the grab bag...

So yesterday we talked about ordering a couple cord of wood... summer is coming to a close. Well, technically it is summer for another four weeks but, here up north it feels like summer vacated these premises five weeks ago. It came early (May) and left the middle of July. We were graced with warm weather for the church camp out weekend but...

Rain. I'm talking about rain.

It has felt like fall to me the last few weeks, so much so that I have spent a good chunk of August in jeans and long sleeves, 'oh whoa is me'. Because when the rain won't go away your bag of tricks empties in a hurry. And while I don't subscribe to the helicopter/pinterest type of parenting, there are things you plan to do over summer break that require good weather. So now here I sit, begging for school to start and a schedule to begin. Something to break up the monotony.

Having said that, when I look back on our summer we did have some good times.

So, If I count summer all the way back to June then we visited my family in Vancouver, we visited Brad's family in Edmonton, we picked berries, we visited with friends, we played lego - that underscored the whole summer actually...the boys dream in lego - and in reality, our summer isn't really done yet. My beautiful niece is coming for a visit (shhh-don't tell the boys) in just two sleeps. And my folks are coming up shortly after that so there is still summer fun to be had. But, if I'm going to be honest, I'm in fall mode... I'm thinking and getting excited about about sweaters and scarves, boots and warm jammies, eggnog lattes and can it be?...christmas trees.

steely... rusty determination

     I have made a promise to myself to not let months go by in between posts. Even in the pit and stress and turmoil.  And so through this blog, a promise to me is, by extension, a promise to anyone who reads it. I am an introvert, and I process things through my hearts mind and eventually they need to be spoken and more often than not they are spoken through written word.

                   God bless the written word.

     I believe I have things to say. Important things. Well, they are important to me. Half of my heart started this blog because I was encouraged to do so, the other half thought "well, every other pastor's wife has a blog so I might as well too" then the thoughts of popularity rose up and squelched my focus. I began to think about how honest to be and how my words would affect my husband. But, I still have things to say. This is a strange bedfellow in the online world. I saw a meme recently that expressed that we used to have diaries for our private thoughts... now we have the internet. And oh, how true. I still keep a journal. I have kept one off and on since I was 12. I have tossed the ones from high school, but the ones from my twenties still speak a truth to me and they are sacred. I work out my faith, my self, my path in my journals. And, they are private. But there is something to be said for sharing. For laying bare our pains, our joys, our failures, our successes. There is vulnerability, community, family.

     Earlier this year I was drowning. I had shared this feeling with a few people and didn't receive the desired response. So deeper down I went. Then something happened between me and my husband and instead of coming to him with it, I listened to the demons that were telling me I wasn't worth it and I kept it, then I buried it, and then it began to eat me. Have you experienced that? It is painful, and it doesn't only eat you... it eats those around you except, they don't know they are being eaten. And by the time they do they don't have any power to do anything about it. They are fighting back in a futile attempt at the invisible dragon. I did this to my family. I pushed God away and allowed self doubt to rule me. I decided my husband didn't care about me, that my family and friends had forgotten me and I was alone. So I acted alone. I turned "survivalist" I didn't ask for help and I pushed everyone away.

     No one suffered more in this than my little monkey. My youngest. This is my deepest shame now and I am pleading with the Lord to help me forgive myself. Shortly after my descent began, my beautiful two year old began a descent into his own pit. I wrote it off as just being a two year old... tantrums, fights, screaming, crying... seems pretty usual right? But this was beyond. He was angry, and he was angry with me. It took months, I didn't count, but the months went on and I was reduced to tears most days. It wasn't until he and I were having a battle in his room and I looked at him and cried... and said I was sorry, and told him I loved him. He melted. Instantaneously melted into me.

     He and I have had a tumultuous relationship from the start. An unexpected pregnancy, and a stressful year combined with post-partum depression all worked against us.  He was born at the unfortunate timing of unemployment and a big life change. It has all gone towards my own sanctification and I have learned that you never stop labouring for your child. You think that once you have delivered them your labour stops but, whoa to the mom who denies the labour that continues through their lives.

     All these words and these last few months to learn again that our lives impact the lives of those around us. We are not separate in this world. And there is no secret sin. I thought I was ok to keep my feelings buried, but it only served to bubble and boil my anger. Passively my anger spilled out through the house to my children, my husband. I'm surprised everything I touched didn't sizzle under contact.  So the secrecy of a journal? I suppose just for the more scathing details. But the impact of sin is far reaching and why not put it out there since it will reach there anyways.

     I will write more. Because I want to but, also because, for my own heart and faith, I need to.

peeking out from under the covers

Whoa!....
has it really been that long? More than a month since my last post. If there's anyone out there actually reading this, I'm sorry that this page has been silent. I really wasn't aware that that much time had passed. We have had an intense couple months here. In the quiet north of BC this home has been in an intense storm of emotion and sorrow. Three deaths in 3 months.... let that sink in for a moment. Two grandmas and an "auntie" from our church. It's all too much right? It is for me. And since the first grandmas passing in February I have been spiraling down into a pit. Deep, dark, ugly pit. (hint: when the blog is quiet.... I'm probably drowning) that sounds self serving and dark but it's true. When I am at my mental and emotional worst I am buried so deep in words and thoughts and feelings I don't understand that I can't possibly wade my way through to make any sense of it to write it out. Aside from the deaths, we reached our one year anniversary of living here. Looking back, the year flew by. And that actually scares me a little. Did I miss out on anything? Have I cocooned myself wishing this time away?....

There have been many tears, and quiet suffering, and emotional turmoil, and battling demons that would cut my world with the blades of depression. It has happened before and I have been so ever determined to never let it happen again. But, living here has taken me too far away from my people. I am not known here. I am an alien. There is no comfort of familiarity. I am getting to know people but it is not the same. There is such warmth in silent ease. There is no place here for me to go to and just be. I always feel "on" and for an introvert that is exhausting. like... almost debilitatingly so.

So many people told me it would be easier with the kids being little. Quicker to adapt... the youngest won't remember...
I daresay it is not easier. This sort of life change is only easy if you have no connections to anybody or anything. And at the risk of sounding bitchy, I'm going to file this life experience under the same folder as miscarriage. If you haven't experienced it yourself, don't try to offer any diatribes, or pithy advice.

We just came back from a long weekend ant my sister's. My hometown. Vancouver. Oh I miss it so. And the boys do too. We had such an amazing time, nobody wanted to leave. Tears flowed almost the whole 40 minute drive to the airport. The next day at home was HORRID. The two littles were soooo grumpy. They did not want to be here. I can't blame them. Who wants to be in a place where there is no family?

Cap is almost finished school and we will be heading to Alberta for our long scheduled family vacation. We are all looking forward to it. Another place that has familiarity. We need it. All of us. But, still, it is not the same.

I get that we are supposed to live our lives as Christians as though we are aliens. In the world but not of it. Beyond that, I am still trying to understand why God has sent us here. What is he trying to tell us?

This has just become a ramble... I'm sorry. It was all on my tongue and I needed to spit it out. To be honest this is only the tip of the iceberg. But, what hangs on underneath is not fit for publication. Not yet anyways. Maybe in time.

If you pray... if you feel like praying for us, please do so. We are challenged as a family right now. There are named and unnamed stresses pulling and pushing at us and we need the prayers of God's people.

for lent's sake

       So, six weeks ago lent began and I felt I should participate, I should flex my faith muscles, as it were, and let go of something for six weeks. But my faith, like every other area of my life, is woefully out of shape and jumping into a lenten sacrifice was the equivalent of running a marathon when I haven't been running for six months. You fall almost before you start.

       I have tried lent in the past and have failed. Every time. One year it was coffee, one year carbs. This year? Facebook.... Thank God my salvation isn't conditional to my ability to practice lent.

       What a sticky web facebook is. I didn't realize until I tried to drop it and couldn't. I could blame it on the fact that there are a number of people that I am only able to access through facebook, so it was a challenge to send a message and not look at the goings on in facebook land. It's a kin to someone trying to give up coffee and has to pick up their friend working at starbucks. But, in reality, I am weak.

       So while I checked the happenings on facebook when I was supposed to be off it I eased my conscience by not commenting on anyone's posts. And I must say, doing that gave me a great perspective on what people do comment, or post, or what I used to comment or post.

       Do you know what I did these last six weeks while I was "off" facbook?

       I lived my life! Just Like I used to 10 years ago before I was on facebook. And do you know what? I don't miss it. I don't miss the excess postings or off the cuff comments, or selfie posts or, this is what my kid is not doing...

       So, I am back on facebook, but only sort of. I won't be posting all the time, I won't commenting on every thread that passes my way, and I will keep my opinions on issues to myself. Because, while I appreciate what facebook has to offer, it for me, comes with caveats. And I need to me mindful of that. I guess my attempt at a lenten observation wasn't a total write off. Thank God for his grace.

How do you die?

       We have been swimming it it... death. It has overwhelmed our church, my husband. Even my six year old is talking about it. That part is ok, we need to talk about death, it is a part of our life after all. I was just a few weeks shy of six years old when my maternal grandfather died, and I couldn't grasp it. I remember sitting on the couch with my sisters and my parents standing in front of us telling us that grampa had died. And I asked, "Is he coming back?" I remember it as clear as if it happened yesterday. I couldn't process a life ending. Of course as we get older we understand that life ends...everything on this earth has an ending. We can thank our greatest grandparents for that. Physical death is an experience no one can escape. So there it is, in front of us but we don't want to dwell on it. It must be the uncertainty of it, the alone-ness, the unknowing of what's behind the veil. Even for Christians, trusting God does not mean peace with death. It is hard to think of saying good-bye... cutting ties to this rock.

       My son asked me why we have to go to heaven when we die.....
       He doesn't want to die...
       For him, heaven is scary, it is not home, we are not there with him...

Big thoughts for a little boy.

       It provides me a window into his heart though, and if I'm going to be transparent here, I had the same fears when I was six... and 16... and 26... geez... even at 38 I still tense up at the thought of "what if?" and my man and babies are left with out me. I weep when I read or hear of a mommy with littles and shes's losing her battle, or has been abruptly taken without warning. It rips me.

Small thoughts coming from someone who believes in a big God.

       And yet, still it is there. Like that piece of lint, or hair, or bug or 'what on earth is that?' stuck in the corner of the floor half under the baseboard and your vacuum just can't quite get it. You don't even really see it until you are forced to confront it because you're having company over and god forbid they see the real you...  messy... vulnerable... broken.

       Like I said, our church has been overwhelmed with death. Something like seven funerals happened in a span of six months.. exhausting. Not even people that were active members, but they were connected to the families in our in our little community. Then last month my gramma passed away. After two years of giving up on her life her body finally gave in. And then we have a lady from our church that is on the precipice of her death. She is standing on the edge of an endless canyon. (but really, aren't we all?) Only, she knows it is just a step and she knows it is coming for her in a matter of months. Multiple myloma will do that. It is actively stealing her life away but it isn't stealing her light. If anything, the absconding of her life has only intensified her light. She is a beautiful woman, a mother, grandmother, sister, auntie, friend. She is loved by so many and she has been blessed with a deep care for all. It pains her to not be able to physically be present with her church community. She feels she is letting us down.

       She has become deeply contemplative in these days, death will do that I guess. She is lamenting her failures as a mom, as a child of Christ. you can see the strong fragility in her turmoil. Like a birch tree being pushed around by the wind. It sways and bends but then almost seems to push back at the gust.

 "I trust that my God is bigger than my regrets!" it seems to shout at the wind

       She weeps for her mistakes but she knows God has it all. That we all have our own personal torture chambers. Some of us visit them more frequently than others, some of us never leave them. And some of us have learned to use the key God has given us to lock it up and set it to never be opened again. Blessed are those who do not linger in the trap of regret.

       We know that it is our lives, our sins, our hurts, our joys, our triumphs and failures that have shaped us to who we are, and if we are in Christ then those things are shaping us to be even more like Him.

I visited my gramma two years ago and I saw despair, hopelessness, depression

I visited our friend last week and was bathed in grace, hope, tears, laughter



how do we die?

Good bye Gramma -an ode to Alice Ruth

My first real memory of you is at your house, in your kitchen. I was 4 or 5 and I would give you a big hug and you’d pat my bum. You’d call it a spank and said “good kids get a spank on the bum” I laughed and thought you were funny. I loved your voice, and your smile and your laugh. You knew you were being silly and I was at the perfect age for it. You always smelled like Oscar de la Renta and your house was quiet and made funny creak sounds. Your clock that had to be wound and would jingle every 15 minutes and bong every hour, our old toys that were kept in your basement, and you always had homemade chocolate ice cream in your freezer… always.

You were a gramma, and you had a gramma house. But, I know you were not always a gramma. You were once Alice Ruth Plummer, a young girl with a Dad who traveled and a mom who loved to treat your sweet tooth. At  least, that’s what I’ve been told by my mom. You never shared much about your childhood or your own life. I don’t know if it was because I never asked or because you were just private or you could never see me as more than that good little girl. But if I can imagine what your life was like I feel sad for you.

You grew up sort of in the south. Kentucky, or Tennesse I think. I could never remember. I know your dad did travel a lot and you eventually moved to Illinois.

Not having a dad around much must have been hard, although I don’t know what Grandpa Plummer was like. Maybe it was good he wasn’t around, you never talked about him and I never asked.

You were a smart cookie. You went to university, which, in the 30’s was a big deal. You wanted to be a librarian. You had your life and career planned. Then Grampa happened. You met him and that was it. He didn’t want you working, which, is not a big deal in the 30’s. You turned in your plans for someone else’s and you made new plans.

I imagine you didn’t realize you were marrying a drunk….

I imagine you didn’t know he was boorish…

I imagine you didn’t know he would go on a bender for a night… or two…

I imagine when you had your first child, a girl, and then your second child, my mom – less than a year later, that you didn’t know you would out live 2 of your four children...

I imagine you hated grampa sometimes….

I imagine you wished you had said no to him instead of yes…

I imagine that living with a drunk was hard…

I imagine burying your first born when she was in her thirties but never matured past 15 was harder…

I imagine watching your son succumb to the same disease that tortured your husband was infuriating and made you feel helpless…

I imagine knowing your youngest was suffering the same rare genetic disorder that your daughter suffered and that you would be burying him in his thirties was rage inducing…

“no parent should outlive their child” you said   

I imagine the day grampa collapsed at the kitchen table you finally had peace…

I imagine watching your healthy daughter have surgeries for benign tumours was defeating….

I imagine watching your son’s divorce was heartbreaking….

I imagine you had enough in one life Alice Ruth…

But all I saw was you living nothing more than passivity…

Maybe because some of this stuff happened before I was born, maybe because some of this stuff happened when I was a kid, maybe because you are just from that time, or your mother taught you to keep it inside. But here I come to the end of your life, the end of your 97 years and I realize I know so little about you. What made you tick? How do I mourn someone I feel like I didn’t really know? Our relationship never really broke the gramma-child barrier. Even as a 20 year old, I felt like you still saw me as that 5 year old.

You would stay with us at Christmas and we would bake together and laugh at silly things but none of it had meat… you and mom would sit and talk and do crossword puzzle books. You had a history and you understood each other, I watched and didn’t get it.

I think I get it now though. I have had my hurts, my plans have been changed, I have out lived a child, I have felt helpless, I have had my rage. But I won’t keep it to myself. When it is my time I won’t just be a gramma to the littles…"spanking" their bums for being good. I will be a gramma to the big kids too, telling them my life, my experience, my stories of defeat, and God’s grace, my plans, my loves, my hurts.

Your river ran deep gramma, but you kept it cordoned off.. on a small level I can understand why, but you and I… we missed out on so much. But missing out has taught me too, so, thank you gramma for keeping it to yourself and teaching me that relationships are about pursuing. You didn’t pursue me and I didn’t pursue you and we were the poorer for it.

So I will pursue my grandchildren, if I am so blessed to have, and I pray that they will pursue me and I will tell them so because of Alice Ruth….

I mitts the point....

Mittens. Mitts. Hand warmers. Snowball makers. Whatever you call them, they get lost. And if you have young children, they get lost a lot. And if you have more than one child and you are overwhelmed and feel like you are woefully ill equipped at mothering then you lose your perspective at lost mittens. That's it. Apparently, lost mitts are the threshold for sanity in my world.

Well, yesterday the threshold was lost mittens.

Today it's a whiny 2 year old.

Tomorrow...? who knows. Maybe something else completely predictable like a potty accident, or burnt toast.

Back in November I bought Carlon a pair of gloves and a pair of mitts. $20 in total. one month in the gloves were lost. Two days ago then go the mitts. Brad decided to let Carlon use Noah's mitts, which are 30% smaller, and I made a big deal about it.

"These belong to your brother.... DO NOT take them off outside"

Then back to arguing with Brad about what to do about it and Carlon, fighting tears, says, "it's ok, I won't use his mitts"

Cut to mom feeling like a jerk.
and she cried about it most of the day.

I don't remember my mom having these moments. Is is because she had three girls? Is it a gender issue? Or was she just better equipped at handling such attrocities? Or maybe she did have them and I don't remember, I hope for the last of those three. It gives me comfort to think my mom found mothering to be as hard as I do. And even more comforting to think that if I can't remember her losing it then hopefully my kids won't remember either.

But, when it comes down to brass tacks, I don't think that is the point. I mean to say that my reaction to the mitts has more to do with me and where I am at than how Carlon takes care of his belongings.

The reality is we have had a hard week here in superhero land. Brad has been carrying around a mountain of stress on his shoulders and it is wearing him down. He managed to take two days off this week which is good for him. I, on the other hand, have been an emotional train wreck since Christmas time, and have not found the pressure release valve.

90 percent of the time I feel like I have screwed up because I let my emotions get in the way of rational parenting. And lately, my emotions are about as stable as a souffle during an earthquake.

I have prayed. Believe me. I can see myself losing it and I say "God help!" and sometimes it works and sometimes it delays and sometimes it does nothing. This morning I was still burying myself in guilt over it that my day was trashed before it even started. And my two year old, Iain, is losing it. Like LOHOOHOOHOOSING IT. It was 10 am and I asked him if he wanted a nap? NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!  What's the colour of scream?

So, by 10:30, I was losing it. I tried shoving food in him, I tried carrying him around, I tried everything but he wanted it all and nothing at the same time. He was inconsolable. And I was ready to run.

But, I'm the adult here. I should be able to get a grip. shouldn't I?

.... I'm out of words. Maybe I'll be able to accept God's grace tomorrow and we'll have a better day.