All Saints Day: Where does that leave me?

Treasured times in life include those mornings where Henry and I chat over coffee. As the sun rises, the cloud and sky morph through an infinite spectrum of colour from darkness to light, and we discuss, debate, and dabble in a vast set of interlinked subjects and concepts from personal joy or frustration to theological concepts or hilarious comedy. These quiet moments hone my heart, sharpen my thinking, strengthen my marriage and grow my love for God, for truth, and for my husband.

Today on All Saints’ Day, the conversation morphed, not through the list of well-known miracle workers, but through the necessity of humble unrewarding tasks, the clarity of knowing where we are to serve, our attitudes, the importance of an ordered life, in productive functions and whether rest is productive or not. We listened to British poet Malcolm Guite and a watched a video interview on The Lost World of Genesis One by American theologian John Walton.

There was more discussed today, but the primary epiphany was this: how glibly we glide past those who humbly serve in silence, who deliver our coffee, who keep statistics, balance the books, care for little ones, clean the road signs or paint the street lines, clean the toilets…

Here is where true sainthood is born. The miracle of a life spent faithfully executing one’s assigned tasks, in the humblest setting, without recognition or thanks. The discipline of doing what is often taken for granted, rarely noticed, yet done with a willing, patient, uncomplaining spirit. Perhaps “anyone could do it,” but they don’t. So these quiet saints plod pleasantly along, making life more bearable for thousands who rarely if ever realize, acknowledge or express thanks.

St. Therese of Lisieux is one of the patron saints of missions, not because she ever went anywhere, but because of her special love of missions, and the prayers and letters she gave in support of missionaries. She lived only 24 years and was an obscure nun for nine of those. She loved flowers and gave glory to God by just being her beautiful little self among all the other flowers in God's garden.

The world came to know Therese through her autobiography, Story of a Soul. She lived each day with an unshakable confidence in God's love. "What matters in life," she wrote, "is not great deeds, but great love." This is reminder to all of us who feel we can do nothing, that it is the little things that keep God's kingdom growing.

So persevere, my friend. Look alone to your own personal task. Remember the Saviour who did not come to be served, but to serve and give his life. (Matthew 20:28). Forget what is behind, disregard what others are doing or telling you to do or not do, eliminate comparisons from your mind (we always are on the losing end, our private life and personal stumbles held alongside others’ highlight reels).

Press on.  Do the next thing.

Cover Photo by Christian Battaglia on Unsplash

Tiles of Time

Gratitude is the birthplace of joy. 

~Brené Brown

Ten years ago, while house-hunting on Thanksgiving weekend, I toured the house that would become my home. Two disparate things captivated me: the panoramic mountain view and the unique ceramic tile in the master bedroom with its indigo-and-linen pattern adorning the fireplace.

As I wake today from a rare Sunday afternoon nap, the low sun casts a golden spotlight through the open window onto those eclectic tiles that remind me (then, and every day since) of a warm, joy-filled vacation through Cinque Terre, Italy.

Much has transpired in those ten years: birthdays, holiday celebrations, graduation, empty nest, road trips, reunions, weddings, dear visitors, grief and loss, sleepless nights, tears, prayers. I strive to tuck each one into the cedar chest of life memories. Major events coexist alongside the innocuous beauty of brief moments: a gentle word, lingering sunsets, breathtaking sky, small blooms, tender glances, echoes of song and laughter, surprises, campfires, a first-year raspberry, juicy watermelon and faithfulness. Each one, observed, becomes a good and perfect gift, no matter how tiny, squirrelled away in a precious nook or safe cranny of memory's trove.

Treasures and sadness, light and dark, joy and mourning; these are not opposites, but complementary. I do not despise one for the sake of the opposite. One cannot exist without the other, not until eternity. I seek to embrace both extremes and all the various in-betweens, since we mostly live the greater fraction of our lives in the un-sensational middle-ground of Average.

For all of these gifts, and the mosaic they make of my life, may I be truly grateful. Amen.

Future Memory

Facebook often reminds us of memories, sometimes sweet, sometimes nostalgic, sometimes sad. It keeps us looking back.

But what if it could show us future memories?

No eye has seen, no ear has heard and no mind has imagined what God has prepared for those who love him. (1 Cor. 2:9)

When I hike, I like to occasionally stop and look at the view behind me, from where I've come. It's often a breathtaking perspective.

But I can't move forward that way.

God has told us he will walk with us and be our shepherd, guard and guide. He will never leave. He walks with us into the future because he's already been there. He has told us what is good. How do we lean into that?

And what does the LORD require of you? Do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God. (Micah 6:8)

 Now let's go make some future memories that will take our breath away.

Photo: front range of Rocky Mountains, looking west from Calgary near Hwy. 8, personal collection.

Apples of Gold

“It really makes me sad to see you speak so harshly to yourself.”

I looked at his face, tender with concern. Harshly to myself? What had I said?

“I pray I will know when to speak and when to shut my mouth.”

It was, on the surface, a genuine concern to only say what is helpful. To not speak in unhelpful or hurtful ways. To carefully choose my battles and determine which hills to die on, then speak with the right attitude and in the right tone of voice. Because we know that it’s not so much what you say but how you say it that leaves the listener remembering how you made them feel. For goodness sake, I even pray about this sort of thing. And I sometimes decide not to speak when I listen to the still, small voice which cautions me to be still.

I had said the first part in a normal voice: “I pray I will know when to speak.” Speak up for those who have no voice. Speak peace into a troubled heart. Speak encouragement for the weak one. Speak up when I have been wronged. I’m still learning how to do that last one without being a prickly pear.

But when to shut my mouth? Ah, that I said with a snarl and a curled lip. A self-flagellation for every time I spoke out of turn, spoke too loud, spoke unkindly, hurt someone, accused someone, berated someone.

It takes me right back to Grade Eight science class when Bruce and Gerry gave me an unflattering nickname: Meramac Cavern Mouth. They were my friends, we sang together. I liked them. We teased each other. But I was loud and they poked me for it, choosing the largest cave in the state as my namesake.

Yes, I was loud in Junior High. I was obnoxious. I was funny. I was busy. I was a singer. I was confident. I was sometimes insecure and I was trying to find my place in the world, just having experienced my first kiss.

That was awkward and gross. I didn’t know what to do with that icky feeling. So I redirected it in anger against the boy who tried it and to my best friend and her boyfriend who goaded us into it. Sitting on the cold floor of her parents’ garage, we two couples, all the early side of 14 years old, decided to explore kissing. And it was a bomb. I was embarrassed. Was something wrong with me? Was it him? Neither one of us knew how. I was disappointed that I’d chosen poorly and I could never get “my first kiss” back. It was gone and now it would forever be engraved in history as a bad mistake I made with a pudgy Grade Seven boy.

What followed was my first experience with really hurting someone with my words. I broke up with the boy and decided I didn’t want to be friends with my best friend any more. I made unkind remarks about her to others at school. The vitriol went on until one of the teachers called me aside to say, “I know your brother (a teacher in Grade Six) and I know your family and I know they didn’t raise you to act like this. You are being a bully and it needs to stop.”

I did stop. I was embarrassed that someone had to take me aside like that, yet I was grateful because I knew he was right.

“The right word at the right time is like a custom-made piece of jewelry, and a wise friend’s timely reprimand is like a gold ring slipped on your finger. Patient persistence pierces through indifference; gentle speech breaks down rigid defenses.” Proverbs 25:11-12,15 (MSG)

My friend and I made up but it was always different after that. We had both been wounded and my words had left scars on us both.

The awkward, gross, icky feeling of Grade Eight surfaces every time I see that look in another person’s eyes: I’ve hurt them. I kick myself over and over for speaking at the wrong time or in the wrong way, even if what I said was valid. They couldn’t receive it because my timing or tone of voice was offensive.

As time passes, as I mature, I have earned a measure of success and respect for how I speak and what I write. But as many writers do, I write very carefully, wrestling long and hard over anything I put in print: to say it right, to say it well, to say it clearly. It can take an entire morning to write and publish one blog post. And I anguish over emails, writing and re-writing paragraphs to minimize any possibility of misinterpretation and still, it is sometimes misunderstood, the reader misses the point or fixates on one ill-chosen phrase.

I have no one to blame but myself.

Or so I thought.

In sober second thought, my rational mind can logically deduce that others are also responsible for their reactions. They hear what I have to say through their own background experience and emotional filters. They give different value, meaning and weight to my words than what I intended.

When another is offended, I can sometimes understand in retrospect how it hurt them, if they let me know. More often they don’t say anything. They just fade away. Not many people confront me about my words. Not many people confront anyone. It seems confrontation is avoided at all costs by a majority of us.

When that unsettled feeling rises, that subtle alienation after I say something intense, passionate or strong, I go away and analyze it. Replay the full conversation, maybe the entire event in my head more than once, guess at how it might have been interpreted (how impossible is that, since I’m trying to understand someone else’s filters through my own).

I know I am not alone in this practice. You do it too, perhaps?

So back to the original remark that started this all off. When I pray I want to know when to keep my mouth shut, I’m thinking of all that has come before. All the ways I’ve caused pain to the heart of another. That overbearing burden of being a person who so often wounds another, that somehow I should be able to not do that.

I should be perfect.

Or at least, “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.”

So I turn on myself. “Keep your mouth shut!” my inner critic snarls.

And the one who loves me best, who sees me at my worst, who has promised to love and cherish me until death parts us, tells me how sad he is to see that venom turned inward.

This is a shining moment in love, in marriage: the mirror held up by a loving hand to help me see clearly where I am self-cutting. The one who sees my heart, knows my life and moves to restrain my hand from the mea culpa.

“It is not only what you say but, more importantly, how you say it.”

Especially when you are saying it to yourself. Self-compassion is not selfishness. It is what makes it possible for us to live whole and compassionate in all our other relationships.

He goes on, “Ask yourself how you would speak to another person, and speak to yourself in that same courteous way.”

Words can heal and words can kill. Words wound and words give life. So, I will continue to pray about when to speak and when to be silent. Because silence is not always golden. Sometimes silence means consent or cowardice. In that case, speaking graciously is the most loving way to live in community with one another.

I’m so glad for the way another spoke healing words to me.

Watch the way you talk. Let nothing foul or dirty come out of your mouth. Say only what helps, each word a gift. Don’t grieve God. Don’t break his heart. His Holy Spirit, moving and breathing in you, is the most intimate part of your life, making you fit for himself. Don’t take such a gift for granted. Make a clean break with all cutting, backbiting, profane talk. Be gentle with one another, sensitive. Forgive one another as quickly and thoroughly as God in Christ forgave you. Ephesians 4:29-32 MSG

Punctuality Punch

I will apologize in advance if this post offends you. I hope not. I’m writing it because I’ve lived on both sides of this issue so I’m preaching to myself here. I have no particular individual in my mind other than myself. Feel free to add your perspective in the comments or on my Facebook page.

I don’t remember if I heard it, read it, or saw it in one of those random Facebook pictures. It struck me funny.

“Better to arrive late than to arrive ugly.”

I may or may not have re-shared it. It sure got a laugh in Cave Creek at the pottery shop when I said it to my husband as a quote that should be on a plaque and a couple women in the store overheard me. They laughed uproariously.

But is it true?

On a favorite blogger’s recent post I read something that sounds like it. She’s just had a baby. Her fourth. A bit of a “Surprise!” baby, but she was eager and ready and happy and fully immersed in the new mothering of her little one, but wrote: 

“Dashing into the shower in the early morning, determined to get dressed, put on make-up, brush my hair. I’m my father’s daughter: I believe in the small dignities to keep life steady in the midst of change and chaos. I hear his voice in my head, look good and feel good. So I make beds, I put clean clothes on everyone in my care, I empty the dishwasher, we eat at the table. Normal structures, normal routines, all around an extraordinary newness. It’s true, I do feel better but now there’s a houseful of people who all feel better when I feel better.”

Hold that thought while we go back to the triggering quote. Is it truly “better to arrive late than to arrive ugly”? Will the people to whom I’m arriving feel better because I feel good about how I look? Is that the right measure?

I’ll give you a hint. It’s an unfair question.

It’s a false dichotomy, only two choices. The question assumes you must pick one thing out of two bad options, when there are actually many more options available. Let’s break it down a little further: The question assumes that if I arrive on time, I will arrive unkempt. Or that I am ugly unless I arrive late? Or that to truly do what is necessary to make myself presentable, I must take so much time that I cannot possibly start it soon enough to finish promptly and arrive punctually.

I’m sure you and I both have seen many beautiful people arrive on time and behave quite graciously, so this isn’t about them. Let me just pick this funny little quote apart. I’m going to seek names for what it may be hiding. Is it a procrastinator’s excuse for tardiness? An insecure person’s defense for being disrespectful of other people’s time? A comedian’s means to a backhanded insult? Or just a sarcastic joke which I’m totally over-thinking?

A good friend of mine asks a pointed question when we hear, read or say something which is initially funny or self deprecating that eventually doesn’t sit quite right when you think about it or give it a sober second glance.

She asks, “What’s the lie in that?”

Is there a lie in the phrase, “Better to arrive late than ugly”?

Promptness and punctuality were emphasized from day one of elementary school. We were graded on it. Businesses emphasize honoring their open/close times and expect employees to be present and engaged in productive work during their assigned work hours. Social etiquette refers to arriving “fashionably late” as being no more than 8 minutes past the invitation time but not arriving too early ahead of the specified start. Since social settings are voluntary, do we give tacit approval to late arrival? If I were meeting the president or the queen, would I think it’s better to arrive late for any reason?

So here’s the lie. Neither option is better.

Truth is, arriving late is ugly. I know there are occasional times when circumstances cause unavoidable delay. But there was a point in my life where I arrived late all the time. Even if I had committed to an event or a rehearsal, I would often arrive late. I even wrote an essay on it, trying to understand myself and this behavior I did not condone, condemning myself in every possible way for not being able to move my consistent tardiness into dependable punctuality.

I discussed the hypothesis that to arrive consistently late might be done out of disrespect. I used terms like arrogant and inconsiderate. Or perhaps a passive-aggressive act to exert power by one who felt an obligation to attend an event but doesn’t really want to be there. Tardiness can give the self-centered impression that what I am doing now is more important or more interesting than what you want to do at your start time. Or perhaps a narcissist likes arriving late and having everyone notice me when I get there. Even bad attention is better than no attention, right?

Wrong.

If we give the tardies the benefit of the doubt, perhaps they just attract roadblocks. I recently decided to attend my nephew’s band concert in an unfamiliar city. The GPS said ETA was 12 minutes, but that didn’t take into consideration it was rush hour and the GPS said to go north instead of south and the traffic in both directions was at a standstill. Exiting on a side road, we pulled over and it took a few minutes to reassess an alternate route that didn’t include the freeway. We were fine. Calm. Not worried because we still had lots of time, so we stopped for coffee at McDonalds. The clerk said they were brewing a fresh pot and it would be three minutes – no problem, we went to the washroom and returned, waiting while they served the two people now in line.

You know this isn’t going to turn out well, already, don’t you?

The second person was ordering for an entire basketball team, apparently, then didn’t have quite the right amount and had to make alterations to the order. When we finally stepped up to get our coffee order processed (we didn’t use the drive thru because we did need to use the facilities) and while she was taking our simple “two large black coffees” order, the clerk stopped and answered an interruption from the previous woman, then a second question from another patron who wanted more dipping sauce for his chicken fingers and we listened to the entire policy explanation as to why they were going to charge him $.16 for each one in addition to what’s given with his order and their warning to him about not being verbally profane or abusive with his language. Once our coffee finally arrived and we got back into our vehicle to continue our journey, it was a full fifteen minutes we hadn’t calculated into our transit time.

Then in the next block, after we exited McDonalds, a train is stopped across the road. Dead stopped. No movement at all. With a police vehicle already blocking access with lights flashing (on both sides of the train), I make the quick assumption that it is stalled for an indefinite period of time and we proceed with a quick recalculation again on the GPS for a second detour.

The address he gave was for the main office of the college campus where the concert was taking place, and as we arrived, we get a phone message from my brother with more detailed instructions as to how to find the concert hall, a full two miles further from the main office. All the while, I had been texting my brother about our ETA, updating him, figuring out how to meet for getting the concert tickets, which he eventually left at Will-Call so he could sit down as the concert was already starting.

We arrived late and were seated between songs as my nephew’s band began playing the last of their set. They were terrific. Small consolation, the following two bands were terrific as well and we got to go out for coffee with the family afterwards. But we were late. Oh, so late, for such very good reasons that were not at all our fault.

These are not the kind of tardy arrival incidents I am discussing in this post, but it was a “Planes, Trains and Automobiles” kind of a story, don’t you think?

Sigh. Even explaining why we were late took me on a long rabbit trail that has delayed my next paragraph.

Yes, even if I wanted to be at an event, I would still sometimes be late. Sometimes just because I couldn’t get my act together or took too long or didn’t leave soon enough. Sometimes, they couldn’t start without me. They still loved me and it made it easier when I could explain all the ridiculous and unexpected, unavoidable reasons for delays outside my control, but when it was due to my own negligence or impertinence, I made it just a smidge harder (and believe me, I am deeply grateful for the true friends who heaped forgiveness on this and many other flaws).

How did I eventually change? I learned from personal experience - when I’ve been on the receiving end: leading a rehearsal that requires me repeating instructions for the latecomers (one of the joys of working with volunteers) or hosting a dinner party that required closely timed guest arrival with placing the success or fail entrée in front of them.

If I arrive late to the theatre for a live show or concert, I’m not allowed in until a suitable break between acts or songs. If I arrive late for an airline flight, I miss it. We are penalized. What’s a person to do when someone arrives late to a dinner party or a rehearsal? Starting without them may drive the point home to them, but it doesn’t seem to make a difference for chronic latecomers.

My father wanted one of my brothers to be more punctual. So my father asked, “If we were to take a hymnal with us from every church we sing in, would that be okay?” My brother says, “Of course not, it would be like stealing.” My father’s point: “And when you take five minutes or more of our time while we wait for you to arrive, you are stealing our time. Nine of us waited five minutes for you, that’s 45 minutes you have stolen. It is time that is not yours to take.”

Some of the things I did to overcome my own chronic tardiness was related to realizing how I was impacting my relationships with those I cared about. I had a choir member ream me out for “expecting more of the choir than you expect of yourself.” She was right. I didn’t want to be kept waiting but there were times I as the director had kept them waiting.

Some practical things I learned:

• allow extra time
• leave earlier
• start getting ready earlier
• shorten the to-do list
• eliminate all but the most essential tasks
• set aside perfectionism
• get used to saying: "That's good enough"
• stop being overly optimistic about how long something will take
• build in a buffer in case something happens along the way
• leave when planned
• discipline myself to NOT multi-task

I know all this. You know all this. But still, I push it. I’m no longer a chronic tardy, but sometimes I still arrive late. I see others do the same. Why?

Because I don’t want to have to be the one waiting on the latecomers. What a lame reason. Seriously? That’s a whole ‘nother blog post all on its own.

Back to the blogger’s paragraph. She felt looking good and keeping routines for her family (even in the face of being the mom of a brand new baby) would help her whole family feel better. She took the responsibility to keep routine and beauty and tidiness in the middle of all that change and upheaval. She was choosing beauty over ugly. Peace over chaos. Punctuality over procrastination. But later in her blog, she confessed, “the laundry will never be done” so we know she isn’t one of those uptight perfectionists, nor is she blowing smoke, creating a false image of how organized she is. She simply wants to help her family feel as normal and safe as possible as they integrate a new little one into their family.

I find from experience that late arrivers (including myself) begin to feel like unsafe people. I can’t count on them. Well, I can count on them to be consistently late. They signify by their repeated tardiness that they are not going to respect another’s time.

In the world of those who follow Christ, it doesn’t seem very loving. But then again, neither does my forensic dissection of the issue. I’m preaching at myself here. I’m just a writer trying to figure out how to live in this world in a way that will help others feel safe around me. 

I want to be a woman of my word. I want to be able to trust myself and be confident that I will honor time commitments of others and help them succeed by being prompt. I want to be respectful of others, honor their time, be a good steward of this one precious life. Help the entire production or choir or dinner party look better and feel better because no one is worrying about when the last person will finally arrive and things can get started.

It’s ugly to arrive late.

I want to redeem the time, arrive calm and collected so that I (and all the others with whom I am in community) will look and feel better. I want to make room for time, for others, for sanity. To maintain small dignities to keep life steady in the midst of change and chaos.

There’s no present like the time.

Photo Credit: Depositphotos.com 2354469, Standard License

How the Light Gets In

Days like today, when the sun is shining bright and low through my family room window and full beam into my face, I long to make this space my office, where I can soak in the winter's dim rays and work at the dark tasks that usually drag me down to where the sun doesn't shine.

It's been a hard year. A good year. A sad one. Full of heartbreak for more reasons than I can count and full of blessings beyond measure. There is joy. There were lost friendships (how can this be?!) and there were new friendships gained (such a grace)!

I look forward with expectation. These ups and downs? They are life. LIFE, I tell you! The pain and joy alike help me know I am ALIVE. Given breath and life and health for another day. Another day to love and be loved. To share and bless and give generously. Another day to spend lavishly out of the mercies I receive new every morning.

I choose. Yes. I CHOOSE not to get stuck on those who judge me wrongly. Or for those who refuse to forgive my wrongs. I pray for them to find love that casts out fear and moves them away from the idol of self-protection.

God knows, none of us want to hurt like this ever again, but does withholding forgiveness heal you? On the contrary, it twists our insides. Trust me. I know. I've sat in that judgement seat. It's not a comfortable place and it's certainly not my place. Forgive as you have been forgiven. Forgive or you won't be forgiven, says God. Dangerous thing to withhold. To withdraw. To condemn.

A friend and I were chatting via text. She was cleaning her chandelier and when all the pieces had been put back together, she discovered one was missing. A large one, she said. "Now it is going to bug me," she said, "which is silly, because I'm assuming it was missing all along and I wasn't bugged until I now know it is gone!"

We can still see the beauty of the crystal chandelier, even when a piece is missing. Do we throw it all out because of one missing piece that we didn't realize was gone? Or could it be a reminder, that beauty still exists, even when there is a hole in the heart of it? Could it be a reminder that we can focus on what's missing, or we can focus on what remains? Can I find the beauty?

I am grateful:
- for parents-in-love who still call me daughter
- for birth family who still call
- for a son who has grown into a man who thinks and plans and cares and loves
- for laughter
- for music
- for a housemate
- for friends near and far who pray and encourage
- for heartbreak so I know who the unsafe people are
- for healing because there are more safe people in the world who love without reservations
- for neighbors who call when I leave the garage open by accident
- for my "coffee pod" with three other significant women - we "do life together"

As I slow down and look for beauty, I discover it is always there. Here with me, just waiting to be found. Gifts in the ordinary. A rainbow spectrum of colours that appears from the sun shining through a misty veil of cloud.

I stop typing. Run to find my DSLR. Try a hundred different combinations to capture this unusual phenomenon. Share the beauty. Not everyone can slow and still and see.

Not everyone yet knows how to slow and still and see.

Just like the recording of the crickets Jim Wilson slowed down - it sounds like voices in chorus. Musician Tom Waits said it was the most interesting recording he owns.

It's a mysteriously beautiful recording ... of crickets. That's right, crickets. The first time I heard it ... I swore I was listening to the Vienna Boys Choir, or the Mormon Tabernacle choir. It has a four-part harmony. It is a swaying choral panorama. Then a voice comes in on the tape and says, "What you are listening to is the sound of crickets. The only thing that has been manipulated is that they slowed down the tape." No effects have been added of any kind, except that they changed the speed of the tape. The sound is so haunting. 

How is it, a sound that can be so irritating when you are trying to sleep be so beautiful when the speed is adjusted? A change in perspective turns irritation into beauty. A grain of sand in the oyster produces a pearl. Rocks tumbling together over time smooths and polishes the stones.

Just like the slowing of the sounds of crickets our perspective on the world and the "noise" and the glare of the bright light or the hole of a missing crystal or an absent relationship, all these can either be viewed only as negative from our finite perspective or they can be viewed through the lens that is looking for beauty. And, gasping, we find what we are looking for.

Beauty.

Wait with expectation. Persevere through the wounds, the tumbling, the irritations. The holes of life may well be filled with an infinite spectrum of colour. If we will just slow, and still, and see.

Ring the bells that still can ring. 

Forget your perfect offering. 

There is a crack in everything. 

That's how the light gets in.

- Leonard Cohen, "Anthem"

.

Shift

The Lord turns our mourning into dancing.
It doesn't always mean my reason for grief is removed.
More often, it is a shift in my perspective.