Jealous? Weepin'?

If you haven't heard it yet, you might like to listen to Iron & Wine's Flightless Bird before reading further (click here).

This fall, I kept this song on repeat. I would listen to it while I walked Eevee, while I got ready for school, when I drove around town. 

There was one line in particular that caught at an old sadness and tugged, tugged -

Have I found you? 

Flightless bird -

Jealous, weepin'

And the immense tenderness and light in the artist's voice lifted and shattered a buried brick that had weighed on my heart since I was little.

For most of my childhood, the fiercest and most defining emotion that I can remember feeling was also the one of which I was most woefully ashamed. And I had somehow come to the conclusion that it was the one emotion that Jesus couldn't have empathized with, because how could he ever possibly have felt it?  

Jealousy. 

I was wracked with it. Jealous of my sisters. Jealous of kids with cool clothes. Jealous of girls with straight hair. Jealous of anyone who achieved anything better or earlier or with more panache than I. I remember one of my sisters whipping the awful accusation at me one day, voice dropping with shame that I would walk in such blatant Sin: "you're just ... jealous!" 

And I couldn't argue with her. She was right. I was that despicable thing.

And worst of all, I wasn't a blazing, honest sort of jealous. No; I was a squirming, crying, angry, pretend-it's-about-something-else sort of jealous.

I writhed.

I longed to be one of those people who could celebrate others, who could love the good things that came to them instead of envying them. But I could not. 

I was walking Eevee through a gloriously orange October sunrise. Flightless Bird came through my headphones like it occasionally did, and suddenly I heard it, the tender chorus that was like listening to a song sung by a very kind, a very wise, a very deeply happy Creator:

Have I found you?

Flightless Bird,

Jealous, weepin' -

And the absolute drenching beauty of sunrise washed over me as I listened to it on repeat. I could see it now: little Janelle, jealous and weeping and raging over the unfairness of existing as a flightless bird. Of course weeping. Of course jealous. Wings bound tight. Raging, and longing.

Jealous? Weepin'? What else could I possibly have felt?

Have I found you?

I cried like a baby. Watching little Janelle through His eyes was so healing.

Yes, he found me.

I wept for the whole world.

Bound. Jealous. Weeping.

He found us.

He found us and he keeps on finding. He found us in Bethlehem, in Cana, in Galilee, in Gethsemane. He found us in the dark dawn (jealous? weeping?). 

He finds us.

Wherever we are, whatever our burdens.

And (sometimes out of the blue on a sunny morning) he sets us free.

Xo.

for moms who don't feel like enough

Tonight I was cozing Pascal at bedtime. He was wearing his softest, fuzziest pyjamas. "These make me want to cuddle you close like a stuffy," I said, patting his arm.

"Bet," he said, and crawled into my arms, pulling them around him.

We squeezed each other tight, and I held him while he fell asleep. 

I think about Mary a lot during Advent. The brave little mother, to whom God himself entrusted his son. When we're kids, we think our parents know everything. We don't realize that when we present them with problems or fears, it might be the first time they've encountered these. We don't know that their replies might just be parroting the words they heard as children, or repeating the turns of phrase their older friends used. We don't know that they don't know ... anything.

But Jesus knew! I mean - I think Jesus knew. I think he entrusted himself to this girl who loved God and who, like all of us, was a complicated, fearful mix of nature and nurture. He knew he would  be held in her arms, and thay she, with her wildly frightened heart and enormous love beating like wings in a cage, would be brand new at this, just like He was.

He didn't choose an old pro mom. He didn't choose a perfect mom. He didn't choose a rich mom, with all the world's resources at her disposal.

He chose her, with her willing heart and big dreams, and, in just the same way, I think he chooses us for our lives. He chooses us for the roles we fill and the burdens we have to carry. He chooses that perceptive kid to sit next to that lonely kid at school. He chooses that bright coworker for you, to pop you out of tiredness and make you laugh. He chooses you, with your eyes and your hands, to live on your street and love your neighbours. And he chooses you to be the mom, the dad, to your precious babes.

You're who they need. 

You're who he sent.

He knows you're not perfect.

He knew Mary wasn't perfect.

And still, he picked us.

For love's sake.

Merry Christmas friends, 

Wishing you a season of comfort and joy, peace and fulfillment.

May you always know that you are chosen, brave, capable, and created just for this - for being who you are, for loving those around you, and for showing up, over and over again.

Xo

Like a Candle in the Dark

I love Collective Soul's song Shine, but today I discovered that Dolly covers it ...

Click here to enjoy.

A snippet of the lyrics:

Love is in the water
Love is in the air
Show me where to look
Tell me, will love be there?
Will love be there?

Teach me how to speak
Teach me how to share
Teach me where to go
Tell me, will love be there?
Will love be there?

I have yet to look and not find love. I spend each December opening up the windows in my day and looking inside. Whenever I look for it, I find it.

It weeps with those who weep. It rejoices with those who rejoice. It shines like a candle in the dark. It glows in the warmth of friendship and flows like communion. It pools like mercy.

There is darkness and there is hate, there is bitterness and there is sorrow. But when I look for love, it is not overcome. Love remains.

1 Corinthians 13:13 - So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.

In which I realize my shame-o-meter is broken

I fell coming out of Costco tonight. My feet shot out from under me and I heard my grandmother's voice coming from my mouth in a terrified and cartoonish "whoooooooa!" before I hit the ground.

A passing woman gathered my dropped groceries, and another asked if she could help me up.

I shook my head no, got to my feet, thanked the kind woman and took my groceries, averting my face.

And then the whole way to the car I cried hot tears of shame and embarrassment.

My friends.

I am aware, logically, that I did nothing wrong. I didn't get in someone's way, I didn't swerve or race or trip over my own feet. I wasn't careless or impatient. I didn't have anyone to be sorry for or to, and I didn't even harm anyone or get in anyone's way as I fell. My shoes simply slid in the slush and snow and I went down.

But when I gathered myself together and walked away, the prevailing emotion I felt was ... shame.

Why?

It isn't hurtful or cruel to slip and fall. It isn't wrong or bad.

But something in me, in my life or my perceptions (or maybe my misperceptions?) equates making a mistake, even something as innocuous as a misstep, with being bad. And being scared to make even an innocent mistake can make you scared to do anything at all.

I almost decided not to write these posts this year. For all the kind comments, there are usually a few unkind ones (and those are the ones that seem to stick in my teeth). And it's scary to put my thoughts and feelings on a screen for anyone to see. 

But scared is a pointless way to live.

And shame can be a useful feeling but I know my shame-o-meter needs recalibrating. 

So I will likely write something dumb, or silly, or cringe. But I might also write something hopeful, or comforting, or glad. I just might be another arrow pointing to the everlasting love, and I'll take those odds.

Merry Christmas, friends.

Xo.

a frostbitten milkweed, from my walk with Eevee today. 

Veiled in flesh

About Jesus, John wrote, "The Word became flesh and dwelt among us." 

John 1:14 - The word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the only son from the Father, full of grace and truth.

Look at these lambs.

Love put on flesh and dwells with me.

Sorrow put on flesh and dwells with me.

Hope put on flesh and dwells with me.

Insecurity put on flesh and dwells with me.

Possibility put on flesh and dwells with me.

Compassion put on flesh and dwells with me.

Tenderness put on flesh and dwells with me.

Weakness put on flesh and dwells with me.

Strength put on flesh and dwells with me.

Intelligence put on flesh and dwells with me.

And I have seen the glory, the glory of creation from God's hands, full of complexity and dearness.

Three of my friends have new babies in their lives this week, and their pictures are so impossibly sweet. The personalities and humanity, coiled up in them as mysterious and inevitable as fingerprints, will be revealed day by day. 

Jesus came to us just this way.

He unfolded Himself to us, He unfolds Himself to us, and we see His glory in glimpses and fragments.

Just like we see each other.

Incomplete, veiled and revealed in flesh.

Merry Christmas, friends,

To you and the glimpses of glory you live with.

Xo

Maybe he shares mine

Is there anything in the world as lovely as

A hound, dainty of foot, and fleet;

Sniffing and dancing and sniffing again, nose stuck on repeat?

Do you think little Jesus had a dog?

Or maybe he shares mine

And maybe he calls her, with a sound just out of my ears' reach,

Every evening when she starts to whine.

Maybe he walks behind us, or a little ahead, 

Throwing invisible sticks 

And she leaps and cavorts at His side while I daydream 

And teaches her invisible tricks.

Maybe he laughs as she stalks through the grass 

And he hides all the bunnies from view

Maybe he brings scents and sounds on the winds

And tells her from where and from who.

Then off they run, for the love of the run,

And love of the night and the chase 

And running for relief to be out of the house 

And the love of the wind in the face.

 

To you and your kin

Pascal and his friend H were chatting about their day.

P: know what M told me today? {M is a big kid in grade 6}

H: what?

P (clearly over the moon): he said I have some skill in soccer.

H: you do! 

P: you do too! And your little brother and sister sure have some skill as goalies.

🥰

Because love, like light, overflows.

M's generous compliment filled Scally's bucket and overflowed to H and his siblings.

When the magi followed that star, and found Bethlehem's child, they saw him, and their hearts and hands overflowed with gifts.

When the sick woman reached out for help, just to touch the edge of Jesus' robe, his love and life overflowed and healed her.

Like a light set on a hill, we can't keep love in. It abounds. It bubbles up and spills over. It flows from one heart to the next.

May we feel it this season - and may we, too, pass it on. 

Merry Christmas, friends.

Xo

Ordinary Gifts on Dec 2

I drove to work in the morning sunshine

Coffee steaming in my cupholder

Kids laughing about something 

Frost-flattened grass dusted with snow 

Roads clear.

I drove home in the December sunset

Western sky alight with gold

Kids laughing about something 

Heated steering wheel warm on my palms

Six swans flying through the blue overhead.

I walked Eevee in the clearest dark

Sky so drenched with moonlight and dotted with stars that I tried to capture it three times before giving up 

Eevee followed her nose, legs twinkling, light feet barely leaving prints.

I'm not just opening presents 

I'm walking among them,

Living in them,

Lit by them, surrounded and filled by them,

Gift upon gift upon gift.

Merry Christmas, friends.

Xo.

By the light of the Menorah

On this first advent post of the year, I bring you a little gift from Hanukkah.

My students were asking about its traditions and meaning, so we looked up the Hanukkah story and I learned something new.

The light in the middle of the menorah, the one that is used to light all the other lights, is called the Servant Light.

The night before he was crucified, Jesus ate with his disciples. Was the table lit with a menorah? And is that why, when they started arguing about which of them was the greatest, he pointed them gently in the other direction?

Kings try to rule over more and more people, he said, be the opposite: lay down your authority. Let those who are leaders become the servants instead. (Luke 22:25-26, my paraphrase)

The Light in the centre of our faith calls us to light one another's candles, meet one another's needs, fill up where another is lacking.

In warming others, we will be warmed; in filling others, we are filled.

Our light is not lost by sharing with others, instead, it lessens the dark and widens the welcome.

Just like he did, and does, our servant light.

Happy holidays, dear friends.

Xo.

Pickles

Last summer's pickles were a little too salty, they were

Delicious.

We had eaten or given away all the other jars

And one had slipped, forgotten, sideways in the jar box.

I found it last week on the pantry shelf when I was rummaging for jars and put it in the fridge; I opened it tonight.

The pickles were puckeringly briney and cold.

I ate them straight from the jar and then drank the vinegar until the peppercorns knocked on my lips.

And I bless the me of last summer who tilted a jar sideways so that it got lost

Waiting

To join me, this summer.

And it's not the first time: 

I fell in love with someone selfish when I was 18, and, carrying my broken heart with both hands, stumbled headlong into Patrick, the embodiment of kindness.

I almost lost my mother twice, and she came back from that soft brink to us, willingly.

I watched our house fall apart and our money disappear and now I wake up daily in the land where dreams come true.

I've been led, unaware, along dusty paths like empty shelves

And I am not left empty.

With belly full and tongue still smarting sour, I pray this gift for you

May you, too, find yourself held in the hands of One who turns

Mistakes into surprises and

Time into tang and

An empty shelf into

Pickles.

For my friends

Every time we're together I think

I should take a picture 

And sometimes I do, and sometimes I don't 

But every time, I want to -

My hand flashes for my phone like a darting bird -

Not because we look like models

Not because we're colour coordinated

Not because we're at our best,

But because of the deep and true goodness in the gift

That we're here

We're together 

The unparalleled beauty and simplicity:

We're here together 

You would long for the work of your hands

This week I couldn't seem to do anything right for one of my kids. I messed up on Tuesday, on Friday, on Sunday.  Not for lack of trying - I tried hard. But somehow, everything I did was wrong. I bought the wrong thing, forgot which was the favourite flavour, showed up at the wrong time.

"I hate you!" came withering from a wounded heart.

"At least I'm trying!" I said, "I'm the one you hate, but I'm trying to see you and love you and be there for you!"

My words thudded onto the empty landing as my wounded one disappeared upstairs.

It wasn't about me, I know.

My love wasn't reaching. "You don't matter," my actions said, instead, and "I don't know you."

But my heart ached all along.

I longed for my child.

Then I was shaken by the beauty of this passage of Scripture. 

[15] You would call, and I would answer you; you would long for the work of your hands. [16] For then you would number my steps; you would not keep watch over my sin; [17] my transgression would be sealed up in a bag, and you would cover over my iniquity. (Job 14:15-17 esv)

Particularly this phrase: 

You would long for the work of your hands.

God, the Creator, the Universe-maker... longs for us. He didn't just make us and walk away.

He longs for us.

And - I think - it's easy to know we long for him. We long to be seen, and known, and loved. We long to have purpose, to be valuable, to contribute. We long for rightness and peace and wholeness.

We want to step outside in the sunshine and feel joy, and to step outside in the darkness and feel peace.

We reach out fumblingly, don't we? 

We create. We cook, we build, we write. 

We hope. We go on, taking the steps even when our hearts aren't in it, doing the next thing with scraps of energy. 

We mourn brokenness. We protest, we converse, we vote. 

We soak up beauty. We sing, we laugh, we cuddle.

We reach toward our Creator. 

We long for him. 

And maybe we don't always see that He ... longs for us.

And if ever there was a holiday to remind us He does, it's Easter. Jesus came to show us His limitless love ... even unto death, even beyond it.

May your longing heart find Him, and may His longing heart find you, this weekend.

Happy Easter, my friends.

He is risen.