There's Time for This

One of the 'less convenient' things about staying over at the bunkie is that I am without my kayak stabilizer.  It's a gizmo attached to the dock that provides a brace that my kayak rests on, and a pole for me to hang onto as I get in and out.  All safe and dignified, like Gramma's who still kayak are supposed to do it.

But no such gizmo over here.  What I do have instead are several natural spaces in the rock right down by the water.  It makes getting in and out poooosssssible.  Sooooorrrt of.  But it's tricky because even the slightest variance in water level changes the entire enterprise.  

Yesterday it was particularly bad.  I positioned the kayak in what had been a perfect spot last time; a space where the water came in around an elongated depression in the rock, making for what had been a perfect launch just the day before.

But this day?  Getting in (the first time) was actually no problem.  But because the water was down ever so slightly, with me in the boat now, I couldn't get over the rocks behind me.  I really pushed.  Tried a few different angles.  Nope.  Not budging.  

And now I'm in an awkward spot to get out.  Made two fumbling, fall-back-into-the-seat-loudly attempts before I accomplished it.  And now I can hear folks chatting on their deck having their morning coffee across the way, which is closer here than it is to the dock next doors.  So, adding to my growing frustration is a bit of embarrassment knowing I am very likely being observed.  This is not a graceful Gramma thing happening here.  I don't particularly want to be the morning's entertainment.

I'm out of the boat now though, and maneuvering the kayak into a different launch point.  This involves carefully repositioning my paddle and my waterproof phone pack so that I can reach everything once I'm in again.   More fumbling, readjusting, reaching and barely reaching for my paddle and phone.  One last adjustment of my position on the kayak seat so that the small of my back is well supported, and I'm off.  

Finally!

And what I notice most about myself in all of this is how annoyed I am with how long all of this takes.  What is normally a two minute process, quick and easy, took the better part of twenty.  More than the worry that I might slip or spill, more than the embarrassment of looking silly in front of cottage neighbours, more than the frustration of having to make several attempts, the thing that annoyed me the most was that is wasted my time.

Bear in mind I am living here by the water right now.  It's summer right now.  Slower pace of life right now.  I have no where I need to be by any set time.  Yes, I am working while here.  Yes, I have a list of things I should accomplished today if I want to stay ahead of deadlines etc.  But when all of this is happening, it's 6:00 in the morning.  The day is new.  I'm on my own schedule.

And maybe that's the problem.  I keep thinking that my schedule, my time, is my own.  Like -- mine.  That somehow I can map out and determine how each section of the day will go.  There's this illusion that I am in control.

I do highly value time and efficiency.  And I suppose that's not all bad.  Keeps things moving forward.  Makes for satisfying days when things go well.  And for the large part of it, it helps make me good at what I do.  But that sense of ownership of time is really, really hard to let go of.

When a little set back like launching the kayak can annoy me this much?  Because it wastes my time?  It was something I wanted to bring up later when I was down on the boat at sunset with my journal.  

It's a fascinating meditation to consider how an eternal God interacts with time.  And even more revealing to consider what He expects of me as I live within the confines of it.  "Someone should write a paper on this," she said, putting it in the file.

For now I'll keep it simple and go with Psalm 90:12, as maybe you were expecting.  I'll re-write it in the singular personal pronoun.

"Teach me to number my days, so that I might apply my heart to wisdom."

Often as not, this text is taught in such as way as to discourage laziness, which I think is a fine application.  In these moments, however, I am wondering if it might also be an exhortation to release my time into the hands of a God who is not constrained by it.  To let go of the illusion that it's my job to squeeze every bit of productivity out of every single moment.  To embrace the spaces not so much as a waste of time, but maybe as time well used to shape my soul.

One last point that I find amusing.  In my struggles yesterday, I actually ended up finding a much better kayak launch point for while I'm here.  So, there's that.

Have a great day, friends.   Spend it well.

 

Trash or Treasure?

It seems that Ken and I are just in that season of life.

We were all about this last summer as we were in the throes of moving out of our home of 36 years, into a smaller space of our new build set nicely in the backyard of the property we share with our son.  That was a big enough job, and whatever was accumulated in that space, that was all on us.

Now we find ourselves in what's starting to feel like the continuing saga of sorting and clearing as we ramp up a bit on the reclamation project of the cluster of rather 'vintage' buildings (plus one brand new bunkie and one brand new boathouse) that sit on the rocks next door to the cottage we actually live in when we're here.  This, my friends, is generational accumulation, and it's epic.

I'm talking about the task of sorting through very old, mostly rusty, sometimes dirty, and sometimes downright icky 'stuff'  on shelves and bins and in the corners of sheds and rooms closed off from the light of day for decades.  Or not.  Sometimes the items are newer, more accessible and not as trashed per se.  Just less than helpful or needed.  Or are they?  

One man's trash....

Everything's a decision.

At least in this clearing out of things there is no closing date to pressure me into rash decisions.  I can take my time a little, clean things off more carefully, to (perhaps) uncover some hidden beauty or (more likely) to declare something as outright garbage.  

But you don't know until you get right in there.  And everything's a judgement call.  Tedious and a tad overwhelming.   

I'll admit to the occasional bulldozer fantasy.  

But then I discover an entire bin of untouched, unopened plumbing supplies that includes that one part Ken really needed.  Or an old metal thing, filled with rusty nails cleans up real nice, and now I've got that added piece for the space I want to make look more like a country kitchen.  Oh, it's an antique can of English Wax!  Then a pile of large, heavy duty unopened tarps.  Okay then. It's probably worth picking through this stuff.  Bulldozing seems less of a desirable option. 

One of Jesus' parables, the one about the wheat and the tares in Matthew 13:24-30, comes to mind as I pick through.  It's not as well known as some of Jesus' other teachings.  But it's in a cluster of seven stories recorded by Matthew that start with the same phrase.  "The kingdom of heaven is like..."  And without getting too pedantic, we can simply define the kingdom of heaven as a process or course of events that moves us towards the realm where God's will, His plans and purposes for creation and specifically humanity, are being carried out.    God's ultimate ethic.  Everything the way God, in His perfect love, wisdom, and justice, wants it to be.

In this particular parable, both wheat and weeds are growing together in a field.  The good (which the landowner planted) and the invasive (sneakily added by an enemy) have roots intertwined, making the task of sorting it all out rather tedious and overwhelming.  The landowner wisely instructs the workers to leave it all alone 'until the harvest.'  Then things will get sorted out.  Right now, more damage than good would be done.

It is sometime asked why God doesn't just wipe out all the evil in the world.  Why wars aren't ended, and poverty and oppression and violence.  It's a fair question.  If it were up to us, we think we know what we'd do....and when.  Bring on the bulldozers.

But God waits.  And He's got His reasons.  And it's not a passive waiting.  He carefully, intimately interacts with it all, fanning smoldering wicks into flame, propping up broken stems (Isaiah 42:3), seeking (Luke 19:10), searching (Psalm 61:3), rescuing (Colossians 1:13).  There is a day of reckoning coming, but not yet.  The job of deciding what and when is God's not ours.  

I guess I just need to be reminded that my job is to root myself in goodness, strong and deep, as best I can and by the power of God's Spirit.  To be about the business of participating productively in the process, the course of events, that bring about the kingdom of God, on earth as it is in heaven, as best I understand it.  And to do all that even in this tedious, messy world where I don't understand so much of what goes on. 

And sometimes, a lot of time actually, there are treasures.

Anticipating August

Like many of you, most likely, I am welcoming August this morning with happy delight in some cooler temperatures, at least for the first day or so.

July was not only very hot, but also quite robust for us.  Family time, and with true summer weather that opens us all the summer things to do.  Swimming, beach time, fun trips into Midland, ice cream at Picnic island, huge breakfasts and a lot of food just in general (with the dishes to go with).  

We had chipmunks to feed, and frogs to catch, and snakes to relocate.  We had cribbage to play, and rainy day forts to build (but only on one day which was perfect), and loft Lego and Plus Plus to keep us busy.

We also did a lot of work together in general cottage maintenance, and the 'other' project of reclaiming the property next door.  Good family conversations about it all.  

It was big, and busy, and summer in all it's humid glory.

Now comes a different phase.  Quieter and cooler for the most part.  And I'm ready for that.

Ready to celebrate the birthday of our youngest family member, Timothy, shown here doing his happy-day-at-the-beach dance.

August, however, also comes with not one, but two remembrances of Thai family members whose absence is perhaps more keenly felt as the anniversary of their deaths collide upon the end of the month.  Beloved son Bee, and beloved father Pat.  So there's that.  And the fact that this is the first summer in a long time that I haven't been there for a visit.  So I'm missing them even more than usual.

Overall though, I'm glad for first days of things; of the week, of the month, of a phase of summer.  Like a fresh start full of no end of potential.

So, a prayer that's good for any time, but not a bad way to begin an anticipated month of quieter reflection, and, for other reasons, came to mind today.

"May the words of my mouth, 

and the thoughts of my heart

be pleasing to You,

O LORD, my rock and my redeemer."

Psalm 19:14

Broken and Beautiful

 

"Moses said to the LORD, 'Pardon your servant, Lord.

I have never been eloquent, neither in the past 

nor since you have spoken to your servant.

I am slow of speech and tongue.'

And the LORD said to him,

'Who gave human beings their mouths?

Who makes them deaf or mute?  Is it not I, the LORD?

Now go; I will help you speak and will teach you what to say.'"

Exodus 4:10-12

We're at it again with the scraping and painting.  This time it's a fresh look for the front of the building that is the main structure on the property next door.  This is a new stage in the reclaiming project we've undertaken; a vision that is taking its time to unfold, but has many layers of depth for us.

Not unlike the layers of paint that needs to be scraped down before new paint can be applied.

When we first got here and I started the scraping on the other building, the only tool I could find was this rusted out one with a broken off notch on the one side.  I knew we had newer ones, but there are no end of places they could be; at the other property, in the boat house, in the back shed.  When the mood strikes and the day is good for it, you don't have time for all that searching about.  I grabbed this scraper and went to town.  

We did find the other better, more intact, scrapers, one of them brand new in fact.  But by then I had actually discovered that this broken one had a special feature.  The rusted out piece provided a hook that most definitely helped loosen chunks of old paint from the corners.  This particular scraper, with its imperfections, became my preferred instrument to get the job done.

Then there's Moses.  But back to him in a second.

Like most humans, I suspect, I can get quite frustrated with the bits about me that I consider defective.  I won't list them here, since they're quite obvious to those who know me anyways.  Or, by chance you might not agree and feel the need to correct and encourage me.  Or you might and feel relief that I've finally figured it out and comment that you've been 'praying for a long time that I would come to my senses' (which is actually what someone once said to me in a vulnerable moment, but anyways).  Or you might instead begin with a list of your own deficiencies for yourself and start feeling all down about yourself which is the exactly the opposite of the intention of this post.  And all of that would just distract us.

The thing is, there's enough in the Bible to suggest that a) God's quite intentional, b) He knows what He's doing, and c) we all have good work to do.  And if I put that together with what He said to Moses that day when Moses complained about his own defectiveness, then, I can't help but wonder if most of the time what we perceive as being deficient isn't actually something God considers a bonus.

I admit, the part about Him 'confessing' that He had something to do with folks who are deaf and mute has some troubling ethics.  This of course wouldn't just then be about disabilities related to communication only, which was the topic at hand in the conversation, but about anything we humans tend to regard as less than ideal.  But isn't it curious that our current attempts to speak in ways that do no label folks would have us now refer to such individuals as 'differently abled.'  Which may or may not have been God's point.

What if we could actually embrace ourselves and celebrate all the ways we aren't perfect, and the ways we don't live up to our culture's ideals of beauty or ability or achievement.  What if there were things about us that were both quirky and helpful to the good work God's given us to do?

It's hard to see it sometimes, I know.  And to be honest, I didn't really start to believe this about myself until recently, as in until I was well into my 50s.  So maybe it's something you can own only after you've seen the repeated evidence of God's ability to use you in spite of/because of yourself over a life time.  I don't know.  I wish I could have caught on to this sooner. 

And by the way.  Yay and hooray for my enthusiastic and wonderfully inspiring brothers and sisters in this wide and diverse faith we call Christianity that preach and experience unusual and dramatic signs and wonders, particularly in the realm of physical healing.  Thank you for your life and ministry and for bringing attention to the power of the risen Lord by means of the miraculous.  

And also, there are miracles of a deep and profound nature when people 'afflicted' refuse to be defined or restrained, and move powerfully in their world to affect change and bring about the kingdom of God 'on earth as it is in heaven.'   In my own life and ministry, I seem to have been witness to more of the latter kind of miracle.  And it is a powerful privilege indeed.

While I was meditating on these things, I came across this clip from The Chosen, where Jesus is explaining to James why James won't be healed.  It's quite moving.  Beautifully done.  Maybe it's something to encourage your own heart.

Okay, back to some scraping before this day gets too hot.  Let's see, where is that most useful scraper?

The Devine is in the Details

This Georgian Bay sky will always leave me breathless.  

Awesome. 

Holy. 

Worship.  

It's one of the ways I best connect with God while I'm here.  

The glory of God so right in your face.  

So, so much of it!

Any time of day or night, any kind of weather.

But I admit that sometimes my eye is pulled into those things that are much smaller.

Like an inchworm resting on a finishing nail.  

Or any number of diminutive blossoms.

The details.  The whimsy.  The precision.  The simplicity. 

Inside and outside.  

Surprising and mundane.  

Ordinary and beautiful.

Miniscule miracles.  

And I find God there too.

So there.

Breathless.

Awesome.

Holy.

Worship.

I can understand why

it's often said 'the devil is in the details.'

Especially these days,

when it doesn't take much to overwhelm

my short term memory

and make me forget something really

really important

in a long detailed list of things.

But I also believe

the Divine is in the details too.

That He delights in the small things.

Both in creation,

and even in what's small but important to me.

Even about me.

Jesus said so.

"Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies?

Yet not one of them is forgotten by God.

Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered.

Don't be afraid;

you are worth more than many sparrows."
Luke 12:6-7

Sometimes we need God to be all big and vast.

Like all the colours of a sunset's silent scream of glory across the sky.

Or maybe roaring

as Aslan

to deliver Narnia in an awesome battle.

But sometimes, 

if you're like me,

 I guess,

you need God to show up in the small spaces.

In the details.

In the mundane.

If you need more convincing,

or if you just need God to be small enough for you right now,

I've included a link to a Christian musician I've been fond of for quite some time now.

Take a listen, if you like.

And glory in the small things.

Small Enough by Nicole Nordeman

 

But Not Destroyed

Mandevilla (Rock Trumpet)

This is no ordinary flower.  In fact, of all the happy discoveries of every blossom I've ever posted, whether found wild along the way or bought at the grocery store garden centre, this new bloom on this particular mandevilla plant has surprised and inspired me most.  

Given all it's been though, I honestly didn't think it would make it.  There's been quite the series of unfortunate events to navigate.  First, it was me that bought it.  That alone should send a chill down the stem of any poor plant who finds itself under my care.  But Sobeys had a sale, and I knew that Rock Trumpets usually do so well on our deck, and we were soon enough heading to the cottage.  So I got two.

Then it had to survive out on my porch in Kitchener for about three weeks.  Again, under my care.  And it did! Both of them did!  Then it had to make the trip, not just in the hot van, but also on the wild and windy boat, to even get here.

Several large blooms and many small buds were flowering already for each plant.  I had high hopes for attracting the humming birds, and watching them fill out the containers in rich pinks and deep greens, as was my happy gift in seasons past.

Seasons Past

But alas, didn't those darn chipmunks decide to snack on the small buds!  I had been back in the city for just four days.  Four days!  As if it was a protest because I wasn't there with peanuts! They'd never done this before, chewed on my flowers.  And I have to say I was, and am, quite annoyed with them for this. They're cute, but...the nerve!

So that's when the plants had to endure yet another set back. 

And here I will reveal my utter incompetence as a gardener.  And I'm tempted to skip this part because I realize how stupid it will make me sound.  But it's important to the story so, here goes.  Laugh at me if you must.  I had a fleeting idea.  That's all it was.  While I was spraying bug repellent on my legs, out on the deck, and because some of it hung in the air and I got a slight taste of the stuff, and because it was rather horrible, and because the plants were right there, all nibbled on, I thought, what if I just gave the chipmunks something icky to have to deal with?  So I gave the plants a quick spray.

Horrifying, I know.  But, honestly, it wasn't very much at all.  Just a misting really.  But by the next day I realized what an awful, sad mistake that was.  Because now the leaves were turning brown.

Oh no!  Between the chipmunks and me!  These poor plants!!!!!

I was feeling so guilty that I couldn't just throw them away.  Besides three small buds, teeny ones, two on the other plant and one on this one, things weren't looking so good.  They were dying.  It sure looked that way.  I had to bring them inside.  More to provide palliative care than anything else.

But then, am I imagining it?  The small buds held on.  It took a while, but they started to look like something could actually happen.  With just a hint of hope, and because the family was arriving and we needed the table space, I moved them back outside again.  

This time, with plenty of peanuts and no end of folks to feed them and entertain them, the chipmunks left the flowers alone.  I was so excited!!!!!

But yet another calamity came the morning the bear visited the deck.

I was here alone.  Of course I was.  When else would a bear decide to show up?

I heard a thunk outside, early, about 5:30 a.m.  And I went out intending to shoo away the racoon who had been on the railing several days before.  Instead, the rump of a juvenile black bear was just heading down the stairs.  No pictures were taken, given I did the right thing and stomped on the floor and banged on the windows to scare him away.  

Here's the thing.  The thunk I'd heard was the bear knocking over the birdhouse we've been filling with peanuts for the chipmunks.  

[Insert here the stern warnings, and very understandable scowly frowns of everyone saying that's what you get when you have peanut shells lying about, and a note to say that we've hosed down the deck and taken a break on the peanuts for a bit.]  

But back to this bloom.

The birdhouse landed right on top of this bud, almost in bloom, and from the looks of it to me, broke off the stem!  Almost anyways.  And honestly, I was not so freaked out about the bear as I was about this last affront to this little bloom who had survived so much thus far, only to be knocked down once again in the end.

Such a sad ending -- or it would have been.

I propped it up, apologizing profusely and saying that I appreciated how much it had tried already, and wasn't it a shame that the bear had come by at all.  And when I propped it up, it kind of stayed up.  No supporting stick or anything.  Just stayed standing up.  So I left it alone, and went back inside because, well, I was still in my pajamas.

Then later that day, I saw it.  And just stopped.  And I am so impressed.

You tenacious, persistent, defiant, beautiful thing you!!!!!

You were purchased by a buffoon of a gardener, flourished in spite of me on my porch at home, survived the ride in the van and the boat, avoided being eaten by the chipmunks, hunkered down and waited it out after I poisoned you with bug spray, and did not let a bear and a broken stem keep you from opening up your beauty to the sky!

And yes this reminds me of something Paul said.

"But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us.  We are hard-pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed but not in despair, persecuted but not abandoned, struck-down but not destroyed."  2 Corinthians 4:7-9

It's like the flower said, "So there!"

And without in any way wanting to diminish the horrific events Paul's readers, and some of us, have had to live through, there's something about this defiant delicate bloom that makes me believe I can do it too!  Not in my own strength.  That would be futile.  But in the all-surpassing power that God's grace keeps ridiculously pouring into this jar of clay.

My deck doesn't look as lush has it has in seasons past.  But maybe it tells a better story.  And I don't know who needs to hear about hanging on and letting God hold on to you right now, but maybe, if you do, go get a rock trumpet.  They are feisty!

Rainy Day Ramblings

After an entire string of days with blistering July weather, all of which we enjoyed in all it's summer glory, we are every one of us happy to hunker down into this rainy day cottage vibe.  And even though it's not a steady rain, it's overcast and blowy, and I can already see another dark mass of clouds coming in over the bay.  So we're inside today.  

We've done so many things outside already!  Swimming, kayaking (even out to the Lizard and back), frog catching, reading, fishing, snake hunting (even a rattlesnake which was safely relocated), painting, feeding chipmunks, journaling down on the boat.  

We've been to Picnic Island and to Midland for ice cream and everything else respectively.  

We've seen the sun rise and the sun set and the blue skies and stars in between.  All our towels and swimsuits have been thrown haphazardly over the deck railing.  

All the life jackets and sun hats are everywhere and nowhere, depending on if you're trying to make your way across the deck or need to find them for the next boat adventure.

And it's all happened outside and wild-like.  And lazy,  because it's been so hot.  All the fans are going, and all the freezies are being slurp-crunched down, and not just by the kids.

So now, today, time for bed forts and board games and puzzles and reading out loud to people who can already read but reading out loud makes for such great memories anyways.  Time for s'mores maybe, now that we can finally tolerate the idea of putting on a fire.  Time to just be quiet and silly and inside together.

These family times in this place have come to mean so much to my heart that it is literally not possible to measure their worth.  Memories, bonding, growing up together, telling our stories and writing new chapters.  

Proverbs 17:6 says that "Grandchildren are the crown of the aged, and the glory of children is their parents."  And I feel like I'm living that dream.

We didn't coast here on an easy road.  Our story is deep and painful in some of its wretchedness.  Parenting is impossible to do perfectly, and it's easy to make mistakes that wound and require long patience and slow, meaningful forgiveness.  I, myself, am keenly aware of all there is about me that makes these cozy, safe rainy day realities nothing but a grace upon grace that I don't deserve.  

So there's nothing for it but just to sit and be grateful in it.  In the close way of it.  In the overwhelming love of it.  Holding on to it, but with a loose grip, knowing these moments are fleeting, and don't really, truly belong to me anyways, except for the gift it is from the Giver of every good thing.