Something Just Like This

This morning, Pascal woke me up. I scooted over so he could crawl into our warm bed for a cuddle. "Snuggles with my precious mama!" he whispered in delight, "this is the best!"

When I came downstairs, Kachi called me over to tell me his dreams from last night. "Sometimes I know I'm dreaming because my brain is big enough to have the dream and know it too."

Sam interrupted then, eager to show me a funny reel he thought I'd laugh at, because his joys are always bigger when he sees them reflected in someone else's eyes.

As Vava came downstairs, she called out, "Janelle Labelle! I love you!"

Then Patrick came downstairs, ready to leave for work, but took a few minutes to smooch and hold me first.

And then I put on my headphones asked the internet for music while I made the kids breakfast, and this song came on:

Something Just Like This (click for a listen if you haven't heard it yet)

It couldn't have been more perfect.

I struggle with depression and often miss the deep goodness blooming wildly all around me. I know I am so lucky, and so loved, and I thank God for these goons every day. But some days the fog of constant demand is thick on my heart and I just can't feel it. 

Today I felt it.

Wishing you a free and fogless Wednesday with your eyes wide open to the love, dear friends.

Xo.

A Mostly-Silly Psalm

I wonder if

-when in possession of a tongue

That sings a glory note 

Upon tasting a nacho chip

Tangy with lime and cilantro-

Might it be a sin

To diet?

Maybe you feel God's pleasure when you run

And I feel His pleasure when

Butter meets fresh bread

And melts into alleluia.

Taste and see

Oh taste! Oh see!

That the Lord is good.

a soft ode to the snooze button

The long night's silence breaks with your alarm,

And the shifting of sky from black to navy

Lightens the edges of furniture in our room.

Today, we are tired.

We will take turns pressing snooze for another hour

Folded together like two pages of a love letter

Drifting in and out of mailboxes and carrier bags

Dreams and dreams opening up without

End or beginning.

I feel lucky

 Today was a busy day at school. On one of my trips whizzing through the hallways I glanced up and saw the kindergartners' St. Patrick's Day art on the walls. 

Each student had coloured in a poster with a shamrock in the centre, and the title read "I feel lucky!" The students had finished the sentences themselves.

"I feel lucky ... when my dad plays with me!"

"I feel lucky ... because I have food!"

"I feel lucky ... because I get hugs!"

"I feel lucky ... to have friends!"

"I feel lucky ... whenever I see my mom!"

And I had to stop reading because I was on my way back to class and did not want to arrive with a face full of tears. 

But my heart was split wide open.

And when I was zooming past that bulletin board, all the moms from the kinder class flashed through my head. Moms who seem to have it all together, and moms who seem a little more like me. Thin moms and fat moms, moms with chronic illnesses, addictions. Moms who roll up to the door in their pyjamas, still zipping up lunchbags. Moms with messy cars, moms with creaky strollers, moms with wagons, moms in boots. None of them are on the covers of magazines, none of them would make you look twice.

The kid who wrote "whenever I see my mom" isn't glad because their mom is perfect, flawless, radiant. They're glad because they love her. And they love their dad, and their friends, and food.

They count themselves lucky because they have eyes open to see their well-loved, delicious, ordinary luckynesses. 

Tonight I looked around. 

Yeah. I feel lucky too.

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