Peace Like a River

“I’ve got peace like a river, I’ve got peace like a river, I’ve got peace like a river in my soul.”

I taught this song to kids at Vacation Bible School many times. I don’t think it is actually Biblical… there is talk of Living Waters that truly satisfy, and still waters in the Psalms. But the image I had was of a slow and lazy river. Warm. Safe. But thoughts of peace are tumbling out of my mind… Peace. River.

But rivers rage. They change with the seasons. In the winter the Peace River is frozen. Jagged and jutting. Not like a skating rink. It froze mid-thought, struggling. It is angry to me. Not peaceful.

In the spring the rivers do rage, they rise and dislodge the accumulated debris and driftwood on the banks. And the river is rough, dark, swirling and dangerous. But the shore is clean. Fresh. The rocks are smoother and softer, the way a glacier imperceptibly crushes the rocks smooth, over millennium.

But deep in the river, far below the surface, below the undertow, this turbulence and chaos is not felt. At least I don’t think it is. To find the peace of the deep river, to be submerged in it, to feel both the intense weight of it and the weightlessness, those logs and rocks on the surface from far upstream, the ones you can’t see or feel anymore, you need those to be dislodged, little by little. If they aren’t dislodged season after season, but build, they collide and collect, connect and tangle, and dam up the river. The flow is stopped. The dam creates a pool, and the pool is so gentle, placid, it is so calm and serene, and it feels like the peace we crave, but it is artificial, temporary, the calm before the storm. The pressure builds and the dam breaks and each piece of debris slams into our lives, too many pieces at once, and we are overwhelmed. It hits so hard and unexpected that we don’t know if we can swim. And we fear all the water and debris, and we desperately want to get to shore.

But is there ever truly peace on the shore?

 But Jesus immediately said to them: “Take courage! It is I. Don’t be afraid.” “Lord, if it’s you,” Peter replied, “tell me to come to you on the water.” “Come,” he said. Then Peter got down out of the boat, walked on the water and came toward Jesus.  But when he saw the wind, he was afraid and, beginning to sink, cried out, “Lord, save me!” Immediately Jesus reached out his hand and caught him. “You of little faith,”he said, “why did you doubt?”

Matthew 14.27-31

Redemption - Experiencing the Lower Case "R"

God is still in the business of healing and deliverance. Every day. Forgiveness, salvation and redemption are the things of His kingdom. No miracle is too big or too small.

I think I am finally beginning to understand redemption. I get capital “R” Redemption – Jesus dying for me on the cross – but small “r” redemption has never really made sense to me. When people spoke of it, I suppose I didn’t really believe them. Or Him. Okay, so something good came after something bad. But the bad thing still happened. I thought of the times I took my children to get their vaccines. A few painful jabs in the arm, with that unmistakable smell of hospital… They were too young to understand the protective benefit they were receiving, so how did we try to ease the pain? The public health nurse gave them a sticker. A sticker?! There is no way any of my kids would tell you that any sticker, even a Transformers one, was worth the experience of a sanitizer-smelling stranger stabbing them in the arm with a needle, their own mom an accomplice. But that was my view of redemption. A Dora the Explorer Band Aid stuck on a broken heart.

I remember reading about a couple whose infant had died. The father said that “God redeemed their loss.” What on earth could that mean? It sounded like the kind of ridiculous believer-speak of fundamental televangelists that freaked me out. God could bless them with a hundred other children, but they could never replace the unique life that was lost. At best they might be a distraction from the ache. But redemption? No way.

It’s not like when your car gets stolen, and your insurance pays for a new one. It’s not like replacing your old phone, or a sock with a hole in it. Cars, phones and socks can be replaced. Not children. I always hated the end of Job. (Well, I didn’t really like any of it, but the end was the worst.) “The Lord blessed the latter days of Job more than his beginning; and he had fourteen thousand sheep, six thousand camels, a thousand yoke of oxen, and a thousand donkeys. He also had seven sons and three daughters.” Job 41.12-13. Yeah, so he had twice as many animals as before. Great. But ten of his children died! So God gave him ten new ones? The new kids are indeed a blessing, but how on God’s not-always-so-green earth does that make up for the loss of ten beloved lives? How is this redemption?

But wait, don’t I believe in the God who can do “infinitely more than we can ask or imagine” (Ephesians 3.20)? That means I need to really trust that He can do things that I think are absolutely impossible. Like redemption.

Yesterday I experienced, for the first time that I recognized, the miracle of small “r” redemption. And to me it feels no less remarkable than capital “R” Redemption. (And resurrection is incredibly remarkable to me.) In a situation that has caused pain and anger, fear and shame for over twenty years, God worked a miracle. Out of that suffering He blessed me with compassion, forgiveness, and healing. He didn’t take the awful thing that happened away, but He took away its power, its ugliness. This is not like  I dropped my ice cream cone so God gave me a new one… The memory is not gone, but it is changed. He delivered me from the bondage I was stuck in. I think that is redemption. Yes, there have been many tears, but they became cleansing. Yes, I was clean, finally clean and whole after so many years of feeling dirty and broken.

I was never able to figure out how to put this burden down in my own strength, but Jesus stretched out His arms and took the burden from me, and now I feel light, like I can’t even remember what it felt like to carry it for so long. And now I sound like one of those over-the-top over-zealous TV preachers, but how can I not speak the truth? It all sounds crazy when we don’t believe, but when you experience it for yourself there is nothing crazy about it… it’s crazy how wonderful it is, but not that kind of weird crazy  that is just so, well, weird. And hard to trust. I know it sounds crazy. So did the Apostle Paul: “For the message about the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God.” (I Corinthians 1.18) I know that power, and I know it is God.

God heals bodies and hearts and minds and memories. I think I used to believe that was true for others, but maybe not for me. I knew Jesus could redeem me from my sins, but it never occurred to me that he could redeem me from someone else’s sins. But He has. I have this beautiful treasure chest that He gave me, but I kept putting all kinds of junk in it – a beautiful and incredible vessel filled with pain and ugliness, sin and rot. And I forgot my Father had the key! He opened the chest, took out all the crap, and filled it with Himself. God delights in surprising me, lavishing His love on me, showing me that I am indeed His beloved daughter.

I still don’t like the story of Job much. But I now see that the redemption Job received from God was not donkeys or camels or children. It was an overwhelming revelation of how much God truly loved Him, and knowing, really deeply knowing the depths of His love for us is a miracle. (And I have to trust that those children are with God now… that God is not bound by my limited sense of justice or heaven or anything.)

I used to think of redemption in economic terms – you take something that is inherently worthless, like a gift card, merely a piece of plastic, and trade it for something of value, something that is worth something to you. But God’s redemption is far beyond that. He doesn’t just redeem worthless things, He redeems awful things, painful things, evil things.

It sounds crazy to a lot of you, I know, I can hardly believe it myself. God re-routed my neural pathways, rewrote my operating code, took out my heart of stone and gave me a heart of flesh. He pruned off my rotten branches, and promises to tenderly feed and water me with His Body and His Word. None of these analogies really work, because this is a case of what is impossible for man is possible with God. (Luke 18.27) 

Healing. Forgiveness. Salvation. Deliverance. Redemption.

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.” John 14.26-27

“Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.” Isaiah 43.1b

Weep, Pray, Love.

I am heartbroken. I just want to weep before the Lord for all the pain I see around me. I asked for this – I prayed that God would break my heart for what breaks His – and I know this is just a very small taste of the pain He feels for His children. There is so much suffering – in my immediate surrounded there has been terrible tragedy – the death of a young child in an accident, the deterioration of my father with Alzheimer’s, teenagers struggling with depression & self-harm. Cancer, incest, abuse, addiction and racism. I spent last weekend with Indigenous people desperately seeking reconciliation, mourning their murdered and missing sisters. So many broken hearts that need mending.

Casting the circle wider, our whole world is in pain. War and persecution, famine and drought, slavery and sex trafficking. So much evil. So much horror.

There are so many issues to address, wrongs to right, rants to rage, and prayers to cry.  There is the failing of our churches, families, schools, social services, governments, our First World greed, over-consumption, and apathy, our arrogance, our hate, our indifference. There is so much pain.

With all this pain we need hope. With all this pain we seek to understand.

I want to help, to hold on, to lift up, to love.

But do I need to understand?

“You don’t understand” whether spoken out loud or in my heart, was probably one of my top ten phrases as a teenager. We do seek to be understood, and that doesn’t change much as we get older. But what we truly need is to be loved. I truly believe that “Nobody understands me” is the heart’s cry of “nobody loves me.”

In reacting to someone in an emotional crisis, I think we generally fall into two camps – “I understand” or “I don’t understand.” When I am in the first group I feel compelled to explain to you why I understand your pain by sharing my own experience of pain. I essentially offload my own baggage, and don’t really help you carry your own. One day it might be helpful and healing to sit down with me and have a conversation about how I dealt with my particular loss, but as a first response I do not need to prove that have my own pain. I don't need to prove I’ve gone through a trial of my own.

Telling my story of pain does not help to validate your feelings. My advice may not be welcome. Every situation and person is unique.

A brave woman in my community has dealt with this as she comes to terms with the loss of her young son. She contrasts helpful people who lend support with those people who add to her “boulder of grief” with their own story of pain:

“It is very encouraging, like a handful of balloons, to tell me "so-and-so also experienced the loss of [insert person/relationship here], but this is how they got through it." It is the opposite to share details of accidents, deaths, and trauma, even if the intention is trying to be encouraging by comparing my situation with theirs. (Though how it is supposed to help me deal with my own grief by simply knowing others have experienced similar or "more horrific" losses, I am not certain.)” http://www.talenawinters.com/wintersdayin/2015/6/18/boulders-and-balloons-when-sharing-isnt-caring

When I am on the “I don’t understand” side of things, I can’t relate to your experience – I haven’t had cancer, I haven’t lost a child, I am not a widow or a refugee. So I am afraid of saying the wrong thing, afraid of making things worse, so I avoid you. I assume I have nothing to offer and back away from you. I don’t get it, so I must not be qualified to offer up any help in your time of need. What on earth could I say to a woman whose husband cheated on her, or a mother who had a stillborn child? I have more questions than answers. I am afraid that my words would be hollow or inappropriate. I become awkward and distant. I don’t understand.

But my friends, God does not ask us to understand, He asks us to love. We’ve all gone through stuff and we have our own unique joys and pains. If I think I understand your pain, I need to love. One day there will be time for stories, time for questions, but today is the day to love. If I don’t think I understand your pain, I need to love. I may not have a clue about what you are experiencing, but God does, and God loves you. God knows each of us more than we can imagine. He knows the number of hairs on our heads. He knew us before we were formed in our mothers’ wombs. He created our DNA. He gave us our gifts and dreams. We need to celebrate & honour each other by listening to and loving each other.

You don’t have to prove that you understand, or wait until you think you understand. This is a broken world in need of blessing. Listen & love.  

“I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.” John 13.34

Turning Forty

So it’s official - I am 40. Time to celebrate? It’s hard to tell. Some people dread turning 40 – it seems like an ominous milestone, like the point of no return on the aging scale - not that we can ever turn back time - but maybe it is the point past pretending that we can. Certainly 40 seemed really old when I was 10. And 20. And 30, to be honest. It is interesting how we react as we reach these somewhat artificial landmarks of our birth (surely they are more significant to our mothers?!) and reflect on our journey-to-date. Did things turn out the way we expected or hoped?  As a highly academic high school student I, and probably everyone else who knew me, assumed I would go on to a post-secondary education to get a degree or two. Maybe a masters. We would’ve thought it was a pretty safe bet. Instead I enrolled and often dropped out of a number of classes at a few different schools. My experience with panic disorder was peaking as I attempted to further my education – no doubt the fluorescent lighting and the crowded campuses and classes didn’t help. But I still think about going back to school, and I probably will. (It’s nice to be able to control the crowds and lights with an on-line course.) When I was younger I assumed I’d be married and have kids – actually I always pictured myself with three boys, but still living in my parents’ home. I did end up with three boys, and I am very thankful that Paul & I have our own home.

The part about turning 40 that makes me sad isn’t so much about the years, it’s more about being a grown-up in general. Not that I usually feel like a grown-up. Every time I have to do something particularly adultish, like negotiate mortgage payments or navigate parent-teacher interviews, I feel like a fake, a timid child hiding behind the mask of a mature and capable woman. Surely if you are old enough to have kids and a car and a house and a real job you must be mature, stable, and sure of yourself? When would I outgrow panic and self-consciousness like I outgrew dolls and crayons? Did I miss the day I was supposed to become confident and competent, shedding my fears and doubts like last season’s fashions?  I was surprised to learn that most of us are much like insecure tweens, but with bigger clothes and bigger bills.

What I’m sad about as I turn 40 is anxiety. When I was younger and figuring out this diagnosis of “panic disorder” I was told that most children grow out of their anxiety. I clung to this fact like a life preserver in the raging tempest of my life. This was a ray of hope to me that pierced the terrifying darkness of my fears. And I was certain it was true – how on earth could I as an adult still have so many fears? Imagine a grown-up too scared to go on an elevator! Imagine an adult who freaked out and bolted out of the mall because she was claustrophobic. But yes, I can imagine exactly that. I slowly but surely became that adult. The specific phobias have morphed over the years but fear still has a firm grip on this 40-year-old, grown-up mother and wife.

I know now that millions of other adults are struggling with varying forms of anxiety, and that was somewhat comforting to learn, but it was a crushing blow to realize that it applied to me. The hope that freedom would come with maturity that was a lifeline through my teenage years… Just hang in there, you’ll grow out of it… turned out to be a lie. Truth is I grew more into it - I became accustomed to fear, I expected panic attacks. I absorbed all of this terror and dread into my personality, my self, my soul.

I mourn the hope of “growing out of“ anxiety. But I am learning that it is not so much about growing out of fear as it is growing into God. I thank Him for the forty years on this earth that He’s given me, including the anxiety, for that is part of the journey that brought me to where I am today, where I am supposed to be. But now I know that even though I feel fear it is not part of who I am. I am learning that my true identity is in Christ, not in anxiety. (see Ephesians) I yearn for the peace that passes all understanding. (Philippians 4.7) He can do infinitely more (and better!) than I can ask or imagine (Ephesians 3.20) – His miracles far surpass my teenage hopes. Even though I still struggle with anxiety, it does not define me. As I stumble along the path God has set before me, I am trying to cast my cares on Him (I Peter 5.7), trying to lean on Him (Proverbs 3.5). I don’t always get it right, but He does. I will continue to age and change, but He remains the same, (Hebrews 13.8) and that is worth celebrating.

Counting the Days

Health has not been the theme of my past year. Unfortunately I have experienced a lot of illness. Between migraines, irritable bowel syndrome, gastritis and some other undiagnosed issues, I spent much of the last year unwell.  Nausea and vomiting have left me weak and dehydrated. Migraines have sent me to solitary confinement with ice packs and ear plugs. Belching has made me sound ruder and more repellent than a drunken sailor. Bloating has left me with no clothes that fit and feeling six months pregnant. (Looking pregnant has been a mix of amusing and awkward – young people have discreetly wondered and asked someone else if I was pregnant, whereas adults have simply assumed and publicly congratulated me on my growing family. If you don’t know for sure I recommend saying nothing – explaining you are sick rather than expecting really dampens the atmosphere in the room. In those moments I genuinely wished I was expecting - even at almost forty – then I would know what was causing my symptoms and I would be looking forward to the resulting miracle. Morning sickness is preferable to mystery sickness.)

I have missed more work, church, meetings, kids’ activities and social events than I care to count. Do I dare to count? How many days have I missed in the past year?

Throwing up: 2-3 days/month = 1 month

Recovery/Dehydration: 2-3 days/month = 1 month

Migraine: 3-4 days/month = 1.5 months

Bloating: 7-8 days/month = 3 months

Nausea: 15 days/month = 6 months (Most of the days I was nauseated I had other symptoms, so let’s factor most of those out.)

Nausea only: 5/month = 2 months

Total: 8.5 months.

That’s about 255 sick days.

Of the 3.5 months remaining I was tired, really tired. It is hard for me to remember the last time I didn’t feel exhausted. Exhaustion is oppressive and depressive. In this disheartening and frustrating condition I have seen 5 doctors, had 4 invasive tests, and so many blood tests that the bruises on my arms sometimes haven’t healed before the next round. I think I have tried varying cocktails of 8 medications. Diagnosis? The theories have been numerous and mostly erroneous.

Why am I writing about this? I hope my motivation is not simply so someone will feel sorry for me. I am questioning and grappling with what is going on. All of these days add up to a lot of time to think about being sick. Time to ponder health and pose questions about illness. I haven’t been asking “Why, God, why?” but rather “What, God, what?” What is causing these symptoms? What is making my body feel so toxic? What can I do to feel better? What should I learn from this?

And I pray for healing – I pray for God to restore and renew my body, to remove the sickness, the fatigue, the depression. It is natural to cry out to God when we are broken and want Him to fix us. What surprises me is how this time had led to an outpouring of gratitude. As I hug the toilet and wait for the next wave of vomiting to begin I thank Him. I thank Him for things I otherwise might not:

            Thank You that this not happening because of cancer and chemo. 

Thank You for Gatorade and Gravol.

Thank You for clean running water and indoor plumbing.

As I lie in my bed in the dark, ice pack on head, I thank Him:

          Thank You that my kids are old enough to feed themselves.

          Thank You for my husband who can cook and clean

          Thank You that it is me who is ill, not my kids.

Eventually the vomiting ceases; the migraine subsides; the bloating decreases. But with it the gratitude dwindles… Just when I should be the most thankful for relief of symptoms and a reprieve from pain I seem to fall into a pattern of complaining, of feeling sorry for myself. I mourn the lost days and resent the pile of dishes, the loads of laundry, the unpaid bills that await my return to the everyday world. But instead of embracing the gift of recovery, instead of rejoicing in my ability to perform ordinary responsibilities, I resent the missed opportunities – all the activities, events and conversations that I could not join in.  The days spent entirely in bed. The days I could barely do anything for my kids. The days I barely talked to my husband. While I dwell on the lost fun, play, worship and work, I overlook the miracles right in front of my eyes - the sunrise, the birdsong, and the laughter of my children.

I don’t know why I find it harder to be positive when I am physically feeling better – I guess I get caught up in being behind. I neglect the present while I grieve the past. I practice grief instead of gratitude. When we find God when we are down and out, we casually cast Him aside when things are looking up. We call for Him in the pit, not on the plain.

Psalm 40.1-3. I waited patiently for the Lord to help me, and he turned to me and heard my cry. He lifted me out of the pit of despair, out of the mud and the mire. He set my feet on solid ground and steadied me as I walked along. He has given me a new song to sing, a hymn of praise to our God. Many will see what he has done and be amazed. They will put their trust in the Lord

Sometimes I don’t wait patiently, but God always hears my cry. He lifts me out of the pit, and as I crawl around and adjust to the Light, He picks me up and steadies my wobbly legs. Now it is my part – I need to sing the new song – the hymn of praise.

Thank You, Father, for your healing, your salvation, your unfailing love. As You lift my spirit, help me lift my praise to You.

                               

Traffic & Weather

"Oooh we belong together like traffic and weather, like traffic and weather"

 Fountains of Wayne

We can talk about these two subjects incessantly - with perfect strangers or the most intimate of friends - we love to talk, and especially complain, about traffic and weather.

I don’t have to contend with busy city traffic where I live, but I do spend a lot of time on the highway.  I admit I can be a bit of an impatient driver. Somehow I have justified my belief that the speed limit is a suggested guideline. So I often find myself frustrated when the vehicle in front of me is travelling below the speed limit for no apparent reason. The other day I was driving to town, following a car doing about eighty kilometres per hour, frequently braking and slowing down. The day was sunny, the roads were dry, and so I was grumbling under my breath that this guy should hurry up, or at least pick a speed and stick with it.  Then God showed me something so clearly I had to chuckle. He showed me how I was just like that car. On my faith journey through life, I frequently cruise along at a good pace, and then abruptly slow down. Usually I slow down because of fear – fear of the real challenges I will face on my life-road, or more often than not, completely imagined obstacles.  Or even worse than the car I was behind, I stop entirely. Or make a u-turn, totally disregarding God’s plan for me. Or I decide that God’s GPS must not be working and I veer off His road looking for an easier route.

I’m sure my friends, family and mentors notice my erratic life-driving, and question why I slow down so much, wander around the back roads and spin my wheels. Sometimes I simply put on the brakes, quit the engine, and lay my head on the steering wheel and cry. I forget that God is always in charge, and that He has a good plan for my life. I forget that my driving affects those people around me. What am I telling my kids about God when I give into fear, questioning my Sovereign Saviour? What do they learn from my inconsistent and often unpredictable faith journey?  What am I teaching them about other drivers? The way we handle ourselves on the road and react in traffic can be very much like the way we navigate our way through faith, life and community.

When it comes to weather, here in northern Alberta we tend to focus much of our complaining on the cold and snow. Sometimes it feels like winter begins in October and stays until the end of April. Then we have mosquito season, followed by a short glimpse of fall. But in truth we have unique seasons, in nature as in our lives. And each season has its own virtues. Its own purpose.  For everything there is a season, a time for every activity under heaven. Ecclesiastes 3.1

The cold and dark of winter can leave us tempted to stay in bed and pull the covers up over our heads. But when we venture out we see the beauty of hoar frost, sun dogs. Each one-of-a-kind snowflake reminds us that every one of God’s children is a unique creation. Even still we get to whining when it is too cold. And too hot. Too dark. Too bright. Too wet. Too dry. We, as the weather, go through transitions that can’t always be forecasted. Cold snaps break and we marvel at the warmth. Heat waves oppress and we are grateful for the refreshing rain. My hard heart has been warmed after a deep freeze. My fierce anger has been cooled by God’s grace. As the winds swirl snow across the prairie, the Holy Spirit has stirred life inside my soul. 

Just as the sun and the rain act in harmony to create the perfect environment for plants to grow and flourish, we need the right conditions in our soul to bear good fruit for God. And when we have those right conditions we will grow in the fruit of the Spirit, having built our house on the strongest foundation. So rather than complain when the winds and rain come, we can rejoice, knowing we serve the God who can still any storm. The Father that guides us on our journey through life. So bring on the traffic and weather – I will turn my complaints into praise for God, whatever the road conditions.

Referee Mom - my perspective

It can be difficulty to watch our kids take centre stage, or centre ice. We find ourselves holding our breathe as we hope for the right note, the right line, or the right pass. It’s not that we will be disappointed or less proud if our child makes a mistake, rather we are taking on their self-worth – hoping that their often fragile egos are untouched by embarrassment or shame. I have seen my kids shine in their public appearances, and I have seen them stumble. I watched the crowd cheer and laugh as one son hammed his way through a school play. I heard the congregation gasp in horror as another son dropped the cross the first time he served as crucifer in church.

Hockey life is no exception. We want our kids to do their best and have fun, but our human nature craves that they do well in the eyes of others.  That they don’t mess up. It can be difficult to rise above this desire of the flesh and accept mis-steps and mistakes. The first time I watched my now 11-year-old son Sasha play in net I was a basket case. I was so nervous for him – afraid the shots would be more than he could handle. Afraid of what his teammates would think if they didn’t win. Afraid of what the parents would say if he let in a soft one. I was fiercely protective of his self-worth – I wanted him to know deep in his soul that his best was enough, that I would always be proud of him. Thankfully he is blessed with a healthy self-confidence and a fun-loving spirit. He stays cool under pressure. Last season there was lots of pressure – his team was strong and they won the provincial final in their division. The boys were very determined to come out on top.  But some of the parents were over the top. Some took these games of nine and ten-year olds way too seriously. I tried to bite my tongue and send up prayers for patience and mercy as I listened to adults berate children. I just about bit my tongue clean off when one of the siblings in the crowd lamented to her mother, “Oh no, Sasha is in goal today.” I can’t fault her - she was simply a sponge soaking up her parents’ attitudes and voicing their criticisms. It was a harsh reminder of how we shape and affect the attitudes and beliefs of our kids for better or for worse.

If I thought being a goalie mom was a challenge, I was hardly prepared for the stress of being a referee mom. The first game my oldest son Finn reffed was probably harder for me than it was for him. I knew he was prepared – he completed the officiating clinic and tests, he had played hockey for years, he watched games, read the Hockey News, memorized stats and discussed the game with anyone who would listen. He was fully qualified and ready to go. But I knew how referees were treated – I wanted to put him into a bubble to deflect anything that could potentially hurt him. Even if he made all the best calls, someone would be upset. I’ve watched and cheered enough minor hockey and NHL games to know that even the most trained and eagle-eye officials are taunted, jeered and blamed for bad calls, non-calls, biases and blunders.

My son was reffing six and seven-year-olds, hardly NHLers… maybe the fans would be more forgiving? Sadly not. During that first game I was treated to a rant about the poor officiating from one of the player’s grandmas, a woman I went to church with no less! When I am a hockey mom I am easier to identify – sitting with the rest of the team parents cheering on the kids. As a referee mom I am camouflaged – it’s not like I wear a black and white striped jersey and shout “Great call! Way to go ref!” from the stands. So there is no filter from the complaints and criticism. I get to hear it all. It can be heart-breaking.

As a minor hockey parent I, along with all the other parents, am required to complete an online course, Respect in Sport. It teaches the importance of good sportsmanship as a player, parent and coach. We are told that in no uncertain terms that we are not to rebuke anyone in the game – not the players, not the coaches, not the referees. But all this positive teaching seems to fly out the window in the heat of competition. Apparently kind and caring neighbours and friends turn into armchair officials and seem to forget all the lip service to fun and encouragement. The refs become targets. Even 13-year-olds. Many coaches and parents bully and berate officials for their call of the game. And guess what their kids learn to do? And the cycle continues.

So what are we to do? Well, we are called to live out our faith in thought, word and deed. Love our neighbour as ourselves. Acting with integrity, compassion and honour in the arena isn’t always easy, but it goes a long way to model good behaviour to those around us. The game can get intense, and I have certainly got caught up in the competition before. I’ve said some things I regret. But I try to treat others the way I want to be treated. More importantly the way I want my kids to be treated.

Sometimes I find it hard to justify my love for the game, with all the fighting, the poor sportsmanship and just plain lousy behaviour, on and off the ice. But there are moments – when a teammate skates by Sasha and taps his pads after he lets in a weak goal. When a coach genuinely thanks Finn for reffing a good game.  The big grins after a hard-won game.  The support of respectful, encouraging and passionate parents, coaches, players and fans. We can teach our kids to be positive role-models and honourable people, who play their best, have fun, and know how to forgive. We want our kids to grow up to be kind and compassionate, not critical or cruel. So to you all hockey moms and dads, and grandmas and sisters too, let’s commit to supporting a generation of hockey fans that love each other as much as they love the game. That is when hockey will truly be the best game you can name.

Happy Hockey Day in Canada! 

Thirty-nine

So today is my thirty-ninth birthday. For most people it is probably not a very significant milestone, except by virtue of being only one year away from the big 4-0. I myself am relieved to turn 39, or rather to no longer be 38. Thirty-eight has this particular connotation for me:

 

  Now there is in Jerusalem near the Sheep Gate a pool, which in Aramaic is called Bethesda… Here a great number of disabled people used to lie—the blind, the lame, the paralyzed… and they waited for the moving of the waters. From time to time an angel of the Lord would come down and stir up the waters. The first one into the pool after each such disturbance would be cured of whatever disease they had.

One who was there had been an invalid for thirty-eight years. When Jesus saw him lying there and learned that he had been in this condition for a long time, he asked him, “Do you want to get well?” (John 5.2-6)

 

“Do you want to get well?” It seems like a rhetorical question, if not a stupid one. If you have a broken leg or cancer or a cold don’t you want to get well? Isn’t it a no-brainer? This man has apparently been waiting by this pool for 38 years as an invalid… obviously he wants to get well, right?

 

Some things aren’t as cut and dry as they seem. First of all, Jesus doesn’t ask stupid or rhetorical questions. It is a serious question and he wants an honest answer. We would expect the invalid to respond with a heartfelt “yes!” whether he realized who Jesus was or not. But instead of giving Jesus a straight answer, this is what he says:

 

 “Sir, I have no one to help me into the pool when the water is stirred. While I am trying to get in, someone else goes down ahead of me.” (John 5.7)

 

 He gives Jesus an excuse. He doesn’t tell Jesus if or why he wants to be healed; he tells him why he can’t be. And he blames it on somebody else, in fact the 38 other people that had presumably been healed right in front of him over the years. This is a man who believes in miracles – he has witnessed many – he just doesn’t believe them for himself.

 

How I relate to this fellow. I would love to say I have the tenacity of the woman with the bleeding issue who pushed her way through the crowd just to touch the fringe of Jesus’ robe. She had gone from doctor to doctor for 12 years with no success, and still she maintained the unwavering expectation that just a touch from Jesus would heal her. And it did. What a woman of faith. (Luke 8:43-48)

 

But I must admit I tend to be more like the man at the pool – offering excuses and deflecting the question. As much as I want to respond to the question, “Do you want to get well?” with a “yes”, I seem to respond with a “yes, but…”

 

Yes, but you don’t understand.

Yes, but it’s so hard.

Yes, but I’m so tired.

Yes, but it’s not fair.

Yes, but I can’t.

 

 

I feel like that man, but my paralysis is of a different kind. I am paralysed by fear, by anxiety, by depression, by despair. I have spent 38 years afraid. 38 years telling myself why I need to be afraid, why I will always be anxious, why I can’t help being depressed. 38 years paralysed beside the healing waters making excuses.

 

Thirty-eight represents that pointed question and my pathetic answers. Thirty-eight years on the sidelines are enough.

 

So I will say, “yes, Jesus. I want to be made well.” What does it mean to be made well? I have a hard time even imagining a life not ruled by fear, a life where my faith overcomes that fear and brings peace and joy. But Jesus came that I may have joy in this life, and have it in abundance. (John 10.10) I can’t even imagine this kind of life. I am so grateful we serve a God that does not rely on our own understanding, but a God “who can do infinitely more than we can ask or imagine.” (Ephesians 3.20) And when the negative self-talk and doubts and ruminations threaten to bring out the “buts”, I will say “I believe. Help my unbelief!” (Mark 9:24)

 

As much as I would love Jesus to say, as he did to the woman who was bleeding, “My daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace,” (Luke 8:48) I don’t know if that I how I am to be made well – in an instance. Perhaps true healing and restoration for me is not simply an anxiety-free life where I happily hop on planes and ride up and down glass elevators, but rather it is a journey of letting the Word and grace and love of God seep into my soul to become my reality. When the moment of fear comes I am able to say with confidence, “The Lord is my light and my salvation, of what then shall I fear?” (Psalm 27.1) When the old despair threatens to creep back in I will know that the joy of the Lord is my strength. (Nehemiah 8.10) It is an awakening, a realization that even when my flesh is rebelling and my mind is full of doubt that I truly can do “all things in Christ who strengthens me.” (Philippians 4.13)

 

Thirty-eight was the question. Thirty-nine will be my response – an answer I will likely need to repeat every day for the rest of my life – I will need to say it with authority amid whispers of doubt and shadows of despair. But I will say yes.

 

Birthdays come once a year, but the opportunity to be re-born comes with every moment.

 

 

Very truly I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God unless they are born again… born of water and the Spirit. John 3.3, 5

 

Then Jesus said to him, “Get up! Pick up your mat and walk.” John 5.8

Painting Pants & Loving Your Neighbour's Kids

We’ve spent the last three days painting, or rather staining, our house trim & deck railings. The division of labour is pretty clear – Paul paints up high and I paint down low. Sasha holds the ladder for Paul and fetches things. Finn tries his best not to work. (He did put in his time staining both the picnic table and himself.)  Jude watches. He is the only child who really wants to help, but as he is five, we needed to explain why it isn’t really a good idea. Nevertheless he has some suspicious “Redwood” splotches on his hands and feet…  

The first time I painted anything I was twelve, like Finn. My mom and dad built a fence in our backyard, and I was invited (or told, I’m not sure) to help stain it. The situation was probably quite similar to the past few days around here – convincing the oldest child that their assistance is crucial, (words like “responsibility,” “privilege,” and “allowance” might be thrown around); finding odd jobs to make the middle child feel useful; and consoling the littlest one who is devastated at not being involved. I don’t remember the actual work, but I remember my pants.

Of course when you paint, you can expect to get drips and spills on your clothes. That’s why we send our kids to school with paint smocks or one of Dad’s old shirts.  We dig through our closets and find clothes that are worn out or that we just don’t like anymore, that we are willing to designate as painting clothes. I chose a pair of grey sweatpants – the kind with an elastic waistband and tight leg cuffs circa 1986. By the end of the fence project, they were splattered and speckled and smeared with brown wood stain.

Normally we relegate these painting clothes to a basement closet until they are needed again, or they might even end up in the garbage. But I wanted to wear my painting pants. And I wanted to wear them to school.  In those days most girls, me included, were pretty concerned about wearing either stirrup pants or Levis, certainly not sweats. But I was determined to wear these ratty old pants to school. My mom was horrified that I would even consider going to school dressed like that, and told me in no uncertain terms that I was not to wear those pants out in public.

Why on earth did I want to wear those grubby old pants? Looking back, I think they were like a badge of honour. They were a symbol that I had done a grown-up job, meaningful work, physical labour. Of course my parents knew that, and presumably thanked me for it, even if they had to do a few touch-ups. But I wanted other people to know, to see the evidence of my usefulness and perhaps even skill. It was becoming more and more important to me what those in the category of people-who-are-not-my-parents thought of me. Knowing that my parents loved me, and thought I was good and nice was, well, good and nice. But as a pre-teen I wanted to be noticed and admired and liked by an increasingly wider audience. I knew I was admired for certain things… I was the smart girl. Everybody knew that. That label was firmly fixed and becoming cliché. I wanted out of the box. Or I at least wanted some paint on my box.

It is a normal phase of life as teenagers seek validation from the world beyond their families.  I’m sure most of can remember that sometimes overwhelming desire to be noticed by someone, or that craving for attention or approval or admiration. But it can become so all-consuming that if that validation is not found in healthy and supportive relationships, teens (and adults for that matter) can so easily turn to not-so safe people and situations. Negative attention is still attention.  And even if young people are getting positive attention, like I was, sometimes they are seeking different attention. “Good” labels are still labels. “Nice” boxes are still boxes.

At a workshop attended recently, the speaker was impassioned that we understand that all teenagers are hurting, if not for any other reason than the roller-coaster ride that is puberty. Now throw in school, parents, jobs, media, pop culture, bullying, facebook, self-image, sex and climate change. Now stick it all in a box and put a label on it. Hurting? You bet. And what does God want us to do for hurting people? Love them.  “So now I am giving you a new commandment: Love each other. Just as I have loved you, you should love each other.” John 13:34 NLT

God ‘s love is unconditional. He does not love us “because” or “when” or “if.” God loves us so much He died for us. All of us – me, you, young people. Moody teenagers and musical teenagers. Smart kids and smart alec kids. Compulsive texters and compulsive liars. Kids on skateboards and kids on drugs. Your neighbour's kids. The kind of kid you were. Kids in every kind of box with any kind of label.  God loves them all and tells us to love them too. Love them like He does.  We need to let them know that they are profoundly loved and valued, imperfectly by us, perfectly by God. You are loved. Period. Not you are loved because you are nice or smart or pretty. Not you are loved when you take your hat off in church or get good grades or paint a fence.

I think it’s safe to say that if you started walking up to all the teenagers in your neighbourhood and telling them you love them you might get some weird looks, or worse. So how do you show the young people in your life that you love them? “Dear children, let’s not merely say that we love each other; let us show the truth by our actions.” I John 3:18. Spend time with them. Listen to them. Support them. Pray with them. Be real with them. Get messy with them. Learn from them.

And if you're young: seek God, stay out of the box and paint with every colour you can :)

 

“Don’t let anyone think less of you because you are young. Be an example to all believers in what you say, in the way you live, in your love, your faith, and your purity.” I Tim 4:12 NLT

Chit Chat & Benediction

I finally got my hair cut today. I say “finally” because I really don’t get it cut as often as I should. It is incredibly thick and grows quickly, but I just don’t seem to make it to a salon very often. I think about it a lot but my split ends would tell you “more trimming, less thinking!” Perhaps. I don’t even have a regular stylist. I’ve been going to the same place for a few years now, but I usually see a different person each time. It has become a perpetuation cycle of neglect and shame  – I let six months go by, then when I do book  an appointment the stylist says, “When was the last time you had this cut??!” and I sheepishly tell her, “Um... I dunno.” ... then I am embarrassed to answer the question again in another six months so I put off making an appointment. Rinse and repeat.

But eventually I get myself to the chair. After the cursory comments about the remarkable thickness of my hair, we don’t seem to have much to talk about. There’s no more coiffure-related area to cover – no dyes or highlights or extensions. After a bit of chit chat about the weather, I’m pretty done with the small talk. Nope, not one for small talk.  I guess I like to retreat into my head... What I should make for supper? How do you build a better mouse trap? Which book should I read next? What’s really going on in the Middle East? Sometimes I make mental lists. Sometimes I pray. I occasionally re-enter reality... at least I try to answer the stylist’s questions when she asks me something. Today I was distracted out of my musings a Miley Cyrus song on the radio, and the ear-piercing of a two-month old beside me. (It wasn’t the crying that bothered me, but rather the fact that someone was putting holes in their infant’s ears. Not really a fan of unnecessary pain or Party in the USA.)   

A few months ago I often found myself listening to a particular Jars of Clay song - Benediction.  One day I was happily humming along, “Go into the world, knowing how much He loves you...” when I realized that I wasn’t singing the right lyrics. It was “showing how much He loves you,” not “knowing how much He loves you.” My slightly smug singing stopped as I realized this mistake was probably more far-reaching in my life than I’d like to think. Sure, I might strut around my little world knowing that God loves me, but was I doing much to show others how much He loves them? Whoops. Talk about missing the point... And not even a highly theological premise. Nope, a basic Sunday School lesson. “This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine...” I was caught red-handed, hoarding my light under a bushel.

So how are we supposed to “show & shine”, so to speak?  I do think actions usually speak louder than words, so first off we need to act and react in kind and loving ways. But when it comes to faith, there are sure to be plenty of questions, and hopefully enough answers. Sometimes we are the ones called to ask the questions. Or suggest the answers. This usually follows some small talk. Not necessarily in the barber chair, but you just never know... maybe I need to come out of my comfort zone and be more available, more in the moment. Not just at the hairdresser’s. In life in general. The fact is I enjoy being alone, and sometimes I need to be dragged out into company, companionship, community.

No doubt I still need some down time alone, but that is better viewed as fuel for the fire, not the fireworks. The Benediction is said at the end of many church services. It is a blessing, a command, a commission- you’ve been filled by the One, now pour out that love and mercy on the many. Go and show. How often do I go and think?!

So once I’m done with a little refuelling, I’ll try to go into the world showing how much He loves you... and maybe I’ll get my hair cut more often.

The Road to Emmaus

The Road to Emmaus

Upon registering at our conference – “Walking in the Moment” (Ecclesiastical Province of Rupertsland Synod – if you’re not Anglican, and maybe even if you are, you just might have to google this... I don’t think I’m going to get around to explaining the organization of the Anglican Church of Canada in this installment) we were encouraged to blog about our experience this weekend. The theme comes from Luke 24:13-35 – The Road to Emmaus. To me this story illustrates the proverbial “aha” moments in one’s life. The disciples didn’t understand why Jesus died, why the supposed Messiah wasn’t the King, until a “stranger” explained God’s redemptive plan to them.

As we read this passage today we want to yell to them, “I know the end of the story - pay attention! Open your eyes!! That stranger is Jesus! It’s Him!!!” Finally they do get it... yes hindsight is often 20/20. “Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road...?” (Luke 24:32 NRSV) How many times do we only clue in after the fact that God was with us during a difficult journey in our life? Or a confusing time. Or a scary place. Or an ordinary day.  Jacob said, “Surely the Lord is in this place, and I wasn’t even aware of it!” (Genesis 28:16 NLT) Eureka! The lightbulb goes on!!

A few years ago I broke my foot. Bad injuries should really be accompanied by good stories. Not this one. I wasn’t skiing or skateboarding or hiking or horseback riding. My foot got tangled in a phone cord and I tripped. But did I ever do a number on my foot – surgery and screws and nerve damage and crutches for months. It was a nasty break. I couldn’t go to work. I couldn’t pick up my toddler. It was a momentous task just to get downstairs, let alone try to do laundry.  A whole bunch of other things were seemingly falling apart. I was in pain and I was cranky and I was really feeling sorry for myself. And I was mad at God.

One day I was driving to town (awkwardly), wallowing in self-pity and probably scowling. I felt like God was so far away. He was an idea. A memory. As I dwelt on the distance of God I turned on the radio. This is what I heard:
“I'm with you. If you believe in me, I'll believe in you. In the loneliest place you've ever been
I'm with you.”  (I’m With You – The Stills.)

Fine, I thought sarcastically, God, so you’re with me. But I can’t feel you. Believe in you? I do – in my head, but in my heart? It’s too broken right now. And I’m still mad at you.

Then I thought, what am I talking about? This is not a song about God – this is the cheesy local radio station! This is some sappy Top 40 love song... they even use it in a beer commercial! Whatever.  I put God far away again and I went back to dwelling on my misfortune – angry and anxious.
“Breathe, just breathe, take the world off your shoulders and put it on me. I need you to hear me say  ‘Breathe, just breathe,’” (Breathe – Ryan Star)

Are you kidding me?! I almost drove off the road – this was EXACTLY what I needed to hear right now. I needed to stop holding my breath, waiting for something else bad to happen. I needed to let go and let God... so I took a deep breath... But is this really God talking to me? That’s crazy... isn’t it? I had never heard this song before, but I certainly needed to hear it now. Hmmm...

I eventually got to town and slowly and painfully did my errands. By the time I was finished, God was back in a box in a remote shelf of my mind and I was grumpy and sore and well, it’s just not fair.

Driving home I decided to take the back gravel roads. I meandered around the farm fields and metaphorically shook my fist at the universe and everyone in it. The radio has been on since I left town, but I didn’t hear it until now:
“And the tears come streaming down your face. Could it be worse? Lights will guide you home. And ignite your bones. And I will try to fix you.” (Fix You – Coldplay)

That was it. I pulled over and absolutely bawled... God was speaking to me through the Peace River radio station. He was using rock music to reach his hand out to me. Maybe He really was with me. Maybe He had been with me the whole time.

The disciples were walking down the road – depressed, confused, disappointed. And they were walking beside Jesus! How could they be so blind? He was right there beside them! How could they be so self-absorbed? So selfish? How could they not see that Jesus was victoriously walking alongside them?! How could they not know?

Wow. The scaIes fell from my eyes. How could I not know? My heart burned within. Jesus was walking beside me too. Yes, victoriously. I totally expected to see Jesus around the corner, cooking up some fish and breaking bread for me. I would’ve gotten out of the truck and ran over to say to Him, “I’m sorry.” And eat His bread.  So I guess that’s what I did.

I wasn’t exactly walking to Emmaus. And I realized that the journey was just as important as the “aha” moment. The journey can feel very lonely and hard, and sometimes the presence of the Lord is very subtle. And we are often better with thunder from Heaven messages than subtle and gentle companionship. Was I even trying to hear the still small voice?

My foot was still broken. And I was still prone to wandering off into self-pity. But I was not alone. Jesus was walking beside me. Always. Even when I was on crutches. And yes, like the famous footprints, when it was too hard for me to walk He carried me.

To this day my foot is changed. My gait has changed. My arch is different. My bones are crooked and my nerves are damaged. My walk with God has not only spiritually but literally and physically changed. And now my arthritic foot throbs, perhaps in rhythm with the heartbeat of Christ in me. Like Jacob’s hip after his wrestle with God, I have a physical reminder of my relationship and journey with my Father.

The Lord spoke to me when I desperately needed to hear Him. He opened my eyes when I  drastically needed to see Him. He told me He wants me to breathe. And He is with me. And He will fix me. Thanks be to God.

“Then their eyes were opened and they recognized him… The Lord has risen indeed!!” (Luke 24:31, 34 NRSV)

“People say I’m strange, does it make me a stranger...” (Jesus Freak – Newsboys)