So, I returned home and took Russell for what I hoped would be a cleansing, calming walk while Thomas went to buy the lug nuts.

And that’s when I saw a guy in a pick-up truck yelling at a woman who was at the stop sign in front of him, not moving her car out into a long line of traffic quickly enough for the guy. She had a stop sign. The other cars didn’t. She had to wait. The guy behind her honked and big-arm-gestured at the woman who had no choice but to not drive out into the middle of a line of cars.

“Hey!” I yelled. “She can’t do anything. It’s not a four way stop!” And that’s when the guy called me the awful name, immediately. He instantly pulled out the nuclear bomb of swear words, which I found a bit funny because it was so unimaginatively over the top. I just couldn’t believe we reached that stage of name calling so quickly.

What’s left to say after you say that?

So, then I said: “You’re in my neighbourhood,” like I was a mob lady boss. “And you come in here acting like that. She can’t do anything!”

Later, of course, I thought about a whole lot of other funny, better things I could have said — zingers — and also wondered if I could have involved the gigantic bull mastiff standing beside me, gazing back toward our house. But, he was just a big cuddle bug preoccupied with returning home as quickly as possible to lie down again, which is how he spends his walking time, sitting down and looking homeward.

Very soon, the woman progressed through the stop sign and down the road, and the guy in the truck roared away.

I waved goodbye. He gave me the finger. Yawn! Who cares about getting the finger after being called you-know-what?

Which brings me to “ding-a-ling” and “nincompoop.” Do you remember those words? Brent and I brought them back into our vocabulary a few years ago, as a kinder, amusing way of expressing frustration.

“She’s a real ding-a-ling,” we might have said. Or, better yet: He’s behaving like a ding-a-ling, or a nincompoop. Or what about that Scalawag and his cockamamie plans? There’s also lunkhead and fopdoodle.

Then we laughed at how funny and cute we were being.

See how gentle that all is? Even though, yes, yes, it is categorizing someone as something…but it also creates a little burst of affection for the person you’re a little bit mad at. It’s difficult to be truly angry when using the word ding-a-ling, or one of the other classics like smarty pants or bossy boots.

I wonder what the man in the truck — who needs his mouth washed out with soap — would have said if I had replied: “Oh yeah? Well, you’re a smarty pants and behaving like quite the young ruffian!”

Maybe he would have laughed, or maybe he would have been afraid that he’d insulted the Biggest Weirdo in the World, and who knows what was going to go down next?

Which brings me to being named Karen. (Can you imagine if the guy in the truck found out the woman yelling at him to behave in traffic was actually a Karen?)

I can’t adequately express the chilling effect the whole “Karen Thing” has had on my willingness to ask for the manager, comment on a random social media post, provide my name on a phone call to any service provider, introduce myself to someone new, order a coffee or remind someone that the lowest price is the law.

There’s a Facebook group for the quite-nice gym I belong to where everyone complains about everything. Class sizes, volume of music, new instructors, old instructors, the roll out of the new pool, the temperature of the hot tub, people who leave hot yoga early, the availability of pickle ball courts, parking, and so much more.

Almost all of the time, those not currently complaining call the current complainers Karen. I have not yet had the courage to complain about this, for obvious reasons. And honestly, I think it’s up to the caring non-Karens to point out the problem with making a somewhat common name one of the worst insults (but not the very worst!) around.

I’ve had lovely people tell me, “But you’re not a Karen, Karen.”

Or, they tell me that when their friends use the name slur, they tell them that there are some good Karens, and assure me I’m one of them. (I guess they don’t know I yell at people from the sidewalk). But, my-friends-who-aren’t-named-Karen, this doesn’t actually help. It just plays into the myth.

We all know there are good Karens because it’s just a name that was clearly quite common back in the 60’s and that a bunch of our well-meaning mothers — who could never have anticipated the coming backlash — chose, along with our barely paying attention dads. If it’s anything, the name is a bit nerdy. My big thick glasses in grade three were predetermined.

But, in 40 years or so most of us will have died off and there will be very few Karens roaming the earth, feeling uncomfortable.

What if we just stopped using other people’s first names as insults?

And what if we didn’t say the worst thing as the first thing?

We can still call out people’s ridiculousness, but we can be more civil, creative and even adorable when doing it. Pull out some of the old insult chestnuts like doo doo head, bird brain and of course, silly goose, and see what they feel like. I’m guessing they would have a de-escalating effect. There are also seasonal favourites, like cotton-headed ninny-muggins which I try to memorize every time I watch Elf. Often, I have to look it up because it’s so good but so long.

It matters how we talk to each other, even strangers, and about each other. We don’t have to be such nashgabs and meany-pants. Especially this time of the year.

The post About “Karen” and Other Name Calling appeared first on Karen Stiller.

Some of you might remember that I’m doing a doctoral program in the Sacred Art of Writing. Part of that program is going on a literary tour of Ireland and Britain. Part of that tour is Bath. Part of Bath is the bookstore Mr B’s Emporium.

And part of Mr B’s Emporium is a generous display of Blackwing pencils hanging on the wall just kitty corner from the cash register.

And that’s where I saw Susie leaning in, reaching up, asking questions and listening intently to one of the shopkeepers — surely we won’t call him ‘a guy who works in a bookstore,’ when the bookstore is in Bath — explaining, joyfully and expansively, the provenance of Blackwing pencils.

John Steinbeck wrote The Grapes of Wrath with a Blackwing (a whole box, of course). Richard Dreyfuss clenches one in his teeth on the boat in Jaws before everything goes south. Quincy Jones and Truman Capote loved them, along with a long list of Who’s Who of pencil pushers. If you’re interested, you can watch a video about the pencil right here.

That day in Mr B’s Emporium there were murmurings about Ernest Hemingway also writing an entire novel, also using one box of Blackwings.

Susie bought a few pencils as gifts that day, as I watched from the exit. In this magical bookshop, Susie had bloomed into full Blackwing enthusiast. I just couldn’t bring myself to pay that much for a pencil — close to $6 each.

Until I could, of course.

Susie and I returned to Bath after the official part of the tour was over, travelling on our own with our friend Jeannette. Top on the list was ensuring Jeannette experienced Mr B’s Emporium, and I got to buy Blackwings for my children as souvenirs.

After I returned home from about three weeks of travel, I realized that a pencil, even teamed up with a tea towel with a photo of a young and glamorous queen, a titanic rubber ducky, a King Charles rubber ducky, a Roman Soldier rubber ducky, along with a few other oddities, needed a little explaining.

“It’s a very special pencil,” I explained. “It’s a very expensive pencil. Don’t lose it.”

The one I mailed to my son in Newfoundland barely survived and arrived in a torn open envelope with a missing eraser.

“Unbelievable!” I said, a little worked up. Also, this is the kid who carries the crossword puzzle from The New Yorker around on a clipboard everywhere he goes while on a beach holiday. Obviously, he wanted a Blackwing complete with eraser (a famed, soft, square-ish, special eraser).

There are no big lessons here, other than everything feels special in Bath and to be careful about how you mail things.

Texting with Susie after we had all settled back home, she wrote: “I can’t believe I bought $6 pencils.” But then we convinced ourselves, once again, that it was worth it and magical and right. We talked ourselves right back into it.

Blackwings are special.

The mail takes no prisoners.

And somewhere in this house there is an unused pencil floating around that I gave my other son that I will absolutely take back and claim as my own if I come upon it, rolled under some chair, covered in dog hair, which it undoubtedly is right now.

I will find it. I will dust it. I will steal it. I will print good things with it.

What else did I learn on the trip? So many things.

Seamus Heaney wrote poetry about a river that reminded me of the water that shaped the soul of my father. Just before he died in hospital, Seamus texted his wife in Latin: Noli timere. That means “Don’t be afraid.”

Thank you Seamus, on behalf of the widows.

C.S. Lewis and his brother often left church early to do things like go have a beer. The Kilns is an ordinary looking kind of house where extraordinary things happened. We saw the pulpit from which Lewis preached his sermon that is now the small book The Weight of Glory. Later, lying on a mattress on a floor in Bristol, I finally read it and wished I had much earlier.

We stood at the graves of Lewis and Tolkien. At Tolkien’s one of our number sang a soft tribute song in Elvish and by that time in the trip, it didn’t feel weird at all.

Jane Austen is still a rockstar in Bath, even though she didn’t much like the place.

Guinness really does taste better in Dublin. I love Dublin.

Also, every writer is shaped by place, and people.

And we are all in a place, with people. Writers or not, we are all shaped and formed and loved and put up with by place and people. Among other things, I was reminded to pay good attention.

There’s so much to pay attention to.

Isn’t the world so beautiful with the sheep on its hills and rivers cutting through villages with children fishing who could grow up to be artists who perfectly describe water, and help the rest of us really see our rivers?

And isn’t the world so extravagant with its sweatered older women pouring tea into porcelain cups for travellers after service in tiny chilly churches, and the world with all the dancing and fiddles one minute and violins the next, and singing out loud without feeling the least bit embarrassed, and all the poets and their poems and the pencils.

The post How to Love and Lose Pricey Pencils From Bath appeared first on Karen Stiller.

“Orange marmalade?” my friend Alison asks, every time, like a tiny, friendly test.

Most places do have it, but not all, and always the marmalade is in one of those small little plastic packages. This whole eating adventure was Alison’s idea, and it’s been a really good one. Normally she chooses the spot, and I show up. Usually at 8, although we’ve gone both earlier and later.

I began taking notes at the beginning, but that fell along the wayside.

Our very first breakfast was at a place called Cozy. Here’s what I wrote on the Notes app on my phone: “Waitress, blonde, camo shirt. Men present, work men. Hasn’t been renovated. Canadian bill of rights on wall. Elvis. Hockey jersey, crooked. Bologna on menu. Marmalade. Orange juice was in a bottle.”

Next was Stan’s: “Old placemat. Waitress in coat. Juice in jar. Licence plates on walls.”

I’m sure you’re getting the picture.

My notes fade away with: “Milk: good as cold ever tasted. Waiter stood far away.” And then the word “Reynolds.”

And who knows what that means?

We’ve learned a lot about breakfast joints. They are largely the domain of old men, construction workers and police officers on a break, plus us. We’ve moved tables so we could hear each other over a table full of guys who talked like they were at a hockey game. So loud. Also, very sweary for so early in the morning.

We did a little bit of tut-tutting, but not too much, because we both have sons.

We never run out of things to talk about. We’ve stayed light and gone deep. She often bikes. I always drive.

We observe and compare. The potatoes are very important, and honestly, a bit of a giveaway as to the quality of the rest of the plate. Good potatoes in the morning — freshly cut, deeply fried, lightly salted — usually mean the rest of the plate will also shine.

I’ve not had a bad egg, but Alison has. I have come to see that, surprisingly, more can go wrong with a fried egg, hard, than a poached egg, medium.

I’ve already thought about how we could branch off to a dumpling tour, starting in Chinatown. There are a lot of possibilities.

Why don’t you take this idea and run with it?

Find a friend. I wouldn’t suggest filling your table, just find someone special to sit across from you who buys into this vision, and then get going. Take notes if you are so inclined. You’ll enjoy chatting with the wait staff. You’ll be interested in who else is in the restaurant, breakfasting. You will almost definitely see license plates worked into decor if you go out far enough from the city centre.

It’s so fun. If you do it, please let me know. I’ll tell Alison.

P.S.
Can I ask you a favour? If you haven’t listened yet, please check out my new podcast with NavPress, Good Books Big Questions. (You can listen to it on your way to and from breakfast. We made it breakfast diner commute sized). We recorded the last episode of Season One the other day and I interviewed my very own editor from Holiness Here. There’s been a lot of special lately, and I am thankful.

Here’s the trailer to give you a taste, like an egg. And would you mind subscribing? You’ll just get a notice when a new show drops. It helps shows move out into the world, like reviews help books find their way. Thanks friends!

The post An Artery Thickening Activity to do With a Friend appeared first on Karen Stiller.

We walked into a crowded hall full of people from different stages of my life. “How strange,” I thought.

If you ever want to throw a surprise party, I’m your gal.

Some people gave toasts and said kind things, and a theme emerged that eventually started to make me a little uncomfortable. “If you want to know what she really thinks, just ask Karen,” a few people said. “She’s a real truth teller.”

Gosh. What have I said to these people? ran through my mind.

And also: Aren’t we all telling the truth to each other?

Believe me, I do have my limits. If you like your shirt, and I don’t like your shirt, I won’t say anything about your shirt. I promise.

But as a writer (and a person who was a minister’s wife who is also a writer) I have learned that the more honest and transparent I am, the more love and support I have received. Does that make me sound like a giant, needy baby? Maybe. I can see how my transparency = love formula could be interpreted as clingy. But it’s not. It’s just what happens in the world most of the time. Tell the truth and other people respond with surprise, then relief. Almost always.

Honesty and transparency — the ability to tell the truth about ourselves and eventually how we see the world — is one of the things that makes us beautifully, brokenly even more human. And also way more able to walk with other people in a good and helpful way.

I see you. You see me. We are telling each other the truth about what we see, know and experience. We don’t have to agree on much other than we are in this together.

There is a new honest and ongoing conversation alive in the world today, called Good Books Big Questions, a NavPress podcast (the publisher of Holiness Here and a long history of wonderful books including much of the work of Eugene Peterson). You can listen and subscribe here.

I’m the fortunate host. I’ve been working on this project for a while with the partnership of my friend Margot Linke, who recently retired from CBC as a producer, and was as eager as me to make something new. So, we did!

I hope you’ll enjoy these as-honest-as-we-can-get-them conversations about books, and then life and faith and mystery with NavPress authors.

Books matter. Reading has been a huge part of my life in general and my spiritual life in particular, since I was a girl reading literally all night long, if the book was good enough. Once I was so intent on my book I didn’t notice a smouldering toy I had rather foolishly sat on top of my reading lamp. I can still picture, and smell, my beloved rabbit puppet burning beside me while I read my book. My sister rescued me and the house.

So if you’re a reader and a gabber and a listener, and curious, please give the podcast a try. Don’t be scared to hit the subscribe button. It just means you’ll know when new episodes drop. The show is a “good walk around the neighbourhood” length.

We’d love to hear what you think.

And if you believe in books and publishing, check out the books that interest you on this show. If you read them, review them (yes, tell the truth of course!) and share them with your friends. Drop an encouraging word to the authors. Believe me, they love that stuff. Thanks! Now, I’m off to do some reading….

The post A new podcast adventure appeared first on Karen Stiller.

It felt like getting back to Ottawa was a process in and of itself: travelling from Playa Del Carmen to the airport in Cancun (no biggie, but I was alone and that made it feel like a bigger no biggie than it would have otherwise); flying to Montreal where Thomas and I had parked my car in a hotel parking lot; getting from the airport to the hotel (again, a small thing that felt big-ish because it would be late and I hate waiting for the bus to my hotel while all the other buses to all the other people’s hotels constantly pull up); finding my car because Thomas had dropped me at the hotel door with my big suitcase and then parked it; digging my car out from the largest snowstorm that had hit Montreal in decades; and then driving the two hours or so back to Ottawa late at night to finally arrive back home.

Suitcase? When was the last time I saw my suitcase?

My suitcase sat back at the hotel desk where I left it when I went to hunt for my car. I was flying to Vancouver two days later so my suitcase would remain in Montreal for another couple of weeks until one evening when Holly and I made a dash to grab it. I was finally able to give her the Frida Kahlo merch I had brought her back, as one does.

I had a process. The process got me a fair distance but stopped working when I sailed merrily out of the snow-packed parking lot without my suitcase — so, so relieved to be in my car — honk-honking and waving goodbye to the hotel staff who helped me dig out. Merci! Merci!

I think about process a lot, and I talk about process a lot to the writers I coach or hang around with, nerds that we are. But it’s more than just about doing our work.

Process and the thought it takes to think and create one and tweak it, and mostly the steadfastness to trust it, helps me do all kinds of things, and not just writing. Process tells me (usually), that if I do this thing, that other thing will eventually happen. If I move in this direction, I will travel further north.

I guess that process, over and over again, becomes habit, and good habits make good things happen.

I’m working on a piece right now about Camp Widow, that beautiful experience that has helped me so much. Because I carry little writer notebooks around with me all the time, I’ve spent the last few days flipping through them trying to find my notes from attending two camps (which are retreats, which are also conferences). This has been a good-process-not-so-good process experience, like leaving my suitcase in Montreal. I know I took notes. But I can’t find the notes — yet! — because I take notes anywhere and everywhere and have many little books and journals and backs of envelopes with thoughts, ideas, lists, paragraph halves and seeds of stories.

Do you know how sometimes you have a moment when you see before you a path opening up to being the kind of person who has catalogued her journals?

I grabbed it, and some sticky notes.

Now, I have labels that say “Christian Wiman,” marking my notes from a moving talk he gave on suffering and art. And “Doerr” because Anthony Doerr gave a talk on similes at the Festival of Faith and Writing that ended in a standing ovation, and I’m not even kidding. Others say “Minister’s Wife” because I think it’s fun to see how baby thoughts became adults, and I want to remember that.

A lot of my stickies say “Brent” because there are stories I jotted down or conversations I recorded with my husband that I thought were important or funny or extra-loving at the time and now are like a sunrise to me.

Sometimes our process will be smooth. But a lot of times process will be as imperfect and bumbling as the person working it. (Plus, what could be more boring than remembering to bring your suitcase home from Montreal? Kidding).

But work it we will, and we should because process really does help. And along the way, taking notes because we won’t remember as much as we think we can, we will stumble upon the most beautiful stories.

The post In praise of process appeared first on Karen Stiller.

You can see what’s coming.

Three weeks after we exchanged emails and set up a time, and three hours away from my time zone in my cousin’s dark guest bedroom in Vancouver, I slept through the interview. I bolted up and out of bed to grab my laptop when I read Reinekke’s ‘I’m here and you are not’ email on my phone, and charged into an abandoned zoom room, pyjamas on, hair sticking up more than usual.

I texted, emailed and called. “I’m so sorry. I have no excuse.” (Note to apologizers everywhere: don’t say ‘but.’)

I felt ridiculous. How could I have forgotten this interview? What is wrong with me? I waited nervously for her reply, which came soon enough, and was full of forgiveness and a willingness to reschedule.

Every second day of the week leading up to our new interview date I made an event in my calendar that said, “The interview is this coming Monday.” On the Friday before the Monday, I added “You dum dum!” to my calendar reminder. It worked. The date and time were seared into my soul. I recommend this technique. Repetition + light personal shaming (the only type I will accept) + humour. When I met with Reinekke, I apologized again of course.

“Believe me, I started to feel bad for you,” she reassured me, like a gracious trooper. And I really loved our conversation. (Interview spoiler: Writing helps. Write for yourself to understand what is happening. Likely, it will help other people if you share it. Be brave and fearless, and we talked about so much more).

Two weeks later I sat in an empty zoom room tapping my fingers waiting for someone to show up. I had emailed her the day before to remind her and shared the zoom link again. She had confirmed. Where was she? Irritation started to trickle in about 12 minutes gone. I wondered when we would be able to find another opportunity during a busy time.

Then, of course, I remembered Reinekke and how understanding and gracious she had been with me.

Heal thyself, Missed-Zoom Hypocrite.

Like most of us who have been stood up on zoom, I decided to treat it as found time and moved onto another project. My flustered no-show emailed me within an hour or so, apologizing profusely, not using the word ‘but’ even once, (maybe we’re all learning!) and wondering how she could have possibly forgotten. Poor thing. I felt her pain. We found another time later that very day and I began our meeting by saying, “I literally know exactly how you feel. I did the same thing two weeks ago. I totally get it.”

Are there sweeter words to say or hear? Don’t we love to know we are not alone as we make our clumsy way in the world? I do.

The post Missing zooms left, right and centre appeared first on Karen Stiller.

Don’t ask, I told myself. Just do.

I worried the coach would recognize me from two days before, and my first time through. He didn’t seem to.

Then, because I had heard that soon the gym I joined was going to charge for these introduction classes, I registered for a third time. At this third session, it was a new coach and I learned new things, which included the fact that no one was going to get in trouble for taking the introduction class more than once.

This time when the new-to-me guy asked if anyone had ever played pickle ball before, I confessed. “I have, kindof,” I said, raising my racket and giving it a little wave. “I’ve done this class before.” (Even though I didn’t say ‘twice before’ my soul still felt lighter).

Of course, he didn’t care. What kind of a worry wart have I become?

At the first session there was a taller, sturdier woman who instantly intimidated me. I’m guessing there are kinds of men who intimidate other kinds of men, and there are kinds of women who do that too. For me, it’s usually the ladies who seem like bosses who know how to do a lot of things very well and behave properly in a wide variety of situations, sometimes a bit sternly. They don’t seem to need to clown around. They also don’t have to look up what side of the plate the fork goes on, just as a little reminder, and also they lead companies, and all the situations they find themselves in.

Of course, we were assigned to the same practice team so I got to say, “Sorry! Oh. Sorry! Oops. Sorry again! Gosh!” about a hundred times, because she definitely seemed to know what she was doing.

So, now you know I wasn’t the first kid chosen for teams in gym class way back when. And definitely, this was starting to have gym class vibes.

As the two hours (two hours!!) of playing and learning went on, I could see I was getting better before I began to get worse again, which is the natural arc of running around when you don’t normally run around. I understood what the kitchen was and to try to stay out of it. Most of my serves landed and I was mindful of the double bounce. We all consciously tried to work on our dink shot, which was a preoccupation of this particular coach.

At the end, one of my fellow trainees added our numbers to a what’s app list so we could plan a game sometime in the future with other players at the same level (at this gym you book one square of the four available in a pickleball court at a specific time, hopefully with friends, or you prepare to apologize again and again to the strangers saddled with you).

I bravely jumped at the first opportunity for a game with my fellow beginners because I had seen all the pickleball fun potential, and even though I have very little to back this up, I do have grandiose dreams of being good at sports.

Because this was all on what’s app, I didn’t know exactly who else would be at the game, and, you guessed it, the tall lady was there, waiting.

“Are you here for the game?” I asked her, when I saw her sitting in a chair outside of the pickleball auditorium (because that’s what it is at this very grand gym). Recalling the forbearance she had shown me during training, I fought back the urge to say a preemptive “I’m sorry.”

Instead I gave myself a little internal pep talk: We’re all beginners. I’m brave to show up. Practice will help. Stop it!

We talked about the intro class we had been in together, and she casually mentioned that this coach had been different from the other coaches, and that she had taken the free introduction class eight times. Apparently, around the seventh class a coach told her it was probably time for her to move on and upward into the novice league and try out what she was learning. She felt nervous though and was glad to play with other beginners.

So, off we went when our two other new friends arrived. We laughed and cheered each other on. We hit wide and wild and straight and strict. We had a blast. We were extremely self-congratulatory. We improved as time went on and didn’t really get worse.

At the end, my new pickleball pal commented on what a good team we had made and that it was so good to play with people at the same level and with the same spirit. I agreed.

And, because I am away for a couple of weeks writing with not a pickleball in sight, I do worry I’m going to lose my precarious, nascent skills (back to gym class memories!). But I do know the secret is to show up. And that’s what I’m going to do.

The post How many free intro to Pickleball classes can one person take? appeared first on Karen Stiller.

But I know what I like. And what I like are tickets five rows from the front that enable us to see the joy (free from the National Art Centre as a lovely gesture to lure people in). I like to watch the bows of violins hop and down in their skinny, jaunty way. And I enjoy how the cellos lie on the stage during intermission, like a row of kindergarten kids during nap time on the classroom floor (does that still happen?).

Holly and I shared an Oh Henry bar in our seats during intermission, which felt sneaky and illegal, but also delicious and rare.

Several times during the performance, the conductor ushered people out from a side room seemingly full of guest stars into which he would vanish and then reappear holding someone’s hand or guiding them by the arm, like a host. The guests would perform, or maybe just be there beside him for a moment or two, and we would all get to clap. One woman wore the most fabulous pair of glittery ankle boots. I still don’t know who she was, but I clapped for her. Then I clapped for her boots.

Everyone loved each other.

The National Arts Centre Orchestra musician-artists were, presumably, doing something they love to do.

We were there for the purpose of loving it.

This is all very obvious. This kind of thing has been going on since time began. The creating, the music making, all the joy. Performing. Receiving. Applauding. Appreciating. Jumping to your feet to show it. Sitting down for some more. Sharing pleased smiles with your daughter beside you. Spending an evening in the way of art. Beholding. Then, that little sad feeling with a stretch and a small yawn when it’s over, but also it’s been a couple of hours and how much beauty can a person take in one evening? (I’d started things off with fettuccine and two meat balls at Johnny Farina’s on Elgin, so things had been going very, very well for a few hours by that time. It was time to go home).

Watching the conductor conduct — which is its own art and maybe science — reminded me of this passage from Holiness Here:

On the radio once, as I was driving down the highway through Quebec, I heard an accomplished pianist tell a story about how he had been listening to a symphony on the radio and admired the arrangement and the skill of the players. As he listened to the orchestra, he found himself wishing he could play so smoothly and so free of fumbles. When the piece ended, the pianist was shocked and then delighted to learn it had been his very own orchestra playing. He himself had been playing in the recorded piece he had admired. It was his own skill and the skill of his playing partners he had accidentally enjoyed.

The pianist, whose name was James, said that musicians usually hear only what they do wrong, and that they are acutely aware of the dozens of little mistakes they might make while playing, which we ordinary listeners would probably never hear. They are their own harshest critics, like we all can be. Just look at a photo of yourself and see how you feel. But in hearing his orchestra play without realizing that there he was in the middle of it all, James allowed himself to relax and acknowledge and appreciate even a little bit his own skill in a way he would never have otherwise. He offered himself an accidental grace. He had given himself a tiny round of applause without knowing it. There was so much to admire in this story. The skill of the pianist, and his humility, of course. The years of practicing and the joy and anguish of performing, and the way the artist was so quick to appreciate others, and was surprised and embarrassed, yet pleased, when he accidentally admired his own orchestra’s piece.

For a moment, he saw he did beautiful work.

 

Isn’t that a cool story about James clapping for himself in his mind without knowing he was doing it? I loved this story so much that as I was driving I was talking into my notes app to capture the highlights of James’ adventure in self-appreciation. I knew I would use it somewhere and someday.

I knew it was a gem.

What I really want to say is, put yourself in the way of applause when you can. To offer it, of course. A bit wildly so your hands might hurt for a second. Be the one to get the applause first underway and let your clap linger longer than anyone else’s, maybe.

And if you receive some applause, well, that is a treasure, isn’t it? A gift. An embarrassing little joy.

Here’s another thing I thought that night. When the conductor brought out the guests, as I mentioned above, proudly, and I think pleased in a generous way that they were being appreciated and applauded by everyone there, I thought about heaven. I thought about being ushered in by the beaming conductor, being dazzled by the lights and then floored by some wild applause. Everyone looking their very best.

Bravo! Bravo! Bravo!

I hope that’s what it is like in those first few moments. It’s nice to think about.

In the meantime, take a bow every now and again, even if it’s just in your mirror. Receive the love.

And mostly, clap whenever you can. Give the love. Why wouldn’t we?

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The Christmas chapter was a lot more fun to write. Just last week I had the opportunity to read an excerpt for a “Christmas breakfast” crowd and it was fun to revisit. I share it with you now to hopefully encourage you that you are not alone if things are not perfect, but still good enough.

Here we go.

The first Christmas that I decorated the tree all by myself, without my children’s help, at first I felt surprised and betrayed. I couldn’t believe that no one wanted to help me,

Especially Holly. Who else can a mother count on if not her girl?

I felt sad the kids had moved past seeing this as a magical launch to Christmas, a sacred part of their own celebration. But they were busy in their own rooms doing something fun that day. Brent never really cared about decorating the tree and would do his best to avoid it. He carried out his annual duties of accompanying me to the tree lot; remarking on the height of the tree; tying it to the roof of our van; unloading it at home; forcing the boys to help him cut the trunk; wrestling it into the tree stand; going to buy a new tree stand because we had bought a cheap one the previous year and it had broken again; and watering the tree until he stopped caring and forgot.

Brent would appear again later in the season to toss the tree onto the side of the road for municipal pickup. This would happen the day after Epiphany, well into the first week of January. The tree itself had given up by then, shedding its needles by the fistful, forlorn in the corner of the room, a symbol of our stubbornness. We had stopped plugging the lights in, leery of fire and weary of Christmas. But waiting for Epiphany— the celebration of the wise men visiting Jesus and his parents— was our way, at Brent’s urging, of proclaiming that Christmas lasts longer than a day. “It’s an entire season!” he would say. The wise men mattered, but by then I couldn’t wait for it all to end.

So the day the kids declined to help me decorate, it dawned on me I could have a pretty tree that year. I could consider color and spacing. I wouldn’t have to sneak around after they had gone to bed and rearrange things, moving the giant Styrofoam snowmen heads from front and center to side and low. I thought of the pictures in magazines of trees with clustered decorations, elegant little trios of color-coordinated glass balls nestled together at the end of green branches. I could do that.

“It’s okay!” I shouted up the stairs in case anyone was about to change their mind and charge down. “It’s all good!” I took my time. I listened to Christmas carols and sang along. I unwrapped ornaments from their little tissue paper homes and laid them all out on the couch before I placed each one thoughtfully on the tree— mostly on the front as it turned out.

I awarded positions of prominence to the family heirloom pieces, those tiny glass balls from our respective childhoods, ideal for hanging together on the ends of branches in delicate little groups of three, as instructed and inspired by the people who know what they are doing. After an hour or so, I stood back to admire. I sighed with contentment at how lovely and sophisticated our tree looked.

Gorgeous.

A few peaceful seconds passed. Then my beautiful tree fainted forward and fell flat at my feet, spilling water and shattering glass balls. The kids heard the crash and came running.

I burst into tears. Brent appeared and asked, “What happened? Why are you crying?”

(The chapter continues in a “solving Christmas for the Stiller’s kind of way.” Not all was lost. Just a few decorations and some pride.)

The post Oh. You Stupid Christmas tree: A Seasonal Selection from The Minister’s Wife appeared first on Karen Stiller.

In 2002 I would have been two years out of finishing a Communications Certificate at Tyndale College, which pushed me further down the road of being a writer kept busy with assignments. I had one child I could not take my eyes off for a moment without him running amuck and sinking ships, and two other kids in grade school all day long which meant I could write during nap times or while hiding in the bathroom.

Eventually I would have three in school and I started to see the possibilities of an almost full time writing and editing life.

We lived in Port Perry then and were probably just about to buy a house where I would have an office that I did use for a time, but typically I liked to set myself up at our dining room table. I’ve always done my best work on the table or our bed, where I sit right now to write this note to say that the Jan/Feb 2025 issue of Faith Today will be my last.

It has been such a good trip. I have loved my work helping to bring to life a national Canadian magazine that I believe has come into its own and is now a strong and consistently good read that helps connect the Church across the country. I’m proud of it. And as Director of Communications for the not-for-profit that publishes Faith Today I’ve had so many cool opportunities and challenges. It’s been a good and creative work with a team that I will miss.

Twenty-two years later, I’m very proud of the Nov/Dec 2024 issue of Faith Today

I’ll especially miss hosting the Faith Today podcast. I love to create good conversation. And I love to ask good questions and to listen. You can learn a lot doing that.

I’m stepping away from something good and I’m turning toward something good. This is a beautiful position to be in and I’m grateful.

I want to revive the freelance life I originally started with, working with editors, making pitches and taking assignments. And, I hope, focussing on my own writing life and what I might have up my sleeve and in my heart and head to write next.

I also want to take long walks when the sun is out, meet friends for coffee, visit my mother and Brent’s mother and not have to rush off, and curl up in a ball and read for a few hours if that’s what I’d like to do.

Doesn’t that sound good? It does to me.

Coaching writers will be part of my next chapter, I hope. I’ve been slowly developing that craft and practice and I can see how my years editing writers and nurturing some very promising ones — often the young mothers, I confess, because I saw myself in them and wanted to help them along if I could — have helped prepare me to be a coach. The Doctor of Ministry in the Sacred Art of Writing I’m enrolled in might help lead me toward more teaching eventually (I’m doing a bit now with ToolKit Media and Brent’s cousin Murray Stiller).

I hope so. I like it.

This is a change two years in the making. After my husband Brent died, I was left in pieces and with pieces. What remained as solid, true and unbroken was my calling and the privilege I have to be a mother to my three adult children — that will never change, even as what they need and want from me changes of course — and my vocation as a writer.

I want to be a writer who helps other writers bring their beautiful work into the world. That’s my goal.

I remember our friend Randy saying “No sudden moves,” to me after Brent died. Not surprisingly, Randy helped us with our retirement plans (and had also lost a spouse, so he got it). There was something about those three words in particular that settled and slowed me more than the vocabulary of “waiting to make big decisions” for a year. I just resonated with ‘no sudden moves.’

Maybe I’ve watched too many cop movies?

And so, I’ve been careful, talking and listening. I’ve discerned, tested the waters with my toe, talked to numerous friends, and I have taken my time, understanding I was giving up some pretty special work. Even the notice I gave was quite lengthy so that we’d all have time to adjust.

None of this means I’m not nervous. I am.

I’m scared of days that are too long and maybe not full enough. I’m nervous that this doesn’t mean a new chapter in my writing life but instead a great fizzling out. Quieter might not be better for me after all. But I am trusting my process (which I tell writers to do all the time).

This is not a sudden move.

It is a slow step forward into the life I want to build now. One that I hope will be artistically adventurous, helpful, fruitful, creative, kind, productive and gentle. Please let it be especially kind and gentle.

If you’ve made big changes to do with work and calling, I’d love to hear about your discernment process in the comments, or drop me a note. Mine definitely involved my gut, head and heart, and lots of talking with friends and advisors. And if you have insight into coaching, I’m all ears on that too! Thanks for reading. Thank you for your support.

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