You Are Here

I was reading an article this week in Faith Today magazine -
Building a better Lego car it was called.
Naturally, it had to do with Lego, so I was enticed into reading it further.

It talked about watching children build Lego cars at Boston's Legoland Discovery Center.
Their creativity was endless;
they built, and raced, and then remodeled to improve their designs.
The author writes, "Neither success nor failure seemed to bring unhappiness in these young engineers as they joyfully continued to engage in the building process."

They were in it - 100% -
and continued to be in it no matter how the races went,
no matter if their cars fell apart,
with eyes eager to look for improvements and other options.

I also read an article on calling this week - this one in Relevant Magazine -
the author talked about calling not necessarily being your job,
but rather who you are.
It can be expressed in your work,
but that doesn't necessarily mean your job is your calling.

And putting these two together got me to thinking.
I always felt called to be a teacher -
aside from short blips on my high-school radar where someone told me I was too smart to work with 7 year olds all my life (unpacking that statement is a whole other blog post...),
where I wanted to have a black Jeep and so thought being a pharmacist might be all right and would give me the cash for said vehicle,
and that killer whale phase.
Yeah.
Anyone else want to train and swim with orcas until thinking it through and realizing there would be a lot of science courses involved in that (in pharmacy, too), and for someone who didn't love the sciences, it might not be the right career path?
I digress.
I always felt called to be a teacher -
from playing school with the neighbourhood kids,
to my early babysitting days,
it seemed like a natural fit.
And for the 11+ years I taught,
most of the time, I can say that it was.

Fast forward a little -
marry a pastor,
resign from teaching position,
move to a new community,
have a child,
and somewhere along the way that call to be a teacher got put to the side.
And let's be honest for a minute -
I miss it.
A lot.
Well, most of it.
I don't miss marking long writing assignments and projects,
or the crunch of report card time,
or late nights of preparing that often left little time for other things,
or the confrontations and conflicts that come with any job that involves working with people -
but even with all of that,
I miss it.
In many ways,
it defined me.
And I think I miss that, too.

But the reality is that the place I am right now,
is the place God has asked me to be.
And it's not all bad.
I'm pretty fond of the pastor I married,
and am getting to know people and making friends in my new community.
I still have connections with good friends who aren't so close by,
opportunities to do some small bits of education work,
and a pretty cute little girl who is cheerful most of the time.

In this place, where I am now,
I have the same responsibility to develop the gifts God has given me;
the same need to find ways to be creative and to look for improvements and other options in regards to what my gifts are or how to use them;
I can still be a teacher -
of how to walk and learn and obey (perhaps even without the marking?);
I can be the "me" God has designed and called me to be -
without the definitions of me that I identified with before.

As the author of the second article put it:
"This isn't to say that it will be easy.
On the contrary, good work is hard work."

But good work is what we are called to -
no matter where we are on the map when we see that "You are here" pointer -
and if we seek to fulfill that calling,
we will be blessed,
and likely even find joy in the process.

Thomas the Twin Revisited

Been reading through some old blog posts - which has gotten me thinking about maybe blogging again. We'll see. In the mean time, we had a sermon about Thomas on Sunday and it got me looking back to this entry from 2007. Thought I'd share...

Thomas the Twin

Have you ever thought that we're pretty hard on Thomas?
He has gone down in history as the doubter.
That's how he is remembered.
No one speaks about him as the guy who wanted to be sure of the truth.
Nobody tells stories about how he was speared to death in the interest of spreading the Gospel.

Think about it a minute.
One of his best friends had gone from being welcomed into Jerusalem with Hosannas
to being arrested and crucified
in a matter of a week.
You want to talk about an emotional roller coaster?
Up, down -
confusion, sadness, helplessness, guilt for leaving Him with the guards -
He knew how Jesus had died.
I'm not sure if he watched the crucifixion or not,
but it doesn't really matter.
It was the talk of the town, I'm sure.

Either way, if I put myself into his sandals for just a short moment
and imagine where I would have been at
I can't come up with much more than
"emotional wreck".

I'm a skeptic with simple things
like if Grenadine syrup is really made from pomegranates.
And that won't really affect my life.
It won't change my emotions
or put into question what I have devoted my life to for the last 3 years.
I didn't leave my job
to walk the country side
learning the truth
and then sharing the Good News of what I had learned.

But Thomas had been in the inner circle.
Not only did Jesus know him,
but he knew Jesus.
He loved Jesus.
And, just like you or I would have,
he doubted the reality that Jesus could really be alive.
In fact, if anything,
I think we should commend him for his honesty.
He said what I'm sure some of the other disciples were thinking.

And that gets me to "Thomas the Twin".
I learned today that the name Thomas means twin.
And I think there is some incredible irony there.
Perhaps it is God quietly putting His sense of humour
into what He knows is generations of people who just don't get it.

We single Thomas out as someone different.
He is remembered all on his own
as the guy who didn't believe.

In truth, he is probably the disciple that many of us are like.
Our "twin", if you will.
If I am honest with myself,
there are a lot of things I doubt.
I know that God can heal cancer.
I know that God can bring reprieve to those who suffer from depression.
I know that God loves me even though I mess up over and over and over.
I know that life is better when God is control instead of me.
I know that God holds each one of us in His hands
even if it seems that He lets us go from time to time.
I know a lot of things.
But do I really live in a way that demonstrates that I believe them?
Or maybe the better question is,
"Do I really believe them?"
Because if I do,
there are parts of my life that should be different;
Parts of my life that should demonstrate this faith just on their own.
I shouldn't have to remind myself what I believe
if I really believe it.

Sometimes we say that we are the biggest critics of the characteristics of others that we hate in ourselves.
Thomas, I would like to say,
is my equal.
Instead of singling him out,
perhaps I should join him
and acknowledge my lack of faith.
He brings out that part of me that doubts;
the part of me that knows the answer
but doesn't act on it
because feeling it in my heart
and allowing it to transform me
takes more than just knowing.

It takes believing.
And it means surrendering myself to the Spirit of God.
I'm not really good at surrender.

Perhaps a good place to start
is with Thomas' words of greeting for Jesus
"My Lord and my God"...
humble me, that I may truly believe
and so live the joy of the resurrection.

Lemons...

They say when life gives you lemons, you make lemonade.  But I'm curious if anyone ever thought of that logistically.  For some people, that's a lot of lemonade.  What if you don't even like lemonade?  What if you like it at first, but then it just tastes sour, or you get bored of it, or maybe you run out of sugar.  Or ice.  Who likes warm lemonade?  And there's still the question of all the lemons.  And the peels and the pits.  What do you do with all the waste from making the lemonade?

I've been struggling a little recently with what to do with some of the lemons.  Sometimes, I think it's important to get beyond painting a pretty picture, necessary even.  In truth, I think I've often looked at lemonade as putting the lemons into perspective; getting the bigger picture if you will.  God has blessed me richly, and with that, ought I to really complain about lemons?

However, God also gave me wisdom and a heart, and sometimes it hurts, or I feel overwhelmed with the need to get to the source of the lemons.  Where are they coming from?  If the lemon delivery service knew I had all the lemons I needed, could I request a change in the contents of my deliveries?  Could I have strawberries or even bananas sometimes?  Maybe they don't know that I'm getting a surplus and don't have enough lemonade pitchers to make something good of all the lemons?

What if I gave them some of the lemons back?  With a little sugar and ice, of course, so that they, too, could see the lemons, but also have the opportunity to turn those lemons into something good?

Just a little food for thought.
Literally.

And hopefully a productive week of both lemonade production, lemon returning, and a little bit of fruit salad.

A Thrill of Hope

I was reading an article last week from Relevant magazine all about Advent.  It quoted a couple of Christmas carols, one of which was "O Holy Night."

I'm sure it wasn't supposed to be that part of the article that caught my attention - the whole thing was good - but for some reason the words of "O Holy Night" stood out like they haven't before.

I think it's that word "thrill."
"A thrill of hope..."

I don't think I express extreme emotions very often.
Emotions, yes, but not the absolutely miserable or completely ecstatic kinds.
Like a thrill.
When I think of being thrilled, I'm thinking of things in the marriage proposal category.
Or someone having a baby.
Or bungee jumping off a bridge.
Although that's more of a rush and not really in the same category.
But it's that kind of crazy excitement.
I'm pretty sure I say I'm thrilled sometimes.
Thrilled to have my report cards finished.
Thrilled to be able to be a part of something big.
Even thrilled to beat all the Angry Birds levels.

But I'm not sure that's what this thrill is about.
The coming of the Christ-child -
"the weary world rejoices!"

A weary world I can identify with.
Too busy to rest, to relish in the simple joys of creation, family, and community.
Too caught up in the rush to really revel at the mystery and incredible gift of Christ.
Overworked, scrambling to make ends meet, bogged down by realities of sickness, brokenness, insecurities, and fears.

And wondering why.
Why the hurt?
Why the exhaustion?
Why the discontentment and lack of peace?

That is why He came.
To offer hope to a broken world.
That we may see Him and know Him.
And know the peace that only He can give.

May you find His joy this Advent season
and be thrilled because a baby WAS born,
and may you wait, with eager expectation,
for the return of the One who grants the hope and peace that this "weary world" needs so deeply.

Irony

Less than a day after posting about all the time I had, I was with a group of friends and we were talking about how I only had 4 and a half weeks left before our time in GR would be up.
I had just been feeling so refreshed.
And suddenly, it seems like it's back to a list of things to accomplish in 4.5 weeks (almost 3.5 now!)
and knowing that most of our weekends are planned,
and that we have to start thinking of how to use up the food in the cupboards,
and all that not quite as fun stuff.

I had a quiet afternoon when I got home that day.
I even took a nap for the better part of the afternoon.
And then I stayed home instead of going to hockey,
and just enjoyed having time with us.

No agenda - just time.
(It may have resulted in the purchase of an updated version of Angry Birds - it is important for one who has trouble with science to invest in practical ways to build scientific skills - like the physics of the trajectory :)...)
And once again, good.

I am learning how important rest is.
It's something I've known - and realized often -
but I am reminded again and again.
One of these days, I just might get it.

So, this week has been more rest.
On Thursday, before heading to Toronto for the weekend, I enjoyed an hour of singing/strumming with Picking and Grinning - banjo, mandolin, guitars, horn, harmonica, a little piano, a fiddle, and some singing - bluegrassy music like "I'll Fly Away", "This Little Light of Mine", and "This Land Is Your Land."  Good stuff.

Then we headed to Toronto and have spent  the weekend with my grandma - chatting, playing games, playing guitar, eating the goods that Grandma's place always has, and visiting with my aunt and uncle, and some cousins.  My dad even managed to make it in for some of the visiting.

Today we're off to meet with some of Ken's cousins en route to home - and then get organized to have his folks visit for a few days.

In light of American Thanksgiving, I'm reminded again of how much we have to be grateful for.
So much.
We are blessed.

And filled with opportunities for rest.
And this might be a good time to point out that I don't have to do report cards this week.
That in itself makes me feel quite rested!
Although, I have been thinking more about being back in the classroom.
It's good to put my head back into that space and think about the rest of the year ahead.

"In repentance and rest is your salvation, in quietness and trust is your strength..." Isaiah 30:15

Be rested and refreshed - and thankful.
Happy American Thanksgiving!

The Gift of Time

When I had a wedding shower a year and a half ago, my friends gave me the gift of time.
It was brilliant.
We were given gift cards for movies and dinners of all kinds, a night away, and a clock.
Brilliant.
We enjoyed every piece of that gift.

It seems this fall, we have been given that gift all over again.
It looks a little different this time, but it is SO good.

I don't think I have heard my own voice say, "I can do it.  I've got time," as often as I have in the last 3 months.  It has been such an incredible treat.
Time for cooking.  And baking bread.
Time for exercising.
Time for reading.  (Although I haven't read nearly as much as I thought I would.  It's amazing how quickly time passes, even with "nothing" to do!)
Time for reflecting and writing.
Time for us.
Time for serving others without having to set aside special time to make sure it happens.
Time for friends and just stopping to chat as opportunities arrive.

I love it.
The question is, how to make this a reality when our time here is finished.
Because that really is something I'd like to achieve on some level.

Time for life - for loving, and laughing, and really living to the fullest.
It's so wonderfully refreshing and good for my soul.

No rush for now;
I have been given the gift of time to figure it out. :)

Possibility...

So I'm not re-committing just yet.  Although I did do some writing last week and realized just how much I enjoy it, and how great of a means of expression it is for me.  I think I learn a lot about what I'm actually thinking when I write, so I just may have to get back on this bandwagon.

For now, however, a short thought about community.
In my writing last week, I commented on how blessed I was to be part of a pastor's family.
Strange thought, I know.  Often there are a lot of negative images and phrases that come to mind when someone talks about being a pastor's kid or pastor's wife.
I realized how much of a blessing it is to walk into a church and be known by others.
People know who you are, say hello, ask about your week, and take the time and interest to know about you because they know who you are.
As a result of this, I've had the blessing of quickly getting to know others in the church.  Because of conversations they often initiated with me, I got to know who they were.

We've been in a different community for 9 weeks now.
Granted, we haven't been to the same church more than once.
There are over 120 CRCs within about an hour radius of where we're living.
Ridiculous, really, but another topic all together.
What I've come to realize once again is the importance of community.
We've found community in different ways here - soup night, fellow classmates, Bible study, sports teams, and neighbours.
However, there is a community which we are familiar with and appreciate on Sundays.
A group of people who know our names; whom we feel free to worship with; whose style of worship is familiar.  People who ask about our week and care to hear the answer.  People who know us, and who we sometimes don't have to say a lot to in order to know that we belong.
In the churches we've visited, we have yet to find one that is similar to the one we worship in at home.
We have yet to find one where we've quickly said, "Let's go there again next week!"
We show up, shake hands with strangers, share Lord's Supper with strangers even, but I have felt a distinct emptiness upon coming home.
It's not home.
And we miss it.
Not to say we're not enjoying our time away.  We are.  It's good.  So good.
But it's not home.
It's a healthy longing.
One that was created deep within us.

A desire for home.

6 weeks to go.  That's crazy.
But when it comes, it will be good to be back in Winnipeg.

There's another deep longing for home.
It's different.
And hopefully much farther off.
Because I'm enjoying my time here.
God is good.

Do Not Be Afraid

The angels making visits in the year before that first Christmas had important messages to give.
They told of John the Baptist’s coming,
of the birth of Jesus;
they assured a man who feared for his own reputation and the integrity of the woman he had committed to marry,
and they announced to a group of tired, lowly shepherds the arrival of a baby king who was to save the world, and could be found in the town nearby.

The angels knew they were messengers of God. They knew that what they had to share was real and true, but they also knew something of the people they had come to visit. Whether it was their own appearance, the shock of the sudden presence of a stranger speaking, perhaps the messages themselves, or even the pieces of the journey that each recipient found themselves traveling; the angels’ messages were the same: Do not be afraid.

“Do not be afraid, Zacharias. Your prayers have been heard.”
“Do not be afraid, Mary. God loves you dearly.”
"Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife!”
"Do not be afraid!” the angel said to the shepherds. “Listen, I bring you glorious news of great joy which is for all the people.”

To each the message was really the same: God is bigger than you, and He’s asking you to join Him in celebrating, in carrying out a part of His story, in walking in faith. Don’t be afraid – He knows what the journey ahead looks like.

A new year is ahead and we have an opportunity; a chance to step forward acknowledging as the old English hymn writer did that “this is [our] Father’s world” and “God is the ruler yet.”

We step ahead knowing that the year past held many reasons to celebrate and praise God for His faithfulness and enduring love in our own lives and in the lives of our families.

We also step ahead knowing that the year past held details of brokenness that we don’t always like to talk about.

In all of this, both the joys and the challenges, the truths of God and His unfailing promises have been constant. Deeper than just in His promises, God has been sovereign and He is faithful.

So as we move into the year ahead, may we be reminded not to be afraid.
May we be reminded that God is bigger than us, and He asks us to join Him in celebrating, in carrying out parts of His story, doing so by walking in faith.

Happy New Year!

Thanks.

I was humbled yesterday
by a middle aged
regular lady
who took a moment
to make a point.

I was in line at the check-in counter at the airport.
Ahead of me was a soldier in his traveling uniform.
He adjusted his hat more than once.
I even watched him as he put on his dog-tags.

Out of nowhere, a woman came from behind us,
interrupting the conversation he was having with his girlfriend.
She simply stopped,
put out her hand,
and said, "I just wanted to say thank-you."
He shook her hand,
and she turned and walked away.

It was so simple,
yet so clear.

Thanks.

Attitude Check

Seems funny to write about an attitude check when I think for the most part, my attitude has been very "in check" these days.

God is good.
And the visual dance moves I displayed at a worship practice a couple of weeks back may be proof of that.
I don't generally exhibit dance moves.
However, they seem to be becoming part of my reality and the fun that goes with reminding myself that joy is real and joy is good has removed the shame from demonstrating my lack of skill in the rhythm department. (I'd like to offer kudos to my high school youth friends for this recent revelation.)

However, about the attitude check...
A huge piece of my life as of late has been one of those pieces where a forced response of "good" seemed to be the answer when anyone asked how it was going.
And it was good,
only I was letting the not-so-good be the reigning voice in my head.
I've been frustrated and so coming up with the very diplomatic, politically correct responses that sometimes go hand in hand with trying to be "proper" and pretending to be real at the same time seemed the only good response.

I had a chance to sit and reflect for an afternoon this week.
A treat for anyone,
but I took it as a gift.
I had a number of hours to step back and find the good in what has only been "good".
And I found a lot.
Many reasons to see the gifts,
to acknowledge the hearts,
and to see what really lies beneath the surface.

It seemed more than complete irony, then,
when I opened my evening devotional only to discover that the focus of the day's reading was on attitude.

The writer talked about how difficult situations have the opportunity to harden us or soften us.
We can respond to "heat" as clay,
and let it harden us and make us brittle,
or we can choose to be wax,
inviting the heat to mold and shape us.

It was then that I realized how necessary my afternoon had been.
How God was reinforcing in me the need to trust Him with the tough stuff;
to know that He wants to mold and shape us
and that He wants us to find Him in each piece of our lives.

Because He's there.
And when it seems like He isn't,
it's because I'm choosing not to look for Him.
Or letting myself be convinced that I can figure it out on my own and so I don't really need to invite Him to step toward me and identify His presence.
Sometimes it means just re-evaluating the way I'm praying.
Perhaps not asking for what I think is needed,
but simply allowing Him to mold me and make me what He wants me to be.

Because when I'm open to it,
and really trusting,
and really seeing each part of my life
as His and not really mine at all,
my perspective changes
and brings the joy
that lets me laugh
and really, truly answer that indeed,
it's very good.

The Singing Has Only Begun

My Grandma loved life and loved to laugh.
From the simple –
Saskatoon berries and fresh raspberry jam –
To the more involved –
like purposely pouring tea from her plastic cup onto her plastic saucer to create a vacuum and have a the saucer rise to her mouth as she sipped. We would giggle waiting for the saucer to fall, each eating the 3 or 4 Smarties we had to eat with our tea.

As I spent time with my cousins this week preparing for my Grandma's funeral,
we came up with lots of little details –
lots of ways that she made the most of each opportunity.

Grandma loved having her grandkids over.
There were sleepovers in the basement of the old house
in the room with the old record player and the pink stitched quilts.
We could always count on Mountain Dew in the fridge
and a roll of orange or red RANG candies for the drive home.
If we were lucky, we would have Fruitella candies, too.
Grandma loved to spoil us with sour cream and onion rings and cheezies and we were reminded of what a treat it was to her when we were given the exact serving size. Grandma would have us over to bake shortbread cookies sliced from a roll and to make ollie-ballen over the stove.
Ice cream at Grandma’s came from the 2L boxes –
in slices on a plate as opposed to scoops in a bowl.
Currants were served rolled in sugar,
and meatballs were counted as each ladle-ful was poured out.
It was always a competition.

No matter how we handled ourselves in her home,
Grandma was never upset with us.
We could spill or break a rule,
and somehow we always felt that she was gentle and like we had done nothing wrong.

Grandma was sneaky and had what we might call the Scheper family’s ability to enjoy finding the loopholes in life in a seemingly innocent way, laughing about it as she went; from cheating at board games, using Dutch words in Scrabble, to making a profit on the brown eggs we sold to her from our own chicken coop as she sold them to her friends at Summit Village for a higher price.

Grandma was affectionate for someone from her generation.
We always knew without a doubt that we were loved.
We sat on her lap and received many strong hugs.
Even when she could no longer find English words to tell us how she was feeling,
she would squeeze our cheeks and give us “kusses” on both cheeks,
grinning from ear to ear.

Grandma loved adventure –
from the trip across the ocean long before our time,
to determining that she should go down the slide at the children’s park,
breaking her ankle on the way down.
Until she was at least 80,
she was taking the stairs and kicking her leg over her shoulder
to show us how flexible she was.
As much as we put our arms out for safety and held our breath,
she was relentless and proved our fears wrong each and every time.

Grandma’s childhood memories came to us in chuckles as she would tell of how they each smoked a cigarette for dessert after supper. When we visited as teens and adults, she would sit on the porch with those who smoked, smile, and inhale deeply, saying, “Blow it in my face!”

As we said our final goodbyes to Grandma this week,
we acknowledged that we have in many ways been saying good-bye for the last number of years.
It has been difficult watching her slip away,
but we have also had opportunities to see her laughter and joy in the simple things come out more clearly.
Grandma said good-bye very well. She would wave in the hallway as we left her apartment in Summit Village until we were around the corner. When we walked to our cars, she moved to the balcony and continued to wave as we drove out of the parking lot.

As one of us said this week, “Each time I think of her before and from here on, I will have many reasons to laugh.”
"Man-a-life," she might say, and we’d echo her voice and say she was more than a "honderd percent."

A few r-rolling tra-la-las are a good addition to an already incredible choir.
91 years is a long time,
and Grandma has only started singing.

So honest...

At the end of every school year, I ask the kids to give advice for the upcoming grade 5 class. Most of the advice is pretty straight-forward: do your homework, don't interrupt the teacher, cheer for the Oilers (that's straight-forward, isn't it?), and so on.

Some years I get humbling thoughts or encouraging remarks.

One in particular stood out today:

"Miss Van tells a lot of jokes. Laugh even when they aren't funny."

I had to chuckle. I thought it was going to say something to the effect of "so that keeps things interesting." However, apparently in order to survive grade 5, it is important to humour me and make me feel good about myself.

At least they're honest.

About that Audible Gasp...

I send my regrets for never blogging about the audible gasp.
It's still a good story.
And one that I may choose to write about at a later date,
but for now, it will hold itself in my own memory,
to challenge me on my daily journey.

I went for a drive today.
Something I haven't done in a really long time.
Something that used to be the greatest part of summer,
the most recharging part of a holiday,
the place where I let myself shamelessly cry while reconnecting - with myself, with God, with a world bigger than my own.

Today was different.
Good all the same, but different.

Today I shed my tears before I got into my car.
So many reasons and such a big picture,
but ultimately for the loss of a friend, mentor, and gracious leader within our community; and for the family he leaves behind.
Throughout his battle with cancer
and in his funeral today,
his testimony of faith in a God whose love is rich and deep,
who is faithful,
and who holds each of us in the context of a much bigger picture
was evident and clear.
It was mentioned today that he understood grace deeply,
and lived that understanding.

The CD that was playing in my car had a few songs that made me reflective, made me sing aloud, reminded me of the peace and strength that believing in that context of grace provides, and challenged me to look ahead.

One song in particular, I played over and over.
It's a personal favourite.
And today, it answered its own prayer.


God of Grace and God of Laughter

God of grace and God of laughter,
singing worlds from nought to be
sun and stars and all thereafter
joined in cosmic harmony:
give us songs of joy and wonder,
music making hearts rejoice;
let our praises swell like thunder,
echoing our Maker's voice.

When our lives are torn by sadness,
heal our wounds with tuneful balm;
when all seems discordant madness,
help us find a measured calm.
Steady us with music's anchor
when the storms of life increase;
in the midst of hurt and rancor,
make us instruments of peace.

Turn our sighing into singing,
music born of hope restored;
set our souls and voices ringing,
tune our hearts in true accord:
till we form a mighty chorus
joining angel choirs above,
with all those who went before us,
in eternal hymns of love.

At the Corner of Sixth and Graham

I've been struck a few times recently-
not by lightning...although apparently the odds are good-
but by those nuggets that just "get" me.

For now, just one.
But look for "The Audible Gasp" coming soon to a blogspot near you.

The man on the corner downtown.
He just needed someone to notice him.
And although I noticed, and offered him some food,
it wasn't him so much that stood out in my mind.
He brought me back to Seattle.
That was last July.
I met a young guy there -
maybe 23ish.
Not much younger than I.
He reminded me of someone dear who not long ago was in his shoes.
He was trying to camouflage himself with the newspaper boxes in front of the McDonalds.
I noticed him when I walked inside,
but noticing him wasn't enough.
I felt sick to my stomach the whole time I stood in line.
Shouldn't someone do something?
How can all of these people walk inside and order food and not doing anything?
It bothers me still how quickly I threw the "someone" and "all of these people" out, but failed to make it "I".
Will the people in the restaurant be upset if I talk to him? Maybe that would encourage him to loiter outside their doors more often?
"Really Van? Are you seriously concerned about that?"
I carried my tray to my table and joined my mom and grandma.
But I just couldn't stomach what I had on my tray.
I raised my question to them, "Do you think he's hungry?"
"Yes," one of them told me. "He was asking for money."
I got up from my chair and asked if he'd like something to eat.
The look in his eyes, and his soft, somewhat shame-filled voice told me that he would.

I wish I knew his name.
I wish he knew that I think of him often and lift him in prayer.

I won't forget the way he tucked that McDonald's bag under his jacket and walked away almost silently.

I hope I have faith and courage enough to not walk by and call "someone" to the opportunities I am given a little more often.

I wonder

The wonder of Christmas.
A star in the sky.
A shepherd out in a field.
A little baby born among the animals.

The wonder of Christ.
God becoming man.
Choosing to live like us.
With us even.

I wonder.
I wonder what it was like to be Mary.
To know such great imperfection
and yet to raise that which was perfection.

And I wonder what it is like
For Him to look down –
knowing what He did
and seeing us let it pass by
like a familiar story that lacks the inspirational punch.

And it is then that I am in wonder
at the wonder-ful gift of His grace.

He looks down
And He loves us anyway.

This Christmas...

This Christmas might be like every other Christmas you have ever celebrated.
It might be the traditions that you love.
The family members that you try to love.
The food you know you don’t need or
shopping for someone who's hard to buy for.
Or maybe it's the gifts that you complained about shopping for,
But loved watching the receiver open.

This Christmas might be like no Christmas you’ve ever had before.
It might have you taking part in something like you’ve never done before.
Or giving a gift to someone you’ve never shopped for before.
Maybe it has you embracing the concept of a “blue Christmas” in a way you hadn’t needed to do in years previous.
Maybe it’s different because it seems hopeless.
Or different because the snow and the decorating didn’t get you into the Christmas spirit.

Maybe you could recite Luke 2
And you know the magi didn’t really come to the stable.
Maybe you feel like the shepherds out in the fields are just part of a story.
A story that you know so well.

May you find the wonder –
Through the eyes of an innkeeper exhausted from a long day of preparing for and then serving enough guests to fill his sleeping quarters, only to find an expectant couple looking earnestly for a room.
Through the eyes of a man scorned by his people, but willing to stand to save the face of the woman he loved.
Through the eyes of a young girl so unprepared for what lay ahead, so unsure of all that God was asking her to do, yet so completely devoted to obediently following His call.
Through the eyes of a shepherd, cast into the hills by the townspeople for a low-end night shift, being greeted by a sight that no one would believe – that you aren’t sure that you even believe yourself.
Through the eyes of a Son, who humbled Himself to be a son of man.
Through the eyes of a Father, who entrusted His son to a daughter of man.

May you wonder at the wonder that is Christ.

Remembering...

Cold

Ask anyone of 27 thousand Bomber fans about the game on Saturday and they'll probably go into a description of the quarterback, or maybe the lacking defense on the part of the secondaries. I will tell you the same things - and then I will add that I'm glad the Bombers started to play in the 4th quarter because that was about the time that I wondered what craziness had brought me to sit outside and freeze to watch my football team suck it up in the playoffs. At least I could start to cheer about something again and get the blood moving to warm up a bit.
It was cold.

The last time I remember being that cold was - strangely enough - at the Grey Cup game 2 years ago. It was that same "pain in my toes" cold. Again, brought on by my own choice. I wanted to be there.

And if I really think about it, prior to that, the joint pain I remember was in my hands - in an attempt to throw snowballs at friends. Again, my own choice.

The last while I've been feeling "cold" in regards to God.
It feels like it takes a lot to get the blood running and to really feel excited about our relationship.
Don't get me wrong.
The solid truths still seem to hold firm.
I know them - and for the most part,
can stick to them.
However, the desire to do so,
or to invest my time and energy,
or to want to invest my time and energy
is where the "cold" comes in.

Funny thing is,
that like the cold in my joints,
I own much of the responsibility for this feeling of lack-lustre faith.
Choosing to trust
choosing to invest
choosing to find joy
instead of plugging away of my own accord...
all of those pieces I have control over.

And my choices have left me cold.
God has been throwing mitts at me.
This last week my inner "thermostat"
has been very aware of the temperature of my faith.
And I got mitts.
And boots.
And an extra large hot chocolate.

It seems that God won't let my cold be the final say.
He's brought in some 4th quarter action to get the blood running again.

He got my attention.

Labour-less Weekend

Another long weekend canoe trip.
Another weekend of beautiful weather.
Another chance to paddle the Canadian Shield
and sing Pocahontas' "Just Around the River Bend"
while watching bald eagles fly overhead
and dream dreams of canoeing with tarps in dry sacs over rapids.

Okay, so that last part probably doesn't make much sense to most of you, but it added to the goodness of our girls' canoe trip this weekend.

We had a great weather and were able to paddle a good 2 hours up Bird River before we stopped after a long portage and decided to pitch a tent for the night. We built a small fire and roasted some hot dogs before falling asleep beside some fresh "bear" prints.
(Even though I was pretty sure they belonged to a dog, I didn't allow that to interfere with my humanity and prayed that the bears would find someone else to indulge in for their midnight snack.)

This is the end of our 2nd portage where we slept the first night.


We paddled another 3.5/4ish hours along the slow moving river,
enjoying the incredible quiet.
I can't really explain it.
It's so quiet that it's not.
You can hear the birds and the crickets,
and the splash of ducks and loons along the water.
It's almost a more sacred kind of noise. Awesome.

We passed more beaver dams than we could count - and saw an otter and a muskrat along the way.


We arrived after a number of other boats had already paddled in, but landed one of the nicer spots we've seen along the water's edge.
Although it at first looked like a wide open rock with a fire pit,
we saw a path through the bushes that went up a hill only to find a picnic table, another fire pit, a nice flat area in the trees - even an outhouse.
On such a windy weekend, the sheltered site was a blessing and we enjoyed the privacy combined with our own beach-front rock for afternoon swimming, reading (The Shack - that could be a whole other blog!), and napping.


I canoed this way a couple years ago - and sadly went in and under while trying to paddle over these little rapids. We laughed at our inability to make it over such a small glitch in the way. This picture doesn't really show the rapids, but it does show me on the other side of them still in the canoe. We even portaged the canoe back up in order to try going more through the middle for a better ride through the second time around.


And now,
back to work.
Labour-full weeks ahead.

Better than Planned

After much wondering and many stretches,
I was able to play all 6 of my Ultimate playoff games this week.
I was very excited to be back.
This is our 3rd place team in the "Have Fun" division. :)
I went to physio today - where I was told that I don't need to come back for 2 weeks. No more ice, a few more stretches, and hopefully next time around I'll be totally finished. When I think of where I was a month ago, I am totally thankful for what I can do. God is good.

Today was back at school as well.
I don't think I got much done.
It's amazing how much time a person can spend in a small room
and really do very little.
Oh heh.

And here is my new haircut.
It's actually short and curly,
but I'm not convinced on the length yet.
They tell me it's cute,
but I'm going with the straightened version.
I quite like it.
And it adds at least an inch - maybe two.