. It was given in love, and received with love.

While he is often right, this time your brother was wrong, and your friend was right:

It is special.

A little sprout, curled up in the soil

 

When I was younger, fall was my favourite season. 

My heart would soar at the sight of a hill covered in vibrant leafy reds, oranges, yellows. I loved the wild stormy weather, wind that whipped my hair back and rain that soaked through my clothes in seconds. I loved the quiet stillness of a crisp and sunny afternoon, with a blue sky stretching deep on out into forever. 

Is there any better season for reading, for hiking, for standing next to a patch of ocean roaring louder than the entire world?

A tossing sea, a tree splendid with brilliance, warm boots, and a good book - this was always the best time of year.

I loved the way fall was full of longing, bright naked beauty so astonishing it hurt, intense and brief.

But that achey feeling began to feel too much like the truth, once depression came. Fall was too sad, too final, too full of heartbreak and endings and losses. Sad things happen in other seasons too, but spring, summer, and winter don't walk around stuffing your face in it. 

Fall does. And it hurt me too much to be able to love it any longer.

Since depression came, my favourite season has been spring.

I've needed nature to be hopeful when I wasn't. I've needed to see shoots struggling up from the cold soil, birds digging past dirty snow for thin worms, needed to hear the raucous greeting of birds, freshly arrived in the north and ecstatic to see one another.  I've needed to see that messiness and coldness can yield warmth and life and beauty, because my own heart was feeling so messy and cold and hungry for life and beauty.

But this fall, a terribly simple, incredibly basic realization lighted in my heart.

Fall is one season closer to spring.

It just whispered its way quietly into the cluster of all of my other thoughts and stayed. It wasn't a blazing light or a great healing, but it just sat there, obvious and true and unremarkable -

But

I think it was a little sign of mental health, a little kernel of wellness - just a little sprout, curled up under the soil. A knowing, a trusting, that there are seasons of closing and seasons of opening, and one leads inevitably leads to the other.

Fall comes after spring - but then - it leads to it again. 

I've always thought of it as:

Winter,
Spring,
Summer,
Fall.

But actually, it's:

winterspringsummerfallwinterspringsummerfallwinterspring&c.

 

This fall, my family came from the east and the west to celebrate my birthday. I turned 40 October 2, and what I wanted more than anything else as I rolled into this new decade was to be together.  And they all rearranged their lives and schedules and budgets to make that happen. 

We spent a glorious week in a cottage in the Frontenac hills, on Big Gull Lake. Trees were aflame with colour when we arrived, and over the course of the week, bright reds and oranges and golds drifted and shimmered down all around us. It was like we were inside an autumn snow globe. We ate and drank, played games, told stories, argued, laughed, and slept. 

And my heart filled up, filled all the way up to the brim.

And maybe that fullness allowed me to see the truth. Maybe it let the seed of hope sprout entirely out of season. Maybe God wrapped me in their love so I could be warm and safe enough to see

fallwinterspringsummerfallwinterpsringsummerfallwinterspringsummer ...

 

After this thought had settled into my heart, and after I had written it down in my journal, a friend reached out. She had been thinking of me, and - without knowing any of this at all - had written a poem for me about exactly this. 

You can read it here, if you like.

When I read it, I wept and wept. God was making sure I paid attention - making sure this truth found a place to settle in and grow inside my heart. 

Maybe you needed the reminder too. The simple truth that evening flows into night flows into morning. That fall flows into winter flows into spring. It is not gone. It is not gone.

A little sprout, curled up in the soil. 

One step closer to spring.

Eevee's best moments

Stretching long, climbing out of her crate,
With a groan of satisfaction and a distinct
Up-waggling of her tail

Folding and refolding her long legs
Giving one slooo-ooow blink
And half-closing her eyes, to drowse

Perched on the front seat like the Queen of All Dogs
While her nose shimmies and dances
As all the smells of town come out to greet her

When she runs in the wild
Freer than the wind, muscles like music,
Like a horse, like a fox, like a deer

Fall is for smellers

 

Tacky Dollarama decor is up and the scent of cinnamon-soaked pine cones is wafting across my house.

 

The other day I popped into the dollar store for something, and smelled those pine cones. That smell always makes me feel festive, happy, anticipatory. I didn't buy them, but it sent a wave of gladness into my heart.

 

Today it rained and I had a blah day, a grey day, a generally unhappy day. When my artsy daughter asked to go to the store for more paint, I didn't feel like saying yes. But I did - and when I walked in, that cinnamon smell welcomed me back. I try very hard not to buy unnecessary stuff, so I walked past the pine cones ... but the sadness that had been sitting on my heart all day had lifted a bit when I smelled them - it had - and so I detoured back and grabbed them. And they were nestled in between some Halloween decorations and Thanksgiving tat, so I snagged some of that too - a ceramic pumpkin, and a vaguely seasonal sign - which also begged to come home with me. I left one behind, and I may yet go back and get it. 

And I've been working and puttering around the house and whenever I smell that cinnamony smell, a little part of me smiles. 

 

It's not full-on Christmas, but just a whiff of something to come 

Like the last line of your favourite song when you turn on the radio, 

A quick kiss goodbye in the morning, 

A dream of someone long gone -

Something full of goodness and a little bit of longing. 

 

Autummmm.

Bikejoring under the Harvest Moon

A bike and a dog and the moon

(and oh, what a marvelous moon)

The sky glowing blue

We pedaled right through

What a night, what a light, what a moon.

The End of August

The end of August is always an ache

Even at the beach, even on hot days

A tightness at the back of the throat

The extra grasping at last things

- the last swim, the last bonfire, the last happiness before the sadness sets in-

 

The inevitable realization -

It already has.

A Way of Boomeranging

 Don't pick on people, jump on their failures, criticize their faults - unless, of course, you want the same treatment. That critical spirit has a way of boomeranging. It's easy to see a smudge on your neighbour's face and be oblivious to the ugly sneer on your own. Do you have the nerve to say "Let me wash your face for you," when your own face is distorted by contempt? It's this whole traveling road-show mentality all over again, playing a holier-than-thou part instead of just living your part. Wipe that ugly sneer off your own face, and you might be fit to offer a washcloth to your neighbour.

 Matthew 7:1-5, from the Message.

I was reading this section this morning when my kids were sniping at each other, criticizing each other and just being thoughtlessly mean. "Hey," I told them, "I've got just the word for you." And I read them the passage, feeling like Such A Good Mom. I found a teachable moment (and straight from the Bible, extra points!).

You see where this is going, right?  Oof. I should have known.

 It wasn't an hour later when I was jumping all over my kids' failures, criticizing their faults, my own face twisted into an ugly sneer. My guiding words from this morning dissolved into wisps of nothing; my actions spoke so much louder.

Yeah. That word this morning was for me.  Uggggh.

I feel like it's pretty easy for me to justify jumping on my kids' failures, pointing out where they need to improve. Doesn't a good mom have to? I mean, I see those dirty faces, and I hand out washcloths all the time.

But ... I rarely think to check if I've got something on my own first.

And as soon as I realized how dirty my face was, the criticism came flooding up. Sharp, harsh, devastating. Ouch. Right from within.

So then. What do I need to change? I had to open up to re-read it, and it's right there in the passage - 

The solution to being critical of others is authenticity.

Wait, what - authenticity? I was expecting to see kindness or repentance or something like that. I had to go back and read it a few times. "...playing a holier-than-thou part instead of just living your part. Wipe that ugly sneer off your own face ..."

Hypocrisy is no light at all.

No performance parenting. No trying to be Such A Good Mom. I don't need to be the Holy Spirit in my kids' lives (or in anyone else's life). It's easy to see a smudge on your neighbour's face and be oblivious to the ugly sneer on your own. 

To put it in that delicious Acadian phrase, I need to keep my own onions.

Peace, little bunny

This afternoon, Kachi and Pascal and their friend asked me if I would take them for a walk around the block. "The block" is a little wooded path along the walking trail behind our house, a very small outing and doesn't take too long. So I said yes and off we went.

The three of them rode their scooters, and I walked the dog. We stopped at every possible interesting place, to sniff and snuffle, search for frogs, and pick up litter.  They realized recently that they could make this slice of the world a better place by picking up any trash they find. There are two garbage cans along the route, so they pick up trash, deposit it where it belongs, and wear a little extra swagger because they are saving the world.

 On our last stretch before home, their friend noticed a bunny hunkered down in the grassy field. Wonder of wonders, Eevee didn't see or sniff it at all (her nose was keeping her on the other side of the path, in urgent pursuit of a pair of squirrels). 

The bunny sat as still as could be, with one wide, glossy eye staring straight at us.

Pascal threw down his scooter and ran after it, and I caught him and held him back. "I want to chase it like Eevee!" he howled, "I won't hurt it! I want to see it run!"  And bunny hops are delicious to witness but there was something about this bunny that seemed too scared, too frozen in fear. "We've got to be kind," I insisted, "so it will want to keep living in our neighbourhood." I guess that did it, because he stopped struggling, but he scowled angrily the whole way home. 

I would have cared more, I think, but Pascal will have many more chances to watch bunnies hop. And the rest of the way home, I could see a velvety little pair of ears poking above the grass, waving the world's sweetest peace sign in our direction.

Kachi's recipe for bacon

 Yesterday morning, Kachi asked if I would take him for a walk. "Just the two of us, mama?" he asked, and I had 20 minutes while the bacon cooked so I said yes.

We had friends over last month, and the bacon took a really long time to cook - longer than I expected. So I've been experimenting with different bacon, different pans, and different times. (It's a rough job, but someone's got to do it.) I popped thick-sliced bacon on a parchment-lined, cheap cookie sheet and set the timer for 20 minutes, setting the oven at 400*F.  With a glass pan, I need closer to 30 minutes. With thin-sliced bacon, 15. But I thought this should be perfect.

We stepped out into the surprisingly bright, very warm morning. Baking hot sunshine poured over everything. "Can you hear that osprey?" Kachi asked. (Ospreys - or is it osprey? - have a surprisingly cheerful, un-predator-like song. It's pretty and full of delight.) We could hear one, and Kachi spotted it perched high in a dead tree at the water's edge.

We'd seen them all week long, while we were in the park for French camp, the parents teaching the babies how to fly. They soared and swooped and sang to each other. 

Flying lessons complete, the adult was teaching the young one how to fish. It would chirp madly, then swoop, then dive - then retreat to the other side of the river, waiting for the smaller one to do the same. We watched the scene for far too long before remembering the bacon and hurrying home, alight with wonder.

We could smell the bacon and hear the timer beeping from the driveway.

I opened the oven door in trepidation, worried we had ruined breakfast - but the bacon was perfect. I scrambled some eggs while Pascal ran outside to catch a glimpse of the birds fishing.

It was delicious.

(I give Kachi's recipe 5/5 stars, definitely recommend.)

here is love, vast as the ocean

I miss my ocean.

I miss the salt tang in the air.

I miss the way the enormous crash and shhh of the surf pounds pettiness to dust and settles my heart.

I come to the shore with a heart full of tossing and the vastness steadies me, thrills me.

Sometimes we get a huge storm here that gives me a similar feeling: a little perspective adjustment and awe. But still, I miss my ocean.

It's no secret that the past few years have been hard. Difficulties have crashed down, wave after wave, and my body keeps the score. The hair at my temples has turned white, age spots and wrinkles are etched into my face. I've been grinding my teeth at night and breaking old fillings. Struggles have pressed themselves indelibly into my body, and I feel like I've aged ten years in the past three.

So last week when a teenager at camp showed me the prison tat she had given herself, and offered to give me my first tattoo, I said yes. 

I know it's all kinds of crazy, but -

Sorrow has left its mark: I want to leave a mark of joy and reminder of goodness too.

So she inked a line of waves across my shoulder: my own little ocean. Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it. 

I have been held and buoyed up.

I have been hard pressed but not overcome.

My heart is at the feet of the One who walks on water.

And now, my body keeps that score too.

❤️xo

The foxhound out on a summer night

 Today I tumbled straight from one job into the next, with only the briefest of pauses for a quick scrambled-egg supper. I stayed typing in my chair while Patrick put each of the kids to bed, filling his evening with pyjamas and cozes and bedtime stories while I listened to councilors debate. So when Eevee stretched out her long paws and put them on the door with a wheedly little whine I said yes, and put my work on hold.

We stepped outside into that backwards time of night that feels dark when you're inside, but light when you're outside. The sky still held a bit of light and it was not too dark, yet, to follow my dog down a woodsy path. Fireflies twinkled madly, and I laughed to myself as I remembered the first time Pascal saw them alight in a field. (He watched the lights appear and disappear, glowing here and glowing there. He clung to my neck for a while, and then asked, in a voice absolutely shattered with shock, how they could teleport.)

Eevee's nose was keeping her busy, whooshing into bushes and snapping into pointer pose, and bats swooped and flapped overhead. Out in the river, a beaver's head appeared and then slipped back down underwater. A frog leaped, plooping into the water. Squirrels chased each other through the trees, and, according to Eevee's constant alerts, bunnies were lurking in almost every shadow.

The world aches and horrifies me far too often.
The news is harsh and people are harsher.

But every now and then, taking a walk can feel like velvet. The evening air tastes sweet, and something flits and flashes through the trees. And every twist of the path is magic.

xo.

First Fireworks After Covid

The eastern sky was a periwinkle blue, then purple, then navy.

In the west, streaks of pink and yellow and faded to grey.

The park air was heavy with the scent of bug spray, but bright with the sound of laughter and shouts of hello. Friends offered welcome, sharing blankets and Off and snacks. Osprey peered nervously down from their perch.

 In small-town style, kids ran and found each other, gleefully hugging friends they hadn't seen in a scant week since school closed for the summer. They played on swings and monkey bars, squealing and shrieking and loving the strange magic of being out late, and being out late with everyone.

It felt like the entire town was there, hunkered down on blankets, relaxed into camp chairs, perched on picnic tables. 

Somebody lit whizz-bangs in the tennis court, an appetizer of delight that set off little waves of glee. "Was that the fireworks?" a high little voice asked, and a chuckle rippled kindly in its wake.

And then the first firework shot into the sky, fizzling and sssh-ing and exploding with a blam.

All eyes were transfixed, as the whole town stared at the lights shimmering and booming and blooming in the sky.

I think the firework technician had the best view. Lights playing and dancing across a thousand uplifted faces; the crowd plunging into darkness and then suddenly alight with awe and joy.

The fireworks were beautiful.

But a park full of people sparkling with wonder? Glory.

breath after breath

My daughter is scared, and so

I am sitting with her as she falls asleep.

I'm hunkered down in a large cardboard box,

Full of stuffies, next to the only accessible plug

With my dying phone.

Her breath is slowing, growing more even; 

Rough still, from a cold this week,

From the coughing reminder that

Every breath is a gift

From the giver of air, and lungs.

Nephesh: the soul, the throat;

The air breathed in and life given.

I place her soul into Your care for the night

For all her nights, for dawns and days 

Breath after breath after breath after breath.

Cover Me in Sunshine

Vava's been listening to Pink's Cover Me in Sunshine a lot lately, and my favourite lyrics go 

"tell me that the world's been spinning

since the beginning

and everything will be alright.

Cover me in sunshine."

This is like the refrain of my heart. 

I am not very good at persistent joy. You know when Peter got out of the boat and walked on the water to Jesus and then realized his surroundings and gasped and sank? Samesies. 

Jesus was right there. Peter had already been walking ON WATER, and not like years ago in faded memory but right now. He was actively in the middle of a miracle.

But the wonder and proof of it wasn't enough to buoy him up in the face of the storm. 

I sit in my home and hear my kids laugh and see the wonder of this life that I asked God for - through many dangers toils and snares I have already come, yes - but then I read the news and I hear rumbles of a recession rolling in and I tremble. He has held me and blessed me through dangers, toils, and snares - but still my foot steps down through the water like it must, it must - look at it, it's water - if the water does not hold me up, will grace still lead me home? 

And my answer must be the same as Peter's, the same as Pink's -

tell me that the world's been spinning since the beginning and everything will be alright - save me, Lord -

I need to know He's got it all in His hands. 

The world. My world. Me. 

Cover me in sunshine.

Glory and Flowers and Joyness

Thank you, God, for glory and flowers and joyness - Pascal, praying before bed. 

Usually he says nothing when I ask if anyone wants to talk to God together. 

That's okay too. But it made me pay attention when he did decide to speak, the little rock.

 I saw God's glory all over the place this week, but didn't stop to think about it until he spoke.

Vava, challenging herself to do a one-handed cartwheel. 

Sam, respectfully voicing his disagreement with someone in power. 

Kachi, so excited about his friend's birthday party he can barely sleep. 

Pascal, so intent on reading a book he didn't notice me calling. 

Eevee, running free with other dogs at the off-leash park. 

A friend's new baby. 

A friend's new business. 

Yeah. Thank you, God, for glory and flowers and joyness.

She, too

Sometimes, sunshine comes tumbling out of the phone

An invitation, a proposal

Of friendship.

Sometimes, love wraps its arms around you

Across miles and borders

From a kindred spirit.

She, too, knows the presence that tugs

And flows like a river

And sings in solitude.

She, too, knows.

 

--

Happy birthday, my friend.

I thank God for you.

for Patrick, Happy Anniversary my love!

An Ode to Your Body

I love your body

Because of those delicious broad shoulders

And my favourite dents

And those long arms that wrap me so close.

The way you laugh, so kindly, when I talk too much

I love the way your eyes seem full of light

And the way they close so quickly into sleep.

But mostly what I love

Is the fact that your body

Keeps going and going

In love for me, for these kids.

To work, of course, and back again

Over and over no matter what you feel like,

To the store, the playground, the beach,

And out of bed and down the stairs when I've forgotten my puffer.

I love those hands that give so generously,

Those legs that welcome my icy toes,

The crinkle lines that capture your laughter 

The grey hair that is just starting to show up, to keep mine company.

The muscles that lift and carry

Boxes of parts and miles of hose

The heart that bears the burden of management

The hands that type succinct, efficient emails

The arms that clear snow and ice off windshields in the dark all winter long.

I love your hands that make our coffee and pick up pizza and pick up a million pairs of abandoned socks off the floor.

I have witnessed your body 

Carrying your laughter and quiet words and kindness

In and out of days for sixteen years

And I love it.

Conversations before bed

 

I just feel like I was made for something amazing

She told me

Eyes a little defensive, cagey.

(It's hard to bare the soul.)

You were, I told her.

I just want to see God

He told me

Eyes, tired, crinkled closed.

(It's hard to bear the soul.)

You will, I told him.

I just want to see you and do something amazing,

I sighed

Sinking into bed.

(It's hard to bear, to bare the soul.)

You have, he told me, you do.