In which I admit to an unreasonable affection for the Royal Family

I know it's not very cool to admit but here it is: I love the British Royal Family. I know an embarrassing amount about them and their lives. Every time I see OK! magazine has the Royal Family on there - and oh, if there is a wedding! The joy! - I buy it and devour it while eating Dairy Milk bars. If a documentary is on, I watch it. I have an opinion on Fergie, Autumn Phillips (a Canadian! In the Royal Family!), succession planning and I cannot for the life of me wait until William marries Kate.

It's a sickness.

But I have my excuse. See, I grew up in Canada in the 80s. The HEIGHT OF THE PRINCESS DIANA YEARS. We grew up on frothy wedding dresses, doe-eyed beauties and fairy tales. We grew up alongside William and Harry and every morning, after we sang O Canada, we sang God Save the Queen. (Of course, I secretly added "and Princess Diana" to that song.)

Even as the reality of the fairy tale came to light, by now I was a grown up, and able to handle the despair.

And oh, I had a hate on for Prince Charles.

When I was 18, Princess Diana was killed. I remember it like it was yesterday. My Labradorian roommate, Lisa, and I had only known each other for a week or two. We were living in the dorms. We had no TV. And the news broke that Princess Diana had been in an accident, we nearly had a heart attack from lack of news. This was before the Internet, you see. And we were living in Tulsa, Oklahoma so none of the Americans really cared the way that we cared. Their hearts weren't breaking, like ours were, so even when we sought out friends with TVs and begged to watch the news, the coverage was minimal. But at least it was something.

I called my parents, long distance, and begged for $100 to buy a TV. They said yes and so Lisa and I ran to the WalMart in Tulsa (literally, because we had no car) and we bought a 13" TV with a VCR built in, ran back and set up the TV. Still no coverage.

So my mother videotaped about 8 hours of coverage, including the funeral, and priority mailed it to us in Tulsa. We sat on our beds and howled while we watched it, three days later.


I still have that tape (and a VCR, one of the last people in the world with one, I'm sure. It goes nicely with our 27" 10-tonne television.) and I saved every People magazine with her picture on the cover.

Like I said, it's a sickness.

And when William and Kate get married, I will likely sit in front of the TV for 6 days straight and will be able to tell you more about their bridesmaids dresses than I could tell you about my own while eating my body weight in Cadbury's chocolate.

In which this is my perfect Sunday because I am easily pleased

Much as I like having company, it's nice to have the house to ourselves again. To return to the routine we love, to wash and fold sheets, to be Just Us again. I'm of a personality that retreats, pulls back and quiets down when tired or over-socialised so I indulged in some serious cave-dwelling this Sunday.

Brian has been working on call all this week. On the positive side, he's nearly doubled his paycheque with all of the extra hours. On the negative, we hadn't seen him for about 6 days and he's only had about 3 hours of sleep a night. His phone is constantly ringing and he just finishes one job when the phone rings again. So he was gone for the morning but we were pleasantly surprised that his phone didn't ring past 4 o'clock, giving him a whole evening with us.


We skipped church because my tinies were in a state of exhaustion after the full house and I could foresee a meltdown that would snag the pantyhose of the pew gentry if we ventured to church. We lazed about and the tinies took an early (and long) nap each.

I laid in our broken lazy-boy and watched Steel Magnolias while knitting a slouchy little hat in some mighty fine yarn. I just finished a winter hat for Anne and a hockey-watching afghan for Joseph, so I feel perfectly justified in making something just for me.

Then I came upstairs and turned the iPod to Patty Griffin's Downtown Church. I could listen to Patty Griffin sing the Doxology and You're Coming Home to Me for about 607 years and still not be tired of it. We went to see her and Buddy Miller live at the Commodore in Vancouver a few months ago. I remember that I stood up in the balcony with a small glass of red wine, my eyes closed, just breathing it all in, because it felt like water on a thirsty soul, neglecting to talk with friends or sway appropriately, just standing, stock still, absorbing the warmth of the upright bass.

I set up concocting some comfort food for us all. Brian came home, exhausted, so I tucked him into bed for a quick nap before the tinies woke up. Sunday afternoon naps, cool breeze through the windows, sprawled limbs are a gorgeous sight.

It makes me happy to stand in my kitchen, when the house is still, just chopping the carrots and green beans Brian grew in his garden, making gloriously creamy mashed potatoes, thinking of feeding us on good simple food. It also makes me happy that summer is coming to an end, the Autumn-Lover in me is full of anticipation, and it's cool enough to turn on the oven, to plot cinnamon candles and think about baking.

When the tinies woke up, Brian took them outside so that they could ride bikes and draw with their sidewalk chalk. I could hear them outside the window. Anne is learning how to print her name. She did about 20 versions of A-N-N-E but her N's have about 14 lines in them. She has informed me that she doesn't like how I do N (you know, the right way) and her way is much more fun so these will be her N's from now on.


And don't show me! Don't show me! Let me just do it myself, my way! 

(Somewhere my parents are laughing and hooting "Karma!" at my expense, I'm sure.)

After supper, we bathed the babies. They smelled clean as a whistle, like heaven on earth and comfort disguised as wet lavender hair and baby lotion, fabric softener scented jammies. We curled up on the couch and read The Little Engine That Could and Stellaluna and Madeline in London again. Joe still lays close, his chubby fist buried in my hair, hanging on tight.

When they tinies were prayed and kissed and tucked in, Brian collapsed into bed, too tired to carry on. I made a gigantic mug of Earl Grey tea, dropped a shot of vanilla syrup into it along with a splash of milk and started to read Permission to Speak Freely by Anne Jackson, about honesty and tearing off your mask and being vulnerable in Christian community, letting go of the culture of perfectionism but it's one part book, one part poetry, one part art project, a beautiful book.

Then I went to bed. And Brian woke up so we laid in bed and talked. We'd get to laughing and someone would SSSSSSHHHH! the other because the babies might wake up. We held hands in the dark and fell asleep, like we have for nearly 10 years, beside each other.

So it was a lovely Sunday, full of the simple joys that make me feel more settled in my soul. 

I'm easily pleased, when it comes down to it, and my list of things that make me happy is very extensive.

How was your Sunday? What are a few simple pleasures that make you happy?

In which these are capturing my eyes and my heart this weekend

A few links for your weekend wanderings. Enjoy!

Parenting

What an incredible story this is about the importance of skin-on-skin contact with newborns and following your instincts.  Miracle mum brings premature baby son back to life with two hours of loving cuddles after doctors pronounce him dead

My tinies love to "help" around the house and I found this age-appropriate listing of tasks and how to involve your children in caring for the home over at Simple Kids very helpful.

Me, Elsewhere

This is all it takes to be a hero evidently from 5 Minutes for Parenting

Grand Dedication: Milestone for the first Mercy Home in Canada at SheLoves

My post about the Instructions for the Morning has also been picked up by Mamapedia Voices now.

Back to School! at the Fraser Valley Pulse.

Faith

I twittered one day that if I heard one more reference to the phrase "hipster Christianity," I was going to barf on my shoes. Julie Clawson wrote one of the best responses to this popular and misguided book o'stereotypes and missing-the-point-ness I've heard yet. 

A unique voice in Christian blogging, Kathy writes "and while i’m not in any way saying that “big is bad” i think i’m more convinced than ever that  “small is plenty.” i was in a conversation with a dear sister-on-the-journey a while back & she said, “kathy, i just want a small deep rich life.  that’s enough for me. i don’t want to travel the world, change the course of history. i just want to live my little life well.” those words have lingered.  that’s what i want, too.  sure, i have visions of grandeur here and there, but that mainly comes from getting sucked into what other people are doing instead of keeping my eyes focused on the loveliness right in front of me that is made to be enjoyed, valued, treasured, nurtured, cultivated, honored."

A powerful little parable completely animated on an iPad and read beautifully.

Life or something like it

Remembering Katrina, 5 years later from The Big Picture. They've collected iconic images of New Orleans and the devastation, the clean up and current situation.

Hobo Mama writes about Losing Weight and Keeping Self-Worth. As someone that has a complex relationship with her body and weight (meaning: I hate when I'm fat which I am right now) I found her perspective refreshing as she shares about letting go of the fantasy of being thin and just living your life now while appreciating your body.

"We all know that when we invite transparency into our lives, the first thing it unpacks from its suitcase is risk."  Megan at SortaCrunchy shares about being transparent, resisting the "Edit" button and the Photoshopping. Given my commitment to living a life free from approval addiction, this really resonated with me.  .

For the Win!

We are welcoming our first residents at the Mercy House this coming week. We're so excited, nervous and full of anticipation! It's a dream come true, the end of the beginning. 

If you'd like to take a look at the newly renovated home, visit Jamie Delaine's blog. She's a renowned Vancouver photographer that donates her sessions and photos to Mercy Ministries as part of her partnership (and tremendous heart). You'll be staggered at the details to communicate love, worth and value to these precious women.

So if you wouldn't mind praying for the girls as they transition into their new life as well as our staff, we'd appreciate it.

In which this is what I'm into this month

 
What Am I Into This Month - August 2010 

On My Nightstand:

• Resurrection in May by Lisa Samson,  
• Love is an Orientation: Elevating the Conversation with the Gay Community by Andrew Marin,  
• The Message,  
• Approval Addiction: Overcoming Your Need to Please Everyone by Joyce Meyer and  
• Experiencing the Depths of Jesus Christ by Jeanne Guyon.

Want To Read:

• What Bothers Me Most About Christianity: Honest Reflections from an Open-Minded Christ Follower by Ed Gungor,  
• The Misunderstood God: Lies Religion Tells About God by Darin Hufford and  
• Scouting the Divine by Margaret Feinberg.

T.V. Show Worth Watching: I've become a ginormous (what? That's not a word? Pssssh.) of Glee and my husband has politely asked me if we will ever again listen to anything other than show choir versions of pop music on the iPod (answer: not anytime soon, luv). Also I picked up Season 1 of Heartland at the library and am pleasantly surprised by how much I'm enjoying it. It's a great show to watch while knitting - interesting and family friendly without being sappy or lame.

Movie I've Seen (in our out of the theatre): Capitalism: A Love Story and Date Night. I'm mighty impressed that there are two movies there - it's usually closer to, um, none.

In My Kitchen: My dishwasher is broken! My dishwasher is broken! And this month has been crazy  between Anne's birthday party, my in-laws visiting and now having a houseful of Gina-sprites, I am good and done with washing dishes. 2 more weeks until our new dishwasher arrives. *happy sob*  Otherwise, I'm currently eating a lot of Brian's garden bounty and are up to our necks in green beans. Once the tomatoes are finished ripening (late season this year for some reason), I'll also be learning how to do down.

In My Ears: I have just discovered Audrey Assad and am thoroughly in love.Seriously. Love.

Three Newest Blog Reads:

• Kristin at Halfway to Normal. Fantastic writer and incredibly personable and kind. According to her, she's "daily defying what it means to be a divorced-Christian-liberal-remarried-Midwestern-mommy-writer."
• Crunchy Domestic Goddess is a very well known blogger but I'm a new reader. Great content from someone wanting to "change the world, one blog post at a time."
• Permission to Live also known as A Young Mum's Musings. She writes openly and authentically with conviction about her beliefs, her decisions and even her realisations such as this heartbreaking but victorious post about never being good enough.

What I'm Looking Forward to Next Month: The arrival of the dishwasher, September 2 (more on that shortly), Joseph's 2nd birthday and our VERY FIRST getaway weekend since having our tinies. We're headed down to Seattle to meet one of Brian's dearest friends and his wife to see the Nebraska Cornhuskers in action (I'll be bringing my knitting) and generally hang out. But you know, able to sleep in which sounds brilliant right now.

Linked up at SortaCrunchy for this fun idea.

In which we are those crazy Internet people but not stalkers

Do you remember that scene from (one of my favourite movies!) Julie & Julia when Julia Child is telling her French friend, Simca, about her "best friend" from America? They're picking her up at the station and Julia then mentions she doesn't know what she looks like because they actually haven't ever, you know, met in person. They have been writing letters for decades. But they already know each other and love each other.

Sometimes that's how the Internet feels to me.

Gina and I "met" on the Internet, nearly 8 or 9 years ago. We were both a part of an online message board (back before most of the population had heard of message boards and Facebook wasn't even a glimmer in spoiled rich kids eyes). It was a small group of women and, as time went on, it became smaller as people phased in and out of the community. But there is a core group of women there that I consider among my dearest friends. They have done a lot of life with me and my family.

So back in late 2002 or early 2003 (we can't quite remember), I drove north from New Braunfels to Dallas to meet Gina and another friend from those boards. I picked her up at a restaurant, in broad daylight. Her husband gave me the quick fact check to make sure I wasn't a crazy stalker and next thing we knew, we were in my little Honda (named Helen Wheels), buzzing down the interstate, talking a mile a minute.

It was like we'd known each other forever. Which we sort of had but you know, hadn't actually met until that moment.

Over the years, we see each other now and again. But we are daily a part of each other's lives along with our other sisters from this community. We're on Facebook, we talk on the phone, we meet up when we're in the same vicinity or close to it, often driving hours just to hug each other's necks. And yes, we still have a little message board, too.

While on a mind boggling 9 week road trip, Gina stopped over in Abbotsford with her husband and their four children. That makes 10 people in my house. And my dishwasher has been broken for a month so by the time we finish supper, there is an entire meal on the floor and we are washing every single dish in my kitchen until 8:30 at night. There are toys strewn everywhere. The noise level is impressive. Anne is absolutely in love with her two daughters and Joseph is only slightly annoying the big boys with his repeated "Hi! Hi! Hi!" They are fast friends, the 6 of them, already. And at night, when we get them all settled into bed, after labouring beside each other in this business of mothering, getting meals on the table, yakking, soothing, disciplining, we sit down to have a cup of tea and just exhale. We are too busy and tired to pull out our cameras and so in my head I'm "clicking" on the images of Anne and Laura, dressed up in princess costumes, hugging each other good night and Joseph studiously playing legos with Philip and Martin pontificating to the "little ones" as he calls them about the Berenstein Bears and how this episode means you're NOT SUPPOSED TO COVET which made Anne blink and Laura just takes it all in stride, explaining to Anne in an aside, "He likes to tell us what things mean." 


I sat there, two nights ago with Brian and her Dude (which is what she calls him online as he's a seminary professor with little inclination to be written about on the Internet), across from her on my couch, talking about life and homes and technology and how weird it is that she's here and we're here and we're all friends and that we love each other. Even though we are very different, somehow, we've found a heart friend and it's a friendship that lasts.

It lasts even during breakfast this morning when, after eating her blueberry oatmeal, my precious daughter promptly barfed it all up on the kitchen floor. My true friend didn't blink an eye, wiped everything up, leaving me to tend to Anne and carried on without a twitch.

So much for our tourist plans today. I've got one with the flu now so we're just hanging out at home, making grilled cheese sandwiches and phone calls.

And who says the Internet doesn't create community?

(Also, our fellow girlies - we wish you were here too. Someday, we'll all be together.)

Do you have an online community that you are a part of? Have you ever met anyone from online "in real life?" Or do you think we're just a bit insane?

In which I often find God in the paradox

It seems like so much of living a kingdom life is a paradox. You can't have faith without patience. You can't have patience without faith. We are in this world but not of this world but God so loves the world that he gave and gave and gives. He's the servant-king. The least of us is the greatest. True strength is that in our weakness, he is strong. And on and on and on.

For instance, another one that has crept up into my soul now is the paradox confidence and humility. Which really applies to everything - our faith (can we pray without confidence? without humility?) and our marriages, our work and our own self.  It's also about how much I need confidence as a parent - confidence to be in charge, to be the parent, be the grown-up, to create security and boundaries, a safe place, to raise my tinies to be citizens in the Kingdom of Love.

But none of that confidence matters without humility.  Humility to know when to step back, when to surrender, when to admit I'm wrong, when to seek God because, plainly, I don't know sometimes. Humility to be a fellow-journeyer, someone also on The Way.


Too much confidence? You're heavy handed, laying down the law, ruling with force and "because-I'm-the-Parent-and-I-said-so" and spirits are squashed under all of the authority. Too much humility? I'm not sure, do whatever you think is best, who am I to decide what's right and wrong, I'm just figuring it out too, you know, and suddenly you've crossed over to false humility.

But when it's balanced, when they are singing in harmony, when you're dancing, it's one step in confidence, reading your partner-child, stepping back in humility to prayer and step again. It's beautiful in its give and take, forward and back. 

The older my children get, the more I yearn to honour not just the people they are becoming but also the people that they already are.





One of my husband's best friends, his best man at our wedding, someone we both love dearly, is walking through the valley of the shadow of death now, his beautiful wife abruptly diagnosed with Stage 4 colon cancer. They're embarking on a world of chemo therapy and hospitals, relying on friends to care for their small girls, cook their meals and hold up their heads. (It's everything in Brian not to get in his car and drive there to ... do what? Just be there, he says. Pray. Whatever. But be there. When you love, isn't your instinct always just to be be present?)

And yet, in the midst of this, she writes that she feels God leaning in close to her. She feels loved in her suffering.

It's a paradox I can't begin to understand. And I find I'm praying with groanings, without words, learning again to pray with confidence (Healing! Jesus! Be near and heal her.) and also with humility (We trust you and you are always good, Jesus.) In the meantime, we all live in the in-between still.

The kingdom of God is now. And it's also not yet.

So often, I find God in the paradox, in the place in-between. Not just in parenting my children (so far, the greatest crucible for me yet, the greatest refining) but in my relationships, in my prayer, in my marriage, in my work - and I don't think I'm alone in this.

He's there in the thin place between one-and-the-other.  We live in that tension, finding the paradox of confidence and humility, giving and receiving, the greatest one is the servant, faith and patience, weakness and true strength, love and suffering to be sweet.

Would you also pray for our friends? We would all appreciate it. Thank you, friends.

In which this kind of crazy is just like coming home

Yesterday, at my request, we visited a new church. It's not that I don't like and appreciate the church we've been attending, it's just that it doesn't feel like it fits me even though I'm learning there. So I searched around and found a local Vineyard church for us to visit - just to see, I told Brian.

We walked in the door of the elementary school and headed for the school gym. I nearly cried with relief.

I loved it. I loved every minute of it. I loved the uncomfortable folding chairs and the young people, I loved the kids making noise and playing without anyone getting huffy, I loved the flag-waving lady (charismatics, you know....) in the corner. It was the familiar music on guitars and pianos that brought me to tears. I loved the preaching and the people I saw. I loved the hands up in worship, the swaying mamas with babies on their hips, the tears that freely flowed, the people stretched out in worship without anyone thinking it's odd, the scriptures being read, the welcoming of "regular people" to hear from God and share with the group. I loved that my kids worshipped with us, free to stand on the chairs so that they could see.

For the first time, in a very long time, my soul felt watered by church, yes, institutional church.

It felt like my tribe again, my kind of crazy. It seemed like a nice group of people.

And all I wanted was to be one of them. All I wanted was to join a small group and make good friends and take casseroles to their houses when they have their babies and help out in Sunday school and build a life there. I wanted them to baptise my babies in Cultus Lake when they're 10 and I wanted to know that I have a bigger family, a bigger community, than I do now.

It felt like coming home after a long absence. 


I don't really know what that means for us in the long term or how this complicates things.

Or if this is just, purely, an answer to prayer.


So how was church, if you go, this Sunday for you?



Related: I write about Church and Faith- the going and being - a lot.

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

For your weekend wanderings, a few of my friends.

Me, Elsewhere

My post on how breastfeeding changed me was featured at 5 Minutes for Parenting.

Over at Fraser Valley Pulse, Beyond PB&J: Healthy Lunch Alternatives

Parenting

The One Parenting Habit that Changes Everything by A Holy Experience. Simple and powerful.

Spanking and Criminal Behaviour is up at Crunchy Domestic Goddess. Inspired by a Facebook group that said “I’d rather go to jail for spanking my kids than for them to go because I didn’t.” Amy then writes about whether there is, in fact, a connection between the two.

Faith and Spirituality

 Amber at The Run-A-Muck wrote a gorgeous piece On Gratitude During Ramadan: a desire for unity. It leaves you a bit breathless.

My friend, Sandy, lives and works in China along with her husband and teenage daughter. Now they've taken in (on a temporary basis) a little baby that was found starving in an orphanage. She writes about the Intrinsic Value of Human Life and the photos of her new little man will break any mama's heart. Pray for them?

Oops! Wrong Father over at Lifestream gives a real-life example of the difference between the God/Father we think we have and the one we actually have.

The Gospel as a National Security Issue may be the best post Ed Cyzewski has ever written. He's riled up and it's about good stuff.

Life

From the New York Times, Consumers Find Ways to Spend Less and Find Happiness

This lovely poem and video is from a PEI poet. It's about being alone and it's gorgeous - lyrical, haunting, lovely. (RSS readers may need to click through to view the video.)

Good Story

My friend, Stephanie at Metropolitan Mama has just announced something incredible - Give Every Day. Her family is selling everything they own - including their house - to live in an RV and travel the country, giving every day. (And they have two kids - 3 and 1 years old!) Talk about putting your life where your mouth is! You'll want to read the first blog post announcement and sign up to follow along on their journey. If you'd like to have them visit your church or neighbourhood as part of their journey, that information is also on their site.

For the Win!

This is a video of soldiers returning home to surprise their loved ones. Brian and I watched it one night and sobbed - actually sobbed. Oh, pray for our soldiers and their babies, their teenagers, their spouses, their lovers, their mothers, their fathers, their friends.




And Part 2

In which I am purging Dora and Elmo from our bookshelves

Last night, when I checked out Anne, she was sleeping with her books. Literally. There were two under her pillow, three in the bed and her entire Beatrix Potter collection was displayed throughout the room like the library.

To be honest, when I got pregnant with Anne, one of my first stops was not Babies R Us or a baby boutique store. Rather, I went to the bookstore and browsed my old favourites, hardly able to believe that I was going to get to read children's literature again. Everything from (obviously) Anne of Green Gables to Little Women and the Little House books, Winnie the Pooh, Peter Rabbit and Charlotte's Web found their way back into my house, stacked next to children's poetry and picture books.

We read constantly to the tinies. They love their books, paging through them, setting them up to read to their stuffed animals, sitting across from each other to "read" to each other. It doesn't take much for the tinies to memorize books. Even Joseph is already in on the action, "reading" along with us for the Boynton books. Anne can memorize books in just two or three readings, then content to sit by herself with her books, turning the pages and reciting the words, now "reading" to Joe.

I used to think that as long as a kid is reading, it doesn't really  matter what they're reading (within reason). So it might not be the greatest literature but if they like the Disney Princess books then whatever, it's a book. Pick your battles, right? I've read my share of crap (the forbidden R.L. Stein novels in junior high come to mind). Even now, I like a little brain rot or chick lit now and again. I've survived very bad literature and am a semi-sentient human being most of the time.


So we had some Elmo books, a few Dora the Explorer pop-ups, some simple books with boring story lines and repetitive language.  But I'm changing my mind about those books.

I'm not sure why but I see that they love the harder books, the deeper books, the ones without big colourful and mind-numbing illustrations. They seem to like the detailed illustrations instead of big primary colours in simple shapes.  The language and the subject matter, the story and the pace of the older, classic books just make us happy.

I suppose that they are classics for a reason, aren't they?

So I've slowly been purging the house of Dora the Explorer, Elmo and other lame excuses for books. They haven't been missed. Not by the tinies and certainly not by me. (Honestly. Who can read those books repetitively - the only way children want to read, it seems - without wanting to repeatedly bang one's head on the wall?)

We've been reading old favourites, award winners, books beloved by generations. We read about Ferdinand and Sal, Madeleine and Peter. We read about ducklings and little houses that want to be in the country.

Here are our current favourites:

The Little House: Her Story by Virginia Lee Burton

The Story of Ferdinand

Blueberries for Sal

Beatrix Potter: The Complete Tales

(Here's a link to a few others that we like.)

When they love to read, why not read good books? Why not read books that make you think, make you learn a new word? Why not look at picture books that can keep your eyes glued to the page, just soaking in the details, for minutes at a time?

In a way, it reminds me of one of my favourite passages of Scripture from the book of Philippians 4:8:

And now, dear brothers and sisters, one final thing. Fix your thoughts on what is true, and honorable, and right, and pure, and lovely, and admirable. Think about things that are excellent and worthy of praise.

I might even say good bye some of my British chick lit if this keeps up.


What are some of your favourite classic books for the under-5 set?  Anything that your tinies love to read that we need to add to our library queue?



(Disclosure: Amazon affiliate links used. Which means that if you buy one, I might get 24 cents someday.)

In which we are celebrating 4 years of Anne-Girl

Happy 4th Birthday, Annie!

How is it even possible that in 4 short years we have gone from this:

Anne, 3 days old (Yes she was a big baby! Tell me about it....)

to this?

Anne at her birthday party on Saturday (tutu made by yours truly).

We are celebrating 4 years of our Anne-Girl. Clearly, I'm not going to be able to refer to her as one of the tinies for much longer (as tall as 5 and 6 year olds, my girl is taking after her Dad's side of the family).

She's the most tender-hearted, spiritual, wise and quirky kid. She now addresses her brother as "Class!" and thinks she was born to be a big sister to Joseph and Addison (her cousin). She doesn't know how to walk normally, preferring to dance and skip everywhere she goes.

She loves others with a fierce rawness that makes my teeth ache, she has no protective ribs around her little heart. She is wide open and generous, not a selfish or unkind bone in her body. She's overly sensitive and a little weird sometimes. She loves to "read" and spend time by herself, working on puzzles or imagining. She could care less about colouring and drawing pictures, preferring to smash and smear paint in globs. She rides her bike too fast and laughs too loud and splashes too much. Despite my best efforts, she adores "dark pink" and purple. She's got my mother's blue eyes and looks most like Brian but her little mouth is her own triangle and her spirit and temperament is so much like mine, it's a bit eerie sometimes.

She made me a mother but she's also making me a better person. I learn so much from her and am so thankful God gave her to us to love. I love this girl with my very marrow.

Happy birthday to a graceful and kind small girl.

Related: Anne at 3, Anne at 2, Anne is the subject of a lot of my writing.

In which we're eating and praying and loving right here

I am not likely to take a year off from my life. I am not likely to get on a plane, passport in hand, to fly solo into Italy and India and Indonesia, searching for my significance and wholeness.

Most of the western world is aware of Elizabeth Gilbert's fascinating self-discovering memoir, Eat Pray Love, about her quest for spiritual and emotional wellness through travel, particularly since it's now a movie starring Julia Roberts.  I first read the book when it came out and liked it, particularly drawn to the Italian ideal of "the art of doing nothing" and longing to be able to travel across the world. But on subsequent readings, I found myself reading with new eyes from a new life.


Apparently, enlightenment comes through spiritualism for comfort, privilege and overwhelmingly focus on Self.  Wholeness comes at a high price: you must leave something or everything behind, you must put yourself first, you must travel, you must spend ...erm...invest, you must transcend your boring, hum-drum life to achieve something that looks like satisfaction.

But what if the greater sacrifice isn't leaving your life behind to travel for a year? What if the greater sacrifices - the greater rewards, even - are to be fully present, right where you are, in the messy non-Hollywood of real life? Transcendence by living a spirit-filled life in the daily, by finding the sacred in the mundane isn't that sexy.


Eat

So maybe I don't eat delicious cheesy concoctions that feel like a religious experience in Rome where someone else does both the labour of meal planning, cooking and clean up.

My kitchen is mine - I do the cooking, I do the clean-up, we all do the eating. Together. One night, it might be a fantastic meal and then the next, because I'm tired of washing dishes, we order pizza in or have bacon tomato sandwiches.

It feels just like a religious experience though because here is my family around the table, holding hands, thanking God for our food, eating together. It's a privilege to have friends and family at our table, to talk about our life, to wash and eat the vegetables my husband grew, to have a wilting sunflower from that garden as my centrepiece brought to me by two grimy and proud children. I find life and enjoyment in simple food, eaten at my own kitchen table or at noisy Sunday suppers at my mother's house with a growing houseful of cousins. I found that when I was off travelling, eating at cafes in Poland or fancy restaurants in Washington, I longed only for my mother's cooking and a life that wasn't just made up of visits.


Pray 

Maybe I don't meditate in India, across from a wise guru, taking hours or days to contemplate my existence and ancient prayers. Maybe I don't rise at dawn to recite ancient words. Maybe I don't find spiritual enlightenment in a religion that different than my parents.

But I am just as hungry for God, just as full of longing for depth and spiritual connection. My ancient prayers sound more like "Help" and "Thank you" though. I carve out my time for meditation in the dailyness of my life - early morning moments before everyone wakes up, twenty minutes before bed if I'm not already asleep before my head hits the pillow, prayers at tiny bedtime, here and there and always always always praying. I wouldn't mind a week or two at a retreat centre or a monastery or an ashram - some days more than others. But instead I'm praying through my real life, using my work as a prayer. And I read Scriptures that I've memorised since I was a kid, I roll the familiar words of life under my tongue and through my veins, rubbing them into my heart, finding wisdom and truth like none other.

I find God in simple moments and in the abundance of my life, too. It feels like meditation, it feels like light breaking through and a privilege to teach them to pray, to sing, to laugh, to read. It's a gift from God, a requirement for mothers, to be easily pleased. And when you are easily pleased, when the small things are a priority and a source of joy, I realise that they are, in fact, big things, the things that were a gift from a generous Giver.

Love 

Maybe I won't find a hot and rich Brazilian man in Indonesia to make my toes curl, who pooh-poohs marriage with me.

Instead I married young, freely using words like 'soulmate' and 'meant to be' when we were still teenagers. Instead, we'll celebrate our tenth wedding anniversary this spring, knowing life looks nothing like what we thought it would and thanking God for that. His hands know every inch of me; it's not so much a chain that binds as it is a thousand threads, a million points of connection, shared memories, cry until you laugh and laugh until you cry moments that holds us and then that something extra, that something that does, in fact, make my toes curl when he kisses me. It's the mixing and mingling of ourselves and then giving birth together to two beautiful true little people. Only the two of us know everything about the other and, somehow, miracle of miracles, still love all the more. Only the two of us can meet eyes across the room and have an entire conversation by one raised eyebrow.

It's a privilege to grow old together, to be heading into middle age together, to have grown up together. To be raising babies together and trying to make ends meet.  It's a privilege to lay beside the same man in the same bed every night and know that you love and are loved in return, that you are One.


Maybe I won't sit on Oprah's couch discussing my best-seller, giving advice and implying that the lives of mothers are one of unbroken servitude that results in a cracked shell of a woman. Maybe Julia Roberts won't play me in a movie with a hipster soundtrack (I should be so lucky!).

Instead I'll write sentences here and there on bits of paper, backs of napkins, blank page journals and a small website. I'll write about piling stones, making an altar of my life, marking time and remembering the places where I met God in my real life. I'll watch sunsets on the same trees every night and still marvel.

I'll get frustrated and tired, confused and sad sometimes. That doesn't mean I'm doing life wrong. I'll be happier than I could have ever imagined. I'll consider it self-indulgent to have an afternoon at the bookstore alone, never mind a year in Bali, and I'll find my true self in the daily life of living loved and loving those that God has given to me.

We can eat and pray and love, right here, in the life we are living, in the story we are writing off the page, too. We can find wholeness and love, wellness and truth without a single plane ride. We can write a story of big verbs like forgiving and giving and sacrificing and loving and fighting and then the big nouns like family and marriage and intimacy and justice and mercy and faithfulness and joy.
.

In which I am experiencing a thousand gifts (402 - 418)

Sometimes it's hard to be grateful.

And other times? Gratitude spills over and races for the edges of the table, running over and waterfalling onto the floor. It's been one of those weeks.

401.  Sunshine so bright, my camera's white balance is completely off.

402. Smell of the ocean

403. Lazy Friday picnic suppers of bread and cheese and fruit on the grass.


404. Having enough time to waste time throwing rocks in the ocean.

405. The sound of waves breaking.

406. Tinies hugging.

407. How Joseph walks on the pier, carefully stepping from one plank to the next, like he's walking down stairs.

408. Strong-backed Dads that can carry squirmy girls.

409. Iced capps from Tim Hortons.

410. Long drives on back roads.

411. Harvest season.

412. Green-thumbed husbands at community gardens

413. Real food.

414. Boys that can be entertained by washing veggies - for an hour.



415. Honest conversations.

416. Discovering that Lisa Samson has a new book out. And it's gooooooood.

417. Going to bed at 9:45



And best of all, 418. Now being free to announce that I'm going to be an Auntie again! Congratulations to my beautiful sister and her husband.

This also means that our beloved little Addy will be a big sister in late January!

I'm counting my way to 1,000 gifts as part of a community of gratitude.

In which swimming lessons bring me hope

(We have company in town and so this is a repost from the archives of 2007. Look at Annie!)

My first instinct is that I tend to see the glass half empty most of the time. As a result, I can whip myself into a state of despair about a variety of topics:  healthcare, Darfur, poverty, hunger, the general state of most Christians, the reputation/stereotype that I carry as an evangelical (What? You mean I'm not a disciple of Jerry Falwell? Shocking!), church planting (we must be mad), the war in Iraq, Canadian politics, terrorism, babies without parents in the foster system, babies with parents around the world, Paris Hilton (*sigh*) and so on. After a good bout of watching BBC News, I can safely pace the floor, praying for the state of humanity, punctuated with the word "Marantha, Lord Jesus!" (which loosely translates as "Come, Lord Jesus, and save us from this mess!")

The world is full of fear, hatred, war.

But I realised afresh this summer that there is a lot of love in the world. And I realised it at swimming lessons.
You see, I took Anne to Starfish swimming lessons at the rec centre this summer. We put on our little (okay, so mine isn't so little) bathing suits and showed up for a 30 minute lesson with Natasha. (Sidenote: Who decided to start putting wee babies into bikinis with little triangles for the top? Hello! Oversexualisation of babies, anyone? ARGH!)

While there, I was filled with hope. If you ever doubt love, go to a babies swimming class (just don't be a single male with a baseball cap and a video camera...you'll freak us all out). I looked across the pool one day between "The Wheels on the Bus" and "Let's Make Bubbles!" and almost wept. So many different women and men and so many little babies and so much love. I felt like the pool would overflow with the love.

There was the obese woman who bravely donned her swimsuit to paddle with her chubby baby. There was the woman in the string bikini with her daughter in a string bikini. There was the biker-looking gentleman with his baby. There was the young teenager with her brand new girl. There was the tired looking mother with her cross eyed baby girl. The dads who courageously jumped in the pool with a bunch of women to sing and splash. And on it went.

We sang songs like "The Grand Old Duke of York". We went around in circles. We led the babies through the pool, chirping "Kick Kick Kick Kick". I looked around at all of these people with their babies and saw raw, unabashed love in their eyes. They loved their kids. They kissed the tops of their heads when no one was looking. They kissed their wee faces through the chlorine. They paddled their feet and screamed with laughter when the babies splashed back. They bounced and giggled so that their babies would bounce and giggle.

I often labour under the (probably false) notion that no one has ever loved their child like I love Anne. No one else has ever had their heart completely broken open by 9 pounds of humanity. No one has ever kissed every inch of their babies milky skin, weepy with love. (I also labour under this assumption with my marriage: no one has ever loved like we love each other...)

I realised that day that everyone feels that way.


It filled me with hope and joy. It made me feel a kinship with every other parent from Abbotsford Rec Centre to Darfur and beyond.

Such love. Such hope. Such joy. Such faith. There are these moments of saving grace and saving love all around the world, every day. What a privilege that God has allowed us to be parents, to experience the ache of his heart for his children. I understood the heart of God so much more after giving birth to Anne. He is a Father and a Mother. Everything else I think I know about God now passes through that filter. Just as I love Anne, he loves me.

The only drawback is that I had to wear a bathing suit for this revelation.

In which she's the poet of stones and plain life

I am not a high church kid. I try it on now and then, find life there even. But I'm a kid from the prairies who went to church at the community centre and the school gym with preachers in blue jeans, one-piano worship and mamas with long brown hair balancing babies on their hips. We were surrounded by folding chairs and tambourines, loud untrained voices singing, baptizing in the hotel pool in the winter or the lake in the summer.

We find beauty in the sparseness, in the big sky, in the big breath, in the space between, in the silence.

When you grow up a western Canadian kid, there is a sense of the holy in the most mundane, the sacred seeping through every moment. You can be going for a bike ride, lank and mosquito-bitten and suddenly, there He is, God showing up in the sunset and the trees standing out like black lace against the watercolour sky. We hold grudges but watch for the waning of the moon every month. We wear suits every day and seem to belong in your world but we're still horse-smart.

I like my jeans and I like cooking for my family. I like to knit and sit outside. God speaks to me most in the daily life. I like long, tested-and-tried love that calls me more beautiful now than I was then. I love nursing babies and the smell of sweet peas, the stuff of real life.

When I yearn, it's to be more simple and more kind.

So as a lover of poetry, as one that poetry speaks to and sustains, my books of ee cummings and Dickinson, American and English poets, even a few Spanish and French have all been underlined and dogeared, sure. But my favourite poet is the one that writes of plain life and Luci Shaw writes of elms and God, babies and transcendence, hymns and water. Every time I read her words, it's like find cold water on a hot day.

I've shared before about my love for Luci Shaw's poetry here and here. But if you only buy one book from  her, make it "Polishing the Petoskey Stone." And then, if she's ever in your neck of the woods (she lives around here and so I've heard her read and oh, my heart, it's life-giving), get thyself there. She has close-cropped silver hair and a dogwood tattoo.

A song for simplicity

by Luci Shaw


There are some things that should be as they are:
plain, unadorned, common and all-complete;
things not in a clutter, not in a clump,
unmuddled and unmeddled with;
the straight, the smooth, the salt, the sour, the sweet.
For all that's timeless, untutored, untailored and untooled;
for innocence unschooled;
for unploughed prairies, primal snow and sod,
water unmuddied, wind unruled,
for these, thank God.

Singly and strongly, from each separate star,
a brightness pricks the retina from far
to near.  And for clear eyes to see
deep space and dark infinity
with an untroubled gaze,
give praise.

With both hands unjewelled and with unbound hair
beauty herself stands unselfconscious where
she is enough to have, and worth the always holding.
The mind perceiving her, the heart enfolding
echoes the unchanged pattern from above
that praises God for loveliness, and love.

Glory again to God for word and phrase
whose magic, matching the mind's computed leap,
lands on the lip of truth,
(plain as a stone well's mouth, and as deep)
and for the drum, the bell, the flute, the harp, the bird,
for music, Praise! that speaks without a word.

As for the rightness to be found
in the unembellished square and the plain round,
in geometric statement of a curve
respond! without reserve
but with astonishment that there's for every man
one point in time, one plainly drafted plan,
and in your unique place,
give glory for God's grace.

All this from him whose three-in-one
so simply brought to birth
from the red earth
a son.
All our complexity, diversity, decor,
facet the gem, encrust the clarity.
So pierce you now the opalescent glaze
till all your praise
rises to him in whom you find no flaw.

Do you have a favourite poet that I should check out?

In which this is Tuesday, Unwrapped

We do family supper every night together, sitting down at the second hand Ikea table. We hold hands to say grace but Anne likes to pray (and try to imitate her Papa) so grace usually sounds like "Thank you, Jesus, for our bodies. We bless it all. And we pray we can all go to White Rock together and for the glory and for the food. Amen." No more high chair, Joseph is thrilled to be sitting at the table in his little booster seat, eating with two hands.

The mess is awesome.

The dishwasher has been broken for 10 days now (and counting). I'm standing in front of my kitchen sink, up to my elbows in hot-hot-hot soapy water, scrubbing supper dishes. I'm looking out the window, into our dense forest watching for our trio of screech owls to make their evening appearance but all I see are the tiny rabbits, butterflies and birds. The tinies secured permission to take the cushions off the couch and are having a bounce party in the living room which means that the clean-up song will be sung a few times later.

Then it's quiet. I'm always suspicious of quiet since it's such a rare occurrence. I peek over my shoulder. Joseph is sitting cross-legged on a cushion across from Anne who is "reading" (reciting) a book to him. He's paying close attention to every word, sitting still. These moments are happening more and more, he's settling out of this whiny stage, the scream-when-you-don't-like-it stage.  In so many ways, he reminds me of Brian and these are two of them: he loves to be touched and he is his own little man already, somehow incredibly confident in who he is at not-yet-two.

When the story is done, they stand up and Anne starts to tell me about something but Joseph stands right in front of her and wraps his dimpled arms around her thin waist. He stands right against her, holding her tightly, whispering "bighugbighugbighugbighug" and she pats his back absentmindedly because he always does this, holding onto her or me when he feels like he needs a hug.


The other day, we were at my parents' house, sitting out on the back deck before supper. Joseph stood in the middle of the grown-ups and started to dance.

He danced and danced and danced.

There was no music but his feet were flying, like he was tap dancing, he was laughing, his arms were wide open. My parents laughed so hard, they nearly cried.

Out of  nowhere, he just decided to dance and so he danced with all his might.

In which I share 4 reasons why I am NOT against same-sex marriage

As most of you know, I live in Canada. Here, it is legal for same-sex couples to marry each other.  And somehow, the apocalypse has not occurred. Shocking, I know.
 
Speaking as someone raised in a post-Christian culture, now living in a post-same-sex-marriage culture AND as someone that is an evangelical Christian (according to surveys, most of you now think I'm a homophobic hypocrite, which is fantastic), here are the main reasons why I am not bothered by same-sex marriage - and why I think that Christians, even those that believe homosexuality to be a sin, need to back off the issue.

1. From a purely pragmatic standpoint, it hasn't affected my life much - and it has meant something very positive for many others. I have friends that are GLBT and, for those that do have long term relationships, the ability to have a legal standing on par with heterosexual couples carries weight in every area of their lives. And the fact that two consenting adult people love each other and are committed to one another does not devalue me, my marriage, my religion or the society I live in. If anything it has created a more stable, tolerant and accepting society. (It's for this same reason that I am not against same-sex couples adopting; children in the foster care system are desperate for a stable and loving home. If two men or two women can provide that safety and security, that love and hope, then more power to them and thank you. To me, it's more important that a child isn't languishing in an institution without a loving family.)

Even for those that are, for religious reasons or otherwise, against same-sex marriage can admit that since same-sex marriage has been legalised in Canada, our society has not gone to hell in a hand basket nor has traditional marriage or families been under attack. In actual practice, our society has become "live and let live" which is actually a rather tolerant and comfortable place to be.

2.  My personal definition of marriage goes beyond the government's definition of marriage to that of a religious sacrament, undertaken within the context of an affirming community of believers, serving as a foreshadowing or a demonstration of Christ's love for the church.  With that in mind, I am a firm believer that, in the interest of separation of church and state, a post-Christian or post-religious society should, in fact, be exactly that - post-religious. In Europe, most of the governments do not 'marry' couples. Rather, they issue civil unions allowing for legal connection in matters of health, access, finances, custody and adoption etc. Then, if one is religious, you go to your faith community and have a marriage ceremony as your tradition dictates and understands that sacrament.

Personally, I'm a fan of that system. The word "marriage" has become more of a civil union understanding, in practice, as evidenced by most celebrity "marriages" and the divorce rate, even/especially amongst Christians. So the word has lost much of its religious and original meaning.  Since the word "marriage" has come to mean more of a civil union in practice within our society, as long as the government is in the business of performing marriages, there is no need to discriminate.

I don't look to the government to define marriage to me.

3. I don't believe that the traditional family needs me to "defend" it in the least. (And even if I did, I wouldn't do it within a court system but through how I live my life.)  Within Christian community, family is defined liberally, crossing blood lines to include all of those within the community of believers. God promises to find the lonely and place them within families. We are cautioned against the idea of making an idol out of our familial relationships, foregoing any alliance above that of our affiliation to Jesus.

My marriage is the greatest relationship of my life, spiritual in every way. My ability to have a strong marriage, that affirms God's heart for relationships and demonstrates unconditional love is not altered by someone else's inability or disinclination to do so. If people around me are getting divorced or having affairs or treating each other terribly, I'm still called to a Godly marriage. If people around me are in same-sex relationships, I'm still called to a Godly marriage. We raise our children in spirit and truth, regardless of what the world, the church or the neighbours are doing.

So I find the argument that same-sex marriage or relationships are a "threat" to the traditional family to be short-sighted on one hand and rather ignorant on the other.

Part of me also asks "What traditional family?" Perhaps that is a cultural ideal but the truth is that most of us were not raised in a "traditional" two-parent, 2 kids, 1 dog home (well, I was but that's beside the point!). Whether it's due to divorce, death or some other circumstance, most children are raised in non-50s-television-show homes (which, from what I can tell, is what many of the staunchest "marriage defenders" are actually looking at as the ideal rather than Scripture).


4.  Finally, most arguments against same-sex marriage fail to take one thing into account: love. And not just love between two people that wish to live their lives together. Rather, we miss an opportunity to love those that are different than us, to express love to those that we even disagree with strongly, to affirm their right to make choices different than our own. As Nathan Albert wrote, we have turned it into an 'issue' to debate, to fear, to feel anger over and lobby. On both sides, probably with cause. But we have forgotten that it is not just an issue. It's about people. So when we debate an "issue" and forget that it is backed by people - imperfect, wounded, beloved people on both sides - we dehumanize each other.

It's missing the point. The point of God, the point of Jesus, the point of the Holy Spirit is not to block same-sex relationships. The point of Christianity is not to create a theocratic Christian society. No one is won to Love by the tactics of war and hate.


God does not need me to defend marriage. He does not need me to block other people's decisions. He does not need me to wade into a culture war or gang up on a minority or sow seeds of discord and fear. He does not need me to defend Him, my understanding of His best or even my way of doing life. I have much to learn.

He has called me to an active, all encompassing, radical love that looks beyond all things to see the value and humanity of each person, to speak the words "you are loved more than you could ever imagine" to every soul.

In which I can't keep quiet, I can't thank Him enough

You did it: you changed wild lament
      into whirling dance;
   You ripped off my black mourning band
      and decked me with wildflowers.
   I'm about to burst with song;
      I can't keep quiet about you.
   God, my God,
      I can't thank you enough. 

(from Psalm 30)

My cloud has lifted.

That dark wool blanket of depression, 

of weariness, 

of frustration, 

of condemnation and guilt, 

of self-loathing 

is lifting. 

I feel warmth and light

space and zest again.

It started, surrounded by love,

in openness, 

gripping a deep root and pulling it out. 

Kind of hurt like hell but 

the best kind of hurt,

the righting of a wrong.

It might have taken 10 years to get here 

but I'm here. 

And once that root was pulled out,

the one that choked

and tangled

and somehow poisoned,

that root of approval addiction,
of regret and heartbreak,

that root of inauthenticity and pretense, 

there was suddenly space and light. 

He came rushing in to fill that gap. 

I feel like fresh tilled soil,

like black gold

like rich dirt

ready to bear fruit 

and wildflowers again.

I've never cared for hot house flowers.

I am always drawn to the

hardscrabble places

the cracks in the dirt, 

spilling wild roses from Alberta,

wheat fields and purple thistles,

small flowers that don't make magazine covers,

heather and tiger lilies from the prairie,

man-handled dandelions

handed to me by pudgy hands.

My roots smell like dirt

and sweet peas beside strawberries,

daisies and geraniums with deep purple hearts.

I am no hot house flower,

kept in the greenhouse, safe and scentless.

He's decked me out in wildflowers,

as extravagant as a lilac bush,

heavy with His scent of

freedom

and love

and joy.

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

The lovely Adelle at Ready...Go...Get Set! honoured me with these awards. I'll be "passing them on" later this week. Thanks, Adelle!

Calm your heart over at 5 Minutes for Parenting. Three powerful words in my parenting experience, indeed.

In which cleaning and scrubbing can wait over at 5 Minutes for Parenting. Early days of two tinies, learning about letting go a bit.

In which these are the words I want for our life over at 5 Minutes for Parenting.

Parenting

Four Fun Ways to Practice Playful Parenting by my friend, Megan, writing for Simple Mom, is a gem of an article if you find yourself grouchy or out of patience with your tinies. Even though it felt silly, I definitely did the "shake out the grouchies" with mine just this week and I gotta be honest: IT WORKED.

Life

Time Lost and Found by Anne Lamott. I've been rather purposeful lately, trimming the blogs I read, cutting out Twitter almost entirely, trying to make time for real life and for creativity. Anne Lamott (who is one of my favourite writers and teachers of writing) captures the importance of making time for what nourishes your soul.

This song is about marriage and it made me weepy. Listen to it, please (so beautiful!) RSS readers, you may need to click through to see it.

Faith and Spirituality

Rachel Held Evans who recently released her first book "Evolving in Monkey Town" wrote about her mistakes and her resolutions when it came to talking her "new" faith or beliefs out with friends and family. If you've ever felt like you're in a different place than your friends or family but struggle with how to relate as the "new you," this is a humble take on it.

For the Win! - Seinfeld as a Thriller (ah, the power of editing and music.)

Have a lovely weekend!

In which it's more than we could have asked or imagined

Sorry that I've been a bit absent lately....we've been putting the finishing touches on the Mercy house.

And....voila!

Part of our Classroom

I'm no photographer and I only had a blurry little point-and-shoot with sand in the lens but I couldn't help but snap a few photos to share with you. This is a miracle, 7 years in the making, you see.

It's the very first Mercy Ministries of Canada home. We're a non-profit, free-of-charge residential home for young women, ages 19-28, that struggle with life controlling issues such as drug and alcohol abuse, physical and sexual abuse, self-harm, eating disorders, depression and unplanned pregnancies.  After 7 years of planning and fundraising, telling the story to anyone who would listen long enough, after purchasing 4.3 acres debt free and then building this home (again, debt free), we are just weeks away from welcoming our first residents.

I thought you'd like to see our dream. I thought you'd like to see how every detail tells a broken, hurting, wounded girl that we think she's worth it, we think she's valuable, we believe God will give her double-honour for her former shame.

Counselling Room

It's free. As in, no one ever profits from these precious girls' misfortunes or struggles. They need to know that we exist only to provide an opportunity for them to experience God's love, forgiveness and life-transforming power in their own lives. It's a home, not an institution (even though we're accredited and our counselling staff all have masters' degrees) where mercy triumphs over judgment. 

Our Gathering Room

Dining Room

Kitchen

Each room has unique artwork as well.

We have 20 beds. And there are already 43 girls that have begun the intake process. Clearly, the need is great.

We had our Open House today. (I wore a pair of VERY uncomfortable red high heels and am still regretting that decision as we gave tour after tour after tour. Feet? Still aching.)

If you live in the Lower Mainland, the Open House is still on tomorrow (Friday). More than 100 people came through today alone. Details are here. Especially those of you that are Treasure Builders or participate in our yearly Mercy Walk or have prayed with/for us over these years.  On behalf of the girls and their families, thank you seems inadequate.

The best part? This is only the end of the beginning.