Quiet Upon Quiet, and Shining

I begin with a confession.

I've snitched our church's Advent Candle display to bring home to my own porch.  I did ask around -  a little - and no one else had need of it, and since we're not having services in the building right now, it seemed a shame to leave such a generous display of greens, bearing the significance of the anticipation and fulfillment of the season, all alone just sitting there.  I think of it as sort of adopting a rescue.  It can come and be glorious on my porch for a while longer into the winter.  Or so I hoped.

And then it snowed!

There's no lighting of the candles at the moment.  That glory is buried, waiting. 

I can't tell if it looks a little foolish, or if there's a new kind of beauteous to it.  I think both.  And it's sort of telling the story of how things are right now.

I love when it snows like this for Christmas.  All green, even grey leading up to Christmas Eve.  And then - a little Christmas miracle - it snows all glorious and pure and a little bit wild.  And quiet.  Snow can be all of that at the same time.  And it's like our lives right now.  

Today begins the lockdown we'd all been hoping we could avoid.  And with it an again-sort of weird quiet begins, where we all stay home, hunkered and hoping.  It's like the weather got the memo and wants to help us.  Stay put.  Be quiet.  

I'm receiving that quiet today.  A Sabbath of winter to follow the strange way Christmas was still 'busy' this year.  Not the visiting or the driving or even the shopping, but in all the new ways we had to think of how to be family and love each other and stay connected anyways.  Busy with re-tooling, re-imagining, being stubborn in our love.  Glad for all of it.  Glad for a pause of it just now.

Like being under a fresh blanket of snow, all hushed like this.

"Cease striving," we are told, "and know that I am God."  Psalm 46:10  In some translations it says, "Be still."

It's been said that there are "dark days of winter" ahead.  No doubt.  So yay and praise for the light of all the Advent Candles, and all they represent in the hope and peace and joy and light we have in Jesus Whose birth makes possible everything else.  Yay and praise for the receiving of the snow and the brushing of it back and lighting our candles anyways.  Defiantly.  

Even in this.  Even being strong and beautiful in the midst of this hushed-down space of waiting and longing that will usher in a new year in just days from now.

Even in the waiting, there can be glory and light and beauty.

And it could be argued, how much more so, the darker it gets.

All that we've just declared                                                                                                                                            in every carol chorused,                                                                                                                                              every reading rendered,                                                                                                                                          every gift given,                                                                                                                                                     every hope held,                                                                                                                                                        is still true.

Grace and Then More

 

"Out of His fullness, we have all received

grace upon grace.

John 1:16

It's a different kind of stress I bump up against this Christmas if I'm not careful.  I don't even really recognize it at first.  Maybe because I'm not in the mall.

In fact, speaking of the mall, there's a rather welcome absence of certain kinds of Christmas frenzy this year.  No big shopping push.  No big meal to prepare.  No quantum-physics level calendar co-ordinations.  No travel plans.  No rehearsals for the big Christmas Eve service.  In may ways it's unusually quiet, in fact.

Except a vague feeling of 'too much' remains.  What is that?

Too much news?  There's certainly been that, and it's hard to tune it out when every day something comes down the pike that might just change everything.  And that everything-change might require big decisions about really important things, like where your family will be all day, and whether or not you gather for church on Sundays, and what's going to happen with your paycheck.  

Too many numbers?  This is directly connected to too much news, but it's its own kind of stress.  Ominous, sobering, and by now rather numbing.  There's this scene in the Harry Potter movie "The Deathly Hallows" where Harry, Hermoine and Ron are fugitives, hiding in the woods and living in a tent.  They're hiding because a hostile entity (not a virus, but...) is out to get them and everyone they love.  They have with them a small radio on which each day a list of names, is announced, those missing and perhaps dead.  It's crushing in its dreadful monotone of recitation.  Sometimes, when listening to the numbers being given each day, I am reminded of this.

Yes, too much news and too many numbers.  But the too much factor I'm feeling is less defined than that.  It's more about just a hard to recognize and going on way to long undercurrent of fatigue and grief and frustration.

It manifests itself indirectly, in confusions and misunderstandings and distorted perspectives.  In all the extra effort required in speaking kindly.  In a strong temptation to overreact.  Talking about myself here.

Pause for a needful reflection on the need for grace.

It's a unique feature of John's gospel that it doesn't include any traditional birth narrative.  Instead, John bursts out of the gate with mystic prose and profound theology.  In introducing Jesus, he doesn't give us any other characters in the story but Jesus Himself, come from the Father, full of grace and truth.

And then he describes what I think could quite accurately be pegged as the first, pre-magi even, Christmas gift.   

Grace upon grace.

Grace to be loved anyways.  And then more of it.  Grace to be offered a way out of our own mess.  And then more of it.

I love how this grace is spilling out of the fullness of Jesus.  There's a picture underneath these words that conjures up it's own kind of 'too much'.  So much grace, it spills over onto us.  Undeserved and copious.  More and more grace.

If ever there was a Christmas where we need to just be kind and give each other slack, it's this one.  If ever the in-this-with-you sense of grace was needed, it's now.  Grace to cover a multitude of offenses, both real and imagined.  Grace to choose not to be annoyed.  Grace to patiently listen, patiently re-direct, patiently wait for the ways we can all find our way together to better understandings, more love.  

Grace given.  Grace received.

The countdown is on.  Only six days left.  

We've all be through a lot.  

I just needed to remember this.

What the Heart Sees

 

 There's a story (I wish I remembered the source so I could cite it) of the grand unveiling of one of the first computer programs that could translate from one language to another.  All the important business investors and CEOs were present for the media presentation.  Of course a demonstration of the program's capabilities was in order.  

To help convince everyone of the legitimacy of the test, the moderator asked the gathered crowd for a random phrase in English.  "Out of side out of mind", someone said from the back.  The phrase was typed into the computer.  Then the moderator asked for someone to choose a language into which this phrase would be translated.  "Japanese", someone said, wanting to give the program what they hoped was a rigorous challenge.

The person at the keyboard hit all the right buttons, and instantaneously on the demo screen there appeared some Japanese characters.  Everyone was impressed with the speed.  But they realized there were no Japanese speaking folks among them to verify.  So they typed the characters back into the program and hit all the buttons again.

What came up in English was "Invisible Idiot."

While this story is an amusing reminder of the nuances of language, translation and culture, it also speaks to me of that mystic sense of things made more true because they are unseen.

Evelyn's Candle

Just one example?

All the beloveds who aren't with us this Christmas.

I guess it's true that there are some things, maybe even people, we don't think too much about if they aren't physically present with us.  But when the heart has locked onto love, there is no un-seeing of the object of that love.  

We lost a baby granddaughter in May of 2019.  This will be our second Christmas being a family in that oxymoronic space of feeling her presence all the more acutely because of her absence.  "Out of sight, out of mind" seems not only altogether untrue, but completely impossible.  But maybe that's because she's not really 'out of sight' at all.  

Our hearts see her everywhere.

This bridges for me into how I'm experiencing almost all of my human connections this year.  Coming upon Christmas, I'm even more aware of the deep and beautiful relationships I have because of the fact I can't actually 'be with' them right now.

The blood family we won't eat with over the holidays.

The Thai family oh so far away for oh so many months now.

The faith family who isn't gathering, even on Christmas Eve.

"Out of sight, out of mind?"  Are you kidding me!!??

(pause to compose myself)

And here's another way this all comes together for me.

All the folks who are physically 'alone' this year?  You're not.

Okay, reality check here.  This blog goes out into cyberspace and in the off chance someone reading this doesn't know me or isn't connected to any community of faith or any community at all?  Yeah, I don't know about that.  I can't really speak into that.  My heart aches for you, and I'd so encourage you to look up a local small church pastor.  Or you can look me up at hcckw.ca and we can have a chat.  

But the rest of you?  Those who are part of my orbits, physically alone or not?  I see you.  I can't stop thinking about you.  And I think I can confidently speak for the collective of grace and love that exists as Highview when I say, we've got you covered.

There are many ways this grace and love is translating into something concrete in these weeks before Christmas.

Coffee runs.

Caroling with sparklers.

Meals.

Rides.

Little packets delivered.

Cards mailed.

And oh so many words written and sent and spoken and delivered.

But even in the absence of any of that... You. Are. Seen.

Just as surely as your own heart is 'seeing' anyone it's locked on in love.

And if you believe you are 'invisible' to the hearts of those who love you, 

then you are (I say this gently) an idiot.

Even so, we're all only human after all.

And therefore, I invite you to commit with me to an extravagance of connection this Christmas.

To the degree that you are able (because we need to respect our human limitations for sure), let's determine together to reach out and connect to as many other seen-and-seeing-hearts as we can between now and Christmas Day.  Or even afterwards.  No need to stop on the 25th.

It could be as simple as sending an email or Facebook message that just says, "I see you."  

If someone we know will be physically alone on Christmas Day, maybe arrange for a phone call and a quick prayer (yes, we can pray over the phone, it's fun!).

Or other ideas, like I've mentioned already.

And I'll repeat the invitation.  Anyone needing a chat or a way of connecting, contact me through hcckw.ca.  

What a strange Christmas.

But already, so many delightful surprises.

Twelve Days to Christmas.

Hey, that reminds me of a song!

(And just for fun:

I will give out a chocolate bar to anyone who can identify the reference of this last sentence.)

Staying Hydrated In The Long Dry Winter Ahead

 "Bai Teo" to the Waterfall

Jeremiah 2:13

My people have committed two sins:

They have forsaken me, the spring of living water,

and have dug their own cisterns, 

broken cisterns that cannot hold water.

Hauled out the cool mist humidifier yesterday.  

Seems a little early in the winter for me to be feeling so dry, but I am.  Then again, I remember that for the past several years, I've been in Thailand right about this time of year, at least for November, where there's, shall we say, a tad more humidity.   Not to mention the abundance of waterfalls where you can go for the day - "bia teo" - and just play with reckless abandon in white cascades of delight.

By yesterday then, my Thailand-deprived skin and hair were really getting into that whole Covid-complaining act we're all prone to these days.  All the sanitizer doesn't help, and my one knuckle was even bleeding a little.  Sorry for the TMI, but another good reason to drastically reduce any ventures outside my own home.

Hopefully some serious shea butter therapy, a coconut oil home hair treatment, and the little whirring machine beside my desk will help.  Physically at least.

The threat of being too dry this winter isn't just in the skin and hair care realm however.  There's some very intentional, essentially important nourishing we'll need to be on top of when it comes to our souls as well.  Isolation does more than just dry up our social life.  It can threaten to thwart our spiritual vibrancy in ways even more detrimental to our overall heath.

In His message through the prophet Jeremiah, God identifies two sins of His people.  The first is a forsaking of the kind of worship and connection and obedience that results in the receiving of the abundance and life He longs to pour into us.  A spring of living water, He calls Himself, bringing to mind, by the way, the words of Jesus to the woman he met at the well that day (John 4:1-13) and the wild freshness of the waterfall mentioned above.

The second sin is a corollary to the first.  A replacement.  Instead of drinking from the spring of clean, vibrant, living water, the people have turned to the stagnant, stinking water that collects in the brokenness of human effort to find satisfaction anywhere else but God.

Yuck!  

It's a vivid picture and on purpose.  God is longing to bring them back to vibrancy and life.  

Of course, when we read these words from the prophet, we can see it clearly.  Who would make such a choice?  Just think of where you'd rather wash your clothes, go swimming, rather drink from?  Broken cisterns?  No thank you.

Except I have to admit that in isolation the pull is there.  With no one watching, safe in my own home, who am I and how do I nourish myself?  Junk food?  Too much news?  Too much TV?  Or on the opposite end of the scale.  Too much work?  Too much overcompensating for feeling sidelined?  Too many words?  Too much judgement for anyone doing too much of what I don't approve of?  These can be broken cisterns as well.

And it all leads to dry, cracked and bleeding souls, desperate for something so obviously right there in front of us....God's offer of life and life abundant.

So my dear fellow pandemic peeps, let's not dry out this winter!  Let's drink Him in, in all the ways we can.  Every week, with the online service, we can 'gather' to worship 'together' around our TVs or computers, as if dancing together around a fire hydrant.  Every day we can apply the pure therapy of Scripture, massaging it into the needy places of our minds and hearts.  All the time we can sit in the mist of the prayerful presence of God, breathing life and vibrancy into the very parenchyma of our spirits. 

What I love about this text is all the longing in God's voice.  When I read it, I don't hear a loud boom of accusation.  Rather, when it gets to the part 'they have forsaken Me', I can almost hear His voice breaking.  As if He's watching us dry out before His very eyes, and yet He's right there with exactly everything we need. 

Online Alignment: Ways to Worship From Home

Yesterday was a hard day.

Together, the Elders at Highview made the difficult decision to return to Online Services only, in what we believed to be a loving, Spirit-led response to the current surge in Covid-19 cases in Waterloo Region.  

View Video Message Here

That means starting THIS Sunday we will not be meeting together in our building, but gathering instead around our TV and computer screens.

Everyone agrees this is not the same and not the best.  The physical presence of other worshippers is, at least in part, certainly what God has in mind when He calls His Church to be a community.  And yet, here we are, in a strange time in our lives when staying apart might just be the most loving thing we can do for one another and for our community as a whole.  

We've done this before, and, to be honest, that seems like such a negative at first.  "Not again!" is what my heart wants to whine.  But on second contemplation, maybe what we learned together from the first time can make things better in this next round.

So here are some suggestions to experiment with.  It's not a thorough list by any means.  And I'm actually hoping I'll hear from you (Highviwers and otherwise) about ways you have learned to worship from home.  The more ideas we can share the more connected we can be, and the more our times before God together-while-apart can mean something good.

Here's a start.  I'll divide mine into Before, During and After.

Before

• Choose your viewing time intentionally.  There is some flexibility with online services, in that you can watch it at a time most convenient for you.  AND I might also suggest that we all might have a better sense of connection if we didn't go the convenience route and decided to watch together at 10:30 on Sunday morning.  I won't argue decisively for this right here.  Just sayin' that part of our feelings of disconnect might be routed in the 'whenever' factor.  Not sure.  Be glad to hear from you on this.
• Set yourself up.  Wherever you're watching from, have something to drink ready if you like, get your Bible and notebook ready.  Get comfortable, but not too comfortable, if I might suggest.  Being up and dressed and 'present' just might put us in a better state for engaging in what's about to happen.

During

• Stand up during the music.  It's more what we're used to, and your lungs and diaphragm have more room for singing when you stand.  This can help get the message of the song into deeper emotional places.
• Experiment with different postures for prayer and worship you might not be comfortable to try in a public setting (although this makes me want to write something about that! Maybe later :).  
• Take notes.  Have a notebook or your phone and write down the highlights, even the whole of the outline of the sermon, making sure to include any action steps the Spirit might bring to mind for you.

After

• Pause for a moment to ask God if there was anything specific about the morning that He wants to bring to your attention.  Any song lyric, or point in the teaching or any application point.  And then thank Him for the gift of our church community.
• Call or message someone to say hello, chat about the service, or any of the other kinds of conversations we usually have in the foyer after service.
• Send an email or a message to at least one person who participated in providing the online service.  One aspect of not being 'live' is the disconnect for those serving us to know if any of their efforts had any affect at all.  Be an encouragement.

That's all I'll leave here for now.  I'm actually really curious to hear from you if any of these were helpful, and if you have other ideas to share.

And I want to remind Highviewers that we will be experimenting with a Zoom gathering at 11:45 a.m. - a more normal time for us to be together chatting anyways.  For now I'm calling it Hot Chocolate By The Fire.  So bring something warm in a mug.  Ken and I will put on the fire.  And we'll see what happens.

Sacred Spaces

Not sure when I noticed this about myself, but environments are important to me.  The ambiance of it, I mean.  Works spaces, sleep spaces, eating spaces.  I wish this translated into something of a talent for decorating, but it doesn't.  And it's not exactly what I'm talking about anyways.

It's about -- Well, the spaces that are most important, actually, are the ones that become sacred spaces.

And right now I'm not talking about temples or sanctuaries or church buildings.  I'm talking about the kind of spaces that become something else to us, individually.

I've set up something of a work station for myself down at the church.  During this interim pastor stint, I will leave our Senior Pastor's office alone.  And my own home office, which I LOVE as a workspace, will remain intact.  In both instances, it's about the books mostly.  Can't even think of schlepping my books back down to the other end of town.  And anyways, with Covid in play, I'll be working from home for most of the week.

Even so, it seemed important to me to make this little work station mean something.  

In a fortunate overlapping of time-continuum orbits, Ken's company recently decided to forgo their rented space and have each of the three comrades work from home.  That meant clearing out the office they had, with some furniture left over.  I have 'adopted' a narrow desk with matching hutch, plus a moderately sized bookcase, both of which fit very nicely into the room Highview cleared out for my use.  Add a small tub chair, an office chair and a picture or two, and I have a space that will serve me very well.  Oh, and a vanilla candle of course.

None of this makes it sacred, of course.

For any space to become a sacred space, it's about what happens there.

Before I go too much further, I need to be clear that my understanding of how the Bible describes God is that He is <clearing throat for a big word here> Omnipresent.  He's everywhere.  So, in a sense, every space is sacred space.  Most of life is made up of mundane moments that also capture something holy if we pay attention to the many patient interactions God initiates with us....all the time.  So yes, we also experience the Every-where Presence of God.  Just to state the obvious in case anyone's worried.

Even so.  Sometimes certain private spaces are consecrated.  And then, on purpose or maybe even sort of by accident, the intentional habitual use of a space for spiritual practices, tend to imprint strong and sacred associations. 

We're all spending more time at home these days (said Captain Obvious).  And I'm guessing that for many of us there's a space like that where we live.  A chair by a window.  A spot by a fireplace.  In better weather, out on the porch or somewhere on a back patio.  A place where we go on purpose to meet with God.

And I guess what I'm marveling at in this, is the fact that Creator God, King of the Universe would "humour" us in this.  That the One who exists outside of Time and Space would deem to in some way restrict Himself, if that's even the right way to think about it, into our time and space just so that we could know Him.  That He would "humour" us, honour us, Love us....like this.

A manger.

That was a sacred space once.

Oh the lengths to which He'll go!

I'm grateful that Highview has allowed me this work station, and that I've had the chance to make it a 'warm' ambient place to work from.  I'm grateful for all the ways God moves right in.  Can't wait to see what He's got in mind as we move ahead into these next months.

Waxy Wisdom

Eat honey, my son, for it is good;

honey from the comb is sweet to your taste.

Know also that wisdom is like honey for you;

If you find it, there is a future hope for you,

and your hope will not be cut off.

Proverbs 24:13-14

There's a reason my blog is called "Bread and Honey", but I'll get to that in a minute.

It's the afternoon of a Saturday at Hot Springs when we don't really have anywhere to go.  I'm loving the 'just being at home' vibe of this day, hanging out in the shade of the dining shelter.  The kids are engaged in various kinds of creations with paper, markers and glue, all for me to take back to the Sponsors.  Or some are playing chess.  Or some are chopping up vegetables in preparation for the evening meal.  

From this lovely space I look up to see Suradet and one of the older boys heading up the steep hill in the back, carrying a large white pail and a large curved knife, like a machete.  I'm curious, but am soon pulled back into what's happening at the table by someone asking me how to spell their Sponsor's name.  

They're gone for a while.  Probably more than an hour.  So I've forgotten about them until they're coming back down the hill, smiling with victory, and carrying the pail between them and bringing it to the table.

"Chorp nam-peung, mai?"  Do you like water of the bee?, I am asked.

Inside the pail is a large honeycomb, still attached to a branch, and still occupied by a now misplaced bee or two, as well as some larvae.  Dripping in sweetness, this mess is.  And I watch as the comb is tipped up and gently scraped so the honey drips into a bowl.  Wild, unpasteurized, totally non-processed.  Off the side of a hill in a foresty-jungle in northern Thailand.  This is hands down the most exotic honey I have ever been offered.

Someone runs for the loaf of white bread purchased peculiarly for my consumption during my stay.  I am invited to dip the bread in the honey and eat.

At the end of the Bible in the book of Revelation Jesus instructs the Apostle John to describe the way things will be once God ushers in that magnificent promise of history called the 'eschaton', when everything will be restored to a better-than-perfect state of being.  Part of that description includes a picture of a wedding banquet.  A feast.  I am not sure what that kind of food might taste like, but I'm pretty sure, as I dip my bread into this honey, and welcome it into my mouth, I'm actually tasting Glory.

Warm, pure.  Sweet as if  I've never tasted sweet before.  Smooth like slow jazz.  In my mouth there is joy and wonderment.   This is just before supper, but -- I don't care.  A thought crosses my mind about eating something that slid off something that still has bugs in it but -- I don't care.  Wild mountain honey.  Does it get any better than this?

I will email my husband later.  "Today I ate wild mountain honey!"  To which he will respond, "I'm glad you loved it, but I'm just waiting for my wild mountain Honey to come home."  (Major husband points there.)

Back to the Bread and Honey thing. 

Originally I chose the name for this blog because of my love of fresh (usually whole grain) bread smeared with a scandalous amount of honey AND because both bread and honey are images used frequently in the Bible to illustrate soul-hunger, and soul-satisfaction.

In the Proverb quoted above, the sweetness of honey is compared to how the Teacher wants his son (student) to feel about wisdom.  Pursue it, as if it was up on the hill, and you had to go out and find it, and could bring it home to feast on.   And when you did find some, and when you get to eat some of it, it will bide well for you.  And he talks about a future.  And he talks about hope.

Wisdom.  

Don't we all want that?  Don't we all feel like we're needing so much of that in these days of uncertainty?  So many decisions to make right now, pushing us into a future that we're not all that sure about.  

And here's an irony.  It's times like this that synergize the very kind of wisdom we need and long for.  A very wise man once pointed out to me that so often we all want the wisdom, but we're not so keen on the challenging life situations that actually bring it to us.  Not sure he was thinking of a global pandemic, but it fits.

Some days I'm doing this better than others.  

Some days I'm all over learning from the experience and letting it grow me.

Some days, not so much, truth be told.

Some days, I'm all about resisting the restrictions and feeling the weight of this long duress.

Remembering the honey helps.

In these days when we need hope for better days -- and they will come, don't doubt it for a minute -- how amazing that we get to be part of something this big and this wild, with all this potential to make us wiser for the living out of the rest of our lives.

Hungry now.

The Radiating Huddle

It's cold and that surprises me.

Dealing with the heat has always been a constant distraction every single time I've travelled to Thailand.  But this time it's January and I'm way up in the mountains for a New Year's visit to Suradet's home village.  The demanding drive and mountain air and utter novelty of being here have left me spent but surprisingly content to simply sit and warm myself by the fire.

Every yard has one, and a big black pot of water for tea.  I'm asked if I want some and, not exactly sure what I'll be getting, I say yes anyways.  The young woman who asked me now looks around for a cup.  She can't find a clean one so she simply throws away the leftover tea from the cup of the man who just now left our circle, swirls some hot water around in it, and fills it up to offer to me.  

This keeps happening.  The coming and going of people around our fire, and the sharing of a common cup.  Anyone who strolls past is known, and called by name, and invited to sit for a bit.  And everyone does, at least for a little bit.  I'm told later that there are more visitors tonight than usual.  They've come by to see for themselves that a farang woman has actually come all the way up to their village.  I'm only the second or third white person who's done that in, oh, nobody can remember how long, and the first white woman.

There's casual chit chat, and a unhurried way about it.  A cup is swished out and offered for tea.  And then the visitor says thanks to everyone and moves along.  And somehow, I am welcomed into all of this.  I sit warmed by more than just the fire.  There's a quiet wonder in these moments.  

One visitor is more curious and perhaps a little more bold than the others.  I am asked about Canada.  Is there snow?  Does the government pay for school?  For doctors?  How big is my house?  As I answer these questions the responses indicate a certain amount of awe, or even envy.  The bold one says he wants to come to Canada.

I smile and invite him - the only appropriately polite response to give - but also feel the need to make another comparison.

On my street, I say, there are no campfires.  Mostly people stay in their houses or in their own fenced in yards.  And mostly we don't even know each other, not on our street anyways.  There's a pause. 

And then I am asked: But what about church? 

This is a predominately Christian village.  The church building is a central focus, and there are prayers every morning and every evening.  On Sundays almost everyone shows up for service.  And everyone walks there.  Probably there are about a hundred people in the village.  The village is the church.  So, how can you not know your neighbours?

I try to explain.  There are a lot of churches in my village, I say.  We don't usually go to the church closest to our houses.  We drive there.  From all over.  As I say it and even before it's translated I realize how crazy-foreign it must sound to these community-centric people.  

And yes.  There are audible sounds of polite confusion.  

I have preached likely hundreds of sermons on community.  And suddenly, in this moment, I realize I actually know nothing.  I know nothing of the bonds of common survival; of the interdependence that requires I share and receive in ways utterly reciprocal.  I know nothing of an evening spent wandering the dirt pathways between homes and campfires, with nothing more important to do than spend time huddled around a big black pot of tea meant for sharing.  

Where on earth did any human being ever get the idea that independence was a desired thing?

Fast forward almost four years to when a microscopic menace keeps us separated and un-huddled.  I am decidedly in Canada.  Now, even the once-a-week-drive-to community touch points are strained.  We're in our houses even more.  And no amount of swishing would make it anywhere near safe to share a cup.  We can't even share the air we breathe.

Except maybe now I feel my need more correctly.  The bonds of common survival are strengthening from the stretching stress of separation.  The ways I need you and am needed by you are more clear to me.  And suddenly 'porch picnics' and other physically distanced ways of sitting unhurried together on warmer days are amazing and relished.  And, in anticipation of the colder Canadian weather, that priority of presence over productivity remains, even when we have to do it over the phone or online.  

I'm warmed and this surprises me.

The fire of our fierce determination to be community for one another, in any culture and any crisis, provides a circle in which I can belong.  I need this - I need you so much!

Can we huddle together this winter?  Can we huddle AND radiate that warmth outward at the same time, like a mountain village community, always welcome in each other's space?   Can we draw in and draw strength from one another, even as we keep looking outward for anyone who needs to come close to the fire too.

Can we huddle in a radiating kind of way?

I hope so.  

We'd better.  

We're going to need it.  

Desperately.  

I do.  

Pounded Sticky Rice and Other Surprising Culinary Wonders

 

This purplish blob may not look so appetizing, but right at this moment it's making me so hungry!!! It's pounded mountain sticky rice, served on a banana leaf, and it's amazing! Especially when it's warm and stretchy and rolled in a bit of raw cane sugar.

I was torturing myself by sorting through some of my Thai pictures (an ever-ending filing job truth be told) and I came across this and other foodie shots of some of the more unusual dishes I've actually come to love. I can say without a doubt, in these days of travel bans and closed borders, I am missing Thailand with my whole heart. I guess it's also true that I'm missing Thailand with my whole stomach as well.

Yupa is an amazing cook. Many of the pictures here are dishes from her kitchen. And I am convinced that the very best, very most authentic Thai food comes from her kitchen. Yupa Chaing Mai you have no idea how wide is the scope of all the ways I miss you right now!

On the fork, see that? That's the famous 'dancing shrimp' dish that utterly shocked me at first, but by now has become something of a tradition for every trip. Yes, my friends, these delicacies are still alive when served to you. That's their appeal, apparently. The dish is really spicy so I don't end up eating very much. Just enough to maintain my Thai-foodie status. And I must say that it took me about six or seven trips to work up to this. A LOT of those who have travelled with me have managed on their very first try. Evangeline Wilton Bill aka Céline Marcoux-Hamade, Rebecca Shirer, Sheldon Connor, Esther Weatherall Jonathan Gabber, Emerson Emerson Gabber -- did I miss anyone? -- You have my utmost admiration. And Erin Wildsmith you are also among those who have crunched the bugs. So much missions trip street cred there. (No pictures of that, you're welcome.)

I'm a little off track here. Because what I was really thinking about is how much richer and wondrous and tasty my life is because of this rich and wondrous and delicious connection with my family half a world away.

And it's not just my stomach that's hungry. My heart is in a state of longing that testifies to the painful part of love. Right about now the weather in northern Thailand is just starting to get a little cooler. Rainy season is almost over, and the mornings will soon be fresh. The sleepy kids will file in for morning worship, and after school ....if I was there....we would read together.

Life is rich, and sometimes sad. But often the sadness means something important and wonderful also happened.

Sunday blessings my friends.

The Stuff We're Made Of (A sappy-but-true forty-second anniversary lilt)

 

Oh Love.

I’d do it all again.

Even the hard stuff.

Because of what our life together

has made of us,

what God has wrought from it

and who we’ve become

in the grace of each other.

I'm a me I'd never be

if not for you.

 

And look!

(Some numbers because you love them)

There was just two of us at first.

Now there’s eleven plus one.

Plus thirty give or take.

This I never could have imagined for us!

Who knew this would be the ‘us’ of us

at forty-two.

He knew.

 

Happy, happy us day,

My Love.

My Hero.

My partner in all things.

My God-send, in truth.

BEAUTIFUL DOCKS OF HONEST IMPERFECTION

Rebuilding the dock.  It’s one of the cottage tasks this year and so far, things are progressing nicely.  Grandad and Zachary are doing this together.  They make a good team, their early bond providing an intuitive communication and cooperative flow between them.  I watch them from the deck with deep and quiet joy. 

Love this! Two generations working together making something strong.  Grandad provides instruction, Zachary follows through.  He’s given the responsibility of the small rechargeable drill and then some freedom to go ahead and extract the screws from the old boards, experimenting with ways that work best for him.  There’s banter back and forth.  Grandad being silly at times, Zachary still finding this amusing since he’s not quite yet a teenager.  And questions about the project, why the old wood has shrunk and split, and why we need to space the boards out, and why certain screws are best for this task.

Then two things.

It becomes apparent that the original strategy of replacing certain boards first isn’t going to work due to some sizing issues.  Some of what they’ve done they’ll have to do again.  I am impressed with how Grandad explains this to Zachary without any sense of frustration or self recrimination.  Just more of an ‘oh well, let’s start again’ attitude, that Zachary picks up and applies to what needs to be done next. 

They work in silence for a bit.  And then Grandad steps on the end of a board he thought was attached and narrowly misses injury in the slapstick smack-thud of his clutzy landing.  Despite the kafuffle, in the end he is upright and unscathed, even his pride.  “Meant to do that,” he says immediately.  Zachary has a good laugh, and they keep working.

And it strikes me that this is what is needed when two generations work together to make something strong.  The willingness to make mistakes in front of someone is essential to mentoring.  And it makes you vulnerable.

The year 2005 was a turning point in my own mentoring experience.  There was a big transition, and now, suddenly it seemed, I was heavily into mentoring.  In fact, I wrote in my journal that I felt like I was entering into an era where this was the main contribution I would now make to my work; to identify and pour into the next generation in the way I had been called out and poured into myself.

It’s exciting, invigorating work, mentoring.  But it requires a steadfast resolve to allow yourself to be seen.  To allow others to learn from watching you make mistakes, as much as watching you do what you do well.  And even more, as Ken so beautifully demonstrates, a teaching of how to manage mistakes and failures, both strategically and emotionally.

I don’t relish this part of mentoring.  In fact, in some cases, I know this kind of honesty has cost me, as mentees make their own judgements and step away to find perhaps a more perfect teacher.  It’s why some of us sometimes try to pretend we’ve got it all together.  Risking that kind of judgement and rejection takes a kind of ‘leaving ourselves alone’ and  ‘oh well, let’s start again’ kind of attitude that not all of us possess.

But I am so incredibly grateful for the essential gift my mentors gave to me in letting me in up close to hear and see the imperfections, the misjudgements, the bad calls; and how we thought it through, worked it out, sought forgiveness and carried on.  For me, their vulnerability was a strength.  I admire them all the more.

I’m interested in the Church, of course.  Of rebuilding intergenerationally.  Taking off the old boards that don’t serve us well anymore, and finding ways of working together to make something strong to tie our boats to for the future.   Especially now, in a new world full of Covid challenges that force us to rethink everything.  And, in order to continue to be all we’re called to be, there’s important work for us to do, intergenerationally. 

I happen to believe we can do it best together.

Some Good Reasons Times A Bazillion

I'll begin this post with the acknowledgement that, at the time of this writing, one grandson, Harvest, is still outside my own 'social circle' due to living circumstances that need to be honoured.  My Gramma heart is eager for the day my whole family can be together in one space.  Believe me, in our story, that kind of togetherness is not something we take for granted.

Harvest, I miss you and hope we can all be at the cottage together this summer.
Deep sigh.
We'll see.

Harvest age 3, getting ready for the St. Jacob's train ride!

______________

Probably, we all have our own reasons.
To stay 6 feet apart.
To wear a mask.
To stay within our social circle.
To respect the restrictions in the stores.
To wash our hands while we sing Happy Birthday.
And to use hand sanitizer when we can't.
To stay away from a crowded beach.
To refrain from even some of what's now allowed,
just to give that added layer of protection.

We have our reasons.

Here are some of mine.

Abby, long and lanky, still willing to swing a little with Gramma and lay her head on my shoulder while we talk about nail polish colours and plan our spa treatments once we get to the cottage.

Abby, 14, grade 8 graduation

Zachary, tall and talkative, telling me every detail about his newest Lego creation or the wild and wacky dream he had last night, which remarkably can happen in one run on sentence that lasts a full 10 minutes or so.

Zachary, 6, just before Gramma went to Thailand for three months.

Jayden, cute and confident, quick to unlearn the dreadful-but-necessary-rule-for-a-while not to run wildly up to Gramma for a hug, and who competes now to be the first.

Jayden, 3, first time back at Gramma's house

And Harvest, now 9-going-on-10, pictured above, who, by the way, when we're all together and I call out that it's lunch time and we need to wash our hands, is the first to respond, every time!

Of course there's this new one, hoped for and prayed over like perhaps no other baby, due to arrive in August and already fiercely loved.

Baby Boy, can't wait to meet in August

These are my reasons.
Some of the more important ones.

There's nothing I'm so eager to 'get back to' that is worth jeopardizing the delicate, newly-won privilege of wild-running-up hugs, or little moments in the swing, or up close and personal dream-stories, or the hello-Gramma of an unborn baby's kick.  Nothing I want so much that I would risk bringing infection to my daughter at this point in the game (or ever).  Nothing so important that I would risk pushing Harvest's return to our circle any further out.

This is a gift. 
One gift of so many, actually, brought to us, courtesy of Covid-19:
The distillation of what we already knew was precious,
but now is that times a bazillion.

My Pandemic Birthday

My face is cold but only my face.  The rest of me stays snug under cottage-fleece blankets, listening to Ken, already awake, getting his breakfast, and hoping he’ll make a fire, which he does, and my birthday is off to a cozy start.

The water is flat and the sun bright, but I’m not all rushing down to the dock just yet.  We got the kayak out of the boathouse yesterday and it was such a mess.  Somehow - even propped up and on its side – it got filled with brackish sludge that now floods the once-dry, slimy wooden floor in not-in-decades water levels.  We got it out and parked beside the dock, but it will take a good cleaning before a pleasant paddle could be had.  This I’m thinking wrapped in my housecoat sipping tea caught in the tension between by my mad desire for that first of season paddle and my shivery shelf enjoying the fire. 

But the mad desire wins, and I head down with towel-rags to undo the mucky damage.  There.  Not quite pristine but good enough.  And just like that with a silent push, I’m off, suspended now in that space between the ridiculous and sublime, like the morning mist that still caresses the surface of the water, mystically, as if some magic was lifting, leftover from last night.

And oh, this is pouring in and filling up and healing.  Silent gliding on glass flat water, sun happy happy above in a sky silly with blue.  And the heron and the young family of geese don’t mind me.  And in spite of myself I find I am weeping in their welcome.  I am welcomed onto the water with them.  And I didn’t know how badly I need this.  Sounds foolish, I know. 

It’s a water snake, I think, making its way across the partially submerged swimming raft tied to the side of the dock.  A long one, maybe a meter, all brown and shiny and snakishly beautiful, flipping off now into the water on the other side, making good speed along the shoreline.

Lunch down by the water with Ken, unfolds itself to some time in my space on the desk.  The wind has come up just a little.  Enough to keep the mosquitoes at bay. 

The jenny wrens have abandoned the birdhouse and are building a nest under the eves almost above my head.  In this they are welcome, being such good company and cheerful heralds of each new morning, as they have done for many seasons already.  I find comfort in their quick visits close on the rail of the deck, twigs and other building materials in beak, before they flit up to keep on with the project.  It’s nice to be trusted.

And this is how God gifts me this birthday.  I think He started, actually, yesterday.  Yesterday I slept.  Pretty much the entire day.  Still can’t believe it myself.  Up at 5:11 a.m. with a plumbing emergency.  A yikes-get-the-towels-turn-off-the-pump-which-pipe-is-it-this-time kind of emergency.  The kind that has plagued this opening so far.  Even so, we’re both in good spirits, and when it’s all mopped up and there’s warm oatmeal in our bellies, the fire would make a good place to read for a bit.  Or sleep.  Which I did on and off until lunch.  And after lunch I had a nap.  Mostly until supper.  And after supper and a time down at the dock and a game of Scrabble, I still went to bed before sundown.  And slept all night.  How is that possible?  Except maybe I needed it.  Except maybe it was a pre-birthday gift that I was badly in need of and didn’t know.

We waited until they said it was okay, this coming up to the cottage thing.  I tell myself that every time I ask, “why didn’t we do this sooner?”  Oh yeah.  There’s a pandemic thing going on.  Except up here, I can’t tell. 

Today, for my birthday, I’ve been given an extraordinary gift of not knowing.  I don’t know who’s protesting what, either peacefully or violently, what Ontario’s latest Covid numbers are, or our Region’s or Canada’s or the world’s, or how many people died in the last 24 hours by disease or hatred or anything else.  This gift is priceless right now.

Believe me.  The great imbalance of blessing on my life right at this moment is not lost on me.  Not for a moment.  Gratitude and humility and wonder all around.  And I treasure this moment and save it up against anything that’s coming that won’t be like this, when I’ll need to remember that one perfect pandemic birthday when I turned 63.

And friends, dear, dear friends and beloveds, oh I wish I could give you some of this!  We all need so badly to be in ‘not-pandemic’ mode for long enough to breathe deep and long enough; to sleep enough; to just be a human being, instead of a human, being in the midst of such a long duress. 

And I’ll keep preaching that, and practicing what I preach about that.  About it not being about place or circumstance but about frame of mind.  About knowing that the deep peace of Christ that ‘passes understanding’ isn’t explained by the rationale given the stressors.  It’s about having a mind ‘stayed on Thee’ and finding a sweet spot of peace even as everything rages or just simply tediously persists among us.

Sending love and courage and joy and peace and the gift of not-knowing, if you can swing it.

Monday.

The week is just beginning!!

No Idea

Anniversary Song for Highview

Sung to the tune of Philippians 1:3-8

And you!

Look at you all new and true.

Two into one heart.

One fresh start.

And you have no idea!

Big dreams birth big vision

and mission for

Everyone, everyone come!

Church is not boring!

Jesus actually does love you!

And so do we.

So do we.

And we love each other.

We do!

And places called purple

and fairs called stuff

and portables and pig roasts and parking lots and then.

And then change changes things.

Changes change things.

And you have no idea.

When it’s happening

you have no idea

what it means

for then

for later,

especially when

the changes are hard.

You have no idea

what God is doing.

But He’s doing.

And now you’re going

and beloveds are beloved

in places so far away

and so just down the street

all at the same time

that it could only be said

God did it.

And everyone’s welcome

because Church is not what we all thought it was.

And Jesus actually does love you.

And so do we.

And love’s the thing, isn’t it?

And more change.

And change changes things again.

And now.

Look at you all staying true

to not being in one place all through

the winter and spring and now summer.

Because everyone is sick.

The whole world got sick.

And you can’t have a party.

Or can you?

Because Church –

Church isn’t what we thought it was after all.

Again it isn’t.

And isn’t that the way of it.

The love of it.

Because love’s the thing, isn’t it?

Random numbers game:

Added to 1997 is twenty three

and that’s where you’ll be

in 2020.

And 2020…well

You really have no idea. 

No one does.

No one’s done this before.

And it’s hard to know

what it means

for now,

for later.

But God knows.

And He’s doing.

Oh He is so doing!

You’ll see.

And you!

Just look at you!

Happy Twenty-third Anniversary Highview.

You are one of God’s best ideas,

And you will always have my heart.