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.