Rise Up

If you feel like a cry, click over and listen to this song 

It hit me like a Mack truck tonight, and I was left a sobbing wreck because Patrick carries me this way.

Maybe always, but especially lately, my persistence has been faltering. 

(Well ... almost certainly always.)

I do not think it has been easy for him to be married to me, to be carrying me when my hope is weak and my weaknesses many.

But he does, and with so much joy.

Let me share an example.

I have this task to do and it has been overwhelming me. I can't seem to make sense of the instructions and I get overwhelmed and my heart slumps down. I want to do it - but I can't seem to take the steps, I can't even see the steps, that I need to do in order to succeed at this task.

So Patrick printed off this 17-page document full of instructions, and read through it.

He highlighted relevant parts and made notes, drawing my attention and asking me questions, and he made a checklist for me to go through. 

No pressure. No deadline. Just supporting and encouraging and enabling.

Being loved like this is both humbling and glorious. He does not just hold me.

He lifts me up.

❤️

and love your neighbours as yourself

 A few years ago, it poured so completely on Halloween night that only Sam went trick or treating. Then for the past few years, Covid has prevented regular crowds of trick or treaters. 

But last night, the sidewalks in town were full of kids in costumes

At every stop, people were exclaiming about how nice it was to see so many neighbours out and about, how it felt like a return to normal, how happy they were to see kids playing and having fun. Costume compliments flew thick and fast.

Vava was knocking at one door, when I overheard a conversation at the house next door. 

A man popped out of the door to speak with a woman sitting on the porch. 

"Was that two more?" he asked.

"Three," she said.

"Yesssss," he replied, pumping his fist enthusiastically.

And I was just flooded with a wave of glory. Look at this night. People sitting by their doors to give to others. Friends, strangers - no matter who. Nobody asked if you support Trudeau before deciding whether or not to put candy in your sack. Nobody asked your opinion about vaccines or immigration. Differences, sides, opinions that sharply divide us - none of it mattered. Trick or treating is just neighbourliness and generosity and joy.

And this man was gleeful about giving out more.

Sometimes all I can see is the heartwrenching brokenness of our world. But in the jack-o-lantern light last night, I saw so much beauty.

Happy Halloween, friends. 

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.

Eevee's best moments

Stretching long, climbing out of her crate,
With a groan of satisfaction and a distinct
Up-waggling of her tail

Folding and refolding her long legs
Giving one slooo-ooow blink
And half-closing her eyes, to drowse

Perched on the front seat like the Queen of All Dogs
While her nose shimmies and dances
As all the smells of town come out to greet her

When she runs in the wild
Freer than the wind, muscles like music,
Like a horse, like a fox, like a deer

Fall is for smellers

 

Tacky Dollarama decor is up and the scent of cinnamon-soaked pine cones is wafting across my house.

 

The other day I popped into the dollar store for something, and smelled those pine cones. That smell always makes me feel festive, happy, anticipatory. I didn't buy them, but it sent a wave of gladness into my heart.

 

Today it rained and I had a blah day, a grey day, a generally unhappy day. When my artsy daughter asked to go to the store for more paint, I didn't feel like saying yes. But I did - and when I walked in, that cinnamon smell welcomed me back. I try very hard not to buy unnecessary stuff, so I walked past the pine cones ... but the sadness that had been sitting on my heart all day had lifted a bit when I smelled them - it had - and so I detoured back and grabbed them. And they were nestled in between some Halloween decorations and Thanksgiving tat, so I snagged some of that too - a ceramic pumpkin, and a vaguely seasonal sign - which also begged to come home with me. I left one behind, and I may yet go back and get it. 

And I've been working and puttering around the house and whenever I smell that cinnamony smell, a little part of me smiles. 

 

It's not full-on Christmas, but just a whiff of something to come 

Like the last line of your favourite song when you turn on the radio, 

A quick kiss goodbye in the morning, 

A dream of someone long gone -

Something full of goodness and a little bit of longing. 

 

Autummmm.

Bikejoring under the Harvest Moon

A bike and a dog and the moon

(and oh, what a marvelous moon)

The sky glowing blue

We pedaled right through

What a night, what a light, what a moon.

The End of August

The end of August is always an ache

Even at the beach, even on hot days

A tightness at the back of the throat

The extra grasping at last things

- the last swim, the last bonfire, the last happiness before the sadness sets in-

 

The inevitable realization -

It already has.

A Way of Boomeranging

 Don't pick on people, jump on their failures, criticize their faults - unless, of course, you want the same treatment. That critical spirit has a way of boomeranging. It's easy to see a smudge on your neighbour's face and be oblivious to the ugly sneer on your own. Do you have the nerve to say "Let me wash your face for you," when your own face is distorted by contempt? It's this whole traveling road-show mentality all over again, playing a holier-than-thou part instead of just living your part. Wipe that ugly sneer off your own face, and you might be fit to offer a washcloth to your neighbour.

 Matthew 7:1-5, from the Message.

I was reading this section this morning when my kids were sniping at each other, criticizing each other and just being thoughtlessly mean. "Hey," I told them, "I've got just the word for you." And I read them the passage, feeling like Such A Good Mom. I found a teachable moment (and straight from the Bible, extra points!).

You see where this is going, right?  Oof. I should have known.

 It wasn't an hour later when I was jumping all over my kids' failures, criticizing their faults, my own face twisted into an ugly sneer. My guiding words from this morning dissolved into wisps of nothing; my actions spoke so much louder.

Yeah. That word this morning was for me.  Uggggh.

I feel like it's pretty easy for me to justify jumping on my kids' failures, pointing out where they need to improve. Doesn't a good mom have to? I mean, I see those dirty faces, and I hand out washcloths all the time.

But ... I rarely think to check if I've got something on my own first.

And as soon as I realized how dirty my face was, the criticism came flooding up. Sharp, harsh, devastating. Ouch. Right from within.

So then. What do I need to change? I had to open up to re-read it, and it's right there in the passage - 

The solution to being critical of others is authenticity.

Wait, what - authenticity? I was expecting to see kindness or repentance or something like that. I had to go back and read it a few times. "...playing a holier-than-thou part instead of just living your part. Wipe that ugly sneer off your own face ..."

Hypocrisy is no light at all.

No performance parenting. No trying to be Such A Good Mom. I don't need to be the Holy Spirit in my kids' lives (or in anyone else's life). It's easy to see a smudge on your neighbour's face and be oblivious to the ugly sneer on your own. 

To put it in that delicious Acadian phrase, I need to keep my own onions.

Peace, little bunny

This afternoon, Kachi and Pascal and their friend asked me if I would take them for a walk around the block. "The block" is a little wooded path along the walking trail behind our house, a very small outing and doesn't take too long. So I said yes and off we went.

The three of them rode their scooters, and I walked the dog. We stopped at every possible interesting place, to sniff and snuffle, search for frogs, and pick up litter.  They realized recently that they could make this slice of the world a better place by picking up any trash they find. There are two garbage cans along the route, so they pick up trash, deposit it where it belongs, and wear a little extra swagger because they are saving the world.

 On our last stretch before home, their friend noticed a bunny hunkered down in the grassy field. Wonder of wonders, Eevee didn't see or sniff it at all (her nose was keeping her on the other side of the path, in urgent pursuit of a pair of squirrels). 

The bunny sat as still as could be, with one wide, glossy eye staring straight at us.

Pascal threw down his scooter and ran after it, and I caught him and held him back. "I want to chase it like Eevee!" he howled, "I won't hurt it! I want to see it run!"  And bunny hops are delicious to witness but there was something about this bunny that seemed too scared, too frozen in fear. "We've got to be kind," I insisted, "so it will want to keep living in our neighbourhood." I guess that did it, because he stopped struggling, but he scowled angrily the whole way home. 

I would have cared more, I think, but Pascal will have many more chances to watch bunnies hop. And the rest of the way home, I could see a velvety little pair of ears poking above the grass, waving the world's sweetest peace sign in our direction.

Kachi's recipe for bacon

 Yesterday morning, Kachi asked if I would take him for a walk. "Just the two of us, mama?" he asked, and I had 20 minutes while the bacon cooked so I said yes.

We had friends over last month, and the bacon took a really long time to cook - longer than I expected. So I've been experimenting with different bacon, different pans, and different times. (It's a rough job, but someone's got to do it.) I popped thick-sliced bacon on a parchment-lined, cheap cookie sheet and set the timer for 20 minutes, setting the oven at 400*F.  With a glass pan, I need closer to 30 minutes. With thin-sliced bacon, 15. But I thought this should be perfect.

We stepped out into the surprisingly bright, very warm morning. Baking hot sunshine poured over everything. "Can you hear that osprey?" Kachi asked. (Ospreys - or is it osprey? - have a surprisingly cheerful, un-predator-like song. It's pretty and full of delight.) We could hear one, and Kachi spotted it perched high in a dead tree at the water's edge.

We'd seen them all week long, while we were in the park for French camp, the parents teaching the babies how to fly. They soared and swooped and sang to each other. 

Flying lessons complete, the adult was teaching the young one how to fish. It would chirp madly, then swoop, then dive - then retreat to the other side of the river, waiting for the smaller one to do the same. We watched the scene for far too long before remembering the bacon and hurrying home, alight with wonder.

We could smell the bacon and hear the timer beeping from the driveway.

I opened the oven door in trepidation, worried we had ruined breakfast - but the bacon was perfect. I scrambled some eggs while Pascal ran outside to catch a glimpse of the birds fishing.

It was delicious.

(I give Kachi's recipe 5/5 stars, definitely recommend.)

here is love, vast as the ocean

I miss my ocean.

I miss the salt tang in the air.

I miss the way the enormous crash and shhh of the surf pounds pettiness to dust and settles my heart.

I come to the shore with a heart full of tossing and the vastness steadies me, thrills me.

Sometimes we get a huge storm here that gives me a similar feeling: a little perspective adjustment and awe. But still, I miss my ocean.

It's no secret that the past few years have been hard. Difficulties have crashed down, wave after wave, and my body keeps the score. The hair at my temples has turned white, age spots and wrinkles are etched into my face. I've been grinding my teeth at night and breaking old fillings. Struggles have pressed themselves indelibly into my body, and I feel like I've aged ten years in the past three.

So last week when a teenager at camp showed me the prison tat she had given herself, and offered to give me my first tattoo, I said yes. 

I know it's all kinds of crazy, but -

Sorrow has left its mark: I want to leave a mark of joy and reminder of goodness too.

So she inked a line of waves across my shoulder: my own little ocean. Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it. 

I have been held and buoyed up.

I have been hard pressed but not overcome.

My heart is at the feet of the One who walks on water.

And now, my body keeps that score too.

❤️xo