All the Words of Becoming: Growing Together Into the New Year

There are no better words to end a year than "Thank you."

And perhaps no better place to be than in a space of gratitude.

For many things.

But in this moment right now with you, at the end of a year that I know has held such a truckload of life for both of us, I want to thank you for the simple gift of reading my words.

I write a lot of them, I am aware.

So are you, if you are one who checks in on this blog or is connected with me on Facebook and takes the time to read to the end of my longish posts.  Thank you for that.   I might carefully call myself a word-crafter and a lexophile.  So, in a Youtube/TikTok/video-streaming, TLDR* world that seems to me increasingly illiterate, anyone who engages with what I'm putting out there (in sentences with all the words actually spelled out) feels like a kindred spirit and a welcome companion in my own spiritual formation journey.  

And to offset my edge of (hopefully uncharacteristic because I find it mostly unkind) sarcasm just now, I should say that I know there's a lot of great information out there, and that people absorb it in different ways, grow in different ways.  And that's really the point.

For me 'all these words' are windows into what it means to be in a 'process of being formed into the likeness of Christ for the sake of others' (Mulholland).  It's a journey via the development of thoughts and ideas, reflections and (for lack of a better term) arguments that help shape, inform, redirect, categorize and bring humility to my own theology and practice of life.  

And putting 'all the words' out on social media seem to me an opportunity to use my voice in ways and about things that matter to me.

So thank you.

You have been an important companion to me as I figure this out.  

And, of course, my hope is that some of these words have been at least a little bit helpful to you as well.  

Maybe, like me, you've needed the reframing and mental postures of positive hope to press against the harsh realities and tedious press of some of 'those days' this year.  I pray you have been enriched, reminded of who you are and Whose you are, and cheered on in your own journey of growth and formation.

We embark together now on a brand new year, my word-faithful friend.  

I want to write more.  I want to read more.

Words that shape my soul.

Hope we can journey together still.

Gratefully,

Ruth Anne

*"Too long, didn't read"

 

The Christmas No One Plans For

We're all watching the weather reports right now.  Significant storm heading our way just in time for Christmas weekend.  Thursday through Sunday. 

Yikes!

They're using the phrases like "flash freeze" and "blizzard".  They are reminding us of how to put together an emergency kit with water and flashlights and food and stuff.

They are asking us to "consider altering plans through the holiday weekend as travel conditions may become dangerous."

Altering plans?!  That's a problem.  I have plans.

Most of us do.  Family meals, Christmas concerts, candlelight services.  Probably all of these involve driving somewhere.  

I find myself checking Environment Canada's website several times throughout the day.  Just to see if there are any updates, any new projections that might see the storm veer away.  

Because....we have plans.

Then again, so many dear people I love well are not having the Christmas they planned for.  And it has nothing to do with the weather.  It has to do with storms that fiercely blasted in at various times through this whole tumultuous year.  Evictions and diagnoses and illness and treatments -- and death.  So many folks having that dreaded "first Christmas since."  Or new stuff just now in December, piling on to all that came before.  

The kind of Christmas you can't really plan for.  Nobody plans for.  Nobody wants.

The irony of it is this.  It's exactly these kinds of Christmases, the ones that feel all awful and chaotic and unplanned for, that best reflect the very first time anything to do with Christmas was ever introduced on the planet.

Having a daughter pregnant before she was properly married was not in the plans for Mary's parents.

Having a fiancee tell him something quite unbelievable was not in the plans for Joseph.

Traveling pregnant was definitely not in Mary's plans (or for any mom-to-be for that matter).

And you can bet no birth plan ever crafted included a cattle shed delivery and a feeding tough bassinet.

So the picture we have in our heads of that perfect, well-planned-out Christmas?  Not in the Bible.  The shimmering gold and lights against the snowy backdrop?  Not in the original screenplay.  The part where everything you want comes true "this Christmas"?  Nope.

Except.  Actually.  That is the plan.  Eventually.

We don't read from Revelation very often at Christmastime.  Maybe we should.

Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and there was no longer any sea [often representing turmoil, danger and chaos]

...And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, "Look! God's dwelling place is now among the people and he will dwell with them.  [Immanuel = God with us.] 

They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God.  [God's longing all throughout Scripture is to be WITH us.] 

He will wipe every tear from their eyes.  There will be no more death, or mourning or crying or pain,[sounds like a good Christmas plan to me], for the old order of things has passed away."  He who was seated on the throne said, "I am making everything new!"  Revelation 19:1-4

With a nod to John Lennon (which is appropriate given our Let It Be Christmas theme at Highview), I might suggest that Christmas is what happens while you're busy making plans.  

And with the threat of everything we've planned being thwarted by a storm, it's clearer that Christmas is actually about hope and tenacity and fierce faith

-- and welcoming God to be with us exactly where we are.  

So hunker down beloveds.  Get ready for the storm coming this weekend.  Plan to give yourself space to heal from the storms of this past year.  Plan to love the people you're with.  Plan some grace where it's badly needed. Stay safe.  Stay quiet if need be.  Make those plans.

And maybe....plan for an encounter with God that has nothing to do with anything pretty and sweet, necessarily. 

Or maybe that will come to you in ways you didn't plan on.  

I hope so.

Waiting Softly In the Corners

"Even so, Lord Jesus come."                      Revelation 22:20

Anticipation.

Remember it?

I wonder sometimes, if in our adult manifestations of the season, we forget that Advent, Christmastime, Yuletide is in fact marked by the waiting.

We 'got this' big time as children.  Counting down the days in oh so many impatiently creative ways.  Little chocolate treats behind little numbered doors.  Quilted pockets that revealed a new decoration for the tree each day.  Or maybe just a sticker on the calendar all leading to the big number 25!

And didn't it seem to take oh so long!  We ached with anticipation.

Then we grew up and got all busy about it.  Suddenly, what used to take forever was now upon us in no time.  We traded anticipation for a stressed-out sense that the markings on the calendar were now against us in the opposite direction.  There is no waiting for Christmas.  It's trying to keep up with it that's the problem. 

 It's taken me a long time, but I think I finally figured out that this is why I am so intent on having most of the cultural expectations of Christmas ready by the end of November.  The cards, the shopping, the wrapping, the meal plans.  If that's all pretty much in the works as December arrives, not only can I enjoy what the season has to offer, but I'm waiting for it.  There's an eagerness, a keener sense of something, what is it, yes....a keener sense of anticipation.

Longing is a good thing.  It means there is something loved even in its absence.  It means life's goodness lingers even in the dark.  It means we are humans hoping.

This Christmas I am freshly back from longings fulfilled in my recent time at Hot Springs.  All the aching of almost three years away transformed into so much goodness and joy and love, I can't even.  Of course, now I am in a state of longing again, even as I embrace and choose to be fully present in the goodness of family and friends (and hardly knowing the difference) here on this side of the planet.  It never ends and is just a 'thing' for those whose hearts live in more than one place.

But it helps me now.  To reclaim, not just a childhood sense of anticipation, but a deeper theological reflection of longing.  This time and space in which we live now.

Oh, our planet it aching for it!  Wars and famines and plagues and tyranny and injustice and corruption and fear and gruesome atrocities.  And this is Christmas, really.  Aching with anticipation for the day when every tear will be wiped from our faces (Revelation 21:4), and no one will make us afraid (Micah 4:4).

In the corners Christmas, where the soft lights hum, I hear Him.  He's on the way.

Perspective Pivot - Both Sides of One Weird Morning

Part One - Bilingual Interference, Or "Where Did My Brain Go?"

Learning a new language as an adult is a thing.

It's a slow thing.  A precarious thing.  Sometimes I think I'm just a tad delusional to think I might be able to get enough Thai in this brain to call it conversive.  Not if I just got started at 51.  Really?  It's like a linguistic version of "So You Think You Can Dance?"  Except with a different audience, and a different purpose.  And actually, I can't dance either.

At this point in the visit, eleven days in and more or less halfway through, I am feeling the disappointment, the edges of discouragement, and a bit of frustration, - or is that embarrassment? - of the linguistic awkwardness born of my almost three-year absence from the immersion experience.  

Apparently, all that I was doing in between to try to stay 'sharp' was not enough.

If "language leaks", my shoulders are damp.

Learning a new language as an adult is a humbling thing.  It interferes with your illusions of competence and puts you back into the care of people who love you enough to listen carefully, with grace upon grace, and interpret with their hearts as much as anything else.

It renews your mind.  Not in the synapses of it like language learning is supposed to do, but in the spaces in between that don’t yet look like Jesus.  The spaces that don’t respond well to the struggle.  The spaces that want to look smart and witty and competent, more than real and loving and submissive.

Holy Spirit come and do Your work in me.  More than to be able to speak Thai, I long to be able to speak Love.  Would You please come and take my fumbling attempts and interpret Your peace into hearts, beginning with mine.

[The above was written first thing on this fine Friday morning, while waiting for Suradet and Yupa to return from the school run.  We had plans for the latter part of the morning, so I was ready to go as soon as they returned.  And then this.]

Part Two - The Pivot, Or "Wait. What Just Happened Here?"

We have two pastoral visits lined up for today.  Both are about an hour's drive from Hot Springs, and within close proximity to one another, so it makes sense to plan it this way.  

I wish I could say I enjoy the spectacular view as we zig zag part way up the mountain, marveling at the yellow flowers in full bloom this time of year.  But I'm not looking outside.  I am instead obsessing with my Thai pronunciation in preparation for delivering Sunday's sermon.  After all, it's been a bit rough in the language department so far this visit (ahem, see above).

Our first destination pulls me up and out of my own head to what I will later say was the first turn of the pivot.  We are in a small village featuring the characteristic narrow roads and wooden slat houses with livestock beneath.  Pi Why meets us on his motorcycle and leads us further through to where the fields open and a large piece of land has been cleared away.

His wife, Oh, is there with their five month old baby sleeping snug in his hammock tied tightly to his mother.  It's hot all of a sudden, under the sun, but we pick our way over the stubbled undergrowth and find ourselves a place to pray.  This is land dedicated to the building of the first Christian church in this area.  Why and Oh are the only Christian family, and they would like to build something where their friends might explore the hope of Jesus.  We pray hot prayers of promise and protection and prosperity for the plans being laid out.  Mountains in the backdrop. It feels good to have come to encourage this hearty couple and their bold plans.  It lifts me.  I take a close up of one of the yellow flowers I missed on the way here.

We are headed next to the house of A-non and Mintra, a couple I have some history with, but we'll get to that later.  Mintra makes purses in a shop attached to their house (some of you have one), so I get ready for a bit of business, hoping to bring more home with me.  But we do not stop at the house.  We stop at a small but brand new building with a cross on the side.  "What church is this?" I ask.  I am told it's actually a 'baby church'.  A brand new church plant from the Baptists of Chiang Mai.  And A-non and Mintra are meeting us here.

Because of our history, Mintra greets me enthusiastically, warmly.  And she and A-non tell us very excitedly about the forty people that have started to gather on Sundays, and the twenty baptisms that happened just recently.  And they are glowing and then so are we, because it's all such very good news for a new church plant.

And in that glowing moment, the history lays itself down in the room, and we start talking about it.  About how it was one visit while I was here that A-non invited us to come to his house where his wife was working because she said she was ready to become a Christian.  And how that day I got to be a spiritual midwife and watch a 'new creation' birthed from Mintra's heart.  And how it was another visit when I was here that she wanted to be baptized and make her faith public, so I got to do that too.  And how they had faithfully put themselves under the care and teaching of Ahjahn Suradet and Yupa, to nurture and grow their faith.  And now, here they were, part of a new and exciting extension of the Church of Christ in a land very curious about how life and death and goodness and freedom from sin works.  And Jesus has something to say about that.

And I heard the Spirit say, "Here.  A gift of a moment where you get to see just a little bit of how all your fumbling attempts have been given life and power in My Name to bring peace into hearts."  

And it spun in my soul like light and life.

So I said so.  A little bit in Thai, mostly in English that had to be interpreted.  I said how hugely my heart was encouraged in this moment.  How amazing it was to see Mintra especially growing into a fully devoted follower of Jesus.  How honoured I was that they would invite me into their lives like this.

And we cried together a little bit.  

Because Love was spoken 

and I'm not sure which language said it.

Wonderment Reflections on the First Few Days

Escargot, anyone?

This is Steve, a new friend I named and who gave me permission to post his photo, as well as send it along to Jayden who has a fondness for snails.  So, no, we won't be having him for lunch.

Strangely enough, Steve is helping me to feel right at home.

It's these quirky little touches, for example, the fact that a rather large snail in the bathroom doesn't phase me in the least, that remind me of how far away from home I am, and how I've come back home all at the same time.

I think that's what surprising me most in these first few days.  The lack of intensity I sort of expected since I was gone for as long as I was.  [Two years, eight months, two weeks, six days, eleven hours and 33 minutes, to be exact, in case I haven't mentioned it.]  With that much time in between, I expected things to feel strange and different again, or to have to get adjusted all over again.

But no.  Just two days in, with two decent night's sleep under me, and it sort of feels like I never left.  I feel calm, safe, happy, healthy, and ready and able to serve in the ways I'm called to while I'm here.

First night handing out the Sponsors' packets, I was still travel-weary, and a little jet-lag spinny.  But being there to watch the kids receive with such delight all the treasures in their pouches....so much energy from that right there.

Im's new shirt fits perfectly!

I've slept well already, although still getting up too early, which is an advantage for morning worship.  By 5:30 when everyone else gathers, I'm up and dressed and have sent out a few emails already.  Then breakfast, and great news is that I'm eating well, taking it easy on the over-travelled stomach for the first few days, and experiencing the benefits of that.  

Fresh and cold.

And while I think I've lost a bit of ground in pronunciation, I'm quite surprised that my Thai language comprehension is as good as it is.  Not bad for this old brain, considering how easily language leaks.

So things are very, very good, and I am very, very relieved.

To take this a bit deeper...

Last January when I was beset with a three-in-one health challenge (difficult tooth extraction, significant sciatic pain, suspicious kidney stone activity) that literally kept me in bed for the better of three weeks, I sincerely wondered if I might be done the travelling thing.  I was not sleeping and not eating probably for the better of six weeks.  The medications I was on caused a wretched amount of heartburn, and made me dizzy.  

The idea of putting this unsteady body on a plane and hauling it halfway around the world provoked no small degree of anxiety during those cold, dark nights last winter.  My heart was wrung out at the thought that the physically demanding part of what I do now might not be possible.  

And yet....

Here I am, feeling amazing.  Feeling like I never left.

Don't worry.  I'm quite aware that my gut might betray me at some point.  And it hasn't really been all that hot yet.  Also, there are any number of unexpected 'friends' more sinister than a bathroom snail to be wary of.   Still, I am so very encouraged by this very strong start.

All our girls are growing so tall and lovely!

Father God, I am amazed again by Your tender intimacy.  

To hold me so beautifully those uncertain weeks last winter.  

To carry me safely here now.  

To provide everything I need, as promised.  

My heart is Yours.  

No matter what. 

No matter where.

 

Time Warp Bonus

I've done it twice now.

In this last month leading up to my first trip back to Thailand in a looooooonnnnng time, I've shortchanged myself from an entire week.  Once when writing out my weekly list, and once when mapping out prep work for the sermon/report I'll be giving to Highview on October 30th (the day before I leave).  In each case, I've actually 'dropped' seven whole days and mentally pressed the prep into a smaller segment of time.

This is a good problem.  At least, way better than making the opposite mistake.  When I realized it again yesterday, there was a little rush of 'yay' in receiving what, by virtue of my confusion, seemed to me now a bonus.  

Oh! Great!  Not quite so much pressure.  I'll take it.

But it's a weird sensation.  The same kind of weirdness depicted in any story about time travel, or time folding over itself, or 'wrinkling' or standing still, or any manner by which humans explore their fascination with time.

Maybe we're all in that state these days anyways.  

What sensation of time have we known these past two and a half years?  Hasn't 'blursday' sort of smudged out over the entire pandemic by now?  Without regular markers and celebrations, particularly in the broader scope of 'annually', does it even feel like two years have gone by?  Has it gone by really slowly?  Really fast?  Or has it all just sort of turned to mush in our memories?

For anyone measuring any kind of growth or productivity in any arena of life and work, does it feel like a lot of time's been wasted?  Did we put plans and visions on hold, and are we now just taking stock to survey all that did NOT get accomplished?  

This is where I am most naturally wired up to go.  I like efficiency.  I hate wasting time.  The phrase 'killing time' sounds criminal to me.  Yes, yes, we need to rest and sabbath and care for our own souls.  I know this.  I do this.  But overall, over a two plus years period of whatever it is we're counting here, something surely has to have happened!  Surely there's something I can look to as having been completed, or progressed, or even just started.  Pu-leeeese!

Ironically, it's the very work that God has called me to, in these latter years of my life, that helps bring some answers, some balance, and hopefully more maturity (I mean, really) to how I interact with time. Beyond the very wild weirdness of flying ahead trhough time zones (believe me, that still messes with me a little), Thai culture is 'event-oriented' not 'time-oriented', as we are so much more prone to be here in the West.  Especially me.  Being there - which I am longing for - is such a good immersion in a gentler, less controlling way of moving through any given day.  It's like there's a general communal understanding that all things happen 'at the proper time'.  

This is why, even with all the strange traffic congestion and free-style way of driving, there is rarely an angry beeping of a horn.  It's remarkable.

This is why when you ask when something will start, there seems to be a bit of confusion, because whatever it is starts when everyone is there.  And it ends with it's over.  

This is why if you're the last person gathering your things before getting in the car to go somewhere, no one is annoyed with you.  Truly.  They only seem upset if you start to rush about.  Because...we have time.  We always seem to have time.

I wonder if the fine folks in Galatia were dipping forward into a more modern, Westernized frustration on these things.  Or maybe they were just genuinely discouraged by whatever circumstances prompted Paul to write his letter to them.  

"Do not grow weary in doing good," he comforts them.  "For at the proper time we will reap a harvest, if we do not give up."  (Galatians 6:9 emphasis added)

Coincidentally, or maybe not so, this is one of the verses we have learned together at Hot Springs during the ESL portion of our Bible times in the evenings.  I could hear their strong young voices in my head as I write out the words just now.  

At the proper time.  Of course, it's God's call on this.  It's His time, not ours that's 'proper', timely, perfect.  All we have to do is keep on doing good.

I pause here to let that sink in....for me.

Things are coming along nicely in all the trip preparations, by the way.  One of two happy bonuses of my scheduling error is that I am well in hand (at least at this point) to have everything ready and packed well before the October 31st departure date.  

The other happy bonus?  This moment to reflect again on Who is really in charge.  In charge of outcomes.  In charge of time.  In charge of me.  And it's okay.  He's got the time.

What I Love About Labour Day

It's the Labour Day Holiday Monday and we are here, home in the city, and I am really very fine with that.

There are a number of reasons Ken and I normally opt out of staying at the cottage over this weekend, noise and traffic being just two of them.  But if I think about it, the best part of this weekend for me every year is the chance it gives me to get my house in order.

By 'house', I don't just mean our physical home, but that's part of it.  It's more or less that sense that a new season of work is about to begin, and here's the chance to put everything in place - on the calendar, on my desk and workspace, on the bookshelves and files, in the closets (especially the sock drawer), in the kitchen, out on the porch - and basically anywhere where I will be working and living and moving.  If it's in place and in order now, not only am I better set up for success in anything that's on the books, but I am also better able to handle all the unexpected and incidentals that will no doubt and almost immediately require some time and attention.

While I am a summer girl through and through, I love September for this.

It's like a bit of a reset for the season ahead, that time between summers when 'regular life' and 'regular schedules' set the tone and rhythm of all the good work we get to do.

So all weekend that's been my unhurried, non-anxious focus.  And today I get to just finish it all up, straighten out all the last little things, and then get ready for a very casual meal together with friends at the end of the day.

"Unhurried and non-anxious" has been a lovely theme for me over the summer months.  While there was significant loss, I also had the time and space to grieve and rest and think and write and kayak and gather blueberries.  And be Gramma.  And it was healing and revealing.

A word, a concept, a theme that's repeatedly come up in the journaling and prayer times is "Enough."

This seems to me to be related to a few layers of nuance.  

One, it is a descriptor of my inner self right now.  Here at the beginning of a new season, I am replenished, restored, rested,  I do not have a sense of neediness in my spirit.  What I have is 'enough' and then some.  I am over the top grateful for this, as I can't recall feeling this content for a very very long time.  Past journals (which I brought with me to reflect on over the summer) confirm this.

But the other nuance, and this is more related to Labour Day and my approach to work, has more to do with the lovely responsibilities I have been given at this point in my life, my life's work, and a sense that loving and serving our children in Thailand is more than 'enough' for me to be doing right now.  I experience what the psalmist expresses in probably the most well known of the psalms, chapter 23: "My cup overflows."  

Beyond that, there is more to unpack from all of this.  To protect my "Enough" there will need to be some "nos", and some good discernment to go with.  And my tendency to overwork for all the wrong reasons is still part of my wiring.  But in my own spiritual formation, as I regularly submit all the ways I do not reflect the Jesus I say I follow to the Spirit's work in me, there is a movement on this, I think.  I hope.  

Today I am thinking of all the teachers, students, parents getting ready for a new season of school.

I am thinking of all the pastors and ministry leaders getting ready for a new season of serving.

I am thinking of everyone whose summer was anything but restful, and are heading into the next few weeks feeling anything but ready, and I am praying for you.  I've had those seasons too.  They're brutal and pressing and shows us what we're made of and how sufficient our God is.  

Strength and peace to you to all.

The Puffy Places

 I'm no weather expert.  Let's start there.

What I am is an avid weather-watcher.  Especially in the summer.  Especially when it comes to timing out a trip across the water to the cottage.  Boaters know this.  Island cottagers know this.  Anyone dealing with any sort of open water whatsoever knows this.  

Weather matters, and you don't want to be caught out in a storm.

The repeated weather pattern of the days ending last week and on into the weekend were, to quote the weather guy on our local station, "Cut and paste."  Clear and cool in the morning.  Building heat with a wide circle of pressure and upper level wind throughout the day.  Risk of localized thunderstorm by afternoon.  Cut and paste, on repeat for about four days in a row.  

Sunday wasn't really supposed to be one of those days.  In fact the radar indicated it would just outright rain all day, throwing in the odd thunderstorm at random, for good measure.  And also the radar indicated there might be a break around noonish or so.  

That's not really what happened.  

Almost, but not quite.

That's how we missed getting rained on, but also missed worship.  

Believing the radar, and really needing to be back to the cottage by at least Sunday evening, we left too early to be with our peeps at Highview, but arrived too late to be with our peeps in Cognashene, at the service that in fact did NOT get called off due to rain.  Beautiful day.  All the way up.  Beautiful ride out under a bright sky.  But just not quite in time for service.  

By now, even to me, this is all sounding like an over-apology for missing church.  Maybe it is.  But I actually want to get to the clouds.

Once unpacked and settled, things looked so NOT stormy, in fact quite calm out on the water, that I got myself into the kayak to mark my twenty-second time around the island this season.  Couldn't help myself.  Since I missed worship, my soul needed this.

And there were clouds.

The open sky is one of Georgian Bay's best features, so it's not like I haven't seen clouds on many if not most of my paddles.  Just, this day, with the cut and paste storm still being predicted for a few hours from now, they had a different texture to them.

There was just a hint of the storm to come.  But mostly they were brilliantly white and layered, with complex billows of cloudness (that's not a word, but I've already mentioned that I'm no weather expert, so).  

There are many ways to worship, many kinds of cathedrals, and I discovered this 'puffy place' to be one for me.  In the unhurried-but-something's-coming space, I found myself suddenly on the inhale, in one of those involuntary shudders usually reserved for after a good, hard cry.  Except I hadn't been, crying that is.  At least not physically.  Happened more than once, and both times in response to simply studying the intricacies of the clouds.

Maybe I was just tired from the drive and unpacking.  Maybe.  But.

I am still making my way through the marking of loss of five beloveds this summer, of course I am.  Every one of those beautiful senior souls left their mark on me, and it takes a while to say a proper goodbye.  

And I think I'm still unpacking some of the good things this spring also held, such as graduating and turning 65 and celebrating 25 years with Highview.  All that sort of flew by in the midst of some stunning difficulty (that I have previously and vaguely referred to on Facebook postings), and it's taken a lot of kayak worship to recover from it all.

Later that same afternoon it did rain, yes it did.  Like a deluge of tears perhaps.  It feels good to cry,

But before that, there's the puffy places of wonder.  

Like right now.  

These last two weeks I will be very much in that unhurried-but-something's-coming space, I think.

Loss and the Living of Life

[I tread carefully with these words lest I step on the fresh grief of those more affected.  Husbands and Moms and Dads, Nanas and Grans and Grandads and Grampas are so hard to say goodbye to. 

Every one.

So, dear grieving friends, I will speak my words gently into that space with you.]

Over the past eight weeks I have said goodbye to five enduring friends.

All of them lived long and passionate lives, full of imperfect but prevailing love, and faith most admirable.

I will speak their names here with great affection.

Joan Duff, such a spunky lady, always giving all praise and credit to our good God, speaking her mind and being 'everyone's Nana'.  May 30.

John Bersche, childhood pastor, officiated at our wedding, HUGELY shaped my spiritual life and provided an indelible example of what it means to shepherd.  Encouraged and inspired me right up to the end.  June 14.

David Ogilvie, steady, godly, full of integrity, intelligence and generosity, living a life consistent and faithful all the way through.  Helped support my very first trip to Thailand.  July 15.

Nena Ogilvie, David's wife of 68 years, known to countless children-now-grown simply as Mrs. O.  Tireless, earnest, faithful, and a mentor-friend to me in those early, uncertain first years as a new bride in a new town.  She joined her husband just days after his departure.  July 28.

Harvey Fretz, our first pastor as a newly married couple, and taught me everything I know about people-first leading.  Story after story on this.  Ask me sometime.  July 29.

And I don't know what to do with all of this.  Not all at once like this.

Except to let these losses and the pain of their absence accentuate what these souls brought and taught while they still had bodies here on earth.  And to be unspeakably grateful for lessons, inspirations, sermons spoken and lived, and the life-giving encouragement they each provided in their unique ways at just the right times.  

Joan, John, David, Nena, Harvey, thank you.  I love you.  I miss you.  Goodbye.

One day there will be dancing.

Right now there is just....a lot.

A Messy Reclamation

 Ladies and gentlemen.....may I present to you....our big fat mess.

In direct contrast to the idyllic shots of glass-flat water and breath-snatching sunsets and the wildflowers and blueberries that adorn our cottage property, in this meditation I will reveal the not-so-pretty spots we're contending with here at the cottage.

Yes, there are all those beautiful things.  But also, we are in the midst of a re-claiming project of family heritage property that now has come under our stewardship.  This is the current chapter of a rather long and at times convoluted story that, once everyone who could recognize themselves is dead, and with the addition of a few embellishments, could make for a 'based on a true story" epic novel.  (Don't worry.  I'm not going to attempt it.  For one thing, I'd recognize myself.)

So here it is.  The piles of lumber, the shingles growing moss, and the buildings barely standing. 

These things take time, and the big fat messy parts are on a list, believe me.  I particularly wish I could reassure some local folks who make comments as they go by in their boat (I can hear you above the sound of your motor by the way).  

But our decision to 'reclaim' as much of the older buildings as possible, requires a slower and more meticulous process.  We can't just hire some deconstruction crew or junk removal company to tear it all down and haul it all away indiscriminately.  Not until we prioritize, assess, measure and properly assign still-good wood, windows and frames, locks and hinges and antique hardware.  Like I said, this is heritage property, and there's a lot of value in the details.  

And in the process.  And how that process needs to include all of us.  Earlier this month we yanked down the old boathouse, which, considering the trapezoid nature of its leanings for several seasons already, was harder to do that we expected.  But everyone was here to witness this historic event.  The older kids even had the chance to click a few notches on the block and tackle that was employed to pull out the final supporting structures.  It was important to us that the whole family be part of this.  It belongs to us all.  And this chapter in the story features us in the leading roles.  And to include us all, at various stages, will take time.

Rebuilding.

That's the vision.

To reclaim, restore, rebuild up from the mess into something more fitting for a legacy.  A place for future generations to be family together and worship by the water.

And while it's a tedious and messy thing, we are convinced it's worth it.  We know it is.  Because we've done this before.  Not with property and buildings, but with life and family and relationships.  And every child pictured above, in front of the collapsed roof of the boathouse, is brilliant evidence of the outcome of that effort.

You likely have done it too.  Taken the time to sift through the rubble to see what's still good and meaningful and useful towards a vision of something stronger and better and more lovely.   Ignoring the comments of folks floating by who offer their thoughts and opinions without knowing your whole story or the enormity of what you're trying to attempt.  Writing out a new chapter in an epic novel that perhaps has had more than its fair share of tragedy and trauma, yet holding on with everything you've got for that better ending.  Not happily-ever-after, but true.

So that's our mess, more or less, and some of what's rising from the rubble these days.

For anything you're reclaiming, I wish you strength and tenacity and peace.  Take your time.  

The Unexpected Advantage of Having The Cottage Overrun With Offspring

This quiet, ridiculously pleasant and civilized afternoon I'm in the middle of right now, could not be more in contrast to what was happening on this very deck, and in this very cottage for the past two weeks.

One word.  Family.  And by extension, this means grandchildren.

At the moment, ours range between the ages of almost-two and just-turned-sixteen.  This makes for a full-spectrum kind of cottage experience.  Think of toddlers and preschoolers up as soon as the sun, and teenagers with the lights on way past midnight working on their fifth cottage novel.  Think of breakfasts that consist of eggs 'that look like people running away from each other' (Jayden's description of scrambled), and bagels and fruit, and pancakes from scratch that Gramma didn't have to even supervise let alone prepare.  Think of 'going on a lion hunt', and scouting out the best place for a new swing tire, and installing it mostly without Grandad's help (just a little).  Think of carefully supervised swimming with life jackets, and kids being out on the shoal on their own for a very long time on a very hot day. Think of some of us staying well back from the final on-purpose collapse of the old boathouse, and some of us right there, still safely back enough, to be part of this historical moment in our family.

Full spectrum.  And very little of it is civilized, or quiet.  And while hilariously fun and deeply fulfilling, it's not 'pleasant' the way being on the deck uninterrupted is 'pleasant'.

I'm finding these pleasant moments right now extremely so, as the sheer amount of domestic tasks required for a cottage full of kids is rather demanding for a Gramma, even when she enlists good and age-appropriate help from everyone.  They're all gone, and it was a good time, and I'm very tired.

And in reflecting back on our robust cottage time with family this year, I am surprised to acknowledge that one of the advantages of it all that I'm appreciating the most is that we didn't do it perfectly.  By this I mean that the somewhat cramped sleeping arrangements necessary, and us all sharing a bathroom, and our smallish kitchen provides ample opportunity to be in each other's way.  The out-of-sync sleep schedules and the more-than-she's-used-to work for Gramma, provided enough impetus to be grumpy from time to time.  

Don't get me wrong.  Given all of the above, I actually am quite impressed with how well we all did.  But there were times.

And the perefectionist in me that unrealistically wants to create idyllic memories for the next generation, would rather us just all be getting along splendidly every moment of the day.  But, as I've said, we're not perfect.  We're human.  Especially me.

And here is  the advantage in that.  Our grandkids can see the real us.  They can watch us make mistakes, get tired, be grumpy....and....how we manage ourselves in that moment to self-correct and make amends and be big enough to apologize.  They can learn to be imperfect family members sharing a sacred albeit sometimes cramped space, and how we make that work.  How we come to consensus, how we give and take, how we give each other space, come alongside and encourage each other, how we show our appreciation for each other, and how we accept each other where we're at on any given day.

As we were all saying goodbye and loading up on the boat, all of them said that this was one of the best cottage stays ever.  Music to my Gramma's ears.  And perhaps confirmation that it's more than just okay for us all to be just really who we are and figure ourselves out as we go along together.  

Isn't that what family is anyways?

These are just a small sampling of all the great shots we took to remind us of this year.

And just in case the older boys complain one day, I'll just say here that the ratio of pictures taken of each individual is in direct proportion to their willingness to allow their image to be captured.  Just sayin.

And now...back to the civilized pleasantness of this day.

Impossible Thank Yous on the Brink of Everything

Sunrise at Hot Springs - New Dawning of Days

[A random smattering of words to mark the completion of my MDiv coinciding with my 65th birthday. If you are in my orbits in any way at all, I hope you recognize yourself.]

Today I attempt the impossible.

I want to convey, 

some how, some way,

the enormity of my gratitude --

the sheer and impossible enormity of it --

this day, and say:

I could not have done any of it without you.

About you I think with great affection

and recollection 

of all my imperfections

as I stumbled through the sections

of study.

You were my buddy,

even when all the books made me kind of

nutty.

You waited, or took up the slack,

had my back.

You let me read

and honoured my need

to go away

and stay off the grid

with signs up even.

And even

some of you

offered more books

without looks or mocking or knocking.

And you took me seriously enough

even when it was rough

because a girl isn't supposed to study this stuff,

but you went to bat for me,

and came alongside to make it happen anyway.

And 

I 

will 

never 

be 

the 

same.

And I got it done.

I did.

Because of you.

And You.

Father, Son and Spirit true.

Who never let me go.

That's why I know

that turning sixty five

is as alive as I've ever been

on

the

brink

of

everything.

Something To Prove

 "Let your conversations be always full of grace,                                                                                     seasoned with salt,                                                                                                                                     so that you may know how to answer everyone."                                                                                  Colossians 4:6

Maybe it's just me, but lately I seem to be having conversations that start out with a simple question or topic, and end up having a bit more of an edge than I anticipated.  I'm not aware of having brought any agenda or controversy into the mix, but out of nowhere, it seems I am suddenly having to defend something.  

I expect this sort of thing from time to time.  I am, after all, in a role where I've been invited to lead and teach and challenge and correct, and that's bound to provide good space for the give and take of a healthy both-ways-learning conversation. 

But what's surprised me is how triggering the simplest of comments seem to be even when that was most certainly not my intention.  I have and will keep on checking my own approach, my choice of words, my body language, my timing.  I'm sure I've been "off" in some cases.  But some of it at least, I have to think is just about how much crazy stress we've all been under for such a long time.

There's a lot to have big feelings and strong opinions about right now.  Pandemic restrictions lifting, masks or not, boosters or not.  Protests that turn into occupations.  War.  That's all the big stuff, and I think we're all probably careful about who we bring up those topics with.  But simpler things, in expressing a preference, or asking a question, or making what probably should be a casual observation, how did all that get so loaded?  

I really don't like to argue.  It's never been a strength of mine, and it's not the way I learn.  Yes, I know honest conversations can sometimes get heated, and every deep relationship has to have those.  No skimming.  But as a rule?  In a general way of going about life and love and relationships?  Just to prove a point?  There are just so many better, richer ways to invest my energy.  You won't really get much of a fight out of me.

Except come to think of it, I do have something to prove.

If we get into it at any point, I hope I can prove that I am for you and not against you.  I hope I can prove that I'm willing to listen and learn and consider another point of view.  I hope I can prove that the best win in any conversation is a better understanding.  I hope I can prove that I don't need to "be right" to still be valid, or that you need to "be wrong" for me to be valid.  

And mostly, I hope I can prove that my claim to follow Jesus means in all things and in all ways I will seek to bring peace and restoration to this crazy stressed out world we're all navigating right now.

Walking and talking this through carefully with you.

Ruth Anne

What We're Made Of - A Family Day Reflection

circa 1986

 

Dear Family Before This,

We don't know it yet, but we are strong.*

This happy family snuggle on the little green couch in the front room of our semi is from a time before all the things.  And if I could I wouldn't go back to tell us what was coming.  I wouldn't interrupt the story of us, the building of us, the making-strong of us, as it happened.  It's tempting.  But I'd leave it alone.  Because today we are strong in ways remarkable.

Like every parent I do wish I could go back and undo some blunders; those exhausted responses lacking patience, and lacking my own maturity of self back when I thought that how we all behaved was an open commentary on my mothering, my personhood.  So much seemed at stake, and I'm sorry I laid all that weight on you all.  Parenting is such an ironic endeavour.  It's such a delicate and dangerous thing, yet only amateurs attempt it.

So, yes, there are those things I'd love to do over now, equipped with the wisdom of my 60's.  But not the things over which we had no control and yet seemed so out of control and wretched and painful and undignified and also so incredibly defining.  All the things.  All the things we've lived and received and faced and stood up for.  All the things that shaped us and refined us and created this entity that is now our family.  I wouldn't go back to stop them.  Except Evelyn.  

But even because of Evelyn, along the way we have become something truly spectacular.  Strong.  So strong.  And I am so incredibly proud of us.  Humbled by the lessons, humbled by the frailty, humbled by the demolishing of dogma and narrow-mindedness, humbled by the now-knowing that it's truly not possible to get it right and be proud of that.  No.  But proud of us.

We are strong.  

For all the things that have come against us, we should not be together.  But we are.  For the hugely different ways we think about life and believe about life and live life, we should not be a unit of family.  For all the forces seeking to destroy us, we should lay in ashes.  But instead we stood up and stood together and stood strong.  For all our losses there have been out-balanced gains in measures still to be unwrapped and reveled in.

Here I bear witness to the grace of God who has never let go.  Never.  Else how could we be?

And in a mystic sort of way, I write this to us all.  All of us who have been received into this family between this picture and now.  You are already on the couch with us as I write this today.  You are part of our together-strength, part of the flawed-but-tenacious love that holds us together.

I am not the same person pictured here.  The capacity of my heart has been expanded in unrecognizable ways because of you.  Thank you for loving me, all the imperfect things of me.  Thank you for being family in all the deep ways humans belong together.

And if I could line up all the families in the world....

With gratitude too deep to speak,

Always....Your Wife, Your Mom, Your Gramma

*Sometimes when I've used this word I get criticized for being stoic.  That's not what's happening here at all.  "Strong" includes the strength to be weak, to cry, to be real, to need others, to admit defeat and then start again.  Believe me, that's how it's gone down.

School Daze - The Last Huzzah of a Long Obedience in the Same Direction

 It's happening.

Class is now in session, and I am full swing into the completion of the last two courses that, should I complete them successfully, will make me a graduate.  This looooonnnnnnnggggg journey towards a Masters of Divinity with a Pastoral major will be done.  Completed.  Accomplished.  

But not yet.  Not quite. 

With being registered for only two courses, I am still well in the 'part time studies' category.  And I have no end of respect for my fellow students who are, at this very moment, heroically attempting to carry a full course load of four, and even five credits this semester alone.

I'm only doing two.  So, believe me, as 'much' as this feels to me, I'm not pretending to try to impress anyone.  Honest.  Especially when you consider that I've been at this for two decades by now.  Not kidding.  Started this thing in fall 2002.  So....yeah, no awards for speed here.  

That's why so many people keep asking, aren't you done that degree yet?  Well friends, almost.  Almost.

Feels weird to be able to see the finish line ahead at last.

Has me thinking and reflecting on a few things.

I don't regret the pacing of this.

What a long and drawn-out, no-bragging way to get your education, right? Twenty years for a three year program?   Who does that?  I did, and, while at times it has been a tad embarrassing, I'm not sorry.  

For one, it reflects the priorities of my life.  Sometimes, all I could manage was one course a year, because I was serving as full time senior pastor to a beautiful congregation that deserved my good attention.  Unlike other probably more gifted and intelligent pastor/students who could make different choices, I just knew the limits of my capacity and balanced it out accordingly.  Sometimes I had to sit out for three semesters in a row, because I knew I couldn't be a good student AND a good daughter to my aging parents.  Sometimes the delays were financial, and I don't regret one penny of those redirection of funds to more pressing matters of life and ministry at the time.

But even more, there has been huge value - huge! - in learning and practicing at the same time.  Sort of this dual track of adult learning that allowed for real time application with very little of the academics falling into wasteful cracks of irrelevance.  Most programs require field education components and internships anyways.  This whole thing was the ultimate in that hands-on learning experience.  

On top of that, taking my time has allowed for so much more targeted study in specialized Directed Reading and Research credits where I was allowed to dig deep into areas of passion and incorporate actual ministry work into the learning process.  In this, I greatly benefitted from the personal supervision of professors who are actual practitioners in their fields, and who demonstrated a genuine interest in my learning.  In am indebted.

And it took a very long time.

To be honest, had I known when I started in 2002 that it would take until 2022 to complete it, I could have been tempted to look out over that daunting stretch and declare it 'too long' a commitment to get my degree.  But, had that been the case, and I didn't launch into this then, right now, it would still be 2022 and I wouldn't have my degree. So there's that.

There's more going on in these almost-done reflections of my heart, but perhaps that's best saved for future posts closer to when I'm actually going to be able to say I'm really and truly done.

For now, maybe just an encouragement to anyone facing something that seems like it will never be over.  Your own academic pursuits, maybe.  Or perhaps a mountain of debt you are chipping away at, bit by bit.  Maybe even in parenting, especially if you have younger children who aren't letting you sleep much and it feels like you've signed up for a life of chronic exhaustion.

Don't give up.  Find your tenacity and resilience.  Hang on to your purpose.  For me, of course, this all connects to the deep belief that God's plans and purposes for my life can't be thwarted.

"The LORD will fulfill his purpose for me; your steadfast love, O LORD, endures forever.  Do not forsake the work of your hands."  Psalm 138:8 (ESV)

But that's part of what I think I want to save for another time.

Gotta go.  The reading alone for this semester is making sure I don't coast out at the end :).

And oh.  As a point of interest that I happen to think is kind of fun.  If I graduate in May I will be just under the wire to graduate before I turn 65 in June!   Love that!