As long as their is light, there is hope....

I came across this picture on Facebook and I think it has an important message. 

Our culture today tells us that if people aren't a benefit to us, if they don't bring us joy, if they aren't positive and productive, then it's okay to rid your life of them.

But we all have times when we walk in darkness and I am grateful for those who did not abandon me in mine but offered to share their light.

And while I walk through this period of sunshine in my own life, I hope that I look for opportunities to share that light with those who are in the dark. Because as long as one of us has light, there is hope and there is a way!


Isaiah 9:2 The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned. 3 You have enlarged the nation and increased their joy.

Redeeming Father's Day.

Father's Day is coming up this weekend...there are always mixed emotions for me. My dad died in 2000.  I miss him. I was always 'daddy's little girl'. We had a very close and special relationship. But I cannot let time, sentimentalism and wishful thinking allow me to make him into something he wasn't.

He was a difficult man. He had demons that he never conquered in this life. And his struggles impacted my life in ways that still resonate and cause ripples. The word father brings up feelings in me that are complex and conflicting.

However, I also know that my father came to know God, or I should say became reacquainted with God, in his final days and I find such peace and joy in picturing my father, such a wounded man in this life, whole and healed and restored, face to face with the living God. I take great comfort in knowing that we will meet again, and when we do, all those worldly problems will no longer come between us.

Father's Day also has another meaning for me because  I share my life with a man who is the father of MY children. And I am overwhelmed by the blessings he has brought not just to my life, but to that of our children.

Our children have a father who not only loves them to pieces, but respects them. They have a father who will not only gives them everything he can, but also teaches them to do for themselves.  He has been, is and I know will continue to be, a fine example for our children.

He is teaching our son what it means to be a man in this world. He is also teaching our daughter.

They will both grow up knowing that men can be strong without being dominant, filled with faith without being judgemental, committed and loyal without being a doormat. He is teaching them what it means to be loved in healthy and renewing ways.

This incredible man I married takes parenting so seriously. He considers it the most important job he will ever do. And yet, he brings such a sense of fun and silliness to our lives. He teaches us how to laugh at ourselves. He finds the ridiculous in the mundane. He takes us on a journey of laughter and joy that makes even the tough times bearable. His irreverent sense of humour is, I believe, one of God's great blessings to our family.

I am blessed beyond measure to share the job of 'parent' with this incredible man who has redeemed the role of 'father' for me in so many ways. I love you pieces, my beloved husband.

Happy Father's Day.

For the love of the game.

Yesterday I had the great privilege of attending the Special Olympics to watch my son compete in the elementary school events.  This was my third year and it was, once again, the highlight of school field trips for me.  Each year they begin with a processional.  All the kids march in with their school banner held out in front of them.  Bagpipes pipe them in as the Police band plays.  A professional announcer calls out the names of all the schools.  A professional motivational speaker opens up the games.  Retired teachers, staff from several businesses and lots of community volunteers are walking around organizing and encouraging and smiling. 

And as I watch, my wonderful, beautiful, autistic boy jumps and dances and sings and waves his hat in the air, proudly wearing his school colours and smiling with an openness and joy that brings tears to my eyes and brings this mama’s heart near to bursting with love and gratitude.  Here, in this sacred space, these kids—some, like mine, with autism, some in wheelchairs, some with Down syndrome, some with complex challenges not easily defined—here they are all the same.  Here, they all belong.  Here, they are all athletes.  That is how they are referred to by the announcers.  That is how they are treated by all the event organizers.  That is how they see themselves as they run and jump and throw. 

Each event is set up exactly as it would be for any sports team or competition.  Real equipment.  Real timers.  Real long jump pits and real race tracks.  Real scores are kept and tallied and compared with real winners and losers.  And through it all, these wonderful kids are treated with a respect and a seriousness that is often missing from other aspects of their lives.  Here, they get to be ‘just like’ the other kids.  For a few hours they get to experience what their ‘normal’ peers take for granted:  the ability to compete, the chance to win, and the chance to lose; to experience the anticipation of waiting for race results and final scores.  They mount the podium to receive ribbons, or they practice good sportsmanship as they cheer on their friends and classmates in spite of their own disappointments.  There are no consolation prizes or participation ribbons.

For a few brief hours yesterday I got to experience being the typical parent at a typical track and field event.  Except that in many ways it was not typical.  Most track events don’t have wheelchair races.  I imagine that relay races don’t require a peer coach.  When I was in track and field long jumpers couldn’t hold their teacher’s hand as the ran down the course.  There were so many things, large and small, that reminded me that this was not a typical experience.  But it was nonetheless a better one.  Because these kids were not competing with each other.  Oh, they were quite serious about their ribbons and prizes.  But competition was not the spirit of the day.  Inclusion was.  Respect was.  The opportunity for everyone to participate was at the centre of everything. 

I watched my son participate in a relay with a boy who had significant physical challenges, costing them a first place ribbon.  And then I watched him laugh for joy when he was presented with the second place prize.  We talked on the way home not about how they lost first place, but about how great it was for that boy to be on a team that placed second…probably a first for him. 

Throughout the day I smiled and laughed and winked conspiratorially with other parents who were experiencing the same happiness as me.  Walking through the gates of the stadium we had all dropped the weight of being ‘special needs’ parents and became simply ‘parents’ cheering on our athletes.  For a few hours, we were free from stares and comments, misunderstandings and pity.  For a few hours we were surrounded by people who saw our children not as burdens or exceptions but as athletes yearning to play in the games.  For a few hours, we knew the joy of celebrating our special kids for the things that make them truly special…their humour, their perseverance, their sportsmanship, their kindness, their willingness to keep on trying. 

There is an old sports expression:  For the love of the game.  That’s what I saw at Special Olympics.  I saw students coming together from different backgrounds, with different needs and a variety of challenges, and playing for the love of the game.  The freedom they found in that…the freedom to enjoy participating over winning, the freedom to celebrate an opponent’s victory as much as your own, the freedom to include everyone and exclude no one, regardless of ability…that freedom is something every athlete should get to experience.  But I fear that in the fierce competitiveness and pressure of sports today, playing for the love of the game is often missed, often lost. 

And so as I left the stadium yesterday, picking up once again the mantle of ‘special’ mama, I felt sorry for those ‘normal’ kids, competing in ‘normal’ games because I knew that no matter how many games they won or trophies that they accumulated, they would never know the pure joy of playing just for the love of the game that our kids experienced that day.  And I said a special prayer of gratitude for the many and unexpected blessings that God has rained down on me, chief among them my beautiful boy and his amazing joie-de-vivre!

This has always been one of my favourite photos of my son. These are his last precious days as a 4 year old.

It is a time before words like 'autism' and 'IEP' and behavioural modification' entered our lives. It would be six more months before we had answers and a new journey.

But here, at this moment, we are winding down his first year of school. We are sighing with relief that melt downs and battles of will and phone calls from the principal are coming to an end, at least for a few weeks. We are sighing with gratitude for the amazing teachers and staff who have supported and encouraged us this past 10 months.

It is a moment when life paused and joy entered in. It is hot. It is sunny. We are safe in our little home with our family. It is the first day for the sprinkler. He is wet and happy and eating cherries on the porch. This is a moment of pure childhood innocence, filled with warm breezes, skinned knees, laughing children and a contented mama.

Don't lose the Precious Moments

I wrote this seven years ago...it's still true...

 

I find myself talking to young moms lately...at playgroups, church, the park...women with kids come together and we inevitably begin sharing our 'war' stories.

Maybe it's because I'm facing 40 in a few more months, maybe it's because I waited and hoped for children for longer than most of the other moms I meet, but I am a little saddened by the desire to rush through this time in the trenches.

Yes, young children are a lot of work. They wear us down and wear us out and some days it seems like it will never end, we will never get 'our lives' back, never again have 'me' time.

In particular I hear younger moms tiring of breastfeeding and the late night trips to the nursery. I'm still doing that myself and trust me, it's a lot harder at 40 than at 25 or 30. But I wouldn't miss it for the world. I'm in no hurry for it to end....

This time, these few precious years, will not come again, we will not pass this way again. Nor will our children.

The other night, about 3 a.m., after nursing my little one, I just held her, sleeping in my arms, trying to memorize those soft cheeks and fragile eyelids. I watched her gentle breathing and bent my head to smell that sweet smell only babies have. And I smiled with joy and wonder and the miracle of the little life in my arms...a life that all too soon will not need this nightly nourishment from me, will not need me to change and feed and clothe her, will not need the reassurance of my arms to drift off to sleep.

As I headed back to bed, I paused to look in on my son, almost 5 now and becoming more independent each day. I hear choruses of "I can do it myself" and "Don't worry mommy, I'm a big boy now, I don't need help." And I strain my memory to remember those late nights in the nursery when all he wanted was the comfort of my breast and my arms. I love the little man he has become, but some days I wonder, where did my baby go?

Don't rush the precious moments...these years are short....slow down, pause, take the time to really look at your children...hold them, cuddle them, read to them, enjoy them. Believe me, in a few years, it will be hard to remember what they looked liked, sleeping in your arms.

We live in an age of speed and stress and hurry and busy-ness. We compare notes about how full our daytimers are...how many things we can get done in a day...and we look for short cuts, for ways to 'find' more time.

God gave us 24 hours in a day. That's all. What we get done in that time is what we get done...we can't beg, borrow or steal any more minutes. But we can lose them. We can lose the precious moments. And what a shame that would be.

Easter Reflection: Who is it you are looking for? The danger of certainty.

I preached this Easter Sunday on the question Jesus asks Mary at the empty tomb, when she still believes that he is the gardener.  He asks her, “Who is it you are looking for?”  This question goes beyond the physical location of a body.  This question is the fundamental question of faith, of all spiritual seeking and endeavour.  “Who is it you are looking for?”

Over the centuries many people much smarter and more eloquent than I am have attempted to answer that question.  I am grateful for their explorations and the excellent books of literature and theology that resulted.  But in my heart of hearts I have the feeling that it is a question we are not meant to fully answer, at least not in this lifetime.

Who is it you are looking for?  Of course, the answer is supposed to be Jesus Christ, it is supposed to be God.  And that is the answer.  But can we ever really know him?  Can we every really and truly know the one for whom we seek?  I don’t believe so. How can we know the creator of the universe?  How can we fully know an omniscient, omnipresent, all powerful Being?

The danger, I think, comes if we ever think that we have finally answered the question.  When we can say with certainty that we know the one we are looking for, I think that is where we run into tremendous trouble.

There are many things about my faith of which I can and of which I am completely and absolutely certain.  I am certain of the love of God.  For me and for you and for this whole messed up, broken world.  I am certain of the grace of God; grace that covers all my sin; grace that bled and died on a cross so that I could be free.  I am certain of my salvation through the Resurrection of Jesus.  God has raised his son to new life and in my certainty of that I, too, inherit a new life in a new kingdom. 

I am certain that as a result of my salvation God wants to lead me down a path of sanctification.  If I follow that path I will continue to be renewed, to be made holy…which, after all, means to be fit for the presence of God.  I am being remade into the best version of myself.  And I am certain that there is nothing in all creation, not even death itself, that can ever again separate me from the love of God.  Of all this I am absolutely and unfailingly certain.

But do I know the one I am seeking?  No.  I do not.  Oh, I know facets of him.  I have encountered him in dark valleys and on high mountain tops.  He was with me just this morning as I struggled through chronic pain to make my children’s lunches for school.  He sits with me as I enjoy the sun and fresh breeze of this early spring day. 

He wept with me on Good Friday as I relived, once again, the depth of the sacrifice made on my behalf.  He sang joyously with me on Sunday as I once again gave thanks for new life…both His and mine. 

But do I know Him?  Can I ever fully know him?  Yes, yes I can…but not now, not in this world, not in this life.  In this life, God is found in the mystery, in the unknowing.  When we become certain, we become complacent.  We cease seeking the Divine.  We cease wondering over the unknowable.  We become hardened in our view and our doctrine because WE KNOW. 

We can see it in the stories of scripture.  Those who had the most religious knowledge, those who spent the most time in study and prayer, those we were the most SURE of whom they were seeking, were the first to reject and ultimately to destroy the very One whom they swore they loved.  Their certainty of the path led them to reject the Way.

We see it in the church today.  We see the certainty.  The certainty that we KNOW God, that we know his character, his mind, his heart.  We are certain that we know how He feels about marriage, about gender, about sexuality, about birth control, about war, about other faiths.  We are certain that we know what is right and what is wrong, what is good and what is sinful.

But the longer I walk this path, this Way with God, the less certain I become that I know anything at all.  And when I find myself wandering and uncertain, I remember that I am not called on to have answers, to know the one I am seeking…I am called to continue seeking him. 

And as Paul promises, if we continue to seek Him, then there is one thing of which we can always be certain:

³⁸ For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, ³⁹ neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.  --Romans 8

 

Happy Easter Everyone.

Lenten reflections....

I haven't posted here in a while but I feel an increasing need to write again.  Today I wanted to share a message I wrote for the last Sunday of Lent this year.  It is written from the perspective of Mary of Bethany as she anoints Jesus' feet with the fragrant oil, nard.  I hope you enjoy it...

 The house is full.  People have been arriving all afternoon. The men have eaten the meal Martha prepared and are lying on the dining couches, at rest, talking softly. 

          I sit against a wall, watching, listening.  My sister continues to clear the dishes and left over food.  She loves having a house full of people to feed and fuss over.  I know I’d only be in her way so I stay where I am, watching my Lord.

          He is listening intently to John right now.  But I know that his beautiful smile and wonderful laugh could burst forth at any moment.  Jesus is so full of the joy of life.  His smile always comes so easily and it lights up his face, it lights up the whole room.  I could watch and listen to him forever.

          But I know that is not to be.  The Master has been talking more and more about his own death.  This is a real possibility.  The Jewish leaders have made no secret about their hatred for this man who proclaims himself to be the Messiah.

          To me, he is Yeshua bar Yoseph, my friend, my mentor, and so much more.  He is Emmanuel, God with us, real and tangible. 

Lost in thought, I hear his musical laugh and look up.  He is smiling but there is a sadness around his eyes.  He knows.  He knows the end is near. 

How can they all sit, eating and drinking and talking as if nothing is wrong, as if their Master isn’t afraid and worried, as if he isn’t facing a great and terrible future?  I can see the sorrow behind the smile.  It breaks my heart. 

I can hear the clattering of dishes.  Martha, clearing another table. 

Martha.  Always busy when she is stressed.  I know she senses the impending crisis, too.  And I know she is worried for Jesus, just as I am.  She shows it with this busy-ness.  She shows her love in service…feeding people, serving them…it’s her act of devotion.

          I look back to Jesus.  He is sitting quietly now.  The conversation has moved away from him.  His friends are arguing good naturedly about something, again.  They are always debating and discussing. 

I know it frustrates Jesus sometimes, but he so obviously loves them, these friends who have followed him faithfully for three years now.  He watches them and the sorrow creeps back into his eyes.

          I can’t bear it.  I love him so much.  He has done so much for me, for my family.  As I look across the room I see my brother, Lazarus.  He wouldn’t be here, eating with us, if not for the love and grace of this wonderful man. 

The power of God that flows through our Rabbi is overwhelming to behold.  Many who did not see it for themselves have simply refused to believe it. 

          As I look back to Jesus an idea comes.  I know what I can do for him.  I know how I can show my love. 

I get up and head into my private chamber.  Under my bed, hidden, wrapped in cloth, is a beautiful box of alabaster.  Inside there is something so precious, so priceless, that I had been saving it for a special and sacred day.  Today feels like that day. 

I unwrap the cloth and the scent of the nard seeps through the seal of the box, musky and deep and reminiscent of death.

          This sacred oil has been used for years in the rituals of anointing.  As a woman I have never been past the women’s court in the temple but I have heard that the priests use this same nard on the sacred altar.

          I walk back into the dining room.  The men are still talking, Jesus is still listening quietly, reclining on his couch.  I come up silently behind him, not sure how to proceed. 

Usually a guest is honoured by having oil poured over his head, but I dare not.  That is too much.  He is too holy, this man of God, to be anointed by a poor and weak woman like me.

          As I look down at him I see his feet, dusty from the road, resting at the end of the couch.  Yes, that’s what I will do.  I will wash his feet with this most precious nard. 

          I kneel down and break the seal on the box.  I pour some of the oil over his feet, not daring to look up at him, not sure how he will react.  Will he reject me?  Will he chase me away?  Will he be angry? 

          As I begin to spread the oil the scent of it becomes almost overpowering.  It begins to waft through the room, filling up every crevice, every corner. 

Slowly, the conversation dwindles and then stops as the odor of the perfume catches everyone’s attention.  They all know what it is.  They all know what is used for. 

          I finally dare to look up at Jesus.  He is watching me with the kindest eyes I have ever seen.  His love overflows and wraps around me like the scent of the nard. 

I begin to cry in the face of this all-encompassing love from my Lord.  My tears fall onto his feet, mingling with the fragrant oil.

          I realize that I haven’t planned this well.  Jesus’ feet are now covered in my tears and the sacred oil is dripping onto the floor.  But I have nothing with which to wipe his feet clean again. 

Everyone is watching.  His friends are beginning to look annoyed.  I begin to feel embarrassed. 

Quickly, I take the ribbon out of my hair, letting it fall free, ignoring the gasps of the crowd.  I know that only a woman of low character would show her hair in public like this, but what else can I do.  I begin to use my long dark hair to wipe the oil from Jesus’ feet.

          Judas is walking over.  He frightens me.  Always so sour.  Always so harsh with his tongue.  Always criticizing.  His eyes more on the coin box than on our Master.

          I can tell he is angry with me and I prepare myself for his criticism and censure.  I can barely hear what he says in my fear.  Not fear of Judas, but fear that  my Lord will realize that what I am doing is inappropriate.  I can handle Judas’ rebuke, but I don’t know what I would do if Jesus turned to me with disappointment on his face.

          Judas is complaining about the cost of the nard.  It is very expensive, more than most men make in a year.  He feels that I should have sold it and then used the money for the poor.  Of course he thinks of the cost. 

Does Jesus realize, I wonder, that his friend takes a percentage of all the alms given for the poor?  Does he know that his trusted treasurer betrays at every turn?  Does he know the true character of Judas?  He must not, or he would not trust him with the coin box.

          And maybe Judas is right.  I hadn’t thought this through.  I hadn’t considered the cost of my actions. 

Jesus will probably feel as Judas does.  After all, he loves the poor as no one else does.  He is always telling us to care for the least among us.   I am a fool. 

          I glance up at my Lord.  He is still looking at me with the same love and kindness as before.  I begin to cry harder.

          Then he turns to Judas and rebukes him!  As I listen to the Master’s words I realize that he knows!  He knows why I did this.  He knows how precious that oil was to me.  Maybe he even knows that is was the last gift my own father gave me before he died. 

And he knows that I have seen his sorrow; that I am already mourning with him and for him.  He knows that, as Martha shows her love in her cooking, this is my act of love for him…giving to him that which has been most precious to me. 

          I hear him telling Judas to leave me be.  Jesus, my Lord, protecting and defending me, a weak and foolish woman!  I am humbled and overcome with love.

          I can see that Judas does not understand.  Jesus understands.  He knows that he will soon die.  He knows that his time with us is short.  He is trying to tell Judas that the good work for the poor will continue, as it always has, but there is so little time left for all of us to be together with Him, with the Messiah.

          But Judas, as always, has missed the point.  He turns away, angry.  The rest of Jesus’ friends seem confused, unsure of how to react. 

          Then Jesus looks down at me, still crouched at his feet, my hair, slick with the sacred oil, still draped across his ankles.  And he smiles.  That beautiful, wonderful smile so filled with love and understanding. 

He is looking in to my soul.  He sees me, truly sees me.  And I know that I do not need to say a word. 

But the sadness is there, too, behind the smile, never quite gone from his eyes.  And as he reaches out to put his hand on my head, stroking my hair, I can see the tears glistening in his eyes.  My own tears continue flow. 

As we sit looking into each other’s eyes I know as I have never known before what this is costing him.  I sense with an awful foreboding that the price that needs to be paid in order for me to enjoy his love will be a truly terrible price indeed. 

I want to beg him not to do it.  I want to tell him that he doesn’t have to, not for me.  But I know that my protests would be useless. 

I can see the love in his eyes, not just for me, but for all us, all of us there in that room, all of the people gathering outside, even for those who are plotting to kill him.

          And I know that that love needs to pay the price for us.  I know that I have to let him pay that price for me, even as it breaks my heart. 

          I break his gaze, lowering my head, and finish wiping the oil from his feet with my hair, as the house is filled with the fragrance of the perfume….. 

 

Long pause…..Prayer