The end

I originally began this blog so that I could have an outlet to talk about what was important to me. It was a place to rant and discuss and process my thoughts. For 1 1/2 years it has served that purpose well. When I was at home almost all the time and short on face-to-face community, I found this type of blogging to be helpful. However, I'm now in a different space and I'm grateful to be able to have in-person conversation about meaningful topics. And so this blog is coming to a close.

I will still be blogging at my ministry website Together We Pray, where I do more resourcing, talking about ministry and reviewing materials for faith formation. And hopefully not having two separate blogs will allow me to blog more frequently!

Thanks all for your interest!


The End

One foot, two foot

One foot, two foot

During this time of transition that's pretty much where it's at for me. Just putting one foot in front of the other and hopefully paying attention to where I place my feet. :)

Alicia and I got everything packed up in Winnipeg and on July 6th the movers came. In four hours the truck was packed and we were on our way. As we left, our landlords' grandson yelled after us, "why aren't you flying, it would be much faster!" Yup, totally. It would have been far faster to fly. But while flying gets you there quickly, it also short circuits the transition process. At least for me. I need the time. I need time to shift gears, to let go, to ... I don't know. Maybe I just need to get bored enough in the car that I want to reach our destination! I'm kind of notorious as a restless car traveler. Regardless, I knew I was going to need the 24 hours in the car (which we spaced over four days) in order to get myself ready for this new adventure. And I also knew that along the way I was going to need some waterfalls.

I am a waterfall junkie. Which is totally weird because I have never really enjoyed being outside and I have always been terrified of any creatures that might startle me in the wild. I want to love the outdoors, but I just don't. I hate being hot and sweaty. And I hate bugs and crawly things. I would like to say I just dislike those things, but that would be a lie. I truly hate them. But I love waterfalls. I love rocks and moving water, and they have to be together. It truly is a testament to how much I love waterfalls that I was willing to hike through provincial parks, covered in mosquito repellent in 30C to see them. Waterfalls ground me. And when I'm transitioning, I need to be grounded. Simple as that. 


So this is how I prepared myself for a new home and a new ministry position.

 

 

 

  

 

 

And now we're here. We're in our place in Kitchener-Waterloo. We spent a lovely few days with friends as we waited to move in and now we're camping out in our house, starting to make it a home. Our things should arrive this week, fingers crossed. And then we continue the work of settling into this new space. The fun stuff (painting Alicia's bedroom and visiting farmer's markets) and the not so fun stuff (changing insurance and banks).  So, it's one foot, two foot for now. Just living in the present and taking things as they come. I'll save looking back and looking forward for another day...or maybe not. :)

The greatest gift we can give our children

The greatest gift we can give our children is not good schooling, name brand clothing, holidays, their own bedroom, cool toys, pets, or even a strong work ethic. The greatest gift we can give our children...

is to deal with our own crap.

Each of us has it. We all have some kind of baggage, hurt or pain that we carry either from our own lives or from the generations that have walked before us. It's the baggage that weighs us down. The baggage that prohibits us from living fully and forces us into a holding pattern where survival is the best option. It's the baggage that drives us to seek out distractions, coping mechanisms, and substitutions as we seek to ignore the weight that we carry.

And I know that dealing with our own crap isn't easy or quick. It's a lifelong journey with a timing and a path that is unique for each one of us. But I believe that it's a journey worth taking and it begins by simply starting to be aware. Aware of what we are doing, aware of what is happening around and within us and then simply being curious. Not judging, not fixing, just attending.

When we attend to our own souls we show our children the path to wholeness. A path that is worth taking.

We show our children that each one of us is worth attending to.
We show them that brokenness is part of life.
We show them that admitting brokenness and seeking help is strength.
We show them that patterns can be broken when we stop and pay attention.
We show them that when we care for ourselves, we are better able to care for others.
We show them that everyone's path is different. 
We show them that we can live in this moment, without needing to escape.
We show them how to offer themselves comfort rather than simply distraction. 
We show them that a posture of love and curiousity leads to transformation.
We show them what it means to become, to live into our identities.

And most of all, we show them that living, fully and authentically is a worthwhile endeavor.

Living fully is worthwhile. It really is. It takes work and vulnerability, and risk, but so do lots of other things, that are honestly, a whole lot less worthwhile.

And maybe you're wondering why I'm writing this, or what authority I have to make these claims. And those are valid things to wonder. I'm not very old, I haven't walked this earth very long. But I have seen the incredible transformation that can happen in the lives of individuals, families, and groups when people are brave enough to tend their souls. Change and healing are possible. And honestly, nothing has impacted my life more than seeing others live into their callings, their identities, doing their own work. They show me what healthy looks like. They show me how to mourn and how to be joyful. They show me what it means to be fully alive. And because they have tended their own souls, they aren't threatened by mine. They don't need me to be something I'm not. They can fully support me in my journey, allowing me to change and explore without their own sense of identity being shaken.

There is so much more to life than climbing the corporate ladder, achieving the flattest abs, buying a dream house, and Pinterest. Let's show our children what that more, really is.

Some days my heart aches

Some days my heart just aches. It aches for the brokenness I see all around me.

In particular my heart aches for young children and youth who suffer.

In 2006 my sister died. She died because...she was sick. Because she had mental and emotional illness that ate away at her. Because she had experiences that triggered her biology. Because...I don't know. There were just so many things. I never felt like I could place blame. There were just too many contributing factors.

But underneath all of those contributing factors there was a basic truth, I believe. Or rather, a basic lie. At her core, for whatever reason, my sister believed that she was not good enough. That she was unlovable. That she was insufficient. And she believed this at the deepest level of her being. It was a lie that formed a foundation for her life I think. And it's a lie that I see everywhere and it makes my heart ache more than anything imaginable.

I spent years believing this lie. Years and years. And it's not something I was explicitly taught. My family loved me. I went to a good school. I knew kind and loving people at my church and in my community. And yet...I learned to embrace the lie.

And I meet people every single day who believe this lie. I meet little children and youth and young adults and the elderly who think, though they don't necessarily say it outright, that they are not good enough. I hear it in their words, I see it in their eyes.

All of us think or are told that we should be taller, shorter, thinner, smarter, faster, more assertive, less assertive, kinder, gentler, stronger, more trendy, more successful...

When all we really "should be" is loved. That's it. That's all. That's all that is required. And ultimately, that's not something that we do, it's something that we are.

I know our culture, and in this I include my church culture, teaches explicitly and implicitly that we are to continually grow and improve and become more perfect throughout our lives. More wise, more holy, more just, more peaceful. But I choose to believe that the only thing that is required of me is that I become more aware of the fact that I am loved beyond measure. If all I do in my life is learn to recognize that I am loved, then that will have been enough, I think. At the end of this life when I fall into the arms of God I wish to do so with the fullest knowledge possible that I am loved.

Perhaps this sounds lazy, or irresponsible, or reckless, or self-centered. Maybe I should aim higher. Jesus said the greatest commandment is that we love God and love our neighbours as ourselves. But I can't help but think that if each of us spent our lives simply learning to live into our belovedness, that this world would be a different place. After all, is it not essentially the same thing to know love as to be love? I imagine that if the individuals who put together ads for AXE products recognized their belovedness, that their ads would take a sharp turn. If our young girls knew at their core that they were loved, maybe they wouldn't hurt themselves anymore. And if each one of us could look into the mirror in the morning and see love radiating...who knows what might be possible.

I wish my sister could have looked into the mirror and seen love. More than anything in the world that's what I would have wished for her. That's what I wish for you, that's what I wish for me.

I know that I am loved, but each day there are still moments when I catch myself holding the lie before me. The lie that I am not enough. The lie that I should strive to be something that I'm not, or strive to be more than what I am. The lie that masks my own belovedness. But I am grateful that I'm learning to recognize the lie for what it is. I'm learning to see when the lie stands between me and my belovedness, between me and God. And when I recognize it, then I have a choice. I can choose to keep holding the lie, or I can tell the lie where to go and how to get there. Most days, I choose the latter. And each time I kick that lie to the curb and recognize my own belovedness, it get's a little bit easier.
 

A change of title is in order!

No longer unemployed! 

Staring on July 16th I will begin ministry at Stirling Ave Mennonite Church in Kitchener, Ontario. And I am grateful, and excited, and nervous, and terrified, and tired. The time has come...but we're not quite there yet.
 
Right now we're in the midst of packing and finishing things up. Transitions are exhausting things I find. Especially when it feels like part of you is here and part there. Most days I'm feeling like all my planets are spinning off axis. Which I know is just par for the course. Being mid-transition is like that. Finishing up things in one spot while starting in another. I trust that at some point a few months from now, I'll find that my body and spirit have caught up with each other and I'll feel centered again. 


Our hope is that our things will be loaded up in the moving truck between July 3rd and 6th and it will arrive on July 11th. We are grateful we have a home (at least for the first year) that is waiting for us. We will be renting a house from a family from the church who will be out of the country for the year.

We are about 1/2 packed with not much more than necessities left. Well...a bit more, but we ran out of boxes. So a few more trips to the liquor mart (they have great boxes!) and other random stores is in order.

And once we're there, who knows. We're off on an adventure!

Sometimes I get angry

Sometimes I get angry. I don't get angry a lot. I really don't. I mostly get annoyed. And that's a different beast entirely. A much smaller, less significant beast and usually a beast that is fed by lack of sleep, low blood sugar or general whininess. When I actually get angry you know it's something big. At least it's something big for me. I save anger for the big stuff like poverty, war, injustice, gender expectations, gas prices and...the Bible. 

Not the Bible per se, I'm not actually angry at the Bible. What I'm angry about is how we present the Bible.

I get angry when we present the Bible like it's a plumber's manual. A how-to guide for fixing whatever's got you plugged up. The Bible is a story and its purpose is to pass on the collective stories and wisdom of people of faith throughout generations. It wasn't meant to be used like a search engine where you just type in your dilemma and up pops the solution. 

I get angry when we present the Bible like the stories are clear and straight-forward, needing no interpretation and containing no mystery. The biblical narrative is an ancient book with ancient wisdom. These words are meant to be savoured, pondered, wrestled with...kind of like the many trendy quotes I keep seeing on fb from Rumi and Ghandi. It was written by real people and so there are inconsistencies and contradictions. It was written by many people and so it's multifaceted. It was written in a different time and so there are contextual cues that we need to explore. If it was just a straight forward historical account of what some people did, then there would be absolutely no point in reading any of it more than once.

I get angry when we create artwork depicting biblical characters or scenes that are one-dimensional, simplistic, or just "happy." I see this most often in children's materials, but I find it in books for adults as well. Abraham, Sarah, and Hagar look like acquaintances who happened upon one another at the park, rather than ...not sure how to even describe what they are. But clearly some emotion is required.  Jesus is stiff and passive, hardly the energetic, passionate and radical teacher that the Bible describes. For goodness sake, put some energy into the man who is weeping and calling Lazarus to come out from the tomb! For some reason the sun seems to be perpetually shining and everyone looks simply...okay. Just fine. Just going to the mall to pick up a jug of milk and on the way I might stop and listen to an incredibly tense dialogue between Jesus and a group of irate religious leaders, but I won't let that impact my placid expression. And just for the record, I get equally frustrated by graphic novels that make Jesus look like a sex god and everything is all thunder, lightening and bloodshed. But within these extremes, with all the art forms that exist, there must be room for some honest, dynamic expression. Some edginess, some life?

I get angry when we read the biblical text with less enthusiasm than the meteorologist giving the weather report. I believe all people are invited to participate in worship and all people are invited to read scripture. But if you don't care about it, if the text is meaningless to you, then please decline the invite. Don't read scripture just because it's something to check off on your "I participated in church" to-do list. Don't read scripture because it gets a worship leader off your back or because you feel guilty. When we read scripture we are holding someone's story. Perhaps we can think of it like standing in for a friend, telling the story of their devastating illness or miraculous recovery, or their encounter with the Divine. We tell the stories of others with respect for their experience. I think we can approach scripture with that same respect. We may not know the person, but we have their story, their wisdom, their experience of God. Let's treat it with some respect. And by respect I don't mean solemnity, but integrity. 

For years I've had an image in my mind of what it might have looked like for Jewish elders to tell the stories of their ancestors. And maybe my image is all wrong, but it's life-giving for me. I imagine a family, not one of our nuclear families, but a tribe, gathered around the fire. All waiting expectantly for the elder or the story-teller to begin. And then being drawn into the mystery, regaled by the highs and lows, the tensions, and then perplexed by the ending. I imagine the children begging their elders to tell them what it all means, and their elders smiling and shrugging, knowing in their hearts that none of us will ever truly know. And I imagine they curl up in their beds with images from the story in their heads, and hearts warmed by the hearing.

I know this all sounds rather idyllic and perhaps even a bit silly. But this is the image that reminds me that the scriptures were stories about real people and they existed, not as plain black text on thin white paper, read alone in quiet secluded places, but as a living story shared orally and in the context of community. I don't think that the Bible has existed all these years because of sheer determination or because Christians just had a lot of power. I believe the Bible continues to exist because the story is alive. 

And I get angry when we treat it like it is dead.

Just had to get that out.

Harry Potter and a Mixing Bowl

One of my favourite non-fiction books is Living into Focus by Arthur Boers. I love lots of things about the book, but specifically the emphasis he places on finding, what Albert Borgmann calls, "focal practices -- activities that center, balance, focus, and orient one's life" (10). This is far more than finding things we enjoy, or finding hobbies, or even finding activities that help us to grow. These are the practices that bring all things into alignment, that pull us into a centered space where it is possible to truly live, where the ordinary becomes sacred. At least that's how they feel to me. 

There is the potential in the next few weeks that my life (and Alicia's!) will change quite drastically. There is the potential of a ministry placement and a new home in a different province (and, some have pointed out, a new blog title!). All of this will mean a whole lot of change in a very short period of time, and I'm expecting it will mean at least a year of transition and adjustment. Change is disorienting and if focal practices are important in our everyday busy lives, they become even more important in the midst of change. When I'm feeling disoriented, I know I need to hang onto all those focal practices that continually re-orient.

Some practices that orient me are quite obviously designed for that purpose. I try, most days at least, to spend some time engaged in a particular spiritual practice. I've found over the past decade that the spiritual practices that nourish me tend to come in seasons and so I move from one to another as necessary. At least I do now. It took awhile to get over feelings of guilt that I couldn't maintain practices! I've found that forcing myself to engage in a particular practice (without listening to what my spirit needs) is very different than being disciplined and so I try to practice awareness in discerning what is life-giving in a particular season. 

And while I know prayer or particular spiritual practices are necessary for my orientation, there are other focal practices that are, for me, at least as central to my well-being.

Many people who know me well, or perhaps not even that well, would probably identify baking bread as a focal practice for me. Kneading dough is incredibly orienting. There's just something about the process, the tactile sensations, the smells, that center me in a particular way. At first I thought it was just about kneading bread dough and being connected to my heritage, but as I've worked more in the kitchen I'm starting to realize that this focal practice has more to do with starting out with individual ingredients, and especially those that initially don't seem capable of forming anything at all cohesive, and working with them until they become something that initially seemed impossible. Making BBQ sauce, yogurt, pulled pork, and hearty soups have the same orienting affect. There is nothing like seeing mushy flour, water and yeast become golden freckled buns, or a raw hunk of meat with a bit of liquid turn into savoury pulled pork with crispy caramelized bits around the edges. It's like magic!

Which brings me to another focal practice that I have engaged in almost every day of my life...reading fiction. People used to tell me that some day I would grow up and it wouldn't be possible for me to read fiction every day. Hah! Not true. And not even healthy, at least not for me. There have been a few times in my life when I placed fiction on the back burner and tried to read more "edifying" material, and the results were, quite honestly, disastrous. I adore magic, adventure and mystery. It feeds my soul and my imagination. It makes it possible for me to think and dream in colour. It is crucial to my own emotional health, and to my ministry. And nothing, nothing at all, orients me more quickly than picking up a book that is an old friend and diving into the story all over again. Each time I move, my books are some of the last boxes packed and the first to be opened.

These are just a few of the focal practices that I have identified as most grounding in my own life and perhaps as I journey they will evolve and more will be added. But for now, I know that if/when we move that I will do so with Harry Potter in one hand and my mixing bowl in the other, holding tight to what orients me, to what gives me life.

What are your focal practices? What orients you in the midst of disorientation?

My Body is Not my Enemy

My body isn't my enemy. It's not. 

I'm not at all sure how to go about writing this blog post. I have so many thoughts (read incredibly strong convictions) and emotions bubbling up inside of me that need an outlet. I'm only 36, and yet I have been working at reconciliation with my body for roughly 3 decades. I cannot remember a time as a child or young person in which I did not feel at war with my body. 

The war is over. 

Not because one side triumphed, but because I/we realized that there are no sides at all. My body is not an entity outside of my "self." 

I wrote an article for The Mennonite quite some time ago on the topic of children and praying with their bodies. In it I draw from the work of Jane Vennard when I say "...the valuing of soul over body has also created a body-negative culture in North America, where bodies are seen as “beasts of burden” that need to be starved into thinness or whipped into shape."Our culture hates our bodies. I know that seems like a ludicrous thing to say given the attention that we lavish upon them. We have creams, ointments, masks, waxes, tanning lotions and beds, and programs to keep them in line. Surely we love our bodies, perhaps too much? 

I don't think so. 

Think about loving a child. If I were to daily look my child in the eyes and tell her that she is not good enough, that she is too fat, or that she is stupid, or that she needs less hair/more hair, should be taller/shorter, should get off her lazy ass, should simply not be whatever she currently is, then I would have my child removed from my care. This is not love, this is abuse. We abuse our bodies. We abuse them when we consistently and constantly judge ourselves, when we berate ourselves, when we speak as if our bodies were somehow not part of us (my body is sensitive, my body hurts etc.), when we try with every ounce of our being and every penny in our pockets to make our bodies something that they are not, we are abusive.

I grew up believing that abusing my body was healthy and good. This is what North American culture taught me. I learned that if I am sad and I begin to cry, I should stifle that impulse, wipe the tears away and suck it up. I learned that if I experience pain in my knee, I should ignore it and push through the pain. I learned that if my body doesn't look a certain way, I should fight it with every weapon I can find. I learned that every natural impulse or characteristic that I have is a problem to overcome. I have fine hair, I should check out a new shampoo. I'm heavy-set, I should try this new  diet. I'm sensitive and anxious, I should take medication. I grow body hair, I should be waxed. I grew up with the idea that my body was a thing, and that thing was a problem. And if I could just solve all the problems then I would be happy and the sun would shine out every orifice (watch a diet or hair commercial, I'm not exaggerating).

What a load of hogwash.

I'm not sure exactly how I've come to that realization. I think mentally I've known for years that this was the case, but it's only in the last few years or so that I've come to truly embrace a different way of viewing the world. My body is me and I am my body. I cannot speak of my body as if it is not in every way connected to my mind/spirit/soul/thoughts/emotions. I love how Margaret Farley talks about "inspirited bodies, embodied spirits" (Farley, Just Love). My body is not something apart from myself that needs to be overcome, my body simply is me. And as I have worked with a Gestalt Pastoral Care minister I've come to realize how ridiculous it is to actually imagine that I can feel something in my heart, and have it not impact my body, or injure some part of my body and not have it impact my entire being.

So if I am a whole being, am I then something to be overcome? Many strains of Christianity would say yes, whole-heartedly. As human beings we are at root, sinful, at root we are a problem that is only overcome through Christ. I am a worm who is nothing unless I am "saved." As Alicia discusses far more eloquently on her blog, many of us have a negative theological anthropology. It is an understanding of the self that begins after "the fall." We are oriented in the world through a lens of sin. But that's not where the story begins. Genesis was written to provide stories of orientation, stories to explain who we are, how we can understand ourselves and God. Genesis is a call to faith that begins...in the beginning. These stories of orientation do not begin with our mistakes, they begin in our goodness, in our createdness. They begin in love.

At my core, I am good. In my entirety. I live in a broken world, and I am a broken person and so my goodness is at times masked by hurt/pain, illness, bad behaviour etc. But none of that changes that I am good. And if I choose a lens through which I see myself as good and beloved, over a lens through which I see a worm who is unworthy (or the cultural lens that says I need cosmetic enhancement), that lens makes all the difference. 

When I see my whole self through the lens of my belovedness, then I am enough. I am not a problem to overcome, I am a person on a journey. When I sense that I am sad, I allow myself to feel sorrow, I weep, and I approach my sadness with compassion. When I sense that I am experiencing some type of physical pain, I approach the pain with curiousity. When I look into a mirror, I simply see me as I am. I do not approach myself with judgement, but with wonder. I do not succeed at this everyday, it's hard work to change lenses entirely. But most days, at the very least, there is no hatred. There is no war.

I ache when I see ads/videos/books that try so hard to convince me that I am a problem. My teeth which are a natural shade of "tooth" are not white enough. My body which naturally grows hair is too hairy. My breasts which are naturally large should stand up taller (a gravitational impossibility). My skin which is naturally white should be more tan. Every single day I am bombarded with people telling me that I have a problem and it needs to be fixed. That I am at war and must be armed for battle. I ache for myself and for every woman, every man, and every child who learns to view the world and themselves through a lens that promotes war against the body, that promotes an understanding of the self that is divided and in perpetual conflict.

It's funny, that often people think of God as judgmental, or exacting, or demanding. I think we do a pretty spectacular job of that all on our own. And when I feel completely disheartened and overwhelmed by our warring ways, I meditate. And God meets me. She meets me under a huge oak tree and we sit in the sun and it shines and we shine, and there is peace (no purchase necessary).

Yes I appreciate free-range, but I simply can't raise chickens in my bathroom

I was checking out some great links posted on The Femonite this morning and I came across an article that stirred up some thoughts for me. It's called "Is Michal Pollen a sexist pig?" and the author, Emily Matchar, discusses the current trend toward domesticity, whole foods, and urban chickens (and a whole lot of other related stuff) and how those who are blaming feminism for the destruction of our food culture and our health have it wrong. It's quite a fascinating article and it brings up a lot of interesting points, but I just want to touch on this one particular paragraph (which, I should mention, is not really the main point of the article).

Our country is clearly in a dire state when it comes to obesity and the environmental impact of factory farming, so the fact that more people care about food is terrific. But the kitchen’s always been a fraught place when it comes to gender and class, and the twenty-first century is shaping up to be no different. For some, the new cooking culture is incredibly empowering. Others are finding themselves tied up in apron strings all over again.

I too love that people are starting to care more about food, about where it comes from, how we can prepare it and share it with friends and family. But I have absolutely no desire to be part of a culture that shames people into doing and being things that are not life-giving or provides them with another way to feel insufficient. If you've just managed to rip off those apron strings after decades of kitchen monotony, then please, don't look back! In my opinion, the purpose of recognizing where our food comes from is so that we can be reconnected with the earth, the purpose of reclaiming cooking is so that we can revel in creativity and hospitality, the purpose of rediscovering whole foods is so that our bodies and our earth can be healthier. All of these things are meant to be life-giving, but that doesn't mean that all people who hold these particular values (and not everyone does) will desire or be able to live them out in the same way. 

I meet people who most certainly care deeply about the foods that are eaten in their homes, and about the environment etc. but not all of them find digging in the dirt, or cooking in the kitchen to be life-giving. Gardening and cooking are first of all, skills that not everyone has (you can always learn, but let's face it, some people will always find that their plants die and their cakes flop), and second, they are activities that drain the life out of some people. Alicia adores digging in the dirt and watching things grow and I hate it. Let me be clear, I love the idea of gardening and harvest and growing things and being sustainable, but I just don't like to have dirty hands. I never have. But I love cooking (most days). I find it incredibly life-giving to pull fresh baked bread out of the oven or cook pots of nourishing soup, but I also know people for whom cooking a meal is akin to going to the dentist. What is life-giving for one, is simply not life-giving for another. If you love to cook or garden, great! If you'd love to learn, that's great too! If you want to run for the hills when someone hands you an apron, I'll find you a good pair of runners!

And whether you find these tasks life-giving or not, realistically we don't all have the time to do absolutely everything from scratch. Our ancestors didn't do everything "all natural" because they wanted to, but because they had to. They had to make choices about where their priorities lay and what could get done in a day given their reality and we have to do the same. If you have three kids and a full time job, then your choices are going to look mighty different than mine, as a single woman currently underemployed. Some people who really want to get in touch with where food comes from will sell their house, quit their job and start share-cropping on a farm somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Others might buy a good book for their kids and suggest a school field trip to a farm at their next parent/teacher meeting and still others might grow tomatoes in a pot on their 3 foot balcony. I for one love free-range chickens, but I have no yard, and I can't raise them in my bathroom. We have to make choices that grow out of our values as well as our current reality (which doesn't mean that you can't take risks or dream). 

And another valuable point that Matchar makes is that the group that most largely supports movement towards this contemporary domesticity is the group that can choose to do so because they are part of the more privileged and/or educated middle-class (though certainly not all fall into this group). It is simply not financially feasible for every single person to follow the current trend of buying all organic, free-range, fair trade, local etc. These foods are expensive! Shopping at Superstore, Walmart or Kroger does not mean that one doesn't care about the environment, it may simply mean that's where one can afford to shop in order to put food on the table. And while some foods are actually cheaper when you do make them yourself (yogurt), they also take time and a bit of know-how. Again, each of us has to make purchasing choices based on both our values and our reality. 

I love a lot of stuff that comes out of this more natural, sustainable, earthy movement. I love that there are children out there learning to grow things. I love that there are people pulling bread out of the oven for the first time with a sense of pride and accomplishment. I love that there are people being creative in the kitchen and thinking about new ways to care for our earth. But I don't love the judgement, or the guilt, or the shame that sometimes seems to get attached to these ideals. Valuing our health, our food, our planet, and our creativity is supposed to be life-giving and I don't want people to feel insufficient because they don't have the time or money or ability to live in the box this trend has created, even a sustainable eco-friendly one!

I'm not a mannequin

Yesterday I was in a MALL. This is a very infrequent occurrence in my life as a whole. As a child I grew up in a rural community and trips to the city were exciting events that happened infrequently. When I look back I'm never quite sure why I found them exciting, perhaps it was simply something different, a change in the schedule, the possibility of something new. It certainly wasn't because I actually found shopping enjoyable. Since we didn't go shopping often, the trips were usually long and involved buying underwear and winter parkas. Shopping with three grumpy tired kids can't have been all that much fun for my parents either. 

The one thing that I always looked forward to was the possibility of spending time at Coles bookstore (no longer in existence). The sore feet and long hours were worth it if I could just be let loose for a time among all those good friends I had yet to meet. Coles was the one saving grace in a mall filled with nattering sales people trying to convince me that I looked wonderful in that T-shirt even though it fit me like a sausage in a casing. It was the one place I felt at home. 

Yesterday, I found myself in the mall. It was of necessity. I don't go shopping unless I have to. Since I live in the city now, the trips are thankfully shorter, though no less infrequent. However, because I was going to meet Alicia there, and my tasks took less time than I anticipated, I ended up walking the mall for well over an hour. As I walked passed the stores, Victoria's Secret with its soft porn advertising (or maybe not all that soft) and shoe store after shoe store, I was struck by a sudden realization. All the "edifying" stores were gone. I know there are millions of people who would probably like to argue with me that La Senza and Forever XXI are edifying, but this isn't their blog. 

What I mean by edifying stores are the stores that fed people's hearts and minds. There used to be art (real art, not a zillion copies of a Gerber daisy or two cute kids kissing), musical instruments (along with sheet music and records), books, games and toys (often educational), craft stores and shops dedicated to the art of cooking. And now it seems we are just mannequins who need to be dressed and undressed and dressed again. Almost every store I passed by was dedicated to this purpose of shaping my outer persona, of covering up my flaws and flaunting my...well, we won't go there. 

Like I said, as a child the one saving grace in the mall was the book store. The craft store and the toy store were a close second. They were the places I could breathe, provided I wasn't standing too close to the eucalyptus branches used for making tacky 80's swags for over the mantel.They were the places where I could explore my interests and escape from the never-ending concern about my body and how I looked to other people. And I don't like to get all immersed in the "oh, this whole world's going to hell in a handbag" kind of mentality, but this realization did make me stop and think. Young people spend hours in these malls. I could tell when school got out because the hallways were flooded with young people. And certainly a few looked like they were coming in to grab an item and leave, but for many, this is a serious past time. And it just made me think. I'm not a mannequin. None of us are mannequins. 

We are so much more than dolls to be dressed up. We are worth more than a BOGO shoe sale. We are worth fables, and biographies, arias, and ballads, and banjos, and cellos, and pastels, and oil paint, and canvas, and easels, and Scrabble, and Trouble, and hiking, and baking, and pasta making.

And I'm not saying that I expect the mall to be the place where we go to become whole, complete human beings, but perhaps I'm just afraid that spending a lot of time at the mall will make us forget that we are.

Can you see me sparkling? Do you see me glow? :)

(I should note that the title of this post is roughly a line from a Mennonite (?) camp song that was running through my head as I wrote this...and now it won't stop!)

You know that look, that sparkle you see in someone's eyes when they're comfortable in their own skin, when they're doing the thing that makes them most alive, when they're being truly who they were created to be? Have you seen that look? It's a look of absolute rightness, of pure congruence. I adore seeing that look in peoples' eyes. It's the look that says, "I'm home." 

For many people, this doesn't happen very often. And frequently we don't notice it when the look is on our own faces. I know I sure didn't. I remember some of the first times when Alicia and others like Mandy, Sheila, and Linda began to smile and even laugh while watching me talk. I was confused, I wasn't saying anything funny. And then they pointed out that I was glowing. 

I was glowing. 

Having friends point out when I begin to glow has been one of the greatest gifts I could ever receive. I can't see myself in the mirror all the time (and I probably wouldn't respond the same way when talking to a mirror!). I don't always notice when I'm truly joyful, or truly convicted, or truly at peace. But sometimes people who know me notice. They watch me talk about ministry, about finding resources, about storytelling, about fiction, about baking bread and they see me begin to glow and they know that I am home. 

Having received this gift from my friends and mentors, I find myself looking for it in others. I hope and pray that each time I see that look, I will be mindful of it. I will cherish it, and I will name it. 

I will name it. 

It was life-changing for me, maybe it will be for them as well.

Elephants, Hippos, Giraffes...Oh My!

When I was a child I must have had dreams, but I can honestly say that I don't remember almost any of them. I vividly recall nightmares (which were few, but memorable, usually involving amphibians and reptiles), but never my dreams. When I moved to the city as a 17 year-old things changed. All of a sudden I started to wake up with clear memories of the most startling and bizarre dreams imaginable. And after that, they've never really stopped.

I don't remember my dreams every night. And I still have nightmares sometimes. It's funny, my nightmares often are exactly the same ones I had as a small child, with a few home invasions thrown in. But my dreams, my dreams are completely impossible to predict.

Okay, perhaps not completely impossible. The number of dreams I've had of elephants means there's probably at least a 20% chance that my dreams will include at least one of these creatures. I've ridden elephants, watched dancing elephants, had elephants on my roof, and watched a baby elephant jumping on a trampoline who wanted me to take pictures and get him duplicates. Coincidentally, my mother also dreams about elephants. I have no idea why, and I'm not all that into dream analysis, so I just kind of go with it.

Not long ago I had a dream in which my dad and I were about to be eaten by a hippopotamus. We were floating in a river and there were little huts along the bank. Some small children saw our predicament and started calling to one another down the river and eventually help came to save us from the gaping maw of the hippo. Not sure what would have happened to us if no one had come to the rescue! And while there was some sense of impending doom, I wouldn't classify it as a nightmare. I didn't wake up in a sweat with my heart pounding.

I understand the myriad dreams that I've had that in some way indicate frustration. Often I've been racing around an arena completely unable to get to the judges stand on the other side. The competition is ready to begin and I'm the only one missing. These kinds of dreams make sense to me. They are predictable, normal, and while they sometimes put me in a bit of a panic, they are basically boring. But some of my dreams are just delightfully bizarre and make me wonder if nothing is impossible. I wake up bewildered. I wake up smiling. And sometimes I actually wake up laughing.

So whether my food or the furniture is talking or I find myself riding a giraffe in a purple fedora, I'm grateful for these dreams because in them there is a kind of freedom. In them all societal norms, all the laws of physics and biology are out the window and anything can happen. :)

No, I don't have children

Recently I heard a comment that stung... just a little. We were having a conversation about nurturing children and someone mentioned (in a nutshell) that people who don't have children have no business contributing to the discussion. 

If I am to be honest, my most immediate response, as someone who has devoted much of her ministry to the nurture of young people, is to become defensive.  But a defensive posture is rarely a healthy posture. So, I must admit that I'm not entirely sure how to respond to such statements. 

I agree, that I cannot possibly fathom what it feels like to hold your newborn child in your arms for the first time. To get up night after night (or hour after hour) for feedings and to clean up vomit. To help your child navigate school and friendships. To drive children from one place to another, all.day.long. To ache when you see your child make unwise choices and to celebrate with them in their accomplishments. To hold them when they are ill and to encourage them in the things that bring them deepest joy. I can't walk a mile in your shoes. It's simply not possible. 

But does that mean that I can't journey with you?

Often it seems that the only way that society can understand "helping" parents is through criticism. It's by watching them, pointing out what they're doing wrong, and then giving them info (often from the internet) on how they can do things better. Certainly, this is not helpful. I've heard enough parents express frustration over random strangers coming up and criticizing them in grocery stores!  And I'm sure I have been guilty of offering criticism, though perhaps not to strangers, and hopefully not often. No one appreciates such judgment.

However, I hope that there are other ways that people who don't have their own children can be of support to those who do. One of the guiding scripture passages in my life is Deuteronomy 6:4-9.

4 Hear, O Israel: The Lord is our God, the Lord alone. ⁵You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your might. ⁶Keep these words that I am commanding you today in your heart. ⁷Recite them to your children and talk about them when you are at home and when you are away, when you lie down and when you rise. ⁸Bind them as a sign on your hand, fix them as an emblem on your forehead, ⁹and write them on the doorposts of your house and on your gates.

This is the way that we pass faith along to the next generation, and it is a command for all of us, not only parents.I want parents to know that they are not alone. That the endeavor of raising their children is one that they can share with a supportive community. My goal is not to judge parents, but to listen, to watch, to learn to recognize the systems in which they and all of us live, and to offer whatever support might lead them towards life. My ministry to families involves paying attention, not problem solving. It involves listening for the soul, not judgment. And while I don't know what it's like to be a parent, I do know what it's like to be a child (at least in a retrospective sort of way). And certainly I know what it's like to run out of time. To not have the time to find resources, or to make supper, or to listen. This is what I hope to offer families. I hope that I can arrange my own life in such a way as to be able to offer them my time. To be available to do some of the searching for resources that families often can't do on their own, to bring food when getting dinner together is just an unmanageable burden, and to listen when it feels like the ears of the world are deafened to the longings of the soul.

No, I don't have children... but I hope I can still journey with those who do.

Becoming

I've had a lot of time to think over the past year and a half. That's about how long I've been underemployed and realistically there were only so many blankets I could sew/crochet, bread I could bake, things I could clean and organize and fiction I could read in my spare time. Eventually thinking, meditating had to happen. It really was inevitable.

And I'm glad it did (and is still) don't get me wrong. I strongly believe in working on my own

You know...self awareness :)

stuff, in growing in self-awareness, in becoming still and listening for the voice of God. But if  am to be honest, I do a lot of things to avoid the process too.

I think of this process as "becoming." It's a process of integrating my experiences, both inner and outer, it's a process of organizing thoughts and listening to God with my whole being in order to allow my true self, the image of God within me to emerge. And it's a process that often seems unproductive. And as I mentioned here I grew up with a strong work ethic alongside a strong need to fulfill expectations and so sitting and meditating often seems...lazy.

But it's not. Not in the least. And I feel blessed to have this space in which to think. It's especially nice right now since my landlords are away for the winter. I can meditate in almost complete silence which is a gift I am not taking for granted.

And in the process of meditating, I have of late come to a conclusion, or at the very least a strong working theory that there is no point in me trying to be anything that I'm not. I know this seems rather obvious, but let me continue.

I'm not sure how, or where, but somehow over the past number of years I got the impression that pastors didn't get to be real or authentic. That pastors needed to always take great care in their public persona to avoid angering congregants and thus losing their job. Wait a second... I have actually been told this. And it has always felt very uncomfortable to me. I don't mean to say that I don't think that pastors should take care with their words. I believe STRONGLY in the power of words, both as beneficial tools to build up and harmful ones that tear down. But I think the discomfort grew out of a sense that I was being told that my own internal integrity didn't matter. What mattered was job security and "unity."

For me, "becoming" is about integrity. It's about aligning my outer life and my inner life in such a way that it is indistinguishable from the Divine will. Yes I know, that's a totally lofty goal, but I like to aim high.  It's about becoming so connected to the light within (think Quaker here) that I can choose no other way. Sometimes this might mean offending someone, sometimes it might mean being quirky or not being what people want or expect. But I've come to realize that when I meditate the pull of the light, the pull towards "becoming" is much greater than external pulls that compromise my integrity and in the end, help no one, not really.

I've been thinking about people I know who have hidden their true selves (thoughts, feelings, deeply held convictions) in order to make others happy or keep the peace. I've been thinking about the times in which I do this as well. And certainly, on the surface, peace is kept and people (certain people) get to be happy. But what about the people who were longing to hear from that authentic self? What if, in meeting traditional expectations, in being what some people want me to be, I am in fact robbing the Spirit of the opportunity to connect with others through my authentic self. What if offering my partial self, my incongruent self is really a cheap gift while reaching deep within to my authentic self (even if it upsets some people) could be the voice that someone was longing to hear? 

Convocation wouldn't have been the same without the Crocs!

Maybe the world needs a quirky whimsical person who wears teal crocs.

Maybe the world needs a person who loves to read fiction, especially fantasy because it sparks the imagination.

Maybe the world needs a person who is passionate about the biblical story and just won't let it go.

Maybe the world needs a person who doesn't feel called to be married and have children.

Maybe the world needs a person who has a giant menagerie of stuffed animals.

Maybe the world needs a person who has struggled with anxiety and who has triumphed!

Maybe the world needs a person who knows how it feels to lose a family member to mental illness. 

Maybe the world needs a person who believes and is willing to state that all people are created in the image of God, regardless of sexual orientation.

Maybe the world needs a person who advocates for children as fully human beings capable of tremendous spiritual depth.

Sometimes it's not "popular" to wear teal crocs (maybe an understatement!), or to read children's fiction, or to live in an alternative household, or to talk about my struggles with anxiety, or to voice my support for those I believe are being sidelined or ostracized. But maybe God didn't call me to be popular. Maybe God just called me to be me, not some watered down version of me whose entire life is focused on meeting societal expectations, but the authentic and dynamic child of God that I am. 

And the funny thing is, that thinking of myself this way, doesn't make me feel like I'm more than other people, or make me more "me" focused, it just makes me curious about who you really are. 

Grief...or Holy Saturday

I've been thinking a lot these last few days about grief and sorrow. About our culture's discomfort with such things. And I know I'm speaking in very general terms here, but for the most part North American society doesn't like intense or prolonged grief. We don't know what to do with the silence, with the tears, with hearing the story again and again and again. We don't know what to do with the sorrow. For that matter, I'm not sure we know what to do with intense unadulterated joy either. We tend to prefer to live in a middle space, a safe space where the deepest parts of ourselves can remain disengaged. It's a coping mechanism I think. But that's a whole other topic in and of itself.
 
About two weeks ago, my roommate Alicia had a short article published in The Messenger, her denomination's periodical on the topic of reclaiming Holy Saturday. That space of grieving that falls between the trauma and shock of Good Friday and the joyful resurrection (or return back to life) of Easter morn.  It is the space we tend to ignore. It is the space of grieving, of discomfort, of uncertainty. It is a prolonged space. No one likes this space.

We have learned, in a way, to handle Good Friday. We have services in place for the literal remembrance of the death of Christ (again, I'm speaking in generalities and from my own experience). And we have protocol for handling the literal deaths in our own lives as well. There are funeral plans and crisis care and the space of shock that is expected and honoured. We don't always do it well, though quite often we do. Quite often it is a powerful space where tears and sorrow are allowed to permeate our lives. Quite often these spaces are a gift that place us on a wonderful road of honouring, remembering, and eventually healing.

And sometimes for a few days, a week, or maybe even a month the road we travel is...respected. But it doesn't take long until our culture wants us to move on. To get the heck out of Good Friday and live a normal life again. What I'm getting at here is that grief seems to be seen in our culture as a problem. A problem that needs to be solved so we can be happy again. We try to jump straight from Good Friday to Easter Sunday without allowing for the space of Holy Saturday. And I think this happens even more so with young children. They remember and we are afraid they'll become upset so we change the subject. They begin to cry and we promise them an ice cream or a toy if they stop. They wake up at night and so we give them Tylenol. We do the same things really in our adult lives, it just looks a bit different. But with kids it seems the need is somewhat more intense because children shouldn't be sad, they shouldn't suffer, they should sleep all night without fear.

The problem is though that they do suffer and so do we. And the only real way to Easter Sunday, to a return to life (a new life that has been forever changed through death) is through Holy Saturday. Try as we might, we cannot fully circumvent the need for grief. 

So when our children bring up the topic of death, let us engage them. Let us answer the questions we can answer, and sit with them in the mystery for those questions that rightfully escape easy answers.

When they remember the one they loved, let us remember together. Children are most often instrumental grievers. They grieve through doing. Think creatively about projects or activities you can do together to remember and grieve well. 

When they begin to cry, hold them and cry with them. Acknowledge their grief and their sorrow. And in doing so perhaps you will have the chance to acknowledge your own. 

When your child wakes at night, go to him or her and be together. Yes I know there is school tomorrow, or work or lessons of various types. But this is more important.  It truly is. Sit together with your child in Holy Saturday. 

The space of Holy Saturday is a natural space. It is a space that lasts awhile. But do not fear, it will not last forever. As Alicia mentions as well, there are occasions when individuals become stuck in Good Friday, but these instances are relatively few. When these occasions arise speak with a pastor or counselor for guidance. 

 For the most part however,  Holy Saturday just is. It's a vital part of being human in a finite world. It is a space of transformation, a space of becoming, a space of movement from death to life. And the only way forward is through.

Why I support Bill 18

Bill 18 has been in the news a lot lately. Perhaps that's an understatement. It's all become a bit crazy it seems to me. With angry sermons and cries of attack on religious freedom. For the past number of weeks my heart has been aching for the students in our schools, and I feel like it's time that I said something. 

I'm a Christian and I stand behind Bill 18. 

I'm totally fine with people offering constructive criticism on how Bill 18 might better define bullying, or helpful suggestions for the inclusion of consequences. I'm not sure myself if I fully understand the implications of the manner in which bullying is defined in the bill and I am totally ready to let informed educators take the lead on that one. If the majority of school teachers and support staff found the definition to be entirely unhelpful, then I think I'd trust their judgment. They're on the front lines everyday, they know what will be beneficial and what won't.Thus far, I haven't really heard a general outcry in this regard.

And I would be totally fine with people also offering constructive criticism on the ways in which the bill offers support to LGBQT youth. Perhaps there are better ways to support persons of varying sexual orientations in our schools than Gay/Straight alliances. Again, I'm not in the schools so I trust those who have developed such alliances and monitored their benefits to speak in this regard.

But I'm not fine with the argument that this bill is an attack on religious freedom. Religious freedom means a freedom to practice one's faith (any faith) as well as the freedom not to practice a particular faith. This applies to every single student in every single school. Religious freedom does not, however, make space for bullying or marginalization...of anybody. Religious freedom does not make space for prohibiting LGBQT students from receiving support as they seek to live and discover their identities in the world.

My faith in Jesus Christ compels me to love all people. My faith in Jesus Christ compels me to speak up for those who are marginalized. My faith in Jesus Christ compels me to tear down walls that divide, walls that oppress, walls that deny the cherished image of God that is in each of us. I think offering love, support and protection to LGBQT youth can help tear down those walls.

Demanding the right to keep LGBQT youth and their supporters silent, making sure that these youth in our schools believe they are alone, seems an awful lot like bullying and very little like love.

My Story with Feminism

Okay, so I don't have a good history with feminism. And those feminists out there who have uber specific definitions for feminism and have thought deeply about how to have sensitive discussion on these topics are probably going to cringe, but I'm going to talk about it anyway since I do see myself as a feminist. 

To me feminism means overturning systems that allow one group or groups to determine the story of another. It means acknowledging that all people are created in the image of God and all people are valued and cherished. It means paying attention to our words and actions because so often we oppress others simply because we don't stop to think. It means that limiting roles/pay/toys/spaces/opportunities etc. because of gender/race/ethnicity/sexual orientation etc. is wrong. Period.

So definitely, by my own totally un-researched definition, I am a feminist. But the reason my history with feminism isn't great is because I often felt threatened. I felt threatened because it felt like my story (not perhaps the predominant one) didn't matter. And I'm fully willing and incredibly embarrassed to admit that in return I made sure that others felt like their stories weren't valuable either. I stomped on their stories.

Not Cool. 
Not. Cool. At. All. 

I offer my apologies to all of the women and men out there whose stories I have not valued. I am deeply sorry. 

My own story didn't involve oppressive men. Not in almost any concrete kinds of experiences (though I have a couple from more recent years). I grew up believing I could become whatever I wanted to be. I watched my mom mow lawn, garden and go to work. I watched my dad vacuum (I actually thought that only men vacuumed for years!), wash dishes and drive a tractor. And I heard my parents both repeatedly tell us in a joking manner, to ask the other parent because "they were the boss." I certainly have come face-to-face with oppressive gender stereotypes in my life, but it tended to come more from media (yes, I know that men are in media, but so are women), or from other women. 

First, other women. Other women have boxed me in far more often than men. Aside from a few quite non-representative samples, most of the men I have related to over my lifetime have been relatively or incredibly supportive. One professor at Canadian Mennonite University sticks out in a particular way. I had never met a male as devoted to feminism as he is until I began to attend CMU. His support of women is clear and his attempts to value their stories and the stories of women in the Bible is admirable. But since I just so happen to have spent a great deal of my life with women, I have far more experiences of being boxed in by them than by men. Most of that "boxing in" was the product of erroneous assumptions about who I am and my story. For this reason I think listening and not making assumptions are central to my understanding of feminism. 

And for me, a great deal of the assumptions have to do with the experiences that women see as "normative" alongside gender stereotypes in media. I see these as feeding off of one another. It seems like a chicken/egg scenario to me. A complex intertwining of messages, impossible to discern which came first. But either way, the assumptions of people around us and the messages we receive from media create boxes. For some, those boxes are not really a problem at all, since they fit in them nicely (though perhaps some are only trained to think that they do). The problem for many of us comes when those boxes don't fit at all with our stories, or with our created nature. 

I do not yearn to have a baby. I just don't. This puts me outside of a pretty significant box for my gender. I also don't yearn to have a husband. Neither do I yearn for more shoes. I also despise shopping. And I can't stand the particular shade of pink that is part of the "girls" toy market. I find these boxes and the assumption that I belong in them to be oppressive. The pressure to be in a romantic relationship and to give birth is a powerful one in our culture and I feel it frequently. Yet when I'm in close contact with a highly feminist culture there are a whole new set of boxes that I'm expected to fit into. And I don't fit into them either!


 



There's only one box that I fit into
and it's a pretty strange and delightful shape. 






And since I work a lot with young children whose identities are being formed and the shape of their own "boxes" is just emerging, I get really ticked off when I look at the tiny boxes these magnificent people are expected to fill. It hurts to see them look longingly at toys on the other side of the room/store/playspace and then turn back to the toys they are expected to like. It hurts to see young girls trapped in tight little shoes with heels and frilly dresses as they attempt to run and play and live fully in the world. It hurts to watch little girls ask their mommies if they are fat, or pretty, or if it's okay for them to like baseball. And the same applies to boys. I ache for boys who force themselves to engage in combative play when they would rather be painting, or building, or playing house. It hurts me when all the boys I see look exactly the same, because this season blue and green striped rugby shirts are what's "in style." I'm sure at least one of those boys just wants to march out of his room in bright purple or yellow. 

Youtube videos like this one by Feminist Frequency do an awesome job of helping us to think about the way media impacts gender stereotypes, particularly for young people. This one is about 10min. long, but well worth the watch!

So, these are some of my feminist concerns that I'm highlighting on International Women's Day. Not because women are more important than men, or because this day is more important than any other. But because I care about issues of injustice. I care about ALL people having the freedom to become the gifts to the world that they were created to be. 

Feminism for me, is not just allowing people, but EMPOWERING people to live into the glorious boxes that they've been gifted with and choosing to dismantle boxes that are oppressive for the benefit of the world.

Celebrate the Singles

I've written a little bit in the past about singleness, here and there, as part of larger posts like last year's Valentine's Day rant on love and marriage. But today I feel a need to advocate and honour single folks. In some ways I'm a part of that group since I'm not romantically attached. I'm a single celibate woman. So in some ways I am "single", certainly by society's most crucial standard of being part of a couple (married/common-law/dating). However in many other ways I don't have the same experiences as many single people that I meet because I share a household with Alicia, another single woman (see this reflection on our ten-year relationship). In some ways my day to day experiences are far more like that of a couple or family since I come home to another person, I share household chores and bills, and when I go to church or other events I rarely enter the room alone.

So in this post I am, in many ways, speaking as someone from the outside. And what I want to say is, CELEBRATE THE SINGLES!

These are amazing people. Whether they are single by choice or circumstance, whether they are young or old, or whether they have always been single or are newly single, they are amazing. They deserve respect, admiration, and support. 

Singles go home from work and there is no one to share the load of meal preparation. Not only that, no one else bought the groceries. And they have the task of cooking for one, which is not easy!

Singles deal with all their paperwork, even at tax time. 

Singles do all the household chores. All .of . them.

Singles have all of the uncertainty of new situations and places, and often don't get the comfort of a person next to them walking in, or a person to dish with after it's over. 

Singles have the opportunity to celebrate scads of life events with others (marriages, births, anniversaries), but their life events are rarely celebrated. 

In a similar vein, singles give gifts at all those occasions but are rarely gifted themselves. There is no cache of gifts and money from a wedding to start their household. 

Singles sometimes carry large financial burdens, having no extra income or person to share expenses with.

Singles grieve losses and there is no one there to lean on when they wake in the middle of the night. 

Singles are often expected to be available and to do more than others with the assumption that because they're single they don't have other responsibilities. 

Singles are often viewed as people in waiting. As incomplete, or perpetually in transition with the assumption that they will only be whole when they are attached to one other person.  


All of this is not to say that there aren't wonderful things about being single too. But what I'm getting at is that singles have a lot of responsibility and in our society we most often assume that our support comes to us from within very traditional family structures (marriage, children). If people don't have those traditional structures, then...oh well. Tough luck. 

But we are a community. A human community. A body that is woven together by our common humanity, our shared place as God's creation. In the church we talk about being the body of Christ. A body that's meant to be interdependent. Within the body it is everyone's responsibility to help everyone feel as though they belong and are loved - we often assume that this is taken care of in the traditional family or couple relationship and we've shirked our responsibility to reach out beyond our insular family structures. 

Singles have a lot of responsibility and they need the love, support and respect of their communities. So Celebrate a Single Today!  

If you are single and have stories about how others have been an encouragement or support to you, I would love to hear them. Often stories are the best way of moving people to action. :)