In which someone wishes their girlfriend was hot like me

My sister told me the funniest story the other day. I’m still chortling about it.

She has this co-worker that is rather vapid with a tendency to embarrass herself by drinking too much and saying things best not repeated. They were at a tradeshow in Las Veg*s as a team and, of course, Mandy wound up assigned to the same hotel room with this girl, whom I will call “Ashley”. Mandy just decides to kind of ignore her and go about her work week. On the last night, she went out for supper with a few other co-workers while Ashley went out to the clubs to dance and generally make a fool of herself with some local friends. Mandy went back to her room early and goes to bed.

Around 4:30 in the morning, Ashley stumbles in, completely drunk. She slurs into the room, waking Mandy up with her knocking about. She tells Mandy about some horrid girl that she had to punch at the club which then got her kicked out of the club. Honestly. This girl slugged it out with some other chick at the club. So Mandy is furious. First of all, she’s rooming with the village idiot and now she’s been woken up from a sound sleep by Drunken Ashley needing a shoulder to cry on. Eventually, Ashley passes out on the bed.

With a sigh, Mandy turns over and goes back to sleep.

Five minutes later….

“Doncha wish your girlfriend was HOT LIKE ME…”

Yes, Ashley’s cell phone ring is the most obnoxious song in the history of mankind. And it’s ringing. Over and over. And over.

Mandy is now cowering in her bed with her pillow over her head. Ashley is snoring through “Doncha….doncha….doncha” (the best lyrics in the world, don’t you think?). Mandy finally throws her covers off and strides through the room to turn the phone off.

She can’t find it. Finally she finds the phone. “Doncha wish your girlfriend was hot like me….doncha….doncha….”. She can’t turn it off as it’s locked. So she flings Ashley’s suitcase open and buries the phone it so the “doncha wish your girlfriend was hot like me” is now a faint irritation and drifts off to sleep. All night long, every 15 minutes or so, the phone starts to sing again.

She emerged the winner of the Worst Roadtrip Roomie Ever Award.

In which I reflect on Christmas a bit

Even though it is not yet December, I am thinking a lot about Christmas. I’m determined to get organised this year. I don’t really like the shopping or the busyness. The “tone” of the mall is utterly depressing. Usually the only thing I like to do that’s connected with Christmas is write the Christmas letter and do Christmas cards. I know most people hate this but I totally dig it. And I love getting Christmas cards. It makes me sad that so few people do it any longer. I think that these types of small traditions are so important (why? I couldn’t tell you….) and meaningful. It kind of bugs me when people don’t send out cards or photos. Not quite as much as it bugs me when I don’t get a thank you note though, mind you (and I don’t count email). For some reason, to me, there is something sacred about pen to paper and a stamp. I love the tangibility of it. And it’s just once a year, as the rest of the time I email and Facebook-it with the best of’em. So send me a card. LOL

We are going to try to decorate the condo this weekend. Shouldn’t take too long to decorate 850 sq feet. I’ll have to find a skinny little tree that I can stuff in a corner as we simply don’t have room for it. But I won’t be denied. A tree we must have!

And then we’re going to start our Christmas shopping early. We are going to Omaha this year and so will have the Styles Christmas a week or two earlier. So I’ve got to be on my game.

We’ve also been having the big “to Santa or not to Santa” discussion. I’m a big fan of Santa but Brian wasn’t too sure. He didn’t like the idea of anything “taking away” from the significance of the Christian holiday. But I think I convinced him when I told him we’d just tell Anne that Santa loves Jesus and that’s why he gives gifts. LOL I love make-believe and think that children only have their passport to fairyland for such a short period of time. Let them pretend. So we’ll have a few items under the tree from Santa this year. I can give in on Halloween but I’ll hang in there for Santa and the Easter Bunny.

There are other things that we do to try to keep the focus off of just crass commercialism gifts at Christmas. We have a book of Advent that we read every night in December to prepare our hearts for the celebration. We give money to homeless shelters. We get together with friends. We get together with family. We open up our home. We donate gifts to ministries that work with the homeless or orphans in Africa. We take time to write to friends. We light candles and pray. We read the Christmas story on Christmas morning before opening gifts. We always go to church on Christmas Eve. It’s those small things that keep me sane throughout the chaos of the season.

We have had some snow over the past few days. It’s crisp outside and the sun starts to set at 3:30 in the afternoon. The longest night of the year is nearly upon us. I read in a magazine (can’t remember which one?) that there are some churches like the United Methodists that open up their church on 21 December (winter solstice) for Longest Night Services. It’s specifically for those people that are grieving due to death or divorce or loss over the holidays or simply don’t find a lot of joy or comfort during the season. It’s a night to remember, grieve, weep and then turn towards hope. They read Scripture, pray for each other, tell stories, read poems and sing songs. The significance of worshipping on the darkest and longest night of the year can symbolise ones own life: the turning from darkness to a gradually growing light. The transformation from despair to hope, from dark to light. I like this tradition and will hope to implement it when we are pastoring. To recognise and validate grief while turning towards hope as a community is a beautiful and powerful thing. I suppose it resonates with me because we have all, at one time or another, had our own “dark night of the soul” and learned (or not) to turn towards Hope and reach towards Light and be comforted in Love. The holidays with their overwhelming emphasis on commercialism and materialism can stampede over the truth of the fact that Scripture teaches us that “God sets the lonely in families”. And not the traditional family. But that as a community we wrap our arms around each other and hang on, even throughout the Longest Night.

In which Anne Murray reminds me of Hoot

I picked up a CD this week in a fit of nostalgia. Anne Murray, the great Canadian songstress of the 70s in particular, has just released a “greatest hits” of duets with current artists. It’s full of her signature songs like “Danny’s Song”, “Snowbird” and others. It’s a great CD and so Anne and I have been singing all morning together while I chore around for Thanksgiving.

But here’s the reason I bought it: Anne Murray is one of my most vivid memories of my maternal grandpa. His nickname was Hoot. He loved Anne Murray and had all of her records. I remember looking at the album covers when we visited their home in White Sands just outside of Regina. He just thought she was the last word in talent.

So I shed a few tears this morning, remembering my grandfather.

He died when he was just 60 years old (I was 11) from cancer brought on by a lifetime of hard living. He was an incredibly complex man that battled alcoholism and dragged his family into some dark years. But I don’t remember that side of him as he had more or less (sometimes more, sometimes less) sobered up by the time we were around. I remember his voice, gravelly with cigarettes and age. I remember his chair where he sat while we were over and he offered us black licorice candies. I remember the smell of rum and coke. I remember that he always wore brown polyester pants - never shorts - even if it was over 40 degrees. I remember his black hair always being styled. I remember that I thought he was devestatingly handsome. I remember Anne Murray. I remember having an early consciousness of how deeply he believed in God and how his faith ran through him like wine through water. I remember how tenderly he watched his grandchildren play. I remember that my Dad was one of the few people that could yank his chain and make him laugh so hard, he’d nearly cry. I remember one year, for my birthday, he sat on the floor and played an entire round of a cabbage patch kids game with me while I wore my Brownies uniform. I remember his inexplicable ability to communicate his love and care to his family even when it was hard to articulate. I remember him being terribly indignant with his brothers, Gus and Norm, when they came over once with a hat that read ”Old Fart” because he thought it was uncouth to wear in front of his grandkids. I remember one of the last days of his life when he, gaunt with cancer and ravaged by disease, pulled his oxygen tank into his old truck and asked my Dad to drive him around one last time because he just loved being on the road.

He died far too young.

So I’m listening today to Anne and thanking God for Hoot. Despite the fact that I only knew him through a child’s eyes, I learned something so valuable from him. I look back on it now and I can see a miracle. Despite his illness and his demons, his kids, at the end of his life, gathered around him in love and forgiveness. There was no bitterness or hard hearts. It showed me the tremendous capacity that we, as human beings, have to love and be loved, forgive and be forgiven. Despite the hard years and the poor decisions, his children knew how desperately he loved them and they, in turn, desperately loved him.

In which I dwell more deeply on the trampoline

I have taken a few days off of work this week. It’s American Thanksgiving and, in honour of my Midwestern husband, we celebrate the holiday. Brian wants our kids to identify with their American heritage so celebrating these American holidays “in a strange land” are important to him. We are having a friend over (actually a guy who plays for the BC Lions…hmmmm…wonder how he’ll handle all of these Rider fans???) along with my family. I will begin the baking and cooking this afternoon and continue until late tomorrow. It’s a lot of work to sit around and watch people eat and watch football.

I love days off with Anne. Today, we wended our way to our community centre for playtime. In the winter time, the Arenex (so called because it is next to the hockey arena….) opens up the gymnasium for all kids under the age of 4 to run roughshod. There are trampolines, gym mats, toys scattered from top to tea kettle and the general chaos of 45 preschoolers, toddlers and babies playing together.

This type of thing is not easy for me. I am by nature a solitary person. I prefer to speak only when spoken to and rarely like to be the one to put myself “out there”. I don’t need a lot of friends. But because I married Brian (who, as those of you that know him can attest, can make people weep in the grocery store lineup because they finally feel “understood” and can make a bosom friend on the ride up the escalator), I have learned to be more people-friendly. It started about 7 years ago and has had moments of truth. I remember learning that hospitality is actually a Christian practice. Then I had no excuse. Over the years, I’ve learned to open my home, to reach out to others and generally stop being so damn self-absorbed (still learning that one as those of you that know me can attest….). And as we’ve moved forward in our dream of starting a church, we’ve come to the conclusion that it is vitally important that we dwell more deeply in our context, embracing the world and lovely people that are around us as the “dream come true of God”.

But it’s still a big deal for me to walk - by myself - to the Arenex with my 15 month old and just walk in. But I did it! We truly want to live in “community” and not just “stay here”. I hate the thought of going through my life not knowing my neighbours, never making a friend that lives down the street or participating in the life of New West. I was so blessed when we lived in NB as our dearest friends were our next door neighbours - on both sides! - and just across the street. We all went to church together. We’d wander outside in the dark and run into each other, eventually laying out on our driveways to ponder life and the stars and have a beer. We could pop over each other’s homes for an hour without being inconvenienced. It was real community. I’ve desperately missed that ease and so am trying to create that again in my life. It probably won’t ever be the same as that but I’m sure trying.

So Anne and I kicked off our shoes and I got to work. I chatted with dozens of mothers and fathers, grandmas and aunties. We laughed over our kids. I played with their babies. I hopped up on the trampoline and bounced the babies around as they screamed with laughter. I resisted the urge to snatch up my child when another bratty preschooler swiped a toy or hollered “no” at her. I even resisted the urge to sit in the middle of the floor and hum for a bit while rocking back and forth when the noise levels reached rock-star-concert-decibel levels.

And to be honest, I had a great time. I made a few new acquaintances. I met a lady that we’d already chatted with about baby-sitting Anne next semester. She was wonderful and so welcoming. I was exhausted and drained but I had a nice time and we’ll certainly do it again. Brian will likely be the one taking Anne most of the time as I work during the week. But there were a lot of stay-at-home-dads there and it will be nice for Brian to make a few new friends too. He’s such a sociable guy. Whereas I am energised by alone time, he is energised by people.

I lasted a whole hour and a half before finally bundling Anne up and heading home.

Sometimes hospitality can be practiced outside of one’s home. Sometimes we need to welcome others into our life before we can welcome them into our home. This reminds me of the scripture that sagely notes that “to make friends, show yourself friendly”. Common sense scripture!

In which the American healthcare system is unveiled

19 November 2007

We watched the latest Michael Moore film “Sicko” on Saturday night. I highly recommend it to every American.

Health-care is always something that we’ve felt rather passionately about, particularly the American system. Since I lived in the States for 8 years and Brian is American, we did have our run-ins with the system. We are incredibly blessed by our health and lack of chronic diseases or major accidents. Brian and I are both strongly in favour of universal health-care.

As a Canadian, I could not comprehend that I had to pay to go to the doctor. Or pay for medical care that I needed. I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous as making people’s health a “for-profit” system. It’s demeaning and anti-family and just plain wrong.

In Canada, Tommy Douglas (a pastor from Saskatchewan) started the universal health-care movement in Canada. There was initially the usual hue and cry; the doctors went on strike, the people were told they’d wait for years for care, that the quality of care would deteriorate.

It all turned out to be hogwash. No, it’s not a perfect system. But you know what? It’s ethical. It’s effective. It’s working well. We don’t carry the worry and cost of medical care. And I have to be honest, I love it.

For instance, when I became pregnant in 2005 and we were living in Tex*s, I was referred to an ob-gyn. They immediately gave me free samples of formula. Formula! I was 5 weeks pregnant and already the profit driven machine was encouraging decisions that are known to place undue risks on babies. Then when we discovered that the baby had died in the womb at 11 weeks, when I didn’t elect for the surgery to remove the baby (a D&C), they dropped me like a hot potato. I was no longer $$ to them. I laboured at home to deliver the baby myself. And yet somehow for months afterwards, we were paying incremental bills that eventually added up to well over $1500. For a pregnancy that ended at 12 weeks and was delivered at home. My friends, when they delivered their babies, had to go on payment plans. $400 a month until they had paid their deductible. I have other friends that have sick children or parents. And rather than being able to concentrate on being well or caring for them, they are consumed with worry over money, spiralling into debt and losing their minds with the stress of it all.

On the other hand, with Anne, I never paid a bill. I went to every appointment with Brian. I delivered in a beautiful hospital. I had the best ob-gyn known to man and a phenomenal birth experience. They centered the entire process around natural birth. After Anne was born, they immediately encouraged and coached breastfeeding. There was no nursery to whisk the baby away to so that they could stuff formula in her; she slept in my room. Brian had a cot to spend the night with us in our little room.

Sure, my friends had a more beautiful room. My room decorations were sparse and the hospital was older. But I had a family-centred experience. And I didn’t have to pay. We walked out with our daughter and have never paid a dime.

I had excellent care. The best doctors and finest nurses. They were not unmotivated. There was no out of date equipment. I was never waiting on anyone but the baby. When I gave birth to Anne, I had public health nurses come to my home and provide care and insight. They would have come over every day if I’d asked for it.

50% of Americans that go bankrupt state that it is due to medical bills. It’s a great system if you never get sick.

I suppose I see the health-care system of the States as the apex of hypocrisy. For people that trumpet things like “values” in every election, their entire system is anti-family and pro-capitalism/big business. If they would offer an eighth of the energy they pour into pro-life and anti-gay-marriage/civil unions to fight for real family issues, they might actually get somewhere.

For instance, the fact that American women have C-sections at alarming rates. Their infant mortality rate is abysmal. They treat pregnancy like a sickness instead of a natural process. They prefer medical intervention … why? Because the drug companies stand to profit from those decisions. Rather than choosing a natural or holistic method, they always opt for the more expensive or invasive approach. They are not encouraged to breastfeed and society treats public breastfeeding as something sexual instead of normal. They spend more on healthcare than any other nation yet nearly 50 million are uninsured. Americans are denied preventative care, their emergencies rooms are full of the un-and-under insured. Their health is deteriorating compared to the health of other nations were health care is free. They are unhealthy and dying due to this system.

In Canada, the supposed “liberal” and “anti-family” nation, we offer universal health care for all. That’s a value that states that everyone deserves medical care regardless of their socio-economic status. And we offer a year of paid maternity and parental leave. It can even be split between fathers and mothers so that I can take the 15 weeks of maternity leave and then split the 35 weeks of parental leave with Brian so we each get to be home with the baby. It’s a value that mothers are important and babies need to breastfeed and that bonding is valuable for society. You might call it a family value.

It’s easy for those of not in the States to see that the senators and law-makers are in the pockets of the HMOs and drug companies. They demoralise the people with fear and threats. “Oh, it’s socialised medicine!” So what? You’ve socialised school and the post office. Isn’t this more important?

My favourite part of the movie was when Michael Moore was interviewing a former old Labour MP from England.

I wish that Christians would galvanize around an issue that would matter for once.

Posted in breastfeeding, ethics, healthcare, justice, movie, politics, rant | Tagged ethics, healthcare, justice, politics, prolife, rant | 4 Comments

In which I am learning to lay it down

I have noticed lately that when God really wants me to “get” something, it comes up over and over and over again. And about the fifth time, I suddenly notice and say “Hey, God must be trying to say something here….” *duh*

First, I was reading my Bible this weekend and I came across this passage in Matthew 18 (Message version of the Bible):

At about the same time, the disciples came to Jesus asking, “Who gets the highest rank in God’s kingdom?”

For an answer Jesus called over a child, whom he stood in the middle of the room, and said, “I’m telling you, once and for all, that unless you return to square one and start over like children, you’re not even going to get a look at the kingdom, let alone get in. Whoever becomes simple and elemental again, like this child, will rank high in God’s kingdom. What’s more, when you receive the childlike on my account, it’s the same as receiving me.

Then we were driving in our vehicle (affectionately tagged The Earth Destroyer 2003), listening to that CD I posted about earlier called “Bullfrogs and Butterflies”. The title track came on and I told Brian how it used to be one of my Mum’s favourites when we were little. She loved that song and it was really the first time she heard the Gospel. Brian commented that one of his favourite things about my mother is that she has never - in twenty years of following Christ - lost that childlike innocence or faith. She has always had a sense of wide-eyed wonder about God that almost says “Can you believe this? Man, this is good!” She has, without realising what a gift it is, shown all of us what it means to truly be childlike in her trust. I filed that away in my heart and thought that he was right. It is one of the best qualities of my mother. She is, while a complex woman, incredibly innocent, trusting and sweet before God.

And then today at Eucharist, the curate’s sermon was about the two pillars of our relationship with God - the fact that we are children and yet called to maturity. One sentence jumped out at me like it was highlighted in neon in Vegas - “In your relationship with God, you can always be the child, carried and cared for.”

The light finally went on.

I’ve been carrying too much responsibility. Even in my relationships, in my parenting, in our callings, in our plannings and ideas, theology-forming, church planting - all of it. I’ve almost become burdened by the weight of responsibility within my faith. Feeling all this pressure to really perform and be effective and matter.

Pastor Ed Gungor preaches that Christianity is not our responsibility. Rather it is our response to God’s ability.

Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.”

Matthew 11:30

I love that phrase “learn the unforced rhythms of grace”. Grace isn’t forced or contrived- even by me.

It comforted me vastly this morning to realise again that I need to lay down whatever is heavy or ill-fitting. That in my “maturity” I can sometimes be far to “adultish” with my affairs; being guilty of actually believing that “God helps those that help themselves” is in the Bible (it’s not).

It is now obvious to me that I need to become a little more trusting (okay, a lot more trusting) in order to shake free of this moodiness or melancholy that often seems to grip me. (I do brood overmuch, according to those that love me best.) This is, in my life, the indication that I am not trusting God but rather trusting my own abilities and knowledge, which is, as I am all too uncomfortably aware, far too limited. To be concise, when I’m burdened, I get depressed, withdrawn, critical and melancholy.

So now I am opening myself up to trust. I am not trying to do this. Rather, I am learning to surrender and ask God to create trust in me.

The dichotomy of faith - now and not yet, childlike yet maturing - is one of my favourite and most infuriating aspects of life in The Way. I am forever walking that line. And as the old Texas saying goes, “For every mile of road there are two miles of ditch.” So lately, I have been in the ditch of adultness and responsibility and self-reliance and “let me prove my worth by what I do, plan, execute and achieve” rather than my worth simply resting the most beautiful claim of all “I am a beloved child of God.”

The good news is that I have an excellent example in my daughter. Her absolute trust and surrender in her relationship with us is the most tangible example I have. Anne doesn’t have to do anything to make me love her or provide for her or want to bless her. And because I am who I am and she is who she is, she is loved. She is carried.

I am fortunate in that my parents weren’t something I had to get over when it came to seeing God as a parent; rather they made it easy for me to see God as Father/Mother because they were such a good translation. I particularly remember when I was a small child and we were still in living in our bi-level in Regina. When it was bedtime, we’d go upstairs from the rec room together. My dad would carry me in his arms “like a princess” (my name means Princess) and my sister would hang off his back like a monkey. He’d carry us upstairs and we’d invariably be snuggled into bed by my parents; my mother tucking us in tight and both of them hugging us, whispering words of love, smoothing our hair before leaving our room (at which time my sister and I promptly began to whisper and giggle). I felt so cared for and loved in that childhood room, in my parents’ care, in my father’s arms and my mother’s lap.

God reminded me today that he longs to carry me like that. That he longs to care for, provide, bless and love me in that manner. That just as I felt safe and rested in my family, I can feel safe and rested with my God. I can lay down my cares and worries (oh, those worries!), my fears and insecurities and simply rest.

I need some of that in my life right now. Maybe I am not the only one.

In which I give Anne another poem

I have loved you since before the

start of you. When you were inside of me

I had swallowed the sun

round and alive and the light by which I see.

When your screaming beauty emerged, slick and needy

I was born again as your mother.

Now there is not a crease curve dimple or point of you

I have not kissed claimed marvelled.

You are wonderous luminous brilliant sweet

Every moment of your life has made me deeper. Your

beautiful life, Alpha, makes me wonder

What did I do? Who was I? before you.

Heart-somehow-now-outside, there are quiet

moments - I treasure in my heart - when we

are still one. First smiles laughter tears

turn over sit up roll over eat this take a step

no don’t touch good girl give Mum a kiss

it’s all right Mummy’s here hush hush la la la

Beautiful, beautiful girl

The joy of my heart

and blessing of my life

how I love you - fiercely and completely.

Graceful and kind girl,

Holy and innocent,

How I love you.

Written for Anne

With love from her Mummy

In which I find a bit of space

Sometimes God will do odd things to get my attention.

I’ve been struggling lately through most of my work weeks. In addition to my usual angst related to “I-sold-out-to-The-Man” and “I-have-a-great-job-and-great-company-and-I’m-really-good-at-this-so-I’m-an-ungrateful-wretch” and “I-just-want-to-wriiiiiiiiiiiiiiite-full-time” and “I-miss-pastoring-and-doing-life-with-people!”. So add to that usual litany, the over-arching scream of my heart which is “I miss my girl!” My longing for Anne all day is almost frightening to me. I mean, honestly. People do this all day, every day. And they’re not still crying in the washroom two months later. I am in a constant state of prayer and connection with God to just do my job and maintain my perspective. The good news is that I’m the Queen of Compartmentalisation (also known as “The Art of Putting One’s Life into Compartments and, When Necessary, Ignoring a Compartment for a While”). It’s not necessarily what most would describe as healthy but hey, whatever gets you through the day.

Anyway.

I was in the midst of this week and on Thursday, I decided to go for a walk at lunchtime. The day was beautiful. It was a crisp, autumn day in the city with bright blue skies. I wandered around Burrard and then my eyes lit on Christ Church Cathedral at the corner of Burrard and Georgia. Without really knowing why, my feet carried me over to the historic Anglican church and I went inside. The Eucharist service had just started. I dipped my fingers, made the sign of the cross and sat down with the fifteen other people there for a respite in the heart of the city.

The church is beautiful. Probably the most beautiful I’ve ever physically been to. It’s the oldest church in Vancouver. The stained glass glowed in the darkness. There was a hush in the room but it wasn’t stuffy at all. Just quiet and …. holy.

A young woman was performing the service. She read through the Book of Common Prayer. I was surprised how much of it I had memorised as I recited along with her in my heart. We worshipped God together, prayed Scripture and enjoyed silence. We gathered in a semi-circle at the front of the church to receive communion together. As a novice to high-church rituals, I covertly spied on the other parishoners to see how to hold my hands properly to receive the host and then lift the communal cup of wine to drink. Then after the service, those who wanted prayer for healing were invited to the front to meet with the curate and rector. Really quite charismatic of them. *wink*

I sat in silence for another fifteen minutes, praying in tongues (hey, you can take the girl out of the charismatic church….), meditating and generally feeling, for the first time in a long time, quiet. Quiet in my heart of hearts. For once my internal monologue wasn’t running the way it usually does. There was just…space. And in that space, I felt the nearness of Papa, Jesus and the Spirit. I felt the calm and comfort of a Presence. My muscles seemed to unfurl and the tension in my neck relaxed.

I met with God there.

Afterwards, 83-year-old Gerry (short for Geraldine but as she informed me “who wants to be called Geraldine all their life? Honestly.”) and I had a chat. She informed me that getting old was a terrible nuisance so I shouldn’t bother. We talked about her careers and how she had been born in Kenya and what she would do with her car now that she isn’t driving anymore. She said she always comes on Thursdays so she hoped I’d return.

I think that I will. I’d like to make time for this in the midst of my week at least once, hopefully twice.

There is a passage of Scripture in the book of Psalms that says “Be still and know that I am God.” I found that stillness for an hour this week. I felt stregthened, focused and full. I didn’t return to work and revert to the hamster-on-a-wheel feeling of stress and go-go-go. Rather, I was calmer, centred and quieted.

I grew up in church but of the non-denom variety that usually met in old movie theatres, strip malls or cavernous stadium-style churches. I love the ease of those churches - playing hide-and-go-seek in the sanctuary, laughing loudly without feeling unholy, conversational sermons that readily use daily life as an illustration. It’s where I feel like church is family and the building is our living room.

But sometimes, I need some quiet. Sometimes I need the space for silence and tradition and history. I especially need it in the midst of the craziness of life. The dailyness of getting up early and rushing for the bus, commuting, working all day, meetings, email and phone calls, lunches out of a box, rushing home, handing off of Anne so Brian can go to work, hurried suppers, bathtimes, snuggles and stories, nursing and …. It’s beautiful and I love my life. But there isn’t much space for the Spirit alone. I’ve always subscribed to the belief that God is in the midst of the dailyness. God is as present in bathtime as he is the Cathedral. But just because God is there during diaper changes and marketing plans doesn’t mean He isn’t also there during Eucharist. It’s just in a different expression or way.

The ancient words of the Book of Common Prayer, the sense of connection with believers all over the world and back through time, the holiness and austerity of the service, the silence and other-world-ness, the Scripture and hymns. God is as present in this moment as He is in any other, yes, but on Thursday, this was where I felt enveloped.