Candles in the window

My parents had these candles when I was little. Every year when we'd start bugging them about putting up Christmas lights, they'd drag them out of some box somewhere and plug them in, setting them in the windows.

I remember - oh, maybe back in grade 7 or 8 - walking home in the gathering dark after play practice, looking at all the different lights in all the different houses. I didn't have music to listen to, and this was at least a decade before phones, and it was too dark to walk and read - so I'd just walk, and think, as the stars winked on overhead.

Not every house had Christmas lights, but many did. My favourite were always white lights - not the bluey white lights, which made my eyes hurt, but warm white, which felt a little more like candles. 

And it always felt like something special, coming up the street and seeing the candles flickering in the windows. The very world felt alight, holding back the dark in ways both literal and metaphorical. 

I spied on it all, walking through the still blue evening, listening to my backpack scritch against my winter jacket, wind purring against my face.

Anyway. I mentioned to my parents last year that I missed the plastic candles from my childhood, and this summer they brought them to me. When my kids started asking when we were going to decorate for Christmas, I heaved a sigh. (I hurt my foot in November, and climbing stairs is extra sore). But I went up into the attic and dragged down two boxes full of decorations. We plugged these candles in and -

Instant Christmas magic.

For a few moments, I felt that giddy wave flash over me - the excitement and freedom of being young, walking home alone in the dark, looking at Christmas lights. 

I hope you feel it too.

Merry Christmas, friends. 

Xo.

I don't know why it's a swimming metaphor either, sorry

The waves haven't stopped crashing
And I am finding it harder and harder to swim.

But tonight, a raft:
A gangly dog heard my tears
And climbed up onto my couch,
And insisted on being right on top of me.
She wrapped her forelegs tight around my neck
And pressed her whiskered cheek against my hair.
She hugged, and hugged, and hugged.

May many rafts, furry or otherwise,
Make their way to you when you need them
As you row, or paddle,
Or swim through many waters.

(If you are a new reader, welcome. I keep my own little advent calendar here on this blog, by opening up doors and peering inside and sharing what I see. Today is Dec 1, and the first post in my 24-day series.)

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

The people who sat in darkness have seen a great light. And for those who lived in the land where death casts its shadow, a light has shined. - Isaiah 9:2, and Matthew 4:16

How tall was Jesus?

 My friend sent this funny joke 

Which of course made me google how tall Jesus was, and then I found myself plunged into the baffling, hilarious world of religious people arguing.

I know, I know - never read internet comments. But some of them made me laugh so hard.

The consensus seems to be that historically, the average height of a poor man in Jesus' society was between 5'1" and 5'5".

This seems to not sit well with some people. Someone commented that it's blasphemous to say Jesus was short. (I don't know how or why they came to that conclusion. They probably don't either.)  Someone else commented they were certain he was over six feet because God made mankind on the 6th day. You know. The usual wild conjecture.

The Bible doesn't give us any physical description of Jesus. It says he had hair on his face, so we're guessing a beard. And it says he wore sandals, and had clothes that the soldiers gambled over. 

Anyway, those thoughts and ideas were fresh in my mind when I went to church, and the homily was about ... how tall was Jesus. What? I almost laughed out loud.

The sermon started off with a caveat that we don't know how tall Jesus was, but then pointed out something I'd never heard before. 

Do you know the story of Zacchaeus? He was a tax collector, a rich and ruthless man, but when Jesus came to town he threw his sense of personal dignity to the wind and climbed a tree to see over the crowds.

Apparently, Greek has unspecified pronouns like English does.

Who does the second "he" belong to, in this sentence? Zacchaeus wanted to see Jesus, but he could not because he was short.

Grammatically, unclear. It could be either Zacchaeus or Jesus. 

So next we turn to context clues: so Zacchaeus climbed into a sycamore tree to see him. Still unclear.  If there was someone short in a crowd and you wanted to see them, climbing into a tree would be one way to do it.  On the other hand, if you were short and wanted to see someone taller in a crowd, climbing into a tree would be one way to do it.  The context doesn't clarify anything.

So yeah. 

This story might have been about a short tax collector, or - as much as we're not used to thinking it - a short Son of God. 

The message pointed out that in the same way that Zacchaeus gave no thought to maintaining his status or dignity and clambered up a tree, Jesus gave no thought to maintaining his status or sense of dignity. He came all the way down to us - God with us. He wasn't a glorious, beautiful, radiant human. There are no words describing how handsome he was, or how strong or - or anything. Whether he grew to be a 6'1 man or a 5'1" man, he came to us as a baby (and we all start off pretty short lol). 

No matter how you look at it, he climbed down an impossibly long way.

And sometimes looking for Jesus means we have to climb a bit. Throw our serious sense of self to the wind and just do whatever unexpected, unusual, even shocking thing is needed - look past the crowds of people and the religious noise and so many silly arguments until we meet him for ourselves. 

In a tree.

<3 

 

Can Do

I sprained my foot two days ago.

I've been sitting or lying down almost exclusively since then.

(Today I stood at the counter to pack the kids' lunches, and felt it was quite the accomplishment).

But I've definitely been consumed by thoughts of all my body can't do.

Can't walk the kids to school.

Can't take the dog to the park.

Can't go sledding in this gorgeous heap of snow that just fell.

Can't shovel.

Can't vacuum.

Can't mop.

Can't exercise.

Can't can't can't.

But.

And this reminded me  to look at what my body can do.

I walked home, more than a kilometre, after I injured it.

It's been only 36 hours since a huge crunchy sprain, and already it has healed so much. The constant throbbing is gone. I can curl my toes down and even wiggle them a bit. And I swept a section of the floor today. 

This old bod has been healing and repairing like crazy.

Gonna celebrate the can do, and not worry so much about the can't do.

🙏❤️

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.