A Sword

"He is a light to reveal God to the nations, and he is the glory of your people Israel!” Jesus’ parents were amazed at what was being said about him. Then Simeon blessed them, and he said to Mary, the baby’s mother, “This child is destined to cause many in Israel to fall, and many others to rise. He has been sent as a sign from God, but many will oppose him. As a result, the deepest thoughts of many hearts will be revealed. And a sword will pierce your very soul.”

Luke 2:31‭-‬35 NLT

When Jesus was 8 days old, Mary and Joseph took him to the temple to dedicate him to God. Simeon and Anna, two prophets, saw him and knew- this was the Messiah. 

But Simeon knew something else. He saw the sorrow coming too. I used to always read this and think Simeon was talking about Jesus dying on the cross but I think it was maybe something sooner.  Check out this tragedy:

Herod was furious when he realized that the wise men had outwitted him. He sent soldiers to kill all the boys in and around Bethlehem who were two years old and under, based on the wise men’s report of the star’s first appearance.

Matthew 2:16 NLT

God warned Joseph and Mary to take their baby and flee to Egypt, far from Herod who was scared of losing his power, and killing innocent children to hang on to it.

I can imagine how crushed Mary would be, knowing her son had been kept safe, but that these babies had died. A sword would pierce her very soul.

But her baby would die.

He would grow up so kind and loving, generous and thoughtful and not bound by the mincing convention of religion. 

And he would die.

To bring us - every one of us someone's baby - life.

Instead of killing to hold on to power, he laid down his life to give it up.

It's Christmas because it's a gift.

Beautiful.

Costly. 

And soul-piercing.

xo.

Sweetness

Because this year didn't look the way I expected it to, I found myself really bored every day when the kids were at school. I wanted to write, I tried to write, but I ended up just kind of staring at the computer screen in a fog and then suddenly the day would be over.

I wanted flexibility and could only work for a few hours a day, so I got a job delivering food over the lunch rush around town.

It's awesome.

It's not hard, and it has a bunch of little wins built right in.  I love to drive, love to give people food, and love to race a clock. The purchases are all done online so I don't have to deal with money at all: I just snag the food from the restaurants and drop it off at the customer's door. And I can set my own schedule so I'm still free on the days I need to write or edit, or when the kids have a PA day.  I love it.

Today I got into a bit of a snag because one of my customers didn't answer the door, didn't answer her phone, didn't answer when I texted. I was delivering to her at work, a public place, and she hadn't authorized me to leave it with anyone so I couldn't just give it to a coworker. I had orders backing up, so I popped her food back into my thermal bag and delivered the next one. I went back and tried again, getting it to her successfully this time.

However, this meant that my next three deliveries were all increasingly delayed.

I figured I would probably get a bad review or 3 but I knew I couldn't have done anything differently so I tried not to worry about it - easier said than done, though. I finished my last delivery and pulled into the driveway. I logged in to see my reviews ... and there was one.  I braced myself.

It was from the lady who I'd gone back for, and she had written me a glowing review.

Instead of the bitterness I expected, I received something sweet.

Kind of like my job, that I'm constantly surprised to love.

Kind of like this weird, hard, strange, but not giftless year.

Kind of like Joseph. You know? His betrothed shows up pregnant, and it isn't his. He's heartbroken. Doesn't want her shamed, doesn't want to hurt her, is prepared to just quietly divorce and let her go. His hopes shatter; this is not his favourite year.

But God shows up and speaks to him in a dream. "This baby? It's mine. Take care of him. Take care of Mary. Get married. It's all good."

Sometimes God's gifts look an awful lot like disappointment.

But there's sweetness in them.

There's gospel in them.

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

Get-to

It feels like I am always counting. Can you get into your boots before I get to ten? Counting groceries and pairs of socks and just how many bowls are squirreled away in bedrooms at any given moment. How many minutes are left before we're late for school and how many plates to set out for after-school snack and how many days left until Christmas. 

Tonight when I was settling Kachi into bed, I scooted in beside him for a kiss. He climbed on top of me. "You can't leave," he said.

"How about a hundred-second hug?" I asked. And I wrapped my arms around him and began counting to one hundred.

His head burrowed into my neck and he held me tight. My counting, which had begun at a good clip, started to slow.

He just wanted to be in my arms. Just wanted to be held. Not managed, not directed, not parented ... just held. 

And while my evening to-do list hung paused and waiting, the weight of it shifted. It ebbed. Faded. 

That hundred seconds was the most full and beautiful and restful of my day.

Kids are not great at getting things done on time and they are not amazing at shaving seconds off a schedule but they are very good at connecting and they are very good at stuffing joy into the little cracks and spaces of their day.

This morning I was getting everyone ready and out the door for school but Pascal was dilly-dallying so I sent the big kids outside to play while I got him ready. When we joined them in the fresh air, they called me over, laughing. "We built a snowman!" they crowed. There was not a lot of snow on the ground and they'd only had a few minutes but they had made this hilarious little snow man, complete with buttcheeks.

I, bona fide adult, don't tend to jam joy into every minute. I do the things I have to, and pat myself on the back if I do them more quickly than I'd expected. 

Left to their own devices, my kids create. They build. Write. Strategize. Draw. Sing. Invent a game. Make rhymes. Find patterns. Laugh at butts.  And they do this in the space between leaving the house and leaving the yard. Between leaving the yard and arriving at school. Between assignments. In between all the must-dos they jam a whole lot of get-tos. 

And sometimes I find myself lucky enough to be squished in with that list, a get-to. Get to hug mama for 100 seconds. Get to lie with mama while I fall asleep. Get to draw with mama, get to read with mama, get to make up silly songs and wash dishes with mama.

I hope this Christmas offers you a whole lot of chances to enjoy your get-tos. I hope you get to make a snowman while you wait and play on a frozen puddle when you pass it. I hope you get to press pause for one hundred heartbeats with your arms around someone you love. 

Jesus came because you're His get-to. ❤

Merry Christmas, friends.

Xo.

A Gentle alarm bell

 A friend of mine is a life coach. She's got a lot of wisdom and joy to share, and early this fall she suggested I pause a few times a day to give thanks. "Don't just rhyme off a list of things you know you should be thankful for," she added, "take time to be still and listen to your feelings. What are you feeling thankful for? Soak in that for a minute. You can feel many things in a short time, but you can only feel one thing at a time. So put your other feelings on pause and just soak up all the good ones while you're giving thanks."

So I set an alarm on my phone.  I made it different from my typical alarm - I chose a soft instrumental instead of an urgent ring, because I wanted it to prompt me into a good place, no matter how frazzled or rushed or discontent I might be feeling.

It's been a solid exercise.

I think I'm generally a pretty reactive person, but twice a day this prompts me to act, instead of react - to choose what to focus on, to celebrate or evaluate. And to give thanks.

When the kids hear the gratitude alarm, they never want me to turn it off. It plays for ten minutes and they all kind of hum along to it while they draw or build with lego or whatever they're doing. 

It's a really nice song, of course, but I think what they're getting is the feeling of it. The respite. The stillness. The joy.

And at Christmas (as with any other time) I tend to zoom around with a poorly planned checklist and a million mental to-dos. I remember to buy the kids presents and gift cards for the teachers, set up the tree and put some lights in the windows. I bulk-buy nuts and nacho chips, oranges and potatoes and jalapeno poppers. I pop my change in the Salvation Army kettle and drop some non-perishables off at the food bank

But

Jesus came without any of that stuff. He could have rescued us without coming as a baby, I think. He could have popped into the world, gone to the cross, and died for our sins. He could have. 

He came and dwelt. Holy, beautiful gift: God with us. With us.

So the thing is - 

To celebrate Christmas in the mode of Christmas means taking time to dwell with one another. To be with. And this year with all the Covid restrictions that's extra hard - but also, maybe, not so hard at all.

Maybe when we can't spend our time getting together with our usual jolly crowd, maybe we can take more time to look into the faces at our own table. Ask them some still and personal questions. Take time to hear their answers. Connect more truly and love more slowly - and truly dwell together.  We can cultivate that feeling, choose it, act in ways that nourish it. We can even set an alarm if we need to ;)

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

Boom da da boom

A story for Vava.

There once was a little boy who lived long ago. Like you, he was curious about God, and like you, he loved snuggles and stories before bed. Every night, when his parents snuggled down with him in bed, they would tell him a story from the Torah. Noah. Deborah. The ax-head that swam.  Jonah. Jael. Balaam's donkey.

"Do miracles like that still happen, mama?" He would ask.

"Not that I know of," she would whisper, "but maybe they will when the Messiah comes."

"Does God still talk to prophets, papa?" He would ask.

"Not that I know of," he would reply, "but maybe He will when the Messiah comes."

And every night those words would beat like a little drum in his heart. When the Messiah comes. When the Messiah comes. When the Messiah comes.  

Sometimes he was cold, and sometimes he was hungry. His family did not have a lot of money. But he was rich with hope, because the Messiah was coming.

He went to Torah school and learned all the stories from the priests. After every lesson, he would say goodbye to his teacher. "Goodbye, rabbi. Maybe tomorrow the Messiah will come." The rabbi would smile.

One day, the priest seemed different. His eyes were bright and his cheeks were red.  "Goodbye, rabbi," said the little boy when the lesson was over, "maybe tomorrow the Messiah will come."

"He will come," the rabbi gasped, "He will come! And soon."

The boy stood still.

"I am an old man," said the priest, "but God spoke to me. He told me I will not die until I see the Messiah."

The boy's heart leaped.

"God spoke to you?" he whispered.

"He spoke to me," the rabbi replied, and tears slid over his wrinkled cheeks. He could not stop smiling. God spoke to him.

The Messiah will come! The Messiah will come! The boy's heart drummed along very fast as he ran home and told his mama and papa what the priest had said.

One night, the boy woke up. He could hear hooves and soft bleating; a flock of sheep was passing by. The moon was full and bright and the night was warm and inviting. The little boy crept out of bed and followed the flock.

The shepherds stopped the sheep on a grassy hillside, and stretched out on the ground. The boy sat down between two lambs and stroked their soft fleece.  The night was still and silent, but underneath it all he could feel the bright drumbeat singing in his heart. The Messiah will come! The Messiah will come!

Suddenly, the darkness burst with gold light. An angel appeared and the shepherds yelped in fear.

"Do not be afraid," the joyful angel beamed, "there is born to you this day in the city of David a Savior, Christ the Lord. And this will be the sign: you will find him lying in a manger, wrapped in swaddling clothes."

And then a choir of angels appeared, like backup singers, praising God.  The boy's eyes were as big as saucers. Was he still awake? Was he asleep?

Born to you this day! The Messiah is come! Born to you this day! The Messiah is come! Born to you this day! The Messiah is come!  Boom da da boom. Boom da da boom. His heart pounded.

And as suddenly as they had come, the angels were gone. The boy's eyes swam in the moonlight, which seemed now so dim.  There was something in his hand, something firm and round and hollow - a little drum.

"AHHHHHHHH!" yelled the shepherds, "AHHHHHH!" And they leapt up and raced down the hill toward Bethlehem.  

The boy ran after them, as fast as his legs could whirl.

They peered into all the stables in town. All was still. They could smell the pungent odour of cattle. Sheep. Goats. Cows. There were no babies here.  They tiptoed through the sleeping town.

Really, had it all been a dream?

Until they came to one stable with a light inside. The air was expansive. Laughter and delight rang out. The boy heard a little mewling cry. A baby!  THE baby!

The shepherds walked in without invitation, eagerness precluding manners. The boy followed them.

"We've come to see the Messiah," a shepherd explained. The baby's parents looked at one another, eyes shining. "He's here," they replied. And there he was, lying in the manger ("what a funny place, God," thought the boy). 

The shepherds knelt, the boy knelt.

The Messiah is come! Born to you this day! The boy's heart drummed. He picked up the little tambourine that was in his hands and drummed along softly. Boom da da boom. Boom da da boom. The baby smiled. His mother smiled. His father smiled. The shepherds smiled. 

When the sun began to rise, the boy ran home.  

"God even speaks to shepherds," he told his parents, "and the Messiah is come."  And he played for them. 

On his drum.

I Step Into The Dressing Room with Walt Whitman

 

I Step Into the Dressing Room with Walt Whitman

My last pair of jeans 

Gave up the ghost three months ago.

Summer, with its dresses and flowy tops and stretch pants

Allowed me to put off the inevitable

Quite comfortably.

But now that fall is here

My bones cry for the warmth of denim.

I brave the awkwardness of retail,

Browse the shelves and descriptors

Until, armed with hope and a stack of pants,

I step into the dressing room. 

Suddenly a woman who was full

Of life and days and love and dreams 

Is reduced to the sum of her inches.

The mirror 

Reminds me again I am both too much and not enough.

I step out of the dressing room

And pay for my pants,

Flat and empty, neatly folded on the counter.

I think about my busy day

My full week, my full life

The bellies I’ve fed,

The arms that have wrapped around me 

Eyes that have laughed into mine

Hearts that have ached along with mine

Sunshine that has warmed my skin

Songs that have rolled with gladness out of my throat

Books I have read

Conversations that flowed past midnight

Rooms I have cleaned and danced and slept in

Planets and suns I have seen with my naked eyes

Oceans crashing against rocks that have held the press of my feet

Prayers I have whispered to the God who made it all, carries it all, 

--

Only He can carry me all

The mirror cannot contain my multitudes

It cannot capture a glimpse of me

It is not three or even two dimensional, but barely one -

I carry my pants

Out into their new world

And they rejoice.

Goodbye Song

Goodbye

 

I never dreamed I'd be saying

Goodbye

I can't believe what I'm saying

Goodbye

I'm not ready for this, it's not time

Goodbye

I'm not ready to never look into your eyes

Goodbye

My heart can't quite handle it

Goodbye

We've got ages of living left

Goodbye

I never told you just how much I love you

Goodbye

I never knew just how much I love you

Goodbye

Can't you come back for just five more minutes

Goodbye

I don't like this life without you living in it

Goodbye

It's not fair, I didn't ask for this

Goodbye

It's not fair, you didn't ask for this

Goodbye

I'll love you forever and ever

Goodbye

I'll love you forever and ever

Goodbye

I'll love you forever and ever

Goodbye

A love song for the skinny guy in the ugly apartment building across the street

Biking home with

A takeout tray balanced in one hand

Bearing

Two cups from Orange Julius

All the way from downtown.

Two cups

Arm up

All the way home. 

Looks graceful

Looks delicious

Looks exactly like

Love.

A Love Song for September

We drove for fifteen minutes

Through a wonderland of colour

Trees in brilliant gold, orange, scarlet, purple

And we didn't notice a thing.

But when one saucy tree 

Shook her leaves in the sunlight as we rounded the bend

Suddenly we saw them everywhere

Arresting, captivating, beautiful. 

Every bend in the road led to yet more delight 

Every field, ringed with magic

The children clapped their hands

And gasped look! Look!

So much beauty,

Hidden in plain sight. 

Not just autumn.

And not just trees.

In you, too.

Thriving

I wrote this piece and performed it at a spoken word event last fall. Bringing it out again because I need the reminder these days.

Xo.

I’ve never 

Been very good at thriving.

A month after I was born, the doctor sent me back to the hospital, because

While other babies squalled for milk

All I wanted to do was sleep.

He told my mother to hold on, and 

They cared for me with bottle after bottle after bottle

Until, inevitably, I grew.

I was four years old

The first time I thought about suicide.

(Of course

I didn’t know its name and so
I didn’t really think about it so much as ached for it, 

Longed to disappear fierce and sudden like a lightning bolt.)

I spent most of my childhood

Living in other worlds

With so much more than just my nose stuck in a book

Sometimes I would surface from the pages and take a moment to remember where I was.

Coming back to my own life was

Almost always a disappointment.

I particularly loved The legend of Tam Lin, who is captured by fairy folk, and how his brave beloved Janet rescues him.

At midnight one All Hallows Eve, she waits by the crossroads where the goblins and witches will pass on their way to sacrifice Tam Lin to the spirit world.

The night is dark and she hides in her hooded cloak while the dreadful procession approaches. Her heart pounds and her knees quake but she leaps up and wraps her arms around Tam Lin and defies them to make her let go.

The wicked Fairy Queen casts spell after spell on Tam Lin, turning him into a biting swan, a fierce lion, a pillar of fire. 

But 

Janet holds on 

Through the biting, the roaring, the burning, until the magic tricks are spent, and the evil ones shriek with rage as they slink away without Tam Lin.

I used to read that with a shiver and a thrill, longing to be like Janet

But missing the metaphor entirely.

When I was thirteen I 

Met Jesus and

Had a Very Hard Time with the concept of Heaven.

Not that I disbelieved it - 

No, I believed it

A lot.

I wanted to go there more than I wanted to meet my friends at the mall

More than I wanted to find my place in the world and

More than I wanted to face a barrage of days and

More than I wanted to endure

The sheer difficulty of existing

Here.

A 

Very hard time 

With the concept of Heaven.

Recently a friend asked me about perseverance 

And I found myself telling her the Legend of Tam Lin and 

The importance of holding on

When life feels like a biting

A roaring,

A burning.

And it gave her hope.

The irony was not lost on me.

And when I was mulling it over with Jesus 

He said

Look at your life.

And I looked.

And it was good. And I started to weep, because it has always been So Good.

All this time, it has been so good, and yet

It has felt like a monster, a curse.

A biting, a burning, a roaring thing.

My life has been Tam Lin

And Jesus has been my Janet.

I have not 

Been holding on at all

I have not

Been holding on at all

I have not 

Been holding on at all

(I have never been very good at thriving)

But I have been held.

Why doesn't God just poof it all away?

At lunchtime, we prayed for everyone affected by the coronavirus, and Sam asked why God doesn't just poof it all away, and all the kids agreed that yes, He could definitely do that if He wanted to.

Let me tell you a story, I began. When Jesus was walking around down here, he had some friends, two sisters and a brother. And they liked to hang out together. So one day, the brother got really sick. He got worse and worse and worse and the sisters knew that unless a miracle happened, he was going to die.  They sent a message to Jesus: quick! Our brother is dying - we need you to come!  And Jesus got their message and he was like: yeah, he's dying. So I'm just going to stay here for a few more days.  So Jesus didn't go.  And then, of course, the brother died.

And all around the table the faces were aghast. JESUS did that?! Tender, loving Jesus didn't go heal his friend? WHAAAAA?!

So I went on. Jesus showed up for the funeral. He saw the sisters crying, and he cried too.  He was so sad that their hearts were broken, and their brother was dead.
And the sisters were like - if you had only come when we called you, we know you could have healed him!
And Jesus was like - you think you know me, but I want to show you something so truly glorious. And he prayed, and then called the brother to come out of his grave. And he did.  He did more than just healing him. He reversed death in a crazy unexpected astonishing moment.

And they thought about that for a few minutes and I asked them if they thought God was most interested in keeping us comfortable or in something else.  "It could be both," they decided, "He cares about us but He also wants to show us things."

So I read them this verse from the book of Isaiah, chapter 66, verse 9:
I will not cause pain without allowing something new to be born, says the Lord.

And I can't speak from a place of knowledge or pain in this pandemic. Nobody I know and love is suffering. My friends and family are safe.  So take all this with whatever grains or buckets of salt you need. But in our current distress, I have seen some glimpses of unexpected and astonishing beauty.

People are working together to try to protect the vulnerable and elderly.  They are so often forgotten, ignored, pushed aside. But now that they are particularly threatened, we are remembering what particular treasures they are. Not because of their productivity or income ... but because they have an innate and precious value.

We are realizing how terribly, beautifully connected we are.

We can see so clearly who comprises our living supply chain - have we ever thanked, noticed, and prayed for our drivers, cashiers, and pharmacists like this before?

We are unable to watch athletes amaze us, but we are celebrating health care professionals and janitors, people who daily serve our indignities with dignity.

We are cheering one another on and reaching out emotionally when we can't reach out physically.

This isn't nothing.
There is something holy afoot; I believe it.
Something new is being born.
xo.

What I Didn't Realize I Would Miss

I went for a walk tonight in the dark, once the kids were all tucked in bed.  I needed to get out, to breathe and have some space around me.
To think.

Due to moves and new jobs and regular life changes, I've found myself quite a bit more lonely this school year. And like a contrary and confusing person, when I feel lonely I tend to pull away from whatever longsuffering people are still around.  Scally and I haven't done very much with our days between bus stop drop off and pick up.

So I really didn't expect social distancing to feel any different than any other day.

I didn't realize I would miss the bus stop moms.
I didn't realize I would miss my favourite cashiers and servers and the secretaries at school.
I didn't realize I would miss the bustle of Wednesday night Awana, the quick hellos and smiles of the other parents.
I didn't realize I how completely I would miss Sam's friend's mom when she drops him off and picks him up every day.


But dang.

On my walk tonight, I realized that my days are filled with unnoticed, unremarkable, but very present friends. Their familiar faces and unexceptional hellos are a gift. Checking in and watching the kids play while we wait for the bus is not nothing. Making inconsequential chitchat while the cashier scans my purchases is more than just noise.  Sharing coffee with a neighbour isn't just a coffee.

It's bread. It's bread.

It's not the chocolate cake of best friendship, not the sparkling fizz of a night out with a crowd. It's not memorable and it's not something I'd write about in my diary.

But it's there.
It's good.
And it keeps us together, every day.

So here I am, confessing to all of you people I barely know:
I love you.
I love your makeupless faces and your pj pants and your cups of coffee and your crossing guard sign. I love your habit of folding the receipt in half before you pass it to me and I love that I can tell who you are from the drive through speaker. I love that you ask me how my day is or pause to comment on one of my kids. I love you like I love bread fresh from the oven, like I love bread and butter, like I love bread and wine.  You are beautiful to me and you matter in my life and I hope you are well.

I love you, and I miss you.
My life is so quiet without you.
Stay safe, my friends, and God bless you.
xo.