A Case of Rapunzel Blues

Once upon a time there lived a girl who fancied herself a princess of sorts. She had big dreams and an untameable imagination and too much time to herself to think. This particular combination of attributes has led her into terrible, complicated messes in the distant and not so distant past. She, in fact, expects that it will likely cause her problems throughout her life, though it may someday lead to paying off her student loans... but that is not the point of this story.

She used to have this pen-pal. He was a pretty cool guy, a prince of a sort from a neighbouring kingdom. For a long time they communicated by carrier pigeon, letters coming every other fortnight or so. After a time, their lettering became more regular and the princess-esque girl and her imagination were racing. Without warning her heart decided to get involved, and soon she was outnumbered: imagination and heart verses reality. It was a competition she could hardly hope to win. And so she lost it, with a smile.

Well, as it happens, all of the major kingdoms in the area held a conference and all of the princes and princesses were invited. Some of the other courtly members attended the event as well, since it was slightly less formal than a royal ball. No pumpkins were involved, no mice or other members of the rodent family, but (to the princess, now mentally held hostage by her daydreaming imagination and her trapped-in-a-tower heart) the day did possess some of those fairytale qualities. Reality was disconnected and the dream lived. His name, by chance, was Kingly. Prince Kingly suddenly went from pen and ink to flesh and blood and voice, and the princess was completely overwhelmed. In folklore, this would have been identified by an exaggerated "swoon" moment, but she didn't recognize it, and was blinded to hesitation, conflict, warnings and holds. As far as the princess was concerned, this was the beginning of her happily ever after. But then, it was all heart and imagination at work. She hadn't really consulted her mind in a while. In fact her mind was still shackled to the dungeons of her being when the day ended. Naive, dangerously encouraged and with little resolve to give her head a shake from the clouds, she finally headed home to her castle.

There is always a bit of a problem when the mind is locked up; even when released, it has been starved and shut away from the sunlight, it is weak and soft… it takes time to recuperate. It took four passes of the full moon for the princess’s mind and heart and imagination to make peace in her body. There is still some tension there. As previously mentioned, it is a battle that her mind will likely fight forever. But it’s balancing out slowly. The problem was, in hindsight, a very complex issue for the princess, but one important and now recognized element was a simple conundrum that no part of her apparently multi-personalitied psyche had anticipated: Prince Kingly was one of the only well matched princes she had ever spent much time with. He was the only pen-pal she had invested any thought into, any imagination, any heart. Other suitors had come and passed through finding little traction with the princess at all… perhaps because she was so enamored with this one friend.

So, where are they now? Well, they’re back in their own castles, their own worlds, overlapping by occasional carrier pigeon. It was not her ideal, but maybe that is because The King has something better in mind for both of them. She isn’t always sure what His plans are, but then, who is she to question the will of The King? He knows his kingdom and his family better than anyone. It’s His role and His rule, and He does both very well. And so, she has returned to her tower and her birds, trusting that The King will figure out major details as they need to come together.

Morning Glories

I woke up with the sun today, just before he crested over the treetops, just was he was completing his morning stretches of purples and pinks and yellows across the clouds. I’m sitting on my bed, still, simply enjoying the moment, staring out my window. The maple outside is silhouetted against the blue rainbow of the sky, the frosted windows and roofs are still covered in white and I know that when the sunshine finally does hit them they’ll sparkle like nothing else and then quietly melt away, for now. This is truly the beginning of a new day.

I did not enjoy yesterday. I did not make the simple pleasure of spending time in this life a priority – I felt overwhelmed by thick clouds of doubt and guilt, mostly associated with my academics. But now, as I stare out of my window at the ever-brightening morning, at the gulls that seem to dance across the mid-air path between the sun and my room, out at the melting, colourful clouds, I am reminded.

God gives each day unique purpose. He makes every day new and every human experience of that day unique from every other. “The Mighty One, God, the LORD, speaks and summons the earth from the rising of the sun to the place where it sets.” (Psalm 50:1) He is in ultimate, powerful control of this universe... and yet is delicately aware of even the smallest of details. “Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?” (Matthew 6:26)

What an amazing God I serve.

And so I will serve Him today, with this day He has given to me, a day He has shaped with intention and careful design for His own pleasure and for our pleasure and benefit and instruction. What will today bring? I think it’s fit to say that “God only knows,” but I will know soon as well and I pray my eyes will be opened to everything it may hold for me.

The sun has hit the frosted housetops... my cue to go.

Keep your eyes and your heart open today. It is full of promise and beautiful potential.

Eeew. Grammar.

If, when you wake up in the morning the first thought on your mind is of a grammatical nature, if you find yourself scribbling verb conjugations on the corners of your napkin, if your favourite song is "Lolly, Lolly, Lolly, Get Your Adverbs Here" and you love it enough to walk down the aisle to it on (arguably) the most important day of your life, you should take a Language and Rhetoric course. If any of those examples made you whisper "No, thank you" to yourself (or made you, like me, laugh aloud at the prospect), you really have no business in ENGL 2025.

All you would-be English majors... don't say I didn't warn you.

Fictional Adventuring: Episode 1

Every once in a while I get an itch to go outside for a long walk. One day last week, upon the inspirational dare of a friend, I decided to walk to school. This is my story.

I woke up at quarter to four in the morning, so that I had time to brush my teeth before I had to leave. I got all decked out in my rain gear (mackintosh, galoshes, three pairs of socks and a telephone book) and headed out into the great unknown. I also brought a map so that it wasn't completely unknown, and an inflatable tour guide who I kept in my pocket for emergencies. It wasn't long before I was met with a perilous hurdle: an angry mob of pre-Halloween trick-or-treaters dressed as slightly-more-modestly-clad Spice Girls, canvassing the neighbourhood for nutmeg and ginger and cinnamon and all of those other valuable spices. When they saw me and my phonebook they began to charge, assuming that my phonebook was actually a coy disguise for an internationally sought after million dollar recipe collection exposing the true uses for myrrh, which, of course, it was.

So, with the hand that I was not using to balance the large not-quite-a-phonebook, I reached deep into my pocket and pulled the inflatable cord of the tour guide. Immediately he inflated and began giving me directions to the nearest teleportation centre (conveniently located Cassells Street), in a weird Australian accent that may have almost passed as Norwegian, in the dark. "Run!" I yelled, "And here, carry this stuff. It's heavy." I passed off my burdens to the helpful guide but alas he was only inflatable and under the weight of my not-actually-a-phonebook he crumpled. The Spice Girls approached in a mob, so I reached back into my 90’s repertoire and in a desperate cry, I sang "STOP! In the name of love!!" And zap, they froze in place... until they also realized that that is not a Spice Girls song and charged on. CRAP, I thought to myself as I tried to scoop up the guide. “CRAP!” I shouted when the deflated guide refused to peel off the sidewalk and collapse back into my pocket. My guide looked up at me from under his plastic explorer’s chapeau. “Go, run! You have a class to get to! I’ll hold off the mob while I can! Save your GPA!”

Reluctantly, I grabbed the not-a-phonebook and booked it (so to speak) to Cassells. To my surprise it took a solid thirty-nine seconds for the Spice Girls to round the bend and start nipping at my red-high-top heels. Alas, they did catch (in a cloud of confectionary sugar that didn’t quite fit their usual modus operandi), and I was knocked suddenly to the ground and pummelled with dollar store microphones. Just when I thought I was going to be echoed to death I was rescued from the depths of the bedlam by a vine swinging safari man! My re-inflated guide (now reinforced by duct and duck tape) was swinging by a thick yellow cord... you might even call it a rope... of hair?

“It’s a good thing that the teleportation centre is on Cassells. Tall towers with long blonde locks are hard to come by in North Bay, but I knew there would be one around here if I knocked on the right doors. But it was simple dumb luck that Red Green and Dudley the Dragon were next door. Well, either dumb luck or clever authorship. Anyway, here I am and here we are!” he said as he touched down, right in front of the Tim Horton’s. I laughed. “I should have figured it would be a Timmies that connects the world by lightning speed. I just have one question for you... how did you stall the mob?”

He smiled with a broad, hand painted smirk. “There is only one thing that can distract a girl band away from their mission: a boy band. All I had to do was sing a few bars of “Bye Bye Bye” and they were eating out of my hands... until they realized that NSYNC was a five person group and I was a solo act. Then I lost them, but not for long, because I made a call from my inflatable walkie-talkie to Rapunzel (we go way back... used to date in her pre-Disney days) and she hooked me up with help from her neighbours.” I have to admit, I was impressed.

“I have to admit I’m impressed,” I confessed, “but I'm also nearly late for class! Do you have my not-even-a-little-bit-like-a-phonebook?” He handed it over. “Thanks again, for everything.” He put his hand to his brow as though to salute, but instead pressed a small button on his temple, saying “All in a day’s work.” And then he deflated, folding neatly into a rectangle the approximate size of a deck of cards. I put him back in my raincoat pocket.

Tim Horton’s was unusually busy, but it transported me to the cafeteria line with seven minutes to spare... seven minutes I used to buy a hot chocolate with hazelnut, a much appreciated moment of peace after such a crazy and unusually unpredictable morning.

Snowfall in October

There is nothing quite so perfectly charming as a blanket of sparkling, crystal flakes falling on a winter’s evening. When you are snuggled deep in blankets on a comfortable couch near a roaring fire, there is little that can compare with watching the snow fall... but isn’t it interesting that there is absolutely nothing quaint or wonderful about the cold when it comes nipping so aggressively at summer’s heels? The leaves have barely turned and already the winds blow hard and the temperature has dropped so far below normal that I no longer believe a word of the global warming hype. In fact, I wouldn’t mind it if our arctic chill would heat up a little more.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the snow... but it has a time and place (which is, of course, neither here nor now). October should be the time for raking falling maple leaves into piles and taking a flying leap. It should be the time for long walks through the woods admiring the vivid reds and oranges and yellows that trademark our great land. It should be a time for stargazing in a field and taking in the smells and sounds of fall... and instead we are shut up indoors for fear of hypothermia and the flu. Winter, please hold off! Just a few more weeks of jeans and jackets before we have to pull out our mittens and parkas!

Well, I guess there isn’t much that anyone can do about the situation. The weather is as the weather does all by God’s prerogative... but let’s just say that if God doesn’t change His mind about the environmental state in Ontario, I predict a large number of trick-or-treating Eskimos and polar bears this season! Who knows, we might even catch sight of a giant penguin or two.

Stock up your igloos, Canada. It’s going to be a cold one this year!

Riding Rail and Rhythm

My thoughts are so affected by the music running through my mind. I interpret melody as a liquid, like a river flowing at different paces, in different rhythms, reflecting different colours and depths of light. Sometimes, the music is a smooth, breathing kind of wash, lulling me into a blissful peace of mind. Sometimes the music is a rapid, an exciting rush of sound racing me forwards, unpredictable and thrilling. Sometimes a song will lift me on a wave or plunge me in a fall, it can rustle my securities or comfort me like nothing else. Music can make me cry, make me hope, make me dance, dream, sway, sing... Music is incredibly powerful. And when it is at its very best and most influential, it makes me think.

I’m sitting on a train, heading back to school for the night. I’m sitting on my computer, staring out the window, listening to my iPod friend and engaging in a little self-analytical metaphysical pondering. I set it on “random shuffle” a few songs back, and I have to say that while the songs change it’s incredibly difficult to focus on one train of thought (so to speak) with the constant mental background changes. For example, when I began this piece I was listening to a gentle version of True Colours, then Creed’s With Arms Wide Open which transitioned to the Beatles with Twist and Shout, followed by You Give Love a Bad Name and Poor Unfortunate Soul... the Jonas Brother’s version. My thoughts have been jumping around just as much if not more than the genre flux might suggest. It’s hard to track it actually, since thought happens so quickly. As I keep writing this piece, I’ll insert when the song changes and I suppose you will be the judge of how or if it has an effect on what I say here (Love is Here, Tenth Avenue North).

I find that train tracks tend to cut across some of the most beautiful places in the North. You don’t see nearly enough fields and farms from the highway. It’s part of the reason that I’ve traded my transportation from bus to this magnificently old-fashioned passenger rail. I’ve always thought that there was something beautiful and romantic about the train. There’s something I absolutely love about moving slowly from one place to another, riding the rock of the cars, watching the scenes change outside my window. (Talk About It, Nicole C. Mullen) Even on such a greyish kind of day, the colours are beautiful and the forests are full of life. Every once in a while, while passing a house (The Thief, Relient K) I become very aware of the fact that we are passing not only people’s houses but also their very lives. Have you taken time to really sit back and think about the fact that people live in houses? Life happens in houses and cars and offices and cottages... so much life. (These Are the Moments, Sarah Evans) Life, you might say, happens everywhere. I would agree.

I’m passing through a small town. There are people in the snow (which is quite depressing and not of any particularly attractive crystal formation) planting trees. It seems like a strange kind of time to plant trees, but I suppose I’m not an expert on the subject. I’ve only planted a few trees in my life and they were more like transplants from one part of the forest to another... we were harvesting potential Christmas Trees one year when my sisters and I were small. We watered them regularly and everything. (Secret Smile, Rascal Flatts) Most of my other relationships with trees have been in the climbing of limbs or the burning of firewood. I also swallowed a tree whole, once upon a story. It’s true, just ask Carolyn. I make her verify that story pretty frequently.

(Part of Your World, Disney) I think I must type much slower than I think I do, based on the rate of changeover in the songs I’m listening to. I guess it might reflect the depth of the thought, but that might not be true. It probably reflects my levels of distraction. For example, we’ve just made a station stop and though I can’t see if we’ve gained any passengers I have seen a sign for Tom Thompson Park, just down that road. Of course you can’t see that I’ve just pointed out my window, but if you were here and this was a chat rather than a note (Get Him Back, Fiona Apple) it might have been interesting.

Why do you suppose so many northern shores and islands are layers with evergreens? Heron! Just chilling out, waiting for the train to pass. I think that animals are extraordinarily patient when it comes to human intrusion. One day I would love to see a moose. (One Girl Revolution, Superchick).

I love Canada. (Another Postcard, Barenaked Ladies) And I love trains. I think I would live on a train if I could and if it wasn’t so terribly impractical. It’s funny that I love movement so much in a way, because in life I’m such a home-body. I like being anchored, but it’s the go and return that I like most. (Beautiful World, GS Megaphone) (My Home, Thousand Foot Krutch) My sock has twisted around in my shoe. Socks are probably my least favourite of all human conventions. That, and tucking in the covers. (Life Goes On, Carrie Underwood) Zipholder. I just passed the skeletal frame of a yellow school bus... and the ruins of an old barn. I can’t believe how much you can see from a window seat. (Go the Distance, Disney) Well, the dining car just closed so I think it’s about time that I close up my computer as well. A thousand words of useless insights into my traveling mind... CLAIM! Okay, that was easily fifty zips and five zipholders. Don’t even try to “graveyard” that, I win today. Just accept defeat, family! Last song: No Fear, Terri Clark. And with that I bid you happy riding and may you take time to really think about your life and the lives of those you pass in commute.

To the Light

Lead me to the Light
When I’m too blind to follow
Take me to the Place
Where for myself I cannot go
Lead me to the Light
I need out of this darkness
Take my hand
And guide my heart to You

The patterns of this world
Wrap themselves around me
Please help to untangle me
From this web I wove
The chaos in my mind
The angers and temptations
Living in a world that
Plays off lust and greed

Lead me to the Light
When I’m too blind to follow
Take me to the Place
Where for myself I cannot go
Lead me to the Light
I need out of this darkness
Take my hand
And guide my heart to You

So much I’ve yet to learn
Naive nor understanding
What am I to choose
And how am I to serve?
God help me live my life
As a witness of Your Mercy
And when my strength is failing
I know you will endure

Lead me to the Light
When I’m too blind to follow
Take me to the Place
Where for myself I cannot go
Lead me to the Light
I need out of this darkness
Take my hand
And guide my heart to You

Reconsideration

Perhaps it is not what I said, but how I said it and whom I said it to. Some things are written to be shared with the world, shouted from the rooftop and strung along to a melody for the local radio station. Some things should remain in a journal, left between the author and God.

I'm retracting my last post. In fact, I already have. It left a bitter taste in my heart that I couldn't shake - a kind of guilt. I'm sorry. I'm still learning how to filter this outlet. Here is a (silly, metaphor-less) replacement post of a much clearer conscience and attitude. I hope it will make you smile.


Down the Drains

The bar of soap sat at the edge of the sink, longing to refresh his drying skin in the glorious flow of the tap. Often he would dream of the liquid's deep moisturization, but sadly it had been days since he had felt the strong, abrasive hands of the construction worker. And it was all thanks to her.

She was placed on a tall, red podium at the front door, framed in an equally attention-demanding red frame. Ever since she came, tap and towel had been almost completely replaced. Where had the standards gone in this place? Not down the drains, that's for sure. The only thing going down the drains recently was dust.

The sulky bar of soap was by no means isolated in his position. All over the city his kind were being replaced by the hassle-free, instant "sanitization" of her kind. It was a hard adjustment to accept the foaming varieties of soap into the family (and to be quite too honest, there were still recognized social distinctions between the solid, traditional bars and the up-and-coming pump-and-scrubbers found in so many industrial facilities). Now they were expected to embrace an alcohol based hand-washing alternative? Of all the impertinent, disrespectful poppycock...

No. It wouldn't do. Disinfected and clean are not the same and can no longer be seen as equals in the area of health. But how to change such a paradigm from the edge of a sink?

The bar of soap decided that he would finally make his stand. Slowly, he swiveled onto his tallest and most intimidating edge, balancing at the rim. He stood waiting there for nearly an hour before the next person, a young woman from the Accounting Department made her way into the washroom. Washroom, he thought to himself, not sanitization-room.

As the girl flushed the toilet, the bar of soap made his move. He vaulted from the rim of the sink and almost landed right in the palm of her hand... unfortunately, being so slippery by his very nature, he was unsteady at the jump and missed his projection by about three centimeters. The bar of soap ricocheted off the girl's arm, flew threw the air and landed in the toilet bowl with a splash that made the girl scream. She stared at the seat for a moment before hazarding a look into the depths of the basin.

There she saw a small bar of soap, floating and spinning in the whirlpool of her flush. There was nothing she could do.

It was indeed a hopeless fight against the toilet's strong currents. The bar of soap did not struggle for long - instead he spent the precious seconds of her attention that he had, screaming at the top of his lungs: "PURELL IS NO REPLACEMENT FOR IVORY!" Alas all that came from his efforts was a small bubble, completely unnoticed by the youth. As the girl walked out the door she reached to the frame and squished out a blob of lemony-fresh soap supplement.

This time, however, he was not filled with self-pity or anger, neither jealousy nor spite; he was going to a better place, a place where his work would never be finished. He would be valued, once more rival-free with a purpose and an action plan. He was hopeful... and rightly encouraged. That toilet's bowl had never sparkled so majestically is all it's days.

The Lemon's Aide

Living a life in constant yellow can be a wearying existence. When you’re yellow, people expect you to carry on as though every moment of your life is bathed in sunshine from dawn ‘til dusk, but the truth is that even Yellows have blue days. Just ask Lemon.

Lemon was a tough guy to peel. Although bright and smooth in appearance, he often struggled with keeping up with the expectation of being the life of everybody’s party. He compared himself too frequently to Banana and Passionfruit – one admired for his form and one for flavour – but even with this self-troubling habit most others in the fruit basket couldn’t see past his goofiness to the sour pit he was feeding. Lemon was sad – but when you’re so yellow, there’s no opportunity to show off some of the other colours that are experienced just below the surface. The pinks of love, the reds of anger, the blues of melancholy and the oranges of adventurousness never saw the sun on Lemon’s peel... but before too long there was another colour that began to seep out from his core.

“Lemon,” Papaya commented one afternoon, “You’re looking a little lime... are you okay?” Lemon did what he could to let the comment roll off his back: “I’m fine, I just need a little more Vitamin D, that’s all.”

But sunshine wasn’t enough to stop Lemon’s greenness from spreading. In a few days, everyone had noticed – and they began to talk. “I know he’s been hanging out with the Veggies recently,” Tomato said to Peach as they watched Lemon roll slowly from one side of the basket to the other. “Maybe the Broccoli has been rubbing off on him a little too much?”

Lemon’s friends tried to cheer him up and get his yellow back, but they couldn’t figure out the root problem. Lemon was looking more and more lime everyday and everyone was worried. “Is he... rotting?” a little grape asked. The response was uncertain. “He’s sick, honey... tired maybe, maybe more.”

It had been nearly three weeks from the time that Lemon’s hue began to darken to the day Radish got thrown in with the fruits. “Are you a squash?” Radish asked, quite innocent of the gradual pigmented depression Lemon had found himself in. She based her observation solely on that which could be observed: the once yellow Lemon was now a very dark blueish-greyish-green colour, quite like that of Butternut. “I’m a lemon,” said Lemon.

Radish furrowed her eyebrows. “What has happened to your sunshine?” Lemon sighed heavily, brimming with tears. The dimples that had once served to highlight his cheer now seemed to emphasize the depth of his creases and the weight in his eyes. “I’ve lost it,” Lemon confessed. “It’s been gone for a terrible long time.”

Radish smiled gently. “I will help you find it again.”

Radish listened while Lemon told her about his deep blue. He spoke of the wear his friends had on him at times, of no fault of their own, but which nevertheless caused Lemon to tire. He confided in Radish and for a long time while she said nothing with neither tear nor smile; she simply listened. Little by little, Lemon’s grey lightened. The blue faded and the green disappeared. Little by little, Lemon was yellowing. When he had explained everything that he had been keeping to himself and all pressure had been released, he laughed. Radish smiled back. She seemed... different, somehow.

Before Lemon had a chance to inquire, Radish nodded quietly and tipped her head just a little to one side. “Did you know,” she began, as though it were a question, “that colours are contagious? They have an amazing quality about them that is transferable – blues and yellows and even pinks – they can be passed on or pulled in my others. You’ve gotten much yellow back, and I’m got some of that now too! But I also took on a bit of your blue and a little green, to help you get rid of it. So that’s why I look a little odd – I’m brighter, but also darker than when I arrived here. More the colouring of an unusually ripe apple, than a radish, you might say.”

“But I don’t want you to be blue or green,” Lemon said. Radish smiled. “It’s okay Lem... it’s what friends do. We share the good and the bad, the blue and the yellow. We trade off and balance out and compliment. It’s our design.”

Lemon gave Radish a hug, which may seems strange to you until you remember that a radish is rarely a radish in such tales and such tales are rarely told with the simple intention of entertainment; rather that they often come prepared with an applicable punch: When life gives you Lemons, be the Lemon’s aide.

Time Off

*Insert one large, heavy but freeing sigh here.*

Time off.

It’s a bit of an interesting concept if you take it at face value. We don’t, of course, meddle in the verbal punctuation of such common phrases day to day, but if you think about the idiom “time off” I suppose if can mean a few things. If, by the definition of our culture, “time off” means a time set aside from work to relax or busy one’s self with things completely unrelated to the responsibilities of the workplace, time off is a bit of a rarity for me these days. If, however, we re-tone these two words and throw in a comma, time off becomes something completely different; it’s a state of being, a gap in reality: “time, off.”

Yes, this is the kind of thing I think about.

Here at camp I am convinced that time has, in fact, ceased to exist. I believe that between Sunday morning and Friday night someone flips a building-sized switch that turns time into fluid jelly. It’s really a strange experience, living a life disconnected from the world’s movements and goings on. I feel like I miss out on a hundred birthdays, engagements and get-togethers simply because I step back from facebook for a day or two. I realize that close family and friends who rely on my blog for quasi-regular confirmation that I still have an intellectual pulse are beginning to harbour concerns. I am missing the action... but I am missing in action, as well.

Please be assured: I am fine and well. I am doing far better than surviving this summer – I’m enjoying it. Please do not mistake my disconnectedness as disinterest or take offence in my delayed responses... I’m here and I’m safe, I’m just busy and happy... distracted by the bubble, but loving the diversions from what one might call my “normal life” at school. Camp is my home right now. I feel so welcome here, so spiritually active here, so alive in this place. The friendships I am creating this summer are such a godsend in my life, and I can feel myself growing quickly as a leader and a follower as God shows me more and more ways to serve Him. I am learning to count my blessings and pray through my struggles. I have re-discovered my passion for teaching and for the kids that God has made, as loosely connected to sanity as they are sometimes. I am learning not to overlook the things I do not understand but rather to take time to discuss, discover and inquire. I’m even getting a little natural vitamin D. We are officially half-way through the summer. If time was a reliable, consistent thing up here I might ask where it has gone, but of course a question like that is senseless in Muskoka. Nevertheless, with five weeks of program under my belt I’m feeling more confident, more supported and more excited than ever before. Each week is better than the last – each day is better than the last. Life is very good: Pura Vida! And, as always, God is very good as well. He has been teaching me so much in the past few weeks, and He seems to be specifically focusing on one major lesson: purpose.

Let me explain: God has made you on purpose, with purpose. Everything He makes He designs for it a list of things which it must accomplish, on, I believe, several scales. What is His plan for your whole life? I don’t know mine, much less yours, but I’m praying that He’ll show it to me as I need to know. What is his plan for your summer? Again, I’m no more enlightened than you are – I just ask the questions. And one more... what is His plan for your day? Ahh, the point: time is flexible – it moulds to our moods, attitudes and experiences. The sensation of passing time changes – but it does always pass, whether we acknowledge and embrace it or not. Every moment, every second however fleeting, is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to do something. Never again will this moment be here. Never again will you have the chance to do with your life what you can do with it today. Each day is as unique as the people who live it; circumstances, “chance” meetings and encounters – think about it. Time is a non-renewable resource that so often we throw out the window on our way to death... dramatic? Morbid, perhaps? But while I have your attention, let me challenge you thrice.

Challenge one: open your eyes to the world around you. What are you presently doing with time? How are you spending the few precious years that God has given to you? Are you pursuing your self-interests? Are you reaching out to others as they ask for assistance and rescue? You are serving – you are worshiping – but what and who are the focuses of your attentions?

Challenge two: open your eyes to the temporary nature of the world around you. In case you’ve missed this fundamental fact, I will bring it to your attention now: you are dying. Everything is dying. This life is such a hollow, empty, insignificant, short, angry, dark and painful one however beautiful and love-filled it may be. This is not the ideal. If you can think of even one thing you would change to improve this world, it is not what you are looking for – so why do we so often live in pursuit of this flawed, evil marinated, broken, empty world? There must be something better... and yet, there must be something worse...

Challenge three: open your eyes to the choice you have. On the one hand, you can live your life focused solely on this world and the pleasures and pains it offers. You can close your mind and your eyes to the your deepest of deep desires which inevitably seem to come down to a handful of things, and you can let your flesh rule your life. You will find something that our culture calls love and you will use it to be kind and gentle and manipulative to others. You will get what you want, but rarely what you need. On the other hand lays a different life altogether, with two more divisive options; it is the life focused not on what we can see – the world, the stuff of materialism, the physical appearances – but rather it is about making an intentional paradigm shift and learning to see the unseen – to fix your eyes on the grander scheme, to ponder the deepest of man’s questions and perhaps the shallowest of God’s: is there life after death, or is death the afterlife?

Welcome to the crossroads between philosophy and theology. It can be a messy place to take a stand and opposition come from every direction, but it is here that I am anchoring today.

I know... you signed up for a nice, light read about my summer so far, and you were looking for a laugh, not a lecture. Believe it or not, this is what my summer has been about. Along with the slimy watermelon games and neptillion rounds of ping-pong we have been studying spiritual warfare and praying for a boy who is dying of cancer at 19 years old. Life is short and death is real, and so the questions of “what next” and “what now” have been weighing on my heart and conversation all month. I’m writing it out to clarify it for myself, as much as to share it with you, so please hear me out. Maybe you need to hear these words as much as I need to write them.

As I understand it, there are only four possible scenarios post-death: reincarnation, nothingness, heaven and hell. Reincarnation is the idea that your spirit will take on a new physical life when you die, based on how you live while on earth. If you give a good life you will have power, authority and wealth in your next. If you live a bad life, you will likely come back as a housefly or a mosquito – the kind of thing everybody just wants to kill and be done with. This kind of system holds your future in an eternal blackmail with the gods deciding “good” and “bad” standards in an invisible realm. You will live a life ever trying to please beings that you do not know and cannot know – like an endless job interview, until, eventually, you will become a god yourself. It is a cyclical eternal life of ups and downs with no guarantee of happiness. Doesn’t that sound awesome? And, if you don’t recognize the gods in this life, you can always try again next life... as a fly. Personally, I think that this version of post-death reality is a copout and is not really worthy of a life-long dedication or focus. If I am going to commit my life to something, I want guaranteed results.

The second option is nothingness. You die, and then you’re dead. That’s the end of the story. There’s no motivation in this plan whatsoever for living a life that anyone would label good. Often I think that this one is favoured by those who also believe that we came from nothingness. From nothing to nothing: an inspiring mantra to be sure.

The third option is also incredible popular: heaven. When you die, if you have lived a good life (usually in contrast to those around you) then you have a spot guaranteed behind the pearly gates. There is life after life, the place of peace and comfort designed for our hedonistic, pleasure-seeking selves. White clouds, feathery wings, personal man-servants, Philadelphia cream cheese and eventual boredom.

The fourth option is in contrast to the fluffy hyper-feminine version of heaven that everyone talks about at Christmas and most funerals: hell, the party zone for those of corrupt life to continue abusing alcohol, drugs, themselves, each other, etc. They imagine moshing to the famous musicians who will be joining them there – Eminem, Marilyn Manson, Michael Jackson and the like – some kind of eternal rock-concert where anything and everything goes.

These four options are heart breaking to me. If this is what you’re expecting, I believe that the Devil’s done his job. These views are rooted in lies and egocentric attitudes and lust for this world. These options are not options: I believe that each one is a clever mask for one of two true options, and both of them come down to Jesus.

The Bible, upon which I base all of my beliefs, creeds, philosophies and goals in life, speaks quite frequently about the glory or doom to come. The distinction is made unavoidably clear. You are either invited to the banquet or thrown to the dogs (Matthew 22), you will be crowned with life or you will fade and wither and die (James 1), you will either find rest or you will be eternally tormented (Revelation 14) and you will either fight with Him or against Him (Revelation 21). One day you are going to die. If any of the world’s other religions and philosophies are true, you are either going to heaven or slipping into nothingness or you’ll get a second chance... but what if they are not true? What if the Way the Truth and the Life, the only way that claims to be the only way, is in fact real? What if Jesus really is the only access to heaven and the only escape from hell?

It has been said that death is the only life experience that no one is able to live through. Physically, that is very true... but what about spiritually? No matter your age, no matter your heath and no matter your social status you are on your way out of this world. Time here, however warped it feels some days, is limited and finite. When your time runs out, what do you think will happen? If you have to stand face to face with Jesus, what do you think He will say? What would you say?

I am not afraid of death because I am confident in what my eternal future holds for me. I am very much looking forward to a day when I will praise my God and explore His world without the restrictions of time and this body. I know, however, the time that I do spend here, the time that you have been given to live as we know life, has a purpose. This is a world of second chances – this is when the mercy of Jesus shines – He is waiting to talk to you. He is camping outside of the proverbial door of your life – and every once in a while He knocks. So, here is the choice: lock the door, leave Him outside and when you die and He breaks down that barrier and you are forced to look Him in the eye, try to explain why you shut Him out. Or, open the door, give Him a chance to introduce Himself and let you know exactly how much He loves you and ask Him about the plans He has not only for now but also for the rest of your life and afterlife... trust me. As soon as you meet Him, personally, genuinely, there is nothing – nothing – that could ever make you want to close that door. Before you know it you will be wrapped up in the craziest bear-hug your heart has ever known. You will find rest and energy, strength and security, mutual love and someone thoroughly worthy of your adoration. He is an incredible man. He is an ever-constant no-drama betrayal-free best friend. If you want to know more, I love talking about Him; it’s a personal pleasure of mine.

It’s your life. It’s your choice. It’s your soul. But you are my friend, and so I wanted you to know.

Fifteen Minutes & Counting

I can't believe how quickly this past year has gone for me. I have learned so much, done so much and grown so much, but in some ways I feel quite the same... time is funny like that; summer to summer I feel like the school year somehow collapses into itself, and in a flash it's summer again and I'm grasping at the last few moments before I am overwhelmed by teenagers and the chaos they bring to camp. Similarly, in September I feel as though the summers fold into themselves, like a paper I can stick in my back pocket - just a memory, just a moment - and it's school again.

Ten more minutes of normalcy. Looking into the next year I can honestly say that I have no idea what will come. I'm going back to school, but what will I learn? Who will I meet? How will I serve? What can I teach and do and say and be for Him? Will I find love? Will I find a job? Will I get stronger in my faith and mind and body? What will happen? I have peace in not knowing the answers right now. God is moving, God is active, Jesus does love me and I am learning to love Him back. i know that I will learn even though I don't know what. I know that I am dearly loved, whether that affection will come from my family and friends or a man; God's got me, and so i needn't be anxious, nervous or fearful... but I am excited!

Even this summer holds so many mysteries for me. I'm leading the Junior High program at MBC, and (praise God!) I have a full staff of three under me. Who will they be? How can I help them grow? what can I learn from them? (More questions, always more questions.)

Five more minutes. After lunch our grounds will be bursting with people - parents bringing their kids to work, kids dragging luggage and instruments and siblings behind them as they move in, staff trying to usher them into the right rooms and randoms... well, we're not always sure what the randoms are doing, but sometimes they pitch in and lend a hand.

Three minutes. Someone is whistling down the hall from my room, my guitar is still in the laundry room, my left pant leg is wet and dampening my right sock and I didn't take out my garbage this morning. The last minute thoughts are always a little obscure. One more minute.

What will your summer hold? Maybe you don't know yet - but I encourage you to make the most of every opportunity you are given. Learn, love, serve, sing, walk, wait, wander, explore, enthuse, embrace and encourage.

Pistachio.

I have missed you.

It has been a busy month in my life and there is so much that I need to take time to recount, but it is not the Florida story nor the mint-stealing story nor even the secret hide-out story that I want to tell you tonight -- the tales of my many adventures on Spring Crew are going to have to wait a few posts longer -- because tonight my heart is living at a deeper place. Please take a moment to find your reading glasses and grab an air tank and some flippers because tonight we are indeed taking a dive.

In preparation for my job this summer I have been doing a lot of thinking. I'm planning curriculum for every day of the ten-week break from school, and though the paperwork of it all is enough to drown a bookworm it is the content of my reading material that has been weighing most on my mind. I've been... opened.

Vainly, perhaps, I like to think of myself as a bit of a pistachio: certainly a cracked nut but with a bit of a shell to keep the world at bay. Turns out the shell was mostly made of ego - and ego doesn't hold up that well when it's God prying away at your heart. If the metaphor is too vague or too much feel free to just nod and smile and pretend like I'm making sense. This note is largely to try and reconcile and process this to myself. The point is, I have been emotionally de-shelled.

Allow me to help you get inside the mind-frame of a nut that has lost it's shell. The first thing you discover is the sunshine... there's more of it! More air, more space, more everything. You begin to realize just how much you'd been missing about reality locked inside the shell. But then the exposure hits you - you feel incredibly insecure, you've lost your protective dark nooks and crannies, you begin to feel the scorch of the sun against newly uncovered skin and the shell you had just relished in releasing suddenly seems like the only safe place to be. You are acutely aware of being watched. It's not exactly a warm or fuzzy feeling. There is a certain shame in not only action or word but thought - there is no getting away with it now - and when you try, the guilt is unbearable. So what is a bare little pistachio to do with herself?

God, with his paring knife of conviction and instruction, is cleaning me up a bit. there are a few bad spots of thought and action that need to be cut out; there is some doubt and judgment and denial that needs scraping off - and I think there may still be more that I have not yet realized - but as the sun's glare begins to dim I am seeing more and more of the one who is cupping my shell-less rotten little life in His hands, and as I see more of Him and get to know Him better I am getting more and more convinced of His care and less and less threatened by my surroundings. I have begun to see a whole new kind of security, found in the deep lines and the soft touch of the gardener's hands -- of the Creator's hands.

This summer will be a challenging one; I will be teaching and leading, but I will also be learning and led. As God shaves away at my tough outer layer and shapes my into the kind of "pistachio" I ought to be, I pray I will be cooperative and flexible. Please pray that for me as well.

And while you're on your knees, please be praying for my staff. I still need one more person and we're working on filling the last few pieces both here and at Widjiitiwin. I will write a few more normal posts throughout the summer to keep you updated, whenever I find a few motivated moments. But for now just know... You too are held in the hands of the Creator. Whether he has cracked you open recently or if you're waiting on the lightening bolt, I hope that God will show you whatever you need to see or hear to understand.

Escaping the North

We have had enough of the ice and snow! And yes, for the record, there are still small patches of God's fluffy white plague around our property. I have instructed my luggage to pack itself efficiently as I write this letter to the world, so I figure (according to the evolution theory) I still have a few million years before my clothing sprouts legs and figures out a decent folding technique. Of course (according to reality), I really should get up there and speed the process along but I did want to write up a bit of an update on my life, and the self-packing bags is the most creative excuse I can come up with tonight for taking time to sit and type. (I have been back in the public school system for five days and my cleverness has been spent. Futhermore I must confess that the math is not any easier with nine more years of schooling under my belt... fractions are still make me nervous and my spelling hasn't improved much either.) All of this ado to say... Well, not much of anything, yet.

Tonight my mother, father, two sisters and I will be catching a series of transportation devices en route to the land of sunny skies and freckly skin. This will be our first official family adventure and I don`t think any of us know just what to expect when we get there... lots and lots of heat, hopefully! We are armed with our plans, of course - but sometimes plan and reality have very few things in common. but, regardless of whether or not we end up doing exactly what we are planning, I know that God has a plan that is so much bigger than anything we can put together on an itinerary - and His plans are not subject to the will of the weather or bank. (In fact, it`s quite the opposite!) So I am trusting Him with the big stuff as well as the detailed bits. He`s got it under control - so as long as we are in prayer and making sure that our plans line up with His, I know we`ll be good and safe and happy.

So maybe you`re going to be working this week and stuck in the four-degree weather that the forecasters are forecasting, and you`re going to avoid reading my post-trip post because of insane vacational jealousy, and you`re wondering if there is any possible application from this note to your life... Well, there is: you are a good person. And that should make you happy. Maybe not quite as happy as I am right now, but still enough to bring a smile to your heart. Have a great week!

Primavera Pastimes

Summer always feels like a time of incredible potential. There is a fantastic sense of suspense that lingers in the air for what time away from the normality of school life might bring. Summer is adventurous, there is a longing for new experiences, an awakening of the whole natural world, and in many ways, a reawakening internally. For me, I can feel the change of seasons in my imagination - suddenly I am creating stories and projects for myself left and right, I feel drawn to pen and paper (and computer) to scribble the ideas down lest they evaporate as quickly as they came. I find myself wanting to be out-of-doors, on my roof, on my bike and with my camera; I want to capture the freshness of the rain and the power of the wind and preserve the feeling of growth and progress as long as possible. Spring. Summer. Whom except God has insight to what the next few months will bring for me when one day can change so much, one week even more!

I am playing a song over in my mind that I learned when I was quite young: "I'm just a child, my life is still before me, I just can't wait to see what God has for me, but I know that I can trust Him and I'll wait to see what life will bring for me." I think that these words are just as applicible to me now as they were when I was seven. Every day I am living in anticipation of the life that God is planning.

Besides, it's spring! Be happy, find joy in the renewal of the earth and take time to recognize the beauty in green grass, blooming flowers and budding trees. Sit on a bench for a while - who knows what could happen? Go for a walk, dust off your boardgames and hide the remote; try something new! Life is full of posibilities, mysteries and beautiful things. And remember to smile. Always smile.

Rescued. Here, Anyway...

It had been almost a week since the Rescue of Joseph Kony’s Child Soldiers and I am watching the rain fall, soaking the grass outside into a giant earthy sponge. Last Saturday evening almost two hundred people slept overnight on equally squishy grass in the middle of Queen’s Park, in honour and representation for the kids who have been abducted in the African jungles; over 70,000 people joined us globally. It was a day and a night that none of us will quickly forget, but it is an experience that I want to share with you, the committed and curious followers of the Ugandan battle for peace and justice, who may have been unable to come and support the event physically.

On the afternoon of April 25th, hundreds of young adults gathered together in Dundas Square. There were people from all over Ontario who had come for the rally and my team almost took the cake for furthest commute (ten of us travelling down from North Bay), but Aaron Carter decided to break that record by flying in for the event and leading our two kilometre march to Queen’s Park. Traffic didn’t like us and I gathered that the police officers helping us out weren’t too thrilled either, but with mighty and repetitive cheering our message was peeled off computer screens everywhere and brought to the streets for people to see and hear in real life.

As we filed into the park and met up with friends old and new, we quickly discovered two things; firstly, this event was going to be a whole lot of fun and, secondly, the dark storm in the distance were going to be joining our party in haste. We took well-lit group pictures and videos while we could, but it didn’t take long for the cloud to cover and the rain to fall. Soon after many fled to shelter and we spent a long time running and skipping through puddles, creating garbage-bag ponchos and even climbing a tree or two. Then it came time to work and we built a Survivor worthy tent from two tarps, an orange metal podium, a large city trashcan and some cord. In a stroke of genius and in the spirit of generosity we went on an excursion to McDonald’s and figuratively shocked the socks off cashiers and back crew and even the manager as we politely requested 100 apple and strawberry pies, to go. Coordination for such an epic purchase would have taken a bit longer than we were willing to wait, so we settled on 50 double cheeseburgers. I believe any eye-rolling or panic we caused was quite justified. It was a tall order, but our handouts back in the park were graciously received by our fellow abductees. There is a rare joy found when the unexpected gift you give to others is so warmly appreciated.

And so, the night rolled on and the thunder added its applause to our efforts. We were rescued by Olivia Chow, Jack Layton and Rick Mercer along with a few other faces you may have found familiar on Saturday night, but despite our relatively early liberation (as I post this there is still one city waiting for rescue), we stuck it out through the wind and rain, talking, laughing, writing obscure poetry (to be posted shortly) and packing ourselves under the tarp like sardines to escape the chill until the birds sang us “good morning” at about five or six o’clock.

I think we all learned a lot more than we had expected from last weekend. If the sun had shone and the grass had been dry the event still would have raised the awareness that it did – but something about spending the night cold and wet set their situation – the real, day-to-day lives of the Ugandan kids – into a sharper reality. They don’t have thick sleeping bags and Oreos to keep them comfortable at night. They don’t have a McDonald’s to escape to for clean facilities and good lighting. They don’t have people they can just talk to or laugh with or sleep beside in safety... they are alone and they are without joy, but they are not without hope. The kids in Africa – in Uganda, in Southern Sudan and in the jungles of the Congo – are praying for rescue. They don’t have e-mail or telephones or YouTube to be crying out for help like we do, so we must learn to be their voice. We must call out for them – and continue until change happens. We must do what we can because if we will not help them, they will die in slavery before they ever get home.

In speaking out I know that I run the risk of being ignored. I am risking ridicule and judgement. But I believe that these kids are worth it. They need the power of my voice more than I need the passive reputation of my name. So stay tuned if you want to listen; this is not the end for these kids and it is not the end for me. So here is my challenge: examine your priorities and take a hard look at your heart. Where does your treasure lie? What are you willing to do to defend it?

Take a stand, pick your side and please, reach out and rescue the children.

Canada! Come to the Rescue!

You may have noticed, but I want to make this painfully clear: Uganda is a BIG deal. This is an issue that has enveloped my heart from the night I heard about it, and I boldly suggest that if you will hear about it, you will find yourself involved - and if you are not affected, you have not heard enough. Here is what you need to know right now:

There is a war going on between the Ugandan Government and a man named Joseph Kony. Kony is abducting 8 to 12 year old children from small villages and forcing them to be his militant slaves. Those that he chooses to keep alive have witnessed the merciless slaughter of neighbours, friends and family. Kony uses these children to capture more children, turning them into the savage murderers that they fear so much. If these kids refuse to obey his orders, they are killed without question. It is terrifying to be under the constant threat of attack. It is terrifying to watch the life of someone you know and love taken from them so violently. It is terrifying for the mothers, fathers, siblings and playmates of the children that are captured – because most of those kids will never come back, and none of them will come back the same.

This is a reality that is so far separated from our own that it can be very hard to understand it and let it sink in. But the more you hear, see and read about this, the more it will become real. Let your eyes and your heart be opened to the reality of the world that we usually try to ignore. Stop ignoring them. Rescue them.

In 9 countries 100,000 people will abduct themselves in representation of the children abducted in Northern Uganda and Southern Sudan and the Republic of Congo. They will leave their homes and travel to one of 100 cities. In Canada there are sites in Vancouver, Montreal, Ottawa and Toronto, and you can find out more information about what the plan is for your specific city by looking it up on the Invisible Children website, or by searching “THE RESCUE (Toronto) OFFICIAL” on facebook and joining their group or event page.

Before The Rescue, it is our duty to contact major media outlets such as CTV, CBC, Global, Canada AM etc as well as people of great cultural influence such as political leaders (like Olivia Chow, Jack Layton and Stephen Harper) as well as celebrities (for example, Michael Cera, Ryan Gosling, Rick Mercer and Feist). These people can come and rescue us by voicing their support for this cause, and helping us to attract national attention to the war in Uganda and the child soldiers that need our help so desperately.

On the day of The Rescue, we will be meeting at a designated spot, representing our home. With us we will bring three family photos, circling ourselves in the picture. We will symbolically leave one photo behind at the home base, and then everyone will walk holding on to a rope in single file for 2-4 kilometres to another destination, representing the LRA Camp. This is our abduction. Once at the camp, we will be prepared to stay the night, writing letters to our political leaders, explaining to them about Uganda, and why we want Joseph Kony arrested. We will include the other two family photos in these letters. In the morning, if our moguls and our media have come to our rescue we pack up camp and head home - BUT if they have NOT come, we are going to stick it out and wait until they do. If our letters, e-mails, phone calls and YouTube videos have not attracted enough attention by the 25th to gain the participation of the media, our persistence may. This story deserves prime time major coverage. These children deserve the attention of not just our nation, but of the entire world.

Please, educate yourself; learn about these kids and what they have gone through – what they are GOING through right now. Get involved, do something. Canada is known for being a country of peacekeepers - here is a chance to be involved in making that peace not just on the political level, but on the real-life practical relief kind of peace. If you can’t commute to one of the cities, you can still participate – donate to the cause through the IC site or write a few letters to influential people in your town or city, or across our country. Make a video and call out your favourite celebrity!

Do something.

The Next Step Out

Well, it has been just over a month since this whole journey began. Just over a month ago I sat up with a friend who opened my eyes to the unseen, unknown horrors of our world. He taught me that there are people suffering - people that I am called to love and care for, that I knew nothing about. Children, invisible and silent to so many of us, being tortured, raped, kidnapped, beaten, mutilated and killed and if not killed, forced to do the same to others. It was a reality I couldn't understand, so separate from my own world. It was information overload, but I couldn't stop learning more and more - I thought my mind would explode from the sheer pressure of having so many new things filling it - and then I started to share. I started to do things that I had never before had reason to do, that I didn't know I could... I started getting vocal. I decided to fast fast-food (which is a commitment that I admit I have broken on two occasions). I started making t-shirts, writing songs, just telling people in whatever way I could... notes like this one, for example.

Some days I feel like what I am doing is worthless because my focus is too vague or too specific, or I worry that at the core of my efforts this is a prideful mission or one to seek attention. I wonder how long I will last before I give up... but then I remember that I have seen the faces of children like this. I have seen need up close - not just through YouTube (which has been a great source of information!) - but in my own life, in Mexico.

It's funny how much I can remind myself of when I write. I went to Mexico in high school on a missions trip. The kids there were shoeless and penniless, but they seemed happy. I went to Costa Rica in college and saw a similar kind of poverty, and a similar kind of hope. I saw great need there, and pain and trial, but I did not see terror. Poverty is brutal and deserves our attention, but in Uganda, poverty is blended with terror and grief. Perhaps this is why it has caught my eyes and my heart so exclusively; it is the worst of all worlds right now.

And so I press on in this effort and I nudge you on as I go; together we can make a change. Look what three young guys and a video camera did. Maybe a group of young people from northern Ontario can do the same. Let's see where it goes, where it takes us and what we can accomplish in the name of justice and human rights. Let's chase our aspirations and our so-called crazy dreams for a while - risk the failure, risk our frowning society, risk embarrassment and rejection - take the risk because we can end their risk, and theirs is so much greater than ours.

On March 25th we held a screening of the Invisible Children video at the university. Over 40 people came out, sat on the floor and witnessed just some of what is going on. Here is what is coming from me, and from the team of young people in North Bay and around this facebook world that are moving for justice and peace.

The Next Step Out.

The local chatter about Uganda and our campaign has begun to die down as the t-shirts we made and the posters we hung become more and more commonplace, but the issues of child abduction and torture remain and build each day. Peace is still a distant dream for the African families under the terrifying threat of Joseph Kony and his army, but it is a dream that we share; we too want to see those children set free, provided for and cared for, we too pray for security for those families, and we too desire peace. After hearing their stories, we can no longer look away. We will no longer step back.

We will step out.

On April 18th, just one week before the Rescue, we are going to step out into our own communities. Here in North Bay we are going to meet the people where they are already prepared to open their hearts and minds and wallets; namely, the mall. For two hours we will set up a make-shift information centre in the food court. There we will have flyers and pictures and business cards and the like, for people who are looking for more information. We will also have a large (sealed) jar, for people to drop off all that excess, weighty pocket change. This jar will travel with me and everyone else who is going to the Rescue on the 25th, to be added to the Invisible Children relief efforts.

Your job on the 18th is to wear a sandwich-board style sign over your shoulders and walk around the mall. You can even run your own personal errands! The sign you make should say something about Uganda (in rather large lettering) and should point people towards the food court for more information, and we will take it from there.

This event is "local" but please, join us even from afar; make up some flyers and hand them out or stick them up on community bulletin boards, wear your shirt around town and talk to people; take the risk of being shut down or blown off... because you have the opportunity to take a child out of a far greater risk with your efforts.

These ideas may seem radical, but we are living in a world with high demands on its attention. If we want to capture that attention, we are going to have to work for it. So, I guess the question is, are you ready to reach out and take the next step?

There is a lot going on up here. This is my first update, and hopefully there will be many, many more with exciting news to share! If you are campaigning at home and have stories to share, I know that my team would love to hear some encouraging words - and if you want to join in with REACH OUT and what we are doing here in North Bay, please feel free to contact me or search for the group.

Life is moving quickly and most days we have to run to keep up with our schedules - this is just two hours of time, one afternoon, one step. Will you take it?

Done!

I love that word: done. It’s just so final, the ultimate accomplishment of some task, however grueling or full of frustration, or petty and meaningless, funny or embarrassing, triumphant or gross or exhausting or thrilling... whatever it was, whatever the emotions behind it, it is over, past and done. What a wonderful feeling!

The past three months of Theatre have been all of those things, at one point or another and there were certainly rehearsals when many of those feelings overlapped and layered (quite like the make-up and paint I spent the better part of three days picking out of my hair). There were days I wanted to leave – drop the course all together and run away from school, become a pirate just for the getup and say nice things (which is in great contrast to the script), speaking in an accent forever – but then there were other days when I would get home and thank God for the friends I was making and the opportunity to be in a class where pen and pencil were unnecessary and I got to sit on the floor (making witty-though-cynical comments to my fellow actors in hushed tones). It was the people that kept me in class; my friends, almost all new ones, who showed up (early!) every week and gave reason for me to do the same.

And now, with the final performances behind us, I find myself in reflection. Not surprising, perhaps, with so many memories from this semester to reflect upon. The play (though arguably there were very few moments of traditional “play” involved, with the exception for Helen and her shocked... volunteers) was not the content I would have picked out for this class of often giddy amateurs; the classes who thrive on things like Disney and country music and dreamed of putting on some happy-go-lucky musical ended up struggling through a Greek tragedy, full to the brim with violence and unmasked sexuality that made my stomach churn at first reading. But then, this course and this play have taught me so much more than a Broadway comedy ever could have.

I don’t think anyone from the cast or crew would forward the argument that our play was not a rather vulgar piece of art that trashes all hope for hope, but it does set a couple of things into a sharp reality. Our world is messed up. There are crimes committed every day around this world that dive far deeper into the nightmare of human cruelty than even the darkest parts of our script touched on. People do terrible things to each other with heartless and senseless cause. Children are killed with brutality. Women are stolen and raped. Our world is not a good place all the time.

The play concluded in a place of defeat; the Trojan women and men gave in to grief and violence and revenge; they lost hope and were overcome. It breaks my heart that so many people in the real world eventually come to the conclusion that life is meaningless external of money and power, which rule the world. But there is a contrast to the darkness of the world, and I think that sometimes we need something like this play to remind us just how dark the darkness is, so that when we are blinded by the goodness of His light, we will be able to really appreciate the sonshine.

So now the curtains are closing on this course and I am taking away from it so much more than I brought with me in September; I have made so many friends, learned a few new card games, had a number of singing-in-the-stairwell parties, told and listened to a long list of mostly funny jokes, spent time pretending to dance ballet/jazz/tap/etc, played some silly drama games and even participated (and dominated...) in some semi-illegal chair-racing. All and all it has been a wonderful year. Thank you to all of those who made this year (and especially this class) what it has been for me. You have stretched my imagination and blessed my life.

Aftertaste

It could have been delicious, it could have been the cream of the cream in quality, it could have made every gland in your mouth burst out in song for the sheer delight of the experience, but if the flavour is followed by even the suggestion of bitterness, the moment is spoiled and the memory contaminated forever. Aftertaste is a killjoy.

The Tears Fall

When life is lost, even when it is not fully lost in the truest sense, I cannot help but cry. I cry for the pain of her family, for the ache of a mother to be seen next in heaven, for the nights that each of her children will spend crying, inconsolable, until the light of dawn brings a short relief of hope for the future. I mourn for her husband who's bed will be empty forever, and for the sorrow he will feel when he picks up something that still smells of her perfume. My tears flow for her friends that will have to wait a very long time to hear her laugh again, and my heart breaks for her friends who have seen this kind lady for the very last time because they, unlike she, will not rest forever in the arms of the Saviour.

But she is there... she is embraced by arms and by love so much deeper, so much greater than anything she could find here. She is warm and strong and in Love. So in Love, at peace in the arms of the one who has loved her since before she was made - since before the world.

So I am going to let me tears fall a little while longer, for those left behind, for those in pain, left here in this world without their wife, mother, sister, neighbour, leader, friend... but then those tears will stop and the prayers will overwhelm. The most powerful and purposeful and effective cry is the one for help from Jesus... He is the consoler; God is the healer of all wounds, and he does what is best in his eyes. We must trust him if we are to make sense of anything. We must hold fast to his will and his choices, and learn to cope - learn to lean even more into his great arms. Climb into his embrace. Hug back. He is present on both sides of this world. Join her in songs and shouts of praise - he is the Creator, the Renewer, the Father. He is Love. And he will care for her. He will care for all of us.

Injury to Insult

The warm and fuzzy feelings that so frequently follow a hug are harshly stripped away the moment you discover once and for all that you are a loser. It isn’t your fault, really; you were created a loser and there is nothing you could have done to change that. No amount of delay would have helped. Some might say you were fated to fail. Whatever the reason, the fact remains; you are a loser.

As if being a loser wasn’t enough, as though you needed more conformation to know that your life was a horrible disappointment, you are carelessly and heartlessly discarded – trash, garbage, worthless, valueless – the loving embrace you had lived in is gone and with it goes all hope of appreciation or status, of joy and of having a place in the heart of a very special someone... or a mildly tolerable anyone. You are thrown out and onto the street, left to end your days being trampled by the sopping, muddy shoes of the world.

How quickly we discard the losers, without so much as the respect to provide a proper burial for them; not in a cemetery, not even at a place for cremation, not even taking the time to make sure that all those losers end up exactly where they should; namely, the recycling.

Yes, I’m talking about all those “Please Play Again” mistreated Tim Horton’s loser coffee cups. I’m not trying to make a serious argument that your personified hot beverage holder has feelings – because it doesn’t. It’s made of cardboard and wax – but I would like to submit to you the idea that our planet is, to some degree, alive. So, this is a letter for you litterbugs: sidewalks are not trashcans, snow banks are not blue-bins and the street is not your personal garbage bag. Give your loser coffee cups a respectful and responsible finale to their short-lived and thankless lives. If you will not reduce or reuse, then please stop adding injury to insult: recycle.

Dear Reader

Dear Reader.

I just wanted to send you a quick note, and tell you that I do, in fact, still possess the ability to write. I have recently been doing a lot of writing of both the creative and forced variety, though I never seem to have a keyboard at hand when the stories demand to be told. Someday, perhaps a day not too far into the future, I will sit and type out the pieces and ideas that I have been scrawling onto my notepaper... but tonight is not that night. Tonight is for a little more of that required writing, and then, hopefully, for a little sleep. I miss sleep, almost as much as I miss writing for fun, and feeling appreciated for my efforts, even if my fan base extends only a little ways beyond Mom and Dad. And you, of course. I didn't mean to neglect you. I just got got caught up in the dramatic monologue of it all. But I guess to fall into that category I would have to unwittingly confess something embarrassing... thank goodness I'm too clever to be caught is that trap. There is now way, for example, that I would even subtly imply that I am watching Veggie Tales at 2am for the sheer enjoyment of it. No, it is not something that you need to dwell on, and so I will, naturally, keep such information to myself.

That is about all the lettering my brain can handle right now. I hope that you are doing well. Say "hi" to your neighbour for me, please. Tell them I love their lilac tree and I can't wait for Spring so I can watch them bloom up!

I would continue, but my eyelids rebel and gravity and weariness are winning quickly! Have a good morning or a wonderful day or a restful night, depending on when you read this!

Take care;
Author

REACH OUT

This is a starting place for people who are interested in learning about the war going on in Uganda and the efforts that are being made to provide relief to those who, because of attack and displacement, are suffering.

The fact is that people are dying right now. I mean, this moment, as you read and re-read this statement, people are dying. Uganda is our current focus, but as you open your eyes to this one area of African horror, don’t be blinded to the rest of our world. Here are just a few statistics to get you thinking, and their respective sites where you can find more information.

-> There were over 9,000 deaths from HIV/AIDS, nearly 2,000 from violence and 500 by war. Today. http://www.poodwaddle.com/clocks2.htm
-> Every day, almost 16,000 children die from hunger-related causes--one child every five seconds. http://www.bread.org/learn/hunger-basics/hunger-facts-international.html
-> Around 50,000,000 to 60,000,000 child labourers work in hazardous circumstances that cause ill health and chronic disease and san sometimes lead to their death. https://worldvision.org.nz/PDF/resources/Child_Labour.PDF
-> At least 1,000,000 girls worldwide are lured or forced into commercial sex activities each year. https://worldvision.org.nz/pdf/resources/Trash%20or%20Treasure.pdf

This information should weigh on your heart. Don’t allow yourself to forget it, but make room for what I am about to tell you – because this is, for now, what we are going to fight. This... this is our war.

There is a war going on in Africa; this war started over 20 years ago as a feud between the Ugandan government and one woman named Alice Lakwena. Since the 80’s, the rebellious group that she started has become a violent, ruthless army set on taking down Uganda’s current government. The group has been taken over by a man names Joseph Kony, and had been renames the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA). When they lost their support from the people of Uganda, they turned against them – and began to steal children from the smaller villages, forcing them to kill and torture on command. Many of these children witnessed their own siblings heartlessly murdered without cause or explanation. It is estimated that there are 3,000 child soldiers in the African jungles, being held captive and living in constantly life-threatening situation in the borderlands of northern Uganda, southern Sudan and the Congo. Peace talks are failing because Joseph Kony continues to go back on his word. He is an unreliable, ruthless leader and his clearest objective seems to be to terrorize the people and kidnap the children of Uganda and the surrounding regions. He will not stop... so he needs to be stopped. And these children need to be rescued.

This is a lot of information to take in, especially if you have not yet been exposed to these facts. I strongly encourage you to look up the Invisible Children documentary (available on YouTube) and get yourself educated. These words can get across only a fragment of what those videos will impress on your mind. When you have seen or heard enough, I ask you – we ask you – they are asking you – to REACH OUT.



Respond: Take what you have learned and set it into your mind. Find a way to personally connect to these people and respond in a proactive way. Don’t get depressed – get empowered. Learn as much as you can and make it mean something.

Expose: This cause is not something to keep inside. The whole goal is to make people aware of their world and the daily tragedies that we are ignoring. Spread this information around, share your research and your heart with others that they may, in turn, do the same.

Address: Get public. Make a statement, write a note, create a poster, craft a song... Draw attention to these kids by drawing attention to yourself. Join out tee-shirt campaign, or start something of your own. Be creative – and be bold.

Challenge: This is a challenging of not only others but also for yourself. Fundraising schemes, widespread awareness campaigns, luxury-fasting and other such events would fall into this category. Push your creative limits or participate in someone else’s plans – I dare you.

Harvest: Collect the resources (people, money, projects, arts and crafts...) you have and do something with it. Send the money to relief organizations or missionary groups in Uganda and the other areas of the world in such great need. The harvest here is from us and for them.


Omit: The ultimate goal is, as a global community, to step in and help these people. To rescue the child soldiers and displaced citizens, to provide for their needs and to stop Kony’s group from further terrorism. Can this be done? Yes, with a lot of help and some serious elbow grease from everyone with eyes to see and ears to hear.

Ugandan: Uganda (and Invisible Children) is a starting place for this group and these efforts. There is so much need that we, in North America, choose not to see. Our long-term goal does not stop with Uganda... Long-term, we do not stop. There is terror and horror all over this globe. This is a universal awareness effort.

Terror: What is terrifying? Living under the threat of unpredictable physical attack, living without security, living without family, living without hope, living without food, living without water... just living without... without is terrifying in itself.



So, now it’s your turn. Take this upon yourself. Find some brilliant ideas and share them. Learn, first and foremost, and then reach out to those who need your help so desperately. As we come up with brilliant plans and events, we will share them... but we won’t do your job for you. You have been informed, now the responsibility is yours.

This is your mission. Choose to accept it.

Dishonourable, Bachelor

Does anyone remember the days when television used to portray love as lasting and commitment as more than a halfhearted promise only made to be broken for the inevitable heartache of those involved and the "entertainment" of others? These days of positive relational expression seem to have gone the way of the toilet in recent years. Between dramas, soap operas, sitcoms, cartoons and "reality" TV, our cultural perception of life has been severely warped.

Nothing jumps to mind faster than The Bachelor to illustrate my point. A couple of months ago I caught myself watching the first few episodes and somehow I tuned in for every single one... I'm still not quite sure how I became a regular of the Monday night drama, but I did, and I began to grow the strange attachment to those women that comes from too much time observing a stranger. I felt like I knew them in a way, that I could relate, and their lives began to matter to me. So, last night when I had to watch Jason tear up not one but two hearts with his decisions, I was actually upset. I was so... disappointed.

When I fall in love, it will be forever... or Ill never fall in love. In a restless world like this is, love is ended before its begun and too many moonlight kisses seem to cool in the warmth of the sun. When I give my heart, it will be completely, or Ill never give my heart. And I expect no less from my man when I, if I, marry. I will not compete for attention or affection and I would never want to find myself in a position of choosing between two people that I care for equally. People were designed for one other person at a time: one other person for life, whoever they may be. So maybe I am an idealist or a dreamer of sorts and maybe I have watched too many Disney movies; nevertheless, I have been witness to love that works and lasts through the toughest of trials, love that is passionate and supportive and enduring and real. I have seen love that survives and grows deeper and stronger all the way through life, love that is, often, rooted in more than this world's shallow expectations and feelings of any kind. I have seen love founded in God and truth and trust. Is this too much to ask? Are these aims set too high?

I am not looking for love right now, nor seeking attention from a man in my life, so please, please don't read this as some kind of awkward invitation. Take it as a challenge.

Guys, I'm talking to you here: be men. Maybe you are already in a relationship. Maybe you are a single chap with his eyes roaming 'round for a pretty girl to call your own, or maybe you are of the opinion that life with a woman isn't worth the drama (and this may be true); whatever your "status" I ask you not to follow the lead of men in the media. Fools are those who cannot recognize the effects of their actions; jerks are those who see them and don't care. Please, don't follow either of these examples however plentiful they are in this world. Create a new standard. You don't need a white horse to be a hero and you can reserve your shining armor for medieval reenactments. Women are looking for qualities that are much more portable than those things: trustworthiness, dependability, respect, maturity, compassion, loyalty, strength, consideration for others...

And ladies: be ladies! (Yes, we can be bold and take initiative and rock at our jobs, but how can we expect men to be all they can be if we are trying to play both roles?) Find the qualities in yourself that will balance what you want your man to be; we compliment each other by design (and not just physically). They need our trustworthiness, dependability, respect, maturity, compassion, loyalty, strength and consideration for others as much as we need theirs, even in friendship.

There is still hope out there for love. There are still people who believe in for better or for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health so long as they both shall live. Not everyone is completely consumed by our consumer culture that tells us everything is disposable, even love, even life. Traces of traditional, moral values are still found, strewn and scattered in pieces around this world, but God knows we need more of it. We need more love. We need more faith. We need something we can trust without doubt and fear, someone we can go to when we do fail each other, when everything else slips down the drain. It just so happens that He has provided us with such a thing... but perhaps that message is best saved for another time.

Fast-Food Fast For Food

Do you know what is going on in our world?

I admit it: I actively avoid news channels, I turn off the World Vision broadcasts, I haven’t read a newspaper (even online) in a few years, I hear about people doing terrible things and going through unbelievable suffering and I turn a blind eye and a deaf ear. I am worse than ignorant... I am purposely dismissive.

Until now: my eyes have been opened.

Take an hour or two and look around our world. What is going on in Asia? How about Africa? South America? Your own city and town? Our culture has made selfishness an acceptable practice. Ignoring our neighbours because of social position or religion or colour or distance is wrong. We are lying to ourselves and to each other: “Well, they’re used to that, it’s their culture” or “You can’t help everyone, so don’t play the hero” and “I can’t afford to support another person because I’m already in debt, I don’t have the skills, I’m too busy...”

Lame excuses and transparent lies. It’s a lie.

The fact is that people are dying because of our laziness and idle attitudes about human life. Our cultural gluttony is starving others. With needless spending we throw away money that could be used to save a life. Children in Africa are starving because of wasted food at my table.

I want to do something about it.

I am young. I am still in school and I can’t wave down an airplane and fly across the world right now to personally feed one of these tortured, starving children. Missions work and volunteer aide is a huge need globally right now, but at this stage in my life, I am not in a position where I can fill one of those roles. But maybe I can support someone who can.

My plan: I’m going to fast fast-food.

The money that I spend on going out to dinner, on eating in the cafeteria, on random snacking to and from the mall, on McDonald’s, on Tim Horton’s, on Subway, on Euphoria smoothies, et cetera, will now be kept in a large mason jar on my dresser. At the end of each month (over the course of a year) I will send that money to a different missionary overseas, as an encouragement and a reminder that their work and their lives have not gone unnoticed. At the beginning of each month I will write a note about where and why I chose to send the money, a bit about the country and ministry. If at any point you would like to join me in this, I will happily send over your cash and letters too.

So, bag your lunches for a while. Skip a meal and think about those who don’t have the luxury of deciding to – those who just have no food, no clothing, no home. Maybe we can’t save everyone... but everyone can save someone, and one can make all the difference in the world.

Somebody is praying for help today. Will you be their answer?

Twenty-five.

1. I have a deep and personal affection for all things silly. Two immediate examples: Larry the Cucumber and his diddies make me smile no matter my mood, and I am actually going to take the time to fill out this survey. I may even combine the two.

P.S. This is a note that originated in the world of facebook. Usually such notes, the kind that are more ...revealing... in nature, are avoided on this blog. I like having a certain anonymity, though I'm sure most of you know exactly who I am; but, upon the request of my family (that I may share this with more family), I am leaving it here. I hope that this may entertain you, or at least help you to settle once and for all in your mind that you are not the oddest person on the Internet. I am a quirk. And now anyone can prove it...

1. I believe that even numbers are the single most aggravating invention of humankind. My frustration is not specifically with things that are grouped in multiples of the pair. It is the numbers themselves that irk my very core. For example: 2. Eww. Or even worse, 4. From time to time I can handle the number 8, but 10 is unsettling and 6 gives me goosebumps... actually. A physical reaction. But odd numbers... ah yes. Odd is where it's at.

3. Sometimes I wear mismatched sock in honour of my best friend. I secretly find it unsettling and I am incredibly aware of my feet all day. I prefer life barefooted more than any other way.

3. The ring I wear on my right hand has never technically belonged to me. I don't know who's it is... I'm sorry if I've been wearing your ring for the past five years, but you can't have it back. I love it too much. and I think it makes my finger look lovely... :)

5. I have mutant bunion feet.

7. I love public transportation. My bus pass is by far my best (inanimate) friend in North Bay. We have made many excursions over the past year and a half, and I know their are many more journeys and adventures to come.

7. I like every left-handed person I have every met. Just for the sake of repetition, I have never met a left-handed person I was not attracted to in some way. I have often wished to be left-handed and for about a year I tried to train myself to be ambidextrous. (I did not succeed at the time, but my left-handed chalkboard writing isn't horrific.) Part of me is quite sure that I will marry a lefty.

7. I can speak fluent Pig Latin. When I was little, if my Mom wanted to have a conversation that she didn't want my sisters or me to pick up on, she would spell the key words. When we learned to spell, she resorted to Pig Latin. I don't think my Dad ever learned, but I remember being quite confused for a few months, listening to my Mom and my Grandpa chatting it up over my head. But then I learned the trick to that too, and spoiled their fun.

9. I love to write... and I currently have five blogs, three of which you have access to via my profile, for days that you find yourself with some free time and nothing to do (or if you need to procrastinate for a while), and one is my diary (of sorts) and one is my prayer journal... or prayer blog, I suppose... I'm pretty sure God gets the message no matter the medium. I'm also in process of creating a choose-your-own-adventure story that needs a few more alternative endings.

9. I collect dimes. I have over $200 in dimes at home and I'm building up a nice collection here at school as well. I have a hard time spending them, and I often sort them into a different pocket from the rest of my change when I'm shopping - the habit is mostly subconscious at this point. If I see a dime on the floor, even in a busy hallway, I will more than likely stop to pick it up. One time, I bent to pick up a dime that was sitting in a doorway... just as a heads-up to all of you would-be dime collectors, make sure no one is following you very closely before you stoop. They may go flying.

11. I love second-hand stores. I would guess that about half of my clothing comes from Value Village, Sally Ann or Winners. The other half comes from Wal-Mart. The other half comes from (of course there are three halves) a variety of other cool places (ie, Eclipse and Stitches).

11. Stickers = the bomb.

11. I picked up my clarinet for the first time in six years this afternoon. (It was a little squeaky...) My goal is to be able to play it with ease by summer. I'm working on Disney tunes for the time being.

13. My parents have instilled a wonderful appreciation for antiques in the depths of my soul. My personal passion is books... Anything printed before or around 1900 is of instant interest to me. Upon moving to school this year and packing/unpacking my life I realized that over half of the boxes I had brought up were filled with books. Alas, some of them have since been sent home due to a lack of shelf space, but I proudly display the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, John Bunyan, Jonathan Swift, Mark Twain and Dr. Seuss among many other authors throughout modern history.

13. I have four dresses in my closet up here. One of them is a marvelous princess ball gown, a strapless floor-length coral thing that I am absolutely in love with. Some times I wear it around my apartment when no one else is home and sing all of the greatest Disney love songs to myself, just for the fun of it. I hope you have things you do just for the fun of it.

15. I am afraid of mathematics. (2+2=5) (If you read 1984, you may understand some of my apprehension... or at least that reference.)

17. I love shrimp, but it's actually the dip I'm addicted to. Did you know that pretty much anything dipped in seafood sauce tastes like seafood? One of my favourite shrimp-alternatives is cheese and crackers... "Tastes like chicken"? Nope. Tastes like seafood. MmMmmmm :)

17. I struggle with both insecurity and vanity, often at the same time. The tension between them tend to leave my self-image in a pretty shaky place most days.

17. I will never need alcohol to bring life to a party; just keep me up past 2am. Apparently, I am pretty entertaining all on my own.

19. I took three years of Spanish in high school and I can still read and understand quite a bit, though I've lost most of my conversational skills. One of my life-goals is to become bilingual (or trilingual, if Pig Latin ever becomes a recognized language...) and live in Central America for at least a year. I would love to go on a long terms mission trip there, or perhaps go over to teach English. In high school I went to Mexico for just over a week and in 2007 I went on a trip to Costa Rica for a month. I think I left part of my heart in those places. One day I will go back and retrieve it.

19. I am a pyro. I love fire. This has lead to a number of nearly-dangerous activities in my time, many to do with campfires or bonfires, some to do with candles and matches... But the flame is such a naturally intriguing thing... I understand why it has become such a metaphor.

19. I am a country girl to the bone, to my very core. Country music is my therapy for homesickness, especially those old songs and the artists from my childhood. The Dixie Chicks, early Shania Twain, Jo Dee Messina, Garth Brooks, Shedaisy, Kieth Urban, Martina McBride, Lonestar, Terri Clark, Tim McGraw, Phil Vasser... the list is a long one. Country music is all about the old-school, old-fashioned, simplistic ways of life. That's how I grew up, it's how I live, and how I'd like my kids to grow up. I was raised by a cowboy and very proud of it.

21. Rain is my favourite precipitation and dancing, singing, running, playing or just standing in the rain is the best feeling in the world. I wish it would rain more. Maybe I should move to BC or England for a while. I think I would have a wonderful time.

23. I have had blonde, brown, red, black and green hair. The green was on purpose. I'm going blue next, but just little bits this time.

27. I write secret notes to one of my friends in Runic.

29. I wear an apron about 90% of the time I spend in my kitchen, whether or not I am baking or cooking anything. I think I just like the domestic feeling. It makes me feel like maybe the world still has some of those old-fashioned principals and values that my favourite country songs sing about. It's the kind of thing that I think our modern hyper-progressive culture is deprived of... I think that maybe if women wore aprons more often and guys started styling the tie again from time to time that some of the problems that feminism has brought into our society would be tempered. Maybe people would feel more settled, more at peace...

A Change of Plans

Something as mundane and ordinary as a spoon should not have become as important as it did, but dream, like life, is completely unpredictable, and nothing could have prepared us for the drama that the tiny utensil would bring.

We were sitting in a high class restaurant somewhere in Paris, the kind of place where you not only pay by the dish but also by the hour and you tip your server every time he comes to your table. The ladies looked fantastic, almost majestic, and there was no denying the glamour that dripped from the diamond jewellery and perfectly fitted floor-length gowns that framed each woman’s unique beauty in the perfect way. In a word, the evening was exquisite.

The maître d’ gave firm yet professionally hushed direction to his waiters in perfect aristocratic French and the restroom had beautiful daybed seating for those who found themselves in wait for one of the plush, elevator-sized stalls. Each plate of food came on sterling silver 19th Century style covered dishes, with delicate gold leaf inlay on each lid, and the food between the precious metals was no less lovely. Course after course we were pampered with the finest that France could offer.

It was the third dessert selection that changed the mood. With his usual, graceful bow our waiter presented our dish. With a flourish he removed the lid and revealed...

... A large ice cream sundae.

Ashley looked at me with a question in her eyes. I tried to offer a wordless response; I didn’t ask for it. I don’t know what’s going on. Suddenly a young man burst through the double doors at the entrance of the restaurant. He was wearing a black leather jacket, a white t-shirt and a light washed pair of jeans. He looked like Fonzie, but this guy was not the Happy Day’s star. This was a 50’s or 60’s version of Jon Margeson.

“Hey there, dolls!” He shouted from across the room, hopping light-heartedly over other horrified guests as they sipped at expensive soups or sliced delicately at warmed peaches with miniature forks and knives. Jon slipped past an astonished waiter as he tried desperately to keep his five plates of food in composed balance. Then Jon skipped over to our table and grinned at the giant sundae that sat, untouched between us. “Wowee, what a bash! And would you check out this cat here?” Jon was waving his arm towards the frustrated maître d’ who was trying to hustle Jon back out the door without making an even more intrusive scene for the patrons of his restaurant. “Cool it, Clyde, we’re gonna cut out of here in a flash if you just lay back and give me a chance to explain! You don’t have to get so frosty, man, ya dig?”

Jon turned his attention back to our table. Marsena’s jaw had dropped in shock during that last speech and her facial expression would have easily spoken for the rest of us, if we hadn’t already been expressing our own disbelief; Jessica had dropped her glass and its contents were leaking across the tablecloth towards the place where my last mouthful of cheesecake had fallen, and Ashley looked like she was struggling to make a decision between gracefully fainting to the floor or taking Jon my the ear and throwing him out of the restaurant herself. Before she could act on either, however, Jon has seized our sundae in his left hand and one of the long sundae spoons in his right. He proceeded to scoop the cherry off the top and toss it into the air, catching it, along with the following glob of whipped cream, in his mouth. Then he licked the spoon clean and began to twirl it like a baton around the fingers of his right hand. “So,” he grinned, “Let’s get down to business, shall we?” In perfect unison every lady at the table shook her head. No, I thought, Let's not. We don't even have to say we did.

Jon, with a mischievous smile on his face, had evidently taken our stunned silence as licence to continue. He began drumming his spoon against the rim of the sundae cup along to the song “Johnny B. Goode” that had just started playing over the restaurant’s speaker system. As soon as he tapped at the lip, every shimmery-gowned woman, coat-tailed gentleman and all of the waiters and attendants in the room froze in place, with the exception of my dinner party and our personal Pied Piper, leading us through the maze of beautiful, life sized marionettes to the back of the restaurant to the doors of the kitchen. Jon gave the swinging doors a swift kick and my friends followed him into the next room. I hesitated, looking back into the room I was leaving. The people looked so terribly still, so caught in the actions of life... life unlived is not alive at all, and this scene was unsettling. Jon came up just behind me, now humming the appropriately titled Herman’s Hermits hit, “This Door Swings Both Ways” to himself. He rapped his spoon against the bowl of the glass three times and suddenly everyone sprang back to action, as though nothing more disruptive than a collective sigh had taken place. Satisfied and smiling once again, I turned to follow him through the still-swinging doors.

The first thing I saw was the long counter, not of the high society professional kitchen I had anticipated, but that of a 1950’s style diner. “Ah, the good life!” Jon called out to the guy behind the counter. “Ladies, please let me introduce my pal, here...” But no introduction was required. We already knew this friend, more or less. Behind the counter, flipping burgers with one hand and in a permanent salute with the other, stood a member of the Queen’s national guard with a traditional chef’s hat on top of his own bearskin mountain, and he had a cow-print apron overtop of his red uniform jacket. He also had an incredible moustache, the specific description of which I will leave to your own imagination. It was Brian Jaques. He put down his barbeque flipper and, still in salute, pulled a flask from one of the apron’s pockets. He took a swig and then splashed a dose on the sizzling hamburgers. “Lime eet up. Eetz dah seeecret engreeedient, yaah.” He was an obvious imposter of the accent, but he kept it up consistently and was always smiling, so no one bothered him. “Vaat tave you been doeenk zis eevenink, Jon ov zee slicked back hair ov red?” Jon pulled a small comb from his back pocket and smoothed the sides on his hair into a perfect ducktail. “Well, I just picked up these chicks in some fancy joint in ol’ Pari’ and I’ve got a big gig in about an hour.” He leaned in to Brian in faux secrecy and whispered, “These gals would be late for everything if we weren’t around...” He gave the group of us a smart-aleck wink and added, “Imagine, showing up late to get circled!”

Brian chuckled heartily at the joke and the rest of my dinner party, apparently not yet filled from our dainty French meals, hiked up the hems of their gowns and hopped up onto the stools in front of the counter. I joined them, surprised at the renewed hunger that the kitchen smells had brought out in me. Brian flipped the hamburgers backwards and over top both of his hats in quick succession, each patty landing perfectly centered atop the toasted buns that had magically appeared before us. We couldn’t resist... in a flash our prim and proper ladylike manners went down the drains and our appetites got the better of us. For a few minutes we ate in silence, listening to Jon jabber on with Brian as he finished what was left of the sundae. When the last drizzle of chocolate sauce was gone, he stood up from the counter. “Time’s up ladies. It’s been a kick, sugar-booger, but we gotta jet. Places to be ya know.” With a salute back to our chef he started once again to rap against the edge of the glass with his spoon. At that moment the scene froze again and Brian, with a patty in mid-flip and one hand to his brow smiled his farewell. The burger didn’t fall to the grill again until we had almost passed through the double doors at the back of the kitchen, when Jon reappeared to free him from the spell of the spoon with three sharp raps. The last I saw of Brian Jaques, he was reaching into his apron once more for his flask.

The area through the double doors was more like stepping into an alternative universe than into another room of any kind. We were, quite suddenly, outside. It was springtime and the sunshine was fresh and warm. On either side of me were rows and rows of collapsible chairs filled with friendly and familiar faces. My dinner party was walking ahead of me slowly, trying to take in the scene. Their dresses shimmered in the morning light, their jewellery sending rainbowed reflections in every direction. The path before me was a deep blue, the colour of sapphire, and there was something white scattered along the ground. Marsena had picked up a basket of flowers that was by the back door of the diner and was dropping them along the path. I looked down to my own feet to have a better look when I suddenly realized for the first time exactly what kind of gown I was been wearing.

It was... whiter... than I remembered.

Marsena, Ashley and Jess walked up the aisle and to the left, wiping tears from their eyes and smiling with the kind of smile that struck fear into my racing heart. Helplessly, I followed, now acutely aware of my trailing train and wobbly high heels. Janis suddenly appeared to my side and passed me a bouquet of white lilies and lilacs. I smile in spite of myself.

The flowers had done their job to distract me, for the next moment I looked up, I was at the front of the chapel, facing Jon who was still holding the sundae cup, though in the past few seconds he had added a thin black tie to his wardrobe. He began to tap the side of the glass again, but this time there was no stillness. Instead, they fell into a quick silence and turned their attention to the front of the room as Jon began to speak.

“Dearly beloved, ladies and gents, we are gathered here today to witness a uniquely awesome and blessed event...” In an unusual mix of dread and curious delight I turned my head ever so slowly to the right, to my mysterious groom.

And then I woke up.

The Nurture Reflex

Boys and girls are different creatures. The knowledge of this fact is something I have possessed for a long time; physical dissimilarities have been pointed out since, memorably, my fourth grade Sex-Ed class with that far-too-repetitive song, “My body’s nobody’s body but mine” and other such public school scarred-for-life nonsense. I’ve notices emotional differences as well, generally associated with the response to a heartbreaking country music song or sappy “chick flick” farewell scene... ladies tend to bat their lashes rapidly, pretending to be subtle about the coming tears in the presence of certain company, while guys usually crack a few well-timed jokes that serve to spoil the mood and break the tension. Last week I witnessed yet another distinction between the two sides of the gender coin: social response to injury.

If you have ever played any kind of hockey, be it on street or rink, you are well aware of the potential for injuries and the natural roughhousing play that comes with such team sports. If you haven’t already come to understand this as true, let me assure you, accidents do happen, and they are dealt with promptly by those close by. Allow me to provide you with an example which is, conveniently, the true inspiration for this particular piece.

I live down the road from a house full of guys and last Saturday they organized an event of sorts – hockey day all day – kicking off their celebration of everything sticks and jerseys with a game of road hockey, which seems to be the recent male-bonding activity of choice (bringing us to another point of difference... girls bond better over munchies, football and red-rover). The guys had been out there for a good amount of time in the many-degrees-below-zero weather before the hand of fate (or more accurately the elbow of Tim and face of Kyle) interrupted their fun.

In the World of Girl, when someone starts to bleed seriously from any part of their body, there is a very specific and well practiced routine that takes action at first sight of the wound. It’s our Nurture Reflex that all women, at some level, are born with. Here is the system for injures in a nutshell:

1. Everyone is involved and active. Quickly someone take the organizational command of the group, delegating tasks for efficient recovery of the down-and-outer, no matter how down and out they happen to be. Calls of “Get some ice” “Bring that water here” “Tip that head back now and let’s get a good look at you” can be heard for several minutes following an accident.

2. All other activities that might be labeled “fun” and that could cause the injured person to be left out are ceased immediately and plans for the rest of the afternoon are put on hold indefinitely.

3. Everyone who needs to be called is called, and probably some who don’t even really need to know. Prayer requests are sent out like lightening and if the problem is deemed serious enough by either the person who knows the most about “these things” or otherwise by the one who has taken leadership of the situation, a hospital ride is figured out.

4. If the case is emergency worthy, one or two girls are elected to travel with the injured party to the hospital while the others busy themselves with making “Get Well Soon” cards and the like. The rest of the day is spent nursing the poor soul back to health.

In Man World, the Nurture Reflex shows itself a little differently...

1. If the injured party is hurt but can still see, breathe and stand normally, he’ll be fine.

2. If he’s hurt badly (i.e. cannot see, breathe or stand normally), one or two of his buddies will help him to wherever he needs to go (i.e. living room, bathroom, emergency room or snow bank).

3. If he’s being taken care of, everyone else should continue on with whatever they were doing before the accident happened. The game must go on as life will go on. He’ll understand.

4. When the injured party returns, looking a little roughed up with stitches or cast or sling, everyone pokes lighthearted fun at his expense, to hasten the healing process. (I’m not actually sure that this last one is a considered a positive reaction or that it is even welcomed at all - as I am not actually a guy, nor have I shown up with a sling or cast or stitches after being wounded - so, call it keen observation or poetic license, whichever is closer to the truth.)

Guys and gals... we’re different creatures, no doubt. We live our lives differently, and we respond to life differently, but there is one bond of sameness that I find undeniable in any situation. We are all made in the image of God... and God has a Nurture Reflex too. “Praise be to the LORD, for he has heard my cry for mercy. The LORD is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in him, and I am helped. My heart leaps for joy and I will give thanks to him in song. The LORD is the strength of his people, a fortress of salvation for his anointed one” (Psalm 28:6-8).

God definitely has an advantage in the care-giving department of life, because he not only protects us from danger ahead of time, but he also gives us what we need to prevent problems and helps us pick ourselves back up when we fall – and not just physically – the physical element is pretty important - a broken tooth and split lip need to be attended to, but he has given the means to mend those particular problems to people. God looks after us in ways that we can’t look after each other – in spiritual matters, in the eternal issues. In some ways we can help to protect each other in these ways as well (most effectively by making sure that we are living our own lives in line with what God outlines through His Word), but ultimately God, and even more specifically Christ, is the one who we trust (or don’t) with our souls.

So here, I suppose, is the thought challenge: if you skin your knee, you can take care of yourself and if you break your arm, there are people who will come to your rescue... but if you are in a car accident tonight and die, who is going to have your back?

Death is not something you can kiss better.

The end of this note has taken a rather serious turn, but I suppose the same is true in life – when it comes time to wrap up, you make your decisions and face the music, if it is indeed music that you will be facing...

There is much, much more to say on this topic. If you are a Christian reading this note, please think about what this really means and talk to someone about it. If you are not a Christian reading this note, by now probably wishing that you hadn’t, please, think about what this really means and talk to someone about it. Come talk to me, go talk to a friend or talk to God, perhaps. Deal with the questions and doubts that you have before it’s too late to pose them. Don’t be afraid of an awkward conversation... sometimes they are the ones that can teach you the most.

The Unexpected Road Trip

It was getting very late. We all knew it was going to be too late, even before we pulled into the car dealership’s parking lot. The lights were out in the Enterprise offices, but Abbie needed her vehicle. She had taken a rental when she came to town, for one reason or another, to save on gas, perhaps, but it was time for her to leave, and she had to go tonight. “See,” I turn to my friend whose bottom lip had stuck out just a little further than usual, in an indignant pout. “Closed.”

I don’t believe the concept of “closed” and its long-term consequences ever really settled in Abbie’s mind, because a split second later the seven of us were huddled around the front doors and Randa was trying to shake them open. “Closed and locked.... Come on guys, seriously, let’s just come back in the morning.” Abbie’s gaze swept back and forth, searching the street suspiciously. Satisfied, she took a knee beside Randa, eye level with the lock and a moment later had jiggled it open with one of her hair pins. Helplessly, I followed everyone into the building. My whiny protests did nothing to temper the infectious thrill of a break-in...

The offices that held Abbie’s keys captive were attached to a small chain of businesses, like a very tiny strip-mall. Most of the other storefronts had their lights off, doors closed and gates shut tightly, but there was one room with a few standing lamps that lit up the space on the other side of the frosted glass panes. The shadow of a man hovered back and forth nonchalantly, reading what seemed to be a newspaper, with a mug of hot beverage in one hand.

Heather opened the large, unlocked glass door and was the first of us “safely” inside the room. I closed the door behind myself as gently as possible, looking nervously towards the softly lighted room at the end of the hall. The pacing continued so I tried to calm my breathing.

There was much shuffling inside the room, mumbled hushes and from time to time someone would knock into some mysterious piece of furniture. It was very dark because there were few exterior windows and so although the night sky was quite bright, there was very little natural light to take advantage of. Those with cell phones found them quickly and coordinated the glow into a makeshift searchlight. The room was “L” shaped, turning sharply to the left after the long, wide foyer that we were standing in. Jon went to investigate, taking one of the cell phones with him. I watched in horror (the others in proud amazement) as Abbie hopped over the tall reception counter and smashed the glass paneling of the tall display case behind it with her bare fist. I automatically gasped aloud. My friends offered her a mimed round of applause. This can’t be happening...

The display case had contained an astounding number or keys. Abbie quickly found her own, conveniently labelled “Abbie” and hopped back over the counter as though it were the most natural and common place thing in the world to have broken into a building and stolen back her own possessions. By this point everyone else was exploring the rest of the store. “Hey,” called Heather in an exaggerated and excited whisper, “There’s a safe over here!” My heart leapt, but certainly not for joy. As John and Greg joined Heather by the safe I crept back to the doorway to look out for our neighbourly businessman with the paper.

His light was off... and his door was open.

My heart was beating so loudly that I could hardly think, much less explain to my friends the paralyzing fear that had rooted me in the middle of the room. John had cracked the combination to the safe at about the same time as I heard more glass breaking around the corner to the left, where I couldn’t see. Jon appeared waving a crowbar. “I found us a way out of here.” Everyone by the safe grinned, holding up their treasures. Heather had about four million dollars worth of diamonds cupped between her hands and the boys were holding up huge bags of coin, the kind pictured in old western movies, with a large dollar sign printed on one side, just to make sure you knew exactly what it contained. Randa had taken Abbie’s keys from her (as she had to drop off the rental keys at the counter, naturally) and both of them had joined Jon who was, as far as I could tell, climbing out his newly “discovered” escape hatch. The beam of a flashlight swept across the floor at my feet. Then I heard the sirens.

I dragged myself from the middle of the floor and over to the broken window just in time to see Abbie drop down from the sill and into a shallow snow-bank. “Hurry up, Nikki, before the cops get here!” she called, running away to the other side of the parking lot where Jon and Randa had started up the vehicles. “No!” I shouted at her, shaking my head and beginning to sob through my desperate cries. “No, Abbie, we can’t! Just put the key back, you can stay at our place tonight and we’ll come back in the morning!” The door behind me opened and someone began to yell. I heard the broken glass of the case breaking beneath their feet. “Please,” I begged out the window, “Come back!” Abbie slammed her door and rolled down the window. “Last chance, Nik. Let’s go!” The men behind me swung the beam of their flashlights in my direction. I looked in panic out the window one last time. “Where are you going!?” My shout was barely heard above the squealing tires as they peeled out of the parking lot. But I got my reply.

The florescent overhead lights flashed on and I was blinded for a moment as strong hands cuffed me to a chair, back in the middle of the room. The police had come, the store owner had been called and CTV snapped my picture; then the lights went out again and someone set up an old-school interrogation spotlight, staring down at me from above. Someone in a fedora began asking silly questions, like “Where are the diamonds” and “Who are you working for” while I cried and began to think about how I was going to explain this to my parents. I said what I could, which was the only word that would come to mind, the only explanation I had and the parting farewell of my crime-loving friends: Vegas, baby. Vegas.

The Blanket of Gold

I am sitting cross-legged on top of my bed, on my grandmother’s blanket of precious gold thread. Perhaps you may comment on its yellowing colour but I promise it’s golden at heart. Perhaps the yellow comes of its age, for I believe it may have been her mother’s before hers, before mine. But I know that it’s gold even though it may not seem it. I know that it’s gold, because she told me it was.

There are not many things, in some ways, that I remember of my grandmother, but the memories I do have are vivid and clear. I remember the layout of their home near Woodstock, and their basement or cellar where a game of crokinole could always be found, and where I imagined secret passages that ran to wonderful places, and played hide and seek with my sisters among the shelves and boxes of life, packed away. I remember the picture of Jesus upstairs, walking along the beach in bare feet. I remember thinking he looked so lovely, so at peace and so gentle and so strong at the same time. I remember their kitchen there, with the peach coloured curtains and the Precious Moments figurines that sat along the sill. I remember the day that we received our own little figurines, each with a child’s face and a soft animal’s body. I still have mine in a box back home. I found it this Christmas and it made me smile a lot, and cry a little. I remember “the new house” with carpets of white, where we would draw pictures with our fingers just after the vacuum, and then drawing on her legs with crayon when the novelty of the first game had faded. I remember the great stone lions at the front driveway, and the friendly boy-neighbour with his tree house, and the corn field behind the shed that I went into just once, and the ashes of a fire pit where we used to pretend we would be brave enough to walk across it, even if it were burning coals, like they did in Aladdin. I remember the back porch and the mysterious other door where people we didn’t know lived in the other half. I remember watching the Gaithers upstairs on the bed with Mom because it was Grandma’s favourite, and Mom would tell us stories about when she was a little girl growing up, with her pet goats who were terribly smelly, and eating green beans with Aunt Lynne until they were sick, and tale of the tricycle and the picnic bench. I remember our room, tucked into a corner, with rainbow wallpaper and lights you turned on like a giant button, and the curtain for a door, and piles and piles of pillows. I even remember the stairs and how they turned at a small platform before you got to the front door and the kitchen, over to the left of my perch. I sat on those stairs and watched many long talks held by the grown-ups at the table, or Scrabble games. It was by those same steps that I remember holding onto Amanda the day I named her, the day that Carolyn received Polly and Melissa got Jessica. I remember Grandma pulling me aside into her room and explaining that it wasn’t the right doll – that she had wanted another one, that she could send a way for it, or she had tried to – one with a lighter dress or something... but Amanda was perfect. She was one of the most important gifts I have ever received, and she still sits at home, waiting for me every time I come back from school.

And now we have come full circle to the story I set out to tell... the story of my grandmother’s blanket. We were at that table, the one that had been for Scrabble and grown-ups, and somehow I knew that it was going to be a very important conversation. I don’t remember if I was sitting or standing at the time, but I remember being at eye-level with my Grandma, and I remember her leaning in a bit, like she was going to tell me a secret.

I suppose in a way it was a secret, a very special kind of exchange, just between the two of us. She told me that she wanted to give me something – something that I was going to get now but that I couldn’t have until I was quite big, and in school... in University. She told me of the beautiful golden blanket that had been an heirloom, a thing passed down in a very special way, from one woman to another, in our family. She had tried to explain that she was giving it to me so early because she wanted to make sure she got to give it to me herself. I didn’t really understand what she had meant by that, at the time... people say she had been sick for a long, long time, but I had never seen sickness. All I can remember is the love. Anyway, there was a gift bag at her feet, kind of under her chair. She reached for it and slowly pulled out the blanket of gold; the most wonderful tapestry I had ever seen, or have ever seen since. She unfolded it for me to admire for only a moment, just long enough for my six-or-seven-year-old fingertips to feel its cool smoothness, then she folded it back up, so carefully, and put it back into the gift bag. She told me that Mom was going to take care of it for me until it was time for me to have it again. And she did.

My grandmother’s golden blanket has only tonight come back out of the gift bag. I think I was almost afraid of using it before now, remembering the way my Grandma had handled it with such care, like it was the most delicate and fragile possession she had ever owned. But I want to be able to look at it more. It is still as wonderful as I remember it, from so long ago in the kitchen of the new house. The pattern is beautiful, so unlike anything else I have, and the material feels cool and smooth under my twenty-year-old fingertips. And now it smells like my hope chest, a reminder that our memories both prepare us for our future and are affected, however gently, by our present.

I couldn’t be happier tonight. I’ve been wiping at tears for over an hour now, but my heart feels so good. There are other stories I have of Grandma Alway, other memories to share another time, but the story of this blanket made of gold seems to top them all, right now. I only hope, in however many years when I have the joy of a daughter or granddaughter that I will be able to pass on this blanket, folded up carefully into its original gift bag, so that its journey may continue, along with all of the stories and histories that go with it.

An Excellent Gift

The little girl looked up at her father with a smile in her eyes.

“Rapunzel had pets, you know.”

They were on their way home after going to town for cereal. It was Mom’s birthday tomorrow and both of them were determined for everything to be perfect from the moment she woke up. The day had been completely planned out; breakfast in bed, a morning of board-games and old movies, and in the afternoon they were off to Grandma’s and Grandpa’s for dinner and tea. In the business of getting the day all set up and trying to make sure that Mom didn’t make any conflicting birthday plans of her own, Dad had forgotten to pick up the most important part of their special day breakfast routine: Cap’n Crunch. It was the little girl who had noticed the problem, and so, right after Dad got home they made a special father-daughter trip into town.

“What kind of pets does she have?” her father asked, returning her smile.
“A rabbit and a dragon!”
“Oh, wow! I wish I could have a dragon! Then I could ride on his back instead of taking the bus home.”

The little girl gasped aloud and her eyes opened widely. “Daddy! Dragons have fire!”
“I’m not afraid, sweetie. I could bring lots of water with me. And I think we might get home a lot faster if we had a dragon to ride.”

The little girl seemed to ponder this for a moment before wrinkling her nose and shaking her head slowly. “No. It’s a purple dragon.”
Her father laughed. “Well, that’s okay,” he replied without missing a beat, “I’ll just spray-paint him black.”
“Black! Oh, no Daddy, not black!”
“Not black, eh?” He chucked gentle at his daughter’s horror. “Well, what about... what if we colour him like the rainbow?”

Suddenly all of the concern in the little girl’s face melted away, revealing the wonderful smile of childhood’s simple joy and a laugh that danced through the air between them.
“Yes! That is a good idea! That would make the dragon very happy!”

The little girl’s laugh was contagious. A couple across the aisle from them couldn’t help the smiles spreading across their faces as they glanced over at the child, not-so-secretly eaves-dropping on their conversation. The creativity of such an innocent heart is hard to ignore.

“Well, I don’t know about happy, but he sure would be multicoloured.”

The girl’s gaze dropped from her father’s and down at the large, colourful cereal box tucked between them on the seat. Then she took a moment to smile at the bus-driver who smiled back with a grandfatherly grin.

“Could we colour the dragon Daddy? Could we draw pictures on it and colour it however we want?”
“Of course we can, darling.”
“And it will have pink!”
“And blue?”
“For Mommy’s birthday!”

Her father reached high up above the little girl’s head and tugged at the yellow cord.
“What do you say about making Mommy a card when we get home? A birthday card, out of really big white paper and I’ll draw a great big dragon on the inside? Then we can colour him like the rainbow with pictures of whatever we like for Mom’s birthday, and no black anywhere.”

The little girl laughed a wonderful, happy laugh that seemed to light up the whole bus. At the next stop, the little girl’s father stood up tall, took their box of Cap’n Crunch under one arm and offered his other hand to his daughter.

Hand in hand father and daughter marched up the aisle and thanked the bus-driver for their ride. Then, with a quick smile to each other that glowed of great friendship and mutual adoration, they hopped off the bus and onto the sidewalk, both dreaming of Mom’s special surprises and the stories they would be able to tell in the morning.

Rambling Rant

The time ticks on
And the snow falls down
And the bus is late
And I am late
And I am late
For school.

The wind picks up
And the world seems cruel
As the bus is still late
And I am late
For a brand-new class
At school.

So what if I whine,
As I stand here alone
With sopping wet cuffs
And sniffling nose
As I wait and wait and wait
And wait for the bus...

So I look up in spite
At the ridiculous sign
That smiles and says
“Wait just twenty minutes”
But means a full hour
Of dashed hopes and cold and wet.

Where is this bus?!
The class will begin,
The professor won’t wait
And won’t care why I’m late
And I am so late,
So late.

I’ve decided to cry.

With tears streaming down,
And freezing my face,
I suddenly see
The stupid late bus
With its stupid late smile.
Just great.

So the world pokes fun
As I wipe down my face
And wipe off my book
And my hat and my hair
And I stick out my tongue at that cruel sign
And that stupid bus
And my phone for a watch
Who laughs in my face as I check the time
Again.

But the bus-driver smiles
And the snow melts away
And I get to class
With a minute to spare
To spare!
Quite mysteriously...

So I’m sorry, I say, to the very late bus
And the snarky sign just trying to help
And the friend I rushed past
Without saying hello
In the hall with dropped eyes
On the way to class.

Perhaps tomorrow
When my alarm goes off
And I reach for the snooze
I’ll get up and out the door instead,
And not have to wait
Or fear being late...

For the third day in a row...

Merry Christmas Letter

Happy Belated Christmas! I am writing today for more than one reason; the first is that I have not found the time or the inspiration for writing a letter before this morning, and the second is that Boxing Day gives me a unique opportunity to share with you some of the reasoning behind the joy I have found this Christmas... joy that came after Christmas was over, after all of the presents had been unwrapped and friends and family had been visited and everyone else was tucked into bed once more, donning new pyjamas. Last night I had a bit of a revelation, my own little Scrooge moment when I too was in bed with a new nightdress. Though it was quite late at the time, I had finally stopped moving, stopped bustling about the way that we do even in rest on Christmas, and I lay quite still for a moment before I began to pray. This is about the point that my stomach churned and I began to realize that I have let yet another Christmas slip through my fingers.

Christmas eve, morning and night were a visual memory but a spiritual blur... while my family was gathered around the tree downstairs, opening gifts from each other, we each made sure to respond with thankfulness and smiles and genuine gratitude from the heart, but when I removed my thoughts from the paper and ribbon before me to the holy gift of God’s son, to the gift wrapped in the womb of a young woman and opened to everyone in history, I turned away quickly, almost impatient for another gift to be opened. It was quite late last night or early this morning that I was caught by my internal foolishness. I was shamed and blessed, convicted and encouraged and challenged by my thoughts, finally Christ centered.

You see, the concept that "it's better to give than to receive" is an idea that, ironically, comes from the lips of Christ himself. I say ironically because, although I am sure that God found pleasure and joy in sending Christ to us, in giving us the ultimate of all Christmas gifts, I think that He got the proverbial short end of the stick. When we, as a race of broken, short-sighted, bustling, hopeless and easily distracted souls first opened His gift, we met the baby with mixed feelings: some of us rejoiced, some of us feared, some of us turned a blind eye or cold shoulder. As the child grew up, or as the gift lost its novelty, we left it alone. For years we completely ignored it, until it started causing us trouble, and just like a small child would with a simple doll that seemed dull or troublesome, we began to abuse the gift – to take it for granted, to push its limits, to hurt and harm on purpose – we broke the precious gift He had given to us. We broke him and could do nothing to repair the damage done; like a shattered porcelain mannequin, we looked upon the broken body of Christ and finally realized the importance of the gift, the value of His Son, and the terrible guilt and shame of ruining something that has been given with such care, sacrifice and love. Facing the broken-hearted face of God, the giver of the gift and the Father of the Son, is a thought more dreadful than any of us can bear.

But the heart of God holds so much more than disappointment and pain. He looked down at us and met our trembling hands and tearful, fearful eyes with love so abounding, mercy so healing, passion so filling, grace so forgiving and care so deep that we had no idea what to do with ourselves. Then, God did something that I cannot understand. He took our hands, cut by the splinters of a broken doll and covered in the blood of His son and He washed us clean of our crime; then He took him from us to His place and fixed him, completely, better than we had ever seen him before, so much more vibrant and so much more alive... and then He gave him back.

Even God re-gifts. God sent Jesus to us once so long ago in a stable in Bethlehem with only a few witnesses. He gave him to us again in another miracle that we did not deserve, in the partial majesty and wonder of His holy character. I cannot wait for the day when He offers Christ to us once more, when He will send him back with all of His amazing and truly awesome glory. We didn't deserve him the first time, but we needed him so much more than we had known. We didn't deserve a second chance at showing our appreciation, loyalty and respect, but He has given it to us as He has given him to us for this life and for this time. We do not deserve eternal life no matter what we have done or what we are doing and no matter our efforts to come, but I know that He has already given us this gift, this priceless and inexpressibly valuable gift, forever.

And so we come to Boxing Day. Traditionally, this is the time when we begin the process of favouriting gifts, of setting aside others, of contemplating exchange or re-gifting. I pray that you will act carefully with the gift of God. I pray that when we are boxing and shelving and shuffling the presents we have only yesterday unwrapped that the gift of Christ, of the life and death and resurrection of Jesus, of the promise of his return in full glory and the activity of God in our lives will not be forgotten as quickly as some of our other presents. I pray that you and your family will continue to celebrate although the festivities of the world have passed. I pray that we will continue to express our gratitude with genuine smiles, with the thankfulness of people in great need and with the praise, honour, joy, love, hope and sacrifice due to the giver of such a gift.

And so, I wish you a very merry Christmas not only this day but the next and the next, and may the Christmas season and the true spirit of this holiday extend in your heart long into the coming year.

With faith in the truth of His word, God bless.

Creatures of Detail

I am not a sports fan. Growing up as the eldest of three girls, there were rarely hockey games on the television – my Dad did give my sisters and me a strong base of traditionally male influenced experiences such as the annual father-daughter fishing trip that we took out to a very manly hunt-camp (though it was sometimes hard to tell after a weekend of girl-immersion… those weekends were filled with a wonderful and strange mixture of hairdos and animal guts). My Dad also made sure that his little girls had a general roadmap to a good tool box (making certain that we knew the difference between Robertson and Phillips screwdrivers), that we could drive our boat-like caravan without hitting too many trees (although I think this particular activity was partly to blame for his slowly graying beard), and taught us an appreciation for all things science fiction – but when it came to relaxing in front of the television as a whole family, my father was unjustly outnumbered every time. In fact, hockey as a pastime never crossed my mind until I moved to North Bay.

I am still not very interested in the sport, but I have made friends with a large group of people who are genuinely passionate about the game and so for the past few months I have been trying to learn some of the athletic jargon, or at least a decent grasp of the rules, et cetera. At present I find myself enduring yet another face-off in the company of my friends, all conversation staying far above my head; however, the time I am spending here with my notepad, huddled in the corner, is serving an interesting purpose. I am studying reaction.

Though not everyone is gifted with the skill of close observation in attitude or cue, we are all creatures of detail. When something is important to us, it consumes our attention. How can something so removed from our reality have such a dramatic effect on us? (One of my guy friends has just leaped up from his seat to holler a comment drenched in personal frustration at the referee. I doubt that he can hear him.) It amazes me that something so small can trigger such a reaction in a person. The puck didn’t go in… it’s not the end of the world. It’s not even the end of the game.

As I watch my friends get into mock-fights in representation of their favourite players who have just had a clash on the ice, I am suddenly wondering if I can learn from their strange connection to these far-off unknown allies.

You may not know this about me yet, but I am a budding actor-to-be this and next semester. I am in an acting class, theatre appreciation specifically, and I am learning to apply some of what I see in my life into my work between the curtains and under the lights. On stage, I am reacting to other people, other actors, but I am also acting as though I am living the life of my character. I am going to have to draw upon memories I don’t have and a history that doesn’t exist to make the connections to the audience authentic. If I can pull from memories in my own history that can be made applicable to the situation at hand, if I can find the moments of hockey-like reaction or fishing trip importance in my mind before I take the stage, then those are the details that I need to draw on.

The big picture is awesome and grand but it is only truly great if the details are in focus. That is where the beauty is found – that is where the reality lies – in the details.

Echoes

The staircases of our school are wonderful and unexpected places of solace for me. I find few things are peaceful as an empty stairwell and though there are few times when these transitory caverns remain quiet and deserted, I treasure the moments that I can find solitude there.

Even when I am alone, however, the stillness of the place does not stay quiet for long… the staircases of this school are my favourite places to be tranquil but they are also my favourite place to sing. The echo of the space and the way that the self-made music reverberates off the walls, the steps and the windows reminds me of a kind of heavenly choir, a host of angelic spirits, joining me in my music.

Echoes are so interesting. They are like a beautiful instant replay, like a voice underwater, like a haunting chill found in any melody…

In the theatre, this echo doesn’t exist. The padded seating and paneled walls make every effort to stop the echo, as though they are to be feared in the art of acting – and I suppose in speech they are a harm or nuisance, distracting or distorting the sounds of spoken word, but with the song, where often the storied are told as much through the melodies as they are through the lyrics, an echo is a wonderful tool of expression.

My favourite part of this personal escape is not the silence or the echo of my own voice – it’s catching others in the act as they bustle and saunter from Point A to Point B. I am always so encouraged by the reverberating whistle of a staff, visitor or fellow student… Apparently the art of semi-private expression extends beyond my blabbering self.

So, the staircase: a place of solitude where I can sort my thoughts when the rest of the world lapses into noise and chaos, a place where I am free to sing and enjoy the echoes and a place to be reminded that, at least on their own, the people of Nipissing and Canadore still have a spirit of personal expression.

Long live the melody…

The Mind of a Six Year Old

From time to time I find myself in need of a special kind of therapy. When I am discouraged, I try on one of a number of wonderful dresses buried in my closet, when I am lonely I make time to go out with a few friends or call home and talk to my Mom or my sisters and when I am stressed, I become six years old.

When I am overwhelmed by schoolwork, be that assignments or exams, I have found that the best therapy for recovering my sanity is to temporarily act as though none of it matters. I don my favourite pair of head-to-foot patterned pajamas, take my Sesame Street blanket that I have hiding between the duvets on my bed, gather my reserve box of sweet cereal, a large bowl, my favourite spoon and a gallon of milk and I sit in front of the television with legs crossed, watching Saturday morning cartoons. The recovery process usually takes me about two hours and by the end of Bugs Bunny or the Flintstones, my focus and my inspiration have usually returned.

While in the midst of a Road-Runner cartoon I found myself marveling at the creative processes of Wile E Coyote as he designed yet another flawless, genius scheme. Always a masterpiece of blue-prints and instructions, Wile E’s plans had every visual reassurance of success; naturally, the Road-Runner would find some way of foiling his plot, and we all know that this coyote has suffered many a concussion when his tiny pink umbrella failed to hold back the falling bolder or anvil. The next frame was what has always impressed me with Wile E’s character… no matter the previous injury, he would immediately be working up some new and devilish plan to capture and cook our speedy friend.

Where would the fictional world be without Acme Enterprises and where would we be without heroes like Wile E that remind us of the meaning of endurance and perseverance under all kinds of trials and tests? It is lessons like this one that pull me out of academic slump and emotional weariness and back into the world of functioning people and progression of thought. With characters like Wile E that can pick themselves up even after they get knocked off their feet over and over and over, then how can I do anything but smile and pick myself back up in the midst of a crazy and stress filled week? Even when I feel like I’m drowning in work – at least it’s not an anvil.

A Little Encouragement

This letter comes from North Bay and from the desk of a very tired, very stressed and very encouraged young woman. It's the encouragement part of my life that I want to pass along briefly, in case you are finding yourself in one of the other two categories.

Life is beginning to wrap up here, partly in the completion-of-tasks sense, partly in the shiny-paper-everywhere sense. In less than a month we will all be sitting in front of a tree with wrapping paper and ribbon at our feet, and if that mental image isn't quite enough to pull you through the next couple of weeks, here are a couple verses that will hopefully encourage you as you work through the rest of life until Christmas:


"Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for He who promised is faithful." (Hebrews 10:23)

"So we fix our eyes not on what is seen but on what is unseen for what is seen in temporary but what is unseen is eternal." (2nd Corinthians 4:18)

"Find rest, oh my soul, in God alone; my hope comes from Him. He alone is my rock and salvation. I will not be shaken!" (Psalm 62:5-6)

"The end of all things is near. Therefore, be clear-minded and self-controlled so that you can pray." (1st Peter 4:7)

"Do not be anxious about anything but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus." (Philippians 4:6-7)


I hope that the next little while will be a productive and successful time for you, whatever you have on your plate... try to get a little sleep from time to time, proofread your homework, crack open the advent calender, eat some fresh fruit and smile as much as you can!

And so, with a prayer and a smile of my own, I leave you to tests and papers and work. Keep your chin up and God bless.

The Not-So-Sleeping Beauty

I am Briar Rose, officially named Aurora (or Princess Aurora), best known in local folklore as Sleeping Beauty. I was born into a wonderful royal family, doted upon by not only my parents but my guardians, the three good fairies, and an entire kingdom of loyal subjects. I was even betrothed to a prince. I was blessed with supernatural gifts of beauty and song; however, as the stereotypical story unfolds, I am also cursed: upon the eve of my 16th birthday, I shall prick my finger and fall into a deep sleep until true love’s kiss awakens me.

To counter the spell I was sent to the forest to be raised by the fairies (acting mortally) until the threat had passed. I was taught to be quite tame and gentle, traits that come naturally having been by myself for so long; only the three women and the animals keep me company.

But now... now things have changed.

It’s the 14th Century and the evening of my 16th birthday, before the supposéd death sentence comes into effect. They’ve dressed me up in a poufy gown and suddenly they want me to get married! Well, I want to get married too, but not to some stranger in a starched prince costume, but to the man I love, the man I have been dreaming of since the day we danced in the wood. It seems like yesterday, and it was, but the connection we shared was worth this escape I’m planning. Fate has a hold on me no longer. The fairies and the royalty, as dear as they are, have lied to me for 16 years and it’s about time I take fate and life into my own hands.

I’m in the upper room of the castle where my “parents” are keeping me until they march me down the aisle. I’ve finally been left alone to try and process some of this, and I am not going to sit here even a moment longer than I have to. I am running away.

The castle walls are cold stone, bare and cage-like. One heavy and barred door is just behind me to the left, the only way in or out of this room. The fairies are somewhere on the other side but I don’t know where they’ve gone or how long they plan to stay away. The entirety of my life in the homely country cottage has been condensed to three cardboard boxes in the corner. Before me is a large mirror, and all I can see is the stupid dress they have draped me in, and the crown on my head – a symbol of imprisonment and death, as far as I am concerned. They keep talking about a spinning wheel? Who cares? I just want to get back to the forest before he gets there; it is with that boy, that man, that my happily ever after lies.

I am collecting all of the things I need to get back to the cottage – shall, basket with some key food supplies, comfortable shoes (trading my heels in for flats), and a candle, which I can’t find. I know I have to leave ASAP to avoid being recaptured, but I need the light to be able to find my way back, not that I really know the way. As the time moves along, I get more panicked, starting to talk out the rushed packing processes of earlier this morning. It wasn’t logical; I keep finding forks and toothbrushes together, my cloak was wrapping plates, and so on. The frustration is building rapidly.

I’m frustrated by the inefficiency of the clutter in the room (wondering all the time how much of the life I’ve know was false and empty) and I’m scared out of my mind at the life that waits for me if I stay (an arranged marriage to a man I don’t know and probably won’t even like, parents and people who love me but don’t know anything about who I am, aunts who turn out to be fairies with magical powers, a huge castle that feels so foreign and cold and isolating...). But from time to time I get swept away in anticipation of the life I could have with the.... man... well, his name isn’t that important... He loves me and I love him and even with the dangers of the world, even in getting home again, our love will protect me.

I want to get home, to the cottage in the woods, not because it’s my home but because that is the place where I am supposed to be meeting my love right now. I need to find that stupid candle and get out of here, somehow, without being seen – even in this ridiculous ball gown.

There are so many obstacles to face; I’m locked in the tower of a castle (how cliché) with one way out that is probably fortified by a hundred royal guards. I’ve been dressed up in a gown that not only weighs three times what my usual dresses do, but is also nearly florescent and could house a small country of people under its skirt. I can’t find the candle and although the room is lighted well, I think a girl of any stature carrying a full sized torch might be counted as suspicious. Time is also, naturally, ticking against me.

The stakes: if I get free and find my way back to the cottage in time, I will surely live a life full of love and romance and fairytale bliss. If, however, I am captured, I will be forced into a horrifying marriage to the ogre prince and I will be miserable the rest of my life. Or, on a more positive note, I will prick my finger on a spindle and fall into a dream-filled coma for the rest of my life... not a terrible option, when compared to the legal slavery I will be forever trapped in otherwise...

And so, I move to action. I root through my boxes, collecting the things I will need for my journey. Hiding the dress as best I can, I light the candle, grab some matches and quietly slip out the door without being seen.

Pip, Chip and Theodore

Over the past few weeks our cottage has been steadily collecting tenants. Unwelcomed as they may be, our new roommates have settled quite comfortably into their new home where they are apparently warm, dry and well fed. As a general statement they keep to themselves – they don’t use up all of our hot water and they don’t blast their music late at night – but there is an odd combination of severe territorialism and a complete lack of respect for personal space that has created some tension between the human and chipmunk populations.

We’ve tried asking politely. Chip, please stay out of my dresser drawers. There are things in there not for rodent eyes. We’ve tried demanding our privacy. Theodore! Get out of my space! And stop eating the popcorn. When you start paying for it, you can have some. Until then, back off! We’ve warned, begged and threatened with no avail. Even our heavily overused air fresheners won’t keep them away for long. It’s getting a little ridiculous.

With professional exterminators out of the question, Pip, Chip and Theodore have thus far been able to postpone their inevitable demise. We only know of one chipmunk that has met his Maker in our home, if chipmunks do indeed come face to face with the living God, and that poor rodent drowned in our toilet prior to our arrival. (We buried him respectfully in a closed casket service provided by the nearest Wal-Mart shopping bag, the strength of my slinging arm and the forest behind our cottage.) But the dead ones are of little consequence to us now; it’s the ones that refuse to leave and refuse to die that really irk the spirit of our home.

We have run out of viable options. We have done everything we can thing to get rid of these vermin pests. We have been left with no alternative action.

This.
Means.
War.

Apartment 714 has turned into a battle of wit. By rummaging through our bedrooms, the Chips have learned everything they need to know about us, and have used this information to abuse their stealth powers. Desperate times are upon us and we have called in for back up.

Meet our secret weapon of superhuman handy-man skill: Carl. Armed to the teeth with nails and with a hammer in hand, Carl took immediate action with no direction necessary and in moments everyone in the house knew that Pip, Chip and Dale had stolen their last chocolate malt ball.

Perhaps there is a lesson to be learned from our experience with the not-so-friendly chipmunks of MBC; I have a professor who has said many times that a good story must reach beyond the fictional narrative and into the real world if it is going to be of any lasting influence, so allow me a moment to overlay the framework of this little allegory. Consider a simple substitution of title for each of these characters: Pip, Chip and Dale become Anger, Deception and Lust. If your life is open to them you won’t have to look far; they find their way toward the source of your survival (popcorn to prayer life) and ruin it, so slowly at first that you barely notice, then more and more directly until you feel like there is nothing you can do to stop the attacks. My personal efforts have no lasting affects and I feel not only invaded but also exposed, as though everything in my life has been tainted. Eventually there comes a point when you cannot help yourself any longer. You must call out for help or struggle forever in a winless war. So, who are you going to call? Not a handy-man, though the answer does lie in a carpenter...

The truth of the matter is that the things that hurt us the most, the things that get into the cracks of our will and corrupt the spirit are things that we invite into our lives; we ignore them or feed them and then fight the consequences instead of the root issue. The footholds of sin are secure; however, there is one who can free us from the burdens we carry and the messes we make... Carl used nails in the wall, Christ used nails in the cross.

So, I suppose this is the first of my “choose your own adventure” stories with a few possible morals and endings to choose from. The first is obvious; invest in some solid Tupperware and lock up your goodies. The second; protect yourself actively against rodents and the alluring snares deployed against mind and body... sin is attractive, chipmunks are furry and cute, both cause harm far beyond the mischief of the first impression. The final moral is a lesson I am struggling with on a daily basis; we are not created to be independent. God designed us to need Him, and as much as I love working on my own and trying to figure out the answers, there are times when I must, we must, surrender independence before we can ever be free.

Open Your Eyes

Once upon a time, as the clichéd entry begins, there was a beautiful young girl who lived in a magic mirror. The girl spent much of her time gazing into the world of reality, longing to be a part of the adventures and pleasures that their kind of life could bring. She pressed her hands against the thick glass that separated her world from theirs and imagined a place where people were full of energy and colour, much unlike the flat and dulled spaces she saw when surveying her own home. The girl was a dreamer, that much was well known about her – but who she really was seemed a mystery even to her friends and family; she saved her heart for staring across the glass and into the lives of others.

The mirror she lived in was magical for two reasons; the first, obviously, was that it contained and protected a world of people, just like those on the other side. They were a special and lovely clan, friendly and full of life, though the girl couldn’t see it. The second magical element to the mirror was that it was reflective, though it did not reflect directly. When a person came up against the glass they would not see their own image but instead it was the reversal of the world at their back. If the girl had taken a step backwards and turned around she would be looking at exactly the same view as the mirror seemed to project.

Perhaps if she had turned around she would have joined into the game of Frisbee that had found so intriguing. If she had turned, she could have given a hug to the child with scrapped knees that had fallen off her bike. Maybe then she would have gone to the dance or carolled at Christmas or played in the park or done one of a million things that she watched the children in the mirror doing. If only she had turned around and faced her world with her eyes truly opened, maybe then she would have really lived.

But the girl never answered the call of her friends when she was looking through the pane of glass. She blocked out and ignored everything that happened behind her and refused, perhaps unconsciously, to participate in her world.

Especially when he was there.

A boy, young and handsome, looked back at her; he used to be so quiet, only rarely coming into the mirror’s view. He would quietly walk back and forth between the trees at the edge of the wood, always with a cautious and curious gaze. In the girl’s imagination she would often think of conversations that she might have with this boy, were he able to see her. Impossible, she thought. He lives in the world of colour and I am here, so flat and dull. He can’t see my world nor can I pass through this glass to his. Impossible. And yet the more the she dwelt on the impossibility of her growing affection for the boy and the more confidant he seemed to grow, coming ever closer to the mirror, the more hopelessly consumed she became with the life she saw – and the more distanced from her world she became as well.

By day the little girl would peer through the glass, longing to be on the other side with the boy and his friends, and into the evening she would lie down on the grass and drift into dream about his world and his life. Little did she know that he too had spent time dreaming of the looking glass girl, slowly building up the courage to finally meet her. Until then, he thought, I will care for her from a distance, dreaming of the life we might someday share.

Time wore on and the girl went to the mirror in spring rain and winter chill for many years. She grew from a hopeful child to a young woman enveloped in an imaginary life; with every passing season she found herself loving the boy, now a man, more and more, but she was also desperately lonely. He was a beautiful fiction – intangible, illusive and pretend. It’s a lie, she would tell herself, over and over while staring into his face. His image stood now, and for a long time before this moment, directly before her, confidant, tall and strong. He was kind looking and attractive, ever so much more than their first few meetings, and yet he was the wonderful lead character of a life she could never possess. He’s not real... but I love him...

The man had attached himself completely to this woman in every way that one can without physical contact or mutual conversation. He was so committed to her that in a moment’s breath he would marry without doubt or fear, and yet he remained silent, waiting until she was ready.

That day came after seven years of looking through glass. The girl had been eerily quiet for hours, thinking about her life; the life that she had wasted by spending her time standing in front of the mirror. She thought about her family and her friends that for so long had worked to keep her in touch with reality, supporting her and loving her even when they disagreed with what she was doing and thinking. She thought about the part of her heart that she had devoted to the glass, the investment of her mind that she had put in something so superficial and empty. Then the girl stopped thinking and began to act. She stood and bravely faced the mirror’s surface.

“NO!” she cried, emotions erupting from the depths of her soul. The single word rang loud and true and clear with a self-strength she had never before experienced. “You do not own me!”

Suddenly the woman threw herself forward and pounded the sheet of glass with both fists. She could feel it strain under her pressure. She struck again, with more force and the glass moaned at the blow. Once more she lifted her arms in an attack against the glass that had kept her from life on either side of the pane. The flawless surface of the magic mirror shattered.

For the first time in the whole of her life, she saw her own reflection in the broken glass. The little girl, so familiar from ages past, was nowhere to be seen and in her place stood a tall and beautiful woman, colourful and strong, like the people she had been watching for years. She laughed a quiet, mournful laugh for the life that the mirror had stolen away. “How did I ever get so consumed with the life of my fantasy when reality, true and present and full, was all this time behind me? How could I be so blind?” The woman leaned her forehead against the broken glass and let her tears fall. “No more of this. No more.”

After a moment she pushed away from the pane and turned away from her life of slavery to an imagined world. Her eyes lifted up, truly open to the sight in front of her, her world, reality. She gasped.

The view she saw was the view she has been staring at since girlhood. The meadow, the trees, the town and the church, the school, the people... the boy...

He stepped forward and held out his hands. “I knew you would find me eventually.” He smiled. He was a boy no longer as she was no longer a child, and his voice was deep and clear. How she had waited for this moment! How she had longed to hear him speak! “I’ve been waiting so long,” he said, “because I knew that you weren’t ready for me. You’ve no idea how my heart ached when you were crying and I couldn’t comfort you. How I longed to laugh along with you, but I needed to wait. But now you have finally come away from your dreams and wishes into a world that can truly be yours. Come with me; let me show you the life you have been missing, the life you have always wanted.”



How much of our lives are spent longing for an imagined life? How often do you find yourself dreaming of that perfect man or woman, however distant and intangible they may be? A life of ideals and fanciful hopes is a dangerous and discouraging one to dwell within. Concentrating solely upon the future causes you to lose sight of the present; aspiration must be balanced with action, daydream with truth. Don’t forfeit who you are but find who you are in the world that’s foundation is real; it is then that you will truly discover what it means to live.

The Answer Man

“And welcome back to The Answer Man; I’m your host, Nowitt Tall. For those of you just tuning into tonight’s program, we have been addressing the issue of the future and its ridiculous uncertainty for the past half hour. In the studio with me is Miss Terri, of the Department Explaining Finite Information Newly Exposed (also known as DEFINE), and she will be speaking to the predicted pattern of unsettlement and general obscurity that the future holds, or perhaps, doesn’t. Miss Terri, what can you tell us about the future?”

“Nothing... and that’s the whole problem! DEFINE is finding great difficult tracking down any absolutes about the future. We simply cannot claim any definite knowledge of a situation before it happens. There are far too many variables! Too many things that could happen! Did you know that there are entire government departments that dedicate their lives to the research of possibility? I know of a woman who has spent millions trying to isolate every possible outcome of a falling paperclip. You would be astounded at some of her findings.”

“But the future, Miss Terri. Is there nothing you can say?”

“Surely I could say many things about the future, but even with my heavily prepared and researched report there is honestly nothing I could say that you yourself could not discover in a few minutes.”

“What do you mean? Are you suggesting that no one knows anything about what is going to happen at any time in the future?!”

“Well, no one that works in our building.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“It’s the future that is ridiculous. The only one who would know that is... well, we can’t really get into that here.”

“Please, if you have any information at all I’m sure that everyone is growing quite nervous and would appreciate some kind of reassurance.”

“Well, I don’t have your answers Nowitt Tall, but there is a small group of researchers who have been looking into the Source. They’ve been coming up with some crazy discoveries in futuristic prophesies for the past six thousand years or so.”

“That’s fantastic! Do you think you would be able to get in contact with one of these people?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well folks, we are going to take a short break and track down one of the researchers of the Source while you are subconsciously absorbing the politically tainted and overwhelmingly materialistic social propaganda that is about to follow in 30 second clips.”

[Look! Look over here, quickly, now! Do you see this stunning young woman? She may eat next to nothing and be airbrushed and lighted professionally for this commercial, but you can look just like her every day if you purchase our one-of-a-kind all-natural imitation soap-substitute facial cleansers. Guaranteed results in only seven weeks if coupled with rigorous exercise and plastic surgery. Side effects may include stomach cramping, abnormal hair growth and in rare cases sudden death. Vote Liberal!]

“Welcome back to The Answer Man, I’m your host, Nowitt Tall. Before our break we were talking to Miss Terri from DEFINE. I would now like to welcome to the hot seat Ima Witness, who will explain some of the research that her team has been uncovering about the future and its mysteriousness. Hello Ima. Thank you for coming over here on such short notice.”

“My pleasure! I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to share a few minutes of what we have been looking into. It’s a fascinating line of work and rarely taken as seriously as it should be.”

“Please, tell us whatever you would like. The floor is yours.”

“I work with a team that has been thoroughly looking into the biblical prophesies of the Christian New and Old Testaments. We study the past track record of scriptural accuracy to predict how accurate the prophesies of the future may be. It has been an incredible project; there are hundreds of very specific prophesies that have come to completion within the bible’s historical canon, and many, many more that have yet to be fulfilled. I have no doubt in the precision of the remaining global forecasts.”

“No doubts?”

“None.”

“...None.”

“There is something about complete assurance of supernatural absolutes in our world that give inexplicable peace to the soul. Take the end of the world, for example.”

“Let me guess. Global warming, right? I knew it would catch up with us eventually.”

“No, it’s not global warming or another ice age. The sun is not going to explode, the earth is not going to split in half because of a giant earthquake and I really don’t think zombies will be taking over international government any time soon, no matter how convincing their political campaigns. All of these supposedly scientific and cultural ideas sound ridiculous when compared to the biblical model. Ask yourselves honestly which of these theories makes more sense; millions of years of environmental torture under the stress of an aging star or the final victorious triumph of a just and omnipotent God?”

“You have a very interesting view on this issue, Ima! Thanks you for your input into today’s show. It’s encouraging to know that there are still people out there who put their faith in established absolute truths. It’s also a good reminder that there are more ways to interpret reality than the world of North American media would have us believe. That’s what our goal is here on The Answer Man; bringing the answers and the arguments to you. And so, we thank you for listening. I’m Nowitt Tall, leaving you with many more questions and a few new answers. Until next week, keep thinking, keep asking and keep tuning in!”

A Father’s Love

I’m sitting here, alone in the quiet stillness of my apartment’s living room, reflecting on the last really great hug I received. Perhaps it is a strange thing to have occupying my thoughts at such a time, but the thinking has taken some time to resolve itself into an expressible idea. And so, here I am, smothered in the memory of a hug.

The specific embrace I’ve been thinking about was one that I shared with my Dad this summer. I don’t even remember what had caused me to be so upset that day or even which day it was, but I remember the hug vividly; it was strong and immobilizing, holding me tightly and protectively and it was really, really long. It seemed to stretch on and on forever until something odd happened... I kind of got used to the pressure and position and I almost couldn’t feel him or the hug for a while. After a few more moments of standing in the hug that I couldn’t feel, I shifted just a little, as a hint or suggestion that perhaps it was a good time for this particular hug to end, when suddenly all of the power in my Dad’s hug was realized afresh and I was once again caught in a wonderful, loving, protective, accepting, supportive, intentional and overwhelming embrace. I think that’s when I started to cry. Without a word, my Dad’s arms wrapped just a little bit tighter around my body, holding me close for a long, long time.

While I was sitting and thinking over this memory, I had a personal epiphany: my Dad and God hug the same way. The first time you come into contact with God you are completely blown away by His intense, fierce, powerful and gentle, welcoming and transforming love. God’s love is, unlike anything else we have ever encountered or can possible understand, perfectly constant. So consistent is this love, in fact, that in some unimaginable way we become accustomed to it; the love that once ignited a fire of joy and a passion for truth in our hearts changes, in our perception, into warmth that lulls us to a semi-comfortable spiritual slumber. After a while of living in the warmth of God’s love we begin to overheat and get restless, so we move. A slight change of position and suddenly we are once again flooded by wave after wave of God’s merciful and compassionate personal love. He loves us – He loves you – and he’s not about to let you go.

There is nothing quite like the loving hug of a father. I hope you have had the experience of a physical man to protect you and your family... but if your life’s blessings have fallen in other areas and for one reason or another you are without this role model and leader in your life, know that there is someone waiting with arms open wide, waiting to give you the hug of your life. All you have to do is open yourself to the embrace and let Him pull you close and hold you safe.

Another One Bites the Dust

Suddenly this simple, lyrical phrase has taken on a new weight and meaning in my life; never before have I desired the gritty taste and texture of sand in my mouth, but after last night the pursuit of such an experience has consumed my plan-making mind. What is the fastest and most enduring way that I can accomplish this goal? How can I ‘bite the dust’ so intensely that one might be able to grow flowers in the earth between my lips?

A word of explanation. Every Thursday night here at MBC the staff gather for a worship session and short time of study or reflection. Recently, we have been watching the Nooma video series to spark our small group conversations. Each video deals with something different – a story, a passage, some insight into the bible or into our faith, an element of life – and usually I can apply one or two things from the clip to my own life and walk with God. Last night was different.

My entire week – my entire summer – has been a very emotional rollercoaster. Last night I went through a condensed recap of every emotion I have experience over the past few months in the span of about an hour. In the ten minutes while watching this video, my mind and my mood went from quietly and contentedly pensive to unexplained and slightly aggressive frustration to complete submission. How did I get here? Then I started really listening to what Nooma Man was talking about. I began to understand what he meant about the dirt... and I realized something profound... I’m too clean.

In the video, Nooma Man was talking about the disciples of biblical times; not just of the twelve, but of any follower of any rabbi at that point in history. Here’s the breakdown of his lesson: if you wanted to follow someone as a disciple, you didn’t just trail along with the crowd from place to place; instead, your goal, your main objective in life, your driving force and core motivation was to be like your teacher. You became a mimic, a copycat and as close a reflection of the real deal as possible; you followed them around, yes, but you followed them paying acute attention to detail. You leached on to the rabbi and attempted to duplicate everything he did, both spiritually and physically... and the physical following got you dirty.

“May you be covered in the dust of your rabbi...” May the mud that is flung off the sandals before you cake onto your skin and get in your teeth. If you were covered in dust because you were following that closely to your leader, it was a compliment to look dirty.

I want to be following that closely.

Perhaps this makes little sense to anyone outside of my mind. I don’t even follow my own thoughts some days... Here’s the gist. I am following after Christ, but I’m falling behind a little. I’m within earshot but some days I let myself dawdle and I begin to rely on the relay of God’s messages through other people instead of kicking myself into gear and learning first hand. I have some catching up to do. I need to get closer, walk faster, get into a shadowing position. I have to act like I want to learn if I really do want to learn. I have to find a way to grow up and push forward and bite the dust.

Breathe

Breathe in...
I fill my lungs with the Breath of Life.
Exhale...
I drain myself of everything mine.
Who am I, what am I?
Questions I pose but cannot answer.
Questions for another mind.
For another person.
For a supernatural source of infinite knowledge;
The sometimes revealer of mystery,
The exclusive creator of all things known
And of things unknown
And things unknowable.
God.
My God.
The answer to the chaos, the anchor in the storm,
The only one that I can trust.
The only one that I can truly trust
Never to change,
Never to falter,
Never to fail,
Never to ignore,
Never to leave,
Never to run,
Never to misjudge,
Never to betray,
Never to die.
Breathe in, slowly...
I feel the life begin to spread into the cold parts of myself,
Into the cold parts of my heart.
Exhale, slowly, so slowly...
Peace washes over my body in a physical wave.
I can feel His love.
A quiet smile covers my face.
Jesus brings out a softness of spirit in me;
A gentleness that is stiffened and chipped by modern civilization.
Our world has a way of leaving scratches and bruises on the soul
But He is the restoration and the fixation of my heart.
Breathe in... be renewed by the Spirit.
Exhale... surrender to a joy and a peace that cannot be swayed by storm.
Let go of your doubts and fears in exchange for the answer;
In exchange for the anchor.
Let go of yourself
And breathe in.

Gossip

I have a bit of a complaint to pass along to you, the ever-listening internet world. I have a complaint about the very few complaints and issues about my decisions and actions that I hear directly.

A few days ago I received notification from a third (or fourth) source that something on my facebook profile had offended someone and that feelings along this grapevine have since been hurt. I fear that my attitude and perhaps character have now been called into question because of my comment. I apologise to anyone who has been upset by anything that I have written, here or elsewhere. I meant no harm and wrote with no malicious intent, but only as an expression of temporary situational frustration. This note, as much as I write to that first original problem, I also write to you, one of many impressionable information catalysts and, as with the vast majority of my letters, I write also to myself.

Gossip is both a social lubricant and a relational poison. Where lay the lines between conversation, consultation, chatter and gossip? I don’t know... but I’m beginning to learn that the lines blur differently depending on which side of the topic you take your stand.

Hearing the whisper fall into silence when you enter a room can turn your stomach and pale your face, while speaking in hushed tones about another is something we rarely even second guess or question at all. Betrayal of your trust can cause such a deep and long-term wound, and yet when questions outside the limits of polite conversation are posed we do everything we can to answer, however indirectly, even at the cost of a close friend. Everyone wants to be trusted and accepted, but who can I truly trust when I can’t even trust myself with information every time?

I have come up with a solution to my problem. Because this plan is a true solution and not just a temporary fix, it is going to take time. It’s revolutionary, dynamic and unpopular, which may be part of the reason I love it so much.

I’m going to bite my tongue.

Yes, this may prove a painful answer to my problems and I might have to sacrifice a few taste-buds, but I think that (with the exception of defending or discouraging more negative talk) I need to abide by the too-frequently-ignored advice “Shut Up”. Shut Up is more than an action of immediate silence... it’s the capability to retain information without letting it leak. I want to be someone that people can come to without hesitation and know that they are always speaking in confidence. I want to be known as a person of integrity, not as a person with a parroting mind. I want to be 100% trustworthy.

Language is so dangerous. I have felt the effects of its aftermath from both sides of the blurring border of right and wrong, of appropriate and inacceptable, of conversation and gossip. So I ask you a personal favour; if I do something that you believe is wrong, tell me. Site your sources and make sure that what you hear and what you say are firmly and reliably based in the realm of reality. Keep your word. Clarify the limits. Don’t push the story.

And one final piece of advice for all of us; if you’re worried about the consequences, do yourself a favour.

Shut Up.

Paramount

It’s the front seat thrill of hanging over the edge and staring face first into what looks convincingly like your death, it’s being mildly aware of the security of your seat and the lock on your belt, it’s being so excited and so afraid and about ready to pee yourself on both accounts; it’s the top of the roller coaster, and you’re about to take one mind-blowing ride.

A weekend ago I made the road trip to Canada’s Wonderland and within 15 minutes of receiving my Jetsons hand-stamp I was in line for Behemoth. The 230-foot-74-degree-drop-215-kilometers-per-hour ride was in the very least a terrifying presence in the park. Waiting in the cue we had plenty of time to size it up a few times while we tried to settle the butterflies with discussion... but we knew it was coming. The climb.

My best friend and I share an interesting though unfortunate paradoxical problem. We both love roller coasters and we both hate heights; the drop is fantastic, but the climbs freak us out. Thus, when we strapped ourselves into the not-quite-deep-enough seats with the not-quite-tight-enough lap bar, we were both about ready to explode. It was after about the first thirty feet in our ascent we started praying. The butterflies stilled for just a moment. A half minute later our “amens” morphed into screams and shrieks as we plummeted toward the earth. So good.

Summer Training Week... It’s a lot like the paramount of that first big climb up a new roller coaster. There is so much suspense, so much pent up tension and expectation; the thrill of the new and the fear of disappointment; worrying about the next step and being completely out of control. No brakes and no helmets, we’re on our own.

Well, not quite.

If summer is the roller coaster, then God is the seatbelt. You just might be able to cling onto the ride is that is your entire focus, but that first drop will be a horrifying shock to your body, and there would be no joy in the ride. You’d be so stressed about holding on you would miss the fun.

I am so excited for that first big drop of summer. It’s almost here! The butterflies are kicking in – I’m nervous about the program and curriculum and I don’t feel ready – but I know I’m not in control anymore. I’ve committed to the ride and I have to trust my seatbelt.

I think it’s time to pray.

Sight Reading

People have been coming up with analogies to explain life forever – life is like a box of chocolates, life is like a tube of toothpaste, life’s a dance, life is a highway – and the list goes on. I suppose everyone sees life a little differently since I’ve never personally experienced a cocoa-flavoured fluoride-paste kind of day. I have, however, come up with a bit of a metaphor that fits my present paradigm.

Life is like an orchestra; one director, hundreds of instruments, thousands of parts, all working together to create a single, masterful, marvelous piece of music. Our director – the conductor, composer, producer and audience – has poured out His heart into writing each musician their own unique part. He knows the score inside out, and is acutely aware of everything going on in His music. He can hear every harmony, every perfect progression and movement, every vibration of our instrumental voices... and every wrong note we play.

Life would be so much easier if we were contented with playing the music given to us, but we musicians are a prideful, fickle bunch; generally unsatisfied with playing second fiddle, second horn or third clarinet, whatever the case may be. The fact is that our parts come on a cycle and we won’t always get the melody that we think we deserve. The fact is that sometimes the music we play is designed to compliment or emphasize another part. The fact is that we don’t know what’s coming. We don’t know the score.

You see, there is no time to practice for this performance. Life is 100% sight reading. As long as you pay attention and play your part with passion, flipping pages and changing keys as directed, you’ll be fine; if you’re flat once or twice, the piece will continue unharmed. It’s in the whole-note moments when the pace and slows and the melody mellows that we musicians get fidgety. It’s when we think the piece is getting a little predictable that we find ourselves in trouble. We get distracted, disengaged and restless, and just when you think you’ve got it figured out, He triples the tempo and gives you a solo! You’re left struggling to catch up, and usually looking foolish.

But when the music works... when everyone is completely engaged and we are playing together without competition or envy or spite, when we are perfectly tuned and when the balance is right... those are the moments that make everything worth it; tension evaporates as the glorious tapestry of harmony, melody and counter-melody overwhelm the senses. There is nothing else in this world that can compare to a well played life.

Block out the distractions in your life that are drawing your attention from your sheet music, listen carefully to the parts being played around you and make sure that you are keeping in tune and in rhythm with them; but most importantly and above all else, keep eye contact with your conductor. He is the one who will guide you through the rapid and the slow, the tricky and simplistic. He knows what you are capable of, and though he won’t write you something that you can’t handle, He loves to challenge and surprise. He’s conductor, composer and fellow musician; guiding us all through the symphony of life.

Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall. Appraise Me.

Long before Snow White’s queen stared enviously into her looking glass and begged the infamous question, people have been seeking their mirror’s approval. At some point in history, people discovered that “what’s on the outside” counts for something in this world. In today’s culture, internal things, however brilliant or beautiful, rarely capture any attention if the wrapper is pale or plain. As frequently as we remind ourselves to act to the contrary, we are all guilty of judging the book by its cover. Eventually, the cover becomes our focus, in fear that the contents will be left to collect dust on a forgotten bookshelf if the binding goes unnoticed too long. And so, we decorate, sculpt, colour and modify; then we rush to the mirror to be appraised.

How do I compare? It’s a dangerous question that too often leads into a judgmental and destructive emotional darkness. Competition is an addictive habit that is easy to begin; often the rivalry is subtle and internal. Am I better than I used to be? Am I more attractive? More intelligent? Slowly, naturally, others enter into this comparative mental dialogue. Am I as beautiful as that girl? Do I have more skill than he does? Who is stronger? Faster? Smarter? Eventually the conversation you are having within your mind spills out through your lips and into the world. Why can’t I be like them? Why am I so flawed? Why was I made this way? I am ugly. I am dirty. I am stupid. Still, we turn to the mirror for our affirmation. It reveals what we expect to see and what we are looking for. It clarifies, sharpens, emphasizes. It agrees.

I am guilty of seeking the opinions of the wall mirror (as well as a few other reflective surfaces that I pass by during the day), and I have slipped into the trap of appearances. For the past few months I have been bowing to the will of my mirror, and when I fall short of her expectations I feel even less beautiful, less valuable and more depressed than before.

When God designed the world so long ago, He did not create a mirror. There are no verses in Genesis that state, “And God said, let there be a large mirror in front of which man and woman will criticize themselves and each other. Let there be high and low fashion, separation of social classes and media, with which all people will discover and interpret their worth. And there was evening and there was morning, the first civilized day”.

In reality, be it Old Testament or modern life, the heart of God is avidly opposed to this kind of analytical attitude. He reminds us over and over that the world we cling to so desperately is a temporary and liquid place, that our worth and eternal value is completely internal, that His opinion is the only one that matters and that he created us with direct purpose, exactly to the blueprints he designed for our lives. “Do not consider his appearance or his height. The Lord does not look at what man looks at. Man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.” “Your beauty should not come from outward adornment, such as braided hair or the wearing of gold jewellery and fine clothes. Instead, it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God’s sight.” “For you created my innermost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.” It’s so simple.

How often we complicate simplicity.

From time to time, the mirror still catches my attention. Every once in a while she pinches my ego or bruises my pride, but I’m learning to let most of her criticism roll off my back. As a Christian, my significance comes from God, and I already know what he thinks of me. I know that I am loved; a passionate, profound, self-sacrificing affection that runs so much deeper than this skin I am so worried about. God doesn’t need fancy cover art to pick up a book and crack the spine; He just wants to read a good story. I have a feeling he’s going to like mine. After all, He wrote it.

Chicken

Stop. You have already decided what this note is about. I dare you to tell me otherwise. You have, and you know it. You are not different or unique in this conclusion jumping; everyone does it. We assume immediately that we are somehow in-the-know, that we have the answers and that we can instantly understand. Ha! Wrong. You are wrong. It’s all about context.

You thought that this was a note about chicken. Dear reader, I have misled you. Do you feel betrayed? Are you frustrated, confused, amused, bewildered? Are you mildly uncomfortable, sitting there in the awareness of your psychological exposure? I know you, because you are like me... I know how you think. I can read your actions... I can anticipate your thoughts. That's how I caught you. Yes, you have been caught in my trap.

This has been a lesson in assumption.

Be careful what conclusions you jump to. Be careful what you assume, what you expect, what you are looking for. Sometimes reality can take you by surprise.

A Racing Mind

Suddenly you can feel the adrenalin whooshing through your veins as your mind races and your work takes shape. The clock is counting down with an impossible acceleration, and you hear someone shouting out the remaining time, from some distant place.

Twenty minutes… Thirteen minutes… One minute.

Your brain is screaming, trying to output as much information as physically possible as your body is desperately fighting to keep up. One final thought, one final line, and…

Time.

Time is up. Time is out. Time is gone. At last.

There is no turning back and there’s no way to redo, repeat or revise.

You are finished.

If you’re looking for a thrill, forget roller-coasters or high speed racing… just try to write a fifty-minute essay on a story you’ve never read. It can really get your heart going! Oh, the thrilling, adventurous life of an English major. There’s nothing else quite like it.

Statement of Belief and Contract of Faith

I have recently been challenged to define my faith in a concrete and tangible way, and to articulate exactly what it is that I believe. This is what I have formulated. It does not completely explain every element or aspect of what I believe as a Christian; it does, however, provide an official and formal summary of my personal faith. (I’m sure it will also start a few conversations this week.) So, world, here it is; my faith in a nutshell.

I believe that God is the ultimate, exclusive, triune God of everything known and unknown. I believe that the Father, Son and Spirit work together in perfect and independent unison to accomplish God’s mysterious will, which is only understandable through his divine revelation. I believe that God created everything, both seen and unseen, as recorded in Genesis. I believe that He creates every person individually and with specific purpose – not only what we are, but also who we are. I believe that every human being, every culture and race and religion, came from Adam and Eve, who came from God. I believe that through Adam and Eve, and through the choices that we have made by our own free will, have chosen to live in disobedience and rebellion of God’s laws; furthermore, I believe that even a single violation of this law bears the heavy and divinely just consequence of eternal separation from God, and the sentence of eternal death, to be served out in hell. I believe that God holds people to a standard of absolute perfection that we cannot meet because of our decisions to sin, and that the only way to restore our perfection in the eyes of God is through the physical sacrifice of life, ultimately our own. I believe that God, through Christ and because of His incomprehensible mercy, created a single alternative to this physical and spiritual capital punishment for sin. I believe that God, taking on human form, came to earth to settle our debts. I believe that the blood of Jesus Christ replaced our blood once and for all, and that God accepted his sacrifice as an all-encompassing payment for all of the sins of every person, throughout history, past, present and future. I believe that Jesus lived a sinless, radical life for God, that he was murdered by crucifixion and that he was physically dead for three days. I believe that this death was temporary, and that he rose from death after those three days. I believe that he remained on earth, completely alive, for 40 days after his resurrection, appearing to many people and teaching and training his disciples before his ascension into heaven where he has ruled with the Father ever since. I believe that the Spirit was sent to us as a comforter and spiritual support after Christ left earth, and that God in all three forms is still very active in our world. I believe that the free gift of Christ’s sacrifice does not mean that following his footsteps to heaven is a cost-free journey: Christ calls us to take up our cross and follow, to be living sacrifices, and to serve in a variety of ways. I believe that being a Christian means more than simply identifying ourselves with his life; it means putting ourselves – our lives, our goals and our families – our everything second to His anything. I believe that being a Christian means a life of permanent and willing service to God. I believe that being a Christian means living like Jesus did, striving to imitate how he acted and who he was; it means believing what he said was true, and then taking that belief into reality, transforming thought into action and actively following his example. I believe that God created the church as a family, designed to support, encourage, defend, convict, correct and hold each other accountable to the hope and truth we profess. I believe that the responsibilities of the church as a whole and all Christians individually are to first: love God, second: love each other and third: share the good news and ultimate truth with the world. I believe that the Bible is the word of God, preserved as the divinely inspired written word of God’s people. I believe that it is historically accurate and that it should be interpreted literally and taken seriously.

I am defined by my faith. I have found who I am in my relationship with God. Here, before the world and God Himself as my witness, I confess that I believe these statements to be true, and that I will live my life by them. I ask you to hold me to them. I ask you to keep me accountable. This is a contract of faith, one that I have signed before, at various points throughout my journey and relationship with God. I sign it again, renewing my vow: I am a Christian, and I will follow.

Center Stage

Life is an improv. There is no written script for daily conversation and no time is allotted for practice or preparation of dialogue; we have to rely on each other for inspiration and co-operative creativity. Not everyone, however, can provide that necessary counterpart. There are people in life that can completely deflate self-confidence. You know the kind... a heckler. Everyone faces them, and for the most part, we face them alone.

But life was not designed to be a solo act – great improv happens in groups or teams or pairs: the set up to your punch-line, the laugh track to your slap-stick, the clever banterer, the matched wit. Someone you can trust without hesitation or reservation, someone who will laugh at your bad puns and meet them with and equally horrible joke, someone to join you on stage and face the audience side by side, someone to fight off the hecklers, someone to spark your imagination.

I’ve found one of these people; my best friend. We are an amazing improv team. She is the superhero to my sidekick and the background music to my rock-opera solo. We work, and I have taken to the stage with her many a time... but eventually she will go on tour with the man(ager) of her dreams and I'm a little worried that I will be left on the street corner with a couple of old jokes and a guitar I can’t play... unless...

What I need is a partner in crime; someone who would be willing to join my act and come with me on a tour of my own. I’ve been running informal casting calls my whole life, but I’ve decided to stop the hunt. Take down the signs, gents; no more interviews. This is improv, after all, and you can’t force funny... funny just happens. Humour either works or it doesn’t. People fit or they don’t, you can’t change their style any more than you can change your own, so I don’t know why I’ve been trying so hard for so long. That’s the whole point of improv, isn’t it? You don’t have to try, you just are. You don’t write lines, you just start talking and the show moves forward. I know that I will eventually discover my hilarious, talented, quick-witted equal and together we will rock this life. Until then I will build up my act, learning and teaching and sharing the spotlight with all of the other comedians I know.

Job and the Bet with God

The spiritual realm and the physical world are intimately connected. Histories and traditional legends worldwide recount the direct relationship that these dimensions share, and the complexity of movements between them. In the Judeo-Christian religious history, this cross-over or flow-between concept is understood from a time even before time began. God, the origin and epitome of everything visible and invisible, created the heavens and the earth (Genesis 1:1). Everything, therefore, is understood to be within God’s control, under His authority and vulnerable to His influences.

The biblical account of history spans just over four thousand years, and throughout the text of scripture, God speaks with his people and indeed all of creation in a wide variety of ways; in Genesis alone God delivers his message face to face and voice to voice, through a flame-engulfed shrub, through dreams and visions, in a pillar of fire and one of cloud, through prophets, by global flooding and literally written in stone. As His people develop new ways to ignore Him, barricade Him outside of their lives and intentionally misinterpret what He is saying, God continues to find more and more creative ways to communicate with the ever-expanding human race.

Though God is the only omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent force acting in and on our world, He is not the only supernatural being that the inhabitants of our planet have to worry about on a daily basis. Angels and the rebellious, fallen angels (more commonly referred to as demons) live in a world that is both parallel to and intermingled within our own. Angels are the physical and tangible presence of God and act as his messengers. Demons account for a third of the original angels, thrown out of heaven after their prideful attack on God’s spiritual kingdom. Traditionally, the angels are associated with the skies and spaces ‘above the world’ and demons are linked to the seas and deep places ‘under the earth’. Biblically, both angels and demons have equal access to our world, and often work directly with (and within) people.

In the book of Job, we are given a rare and incredibly unique insight into the methodology of our spiritual counterparts in creation. We listen in on a brief and bantering conversation between the extreme definitions of our moral scale, God and Satan.

“The LORD said to Satan, "Where have you come from?" Satan answered the LORD, "From roaming through the earth and going back and forth in it." Then the LORD said to Satan, "Have you considered my servant Job? There is no one on earth like him; he is blameless and upright, a man who fears God and shuns evil." "Does Job fear God for nothing?" Satan replied. "Have you not put a hedge around him and his household and everything he has? You have blessed the work of his hands, so that his flocks and herds are spread throughout the land. But stretch out your hand and strike everything he has, and he will surely curse you to your face." The LORD said to Satan, "Very well, then, everything he has is in your hands, but on the man himself do not lay a finger." Then Satan went out from the presence of the LORD.” (Job 1:7-12)

After a few seconds of heavenly bragging and demonic criticism, we witness the unbelievable; not only does God allow Satan to meddle with Job’s life, but he puts forward what can easily be interpreted as a challenge to ‘give it his best shot’ with the sole condition that Satan is not to physically harm the man. That is a dangerous amount of creative licence to give to someone with Satan’s personality.

The official Hebrew definition of “Satan” is “Accuser” or “Adversary”, but it may be just as true to characterize him as a malicious extremist. Within the chapter, Job goes from being the “greatest man of all the people of the east” to having nothing; in a matter of minutes he loses five hundred yoke of oxen, five hundred donkeys and three thousand camels to raids and thieves, seven thousand sheep and their attendants burn alive in a rain of fire, and Job’s seven sons and three daughters are crushed and suffocated in the collapse of their home. In every case a large number of servants are also killed, with the exception of one from each situation, as a messenger. Satan took everything from Job in one fell swoop. The power of the supernatural, exposed for what it is: terrifying.

Job is shocked to the core of his being and in his pain and grief, begins to act quite strangely; he does not curse or blame God for this uncalled for punishment, but instead he “got up and tore his robe and shaved his head. Then he fell to the ground in worship and said: "Naked I came from my mother's womb, and naked I will depart. The LORD gave and the LORD has taken away; may the name of the LORD be praised"” (Job 1:20-21). Few people would react to their heartache with declarations of joy and hope.

This response irritates Satan’s obviously competitive and prideful nature. He had underestimated Job’s commitment to his God; the kind of faith and devotion that the human heart is capable of is certainly a force to be reckoned with. Satan and God re-negotiate the terms of their agreement during a familiar exchange of words. God extends Satan’s infliction permission to Job’s body, but Satan must let him live (Job 2:3-6). Quite sure of himself this time, Satan proceeds to cover Job’s body in sores and boils, in an attempt to plague him into cursing God, but Job holds fast.

It is during this time of elongated physical torture that the people in Job’s life begin to offer their advice. Within the arguments made by his wife and three friends, we observe the fundamental, instinctual question of life that everyone must at some point face: WHY?

It is the battle of the question “WHY?” that is at the core of Job’s story. The reason that this particular tale fascinates the human imagination is that, for the first time in biblical history, the answer to the question “WHY?” is revealed, in the spiritual bet and conversation. To the reader, it is an explained motivation, as ‘unfair’ as it may seem; to Job, who lives in constant external and internal anguish, the whole situation is incomprehensible. So, when no explanation was offered by God, Job and his companions struggle through the process of finding an answer by their own means, based on their deductions and assumptions of the case at hand. Their conclusions are as limited, incomplete, and human centred as each individual person, by no fault of their own; these answers are the only ones that they can come up with and understand, and they are echoes of the conclusions all men and women draw in such situations.

Job’s wife condemns his stubbornness, and in frustration and despair of her own (as she has also just lost ten children and all of her worldly possessions), she appeals for him to “curse God and die” rather than continue to suffer (Job 2:9). The response of Job’s wife is quite typical of people who don’t try to justify or explain what happens, but quickly surrender to internal defeat. Her advice to Job is to “give up, give in and get it over with”, as she has done. This solution does not satisfy Job, and he continues to seek out a resolution through God-directed prayer and human-directed inquiry.

Eliphaz, the first of Joe’s friends to speak up, diagnoses the problem in a way that simultaneously protects God and condemns Job. He bases his inferences on the human concept of divine justice; God rewards for good and punishes for bad. Under this law, if Job is suffering, he has done something wrong, after all, “Who, being innocent, has ever perished? Where were the upright ever destroyed?” (Job 4:7). According to Eliphaz, bad things happen to good people because they’re not actually good... if bad things are happening, it’s your fault, not God’s. The fundamental flaw in this situation is that Eliphaz, as with all humans, naturally begin with people and expand to God instead of working from God first. Because God is the origin, the creator and the master, we cannot correctly assume that He works within the laws that He created for us. So often we forget that God is outside of law; He is just, but He is not bound to justice, and certainly not our imperfect definition or interpretation of what justice is. Job rejects Eliphaz’s analysis because he is completely convinced on his own innocence (and rightly so, as it was because of his model citizenship that he was originally targeted).

Bildad settles his stance between Eliphaz and Job; he believes that Job is innocent of wrong, and he also trusts God to act in accordance with justice and rightness. His advice is encouraging, but not immediately constructive or helpful; “wait it out, eventually things will start looking up, as long as you remain faithful” (Job 8:6). This is the passive-optimistic approach to problems... the “don’t worry, be happy” philosophy of life. After his conversation with Bildad, Job confesses that he fears direct confrontation with God, and is therefore trying to figure out his situation independently from God (Job 9:15). He cannot conform to Bildad’s paradigm because he is still actively trying to solve the problem. And so, his quest continues.

Zophar is the last to offer Job his two cents on the subject. He explains that Job’s focus is off center; if Job can stop trying to figure out the cause of his life’s ruin and start putting the emphasis back on God, he “will surely forget [his] trouble, recalling it only as waters gone by. Life will be brighter than noonday, and darkness will become like morning. [He] will be secure, because there is hope” (Job 11:16-18). Alas, Job is once again unsatisfied with the advice of his companions. He is unready to let go of this grudge against God, and at the root of his indignance stands his own ignorant pride.

“But I have a mind as well as you; I am not inferior to you. Who does not know all these things? I have become a laughingstock to my friends, though I called upon God and he answered — a mere laughingstock, though righteous and blameless! Men at ease have contempt for misfortune.” (Job 12:3-5)

Job is overwhelmed by frustration and defeat. He completely disregards all of the advice from friends and family alike as foolish lies (Job 13:4-5), and proceeds to make his case to everyone, heavens included. Over and over his friends appeal to Job’s common sense; however, no sense can be talked into this man; he is heart-set on bringing this issue face to face with God, whatever the consequences. Eventually, “these three men stopped answering Job, because he was righteous in his own eyes” (Job 32:1). Elihu, another man who had been listening to the banter of the four men, takes over in the lecture and council of Job; his words, however, fall upon deaf ears and a closed mind.

“Then the LORD answered Job out of the storm” (Job 38:1).

God makes no effort to sugar coat his message. He gets right to the point in a massive, dramatic, wonderfully sharp, almost sarcastic way; “Where were you?”, “Who do you think you are?”, “Do you even know who you are talking to? I AM GOD! You are speck!” (Job 38-41).

God never explains his bet with the Devil, or any of the spiritual context. Job never gets to know why his life was unravelled. Job asked “WHY” and God answered with “WHO”. “WHY” isn’t the point of the story; God is. He is the answer to the important question, and the question asked will change based on the answer you receive.

The epilogue to this story is short and strange. After God finished putting Job back in his rightful, humble position, He turned his attention to Eliphaz, Bildad and Zophar, demanding sacrifices and offerings because they had not spoken truthfully or completely about God, as Job had (Job 42:7-8). Job, restored in God’s eyes (after a lot of prayer for himself and his friends), was given twice as much property as he had had before Satan stepped into his life. He had seven more sons and three more daughters, and “after this, Job lived a hundred and forty years; he saw his children and their children to the fourth generation. And so he died, old and full of years” (Job 42:16-17).

God jump-started the physical and the spiritual realms at Creation, but that was obviously not the end of his impact upon them. He is outside of law and outside of time, but his fingerprints can be found all over the universe, and in every ‘insignificant’ event of our lives. Job’s story gives the Judeo-Christian believer an insight into the mind and the heart of their God; all-knowing, all-powerful and ever-present. It also provides a unique view of the spiritual attacks that Jews and Christians face because of their obedience. This story shows us a mirror to human reaction when something happens that can’t be, or will not be, explained. And, ultimately, it answers the question WHO... who will win the petty disagreement over a single man, and who will win the ultimate battle over the entire race...

But that’s what happens when you bet with God.

The Wake Up Call

For a few seconds I thought that the deafening, high pitched screech was part of a dream; by the time I realized that I was definitely awake, I was wishing that the alarm had been a figment of my imagination.

After weighing my options (facing the wintery darkness outside or staying inside with the heat no matter how hot it got) I grumbled internally and made my way to the kitchen. My roommates and I worked our way around the apartment collecting jackets, boots and scarves, mumbling mildly profane curses at the still-screaming alarm on the wall. “Fire” becomes an equally resentful curse to any other four-letter-word you could think of at 12:43am. As we followed a few other students outside and did our best to zip out the cold, we could just barely hear the sirens over conversation and chattering teeth.

A few minutes later, a fleet of fire trucks could be seen flying up College Drive. After speeding into the parking lot (and clearing the huddling mass of students a little further away from the doors), uniform-clad firefighters slid out of their seats and sauntered casually into the building.

Admittedly, we could spy no smoke and we didn’t feel like there was an impending doom, but a little get-up-and-go would have been nice. We waited. Sooner or later one of two things was bound to happen; either the building would burst into uncontrollable flame and all of our possessions would be scorched, or they would let us go back inside. Either would have been fine with me... both options would be warmer than shivering ourselves into mild hypothermia, and I’m sure I could have used the excuse “the fire ate my homework” at some point. Finally, after each of the four fire trucks had stood vacant for a while and the police SUV had lapped the parking lot, we were called inside. We waved a sarcastic farewell to each vehicle as it passed the double doors and rode off into the distance.

If the fire had been a real one, I’m sure the spin of this particular entry would be incredibly different. I am thankful for people who are willing to do what I am not always ready to. There are few things that could drag my butt out of bed and across town at 12:43am, and a false alarm is not one of them. But what am I willing to react like that for? A friend in need would get me up. I would run across town for anyone in my family... but what about a stranger?

People will ask “Where’s the fire?” if they catch you in a hurry. Most of the time it’s not a fire that has you on the move, but something did get you motivated. God used to make me move like that. I used to talk about Him to people as though I could be saving their lives... like the Fire was real. Somewhere along the road I started believing that people were calling in false alarms. If firefighters stopped responding whenever they thought they were unnecessary, people would burn and die. I have become a lazy firefighter. Am I responsible for the fires that are set? No, they are not my fault; however, I can be held responsible if I don’t take action to stop them from growing, and try to stomp them out.

In Ephesians 6:13-18, we are given spiritual battle equipment in the armor of God: the belt of truth, the breastplate of righteousness, the shoes of readiness and peace, the shield of faith, the sword of the spirit and the helmet of salvation. In today’s world, I think we need to add a few more elements to our God gear: the hydrant and hose of love. God made love to be under pressure within us, and also to have an explosive reaction to our world! When we tap into the love of God and aim our lives at people, they will get blown away. There is no way I’m going to sit on that truck anymore. Fire or no fire, this world is about to get soaked.

Let’s Talk About “Soap”

What makes a really good soap? Is it the texture, the smell, the colour, the fresh feeling of being clean again? I think it is the unique combination of all of these elements that attracts people towards a certain brand of soap, and makes favourites out of a select few.

Personally, I’ve always fancied mint scented soaps. I know, mint isn’t a common sudsy smell, but for some reason mint is my kind of bar. But it’s hard to find a good mint-scented soap, so when I find one that suits me, I tend to get pretty attached... as long as I’m the only one using it.

I’d like to think it’s a respect thing, but if you boil it down it’s probably pride. Whatever the core motivation, I can’t use exactly the same kind of soap as anyone else. I like my scent to be somewhat exclusive, and I’m a little possessive about my soaps, with one exception.

I have a friend. She’s amazing and beautiful, and I look up to her in many ways. We have a similar taste in soaps, both oddly attracted to mint. I’ve always thought she made good soap selections; similar to mine, but the brand was different. Recently I discovered she had switched brands. You can always tell when someone starts using your soap, and (though I’m not proud of it) I often find myself wafting the air to make sure no one around me smells quite the same. She started to. Unfortunately, it smelled pretty good on her.

I decided to ask her about the soap. I was sure I already knew, but then sometimes your senses can mislead you. Well, she was indeed using the same soap. At first I got a little territorial over the scent... after all, it was a good mint and not easy to come by... but after a time of listening to her talk about this soap, how it had kind of grown on her, how clean it made her feel, how much she liked the texture, aroma, colour, packaging... almost everything about the soap, and some things I had not even noticed about it myself, something inside of my sudsy soul told be to back off. She liked the soap in a way I couldn’t, and it was actually a much better soap for her than it was for me.

So, the soap I’ve been using isn’t one I really want to use anymore, partly because a shared smell loses some of the lustre and appeal a special soap has... but mostly because her friendship is far more important than any kind of soap. Now I’m keeping my eyes and my nostrils open for a different lathering agent. I still like my mints, but I’m going to have to find another brand... or maybe it’s time to try out something completely different, like orange or vanilla scented soap. For the time being I’m going back to the standard Ivory, the soap-scented-soap. It may be a while before I can find a satisfactory replacement for that last mint one; or maybe I’ll find the perfect kind in Wal-Mart tomorrow, who knows? Right now I’m trying to be satisfied with just being clean.

My Smile

I can’t stop smiling.

I don’t know if it’s because of who he is or who He is.

I see Him in him. In the way he speaks, in the pattern of his words, in the passions of his heart. Through his life I see His life. It’s in the way he starts the conversation when both our heads are bowed. It’s the way he continues it when we open our eyes and return to time and its reality.

And the smiling goes on.

Somehow everything he says comes back to what He says. It’s amazing how often he talks about Him! He’s so obviously at the core of his life. It’s inspiring. It’s contagious. It’s convicting, in a wonderful way.

And I just can’t stop smiling.

The Hypocrite’s Tear

Do your homework. Get more sleep. Love thy neighbour. Simple phrases of pass-along advice that cycle though our lives, through our lips and into the world. Again and again we collect and repeat, like well-meaning parrots that hear but cannot truly listen to the words. Good advice becomes conversational formality and meaning is lost.

If you do not do your homework and you do not get your sleep you will suffer the consequences. If you do not love thy neighbour... If you do not love... You will suffer and I will suffer. Hypocrites are not born of a malicious intent to deceive... Liars are. Hypocrisy is born from other forms of death: idleness, carelessness, hopelessness, laze and abandon: afflictions and infections of the spirit that move into our habits and patterns. We mean what we say, but we do what we like and so often those are not the same.

I am like you. I say “forgive” and cling to a grudge. I say “don’t judge” and categorize, stereotype, underestimate and jump to conclusions. I pray and I condemn. I hug and hit. I am a fallible, pathetic, vengeful hypocrite. The tears of a hypocrite are unbearably bitter and full of sorrow, when the point of realization finally comes and the deep, internal understanding of life can no longer be ignored. The overwhelming shame and grief of this position… it makes you feel naked, worthless and hollow. All you can do is cry. All you can do is cry the lonely, mournful, empty hypocrite’s tear.

Thank God for the irrational love of God.

Thank God for Christ. Thank God for an infallible friend and companion who understands what it feels like to be publicly exposed, openly mocked, spiritually burdened and ultimately betrayed. Thank God for knowing what it feels like to sit alone in the pit of despair… and for sharing what comes next.

The hypocrite’s tear falls onto the shoulder of an incredible man. He collects our tears of pain, fear, discouragement, shame, spite, doubt, brokenness and depression as they fall, and trades for the hope and joy and love of God. That is what comes next for the hypocrite… Joy! Love! Peace!

Well, that’s what can come next.

The tears are yours, and you decide how to spend them. You can suffer alone forever, if you would prefer. You can chose to stay wrapped up in despair and shame, if you’re more comfortable in the cold and in the dark… but the next time that this hypocrite’s tear falls, it’s going to be one of burden-less joy.

In an Instant

In only one instant she could lighten a moment
Brighten a circumstance and bring out your best
She was goofy and fun - she made everyone laugh
With the way that she acted, the way that she dressed

In only one second your day was improved
Because of her smile, her inspiring craze
She could catch you off guard with one conversation
Your life could be changed - she's an intricate maze

In only one hearbeat your life's steady rhythm
Is thrown to the ground and the knife starts to twist
Impossible - not real - you're angry, upset
The finger gets pointed then turns to a fist

In the blink of an eye it all changes again
You're numb and quiet, reflective in thought
A silver lining peeks through the thick rain clouds
You begin to dwell on memories forgot

In an instant you get it, you know you'll move on
You'll learn from her life and help her friends out
Remember to love and be patient with tears
Because maybe that's what this whole thing is about

January 18th, 2005
For one amazing friend and three beautiful souls

Curing the Common Cold Shoulder

Encouragement is a powerful thing. A supportive embrace, a kind smile and a hopeful conversation are expressions of love than can be found in many friendships, especially after a traumatic or upsetting time; but not everyone has someone to talk to. There are those of us who go for hours or days staring in silence at the ground as we walk through the city. Some of us are going through a depression, most of you are tired and everyone is busy. Are there people here that love you? Do you have someone that will ask you how you’re doing and wait for a real response? Is there a door you can knock on, a person you can call, a place to call home? If your answers are yes, I hope you understand the blessing; it’s a gift you can share in so many ways. If any of your answers were no, this article is written to you, as a simple word of encouragement.

To the lonely; you are not alone. Hundreds of people on campus are dealing with this problem on so many levels, and you are (ironically) united with others through your solitude. Tough it out, my friend... loneliness is temporary and it will pass in time. Being alone or single is not synonymous with being incomplete or worthless. Take the extra time to explore who you are. Pick up a new skill, find a hobby, do your homework! There are some things that you can’t do when you’re surrounded by people, or in a relationship. Smile, be inspired, and embrace whatever situation you are in. The silver lining is somewhere on those rain clouds – but sometimes you have to be right in the downpour before you can see it.

To the weary; take a deep breath. This is a cost-free, risk-free treatment for emotional, mental and spiritual infections. Just breathe. Forget for a moment the test you failed, the friend you ticked off, the shift you were late for, the bus you missed... and just breathe. If you need meds, take them. If you need sleep, get it. If you need a break, just sit. Take a walk instead of a rush, take a bath instead of a shower, watch TV for an hour or two, I won’t tell your professors. So much of the sickness we go through starts with us in the first place. Find and maintain some balance in your life. Take a few deep breaths – then see how you’re feeling.

To the rest of you; say good morning. Smile. Make some eye contact in the hallway. Look at the people around you and actually see them. Hand out compliments like they’re free. Talk and listen. Make a phone call. Read a comic book. Break your routine for a while and do something for the fun of it. Go out of your way to make someone’s day – It might just make yours.

Jesus, Socrates and Two Cups o’ Joe

[Jesus is ordering his medium double-double from Tim Horton’s when Socrates pipes up from further back in the line. After both retrieving their drinks, they sit down at a corner table to talk. It is true that these men did not meet in our reality and if a meeting were to have occurred it would likely have been in a philosophical arena and not a 21st Century coffee shop; however, if two historical characters as important as Christ and Socrates were to meet at random in our modern age, then Tim Horton’s is almost certainly the place. For the purposes of this script, both Socrates and Jesus will be speaking modern, Canadian English. Direct quotes are in italics, the rest is creative licence, historical speculation and original insight. Jesus quotes from Colossians 1:15-17 & Ecclesiastes 8:17. Socrates quotes from various places in Plato's Apology.]

“...Yes, and if you could double cup it for me, please. It’s a long way home. Thank you.”
“Jesus Christ! It’s been a while since I’ve seen you around here.”
“Well, well. Socrates, how’ve you been doing? Keeping yourself out of trouble?”
“Just the opposite, though it was not my intention. It seems that you can’t say anything anymore, without being tattled on to the ‘authorities’, or have someone twist your words.”
“Amen to that.”
“I really can’t believe how quickly gossip can spread through Athens. Dionysus would be proud of how dedicatedly the grapevine is kept up in Greece. Publicly criticize one religious or political figurehead and suddenly you’re corrupting the youth! I have many enemies of the worst and most dangerous kind in the public sphere of Athens, and unfortunately it is this that will be my destruction if I am destroyed in the long run. The people and not my ‘faults’ will condemn me, because gods know I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Believe me, I can sympathize with you on that point. The Jews and Romans alike have been trying to kill me for years, but they could never settle on a good enough excuse. Finally they picked up on the fact that I claimed to be God, and got me to trial on that, though it was a wobbly prosecution throughout the entire proceedings, and almost got thrown out three times.”
“Demigod.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You said God – as though it was singular – you should have said demigod, or spirit, diamon, even theos.”
“No, I meant God: singular, all powerful and exclusive. And I am the image of the invisible God, the firstborn over all creation. By me all things were created: things in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or powers or rulers or authorities; all things were created by me and for me. I am before all things, and in me all things hold together.”
“Interesting idea, but I have a few problems with that little speech you just gave. It sounds to me like you’re speaking over your own head.”
“Socrates, your method only works to a point. I, unlike any peer or professional you have met and analysed so far, cannot speak over my head or beyond my years to the point of fault. I’m God. My breadth of experience is infinite, which is more than you can or have thus claimed.”
“You’re right... I neither know nor think I know. But you speak as though you know, but of things that are not meant to be known.”
“If you do not know of these things which I claim to know of, how can you be sure that I do not know of them? You contradict yourself, Socrates. You say you do not know and yet in your doubt of my wisdom and understanding you are automatically claiming personal knowledge. Tisk, tisk my friend.”
“Now this has become twisted gibberish and doublespeak.”
“Welcome to the proverbial ‘other side of the fence’ for is this not the exact type of logic you turn on others?”
“You’re good, Jesus. You can manipulate a conversation as well as I can and attract an unequalled crowd, it’s true. It seems whether in Judea, Athens or this little coffee shop, people like to hear the cross-examination of the pretenders to wisdom; there is an amusement in this for many. I am more than seventy years of age, and I have seen a few things in my time. I might, perhaps, fancy myself wiser than other men, but I have never claimed supernatural wisdom... because I have it not myself. Holding to this understanding, your argument is somewhat futile. You’re proving something I have already admitted true. How insignificant a position, to prove the obvious.”
“No one can comprehend what goes on under the sun. Despite all his efforts to search it out, man cannot discover its meaning. Even if a wise man claims he knows, he cannot truly comprehend it. I am just a man to you, Socrates. Unless you can ever see me as more than that, our conversation is a circular stalemate.”
“In that case, friend, my coffee has been cooling far too long and I really should go... people to see and all that. But I appreciate the conversation, even if we never get anywhere. For as long as I have life and strength I shall never cease from the practice and teaching of Philosophy.”
“Glad to hear it. Anything less would have been a disappointment from you.”
“So, the hour of departure has arrived, then. Until our next conversation, Christ.”
“Until then.”

Defeater of the Algonquin Bear

I have maintained the suspense of my story for far too long. My physical and emotional therapy has been quite the process and only now that I have broken through the shock of this traumatic event do I feel ready to give the full account of my face.

Last year was one of great transition and change in my life. Although the vast majority of this movement was positive, I was completely overwhelmed by the thoughts of my recent past that I quickly set out to clear my head the best way I know how – direct contact with the natural world – but I got a little more contact than I was expecting.

I drove up to Algonquin Park, borrowed the necessary cross country ski equipment and headed out on my thoughtful excursion. I am by no means a natural athlete, and before long there were some too-toned spandex-clad competitors quite ready to pass me by. I tried to get off of the trail as quickly and smoothly as possible when awkwardness got the best of me and before I knew it, I was falling sidelong into the snow. It is ridiculously difficult to put yourself upright after falling on skis, so to avoid adding unnecessary frustration to my already fatigued and hungry body, I unclipped my feet and stood on the path, thankful to be in just my boots again.

Not yet ready to return to the skiing, I played a short game of personal I-Spy until a cave, not 20 feet from where I was standing, caught my attention. Curiosity usually overrules common sense in my life, and so it didn’t take me long to decide that spelunking would be much more fun than another round of the park with my poles.

The cave itself wasn’t very deep – 15 feet maximum – but it was a good shelter from the snow and the sun, so I grabbed my granola bar and began to unwrap it when I was suddenly aware of a mysterious presence. It wasn’t a sound, per se, but chills shot up my spine and my eyes grew very wide as I turned, looking over my shoulder to the back of the cave. There, with dark, angry, wild eyes was a bear! A huge bear, at least three feet tall!

I was in such a state of shock that I began to think crazy things; the first was how bizarrely similar this situation was to the childhood song “I Met A Bear”, and the second, prompted by the first, was to run. I ran. I ran screaming, out of the cave, past my skis and to a protective looking maple tree. I would have continued to run, except trees require climbing and not running, so I climbed as fast as I could, which was, admittedly, not very quickly thanks to the slippery ski-boots and my out-of-shape shape. I don’t know if this has yet occurred to you, but bears can also run. This concept had eluded me earlier as it was not noted in the aforementioned song, and so I was unprepared for a pursuit of any kind, but less the frightening and violent one that followed. Though I thought I was high enough to be safely out of danger from the three foot tall beast, I was apparently still in range of its giant, clawed paw when it stood up and fully extended its reach. I was caught in the face by a bear!

Needless to say, my nerves were completely shot at this point. I was so stunned by my encounter that my consciousness was affected, at least in part, because it was a long time later that I came to my senses and found myself to be leaning no longer against the large trunk of the maple, but against my own van! The same two spandex skiers that had passed me before were now standing over me, offering blankets for my shivering back and towels for my bleeding face. They had called the park’s patrolman to help me home, but I assured them I was fine and after an hour of attentive supervision and some refreshing conversation, I drove the journey home.

What a traumatic event, but what an incredible story. I would be tempted to send it in to the Toronto Star... if there was even a grain of truth in the tale.

The real story is much less interesting, but I have been told that it is pretty good, as non-fiction goes: New years eve I picked a fight with a couple of 11-ish year old boys, who I have to admit are stronger than they look. I threw them into the snow a few times, but the majority of the battle I spent on my face in a snow-bank, or on my back with snow being thrown at me. It was one of these latter moments that another little guy friend of mine thought it would be a really good time to head down the hill on his toboggan. Long story short, I got my face run over by a seven year old and his sled.

So there you have it, folks. The fiction and the truth, for you to chose.

Props go to Tim Beckner for the story idea, to Tyler Ouderkirk for the scar tissue, and special thanks to Jamison, Bryce, Colin and Cammie for the take down. No wildlife was harmed during the writing of this piece. The author of this story does not condone the use of spandex in any way.

This has been a Fartoomuchtimeonyourhands Production.

The Twelve Paragraphs of Christmas

Twelve months, eleven new chords, ten classes, nine amazing friends, eight (thousand) bus rides, seven new recipes, six shades of blonde, five role changes, four seasons, three addresses, two homes and one year. The transformations that have taken place in my life have been vast and intricate, as well as generally entertaining. From New Year’s to New Year’s I have gone through a physical, emotional, spiritual and intellectual metamorphosis. I started in January as a nervous, uncertain high school girl; now as I emerge on the other side of December, I am shaking of the last of my cocoon to reveal the confident, God filled woman I have become. Let me show you how I got these wings.

January was the grand finale of a different life. Returning to high school without most of my friends and seniority privileges was exactly the motivation I needed to realize that I didn’t want to be there anymore. After my exams, I waved a cheery farewell to four and a half years of comfort zone, packed up my bags (and boxes and crates and backpacks) and moved on – half way down Muskoka Road 10, to MBC.

February and March were filled with a completely foreign and wonderful kind of education. I rejoined the world of wintery outdoor activity and sport – a world that I had neglected for far too long – by learning snowboarding, cross country skiing, ice climbing, dog sledding, winter camping, skating, snowshoeing, hiking and a wonderful variety of other ways to spend some quality time with the snow.

In April I repacked my life into a much smaller suitcase and flew with my team to Costa Rica. What an amazing time in my life! I learned so much in that place. I saw so much, did so much and was taught so much. From repelling a waterfall to painting a house, from hiking for miles and miles at a time, to sitting in stillness and silence for hours; these are the lessons that I took away from my trip. In what free time I could find, I picked up and developed many important skills including journaling, water conservation and euchre. When we flew home I brought back so much more than I went with, but not in material possessions. I left part of my heart in that country, but I was given so much love and insight and experience that I think it was a fair exchange.

May and June were spent blowing leaves, planting flowers and getting ready for the summer. I made more new friends, attempted (with no success) to learn yet another language, got very dirty on more than one occasion and frequently drove a truck. I learned a lot about me during this time and settled into a rhythm of life that was finally my own.

That rhythm was pretty short lived because as June ended, chaos began. It was a beautiful, exhilarating, noisy chaos: dozens of staff, hundreds of kids and thousands of opportunities to have a blast doing what I love to do. I supervised people but I witnessed lives. It’s the most amazing feeling, to participate in the life of another person and know that you have changed them in a positive way. Naturally there was drama and conflict, but the troubles that were introduced by the summertime sun are far outweighed by what has come of it; a million memories for the photo album of my mind.

August gave way to September and my life changed again. Frosh was certainly a shock to my system after six months of a completely different atmosphere, but I pushed through it and really got into life at University. Yes, I go to class (and learn much more than I thought I could), I cook my own meals (and have yet to poison myself), I keep my room “relatively clean” and I’ve even been to the bar (though it’s definitely not my style), but it’s my church that’s holding me together and keeping me strong while I’m at Nipissing. Friends and church and God... it’s a pretty good system... you should try it some time!

My life at school is so much better than I ever could have planned. I’m so at peace there, and it has quickly become a home to me... small-h-home, that is! So when it came time for a three week vacation to capitol-h-home, I was almost nervous to return. Life wasn’t at a standstill while I was at school... my family was still going, living and changing without me... but when I got here, I found out that this was still home too. Home: such a funny concept. Where you hang your hat, or where you keep your heart? Maybe it’s a balance of both.

So now, the year has come to a close. Only six hours remain until we welcome into our lives 2008 and all of the craziness that it is certain to bring. What will the next 12 months hold for me? Who will I be next New Year’s Eve? So much anticipation and excitement! If 2008 can even come close to the standards of 2007 in my life, next year is going to be an unbelievable ride. Twists, turns, loops and surprises of all kinds! I can hardly wait!

Six more hours.

Two A.M. Decisions

There is good reason for avoiding any kind of activity at 2am; your mind is not as lucid as it is in daylight, your thought processes slow dramatically and every consequence has a huge effect on your entire state of being. It is very easy to cry at 2am.

Maybe the internet got the hiccoughs and you lost an hour of work in 18 seconds. Perhaps iTunes will only play heartache break-up country music songs, or you didn’t get that e-mail you weren’t expecting. Traditionally trivial events can suddenly mutate into uncontrollable monsters of ridiculous irrationality; however, strange and wonderful things happen at 2am, and in personal experience they are almost worth the trouble.

You see, in a strictly metaphorical (and slightly metaphysical) sense, the mind can be stretched and moulded like intellectual plasticine. At 2am the brain is uniquely malleable, having already been prepared for mental manipulation through natural exhaustion. There are thoughts and ideas locked within the mind that are completely inaccessible at any other time... unfortunately, they often take a great deal of translation and explanation before any real value can be associated with this raw material.This may be one of those unpolished excavations of my mind. Perhaps I am blinded to it's faults because it is mine, but I happen to believe that this particular piece of writing is brilliantly insightful... and now it's almost three!

Fable and Frame

History is in the eye of the beholder and everything has a story to tell. It is our purpose and responsibility to discover, understand and reveal the contexts that make the record worth reading, the art important enough for an audience and the simple pieces from the past deserving of a second glance. If this is true history, then every person contains within their mind a museum of memoirs and masterpieces; the only thing they lack is the frame.

The gallery of my life is filled with fables and frames. Each great hall is painted with memory and the displays within them seem to dance, being constantly restored and revised to tastes of the master curator in my mind.

The welcoming foyer introduces my life in a colourful presentation of material art; a pocket sized camera sits on a table that is so flooded with printed pictures that they seem to have spilled over the edges and onto the floor. This collection of photographs allows any attentive observer to witness the world through my eyes, which is certainly a unique perspective. This camera has followed me everywhere, capturing the beauty of the common and mundane. From bus stop to snowfall, these simple images are the tangible evidence of an artistic soul.

The second exhibition continues the theme of creativity that is found in all aspects of my life. A bookshelf filled with dusty books stands dramatically against one wall. Many other people have inspired my life in a variety ways, but none more, perhaps, than the written words of friends and heroes. Sherlock and Shakespeare have both influenced my thoughts and my vocabulary; however, there is a different book that has been opened much more often than the others. Simply bound, it is a story of mystery, history, comedy, romance, adventure and action. It is the only book in my collection that contains my own scribbled thought or emphasis in ink because there is no sense in maintaining the physical purity of such a work; unlike the others, this narrative was not intended to be read, but to be lived. Here, in the museum of my life, it lies open to a page that is both underlined and highlighted in florescent pink: “For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” Perhaps this is my fable… or perhaps this is truth…

The focus of the final room is lighter and louder in nature than any of the previous displays. This room, like my life, is filled with music. In a cycle of forty-nine genres and eighty-three hours, the soundtrack of my life entertains everyone I meet; and yet, the goal of my life is not to entertain, but to inspire, teach, inquire, reveal, explore… to make history, true history, and share it.

Emotional Blither

So much of my world seems distorted today. My mind is blurred. My actions unmotivated and separated from me in an indescribable way. My imagination is rebelling against my schedule and what I know I must do. I don’t want to write, but all I can do is write. Write and think.

I feel restricted by my language; the limits of explanation have been explored by many before me, exhausting expression. And now, sitting here so still within my body and so unsettled in my mind, these words seem stale and insufficient. How can I even begin, when I am already frustrated, fighting for the words to articulate my thought? How can I speak with honesty when I am already so disappointed by my efforts? Perhaps it is my skill and not my language that is at fault.

Pero, en español, todas palabras explican más, simplemente porque cuando una persona escucha el idioma, hay un cambiar en el corazón y el alma, y no solo en su pensó. Hay comunicación de verdad. La persona a la persona, y palabras a palabras, tambien.

Why is it so impossible to relate to the world in my native tongue? Why do my words mean so much more to me when so few can understand what I am trying to say? There is no release from this kind of constriction. It’s like being tied in an artistic straightjacket. If only I could write with tone and action. If only you could read my emotions along with my words. Then I could tell you something. Then, perhaps, you could understand what I am thinking, and what I’m trying to say here. But it means nothing; all of these words mean nothing and have explained nothing, though I’ve said so much.

After reading through this, I bet you’re almost as frustrated and disappointed by my explanation as I am. But sometimes this is what words are... meaningless, disappointing, emotional blither.

Five Reasons to Build a Snowman

For a child, the idea of grabbing a toboggan or building a snowman seems to be a mandatory and automatic response to winter’s chill; but for some terrible and undefined reason, this instinct seems to leave during adolescence, and when a person is attacked by the self-awareness of maturity, snowplay is almost frowned upon. This attitude of anti-silliness is spreading like an infection through the veins of College and University society and has begun to affect even the High School subculture. If this continues unchecked, we are actively putting the children of our communities at dangerous risk of adopting the same “crazelessness” that has already rooted itself so deeply in our lives. If something doesn’t change, fun as we know it may be lost.

But there is hope. We can make a difference. If we act now, we may be able to preserve what little simplistic joy is left in our world. The fight against the humbug of winter begins with you. The fate of fun rests in your mitted hands.

If you remain unconvinced of the severity of this cause, please, read on and carefully consider the following medical and scientific claims supporting snowplay and its many advantages. Each has been cleverly fabricated to initiate a radical movement outdoors, so if at any point while reading this you are overcome with an undeniable need to don a toque and pair of gloves, by all means conclude this article at another time and go throw a snowball at your friend. Literature can wait. The world cannot.

#1. It’s good for your body – Hitting someone with a snowball is an excellent release of many kinds of stress, at a chemical level. (Being hit by a snowball increases your situational awareness and potentially primes your reflexes for a victorious reaction, which is something to keep in mind when ambushed.) As far as a cardiovascular workout is concerned, chasing and being chased are among the top motivational exercises, and the cold air works your lungs in a way that simply cannot be obtained on a treadmill.

#2. It’s good for your brain – Buildings are psychological prisons and seriously hinder the development of certain skills, such as creativity and mental flexibility. Deny your mind no longer! Sculpt, design, craft and build! Snow and ice are wonderful artistic mediums. Find the natural inspiration you’ve been lacking.

#3. It’s good for your love life – Romance is strongly correlated with the atmosphere created during a snowfall; therefore, spending time with someone outside in the snow will increase your seasonal attractiveness by up to 60%!

#4. It’s good for the environment – The ground is much more receptive to flowers in the spring if it has been moved around during the long winter months. Walking on (or digging in) the snow shifts the position of the grass and flower bearing land, softening it in a uniquely agricultural manner. When the snow melts, it is obvious which areas of a lawn or park have been played over and which have not.

#5. It’s good for the economy – When people spend time outside, hot chocolate sales skyrocket! Marshmallows and cookie mixes receive similar profit spikes; but without the recent demand created by outdoor activists, there is simply too much supply. Do your part to keep Christmas from becoming a confectionary Black Tuesday.

You’ve heard all of the evidence and you’ve seen the reports. Now, go. Give Jack Frost a hug and embrace the kid in you. For our culture, for the children, for fun: go and play.

More to Remember

Armistice. Do you recognize this word? Do you know what it means? Eighty-nine years ago, this word would have defined your future. It would have meant the end of torture and death and daily fear and unbearable heartache. This simple phrase, armistice, would have been your life.

Perhaps our generation is too far removed from World War One to genuinely appreciate the sacrifices made by those people, soldiers and families. Maybe we can’t understand Flanders Fields the way that we should. But we can remember – not Canada’s distant national history, but the heroes of our personal world. We remember what we can remember.

From the overseas terrorism in Iraq through the homicides of Toronto and even closer to home, we have modern enemies to fight and heroes to honour. Remembrance Day is no longer limited to the military because war is no longer bound to the battlefield. Ribbons and poppies have been transformed from a symbol of death to one of human unity. We are all affected by war of one kind or another. November 11th has become an opportunity to celebrate the victory and mourn the cost of all war, together, as a global nation. Yes, we still stand in silence and reverence at 11:00 every year. There are parades and ceremonies and trumpet solos and speeches. These things are important. But we have more to remember. This year these traditions are echoed by international prayers for protection and courage for the people around the world who continue this fight for freedom and peace today… and tomorrow.

The war to end all wars did not conclude every battle and conflict; however, the legacy of memorial celebration that began in 1918 has survived, blossoming into something much larger than the poppy.

Two Broken Hearts

“You are not left out” he said.
“I’m calling you aside.
I simply miss your company
And want you to confide.

We used to talk so much,” he said,
“But now your time’s too tight.
Why was I the one you chose
To ignore tonight?

You used to love so much,” he said
“You didn’t used to care
What other people thought of you.
This change just isn’t fair.

Open up your heart of lead,
Stop holding back on me.
I want to be the one to fill
Your life. Why can’t you see?

You’re already loved,” he said
“Can I not satisfy?
Don’t tell me you don’t need me, love
Please, don’t make me cry.

I want your love, my love,” he said
“And I will wait right here
Though broken by your broken heart
I will not disappear.

You are not alone,” he said
“I’ll never leave you out.
All heaven knows I miss you, love
I’m miserable without.”

A Crime of Passion

I am falling in love. I am falling in love with a man I hardly know, and yet I feel like I have known him the whole of my life. He is a clever, confident and compassionate guy with an energy that is unbelievably contagious. He is gentle with people and bold with words. He has this uncompromising and captivating presence that you simply can’t ignore. He's the kind of person you can tell anything and want to tell everything. Anyone would fall for this guy, and indeed many have. He's quickly becoming a huge part of my life and my time, and somehow I know this is only the beginning of our relationship.

But who is this man, who has captured my attention so completely? Many of you have already met him, in one way or another. Some have passed him by unknowingly, and for you I am genuinely disappointed, because you have missed out on an amazing soul. Some have had a reaction similar to the one I have described here, which is much more than a simple collection of words. To you I smile, because the connections to him and to each other give us a unique context for all other relationships. But who, you ask, is this man? This intriguer of hearts? His name is Jesus.

Don't roll your eyes or write me off just yet, because this is potentially the first time you have been introduced to him in this light. Jesus isn't always the quiet, meek man seen in paintings. In fact, he was, generally, much the opposite. Artists have been tragically misled in this way. He is a passionate leader; a king in the front lines, showing us exactly how to fight. He is a rebellious activist, exposing flaws in the government and arguing with religious figureheads, forcing them to look either foolish or weak. He performed miracles, not magic. He taught with the power of experience, far beyond his years. Who wouldn't be attracted to this guy? Or, perhaps it is easier to say, who wouldn't be threatened by him? That's why he died. Not because he was wrong, but because the people couldn't control him any other way. Their only solution was murder. The funny thing is that it didn’t work.

The Herstory of Vidvid's Kingdom

Once upon a time in a far away land 330 kilometres from our reality, lived a beautiful girl. In fact, this girl was so stunning that almost everyone called her Rae, because she glowed like there was always sunlight dancing through her body. In fact, Rae physically and emotionally lightened any mood, even on one of her bad days, which were few and far between. In her constant bliss, Rae had become easily distracted. Especially by a certain charming young man she knew. His name was Vidvid. He was also a prince.

Vidvid was naturally attracted to Rae, like so many others in the kingdom. Though she was not rich, she was amazing in other ways, and widely considered an honorary princess, of great value to the whole country and kingdom. This makes sense to very few people, until they have met Rae in person and then it was obvious. After a person had met her, she was suddenly of great value to them too. Needless to say, Rae was treasured. She was also treasured by the prince.

But this prince had a secret. He was terribly weighted by this secret, even though it was really nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, some would have been proud. You see, part of this high class prince was not born a prince. Part of him was born a cowboy. He loved country music and loved to dance in lines with other cowboys. He even loved to wear a cowboy hat and pretend to know how to use a lasso. But he was still incredibly ashamed of this lifestyle and hid it from the public as a sort of guilty pleasure. No one from the kingdom knew. Not even Rae. Especially not Rae.

And yet, the prince could not get enough of the classic country guitar, so he commissioned a place where he could howdy his way to happiness. He built a ranch. Underground. He called it The RAE: The Ranch At Elderberry. It would have been a terrible acronym, if it did not also remind the fair prince about Rae. But it did, so the prince Vidvid spent all of his spare time at the ranch, which was whenever he was not running the country or hanging out with Rae... at a very respectable, polite distance.

One fate full day, Rae was leading a library and museum tour as part of her volunteer program within the kingdom. She lead the group of 23 children through the palace and the castle. As was her custom on days that she was running late, Rae took a shortcut to the down town museum, taking the opportunity to show off some of the castle’s ancient secret passageways along the way. But this day, Rae's mind was distracted by thought of an early morning breakfast rendezvous between Vidvid and herself. So, when she had always turned left at the end of the long underground hall, she turned right without realizing it at all. Suddenly a dead end snapped her back into reality. Rae was lost.

And so were 23 frightened, screaming children. Somehow, it did not occur to her to bring a flashlight to the tunnels and passageways because she knew her way so well that she could navigate not only in the dark, but with a blindfold on. This was the first time that she really felt lost of afraid. So, instead of turning back and trying to find her way, she did what anyone in her position would do. She joined the kids and started to scream.

The dead end whooshed aside and there, standing as a silhouette to an otherwise blinding lighted doorway, was the prince. The prince was standing in the otherwise blinding doorway, wearing a cowboy hat; and cowboy boots; and spurs. The twanging music came blasting through the door. Vidvid looked at Rae. Rae looked at Vidvid. The kids looked back and forth. Everyone just looked. Then the looking stopped and the laughing began.

The kids were laughing because they had never seen anyone ever wearing a cowboy hat that wasn't in a movie and they thought it looked quite hilarious. Rae was laughing because she had just been rescued in the depths of a dungeon by a handsome prince. The poetic irony was just about perfect for a story of some kind. Vidvid was laughing because he was so embarrassed about the whole thing that he was sure he would fall over or fall apart if he didn't do something, and bursting into tears didn't seem like something that a prince or a cowboy would do. So everybody laughed.

Finally, Vidvid let everyone into the Rae Ranch. Then he got the band to play a very special song. In fact, it was such a special song that it must remain unnamed to preserve the sacredness of it's meaning. The important thing is that the prince finally made his move, rodeo hat and all. After dancing and singing it out for over three hours, the prince was overcome with boldness. He marched his parade of children and his lovely princess up into the sunlight of the kingdom. The band followed, and suddenly country music was everywhere! Within a week the crown was replaced with the wide rimmed cap of the cowboy and everyone was line dancing up and down the streets of Elderberry and beyond! And as for Rae? Well, she's singing and dancing and lighting up the world to this day... Vidvid's world at least!

The very end.

Paper Cuts

Shot down. Shut down. Put down. Belittled. Ignorant. Inferior. Wrong.

This is who you are in conflict. This is what happens when your ideas are too different. When the swords meet and you’ve been stripped of your armor there is no defense. It doesn’t take long for their blade to find your heart when it’s on paper. Everyone knows that paper cuts hurt. Some don’t know how deep they are.

The Monstrous Green-Eyed Monster

Jealousy is a very strange thing. There is no other feeling that compares to the bitterness that leaches onto a jealous heart. The emptiness refuses to fill with any kind of supplement, stubbornly demanding whatever you can’t have.

Envy can attack from anywhere and by anyone, and though some of its forms are abstract and vague, there are a handful of sources that become blatantly obvious as time passes us by. My heart and my ego were afflicted this afternoon by a revelation of a terrible kind. I am jealous of my best friend’s boyfriend.

For some, this climax is perhaps slightly disappointing, because I am not jealous of him, per se, but of the time he gets to spend with her. It sucks. With no eloquence of speech, that is exactly how I feel. I cannot explain why I feel and think as I do, I can only describe how. How doesn’t help my problem; but neither would any answered question about it. I just miss her, clear and simple.

If I had the decision, I probably would not have placed us 330 kilometres apart for so long. Unfortunately, I am unable to reorganize the globe, for all of the times I’ve tried. I know in my mind that it is a good thing – an important, necessary, growth full thing – to be away. My heart doesn’t seem to care about what my head says.

So, to the ‘him’ in all of this, know that you’ve got unique and coveted access to something that is so valuable, beautiful, lovely, fabulous and so many other adjectives that you will discover as time goes on. Know that she’s in high demand in many contexts, and loved by SO many hearts. Be careful and care full. You’re an envied man.

Unspoken

Have you ever wanted to tell someone all of the ridiculous, unnecessary details of your life? To explain the things that have happened in your day that are mundane or strange and have them listened to, without a critical or belittling stare? If only we were encouraged to share our lives with one another in this way. If only I could express, without fear of judgment (or worse, indifference) the smallest aspects of what occurs in my mind. I could speak of the importance of my stocking rebellion this morning and the bitter consequences my toes are now facing. I would tell the world of my camera's dead battery and the artistic frustration I feel at present, as I glance over top a colourful forest of leaves. I would explain that my thoughts are flying in and out of movie plot lines, leaving crossed images of knights and pirates and ballrooms. I could tell you of the three hour class that felt like nine, and the intriguing creatures I penciled during that time. There are metaphors everywhere. Life seems incredibly symbolic this afternoon. But I can't tell anyone this. No one wants to listen. We're all too busy for this kind of thought. So I keep silent, without a whisper of conversation at this depth. Thought is a blissful and lonely place to spend so much time.

Shelf of Memories

Memory, memory. How often does the mind begin to wander and dream, dancing on thought and emotion of past experience and event? From this waltz with time we eventually awaken, though still dwelling on a rediscovered something from the past. Every reflection is archaeology of the mind. We can come across anything, really; a trinket of history or a lost civilization of sensation and idea. There is so much that we bury in time. But time has its consequence; no ruin can ever be truly restored.

The excavation of the mind is founded upon a bittersweet philosophy, in the sense that some of our histories have buried and suppressed with good reason. If the world discovered Pandora’s Box, it would be best to leave it alone and avoid a present day re-enactment of this legendary disaster; however, everyone has a box like this. It is our hiding place of terrible confessions and actions that at some point diseased and tormented our personal world. Leave these destructive memories to rest under their stones. Pain is not the aim of this dig.

Our purpose here is to uncover the neglected, not the rejected. The idea is to dust off what has been shelved for too long; to remember the glories of the past, for surely everyone has something worth reliving. A happy thought, however distant, is found in even the greenest of Grinches.

There is an obvious place to begin, or perhaps it is only obvious to a heart that has been somewhat void of such an attention. I have no embers or ashes of a love that is my own, in one sense and context. In another, my life has been so blessed and so full that my shelf of love seems to be many layers deep in many places. It was the spark of one of these smaller loves that began this exploration of my memory only an hour ago. A relatively short acquaintanceship in the grand scheme of time, though it has had a lasting impression on me. This memory is a beautiful, musical, colourful blur and blend of conversation and local adventure. There are others woven in to this memory, whom I will never forget, or something more true, whom I will continue to remember. It was a time in my life of leisure and laughter and love, of a kind. Is there anyone else who can claim this memory? Yes. Smile that kind of smile when you think of me and I’ll be blessed for a lifetime.

This is a single frame in the film of my mind, and each picture has a story worth sharing, for another time and place.

What does your memory say about you? At what point do you pause first when you search your mind? What piece of the past is on your heart in a heartbeat? Memory expresses what is inside of the soul. Sometimes what you find yourself looking at is a shelved trove of treasures. Sometimes it’s a box of secrets. Maybe it’s time for you to do some digging and rediscover the world under the dust.

The Ultimate Art(ist)

The afternoon view from my window
Outweighs any human design
Colours untameable
Untouched
Unexplainable
From the hand of an artist divine.

If you sat beside me and gazed through this pane,
You could not see the same as I do
For the way that I see
Is unique
Just to me
And mine is an intimate view.

To witness the art of an artist
Is to jump right inside of a soul;
Thought and emotion
Opinion
Devotion
Small pieces defining the whole.

This is the view from my window.
Art from the heart of my God;
He is untameable
Incomprehensible
Beautiful, unique and unflawed.

Shakespeare Exposed

Is there truly great symbolism hidden deep within the writings of Shakespeare? When he wrote, did he pause and analyze his words for musical meter and flow? Did he ponder the seven possible meanings or interpretations of each beautiful phrase? When this ancient English playwright scrawled out his observations of life, did he ever suspect that his expressions would be twisted and picked at for hundreds of years to come?

Authors write to express, to cause someone to stop and think, or sigh in relation, or evoke something of conviction -- not to be grammatically criticized and critiqued. Art loses it's beauty when it is simplified or summarized the same way that a joke ceases to be funny if explained, or a magic trick loses its impressiveness when the illusion is revealed. If mystery is lost, only knowledge remains. Knowledge is not beautiful -- it is only functional.

Shakespeare's art was one of subtlety. It is filled with imagery and laced with depth, but the balance is delicate, and meant for those with ears to hear it. He wrote in levels so that people of any intellectual standing could appreciate it. Common or king, there's something for everyone, but not everything to any.

I believe that we are doing Shakespeare an injustice by exposing his craft with such a matter-of-fact method. If we are to continue to breakdown every thought and symbol, is there nothing we can do to protect or at least acknowledge the original mystery? Can we not leave anything to individual interpretation? Let imagination fill in what eludes the mind.

Spoiled

I need to write. I need to express the thought that is flooding my entire being at this moment and, though my topic may seem superficial, hear me out. I may surprise you. I may disappoint, convict or please, but whatever the response, I must first explain.

I just got my iPod.

Ah ha, you think, she is going to brag or rave or ooze all over us, talking about just how amazing this little device is, and how terribly unlucky or unworthy I am to not have one.

Wrong.

I met my iPod this evening with mixed feelings. I was, of course, both expecting and anticipating its arrival, as I had, only days before, ordered it online. With space for 7000+ songs, it is a classy iPod in black, and it literally has my name on it. I fell in love at once. Or perhaps, I fell in lust.You see, I have always wanted an iPod. Always wanted, never needed. Until about two weeks ago, I had never thought of actually purchasing such a thing, and even when my sister’s red Nano was delivered, I suppressed my envy and eventually forgot all about it. Suddenly, in the rush and thrill of leaving for school, a passing conversation caught my subconscious consumer off guard.
“Do you want an iPod?”

I didn’t know that was an option! My response was immediate. In fact, my mind had nothing to do with what my mouth said. Reason and thought were abandoned at the verbalized opportunity to own, for myself, such a prestigious possession. “Yes!” I replied.

Thus my present situation. Only moments ago, a Kleenex-sized box sat on my bed. I also sat on my bed. I took a deep breath, and about 20 seconds later the packaging had found a new home on my floor (next to a few socks and an earring) and I was caught in the deadlock stare of this mysterious machine. Silence overcame both of us, and just as I thought I was going to defeat the threatening gaze of my iPod, something tapped. Something tapped, aggressively, violently, at the back of my mind. “Why do you have this,” it demanded. “You don’t need it and you know it. It’s a little bit ridiculous that you bought it anyway. What now, girl?”

I recognized this voice. It was my white shoulder angel. You know the kind. You may call it something else, but we all have them. Mine is white and cartoon and usually disappointed or peeved. “It’s like this,” I explain. My thoughts are a little bit shaky at this point; cartoon projections so close to your face are even more intimidating than the exceptionally clever iPod. Somehow I find my voice. “An iPod is a very useful thing. It memorizes music better than I do, and I can record myself whenever I have a completely brilliant idea. Therefore, my iPod is an educational aid, not a westernized cultural fad”. I winked at my shoulder angel. He didn’t seem convinced.

So we cut a deal. I told him I would write out the whole drama (while still claiming my sanity), and leave it to my mind for a while. I do like my iPod. We’ve made friends and are going out for a stroll in the morning after I fix it up with a tune or two. I like that I bought it for myself and that it bears my full name and an important personal reminder. The flustration will pass. And yet, something remains subtly unsettled in my mind. Perhaps it is the fact that I am completely under the spell of the media, or the realization of such a fact. Whatever it might be, whatever your mind is concluding from this tale, the story’s been told. I leave you with one last thing and it is simply this: enjoy being spoiled.