Category — Faith

Bowen Island, May 2010

Two of the great griefs of my life surround a love and church. It’s no surprise really, being that they’re two of the great investments offered us. Over five years a staggering amount of loss overtook, what I had considered, a mountainous faith. Chip by chip the magnanimity I once lived with came to a thunderous fall. I’ve been making my way back, slowly, since then. Through prayer. Writing. Counseling. Conversations. Hitting my head against the wall. Catching glimpses of light. There’s only so much you can do. 

That’s why two consecutive days, a couple of weeks ago, so much caught me by surprise and stumbled me over into a stream of forgotten grace. Questions I’ve been asking for years were answered on the spot.

It began on a Thursday. 

A friend from Ontario and his girlfriend came over to have coffee in the morning, then Madeleine and I stepped out of the house to have lunch with an old friend in Stamp’s Landing. Hugs, smiles and laughter were exchanged as he was introduced to our little girl for the first time. I sat back and basked in his recounting of the past year — new girlfriend, good job, church investment — taking note of his words:

“I’m happy. [Pause] It’s a weighty happiness. There’s a weight to it.”

As our meals arrived, (mine, a bed of spinach topped with candied salmon, and his, a prime rib burger,) he invited us to prayer. A beautiful, accomplished, to-the-nines man praying at waterfront hotspot, aloud. 

“Thank you God for friends, and for new life. Bless this meal…”

Bless. Bless. Bless.

Two broken people. A boy. A girl. A rambunctious toddler between. And hope spilling everywhere. You see, around the same time this friend and I found ourselves in a desert place in our hearts. Tired. Confused. Hurting. Deeply guilt-ridden. Longing. Here he is in a new place, with a fresh, beautiful posture of peace. Surrounded by friends, forging new faith in similar terrain — in a church not unlike the one in his old city. He didn’t give up. He hasn’t. And the spirit of God is blessing his open heart.

Bless. Bless. Bless.

There may have only been a crack but it was all He needed. You can see the joy in my friend’s eyes. Peace. Not striving. Contentment with hope. Dreams for the future. Promise. This is what a God-man looks like.

I am reminded: the church is beautiful.

I leave aflourish.

The same afternoon I spend an hour with half of an inspiring couple of artists training in Vancouver to return to Germany to establish a community arts centre in an old brick factory once used by Nazis during WWII. Light bursting out of the dark and broken. Their synergy is palpable. Their centre, obvious: Christ their hope, beginner and finisher of their faith.

Yes, I am reminded: the mission is beautiful. 

I come home and kiss my husband. Yes. We will see with the same light. 

Yes, marriage is beautiful.

Bless. Bless. Bless. 

Finally, the next day. I decide early to spend the afternoon in Sapperton, New Westminster. I go to meet my girlfriend who’s the new manager at the local java watering hole — Starbucks. We visit. Then I walk. Only to return to share a coffee with my mom. Halfway through our visit a woman with a daughter similarly aged to Madeleine walks in. My mom recognizes her/befriends her. Names and hugs were exchanged. 

This person is a tie to my past. Unbeknownst to my mom who continues the conversation for close to fifteen minutes. This is the girl I’d want to hate. The end. The one. The chapter-ender. A love torn like vellum, scattered on icy winds near Larch Street with no resolve, and ended in her arms. 

As her butter words spilled out, all jealousy, all fear, fled like a sparrow. My heart melted in an instant. 

“Yes, I’d like to meet your daughter. Yes, motherhood is the greatest experience in the world.” Yes. Yes. 

Bless. Bless. Bless.

I wanted to wrap her in my arms. Wanted to stroll away, our babies quietly bundled, and talk with her until the words ran out. I hoped the joy in my eyes made its way home in her arms. To him.

Yes, I am reminded: love is beautiful.

I am lying on wings. I am unwrapped. I am ready. 

Yes.

::::

I thank Brad Roberts for my new theme song — And It’s Beautiful — from Crash Test Dummies’ new album, OOoh, La La, released this week.

“He has written straight with my crooked lines.” 

- Thomas H. Green, Drinking from a Dry Well

Today I met with someone who politely kicked my ass.

There we sat on Commercial Drive, Madeleine gesticulating wildly, and he telling me he’d just closed down his facebook and twitter accounts simultaneously. He, a media professional with 1500+ ‘friends.’ He felt called to do it in faith. He is desperate for clarity, focus, the voice of the Maker, to direct his steps, to not let his life slip away in mediocrity.  

“I keep hearing — “Crank it up or turn it off,” he said. His words slayed me. They’re ringing in my ears.

Life is brimming. 

This past month I had a big birthday and celebrated for a week. First, with a couple of my longest, dearest friends at Raw Canvas where, instead of receiving gifts, I entered into an afternoon of creating a reminder of friendship I can keep for all time. Steph was the daring first to dress the canvas with paint. Then Megan dove in. Then Marisa. Then me. We found a palette, together.

We sipped tea and ate cake and shared hummus. One of us got attacked by a paint gun, all of us dove in to help. Luckily it was acrylic and therefore washable. (Steph you are a silver-haired trooper.) I will cherish this afternoon (and the painting below) for years to come.

Then, the weekend of my actual birthday, Michael, Madeleine and I (and auntie Steph, for the ferry ride!) hopped the smokin’ EARLY ferry (and lucky too! that was the day of the record winds and ferry cancellations) to Victoria. First, we were able to attend the Good Friday service at St. Luke’s where the minister who married us is the rector. (See Madeleine’s first meeting Rvd. Parker below.) 

We spent three luxurious (as luxurious as they can be with a 7-month-old) at the English Inn Resort where they upgraded us from a garden facing room in the main mansion to a two bedroom, two floor town house on the sprawling heritage property. The building out our window was thatched. THATCHED. Crazy.

We spent lazy hours walking through downtown. I even got to spend some time on my own perusing Lower Johnson — the fashion hub of the city. I snagged a sweet chocolate, black and white polkadot dress and a grey knit hat. Michael had his time in the bookstores. We indulged in a private, breathtaking meal at the Rosedale - lamb shank melting off the bone. And Michael spoiled me with thoughtful, thoughtful gifts: a journal from Paper-ya, “Granville Island crack” (aka caramel chocolate brittle) and Bowen Island’s Cocoa West Signature Hot Chocolate from Edible BC, and a beautiful handmade ceramic tile we’d eyed in Vancouver a couple of weeks before. Perfection.

The next weekend some more girlfriends took me out for dinner at Sandbar and topped off the fun with a sparkling cake from Cupcakes (thank you Sara and co!)

The same weekend marked Madeleine’s baptism at our little church: St. Alban’s. Dressed in the Dutch lace gown I wore at my own baptism, she was wonderfully happy as the service took its course. It was a profound morning as the water was sprinkled, symbolizing her joining the family of God. So many of our family and friends were able to attend which was an immense blessing. Thank you to everyone who came. I was able to find time to hand-make little momentos of the day with a type-written thank you from Madeleine and Luke 18:15-17 which reads:

“But Jesus called them to Him, saying, “Let the children come to me, and do not hinder them, for to such belongs the kingdom of God. Truly I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child shall not enter it.”  

In between all of this, Michael’s parents were in town to take in my sister-in-law Brittany’s grad fashion show. Her technical motorcycle line, Velocity, was amazing, as was the whole show. Michael’s mom also surprised me with a birthday night out at the ballet — Ballet’s BC’s big comeback show, Re/Naissance, which included of-the-moment choreographer Chrystal Pite’s stunning 24. 

Last weekend was the last one out of town for awhile, and I am glad. We spent the better part of Saturday and Sunday celebrating with my dad and stepmom as they marked their 25th wedding anniversary in Whistler. All of the siblings (all seven plus in-laws) were together for what may be the last time for years. One sister is engaged to an Australian (Yay Lynn!) and the other lives south of the border (Las Vegas, baby) and they’re both pursuing permanent residency. The family is spreading its wings… it’s sad but also very exciting as everyone chases love and their dreams.

Cousins Reuben and Jesse Fin with Madeleine

It makes me feel better about our big life plans. Toronto is very much on the table for us. It’s not something I’ve been talking a lot about because, honestly, it makes me extremely sad to consider life away from my family. At the same time, I can see glimpses from time to time of the kind of life and the kind of marriage Michael and I could have in a new place. There is possibility surrounding a huge step like that and it will require a depth of love and trust that I don’t think has been demanded of us yet. This excites me. More on that later.

This has been a whirlwind post, I will leave you with two final shots of Ms. Madeleine.

Have a wonderful day, friends.

“i hadn’t seen them for the snow… hadn’t seen their yellow-petal-heads peering up from dirt, for the white wasteland. winter had blanketed mystery over these flowers. i’d peered out my window countless days seeing nothing but white, stretched far like linen on the line, the sky, gray-lint cloud fleece.

but today, sun broke free from cloud, melted winter away with a splash of child’s boot in puddle and there, leaping up from the ground like a chorus of hallelujahs, the crocus. spring’s national anthem.

“the Waste Land is the place where God transforms you into the person who can do your Dream.”

this, The Dream Giver book tells me. and i think upon my life, upon its seasons of white winters and crocus-springs, think upon the mystery of God blanketing my dreams until just the right moment when the sun breaks through and melts away the wasteland, revealing a triumphant choir of flowers. dreams, blooming, just below the snow. and to think, they would not have been warm enough to grow without that snow. to think, they would have died in winter’s chill if snow had not fluffed white about their roots.

my dreams need the wasteland. the wasteland keeps them growing. and in due time, spring will come. with a chorus of hallelujahs.”

- Emily Wierenga. To read more of Emily’s words visit her at Canvas Child, her daily blog.

There is nothing like the gentle licks of morning ferry deck, leafing through piles and piles of musty old titles, perusing handmade labels, worshipping in a quiet nave, and savouring the company of loved ones. This is how we’re spending our Easter (and my 30th birthday.) How are you spending yours? Easter, I mean.

by Joy Harjo

I’m not afraid of love
or its consequence of light.

It’s not easy to say this
or anything when my entrails
dangle between paradise
and fear.

I am ashamed
I never had the words
to carry a friend from her death
to the stars
correctly.

Or the words to keep
my people safe
from drought
or gunshot.

The stars who were created by words
are circling over this house
formed of calcium, of blood–

this house
in danger of being torn apart
by stones of fear.

If these words can do anything
I say bless this house
with stars.

Transfix us with love.

:::

This is the first poem we read on day one of my poetry workshop. I love the lines: “I say bless this house with stars.” They inspired a poem of my own which I’ll post soon.

Truly, my world feels small. I wake and my life, from dawn until dusk, is ordered by a 19 pound toddler. We sit on the floor. We try new foods. We tear books off shelves. We sing, play the piano, take walks, swing, babble.

Then there are moments I step out. I get my act together, cross the street and meet women, mothers, new friends. One, a forensic biologist with the RCMP. Another, a casting director. Still another, the wife of an SFU professor, recently moved from San Fransisco. These are interesting, beautiful women who, along with me, have given up their ‘day jobs’ to nurse babies on hard wood chairs in the centre of Starbucks as the world speeds by.

It’s hard to give up. It’s hard to let the e-mails stack up for days, some for weeks, as I retire at 8pm, my body a sack of worn out bones. It’s hard to pass up opportunities, quit jobs. I don’t read blogs. I scan newspapers. I get by on CBC Radio newscasts as Madeleine and I spend the day. It’s enough for now. My life demands focus. 

I am surrendering. 

It’s my theme at present: Surrender. I recently read a book titled Surrendering to Motherhood, a gift from my friend Julia that spoke right to my core. “I realized I was working not for dollars but out of ego and a need to create,” author Iris Krasnow writes. It seems I had lurched back into the saddle for the same reasons and the stress of mothering a 6-month old, keeping a home, being a wife and working on a variety of projects was quickly killing any creative energy I had left.

A glimpse into my journal tells the story best:

Father, please help me unravel. I am wound so tight. Soiled laundry, dishes, clothes demanding mending. Unwritten stories, e-mails, notes to prepare. Waiting friends, family, husband, baby… clamouring at my skin.

You win.

I surrender all into your open arms. Wash, wash, wash over me like the liquid wind of ferry deck. Spill, spill like milk, the scent of honey, washing away my worry.

It is too much for me. I need to fall open, fall out of this rhythm, this frenetic pace.

I am mother, wife, daughter, friend. Then writer, teacher, blogger, business owner.

I fail Madeleine when I spill myself like an open grave. Smiling through fatigue, tears stored on shelves for moments like these.

They are a city wall. Built up, built up. Revealed first to my mother’s eyes, ears, love. 

“I am worried about you.”

(”Heed her words,” I hear you say.)

“Cut everything out. Say no. Until you have got her on a schedule and sleeping well in the night.”

At first I push back, then I breathe out. “Yes, Mom.” And the wave pulls back…

Yes. May that be my first response, Friend. Rather than no, no, no. I don’t know better. (Oh God, do I ever not.)

Candle, key and canvas feel dead to me. Oh spirit, come. Damn you assignments, damn you ego. For what is your gain?

Strip it away. Strip it away. Strip it away. 

My life leaves me little time for writing. I have an inquisitive, social child who demands all of me in her waking moments. When I have time I want to create: pen poetry, paint, write stories — the website for the Seeking Eve (inspirational Christian women) project is almost complete and I want to concentrate my energy there. I’ll also still be blogging weekly at After Hours. 

What does that mean for this little old blog? I hope to share pictures and poetry as life unfolds, sometimes writing, though I hope to spend more and more of my time on published work.

The few of you who read here: thank you! I love being able to share my life with you in this writer-ly way. I hope you keep reading and I promise to keep you up-to-date on new projects, and our ambling life.  

I’d like to leave you with another quote from Henri Nouwen, sent to me this week by my husband (he’s been doing that a lot lately!) 

“Our Unique Call

So many terrible things happen every day that we start wondering whether the few things we do ourselves make any sense. When people are starving only a few thousand miles away, when wars are raging close to our borders, when countless people in our own cities have no homes to live in, our own activities look futile. Such considerations, however, can paralyse us and depress us.

Here the word call becomes important. We are not called to save the world, solve all problems, and help all people. But we each have our own unique call, in our families, in our work, in our world. We have to keep asking God to help us see clearly what our call is and to give us the strength to live out that call with trust. Then we will discover that our faithfulness to a small task is the most healing response to the illnesses of our time.”

Here’s to seeing our call clearly and living with the trust necessary to see it through.

“At the moment that I feel the inner readiness to live my life only for the glory God, I am ready to live creatively in the world and be open to my neighbours, since then I no longer depend on their affection.”

- Henri Nouwen, The Genesee Diary

_______

These are the words I need to hear. Right now.

“Holy God, maker of the skies above, lowly Christ, born amidst the growing earth, Spirit of Life, wind over the flowing waters, in earth, sea and sky, you are there. When we have not touched, but trampled you in creation, when we have not met but missed you in one another, forgive us. For Jesus’ sake. Amen.”

- From Touchstone, sent to me by my remarkable husband