"'Dear me!' said he, turning over the pages, 'what a chorus of groans, cries, and bleatings! What a rag-bag of singular happenings! But surely the most valuable hunting-ground that ever was given to a student of the unusual! . . . Here are the Daily Gazette extracts of the last fortnight. "Lady with a black boa at Prince’s Skating Club"—that we may pass. "Surely Jimmy will not break his mother’s heart"—that appears to be irrelevant. "If the lady who fainted on Brixton bus"—she does not interest me. "Every day my heart longs—" Bleat, Watson—unmitigated bleat!'" (Adventure of the Red Circle).
So spoke Sherlock Holmes of the agony columns in the newspapers in London, England, in 1895. He could have been talking about Facebook, or Twitter, or any of the many other modern agony columns that arrive in our very pockets every minute of every day. Bleat, Watson -- unmitigated bleat.
And I am getting weary of it.
I have increasingly felt that social media has become, well, less social. It has begun to feel ugly to me, and painful. There was a time when it seemed like a place to connect with family and friends. I saw photos and heard stories about the happenings of those I care about. It was fun and kind.
I'm not sure if Facebook and Twitter is changing, or if I'm just getting old and cranky. Both are possible. But more often than not, lately, my reaction to my newsfeeds is not so much "oh, that's nice", but "ouch, that hurt". The change has come about as more and more of us post links and rants about all the things we are against.
It's a subtle difference.
There's a difference between saying, "I love adopting mutts," and saying, "If you adopt pure-bred dogs, you support puppy mills."
There's a difference between saying, "I love being a vegetarian," and posting a picture of a horribly-abused veal calf and saying, "If you eat meat, this is what you support."
There's a difference between saying, "Here's why I homeschool," and saying, "If you send your kids to school, you're sending them into an academic desert where creativity and excellence go to die."
There's a difference between saying, "Here are some reasons why I support this political leader," and saying, "If you support that political leader you're supporting the next Stalin or Hitler, and you're ok with babies washing up on shore in Greece."
There is a difference between defending that with which I agree and attacking that with which I don't. It is easy to attack another's position; it is much more difficult to articulate and defend my own.
But there's another dimension.
Most of us are too polite, or too kind to rage against our personal pet issues to those we know are directly involved in them.
Most of us would not directly tell the public school teacher in our life that we find public school teachers lazy, irresponsible, overpaid, entitled slobs, but we have no problem posting the article that says such.
We would not go directly to a person we know is voting Conservative, or Liberal, or NDP, and tell them to their face that their chosen party is heartless, irresponsible, uncaring, fascist, anarchist, or whatever adjective you choose to use, but without a second thought, we post such things.
We would not go to the Bible college professors in our lives and tell them that Bible colleges are wastelands of liberalism and the reason why people stop believing, but we dare post such stuff on Facebook.
We would not do that. We would soften our words. We would moderate our approach. We would be less pugnacious and more personable.
The problem is that when we post this stuff on Facebook, we are not taking any time to think about who might be reading it. And so my public school teacher friend learns that I think her a lazy, entitled slob. My Conservative friend discovers that I think she is voting for the next Adolph Hitler. My schoolteacher friend finds out that I think she is crushing my child's spirit. My doctor friend reads that I think she is in a grand conspiracy with big pharma to hide cures and keep me dependent on her and her drugs. My farmer friend realises that I think she keeps her animals in deplorable conditions.
I have found out things like this from my Facebook feed. I have learned that people who are kind to my face may actually think horrible things about me behind my back - at least, if I am to take seriously what they post on Facebook. It has made me suspicious of people. It has hurt me. It has even brought me to tears. You think that about me? Wow.
And I suspect that I have done the same to others. I am under no delusions that I have not posted something carelessly, or perhaps even carefully, that has hurt a friend.
I'm tired of the endless stream of groans, cries, and bleatings as we all stand on our isolated soapboxes and scream out to the world words we would never say if we stood face to face. I would not say to you the things I say when I don't have to look you in the eye and see the hurt there. You would not say them to me if you saw how what you said made my face crumple and my heart break. We would not be so cruel and careless with our words if we could see how our darts hit and stick and make each other bleed.
Oh, sure, we might still hold our precious beliefs. We might still secretly think the things we now tell the world. Or, maybe not. Maybe, if instead of simply lobbing my opinions out there, I was forced to defend them, face to face, and see how they affected you, I would realise I don't have to be so pertinacious. Maybe my cherished ideas would be refined and honed by being held up to others' ideas, instead of becoming hardened and brittle. Maybe my stubborn heart would be softened by the tears of others instead of dried out and impenetrable in the desert of social media.
I have largely turned off the"rag-bag of singular happenings". My heart can tolerate only so much. The "chorus of groans, cries, and bleatings" hurts me too much, too often. I have to protect my heart on too many fronts. I have largely stopped posting. I'm tired of it. It wearies me.
"Bleat, Watson -- unmitigated bleat."
No more.
Tuesday, 1 December 2015
Thursday, 19 November 2015
Speak To Each Other In Psalms
Recently, I have become familiar with the music of a group of musicians called Shiyr Poets. I first heard one of their songs on our Christian radio station, and, intrigued, I looked further into the group. Headed by Brian Doerkson, this group of three men and a woman have undertaken to writing each of the 150 psalms of the Bible to music.
Now, I grew up in a tradition that had set the 150 psalms to music, so this wasn't a terribly new concept for me, but the song I heard on the radio that day gripped me. I mentioned Shiyr Poet's project to a friend and colleague, someone who might love the Psalms even more than I do, and he quickly purchased both the CDs that the group has produced to date, approximately the first 20 of 150 psalms. And I, being the frugal offspring of frugal Dutch immigrants that I am, then borrowed the CDs from him.
I have been playing the first CD in my car, on my one-way hour-long commute, for the last week. I've only gotten to the first CD. Psalms 1-10. And it has challenged the way I view worship, and what we like to call worship music.
I like my songs to be sensible. Verse, chorus, verse, chorus, bridge, chorus, chorus. Isn't that how a song is supposed to go? Or, at least, in the tradition in which I grew up, verse, verse, verse, verse. But these songs . . . they move all over. Just when I think I've picked up a line of a tune, the tune changes. The instruments change. The music shouts and cries, laughs and sighs. It moves all over. It's not neat.
And neither are the words. I start to listen, and I think, "Oh, good, a happy song," and in a heartbeat, the song turns to lament. Ok, maybe not happy. Maybe sad. And with a sigh, the words change again. I find my heart twisting and turning inside me. It's not neat.
And I realise how much I've come to expect songs to fit into neat categories. Even the ones in the Bible. I like to categorise them. Pigeonhole them. This is a lament psalm. This one is a thanksgiving psalm. And this over here is a solid praise psalm. It's taken a while, but I've gotten comfortable with the notion that not all psalms are praise psalms, and that crying is a legitimate voice of worship. Indeed, it is the loudest voice of worship in the Book of Praises. But, listening to the Shiyr Poets, I realised that my neat little categories don't work. More, I realised I was becoming almost angry about it. I felt like my heart was being twisted and turned inside me. How dare they wrench me from laughter into tears, and then back again? Sure, lament has a place, but in its place. And it's place is not inside my laughter. Who writes songs like this, anyway, songs that twist from laughter to tears to expressions of childlike trust and back into tears in merest heartbeats?
Umm. . .
Right.
Because life isn't neat. It's not tidily categorised into Hallmark moments. It's a messy mix of laughter and sorrow, belly laughs and sobs so deep I feel they will turn me inside out. And maybe there's something to the notion that both laughter and sorrow can move me to tears, both laughter and sorrow can make me clutch my stomach in pain. Maybe, just maybe, the two feelings are not so far apart as I'd like them to be.
And maybe God knows that, and has given me expression to the mess of life, expression that is just as defiant of categories as life itself is.
And then there's the enemy talk. It never struck me how much the psalms talk about enemies. Mine and God's, and for the follower of Yahweh, they are one and the same. My enemies are God's enemies, and God's enemies are mine. The Psalms are unabashed about crying out for justice, for protection, yes, even for retribution. It's one thing to read it; there is something "polite" about reading it. You can make it sound softer. But there is nothing polite about singing it. It is a God-focused cry for justice in a world that is horribly wrong.
When I think about that logically, I like it. Especially in a world like ours, where innocent diners and concert-goers are shot dead, where innocent city-dwellers are bombed, where innocent passengers on airplanes are blasted to bits, where innocent small children are washed up on foreign shores, where hundreds upon thousands of displaced people walk hundreds of thousands of steps to find safety. I want justice. I want the bad guys to lose and the good guys to win.
But singing about it sounds so . . . rude. So militant. Like, really, I'm going to sit in my car, and sing, "Get them, God, they deserve it"? I mean, they do. I know that, academically. But to actually sing it? Wow.
So I've wrestled with that. Why is that so hard for me? Is it because I'm too North American? Too Canadian? Too nice to be willing to take a hard stand against injustice? Too indoctrinated by my culture to be willing to stare evil in the eye and declare it evil and pray that God will intervene? Too proud and hot-headed, perhaps, to take my enemies to God and leave them there? Perhaps I'll just complain and curse them, but never bring them to God? I'll think about them and whisper about them and rant about them to people who can do nothing about them, but I have a hard time speaking out loud to the only One who can do something about them? How does this make sense? If the psalms speak so freely about evil and enemies, and ask God, so freely, to intervene and deliver from evil and enemies, should I not do likewise? Is it not part of what it means to be a follower of Jesus in an unjust world? I am good at cursing my enemies, but I am terrible at praying about them or for them. And yes, these psalms are prayers about, and for, my enemies. It strikes me that, as I have learned to speak the language of lament as worship, perhaps I must learn to speak the language of imprecation as worship.
What a mess. What a confusing, glorious mess. What a roller coaster of laughter and tears, love and hate, anger and trust.
And God says, "Bring it to me. Bring it all to me. Leave it all with me."
And he calls it Praise.
What a wonder.
Now, I grew up in a tradition that had set the 150 psalms to music, so this wasn't a terribly new concept for me, but the song I heard on the radio that day gripped me. I mentioned Shiyr Poet's project to a friend and colleague, someone who might love the Psalms even more than I do, and he quickly purchased both the CDs that the group has produced to date, approximately the first 20 of 150 psalms. And I, being the frugal offspring of frugal Dutch immigrants that I am, then borrowed the CDs from him.
I have been playing the first CD in my car, on my one-way hour-long commute, for the last week. I've only gotten to the first CD. Psalms 1-10. And it has challenged the way I view worship, and what we like to call worship music.
I like my songs to be sensible. Verse, chorus, verse, chorus, bridge, chorus, chorus. Isn't that how a song is supposed to go? Or, at least, in the tradition in which I grew up, verse, verse, verse, verse. But these songs . . . they move all over. Just when I think I've picked up a line of a tune, the tune changes. The instruments change. The music shouts and cries, laughs and sighs. It moves all over. It's not neat.
And neither are the words. I start to listen, and I think, "Oh, good, a happy song," and in a heartbeat, the song turns to lament. Ok, maybe not happy. Maybe sad. And with a sigh, the words change again. I find my heart twisting and turning inside me. It's not neat.
And I realise how much I've come to expect songs to fit into neat categories. Even the ones in the Bible. I like to categorise them. Pigeonhole them. This is a lament psalm. This one is a thanksgiving psalm. And this over here is a solid praise psalm. It's taken a while, but I've gotten comfortable with the notion that not all psalms are praise psalms, and that crying is a legitimate voice of worship. Indeed, it is the loudest voice of worship in the Book of Praises. But, listening to the Shiyr Poets, I realised that my neat little categories don't work. More, I realised I was becoming almost angry about it. I felt like my heart was being twisted and turned inside me. How dare they wrench me from laughter into tears, and then back again? Sure, lament has a place, but in its place. And it's place is not inside my laughter. Who writes songs like this, anyway, songs that twist from laughter to tears to expressions of childlike trust and back into tears in merest heartbeats?
Umm. . .
Right.
Because life isn't neat. It's not tidily categorised into Hallmark moments. It's a messy mix of laughter and sorrow, belly laughs and sobs so deep I feel they will turn me inside out. And maybe there's something to the notion that both laughter and sorrow can move me to tears, both laughter and sorrow can make me clutch my stomach in pain. Maybe, just maybe, the two feelings are not so far apart as I'd like them to be.
And maybe God knows that, and has given me expression to the mess of life, expression that is just as defiant of categories as life itself is.
And then there's the enemy talk. It never struck me how much the psalms talk about enemies. Mine and God's, and for the follower of Yahweh, they are one and the same. My enemies are God's enemies, and God's enemies are mine. The Psalms are unabashed about crying out for justice, for protection, yes, even for retribution. It's one thing to read it; there is something "polite" about reading it. You can make it sound softer. But there is nothing polite about singing it. It is a God-focused cry for justice in a world that is horribly wrong.
When I think about that logically, I like it. Especially in a world like ours, where innocent diners and concert-goers are shot dead, where innocent city-dwellers are bombed, where innocent passengers on airplanes are blasted to bits, where innocent small children are washed up on foreign shores, where hundreds upon thousands of displaced people walk hundreds of thousands of steps to find safety. I want justice. I want the bad guys to lose and the good guys to win.
But singing about it sounds so . . . rude. So militant. Like, really, I'm going to sit in my car, and sing, "Get them, God, they deserve it"? I mean, they do. I know that, academically. But to actually sing it? Wow.
So I've wrestled with that. Why is that so hard for me? Is it because I'm too North American? Too Canadian? Too nice to be willing to take a hard stand against injustice? Too indoctrinated by my culture to be willing to stare evil in the eye and declare it evil and pray that God will intervene? Too proud and hot-headed, perhaps, to take my enemies to God and leave them there? Perhaps I'll just complain and curse them, but never bring them to God? I'll think about them and whisper about them and rant about them to people who can do nothing about them, but I have a hard time speaking out loud to the only One who can do something about them? How does this make sense? If the psalms speak so freely about evil and enemies, and ask God, so freely, to intervene and deliver from evil and enemies, should I not do likewise? Is it not part of what it means to be a follower of Jesus in an unjust world? I am good at cursing my enemies, but I am terrible at praying about them or for them. And yes, these psalms are prayers about, and for, my enemies. It strikes me that, as I have learned to speak the language of lament as worship, perhaps I must learn to speak the language of imprecation as worship.
What a mess. What a confusing, glorious mess. What a roller coaster of laughter and tears, love and hate, anger and trust.
And God says, "Bring it to me. Bring it all to me. Leave it all with me."
And he calls it Praise.
What a wonder.
Thursday, 5 November 2015
But If Not
I have this horse. For years, I have scrimped and scrounged and cut corners in other areas of my life, to pay for him, because I believe that God called me to this ministry.
Now my horse is sick. The reality is that, humanly speaking, a cure is unlikely. Further, I cannot afford long-term medication, or the additional expenses of long-term care inside. I cannot sell him; no one will buy him with this condition, nor can I imagine selling him. I cannot use him the way he is now. I see absolutely no options ahead of me but one: that God heal him.
But what if God doesn't? And what if God doesn't supernaturally provide for me so that I can afford the care he needs? I went into this ministry believing it was God's will. I went into it to serve Him. Part of me wants to throw that in God's face, and tell God he "owes" me, because I've made big sacrifices for this horse and this ministry already.
The reality is that God might not provide for me. And he might not heal my horse.
And. He. Is. Still. Good.
He still loves me more than I can comprehend. He is still worthy of my trust and my worship. He still gives me 10 000 reasons for my heart to bless him, simply because he is God.
There are people for whom Raphi's expenses are chump change. There are people who work in colleges and universities who make more money than I can imagine. Instead, I work at a Christian Bible college which depends almost solely on those generous people for whom Raphi's costs would be chump change, and I my salary is such that Raphi's unexpected expenses feel like an insurmountable obstacle. And yet God calls me to a ministry involving a horse, and allows my horse to get sick. Do I get it? No. Do I like it? No. I've cried buckets about it. Was I wrong in thinking God was calling me to this ministry? I don't believe so. What does it mean if Raphi doesn't get well? The truth is, at this point, I don't know.
But this fact remains, and to it I pray daily that I will hold on with all my strength. He is still God. He is still good. He is still worthy. He still loves me. And I can still trust him, with my horse, and with my heart.
The line from Daniel 3:18 has been very meaningful to me in the last couple of weeks. But if not. "King, our God can save us from your fiery furnace. But if not, we will still not bow down to your golden statue. We have no doubt that God can do this. But even if he does not, it changes nothing. He is still worthy. We can still trust him." God can heal my horse or provide me with the funds I need. He can, and it would be easy for him. But if not, I will not bow to the idol of doubt. I will still follow him.
And it's not about feeling it. Because I don't. I am resolutely holding on to the truth, and reminding myself of it dozens of times a day, as the worry presses in. I am white-knuckling it as the tears stream down my face when I watch my horse fling his head about whenever the sun shines or the wind blows. I am clinging to it desperately as the future remains cloudy.
God doesn't owe me. His love for me has not changed. He has always been good, always been trustworthy, always been faithful.
I would love it if he would hear my supplications and heal my horse. I would be ecstatic. But I will not let his actions in this regard define him, or his love for me.
But if not.
He is still my Lord.
And I won't bow.
Now my horse is sick. The reality is that, humanly speaking, a cure is unlikely. Further, I cannot afford long-term medication, or the additional expenses of long-term care inside. I cannot sell him; no one will buy him with this condition, nor can I imagine selling him. I cannot use him the way he is now. I see absolutely no options ahead of me but one: that God heal him.
But what if God doesn't? And what if God doesn't supernaturally provide for me so that I can afford the care he needs? I went into this ministry believing it was God's will. I went into it to serve Him. Part of me wants to throw that in God's face, and tell God he "owes" me, because I've made big sacrifices for this horse and this ministry already.
The reality is that God might not provide for me. And he might not heal my horse.
And. He. Is. Still. Good.
He still loves me more than I can comprehend. He is still worthy of my trust and my worship. He still gives me 10 000 reasons for my heart to bless him, simply because he is God.
There are people for whom Raphi's expenses are chump change. There are people who work in colleges and universities who make more money than I can imagine. Instead, I work at a Christian Bible college which depends almost solely on those generous people for whom Raphi's costs would be chump change, and I my salary is such that Raphi's unexpected expenses feel like an insurmountable obstacle. And yet God calls me to a ministry involving a horse, and allows my horse to get sick. Do I get it? No. Do I like it? No. I've cried buckets about it. Was I wrong in thinking God was calling me to this ministry? I don't believe so. What does it mean if Raphi doesn't get well? The truth is, at this point, I don't know.
But this fact remains, and to it I pray daily that I will hold on with all my strength. He is still God. He is still good. He is still worthy. He still loves me. And I can still trust him, with my horse, and with my heart.
The line from Daniel 3:18 has been very meaningful to me in the last couple of weeks. But if not. "King, our God can save us from your fiery furnace. But if not, we will still not bow down to your golden statue. We have no doubt that God can do this. But even if he does not, it changes nothing. He is still worthy. We can still trust him." God can heal my horse or provide me with the funds I need. He can, and it would be easy for him. But if not, I will not bow to the idol of doubt. I will still follow him.
And it's not about feeling it. Because I don't. I am resolutely holding on to the truth, and reminding myself of it dozens of times a day, as the worry presses in. I am white-knuckling it as the tears stream down my face when I watch my horse fling his head about whenever the sun shines or the wind blows. I am clinging to it desperately as the future remains cloudy.
God doesn't owe me. His love for me has not changed. He has always been good, always been trustworthy, always been faithful.
I would love it if he would hear my supplications and heal my horse. I would be ecstatic. But I will not let his actions in this regard define him, or his love for me.
But if not.
He is still my Lord.
And I won't bow.
Tuesday, 20 October 2015
#ComeApart
Last night, at 3:00 in the morning, I came to a realization that I should always have known, but which has only now become a stark reality in my life: I do not belong here.
For my whole life, I have been taught Canadian pride. My grandparents emigrated here, with nothing but good to say about the nation which had fought in World War II, and which had freed them from Nazi oppression. They were proud of their adopted country. They worked hard to learn the language, to adapt and fit in. They named their born-in-Canada children English names, and Anglicised their Dutch names. They became citizens, and threw themselves into life in the new country.
I was born in that new country. I was told the stories about how the Canadian soldiers had freed Holland. I heard the stories of their move, their struggles to adapt to a new land, their pride in being Canadian. I felt that pride, too. And in so doing, I began to think of Canada as my home. I forgot that I am a stranger and a sojourner wherever I might be on this earth, in whatever land I might happen to live. I thought Canada was home.
No longer.
I forget no longer. I woke up in the wee hours of the morning to the realization that Canada is no longer home. Indeed, it has never been, but I had forgotten that. I had been lulled into a sense that it was home, and that I belonged here. I had forgotten that my citizenship is in heaven.
Oh, I continue to love this country. I cannot help but love it. Canada has been a great country, as far as earthly kingdoms go. I pray for Canada fervently. I pray for its rulers, and for its peace and prosperity, in the same way Jeremiah instructed the exiled Jews to pray for the peace of Babylon, and that Paul bade Timothy to pray for Caesar.
But that doesn't make it my home, any more than Babylon was home for the exiled Jews, or Rome for the persecuted Christians.
I will pay my taxes, as Jesus told his disciples to render to Caesar what belonged to Caesar.
But I cannot feel at home here any more than the Jews felt at home under the rule of Herod and Rome.
I will obey the laws of Canada, and submit to the authority of its leaders, as Paul instructed the Romans to do, so long as those laws do not go against the laws of God.
But I will not forget that Canada is not my home. Scripture tells me I am a stranger and an alien on this earth. Today, I feel that keenly.
I felt bitterly betrayed last night by a country that I thought was my home, but which is systematically attacking some of my most cherished beliefs: belief in protection of the unborn and the elderly; belief in freedom of religion for all, including evangelical Christians; belief in the sanctity of marriage, and the right to hold such a view without being labeled unCanadian and phobic; belief in the equality and rights of women; belief in standing and fighting wholeheartedly against staggering and demonic evil. I felt betrayed, but I was not. Canada has not betrayed me. Betrayal suggests I belong, and I never did. And the kingdom to which I do belong will never betray me. My King is still on the throne, still Faithful and True, and some day, the leaders of every nation on this earth to which I do not belong will bow their knees to my King and proclaim him as Lord.
My citizenship, whatever my passport may say, belongs to the Kingdom of God alone.
To my only leader, Jesus Christ, died and risen, will I pledge my allegiance. (He, too, stood stripped before a crowd, but he was not admired. He was broken, bloodied, despised, rejected. Oh, his precious shattered face.)
For him and for his kingdom, I will give my life, if that is what is required.
His laws before all else I will uphold, even when that puts me in conflict with the leaders and the people of this land.
On him I will fix my eyes and I will remember:
This country is not my home. I am not home until I am home with him.
Oh, Jesus, come.
Thursday, 1 October 2015
God Heals
See this beautiful boy? We are going through a bit of a crisis right now.
He and I have been in ministry together for six years now. He has taught me so much, about being a good leader, about patience and trust, about looking for the try, about facing fear and being courageous. I have taught him far less. And together, we have, by God's grace, reached out to hurting people to bring them joy and hope and healing.
It has been an amazing six years. Over and over, I have watched in amazement as God has used this big, beautiful, gentle and patient horse, and a far more stubborn, impatient fool of a human being to reach out to hearts and souls who are hurting. He has whispered to them, "Do you see how I love you? Do you see how I am gentle in my strength? Do you see how you can trust me?" He has used us to woo them into his fold. It has been a joyride, and Raphi is more than my pet. He is my partner in ministry, the door through which I am permitted to walk into someone else's heartache and sorrow, and that's a sacred place to be.
But now we're going through a bit of a crisis. Over a week ago, Raphi began shaking his head up and down in a most peculiar way. It was as though he were being stung on the face by swarms of bees. He got more and more anxious, shaking his head, rubbing his face on his legs, pacing, hardly able to stand long enough to do more than grab bites to eat and gulps of water to drink. His nose was wrinkled with worry, and his eyes were anxious and distressed. This was not the sweet, placid horse I know. What was wrong?
It seems that Raphi has a condition called photic headshaking. Somehow, sunlight triggers a nerve in his face, which then burns and tingles, making him feel like he is indeed being stung by swarms of bees. It's a reaction similar to the one we humans have when we look into the sun and sneeze. When he is outside, Raphi shakes and rubs and paces. When he is inside, or once the sun sets, or on heavily overcast days, he settles down again. It's a condition that is incurable and often hard to treat. Basically, if a horse has photic headshaking, he needs to be kept out of the light. Which means he needs to stay inside except when it's dark, or he has to wear a mask the whole time he is outside. One that looks something like this:
It's a freakish thing. It makes him look like a monster or an alien. It covers up those dear, warm, liquid eyes. I'm sure he would not mind wearing it; he's easygoing like that. I know he'd rather wear a mask like that than be cooped up inside all day. But I hate it. He will have to wear it all the time. All. The. Time. Even when I'm working with him. Even when I have students who come out to work with him. Welcome, student. Here is your freaky-bug-eyed therapy horse. No, you can't see his eyes. He's allergic to the sun.
The irony has not escaped me. Here is a horse who is being used to bring students into the light of Christ, and he cannot stand to be in the light. Here is a horse who is being used to introduce hurting women to the Son, and he cannot stand the sun. I have to say that I believe there is strong element of spiritual warfare to this whole thing.
I have been struggling with the notion that maybe Raphi and I were coming to the end of the road. No, I am not going to give up on my horse. I believe that a commitment is to the end, even if it's just an animal. But maybe I had to accept the fact that our days of ministry were over. Maybe God was closing the door for me on this ministry which has been, for the past six years, my joy and delight. I just didn't know, and it broke my heart. After all, how can I use a horse who cannot be outside except when it is dark or raining? Or how can I use a horse who looks so frightening, when I cannot see his eyes?
So you can use him only if he's perfect?
Pardon?
If you can use him only if he's perfect, what does that say about all the broken and hurting women you work with? What does that say about you? Can you use him only if he's perfect? Are you going to love him only if he's perfect?
Well . . . no . . . . No, of course not. I'm not that shallow! No, I wasn't saying that. But I hate to see him broken! Can't you heal him? Can't you work a miracle, and make my horse able to see the light again? I've been praying for a miracle! Am I supposed to just stop?
Can I not use that which is broken?
Well, yes . . . of course.
Can I not use that which is weak? Is my strength not made perfect in weakness? Is my grace not sufficient?
Well, yes . . . yes, of course, I know it is.
What if my strength will be made even greater in his weakness? What if Raphi can be more effective because he is so obviously broken? What if those who are broken can see in him an image of being strong even in brokenness, and learn to rely on my strength in their weakness?
I dunno. I guess that can happen. No. No, I know that can happen.
Well then, what's the problem? They'll be ok with his brokenness. Are you?
<sigh> I want to be. I love this horse. I'm not going to throw him away just because he's not perfect. But I don't know even how to work with him if I can't see his eyes. He may not be blinded by this, but I am.
Then you're going to have to learn to see in new ways. Aren't you? And maybe, just maybe, you'll become a better horsewoman because of it.
So I'm supposed to stop praying for a miracle?
No, you can keep praying. But quit thinking that this is the end of the road unless you get one.
Trust me.
I've got it.
It's under control.
Raphi may not be able to see, but I can.
Raphael. God heals.
It has been an amazing six years. Over and over, I have watched in amazement as God has used this big, beautiful, gentle and patient horse, and a far more stubborn, impatient fool of a human being to reach out to hearts and souls who are hurting. He has whispered to them, "Do you see how I love you? Do you see how I am gentle in my strength? Do you see how you can trust me?" He has used us to woo them into his fold. It has been a joyride, and Raphi is more than my pet. He is my partner in ministry, the door through which I am permitted to walk into someone else's heartache and sorrow, and that's a sacred place to be.
But now we're going through a bit of a crisis. Over a week ago, Raphi began shaking his head up and down in a most peculiar way. It was as though he were being stung on the face by swarms of bees. He got more and more anxious, shaking his head, rubbing his face on his legs, pacing, hardly able to stand long enough to do more than grab bites to eat and gulps of water to drink. His nose was wrinkled with worry, and his eyes were anxious and distressed. This was not the sweet, placid horse I know. What was wrong?
It seems that Raphi has a condition called photic headshaking. Somehow, sunlight triggers a nerve in his face, which then burns and tingles, making him feel like he is indeed being stung by swarms of bees. It's a reaction similar to the one we humans have when we look into the sun and sneeze. When he is outside, Raphi shakes and rubs and paces. When he is inside, or once the sun sets, or on heavily overcast days, he settles down again. It's a condition that is incurable and often hard to treat. Basically, if a horse has photic headshaking, he needs to be kept out of the light. Which means he needs to stay inside except when it's dark, or he has to wear a mask the whole time he is outside. One that looks something like this:
It's a freakish thing. It makes him look like a monster or an alien. It covers up those dear, warm, liquid eyes. I'm sure he would not mind wearing it; he's easygoing like that. I know he'd rather wear a mask like that than be cooped up inside all day. But I hate it. He will have to wear it all the time. All. The. Time. Even when I'm working with him. Even when I have students who come out to work with him. Welcome, student. Here is your freaky-bug-eyed therapy horse. No, you can't see his eyes. He's allergic to the sun.
The irony has not escaped me. Here is a horse who is being used to bring students into the light of Christ, and he cannot stand to be in the light. Here is a horse who is being used to introduce hurting women to the Son, and he cannot stand the sun. I have to say that I believe there is strong element of spiritual warfare to this whole thing.
I have been struggling with the notion that maybe Raphi and I were coming to the end of the road. No, I am not going to give up on my horse. I believe that a commitment is to the end, even if it's just an animal. But maybe I had to accept the fact that our days of ministry were over. Maybe God was closing the door for me on this ministry which has been, for the past six years, my joy and delight. I just didn't know, and it broke my heart. After all, how can I use a horse who cannot be outside except when it is dark or raining? Or how can I use a horse who looks so frightening, when I cannot see his eyes?
So you can use him only if he's perfect?
Pardon?
If you can use him only if he's perfect, what does that say about all the broken and hurting women you work with? What does that say about you? Can you use him only if he's perfect? Are you going to love him only if he's perfect?
Well . . . no . . . . No, of course not. I'm not that shallow! No, I wasn't saying that. But I hate to see him broken! Can't you heal him? Can't you work a miracle, and make my horse able to see the light again? I've been praying for a miracle! Am I supposed to just stop?
Can I not use that which is broken?
Well, yes . . . of course.
Can I not use that which is weak? Is my strength not made perfect in weakness? Is my grace not sufficient?
Well, yes . . . yes, of course, I know it is.
What if my strength will be made even greater in his weakness? What if Raphi can be more effective because he is so obviously broken? What if those who are broken can see in him an image of being strong even in brokenness, and learn to rely on my strength in their weakness?
I dunno. I guess that can happen. No. No, I know that can happen.
Well then, what's the problem? They'll be ok with his brokenness. Are you?
<sigh> I want to be. I love this horse. I'm not going to throw him away just because he's not perfect. But I don't know even how to work with him if I can't see his eyes. He may not be blinded by this, but I am.
Then you're going to have to learn to see in new ways. Aren't you? And maybe, just maybe, you'll become a better horsewoman because of it.
So I'm supposed to stop praying for a miracle?
No, you can keep praying. But quit thinking that this is the end of the road unless you get one.
Trust me.
I've got it.
It's under control.
Raphi may not be able to see, but I can.
Raphael. God heals.
Thursday, 17 September 2015
Getting Ready For Winter
It's coming.
It's a perfect late-September day. The sun is shining gloriously outside my windows, and the breeze that is dancing in the branches of the trees is soft and warm. A monarch butterfly is winging its way to Mexico past my office windows. The maple tree is showing the merest hint of the glory of colour that awaits it. The students walking past my office windows are wearing shorts and t-shirts and sandals. Everything is warm and free and beautiful.
It's hard to imagine that in mere weeks, the scene could look very different.
But winter is coming. It's coming, with its days of cold drizzle, deep freezes, slush and mush and muck, mountains of snow to shovel, bitter winds, and thin sunshine that fails to warm anything in its stretched rays.
It's coming.
It's a perfect late-September day. I got up this morning in freedom. I got into my car, and turned on the Christian radio station. I drove to my Bible-college career. I am surrounded by the murmur of soft voices in various classrooms in which the Word of God is being lifted up and studied with joy. It's the beginning of a new semester in a new year, and there is a palpable air of excitement and joy. Everything is warm and free and beautiful.
But when I look carefully, I see signs that winter is coming.
Here, a clerk put into a position where she is forced to choose against her conscience or go to prison.
There, a bus driver who is chastised for refusing to drive a bus painted in a rainbow of colours.
Here, a Christian elementary school being brought before the courts for holding on to a biblical definition of marriage.
There, a Christian university losing accreditation for the same reason.
Here, the comment sections of newspapers being filled more and more with raging anti-religious sentiment (regardless of religion).
There, a politician saying that evangelical Christians are un-Canadian because they hold to a biblical definition of marriage.
Here and there and spreading fast, the threat of religious fundamentalists pledging to spread their influence throughout the world.
It's no surprise, really. We've been told it's coming. But I wonder if I'm ready. What I hear right now are rumours, murmurings, rustlings, grumblings. Nothing too near. It's still easy to push the noise away. The breeze is not so chill yet that it bites me personally. The world of Marianne is still warm and free and beautiful.
But it's coming.
And I wonder if I'm ready.
I feel soft. I feel addicted to my comforts. I am so used to living in a land where I am free to worship how I want, when I want, with whom I want that I can hardly imagine a life where that freedom is stripped away. I can't imagine my school being forced to shut down by one group or another. I can hardly stand to think that Christians may be told that they can no longer broadcast on the airways of our country. And that's only the beginning.
We are told that if we can't "do the job" we shouldn't take the job. So a Christian can't be a city clerk because that job requires her to dispense marriage certificates that she doesn't feel she can do in good conscience.
A Christian can't be a city bus driver because that job may require him to drive a rainbow-coloured bus.
A Christian can't be a politician in certain parties, because he or she is required to be pro-choice to do so.
A Christian can't be a doctor, because he or she is required to either perform or refer people for abortions and euthanasia, even though he or she believes that makes him or her an accessory to murder.
Apparently, a Christian can't even be Canadian.
It's coming. I don't know if I'm ready. I don't know if I can be that brave. I want to be. I'm not talking about loud-mouthed, fighting-back, foaming-at-the-mouth, God-hates-gays militant fundamentalist bravery. I know I could fight. Becoming the loudmouthed fighter would be easy. It would be easy to get angry at those who would steal my freedoms. It would be natural to hate my enemies. It would feel so good to slam the secular-humanist world that is slowly squeezing away my freedoms. All those traits linger dangerously close to the surface in my ugly, sinful human heart.
But am I ready to stand, as Jesus did, silent before my accusers, without fighting back? Am I ready to love my enemies and pray for those who persecute me? It's easy to talk about that when no one is persecuting me, when my only enemies are those who slip into the parking spot ahead of me even though I've got my signal light on. But it's coming. And I don't think I'm ready.
I want to be ready. I want to stand firm in opposition. I want to stand with grace and love before those who hate me because of what I believe. I want to not be surprised or offended at the afflictions I face because of Jesus, but to rejoice that I am counted worthy to suffer for him.
But oh, that requires courage. That requires a level of courage and confidence in Him I know I have never approached.
It is a gloriously warm, sunshiny fall day today, but a wise person reads the signs, and knows that winter is coming, and uses days like today to prepare for the coming cold. It is the fool who ignores the signs and continues to play as though summer will last forever, only to be shocked and dismayed when winter hits.
I have today. I have today to live faithfully and graciously, to walk humbly with my God. I have today to ask him to change my timid and lazy heart, to fill me with courage. I have today to pray for the enemies I know are coming, not for my sake, so that I can maintain my life of ease, but because they so desperately need Jesus.
And then I will trust that when winter hits, I will be ready.
It's a perfect late-September day. The sun is shining gloriously outside my windows, and the breeze that is dancing in the branches of the trees is soft and warm. A monarch butterfly is winging its way to Mexico past my office windows. The maple tree is showing the merest hint of the glory of colour that awaits it. The students walking past my office windows are wearing shorts and t-shirts and sandals. Everything is warm and free and beautiful.
It's hard to imagine that in mere weeks, the scene could look very different.
But winter is coming. It's coming, with its days of cold drizzle, deep freezes, slush and mush and muck, mountains of snow to shovel, bitter winds, and thin sunshine that fails to warm anything in its stretched rays.
It's coming.
It's a perfect late-September day. I got up this morning in freedom. I got into my car, and turned on the Christian radio station. I drove to my Bible-college career. I am surrounded by the murmur of soft voices in various classrooms in which the Word of God is being lifted up and studied with joy. It's the beginning of a new semester in a new year, and there is a palpable air of excitement and joy. Everything is warm and free and beautiful.
But when I look carefully, I see signs that winter is coming.
Here, a clerk put into a position where she is forced to choose against her conscience or go to prison.
There, a bus driver who is chastised for refusing to drive a bus painted in a rainbow of colours.
Here, a Christian elementary school being brought before the courts for holding on to a biblical definition of marriage.
There, a Christian university losing accreditation for the same reason.
Here, the comment sections of newspapers being filled more and more with raging anti-religious sentiment (regardless of religion).
There, a politician saying that evangelical Christians are un-Canadian because they hold to a biblical definition of marriage.
Here and there and spreading fast, the threat of religious fundamentalists pledging to spread their influence throughout the world.
It's no surprise, really. We've been told it's coming. But I wonder if I'm ready. What I hear right now are rumours, murmurings, rustlings, grumblings. Nothing too near. It's still easy to push the noise away. The breeze is not so chill yet that it bites me personally. The world of Marianne is still warm and free and beautiful.
But it's coming.
And I wonder if I'm ready.
I feel soft. I feel addicted to my comforts. I am so used to living in a land where I am free to worship how I want, when I want, with whom I want that I can hardly imagine a life where that freedom is stripped away. I can't imagine my school being forced to shut down by one group or another. I can hardly stand to think that Christians may be told that they can no longer broadcast on the airways of our country. And that's only the beginning.
We are told that if we can't "do the job" we shouldn't take the job. So a Christian can't be a city clerk because that job requires her to dispense marriage certificates that she doesn't feel she can do in good conscience.
A Christian can't be a city bus driver because that job may require him to drive a rainbow-coloured bus.
A Christian can't be a politician in certain parties, because he or she is required to be pro-choice to do so.
A Christian can't be a doctor, because he or she is required to either perform or refer people for abortions and euthanasia, even though he or she believes that makes him or her an accessory to murder.
Apparently, a Christian can't even be Canadian.
It's coming. I don't know if I'm ready. I don't know if I can be that brave. I want to be. I'm not talking about loud-mouthed, fighting-back, foaming-at-the-mouth, God-hates-gays militant fundamentalist bravery. I know I could fight. Becoming the loudmouthed fighter would be easy. It would be easy to get angry at those who would steal my freedoms. It would be natural to hate my enemies. It would feel so good to slam the secular-humanist world that is slowly squeezing away my freedoms. All those traits linger dangerously close to the surface in my ugly, sinful human heart.
But am I ready to stand, as Jesus did, silent before my accusers, without fighting back? Am I ready to love my enemies and pray for those who persecute me? It's easy to talk about that when no one is persecuting me, when my only enemies are those who slip into the parking spot ahead of me even though I've got my signal light on. But it's coming. And I don't think I'm ready.
I want to be ready. I want to stand firm in opposition. I want to stand with grace and love before those who hate me because of what I believe. I want to not be surprised or offended at the afflictions I face because of Jesus, but to rejoice that I am counted worthy to suffer for him.
But oh, that requires courage. That requires a level of courage and confidence in Him I know I have never approached.
It is a gloriously warm, sunshiny fall day today, but a wise person reads the signs, and knows that winter is coming, and uses days like today to prepare for the coming cold. It is the fool who ignores the signs and continues to play as though summer will last forever, only to be shocked and dismayed when winter hits.
I have today. I have today to live faithfully and graciously, to walk humbly with my God. I have today to ask him to change my timid and lazy heart, to fill me with courage. I have today to pray for the enemies I know are coming, not for my sake, so that I can maintain my life of ease, but because they so desperately need Jesus.
And then I will trust that when winter hits, I will be ready.
Tuesday, 8 September 2015
Facing Fear
I fell off my horse this summer. It was back in June, and it was a significant fall. It was the first time I've fallen off and actually injured myself. It was the first time I've fallen off and wondered if I could get up, let alone get back on. I hurt my back and ended up in emergency, worried that I had broken it. Oh, I knew I hadn't severed my spinal cord; after all, I limped my way back to the barn, horse in hand, got into my car, and drove all the way home before going to emergency. But I thought something might be cracked. I had visions of jarring my back again, and completing what the fall from my horse had begun, leaving me a paraplegic. I imagined I would have to sell my horse, and move from my stair-filled home. I was picturing teaching from a wheelchair, trying to learn to drive with hand controls, never again walking the dog. (I have a vivid imagination.) I was in a great deal of pain, hardly able to move from the hurt. On one hand, the pain comforted me, because it meant I could feel. On the other hand, the pain worried me, because I knew that it meant that I had actually done damage.
It scared me.
I've fallen off my horse before, and walked around for a few days with bruises and strained muscles, so the reality of falling is not a new one. I have always known, academically, that horseback riding is a high-risk sport. I've heard of Christopher Reeve. Every once in a while, I hear stories about people who are seriously hurt while working with or riding horses. I don't hear about it often, but I do hear about it. But I've never been afraid of falling. It was part of the reality of riding, and I just figured to get back on and keep going.
But this time, I couldn't get back on. I could hardly walk, let alone get back on. It took me a week of healing to be able to get back on at all, and another week of healing before I could get back on and actually ride. Months later, I can still feel an ache if I ride long or hard.
So I've spent the summer thinking about, and fighting, fear.
In light of this new fear, I've had to make a decision. I could fall and get really hurt. I really could fall and end up a paraplegic or a quadriplegic. Or dead. Is it worth the risk? Sure, I can attempt to mitigate risks and keep myself as safe as possible. I wear a helmet. I don't race, full gallop, across the fields, attempt to leap over stone walls, or transverse raging rivers. But I wasn't doing any of those things when I fell, either. And still I fell and hurt myself. So there are no guarantees. And is it worth the risk?
I haven't been able to fully answer that question yet. But I know this - know it to my toes: life is risky. And if I pull back from this risk, if I decide that this thing that I love, that I have always loved, that has always given me joy and delight, is too risky, then I have begun a journey of pulling back from truly living. I have let fear win. Sure, you say it's a slippery slope, and slippery slopes make for bad arguments, but slippery slopes often reflect a reality. Today, I decide that doing this thing I love is too risky. What do I pull back from tomorrow? What becomes too risky tomorrow?
Because, guaranteed, tomorrow will bring risks.
Risks to love instead of isolating.
Risks to be vulnerable instead of wearing a mask.
Risks to forgive instead of holding a grudge.
Risks to do hard things instead of taking the easy road.
Risks to speak up when what I say may be unpopular.
Risks to stand for Jesus when the world around me howls at the sound of his name.
Risks to remain firm in my faith . . . even if someone threatens my life.
Because that is just as much a possibility as falling off my horse and hurting myself is.
I can't live like that. I can't give even that inch. I can't allow fear to win.
So I've spent the summer getting back on.
And this weekend, I rode back in the field where I fell. You know, it felt good. It felt freeing. Sure, I was nervous. So was my horse. We worked through it. We took the worry seriously, and we dealt with it, but we worked through it, and we rode. And we were both ok. It felt really, really good to be back there again, riding through the fields, surrounded by grasses and good smells and birdsong and sunshine. But mostly, it felt good because it felt freeing. We were putting the fear behind us.
We're not there yet. We've got work to do. It takes time to get over a big scare like that. But we're moving forward, my horse and I. We are reclaiming lost ground.
I don't want to play it safe. I don't want to live fearfully. I want to live with courage. I might fall. I might get hurt. But I can't bear to live any other way. There is too much good that will be missed if I live a cautious, miserly, fearful life.
Is riding worth the risk? I think I think so. But this I know:
Living abundantly is absolutely worth the risk.
It scared me.
I've fallen off my horse before, and walked around for a few days with bruises and strained muscles, so the reality of falling is not a new one. I have always known, academically, that horseback riding is a high-risk sport. I've heard of Christopher Reeve. Every once in a while, I hear stories about people who are seriously hurt while working with or riding horses. I don't hear about it often, but I do hear about it. But I've never been afraid of falling. It was part of the reality of riding, and I just figured to get back on and keep going.
But this time, I couldn't get back on. I could hardly walk, let alone get back on. It took me a week of healing to be able to get back on at all, and another week of healing before I could get back on and actually ride. Months later, I can still feel an ache if I ride long or hard.
So I've spent the summer thinking about, and fighting, fear.
In light of this new fear, I've had to make a decision. I could fall and get really hurt. I really could fall and end up a paraplegic or a quadriplegic. Or dead. Is it worth the risk? Sure, I can attempt to mitigate risks and keep myself as safe as possible. I wear a helmet. I don't race, full gallop, across the fields, attempt to leap over stone walls, or transverse raging rivers. But I wasn't doing any of those things when I fell, either. And still I fell and hurt myself. So there are no guarantees. And is it worth the risk?
I haven't been able to fully answer that question yet. But I know this - know it to my toes: life is risky. And if I pull back from this risk, if I decide that this thing that I love, that I have always loved, that has always given me joy and delight, is too risky, then I have begun a journey of pulling back from truly living. I have let fear win. Sure, you say it's a slippery slope, and slippery slopes make for bad arguments, but slippery slopes often reflect a reality. Today, I decide that doing this thing I love is too risky. What do I pull back from tomorrow? What becomes too risky tomorrow?
Because, guaranteed, tomorrow will bring risks.
Risks to love instead of isolating.
Risks to be vulnerable instead of wearing a mask.
Risks to forgive instead of holding a grudge.
Risks to do hard things instead of taking the easy road.
Risks to speak up when what I say may be unpopular.
Risks to stand for Jesus when the world around me howls at the sound of his name.
Risks to remain firm in my faith . . . even if someone threatens my life.
Because that is just as much a possibility as falling off my horse and hurting myself is.
I can't live like that. I can't give even that inch. I can't allow fear to win.
So I've spent the summer getting back on.
And this weekend, I rode back in the field where I fell. You know, it felt good. It felt freeing. Sure, I was nervous. So was my horse. We worked through it. We took the worry seriously, and we dealt with it, but we worked through it, and we rode. And we were both ok. It felt really, really good to be back there again, riding through the fields, surrounded by grasses and good smells and birdsong and sunshine. But mostly, it felt good because it felt freeing. We were putting the fear behind us.
We're not there yet. We've got work to do. It takes time to get over a big scare like that. But we're moving forward, my horse and I. We are reclaiming lost ground.
I don't want to play it safe. I don't want to live fearfully. I want to live with courage. I might fall. I might get hurt. But I can't bear to live any other way. There is too much good that will be missed if I live a cautious, miserly, fearful life.
Is riding worth the risk? I think I think so. But this I know:
Living abundantly is absolutely worth the risk.
Monday, 31 August 2015
Taming the Yeast
Recently, I have forayed into the world of wild yeast. It's fascinating stuff. You take a mixture of flour and water, and you leave it for a few days, and it starts to bubble and grow. When it's bubbling and growing a lot, you save a little of the bubbly stuff for next time, and you use the rest. You add a bunch more water and flour, and some salt, you mix and knead, and you wait and wait and wait. Finally, you throw it in the oven, and out comes this:
I know, eh? It's a thing of beauty. And it wasn't quite as easy as all that. Because taming wild yeast is a tricky thing.
The yeast that leavened this bread is wild yeast that lives in the flour and in the air. In the right circumstances, it propagates and forms a happy colony in the flour and water mixture. It eats the sugars in the flour and produces, as one of the by-products, the carbon dioxide that causes the dough to rise. It's the only leaven that most people before World War II used, because it wasn't until then that the dried yeast that comes in little brown jars became widely used. But once those little brown jars became available, the ability to capture and tame wild yeasts became a lost art. Baker's yeast produces consistent results in relatively quick order. But wild yeast is, well, wild - a little unpredictable, somewhat demanding, fairly finicky, and definitely working on its own schedule.
I didn't even know you could make bread without the yeast from the jar.
And that's when I realised that when I thought about yeast in biblical terms, I was thinking about the round, brown grains that come from the jar. You know, "A little leaven leavens the whole lump," and that sort of thing. I was imagining the brown jar yeast. But biblical leaven didn't come from a jar. It was the wild stuff. And that got me thinking along whole new lines.
You see, I could never really understand why the Israelites didn't have enough time to make leavened bread. After all, they had enough time to roast a whole lamb in its entirety. In that time, I could make two batches of bread using yeast from a jar. But that loaf of wild yeast-raised bread you see in those pictures? That bread took two days from start to finish. Two whole days. Of course they didn't have time to make leavened bread, if it takes two days.
And then there's the whole idea that at every Passover, the Jews had to throw away every bit of leaven. I spent nearly two weeks trying to get my flour and water mixture to bubble enough to raise a loaf of bread. I am diligently saving some starter so I can make bread again. Some sourdough starters are years and years old. They are passed down from generation to generation, and from neighbour to neighbour. One that I read about has been around since the days of the Oregon Trail. But the Jewish people, every year, had to throw out all their starters, everywhere in the land, and start from scratch.
Because the leaven represented sin. And I can kind of get it.
The yeast that lies so obediently in the little brown jar is such a different thing than the wild yeasts I grew in my flour and water. The wild yeast is a living, growing beast. It demands to be fed on schedule, or it turns nasty. And every time you feed it, it doubles in size. One article I read said that if you started with a quarter cup of water and a quarter cup of flour, in 10 days, you'd have enough to fill a full-size swimming pool. It's insatiable. So for a while, my life revolved around my sourdough starter. I named it Gomer, after the wanton but loved harlot in Hosea. Gomer needed to be fed twice a day. I did my best to keep her home, to keep her from springing from her bounds and taking over the counter. I cossetted and coddled her. I fed her of the finest wheat, ensured that her living conditions were optimal, and still she demanded more. At this point, I can somewhat control Gomer, or at least slow her down, by putting her in the fridge and putting her to sleep for a couple of days, but the Israelites didn't have that option. In a warm climate, their wild yeast would have grown with abandon.
And wild yeast is hard to control. I can trick myself into thinking I've mastered the wild yeasts and created this lovely loaf of bread, but the truth is, when you're working with sourdough, it masters you. You feed it. You wait for it. You can't go by the clock. You go by the dough. It could take four hours. It could take eight. It might take longer yet. The dough decides, not you.
And isn't that so like sin. It starts off so small and innocuous. It promises good things. It grows more and more demanding. Its appetite is insatiable. It breaks its bounds and takes up more and more space in our lives, and if we don't meet its demands, it gets nasty and leaves us with a foul mess. And while I think I have control over it, it, in fact, masters me.
So, every year, the Jewish nation chucked it all out and cleaned house. They killed the beast. They cast out the sin. They swept everything clean. They stood under the blood of the lamb, and they were free. A fresh start. A clean slate. Free from the insatiable beast. It was a powerful image.
So, then, I wonder if, when Jesus described himself as the Bread of Life, he was saying more than that he is essential for life. I wonder if there might be some aspect in his statement to suggest that he alone has mastery over the leaven of sin, and that unless we partake of the Bread of Life, we can never hope to find victory. I wonder if he was giving people permission to let go of the tyranny of the wild yeast of sin. And I wonder about the symbolism of the Lord's Supper. Perhaps, when we take the bread, symbolic of his broken body, we sweep away the wild yeasts of sin, stand under the blood of the Passover Lamb of God, and are free. A fresh start. A clean slate. Freed from the insatiable yeast of sin.
Bread of life, indeed.
I know, eh? It's a thing of beauty. And it wasn't quite as easy as all that. Because taming wild yeast is a tricky thing.
The yeast that leavened this bread is wild yeast that lives in the flour and in the air. In the right circumstances, it propagates and forms a happy colony in the flour and water mixture. It eats the sugars in the flour and produces, as one of the by-products, the carbon dioxide that causes the dough to rise. It's the only leaven that most people before World War II used, because it wasn't until then that the dried yeast that comes in little brown jars became widely used. But once those little brown jars became available, the ability to capture and tame wild yeasts became a lost art. Baker's yeast produces consistent results in relatively quick order. But wild yeast is, well, wild - a little unpredictable, somewhat demanding, fairly finicky, and definitely working on its own schedule.
I didn't even know you could make bread without the yeast from the jar.
And that's when I realised that when I thought about yeast in biblical terms, I was thinking about the round, brown grains that come from the jar. You know, "A little leaven leavens the whole lump," and that sort of thing. I was imagining the brown jar yeast. But biblical leaven didn't come from a jar. It was the wild stuff. And that got me thinking along whole new lines.
You see, I could never really understand why the Israelites didn't have enough time to make leavened bread. After all, they had enough time to roast a whole lamb in its entirety. In that time, I could make two batches of bread using yeast from a jar. But that loaf of wild yeast-raised bread you see in those pictures? That bread took two days from start to finish. Two whole days. Of course they didn't have time to make leavened bread, if it takes two days.
And then there's the whole idea that at every Passover, the Jews had to throw away every bit of leaven. I spent nearly two weeks trying to get my flour and water mixture to bubble enough to raise a loaf of bread. I am diligently saving some starter so I can make bread again. Some sourdough starters are years and years old. They are passed down from generation to generation, and from neighbour to neighbour. One that I read about has been around since the days of the Oregon Trail. But the Jewish people, every year, had to throw out all their starters, everywhere in the land, and start from scratch.
Because the leaven represented sin. And I can kind of get it.
The yeast that lies so obediently in the little brown jar is such a different thing than the wild yeasts I grew in my flour and water. The wild yeast is a living, growing beast. It demands to be fed on schedule, or it turns nasty. And every time you feed it, it doubles in size. One article I read said that if you started with a quarter cup of water and a quarter cup of flour, in 10 days, you'd have enough to fill a full-size swimming pool. It's insatiable. So for a while, my life revolved around my sourdough starter. I named it Gomer, after the wanton but loved harlot in Hosea. Gomer needed to be fed twice a day. I did my best to keep her home, to keep her from springing from her bounds and taking over the counter. I cossetted and coddled her. I fed her of the finest wheat, ensured that her living conditions were optimal, and still she demanded more. At this point, I can somewhat control Gomer, or at least slow her down, by putting her in the fridge and putting her to sleep for a couple of days, but the Israelites didn't have that option. In a warm climate, their wild yeast would have grown with abandon.
And wild yeast is hard to control. I can trick myself into thinking I've mastered the wild yeasts and created this lovely loaf of bread, but the truth is, when you're working with sourdough, it masters you. You feed it. You wait for it. You can't go by the clock. You go by the dough. It could take four hours. It could take eight. It might take longer yet. The dough decides, not you.
And isn't that so like sin. It starts off so small and innocuous. It promises good things. It grows more and more demanding. Its appetite is insatiable. It breaks its bounds and takes up more and more space in our lives, and if we don't meet its demands, it gets nasty and leaves us with a foul mess. And while I think I have control over it, it, in fact, masters me.
So, every year, the Jewish nation chucked it all out and cleaned house. They killed the beast. They cast out the sin. They swept everything clean. They stood under the blood of the lamb, and they were free. A fresh start. A clean slate. Free from the insatiable beast. It was a powerful image.
So, then, I wonder if, when Jesus described himself as the Bread of Life, he was saying more than that he is essential for life. I wonder if there might be some aspect in his statement to suggest that he alone has mastery over the leaven of sin, and that unless we partake of the Bread of Life, we can never hope to find victory. I wonder if he was giving people permission to let go of the tyranny of the wild yeast of sin. And I wonder about the symbolism of the Lord's Supper. Perhaps, when we take the bread, symbolic of his broken body, we sweep away the wild yeasts of sin, stand under the blood of the Passover Lamb of God, and are free. A fresh start. A clean slate. Freed from the insatiable yeast of sin.
Bread of life, indeed.
Wednesday, 26 August 2015
Finding Happy
Have you ever assumed God wants you to be happy? Or miserable? I found myself doing that just this week.
I'm at a place right now where I'm generally content with my life. Oh, all is not perfect - it never is - but by and large, things are good. I have a job that I love. School is about to start again in a few weeks, and I'm filled with the nervous anticipation familiar to all teachers in September. I have friends who love me. I have a good home. I love my church family. I love my horse and my dog, and my car is running smoothly. Money is tight, but God is providing.
In the midst of all that, a ribbon of fear wound its way through my mind. It's all going to come crashing down, you know. Don't get too comfortable. God's going to snatch it all away. Don't enjoy it too much, or God will be sure to take it from you. And there's just enough of an element of truth in that thought that I begin to entertain it. It could come crashing down. There are no guarantees in life. Jobs get lost. Loved ones die. Pets pass on. Cars break down, and rust destroys and thieves break in and steal. It is good to be reminded occasionally about the vanity of life. Soap bubbles, the Teacher of Ecclesiastes says of life. Beautiful, shimmery, dancing, floating soap bubbles that are here one second and pop the next.
But that's not really what I was doing. In those fearful moments, I wasn't reflecting on the fleeting nature of life and regrounding myself in the unchanging heart of God. Rather, I was casting aspersion on the heart of God. I was allowing myself to think that God is a churlish beast who enjoys kicking his children just to see them squirm. I was thinking that God is a harsh Father, who, if his children are not crying, gives them something to cry about, and if they dare to laugh, he'll slap the laugh off their lips right quick.
I'm not the only one who thinks stuff like this. I hear strains of the same tune often. "If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans/hopes/dreams." "If you have two choices before you, the one God wants you to do is probably the one you don't want to do." "Tell God you don't want to do such-and-such or go here-or-there, and you can be guaranteed that's what he's going to make you do or tell you where to go." We even joke somethings, when we go to a warm place in the winter, that "someone has to suffer for the Lord in the sunshine". We seem to have this idea that following Christ should involve the maximum amount of suffering and misery, and that any spark of joy or delight or, dare I say it, happiness, means we're not doing things quite right, and we must be "out of the will of God".
Now, I am the first to admit that our happiness is not God's primary agenda for our lives. I am the first to state that there are loads of times when God asks us to do hard things and walk through hard trials, things that are uncomfortable or downright painful, things that cause more tears than laughter, because those things are important to make us more like his Son. But does that mean that everything must be painful and difficult, and that if we find joy and delight in something, it's probably not what God wants for us? God's primary agenda for our lives is not our happiness, and sometimes obedience means putting my personal desires aside. I get that. I don't get to divorce my spouse, or have an affair, or engage in sexual activity outside of marriage, or be jealous of that other person, or gossip, or cheat on my tax return, or cuss at the driver who cuts me off in traffic just because those things might make me feel good or make me happy. But does that mean that being obedient involves always doing the thing that makes me most miserable and unhappy? If Plan A and Plan B are both God-honouring, obedient choices, and I would really enjoy Plan A but would not enjoy Plan B, am I really to assume that God must want me to do Plan B, based solely on the fact that it's the thing I don't enjoy? Is God really that much of a kill-joy and a miser?
I don't think so. I think I'm crazy to let the thought cross my mind. I think that God delights in my delight. I think he created me with my wishes, my hopes, my dreams, and my desires. No, outright disobedience is not ok. I get that. But obedience is not always painful. There is, as Michael Card once said, "joy in the journey", and I just don't believe that joy is some over-spiritualized pretension that all is well even I'm crying my eyes out. Joy is not grit-your-teeth-and-bear-it. It's being able to see glimpses of good even when I'm gritting my teeth and bearing it. Joy is not seeking out the darkest, stormiest skies I can find, and camping out under them on purpose because I think that's what God must want, and then pretending I'm happy about it. Yes, sometimes we get stormy skies. Then joy is being able to find a single star in that dark sky, and being able to revel in the beauty of that star, because it is beautiful. When the night is so cloudy I can't find that star, joy is found in knowing I believe the stars are there, even when I can't see them. But it's also being able to appreciate the fact that sometimes God delights to give me a cloudless night sky, set ablaze with so many stars I feel myself falling into the vastness of the universe and straight into the arms of God. It's being able to appreciate and thank him for a job I love, a home I love, family and friends I love, a dog I love, a horse I love, for as long as he gives them to me to love,without fearing he will snatch them away without any reason other than that I love them. Joy is being able to appreciate that sometimes God puts me in a place that delights me as much as it delights him, and to take full delight in that delightful situation.
Does God want me to be happy? I think in our fear of the disobedience that so often follows an affirmative answer to that question, we have decided that not only does God not care about us being happy, he would actually prefer that we are permanently unhappy. Oh, but we have joy. To which I say, hogwash. I have met joyful people. They are happy. They are able to find joy even in hardship. They are able to hold happiness and sadness in balance, neither letting the happiness cause them to fear or deny the sadness, nor letting the sadness strip away their happiness. They know you can laugh and cry at the same time. They know that sometimes God asks us to do hard things, but sometimes the things God calls us to do are just plain fun. Some seasons are tearful; joyful people do not deliberately seek those seasons out or wallow in them, but they live in them with grace. Some seasons are full of laughter; joyful people do not make it their goal to pursue or stay in those seasons, but they enjoy such seasons to the full.
God is no miser. Scripture tells me he delights in giving me good gifts. Scripture tells me that if I ask for bread, he won't give me a stone. If I ask for a fish, he won't hand me a snake. My Father is lavish, extravagant, giving freely, loving wildly.
I plan on enjoying that.
And if the opportunity comes up to go somewhere sunny in the dead of winter, I promise to laugh with the Lord and soak up the sunshine.
I'm at a place right now where I'm generally content with my life. Oh, all is not perfect - it never is - but by and large, things are good. I have a job that I love. School is about to start again in a few weeks, and I'm filled with the nervous anticipation familiar to all teachers in September. I have friends who love me. I have a good home. I love my church family. I love my horse and my dog, and my car is running smoothly. Money is tight, but God is providing.
In the midst of all that, a ribbon of fear wound its way through my mind. It's all going to come crashing down, you know. Don't get too comfortable. God's going to snatch it all away. Don't enjoy it too much, or God will be sure to take it from you. And there's just enough of an element of truth in that thought that I begin to entertain it. It could come crashing down. There are no guarantees in life. Jobs get lost. Loved ones die. Pets pass on. Cars break down, and rust destroys and thieves break in and steal. It is good to be reminded occasionally about the vanity of life. Soap bubbles, the Teacher of Ecclesiastes says of life. Beautiful, shimmery, dancing, floating soap bubbles that are here one second and pop the next.
But that's not really what I was doing. In those fearful moments, I wasn't reflecting on the fleeting nature of life and regrounding myself in the unchanging heart of God. Rather, I was casting aspersion on the heart of God. I was allowing myself to think that God is a churlish beast who enjoys kicking his children just to see them squirm. I was thinking that God is a harsh Father, who, if his children are not crying, gives them something to cry about, and if they dare to laugh, he'll slap the laugh off their lips right quick.
I'm not the only one who thinks stuff like this. I hear strains of the same tune often. "If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans/hopes/dreams." "If you have two choices before you, the one God wants you to do is probably the one you don't want to do." "Tell God you don't want to do such-and-such or go here-or-there, and you can be guaranteed that's what he's going to make you do or tell you where to go." We even joke somethings, when we go to a warm place in the winter, that "someone has to suffer for the Lord in the sunshine". We seem to have this idea that following Christ should involve the maximum amount of suffering and misery, and that any spark of joy or delight or, dare I say it, happiness, means we're not doing things quite right, and we must be "out of the will of God".
Now, I am the first to admit that our happiness is not God's primary agenda for our lives. I am the first to state that there are loads of times when God asks us to do hard things and walk through hard trials, things that are uncomfortable or downright painful, things that cause more tears than laughter, because those things are important to make us more like his Son. But does that mean that everything must be painful and difficult, and that if we find joy and delight in something, it's probably not what God wants for us? God's primary agenda for our lives is not our happiness, and sometimes obedience means putting my personal desires aside. I get that. I don't get to divorce my spouse, or have an affair, or engage in sexual activity outside of marriage, or be jealous of that other person, or gossip, or cheat on my tax return, or cuss at the driver who cuts me off in traffic just because those things might make me feel good or make me happy. But does that mean that being obedient involves always doing the thing that makes me most miserable and unhappy? If Plan A and Plan B are both God-honouring, obedient choices, and I would really enjoy Plan A but would not enjoy Plan B, am I really to assume that God must want me to do Plan B, based solely on the fact that it's the thing I don't enjoy? Is God really that much of a kill-joy and a miser?
I don't think so. I think I'm crazy to let the thought cross my mind. I think that God delights in my delight. I think he created me with my wishes, my hopes, my dreams, and my desires. No, outright disobedience is not ok. I get that. But obedience is not always painful. There is, as Michael Card once said, "joy in the journey", and I just don't believe that joy is some over-spiritualized pretension that all is well even I'm crying my eyes out. Joy is not grit-your-teeth-and-bear-it. It's being able to see glimpses of good even when I'm gritting my teeth and bearing it. Joy is not seeking out the darkest, stormiest skies I can find, and camping out under them on purpose because I think that's what God must want, and then pretending I'm happy about it. Yes, sometimes we get stormy skies. Then joy is being able to find a single star in that dark sky, and being able to revel in the beauty of that star, because it is beautiful. When the night is so cloudy I can't find that star, joy is found in knowing I believe the stars are there, even when I can't see them. But it's also being able to appreciate the fact that sometimes God delights to give me a cloudless night sky, set ablaze with so many stars I feel myself falling into the vastness of the universe and straight into the arms of God. It's being able to appreciate and thank him for a job I love, a home I love, family and friends I love, a dog I love, a horse I love, for as long as he gives them to me to love,without fearing he will snatch them away without any reason other than that I love them. Joy is being able to appreciate that sometimes God puts me in a place that delights me as much as it delights him, and to take full delight in that delightful situation.
Does God want me to be happy? I think in our fear of the disobedience that so often follows an affirmative answer to that question, we have decided that not only does God not care about us being happy, he would actually prefer that we are permanently unhappy. Oh, but we have joy. To which I say, hogwash. I have met joyful people. They are happy. They are able to find joy even in hardship. They are able to hold happiness and sadness in balance, neither letting the happiness cause them to fear or deny the sadness, nor letting the sadness strip away their happiness. They know you can laugh and cry at the same time. They know that sometimes God asks us to do hard things, but sometimes the things God calls us to do are just plain fun. Some seasons are tearful; joyful people do not deliberately seek those seasons out or wallow in them, but they live in them with grace. Some seasons are full of laughter; joyful people do not make it their goal to pursue or stay in those seasons, but they enjoy such seasons to the full.
God is no miser. Scripture tells me he delights in giving me good gifts. Scripture tells me that if I ask for bread, he won't give me a stone. If I ask for a fish, he won't hand me a snake. My Father is lavish, extravagant, giving freely, loving wildly.
I plan on enjoying that.
And if the opportunity comes up to go somewhere sunny in the dead of winter, I promise to laugh with the Lord and soak up the sunshine.
Wednesday, 19 August 2015
Sixth-Generation Butterflies
It's late summer, and the miracle of the monarchs is set to begin again. The sixth generation is being born.
Every year, far to the south in Mexico, the monarchs begin to stir themselves from their winter sleep, and start to fly north. Each generation of butterfly flies a little further north, breeds, and dies. Their average lifespan is about eight weeks. Slowly, each progressive generation moves north, until they arrive in Ontario in early summer, just as the milkweed plant is beginning to emerge.
Four or five generations live and die. But then the sixth generation hatches.
And these butterflies are different. They don't live and breed and die in eight weeks. Instead, they fly south. Traveling at speeds of about 20 kilometres per hour (on a good day), they will travel distances of up to 80 kilometres a day, for days and days and days, until they have flown nearly 5000 kilometres all the way back to Mexico.
Hundreds upon thousands of butterflies will brave storms and cold, high winds, high wire lines, open stretches of unfriendly water, predators, and starvation as they flutter their way south.
Look closely. The clover is full of butterflies feeding before they tackle the crossing of Lake Erie.
They have no idea where they're going. They just go. And these fifth- or sixth-generation butterflies don't die after eight weeks. They fly all the way to Mexico, live four or five months through the winter, and then, in the spring, start the journey north once again.
The monarchs have always amazed me. Especially the sixth-generation monarchs stir my heart. To do something so amazing. To stand out so remarkably in my generation. To be part of the generation that "takes the land", so to say . . . oh, but that would be wonderful! Every fall, I think about the butterflies, and I wish I could be a sixth-generation butterfly. To do something beyond the standard hatch-eat-breed-die-in-eight-weeks. It sounds so visionary, so victorious, as I stand on the shore and look out over a stretch of wild, open water, with the winds whipping ferociously across the waves, and I realise that if I commit to setting out, away from the safety of the sweet clover on the shore, there will be no turning back, and I am afraid to go. It sounds so grand and glorious, but I'm not sure I have what it takes.
But I realised something this year that I've never really thought about before. Sixth-generation butterflies don't know they're doing anything special. They're simply doing what they're created to do. They are following the call of their Creator to fly south. Day by day, mile by mile, wingbeat by wingbeat, they are simply obedient. Not visionary, not victorious, not grand or glorious, but obedient. And their wonder is seen only because they are obedient to the end. In the ups and downs, in the bright sunshine and sweet clover, in the wide, windblown expanses of the open waters, they are obedient. They have have no idea that they are so amazing. They have no idea that a slip of flying tissue paper has no business flying across the Gulf of Mexico, or across a Great Lake. They have no idea that fragile wings are not up to the task of flying up to 5000 kilometres. They just do it, because God has called them to the task.
But they do do it. They fly. They beat those tissue-paper wings against winds that would blow them off course. They gather in clusters to fight off the cold. They dodge the predators. It's not an easy journey to which God has called them. They have to fight every wingbeat of the way.
But because they struggle inch by inch, because they are such unlikely travelers, because they are obedient, they become a miracle. We are amazed. We watch them, hold our breath, hardly able to imagine that they can survive. They do something hard to imagine, and we admire them.
And maybe that's the answer. Maybe it's not in the visions of grandeur, but in the day-to-day obedience that the miracles happen. Maybe it's in the everyday struggle to remain faithful to the task of that day that God's glory is shown. Maybe the land is taken because unlikely travelers remain faithful to the end to the call of their Creator, despite the opposition thrown against them.
And if that's the case, then maybe I can be a sixth-generation butterfly.
Every year, far to the south in Mexico, the monarchs begin to stir themselves from their winter sleep, and start to fly north. Each generation of butterfly flies a little further north, breeds, and dies. Their average lifespan is about eight weeks. Slowly, each progressive generation moves north, until they arrive in Ontario in early summer, just as the milkweed plant is beginning to emerge.
Four or five generations live and die. But then the sixth generation hatches.
And these butterflies are different. They don't live and breed and die in eight weeks. Instead, they fly south. Traveling at speeds of about 20 kilometres per hour (on a good day), they will travel distances of up to 80 kilometres a day, for days and days and days, until they have flown nearly 5000 kilometres all the way back to Mexico.
Hundreds upon thousands of butterflies will brave storms and cold, high winds, high wire lines, open stretches of unfriendly water, predators, and starvation as they flutter their way south.
Look closely. The clover is full of butterflies feeding before they tackle the crossing of Lake Erie.
They have no idea where they're going. They just go. And these fifth- or sixth-generation butterflies don't die after eight weeks. They fly all the way to Mexico, live four or five months through the winter, and then, in the spring, start the journey north once again.
The monarchs have always amazed me. Especially the sixth-generation monarchs stir my heart. To do something so amazing. To stand out so remarkably in my generation. To be part of the generation that "takes the land", so to say . . . oh, but that would be wonderful! Every fall, I think about the butterflies, and I wish I could be a sixth-generation butterfly. To do something beyond the standard hatch-eat-breed-die-in-eight-weeks. It sounds so visionary, so victorious, as I stand on the shore and look out over a stretch of wild, open water, with the winds whipping ferociously across the waves, and I realise that if I commit to setting out, away from the safety of the sweet clover on the shore, there will be no turning back, and I am afraid to go. It sounds so grand and glorious, but I'm not sure I have what it takes.
But I realised something this year that I've never really thought about before. Sixth-generation butterflies don't know they're doing anything special. They're simply doing what they're created to do. They are following the call of their Creator to fly south. Day by day, mile by mile, wingbeat by wingbeat, they are simply obedient. Not visionary, not victorious, not grand or glorious, but obedient. And their wonder is seen only because they are obedient to the end. In the ups and downs, in the bright sunshine and sweet clover, in the wide, windblown expanses of the open waters, they are obedient. They have have no idea that they are so amazing. They have no idea that a slip of flying tissue paper has no business flying across the Gulf of Mexico, or across a Great Lake. They have no idea that fragile wings are not up to the task of flying up to 5000 kilometres. They just do it, because God has called them to the task.
But they do do it. They fly. They beat those tissue-paper wings against winds that would blow them off course. They gather in clusters to fight off the cold. They dodge the predators. It's not an easy journey to which God has called them. They have to fight every wingbeat of the way.
But because they struggle inch by inch, because they are such unlikely travelers, because they are obedient, they become a miracle. We are amazed. We watch them, hold our breath, hardly able to imagine that they can survive. They do something hard to imagine, and we admire them.
And maybe that's the answer. Maybe it's not in the visions of grandeur, but in the day-to-day obedience that the miracles happen. Maybe it's in the everyday struggle to remain faithful to the task of that day that God's glory is shown. Maybe the land is taken because unlikely travelers remain faithful to the end to the call of their Creator, despite the opposition thrown against them.
And if that's the case, then maybe I can be a sixth-generation butterfly.
Monday, 11 May 2015
On Being Not-a-Mother on Mother's Day
I am not a mother.
When moms gather together and exchange birth stories, or nursing stories, or baby stories, I have nothing to contribute, except, perhaps, second-hand stories.
I have never been awakened by a squalling child at 12:00, 2:00, and 4:00 night after night after night.
I don't know what it's like to walk around permanently sleep-deprived.
I've never heard a child call me "Mommy", except by accident.
I've never watched my child sleep at night.
I've never sat up worrying, waiting, watching for my missing teen-adult-child to come home at night.
I've never watched my child make foolish, heart-wrenching, God-forsaking choices.
I am not a mother.
I am reminded of that often throughout the year. "You don't get it. You're not a mother." It's not meant in a harsh or cruel way. It's just a fact. It's true. There are things that I don't get, because I'm not a mother. I haven't had those experiences. I can understand in a generic sense, but I don't understand from personal experience. I can imagine, but it's just imagination. For 364 days of the year, everyone realises this.
And then comes Mother's Day. And suddenly, the whole world seems to want to pretend that I am a mother. They want to "include" me.
But I am not a mother. I am a daughter. I am a sister. I am an aunt. I am a friend. I am a teacher. I am a mentor. I am all these things. They are good and honourable and God-honouring roles, all of them, and I am honoured and privileged beyond measure to carry those roles. I love dearly the roles God has given me. But I am not a mother. And Mother's Day is not my day. Pretending it is changes nothing. Tomorrow, everyone will go back to reality.
Let's face the fact: Mother's Day is exclusive. It excudes every woman who does not have kids, and every person whose mother has died. The day is called Mother's Day, not Women's Day, not even Like-A-Mother's Day, and while I am a woman, and may even be like-a-mother (although I'm not sure about that) I am not a mother. My horse doesn't count.
And let's face the fact: Mother's Day is painful for many people. If I was not a mother but wanted to be, the day would be painful. If my mother was alive but absent, the day would be painful. If I had horrific memories of my mother (thank God I don't), the day would be painful. I don't think that having people tell me that this day is for me, too, would make the day any less painful. I know, in my heart, that this day is not for me.
It's not my day. I'm not a mother.
Is that such an awful thing? Is womanhood defined by motherhood? Is my value defined by my reproductive genius? Am I only worth celebrating under the umbrella of "motherhood"? Am I only of value insofar as I can mimic motherhood? Hardly. My roles are important. My nieces and nephews need me, not to be a mother, but to be an aunt. My students need me to be a teacher and a mentor. My brothers and sisters-in-law need their sister. My mom needs me to be a daughter. My friends need a friend. Those roles are precious and valuable and unique. They are worth celebrating, not under the guise of "motherhood," but in their own right.
And what about the fact that Mother's Day is painful for so many? Is that such an awful thing? Why do we try to make it less painful by attempting to somehow include those who are not included? If motherhood is important enough to have a day to celebrate it, then the loss of motherhood is important enough to grieve, deeply and keenly. Isn't it? Grief is a good and healthy thing. It indicates the loss of someone who is or is supposed to be special, important, treasured. Someone worth celebrating. Someone like Mom.
Motherhood is worth celebrating. It is also a unique and precious and valuable role. No one can completely take the place of a mom. Others may fill aspects of the role, but they will never fill the role completely. "Like a mom" is not "mom". Motherhood is special. So let's celebrate it.
So what if some of us cry? Tears are part of the celebration. Why can't we see that?
And so what if it doesn't include me? I'm ok with that. Why aren't you?
Tuesday, 5 May 2015
Boxful of Memories
I met them in 1998. It was a rough start. I was broken, hurting, distrustful, and angry.
They were kind.
And courageous.
They'd hooked a fighter. They could have cut bait and run. Instead, they fished. I'm pretty sure they weren't even planning on fishing, didn't even know they had a hook in the water. God, in his almighty providence, knew better.
That was 17 years ago. A lifetime ago. A world away. Letters, emails, cards, Facebook messages ago. Much coffee and many tears have flowed in those years. Much laughter has rung out. I have healed and grown and learned to trust and love. They have prayed faithfully and faithfully fished to land this fighter.
Last year, suddenly, shockingly, appallingly, she died. Suddenly, without any surprise, with greatest joy on her part, she went to be with the Lord she loved more than anything on this earth.
I miss her prayers. I knew, always, no matter what, that she prayed for me. I knew her prayers were gritty, real, no-nonsense conversations with the Almighty. I felt her prayers. And I miss them daily. I miss her.
This past week, her husband emailed me. The man with the searching blue eyes that saw right through my facades and pretenses and refused to be intimidated when I blustered. He baptised me in a lake in God's country. He remained steady when my world fell apart. He showed me I had value and was worth fighting for. He encouraged me to drink my coffee black. I never did get that far.
He emailed me to tell me he was moving. He was packing up, and found a box of letters - all the letters I had written over 17 years. Every one of them saved.
So we met at the Tim's where the three of us had so often met. How many memories those tables hold.... How many cups of coffee we drank there.... We shared one last cup of coffee. We chatted. It was good to catch up. He gave me the box. He gave me a hug. He told me he loved me. And we got into our cars and drove away. He had to finish packing. I had to go visit my nephew for his birthday.
I may never see him again.
I might, but I may not.
All that was left was a boxful of memories and the faint smell of his cologne on my sweatshirt where he hugged me.
And I thought, That's it? Just like that, 17 years is over? Just one small box to encapsulate 17 years of some of my biggest memories, my most overwhelming moments, my deepest changes? It's not even a big box.
They were kind.
And courageous.
They'd hooked a fighter. They could have cut bait and run. Instead, they fished. I'm pretty sure they weren't even planning on fishing, didn't even know they had a hook in the water. God, in his almighty providence, knew better.
That was 17 years ago. A lifetime ago. A world away. Letters, emails, cards, Facebook messages ago. Much coffee and many tears have flowed in those years. Much laughter has rung out. I have healed and grown and learned to trust and love. They have prayed faithfully and faithfully fished to land this fighter.
Last year, suddenly, shockingly, appallingly, she died. Suddenly, without any surprise, with greatest joy on her part, she went to be with the Lord she loved more than anything on this earth.
I miss her prayers. I knew, always, no matter what, that she prayed for me. I knew her prayers were gritty, real, no-nonsense conversations with the Almighty. I felt her prayers. And I miss them daily. I miss her.
This past week, her husband emailed me. The man with the searching blue eyes that saw right through my facades and pretenses and refused to be intimidated when I blustered. He baptised me in a lake in God's country. He remained steady when my world fell apart. He showed me I had value and was worth fighting for. He encouraged me to drink my coffee black. I never did get that far.
He emailed me to tell me he was moving. He was packing up, and found a box of letters - all the letters I had written over 17 years. Every one of them saved.
So we met at the Tim's where the three of us had so often met. How many memories those tables hold.... How many cups of coffee we drank there.... We shared one last cup of coffee. We chatted. It was good to catch up. He gave me the box. He gave me a hug. He told me he loved me. And we got into our cars and drove away. He had to finish packing. I had to go visit my nephew for his birthday.
I may never see him again.
I might, but I may not.
All that was left was a boxful of memories and the faint smell of his cologne on my sweatshirt where he hugged me.
And I thought, That's it? Just like that, 17 years is over? Just one small box to encapsulate 17 years of some of my biggest memories, my most overwhelming moments, my deepest changes? It's not even a big box.
It was hard to imagine. I felt like there should be tears, but my eyes were dry. My throat was tight. My heart ached. I didn't know what I was feeling. All the memories in a box.
I was driving down Guelph Line from the 401 toward Burlington. There is a place where you come out of the trees at the top of the escarpment and a panorama lies before you. On a clear day, you can see the CN Tower, a distance of at least 30 km as the crow flies. It is a massive view. (I screengrabbed this from Google Maps.)
I haven't seen that view for a long time, because I don't come that way much anymore, and it caught my breath. Oh, Lord, what a view, what a beauty, what a joy! In the midst of all those conflicted feelings of sadness, missing loved ones, wrestling with how it could be that what felt like such a significant relationship to me could somehow be distilled to a box of letters and a lingering scent which was quickly fading away, in the midst of all that, the world lay before me, majestic and beautiful and so very much in God's hands. I drove past the cemetery where my father is buried, and there was no pain, only a soft sadness for what had been, what never was.
I was driving down Guelph Line from the 401 toward Burlington. There is a place where you come out of the trees at the top of the escarpment and a panorama lies before you. On a clear day, you can see the CN Tower, a distance of at least 30 km as the crow flies. It is a massive view. (I screengrabbed this from Google Maps.)
I haven't seen that view for a long time, because I don't come that way much anymore, and it caught my breath. Oh, Lord, what a view, what a beauty, what a joy! In the midst of all those conflicted feelings of sadness, missing loved ones, wrestling with how it could be that what felt like such a significant relationship to me could somehow be distilled to a box of letters and a lingering scent which was quickly fading away, in the midst of all that, the world lay before me, majestic and beautiful and so very much in God's hands. I drove past the cemetery where my father is buried, and there was no pain, only a soft sadness for what had been, what never was.
And driving into that view, past those memories was when I knew that 17 years can never be distilled into the contents of a box. We are not simply getting into our cars and driving away in opposite directions never to see each other again. Even the grave cannot change what was, what is. Because knowing them has changed me. And time, distance, and the grave cannot undo that.
That view used to terrify me. It was so big, with city stretching from lakeshore to horizon in every direction. All those people. All those millions of people. I was lost in that swarm, insignificant, invisible, unseen by even God himself. I always felt, standing at the top of that view, utterly exposed with no place to hide, and utterly unseen. I could not drive by the cemetary without feeling soul-crushing pain. Regret. Loss. Emptiness. I saw no beauty in that view, in that drive, only despair and hurt.
But not anymore. Now I saw breathtaking beauty and immense love. Now I felt seen by a Faithful Father who will never lose me in the crowd. Because knowing them has changed me. It's a change that can never be encapsulated in a box. It is a change that will last long after the smell of cologne fades from my sweatshirt. It is a change that will remain across time and distance and even the grave. It is the good work that my Saviour began in me, using them, and He will carry it on to completion.
I miss them. I think I will always miss them. I think that's normal and good.
But our relationship is far more significant than a boxful of memories.
God used them to change my heart.
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