All of a Sudden After a Long Hold

 

What a difference over just a few days!

For my daily 2 km stroll, I walk alongside and then cross over this creek bed.  I couldn't help but go back and compare today's picture with one I took at exactly the same spot just at the end of last week.  

I am reminded of how quickly things can turn around, even a long, cold, harsh winter.  Not that long ago it seemed those enormous, grit-laden snowbanks would be part of the landscape forever.  Granted, it will take several more bouts of high temperature days to deal with what's backed up in the corner of basically every parking lot.  And another 'granted,' it's supposed to get cold and snow again later this week, but never mind that now.

Yesterday and today, everything feels open and warm and flowing again.  The green will come soon enough.  Well, maybe not soon enough for some, but it will.  Even whatever snow falls between now and 'real Spring' won't stick around for long.

Other things can get turned around quickly in the end too, I find.  Breakthroughs after long bouts of depression.  A balance point in the positive after a grueling dig out of debt.  Stepping on the scale and realizing you've achieved your goal weight at last.  Crossing the stage to receive your degree after a lengthy academic pursuit.  Celebrating a milestone anniversary in a love story that has included some difficult chapters.  

And unlike a sudden spike in temperature, these turnarounds are usually the accumulative result of getting up every day and just doing the thing.  They come because simple, compound faithfulness eventually yields results.  There's something very powerful about setting your intention on the small things within your control, those everyday tasks that are there right before us, and just staying at it.  

"Be faithful in small things," Mother Teresa once said, "Because it is in them that your strength lies."

Or, "The version of you that keeps going quietly is the one that wins long term."  That from a Facebook site that keeps coming up on my feed called "Power of Positivity."  For what it's worth.

So, if we can we should probably get outside for a bit today.  Soak up some of that free vitamin D, pretend like winter's done with us for at least now.  And just keep going.

And maybe, maybe, today will be a breakthrough day!

A Song for Blunders

Poet Malcolm Guite has captured a fairly decent synopsis of what could be titled "Instructions for Life."

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.

I can hear it as a melody even as I write these words, because I was introduced to the poem through the ministry of Canadian music artist Steve Bell in his piece called Good Friend

Every phrase of this chorus is packed for me, and I'm tempted to unpack it bit by bit.  But that would end up reading more like a sermon, and I do that enough of the time already.

I'm reflecting in a particular way this morning on the one thought almost at the end.  

Tend to the wounds of your blunders.

I'm drawn to it because in the midst of all the other positive admonitions that we all would cheerfully embrace, there's this gentle but pointed reminder that we blunder.... and we wound.

If I'm honest, I'd like to pretend that I am only ever on the being wounded end of things.  And for sure, life, and let's be real, especially ministry, has it's generous share of dings.  Some things can be shrugged off, worked out, easily forgiven and moved on from.  Other wounds go deep.  Some scars are permanent.  Triggers are sensitive and terrible.

I know my own wounds well.  I could recite then far too easily.  The reminder here that comes to me this morning though, is that I've wounded.  I've blundered.  Both my ego and my heart wish it wasn't so, but it is.  And there it is. The log in my own eye thing.  Some of my blunders I am all too aware of.  Others I may know nothing about.  Such is the nature of bumping into one another in various iterations of relationship throughout a lifetime.  Doing life in community, which I fully believe in and also enjoy many benefits of, is confoundingly complex.

So how do I tend to these wounds?  It's a trickier business than it sounds, and requires a slow, careful approach.  No quick apologies.  No intruding upon past lives where more harm can only be the result of a self-centered approach to clearing my own conscience.  No expectation of forgiveness easily, or ever, offered.

But when it is available to me, the opportunity to tend to those wounds, I can't help but hope I would provide what I myself would very much need from someone who has wounded me.  Humility.  Deep listening.  Seeking to understand before being understood.  Validating without excuse.  Offering perspective and additional information where needed.  Making amends when possible and when it causes no further harm.  And ultimately, a change of attitude, approach and behaviour to limit the potential of further wounding.  

Going back to the poem, I suppose if we all paid attention to the other things listed -- being a good friend, cherishing, extending reverence, and honouring God -- we'd have less wounding going on in the first place.

But the truth is in the humanity of it.  We mess up.  We do.

So the joyful lilt of this poem-set-to-music is still cheering.  And inspiring.  A good way to start off this fourth week of Lent reflections, as squirmy it has been to reflect upon.  I'll likely sing the song now for most of the day.  To remind me.  To sober me.  To keep me moving forward in the ways of growing.

I trust the time change hasn't messed with your resting this weekend, and you are headed into your Monday with purpose and joy.  

Enjoy the warmer temperatures while they last.

The Fireplace Thing

 

My comfort in my suffering is this:

Your promise preserves my life.

Psalm 119:50

One of the things we gave up in our move was the presence of a real wood fireplace.  And I do miss the all-senses ambiance a little on cold winder nights.  However, there's still one at the cottage to enjoy.  And this little electric unit (which looks more realistic in person than in this photo) provides enough cozy in our new space in the city to balance out the advantages of not having to chop, stack and haul wood, or clean out the ashes afterwards, not to mention the increased insurance costs.

Of course, with any real fire, there's an element of risk, hence the increased insurance costs.  Keeping the flames inside the boundaries of stone and hearth is essential.  Otherwise you have a dangerous problem to contend with.

Okay, so here's an interesting metaphor I was introduced to some time back.

Suppose you were sitting in a room and a fire broke out in the corner.  This would naturally and necessarily provoke a spike in adrenaline as you stopped everything you were doing to vacate the building and call 911 and/or whatever other action you needed to take.  

But what if by some means, a fireplace suddenly appeared around the fire?  Lovely stones, a protective hearth, a wire screen across the front, and even a chimney to channel the smoke outside.  That same fire in the same corner of the room, while just as hot and just as combustible, now provokes a very different response.

What if the 'problem' was like the fire, and the fireplace was the promises God has made in His Word?  Promises to "work out all things" (Romans 8:28), and "to never leave you" (Hebrews 13:5 and about a bazillion other places), be "the Rock" on which we can stand firm (Isaiah 26:3 and another bazillion references), and to be our 'ever present help in times of trouble (Psalm 46:1), among, like I keep saying about a bazillion more.

What if when trouble comes and friends who, of course first listen with empathy and without judgement, but who then remind us of God's promises, aren't being glib and aren't pretending there's no fire, but are simply helping us build the fireplace around it?

What if we could remember when a fire breaks out that the real danger isn't so much whatever is burning in the corner, but to forget what God has promised?

Please remember, if you know me and know my story, that I have had my fair share of life-altering corners of roaring combustion.  There have been times, many times, when the unforeseen and wretched has raged through, threatening to devour everything I hold sacred and cherished.  So there is nothing about this metaphor that is trite or overly simplistic for me.  I've lived this.  Many times over.

And, I will confess, it's still the human response, when the fire breaks out, to jump up and run around in a panic. 

So.  I will remind myself again.  We live in the promises, not in the problems.  God's got this, whatever it is.  His reputation with me is intact.  He's never reneged on me yet.  I don't understand even half of what He's up to, but then again, if I found a god I could fully explain I doubt it would be worth my worship.  

Warmer temperatures are upon us as Spring ekes its way out of the dirty snowbanks.  We likely won't be running our little electric fireplace too much longer.  But this morning I don't mind it pushing back the dreary sky just a bit, or it's reminder to me of just Who's in charge after all.

And it's Friday, so there's that.

Yellow Lights Are Flashing

 

Because there are so many wonderful walking trails in our part of the city, there are also numerous random places that are not actual intersections where pedestrians are supported in getting across the street.  

I cross Belmont when I'm out for my walk and, at the point where I join in on the trail, there are large white blocks painted on the road, an island in the middle where you could pause, and overhead lights, which I'll come back to in a second.  Overall, it's clearly marked.

There is also this large yellow button I can press.  And when I do, those overhead lights start to flash, and an automated voice at a decent volume says, "Yellow lights are flashing" a few times over.

A few things can happen once all of that is going on.  Specifically, cars may or may not come to a stop.

As a driver, I have to admit, I can sort of understand this.  Now that I live in the area, I am ever so much more aware of these crossing places, and make sure as I approach that there are no pedestrians or bicycles approaching.  

But before that, those flashing lights, to be honest, may have escaped my notice.  The sound system in my vehicle is not connected to the animated voice (which would be a good trick).  It's not like an intersection where you expect you might have to stop, and even when you do, it's not every time.   If I'm not paying 100% attention, which you're supposed to do behind the wheel, I could easily miss it.

And that's exactly what I'm thinking about as a pedestrian.  Those cars coming down the way?  I'm just going to wait here a second beside the big yellow button and see if they stop.  And when they do, I smile and wave thank you and demonstrate just a little pick up in my step to be a grateful, courteous pedestrian.  

And off we go, driver and pedestrian, on our merry little ways into our respective lives.  

Seems to me I have been both in my interactions with folks.  Both the driver with all the damaging potential of a vehicle, and the pedestrian all vulnerable and at-risk.  In some settings, at certain times of my life, I come into a situation with a degree of authority and confidence perhaps oblivious to the more delicate or even wounded state of someone else in the room.  And in other settings, at certain times of my life, I'm the delicate, wounded one in danger of being knocked over.

Maybe I wish there were flashing lights and an automated voice for every potentially damaging encounter.  You'd go into a meeting, or a conversation, or even a family dinner and everyone could hear it; "Yellow lights are flashing."  Be careful here, lest you do damage or be damaged.  

The thing is, like the random crossings, it's not every time.  It can take you by surprise.  Sometimes you see the pedestrian and you can stop a ways back and let them know they are safe and seen, and sometimes you don't.  Sometimes you remember to wait for all the cars to stop so you can cross safely, and sometimes you don't.

So what to do?

Maybe two things.  And Paul can help us here.

"Be kind and compassionate to one another, 

forgiving each other, 

just as in Christ God forgave you." 

Ephesians 4:32

One, be kind and compassionate.  Slow down, take a breath, read the room.  Ask questions and really listen.  If you are the one with any advantage in the relationship or situation whatsoever, be mindful of power imbalances, choice of words, even the volume or tone of your voice.  "Seek first to understand rather than be understood," as Steven Covey would remind us.  Submit your strength to the other.  Stop way back of the line and let others know you are safe.

Two, forgive.  Assume the best not the worst of those who fail to stop and notice your vulnerability.  Realize that not every demonstration of power is intentionally meant to hold you back or harm you.  Forgive when stronger people blunder, because they will, and so will you.  Additionally, wait at the curb until you sense you have the safe space to cross into the conversation.  Push the yellow button and advocate for what you need.  But exercise the grace that was given you.  Remember the times when you're the one behind the wheel.

Caveat:  Some damage is severe, I know.  That is a different conversation.

But I wonder, as I am out on my walk, as I live out an ordinary day....as I move through my relationships,....just applying this to myself...what can happen if I understand myself as both?

Sunshine and Sidewalks and Being Self-Aware

It's been such a good thing to get more traction these days, with the sidewalks melting down and drying up.   While I travel for most of my walk on a city-tended trail, to get there I still need to navigate past residences with sidewalks out the front.  

Some are clearer than others during the snowiest days of the winter.  But by now, most are free of ice and snow, and I can really pick up the pace.  Except when I can't.

Every once in a while, especially as snowbanks melt, there's a patch that's wet and, if it's in the shadow of a tree or structure of some sort, it's still frozen or refrozen.  Just a thin, thin layer that looks identical to the merely damp piece of concrete I just had my foot on.

It may or may not be black in colour, but that's what we call it; black ice.

I've had to catch myself a few times this past week.  So tricky!  In an instant I could have my feet out from under me and end up on the pavement with who knows what injuries.  It happened to a friend of mine already this winter.  

And it strikes me, as I awkwardly rebalance myself and do a quick check for any wrenched muscles, that the treachery of it all is that the icy parts seems at first to be hidden in plain sight.  Well, almost.  In reality, however, what I'm seeing is that the dangerous places are found where it's just a little darker, in the shadows.

Because this is Lent, and Lent is in part a time for self reflection, I am drawn to a comparison.

It seems this may also be true of the human soul.  That things hidden pose the highest threat to love and connection, and the essential trust required for people to live together, work together, serve together.  Things hidden can be the most stubborn hurdles in personal growth.  They can topple grand endeavors, derail important adventures to manifest destinations, ruin reputations, ripping the feet right out from under us.  We land hard.  Sometimes broken.  Happens all the time.

The problem is human nature is very skilled at keeping things hidden, either by intention or simply by being blind to our own faults.  We can, if we're not careful, live a carelessly unexamined life, completely oblivious.  In the shadows the treacherous step is unseen.

The psalmist knew it.  

"Search me, God, and know my heart;

test me and know my anxious thoughts.

See if there is any offensive way in me,

and lead me in the way everlasting."

Psalm 139:23-24

The prophet knew it.

"Let us examine our ways and test them,

 and turn back to the Lord." 

Lamentations 3:40

Even the philosopher agreed.

"The unexamined life is not worth living."

Socrates

So what to do?

Privately, it doesn't hurt to spend a moment at the end of the day to sit quietly and ask God to do that search the psalmist was talking about.  Ignatian Spirituality might show us the way here.

Publicly, it doesn't hurt to gather an 'us' about us, a community, a small council of trusted friends, to speak into our lives and 'test' our ways, like the prophet talked about.  Here the Quaker tradition of a Clearness Committee might be helpful.

Because in the end, what we want is to live a life worth living, don't we?  Like Socrates says?  And simply for a little extra reading I leave this here.

[Note:  Links are just for more information purposes only, and do not necessarily constitute an endorsement of the authors or content.  Just sayin'.]

Our secrets hurt those around us, most often and most deeply the ones we love.  And most of us don't wake up one day and decide to do that.  We don't.  

So here's to longer days and more confident strides when we're out walking.  

Here's to warmer temperatures of the season and of the soul.  

Here's to searching and examining and letting that be part of a journey that takes us more and more towards bright and beautiful ways to be.

Still Waters

 

With a fresh dusting of snow this morning, I find myself looking back and forward to warmer times in the kayak.

We were visited by so many deer last summer!  And this gentle creature stood long enough for me to capture an almost perfect reflection.

"He leads me beside still waters.  

He restores my soul."

Psalm 23:2-3

And that's all for this first of March morning.

Blessings and strength, everyone.

Moving Ahead Together

I am soaking up the sun on my walk today, and also randomly remembering a quote about leadership.

"If you think you're leading, but when you turn around and no one is following you, you're just out for a walk."  

(Not sure where it comes from, or I would cite it, and if anyone wants to let me know, I'd be glad).

Of course today I am actually just out for a walk.  But also, these days, whatever leadership role I do embody is vastly different than it once was when I served as a pastor of a local church.  Still a lot at stake, for sure, and still requiring all that good transparency and integrity, but much smaller in scope, far less demanding, far more focused.

It's a heavy mantle, the memory of which prompts many prayers for those in varying arena of my life who carry it.  Today, as I walk and remember the weight, I am especially grateful for those who lead my community of faith, Highview Community Church.

Particularly, I feel glad for our leadership culture, that being one of consensus and plurality of leadership, a strong influence from our Brethren background (a reference to the beginnings of Highview's story, if you know it).  

A quick definition:

"Consensus leadership is a collaborative management style that emphasizes collective decision-making and inclusivity, aiming to involve all stakeholders in the decision making process."  (Google, Gemini, 2026)

It's a slower way of moving forward together, but it's worth it because we have a better chance of moving forward together.  Collaboration, collective decision-making, inclusivity, all stakeholders.  It takes wisdom, nuance, and the setting aside of person agendas and dominating egos.  It requires layered listening, and broadened thinking, and deeper feelings.

No leadership structure is perfect because, oh let me see, every approach requires people to be involved, and, oh let me see, people aren't perfect.  Even when all are committed to practicing consensus, it's easy sometimes to forget, especially when things get dicey and the urge to take matters into our own hands or press an agenda is strong, if for no other reason than to relieve the tensions.  Even the most others-centered of us can quickly fall into the trap of me-focused tunnel vision.

In my own experience, I have been so grateful for the wisdom of the collective voices around the table when my own perspective has been too narrow, or my understanding of the situation has been more fear-driven than Spirit-led.  

So lead on!  And thank you, all who carry this.  Thank you for moving us ahead together.

And just to reminder you: You are prayed for.