Erumpent

This morning, I learned that cattails have a gel inside them like aloe, and that their fluff was once used to prevent diaper rash, and that they can be turned into flour. Scraggly, ditchy cattails! I'd had no idea.

After work this afternoon I took Eevee for a walk. The sun was shining on snow, and the morning's sharp wind had died down. We were walking along a snow-covered pathway when she suddenly pounced, and nuzzled her long snout into a snow bank, then poked out one of her long paws and produced a mitten from deep down. She shook it back and forth, and then, distracted from her treasure by a chipmunk, pelted off down the path again.

Pigeons caught her attention next, swooping low over the water and flapping their wings loudly. Then a poodle on the far side of the river, and then the absolute delight of a freshly thawed and trickling stream. I wouldn't let her bound in, and after a while she let me draw her further up the path. She pawed at some old cattail husks, which sprang free of the snow and then lifted away altogether to reveal a strong and bright spring-green shoot. The yellowed stalk, papery and crumpled, had been hiding and protecting all that fresh, irresistible life.

It's minus sixteen with the windchill, and yet even here, hidden within the shell of last year's cattails, tender and strong plants are growing.

And in my heart an Easter spirit whispers, "life stepping out of death - fingerprint of God!"

And in my mind I'm listening again to an old podcast and hear Susie Dent explain erumpent (bursting forth, burgeoning with life).

The bright green stalk lies brilliantly against the snow.

And in my head Jeff Goldblum twinkles handsomely, "life, uh, finds a way."

A storm is coming tonight and I don't care. Winter might roar and shake his mane, but I saw spring today, and the ground is erumpent.

(Yes, I know silver doesn't turn into gold)

Gold

Sometimes when I see you bringing someone through the fire
Like, I mean really giving it to them -
Burdens and exhaustion and a really hard road
Without a single wheelbarrow in sight

I cry out
Dear Lord please stop their suffering --

And you say
No; I'm bringing them forth as gold.

And I ask
Can't they just be silver, God? Silver's nice. 

And you just keep working.
And you keep saying -
Gold.

And they grow rich and deep, warm and kind
Ready to listen, and quick to have compassion,
Slow to judge.

And they are beautiful.

Gold.

***

I was thinking about my friend Andrew tonight. He really went through the fire of suffering in the last few years of his life. It was amazing to watch him transform from an ordinary guy into a tender, compassionate man. I know he wasn't perfect - but I was so moved by the beautiful man he became as he carried the heavy burdens God put into his life. 

From the book of Job, chapter 23, verse 10 - [God] knows where I am going. And when he tests me, I will come out as pure as gold.

Inextricable

You know how it's impossible to slip out of the world without hurting those around you

Because our heartbeats and sinews are intertwined

Not just near each other

But part of each other?

And that means it hurts - it hurts so much - to lose a loved one, a dear one

Even just adjacent ones.

But it also means

We have purpose: staying:

Not wounding our loved ones,

Letting life flow through us-

Heart to vein to cell we are not

Isolated, we are not

Extricable.

We cannot step sideways into the sweet hereafter 

Without a tearing

We are flesh and blood

(Not only to our flesh and blood)

Our leaving 

Creates a wound

Our staying 

Prevents.

There is purpose in it, even when it feels empty.

There is value in it, even when a broken heart lies.

There is goodness in it, and love, and kindness

Just in staying

Just in not leaving

Just in existing

To prevent the wound.

Bone and flesh

We are each others'

Inextricably.

Stay.

On Pressing Snooze (or, Why I am Late)

There's a particular stage of tired

Where the alarm fails to rouse

But rather soothes like a lullaby

And the phone's dim vibrations against the mattress

Rock you back to sleep,

Back to sleep,

Back to sleep.

Like Plants

I'm sitting here scrolling through socials, oblivious to the world around me.

My leg is stretched out to Patrick, who is rubbing it.

Not because it's hurt (it's not) 

Not because I asked (I didn't)

Aimlessly, just because it's there and he loves me.

And it just struck me so 

How much we're like plants, stretching toward the sun

Arching toward love

Unconsciously turning our faces

Toward love, toward love, toward love.

Bless the world on Christmas night

Hope was born one wild night
Beneath a star and angel-light
He stretched and shivered with delight
And darker forces flexed their might.
His mother wrapped him warm and tight
And shepherds worshiped at the sight.

On being here, he'd set his sight
He'd planned and dreamed about this night
When he'd be held, and holding tight
Heaven's gift by candlelight
Awash in pain, with human might
But forward-looking with delight.

The prophets hailed him with delight
And wept and sang out at the sight;
The wise men spoke of Herod's might
Angels warned his dad by night
They fled to Egypt, traveling light,
And his mother held him tight.

He kept his secret sealed up tight
Until his mother in delight
Brought his holy gift to light
Water to wine, with none in sight
How many lips drank deep that night
A cup of bliss, and well they might!

Pharisees fought with all their might
Gatekeepers tried to hold on tight
But the day star dawned, goodbye good night
From tears came joy, from sorrow, delight
The mourners cheered, the blind found sight
And Jesus said, Follow - his yoke is light.

So every year we string up lights
And give - and give - in case we might
Turn back the dark, and offer sight
And hold our loves, like Mary, tight,
And lift a cup that cheers, delights -
And bless the world on Christmas night.

If your hopes are out of sight, hold tight -
He came that we might know delight;
May his light be born in you tonight.

Give

Jesus wasn't rich. 

Right? We know this. He was born a poor baby to a pair of poor parents, from a poor town.

But He said -  Give, and it will be given to you. They will pour into your lap a good measure—pressed down, shaken together, and running over. For by your standard of measure it will be measured to you in return.”

He didn't just say this to the rich. 

He preached it to His followers, He lived it out, and He celebrated generosity.

There's an older lady who lives in my neighbourhood. By any objective standard, she is poor. But she regularly shuttles our car-less neighbours to and from the grocery store, doctors appointments, the pharmacy. When any of them end up in hospital for an overnight stay or longer, she cares for their pets. A neighbour's mom recently passed away, and this lady took in her cats. 

She's a poor woman from a poor town, and I know she feels the pinch as prices rise. But still she gives.  She isn't a religious person, but she loves like Jesus, and our neighbourhood is better for her presence in it. 

May we know people like this.
May we be them.
For Jesus' sake.

Merry Christmas, friends. xo.

A Birch Wood

When I was younger, I had a dream that I met with the Lord in a forest of birches. We sat on a bench and talked, and I was filled with the most expansive peace.

For a long time after having that dream, whenever I would pray or pause to be in His presence, I pictured meeting Him in that grove.

It's been a long time since I thought of it, but the other morning when I woke up, it was on my mind. I paused to pray for the day, but for the life of me, I could not picture the forest, the bench, the green canopy of leaves. There was just - nothing.

No imaginary chapel in the birches, and no Jesus.

"Where did you go?" I asked, "Why can't I find you?"

But there was just silence.

The kids began to stir and I was catapulted into my day, ready or not.

I can't remember what happened - I was in the kitchen, and probably listening to music or maybe a podcast - and something made my heart soar upward. And suddenly I was very aware of Jesus' presence, He was right there - right in my busy morning, in my unfinished kitchen, with spiderwebs in the corners of the ceiling. 

Immanuel. God with us. 

Not God with us in church.

Not God with us in our quietest moments.

Not God with us in our best clothes.

Not God with us when we Stop To Pray.

God with us.

"I am with you always," He said. No birches required.

 

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo

Ode to my Favourite Heart Surgeon

He has been a heart surgeon for years
Carefully slicing into students and
Clearing the calcifying facade of apathy from their veins,
Jumpstarting their imaginations,
Restoring the link from pulse to ink.

He reads aloud like a
Pacemaker, steady and rhythmic,
And says the voice inside his head reads the same way.

His instruments are precise and sharp -
He is both expert and empathic, for
He knows whereof he speaks:
He, too, wrestles ideas down like alligators
And pins them to the page.

At the end of the school year
He scrawls post-operating instructions on every final packet.

WRITE! He wrote on mine,
Or I will hunt you down like a ghost across the misty chasm of time!
WRITE! WRITE! WRITE!

And the doctor's advice
Has stood me in good stead.
My heart beats, and I write.

💓

Thankful for Mr. McKay, who came through heart surgery of his own this week. 
Merry Christmas.

On creating and loving

 Undignified
(with apologies, and thanks, to Rachel, for pointing it out.)

Have you ever seen a daddy
Playing good guys versus baddies
Getting caught by little boys
With imaginary ropes?

Have you ever seen a papa
Play charades and making up
A bunch of crazy words and scenes
To pull gleeful from a hat?

Have you ever seen a dad
Tell his kids it's not so bad,
Check their closets, pray for good,
Before he sends them off to bed?

Have you ever heard your pops
When he showers, maybe mops,
Sing a silly song or rhyme
Because his heart is full of joy?

Have you ever seen an artist
Or a baker or the smartest
Person in your class intent
On unraveling their craft?

D'you think God, when making rainbows,
Or giraffes, or frosted windows
Keeps his face all prunes-and-prisms
 - or when He sings, is it with glee?

I can see Him with his tongue out
As He shakes a sheet of rain out
So that one drop - just right there -
Slides on your cheek from off that tree -

When you love you dive in face-first
Watch the light of joy like grace burst
When your mind is racing busy
When you're all wrapped up love -

There's nothing dignified in love
It's silly; you can shove
That word straight out the window -
There's nothing dignified in love.

WWF (weekend wrestling family)

 

Inspired by the playful and loving dad who parents our kids, and by my friend Rachel's characterization of God in Zephaniah 3:17 -
For the Lord your God is living among you.
    He is a mighty savior.
He will take delight in you with gladness.
    With his love, he will calm all your fears.
    He will rejoice over you with joyful songs.

Family Heirlooms

When I was little, my sisters and I would read for hours
Sharing a sleeve of saltines and well-worn paperbacks.

When my aunts were small, they would cuddle back to back
Dipping into the crinkly sleeve with one hand and turning pages with another.

Today, my kids leapt on the Premium Plus box with joy
And hied themselves couchward, post-haste.

Nobody passed this on intentionally.
There was never a ceremony of handing over the salty reins.

And yet, I am certain that in some glossy Christmas future,
I will find my grandkids curled around a sleeve of saltines, reading.

(Some of you might have a watch, a war medal, an immigration record
But I wouldn't trade my heritage of saltines and stories for anything.)

Today I Unpacked a Dish

Two and a half years ago, we packed up our kitchen for a 2-month reno. It all went terribly wrong (see old posts for more context and whining). 

Now our cupboards are almost all installed, so we've put our temporary dishes in them, but I haven't been able to unpack our boxes full of all our true kitchen dishes because -

Well, because I had packed them up in a whirl of hope. I had imagined unpacking them, starry-eyed and grateful, tucking them all into their crisp fresh homes. 

I haven't been able to unpack them because the world they were supposed to live in doesn't exist yet.

Today Vava and I did a little baking, and suddenly realized I didn't have the baking dish we needed (I've been really really good at making do for years - but we needed this one). We were halfway through the recipe. 

I knew that dish was packed up in the porch. I asked Patrick for help, and he cleared off the most easily accessible box, then opened it up.

My heart stood still. They had waited for me. They were all right there, dishes and tea towels, pots and pans and lids.

Vava asked me why I was crying as I washed the dish. "Is it special to you?" she asked, and she sounded incredulous.

"It IS me," I shrugged, laughing.

And I think it's actually all of us.

I know that on one hand you haven't been in limbo with a reno that maybe will never get finished, but on the other, I think maybe you have. I think we packed our usual lives up when Covid came, full of hope and eagerness to stop the spread. We genuinely thought an end date would come. But Covid turned out to be a really shifty contractor, making promises and taking money and delivering less and less. And we didn't ask for this and we didn't want this and it took way more from us than we imagined and we still don't have the world we'd bargained for and we still have Covid. 

How do we move forward? How do we unpack ourselves into a world we didn't pack ourselves up for?

Maybe you, like me, will do it with tears. Maybe, like Patrick, with gentleness. Maybe, like Vava, with open-hearted nonchalance. And maybe you won't even do it yet - not yet. (It's okay. There's no deadline on unpacking your own stuff.)

Because the life you packed away - the routines and plans and clothes and work you pressed pause on - that person is being unboxed into a different world than the one they dreamed about.  And I think that's a big deal.

It's not the one we hoped for.

But it's the one we've got. 

And so maybe, when you're ready - and you know you need to - 

Take a deep breath and open that box.

I hope that your unpacking will bring more joy than sorrow. I hope you will find treasures you didn't realize you cherished. And I hope you will find peace as you unpack.

Merry Christmas, friends.

❤️