Church, take two

Ahhhh, Church .
The reverberations of the post reached as far as the land-down-unda....

I received a comment this afternoon from a friend I first met twenty years ago... (Whaaaaaaat?!) during a particularily churchy experience. After attending Capernwray Harbour Bible Centre on Thetis Island, B.C., a group of tra-la-laa-ing young, fresh-faced students spent a few weeks one summer doing a bit of a stint across Canada, visiting our churches of origin and wow-ing them with our music and drama. In a dusty van, part way past Silberfeld church (our first stop) and somewhere before Vancouver, I met an irreverent, reverent, fiesty woman. Our sarcasm and love for laughter made us an instant value combo pack. What began as a shared experience on the "Whole Heart Tour", evolved into a friendship that found us sharing home, car, job,clothes, family, tears, laughs, and sometimes trading identities, just to see if we could convince people that it was actually I who was visiting from Australia, and Donna who was born and bred Manitoban. (the guys always found the Australian more fascinating. That was my incentive, I'll never know what Donna's was...)

There is likely enough to say for a few more posts, but it may entertain only me, and Donna (to honnah) and I'll spare you the agony. Suffice to say, that Donna's comment from far away in geography, and in lifetimes (we've not communicated for about 15 years....) is the impetus I needed to revisit the church theme.

There was something about the responses to that post which revived my nemesis: Fear of success, and Fear of failure. I suddenly felt as though I was wearing a lapel mic and had my car parked in the "guest speaker" spot in the parking lot. I felt self-conscious. It wasn't in a bad way, but awkward like the first time you sing into a microphone and recognize that you've shamelessly amplified your voice into an audience.

But the audience in this case sang back. And I've not re-joined the harmony until now.

And so, for all of you in the choir loft, here's what I mean to say. We are the church. We all have our parts, and they may or may not fit into an existing program. If we've been wounded by the very place that should offer healing, then let these be the gashes which God bleeds through. Let's not be cynical, nor naive. Let's not presume to have the answers. Let us always entertain the notion that we too, may be wrong, may be hurtful. Be gentle with those filled to capacity with idealisms, perfectly constructed boxes, impatient with shades of grey.

We've much to learn, as always. And the teacher, the Holy Spirit, has ways of teaching that are refreshingly unusual and unconventional. He doesn't run on standard time, but that doesn't equate unreliability. He can redeem time anyway, so all you've really got to do is be honest about your disappointments and questions.

And now, in closing...(shuffle, shuffle,) because I can't resist yanking your girdle just a little.... I can't believe its God's idea to put giant lighted billboards outside of church establishments and embellish them with cheesey quips. Bring back the "seeker service" if you must, but please, PLEASE, rearrange the letters that spell out disastrous nonsense like what I had to drive past all last summer on the way to my brother's hospital room:

So, you think this is HOT?
signed, GOD

I'M GOING ON STRIKE!

Sometimes I just want to throw myself on the floor, have a good old fashioned temper tantrum, yell at my union rep, and just stop being so darn NICE! I want to be able to follow my day planner, hour by hour, take my lunch break, smoke break, and coffee break. I want to renegotiate my contract. I want amendments!

And how about a raise? This is not what I went to school for! (hee, hee, I always think its funny when people strike on that premise. Didn't you go to school so that you could be gainfully employed? Quit your whining!)

And where's my support staff? Where's my janitor? my secretary? my events coordinator? Pierre, the massage guy? Where's the cook? the baker? the candlestick maker? Where's the compensation board? Health and Safety? Where's my company car? My airmiles? Where's my paid holiday time?

Now, I know I'm being ridiculous. I know all the cute stuff about being paid in sloppy kisses and eternal gratitude and warm memories. I know the shtick about choices and the stuff that comes with self-employment. I know the horrer of office politics, whiney people you have to share your coffee breaks with, demanding bosses with sweaty armpits and nasty sweaters. I know the tedium of filing, being the "new girl" for years on end, having a sadistic witch for a supervisor. I know hurriedly packed brown bag lunches consumed in underventilated walk-in closet excuses for staff rooms. I know clock-watching, card-punching, and work evasion tactics.

There's just no clever way to wrap up this little rant about employment. I know I've got it good. I like being my own boss. (well, let's face it, the toddlers are the bosses.....) I really like little people sitting on my lap. I actually like being the flexible daycare lady who rarely says no. I like reading rhymey, silly books for years on end. I love animal crackers and little clothes.

So, my virtual support staff? What say ye? Throw me a bone, would ya?

Today, I Marry My Best Friend...... NOT!

Ladies, it is time to shake the dust off your pink pumps, don your sexiest Wedding attire, and engage in some good old-fashioned pageantry. Enough with hiding under bulky sweaters, shivering and cowering from winter's cruel assaults. It is time to kick off its entanglements and be freed from the inherent itch of cabled polyester and wool. Yes, the prickliness of a mightier force is upon us: the frill of tuxedo. The strain of the bustier. The constriction of paisley printed panty hose in mid-July.....

The time has come to indulge yourself in any conceivable, perceivable wedding oppurtunity. Always wanted to be the flowergirl? I CHOOSE YOU! Always the bridesmaid, never the bride? PLEASE BE MINE FOREVER! Been the bride once too often? BABY, LIGHT MY CANDLES!

And now, before my readers from afar tuck their ruffles into their panties and run crying to the choir loft, don't you fret, beloved ones. May I present the oppurtunity for a virtual wedding party? ME has graciously offered to be our photographer. I fully expect that all of you will submit photos of your chosen identities as well. There may be a corsage in it for you. Or perhaps some old fruitcake wrapped in aluminum foil and a paper doily, then tied with curly string.

Here are the rules:

there are no rules! Oh, except... be at my house on May 26. Bring something consumable. Come in character. Bring an escort.... HAH! Well, you can if you want to. (she just better be of the female persuasion....)
I want to see some new faces. I want new memories. I want new traditions.
And I want to see some BAD-ASS outfits.

Bitte, RSVP. (or not, and surprise me)

Jane Margaret

Jane Margaret is eleven years old today.

Sweet baby Jane.

Maggie Mae.

Jane-Jane.

Jane is highly sensitive. When she was a breast-fed baby, she could tolerate precious little. Anything I consumed that originated from a cow would make her scrunch up and scream with stomach cramps. Most fruits and vegetables had the same un-glorious effect.

We survived, her and I, on mostly toast, saltines, and coffee.

That didn't last long, only a very long year or so.

She was also born with sensitive skin. She is prone to eczema, molloscum, (which we've been fighting for over a year now...), and has always had ichthyosis- a condition which makes her skin unusually dry and scaley. Its largely limited to her arms and legs, but recently, Jane has grown weary of kids commenting on her need for lotion. Its just another area where our little girl is extra sensitive.

When Jane became a toddler, our little artist emerged.

She drew and painted and created masterpieces out of the recycling box. Jane draws extraordinarily well, especially if no one is expecting her to. If she just lets herself go, its quite a pleasure to behold. This Christmas, she got a lot of supplies to help her along in her giftedness. Her daddy also set up an art blog for her to display her talents.

Due to her senstive nature, I suspect that she felt the pressure to succeed. Buried under stuffies in her bedroom, are the unopened, unused art kits...

When we had to move, Jane was just finishing grade one. She cried. She knew she would miss her friends.

Jane still misses her friends, and feels very sad about it. She has many new friends, and likes to look out for the ones who the other kids suspect are "mentally challenged". The super popular kid in class annoys Jane, because Jane can't see how her fancy clothes and loud personality make her more important than anyone else.

Jane loves her mama a great deal. She is also very, very attached to anything soft and stuffed. Her room is a stuffy sanctuary. Jane is all about friends right now, and loves to play. Jane has the most beautiful laugh.

I have many hopes for my Maggie. I wish for her God-given sensitivity to not overwhelm her, but to make her life rich and full. I wish for her to allow her talents to flow out of her from the joy of being alive. I wish for her full and healthy relationships.

Happy Birthday, Sweetie. I'm so glad you're mine.

Thinking

I've been double-tagged. (is that a word? Is that allowed? The Queen, and Roofus (the woman, not the dog) apparently think that my grey matter is an organ which regularily gets out for its run. Too bad for the legs and torso that hold it all up, but one must begin somewhere.

And how timely. I've been thinking about Easter. Thinking and cringeing that I'm not the mom I wish I were when it comes to intentionally teaching my children. Its not as if I don't have my good intentions. I have the recipes for resurrection buns, and we've done the exercise in the past. Mostly it was experienced as licking a lot of nummy marshmallow off our fingers and eating a lot of buns.... Every year I remember what my friend Rosa did when her children were little, and how I've always meant to do it too. They made an easter tree out of a stick and hung plastic eggs on it. Each day an egg would be opened and inside was a symbol of Easter, and the name of someone to pray for that day. (Forgive me if I've got that wrong, Rose) Lovely, I always think. Then I freeze.

Easter is such a significant event for fans of Jesus. Significant as in: MOVE OVER CHRISTMAS! I remember what Easter felt like when we were kids. Church on Good Friday was a solemn event, as though every year we had to grieve his death, seemingly unaware of his imminent resurrection. But our bright, new, homemade dresses and freshly bathed skin whispered of the hope we would celebrate on Sunday, and Monday. (which we knew as "pinkste".... still don't really get that, always wondered if it had something to do with wearing pastels in the spring time...)

My mom and dad always seemed to have a pretty sensible approach to the question of the "secular" interpretation of the holiday. We always got a big solid chocolate bunny. We decorated eggs, made baskets out of paper strips, had hunts around the house if mom was having an energetic year. But the heavily spiritual componant was undeniable. We knew what Easter was all about.

But now I'm the mama and because I think too darn much, I often become paralyzed.

Its Good Friday morning, and Sam is watching cartoons with ketchup chip stains on his face from falling asleep on the couch last night. I'm contemplating doing my lap around town before heading off to the first family event. (Not the thrift shop lap, silly. The exercise one which I theoretically do.) I fear the holiday will be a victem of my laziness once again. Grandma in her usual generous style will spoil us with her grand spread, press bags of chocolate into our barely resistent hands, and pull out plates and plates of those to-die-for Easter buns with the cream cheese icing. We'll eat and talk and wish for spring. For new life.

So I was thinking that I needed to stop fretting about this. I was thinking how when I talk to God consistently about things that are beyond me, and I am patient, God works it out in a big, mysterious, fabulous way. And so I told God that I stink at teaching my children, and that I wasn't capable of doing it because I was just thinking too darn much.

So, thanks for the award.

And I feel like bending the rules a little. I present the thinking award to some non-bloggers.

1. Commenter Joanne. A thinker. And one day she will begin her own blog, which we will all enjoy.

2. My friend Ruth, even though she's already been nominated.

3. My husband Brian. who is growing in beautiful ways because he's not afraid to think out loud.

And because I am thinking about Easter, and how I should get out for a walk before all that begins, that's all I can think of for now.

May we all enjoy an Easter that teaches us hope and redemption.

Micah Brian

Today, April 4, is my son's birthday. Nine years ago today he joined our family.
When I was pregnant with him, I didn't care if he came out a boy or a girl. I had two requests for God, beyond the obvious ones, of course. I said if it was all the same to Him, could I get a baby with red hair? or curls?

I got the most beautiful baby boy with curly red hair.

He was doted on by his sisters who were four and two at the time.

But now he is nine. Somehow that happens when nine years slip by. He is still red-haired, although he insists that he is blonde. He is charming and funny. Much to our surprise, he likes people now. He mostly likes video and computer games, (much to my horrer), but he also enjoys reading Calvin and Hobbes,drawing amazingly detailed creatures on any slip of paper, coming up with his own jokes, making up armoured creatures out of lego parts, riding his bike, and playing with his little brother.

He is still a perfectionist, and doesn't like to participate in sports because he can't get it perfect the first time. He is awesome at reading and has impeccable handwriting, but math is a hardship for him. Sometimes he doesn't want to go to school because he gets stressed out when his teacher gets frustrated with the other students.

Micah shares a room with his brother Sam, but they often have "sleepovers" which means that Sammy moves from his single bed over to snuggle in with Micah in his double bed. They fall asleep, Sammy watching Micah play his gameboy.

I love my boy to the ends of the earth. This is his last year ever in the single digets, and I pray that I'm never too distracted to miss all the moments that make him who he is and who he shall become.

Church

Its with some fear and trepidation that I begin this post. Sybil is upstairs screaming that people may misunderstand my heart on this one, but its something that's been brewing in me for some years now. Soooooooo, here goes.

About six years ago, it became my steadfast prayer that God would lead me into the truth. Of all the prayers that have gone unanswered, this one could not be counted as one of them. It's not been answered simply, or without pain that I never heard anyone at a conference warn me about. Do I have a handle on truth now? Do I have my mantra and theological statement neatly printed, bound, and tucked under my arm for easy reference? This is the greatest mystery of all. As mentioned several trillion times before, the more I learn, the less I know for sure. And what I know for sure is that He is good, likely bigger than I'd imagined, and probably controversial. I know its not my place to decide if I'm right, or you're right, or if they're right. Even if I had the whole theology thing tidy, and I'd take out my pointer for you, it would be entirely a waste of time unless that pointer would be held in a trembling and sweaty hand, knowing that the words coming forth were done so simply because I'd offered myself up as an intrument.

One of the themes along the way these past years has been hearing of people's sense of disillusionment with the organized church. Too showy. Too churchy. Too fake. Too hypocritical. Too happy. Too morbid. Too boring. Too isolating. Too pushy.

Then there was the church's frightened comebacks: the floats in the Saturday morning parades filled with ridiculously happy people dancing to loud Christian music and waving plastic palm branches and placards about determinedly. "So, you think church is boring?" they screamed, hoping to convince the dirty commoners below that they did indeed know how to have a good time. One or two of them might have worn a "Coors Lite" t-shirt, just to prove how easy they were to relate to. I wanted to squirm and duck. I felt embarrassed that our insecurity was that obvious.

If the peppy music didn't bring them in, how about small groups? This one made a bit of sense. People could meet, be relational, help meet one another's needs, bring others into community by living out the concept of loving your neighbor. I'd always wanted to have the nerve to use my former life as an eating disordered shattered person who learned how to put the pieces back together, so I optimistically packed up and headed out to Calgary for a huge "Small Group Conference". (Woo Hoo!!)

Once there, I waded through rooms and rooms full of literature that decoded every little thing God had ever said or even thought about saying or thinking. I ran into a woman I recognized from life-before-kids. She had hated me then, but now she was all grown up and leading small groups in her church with her husband. I signed up for some seminars. I'd come here for direction and chose my discussion groups accordingly. I had to run to the bathroom a great deal since I was pregnant with our third child. From within the stall, I overheard grown-up small-group leader tell her pretty friend something nasty about me. My first sigh of many.

We filed into the sanctuary to begin the day with worship and singing. I immediately recognized the leader as a man who had been busted for cheating on his wife, so he'd vacated town and church quickly and quietly, shaking our dust off his sandals as he went. I didn't remember any resolution to that minor lapse in morality, but it seemed that he'd found his way back to pointing us all to God. *sigh*

Off to my first seminar. An hour in, I wondered if I should go and recheck the label on the door. This was all about projections, visualizing, and then making things happen. We saw impressive mathematic formulas of how many times we'd have to do fund-raisers in order to build wings onto our church buildings. Growth, growth, growth, is what this thing was all about. And personal growth was not a prerequisate for this kind of gardening. It didn't sound as if we'd need a big, controversial God in any of this either. It was a lot tidier than that, all laid out in formulas on the whiteboard. I excused myself to go have a nap on the empty nursery floor. The smell of baby wipes and dirty carpet had a more honest scent about them.

I never was much of a small group leader.

The deeper I dig into this church post, fearing that I may begin to choke on my foot, fearing that I may be buried alive.... the more I recognize that unless you've come here to read a novel, there is no way that I can write this and call it a "post". We'll have to call it a mini-series. Maybe we could have a cell group about it or something.....

I actually LOVE church. For the first eighteen years of my life, I went to the dullest, most legalistic, drab, uninteresting church in the history of homo escapeons. And I loved it. I loved the familiar, the richness of tradition, roles, consistency. I loved the sincerity that I caught glimpses of there. I loved the swish of ladies in their girdles, squirming, sweating, staring at the wall clock and worrying about the chicken dinner over-cooking. I loved the tidy pews, the unused choir "loft", the tone whistle that the farsinger used to start us off on an endless hymn with no notes. The sermons were dreadful and dull, but I loved watching the man, farmer by week, preacher on Sunday morning. I enjoyed hearing his wife's loud snoring as well...

I went some years without really going to church that much at all. It was all so complicated. The preachers were having affairs, and lying about it; the people were all very pretty and talked about Jesus a lot but they were terribly hostile and intimidating. Then if you got involved at all, you became subject to long speeches about "commitment" and how to "just DO it" and developing "leadership skills". Sometimes you'd get sent home to change for coming to worship team practise wearing the wrong colours. Tiresome really.

That's all behind me now. Now I'm to the point where I also tire of hearing people fight about God's love. I just don't get it.

I go to church now, and I cry whenever possible. The cheaters and the fat people link arms with the pretty people and the faithful ones. We laugh and cry and eat together. Sometimes we'll bring a pizza to someone who looks hungry. Or maybe we'll throw some money into a dish to pay for a funeral. When we sing, I let my arms do what they want to. I sing with my whole body: the sound of the mysteries fills me up and overwhelms me. I wish this honesty for the cheating preacher, the horny music pastor, the self-righteous small group leader, the business men from the seminar.

I volunteer for nothing organized. I listen to that still small voice and shut my ears to propoganda of being so godly that more people will want to come into church and we could build a wing in red brick or something.

And my heart aches for all the misunderstood, broken, passed over whom the church has trampled over to reach those almighty projected numbers.

Who's In Your Audience? (a sort of MEME)

Judy says: "....many people are DRIVEN by people in their imaginary audience, who in actuality pay no attention whatsoever to them".

I don't think of myself as someone overly controlled by "what-must-they-think" mentality, but I'd have to be honest to say that there are many voices perched on the peripheries of my brain that should be identified, evaluated, and possibly evicted. Its kind of like the 16 personalities of Sybil; it can get a bit loud and chaotic at times.

Fear is a big-time resident. She lobbies for the twins: fear of success and fear of failure. Recently she has been tapping her foot with an irritating rhythm. "You're about half through your life, you know..." she whines. "You're never going to make anything significant of yourself, you know that, don't you? Isn't it kind of a waste to be down here, know what you know, and be too dense to go anywhere with it?"
She exhausts me. I usually shut her down by sabatage.

Then there's the Angry Accountant. He sits there with his dark eyes and dark hair shaking his disappointed head back and forth, eyebrows dark and furrowed. He chastises us for never learning. For not being more more careful. Should plan better. Should say no to many things. Should have a plan, stick to it, eat simple meals.
I don't like him. He makes me feel bad, and gives me the impression that I can never do right.

The Thin Woman with room in the seat of her jeans is omnipresent. She's naturally willowy, and very, very sensible. She's almost condescending when she asks me; "Well, what is it that you want? If you want less fat on your body, why not just be proactive? Get out there, move your body around, eat less food. Its not rocket science, and you know how you gained twenty, so just reverse the formula, and voila, you should be able to drop it".
I'm intimidated by her. I know she's right, but scaredy pants always enters stage left right about that time.

Scaredy-pants isn't fat, and she isn't thin. She's obviously uncomfortable in her skin. You half expect her face to erupt into scarring acne just from the anxiety of you studying her. She drapes her arms across the front of her as though to protect herself from your eyes. She knows that you can read the padding on her body. Her failures and weaknesses hang off her in dimples and folding bulges. If her body size changed to that of a thin person, she'd have nothing to protect her. You'd see straight into her soul, and you may dislike what you find hiding there. Without that protective layer to be ashamed of, the shame would go deeper, much deeper and may even strip the skin right off her bones. She's just not capable of dealing with that kind of stress.
I feel compassion towards Scaredy, and I'd like to offer her a hand up. But she embarrasses me. I'm ashamed to be seen with her. I'm afraid that people wouldn't understand.

Then there's the "Neighbor" who hates living beside us. He hates: the soggy snowman parts littering the front yard. The three chairs that had ugly sweaters on them for my party last fall. The children's sled frozen solidly to the brown grass. He hates coming to the back door, balancing on boards sunk into frozen mud, up the stairs to a rotting deck, poorly designed by some tightwad before us. He looks down his nose at the cracks in the vinyl siding, and the tacky vinyl lattice halfway ripped off the edges of the deck. I think he and the Accountant are brothers, actually.
I hate them both, and I want to tell them that if that's how they define success in their lives, they must be very poor indeed. I want to introduce them to all my friends, and wow them with those investments. Still, they annoy me like an opinionated relative at an annual gathering. For some unknown reason, I just have to put up with them.

Then there's the Class Brain. He openly mocks me for my slow moving grey matter. How I can't remember any geography, history, or politics, no matter how I try. How I take such a long, belaboured time to evaluate information, to come to conclusions, to integrate new information. He makes a point of telling me that most people can keep up with their lives. How they can integrate news about people dying, people birthing, people killing themselves, marriages crumbling, natural disasters, babies starving, parents aging, brothers isolating themselves, driving themselves further into the loneliness of untreated addictions and mental illness....

I fear that the Brian is right, but there doesn't seem to be much value in defending myself. He's smarter than me, and it'll be hard for him to relate to a slower moving train. The best I can aim for here is to try and avoid eye contact.

Annoyingly Perfect Parent comes and goes at will. She criticizes me for what my children eat and don't eat, their lack of consistent manners, the lessons we never stuck with. She tut-tuts about our not having devotions with the children. Not reading the Bible as a family. She points out my inconsistencies, my difficulty with saying "no", and setting boundaries.
Mostly I slam the door in her face because I don't see the point in her. But there are times when her foot is in, and its just impossible to keep her out.

Wing-Nut and I share a love/hate relationship. She's funny and easy to hang out with but she can be incredibly spinny to the point of irresponsibility. She drops and breaks a great deal of things. She is plagued with nightmares about forgetting three or four babies in the basement, lying in pools of water. She starts things, then completely forgets about them. She's indecisive and entirely too honest. She can be a little embarrassing, since her brain is splintered and multi-coloured. I'm not sure what to do with her, to be honest.

That's a cross-section of my audience. Who's in yours?

We are Soooooo Cultured

We've always dreamed of a family vacation. And now we're going.... International!

Okay, well.... Fargo....

eat... swim...shop... Repeat.

Back on Sunday.

Clean Sweep

I have the most beautiful daughter in all of daughter-dom.

But my daughter is a pig.

P.I.G.

Being spring and all, it seemed appropriate to evict all things PIG-like. But I found I'd grown attached to that daughter of mine, and I didn't quite have the heart to drive her out.

So... since we never get a four or five hour long reality show with our cable package, we decided to do our own.

After two large garbage bags filled for the thrift shop, and two large garbage bags for the garbage truck, we found a lovely bedroom.

All that hard work paid off.

Now all we need to polish up are her manners.....

Friends

Spring break, 2007



Its pretty handy when your kids are also friends with your friends' kids.

And it doesn't hurt that those kids are pretty darn cute.

It feels pretty decadent to usher in spring with a whole lot of: sitting around, laughing with friends, and enjoying how the children are growing. (And yes, I'm aware that it makes me sound like one of those clucking old ladies that you run into at the annual Christmas gatherings.... )

Family

We all have moments were we feel utterly alone in our oddities.

The absolute best remedy is to go back to where it all began: the gene pool.

The second day of our raucous cabin getaway, we were joined by a few of the old folks. My dad made it down the steps without any disaster, much to our relief. Uncle Johnny, Tante Tina and mom (Tante Nita to some) were young and spry by comparison.

Cousin Grace joined us from Hamilton, citing some pressing need to be with family. Her colleagues and students would have to carry on without her.

Who knew we shared anything? Not me.

But over wine and hysterical laughter, we learned things that defined us as having sprung from the same soil. We share quirks and fears, oddities and exhuberances. The time went by too quickly.

The quiet of the cabin gave room for some of the nausea in our stomachs to spill from our eyes. There was space to voice the unspeakable grief for Ken's daughters. There was oppurtunity to compare stories of our childhoods, and hold up our perceived realities to those who also walked similar paths. There was just enough time to recognize some character similarities that must have come from our shared genetics.

Perhaps the shared reality of our recent losses made the time together even more precious. Too young for so many funerals, we have however met over cold and still... brother....cousin... and auntie. We stand a little closer now, sheilding one another from the chilling winds. There is no way to imagine what the next four seasons will bring us. But they will find us square shouldered, standing together strong amidst the change.

Family

The older I get, the more fascinating I find family to be. Gone are the days when I wanted to put as much distance as possible between me and whence I came. I've gone out, blazed my own trail, and now come back and learned for the first time all over again, that we are sooooooo sharing lifejackets in our particular gene pool. All of us.

I'm glad I went away and then came back, because now I know for sure that its not just because we shared the same borscht every Sunday, warmed the same church pews, called the same people "aunt" and "Uncle", or never had the courage to stray far from the nest. Turns out, an awful lot of us did a fair bit of exploring, without looking around for permission to do so, or holding each others hands.

*expected to come are: sister Mary, top with exceedingly short, brown bangs, and a dashing plaid sweater; sister Kathy directly beside her, about half her size, and cousin Bev, the bright blondie to Kathy's left. The two little cuties in the front row are cousin Grace, who is flying in from Toronto (whoo hoo!), and sister Carol, who is wearing capri pants waaaaay before their time.


My relations are a fascinating, intelligent, hilarious, gifted bunch. The women are strong, soft, fiesty, complex, compassionate, complicated beings. We have much to learn from one another. Much to validate in one another.

And so, as a growing tradition, this weekend has been ear-marked for our annual trek to the cabin. Over food and drink, laughter and tears, we anticipate adding more layers to our relationships as cousins first, and for some of us, Friends much later.

Sadly, this year will be smaller than some. Due to the recent passing of a shared relative, the women whom he called "auntie", and "mom" will stay behind to join hands and try to soothe the raw and inconsolable.

The chubby red-dressed babe in the lower picture is yours truly. I grew up with cousins, sort of. There were no cousins my age, as many of them were thinking of having their own babies by the time I came along. My siblings were closest in age to me, and I had a cousin or two that matched up with their ages, and one cousin who was a few years younger than EVEN ME, bless her heart, but she moved away when she and I were very little.

So, its been a recent discovery for me to find kindred spirits in this swampy pool. We're all over thirty now, and the relevance of our age has really taken a back seat. The commonality of experience and genetics brings us together, now by choice. We relate now as women- timeless, learning and leaning on one another.

And if that's not enough, we also share a passion for good bread, real cheese, and a dem fine wine. Now, that's stuff we never got at the family gatherings.

News Flash: Mental Illness Kills

Time to remove stigma, misunderstanding, and mystique from an illness that changes the exchanges of vital chemicals in the brain. Its devastating enough to live with a diagnosis of liver disease, cancer, or diabetes, but when the organ that goes into failure is also the one that directs decision making; the consequences can be devastating.

Mental illness is not an embarrassing condition that weak people are susceptable to. In my experience, its often particularily gifted people who have to learn to live fully with the additional reality of these form of illnesses. Nor is it that people "choose" the illness. (well, except for some criminals who see claiming the status as their best option).

As with any other malady, there are medical treatment options. Some are effective immediately, some require "tweaking" over time, some are ineffective. Just like cancer.

Sometimes, people die.

Allow that to be an oppurtunity to bring the truth about mental illness into the light. Use it to educate those fortunate enough to not know the reality of it firsthand. Ask the question: how best can we be helpful to people who suffer? Don't sit back in judgement or look for someone, or something to blame, any more than you would the victem of heart failure. Don't bother to sit up a little higher in your self-righteous pharisee-ism, grateful that you're not an embarrassment to your loved ones.

Maybe if we gain some perspective and understanding, we'll all become part of the solution for the other zillions of people who are currently suffering... right under our noses. This is not an illness that will go away because we refuse to acknowledge it. This is not an illness that has to end in tragedy.

The tragedy is undeniable, but it need not be served with a side dish of shame.

Mall Hounds

*a little something light to tide us over...
but don't you worry. There will always be a funeral to write about in a day or two... the clan, it is a dwindling...


You know things are getting desparate when your spirits soar at the hand scraggled note: "Bag Sale", only to plummet when you recognize that the lady in charge is planning on grocery bags and what you really had your heart set on was the generous precident set by last week's willing volunteer who recklessly handed out
garbage bags!

It was no small task, shoving that fur coat into a safeway bag and then having to still put out a whole dollar for the bag full.

My heavy conscience lightened somewhat when a pair of perfectly good and sensible winter boots shared their wrapping with these kick ass blue leather boots.

Yes, the girls did their mother proud.
Jane suckered me into letting her take three more inanimate pets home (the house is old, and I reasoned that forty-one-thousand stuffies pressed up against her bedroom wall had to act as some sort of insulation...)

Sam got shin pads for soccer and a new pink wand..... to go with his tutu, of course.

Micah got in his head that he's only allowed one thing at the thrift shop. He never seems to fully tune in that his sister pushes a rusty stroller around as her makeshift shopping cart and stuffs it full of bears and cats and dogs and skunks and never bothers to count a thing.... ever. Her mother, being compulsive by nature, avoids fully locking eyes on that stroller. Denial enables her to concentrate more fully on her own need to acquire every button manufactured since Cain and Abel. Playing "let's pretend that life is fair, so if Jane can get every toy that looks lonely, I should be kind and tell you to please go find yourself seven more pounds of plastic crap" would obviously not be in everyone's best interest at this time.

If I taught the kids that life is fair, I'd be setting them up for some pretty hard falls up the road a ways. And like I said, we've already got some old favourites in the gonna-need-me-some-therapy department.

Yup, We'll be eating soft potatoes from the "five bucks for fifty pounds of potatoes straight off the farm, but stored against a warm cow... since last summer" gunney sack again this week.

Mama gone spent all the eatin' money at the junk shop again.

Now if only that self-righteous, tight-fisted, bag-handlin' volunteer had handed out the large bags, I'd now have a little grocery money left, AND I'd have the appropriate bags for our upcoming garbage pick-up day.

Some people.

The Dance of Life

Melancholy comes easily today and much could be said of the unanswered and miserably sad in life.

There's no denying though, that beauty and ugly insist on holding hands, moving together through this life dance. Beautiful music fills the empty spaces, while the snow outside melts slowly... only to return twelve hours later in a violent storm.


While the birds sing promise of fresh growth and green grass,
People die deaths, even in spring.
Disappointment and compassion know depths unheard of.
Others twist to grant themselves a mighty pat on the back for holding back the"I told you so's".
Their backs bleed raw with the lack of joy in it.
The old find that they move even more slowly, belaboured.
Weary of climbing steps to the church for more buns, more talk of souls in eternity.




Heart too large for the space of my throat, and never having been much of a dancer, I turn my eyes instead to the subtleties of lighting and colour.

Other songs will come.
My feet can then follow my heart.

God have mercy on us all.

Profiles From the Pediatric Witness Protection Service

*

Dopey:

With the voice of "Tickle-Me-Elmo" on inhaled helium, this little fella can be found hanging around the fridge sniffing at the air, sustaining himself for remarkably long periods of time on hardened mucous nodules, and burning so much fuel on constant , rapid motion that clothes from "mini-me" regularily slide down, revealing his backside.

*

Doc:

With a penchant for sound effects and humming tunes from everywhere, Doc lives a not-so-secret life in pink frills with a "lego guy" in each hand providing much needed balance. Has been known to entertain himself for four hours with a set of gummy-candy characters and never actually eat them at all. Too soft a heart to eat such close friends.

*

Happy:

Fully aware of his powers, he charms audiences with his dance moves, flawlessly performed to "The Crazy Frog Is Dancing". Given to throwing all things, round or not, and blessed with a deep fascination with the broom, dustpan, and vacuum cleaner. (Don't worry, he's sure to outgrow it before I can turn it to my good use).

*

Sneezy:

Wise beyond her years, Sneezy has been known to correct her baby-sitter for calling a backhoe a tractor. How very base of me. Sneezey has recently taken on the position of Assistant to the Childcare Provider, and can be found zipping zippers and buttoning buttons for "the kids" at outdoor play time.

*

Grumpy:

Brilliantly disguised as a willful child, Grumpy is highly intelligent, artistically skilled with pencil and colouring apparatus, and would be an excellent candidate for relocation to a culture not bound to deadlines or time management. Grumpy has the prettiest eyes, a charming smile, and the potential to go wherever she chooses to. Very likely to succeed.

*

Bashful:

Oh, this one is a charmer. If any evil exists within her dna, it is cleverly disguised under a halo of sunny ringlets that stray across the bluest little eyes you ever did see. If ever one is in need of information from Bashful, she can easily be hypnotised by animated motion. Most likely to become "Thumbelina" in her next lifetime, Bashful could melt any heart of stone. In a surprising twist, she has a hearty appetite and has been known to polish off a full bowl of unsweetened oatmeal at breakfast (her mother's idea, not mine!) and silently consume two entire hotdogs with ketchup for lunch. (My idea, not her mothers...)

*

*

*

**%$#@** Allow me to ammend this post slightly.

the name "grumpy" should now be reassigned to me: Daycare Lady.

If there is ONE THING that I can NOT tolerate, its being lied to.

I hate it with a deadly hate, and it breaks my heart.

Brother Ken

For an over analytical person, I don't seem to spend much time trying to make sense of my brother's death.

Others seem to move through their grief, dissolve into spontaneous tears at the sight of a photo or memory. I wish I would, it seems more natural.

I can't bear to hardly think of those he left behind. There is nothing to be said. There is no possible comfort- unless you consider something desparate like their happy reunion some eighty years and a lifetime or two away from here as being adequately reassuring.

Look at his eyes- so full of love. He wasn't always like that, its not the way I remember him when we shared a house under mom and dad. But life shaped him that way.... His wife's laughter, his soft, brilliant daughters.

I'm trying to prepare myself somehow for the upcoming summer season. That date that will mark the passage of time. The last day of school when we heard his diagnosis. A few warm weeks into September when his lungs took in that long rest.

I hope I can grieve then, like a normal person. I hope I don't translate it into something tangible, something simple, something complex.

I hope I can one day stand to see them without someone else having to plan it. There's no condemnation in it for me, I haven't felt like I ought to be "doing more", at least between me and God. But when others reach out to them intentionally, I feel a stab in me - as though there is something terribly wrong with my insides, that I don't have the conviction to try to engage.

I'm glad you came to peace in this life, Ken. But I'd have liked the privelege to become your sister-friend from this new vantage point. God grant me whatever it is that I need to be whatever it is that I need to be for your daughters.

No, Really

I've become one of those people who post pictures of their cats on their blog.

How to Care for Your Cat

You must provide a comfortable environment for your kitty to sleep in.
You will need to invest in a good scratching post. This large green one is a favourite, and doubles nicely for a parking space for the humans when American Idol comes on.

Don't forget to encourage good interpersonal skills. Henry the Hamster is an excellent citizen and has provided prime training grounds for the felines to practise self-control.

















Outdoor exercise and fresh air is critical to a cat's proper development. If you have an outdoor

tent erected just outside the back door, it also provides an excellent vantage point for her to

keep a guard on your house for you.


With those sharp teeth at your back door, your sense of security is ensured.


Kitties are highly intelligent. Stimulate their furry little minds with electronic game playing.

You will also find that the cat's contented purring will provide soothing melodies for any leftover toddlers you may have lurking about the house. A few minutes of white (or grey) noise, and the little gaffers will be fast asleep.