In which she gets a gold medal for singing

Scene: Annie and I are running a few errands. She is ecstatic because she loves "just us girls time." We are in the car, listening to some Christian praise music.

A: *singing along loudly*

Me: You're a good singer, Anne-girl!

A: I know. I'm the best singer in the world. I should get a gold medal for singing.

Me: Um, sure.

A: Did I love this song when I was a baby?

Me: Well, I don't think this song was around when you were a baby. I think it's a new song. But you always love to sing at church. Maybe you think that you remember this song because it's about Jesus and you love to sing about Jesus.

A: Yeah. I love to sing about Jesus. And God. And all the single ladies.

Me: .....

A: *singing loudly * ALL THE SINGLE LADIES ALL THE SINGLE LADIES ALL THE SINGLE LADIES PUT THE HANDS UP

Me: .....

A: Do they put their hands up 'cause they're at church, Mum?

Me: ....Yes...Yes, they do. That's exactly why.

(For more on Anne's deep love affair with Beyonce, click here.)

In which I am learning to live loved

The thing that is really hard, and really amazing, 

is giving up on being perfect and 

beginning the work of becoming yourself.

(Anna Quindlen)

I'm a recovering Approval Addict (thank you, Joyce Meyer, for your book).  In fact, almost every bad decision I've made has been because I was seeking someone else's approval. I go through seasons when I am almost crippled by guilt and self-doubt, feeling like I am failing, falling so far short.

This recent funk I've been in (okay, not so recent. *cough*4 months*cough*) is related to the fact that I need to be set free from this addiction to approval, this need to be perfect.

So two things  - Who does God say that I am? And then who has He created me to be?

And then, the tricky part, being true to both of those.

In a way, the insecurity is because I don't believe I'm inherently lovable. I have thought that people (and maybe even God) only loved me because I was being what was lovely - thin, smart, funny, happy, shiny-happy-Jesus-girl and so on. Because if they knew me, the real me, they couldn't possibly love me.

I'm learning that's not true.

So now I'm relearning how to become myself, the Sarah that God Created Me to Be.

I came across the Father's Love Letter recently. 

My Child,

You may not know me,
but I know everything about you.
Psalm 139:1

I know when you sit down and when you rise up.
Psalm 139:2

I am familiar with all your ways.
Psalm 139:3

Even the very hairs on your head are numbered.
Matthew 10:29-31

For you were made in my image.
Genesis 1:27

In me you live and move and have your being.
Acts 17:28

For you are my offspring.
Acts 17:28

I knew you even before you were conceived.
Jeremiah 1:4-5

I chose you when I planned creation.
Ephesians 1:11-12

You were not a mistake,
for all your days are written in my book.
Psalm 139:15-16

I determined the exact time of your birth
and where you would live.
Acts 17:26

You are fearfully and wonderfully made.
Psalm 139:14

I knit you together in your mother's womb.
Psalm 139:13

And brought you forth on the day you were born.
Psalm 71:6

I have been misrepresented
by those who don't know me.
John 8:41-44

I am not distant and angry,
but am the complete expression of love.
1 John 4:16

And it is my desire to lavish my love on you.
1 John 3:1

Simply because you are my child
and I am your Father.
1 John 3:1

I offer you more than your earthly father ever could.
Matthew 7:11

For I am the perfect father.
Matthew 5:48

Every good gift that you receive comes from my hand.
James 1:17

For I am your provider and I meet all your needs.
Matthew 6:31-33

My plan for your future has always been filled with hope.
Jeremiah 29:11

Because I love you with an everlasting love.
Jeremiah 31:3

My thoughts toward you are countless
as the sand on the seashore.
Psalms 139:17-18

And I rejoice over you with singing.
Zephaniah 3:17

I will never stop doing good to you.
Jeremiah 32:40

For you are my treasured possession.
Exodus 19:5

I desire to establish you
with all my heart and all my soul.
Jeremiah 32:41

And I want to show you great and marvelous things.
Jeremiah 33:3

If you seek me with all your heart,
you will find me.
Deuteronomy 4:29

Delight in me and I will give you
the desires of your heart.
Psalm 37:4

For it is I who gave you those desires.
Philippians 2:13

I am able to do more for you
than you could possibly imagine.
Ephesians 3:20

For I am your greatest encourager.
2 Thessalonians 2:16-17

I am also the Father who comforts you
in all your troubles.
2 Corinthians 1:3-4

When you are brokenhearted,
I am close to you.
Psalm 34:18

As a shepherd carries a lamb,
I have carried you close to my heart.
Isaiah 40:11

One day I will wipe away
every tear from your eyes.
Revelation 21:3-4

And I'll take away all the pain
you have suffered on this earth.
Revelation 21:3-4

I am your Father, and I love you
even as I love my son, Jesus.
John 17:23

For in Jesus, my love for you is revealed.
John 17:26

He is the exact representation of my being.
Hebrews 1:3

He came to demonstrate that I am for you,
not against you.
Romans 8:31

And to tell you that I am not counting your sins.
2 Corinthians 5:18-19

Jesus died so that you and I could be reconciled.
2 Corinthians 5:18-19

His death was the ultimate expression
of my love for you.
1 John 4:10

that I might gain your love.
Romans 8:31-32

If you receive the gift of my son Jesus,
you receive me.
1 John 2:23

And nothing will ever separate you
from my love again.
Romans 8:38-39

Come home and I'll throw the biggest party
heaven has ever seen.
Luke 15:7

I have always been Father,
and will always be Father.
Ephesians 3:14-15

My question is…
Will you be my child?

John 1:12-13
I am waiting for you.
Luke 15:11-32

Love, Your Dad
Almighty God

I am learning to live like I am loved. 

Because I am.

P.S. So are you.

In which I need more and less

I think I need more stuff

nicer stuff

stuff that is cuter than my stuff

stuff that I saw on Etsy

stuff for my tinies

stuff for myself

(anyone else enjoying saying it?

stuffstuffstuffstuffstuff)

I think I need to be a better Mummy

and a better teacher

and better at potty training

(because I am very, very, very bad at that).

I think I need more patience

More peace

More stillness in my soul

More love

More joy

More forgiveness

More gentleness

More compassion

Definitely more humility.

I think I need more time.

I think I need more tinies 

(yet another month -

negative)

I think I need more money

(so does Brian)

I think I need more hours in the day

More energy in my bones

More time on the treadmill

More healthy balanced whole foodie meals

I think I need to be 20 lbs lighter 

(so do my clothes)

I think I need to write more

be more creative

be noticed

 be liked.

I think I need to be doing more

to

solve the world's problems and

bring in the big bucks for Mercy

and single-handedly

end world poverty and 

adopt orphans and

open my home and

help out in the nursery at church 

(yes, me in the nursery. Stop laughing!) and

make sure everyone breastfeeds and wears their babies

because my heart is too small

for all the bigness of the world

and how it hurts.

But the truth is

I need less.

Less of me.

Less stuff

Less self-absorption.

Less hero-complex.

Less fear.

I know that I need

Jesus.

Every day

every breath

every moment.

Following him

on his path of

the unforced rhythms of grace.

Turn your eyes, Soul,

upon Jesus.

Look full in His

wonderful face.

And the things of earth

grow strangely dim

In the light of his glory and grace.

In which it's like looking in a mirror

Me and my wee laddie and the cream cheese he smeared on his shirt at our picnic.

Joseph looks like me.

(Mini- Me.) 

The older he gets, the more we see it. 

There are glimmers of Brian here and there, 

just like there are glimmers of me in Anne-girl, 

but he mostly looks like me. 

But, of course, Anne's little personality is more like mine 

(heaven help her)

and Joseph's personality is more like Brian's.

So it's time for some honesty. 

I feel tired to my bones. 

Nothing circumstantial, nothing major...

just a weary, sad, unfocused, self-loathing funk and

an extra twenty pounds or two to make me feel really good about myself.

Joseph has decided he would like to take 

a temporary hiatus from his usual sunny disposition 

to indulge in a little hardcore whining 

punctuated with screams of anger whenever he doesn't get his way

(what's with this kid? Does he think he's a toddler or something?). 

I find myself frustrated and seething 

especially when I realise he sounds exactly like me 

on the inside.

In which God is still chipping away at my heart of stone

We are late to church this Sunday which is nothing new. I am dragging my feet, a bad attitude prickling out of me at every pore. I don't want to be here. Coming to church is hard for me, especially a denominational church with so much tradition and expectations and unwritten rules. The halls are completely empty, like most churches in the summer.

"Did the rapture happen?" Brian wonders, jokingly. I can hear the choir warming up in the sanctuary, warbling loudly, staggeringly off-key.

"Nope," I say, wickedly, "because heaven doesn't sound like that."

He gives me a dirty look.

We sign the tinies into nursery. Even though it's been more than a month since I darkened the door, the elderly nursery lady is all smiles and welcome, commenting on Joseph's latest buzz cut and hugging a beaming Anne-girl. My tinies have none of my baggage so they are thrilled to be here, thrilled to be with their "church friends," to learn about Joseph's Coat of Many Colours, play with tractors and trucks, colour and listen to stories with kind ladies that smell like baking, ladies that haven't heard you aren't supposed to hug kids anymore these days.

Brian and I head into the sanctuary. We are still going to the Traditional Service. Most days, it's okay. I am able to lay aside my expectations, my years in megachurches with Rockin' Music and light shows, singing the latest songs by the latest metrosexual worship leader, hearing messages by charismatic preacher-tainers that are easy to understand and apply. Sometimes, though, I come in to the almost empty sanctuary, with a trunk load of baggage, my deep desire to be in a church that meets in a pub or a coffee house with people that look like me, think like me and live like me. So I park myself next to the old people and glower, like a spoiled stereotype on display.

The special music today is a trio of people in their 50s. One balding Mennonite plays the piano, a lady with blonde hair and a black satin dress is singing and there is a pudgy man playing the alto sax and clarinet, both instruments I haven't heard since I was forced to sit through Grade 7 band concerts in all school assemblies.

They burst into song and halfway through the first rendition of "Take Me Home, Lord," I lean over to Brian and whisper quietly, "I've heard cats on a fence that sing better than that."

Another dirty look. Not even a faint hint of an understanding smirk. He's committed, he's already filling out the request for an offering envelope number, pledging our tithe by automatic withdrawal.

I settle in, arms crossed, to bear it out.  They are now singing "It is well with my soul," one of my favourite hymns but it's being butchered. I look around, discontented, and my eyes light on the rest of the sparse congregation.

They are rapt. They are listening. Men and women are weeping - weeping - into their voluminous handkerchiefs. One old man honks his nose quite loudly.  They are so tender hearted, so open. I sit there, judging the music, the empty sanctuary, the pantyhose, and suddenly feel small.


Humility is still ill-fitting for me, the one who has it all figured out. I hang my head, ashamed of my heart, ashamed that I am bored by these people, ashamed that I am making fun of something that brings them joy and peace. I am so sure I know what works for me, but somehow here I am on a pew, listening to a clarinet, watching old people weep for Jesus. I feel like Jesus is trying to speak to me, to scale a wall I've built.

This heart of stone is weighing heavy in my chest this Sunday morning. I've heard better singers, heard better music, been in more dynamic churches but I can't say that I've felt more tender-hearted, more aware of my own need for a new heart, new eyes, a new tongue than now, here, surrounded by old saints, listening to cats on a fence sing about Jesus.

In which this is {the moment}

Me and Annie, having a summer snuggle in our backyard.

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember. If you're inspired to do the same, join in over at SouleMama.

In which it's my 5th blogiversary

Don't you love how I make up words?

Blog + Anniversary = Blogiversary!

Yes, it's been 5 years since I started to write my life out on the Internet. Of course, back then I used emoticons like they were their own separate language.

How many of you were around when I was one of the last Xanga bloggers in existence? (Note: If you're wondering why I say "five years" but only have archives going back to 2007, it's because Xanga doesn't import to Blogger and so the copy-paste of blog entries is slow going.)

I went back and read through that July 2005 archives and read through the days when we were leaving Texas, leaving Tree of Life, leaving "our kids" and our friends-that-felt-like-family. Hard to believe it's been five years since Brian was Pastor Brian.

My first sentence ever written on my blog?

The first entry in the blog. I wonder how open you can be when it's on the Internet? (<----See? Emoticon! Oh, the emoticons!) 

I've got news for you 2005-new-to-blogging-Sarah - VERY VERY VERY OPEN.

I wonder sometimes why in the world would I write my deepest thoughts and most cherished moments and most embarrassing gaffs and birth details and opinions and then put them out here in the open field of public opinion? 

Especially, why write about religion, politics and parenting (The Triumvirate of Things Thou Shalt Not Discuss in Polite Company)? Why be so transparent? It all seems a bit risky. 

And, let’s be honest, it's weird. Absolutely bizarre.

But, you see, writing through my life has helped me to honour the journey. 

What a journey in 5 years. I've written through being a youth pastors wife in Texas, through a move back home to Canada, through buying homes and crises of faith, through my pregnancies and my miscarriages, through the births of my babies, through my failures and my victories, through my marriage and through the last years of my twenties, into the early years of my thirties. 

That's a lot of life.

It's been my simple way of piling stones, like an altar. I point to these word-stones and say, “Here. Right here is where I continually see God work and move and live in me.” This small blog is my homemade shrine, heaped with experiences, opinions and musings, reminding me that the journey matters. 

On this journey, there is also you – family, real life friends, old and new friends, "online friends", even you lurkers. Life is richer because of you, coming alongside of me, while I wrestle with being a thoughtful follower of Jesus, learning to be a wife, mother and a woman of God.

And if these were the last words you read from me, I would want to say thank you.  I am grateful to you for being here, bearing witness to my life.

In which I had just one request for the evening

When we left, the tinies barely looked up. They were too busy with their Granny and their Papa, too busy plotting trips to Papa's Forest and what to get at the ice cream store and whether Granny would let them have Rice Krispies for supper (she won't, if I know her). So we left and drove to Fort Langley.

Hot summer night (oh, those summer....niiiiiiii-iiiiights - sorry for the Grease reference, I can't help myself) and we are thrilled with Brian's new satellite radio in the company car. We've never had satellite radio and hardly knew how to work it but I found the 90s on 9 in about three and a half seconds. Then we were rocking out to our high school tunes, lamenting the fact that pop and rock music has never, ever, ever been this good before or since.

We rolled down the windows and turned the music up and drove down the back roads and I knew every word to Counting Crows' Round Here so I sang them really, really, really loudly and laughed about smoking a lot of cigarettes while listening to that song back in the day and Brian just looked at me like I was a rock star and I thought, that look right there? That's the reason I married that man. How can he still be listening to me after all these years? But he is and I'm listening to him and we're laughing still.

We prowled around old shops with "antiques" that were really just junk from your grandma's yard sale but I did find an old Pyrex bowl set from the seventies. It's bright orange and has wheat painted on it so I bought it immediately. The old lady wrapped it up and said something about there was no way this was an antique, it was only 30 or 40 years old and did I buy it because it matched my hair?

My only request for the evening was that we go to a restaurant that didn't have a high chair or baby changing station anywhere on the premises (I've had enough of White Spot to last me a lifetime or two). We went to 1827, a martini and piano bistro right on the main drag of the town. We sat by the open window, right on the street and ate nothing but appetizers all evening. Their goat cheese and chorizo flat bread? Their lobster spinach dip? Their crab cakes? Their white wine? Yes, please, I'll have another. It was such a grown-up atmosphere so I felt satisfied there would be no kid pranks.

That was when I knocked over my full glass and soaked us both.

Should have known that I was unable to get through an evening without shamefacedly asking for a clean up at our table, even sans tinies.

We talked.

It's nice to talk to each other without having to be interrupted every 3.2 minutes and then look back at each other blankly. "What were we saying again?"

We drove home to pick up the tinies, this time with the radio off, fingers interlaced, still talking, still laughing but this time, it's quiet and connected laughter, intimate and shared.

In which this is all it takes to be a hero evidently

We won't be taking a holiday this summer (new job for Bri, busy life blah blah blah). So on Saturday, Brian decided to take the tinies camping anyway.

In our backyard.

He and Anne dug out our camping gear which includes a camping stove we bought on clearance at the San Marcos outlets, sleeping bags, Wal-Mart provisions and the tent we "borrowed-but-never-gave-back" from his parents. (Hi, Ed! Hi, Leona! Thanks for the tent!) The tinies were absolutely vibrating with excitement. Anne, in particular, since she was the one who could stay out all night long (Joseph was running a temperature so Mean Ol' Mum decreed that he had to properly sleep inside).

They packed up the cooler and we all roasted hot dogs on the camping stove, balancing our camping dishes on our laps (and cleaning off Joseph's face repeatedly as he loved his ketchup a bit too much).

The boys ran around with their shirts off. Anne wanted to get in the fun so she stripped down during the hot part of the day as well.

They are all farmer tans and bug bites and scraped knees and big smiles. They smell like sunscreen. She was so happy. "Daddy, I'm learning so much about camping!"

Then, when the night started to fade, Joseph and I went back inside. Anne had made it clear to me that this was her thing with her Dad so I took the hint. They sat outside and read stories. Brian made up stories about being a "good pirate" and saving kids and doing good (Pirate name = Red Beard). Then they played flashlight tag. He roasted marshmallows for them on the camping stove, introducing her to her very first s'more. They watched for our trio of owls to make an appearance.

It was 10 o'clock before she fell asleep, on the air mattress beside her dad, snuggled into my sleeping bag that had been airing out all afternoon. Brian said she kept burrowing in all night long, going further and further. He woke up at 3 in the morning and couldn't see her. He panicked for a minute and then he opened the sleeping bag. She had stuffed herself right into the bottom of it and was sound asleep, toasty warm. He hauled her back to the air. They were up with the dawn.

They trooped inside at 7 AM, Brian complaining of camping coffee.   I made them a huge breakfast that morning. Bird in a nest (egg fried into bread), rashers of bacon, grilled tomatoes and fresh strawberries. And of course, pressed coffee for Brian.

All morning, she was curled under his arm, gazing up at him with grateful, hero-worship eyes. Of course, her eyes were also shadowed from lack of sleep but that's easily remedied. More easily remedied than a lack of happy memories with just-a-girl-and-her-dad.

Later that morning, while we scrubbed the house and did the laundry and got ready for another busy week, he informed me, quite seriously, that she was not allowed to get married and leave him.

Ever.

Seriously.

In which there is nothing like staying at home for real comfort

Purchased with my own cash here.

Lazy Sunday morning,

full Brown Betty teapot, 

nowhere to be

but together.

Have I mentioned how much I love home?

In which my tinies are teaching me to just step out

We have a fairly steep set of stairs in our house. And since we live and move and have our being on the top floor - because that is where the kitchen is - there is a lot of stair navigation required in our daily life. Joseph doesn't like to go up and down the long, steep staircase. Even though he's been carefully taught to turn around and go down bum first, stair by stair, he prefers to wait for what he and Annie call "a ride" from me or Brian.

Every day, ten times a day, I go down two steps, turn around, open my arms and he leaps, absolutely leaps, into the air, suspended for just a second before I catch him, hitch him on to my right mama-hip and head down the stairs.

This weekend, Brian went to the top of the stairs and, of course, said, "Who wants a ride?"

Anne promptly jumped into his arms. Then Joseph took aim and just stepped out, into the oblivion, into the no-step, into the space and, of course, Brian's arms were there.

My heart was fine, no panic from me. We do this all the time.

"How can you guys just jump out like that?" Brian wonders aloud, rhetorically.

Annie says, matter-of-fact, like it's the most normal thing in the world, "We just know you're going to catch us, Dad."

And I think, "Yes, Jesus. Now I see." 

In which these are catching my eye and my heart this weekend

Here are a few links that have caught my attention these past couple of weeks. Enjoy!

Me, Elsewhere

My post about the instructions for the morning was featured on 5 Minutes for Parenting.

51 Fun Things to do the Fraser Valley this summer at Fraser Valley Pulse.

Parenting

 It's the 7th annual Ezzo Week over at Tulip Girl. It's a week dedicated to voicing concerns and critiques with Babywise, Growing Families International (GFI) and other teachings of the Ezzos related to child-rearing, particularly from a Christian viewpoint. Sorta Crunchy is also covering it with some excellent posts.

July's Carnival of Natural Parenting, hosted by Hobo Mama, is a great wealth of information about food and changing the way your family eats.

Breastfeeding as Worship is a beautiful reflection on how the church can embrace this aspect of parenting more wholly from Sorta Crunchy. Money quote: The Church is to be a peculiar people, an assembly of believers called out following The Way.  Can you imagine how beautiful it would be if we were to lead our culture in embracing nursing in public as completely normal, appropriate, and pure?  In my most hopeful of dreams, I imagine a time in the not-too-distant future when a nursing mama needs to feed a little one in public, she knows that nursing in front of Christians means she is nursing amongst friends..

Ashleigh at Heart & Home wrote a gentle post about brotherly love and, one of my favourite topics, parenting our children the way that God parents us. 

One more day left to enter to win any of the fashion week giveaways at Metropolitan Mama.

Faith and Spirituality

I saw this powerful video via Jonathan Brink at Missio Dei about the destructive nature of judgment. I hesitated before posting it but figured you could handle it. Being judged sucks and it has far reaching consequences. Those of us within this sub-culture or counter-culture of evangelical Christianity would be wise to watch this with a tender heart and check ourselves.

I've just been introduced to Brenda Marin's blog and I am hooked. She writes with honesty and authenticity as she walks alongside her husband in bridge building between the evangelical church and GLBTQ community, working for reconciliation as well as walking her own journey as a strong woman of God, particularly in her journey for trying to conceive. Her post last week "These are just my thoughts" are her reaction to the backlash over their "I'm Sorry" campaign at the Chicago Pride parade.

Kristin at Halfway to Normal writes as a self-described "divorced-Christian-liberal-remarried-Midwestern-mommy-writer" about Falling in and out of love with her church. It's a well-written, make-you-think piece about how building church community is more like marriage or family. If you've been at your church for any length of time, you'll get it.

One of the most unique voices, Amber at The Run-a-Muck is an American poet and southern mama. Her raw article at (in)courage about the blood of Jesus and the importance of telling the God in our own stories convicted and blessed me simultaneously.

I find myself returning here often.

For the Win!

I read this a few weeks ago and Brian and I nearly hyperventilated, we laughed so hard. (Warning: some bad language.) You have got to read this hilarious email exchange between a woman who lost her cat and the jerk who just won't do a "Lost Cat" poster for her.

Have a lovely weekend!

In which there is a theatre under the stars - and you should go

I'm fairly new to the west coast, just 5 years now here in the most beautiful part of the world. I am constantly finding new and interesting things about the Lower Mainland. I never tire of discovering the shops, the parks, the plays, the concerts, the culture of Vancouver and the Fraser Valley.

And apparently I was the last person in the world that hadn't been to Theatre Under the Stars in Stanley Park at the Malkin Bowl.

I asked my husband if he would be devastated by the fact that I wanted to take my friend, Susan, instead of him. He graciously admitted that he would, in fact, survive a night without musical theatre.

Can I tell you how much I loved this? How I never wanted the night to end? How many times my friend, Susan, and I laughed and marvelled at these talented young actors? How this will be a yearly tradition from now on?

This is my friend, Susan. We had a cup of coffee. And then I took her picture. Either I'm a lot of fun to be with or she was happy about free tickets. You decide.

We started our evening at the Boathouse on English Bay. On my way into Vancouver, I, somehow, inexplicably, wound up in Richmond and then cursed the whole back over the bridge (such a good Christian lady I am) before finally arriving, hot and nearly 45 minutes late. We watched the sun on the water and fit more visiting into an hour than anyone would ever believe. Then we headed over to Stanley Park for Joseph & the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat.

The show was fantastic. The students that performed did an incredible job. The young man that played Joseph left Susan and I repeatedly demanding each other if he was really, truly only 17 years old - his poise, charisma and talent has us convinced of his future stardom. The play itself was dynamic, fast moving and interesting.

The venue is, of course, second to none. There's nothing like live musical theatre outside on a summer evening under the stars. It's experiences like this that make excellent rituals for families in the summer.

The only part that had us concerned was when they pulled a little girl out of the audience to participate in the play. She was only about 8 years old and looked absolutely terrified. They gamely stayed close to her throughout the production but there was a lot of noise and colour moving around her and, rather than enhancing the production, it stressed us out. We were two mums in the audience, knowing her heart was probably beating out of her chest and simply wanted to rescue her! I understand the idea behind audience participation but the wee girl inspired more pity and compassion in us than laughter and interest.

Theatre Under the Stars (TUTS) is a not for profit society that entertains families through popular musical theatre shows while providing a vibrant outlet and training ground to develop amateur performers and technicians both young and old.  TUTS values an atmosphere of inclusion and mentorship in order to build strong character and to promote positive values. In 1940, Theatre Under the Stars started when a group of local theatre people formed to produce professional quality musicals during the summer.  Since then, TUTS has been a Lower Mainland tradition, delighting generations of locals and tourists alike under the stars in the pastoral outdoor setting of historic Malkin Bowl in Stanley Park.  TUTS provides performers and technical staff an opportunity to work in a real world theatrical venue alongside seasoned professionals.

Theatre Under the Stars is running until August 21. Two shows are playing: Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat and Singin' in the Rain. If you are in the Vancouver area, you won't want to miss it.



Disclosure: I received two free tickets to the performance.

In which I review Searching for God Knows What

Reviewing: Searching For God Knows What by Donald Miller

Donald Miller is one of my favourite authors. I say that as full disclosure. I was reading Donald Miller before he was cool, before he was thin, before he had a movie deal. And even with my aversion to most things popular, my loathing of being a lemming, I have to tell you: it's worth the hype. The man can write and writes incredibly well. Like another one of my favourites, Anne Lamott, he's funny, poignant, creative, eccentric, risky and honest particularly about faith. He's refreshingly honest. And somehow, he can take me from laughing out loud to deep spiritual reflection and prayer within a few pages.

Chapter 4 "Free Verse" actually made me get out of bed one night while I was reading and pad outside in my bare feet to where my husband was sitting. I promptly sat down and read him the entire chapter out loud. We both had tears in our eyes when we were finished.

This is a book for people that know that there is more to Christ than systematic theology. More than modern religion, more than formulas and to-do lists.

This book captures the meaning of it all, the intrigue, the passion, the romance of God.

It's written for those of us that find ourselves outside of the box, those of us that don't quite fit in most religious requirements or structures, those of us that have a deep longing for spirituality, for God, for something more than what we see represented by most of what we see around us. Touching on everything from the Bible to the lifeboat theory and values clarification (a chapter that will make you want to find some good friends to hash that out), Jesus, the Gospel, morality among others. Donald Miller writes as a fellow traveller, someone giving voice to our deepest longings and searching alongside of us.
 
Verdict: Beautiful and insightful. Highly recommend.

Disclosure: I received a free copy of this book for review purposes from the publisher. Opinions are my own.

In which this is what a happy boy in the summertime looks like

So he's in the little elephant pool and
his Dad is pouring cold water on him
and he can't stop laughing.
He's snorting and howling,
hollering and screaming with laughter.
His Dad is laughing just as hard as he is
and now they're having a splash party.

And in my head, I think "Click."
Don't forget this
now.

In which I am the keeper of my home

After my initial post about The Nines being demonstrative of the lack of respect female leaders receive in the evangelical church and then the working mother discussion, I asked you how you interpreted being "keeper of the home" as written in Scripture. Your comments are incredible - such wisdom, such grace, such interesting discussion.  I feel like you've said it all, so well.

I've started and stopped writing my response about 17 times now.

I have gathered all of my points, all of my ammunition, all of my proof-texts and interpretations.

I was ready to lay it down, friends.

Now, my heart isn't there, no longer feeling up to a position paper on women and working and homes.

So to finish this off, I'll just say what I think. And let you say what you think. And hope that there's grace enough for all of us to just let each other go, to give each other love and support no matter what our decisions. 

I am a keeper of my home. 

I live in a growing relationship with Abba, deeply committed to Jesus and the life that I have found in Him. I also wildly love my husband and our two still-small tinies. I am also me which means that I need to have time to myself, time to write, time to read.

Those things are not at odds. As I've prayed and contemplated about how to wind up this discussion, this is where I've wound up. It's not that deep or profound. Nor is it educated. But here's how I look at it.

I believe in the authority of Scripture. But from Scripture, I don't think that you can make the case stick that women are supposed to stay home exclusively to look after the cleaning and cooking and educating and raising of children.  Whether you point to Proverbs 31 or Titus 2, being keeper of the home seems to encompass a lot of seasons in a woman's life. The concept of family was different and the context for our times needs to be taken into account. There are seasons in a woman's life and in a family's life and there is also a lot of room for interpretation based on context, culture and circumstances. As Ed Cyzewski pointed out in his comment, we run the risk of making the Bible a dead law book when we treat it as nothing but rules.


I believe that when people espouse the values of a mother or wife exclusively being a homemaker, they are longing for a perceived simpler and easier time as opposed to truth, elevating a nostalgic look at motherhood from the standpoint of the post-war American dream of the white, upper-middle-class rather than Scripture.

Work is a gift from God. I think there is a true theology of work, of joining with our God to bring beauty and order, food and life to the world around us. There is vocation, there is work and, when you're truly blessed, it's a ministry to do both.

Even beyond the financial need of work, there are many women who simply love their work. To them, it is not a job, it is a calling, a vocation, worthy of as much honour as any, in my opinion. Some women view their family as their primary vocation even while working. Others are home full time but don't feel passionate or connected to it. There are so many different experiences, different backgrounds, different circumstances that it is impossible - and misses the point - to lay down a one-size-fits-all order.

Personally, I did choose to leave full time work when I had my second child. It was hard for me to go back to work after Anne was born even with a full year of maternity leave. I longed to be home with her. Since Joseph was born, Brian and I have made sacrifices to ensure that I am primarily home with them.There have been seasons when Brian has been full-time at home with the tinies while I worked and vice versa. Now he works full-time, I work part time (2 days a week) and it works for us - all of us. We share household chores and responsibilities.

I believe we have the heart of a servant for each other but not one of us treats each other like we are a servant or has that expectation.

The continual doing of household chores does not a keeper of the home make.

Even when lucrative jobs loom, we choose to live on less, to be home more, to not vacation, to not have the latest gadgets or a flat-screen TV or a new car with windows that work (sore point in the summer, you see). Our needs are met but there is no extra for savings. And that's stressful. If I'm being honest, I'll tell you it sucks sometimes because I know that I could go back to work full time and a lot of our financial stress would be resolved.

But I don't. Not because I'm super-spiritual. Not because my husband has some macho need to be the "bread winner." Not because I don't have dreams and goals for myself. Not even because I believe it's mandated in Scripture for me to be home. I do it because this is what's right for us all. It's not just me anymore, it's not just Brian anymore, it's not even just me and Brian anymore. It's also Anne and Joseph. And I see how my tinies crave routine and stability, being home, being attached and a quieter life.

Someday, that might not be the case. I might go back to work full time. I might take more time to write (maybe someday finish that book I've been working on for years now). We might move, we might travel, we might do a lot of things.

I believe in a simpler way of life. I do think it's important for kids to be home with a parent. I do think it's important to be present, to reconnect our families, to have supper together, to play outside, to find joy in our homes, even to rediscover working with our hands and finding joy in creating.


But just because I think that, just because I have chosen to live my life this way doesn't mean that it applies to everyone as a rule from God. I am incredibly thankful for the women that work full time in careers as varied as librarians, medical doctors, teachers, engineers, writers, and so on. And the truth is, that those women? They are also keepers of their home. The way that is accomplished might look different but she keeps her home.

I believe in freedom. True, real, tangible freedom. In some ways, the law, black-and-white thinking are easier. It's easy to put each other in a box or make a little rule book for ourselves about what Good Christian Women Do and Look Like and then even sub boxes below that about Schooling and Discipline and Food and so on. We pile baggage and guilt and expectations on each other that God does not.

Are we afraid of freedom? Are we afraid of bearing the responsibility of living a life loved, living a life connected to the vine, seeking him first rather than our rules or our expectations?

As I wrote before, so then it does come down to this: are you open to Jesus? Are you open, in your heart of hearts, to having him speak into your life? That is not something to be lightly or playfully dismissed in my opinion. Either you know him and his voice or not. For some people that might mean working. For others, it might mean being home full time.  

But ultimately, if we believe that Christianity is about a relationship, not a religion, than we have to give credence to people hearing the voice of God and following it for themselves.

Do you believe that God speaks to hearts today? Do you believe that you can be actively lead? If so, then encourage women to seek God on these things for themselves. And don't assume that because you've heard from God for your own life that it means it's a Rule for All Women to Follow.


To me, being a keeper of the home means that we hold our family's hearts. It means that we love each other, deeply. We care for each other, body and soul. It's everything from the practical to the spiritual (which are sometimes quite close together, as I've discovered). It's in the sacred and the mundane. The work we do at home - mothers and fathers, brothers and sister, grandmothers and grandfathers, aunts and uncles - matters.

It is gracious and true to give dignity to each other, to love each other through the mundane details of a life. This is not exclusive to mothers or to women. But it is vital to the kingdom of God.

I keep my home. Not because my washrooms sparkle so incredibly well. But because I keep my eyes fixed on Jesus and then, out of that overflow of love that He has first given me, I am able to love well, to serve well, to seek their best. It's not about hours logged. It's not about chores. It's not about roles.

It's about love.

Oh, the love.

Now there is some freedom.

In which I am experiencing a thousand gifts (391 - 401)

A year or two ago
we were sitting in our 750 sq ft apartment
in the sweltering heat.

Sure there was a playground
with an ancient spray park
nearby
but everything required packing up
stuff
stuff
stuff.

It wasn't easy.
And kinda bugged me.

We said to each other,
wouldn't it be amazing
to just
go out into the backyard?
And hang out?
In our own backyard?
A tiny place for the tinies?

To have a kiddie pool
and a sprinkler?
To have our family just pop over?
And gaggle of cousins
in bathing suits
with big bellies hanging
over their swim diapers
laughing
laughing
laughing?

Can you even imagine?
we said.

So then this weekend
(oh, the heat! My gawd, the heat!)
I tasted and saw
that the Lord is good
even -
especially? -
in those small dreams
of sunscreen and
happy screams.

391. Bathing suits on babies.
392. My niece, Addison and her fun little body. She's teeny-tiny for her age but has these chunky thighs that I just want to dip in butter and chomp on. And dimples! Dimples on her cheeks, on her bum, in her elbows, on her knees. Dimples galore!
393. Addy's crazy laugh.
394. Splashing.
395. Smelling like sunscreen.
396. A tribe of cousins 3 strong and growing (someday?).
397. Soggy grass.
398. Blonde hair becoming tow-headed.
399. Hot plastic elephant pool.
400. Dangling my hot feet into the cool water.


401. Just open up the back door and go outside to all the summer.

In which this may be the downside of being a Disney Princess Free Zone

Scene: A sweltering-ly hot warm summer afternoon. Joseph is napping and so Anne and I are having a little Quiet Time in the house. Which means reading books, doing puzzles and then, breaking out the face paints.

Me: What do you want me to paint on your face? A frog? A butterfly?

Anne: I want a pirate.

Me: I thought you didn't like pirates.

Anne: They're just kids in bad fake beards, Auntie says. So I wanna be a pirate.

Me: What about a kitty? Or a cheetah?

Anne: I want a pirate.

Me: Okay then.

Annie, being a "scary pirate" with a "bad face."

Me: This may be the downside of not being a big fan of the Disney Princesses.

(We love Klutz Face Painting kit. No compensation here - I wish!)

In which there's a reason we call the beach The Napmaker

Okay, so maybe it wasn't this serene the entire time.

But for about an hour of the day

it was just like this.

They played together

and I got to sit down

and let them be.

Then it was sand castles and

stepping in dog poo and

swimming in icy cold water

(my babies are as Canadian as their mama,

we all dove right in) and
hysterical laughter and
gasping at the cold water
right before we all plunged in and
their legs and arms wrapped around me
clinging tight like monkeys in the water and

this life jacket doesn't fit quite right and

eating too many Goldfish crackers and

warm water to drink with 

sand on the edges of the cup like a margarita salt rim and

making sand angels and

refereeing the use of sand toys and

flinging of sea weed and

then

the back roads home,

late afternoon lazy,

me in total silence

(air conditioner blast doesn't count)

while they

slept sound

still smelling of sand coated sunscreen

and joy.