Blue Monday

This past Monday was Blue Monday – the (unscientifically) saddest, most depressing day of the year.

Blue Monday fell on the coldest day of the winter this year here: -34° C, with a windchill of -43° C.

Incidentally, it also fell on the anniversary of my first introduction to Mortality. I remember the day, the supper, when the phone call came that my beloved Grandma had died, suddenly and unexpectedly. I was five. Death smelled blue, pale blue.

It seems to me that Mortality has been skulking around this winter, flashing it's black and ugly coat.

Earlier this winter, I was at the funeral of an older gentleman, the church filled with friends and family, children, grandchildren, great-grand children accumulated over many well-lived years.

A few short weeks later, I attended the funeral of a childhood friend who died suddenly and unexpectedly. It was heart-wrenching to see her grieving parents, her little motherless children, sitting bewildered in the front row.

The evening before Blue Monday, we were invited over for supper with a kind older lady, who told us of her son who had been killed in a vehicle accident many years ago. He had been five at the time. Had he lived, he would have been the same age as me.

I have too many friends and acquaintances my age who are being compelled to look Mortality in the face because of illness and disease. And this uncomfortably compels me to look at Mortality out of the corner of my eye. I thought this was a state for old people, for people twice my age, not for me.

It just reminds me again and again that one doesn't know how much time one has in this life. It may be long, it may be short. One may get some forewarning as to the nearness of the end, or the end may pounce suddenly and unexpectedly. But one is assured of an end; it is only the how and when that are unknown.

Which makes the how of living the life one has that much more critical, important, momentous. To value the moments and the days. To cherish relationships, to make the most of opportunities, to pursue dreams. To forgive and be forgiven. To do good and not harm. To live in a way that is worthy of the gift of life that one has been given.

Above all else, guard your heart,

for it is the well-spring of life.

Proverbs 4:23

Inspiration, courtesy of Fancy Nancy

It seems to me it must be a rare glittery, pink-and-purple-y six-year-old girl who's not inspired by Fancy Nancy.

My daughter got some money at Christmas to buy herself a book, and she chose a set of four Fancy Nancy books. She had looked at all of them, but I read the first one to her on Saturday. It was called, Fancy Nancy Ooh La La! It's Beauty Day.  In this book, Fancy Nancy sets up a spa in her backyard; her client is her mom. When I was done reading it, my daughter and I agreed that setting up a spa would be a fun thing to do. So, my daughter immediately set about collecting the necessary items for our own personal spa in the playroom: brushes, a chair, a towel, nail polish, of course, and a few other things.

Right after lunch, the spa was ready for the grand opening. Except, contrary to the book, in our spa, the mother was the aesthetician and the daughter was the client (I wonder how that happened?). We had the book on hand so we could follow all the steps accurately.

We decided to skip the squashed banana-and-honey face mask outlined on the “Fantastique Face Mask” page and proceeded to the next step, the “Marvelous Manicure.”  I massaged the client's hands and applied hand lotion. I also snuck in the weekly chore of nail cleaning and clipping (not listed in the book!), which is so much more agreeable when one is in a spa than when one is half asleep and ready for bed. There was a surprising lack of resistance to this activity in this particular venue! I might have to keep that in mind for future reference.... And of course, after studying the instructions carefully, I applied the pre-selected nail polish.  

Then, on to the “Perfectly Posh Pedicure.” The book called for a “soothing sea salt foot soak” that included sea salt, a squeezed lemon and a tub filled with warm water and marbles. We had no sea salt, so we made do with coarse salt; we had no lemons or even lemon juice, so we added a drop of vanilla; a large bowl was hauled out of storage; and the marbles were procured from a generous older brother. After soaking my client's feet in the tub, I also massaged her feet, clipped her nails, and applied lotion and nail polish.

Lastly, were the cosmetics section (the powders made her cough) and "The Coiffure."  This, like the nail clipping, also has varying effects depending upon the attitude and timing of the beautician. Gentle combing and braiding while sitting in the afternoon sun on a lazy Saturday afternoon is quite a different experience than trying to drag a brush through tangly hair quick before the bus comes on a Monday morning! 

We had a lovely time at the spa, my daughter and I. We even traded roles for a bit at the end, and it felt glorious.

As I was massaging her hands, my daughter had remarked how nice it felt, so nice that it kind of tickled. I knew exactly what she was talking about. She noted, too, how when she tickled herself, it never really tickled, and why was that? Why did it have to be someone else doing it to you to make it feel so nice, so much better?

I thought about her comment later and about what I hope my daughter will eventually learn for herself. Will she think she always needs to be spa-perfect to be acceptable? Too often we as girls, as women, or perhaps as humans, feel the need to drum up some reason as to why we are acceptable or to prove that we are valuable – to others, to ourselves. And yet it's like tickling: it just doesn't have the same effect when you try to affirm your own worth yourself. It always falls a little flat. Though I struggle in this area myself, I want my daughter to know that we always have access to that Someone Else who accepts us now as we are, who sees us as beautiful – spa or no spa, who gives us value.  We only need to open our hearts to accept the immeasurable love of God.

The Lord your God is with you;

he is mighty to save.

He will take great delight in you,

he will quiet you with his love,

he will rejoice over you with singing.

Zephaniah 3:17

Owl

Greyness is just beginning to creep along the eastern horizon and steal between the black winter hills as the Great Horned owl rouses himself from his perch on the low oak tree one last time for the night. Perhaps with daylight dawning, some of the animal kingdom will begin to stir and provide him with a meal.

The owl's eyes, brilliantly suited to hunting in the dark, glow yellow. His majestic wings lift him effortlessly into the clear icy night sky. He opens his powerful beak, built to tear limbs from the bodies of prey, to call one last time that distinctive “whoo-hoo-oo” before catching an up-draft and soaring into the breeze.

From his height above the snow-covered hill, the owl catches sight of a slight movement down below – a hare cautiously making its way along the relative safety of a row of trees between two fields. Suddenly, the owl is plummeting silently to the earth, it's sharp, weapon-like talons extended, ready to snag and lift the animal into the air, the rabbit still unaware of the imminent danger.

It is really just a little thing, hardly more than a centimeter across, a tiny bit of metal wire, twisted around itself, the barbed wire that catches the owl in mid-flight. It's almost inconceivable that such an insignificant thing would stop such a powerful creature, a creature with such strength and prowess.

Yet, the owl hangs, wings spread wide. It struggles valiantly to get away, despite the searing pain. But it's majestic wings are no match for the barbed wire; its powerful beak is impotent against a foe it cannot reach; its weapon-like talons cannot snag that which has snagged the owl.

In the cold, with no way to release itself, the owl succumbs to its own inevitable death as the sun breaks over the horizon and fills the sky with vibrant reds and pinks.

Short hours later, the man emerges from the woods into the clearing of the fields, fills his lungs with the frozen air. He notices the strange form, unmoving, inches above the snow, and investigates.

Had he arrived earlier, would the owl have let the man release him and save him from certain death? Owls have been known to attack humans, and any animal desperate for life can be dangerous to its rescuer. The man untangles the owl's feathers from the barbed-wire fence and carries the frozen body home. A great creature felled by so small a thing. A tragedy.

And us? When we get snagged on the barbed-wire of sin, are we not as powerless to rescue ourselves? Are we willing to acknowledge our insufficiency to save ourselves, to submit to the only One who can release us from our bondage? Are we prepared to allow ourselves to be disentangled from death - death of relationships, of a family bond, death of a creative spirit, of a future, death of love, of hope – to accept life from the One who comes along just in time?

             For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in

                                      Jesus Christ our Lord.

                                                               Romans 6:23

            We have escaped like a bird,

                   out of the fowler's snare;

            the snare has been broken,

                   and we have escaped.

            Our help is in the name of the Lord,

                   the Maker of heaven and earth.

                                                               Psalm 124:7-8

One of my favorite songs.  I love this version by Owl City:

For those for whom it matters, my goal this year is to post to my blog on Thursdays.

A Life Filled With Good Things

On the windowsill above my kitchen sink, there sits a decorative tin box that holds and displays little cards with Bible verses on them. I spent all $13.47 of my income tax return on it a number of years ago.

This morning, I took out a new verse to display just before I began doing the dishes.

My initial thought was, what a delightful and true way to start the new year! Here I was doing dishes because we had food to eat; I could see my three beautiful, healthy children outside playing in the snow together; my husband was already off working at his job; I had just spent the last week warmly surrounded by extended family, celebrating Christmas. I was anticipating getting the household back to normal after several weeks of decorating, shopping, gift-giving, and attending Christmas events. My life is filled with good things!

My second impulse was to feel “bad.”  Here I was, feeling contented with my happy life, getting ready to go back to “normal” and yet how many people in this world, in my own community, in my own circle of acquaintances, wouldn't love to go back to “normal” but cannot? People who are facing life without a loved one, people whose illnesses have not yet been healed, whose broken relationships have not yet been mended, whose problems have not yet been solved? How could I be happy when all these others are facing heart-rending challenges or losses?

And yet...

Ann Voskamp writes in her book, One Thousand Gifts:

                    How does it save the world to reject unabashed joy when it is

                    joy that saves us? Rejecting joy to stand in solidarity with the

                    suffering doesn't rescue the suffering. The converse does. The

                    brave who focus on all things good and all things beautiful and

                    all things true, even in the small, who give thanks for it and dis-

                    cover joy even in the here and now, they are agents of change

                    who bring fullest Light to all the world. (p. 58, emphasis mine)

I will always be able to find someone who is worse off than me and also someone who is better off than me. I could spend my life feeling badly for the suffering or feeling envious of the wealthy. This is a seriously tempting option, except that I have recently been reminded again that sometimes it is the suffering who are rich and the wealthy who are suffering.

As ridiculous as it sounds, I sometimes feel like I should be cautious about being too happy, like I may use up my life quota of happiness too soon and just be left with sorrow. Or that being thankful for what I have means I am uncaring towards those who have to live without. However, I am going to choose instead to spend my life in gratitude for what I have right now and trust that God will grant me the grace I need when I am the one suffering, and a spirit of generosity when I am the one with abundance. So here's to a year full of joy and gratitude, grace and generosity! Happy 2013!

Peanuts

I brought them home from the corner store in a brown paper bag last Saturday afternoon. Peanuts - to go with our Christmas candy. There's something kind of irresistible about peanuts in the shell, even for the likes of me who don't really like peanuts.

A little later in the day, my 8-year-old announced he wanted to make a scavenger hunt for someone. I suggested he make one for his younger sister who was having a nap at the time – that way she wouldn't see what he was doing.

He grabbed a handful of peanuts from the bag and carefully hid ten of them around the house, tucking them under things and behind things and inside things. And then he waited with eager anticipation for his sister to wake up. My daughter had barely opened her eyes and he was urging her to begin the scavenger hunt. He, of course, came along with her on the hunt, giving her hints and gleefully exclaiming whenever she found one of the peanuts. Despite the hints and enthusiasm and cooperation, they were able to find only seven.

Over the course of the next couple days, I found the rest as I was going about my daily work.  I wasn't looking for them, but there they were. Hiding on a shelf in the broom closest. Tucked under a piece of cloth on my sewing table. Languishing on a ledge in the office. Each time I found one, the inside of me warmed, thinking of my son diligently hiding the peanuts just so they could be found, and of how much pleasure that had given him on a winter afternoon.

The Christmas story is the story of God revealing himself to humanity in one grand gesture. I imagine, however, that God has revealed himself to humanity in many ways over the course of history, and in many ways personally over the course of one's life. And I wonder if it isn't a bit like my son's scavenger hunt. Some people, like the Magi, are intentionally, purposefully on the look-out for God being revealed, and God gleefully walks alongside, giving hints and rejoicing over someone's discovery. And then there are others, like the shepherds in the fields, who aren't even looking, and yet they, too, stumble across some revelation of God and their hearts are opened. I love how God makes himself accessible to everyone, simply for the joy of the discovery.

“You will seek me and find me when you seek with all your heart.

I will be found by you,” declares the Lord.

Jeremiah 29:13-14

“I revealed myself to those who did not ask for me;

I was found by those who did not seek me,”

[says the Lord].

Isaiah 65:1

Akin to a Cat

A number of years ago, we moved to a new community and were renting a small farmyard south of town. We had been there several months when winter slowly melted into spring and a bit of a rodent problem became apparent in the house. We decided we'd like to have a cat around the place, partly for the mice, but also because, really, how can you live in the country without having animals about the place?

Our neighbour down the road, a bachelor, decided he'd like to help us out. He selected his favorite barn cat and brought it over to our place in his old yellow pick-up truck one afternoon. We were humbled by his kindness; the cat, not so much. This soon-to-be-mother cat was not so impressed about having been taken from her nice, cozy barn and being plopped in a cold garage, pan of water and food notwithstanding. Needless to say, she was not planning on sticking around too long.

I was worried that she would try to make her way back to her home across the fields.  I was worried that our inability to retain the cat would look like ingratitude to our neighbour. I was worried that the cat would meet her death at the paws of a coyote or badger along the way.

Fortunately, I was able to locate her hiding in the shelter-belt behind our house.  I imagine the cat figured she had everything she needed right there – the rodents, of course, dry grass to lie in, water in the creek that ran between the shelter-belt and the field – and no strangers to contend with. I, on the other hand, knew I wanted a cat around not just to take care of the mice, but to pet and play with, something for my kids to love. I knew that the grass was dry now, but it would rain, and I could provide a nice warm box in which to have her kittens, out of the weather. I knew that the creek was seasonal and in a couple months it would dry up and water would be scarce for the cat, but I could provide it.

I was pretty motivated to make friends with the cat. I could get close to her but as soon as I would make movement towards her, she would dart away or scramble up a tree. I tried this approach for several days before I came across a bit of wisdom I hadn't heard before. To get a cat to warm up to you, you have to stand quietly and wait for the cat to come to you; even when the cat is curious enough to rub against your leg, you need to move extremely slowly so as not to startle it. This is may be common knowledge, but I had never had to entice a cat to be my friend before. All the cats I had know had been kittens that had grown into cats to produce more kittens – they were already tame and familiar.

So, armed with this new knowledge and a pan of food, I headed out to the shelter-belt to find my “friend”. I found the cat, crouched down, and waited. And amazingly, it worked. The cat noticed me, watched me suspiciously for awhile, and then cautiously came towards me, even rubbing my leg. I got excited and tried to pet her and off she went. So, I moved into her general area and started the process again, and again. Eventually, she did feel comfortable enough to come hang out in our garage and eat our food and drink our water. She remained rather skittish, but her kittens were lovely fluffy things that grew up used to our interactions.

I've thought a lot about this memory this week as I've been reading the book, Grace for the Good Girl, by Emily P. Freeman. She talks about masks, like self-sufficiency, that “good” people hide behind, and how striving to “be good” looks admirable, but is really a demonstration of fear and lack of faith in the grace of God. I know about this.

I wonder how often I don't act like that cat, struggling to rely on myself, thinking I have everything I need – until the creek dries up, distrusting the ease and freedom of being completely provided for.  And God knows my nature:  God doesn't chase me down with shouts and sticks or try to round me up with a lasso.  Instead, God comes along, moves into my general area, holds out the pan brimming over with blessings and waits for me to notice, waits for me to come, waits for me to enjoy the freedom and life God has to offer.  This is Immanuel, God with us, God moving toward us and patiently waiting for us to notice, to come, to belong.

All this took place to fulfill what the Lord had said through the prophet:

“A virgin will be with child and will give birth to a son,

and they will call him Immanuel” - which means “God with us.”

Matthew 1:22-23

Grace for the Good Girl:  I have found this book particularly insightful.  I am one of those people who does not have headline-making evil deeds to their name, but I do sometimes find my life being ruled by fear and lack of trust, which is equally sinful.  This book has opened my eyes in new ways to both my need for grace and the grace available to me through Christ.  I would highly recommend this book.

P.S.  The cats in the photos are not the actual cat/kittens referred to in the story.

Happy Meal

I took the kids Christmas shopping in Winnipeg on Saturday. I generally like to follow the maxim I learned long ago – to never shop on an empty stomach – so we had early lunch in a McDonald's restaurant. We had just sat down to eat when there was a bit of a ruckus in the next table over. It was a mom with her three young boys, probably between the ages of 4 and 9.

“If he asks you to stop touching him, you stop touching him!” she commanded with a slightly raised voice. My son and I exchanged knowing smiles; we've had that conversation in our family a time or two.

A little later, she snapped, “Get up off the floor!” to the youngest boy who had gone under the table to retrieve his happy meal toy. Also something I've said once or twice.

It was quiet over on that side for awhile, then the mom went on, “When we get home, we're going to vacuum and do the laundry.” What? I thought. All of them are going to vacuum at the same time? The 4-year-old does laundry? I bet they can hardly wait to get home! Except that I've done that too: start harping on the work that needs to be done before we've even finished the fun thing we're doing in the present. “And you boys had better clean up that entrance.... You better stop fooling around or we won't ever come here again.” Her voice kept getting incrementally louder as she carried on, which was ironic because I couldn't hear the boys at all.

“Do you want me to go nuclear? Here? In front of all these people?” By this time she was practically yelling at her sons. “Because it won't be a pretty sight!” Oh, lady, I thought, it's already not a pretty sight. We had this running commentary from the mom throughout the entire meal, and still could not hear the boys, who looked sufficiently cowed by the end of the barrage. We cleaned up in that awkward silence that happens when an adult is making a ridiculous public spectacle of themselves, where to detract from the scene might somehow implicate you.

I walked away from that scene, relieved that my kids were so well behaved and that it wasn't me making a fool of myself – this time.

But it wasn't 24 hours later I found myself talking about someone I “don't like” but really have nothing to do with personally. The words were barely out of my mouth and I knew that, just like that mom in the restaurant, I was shaming myself with my words more than I was shaming the other person. Which is exactly how I felt – ashamed.

The whole scenario made thankful in a new way for Christmas, for the coming of Jesus as Savior. For a savior who can save me from embarrassing self-righteousness and prideful imaginings that I am somehow better than others. For a savior who from the very beginning demonstrated a more humble path to follow. For a savior whose love can cover a multitude of sins.

...For unto you is born this day

in the city of David,

a Savior,

which is Christ the Lord.

And this shall be a sign unto you;

You will find the babe

wrapped in swaddling clothes

and lying in a manger.

Luke 2:11-12