Last Week's To Do List:

1. Grieve for a brother, who by all accounts, ought to be on the other side by now.

2. Get the kids and me ready for camp. The oldest three are registered in the same week, and I am scheduled as a cook. That expectation has graciously been reduced to "Whatever you can, or can't do will be fine, don't worry about it".

3. Drive the husband to the clinic for minor surgery on his absessed knee, then 15 minutes south to another community every day for a dressing change where they stuff the open incision with sterile gauze while Brian digs holes into the stretcher with his fingernails.

4. Scratch. My body, not sure how to deal with the whirlwind of emotion and stress thrust upon it, has ever so helpfully broken into hives. These insanely itchy little nodules travel from face to limb, not wanting any part of me to feel less cared for.

5. Drive 3.5 hours to camp, move the kids into their respective cabins, and me into the cooks' quarters. My preoccupation having been largely on the children, and other life events.... I opened the rear of the caravan and had a bit of a giggle. My week's worth of camp supplies are sensibly packed into one rough tote for ease of transfer. Unfortunately, the bin is still at home, and it looks as though moving in this year will be exceedingly easy. After scouring the van's interior, I came up with a few items to make my stay more comfortable.

* a tea towel, aka a swimsuit top, change in underwear, or simply, a towel.

*a running magazine, complete with info on how you really only need a little black dress. (too bad I grew out of, and forgot said necessary item..)

*Spongebob tin, empty- no mood stabilizers, inflatable t-shirts, or toothbrushes.

*a few odds and ends: a plastic arrow, lipstick, coffee creamer, melted chocolate bar, sample of cream to rub on stretch marks, and some tylenol.

I'm grateful now, in unexpected ways:

That I spend most nights having nightmares about putting metal bowls and babies into microwaves. I don't think the flow of the dream will be overly affected by my attempting sleep on a bare, blue plastic mattress.

That I hate hygiene anyhow. I hate getting wet.

That I get a free staff t-shirt (oversized), that will double as a nightshirt, and forgivingly cover my generous rear end when I resort to borrowing my 10 year old daughter's "stretch" capris.

That my friends, and fellow cook-ies see the light side of life, and I get to fall asleep at night on a borrowed pillow and sheet laughing, and dreaming up new and innovative uses for a handbag filled with useless things.

Everybody is dying a little bit.
Everything is changing colour.

Yet, the mind refuses to stop grappling, to stop trying to process the unbelievable. A mind untrained in untimely endings.

Witty; gone morphine-muddled.
Desirable; gone swollen-gaunt.
Cynicism melted into teary vulnerability.

Sweet sadness, kissing this man, and carressing his dying hair.

Then the bright sunshine, where the earth's cracks ever widen, begging for rain.

Perspective.

The human body- so intricate, functional, miraculous; really. Capable of moving, lifting, breathing, weilding strength, growing soft. Can these miracles be carried out in bodies outside of the BMI charts, in bodies missing limbs, or in bodies that popular culture would deem repulsive? Do acts of love and selflessness come in size 00 to size 3, but lose their value in dimpley cellulite or bulging rolls of fat?

Neither hangers, nor mannequins, these bodies are capable of tremendous good-- a calling much higher than what we've been duped to believe. Periodical navel gazing and critical evaluations of our physical selves will likely plague us here below, but lets agree not to be defined by it. Would we spend motionless hours in our cars and vans bemoaning the lack of leather, the loss of "new car" smell, or the tiny specks of exterior rust? How ridiculous it would seem to spend life in the driveway, wishing that there was something prettier to drive us to our destinations!

Let's slide into the end of our lives, battered, rusted, dented, and grinning ear to ear. In the words of Erma Bombeck: When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a single bit of talent left, and could say ‘I used everything you gave me.’ (thanks, Ruth!)

Gratitude, not Attitude

Life is a little like a thrift shop bag sale-- Here's your sack- fill it up and do with it what you can. This morning, I rummaged around and dug up a well worn item called gratitude, and here's a little patchwork quilt that I'm going to make with the bits.

scrap #1: My parents. Although by the world's standard, they are undeniably OLD (mom just turned 80, and dad 84), my parents have got to be among the most gracefully aging pair in the bunch. Where one expects age to cement "getting set in your ways", they have proved to soften with grace and mercy with each passing year. Never known to meddle, they nonetheless offer support, love, and acceptance to their eight offspring in more than one heartbreaking set of circumstances.

scrap #2: Nature. I don't begin to understand the mysteries of God, and don't like to dwell on the big, huge, "WHY" questions. But when I see the prairie ditches swaying magically with bullrushes that no man planted there, I watch the bizarre beauty of backyard campfire turning dead wood into uncontainable dancing colour, when I watched flawed humanity act in selfless and loving ways, then I can't help but be grateful for my big, mysterious, creative and loving God.

scrap #3: Cheese. Have you ever gone to the grocery store and indulged in picnic food like olive spread, baguette, camembert, cheddar, Boursin, and maybe some pastrami or shaved turkey? Oh- but you should!! It's remarkably easier to be grateful when you have savoured the sharp flavours of cheese with a little red wine to wash it down.

It goes without saying that there are heaps more scraps. But on this particular bag sale, these are what I've made use of.

Cancer Chronicles

It's funny what cancer does to people. Funny-strange, not funny-ha-ha.

My sisters are teary, kind, helpful, innovative with problem solving, selfless, and positive whenever there is an appropriate oppurtunity. My oldest brother (due back in the country next Saturday) is concerned, not only for Ken, but also our aging parents, and is willing to fly home at a moment's notice if anyone deems it necessary. My other big brother is diving ever deeper into a blurry liquor-induced version of his own reality.

My family members still seem capable of decision making, doing things that make a difference, hugging people compulsively.

I, on the other hand, fight the ridiculous urge to take up smoking and drink black coffee until I rupture a spleen. Or running myself through a paper shredder.

Out of Context

I've spent some years working with geriatrics, and an equal or higher number of years working with children who have moderate to severe disabilities. I know what to do with a man or woman who has the smell of death clinging to their greyish skin. I know how to comfort them, sing to them, rub their arm or back. I know not to correct them when they speak of the baby they brought home yesterday, and the barn chores that have yet to be done.

I can cradle a child born in a body with muscles that refuse to cooperate to the requests of her mind. I can stroke her hair, laugh with her, feed her gently. I can scoop her up in my arms and place her in a wheelchair effortlessly, then fasten all the straps and velcros without giving it any conscious thought.

I'm less sure, and seemingly less competent with a youngish brother whose hair has taken on a somewhat geriatric look (flat in the back, wild on the top), whose skin colour can sometimes rival the grey streaking through his hair, who breathes heavily with the effort of living with his pain.

It's out of context.

Arianna's twelfth birthday

I'm a boob when it comes to electronics, and I still don't know how to use Brian's handy dandy digital camera, so I've no photos to post of Arianna's fabulous 12th birthday party at Caribou Lake. I'm feeling a little like road kill that semis, vans, and sportscars insist on backing up and driving over again and again, but I want to write a little about the event, since my memory is so undependable. If its not in written word, then by tomorrow I'll be saying- "Huh? someone turned twelve? How nice!"

The two hour drive into Ontario was effortless between the cookies and cream chocolate bars, and the portable dvd player that the girls hovered around, and my own indulgence- a waffle cone with the best- in- the- world vanilla ice cream. The girls were down the hill and in the lake within minutes of arriving. I don't know how anyone can run off a dock clutching a floaty noodle and dive into ice water without dying of cardiac arrest, but either they were faking it extremely well, or they really did think this was the greatest thing ever.

After a screechy, dramatic, girly response to the outhouse, and all the bugs it attracted, the girls got jammied up and pulled out the hide-a-bed and snuggled in for movie time. They watched "Aqua Marine" and consumed enough salt and sugar to nearly topple the food pyramid. I caved before the girls, with strict instructions that they go to sleep after the movie as the next day promised to be 30 degrees and I didn't want them to spoil their day being grumpy and sleepy.

Auntie Carol (my faithful sister who joined us, knowing that I shouldn't be left alone. At the best of times, my brain operates like day old donuts, and after a stressload day trying to imagine life with cancer, the old noggin had clearly slipped a few cogs. I had no idea how to run the dvd player, get the canoe in the water, find the keys for the cabin, or flip the breakers. If it wasn't for Carol showing up, we would have spread our sleeping bags on the deck, survived on melted ice-cream, and stared despondently at the grounded paddle boat and canoe.)

As I was saying, Carol, Jane and I headed off to bed. Theoretically to sleep, except that Jane spent the night having night terrors- sleep talking, and walking. I swear she got up 10 times. She actually walked out of the cabin and down the path to the outhouse FAST ASLEEP and if it weren't for my sharp mother-spider-senses, she might still be wandering around sleeping in the bush to this day.

Next day was bright and hot, and after a feast of crepes, chocolate milk, and fruit salad, we were off to the lake. They lived in that water. Between the canoe and paddle boat, and hunting for minnows, or screaming at fat bellied spiders, naming two bothersome flies "winky" and "twinkie", I hated to think that we weren't staying for days on end.

Arianna had planned the menu, so we ate corn on the cob and tasti taters for lunch. The girls loaded up their plates on the paddle boat to eat out on the floating dock. (sure would have been a bright idea to bring a camera.....) a few million more dives into the lake, and it was time to pack up for home.

I'm proud of my kid. She has chosen really neat friends- well mannered, fun loving, active girls with a great sense of humour. Its going to be fun to watch them grow up, drive them to sports events (they pride themselves on not being girly-girls), see how they grow into women.

I like to remind myself that in six short years, Arianna will be an adult. God help us do our best by her. May she always feel safe to tell her parents anything, ask any questions, and feel sad when she disappoints us. May we respect her individuality, while guiding her as best we can with what we know, and be honest about what we don't know at all. May we remain humble, and grow together.

And the Sun Insists on Rising and Shining

Yesterday was my brother's forty-second birthday. I imagine he had plans to celebrate with his many friends, his true love , and his too-cute-to-be-true daughters.

Yesterday, my brother was hospitalized and diagnosed with a rare cancer.

Blogger Bonuses

Today I had an unexpected pleasure. A brown paper package tied up with pretty pink ribbon, containing...... (wait for it, wait for it!) A NEW TOWEL!!! I won't have to get remarried after all.

Blogging has brought with it some unexpected pleasures. The first was Brian and I thoroughly enjoying reading each others' writing. ( Makes sense, in retrospect. That's how we first fell in love- they were called letters in the olden days. ) That has blossomed into a friendly rivalry ie: "How many comments did YOU get?!", or "Yeah? Well, I'm being read by a PUBLISHER!" or, "My friends started reading my blog, but they found yours and like it better!"

Second pleasure was additional human contact, since I work at home with approximately 62 pre-schoolers. Along those same lines, come pleasures numbered three, four, and five.
3. Esther: a sweet gal who logged on, and also lives in my town. What fun to meet, then discover she has actually been having coffee with me for months, unbeknownst to me!
4. Janice: My sis-in-law of 14 years. What a flattery to discover she enjoys the twisted honesty of my "private" (bah, ha, ha) cyber space gab spot. What a privelege to get to know each other better.
5. "towel lady" aka Ruth: another hometown gem. Turns out she stumbled upon my blog- and darn it, she too knows all my irregularities and arythmias. Still, she brought me the gift of a towel, having not only read the NEEDS (see prior post) but CARING ENOUGH to MAKE A DIFFERENCE!! Now, should my children go naked, Ruth will have clothed them. Should they become hungry... I don't know, but I'm sure Ruth has something to do with it. Should they become imprisoned.... (Okay, Joyce, we get the point.....)

These are all unexpected pleasures. I accept them with joy and gratitude.

Why its Time to Get Re-married

The bath towels are wearing out, and quickly being recycled into bum-wipe rags.

I never did get a toaster or one of those pop up garbage cans.

I think a few hundred extra people snuck in the first time. There is no possible way that we could actually be related to so many people. (many of which I don't know if I've seen since.....)

Now that all the awkwardness is out of the way, I can really see the value in taking a honeymoon.

And, boy oh boy, could I ever use that presentation money now!

I am, I want, I wish, etc.

I am bored and incredibly content, all at the same time.

I want to spend a lot of someone else's money ordering really neat organizing stuff from IKEA or Lee Valley and organize the garage, the garden shed, the basement, the inside of my head....

I wish for all people to learn to be less petty, more gracious, less judgemental, less afraid. (including myself)

I love vintage. I love finding an old dish, linen, card with a meaningful message in it in someone's handwriting. I love the fur on a cat's face, right up to its funny little mouth, and all around the eyes. I love toddlers when they learn words, and start to stick them together in unique ways. I love old wood, old picket, old buckets, old pots. I love enamel, china, quilts. I love people. I love the prairies.

I miss Rosa, Pam, and Lory so much that it physically hurts. This is joyfully painful because even three years after moving, I can't believe or forget how much they mean to me, and how I want to be in their presence, how I want to watch them raise their children, tend their gardens, hear them laugh, learn their wisdom.

I wonder why I feel confused much of the time. I wonder why I was chosen to have such a blessed life- decent parents and siblings, a secure childhood, a safe country, a loving husband, beautiful, talented, and whole children.

I regret all the time I've squandored believing lies. Lies about who culture says I should be, what I should look like. I regret all the energy I have spent either trying to become the lies, or trying to talk myself out of wanting to become the lies.

I am not book smart. After a grade 12 education majoring in the humanities, and a history minor at University, I only remember that there were a couple of big wars that killed a lot of people. And I still don't understand it at all.

I dance so badly, that I no longer pretend that its something I could learn to do. It all got repressed out of me at a very young age, and the only sort of dancing I aspire to do for the rest of my life is some lovely romantic ballroom with my very graceful and coordinated husband. That way I can just follow his lead, blame him with things go badly, and enjoy that earthy smell of skin and Hugo Boss on his neck.

I sing with great enthusiasm. When I sing in community I am whole. It gives me hope for humanity.

I cry ever so easily, whenever I feel passionately about anything, or anyone.

I am not coordinated. No one with any sense wants me on their team.

I make with my hands: lots of peanut butter and nutella sandwhiches, pillows and quilts, children's clothing, ecclectic backpacks and handbags,and great, sweeping motions.

I write because I am. It clears my mind. It makes me laugh.

I confuse most things. I get confused about theology, about human nature, mathematics- any numbers, in fact.

I should be more anal. I should set the table for breakfast, know what the after school snack will be, know where my keys and wallet are. I should be running again. What little muscle mass I had acquired below the belt has sagged back into ripples and dips. I should accept myself anyway, just the way I am and be a little less cruel to myself.

I finish my son's drippy ice cream cones instead of ordering one for myself.

How about you?

Running Myself Ragged So I Can Go Relax

This is the weekend of the Manitoba Marathon. Now, judging from the title, one would think that I am preparing to go and run myself silly on the streets of Winnipeg. No, leave that to my husband who had to fill his free time with SOMEthing, so has been hard at work training. I, on the other hand, run out of necessity- usually from the fridge to the table, from the washing machine to the clothesline, and at night, from bed to bed (I'd hate to lose my momentum, and then notice that I'm so tired I can't run anymore, then people around me would begin to drop dead, and it would be my fault since I stopped running their lives for them).

So, husband's running partner's wife and I (do you follow?) decided that since they'd be having so much joy skipping through the city's streets, that we should be supportive by making their weekend as stress free as possible so as to avoid possible distraction from their goal. What better, more relaxing idea than heading out to the campground? I mean, we are two adults, and there are a mere eight (delightful) children between the two of us.

We plan on crossing the border into North Dakota. I realize that we may look like terrorists, so set myself running about the house locating something resembling birth certificates for my four clones. Apparently they've never been born. I know this because I spent three days overturning every shred of paper in this squalid place. I eventually located three carbon copies of "registration of birth" that we must have signed in order for them to kick us out of the hospital. Someone is going to have to tell Sam though-- HE HAS NEVER BEEN BORN! Although he looks exactly like his father, and versions of his siblings, he may actually be a figment of our imaginations. There is no legal documentation of his entry into this world.

I did find a picture of his sonogram. There is clearly a few round sections in there, and a few sweepy, grey parts. On the top, it succinctly says "Baby #4" in black ink. That's good. Right above the swoops and blobs it says "joyce kehler-hildebra" which is obviously someone sort of like me, although my name is not actually hyphenated, and has a few more letters trailing on the end of it. Still, this looks convincingly official, it is a sheet of paper, (officials like that sort of thing), and the blobby bits look quite a lot like the back of my leg.

I hope the guy at the border crossing is not frightened by my harried appearance. I hope he forgot his glasses at home. I hope he is impressed with my collection of carbon copies and sonograms. I hope we have an incredibly relaxing time watching eight kids in a pool.....

Just Crazy

"I don't know why the most we can hope for on some days is to end up a little less crazy than before, less down on ourselves."
(Anne Lamott; Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith)

Is feeling down on oneself a close cousin to the Biblical idea of "confessing our faults to one another"? Is this a good time to just come clean on some things like:

I don't always wash my hands after taking the kids to the bathroom because I just don't feel like it, its boring.
Sometimes when I drop off stuff at the thrift shop, I'll "trade" for something someone else has left.
On the outside, I look like a pretty average woman, but on the inside I'm morbidly obese. I just dress cleverly and hide it.

What's supposed to happen now? Does confessing some of my faults to cyberspace count? Do you think there are any people in the world who just wake up consistently knowing their place in the world, do it well, (without feeling crazy) and don't have as one of their top three goals to just effectively move through the motions of life without landing up in a straightjacket screaming obscenities and insults at themself? (while methodically bashing their head into a 2 by 4?)

As for today, all I can hope for is to maintain or decrease this level of craziness, and possibly within the next millenium, be a little less down on myself.

Maybe Anne Lamott will have the answers for me, but somehow an aging rastifarian in shitty sandals doesn't look much like an angel of mercy to me.

Sometimes, I Amaze Me.

I may be getting a little cocky, and quite possibly developing a slight swagger. I am tempted to suggest that I am just a few degrees shy of the "who-needs-a-man club". (Except that I'm really not into the washing machine on the agitation cycle idea).

Not only am I adept with the drill, and so have managed to spruce up the exterior of the home with the powerful beast in hand..... I now have another achievement to share with you, my viewing audience. Yesterday, I got out the extension ladder ( that Brian picked up for a song at an auction- mind you, he sings rather well.......but I digress.) As I was saying, I had noted a tree growing in the eavestroughs, and though I was fascinated by the determination and resiliency of the thing, I had to question how well the rain water would make it to the downspout whilst flowing through a miniature forest.

My plan was thorough. Position the ladder, scoot up, (don't look down), grab sloppy hands full of composting leaves and tree seeds and raunchy rain water, hurl it down to the ground, all the while minding that no children or small animals become the inadvertent target.

By the time my man came home that afternoon, I was gloating.

He's just lucky that he's so cute and sexy, and that although I may not NEED a man, its no fun without him.

Why I will Quite Possibly Drive a Fork through my Heart

There is a child who has come into my care every day, monday through friday for nearly a year now. EVERY SINGLE MORNING he tells me (the very moment his eyes open) that he is a little hungry, and what he would like for breakfast. EVERY SINGLE MORNING for almost a year now, I have explained that first, Joyce makes coffee, then Joyce makes breakfast, and there is no possible way that you will spend the morning WITHOUT breakfast; that its not very good manners to TELL your babysitter WHAT to make for breakfast, and that it's good manners to wait until you are presented with your breakfast, at which time, you are to say, "thank you."

This is brand new information for him, EVERY SINGLE MORNING.

Bigger and Better

The other night, four people showed up at my back door weilding an upright vacuum cleaner. "Oh, no!" , I thought- "they've got to be those desparate door to door sales people who manipulate their way into the home, then subject their victems to hours of "free" vacuuming, and so much irritating propoganda that you actually purchase the darn thing, just to make them go away." My second thought was- "Should I try to be polite, so that I don't have to deal with my own guilt later? Or, should I pretend that I didn't actually see them through the six foot window beside the back door?"

I knew that we had obviously seen one another, so I got my sorry, resentful butt off the couch and made my way to the door. Maybe this would be one of those trials designed to hone my character.

Their pitch was an unexpected pleasure. "We're from 4th Avenue Bible Church Youth Group, and we're playing a game called: Bigger is Better. We started at the church with a paper clip and have been going door to door around town, trading for something bigger and better. We now have an upright Dirt Devil vacuum cleaner. Do you have anything bigger and better that you would like to trade for?"

My heart skipped a little beat. I had just closed the garage door on a very minimally successful garage sale that the kids and I had set up to make some money for our upcoming town fair. I had (once again) attempted to sell an oven that had followed us from our prior home, but had sat in the garage and collected dust for some three years. But would they think that was better?

Their faces lit up like July first fireworks at The Forks.

There were four happy campers romping down the street, stove in borrowed wheelbarrow as I clutched my beloved vaccuum and ran down to the basement to try the thing out.

The scavenger in me grinned. I had cleared a large, heavy, unwanted item from the garage without having to pay anyone to haul it away. I also had in my possession a perfectly good vacuum cleaner.

Maybe next year I could sell it at a yard sale, and make a fortune!!

Let's Talk About our FEELINGS.

Sometimes I really "hate" feelings.

Wouldn't it be tidy to just be able to carry out the necessary functions of daily life without constantly evaluating, identifying emotions, analyzing the origins of sadness, happiness, melancholy, anger,.... (and the list goes on).

As a woman, I've got a multitude of factors to deal with. There is the inevitable cycle, with its teary and irritable dips and then peaks of "normal" happiness. There is the manic nature of life, with the mommy-nurterer in me running around, ensuring everyone's life is running relatively smoothly. There are the cultural pressures and lies, suggesting that if you only looked a certain way, drank enough water, and "put yourself first", you would find everlasting happiness and contentment.There are the genetic factors: an olympic size gene pool swimming with a variety of interesting diagnoses of depression, anxiety, manias, obsessive compulsive disorders, and quite possibly the odd psychoses thrown in for variety.

How's a gal to know up from down, and be aware of how to compartmentalize the range of emotions she feels in her mind and heart, morning, noon, and night?!

Some days I just hate it. And that makes me mad.

How many Plants Does it Take to Cover a Plastic House?

After spending the weekend in the meadows with my hippie friends, I knew that coming home to white vinyl siding would be particularily painful.

Sometimes pain (and the blinding light of sun reflecting off bright white vinyl) is a great motivater. Accomplishment number one involved the two of us climbing ladders and covering the west wall of the house in chicken wire in order to guide the virginia creeper up and create a little texture and colour to break up the monotony. (Yes, the hippies have actual chickens, but one must start somewhere.)

That felt so darn good, that today I thought, "Hey! that drilling holes into the house looked pretty darn easy! I bet I could do that all my big self!" So, I put up some old picket where (wait for it....) white vinyl lattice had once enclosed the deck. I nearly sang the Halleluia chorus (all seven parts ). I then resolutely marched to the back of the house and mounted the willow window box and stuffed it full of purple and green vines. I then planted some scarlet runner, and attached some branches to the siding for it to climb up on. This adds purple, green, and branch colour to the south side. (I'm sure that's one of Martha Steward's colour names...)

I have a picture of it, but really it still looks pretty darn ugly and plasticy and I prefer to present my home as being amazingly transformed-- I mean, I USED A POWER TOOL ALL BY MYSELF!

Anyway, the cat seemed overwhelmingly impressed.

Soccer Culture

Having two girls in soccer in a league that encompasses most small towns east of the Pacific Ocean and slightly west of the Atlantic has forced me to drive to some unlikely destinations. On a recent road trip, I knew that we'd be in for a real cultural treat when, just past the green sign that heralded our destination I spotted the local drinking hole: The Cat Sass Tavern.

The host town had sprouted up out of the scrubby bush like a bad weed gone wild. The individual in charge of zoning must not have seen the outside of his trailer since 1971, judging from the haphazard layout of yards, swamps, the odd ball diamond, a school set way too close to the main street, and a boarded up church with the plastic off the windows flapping into the Holy Mother's face.

We drove around the windy gravel streets for some time, hoping to locate some soccer fields. There were plenty of mobile homes, windows opaque with dog snot and bug smears, set back towards the bush, to leave plenty of running space for two or three large dogs, a camper laying on its side, and large quantities of trucks and cars in varying stages of disassembly. Auto wrecking and dog breeding appeared to be the main industries of the town.

After several dead end "streets" that ended in either bush, or another abandoned camper, we found what must be the Mayor's home. A large, brick bungalow sprawled across grassy prairie. A large, manicured lawn flanked the front and west side of the dwelling.

But wait- are these soccer nets I see? Ah ha!! The mayor must love watching children run and play- these are not manicured grounds I see, but soccer fields! (could the town planner possibly live in the bungalow, and not the trailer down the dirt road? Imagine his shock, when he emerges from his basement one summer to find it invaded by ten year old girls chasing a soccer ball!) A cluster of lawn chairs stood on each side of the lawn turned soccer field, with parents nervously chewing and spitting sunflower seeds and bellowing encouragements to their jersey clad youngsters.

The coach had a face the colour of month old pea soup, and stumbled up and down the sidelines in his rumpled jeans and dress shoes mumbling things like: "blimey", and taking swigs from a two litre of 7-Up whose contents I had to question. I feared he'd spent too much time inhaling some bad smoke in his basement, while tending to some mysterious leafy plant under a heat lamp. Most of the young players suffered from smoke-induced asthma, but nervously raced up and down the field, sneaking glances at a big, burley fellow on the sidelines waving his arms and flapping his lips (cigarette intact) with "helpful advice" for the athletes.

When our girls won five to one, I felt it prudent to walk quickly and confidently back to the van before the coyote hunting parent pack chased us down and beat us to a bloody pulp in their jealous rage. Walk quickly past the rusty cargo vans and the trucks weighted down with fridges and ranges who had seen better days. Wind back down the road past the windows that held foaming insulation where glass once had been, youth in black hoodies hunched over their nicotine candy sticks, and staight(-ish) north back to the highway -and home.

Next week we will be the host team and have a chance to welcome this town to our fields.
If they find their way.

God on the blogspot, revisited

A few days ago I wrote a post expressing appreciation for the creativity of God. I received a comment asking about what I "meant by God". I had an instant, defensive reaction, as though God is someone we can custom design to suit our own agenda, and out of that fierce, gut reaction I wrote a blog. Within the hour of publishing it, I reread it, and had to ask myself whether love had been my greatest aim? I needed time to think, and so I deleted and rewrote it.

I welcome people who ask questions about my creative and mighty God, and won't be silent, but I guard against being one of those loud, obnoxious, religious types who just talks louder and faster because the reaction is fear based- fear of one's truth being challenged, and possibly fear that one can not adequately defend their faith.

Having ruminated on this for three days, I conclude that my own wisdom is not what is in question here. There are certain truths that I would willingly make myself vulnerable defending- they are not MY truths, they are simply God's honest truth. So, in light of that, I will try to remember what I initially typed on blog #1.

a) God is way bigger than you and me and this small planet
b) I will not attempt to manipulate God, to imagine a "higher power" custom designed by me, or you, or your neighbor's best friend.

I search for truth constantly. I grow frustrated at the limits of my mind and understanding, and with the apparent lack of sovereignty in certain aspects of the world. But I do not doubt that this is NOT just about us- our happiness, our comfort levels, our wish lists. I do believe that God has a plan, and has asked humanity to join him and trust him in the dance.

God has the last word. Any questions, refer to the book on God-- The Holy Bible.

Yes, I said GOD on my blogspot.