The Colour of Thought

Quill

2012-02-04T09:10:00.001-05:00

For some in my field the rhythm and rhyme of a turned phrase comes out naturally in even metre;
Measure for measure the language of melody and whistle-whispered tune of a thought is laid down
Neatly: as notes are planted in the rows of a staff so are the petals and pedals
And knots and naughts and oughts picked up from their stray places by the storyteller's quill.

This field of mine is old; it is a fertile land and well maintained, though it may seem unruly at first
Glance: a short story goes to seed and delicate white tufts of the idea escape their native land on the breeze;
A poem blooms like cherry; the novel climbs like ivy; the devil's paintbrush spatters the landscape
With conflict and convict and red and read and read as it dances through time and its tenses.

It is a beautiful place, my field. It is so full of imagination, half-opened ideas and words chasing words
That whir and purr and prowl and prance and dance around and around each spark-of-a-memory tree
So I sit in the meadow and open my mind to its floral stimulus and each enchanting colour that fills
Me: happy and quiet, paper in pocket, pen in hand... trying to join the artists.

Home, Sweet and Sour

2012-01-13T23:01:00.001-05:00

There is never any pleasure in the realigning.

Whenever I go to Anissa, the chiropractor of every bone in my family's collective body, I fear the alignment. The whole process begins with a problem - an unsettled joint, a strained muscle, an ache, a pain, a problem. After greeting the receptionist you sit down in the chair with the funny back rest and realize just how terrible your posture has been as of late; sadly, you realize that your back pain is at least partially your own fault. Keep those shoulders back, and you might be in this office less.

The next part is wonderful: Anissa (or Meegan, sometimes) ushers you into the first room and ask how things have been going in life. While you give updates on siblings and school or work (or neither), she lays you down and puts weighted heating pads all down your spine and tells you to relax and have a little nap. Then she leaves, to align another client or get a glass of water. I never actually know what happens at this point, as I tend to actually fall asleep.

Inevitably your ten minutes of warm and peace conclude with a buzzing, bleeping timer and your chiropractor returns. She removes your heat, makes you stand, waits patiently as you steady yourself and escorts you to the next room. In contrast, this room is always colder (or feels it, as you've just been in the dozy, dopey sleep-heat a moment before), and the light is more diffused. During my last visit, Anissa spent a fair amount of time letting me cry and explain why I was feeling so heartbroken and miserable... a double fix. The psychologist bit doesn't last forever though, and eventually I find myself face down again (this time on chilled leather/vinyl) with Anissa's hands preparing to crack my back. "Deep breath, and, out..." she says.

It is incredibly difficult to relax your muscles at this point. Anyone who has gone through this before knows exactly what it takes to realign: your breath is pressed right out of you, a sharp pain jolts through your body, and you can hear it. The problem, what was out of tune and out of place, is set to rights again, movement restored, things are as they should be once more... but the alignment itself is an unpleasant process.

I feel like I'm waiting for God to crack my back.

When I moved to Hamilton this fall, it was an act of hopeful necessity. I had a problem; spiritual heartache and the burden of a perennial depression several years old (which I will argue is just as or more debilitating than back pain). I felt the need to move somewhere that I saw God healing/working/acting in obvious ways - I wanted to get into His "office," and the MoveIn program, and this city, seemed like a good waiting room. The first few months here were spent primarily in observation - looking on in envy laced with hope at the people around me who seemed to have such straight backs and pain-free promenades. I sat in the proverbial funny chair and realized more acutely that I wasn't okay - and that I was, in deed, part of the problem. I needed to change something.

Then I went home for Christmas and out West for the last two weeks. It was definitely my heating-pad experience, preparing my heart for the real work to be done. I truly rested while I was out there... but the point of the heat isn't to rock you to sleep - it is to prepare your body for the adjustment. Yesterday was the walking to the second room, and tonight I am fighting the impulse to flee.

When the buzzer goes, I often joke with Anissa that, should she want to leave me be for another ten, twenty, thirty minutes I'd be more than happy to stay put. She laughs good-naturedly but moves me right along all the same. The reality is, of course, the heat soothes but does not solve. Only the adjustment can put right what has gone wrong.

So tonight, alone in this place and feeling rather uncomfortable, I am trying to remind myself that the best way to brace for an adjustment is to relax... I have done my part in coming, and now I must wait for the touch of the Master's healing hands. He's the only one who knows what's out of whack, and He's the one who will have to set it right again. I can't do it on my own - that's why I came in the first place.

Adjust me, O God. Then let's work on my posture together.

Abbey ~ Between the Stops

2012-01-01T19:52:00.044-05:00

They must have been close to the water, because that's where the trains are. Even over the whirr of traffic on the road and the twittering conversations around him he could hear the long, low whistle of the train. It was a language of one tone and one message, slow and spread thick like the finger-painting of a sleepy child. It called out with a counter-cultural patience; beckoned to the artistic spirit with billowing smoke and bellowing sound. He lifted his heavy eyelids and looked out the window. He couldn't see the long line of cars all held together with iron and prayer, but he heard its lifted voice again and smiled. It sounded like home.

In the city, life was stacked on life in tall buildings - people packed so close to each other and yet physically paper-thin walls are functionally miles thick. The opposite was true in the plains: acres and acres dropped between neighbours was barely enough barrier to be noticed.

The bus pulled over and a young girl in a patterned hoodie stepped aboard. She moved down the aisle as lightly as a ghost, making no sound and attracting no eye except his. He looked at her but she faced forward firmly. Either she couldn't see him, or she was choosing not to. Everyone rushing, rushing - far too busy or important for archaic notions of community and relationship. Discouraged, he returned his gaze to the world beyond the window.

The horizon here was still so unfamiliar to him, even eight months after his move. So little land made up the landscape outside; skyscrapers raced upwards to block out the heavens, a rough wrought iron fence against the natural realm. At dusk, tiny lights illuminated the darkness - but they weren't free to flicker and move the way that fireflies could, back home. Lightening bugs, like street lamps, shone bravely into the swallowing black - but they were a very different sort of beautiful than the orange-yellow haze found here.

The bus forked right and scuttled away from the waterfront and the trains and all reminders of any old-fashioned ways. He closed his eyes again and fought against the homesickness climbing from his heart to his throat. Fatigue mixed in with nostalgia and old grief was a powerful depressant, and with work to do in the here and now he couldn't allow himself to drift into melancholy. He cleared his throat and shook apart the knot of emotion lodged so close to the surface. He picked up his thoughts like a wayward child and redirected them to think about Abbey, instead.

Abbey was the reason he had moved east in the first place. She was his anchor in this city, to which all of his heartstrings were tied. She was a beautiful, entrancing creature and at almost nine years old she was the cleverest Scrabble player he had ever taken on. And she was his sister, for whom he would have moved to the moon if asked.

Abbey moved in with Liam and Sarah four months after the accident. The will had disclosed an agreement between his mother and Sarah that, should the worst, they would welcome the other's family with open arms and warm hearts, unless the children were old enough to care for themselves. He was seventeen and already off at school; she was almost nine and needed a home that he couldn't provide. Sarah was an aunt by all but blood and she moved West for the whole term, away from her own family and home and life, so that Abbey could finish the year with some kind of familiarity and order. He had moved home too, and the three of them grieved through the shock together. When summer came and everything that could be sorted out had been, Sarah and Abbey flew back to home and new-home. He followed a few weeks later, found an apartment near by and started the process of transferring his degree to the local university.

"You could try out a dorm," Liam had suggested over dinner one night, "since you didn't really have one out west. A bigger school will make it a bit harder to start up a social base, if you live alone."
He shook his head. He didn't want Abbey even visiting one of those dorms; she was still far too pure.
"You could live with us," Liam continued. "We just don't love the idea of you being so alone."
"I am alone," he said.
"You're not alone," he said.

So they found a middle ground and Liam moved in with a house full of young guys from his program. He'd answered a flyer, how cliché. Wanted: young, quiet, studious guy. Not too good looking, we don't want competition. Funny is allowed, though. Call Brian, Chris, Steve, Tyler, Alex, Adam or Kent. No, we're not dwarves. Only one grump. It was working well, so far.

With school through the week and a couple of shifts at Subway in the evenings, Abbey-Day was on Saturday. Liam and Sarah took her (along with four kids of their own) to church on Sunday mornings, so he would often pick her up on those afternoons as well. A day and a half, just the two of them. Sometimes they would go for walks around the city and try out different bakeries. He took her to the zoo once just to say that he had, and every other week or so when it was his turn to cook at the house, he'd bring her home and all of his housemates (without an upcoming exam) would teach her how to play cards. The whole house had kind of adopted her, and she was developing quite the little poker face.

Today, though, was a tough one. It had been a full year, and he had been thinking for a long time about how to handle their visit. Sarah had hinted that maybe they should just stay in for a change, but tradition held and she would be waiting for him, just three stops away. They would walk, he'd decided. They would walk all the way back to the train yard and let each other cry about home. Then he'd take her for Moose Tracks ice cream, like Dad used to whenever they had tripped out to Ontario for a visit. And then... and then they would come back to Liam and Sarah's and he'd pull out the books filled to bursting with their parents' photographed memories. They would cry, but they would cry together and fight the bitterness away with story. It was what he thought she needed. At least, he needed it.

The bus slowed down and he gathered up the bags that he had settled beside him. They were heavier than all of his textbooks combined, and far more valuable no matter what his bookstore receipts had to say. A beautiful little face greeted him as the doors spread open, and she reached out to take one of the bags. "Are you ready to go?" she asked. He passed down his backpack and balanced the rest before hopping of. The evening air felt fresh and he felt his spirits lift as he met her eye. "I am," he said. "Let's go."

#69: Blood Giving

2012-01-01T02:44:00.003-05:00

As my final heroic act of 2011, I decided to give blood this past week.

Dad and I drove to town for our 4:20pm appointment to find a relatively quiet parking lot, a quick registration and lots of cookies awaiting our successful donation. For those of you curious about the process, here's a brief summary: you sign in, grab your number, pick up an informational booklet that you are supposed to read every visit, and grab a seat atwaiting space number one. If there's a line, actually read the book... if it's relatively quiet, just grab a seat with one of the pretty blood-specialist and hand over the requested appendage. One quick prick and an iron test later, you are sent to a table with voting-style booths set up to answer a series of health questions. If you pass this first test, you are sent to a second bank of waiting seating, and are interviewed briefly. Most of the questions posed are about where you have been and if you have recently had sex with someone in jail / in another country / that handles monkeys / might have HIV / etc. If you say your "yeses" and "nos" appropriately, then it's off to waiting bank three, and then, the chair.

I was greeted by Pina, a lovely woman from Honduras who told me all about her daughter's too-short visit home, the insanity of finding and/or keeping a job in Ontario, and how I wasnot a good bleeder. Later that evening I would have more than enough crimson-coloured bandages to prove her wrong, but at the time I listened patiently and did what I could to keep opening and clenching my fist. Fifteen minutes after we began it was all over, and I was given a (rather painfully applied) patch, wrap and usher over to the goodies. Happily I didn't pass out or cry, and I am on the schedule for a repeat visit come February's end.

I saved a potential three lives with my one pint of blood, you know. They can do this spinning thing (I've seen it on CSI or House or something) and separate the blood into its essential parts, and can deal each element out as needed. It's a pretty cool, and relatively painless process that I highly suggest you think about, and then act upon. After all, "It's in you to give."

...and if I was writing this at any other time of year, I might have left this piece here... but the thing is, I've been wrapped up in Leviticus and learning about sacrificial law, and with Christmas and New Years propaganda floating around, I feel compelled to think out loud a little longer.

I'll try to connect the dots and cut to the quick, without the lace of language I'm used to: when God wrapped himself in flesh and filled his body with human blood, He did so for a profound, humbling reason. His blood was in Him to give - but not to give pint by pint every few months - to give in its entirety, sacrificially, without reserve.

And the beauty of His blood is that it has the ability to save more than three lives... and more than burn victims and people with severe cuts can benefit from his donation. His blood rescues from heart attack, cancer and murder, and He, too, gave freely.

Honestly, the inside of my arm still hurts a bit around the now-scarring needle mark, but I will return in February for another round of bruised muscles and bandaged joints if only to be reminded of the debt to death I will not pay because of Christ who, quite literally, gave his blood for me.

And for you.

Look at your life. If you feel yourself bleeding out and need to talk, or want to know a little more about this offer and the post-resuscitation commitment in the fine print of Jesus, write me. I will write back.

It's a New Year: the hope of another 365 days on this planet, but not the promise of them.

Just give it some thought.

73 to go.

Lalia ~ Between the Stops

2011-12-29T11:15:00.006-05:00

"Are you starting today?"

She wondered what had blown her cover. Was it the white-knuckled hand-wringing? The nervous pulling at her poorly fitting uniform top? Her name badge in its perfect perpendicular position? She nodded and thought about offering a handshake, just for the practice, but opted for more shirt tugging instead.

"It isn't even my first job - just my first new job in a long time. I bet I look like a rookie." The other woman, maybe fifteen or twenty years older and wearing a uniform that looked much more worn though just as clean, nodded reassuringly to the blonder version of her younger self. The name Lalia was embroidered just below her left shoulder. "You'll be fine," she said. "Even if you stumble through the first day, tomorrow will be more comfortable. A couple of spaghetti stains on your apron will do wonders for feeling like you belong. Deep breaths when you need them; head tall like you know what you're doing, even when you don't. You'll be fine."

"Thank you," she murmured and shifted her attention out the window. The bus had pulled over to one of the stops at the farthest reach of its route. The bus driver called back over a rather crackly loudspeaker that there was a scheduled ten minute delay in their trip, and if anyone would like to hop out for a smoke they were welcome to join him. Two or three young guys from the front followed off the bus, and a girl from their party swung her legs up to the newly vacant seat beside her, hugged her knees and nestled into a light doze like a bird. Her breathing visibly slowed in a matter of seconds; peace in the midst of chaos.

"I hope you planned ahead a bit better than I did," the older lady piped up, as though the five-minute lull in conversation was nothing more than a pause for breath. "I forgot about the stop here by this old school. I usually catch it on the return, but I was worried about it filling up with kids going off to class, so I jumped on before. By the time I realized this bus doesn't even go up to the college, I was already aboard. But just think! If I'd waited, maybe I wouldn't have talked with you! Everything happens for a reason, I say. I do always say that."

The young woman looked down at the phone in her hand and checked the time. She tisked her tongue quietly, without opening her mouth and without looking up. The older woman was chattering like a wind-up toy that used the last few movements of its mechanical momentum to turn its own key and begin again.

"Be glad that the buses are so quiet right now. I used to work the really early morning shift; I'd be up at three and to work by five, coffees in hand. The girls and I used to take turns getting it, but eventually the task fell to me because I was the only one who didn't need it to get it with a smile! But some people are just morning people I guess. Believe it or not, those crack-of-dawn runs are some of the busiest of the day!"

"Don't work mornings anymore?" She asked in a tone barely inflective enough to confirm that a question existed at all. She wasn't really paying attention.

"No, not since my son left for school. Working in the mornings was great when he was little - gave us the afternoons together and we both hit the hay early. Then suddenly he wasn't little anymore! Got tall, like his father was, and popular in the same fashion. When he went off to school he got wrapped up in the typical college scene, staying up all hours like an owl. When he did come home, his body couldn't adjust and I ended up never seeing him at all. Since it's just the two of us, that didn't fly for long. I figured it would be a lot easier to change my life than his, so I took an afternoon shift and now, when he's home and not out drinking with friends, we stay up and talk. Unfortunately, he comes home less and less. There's a girl, you see."

Activity at the front of the bus drew everyone's attention. The guys who had gone for a smoke returned to their seats, except for the boy who seemed to be with her; he had tried to, but his seat had legs all over it and moving them proved a war. The sleeping beauty who had so peacefully drifted off minutes before jolted and snapped forward at him like a viper when he dropped one of her feet back to the floor. She shouted at him, he yelled back - not for long, but snake fights rarely take much time, once the venom is loosed. The viper had suffered the bite of a larger predator. As she stormed to the back of the bus her lightning and thunder melted into the poisoned rain of embarrassment and hurt. She curled up again, once a position of rest now an armoured shell.

Lalia sighed. The boys at the front of the bus laughed and punched each other's arms and sat down just as the driver returned to continue the route. Had he witnessed the scene he would have likely stepped in. One more reason not to smoke.

"I worry about this with my son," she said sadly. "He is so much like his father. My Rod never could see the pain he caused and I'm afraid it's a trait that Sam learned to mimic as a child. It's been a while since Rod's gone, but so much of his influence still lingers. If Sam was closer, if he brought this girl of his around a little more, then maybe I could remind him to be gentle. He tries though. At least he tries." She looked back at the girl tucked into the corner, shoulders shaking from more than the rough road beneath them.

"It was nice to meet you today, hun, but I think that I might be on this bus for her, not for you. Will you excuse me?" With a smile, Lalia took up a seat beside the girl and spoke in whispered, caressing tones. Although she didn't move, her breathing gradually evened and she opened her eyes. Lalia put one hand on the girl's calf and gave it a pat. The girl's tears returned, but they were different -- no longer laced with anger, all toxins gone.

The bus climbed a hill and passed a Macs Milk store. Her stop was coming up, just on the other side of the highway, and in a few minutes she would be waiting on tables and talking about which special she would recommend to the complete strangers who sought her advice. She signalled her request with the yellow cord and looked back at Lalia who had the girl laughing now, cheer and tear blended and smeared with the make-up on both of their faces. Maybe that was the real difference between their uniforms. Hers, un-wrinkled and crisp was prepared for presentation and performance, as was her attitude... but Lalia's, with softened edges and smoothed creases resembled a nurse's scrub, even with the cropped black apron of the food industry. She didn't just wait on her strangers -- she cared over them.

As the bus slowed down across from Kelsey's, Lalia took a little piece of paper from her pocket and pressed in gently into the girl's palm. Then she stood, gave the girl a maternal kiss on the top of her head and returned to the doors.

"Fancy that," she said, rubbing mascara from under her eyes. "The same stop all along." Thanking the bus driver, she hopped off and headed toward the crosswalk. Part of Lalia's story flashed into mind; she said that her son had patterned his life after his father's from childhood. She didn't have a mom to mimic... maybe this loving, chattering lady would do. "Thank you," she called to the driver who tipped his hat and closed the door as she ran to catch up to her newest acquaintance. And the bus rattled off again.

Kelly ~ Between the Stops

2011-12-05T13:30:00.004-05:00

Ten minutes of rain without an umbrella had let loose her curls and streaked the foundation that covered her face. Another morning wasted with the fussing of hair and careful application of liners and blush. Why did she bother? Why did any woman bother with such nonsense.

She should have seen it coming when the radio played the same song twice in a row. Even if it’s a good song, twice in a row is a bad start as far as organization of a day is concerned; it makes you second-guess yourself, tricks your mind into believing you have more time than you do, throws your subconscious for a loop as though your whole life has skipped like a scratched CD. A few minutes later she discovered the fracture in her cereal bowl, responsible for the leak that had silently soaked a pile of history quizzes that she was in the middle of marking. She had been taught early in life not to cry over spilled milk, and so she held herself together right up until she knocked the table trying to leave and her coffee cup dumped its contents into her lap. A few angry tears followed in the aftermath while trying to speedily spot clean her cream coloured cotton skirt that she eventually abandoned for denim. It was a grim forecast from the start, and the weatherman had yet to open his mouth.

It is amazing how we can survive through even in the most wearying of seasons; we learn to invest in deeper things than rouge and curls, and we find purpose that runs at a much deeper level than circumstance can determine. It was, for her, the kids that kept her going. Every morning as she crossed the threshold of her classroom door, the bright orange gateway to adventure and discovery that had been the bearer of her name placard for seven years and counting, every morning she was met with 30 brilliant reasons to keep waking up. They brought all emotion into her life: joy, grief and meaning. Students were a transient sort of family with faces always changing in season, but they were family, and she poured her heart into them without reserve.

But this morning, her heart (not yet at school and not yet focused on the more important things) tripped over her hair. She twisted the front pieces between her fingers and pinched hard, willing her locks to lock in place with inevitable failure. “It looks okay. Don’t worry about it.” The voice that came from a few rows behind had caught her off guard and she spun around with a start, scanning the seats over twice which at first glance had appeared to be empty.

The camouflage of an urbanite is not made of the greens and browns readily associated with the term. To blend into the city you must adopt the plumage of muted vibrancy, of patterns so outrageous that they climb over you like an artificial ivy and smudge your features into the moving mural of the city scene. Kelly had learned the art by osmosis, the way that you do by growing up in a place. She could fade, blend, almost disappear with an effortless decision to do so; she could adopt the attitude of invisibility as literally as any mystical cloak, and once under its protective shield the world could not touch her.

She had been hiding four rows behind her teacher. Hiding from her, if truth be told. To see a teacher outside of its native context is an alien encounter that requires a carefully calculated approach. She had spent several minutes in observation, watching in absolute stillness; she was a veritable chameleon in her zebra-print overcoat and retro green headphones. Unnoticed. Unnoticeable.

The teacher had clambered aboard the bus with a furrowed brow, cursing with her eyes at a newly torn hole in the back cuff of her jeans. The hem was sopping wet and hanging on by a few frayed threads. Her emotions seemed to match. She had taken a seat somewhat absently, and Kelly couldn’t tell if she had yet noticed the tangle of leaves caught in her hair. It didn't seem to bother her; she was preoccupied with a pair of tendrils hanging down limply from her forehead. Time had come to emerge from the metaphorical foliage. “It looks okay,” she said, loud enough to get her attention. Then more gently, “Don’t worry about it.”

Recognition wasn’t instantaneous, but it only took a moment for the young teacher to catch her bearings and make the mental switch. “Good morning, Kelly! I didn’t realize you lived over here! Are you headed to school too?” Her cheerful voice might have been a semitone too jubilant to come across as perfectly sincere on such an obviously sallow day, but her smile was genuine. Kelly pointed vaguely to the left side of the bus. “Mom and I moved into an apartment a few stops back last year. City bus is faster than a school bus, so I catch this one and do my…” After a short pause she finished her sentence rather bashfully, “…my homework,” she confessed, “about twenty minutes before class. It gets done though, honest.” Professional persona in place, she suppressed a mirthful expression that might have been called a sort of chortle, had it been given the freedom of exposure. She cocked one eyebrow instead and half-rolled her eyes. “As long as it hits my desk, we’re okay,” she said, and took a red-felt seat across the aisle from her young pupil.

The bus was nearing the school, but its route would take them farther from it again and tour around the residential neighbourhood before stopping across the road from the cafeteria entrance. She could walk from the next stop and save herself between seven and twelve minutes, but nine minutes longer with this girl might be more important than coffee brewed before the bell. She resolved to follow Kelly’s lead.

It wasn’t often that a child would overlap in her classes. On only eight occasions had a student been held back in the history of her school, and only once – well, twice – under her care. The school board frowned on extremely high class averages as much as failings, and most teachers danced, curved and nudged the numbers to meet requirements if they could, but some children have a knack for monkey-wrenching even the smoothest of systematic gears and cogs. Curtis, her first rebel, was a kid bent on breaking every teacher he faced off against. He was angry and strong, like the rock-dwelling rams you might see on a commercial for the Discovery Channel. Every September he would lower his head and charge full steam into the Principal’s office. Once he did this when the door was closed, an act that earned him an overnight stay in the hospital and a month of passes to see the nurse. But he wasn’t an idiot, contrary to popular opinion and school report card records – Curt was scary smart and a talented manipulator. The first two terms with him in class were a migraine inducing torment, in mild-mannered vocabulary. He had almost broken her spirit by third term, and then a miracle happened: they studied law. Lawyers became an obsession for the boy – to twist and connive and massage truth to serve a positive end was a nearly inconceivable idea. He bombed every course except History that year, settling at a frightening 27% overall average. Arrangements had been made to transfer him into another class that would “cater better to his particular developmental needs,” and she had to fight to keep him. The paradigm shifted a few weeks into their second year together and Curtis progressed by leaps and bounds. By mid term he was rivaling the self-identified geniuses, and joined the debate team. He was sharp and competitive, and led them to the provincial championships, proudly bringing home a silver podium-shaped trophy that Curtis presented to the Principal, in his office. All three of them had a bit of a cry that day.

And Kelly was the second, although her situation was somewhat different. Last year she had taught a split class at the small elementary school. It was a seven/eight split, with only a handful in the lower grade. The schools make it sound like a random draw when students have their classes chosen, but in reality it’s a carefully orchestrated collection of kids. She had the best possible set up for a split class – the over achieving of the lower grade, and the rougher-edged older ones who might benefit from a naturally slowed pace. For the most part the lessons were divided, but on occasion when the classes could be combined for the bulk and then tailored away from the chalkboard such a set up served the greatest number at the greatest efficiency. But last year Kelly’s family took a couple of hard hits and she stumbled towards summer in obvious pain. Kelly would stay in from recess from time to time and dissolve into tears at her desk. “Teacher” became a blend of much more last June – mentor, friend, pseudo-mother, tutor, guardian and advocate were unofficially added to the list by graduation, and when Kelly requested to be in her class again this coming year, in the upper half of another split class, her request was heard and honoured by the faculty. She was the only one of the Sevens that stuck, but it had been a good decision. There was a distance between them this term, old classroom social boundaries reestablished, but this tough little girl was one of the special ones.

The bus rolled past four stops without so much as a pause. They rode on in silence for a while, both lost in similar memories. It wasn’t the strained or awkward quiet felt between two unfamiliar acquaintances trapped uncomfortably in the same taxi or cue, it was the silence that almost folds into a sigh of relief and security, and that warms with each moment gone by. Kelly looked over and smiled. “Ryan started walking a couple of days ago. Mum says that we’ll have to start locking everything up now. But he’s kind of a bit more human than he was, now that he’s standing up on his own.” Ryan was Kelly’s toddling nephew, a beautiful baby boy that she had met on a couple of occasions after school when the girl’s sister had been given the charge of picking her up. “That’s an exciting change! There are probably a million things you can’t wait to teach him. There’s definitely a bit of a teacher in you, Kelly. And coming from me, I hope you can take that as a compliment.” Kelly nodded and picked at one of the many buttons that tiled her backpack. Then she stood and pressed the red alert button on the yellow poll near the door. “Wait,” she said, and quickly walked back to her teacher. She reached up behind her a bit and with swift fingers untangled the twigs that had matted her hair. She pulled a bobby-pin from her pocket and tucked the two limp tendrils back off her face. By the time the bus had stopped, still a few blocks from the school, Kelly was at the door again. “Thank you,” said her teacher. Kelly turned, just before she hopped off the bus. “No,” with a slight shake of her head and a penetrating look that directly affected her heart, “thank you.” Then the seriousness in her eyes blinked away. “See you in class,” she said, and hopped off the bus.

A young dad with a little one clinging at his hip like a koala boarded and sat just behind her where the seats faced into the bus instead of ahead, towards the driver. The boy was buried inside of a snowsuit, gurgling and giggling as he stared out the window. Children: none of them were hers, but all of them felt like they were. She lived and breathed for these little jewels of heaven and, for their love, however sparingly awarded or fleetingly felt, she would happily walk in the rain every day of her life.

Venus, Violet & the Edible Vocabulary of Leefy Greans

2011-11-30T21:50:00.003-05:00

Visiting other towns can sometimes be like inter-dimensional travel. From province to province and in the space between time zones, custom and tradition can shift so dramatically that an other-world experience is the only terminology that makes any sense to those who have never been before. It is from these places, in a village or county neither here nor there, that stories of passing through a wormhole in time or living though an unusually realistic dream come. It is not imagination; it is not magical or metaphysical or mystic; it is odd, and may have been Odd, but more likely another such town by a different name.

The Venus family was one of the road-tripping kinds. They had been across the continent more times than the average person had occasion to spell the word tzatziki, and every venture they made was kicked off by the purchase of a brand new, up-to-the-date-they-left-accurate, accordion style roadmap. All three of them participated in the purchasing of their traditional navigational tool. Piling out of their station wagon and into the little general store at the corner, they walked up to the counter and smiled in unison. “Good morning, Mauve,” they chimed together. Her reply was well practiced, but it was delivered with so much merriment and warmth that it could have been the first expression of the sentiment. “Oh and a great, grand rainbow of a morning to all of you! Are you here for… your map?” And with a flourish familiar to the nimble wrists of illusionists and puppeteers she produced the glossy paper guide and grinned. “I saw the circled square on your calendar last time I came for tea and made a mental note. This one is hot off the presses in Caledonia. They sent it over by courier this morning!” She sat back on her stool and basked in their awe. “Mauve!” they bubbled, “you’re amazing!”

A tall man with a curling moustache joined the girl behind the counter and took up the second stool. “Mr. Venus, Mrs. Venus, glad to see you’re up with the sun. Violet, I must say that is quite the prettiest little smile I’ve seen all morning! With one exception, of course.” He gave his daughter a kiss on the cheek and winked across to the other girl. “I’d have to say it’s a draw.”

“Your Mauve was just showing us our new map, Mr. Mercury. It does look like a fine piece of print if I do say so... but let’s open it up and see if we can’t find our own little acreage this time. We’ve never made it to the national atlas before, but who knows? Maybe this year will be different!”

The map took up the whole counter space with corners tumbling over the spill edge as though someone had tossed a blanket over the great falls of Niagara and then pinned it down with giant elbows. They looked on with wonder at the daunting tangle of roads and highways, train tracks, perforated border marks and pepper-like scattering of picnic symbols and gas station alerts. They all poked their fingers down at a point of personal recognition and traced to where their little hiccup of land ought lie… but found only blank space for one more year. Even Rosseau was on the map. Aylmer, Powassan and Wanapitei all made the cut, but their population of one-hundred-eleven persons was off the grid again. A communal sigh followed the realization and the group repositioned their postures perpendicularly. “Ahh well,” concluded Mr. Mercury with a shrug, “by your next trip they should see us. Peach and Persimmon are due in the spring, and that will balloon our numbers one, maybe two more, assuming they stick around. Next year, friends, next year.”

Each Venus chose out one bag of sweets and lay down the crisp and colourful bill they entered with. Just before Violet tugged the door closed behind her, Mauve caught her arm. “If something cool happens,” she whispered, “I expect a good story. And maybe a souvenir.” The friends shared a hug, and with much dramatic waving and open-windowed shouts of thanks, they were off to adventure again.

“Well,” said Mr. Venus as soon as they crossed from dirt onto gravel and finally the smooth pavement of highways and cities, “what should our rule be this time?” It was an annual discussion, and each had been giving it much thought. In past travels that had decided that they would only ever make left handed turns, which had once landed them surprisingly close to the Mexican border on the way to Rhode Island. Another year they vowed to cross every bridge they could see, drive down every Main Street in three states, follow orange cars for no less than twenty minutes and so on. This year they would vote on another rule to follow, and they would hold to it religiously.

Her father continued when his women said nothing. “I was thinking it might be fun to ferry as frequently as we can… but it wouldn’t promise much when we hit the desert.” Her mother spoke second and tossed in her copper. “We could flick paint at the map and connect all the dots? It would certainly send us to places we haven’t seen – but I don’t know if it’s much of a rule, per se.” They both angled their mirrors, rear view and passenger visor, so they could better see their daughter. “Vi, honey? What do you think?” Violet pressed her thumb up against the sharp point of one of her teeth and thought. She had three ideas and was struggling to prioritize. After a moment of consideration she tipped her head to one shoulder and the other, and drew out every word for flair. “I was thinking, we should spend the nights off the map.”

The eyebrows of both her parents dipped down into an uncomprehending furrow, but only for a flash. “You mean, find other towns like us,” her mother reasoned out. “Other people off the grid.” All six of their eyes twinkled with anticipation and the mischief of innocent play. “Yes,” affirmed her dad with a laugh. “We’ll do it, and it’ll be grand.”

Their first day of driving is always rather a lazy one. Everything looks novel simply because the sensation of passing it causes a particular sort of frame to wrap every scene in a special way. They spent most of their time lost to each other and staring in wonder out of different windows. Occasionally her mother, Viridian, would lean her chair back to share the view for a while, and then she would sit back up and fix her gaze out of the passenger side once more. The stopped for dinner at a little diner with a patio and ate breakfast around eight o’clock, just as the sun was setting. They asked their waiter where the closest speck of a town was, and had to whittle him down from “an hour to the Sheraton,” to “ten kilometers and you’ll find the Days Inn,” until he finally called his sister and asked if there was a room in her B&B for the night. He wrote directions on the back of their bill. “I’d tell you what roads to take,” he smiled, “but they stop naming them after a while. I’m afraid your map won’t help you much if you get lost.” Violet responded in sum. “Perfect.”

The highway splintered off a number of times as they drove west, chasing the fiery horizon. Asphalt crumbled into dirt roads that sprouted grass in the middle parts and when they reached the tiny, lamp-lit hamlet it seemed more like a ghost town than home to the living and breathing sort. They clambered up to the front porch of the first and largest building they could see and rang the hand-held school bell that hung on a fine white cord. A faded sandwich board told a brief history of the spot and displayed a sort of menu. Violet cocked her brow at the first item on the list: One mug of warm-all-the-way-down-to-the-pit-of-your-stomach-and-back-up-around-your-brain-like-a-hug, three melt-in-your-mouth-with-that-ohh-yeah-kind-of-smile-sparker, and optional crunchy-but-soft-and-fills-me-up-just-right. Served with fresh squirt-in-my-mouth-and-tickle-my-tongue-like-childhood. Four dollars. Before she could read any further the screen door swung open and a young woman ushered them in with the enthusiasm of a mother hen. “Hello! Hello, come on in! Right on over here, can I help you take – okay, that’s right – just, yes! Great to see you!” Her words danced around the room, keeping step with her spinning, welcoming form. It felt like the sun had set outside just in time to rise again inside of this girl. She beamed like the rose-buttercup light of an early morning. “I am just so pleased to have guests around this place again. Please, come in and make yourselves at home! I’m just going to run and grab keys for you. Wow, it’s just – right? This is great!” She slipped away and left the Venus family to breathe and take in their surroundings. A steep staircase climbed up to the right, and other rooms on its far side opened to the back of the old farmhouse. It smelled of wood and the smoke of a fireplace. The kitchen stood to the left and a dining room with several lustrous place settings that seemed out of balance with the apparent emptiness of the bed and breakfast. Facing them across the front hall was a large mirror, and above it hung an asparagus coloured wooden sign with two simple routed words: Leefy Greans. The Venuses were still staring at the sign when their hostess rejoined them.

“It isn’t an error. Well, it is in a way, but intentionally so. I’ve put the kettle on for some sip-you-to-sleep, if you’ll join me in the parlor as soon as you’re settled upstairs?” She handed Mr. Venus a large brass key, and gave Violet her own, just as shiny but much more delicate. “Stories are always better with something hot in hand.”

Viridian smiled up at her husband, took his free hand in hers and picked up their suitcase. He followed her up the stairs with another bag slung over his shoulder. Violet dawdled her way up the stairs, taking time to look at each picture in the path of her ascent. She paused between the fifth and sixth step, held in place by the very old photo of a young boy. “Excuse me,” she called down to the woman who was sweeping a straw broom across the floor. “Who is this?” Leaning the broom against the wall she joined the girl on the stairs. “He’s my grandfather,” she said. “James Ian Dash was his name. My brother looked a lot like him as a kid. He lives in a city now, but this was taken just outside of this house. He grew up here.” “It’s an unusual name,” said Violet. “What colour is James like?”

Confusion fogged the air between them. “James isn’t a colour,” came the reply. She waved her hand in front of her face as though trying to physically clear up the muddle. “It’s just a name. It means something, I think, but it isn’t a pigment like yours.” Violet shook her head. “Everyone’s name is a colour somewhere on the spectrum – Jade, Emerald, Sage, Umber – that’s just how it is. You must have a colour name. What is it?” “I’m Kathleen,” said Kathleen. Violet didn’t know what to say. “Is… is that like… orange?”

Mr. and Mrs. Venus returned from dropping off their bags and soon all four of them were sitting around a small table with full teacups. “Kathleen,” said Vermillion, leaning forward just a little to focus his question, “what’s the story about that sign in the entryway?” She smiled and sipped at her cup. “Our little town – and I do mean little in a literal sense, I think there might be thirty of us living here permanently, and you’ll meet most of them in the morning – well, we used to be called Leafy Greens.” She walked to the refrigerator and took the pen and note pad to spell it out for them. “Some of the best provincial farming land is around these parts, or used to be. A couple of major highway companies bought up most of the land lot by lot before locals caught onto their project, and when we realized what they were trying to do the papers were already signed. They plowed up the farms and paved their paths, and five years later rerouted traffic and skipped our town all together. Most of the folks had to leave, to start up again somewhere else. Those who’ve stayed have done what we can to keep each other floating along and have worked out a kind of subsistence recycling of goods and labour. We don’t even really need tourists anymore, not that that we don’t love company,” she smiled. “All the kids get picked up from my place in the morning and go to school about a half hour away. A few years back there was a kid from the high school who missed the bus and decided he would walk. Foolish, maybe, but I think he made it by the last bell. Anyway, when he hit the town limits and passed the sign, he stopped for a rest and saw that one of the letters had come loose from the board. Long story short, he switched the letters as a practical joke. Nobody in town noticed for months, but one day a stack of letters came by a blustery mail courier. The post officer told us that about thirty letters had come in with the misspelled name, and therefore hadn’t been delivered properly. It was mostly fliers and trash, but someone had apparently driven by the sign, informed someone in a government office somewhere and all the records had been officially changed. If we wanted to continue life in Leafy Greens there would be a lot of paperwork in our future, and a misdemeanor fine to pay. We held a town meeting at what used to be our library and voted to keep the bumbled version to save the kid his summer money. We spent a few hours walking the streets, now mostly abandoned, drawing arrows where the letters ought to be switched. It’s all just a joke now, just a story to tell. I had that sign made up one Christmas. Other than the one on your way into town, I imagine it’s the only one you’ll find with that spelling and not just the arrows.”

Kathleen held the mug up to her nose and breathed in the warm spell. The Venus family, reflective and growing drowsy, absently mimicked her movements. “Ahhhh,” sighed Viridian, “That hits the spot.” Kathleen held up her hand in correction. “That’s hits-the-spot,” she said. Mrs. Venus looked a bit puzzled but she smiled, nodded and yawned. Bidding their hostess a good night and cheerful dreams, each Venus climbed up the stairs and snuggled into their beds, thick with comfort and down.

Morning came swiftly, and waking abrupt.

“Aaye, lass! It’s rrroll call! Seven thirrrty-thrrree and not a moment to lose!” There was a Scottish man pounding at Violet’s door. She assumed herself still swallowed in sleep until the bright twittering of a bird caught her attention outside and she remembered her setting. “I’ll give yerrr bonny face to the count of fourrr, lass, and mind you be quick to drrress!” Violet leaped out of bed and drove her hands into her tightly packed suitcase, resurfacing with a navy tee and light jeans. The whole process of un-and-re-clothing her body took less than ninety seconds. She opened the door to the sight of a rough looking man knocking sharply at the wall of her parents’ room. “Venus, Virrridian! Venus, Verrrmillion! Venus, Violet!” He read loudly from a list in his hand, with a curious sort of barking tone. “Yerrr expected to find a seat at table in a flash! The lady of this fine home has been labourrring all morrrning overrr the stove! If yerrr not quick, the I-can’t-believe-how-fantastic-this-hot-oozing-mess-feels-in-my-jaw will get cold!” And he vanished down a thin flight of stairs at the end of the hall. A moment later she could hear his holler again, slightly muffled by the floorboards between them. “Jones, Cha! Jones, Po! Yerrr expected at table!”

Mr. and Mrs. Venus stumbled out of their room with sleepiness clinging around them, rubbing their fingers against their face in the hope of massaging their eyes alert. “Did he say something about food?” Viridian asked in mid stretch. Her arms pulled taught and she made tiny, involuntary squeaking sounds and she attempted to suppress a yawn. “I didn’t quite understand, actually,” said Violet’s father. “But I know we’re intended to go down. Shall we?”

A rumbling noise grew in volume and power as they neared the dining area. Last night it had felt so quiet and empty, but upon turning the corner at the bottom of the stairs, all such adjectives fled the mind. It was like a radio playing ten stations at once – a cacophony of conversation from a room full of vastly varying characters. “Oh, my,” said Violet. Nothing more need be said for the moment; the thing to do was look on. All along the twenty-two foot table sat the strangest collection of people they had ever seen. Some were colourfully clad, but the garb of others was muted and gray. Some hair stood tall in bouffant or curl, and some lay flat and pin-straight or wrapped back in a bun, or combed over or gone altogether, skin shined. Several gentlemen wore felt hats, and around the shoulders of a particularly tall woman was a feathered boa. Correction… the draping tail feathers of a quetzal bird that hopped from behind her head to perch atop it. There was a gentleman in the formal tuxedo of another era and a set of three children sat in highchairs. But even stranger than the look of the lot was the language that flowed from their lips.

“Dear, mind your elbows; you’re about to knock over the slides-down-your-throat-and-gives-every-nerve-a-caress-as-you-swallow! Spill that and you’ll spoil something else.”

“Marta, kindly pass over the you-know-what-that’s-just-the-kick-in-the-taste-buds-I-needed? No, sorry, I meant the fizzles-at-the-top-of-your-mouth-and-ohh-it-reminds-me-of-the-east-coast-sprays. That’s it. Yes, thank you.”

“Here sweetheart, this is maybe-not-the-best-of-the-bushel-but-sweeter-than-you-might-think-for-how-healthy-it-is. Open up like a good little man.”

“Mom! Is this holy-scrape-that-out-of-my-mouth-galhhhgreeeahh again? I’m begging you: please don’t make me eat!”

Kathleen danced over and sat them down at the table. It was… well, a little anticlimactic. Each place was set with a cereal bowl, a plate with three pancakes, a small pile of orange slices and easily within reach of each seat was a toast tray and several open jars of jam. Here they were expecting some kind of strange feast, made up of absolutely inexpressible varieties of food… but it was simple. It was breakfast for breakfast and little more.

“Thank you, Kathleen,” said Mr. Venus on behalf of his family. “It looks lovely. Does your town come over for pancakes every morning?”

“I’m sorry, sir?”

“Pancakes. Every morning?”

“I’m afraid that I really don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

He picked up a pancake between his fingers and pointed at it. “Pancake.” She picked up a menu from the counter behind her and pointed at it. “Melt-in-your-mouth-with-that-ohh-yeah-kind-of-smile-sparker. You get three.” His mouth fell open, flabbergasted. She continued. “Your term might be shorter, but it says nothing of essence. I’ve heard the word before, once in the city – maybe my brother mentioned it at the diner – but please understand, there is so much more that you can learn about a food than what it is. Pancake: a cake made in a pan… you know what it is, but what is it? Our word tells you that.”

He sat back and chewed the thought over with the rest of his fluffy mouthful. It was a kind of right-brained logic so unfamiliar to the rest of the world. But it made him smile, and he tried it out. “Darling,” he said lifting his shoulders in measure with the edges of a growing grin, “Will you pass me down that… quench-my-thirst-and…. some-other-delicious-adverb?” She laughed and poured him a glass of orange juice.

The meal was indeed a daily affair. Twice daily, actually: a breakfast and a “lupper” that was hosted around 4:30pm. As a community they had realized that a mass grocery bill for thirty would be much less expensive than fifteen or twenty people cooking for one or two mouths. The farmer contributed a portion of his crop for free and therefore did not contribute financially, and Kathleen as the hostess, lead organizational hand and primary chef was also exempt. Everyone else pitched in on a budget and they feasted together, most every phrase an affirmation of appreciation and delight. Between meals there was much to be done; the theatre in town opened for a matinee, the grocer set up a snack stand for those who missed a meal or decided on a treat; hair salons and liquor saloons opened up for a few hours, the doctor walked around and visited everyone and their pets, and the children, when not in school, set up forts and played in the square. Leefy Greans was a beautiful little spot, for all of its quirks and strange names. In many ways it was akin to the small town they had driven away from, but somehow extraordinarily different.

Their second night was just as pleasant as their first, but this time when Kathleen invited them for a soothing-crack-your-neck-kind-of-tension-release and one or two ohh-so-good-chocolatey-fresh-out-of-the-oven-hunk-a-hunk-of-almost-burn-your-mouth-love, they knew what she meant.

They drove away the next morning after a very complicated set of breakfast foods that boiled down to eggs, hashbrowns, bacon and a couple of beverages, both hot and cold. “If you ever find yourself around these parts again,” smiled Kathleen as she helped carry a box of lupper out to their car, “there will be a couple of brass keys waiting and a mug of… is it tea?” The Venus family smiled. “Something sweet and hot to sip, call it what you will,” said Viridian.

Their trip lasted five weeks and one day. When they returned, Mauve ran over and knocked at the door. “She’s upstairs,” called Violet’s father, but the girl was half way up the flight before he even noticed her entrance. “So?” sang Mauve with a prying inflection of her voice. “Tell me a story!” Vi swung her legs over to the other side of her bed and pulled a laminated sheet out of her backpack. “I don’t know if you’ll believe me, but I remembered your souvenir.” She handed her friend a table menu. Mauve cocked an eyebrow at the first item on the list. Violet smiled and pulled the backpack off of the floor, spilling its contents across the bed and revealing a jar of sand, tiny keychain animals, a wooden ruler, some kind of handmade taffy and a dozen other trinkets and bobbles. “Make yourself comfortable, Miss Mercury. You can’t imagine how crazy this world is.”

Toes

2011-11-16T14:31:00.001-05:00

One shoe was tipped over on its side, halfway down the dock. The other shoe dropped, standing up on its heel for a moment before it wobbled down beside its match. It was a pretty good throw, especially without looking, but the girl's attention was out, across the lake, and she didn't even notice.

An early summer heat wave had driven her to the water's edge that afternoon. Twenty-seven degrees with no mention of humidity, and the temperature was supposed to keep climbing. She stripped off her socks, one at a time, letting them drop without much thought. One rolled right to the edge, stopped only by a large metal ring that would soon be used to tie an assortment of watercraft to the little port's only floating dock. The other tumbled over the side and was caught by a wave. The sound it made was so soft that, had it been heard at all it would have caused no alarm. But the girl didn't hear it fall. Her mind was occupied elsewhere. Out... across the lake.

The wood of the dock had worn smooth from years of running children and their pacing, nervous parents. She walked out to the ladder that hung into the lake. It was an old aluminum frame, the kind with tall handles that arc from the dock to the water, the kind that made backwards somersaults so easy. The girl balanced herself against the rusting metal bars, memories pulsing through her with every heartbeat. The ladder was strangely cool to the touch, just like it always was, just like it had been. She ran her fingers over the freckles of erosion, the red-orange spots that betrayed the age of this much-loved place. She sat down. With her legs swinging gently below her, her spreading toes almost grazing the surface of the lake, the girl drew in a deep, slow breath and closed her eyes.

It had been three years.

The water lapped against the dock and rippled back again. She couldn't see this with her eyes closed, but she could feel the air changing direction if she focused intently on the pads of her feet. It was extraordinarily light, the wind, like the breeze of a fan from another room that you only perceive because the wisps of hair that frame your face are moving gently, as if by a will of their own. Very slowly the girl pointed one foot, extending it according to the muscular instruction she had received in her one-and-only dance class. She lowered her toes towards the water until they hovered, motionless, barely an eighth of an inch from the surface.

Two summers past, she and a friend had borrowed a paddle-boat from the little marina, if you could, in good conscious, call it one. Three canoes, one flat-bottomed rower, and the vessel they had set out on were the sum of their options -- unless you counted a stack of Styrofoam flutter-boards propping up one of the shack's side windows, which they did not. The girls dabbled out on the water for hours that day, talking about everything and nothing all in a moment. They took turns dozing off in the sunshine, rocked gently by the undulating rhythm of another's wake. Once they both woke up only to find that they were drifting not ten feet from a fisherman, quietly casting his line almost right over them. They tumbled into laughter as they pedaled as fast as they could back to the paradoxical safety of open water.

The same water had been the cleansing agent of a messy heart the summer just past, when she and her depression took a literal dive. She floated in the lake for hours until her anxious feelings seemed to seep out of her, down into the dark sediment, down to the deep. It took her days to unwrinkle from the water's raisining effects, but by the time her skin smoothed again emotions had followed and the rest of August passed by without another tailspin.

She was dragged back to the present moment by the flickering dance of a dragonfly, flying back and forth from knee to knee, never allowing itself settle more than a second before flitting off again. There was a canoe of people over by the cliff, a few half way up the rocky path, and one at the top fighting the battle between fear and thrill, deciding whether or not he should leap into the water. Even standing so high was a brave thing. As she listened, she could hear his friends taunting and encouraging him to jump. The climbers had reached him now and seemed to be threatening to toss him, if he wouldn't step out on his own. He was signaling boldly and with the determined stiffness of anger just before the boil. He harnessed it, and jumped. They cheered.

So much of this place felt the same: the wood as smooth, the air as hot, the flecks of rust as red. But something had settled into its essence that was unfamiliar to her now, and it seemed to wash her reveries with a pastel of commonplace. The lake had memories of its own; hers were significant only because they were hers... but that knowledge didn't dull the memory nor undermine it's importance, especially not today.

Three years had past since she had sat in this space and watched him run off the dock, sprinting and leaping like some wild deer, then diving underwater with the grace of a loon. Three years since they had spent the afternoon hauling a sunken fishing boat out of one of the little bays. With the help of some friends they had hoisted it into a tree in the little public park downtown. Their prank had made the front page of the little daily newspaper twice -- once upon the discovery of the boat (and one strategically placed home-made mannequin), and again when the police uncovered a stash of fifty dollar bills sealed in Ziplock-safely in one of the tackle-boxes tied under the front bench. The second article announced that the reward proposed for those individuals who had found the money would exactly balance the threatened fines for the crew responsible for the prank. The reporter called it a clever truce; the giggling teenagers who met up at Pizza Pizza to watch the show called it forgiveness, and were never turned in by the all-knowing store manager for their shenanigans.

That spring and summer had been a beautiful gift for the pair and they had become a couple by the time the first leaf had fallen. But her blue sunshine skies thundered into rain the day he didn't knock on her window. He had knocked every morning from May through September - he would wake her up, and together they would walk down to the shore - but the morning he didn't, another knock roused her from dream. It was heavy, determined to be heard throughout their small country home, and loud enough to wake everyone. The Sheriff, and yes, some small towns still have one, was talking to her mother in low whispers at the front door. The sky and her emotions crashed simultaneously with the weight that comes from shock and grief. She ran through the deluge to the dock and fought against the urge to let the water swallow her whole, resisted the clawing desire to find a place as dark and cold as she felt. She screamed out her pain at the roaring waters. She stayed at the ladder all night, slowly calming as the clouds exhausted their store. The gales hushed, the thunder rolled on and the dock rose and fell steadily, setting pace with her own breath, coaching her soul with what was left over of the wind-piled waves.

Three years ago she had taken her place between their families, standing beside his sister at the far east end of the little graveyard that overlooked the lake. She could see the spot from her perch; it was a fitting space for his body, she thought, but his spirit spent much more of its time haunting her here, at the dock. Either he was in heaven, as he had believed, or he was with her, as her heart was inclined to hold true.

She had only returned to this place on a handful of occasions in the collapse of time between past and present. On each visit the lake had reflected her state: tempestuous, numb and lifeless, foggy, grey, covered in ice... and this time was no different. As she sat by the water in the early summer heat wave, barefoot with toes hovering just over its surface, the lake reflected something new. She had found peace. She was content.

She was not overwhelmed by the welling of tears today. One shaky breath in, one out, repeat. Despite the temperature she shivered slightly. The tremor was the only thing that betrayed any hesitation or residual fear. Her heart was healing; she was finding peace.

She opened her eyes to the sun and smiled, out, across the lake.

Heart on Hand

2011-11-07T16:16:00.001-05:00

Wendy, Moira, Angela Darling.

In a few paragraphs, my introduction will come into its context - but we must grow to the conclusion, so if you have a few minutes of freedom, come with me to the roots.

I went home this weekend, out of the city and back into my native northern land. We spent Friday night and most of Saturday in a trip down memory lane that felt like someone had injected us with a concentrated shot of summer right through the heart. I saw faces I hadn't in months, reconnected with friends I hadn't had any time to talk with and collected hugs from all the right people. It reminded me of every wonderful thing about my May-through-September life, and I have to tell you, I felt my fingers trying to close. (This will also make sense in a little more time.) I sang again, I praised my God, I danced a little dance and I walked around my Muskokan sanctuary, and when the weekend came to a close on the long drive back to Hamilton on Sunday, God had finally shaken the last of my resistant fingers free.

About a month ago, the MoveIn team was challenged to consider a new idea: long term change is often partnered with a long term commitment. That night I wrote out a long response, so far unshared. A segment of that letter to myself now follows.

"...If I am going to MoveIn right, I can't treat it like an idling zone until Camp begins again. I've been living in transition for the past four years - I never intended to stay in North Bay, so I didn't root myself there, didn't invest my being. But here... Why did I move here motivated by the same year-to-year mentality? Why did I come here expecting, waiting, to leave again? If I am going to move in right, get involved with a school program or community shelter, or with families at the YMCA or with ministry at church... if I am going to really do this, then I can't plan to pick-up and ditch-out come May. I need to be willing to stay.

Several weeks ago I had a meeting about summer with my bosses. During the meeting (both planning and review), John Friesen said something that changed my life. It was simple, and probably something that he's said to fifty other people as they learn to grow up in their faith: he said I needed to learn to live with an open hand to God. I'm going to tell you something that I've only shared with a few up to this point. While John was explaining what he meant, the LORD was doing the same. I don't know how to put it otherwise... this was the closest thing to a vision I have ever experienced.

I saw myself, vividly, in a worship concert, surrounded by people on all sides, each with somber faces and eyes closed. As quickly as it came, my awareness of the crowd fell away and I was standing, one-on-one with God. My hands were lifted up above my head and I was holding out my heart - my physical heart - like a six year old holds up a new drawing to their parent, seeking approval in a smile. Look, Daddy, look what I've made. "Look what I'm doing with the heart you have given me, with my skills, my mind, my time, my passion, my effort, my friendships, my study, my art... Look, Father, aren't you proud?"

I did feel God smile, but it was with a sigh and a slight, slow shaking of His head. "Child," He said to me, "I don't want you to show me your heart. I want you to give me your heart."

Anxiety flooded my body as I saw myself standing there, arms up, staring at the pump-pumping life in my hands. I knew instantly, instinctively, that it represented some very particular element of my life that I was holding on to. I realized that I had given up control in almost everything - in career, in geography, in love - but not in Camp. I had a tight grip on Camp, and I wanted to show off, not let go. I said this. "But look at what I have done with everything you have given me! I haven't buried my talents, they have multiplied! Aren't I doing a good job? Aren't you pleased with me?"

The Great He smiled again, with gentle redirection. "It is the offering that gives me pleasure. It is your vulnerability that delights me."

For the first time in my life I understood the implications of "living sacrifice" in my own realm. Trusting God meant lifting my hands in worship, but it also meant holding my heart out to Him with an open hand - heart on hand, not heart in hand - so that He can do what He likes with it, even if all He wants to do it watch me hold it out to Him.

I believe this means that I have to leave Camp behind me. I feel like Wendy Darling, looking at Peter in the moment that she understands that he won't be coming with her - that to grow up, she must leave him behind. Muskoka Bible Centre has been my beautiful Neverland. I have learned so much, I have been so supported, so trusted, so safe. I have come into myself on its grounds... but like Wendy, I believe I need to let it go to grow more. I need to be brave, heart on hand, and grow up."

I am confident that Miss Darling, though her story is not formally secured for us by her author, grew into a magnificent storyteller with a vast repertoire of tales reaching far beyond the borders of the Neverlands. She saw things that the boys who stayed lost never would... and I believe that Wendy grew into womanhood wiser and stronger and more imaginative for the time she spent in the company of Peter Pan.

It will be a struggle, for a while, not to worry about the mermaid and pirates and young people of MBC, and it will be a heart wrenching, tearful farewell when the metaphorical golden ship finally sails out of sight... but it is time for a new kind of adventure, new bravery, new challenges and renewed, reservationless commitment to my Author.

Heart on hand.

Wallflower

2011-11-03T12:31:00.002-04:00

Sit in one place long enough and the world stops passing you by. Oh, it does pass, don't get me wrong - but it passes slowly, pausing before you, awaiting your observation, occasionally bowing majestically to your senses and giving you a knowing wink before strolling along once again, merrily on its way.

When you stop to simply witness the world's movements, when you sit back on the banks of life with open eyes and baited pen, the fish will come. Tall, business oriented fish with wide-brimmed European wedding hats and large clutch purses en route to an afternoon rendezvous organized in whispers an hour before; balding, bustling fish with a phone to his ear and a fire in his eyes that betrays the passion that lies latent in his lawyerly labours; a school of toddling fish following after their mommas in a grocery-store-shopping line of almost-trouble; a couple of exotic, brightly coloured teenaged fish engaged in some kind of mating ritual that, however fascinating to the lookers on, should have remained secreted away in the deepest parts of the sea.

It's a veritable reef of witnessed moments and tested poses, here in the flurry of stillness. Every trivial moment is an exposé, every distant action a silent film with subtitles so vividly implied; it's a beautiful world, from the wallflower's post. Would you join me?

Eleven Hours in Transit

2011-10-28T20:03:00.005-04:00

I’m not a huge fan of Jones Soda, but something about their berry-lemonade blend appeals to every tongue bud I have. This is not the most important of personal revelations in my life, or even in my week, and while such a fact is unlikely to spark much conversation or inspire a comment, I feel compelled to share. I have also never before sat for so long against and escalator, but this particular perch might make it to my favourite list of places. There is something reassuring about an unchanging rhythm of movement to your back and strong dark tile under your butt. Curiosity satisfied.

I’m waiting for a Northland Bus to take me home for the night. It’s a tricky thing, traveling North in this province – to catch a train, you have to make it to Union by eight of the clock – to jump on a bus, you have to wait around for one of two (maybe three) trips up. My options today were four hours or ten hours from my arrival time. Oh Huntsville, both beautiful and vexing.

So, what miracle has freed me from the Library’s deceptively passive-looking security guards, the fever-inducing anxiety of employment’s cold shoulder, and the shackling commitment to clicking “Refresh” on job site after job site, again and again and again? An offer, that’s what! Thank you the pray-ers (and success-wishers, and thinking-of-you-ers, although I believe your efforts significantly less helpful, however well-meaning). I am now the proud (and surprisingly pumped) new employee of a marketing firm based out of the Hamilton City Centre (aka Jackson Square). Details will follow as I learn more about what I will be involved with, but I was greatly encouraged by the friendly, small staff, and the charities that they support and promote. The three partner charities (Special Olympics, Maple Leaf Camps, and Help a Child Smile) really strike a cord with me, and I am excited to get behind what I believe to be truly important programs. If I’m going to be telemarketing in any degree, much better a life-experience for a worthy kid than fancy soaps or some rip-off insurance… or vacuums (right, Care?). Job starts on Tuesday, so I have one more weekend of freedom, and I am seizing that opportunity to move.

As of next week, Loreen and I will become official Hamiltonians (which will be easier on the vocabulary than “Burlingtonians” which just sounds plain silly). We have our keys, we’ve moved the fridge, we’re dreaming curtains and mason-jars and wall decorations and Bible studies and having people over for dinner and baking and Internet access (which we have learned to appreciate as a precious luxury), and in sum it’s been a very exciting few days with the promise of many more to follow. I have several cardboard boxes waiting for my careful Tetris-refined packing skills tonight, and tomorrow I will see everything I own (or most of it) piled into the back of my Dad’s red truck for the sixth time this year. It’s more moving than I had planned… but it finally feels like forward motion, and I have found both hope and peace in that.

Keep a weather-eye to the digital horizon; more stories to come.

# 76: Tea and Crumpets

2011-10-19T11:10:00.009-04:00

Crumpet |ˈkrəmpət| noun: a thick, flat, savory cake with a soft, porous texture, made from a yeast mixture cooked on a griddle and eaten toasted and buttered.

I didn't know what to expect, but that didn't keep me from having my expectations. I guess my grandparents could have put just about anything in front of me and said it was a crumpet and I would have believed them... but I was expecting a scone, I think; something like a tea buscuit, or maybe a tough cookie. A crumpet is none of those things though. It is more like an English muffin, except that only the bottom is smooth, like a pancake that never gets flipped over to the other side. Like a pancake, sunny-side-up.

My Grandpa bought a pack of crumpets from the grocery store late last week, to help with my list. Grandma is absolutely certain I won't get them all done (though I've been reminded a few times this weekend that the leaves in the yard are aaalllll mine), and I think Grandpa is set on proving her wrong. It's been a fun first week in their home.

We had crumpets and tea for breakfast, two mornings in a row (and apparently I sip every hot beverage by the tenth-on-an-inch, as I haven't been poured a full mug for a few days now). They are floppy and sponge-like in their pre-toast state, but once toasted, buttered and jammed (or marmaladed, in honour of Paddington Bear) they are really quite good. I don't know that I would build a crumpet into my regular grocery routine, but I think it was a successful experience on the whole. Grandma says it shouldn't count because it was too easy... just can't seem to satisfy her with this little project of mine!

We'll give her some time though... maybe she'll come around. 74 to go!

Isaac ~ Between the Stops

2011-10-17T10:01:00.002-04:00

She had imagined this conversation somewhat differently; his look should have been more disarming, perhaps – or her words more full of life, or more charming, or cleverer. It wasn’t an unpleasant dialogue, but the magnetic attraction she had prepared her heart to resist was not there. He was simply a friend, and it seemed barely that.

What had she expected, then?

…Static. The kind that prickles down your spine, that you can feel in your knees, that sparks an involuntary smile and a slight tremor in the heart. Instead she had experience the sort of static that comes with a radio station just off frequency, the distracting grey blur of bad wiring in a television set, and the immobile static of a long, uninterrupted, uninteresting wait.

And then silence had fallen upon them like the layer of gelatin glaze on a cake or flan; everything that was to be said had been. It was nice, and now it was concluded. Topped off. Only the consumption of the cake could change it now… or the dropping of it.

She averted her gaze. She had been staring at him as she thought these things, and he looked back at her with a passive curiosity, without saying a word. Wordlessness was a bad sign.

The bus lurched forward and she let her bag down to the floor. She picked it back up. A bag on the floor implied something – a desire to stay still, an exhaustion of strength, apathy, a defeat of some miniscule measure. Slung over one shoulder, the bag returned to its accustomed home. He looked on. No words.

The silence echoed itself and seemed to stretch their shared five minutes into unbearable epochs of time. He shifted from one foot to the other and casually said nothing. All of her thoughts, carefully edited and processed, sounded flat and mechanical to the audience of her mind, and so remained unspoken. The bus stopped again and the people crowded on, pressing them a little closer to each other.

She had been waiting for this moment for nearly four years – to talk with him alone, to have his full attention – but all this time she had thought him so different: chatty, inquisitive, energetic, funny… she thought he would be everything she remembered about him from classes and group gatherings. She thought . . . she had hoped . . . but maybe not.

The bus made three more stops before Riah climbed aboard. She waved enthusiastically from the front, paid her fare and danced her way through the people to meet them. She brought with her an incredible flurry of conversation.

“Ah! Girl, I was hoping to meet you today! Did you get my text yesterday? My phone has been acting up like the three-year-old it is and I can’t believe how many messages it has decided not to send, just to spite me, I swear. I hope yours works better than mine! Wow is the bus ever stuffy today, and not just with people, I mean this air is so… I mean, thick, you know? Like a musty old sauna but without all the cute swimsuits, unfortunately. Seriously, someone ought to crack open a window in here! Oh, that reminds me! Guess what I found stuck under one of my windshield wipers this morning? A parking ticket! The city booted my car! Outside my own building! That’s why I’m on the bus, you see – set off the City Hall. But… sorry, am I interrupting something?” She took a breath, barely pausing long enough to flick her eyes in the general direction of the boy standing near by. She continued with a shrug.

“Well anyway, I paid for that spot right before I went in, just to shower you see, and then I came right back out! Must have caught me just a minute after it expired, but then those parking signs can be so confusing to read, never you mind how long I’ve lived there. I think the traffic people will see it my way. I have a knack for persuasion, you know. Mother always thought I’d make a great actress, but I told her, ‘the Law is for me!’ Pretty similar in the long run, I suppose. Just a different sort of stage,” she winked. “By the way, have you seen the advertisements for the new Shakespeare flick? You really must go with me – I can’t think of a single other person who would care for the right reasons. Say you’ll come?”

Riah’s hand darted into her pocket and pulled out her phone. She read something quickly and began to type a reply. Her lips moved along with her mind as she wrote; it would take a few seconds for her to reorient herself.

“Riah, this is Isaac,” she interjected as soon as the phone snapped shut. “He’s a friend I met at school; Isaac, Riah. I can’t remember just how I met her, but she’s a doll. Not a bad cook either, but if she ever offers you a cookie, pass.” She winked at her friend who threw her hand to her forehead in a playfully dramatic pose.

“Alas,” Riah proclaimed, “My one major flaw and you just won’t let that story die! One time, and it wasn’t even that much garlic. I didn’t realize it was flavoured margarine, you see.” He laughed freely, and the two girls joined in: a moment of pure relief.

Her friendship with Riah worked well; Riah was a wild gypsy of a girl, if gypsies would ever be caught in stiletto heels. She wore feathers in her hair, bright makeup and dark lips; she gave you three doses of caffeine just by proximity; she was a prattling fool, an exotic beauty and an adventurous, head-spinning mystery; she took life in both hands like a microphone and rocked-out. She was awesome.

Isaac seemed simultaneously mesmerized and overwhelmed by the creature that had burst into their quiet encounter. He also seemed to be weighing his options of whether to interact or simply observe their conversation. Riah decided for him. “So, tell me a story, Isaac. What brings you to the bus today? I’ve got to get off in a few minutes though, so you’ll have to keep it brief.” He looked up and to the right for a quick recall. “I’m on my way to meet up with a couple guys from class. Were working on a project all day.” She tipped her head to one side, just a little. “What are you working on?”

It was the same polite blueprint that had begun their conversation ten minutes ago. She was feeding him questions, leading the dance, modeling each step with the graceful nod of her head. He followed each move perfectly: a good dance partner, except that he was on the back-step.

How many nights had she mooned over Isaac Lamb? How many hours tracing his name like a child, day dreaming of a few minutes company? In her secrets she imagined his confession that he too had been watching, that a secret somewhere in his heart there was a place reserved for her. What a fantasy. What a nonsense it all seemed now.

Riah was tugging at her sleeve and saying her goodbyes. “Nice meeting you, Isaac. Good luck with your group thing. And – hey, space cadet – yes, hi. Text me back some time, okay? Talk soon?” And she was off.

“Your friend is …well, kind of intense, isn’t she?” he smiled at her. She searched his face for any sign of a hidden subtext in the words but found none. No codes in his eyes today.

“Yes,” she replied with a wave out to her friend. “She’s a bit of a crazy, but in a good way. I met her at a protest of all places. She was protesting, I was trying to get to work. I don’t know how it happened exactly, but I ended up holding a picket sign for nearly three hours. Ended up being pretty late for work, too. We hit it off so quickly that we’re nearly convinced we must have met before, so it’s a bit of a joke between us that I don’t remember. Truth is, of course, she’d be a difficult person to forget.”

“I believe you,” he said. “She definitely leaves an impression.”

Stop, stop. A woman pushing a stroller squeezed past them and Isaac helped her lift it off like a gentleman. The mall was coming up soon and they would both be getting off. She looked at him and smiled. He smiled back. No words.

She wanted to tell him everything. She wanted to confess the past four years of wishing he would strike up a conversation, that he would send her a letter, walk her somewhere, sing her a song on the guitar she knew he could play. She wanted to tell him about the talks she had had with her sisters and friends in which he so often took feature. She wanted to tell him she liked him, but instead she just smiled. “See you later,” he said, pleasantly. “See you,” she said.

Off the bus and walking away, their whole lives seemed to be going in different directions. But …maybe there would be another day for words.

Libraries and Sometimes Books

2011-10-13T11:47:00.000-04:00

This is my first favourite spot in Hamilton. I anticipate a long list of such places, each with a unique perspective for observing this ever-changing reality we call our home. My current perch, though flooded with more light than I usually select for a place to think and write, is a splendidly active corner of the Hamilton Public Library. It's on the first floor, in a corner where all the walls are made of glass. I'm overlooking the indoor farmer's market and have the pleasure of seeing into the picnic-like selection of baked good, fresh produce, friendly laughing conversations as the customers pick through the leeks and apples, the pottery merchants, the ambitious florists, the wanderers, the samplers, the penny-counters, the wrist-watch-watching-foot-tappers, the cheese... It's a perfect beginning for a million stories, all in the pantomime of distance and thick glass. From this place, too near the children's centre for hard-thinking and much grown-up work, I can hear the chanting songs of a sing-along Dora the Explorer video (with many four-year-old sing-along-ers). "Do you need to go potty? Did you finish your apple juice?" There are two or three tales to tell from that phrase alone. Just to my right there is a bank of individual desks. Right now, each is filled up with a sprawl of somebody's life: coffee, muffin, laptop, notebook or perhaps a day timer, backpack, cell phone, person. He's a young guy with a go-tee and a cool hat. Who is he, though? What is he reading, thinking, planning, hoping, forgetting? These are the sparks of truth that my imagination is so excited to fan, to encourage, until a story catches fire. This... this is a good spot.

#29: Sponsorship

2011-10-09T22:23:00.005-04:00

I attended an event in the spring hosted by the Christian radio station Life 100.3, echoed in my area as the frequented frequency 98.9. The night was primarily a musical one and featured Sean and Aimee Dayton (North Bay locals and acknowledged as honoured community leaders in my small-h-home), among others; but what caught my heart that night wasn't drummed, strummed or sung... it was seen.

During one of the intermissions between sets they played a video advertizing Compassion International; it featured a series of interview clips with people who are involved in the organization -- but the catch at the end was that each person they featured was a sponsored child, all grown up. The story changed from this is what you can do for them, to this is what somebody like you did for me. It was a brilliant move as far as marketing goes, but I believe the grip around my heart was more Spirit than suggestion. I picked up a package that day and introduced a few close friends to a little Togan girl called Jaqueline Mokpokpo Adjovi Atchiki who liked singing and playing hide and seek. She was a cutie, but I waited too long to act on her behalf and my chance expired in August.

Last Wednesday I sat down with the phone and called Compassion like I should have in July. Another kind soul picked up Jaqueline and has been taking care of her for a while. Thanks to Raquel, my refreshingly friendly receptionist, I am now the beaming-proud sponsor of Manish Kushwaha. He's just turned six years old, and until I get the rest of his information in the mail that's about all I know of him! Raquel picked him out for me; all I asked was that she give me someone from India. Something about that country holds a heavy place in my heart. One day I hope to go and meet this little one. Maybe this year even... fulfill my #28?

As I learn more about my little Manish I'll keep you in the loop.

One last thing: If you think of it, say a little prayer tonight for the kids who don't get picked up off the tables or assigned over the phone. Prayer is just as powerful as money, and can move a lot faster. I truly believe that, you know.

Seventy-Seven Things / Year

2011-10-06T20:59:00.002-04:00

A few weeks ago, I adventured south with Pacey, one of my amazing summer friends, and met up with Loreen, Camilla and several others for a weekend of joy. While on our trip, we decided to throw each other a challenge: set and accomplish seventy-seven goals this year. It's "about being silly, accomplishing dreams, making new memories and ruffling your own feathers a bit;" it's about wanting to do something - then actually doing it. My list is below, and as I accomplish each one I will report on the experience. And, of course, I challenge you: make your world a little more awesome.

Seventy-Seven Things / Year

1. Go walking in the rain wearing a princess gown

2. Go snowboarding again - and LOVE it!

3. Road trip to see Aunt Anne, Uncle Jim (and Heather!) out in Saskatchewan

4. Learn the Introduction to "Irene" in guitar

5. Audition for a musical

6. Make a scavenger hunt of awesome and hand off the first clue to a complete stranger

7. Get a story published

8. Canoe from MBC to Huntsville for ice cream

9. Memorize the Veggie Tales short, "Flibber-O-Loo"

10. Tag a Northlander train

11. Learn at least one really convincing sleight-of-hand magic trick

12. Climb a big ol' pine tree like I used to when I was a kid

13. Grow my own little garden - cherry tomatoes, sugar peas, carrots...

14. Live one day completely blind

15. Spend three consecutive days in an English accent

16. Visit all of my summer staff, even if they live in Quebec ;)

17. Go to Liberty's "College for a Weekend" and see Emma

18. Build a quinzee in a city park this winter

19. Explore an abandoned amusement park (or nine) with Polo

20. Ride Behemoth again!

21. Complete a study of the whole Pentateuch, esp Leviticus

22. Play a game of Candyland

23. See every exhibit in the ROM. Buy a membership.

24. Play hide-and-seek in somebody's corn field

25. Bury a time capsule

26. Relive Clifton Hill Wax

27. Write and mail out an old-fashioned Christmas letter

28. Fly overseas for a "long weekend"

~~29. Sponsor a child~~

30. Audit/crash a course at McMaster/Mohawk while I'm in town

31. Climb up onto a rooftop and sing my little heart out

32. See a mountain in real life

32. Rock a Bingo game with Missa

34. Work out the instrumental bits for at least two songs I've written

35. Go to a karaoke bar and sing a (sober) song

36. Take a pottery class

37. Take a course in Hebrew

38. Go to a sports game in disguise and cheer for a team that isn't playing. Bring friends.

39. Dye a streak of blue into my hair

40. Pay for the meal of a stranger behind me in line

41. Read through a whole newspaper

42. Buy a full chicken or turkey and learn to use every part of it

43. Volunteer at a soup kitchen

44. Baby-sit for a single mom I don't yet know *and Ny, of course!

45. Buy a candy thermometer and use it successfully

46. Brush my teeth with baking soda

47. Visit St. Joseph's Island and walk across the bridge with Marsena

48. Go birdwatching - binoculars, a nature guide book - the whole bit

49. Witness the emergence of a butterfly/moth from its chrysalis

50. Participate in the following quasi-internationally recognized celebrations:

>>>Oct 9: World Post Day

>>>Nov 8: Cook Something Bold and Pungent Day

>>>Dec 11: International Mountain Day

>>>Jan 28: National Kazoo Day

>>>Feb 4: Ice Cream for Breakfast Day

>>>Mar 14: Pi Day

>>>Apr 29: World Dance Day

>>>May 18: International Museum Day

>>>June 19: World Sauntering Day

>>>July 4: Barbershop Music Appreciation Day

>>>Aug 13: International Day of Lefties

>>>Sept 19: International Talk Like a Pirate Day

51. Walk from Canada to the United States... even if it's just over the border.

52. Learn the longest word in the English Language: how to spell it, what it means

53. Roast chestnuts over an open fire. How do you do that, anyway?

54. Play a game of chess against myself in a park - like that Pixar short :)

55. Develop a convincing Irish accent

56. Tie a swing to a tree. Swing on it.

57. Learn to juggle

58. Go skating under the stars... or city lights, depending on where I am

59. Go to a driving range and/or play a game of golf

60. Hit the bullseye on an archery target. Or a dart board. Not picky.

61. Sell something I've made on Etsy

62. Solve a Rubix Cube

63. Spend one day in total silence

64. Join a yoga class

65. Write an encouragement letter to the Queen of England

66. Catch a firefly

67. Eat a whole watermelon by myself... or at least try really, really hard

68. Read every Sherlock Holmes story by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

~~69. Donate my blood~~

70. Try caviar/escargot for the first time - even if it's also the last time

71. Have someone draw a caricature of me

72. Be an extreme-coupon-er for a week. Longer if I get good at it.

73. Jump into a huge pile of raked-up leaves

~~74. Drink a cup of black coffee~~

75. Find and purchase those pencil flats I've been thinking about all year

~~76. Have tea and crumpets. Find out what a crumpet is.~~

77. Ride my super cool bicycle to church

#74: Black Coffee

2011-10-05T15:18:00.001-04:00

2:39pm

This may well be the most difficult, straining task of all seventy-seven set out. As I write this first part, I have not yet accomplished this goal... but I will soon. I am determined.

3:17pm

I felt particularly adult as I ordered my drink from the little Tim Horton's kiosk in the Burlington Mall. The feeling died down a bit when I requested my 80 cents change to come back in the form of dimes, and vanished completely under the crimson veil of my full-faced flush when I realized she was a couple dimes short and would have to interrupt the other cashier to fill my order. I mumbled my apology and my thank-you and shuffled off quick as I could, coffee in hand.

To my surprise, the first sixteenth-of-an-inch was almost... pleasant. It started as a spreading warmth. A second before any kind of flavour hits the only thing my body registers is the heat that relaxes the muscles in my shoulders and sets off a chain reaction through my nervous system: a melting of the stiffness in the back of my neck, a sigh down my spine, my jaw eased. The pleasure of this inspired a few emboldened mouthfuls. It was between two such gulps that the rebellion began.

My bitter receptors that were temporarily stunned by the dramatic temperature shift suddenly bolted into action and declared my mouth and my brain at war. My tongue became a field of battle between what I wanted (accomplishment of a daring culinary feat and the bragging rights that came with it), and what I absolutely, fiercely and with an astounding finality of decision DID NOT WANT: black coffee.

The conflict expressed itself on my face a few times, to strangers' vague concern and Loreen's amusement. A few potential solutions came to me as I wandered the mall on the hunt for a new pair of footwear (to replace the single pair of flats I've been wearing since June). The first thought was to alternate sips of coffee and sips of Bom Dia (a Brazilian fruit smoothie with no banana puree!). This was disgusting. Acai berry and pomegranate? Let me put it this way: if Tim Horton's ever decides to try this tropical-fruit duo as a flavour shot, I advise you pass. My second idea was chocolate... which led to the purchase of a coupled mini M&Ms tubes (one for Loreen, of course!) and I have to say this breakthrough took care of another 1/2 inch or so; unfortunately, I felt like a dirty cheat and put them away. My coffee is about room temperature at this point.

5:50pm

Between the mall and my grandparents' house I carry my coffee and nurse it slowly like a glass of wine (except rhinocerosly less enjoyable). By the time we show up for dinner just before six my cup is very cold and still very much black coffee. I leave it outside and opt for tea indoors.

11:26pm

Coffee: one inch and stinky.
Cup: weakening at the seams, much like my sanity.
Thoughts as they come:

I wish it was Roll up the Rim season so there was still some kind of hope a the end of this dark, bitter tunnel.
Loreen snores. I guess I should turn off the light soon. I am lying down. I did not plan this well.
This coffee tastes a bit like when we used to eat dandelion leaves that were still covered in grass flecks and dirt.
I was once told that Tim's puts a little cocoa in their coffee to make is sweeter and more addictive. I think they should up their dose.
The ceiling is very squeaky. I guess I should say floor, though. Both are true, but it is used much more as a floor in this particular home, if we're talking time as a percentage. I suppose if I was confined to bed-rest and I had to stay on my side and I went a little crazy, I might also start calling it a wall.
I do not want to finish this cup of coffee tonight. Or ever, actually, but tonight for sure. Coffee with my breakfast in the morning?

11:36pm

Breakfast it is.

10:37am

Woke up to the Grandfather Clock chiming nine times in the hallway. Stalled the coffee by reading a "Which Way Book" with Loreen; we were brainwashed into scientific submission and turned into a squirrel. Moral of the story, if you go into the lab there are no good options anymore. Run away with the boy in the net while you have the chance.

At breakfast my Grandma mercifully drained out my one inch of day-old coffee and replaced it with an inch of her own. It is certainly hotter than the alternative and I have to say, it did taste better - but there were coffee grinds settling in my cup, and that was a new thing. At 10:48am the last, victorious drop was consumed! And I have to tell you, I am a little proud of myself.

So there you have it; one small black coffee, crossed off my list. Only 76 things to go.

Rachel ~ Between the Stops

2011-09-14T20:47:00.006-04:00

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 and in the space before she wrinkled her nose and shook her head slowly, time seemed to lean back, as it sometimes does, and he marvelled at his daughter. Her long lashes seemed to batt open and closed in slow motion, concealing and revealing again the deep, bright blue of her mother's eyes. It was like staring into a whirlpool of thought, those eyes. He swallowed a sudden urge to well up and dropped his gaze to her pink-velcro sneakers. He smiled. When it came to footwear, there weren't two tastes more opposed. Her mother would never have been caught in stockings and shoes in this weather. He shook himself back to reality in time for the inevitable nose wrinkling.

“No," she resolved, "you can't come. It’s a purple dragon.”

Her father laughed. “Well, that’s okay,” 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!”

They were talking about Rachel, of course. She had jumped into the role of both wife and mother only two years ago - a leap of faith, both feet and full heart. His baby girl didn't know anything different, as far as mothers go, but hearing the title come from his little one with such love still caught him. Her mother had died when she was only eighteen months old. She had barely learned to use the word, but his precious first wife had heard it a few times, tumbling out of their toddler's mouth with the stumbling, crinkled concentration of a first year Latin student. Oh, the blissful laughter of those first few weeks in the world of words. And then she had gone. The doctors told him that she had been carrying the aneurysm in a dormant state all of her life, unaware. They said it had been a "merciful death," quick and without suffering; but his grief and shock did not heal quickly and he suffered for years, alone and lonely... except for his little girl. She kept him going. She gave him hope in his despair and strength in defeat. She revived in him the will to love.

He met Rachel a few days before his daughter turned three. Tipping and toddling no more, his little girl deserved to graduate from his often lopsided attempts at birthday cake to something that more physically reflected the celebration at hand. He flipped through the yellow pages, checked on Google, scanned the paper and eventually determined to wander the shops downtown until inspiration found him. And she did. Rachel was a veritable muse in her apron. With dark hair, dark eyes and dark skin, "muse" might be a misleading title -- until you saw her art. It framed her as you entered into the little boulangerie; towering cakes and sugar flowers so life-like you can almost smell them, marzipan models and modelling chocolate figurines, cupcakes with whole paragraphs of script in the icing, and a hundred other delights vocabulary can't capture. And she stood, smiling at him as his eyes took in the room. She welcomed him to the counter with the same familiar airs of a hostess, ushering personal guests into her living rom and telling them to make themselves at home, and would anyone like a lemonade? She was warm and friendly, and she had honest eyes.

Ordering the cake took about four minutes, but he hovered there at the cash in happy, easy conversation until the bell over the door chimed and another customer came in with three children underfoot. When he stepped back onto the street an hour had passed and the rest of his errand-running was a scramble. Forgetting the Cap'n Crunch during a pre-birthday shop seemed to be as much a tradition as eating it for breakfast on the morning a year is gained in the life of this growing family.

The last-minute make-up trip to town that followed in the morning proved to be as much of a distraction, taking another hour longer than he had planned; thirty minutes were spent pacing in circles around the corner from the cake shop, deciding whether or not it was silly to check on the progress of an order that she promised would take her two days. He decided it was silly, and the next ten minutes were spent walking laps from the corner to his car, changing his mind back and forth. Eventually he had gone in, with almost no reason and with little to contribute but a blushed nodding in the presence of the beautiful woman behind the counter who was pointing at sketches for his daughter's cake, and prattling on about one or another new recipes she was going to try.

When it came time for the little party he had arranged -- mostly friends from work, their wives and kids if they had any -- the bakery masterpiece was shimmering with sugar dusts and looked like an elaborately embossed Christmas card. "Are you able to come and pick it up? Or, if you'd like, I could come and drop it off for you? I've got some extra time on my hands today, and I really wouldn't mind." So she came, and stayed; she played with the kids, made friends with the women, made fun at his expense, just a little. He liked her.

And so did his daughter. This now five-and-three-quarter-year-old lass by his side had taken her time to adjust to a "Mommy" in the home, and even after they were married it wasn't a generously used name. This little exchange on the bus wasn't the first time he'd heard the title used with so much love, but each instance was still so special to him. Little girls have a way of melting even the most grown-up of hearts.

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.

Heart Attacked

2011-09-05T22:56:00.004-04:00

I fear my heart,

It's restless beat-beating that never tires or rests or slows,

not even in sleep.

I fear my heart and its wandering desires

that tip back and forth like a balancing bird,

not yet convinced it should fly,

fervently unwilling to remain still.

I fear my heart.

I cannot trust it.

It's like trying to control a helium balloon

tied to a pebble by a child,

let loose in the gale of a hurricane.

I fear my heart, wild and slipping,

madly, desperately trying to stabilize

independently. On its own.

It clings to everything, to others, snatching as they press past

as though it knows it needs them to help, but it won't allow itself to ask.

I am failing, alone. I feel it failing, too.

I fear my heart.

I fear its weakness. I fear its needs.

I fear the power it wields over my mind and strength.

It asserts its authority; it overwhelms its own sweetness with the bitterness of anger.

I fear its division; the civil war of it all, the wreckage it promises.

It shouldn't be like this. I shouldn't fear the overflow.

But there is a poison of malice that has been seeping out, slowly;

a black tar of thoughts and words from a sick, dark heart.

I need a cure. I need a doctor.

You say you heal the brokenhearted.

This fracture has become infected. I now need more than a re-setting.

Restore, LORD. Revive this heart of fear.

Jakob ~ Between the Stops

2011-07-23T22:33:00.002-04:00

She had found his photograph in an old book, at the Library.

The book had been in the selling room, a space set aside for the frayed of binding or loose of page, or the subjectively deemed "dull of content." This little annex of the old brick building was the last hope for the worn-out printed works, stamped "discard" with a heavy black ink. If they remained too long here, they would be recycled... not on to another bookshelf for a new pupil to absorb its wisdom, but to the blue bin, the mass grave of all abandoned codex. Most of the books in the room did not appeal to her; many were the encyclopedic chronicles of sports history, or dime novels stuffed with sensation and not much else, or plotless textbooks now long out of date. Most of them were old-ish, which in the world of books was akin to a hot-ish plate of pasta, or a funny-ish comedian at a club. It was the really old ones that caught her attention, with a simple cloth cover and the irresistible smell of aged paper. It is a treasure most uncommon in such places, but when you know what you're looking for, a keen eye can sometimes find a hidden or neglected two or three.

The spine of the book with the photograph was a dead give away: the cloth cover had let loose at one end and beneath the fading burgundy material, the telltale font of newsprint was revealed. She lifted the volume delicately, as a mother lifts a sleeping child, fearful of waking the infant and yet entirely unable to resist the pleasure of holding a baby at such peace. The book was extremely old, and not in English. Opening to the frontispiece, she scanned for a date. 1828, Berlin.

The German language is something few in her city were likely able to pick up and read, but it was the style of the printing and the formatting of each page that gave her the clues she needed to puzzle out the mystery. She was holding a Bible. She purchased the book before she asked her questions.

"It is most certainly a religious work of some antiquity!" quipped the woman standing behind the desk, turning the pages with reverence. "Although, I don't believe you have a full Genesis-to-Revelation account here. More likely it is a very old commentary, on "Lucas" and "Johannes," or Luke and John. To confirm, I suggest that you refer to a computer, and one of our language translation software programs. You can find them over there, in the "D" section." She thanked the librarian and returned home without the recommended double-check. It took her a few hours of uncomprehending meandering through the pages to find the photograph, but when she did it was like the whole world fell spellbound into the gaze of the young soldier staring out from the frame.

He was dressed in the Canadian uniform common to paratroopers in the Second World War. His whole form looked strong and quite handsome; he was a man of perhaps thirty years, his face full of bravery and fire and the lacing softness of human compassion. She was struck by how much his expression conveyed. He looked resolved, apprehensive, hopeful, cautious, full of a welling love, and something else that her young heart couldn't label at the time, but would later call wisdom.

The black and white picture featured a house and a garden in the background behind the man. There was a mailbox among other things, flag up, with numbers on the side that couldn't be read because of the angle of the camera. Was this his home?

She picked up the photograph and turned it over in her hands. On the back, in a simple scrawl, was the phrase, "Gott ist souverän," and lower on the Polaroid, "Meine Liebe, Jakob. Juni 23, 1940." She flipped it back over and took a closer look at the man's face, re-examining the details of his setting. There was a suitcase in the frame, leaning against the mailbox post. It was a hard-covered brown leather piece with a key and snapping front clasps. Centered near the handle was the word, the name, "TAPFER," printed in block letters.

Jakob Tapfer. And that was enough.

It was enough to drive her back to the Library, to the microfiche and the war archives. It was enough to find him on the memorial that had been set up in town to honour the men who died serving overseas. She learned that he had been in several small attacks before he died in an invasion known as "Operation Market Garden," in the Netherlands. Almost a month passed before she thought to look in a phonebook. Something about the picture compelled her to return it. However it came to be at the Library, and then into her care, she somehow knew that it was not hers to keep.

There were three Tapfers on her list. The first was a young woman who had recently moved up from Toronto, and had no connection to the family from the local papers of years gone by. The second number forwarded to an automatic voice message about vehicle rental rates and insurance. A man named Jakob picked up on her third try.

She stumbled through a clumsy explanation about finding an old book in the Library, and the photograph that led her to calling, and did he know of anyone by his name that served in World War II? The silence that followed felt chocked with emotion. Slowly the voice returned. "You... found one of her books?"

She listened quietly as Jakob Junior, the son of the man whose photograph she held, told her the history that newspapers ignored. "My mother was pregnant with me when he left. She used to say that he was a true Tapfer man, very brave. She said you could see it in his eyes. She loved him so much." He recounted, in brief, the history of his father that he had memorized from the cradle, the story that his mother had told him all of his life. "He was part of the Canadian Forces, enlisted early on to fight with the British Allies because he was already parachute trained. It had been a thrill in his youth, and he had learned the skill at home, only thirty minutes from Arnheim, the place he died. Both of my parents grew up in Kranenburg, you see. They moved to Canada in 1923 and became full Canadian citizens in 1934 and 1935, mother and father respectively. Neither entertained dreams of seeing their home again, but when my father left for War, he wrote that he thought God was going to take him home. And He did, twice; once to the airs of Arnheim, and then quickly to his heavenly place."

She listened without interruption for nearly two hours, completely absorbed by the passion and pride with which this man told his father's story. She learned that his mother, Sonje, had gone Home too, about a year ago. When her apartment had been sorted through by Jakob and his wife, they found none of the books or letters or anything else they expected her to keep. Months later they came across receipts for the rental of a small storage unit, under her second husband's name, but when they contacted the managers they were told flatly that, "anything unpaid and unclaimed for more than six months, whatever it be, is sold as a lot at auction." All of his mother's treasures had been given away from less than a hundred dollars. "We worked hard to track down the buyer, but once the sale has been made it is a very difficult process. You are the first to ever track us down."

So she offered, as she had planned, to return the photograph and the book it came with. After all of the story telling and reliving of the past, it was this act of kindness that overwhelmed him and his voice broke down into sobs. His wife picked up the receiver and arranged the details of a visit.

All of this had led her to the bus ride she was now taking. In a city as sprawled out as North Bay, the public transportation system is an important, if sometimes tedious, vein. The route was familiar, but the stop was not -- which is why she was so intently focused on watching the road signs out the window when the turnip hit her ankle. She didn't like to swear, and she had worked hard to keep her vocabulary clean, but when something as pain-inducing and unexpected as a rolling rutabaga breaks into your reality, the subliminal cultural training we have received sometimes slips out, entirely without our permission. As she bent down to tend to her pulsing foot, she knocked into a man behind her and set him off balance. He began to topple, just as someone reached out and caught him, under arm.

"Ethan!" she said with surprise, moving to help him right the man, apologies to both tumbling out of her as she struggled to orient herself in the moment. "Oh hello there, pretty girl," he said with a grin, "and where might you be off to with such determination? I've been standing here for nearly ten minutes, feeling very much ignored." His grin had swayed into a smirk. She smiled.

"I'm going to meet a friend," she said, careful about her verbal footing, unsure of how much she wanted to share right away. He caught the reserve in her voice and pulled a face. "Is it quite serious? Your other boyfriend, right?" She rolled her eyes as the bus pulled over and a few people hopped off between them. "It's a new friend," she said, deciding not to explain the adventure just yet. "I'm returning a book."

But then she thought about Sonje and Jakob. Life, her heart reminded her, is a fragile thing. She looked up at her man, smiling down at her face. Would she, in time, press his picture between the pages of her favourite book?

The bus pulled over at her stop at just that moment. Between closed doors and open doors, her mind had changed. "You know, I could use a bit of company after all. Will you come?" She took his hand. "Sure," he said, the grin returning, "But only if I can carry your books."

Sora ~ Between the Stops

2011-06-28T13:07:00.001-04:00

The little guy was bundled up in "Classic Pooh," a brown snowsuit checkered with green; the combination of his pulled-down toque and tightly wrapped scarf almost buried his beautiful Native face. He might have been two years old, but no more. "Paappy," he said, pointing up at an advertisement on the ceiling of the bus. It was a Near North Crime Stoppers poster; one of Lynn Johnston's contributions to justice. The dog was looking proud of himself with sunglasses and a piece of bad-guy pants between his teeth. The father smiled, more at his boy than the poster.

"That's right," he said, all smiles, "a puppy. And there's a truck."
"Twuuk?"
"Yep."
"Twuk."
"Another truck, yep."

This dad was young, maybe twenty-three or -four. He had tattoos on his neck and he was wearing a collection of rings, though nothing on his left hand.

It's an undeniable truth that the world doesn't play by the same rules that it did even one generation ago. The pleasures and privileges of marriage have moved far beyond the laws and vows of the Church. But with love and sex comes risk and responsibility -- pressures that a marriage is built to withstand while informal relationships so often are not. It is in the crisis that character is exposed. As he held his baby boy, standing beside him on the matted red fabric of the bus seats, it was obvious: this was a man.

He was born on a reserve and would have grown and died there if not for the patience of a good teacher who loved people and refused to give up on him. He had graduated from the local school and moved to the city for college, working with passion and focus. It was in this new place with nothing familiar that he found his Sora, his beautiful birdsong who could speak the language of his soul. She surrendered her body; he surrendered his heart. It was the mysterious first submission -- the first of many to come.

The night he found out, Sora was already home. She was leaning against the bathroom door, quivering and in tears, with something clutched in between her fingers.

"Niinimoshe," he said with a soft concern, "what is wrong?" She could barely respond. In broken whispers, "Nimaanendam, nimaanendam," was all she could manage. He held her as she cried. They cried together. In that moment of crisis a man was born.

He had finished the semester and quit the program, found a job and did not leave. As Sora's belly filled with their child he could hardly conceive of the dramatic changes going on in his own heart. Every physical change was matched by a growth in the spirit of this newborn family. He loved her to the point of bursting. He loved her to the point of sacrifice.

The following seven months were a shift in reality: he learned to be calm and still, learned to hold his temper, learned to sing, just a little, the way his father and grandfather used to. "Gi zag gin, gi zag gin, niabinoojivens gwiiwizens, gi zag gin, gi zag gin, gi zag gin." Every day his heart was woven closer to Sora. They were one beautiful seminole, and no cloth could be more beautiful than she.

The bus pulled over to the side of the road. Three students clambered up, teetering boxes of groceries that included two cases of Kraft Dinner, a couple frozen pizzas, potato chips, Honey Nut Cheerios and a turnip. The turnip seemed a little out of place with the other purchases he could see, but it made him smile. The bus driver was just pulling away when suddenly a pair of flailing arms seemed to leap out of nowhere. One of the arms, attached to a frazzled looking youth, banged on the bus door and the huge vehicle slammed on the brakes. Although the bus had only started moving a moment before, the halt was jarring and the repercussions numerous: his child lost balance and fell face first into his lap, bumping his little head off the seat and bursting into tears; the turnip dislodged from it's nest of junk food, bounced down the aisle, knocked over an unfortunately placed stack of binders in the fifth row and smashed into the ankle of a girl standing by the back doors; the girl cussed instinctively and bent down to rub her ankle, misjudging the distance between her posterior and the cane of the elderly gentleman standing behind her, who was preparing to get off the at the next stop; with his support gone, the man buckled at the knees and would have fallen, had the bending girl's boyfriend not been there to catch him from the side. It was an awkward few seconds and few looked with a smile at the kid who boarded in the aftermath.

"There, there, bear," cooed his father, righting the child and holding him fast 'round the middle. "You are a strong little makwa. You'll be all right." Their jumbled bus-fellows sorted themselves out and settled down again; the class notes re-shuffled, the turnip retrieved, apologies offered and accepted all 'round. His boy-child calmed in the embrace and his cries melted into whimpers, whimpers to coos and coos to smiles again.

Calamity always stirs people up in funny ways. So often the surface of who we are, the polished mask or persona that we intentionally present to the world, is carefully covering something truer that restlessly hovers below; like a tarp covering just a little too much wood, something is always at risk of exposure should one corner be firmly tugged. Simple moments of confusion, like the unexpected application of the breaks, or the tripping over a doorframe, or the dropping of keys can shuffle the world in such a way that our perfectly tucked edges are loosed and the mess of our lives is revealed. Suddenly the world can see the precarious balancing act you had to preform to stack the wood in the first place, and you lose control of your secrets. It is for this reason that a beautiful mask should not be the hope of a life lived. It is for this reason that you must start at the bottom of the pile and build up strong, cord by cord.

As the old bus rattled off again the man smiled down at his son. The child seems bored with the little odaminowaagan he had been carrying. "Here's something new to see," he said, reaching into the backpack on the floor and coming back up with a small square box. He opened it, facing the boy, and the clean, winter sunlight caught the gem perfectly. The refractions danced around the bus, dazzling the eyes of the little child. "It's for you mother... wiidigendiwini-ditibininjiibizoring. What do you think of that?"

She already held his heart. She should hold his life as well.

The ring went into his pocket instead of back to his bag, as he stood up and signalled for the next stop. It wasn't a special day, but it was the right one. He lifted the child up to his hip and gave him a tender kiss on the cheek. They were beautiful, the two of them together, hopping off the bus and into the snow. The three were better still: a woven fabric, rich in texture and colour, and life; a true family; a promise unending.

And the old bus rattled off again.

Around and Round

2011-06-04T18:41:00.003-04:00

That explains it. The canvas is torn.

A tiny boat, no bigger than a life raft, spun round in circles about 15 minutes from shore. She was caught in the squaring-off between wind and wave and her sail, flapping wildly, unsecured and multiplying the chaos on deck, revealed a gash in its fabric that sliced from her groaning mast to the tether-turned-whip at its furthest edge. The rudder, though intact, was a minor deterrent to the crash of water coming overboard; the ballasts on her sides did little to steady her as the hurricane tipped her precariously, her starboard side exposed, her port dipped below the surface of the raging waters.

The little vessel was suspended, immobilized, out on that lake. She could do nothing to ease the storm's anxious strains as it relentlessly pitched her from one side to the other. Wind and wave met with a violence that the boat had never before encountered. It threatened to implode her; it struggled to pull her apart.

Give in, little floater, I'll protect you beneath;

Never again will this wind haunt your sails.

Give in, little swimmer, and I'll run you aground;

While at port you'll find rest in my gales.

Neither would settle for less than her all; neither sky nor sea could this maiden voyage please. With her control and choice wrecked she was at the mercy of the elements and though at war with each other, with her in their crossfire, both water and air thought their action was all to this little boat's best.

But there was something built into this small rocking ship that remembered a storm quite the same... A floorboard, perhaps, or an old rope on deck that had witnessed a reckless sea in ages past, a terrible tempest calmed by the gentle rebuke of a ghost.

Or they though he was a ghost, at first. He had captured all attention. The wind suddenly quiet; the waves as suddenly stilled. He was the master of them all. They obeyed his command. He saved the boat; he stopped the elemental war.

Oh, how this vessel begs of its Master another divine intervention. Bring order from chaos. Mend the sail, guide the boat, calm the wind and wave.

Back Into Boxes

2011-04-23T19:47:00.002-04:00

I am not unfamiliar with the sentiments attached to moving. I move home every summer; crate my books, fold all my laundry, sift through which pillows are to come or stay. I also move back every autumn, for the last three years, to this apartment. This has become home to me. Small "h" home, mind you, but a home just the same. It's the place I've matured. It is in this space that I have ripened.

Perhaps this is the root of my nostalgic trance that I've been in the last few days, trying with little success to package my life for the last time in this city. It's a lonely project, but one I feel must be done in solace. Saying good-bye to a place is a different philosophical experience than bidding a person, even a friend, farewell. With people, the parting is always a mutual weight; feelings are shared between, both are impacted and when affection is mutual, so is the sadness. But saying good-bye to a place is different.

When I leave North Bay, the buses will not miss me; the instability of the transit schedule and the weary smile of each driver will not be altered by my sudden disappearance. When I leave, the Salvation Army which has so often contributed to my wardrobe (including the oh-so-infamous Christmas Socks) will continue to sell their long-ignored treasure to those who need an economical cheer-up. My leaving will not change how the sunset casts a fabulous gold-yellow light into the living room of 512 O'Brien Street, Apartment 2 at that certain time of day... not in the same way that the absence of me will change the beautiful women who will live here without me next year. The city will not miss me (but I hope that they will).

So, saying good bye to this place, because it is so strong and unmoving and so tragically emotionless, must be done alone. The boxes and packing drawers, the tape I can't find and a full season of NUMB3RS, the leftovers in the fridge and the carrot cake I'm thinking about making: we must do this, together and alone, in the strange camaraderie of inanimate acquaintanceships. Pack, into boxes.

Back into boxes.

Stephen ~ Between the Stops

2011-01-25T18:05:00.003-05:00

Everyone could see that they were in love. It was written all over them for the world to read; written in their clasped hands, on their smiling faces, in their eyes. He loved her and she loved him and they talked pleasantly, so easily, as though they had been loving each other in this manner without trouble or hardship since they had exchanged their promises in the little country chapel, almost sixty years ago. Their relationship had not always been the blissful dream that they had imagined from their honeymoon days, but they had always leaned on each other through the turbulence. Somehow almost sixty years had flown by in a wonderful blur of fashion changes, rock music, Pampers and bunk beds, college applications and the throwing of rice, and then another more recent round of Pampers as their children's children were handed over for a few days at a time. It had been a happy, love-filled adventure together so far. What would the next sixty years bring?

The bus pulled over to the sidewalk to pick up another elderly couple who smiled and waved as soon as they boarded. The gentleman tipped his felt fedora to the bus driver - an original hat from the early thirties, the kind you had to crease yourself with regular use. The bus driver tipped his imaginary cap in return and waited patiently as they shuffled back. The first couple had moved to the back of the bus where the seating was better for four. Everyone took a few moments to catch up, the men about their women and the women of their men, and then with a knowing pause their conversation fell to Stephen.

Stephen had been a mutual friend from the days before the dinosaurs, when school was affordable and people came into fame and fortune by really accomplishing something or by the work of their hands and the sweat of their brow. The three men had been great pals from their youth. "Well, Jim was there too, but nobody sees him anymore. But he was there, old Jim."
"Right," nodded the other man, "but nobody sees him anymore."
"Right."

They let a few more stops pass in silence. A heavy beat passed before the dialogue of a father and daughter nearby drew their attention to lighter things. They all smiled.

"Do you guys remember when Stephen and Jane tried hosting a formal English tea for all the kids in the neighbourhood?"
"Oh, heavens! The Brinkman boys started a food fight with the scones!"
"Little squares of butter all over Jane's poor dog. He was never quite the same."
"I remember one year for Stephen's birthday Jesse and Hannah took all of his left shoes and re-gifted them to him one at a time, wrapped up as pretty as ever. Jane laughed for days telling us that story. Stephen pretended to be miffed at the whole affair, but I'm pretty sure he loved the attention. Wow, I miss those kids. I haven't seen them in ages."
"Well, you'll see them in a few minutes, darling. It's just a shame that it's a visit under these circumstances. Jesse's whole family will be there today. We should get together this week and make them some dinners. They'll have plenty on their minds the next little while without the added stress of cooking for all those little ones."

Three more stops passed and the bus turned a corner into a grocery store parking lot. The driver opened the doors to a young teenaged couple who took the first set of empty seats. The boy was trying to get her attention but she shook him off and stared out the window in a tight-lipped silence.

The elderly man took the hand of his still-beautiful bride. Age had not withered her mind nor faded her spirit, thank God. Time had served only to specialize his affections and deepen their love. She leaned over and kissed his cheek. She felt the same.

The tall church steeple could be seen towering over the town, reminding everyone of its importance and centrality. It would have made Stephen happy to know that his life would wrap up in the same place it had really begun. The son of the pastor who married Stephen and Jane would give the service today; quite a coincidence, but Stephen wasn't a man who believed in happenstance. Jane had taught him to trust God in even the finicky details of life and he frequently credited his Heavenly Stage Manager. It was nice of Him to write his hero such a romantic exit.

The light and abrupt "ding" of a pulled cord announced the nearing end of their journey. As the bus coasted to a stop the elderly gentlemen took the arms of their wives, not so much physical support as emotional comfort. It was always a very hard thing, growing up and growing old, but laying a friend to rest forever was a horrible twist indeed. At least for the left-behinds. Stephen had always believed all those old hymns he sang so often. If he had it right, the angels would be tending to him and his lovely Jane would be with him again...

Heaven...

As the bus doors opened he let go of his wife for a moment as she stepped down onto the curb. He was not prepared to let go of her forever. He couldn't bear the idea of letting her go and never again taking her arm or holding her hand or sharing her love. Maybe it's time to put some thought and conversation into the whole heaven thing Stephen used to go on about. Maybe it was time to take a lesson from his friend's life and death before he followed to the graveyard.

He stood staring at the open door of the church from the open door of the bus, and still holding the yellow rail. He looked down at his wife and, taking her hand again, he vowed once more to lead her, off this bus, through this world, into this church. Perhaps not for the last time.

The old man's eyes seemed to glisten with both joy and remorse that he couldn't find the balance between. A tear rolled down his cheek, over the weathered mountains and valleys of his face that had seen so much, laughed with such bravery, cried in vulnerability and now smiled once more upon the love returned in the eyes of his wife. It was a tear that she didn't understand, but would be explained before too long.

Almost sixty years with this woman.
And there was still so much to talk about.

Breaking the Silence

2010-11-03T18:58:00.001-04:00

My fingers have been clicking away without waver for weeks on end but the quill of my heart has been stilled for so long that I have almost forgotten my love for paper and ink. This place, this literary release, this haven was left void of my thoughts for too long. As I return to it now I feel almost estranged, as though my steps forward are some kind of trespass into the world and space of another. I feel almost as though I no longer belong, and yet... yet there is something so familiar, like a soft smell that dances so close to your face that you can almost taste the gentle fragrance before it laughs along on the wind to go and ruffle someone else's senses. It is quiet here. I have missed this quiet.

My summer was filled with much and varied sound; the noise of singing children, the slap of bouncing rubber balls, the snap of dry cookies, the splash of water-filled balloons as they explode against the grass, the buzz of lights, the yawns and sighs of long, warm hours. Every day I was met by new sounds, new experiences, new textures of language and speech, new insights, new outlooks, new friends and one new and growing relationship. It was a very good four month break from the 'reality' of my September-through-May life.

And now I am back here, at Nipissing University for my fourth and final year. My days are once again filled with noise, but it is the flipping of pages, the chatter and clatter of city buses, the scratch of a pencil, the squeal of chalk against board and, of course, the clicking of keys that sets the rhythm of my life. My mind skips to a scene from Disney's Oliver and Company, when our feline protagonist first finds himself in the chaos of New York; first overwhelmed by the cacophony of auditory stimuli, then falling in sync with the driving beat of the metropolis, and falling in love with the music of life.

There's been a lot of falling in love in my life recently. In fact, the fourth finger of my left hand now proudly declares that I have been pursued and claimed by an amazing man of God who returns my love in a way I have always hoped (but never really expected) to be real. I will write out our whole story soon, but sadly I do not have the time or attention to put towards such an endeavor at present.

In the meantime, take this short, mildly melancholic and typically reflective piece as a reassurance that I am still writing outside of my class work, at least sometimes. This one's for Dad; thanks for calling me back to my blog.

Episode 3: Moo No More

2010-08-28T19:47:00.000-04:00

"Good morning, Marco."
"Good morning, Polo."
"Can you pass me the milk, please?"
"It will have to be white today, I'm afraid. We're almost at the end of our chocolate rations, and our tokens don't come in until Thursday. Is white okay?"

Polo sighed sadly.

"It will have to do. It seems so long ago that we used to be able to walk down to Macs and buy chocolate milk by the carton. Now we can barely get a handle on a litre a month!"
"I know," said Marco, dropping her chin into her hands with a sigh of her own. "I tried to buy a ration from Ophelia, but she told me to get myself to a nunnery and then she climbed out her window and onto that old tree outside. I think she almost broke the branch trying to jump into that river below. If she isn't more careful the poor oak is going to snap one of these days and she'll drown in that water."
"I can't say I blame her for resisting your bribe, though. I wouldn't sell our tickets for a million umlauts. It's just too precious a commodity!"

Marco and Polo ate their breakfast cereals in silence for a few moments. Their table used to resound with the sounds of snapping, crackling and popping cocoaey goodness, but now their bowls and spoons were as eerily silent and white as an asylum in January.

The chocolate milk industry was depleting at an alarming rate. Over the past six months North America had reached a depression-level shortage, thanks to the environmental activists that banned artificially coloured leather because it was draining the world of its tannin supplies. The famed Latvian blue cows were the first hunted for their naturally pigmented skins, after the same environmentalists passed a law to prohibit the poaching of animals without hair. No one could figure out what the moral difference was between killing hairy and bald animals, but the distinction saved a rainforest of rainbow heterocephalus galbers. After the blue cow, the brown Jersey was targeted and, as everyone knows, it's the brown cows that make the chocolate milk. In response to this, the Ministry of Natural Resources began to ration out chocolate milk tickets, hoping that regulating access would give farmers a chance to protect and stabilize their cocoaey herds. Unfortunately, the rationing served only to alert the public to the crisis and now people who did not normally drink chocolate milk were suddenly as concerned about its future as those who routinely lifted their glasses to the Good Lord in thanks for the brown cow. The result was that more people than ever were drinking down the heavenly-flavoured dairy products and instead of alleviating the stresses of the farmers in question, the motion actually served to increase demand three-fold. If something wasn't done soon, Canada would fall with the United States into a state of brown cow extinction - and nobody wanted that.

Polo raised her bowl to her lips and slurped up the last few drops of her very white cereal. Marco stared into her half-empty glass and sighed again. Polo sighed louder. Marco gave her a look and proceeded to empty her lungs with a dramatic, exhaustive blow. Polo took the cue and before long the two were in a very competitive "sigh-off," swooning, fainting and blowing air into each other's faces in the most ridiculous of fashions. Five minutes later their contest had ended, to nobody's surprise, in a wrestle to the ground and Polo threateningly hoarking into her hand.

"Enough!" cried Marco in mock panic and legitimate surrender. "I give up!" They both clambered to their feet and Marco let out one final exasperating sigh - and then quickly changed the subject before Polo could quite realize what she had done. "So," she said, "What is on our agenda for today? Shall we engage in a bit of northern piracy or travel to a distant land aboard the mighty Karen Thrasher?"
"Actually Marco, I was thinking that we should try and figure out a solution to the chocolate milk problem."
"You might as well aim to take over the world, Polo."
"You say that like we haven't tried it before."
"Well, what do you suggest, mon aime?"
"I thought we could try.... jelly."

Any other plan would have been written off immediately as ridiculous, but Marco couldn't help grin at the suggestion. It was irresistibly brilliant.

"Polo, have I told you recently that I love you?"
"No, not this morning, Marco."
"Well," she smiled, "I do."

The two girls abandoned their breakfasts, resolved to resolve the bovine dilemma. Their first stop, naturally, was Utterson. Others had already begun to gather at the famous site, where an American Dairy Princess and a Côte d'Ivoirian Theobroma Cocoa were first mated and a chocolate milk squirting Jersey was born. It was here that the Canadian concentration of the breed was kept in a sanctuary away from prying eyes and empty glasses, and it was here that Marco and Polo found exactly what they needed: inspiration.

The manager of the herd let them in immediately after they had exposed the beginning of their plan to him. It's amazing just how much hope can be stirred up in a hopeless heart at the word "Jelly." The sight that met their eyes was enough to make Marco's stomach turn sour... in the middle of a large field that could have held hundreds of cattle stood five. Five lonely, skinny cows drooping their lonely skinny heads into a trough of the world's finest imported grasses. Suddenly the magnitude of the situation flooded our heroes' hearts. This must be solved. Tonight.

Stay tuned for part two...

Prayers of Psalm 51

2010-06-26T15:10:00.001-04:00

Why am I resisting you? Now, of all moments when I should be clinging desperately, I am running like Jonah from the hands that will save and guide me, into the middle of the one thing you have told me to flee - the one thing that will lead my mind to destruction and my heart to misery. Why am I giving in to these temptations as the seize me? Why do I turn from what I know is truth and peace and light only to intentionally grapple along in the dark places that my flesh is so actively seducing me to? Why have I lost my hope? To what place has my joy vanished? How have I walked so far away from you, Lord?

Hear my tears and see my guilt. Come after me like you promised to. Look for your lost sheep. Break me, if I need to be broken. Hold me, Father, for I know that I need your care and your love. I am lost. I have wandered. Pull me back to you and your flock, Jesus. I am yours. Call me yours.

Heal the pains I have but can not name. Temper my trembling spirit and the shaking of my shamed heart. Restore me like David. Forgive the sins I so frequently and carelessly commit. Clean my heart, cleanse my eyes, renew my memory and wash it to new.

God, I am sad. The cause of this burdening has been buried away from me, but you know even the secrets that we keep from ourselves. Heal my unknown pains. Strengthen my weakness, calm my fears, settle my body. Create in me a clean heart, oh God, and renew a right spirit within me. Cast me not away from your presence. Restore to me the joy of your salvation and uphold me, Father.

Wrap me in your arms.

The Umbrella

2010-05-31T23:59:00.002-04:00

It was raining again. It had been raining for weeks on end, drowning her world and her basement in inches of water. She had bail buckets scattered and often floating around her feet as she stooped to scoop her floor dry – an impossible task between the attack of the rain and the thaw. If her street flooded it would be the end of her foundation altogether and she might as well install a diving board. How had it come to this?

Upstairs things were not much better. Her boyfriend was sitting by an open window, watching the water pour in over the sill like the Niagara. “Look sweetie,” he said with a dopey smile on his face, “I put a bucket under the flow, so it wouldn’t ruin the floors!” She gave him a sharp look of “Actually, right now? Are you an idiot?” and pointed to the window. “Why didn’t you just close the window?” she asked aloud. “Why didn’t you?” he countered. It was a fair point. She had been living in her house with the windows open for so long that she hadn’t even thought to close them when the rain started to come. She had been distracted with the basement immediately and had only thought about the windows being open when she started to see water damage not only from the walls but also from the ceiling of the basement. Jack could have been a little more help, though. He was sitting right there, after all. But she said nothing in correction and rarely gave suggestions; instead she spent her time criticizing his choices and mocking him in her mind. It was a kind of release for her, in a way, albeit a selfish one.

She went into the kitchen and opened a drawer, rummaging through the mess of disorganized odds and ends. Rubber bands, scissors, a flashlight, Kleenexes, a ruler, three dried up markers and a few candle stubs, but no matches with which to light them. “Jaaaaaack,” she called back into the living room with an exasperated tone. “Do you know where I put the matches from the campfire last weekend?” There was no response. She walked back into the other room, each step squishing audibly as her socked feet took on all qualities of a sponge. Jack was lying on the couch, half-asleep with the bucket balanced on his chest as though he had attempted but not quite made it to the sink. The still-open window was drenching the rug. She thought about tipping the pail into his face but opted for her jacket instead. She needed space. She needed time away from this place and this life. She let the front door slam behind her.

The world outside had turned into a puddle. It was as though they were living in the first few days of Noah’s deluge and now the precipitation pace seemed to be picking up. Her jacket was thin and she felt every gust as though she were in nothing more than a tissue-paper robe. The night was overcast and chill, and the store was a fifteen minute walk away. She began to wish for her winter coat, or the umbrella still hanging on the kitchen hook – something, anything, to protect her.

Lightning illuminated the sky as the storm flexed its power over the small town. In that moment the whole street lit up and she saw, or perhaps she only thought she saw, a man standing at the corner. The otherwise deserted street was plunged back into the darkness that she had known only seconds before, but in that one moment with hardly enough time to breathe she knew that the man was waiting for her. Her body tried to turn and run, but her eyes had met his in the flash and her curiosity could not resist... she needed to talk to him. Deep thunder shook the earth, as though to agree.

With resolve she continued down the street. The lightening split the sky again and she looked intently at where the man stood. He was tall, with dark skin and a kind face, dressed in a tan coloured trench coat, collar up. He was holding a large, white umbrella and he had begun to walk toward her. They met part way to the corner a moment later.

“Where are you headed? It’s cold and you look like you could use a little shelter. I’m happy to walk you there, if you don’t mind the company.”

She smiled in appreciation and although she would normally turn down a stranger’s help, especially that of a man, she decided against pattern and thanked him. “No,” he said. “Thank you. The truth is I was hoping for a purpose in this walk. Now I have one.” They paced in silence for a minute, synchronizing their gate and then he picked up the conversation again. “My name is Ben. What’s yours?” He looked at her with a sure, encouraging kind of confidence. “River,” she answered. She looked at him expectantly; her name always caught strangers off guard and even now some of her closer friends were just getting used to it, but Ben was un-phased. “Glad to meet you, River. And happy to hold this umbrella as well, but something tells me I could do even more for you tonight. You look like you could use a listening ear. I love stories of all kinds and I’ve been told I give pretty sound advice. We’ve got a few blocks, if you feel like talking.” He smiled as he spoke. It was the kind of smile that you usually find on the face of a grandfatherly caregiver, a smile that calms and invites and promises the helping words that come with personal history and yet this face was also young and full of colour and life. Without permission her eyes filled with tears.

“It’s raining,” she laughed as the tears fell. “It’s raining and there is nothing I can do about it! It’s been raining for days and weeks without relief. My house is flooding, the water damage is irreversible and even my socks are wet! Everything is wet in my life. Nothing is dry or clean or simple or right anymore....”

Her voice broke into sobs and she stopped walking. Ben faced her and put his hand on her shoulder saying nothing for a few moments. “River, child.” He spoke softly with an accent reminiscent of African roots. “It sounds like more than your basement has been feeling the rain tonight. It sounds to me like maybe you’ve been battling a flood in your heart too. Am I right?” She nodded slowly. Ben took a step and they continued on their journey. “Let me tell you two familiar stories, River. The first is about two carpenters, both in the business of building great, large homes. The two men chose very different locations for their homes, one on the lakefront, right in the sand and one further up, on the bedrock of the mountain’s base. The man with the waterfront property, knowing about tides, built the house up high on stilts that were buried deep into the beach. The house was beautiful and its construction was good, but it had no support in its foundation. Now, the other man who was drilling and blasting and securing his house to the land took a long time laying out his plans. When he finally set his foundations they were strong and sealed and sure. Then the storm came, a storm much like this one, and it did it’s best to shred the houses. It beat against the glass and the ground. The rock was tough and held its house secure, but the sand gave way to the fury of wind and tide, and the supporting pillars collapsed. The house was completely destroyed.”

“I’ve heard this story before,” said River with a hopeless look and a heavy sigh. “I built on the Rock.” Ben smiled. “I know.”

They paused at a stoplight, waiting while for the walking man to signal a safe crossing. A few cars dove by, one splashing water up at them from the street in a wave - but the wave did not hit them. It was almost as though the water itself had second thoughts and made a decision against soaking the pair. River did not pay the moment or the direction much mind. She was waiting for the second story.

"Consider that the houses were not uninhabited... within the walls dwelt the architects themselves. With the beach house, the creator of it was destroyed, while the other survived with conviction, for a time. You see, even if the foundation is strong, it does not necessary secure the strength of the rest of the building, and it is the roof and the walls, not the foundation, that take the beatings of a storm." As they turned another left she found herself back on her own road, only a few doors from her own home. Ben stopped walking and faced her, his back to her house with windows lit and windows open.

"The owner of the house has a decision to make. With neglect the house will be destroyed by the wind. Only the foundation, deep and strong will outlast the weathering of a storm if all defences have been abandoned. If she does this, she will have to start from nothing - Jesus and nothing. It is not impossible, but it will be very hard, and she will have to work through great disappointment and bitterness. If, however, she recognizes the dangers that her house, her life and her mind are so aggressively faced with and she blocks them out, shuts the door to them and seals her windows, her home will prevail even in the fiercest of trials."

River looked over his shoulder at her house. Could it be salvaged? Could it be renewed? Was this an offer for her heart as well as her home?

Ben didn't answer her questions, not even with his eyes. He smiled, handed her the umbrella and turned away. She called a "Thank you" after him, but he did not reply with a standard. "Don't thank me," he said in a whisper that she was surprised to be able to hear, "I am only a messenger." And he was gone.

River shook the umbrella dry as she opened her front door again. Nothing accomplished, but much learned. She walked into the living room and closed the window. "There is hope," she said to her reflection in the rain-braten glass keeping the water away.

"There is still hope."

Gearing Up and Downwinding

2010-04-24T11:02:00.007-04:00

Have you ever made a decision so quickly that you feel as though it must be rash or misguided, but when you sit back after you have decided you find that every muscle in your body is finally at peace and you just can't help but smile? At that moment you know that, despite temporary emotional shock to the contrary, the decision you have made is the right one. Nothing could be so perfect. Nothing could make more sense.

I have had two recent decisions affect me in this way. The first (though second made) was introduced on Wednesday evening. Three days of consideration has led to a fairly decided heart: I am going to change my academic path from teaching to counselling.

Until this year I did not really understand the value of counselling. I had not understood how much weight can be released by simply opening your heart to a patient, relatively quiet, wise and gentle person. I still believe that I have the smarts and the creativity and even the dedication to wake up every morning and teach a class of tots how to multiply two digit numbers, if I wanted to... but my heart isn't in that anymore. I want to love people through more than a classroom. I want to love the people who so desperately need love - to love people who so desperately need Jesus.

So I'm mulling over the idea of counselling. I like the idea of maybe working in a high school (or even elementary), and being a guidance counsellor who gives counsel on more than class arrangements. The woman I went to in school was nowhere near a confidant to me, and so much of the time it is simply openness and gentleness that kids need to have access to and don't. Sometimes the closest thing that a child will get to a loving parent is a caring teacher... but teachers can not take a half an hour out of every day to build relationships with each kid in their class, and they can not sit down and help them through tough decisions and secrets. That is where the guidance counsellors come in, if they are doing their job right; they become whatever that particular child needs them to be. Sometimes that is moving around classes - but sometimes it is so much simpler and more relational than that... a listening ear, a sympathetic voice, some wise advice, a safe place to just sit. I want to be that space, that person, that office for kids who need it. So, I am finishing my B.A. in English and then I am going (somewhere) to get a counselling diploma. As I figure out the details I will let you know.

The second decision was made, at least in part, about a month and a half ago. The same decision will not be formally made until June when he comes home to meet my family, at which point a whole lot more of this story will come out. But for now, this is a tip to all you would-be matchmakers in my life; God has done a better job with pairing my heart than I can even begin to understand (and He didn't need our help!). On that note, to all of you who are still feeling lonely at the top of your tower: don't give in to the temptation to let your hair down. Guys who have to pull on your hair to get into your life will just give you a head and heart ache. The right guy, a guy who's worth the wait and who knows you're worth the effort, will learn how to scale the wall even without your assistance. Some are so determined that they will camp at your locked window and knock on the glass until you finally break down and open it. Ladies, such a pursuit is well worth the waiting, and I can finally speak that with absolute confidence.

So, as my academic year is (finally) coming to a close the rest of my life seems to be bursting forward in revelation and reality. Two more weeks of placement and several weeks of summer prep (that I am SO excited for!) are on their way, then summer in full swing... but more on that another time.

For now, enjoy the sunshine and the leafing trees, the company of others and the hope that comes with tomorrow.

One Day Without Shoes

2010-04-06T17:19:00.003-04:00

Click on this LINK, watch the video and begin to understand the genius behind this quickly approaching day. Here's the gist, in the infamous super-fast-I'm-in-the-middle-of-a-study-break-and-have-several-other-things-that-I-should-be-doing-with-my-time-other-than-blogging style.

You own shoes.
You are probably wearing some of them.
But you could take them off if you wanted to.
And then you could put them back on.
Some people do not have that option.
And by some I mean MILLIONS.
Barefoot by choice can be an incredibly freeing, wonderful experience.
Barefoot by poverty
is a very different story.

A company called Toms Shoes is doing something AMAZING.
Brilliantly simple.
Liberatingly active.
Exposing, intriguing, daring, brave.

This Thursday there is an international awareness campaign.
The world will be fore to look DOWN at their feet
And recognize their IMMENSE wealth and blessing for what it is.

Sharable.

If you are fashion savvy, this is your thing.
If you have the standard two feet and ten toes, this is for you.
If you have more of less, you are still welcome.
If you know nothing about the manufacturing process that brings you the clothes you wear, if you are studying to be a biophysicist and have not interest outside of the mathematical realm, if you like people, if you appreciate oxygen - seriously.
EVERYONE should get involved in this somehow.

Every pair of Toms buys a pair of Toms for a kid
Who can't even afford the laces.
Your naked toes can save a sole.

Click and be inspired by the movement.

The Colour of Audio

2010-03-29T23:22:00.001-04:00

It is likely that you have already heard this story, but unlikely in this form. I'm in process of trying to podcast some of my stories (in my magical spare time...) and though I don't have a fancy space for if just yet, you can now listen to The Lemon's Aide if you click that title. Who knows? You might be getting in on the ground floor of a multimillion dollar storytelling industry. You could be famous.

The Healing Touch

2010-03-23T16:44:00.002-04:00

Jesus is a very affectionate person. He understands the healing power of a simple, caring touch, and he used it often throughout his ministry. Did He heal physical disease, deformation and disability? Yes. But I think He did much more than that when He made intentional, non-intrusive, personally loving contact with the people he met. Allow me to call upon one such example.

"As soon as they left the synagogue, they went with James and John to the home of Simon and Andrew. Simon's mother-in-law was in bed with a fever, and they told Jesus about her. So he went to her, took her hand and helped her up. The fever left her and she began to wait on them" (Mark 1:29-31).

This simple interaction between God in the flesh and the flesh of humanity has spoken volumes into my heart today. At face value this story is incredibly short and finite: after church Jesus and His core disciples are walking home, they meet up with Simon/Peter's sick mom-in-law, Jesus heals her and she serves them. But what the account says and what it is saying are two different things entirely. This is an amazing God moment. It is a snapshot of the entire gospel. Did you miss it?

In verses 21-28 of this same chapter we learn that Jesus had just spent the Sabbath morning declaring the Truth from God's word and being revealed as the Messiah/Christ by an evil demon that obediently shut up and left, an encounter which naturally caused a bit of gossip. Immediately after this story Jesus hits the road with his young gang of rabble-rousing disciples and they head over to Simon/Peter's house, for brunch, perhaps. When they arrive, however, they are not met with the customary, expected greeting from a traditionally hospitable Jewish woman. Instead of Simon/Peter's mom-in-law welcoming them into the home with food prepared and places set she is in bed, weakened, sick and rendered effectively helpless by a fever. Catch what happens next; the disciples explain her ailment to Jesus. Whether they were providing a reason to excuse her social offense or whether they were simply alerting Jesus to her situation, his attention is immediately focused on the woman in question. In response to her need, Jesus goes to her. He comes up beside her and takes her hand – unsolicited aide, but the crossed boundary is quickly appreciated. He helps her. Hand in hand Jesus takes this woman’s weight on himself and helps her to her feet. He takes the fever and gives her the support of his arm. He takes her pain and sickness and restores her body to health, simultaneously restoring her heart to a place of natural servitude – the willing sacrifice of a grateful heart.

Jesus pursues a person in need, makes the move to humbly help, offers his strength, takes her frailty and heals her, body and soul, freeing her to serve him back with natural and instinctive love. This is the man I love; this is the God I serve; this is the example I choose to follow.

A hundred times throughout my day I pass people who are living with physical, spiritual and emotional needs. Nearly every time I see one of those people I pass by with little more than a thought in their direction, whether I consider them a stranger or a friend. But what if? What if I choose to stop in the hall and pull them aside? What if I put my life on pause long enough to address the heart issues of others with prayer? What if I took a moment to share the burdening pain and grief that weighs and weakens both mind and body? What if I responded to need with action, even if the only healing I can offer is the simplicity of company and a caring touch, or a hug?

What if we all did?

I’m not necessarily suggesting that you organize a Free Hug campaign. I’m not necessarily promoting public displays of godly affection in every possible circumstance. I’m not necessarily forwarding the idea of a designated room where lovers of God would welcome anyone in want or need of prayerful intersession or encouragement or comforting. But I might be. I’m certainly putting myself to the challenge of Love. I’m certainly advocating that Christians allow Jesus way more room to work miracles through their lives. I’m certainly saying that this world needs a whole lot more of what we can offer.

Take a lesson from Jesus: you don’t have to go very far or do very much to change somebody’s life. Just respond to the need, and Love.

Episode 2: Splattered Dreams

2010-03-16T09:35:00.002-04:00

Requested story elements: Angela Hoekstra-Steed; the Paper Bag Princess or Eeyore; a crazy Italian chef called Thomas; no two snowflakes are the same; there was an explosion in the spaghetti factory!

Splattered Dreams

The spaghetti factory in downtown Toulouse had three main levels. When Thomas bought the land for the business his neighbours jeered – the property that he swore would be his sustenance was only thirteen feet square, and so the man was labelled a “crazy” right from the get-go. The benefit of operating in such a small area was that Thomas’ taxes were very low – even for being downtown in such a popular city in France – but the disadvantages were painfully clear from the beginning of his project. And yet, with the blood of successful and very creative amateur businessmen of the past flowing through his veins, Thomas set to work laying brick upon brick until his dream structure had come to be a wonderfully unusual reality.

It was forty feet tall and a perfect thirteen foot square, right to the top. Because of the thickness of the walls (to adhere to the building codes), the interior of the building was only eleven feet and with the elevator taking up a quarter of that available space (as it was the only method of climbing the tower), there was very little room for a business. In spite of this situation Thomas remained a faithful optimist and he made the most of every inch of space he had, manoeuvring a sink and towel rack, a display case for his finished works, a cash register, a place for the cue line and a grand old wooden desk into the “lobby” of the bottom floor, still leaving space under the shoots to work on and package his goods. And now we come to the heart of Thomas’ factory: the shoots.

The shoots extended down from the very top floor and were made of a flexible metal, lined with thick fondant icing. The inner space was about the diameter of a Canadian loonie, and the colourful coiled wire around the outside of each tube indicated what kind of pastas would be coming down through it. The rose-pink shoot was strawberry flavoured pasta, the blue shoot was home to fish flavours (a blend of tuna and cod) and the bright yellow shoot was for the no-fat double-butter flavour, and so on. There were nine different shoots and three that were unidentified (for special requests and large orders). The top floor of the building was the laboratory where Thomas would spend many hours mixing and blending his secret pasta recipes and though no one could definitively say what was on the second floor most speculated that it was used for storage or that it was the bathroom or perhaps that the level was entirely empty. Even now there is some suspicion as to Thomas’ intentions for that mysterious second floor.

Three days before the shop was opened Thomas hired two employees. The first was a young girl named Aoibheann-Rani-Gimbiyan-Ameerah-Sarai Takarda-Jakar; to limit the time it took to address the girl they summarized her name and her job description to “the Paper Bag Princess” and called her Cessie for short. Cessie was responsible for running the till and packaging the products when Thomas was finished with them. The second employee was Eye-Ore (pronounced “Ee-yore”), an unusually stout Irish man who seemed to have glistening pieces of that legendary lucky loot hidden deep behind his pupils of blue. The contrast between Eye-Ore’s bright eyes and his boorish nature was a strong juxtaposition indeed, but Cessie and Thomas were very fond of him and together the trio was fabulously efficient and happy. Eye-Ore worked on the top floor managing the machinery that mix the pastas and making sure that the paste passed without problems through the shoots and down to Thomas and Cessie who resumed production at ground level.

Here our story must jump for a moment to Mrs. Angela Hoekstra-Steed, an avid Walt Disney fan who was in the middle of a European tour, visiting the cities that had characters named after them. She was exploring the Aristocats legacy in Rochefort, Belgium when she first caught wind of Thomas’ business. There was a poster in one of the cheese houses that read “Tu n’ai jamais vu de telle spaghetti dan ta vie!” Although she couldn’t read the French, she understood “spaghetti” well enough and based on the odd little statue in the photograph, Angela assumed that the company was some sort of dinner-and-art-show, which is more accurate than you realize. Toulouse was already on her list of places to stop and with her Belgian adventure wrapping up like a Babybel, Angela grabbed her Eurorail pass and headed south.

Before his adventures in the noodle industry Thomas had been a professional (and struggling) artist. Though his sculptures were indeed beautiful, not many in Toulouse were interested in sculptures of stone or ice. In a stroke of genius he decided to combine his two life-long passions: portrayals and pastas. It was this idea that sparked his entrepreneurial adventure into the world of linguine and penne.

At eleven minutes after eleven o’clock, exactly a week and four days after it’s opening, Angela joined the line of customers in front of Thomas’ store. As the cue moved slowly towards the door Angela began to smell all of the flavours that were pouring out from the shop. You could almost smell the colours of the pastas that were being made inside: green wafts of fresh spinach and deep purples of blackberry filled Angela’s hungry lungs. When she finally squeezed herself inside the tightly packed waiting area, however, she almost forgot her cravings out of sheer amazement. Behind the barrier of the large, mahogany desk stood a young girl with a very long name-tag. She was whirling around with first money then ribbon then long sheets of paper in her hands, quickly wrapping and cha-ching-ing the cash register. Over her shoulder Angela could see Thomas dancing around a tall pedestal-like table with two long shoots in his hand. One moment he was looking to a posted note and carefully taking in the details of an order then he was weaving and folding and shaping the flow of pasta and in the next second he was standing there with a blow-dryer, setting his masterpiece and then handing it over to Cessie who took a photo of it, wrapped and packaged and then sold it to the person who had done the requesting. It was like watching a beautiful clockwork machine whose revealed dials and tinplates and springs are just as fascinating and entrancing as the intricate carvings on its face.

“What can we make you today?” asked the girl with the impossibly long name. Angela had not been paying attention to the shrinking line in front of her. “Well,” she thought aloud, “what are my options?” Cessie smiled broadly – the same smile she offered to every customer – a smile that never seemed to tire in energy or generosity or genuine joy. “There is no limit to the answers I could give you to that question. Thomas’ creations are as different from each other as God’s snowflakes. Reach into your imagination – test your creativity. Really, the sky is the limit!” Angela closed her eyes to think, knowing that there was an unspoken time limit to how long she would be left to search out an idea. “Can… can I have a duckling?”

With a grin Cessie typed “baby ducky” into the register and printed out a receipt on carbon paper. One copy she slid to the end of the desk and the other she tacked up on the wall beside the elevator for Thomas. The slip above hers read “pirate ship” and to her ever-increasing astonishment she looked over to the workspace where Thomas was working on the finishing touches to a perfect model of the Black Pearl, complete with the Jolly Roger and a sour-patch Jack Sparrow. Angela was in awe.

As Cessie took the picture and then walked back to the desk with the edible replica, Thomas took a look at his new order. Looking up at Angela with a smile he reached up to the shoots and took one in each hand – the yellow butter and the orange caramel – and set to work. In a flash he was swooping and pinching, flicking and pulling and wrapping the soft pasta into the perfect shape of a duckling. Thomas guided the noodle in such a way that the little bird’s wings looked tuft with down; its bright orange bill and black dropie eyes creaded the cutest face she had ever seen – the perfect balance of an anthropomorphic smile and a soft, almost plush-like docility. Sooner that she could have believed he was drying it to set the pasta in place and Cessie was wrapping it in thin rice paper, trying it with a liquorice lace that matched the little ducky’s salty eyes. As Angela counted out the coins to pay for her “dinner” and Cessie took her receipt off the wall she noticed with alarm that the form under her “baby ducky” request had only one word written on it: dynamite.

A chill ran down Angela’s back as she handed her money to Cessie. The girl behind the counter was similarly affected and her eyes flicked uncertainly between the cash in her hand and the stranger waiting for his order to be filled. If Thomas had been an entirely sensible sort of man this order would not have concerned anyone (explosive-shaped pasta was a normal enough request, considering the rebellious nature of the French), but Thomas was not an entirely sensible sort of man. Thomas was the kind of person who built a forty foot tall tower with a thirteen foot base. Thomas was the kind of person who put a three-cornered hat on a sour-patch-kid for the sake of authenticity. Thomas was the living definition of eccentric, and Cessie knew it.

When the artistic chef had finished with the duckling and was ready for another challenge, he walked over to the elevator and took a look at the next request in line. Then he took another look. It did, in fact, read “dynamite” and after a moment of processing the paper Thomas calmly washed his hands in the sink, dried them on a towel, walked over to the elevator and pressed the up arrow firmly. Cessie had stopped counting change and Angela had stopped waiting for it back. Both of them – all of them – were staring at Thomas. The doors swooshed open and Thomas stepped inside. When those doors swooshed closed again he left the lobby behind and in a swoosh that startled poor Eye-Ore half to death he appeared in the laboratory holding a small red vial containing a few drops of mysterious red liquid.

“Eye-Ore, I need you to mix this into a special order batch. Be very careful not to touch it. Do you understand? Take the greatest caution. Send it down the third tube.”

The chatter in the lobby died down as soon as the elevator returned to the bottom floor and Thomas came out. He looked at the man in line and locked his gaze. “You want dynamite? I’ll give you dynamite.”

Thomas walked over to his table and took the third blank shoot in his left hand. With his right he grabbed a lazy-susan from under his desk and placed it on the pedestal table. With his teeth he picked up a pair of surgical gloves that had been hanging up on the wall, tossed them up into the air and in a move that is too incredible to describe in detail he slipped them on without even releasing the nozzle. With the tap of a toggle the shoot in Thomas’ hand started to squirt out bright red fizzing pasta. Cessie shot Angela a quick look and both of them glanced towards the young man in line. “I guess I should have asked for a basketball, oui?”

The lazy-susan on the table spun faster and faster as Thomas poured the pasta onto the platter like a potter working with clay. In a moment he had created a dozen cylindrical tubes that varied in size and length. The whole room smelled of sizzling cinnamon and the small lobby was packed with three layers of curious and slightly concerned customers. All were silent. All were waiting.

Thomas reached up above his head and pulled down the yellow and orange and green and purple and blue tubes so fast you could hardly keep up with the waving of his warms and the darting precision of his perfectly coordinated hands. He added lightning bolts and swirls, arrows and polka-dots and flowers so real you could smell them and indeed you could smell them – the whole building smelled of cod-flavoured blackberries, caramelized spinach, strawberries with butter and pickles and scrambled egg all swirled together in a sensory pandemonium overtop a thick cinnamon base that seemed to be growing brighter and brighter every second!

After three moments of chaos Thomas stepped back from his creations. With a shaky hand he took the cork out of a small red vial, identical to the one he had given Eye-Ore only moments earlier with the exception that this vile vial was full. A drop of the liquid fell from the cork to the floor and POPPED against the tile. This was no ordinary food colouring.

Thomas dipped the spaghetti fuses into the vial of liquid. He repeated this process thrice and on the third round he took his hairdryer and set them dry. His audience held their breaths in tense anticipation.

Angela noticed it first but there was not much she could do. Thomas had changed the design of his dynamite sticks and had managed to clock the alteration from almost everyone in the store. He had added cones to the end of each stick. Directional cones. Aerodynamic cones. Her heart nearly stopped. This was no ordinary pasta dynamite. These were rockets and they were already lit. Angela cried out!

“Aoib… Aoibheeee… Aoibheann-Rani-Gim… Girl behind the counter! This place is going to BLOW!”

Cessie gasped but there was no time to do anything else. Thomas, with a wild spark in his eye and a cackle in his throat emptied the remaining contents of his vial onto the pile of explosives and tore open a bag of Pop-Rocks. The customers who were close enough took cover under the large wooden desk and everyone else piled on top of them and plugged their ears, waiting for the bang.

BANG!

The whole building jumped. Eye-Ore, who had no idea what was happening below, was catapulted from his cushy office chair through the roof and into the next lot (which just happened to be a public swimming pool that was experimenting with Jell-o pudding as an alternative to the traditional water, so the impact didn’t kill him). Inside Thomas’ store was a different story. Cessie, Angela and about half of the waiting customers had their eyebrows singed off but not one of them even complained.

The explosion was the most beautiful sight any of them had ever tasted. By some kind of culinary miracle the spaghetti had cooked to perfection. It was inexplicable and wonderful; a truly sensational phenomenon.

Angela’s hair was filled with pasta but she couldn’t have been happier even if she had actually found Toulouse in Toulouse. It was the perfect finale to her European adventure, and perhaps the beginning of a career in travel writing. When her initial shock dissolved, a sort of wonderment overwhelmed her heart and her senses. She stood up, looked the now bald and beaming Thomas in the eye and began to clap. Soon the entire store broke into applause, giving Thomas a standing ovation and the celebration that began on that day has yet to temper in France. Thomas is a celebrated hero even in local circles as the crazy man with a crazy dream and the courage to take risks to make it happen. He was awarded the Golden Fusilli (the highest honour for Italian cuisine) after only one year in business, which is an unheard of success.

But what was in the vial, you ask? I’m afraid that has become a carefully guarded trade secret. Some say it is an edible nitro-glycerine kept in a vault on the second floor of Thomas’ renowned forty-foot shop, but not even Cessie and Eye-Ore are entirely convinced of that theory. Perhaps it will remain a true secret forever.

Growing Up

2010-03-08T16:38:00.002-05:00

His shoelace was dragging on the ground behind him as he trudged up the stairs on his way home from school. "Hey, little man! What did you learn today?"

His Mum smiled down with her warm, steady smile and held her arms open to the little boy in front of her. His mouth was turned down and his eyes were diverted and sad. "Honey, what's wrong?"

"Franklin died today. At recess."

His mother let all of the air out of her body with a long, reflective sigh. She closed her eyes and breathed a silent prayer for her son's little heart. Franklin was a chickadee that the kindergarten class had adopted after an intermediate student found it with a wounded leg, back in the spring. This was the first time that her boy had to face the loss of a life. Slowly she knelt down in front of her son, until they were eye-to-eye. She took the book-bag from his back and set it aside. "How do you feel?"

The little boy dropped his gaze as his lips began to quiver. "Oh, baby. My little man. Come here." She pulled him into a hug, wrapping her love around his five-year-old frame. He accepted and returned the embrace but he did not cry. He was already learning to balance compassion with bravery. Every day she was blown away and humbled by her beautiful man-child.

She leaned back and put a hand on his shoulder. "Mum," he said after drawing in a shaky breath, "do you think Franklin is in heaven?"

Oh the thoughts he could think. She smiled. "Let's find out what Jesus says."

She stood up and walked into the living room, reaching for her big leather Bible and his red-bound children's version and they sat together on the floor in the middle of their thick braided rug - as they always did with questions.

"Let's start at the beginning." Together they flipped to Genesis 1:1, as they so often began their family Bible studies. She read aloud from the first verse until she came to the fifth day, where she paused and pointed to his Bible, lying open on the floor. "Day five. Ready for this?" She read from hers first and then moved to his version, reading slowly and pointing to each word as she went. "'On the fifth day God made creatures to fill up the new oceans and the new skies. He invented all kinds of fish, great big ones and littler ones, and he designed every kind of bird. Then He told them to fill up the world with more swimming and flying animals like them. God blessed his creations and saw that they were good.'" Her son looked up expectantly. "Well," she said, "What do we know about birds from these verses?" She could see the wheels turning in this mind as he thought over the question. "God made birds..." he started, "so... God made Franklin?" She smiled. "He sure did, baby. Let's read another part."

The next passage was already in her mind and although she knew how to find it, she flipped to the back of her Bible and scrolled through the simple concordance under the word bird, teaching with every moment she had. "Ah ha," she said. "Matthew, chapter six. I thought so, but I wanted to double check." She gave him a wink and he blinked back. Again she read the passage from her Bible and then switched to his. "'Take a look at the birds - they do not work hard to plant or harvest from the earth, but your Heavenly Father feeds them. And you are much more important to God than birds are.' This part of the Bible is talking about people who worry and stress out about parts of their lives that they should just trust to God, but it also tells us about birds." She read the verse again. "Not only did God make the birds, but he also takes care of them and feeds them." Her boy looked hurt. "But Franklin died, Mum." "I know baby. Keep going, we'll find His answer."

This was about more than a dead chickadee. This was about all death - the why, the why now, the what after. She needed to take her time with this and explain it right. And bring it back to Jesus. Bring this back to you, Lord, she prayed, guide me through guiding him through.

They flipped to a few more bird passages, talking about the bird that signalled the end of the flood to Noah, and the ravens that God sent to save the Israelites from starving. They looked into all four gospels and noticed that the Spirit of God came on Jesus like a dove, and they read about how God often asked for birds to be part of the people’s worship services and sacrifices – that He favoured them, even over really big animals, because they were considered pure and innocent. “God definitely likes birds,” his Mum concluded. “He created them and He talks about them a lot! But that doesn’t really answer our question, does it?” The little boy shook his head, but not sadly. He had forgotten most of his sadness with the excitement of learning more and digging in to a challenge, very much a trait of his father, but he was not yet satisfied.

“I have a question for you now,” she smiled, a little wryly. “A bit of a test from Sunday school and from all the other times we have sat down. What does the word sin mean?” The little boy laughed his airy, melodic laugh. “Mum! That’s easy!” It wasn’t easy for everyone to define something like sin, but he had been taught these things from the cradle, so in an almost jesting way he sat up and assumed the position of a teacher with his hands stretched out in front of him to do the actions that went along with the routine explanation. “Sin is anything you say, think or do that breaks God’s laws, and it’s when you don’t do good things that you know you should do.” He was a little smarty-pants, but she loved him for it all the more. “Right on. This one’s tougher: if I wanted to find out about the very first time God told people about the consequences of sin, where would I have to look?” Immediately he flipped back to Genesis chapter two and pointed to the familiar passage. She read from his version.

“The Lord God took the man and put him in the garden in the land of Eden so that he could work the ground and keep everything healthy and in order. Then God said to the man, ‘You can eat any of this fruit – I give everything in the garden to you except for the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. Do not eat from that tree –if you do, you will die.’ But what did they do?” “They stole and ate the fruit.” “Does it matter who told them to?” “Nope. They did it and that’s what counts.” “So what happened?” “They got kicked out – and God said when Eve had a baby it was going to HURT! AHHH!” He grabbed at his belly and screamed in mock labour, falling over and rolling around on the floor. She had a second of flashback to his birth… it was a pretty accurate representation, all things considered. “How do you know what it’s like to have a baby?” she asked. “Dad told me.” Figures. She smiled and pointed back to the book. “There were more consequences, more after-shocks of their disobedience. What was the one that God said right off the bat?” He took her 'serious' cue and settled back down a bit. “He said they would die.”

His Mum took about three minutes to simply explain why God couldn’t put up with human sin and why death had to be the price for the trespass. She ran through key verses in his Bible, many of them already underlined from previous talks. She flipped to Numbers 15 and paraphrased a large section. “The Israelites had one priest who was allowed to go between God an His people. The priest, called the High Priest, made sacrifices for the people for the sins they committed, whether or not their sin was on purpose. Even if only one person sin by accident the sin still had to be paid for with death. When the price that God set out for disobedience right from the beginning was paid, it is called atonement, like at-one-ment, and the people were put back into a perfect relationship with God, with nothing in the way, no sin between them. In the Old Testament, the Hebrew Scriptures, this was a band-aid fix. It only worked until the next time somebody sinned then they had to do the whole thing all over again.” The boy scrunched up his brow. “That’s a whole lot of band-aids.” “You’re right,” she smiled. “And it wasn’t really working for anybody, and God wasn’t satisfied with it either. So he came up with a solution – a master plan.” She drummed her fingers together sneakily. “Do you know what that plan was?” He nodded that he did, but she was on a roll and the whole thing came out anyway. “Jesus came into time and space and history to become the High Priest and the Sacrifice all at the same time. He had a physical body and physical blood, but he also had an eternal spirit – a lifeblood that didn’t have a beginning and doesn’t have an end. When Jesus died he took on the sins of ALL people forever and because he was an eternal sacrifice, and his lifeblood became a replacement for our lifeblood that never had to be renewed. He became a substitute sin offering for the past and the present and our present and the future. No matter when we live in history, all we have to do is claim his blood as our blood – his sacrifice as our atonement (or at-one-ment) sacrifice, and God accepts us as perfect and clean again – at one with His perfect Love, with nothing in between us – with no sin.”

She took a minute to breathe and let what she had just said sink into the air and into both of their hearts. She was always surprised at how much God could teach her through His Word, even in moments of her own explanation. “So, Jesus became our sacrifice, paid for our sins and came between God and His people once and for all. But unlike the animals of the Old Testament, Jesus did not stay dead – not even physically.” She flipped to Hebrews chapter 10 and he followed. She paraphrased: “The laws from the Old Testament told the people to sacrifice animals to atone their sin – but this wasn’t God’s ideal plan – it wasn’t what He really wanted. This passage explains that those sacrifices were only temporary and that Jesus alone was the ultimate, lasting solution – but then it says this part…” She pointed to the eleventh verse in his Bible and read the next three aloud. “The priests in the temple over sacrifices over and over again every day – but they do not remove the sins, and they have become only habits and duties. But this priest (Jesus) offered one sin sacrifice for all time, and then he sat down right beside God, at his right hand. Since that time he waits – he is waiting for his enemies to become his footstool, because by one sacrifice he has made the people who are being made holy perfect forever.”

The conversation had already been a long one at almost 20 minutes and her son was doing very well with only mild fidgeting and wandering gazes but she knew she didn’t have long to keep his attention. Time to get back on track with his agenda.

She flipped to Isaiah 44. “This is a prophesy,” she said, “which means it’s a part of the Bible that was written about something that was going to happen in the future, something revealed by God. This book was written about 700 years before Jesus lived as a man on earth but even though it is so much earlier, it still talks about him and about his work. Listen to verse 22 and 23: ‘I have swept away your crimes like a cloud and your sins like a morning mist. Return to me, for I have redeemed you. Sing for joy oh heavens, for the Lord has done this; shout aloud, O earth beneath! Burst into song, you mountains, you forests and all you trees, for the Lord has redeemed Jacob, and he displays his glory in Israel.’ Did you catch that? Not just people were getting fired up because there was freedom for God’s people… all of creation was getting involved! Even the trees and the forests and the mountains! Guess why?” She started moving fast, flipping pages like crazy, praying wild, silent little prayers all the time. God, I don’t even know how I know this stuff - thank you for highlighting my memory! Thank you for teaching me these lessons before now and for making this all so fresh in my mind!

She flipped to Romans 8 and read from his Bible, from the 19th to the 21st verse. “All of creation is waiting for God’s sons to show up! The whole world was brought under the curse when humans sinned – not by its own choice – but it was cursed only for a time, and now creation itself waits to be liberated in the same freedom from death and destruction that has been given to the children of God!” She was beaming and growing a little louder as her lesson began to reach its climax. She flipped once more into Isaiah, chapter 11. “Listen to the description of heaven that is given as prophesy here: ‘The wolf will live with the lamb, the leopard will lie down with the goat, the calf and the lion and the colt together; and a little child will lead them. The cow will feed with the bear, their young will lie down together, and the lion will eat straw like the ox. The infant will play near the hole of the cobra, and the young child put his hand into the viper's nest. They will neither harm nor destroy on all my holy mountain, for the earth will be full of the knowledge of the LORD as the waters cover the sea.’”

She could barely contain herself, but she slowed her pace for the sake of her son. Working through something like this makes her heart race and it’s hard to temper that kind of passion. “So here’s what the Bible says. God made all animals, birds included, and he loves them and cares for them. Even though creation apart from people has not sinned against God and broken his rules the whole world, maybe the whole universe, has suffered the consequences of human disobedience. For a long time God allowed people to make a temporary atonement with him by using an animal’s blood to replace their own blood, but Jesus came and sacrificed his eternal lifeblood, offering us permanent at-one-ness with the Father and with himself. By doing this, Jesus brings not just the people who choose to love him back into a right relationship with God, but also all of creation is redeemed or atoned for… the whole world, at the end of time, will be at one with God! And how will we know this? The animals! There will be peace among the wild animals and the barn animals – they won’t be fighting with each other or eating each other. There will be perfect harmony between all animals and between animals and people, even children. A viper is a huge, poisonous snake with long, hollow fangs that could stab right through your arm in a second flat! You sure don’t want to mess with one of those right now, but in heaven, when Jesus comes to finally restore peace to this whole planet and to make everything right in his own way, there will be no need to fear anything – not even a viper.”

The little boy’s eyes had grown larger and larger at her description of the snake and it took a few seconds for him to follow through with the rest of her statement. “But there will be animals in heaven?” It wasn’t really a question, so much as clarification, but it was good to know that he’d been able to keep up with her. “Sure sounds like it to me,” she said, closing her Bible for the first time since they had sat down on the floor together. “The Bible doesn’t tell us directly what happens to animals after they die. Animals are different than people – they don’t have the same kind of mind or heart or soul as we do – they can’t choose whether or not to love God and obey him. People and angels are the only two elements of God’s creation that God gave the choice to say yes or no to His Love. But you know what? God is very just and fair. If he has given all creatures an eternal nature – if they go anywhere after they die – I don’t believe he would send them to hell. God doesn’t give us all of the answers to all of our questions – if he did, we wouldn’t need to trust him with anything, would we? But he does answer all the really, really big questions and for the rest of it, he gives us enough information in the Bible to make a good guess at what he might do. This is one of those cases – we don’t really know, but I think we can guess. The animals in heaven just might be the same ones that have lived on earth already… but to be really, very sure we’ll just have to wait and see.”

The front door swung open with a creak and they both turned to watch Dad walk in carrying something that smelled a whole lot like dinner. In a flash the little boy jumped up and ran over to the man, wrapping his little arms around his legs. “Dad! You’ll never guess what we just learned… vipers have hollow fangs and can snap right through your arm like this!” The boy clamped his hands around his Dad’s arm and pretended to bite down but quit a second later in a fit of giggles.

“What have you been teaching our son?” She smiled, and he gave his wife a welcoming kiss. She laughed, “You should have heard him talking about childbirth a little while ago.”

With the smell of chicken floating in from the kitchen and with tears quite dry and the bird almost forgotten the family of three sat down together and prayed over the meal. “God, thank you for being so real and so good. Thank you for your Word and the lessons that you teach us every single day. Help us to Love you with every part of our minds and our hearts and our actions… and our bellies. We praise you for everything you have made and everything you are. We pray together in the name and authority of your son, Jesus. Amen.”

An Ode to the Best

2010-02-25T15:47:00.009-05:00

My best friend is one of my favourite things in all of God's vast creation: the sun is awesome, but one of her hugs can warm just as well; the seas are unthinkably full of life, but a single tear from this girl and I'm overwhelmed and weeping along with her, whether in grief or in joy; though there are many beautiful plants and animals on our planet, nothing makes me smile faster or truer than her smile.

Jaleesa, this is for you.

You are beautiful in heart, mind, soul, spirit, personality, attitude and body. You are not flawless, but you make imperfection attractive. You are a striver, an organized whirlwind, a pursuer of better things, a simplifier of the unnecessarily complicated. You paint beauty onto blanked canvas, you create art with the full knowledge that you can only ever imitate His art. You credit where credit is due and often restore that perspective to my life when we speak. You lift my spirit, you brighten all our lives, you are so strong - but you are not afraid of sharing your weaknesses with those you love and trust. You inspire the writer's block, you clear the clutter of my thoughts, you wrestle out questions that no other would even notice or wonder over - and you do all this even from a distance, even when you are only present in the presence of a memory of you.

You are deeply missed in my life.

When I think back on the things we used to be able to do when life was simpler and the distance between us not so large, I am nearly overcome by such a strong mix of emotions that the only response I can muster is to write it all out. I wish we could go back the photography of our Monday dates, but I wouldn't wish for the experiences we've gone through since to be erased. I wish we could go back to murder mysteries and spinning around with our arms outstretched in the basement of that church that looks so different now, but if we had not moved on from the relative innocence of that time I could not be here, trying wildly at a computer that is too out-in-the-open for this remembering to be as consuming as it usually is, and you could not be wherever you are - with your Love, in the city that holds so much promise and hope for your future, even on days when you feel you should just move in to that sewing lab and have your possessions and meals delivered.

You, my friend, are going places. You are going to be changing this world. I believe that you will find a way to bring your love for Jesus and your heart for stylistically relevant and modest men and women into the fashion world. You will be making a statement to this slave-labour oblivious culture of ours, and you will be able to help people. You will be able to help people that you don't even know.

So, Jay, my best of friends from now until forever and a day, take courage in you. I take courage in you often, far more frequently than the times I take to tell you. You are loved, fiercely, by many, many, many, many, many, many, many people.

Of which I am only one.

And I think God gets three of those credits. And Evan, and your Mom and Dad, and the rest of your innumerable family members, and all of your friends from all walks of life, and my friends who know very little about you except that I love you (and I know that, if you ever meet them, their love would be quick to grow). I'm just reminding you of the truth - there's a lot of Jaleesa focused love going around, and it's my pleasure to bring it to your attention once more.

I love you, my Best. Know that truth today - and smile.
With a prayer,
Nikki

Greater Expectations

2010-02-24T16:56:00.003-05:00

School is piling up.

While walking down the hallway today I saw a poster for time management services - a poor student with a frightening armload of books stacked up so high that his (or her?) entire torso and face were hidden behind his (or her...) homework.

I'm beginning to feel like this unfortunate student.
The problem is that I just don't care.

It's not that I don't value the education that I am receiving while I'm here at university, because I do - I'm even interested in the information that I am collecting in class. It's not that I feel incapable of completing assignments and papers, because I could - I have the skills and the smarts to pull everything together and deliver a strong argument. It's not even that I'm finding the timing of the workload completely overwhelming, even though I do have four projects due in the morning. It's that this work doesn't really matter.

Let me draw you a parallel. In the summertime I run a program for youth completely based on a points system. If one of my kids does something positive (win a game, memorize a verse, lend a hand without being asked), they are rewarded with a point value between 50 and 1000 points. Similarly, if one of the students breaks a rule or is caught in a lie or acts out in physical violence, etc, they face the consequence of losing points - both individually and for their team. It's a system that has been incredibly effective for keeping them focused and in-line by creating a healthy, competitive atmosphere. It works the same way in university. If I write a good paper and present my thoughts clearly and efficiently, I am awarded with a point value somewhere between 70 and 90. If my paper shows off a poor effort and makes it clear that I really couldn't care less about my topic I can expect a score that falls in the range of 40 or 50. But here's the part that I really can't get over in my mind:

Points don't mean anything.

You cannot eat a grade. You can not trade them or spend them or share them. Scores, like points, are in and of themselves completely useless. They are non-valuable. They are nothing - just numbers on paper. Meaningless.

I am having a hard time putting my heart and soul into a system that reaps no physical fruits. Will this paper on Ancient Athenian democracy and the execution of Socrates (assuming that he did indeed exist at all) have a lasting impact on my life? It will not. When I write my Children's Literature essay for tomorrow that explores and compares the significance of large houses in two modern novels, will my entire paradigm of writing youth fiction be rocked into a new reality? It is not very likely.

I am feeling the call once more to a world overseas where the money I borrow is spent on more than attaining invisible, intellectual status. My heart, now more than ever before is being pulled to other places, to the work that my hands could be doing, to the mouths I could feed and the little bodies I could teach and hold and love. I so much want to be freed from the restrictions that are placed on the skills that I have and I want to be released to chase my imagination with a criticless pen and few sheets of paper. I want to tell stories that matter. I want to do things that mean something. I want to change somebody's world, but I don't think I can do that while sitting in a lecture hall. How can I balance the call of greater expectations with the life I must presently live?

I know I am here for a purpose... I just don't think my purpose is going to be here for long.

I Can('t) See It Now

2010-02-14T19:40:00.005-05:00

Close your eyes, relax and tell me about your childhood...

"Picture your favourite childhood memory. Got it?"
Yes. I remember a scene around the campfire at Snow Lake, where several girls are, rather innocently, roasting sunfish alive - but I don't explain the memory yet.
"What do you see?"
Well... I remember the fire and who is present and roughly where we are, the lake, the hunt camp, the outhouse behind us, the trucks... but what do I see?
"Do you see in colour?"
No, not exactly... actually, no, not at all. I don't see anything. I can remember, but I can't see.

Turns out, I am not normal. My mind has been BLOWN.

Did you know that some people can see their memories? They can close their eyes and actually SEE pictures, scenes, faces, views...

If you can do this, I have news for you. In my mind, you are very abnormal and very, very lucky.

I cannot see my memories. I see the black nothingness of the back of my eyelids. No matter how hard I try, I cannot draw up a visual image associated with anyone or anything I have seen with my eyes open. I have always thought I have a very visual mind (the art, the photography, even the creativity in pictures I can "paint" with my words), but now I must question what I really understand as visual.

I'm still tripping about this - you can close your eyes and see?

According to Carolyn (who opened my eyes to this reality, so to speak), both of us are part of the 5% of people who can't recall visually. Though I have visual dreams and Carolyn does not (she describes hers much like a detailed story), both us us "draw a blank" when we consciously try to remember anything no matter how specific. I can describe it, yes, but I just don't see the light!

Ponder, Ponder...

2010-02-11T14:19:00.007-05:00

Some lessons are very quickly learned. For example: music is absolutely EVERYWHERE and I think not all secular media is bad.

I'm in a familiar place. I commit to do something and I quickly discover that "maybe that wasn't such a good idea after all." I think we're allowed to have these moments. I think that it's in these times of consideration and reconsideration that we learn a little more about reality. So, now I'm trying to figure out exactly what I really want to accomplish by a "detox." Here is some of what I'm thinking through... and, considering my audience of friends who are close enough to care about all of the random things my artsy fingers can plunk out and family that is obliged to such attention, I'm looking for feedback if you're willing to offer it because I think I'm not really sure what I think.

I want to be like Jesus. And a lot of the Bible is pretty clear cut about how to accomplish such goals: "Whoever says 'I know him' but does not keep his commandments is a liar, and the truth is not in him, but whoever keeps his word, in him truly the love of God is perfected. By this we may know that we are in him: whoever says he abides in him ought to walk in the same way in which he walked" (1 John 2:4-6). And further along in the same chapter, verses 15-17: "Do not love the world or the things in the world. If anyone loves the world, the love of the Father is not in him. For all that is in the world — the desires of the flesh and the desires of the eyes and pride in possessions — is not from the Father but is from the world. And the world is passing away along with its desires, but whoever does the will of God abides forever."

I'm at a loss, guys. How do I balance this? I need some insights.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I've already sought some of this advice. I've been challenged to keep my one-month commitment, if only for the purpose that I have said that I would. It was a decision quickly made, but every commitment deserves completion (and it will re-teach me the lesson to really think through these commitments before I decide to express them). Am I going to stick my fingers in my ears and yell "LALALALA I'M NOT LISTENING" when someone else is playing their music? No. But I'm going to clean out my iPod (...when I find it...) and I'm going to skip out on movie nights for the next few weeks. Excellent timing, what with reading break and home only a few hours away, but I'm going to stick with it.

Do you think I'm wrong? Do you think I'm right?
Either way I welcome advice and commentary.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Well I've been challenged yet again, and it's just confirming my conviction. If you use iTunes, look up Pastor Tim Lucas and his series on Porn. Then we can talk about our culture and our minds.

Filter the Incoming

2010-02-09T11:09:00.007-05:00

I'm sure you've had one of those moments... the kind when you know you're getting a talking to. Sometimes the person doing the talking doesn't really know that they're speaking such a direct and sharp word into your life, but you know it and once the fact is realized there is no escaping the conviction that grips your heart in the hearing.

On Sunday morning my pastor was preaching at me - right between the eyes. I've had this experience before, especially with pastors, where their message is so applicable that it's not even funny. It's like God sat him down and they went over exactly what I needed to hear and then together they delivered the blow.

Usually my pride takes a hit in such heavenly ambushes. I am a terribly proud woman - of my skills, of my thoughts and sometimes of my actions - and the vast majority of the right-at-me lessons I take in from church follow this simple yet poignant pattern: "Hey girl. You need to step back and remember who you are and who I AM. You are a girl, a small, weak, limited little thing. You are no better than that person or that person. Child, I am God. Now, I love you, but you had better check that attitude of yours mighty quick or there's gonna be trouble." (In my mind, God has the voice and vocabulary of a black man, rumbling and deep, like that of James Earl Jones, right to the point, no side stepping the matter at hand, just laying it all out in the open in a gentle, friendly sort of way.) That's my Father for you - and so I respond, bite my tongue, say I'm sorry and temper my ego. But today's lesson was not about pride. Today was about the filter... or lack there of.

Allow me to briefly summarize and paraphrase part of Pastor Tim's lesson: "Consider airport security. Why do they check you on the way in? You go through metal detectors and x-ray machines, they root through your luggage, they give you "the look" and you run the gauntlet of precautionary measures. If there's a threat, it's met on the way into the plane and immediately eliminated, blocked out, guarded against. But when you get off the plane, you're free to go - you can walk right into a giant crowd of people and disappear without so much as a once-over. There is no check-out checking. Why? Well, the answer is, perhaps, obvious: by the time you're on the plane, it's too late to check for problems and threats. By the time you get off, the damage you could have inflicted to the passengers of the plane would already be done and so there is no need to re-scan and re-secure the exiting passengers. Whatever has gone into the plane has come off again, and as long as the security was tight upon entrance then you don't need to worry about what comes out again - it is clean, bomb-free, secure, good. And it's the same thing with the heart."

So, the old adage of "garbage in, garbage out" proves true even in the practical circumstances of life. Jesus says it this way: "The good man brings good things out of the good stored up in his heart, and the evil man brings evil things out of the evil stored up in his heart. For out of the overflow of his heart his mouth speaks" (Luke 6:45). Your heart (mind and emotion) feeds your action. How healthy is your heart?

I thought my heart was healthy, but God has shown me otherwise.

I think I can compare my metaphorical heart to the physical heart of an athlete who trains regularly and eats well and does much to care for himself, but also has a drinking problem. The athlete looks really good until you discover his one weakness and when you get an eye-full of that, you start to realize just how much it affects the rest of his lives. My parallel runner is healthy... except for his booze. I am healthy too... except for my lust: mental, sexual and emotional.

Feel free to take a moment and knock down that pedestal you've put me atop. I am not the spiritually righteous person you have believed me to be. And please don't excuse my behaviour and my failure because I will tell you openly that much of my sin has been absolutely, deliberately defiant. I have seen the escape from temptation that God promised and I have slammed the door in his face so many times. I have given the devil a hold in my life that I very much want to shake him from and part of that process starts with confession... even if it's the awkward blog kind.

Let's jump back to the airport imagery. What I've been doing in my life is scanning the exit. I carefully control every thought that leaves my mind, every action that is performed, every word that escapes my lips and when I find something that I know shouldn't get out I thrown it back onto the plane by the collar... where it does who-knows-what to the other thoughts, potential actions and yet unspoken words that are waiting to get out and do some good. On the entrance side of things I'm pretty welcoming to all sorts and kinds of input. Without questioning I let in the good stuff - the Bible lessons, the sermons, the love, the friendships, the prayer, the school (sometimes), but with them I'm also saving seats for their opposites: the supersexual music videos, the violent television shows, the angry music, the cursing, the perversion of our culture... all of those things that I hypocritically criticize and then secretly indulge in, the things that are slowly poisoning the clean thoughts and the pure ideas and the godly influences of my life. It seems inescapable and easily justifiable, but is it really? Is sex so unavoidable? Is it truly impossible to block it out?

I don't think so. I think it is going to be stinking hard to fix my filtering system and it might take some very dramatic measures to move my security guards back to the in-cues without letting the filth I've been collecting in my heart and my mind to get off the plane. I have this mental image of my burly body-guards pushing their way between the seats, dragging the crap with them as they go while giving the good thoughts a brush-off and a straighten-up. Then my guards will chuck the slimy, lusty, disgusting and shameful memories out of my heart, over the barricades and back to the cue on the outside of the airport. It doesn't mean they will go away... but it might give me the time I need to get my feet under me again, to re-organize my filtering systems and to mop up the plane, as it were. Unfortunately I do not have microscopic security guards who are going to do this for me... it's just me in my mind and so the plan has to be something I can do on my own.

I am going to fast Secular Media.

I don't know if this is going to work, but I think it's worth a try. With the exception of anything directly assigned for a class, I am locking out all television, all explorations of YouTube and all music that does not honour and glorify Jesus. Sadly, this will include girly, "harmless" pop. More sadly, this includes country.

I don't know how long I need to detox my spirit. I'm going to start with a month and see how I feel and how I think after that. Maybe this needs to be permanent, I don't know, but I do know that I need some pretty dramatic change in my life and this is step one for me.

What is step one for you? What are you letting sit on the plane that should be locked out of the port? You don't have to expose your heart to the world and confess your vice in the open, but open your eyes to your own downfalls. Acknowledge your weaknesses and stop giving in to them. Choose to fight. Choose to guard. Choose to filter the incoming.

Loser Has To

2010-02-08T19:06:00.001-05:00

Have you ever experienced a memory so wonderfully clear that you can close your eyes and re-live not only the visual mapping of whatever moment in time your mind has flashed back to, but but also the physical, spacial sensations? For one blissful, joyful, overwhelmingly nostalgic moment I was standing on the side of a mountain in the late evening with a group of close and crazy friends and witnessing a game of loser has to.

I've been thinking a lot about Costa Rica lately, but my memories are not usually as strong or as lasting as this one a few moments ago. I could feel a temperature difference, a change of lighting, the smells of lemon and jungle and life, the flickering of fireflies up the road towards the cattle and that very unusual chicken farm. This memory started on Facebook with a video of the actual race: Melissa and Frankie facing off in a very bold challenge of eating half a wild lemon each. First to complete got the bragging rights and the loser had to jump in the pool (fully clothed, of course), even though we should have been on our way to bed - and it was pretty chilly, at least compared to the daytime blazes. The video lasted just over a minute, but even now as I write a bit of this out I'm there in my heart - the hills, the beaches, the creatures, the people, even the lemons! There is something about that time in my life that I will never be able to forget or part from however many years I am removed from such adventures. One day I will go back there and walk Campamento Roblealto's tropical trails again. I will be braver upon my return; I have grown so much, learned so much, become so much more. The past three years have been incredible in many ways and because of many, many people - but it all started there, in Costa, in Boundless. My faith is rooted there. My heart is rooted there.

Oh, the Weather Outside...

2010-01-27T12:11:00.001-05:00

Winter itself has been acting a little bipolar this year, and so is it any surprise that my moods have daily been following suit? This morning was bright and clear as I woke up with a comfortable kind of stretch and a snuggle back to sleep like a cat in the sun. By the time I opened my eyes again (at 8:00 for my 8:30 class) I was in a bit of a flurry to prepare and (thanking God for my chipper cabby) the wind picked up the snow and blew me right to my seat with a minute to spare. An hour later I was lost in the world of heavy flakes and white skies as the wonderland beyond my desk told me stories of wintry walks in a Narnian kind of place. The parking lot has never seemed so adventurous. Now as I sit indoors, en route to class in a moment or two, I stare out at my peers as they frolic in the fresh fallen flakes with a blended felling of melancholy, envy and contentment that is quite suited to the huge, soppy clumps of snow that are blanketing my northern world. The weather changes quickly – as fast as life itself – and keeping pace can be a difficult thing, even in the simplest of ways.

B. Ball Academy

2010-01-26T14:00:00.000-05:00

Rick, Sam and Alex were three-way best friends and the three best players on their school’s basketball team. Successful sports had been the school’s pride and joy for the past three years and unfortunately for the rest of the school, the athletic program was really the only thing that the school ever put any money into. Before long, the school had an amazing gymnasium, brand new uniforms, a wonderful basketball team and a building full of classrooms that were totally falling apart. After a while the board shut down their school and all of the kids had to find new places to study. Big schools from the city came and collected students for enrolment, and one of these schools was the B. Ball Academy for Boys.

Sir Benjamin Ball, the man that the school was named after, was a huge fan of basketball. Down every hallway of his school there were gigantic trophy cases filled to the brim with all kinds of metals and pictures and awards. Mr. Nezz, the basketball team coach at B. Ball Academy, was always looking for more players to help him win. He had the best basketball team in the whole province and he hadn’t lost a single game all season. As soon as he heard about a school closing its doors, he made sure he was right in the middle of the chaos to scoop up all of the really great players.

Rick, Sam and Alex were at the very top of Mr. Nezz’s list. Before they even realized what was going on they were suited up in the Academy uniforms at their first practice. “Welcome to the team, boys!” said Mr. Nezz as everyone got together before their work began. “As many of you know, this year we are finally in the running for national championships! And this is what we are going to be working for...”

Mr. Nezz unrolled a giant poster of the national championship trophy. It was a huge, shiny, golden masterpiece of metal. “Okay boys, here’s what we’re going to do. Ten minutes before every game we play this season, I’m going to start this CD and for the first three songs we are going to sit in front of this poster and visualize.”

Mr. Nezz explained that visualizing meant that they were going to picture themselves winning the final game and holding this trophy above their heads. Then they were supposed to think hard about how much the trophy meant to each person and to the team as a whole. After the third song was over they would get up and chant “Champions! Champions! Champions!” until the game began.

“Anyone who does not do this as part of the team I will assume does not want to part of the team at all. I won’t kick you off, however you won’t be allowed to play for the rest of the season. Instead, you will become a waterboy and equipment manager, in charge of doing the laundry and washing the change rooms. Make your choice and make it quickly. Our first game starts tomorrow morning.”

The next day the team gathered together in the locker room. The poster of the trophy had been framed and put up on the wall above the drinking fountain. The whole team sat in a circle and ten minutes before the game began, Mr. Nezz started his music. The team closed their eyes and started to visualize.

Rick, Sam and Alex did not shut their eyes or bow their heads in visualization. Instead, they stood up and walked over to Mr. Nezz who was mumbling “championship” under his breath. Alex tapped him on the shoulder. “Umm, sir? We really don’t want to do this... it’s... wrong. Can we please leave?”

Mr. Nezz looked frustrated. “Are you sick? Are you going to throw up?” Rick shook his head. “No, sir. We just think it’s wrong to focus on the trophy like this. We don’t want to visualize. We just want to play basketball.” Rick and Sam nodded.

Mr. Nezz stood up and cleared his throat. Everyone looked up from their visualization. “Well boys, looks like we found ourselves a couple of waterboys already! Let’s get these kids to work!” Two of the older kids got up and grabbed Alex under the armpits and lifted him up off the ground. A few other boys came and picked up Sam and Rick the same way. Then the bigger players carried Rick, Sam and Alex through the locker room and into the change rooms where the laundry was kept. Rick, Sam and Alex were thrown into the bins along with the dirty uniforms and smelly gym socks.

“Have fun cleaning, boys!” Mr. Nezz and the rest of the team walked out to the gymnasium to play the game. All that could be heard was the chanting of “Champions! Champions!” as the door to the change rooms swung closed.

Rick, Sam and Alex climbed out of the laundry hamper. They looked around the room, expecting to see a huge mess but instead they saw sparkling floors and tidy equipment. They looked back in the laundry hamper they had just climbed out of. The laundry was mysteriously clean and folded. They looked towards the door that the team had just walked out of. There, leaning against the wall with a mop in hand was a kid in a strange uniform.

“Enjoy your night, boys! I'm pretty proud of you for standing up for yourselves and for what you believe in. Well done.” At that moment the door opened and Mr. Nezz came back in. He was reaching out for his whistle when he froze and stared at the floor. It was all... sparkly. His jaw dropped as he looked around the room and then up into the faces of Rick, Sam, Alex and the mysterious new kid. He blinked hard and gave his head a bit of a shake. When he opened his eyes again, the fourth kid was gone. “What just happened here?!”

“That kid...” Rick was having a hard time making sense of it himself. “He just... did everything so fast and he saved us like... hours and hours of work! Then he just... disappeared!”

Mr. Nezz was in shock. “Wow, I... don’t know... I mean, that kid! ...You know? Okay, boys. I don’t know what just happened, but if you can clean this fast you must be like Speedy Gonzalez on the court! You’re back on the team for sure. And no more of this crazy visualization stuff anymore. Clearly you don’t need it! It’s probably not a great idea anyway. Maybe it’s even wrong. I’m sorry I tried to force you. Will you come and play now?”

Rick, Sam and Alex played an amazing game that night and Sam was even made captain a few weeks later. The coach made sure they never had to visualize anything about that trophy ever again... and they still won the championship!

Classics Notes...

2010-01-25T18:10:00.001-05:00

I'm sure this is bad form but I'm not sure what else to do. Until this evening I've had no complaints about my lovely new MacBook - but now, as I sit in my lecture hall with naught but this computer, I'm at a loss - I do not have my notebook which I didn't expect to be a problem, but surprise! It really is. Why? I have a Mac... and Macs do not have Word.

So, here I am with Internet but without Word and so I'm going to take my notes here, for the world to see. Welcome to CLAS 2146 and forty-five minutes in the academic life of yours truly.

Kypselid Policy

Many tyrants in Ancient Greece funded one of four major, acknowledged Games (i.e. the Olympic Games) to show off and increase their own reputation. They favoured the lower classes over the aristocracy (gain control over and support of the majority of the population) and established their rule by extensive, violent military power.

In Corinth, Kypselos (a tyrant) exiled the Corinthians and those he did not banish he castrated (a generation of eunuchs ends their population). When he finished his rule, his son took over and for a time was not so violent but he ended up being even worse, killing any suspicious or outstanding and potentially threatening people under his control. Together they ruled for about 70 years.

Corinth became a very, very important cultural and economic centre under the Kypselid Dynasty. Why did it end? Basically Periander (the son) ticked off enough of his enemies that they banded together, expelled him and took over, establishing an oligarchy (aristocratic rule).

Tyranny of Sicyon

Reminder: history is sketchy in the archaic period because we don't have any recorded evidence until nearly 200 years later... It's a lot of interpretation and guess work which is what makes it difficult to trust what I'm learning, or personally invest my mind here.

Sicyon was a victor at the Games and expanded them while he was in rule... he replaced the flute-singing competition and added the chariot race. Attaboy, get those horses going and ditch the arts... a macho move, but an effective one for raising his popularity scores.

Polyrates/Samos Tyranny

535 BC(E) power is taken over by three brothers (until Polyrates kills one brother and exiles the other) and the island is set up as a military naval power. He sets up political ties with the king of Egypt and gets building and expanding (plundered and captured a whole load of people - a pirate king of the Mediterranean... and captures the Lesbians?).

Built a huge tunnel/aqueduct on the island (900 feet under a mountain?!) which still survives.

Death of: he was crucified with his men by Magnesia and the Persians free the people (disposed of the leaders) and then take over.

Gela on Sicily

505 BC(E) mercenaries (lead by Cleander) from the outside take over and rule until he was assassinated in 498 and is followed up by his brother (Hyppokrates) who rules in his stead and tries to expand (where he is killed trying to conquer another city). When the city finds out their tyrant is dead, chaos is temoratily restored until Gelon takes over and establishes his tyranny until 478 BC(E).

Gosh this shrinking BC-AD timeline is confusing. And my prof is moving SO fast!!

Herodotus: "Gelon pretends to protect his son but then he basically turned on everyone and took over. When a tyranny is established the polis (city) begins to flourish... but the people are not fond of him and it's a mutual distaste."

Gelon: "You're a jerk, men of Hellas, and I can't trust you. You're asking me to help but last time I helped you you bailed on me hardcore. But I'm better than you and I will help - I will send you men and provisions... but you have to let me be the ruler of everything." (They said "Thanks but no thanks.")

Question to the class: "Is there something about the surviving accounts of Greek Tyrants that causes you to be cautious?" Potential biases of their sources: there are huge gaps (roughly 200 years) between the actual event and the records. They are very similar in pattern and so it is very mythologized: a prophesy of the oracle, come to power with good intentions, suffer from hubris (arrogant pride), they are corrupted and they fall and order is restored by another power.

Tyranny leads to irresponsible abuse of power? Can't be assumed but there sure are a lot of examples. However, "if anybody goes against the demos (people) he is to be overthrown immediately by the boule (judges?) and the tyrant and his decendants are to be stripped of all rights forever," at least in Athens.

The Balanced Perspective

Tyranny is very close to democracy - popular of the common people and takes them into account. Brings a more even distribution of wealth, relieve debt and make improvements to the economy. "You harm your enemies and help your friends."

Euergetism (structural growth of the city, etc) and tyranny go hand in hand... To come? Sparta! Class over! Run away!

Well, I hope you've enjoyed dipping your toes into Ancient Greece. I've learned that it is unspeakably difficult to take notes on the computer and pay attention to the visual stimuli in my lecture. I can't type without my hunt-and-peck when under the pressure of keeping up with someone else's thoughts... so, next class I will be back to my good old pen and pad.

Soon I will write a note worth reading. Until then, I leave you with this one little-known-fact that I picked up in my biblical studies today. When locusts swarm there are as many as 40 million to 80 million locusts in one square kilometre! Makes you think twice about the eighth plague, eh? Not fun for Egypt. Not fun at all.

Lies and Love

2010-01-20T10:46:00.001-05:00

My smile is a lie today. Can you tell? I'm not trying to hide it but neither am I broadcasting my soul to the world. If you are looking you will see it but if you choose to pass by once again with a hollow and meaningless "Hey, how's it going," then you will, once again, miss the opportunity to hear my heart and numb my pain.

I woke up ugly today. My mirror was vicious and relentlessly cruel - but I could not cover her mocking face and piercing words. Neither could I please her, though I tried. All of my eye-lining, blushing, curling, straightening and glossing was of no use. My dressing, undressing, redressing, redressing, redressing... nothing could satisfy, nothing could temper. I left the house nearly two hours late and with a very heavy heart. But could you see this?

Even now as I look around at the women in my life - other women sitting at computers so much like this one, other women with smiling faces and bright eyes - I am in a war - a civil war - between my mind and my heart. Ugly, worthless, stupid, lazy, immature, too young, too old, aimless, wandering, free-loading, idle, depressed and depressing to others, loveless, naive, dirty... Truth is trying to fight back but it is struggling to gain ground today. Truth needs reinforcements. Truth needs physical help. But here I sit, avoiding eye contact with my friends, typing silently, hoping against hope that someone will break through the walls I am building and rescue me... which is, I suppose, the purpose of Truth itself.

It seems so unusual that emotion can entirely dominate over what we know. Feelings are overwhelming and disarming, which explains the insufficiency of self-thought and self-affirmation. On good days I can tell myself I am beautiful. On good days I can quote God's love by memory and apply those passages in a practical way... but this is not a good day. This is a bad day and I need to hear those words and feel that love from an external source. But, can you see that? Can you do that?

I think you might be surprised how frequently I battle through days like this. I am incredibly melancholy so much of the time despite my apparent glee and shine but few can recognize the warning signs of such deep, internal shadow. Today I'm counting on those special, loved few to pull me aside and let me cry, to tell me I'm beautiful and smart and to give me a hug from the heart of God Himself. I know He loves me - I know I am loved - but today, knowing is not enough.

Yes Click, No Click

2010-01-20T02:51:00.002-05:00

There are many clicks to be clicked in this world, but as with everything the simple fact that you are able doesn’t mean that you should. The click is a very serious thing; it is irreversible as you cannot, however much you might want to, unclick something. Because of this (perhaps obvious) reality, I am taking it upon myself to educate, warn, guide and direct your clicks so that you may discover the wonders and avoid the perils of this oh-so-clickable planet.

The CAMERA: If you’re set up for a photo-shoot with four modest-meets-beautiful-meets-gothic-clown-meets-backcombing-meets-sugar clad young women, I encourage you to YES, CLICK. The opportunity for such joyful fun comes but once in a blue moon and unfortunately less and less frequently as girls grow up up and away – so take advantage of such moments and do all that you can to capture them in time and photography. If, however, you find yourself in a particularly awkward or compromising situation whether for yourself or another, NO CLICK I tell you! Don’t do something you’ll regret. Save face the honest way and close that shutter.

The LINK: These newly invented digital punctuation marks are absolutely brilliant – please feel free to YES, CLICK here for a cool Pomplamoose song (quickly becoming one of my favourite bands), or here to download a free audiobook of nearly any genre, or here to learn a new guitar chord or even here which will just be a mystery unless you try it. But I stretch out my bright yellow reflective caution tape because not all links are good! For example, most of the links that have been showing up in the comment sections on this blog are NO CLICK links! (GAH! I am not popular enough to have to deal with spam!) So, how can you tell if a comment is author-approved? I’ll go on record with my criterion: ads for dieting and weight loss are spam and you are super beautiful, links in Chinese or other character-based languages are spam and I’m almost sure if I could understand what such posts say I would be either embarrassed or offended, and finally links that have anything to do with sex are spam. Sex is for married people, not for bloggin’ so NO CLICKin’ either... but if you want to hit the link below called “comment” and say something encouraging or profound from time to time that would be maahhhvelous and might help to emotionally balance out the spam. Just saying.

The REMOTE: When the television is doing something you don’t want it to be doing (for example, any one of the carbon-copy CSI episodes) then absolutely, YES CLICK to something more interesting even of the same general genre (for example, Castles). The only time you should NO CLICK the remote when there is something less than educational or entertaining on the screen is if someone who you respect and/or is bigger and/or stronger than you has chosen to view it. In such an event I suggest you find something else to do with you time – like find a book or brush your teeth or bake some cookies. (If you do the latter please save me one.)

The RETRACTABLE PEN: I need to be very clear with this one, especially as it is my last: NO CLICK!

And there you have it, folks; the thumbs-up and thumbs-down of responsible button usage.

Just as an addendum to Jami: I know you were hoping for more than a vague nod towards our Christmastime adventures and that being one of four unnamed girls mentioned so briefly above hardly satisfies the efforts you made to “get on the blog,” so this is really only a taste to tide you over until I can come home again – and then the three or four of us girls who are kicking around will have to have an adventure that merits its very own entry. Something with umbrellas, perhaps... and chocolate milk. How does that sound for a deal?

Heart in Hand

2010-01-10T00:48:00.006-05:00

I scrape out my heart, and cup it in my hands
Please, won’t somebody take it?
I look down at the blood, the emotion, the ache
Won’t somebody take it from me?

It beats so loudly, it longs to be known
Won’t somebody take it from me?
It cannot keep still, yet it withers alone
Please, somebody, take it.

I stand on the street with my beat up old heart
Tattered by years of distress
I hold it out in the light to the men who pass by
But each one refuses my best.

“I know it looks rough.” I choke back the tears.
“But this broken heart can love.”
Yet one after the next, they walk by and scoff.
Please, tell me I am enough.

Each day it grows darker like meat at a market,
Colder and harder inside...
No wonder they pass by and divert their eyes
And no one will take it from me.

I drop to the ground and lean back to a wall.
My heart feels dead in my hands.
As pulseless as stone, as worthless as ice
As shattered and sharp as glass.

“I will take it,” he said. “I want to take it from you.”
I look up with death in my eyes.
A man. He looks down at my shredded, gray heart
And stretches out his hand.

I scramble up to my feet and hold my heart out
“Please!” I beg, “Take it from me!”
“What is the price for this heart?” he asks.
“Nothing, just love, just love...”

His eyes grow heavy in memory of sorrow.
“No, not nothing,” he said.
“But it was paid for by Great, Incredible Love.”
And again reaches out his hand.

There was already blood on his palm.
Each finger stained.
Dark red scars wrapped up the length of his arm.
And his eyes... His eyes...

He cupped his hands over mine and
My heart lept. It was newborn:
No hardness, no bruises, no cuts, no gray.
Reborn, both tender and strong.

“I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you;
I will remove your heart of stone
And give you a heart of flesh,” He said slowly.
“And I will put my Spirit in you.”

He did not take my heart – He filled it.
He planted it back in my chest
And sealed it there, with Love I can’t understand
And he held my hands.

“Your heart is exceedingly precious to me.
Do not give it away.
It is filled with My Love, and that you must share,
Openly, every day.

“But your heart as a whole is mine to keep
And mine is shared with you
So do not fear, but rejoice and draw near.
Because you have got work to do.”

And His Spirit remains, holding my heart in hand
And His eyes watch over me.
As I move through my life I will share out His Love
That fills and overflows my soul.

My hands are now empty and lifted to Jesus
The replacer and healer of hearts.
They are Yours as I am Yours, stained with Your Love.
Use me. Fill me. Take me.

A Mary Christmas Eve

2009-12-25T09:29:00.003-05:00

I woke up this morning to a comfortable room in a bed piled high with blankets and pillows. My house was still and warm as my family dozed on and off for the next few hours, happy and cozy and safe, all once again under the same roof. I love coming home for Christmas: hugs that somehow turn into headlocks and far more meals than necessary, the pulling out of old instruments and the wrapping of gifts, silly photo shoots and there is bound to be a snowball fight... home, family, love, affection. This is Christmas.

But as I woke up this morning I had another kind of thought that was a little less like mistletoe and chocolate... it was of the first “Merry Christmas Eve.” And tonight I had the pleasure of living something quite akin.

Every Christmas Eve since before I can remember we have been one of two places: in a room packed with cousins at extended family Christmas, or at Church for the candlelight service. Tonight was the latter option and the gymnasium that doubles for our chapel was full of people from the Sunday-morning-and-night regulars to families that rarely see the inside of a church but make exceptions for such special occasions. Kids that I haven’t seen since they were reaching up to grasshopper’s knee are now looking me square in the eye and old friends who have moved on and moved away reunite with wonderful hugs and smiles that pour out love to all generously. The service began late, as it always does, allowing time for the stragglers and those who had a distant parking place to make their way to the seats that have been carefully and apologetically saved for them in the business of settling down. The lights dimmed, the music began and right on cue the babies cried. And cried... and cried.

A few of the little voices behind us were familiar in nature. I looked over my shoulder a few times before passing a note down the row to my Mum: “Should I go and take him out?” She shook her head but a minute later, Care began to move and the two of us slipped out the chapel’s side door, looking to help if we could.

When we got to the Nursery there were already a few sets of parents running around after their kids. They were all dressed up and we could tell that they wanted to be in the service much more than either of us did so we opened an unofficial, impromptu childcare service and the two of us did our best to entertain the seven babies and toddlers who were living on the tipping edge of too-much-sugar and past-your-bedtime. It was exactly the emotional change of pace I needed – a personal connection to that first of Christmastime anniversaries. This, children running and playing and listening to stories and singing and laughing and enjoying the simplicity of company, this is Christmas. This was Mary’s kind. Well, this was Mary’s kind post-labour and after a long nap... maybe it was more like this the year after His birth... haha.

When the service ended we were paid well with many appreciative smiles and “Thank you”s full of blessing. I think the half hour we spent with those kids is likely the most important gift I will give this Christmas, and definitely the one that most harkens back to the Christ child – the gift-wrapped Redeemer, the little swaddled Saviour, who would, in the blink of His mother’s eye, grow up and take on the world.

So, as I head off to a night of home-made tradition and celebration and a day of such activities to follow in haste, I wish you all a very Mary Christmas. May God bless you with hope and love this year and all of those to come.

Unstuffed

2009-12-17T22:18:00.004-05:00

The life of a pillowcase is not as glamorous as the Sears catalogue makes it out to be.

Pressed and lacy atop an unwrinkled bed is not the life that most of them experience. In fact, such pillowcases are not even really pillowcases... they're airbrushed and starched phonies. And some of them aren't even stuffed. The true test of a pillowcase, the surest way to find out what it's really made of is right around Christmastime: runny noses, phlegm-filled coughs, leaky eyes, too much sugar. If a pillowcase can withstand that much wear, it should be set for life. Or, at least that is what they are told....

For Lumpy, however, life was filled with more beatings than bedtimes. Even for restless little dreamers, something about Lumpy was a little too off center. He was rejected for the guestroom, rejected from the living room chesterfield and even the family dog refused to sleep with him... and so, Lumpy was demoted to the lowest possible position a pillowcase could find himself in.

Lumpy became the road-trip barf-bag.

Shouts of "I'm gonna BLOW!" gave Lumpy the shakes, which, unfortunately, only seemed to make the children more nauseous. Last night's pasta dinner and this morning's bran cereal fire-hosed out of the mouths and nostrils that gagged in his face. Lumpy hated this game. This game made Lumpy want to hurl.

One night driving home from hockey practice on the windy Northern roads, Chris (the third of four children in this family, and "King of Regurgitation") had second thoughts about his Chinese/McDonald's third quarter snack. Lumpy had known all along that this was a bad plan, and couldn't believe his seams when Chris' mother agreed to "pick something like that up" for her boys. Lumpy tried to warn her, but to no avail. People never listen to their laundry. And so, on the way home, Chris' stomach began to turn. Little burps sputtered out between his lips and the phrases "excuse me" and "I don't feel so good" seemed to limit his vocabulary. Chris' mom was taking the turns just a little too fast and Chris' seatbelt was just a little too high and a little too tight... before long Lumpy was staring up the young boy's nose in horror.

"NO!" cried Lumpy, his mouth yanked open so hard he thought he might pop a stitch, "Please! For Tailor's sake! Hold it in!"

But he did not. He could not. Noodles and partially digested ground beef filled an inch and a half of the poor pillowcase's self. Lumpy choked back a gag. And then it occurred to him... a brilliant plan, so simple, so devilish, so perfect...

Lumpy drew in a great breath. He stretched himself back, pulling against the boy's grip down to the ground, to the floor of the SUV and as soon as the boy took notice of this change, Lumpy catapulted himself inside out, blowing the chunks right back into Chris' face! Chris tried to scream and realized too late that his mouth was once again full of his vomit... but not for long...

Chris refilled Lumpy and Lumpy flung it out again! This time it hit Chris' mom on the side of her face! "CHRIS!" she hollered. "AIM FOR THE BAG!!" Chris could say nothing. He was as green as the Grinch. It was worse than the time his sister spit into her hand and rubbed it in his eye. This was the worst moment of his life.

That was not the case for Lumpy. Lumpy finally had taken his revenge. He would be a legend in the linen closet for years to come. He would be awarded some kind of prize for this. This night’s actions would go down in fabric history. And indeed they did.

When Chris got home he had to clean the whole vehicle by himself. Lumpy got washed -- thoroughly -- and to everyone's surprise, promoted. Apparently the only thing that will hide barf stains is car polish. And so our hero spent the rest of his days buffing and shining both family vehicles, far out of reach of snotty nose and leaking tears and all kinds of vomit. And, if you ask me, he does the job very, very well.

Adventures of Chai Spice

2009-12-15T02:45:00.000-05:00

I had to laugh at myself tonight. I thought I would give you the opportunity to join me in the light-hearted mockery and quickly relay my tale.

As I began to settle in for another long night of work (and distraction), I set my kettle to boil. From time to time I change up my ritual hot chocolate for something a little lighter and a little less like the warm, soothing segue into dream that cocoa is, especially on wintry nights. Usually I'm a peppermint girl when it comes time for tea. I love the smell, the taste and the feeling of peppermint - it too has a soothing effect but without the automatic reaction of my sinking eyelids. Even my sugarless peppermint, however, has had very little effect on my ability to stay up later than usual, recently. And tonight I learned why.

Did you know that some teas are not caffeinated? Did you know that some actually announce "no caffeine" on their labels? Some tea tins even make it brilliantly obvious, in a different colour and an interesting font that practically begs to be read. Maybe if I'd have been more awake I would have noticed... but then I wouldn't have needed the tea.

So, tonight my peppermint is not overly helpful, and it's "no caffeine" twin in cinnamon will also remain in my cupboard. Luckily (or perhaps fiendishly), my Mom once left a bag of Home-groceries here in my home and one of the magical inheritances I stashed away was a box of "Chai Spice Black Tea," quite appropriately from the "Stash Premium" collection. I was a little skeptical at first (it was a box of individually packaged paper bags, the kind of box I associate more with hotel continental breakfasts than my little kitchen table), but after unwrapping and steeping my first mug of tea, I must admit I'm very impressed.

Good taste, Mom... I think I'll keep the rest of the box...

It does not mix!

2009-12-14T12:47:00.000-05:00

Lessons from my weekend:
1)Beautiful gowns and long gloves do not mix with Language and Rhetoric.
2)The making and eating of caramel corn does not mix with Language and Rhetoric.
3)The making and eating of quesadillas does not mix with Language and Rhetoric.
4)My guitar and a fat binder of worship music do not mix with Language and Rhetoric.
5)TV, Facebook, MySpace, YouTube and my blogs do not mix with Language and Rhetoric.
6)Comfortable seating and warm rooms do not mix with Language and Rhetoric.
7)Uncomfortable seating and cold rooms also do not mix with Language and Rhetoric.
8)Unsupervised study time does not mix with Language and Rhetoric.
9)Study time spent in the company of others does not mix with Language and Rhetoric.
10)Blank Word documents do not mix with Language and Rhetoric.
11)The internal distraction of things that are eternally more important than Language and
Rhetoric does not mix with Language and Rhetoric.
12)Visual access to any kind of clock does not mix with Language and Rhetoric.
13)Everything does not mix with Language and Rhetoric!

When there is this much snow outside, when the pretty lights are up, when I have Christmas cards to write, a blanket to finish, my room to clean and pack and when home is so close... school just feels meaningless, like the first chunk of Ecclesiastes.

Please! I just want to go home!

A Million Directions

2009-12-12T19:08:00.001-05:00

I feel like I'm standing inside of a dark sphere. The globe that surrounds me is gray, like lead, like the graphite line of a pencil marked by a sure hand with intentional pressure. The sides of this space feel like carpet and as I lightly pass my hand over the soft, bristly wall it ripples around in every direction. It moves like water and like light. It seems nearly alive, but it is something far more mysterious even than life... it is potential.

This dome, this place, this room... it is the ultimate crossroads. Each speck on the wall, each point of the room is a choice. I am standing in choice. When I leave this place I will follow one of these lines. I will choose one path and I will go to one place. It is here, now, that I am setting my course. It is here and now that I must make my decision.

I single out a single route, separating it from the others and holding it between my fingertips. Each strand no wider than the breadth of a hair, nigh invisible amongst the others and yet as dark and gray and full of promise as the sphere itself. What does this path hold? A life of security and luxury and comfort. I set it back and move a few steps to my left. Again I select one line from the wall of lines and press it between my forefinger and thumb. Where will this road take me? A life of adventure and tragedy. The next, a life of poverty and love. The next of influence, the next of risks and purpose, the next of sun, the next of snow. How do I choose? How do I move from this place?

Hopelessness overwhelms me. I feel as though every direction is out of my reach, that I have no way of knowing the right path and that I am bound to failure. I sit down in the bowl of this room and drop my face into my hands and close my eyes. I feel nothing. I feel numb. Numbness is worse than sadness and hopelessness worse than defeat because they are motiveless and static.

Then somebody gives me a hug. A voice, deep and warm fills my ears and my heart... It wraps around me like the thickest and softest of furs, comforting in a way than nothing else can and filling me with sound so rich and so full that I am completely disarmed and yet held, somehow, in perfect peace and safety.

"Choose with confidence," He says, "and I will be there. Wherever you go I will protect you. Whatever you do I will guide you. I will comfort you in tragedy and humble you in wealth. I will watch over you in danger and equip you in risk. I will provide for you in poverty. I will sing over you when you fear. I will arm you and guard you, I will be with you in sickness and I will fill your heart with hope and with love. I love you. You are my girl. And I will care for you always."

Relief floods my soul. He is at the end of every path. He is there in every step along it. I do not have to fear these choices because whatever I do, if I do it seeking Him and His heart, He will make good of it and He will use me.

I open my eyes to thank Him, the Voice of Truth and Hope and Peace...

And what I see takes my breath away.

A million faces look back at me. Children unknown and unnoticed, teenagers alone and afraid, young men fighting for their country and their hearts, young women struggling with image and expectation, men crying out for leadership, women crying out for justice, every different age and colour and culture, all of them looking at me, looking to me... and then, suddenly something changes. One by one in a ripple that turns into a mighty wave, each face is changed. A smile, a look of hope, an expression of peace and joy. This is the change that God can make. But it doesn't change all at once. It ripples out. It ripples out from one path.

The Voice returns for a moment and echoes His own great Word: "Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen: to loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke, to set the oppressed free and break every yoke? Is it not to share your food with the hungry and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter — when you see the naked, to clothe him, and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood? Then your light will break forth like the dawn, and your healing will quickly appear; then your righteousness will go before you, and the glory of the LORD will be your rear guard. Then you will call, and the LORD will answer; you will cry for help, and he will say: Here am I. If you do away with the yoke of oppression, with the pointing finger and malicious talk, and if you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry and satisfy the needs of the oppressed, then your light will rise in the darkness, and your night will become like the noonday. The LORD will guide you always; he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land and will strengthen your frame. You will be like a well-watered garden, like a spring whose waters never fail. Your people will rebuild the ancient ruins and will raise up the age-old foundations; you will be called Repairer of Broken Walls, Restorer of Streets with Dwellings."

I reach out to the place where the ripples began. I will, with trembling hand and willing heart, take that path of change. I don't know what it brings for me. I don't know how long it is or where or how I will live, but I will take it.

Jesus, take it with me. Help me find my way in Your Way and lead me to You in every step. I love you back, and I am ready.

Chronicles of My (Almost) 61 Hr Day

2009-12-10T22:18:00.000-05:00

7:54 Mistake number one? Leaving six final projects unfinished until the last two days of school. Mistake number two? Not even starting six final projects until the last two days of school. Please don’t take this as a horrifying testimony to my character (and Mom, please don’t let this stress you out. By the time you read this it will all be a thing of the past. You said it best... I work best and almost only under pressure). It will get done! It will all get done on time! And this little chronicle will help me prove it.

I woke up at about nine o’clock this morning. As I figure it, if I can make use of all of tonight, tomorrow and tomorrow night I will have all of my work done for each respective class and retain time to prep for my group presentation on Wednesday night. I have played this game before and I have learned a few tricks. For all of you would-be crammers and procrastinators, take a lesson from a professional and DON’T! It’s really not worth it. But if you must, here are a few tips:

First: Don’t try to push past your attention span. When the writing is a struggle and you can’t think straight, move on to something else. Try another project or watch a short YouTube video, write a letter, read a comic, do push-ups or jumping jacks or take a shower or go by some Macs Milk... something to give your brain a change or a rest... then come back to your work. That’s a very key part.

Second: Don’t nap! Trust me on this one. Napping quickly turns into hibernation, especially when you’re feeling overwhelmed. Personally, I think it’s internal mafia action... your brain and your body override your conscience and work ethic and then it’s lights out for everybody. Resist your pillow’s seduction by all means possible. It’s a trap.

Third: Look forward to the sunrise. If you don’t see them often, it’s worth staying up just for that. Last time I played this game the sun woke up around 5:00 but something tells me it’s later in the wintertime. We shall see!

So for now I’m off to work. I have to read a whack for my Language and Rhetoric project... actually, I need to find the outline for that project first... so I think that’s job number one. And here we go!

9:03 Well... you can’t expect every hour to be a productive one, but I have hoped that the first one would have more to show for it. I did find two course syllabi and the sketch of a horse from a while back and some pirate stickers, but then I checked facebook and looked up one (okay, seven) song(s) on YouTube... The plan is a good one, I swear, but getting the work and the distractions in the right order is proving a sliver trickier than I had hoped. Let’s try this again...

9:10 Huzzah! The outline has been recovered. And good news, I don’t actually need a thesis for this one.

9:58 Shakespeare (assuming you are not one of the “there is no such man, it’s all a clever ruse” conspiracy theorists who doubt everything ever attributed to the playwright), composed a whopping 154 sonnets. A sonnet is a poem of fourteen lines that follows a very specific rhythm and rhyme scheme... so my question is, has Billy done an incredible feat of literary genius, or is this collection simply one good system that has been beaten into the ground for all it’s worth? What is more impressive: Shakespeare and his 154 sonnets (of echoing structure) and his 38 plays (of borrowed and stolen plot), or the collection of 86 Relient K songs that express an array of emotion not only through form but with the added layer of vocal harmony and creative instrumental movement? A course on layered lyrics... now that’s a class worth taking!

10:41 I hereby present the award for Best and Worst Invention of All Time to The Internet! Clap, clap, clap...

11:26 I’m toying with the idea of sleep. This challenge would top the charts of LAME if I didn’t follow through after getting this far in. And, if I quit I’m going to have a brutal life tomorrow not handing in my work... so I guess I have to hit these books a little harder. I’m currently setting aside the Language and Rhetoric phonemics project in favour of my Children’s Lit assignment: “In the original Puss in Boots, the cat was female. How does this change affect the story?” Right up my alley!

12:31 I think this will be easier when everybody else goes to bed. I just watched a Caesarean on YouTube (who posts such videos?!) with my nursing roommate. Then we looked into bunion surgery... I think I’ll keep my mutant feet. I also refilled my champagne glass (of Sprite... we just love stemware) and now I’m back to work, making slow progress... but progress nonetheless! One more thing: Phil Wickham’s “You’re Beautiful” is an amazing song. Go look it up. You can’t help but smile and feel empowered to praise!

7:43 F-A-I-L. My roommate just woke me up. Blasted pillows! How, how, do they pull me in every time?! So tricky.

2:01 I need a chiropractor! I don’t know whether it’s the stress or aftermath of my pumpernickel breakfast, but something is not right in my body today! I feel the need to find a corner and assume the fetal position. Please, Friday! Come quickly!

3:39 Who wants to bet that I'll focus better at home than here at school? Yeah, I don't really think so either. But I did get some work done for my Dad. Why didn't I go into marketing and creative design? It sounds like a LOT more fun than my grammar project right now! Ah well. One exam out of the way and five more major cumulative assignments still due... But who's counting.

9:50 Hopefully tonight will go a little better for me. I have a lot of work to do, but I’m feeling a lot more focused. Let’s knock a few of these off my list! (Geography lab, Children’s Lit essay, Genre presentation, Genre essay, LangRhet project. And go!) Ps. Heather’s humming very loudly in the kitchen. It’s a happy sound. A little... Pirates of the Caribbean, maybe?

11:29 Okay. So, this one lab is going to take a little longer than I anticipated. I really hope all of my projects don’t follow the same pattern! I secretly do want to sleep tonight!

12:39 I really need a back and shoulder and neck massage. I don’t even remember a time I’ve felt sorer and I’m growing a headache (but that’s probably from the Sprite; I don’t have pop often and it messes with my body when I do). Where is that affectionate boyfriend of mine when I need him? Oh right. I don’t have one...

12:52 Sleeeeeeepp... How I long for thee. Time for a change of scenery... more Bible perhaps? Yes, I think I will.

1:42 Success! One project out of the way! Take that, Geography! Never again shall I struggle through your endless tedious map-reading and number-crunching. From now on I throw the directions out the window! Navigation by rock-paper-scissors and when in doubt turn left: that’s my philosophy.

2:32 Wow. I could really use a nap to follow my shower. I always think it will wake me up, but it always seems to have the opposite effect. I was so pumped a half hour ago... now I’m fighting with gravity to keep my eyes open. What a bad plan!

9:44 So, I did have that nap. And I did fall asleep. Shocker. So, what am I going to do today? I’m not exactly sure yet...

10:41 There is hope for me yet! I now have a thesis for both of my papers and an with an outline for my presentation it shouldn’t take long. Now I’m heading into the school to my last Geography class ever (I’m really broken up about it. I’ll miss this course so much! *I’m getting all choked up over here, blink back the tears*). Hopefully I’ll finish everything but the LangRhet project at school today and hand it all in, then with that one project left (not really due until Friday) I will be able to come home and watch Glee tonight in relative peace. Now that is a goal I can work towards! I’m almost out of this madness! YES!

1:08 So, I’m sitting in the library, staring at a creative first paragraph for the paper that is due in only five hours. “Electronic hypertext is a world of fragments. Each thought is its own text and each word has a unique history and a potential future. For the reader, a well constructed electronic hypertext is the beginning of a new reality, one of never ending trails to wander into, a tangled snare designed to help you lose your mind and gain, in exchange, something completely different: a self-aware social consciousness.” Not bad for a first draft, but it has nothing to do with my thesis. Some days I really hate assignments. I want to create! I don’t want to be limited by the ideals of another! I’m sick of writing to please my professors instead of writing to simply express or learn or teach. These lines seem so… dead. This work is petty! Useless! How is this going to help me teach children? Can this further my relationships or foster a love for anything? Can I find God in this area of study? Can it be applied to any realm of my life? Is this education ultimately worth anything? School is about jumping through hoops as much as it is training for a career and a life outside of these (often prison-bare) corridors and classrooms. I’m over the novelty of university and all I see now is futility. I need a hobby… I need a more involving ministry. I need a better reason than classes to stay in North Bay. The world is calling my name! My heart wants to be in Mexico or Argentina or India or Egypt or Iran or Africa, really making a difference in the lives of the people who God has called me to love. I need to be a physical help to someone. I need to have more impact on this world than an academic opinion that means and says nothing because it is a passionless organization of regurgitated information. God has given me gifts, but I don’t know how to use them in this place. Maybe that’s my problem… I just need to learn how to make my life eternally important here. God, show me how.

1:49 My friend Andrew has given me some tips that are apparently proven effective for staying up all night. He’s pretty sleep deprived, so I’m betting they come from experience:

First: “Find yourself a support group.” MSN chatting with others is a good way to keep accountable… or distracted. The only risk is falling into an actual conversation, which I tend to do. Maybe I’ll try this one out though… I just need to find some friends who are successful night-owls.

Secondly: no comfortable furniture. “The trick is to take all the cushions off your couch and just sit on the springs.” It seems like it would be a more successful plan than my futon or my bed… those plans led to failure quickly.

2:37 Peppermint Patties are my new favourite chocolates. I’m addicted. There’s no going back.

3:11 BAH, this computer doesn’t have Internet access!! How am I supposed to source this without the sources??

3:22 I wrote a verse up on the whiteboard earlier. I do it pretty frequently. Before I went to the bathroom I had a conversation with a woman I didn’t know about how she loves reading them and seeing them up on the wall. When I came back to my computer there were three people on the opposite side of my computer bank talking about it too… they’re currently looking up Bible verses about hell and wrath to counter it. Isn’t it amazing how a simple verse of encouragement can spark such a reaction? There is no middle ground with God – you have to choose a side – but this is the most dramatic clash I’ve seen here yet. Will it stop me from writing up there? Nope. In fact, it makes me want to do it more. God is moving and I want to be part of that.

3:44 25% done this paper and freaking out a bit! Any time that adrenaline wants to kick in, that would be amazing.

4:20 Pretty much half done. I need to find at least one source though.

11:45 Well. I did get almost everything done, but I have to say this was far less successful than I had hoped. I finished my essay, and I presented my presentation. With only two things left on my agenda I’m feeling a lot more peace. Christmas is almost here! And on that note I leave you – but keep your eyes peeled for a lot more posts in the next few weeks. With more time off I’ll be able to finish all those stories I’ve been half writing this term! And working on some pre-January homework, of course.

I wish I could think of something epic to end this with. A joke perhaps? Or just a punchline?

“And then the florist said, ‘But I only paid a dollar fifty!’”

BAHAHAHAHAHA!

Dead Man's Path

2009-12-04T12:01:00.000-05:00

It is often said that when seeking to understand another's point of view you must walk for a while in his shoes. Of course, this is not often assumed to be a literal suggestion. It's a metaphor, an idea, a change of perspective that does not actually require the physical experience... but what if you did take it seriously? What if you could walk a mile in another's shoes... or socks?

I have told you before of my well-loved, second-hand wardrobe. I often marvel at second-hand things because, without knowing what the histories of the objects are, I know they have a rich past and I'm sure if my inanimate possessions suddenly became sentient each would have a wonderful story to tell. I often wander Sally Ann or Value Village looking for something that is simply too unique and special to be found in chain stores and that simply must be added to my (admittedly and proudly odd) collection; let's take last week as an example.

Nine days ago I spent the best eight dollars I have ever spent in Salvation Army: snow pants, but not just any snow pants... empire waist, bright red-orange Korean snow pants complete with suspenders and armpit-side-panel stretchy bands and one single pocket that is angled awkwardly backwards to the right hip. They are incredible. (Really, you don't even know. I love them. You will probably read more about my adventures with these snow pants and winter gets deeper. I spent longer than I should have jumping up and down in the change room celebrating and grinning madly to myself over my find.)

That day I also picked up some things that I don't usually get second-hand. You see, in the bin of headscarves (I found two that day... 50 cents each! How can Walmart compare?) were three pairs of socks. Most of my socks I either buy at a department store or I steal them from my Mom or my sisters when I go home, but I've been losing socks at a ridiculous rate lately (I blame the gremlinens... I'll write you a story about them soon) so on a whim I picked them all up and tossed them in with my other purchases (the glorious snow pants, three old books, a gold ball gown for Missa, etc).

I didn't think much of them at first. All three pairs made themselves home comfortably in my top drawer and I let them be for a while (enamoured by the snow pants and distracted by other things in my life). Then Friday came.

This past weekend was my extended family Christmas. We skipped the reunion in 2008 so there was two full years of catching up to be done this time 'round the tree. Naturally I left minor preparatory details like packing and laundry until the bitter end (signified by my Dad standing in my bedroom doorway ready to take me back Home). With nothing ready I was forced to do what I always seem forced to do... the three-minute-run-and-pack-everything-dance. Needless to say, in the flurry of my chaotic bag-stuffing adventure all three pairs of second-hand-store socks made their way into my suitcase.

Friday night was a ball! After I stealthily squirreled away my Christmas gifts (muahahaha, family! Good luck with the treasure hunt this year! It's going to be epic!), Mom and I re-discovered the mutated Scrabble-esque game called Banannagrams and I dominated, as usual. Tim came down for the weekend as well and braved the evening and trip down without his fair maiden to keep him company in the madness that our home can be at times. He was in for a mess of harassment for being the first beau to show up at Christmas with a third generation girl. (They actually let him off way too easy in my opinion. But then, they didn't have any snow banks to make use of this year...) And all this time my socks stayed nestled away in my bag... but not for long.

Saturday. My cold feet drove me to pair of socks number one... the infamous pair, the cottony climax of my story. They seemed nothing unusual. They seemed generally average. They were just a tick too long, but not so much that I was consciously unsettled, and they had a small tag by the arch of my foot. I probably should have read that tag. But I did not. I believe it was Carolyn who first muttered the accusatory, frightening phrase: "Nik... whose socks are you wearing?"

Not mine.

The name, clearly labelled and stitched into the very fabric of the knitted hosiery, was not my name. How long did my family laugh at me? How long did I spend keeled-over in hysterics? A long, long time. It was kind of wonderful.

So I have a pair of someone else's socks. I don't know, of course, but I suppose someone who takes the time to sew tags onto a pair of brown socks in good condition probably doesn't give them up without cause. I suppose he's probably dead. He may be alive and well, but I think the odds are high.

Where have these socks been? Who was it that wore them before? What is their past, their history, their story? Suddenly the questions that were always a mildly vague afterthought to second-hand wonders have been wearing on me. I guess it’s silly. It’s all pretty silly. But, then again, maybe it’s not. Can God use even something as silly as an old pair of stockings to capture my attentions and drag wandering thoughts back to Himself? Of course He can. So, stranger-friend of mine, I don’t know anything more than your name and room number, but today you and your family are getting some prayer. Your hand-me-down socks have reminded me that people I don’t know need as much prayer and attention of intention as my friends and family.

Pick a stranger, someone, anyone, no matter their mood. Pray for them. Take a minute and step into their socks… and offer a smile of encouragement and a prayer of help as you cross paths. God only knows how much they could use a little holy intervention today.

Why Grape?!

2009-11-25T23:47:00.001-05:00

Sometimes my life is a lot like a paper muffin wrapper filled with mildly liquefied grape jello. You might think that such a metaphor is pretty weird, until you actually make grape jello in paper muffin wrappers and then leave it out for a few hours. Right out of the fridge it’s a brilliant plan – self contained and flexible, no spoon required – but if you ignore it and don’t tend after it carefully it tends to ooze out of its thin boundary and it loses all structural integrity. This is almost okay if you catch it in time and stick that sucker back in the chill, but when you’re not paying attention and your grab the wrapper by one of its crinkly edges, that wiggly little piece of joy turns into a humungous splattered mess all over the carpet.

Welcome to my life, kershplamm! ...blob on the floor.

[Heather: sorry for the stain that my reality-based metaphor has left in the living room...]

A Case of Rapunzel Blues

2009-11-24T01:12:00.000-05:00

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

2009-11-12T07:40:00.001-05:00

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.

2009-11-05T14:01:00.000-05:00

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.

Episode 1: Fictional Adventuring

2009-10-27T19:12:00.003-04:00

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

2009-10-25T15:07:00.001-04:00

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

2009-10-13T17:45:00.000-04:00

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

2009-10-03T21:03:00.001-04:00

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

2009-09-23T10:52:00.000-04:00

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

2009-08-22T22:08:00.000-04:00

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.