In The Tent

Relocating

2005-04-02T18:48:00.000-08:00

I'm packing up The Tent, and moving sites over to Typepad.

See you over there.

One Man's Trash is Another Man's Treasure

2005-04-01T08:11:00.000-08:00

I watched Oprah yesterday (yes I watch Oprah, and I like her) and her guests were Venus and Serena Williams and Jada Pinkett Smith. They were talking with and about young women on issues of sex, self esteem, body image and addiction. One of the other guests was Dr. Robin Smith, a psychologist who counsels young women. In her work she has coined the term "trash cans" as a way to describe young women in today's society. Sounds harsh, but I think she's on to something.

She went on to say that sexually, physically, emotionally, young women have become a dumping ground, a receptical, a depository for the garbage of others. Sperm. Feelings of inferiority. Insecurity. Anger. Mostly by young men. In this process, the young men feel inflated while the young women shrink down smaller and smaller.

I've been thinking about this all day and about the countless young girls and women around the world who are trash cans for political agendas, religious agendas, financial and economic agendas, fear, poverty, brokenness, distorted ideals. When something is agenda driven, what happens to the medium? It becomes a means to an end. A thing. And what happens when that medium is a person, a woman, a young girl? We stop seeing the person. We stop seeing the heart, the soul.

A few minutes after the show ended, I learned that Terri Schiavo had died. I had no intention of going there, of wading into the circus that has become this woman's life. But I don't think the timing was any coincidence. I am a visual person. Concepts, ideas, prayers all come alive for me in pictures. And the previous hour of reflecting on this idea of the trash can brought some perspective to the many thoughts and feelings that have been swirling around in me in the days leading up to her death.

My deepest desire is for peace for Terri, comfort for her family, and privacy and dignity for them all. My personal views on the moral issues involved, whether I agree or disagree with the actions of the past few weeks are going to remain that. Personal.

But after the assault of CNN, the morbid "Day 10: No Food and Water" accounting, and stories profiling what can be expected from an autopsy, all I could think about was the trash can. It seems to me that the heart, the life, the story of Terri has been lost somehow and it makes me feel angry, disgusted and sad. And let me be clear that if it was the CBC instead of CNN, I would feel the same way. With all due respect and compassion, this woman has become a trash can for religious and political agendas. An opportunity for groups to have a national platform and free publicity to push their ideals and agendas a little farther forward. For politicians to move their positions favourably in the voter polls. I am a Jesus follower, and am embarassed by Christians who wave signs reading "Murderers go to hell" and who think that Jesus would give that a thumbs up. And somebody please explain to me what picketing the hospice decked out in an American flag and a sequined Abraham Lincoln-type hat has to do with the life of this one woman. And let me be clear that if it was a Canadian flag, I would feel the same way. And how does the life and death of this one woman incense so many people who at the same time can turn their eyes away from the millions of people, many of them women and children, who suffer unjustly every day? I hate to think that the answer is about agendas. If it fits the agenda, we'll pick up the cause. If it doesn't, we won't. I don't know what else to think. It's supposed to be all about the heart, about love, about compassion and grace, about being joined through our weakness and brokenness, not judgement and condemnation and arrogance. God help us if we lose the heart.

So today I'm thinking about those young women on Oprah, Terri, Lou and every woman and child around the world. I pray that today they are the depositees of love. It's time to take out the trash.

Pens and Paints and Gettin' On With It.......

2005-03-31T10:52:00.000-08:00

So before my recent post, it's been quite awhile since I've written anything. But I haven't pulled out of Blog World. I've kept up with my favourite blogs, and found many new ones. I guess that makes me a lurker. In the past month or so I've noticed something really interesting. Alot of people seem to be struggling with this forum. What to write. What not to write. Fearing that they've written the wrong thing after receiving nasty comments totalling numbers somewhere in the double digits. Realizing that life outside the blog is crumbling by the day, laundry isn't done, vases filled with dead stems, rotting water and surrounded by fallen petals are everywhere (guilty) and you haven't talked with a real person since you don't know when. Deciding that a blog sabbatical is necessary....a challenge but required nonetheless.

I can relate. My blog crisis came in the new year and I wish I could say I've worked it all out. I haven't. I still struggle with how much is too much and what is the purpose for even doing this. It has to be about more than me.

One thing I do know. Not writing has been bad. The other day I was whining and lamenting about the fact that I have no gifts, no creative juices, nothing that I can pore myself into as a means of expression, of telling a story or just waxing poetic on various issues of life. Jen did the irritating thing, but the only thing a good bf should do. She called bs on me. "You paint, you write, and you've stopped doing both of those things". Mercifully, she let it slide that my guitar has been in it's case under my bed since I moved two years ago. But I know she was thinking it.

So today I'm making a committment to get back at it. Why, and for what I still don't know. But maybe it doesn't even matter. Today I wrote something and that feels good. And the other night I painted by candlelight with Jen and a friend of ours who was riding out the horrible effects of withdrawal.

Maybe I'll even dust off my guitar one of these days.

Loosed

2005-03-28T18:42:00.000-08:00

“Woman, thou art loosed” – Luke 13

Woman, thou art loosed;

Woman in East Vancouver, chained to addiction and selling your soul,
Thou art loosed.

Woman in Bulgaria, chained to poverty, abuse, powerlessness, hopelessness,
Thou art loosed.

Woman in India, chained to gang rape and suicide, paying the price for the crime of another,
Thou art loosed.

Woman in China, chained to grief, giving away your baby girl, paying the price for the crime of gender,
Thou art loosed.

Woman in Africa, chained to mutilation, loss of innocence, sickness, death, grief as you prepare to bury your child. To orphan your child.
Thou art loosed.

Woman in America, chained to perfection, external everything but internal nothing,
Thou art loosed.

Woman down the street, chained to the slow hemorragh of the soul that is emotional abuse,
Thou art loosed.

Woman in the mirror...
Chained to lies, distortions, a mind like an electrical panel, sparking and short-circuiting;
A skipping record, the same song over and over again.
Chained to a past drowned in alcohol, gone forever but never to be forgotten.

Woman in the mirror...

Thou, too, art loosed.

Bono Vox

2004-12-13T19:49:00.000-08:00

I haven't written anything here in almost two months. And it's been gnawing at me. And it's apparantly been gnawing at other people who have started asking me when I'm going to write again. This blog, this medium.....they've been on my mind alot in the last couple of months. I haven't figured out all the reasons why I stopped writing here, but there are a few that have surfaced.

I've been doing alot of personal work. Deep digging. It has been fruitful but exhausting, and quite frankly I haven't had the energy or the concentration to write anything. Where I have been writing is in the project my bf and I have taken on, a book/prayer journal for women struggling with addiction. It's been an unbelievable experience so far, but I haven't felt like I've had much left at the end of a day of writing or research.

I know at times I have felt pretty exposed and vulnerable after hitting that "publish" icon. For whatever reason, it hasn't always been a good feeling.

But probably the bigger issue here for me has been purpose. This has to be about more than just me, more than merely a place to vent or unload to make me feel better. A good friend of mine talks with disdain and a slight hint of boredom about the art of "navel-gazing". I don't want to navel-gaze. I don't want to join a mutual admiration society. I have an amazing support system, a God appointed journeying partner, and so I'm not necessarily even looking for community or relationship.

This probably sounds really harsh, and I apologize to anyone who takes offense at my comments. They are not directed to any one person. I know that the blogging world represents many things to many people, and I think that's a great thing. I have just been really struggling with what it means to me. What am I trying to contribute? What am I wanting to communicate?What is it I'm looking for? What is the purpose in having this medium?

Today I was flipping through a new book my husband received, and in it was a little trivia about U2's Bono. Diehard fans will know that his real name is Paul Hewson. Bono is a childhood nickname. But it wasn't his full nickname. His full childhood nickname was Bono Vox.

Good voice.

Bono Vox means "good voice".

I want to have a good voice. I have the privilege of a medium, and I want to make sure I have a good voice. A voice with intent, with purpose. I'm still not completely sure what that means for me, but it's the question I'm sitting with.

Peace to you this season, and may we all be mediums of good voice.

Couldn't Have Said It Better.....

2004-10-09T07:24:00.000-07:00

Amy has written a great post on women and soul friends, entitled "Fellow Wanderers, Part 2". Check it out.

Highlights, Lowlights & Can I Get a Witness....

2004-09-20T05:52:00.000-07:00

There was a time when 10:45 on a Sunday morning would find me no where other than the not so comfortable pews of "my" church.

That was then. This is now.

Yesterday, on a sunny fall day, Starbucks in hand, I went to see my girl Kelly for highlights, a cut and a general lift to my spirit. It was 10:45am.

I sat down in her chair and we started nattering. She knows I love Jesus. How is the book writing progressing?, she asks. What's happening in the ministry?, she asks.

Have I seen the movie "Saved"?, she asks. We discuss the difference between being religious, being "a Christian" and being someone who loves Jesus and wants to do their best to live in the way that he lived. To love in the way that he loved. Unconditionally. Without judgment. With forgiveness. With an eye on the heart.

She is very creative and I ask about her photography and painting. She looks at me, somewhat hesitantly and says, it's taken a bit of a dark turn. Ok, what does that mean?, I ask. She starts to try and explain, and then finally says, oh here I'll just show you.

She brings me a book. I open it and find black and white photographs of old dolls. Antique porcelain dolls. Their dresses are torn and dirty. Their hair is messy. Many of them have cracks in their faces and are broken. She is looking at me, wondering what I'm thinking. I ask her to share with me what this means to her, what it is that she's trying to express.

She says they are dolls that are old and broken and discarded. But to her they have a story. They were well loved. They brought happiness and comfort to their owners. Even though they are broken and dirty, she says, there is beauty in them. I see their beauty.

She's watching for my reaction, because some have seen only the darkness in these photos. I smile, and share my thoughts with her. Oh good, she says, you get it.

Yes, Kelly, I get it. Blessings to you, and your beautiful heart.

Now that's my kind of church.....

A Grief Unobserved

2004-09-15T08:01:00.000-07:00

On Monday I hit what I call "a pocket", and overcome with a deep deep feeling of sadness, I cried like I haven't cried in a long time. For hours. After prayers, much love from my husband and bf, a bath, endless cups of tea and Tylenol I went to bed exhausted but still too restless to really sleep well.

Yesterday, I met with bf to work on our writing project, a prayer journal for women struggling with addiction. We were talking about the family and the theory that any addiction has an impact on the family as a whole, not just on the addict herself. It is a family disease. And then it hit me.

That deep feeling of sadness that overtook me earlier this week was grief. My family had the disease of alcoholism. And my family died of that disease.

For so long I have been grieving my dad, and everything that has been lost to both of us as a result of his addiction. But as I talked with my sister last week, the reality of the devastation on my family became clearer. And something in me broke, as I came face to face with the death of my family.

There are no remnants of my family. There is no family home to return to. There is no family name. There is minimal contact with my dad's family. There are no family photos on display. I have one book of baby pictures, pages falling out and incomplete, given to me by my mom. I suspect those are bittersweet memories, some of which she wants to forget. I don't know where my parent's wedding pictures are. Buried somewhere, out of sight. There are no trips down memory lane. No funny stories. No "remember when...". It is a time that no one speaks of, no one wants to speak of, only a time that we have all tried desperately to forget. To erase, and pretend that it didn't exist. Except that it did, because it is where I came from. My soul knows that, and yet when I turn to look back, there is nothing there. Nothing to go back to. Gone.

That is the sadness that I feel even now in relationship with my mom and sisters. There is something dead in each of us, and there is grief for what could have been, what should have been. It's impact is far reaching, into marriages and children, but the full implications of this are too overwhelming for me to think about right now.

That is the sadness that I feel when I am with another family, observing the workings of a family that is alive. Not always healthy, but living. I'm filled with grief, and instead of receiving or embracing it, I just want to withdraw and get as far away as I can.

I have felt grief before, the grief of losing loved ones to physical death. That deep ache that actually makes you feel physically sick. The realization that something has happened that you can't change, that you can't wish away, that you can't go back and fix. There is no turning back the clock, no second chance. You are locked into a reality that you didn't choose.

For the first time I am beginning to face that reality in my family. There has been a death. Not in my family, but of my family. I know that this is a necessary part of my journey. Right now, it feels so painful, and I feel tired and weary. But I'm thankful for true and loving companions who, with me, are clinging to the hope of healing and purpose and redemption.

Mirror

2004-09-09T07:37:00.000-07:00

Last night, I had a long phone chat with one of my sisters. For the first time in my thirty-five and her twenty-eight years, we have started talking about the effects of our childhood and how it is impacting our ability to live as adults now. I won't betray her confidence, but if we had been sitting in front of each other, it would have been like looking into a mirror. There were more silent pauses than I can count, as we took in the reality of what we were each saying. We were stunned. I have so many questions, none of which I feel like I can even articulate right now. But I feel like part of a math problem gone bad. Is my childhood experience so formulaic that you can plug two siblings into the equation and get the exact same result? That thought actually makes me feel sick. I am so thankful that we have started talking, but this morning I just feel disbelief. I had to stop and think about whether I just dreamed that conversation or whether it was real. It was real. And that makes me angry and so, so sad.

Portrait of a Woman

2004-09-08T07:08:00.000-07:00

The Walk to End Breast Cancer is being held this weekend in Toronto. One of my oldest and most cherished friends, along with her sister, is leading a team to walk in honour of their mother, Helen. After battling for several years, Helen died of metastatic breast cancer in April, 2000. She was 57 years old. This family have been a part of my life for 30 years. Helen was one of my mom's best friends. She was the embodiment of life, and when she died, I was overcome with disbelief and deep sorrow. She was the kind of woman that you thought would live forever. She was so beautiful, always perfectly groomed and full of grace and poise. She was an amazing cook. When you walked into her home, you felt safe and peaceful and so welcomed. Helen was silly. She had the most infectious laugh, and when she really got going she'd start to shake her arms and shoulders as she giggled. She loved dogs. She loved anything heart-shaped. She was a wonderful friend. She was interested in other people, she had a wonderful way of caring for people and making them feel important and special to her. She would rarely come to see you without bringing a little something for you. She was a strong and independent woman, and did her best to instill those qualities in her children, especially her three daughters. She had a deep faith in God. I have so many memories of her, too many to recount here. But when I was in her presence, I felt very loved. She battled her cancer as everyone knew she would, with incredible dignity and strength. Her concern was always for everyone else. When she died, she left a huge void in the hearts of so many people. But none more than in her husband, son, daughters, and sons-in-law. She would be so proud of her children today. She now has two beautiful grandsons that she would have adored. They know their "yia yia" through pictures and stories that they hear from others but I wish that they could have experienced her, and she them. She died too soon. She should be here.

This weekend, thousands upon thousands of people will walk for their mothers, wives, sisters, daughters, grandmothers, friends. Honouring women who lost their lives to this horrible disease, encouraging those who are in the battle today, and doing their part for those women who, tomorrow, may find themselves the next unwilling participant in this war on breast cancer. Courage, strength, love and prayers to each of you.

To my friend, I will be walking with you in spirit this weekend.

To Helen, I miss you and think of you often. You were a gift to me, and have helped to shape important parts of who I am as a woman. I love you, and will never forget you.

The Letter

2004-08-09T19:25:00.000-07:00

I am currently working on a project with my "bf". One day I will share more about this, but for now, I can say that it is probably the most ambitious thing I have ever done. It has been such a privilege to be involved in this project, to share this experience with her and to work on something that has touched us both in very deep and personal ways. I knew that this project would be as much about our own personal healing journeys as it would anything else.

And so I suppose I shouldn't be surprised to find myself in the place that I am.

When I last wrote, I shared about the idea of waking up. The "a-ha" moments. The onion layers. The puzzle piece. I have been waking up, and now I am waking up some more. God is going deeper, and deeper still. And it's hurting.

While I was in Eastern Europe earlier this summer, God spoke to me about perseverance. Teaching and growing in me, that which He calls me to offer to others. I was reminded of this today as I talked about how angry I feel with God right now. And I've told Him as much. I'm tired. I don't want to do this anymore. I don't want to persevere. Right now, He's a God who could do something but is choosing not to. I feel like I'm being held down, pinned by my arms and legs, as someone rips the scabs off of my heart. And I'm expected to endure because it will be good for me in the end. It is not without purpose.

But I'm tired. Bone tired.

God always comes to me with visions, in visions. Today was no different.

Two years ago, I sat on the floor of my kitchen. My two year old niece, tired and frustrated, was in the midst of a temper tantrum. Screaming. Crying. Angry with me. Completely out of control. I couldn't speak to her, I couldn't reason with her, but I knew she needed me to help her get control. And so I sat on the floor, brought her into my lap, and held on tight. She fought me. She screamed at me. She tried to get away. But I didn't let go. And all I said to her, over and over again was, "I know......I know. It's okay". She struggled for some time, but as each minute passed, she grew weaker and more tired. Her screams turned to whimpers until finally, she snuggled into my lap and let me comfort her. Sobbing, she eventually fell asleep.

Today, I am her. Fighting. Resisting. I have been on this healing journey for so long. I want it to be over. I want freedom. I want peace. What else am I supposed to do? If I am supposed to be learning perseverance, what does that look like? How do you cultivate perseverance and still have the hope for healing in some measure?

I feel like screaming at God, "What?!" "What are you waiting on me to do?" "What do you want from me?"

"Have you written the letter?" she asked me today.

It was the same question that he asked me last weekend.

The letter. To my dad. I have been estranged from him for about ten years. His choice. An alcoholic, sober, but still so broken and angry and sick. Now, physically sick, with a progressive and fatal illness. I have felt a tugging at my soul that started several months ago when I learned that he was sick. There are things that need to be said, and I don't want to get a phone call one day informing me that my dad has died, things left unsaid. My expectations are low. I am not expecting a reconciliation. But I need to offer and ask for forgiveness. I need to tell him that he is loved, that he has been missed and thought of daily over these many years. I don't want him to die thinking anything else.

This is not a new urging in my soul. It has been there for years. Four, that I can actively remember. I have resisted it, buried it, denied it for so many reasons. Fear of rejection and more pain, hurt, resentment, anger, pride.

I know I can't resist any more. Maybe as I have been waiting on God, He has been waiting on me.

Today is the day. Even as I think about writing that first line, tears are streaming down my face. "Dear Dad". It has been so long since I have said those words. Hi Dad. How are you Dad? Talk to you later Dad. I love you Dad. There is so much pain in those two words. The cut is so deep.

But tonight, I will write.

As I do, I pray for faith in the One who sees, the One who holds on as I struggle, the One who says "I know, it's okay" and embraces me until I stop resisting and receive rest.

"Then the lion said -- but I don't know if it spoke -- 'You will have to let me undress you.' I was afraid of his claws, I can tell you, but I was pretty nearly desperate now. So I just lay flat down on my back to let him do it.

"The very first tear he made was so deep that I thought it had gone right into my heart. And when he began pulling the skin off, it hurt worse than anything I've ever felt. The only thing that made me able to bear it was just the pleasure of feeling the stuff peel off. You know -- if you've ever picked the scab off a sore place. It hurts like billy -- oh but it is such fun to see it coming away."

"I know exactly what you mean," said Edmund.

"Well, he peeled the beastly stuff right off -- just as I thought I'd done it myself the other three times, only they hadn't hurt -- and there it was lying on the grass: only ever so much thicker, and darker, and more knobly-looking than the others had been. And there was I as smooth and soft as a peeled switch and smaller than I had been. Then he caught hold of me -- I didn't like that much for I was very tender underneath now that I'd no skin on -- and threw me into the water. It smarted like anything but only for a moment. After that it became perfectly delicious and as soon as I started swimming and splashing I found that all the pain had gone from my arm. And then I saw why. I'd turned into a boy again."

C.S. Lewis
The Voyage of the Dawn Treader

Waking Up Some More

2004-08-02T06:02:00.000-07:00

My mind typically operates on one speed. Racing. If I wake in the night, the biggest challenge I have is trying to fall asleep again before my mind gears up. I don't often succeed at that challenge. And so instead of lying in my bed letting my mind take over, I usually get up and read or write. Such was the case at 4:30 am this morning. As I caught up on some blog reading, I came across Bobbie's latest post. She describes beautifully an "a-ha" moment she had yesterday. A moment where shame and guilt and self loathing were replaced with insight, new understanding and grace. Not a character defect, inadequacy or laziness, but a recognized difficulty with the way her brain works or doesn't work. The "click" that happens when missing pieces of the puzzle are put in place, when release and freedom and healing are so real you can feel it in your bones, in every muscle, in every fibre of your being.

I needed to read that this morning. How ironic that I read about her journey into further understanding of her mind as I sit awake with my own mind, racing and ruminating and fragmented.

For Bobbie, it is the "a-ha" moment. Pieces of a puzzle. Others have described it as peeling back layers of an onion. Yesterday, I read Sue Monk Kidd describe it as the Awakening, "waking up, and then waking up some more". Journey, not destination. I know that feeling of waking up some more, and then a little more. The light of morning that comes after a dark night. Yet, after so many years of slumber, it's hard to shake off the sleepiness. The groggy, lethargic feeling that pulls at you to lie down again.

This morning, in the few remaining hours of dark, I chose light. I chose to wake up. I pray for courage, strength, and perseverance as I wake up, and wake up some more.

What's In A Name

2004-07-31T09:00:00.000-07:00

Early this morning I spent over an hour writing a post about names, inspired by a quote I read in Sue Monk Kidd's book, The Dance of the Dissident Daughter. What is the meaning of a name? What is the story behind one's name? What was being imparted onto a child as they are named by their parents? What identity does a person associate with their name? Do nicknames or variations on a name represent positive or painful memories?

As I was about to publish my post, the entire thing disappeared from my computer and was gone. I couldn't believe it. My frustration level went through the roof, but mostly I felt discouraged. I have so much going on in me right now, and at the same time I have felt so blocked from being able to write about it, or write anything for that matter.

There is no way I could begin to recreate that writing from this morning. But I have started to think two things. One, that maybe that writing exercise this morning was just for me. And two, that maybe my story, or my interpretation is not what is needed here. And so I am going to simply leave this quote, and a related scripture, and let God speak through it in whichever way He chooses.

"Women will starve in silence until new stories are created which confer on them the power of naming themselves."
(Sarah Gilbert & Susan Gubar)

And from Isaiah 62:

"....you will be called by a new name that the mouth of the Lord will bestow."

Peace to you.

It Takes a Village

2004-07-22T09:38:00.000-07:00

Earlier this week, I watched my husband play with a beautiful little baby girl. She is an angel. Truly, a messenger of Good News. As I watched them play, listening to her giggle and seeing the smile on his face, I was filled with so many emotions. Joy. Wonder, at another glimpse into this part of my husband's heart. And even though there has been healing I found myself overcome with tears once again. Deep sadness for our losses, and the realization that there will always be in me a longing for what should have been but, likely, will never be. I'm beginning to understand that this longing never fully goes away. I was drawn to read something that I wrote about 7 months ago, and I was amazed at how much of it I am feeling again now:

M has attempted to chronicle this journey of ours. I'm grateful for his effort... my mind is not very clear right now. I can't seem to focus on anything for very long. But I don't want to forget.

Right now, I'm experiencing everything at a raw, emotional level. So that's the only place I can share from.

I feel so many things from this current loss, that I don't think I can begin to share how I have felt through this whole journey. I know that I have never experienced such extremes. The height of joy. The depth of despair. The presence of God. The complete absence of God. Rage. Sadness. Grief. Panic. An emptiness that has no bottom.

When that phone call came in on Friday morning it was as if I knew why she was calling but I couldn't believe what she was saying. And then my thoughts turned irrational. What do you mean none survived? We're supposed to be coming in for 11 for the transfer. We need those embryos. What do you mean they're gone? Where are they? And then panic set in. The only way I can describe it is that I felt like a parent who had lost her child. I couldn't find him. And for just a moment, I felt frantic. Where did he go? How can he just be gone?

In a split second, our hopes were gone. To go from feeling like you have endless possibilities and dreams to having nothing... we were stunned. Shocked. Speechless. Tears. And emptiness. I have had the brief joy of feeling life in my body. And the deep emptiness that comes when that life leaves. This time, I had no life in my body. But again, the deepest feeling of emptiness... physically, emotionally, spiritually.

Mercifully, we have been spared the all-consuming anger that we have felt at other times is this journey. Now it is just profound sadness. Mourning someone we have never met but so desperately wanted to. I feel sad for so many other things.

I want to know what it feels like to have life growing in you, moving.

I want to know what it feels like to give birth. To see the look on M's face when he sees his son or daughter for the first time.

I want to know that person that M would have become had he had the opportunity to be a father. How it would have changed him. How he would view the world. What would remain important to him. What would change. What would make him angry. What would make him laugh. Cry. How much more silly would he get.

I picture our children. Dark hair. Hopefully wavy, like their father's. My eyes. His dimples. His beautiful hands. How they would smell. What their voices would sound like. Their laughter. I want to experience the relationships of others with our children... our parents, our sisters, my best friend.

We may never know that. And that makes me sad.

Our memorial was beautiful. I will never forget sitting for 2 hours, in the window, watching M cut and carve the log that would hold the 15 candles. I felt like I was watching him prepare something for his children, preparing for their arrival. Preparing the nursery, putting the crib together. That was as much a part of the healing ritual as the actual service itself. We needed to do something for our children... to acknowledge them, welcome them and say goodbye at the same time.

I believe that our children are in heaven. I choose to believe it. That is my faith. But I don't understand it. It is a mystery. How will I know that they are my children? Will they remain infants? Will I know whether they are sons or daughters? Will I ever know what they would have looked like? Will I be in relationship with them? Will they know that I am their mother?

I think about these questions a lot. I am trying to accept the mystery. I want to do that. For now, we are just grieving. Our family is grieving. Our friends are grieving. And I know that God is grieving with us.

That same beautiful baby girl was at the memorial for our children. Only days old. But her presence was a gift. Her cooing and squeaking was music to both of us, and oddly comforting. I am so grateful to her parents, and to our many friends and family who have let us into the lives of their children. They have not withdrawn knowing our losses and pain, have not given in to fears of offending us, "making things worse" or causing us more pain. They have allowed us to experience joy through their children. And more importantly, they have allowed their children to touch places deep in us that reaquaint us with pain. Sadness. Longing. And they respect that part of our relationship with their children. They are comfortable to be with us in whatever we are experiencing, joy or pain.

As I watched my husband with this baby girl, tears rolling down my cheeks, her mother gently touched my shoulder. No words. Just presence. And minutes later, it was my turn to play, and I was laughing again.

Today, I am so grateful for the many children in our lives. And I am so grateful for their parents who embrace this paradox of joy and sorrow and together, with their children, are willing to walk with us.

Wide Open Spaces

2004-07-12T08:14:00.000-07:00

Late last night I sat down at my computer, read a couple of emails, caught up on some blogs I wanted to read and was completely overcome by the theme that was present in everything I read.

Loneliness.

Without even having to think, I had the names of atleast 10 women on my heart. Some are married. Some single. Some are in relationship with their family. Others are not. Some have children, and others do not. But every single one of these women is experiencing the pain of loneliness. I am a part of that group. Why?

We are relational people. We have been created with a need for connectedness, to be known. First and foremost, God has created us with a desire for Him, and a space that can only be filled by Him. Not food, alcohol, sex, shopping.....only Him.

But He also placed in us a need to be in relationship with others. With one, a small few or many. Our experience of this need is as unique and different as we are from each other. Unique to culture. Unique to gender. Unique to life experience.

Jonathan and David. Ruth and Naomi. Even Jesus, as He traveled with the disciples, had a smaller group of close confidants. Friends.

So why are so many people, so many women sitting with the pain of loneliness? Of feeling disconnected. Unknown. Invisible. Why is the search for relationship, for connectedness, such a struggle? Have we contributed to a culture that works against relationship, against the need for others? No time. Not enough energy. Divided loyalties. There is a sacredness that I fear has been lost somewhere along the way, sacrificed to something that is completely foreign to the makeup of the heart.

There is so much more to say, so much more that I want to write, but my head is too full and my heart too heavy. I would love to hear your thoughts.

More later. Until then, peace to each of you on the journey.

With Arms Wide Open

2004-07-06T16:54:00.000-07:00

"Then the Lord asked him, 'What do you have there in your hand?'"
(Exodus 4:2)

I have always struggled with prayer. With my prayer life. Praying into the air. What to say. How to say it. How to just talk, not give a speech. Speaking from the heart, not Christianese. Can I do it anytime, anywhere or do I have to be kneeling at the side of my bed in order for God to hear? What constitutes a prayer? How does prayer even work? Wanting to pray out of desire for relationship, for conversation...not out of duty. Or worse, out of fear of consequence.

Does God even hear prayer? I have asked that many times.

I have more questions than answers.

But I have come to believe that prayer can, does and should happen anywhere. Anytime. Prayer is word. Thought. Image. Vision. Laughter. Tears. A sigh.

Anne Lamott wrote about two of the most powerful prayers. Help me, help me, help me. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

I'm with her.

Lately, I have connected with the idea of praying in pictures, images, visions. I have started to recognize that as the language that God most clearly speaks to me. And so I have started to use the same language to speak back. I picture Jesus sitting by the water. Waiting for me. He hears me coming, turns, smiles, and motions for me to come closer.

"What do you have there in your hand?"

I carry in my hands, my prayer. A presentation, an offering, even in all it's mess and brokenness. My empty womb. A wounded and bruised heart. I picture myself, literally carrying those physical parts of me in my hands, showing Jesus what He already knows. Sometimes, I hold the hand of someone else, bringing them to the water. As a surrogate, I bring forth the bruised and broken parts of others.

While I was on missions recently, I had the privilege of praying for many women. The pain was palpable. But I did not speak the language. And I didn't always know their story. And so, in my mind, I took each woman by the hand and walked with her to the water. Bringing her to Him. Knowing He knew, even when I didn't, and that He was waiting.

Right now, I am bringing Jesus my brain. Racing. Broken. Disconnected. Wires crossed. Fuses blown. My mind.

I feel freedom in praying this way. Sometimes there are no words to really describe what is happening in me and around me. And more than that, I am learning that there is a sacredness in the silence, in the stillness. I have felt it. And in that, I have felt God.

What do you have there in your hand?

Coeur

2004-07-05T22:28:00.000-07:00

"If we do not enter the internal battle for hope within our own soul, we enlist in culture wars, morality wars, theological wars, discipline wars ~ but our hearts are lost...We become proficient at expressing our views on issues rather than getting to know the woman next door who has had an abortion and is needing a safe place to think through what this means for her. We become known as excellent managers of our schedules rather than as approachable and compelling women. We gain a reputation for our morality, but few have tasted our love. The internal battle takes courage."
(Jan Meyers, "The Allure of Hope", pg.169-170).

Courage.

The English, derived from the French word "coeur".

Heart.

The Tie That Binds

2004-07-01T08:15:00.000-07:00

It has been just over two weeks since I returned from missions in Eastern Europe. I posted briefly on some of the highlights of the trip, but have been trying to process some of my personal experiences enough to share them here. I think it's time.

This was my fourth missions trip in 3 years. I am not a musician. I'm not a teacher, or a preacher or a biblical scholar. But I have a story, and that is the focus of the ministry that I travel with. Connecting, healing and releasing women through story. Through relationship. And it is more powerful than anything else I know.

When I've been asked to share my story in the past, my first thought was always, "which part?" In my mind, there have been three distinct chapters and each have been very different. There is the childhood chapter with an alcoholic father, the almost 10 year estrangement from him and the impact of all of that even now on this 35 year old adult. Then there is the redemption chapter. Meeting, falling in love with and marrying an amazing man. My second chance at everything that wasn't. And lastly, there is the infertility chapter, the multiple pregnancy losses, and the depression and anxiety that followed.

I don't undermine any one of those experiences, but each one has been very separate in my mind. Compartmentalized. Something unto itself. But recently I have had a nagging feeling deep within me, that there is more. There is a connection. There is a thread that is common, and weaves it all together into one story. Not random chapters, but a book.

One evening we were ministering to a group of women through the illustration of fragrance. When we have an encounter with Jesus, when we bear our pain, he leaves a deposit. He speaks into that place in us. He graces us with something, he gifts us. He leaves a mark on us that, in turn, is something we take and share with others. His fragrance.

Hope. Courage. Mercy. Grace. Forgiveness.

I asked Jesus to show me what it is that he has given me to give to others. And one word came into my mind.

Perseverance.

I have written about the symbolism of labour and childbirth. Of identifying with the role of surrogate. Of being a spiritual doula. I believe with my whole heart and soul in the sacred gift of walking with another. Persevering. Hoping for another who has lost hope. And in a matter of minutes it came together for me. I persevere with others because Jesus has persevered with me. And I have had to persevere with myself. My healing has been slow, painful. One step forward, only to take two back. Issues I thought I had sufficiently dealt with creep to the surface again and again. Even my marriage, which is a place of love and respect and security, is the result of much perseverance from both of us.

For some time now, I have felt tired. Weary. Frustrated. Unable to feel peace. And in that one word, I think God was telling me to keep going. Don't give up. Embrace your journey in the same way that you embrace the journey of others. It is a training ground. What you share with others is what I share with you. What you give to others is only what I have given to you.

In all honesty, that was difficult to receive. Sometimes I don't want to persevere. I want to be miraculously healed of every wound. I have prayed for that. Many times.
But I know that God doesn't always work that way.

On the last day of the mission trip, God painted me a picture.

I had the privilege of sharing this trip with my best friend, who will from here on in be referred to as "bf". She has some ongoing health problems and while we were away, she became quite sick. She required fairly intense medical care, and thankfully, we experienced the very best of that country's medical system. Several times throughout the two weeks, she needed intravenous meds. We were fortunate enough to have several nurses on the team who provided a lot of the care that she needed. I became the unofficial nurses aide. On the last day of the trip, as the team was gathering for the final debrief, I was in the corner of the room holding up the IV bag as bf was getting her final treatment before the long flight home. As we finished and joined the team meeting, we were all asked to share about what we were taking away from the trip and others were invited to speak into that. I shared about perseverance. One of my team mates asked to respond to that. She began to say that she had been watching this morning as I helped with bf's treatment, and thought to herself "how long is she going to be able to stand there and hold that bag in the air?". Yes, my arm was tired, but more than that, it was extremely difficult to see her in so much pain. I did my best to be strong, to keep focused on her and what she needed from me but I was emotionally drained and scared.

That, she said, is exactly what I saw this morning. The ability to persevere. To others, through your own weariness. Because of your weariness. And, always, with your hand stretched upward, to the Source. God's love and grace to me, and through me, into others.

I am grateful for that picture, and I have thought about it many times since.

I know I need to embrace my journey in the same way that I embrace the journeys of others. I desperately want to rest in the process, not struggle towards the finish line and feel less than because I haven't crossed it yet.

The Lord is my Renovator. For peace, strength and endurance I pray.

My Psalm

2004-06-27T08:21:00.000-07:00

Arise Oh Lord
Hear us Lord,
Hear us now, Lord have mercy
Hear our prayer,
Hear our cry for revival

Release your power
Break our chains, set us free
Let us feel
Your joy again, set us free
Lord, come heal us

Arise, oh Lord
demonstrate Your power
Arise, oh Lord
demonstrate Your power
(Kelly Carpenter)

"...you will be called Repairer of Broken Walls,
Restorer of Streets with Dwellings."
(Isaiah 58:12)

The Lord is my Renovator.

Strength and endurance for the project, I'm asking.

Pretty Woman

2004-06-23T00:08:00.000-07:00

Tonight, I met up with some old friends.

I have the privilege of working in a program that ministers to sex trade workers in the city that I live in. It is one of the worst areas in all of North America for drug addiction and HIV and AIDS infection.

On the outside, there is nothing pretty about these women. Their bodies are bruised, scarred, worn down by a lifestyle that can only be characterized as survival of the fittest. Their faces, drawn and exhausted looking. The marks on their bodies giving away the truth of a life of addiction. Some make little or no eye contact. For others, life is a party, or so it seems. With one probing question, the facade drops and all that is left is emptiness. Pain. Hopelessness. Nothing.

Some are difficult to love. Aggressive. Demanding. Hardened.

Living on the street. Pimped for sex. Drugs to be able to go through with it. Addiction. More sex. For money. For drugs. To be able to have sex. And so it goes.

If there is anything that tells this story, it is her feet. Dirty. Worn. Cracked. Calloused. I have washed her feet. Literally. As an act of love, care, compassion. The first time I met her, she could barely look at me. Barely speak. She stayed on the edge of the group. Observing, but unable to join. Upon saying goodbye that first time, she was able to look at me. Able to attempt a hug. The second time, the connection was quicker. We talked, laughed, hugged.

And on the second day, she asked me to wash her feet.

As I began, she quietly said how nice it was to be touched by someone other than a man.
And I cried. I couldn't help myself. I felt humbled beyond words. I felt honoured by the trust given to me by this woman who had every right to never trust another human being again. In that moment, she gave me more than I could ever give her. In a matter of seconds, I realized that two or three different decisions in my life, and I could have been her. I could have walked where she walks.

There but for the grace of God.....

In that moment, not a prostitute and a minister. Just two women. Each on a journey. Each with the privilege of speaking equally into the other.

There is nothing pretty about these women. That persona, that image makes me angry. There is nothing glamorous about this lifestyle. And there is no Richard Gere. There is nothing pretty about these women. On the outside. But on the inside, they are beautiful. Gentle. Tender. They have hopes, dreams. They are daughters. Mothers. Sisters. They are adored by God.

Kim. Liz. Cathy. Andrea. Deanne. Michelle. Laurie.

I am grateful for their trust. For their stories. I am grateful for what they are teaching me. And I am grateful that they call me friend. I don't understand their world. I don't understand the hierarchy of relationships. How they recognize a friend, not an enemy. What loyalty looks like. What trust looks like. How quickly it may come and go. I don't understand. I don't pretend to. But tonight they called me friend. And I am grateful.

Boys to Men

2004-06-20T09:18:00.000-07:00

Today is Father's Day. I don't like this day. It makes me feel sad. It makes me feel angry. Cynical. Bitter. I have to fight against feeling unworthy. That if I had been a better daughter, then I would be allowed to celebrate this day with my dad. But I wasn't. And so he has taken this away from me too. There are sons and daughters, everywhere, celebrating today. But I'm not allowed to go to that party. I have to find something else to do today.

It's a battle between the heart and mind. Between truth and lies. It's not me. It's him. I want to win the battle today. It takes so much energy, but it takes more out of me when I give in to feeling sad, unworthy. He is only one man. There are many men in my life, many men to celebrate and who want to be honoured and celebrated by me.

And so that's what I'm going to try and do.

My husband. He is a father, but our children aren't with us. I desperately wish they were. He deserves breakfast in bed, homemade cards, tacky ties. I bought him a present anyway. He is beautiful. Strong. Loving and gentle. Logical enough to keep us out of trouble. Funny. Sillier than most kids. Creative. A servant. And he loves me like no man ever has. He is one of God's greatest gifts to me. A living symbol of God's redemption to me of all that wasn't.

My Grampa. "Gramps". He was the best. A Godly man. The biggest servant heart I've ever known. Funny. He smelled so good. He adored me and my sisters, and we knew it. We felt it.

My sisters' husbands. They are gentle, hardworking men. And they love my sisters well. One of them is a father. He is loving and fully present in his kids' lives, and they are crazy about him.

My husband's brother in law. He has a 19 year old daughter, who is the second love of his life after her mother. You can see it in his eyes. He adores her. I have watched their relationship from the time that she was a toddler and have been in awe of it, and at times, so envious. She has been blessed with the gift of knowing her worth, her value as a woman, how she deserves to be loved in a relationship, and that has come from her dad.

I have five nephews. The youngest, an infant; the oldest, in his late teens. They are all very different. Musical. Athletic. Sensitive. A wicked sense of humour. Long hair....too cool. Sweet. Innocent. Inquisitive. I pray for each of them, that they will grow to be whole, Godly men and fathers who live and love well. Their lives have brought so much love to mine.

My father-in-law. The coolest 70-something year old you'll ever meet. He's quirky, funny, deeply spiritual and thoughtful, and loves me unconditionally just like a father should.

Many, many friends who are equal partners in parenting. Who have welcomed their children into their lives and have allowed their hearts to be broken, changed forever by this gift. Who embrace the opportunity to be vulnerable, to love fully and unconditionally and who allow their children to love them back.

All of these men have taught me something through the living of their lives. They have redeemed even the smallest of hurts in me. Hope. Love is possible.

Today, I celebrate each of them.

The Stories Within The Story

2004-06-16T20:56:00.000-07:00

I'm home. Safe, sound, physically and emotionally exhausted, reflective and quiet all at the same time. Over the past 24 hours I have been thinking about what to share, how to share. And then it occurred to me tonight that I can't think about this mission as a whole. Rather, it has been a series of encounters with each other, with God.

Relationship. Being in the tent, but also being The Tent. And where there were women who couldn't find their way there, we took The Tent to them.

We traveled by van to almost every corner of the country. We attended worship services, led women's meetings, experienced a small glimpse of family life as we were hosted at different homes throughout the trip. And we met many many women. It's difficult to remember all of their names, but I can see their faces. And I hear their stories. They are beautiful women with deep, deep pain and an even deeper faith in Jesus. Poverty. Abuse. Prostitution. Addiction. Depression. Unemployment. Disease. Domestic violence. Grief. Hopelessness. Despair.

We saw women share their story for the very first time. Women who needed to be held as chains were broken, shame released and healing begun. We prayed over them, sang over them, anointed them with oil.

And we saw miracles.

One evening, we invited women to come to the Healing Stream, the Living Water. As an act of symbolism, we filled a small ceramic teapot with water and poured it over the women's hands as they came for prayer. We had several large containers of water under the table to refill this small teapot, knowing that one teapot of water would not be enough for the close to one hundred women in attendance. It was only after the service, as the team debriefed, that we realized that the teapot had not been refilled. Not once. That every woman, including those of us on the team, had come to the Water and received. And there was water left in the teapot at the end of the service.

As always, there were beautiful things that happened in and between the women on the team. Gifts given and received. From each other. From God. The celebration of female friendship. One who was able to give glimpses into her heart. One, always too busy, who embraced stillness. One who let her own identity blossom. One who stopped shrinking back and received the anointing of leadership. One who has reclaimed her voice, a voice that we have all been waiting to hear. A warrior. Under attack, but courageous and victorious.

Many many stories within the story.

It has taken some time for me to see and receive this chapter of my story. But even more than that, for the first time, I am beginning to see beyond the chapters to the whole book.

I need to process and write more, and I will.

Today, it is good to be home.

If You Say Go

2004-06-01T22:30:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow, I am leaving for a short term, two week missions trip to eastern Europe. 15 women, with a call to minister to suffering and abused women in a country filled with oppression, injustice and hopelessness. 15 ordinary women. Each with a story. Each with their own brokenness. Their own journey. Each coming only with a willingness to allow God to use their own story to call forth the stories of others. Please pray for safety, for favour, and for freedom and healing for women everywhere who are held captive by abuse and injustice.

I know there will be many stories to tell.

Until then, peace.

Surrogates, Spiritual Doulas and Labour of a Different Kind

2004-05-31T19:05:00.000-07:00

Father, You're all I need.
My soul sufficiency.
My strength when I am weak,
The love that carries me.
Your arms enfold me, 'til I am only
a Child of God.
(Kathryn Scott)

I am an adult child of an alcoholic. I have been estranged from my father for close to ten years. There are many wounds, running very deep, that have needed healing and the process continues. One of the major parts of this healing journey has been the need to deconstruct unhealthy experiences, belief systems, behaviours, and construct new and healthier ones. In simpler terms, I suppose it's about re-parenting yourself. And at this stage of life it seems to me that it really becomes an issue of spiritual rebirth.

For me, this started about two years ago with the song I quoted. When I heard it for the first time, I was overcome with emotion and tears that lasted for an entire weekend. And then God started to inundate me with scripture that talked about labour, birth and children.

"Before she goes into labour, she gives birth;
before the pains come upon her, she delivers a son.
Who has ever heard of such a thing?
Can a country be born in a day
or a nation be brought forth in a moment?
Yet no sooner is Zion in labour
than she gives birth to her children.
'Do I bring to the moment of birth and not give delivery?', says the Lord.....
Rejoice with Jerusalem and be glad for her,
all you who love her;
rejoice greatly with her,
all you who mourn over her.
For you will nurse and be satisfied at her comforting breasts;
you will drink deeply
and delight in her overflowing abundance."
(Isaiah 66:7-11)

Be patient. Rebirth. Restoration. Redemption. Healing. Freedom is coming.

And then, words about a new name.

"..you will be called by a new name
that the mouth of the Lord will bestow....
No longer will they call you Deserted.
....and you will be called Sought After,
the City No Longer Deserted.
....you will be called Repairer of Broken Walls,
Restorer of Streets with Dwellings."
(Isaiah 58, 62; selected verses)

Hope. Not only for rebirth, but redeemed with a purpose. Repairer of Broken Walls. Walls of the heart. Through my healing, there could be healing for others. And in turn further, deeper healing for me.

I have always worked in the helping profession. I am professionally trained in the field of counseling and mental health. But beyond that, people have said that I have a tender heart. That I give freely and completely. And I have always felt things...pain, sorrow, joy....from a place deep within. It was something much more powerful and profound, though, to consider that this was possibly being affirmed and named by God.

For some time now I have been very drawn to two distinct cultures, First Nations and Middle Eastern culture. I wish I could tell you that it has led me to research and deep anthropological study of each. It hasn't. It has been much more soulful. Spiritual. I live in a place with a very rich First Nations heritage, and when I hear traditional native drumming and singing, something stirs in my soul. I feel overcome with emotion. It feels worshipful. Sacred. Like my body has some memory of something that I'm not consciously aware of. I have the same experience when I encounter aspects of Middle Eastern culture. And it's almost always through the women. Wailing. Either in joy and celebration, or in anguish, grief, pain. I have always felt unsure of where this has come from, what it signifies, but I have never doubted it's reality.

Some of the deepest digging that God has done in me has been in the past two years. It has been incredibly painful, uncomfortable, exhausting. But so healing. In that process, I have begun to experience a heightened awareness of the heart and feelings of others. Not a sensitivity to others, but actually feeling what they might be feeling. An emotional barometer. I have no interest in naming it or analyzing it. Sometimes it has been a blessing; other times it has felt overwhelming, a burden. But I know it's not of me.

About one month ago, I had the beautiful experience of sharing communion with my best friend, my "anam cara", my soul friend. I will write about her one day. For now, I will say that this is a friendship orchestrated by God; a bond deeper than anything I have ever known with a friend. She is on an amazing journey of healing and restoration, and I have the incredible privilege of walking that journey with her. As we knelt to take communion, she began to pray. But all I could do was weep. I felt deep anguish, pain, frustration, anger. But I couldn't speak. All I could do was weep. And it wasn't my pain. It wasn't even my pain for her. It was her pain. Her anguish. And suddenly my weeping turned into wailing. From deep within me. Emotionally she wasn't able to feel those things that day. And so I did. But not by choice. Not consciously. It was something much bigger, something beyond either one of us. Many things happened that morning during communion. As we continued in prayer, surrounded by other women, some began to speak about birth. About spiritual birth. About another piece of freedom being birthed in her. My wailing turned to grunting, groaning. Pressure. Something within me that needed to come out. And then finally, peace. Rest.

Some came to me, wanting to comfort me in what they thought was pain about my lost babies. But it wasn't about me. One thing I have always grieved was the loss of ever knowing the experience of pregnancy and of giving birth. That day, I experienced labour of a different kind. A deeper kind. I was a spiritual doula. A surrogate. And I felt blessed and honoured in a way that I could never describe in words. In that moment, God painted a picture of the sacredness of the friendship of women. The gift of presence. The experience of walking with another on their journey, and sharing yours with them. Of feeling pain. Of labouring together. Of rejoicing and celebrating new life. Freedom.

"We leave the birthing room daily. We want freedom from the ache. We want to control the level of groaning in our life. Our search for relief is utterly foolish.....We desire the thrill of a newborn cry without the months of anticipation and hours of labour-ridden hell....It is a long wait. Hope is far more a waiting for something in a hot, sticky mess than it is a peaceful, orderly affair."
(Jan Meyers, "The Allure of Hope", p.22-23)

The pieces of the last two years are beginning to come together. As I read further in Jan Meyers book, they came together in this story:

"One of the most treasured scenes from my life occurred on a wet, red-soiled road in Swaziland, southern Africa....As I made my way out of town into the hilly countryside, I suddenly heard a distant but piercing sound. It chilled my blood....What was that sound? It was unnerving, but so....lovely. Soon I realized I was hearing the sound of a group of women wailing....in this homestead a birth was occurring, and the wails were coming not just from one woman but from a gathering of them. My morning jog had been jolted by the way of life in Africa - entering into another's pain and joy. Wailing is a common occurrence during birth and death. The beauty of the wail comes from a deep sense that says, 'We are suffering together. We are a bloody, hot, sticky mess, but we will get through this. As we enter the chaos, we have a deep sense that it really will all end sometime. That is our hope." (p.22)

And that is my hope. That we will risk, and enter into that way of life. That as women, we will find that one or two that we will labour with, no matter how hard, how long, how messy. Surrogates for each other's pain. Spiritual doulas, blessed by God, for when strength and hope for deliverance and freedom are failing. Blessed and healed not only by the process, but ultimately by the birth in us all.

The Gift of Presence

2004-05-26T09:22:00.000-07:00

Powerful words from Henri Nouwen:

"Let us not underestimate how hard it is to be compassionate. Compassion is hard because it requires the inner disposition to go with others to the place where they are weak, vulnerable, lonely, and broken. But this is not our spontaneous response to suffering. What we desire most is to do away with suffering by fleeing from it or finding a quick cure for it. As busy, active, relevant ministers, we want to earn our bread by making a real contribution. This means first and foremost doing something to show that our presence makes a difference. And so we ignore our greatest gift, which is our ability to enter into solidarity with those who suffer."

"Those who can sit in silence with their fellowman, not knowing what to say but knowing that they should be there, can bring new life in a dying heart. Those who are not afraid to hold a hand in gratitude, to shed tears in grief and to let a sigh of distress arise straight from the heart can break through paralyzing boundaries and witness the birth of a new fellowship, the fellowship of the broken."

These words speak to the deepest place in me, and I'd even go out on a limb to say that they are the closest thing yet to the expression of the call of God on my life. I have had the privilege of giving and receiving this gift, and it truly transcends any word or action I know of. I will never forget the day last spring, sitting on the couch, in silence, looking through the window outside, holding hands with another, weeping, allowing God to work. The need to be quiet, but not alone. I have, and continue to experience the pain of abandonment, of rejection. And at times, the greatest irony is that I often run from the very thing I desire. Someone told me today that she can out-run me. And I am so grateful. Thank you God for the gift of presence. Help me to receive it as freely as I desire to give it.