Last week, Brian was out of town on business, and out of sheer compassion and an understanding that I was probably desperate to talk to another grown-up by supper-time, my friend, Stephanie, called to invite us over to the field with her two kids and husband (who was a mighty good sport about hauling a turqoise dresser out to a field so that she could take pictures of their two delightful daughters, one of whom has become a dear friend to Anne). She’s a talented and busy photographer, she had her camera, there was a turquoise dresser, and next thing we knew, magic happened.

She posted a few of the photos over at her gorgeous blog, if you’d like to see (and you know you do….).

She didn’t ask me to do this next part: seriously, if you live in the Lower Mainland, you should totally book Retrospect Photography for some family photos. She also does weddings, maternity, and grad photos, too. Stephanie is incredibly good at what she does, clearly, but she’s also a good friend to me, kind, welcoming, generous. I’m so thankful for her family in our life, they are a wish come true for us.

Thank you again, Stephanie! We love you guys.

In which we live in a field of wishes is a post from: Sarah Bessey: the intersections of a spirit filled life.

You can also follow me on Twitter and join the community on Facebook.

I taught Joe how to arrange his fingers, so that his hand can say “I love you” in sign language. He picked it up quickly but then he modified it. If he leaves his ring finger up, too, it means “I don’t like you.” And sometimes, when his little hand was in the air, he was letting me know in no-uncertain terms, “I don’t like you.”

And that about sums it up some days. I blame Being Three, I blame sibling dynamics, I blame dairy, I blame sugar, I blame a lack of napping, I blame myself over and over and over, most of all.  About three weeks ago, I realised that almost all of my interactions with Joe were discipline-based. If he was behaving, being “good”, I was off doing something “important” – because there is so much to do, always so much to do.  If he was misbehaving, I was laying down the law, in frustration.  And I felt him drifting away from me, I felt like he wasn’t himself, I felt like he didn’t like me much, what happened to my joyful boy? He had fits of sullenness. He is always sick with a runny nose and laboured breathing. He was disobedient, deliberate, aggressive, petulant, whiny.

As the weeks went by, I felt more and more sadness at our disconnect, I wanted to snatch him into my arms, run away with him, just us two, hold him, hide, I guess, but his little hand was in the air, the “I don’t like you” sign in response to every time I said, “I love you, Joe-Bear” and we just weren’t speaking the same language anymore.

We were sitting in my parents’ basement a week ago. I was trying to have a grown-up talk with them while the tinies all played, but Joe kept coming out, kept interrupting, kept trying to be funny so that we would look at him, and I was growing irritated, just go play, child. He was doing a Grover routine “Near – far!” and my mother turned to me, she said gently, “Look at how he is only looking at you, Sarah, waiting for you to see him.”

I was so consumed with trying to get him to “behave right” that I was forgetting to look at him. (I cry just remembering how I felt in that moment, how wrong I had been, how I was missing him, if there was failure here, it was not his.)

We’re slowly uncovering some deeper truths about Joe, about how he thinks, how he gives and receives love, how he works. And he’s just so different – not bad, not wrong, just different from me - so that I feel like I’m becoming bilingual, it’s a whole new experience, he is not Anne, he’s not me, he’s not Evelynn, he’s his own man, and I am so thankful for that. So thankful for the gift of Joseph.

This new language-learning is intentional, it’s on purpose, I’m slowing down, leaning in to him, this is where Love comes down, in the daily interactions with one small life, this is the inasmuch, and I won’t miss it, I won’t miss him being three and wild and wonderful. I won’t gain the world, and lose my ability to speak my son’s language. I want to see him. I want to hear him. I want him connected to my heart more than I want his unflinching obedience. (But that would be nice, too, don’t get me wrong…)

I have been most challenged in regards to my commitment to gentle discipline with Joe. I’ve deviated from my ideals in desperate attempts to discipline him in the moment, losing sight of the long obedience in the same direction, the root of daily discipleship that goes beyond any “tactic” or “method”.

And yet, I find the more I hold to the holistic practices of connection, gentleness, attachment, the more I see our entire relationship as discipleship for us both, the more his heart reconnects, the more my heart reconnects, the less I know, the more I lean into the wisdom of God, the more I pray, the more I relax, the more I wait in prayer. Joe needs time. He needs laughter. He needs prayer. He needs to work alongside of me. He needs to feel important and valuable to the family. He needs to know I’m watching him. And he probably needs to stop eating sugar and dairy, too.

I tell him I love him. I laugh at his jokes. I’m playing more. I’m disciplining him all day by disciplining myself to be present, to love him in his own language, to see him, really truly see him, to live life with him instead of against him. I laugh at his Grover antics, when he says “Watch me, Mum!” I’m already watching, we’re reading Fox in Socks a thousand times, we’re outside more, we’re working together at the kitchen counter for supper.

Sometimes, when I catch his eye in the minivan now, I now just throw up the sign language version, “I love you” written in my fingers. He grins until his molars are showing, and throws up his own “I love you” sign, no ring finger up to change the meaning  - most of the time, but sometimes, that ring finger is still there and I can’t figure out if he’s trying to be funny, or if he means it, some days.

On Mother’s Day, we had a set-to in the morning, it was so hard to get out of the door by myself with all three tinies to get to church, and Joe was resisting every step of the way. I nearly gave up. But we made it, it felt like a Herculean effort.  I passed the baby to Brian to hold at church doing the singing, so that I could lift that gigantic boy into my own arms, balance his thighs on my hips, my hands hooked underneath him in a tight grip, my arms aching with his solid weight, just so he can wrap his arms around my back, rest his breath into my neck and listen to me sing into his bristly hair, he could feel me sway and we both needed this.

He came out of Sunday School, a little clay pot in his hand, with a collection of cardstock flowers inside, glued to wooden dowels. They asked Joe, “Why do you love your Mum?”and then they wrote all of his answers on the flowers, a bouquet of why he loves me.

On the first flower, he told them to write on that flower: “She likes me.”

In which my son doesn’t like me sometimes is a post from: Sarah Bessey: the intersections of a spirit filled life.

You can also follow me on Twitter and join the community on Facebook.

I can’t run. But I ran anyway.

You’ve listened to me prattle on about this for a while now, I know. About how I felt ripped off when I ignored a prodding from God about the SheLoves Half Marathon. About how I decided to be fearless this year, to learn how to say “yes” to everything that I’ve always thought I was too weak, too fat, too silly, too tired, too embarrassed, too self-conscious, too “me” to do. About how I decided that this year, I won’t be on the sidelines, no, this year, awkward gait and extra forty pounds be damned, I will be running. I decided to run, not just for me, but for our girls at Mercy Ministries. I wanted to run because I believe in miracles and somehow, it made sense in my heart, I don’t know why.

I decided to run because this year, I wasn’t content to organize and plan, I wanted to sweat, to hurt, to be physically present, to hold each one of our brave and strong Mercy girls – residents, graduates, hopefuls, supporters – in my heart and pump my blood faster, push my body harder, do something I was so afraid I to do because I was so afraid of failing again.

It was awful.

I hate running. Like, hate hate hate hate hate it. If my sister had a loonie for every time I showed up at the track, grumpy and tired, with a plan to manipulate her into somehow agreeing to go get a glass of wine and an appy at Earl’s instead (“Come on! They won’t care if we’re in track clothes! It’s Monday night in Abbotsford! We’re mothers! They expect that sort of thing!”), she would be a wealthy woman. And for the record, she resisted me each and every time. (Except once. And that time, oh, we had fun. Totally worth it. But sshhh…don’t tell our husbands.)

Anyway.

Yes. Running. I don’t like it. I don’t understand you people that do like to run. But we ran and we ran – although my version of running likely requires the use of ironic air quotes around the word to properly convey the complete awkward visual of me “running” – but you get the idea. We ran in the rain and the snow and the sleet and the winter dark and the wind even though I gave her fits with my bad attitude and Angry Eyes, my protestations about wind and cold and foggy glasses. I registered for the run. I set up my little sponsorship page on the website. Thanks to all of you and a few others, we even raised more than $1500 for Mercy Ministries!

And as Race Day loomed, I looked for a reason to quit. I bargained with myself. I hadn’t actually managed to run 5K yet. I couldn’t do it on a flat surface, let alone a hilly park. Every walker would finish that race before me. It was ridiculous. I was ridiculous. This was ridiculous. Come on! It’s not like it matters. No one needs me to run a race. It’s a 5K, not a marathon, certainly not world peace, it doesn’t matter, I can quit, right?

But no. I couldn’t and I wouldn’t. I still don’t know why it felt like such a big deal, why it felt like a watershed moment for me, but it did. I felt like I was bumping up against every lie I’ve ever believed about myself.

We showed up on race day. I have no clue about these things, and I severely overdressed in heavy black yoga pants plus two t-shirts. I helped pack sack lunches from 7AM onward, and I didn’t drink any water. My friend, Sarah, showed up as a surprise to cheer me on – she runs half marathons once a year “just to keep in shape” – and I burst into tears at the sight of her, clearly I was slightly hysterical. I had a knot in my stomach and I tried to distract myself from my certain defeat by laughing too loud, flitting around, acting so fine.

We gathered at the start line. I’ve never run a race in my life, I was so nervous. And then the horn went off and we ran.

We ran. We ran.

I was running.

It was a gorgeous day in the park. We ran in the shadows of mountains, past derelict red barns, fields of wildflowers, arched by the spring blue sky of a perfect BC day. My sister encouraged me every step of the way, I had never ran in our training as much as I ran on that old path through the park, two minutes of straight running felt like an eternity. We were almost entirely alone – the last of the runners, but just ahead of the walkers. But I ran. We walked when we needed to walk. I was boiling hot. But I ran. Mercy graduates stood on the path with big signs, with cups of water, and I wanted to cry at the sight of them, I wanted to hold them and say, thank you for letting me do this, thank you for teaching me just a bit about courage and guts and miracles. My sister and I talked about other stuff, anything to take my mind off the fact that I was making my body do something I had never made it do before. Around the 4KM mark, I was hit with a bad headache – an “I-haven’t-drank-anything-but-coffee-in-12-hours-and-I’m-sweltering-in-heavy-black-clothes-on-a-hot-sunny-day-what-the-hell-were-you-thinking-woman” kind of headache. One of my little physical quirks is that I get sick to my stomach when I have a headache and this was no exception, I was miserable. My sister had her second wind, I could tell she wanted to run, but she stayed with me, she matched her pace to my shuffle, she did not leave me.

We walked and hobbled through the fourth kilometre, I swore profusely as we wound our way up the final incline, she hooked her elbow around mine, half-dragged me up the dusty hillside path. We hit the final 100 metres and an impossibly cheery race attendant kept encouraging us to “spring to the finish” and I nearly kicked her in the shins. I was dripping wet, hot, miserable, sore, tired and my head hurt.

But we rounded the final bend, and I saw a finish line. And I swear to you, my heart leaped up into my throat, and I couldn’t see for the tears in my eyes. My sister turned to me , she was already running, her eyes full of tears for me, she held out her hand, I grabbed on, and we ran, we ran, we ran those last 100 M across my first finish line. I cried and cried like I had just finished a marathon, instead of a measly 5K run. I didn’t even check my time, I bet it was close to 55 minutes, no joke, I was just relieved I’d beaten the walkers. I had a drink of water and promptly went over to to the bushes and threw up everywhere. No one laughed at me, they celebrated for me. My mother had pushed my niece in a stroller that entire path with her friend, they made it over the line, we laughed and hugged all over again. I laid in the grass and moaned with misery. Every one hugged and danced like we’d completed the Tour de France, they were all so happy for me, I made me realise, most of us, we want to cheer each other on, we really do.

I still hate running. But I love finishing.

I hate the process of growing and changing and doing something new and hard. But I love this moment, sitting on my back deck, listening to the birds sing and the creek run by my house, hardly able to feel my legs, feet aching, but feeling so satisfied, so real, so human, this knowing that I was so scared of this, so sure I couldn’t do it, and now, it’s done. It’s done.

It was amazing.

In which I do something that feels amazing is a post from: Sarah Bessey: the intersections of a spirit filled life.

You can also follow me on Twitter and join the community on Facebook.

And my husband, he calls me by my name, and it makes me stop in my tracks. In a world when Mumma is shrieked and begged and hollered and whispered eleventy-billion times in a day, the sound of my own name can leave me breathless, yes, I’m Sarah, I’m still Sarah, whisper it again, and then come here for a second, okay?

I’m so many other labels, to so many. I’m my mother’s daughter-friend, my Dad’s unapologetic Princess, my sister’s keeper of childhood memories and best friend, I’m a friend, emerging mummy, an online caricature, a writer, an activist, a crazy person, a Christian, all of these descriptors and words and labels and identities, a few of them spelled out in a Meet Sarah page at the top of a website to help someone, me, understand what they’re in for here. Some think I’m brave, some think I’m weak. Some think I’m arrogant, some think I’m self-deprecating. Some think I’m wise, others that I’m naive.

Identity is a tricky thing. It’s so easy to think I’m what I do. I’m what I contribute. I’m what I gain or make or score or achieve or accomplish.

I’m letting those things go, washing them off, standing clean, bare, in the knowledge that I’m a lot of things to a lot of people, but my identity, my self, my name is Beloved. And that is enough.

Write for five minutes, no editing. And then link up with me at the lovely Lisa-Jo’s blog and check out every one that just wants to write for five blessed minutes on a Friday. This week’s prompt: Identity.

In which this is my identity is a post from: Sarah Bessey: the intersections of a spirit filled life.

You can also follow me on Twitter and join the community on Facebook.

Annie came to me a few months ago and very seriously informed me that she would like to have an Art Show. FOR MONEY. She wanted money. I had a chuckle but said, sure, why not?

But when I asked her why she wanted money, she said it was for poor kids. Not just any poor kids. Her poor kids. You see, her Sunday school class sponsors a little boy at Casa de Luz Children’s Home in Primo Tapia, Mexico. She prays quite seriously for José at bedtime, his picture is on our fridge right beside Betty from Rwanda and Akash from India.

The children at Casa de Luz have captured her heart.  The thought of kids her age not having their mum or dad, not having a meal, not having school, being sad or alone, broke her five-year-old heart and she decided to do something.

What could she do?

She could make art. 

We made Anne’s Art Show into a homeschool project, she worked every day for an hour picture after picture after picture, she learned how to count by fives and tens so she could figure out the cash. She created more than 60 works of art. We learned about Mexico. She practiced her handwriting by writing out the invitations. she coloured the big Welcome poster I made for her.

“Mum,” she said with her Serious Eyes, “I don’t have one of those card machines so make sure people know to bring real money.” She wasn’t satisfied until I’d carefully printed CASH ONLY on her welcome poster. She knocked on doors in our neighbourhood, invited her friends. They were so wonderful, everyone took her so seriously, they showed up with cash in hands, ready. One friend offered to curate her gallery openings someday and it made Anne’s day.

We had her little art show, put out cupcakes and balloons, but it promptly rained, like it does in the spring. We moved it inside, it was so crowded and loud. Anne loves to perform and she informed me that she planned on making a welcome speech at 3:30. So at 3:30 on the dot, I informed her that it was time for her speech. She loudly welcomed the neighbourhood. “You can buy my art!” she said loudly, “for the poor kids. I made lots of art so you should buy lots of them. Some of them are, you know, birthday pictures but most of them are just regular pictures that you should put in frames. And then I’ll send ALL OF YOUR MONEY to Mexico.”

She sold almost every single picture.

We tucked all of the proceeds – all $26! – into a plastic baggie and dropped it off with her Sunday school teacher.

It was all her – all her idea, all her work, all her own generous, tender, loving heart.

So proud of my girl,

In which Anne has an Art Show for Mexico is a post from: Sarah Bessey: the intersections of a spirit filled life.

You can also follow me on Twitter and join the community on Facebook.

I’m no angry feminist.

Oh, no, I’m a Jesus-following, joy-filled feminist. My eyes are full of God’s daughters, worldwide, making space for goodness, mercy, justice, wholeness. I’m no man-hating-blaming shrew, I’m surrounded by good men, men that are not afraid of women, men that celebrate and affirm and welcome and strengthen and protect. I don’t have a sob story about my dad or my mum or my family, there’s no bitterness in my words.

I’m not angry. I’m hopeful.

I stood in a room this weekend. It was filled with women.  We called each other sister, and we meant it, it wasn’t ironic. We called what we were experiencing a sisterhood, a movement, we wanted to be part of the change that we saw all around us.

We held a red thread in our hands, it wound throughout the room, we were all hanging onto it, this red connection of hope and relationship, the one at the back was connected to the one at the front, we understood that it meant that we all mattered. If one of us fell, we all felt it. If one of us was hurting, we were all hurting. (And we mean you, too, sister. We held you in our heart all weekend, you in Ontario, you in Burundi, you in Iowa, you in the Netherlands.)

So we laughed and we cried. We told each other the stories of how we’re making space for God’s love in our world. We talked about scary steps, about terrifying risks of community and trust and generosity. It was a reunion, a family gathering, a tribe of women that all get it, all understand, we don’t have time to be bickering and boundary-drawing, we’re too busy loving, we’re too busy getting on with the work of the Kingdom and the honour of our King.

My heart broke all over again, my heart was mended all over again.

While Jessica and Christina courageously sat on the white couch, telling their story of transformation, of restoration, of hope, of their months at Mercy, the room was deadly silent, not even the glow of iPhone screens to be seen. We were a force of women that wanted to gather around them, hold them in our hands while they spoke of pain and brokenness.

When one of our graduates fell silent, her voice cracking and breaking with the pain of remembering, the room was silent.

From just behind me, a woman’s voice cried out in the stillness, “It’s all right, hon. We love you. We all love you.” And that brave woman up there, that strong woman, our hero, she smiled through her tears at our voices from the darkness growing louder, we love you we love you we love you – and she began to speak again, to tell her story brave in her own voice, she owned it.

These women are a big reason why those graduates are sitting on that couch. These women have prayed for each of our Mercy girls, given hundreds of thousands of dollars for their home and counselling and well-being, walked the property in prayer, dropped off bundles of clothes, preached the Gospel with their lives to all of us. And as two of our graduates stood on the stage, standing for all of the Mercy girls, the women in the room welcomed them like daughters, like sisters, like they were the long-awaited child, for this girl we had prayed.

We collected and giggled over panties so that girls in Africa could go to school. We sent Idelette and Tina to Kelley in Burundi. We adopted inner city schools.We showed up at the pre-trial centre to teach parenting classes, to hug life-ers in the women’s prison without qualification. We packed Christmas hampers. We prayed. We worshipped. We laughed until we cried. We prophesied. We ate and we drank too much coffee. We had a few misunderstandings. Then we went back out to do it again.

This was Church, this was the people, the women of God gathered together for communion and community and Holy Spirit breathing, just to scatter back out and do it all over again. We’ll be back next year with a few more stories.

These are the women I know, in my real life, and in the stories I hear from all around the world. These are the women in my world. These are my people. It’s like a banquet, a feast of justice and goodness and guts and faith and differences.

No, I’m no angry feminist.

These are the feminists of my world, these are the women that love women, that love men, that love the Church, that love the world, and this holy love, oh, it is pushing back the darkness.

We’re just a small group, one little gathering, representative of a multitude all over the world, we’re the women that have decided that we will be the women who love. 

All images are by Judith Laurel Photography, available at LifeWomen’s Facebook page.

A huge thank you and God-bless-you to Pastor Helen Burns and the team at Relate Church who always put together a conference of women that feels more like a movement. It’s an honour to be a small part of life with you.

In which I’m no angry feminist is a post from: Sarah Bessey: the intersections of a spirit filled life.

You can also follow me on Twitter and join the community on Facebook.