Category — Faith

You, God, are my truest self.

The place I can sit unhurried.

You are the vast earth, ocean, star, hill invading my skin like night wind.

You are the birth place, the open passage, announcing life.

You are the hope dismissing my ‘whys’ and calling my eyes to the two darkened sky birds circling grey sun.

You are the voice saying: “rest, find rest, sweet spirit. Believe with the fierceness at first. Draw ear to my belly, my black mouth, and look.”

The final piece, now hung in our office / art room. Paint, India ink (Sabrina’s lettering, my words,) and collage on craft paper. I originally thought I was making a piece to be cut into pages but decided in the end I liked it too much whole.

_______

Closer…

[Grab images and drag to a new window to look closer]

Tomorrow I leave for a charming, Atlantic coastal house on the shores of Prince Edward Island to work on my life’s dreams. It’’s an Angela Ritchie ACE (arts, culture and education) camp being hosted by a longtime creative hero of mine, Sabrina Ward Harrison (whose work I was first introduced to by my dear friend Avital.) I’’ve been reading Anne of Green Gables in preparation, and between that and reopening Sabrina’’s book Spilling Open, I am being confronted with an abandoned way of living — Anne’’s insatiable desire for all things romantic and Sabrina’’s altogether raw confession.

Yesterday I was talking with my friend Sara and trying to explain how I felt about this trip. With my tongue uncharacteristically tied in knots, I finally spilled the truth that I was feeling NERVOUS.

I am nervous to go to camp.

Like the nervousness I felt before going to a Calvinettes camp-out when I was eight. Except today it’’s an adult nervous. Like I’’m fooling myself into believing that I can see all of the potential potholes ahead.

I’’m not nervous the girls are going to tease me or the boys won’’t think I’’m pretty. I’’m not worried I’’ll forget to bring my bathing suit or that it will rain all week and we won’’t be able to sing or roast marshmallows around the campfire. I’’m worried that this trip, this camp, this first four-day sojourn without my one-year-old, this meeting of a creative hero, this writing assignment, won’’t be all I desperately hope it will be.

Something deep, DEEP, in me wants to fling myself into this week with the unhindered expectation of a five-year-old. I want to believe with my twenty-year-old-heart (the better, freer, lighter heart) that this will be IT. The marker. The moment. The chapter changer. A time so affecting that I’ll hold it up as my Everest climb. A culmination of so so so much. And something (SOMEONE) tells me it is. And I want to believe it.

Oh god, do I want to believe it.

But my adult self tells me to be careful. To not care too much. To not get too excited. To set my expectations just a little bit lower.

And my five-year-old/twenty-year-old self is telling my thirty-one-year-old head/heart to fuck-off. To ““do what you did at first”” (Revelation 2:5). To BELIEVE.

That my God (the God I am so unsure of, the God who ever clings to me, the God of my youth, the God of the universe) is love. And that he WANTS me to believe this with every single inch of my being. And to not hold back.

And somewhere behind my ribcage, behind my separating bones, screams YES.

The yes of my two-year-old, five-year-old, twenty-year-old, pre-period, pre-heart-smash, pre-confusing-years, pre-church-mess-ups, pre-career-detours, pre-falling-out, pre-self.

Yes.

Yes. It will be.

Yes. I believe it.

Yes. There is love ahead.

Yes. There is more.

Yes. The daring will be worthwhile.

yes. yes. yes.

good. good. good.

love. love. love.

amen. amen. amen.

echoes my thirty-one-year-old heart.

And tomorrow I leave on a jet plane. And all shall be well. And all shall be well. And all manner of things will be well.

Yes. Amen. Let it be.

Lorna Dueck and Preston Manning together at the Glenn Gould Studio, CBC, May 30.

Follow this link for more information.

“Listen carefully: Unless a grain of wheat is buried in the ground, dead to the world, it is never any more than a grain of wheat. But if it is buried, it sprouts and reproduces itself many times over. In the same way, anyone who holds on to life just as it is destroys that life. But if you let it go, reckless in your love, you’ll have it forever, real and eternal. If any of you wants to serve me, then follow me. Then you’ll be where I am, ready to serve at a moment’s notice. The Father will honor and reward anyone who serves me.” - Jesus

John 12:24-26, The Message Bible

A friend, my counselor Anne, recently helped me see that growing up I couldn’t really rely on family markers so I have grown to rely on the specific markers of a city to create a sense of self, a sense of place. When I move I lose my markers and, in a sense, myself. So it’s important to stake out my daily routines in Toronto right away.

I have never been so thankful for the necessity of food. When we arrive we’ll have breakfast, lunch, and dinner. We’ll also need to go outside so Madeleine and I don’t go stir crazy swimming in a sea of unpacked boxes. So, we’ll walk. We’ll stake out the neighbourhood. Find our coffee shop. Befriend our neighbours. Start looking for a church. We’ll find the fruit and veggie shop. But we’ll do it slowly.

I’ll set small goals: one thing in the house, and one thing outside, a day. And piece by piece we will build a new life.

And yet, our hearts will stay rooted to our loved ones at home. My sweet stepmother who yesterday, on my birthday, stood at the bottom of the stairs, her eyes a swell of tears, as she swung Madeleine in her arms. And my dad, a tower of wisdom, honesty, love. And my mother and stepfather, ever-givers. And my grandmother who, every time she calls, leaves me with a doxology: “May the Lord bless you and keep you.” And my brothers and their lovely wives, and their sweet children who I desperately want to know and be known by. And my amazing sister-in-law Brittany, aka May-May, our housemate who Madeleine runs to as she speeds up on her motorbike at supper hour. And my friends, so many of whom have made the journey to Bowen and rejoiced in this sweet gift of a home, and helped me talk through the fears, and who are never more than a phone call away.

And they still will be. And we have skype. And we have airplanes. And we have a guest room. And we will work at it. And, as my Dad reminded me yesterday (as we swung Madeleine round their gardens – One, two, three, oopsie-daisies — like he did me when I was little) that it will be hard and lonely but that God’s grace is sufficient for us. And I cling to this truth as I type this on a final Pacific morning.

And the things I am looking forward to in Toronto (all tidily tucked away in a file folder I have titled HOPE) are:

• walks along the Humber River
• creating a home in our house
• coffee dates with Annie and Miles
• going to Lil’ Bean and Green Cafe
• exploring U of T
• an incredible retreat/writing assignment in P.E.I. in May
• making new friends
• finding our church
• exploring the St. Lawrence Market
• day trips to the Toronto Islands
• new seasons, new colours
• hanging laundry in our backyard while Madeleine plays in the sandbox
• getting a bike
• the Distillery District
• setting up my space — a room of one’s own — a creative studio/workspace on the main floor
• visitors
• connecting with my Aunt Astrid
• work that keeps me connected to B.C. — www.art-bc.com, sheloves, the light
• flea market /antique store finds
• hanging our art
• voting for Gerard Kennedy
• Toronto Fashion Week, Luminato, IMAGE and Comment journal events, One of a Kind show
• hosting our house-warming party

madeleine and her adorable cousin sloane

sometimes.

the enormity of my mama-role swallows my pea-mind whole and falls me to tears and I think of all the babies in the world who have never known their womb mothers, never seen their seed fathers, seen their faces a thousand times and never swam in the tsunami of their love. and I find myself ebbing salt streams, biting lower lip, peering at my daughter, whispering a gratitude so deep it’s like a chisel having its way with my ribcage. and i think of the other, the 19-week son/daughter swimming through his/her childhood and beg Heaven to show me how to bathe them in the world’s good Truth.

and today Nicole showed me that…

“since i’m here, committed to the death, it’s best if i distill the job down to essentials: my main goal as a parent is to help my kids make much of God. it’s as simple and impossible as that. college scholarships and trombone lessons and starting midfield are all icing on the cake, buttery but optional. if i can knead their hearts soft toward Him, i will have mothered well.”

Bible Belts, husband-and-wife duo Alison Therriault + Chris Alscher (Photo by Ming Wu, Ottawa)

Favourite moment of the day:

Stopped in late morning traffic a block from Main and Hastings, spotting my friend Chris aka Chris-A-Riffic (full-time musician, part-time Radio3 DJ, longtime CiTR host, avid husband) standing on the sidewalk, one hand holding up his bike, another reaching out to a man with a handwritten sign, all the while his not-yet-two-year wedding band (he married his drummer) glistening in the February sun.

Chris is one of those people who has the uncanny ability to make me smile no matter what the circumstance.

Happy Day, Sir Chris. You are one of the most sincere, humble, and unbelievably talented men I have had the good luck of knowing.

I am one of seven children.

There are numerous blessings being part of such an enormous clan. Like never being bored. Always having a playmate. Epic Christmases. Camping under the stars lined in sleeping bags like sardines. Unforgettable van rides with resident seat buddies. Always having someone to call (the phone list never runs out.) Learning stuff from big brothers. Teaching stuff to little sisters. Performing full-blown musicals with dancers, singers, choreographer and back-up. Being portioned toast and jello squares by toss from the head of the table. Filling an entire pew at church (for some reason this gave me an enormous sense of pride as a kid, like this is our row.)

In the last week and a half I have had the opportunity to twice visit with five of my six siblings (save for my sister in Australia, we miss you Lynn!), plus parents, spouses, nephews and nieces. It is a rare occurrence these days (which I am still coming to terms with) and times together are filled with good conversation, much affection and heaps of hilarity.

Like when my sister Kristen, up visiting from Las Vegas with her husband PJ and their adorable little boy Ben, says: “This might not be a real memory, this might be one of my made-up memories, but let’s just check…” before beginning a story. We all burst into side-splitting laughter. This is coming from the sister who created imaginary holidays to foreign lands and told them to her teachers while her own mother was, helpfully, one of the teachers on staff. Things usually got sorted out pretty quick. It’s moments like these that make me ache to spend time as a whole family as often as possible.

My whole life I have been focused on the good of having 6 siblings and 4 parents. And there is SO MUCH GOOD. But there are also down sides. And they seem to be growing with time.

There are more regrets. More missed moments. More misunderstanding. And more people to keep up-to-date than seems humanly possible.

I am trying to make concerted efforts to share more with my family. To call them just because. To send out emails with exciting/important news. Share more pictures. Share more of myself. But it’s hard. Even though it’s my immediate family, with so many I can feel like I am spreading myself thin. My husband has one sister and two parents, his circle is small and I am sometimes jealous of the simplicity of his arrangement. But I would never change things in my family. Never in a million years. Because we love so much. Because we Groot clan are a beautiful mess. Because we go on trying to care for each other as best as we can. And in the end that is all that matters.

Dad, Grace, Mom, Chester, Mike, Heidi, Rueben, Jesse Fin, Sloane, David, James, Jocelyn, Judah, Kristen, PJ, Ben, Michael, Madeleine, Matthew, Lynn, Barney — I love you.

While this blog has been silent for some time my writing has continued to appear in some wonderful publications. My most recent article for Comment titled “Storytelling Clothes” appeared in December.

Click here to read the article in full. Here is a short excerpt:

Clothing is a topic to which we pay little mind except, perhaps, when the conditions in poorly ventilated sweat shops make the front page news. Like us, God cares about the woman behind the serger; but He also cares what we put on our backs. We seldom remember that the first garments were made by God for Adam and Eve in the Garden.

Teresa Smed, a Vancouver-based jewelry designer shared her thoughts on God’s concern with clothing.  “I definitely think what we wear matters to God. I like to think about where everything comes from. Everything has a price. If your shoes are made by a child in a sweatshop in China — that has a cost. If I can clothe me and my kids with recycled clothing — it matters. I love fashion. I love accessories. People would call me ‘fashion forward.’ It’s about self-expression, and that’s okay. But where your treasure is your heart will be also.”

The story we’ve been telling

God never commanded us to get dressed. When he came looking for us we were crouched in Eden’s thicket hiding. We chose to cover parts of ourselves up, sin revealing impropriety.

“That’s how clothes can be,” comments designer Paul Hardy, a Christian anomaly in the world of high fashion. “It can go either way. In fashion, as in any other creative field, imagination can be used as an expression of edification or can prey on the insecurities of others.”