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.

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.

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.