Saying it out loud

Author’s Note: I have another blog, well, two others if you also include my cake decorating blog, but the one that matters is the other one that I haven’t publicized to almost anyone who knows me face to to face.  It’s a long story why that’s the way it is. If you ask, I may tell you.  I may decline. Don’t take it personally. But that’s also currently beside the point.

The point is that I published this post on the other blog back at the beginning of October.  It made me feel better to have said what was on my heart, but after reading I'm Christian, unless you're gay and the follow-up post on Single Dad Laughing, I realized that I still had not done what I needed to do.  This needs to be said as publicly as I can, no matter what responses may come, no matter what opinion other people might expect or want me to express, and perhaps most importantly because I once was a youth pastor in a small town baptist church, and I wish I’d known then what I know now. 

This is what I believe.

Hatred and fear are never the truth.

In the end, Love does win, because Grace is all that matters.

Karen

~~~~~~~~~~

Churches Need Rainbows!

"But, they say I can't be that."

"They say I can't be both a Christian and a gay man."

"There's nowhere that I fit. I'm too conservative for the liberals and too liberal for the conservatives."

"I almost decided to end everything."

"If I'm going to be alone, I might as well be really alone."

"My mother said I deserved to die of AIDS."

Those were just some of the words I heard as I sat with a dear friend during my vacation. It took us a long time to get to those words. They were hard words for him to speak. There was such pain behind them, such fear that once again he would be condemned for being who he is.

I knew when we reconnected a few weeks before my trip that something was wrong. That's why I made a detour in a rather packed schedule, driving an hour and a half each way so that we could spend time face to face.

As I listened and heard my friend's pain, I wanted to cry. I wanted to hold him close and tell him that somehow it was going to be alright. I wanted to tell him that he wasn't alone, that the whole church wasn't that judgmental and stupid. I was angry too. I wanted to lash out at the people who had hurt my friend this much. I wanted to be able to take away all of the hurt and self-doubt and self-hatred that others had dumped on his head and heart. No matter how much I might wish it, I can't make the words and actions that have caused such pain go away. The damage has already been done. My friend bears the scars of hatred, fear and prejudice. And I know he's not the only one.

I did what I could, though it didn't seem enough. I listened. I told him he wasn't alone; I was there and I knew another dear friend of ours felt the same way. I told him that while some pastors and churches would condemn him, they were wrong and I knew that not every one felt that way; I'd talked to a pastor just like that earlier in the week. I reminded him that the world needs him. That there's a reason why he's here and that I adore the person he is. I told him that "they" are wrong … even when "they" was his mother. I sat with him. I laughed with him. I was silent with him. In every way, I knew how I reminded him of his inherent value, just because he is who he is. I tried to make sure he knew how special he was and how much the people who love him need him in our lives. But one afternoon is so short a time in contrast to a lifetime of being judged simply for being honest about who he loves.

On the drive home, I cried. For his pain. I raged. About a church that could be so hateful to any of God's creation. I felt impotent. What could I possibly do? I can't change the behaviour of the whole "Christian" community. But I can stand up for what I believe in. I can choose to set an example.

I used to think it was okay for each church and each pastor to decide for themselves how they should handle issues like homosexuality and gay marriage. I remember being proud of myself for standing up and saying just that at a denominational meeting. I'd listened to a group of people spew hatred under the mask of drawing a line in the theological sand. We were baptists and generally baptists don't even have statements of faith. So why did we need to make a statement about homosexuality and marriage? The majority of what I heard and saw during those meetings angered and saddened me. Theology should be based on an understanding of who God is, not on our fear and prejudice. So I stood and told them that God was big enough for us to hold different views and still fellowship together.

But I realized something on the drive back to my hotel in the quiet of the evening. That was still the wrong attitude. It's not enough to leave issues like this up to an individual's or community's conscience. We get it wrong far too often. The damage we cause can't be undone and it's inexcusable.

I'm not a theological expert. I did go to seminary and studied theology, but I'll admit that was never a favourite part of my studies. I liked the practical part. I'm not going to try to argue theology or the exegesis of Scripture with anyone. I do know that I've been very willing to declare culturally irrelevant the prohibitions seeming to deny leadership roles to women in the church. You have to if you want to be a female youth pastor. I used to tell people who wanted to argue the point that all I knew was that I had to be faithful to my understanding of God's calling on my life. I was a woman and, back then, I knew that God had called me to full-time ministry. The theology wasn't important. The theology of whether you think homosexuality is wrong or right is equally unimportant. The only thing that matters is the character of God.

The theology doesn’t mean squat to me. But watching my friend, seeing the hurt and self-loathing and betrayal in his eyes as he talked about how people who call themselves Christians have treated him and made him feel, that made me ashamed to call myself a Christian.

Here's what I know. If you believe in a loving God who is willing to die in order to redeem all of creation. If you believe in a God who loves even those society finds most unlovable. If you believe in a God who is defined by his love and his grace. If you believe in a God who can call an adulterer and murderer a man after his own heart. If you believe in a God who gets himself into trouble with the religious people for hanging out with all the people they despise. Even if you most believe in a God who is holy and just. You cannot treat any person or group of people in such a way that they are made to feel like they have no worth and that God couldn't possibly accept them as they are. It is abhorrent and contrary to the very character of God that we have treated any part of his creation with such hatred, fear and disrespect.

I cannot believe that is what God intended for any of his creation.  When we treat any person as being less worthy, less human, less … just less than … because of who they are at the most fundamental level of being human, we are denying the fact that they are created and loved by the creator of the universe.  We are, in fact, saying that God screwed up by allowing them to exist.  That is wrong on so many levels.  I want no part of that kind of church.  That’s not the God I believe in.  That’s not how people called by his name should act.

There are a bunch of reasons why I don't attend church at this point in my life. I expect that at some point, I may find myself choosing to worship in community again. Where or when that will be is entirely unknown, but I do know that if and when I choose to find a church to call home, it will be a church that is both welcoming and affirming of all people no matter what might appear to divide us.  That is what best reflects the character of the God I choose to believe.

When did our language change meaning?

I’m trying to figure something out.  When did our world become so confused that we consider a play that challenges us to see a real, live, human being instead of a faceless monster known as a terrorist as a play that “glorifies terrorism”?

I’m not a political or news junkie who follows every twist and turn, who ponders every potential nuanced meaning to what a politician says or doesn’t say.  I get bored with listening to the rhetoric and the spin doctors make me feel more cynical than I ever want to be.  But I’m pretty sure that a phrase like glorifying terrorism implies that the person or thing doing that thinks terrorism is a good thing …. shudder … or that, at the very least, that it might at some point be the right course of action.

But looking past the stereotype that has been created for us and seeing that there is a real person behind the label?  That doesn’t mean the person made the right choice or even that they shouldn’t receive a just punishment if found guilty in a court of law.  That’s not glorifying terrorism, that’s reminding us that all those people we’ve been carefully taught to hate and fear are human and not so very different from us when we look beyond the surface.

I’m also not a theatre critic.  I know what I enjoy and what I don’t.  Catherine Frid’s play Homegrown falls somewhere in between. The play caused much controversy last summer before it had even been seen when it was produced at Summerworks in Toronto. It seemed so hard to fathom that it really had nothing to do with Summerworks’ exclusion from federal funding this year, that theatre companies across the country banded together to stage public readings as fundraisers in something like 11 locations on July 15, 2011. I had the privilege of attending the reading in Vancouver.

At points, it made me uncomfortable.  I didn’t want to feel sympathy for a man who was eventually convicted as a terrorist for his part in the Toronto 18.  It certainly didn’t ever imply or make me think that his choices to participate in planning terrorist acts were the right decision.  It would have been easier to watch if the author had let me hold onto the stereotypes that make it seem okay for our “justice” system to treat a “monster” with less care than we would demand an animal receive as a bare minimum necessity. 

Only the characters based on the author and the man eventually convicted as a terrorist seemed fully developed.  The others seemed wooden and one dimensional.  I suspect that was the result of an inexperienced playwright, but even if it was a conscious choice to ensure that the audience only connected with the main characters, I felt the author’s sense of betrayal as she realized that this man whom she championed had some significant responsibility for the terrorist acts being planned.  He wasn’t just an innocent bystander who was duped or entrapped or misled. He may have been all of those things as well, but he chose not to report what he knew. Yes, he may have tried to mitigate the damage that might be caused, but he could have made the choice to stand firmly against that kind of violence. 

But does his culpability mean that he shouldn’t still be seen as a person  worthy of being treated with dignity and respect? Do we really think it’s okay to leave someone in solitary confinement for more than a year?  Does that help us stop terrorism or does it actually inspire more virulent hatred? Would our world be so prone to violent acts if we stopped demonizing those with whom we disagree?

That’s the thing, art is supposed to expand our world, not narrow it.  It should cause us to take a step back and wonder how we can make the world a better place. It’s good when it makes us uncomfortable and makes us question the beliefs we now accept as indisputable fact.

If we want to move beyond stereotyping people and even countries or religious groups based on their ideology or skin color, we need to see those groups of people as individuals. Human beings who are more like us than we sometimes care to admit. Human beings who are passionate about their beliefs. Human beings who are tired of being trampled on and racially profiled based on the actions of a smaller group of human beings with whom they share some commonality. Human beings who may at some level have made poor or even horrendous choices about how to make sure their view is heard. But still, human beings, in all their marvellous imperfection.

If we started seeing people who are different from us as human beings with intrinsic value simply because they are human, maybe they wouldn't feel the need to express themselves in such violent ways to ensure their voices are heard.

Call me crazy but I always thought "pro-terrorism" meant supporting killing people and blowing things up as a way to make your point.  I’m pretty certain it is something entirely different than that, when a piece of art reminds us the monsters we fear most are not really so different from the people we see in the mirror everyday.  I could be wrong, but it seems to me that a play that challenges us to be a better society is exactly the kind of art I’m proud to see our country support with federal grants.  It’s a shame our federal government doesn’t seem to feel that way any more.

I am a Writer

I am a writer. I have words inside that want to be shared. Words that deserve to be allowed outside in the fresh air. Words that should exist as something at least a little separate from their author, though they will still always be part of me even after they develop a life of their own.

I am a writer and one person's lack of care and respect for the words I had entrusted to them does not mean that everyone else on the planet will trample the pieces of my heart that are exposed in the words I write. I know that the words I write have the ability to change the world into a better place, whether they are read by many or only a few, or even if I am the only person who ever sees them on the page. I know this to be true because writing them down rather than holding those same words hostage inside me changes me for the better. The process of writing allows me to more fully be who I was created to be and transforms me word by word into the person I long to be.

Being a writer does not mean that I must earn my living from my words. I am still a writer even when I spend my daytime hours in cubicle land. I am still a writer if no one ever reads a word that I write. I am still a writer whether I write free flowing, stumbling, non-rhyming poetry or speculative fiction or children's stories or personal essays or even just in my journal that no one else sees.

I am a writer. It's not just what I do in my spare time, when the urge hits. It is an integral part of what makes me who I am. Writing brings me joy and peace and contentment in ways I can't find words to express. Even when writing makes me cry because the process has exposed those tender, damaged places I keep hidden from others and, most of the time, from my conscious self, I am a writer and I am stronger and braver and more whole after the words have been created on the page in front of me.

Other interests and passions may ebb and flow, but somewhere inside the need to put pen to paper ... or fingers, and lately thumbs, to keyboard ... is a constant in my life. I am a writer because that is who I am. While it feels nice ... Okay a lot better than nice, try fabulous ... when others, strangers or those I hold dear, acknowledge that I have words worth sharing and call me a writer, it doesn't actually make a difference in whether or not I am a writer. I am a writer even if I am the only one who knows that to be true.

Whether I write long hand using pen and paper in a bedraggled notebook carried every where I go, or whether words follow more smoothly typing on my netbook, or even if I’ve gone mobile and discovered that my smartphone keyboard is, for me, a perfect balance of the two at this moment in time, I am a writer.  The method, or the subject matter, or the style, or the size of audience … all of these things may make it harder or easier on ay given day for me to see myself as a writer, but none of these external things change the one simple, straightforward fact.  My name is Karen and I am a writer.

------------

Two extra bits …

Thanks Pace & Kyeli!  You were right.  I needed to say that out loud. 

I tried this last night but it got all "I should be a poem. That would be the RIGHT thing to be, if you’re really a writer." Foolishly, I listened. Then, the words got all tied up in trying to be what they thought they should be rather than what I needed to write for myself. While I got words on paper that may have been some of the "write" words, they weren't really what was in my heart. I didn’t throw them out, maybe there is a poem hiding in them somewhere, but they need some space to think. Once they’re willing to behave, and not try to be something they’re not, I’ll let them out of the corner and take a look. I’ll keep you posted if anything interesting happens…

A Deer Feeder?

I may know why the deer was so obliging the other morning when I stopped to take its picture.  It appears we may have been unknowingly feeding it for several weeks.

We got a new bird feeder a few weeks back, and the seeds have been disappearing but we’ve never actually seen any birds around it.

We stopped our TV viewing tonight to watch as a deer wandered across the front lawn, but imagine our surprise when we realized the deer had stopped to feed, not on the hosta garden which regularly gets a few nibbles but at the bird feeder! The feeder might be squirrel-proof, but apparently it’s not deer-proof. 

There was a lot of laughter as we imagined what my Grandma would have said.  As much as she loved animals of all sorts, she used to get really annoyed by the squirrels when they would eat from her bird feeder.  They’d scare away the birds she loved to watch, but more importantly, they'd dig up her tulip bulbs and eat them, or plant them in the middle of the grass in the neighbour’s yard. While I don’t think Grandma would have gone with the method a fellow blogger with a similar dislike for squirrels chose, she might have if she found the product. She did happily have Grandpa set up a squirrel relocation program more than once with squirrels moved to more forest-like locations she was sure they would like better than her yard.  I used to tease her all the time about the poor, displaced squirrels who must be missing their families.  Somewhere I have a postcard that I sent her from university with a photo of a grey squirrel and a story about his missing family.

Grandma had no patience with squirrels at her bird feeder, but I think she’d have made an exception for a deer … as long as they didn’t start snacking on her garden. Good thing Grandpa didn’t have to figure out how to relocate a deer.

Deer in the city

There’s something pretty amazing about living in a city where deer wander around and are practically tame.

I'd been busy sticking my earbuds in my ear and fiddling with my mp3 player, only keeping half paying attention to whether there were any cars on the dead end street off a dead end street where I live. I looked up and there was a doe standing in a neighbour's driveway, quiet and still as could be, just staring at me.

I stopped in my tracks and stared back, enjoying the moment. As I pulled out my phone, I actually said out loud, "Can I take your picture?" Okay, maybe that was a little silly, but somehow it seemed polite and I guess the answer was yes since she stayed perfectly still. I took my picture and started to walk on. She turned her head to follow me with her eyes and as long as I could still see her she was still watching.

It made me wonder what would happen if she followed me to the bus stop. I don't think they'd let her on the bus, and she definitely wouldn't like it downtown. But it did make a fun picture for my morning, the deer commuter. Or maybe ... "Hey boss, look what followed me to work. Can we keep it?"

World Changing Writing Workshop

Dear Heartfull Karen-
Do you want to write and share what's in your heart?

I'd barely opened my email before my heart shouted a resounding YES! The words opened an email from SARK about a new online workshop that she was teaching in. I've had the privilege of listening to SARK speak before and it truly was inspiring but that wasn't actually what made me jump at those words. It went deeper and broader than that.

I investigated the link and felt myself getting excited in a way that has only happened a few times in my life. Times when the thing I was encountering was so just perfectly me that I dared not turn away.

The thing was it scared me a little. I've never felt that in regards to my writing. Writing is a very personal journey for me and as much as I'd love to have my voice heard, it's really pretty rare that I'm willing to share what I've written with even my closest friends...notice how sparse and generally far between posts in this blog tend to be. The choice to create Karen's Cake Adventures was a conscious choice to stop being intimidated and write about something I enjoy doing. The reality is that for the most part, it's still a very safe choice. Yes, a lot of who I am goes into every cake I design, but really it's safe to talk about the funny and silly stuff that happens when I make a cake and the things I learn during the process. It's things I learn about stuff I do not really about who I am as a person. But even there I haven't written all that often or consistently.

Don't get me wrong. Decorating cakes is actually important to me. It's definitely an expression of my creativity. I'm not great at creating visual art with a pen and paper, but I can say with pride that the things I create with cake, buttercream and fondant are beautiful. And beauty in anything does make the world a better place.

I have a love-hate relationship with writing. I love the physical experience of putting pen to paper and watching words flow into life. But at the same time the vulnerability of that process can terrify me into silence, procrastination and self-sabotage so I don't have to face the fear and take the risk.

Writing is like taking a little piece of your soul and leaving it out there for someone to stomp on or ridicule. I've been in that place and cried more tears than the person who did the stomping was worth but that experience leaves a mark and makes me want to avoid the possibility of it happening ever again.

I'm a glass half full kind of person and in most areas of my life that's exactly how I choose to live my life. Very rarely have I made that same choice recently in regards to what I write. But I know that there are more words that I need to write and that at some point they need to move beyond just being words on a page for me. So I've made a conscious choice and signing up for the World Changing Writing Workshop is part of that. It's time to take that step of faith and remember that while I've had that piece stomped on, others pieces have been put out there and been valued and have made the world a better place. It's time to focus on those pieces and remember that the stomping is part of what has made me who I am today and that's stronger than I was back then. Sometimes growth hurts but it doesn't mean you stop growing.

As another traveler on the journey to world changing writing described it, it's time to stop letting those "personal historical snaggles ... grab my ankles as I run by." It's time for me to determine how I live my life and share my words. I'm not going to make any sweeping promises about how much or how often I'm going to post here because that's more likely to cause me to sabotage myself rather than motivate me. Instead I'm going to use M-P-Q for exactly the reason I originally created it, as a place to post things that make me wonder and think. I'm just not going to avoid posting things here or decide that things have to be more important or profound or whatever other excuse I've told myself so that I'd stay silent and safe.

As it said on the Starbucks cup wrappers all winter …

Rembering and Celebrating

I was trying to figure out what to put as my status on Facebook this morning.  Many of my friends have something about the fact it's Remembrance Day.  There's no question that's important.  My Dad's brother was killed in Italy during World War II. The thing is, it's also my brother's birthday.  We may not always, or even often, see eye to eye on many things, but it's still his birthday and that's worth celebrating. 

The two things always seem to stand in stark contrast. 

My birthday is close to Christmas and, though I'm forty ... at least for another month ... people still ask me if I dislike having my birthday close to Christmas.  Our family Christmas tree still doesn't usually go up until after my birthday, so the two celebrations remain separate. 

That can't really happen for my brother's birthday.  It's the same day.  The day of somber remembrance for those who have been willing to pay the ultimate price to make peace a reality in our world, that day is also his birthday, a day to celebrate life. 

Maybe they're not really such opposite things.  Yes, we need to remember the sacrifices that have been made on our behalf, but our actions also need to show we value those sacrifices by not forgetting to celebrating the life and freedom we have.

I guess that decides it.  Remember and Celebrating, that's what I'm doing today.

A Name Is a Name Is a … Or Is It?

“What's in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet;”

Thus wrote Shakespeare, but a silly thing at work the other day made me wonder.

One of my tasks is processing applications, and late in a very busy day, I picked up an application for a company whose name was Gardening Gnomes Landscaping.  I’ll admit, I like garden gnomes … at least the cute ones … and probably because there are still two in my parents’ yard that had previously been in my grandma’s garden almost as long as I can remember, garden gnomes make me smile.

I loved the company’s name and kind of wished that there would be something wrong with their application so that I needed to contact them.  There wasn’t, but I just wanted to tell them how awesome their name was.

I mentioned the name to a couple of colleagues.  One got it and was just as tickled as I was, but the other one looked at me perplexed and said, “Why would they do that to themselves?”

The answer seemed blatantly obvious to me.  I’d hire a landscaping company called Gardening Gnomes Landscaping in a heartbeat. If I’m being honest with myself, I’d probably be tempted to be completely irresponsible and hire them without any research or references or any of the things a responsible adult should do before paying a company money to do something.  The name gives me such a warm, fuzzy, trusting feeling, all because of the association with one of the most important people in my life, my grandma, who also happens to have been a fabulous and passionate gardener. 

Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, I don’t need any landscaping done, and the company is based in a different city, but it did make me think.  How much weight do I put in how things … or people … are named?  I’d like to think that I’m not really influenced by things like that but my reaction makes me wonder. 

Would a rose called by another name, really smell just as sweet if the name made me think of something stinky?  Could I be objective enough to know? Or would my senses be misled by old memories? 

Out of the mouths of babes ...

Nothing much to write, but after a day spent taking the ferry to Vancouver, shopping at IKEA, hanging out on Granville Islands at my favourite shops, and seeing a production of Don Quixote at the Arts Club Theatre, I just overheard the best question and answer between a dad and his son as they were coming out of the video arcade on the ferry.

Son, with a perplexed look on his scrunched up little face, "Dad, how come there isn't any more money?"

Dad, quietly shaking his head, "Sometimes that's just the way it is, buddy."

They were too far away to hear if the boy made any further inquiries, but it seems likely given his age that "Why?" was the next step in that conversation.  I wonder what the dad's response was to that one.

So you think you can what?

Our local newspaper is holding a writing contest, and while I didn't make it to being one of 5 finalist chosen out of almost 350 submissions, I decided I'd add my entry here, along with the really amazing letter I received back in response to my entry.  Sometimes, the benefits of taking a risk are still pretty amazing even when you don't get the results you'd hoped for.

Here's my entry (the submission requirements were to write 250-500 words on why you should be a finalist, any form or genre) ...

So You Think You Can What?

So You Think You Can What? Be one of the four finalists? It’s a ludicrous idea, for a 40 year old, government office worker, whose only published work is one lonely essay published two years ago in a local magazine. Why would I consider myself qualified? Why would I bother to put pen to paper?

Please, don’t put words in my mouth.  I don’t want to write because I’m stuck in a dead end job that I despise.  It may not be cool to say, but I love my job.  It’s not perfect … what job is? … but for me it’s the right balance of things I enjoy, and I value working on a government program that actually makes sense, no spin required.

This is about something else.  Picture the scene from a favourite movie.  Students are gathered around a trophy case, enrapt, but confused.  Then, they hear the whispered words of their teacher, “Carpe … Carpe Diem.”

“Seize the Day.”

This is about grabbing hold of a moment in time and choosing to make the most of it.  It’s about reaching for dreams long held.  It’s about living life with both hands open to experience whatever comes.  It’s about being awake and savouring each opportunity.  It’s about risking on a long shot because, really, what’s the worst that could happen?

But, it’s not only about me. Choosing to write these words and take the risk, that’s also about honouring the memory of Jim MacLaren, a real-life hero who passed away on August 31, 2010.

I won’t try to tell his story here - the word limit is far too few to do him justice - but he showed a courage, grace and perseverance in choosing life, lived to the fullest extent possible, that goes beyond what most people can begin to imagine.  His example is a major piece of what inspired me to step out of my comfort zone and submit that essay for publication.  Late one recent evening, I decided to send an email to Jim to say thank you and, hopefully, to be even the smallest amount of encouragement by expressing the degree to which he had inspired me.  The message he sent in return thanking me for reaching out made me grateful I’d done something out of character in sending an email to someone I’d never met.  Little did I know, my missive and his response would take place barely two weeks before his death.   

Sometimes, moments slip away without anyone noticing they’re gone until it’s too late to recover them.  Sometimes, we pay attention and those same moments become precious and potentially life-changing.

It may seem clichéd but life can, and does, pass us by if we’re not looking.  Today, this moment, I’m giving it my full attention, and it causes me to ask a few pertinent questions.

What better moment?  What better opportunity?

So You Think You Can Write?

Yes, I do.  Seize the day!

Here's the response letter I got (technically, I guess you'd call it a rejection letter, but somehow that doesn't feel right) ...

Although you are not among the finalists for our first ever So You Think You Can Write contest, you were one of a very few semi-finalists chosen from among 345 entries. We were overwhelmed by the quantity and quality of the entries, and our judges had a very difficult time narrowing the semi-finalists to just five finalists.

The judges were touched by the circumstances that led you to enter, and by your tribute to Jim MacLaren. I encourage you to continue to seize the day – and to write. Thank you again for taking part in SYTYCW, Edition 1.

I hope you will contemplate entering the contest again next year.

It's not the answer I'd hoped for, but, in some respects, I think it might be even better.  I know the next couple of weeks are going to be really busy at work and it would be hard to find the time to actually dedicate to the contest.  But this response, this makes me want to write, not just for a contest, but because writing is part of what makes me the person I am and the person I want to be.  In the long run, that's more important and more satisfying.

If you don't know Jim's story, you can hear it in his own words on his website or as it was shared during the eulogy at the celebration of his life.

"Seize the day, seize whatever you can
'Cause life slips away just like hourglass sand
Seize the day, pray for grace from God's hand
Then nothing will stand in your way
Seize the day"

Carolyn Arends

Sweet and Sour Kind of Day

I suppose the normal word for today would be bittersweet, but for reasons I'll explain later, I hesistate to use the word bitter. Somehow, sweet and sour seem to aptly describe the flavour of the day.

The day started with sweetness as I awoke earlier than my usual for a holiday Monday.  I had a ferry to catch and the reason made the still dark outside start to my day sweet.  The chance to catch up with a dear friend who I'd last seen face to face almost 7 years ago was the first thought that came to mind as I reached over to quiet the buzzing alarm clock.

Into my half-asleep world, a note of sour appeared as I noticed something online during my usual morning routine.  I saw a comment on facebook that a man I considered a hero and inspiration in my life had passed away on August 31, 2010.  The world as I knew it felt different, as if a light in the darkness had gotten a little harder to see.  Part of me wanted to crawl back under my covers and pretend I hadn't woken up, pretend I'd slept through my alarm and just pretend the day wasn't happening.  The thing is, I couldn't do that.  I couldn't miss out on seeing this friend, and I couldn't respond that way to news of his death.  That response would have been contrary to everything I learned from his example of engaging life no matter what the challenges. 

So I headed off and used my time on the ferry ride to try to savour the lessons I'd learned so that when the time came to meet my friend, I could give her my full attention.  The hours I spent with her were sweet indeed, from a delicious lunch to an afternoon spent sipping lattes, catching up, sharing our hearts and discovering with much joy, that even after seven years of limited contact because of living on either different continents or opposites sides of the same one, some friendships continue to grow sweeter with age. 

This friend is one who used to be a youth in the youth ministry I worked with during my internship in Toronto.  She was an amazing individual then who taught me much, even when I was supposed to be mentoring her!  Thankfully, over the years, a youth and youth leader relationship has grown into a friendship between equals that I treasure.  I love her passion for life and her desire to pursue her dreams and share her gifts of music with those around her.  She makes me so proud to know that I had a small piece to play in the fabulous woman she is today.

On the bus ride back to the ferry, I started to listen to some songs on my Zune, ones that reflected my need to remember the sweet side of life as I reflected on the sour note the was still sounding as I pondered the death of a hero. In the midst of that, my cell phone rang.  I answered it to discover another good friend on the phone with the sweet news that he and his partner had just gotten engaged. 

I don't know whether anyone who might read this will actually know the story of Jim MacLaren, and I'm not going to try to tell it here.  His story can best be heard in his own words on his website (http://www.jimmaclaren.com/).  What I do want to try and share is why I chose to describe this as a sweet and sour day rather than a bittersweet day.

At heart, Jim's story is of one man who chose to accept the adversity that life handed him and find joy and life in the midst of those challenges.  Losing his lower left leg, later becoming a quadriplegic and then living with constant pain and other medical challenges as he regained an amazing amount of sensation and movement, all of those thing might well have resulted in a man who was lost in bitterness and yet it didn't.  It's a crazy title, but a couple of years back, I purchased his DVD, "How I found happiness after being hit by a bus".  The thing that has always struck me, when I've read his story or listened to recordings of him speaking, is his sincerity.  He doesn't pretend that life isn't difficult and that sometimes he'd rather it had less challenges, but he made a conscious choice to choose living and make a difference in his world. 

I know he's made a difference in mine.  He taught me to take risks, because, really what's the worst that can happen.  He taught me that in a family heavy on the "glass half empty" mentality, that it's okay to choose to be a "glass half full" kind of girl and to live believing that no matter what happens there is something beautiful and sweet to find in the midst of it.   Not by hiding from life or pretending that the bad stuff doesn't happen, but by facing it head on, learning to accept it and moving on to choose life. 

So I can't describe today as bittersweet.  Bitter would be the least fitting tribute to a man whose life was the complete opposite.  But I do have to describe the day as also having a sour flavour, because there is a discordant feeling as I realize that a hero and source of inspiration is no longer on this earth. 

The thing is, though, it's also right to call it a sweet and sour kind of day, because the sour notes, made the sweet ones even sweeter and more precious.  Life is short and sometimes the sour is the reminder we need to savour the sweet.  While I won't have the opportunity to hear new insights from Jim MacLaren, I will savour the fact that two short weeks before his death, I chose to pay attention to a quiet nudging that said I should send him an email to say thank you and, hopefully, to offer him a little encouragement in his ongoing health challenges.  His return message to say thanks for reaching out will stay saved in my email as a reminder that it's important to not let the little moments slip by unnoticed, even if they take me outside of my comfort zone.   

The best tribute I can think of is that those of us who were touched by the life of Jim MacLaren will follow his example to be a beacon in the dark places and a light that celebrates the blessings that are found in choosing life.

"Live each moment like it's the last moment in your life."

Jim MacLaren

To Wallow or Not to Wallow ...

The other day a friend posed the question of whether it was okay to wallow a bit when things aren't going right and you're feeling a little stuck from things that have gone wrong in the past. Her world seemed to keep saying to just move on, almost as if the dark times had never happened.  It's a popular opinion, but it doesn't make sense to me.

It's not like you want to stay in that place, but sometimes, even when you're sure you've dealt with all of whatever it is, sometimes, the same crap just shows up again.  It's grieving and weird things can trigger that fragile space.  A song on the radio, randomly running into someone you haven't seen in ages, weird stress about something completely unrelated, a particular scent ... all of those things have bounced me back in time to the places in my life where everything feels broken. 

My comment to my friend was that when you hit those spots, sometimes you need to wallow ... or remember or whatever else you want to call it. Otherwise, when the moments come when it really does feel like it's working right, it's not as precious.

Moving forward and living life to the full doesn't mean forgetting the things that have damaged me.  I'm stronger when I find the beauty in the brokenness.  Sometimes it's easy to see, sometimes it's not until the softening layer of time allows a different perspective when I take another visit to those damaged places.  Then, I can see how I grew from that place.

It's a pottery class lesson.  A few weeks back, my niece was attempting to make a mug during her second class using a pottery wheel.  As she tried to bring the clay back in again to shape the lip, it collapsed in on itself and the top portion slid down inside the wider bottom.  She was pretty frustrated, but as she looked at the clay spinning on her wheel, she realized that while it was never going to be a mug, it had an interesting shape.  Turns out, it's now one of her favourite pieces because, while that piece of clay was apparently never meant to be a mug, it makes a really amazing candle holder.

I'm glad my friend had the courage to ask the question because as I was thinking about my response, it made me realize how blessed I am.  I'm not in one of those fragile places right now, but I'm at a spot where I can look back and see how I've gotten here.  I know my brokenness, and I know that, right now, I'm in one of those precious moments where I can see that something beautiful has grown out of those barren places.  That's a priceless thing.

"Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it."

George Santayana

More than One Hour on Sunday Morning

"That's our announcements. Now let us turn to worship."

That's at least close to what was said on Sunday morning as the pastor finished the announcements and prepared to continue with the rest of the worship service. My question is this ...

Why aren't our announcements part of our worship? Why do we consider them to be something completely separate?

It makes sense to me if worship is just about the hour we spend in music, Scripture readings and teaching. If that's what worship is, then clearly the announcements are not part of that. Even if we're announcing some other time of worship, it makes sense that the announcements are separate if worship is only a few very specific set of activities.

But, is that really what worship is?

If worship is about something more, perhaps the announcements aren't separate from but are actually another expression of worship.

If worship is descriptive of the way we live our whole lives, then the announcements are reminders for prayer, times to celebrate as a community or even opportunities for worship by using our hands and feet to serve.

If I'm being consistent, I also need to think about what I say as I introduce the worship in song time at the beginning of the service. I normally say something about "preparing for worship." That also implies that worship is only what happens in that one hour time block.

If I want my words to match what I believe then I should be saying something like "preparing for our time of corporate worship" since that is a set apart time when we worship in community rather than implying that we're about to do something different than how we should be living our daily lives as a continual expression of worship; a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God.

We think worship is a thing. It is not. It is an expression; a verb;

an attitude; a way to show love. Basically saying “What is Worship?”

is the same as “What is Love?”

Gerrard Fess

Write to Right

I've noticed a trend when I'm writing in my journal each night. I started the process almost two months ago with a commitment to myself to write for approximately 10 minutes each night before bed. It was my baby steps approach to morning pages.

While I've yet to write 3 pages each day as Julia Cameron suggests is critical to the writing process and I certainly don't manage to write first thing in the morning, I've learned to be consistent in finding time each day to write. I've never managed to keep a writing discipline going that long before. I generally last a week or two at most, that's assuming I've even made it to day two.

Much of my scribblings has related to the whole process of writing and taking this creative writing course. It's not very original. It's certainly not grammatically correct. I have noticed one thing though. It happens quite often that when I plan to write the word "write" I often start writing the word "right". It's not that I don't know how to spell. It feels much more important than that.

A dear friend has reminded me for years that I need to write, that it's part of what makes me tick. She's right. I feel more centered and grounded than I've felt in ages since I began this writing process. It's not just about writing words on a page ... or a screen. It's about righting my world, not in the big picture, but in the small picture that is my life.

She was right, my world makes much more sense to me when I write. Whatever comes of the jottings that have been happening over the last couple of months. I've learned a valuable lesson. Writing is part of who I am. It's not something I should do when the mood strikes. It's something I need to do for me because writing is right in my world.

The act of putting pen to paper encourages pause for thought,
this in turn makes us think more deeply about life,
which helps us regain our equilibrium.

Norbet Platt

Fine Dining???

I watched the woman as she looked around with disdain. All the tables were dirty. The last occupants' litter had been neglected and no staff member had been around to put it in the trash or wipe the table.

She retrieved a serviette, wiped the table vigorously with the serviette held tightly between two fingers. She was clearly more concerned with not touching the table than the apparently not self-evident fact that the table could be more thorough cleaned if a greater percentage of digits where involved in the process. Her left hand held her sleeve pulled part of the up her arm away from whatever mysterious substance might be lurking on the table.

She declared it to be clean enough. Her mother and daughter got settled while she flung the offending serviette in the nearby trash can.

Moments later I felt the urge to burst out in song as the lyrics of a certain Alanis Morissette song pop into my head.

How ironic. When the woman finally sat down at the table, she hung her coat on the back of her chair. Now, the very same sleeve that was so carefully held away from the table top is dragging completely ignored on the floor underneath her chair.

It's not like you really expect fine dining at the McDonald's at Douglas and View, is it?

"The great thing about irony is that it splits things apart,
gets up above them so we can see
the flaws and hypocrisies and duplicates."

David Foster Wallace

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