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.

On Sleeping

I love the way our bodies 

Fold together in the night

When we're asleep, legs tangled and feet 

Murmuring hello.

Your hand on my hip

Just barely twitching, 

A million miles away together.

I woke up from a dream of being beautiful.

Your legs were nestled into mine like two spoons 

Our room was dark and spacious and

My heart was content. 

My Sam

There's a man who lives in our neighbourhood, and when he sees us outside he often wanders over to our place for a chat. He's definitely had some hard times in his life and doesn't always make a lot of sense. He talks close to your face and swears about the government a lot, so he's a bit scary for the kids, even though he's never done anything harmful or threatening to us.

Usually he finds me when I'm on my way home from dropping the kids at school, but today he came over when they were playing in the driveway.  I was in the porch getting my shoes on when I heard him ask Sam if he was babysitting.

I stepped outside quickly, and there was Sam standing in front of the kids with his arms out. "Don't come so close," he was saying, but politely, trying to shoo the kids away behind him, "social distancing please."

My heart.

I had my mask on, so I stopped and talked with the man while the littles ran out back, and Sam wedged himself into my arms, determined not to let anything bad happen if he could help it.

I held Sam close and the man explained he thought Sam was a teenager who must be babysitting and he wanted to tell him to look after the kids well.

And I smiled and thanked him but all the time my heart was singing because Sam already was.

He already was.

He was making a barrier, protecting his siblings and he was using his voice. This boy, who hates being noticed and doesn't often speak up, was speaking up. He was confronting a grown up he didn't trust. He was being smart and brave and bold.

I'm so so so proud of him.  

Are We Poor?

Little Miss V was having a hard time today. (Very long story very short, our contractor left our job half done so we're living in limbo and chaos with living room, dining room, kitchen, and office all condensed into one cupboardless very crowded space.)  

"I hate things being ugly," she moaned, "can we make it prettier?"

I have been feeling the exact same way for months. It's no small part of why I've been so discouraged - looking at ugliness drags at the soul.

So I asked her to sketch some ideas for beautifying and we got to work. We pulled up the dead plant in our tiny front yard and put two deck chairs out there to make a little sitting area instead. Then we cleared off the side steps and decided to paint them - but it was calling for rain, so we just painted the big top step, which would be sheltered under the porch roof.

Then we swept and tidied the back deck, unstacked the chairs, and washed the winter grime off the table.

While we were painting, V asked why we didn't just hire someone else to do the unfinished work.

"We will," I told her, "we're saving up again." She pondered this for a minute, then, "Are we poor?" she asked me.

The kids have asked me that before. (Usually when I'm impervious to the gimmes and cries of but-my-friends-do.)  I told her what I always tell her.

"No. We have everything we need, and a lot of what we want."

There is a lot of discussion lately about essentials and non essentials. Workers and supplies. Jobs and shutdowns. 

It's not easy.

I'm lonely. We're all lonely. 

And struggling. 

But there are late night phone calls and starlit walks and prayer requests in my inbox.

There's grocery pickup and counseling on the phone. 

There's a patch of forest in our backyard, and wild geese in the river.

There's sidewalk chalk and a trampoline, books galore and Netflix.

There's love and sex and laughter and the quiet grey of dawn.

There's a grab-and-go pork schnitzel & chutney sandwich right up town that is out of this world.

But. Like V and me looking around our unfinished house, it's so much easier to see what's missing than to enjoy what's there.

We don't have hugs or grandparents, date night or church gatherings or a packed arena cheering on our hometown teams. We don't see strangers' smiles or have cousins' hands to hold. We don't get to grieve together or rejoice together or travel and stand around in our friends' kitchens with our shoes off, singing.

But God grant that we will.

And until all this mess is broken, fixed, healed, repaired, put right, we can just try to make things a little better right where we are.

We have everything we need. 

And a lot of what we want.

Hold tight, friends. 

Pray with me.

Xo.

Wounds

I know that almost everyone has had a hard go through Covid-19.  My mental health has been shakier this year than any year since my first bout of depression - way back in 2009 when I miscarried our first baby at 12 weeks. 

I'm a hugger. I love friends. I need space and people both. Too much socialization and I lose myself. Too much solitude and I get bogged down in my own head. 

I took another job this year because the solitude was swamping me like a heavy cloud.

I recently started meeting with a counselor on the phone, to help manage the depression. She gave me great advice, and offered helpful practices and exercises.  I'm so grateful for her listening ear and wise instructions. 

But the biggest gift in all the ache and struggle this year is when others have opened up and shared their struggles with me too. Friends and loved ones who reached out and said "I've been there." The ones with practical advice and tender understanding. "Check out this podcast," they say, "read this book that saved me from despair." The ones who don't judge. The ones who pray for me and laugh with me and hurt alongside me and assure me we'll move forward together. 

I've been spending way too much time online, and the other day I stumbled across a really cool horticulture article. It was all about grafting and growing multiple types of fruit from one tree. 

The author shared that grafting isn't terribly complicated - you just need two harmonious trees that are supple and flexible (ie, trees from the same family, such as 2 types of citrus trees). You pare a spot beneath the bark on the host tree, and pare back the bark on the other tree, and put the wounds together. You wrap them in moss and they begin to grow together - sharing nutrients and strength and becoming one tree.  And in the end, your one tree produces two types of citrus. One artist grafted 40 different fruit-producing branches onto a single tree.

And I wept when I read it because I, too, feel like a branch with open wounds. Cut off from trusting my own heart. And my friends, my sisters, have drawn close and shared their hurts with me and prayed for me. They have laid bare their griefs and battles and showed me one after another that I do not face these alone. Depression lies and it tells me that I am alone and I am lonely but my sisters say look here, me too, I am hurting too.

I may be a broken branch but they have wrapped me in moss and carried me to Jesus - Jesus, the wounded.

And while I suffer, I cannot think of it as a good thing. But the horticulturalist says that the wound - the wound is where the life flows in. The wound is where we bond. The wound is what allows a cut branch to live again. 

The wounded branch receives life from the wounded tree.

 And I think of us all, with our hurts and raw, bare places, grafted to the life-giving tree - and we are healed by his wounds, knit together. Made strong and well. He is a tree of healing for the nations, for every struggling, wounded heart. 

Don't hide your wounds from your friends. Let your loved ones carry you. Let them cry "me too," and weep and pray with you. You are not alone, my dear one. 

And if everyone around you forsakes you, you are still held. 

Jesus holds you.

How To Build A House

Tips from a carpenter for the un-handy 

(Adapted from the book of Matthew, chapters 5-7)

When someone asks you for your cardigan, give them your coat too.

When they strike you, turn your cheek.

If anyone forces you to go one mile, go two miles. 

Give to people who ask, and don't refuse when people want to borrow from you.

Give secretly.

Pray secretly.

Fast secretly.

Your Father sees.

Love your enemies.

Pray for those who persecute you. 

Don't judge.

Watch birds.

Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing [and the family more than the house]?

Will he not much more clothe you, you with your little bit of faith?

Therefore

Don't worry.

Your Father knows that you need them all.

Whatever you wish that others would do to you, do also to them.

And all these things will be added to you.

And your house will be solid,

So you won't fear the wind and rain.

Resurrection

If I say them out loud

In a row, in order,

The weights I've been carrying,

It sounds like a depression comedy album

A Murphy's Law of a year 

A graveyard of hopes

And then some. 

A thousand little losses

A dozen large ones

A few

Once in a lifetime doozies.

And I have been trying to 

Ignore-rationalize-dismiss-contextualize-bury

These burdens

But You say - unearth them. 

Roll them away, roll them Your way

Roll them all the way straight to the cross

Because it's only with Jesus

Soaked in spit and forgiveness

Slain and victorious 

That hope makes sense.

I uncover them one by one

And

Jesus weeps.

The little hurts;

Jesus weeps.

The big aches;

Jesus weeps.

The wearinesses I've been pushing and lugging around for so long (and I need a miracle God!);

Jesus weeps.

And Jesus waits. 

And

Eventually 

On some timeline I'm not privy to

Jesus speaks

And life begins.

I come forth.

My sisters make sure 

The graveclothes unwind.

Spring Hopes Eternal

Yesterday I was sitting at a red light

And a flutter caught my eye

Against the bright blue afternoon sky -

An accidental flag of welcome:

A saluting clothesline full of sheets

Whipped in sunlight and wind.

Today I glanced out my window in the blue-grey morning

And saw, through the bare branches of the little woods behind our house

Headlights reflected in the river

Dancing and waving hello.

Last week

Dryers spun cozily

Bedding tumbled warm and 

Back doors were braced against the cold.

Last week

Headlights thudded and stopped

Against the dullness of white ice.

Spring is on its way

And everything's a greeting.

The river is flowing 

The sun is shining

The wind is laughing 

And spring is coming.

Painless Dentistry: A Psalm

I broke a tooth

So I have come to the dentist.

I mime a scream while two people in masks and raincoats drill inside my mouth.

I keep my body as still as possible, knowing one jolt could send a sharp metal object whizzing into my exposed and vulnerable gums.

My entire body is clenched

Knuckles white and

Toes curled against the threat.

I try to keep my jaw as wide open as possible

And not flinch.

I am the boss of my body.

My tongue does not seem to understand this

My tongue

Does whatever the heck it wants -

It does the grand tour

While the hygienist tries to shepherd it away from the work site.

They ask me questions 

I try to answer with grunts and gestures

"Ahh," they nod knowingly, 

But I am fairly confident they have no idea what I'm saying.

I, too, am unsure of what I'm saying.

The drill rumbles, my head rumbles,

Until I am 8 years old

Lying in the carpeted back of a station wagon

Driving down a dirt road.

I almost fall asleep

(I am almost certainly allergic to novocaine).

The smell 

In the cubic foot of air we share

Is foul.

Is it their breath or mine?

I am deeply curious 

And regret that it would be rude to ask.

(It is mine. I know this.)

"You're doing great," 

The hygienist encourages.

Which is an unusual thing for one adult to say to another: why, I wonder.

The dentist has trapped my lip against my teeth with the side of his hand.

This relationship is complicated. 

I will tremble and feel giddy for the rest of the day

(I am almost certainly allergic to novocaine)

Before bed I will open my mouth wide and look in the mirror

My new filling will gleam white

Next to the silver fillings of my youth.

"You're doing great," I will snicker

And go to bed and sleep

And grind my teeth. 

Sam is 10 :)

Sam is ten.

Ten!

It feels like forever ago and just yesterday, but I think we were all born together on that snowy March evening - our precious Sam and this brand new Mama and Papa too. 

We were clueless.

Wildly hopeful.

Totally in love.

And awash in gratitude. 

Patrick's cousin wrote to us on the day he was born and said "I tried to pray for you today and all I could articulate was "Yay, God! Hurray!""

He was calm and self-possessed from the start. He didn't cry, just looked around to see the world. The doctor, testing his grip, was surprised to find this newborn strong enough to pull himself up to standing. 

Now he's a million miles tall and handsome as can be and loves to draw and write and hates the spotlight and loves to climb and swim and leap from great heights. I shouldn't be surprised that he's ten but I'm absolutely astonished that we have enjoyed ten - TEN - years of Sam.

Happy birthday my love.

You are wonderful. 

Yay, God! Hurray!