Leaving the Tough Parts Out

Sitting in church this morning, we read Psalm 139 together in unison. It's one of my favourite psalms. It's so full of pictures ... rising on the wings of the dawn ... being knit together in my mother's womb. It's words are powerful.

Perhaps not surprisingly, we left out a few verses. If you've ever read the whole psalm, you'll know the verses I mean. (If you haven't ... or you can only remember the "tidied up" version ... you can read it here. I'm still guessing you'll be able to figure out which verses ... but just in case, watch out when you get to verses 19-22. You probably haven't heard them very often.)

Those verses are full of pictures too, but not very pleasant ones. The disturbing thing to me is not that the psalm includes them ... let me rephrase that, that's not what disturbed me this morning. The verses themselves are certainly different from the rest of that psalm. Truthfully, I think they're meant to disturb us but that's a whole different query. The disturbing thing is not even that we left certain verses out; it made sense given the context in which they were used. We're not even going to start on reading Scripture passages or anything else out of context, that too is an entirely different issue.

The problematic thing to me is the way the hymn book printed the words of the psalm; it makes it look like those verses never even existed. There's no indication that what's been produced is not the whole psalm. There's no indication that they've picked and chosen what to include and what to exclude. They've just done it and made it look like the tough part doesn't exist.

Is that really how we want to approach things? Do we pretend that the difficult things are just not there? Do we ignore their existence so that we won't have to wrestle with why God allowed them to be included and discover what they might teach us?

...

Apparently I have an email I need to go write. That's the problem with letting your mind ask questions about the tough stuff. Sometimes you have to do something about it.

"When we long for life without difficulties, remind us that oaks grow strong in contrary winds and diamonds are made under pressues."

Peter Marshall

A Nearby Cat

I'm sitting on my futon watching tv ... Hell's Kitchen to be exact ... when SkitSkat, our black and white cat, comes to join me. It's a pretty common occurrance. She doesn't really want to be petted. The occassional scratch of the head or chin is allowed. Mainly though, she just wants to snuggle in somewhere and be near. She doesn't always stay long, but sometimes she settles in for most of the evening.

It always makes me smile. Her purring when I scratch her head or the little noises she makes when she sleeps are quiet reminders of her presence. But she doesn't demand any attention. She just wants to know I'm nearby.

It's a perfect example of what I recognized in Quirkyalone. I need my solitude. It's important to me, but it is nice to have someone to share with and protect that solitude. I thought at one point I'd found a person with whom I could do that, but eventually I realized that it wasn't the same thing for him. I need to have my own space, my own world that doesn't require anyone else's input or approval. At the same time, it's important to have people who are invited in to join that world, who come for a short stay or who visit for a longer time, who influence and change my world.

But the thing is, I still need my solitude that doesn't require me to be anything other than me.

"I hold this to be the highest task for a bond between two people:
that each protects the solitude of the other."

Rainer Maria Rilke

Company for Breakfast

What a way to start the day! I headed downtown on my usual bus reading about how participation changes our experience. I walk to my favourite Blenz to get my royal tea latte. It appears to be just a "normal" morning, nothing particularly exciting or even very interesting ... other than reading Leonard Sweet ... until, a pigeon decides to join me for breakfast.

I'm standing at the bus stop eating my pumpkin scone with maple glaze, waiting for my latte to cool enough so I don't burn my tongue. I look up and see a pigeon watching me. He tilts his head to look at my scone, and then looks back at me as if to say "Could I have some too?"

I debate with myself: "Can pumpkin scones possibly be good for a pigeon to eat?"

A woman passing by comments: "Looks like you've got company for breakfast."

I laugh and decide to share as the pigeon keeps watching my and my scone with pleading eyes. What harm can a pumpkin scone do give all of the other things pigeons scavenge? Seriously, where's the debate?

The pigeon watches carefully as I break a small piece off and set it down on the ledge about an arm's reach away. He waits the briefest of moments as if waiting to make sure the treat is really real, hops down from his vantage point and the scone disappears. He steps carefully back, preens a little, showing off his iridescent green and burgundy feathers on his sleek silver coat and waits.

I'll admit. I'm a softy. He looked so cute and my scone was extra large this morning. How could I not share? He was so polite, no squawking in protest when I took too long between bites as a seagull would do. He just waited, patiently, trustingly and each time I shared a bite, he would come a little bit closer to get his treat.

Unfortunately, the bus arrived too soon and I had to continue on with my ordinary day turned extraordinary by a pigeon who came for breakfast.

"In all things of nature there is something of the marvelous."

Aristotle