Sacred Memories part 1

For me, one of the hardest parts of being an unemployed pastor is not having the opportunity to pastor children. I very much enjoy ministering to adults and youth, providing them with resources and tools to live out their own callings is a great joy for me, but nothing in the world touches my spirit like ministering to young children, witnessing the sacred moments that permeate their faith. The other day I realized that I hadn't done a children's time, prayed with or told Bible stories to children etc. in 8 months. 8 very long months.

And for good reason I think. I'm not currently settled in a faith community and it would be irresponsible of parents and caregivers to simply hand over their children to a person that doesn't belong to their faith community, a person that they don't know and have no reason to trust, pastor or not. Or perhaps that is my understanding of how things should be. I certainly haven't made any great attempts to insert myself into the lives of children in the congregations I have attended. Perhaps congregants would have been all to ready to have me step in and take responsibility for their children, though I hope not. I also have too much respect for young children to simply jump in and try to minister to them without giving them a clear understanding of who I am and what my place is in their lives. It's one thing for them to know that I'm a visitor telling them a story this one Sunday, or a student who will be around until she graduates, or that I'm their Sunday school teacher, or that I'm the pastor in their congregation. It's quite another to simply slide in and out of their lives unable to share with them why I am there, or for how long. It's hard enough for adults to have people wander in and out of their lives, let alone for children. If you've only been alive for 4 years, having someone enter into your life for 6 months is a significant chunk of time. 

So in this space in which I find myself, this space of waiting, this space of random ministry if you will, I have decided to take the next several posts to remember some of the sacred moments that I have experienced in ministry. I will intentionally be leaving out names or changing names to respect the children involved.

So for today I want to remember one of my all time favourite Sunday school classes. Our lesson for the day was the story of Joseph being re-united with his brothers. My co-teacher had agreed to be Joseph, set on a throne of sorts up in our Sunday school room. The rest of us were on the main floor of the church getting in character. I had written out the story as a play and each child was a brother of Joseph's (the girls were a bit annoyed that they had to play male roles AGAIN), and one parent was Joseph's father. In order to help the children enter fully into the story they only received their lines when they needed to say them. There was no way to look ahead in the story, or to even know what story they were doing. They were simply a group of brothers in a land of drought. We did a bit of guided imagery to get ourselves situated and then moved into the story. The brothers, clad in dishtowel headgear, all made the trek to Egypt to seek food, leaving their father and youngest brother behind.

While traveling my students began to ad lib, trudging through a violent sand storm, dishtowels over their faces to protect themselves. Approaching the Pharaoh's right hand man each of the brothers fell prostrate before him explaining their plight. Joseph feigned ignorance as to the brothers identities and accused them of being spies with so much conviction that the brothers began to babble, even without their lines that no, no, they were just looking for food because they were starving!

As the story unfolded the children became more and more invested in the characters it seemed. They looked genuinely upset at having to leave one of their number behind as collateral and hungrily grabbed the small amount of food that they were allowed to take with them eating their pita bread as if they hadn't eaten for days.The kids all continued to read their lines when they received them, but also added, very appropriate actions, reactions, and other lines throughout the story. And when Joseph finally, almost in tears, revealed his identity the brothers were in shock. At this point, I realized that I had forgotten to assign anyone the task of running to get their father, yet when Joseph told them to hurry and get their father, almost everyone of them leaped to their feet and ran to find him.

Minutes passed as we waited in anticipation for Joseph's father to be re-united with his long lost son.  Finally the brothers ran into the room, panting, and we asked where Jacob was. And loudly several of the brothers announced that he was on his way, he was just getting a coffee!

It was amazing seeing this story lived out by this group of children. They entered into the story so fully and afterward reflected so deeply on the emotions they felt, and that they thought the characters had felt as well as where they saw God moving in the lives of this family. Definitely a class that I won't forget.

Fun with Preaching

The last few months have been a bit of an adventure for me. Still unemployed, but suddenly getting a lot of random invites to preach or speak at various locales. Preaching has never been the greatest of my ministry gifts, but I would say that I`m competent. I was never sure exactly what I had to offer as a preacher, except perhaps a day off for the pastor of a particular congregation!

However, recently I`ve begun to notice some things about the way I preach, or rather, about the types of responses that I`ve received following my sermons. One, I am often approached by older women who respond to my messages with quite a bit of emotion. Two, I hear comments about how the hearer has gained a better understanding of the biblical story. 

I grew up hearing primarily male preachers, but occasionally female ones as well. It wasn`t uncommon to have a female pastor speak and my family has never taken issue with women in ministry so I grew up thinking that we didn`t have a female pastor at our church because none had applied. Now, the situation is far more complex than all that, but suffice it to say that I didn`t experience a great deal of tension surrounding women in ministry during my childhood and teenage years. And I don`t think a whole lot about the fact that I`m female now when I`m preparing a sermon either. However, the last time I preached I remember thinking, wow, these are interesting sermon analogies and stories that I`m sharing. I`ve never heard stories like this from the pulpit before. I had no sports analogies, no stories about my children or my spouse, no stories about construction or building projects and certainly no Simpsons references. And I started to wonder about what I had to offer as a preacher, not in terms of my gifts of oration, but in terms of my life experience. I am single, I am female, I am...me. I have a particular history, a particular family, and particular experiences that shape how I interpret scripture, that shape how God speaks to me and how I am led to present the Word of God to others. And perhaps who I am, speaks to particular persons in the pews. 

At least, this is what seems to happen. Almost every single time I have ever preached I have been approached by older widows (usually over 80 years, either members, or visitors) and thanked profusely for my message. Many have tears in their eyes, many comment on the sermon content, or how they have been challenged, or how they appreciated the way I used the biblical text. I get responses from others as well, but for some reason I seem to speak to the experience of older, single, women. At first I thought, wow that`s a pretty small demographic to be addressing in sermons, shouldn`t I be aiming for a broader audience. And then I thought, hell no! These are cherished members of our congregations. Members that are often overlooked. I wondered how many sermon illustrations they had listened to over the past 85 years that didn`t speak to their experience and I thought surely these women should also be able to hear the Word of God in terms that resonate for them. 

To clarify, I am not intentionally trying to speak to only this group of people. In fact I put a pretty concentrated effort into trying to listen to scripture through the lens of many different people when I prepare a sermon. But if who I am connects with these women, then I am only to happy to serve as God`s conduit through bun baking analogies, something I`m rather passionate about. 

The second comment I have heard occasionally after I preach is that the hearer has a better understanding of the biblical story. And I have to say that I have never experienced any comment that made me feel prouder of the work that I had done. I was taught to preach starting with a text (even better, a story)...always. This is not to say that one can never do a sermon series on a particular topic, but that when drawing out the message that God has for us  we always start with the text, not with what we want the text to say. I love the analogy that I once heard from Thomas Long at a preaching seminar, that the act of preparing a sermon or engaging the biblical text is like going into a strange cave. The preacher goes in, wrestles a bear, and then if she lives to tell the tale, stands behind the pulpit on Sunday morning and bares (no pun intended) witness to what she has seen and heard. This is how I experience the act of preaching.

I am passionate about the biblical text and believe it can speak powerfully to our whole being in profound ways...but only if we tell it. There is no way for God to speak to us through the biblical narrative if we leave it lying there, black words on white pages propped up on the Communion table. Some of the most glorious sermons I have heard have come from preachers who loved the biblical story and allowed it to take root in them. They did not have the funniest jokes, or the most fabulous analogies. What they had was the Word of God, the living and dynamic biblical narrative and the willingness to allow it to speak through them in authentic ways. 

I don't aspire to be a fabulous preacher. I don't feel that God has particularly called me to a preaching ministry and as I said earlier, as a preacher, I am merely competent. But I do know that I have been called to tell God's story and in this particular time and in this particular place it seems that that means being a traveling preacher. Somebody get me a horse.

Honestly, I have no idea how to start this blog post. I have already deleted more words than I thought I would write in the first place. I have things to say. I have words, emotions, passions I want to communicate and yet I have no idea how to get them out. 

These months have been frustrating! Being unemployed has joys, for sure. I can get up when I want, I can plan my own day, I have no one telling me what to do, and there are no papers to write. Can someone give me a paper to write?! Really. I actually had a couple of days where I seriously started to consider doctoral programs just because.

Some days I feel desperate for something to do. It's not that there's nothing to do, it's just that there's nothing I want to do. I am totally aware of the beauty in the daily tasks of life. I really am. I get that there is purpose and meaning in folding underwear. I have read the books that link the holy with the ordinary. My mind and body have prayed as I`ve chopped veggies for soup and as I've kneaded dough for bread. I have laboured over the dirty toilet and sink and seen it as a labour of love. 

And I'm Done. I've had it. Today I just want to use my degree. Today I just want to do something that connects with that deepest part of myself that feels alive when I teach and preach and lead. And so I'm writing, because that's as close as I can get right now.

I am incredibly grateful that during these last few months there have been small opportunities to engage in the work that feels so very right. And each time one opportunity ends another one begins and  I am choosing to hold each one of these opportunities as a very precious gift. Whether it is guest preaching, teaching a Sunday school class, doing a professional development day or marking a paper, I am choosing to cherish those moments in which I feel most alive, most me. At least I try to. Sometimes the papers I marked didn`t feel anything like a gift!

It`s not to say that I never feel that sense of rightness, or that I never feel alive when I am doing household tasks. But it is profoundly clear to me when I am functioning most authentically as the person that God created me to be and sometimes that really is when I`m baking, cooking, and cleaning, but more often it is related less to the task at hand and more to the aspect of myself that is being engaged. When I find myself cleaning in connection with offering hospitality to another then I feel alive. When I find myself baking buns as a way of connecting with my family`s history and offering it to my friends and family in the present, then I feel alive. When I am able to give someone direction, or offer them a resource that helps them to live their life more fully or to do their tasks with greater integrity, ease, or freedom, then I feel alive. When I am able to open up the biblical story and help others to live into its dynamic nature, then I feel alive. When I am able to teach good material and facilitate life-giving conversation then I feel alive. When I am able to introduce someone to another way of encountering the divine, then I feel alive. 

My calling, as I have come to understand it, involves hospitality, making space, ongoing narrative, food, resourcing, story-telling, teaching, and equipping.

And honestly, as I have spent the last number of years drawing out all the many strands that make me feel alive, those strands that God has woven together, it has become clear to me that retreat ministry is really where all of these strands find their home.

This is my dream. And fortunately it is a dream that my roommate shares. In a lot of ways all of her gifts come together in retreat ministry as well. How many people do you know who love spiritual care-giving and lawn-mowing!

So when I`m feeling frustrated in this winter-ish season of unemployment, it helps me to dream about our retreat centre and all that it might be, even while noticing all of the small ways that this ministry is already happening. 

 Some of my (our) dreams:

1. Breathing space. Big prairie skies, room to move, space to walk, breathe, scream, whatever is needed.  An outdoor gazebo, a large labyrinth, places to sit and think, a huge swing set.

2. Hospitality. Minimal clutter, comfy chairs,a place to leave your cell phone, soft beds and homemade quilts, fresh baking and beverages, space for silence and reflection. 

3. A library. Large bookcases with a good selection of books on spirituality, worship, theology, Bible, pastoral care, Christian formation, and inspirational biographies (we already have quite a good collection between two seminary students!). And always the newest edition of Leader magazine for planning Advent and Lent services. A mini resource centre.

4. Silence or conversation. Many people come in search of silence on retreat, and honestly  most of us need it. But if you`re anything like me, sometimes I need to bounce ideas off of people. And I think if I worked at a retreat centre there would need to be room for that as well.

4. Built in child-care. Any parent wishing to book a retreat would have guaranteed child-care (not with us, but we would arrange for it). There are too many parents who, by virtue of circumstance, cannot attend to their inner work. 

5. A lovely bathtub/bathroom with no interruptions. Some of our best thinking can happen while soaking in a tub.And my impression is that for some parents simply going to the bathroom or bathing alone is already a huge step along the path of self-care.

6. An absolutely amazing space for prayer and storytelling retreats for children. Fabric draped ceiling panels (to mimic a tent), huge bookshelves, a trunk full of all the dress-up supplies for acting out the biblical stories, prayer mats, candles, hour glasses, scarves and space. Lots of space to live the story, to breathe, to pray, to dance, to sing, to encounter God in all of God`s concreteness and mystery and to fellowship together. 

7. Space for Spiritual direction and pastoral counselling sessions. Safe space. Welcoming space. 

8. Room for classes or group retreats, deacons groups, Sunday school classes, Sunday school teacher orientation, support groups, discussion groups etc.

9. Garden. A large garden for those who connect most with God when their hands are in the dirt. 

10. Art/mess room. Inner work is not always neat, clean, or quiet. I think a good retreat space needs a room where it's okay to be noisy, to dance, to throw paint, to sculpt, to sing to break things etc. Inner work is dynamic/creative work and we do ourselves a disservice when we try to contain it all in pretty boxes with holy words. 

 Someday...

A Few of my Favourite Things

Last night as I lay in my bed and watched the lightening flash repeatedly, I was reminded of The Sound of Music, one of my favourite musicals. That song in the thunderstorm scene is just so catchy! And, as part of my elementary school choir repertoire, it is firmly implanted in my long term memory, every single cuddly schnitzley word. We must have had a Julie Andrews thing going at my school since I also know every word to "Let's go Fly a Kite." But I digress. 

In honour of this most auspicious piece of music I thought I would make a list of a few of my favourite things. Which, oddly enough, has very little overlap with the beloved mentionings of the von Trapp children and their delightful nanny. I have no love of whiskers on kittens, and I distinctly dislike woolen mittens, which when damp smell disgusting. So here is my list of things that bring me joy "when the dog bites, when the bee stings, when I'm feeling sad..."

Disclaimer: this list does not include people. This is not to say that there aren't persons who would be favourites when I'm feeling sad, but this is a list of favourite "things". And people aren't things. 

1. Canadian spelling of words like favourite! This is really not the most important thing to list here, but I'm feeling somewhat irritated that every time I type favourite it is underlined with that silly red wiggle that indicates that this site has no idea of the proper way to spell such words. Clearly. :) 

2. Jello jigglers. By Jello, I don't mean the actual name brand of sugary colour (another wiggly underlined word) laden gelatin that you buy in the grocery store. But it sounds weird to call them squares of fruit juice fortified by loads of gelatin powder. So Jello jigglers it is. I love to take 100% fruit juice and make my own jello that wiggles and jiggles and glows in the light with natural jewel tones of red and purple. I love the look, I love the texture, they just make me feel happy. 

3. My blanket. As long as I can remember I have adored my blanket on my bed. It's not always the same one, obviously. But the one thing that they all have in common is that they are made of 100% cotton and are both warm, and cool at the same time. As a young child I used to dream about what it would be like if I could have a room in which my cotton comforter covered the floor, the ceiling and all the walls! Weird perhaps, but there you have it. 

4. Cool breezes that drift in through my window. This should not be confused with a love of cool breezes outdoors. I'm not so much an outdoors person and anyone who knows me will immediately recognize that as an understatement! But I do love the cool breezes that come in through my window while I am lying in my bed with my aforementioned blanket.

5. Thunderstorms. One individual in my life, who has had his house hit by lightening, has suggested that I might not have a proper respect for lightening and that had my house been hit by lightening I wouldn't love storms quite so much. This is likely true. But since I haven't had that experience, I continue to adore the loud crashes and the bright flashes of a good Manitoba thunderstorm, even better when accompanied by some much needed rain. 

6. Melted cheese that has been broiled to a lovely crust. Need I say more?

7. Stories aka fiction. Since I have already written extensively about this, I won't do so again. 

8. Colour. I have a thing for bright colours. I went through a brief phase of wearing dark or respectable looking clothes sometime in the late 90's and early 2000's, and then I came to my senses. I love deep jewel tones and bright colours that remind me of flowers or tropical waters. I know that at times it embarrasses others when I walk about in bright pink crocs, or teal crocs, or purple crocs. But...that's just too bad. The world has a enough darkness in it without my adding to it.

9. Snow. I love snow, and winter, and cold. I always have. Perhaps it comes from the fact that I get heat stroke and sunburn, or maybe I just love to have my nose hairs freeze together, or maybe it's both. I don't know. But nothing is quite as glorious as standing out in the middle of a flat prairie field covered in pure white snow, looking up into bright blue sky and having the breath just catch in your throat. 

10. Hugs. Good hugs. Not awkward side hugs, or limp-insincere-it's so nice to see you hugs, or awww poor baby hugs. I like good strong, darn it I'm glad you were born kind of hugs where your stuffing threatens to come out and your ribs feel a bit bruised.

11.Simplicity. By this I mean a complete lack of clutter. A good wooden shelf should not be hidden by all manner of kitschy dust catchers that detract from the glorious sheen of the wood (not the sheen of veneer or melamine or whatever).

12. Wood. I have always loved wood. It depresses me to see all of the cheap compressed garbage that today passes as furniture and tomorrow floods our landfills. I am endlessly proud of the beautiful end table (my favourite piece of furniture in my parent's house), the kitchen cabinets, the desks and the doll cribs that were carefully and labouriously crafted by my dad and which will probably last for a century if cared for. Living in Indiana and being able to occasionally walk through Amish furniture stores was probably not a good thing for me in terms of not coveting things. 

13. Chopping vegetables. I often get a warm fuzzy feeling when I put on my hideously filthy apron (which is washed regularly but no longer comes clean) and chop vegetables. Especially if I'm making soup. I love to make soup. Big huge pots of soup. 

14. Kneading dough. Almost nothing in the world makes me feel more...shalom-like than baking bread. I love the smell of yeast, the springy stretch of the dough, the woosh of air when you punch it down after it rises, and the neat little buns on their pans covered by clean dish towels. Yes I know I can't actually eat bread. But that doesn't stop me from making it and giving it away. And while many people these days are enamoured with baking all manner of flaxy grainy hearty loaves (which I am certainly in favour of), I just want to bake sinful white buns, golden brown on top with tiny white freckles. The freckles were my grandma's sign that the buns were perfect. No freckles, and out the buns went (often to our house!).

15. Stuffed animals. As long as I can remember I have loved stuffed animals. I collect them. Right now I'm working on a zoo. I have an elephant, crocodile, monkeys, camels, sheep, tiger, giraffe, walrus, beluga whale, shark, dolphin, turtle...I remember one particular night when I was quite young that I lined up all my animals around the perimeter of my bed and around three sides of my pillow. Then I carefully climbed into my bed and slept surround by them all night. I love animals (mostly mammals), but I'm allergic to a lot of them, and scared of the rest, so stuffed ones just seemed like the best bet. They don't make me sneeze. 

16. Reruns of M*A*S*H and Wayne and Schuster. Such fond memories. 

17. My blanket...oh I already said that one. Oops.

18. Trivia games. I love trivia, and word games. My dad and a few other people are willing to play word games with me. But nobody ever wants to play trivia games. It makes me sad. My favourite games as a child were IQ 2000 and Teacher's Quiz. So while these things bring me joy, they don't get to do so very often. So thanks to all those people who play Words with Friends with me!

19. Mystery. This probably sounds a bit vague. But I chose this word because it covers a lot of territory. I love mysteries, as in crime novels and whodunit kinds of things. But I also love things that look mysterious. Cloth, furniture, or objects that look like they come from distant lands or ancient times. Music that reminds me that there is a world beyond the one that I inhabit. Fables and tales that introduce me to the previously unknown. That's part of what I love about the biblical story, it takes me to other places. 

20. Underwater tropical pictures with fish and coral and stuff. I love the bright colours, and again a sense of mystery and the unknown. I have no desire whatsoever to actually go snorkeling or anything, I never have. But my sister always wanted to and she loved to swim underwater. Whenever I see a picture like that I imagine her swimming among the fish with her hair streaming out behind her, blue eyes flashing with excitement and joy. 

21. Verenke. For those of you non Russian-Mennonites, these are boiled pocket of dough filled with cottage cheese and salt and pepper and covered in cream gravy. They are even better fried in butter and smothered in cream gravy and strawberry sauce. This is the ONLY food that I have never developed a food aversion to even after throwing them up when I had the flu. Though I think my sister might have since she watched me throw them up on a huge fuzzy red pillow in our basement. 

22. Crepes with brown sugar. As a child my mom used to make us crepes for breakfast and we would just put brown sugar in them and roll them up by sticking a fork in the right hand side of the top of the crepe and spinning it across the plate. Makes sense if you see it. Even though these made me ill every time, I still loved them. And now I know how to make them without wheat or dairy! So I can keep loving them. 

23. Things in neat rows and clean lines. I don't have OCD. Not quite anyway. If I wasn't so bad at math I probably would have been an accountant. My favourite part of accounting class in high school was the grid-lined paper!

24. Having the ability to make things. I love to make things. Just simple things. I don't like to challenge my brain with new crochet patterns, or sewing clothing. But just single crochets, and sewing straight lines. The fun is in choosing the yarn or the fabric. I let someone else do the hard work. Then I just have the joy of sewing straight lines, or gentle curves (not circles, if I can help it!), or making scarf after scarf. You should see how many scarves Alicia has! 

25. The smell of fresh mown grass as I watch someone else mow it! I can't stand mowing, but the smell is intoxicating!

26. Blue skies and fluffy white clouds. I missed those so much when I lived in Elkhart. Manitoba has great sky. 

27. Chocolate! 

It's amazing how many favourite things I have once I start listing them!

Paws in Motion

This month it will be 6 years since my sister passed away. Some days it feels like only months, and at other times if feels like much longer. Often during my days there are little things that trigger memories for me of my sister. Things like turtles, bobble heads, red roses, interesting candles, and especially anything that has to do with cats. 

Cathleen, who was often called Cat by her friends was passionate about cats. She loved unique cat-themed art and had some interesting pics hanging on her walls, and she adored her own cats like they were her children or dearest friends. And I have to say, I have never seen animals act as much like people as her cats did with her, litter box not withstanding.  

When Cathleen died she had one blue tipped and one orange tipped Himalayan fur ball, Meika and Brazen respectively. Meika is pictured above. Most often she had their fur trimmed so they looked like lions with balls of fluff on the end of their tails, smooth bodies and large manes of fur. Each time the cats went to get a haircut they would come home completely humiliated and would refuse to go anywhere near a window for days afterward for fear of seeing their reflection! But the haircuts were simply another way that my sister showed her love for her cats since a long haired Himalayan is particularly prone to nasty hairballs. 

Some time before Cathleen died she had a different older cat, I can't remember its name anymore, who was ancient and missing most of its teeth. She babied it and talked to it like it was a human companion. And the cat responded in kind. When the day finally came for the cat to be put down (it was simply too sick and was suffering), Cathleen held it on her lap as my mom drove her to the vet's and talked to it about what it was seeing out the window. And the cat looked at everything that Cathleen pointed out as if it was taking in the scenery on the drive to Winkler (if I remember this story correctly).  There is really no way to express in words the amazing relationship that Cathleen had with her cats. 


Perhaps the most interesting story comes from after Cathleen died. Knowing the love that Cathleen had for Meika and Brazen, my parents could not just sell or give away the cats, so they took them into their home, despite having vowed never to have indoor pets. Knowing that the cats would feel very lonely and disoriented, I think they imagined that they could ease the cats' sense of loss by giving them a loving place to live surrounded by their familiar toys and scratching posts. However, in this new space I think the love my sister showed her cats started to spill over as Meika and Brazen began to comfort my parents. Whenever they saw my parents crying, or sensed that they were sad or upset, they would crawl up onto their laps, place their paws on their shoulders and gently stroke them with a paw until they seemed to feel better. 

At my sister's funeral those in attendance were invited to make donations to the Winnipeg Humane Society in honour of Cathleen. My niece Aimee decorated an amazing cat-themed picture frame which featured the picture from the beginning of this post for the donation table as a reminder for all of us of who Cathleen was and the love that she showed to her "babies." 

This year, in memory of my sister and her love of animals, my roommate Alicia and I (and possibly other family members) will be participating in the Winnipeg Humane Society's Paws in Motion Walk on June 24th. It seems like a wonderful way to remember Cathleen, and to pass on the love she had for animals to others, especially since I can't embrace animals in a tangible way due to allergies. :)


Please consider sponsoring either Alicia or myself as we walk in memory of Cathleen. Simply click here to visit our team page, Cat's Fam, and then click on our names on the right-hand side of the screen to donate. Thank you for helping us to remember Cathleen in this way!

Fiction!

Fiction, I have always loved fiction. For as long as I can remember I have adored poring over book after book of adventures and mysteries from other times, other lands. Some of my most vivid childhood and adult memories are of the books I have read. Richard Scarry books filled with pictures of a strange little worm in a strange little hat, and an even stranger ape wearing dozens of watches. I read My Big Book of Fairy Tales, and My Giant Book of Fairy Tales and better yet, the more exotic book of Fairy Tales that my Aunt sent me for Christmas one year that had fairy tales from China and other countries more interesting than my own. I read The Monster at the End of this Book, or I had it read to me so many times I think my parents thought they might loose their minds. I remember at my birthday party in grade 3 I was given the book Farmer Boy and realized for the first time that people actually wrote books long enough that I couldn't read them all in one sitting and even better, they wrote several books that formed a series. Often when I had reached the end of a book I felt somewhat devastated that the story was over, so for me the discovery of the sequel, the trilogy and the series was akin to heaven.

As a kid from the country trips to the library usually had to be tacked on to trips to run errands in town. I would get as many books as I was allowed and had started them by the time we were in the car and if we stopped at the Greenhouse, I could sometimes even finish one! Who could stand to wash dishes, sweep floors, clean bedrooms, weed gardens, when there were stories to be read, places to explore,strange people and creatures to meet. My mom found the perfect chore for me one year. Our newly planted row of evergreen trees needed to be watered and the garden hose moved every 20 minutes or so to the next tree. So there I spent my summer, seated in a lawn chair, book in hand, watch in the other, occasionally forgetting the watch until the puddle around the tree surrounded my feet. 

Once I had devoured everything I deemed worthy in the church library and the public library, finishing all the Laura Ingalls Wilder books, everything by L.M. Montgomery, and every book in the Mandi series (which I now can't believe I actually read), I began to purchase books with my allowance. Book after book. I look back with a degree of embarrassment at the quality of books that I purchased. I just didn't know better, or maybe people just weren't writing great books for kids then or perhaps they just weren't available in my small town bookstore. I have quite the collection of Babysitter's Club books amassed in the shelves at my parent's house (shudder).

I used to, and still, get asked why I bother buying books that will only be read once. Few people who really know me ask ever ask that question. I own almost no books that have been read only one time and some have been read upwards of 20 times! Yes, even the mysteries. Each time I delve into the world of the author and the characters the story comes to life in a new way. How could I read a good book only once!

In high school I discovered an Agatha Christie book on my dad's bookshelf, By the Pricking of my Thumbs. Old and somewhat dusty, I was desperate one evening for something to read and within a few pages I was hooked. Thank goodness Agatha Christie was a prolific author!  I spent the next four years digging up every one of her books that I could find.

I think it was probably in high school too when I began to realize that if a book was really not grabbing my attention, or if it was poorly written, then I didn't actually need to finish the book. What a completely bizarre thought. I remember holding a book in my hands and thinking about all the millions of books in the world and realizing that if I just slogged through the bad ones for no good reason, I would never get to all the good ones!

In junior high and high school I was also introduced to the world of Canadian, and even more specifically Prairie literature. If anything was going to turn me off of reading, I swear it could have been those years of English Literature classes. I just could not, and still cannot quite get my head around why I would want to read books about what was happening right outside my door. I know what harvest is, I was all too familiar with tumbleweed, drought, tractors, and eating sandwiches on the back of a pickup truck! And even now, while I value those things, and love life on the prairies (though I don't like dirt), I still don't want to read about it. Looking back I was probably the only kid in my Jr. high class that honestly preferred reading Word To Caesar over Who has Seen the Wind.

High school also led to the discovery of books about war and world issues and for a few years nothing held my attention like WWII. Growing up on a small farm in Southern Manitoba, and attending a Mennonite church made war a very foreign concept for me and for a time I just needed to dive into the world of war and pain and suffering. This is an experience that I have actually heard voiced by many others when they look back over their adolescence. Perhaps it is simply a time of trying to figure out what it means to suffer, or why people hurt each other the way we do. Who knows.

While I adore books of prose, I do not adore books of poetry.  The only poetry that I really find I value is liturgy and the Psalms. I can worship through poetry, but it does not satisfy my need for story. I feel remorse for every poor teacher who struggled to help me to understand that poetry is beautiful, that it tells a story in the fewest words possible, while I looked at them with utter disdain and a complete lack of comprehension. Why would anyone want to write a story in as few words as possible. I could not imagine. I even found, and honestly still find, short stories to be annoying. There is simply not enough there! Yes I know it's a craft blah blah blah...

Almost every day, evening, or night of my entire life has included reading fiction (or listening to it). Without it I am a mess it seems. Fiction grounds me like nothing else in the world. When I move to a new home, find myself in a new bed in a different city, I am comforted and grounded as I hold in my hands a favourite book that is a dear old friend. 

In the last number of years I have found myself especially drawn to youth literature. After years of mysteries and crime novels that had begun to numb my sense of what is good and whole, I needed a break. I needed books that have all of the suspense, the adventure, the drama, and none of the crass language, senseless violence, and random meaningless sex that much of mainstream fiction for adults has to offer. I needed stories and I found them. First I found Harry Potter, then Percy Jackson et al. (not as well written, but not much is), Artemis Fowl, Eragon, Among the Hidden, The Hunger Games and the list goes on.

People used to tell me that once I grew up there wouldn't be time to read so much, then they said when I was working there wouldn't be time, then they said when I was in university there wouldn't be time, then they said when I was pastoring there wouldn't be time, then in seminary there wouldn't be time...but there always is. I find it. I have to. Stories are like water, food, sleep. 

I used to think the reason that I loved fiction so much was because I have an active imagination, but now I know that it is reading fiction that has created or developed my imagination (and my at times odd vocabulary). I know that when I look at a problem and see only one solution that I have not read enough fiction lately. I know when the world seems grayer and things seem impossible that I have spent too much time looking at the news or textbooks and not enough time fighting dragons or wandering through Diagon Alley.  

So, as a reader who is constantly searching for new books to read, I ask you (whoever you are), what books are your dearest old friends?

A dream

I have a dream, not a dream that happens at night in the deepest recesses of my subconscious, but a waking dream that is recurring. It's a dream that I hold tentatively, because I know that, as usual, life is always more complicated than our dreams. 

I have a dream that someday young girls, adolescent girls, young women, middle-aged women, and older women will stand together and just say NO. A deep, firm, loud NO. They will surround advertising agencies and TV stations and protest loudly, they will make YouTube videos that go viral in seconds, they will march down our streets and through our shopping malls and say NO. 

They will say NO - it is not okay for you to try to convince us that all females should be blonde or that if we are naturally blonde we are stupid. 

They will say NO - it is not okay for you to take every line and wrinkle off of every model in every magazine, and cover up every spot on every actress so that we think that that is normal. 

They will say NO - it is not okay for you to make it appear that body hair is an abomination so that we grow frantic in attempts to get rid of all traces of hair save that on our head. 

They will say NO - it is not okay for you to encourage me for years to be a princess, but when I act like one, all it gets me is trouble. 

They will say NO - it is not okay for you to send me to school, to teach me that I can be anything, to expose me to the wonders of learning, and then through every means possible tell me that my worth is determined by what I look like and what I own, not who I am and the choices I make. 

They will say NO - it is not okay for you to taunt me with decadent pictures and cooking shows filled with cupcakes and rich food and encourage me that I should indulge myself because I'm worth it. And in the next breath remind me that it's time to cut out the sweets and get back on that treadmill. 

They will say NO - it is not okay for you to convince me that my skin is too light, too dark, too olive, too yellow, too pink, too...

They will say NO - it is not okay for you to tell me and show me that if I am short I need to be taller, if I am tall I need to be shorter, if I am pale I must be darker, if I am dark I must be lighter, if I have brown eyes they should be blue, if I have blue eyes they should be brown, if I have small breasts they should be larger, if I have large breasts they should be smaller...

They will say NO - it is not okay for you to manipulate me from almost the moment of birth with your messages that say "YOU ARE NOT ENOUGH!"

Because I AM ENOUGH! WE ARE ALL ENOUGH! All of us. Every single one of us is enough. 

And then they will say, we are no longer listening to your messages. 

They will say - I choose to look into the mirror and smile. 

They will say - I choose to look at the girls and women around me and bring out the best in them. 

They will say - I choose to do what is good and healthy for my body and my spirit and encourage others to do the same. 

They will say - I will choose to be thankful for what I have and to give to those who have less. 

They will say - I will choose to look into the green, brown, blue, violet, hazel, black eyes of the other and see the tender hand of God. 

They will say - I will choose to explore the world and all the things that I can see and do in the world to make it a better place for all of us. 

They will say - I will choose to love myself as a whole being. 

They will say - I will choose to find the beauty in everyone that I see, even if it will be hard at first.

And the crowds would cheer. And tears would flow. And women would embrace. And, in my dream, men would stand in awe of the beauty they see before them and remember that they are also enough.

We are all enough. Women and men. We are not more loveable or more human if we own an ipod. It is not true that our lives will be more fulfilled with a tablet or a better iphone. Our families will not develop better relationships if we buy a new car. We will not be more complete human beings if we have a softer/harder mattress, or if we have thicker eyelashes, or if our foundation has better coverage, or if we have the newest princess movie, or if our wrinkles go away. Our lives will not be fulfilled if we find just the right man, or if we lose just another 5 lbs, or if we get just the right highlights, or if our nails are just the right shade, or if we visit a tanning bed.

These are lies. 

The truth is that we are enough. We are, each one of us, valuable human beings, no matter what we look like, no matter what our ethnicity, no matter how much we make, or what we own. 

That's what I believe is true. And so I hang onto my dream. 

But the problem with my dream is, that there is no real objectifiable "you" in this equation. It would be so much easier, I think, if there was. We could just blame "them", those people out there who are hurting "us". It is so much easier to blame the advertisers, or the TV stations, or the models, or the actresses, or "secular society" or "consumer society" or whatever label we want to give the "you". Then we could just be victims of the evil "you." But the the problem is that "you" is really all of us. We are all part of the system. Some of us create the ads, some of us model in them, some of us sell the product, some of us buy it, or some of us encourage others to do so. Each one of us that buys into the myth and supports it through our words, actions, dollars, and cents is the "you."  And it's hard to protest against ourselves. That would mean admitting that we've made a mistake. That we've made bad choices. That we've bought into the lies, we've spread the lies, we've perpetuated the lies, we've lived the lies. 

But doesn't that also mean we have control? That we can actually stop lying? Doesn't it mean that we actually have the power to choose not to lie? Doesn't it mean that we don't have to take on the entire amorphous world of advertising, but instead simply look at our own choices? Doesn't that mean that each one of us actually has the power to look into the mirror in the morning and tell the truth? To look into the eyes of the other and tell the truth? To walk out into the world living the amazing truth that we are, each one of us valuable human beings, that we are enough?

I think it does.

So instead of simply hanging onto my dream of banishing the lies in some monumental protest movement, which some of you might have found corny, I think I'll simply try, each day, to live the truth. It likely won't be easy, but at least it's a start.