It All Matters

Circa 1977 OBC Year Book (Pat is 2nd from left)

She wouldn't have known, 

and I feel badly about that,   

but I think that's the way of it most of the time.

I was invited last week to write a tribute for the celebration of life service of Pat Hugli Seeney, a long ago mentor of mine back in our Brimley Road Alliance Youth, Campus Life Scarborough, Ontario Bible College (Tyndale) days.  Way back then.

Thanks to the wonder of Facebook, I had only recently been reconnected with her husband, Dave, also a friend from 'back in the day'.  Pat herself suffered from Huntington's disease, something that significantly reduced her connection with the world in the latter part of her life. 

In the tribute, which I'll include in a minute so we have the whole story, I talk about her influence on my life at a crucial time in my own spiritual development.  It mattered.  It mattered a lot.  And it was so ordinary-looking at the time that the spectacular-to-me trajectory of it would not have been at all obvious.  Not then.  Not to her.  Not even to me.  Not back then.

And then, these remembrances of Pat connect me with a number of totally unrelated, random conversations I've been having of late.  Conversations about that nasty bit of cognitive behaviour so many of us find ourselves sucked into so much of the time.  I'm talking about what happens whenever we entertain the idea that somehow what we have to contribute isn't important.  Isn't enough.  Isn't accomplishing anything.  Doesn't count.

I'd say it might just be me, but for all the unrelated, random conversations, and not just lately, but over so much of my pastoral life.  Quite a few of us, it seems, hear this stuff in our heads.  

"You're not enough."  

"All that you're pouring yourself into, it doesn't matter."

"Why bother?  You're just wasting your time/breath/money/soul."

"Nobody cares.  Nobody notices."

And various other renditions of the same kind of thing.  Utterly demotivating, all of it.  And in our moments of exhaustion, discouragement, setback, criticism, it could derail us if we let it.

And it's not new.

"I have laboured in vain; I have spent my strength for nothing at all."

That last one was Isaiah (49:4 the first half of the verse).  Yup.  Him too.

Okay, I'll put the tribute here so you can get the whole story, and then I want to get back to something.

=======

Remembering Pat   (1955-2021)

Intelligent.  Gentle.  Faithful.

These are the strongest memories of Pat for me, as I reflect on her enormous influence on my spiritual formation at a crucial time in my life.  Being a teenager in Scarborough in the 70’s was a rough, sometimes terrifying emotional and spiritual space to navigate. 

But every Tuesday night, we were safe.

Pat was our Living Unit Group leader – often affectionately referred to as our LUGHead - in the Campus Life program at Midland Avenue Collegiate Institute.  She shepherded a group of about six of us girls with grace and patience and love, week after week, for about three years steady.  I remember that there were no stupid questions.  I remember that our ideas and opinions mattered.  I remember that through Pat, God seemed welcoming and thoughtful and real. 

Maybe that’s why, some 50 years later, most of us in the group are still pursuing God.  This is no small statement.  That shy and terrified teenager safely tucked into Tuesday night with Pat would be shocked at what God decided to do with me over the course of my life.  I modelled much of my pastoral life after her example.  The security forged under Pat’s care launched a courage that would ultimately send me to the other side of the planet.  Who knew? 

Maybe Pat did.  Maybe her intelligent, gentle faithfulness saw potential in me I had yet to discover.  Or maybe not.  She just loved us anyways.

======

Of course I hope that Pat's many other contributions to life and kingdom and family and community were obvious to her, and she enjoyed a strong sense of self as seen through the eyes of a God who no doubt constantly reassured her with "Well done."  But I am sorry we lost touch, and that, in the end, I could only properly thank her with words to be read at her service.  

And all this brings me to two motivations today.

One, to make sure to say thank you more often.  To reach out and let people know how much their input into my life mattered and still matters.  That what may have seemed small and insignificant to them, constituted truck loads of confidence and guidance for me.

And two, to stop listening to the lies.  All that crazy self-talk that tries to convince me I'm not making any difference.  Just.  Stop it.  It all matters.  Every little bit of it.  We honestly have no idea how much we can contribute into the unleashing of dreams and potential in the heart of every single human being we come into contact with.  All the big and little ways of it.  We just don't know.  We can't know.

Isaiah again, correcting his own crazy self-talk:  "Yet, what is due me is in the LORD's hand, and my reward is with my God."  Isaiah 49:4, that's the last half of the verse.

There.  That's where we leave it.  We do our part and let God take care of where it goes from there.  And we simply trust it.  Trust that the ways of our contribution to the bigger purposes of the mission of God will be turned into gold in the hands of the Lord.  

I'll end with sharing a link Dave sent me, a song by Randy Stonehill called In Jesus' Name, just because it reminds us of the same things, and because music is so powerful for reaching into those deeper places of our souls and psyches.  

Encouragement and blessings to all.

Little Lockdowns

The past three days have provided one of those unwanted but in-the-end helpful opportunities to reset.

I've been more or less on my own little lockdown since Thursday morning, after a sudden, nasty but thankfully brief experience with what could have been a stomach bug, but seems more likely to have been something I ate.  No one else around me has been affected - thank You Jesus - so I'm inclined to believe the latter, and actually can pretty much identify the culprit.  Ick.  Let's think about something else.

It was enough not just to keep me home, but actually keep me in bed for the whole day Thursday, and most of both afternoons Friday and today.  This.  Does.  Not.  Happen.  It even meant cancelling a long awaited sleepover at Gramma's house for the PD Day.   Yes, the first sleepover since March of 2020 (when the kids were rejoicing in having two extra weeks of March Break!).  My physical misery was matched only by my I've-bailed-on-the-kids misery.  No, actually I think the second misery was worse. Honestly, guys, I cried good.

However.  

Since the 'initiating event', I've had the chance to just stay quiet and rest, sipping ginger ale, reading mostly, sneaking in a teeny bit of work, tending to a few Christmas cards, and tentatively trying some chicken soup.  Certainly not going anywhere!  And in these past 72 hours I've been able to identify more clearly something that's been buzzing like static in the back of my brain for months now.  Because when I have to stay home, it's quiet back there.

The buzz, I realize, is this whole deal of having to cope with COVID.  This whole time since we've lifted restrictions and can go out and be about our lives again, there's this constant awareness of still having to deal with all of it - masks, and hand sanitizer, and distancing, and keeping track of who I've been with, and how that will affect everyone else I'm with, and deciding what I will and will not risk.  Since school started two of the children in my inner circle have had a positive case in their classroom, and it's set no end of things in motion with a lot to reschedule, and re-think, and make sure everyone who needs to know knows, and testing and....  Oy!

At least during lockdown I could 'deal' with the pandemic without all this extra layer of responsibility and practice.  Having a break from all that for a day or two was really quite lovely.  

No.  I do not wish any more lockdowns on any more humans anywhere on the planet.  Sad for those for whom this is a recurring hardship, truly.  But I'm wondering, if for my own mental health, I might find spaces for my own personal two or three day lockdowns this winter.  Sans the unpleasantness, of course.  Sometimes, when it's done for the masses, the officials call this kind of thing a 'circuit breaker'.  Like that.  What if I could just make it my own COVID-fatigue circuit breaker? If the virus isn't going away any time soon, and as we seek our way forward, and as I determine to cooperate with all the ways we need to keep each other safe right now, what if I just need to lock down from time to time?

Seems to me even Jesus needed this every so often.  Apples to oranges, but He certainly had a lot on His plate most days too.  And imagine the 'noise' of the mercy-weight for Him!  I can't even.

Likely there are those of you who have figured this 'little lockdown', time off thing already.  You're way ahead of me.  And probably some don't hear the buzz quite the same, so this isn't even a thing for you.  Kudos.  

But I'm thinking maybe this might be a more common source of underlying fatigue for more of us than we realize.  Because it hovers just below all the big stuff like the daily case count or the vaccine conversations or the politics.  Maybe we're all way more tired from COVID than we realize, even without ever having contracted the virus.

Today I was recovered enough to do half a walk!  Felt so good to be outside for a bit.  Even did some errands in the morning, having been more than 48 hours symptom free.  And I'm ready to go for the last in a three-sermon relationships series at Highview tomorrow morning (in case anyone was worrying).

Ah yes...gathering with my faith community.  Totally, totally, beautifully and completely worth getting there for that.

Take it easy friends.  We need each other more than ever.  

November On Purpose

There's always something wonderful about a new start. Even if it's as ordinary as the first day of a brand new month.

Admittedly, November isn't always welcomed with eager anticipation. It's only 'holiday' is the somber remembrance of war. We need the reminder, and those who sacrificed so much need to be honoured, for sure. But if you're needing something of a 'yahoo' long weekend feel, November isn't playing.

The colour is gone, and the weather begins to remind us of a winter that's coming. Depending on your tradition and sensibilities, many don't even want any of us to bring on too much of the 'Christmas spirit' until at least December. (More on this another day.)

All this is even more reason to tear off October's calendar page with an intentional optimism; to welcome November for all its possibility and robust engagement in life abundant; to make decisions right now about how we'll spend these next thirty days living out of our own sense of purpose and mission.

The psalmist prays,

"Teach us to number our days,

that we may gain a heart of wisdom."

(Psalm 90:12)

Ah yes.

To reach December 1st just a bit wiser because we spent November carefully and on purpose.

I'm glad for the bright sunshine for my walk this morning.

I know November won't cooperate every day like this.

But here we go together anyways.

Happy, bright, on purpose November, everyone!

Of Friendships, Blunders, and Tending to Wounds

Pondering much on human connections these days.

Two reasons.  One is that I'm preparing for a three week series to be preached at Highview on the essential nature of our relationships with one another as a means by which God, by His grace and to our astonishment, completes His love and shows the world He means it.

1 John 4:12 - No one has ever seen God; but if we love one another, God lives in us and his love is made complete in us. 

Yeah, I know.  Scares me too.

The other reason is that, let's face it, during these crazy COVID times, our relationships have taken a pretty harsh beating.  Try thinking of one human connection in your life that has not in some way been negatively affected by physical distancing, isolation, lockdowns, travel bans, abstinence from hugs, and difference of opinions and practice in how to navigate all this.  Me neither.  Can't think of one.  And that's not even counting any who have experienced the tragic loss of a loved one.  Devastating.  Shattering.  Our relational worlds have been severely shaken.

And then, just generally, we're all a bit more on edge.  Or is that just me?  Some of what I've experienced over the past while in terms of relational dissonance is largely due, if I'm honest, to me being overly sensitive, tired and anxious.  And on the other side of it, I am having to write more 'clarifying' emails, make apologies and set up coffee times to sort something out than 'normal'.  (Remember 'normal'?  Me neither.)

Earlier this morning I was composing just such an email, in response to someone's reaction to words I had used in a previous email to them.  They were right.  I had been insensitive and exclusive in my choice of words.  Entirely NOT my intention, but re-reading them in the light of their perspective, there it was.  So I offer my sincere apologies and suggest we get together over a cup of tea to help make things right.

Tending to the wounds of our blunders.

That's where I'm going with this.

As I am formulating my email response, I hear in my head the tune and lyrics of a song by Steve Bell, Canadian artist and musician, and a sage to many.  The song is called Good Friend and is based on a poem by Richard William called Mayflies.

The chorus is brilliant in its simple advice for good living overall.

Be but your own good friend, and be good to the other/Cherish those sisters and brothers along the road/And to the earth extend every reverence and wonder./Tend to the wounds of your blunders/And honour God who formed our home.

So I was doing some of that tending this morning, and glad for the honesty of the friend who would bring it to my attention with grace and humility.  

Oh friends, we need each other so much.  Especially now.  Let's hold on to all that is so delicate and precious between us.  Let's tend to the wounds, reach out in support, ask for help, listen with grace, lay down our need to be right.

We've lost enough.  

Let's not lose each other.

Giving Thanks in a Fall I'm Not a Fan Of

This has happened before, but not like this.  

Thanksgiving rudely intrudes on the complexities of life, pressing me to the edges of all the autumn joy.  It's there.  I can see it out there in the colours and the misty mornings, and smell it in the candles.  And, yes, there's pumpkin pie, so there's that.  I know the joy is there.

But it's not as obvious as it feels it should be.  The gratitude isn't easy.

It's happened before, but maybe not like this.  This year's complexities of life are long and drawn out and happening to literally everyone on the planet.  I cannot claim any corner on the problems market, not that it's ever something anyone wants to do.  No, this year, this fall being the way it is, is happening to us all.

I'm not a fan of it.

Granted, I didn't feel like I really got summer until the end.  But in the end it was hot enough and involved a kayak.  So I made peace with that, and turned my heart toward decorating the porch in ambers and browns and took the kids to the pumpkin patch and we carved them and did that whole messy thing with them and I lit candles and bought sweaters and everything. 

It's just....there's still COVID and that has had delayed even further any sense of getting into a seasonal rhythm at all.  I think I could embrace the season more enthusiastically if I could just figure out where it was going.  

And I'm tired.  Physically weary, relationally drained, mentally fatigued, emotionally stretched, and spiritually thin.  And just when I think I've got a handle on things, something else circles into my orbits and collides with anything at all that even whiffs of a plan I'd like to make.  

There's a really good chance that the first all-family gathering we've dared to consider in two years may have to be cancelled in order to maintain the wisdom of an abundance of caution.

Ah! There it is!  The real reason I'm approaching Thanksgiving in something of a funk.

And so.

Sometimes giving thanks is more of a choice than a reaction.  And actually, I'm okay with this.  Because a substantive life isn't formed from the easy stuff.  Character isn't crafted on light breezes and pleasantries.  And actually, I find that digging deeper for the gratitude I find more of it and more weary-resistant versions of it.

So, Giver of all good gifts, 

Thank You.  

For a family that loves each other enough to hurt at the thought of not being together yet again. 

For pumpkin pie anyways.  

For the fatigue that comes because passion and vitality was well spent.

For the love of friends who understand and offer grace. 

For fireplaces.  

For vanilla candles and tea.

For the complexities that ground me.

For the promises of Your Word without which I would truly despair, but because of, I don't have to.

For being so gentle with me right now.  

Yes, for that. 

And for this.  And for all You might want to do in me because of it.  

Gratefully Yours,

Ruth Anne

Waiting Softly in the Cornfield

There's a softness to waiting for yourself if you do it right.

I often don't.

More likely I'm pressing impatience into it, worrying it to go faster, be sooner, come more quickly.  The waiting becomes something to conquer, and if not that, endure.  The waiting becomes its own tyrant, oblivious of the soul that needs the time.  My soul.  My own self.  My own valuable, exhausted, treasured self that just.  Needs.  Time.

Softness comes in pausing in the moments when nothing is happening and letting that be okay.  Softness comes in turning down the noise of ridiculous expectation and outrageous demand. Softness comes in naming and embracing weakness.  Humanity in its frailer moments, being real.

To do it right you have to stop.  You have to give permission for less.  You have to ask for help.  And space.  You have to forgive if they don't understand and just be gone anyways.  To do it right you have to trust that the One who is softest of all knows what you need and is already providing exactly that.  Even as you wait.

This business of forming a spirit is a long thing.  It's drawn out and stretched out and works out its own ways of waiting and becoming in its own sweet (truly) time.

"Just be still.  Wait here with Me," He says, "And remember that I'm God, and I'm for you.  We'll get there when the time is completed."  At least, that's what I heard out in the cornfield the other day, under a wide sky of nothing.  Nothing, being everything.

And so, I wait softly.

Staying Together in a Pulled-Apart World

Unfiltered photo of heart cloud at sunset.

Are we okay?

The 'we' I mean is the broad scope of human relationships that have been strained to the max by the necessary distance forced upon us these past long, world's-gone-crazy months.  

I'm feeling it.

My youngest grandson just turned one and, compared to the others at the same age, he barely knows me. That sits as a sadness in my chest, even as I patiently and intentionally take the opportunities to win him over now.  We're getting there, but it's not quite okay yet.

Another sadness.  There are kids growing up way too fast on the other side of the world, and I'm missing out in ways unreclaimable.  A few of our children have come to our Hot Springs family since I was there last.  I don't even know them yet.  They have no experience of me.  This isn't okay.  And neither is the growing ache to simply be with Suradet and Yupa; to laugh with, grieve with, dream with together in the same place.  Not okay.

We can gather now, here at home, as a faith community, and this is very good.  Yes, so very good.  And also, no hugging.  And this is not okay.  And neither is it okay that our COVID-weary selves sometimes get the better of us and we end up saying things or responding to things said that aren't really about whatever was said at all, but about our fears that things have changed and that maybe we don't belong now, or whatever other insidious fears have bubbled up since this all began.  And perhaps the long loneliness we experienced when we were all shut up in our homes was the true reflection of our worth, which is why we are so desperate for social affirmations now that we can be together, even without the hugging. Nothing feels okay without the hugging.

And what about what we've found out about each other's positions on all that was never a thing before but is suddenly so important and 'out-there', now that we're supposed to wear masks and get vaccinated? What about the trusted, life-long friends who are suddenly on the other side of what seems like a very dangerous fence, no matter what side of that fence we might think is the safe one?  Are we actually going to call each other names now?  Is that okay?

See why I'm asking? 

Are we okay?

Speaking to different but equally contentious relationship-straining topic, Paul reminded the Galatian church that "the only thing that matters is faith expressing itself through love" (Galatians 5:6).  The people there were rather entrenched on their own sides of what seemed to them a very dangerous fence.  Dogma was the actual threat, and falling into a way of thinking that stood firm on "us and them" instead of "we".

Are "we" okay?  Can "we" do this together?

Can we make unity the priority over being right?  Can we leave room for an opposing opinion to be considered?  Can we refuse to gossip or belittle?  Can we seek first to understand before being understood?  Can we stop and have the conversations before making the declarations?  Can we refrain from losing our tempers and instead let grace temper us?

I'll go further here.  I'm vaccinated.  If you're not, I respect you.  I don't have to agree with you to love you and accept you.  I hope you'll do the same for me.  

We dare not see each other as the enemy, else the real enemy wins.

There is more of this journey ahead my friends.  We will need each other badly if we are to survive and thrive and be "more than conquerors through Him who loved us."  That's Paul again, who - oh wait! - also reminds us that "we" do not do this alone in our human efforts.  Like a heart-shaped cloud that shows up at sunset at the same moment I'm pondering these painful things.

So a prayer for us as we reach out and hold on to each other.  (I'm hugging you as I pray this.)

Father God,  we invite you into all the relational strangeness here with us.  Please.  Be fully present in the spaces between us to hold us together in this time when we are pulled apart by so much.  Draw us toward You in peace and humility.  Collect us together under Your wings of grace.  Shape us into Your image to declare Your faithfulness and love across the sky.  Be everything we need that You are and we are not.  We need You.  Amen

The Return

Apparently when a blog or other social media site is too infrequently updated, it's called a "ghost town".  Not so much because it's haunted, just abandoned.  I can sort of see the tumbleweed rolling down main street past the vacant windows of the General Store, with a faded sign that says Bread and Honey is on sale.  

My last post here was May 3.  Today is September 7.  That's a long lonely time away, and I'm feeling rather melancholy about it to be honest.  Not guilty, not even really apologetic.  There have been good reasons, and any reasonable soul taking good enough care of themselves would not heap shame upon their own heads for such a thing, even in the best of times.

But this has been anything but the best of times.  It's been an over-the-top, prolonged, never-like-this-before (see how I avoided the use of the word "unprecedented"?), epic-for-all-the-wrong-reasons time, and there's been way, way too much else to do.  And that's just true as truth is when there's not just a pandemic rumbling about, but you're also leading and loving a faith community through it, and attempting ridiculous academic goals on the side.  I might mention some unexpected family stuff, plus taking on five weddings this season, and the significant loss of two friends in places far away but close to heart, but I don't want things to start to sound unbelievable.  I can hardly fathom it myself.

Hence the melancholy.  And the fatigue.  And the need to ruminate a whole lot more before I begin to write too much about all the layers and orbits and realms and landscapes I have felt swung into these past nine months or so.

I guess all I wanted to do today with this particular post is to throw open some shuttered windows and shake out some dusty sheets covering whatever furniture is still in here at this point.  To sit in here for a while and remember a way of being, and to start again, again.

It's crazy because so many of the "other things" there was to do involved writing.  I'm not sure I've written so much in every given week than I have over the past nine months.  This included assignments and a research paper and sermons and countless email updates and daily Facebook postings.  And yet, I'm keen to pull an old metaphorical desk beside a newly opened window, open my laptop, and write something fresh.  Make it count, make it new.  Chase away the ghost town feeling and let this live into the wider spaces I've been exploring while I've been away.

Wider spaces, like loving people whose views on some important things turn out to be very different than mine in ways confusing, and would be scary if I didn't already trust and love them.

Wider spaces, like moving with intentionality up and out of my own comfort zones to reach out, when everything in me is screaming that it's terrifyingly dangerous out there.

Wider spaces, like being led into innovation and experimentation when all I crave is normalcy.

Wider spaces, like never, never losing the power of human "touch" in the hands-off, high-tech world forced upon us by a global pandemic. 

Those spaces, and more, because it's not done, this exploration, this living, this learning, this becoming.

So.

I have good intentions.  Even have things mapped out over the next few months to write and ponder and wonder and posit and all that kind of thing reflective folks like me tend to write about.

We'll see.  

When Someone You Love Becomes a Memory, the Memory Becomes a Treasure

In memory of our baby granddaughter, Evelyn Hope

May 3, 2019

These are the words I mustered to share at the service held to mark her short time with us.
 

Ah Baby Girl,

 

How is it that the unspeakable has happened and you are gone from us?

 

We are flattened by the devastating power of our love for you pulsing forward into the cold emptiness of your horrifying absence.  Every tear is a scream against the vicious void that shocks us awake each day now, since that day you were delivered to us silent.  

 

This we did not see coming.

 

But sweet baby Evelyn Hope, you need to know this.

 

You have rocked our world and we are forever changed.  Perhaps in the brevity of your time with us there is a mystic distillation of your spirit, granting you in the nine months of your growing hidden, and the less than 24 hours we had you in our arms, the same profundity of impact that takes the rest of us a life time to realize, if we live intentionally enough.

 

I’m so glad I had the chance to hold you.  Your Momma loved you strong and brave even in her heartbreak, to deliver you to us so we could meet you.   And I held you and sang to you, letting you know that this is not the way I want things to be, or I’d be with you now. 

 

And now what?  How do we live like this?  What is to become of these aching hearts chasing after our phantom child?

 

I don’t know.

 

Except.  Except. 

 

The ocean of love that pours out of us for you does not come out of a vacuum.  This family already knows how to hold on to each other in the midst of the unspeakable.  How to love no matter what.  How to watch for all that God wants to do redemptively because of this, because you were born to us, and then had to go. 

 

You are now part of a family that loves fiercely, little one.  We will never forget you. 

 

I see you dancing.  In my imagination – some might call it a vision – there is a swish of yellow, like satin soaked in sunshine that catches my eye off to the right.  And I turn my head and a little girl full of delight grabs my hand and says, “Gramma! Come dance with me.” 

 

So, I will wait to dance with you, Sweetie. 

Yes, we will dance together, and none of this will be sad any more.

The Not So Comfy Couch

There's a new Sunday morning ritual in my life that's scaring me a little. 

I get comfy on the couch.

In this bigger picture of health-restriction life, not gathering on Sundays has been the hardest adjustment for me.  Especially right now as I have stepped back into a role where some of my most favourite parts of the job happen early Sunday morning, leading up to and including our time together as a community.

Two Sundays.  Last November there were only two Sundays where that actually happened.  Where I could set my alarm to be up before sunrise, head down to the church to begin to prepare my own heart for worship in the solitude of the building, indulge in several sets of worship as the band arrived and rehearsed, and then - together with my family - offer praise and open the Word.  

So I guess it's natural that I would seek to find other ways to set the day apart.  New rituals to prepare my heart for the on line way of being together.  Ways to still my mind and open my heart that I find so necessary, else I just end up 'watching church'.

It's healthy to adjust.  Not just for myself, but for all those I love and lead, I want that.  I do.  How awful if we could not find our rituals and routines to embrace the different ways of being the people of God, of approaching Him in awe, of tenaciously staying spiritually 'together' while we anticipate the day when we physically will be.

But what if this all gets too comfy?

It bothers me.  It seems that in our pandemic default to self-preservation there's a high risk of forgetting that we follow a Saviour Who calls us to deny ourselves.

"Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.   For whoever wants to save their lives will lose it, but whoever loses their life for me will find it."  Matthew 16:24-25

The leaders at Highview, like many churches I imagine, are seeking input from their people to see what's working and what's not for Sunday mornings right now.  Rearranging the order of things.  Posting things so they can be easily accessed.  Thinking through how the on line experience 'feels' for various folks at various stages of life.  And we'll keep on doing that, for sure.

But something would be terribly wrong if we didn't also remind ourselves that being a follower of the Jesus who hung on the Cross isn't likely to be 'convenient.'  That the demands of discipleship don't jive well with 'church on demand.'  That our mission to go into all the world and make disciples probably won't find us comfy on the couch.

Heaven forbid (literally) if, in our efforts to make worship and teaching more accessible during lockdown, we convey a false message that this is all about making things easier.

This isn't just about Sunday mornings either.  Being 'the Church' has far, far wider implications than just what we're doing on the day we gather, whatever way that happens.  It's about ALL the ways we worship, and ALL the ways we love, and ALL the ways we grow, and ALL the ways we reflect to the world Who Jesus is.

This morning, in our 'on line' service, we'll be observing Communion together.

I really, really hope it feels uncomfortable.

Drown Proofing a Pandemic

 I am a swimmer.  And oh how I'm missing my early morning swims at the pool these past months!  

Honestly, it's been almost a year since I set foot in the building, except once to just chat at the front desk about how to put my membership on hold until I feel safe to interact in the gym/pool environment.  By now I'm longing for the quiet pull of my arms through the water, the rhythmic breathing on every fourth stroke, and the overall flood of endorphins when I climb out and towel off.

I feel safe and strong in the water, my swimming confidence the result of summer childhoods by the lake and Red Cross instruction at camp every July.  One skill required to advance to the next level (can't remember which by now) was the rather bluntly named 'drown-proofing.

The imagined scenario is that you are in over your head and for some reason are not close to shore or any other object to hold on to, AND you're tired.  Drown-proofing teaches you how to rest in the water.  You literally stop swimming and, holding your body in a certain posture, face down arms and legs spread, you allow yourself 1 Mississippi, 2 Mississippi, 3, Mississippi, 4 Mississipi.... and longer as you get better at this, before you bring your face up out of the water, take a long slow breath, and do it again.

I remember really not liking it at first.  Wait?  I'm tired in the water, and I have to put my face IN the water?  I remember having a hard time resting while holding my breath, and coming up too soon in a gasp.  But after a while, with good coaching from the swimming instructor, I actually ended up enjoying it, finding it oh so quiet and peaceful in those moments of Mississipi counting, held up by the water itself.

We were not allowed to advance to the next level of swimming until we could do this perfectly.  It was essential, we were told, to have this skill if we were going to have any long confidence in our swimming ability.  It could save our lives, they said.

In a way, I feel like we all need this skill right now.

For this idea, I need to acknowledge Gail Patterson, mental health therapist at Joseph Brant Hospital, and her comments at a mental health webinar I attended Saturday morning through Anchor Ministerial Fellowship where I hold my credentials.  

In her talk she suggested that the pandemic has us all in over our depth, treading furiously just to keep our heads above the water.  All the pressing realities force us into skill sets we never knew we needed; navigating technologies, schooling our children, working from home, caring for elderly parents, leading and loving our communities of faith, grocery shopping, banking, you name it.  We're all on a learning curve and a coping curve and an anxiety curve that has us all exhausted.  And all without the normal supports - sort of like things we might grab hold of in the water - to keep us buoyed up and enjoying the swim.

Drown-proofing.  Resting in the midst of this.  Refusing to thrash about in an energy-wasting panic, but instead, floating face down with confidence, ready to swim again...in just a moment.  Stopping to look out the window.  Standing up for a good stretch.  Going for a walk around the block.  Moving to my reading chair not to read but to sit and meditate on some gratitudes for a few minutes.  Making sure to protect my restorative time in a world where work/rest rhythms are all off.  

And letting myself be Held by Arms that do not become fatigued.

Because the imagery of drown-proofing isn't quite complete without another memory from my swimming childhood.

I am maybe seven years old, swimming off the dock with my favourite cousin who was more like a brother.  A big brother, stronger and taller, who would put me on his shoulders and walk way out beyond the dock to where I am normally not allowed to be without a life jacket.  I love it up there.  I feel so safe, knowing his feet are on the bottom, allowing me to take the risk, push my fears just a little.  I trust him.  

There is a moment, though, where I realize just how much I trust him.  I am laughing and saying, "I could never touch bottom way out here."  And he takes one more step and says, "Neither can I!"

My mood rockets instantaneously from happy and fun to all out panic.  But just for the quickest of seconds, because all he does is step back, and we are all good.  And I am immediately in a space of joy and well being again.

This is such a long swim, my friends.  Some days it's like we're out in the middle of the lake and we can't even see a shoreline.  Whatever lets us count to 5 Mississippi, let's do it!  And may we ride with confidence, even joy, on the shoulders of a great big God who's feet are always solidly planted, no matter how far out we are.

For All The Mamas

 

[I'll begin with a disclaimer.  I celebrate and am in awe of all the Dads who are partnering with the Mamas to nurture and protect your young ones during this time.  I write from a mother's perspective and would not dare to assume I that I remotely know what that's like for you.  Kudos for who you are and what you do.  Perhaps one of you will write a piece For All The Dads.  We'd love that!]

My heart is stretched with many prayers these days.  

Top of the list right now is all the Mamas.  Especially the ones at home with new babies.  Especially the ones who are guiding their children in distant learning.  Especially the ones trying to work from home. Especially the ones cut off from the family and friends who, in another reality, would be your 'village' in a hands-on concrete, play-date, let-me-hold-the-baby-for-a-while, out-for-ice-cream, or sleep-over-at-Gramma's kind of way.  And VERY especially for those for whom all of the above is your reality in this momemt.

The mothering you are doing right now is nothing short of heroic!

These nurturing-band-new-people days are intense.  Even in the best of times.  I remember them well, and I'm almost 40 years past them!  The times when I would get an overwhelming sense of accomplishment if I got the bed made.  The times when the evening 'colic' (did anyone ever find out what that really was?) would hit like clockwork at 7:15 and run until 9:30 every night, reducing us all into a big sobbing mess.  The times when the one task of feeding these little humans seemed to obliterate anything else I might dare to hope to do in a day, hence that swell of wonder if I got the bed made.  The times when sleep deprivation made it ever so convincing that the balled up sock in the hallway was crawling its way towards me.   Those days.

And in none of this was I required to isolate.  Heaven forbid!  The group of sister-moms I belonged to was my lifeline!  Play dates were essential!  Just a walk down to Tim's for a tea and some Timbits was a grand outing that could redeem the most wretched of days.  My own kids didn't have Grammas that were geographically close enough, but in the community of faith they were certainly passed around as if.

So, Brave Wonders, know this.  I am in awe of you!   You and your wee littles are not forgotten.  Not by us, not by God.  By a God who sees a sparrow fall?  No way.  Every bit of this He's, on it with you.  

And right here and right now I so want to offer some sort of guidance or wisdom, but I really have nothing.  Because....how different this is from any sort of parenting anyone's done in probably a hundred years!  What could any of us from our generation offer you, as much as we'd long to?  But perhaps some of the mama mantras that carried us through may be even just a little bit helpful.  Just a little?  And with that faint hope in mind...

 It's not easy being the world's future (for when they are crying).                                                                Celebrate the little things (like making the bed).                                                                                  There will come a time when they sleep through the night/cut their own food/wipe their own bums. Fresh air is sometimes the best cure for crazy.                                                                                    Watch them for a little bit when they're asleep.                                                                                        Do one thing each day that's just for you.                                                                                                Your child isn't the only one that's growing, so pay attention to all that's transforming in you.                  This too shall pass.    

Reach out.  Trust your network.  They're still your village.                                                                          

And just one final note.  You really have no idea what your nurture is preparing them for.  The picture above is of my daughter Kristyn, age two, in a tender moment with her new baby brother David.  She's now mothering through a pandemic herself, heroically so.

Love to you Mamas!  Love and power and tenacity and peace and grace and wonder.