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.