The Power of Love

We’ve all heard of “earworms”, annoying little ditties that get stuck on replay in our minds till we think we’ll go crazy. I am beginning to think not all earworms are bad. There is a chorus of an old hymn that recently popped into my head and stuck there. I’m sure I haven’t heard it in years, and yet there it was, ringing through my thoughts as clearly as if sung by a choir. It said, “Love lifted me. Love lifted me. When nothing else could help, love lifted me.” Maybe it’s not just there to annoy me or drive me crazy. Maybe it is actually a message that I need to be reminded of.

I looked up the lyrics to the hymn since I couldn’t remember them after so many years. It was meant as a call to salvation. but I don’t think that’s the context my earworm is referring to. Becoming a Christian doesn’t mean you no longer have storms to contend with. In fact, life is full of billowing waves and angry seas punctuated by times of peace and refreshing. Do we walk or sink during those storms, that is the question.

Love that is absolute and unconditional is the key. We don’t find that anywhere else but in God. No matter how deep and enduring the love of a spouse, or a parent, or a friend may be, it might fade in the face of rejection or betrayal. It’s not easy to love with no strings or expectations attached. Add to that, I’m sure I have moments when I am just plain hard to love. We have a natural propensity for growing weary, giving up, or trying to protect ourselves. Only God does it perfectly. He never gives up on us. While we were still his enemies, he was willing to die for us. His love doesn’t depend on whether we love him back, or how well we perform.

Struggling with the chains of poor self-worth, insecurity, depression, shame, an inability to forgive, trust issues, a need to control, fears of all sorts? All these things are common, even among Christians. I particularly struggle with a need to perform well and a fear of failure. We get stuck in old patterns of thinking and feeling and can’t seem to make any headway in our transformational journey to become more like Jesus. If only we knew, really knew, what it means to be loved absolutely and unconditionally. I don’t mean just in our heads, but in our experience. That kind of love is what transforms us and sets us free from our chains. We need to know and experience and dwell in that perfect love.

There are so many people that I wish I could help to overcome the things they struggle with. I wrack my brain trying to think of some advice to give, some wise counsel or eloquent prayer that will heal them or at least make a difference. It often leaves me feeling helpless, frustrated and depressed. Maybe the best help I can give is to love them the way God does. I fail in that on a daily basis, especially when I try to do it on my own. It isn’t about trying harder or working at it. The only way I can love the way God does is to soak up that love for myself until it overflows. Maybe that’s what I need to do today, just sit in his presence and receive his love. It’s the most powerful force in the universe. When nothing else could help, love lifted me, and it will lift you too if you let it.

Was it an earworm, or was it the Holy Spirit? If it drives me to God rather than driving me crazy, I think I know the answer to that. May I be a sponge today and may the love I receive from God saturate me to such an extent that it can’t help but overflow to everyone I come in contact with.

Image by S. Hermann / F. Richter from Pixabay 

 

The Best Day of My Life - Attitude Determines Altitude

This week I am attending a writing retreat called ReFocus 2022. It was something I really needed. Badly. Many of you may be thinking that I have been flying off the radar for some time now as evidenced by the lack of any new content on my blog or website in what feels like ages. In truth, I haven’t been flying at all. In truth, I have been within a whisker of giving up writing altogether – a legacy of the brain fog and depression associated with my cancer journey. However, it seems God is not done with me yet, as a writer that is. I have experienced some significant improvement in my ability to concentrate over the past month and here I am, at the keyboard once again.

I recently watched the movie, City Slickers, or should I say re-watched it. It’s an old movie, a comedy where three friends from the city take a working holiday on a cattle ranch. It’s hilariously funny but has some profound lessons in it as well. In one scene each of them is asked to recount their best and worst days. One of them describes a horrible day that leaves everyone listening stunned at how bad it was. When they want to know what his best day was, he simply answers that it was the same day. Now there’s a thought worth thinking about.

One of the devotional messages here at the retreat included the story of a man who, when he turned 50, declared with confidence that the coming decade would be the best of his life, and it was. When he turned 60, he said the same thing, and it turned out that it was. I thought, why not carry that into every area of my life. I determined then and there that this would be the best week of my life. Not only that, I decided to set out each morning declaring that today would be the best day of my life. A friend once told me that attitude determines altitude and that stuck with me. If I want to fly, I need to change my attitude, press the “reset” button on the way I’m doing life. This seemed a good way to start.  

Of course, the only way you can say that sort of thing with any confidence is if you understand that every single day has the potential to be the best one of your life when God is in it, no matter what it might hold. I made a choice many years ago to give my life to God and receive His in return. That means He is present in every one of my days. That’s His promise and my reality though I often tend to forget it.

So, what about those days when everything goes wrong, bad things happen, or I mess up somehow? Let’s face it, not every day is sunshine and roses. How can I look back at the end of it and call it the best day of my life? How can anybody? The big question is, did I meet God there? Did I remember that He is always present? Did I let His love (which is bigger than any problem by the way) fill me, sustain me, strengthen me, comfort me? That’s what love does. Knowing that He loves me, and experiencing it in my darkest moments, is what can make my worst day also my best day.

Moments like that transform us. They are the birthplace of the confidence and peace that should be the mark of every believer’s life. That’s the hope that we can offer to the world. His promise can become anyone’s reality and every single day has the potential to be the best day of our lives.

Image by Jill Wellington from Pixabay

I Wish I'd Said It More

 

At this time of year and especially around Mother’s Day I find myself reflecting on that most difficult of roles - motherhood. I wonder if my mother had times when she felt like a failure or had doubts about herself and her ability to do the right thing when it came to my brothers and me. I know I can see my own flaws all too well, so she probably did have those same fears and doubts now and then. We screw up, all of us. There’s no denying it. I wish I could tell her now how much I appreciate who she was to me and how much I love and miss her. I should have told her more often when I had the chance. She’s been gone 18 years now so that chance has passed me by.

When my Mom became a mother, she must have been the least prepared woman on the planet. She didn’t have a happy or secure childhood to fall back on or any kind of example to follow. She was born in 1929 in what was once called Yugoslavia. Her mother was only around 16 years old at the time, a young wife in an arranged marriage. Shortly after my mother’s birth, my grandfather decided to emigrate to Canada where he planned to earn enough money to send for his wife and new daughter. Unfortunately, that was just about when the Great Depression was starting, and it would be at least 10 years before he could make good on his promise.

My mother and her mother spent those 10 years shunted from relative to relative with my grandmother having to work at menial jobs to keep them going while my mother was left to the care of others. When the money for their passage finally arrived they made the journey to a new country to rejoin a man who was virtually a stranger. Two years later my grandmother died at the age of 28, leaving my mother alone with the father she barely knew.

When my mother married my father it was on her 17^th birthday and at that time she didn’t even know exacty how babies were made. It was left to the local priest to explain it to her. She was 18 when my oldest brother was born. The picture I’ve shared was part of a larger photo of her holding him when he was a just a couple of months old. It’s how I picture her in heaven. She looks the happiest and proudest I’ve ever seen her, at least in that moment. But what was it really like for her? I’m sure she got plenty of advice on baby care from her numerous sisters-in-law. My Dad was from a large family. Still, I wonder how confident she felt on the inside. She had to learn as she went and was literally winging it from day one. Some people think that being a mother just comes naturally, instinctively, but not every woman is a natural. Some need to work hard at it and often find themselves at a loss to know what to do. Even though these days there are so many resources available for new moms compared to what my Mom had, we are all just winging it when you boil it down to where we’re being honest.

The hurts from my mother’s past affected the way she parented. That was inevitable. I think she tried hard to give us the things she had missed out on, and she tried to experience through us, some of the childhood that she never had a chance to enjoy in her own early years. She loved to play games with us and gave us plenty of affection. There was a lot of laughter in our house. At the same time, there was a needy quality to her love that we could never quite satisfy no matter how hard we tried. I must admit that raised it’s own set of issues over the years that we’ve had to work through. You might say the odds were against her doing well as a Mom considering where she’d come from. Did she do a perfect job? Certainly not. She made mistakes just as we all do. In the end, it didn’t make any difference though. She loved us in the best way that she knew how, and we never doubted it. We know for sure that she gave the job her all, she held nothing back, and that’s the most any mother can do.

If she were here today, I’d wrap my arms around her and tell her that I loved my childhood and wouldn't trade it for anything. I’d tell her that I know she did her absolute best for us and I couldn’t have asked for more. I’d tell her that I think she was an amazing and courageous woman, a good mother, and that I am thankful every day for the life that she and my Dad made for us. I’m thankful for the laughter we shared, for the example she set as an overcomer, and for the light she brought into the world despite all she’d been through. I’d tell her I still miss her today and I wouldn’t be the woman I am if it weren’t for her. I’d tell her that she will never be forgotten, and I will always love her. Happy Mother’s Day Mom.

The Fellowship of Suffering

There is a rare and special sort of camaraderie that grows out of shared suffering. The place where I’ve experienced that deep connection most dramatically was on an eight-day pilgrimage from Guelph to the Martyr’s Shrine in Midland that a friend and I signed up for back in 2009. She was doing it to honour the memory of a dear friend who had died in an accident. I was doing it to prove to myself that I could. There were as many motivations as there were participants.

It was a diverse group, from teenagers all the way up to senior citizens from varying backgrounds and walks of life. We didn’t know each other when we set out that first morning from the Ignatius Jesuit Centre in Guelph. My friend and I were two of a number of non-Catholics who were participating, and I have to say we were certainly made to feel welcome right from the start. Everyone was excited and eager to begin. I was also a bit nervous as I had never walked the kind of distances that we would be covering day after day. The most I’d ever managed was 20 km and we would be covering an average of 28 km or so with some days even going so far as 32km. The first day was one of the easier ones, being only 26 km.

The plan was that our support truck would meet us at pre-designated rest stops with water and snacks as well as setting up to serve lunch when the time came. After the last break they would go ahead to the place where we would be camping for the night. When we ‘walkers’ finally arrived at that spot we would need to set up our tents before collapsing into a lawn chair for a good foot soak in a basin of cold water. Supper would be served by volunteers, a different group each night, and we would help with the cleaning up afterward. There would be a time of reflection and sharing before we crawled into our tents to rest. The next morning we would be up at the crack of dawn to take down our tents and pack everything up to reload the truck and start all over again, beginning with worship and a morning mass.

By the time we trudged into the churchyard where we would be camping on the first night, I was sweaty, exhausted, very footsore, and triumphant. I walked the entire distance! I managed to get my tent set up in a respectable time and joined the others in the soaking ritual that was to become my favourite part of the day. Cold water never felt so good. It was hot so most of us left our tent flaps wide open to catch any breeze there might be. The volunteers were setting up a couple of tables under a canopy to serve out supper which we would eat sitting in our lawn chairs. While they were doing that most of us went into the church where we would be doing the Stations of the Cross together. For my friend and I this was a new experience and we were keen to participate despite our fatigue.

Unbeknownst to those of us inside the church, things were not going so well outside. In a matter of minutes billowing storm clouds rolled in and the skies opened to pour out a veritable Niagara of rain. Those who had remained outside ran around frantically zipping up tent flaps and throwing lawn chairs into the back of the truck. Supper that night turned out to be a dismal affair with all of us crowded under two small canopies where we had to eat standing up. It was chili so we could manage it with only a spoon and a bowl to contend with.

By the time I got into my tent I was thoroughly drenched. There was a good-sized puddle just inside where the rain had got in before the flap was closed, but my air mattress and sleeping bag were still dry. Everything in my duffle was bagged in plastic so I had no worries there. I struggled into dry clothes and tried to settle in for the night. My tent has an excellent fly with coverage all the way to the ground so I was reasonably sure that apart from the puddle on the floor, I would be safe from the storm. Rain sounds so much louder from the inside of a tent. At first I thought I’d never get to sleep but I soon got accustomed to the noise and began to find it soothing. The sky was just beginning to grow light when I was startled awake by the clanging of pots and calls to “Rise and Shine” the next morning. It was still pouring rain.

We had no choice but to pack up our tents soaking wet. I shuddered to think what it would be like to set it up again in that state. We ate our breakfast standing up in the same way we’d eaten supper the night before, crowded and chilled under the two canopies. It was not an auspicious start to the day, and it didn’t look like it was going to change any time soon. We filled our water bottles and geared up, making one last trip to the outhouses provided before lining up to begin our soggy march.  None of us were looking forward to having to squat in the bushes in the pouring rain.

When the line started to move I wondered if anyone else was questioning their sanity in having signed up for this. Then one of the ladies at the front of the line started singing. It was that old chorus “This is the day that the Lord has made. We will rejoice and be glad in it.” It wasn’t long before other voices joined in from all up and down the line. I realized that by singing those words I was making a choice about my attitude. I wasn’t the only one. Our backs straightened, our steps quickened, and our voices rose louder than the rain. It wasn’t long before we found ourselves smiling as we marched. We were a fellowship of sufferers, and it felt good. In a mere 24 hours we had gone from a collection of strangers to a cohesive unit all connected in some mysterious way on a level much deeper than we would have imagined possible. That feeling was one that continued to grow throughout the course of the remaining seven days and it was the best part of the experience for me. I learned that hardship knits hearts together like nothing else can, and that every new day is a gift no matter what wrapping it comes in. That’s something to remember in these times we are living in.

 

The Question of Joy

 

The joy of the Lord is my strength. (Nehemiah 8:10) But what does that even mean? The question of joy has fascinated me ever since I was a teenager. What exactly is it and how is it different than happiness? There’s no question that there is a difference. Happiness is that giddy feeling that makes you smile from ear to ear and maybe dance a jig and laugh out loud when everything seems right in your world. Is that what joy is, or is there more? The Bible says we are to rejoice in ALL things, yet heartbreak and struggle are a normal part of every life. Grief and sadness don’t seem compatible with smiles and laughter. I am convinced that the joy Nehemiah was talking about is something that goes far deeper than mere happiness. Joy must be possible even in those times when happiness is not. What exactly would that look like?

The picture that came to my mind when I asked that question was of two hands clasped as the world and all of life rolled by in the background, my hand clasped firmly in the strong hand of my Heavenly Father. The picture had a feeling of ‘rightness’ about it. I recently heard someone define joy as it is spoken of in the Bible as “the deep satisfaction and sense of fulfillment that comes out of relationship with God”. We were created with a need for intimacy that finds its fullest expression in the presence of God whose love for us is beyond anything we could imagine. Joy is rooted in relationship. The joy of the Lord is rooted in my relationship with Him.

I have come to believe that joy is knowing that I am not alone, and that no matter what storm I find myself engulfed in, I am utterly secure in His love. It makes peace possible in the chaos. It is comfort in my times of sadness. It gives me strength to take the next step when my own strength isn’t enough. It feels like hope. There may be times when it makes me want to sing and laugh and dance for sheer happiness, but mostly it’s a quiet thing that lies just below the surface.

It is in His presence, in my relationship with Him, that I will find the fullness of joy. I suspect I haven’t even begun to plumb its depths. It’s in the crucible of this crazy, unpredictable life that I begin to see the true worth of having my hand held securely in His. I’ll hold that picture of joy in my heart forever. It truly is all the strength I need.   

 

Picking up the Pieces

Have you ever felt like a ghostly, transparent version of yourself? How does one pick up the pieces after a six-month absence from everything that was once a normal part of your life? I know I am not the only one wrestling with that question. There are no easy answers.

Everyone is experiencing this pandemic is different ways. For me, the Covid-19 lockdown was added as icing on the cake to a cancer diagnosis back at the end of January. I don’t believe in luck or I would be saying I was one of the lucky ones. Instead, I see it as a gift from God that things moved very quickly, and I was able to have both my surgeries before the hospitals started their strict protocols and the shutting down of all elective surgeries. I still find it hard to understand how cancer surgery could be considered elective yet many of them, if not all, ended up being postponed. I am thankful that my case was not put on hold and I was able to go on and receive all the treatments I needed. I’m happy to report that it was a success.

A friend who just passed her 5^th anniversary of being cancer-free had some important insights to share from her own story. She told me that the months following the end of treatment can be just as challenging as the treatments themselves. Often when you are in the middle of the process, all you can do is focus on getting through the “next thing”. It isn’t until you pass the finish line that you are able to let down and begin to process the experience. Just when you think you ought to be able to coast on into your old life, you realize it just isn’t that simple. Add in the changes to daily life that we are all experiencing right now, and the difficulty multiplies.

Even being forewarned, I still somehow thought it would be easier. I have found myself struggling to know how to move forward from here. There doesn’t seem to be a playbook to follow. I still get tired easily. I am more emotional (even more than usual, I mean), and I wind up feeling overwhelmed by things that I would normally have taken in my stride. Low-level depression on most days makes it difficult to get up and start anything. I have not been able to get back to my writing in any meaningful way and that bothers me.

All of this could, of course, be a bi-product of the ongoing hormone blockers I will be taking for the next seven years or so. It also sounds like what many are going through as a result of the physical distancing and isolation the pandemic has necessitated. For one reason or another, I laid down all the pieces of my life back in early February, and now that it is time to start picking them up I am not even sure if I want to. Which of those pieces should I let go of, and where should I focus my still-somewhat-limited energies? How do I begin?

Firstly, I am told I need to cut myself some slack in all this. Unrealistic expectations only lead to frustration and guilt. I’ve asked God to help me discern what it is that I CAN do rather than what I only WISH I could do. There are some pieces of my life that will continue to be set aside, at least for now.

Secondly, I need to recognize that where I’m at today is not my “new normal” for the foreseeable future despite what the literature says about side effects of hormone blockers. There are things I can do to improve my energy levels and my mood. Once again, I am reminded that I have the power to choose when it comes to exercise and diet. When I’ve had a bad day and failed miserably, instead of giving up I can start again. If I do my part, I know I can trust God for the rest.   

I walk for exercise. To date, I have managed to increase my distance to 2.5 km. That may not seem like much, but I remind myself that I am carrying a little extra weight these days, a 40-pound pack to be exact. It makes a difference. I managed to lose 4 of those pounds which also may not seem like much, but I’ve decided to celebrate these baby steps. At least they are movement in the right direction.

As to my writing, it’s never been so difficult. Yesterday, I went to a park to sit under a tree and do some cursive free-flow, jotting down random thoughts as they popped into my head. It is said that those sorts of exercises help unlock the creative side of your brain. Today’s post is the result. It’s a small beginning and even the smallest beginnings deserve to be celebrated. It leaves me feeling hopeful and that’s a good place to start.

When Life Hands You an Unexpected Detour

My husband Bev and I love doing road trips. We pick a destination, plot our route, and hit the highway to see what we can see. Of course, we do like to have a fair idea of where we are at any time and which direction we are heading. That’s why we never go anywhere without a good map. I never realized how important good road signs are to the whole process until we travelled in Ireland a few years ago. Perhaps in a small country, the assumption is that everyone knows where they’re going so road signs aren’t necessary. Whatever the case, there were many places where we saw no signs at all. It’s hard to figure out where to go when you have no idea where you are. It rendered the maps all but useless and forced us to stop and ask for help any number of times – not such a bad thing as we met some great people that way. However, I discovered that I don’t much like not knowing where I’m going.

Here in Canada we rarely feel so lost, except perhaps when we run into an unexpected detour. At times like that, what we think will be a straightforward trip from point A to point B can end up taking us in a completely different direction. That might not matter so much if we are just meandering, but when we have a specific goal in mind, especially one involving a timeline, hitting a roadblock can be stressful. It’s like we are at it’s mercy and forced to head into uncharted territory right when we thought we had it all figured out and knew exactly what to expect. That’s when we have a choice to make. We can get all bent out of shape, or we can stop worrying about the destination and the plan and decide to enjoy the journey.

This year we were heading into the year 2020 with high hopes and a sense of optimism. We had some very definite plans in mind and were already marking things on our calendar in anticipation. We thought we knew exactly where the road ahead would be taking us. That’s when we hit one of life’s unexpected detours. At the end of January I was diagnosed with breast cancer and we now find that we are heading into uncharted territory. It’s a completely different direction than we were planning on, so we find ourselves with a choice to make. We can get all bent out of shape, or we can decide to embrace the journey and see what we can see along the way.

Living on Purpose

A friend once asked me how I was doing, and I answered by telling him I’d decided to live. His brows shot up and I hurried to clarify. What I meant was, I’d decided to really embrace life, to live on purpose, to grab hold of it with both hands and make the most of it. To be honest, some days I do better at that than others. I find it helps if I have something to reach for, something to look forward to.

For the last 35 years or so, my husband and I have made a point of setting goals in January for the coming year. We started the practice because of the post-holiday blues that can sometimes set in when all the hustle and bustle of Christmas is past. When so much energy goes into preparing for the holidays, the quiet days that follow can leave us (me) drifting aimlessly or crashing altogether. We wanted something that would energize us, give us a target to aim at, and create a little excitement and momentum in the drab winter months. We figured a date night that included a dinner out followed by a bit of brainstorming would net us a few plans for going forward into the new year.

That first year, we sat down and made a list of categories. It included things like financial goals, personal development, home improvements, ministry goals, vacation, and a few others like hobbies, that could conceivably fall into one of the categories already mentioned. It might sound dry, but it actually wasn’t. It got us talking and dreaming a bit as we jotted down our ideas. Once the list was made it got tucked away in a folder and we didn’t look at it again until the following year. We didn’t really need to. Most of the things we wrote down got fixed in our thinking just by talking them through. We were keen to get started and January came to feel like a fresh beginning.

Of course, we recognized right away that we would need to hold those plans loosely. After all, God is the one who is steering the boat. Proverbs 16:9 says that the heart of a man plans his way, but God directs his steps. Stuff happens and being flexible is a good thing. There was nothing hard and fast about those goals. There was no pressure and no guilt involved. Some years we were able to check off nearly everything on the list. Then again, there were some years when life took an unexpected turn, and a whole new set of goals got made on the fly. We still considered it a win even when we didn’t actually achieve much of anything that we’d originally planned on. Each new year, we’d pull that folder out and take a look at the road behind us before we started dreaming for the year ahead. It’s become an annual thing. The folder is getting full now and all those sheets of paper make an interesting record of the things we’ve done or thought to do from one year to the next.

This year, we’ve put off our planning date and may not get to it till the month is almost over. It seems like life may be taking one of those unexpected turns before we even get the year started. One or two unanswered questions could make a big difference in how the year unfolds so it’s probably worth while to wait a bit before we sit down to talk about goals.

Whatever 2020 might bring, we want to tackle it full on rather than as passive bystanders. You can’t steer a boat that isn’t moving. The specific goals we set aren’t really so important. What is important is that we live on purpose. No one knows for certain what a given year will hold but we know we’ll be able to handle the twists and turns that come our way because we trust the One who is at the rudder. It pays to remember that He loves us, and we belong to Him.

Peeling Back the Layers

I was riding in a friend’s car once and noticed a little square of black electrical tape stuck on the face of the dashboard. Curious, I asked what it was there for.

“Oh, it’s nothing, just that annoying little check engine light. I can’t get it to turn off, so I covered it up. The car is running okay anyway.”

Foolish? Perhaps. Those ‘trouble’ lights are there for a reason and when we ignore them, a small problem can sometimes turn into a much bigger issue.

Lately, I’m realizing that I have ‘trouble’ lights of my own that I don’t always pay attention to, and I’m not talking about my car. There are any number of small indicators in how I respond to the issues of life that hint at some underlying problem. It’s often easier to ignore the signs than to dig a little deeper to see what lies beneath.

For instance, when I get annoyed or impatient at how slowly something that is outside of my control is happening, I often treat the symptoms with several deep breaths and a treat or a distraction of some kind. My coping mechanisms are like putting a band-aid on my check engine light. Getting to the bottom of things takes time and hard work. It can be painful to discover that my annoyance might be due to my own issues.

When I’ve taken the time to examine the ‘why’ behind my emotions, I’ve occasionally been forced to recognize a need to be in control just below the surface. If I peel back that layer, I discover fear tucked away underneath it. Fear that the result I am hoping for will not happen if I don’t make it happen, fear of failure. Where does that come from? One layer deeper, and I realize that I’m actually afraid of being judged or measured by my performance. And hidden beneath that is the lie that my worth is based on how people see me. I’m not even going to touch on how pride figures into all of that.

Once I’ve peeled back enough layers to discover the lie that is so often at the root of my lack of peace, I can do something about it. Repentance is a good place to start. Follow that with the choice to actively trust in God and what He says is true. He says that my worth is incalculable, and it doesn’t change. I am precious in His eyes. It is not dependent on my performance or what people think of me.

Now, when I find myself shaking a fist at a driver who insists on moving 20 km/hour below the speed limit, I automatically catch myself. I don’t have to start from scratch this time. I remember what was under the surface when I peeled back the layers the last time and give myself a little shake. The annoyance drains away as I am reminded of who I am and who God is, and that He is in control. It’s quicker and more effective than chocolate… and easier on my waistline.  

Memories

We just got back from a visit in Northern Ontario where we had a much enjoyed taste of winter with my brother Dave in Elliot Lake. We got to go snowshoeing through the woods and across the lake to have a winter picnic complete with campfire and toasted sandwiches with a cup of bush tea to warm us as we sat on a log in the sunshine. We did get to see a wolf but not while we were on our hike. He passed by Dave’s building where it backs on the bush at the edge of town while we watched through the living room window. We were snowshoeing on that same trail but saw no sign of him other than his prints in the snow. There is something wonderfully peaceful about the silence of the snowy wilderness on a cold, still morning. Even the swamps are beautiful in their carpet of white. It’s one of the things I miss, living in the south. It brings back a whole landscape of happy memories.

I thought about that on the long drive home. Memories are such a gift, treasures to be brought out and enjoyed over and over again. Sometimes I like to capture my favorites on paper so they can be shared.

When we passed the sign for Black Creek just north of the turn-off for Highway 17 I was reminded of another one. It’s a 50 year old memory now and back in 1993 I wrote it down. I thought I’d share it here.

“The Cabin on Turtle Lake”

Dad built the cabin in a lonely spot close to the eastern shore of Turtle Lake. To reach it we travel up Black Creek by canoe, crossing eight beaver dams in the process. The trip takes hours and we mark the distance by the number of times we clamber out of the canoe to negotiate those barriers of interwoven sticks and mud. When the count reaches eight we begin to watch for the trees to thin out and allow us our first glimpse of the lake.

Turtle Lake is long and narrow, with a rocky shoreline that in places rises up like the walls of some ancient fortress. At its eastern end, where the cabin sits in a clearing on the banks of the creek, the land slopes down more gently and the birch and poplar trees give way to tall grass and bulrushes. The swish of our paddles sounds loud in the stillness as we push through the reeds to land. The trail from the shore to the clearing in the trees is carpeted with autumn golds and the clean smell of wet leaves and distant pines is like a tonic.

The clearing is dominated by the squat shape of the cabin. Its rough walls of pine logs rise only five feet from the ground. They are topped by a peaked log roof covered with black paper that smells of tar when the sun warms it. A length of old blackened stove pipe sticks up from one corner at a jaunty angle. The low door is made of smooth unfinished boards that have weathered to a dull grey. It has hinges made of old tire rubber and sports the only window in the place. That tiny square of smudged glass and the rusty latch look almost out of place here. A squirrel chatters a welcome from the woodpile stacked neatly along one side of the building. Two makeshift sawhorses of crossed poles stand ready with an uncut log resting securely in the notch formed by their upthrust arms. The ground below is littered with sawdust and wood chips.

The dim interior of the cabin smells musty after the fresh air outside. The odours of pine gum, old wood smoke and lamp oil envelope us as we step over the threshold onto the hard packed dirt floor. There is only one room. In the corner stands the stove, made of an old oil drum propped up on bricks. Two sets of bunk beds line the side walls. Actually, they are just frames made of rough cut poles and strung with chicken wire and padded with a thick layer of canvas, but they look inviting after a long day. The only other furniture is a small sturdy table sitting opposite the stove with a box of kindling under it. There is a shelf on the wall above it that holds the oil lamp and an old, faded tin snuff box that we keep matches in. A chipped and battered enamel cup also sits there. It holds the wilted remnants of a handful of wild flowers that once provided a spot of colour to the otherwise drab room. The cup fits my hand like an old friend as I lift it from the dusty shelf and carry it out into the late afternoon sun. Leaves is what we want this time, I think to myself. Orange and yellow and gold.

Much More Than Goodbye

I originally wrote this post for Family and Faith Matters in 2014.

This morning when my husband set off for work I saw him off at the door with a hug and a kiss and a “Have a good day”. I’ve been doing that for almost 34 years and I suppose it’s a habit now. It’s much more than a habit when I stop to think about it though. It’s a wish and a prayer and a blessing all in one and it carries the love and respect I have for this man who is my partner and soul mate right out the door with him when he goes into his day.

The concept of sending people off with a blessing is not a new one. The word goodbye actually originated with the phrase God be with ye.

I was watching the movie “Gladiator” recently and in it the Roman soldiers parted with a hand grip and the words “Strength and Honour”.  What a great way to send someone off! Honour is a word we don’t use much these days but it is another way of saying integrity or uprightness of character. I can almost feel myself standing a little taller and stepping out with a little more vigour when I hear that parting wish.

Most of us are familiar with the old Irish blessing.

May the road rise up to meet you.

May the wind be always at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face,

And the rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

I suppose I might try saying that to my husband as he leaves for work in the morning but it is a bit cumbersome. I’m more likely to stick with my simple “Have a good day”. It has a power and beauty of its own when accompanied by that hug and kiss. Or maybe I’ll mix it up a bit and add an occasional “Strength and Honour”, or even the Vulcan “Live Long and Prosper”. I can just see the raised eyebrows now. At least he’d be going out the door with a smile on his face.

The next time you say goodbye make it more than just goodbye. It’s the chance to send someone off with a wish and a prayer and a blessing all in one.

Seasons

I originally wrote this post in the fall of 2014 for Family and Faith Matters.

Photo courtesy of  Suat Eman @ FreeDigitalPhotos.net

The last of the raspberries are picked and safely stored in the freezer for our supply of winter smoothies. I’ve gathered all the apples and their fruity scent makes my mouth water whenever I go into the front porch where they are waiting for my attention. Over the next few days I will turn those baskets of apples into jar after jar of applesauce to sweeten our mealtimes during the cold season. Today though, the kitchen counter is covered in tomatoes and peppers that came from my husband’s flower bed vegetable garden. It’s time to make chili sauce.

I love living in a country that has seasons to mark the passing of time. Each season has a unique beauty to enjoy but there’s more to it than that. There’s a rhythm to our days when we live in a place that has seasons. At least that’s true when we are part of an agricultural community. We spend the summers growing and gathering and storing food for the winter. We spend the winters renewing our strength and planning and preparing for the next growing season.

Life has seasons too. Ecclesiastes 3 says, “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens…” No matter what particular season I am in at the moment, whether it is a time of mourning or a time of dancing, I know that it is only for a time. I believe that God uses each season in my life to prepare me for the ones to come. I can embrace whatever season I am in and know that there is a purpose to it that goes beyond whatever my current reality is. That gives me satisfaction and confidence and hope. My life is in the hands of a Master Gardener and nothing ever gets wasted in His economy.

What should I do with the time that I’m in? That’s the million dollar question. How can I make the best of this particular season while it lasts? Thankfulness is always a good place to start. Then, I think I’ll start on that chili sauce.

Chili Sauce

12 large tomatoes

4 large onions

½ bunch celery

1 ½ green peppers

Chop all finely

Add: 2 ½ c. vinegar

         3 c. sugar

         2 T. salt

         1 T. pickling spice in cloth bag

Cook 3 hours on low boil or until thickened. Seal in jars.

Don't Lose Your Balance

I originally wrote this post for Family and Faith Matters in 2014.

How are you at keeping your balance? I don’t mind admitting that mine isn’t as reliable as it once was. There are no gravity defying stunts in my repertoire. In fact, I like to keep both feet firmly planted on the ground whenever possible.

It was actually a little difficult going for walks this past winter with the sidewalks often icy and deep snow making the footing treacherous. I tend to be quite cautious because of a fall I had a few years ago that left me with a dislocated elbow and a broken finger. I still remember the flash of panic I felt in the split second when I realized I was going down.  

It wasn’t long after that when I decided to take an exercise class that was designed to improve core strength and balance. When I started out it was a little dangerous to stand anywhere near me. I had serious wobble issues and would often fling an arm out in a desperate attempt to stay upright in some of the positions we were asked to assume.                    

I did improve as time went on. It helped a tremendous amount when my instructor told me to keep my eyes focused on one spot on the floor about six feet in front of me. I learned to pay attention to where I put my feet and not to lean too far in any one direction. Those were important lessons in more ways than one.

I am a mother of three married children and I have seven grandchildren with one more on the way. Add aging parents and friends who need support to the mix and it’s easy for me to get so outward focused that I forget about my own needs in the process. I lose my balance and once that happens, the desperate fling of an arm is not enough to keep me from going down. When I crash the consequences can be both painful and far reaching.

A dear friend reminded me recently that self care is not the same as selfishness. I need to keep my balance in this busy life of mine.

That means choosing carefully where I put my feet. It’s okay to say no.

It means not leaning too far in any one direction. I need activities that will feed my soul and bring me back to centre.

Above all, it means keeping my eyes focused on the one thing that doesn’t change – God and His love for me.

 

Seize the Day

I originally wrote this post for Family and Faith Matters in 2014.

 

 

I have a confession to make. I am a natural born procrastinator, unlike my good husband. He likes to know that when the sun goes down at the end of each day, his efforts have made a difference and he can check things off of the ongoing list that he carries in his head.  One day I found a list written on the white board on the side of our fridge. I was glancing through it when one item caught my eye. There, in bold red capitals, were the words, KISS YOUR WIFE. The rest of the items got erased one by one but that one stayed for as long as there was a list. It made me smile. Those three words would jump out at me whenever I went into the kitchen. They let me know that I was more important than anything else that needed doing.

I’ve learned to set goals and to reach them eventually. I may not like endless lists of jobs to be done and I suppose I will always have a tendency to put things off until tomorrow, but people are too important to be allowed to slip through the cracks.

We live in a world of todays and none of us knows how many of those we may have. We’ve lost a number of friends in recent years, some of them suddenly and without warning through accidents or heart attacks or devastating illness. As we grieve each loss, we are achingly reminded that none of us really knows what today will bring. We have our goals and our plans, our dreams for the future, and yet, today may be the only day we have.

I can’t really afford to be a procrastinator when it comes to the people in my life. There are some things that shouldn’t be postponed. Things like forgiveness, simple appreciation, random acts of kindness, and words like “I’m sorry”, “I love you” or “I am so very proud of you”.  I don’t want to let opportunities for the really important things slip by me because I am telling myself that there’s always tomorrow. That just may not be true.

We’ve all heard the term Carpe Diem or Seize the Day. It doesn’t sound like something a natural born procrastinator would live by but I think it’s a good motto. Perhaps it’s time to take some of my good intentions and put feet on them.  Are there words that need saying or people I should see? I need to make this day count because it may be all that I have.

 

 

The Quest for Humility

I originally wrote this post for Family and Faith Matters in 2014.

 

     I had to laugh the day my brother spoke up in mock serious tones to give his opinion on the subject of humility. “What’s the point of being humble if you can’t boast about it?” he quipped. In our culture of independence and individualism and looking out for number one, there doesn’t seem to be much room for humility. Yet if God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble as it says in James 4:6, then genuine humility is a character quality that I definitely want to grow into. It’s a journey that I expect will last a lifetime. Genuine humility builds bridges and connects people. That’s something the world needs.

The fruit of a humble heart is pretty attractive when I think about it.

·         Recognizing my weaknesses so that I can grow and change

·         Having a teachable spirit

·         Accepting and appreciating others without judgement

·         Forgiveness freely offered and freely sought

·         The ability to offer unconditional love

·         Obedience and trust

·         The kind of inner security that doesn’t need or seek after attention or recognition

·         Placing others ahead of myself and having a desire to serve rather than be served

·         Gentleness and kindness and the ability to really listen to people

True humility is not born out of a sense of inferiority or weakness. It comes out of knowing yourself to be loved absolutely, just as you are. That is a place of strength and total security when you know that the One who loves you is God Himself.

Perhaps that’s what I need to come back to when I sometimes catch myself talking too much and looking for attention, or feeling resentful of critical feedback, or passing judgement on my neighbours. God is quick to forgive and give us a fresh start whenever we acknowledge that we’ve fallen short. I love that about Him. My fresh starts always begin by asking God for a deeper revelation of His love for me. There’s no better place to begin if I want to practice humility.

Philippians 2:1-4 Therefore if you have any encouragement from being united with Christ, if any comfort from his love, if any common sharing in the Spirit, if any tenderness and compassion, then make my joy complete by being like-minded, having the same love, being one in spirit and of one mind. Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests but each of you to the interests of the others. (NIV)

 

 

 

What Do You Do With a Broken Heart?

I originally wrote this post for Family and Faith Matters in 2014 and I am now reposting it here.

Relationships can be painful. If you have people in your life the potential is always there for misunderstanding, rejection and even betrayal. The more you care, the greater the pain when something goes wrong. When that happens, the temptation to let your heart get hard in order to stop the hurt can be a strong one. You might decide to run away, or wear anger like a suit of armour to keep yourself safe, but life inside that particular armour isn’t any picnic, and we were never designed to live in isolation. We were created to love and be loved with all the risks that entails.

How do you keep your heart soft when your emotions are in tatters and the pain seems unbearable? I can tell you this. When I found myself in that place I did the only thing I could do. I cried out to God about it….

Lord, I don’t think I can do this. It hurts too much.

I know.

It feels as though my heart has been torn right out of my chest and thrown on the ground and stomped on.

I know that as well.

Paralysed, I stand staring at the sorry mess that was and is my heart. It lies in the dirt, all bruised and squashed and bleeding and I feel helpless.

I don’t know what to do, Lord.

The answer comes in that still, soft voice that I’ve come to recognize and love in the course of a lifetime.

You can stand there, paralysed, staring at the sorry mess that was and is your heart, or you can pick it up and give it to me.

In the silence I can feel His gentle urging. The whisper in my mind comes again, softer yet. 

Pick it up and give it to me.

I reach down slowly into the dirt and gather up what is left of my heart and hold it out to Him. As I do so, I find that my eyes are no longer focused on my pain. They are focused on Him and in that moment something changes. I am reminded of just how much He loves me. I can’t explain it, but I find the pain easing and strength returning, and I can move and live again. His love can soften a heart of stone and it comforts me and heals me.

I have decided. I will keep my heart soft and risk the pain that comes along with the joy in relationships even if it means that I might find myself in this place again, with a heart broken and bleeding in the dirt.

I know what to do now. I will pick it up and give it to Him.

Psalm 147:3 “He heals the broken hearted and binds up their wounds”

Ezekiel 36:26 “I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.”

 

Story Time

I originally wrote this post for Family and Faith Matters in 2014.
 

 

I grew up before cable TV. No Netflix, no Google, no i-tunes, no social media. It was a simpler time. We played more. We read books and sometimes, we read them together.

“Story Time”…I feel a little thrill of pleasure when I think of those two simple words. They conjure up all sorts of happy memories for me and even now, sharing stories is one of my favourite things to do. You’re never too old for Story Time in my opinion.

 I’ve always loved to read. I can lose myself in the pages of a good book, transported to faraway times and places with characters that come to life in my imagination. A story becomes an adventure, an experience to be treasured. How much better it is when those adventures are shared.

I can remember spending long lazy afternoons with my brother, the two of us curled up at opposite ends of the bed in the attic bedroom, taking turns reading aloud from a tattered and much loved copy of J. R. R. Tolkein’s Lord of the Rings. Later we laughed ourselves silly trying to read Bored of the Rings, Henry Beard and Douglas Kenney’s parody of the trilogy. We could scarcely get through a page without dissolving into giggles. We were teenagers at the time.  There was something special about sharing those experiences. We were forging a connection that would last a lifetime.

That was one of the reasons I so looked forward to Story Time with my own three children. It may have started with picture books and bedtime stories but it didn’t stop there. We carried on with the tradition whenever we had opportunity. We could get through whole novels on some of our camping trips, especially if the weather was bad. They were happy times. In fact, I was still reading aloud and sharing books with one of my boys right up until he left home for university. He loved to listen.

They all have their own families now and I like to picture them reading aloud to their children. As for me, I keep a collection of favourite books on hand.  I am looking forward to reading to all those grandchildren as they get older. There are some things worth hanging on to from the days when life was simpler. Story Time is one of them.

Lessons From the Labyrinth

I was walking the labyrinth at our Women’s Retreat at Mount Alverno early on Sunday morning. Unlike a maze, a labyrinth has no blind alleys or multiple choices in direction. You can go forward or back but you can't get lost. The path simply winds in and out and around the circle a number of times before it finally reaches the cross at the centre. It is supposed to represent the spiritual journey we are all on in the course of our lives. I was praying for our adult children as I walked and a number of insights came to me as I followed the convoluted path in front of me.

1.      Every person’s journey is different and if I am looking on from the outside I cannot see the entirety of the path. It would take looking down from above to be able to see how the twists and turns ultimately lead to the centre. Watching someone else walk it from the outside, I would just have to trust that the designer of the labyrinth knew what He was doing. There are no shortcuts and there are no wasted steps. He has a purpose in every one of those twists and turns.

2.      There are times when the person on the path is actually walking away from the centre so that from the outside it appears they are going the wrong way. My instinct would be to try to get them to turn around but that would be wrong. There was even one spot on the path where the centre was entirely hidden from sight by the intervening bushes and shrubs. It would be a mistake for me to try to direct someone else’s steps when I can’t see the big picture. I had to admit that I would need to let go and let them walk on their own. I would need to stop trying to direct their steps. That’s God’s job. The only good advice would be to keep putting one foot in front of the other no matter what it looks like. There are bad patches. You never know what you might encounter but the path takes you through those and eventually gets you to your destination.

What is my part? I can cheer them on from the sidelines and maybe offer refreshment along the way but the biggest thing I can do for them is pray. How do I pray for my children who are walking their own journey? Intercession…spiritual warfare… I found myself praying that they would keep moving forward, always forward, and that God would protect their lives so that they would have the chance to go the entire distance. I prayed against the lies and schemes of the enemy that would seek to confuse and deceive. I prayed that chains would be broken so that they would be free and able to keep walking. Depression can stop a person in their tracks. I prayed that they would be able to recognize those things that entangle their feet and hold them back.

 

How do I know they are even on the path? We started them on that path when they were children and we gave them back to God. He hasn’t forgotten. That gives me confidence. Beyond that, I just have to trust and that’s part of my own journey.

Just Give It a Try

Hold on and lean forward, feet tucked below the seat as you sail back and up. There’s a split second pause at the top of your arc. That’s when you lean back and stretch out your legs, face tilted to the sky for that stomach lurching swoop with the wind ruffling your hair and your mouth open wide in an involuntary grin. Just for that moment it feels like flying. I’d forgotten how much fun a swing could be.

I was on a visit to my son Jason’s family in Ottawa. We’d taken my granddaughter Evaine to the park and no one else was around. Jason was pushing her on the kiddie swing so I decided to sit on the big swing to wait. She’d likely want to move on to something else in a moment or two. Muscle memory is a marvelous thing. Without any conscious thought at all I found myself automatically pushing off, legs working back and forth in the pumping action I’d learned as a child. Higher and higher until I imagined my outstretched toes would touch the clouds. I haven’t done that in years and now I wonder why. It was great!

When we got back to the house Jason brought in a couple of gigantic mats that he’d salvaged from the climbing gym. He set them up in the basement for me to use as a bed. They were about eight inches thick and the two of them together made a bed about eight feet square. My husband was due to arrive in a couple of days so he wanted us to have plenty of room. The whole family could have slept on that makeshift bed but in the meantime it made a great spot for jumping and Evaine was bouncing up and down and flopping onto her back with gleeful abandon.

Eventually she tired of the game and I was left alone to set up my sleeping space. I stood there for a moment looking at that enormous spongy expanse before sitting on it and giving it an experimental bounce or two of my own. I had an outrageous impulse and shook my head as though to dislodge it. It was too ridiculous. I think my earlier experience with the swing must have dislodged my common sense. I told myself I should act my age. On the other hand, no one was there to see me. Why not just give it a try? What was the harm?

 I checked the stairs to make sure I really was alone before returning to the mat and furtively getting into the correct position for what I wanted to attempt. A moment later I lay sprawled on my back trying to stifle the giggles that threatened to erupt. I confess it now. I, Robin Livingston, 57 year old grandmother of eight, did a somersault when no one was looking. In fact I did two.

I don’t know what got into me but somehow, when I am around my grandchildren I remember what it was like to be a child myself. I end up doing some pretty strange things. That didn’t happen when my own children were small. Too much responsibility I suppose. If you don’t have grandchildren of your own maybe you should borrow some. They will help you to remember that it’s fun to play.

 

Photo courtesy of Stuart Miles @ FreeDigitalPhotos.net

 

 

 

 

The Big Question

Most of us can look back at our lives and pinpoint certain events that were pivotal in our growth and development. There have been a few of those in my life and I expect that there will be a few more since I still have plenty of growing and developing to do before I’m done. However, I am thinking of one particular event, probably the most significant in my life. I know that it affected me at a profound level and shaped my entire future. The memory jumps out at me, still crystal clear after 40 long years…

It was the final exam in my grade 11 Ancient History class. Odd?  Well, perhaps, but Roger McCombe was not your average teacher. He was quirky and unconventional and we never knew what he would come up with next. We could show up for class to find him wearing a toga or encouraging us to build a chariot to compete in a race at an annual Classics Convention. He made learning fun. He was a teacher who genuinely cared about his students and I think he believed that getting us to ask questions was more important than getting us to recite a lot of facts.

One day he announced that each of us would be scheduled for an appointment the following week and we would be taking our final exam one at a time. We had one week to prepare and it would be an oral exam consisting of a single question. All we had to do to receive a passing grade was demonstrate that we’d given the question serious thought. Serious thoughts take time so he gave us the question in advance. It wasn’t complicated and no one had to write it down. He simply asked “Why do you think you were put on this earth?”

I was 16 years old and above all things, I wanted my life to matter. That question rattled around in my head and I wanted an answer far more than I wanted a passing grade. I needed a place to think so I climbed the hill behind our house and found a rocky vantage point where I could look out over the treetops below. We weren’t a religious family. We were Catholics but we hadn’t attended church in years. I believed in God but all I knew about him was what I’d seen in movies like The Ten Commandments or Ben Hur. It occurred to me that if there was a reason for my existence, God would know. Maybe what I needed to do was just ask him.

I had my very first encounter with God on that hilltop. By the time I came down I knew what my answer to the big question would be. When my turn came I walked in and sat across the desk from my teacher and looked him in the eye.

“I was put on this earth to experience joy,” I said. He raised an eyebrow so I tried to explain. “I’m not talking about fun or even happiness. I think joy is something far deeper than either of those and I think that it comes from God.” There was a pause while he waited to see if I had anything more to add but I shook my head helplessly. That was it. It took less than 30 seconds. It was one question but it was an exercise that shaped the course of my entire life.

I think Mr. McCombe knew his question had the potential to do that. It wasn’t really a final exam after all. It was his final gift.

(image courtesy of Master isolated images/FreeDigitalPhotos.net)