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.