The sweet, earthy scent of freshly cut grass wafts through the open window on the gentle morning breeze and greets me while I sit in contemplation. It rouses me from the quiet, inward conversation with you, closer than my breath, and I am led into the great, cosmic conversation you are having all around me. I lean in to listen. I hear the birds from their perches amid the new buds of the trees sing the song my heart wrote for you, the song we all sing and will always sing. I see the branches dancing to the joyful tune, the clouds - now parting, now coming together - to wash them in shadows and light. I see that it is good. You made it all good. And I drink in that goodness like a long awaited glass of cold water.
You invite me to seek first the kingdom.
The hidden kingdom.
The here, but not fully here, kingdom.
The treasure of great value.
The thing it was your glory to conceal.
The think it is my glory to seek out.
And you say,
My dove is hiding behind the rocks, behind the outcrop on the cliff. Let me see your face; let me hear your voice. For your voice is pleasant and your face is lovely.
Song of Songs 2:14
And I wonder, am I part of this hidden treasure of your kingdom? Am I buried somewhere in need of excavation and recovery? You say I am hiding behind rocks, concealing my face, stilling my voice. Did I run into the cave when I heard you coming, just like my mother Eve?
Oh to be this tree. To be so fully who I was created to be without the slightest hesitation, confusion or insecurity. To stand so majestic and self-assured! To be so fully occupied with worship as to not even consider myself. Oh to be this tree who knows exactly who he is and has no need of the knowledge.
I don’t know how to bare myself - like these trees. Like the morning breeze. Open and honest. But you say I am lovely. You say my voice is pleasant.
So I give you what I have, from where I hide, a caveman awaiting rescue.
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
Sidewalk Chalk
Musings.
The girls laboured all afternoon. Sun kissed and radiant as they played like children. Their unlikely project? Covering the concrete step, where the buskers sit, in sidewalk chalk. It was hours that they devoted - laughing as they laboured away the sunny, Sunday afternoon.
Where were the buskers that day? Maybe enjoying a Sabbath respite, letting other artists fill the streets with other kinds of art. Maybe hungover.
But today, the step is clear. Mostly clear. There lingers just the faintest outline of a rainbow, only visible to the keen and determined eye. The eye determined to see it. Everything else washed away. All the rest disappeared into the street with last night’s deluge of rain. All the rest just vanished like the notes of the song now playing, caught up in the wind before anyone got a chance to enjoy them.
But the busker plays them anyway.
I guess it makes me wonder, what is it all for? The chalk on the step? The song in the wind?
Something in me is awakening, yearning, leaning, pressing, longing.
Something in me is tapping my foot.
Something in me is picking up this soundless melody - perceiving invisible colours - dreaming intangible dreams.
What is it all for? Too hard to say. Too impossible to say. To limiting to try.
I just want to be a part of it.
I want to be a part of making things beautiful, even if it can’t last forever.
I want to offer something that might disappear into the breeze, or run down the drain.
But I am scared to.
I am scared to let beauty live in the eye of the beholder and not chronicled in some folder for posterity. I am scared to let Margo say her first word only to have it caught up in the wind - a first fruits sacrifice. I want to save every moment, every wave, every babbled nonsensical word, every wet, open-mouthed kiss. Every cuddle. Every brave attempt at standing. I want to canonize her life - recording and curating her. Making sure I don’t miss anything. Don’t lose anything.
But she is slipping through my fingers. Shapeshifting before my eyes, shedding the very skin I’m aching to kiss forever as she outgrows it. And she isn’t mine. She doesn’t belong to me. She’s like the sidewalk chalk on the busker’s step. She’s like this song on the wind. The more I try to memorize the less I actually hear. The more I try to save the more clearly I see every note caught up in the wind as it floats through the trees and out over the ocean
I’m scared to spend myself and have nothing to show for it. Nothing left over. I’m scared to dream these big dreams because they reach as far as the stars - stars I could never hold in my hands and keep.
But. What else is there?
But. I’m just a wisp of smoke anyway. Here today. Gone tomorrow.
No matter how much I record.
So maybe it’s in the letting go I am remembered.
So maybe it isn’t saving every moment that will show Margo that she is loved. Maybe it’s not in the holding on.
Maybe in the letting go, maybe in the wasting, the spending, the throwing into the wind, the faint impression of my life’s love, poured out in reckless abandon, could still show up somewhere, hidden in her, when the sun hits her just right.
The girls laboured all afternoon. Sun kissed and radiant as they played like children. Their unlikely project? Covering the concrete step, where the buskers sit, in sidewalk chalk. It was hours that they devoted - laughing as they laboured away the sunny, Sunday afternoon.
Where were the buskers that day? Maybe enjoying a Sabbath respite, letting other artists fill the streets with other kinds of art. Maybe hungover.
But today, the step is clear. Mostly clear. There lingers just the faintest outline of a rainbow, only visible to the keen and determined eye. The eye determined to see it. Everything else washed away. All the rest disappeared into the street with last night’s deluge of rain. All the rest just vanished like the notes of the song now playing, caught up in the wind before anyone got a chance to enjoy them.
But the busker plays them anyway.
I guess it makes me wonder, what is it all for? The chalk on the step? The song in the wind?
Something in me is awakening, yearning, leaning, pressing, longing.
Something in me is tapping my foot.
Something in me is picking up this soundless melody - perceiving invisible colours - dreaming intangible dreams.
What is it all for? Too hard to say. Too impossible to say. To limiting to try.
I just want to be a part of it.
I want to be a part of making things beautiful, even if it can’t last forever.
I want to offer something that might disappear into the breeze, or run down the drain.
But I am scared to.
I am scared to let beauty live in the eye of the beholder and not chronicled in some folder for posterity. I am scared to let Margo say her first word only to have it caught up in the wind - a first fruits sacrifice. I want to save every moment, every wave, every babbled nonsensical word, every wet, open-mouthed kiss. Every cuddle. Every brave attempt at standing. I want to canonize her life - recording and curating her. Making sure I don’t miss anything. Don’t lose anything.
But she is slipping through my fingers. Shapeshifting before my eyes, shedding the very skin I’m aching to kiss forever as she outgrows it. And she isn’t mine. She doesn’t belong to me. She’s like the sidewalk chalk on the busker’s step. She’s like this song on the wind. The more I try to memorize the less I actually hear. The more I try to save the more clearly I see every note caught up in the wind as it floats through the trees and out over the ocean
I’m scared to spend myself and have nothing to show for it. Nothing left over. I’m scared to dream these big dreams because they reach as far as the stars - stars I could never hold in my hands and keep.
But. What else is there?
But. I’m just a wisp of smoke anyway. Here today. Gone tomorrow.
No matter how much I record.
So maybe it’s in the letting go I am remembered.
So maybe it isn’t saving every moment that will show Margo that she is loved. Maybe it’s not in the holding on.
Maybe in the letting go, maybe in the wasting, the spending, the throwing into the wind, the faint impression of my life’s love, poured out in reckless abandon, could still show up somewhere, hidden in her, when the sun hits her just right.
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Chapter Three
I feel like I'm entering the next chapter in the story of my life.
And as a writer, if I still am one, if I ever was one, I feel the need to leave some record of the metamorphosis for posterity. Who should require this posterity? Perhaps only my own vanity. But I hope not. I hope there is value in the telling.
I know it must be a new chapter because my own self offends me. I read my past descriptions of 'who I am' on this blog and it chafes like an ill-fitting wool sweater -itchy and small in the armpits. I'm squirming to get out of it and put on something new, something that breathes. I'm desperate to crack out of this small shell and discover what's actually happening in the world. I've become weary of my narcissistic wonderings: 'who I am' and 'what am I doing' and 'where am I going'. Instead I've discovered infinitely more engaging questions: Who is my Lord? And what is He doing?
There is also the issue of the burgeoning life in my womb. I carry with me an unborn child who beckons me into something, or is it that she's causing me to become aware of something already underway. Dare I name it "maturity"? Whatever this is, it feels an awful lot like growing up.
So I am becoming a disciple.
I am becoming a mother.
And the two are equally terrifying.
Both realities cause me to lift my eyes and wonder at the depravity of my world, my city, my own soul. Both realities cause me to lean hard into the Spirit I am only just getting to know and hear.
How can I get ready for a baby to come? How do I prepare for the King of Kings to come? Both are imminent. And both have already changed my life even though I've never met them face-to-face.
Beyond that I cannot say what the chapter is about. I suppose I will only learn in its telling.
And as a writer, if I still am one, if I ever was one, I feel the need to leave some record of the metamorphosis for posterity. Who should require this posterity? Perhaps only my own vanity. But I hope not. I hope there is value in the telling.
I know it must be a new chapter because my own self offends me. I read my past descriptions of 'who I am' on this blog and it chafes like an ill-fitting wool sweater -itchy and small in the armpits. I'm squirming to get out of it and put on something new, something that breathes. I'm desperate to crack out of this small shell and discover what's actually happening in the world. I've become weary of my narcissistic wonderings: 'who I am' and 'what am I doing' and 'where am I going'. Instead I've discovered infinitely more engaging questions: Who is my Lord? And what is He doing?
There is also the issue of the burgeoning life in my womb. I carry with me an unborn child who beckons me into something, or is it that she's causing me to become aware of something already underway. Dare I name it "maturity"? Whatever this is, it feels an awful lot like growing up.
So I am becoming a disciple.
I am becoming a mother.
And the two are equally terrifying.
Both realities cause me to lift my eyes and wonder at the depravity of my world, my city, my own soul. Both realities cause me to lean hard into the Spirit I am only just getting to know and hear.
How can I get ready for a baby to come? How do I prepare for the King of Kings to come? Both are imminent. And both have already changed my life even though I've never met them face-to-face.
Beyond that I cannot say what the chapter is about. I suppose I will only learn in its telling.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Save Our Church, Indeed
Saskatoon’s downtown has a number of old, stately churches that quietly hold up the city’s skyline. Whimsically I wonder what it would be like to worship in buildings of such beauty and history, to stand united with the generations of Christians that have gone before. Does God manifest with more holiness when surrounded by opulence and serenity, quiet and dignity? It all looks so reverent. So fit for a king.
The sheen wore off a little when I walked past the billboard outside 3rd Avenue United Church the other day. At first I thought the message was a prayer.
“SAVE OUR CHURCH”
It quickly became obvious however; the message was not to God at all. Alas, it was a fundraising campaign. The unfortunate (read: heretical) choice of words reveals the faithless core which is perhaps less audibly announced in so many other of our city’s churches. Turns out the grass is not greener on the more stately side of the field. We’re all eating the same stale cud, waiting for the same rain from the same dry sky. All of us sniffing around the same wells for water that will always leave us thirsty again.
Save our church?! Are we really looking to our wandering congregations, to the lost souls outside our closed doors to come and save us, validate us, bring us back from the brink of irrelevance?
And then Jesus.
I guess he’s not fooled by the beautiful stone structure on 3rd, or our oversized quonset on the city's outskirts. He sees the heart of his beloved. He knows those on whom his saving power is not lost. Feebly, inarticulately I echo with those who have gone before – Lord, save your church!
Only you can.
On earth as in heaven.
The sheen wore off a little when I walked past the billboard outside 3rd Avenue United Church the other day. At first I thought the message was a prayer.
“SAVE OUR CHURCH”
It quickly became obvious however; the message was not to God at all. Alas, it was a fundraising campaign. The unfortunate (read: heretical) choice of words reveals the faithless core which is perhaps less audibly announced in so many other of our city’s churches. Turns out the grass is not greener on the more stately side of the field. We’re all eating the same stale cud, waiting for the same rain from the same dry sky. All of us sniffing around the same wells for water that will always leave us thirsty again.
Save our church?! Are we really looking to our wandering congregations, to the lost souls outside our closed doors to come and save us, validate us, bring us back from the brink of irrelevance?
And then Jesus.
I guess he’s not fooled by the beautiful stone structure on 3rd, or our oversized quonset on the city's outskirts. He sees the heart of his beloved. He knows those on whom his saving power is not lost. Feebly, inarticulately I echo with those who have gone before – Lord, save your church!
Only you can.
On earth as in heaven.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Liberate Christ from Christmas
Spring has descended on our city with a breath of fresh air. All those dusty, dirty, dead things still lying around since last year are being swept up into this scouring of sunshine and sweet breezes. Tree buds poke their noses into springy scents and sigh with relief. Winter is finally over!
We are a liberated people.
So, Mr. B. and I were cruising downtown Sunday morning to enjoy a pre-church meander by the river. It was the kind of morning that seems like a movie. No wind. No ripple on the river (is that even possible?!) and the air held an almost mist-like dreaminess. I was drifting into my happy zone, coffee in hand. Is anything better than springtime in love? Leave it to me, I guess, to find a distraction.
In this dreamlike haze I was suddenly provoked by a bumper sticker I read on the car in front of me. Now when I say provoked, I mean provoked. The kind of provoked that warrants flipping the bird, if one were prone to do so, or saying something really rude like, “Get behind me Satan!”. At first I could not even identify my source of anger. It was simple enough. “Christian”, even.
Keep Christ in Christmas.
Without time for consideration I began yelling from our car, “No! Please, Lord! We can’t keep you in Christmas! Not even death could keep him! Do not stay in Christmas! Get out! Do not limit yourself to this consumerist, one-day-only, falsely advertised event that barely hints at your glory! Get out of that manger scene prison! Get out of those lame-ass greeting cards that demean your power. Manifest instead in each of the other 364 days of the year you made with your conquered-the-grave power and your created-the-heavens-and-earth beauty! Bust out of Christmas, Lord! Bust out of our lame churches that preach mediocre news at best and stand on the street corners with a loud speaker of love.”
By this time Shane is beginning to wonder if I’ve lost my mind. Probably by now he’s lost interest in our morning walk. But I’m literally nearly in tears! Is this what we’ve reduced him to? A fight for a shout-out in our kids’ school plays before a week of gluttony and excess? Keep Christ in Christmas. I dare you to try!
Yeah, yeah. I know the argument. I know that Christmas should be about Jesus. I've heard the conspiracy about Xmas being a way to cut out the Christ. Honestly, I sometimes think Jesus would be the first to cross his name out of Christmas. I feel like this weekend I got a taste of how soft-core our faith can be and I find myself gagging on this lukewarm fodder. Let’s liberate Christ from Christmas. Let’s take him to the streets! Let’s bring him to work! Let’s unleash him in out churches. Let’s try, if just for today, to remember that he is already in us, keeping us in him.
We are a liberated people!
Friday, October 14, 2011
Me and U2
Alone.
At.
Last.
Can I even remember the last time this happened?
Just me?
Me and U2.
Spoke too soon. Never mind.
Door opens.
One, two, three girls.
Oh well, I had that half hour - punctuated only by the whiff of the pungent diaper I found under the couch.
Oh but I love them.
I'll try again later.
Tonight is now Me, U2, and these three. Somehow the math does not end in an evening of contemplation and writing.
To be continued...
At.
Last.
Can I even remember the last time this happened?
Just me?
Me and U2.
Spoke too soon. Never mind.
Door opens.
One, two, three girls.
Oh well, I had that half hour - punctuated only by the whiff of the pungent diaper I found under the couch.
Oh but I love them.
I'll try again later.
Tonight is now Me, U2, and these three. Somehow the math does not end in an evening of contemplation and writing.
To be continued...
Thursday, September 15, 2011
I'm not ready to be a mother...
Newlywed question from day one: so, are you thinking about kids?
I can feel prying, busy-body eyes raking my abdomen for signs of expansion. I'm self-conscious of bloated days for fear it will all be misunderstood. But when I think about the eventuality of motherhood I picture process. It starts with stretch-marks and cravings. Late night wake up calls and messy diapers. Bonked heads and first words.
Perhaps that's why I'm reacting so violently to my first tastes of mother-hood. No process! I skipped right from newly-wed to up-all-night-worried-sick-mother.
Somehow Shane and I became parents and our kid is already 18. And she has a kid. (So I guess we also get diapers and late night crying) Does that make us grandparents?
I'm not sure how anyone does this parenting thing. How do you survive when your girl is out in the world, all night, and you're not sure she's okay?
When did they get big enough to go it alone?
When did I?
Crash course for beginners I guess.
I can feel prying, busy-body eyes raking my abdomen for signs of expansion. I'm self-conscious of bloated days for fear it will all be misunderstood. But when I think about the eventuality of motherhood I picture process. It starts with stretch-marks and cravings. Late night wake up calls and messy diapers. Bonked heads and first words.
Perhaps that's why I'm reacting so violently to my first tastes of mother-hood. No process! I skipped right from newly-wed to up-all-night-worried-sick-mother.
Somehow Shane and I became parents and our kid is already 18. And she has a kid. (So I guess we also get diapers and late night crying) Does that make us grandparents?
I'm not sure how anyone does this parenting thing. How do you survive when your girl is out in the world, all night, and you're not sure she's okay?
When did they get big enough to go it alone?
When did I?
Crash course for beginners I guess.
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