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Archive for March, 2019

I Forgot …

“I don’t think she will know who I am by the time I get there,” I stated to hubby one day, just weeks before I left for a trip to visit family.

My aunt (not pronounced ‘ant’) was diagnosed with Alzehimer’s Disease a number of months back. She has surrendered her license, her volunteer activities, much of her memory.

I had decided that if, when I called her on the phone, she recognized my voice, knew who I was, I would go visit her. Conversely, I had decided that if she did not recognize my voice, know who I am, I would not go visit her.

I want to remember her how she was …

That was my rational. One part, economical use of my time in the area, one part self-preservation (lets call a spade a spade … it was 1.99 parts self-preservation.

So, when I called her on the day of my departure (yes, this was something I procrastinated), when I said hello into the phone, I was shocked that she knew my voice immediately.

A thrill of hope ran through me, as I told her we would be stopping by for a visit soon.

It will be the same as always …

We arrived at the home she and my uncle have lived for as long as I remember. The home I spent countless weeks in the summer, playing board games, getting baking lessons, picking blueberries, watching movies and feeling like the spoiled niece of my (childless) aunt and uncle that I was.

The house, well-worn on the inside and out, signs of lacking maintenance by this eighty-something couple. Food, cooling on the countertops (breaking every food-safe rule), before being stored in the fridge or freezer. The outer porch piled with newspapers, saved for …

These props, extras in my periphery, meaningless to the woman I had come to see, who would know that I was there.

Our initial greetings were good, normal. Never an overly, outwardly affectionate woman, this aunt always had the sensible approach to life of Anne of Green Gable’s steadfast rock, Marilla Cuthbert.

With my first words, I made the first mistake … I asked a question about her whereabouts that morning. I knew better than to ask a question about something in recent history and I mentally scolded myself, as soon as my query was met by her uncertain response.

We visited nearly an hour, not another question from my lips.

We talked about my family, the distant past, looked at the wedding photos of herself, her parents (my grandparents) and her in-laws. I showed her photos of our kids, my hubby and videos of my lunatic dog that made her laugh.

She mentioned my sister who was travelling with me … actually my daughter. She looked … lost …

lost in the liminal space between a world she has confidently moved and navigated and one that she knows she should know, but the holes in her mind muddle the familiar into dark unfamiliarity … as though a constant joke is being told, and everyone gets it, but her.

As we prepared to leave I took a selfie with her, we each said goodbye (no doubt our last goodbye) and I whispered I love you.

That moment on the phone, when she knew my voice … that was what drew me to go see her. Maybe that was a push from another force, to honour this woman who planted the seeds of love and acceptance in me.

I needed to share in her lostness to remember that I need to love and care for others, not for how they make me feel, but for how I would want to be treated were I lost in a similarly disconcerting world.

I forgot that seeing her was not about me, but about her … what she needed

That sensible aunt still lives within my memories and in her soul, to love when it cannot be reciprocated anymore is the most sensible thing to do …

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What is Home?

A week in my childhood home is coming to an end today as we fly back across the country.

Coming back home to visit leaves me with a mental conundrum … what is home?

Each visit back I experience the joy of being with my parents and other family members, time with old friends, bumping into people from my past who greet me warmly, as well as familiar places, tastes and sights.

Over these days ‘back’, I realized that I have now lived in the West longer than I have the East, longer than any other place … village, town or city. It is a stunning realization for me.

It is a realization that accompanies another, more disconcerting one … this is not my home anymore. It leaves me with an ache in my heart, akin to grief … for so much of my identity is tied, not just to the people, but to this place.

I love my past, the place of my upbringing. I love how the air smells, how rock along the Bay of Fundy have a pink hue, how the sky goes on forever and the sun lasts so long into the days. I love the spoken accents, distinguishing the variation of language and county. I love that please, thank-you and sorry are offered as regularly as a door held open for whoever is near.

Of course it is the people who I will have an eternal connection with, even as our daily lives go on, independent of each other. It is, not in speaking of the present, but the past that unites us once again. We share memories that bind us more tightly, at times, than blood.

That past, is our common bond, that which will always give us community together … and community, even if it is primarily of a distant place and time, will be our home … away from home.

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One of the things I love about visiting my province of origin is the grandeur of the sky.

There are no mountains to shorten the horizon and an absence of cloud cover to shade the sun from showing how far it reaches. It just seems to go on forever … and I am in constant awe and wonder looking out at it.

Psalm 19:1-6 makes me think of this upward and outward spectacular, great big sky when it speaks of the heavens:

“The heavens are telling the glory of God; they are a marvelous display of his craftsmanship. Day and night they keep on telling about God. Without a sound or word, silent in the skies, their message reaches out to all the world. The sun lives in the heavens where God placed it  and moves out across the skies as radiant as a bridegroom going to his wedding, or as joyous as an athlete looking forward to a race!  The sun crosses the heavens from end to end, and nothing can hide from its heat.”

What a reminder that this great big sky is the craftsmanship of God himself, that the sun was placed there by him. It is, though, verse three that sticks out particularly to me:

Without a sound or word, silent in the skies,
their message reaches out to all the world.

This verse makes me think of the quote, “preach the Gospel at all times. Use words if necessary” (often attributed to St Francis of Assisi). Though I cannot be sure those are the words of St Francis, I do think that he, such a appreciator and steward of God’s creation, as well as one who would have mediated on God’s word, would know and understand this verse from the Psalms, both in word and in deed.

Our message is communicated in our words, but also in how we live our lives.

Elliott’s Commentary on this verse tells us “the communication of the sky is eloquent, but mute; its voice is for the heart and emotion, not the ear.” Our silent worship, through everything from performing our jobs, dealing with cashiers in a store, caring for our earth and all living creatures speaks to the hear and emotion of God and of those around us.

It can be ‘louder’ and more clear than any sermon, any worship service … it is our voiceless testimony of how far we allow God to work in and through us.

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As the fiftieth birth-DAY migrated into a week, I have to say I am feeling satisfied and abundantly loved.

From a thoughtful luncheon with my work sisters, to a surprise dinner with family and friends on the west coast, to a dinner with family on the east coast, to messages and cards and well wishes on social media I have felt the love from near and far.

Fifty can’t be so bad when one has been so lavished upon!

50?

Fifty used to be … old!

Now it is just another day, another year, another day doing the things that make up a life.

I kinda thought I’d have it more … together … by now.

I thought I’d be physically fit, always look put together in my clothing and accessories, I thought I’d be spending more time on sandy beaches, I thought I’d be more wise, more mature, more …

I am none of those things and I guess that could be disappointing or even discouraging, as I turn fifty. The thing is, usually I am too busy living life to even consider those areas where I have missed the mark.

Dreams and aspirations
are good and valuable,
but living the life
that is currently right in front of your face …
that’s where the magic is,
where the surprises come,
where the life in the living is experienced.

Don’t get me wrong … I still have moments and days (and weeks) where I feel the disappointment, the failure, the shame of not being where I wish I were. Yet, what I have in my life is so good, so much better than a dream could conceive.

Truly I live a wonder-filled life.

All the days of my life are a dream come true, for “your goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever” (Psalm 23:6).

“Feet on ground 
Heart in hand 
Facing forward 
Be yourself” 
Jane Arden

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Blessings

The approach of significant events (birthdays, anniversaries) makes one reflective, contemplative.

As I approach (at fright train speed) such a significant life event, I have been pondering not just my years lived, with all the accompanying successes and failures, but also where I hope to go from here.

I recently read the words of Solomon’s Benediction (1 Kings 8:54-66), and found great inspiration in his blessing of Israel.

54 Now as Solomon finished offering all this prayer and plea to the Lord, he arose from before the altar of the Lord, where he had knelt with hands outstretched toward heaven. 55 And he stood and blessed all the assembly of Israel with a loud voice, saying, 56 “Blessed be the Lord who has given rest to his people Israel, according to all that he promised. Not one word has failed of all his good promise, which he spoke by Moses his servant. 57 The Lord our God be with us, as he was with our fathers. May he not leave us or forsake us, 58 that he may incline our hearts to him, to walk in all his ways and to keep his commandments, his statutes, and his rules, which he commanded our fathers. 59 Let these words of mine, with which I have pleaded before the Lord, be near to the Lord our God day and night, and may he maintain the cause of his servant and the cause of his people (Israel), as each day requires, 60 that all the peoples of the earth may know that the Lord is God; there is no other. 61 Let your heart therefore be wholly true to the Lord our God, walking in his statutes and keeping his commandments, as at this day.”

Solomon’s blessing made me think about blessings, beyond the sometimes pithy #blessed. As one looks at a life lived, in process and to come it is truly impossible to respond with anything other than,

I have been blessed
I am blessed
I know I will be blessed

Solomon had just experienced the blessing of God, hands outstretched to receive. Then he stood, and took what God gave him, and shared it. asking for God to give to them what they need for each day, for the cause of Christ, which is the reaching and changing of hearts towards the Lord God.

This is our life’s calling … yesterday, today and tomorrow.

This prayer, written in or before 1506, by hands not known, is the spirit of my prayer today:


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Whether it is a vacation, a weekend or a snow day, we all need (physically, mentally and spiritually) periodic breaks from the everyday of life.

At some point in my life I remember a slogan, whose origins I do not remember (and could not find in my web search):

a break from the everyday

I love my life, my job, the routines and rhythms of my days … that is what gets me up and keeps the hamster on the wheel.

But …

it is the times of break from the everyday routines that are the fuel for the everyday.

I experience, what I like to call my undiagnosed ADHD, as soon as a break begins. It is a struggle to sleep (though exhausted) and a struggle to sit still. I am like a child at Christmas … not wanting to waste a precious second of this gift of time (usually refinishing a new ‘treasure’). Eventually sleep does come and a book or puzzle does get pulled out … and I breath.

The season of Lent is a similar break. Perhaps the break is from a habit or pleasure, perhaps it is the addition of prayer, or fasting, or both.

Lent culminates in the remembering of Christ’s final week … the entrance to Jerusalem, the final supper, betrayal, night in Gethsemane, arrest, trial, torture, crucifixion, death, and rising again.

It is his rising again that gives us breath, that makes our everyday hope-filled. It is in his rising that gives us a break from the emptiness of routine without hope of renewal … renewal that lasts an eternity.

Sabbath Poem V,
Wendell Berry

Six days of work are spent To make a Sunday quiet
That Sabbath may return.
It comes in unconcern;
We cannot earn or buy it. Suppose rest is not sent
Or comes and goes unknown, The light, unseen, unshown. Suppose the day begins

In wrath at circumstance,
Or anger at one’s friends
In vain self-innocence
False to the very light, Breaking the sun in half,
Or anger at oneself
Whose controverting will Would have the sun stand still. The world is lost in loss

Of patience; the old curse Returns, and is made worse As newly justified.
In hopeless fret and fuss, In rage at worldly plight Creation is defied,

All order is unpropped,
All light and singing stopped.

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Sanctuary

The news of the murder of forty-nine Muslim worshippers, in their sanctuary, makes the hearts of all worshippers break … for we all know the vulnerability of associating with a belief.

The fact that these people were attacked in their place of worship, their sanctuary, makes it seem an even greater violation on humanity and of hatred.

A sanctuary is a safe place, a place where those who feel they may be persecuted or harmed may go to be protected from the world and it’s laws (separation of church and state in a very practical way). I cannot hear the word sanctuary without hearing Quasimodo declaring it in the Hunchback of Notre Dame.

For blood to be shed in a sanctuary is a particularly devastating and cruel violence.

In January, bombs were detonated at a Catholic church in Jolo, Philippines, killing twenty-three. Last fall almost a dozen Jewish worshippers were killed at their Pittsburgh synagogue. An article at www.nbcnews.com documents numerous such killings over the past decade.

Sanctuary is not just a place, it is also a state of being … one that is birthed in our faith, one that is borne out of shalom, a peace that passes understanding.

The freedom of a sanctuary, freedom of religion is a precious gift. Our faith ought to be a place of sanctuary … our sanctuaries places of worship to the one in whom we have put our faith.

Freedom of religion is a gift that we have in many, but not all, places in the world. Even where we have been given that gift, it can still be violated.

So, what do we do about such hatred, such violation, such violence? We go to our sanctuaries, we pray, we worship … we take advantage of this freedom that we have. And we remember those who are hurting, those whose lives have been turned upside-down by such horrors.

We pray for them, we pray for us.

“Worshipers never leave church…
we carry our sanctuary with us wherever we go.”

Aiden Wilson Tozer

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