A Change In Pace

 [May] The LORD turn His face toward you

and grant you peace.

Numbers 6:26

Yes, I do realize that, in offering this blessing, today's picture is almost identical to the one I posted just a few days ago.  And actually, if I look at them, it's at about the same spot along my route around the island.

However, since it fits so well with my mood this morning, and also this last phrase of the Priestly Blessing found in Numbers 6, I'll gift it to you just the same.

I'm out on the deck this morning with barely a breeze.  There's a construction project involving stone saws going on across the little bay from us, and Ken is setting up our wood chipper as I write, so I can't really say it's all that quiet right now.  But this morning's paddle was on flat water for the entire way around.  Not another human sound but that of my own paddle pushing back the water in a rhythmic dip and soft swish.

It was a good way to start this particular Friday.

We will return to KW Sunday afternoon to celebrate Timothy's birthday, and then begin a little stint stationed in our city home.  Long time family friends have had an over 50 year tradition of visiting as renters in the place we now own but originally belonged to Ken's grandfather.  They will renew their love of this space over the next twelve days or so.  And, because there is still some outdoor work in progress for our little house on Sandra, and because it's good to take care of banking and errands and such, we'll spend that time there.

I'm okay with this.  Of course summer is short, and I am greedy for all the time I can have by the water as I can get.  But it will be good to get at some of the thrifting and other gathering I need to make sure gets done before I leave for Thailand in September.  Plus, I'm preaching at Highview on August 9, so there's that.  How beautiful it will be to worship together with my peeps!

I'm okay with this, but I am bracing myself a little for the dramatic change of pace.  Mostly, I'm talking about cars and driving and having to go places.  When you live on an island you get to indulge in that unique gift of having no where to go most of the time.  At least, it's a gift to me.  Some more extraverted folks may not embrace that part of our reality here.  But I crave it, soak it up, try to store up as much of it as a I can while I'm here.

I do intend to try to catch some morning sun when I get back.  Like this.

There's something about the breaking of a day to set you up for it in calming, reorienting ways.  I think it's because the sun reminds me of the face of God, too brilliant to fully receive, yet so graciously 'turned towards me' in ways I'll notice all the rest of the day, if I pay attention.

Happy Friday of the long weekend to you, wherever you or however your day has started.

Hope you can catch glimpses of the face of God turned towards you favourably.

And may He grant you peace.

Just In Time

 

"LORD, teach us to number our days

so we may apply our hearts to wisdom."

Psalm 90:12

It already feels a little too hot and the day has yet to rise to it's predicted heat potential.  

The heatwave forecast over the next few days is already upon us, as Ken and I make our way back to the Bay later this afternoon.  

First, worship with our peeps at Highview.  Oh so glad that this time back in the city can include this!

Then, home for a quick lunch, pack the coolers, and then on the road.

By tonight I'll be all settled down on the boat with my journal and a cup of iced tea.

Just in time.

This will begin a longer cottage stint, with two weeks just Ken and I and a whole lot of cottage projects to get to in around our not-yet-retired work status.  Then two weeks of family.  And after that more comings and goings, but no city visit again until the end of July.  

We're doing it.  This plan of here and there we've imagined for decades now, unfolding in this time and space in ways more or less as we hoped for, with just a few unforeseen but manageable variables thrown in to keep us suitably humble and on our toes.  

I take nothing for granted.  Especially now, right now, right here in this era of our lives where good health and strength are largely still our blessing, but reason and reality bring pause.  These days are fully embraced, absorbed wholly, appreciated deeply and intentionally.   Because we're here, now, and it's summer and we can go back and forth freely, and there are no end of good and wonderful things to do and be right now.

Just in time.

Time for this.  Time for now.

Not For Two Minutes

Random and scattered and mostly prepping food.

Messy and wet and laundry on the line.

Giggles and pouts and thumbs up on the deck.

With snacks.

Always snacks.

And oh it’s a beautiful day

to catch some frogs.

It is.

Without two minutes to put two thoughts together.

Until Grandad

finds a way to let the little boys help him

hammer something.

And before,

when they were all eating breakfast,

and I stole away on flat water for a while.

A different way to be here.

Not serene but deeply good.

A deep knowing of generational goodness, this is.

A way to be together,

now.

Memories and legacies don’t happen

while you’re sitting down

apparently.

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Saturday of Strange Goodness

 

It's unusually quiet on our little bay today, for a Saturday at least. The sounds of loons, and blue jays, and wrens, and the breeze; and the white on blue of the clouds giving way to the full out sunshine, and an odd mosquito -- that's what with me on the deck.

Still, today feels more like a work day all of a sudden. There's a list and time lines and a bit of pressure for getting it all done since tomorrow we leave this place for a while. Laundry and packing and baking some cookies (to take with me to Thailand for the kids), and cleaning up all the happy mess 10 of us made. The cottage will be in use while we're gone and we'd like to leave things in good shape for them.

And there's all the last minute trip prep and ministry prep. Most of it's been done on purpose before everyone got here, but there's always the stuff you can't do until just before. And checking it all off.

So I won't be on the deck too much today, except perhaps to write some emails.

And I will sneak off to pick some more blueberries. And as seen in the picture above, I've already been out on the water this morning (trip number 21 by the way).  And I bet Ken and I will have one last game of Scrabble tonight before bed.

So what is today?
A cottage day.
A transitional day.
A git 'er done day.
A quiet day.
A packing day.
A baking day.
A Saturday of strange goodness.

I am reminded of the simplicity of a psalm put to song.

Psalm 118:24

"This is the day that the LORD has made;

we will rejoice and be glad in it."

I am rejoicing in the simplicity of that.
And if you know the song and now you can't get that tune out of your head, sorry (not sorry).

Whatever is on for your Saturday, peace and blessings to you!!

Family Sabbath

 

Something sacred happens in the hours between lunch and supper on Sundays. It's as if there's a very respected, very understood "Do Not Disturb" sign just hanging on the door of the day.

Even with a cottage full of family, there's an easy quietness as the grown ups (and even a teen or two) take turns laying down for a bit. The little ones, who are ironically past napping by now, write little notes to their friends about the rattlesnake they saw, or help Grandad fold up the tarp that (mostly) kept everyone dry in yesterday's rainy boat ride.

And it's easy and slow and sacred.

Family reading, family resting, family snacking on what's just available there on the table for grazing.

Families observing Sabbath is an ancient tradition. And while we now normally operate as separate households, today I am feeling all matriarchal and rested in the midst of the gentle presence of all of us, just being.

Just together.

No where to go and nothing to do

except just be here in this sacred space.

There are times when your blessings gather

and you realize

how very much

your cup runs over.

Half a Century on the Rocks

This feels bigger than one go at it, but for today I will simply mark this as being my 50th year on the Freddy Channel.

Yup, that's me. With Rusty, my very cool boyfriend's very cool dog.
It's 1973.
I'm 16.

Story goes that I arrived that summer to spend a week with my new [read: Only ever] boyfriend's family at their cottage. I took one look at the water, the trees, the rocks...the breath-snatching, astounding, sacred beauty of this place....and said to myself, "I gotta marry me this guy."

So I did.

[There's a joke in our family now, that before you get too serious with an prospective partner, you have to bring them here. If they like it, you can pursue the relationship further. If they don't -- ]

It is indeed much bigger than one post. I have filled volumes of journals, and blog posts, and Facebook posts, and sermon illustrations, and worked it into academic papers writing about all this place has meant to me. All the healing and learning and resting and living and being that has happened for me and to me and with me on these rocks.

I have swum here, waterskied here, honeymoooned here, kayaked here, learned to drive "the big boat" here, eaten way too many blueberry pies here, avoided bears and rattlesnakes here, recovered from a burnout here, recovered from numerous life's harsh realities here, worshipped here, preached here, fed chipmunks here, raised children here, spoiled grandchildren here, luxuriated in countless sunsets (each one unique) here, loved here, grieved here, figured out big decisions here, written countless words here, laughed myself silly here, played countless games of Scrabble here, celebrated 45 years of married life here, and made memories with the next generation to this receive incredible gift right here.

I can't even.

Not for one moment do I take this for granted. It is no exaggeration to say that, among all the life-shaping facts of my life, I am who I am in no small part because I have been given the deeply good gift of this place.

Gratitude has to go somewhere.
Abby, Zachary, Harvest, Jayden, Timothy...and Evelyn.
May this place shape you for as long as possible.
May the pictures we take this summer one day be posted somewhere to remember and mark.
May God be your true Rock, always.

Feeling All Friday, Maybe

 

"Be still,
[sit down]
[stop talking]
[stop striving]
and know that I am God."
Psalm 46:10
[expansions added]

It's raining now, and we badly need it.

My poor potted impatiens, not as suited to the bare heat of the deck, will be glad. I do water them, and move them around a lot to give them some shade, but still. Today's going to be a good day for them. And the blueberries. And the trees. And everything.

Just got back from around the island before the first light showers started. That's now seven times around this season. (If you look closely, you can see the kayak tied up to the dock between the slats of the railing behind the flowers. See what I did there?) I'm aiming to beat last year's record of 33, so I've got a ways to go.

Is it really Friday already? Is this the weekend coming up? I can't quite tell.

I still have some things to get at before I can say my "work list" for the week is done. Today I have a phone meeting and a Zoom call in the morning. Then I'd like to see what else I can clear away before I close up shop.

Or -- maybe I won't.

There's just a different, easier vibe working from here. If tomorrow is another rainy one, so what if it's Saturday? I might be in the mood for some of the more absorbing study and writing and such that this season of life allows me to do. Is that work? And if it is, is that okay?

I confess, many times throughout my working adult life I've fantasized about doing what I'm doing right now. Being away, all quiet and unhurried, and listening, and digging deeply into "work" I love.

Never fear. It's just for a time.
But a deeply good time it is.
Like a gentle steady rain for the impatiens.
And the blueberries.
And the trees.

And everything.

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.