Tell Me a Story

For the last seven years, I have driven to the barn pretty much every Saturday morning between 9:00-10:00 in the morning, and for the last seven years, as often as I could, I listened to as much as I could of Stuart McLean's The Vinyl Cafe. I am late to The Vinyl Cafe; apparently, it has been running for two decades. I have grinned and laughed and thought and even shed tears with Dave and Morley and the gang. I have lingered in the car to ensure I heard the end of the stories, and when I heard the words, "I'm Stuart McLean; so long for now," I would turn off the ignition, sigh, wipe tears, laugh again, and get out of the car.

This past Saturday, I missed Stuart. I was just a bit too late leaving the house, and all I heard was the final song of his story-and-song show. That made me especially sad because this last Saturday was Stuart McLean's last show. He's leaving The Vinyl Cafe in order to fight cancer - melanoma. The airwaves next Saturday will be lonely without that slightly raspy voice that always sounds like it's smiling. I will miss his stories.

I have often marvelled at the genius that is Stuart McLean. He tells simple stories - stories about ordinary folk, absurd folk - in a simple way. He read his manuscripts straight up, no extemporaneous speaking, no stand-up comedy, just a well-written story read well, and people flocked to listen. I wonder sometimes if we have a bit of a snobbish attitude toward stories. We adults listen to propositions, lectures, sermons, speeches, and TED Talks, but stories? Stories are for children. And yet . . . here was a guy who read stories in halls around the country, and people bought tickets to hear him, and they tuned in to listen to him on the air. Nothing high-tech. No computer-generated imagery, no special effects, no 3-D, immersive, large-screen glitz. Just a voice. A quiet, wry, raspy voice. And we listened and laughed and cried and thought and laughed and cried some more. Dave and Morley became friends. We cried when their dog died. We laughed when Dave got himself into his endless scrapes; he was so much like all of us. We were glad when the two of them, even when it was really tough to do so, made choices for love and loyalty and kindness and decency and courage and neighbourliness. Just a story, but it made our lives richer.

That's the beauty of story. It disarms the hearer. It draws him in and gets him invested and then it turns and prods and convicts.

God knew that. I think that's why so much of Scripture is written as a story. "In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth," and we immediately recognise the opening lines of a story. Oh sure, there are laws and psalms and letters and sermons, but underlying all of them is a story. Think of how many psalms are embedded in story, just as an example. Because while we are taught by law and psalm and letter and sermon, we connect most deeply, I think, with story.

Jesus knew that. I think that's why he told so many parables. Oh sure, he gave instructions and teachings, but so many times he answered with a story. The story has a way of getting in behind defenses and presuppositions and forces us to look at things through new eyes. Instructions and teachings are important, but they engage the head. Sometimes it is the heart that must be turned, and the heart is most easily turned, I think, by story.

But we are a society that has lost our story. There was a time, not so many years ago, that most people shared a story. The fancy word is "metanarrative". Most people knew and believed the biblical master-story, at least at some level. That is no longer the case. We no longer know the story. And, I think even as a church, we have lost our sense of story. We have relegated the story to Sunday school, considering the story to be the "milk" from which we must grow up so that we can eat the "meat" of theology (or something), forgetting that story is also theology. We no longer trust story.

But the really awful kicker is that we no longer trust proposition, either. Information and mis-information is so easily obtained. "Fake news" has become a thing. Pictures lie all the time. We live in a "post-truth" society that is suspicious of all proposition, lecture, sermon, speech, and TED Talk. We don't know what or who to trust anymore.

I wonder if the two are connected. Perhaps when we cast off story as something childish and silly, something from which we grow up, our theology loses its moorings and is cast adrift into "post-truth". I wonder if, in our quest for solid proposition and sound theology, we have forgotten the power of the good story well told. Of course, the solid proposition and sound theology are important, but so is the story.

Stuart McLean knew the power of story. For 20 years he wrote and read stories for and to adults. People didn't come to his shows to hear propositions about Dave and Morley. They came to hear stories.

Perhaps we should take a page out of his book. Perhaps we should return to the story. Perhaps we should tell more stories. Perhaps we need to remember that the story is theology, too.

"Tell me the old, old story of unseen things above,

Of Jesus and His glory, of Jesus and His love."

Hitting Refresh

This entry is one just for Special K, who is one of the richest blessings in my life, and whom I adore. She is tall and beautiful and smart and talented, but mostly, I love how she loves Jesus. She is kind and wise and reflects his heart.

She came to me yesterday and said, "I love your blog, Aunt Mari."

"You love my blog??"

"Yeah, I love your blog."

I said, "I haven't written anything in quite a long time."

I thought, You read my blog? Why would a kid read my blog? But then I realised, she's not a kid. Somewhere over the years, she has grown up into a woman. And she reads my blog. Crazy.

How does it happen, this passing of the years? When did my Special K change from a little girl to this tall, willowy, beautiful young woman who looks down on me and yet still looks up to me? When did all of my rich blessings turn from toddlers to teens to adults with significant others? Oh, there are still toddlers in the mix, but still. Most of them have become adults who tower over me.

When talking about work with someone some time ago, this person said to me something along the lines of, "Well, you have just this one thing," referring to my job and the fact that I don't have a husband and kids. I smiled inwardly at that, reflecting on my life, and I have thought of it often since. No husband and kids. Just a job. And nieces and nephews and brothers and sisters-in-law and a mom and a housemate and friends and more friends and a horse and a dog and hobbies and ministries which all often get short-shrift, because I am busy with "just that one thing". And the seasons come and go and the years slide by and Special K has grown from a girl to a woman who reads my blog.

I love my job. My job is more than a job; it is also a ministry. I love my students. They are also a blessing. And due to the fact that I have bills to pay and no one to help pay for them but me, I spend a fair bit of time at that one thing. But oh, my life is so much richer than that. And when I am surrounded by those brothers and sisters-in-love and nieces and nephews who crowd in for a selfie with Aunt Mari, who play Skittles games with me (eating Skittles and trying to pull out matching colours without looking), when I look at tables groaning under the burden of good food, when I hear a roar of laughter from a room full of people who laugh just like me, when I look ahead to a week where "just that one thing" is off my schedule and my schedule fills up with visits with friends and family and pets who have waited patiently for me to be finished with that one thing so that I have more time for them, and I hear my Special K tell me she reads my blog, I think, Just that one thing? I have so many things. So many unbelievable gifts and blessings from a Father who has given me abundantly more than I could have ever asked for or imagined.

And I need to remember that. I need to remember that I do not have "just that one thing", or that one thing could swallow up the years and consume my time and heart until all I have left is "just that one thing". Lord, teach me to number my days aright, that I may gain a heart of wisdom.

"I haven't written anything in quite a long time."

"I know," she said. "I keep checking. I keep hitting refresh."

So this one is for Special K. I love you more than you will ever know, my dear. You are a gift straight from God to me.

Ok, luv. Go ahead and hit refresh.

I will do the same.

Dear Younger Me

"Dear Younger Me, where do I start?

If I could tell you everything that I have learned so far,

Then you could be one step ahead . . . " (MercyMe).

Dear Younger Me,

If I could go back and tell you what I know now, what would I tell you? How would I change the choices you made? If, by some divine power, I could go back and change the course of history for you, how would I do it? After all, I've learned a lot in the years I've lived between now and then.

I've learned that I can't carry the world on my shoulders. They are, though far wider than they were when you were seven, still far too narrow to carry that weight. I've learned that I can't change other people. I am not responsible for the choices they make. I can't take ownership of everyone else's feelings. All I have control of, and then only by the work of the Holy Spirit in me, is myself. I have learned that I am responsible for my own actions. I can allow God to change me, painful step by painful step. Pulling up those roots of sin and brokenness hurts like bully sometimes. And my feelings, in all their wondrous complicated mess are mine alone to deal with appropriately, before the throne of grace. Younger me, I could tell you these things so that you do not attempt to carry burdens not yours to carry on your skinny seven-year-old shoulders.

I've learned that perfectionism is a curse. Sometimes good enough is good enough. There is great freedom in giving one's best in the circumstances and then walking away. The world will not cease to rotate on its axis if the dishes remain unwashed and the bed remains unmade. You will not cease to wake up in the morning and the world will not hate you if you fail to achieve perfection. And if the world does hate you, achieving perfection is not going to change their minds. I could tell you these things, and make your life a whole lot less stressful.

I could teach you that tears are wholesome and healing, that feelings just are. They are not good or bad (although they can be good-feeling or bad-feeling), and you are not good when you feel good-feeling feelings, or bad when you feel bad-feeling feelings. You are simply human. There are good ways and bad ways to express those feelings, but you can feel them all. What is more, you can control them all. They do not have to control you. I could tell you all these things, and perhaps your life will be fuller, more nuanced, richer, more alive.

Or I could tell you about love. (Oh, not about THAT kind of love, younger me - I still don't know anything about that, sorry!) I could teach you that love is worth it, despite the incredible risks. Yes, your heart will be broken. It will be shattered into a million pieces, sometimes by betrayal, sometimes by death, sometimes simply by the stretch of time. But love is worth it. Because life is so much richer with love than when the heart is locked up into a cold, impenetrable prison, untouched by love.  I could teach you these things, and open your eyes to a world of friendship and kindness.

I could tell you that all those little things that make you, you are just fine. I could assure you that it's ok for you to read your stacks of books, to hide your open books in your desk, or under the table, or under the sheets with a flashlight. (Well, ok, maybe you shouldn't hide your open book in your desk, but I surely do understand.) I could tell you that your fascination with science and history and geography are perfectly wonderful, that your disdain of fashion and makeup and movie stars is fine,  that these things make you interesting, not weird. (Well, ok, they make you weird, but I could tell you that weirdness is something to celebrate, not to fear.)  I could tell you that your need to be alone is just as acceptable as others' needs to socialise are acceptable. I could tell you that you are just fine. I could tell you these things, and maybe remove the crush of condemnation and oddity from off your narrow shoulders.

Younger Me, I could tell you about Jesus. Oh, I could tell you about the One who loves you wildly, extravagantly, not just when you're good, but even when you're bad. I could tell you about how he created you in all your wondrous mad glory, and gave you gifts and talents and abilities he gave to no one else in quite that constitution. I could tell you about how wildly fond he is of you, how he not only loves you, but how he likes you. I could tell you about how he has hovered over you, always near (but not always obvious), always caring, always guiding. I could tell you of the tears he has wept for you, the laughter he has laughed, the joy that is his when he sees you. Younger Me, I could tell you how he is all you have ever longed for. I could tell you how he fills in all the gaps and holes and cracks left by life, and how he spills out through those gaps and holes in a glorious shine.  I could tell you these things, and maybe spare you years of crushing separation from his love.

Younger Me, there is so much I could tell you. There is so much I could change, if I knew then what I know now.

But I won't. I can't.

Because I have learned the things I know now precisely because you did not know those things then. There was no other way to learn them. Oh, I suppose others might be able to learn these things in other ways. But you're not they. And that's ok.

You learned these things one precious, painful step at a time, tutored lesson-upon-lesson by a faithful, faithful God who carries you. And to eliminate the lessons would be to eliminate the things I now know. And I wouldn't change what I know now for the world.

Because, ultimately, what I know now is not so much what I know, as Who. And Younger Me, He is worth it. So worth it.

So carry on. Gut it out, Younger Me. Make your mistakes. Feel your heartbreaks. Suffer your pain. God is there. He is teaching you himself, about himself.

And he is worth every heartache you are feeling, every tear you cry, every joy you feel, every dream you dream, every wish you wish.

He is worth it.

Borrowed Bravery

This is Caliber (l) and Raphi (r). They are paddock-mates, and they hang out together a lot. Caliber is the boss, and Raphi does what he's told. You can see that from this picture. Caliber has his ears pinned, and his head swung toward Raphi. That's horse-talk for "Get out of my way." And Raphi has his ears pointed toward Caliber, and his nose pointed away from Caliber. That's horse-talk for, "On it, boss."

Being boss means that Caliber gets to tell Raphi what to do, and Raphi gets to listen. Caliber goes through the gate first. Caliber gets to eat first. Caliber gets to the water first. And Raphi gets to wait. If Raphi didn't listen, those pinned ears would be followed with a warning nip or a hoof strike, and warning nips with horse teeth and hoof strikes can draw blood. Raphi has had his share of bites and welts over the years.

Now, Caliber is generally a pretty fair boss. When both horses know their place, there isn't a whole lot of jostling. It is rare that Caliber gets to the nipping or striking stage because Raphi sees those pinned ears and obeys. Caliber lets Raphi eat and drink and have his being without undue nagging, and Raphi chills pretty happily under Caliber's leadership.  They get along well.

But every once in a while, something will come up to disrupt the balance.

Like me.

You see, when I show up in the paddock, I become the boss. I get to tell Caliber and Raphi what to do, and both of them have to listen. And I tend to favour Raphi. Because, well, I love that boy. So let's say I have an apple. Under normal circumstances, Caliber would get that apple. He is, after all, boss horse, and there is only one apple. But because I am disrupting the balance, I pin my ears and swing my head toward Caliber, and say, in horse talk, "Get out of my way," and he, in horse-talk, says, "On it, boss." Then, in horse talk, I say to Raphi, "Come get the apple," and he, in horse-talk, says, "On it, boss, happily." My presence momentarily elevates Raphi in the herd to a position higher than Caliber's.

This past week, I was working with Raphi and the trailer. There was hay on the trailer, really good hay. All the horses wanted to get onto the trailer to eat that hay. All of them were loose, without ropes. Left to their own devices, Caliber would have been on the trailer, eating the hay, while the others stood outside and drooled. But I was disrupting the balance, so Raphi was on the trailer, and Caliber stood outside drooling. And then I watched as Raphi stepped off the trailer, pinned his ears, and swung his head toward Caliber. Boss-talk. Brave words from the low horse.

He did it only because I was standing there to back him up. He did it only because he knew I was the boss, and he was with me, and that gave him strength he didn't have of his own accord. He did it not because he had confidence in his own strength, but because he trusted me. He trusted my strength, and he trusted his relationship with me. He knew I wouldn't let him down. If I had walked away, it would have taken about two seconds for Caliber to move Raphi and get on the trailer.

Borrowed bravery.

Like David and Goliath and God.

You come at me with weapons of mass destruction, but I come in the name of the LORD.

Like me and the evil one and God.

You come at me with your lies and your shame and your haunting, horrible words that could leave me bruised and bleeding, but I come in the name of the LORD.

And the best part is that, while I cannot stay with Raphi all day, every day, God does stay with me.

Borrowed bravery.

On my own, I am weak. But with God?

I am brave.

Commute

The air is cool as I step out of the house, but the moisture in the air promises great heat later in the day. Already the clouds are building.  I toss my bags into the back of the car, and hop in. Another commute. It's as much a part of my day as brushing my teeth, and the city slides by routinely. I merge onto the highway and hit cruise.

It's quiet. No radio. To much to think about. Too much to pray about. Too much to see. The next hour is mine. My mind flows into it and fills it up.

My wheels hum over the pavement. The goldenrod hangs heavy, covered in dew, each drop catching and reflecting the slanting sunlight. Early-morning mist hangs over the fields and trees, silhouetting them in diffuse light. Sure signs of fall, these heavy mists and drooping goldenrod heads. A sure sign that the seasons are turning, and today is the first day of school.

My life has followed this rhythm for as long as I can remember. September to September. Fall to fall. How many times did I not start school, dressed up in my new fall sweater, only wake up to a day just like this one -- full of mists and goldenrod and thick humidity that blooms into full-out summer heat later in the day. I smile. Oh, there is something so new about the first day of school.

I pray for my nieces and nephews. Two of them are, for the first time, not going back to school. They're that old. I'm that old. I pray for them, too. It must be such an odd feeling, watching the world go back to school, and not being a part of it. Two of them are still too young for school. All the rest, like me, packed a lunch, grabbed a book bag, and started for new classes. New beginnings. So I pray for each by name on this mist-filled, golden-bright, fall-cool, summer-humid morning as the highway hums beneath my wheels.

Rows of corn march in soldier precision up the hill of a farmer's field. One plant follows another in lockstep up the hill, tassels waving like hat-feathers. The bean fields aren't like that. Their plants grow in tangled masses, obliterating the neat rows in which they were planted. How like the events of my day. How I wish they would unfold like rows of corn, neat and tidy, one following the other in precision, but so often they tumble about in a tangle like bean fields. What will today be like: corn fields or bean fields? But I am not there yet, and here, now, in the peace of my car, as the fields slide by, none of that matters. It will be what it will be, and God is Lord of it all. Breathe in, breathe out.

And so the miles roll, and my mind soars and leaps and wanders, and I pray and watch and wonder, until I hit the outskirts of town, and I cancel the cruise and dodge the construction, and wend my way to the school.

Ok, God, it's yours. Make it so.

**********

The promised heat of the morning has been fulfilled. It hits me like a wall as I open the car and toss in the books. The road shimmers as I pull back onto the highway, windows down, hair whipping in the hot wind that blows in from highway speed.

The mists have lifted, hanging now low in the sky in a thick haze made brown with the dust of the construction along the highway. But that clears as I leave the city and head back through farmers' fields, and the sky burns blue and bright, filled with massive clouds that grow higher as I watch. Their bottoms are sullen and grey, their tops billowy and bright. It is a big view, this open sky and farmers' fields, and my soul stretches to meet it.

A good day, altogether. A bit corn field, a bit bean field, but good.

A huge flock of starlings swoops over the highway. I want to bend low over the steering wheel to watch them in their dance, but I dare not. Too much can happen too quickly at highway speed. How is it that such a number of starlings can flit and dance together across the sky, turning in pinwheeling perfection, each knowing its spot, without ever colliding, but we drivers below can't manage that? Perhaps because they are focused on the dance, and not on the drivers below. Their movement is magic, visual harmony playing across the sky.

The rich sweetness of cut hay sweeps through the car. I breathe deep, and find the field of neat swaths, drying to golden goodness in the hot sun. An advantage, I suppose, of not having air conditioning, smelling that good, sweet hay.

I notice that the bean fields are yellowing, a pale mirror of the heavy richness of the goldenrod. Fall is such a yellow season, as if every part of the earth is gathering up extra sunshine to store it for the grey days ahead. All is yellow and golden and rich, and while winter is coming, I am not there yet, and here, in the peace of my car, as the golden goodness slides by, none of that matters. The richness of today is here to enjoy.

The clouds are still growing. I am in the shadow, but I can still see the edges, impossibly bright, rim-lit with the sunlight behind. The silver lining. Except it's not so much silver, as blinding incandescence, too much to take in, too much to look at. What does that say, I wonder, for our maxim? "Every cloud has a silver lining," as if there is some glimmer of goodness even in the hard times. But this is not a glimmer. It is a dazzling display of brilliance, a show-off shine of glory that cannot be taken in with naked eye. It is a glory that cannot be hidden by the dark cloud, a glory that breaks the cloud and reaches through with long fingers to touch the world below. And I wonder, I wonder if perhaps we content ourselves with silver linings and fail to see the majesty of the glory of the Sun.

By the time I pull off the highway, I am back in the sunshine, and the clouds glow pink behind me. I can see more clouds growing ahead. I am surrounded by storm, but as I stop at the top of the ramp, there is silence. No hum of wheels, no whine of wind, no scream of traffic. Just peace and sunshine, and the song of crickets fills the peace. The worries of the day break free and float away. It is what it is, and God is Lord of it all.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Home.

Locking the Core

One of the key parts of learning to ride a horse is learning how to stay on. (You also need to learn how to fall off, but that's a different story for a different day.)

People assume that you stay on by gripping with your legs and holding on with your arms. So they hop on, and they wrap their hands around the horn (if there is one) and they pull up when they start bouncing. Their legs come up as they try to squeeze, and their body curls down, and they end up basically in a fetal position on top of the horse as the horse goes faster and faster. (Squeezing a horse with your legs is fairly universally the way to make the horse go faster, and the horse, feeling the rider fall forward, tries to catch up and keep underneath the rider.) The harder the rider tries to do what seems instinctive, the worse the situation becomes.

You don't stay on the horse by gripping with your legs and holding on with your arms. You stay on by locking your core. You keep your legs long, and your back straight, and you use your arms not to pull yourself into the saddle, but to push off the saddle, up through the shoulders, down the back, and into the seat. We call it "pushing passenger". It's learning to keep the weight deep in the seat of the saddle, pinning your butt to the back of the horse, and locking your core muscles so that you don't flop. When you do it right, you feel immediately more secure.

It works. A couple of years ago, my horse spooked at a combine coming down the country lane. He galloped full speed back to the barn and to safety. For about two seconds, I tried to slow him down, but he had one thing on his mind: to get away from the horse-eating farm implement chasing him. I knew he was going to stop full-tilt at the gate, and I could just picture myself pinwheeling through the air over his head, and landing on my head on the other side of the gate, never to rise again. Everything in me wanted to grip with my legs, hold on with my hands, curl up in a little ball on his back and hide my head. Instead, I grabbed that saddle and pushed myself down in the seat with everything I had in me. I locked my core. And I stayed on. I knew I had done it right the next day when my abs were sore.

 But that fetal position is so instinctive. Life has a way of knocking us about, and the longer we live, the more instinctive it feels to curl up to avoid the blows. Adam and Eve did it in the garden. The Israelite slaves did it beneath the lash of the Egyptian taskmasters. Elijah took the fetal position when Jezebel was hunting for him. The disciples curled up in the boat in the storm, even as Jesus was curled up fast asleep. I have been in the fetal position for the last two years. I've been hunkering down, curling up, making myself small, trying to protect my head and my heart. Life hurts. It gallops away like a running horse, and, for fear of hurting even more, I have curled up in a little ball and hidden.

But the fetal position doesn't work. I know it, every time I get on my horse. I can feel it physically, that the more I try to protect myself, the more I bounce, the more I flop, the more vulnerable I feel. The higher my legs come, the more I pull on the saddle, the more I propel myself up and off, and this old body doesn't bounce as easily as it once did. If I insist on the fetal position, I end up not riding at all, because it feels so dangerous, and I miss the delight of the dance between human and horse, sunshine on my face and breeze on my cheek, mane in the wind, liquid eyes looking at me, the sheer joy of being on horseback.

Instead, I need to lock my core and ride.

Yes, life has a way of hurting. Blow can follow blow. Heartache follows heartache until it feels that there is more bruise than whole flesh. Life can run away with me, and I see the gates up ahead, and emotionally I flinch as I picture myself crashing into them, pinwheeling over them like a cartoon character, and leaving a crater on the other side.

So I need to lock my core. I need sit up straight and look where I am going. I need to plant myself deeply in what I know to be true.  I need to hold on to those beliefs that are central to all that I am. I am His. He knows me. He loves me. He is good, and He is God, and He is on the throne, no matter how fast it feels as though life is galloping away with me, no matter what gates may stand in the way.

Am I guaranteed then to not get hurt? To not fall? By no means. Every time I get on the back of my horse, I take the risk of falling. It's the nature of riding. Just as it is the nature of life. I can't eliminate the risks. I can only mitigate them. I either lock my core and get into the business of living, and live with the risk, or I curl up in a fetal position and emotionally and spiritually die. So I will straighten up and get back to the business of living. And then remember this:

"I know whom I have believed and am persuaded that he is able to keep that which I've committed unto him until that Day" (2 Tim. 1:12).

None Cuts

I was chatting with some kids tonight, and they were swapping special war wound stories. You know, cuts that need stitches, broken bones, skulls split open, that sort of thing. I casually mentioned that I'd never needed stitches or broken a bone, and what followed turned a casual conversation into something I couldn't stop thinking about.

The little boy began studying my face carefully. "You have none cuts on your face," he declared. He got up off his chair and came and stood next to me. You have none bumps on your head," he stated, as he waved his hands over my head. He reached out and took my arm and examined it. "You have none cuts on your arms," and he gestured to my legs, saying, "And you have none cuts on your legs!" He waved his arms over me, and with a voice filled with wonder, he said, "You're perfect all over! It's like you were just born three seconds ago!"

At first, I found his analysis amusing. By the time he had gotten to my arms, I was getting worried. Little boy, if you look too closely, you'll see the wrinkles and the age spots, the freckles and the warts! And by the time he got to my legs, and stated me perfect, my heart was writhing.

Oh, little buddy, how wrong you are! You cannot see the scars I have carried since I was littler than you. You don't see how my heart has been shattered and cobbled together more times than I can count. You don't see the creases and lines where it has been fit together and mended imperfectly. You can't see the ugly, mottled bruises of mistrust, fear, anger, and jealousy that mark and spot my soul. You do not see the places where I am bleeding, sometimes in a slow ooze, sometimes in a spray of red from wounds where loved ones were once attached and have been torn away. You don't see that I walk with a limp from the places where I have wrestled with God and been disciplined by his love. You don't realise how old I feel. Little B, don't look too closely, or you'll see the wrinkles and ugly bits, the broken heart and bruised soul. You'll see not perfect all over, but sinful and scarred. You'll see not born 3 seconds ago, but bearing a lifetime of wounding and pain. You won't see a princess, but a troll.

And in that moment, as I wanted to escape this little boy's searching gaze, as I wanted to laugh it off as so much childish innocence to not notice the spots and warts, I couldn't. My heart whispered, "Marianne, what if it's not childish naiveté that sees you as such, but childlike faith? Isn't that how God sees you?"

It staggered me. I couldn't laugh it off. I knew God was speaking through a seven-year-old sage.

He sees me, not as scarred and broken, patched together and good enough, but as perfect. Born three seconds ago. Untouched yet by the ugliness of life, of sin. Born anew, in Christ, clothed with His righteousness. Each day new. Each moment fresh. Each second chance a new beginning. He thinks I'm beautiful. None cuts. None bumps. He bears those for me.

None condemnation.

All praise.

Sad Joy

There are times when life strikes you so suddenly, so hard, that the world turns to darkness. All is hot tears and heartache, and your breath catches as if on broken ribs, and your eyes burn with a wellspring of tears you did not know you had. I have lived through times like those.

There are also times when life smiles down on you so brightly that you can scarcely see for the brightness. Your heart feels like it will burst from your chest, it expands so mightily, and you wonder if your feet are actually touching the ground. I have lived through times like those, as well.

But then there are times when joy and sadness live side-by-side. When laughter and tears are but a heartbeat from each other. When you can't tell if your heart is breaking from sorrow or bursting from joy.

I remember the first time I realised that sadness and joy could walk hand-in-hand, occupying the same place in my heart at exactly the same time. I had gone for a walk along the Grand River. It was one of those days when my world was especially dark, and I was walking along the trail, sobbing. Everything hurt. But then I turned a corner, and I came upon a meadow alongside the river. The meadow was full of wildflowers, yellow, blue, and white, the sky was the blue of a perfect sunny day,  the river was sparkling, dancing in the sunshine, and it was one of those rare moments of perfect beauty. It took my breath away, and I stopped, spellbound, in the path, and cried, "Oh, Lord, it's so beautiful! Thank you! Thank you!" I realised at that moment that I was laughing and crying at the same time. Not laughing so hard I was crying, or even laughing through my tears, but laughing and crying at the same time. All those things that were making me cry were still there and were still real, and still hurt dreadfully. But at the same time, here was this perfect moment of beauty, and my heart was fully captured and fully delighted. I realised then that the sadness did not spoil the joy, nor did the joy eliminate the sadness. It seemed that joy and sadness were quite content to live together in my heart.

Today was another moment like that. It was a day filled with unexpected sorrow, tears, heartache, and pain. At the same time, it was a day filled with new friends, old friends, great conversation, hugs, and delight. And it wasn't a case of feeling sad and then feeling happy and then feeling sad and then feeling happy. They didn't follow each other. They were both there. The sadness did not spoil the joy. The joy did not diminish the sadness. Instead, sadness and joy were quite content to live together in my heart today.

It was a good day today.

It was a bad day today. 

We have a name for that: bittersweet. Joy and sadness, sadness and joy, hand-in-hand. 

And somehow, those two emotions, living side-by-side, make each more precious. The joy of today feels all the more joyous in light of the uncertainty and fragility of life. The sadness of today cuts all the more keenly in light of the delight of relationships being forged. Love does that. It brings such joy and such heartache. The joy and the sorrow are two sides of the same coin. Attempt to avoid the heartache, and you forfeit the joy. Embrace the joy, and you accept the heartache with it. You can't have one without the other. The sadness does not spoil the joy. The joy does not diminish the sadness. They are quite content to dwell side-by-side.

There is a divine holiness in that. There is a God-ness about it. There is an element of the now-but-not-yet there: Christ come, but not yet come again. The sad-and-happy reminds me of that. It reminds me that the King is coming again, and the scene will change and this broken-down world will be made right. But he hasn't come yet. Both are real. In the same place, and at the same time, both are true. The fact that the King has not yet come again does not undo the fact that he has, in fact, come. And the fact that he has come does not undo the fact that he has not yet come again. We live in the middle. We live in the bittersweet.

Today was a good day.

Today was a bad day.

But more than all that, today was holy.

Classic Update

Back in February, I committed to rising above the great unwashed masses of culturally illiterate by beginning a quest to read the classics. I was tired of feeling embarrassed about the fact that I had never read most of what are considered to be great works of literature. So I started with The Good Soldier, by Ford Maddox Ford, and since that time, I have not read anything but the sorts of books found on the "100 Books You Must Read Before You Die" lists. I have, in fact, bookmarked one such list, and refer to it regularly as I choose my next book. So here's how I've made out so far. Perhaps, when this is all done, I'll have my own "100 Books" list. It will probably take me 20 years to get there.

The Good Soldier, by Ford Maddox Ford. #43 on my list. Perhaps the oddest book I've ever read. It has no plot, unless you consider a man sitting in a chair in front of a fire telling you the story of his life in rambling bits and pieces a plot. I hated it. It infuriated me. I think I was supposed to be rooting for the guy who was telling the story, but he was the most insipid, vacuous fool of a man I have ever met. I think I was supposed to be appalled by the guy who was the good soldier, but I liked him. I felt sorry for him. And it all ended so miserably. It was indeed "the saddest story I have ever heard", or at least one of them. I couldn't stop thinking about it, for days. Which is when I realised that I loved it.

Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austin. #7 on the list. Sort of. Actually, Emma was #7 on the list, but I replaced one Jane Austin book for another. I had heard way more about Pride and Prejudice. It was like reading a long, long episode of The Bachelor, set in the 1800's. Tea parties. Coy games. Oh, I know, I know. I'm slamming everyone's favourite classic. And this is why I resisted reading the classics for so long. Because every woman to whom I've talked who has actually read this book has loved it, and I felt like I was supposed to love this book, and I didn't. But I watched the BBC version of it with a good friend of mine, and that was great fun. You know, the Colin Firth version. Watching it on screen made Mr Darcy far more acceptable, and Mrs Bennett far less so. I actually liked the movie more than the book, which causes a pain in the region of my heart to say, because I never like movies more than books. But now I can say that I have read Pride and Prejudice.

The Three Musketeers, by Alexandre Dumas. Dumas was #65 on the list. If P&P was about tea parties, musketeers were all about sword fights. I was 10% of the way into the book (reading on a Kindle, one does not deal with page numbers, but with percentages) and D'Artagnan had managed to get into a sword fight with every single person he had met. It was certainly more exciting than tea parties. Throw in a fair bit of political intrigue, several episodes of, shall we say, naughtiness with the girls, and lots of honour and bravura, and I had myself a jolly good yarn, that, in the end, all felt rather pointless. Perhaps I should have read Count of Monte Cristo after all. Ah, well, at least I now know who the three musketeers were.

Ben-Hur: A Tale of the Christ, by Lew Wallace. It's not actually on my list, at least not on The List, but it was written in 1880, so it counts. This book presents every cliché about Christmas you can possibly want: the three magi, Belthasar, Gaspar, and Melchoir arriving at the stable, Mary riding on the donkey, you name it. Come to think about it, maybe Lew Wallace created those clichés. Maybe they didn't exist before Ben-Hur. Perhaps that's the wonder of classics. However it happened, you're not going to go far wrong with a tale that includes a ripping good chariot race right in the middle, and a great story of healing and redemption. I can pretty much guarantee that the movie adaptation coming out soon will not do the story justice.

The Hobbit, by J. R. R. Tolkien. #16 on the list. I hate admitting that, though I had read LOTR many times (and have even highlighted parts of it, the Bible being the only other book in which I have highlighted things), I had never read The Hobbit. I have now rectified that situation. It's classic JRRT. Need I say more? The man was a genius. His books are magic. I feel horrible that I waited so long to read this rollicking good story. The little guy triumphs. I love that.

The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde. #27 on the list. I was a bit worried about this one. I had heard . . . things . . . about this book. It promoted homosexuality. It was a commentary on art. It was high-faluting. So I began reading with some trepidation. Now, maybe I am a bit thick, or hopelessly naive, but I just did not see it. Oh, if knowing that Wilde was gay, I went looking for it, I suppose I could find glimpses of homosexual relationships, but it was all quite obscured. What was not at all obscured was the wretched story of a man who utterly rejected the opportunity to repent, and who died bearing the full weight of a selfish and sinful life. What would it mean if every sin I had ever committed was painted across my face for me to see so clearly? It was thought-provoking, acerbic, and heartbreaking. I hated it. I loved it. I would read it again.

Kidnapped, by Robert Louis Stephenson. #24. Apparently, I am not Scottish. Nor do I find it easy to translate a Scottish accent, even when it is written. And it's a bit disheartening to realise that this book is considered children's fiction. I think children must have been much smarter in the 1800's, because I don't know a child alive today who would be able to read this book. Ok, that might be an exaggeration. I don't know many. It reminded me of Lassie Come-Home, without the dog. That is to say, it was a great story, once I had translated it from the Scottish.

Dracula, by Bram Stoker. #31. I read this one while I was camping. Alone. All alone. As in, not another person camping in the entire campground. Just me. In a tent. At night. Worst. Idea. Ever. What was I thinking? How does an author make a fictitious character seem so real? Maybe because the fictitious character IS, in some way, real. Maybe there is an evil that lurks out there, preying on us, not drinking our blood, perhaps, but killing our souls, slowly but surely, except by the grace of God. I woke up in the middle of the night one night, and could not get back to sleep. I thought about reading for a while, but I couldn't bear the thought of facing Dracula at 2:30 in the morning, in a tent. I read 1 Samuel instead. Goliath was far less fearsome. At least I knew how that story ended.

Far From the Madding Crowd, by Thomas Hardy. The book wasn't on the list, but Hardy was #29, and a friend highly recommended it. This book scared me. I mean, I don't even understand the title. What is a madding crowd, anyway? How am I supposed to understand a book when I don't even understand the title? Ah, well, I tackled it. And loved it. I LOVED it! And in loving it, I feel as though I have stepped over the line from the unwashed masses into the cultural elite. Oh, I am just barely over the line. If I trip, I'll fall back into the unwashed masses. If I quit now, I will quickly revert to a reader of dime novels and pulp fiction. <Sigh> I miss dime novels and pulp fiction . . . Remember dime novels and pulp fiction? Remember being able to read a book in three hours? Those were good days . . . Wait, where was I? Oh, yes, culturally elite. Thomas Hardy. The madding crowd. I loved it. It was a beautiful story of foolish choices and loyal friendship and abiding love. And sheep. Lots and lots of sheep.

I'm still at it. I've gone on to a little book called The Thirty-Nine Steps. A friend of mine informed me that this particular classic was featured on Sesame Street once. (I have never watched Sesame Street, either. That's another whole story.) I feel reassured by this. If Sesame Street can make sense of a classic, surely I can. I'll let you know how it goes.

In all seriousness, I have learned a few things.

I have learned that I can read hard books. I can stick to a book that takes me longer than a day or two to finish, and I can persevere to the end. I think it's even getting easier as I keep at it.

I have learned that I love words. Oh, I have always known that, but I am learning that I really love words, and those classics are full of beautiful, beautiful words that we just don't use anymore. I believe my vocabulary is growing. The language is lofty, and it is full-orchestra music that I can see in my mind as I read the words. We don't write like that anymore. There is a part of me that grieves that.

And I have learned that there are an awful lot of good tales out there, available for free on my Kindle, just waiting for me to discover them. Who knows, I may yet tackle War and Peace.

Wait . . . It's not on my list. 

Les Misérables is, but I read that years ago.

Staying Behind

I am part of a church that takes missions seriously. I haven't got statistics, but we seem to have a lot of commissioning services. We seem to send a lot of short-term missions teams overseas. We raise a lot of money for missions, and a large part of our church budget goes to supporting missions. Just this past Sunday, we had another commissioning service for a couple and their three young children, who are heading overseas to serve in medical missions. It's phenomenal. It's exciting. And . . . can I be honest? It's hard.

It's hard because I'm not going.

It is a hardness I feel every time someone goes. It is a difficulty I feel every time I attend a missions' conference, or speak to those who are passionate about going.

Because, you see, I am not going.

I am staying behind.

I believe wholeheartedly that I am exactly where I'm supposed to be, doing exactly what I'm supposed to be doing. There is no doubt in my mind that I am called to stay behind, just as certainly as those who are called to go feel their call to go. When I look at what I'm doing, I know it is serving to advance the Kingdom, one person at a time. It is what I am good at doing, what I love doing. I know it is good and God-honouring work, and I pray always that it brings glory to Him.

But then I look at this young couple heading over to a country where just a few weeks ago another medical missionary lost his life, and I think, Really, Marianne? They're literally risking life and limb, and the most you ever risk is having your Starbucks coffee get cold before you can finish drinking it. They are going to be blogging about their adventures, and you can just imagine the tales that will be told of snatching poor souls from the jaws of death, both physically and spiritually; of miraculous provision just in the nick of time; of edgy, exciting, almost other-worldly adventures . The most compelling stories you will have to tell are how you found cauliflower for a reasonable price and how you had to inch your way through thick fog to get to school this morning, and how you have a big stack of marking which you should be doing instead of blogging. They will be posting pictures of life-saving medical procedures, and hippos and elephants and deadly-poisonous snakes. You can post pictures of the foam on your latte and the squirrels in your backyard.

And suddenly, my called life looks so ordinary. So uninteresting. So boring. So . . . unspiritual. Like really, is what I am doing in my safe little "Christian bubble" so important?

I begin to doubt. Maybe I'm not really called. Maybe I should blow this popsicle stand and head off to the nether-regions of the world. Maybe the only reason why I feel "called" is because this life that I know is comfortable and safe and I'm too fat and lazy and spiritually soft to actually do hard things for Jesus.

Maybe.

But I don't really think so.

Because I don't really think that living passionately for Jesus in Canada is all that easy. Resisting the siren-call of culture isn't really all that easy. I am always stunned and saddened at how many people in the "Christian bubble" don't really know Jesus at all. They fear him. They question his love for him. They are living a salvation by works. They don't understand grace. I am heartbroken over how many people in the "Christian bubble" are in bondage to demonic forces like pornography, greed, gossip, sexual license, drugs, and alcohol, never mind things like sports, food, entertainment, or shopping. I am consistently grieved at the level of darkness that is found among those who are supposed to be light, and I am compelled to shine a light in the darkness inside that Christian bubble. Oh, do you see Jesus? Do you really see him? Do you see how recklessly in-love with you he is, right here, right now, in all your sin and brokenness? Do you really see him? Because so many who call themselves his disciples don't truly see him at all.

No, I don't really think that living passionately for Jesus in North America is all that easy. Or easy at all. It's just not all that glamourous. No one commissions the housewife or the auto mechanic or the IT guy or the nurse who changes bedpans in the local hospital or the many others who stay behind and grind it out, day in, day out, in a culture that does everything to overcome the light. No one reads their blogs or wants to hear their stories. Hardly anyone prays for them. They just do their thing in obscurity. It's not bad that it's like that. It's not wrong. It's just not easy. Staying behind, faithfully living for Jesus right here is hard.

And then there's the waiting. The letting go.

It's one thing to send "missionaries". But these people aren't "missionaries". They are our brothers, our sisters, our sons and daughters, our aunts and uncles and cousins and grandchildren. Our friends. Our best friends. And while the digital age has made the world smaller, the other side of the world is still a half a globe away. Skype may help a little, but it can't replace the flesh-and-blood, face-to-face relationships. True, our faith gives us the courage to step out and go to hard places. It gives us the courage to let go of those who do. But it doesn't turn us into emotionless automatons. We will still grieve. It will still be hard. We will miss our loved ones. Yes, Jesus said that he who gave up father and mother for his sake would receive back 100-fold, but he never said it would be easy, or without tears and heartache and missing those we love. Following Jesus by going, or by staying behind, demands sacrifice, and as right as the sacrifice may be, as much as Jesus is worth it, it still makes me sad.

That doesn't make me selfish. It doesn't make me weak. It doesn't mean I don't care enough about lost people. It doesn't mean I'm too ensconced in my comfort zone to do hard things for Jesus. Knowing the rightness of the call doesn't make the call easy or fun or without pain. The pain means I'm human. The pain means I love, and I'm willing to be sad and to grieve for the sake of the gospel. But going is hard. And so is staying behind.

I am staying behind. No one has commissioned me. No one wants to read my blog.  There's nothing glamourous about my life. Nothing particularly dangerous. It is just another an ordinary life lived in simple service, marked with ordinary happenings and lonely separations.

And yet . . .

It is my life. My story.

Lived for Him.

Because Jesus

A missionary who my church supports died this past week. He was a crazy-in-love-with-Jesus guy who had devoted his life to serving his Saviour in Togo. He was a doctor, the head of a hospital there that serves thousands of sick people each year, and is seeing many people come to Christ. He was a colleague, a friend, a son, a son-in-law, a brother, a husband, a father of four boys. Within less than two weeks, he got sick with malaria and typhoid. He did not respond to treatment. He was medevaced out to a hospital in Germany, where he died shortly after his arrival. He was 46 years old.

We prayed for his healing. This man was loved and needed. He was serving God faithfully in a hard country. So why would God allow him to die? Indeed, if we take the sovereignty of God seriously, why would God take him? As followers of Jesus, we want to believe there is a reason, and we want to know it. If I could only see some vast, eternal plan, it might make me feel better about the fact that this fine, fine man died, leaving behind a crater in his family, in his ministry, and in his country of service. If I could only look at the situation and see how God is going to be glorified in this, as I believe he will be, it might make me feel better.

There are no answers. There rarely are in heartache and tragedy. There's only the throbbing pain of loss and the desperate clinging to the notion that somehow, in all of this, God is still good, that he is still worthy of my love and trust, and that there is a vast, eternal plan that will lead to his glory.

But I've been thinking about it a lot. Good friends of mine served with Todd in Togo several years ago. They had to come back to Canada because of a medical emergency. Now Dr. Todd is gone because of a medical emergency. And in several months, my church will send another family to Togo. I don't want them to go. Togo is a country that chews people up and spits them out. (It might not be, really, but that's the impression I'm getting.) People go to Togo and they get sick and die of horrible infections and illnesses. Togo isn't safe.

And then I thought, That's why Todd died. He died because he lived in a country that wasn't safe. He took a crazy risk - moving himself and his family to a country where disease and death are rampant, and health care is limited to the extreme. He died because he and his family lived and served Jesus in a country where malaria and typhoid and all sorts of other horrid nasty things that want to kill you live, and just because he was a believer and a missionary did not make him immune to the natural risks and consequences of living in that place, any more than just because I am a believer doesn't make me immune to cancer, heart disease, or traffic accidents on the 401. It's not so startling that he would die from malaria and typhoid in a country where those diseases are rife.

What is startling is that he was there at all.

Why would anyone leave the relative safety of life in a developed country (a relative safety that is probably largely illusory) to live in the relative danger of an undeveloped country (a relative danger that is probably somewhat exaggerated)?

Because Jesus.

Because Jesus called him there. And because he understood that the glory of Jesus was of far greater consequence than his own comfort and safety.

Because Jesus, for the joy set before him, endured the cross, despising its shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God. And Todd, for the joy set before him, endured malaria and typhoid, despising its shame, and is now rejoicing in the presence of Jesus.

And what is startling is that anyone who is still there, knowing the risks, would stay. Or that anyone new, knowing the risks, would go. What is startling is that anyone at all who had a choice, knowing the risks, would voluntarily accept those risks, laying down control of his or her own life, potentially laying down his or her life.

For Jesus.

That is startling. For this fat, comfortable, prosperity-gospel-tainted North American believer who is used to my padded pew and my Starbucks coffee, that is startling. For this kingdom-of-me Westerner who has the mindset (however I try to deny it) that serving Jesus ought to come with some special compensation, some kind of free pass-out-of-bad-stuff-that-could-happen, the thought that laying down my life to follow Jesus might mean actually laying down my physical life is startling.

But this is the fact: laying down my life to follow Jesus could mean actually laying down my physical life. If I am truly living for Jesus, that is the reality, just as much here in North America as in Togo. If I am truly following Jesus, my life is no more in my control here than it would be anywhere else in the world. And the hard truth is that, conversely, if I am grasping for control of my own life, if I am more interested in staying safe and comfortable than I am in the glory of Jesus, if I am not willing to actually die for Jesus, even right here in North America, then I am not following Jesus at all.

I think Todd knew that. I think that people who grasp the notion that following Jesus means laying down one's life, who truly understand it at the deepest level, stop seeing things and places and people as "safe" or "unsafe", "developed" or "undeveloped", "comfortable" or "uncomfortable". They go against all the self-seeking, self-serving interests of the sinful human heart. They stop investing in the Kingdom of Me, and begin to invest in the Kingdom of God. They recognize that God's glory is of infinitely greater value than safety and comfort and ease. They don't just talk about it with words. They actually live that way.

They see Jesus.

And they follow. Wherever they are. Wherever he calls them.

And he is glorified.

Using Words

Facebook has come out with new "reactions". Now, instead of just "liking" a status update, we can "wow" it, "sad" it,  "ha-ha" it, "love" it, or "mad" it. According to Mark Zuckerberg, "People wanted to express empathy and make it comfortable to share a wider range of emotions."

I have an idea, people. How about using words?

I know, I know, I'm largely alone in my disdain for this new feature on Facebook. I am aware that I am a lone voice in an echoing silence that now needs even fewer words than it did ever before.

Have you noticed that? We don't talk to each other anymore. Not even on social media. Each person throws his or her words out there into the wind, and all we get back are "reactions". There is no conversation. We don't talk face-to-face. We don't even phone each other anymore. We post on social media. We text. But we don't hear each other's voices anymore. And now, we don't even use words. We just "react".

Before Facebook reactions came into effect, I could either "like" something, or write a comment. I might post this: "Got into a car accident this morning. I'm so thankful I wasn't hurt, but my car is a wreck." You read it. Goodness, emotional dilemma. Do you "like" this? After all, you do like that I wasn't hurt. But you don't like that I was in an accident. So what do you do? You ignore the like button, and you use words. "Wow, so glad you weren't hurt, but how awful about the car!" But now Facebook has solved your emotional dilemma. You can "wow" my status, or "sad" it, or "mad" it. And let me figure out what on earth that means. She "sadded" my status. (Never mind the horrors this is going to introduce to our already-beleaguered English language - welcome to a whole bunch of new nerbs - nouns that have been forced to act like verbs.) Does that mean she's sad I wasn't hurt? She's secretly hoping I had been hurt? She's sad about the accident, but happy I wasn't hurt? How am I supposed to interpret her reaction? Why is she indicating surprise? Is she surprised I wasn't hurt? Surprised my car is wrecked? Surprised I haven't gotten into an accident long ago? Surprised I'm not dead yet?

Reactions tell us nothing. Our world is already full of people who expect others to understand them without having to actually articulate what they want or need. What do you mean, you bought me a blender for my birthday? You should have instinctively known I wanted jewelry, even though I told you it didn't matter what you got me, and I've been complaining about my cruddy blender for ages! What do you mean you didn't know I was angry at you? I know I said I wasn't angry at you, but you should have been able to flawlessly interpret my door slamming, bitter silences, and the fact that I cooked the foods you hate most all in one meal, and discerned the reason for my anger! And now we'll just carry that on to social media.

We'll just create a black hole of non-community, people living parallel lives without ever truly connecting, people who walk around reacting without ever responding.

I know I'm alone in my concerns. I'm getting used to that. But it grieves me. It truly does.

Over a year ago, I pledged to myself not to use the "like" button on Facebook anymore. That means I couldn't respond to everything I see and hear on Facebook. That was ok; I can't respond to every person in the world, either. But it has meant that I would actually respond to a few things. I would not just react. I used words to tell you that I'm praying, or that I think your child is adorable, or that I am sad about the bad news you've shared.  I would not react to all your photos, but I tried to respond to a few of the ones I loved best. Which means I actually looked at them, and decide on which ones I liked the best. I tried, in some small way, to be a real person behind the photo. A person who uses words.

We are allowing ourselves to be reduced to "likes", "loves", "ha-has", "wows", "sads", and "mads".

Please. I plead. Use words. Jesus did.

"In the beginning was the Word,

and the Word was with God,

and the Word was God. . . . 

And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us,

full of grace and truth" (John 1:1, 14).

Classics

I have a confession to make. Ready for it?

I have never read most of the classics.

I am a literary failure.

I have never read Jane Austin or anything by the Brontes. I have read very little of Dickens or Shakespeare. I have read Mark Twain and John Steinbeck, but Alexandre Dumas is a stranger to me, and this guy - Fyodor Dostoyevsky - well, I can't even read his name, let alone anything that he's written. Atwood, Eliot, Fitzgerald, Tolstoy, Woolf, James, Shelley, even Carroll are complete unknowns to me.

Oh, it's not that I'm not a reader. I love reading. I am an avid reader. I'm a good reader. Thick books with complicated language don't intimidate me. I have read loads and loads of books. It's just that I've never read many of the books that many people consider to be classics, and whenever those "100 Books You Must Read Before You Die" lists appear somewhere in my social media, I feel vaguely guilty, because apart from a few of them that are just jolly good yarns (like Lord of the Rings, The Narnia Chronicles, Sherlock Holmes, and To Kill a Mockingbird), I have read almost none of them, and I'm running out of time.

So I've set about to rectify that.

I discovered that many classics are available as free downloads on Kindle. So I downloaded one and read it. The Good Soldier, by Ford Maddox Ford. #43 in the list of 100 novels everyone must read before he or she dies. What was it about, you ask? Well, the plot is basically this. There is this guy, and he is sitting in a chair recounting the story of his life, or, at least, the last 10 years or so of his life. The end. It may have been the weirdest book I have ever read (although the book of Judges in the Bible is pretty weird, too). Despite that, I quite enjoyed it, when I wasn't hating it. It's not a "nice" book. It's haunting, actually, in a sad and tragic sort of way. But, still, in the end, I felt bolstered in my quest to conquer the classics.

My next choice has been Pride and Prejudice. #9 on the list. Plot line so far? A bunch of air-headed girls trying to win over a bunch of dandies, with lots of giggles and gossip and parties. I have to say, I'm bogging down. I'll be honest: I'm not finished the book yet. I'll finish it; I'm determined to classify myself. I'm way too early in my journey to give up yet.

But it's made me think: what makes a classic a classic? What makes a story great? (Other than Colin Firth in a top hat playing Mr. Darcy, of course). Why do some books make it onto top 100 lists, and others do not? Why do some paintings qualify as "art", and others are not? Why does one artist's red stripe on a blue background (or blue stripes on a red background) hang in the National Art Gallery, but your kid's similar magic marker wonder that bled through the paper and stained your coffee table is just a childish scribble? Why do some songs classify as "classical" while others fade away as mere noise?

I don't know that I have an answer. I know why I read. "We read to know that we are not alone." Some people say that C. S. Lewis said that. I don't know if he did, or not. I haven't read enough C. S. Lewis to know. But it is why I read. I look for some kind of hook, some way of being able to say, "Oh, me too!" Pride and Prejudice, so far, classic though it may be, is not doing that for me. I cannot imagine spending my days attending fancy parties and plotting ways to capture a man. Not even Colin Firth in a top hat.

But it's more than that. I read to feel big feelings, to know that there is good and courage and decency and justice and heroism in the world, and that ordinary people can make hard choices and do hard things, even sacrificial things, because of those virtues. I read to learn, to discover worlds not like my own, places I will never visit, times in which I will never live, issues and world events I may never face: Middle Earth, Victorian London shrouded by fog, Alabama in the 1930s . . . perhaps even Pemberley at the turn of the 19th century.

So what makes a classic? Maybe it's all a great joke, and long ago, some stuffy, dandruffy people with very bad senses of humour compiled lists of the thickest, hardest, most boring books they'd ever read, and called them "classics", and told the poor, unassuming public (beginning with hapless school children) that these books ought to be read, and that if you haven't read them, you're part of the great, unwashed masses of culturally illiterate, thereby inflicting a load of bad books upon generations to come. So we read them and we claim to love them and we talk sensibly (or pretentiously) about them, desperately attempting to rise above the common fray, while all along, we secretly think, "What a load of drivel this lot is!" and none of us dare to say, "I hated that book. I though it dreadfully boring."

Or maybe a classic becomes a classic when enough people read it and say, "Oh, me, too!" Or enough people read that book and feel big feelings, feelings of courage and decency and love and justice and heroism, and realise that small people can turn the wheels of the world (Tolkien, sort of, from Fellowship of the Ring). Or maybe enough people read that book and were intrigued by or wrestled with the world or events the book portrayed, and they told other people to read the book, and eventually the book became a classic. Or maybe there are, tucked in some of those thick volumes, some rollicking good tales that I have not discovered yet.

I haven't decided at this point. I'm still part of the unwashed masses. But I'll keep at it for a while.

Mr. Darcy may intrigue me yet.

Navigating Squalls

Over the last few days, southwestern Ontario has been hit by snow squalls. Snow squalls develop when northeastern winds blow across large bodies of open water in sub-zero weather. The winds pick up enormous amounts of moisture from the open lakes, and then dump the moisture, in the form of snow, deep inland. The snow squalls form long, narrow bands called streamers, and within those streamers, the snow falls hard and thick. Outside the streamers, the sun might be shining. The all-knowing Weather Network might be predicting a paltry 1-3 cm of snow, but inside those streamers, snow can fall at an enormously fast rate, and places in the path of the streamers can get 30 cm of snow falling in a period of several hours, even while the Weather Network blithely indicates that the area is expecting a mere dusting of snow. 

So yesterday, I drove home through snow squalls. When I left the school, the sun was shining, and I felt foolish about leaving early because of bad weather. But I've lived in southwestern Ontario long enough to know that when there are snow squalls, what I see out of my window might not be what is happening 3 km away.

Driving into a snow squall can be terrifying. One minute, the sun is shining. The next minute, I drive into a wall of snow. It hits without warning. One minute the road is clear and dry, and I'm cruising on cruise, singing along to the radio, and all is bright and cheerful. The next minute, the road under my tires is completely snow covered, I cannot see past the windshield of my own car, and every other vehicle on the road is swallowed up in that impenetrable world of white. The road, which I have driven countless times, which I know like the back of my hand - every dip, every turn, every river and tree and farm - is lost in a confusing morass of whirling snowflakes. I hit the brakes, and feel the skid of tires that have lost traction. I squint and lean forward, trying to penetrate the sudden wall of white that is blocking my vision. Slower and slower I go, peering ahead, trying to find some point of reference, all the while fully aware that there are transport trucks behind me, travelling much faster than me, about to roar into that same wall of snow. They cannot see me any more than I can see anything else, and I am in a small car.

There is great comfort in spotting a double-pinprick of red tail lights ahead of me. There is even greater comfort when I spot, in my rear view mirror, the hulking form of a transport truck, slowing down, keeping back. Suddenly, I am not alone in my blindness. I am surrounded by people in the same fix I'm in, and we creep forward together, forming an instant community on the highway. We navigate the storm together, until, just as suddenly as it all started, we drive out of the wall of snow, and the sun is shining again.

As I navigated this last batch of snow squalls, reflecting on my day, I thought, How like life. Sometimes, I can tell that the sky is clouding over. I can feel the coming threat in the air. I can brace myself for it. There are storms of life that come with warnings. But so much more often it seems, the storms just hit out of a blue sky. One minute, all is well, and the next minute, blinded by tears, I can't see my way forward. With my emotions twisting and turning like the snowflakes, I've lost my traction. I've lost my vision. I can't see God. I've lost all sense of perspective. I can no longer see where I've come from, where I am, or where I'm going. The phone call in the night, or in the day. The bad news. The pink slip. The slip-and-fall-and-break-something. The car accident. Whatever it is. Boom. Snow squall.

When I hit those storms, there is something in me that wants to just charge ahead, to get through the storm as quickly as I can. I don't like this blinding, confusing miasma. I hate the feeling of loss of control. I fear slowing down, fear that those around me will not understand my sudden hesitations, and I will be crushed under their exuberance. I want to be through it post haste, back in the sunshine and the open roads and the moving forward on cruise. I know that there is sunshine ahead, so I'll just plough through recklessly.

Instead, I am forced to slow down. Slower and slower. The staggering halt, tears streaming, heart pounding, looking around for some landmark, some sense of normalcy in the chaos of the storm, praying to God that those around me don't overrun me and crush me in the haste of happy-clappy and sunshiny ways. It will pass, I know. I always drive through the squalls. God is still there, I know, just as I know that the sun is still shining, though blotted out with snow. But knowing that there is sunshine just up the road doesn't help me when I have no idea where the road even is. What will help me get through it is acknowledging the storm and slowing down as much as I need to be able to find some sort of orienting landmark. Sometimes, the way forward is found by slowing down and stopping.

How comforting it is, then, to find myself travelling with people who understand. They don't try to minimise the storm. They don't tell me that if I just fixed my eyes on God instead of on the storm, I'd be able to see. They don't get impatient with my creeping along. They don't tell me my faith is weak and run me off the road. They don't charge past me with their high-powered life, splattering me in their wake, and leaving me to grope blindly on my own. Pfft, not MY storm! Shoulda got a 4-wheel-drive Hummer like I did! Good luck, sucka! Instead, they slow down, too. "It's ok. I understand you can't see. I understand it's confusing and frightening. I know why you've slowed down. Let's do this together." They become those pinprick red lights shining through the confusion, helping lead the way back to the sunshine. Oh, how grateful I am for those kind and patient souls in the storms of life.

Yes, the storm will pass. Sometimes, like a grey, rainy day, the clouds will break up slowly, with a ray of sunshine here or there. Sometimes, like in snow squalls, the storm will be over as quickly as it began, leaving me weary and wary for when the next squall will hit. But it will pass.

Until it does, I'll move slowly. With all the rest of us who are travelling through the storms of life.

Forgiven

One of my favourite books (and favourite movies) is Les Miserables. I read the rather massive tome when I was in my early twenties (and ambitious). I must admit, I skipped over some of the descriptions of the Parisian sewer system, and others of Hugo's lengthy descriptions, and I focused my energies (still considerable) on the wonderful story of Jean Valjean.

I first saw the musical on stage with my "little" brother, starring the incomparable Colm Wilkinson in the role of Valjean. Most recently, I sat spellbound through the screen production starring Anne Hathaway and Hugh Jackman. It is the only movie I have ever watched twice in the theatre.

Why does this tale grip me so? Because it is the story of a wretched sinner, saved by grace. It is the story of forgiveness and redemption and a life reborn. It is the gospel.

"Take an eye for an eye, turn your heart into stone.

This is all I have lived for. This is all I have known.

One word from him, and I'd be back

Beneath the lash, upon the rack.

Instead he offers me my freedom. 

I feel my shame inside me like a knife.

He told me that I have a soul. How does he know?

What spirit comes to move my life?

Is there another way to go?

I am reaching, but I fall, and the night is closing in

As I stare into the void, to the whirlpool of my sin.

I'll escape now from that world,

From the world of Jean Valjean.

Jean Valjean is nothing now. Another story must begin."

And so it does. The hardened sinner is reborn into a man of grace and compassion. The man forgiven becomes the one who forgives, even when it means great personal sacrifice. In a story replete with angry people who are disappointed with each other and with God, Valjean shines like a star in the darkness. It is a beautiful, beautiful tale. I love the story, because I want it to be mine. I want to live that kind of life of forgiveness.

But living that kind of life is hard. Forgiveness is hard. It is one thing to see it played out in the pages of a book, or on a theatre screen. It is entirely different when I am the one who has to look into the eyes of those who have hurt me, and let them go free. That is hard. So hard, in fact, that sometimes I think it is impossible outside the cross of Jesus Christ.

Let's face it; there are wounds, and then there are wounds. There is the careless word that cuts, and then there are the words deliberately spoken to wound and destroy. There is the moment of forgetfulness, and then there are the moments of neglect and abandonment that pile up like thick scabs over bruised and bleeding hearts. There are the unintentionally broken promises, and then there are the promises that are deliberately thrown to the floor at my feet, where they shatter into shrapnel that penetrates deep and festers. There are the misunderstandings, and then there are the blows of abuse that rain down on us, drowning us in an ocean of pain and tears. "Take an eye for an eye. Turn your heart into stone." It sometimes seems like the only way to survive. To retain a tender heart feels too costly. It seems right, logical, sensible to prevent further injury by locking my broken heart behind a fortress of bitterness and unforgiveness where it cannot be further blighted. Forgiveness feels impossible.

But God says, "Forgive one another, just as God in Christ forgave you."

I've heard all kinds of nonsense about this. I've heard people say things like, "If you really understood the depth of what you have been forgiven, you'd realise that the sins committed against you are nothing." Do we really want to look at the atrocities which fill our newspapers daily and call them nothing? Hardly. I've heard people say, "Forgive and forget. If you haven't forgotten, you haven't forgiven." Do we really want to suggest that somehow forgiveness means a purging from our memories of the travesties committed against us? Do we really think the Holocaust survivor will ever be able to forget the memories of the camps? Do we truly want to suggest that the abuse victim will have no recollection of the abuse committed against him? Are we really going to believe that, one day, the grieving widow whose husband was kidnapped and brutally murdered will one day wake up and "forget" that he had been murdered? It's not even logical. To remember her husband is to remember how he died.

And yet, God says, "Forgive one another, just as God in Christ forgave you."

There is something in forgiveness that drives me back to the cross. Back to the cross, again, and again. And it is there, at the cross, that I find my answer.

It is not that if I truly understood the magnitude of what I have been forgiven that forgiving others would be a cake-walk. It is that when I look at the cross, I recognise the supreme all-sufficiency of God's grace to cover sin. ALL sin. My sin toward God. And the sin committed against me. Christ's sacrifice on the cross is not sufficient only to cover the overwhelming cost of my debt to God. It is sufficient to also cover the considerable cost of others' debt to me - and my debt to others. Christ's sacrifice on the cross covers ALL my debt - and leaves me debt-free. With everyone.

So forgiveness becomes possible. Not because your debt to me is insignificant - it may be vast. Not because I am simply "forgetting" the debt, as if it never happened. No, forgiveness is possible because the debt has already been paid in full. But not by you. Forgiveness means that I am driven not to you to cover your debt to me, but back to the cross. When I look at Jesus' broken and bleeding body, I am compelled to recognise that "grace is enough" to cover not just my debt to God, but your debt to me, however big that debt may be. I don't need you to pay me back the debt you owe, because I am no longer wanting. When I stand at Jesus' nailed feet and look up into that battered dear face, I must have the humility to stop demanding that you pay me back for the debt you owe me, and accept from those pierced and bleeding hands the grace-payment that covers all debts.

And that's why Jesus can say, "If you do not forgive others, you will not be forgiven." It isn't a threat. He's not saying, Do this, or else. It's simply a fact. I either accept the all-sufficiency of his sacrifice on the cross, or I do not. I don't get to pick "part-sufficiency". I don't get to pick "sufficiency to cover my debt to God" but walk away from "sufficiency to cover your debt to me". There is no part-sufficiency. It's all or nothing. Either grace is enough, or it is not. There is simply no in-between. So when Jesus says, "If you do not forgive others, you will not be forgiven," it is because if I don't recognise the sufficiency of his sacrifice to cover those horizontal debts, then I don't recognise the sufficiency of his sacrifice. Period. I have walked away from his grace.

Valjean understood grace. He knew his soul belonged to God. He knew his debt was covered. When the Spirit comes to move your life, there is another way to go, and he had found it. So, when he had the opportunity to revenge himself against his pursuer-through-the-years, instead, he set his enemy free. He forgave. He stood eyeball-to-eyeball with his accuser, in a situation where he had all the power, and his enemy had none, and he cut the cords which bound the man he feared, and set him free, and walked away. Forgiven. And forgiving.

Because when your soul belongs to God, his grace fills you so that no debt remains. None at all.

"One word from Him, and I'd be back

Beneath the lash, upon the rack.

Instead He offers me my freedom."

All debt. Forgiven.

And I walk free.

Known Altogether

I have a text of Scripture taped to the sun visor in my car. It is a well-known one: "Before a word is on my tongue, you, O LORD, know it altogether" (Psalm 139:4). This morning, as on many mornings, as I was on my hour-long commute, with the car on cruise and the radio off, the import of those words struck me again.

You see, my head is a pretty noisy place. There is always something to think about, always something to notice, to wonder at, always a new path to explore. Some of those paths lead nowhere at all, but provide several hours of delightful wandering. Sometimes, I can grab hold of an idea that forms a logical path that leads to ideas that can be explained and shared. Sometimes, there is no discernible path, only a flash of insight that defies all explanation but that explains everything.

Living with that noise in my head means that I love my long lonely commutes, and that my radio is often off. I value the gift of silence. Noise, or even sound, sometimes feels like a physical barrier that imprisons me. It presses in on me, binds me tight like a straitjacket. The expectation of conversation can sometimes feel overwhelming. Silence sets me free. Silence is standing in the middle of a wide-open field, or on the top of a cliff, with an unobstructed view. In silence, my mind can soar, and I feel free.

So, this morning, in the silence, with my mind soaring, thinking I don't-even-know-what-all, my eyes fell on this text. "Before a word is on my tongue, you, O LORD, know it altogether." And in that moment, in that moment when all moments coalesce in one perfect, heart-stopping breath, I felt known. I felt seen. And I felt loved.

Known by a God who knows all those tangled, noisy thoughts better than I know them myself. Seen by a God who does not require me to translate my thoughts into spoken word. Loved by a God who is comfortable in the silence, who is quite willing to sit in the silence with me, and who does not find it odd.

"You have the gift of silence. It makes you quite invaluable as a companion."

And in that moment, for a moment, the noise in my head stopped, too.

And all was silent.

Known. Seen. Loved. Altogether.

And I breathed in peace.

About That Nail

There is a short video on YouTube called, It's Not About the Nail. It's about a woman, who is talking to a man, presumably her boyfriend or husband. She laments the pressure in her head, the throbbing pain, the fact that all her sweaters get snagged. When he tries to point out the nail she has sticking out of her head, she rips into him. "It's not about the nail!" She just wants him to listen, to empathise, to "hear" her. And so he tries to do that. And everyone laughs hysterically when they watch the video.

Can I be honest?

I didn't laugh. I don't really get why it's funny. I'm not really sure if it is making fun of women or making fun of men. It seems to be making fun of something or someone, but I don't get who or what. I understand that it's hyperbole, and that we're not talking about literal nails literally sticking out of people's heads. I understand that this sort of conversation is repeated probably by the minute in relationships all around the world. But I don't get why the video is funny.

In fact, the video makes me kind of mad.

Now, there are occasions when people have a metaphorical nail sticking out of their head, but they don't know the nail is there. As obvious as it is to others, they are unable to see it themselves. They can see the symptoms of the problem, but they cannot identify their source. I understand that. It's called denial, and it's a powerful force. I have fallen under its spell myself, many times, and, indeed, probably am still. We all have blind spots about our own character. I get that.

What I struggle to understand is this: if my symptoms are so severe as to warrant my complaining about them, would I not want to identify their source? Would I not want to solve the problem? I've been in the position of having a nail poking out of my forehead, and I will remain eternally grateful to the people in my life who said to me, "You've got a nail in your head." The prison doors opened that day. There was a problem, and it was solveable. It wasn't an easy solution. It was gut-wrenching. I cried buckets of tears in the weeks, months, and years that followed, as I struggled, by God's grace, and in his strength, to extricate that nail. But there was hope. For the first time, I could imagine a life free of headaches, free of pressure in my head, and free of snagged sweaters. I could see a life free of the problems that kept me from getting close to others. I could see a life beyond the nail.

Likewise, I will remain eternally grateful to those who listened, who heard, who saw me as I struggled to remove the nail. When I cried that it was painful, they cried with me. And reminded me that the nail had to go. When I bled as the nail was extricated, they staunched my wounds. And reminded me that the nail had to go. When I wanted to stop the process and just sit around moaning about snagged sweaters, they called me on my bull-hooey. And told me, without compromise, that the nail had to go. When the last bit of the nail was finally removed, they rejoiced with me. And reminded me that it was all worthwhile, because the nail had to go. There is certainly a place for tenderheartedness, for empathy, for affection and grace and really listening. But the nail has to go.

But this woman seems to want to learn to live with the nail.

I see people, both men and women, behave like that woman way too often. There is a glaring problem, a problem about which they are fully aware, but they do nothing to solve it. Instead, they spend all their time playing the victim, expecting others to "hear" them, to "empathise", to "care". No, no, don't tell me there's a problem. Don't try to fix the problem. In fact, I don't really want to solve the problem at all. I love the problem. I love being a victim. Poor me, I have a nail in my head. But when it is suggested that I could solve my problems by removing the nail, I argue that it's not about the nail. "I don't need you to solve it. I just need you to listen."

Can you imagine trying that with God? God, I feel so sinful. I feel so guilty. I have such shame. I feel so unworthy. I feel so unloved. And God says to us, "That's because you ARE sinful. You ARE guilty. You ARE unworthy. But I love you and I have a solution." And we say to God, "Come on, God, you just always try to FIX things! I don't need you to fix this. I just need you to listen. I just need you to care."

But that's just it. He does care. He cared enough to fix it. He cares enough to yank the nails out of my head.

And allow them to be hammered through the hands and feet of his Son.

Sometimes, it IS about the nail.