I will refuse to hate because I know that love can do a better job.

I wrote this entry late December, but for some reson never posted it. Perhaps it is because words written into cyber space in some way hold people accountable to what they publish (insert sarcastic eye rolling smiley here). Part of me just thinks that I forgot. Whatever the reason, accidental, subconcious or fully concious, here it is for the world to see... my new year's resolution!

I am passionate. Too often that passion turns to anger, outrage and disappointment. I get frustrated because I feel that people are missing the point. We're here (on earth) to love God, love ourselves and love our neighbours as ourselves. This purpose has the power to change the world. The reality of the situation is that when my passion turns into anger I am missing the point. The other people, the source of my anger and disappointment, all of the sudden become irrelevant. My anger becomes my impotence.

Anger purvades what I feel is my very purpose for being on this earth. It pollutes my relationship with God and even my marriage. So why do I let it win so often?

I know every trendy "change-the-worlder" spouts off Bono quotes, but in this case, I feel vindicated in sharing a 'Bonoism'. In a recent speech Bono said he was inspired by the words of Dr. Martin Luther King and paraphrased a often quoted section of Dr. King's 'I have a dream speech' into a concise and poignant statement, In Bono's words, "I Refuse to hate, because I know love can do a better job." (SIDE NOTE: you can find a link to Bono's speech on my facebook page and in my links section to the far right).

Love can do a better job. In my blog description I made a commitment to change my life and change the world. So this mantra has become my New Year's resolution. In 2010 I will let love do a better job.

Putrid Humanity

Dear readers,

I fear that my blog does not provide a fair representation of my true human condition. My blog seems entirely too hopeful, entirely too positive and upbeat. Far too often I am in a foul mood, full of desperation, even anger. Somehow, in these times I am able to keep myself from putting finger to key. You can be assured that I am not always optimistic about the state of the world, not always upbeat about the (comparatively small) trials and tribulations that I face. It is not until the dust settles, and I am able to put a creative, positive spin on the events of my life that I dare tell anyone about the foulness, the putridity of being human that invades my soul on a regular basis.

A while back, I blogged about my grandmother's funeral, about the beautiful sprinkling of first snow that crowned the morning. If I were to have written that entry the same day of the funeral it would have sounded a lot different. My mother was driving me nuts. I had no patience for my husband, who fidgeted through the long catholic church service. My feet were cold and I was miserable. The funeral was nearly unbearable for me. My father was there. I hadn't seen him in 17 years. My uncle had asked him to stay away from us, so he made a childish game of "escaping" every time we would be within 15 feet of each other, and then looking at us forlornly, almost angrily when no one was looking. He was pathetic, almost sheepish, this man that had so much power when I was the child and he was the abuser. It made me hate him even more.

Hate is one of those conditions of putrid human nature that beguiles me. Part of me would like to believe that in this situation, Jesus, in his righteous power, would have responded by zapping him into oblivion, turning him into dust or something along those lines. Another part of me wonders if Jesus would have felt pity on this pathetic form of a man. I certainly did, and acknowledging this feeling only made me angry with myself. I only have a snapshot from which to judge this man, a glimpse of a childhood horror. Jesus can see him as a small boy, abused, ashamed, hurting. Jesus can see him as a man broken, addicted, ashamed. Every time I feel I have forgiven and forgotten this man, I am reminded that forgiveness is not a one time thing, put the nail in the coffin, it's gone now. It sickens me that I must forgive him, over and over and over. Jesus forgives me over and over and over.

To be entirely fair. It was not all terrible either. We left the funeral reception early. My husband, a man whose compassion for an often unruly wife astounds me, was in fine form that day. Without a word being spoken, he grabbed my warm boots from the trunk, drove me back to my grandmothers grave site, and held my hand as we walked across the snowy graveyard to where she was laid to rest. This was the moment that I blogged about. From his compassion I was able to pull some glimmer of hope and grace from this moment.

Perhaps, that is just who I am. I hold on to things, mull them over then finally extract some grain of positivity from the situation, as I try to convince myself that this new positive grasp of the situation is how I really feel. Is this habitual behavior just a coping mechanism? Have I just become adept at putting on a show? Part of me thinks this is true. The same part of me that wants my father to spontaneously combust. Another, greater, part of me believes that this is the mercy of God.

I am a perfectly imperfect example of the duality of the human condition. I am angry, a lot. I am sad often. I hold hate in my heart. I am capable of doing and saying terrible things to the people I love. I am positive. I experience moments of happiness often. Forgiveness and grace dwell in the deepest part of my being. I am capable of loving people so immensely that the world fades away. I guess this being a part of humanity, in all its putridity and beauty, is part of the journey.

Now that I have shared this with you, take heed. As you read my blog, do so with caution. Remember, at the heart of the positive words I share about my journey to change myself and change the world, is my anger, the smell of rotting flesh on battlefields of the DRC, and the faces of children that have gone hungry, been abused, and died at the hands of God's people; most importantly, remember that all of these things are washed in the light that humanity was created in the image of Christ. Amen.

Home Sweet Quonset Hut

Sometimes when we are in the vehicle, stuck in Calgary traffic, sometimes over dinner and sometimes lying in bed at night unable to sleep my husband and I dare to dream. Our dream is our glimmer of hope when we "smalltowners" are fed up of the city, can't stand the smell of smog, or are awakened by the sounds of sirens and a police chopper for the fourth time that week. We dream a realistic dream, but a difficult dream all the same. We dream of a simpler life. A life that gives more to the earth than we take. An honest life, one the requires hard work in abundance and love that overflows.

Picture this. Somewhere in Northern Saskatchewan, where the fishing is good and the seasons are wild, lies the perfect quarter section of land. The babbling of the small stream that winds through the untamed land can be heard from the porch of our quaint Quonset hut turned eco-friendly farm house (Phil's design of course). The goat kept out front keeps the lawn mowed for us, past the small red barn that houses our milk cow, and the few other animals that we raise for food, past the huge garden, and past the chicken coupe, three tall, white turbines spin ceaselessly. Behind the house, adjacent to our root cellar are the solar panels and utility shed, which houses our water pump and power storage apparatus. Phil, of course is out fishing for the day, and I am undoubtedly in my marvelous kitchen baking something delicious! All we can smell in this dream is hay, the wood crackling in the fire place, the clothes drying on the line and whatever I am baking that day. Sigh, this is our version of bliss.

I am going to post some pictures of Quonset huts to give you the "full effect." Basically Quonset huts are half cylinders made of corrugated steel, often used for industrial purposes as in the photo below:



As you can see from the following picture, people have been transforming cold steel industrial into energy efficient homes for years...



Is it bad that I actually miss the smell of manure being spread on the fields? I miss small town life, though I do enjoy the abundance of Vietnamese restaurants and Shawarma Hut's in Calgary, Phil and I both yearn for a place where no one has ever heard of a shawarma, or Pho, where the only sounds you can hear is the rumbling of a tractor and crickets. This is our dream of a better life!

Sigh, Lumby calling to the rest of the world...

Love is in the Air!

I have an intuition that love is inherently learned. It must be. It is not something that need be taught, but experienced. The truth must be that you can not love until you have been loved. God who formed you in your mother's womb, loved you before you even came into existence. Your mother, when you were first born, held you in her arms loved you. Your grandmother, who went to your Christmas concert, she loved you. We are given love and the ability to love from moments like these.

It's one of those days. I can't help but tell the whole world that I am in love. It is easy to neglect your spouse and ignore all the little things that you truly love about them. I am frequently reminded of how in love I am with Phil in very peculiar moments. I had one of those glimmering love moments today. The picture above is our lovely little dog Ollie, I guess you could call this his "baby picture" he is about 5 times the size now, weighing in at a whopping 7 pounds. I am not one of those purse dog people, but because we live in a condo, we could only have a small dog at this point. But Ollie is awesome, he can run more than 40 km per hour (which is a funny story, remind me to tell it sometime), he is a great hiker and an avid camper... and best of all, he can also kick it on the farm! Anyway, all of my little dog disclaimers aside, I love Ollie! Though my husband doesn't admit to loving Ollie very often, he does it in subtle ways. Today I overheard Phil having a heart to heart with Ollie about why he had to stay upstairs while I was working downstairs. It was an awesome moment! It reminded me that, under the gruff exterior Phil is really just a big softy.

In a related rant, I think that love, in general and in specific, holds great power in heaven and on earth. It fights all of those culturally whorish behaviors that dwell inside of us all. It fills the void we try to fill with sex, stuff and drugs. Love propels to us pursue great dreams. It helps us to realize amazing goals (like changing the world). Love gives us confidence to face the day as our authentic selves. Most importantly, love motivates us to give. I can say with an honest heart that I love my sponsored children, Alvaro is from Guatemala and Mamello is from South Africa. All I have of them are pictures on my fridge and few letters that I have sent to them. But I love them!

So love, love so that others may be blessed.

Christmas?

It has been difficult to get into the Christmas spirit this year. My husband and I are usually anticipating setting up the tree before the halloween decorations even go up. November 1st is our normal Christmas decorating day, we dispose of jack-o-laterns and set up the tree, but that did not happen this year. As I set up the Christmas tree last night, fussing with the lights, that would periodically work and then blink and then not work at all, I was feeling very sorry for myself. I kept thinking God, why can't anything ever go right in my life. Why don't these stupid lights work. Can you just give me a break here God?

Alas these questions were not answered concretely, but I did find myself feeling rather foolish for being so sorry for myself. I work for World Vision, each day I see the profiles of literally thousands of children around the world who, in the current global economic condition, are worried about where their next meal is going to come from. Children living with horrible sickness, unable to get the life saving medical attention they need. God's reply in conversations such as these never comes to me in words, it comes to me in the form of a profound "Aha" moment.

I will admit, we have had a string of misfortune lately. My grandmother passed away, the day we returned from the funeral my husband was fired from his job, we both got a very serious case of the flu, my flu progressed into an aggressive lung infection, Phil still doesn't have a job, I start my second job tomorrow, I am exhausted already. All those things suck, but that said, we do have a lot to be thankful for. My husband's job wasn't really that great anyway, and we are learning a valuable lesson about life on a budget, I am getting better with the help of several medications, and my new job isn't really all that difficult, and it is with a great organization, the Salvation Army, so it is going to further my career in the long run. I am thankful. And I do feel like an idiot for my little "episode" yesterday.

Things are tough all over. Feeling sorry for myself isn't going to change our circumstances. Feeling sorry for the 58 children from the developing world who died from poverty related causes while I typed this blog post isn't going to change anything either. Hard work will make a difference. Moments like this help renew my spirit, ignite my passion for creating global change and remind of the true heart of Christ. I have a reason to be hopeful, as I remember why Jesus was sent to earth all of the temporal circumstances that I am facing fade to the background where they belong, and my true calling resurfaces in the foreground. I celebrate that hope. I guess there is some intrinsic value to feeling sorry for myself after all, I learned the true meaning of Christmas. Happy Advent everyone!

The Earth Rebelled

I went home to the Okanagan for my grandma's funeral a little over a week ago and wanted to share some of my experience. I feel better writing about it now that I have had some time to grieve. My grandma was very connected to the earth, as I shared in my last post, she had an insationable green thumb. The morning of the funeral we woke up to an unseasonal snowstorm. The first snowfall. My grandma loved the first snowfall. At the burial if felt as if the whole earth was rebelling, mourning the death of our matriarch with us. The funeral flowers, red and white roses, were dusted in a fine sprinkling of beautiful sparkling snow flakes. The large mound of dirt that stood beside her grave sparkled as the sun poked through the clouds.

The funeral service was difficult, but very honoring to my grandmother's memory. Her casket was just as she would have chosen - baby blue with bright metallic flecks. Her eyes were beautiful bright blue! At the funeral my uncle graciously allowed me to read a eulogy to my grandmother.

I miss her, but I am doing much better! Thank you all for your prayers and warm wishes.

and so she soars on wings like eagles

Today I am trapped in my memory, remembering the woman who inspired me to be myself. After more than 9 decades on earth, my grandmother, my father's mother, finally passed from this world into eternity.

Isaiah 40:31 "those who hope in the LORD will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint."

My mom always told me that I have my grandma's hands. My grandmother's hands, which by all rights should have been calloused and weathered from years of hard work, were always unimaginably soft. Her hands felt like feathers. She had an insationable green thumb, she grew the most amazing garden and would always let me pick her flowers.

She gave life to everything she touched.

Even when she moved into a small apartment in a retirement building, her balcony was overflowing with life. As an adult, nearly every time I went to visit her I would bring her flowers, we joked that it is payback for all the flowers I picked over the years. God, I miss her.

I spent a lot of time with my grandma growing up. I was parented by a single mother, who never worked less than 2 jobs for most of my childhood to make ends meet. In many ways my grandmother filled the void where my father should have been. In my last blog entry I shared that I was a hideously awkward adolescent. I spent most every Saturday at my grandma's during my junior high years. I don't know how else to describe it other than to say that my grandmother loved me so much that she made it impossible for me not to love myself. She was there for every major event in my childhood, everything from my first broken bone, to my highschool graduation, to my baptism. Losing her feels like I am losing a parent.


I have been estranged from my father, her son, for nearly 15 years, which is almost all of my young life. When I travel home to say one last goodbye to my grandmother I will see my father, my abuser, for the first time since I was a child. I will be strong, will forgive him, and I will close the book on my relationship with my father forever.

From my grandmother I learned to love and be loved, I learned to forgive, I learned grace, she shared with me all that she could and that I am grateful for. My grandma was very ready to go. I am comforted by that. She lived a long, beautiful, difficult life. Her journey came to a natural elipses... and now she soars on wings like eagles.

Hoping that Lightning will Strike Twice...

I was bullied in Elementary school, but who wasn't? Being and awkward geek for most of my childhood and adolescence I was never quick with a comeback and never had the heart to actually say anything rude to other children. In true geek fashion I always took my mother's advice. When my mother would impart her wisdom on how to deal with school yard bullies, such as "Just ignore them"... "Walk away"... or "Tell the teacher next time it happens"... I would always smile and say thanks, but secretly I thought she was totally out of touch with the school yards of the early 90s. I mean, come on, my mom hadn't done hard time on the monkey bars since the 60s.

After one my unfortunate schoolyard encounters I would mull over the incident for hours, days afterwards, trying to think of and memorize the best possible comeback so that, should lightning strike twice, I would be prepared. I was, and still am, the type that likes to be prepared for everything, so surely this tactic would prove fruitful. Surely, not. As much as I hated my mother's suggestions, whenever I came into a situation, I would freeze. All of the masterful comebacks that I spent days preparing, gone. The only action I could take, the only words I could speak, were those of my mother. Heart pounding, I would clench my fists, ignore them, walk away, and tell. Ugh, how I hated myself for this behaviour. I knew that this pattern only branded me further as a tattle tale and contributed to my vicitimization, but still I kept doing it.

Needless to say, I survived the bullying fields, and monkey bars of Whitevale Elementary and have grown into a reasonably well adjusted adult. I did miss, however, that all to pivitol step in a bullied child's emotional growth... the life changing day when you stand up and pummel the bully either physically, or with outstanding wit. Not that I was never provided with the opportunity, but I found when those situations opened up, I just didn't have the heart to go in for the kill. I remember one day on the bus I noticed that the worst of them, Davey, had bolted from the bus, jacket tied around his waist, without sneering at me before he exited. I looked out the window and my mouth gaped open at what I saw. Davey had peed his pants! As I made eye contact with Davey my heart was pounding so hard I could hear it throbbing in ears, from the look on his face I knew I had beat him. I praised God, this is what it felt like to win the lottery, the bonus word on the spelling test from that morning finally had meaing. Elation! Just as I was about to shout it from the rooftops of the bus that Davey, a fourth grader, had peed his pants, the bus driver made eye contact with me in his rear view mirror and shook his head. A shock of guilt rushed through my body. I kept his secret.

It has been a long time since I have been publicly bullied. I can honestly say that last night was the first time in my albeit brief adult life where I was bullied by a grown man in public. Yesterday I had a quasi day off. I did have a meeting to attend in the evening, but was out and about for most of the day. I planned on returning home before heading to my meeting to change into something a little more business appropriate, and to grab the meeting information. Traffic was crazy, so I decided to head right to the Telus Convention Centre, downtown to ensure that I was on time for my meeting. My outfit was okay for the occasion, so I decided to chance it. I went into the convention centre and checked in with the Administration Desk to get the meeting room number. When I reached the top of the stairs I noticed everyone was dressed "black tie" and realised instantly that I was in the wrong place. Unnoticed by the crowd, I quickly turned back down the stairs and was met by one of the women from the Administration Desk. She apologetically informed me that she had given me the wrong meeting room number and offered to show me to the meeting room. On the way down the escalator I was joking with kind woman and said, "I thought I didn't quite fit in with at the black tie" gesturing at my jeans. Just then this business man, who neither of us had noticed was riding the stair above us, leaned over my shoulder, holding his hand over the reciever of his cell phone and said "No you really don't fit in," in a tone that implied that he disaproved of more than just my jeans.

A business man, in downtown Calgary, wearing his black tie, made the calcualted and callous decision to put his phone call, that was important enough to pull him away from the other black ties, on hold, just to insult a perfect stranger. A wave of indignation surged through my veins. But only for an instant. I did what I do best in these situations. I ignored him, and walked away. The woman and I gave each other a knowing look, she smiled and said "I hate dealing with those assholes," nodding towards the top of the stairs. We both laughed.

While, in this instance I was glad that I took the moral high ground, a part of me still feels like I let him win. I laughed to myself when I my mind wondered during my meeting and I imagined a whole host of come backs that would have left him reeling in his black tie. My personal favorite, "Here's my business card, call me when you want to apologize," and close second "$#%@#$* #$% @#$%@#$% &#%&^*."

I found out later that the event was actually a dinner party for the Premier of Alberta. I won't even get into obvious similes here, I will let you draw your own conclusions. But, sufficed to say, in the event that lightning strikes twice, I am prepared. Thanks mom!

Basted to Perfection

With Thanksgiving a week behind me, I feel like I have come to a place where I can blog about my experience. That said, one of my strong suits is actually my ability to look at the whole picture, rather than viewing an experience as a sum of the parts. In the end, the meal turned out great and love and thanks was shared among family and friends. While it was an interesting journey getting the turkey to the table, I guess all is well that ends well. I woke up early to clean, stuff and prepare our twenty-odd pound free range turkey. I got it into the oven without a hitch, did the prep work for all of the other dishes I would be cooking to accompany the beast and in record time! The house was clean, the turkey was basted and I was showered and ready for guests in record time. Sounds like things were shaping up well.

Thanksgiving day was the day our breaker box decided to throw in the towel. The only way to keep the oven on without blowing the breaker was to turn off and unplug every other appliance in the house. Even then, it would sometimes decide to flip sporadically. So I cooked, in the dark, with a flashlight in my apron pocket, ready at a moments notice to fly down the stairs and battle with the unruly breaker box. By the time the guests arrived to a dim candlelit home the smell of turkey filled the air, and I was more than flustered. My outfit was blotted with food stains, there was sweat on my brow and my hair do had quickly flattened.

Dinner was served just over an hour late, the turkey took a little longer than anticipated to cook, the guests were starving and I was exhausted. But, all trials and tribulations aside, dinner was delicious! In the end, the food was ate, the wine was drunk and the guests left happy. I went to bed paranoid, certain the power would go out in the middle of the night, we would miss out alarms for work and the refrigerator would shut off leaving me with a kitchen of spoiled food. But, thanks to the wine and the fact that I was exhausted I fell asleep nearly as soon as my head hit the pillow. Ahhh. Bliss.

Good thing that this was just a warm up for Christmas.

My New Website

Hello follower...

Awkward salutation aside, I have started a new website to share my short stories. I can not promise how often I will add new stories as the last one took me months to complete, but, the website exists, and I am hoping that will be motivation to keep writing! I have created a link in my "look ma' I'm on the web" section. The website is called My Story is Waiting. Enjoy!

And, thanks for the encouragement, those of you who sent emails and posted comments. It is much appreciated!

My Joy

I am becoming fully aware that my past is getting further and further away from the present. This brings me joy.

“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.” Kahlil Gibran

I love this quote. Some people wear a difficult childhood as a badge of honour. This is definitely a stage in recovery, but it is not what we are destined for. I had a childhood full of secrets. This is why I choose to answer questions as honestly as possible. It is a part of my story, but it is not my entire story. We are inteded to use these expereinces to grow into our true selves, more acurate reflections of character of God, but we are not intended to stalemate in our healing. I long to become one of these strong souls that Gibran refers to. Suffering is a real part of life in all its fullness. So today, in my joy, I pray for those who still hide behind their badge of honour, those children who are living in abusive homes, those souls who feel weak and small, and for those who do not suffer. Amen.

A Little Piece of Fiction

Sunday night I finished editing a short story that I have been working on for a couple of months now. It is still not perfect, but I think it is at the stage where feedback is welcomed! It is untitled as of yet, so if you have an suggestions for a title feel free to post them...

The last time we saw each other the whole world was watching. In contrast to the cloud of terrible, private secrets that I shared with my father, I savoured this public moment as a fitting end to our story.

We were at a live taping of Peter Popoff’s Miracle Holy Water infomercial. It was the single most romantic and enchanting moment of my childhood. I was swept up in crowd. This was only my second time visiting my father in Vancouver and I was captivated by city life. Earlier that week my father had taken me to an interactive exhibit of First Nations Art. Hands pounded together to the beat of the worship music and I imagined that each clap was the beat of a primal drum line. I closed my eyes and the thousands of people around me changed, the skin of their palms transformed to the smooth deer hide drum heads. The crowd was hot and pounding.

I was on my father’s shoulders surveying the cloud of witnesses. My eyes were fixated on the black lady standing next to me – not only because she was the first black person that I had ever seen up close, but because she was luminous. Beads of sweat gathered at the back of her neck and the soft line above her lip. She was speaking in tongues. The enchanted words seemed to drip from her mouth. Every time a new witness testified she would wave her arms gracefully above her head, shouting “Thank you Jesus” and I would lean forward hoping that her plump, dark fingers would kiss my cheek. As we listened to the stories of people who had been rescued from financial despair, miraculously recovered from limps and ailments and those who came to know the Lord and turned from their sinful lives with a single drop from their free packet of Mr. Popoff’s Miracle Holy Water my father’s body tensed. He was trying so desperately to believe. He began to sweat profusely. The veins in his forehead pounded uncontrollably. He looked like he was going to be sick.

He hastily lifted me down from my perch and grabbed at my arm, pulling me through the crowd toward the exit. He grabbed his free packet of Miracle Holy Water and we left. He was walking so quickly I could hardly keep up, one fist clenched around his packet of Holy Water, the other squeezing my hand. Without looking he pulled me into a busy crosswalk. I hesitated, he turned back to scold me and we froze at the sound of screeching tires. A cab stopped abruptly, dream catcher swinging wildly in the rear view mirror, directly on top of my father’s foot. He did not notice immediately, but as soon as the driver saw what had happened he started to panic. My father realized that he was trapped when his prosthetic limb shifted from the socket. His fist tightened around the packet of Holy water and he began to pound the hood of the yellow cab wildly, sprinkling the vehicle’s hood with the blessed liquid and keeping time with the primal drum line. My father let out a loud and agonizing moan as the taxi driver put the car into reverse and freed his foot.

Drunk on religion and humiliation my father let go of my hand and walked slowly to the bus stop, leaving a trail of Holy Water that evaporated almost as soon as it hit the hot pavement. I walked a few steps behind, listening intently to the sounds of the city, jack hammer pounding on concrete, feet pounding on sidewalk and the hiss of bus doors opening. Content, I marched behind him to the beat of the drum line.

When I caught up to him he was sitting on a bench at the bus stop, adjusting his prosthetic leg. I sat down beside him and watched him nervously. We made eye contact briefly, but never spoke. My father got up as the bus approached, as I stood he gave me a stiff handed wave, simultaneously saying his goodbye and motioning for me to sit back down. The drum line faded as I sat motionless on the bench until the bus was out of sight.

I gathered my thoughts for a moment, trying desperately to remember the steps that my mom had rehearsed with me before I left home. She told me that she was worried I would get lost in the city, really, she was worried my father would lose me. There was payphone just up the block. Carefully I dialed 911 and spoke calmly to the operator. I returned to the bus stop and sat in the place where my father sat only minutes before. I closed my eyes trying desperately to put the city sounds to the rhythm of the drum line. Calmly, quietly, I waited. The beat was gone.

Secrets of a Feminist Home Maker Pt.2

Have a thrifty, community focused, non-introspective day.

I recently watched a relatively hilarious youtube video called "How to Be Happy" check it out, it is posted in my links... over there -> The theme of the video is that less introspection and more living = happiness. I just realized that my blog is heavy on the introspection, light on the living part, that said, I am taking off to Radium for the weekend to soak in the Hot Springs, enjoy the anticipated snow, do some hiking, and live my life without a hint of introspection for a whole 2 days! I'll let you know how it went on Monday, with another long winded introspective rant!

Making Homemade Gingerale:

Supplies - 1 clean, plastic 2L pop bottle with cap, funnel, fine grater

Ingredients - 1 c sugar, 2 tbs freshly grated ginger (do not use powder, trust me on this!), Juice of 1 lemon, 1/4 tsp of baker's yeast, cold water.

Step 1: Using funnel pour sugar into bottle
Step 2: Add yeast and swirl around to ensure even distribution
Step 3: Grate ginger and add to bottle using funnel, don't worry if it gets a little stuck in the funnel, the next step will wash it down.
Step 4: Squeeze lemon juice and add it to bottle. Can add some zest aswell if a stronger lemon taste is desired.
Step 5: Add cold water until bottle is nearly filled to the top, leaving 1 inch of headspace.
Step 6: Invert the bottle several times to ensure sugar is dissolved. Note that the yeast will not dissolve, so do not overshake.
Step 7: Leave bottle sitting undisturbed for 24-48 hours at room temperature. You will know carbonation is complete when you squeeze the bottle and it is firm (no wiggle room). 2 important things to remember at this step, DO NOT shake the bottle during the fermentation process, this will result in a lack of carbonation. The second is to beware of explosions. It has never happened to me, but NEVER use a glass container or bottle and ensure that as soon as you think that the carbonation is complete, place bottle in the fridge. Once it is refrigerated there is no chance of explosion.

**Can be stored in fridge for up to 10 days before losing its carbonation**

ENJOY!!!

Secrets of a Feminist Home Maker Pt.1

Most people who know me know that I am feminist. Indeed I am, but I am that and so much more; I am a friend, a cyclist, a follower of Christ, a writer, a dreamer, a retired queen, a volunteer, a wife, a hippie ... and a domestic goddess.

My house is certainly not perfectly clean, there is a pile of laundry in front of the washer threatening to take over the hall, I can't remember the last time I used an iron, there are always dishes in the sink and I certainly do not vacuum in heels, but I am a domestic goddess in my own right. Feminism is not about trying to be better than men, abandoning the family model, or burning bras - it's about embracing and respecting the differences. In the same way domestic 'godesshood' has little to do with having a perfect home, coiffed hair or a chiffon cake cooling on the counter. Some of my greatest joys in life include; crisp fall mornings, saving the earth, and being the hostess with the mostess. I scrapbook, I sew, I recycle, I bake, I can preserves and make my own laundry soap because I enjoy it, and because it allows me to show the earth some love.

Long winded intro/disclaimer aside hear is the first installment of my "Secrets of a Feminist Home Maker"

Homemade Laundry Soap:

You will need 2 bars of body soap. You want to use white soap, not glycerin, and you'll also want to ensure that it is unscented and free from dyes. 2 1/2 cups of Washing Soda, I prefer Arm and Hammer Brand. 1 1/2 cups of BORAX. Both of these items can be found at most large chain grocery stores. 1 teaspoon of regular baking soda. I also like to add a little something for scent, I have experimented with vanilla, and nutmeg, but I usually just use peppermint oil or lavender oil (from health food store). If you are less concerned about smelling good, you can also use tea tree oil, this will help repel mosquitoes, ticks and head lice. You will also need a 10-20L container to make it in. I use a 18 L garbage can with a lid that clips in place, but really you can use a few ice cream buckets, or just add less water for smaller containers. The start up cost for this is about $30 (including container), but I have been making my own laundry soap for two years and I am still on my first box of washing soda and Borax, so its super affordable.

Step 1: Grate 2 bars of soap. Bring to boil in a large pot with 5-6 cups of water. When the soap is completely melted turn down the heat medium-low. **Do not take your eyes off the pot, it will bubble over.**

Step 2: Add Washing Soda, Borax and Baking Soda and stir until completely dissolved and liquid starts to gel. You will know if it starting to gel if you can see a ring on the edge of the pot. Add the scent now!

Step 3: Pour contents of pot into large container and add corresponding amount of COLD water (8 L works best, but you are making concentrated soap anyway, so it doesn't really matter how much you use, but make sure its at LEAST 3L). Now stir like crazy for about 3 minutes. I use a broom stick in my garbage can to mix it.

Step 4: Cover it and you're Done!! It will turn into the consistency of jello and may have some water that separates. When you want to do laundry mix half soap concentrate and half warm water in a bottle with a lid and shake. An old liquid laundry soap bottle works great for this and you get to reuse something, hooray! You will want to give it a little shake each time before use to ensure any clumps are dissolved. Use about a cup of mixed per load.

This laundry soap (in my humble opinion) works just as good as store bought brands and is suitable for use in HE front loading washers. It works great on cold wash cycles too! It does not get very sudsy, so if you have tough or heavily soiled laundry you can use 2 cups and be rest assured that it won't bubble over. To spite the plethora of steps and long winded directions it usually only takes me 20 minutes to make. Hey, and instead of using dryer sheets, which are full of carcinogens, try using "Nellie's Natural Dryer Balls" which can be purchased online. The link is posted in my "look ma' I'm on the web" section to the far right. They soften fabrics naturally and reduce drying time.

So, how does being a domestic goddess fit in with my plan to change the world? Well I think it is about lifestyle, about having a better relationship with your food, and creating better home life. Barbara Strickland, renowned writer and passionate feminist had this to say,

"What I am proud of, what seems so simply clear, is that feminism is a way to fight for justice, always in short supply."

Making your own laundry soap is not going to solve all the problems of the world but it does show the earth a little love. I am also a firm believer that if you take the time to make something yourself you will be less likely to waste it! It's one small step for social justice and one giant leap into domesticity. Stay tuned, because tomorrow I am going to tell you how to make homemade gingerale!

Typhoon Ketsana

Typhoon Ketsana has devastated the Philippines. For more information on how you can make a difference, check out my "look ma' I'm on the web" section to the far right.

You can also check out my newsreel to find out more about Typhoon Ketsana.

Homeless

The first chapter in re-evaluating my life is making myself right before God. While church attendance does not necessarily dictate my relationship with God, in my case, it is certainly an indicator that something is not right. For the past year I have been attending church haphazardly, "church shopping" and making just about every excuse for my lack of a home church. The truth is that I have been trying very hard not to be at home in any church. Metro didn't work for me for legitimate reasons, but what about the dozen other churches that I ventured into during my "search" for a home church? I would arrive at service no more than 5 minutes before it started, sit in the back and duck out before anyone had the chance to meet me. They were either too far away, too boring, too unfriendly, too pushy, too commercial, they wasted too much paper, I always had an excuse.

The truth is that I am heart broken. I had this amazing taste of real church, real community in Xalt. I was so wrapped up in my own life, that I did not realize that Xalt was withering. The numbers were dwindling and so were the funds. A building (the basement of another church that we used Sunday evenings) was no longer feasible. As a community the decision was made to move into 2 seperate home churches. I just couldn't bare seeing Xalt as I knew it as something different, segmented. So I departed. For a time I attended an awesome little church near my home. Metro was great, but there was no one my age or life trajectory in the community. There was no connection. I was this young married kid with an invisible husband. While I felt the loss, at Xalt I never felt it was visible that my husband was not there with me. At Metro his absence was deafening.

So, with a renewed committment to find a home church, I am promising to curb my habit of finding reasons why it won't work and pray my way through my search. I still worry about whether or not I will be accepted into a faith community, in my situation some churches would not even let me participate in ministry. I made a decision, that I have not regretted for a second since. As a very strong Christian I made the decision to marry my amazing, generous and kind husband Phil, who is not a Christian. This said, I have met some adversity for this decision in main stream Christianity.

Excuses aside, I will be real about my search for a home. I will pray into each step of the journey and try not to think too much. As I search, I will blog honestly, and openly about each experience and try not to lose sight of my reason for searching. I am open to suggestions, so if you hear about a great church post me a comment and I may check it out.

Blessings, Melissa

Reclaimed

A surge of anger fueled adrenalin pulsed through my body this morning when I opened my door to check the mailbox and noticed that my bike was stolen from right outside my front door. The lock that I used to chain it to the gas meter was all that was left. My bike is not exactly a desirable item, it is a beat up, brown cruiser bike with a flat tire, no brakes and a broken kick stand. That said, it is also very identifiable with its rainbow happy face bell and basket. I absolutley LOVE my bicycle! Admittedly I do not live in the best neighbourhood in town, but many of my neighbours chain their bikes up outside, so I felt comfortable leaving my bike outside. That is, until it was stolen. Someone went to a lot of trouble to take my bike, first attempting to pick the lock, then breaking the lock cover, then finally cutting the cable with a tool. I hate being a victim. I hate the invasive feeling that being a victim of theft left me with. I decided to take the dog for a walk and check a couple of alley's for my bike. I did not make it very far. Two houses down from ours I saw a glimmer of metallic brown through the fence boards. I was filled with hope as I peered over the fence and saw, leaning against the fence in my neighbours backward, my beloved bike. I knocked on the door and a young man answers.

Me: Hi, I am your neighbour, my name is Melissa, are your parents home?

Him: Ahh nope, can I help you.

Me: Well, look, my bike was stolen last night and I was walking by and happened to notice it parked in your backyard.

Him: No I dont think that is your bike, are you sure?

Me: Well it is a vintage brown bicycle with happy face bell, so yes I am sure.

Him: *Gives me a skeptical look*

Me: Well I am going in there and taking my bike.

Him: You can't do that.

Me: Well either I'll go back there and get it myself or I will call the police and get them to go and get it.

So that said, I went and got my bike and took it home. I gained little satisfaction from telling off my neighbours. I still feel invaded and the truth is that the problem runs deeper than the bike.

Whelmed

I wouldn't say that I am overwhelmed by the process of re-evaluating my entire life, but it is definitely a "whelming" experience. Lately, I have spent a lot of time putting pencil to paper to try and set some realistic goals for myself. In this process I am tempted; a very real, very large part of my being wants to draw into myself and settle comfortably into my life, but there is also this little part of me that will not let me. This loud irritating itch that keeps reminding me that I need to do something. I need to be changed and make change. A part of myself that reminds me that I can not and will not be silent.

Sneak Peak

I am firm believer that this generation, my generation, has been called to change the world, to quote Bono "The fact is that this generation... we're the first generation that can look at poverty and disease, look across the ocean to Africa and say with a straight face, we can be the first to end this sort of stupid extreme poverty, where in the world of plenty, a child can die for lack of food in his belly." I also believe that this change must first and foremost take place on a very real, very personal level. This said, I realize that I must change myself, my lifestyle, my way of thinking, to change the world. The stereotype of the self effacing servant is perhaps not functional in the 21st century. I need to change myself in order to make the greatest, best possible impact in the world.

Micah 6:8

He has showed you, O mankind, what is good.
And what does the LORD require of you?
To act justly and to love mercy
and to walk humbly with your God.

So how do I respond to this? Change. Let myself be changed. Stay tuned!

Apologies from a deliquent Blogger

While I do not have any followers I still feel the need to apologize for my blogger diliquency. My last post was at the end of March and let's just say a lot has happened in the last 6 months.

I have found a center. I am more resolute than ever in my work. It is no surprise that the last year has been a difficult one, personally, professionally, spiritually, but I am back, with a plan for recovery! Stay tuned (acknowledges non existant audience) as I unveil my plan to develop a completely amazing life changing plan... yes I just made a plan to make a plan.

Peace of Mind

I am continually reminded, in my times of weakness, that the world is changed through prayer. A wise professor of mine once told me that prayer requires both silence and action...and so I will pray.

People of Change

In my life I feel very fortunate to be where I am. I never expected that at 22 I would be married to an amazing man, graduating from university, and have the career of my dreams. I am so blessed to be a small part of what World Vision is doing to change the world! I can't imagine where I would be right now if I would have continued on the trajectory I was on...void of adventure, empty in spirit and cramming for the LSATs! I am so glad that I made the decision (free will or otherwise) to follow my heart, to embrace love, and to choose to make a difference in the world!

I met some really amazing people this week and shared some inspiring conversation about changing the world. I am absolutely certain that Peter Clark and Renuka Mohan are going to change the world! They will be travelling to Rawanda this summer with World Vision's Destination Life Change program and documenting their journey on their awesome website, redtv.ca. Many of my friends have asked me about the Destination Life Change program, and I encourage those of you who are interested to follow Peter and Renuka on their journey!

So check it out... www.redtv.ca!

It started down the hall from a morgue...

In trying to discover my roots I realize that my committment to this idea of leaving a legacy began down the hall from a morgue. I realized that I wanted to change the world while I was working at a hospice in rural Alberta. My office was in the basement of the hospice, symbollic, really, of the difference in life trajectories of those dwelling on the main floor and those working for 8, 9, 10, 12 hours a day in the offices below. Above my desk, next to the clock that frequently reminded me that I had been there for too long, was a scrap of paper rescued from the recycling box in the children's play room upstairs. On this scrap of paper was a picture of Spiderman battling Dr.Octopus, drawn by child. Next to Spiderman and between Dr. Oc's tenticles I had written, on one of my first days at the Hospice, a fragment of a Bible verse, "Blessed are those who mourn for they shall be..." That was a particualrily trying day, I could not even bring myself to finish writing the verse because I was not all that sure that those who mourned in the rooms above me were really all that comforted. Over time I began to realize the beauty and infinite mercies of this time of life. One of these such mercies is the idea of leaving a legacy. On occasion, one of those beautiful life filled people who have seen almost everything, who have sucked the very marrow out of life, came to the hospice to die and to tell their story one last time. There were also those that seemed to be engrossed right in the middle of their stories, young, suffering from disease and haunted by the future that they would be leaving behind. They came to the hospice to try and write an ending before their story came to its natural end. And then there were those who seemed ready, their story had come to a natural elipses... The End.

I shared my office with the hospice accountant - a stunningly beautiful middle aged woman with an affinity for red shoes and fiery temper. To one side of our office was the office of the house manager. His office was a wonderment! A cavern filled with oxygen tanks, whirring dials and snaking pipes. Christmas decorations, ceramic pumpkins, discarded wheel chairs and cold cement walls. Jerry dwelled in the underbelly of the hospice. Jerry was the man behind the scenes, often overlooked, always underestimated and the person I naturally gravitated towards. He understood the way the world works, the way people work and had the uncanny ability to see the mechanics of everything upon a first encounter be it an unruly dishwasher, a new staff member or business plan. This character trait simultaneously inspired me and scared the hell out of me. Just a little further past Jerry's office, past the kitchen, past the laundry, was the morgue... The morgue was small, windowless, and empty until it wasn't. Jerry asked the tough questions. And so the idea of leaving a legacy began to roll around in my head - what will I do with my life between this moment of realization and the moment I am wheeled into a small, windowless room?

Looking at the glass, not through the window

This is from a blog that I had a couple of years ago and have since forgotten about. Before I deleted it I wanted to copy one of the entries to my new blog to give myself some roots. This is such a part of my journey! Reading this short entry brings me back to that summer, before I was married, when I was only half way through my degree in university, and just starting my career. So here it is:

Looking at the glass, not through the window.
On the bus this morning I spent a few minutes watching the tiny beads of condensation that had accumulated on the window. As I watched these beads merge together to form long, streaky drips across the window I noticed that as soon as the molecules gathered enough to form a drip, they then succumb to gravity leaving part of their new fledged community behind. These small molecules, left to the mercy of the sun, quickly evaporated and became a part of the wind. My eyes turn to the page of my book for a moment and then I begin to wonder what it would feel like to evaporate. How amazing it would feel to become a part of the wind! I think about the logistics of condensation. Ideally I would re-condense in my human form; whole, unchanged. But, in actuality, I think that some particles would be forever freed from their bodily prison, only to be enslaved for an eternity by the wind and the rest of my particles would probably be irrevocably disordered. The fact is, you can not become a part of the wind without being changed. And so I decide, right now, that if ever I am presented with the oppurtunity to evaporate and become irrevocably changed by the power of the wind, by the power of the One who makes the wind blow, then I will take it. I will leap from my community of molecules and lay in the heat, clinging to the bus window, waiting for each part of me to be inhaled by the sun and released into the wind. I will sacrifice the temporal for an eternity in the wind.


So this is where I have left off in my journey, a dreamer dreaming a million dreams. My dream now is to leave a legacy, a legacy of positive change, global change...

I will change the world.