Some Good Reasons Times A Bazillion

I'll begin this post with the acknowledgement that, at the time of this writing, one grandson, Harvest, is still outside my own 'social circle' due to living circumstances that need to be honoured.  My Gramma heart is eager for the day my whole family can be together in one space.  Believe me, in our story, that kind of togetherness is not something we take for granted.

Harvest, I miss you and hope we can all be at the cottage together this summer.
Deep sigh.
We'll see.

Harvest age 3, getting ready for the St. Jacob's train ride!

______________

Probably, we all have our own reasons.
To stay 6 feet apart.
To wear a mask.
To stay within our social circle.
To respect the restrictions in the stores.
To wash our hands while we sing Happy Birthday.
And to use hand sanitizer when we can't.
To stay away from a crowded beach.
To refrain from even some of what's now allowed,
just to give that added layer of protection.

We have our reasons.

Here are some of mine.

Abby, long and lanky, still willing to swing a little with Gramma and lay her head on my shoulder while we talk about nail polish colours and plan our spa treatments once we get to the cottage.

Abby, 14, grade 8 graduation

Zachary, tall and talkative, telling me every detail about his newest Lego creation or the wild and wacky dream he had last night, which remarkably can happen in one run on sentence that lasts a full 10 minutes or so.

Zachary, 6, just before Gramma went to Thailand for three months.

Jayden, cute and confident, quick to unlearn the dreadful-but-necessary-rule-for-a-while not to run wildly up to Gramma for a hug, and who competes now to be the first.

Jayden, 3, first time back at Gramma's house

And Harvest, now 9-going-on-10, pictured above, who, by the way, when we're all together and I call out that it's lunch time and we need to wash our hands, is the first to respond, every time!

Of course there's this new one, hoped for and prayed over like perhaps no other baby, due to arrive in August and already fiercely loved.

Baby Boy, can't wait to meet in August

These are my reasons.
Some of the more important ones.

There's nothing I'm so eager to 'get back to' that is worth jeopardizing the delicate, newly-won privilege of wild-running-up hugs, or little moments in the swing, or up close and personal dream-stories, or the hello-Gramma of an unborn baby's kick.  Nothing I want so much that I would risk bringing infection to my daughter at this point in the game (or ever).  Nothing so important that I would risk pushing Harvest's return to our circle any further out.

This is a gift. 
One gift of so many, actually, brought to us, courtesy of Covid-19:
The distillation of what we already knew was precious,
but now is that times a bazillion.

My Pandemic Birthday

My face is cold but only my face.  The rest of me stays snug under cottage-fleece blankets, listening to Ken, already awake, getting his breakfast, and hoping he’ll make a fire, which he does, and my birthday is off to a cozy start.

The water is flat and the sun bright, but I’m not all rushing down to the dock just yet.  We got the kayak out of the boathouse yesterday and it was such a mess.  Somehow - even propped up and on its side – it got filled with brackish sludge that now floods the once-dry, slimy wooden floor in not-in-decades water levels.  We got it out and parked beside the dock, but it will take a good cleaning before a pleasant paddle could be had.  This I’m thinking wrapped in my housecoat sipping tea caught in the tension between by my mad desire for that first of season paddle and my shivery shelf enjoying the fire. 

But the mad desire wins, and I head down with towel-rags to undo the mucky damage.  There.  Not quite pristine but good enough.  And just like that with a silent push, I’m off, suspended now in that space between the ridiculous and sublime, like the morning mist that still caresses the surface of the water, mystically, as if some magic was lifting, leftover from last night.

And oh, this is pouring in and filling up and healing.  Silent gliding on glass flat water, sun happy happy above in a sky silly with blue.  And the heron and the young family of geese don’t mind me.  And in spite of myself I find I am weeping in their welcome.  I am welcomed onto the water with them.  And I didn’t know how badly I need this.  Sounds foolish, I know. 

It’s a water snake, I think, making its way across the partially submerged swimming raft tied to the side of the dock.  A long one, maybe a meter, all brown and shiny and snakishly beautiful, flipping off now into the water on the other side, making good speed along the shoreline.

Lunch down by the water with Ken, unfolds itself to some time in my space on the desk.  The wind has come up just a little.  Enough to keep the mosquitoes at bay. 

The jenny wrens have abandoned the birdhouse and are building a nest under the eves almost above my head.  In this they are welcome, being such good company and cheerful heralds of each new morning, as they have done for many seasons already.  I find comfort in their quick visits close on the rail of the deck, twigs and other building materials in beak, before they flit up to keep on with the project.  It’s nice to be trusted.

And this is how God gifts me this birthday.  I think He started, actually, yesterday.  Yesterday I slept.  Pretty much the entire day.  Still can’t believe it myself.  Up at 5:11 a.m. with a plumbing emergency.  A yikes-get-the-towels-turn-off-the-pump-which-pipe-is-it-this-time kind of emergency.  The kind that has plagued this opening so far.  Even so, we’re both in good spirits, and when it’s all mopped up and there’s warm oatmeal in our bellies, the fire would make a good place to read for a bit.  Or sleep.  Which I did on and off until lunch.  And after lunch I had a nap.  Mostly until supper.  And after supper and a time down at the dock and a game of Scrabble, I still went to bed before sundown.  And slept all night.  How is that possible?  Except maybe I needed it.  Except maybe it was a pre-birthday gift that I was badly in need of and didn’t know.

We waited until they said it was okay, this coming up to the cottage thing.  I tell myself that every time I ask, “why didn’t we do this sooner?”  Oh yeah.  There’s a pandemic thing going on.  Except up here, I can’t tell. 

Today, for my birthday, I’ve been given an extraordinary gift of not knowing.  I don’t know who’s protesting what, either peacefully or violently, what Ontario’s latest Covid numbers are, or our Region’s or Canada’s or the world’s, or how many people died in the last 24 hours by disease or hatred or anything else.  This gift is priceless right now.

Believe me.  The great imbalance of blessing on my life right at this moment is not lost on me.  Not for a moment.  Gratitude and humility and wonder all around.  And I treasure this moment and save it up against anything that’s coming that won’t be like this, when I’ll need to remember that one perfect pandemic birthday when I turned 63.

And friends, dear, dear friends and beloveds, oh I wish I could give you some of this!  We all need so badly to be in ‘not-pandemic’ mode for long enough to breathe deep and long enough; to sleep enough; to just be a human being, instead of a human, being in the midst of such a long duress. 

And I’ll keep preaching that, and practicing what I preach about that.  About it not being about place or circumstance but about frame of mind.  About knowing that the deep peace of Christ that ‘passes understanding’ isn’t explained by the rationale given the stressors.  It’s about having a mind ‘stayed on Thee’ and finding a sweet spot of peace even as everything rages or just simply tediously persists among us.

Sending love and courage and joy and peace and the gift of not-knowing, if you can swing it.

Monday.

The week is just beginning!!

No Idea

Anniversary Song for Highview

Sung to the tune of Philippians 1:3-8

And you!

Look at you all new and true.

Two into one heart.

One fresh start.

And you have no idea!

Big dreams birth big vision

and mission for

Everyone, everyone come!

Church is not boring!

Jesus actually does love you!

And so do we.

So do we.

And we love each other.

We do!

And places called purple

and fairs called stuff

and portables and pig roasts and parking lots and then.

And then change changes things.

Changes change things.

And you have no idea.

When it’s happening

you have no idea

what it means

for then

for later,

especially when

the changes are hard.

You have no idea

what God is doing.

But He’s doing.

And now you’re going

and beloveds are beloved

in places so far away

and so just down the street

all at the same time

that it could only be said

God did it.

And everyone’s welcome

because Church is not what we all thought it was.

And Jesus actually does love you.

And so do we.

And love’s the thing, isn’t it?

And more change.

And change changes things again.

And now.

Look at you all staying true

to not being in one place all through

the winter and spring and now summer.

Because everyone is sick.

The whole world got sick.

And you can’t have a party.

Or can you?

Because Church –

Church isn’t what we thought it was after all.

Again it isn’t.

And isn’t that the way of it.

The love of it.

Because love’s the thing, isn’t it?

Random numbers game:

Added to 1997 is twenty three

and that’s where you’ll be

in 2020.

And 2020…well

You really have no idea. 

No one does.

No one’s done this before.

And it’s hard to know

what it means

for now,

for later.

But God knows.

And He’s doing.

Oh He is so doing!

You’ll see.

And you!

Just look at you!

Happy Twenty-third Anniversary Highview.

You are one of God’s best ideas,

And you will always have my heart.

The Smallness and Bigness of a Life Well Lived - Remembering Ravi Zacharias

I'm only 13, maybe 14, and our church is not that big.  Just a simple Christian and Missionary Alliance Church of less than 100 in what is back then a still simple Scarborough that barely reaches north to the 401.  Early 1970's.

We have a guest speaker this morning.  A brand new graduate from Ontario Bible college.  A young man with a funny name and a musical voice.  Ravi Zacharias.  He is introduced and I say his name over a few times in my mind, just because I like the rhythm of it.  I will remember nothing of what he preached on, I'm afraid.  I'm sorry.  As a preacher now myself, I know that would make for a better story.  But I will remember his jet black hair. And I will remember his presence.  What a remarkable presence this man has.  A substance and blending of strength and humility.  It emanates from him, even then.  This is what I remember.

After that, that young man became famous.  Almost a household name, if you were in the right households.  His incredible intellect and that substance of strength and humility turned out to be exactly what God needed in an apologist.  And he spoke everywhere, and was invited to university debates, and wrote books, and made a whole lot of people realize that they didn't have to give up on their brains to believe the story of Jesus.

And whenever I heard his name I remembered him, because I liked the rhythm of his name and the music of his voice and the substance of his presence.

Fast forward twenty-five years, give or take.  1999.

Scarborough now reaches far beyond the 401, but my parents still live in the house of my childhood.  Except Dad's had a stroke and he's not yet come home from the hospital, and Mom is uncharacteristically pushy vocal in her  "wondering" if they should move into the condos up at Shepherd Village.  They have friends there.  And it's a faith-based set up, connecting seniors through covered walk ways between the condos and apartments and assisted living units and the long term care facility.

Dad is not so sure.  But Mom's determined, and I'm thinking that if we could go for a little tour with the property manager, it would at least give us an idea of some of our options.  I suggest we make an appointment for next week.  But Dad's out on a day pass, and Mom really, really wants to see if we might find someone around anyways, like today, like right now.

I'm reluctant.  It's a big deal getting Dad in and out of the car.  We're new at all this transferring to a wheelchair business at this point in the game.  And to be frank, Dad has his 'favourite' shirt on, and he spilled his breakfast that morning, and we really need to get him a haircut.

But Mom is insistent, and Dad is at least willing, and the drive won't hurt, I guess.  So we get him out the door and into the car, which takes the better part of an hour in itself.  And we do the drive up to Shepherd Avenue, and we stop by the entrance of the condos in question, wrangle Dad out of the car and into the wheelchair, and roll up to the entrance.  Mom pushes the call button for the 'office', while I make a mental note again about getting Dad's hair cut.

We are told, politely and not surprisingly, that we'd need to make an appointment and, sorry but no one is available at the moment.  I'm relieved.  Okay, no harm, no foul.  We can make the appointment for next week when everyone, mostly me, feels more ready for it.  And we'll get that haircut and change the shirt.

I tell Mom that it's okay, we'll make the appointment and come back.  But Mom isn't leaving.  She's looking at the directory on the wall.  Our friends live here, she says, and perhaps they wouldn't mind if we looked at their unit.  Um.  Mom?  It's a Saturday.  It's still kind of early.  They're not expecting us.  Feels rather intrusive to me. 

But Mom has already found the name, Reynolds, and has pushed the button.  I wait, praying no one is home.  Mark this as one prayer where the answer was 'no'.

A cheery voice greets us from inside the mesh of the speaker.  I groan.  Mom does the talking.  And wouldn't you know it, these dear people are all fine and yes come on up and pushing the buzzer to release the door.

On their floor the elevator opens and there they are, two of the most welcoming folks you'd ever want to meet on a spontaneous, we-want-to-look-all-through-your-home kind of Saturday.  They are so glad to see my Dad, the first they've seen him since the stroke.  And yes, please come in, and would you like something to eat.  And I'm just dying!   The whole time it's awkward and I'm apologizing and trying not to bump Dad's wheelchair on any of their furniture.  And they show us all around, even into their bedrooms and even the bathroom, because, don't you know you have to figure out if the doors are wide enough.

And while they are down the hall in the master bedroom, I am cringing by myself in the living room, wishing I had insisted Dad change his shirt.  And I glance up and see a family photo.  There they are, our gracious Saturday morning hosts, in the center on the chairs, with their entire family, all of them, standing around them.  It's a large group.  Lovely family.

And then I notice something that brings these two stories together in the most surprising of ways.  Standing on the one end of this large family portrait is Ravi Zacharias.  No question.  That's him.

Just as I notice this, the tour ends and everyone comes into the living room.

"Lovely family," I say, pointing to the picture.  "Can I, um ask, is Ravi Zacharias part of your family?"

"Why yes!"  Mrs. Reynold's face brightens in an even more welcoming smile.  "He's our son-in-law."  And then she pauses, and asks me as if this was a real question.  "Do you know him?"

Yes I know him!!!  Most of the Christian world knows him!

And now I am realizing that we've just crashed in on the in-laws of Ravi Zacharias.

So here's why I'm telling these two stories.   A few notable points.

• We're all so much more connected that we'll ever realize.
• Preachers, you're making more of an impression on youth than you know.
• Everyone is just as important as anyone else in the home of welcome.
• Never underestimate the power of simple hospitality, even on an unplanned Saturday morning.

The world lost an amazing human being this week, Tuesday, May 19, 2020, when Ravi Zacharias was released to glory.

May we all pursue our life's mission with such passion and integrity.

The Mother-Ache of God

The more I press into intimacy with God, 
the more I realize how much I have to un-learn.

Little by little, joy by joy, sorrow by sorrow, 
He re-teaches me Who He is.

A Mother's Day Reflection During A Pandemic.

We arrive on the front lawn of our daughter's house before the grandkids return from their walk.

It's one of those teaser Saturdays we've had in April, when you think maybe spring has actually arrived.  Those have been the easier days for outside, distanced visits, the kind we're doing now while we wait for it to be safe to hug each other.

It doesn't take them long to show up, coming down the street all shiny and waving.  Abby runs ahead, remembering to forgo her usually affectionate greeting and plopping herself down on the step instead.  Her face is flushed with energy and brightness.  I marvel again that this stunning young woman is in any way part of me.  I want to hug her but I tell her how much I love her, and that like her dress.

Zachary is a bit behind, all tall and needing a haircut, and being a careful big brother to bring Jayden up and around the parked van on the other side of the driveway.  Jayden has been waving and laughing and kicking his feet in the stroller since spotting us, and I am very aware of feeling oh so validated because of it.  Always, it makes me want to be the person he seems to think I am.

So when Zachary unbuckles him, Jayden breaks free of all that was holding his love back up until now.  He comes roaring around the front of the van, running with wide eyes and full-of-joy grin, as if to jump into my arms in an enthusiastic, mighty-three-year-old hug.





And in this moment, there is in me a horrific collision of delight and anguish.

(Pause, to push it away from my memory.)

You know, mostly I'm actually doing pretty okay with the little that's required of me during such a demanding time for so many.  All I have to do is stay home and stay safe.  Life is weird yes.  There's too much news, yes.  Technology is all love/hate for me right now, yes.  But mostly, I have everything to be grateful for and little to gripe about, all things considered.

Except this.

This bit about the grandkids, about staying separate as households, about staying two meters apart, about no hugging.  This.  Is.  Not.  Okay.  And it's getting more and more not okay as the weeks drag on.

My gramma-heart is hungry and restless and very sad.  Very sad.  All twisted and angry-sad.  Even before the happy charge across the lawn, I am aching for that three year old's arms around my neck, his giggle in my ears, his precious, sweaty little self all pressed up against my heart.

And on this sunny Saturday, he comes charging straight to me.  And when everything inside of me is moving toward him with the huge force of gramma-love, I have to back away.  I have to.   I force myself to put up my hands and tell him 'no'.

He turns away to run to Mom instead, crying and confused.  So do I turn around, and walk the other way.  We're both crying.  It takes me several minutes to compose myself.

Wretched longing unfulfilled.  Strong and awful and sickening.

All this happens two weeks ago.

By now I've been over to visit like this enough times that -- and this is worse, almost too awful to say -- Jayden is now "trained" to keep his distance from Gramma.  I sit in the sunshine approximately spaced from the chair he and his Mom snuggle into, and -- this chokes out of me -- he won't come near me.

Unspeakable longing.

I ache for the big kids too, all four of them, including Harvest.  Including our new baby whose kicks I have yet to know  We're a hugging, touching family, and we've been through a lot together, and there's so much more to say than words can muster, even on the good days.   And right now I'm feeling all needy and desperate to know the sweet presence of their love like that.  To love them like that.  Without restriction.

Unbelievably wretched.

(Pause, to catch my breath and look away, and feel it.)

Where else to take all this but to the lap of God?

Several years ago, I learned a prayer to myself, (that sounds awkward but that's how it was) that was badly needed in other times of longing.  It goes like this:

"Lord, turn all my longings into longings for You."

It captures the ache of unfilled desire and directs it to the only One who has enough capacity to bear it with me.

"Lord, this longing is too much."

He whispers, "I know."

It comes to mind that time when Jesus, heading to His own excruciating act of love, looked out over a city representing all God's children and spoke this torn lament.

"Oh Jerusalem!  

How often I have longed to gather your children together, 

as a mother hen gathers her chicks under her wings, 

and you were not willing."

Matthew 23:37

God as Mother, longing to hold us.

With such longings heavy in my own chest
I am that child now
in a mystic circle of longing and love.

I keep un-learning that God is an angry father.
I keep un-learning that God is a father impossible to please.
I keep un-learning that God is distant and unknowable and prefers it that way.
She's not.

She longs for me with all the longing I now long for my grandkids.

I know, I hope, that soon restrictions will be lifted.  Bubbles can be widened.  Arms can wrap around beloveds without fear and anxiety.  I wait for that day with growing impatience but unfailing hope.

So meanwhile, right now,
I am mystified and grateful
to climb into the lap of God,
and share our longings with one another,
and wait in the waiting, together.

Not Now, Not Ever: Evelyn's Birthday Lament

On the occasion of marking my Granddaughter Evelyn's first birthday, I find I am compelled to the honesty of Psalm 88, the only lament in Scripture that does not resolve back into God-directed orientation and praise.  

My commitment in writing and posting is always to uplift and encourage and point to hope.  That does not change with this piece.  

But today I leave room to be in pain.  To acknowledge and affirm the pain of my Daughter and her family, and of course my own pain.  To stand in solidarity with other families, other Grandmothers who have lost a child to stillbirth, or lost a child at all.

If you are not up to honest lament today, stop reading now.  Don't read this today, or don't read it ever.  That's okay.  We're all managing our harshness-intake right now, with good reason.  I understand.

I call out to some good poetry, wrenched from my gramma-grieving heart, that might catch in the throat and somehow make palpable untouchable pain.

But it won't come.

I guess because it's untouchable.

There are some things one dare not try to make sense of.  This is one of them.  The holding of a tiny, perfect, newborn baby girl, wishing with all anguish that she would take a shuddering breath, open her eyes and let us know there's been a horrid mistake, but she doesn't, she lies still.

That wretched stillness of that night!  And silence.   A too-quiet birthing.  A shattering, hope-threatening loss.

No soft, poetic way to put this.

I hate that we're marking a year of the harshness of not having Evelyn.

With all I am, I hate it.

A separation too much to bear, like walking barefoot on glass, but you have to keep walking.  You have to keep moving through the months, getting punched in the gut on the third of every one of them, until you get to this.  Her birthday.  Her deathday.

And if you are the Gramma, you have to watch as your Daughter lives this pain, helpless to protect her, make it go away, because it doesn't.

And right now I can't hold her.

So that's the next thing I hate.

I hate that we're having to do mark this day during the over riding harshness of an insidious microscopic menace that won't let me hold my Daughter.

And there it is.  The only thing I can think of that would make this day in any way barely tolerable is if I could hold on to her.  She is my baby girl after all.

And there it is.

That's the thing.

She can't hold her baby girl.
And neither can I.

And we stand six feet apart - not holding, not touching.
And it's so not okay.

And I think there's nothing for it but to let it be what it is.
And to feel it.
And to let this rock us.
Because it's supposed to.

No one can ever let it be okay that they held a dead baby in their arms.

And yes I know there is a bigger story here.
And if I glance up and out past this a little bit I can already see it.
In fact, I've seen Evelyn's brief time with us prompt things redemptive and strong already, in ways only God could make possible.
I know He's here with us, wrapping Himself around us when we can't do that for each other.
He must be, because otherwise how are we still standing?

But I also know He's not rushing this.
He's here is this moment with us, this moment of anguish.
This birthday of such pain.

Evelyn, it will never, never be okay that you're not with us.
Not until we can dance with you, anyways.
Not as long as we need to go to where your magnolia tree is planted in order to sing to you.
Not now, not ever are we okay.

This is the cost of loving you.

You are so worth it, baby girl.

A Tender Resurrection

A rainy sunrise under lock down isn't really helping.
I miss the together of Easter Sunday,
the happy greetings and wide-armed hugs.
I miss the bigness of Easter Sunday,
the music and the strength
and the re-enactment of the disciples' wild joy.

I miss going in so early on Easter Sunday,
to watch the sunrise over the church building,
as if the sun itself was re-enacting the Son.

This is it for us Christians.
This is our big day.

But this year, not so much.

We'll try.
My church and other churches will do our best
to help us "connect" on line
and "celebrate" on line
and "worship" on line
and "do Easter" on line.

My husband and I will mark this day together
with a meal
and prayer.

I have an Easter lily!

But it takes more effort this year
to be all that excited.

I think I'm supposed to be.
I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to be able to put it all to one side
and be excited
write something here that reflects all of that.

But it's a different way of being for me this Easter Sunday.
More like Mary hearing Him say her name.



It's John that records this moment of tenderness
in his resurrection account.

Mary, beside herself in grief and confusion,
desperately longing to finish the anguished task
of properly anointing the body for burial,
a ritual of respect
and love.

But now the body is gone!
After all they'd already done to Him.
This too?
This degradation?

She is overcome with all the dreadful dashing of hope.
Sobbing.
Like this morning's sky, I think.

And then she's interrupted by a Voice.

"Why are you crying?  Who are you looking for?"

John writes her reply as if it was almost polite.
But I hear a sudden intake of air,
the sobbing being startled to a sudden halt.
I hear more anger and accusation
coming from deep in her throat.
A lashing out, a meltdown,
with all the energy of grief.

"Where is He?!!!
What have you done with Him?!!!"

And that's when He says it.
Her name.

Simply.

"Mary."

And then she knows!
And then everything changes.

Wild! Clutching!  Joy!

I need this tender resurrection this morning.
And the real and living intimacy
of a Risen Saviour
who knows my name.

And it will be enough for today.
More than enough.

Because the resurrection bursts out of all restrictions.
If death could not hold it back,
then neither can a pandemic.

Worship.
Love.
Truth.