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.