Reflections on a Year of Everything

A year ago today I released a deeply beloved way of being, 

 and stepped aside and up and into another and next chapter of being who I am.

On May 27th last year, my community of faith, my family of Highview, worshiped with me and generously expressed their love and gratitude for my role in our lives together as their Pastor, and commissioned me to the love-work God had been growing in me to do in Thailand.  These days I am 'Ahjahn Ruth', Canadian Director of the New Family Foundation and Highview's "missionary in residence". 



It was a big step.
It was a big day.
It's been a big year.

Not since birthing my first child, some thirty-seven years ago, has there been an event in my life that has brought with it such a dramatic change in the way I think and feel about myself.   Even as I was released to work I love with great passion, these past twelve months I have processed and cried and journalled and prayed my way through what felt like brand new, and sometimes terrifying territory.

Not sure I'm done yet.  Not sure I've done it even remotely well.  But it seemed prudent somehow to take a moment, here at the one year mark, and make a list of learnings.  Yes, a list.  Reflections and random insights from a year of this much change.  Things I know now that I didn't know then, or a least knew only lightly.

• A life of abundance is nurtured over the long haul.
• Being separated from community for a prolonged period of time is a wretched, dreadful thing.
• Releasing long held responsibility happens pragmatically once, and psychologically over and over again in extremely thin layers.
• There are many ways to love that don't involve being in charge.
• We often have more impact on those around us than we imagine.
• In the disorientation and loneliness, God really is enough.
• Nothing, absolutely nothing really belongs to us, even and maybe especially the deeply precious. 
• Just because you've surrendered what feels like your greatest treasure doesn't mean He might not ask you for more.
• Surrendering our greatest treasures to the wisdom and love of God is probably the most intimate our spirits get with God.
• Being stripped of title and role reveals what you're really made of.
• Wise friends who listen without judgement AND who are strong enough to make honest observations are worth one hundred times their weight in gold.
• The bigger the change the more worth it it is to work through to all the amazement that's waiting.
• God wastes nothing, even work that's invisible.
• God wastes nothing and everything you've done up to this point has been in preparation for this thing now.
• Change combined with a surrendered heart is a catalyst for unleashing shalom. 
• Love really is the bottom line.

I'm not done yet, this adjustment thing.  Almost, I think, but not quite.  I want to give myself enough time to do it as right as I can do it, or at least to stop and acknowledge my mistakes.  There are some things you just can't rush, and, as weird and disorienting and even painful as it's been, there's also enough wonder and rush and life and joy to make me want to pay attention and be fully present in all of it.

I could not possibly reflect on this past year without expressing deep thanks.

• To my wise and patient friends who listened and honestly observed with me this past year in ways above and beyond.
• To my husband whose love in risking this new thing with me sustains me in ways imperative.
• To Highview for allowing me the breath-taking honour of both serving you as pastor in the past and remaining among you to worship now. 
• To Pastors Suradet and Yupa for trusting me to serve with you like this in our new adventure together as New Family Foundation.
• To my Best and Tender Father-God for holding me together, unbelievably believing in me, and pouring out Your abundance on my life, over and over again.

Lament for Evelyn Hope

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, songs about strawberries clinging to the vine, and songs 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 Cascade Effect

Driving home I feel more alive somehow.

This does not surprise me, since it's a common afterglow kind of experience whenever I have lunch with John.

The overflow of joy at a Waterfall in Thailand. 

I call him John now, as if he was a peer.  But inside, in every way respect and admiration and deep appreciation and the wonder of being in the presence of someone 'greater than' vibrates in my heart, he is and always be my beloved "Pastor Bersche".

We were all so much more formal in those days.  I think my Dad would have had a fit if I'd ever dared be so cheeky to refer to him as simply John, or even Pastor John back then.  It was the suit and tie generation of church, where that was godly.  We showed respect.  Especially to those 20 years our senior.  Especially those those who held office in the church.

Being baptized by Pastor Bersche circa 1972, age 15

Except John was anything but formal.  Back then it was the early 70s and we were just figuring out that Jesus was fun.  At least in my neck of the denominational woods we were.  This new pastor brought life and energy and joy to Sundays, to our community of faith, like we'd never seen before, even though former pastors were revered and dearly loved.  But with John, Jesus was fun, the Word of God was fascinating, the Holy Spirit was a real interactive Person of the Godhead, and services were never the same.

It's impossible to overstate the influence all of this had on my own spiritual formation and ministry calling; how this inspired me and modeled for me who I would become as a pastor myself.  Not that this was on the radar back then.  Back then we were breaking the rules by having his gifted wife, Jan, speak on Mother's Day.  That was really pushing the envelope.  But I remember it.  I remember being emboldened by it, just 11 years old and seeing for the first time that a woman had something to say about God.

And it took seed in me then, I am sure of it now.

We remember this together at lunch today.  It is something of a needful remembering, since both of us, at this point in our ministry lives, are looking back on full time pastoring, as if it was something from our past, which is it.  And we lament this for a while.

It gets in your blood, this calling.  It stays with you.  When you've loved a congregation at a molecular level and for any length of time, you don't just 'fall out of love' on the day they say goodbye.  You don't just stop being a pastor just because people stop calling you that.   So we grieve together a little today, the way two people suffering the same kind of loss tend to do. And we acknowledge together that sense of disorientation of having a pastor's heart beating in your chest, but with no congregation to incorrectly (because they never belong to us) call your own.

But then there was this.  The realization, almost at the same time for both of us, of the Cascade Effect.  It was when he said he was so proud of who I had grown into.  Of how awesome and life-giving it was for him to have seen Ken and I (he officiated our wedding) turn our life together into an enduring ministry.  Of how exciting it was to realize how the kingdom had been nourished and become un-bordered on both sides of the planet; of the lives being impacted.

But I just had to turn us both backwards to see where this Cascade between us had first come.  And I thanked him again (because I've said it so many times) for showing me that Jesus was fun and that the Word of God was so incredibly fascinating and that the Holy Spirit was a real interactive Person of the Godhead and that Worship could be such an intimate, hilarious experience, and that a woman might have something to say about God.

Then we turned around together and looked forward, a little dimly because who knows, to where the Cascade would go.  And just prayed to be worthy of it the rest of our days, however long God chose to leave us here to pour it out on His behalf.

And the Cascade of it gave me life again, on a day following a deep low in this journey towards the new things, the new ways of pouring out God's life for future generations to revel in.

Once again I am poured into by my beloved Pastor,
whom I now call John,
as if he was a peer.

The Undoing

Dark sunrise, this day of Days
When God lays down His glory
And steps into the unbelievable

The blood on the road isn't mine
But it should have been
And in horror I consider the unthinkable

I am undone

Grace, what have You done?
Creation shakes in heaving sobs
Black skies make silent the unspeakable

A coldness sweeps over me
Paralyzes and locks me in
Grief and gratitude hideously unimaginable

I am unhinged

And sickened and have to look away
Spinning now but there's no escaping it
And I am down for the count, unfathomable

I am unworthy

And this I know --

Jesus loves me.

The Outside Wonderment of Jayden

We are outside with sticks and wonderment. 

 

When you're two, a winter-ravaged backyard is rich with discovery, and Jayden shows me this.  I may only see decomposing leaves pasted into the corners by the fence, the litter of dead twigs across the yet-to-be-dethatched lawn, and a patio in disarray, but my wonderment-expert grandson knows better.

Each stone is a surprising and precious commodity, gathered meticulously and piled in precarious heaps of protected ownership. 

Between the wet-brown leaves the rake reveals an astonishing creature, bright and slimy and wriggling, worthy of gleeful inspection.

A stick is good for so many important things, like throwing and whacking and walking.

Even a sudden gust of invisible air, lifting dry leaves in a spiral, is apparently hilarious.

I wouldn't be outside today except for Jayden.  We're together for the week, and his unrelenting need to move, combined with his love to be 'out', makes for an earlier-than-normal-for-me foray into that long held spring ritual called "clearing out the yard'.  Left to my own devices, I would certainly still be indoors until more warmth and sunshine enticed me away from my computer to address this task.
And I would be missing everything.

Even without better temperatures or more sunshine, I am keenly aware of how this being outside thing is making me feel more alive.  It's been a long, harsh winter in southwestern Ontario, and everyone is feeling it.  And ironically - and at the risk of sounding ungrateful which I'm not - I think my two times, in November and February when I was away from winter and spent most of those months outdoors in perfect Thai-dry-season, June-like weather, have actually made the months at home in the grey more life-draining than I might have felt otherwise.    It's in the contrast.

So many contrasts.  So much is vividly new in this season of my life.  Coming around this spring to complete a cycle of seasons in a year of  unprecedented change, I am myself new in ways I could not possibly have anticipated.

So now, outside with sticks and wonderment, because of Jayden, I celebrate all the little resurrections with him.
All that's coming to life in the hidden spaces beneath the winter debris.
All that's being discovered in the eyes of an impossibly curious two year old.
All that's opening and stretching and beginning afresh within my own soul.

Easter is in the wonderment.

Random March-end Musings

Recycling items held fast all winter, released from the snowbank, fill another whole bin. 

I seem destined to find residual gritty clumps of icy mud if I don't wear my boots.

Suddenly the pot of Christmas greens still on the porch is utterly inappropriate.

When do the Easter lilies and hot cross buns and chocolate go on sale?

The snow is mostly gone but I still want a fire by evening.

The sunshine is seductive but the wind is still cold.

We're starting to talk about the cottage.

So glad I don't have a dog.

Roll up the rim.

Lent.

Winter was hard.

But new life is stirring now.

Fasting reveals unknown longings.

Longer days encourage hearts and lift spirits.

The promise of Resurrection begins in a whisper.

So much in the story of it to be thoroughly gob-smacked by.

Every Eucharist holds me more fiercely in its remembrance dance of wonder.

The closer I get to The Morning the more I just want to worship in the strength of it.

Sorrow held fast in the grip of despair, released from my chest, gives way to the party.

For This

It's another Thai-style  Saturday at Hot Springs.

 Starts early enough as does every day, with sleepy voices singing worship and reciting Scriptures.  Jaroen leads with the guitar. while Praweet tries to wake up.  Ahjahn Suradet is talking about seeking God's wisdom, moving us through Proverbs 21, and encouraging us to embrace the day with joy.  We pray for David, and Laywee and Eak who are on a school trip to Bangkok for three days.  We pray for Praweet who will be playing in a cricket match today.  We pray for Kuhn Linda, for healing and strength.  And of course we pray for every sponsor of every child.  We do this twice every day; here in the mornings, and then later after supper when we will be together again like this.

The sun is just rising as we are dismissed to chores first, then breakfast.  I set up my table on the porch, even though this won't be a full out desk-work kind of morning.  I only hope to get everything ready for tonight's ESL and Bible lesson, prepare a little for the short meeting Suradet, Yupa and I will have closer to lunch, and rehearse again the sermon I will bravely (and probably foolishly) attempt to preach in Thai tomorrow.

It's getting warmer sooner in the mornings.  I find by 10 a.m. it's wiser for me to come inside, even though everything in me wants to soak up as much warmth and sunshine as I can before heading back next Tuesday.

Never mind.  By 10 all the chores are done and the younger girls are wanting to work on projects for their Sponsors, and to read.

I've read and read and read this visit.  Some of the kids have completed three cards and are working on a fourth!  I should say, I've read and been read to.  These are good moments, breath-taking in their simplicity and gentleness.  After school.  After evening worship when it's cooler again and we sit down by the fire.  Book after book.  Up close with the younger ones who like to snuggle.  Around the table still having fun with the teenagers.  Little voices, changing voices, Thai voices.  I just might be able to recite Robert Munch's "Andrew's Loose Tooth" by heart by now.  And all the phonics readers from Usborne.  And no end of other treasures donated by so many who are so generous to help us learn English.  I'd recite them, but likely with a Thai accent by now.

The meeting this morning is easier than the first two, with less business, but still requires all of our attention.  These days of getting everything set up for The New Family Foundation are exciting but sometimes, to be honest, a little tedious in the details and the translation of those details.  I marvel at our ability to work though so much business together now.  Can't help but remember that first visit when I didn't know one word of Thai, and their English was very much at the beginning stages.  Figuring out when supper would be served was the big challenge then.  Now we comb through legal documents, agreements, insurance policies.   To coin a Thai phrase, "Oy!"  But I'm so honoured to be serving God together with these heroes.

After lunch I rehearse the sermon again, and feel a little more confident that maybe I will actually preach this and not just read it - poorly.  "Waiting For God" is the title, all about how we respond when God doesn't seem to be answering prayers.  I so know those times.  But I have to admit, that tomorrow I'm preaching this particular subject matter from a time that's quite the opposite.

Abundance.  Flavour.  Colour.  Warmth.  Seeing the fruition of a long investment here.  Watching God answer and come through and provide in ways I can hardly describe without sounding like I'm making it up.  But I'm not.  I'm here and it's real.  And it's so, so good.

I confess to a longing for a solid English conversation.  The first-week struggle with my Thai language skills is long over, and I've been speaking and listening and thinking in Thai with no native English speakers to speak of (ha!) in sight for the past four weeks.  And, I've been saying that I miss Ken, but I don't miss the snow.  And, yes, it's truly amazing to me that I have not one, but two sensational lives, one on each side of the planet, and I am looking forward to be home there too.

But this.  This has been so rich.  So good.  So reassuring.

I did a big thing in making this my only thing.  Last year was a big year of change and adjustment.  And likely the adjustments are not completely done yet.

But being here right now at the beginning of 2019, and having it be like this -- So much abundance.  So much flavour.  So much colour and warmth and confirmation and gratitude and being appreciated and loved.  So.  Much.  This is good.

This is why.

For this, and so many other astonishing reasons, I willingly lay it all down.
Again and again.

Four more days.

And just on curious note:
EVERY Wednesday including and since the Wednesday I left Ontario, there has been a major storm of some sort.  I am arriving home on a Wednesday.  Could be interesting.