the stone of faith..

I was scrolling through pictures a while back, I do this from time to time. It’s when I put on my rose coloured glasses. I look at the past and remember only the good, or I remember the bad to be not as bad as it actually was. 

Of course, I’m speaking at mostly a surface level here. I know from personal experience that there are some things we can look back on that were bad then and continue to be bad now. There are no glasses in the world rosey enough for those experiences.

I’m mostly talking about when you are up to your ears in your children and laundry and dishes and “The same meal again?!?” and laundry, and toilets, and yelling at your kids to stop yelling, and getting anywhere on time, and balancing work with home, and hormones with reality, schedule demands with sleep and daily battles with one of your children who in the last five months has gone from sweet and helpful and agreeable to confrontative, combative and disrespectful. Another child is lonely because none of the other boys in his sphere will play with him. Another child is crying for no reason or freaks out because he’s so tired and he’s peed!

calgon, take me away

So, at this moment in my life I feel a little like I’m drowning. I go from feeling good to feeling like I could drop a waterfall of tears at the wrong question or comment. My stomach vacillates between nauseous and ravenous and no I am not pregnant. Things can be going smoothly then, without warning, one of your kids is metaphorically told to eat an onion while all the other kids are given chocolate bars and all I can think is how @#$&* hard life is sometimes, but I feel shame any time I complain about any of it because I’m not a refugee or a single mom or terminally ill so I keep my mouth shut about it because - to whom much is given much is required - instead, I keep my head down and vent to Brad or my sisters for solidarity and I rarely take it to God because sometimes I just need to be angry about it.

I once told a young mom who was struggling with parenting that as parents we need to imagine ourselves as a rock cliff and our children are the crashing waves. They can crash against us all they want but we will not move. And while it is good, encouraging advice, I felt like a big phony because I’m more like the sand dunes; easily washed away by the sea.

Sometimes parenting feels like deep sea diving and you don’t have enough oxygen in your tank. I’ve come across so many parenting articles that tell me to be the adult, the kids don’t know what’s going on, you have to teach them. But I get caught up in wondering how to do that. So many things come up and I don’t have the answer. My son who none of the boys will play with - what do I tell him when all my school years this happened to me - no one gave me an answer. I grew into a massive ball of self doubt.

Or my other son that has flipped 180 in his behaviour - he has told me he’s homesick and wishes we had never moved. Well, me too kid, homesick up the wazoo, let’s be miserable together.

So, off I go to look at pictures and remember a “happier time”

Do you know what’s really amazing about this picture? The day this ukulele was given to him it brought up all kinds of tensions and hurts form my own childhood (that is a post for another time). And that this ukulele has been the source of so many fights in this house and if I dwell on that then this picture loses all meaning, but if I only see the ridiculously absurd cuteness of it, it becomes meaningless too.

I think we have a need for happiness and easy all the time, but then where is the satisfaction in that? How do you know true joy if you haven’t experienced deep pain? When you come through the struggle, don’t you feel that much more victorious? I’m learning I need to start looking at my "now" as if I'm looking at my “then” accepting the challenges and working through them all the while keeping my rose glasses on, expecting the joy that can be at any moment. This, I believe, is the daily physical example of our faith.

“..the confidence that what we hope for will actually happen; it gives us assurance about things we cannot see”  Hebrews 11:1 NLT

I see what you did there..

So, I was having a shower the other day and I had an epiphany. This happens often I’m sure I’m not the only person to experience this. It’s really the only time I have quiet to myself. Showers are short, but really, all I need is ten minutes of silence to get my thoughts in order. It happens to you doesn’t it. Our best thoughts, realizations, comebacks, singing.. all happens in the shower.

I can’t fully remember how I got to the thought train I was on exactly, but what it lead me to was a greater understanding (specifically) of why Terrace. Why God sent me here. At least, this is how I see is right now.

I am fiercely connected to my family. I love them deeply and love to spend time with them. I have a very close friend that, honestly, if we lived in the same city, would probably see each other at least twice a week. Brad and I both have good friends spread across the western provinces, they are like my warm blanket. When we were looking at other church applications, for me, the biggest selling point wasn’t “what is this church doing?” it was “do we have friends/family there?” I was quite happy to apply if I had the security of a social establishment already set up for me.

It is a beautiful feeling when you can travel someplace and have a history waiting for you.

You know, shy, introverted me. It’s hard to put yourself out there time and time again. It’s terrifying for me to throw myself into an unknown. Into the lives of strangers, having no safety net of comfort in the physical presence of family and friends to go to anytime it gets too hard.

Obviously, I see now that I used my comfort of my friends to help me instead of going to God.

Before we decided to move to Terrace I knew one person that lived there and that was only because she came to see us while she was in town and we were considering the position. So, he sent me away, far away form my connections. I know there are people that have moved farther, but this for me is far. And the north is culturally different from the south. In very subtle ways it is a huge departure.

So, this is the primary reason..

God sent me to Terrace so I would learn to do a better job at leaning on him. Letting Him, not my family and friends be my comfort. I think I knew this from the beginning but, like an angry toddler, I threw my tantrum. 

“Ok God, I’ll do it, but I’m gonna let you know every chance I get that I’m not happy that you’ve taken away my blankie from me and sent me to the opposite side of the room.”

I’ve been smacked in the face with this many times these last two years; every time I watch my own kids lose their marbles over something and get angry at me. The moment I lay their circumstance over my own issues with God I look and feel like my child. I’m 39. I shouldn’t be acting like a three year old.

So, where am I now? One month into my monument building, trying to rebuild my relationship with God. Trying to claim his promises, grasping for threads of trust and it hits me like a tonne of bricks - for reals - that God never promised me a secure life living in the same city as my friends and family. I made that promise to myself and I hoped God would get on board.

Please tell me I’m not the only one. I can’t be the only person that has lived in this expectation.

Now I’m wishing I could take back two years to save myself hours of rants and tears and shouts and swearing. Save my marriage the stress it has endured, save my children from wondering what happened to their mommy who used to be so happy and quick to encourage.

Well, she’s coming back.. slowly she’s turning around.

My sweet boys, if you ever find yourself in a similar situation I pray you do the opposite of your mom and lean into the Lord and rejoice in the fact that he loves you and hold onto the gratitude of what he’s given you rather than scream about what he hasn’t. It is always sweeter to surrender to Jesus than to fight. 

can I get a witness..

Friday night we had the opportunity to celebrate a church that managed to survive 60 years, and this church has survived. It wasn’t a huge celebration. Sixty years is a big deal but January is a cold and snowy month up here and travel isn’t the easiest or cheapest. But, sixty years is sixty years and if it was a birthday or a wedding anniversary it would be celebrated for sure.

Celebrating a church birthday though, can be challenging and awkward and honestly, if you haven’t attended said church all your life or from it’s inception it can be a little..  meh.

Because most churches shift and change and so they should. I believe churches should reflect their community and communities are often shifting and changing demographically and culturally. And so, families come and go and a new person is left to look at pictures of people they don’t know. Grainy pictures, snapshots in sepia or black and white or faded colour. These days we see those textures on instagram edits. What we don’t see under those insta edits are beehives and horned rimmed glasses, ’56 Chevy’s, white, short sleeved button front shirts and neck ties on every man (and boy) or dresses on every woman (and girl). It can all feel so un-relatable or irrelevant to the new person, like they are looking at a long long time ago in a galaxy far far away..

But, that is not truth

The celebration dinner was mostly people that are currently attending. We all contributed to the meal and one of the original (charter) members gave us the low down on some of the church history. This was her space, this was her testimony to faith. A group of people, all related, that grew up at Zion, sang an old hymn - in German - because that is part of the history. And I didn’t understand a word and it was beautiful.

Old voices, shaky but strong. Young voices strong but unsure, singing a witness song in a shared language, but a language that is known better by some than others. And the beautiful glory is that this is our faith, right? This is our shared heritage is it not? It doesn't matter when a church first began, whether it started it’s first sermon in German or Chinese or Swahili or Aramaic or Greek or Hebrew. None of that matters when we are all part of the bigger church. We are all part of the redemption story. Whether you were there at the beginning, middle or end you were.. are.. have been placed by God.

Your story, your redemption song is no less important than Paul’s or Peter’s or Martin Luther or C.S. Lewis or St. Francis or Mary Magdalene. This is called being part of the family of God.

It is beautiful and complicating and challenging and sanctifying and we can’t deny the history; knowing that the people before us helped to lay the foundation for us to build on and we continue the build by putting our parts on for the next people. Our job, as with the ones before us is to make sure the cornerstone stays in plays and is the constant in the building up of the church. HE is in all of it.

He is the person who built the pews, he’s in the nursery, the board room and the kitchen that has cooked 230,142 meals. He is in the families and the people that have come and gone and the ones that have been there from the beginning and persevered through the struggles to see the church rise and fall, and rise again. He is in the homeless that come by for soup on Thursday and he is in the memory of all we love that have passed form this time to eternity. He is in the moms that battle with their kids to just sit still and be quiet for one moment and the pastor that labours over every word he will share that Sunday morning. He is in the people that just can’t make it every Sunday and the person that is there without fail every Sunday and is doing all the things. 

He is woven through the whole church by the people of the church and when we focus on that truth there is no long long ago. It all becomes glorious and beautiful and eternal. The reality is we are all part of the same heritage, we all have the same inheritance. 

Never before has the phrase “great cloud of witnesses” beard such weight.

To the glory of God the Father, Jesus the Saviour and the Holy Spirit our guide

no years..

So, I’ve noticed that we tend to come to the end of the year, any year, celebrating

“Yes! - We’ve survived another year!”

A year of traffic jams and online rants, a year of hospital visits and awkward family gatherings. A year of not making the team or not getting that job. A year of feeling left out or of fighting cancer. For some it’s been a year of not enough, even though you probably still have more than most  people in the world. Maybe it’s been a year of fighting with your spouse or, fighting with yourself.

Whatever your year held for you that made you glad it’s over, I want to remind you - as I was reminded earlier today - that God doesn’t run in years, He runs in the eternity and there is no calendar that measures that. And the world runs in brokenness, and there is no glue that man makes that can fix that.

Last December, just a month ago, Brad happened upon a young man and bought him lunch. During lunch he discovered that this young man had a job at a local restaurant but it was only part time and so, he was living in his truck. Take a breath mom’s and dad’s and imagine your child living out of their car. I’m sure some of you don’t have to imagine. When I do, it catches my breath.

Just renting up here is prohibitive for many people, Terrace has far more homeless than you would expect.

Well, this young man (a kid really, someone’s baby) filled his tummy with that lunch and went on his way. I was quietly, deeply proud of Brad for just being who he is, and our Christmas went by without much more thought of it.

A few days after Christmas someone drove through the mall. Literally, drove in one door, through the mall and out through the other door. Later I discovered from a mall employee that the person was homeless and did it to get arrested so they could spend the night in a warm jail. Someone’s baby, breaking the law so they could just be warm for crying out loud.

People were calling him crazy

Really?

Crazy?

I suppose living on the streets would make you crazy.

I suppose we could all do a little more checking our privilege and counting what we have instead..

Wanting to be warm is not crazy

Today Brad messaged me..

 And my heart breaks..

Because we are all connected.

Because we have family that are not well, and we have friends asking for prayer for their family, and we have friends asking for prayer for their ministry and we have friends that are so broken in the darkness they can’t find the light and I am now in tears because we are all connected dammit. We are all part of God. 

You. Me. We, are no more removed from that homeless person who’s brain has been wrecked by meth than you are from your cousin, your teacher, your teammate, your self.

We are all broken, and we can’t fix our own broken-ness and we can’t fix others but we can share the love of the one who can, the one who is not bound by time, the one who died as much for you as for the person flipping you the bird in the merge lane. Just as much for you as for your teacher that won’t give you an inch, or the pastor you think has it all wrong. He died for your cross fit trainer, and the abortion Doctor. He died for the Roman guards that hammered the nails. 

I can’t even..

Once for all, people. Once for ALL

Time to drop your shit and pick up the cross, and when you see someone who just can’t, you ask them if they need help. You love them with Christ. 

He was someone’s baby too once..

Some Sundays..

Yesterday was Sunday, and sometimes I don’t like Sundays. I don’t like what Sundays require, I don’t like what they imply. Yesterday I was getting ready for my Sunday and part of that process for yesterday was writing in my journal..

“I don’t want to do today”

we had church in the morning and plans with friends for the afternoon and I didn’t want to do any of it

“Lord, help me have a good day”

I used to love Sundays, they were my favourite day of the week. When I was a kid I didn’t think much about Sundays. When I was a teenager I did not like Sundays. And then In my early adulthood I liked Sundays again, and now.. some Sundays.. I just don’t want to do. 

I haven’t fully pegged, why this is. I can’t decide if it’s because I’m a tired mama of three boys, or if it’s because I’m a homesick lower mainland girl, or if it’s ministry burnout or if it’s because being married to the pastor means I have to be there. I don’t get a choice in the matter. Or maybe it’s all those things.

Sometimes I want to just hide under the covers. I get to church and visit with all the lovely, dear people and I sit down waiting for the service to start and I’m already giving the boys “the eye” and I sigh a deep sigh and try not to cry and say a little prayer to check my attitude but sometimes the spirit of “meh” holds on with wolverine claws. And if it’s Sunday where only 20 people come, it can feel defeating, even thought you know Jesus died as much for the whole world as he did for one person.

I think there is a strange psychology between the “have to” and the “hold to”. When I am told I have to do something, it is often the last thing I want to do. But if I decided that there is something I want to “hold to” then, very little gets in the way of me holding to it.

It has been many years since I have “held to” church. I know that comes from wounds still healing. I am continuing to work out those things. It hasn’t made the impact through my week like it used to, and it has become one more thing to trudge through as I struggle parenting the boys behaviour. 

But then, there are some Sundays where I am happy to go, happy to see everyone, looking forward to singing the songs, watching the boys participate, discovering what God has laid on Brad’s heart for the church. I walk through the doors that Iain makes a point of holding open for me every Sunday. I give him a kiss and thank him for waiting for me. I say good morning to everyone, I breathe a sigh of peace that the boys feel welcome. I feel chuffed as I watch Brad schmooze with the people and lead pastor this church, and say a prayer for him as he takes care of that last detail. 

Some Sundays start out “meh” and end with an “amen” because God does amazing things if we let him. And that was my yesterday. Church was hard, but it got better and the afternoon was wonderful. Lunch with friends and sledding on a local hill. Smiles all around and a visit to hold to the heart for when the lonely winds blow. 

“Lord, help me have a good day” 

..and he did.

Some Sundays I wish weren’t

and some Sundays I’m glad are

and I’m praying for more “hold to” and to let go of the rest of the “have to”

#monument366

I have decided to try my hand at a 365 project, and actually, 2016 is a leap year so it will be a 366 project. If you are not familiar with the 365 project it usually refers to taking a picture a day and documenting it with some sort of caption or meme. You do this for the whole year. I tried to do this back in 2014 and got as far as the middle of February. I’m hoping to make it to the end of the year this time. 

I will post these pics on Facebook or instagram or my blog but not all three at the same time, I don’t want you to get sick of me. There are various reasons why one would choose to do a picture a day project, for me the reason is to come alongside and give support to my word for 2016, my desire to rebuild my connection to the Lord. 

I promise none of them will be staged or of a looking down angle at my feet on the ground. I will be using the hashtag to keep them easy to find. And also if you want to join in the monument building you can add the hashtag to your pictures, or you can just ignore it altogether. I won’t be offended. I’m doing it this way so that it will force me to keep going with it. I can’t hide from it if you all know about it. 

366 pictures..

Word..

I’m here. Are you here too? We are at the end of another year. 2015. It is nighttime here and everyone is in bed except me as I try to sort through the pages of this year. I’m opening the folds and creases, finding the parts that have been torn in a fury and I’m tending to the rough edges, trying to match them up and tape them together so I can see the bigger picture. I’ve looked back at my journals and looked over the blog posts I’ve written this year and I’ve come to the conclusion that it has been quite the year. Not the year I was expecting but..

Last year I was challenged to pick a word for 2015. 

“A word?”, you say.

Yes, a word.

I was just as baffled by it as I have never picked a word for the upcoming year. Look at it this way. If I were to ask you to look back on your 2015 and sum it up into one word, what would that word be? 

Now take that question and flip it so you are putting a word ahead of your year. It can be something you want to see, something you hope to see, something you think God is calling you to. When I answered the question of giving a word to the year that had passed I chose two. Hard Grace. Because it was my first time doing the word thing I decided I could lump a few years together. But then, when I was launched towards choosing a word for 2015.. well, It was smacking me in the face. 

Hope.

My word for 2015 has been hope.

Looking towards 2015 I decided I wanted to focus into a better year and so I chose hope. And it was a better year, not because I chose a magical word to make it so, but I believe if you are mindful of something, it can change how you perceive. 

Throughout the year I was reminded of my word, and so with hope on the agenda, it twisted my gaze, put a different coloured lens in the glasses I see the world with. Any little bit helps I think.. especially for a homesick girl prone to anxiety, negativity and self deprecation. I mean, too many times this year I looked at my boys and thought, “They’re gonna need therapy” and “God, be gracious ‘cause momma’s goin’ crazy”

People often lose things when they move, usually little things, sometimes big things. Sometimes things are damaged beyond repair. Then where do you go from there? When it’s something special, something precious..

I lost my security and my trust was damaged in this move. I tried so hard to trust God and believe the move here was better for all of us but it has been hard, so damn hard. I am still holding onto belief that better will come, but since I can’t see it yet I am still picking up the fragments of my shattered trust. I cling to the bigger picture, the hope, the now and the not yet, the kingdom come. But, in the smaller picture? the pixels..

A pastor from a time ago in my life preached a sermon once that has stuck to me like glue. He talked about our walk with God is like working on a needle point, and we are underneath, poking the needle and thread through the canvas not totally sure what we are doing, hopefully hearing when God says “put it here” and on the other side God is turning it into a masterpiece and beautiful work. But, all we see from our spot is a myriad of threads stretched here there and everywhere. We won’t see the completed work until we are with him on the other side. Frustrating, to say the least, but this is the essence of trust is it not? And it is clearly something I still need to work through.

I love the Lord and I know he loves me and I truly desire to come through this challenge the better for it. And it is my desire to look back on our time here in Terrace (whenever that may happen) and be glad it happened. That I would be thankful for picking up shattered trust, glad that I had to find new security and that maybe, just hopefully my relation to God is more realistic and less idealistic. I can rejoice in that too.

It won’t happen overnight. It will take work, persistence, grace, forgiveness, love and desire.

I will build a monument to the Lord. 2016 will be a monument to his promises. I will dig them out of the riverbed and I will build a monument to him.

rebuild,

I will rebuild.