Still

People can be awful.

Jesus still came.

Immanuel, God with us.

 

Merry Christmas, friends. xo.

Cold and tired and ready for bed

I'm cold, and tired, and ready for bed.

But I wanted to remind my heart one more time: 

Jesus came right into this.

He knew what it was to feel cold, and tired, and ready for bed.

He knows.

He feels.

He is not far off, he is not untouched by the sorrows we carry. They come to bed with us, they wake up with us, and He knows.

Sweet dreams, friends. xo

A New Feast

What do you usually eat for Christmas?

Growing up, we usually had the traditional midday dinner of turkey, potatoes (sometimes scallion champ, if we were lucky), stuffing, veggies, and gravy. Dessert was more flexible (perhaps a glorious pavlova topped with canned mandarin slices?), and there was almost always a tin of Quality Street and a bag of chicken bones that hit the table when the games came out. (Nova Scotians, please stop hoarding all the chicken bones. I can't buy them here and it hurts.)  When night fell, a snacky serve-yourself supper would appear  (I say appear because I was a kid, and didn't have to do any of the work!) - the turkey, again, and assorted cheese and crackers (bacon dippers and swiss cheese crackers were my faves), Clementines and a big bowl of nuts in shells, topped with a few nutcrackers (which did double duty in summertime as lobster shell crackers). There might be a box of Pot of Golds, a tray of Toffifee, a bag of saltwater taffy and definitely a giant tin of popcorn in three flavours (butter, cheddar, and caramel) and of course, there would be Liquorice Allsorts and After Eights.

(Apparently I can't write a nostalgic post about food without a million asides, but here's one more - is the giant popcorn tin an east coast thing, or a long-ago thing? Either way, I can't find them here - people keep directing me to Kernels, which isn't at all the same thing. I'm so curious.)

And mashed inextricably in with memories of the food of Christmases past are memories of all the people who were there. Aunts and uncles, cousins and friends, games and stories and laughter and singing.

As a parent, of course, Christmas dinner is an entirely different kettle of fish. Making a meal, hosting festivities, repeating traditions that evoke memories - the weight lies differently. If nobody wants to cook a turkey, does the holiday sparkle a little less? I mean - is it the actual menu that makes Christmas magic? 

I think no. I think - I think that traditions are great until they become constraints.

When Jesus came, he upended empty traditions. He criticized people for keeping outward traditions that missed the heart of the scriptures. Praying in public, but no inner communing with God. Tithing obsessively, but ignoring the poor. Giving to God, and ignoring family members in need. Traditions that don't serve us aren't of any value.

A friend of mine was so disappointed last year. She worked herself to the point of exhaustion preparing a traditional Christmas feast all by herself, and her family ate it but they weren't excited about it. "It's not the same without everyone here," her son said. "This is company food." And of course, with covid restrictions in place, they didn't have a big family gathering. 

And they're keeping it small again this year, so she asked everyone in her household for one suggestion. They each had to tell her one food that makes them feel happy and celebrate-y. Her husband asked for chicken wings, her daughter asked for nuggets, her son asked for soft pretzels, and my friend wanted cranberry sauce. So their Christmas dinner is centering around those things this year, and she was surprised by how much joy it was giving her to plan a feast specifically for the people who would be there, even though it wasn't the feast they'd usually enjoy. 

As a mom, my favourite Christmas dinner ever was the year we ate grilled cheese with a side of storebought stuffing. We ate by candlelight and there were no complaints, nothing left on the side of plates, no sad kids. No high expectations and disappointments, no kitchen full of dishes to wash, no leftovers for days. It was just genuinely happy and good. This year we're having chicken pot pie. We might still have a side of stuffing, and we'll definitely have a plate of sliced veggies, and probably a side of fruit salad. I'm going to make cranberry salsa and we'll eat it with nachos for supper. And there will be chocolates and games and Clementines. And my five favourite people will be there.

I hope your Christmas is full of the traditions that send your heart straight to God.

I hope your quiet moments are rich with joy and the knowledge that you are loved by no less than God himself. 

I hope your bellies are full and your hearts overflow.  

I hope the traditions you keep comfort you and give you peace. 

And I hope you are free from the ones that don't.

God bless you, friends.

xo.

 

Chicken Bones
image taken from ganongchocolatier.shop

Asking

Lately I've been thinking about this story Jesus told. He was teaching the disciples about praying, and after he gave them the example of the Lord's prayer, he put it to them another way.

Imagine you've got company that arrived late at night. You don't have any bread left to meet their hunger, so you run to your friend's house and knock on the door. Your friend, undressed and already tucked in bed, won't want to get up and give you the bread. But if you keep asking - if you persist - your friend will come down and give you all the bread you need.

If your children are hungry and ask for fish, do you give them a snake? If they ask for bread, do you give them a stone? Of course not. If you know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more does God know how to give to you. Ask, and receive.  (from the book of Luke, chapter 11, verses 5-13)

I had to look up this passage because I was faced with an uncomfortable dilemma.

Someone asked me for something, and I resented his asking.

Ehh, I've given enough already, I mentally replied, preparing to say no.

But God put his hand on my heart and told me not to reply just yet.

And then He asked me if my refusal was a refusal as a Christian - I mean, a refusal based on God's character, or a cultural distaste for being asked for something. Are you feeling a spiritual discomfort? Or a cultural one? He asked. 

And I had to stop and think about it. And I looked up this story to see what Jesus taught about asking / being asked.

I really dislike being asked to be generous. I love to give! Oh,yes - I love to give, and I love the shiny moment when I surprise people with generosity. Ahh! Surprise! The glorious moment at the end of A Christmas Carol when Scrooge turns into a giver is spectacular.  Surprise, Bob Cratchit!

And I was stricken when I realized: when I'm asked to give, then I lose that shiny moment. Uh. I was not prepared for that good look at my own heart: I think I want that shiny moment more than I want to help people.

That shiny moment feels so good. It's a great moment. It really is.

But - but - it's not the reason to give.

If I'm a Christian first, and everything else later, then my allegiance has to be to God's character first, not to what is comfortable in our culture.  And God doesn't limit himself to giving just when the whim strikes him. He does that, but also -

Jesus laid it right out: He gives when we ask.

Because asking/receiving is really hard, isn't it? And God honours it. Like, we strive every day to be self-sufficient and to meet all our own needs. But it's impossible. Nobody needs nothing. We all need something we can't get on our own. And it hurts. We like to pretend we don't need but -

We need each other.

We need tenderness.

We need grace and understanding and to be seen.

We need people that we can feel safe enough to turn to and ask for help.

We need.

Just ask.

 

xo.

 

In the quiet

This year Vava bought an elf on the shelf. And mostly I've been remembering to move it and make it do silly things for the kids' delight, but some nights Sam asks if he can make the magic, and some nights Vava wants to.

I kind of love this for them.

Not only do they have the pleasure of the elf, but they get to participate in it too. They get to give some effort and time for their little brothers' joy.

It makes my heart so glad.

Elf in a fishbowl - er, in a pineapple under the sea!

And it's gotten them in the habit of coming downstairs after bedtime to prowl around in the quiet. Unlike the daytime, when they're busy with games or projects or playing with the neighbourhood kids, after bedtime they just want to talk. (Listening to their thoughts and stories puts me in mind of Mrs. Darling from Peter Pan, who came into the nursery at night to tidy the children's minds.)

Tonight Vava made a Spongebob Squarepants scene, an hour after she was supposed to be in bed. She bounced around with markers and scissors while I worked, planning with glee, imagining the boys' reaction when they come downstairs tomorrow morning.  I took her picture and gave her a kiss and tried to reflect her zazzly joy back to her. She was walking on air. It was beautiful.

When she finally went back upstairs for the night (for real this time), Sam came downstairs and asked if he could just sit quietly with me while I finished my news articles. I said yes, and we sat in keyboard-clicky silence for a few minutes. After a while, he put his hand over his eyes and told me he was feeling so sad. "Let it out," I said gently, "let all the feelings just wash over you. Don't try to hold them back." (Sam is not a crier or a yeller - he's a pretty contained dude, laughing at Vava and me as we ricochet from glee to sorrow and back again.)

Big tears rolled down his cheeks, still silently, and after a few minutes he told me he had just finished reading Maus again. Ahh, WWII. Whose heart wouldn't break? "It just made me so so sad that they died," he whispered. 

"It is so so sad. Yes. And so right to feel all those feelings," I whispered back, "when you let yourself feel them instead of stuffing them down or closing you mind off, they'll wash clean and you'll be healthier for it. If you ignore them or pretend it's not happening, they'll get stuck." And then he told me he wanted me to tuck him in so he could have a good cry while he fell asleep.

You. Guys.

That moment was so rare. Sam does not want to talk about his feelings ever - he is so even-keeled that I think he barely perceives the fluctuation from one feeling to the next. So having a chance to talk with him and give him a bit of advice in the quiet that I think will help him be an emotionally healthier person? Pure gold.

I love these late-night moments. I love the connection, the just-them-ness, the unspectacular glory of seeing their hearts a little more intimately than I see them during the day.

Christmas is good for that. 

For staying up a little later without the pressure of school the next day.

For planning joy and expanding freedom.

For hearing each others' hearts beating a little more clearly.

For holding each others' happiness and sadness with intention. Yeah.

 

Wishing you beautiful moments of silver and gold this Christmas, my friends.

God bless you.
xo.

All I want for Christmas

When he saw all the treats I bought when I was shopping, Patrick grinned.

"Looks like you must want a hippopotamus for Christmas," he said.

But God knows all I want for Christmas is Patrick.

 

I got Patrick for Christmas in 2005. This is a picture he drew of the day we met.

A million years ago, before kids and before we were married, I was pretty lonely and hated Christmas. Everyone was all coupled up and I didn't think I would ever find anyone who was just right for me. And that Christmas, I didn't think I would ever be loved.

But there he was.

Blue eyed and quiet, a writer, ready to laugh and with a big square palm that felt like magic against mine.

And - he loved me.

And for some crazy reason

God created this big and crowded and lonely and messy and perfect and heartbreaking and breathtaking world

And ... he loved us. 

Yep. I'm sorry, Mariah Carey haters, but Jesus looks at us and the song he sings is All I want for Christmas is you.

Awesome.

Merry Christmas, friends. xo.

 

 

 

Provisions

I went to Costco today to do my big pre-Christmas grocery shop, and the road home was terrifying. The snow was thick and slippery; it was like driving on shortbread dough. Road markings were buried beneath it all and everyone was just doing their best to stay on the road and off of each other.  The one-hour trip home took closer to two hours, and my legs were like jelly when I finally parked in the driveway.

I am fully aware that it is a total overreach, but I felt a oneness with women in the past who had to travel far to buy provisions, and bring them back to their families at great personal risk.  

(And you know what? They'd be so glad. That the grandchildren of their grandchildren have grandchildren who can drive to get provisions, an abundance of provisions.)

And I was thinking about what provisions God made for Jesus' coming into the world. And Mary brought swaddling clothes to Bethlehem for the baby's birth, but what did God provide? 

And when I realized what He provided, it made my heart so happy. 

You guys.

The provisions God made for Jesus, the things he planned and prepared in order to welcome him that first Christmas ... were people.

He gave him Mary.

He gave him Joseph.

He gave him the wise men and shepherds and Anna and Simeon.

The important provisions we need for Christmas are not things ... they are people. People. 

We are the provisions for each other at Christmas. He gives us each other. He gives us parents and friends and children and colleagues and neighbours and family.

We're the provisions.

With so much love for you, my friends. xo.

Triceratops Heads and Haiku Dinner

Kachi and I were looking through old photos the other day, and he saw a picture of little Vava with Zebra in one hand, and Topsy (a rubbery triceratops) in the other. 

"Who is that?" he asked, pointing at the dinosaur.

"Topsy," I replied, surprised he didn't remember. 

"No - Topsy's just a triceratops head," he said, giving me some serious side eye.

 And I realized - by the time Kachi was old enough to remember, Topsy had been worn through from Vava's constant loving. She had split in half and, emptied of her little white pellets, became two halves of the dinosaur she was. For a year or two, Vava slept with both halves sandwiched between her long skinny feet - still feeling love and comfort from her beloved Topsy - and then somewhere along the way, we lost the bottom half. So Kachi only remembered Vava being absolutely smitten with an empty rubber dinosaur head - and apparently never stopped to ask why, just accepted it as normal, as one of the Things that Always Were.

(I read a post today where people shared weird traditions from their families that they'd accepted as normal when they were kids, but realized later were pretty strange.

One person came from a family that had haiku dinner several times a month.

Haiku dinner, where
Anything they said had to
Beat like a haiku.

And all I could think with my little nerd heart was how amazing that would be.)

I love hearing my kids talk about when they were little. It wasn't that long ago to me - but to them, it's foundational history. I love how they each remember different things, snippets and segments of moments and memories that stand out to them more clearly in the blur. They retell them and connect to each other in the retelling.

I wonder if God feels the same way when we talk about Jesus' birth. Like there's a lot we love and remember and it's such a part of who we are. We've got the gospels and tradition holding the memories, but for Him, it wasn't that long ago and there's a lot only He knows. He probably laughs with glee as we retell and remember in snippets and slices the strangeness, the manger and the overflowing inn, the haiku dinner or triceratops head.

I love pulling out Christianity's photo album and looking through it every year.  That star. That mama. That crowded inn. A weird way to send the son of God into the world. A strange and fragmented old story; a good old story. It centers my heart on Jesus, and connects me to you and to God in the retelling. Even if I have it muddled, like Kachi and the triceratops head. Even if I look back in twenty years and think that my blog posts are a bit of a haiku dinner - normal now, but just so weird.

It makes my little nerd heart happy. Thanks for reading along with me, guys.

Merry Christmas. xo.

To the Dark Winds

It's been windy all day. The wind has been shuddering at the roof and knocking over garbage cans and jangling the neighbour's windchimes nonstop. And when it gusts particularly hard, the wind shrieks around our door (which doesn't fit quite right in its spot). 

Right now it's making an angry whistly noise, and something definitely fell over outside - maybe our snowman sign, or the Christmas planters - but I can't complain because it's telling me a story.

I've had a very hard day. 

We've been home sick with a cold all week - Kachi had it first, and now I've got it - and we kept the other kids home too, waiting for Covid test results (negative, sweet mercy). And when we're at home, unwell, seeing entirely too much of each other and not enough of anyone else, depression camps out in my head.

I've posted before about my depression (here's a link to that post if you want to read it). In God's mercy, I find myself with more good days than bad, but I still fight it. Today was not a winning day. It was a battle, the whole way through. Today was a long and bleak reminder that, in spite of the relief and help I have from my meds and counseling, yeah, I do still have depression. And some days it hurts more than others. 

Before he went to bed tonight, Patrick and I watched an episode from a fantasy series we've been so eager to see. (We read the books ages ago.) There was a moment in tonight's episode where the band of protagonists is making their way through a mountain path, when they are attacked by the Dark Winds. The Dark Winds swirl and shriek around them, and each character hears the winds whisper accusations and pierce their own deepest fears. 

"You'll never be good enough. You were always going to fail," hears one. 

"Of course they'll never stay with you; they don't love you like you love them," hears another. 

"You are going to let everyone down," hears another.  And so on.

Once they are free of the Dark Winds, their leader reminds them to shake the whispers out of their thoughts, because they're lies.

And just then the wind wailed at our door and I laughed, because yes, God, I get it; I have been listening to the Dark Winds all day.  

And then God tells me the truth.

Jesus came to still the wind.

Jesus came to heal the hurting.

Jesus came to bear my burden.

In my depression, with dark winds shrieking lies that feel like truth, with my heart hurting and my soul weighed down, I hear his promise: I'm exactly who he came for.

Peace, he says, be still. 

Knowing that He sees me - that He cared enough to knock at my heart and my door with this heavy handed metaphor until I could not miss it - sets me free. 

No, I say to the Dark Winds: Jesus came.

At Christmas.
xo.

A tiny gift

I was taking out the garbage this morning and heard an exquisite tiny pattering, tik tik tik tik tik all around.

I knew we were due for snow, but I couldn't see a flake. The air was fresh and cool and, as far as I could see, completely clear.

But the tik tik tik-a-tik continued pattering.

It was hail so tiny I could not see it. It was dancing on the crisp, coppery leaves that the wind had blown up in a heap in the corner of our yard, and it sounded like delicate, eager drums.

'The snow will come,' it promised, 'tik-a-tik tik.'

And soon, the snow came. Soft, swirling flakes that swished silently down, and the lacy drumming was over.

I was so glad I'd heard it: a little gift in a saddish and ordinary day.

May we have ears to hear and eyes to see and hands to touch and tongues to taste and noses to smell the gifts of God. 

Merry Christmas, friends. xo.

Here is your God

Still listening to What Child is This / Child of the Poor.

This verse has captured me today.

Bring the thirsty, all who seek peace; 
(So, bring all, the thirsty, all who seek peace;)
Those with nothing to offer
(Bring those with nothing to offer.)
Strengthen the feeble
(Strengthen the feeble,)
Say to the frightened heart:
(Say to the frightened heart:)
Fear not, fear not
(“Fear not: here is your God!”)

 

I just love him so much.

On the outside, I am well fed and safe. I am strong and capable; taking care of my family and working hard. 

But inside?

Who doesn't feel longing and fear? Who doesn't quail at the possibility that it may be nightmares that come true, instead of dreams?  

I find myself here, in this song. My heart is thirsty for more. My stormy temper seeks peace. I flail, knowing I have nothing of consequence to offer. Compared to the obstacles before me, feeble. When I think of my children's future on this uncertain planet, frightened of heart. Maybe you feel it too.

And this is what He says.
His message to Mary, before everything else.
His message to Joseph, in his dream.
His message to the shepherds in Bethlehem.
His message over and over again:

Fear not; here is your God.

This sweet baby, full of mercy, here. Here is your God.

He doesn't need me to offer anything - He comes, offering me everything.

Here.

Merry Christmas, friends. xo.

A Child of the Poor

I shared this song (What Child is This / Child of the Poor) three or four years ago - it was the only time I've ever heard it. It's still so lovely it makes my throat ache.

My heart is awash in worship every time I realize that Jesus came to us, poor.

He came to share our sorrows, to know our hunger.

And yes, he was born to a barely-married couple from a shabby town, he was that kind of poor but I'm thinking about the kind of poverty that grinds heavy in the heart and leaves you feeling like there's no hope left, no one who truly gets you, no one who can lift that weight that sits on your chest when the silence descends.

He came to know us. Bear our burdens. Live our lives from the inside out. Feel our deep-soul hunger and walk around with a hidden heart that longs to be known.

I know, says this child, Me too.

In this song, the artists blend the two songs together but when they came to the chorus, they both slipped into the chorus of A Child of the Poor, instead of What Child is this. And I felt my heart longing for the sweet "This, this is Christ the King" - I wanted them to get to the answer, to the glory. I didn't want them to stay in the valley, the questions.

But the deep, sweet truth is this:
He came to us in our poverty.
Of course he dwells in glory.
Of course he is rich and radiant.
But he set down that splendour to come to us
Poor.

Whether your heart feels rich and splendid, or aching and barren -
Christmas is for you.
He came for you.
Christ the King, the child of the poor.

Merry Christmas, friends. xo.

Who is this who lives with the lowly
(This, this is Christ the King,)
Sharing their sorrows, knowing their hunger?
(Whom shepherds guard and angels sing;)
This is Christ, revealed to the world
(Haste, haste, to bring Him laud,)
In the eyes of a child, a child of the poor
(The Babe, the Son of Mary.)

A tree grew

We've never done the whole cut-your-own Christmas tree thing before. I usually go to the store, throw a rope-wrapped one in the trunk and bring it home.

But some friends invited us to go get a tree today and it was something else altogether. 

It was beautiful.

The day was warm and the sky blue. We squelched through patches of snow and half-frozen grass until we came to the Christmas trees. 

The kids were positive they'd found just the right one about a dozen times, until we found the real right one. 

A quick pass of the saw and it was ours.

                      (sooooo tall!)

At bedtime, Kachi thanked God for keeping the tree for us. Yeah. It was cool to think that for the past ten years, a tree was growing on its way to us. We didn't know it was coming home with us. It wasn't planted with us in mind. But God knew. 

And now it's lit up and dressed in treasures, right at the centre of our family's Christmas celebrations.

And it makes me think about all the things that are growing, the little seeds planted and already unfurling tiny roots, that will come our way. 

Even some that have already come our way.

Surprises. Heartbreak. Friendship. Loss. True love. Struggles. Joys. Pain. Peace.

All of these and more ... 

God knows.

Not one of them escapes his notice.

The aches and the agonies as well as the blessings and beauty - they all grow in His soil and come to us in His time.

The tree that was used to make the manger - God knew.

The tree that was used to make the cross - God knew.

And I don't know what trees are in front of you right now, trees that look like blessings or agonies, but I know this: out of the manger came the Saviour, and out of the cross came Salvation. That tree, which looked like agony became the blessing.

In Jesus, our agonies are not less - they are not less - but out of suffering, He brings life-giving blessing.

May your trees flame with hope, my friends, at Christmas.

Xo.

Included. Adopted.

I was a very uncomfortable teenager. 

I had frizzy hair and there were no straighteners yet. I was happier lost in books or speaking a secret language with my best friend. Around other people, I laughed too loud and cried too easily and had too many awkward crushes on some truly terrible guys.

After leaving any sort of social function, I would feel bereft and stupid. The whole time I'd been putting my heart out for other people, and they always missed it. Every time I would go with high hopes - this was going to be so much fun! - and then leave feeling hurting and awkward and lonely.

Tonight Patrick and I went to his work Christmas party.

On our way home, we hashed through what made a successful work party.  What helped people to leave with a feeling of belonging, being enjoyed. My favourite staff Christmast party ever began at a glow-in-the-dark mini putt. We were assigned teams and while we played our way through the course, our boss laughed and joked with us all.

I don't remember who won, but I remember feeling comfortable fast. Feeling happy fast. Enjoying belonging, being part of this big togethery group.  After the mini-putt, we went out to eat and our boss gave us all Christmas cards with a gift card inside. It wasn't a wildly fancy party, not a hopping bash, but it was just so good.

I think what left me feeling filled up instead of empty was the automatic inclusion. Being on the list meant I already belonged. I had a place on a team, I was wanted and expected. Included.

And Christmas is the wide-open invitation from God to us all. 

We're all invited. All included.

But when the time arrived that was set by God the Father, God sent his Son, born among us of a woman, born under the conditions of the law so that he might redeem those of us who have been kidnapped by the law. Thus we have been set free to experience our rightful heritage. You can tell for sure that you are now fully adopted as his own children because God sent the Spirit of his Son into our lives crying out, “Papa! Father!” Doesn’t that privilege of intimate conversation with God make it plain that you are not a slave, but a child? And if you are a child, you’re also an heir, with complete access to the inheritance. (Galatians 4:4-7, MSG).

God sent his very own son so that we would know. We're not just welcomed, we're wanted. We're not just wanted, we're adopted.

Heaven will begin with such a glorious party. And we won't just be guests ... we'll be sons and daughters; we'll automatically be included. We'll be home.

 

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

Reverse Bedtime

Tonight was Reverse Bedtime at our house, one of our kids' favourite nights of the year. On a Reverse Bedtime night, the eldest three get to put Patrick and I and Pascal to bed, and then they get to stay up and watch movies and eat snacks and play games as late as they want, as long as there is no fighting and they clean up after themselves. 

It all started one night when the kids complained that they had to go to bed and we got to stay up late, when they were the ones who wanted to stay up late and we wanted to go to bed. And honestly, Reverse Bedtime is the gift we didn't know we needed. It's awesome.

Kachi had the job of tucking us in this time. He shooed us upstairs and then asked us to make room for him between us. He climbed into bed and read us a story, then prayed for us. And he checked on Pascal before he went downstairs.  

It's so unbelievably precious to see him shoulder the responsibility of thinking about Scally, remembering the bedtime routine and being so tender and deliberate. (We're pretty confident he's going to be the one reminding Sam and Vava to wash their dishes and turn out the lights before going to bed tonight.)

And I was thinking about how every bit of Jesus' human life must have felt like Reverse Bedtime to him. Mary carrying Him - and yet, wasn't He the one carrying her? Joseph keeping Him safe by fleeing to Egypt - but wasn't He the one keeping Joseph safe? Being taken to temple to worship God - and the priest worshiping Him.

Yup. The Christmas story is full of inside-outs and upside-downs. 

God comes to rescue us ... as a baby.

The long-sought king ... born in a stable.

A great host of angels, announcing His glorious birth ... to a handful of shepherds (and maybe a kid with a drum, idk).

Jesus left heaven ... to bring us home.

Inside-out and upside-down is how God's kingdom most often works. To grow, you bow lower. To be filled, you pour out. The obstacles you face aren't mountains, they're valleys. You cannot even attain salvation in this story - no; you can only receive it. And the more you try to give, the more you realize you have received.

The whole world of grown ups seeking salvation and peace and rescue? A little child shall lead them.

The whole story is a glorious Reverse Bedtime. Inside out and upside down and just what we didn't know we needed.

Awesome.

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

Little Joys

School has been a busy tempest lately.  More than just the usual pre-Christmas zoo, and it's hard to get my head out of the struggles and notice the joys.

But there have been so many joys.

A little boy putting his hand gently on my shoulder, whispering "I love your hayuh." (hair, in kinderspeak).

A clumsy little chum, who trips over her own feet all day long, spilling an entire box of lego and not minding in the least. "Dees fings happen," she said nonchalantly, picking them up. 

A stormy little man happily singing to himself the song I'd made up about being proud of him.

And today, a little joy that was so amazing I couldn't help but notice.

I have a kindergarten friend in the next room who loves to give me hugs. Goodness knows he didn't listen to me when I was in his class, but now that I'm in the class next door he steals a hug whenever he sees me.

This afternoon he spied me from the hallway. "Miz Bell!" he whispered urgently. My hands were busy with twenty three snowsuits. "I can't hug you right now, buddy," I replied, "but thanks for saying hi!" and when I looked up he wasn't there.

And something didn't sit right. He tends to be a runner, which I'd found out the hard way more than once, and I just had a feeling he'd gone. So I dashed out of the classroom and yes - he was at the end of the hallway, hands already on the door. I knew if I chased him, he'd be gone. So I called out his name and knelt down right where I was. I opened my arms wide when he looked back over his shoulder. "Got a hug?" I called.

He turned toward me and ran. Full-tilt. Zooming back down the hallway like a miniature snowsuit-clad Eric Liddel from Chariots of Fire. I could hear the music play as he streamed toward me, eyes alight.  

It was magical.

He crashed into me at full speed, and wrapped his arms around my neck. I felt the full force of his delight at being seen, at being wanted. "That was a very good hug," I told him, "your hugs make my heart happy." 

"I'll give you another one," he said solemnly. And he did.

A little shot of joy to light up the day.

May your Christmas be lit up with moments of slow-motion movie magic, my friends.
xo.

Gifts you can't unwrap

Friends, who,

When plans are cancelled

You actually miss.

❤️🎄

May we have them, may we be them.

Merry Christmas, friends.

Xo

Delays and Interruptions

I was, ironically, stressed about needing to pick up my herbal anti-stress supplement.

The kids were taking forever to fall asleep.

Pascal was wiggling and leaping around his bed like someone had slipped him a cup of Coke.

Kachi wanted to tell me the convoluted rankings of every kid in his class - best and worst arm wrestler; third, second and first fastest runner; neatest printer; fastest adder, etc.

Vava was awash in the tragedy of existing as an imperfect human (can we tell she's my daughter? lol).

Sam was unsympathetically listening to her, interjecting unhelpful observations at the worst opportunities.

And Patrick was rearranging the living room to set up the new computer.

So it was a busy night chez Labelle, and everything kept interrupting and slowing me down when I just needed to dash to Walmart. 

It was 9:35 when I finally got into the van. Twenty five glorious minutes before they closed.

I backed out onto the road and felt an unmistakable wobble.  My tire had been showing obvious signs of needing air for weeks now. It was past time to fill it up. So with a sigh, I headed to the service station.

It's been a long time since I filled a tire with air.

I swiped my card, unscrewed the cap, and stuck the nozzle on the tire.  The pump rumbled to life and air whooshed out. But my tire didn't rise. It stayed depressingly flat, 20 psi; a far cry from the suggested 36.

When the pump shut off and the tire still wasn't inflated, I called Patrick. Then, feeling like a ninny, I watched a YouTube video on how to inflate your tires.

I'd been holding the handle wrong.

Patrick showed up and I inflated the tire - correctly, this time. Then we hopped into the van to try our luck at getting into the store 5 minutes before close.

As we parked, I noticed someone standing in the parking lot with a full cart, wearing a snowsuit. Must be waiting for a taxi, I thought as we zipped inside.

We were in and out in less than 2 minutes. Sweet success! 

But outside in the cold, the person was still standing with their cart. 

"Should we offer them a ride?" I asked Patrick. 

"Whatever you want," he replied. 

So we pulled up beside them and did.

Bundled up beneath that snowsuit, struggling with a broken crampon, was a little old lady. In her cart were four bags of groceries and a cane.

"Oh, are you sure?" she asked, "I was planning to walk, but it's so slippery tonight, and my grips broke. My cane is good enough on a dry night, but I need my grips on the ice."

Very sure, I promised. We helped her in, and drove her home. Not so far, but far enough on a warm night. Far enough without a cane. Far enough without four bags of groceries. Too far, too cold, and too slippery on a night like tonight.

When I was walking into my own house, warm and lazy on two good legs, I realized why I'd been so slowed down. 

You wanted her to have a drive home, my heart smiled at God.

Yes; I just love her so much, He replied.

Which is, of course, why He sent Jesus.

He wanted us to have a drive home.

He just loves us so much.

Merry interruptions and delays at Christmas, friends. He just loves us so much. xo.

 

How it's going

I wanted to do one of those picture pairs that you see everywhere, the how it started / how it's going combo.

How it started was easy to find. A manger scene. Baby Jesus in a manger, loved and welcomed by angels and shepherds. 

"Call him Jesus, for he shall save his people from their sins." That's how it all started.

But then. I was stumped at the how it's going part.

A cross, I thought; but no - He isn't still on the cross. That's how it went, but isn't how it's going.

So then, a tomb? An empty tomb, because He's alive? I mean, kind of - but the prophecy wasn't "call him Jesus, for he shall rise from the dead" (which is a pretty cool prophecy tbh).

And then I found a photo of a woman holding up her arms, with broken shackles dangling.

That's it, I thought - that's the After shot, that's how it's going. He has saved us from our sins.

And it's true, it's beautifully, gloriously true that He died for our sins, He rose in victory, He lives as our advocate.

But in this life, in this world

in the everyday slog, it isn't how it feels like it's going, right? In many ways we are still shackled by sins, and I don't mean that lightly or tritely. Shackled by addiction or anger, by fear or doubt. Shackled by terror, by harm endured at another's hand. Shackled by disease or poverty or circumstance. Shackled by history and current events.

I don't know a lot of people who feel wholly free.

In this world we will know trouble.

I don't have a picture of how it's going because it's not done going yet.

We dwell in the not yet. In between "call Him Jesus" and "he shall save his people from their sins."

Christmas calls Christians to affirm our long hope, our sure hope, our only hope: 

He will save us.

We wait. We wait through illness and loneliness. We wait through grief and suffering. We wait through Decembery darkness, waiting

For our salvation.

He will come.

Merry Christmas, friends. Xo.

A good way to say I love you

We had company for lunch today and after they left we all drifted into a Sunday afternoon coma. 

The kids drowsed, Patrick and I full-on napped. I wasn't planning on napping - Eevee had gotten her teeth into a roll of paper towel, and shredded it all over the living room floor. I'd planned to clean it up. But instead, I fell asleep.

When I woke up, Kachi was standing beside me. "Mama? Can I have a snack? And guess what I did. I cleaned up the living room."

That precious boy had picked up every scrap of paper towel and then vacuumed the bits.

How many ways are there to say I love you?

I'm so glad God sent me a Kachi.

Whether you have a Kachi or you are a Kachi, I hope you know you are loved. Given to be a gift, and given to receive gifts ...

Merry Christmas, friends. 

Xo.

Got any coffee?

When I was a kid, my parents would make us wait until some terrible hour like 6 or 7 am to open presents. They would come out of their room in their bathrobes, rubbing their eyes, and lurch toward the coffee pot.

We - who had been up for an hour at least, having gobbled our stocking chocolates and the orange in the toe - would almost die with waiting. Dee and Uncle Ken would sit with us in the living room, teasing Mom and Dad about needing their coffee. Mom usually had some sort of hot breakfast prepared to cook - cinnamon rolls she had prepped the night before, or a Christmas casserole waiting in the fridge, ready to put in the oven to cook while we opened presents. The coffee maker never dripped so slowly. The oven never preheated so slowly. The wait (which was maybe 5 minutes?) felt endless. 

And then the presents. One at a time, round and round the room, Dad rejoicing over each dollar-store chocolate covered cherry we had wrapped for him, mom opening a notebook full of poems I had written as if it was the one book she truly wanted.

And then, when presents were all done, we would sit down to eat Christmas breakfast. Which was delicious.

And at some point in the morning, the door would usually open and a friend of my dad's would pop his head in the door. "Got any coffee?" he'd ask. And my parents would welcome him in and he'd sit and talk with my dad while we disappeared to read our new books and try on new clothes and eat giant tins of flavoured popcorn.

When his coffee cup was empty, Mom and Dad would send him home with a bundle of fresh cinnamon rolls, a box of chocolates, and a packet or two of the fancy cheeses they had received. (Does Farmers still make Christmas gift boxes filled with Easter grass and an assortment of cheese?)

And when I look back on my childhood Christmases, this kindness, this unfancy unplanned unphotographed segment of the day is the true holiday. Feeding others is how we feast, welcoming others is how we come home, clothing others is how we knit warmth into the world.  It's how we carry God's infinite heart in our hearts, it's how the Christ is born into the world again and again.

 The description is in the book of Isaiah, chapter 58, verses 6-12.

“This is the kind of fast day I’m after:
    to break the chains of injustice,
    get rid of exploitation in the workplace,
    free the oppressed,
    cancel debts.
What I’m interested in seeing you do is:
    sharing your food with the hungry,
    inviting the homeless poor into your homes,
    putting clothes on the shivering ill-clad,
    being available to your own families.
Do this and the lights will turn on,
    and your lives will turn around at once.
Your righteousness will pave your way.
    The God of glory will secure your passage.
Then when you pray, God will answer.
    You’ll call out for help and I’ll say, ‘Here I am.’

  Carols and cookies, gift-wrap and twinkly lights look like Christmas on the outside. But true Christmas is advocating for the vulnerable. Donating to a shelter. Buying groceries for the hungry, inviting a neighbour over for a meal.

Let's fast from selfishness and oppression, from closing our eyes to the needy and cold. Let our Christmas breakfasts be an outpouring of love, of warmth, of welcome, with the front door swinging open - it's the best way to make the holiday beautiful. 

This is the kind of fast day I'm after ... 

 Merry Christmas, friends. xo. 

Gift Ideas

Tonight I held open my arms, and Sam stepped into them for a moment. 

"Mmm," he murmured, nestling against me, "it's been too long since I've had a hug." 

And he stayed there like that, my tall boy, his arms wrapped around me.

People are always the best gifts.

And arms make the best wrapping.

Merry Christmas, my friends.

Xo.

Hope

Snow howls

Traffic hums

Jackets pile

Winter comes

Darkness falls

Snow gleams

Fire crackles

Mittens steam

Mallows float

Cocoa swirls

Chair beckons

Pages curl

Blankets warm

Sleep descends

Morning dawns

Night ends.

Morning dawns.

Night ends.

Until the day dawns, and the morning star rises in your hearts - 2 Peter 1:19

This is Christmas

Sometimes you can't even sing. 

The throat aches, the words stick.

And the song flows on around you.

Sometimes you can't even pray.

The heart aches, the words falter.

And the prayers rise around you.

Sometimes you can't even read.

The eyes fill, the words blur.

And the page lies open before you.

But Christmas isn't something 

We do or say or read.

It's Jesus.

The living Word.

Who came to us in our weakness.

Who sings over us in our sorrows.

Who carries each wordless prayer.

This is Christmas:

Christ came.

Jesus.

Jesus.

Jesus.

Gloria in excelsis Deo.

Whether you weep or dance, Merry Christmas, friends.

Xo.

Me & My Hallway

I turned our ugly construction-junk-filled hallway into a coatroom today.

I wish I'd taken a Before shot, but here is the After. (If you peek at my September post, you can see a little of it there!)

Um 

...Big deal, right? Why is this worth a post? Making a room more useful is kind of an ordinary thing, J.

Except for me, it's not. After a super hard year and a reno gone wrong, I'd lost all motivation to do anything for my house. Keeping it clean and running to provide for the constant needs of four busy kids was super hard without a kitchen or even a sink for most of the year. So when I looked at my hallway filled with construction junk, I didn't see the possibilities it held. All I saw was the mess.

And that's how I felt about me, too. Deeply. For a really long time.

Well, back in the spring I reached out for help.

I called a counsellor.

I told her how I was feeling.

Worse than worthless.

A burden on my people.

Hopeless.

Like every day was going to be harder than the next.

Like there was nothing good to come.

Like I should apologize to everyone who had to bear the burden of looking at me, interacting with me.

The only reason I didn't drive into the front of a truck is that it would have hurt the trucker.

Feeling that low. So low.

She asked me if I could tell her approximately how many days out of the past 2 weeks I felt like that.

12 (13?)

We talked for an hour. 

Mostly me.

Apologetically, excusingly, embarrassedly me.

She promised me she would call me back the next day and set up a schedule of appointments.

She reminded me to feel my feelings, to make sure I got enough sleep, and to take 10 minutes outside, walking. She encouraged me to build in a little deliberate joy - do something that made me happy - and didn't hang up until I planned it (downloading a funny podcast to listen to on my walk).

And she asked me to call my doctor to discuss antidepressants.

I took a big gulp at that.

One of my constant shames and discouragements was my weight. And I knew people gain weight on antidepressants.  So although I'd been fighting this feeling since a miscarriage in 2009, I hadn't ever been brave enough to consider it.

It's not bad enough for that, is it? I wondered.

But yeah. It was.

So I started taking antidepressants.

Within a month, my bad days had gone from 12/14 to 3/14. 

And it's been almost six months now. And yup, I've gained weight. But you know what? I don't care anymore. My fixation with that was a symptom of my depression. 

And I had a seismic shift in perspective. 

If I don't like something, I can do something about it.

What?!

If I don't like something, I can do something about it.

That's the bliss of adulthood.

When you're a kid, you don't get to make a lot of decisions about your own life, but the bliss of adulthood is agency.

If I don't like something in my life, I can do something about it.

And maybe you're like ... Um, of course. What's the big deal?

But the big deal is this:

Depression lies. It told me I was stuck and any action I could take would just be worse and everything was awful and my only choice was between awful and horrible.

But I have agency.

If I don't like something, I can change it.

This week, I saw my hallway - I really saw it. And I didn't like it.

So I changed it.

And I feel super vulnerable and weird sharing all this but I just thought - maybe someone else is afraid to reach out for help. Maybe you don't think your feelings are heavy enough or maybe you're scared of what treatment will be like.

So I wanted to share that if my painfully-long-depressed brain was able to heal enough to find joy and hope and rearrange a hallway that held unused construction junk for a year, then yours can too.

Make that call.

Reach out for help. 

You're truly worth it.

And if you need someone to talk to about it, I'm here. 

Xo.

Every Child Matters

We went to the Indigenous children's memorial last night, an event held by the our town as part of Truth and Reconciliation week.  As we walked through the park, carrying lights in the darkness, I found myself looking around for our other children. It was so strange - I felt very close to our miscarried babies last night, and was surprised to find just four kids walking alongside us. Isn't that odd? I've never had more than four of my kids walking beside me, and yet every now and then I unconsciously expect the others to be there.

We held our lights as the darkness closed in and there was nothing to see, only words to hear. Trembling men and women shared their stories with us, stories of loneliness, abuse and horror and loss that they carried and continue to carry.  One man sang a prayer he has written for his children, and for all the stolen children and their suffering. It was beautiful and so simple.

Creator, see my children. Creator, watch over my children. Creator, save my children.  

He sang in the dark.

In the middle of the night, Pascal woke me up because he was having bad dreams. I took him back to his bed and cuddled in with him. "Mama," he whispered, "did you know that my second-favourite bird is a bluejay?" He squirmed and tossed and squirmed some more until I realized that his one-piece pyjamas were growing too small. I found comfy pjs and changed him into them, then he laid down and I smoothed his blankets over him again. "I'm the comfiest boy in the world," he sighed, and soon drifted off to sleep.

I lay next to him, heart cracked wide open.

Hundreds of thousands of Indigenous children tossed with discomfort in the night. Mothers and fathers never had the opportunity to soothe them back to sleep. Who noticed when their pyjamas grew too tight? To whom did they whisper about their second-favourite bird?  Who saw their eyelashes finally fan out in rest against soft cheeks, who heard their breathing grow slow as they slipped into dreamland?

Creator, see my children.

Two of my babies didn't make it into this world. I believe their faces and personalities and habits are known in heaven, seen and witnessed by God. They have not known pain or suffering and still my heart aches for them, longs to know them. Even after all this time, even though they never cuddled to sleep in my arms, their absence seems wrong and my heart keeps the tally.

Residential schools in Canada kept an official record of how many children died in their care: 51.

Over 6000 graves have been discovered this year, and we're still going. The bleeding wound of unresolved grief has kept the tally.

Creator, watch over my children.

The aching injustice, the pain and grief and sheer agony of parents whose children were ripped away - this is unimaginable.  And yet, it's the lived experience of every Indigenous family in our country. 

I don't think it's a coincidence that the National Day for Truth and Reconciliation is September 30, and October is Infant and Child Loss month. The history of settlers in our country is a history of genocide, infanticide. We can walk around holding lights in the darkness but precious people are missing. The voice of our brother's blood cries to us from the ground.

Creator, save our children. See our children. Watch over our children.

A little extra love

I found myself unexpectedly back in school this week; not as a teacher or a student, but as an EA. 

In a whirlwind 10-minute tour and outline of my duties (mostly covering lunch breaks and other duties for actual EAs), I got a bird's eye view of the million moving parts that make an elementary school run.

While I've looked at school as both a student and a teacher, I've never peeped into it from the perspective of an EA. My tour guide showed me a room for body breaks and the walking path for kids who need a few minutes out of their classroom and posters with emotional regulation reminders and in the middle of it all she said "there are so many kids who just need a little extra love."

And like

I kept on walking like an actual normal human but inside I felt like a field full of fireflies, a night sky full of stars. 

Because this is our whole beautiful heartbreaking hope-giving point.

(Love God, said Jesus, and love everyone else. Love your neighbour as yourself.)

I have lived for almost 39 years and my life has been filled with what I imagine is the usual mixture of gladness and sorrow and I have been blessed in so many ways and yet I can't think of any good reason for sticking around this place except for love.

They say there's nothing new under the sun: matter may change shape and form but the sum total of matter stays the same. Whatever we do, we do with the stuff we've got. And we get to try our hands at alchemy and turn what we've got into love.

I mean - we can do the opposite too. We can take our person and energy into the day and spread rage and leave people cringing in our wake. We can leave filth and darkness and agony and hatred and apathy.

But, we can - and so many people do - take a morning cup of coffee and a few pieces of toast and walk out into the world and expend that energy as kindness. We get to take these bodies we're in and work gentleness into the places that surround us, create warmth and light and cleanliness and beauty. We get to inhale the air and speak words that comfort, words that inspire, sing songs that awaken whole rooms inside.

We get to take what we've got, and give a little extra love.

And there are a whole lot of people that need a little extra love.

xo.

 

Grownups at play

A few months ago Vava and I were walking home down the broad sidewalk and gentle hill of our main street. Her little hand was nestled in mine. Grey clouds were rolling in, high up in the sky, and little puffs of wind blew about. 

It was a Sunday, and the day felt free and light. There was very little traffic and hardly anyone around.

I looked down at my long-limbed girl, freckle-faced and starry-souled.

"Wanna skip?" I asked.

Her face lit up. We skipped. Holding hands, l-left r-right, l-left r-right all the way down the long hill, blocks and blocks of skipping. We laughed and laughed from sheer joy until we ran out of breath, then we linked hands and did it again.

And a few weeks later I was walking the same route again, this time by myself, and I really wanted to skip. It's faster, and fun, and my walk was kind of boring. And the memory of our gleeful skip danced on ahead of me while I walked on, step after boring step.

You know how when you're a kid, you can't wait to grow up because you'll be in charge of you?  And you think you'll be able to do anything you want?

But you won't be able to skip down the street by yourself. Or wander in the woods, feeling the different textures of bark and looking under moss for bugs and challenging your friends to find the biggest mushrooms. Or lie upside down on the couch with your feet on the wall, absorbed in your book.

I mean, you can. But with a side order of side-eye and maybe a few questions about your sanity.

Why did we ever decide that skipping isn't for grownups? Or climbing trees? Or biking with no hands? Why do these things signal something wrong, instead of something deeply, freely, beautifully right?

[Our culture tells us that for adults, pursuing interests should be productive, or competitive, or financially driven. 

A grown man biking furiously with a delivery box on his bike? Responsible. A grown man biking as fast as he can down the street with a racing bib on his shirt? Laudable. A grown man racing down the street on his bike, chortling with glee? Wacko.

Anyway.]

I held in the skip until I got to my own street. I couldn't see anyone out and about. And so I picked up my feet and careened down the sidewalk l-left r-right, l-left r-right all the way home.  Bliss.

Last night I was driving down a street in the dark and I saw a man doing the same thing. Not skipping, but practicing tricks on his bike. He was on the far end of middle age, still wearing the dressy shirt I imagine he'd worn to work. 

When I drew alongside him he was pedaling steadily, hands in the air, a look of quiet bliss on his face. I felt a wave of joy and unity and a sense of rightness. Humans at play are captivating.

When the day breaks - when the morning stars sing together and the trees of the field clap their hands - I will not trudge down the streets of gold. I may bike. I may skip. If the good Lord sees fit to grant me some rhythm I will even dance.

And all the grownups will play.

(But it's so much better if we start now!)

Kachi

It was the end of the afternoon. We'd been to the beach and come home, sweeping into the air conditioning in our damp and sandy clothes, uncomfortable and cranky because it was over.

I dove headfirst into chores, the ones I shouldn't have left from the morning.  

Sam, Vava, and Pascal all followed the usual routine: taking off their suits, leaving their towels in the laundry, finding something to do.

But Kachi stormed and scowled by the door.

A friend phoned and I inhaled her conversation like food after a hard day's work.

I filled the tub for Kachi, hoping its warmth would wash away his heaviness. It didn't.

 

He yelled and I ignored for five minutes, ten, until finally I put my call on hold and asked him what was wrong.

 

"Will you stay in here with me?" he asked, but it came out fierce and sulky, a command, a challenge.

 

I could feel my eyeballs rolling. 

Sigh. Didn't I just spend the whole afternoon at the beach with these kids?

I deserve a chat on the phone. I do. 

But early in the afternoon Kachi had been yelled at, unfairly, by a grown up he didn't know and he'd retreated into the beach chairs
And hadn't played with us
And had just waited, eyebrows low and heart tossing, until we left.

So I said my goodbyes, and, still wearing my bathing suit, stepped into the tub.

Kachi's eyes grew huge, and he gasped in delight. The water rose as I sank down and laid my head against the edge. Kachi laid his head on my arm and opened up, letting the injustice and sorrow tumble out until we both just sat there, silent, together.

Sam needs to share a laugh, eyes meeting, joyful, over a common absurdity or delight.
Vava needs to be seen, she loves being caught doing something happy or kind or helpful.
Pascal needs to be snuggled and smooched.

Kachi? Kachi just wants to be together.

 

A Patch of Wheat and Purple Flowers

A patch of wheat and purple flowers

Waved golden, radiant in the sun

And the late afternoon breeze.

Have you ever seen anything more beautiful?

I asked my daughter

And she gazed at my face and said 

Everyday.

Her freckles, golden;

Her eyes as blue as the sea;

Her hair, tossing about her head wild and free.

That slim frame and wiry limbs and paint-stained fingers

Carrying all this love in and out of season

Everyday.

The Best Kitchens

I've rearranged my kitchen again. 

It's not the kitchen of my dreams that I thought I would be sitting in this year. It's not the kitchen we paid for.

But it's the kitchen that is.

We've been living in a construction zone since last August. As the one year anniversary rolls up I find myself indignant and resigned by turns. "It is what it is," I shrug, and then the next day, "it's not fair!"

So, I'm right and I'm right. It is what it is ... and what it is is unfair.

Anyway. All that aside, we're expecting family for a visit at the end of the month. So I've been trying to think of ways to make our half-built space more accommodating and cozy. It won't be fancy or even finished but it can still be comfortable, I think.

So today I rearranged the spaces. The office is now the dining room, and the old table space in our kitchen is now a sitting area. I've got boards on sawhorses to make an island with shelves for dishes, lamps all around to make up for no lights being installed, and I think we will have lots of fun hanging out in here.

After I wrapped up the dishes for the night and washed the counters (rough boards, whatevs), I sat down in our new little sitting area to just make friends with the space. The fridge hummed, the lamplight was warm and gold, and I found myself feeling really close to my grandmothers.

They were both mothers of big families - 10 kids in my dad's family and 9 in my mom's - and hard workers. I remember them most in their kitchens, full kitchens, overflowing with people and laughter. Stories and songs and good food, prayers and tears and poetry - these were the things they fed us. When I was quite young, I was awed by them, and a little afraid. They had such fancy ornaments on top of doilies, and soft shell-shaped soaps, and covers on their cushiony toilet seats. But as I grew older I found myself connecting with them more, devouring their stories and craving more minutes in their kitchens, with their memories and wisdom and expressive hands.

They both left sooner than I would have liked but their stories have stayed. Their recipes and hymns and poetry have settled deep in my heart like flat worn stones in a well-loved garden.

I loved their kitchens, but not because they were fabulous. (They weren't.) I loved their warmth and welcome. I loved the way I left feeling filled and filled. I loved the family milling about and the shouts of laughter, the way songs or stories would spring up and get all our hearts on the same page.

And that's a kitchen.

That's a kitchen.

It's not new cupboards (or no cupboards lol). It's breaking bread and breaking down walls and just taking a break to be together. 

My grandmothers knew it. Lived it.

And maybe this little hiatus from my dream kitchen will help me enjoy being in my kitchen like I remember enjoying theirs.  No matter what it looks like.

Xo.

kitchens with couches are the coziest kitchens!

A Wedding Toast

One of my lovelies is getting married today.

When she told me about her fiance she started with, "he's so kind." 

My heart melted.

I love him already.

Because as far as I can tell, there is nothing like kindness to make life together happy ever after.

Which, I think, is not the message I grew up believing. Not the message I believed for far too long as an adult.

I always thought if I was pretty enough (and submissive enough, tbvh - thanks church), I could snag a hot husband. Then we would never stop being in love with each other's gorgeousness and live happily ever after.

But ... I have a lot of really gorgeous friends who have mediocre or even downright miserable marriages.  Gorgeousness is apparently not the ticket.

Kindness, though? All the happiest people I know are kind, and if they're married, are married to someone kind. 

Kindness doesn't fade. It is a quality that grows more appealing and desirable the more it's practiced. 

Patrick and I would not win any sort of attractiveness contest unless we were the judges, but I am incontestably attracted to him. We have so much fun together, so much joy.  You can be vulnerable and open and completely yourself if you are held close in a deeply kind heart. You don't need to play games, be fake, or hide anything at all when you are with someone kind. There's trust and true intimacy when kindness is the mode of your relationship.

Love is patient, love is kind.♥️

Get you a partner who works on their gentleness, patience, goodness. Then, no matter what they look like, you'll be smitten forever.

Congratulations to my friends on their wedding day. God bless you now and always!

Ode to a Jetta, with goosebumps

Tonight I saw an old red Jetta. 

Boxy and with those particular handles that only Volkswagen drivers know how to open.

It bumped across in front of me through the intersection as I waited at the light, and, transfixed, I watched it roll merrily out of sight.

I was awash in goosebumps.

An old square Jetta, exactly like the one my parents had. 

I remember crawling through it, barefoot, the summer evening when Dad brought it home. We pulled and prodded every button and switch, lowering the back seats and crawling into the impossibly huge, square trunk. There was a passenger arm rest and cupholder that pulled down from the middle back seat, suggesting drive throughs and road trips. The windows wound up and down with small grey - what are they called, handles? levers? winders? - and most amazing of all, there was a moon roof.

A moon roof!

Sunroofs were a treat I'd enjoyed in my big cousins' cars, but I'd never experienced the wide open thrill of a moon roof. And the carpet was so clean, and soft against my toes.

By the time I was a teenager my parents had two Jettas, one red and one grey, but only one would start. The other had to be jumped. So, early each morning, my mom would get in her Jetta and my dad would get in his (carefully parked the night  before to face down the little incline at the end of our street. Dad would park on a hill near work, so he could roll himself to a start on his way home). Mom would butt the  nose of the red Jetta up against the metal bar bumper of the grey Jetta, where my dad was ready, clutch engaged and gearshift in neutral. She pushed until my dad was rolling down the street, then he would turn the key and the ignition would catch. 

It was a clumsy and delicate dance, and I could never quite decide whether to laugh or cry watching them repeat this daily ritual. It was funny and beautiful, the kind of beauty that leaves a little ache in the throat.

I first learned to drive in that square old red Jetta. Permit in my pocket, I traded places with my sister at the top of a ramp leading onto a mostly empty Nova Scotia highway. It felt strange to sit in her seat, and buckle my seatbelt on the wrong side of my body.

"Ease off the clutch until you feel it grab," she told me, "then ease on the gas." I didn't know how to steer or brake or anything, yet off we went, the throaty rumble of the Jetta a loud and unmistakable purr of satisfaction. 

The rush of driving was addictive. (I've preferred it ever since; I hate being a passenger.)

I remember one night we were out at the lake, friends and cousins, a whole bunch of us, and my cousin Laura locked her keys in her Golf. I'd heard that Volkswagen only made 7 different keys, so I thought the odds were good that my key would open her door.

It did.

It did!

That Jetta.

We made many miles of memories in that boxy thing. 

I hadn't thought of them in years.

But when it passed me today, it left magic in its wake.

Magic.

For Patrick, Fifteen Years Later

I remember praying for you.

One day when I was 13 or 14 I knelt beside my bed and before I went to sleep I prayed for you.

That God would bless you that day and every day. Help you with exams and give you joy and give you a strong and true and loving heart. That you - whoever you were, wherever you were - would have a happier moment today, and many happier moments in your life because someone who longed to meet you was praying for you.

When we crashed heart-first into each other and got married I could not believe my luck. 

Some people put on their best self like a jacket when they go out. They wear bright shiny smiles for strangers but put on something less lovely for their loved ones.

You save your best self for home.

Your warmest love and happiest laughter and most devoted kindnesses - you pour them all out right here for us. For me.

I've always said the first year was our hardest year. Learning to be around each other all the time and how to fight and make up and what's worth arguing about (I guess we still argue about that 😅). And folding towels.

Before we got married, my mom told me not to worry if you do chores differently than I do unless I wanted to always do them myself (good advice). We wash dishes and sweep differently, we sort things differently, we fold shirts differently. 

But after a few loads of laundry I found myself unfolding the towels you'd folded and doing them my way (the right way lol). You laughed and said folded was folded. And then, when I persisted in the refolding, you tried to learn my way. Muscle memory was not your friend, and the towels always ended up in long skinny weirdness that didn't fit anywhere. And finally I just told you not to bother - that I was refolding them anyway so you might as well leave them for me.

You didn't. So I've been refolding your folded towels for years. (Not resentfully! I love you.)

Last year we installed a gorgeous new set of shelves and a new washer and dryer in our laundry room.

And wouldn't you know it, the towels fit best on these new shelves when they're folded the way you first folded them a million years ago when we first got married.

So, smiling a little at the relief it would be for you, I started folding our old towels this new, old way.

And something weird happened.

I kept finding them folded my favourite  way on the shelves.

Each time I adjusted them, thinking my muscle memory must have kicked in and I'd forgotten to fold them the best-fit way.

I found them again.

And then again.

And finally I realized that

After fifteen years

And me giving up on it entirely

You had finally mastered my favourite fold.

My darling.

You kind soul.

This wretched lonely year, when we can't get away for a date night or a moonlit stroll, you still manage to spell your love out ... in towels.

I am grateful for our first hard year, this last terribly hard year, and every year in between. 

Thank you for loving me steadily and gladly and deeply.

You are beyond what I dared ask or think and I love you. 

Xo.

Blessing and Cursing

My friend shared this post today, where she talks about blessing and not cursing - and the way it's holy, Godly, to cherish the scraps.

And the way that when you cherish goodness in leftover bits, you begin to look closer, to see with wonder, to see the value in each created thing and in each created one.

Even others.

Even yourself.

Even others.

God has been whispering this to my heart for quite some time. 

I used to think that curses were formal things - formal wishes for evil and harm, by someone with power to make it so.

And blessings too. Formal wishes for good and wellbeing, by someone with power to make it so.

But - as my friend points out in her post - Jesus says that it's a hellish thing just to call someone a fool. It disparages them and reduces them to the thing you're frustrated by. It's myopic at best. And it's a curse. It's speaking evil about and to them.

But the key - the deep down behind the scenes reason it's not okay - is because we're ignoring the holy truth about people when we blister them with a curse.

God calls us Beloved. Honours us as image bearers. Blesses us.

I think I would be a much gentler driver if I remembered that everyone is beloved of God and created in his image. 

And that remembering needs to start on my lips. 

Can you imagine?

Instead of calling someone a jerk or worse, imagine if I called them Beloved, Created in the Image of God.

Instead of speaking evil, speaking truth. 

"Cut me off in traffic, will you, Beloved, Created in the Image of God?" 

Or my kids? "Time for school my Beloveds, Created in the Image of God."

Oh guys. 

That sounds so much nicer.

So much truer. 

I need that word on my lips.

That truth in my heart.

Blessing, not cursing.

Thanks for reading, Beloved, Created in the Image of God.

One could do worse than plant flowers

Today is supposed to be my writing day. 

Subjects have been interviewed, topics are prepared, and three articles are due ... but I'm sitting at my computer gloomscrolling instead.

I feel stuck.

And not just in my writing. But in everything. Helplessly stuck. You know?

 The apartment building across the street had a leak in the basement a few years ago. A cute little backhoe came and dug up the driveway, ruining the curb and a long strip of asphalt on one half of the front of the building.  

Repairs were made, the earth was replaced, but the curb and asphalt were never fixed.

The building isn't pretty - brick and square - but the front of it was always reasonably neat and not unpleasant. But for the past two years it has had an ugly 2-foot swath of dirt out front like a scar.

I feel like that with Covid. More than a year of adaptations to a life I was pretty happy with have been necessary, and functional, but ugly.  Scarringly ugly.

I want everything to go back to the way it was.  I want to have friends over and raise a glass and decimate a cheese board and hug hello and goodbye. I want to hang out with my closetalker friends and not step back an offensive mile.

I want the asphalt and the curb repaired.

Today I noticed that lumpy upturned patch of earth in front of the apartment building is growing daffodils and tulips. Last fall, maybe, someone got an idea in their heart and carefully tucked the seeds and bulbs into the dirt and let them unfold in their own time.

Beauty. 

Just now, my friend called. We're miles apart. Her call was like a breath of air. We can't hang out in person but we can still talk and share joy and carry each other's burdens. 

Her call planted a little flower in my Covid-broken heart.

I don't know how to plant and I don't know how to repair torn asphalt or rebuild a curb. I don't know what will grow out of all the upheaval and repairs we've had to make.

But I do know that God put us here to make gardens out of wilderness. To set our hands against entropy and craft, create, cultivate. We're made to be makers. To make beauty, to make life, to make wonder and function and comfort and nourishment.

And maybe someday a construction crew will pull in and set the apartment driveway right. It will be lovely.

But until then - 

one could do worse than plant flowers.