You would long for the work of your hands

This week I couldn't seem to do anything right for one of my kids. I messed up on Tuesday, on Friday, on Sunday.  Not for lack of trying - I tried hard. But somehow, everything I did was wrong. I bought the wrong thing, forgot which was the favourite flavour, showed up at the wrong time.

"I hate you!" came withering from a wounded heart.

"At least I'm trying!" I said, "I'm the one you hate, but I'm trying to see you and love you and be there for you!"

My words thudded onto the empty landing as my wounded one disappeared upstairs.

It wasn't about me, I know.

My love wasn't reaching. "You don't matter," my actions said, instead, and "I don't know you."

But my heart ached all along.

I longed for my child.

Then I was shaken by the beauty of this passage of Scripture. 

[15] You would call, and I would answer you; you would long for the work of your hands. [16] For then you would number my steps; you would not keep watch over my sin; [17] my transgression would be sealed up in a bag, and you would cover over my iniquity. (Job 14:15-17 esv)

Particularly this phrase: 

You would long for the work of your hands.

God, the Creator, the Universe-maker... longs for us. He didn't just make us and walk away.

He longs for us.

And - I think - it's easy to know we long for him. We long to be seen, and known, and loved. We long to have purpose, to be valuable, to contribute. We long for rightness and peace and wholeness.

We want to step outside in the sunshine and feel joy, and to step outside in the darkness and feel peace.

We reach out fumblingly, don't we? 

We create. We cook, we build, we write. 

We hope. We go on, taking the steps even when our hearts aren't in it, doing the next thing with scraps of energy. 

We mourn brokenness. We protest, we converse, we vote. 

We soak up beauty. We sing, we laugh, we cuddle.

We reach toward our Creator. 

We long for him. 

And maybe we don't always see that He ... longs for us.

And if ever there was a holiday to remind us He does, it's Easter. Jesus came to show us His limitless love ... even unto death, even beyond it.

May your longing heart find Him, and may His longing heart find you, this weekend.

Happy Easter, my friends.

He is risen.

A cat and a bird: a parable

I don't think bluejays have a pretty call. It sounds like a rusty clothesline to me, the scrape scrape of a metal pulley. Every time I hear it, my brain goes, "oof, rusty clothesline. Ohh, or maybe bluejay." 

That grating loud noise caught my attention when I walked into the kitchen this morning and I looked out my window to see what was up.

There was a cat perched on the fence, staring at a bluejay perched in the tree, who was screaming down at the cat. As I watched, the cat leapt at the tree, and began scaling the trunk. The bluejay's branch shook and waved in indignation, as the angry bird yelled and scolded. Above, another bluejay watched silently.

Then the cat looked into my window and saw me watching.

The jay saw the cat seeing me watching, and turned and saw me too.

And I had the strangest sensation that my watching strengthened the bluejay's resolve, while weakening the cat's.

The bluejay held its ground and screamed.

The cat let go, and stepped out of sight. The jay sang gladly to its friend, hopping up and down lightly.

The cat poked its head around the corner, spied the jay, then looked up, right into my eyes, and left.

Just a tiny moment, a little glimpse of an ordinary scene, but it felt weighty somehow.

With human rights being eroded just next door, I feel pretty helpless. They scream and shake, and all I can do is watch while the claws and jaws draw closer.

Sometimes, all we can do is witness.

But ... witnessing isn't nothing.

I see you.

I care.

I'm so angry on your behalf.

May our witness strengthen those who are vulnerable, and deter those who stalk and prowl. 

Leaders

In one of my history classes, we're talking about different causes of a Canadian population boom in the latter half of the 1800s. 

One part of the sudden increase of population was the underground railroad, which saw approximately 30 000 formerly enslaved people come to Canada for freedom.

(This image is from A Mighty Girl, and can be found here: https://www.amightygirl.com/lead-she-series-print)

Harriet Tubman is one of my life heroes. After intrepidly gaining her own freedom, she went back into states where she was being hunted, over and over again, to lead others out of enslavement and into freedom. Not for payment, or renown, or to get a leg up (this was not about money or fame - she spent much of her life in poverty of purse). She risked her life to lead them to freedom because it was the right thing to do.

She faced that maw of voracious cruelty to lead people out because it was right.

My darlings.

This is a leader.

This is what leaders do.

They don't count their own lives as more valuable than someone else's. They love their neighbours as themselves. They don't count their pocketbooks after helping - they don't love money. They are not wearing suits - they are robed in decency and dignity and morning laughter.

Can you imagine the gladness when a crew of people made it?  After wading through rivers and sleeping in barns, getting meals from determined do-gooders, following that north star - when they arrived in Canada (no heaven, to be sure, still full of inequality and racism and lower wages, but a haven, at least, of not being owned and beaten at will, not being enslaved). The rush of relief, being able to walk tall in the sunlight - a pure shot of joy, all exhilaration and togetherness and goodness. 

That's what leaders do. They lead us out of captivity and toward freedom.

Slavers do the opposite. They might wear suits, but they're not clothed in dignity. Do people follow them? Sure, they do, but they're not following because it's the right thing to do. They follow because of greed (the love of money is the root of all evil, still). There isn't joy and wholeness when their schemes are achieved. Somewhere out of sight, backs are breaking and bleeding.

There are still leaders, intrepidly facing darkness, to bring us out of slavery. My favourite one went all the way to the cross for this, and he, too, was mocked and stripped and beaten in public for doing so. (But for the joy that was coming!)

There are still slavers too, with insatiable appetites, pulling people out of the light and into darkness. They might have titles, but they aren't leaders. They're slavers.