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!
Showing posts with label Introducing Me. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Introducing Me. Show all posts
Sunday, 14 February 2010
Saturday, 12 December 2009
A Million Directions
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.
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.
Tuesday, 13 October 2009
Riding Rail and Rhythm
My thoughts are so affected by the music running through my mind. I interpret melody as a liquid, like a river flowing at different paces, in different rhythms, reflecting different colours and depths of light. Sometimes, the music is a smooth, breathing kind of wash, lulling me into a blissful peace of mind. Sometimes the music is a rapid, an exciting rush of sound racing me forwards, unpredictable and thrilling. Sometimes a song will lift me on a wave or plunge me in a fall, it can rustle my securities or comfort me like nothing else. Music can make me cry, make me hope, make me dance, dream, sway, sing... Music is incredibly powerful. And when it is at its very best and most influential, it makes me think.
I’m sitting on a train, heading back to school for the night. I’m sitting on my computer, staring out the window, listening to my iPod friend and engaging in a little self-analytical metaphysical pondering. I set it on “random shuffle” a few songs back, and I have to say that while the songs change it’s incredibly difficult to focus on one train of thought (so to speak) with the constant mental background changes. For example, when I began this piece I was listening to a gentle version of True Colours, then Creed’s With Arms Wide Open which transitioned to the Beatles with Twist and Shout, followed by You Give Love a Bad Name and Poor Unfortunate Soul... the Jonas Brother’s version. My thoughts have been jumping around just as much if not more than the genre flux might suggest. It’s hard to track it actually, since thought happens so quickly. As I keep writing this piece, I’ll insert when the song changes and I suppose you will be the judge of how or if it has an effect on what I say here (Love is Here, Tenth Avenue North).
I find that train tracks tend to cut across some of the most beautiful places in the North. You don’t see nearly enough fields and farms from the highway. It’s part of the reason that I’ve traded my transportation from bus to this magnificently old-fashioned passenger rail. I’ve always thought that there was something beautiful and romantic about the train. There’s something I absolutely love about moving slowly from one place to another, riding the rock of the cars, watching the scenes change outside my window. (Talk About It, Nicole C. Mullen) Even on such a greyish kind of day, the colours are beautiful and the forests are full of life. Every once in a while, while passing a house (The Thief, Relient K) I become very aware of the fact that we are passing not only people’s houses but also their very lives. Have you taken time to really sit back and think about the fact that people live in houses? Life happens in houses and cars and offices and cottages... so much life. (These Are the Moments, Sarah Evans) Life, you might say, happens everywhere. I would agree.
I’m passing through a small town. There are people in the snow (which is quite depressing and not of any particularly attractive crystal formation) planting trees. It seems like a strange kind of time to plant trees, but I suppose I’m not an expert on the subject. I’ve only planted a few trees in my life and they were more like transplants from one part of the forest to another... we were harvesting potential Christmas Trees one year when my sisters and I were small. We watered them regularly and everything. (Secret Smile, Rascal Flatts) Most of my other relationships with trees have been in the climbing of limbs or the burning of firewood. I also swallowed a tree whole, once upon a story. It’s true, just ask Carolyn. I make her verify that story pretty frequently.
(Part of Your World, Disney) I think I must type much slower than I think I do, based on the rate of changeover in the songs I’m listening to. I guess it might reflect the depth of the thought, but that might not be true. It probably reflects my levels of distraction. For example, we’ve just made a station stop and though I can’t see if we’ve gained any passengers I have seen a sign for Tom Thompson Park, just down that road. Of course you can’t see that I’ve just pointed out my window, but if you were here and this was a chat rather than a note (Get Him Back, Fiona Apple) it might have been interesting.
Why do you suppose so many northern shores and islands are layers with evergreens? Heron! Just chilling out, waiting for the train to pass. I think that animals are extraordinarily patient when it comes to human intrusion. One day I would love to see a moose. (One Girl Revolution, Superchick).
I love Canada. (Another Postcard, Barenaked Ladies) And I love trains. I think I would live on a train if I could and if it wasn’t so terribly impractical. It’s funny that I love movement so much in a way, because in life I’m such a home-body. I like being anchored, but it’s the go and return that I like most. (Beautiful World, GS Megaphone) (My Home, Thousand Foot Krutch) My sock has twisted around in my shoe. Socks are probably my least favourite of all human conventions. That, and tucking in the covers. (Life Goes On, Carrie Underwood) Zipholder. I just passed the skeletal frame of a yellow school bus... and the ruins of an old barn. I can’t believe how much you can see from a window seat. (Go the Distance, Disney) Well, the dining car just closed so I think it’s about time that I close up my computer as well. A thousand words of useless insights into my traveling mind... CLAIM! Okay, that was easily fifty zips and five zipholders. Don’t even try to “graveyard” that, I win today. Just accept defeat, family! Last song: No Fear, Terri Clark. And with that I bid you happy riding and may you take time to really think about your life and the lives of those you pass in commute.
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.
Saturday, 22 August 2009
The Lemon's Aide
Living a life in constant yellow can be a wearying existence. When you’re yellow, people expect you to carry on as though every moment of your life is bathed in sunshine from dawn ‘til dusk, but the truth is that even Yellows have blue days. Just ask Lemon.
Lemon was a tough guy to peel. Although bright and smooth in appearance, he often struggled with keeping up with the expectation of being the life of everybody’s party. He compared himself too frequently to Banana and Passionfruit – one admired for his form and one for flavour – but even with this self-troubling habit most others in the fruit basket couldn’t see past his goofiness to the sour pit he was feeding. Lemon was sad – but when you’re so yellow, there’s no opportunity to show off some of the other colours that are experienced just below the surface. The pinks of love, the reds of anger, the blues of melancholy and the oranges of adventurousness never saw the sun on Lemon’s peel... but before too long there was another colour that began to seep out from his core.
“Lemon,” Papaya commented one afternoon, “You’re looking a little lime... are you okay?” Lemon did what he could to let the comment roll off his back: “I’m fine, I just need a little more Vitamin D, that’s all.”
But sunshine wasn’t enough to stop Lemon’s greenness from spreading. In a few days, everyone had noticed – and they began to talk. “I know he’s been hanging out with the Veggies recently,” Tomato said to Peach as they watched Lemon roll slowly from one side of the basket to the other. “Maybe the Broccoli has been rubbing off on him a little too much?”
Lemon’s friends tried to cheer him up and get his yellow back, but they couldn’t figure out the root problem. Lemon was looking more and more lime everyday and everyone was worried. “Is he... rotting?” a little grape asked. The response was uncertain. “He’s sick, honey... tired maybe, maybe more.”
It had been nearly three weeks from the time that Lemon’s hue began to darken to the day Radish got thrown in with the fruits. “Are you a squash?” Radish asked, quite innocent of the gradual pigmented depression Lemon had found himself in. She based her observation solely on that which could be observed: the once yellow Lemon was now a very dark blueish-greyish-green colour, quite like that of Butternut. “I’m a lemon,” said Lemon.
Radish furrowed her eyebrows. “What has happened to your sunshine?” Lemon sighed heavily, brimming with tears. The dimples that had once served to highlight his cheer now seemed to emphasize the depth of his creases and the weight in his eyes. “I’ve lost it,” Lemon confessed. “It’s been gone for a terrible long time.”
Radish smiled gently. “I will help you find it again.”
Radish listened while Lemon told her about his deep blue. He spoke of the wear his friends had on him at times, of no fault of their own, but which nevertheless caused Lemon to tire. He confided in Radish and for a long time while she said nothing with neither tear nor smile; she simply listened. Little by little, Lemon’s grey lightened. The blue faded and the green disappeared. Little by little, Lemon was yellowing. When he had explained everything that he had been keeping to himself and all pressure had been released, he laughed. Radish smiled back. She seemed... different, somehow.
Before Lemon had a chance to inquire, Radish nodded quietly and tipped her head just a little to one side. “Did you know,” she began, as though it were a question, “that colours are contagious? They have an amazing quality about them that is transferable – blues and yellows and even pinks – they can be passed on or pulled in my others. You’ve gotten much yellow back, and I’m got some of that now too! But I also took on a bit of your blue and a little green, to help you get rid of it. So that’s why I look a little odd – I’m brighter, but also darker than when I arrived here. More the colouring of an unusually ripe apple, than a radish, you might say.”
“But I don’t want you to be blue or green,” Lemon said. Radish smiled. “It’s okay Lem... it’s what friends do. We share the good and the bad, the blue and the yellow. We trade off and balance out and compliment. It’s our design.”
Lemon gave Radish a hug, which may seems strange to you until you remember that a radish is rarely a radish in such tales and such tales are rarely told with the simple intention of entertainment; rather that they often come prepared with an applicable punch: When life gives you Lemons, be the Lemon’s aide.
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.
Tuesday, 16 June 2009
Pistachio.
I have missed you.
It has been a busy month in my life and there is so much that I need to take time to recount, but it is not the Florida story nor the mint-stealing story nor even the secret hide-out story that I want to tell you tonight -- the tales of my many adventures on Spring Crew are going to have to wait a few posts longer -- because tonight my heart is living at a deeper place. Please take a moment to find your reading glasses and grab an air tank and some flippers because tonight we are indeed taking a dive.
In preparation for my job this summer I have been doing a lot of thinking. I'm planning curriculum for every day of the ten-week break from school, and though the paperwork of it all is enough to drown a bookworm it is the content of my reading material that has been weighing most on my mind. I've been... opened.
Vainly, perhaps, I like to think of myself as a bit of a pistachio: certainly a cracked nut but with a bit of a shell to keep the world at bay. Turns out the shell was mostly made of ego - and ego doesn't hold up that well when it's God prying away at your heart. If the metaphor is too vague or too much feel free to just nod and smile and pretend like I'm making sense. This note is largely to try and reconcile and process this to myself. The point is, I have been emotionally de-shelled.
Allow me to help you get inside the mind-frame of a nut that has lost it's shell. The first thing you discover is the sunshine... there's more of it! More air, more space, more everything. You begin to realize just how much you'd been missing about reality locked inside the shell. But then the exposure hits you - you feel incredibly insecure, you've lost your protective dark nooks and crannies, you begin to feel the scorch of the sun against newly uncovered skin and the shell you had just relished in releasing suddenly seems like the only safe place to be. You are acutely aware of being watched. It's not exactly a warm or fuzzy feeling. There is a certain shame in not only action or word but thought - there is no getting away with it now - and when you try, the guilt is unbearable. So what is a bare little pistachio to do with herself?
God, with his paring knife of conviction and instruction, is cleaning me up a bit. there are a few bad spots of thought and action that need to be cut out; there is some doubt and judgment and denial that needs scraping off - and I think there may still be more that I have not yet realized - but as the sun's glare begins to dim I am seeing more and more of the one who is cupping my shell-less rotten little life in His hands, and as I see more of Him and get to know Him better I am getting more and more convinced of His care and less and less threatened by my surroundings. I have begun to see a whole new kind of security, found in the deep lines and the soft touch of the gardener's hands -- of the Creator's hands.
This summer will be a challenging one; I will be teaching and leading, but I will also be learning and led. As God shaves away at my tough outer layer and shapes my into the kind of "pistachio" I ought to be, I pray I will be cooperative and flexible. Please pray that for me as well.
And while you're on your knees, please be praying for my staff. I still need one more person and we're working on filling the last few pieces both here and at Widjiitiwin. I will write a few more normal posts throughout the summer to keep you updated, whenever I find a few motivated moments. But for now just know... You too are held in the hands of the Creator. Whether he has cracked you open recently or if you're waiting on the lightening bolt, I hope that God will show you whatever you need to see or hear to understand.
It has been a busy month in my life and there is so much that I need to take time to recount, but it is not the Florida story nor the mint-stealing story nor even the secret hide-out story that I want to tell you tonight -- the tales of my many adventures on Spring Crew are going to have to wait a few posts longer -- because tonight my heart is living at a deeper place. Please take a moment to find your reading glasses and grab an air tank and some flippers because tonight we are indeed taking a dive.
In preparation for my job this summer I have been doing a lot of thinking. I'm planning curriculum for every day of the ten-week break from school, and though the paperwork of it all is enough to drown a bookworm it is the content of my reading material that has been weighing most on my mind. I've been... opened.
Vainly, perhaps, I like to think of myself as a bit of a pistachio: certainly a cracked nut but with a bit of a shell to keep the world at bay. Turns out the shell was mostly made of ego - and ego doesn't hold up that well when it's God prying away at your heart. If the metaphor is too vague or too much feel free to just nod and smile and pretend like I'm making sense. This note is largely to try and reconcile and process this to myself. The point is, I have been emotionally de-shelled.
Allow me to help you get inside the mind-frame of a nut that has lost it's shell. The first thing you discover is the sunshine... there's more of it! More air, more space, more everything. You begin to realize just how much you'd been missing about reality locked inside the shell. But then the exposure hits you - you feel incredibly insecure, you've lost your protective dark nooks and crannies, you begin to feel the scorch of the sun against newly uncovered skin and the shell you had just relished in releasing suddenly seems like the only safe place to be. You are acutely aware of being watched. It's not exactly a warm or fuzzy feeling. There is a certain shame in not only action or word but thought - there is no getting away with it now - and when you try, the guilt is unbearable. So what is a bare little pistachio to do with herself?
God, with his paring knife of conviction and instruction, is cleaning me up a bit. there are a few bad spots of thought and action that need to be cut out; there is some doubt and judgment and denial that needs scraping off - and I think there may still be more that I have not yet realized - but as the sun's glare begins to dim I am seeing more and more of the one who is cupping my shell-less rotten little life in His hands, and as I see more of Him and get to know Him better I am getting more and more convinced of His care and less and less threatened by my surroundings. I have begun to see a whole new kind of security, found in the deep lines and the soft touch of the gardener's hands -- of the Creator's hands.
This summer will be a challenging one; I will be teaching and leading, but I will also be learning and led. As God shaves away at my tough outer layer and shapes my into the kind of "pistachio" I ought to be, I pray I will be cooperative and flexible. Please pray that for me as well.
And while you're on your knees, please be praying for my staff. I still need one more person and we're working on filling the last few pieces both here and at Widjiitiwin. I will write a few more normal posts throughout the summer to keep you updated, whenever I find a few motivated moments. But for now just know... You too are held in the hands of the Creator. Whether he has cracked you open recently or if you're waiting on the lightening bolt, I hope that God will show you whatever you need to see or hear to understand.
Wednesday, 18 February 2009
Twenty-five.
1. I have a deep and personal affection for all things silly. Two immediate examples: Larry the Cucumber and his diddies make me smile no matter my mood, and I am actually going to take the time to fill out this survey. I may even combine the two.
P.S. This is a note that originated in the world of facebook. Usually such notes, the kind that are more ...revealing... in nature, are avoided on this blog. I like having a certain anonymity, though I'm sure most of you know exactly who I am; but, upon the request of my family (that I may share this with more family), I am leaving it here. I hope that this may entertain you, or at least help you to settle once and for all in your mind that you are not the oddest person on the Internet. I am a quirk. And now anyone can prove it...
1. I believe that even numbers are the single most aggravating invention of humankind. My frustration is not specifically with things that are grouped in multiples of the pair. It is the numbers themselves that irk my very core. For example: 2. Eww. Or even worse, 4. From time to time I can handle the number 8, but 10 is unsettling and 6 gives me goosebumps... actually. A physical reaction. But odd numbers... ah yes. Odd is where it's at.
3. Sometimes I wear mismatched sock in honour of my best friend. I secretly find it unsettling and I am incredibly aware of my feet all day. I prefer life barefooted more than any other way.
3. The ring I wear on my right hand has never technically belonged to me. I don't know who's it is... I'm sorry if I've been wearing your ring for the past five years, but you can't have it back. I love it too much. and I think it makes my finger look lovely... :)
5. I have mutant bunion feet.
7. I love public transportation. My bus pass is by far my best (inanimate) friend in North Bay. We have made many excursions over the past year and a half, and I know their are many more journeys and adventures to come.
7. I like every left-handed person I have every met. Just for the sake of repetition, I have never met a left-handed person I was not attracted to in some way. I have often wished to be left-handed and for about a year I tried to train myself to be ambidextrous. (I did not succeed at the time, but my left-handed chalkboard writing isn't horrific.) Part of me is quite sure that I will marry a lefty.
7. I can speak fluent Pig Latin. When I was little, if my Mom wanted to have a conversation that she didn't want my sisters or me to pick up on, she would spell the key words. When we learned to spell, she resorted to Pig Latin. I don't think my Dad ever learned, but I remember being quite confused for a few months, listening to my Mom and my Grandpa chatting it up over my head. But then I learned the trick to that too, and spoiled their fun.
9. I love to write... and I currently have five blogs, three of which you have access to via my profile, for days that you find yourself with some free time and nothing to do (or if you need to procrastinate for a while), and one is my diary (of sorts) and one is my prayer journal... or prayer blog, I suppose... I'm pretty sure God gets the message no matter the medium. I'm also in process of creating a choose-your-own-adventure story that needs a few more alternative endings.
9. I collect dimes. I have over $200 in dimes at home and I'm building up a nice collection here at school as well. I have a hard time spending them, and I often sort them into a different pocket from the rest of my change when I'm shopping - the habit is mostly subconscious at this point. If I see a dime on the floor, even in a busy hallway, I will more than likely stop to pick it up. One time, I bent to pick up a dime that was sitting in a doorway... just as a heads-up to all of you would-be dime collectors, make sure no one is following you very closely before you stoop. They may go flying.
11. I love second-hand stores. I would guess that about half of my clothing comes from Value Village, Sally Ann or Winners. The other half comes from Wal-Mart. The other half comes from (of course there are three halves) a variety of other cool places (ie, Eclipse and Stitches).
11. Stickers = the bomb.
11. I picked up my clarinet for the first time in six years this afternoon. (It was a little squeaky...) My goal is to be able to play it with ease by summer. I'm working on Disney tunes for the time being.
13. My parents have instilled a wonderful appreciation for antiques in the depths of my soul. My personal passion is books... Anything printed before or around 1900 is of instant interest to me. Upon moving to school this year and packing/unpacking my life I realized that over half of the boxes I had brought up were filled with books. Alas, some of them have since been sent home due to a lack of shelf space, but I proudly display the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, John Bunyan, Jonathan Swift, Mark Twain and Dr. Seuss among many other authors throughout modern history.
13. I have four dresses in my closet up here. One of them is a marvelous princess ball gown, a strapless floor-length coral thing that I am absolutely in love with. Some times I wear it around my apartment when no one else is home and sing all of the greatest Disney love songs to myself, just for the fun of it. I hope you have things you do just for the fun of it.
15. I am afraid of mathematics. (2+2=5) (If you read 1984, you may understand some of my apprehension... or at least that reference.)
17. I love shrimp, but it's actually the dip I'm addicted to. Did you know that pretty much anything dipped in seafood sauce tastes like seafood? One of my favourite shrimp-alternatives is cheese and crackers... "Tastes like chicken"? Nope. Tastes like seafood. MmMmmmm :)
17. I struggle with both insecurity and vanity, often at the same time. The tension between them tend to leave my self-image in a pretty shaky place most days.
17. I will never need alcohol to bring life to a party; just keep me up past 2am. Apparently, I am pretty entertaining all on my own.
19. I took three years of Spanish in high school and I can still read and understand quite a bit, though I've lost most of my conversational skills. One of my life-goals is to become bilingual (or trilingual, if Pig Latin ever becomes a recognized language...) and live in Central America for at least a year. I would love to go on a long terms mission trip there, or perhaps go over to teach English. In high school I went to Mexico for just over a week and in 2007 I went on a trip to Costa Rica for a month. I think I left part of my heart in those places. One day I will go back and retrieve it.
19. I am a pyro. I love fire. This has lead to a number of nearly-dangerous activities in my time, many to do with campfires or bonfires, some to do with candles and matches... But the flame is such a naturally intriguing thing... I understand why it has become such a metaphor.
19. I am a country girl to the bone, to my very core. Country music is my therapy for homesickness, especially those old songs and the artists from my childhood. The Dixie Chicks, early Shania Twain, Jo Dee Messina, Garth Brooks, Shedaisy, Kieth Urban, Martina McBride, Lonestar, Terri Clark, Tim McGraw, Phil Vasser... the list is a long one. Country music is all about the old-school, old-fashioned, simplistic ways of life. That's how I grew up, it's how I live, and how I'd like my kids to grow up. I was raised by a cowboy and very proud of it.
21. Rain is my favourite precipitation and dancing, singing, running, playing or just standing in the rain is the best feeling in the world. I wish it would rain more. Maybe I should move to BC or England for a while. I think I would have a wonderful time.
23. I have had blonde, brown, red, black and green hair. The green was on purpose. I'm going blue next, but just little bits this time.
27. I write secret notes to one of my friends in Runic.
29. I wear an apron about 90% of the time I spend in my kitchen, whether or not I am baking or cooking anything. I think I just like the domestic feeling. It makes me feel like maybe the world still has some of those old-fashioned principals and values that my favourite country songs sing about. It's the kind of thing that I think our modern hyper-progressive culture is deprived of... I think that maybe if women wore aprons more often and guys started styling the tie again from time to time that some of the problems that feminism has brought into our society would be tempered. Maybe people would feel more settled, more at peace...
P.S. This is a note that originated in the world of facebook. Usually such notes, the kind that are more ...revealing... in nature, are avoided on this blog. I like having a certain anonymity, though I'm sure most of you know exactly who I am; but, upon the request of my family (that I may share this with more family), I am leaving it here. I hope that this may entertain you, or at least help you to settle once and for all in your mind that you are not the oddest person on the Internet. I am a quirk. And now anyone can prove it...
1. I believe that even numbers are the single most aggravating invention of humankind. My frustration is not specifically with things that are grouped in multiples of the pair. It is the numbers themselves that irk my very core. For example: 2. Eww. Or even worse, 4. From time to time I can handle the number 8, but 10 is unsettling and 6 gives me goosebumps... actually. A physical reaction. But odd numbers... ah yes. Odd is where it's at.
3. Sometimes I wear mismatched sock in honour of my best friend. I secretly find it unsettling and I am incredibly aware of my feet all day. I prefer life barefooted more than any other way.
3. The ring I wear on my right hand has never technically belonged to me. I don't know who's it is... I'm sorry if I've been wearing your ring for the past five years, but you can't have it back. I love it too much. and I think it makes my finger look lovely... :)
5. I have mutant bunion feet.
7. I love public transportation. My bus pass is by far my best (inanimate) friend in North Bay. We have made many excursions over the past year and a half, and I know their are many more journeys and adventures to come.
7. I like every left-handed person I have every met. Just for the sake of repetition, I have never met a left-handed person I was not attracted to in some way. I have often wished to be left-handed and for about a year I tried to train myself to be ambidextrous. (I did not succeed at the time, but my left-handed chalkboard writing isn't horrific.) Part of me is quite sure that I will marry a lefty.
7. I can speak fluent Pig Latin. When I was little, if my Mom wanted to have a conversation that she didn't want my sisters or me to pick up on, she would spell the key words. When we learned to spell, she resorted to Pig Latin. I don't think my Dad ever learned, but I remember being quite confused for a few months, listening to my Mom and my Grandpa chatting it up over my head. But then I learned the trick to that too, and spoiled their fun.
9. I love to write... and I currently have five blogs, three of which you have access to via my profile, for days that you find yourself with some free time and nothing to do (or if you need to procrastinate for a while), and one is my diary (of sorts) and one is my prayer journal... or prayer blog, I suppose... I'm pretty sure God gets the message no matter the medium. I'm also in process of creating a choose-your-own-adventure story that needs a few more alternative endings.
9. I collect dimes. I have over $200 in dimes at home and I'm building up a nice collection here at school as well. I have a hard time spending them, and I often sort them into a different pocket from the rest of my change when I'm shopping - the habit is mostly subconscious at this point. If I see a dime on the floor, even in a busy hallway, I will more than likely stop to pick it up. One time, I bent to pick up a dime that was sitting in a doorway... just as a heads-up to all of you would-be dime collectors, make sure no one is following you very closely before you stoop. They may go flying.
11. I love second-hand stores. I would guess that about half of my clothing comes from Value Village, Sally Ann or Winners. The other half comes from Wal-Mart. The other half comes from (of course there are three halves) a variety of other cool places (ie, Eclipse and Stitches).
11. Stickers = the bomb.
11. I picked up my clarinet for the first time in six years this afternoon. (It was a little squeaky...) My goal is to be able to play it with ease by summer. I'm working on Disney tunes for the time being.
13. My parents have instilled a wonderful appreciation for antiques in the depths of my soul. My personal passion is books... Anything printed before or around 1900 is of instant interest to me. Upon moving to school this year and packing/unpacking my life I realized that over half of the boxes I had brought up were filled with books. Alas, some of them have since been sent home due to a lack of shelf space, but I proudly display the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, John Bunyan, Jonathan Swift, Mark Twain and Dr. Seuss among many other authors throughout modern history.
13. I have four dresses in my closet up here. One of them is a marvelous princess ball gown, a strapless floor-length coral thing that I am absolutely in love with. Some times I wear it around my apartment when no one else is home and sing all of the greatest Disney love songs to myself, just for the fun of it. I hope you have things you do just for the fun of it.
15. I am afraid of mathematics. (2+2=5) (If you read 1984, you may understand some of my apprehension... or at least that reference.)
17. I love shrimp, but it's actually the dip I'm addicted to. Did you know that pretty much anything dipped in seafood sauce tastes like seafood? One of my favourite shrimp-alternatives is cheese and crackers... "Tastes like chicken"? Nope. Tastes like seafood. MmMmmmm :)
17. I struggle with both insecurity and vanity, often at the same time. The tension between them tend to leave my self-image in a pretty shaky place most days.
17. I will never need alcohol to bring life to a party; just keep me up past 2am. Apparently, I am pretty entertaining all on my own.
19. I took three years of Spanish in high school and I can still read and understand quite a bit, though I've lost most of my conversational skills. One of my life-goals is to become bilingual (or trilingual, if Pig Latin ever becomes a recognized language...) and live in Central America for at least a year. I would love to go on a long terms mission trip there, or perhaps go over to teach English. In high school I went to Mexico for just over a week and in 2007 I went on a trip to Costa Rica for a month. I think I left part of my heart in those places. One day I will go back and retrieve it.
19. I am a pyro. I love fire. This has lead to a number of nearly-dangerous activities in my time, many to do with campfires or bonfires, some to do with candles and matches... But the flame is such a naturally intriguing thing... I understand why it has become such a metaphor.
19. I am a country girl to the bone, to my very core. Country music is my therapy for homesickness, especially those old songs and the artists from my childhood. The Dixie Chicks, early Shania Twain, Jo Dee Messina, Garth Brooks, Shedaisy, Kieth Urban, Martina McBride, Lonestar, Terri Clark, Tim McGraw, Phil Vasser... the list is a long one. Country music is all about the old-school, old-fashioned, simplistic ways of life. That's how I grew up, it's how I live, and how I'd like my kids to grow up. I was raised by a cowboy and very proud of it.
21. Rain is my favourite precipitation and dancing, singing, running, playing or just standing in the rain is the best feeling in the world. I wish it would rain more. Maybe I should move to BC or England for a while. I think I would have a wonderful time.
23. I have had blonde, brown, red, black and green hair. The green was on purpose. I'm going blue next, but just little bits this time.
27. I write secret notes to one of my friends in Runic.
29. I wear an apron about 90% of the time I spend in my kitchen, whether or not I am baking or cooking anything. I think I just like the domestic feeling. It makes me feel like maybe the world still has some of those old-fashioned principals and values that my favourite country songs sing about. It's the kind of thing that I think our modern hyper-progressive culture is deprived of... I think that maybe if women wore aprons more often and guys started styling the tie again from time to time that some of the problems that feminism has brought into our society would be tempered. Maybe people would feel more settled, more at peace...
Friday, 23 January 2009
The Blanket of Gold
I am sitting cross-legged on top of my bed, on my grandmother’s blanket of precious gold thread. Perhaps you may comment on its yellowing colour but I promise it’s golden at heart. Perhaps the yellow comes of its age, for I believe it may have been her mother’s before hers, before mine. But I know that it’s gold even though it may not seem it. I know that it’s gold, because she told me it was.
There are not many things, in some ways, that I remember of my grandmother, but the memories I do have are vivid and clear. I remember the layout of their home near Woodstock, and their basement or cellar where a game of crokinole could always be found, and where I imagined secret passages that ran to wonderful places, and played hide and seek with my sisters among the shelves and boxes of life, packed away. I remember the picture of Jesus upstairs, walking along the beach in bare feet. I remember thinking he looked so lovely, so at peace and so gentle and so strong at the same time. I remember their kitchen there, with the peach coloured curtains and the Precious Moments figurines that sat along the sill. I remember the day that we received our own little figurines, each with a child’s face and a soft animal’s body. I still have mine in a box back home. I found it this Christmas and it made me smile a lot, and cry a little. I remember “the new house” with carpets of white, where we would draw pictures with our fingers just after the vacuum, and then drawing on her legs with crayon when the novelty of the first game had faded. I remember the great stone lions at the front driveway, and the friendly boy-neighbour with his tree house, and the corn field behind the shed that I went into just once, and the ashes of a fire pit where we used to pretend we would be brave enough to walk across it, even if it were burning coals, like they did in Aladdin. I remember the back porch and the mysterious other door where people we didn’t know lived in the other half. I remember watching the Gaithers upstairs on the bed with Mom because it was Grandma’s favourite, and Mom would tell us stories about when she was a little girl growing up, with her pet goats who were terribly smelly, and eating green beans with Aunt Lynne until they were sick, and tale of the tricycle and the picnic bench. I remember our room, tucked into a corner, with rainbow wallpaper and lights you turned on like a giant button, and the curtain for a door, and piles and piles of pillows. I even remember the stairs and how they turned at a small platform before you got to the front door and the kitchen, over to the left of my perch. I sat on those stairs and watched many long talks held by the grown-ups at the table, or Scrabble games. It was by those same steps that I remember holding onto Amanda the day I named her, the day that Carolyn received Polly and Melissa got Jessica. I remember Grandma pulling me aside into her room and explaining that it wasn’t the right doll – that she had wanted another one, that she could send a way for it, or she had tried to – one with a lighter dress or something... but Amanda was perfect. She was one of the most important gifts I have ever received, and she still sits at home, waiting for me every time I come back from school.
And now we have come full circle to the story I set out to tell... the story of my grandmother’s blanket. We were at that table, the one that had been for Scrabble and grown-ups, and somehow I knew that it was going to be a very important conversation. I don’t remember if I was sitting or standing at the time, but I remember being at eye-level with my Grandma, and I remember her leaning in a bit, like she was going to tell me a secret.
I suppose in a way it was a secret, a very special kind of exchange, just between the two of us. She told me that she wanted to give me something – something that I was going to get now but that I couldn’t have until I was quite big, and in school... in University. She told me of the beautiful golden blanket that had been an heirloom, a thing passed down in a very special way, from one woman to another, in our family. She had tried to explain that she was giving it to me so early because she wanted to make sure she got to give it to me herself. I didn’t really understand what she had meant by that, at the time... people say she had been sick for a long, long time, but I had never seen sickness. All I can remember is the love. Anyway, there was a gift bag at her feet, kind of under her chair. She reached for it and slowly pulled out the blanket of gold; the most wonderful tapestry I had ever seen, or have ever seen since. She unfolded it for me to admire for only a moment, just long enough for my six-or-seven-year-old fingertips to feel its cool smoothness, then she folded it back up, so carefully, and put it back into the gift bag. She told me that Mom was going to take care of it for me until it was time for me to have it again. And she did.
My grandmother’s golden blanket has only tonight come back out of the gift bag. I think I was almost afraid of using it before now, remembering the way my Grandma had handled it with such care, like it was the most delicate and fragile possession she had ever owned. But I want to be able to look at it more. It is still as wonderful as I remember it, from so long ago in the kitchen of the new house. The pattern is beautiful, so unlike anything else I have, and the material feels cool and smooth under my twenty-year-old fingertips. And now it smells like my hope chest, a reminder that our memories both prepare us for our future and are affected, however gently, by our present.
I couldn’t be happier tonight. I’ve been wiping at tears for over an hour now, but my heart feels so good. There are other stories I have of Grandma Alway, other memories to share another time, but the story of this blanket made of gold seems to top them all, right now. I only hope, in however many years when I have the joy of a daughter or granddaughter that I will be able to pass on this blanket, folded up carefully into its original gift bag, so that its journey may continue, along with all of the stories and histories that go with it.
There are not many things, in some ways, that I remember of my grandmother, but the memories I do have are vivid and clear. I remember the layout of their home near Woodstock, and their basement or cellar where a game of crokinole could always be found, and where I imagined secret passages that ran to wonderful places, and played hide and seek with my sisters among the shelves and boxes of life, packed away. I remember the picture of Jesus upstairs, walking along the beach in bare feet. I remember thinking he looked so lovely, so at peace and so gentle and so strong at the same time. I remember their kitchen there, with the peach coloured curtains and the Precious Moments figurines that sat along the sill. I remember the day that we received our own little figurines, each with a child’s face and a soft animal’s body. I still have mine in a box back home. I found it this Christmas and it made me smile a lot, and cry a little. I remember “the new house” with carpets of white, where we would draw pictures with our fingers just after the vacuum, and then drawing on her legs with crayon when the novelty of the first game had faded. I remember the great stone lions at the front driveway, and the friendly boy-neighbour with his tree house, and the corn field behind the shed that I went into just once, and the ashes of a fire pit where we used to pretend we would be brave enough to walk across it, even if it were burning coals, like they did in Aladdin. I remember the back porch and the mysterious other door where people we didn’t know lived in the other half. I remember watching the Gaithers upstairs on the bed with Mom because it was Grandma’s favourite, and Mom would tell us stories about when she was a little girl growing up, with her pet goats who were terribly smelly, and eating green beans with Aunt Lynne until they were sick, and tale of the tricycle and the picnic bench. I remember our room, tucked into a corner, with rainbow wallpaper and lights you turned on like a giant button, and the curtain for a door, and piles and piles of pillows. I even remember the stairs and how they turned at a small platform before you got to the front door and the kitchen, over to the left of my perch. I sat on those stairs and watched many long talks held by the grown-ups at the table, or Scrabble games. It was by those same steps that I remember holding onto Amanda the day I named her, the day that Carolyn received Polly and Melissa got Jessica. I remember Grandma pulling me aside into her room and explaining that it wasn’t the right doll – that she had wanted another one, that she could send a way for it, or she had tried to – one with a lighter dress or something... but Amanda was perfect. She was one of the most important gifts I have ever received, and she still sits at home, waiting for me every time I come back from school.
And now we have come full circle to the story I set out to tell... the story of my grandmother’s blanket. We were at that table, the one that had been for Scrabble and grown-ups, and somehow I knew that it was going to be a very important conversation. I don’t remember if I was sitting or standing at the time, but I remember being at eye-level with my Grandma, and I remember her leaning in a bit, like she was going to tell me a secret.
I suppose in a way it was a secret, a very special kind of exchange, just between the two of us. She told me that she wanted to give me something – something that I was going to get now but that I couldn’t have until I was quite big, and in school... in University. She told me of the beautiful golden blanket that had been an heirloom, a thing passed down in a very special way, from one woman to another, in our family. She had tried to explain that she was giving it to me so early because she wanted to make sure she got to give it to me herself. I didn’t really understand what she had meant by that, at the time... people say she had been sick for a long, long time, but I had never seen sickness. All I can remember is the love. Anyway, there was a gift bag at her feet, kind of under her chair. She reached for it and slowly pulled out the blanket of gold; the most wonderful tapestry I had ever seen, or have ever seen since. She unfolded it for me to admire for only a moment, just long enough for my six-or-seven-year-old fingertips to feel its cool smoothness, then she folded it back up, so carefully, and put it back into the gift bag. She told me that Mom was going to take care of it for me until it was time for me to have it again. And she did.
My grandmother’s golden blanket has only tonight come back out of the gift bag. I think I was almost afraid of using it before now, remembering the way my Grandma had handled it with such care, like it was the most delicate and fragile possession she had ever owned. But I want to be able to look at it more. It is still as wonderful as I remember it, from so long ago in the kitchen of the new house. The pattern is beautiful, so unlike anything else I have, and the material feels cool and smooth under my twenty-year-old fingertips. And now it smells like my hope chest, a reminder that our memories both prepare us for our future and are affected, however gently, by our present.
I couldn’t be happier tonight. I’ve been wiping at tears for over an hour now, but my heart feels so good. There are other stories I have of Grandma Alway, other memories to share another time, but the story of this blanket made of gold seems to top them all, right now. I only hope, in however many years when I have the joy of a daughter or granddaughter that I will be able to pass on this blanket, folded up carefully into its original gift bag, so that its journey may continue, along with all of the stories and histories that go with it.
Saturday, 6 December 2008
The Mind of a Six Year Old
From time to time I find myself in need of a special kind of therapy. When I am discouraged, I try on one of a number of wonderful dresses buried in my closet, when I am lonely I make time to go out with a few friends or call home and talk to my Mom or my sisters and when I am stressed, I become six years old.
When I am overwhelmed by schoolwork, be that assignments or exams, I have found that the best therapy for recovering my sanity is to temporarily act as though none of it matters. I don my favourite pair of head-to-foot patterned pajamas, take my Sesame Street blanket that I have hiding between the duvets on my bed, gather my reserve box of sweet cereal, a large bowl, my favourite spoon and a gallon of milk and I sit in front of the television with legs crossed, watching Saturday morning cartoons. The recovery process usually takes me about two hours and by the end of Bugs Bunny or the Flintstones, my focus and my inspiration have usually returned.
While in the midst of a Road-Runner cartoon I found myself marveling at the creative processes of Wile E Coyote as he designed yet another flawless, genius scheme. Always a masterpiece of blue-prints and instructions, Wile E’s plans had every visual reassurance of success; naturally, the Road-Runner would find some way of foiling his plot, and we all know that this coyote has suffered many a concussion when his tiny pink umbrella failed to hold back the falling bolder or anvil. The next frame was what has always impressed me with Wile E’s character… no matter the previous injury, he would immediately be working up some new and devilish plan to capture and cook our speedy friend.
Where would the fictional world be without Acme Enterprises and where would we be without heroes like Wile E that remind us of the meaning of endurance and perseverance under all kinds of trials and tests? It is lessons like this one that pull me out of academic slump and emotional weariness and back into the world of functioning people and progression of thought. With characters like Wile E that can pick themselves up even after they get knocked off their feet over and over and over, then how can I do anything but smile and pick myself back up in the midst of a crazy and stress filled week? Even when I feel like I’m drowning in work – at least it’s not an anvil.
When I am overwhelmed by schoolwork, be that assignments or exams, I have found that the best therapy for recovering my sanity is to temporarily act as though none of it matters. I don my favourite pair of head-to-foot patterned pajamas, take my Sesame Street blanket that I have hiding between the duvets on my bed, gather my reserve box of sweet cereal, a large bowl, my favourite spoon and a gallon of milk and I sit in front of the television with legs crossed, watching Saturday morning cartoons. The recovery process usually takes me about two hours and by the end of Bugs Bunny or the Flintstones, my focus and my inspiration have usually returned.
While in the midst of a Road-Runner cartoon I found myself marveling at the creative processes of Wile E Coyote as he designed yet another flawless, genius scheme. Always a masterpiece of blue-prints and instructions, Wile E’s plans had every visual reassurance of success; naturally, the Road-Runner would find some way of foiling his plot, and we all know that this coyote has suffered many a concussion when his tiny pink umbrella failed to hold back the falling bolder or anvil. The next frame was what has always impressed me with Wile E’s character… no matter the previous injury, he would immediately be working up some new and devilish plan to capture and cook our speedy friend.
Where would the fictional world be without Acme Enterprises and where would we be without heroes like Wile E that remind us of the meaning of endurance and perseverance under all kinds of trials and tests? It is lessons like this one that pull me out of academic slump and emotional weariness and back into the world of functioning people and progression of thought. With characters like Wile E that can pick themselves up even after they get knocked off their feet over and over and over, then how can I do anything but smile and pick myself back up in the midst of a crazy and stress filled week? Even when I feel like I’m drowning in work – at least it’s not an anvil.
Saturday, 25 October 2008
Open Your Eyes
Once upon a time, as the clich̩d entry begins, there was a beautiful young girl who lived in a magic mirror. The girl spent much of her time gazing into the world of reality, longing to be a part of the adventures and pleasures that their kind of life could bring. She pressed her hands against the thick glass that separated her world from theirs and imagined a place where people were full of energy and colour, much unlike the flat and dulled spaces she saw when surveying her own home. The girl was a dreamer, that much was well known about her Рbut who she really was seemed a mystery even to her friends and family; she saved her heart for staring across the glass and into the lives of others.
The mirror she lived in was magical for two reasons; the first, obviously, was that it contained and protected a world of people, just like those on the other side. They were a special and lovely clan, friendly and full of life, though the girl couldn’t see it. The second magical element to the mirror was that it was reflective, though it did not reflect directly. When a person came up against the glass they would not see their own image but instead it was the reversal of the world at their back. If the girl had taken a step backwards and turned around she would be looking at exactly the same view as the mirror seemed to project.
Perhaps if she had turned around she would have joined into the game of Frisbee that had found so intriguing. If she had turned, she could have given a hug to the child with scrapped knees that had fallen off her bike. Maybe then she would have gone to the dance or carolled at Christmas or played in the park or done one of a million things that she watched the children in the mirror doing. If only she had turned around and faced her world with her eyes truly opened, maybe then she would have really lived.
But the girl never answered the call of her friends when she was looking through the pane of glass. She blocked out and ignored everything that happened behind her and refused, perhaps unconsciously, to participate in her world.
Especially when he was there.
A boy, young and handsome, looked back at her; he used to be so quiet, only rarely coming into the mirror’s view. He would quietly walk back and forth between the trees at the edge of the wood, always with a cautious and curious gaze. In the girl’s imagination she would often think of conversations that she might have with this boy, were he able to see her. Impossible, she thought. He lives in the world of colour and I am here, so flat and dull. He can’t see my world nor can I pass through this glass to his. Impossible. And yet the more the she dwelt on the impossibility of her growing affection for the boy and the more confidant he seemed to grow, coming ever closer to the mirror, the more hopelessly consumed she became with the life she saw – and the more distanced from her world she became as well.
By day the little girl would peer through the glass, longing to be on the other side with the boy and his friends, and into the evening she would lie down on the grass and drift into dream about his world and his life. Little did she know that he too had spent time dreaming of the looking glass girl, slowly building up the courage to finally meet her. Until then, he thought, I will care for her from a distance, dreaming of the life we might someday share.
Time wore on and the girl went to the mirror in spring rain and winter chill for many years. She grew from a hopeful child to a young woman enveloped in an imaginary life; with every passing season she found herself loving the boy, now a man, more and more, but she was also desperately lonely. He was a beautiful fiction – intangible, illusive and pretend. It’s a lie, she would tell herself, over and over while staring into his face. His image stood now, and for a long time before this moment, directly before her, confidant, tall and strong. He was kind looking and attractive, ever so much more than their first few meetings, and yet he was the wonderful lead character of a life she could never possess. He’s not real... but I love him...
The man had attached himself completely to this woman in every way that one can without physical contact or mutual conversation. He was so committed to her that in a moment’s breath he would marry without doubt or fear, and yet he remained silent, waiting until she was ready.
That day came after seven years of looking through glass. The girl had been eerily quiet for hours, thinking about her life; the life that she had wasted by spending her time standing in front of the mirror. She thought about her family and her friends that for so long had worked to keep her in touch with reality, supporting her and loving her even when they disagreed with what she was doing and thinking. She thought about the part of her heart that she had devoted to the glass, the investment of her mind that she had put in something so superficial and empty. Then the girl stopped thinking and began to act. She stood and bravely faced the mirror’s surface.
“NO!” she cried, emotions erupting from the depths of her soul. The single word rang loud and true and clear with a self-strength she had never before experienced. “You do not own me!”
Suddenly the woman threw herself forward and pounded the sheet of glass with both fists. She could feel it strain under her pressure. She struck again, with more force and the glass moaned at the blow. Once more she lifted her arms in an attack against the glass that had kept her from life on either side of the pane. The flawless surface of the magic mirror shattered.
For the first time in the whole of her life, she saw her own reflection in the broken glass. The little girl, so familiar from ages past, was nowhere to be seen and in her place stood a tall and beautiful woman, colourful and strong, like the people she had been watching for years. She laughed a quiet, mournful laugh for the life that the mirror had stolen away. “How did I ever get so consumed with the life of my fantasy when reality, true and present and full, was all this time behind me? How could I be so blind?” The woman leaned her forehead against the broken glass and let her tears fall. “No more of this. No more.”
After a moment she pushed away from the pane and turned away from her life of slavery to an imagined world. Her eyes lifted up, truly open to the sight in front of her, her world, reality. She gasped.
The view she saw was the view she has been staring at since girlhood. The meadow, the trees, the town and the church, the school, the people... the boy...
He stepped forward and held out his hands. “I knew you would find me eventually.” He smiled. He was a boy no longer as she was no longer a child, and his voice was deep and clear. How she had waited for this moment! How she had longed to hear him speak! “I’ve been waiting so long,” he said, “because I knew that you weren’t ready for me. You’ve no idea how my heart ached when you were crying and I couldn’t comfort you. How I longed to laugh along with you, but I needed to wait. But now you have finally come away from your dreams and wishes into a world that can truly be yours. Come with me; let me show you the life you have been missing, the life you have always wanted.”
How much of our lives are spent longing for an imagined life? How often do you find yourself dreaming of that perfect man or woman, however distant and intangible they may be? A life of ideals and fanciful hopes is a dangerous and discouraging one to dwell within. Concentrating solely upon the future causes you to lose sight of the present; aspiration must be balanced with action, daydream with truth. Don’t forfeit who you are but find who you are in the world that’s foundation is real; it is then that you will truly discover what it means to live.
The mirror she lived in was magical for two reasons; the first, obviously, was that it contained and protected a world of people, just like those on the other side. They were a special and lovely clan, friendly and full of life, though the girl couldn’t see it. The second magical element to the mirror was that it was reflective, though it did not reflect directly. When a person came up against the glass they would not see their own image but instead it was the reversal of the world at their back. If the girl had taken a step backwards and turned around she would be looking at exactly the same view as the mirror seemed to project.
Perhaps if she had turned around she would have joined into the game of Frisbee that had found so intriguing. If she had turned, she could have given a hug to the child with scrapped knees that had fallen off her bike. Maybe then she would have gone to the dance or carolled at Christmas or played in the park or done one of a million things that she watched the children in the mirror doing. If only she had turned around and faced her world with her eyes truly opened, maybe then she would have really lived.
But the girl never answered the call of her friends when she was looking through the pane of glass. She blocked out and ignored everything that happened behind her and refused, perhaps unconsciously, to participate in her world.
Especially when he was there.
A boy, young and handsome, looked back at her; he used to be so quiet, only rarely coming into the mirror’s view. He would quietly walk back and forth between the trees at the edge of the wood, always with a cautious and curious gaze. In the girl’s imagination she would often think of conversations that she might have with this boy, were he able to see her. Impossible, she thought. He lives in the world of colour and I am here, so flat and dull. He can’t see my world nor can I pass through this glass to his. Impossible. And yet the more the she dwelt on the impossibility of her growing affection for the boy and the more confidant he seemed to grow, coming ever closer to the mirror, the more hopelessly consumed she became with the life she saw – and the more distanced from her world she became as well.
By day the little girl would peer through the glass, longing to be on the other side with the boy and his friends, and into the evening she would lie down on the grass and drift into dream about his world and his life. Little did she know that he too had spent time dreaming of the looking glass girl, slowly building up the courage to finally meet her. Until then, he thought, I will care for her from a distance, dreaming of the life we might someday share.
Time wore on and the girl went to the mirror in spring rain and winter chill for many years. She grew from a hopeful child to a young woman enveloped in an imaginary life; with every passing season she found herself loving the boy, now a man, more and more, but she was also desperately lonely. He was a beautiful fiction – intangible, illusive and pretend. It’s a lie, she would tell herself, over and over while staring into his face. His image stood now, and for a long time before this moment, directly before her, confidant, tall and strong. He was kind looking and attractive, ever so much more than their first few meetings, and yet he was the wonderful lead character of a life she could never possess. He’s not real... but I love him...
The man had attached himself completely to this woman in every way that one can without physical contact or mutual conversation. He was so committed to her that in a moment’s breath he would marry without doubt or fear, and yet he remained silent, waiting until she was ready.
That day came after seven years of looking through glass. The girl had been eerily quiet for hours, thinking about her life; the life that she had wasted by spending her time standing in front of the mirror. She thought about her family and her friends that for so long had worked to keep her in touch with reality, supporting her and loving her even when they disagreed with what she was doing and thinking. She thought about the part of her heart that she had devoted to the glass, the investment of her mind that she had put in something so superficial and empty. Then the girl stopped thinking and began to act. She stood and bravely faced the mirror’s surface.
“NO!” she cried, emotions erupting from the depths of her soul. The single word rang loud and true and clear with a self-strength she had never before experienced. “You do not own me!”
Suddenly the woman threw herself forward and pounded the sheet of glass with both fists. She could feel it strain under her pressure. She struck again, with more force and the glass moaned at the blow. Once more she lifted her arms in an attack against the glass that had kept her from life on either side of the pane. The flawless surface of the magic mirror shattered.
For the first time in the whole of her life, she saw her own reflection in the broken glass. The little girl, so familiar from ages past, was nowhere to be seen and in her place stood a tall and beautiful woman, colourful and strong, like the people she had been watching for years. She laughed a quiet, mournful laugh for the life that the mirror had stolen away. “How did I ever get so consumed with the life of my fantasy when reality, true and present and full, was all this time behind me? How could I be so blind?” The woman leaned her forehead against the broken glass and let her tears fall. “No more of this. No more.”
After a moment she pushed away from the pane and turned away from her life of slavery to an imagined world. Her eyes lifted up, truly open to the sight in front of her, her world, reality. She gasped.
The view she saw was the view she has been staring at since girlhood. The meadow, the trees, the town and the church, the school, the people... the boy...
He stepped forward and held out his hands. “I knew you would find me eventually.” He smiled. He was a boy no longer as she was no longer a child, and his voice was deep and clear. How she had waited for this moment! How she had longed to hear him speak! “I’ve been waiting so long,” he said, “because I knew that you weren’t ready for me. You’ve no idea how my heart ached when you were crying and I couldn’t comfort you. How I longed to laugh along with you, but I needed to wait. But now you have finally come away from your dreams and wishes into a world that can truly be yours. Come with me; let me show you the life you have been missing, the life you have always wanted.”
How much of our lives are spent longing for an imagined life? How often do you find yourself dreaming of that perfect man or woman, however distant and intangible they may be? A life of ideals and fanciful hopes is a dangerous and discouraging one to dwell within. Concentrating solely upon the future causes you to lose sight of the present; aspiration must be balanced with action, daydream with truth. Don’t forfeit who you are but find who you are in the world that’s foundation is real; it is then that you will truly discover what it means to live.
Wednesday, 4 June 2008
Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall. Appraise Me.
Long before Snow White’s queen stared enviously into her looking glass and begged the infamous question, people have been seeking their mirror’s approval. At some point in history, people discovered that “what’s on the outside” counts for something in this world. In today’s culture, internal things, however brilliant or beautiful, rarely capture any attention if the wrapper is pale or plain. As frequently as we remind ourselves to act to the contrary, we are all guilty of judging the book by its cover. Eventually, the cover becomes our focus, in fear that the contents will be left to collect dust on a forgotten bookshelf if the binding goes unnoticed too long. And so, we decorate, sculpt, colour and modify; then we rush to the mirror to be appraised.
How do I compare? It’s a dangerous question that too often leads into a judgmental and destructive emotional darkness. Competition is an addictive habit that is easy to begin; often the rivalry is subtle and internal. Am I better than I used to be? Am I more attractive? More intelligent? Slowly, naturally, others enter into this comparative mental dialogue. Am I as beautiful as that girl? Do I have more skill than he does? Who is stronger? Faster? Smarter? Eventually the conversation you are having within your mind spills out through your lips and into the world. Why can’t I be like them? Why am I so flawed? Why was I made this way? I am ugly. I am dirty. I am stupid. Still, we turn to the mirror for our affirmation. It reveals what we expect to see and what we are looking for. It clarifies, sharpens, emphasizes. It agrees.
I am guilty of seeking the opinions of the wall mirror (as well as a few other reflective surfaces that I pass by during the day), and I have slipped into the trap of appearances. For the past few months I have been bowing to the will of my mirror, and when I fall short of her expectations I feel even less beautiful, less valuable and more depressed than before.
When God designed the world so long ago, He did not create a mirror. There are no verses in Genesis that state, “And God said, let there be a large mirror in front of which man and woman will criticize themselves and each other. Let there be high and low fashion, separation of social classes and media, with which all people will discover and interpret their worth. And there was evening and there was morning, the first civilized day.”
In reality, be it Old Testament or modern life, the heart of God is avidly opposed to this kind of analytical attitude. He reminds us over and over that the world we cling to so desperately is a temporary and liquid place, that our worth and eternal value is completely internal, that His opinion is the only one that matters and that he created us with direct purpose, exactly to the blueprints he designed for our lives. “Do not consider his appearance or his height. The Lord does not look at what man looks at. Man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.” “Your beauty should not come from outward adornment, such as braided hair or the wearing of gold jewellery and fine clothes. Instead, it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God’s sight.” “For you created my innermost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.” It’s so simple.
How often we complicate simplicity.
From time to time, the mirror still catches my attention. Every once in a while she pinches my ego or bruises my pride, but I’m learning to let most of her criticism roll off my back. As a Christian, my significance comes from God, and I already know what he thinks of me. I know that I am loved; a passionate, profound, self-sacrificing affection that runs so much deeper than this skin I am so worried about. God doesn’t need fancy cover art to pick up a book and crack the spine; He just wants to read a good story. I have a feeling he’s going to like mine. After all, He wrote it.
Tuesday, 1 April 2008
Statement of Belief and Contract of Faith
I have recently been challenged to define my faith in a concrete and tangible way, and to articulate exactly what it is that I believe. This is what I have formulated. It does not completely explain every element or aspect of what I believe as a Christian; it does, however, provide an official and formal summary of my personal faith. (I’m sure it will also start a few conversations this week.) So, world, here it is; my faith in a nutshell.
I believe that God is the ultimate, exclusive, triune God of everything known and unknown. I believe that the Father, Son and Spirit work together in perfect and independent unison to accomplish God’s mysterious will, which is only understandable through his divine revelation. I believe that God created everything, both seen and unseen, as recorded in Genesis. I believe that He creates every person individually and with specific purpose – not only what we are, but also who we are. I believe that every human being, every culture and race and religion, came from Adam and Eve, who came from God. I believe that through Adam and Eve, and through the choices that we have made by our own free will, have chosen to live in disobedience and rebellion of God’s laws; furthermore, I believe that even a single violation of this law bears the heavy and divinely just consequence of eternal separation from God, and the sentence of eternal death, to be served out in hell. I believe that God holds people to a standard of absolute perfection that we cannot meet because of our decisions to sin, and that the only way to restore our perfection in the eyes of God is through the physical sacrifice of life, ultimately our own. I believe that God, through Christ and because of His incomprehensible mercy, created a single alternative to this physical and spiritual capital punishment for sin. I believe that God, taking on human form, came to earth to settle our debts. I believe that the blood of Jesus Christ replaced our blood once and for all, and that God accepted his sacrifice as an all-encompassing payment for all of the sins of every person, throughout history, past, present and future. I believe that Jesus lived a sinless, radical life for God, that he was murdered by crucifixion and that he was physically dead for three days. I believe that this death was temporary, and that he rose from death after those three days. I believe that he remained on earth, completely alive, for 40 days after his resurrection, appearing to many people and teaching and training his disciples before his ascension into heaven where he has ruled with the Father ever since. I believe that the Spirit was sent to us as a comforter and spiritual support after Christ left earth, and that God in all three forms is still very active in our world. I believe that the free gift of Christ’s sacrifice does not mean that following his footsteps to heaven is a cost-free journey: Christ calls us to take up our cross and follow, to be living sacrifices, and to serve in a variety of ways. I believe that being a Christian means more than simply identifying ourselves with his life; it means putting ourselves – our lives, our goals and our families – our everything second to His anything. I believe that being a Christian means a life of permanent and willing service to God. I believe that being a Christian means living like Jesus did, striving to imitate how he acted and who he was; it means believing what he said was true, and then taking that belief into reality, transforming thought into action and actively following his example. I believe that God created the church as a family, designed to support, encourage, defend, convict, correct and hold each other accountable to the hope and truth we profess. I believe that the responsibilities of the church as a whole and all Christians individually are to first: love God, second: love each other and third: share the good news and ultimate truth with the world. I believe that the Bible is the word of God, preserved as the divinely inspired written word of God’s people. I believe that it is historically accurate and that it should be interpreted literally and taken seriously.
I am defined by my faith. I have found who I am in my relationship with God. Here, before the world and God Himself as my witness, I confess that I believe these statements to be true, and that I will live my life by them. I ask you to hold me to them. I ask you to keep me accountable. This is a contract of faith, one that I have signed before, at various points throughout my journey and relationship with God. I sign it again, renewing my vow: I am a Christian, and I will follow.
I believe that God is the ultimate, exclusive, triune God of everything known and unknown. I believe that the Father, Son and Spirit work together in perfect and independent unison to accomplish God’s mysterious will, which is only understandable through his divine revelation. I believe that God created everything, both seen and unseen, as recorded in Genesis. I believe that He creates every person individually and with specific purpose – not only what we are, but also who we are. I believe that every human being, every culture and race and religion, came from Adam and Eve, who came from God. I believe that through Adam and Eve, and through the choices that we have made by our own free will, have chosen to live in disobedience and rebellion of God’s laws; furthermore, I believe that even a single violation of this law bears the heavy and divinely just consequence of eternal separation from God, and the sentence of eternal death, to be served out in hell. I believe that God holds people to a standard of absolute perfection that we cannot meet because of our decisions to sin, and that the only way to restore our perfection in the eyes of God is through the physical sacrifice of life, ultimately our own. I believe that God, through Christ and because of His incomprehensible mercy, created a single alternative to this physical and spiritual capital punishment for sin. I believe that God, taking on human form, came to earth to settle our debts. I believe that the blood of Jesus Christ replaced our blood once and for all, and that God accepted his sacrifice as an all-encompassing payment for all of the sins of every person, throughout history, past, present and future. I believe that Jesus lived a sinless, radical life for God, that he was murdered by crucifixion and that he was physically dead for three days. I believe that this death was temporary, and that he rose from death after those three days. I believe that he remained on earth, completely alive, for 40 days after his resurrection, appearing to many people and teaching and training his disciples before his ascension into heaven where he has ruled with the Father ever since. I believe that the Spirit was sent to us as a comforter and spiritual support after Christ left earth, and that God in all three forms is still very active in our world. I believe that the free gift of Christ’s sacrifice does not mean that following his footsteps to heaven is a cost-free journey: Christ calls us to take up our cross and follow, to be living sacrifices, and to serve in a variety of ways. I believe that being a Christian means more than simply identifying ourselves with his life; it means putting ourselves – our lives, our goals and our families – our everything second to His anything. I believe that being a Christian means a life of permanent and willing service to God. I believe that being a Christian means living like Jesus did, striving to imitate how he acted and who he was; it means believing what he said was true, and then taking that belief into reality, transforming thought into action and actively following his example. I believe that God created the church as a family, designed to support, encourage, defend, convict, correct and hold each other accountable to the hope and truth we profess. I believe that the responsibilities of the church as a whole and all Christians individually are to first: love God, second: love each other and third: share the good news and ultimate truth with the world. I believe that the Bible is the word of God, preserved as the divinely inspired written word of God’s people. I believe that it is historically accurate and that it should be interpreted literally and taken seriously.
I am defined by my faith. I have found who I am in my relationship with God. Here, before the world and God Himself as my witness, I confess that I believe these statements to be true, and that I will live my life by them. I ask you to hold me to them. I ask you to keep me accountable. This is a contract of faith, one that I have signed before, at various points throughout my journey and relationship with God. I sign it again, renewing my vow: I am a Christian, and I will follow.
Wednesday, 7 November 2007
Five Reasons to Build a Snowman
For a child, the idea of grabbing a toboggan or building a snowman seems to be a mandatory and automatic response to winter’s chill; but for some terrible and undefined reason, this instinct seems to leave during adolescence, and when a person is attacked by the self-awareness of maturity, snowplay is almost frowned upon. This attitude of anti-silliness is spreading like an infection through the veins of College and University society and has begun to affect even the High School subculture. If this continues unchecked, we are actively putting the children of our communities at dangerous risk of adopting the same “crazelessness” that has already rooted itself so deeply in our lives. If something doesn’t change, fun as we know it may be lost.
But there is hope. We can make a difference. If we act now, we may be able to preserve what little simplistic joy is left in our world. The fight against the humbug of winter begins with you. The fate of fun rests in your mitted hands.
If you remain unconvinced of the severity of this cause, please, read on and carefully consider the following medical and scientific claims supporting snowplay and its many advantages. Each has been cleverly fabricated to initiate a radical movement outdoors, so if at any point while reading this you are overcome with an undeniable need to don a toque and pair of gloves, by all means conclude this article at another time and go throw a snowball at your friend. Literature can wait. The world cannot.
#1. It’s good for your body – Hitting someone with a snowball is an excellent release of many kinds of stress, at a chemical level. (Being hit by a snowball increases your situational awareness and potentially primes your reflexes for a victorious reaction, which is something to keep in mind when ambushed.) As far as a cardiovascular workout is concerned, chasing and being chased are among the top motivational exercises, and the cold air works your lungs in a way that simply cannot be obtained on a treadmill.
#2. It’s good for your brain – Buildings are psychological prisons and seriously hinder the development of certain skills, such as creativity and mental flexibility. Deny your mind no longer! Sculpt, design, craft and build! Snow and ice are wonderful artistic mediums. Find the natural inspiration you’ve been lacking.
#3. It’s good for your love life – Romance is strongly correlated with the atmosphere created during a snowfall; therefore, spending time with someone outside in the snow will increase your seasonal attractiveness by up to 60%!
#4. It’s good for the environment – The ground is much more receptive to flowers in the spring if it has been moved around during the long winter months. Walking on (or digging in) the snow shifts the position of the grass and flower bearing land, softening it in a uniquely agricultural manner. When the snow melts, it is obvious which areas of a lawn or park have been played over and which have not.
#5. It’s good for the economy – When people spend time outside, hot chocolate sales skyrocket! Marshmallows and cookie mixes receive similar profit spikes; but without the recent demand created by outdoor activists, there is simply too much supply. Do your part to keep Christmas from becoming a confectionary Black Tuesday.
You’ve heard all of the evidence and you’ve seen the reports. Now, go. Give Jack Frost a hug and embrace the kid in you. For our culture, for the children, for fun: go and play.
But there is hope. We can make a difference. If we act now, we may be able to preserve what little simplistic joy is left in our world. The fight against the humbug of winter begins with you. The fate of fun rests in your mitted hands.
If you remain unconvinced of the severity of this cause, please, read on and carefully consider the following medical and scientific claims supporting snowplay and its many advantages. Each has been cleverly fabricated to initiate a radical movement outdoors, so if at any point while reading this you are overcome with an undeniable need to don a toque and pair of gloves, by all means conclude this article at another time and go throw a snowball at your friend. Literature can wait. The world cannot.
#1. It’s good for your body – Hitting someone with a snowball is an excellent release of many kinds of stress, at a chemical level. (Being hit by a snowball increases your situational awareness and potentially primes your reflexes for a victorious reaction, which is something to keep in mind when ambushed.) As far as a cardiovascular workout is concerned, chasing and being chased are among the top motivational exercises, and the cold air works your lungs in a way that simply cannot be obtained on a treadmill.
#2. It’s good for your brain – Buildings are psychological prisons and seriously hinder the development of certain skills, such as creativity and mental flexibility. Deny your mind no longer! Sculpt, design, craft and build! Snow and ice are wonderful artistic mediums. Find the natural inspiration you’ve been lacking.
#3. It’s good for your love life – Romance is strongly correlated with the atmosphere created during a snowfall; therefore, spending time with someone outside in the snow will increase your seasonal attractiveness by up to 60%!
#4. It’s good for the environment – The ground is much more receptive to flowers in the spring if it has been moved around during the long winter months. Walking on (or digging in) the snow shifts the position of the grass and flower bearing land, softening it in a uniquely agricultural manner. When the snow melts, it is obvious which areas of a lawn or park have been played over and which have not.
#5. It’s good for the economy – When people spend time outside, hot chocolate sales skyrocket! Marshmallows and cookie mixes receive similar profit spikes; but without the recent demand created by outdoor activists, there is simply too much supply. Do your part to keep Christmas from becoming a confectionary Black Tuesday.
You’ve heard all of the evidence and you’ve seen the reports. Now, go. Give Jack Frost a hug and embrace the kid in you. For our culture, for the children, for fun: go and play.
Tuesday, 23 October 2007
A Crime of Passion
I am falling in love. I am falling in love with a man I hardly know, and yet I feel like I have known him the whole of my life. He is a clever, confident and compassionate guy with an energy that is unbelievably contagious. He is gentle with people and bold with words. He has this uncompromising and captivating presence that you simply can’t ignore. He's the kind of person you can tell anything and want to tell everything. Anyone would fall for this guy, and indeed many have. He's quickly becoming a huge part of my life and my time, and somehow I know this is only the beginning of our relationship.
But who is this man, who has captured my attention so completely? Many of you have already met him, in one way or another. Some have passed him by unknowingly, and for you I am genuinely disappointed, because you have missed out on an amazing soul. Some have had a reaction similar to the one I have described here, which is much more than a simple collection of words. To you I smile, because the connections to him and to each other give us a unique context for all other relationships. But who, you ask, is this man? This intriguer of hearts? His name is Jesus.
Don't roll your eyes or write me off just yet, because this is potentially the first time you have been introduced to him in this light. Jesus isn't always the quiet, meek man seen in paintings. In fact, he was, generally, much the opposite. Artists have been tragically misled in this way. He is a passionate leader; a king in the front lines, showing us exactly how to fight. He is a rebellious activist, exposing flaws in the government and arguing with religious figureheads, forcing them to look either foolish or weak. He performed miracles, not magic. He taught with the power of experience, far beyond his years. Who wouldn't be attracted to this guy? Or, perhaps it is easier to say, who wouldn't be threatened by him? That's why he died. Not because he was wrong, but because the people couldn't control him any other way. Their only solution was murder. The funny thing is that it didn’t work.
But who is this man, who has captured my attention so completely? Many of you have already met him, in one way or another. Some have passed him by unknowingly, and for you I am genuinely disappointed, because you have missed out on an amazing soul. Some have had a reaction similar to the one I have described here, which is much more than a simple collection of words. To you I smile, because the connections to him and to each other give us a unique context for all other relationships. But who, you ask, is this man? This intriguer of hearts? His name is Jesus.
Don't roll your eyes or write me off just yet, because this is potentially the first time you have been introduced to him in this light. Jesus isn't always the quiet, meek man seen in paintings. In fact, he was, generally, much the opposite. Artists have been tragically misled in this way. He is a passionate leader; a king in the front lines, showing us exactly how to fight. He is a rebellious activist, exposing flaws in the government and arguing with religious figureheads, forcing them to look either foolish or weak. He performed miracles, not magic. He taught with the power of experience, far beyond his years. Who wouldn't be attracted to this guy? Or, perhaps it is easier to say, who wouldn't be threatened by him? That's why he died. Not because he was wrong, but because the people couldn't control him any other way. Their only solution was murder. The funny thing is that it didn’t work.
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