Earl Grey tea, a hot water bottle on the lower back and "Megamind" (2010).

Sure, I'll take it.

Tonight I was at smoup (small group) and it was good.  It's really neat to have real friends, real people who are also brothers and sisters in the Lord.  It's a thing.  They are nice.  Community is baller.

When the group started talking about I Corinthians 15:35-58, about The Resurrection Body, I zoomed in on verse 55 and then asked Jesus if He wanted me to say what I was thinking.  I was really waffling.

I reasoned that He wanted me to say it because it was something that made Him look good.  (I hope I am always found, for the rest of my life, saying things that make Jesus look good.)

I told the group that I had been thinking on Thursday night about that verse that tells us about how there is no crying, no pain, no death, etc. in Heaven. (I think I mean Revelation 21:1-4.) On Thursday evening, I was brought very low... I wept freely, feeling the full impact of losing my sweeties.  It was the crying of anguish.  It was the first time in my life I have had my whole body try to export sadness and just give in to the weight of the emotion.  I also spoke freely with the Lord.  I told Him how hard this was.  I told Him how much I loved those boys, how I didn't understand who would take care of them.  I told Him I didn't understand why this had to end.

I reflected on lovely things and good memories (which made me cry harder).  I repeatedly insisted, "I can't," not even fully knowing what I meant half the time I said it.  I probably meant I can't handle how I feel right now.  I can't fathom this sadness.
And yet there He was.  He sat shiva with me, that kind Savior. He sat with me for over an hour as I reminisced, worshipped, blew my nose, asked questions, blew my nose, prayed for the boys and their dad, tried to guess about the future, blew my nose (now painfully), said, "I can't...I can't..." doubled over in helplessness, thanked Him for giving me the eleven months with them that He did, and blessed Him for His goodness. And then I blew my nose.

I didn't tell the group those details, just that I had cried longer and harder that night than I ever have in my life and that at one point in the prayerversation I emphatically thanked God that there is a place where this kind of pain doesn't exist.  There is a place where we don't feel loss, we don't have severed relationship, we don't cry.

So then I pointed back to I Corinthians 15:55.

"Where, O death, is your victory?
  "Where, O death, is your sting?"

Feeling I had brought enough sombreness in telling them about my week, I then tried to lighten the mood. I read the verse and told the group (with appropriate actions), "I feel like Jesus is saying this and then He drops the mic.  He's like, 'What're you gonna do now, death?' [and I was full-on sassily shaking my neck and doing the puffed chest and spread arms that say, you want a piece of this??] Eat it." And then I sat back in my chair with proper "I'm done with you" thug body language.

They laughed but they know me well enough to read that I wasn't only casting it that way for humor's sake.  I love the thought of Jesus having swagger because He's an amazing, resurrected Messiah.  I love the idea of Him chirping Satan.


I was able to passionately communicate how legitimately glad I am about what Heaven will be like and what it will lack. (And I am thrilled beyond expression that I have a place there.  He made a place for me there and it's going to be some kind of epic-ness.) I told them I had never looked forward to Heaven like this before. I need to tell more people the Gospel.

It's such a big deal.


Later when we were talking about things we'd pray for, I told them I'd like some wisdom to know how to proceed in this situation.  I want so many things and perhaps none of them is right or none of them will be granted.  I told them a little more about my not sleeping, wacky appetite, shrimbling immune system, and general all-over-the-place-ness and it was peculiar.  As I said it, they really listened and I looked like I meant what I was saying.  But at several other points during the evening I was laughing loudly or cracking jokes or engaging in horseplay.  I kept telling myself that it was OK to be laughing when I thought something was funny and that it would be OK if I was suddenly very withdrawn, but the contrast still felt weird.

Strangely enough, they accepted it.  They seemed to count me sincere at all points.  What a group. We prayed together.  When I prayed, God did that neat little synesthetic thing He does to my hands when prayer is richly connectful.  Neat.  When we stopped, I stayed in my bent over, hands pressed together pose, hoodie up and eyes staring a mile away.  I stayed like that for a long while, half-listening to conversation swirling around me.  I didn't think I would plummet like that so quickly after prayer that was so blessy.  I didn't snap out of it til someone in the group invited herself into my personal space announcing, "this is one of those times that you look like you could really use a hug." I didn't move for her so it was mostly a side-squeezery and back-patbert but it was kind.  It was... probably exactly what I needed.  I had meant to get up and ask someone to hug me (... it probably would have been the closest person to me; I just needed to be enfolded) but I was spacing. I was remembering a littler hug I used to get.


--

As of this afternoon, I have received from various sources (two unexpected and one forgotten) money totalling five percent more than I would have normally earned this week had I not lost my job.  That's a thing.  Now, none of those sources is going to yield again next week but I still liked reflecting this afternoon on how little scraps here and there have been pooled to meet my needs.  Thanks, Jehovah-jireh.

As smoupites were disbanding, one said to me, "Oh, by the way [my current housemate]'s in.  As in, you're in." It was a new housing possibility basket that I was putting more than a few eggs into because I hadn't actually started looking for other options though I've already given notice at my current abode.  I think part of me thought this would just sort without my active effort, and part of me has not been willing (able?) to devote time or emotional energy to the housing search (on top of the job search and whatever else).

She said what she said and I just stared for a second, then took a markedly deep breath and exhaled slowly.  My face didn't show relief (it probably showed tiredness and vacancy).  I didn't say a word which is actually rare for me in a situation like that.  I wanted to express my gratitude and relief verbally but I think I was actually confused by the depth of my relief--I didn't know I was "holding my breath" on that one!


Ah, Sovereign Lord. You alone know.

nothing to worry about.

(or, "nothing about which to boldly worry.")

Last night a friend asked around 8 if I wanted to do something.  After some discussion, she decided she really shouldn't be out late because she had work to do that night and an early class the next day. I said I didn't really want to go out (because it was cold outside and cozy inside) but that I felt like I "should" go out because I wanted to be careful not to spend too much time by myself during this (sad) week.

She offered to come by for a short visit so I could get some "human contact" .
I counter-offered that she could come and work at my place while I did my proofing and Jeremiah-ing (which had been my plan for the remainder of the evening).
And so she showed up and it was good.

When she showed up, I had already begun popping popcorn and she produced a bar of Dairy Milk (and a bag of microwave popcorn, much to my coincidental delight). Yum.  I put on the kettle and didn't apologise for being in my pyjamas. She told me how class was going, I told her how grief was going, then she jumped into writing a paper and I read the nineteenth and twentieth chapters of Jeremiah. Then I journalled and she started reading in Leviticus.

It seemed good.  It seemed like what I should have had at that time. My face was still puffy from the night before.  (I felt self-conscious all day because of that puffiness.  I felt like everyone could see what I had been doing.)


This morning I woke up because of an incoming text-message from a neighbour asking if I wanted to join her and another friend at the market this morning.  I didn't really want to go.  My laundry was still wet from the night before (which meant no reasonably wearable trousers).  But, I thought I should go.  I am glad that I did.  I'm glad that neither of them knows what's going on in my heart of hearts so I could be lighter with them. We could just traipse downtown to the farmer's market, browse, buy, chat, laugh...Goodness.

It felt OK that I could buy a couple of groceries but mostly that I could be there with friends.  I paid a dollar for a huge sunflower and it made me happy. I waffled while one friend bought a bunch of three and I said half to them and half to myself, "I'll come back."  (I try not to buy on impulse.)  It was only about twenty seconds before I retraced my steps. The price was right and the uniqueness was compelling (I'm not really given to sunflowers). 

I was pleased with my solution to the bulkiness problem (asking the vendor to cut the three-foot stem in half) and pleased with my decision to spend a dollar on a non-necessity when I have entered a season of scarcity.  I walked back up to my friends and gushed.

"This makes me so happy--I have been meaning for the past couple weeks to buy some flowers to put on my desk at work just to have a bit of color and now I have this and it's gonna be great and I'm so happy..."

I was cradling the flora, alternating between admiring the YELLOW yellow and making eye-contact with my friends. They both giggled when I was done, saying, "Look at you! You're so happy!" and, "Look at her smiling!"

They have no idea how profound the moment was, that vibrant color and new life set against the dismal wasteland background of my current internal world. Really just a nice visible token of His mercy and therefore worth every penny.

It means a lot that you said you were proud of me for how I'm handling this.

I'm not sure that I am handling it but I feel like Jesus is handling my life so this subset known as the past five days of my life is also taken care of.

I thought, forty minutes ago, that if I pointed my browser to blogger.com, clicked the icon for creating new posts, and then started typing, something rightly expressive would come out.  I wanted to blog, I just wasn't sure if I had substance.

I probably should be jounalling instead; I probably need unfiltered output but here we are.


This is an email excerpt, something I wrote on Wednesday evening to a friend who had written an email asking how my evening had transpired. That evening I was leading and participating in a music rehearsal with the band that will be leading music during our worship service this Sunday.  My friend (who is secretly my pastor...you will figure that out later so I may as well disclose it now) said he hoped that I would truly worship and not simply rehearse technical things. The relevant part of my reply goes as follows:


When I first got your email I started replying to tell you how I was disengaging again..how I can't even sleep properly (I can't feel how tired I am... and I'm not sure how much sleep I'm getting)..but I was typing in between songs and I just couldn't do it when I was singing and reading the lyrics like: You hold my life. You know my heart and you call me by name. I live to say, "God, You reign". He's all over me.  He won't let me mope.

This is pretty much how the rest of the evening went:

Over every thought, over every word may my life reflect the beauty of my Lord. You mean more to me than any earthly thing. So won't Your reign in me again?

But my heart hurts so much.  I can't even articulate it to myself.

Glorious: my eyes have seen the glory of the Lord.
Glorious: He stands above the rulers of the earth.

But I can't see! I can't think! I can't feel! Why aren't You making this easier??
Am I really never going to see them again?
I need them to know it was never about the money. How long do I have to wait? How did I fail them?

Knowing You, Jesus, knowing You: there is no greater thing.

(No retort for this one.)

(And the next one is the one that REALLY kicked my butt because it invoked your Revelation sermons and [friend], you're such a good preacher and Jesus is so beautiful.)

Worthy is the Lamb who was slain.
Holy, holy is He.
Sing a new song to Him who sits on Heaven's mercy seat.

(By the way, I was watching real, live flashes of lightning out the window as we played that song. :) Epic.)

You're supposed to be still good. You're supposed to be my whole life and I'm getting bogged down by my light and momentary troubles.

When I survey the wondrous cross on which the Prince of Glory died, my richest gain I count but loss and pour contempt on all my pride.

My heart hurts. I can't even sleep.
But thank You that You buoy me up. Thank You that You're so patient with me and that You have given me means to cope.

How deep the Father's love for us - how vast beyond all measure! - that He should give His only Son to make a wretch His treasure.

Please help me to know what to do. Help me to grieve....Help me to keep after Kingdom standards.

I'm supposed to be sadder but my friends are too nice.

On Monday morning one friend read through my uncharacteristically withdrawn "good" and "fine" to inquiries about my weekend. I didn't even mean to be quiet and to avoid eye-contact; I was just in such a thick, grey cloud of WHAT?-ness that there wasn't anything in me that could engage.

He stepped forward and asked, his tone completely betraying his level of concern, "and how are you?" It was the exactly right question and my answer came out honestly: "Not ready to talk to you yet." And then my face acted like it was fighting back tears.

And maybe he should have walked away but he didn't. Before I could take it back and clarify that it wasn't personal and I wasn't trying to be mean, he bumbled through the verbal equivalent of

The Hug 

for the Situation Where Little Can be Said.

He should have walked away and let me continue preparing my sad breakfast in a sad whirlwind of questions and heartache. (I had literally prayed desperately when I heard his footsteps that he wouldn't talk to me at that time because I wasn't ready to look into the face of someone that really cared about me.) But he stayed and he talked about giving me space and being available to listen; he made fun of himself and invoked long-running inside jokes until a smile broke through on my face, in spite of my best efforts.

I didn't mean to smile and I didn't say much in reply. I could almost visualise tweed elbow patches as I listened to this absent-minded professor monologue and I smiled because A+ for effort.

(We later had half the conversation I would have liked to but everything was so raw and time was so short that I just couldn't do it.  But then this morning and again this evening two emails of encouragement and care went a long way. A really long way. Today was supposed to be the day that I dropped down to the bottom of my despair to explore it and find the bounds but I just couldn't reach it today.)

This afternoon, the second person I've told was standing at the threshold of my office. She asked kind questions and extended herself in three different ways. They are all big gestures and though I wish I didn't need to accept them (and I probably will need to), I appreciate that friendship plays out like this.  We meet one another at our low points, don't we?

She let me say my jumbled, inarticulate expansion of what I'd written in a brief email that morning.  It didn't make sense.  It was fragments of a thousand swirling thoughts that I keep insisting I'm not ready to share.  I'm truly glad it was a short conversation but also glad that she asked and seemed to understand and to want to understand.


This evening, a friend got it out of me during a short car ride home.  I really didn't want to tell.  And I didn't expand and she didn't ask.  This was fitting.  She offered to help in ways that she can, and even in our brief follow-up textversation just now she made a suggestion that made me smile and made that feisty scrapper Hope stir a little more. It has made me think that with each friend I share with, more hope and more help will crop up.


Even before I got the official news, the Lord undertook to prepare me over the past three weeks.  And He has been steadily growing that Hope monster without my consent.



. . .

As of Sunday night I officially lost the boys



    and I am devastated.


When I allow myself to really think about it, I feel like I can't even breathe.




I'm supposed to be sadder but friends.  But Jesus. But we press on.

Hmm. Now that I see the two most recent posts that have sat there on the front page for a week, I want to write something more positive-ish. I don't say that because I think positive must balance negative (except in chemistry, algebra, etc) but because all my negatives need to be eclipsed by the one big positive which is the goodness of the cross.

I like how this workweek was so busy. I like how all my coworkers and I seemed to be feeling the pressure of the first week in a new season (by calendar, because of the academic year and the fiscal year) and we were all working extra hard and staying a bit late--or coming in early or both.

That overtime or double-time works for spurts here and there, when the situation demands it.

I can't even write my excitement and anticipation for what's on deck for this Sunday. I'll just wait til I can do a review.

There's so much to say about so much uncertainty in my immediate future. I feel unworried. I feel like I'm straddling.

I feel like tomorrow will be when I devote some solid time to sorting this out. It must be. The crunch is on.

Let Jesus be glorified.

Blaaaaaaah, televangelism makes me so angry.

The peddlers tell lies and hordes believe them.

They use select, warped pieces of Western Christianity to fool people. They prey - I suppose - on those who are searching for the real Jesus.

If their show title includes their name, that's a red flag. 

If they're preaching Christ, they don't want kick-back (in any form).

[I Corinthians 9:1-15]

If they are selling you anything, that's a red flag.

The Gospel is meant to be free. 

[I Corinthians 9:16-8]

If they talk about "what God can do for you" as if He is your smartphone or your executive assistant, that is a red flag.

YES, He serves/served us, but not because that's right. The idea that the One who created you and the rest of the universe would wash your disgusting feet...that's supposed to seem improper. We should probably feel unsettled on some level.

[Philippians 2:6-7, John 13:1-17]

If they don't give credit to God (especially for supposed healing or revelation), that's more than a red flag.

If they leave out the part where salvation isn't universally applied but that individuals must acknowledge their own rebellion against God, acknowledge they deserve death, acknowledge that Jesus took their spot on death row and accept that His death settled their debt, that's a red flag. (Oh, also Jesus stayed dead for three days but then conquered death itself and came back to life. So now those who accept His death on their behalf also get His righteous, eternal life for their behalf. It's kind of a big deal.)

[Romans 3:22-6]

If they use fragments of Scripture that add little substance to what they've said, and more of a religious sheen, that's a red flag.

If they are adding to the Gospel, i.e. if they are telling you you need anything other than God Himself, that's a red flag. No water, no CDs, no "Miracle Mixture" (it was mentioned on a program last night). 

[Philippians 3:4b-10]

If they don't rely heavily on Scripture, what is their credibility? Rhetoric? Flash? Volume and aggressiveness?

If they fail to mention sin, that's a red flag. (Seriously -- we are terrible.)

[Romans 1:18-32]

If they insist you deserve healing or prosperity, that's a red flag. That's incongruous with Scripture. We deserve death and we can expect suffering. 

If we are healed it's for His glory and if we are in pain for life, it's for His glory. 

If they tell you that you can have or should have healing, ask why. Ask, to what end? Our chief end is NOT to get what we want and to be comfortable, it is to glorify Jesus. Everything else in our life submits to that priority.

If they set themself up as a mediary, if they sound like we need the info, the access, the insight, the code words that only they have (and that they can only dole out conservatively), that's a red flag. That's a red flag for any preacher or priest, too.

I DON'T KNOW HOW THEY SLEEP AT NIGHT. You must know you're lying.

If telling the Gospel makes you look good, you're telling it wrong.

Title of Track 10 from Queen's "News of the World"

I was very sad a few hours ago.

I think it's interesting that I walked out of it slowly.  Not sure how to really describe it but now I feel different - not happy, not dejected, not quite neutral, maybe just glad that my sadness could all pour out honestly.

I should have gone home four hours ago but I worked a little past 4 while watching a movie. The movie somehow tapped into the looming frustration I have been grappling with since noon and I just sat in my sadness right through til the credits rolled.

I put my head in my hands, I asked the Lord for guidance and I didn't wipe my cheeks.  I wrote a transparent letter of only eleven lines that I probably won't deliver.  I probably will never say what I wrote and that's why I wrote it. I wanted to say it somewhere other than in my thoughts.  In fact, I was so bent on writing in the moment that I didn't get up to find something more appropriate but scrawled on manuscript paper.  (This is a first.)

The credits continued and I started a personal project that I can't do at home (because my laptop doesn't have a word processor). It's a project I've been meaning to tackle for at least a month and I would still like to put off for another forever but today I just dove in and didn't need any urging.  So I stayed.

I stayed long enough that I wondered if it would mess me up too much to not have dinner until 8 o'clock or so which is when I'd get home if I left at that time. So I thought I should leave.  But I wanted to keep working. So I put together my evening meal from the stuff I used for lunch and it was great.

I made myself a coffee and... it's funny.  It's funny the way the Lord speaks to me sometimes.


[Sometimes He calls me "honey" which is (I suppose not coincidentally) what my earthly father sometimes calls me.  It has a really weird vibe to it because my earthly father calls me that and I have all sorts of baggage and struggles in that relationship. But my Heavenly Father, o how He loves.


He's made my anger subside, which was really unexpected.  It wasn't full, unbridled anger, it was the angry-sad combo which I sometimes think only women experience.  I think it's righteous anger and part of my sadness was at the thought of an irreversibly injured relationship with the addressee of my eleven-line letter.


He's made my anger subside such that I feel like I can talk to this person now.  I don't feel the big, fat wall that I thought was going to make it impossible to speak or to have eye-contact.  I'm relieved.  I don't want disaster.]


The Lord says, "have a coffee, honey," and I am glad for my Dad.  I'm glad that in the empty, dark building while I am sad and at a weird crossroads at the end of an oh-so-strange week, He is right there.  He is more than present in the physical space, He is with me in such a profound way. He wants to be with me and He cares. (I can't usually say those things from my own conviction, as if I am likable or deserving. I can only say it this evening because it's obvious.  It's palpable, it's hanging in the air.)

I am loved.


And that is a thing.


The Lord has softened my heart (and my resolve!) and made me able to wait at least one day before I do or say anything.  From the get-go I knew I had to had to had to wait before I acted (to get in at least one night's sleep) because I was too emotional. But no part of me wanted to wait or felt capable of waiting.  I was ready to pick up the phone.

But now I can wait.  And now my view is less clouded.  And now - and this has really surprised me - I see that I still love.  I still love the addressee deeply and this obstacle isn't going to be insurmountable.  Thank You, Jesus: You're the Guy that does the stuff.  You got this.

Find rest from wrong. (A film review but not really.)

I didn't really want to be that guy who writes a blog post about the first time they watched Les Misérables (2012) but here I am.  It keeps hovering in the back of my mind like few films/plays have.

My thoughts:

-This production was well done.  I see why it's such a juggernaut in the realm of Theatre.  I get why it's in the canon; I greatly respect the composers/contributors.

-It's so refreshing to hear un-doctored singing.

-The depictions of patriotism are staggering.  The fight for justice, the struggle to not be trampled, it is shown in raw form and all of me was rooting for the Trampled.

-There were things about the plot that I didn't like which I don't think I'll mention because that is a different critique.

-The cinematography, the casting, the costumes, the musical arrangements, it was all riveting. It is incredibly rare for me to be unable to do anything else while watching a film.  I usually go out of my way to make sure I've got something else to work on.  With Les Misérables, I couldn't even EAT while watching.

-Russel Crowe deserves props. I don't know why haters be hatin.

-Fantine's story made me angry beyond words.

-The perfect synchronisation of content and form in virtually every song was simply brilliant.  Rousing battle cries sounded like rousing battle cries.  Laments sounded like laments.  Slimy brothel calls sounded like slimy brothel calls. Monologues felt like monologues.  Hope was hopeful. Love was love.  It's well done and that kind of writing is not easy.  Many don't know that kind of writing exists.

-Sacha Baron Cohen impressed me and I think he played well opposite Helena Bonham Carter.  Cohen is a gifted actor and singer.  I wish his work wasn't so often lewd.

-If I'm getting the term right, I think this production of Les Misérables succeeded in a cathartic depiction of prostitution, poverty and war violence (among other things).  I think their depiction was so accurate that the audience didn't think those things were being celebrated.  I think the presentation was so accurate that we wanted to turn away, not to keep watching the smooth choreography or listening to the qualitatively excellent music.

-It was Eponine's solo in the rain, I think around Minute 90, when the title finally clicked for me.  Watching her sing her heart out in anguish, I noted the trend of people expressing deep sorrow through song and then beginning to cry.  I thought, "everyone's SAD in this movie!"  And then I had my duh moment.

-The character Gavroche?? A gem.  And perfectly cast.

-I was about eight minutes into the film (I glanced at the DVD player to be sure I wasn't exaggerating) when I started to cry.  And, as far as I can remember, I have never cried at a movie.  I have been choked up a couple dozen times but I have never so spontaneously broken into tears and then begun sobbing.

Let me tell you why.

Our first protagonist, M. Jean Valjean, has been given papers that mean his status of criminal will follow him the rest of his life.  The papers don't show the details of the "crime" and they leave no room for grace.  Upon his release from nineteen years enslaved/imprisoned we see Valjean has no success finding work or a place to rest his head.  I guess this is what the government (the crown?) intended -- if he can't work or sleep, they have sent him to death.

It makes a difference that we know Valjean was branded a criminal because he stole bread to feed a dying nephew.  It makes a difference that we think he was disproportionately punished and that being on parole for life, being treated like scum for life, is largely unjust.  He is forced to let the papers be his credibility, his character sketch, his trustworthiness and implicitly his value. The justice lover in me is steadily growing more and more incensed.

Scene: Valjean is huddled in a dark corner of a stable, trying to find sleep on the ground.
Someone opens the door and spots him.  Valjean jumps up, ready to flee for his life but the man tells him to come in and partake of wine, food, heat and a bed.  [cue tears]

The tears flow faster as I realise the man didn't even ask for papers so effectively, he didn't care whether he was welcoming a violent murderer. He wasn't asking for a label so he could size up a man in a moment.

And then, processing what I'm feeling, I start thinking, that's the Church. I felt so proud to be a part of it. I felt so glad that the Church, at various points in history, has been the one that shows up when the world wants you dead or goes out of its way to make you feel worthless.
I felt like I was pointing, shouting and leaning out of my seat like the parent whose child just nailed a dismount or hit a homerun. "That's MY Church!!"

That's the Church that Jesus built and is still building. (It's not really "mine" at all.) I'm so glad to be a part of it. I'm so glad to be a part of the Body that's doing what's right.  Here: have some food, have some shelter, have some clothes, get warm.  You are valuable.

When the Church gets it right, it's profoundly beautiful.  It's profoundly beautiful.

I'm looking at the gorgeous abbey or convent or whatever it would have been called in early nineteenth-century France and thinking, these people get nothing out of extending themselves like this to strangers!  They know exactly Who it is that they serve. They know well that what the Church does usually doesn't make sense to the world. And it makes Jesus look so much better.  He's the guy that makes [read: compels, enables] us do right--and we love it.  We delight in serving those Jesus has given us to stand in His place, those He has given us to serve as if we are serving Him.  It's a beautiful thing and it's a joy.

"Then the King will say to those on his right, 'Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world.  For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.'

"Then the righteous will answer him, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you?  When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?'

"The King will reply, 'Truly I tell you, whatever you did for the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.'"


If this movie had no other effect on my life than causing me to worship Jesus, to see the Church better, to love it more and to want to engage more, it would be more than alright.

A post that took a while to compose.

I would like to write an essay on how our love of superheroes is a very real reflection of our yearning for Jesus, but I'm not sure I could do the topic justice. (Pun not intended.)

I think of it most when I'm watching the Batman movies, particularly the most recent three. We all know that Gotham City is dark and getting darker and we recognise the need for someone partially outside the situation - someone invested in Gotham but not corrupted by it - to break in and stop the spiral.

In the scenes after Batman gets his suit, car, cave or after Spiderman figures out how to web, aren't we pinning our hopes on him showing up when that screaming lady is being mugged in a back alley? Don't Marvel and DC set it up for us to expect the crime-fighter to show up precisely when needed, to defend the defenceless and exact justice? To be selfless and throw himself into danger for someone else's good?

I know I do. I root so hard. I get right into it.

Humans are great at recognising moral evil; we just lie about it most of the time. We are happy to excuse someone else's evil if it means they won't mention ours. I don't think we see nearly as much grey as we claim to.

The superhero is always flawed; he usually has massive inner turmoil; he's often ousted from normal society, misunderstood, framed or impeded by the law. (He'll do what our hearts know is just but what the law will string him up for.)

But Jesus is better. He doesn't have flaws or baggage, He isn't bound by the law or social/societal norms and His justice literally could not be better. (He's also not bothered by space, time or sin.)

He does show up at exactly the right time to rescue and He rescues completely.

And He loves. And He stays in the dark alley instead of slipping back into the shadows. And His identity isn't dual or hidden. 

I think we gravitate toward and root for superheroes because we can feel our need for an outsider to intervene and get us out of deep trouble.

Shoot- now I really wanna watch The Dark Knight.

happy/pleased

•I currently have the luxury of being able to recline on a soft surface and do relaxing/energising things for about an hour before I need to go to sleep. 

•I feel almost like I'm on hols this week (and last) because working as a receptionist is such a delight for me. It's like all the unsatisfied skills/tendencies/desired areas of service inside me get lit it up brilliantly. It's a joy.

•I made some great headway with a big work project earlier today and I think there's enough momentum for me to be able to put it down for tonight and finish tomorrow. 

•I'm grateful that I don't need to be up before the sun tomorrow. It's like a vacation. 

•I have no large, looming relational issues at the moment. Those can preoccupy my thoughts to a crippling degree.

•It has been a good weekend with a great balance of people time and alone time. I feel like a new precedent has been set.

•I got to spend a couple hours studying the Word.

•I have a big admin project that I'm looking forward to tackling this week. Like, really looking forward because the success of it has real Kingdom and Church implications.

•I have several writing projects on my figurative desk this week - one close to finish, two half-done, another one-quarter finished - and I am enjoying bouncing between them as I think them out over the course of my day/week. On top of this, a proofreading gig found me this morning. Color me chuffed.

•I'm tired at bed time!

•The house is quiet.

•I just caught an ep of the Simpsons.

•I feel refreshed and unburdened for some reason. I wish I could explain it.

A blog post about something.

Last week I had a couple neat moments with the boys. 

That day I was focussed on keeping them in line for the big things, like making sure we got to camp on time with all tasks completed and items in tow.

Two weeks prior (a Wednesday) we had probably our worst morning to date. My anger smouldered throughout the whole day, partly because once they were signed in to camp, my hands were tied.

It was a breaking-point; something was going to give. That morning I had contemplated resigning because the brick wall I was meeting wouldn't respond to gentle nudges. I thought that if I hadn't figured out how to control and to lead in this situation by now, I may never get it and someone who WILL get it should be here instead.

In discussing the situation (including my thoughts of resignation) with my boss, I got my butt handed to me on a plate. I was called out to do better. I did not want to hear it but ...neither did I feel like my quiver was empty yet so I resolved to dig deeper and give it a final shot.

Thursday I wasn't there but Friday I was a drill sergeant. They didn't love it but they understood. I was clear about what could and could not happen and they eventually understood I was serious.

Then a week off and then a holiday Monday and then the Tuesday with the couple of neat things. I was focussed on getting the main things done.

When we were leaving the house, B doubled back and turned out the lights in his bedroom without my prompting. That has never happened before. I usually make myself the last one out so I can cut the lights behind the boys. Inevitably someone forgets something and turns on every light they pass (even the light for a room they aren't entering) and so I call from the bottom of the stairs for them to re-extinguish.

Then I stopped bothering as much because one more order on top of the normal we-need-to-get-to-school/camp orders makes them more distracted and more able to de-prioritise everything I'm saying. (I really didn't like conceding that one.) On top of this, hydro is included in the rent so I can't play the "we don't want to waste your dad's money" card.

But B did it and as he passed me on the stairs, he said happily, "Good thing I remembered to turn off the lights, right?"

I thought I was going to be the first person in history to die from a smiling overdose.

I had to turn away from him and keep my "yep" as calm as possible. I love that he picked up a good habit from me.

Really love it. It means so much.

The other neat moment came on our walk to camp when I stopped dead, backtracked a few paces and peered closely at the greens beside the sidewalk.

"What're you lookin' at, Jesskah?" (I'm typing this like you can hear the light, earnest tone that's bursting at the seams with inquisitiveness.. but I guess I probably can't translate it.)

"I thought I saw a four-leaf clover but I was wrong." [silence long enough to indicate this is an unfamiliar topic; I can practically hear them thinking/processing] "It only had three leaves."

B: "Why did you [hope it was a four-leaf clover]?"

Me: (Suddenly realising I don't want to communicate that I am superstitious) "Because they're really rare... and some people think they're good luck." 

B: "Oh."

J tells me just how rare they are, that in one person's lawn you'd probably find one four-leaf clover...

I think it's ridiculous that he'll speak like an expert when he is actually completely in the dark BUT I still think it's super cute and fun that they both would take a few moments to explore a topic of mild interest to me. 

Most of our time is usually about them (as it should be) and the lion's share of the talking is always done by them. So in those few moments they're interested in talking about me, something I'm interested in, something I'm doing, something I'm well versed in, I rather enjoy it. It makes me feel like they see me as a particular person, not just an adult who's around. 

I like being a particular person, especially to them.

Sometimes I think I am secretly a New Yorker at heart.

(I realise that can't be true.)

I went to J's games tonight and it was a lot of fun.  He asked me at least three time this week if I could come and I told him I probably could but needed to check with his dad.  Instead of saying that it was fine with him or that it was up to me like he usually does, Dad said yes and sounded not unhappy about it.

It's the playoffs and because Wednesday's game was canned on account of thunderstorms, tonight was a double-header.  It was exciting.  There were other games going on at the same time in neighbouring diamonds so the general excitement of playoff season was even bigger.

When we first pulled in, my brain started throwing a tantrum.  It refused to go.  It insisted that it would fold its arms, pull a pouty face and plop down right in the middle of the grocery store because it didn't want to take one more step.  From 6.30 in the AM I was around people; I was working and by the time 5.50pm showed its haggard face, I was zombified.

I literally sat in the passenger seat and stared a thousand yards into the distance, seatbelt still on, ignoring the bustle around me to get cleats and gloves and bags...

My friend asked if I was coming in a way that didn't sound sarcastic-ish...I think he truly wondered whether I'd completely changed my mind.  I sputtered that I would be over there shortly.  He says, "Okaaay.." in a strange way so I sputter even worse that I "just need to not be around people for a bit".

Fantastic moment of [big exhale] that I could just declare a need like that and have it understood.  They carried on and left me in the parking lot.  I sat on the grass with my head in my hands and eyes screwed shut.  Not exactly sure what that was about but it was what my id was screaming for.

Those little five minutes where no one was around, no one was talking to me, no one needed me, they went a decent distance.

Then on the bleachers my head was still in my hands on and off between batters or pitches and I contemplated throwing some earbuds in to have music block the talking around me and to help me feel like I could control my environment.

This is not what I meant to write about at all.  I meant to say that it was a rough start and I almost tapped out but I am so glad and so grateful that I was able to stay for the long haul, all the way to 22.30.


I made some new friends: the siblings of one player, his mom and then another player's mom.  It felt unprecedented.  I had taken an hour's excursion to go meet a friend that needed urgent help and that twenty-minute walk back into town, brief chat where I was all listen, opportunity to bless with an Iced Capp well received, a fifteen-minute wait in an airconditioned Tim Hortons, triumphant return of the friend (who had borrowed my keys) and another twenty-minute walk back into the park, all of that did very well for filling my tank. 

I had planned to stay on the bleachers for every inning of both games but I'm deeply grateful that a need pulled me away for so long.  It helped.


I was friendly and outgoing; enjoying the kids - especially the littlebert who laughed when I told him my name was Fred but called me by it for the rest of the evening - enjoying the other adults including me sporadically in their chatter and enjoying that all of this people time felt natural enough and not intensely draining.


Near the end of the second game, the other two moms and I would do the Wave for each player that reached base.  Mom the Middle would yell the player's name and Mom at the Far End would start the Wave.  We all participated; the recipient baserunner would grin, laugh, blush or all three; and we would then laugh. 

I don't even care.  Still in my camp shirt, combatting insects and gross clammyness of dew and low temperatures, combatting fatigue and brainlessness I was having a great Friday night.  I was into the game and into the evening and I didn't even bother taking the back of my brain elsewhere to occupy it.


The team was doing well so we didn't even have to be creative with our encouragement.  The three of us were getting sillier and louder but I think our sincerity was evident and the team's morale tracked upward with us. After the second or third Wave the 3B coach (who also happened to be my friend/the kids' dad) turned and explained how he thought the team had had quiet spectators all season UNTIL NOW and said as genuine a "thank you" as I've ever heard him say.  He does have a soft heart toward children and instinctively looks out for them. He seemed a little moved as a coach (and presumably as a dad) to be hearing the support and seeing how it was affecting his players. That coachly nod was kind encouragement.



My friend and I were overall fine which was a huge relief because, to put it simply, we can be pretty up-and-down.  We were both relaxed and interacted like reasonably good friends, exchanging snippets here and there like an inside joke or jabs or conversation blips (maybe like text-messages if you know the person well, where a comment or question can be thrown out at any time with no need of a preamble or follow-up?), but mostly talked to other people because we know we get to see one another all the time. I was happy to not be obligated in that way but also to have a glad-you're-here/happy-to-be-here connection. Zero tension.


Taking my cue from my friend's joke-not-joke to B that they would bring blow-horns to tomorrow's game, I said I would bring pompoms and I am not joking.  He said they'd pick me up.  Wherever it's right, I'm happy, grateful and humbled (among other things) to be a part of this family.  For a day where I had more than a few moments of feeling overwhelmed by how much I love these boys - wanting to just blurt it out - this was a perfect ending.

Well, that's another Wednesday in the books.

Just finished a conversation with an unlikely friend. To be fair, I don't think we're properly friends or ever will be. I think we'll continue getting along just fine as our paths cross but I don't know if long-term friendship will pan out. We're quite different.

Where we're different, it's stark but where we see eye-to-eye, it's glorious.

It's really nice to chat with someone - possibly the only someone of this ilk that I know - who can (and does) talk and think about music more than I do.

I realise he has many peers in this but for me right now he's acting as a sort of outlet and I'm grateful. He won't let me talk theory but that's OK. We think deeply about music and we both have ideas for shape, feel, flow, color and so we can talk at a level that most people (in my experience) roll their eyes at (even though most of them enjoy the finished product!).

He seems never to run out of interesting things to show me.

When tonight's rehearsal was officially adjourned, I said as quiet-loudly* as I could, "Now play something fun."

*this means I wanted to tune one person's frequency and no one else's.

A kind of "Oh-ho!"-chortle came out and he picked around briefly while I began shutting and covering the piano. Then he launched into what I hear as a IV65/I - V65/I - I. 

I threw my fists up into the air (à la Steve Holt, perhaps) and yelled, "Yes! Beautiful Things! Gungör!"

He plays on, barely looks up at me because he is focussed, a pick in his mouth and he nods assent in time with the music.

The piano cover is almost embarrassingly not one-third of the way messily on before I have decided I need to play along. I leap up to the electric keyboard because this song wants strings. (It begs for cello.)

He played and I joined. I added fat strings and sang a close harmony. 

I...loved it. It may have lasted two minutes but to sing into a song like that with someone else who is singing into it, with someone else who also sees the whole song, also knows the nuances, also knows the original recording well (and ALSO LOVES JESUS-- that is the cherry of all cherries on top of anything positive I'm here writing) ... I'm grateful for that mini-moment.

From that song and until we parted ways downtown an hour later, we chatted about music, ministry, God's goodness, charity work, music again, musicianship, worship, vision and so forth. We talked very briefly about our upcoming coworkership. I settled for a high-five where I would have wanted a handshake and we overlapped our "I'm excited"s that we each pretended was a self-directed musing but was actually very intentionally meant to be heard by the other person.

He played for me a couple songs with highlighted bits and commentary and he heard my scraps of feedback -- an almost-weekly occurence.

I really appreciate someone continually showing me what's "out there" and I appreciate how this must be borne out of a sheer love for music. (He can't keep it to himself.)

There was another mini-moment earlier this evening that I want to say was even more profound. I think it was a bridge that the rest of the band didn't know and possibly after I proposed a key change. So he and I are the only ones playing, trying to gauge singability.

I didn't need to play or sing because he's the lead vocalist and it's his comfort that's paramount. But I sang and I played because I felt like it and I didn't think I'd distract him.

Arguably by the first line he already knew but he kept playing. The singers couldn't join because they'd never heard this bridge (we were about to teach it) and the guitars couldn't join because they didn't know what key we were in yet (we weren't certain). So we were left duetting. There was chatting and some background fiddling but he and I sang and then started singing together.

I dropped the tight harmonies and I followed his lead. I let the piano embellish the guitar and we both let our full passion (for God and for good music) slip out because we weren't carrying the band.

In the context of a full-band rehearsal this shouldn't happen but for tonight I'm glad it did. I tell you what- I have never sung making eye-contact with someone as they sang back at me but it was something. To worship deeply because you have the same heart for Jesus AND the same freedom in music, it's incredible. It actually added something that we were looking at one another. It's deliberate engagement; we were worshipping, not rehearsing. [I'm sad that this is so noteworthy a happening.]

We just sang together. It was together like each voice would be less on its own and needed to be half of a whole. (Like something being greater than the sum of its parts?) What a way to worship.

I am grateful. Really.

 

Masters of Etymology

Alternate title: So Which One's the Hard Place and Which One's the Rock?

I feel stuck. It's not the big kind of life-situation stuck but perhaps we'd say I feel emotionally cornered or caught.

[Feel also right now like I'd give anything to read a scrap of leisure literature but I've been assigned to a strict diet of Bible-only for the next short while. Just last week I found myself daydreaming while I was in a staff meeting about sinking into a collection of Roald Dahl short stories. Yes, in that moment I craved solitude and clever writing over conversation with a handful of people.]

I consider that I have a lot to say about how I feel right now and what I'm processing or working through. I also don't know if I want to talk to anyone. 

I felt several hours ago like I wanted to talk to someone but I didn't even have a short list. I feel like I've worn my friends out.

I want to say something [rock]

but I can't. [hard place]

I feel a lot of things [rock]

but I don't know what I'm dealing with. [hard place]

I know Christ [Rock]

I live in a fallen world. [hard place]

"I wish!"

"I wish that were the case," is what I might perkily reply in some possible world when I'm asked if B is my son.

It has consistently been my reflex to reply that way when the mother of another player at J's ball game inquires. I've never said it because it sounds weird. More than that, it doesn't convey what I mean. 

"I wish":

On one level, I would be honored to be a mother at all.

"I wish":

Additionally, I want these boys to have a mum.

"I wish":

It means a lot to me that a stranger can pick up in twenty minutes the strength of the bond between the boys and me. 

Are they yours? and I smile massive, like I'm basking in the relationship.

"I wish":

I wish there was a way I could have a maternal-like relationship with the kids wherein I care for them, build into them, pray for them and love them for their entire lives, at a distance that appropriately adjusts over time.

Yes, that's what I mean. That last one.

My heart breaks at the thought of leaving them, of doing anything to hurt them, of failing to be there when they need me, of not being there to protect them...but they aren't mine. They just aren't mine.

--

"I wish":

I very grudgingly say "no" to the question, wishing it didn't feel like such a demotion to describe the official connection. 

It's almost like admitting I haven't sat any RCM exams. Suddenly my piano skills aren't what they sound like because there's no Grade number.

But I really can play!

But I really do love them!

This is not the post I intended to write but I'm happy with it.