Today, as I was feeling a little frustrated coming up with a dinner idea and getting it prepared and into the crockpot, I found myself thinking of the various experiences of others who were also in charge of dinner tonight. My situation is pretty simple. I am underemployed, so I actually have time to cook. I also love cooking and I'm pretty good at it (or so Alicia says). I also cook for only one individual who eats whatever I serve her. I actually have a pretty sweet deal.
Today however, I remembered that some of you are struggling today to cook for one, or you have the challenge of cooking for a large number of people, or anything in between.
I remembered that some of you are cooking for people with a variety of food sensitivities or allergies that make meal planning an incredible challenge. Especially if only some members of the family have those needs.
I remembered that some of you are cooking for very picky eaters who just don't seem to ever like what you serve.
I remembered that some of you are working full time and trying to just find the time to get food into yourself and your loved ones.
I remembered that some of you are cooking with little ones clinging to your legs, getting into things they shouldn't or are just needing you in various ways.
I remembered that some of you are trying to fit in making nutritious meals around wacky and varied schedules including school, work, sports practices and music lessons.
I remembered that some of you are children or teens who have the responsibility of preparing dinner tonight and cooking is still a skill that takes a lot of thought. Stress!
I remembered that some of you are amazing cooks who wish you had the time and energy to really immerse yourself in the craft rather than hastily throwing things together.
I remembered that some of you love to put meals together and serving your family is actually a lot of fun.
I remembered that some of you hate cooking and others are just bad at it.
I remembered that some of you are struggling to to find the money to put food on the table.
I remembered that some of you are cooking while also caring for loved ones who are sick,
And I remembered that some of you have the task of cooking every. single. day. and sometimes you just can't think of what to make anymore.
So whatever your situation this is my blessing for you today,
May you be gifted with both an idea and the right ingredients,
May you read your recipe correctly (or may your experiments lead to success),
May your preparations go smoothly and not require band-aids,
May your cat not walk on the countertop,
May you have the energy to do what is needed,
May no one break anything, vomit or poop,
May all who partake do so without complaining,
And may someone say Thank-You!
For the task you are undertaking is a gift.
Thursday, 17 January 2013
Tuesday, 15 January 2013
Extroverted Introvert?
I love to talk. A lot. If you get me on a subject that I'm passionate about, or about which I have strong convictions (and there are a lot of them), I will go on for hours, literally. Just ask my roommate Alicia.
I'm the kind of person whose brain is always going. As a young child I remember coming out of my bedroom in tears at the advanced hour of 11pm or so and saying to my parents, "I just can't stop thinking!" Thinking, processing has always been the primary reason that I can't sleep. There are just so many thoughts, wonderings, worries milling about inside my head. And while I generally sleep quite well these days, my brain is no less active during the day.
Along with talking a lot, and thinking a lot, I also sense and feel a lot. As a child this resulted in a whole lot of tears. I was a "sensitive" child. I was that child who hated wearing new clothes with tags because the tags were too itchy. I was that child who was always overwhelmed by new experiences. I was the child that the teacher struggled to get to participate when we tried new games. And most of all, I was the child who wept when others were being punished. I felt their pain, their anxiety and their fear no matter how slight.
As an adult I have worked with this a great deal. Why exactly do I get so upset or overwhelmed? Because I sense and feel a lot (you have no idea how long it took me to come to this relatively simple conclusion!). In a new situation I notice everything from the paint peeling in the upper corner of a room, to the stray hairs on my professors head, to the anxious tapping of someone's foot across the classroom. I have both heightened physical senses, and emotional senses. I notice a lot about both my physical environment, and the emotional environment in which I find myself. Don't get me wrong, I'm no super hero who can see through things or read people's minds. I'm just "sensitive."
It's taken me a long time to come to see this part of myself as a gift. And some days I still think it's a curse. On the upside, when I'm working with a group of children, or adults, I can usually tell who has had a bad morning, who's feeling anxious, or who is experiencing tension with whom. I also tend to notice when the ball is being dropped and needs to be picked up. This helps me to be able to respond with compassion, to empathize, to speak into situations, or to pick up tasks that need to be done. On the downside, I notice when people are having a bad morning, or who is upset with whom, and all the balls that are being dropped! And that can be totally overwhelming.
And all that sensing gives me a whole lot of information to process. It all just sets my mind (and heart) to whirring. Constantly. For some people, this might lead them to spend a lot of time alone, deep in thought or journaling. For me, it means I need to talk.
But here's the monkey wrench in this whole discussion. I'm introverted. People who know me well and end up listening to me process ad nauseum find this difficult to believe. How can someone who talks so much be an introvert!?
And the answer is...I don't know. But I am. I do not thrive in large crowds. I can't stand concerts and shopping malls, cold calling people and initiating conversations with strangers. I find it draining to engage in coffee time in church foyers and even to be in large classroom settings. I come home from these experiences and just collapse on the couch. But one-on-one or small group conversations are energizing for me (though probably draining for others in the group!). These are the times when all the myriad thoughts that have been amassing inside my brain have a chance to break free!
So if you see me in a large group and I'm not talking, I'm probably taking in a whole lot of information. If I am talking, I'm probably either so passionate about the topic I couldn't keep quiet, or I'm the one leading the group! If you see me in a small group and I'm not talking, I'm probably trying to be a good listener and if I am talking...you might just want to rescue my audience.
I'm the kind of person whose brain is always going. As a young child I remember coming out of my bedroom in tears at the advanced hour of 11pm or so and saying to my parents, "I just can't stop thinking!" Thinking, processing has always been the primary reason that I can't sleep. There are just so many thoughts, wonderings, worries milling about inside my head. And while I generally sleep quite well these days, my brain is no less active during the day.
Along with talking a lot, and thinking a lot, I also sense and feel a lot. As a child this resulted in a whole lot of tears. I was a "sensitive" child. I was that child who hated wearing new clothes with tags because the tags were too itchy. I was that child who was always overwhelmed by new experiences. I was the child that the teacher struggled to get to participate when we tried new games. And most of all, I was the child who wept when others were being punished. I felt their pain, their anxiety and their fear no matter how slight.
As an adult I have worked with this a great deal. Why exactly do I get so upset or overwhelmed? Because I sense and feel a lot (you have no idea how long it took me to come to this relatively simple conclusion!). In a new situation I notice everything from the paint peeling in the upper corner of a room, to the stray hairs on my professors head, to the anxious tapping of someone's foot across the classroom. I have both heightened physical senses, and emotional senses. I notice a lot about both my physical environment, and the emotional environment in which I find myself. Don't get me wrong, I'm no super hero who can see through things or read people's minds. I'm just "sensitive."
It's taken me a long time to come to see this part of myself as a gift. And some days I still think it's a curse. On the upside, when I'm working with a group of children, or adults, I can usually tell who has had a bad morning, who's feeling anxious, or who is experiencing tension with whom. I also tend to notice when the ball is being dropped and needs to be picked up. This helps me to be able to respond with compassion, to empathize, to speak into situations, or to pick up tasks that need to be done. On the downside, I notice when people are having a bad morning, or who is upset with whom, and all the balls that are being dropped! And that can be totally overwhelming.
And all that sensing gives me a whole lot of information to process. It all just sets my mind (and heart) to whirring. Constantly. For some people, this might lead them to spend a lot of time alone, deep in thought or journaling. For me, it means I need to talk.
But here's the monkey wrench in this whole discussion. I'm introverted. People who know me well and end up listening to me process ad nauseum find this difficult to believe. How can someone who talks so much be an introvert!?
And the answer is...I don't know. But I am. I do not thrive in large crowds. I can't stand concerts and shopping malls, cold calling people and initiating conversations with strangers. I find it draining to engage in coffee time in church foyers and even to be in large classroom settings. I come home from these experiences and just collapse on the couch. But one-on-one or small group conversations are energizing for me (though probably draining for others in the group!). These are the times when all the myriad thoughts that have been amassing inside my brain have a chance to break free!
So if you see me in a large group and I'm not talking, I'm probably taking in a whole lot of information. If I am talking, I'm probably either so passionate about the topic I couldn't keep quiet, or I'm the one leading the group! If you see me in a small group and I'm not talking, I'm probably trying to be a good listener and if I am talking...you might just want to rescue my audience.
Tuesday, 8 January 2013
The Most Valuable Gifts
Today was a lovely and productive day.
So today was a fun day of creating and remembering. And I hope in my life I will be able to notice the opportunities before me to teach and nurture such life-giving activities for others because gifts that empower are truly the most valuable gifts we can offer.
I sewed a yoga mat bag for Alicia using leftover fabric from another project
I cooked soup and put it in jars for lunches
I made a gift bag from the scraps of fabric I had left
I baked buns
I made chicken diablo for supper. Sorry no pic of this one, it's long gone!
I crocheted
and I read fiction
All in all, one of my favourite kind of days.
And as I sat on the couch tonight, just hanging out, I found myself reflecting on all the people who made my day possible. All the people who gifted me, not by giving me things, but by teaching me their crafts and passions. I found myself remembering all the days that I watched my mom sewing in the afternoon, coffee cup beside her sewing machine while we played in the basement. I used to dip graham crackers in her coffee and she would find half of them soggy in the bottom of her cup. Sorry mom.
I found myself remembering all the crucial lessons I learned from my friend and sewing instructor Dawn. Carefully placing my pin cushion and my small scissors on the right hand side of my machine to ensure that my project would never get cut by accident, and my pins would never end up on the floor, not to mention all the other vital information she taught me about selvages and pressing in order to create items that look handmade, rather than homemade.
I chopped vegetables and remembered my mom and my grandma loading soup pots with vegetables and broths to create healthy and savoury meals, and of course using up random leftovers in the process!
I remembered all the years watching my mom and grandma's hands fashioning buns using a completely indescribable technique which I am so proud to have mastered. They always told me it would just take practice and they were right! And nothing gives me a greater sense of pride than seeing the buns come out of the oven golden brown with tiny freckles on top, my grandma's sign of a good bun. I so wish I could invite her over for buns, coffee and ssockastekja (sugar cubes).
I remembered the joy I felt when Alicia taught me to crochet for the first time in my dorm room at CMU. I spent hours bent over the saddest looking scarf ever with hopeless tension issues. But when I finally felt confident enough I bought some of my own yarn and crocheted late into the night trying to make her a scarf without her knowing. Being a crochet newbie, I decided to be different and made my scarf going back and forth lengthwise and completely misjudged how long the chain needed to be. Longest scarf in HISTORY! And she wore it for years. :)
And though I don't remember who actually taught me how to read, I am endlessly grateful for every person who read to me, taught me hooked on phonics, and placed books in my hands. I am grateful to my parents who read me the same books over and over and over again. I am grateful to Ms. Neufeld my grade 1 teacher who must have played a significant role since I remember our reading groups and the Serendipity books we used to read. And I am incredibly grateful to Ms. Lois Braun, my grade 5 teacher who took the time each day after lunch to read us novels aloud (using voices), and who encouraged us to do group book studies, and to write our own books. I read every single day of my life and have incredible memories of all the lands I've visited and lives I've lived vicariously through an endless stream of characters over the past 3+ decades.
Wednesday, 2 January 2013
Yes, I know, my diet is peculiar
I've been eating grain-free for a year and a half, though food issues have been a part of my entire life. For as long as I can remember food has been by nemesis. Not just because it tempted me, and I ended up eating far more than I should. But primarily because it made me sick. Almost each and every meal of my life led to some sort of discomfort or pain which I will not go into here. It has taken a tremendous amount of time and energy to discern what foods send my gut into a downward spiral. For years I kind of tried this and that, but about 6 years ago I decided I just couldn't live in constant discomfort anymore. My naturopathic doctor and I set out some first steps and I committed to those first steps to the best of my ability. And slowly things got a bit better. By constantly paying attention to my body's reactions and working at healing my incredibly damaged digestive system we altered my diet over and over again. A year and a half ago we seemed to have hit a plateau. Things were better, but still not great. My system had healed a great deal, but I was still very reactive. So my doctor suggested I try a completely grain-free diet. We (Alicia and I) had already eliminated a lot of grains from our home, so I figured I was ready to make this next step.
For the first 2-3 weeks I thought I was dying. I hadn't realized what it would mean for my body to completely detox from eating grains. My doctor told me that eliminating all grains is like going off of opiates, and I certainly felt like I was going through withdrawal. The nausea and dizziness was intense. And then it was over. And I felt better. A lot better.
I can now eat most of my meals without any discomfort. If I react, I can usually look back at what I have eaten and figure out how to make wiser choices in the future. For the first time in my life eating a meal is not a fearful event for me. And I am so grateful for the patience my doctor has shown me, and her dedication to my overall health. She has never sought to simply put a bandaid over my problem, but to work with me to find the root.
People always ask me if I don't miss eating bread or donuts. Or they ask me what the hardest part of eating grain-free has been for me, assuming that it must be giving up cookies or cake. But I have to be honest, the absolute hardest part of eating a peculiar diet, is socializing with others. I hate not being able to simply eat the food that is served to me. I hate that I can't just join people at whatever random restaurant and enjoy a meal together. I feel like I'm being difficult. I feel like I'm fussy. I feel like I'm inhospitable. And I don't like it.
People ask me if I couldn't just cheat for the evening. But really, where would that end? And once I put the food into my system, it takes almost 2 weeks for my body to get back to normal. So no, I won't cheat. There are still inconsistencies in my diet, there are still areas that I need to work on. I should eat less chocolate, correction, I should not be eating chocolate at all! And I should have less egg in my diet. But generally I am pretty serious about eating the foods that make me a healthier person.
So I keep working at figuring out what it means to receive hospitality and care for my body at the same time. I have found that offering hospitality isn't all that hard. I have scads of recipes that I can make for our visitors, recipes even my dad will eat! But visiting others is just more complicated. So working at being a good guest is an ongoing process. I will do my best to be gracious, but I will fail at times. I will do my best to offer suggestions when people ask, but again, I won't always be successful. I will do my best to eat what is offered to me, but that will often mean avoiding some things that have been served. And at times I will also bring along my own food to make sure there is something I can eat. My apologies if this offends you. I understand that my diet is frustrating for many people (it frustrates me too!), but the alternative, being sick 24/7, is just not an alternative.
Often people just can't imagine what I do eat if I can't have grains, so just in case any of you are curious about what I actually do eat, here's a basic list of things that are safe (meaning I cook with them a lot), and things that are not (I avoid them at all costs since I react to them).
Safe:
Beef
Chicken (not the kind that is frozen and "seasoned")
Turkey (though I'm not a huge turkey fan)
Pork on occasion (it's harder to find pork that doesn't have additives)
Potatoes
Onions
Celery
Carrots
Peas
Beans
Lettuce
Cabbage
Broccoli
Zucchini
Cauliflower
Tomato
Peppers (red is better, and in small quantities)
Aged cheeses
Eggs
Full fat yogurt
Most fruits (though I limit my citrus intake)
Almond milk
Nuts and nutbutters
Coconut milk and oil
Chickpea flour
Coconut flour
Almond meal/flour
Raw sugars and honey
Pretty much all spices, though white pepper is better than black
Not safe:
Sausages or meats that have added colour, flavour or wheat crumbs
Baked goods made with wheat, corn, rice flours
Corn - that includes kernels, flour, and starch
Most dairy products though I can have some on occasion
Pasta
Rice
Artificial colour
Artificial flavour
MSG in all its forms
Basically stuff that is artificial and pre-packaged - if it has an ingredient list, I read it carefully
In a lot of ways, my food is just really old-fashioned. It's meat, potatoes, veggies, fruits, herbs and spices.
Friday, 28 December 2012
Thursday, 27 December 2012
The Gift of a Sturdy Gospel
Well, I find myself here in the midst of the Christmas season confused, as usual. Sometimes I think that being confused is simply a bi-product of having a mind that is constantly trying to figure things out. As soon as I seem to come close to grasping one idea, I have to find others to wrestle with. And this Christmas has been, and continues to be, a time of wrestling for me.
Christmas seems to be a time for simple things. Simple things like friends, family, love, sharing, and a baby in a manger. And yet none of these things seem simple to me. When I listen to Christmas music or attend Christmas worship services I hear all kinds of words that I know. Words that I think I should understand, and yet I don't. I just don't. The meaning of friends, family, love and sharing are all things I wrestle with all the time, but at this time of year it's the baby in the manger that has me completely flummoxed.
I want to understand. I want it to all make sense. But I hear the words and I'm just baffled. What does it mean that God came to live on earth? What does it mean that God came as a baby? What does it mean for us to celebrate that fact? The messages I receive seem to tell me that this is easy, that I should rejoice, that I should understand and yet...
Perhaps if I had grown up in an Eastern tradition I would know what to do with the mystery. Because clearly this whole baby in a manger thing is mystery for me. I do sometimes notice that we mention mystery in the services I attend. But it's more mystery as awe, bowing down in wonder. Don't get me wrong, I love that kind of mystery. But rarely do I hear talk of mystery in terms of complete inability to comprehend on a cognitive or emotional level. And that's where I kind of find myself. I just can't seem to wrap my head around this Christ-child. I find myself wrestling, not rejoicing.
So the one thing that I have found most meaningful to me this Christmas is the gift of a sturdy gospel. By that I mean scriptures that have withstood the test of time. Scriptures that speak regardless of my ability to comprehend them. Scriptures that are not threatened or harmed by my wrestling. Scriptures that are not simple or straightforward. Scriptures that have been written by and for real people. Scriptures that are mystery.
Sometimes I have to remind myself that the Christian Bible really is mystery. So often in contemporary Christianity I hear scripture used as the answer key to the exam booklet of life. I go through life, a little problem comes up, I pray and read a verse, and the little problem goes away. Faith is simple. Faith is straightforward. The Bible is happiness packaged in flashy wrapping and tied with a neat bow. But I just haven't experienced the Bible or faith like that. And I haven't experienced life that way either. Life is messy. Far messier than a little exam booklet!
While sometimes I think it would be easier if the Bible was actually a book of answers, I know that in the end a Bible like that would be insufficient. It would not be sturdy. I need a sturdy gospel. Sturdiness does not develop out of simplicity and happiness. Sturdiness develops out of wrestling and struggle alongside profound joy. And I am endlessly grateful that the gospel of Jesus Christ is a gospel of wrestling not of pat answers. Because pat answers simply fall flat in the face of real life.
Christmas seems to be a time for simple things. Simple things like friends, family, love, sharing, and a baby in a manger. And yet none of these things seem simple to me. When I listen to Christmas music or attend Christmas worship services I hear all kinds of words that I know. Words that I think I should understand, and yet I don't. I just don't. The meaning of friends, family, love and sharing are all things I wrestle with all the time, but at this time of year it's the baby in the manger that has me completely flummoxed.
I want to understand. I want it to all make sense. But I hear the words and I'm just baffled. What does it mean that God came to live on earth? What does it mean that God came as a baby? What does it mean for us to celebrate that fact? The messages I receive seem to tell me that this is easy, that I should rejoice, that I should understand and yet...
Perhaps if I had grown up in an Eastern tradition I would know what to do with the mystery. Because clearly this whole baby in a manger thing is mystery for me. I do sometimes notice that we mention mystery in the services I attend. But it's more mystery as awe, bowing down in wonder. Don't get me wrong, I love that kind of mystery. But rarely do I hear talk of mystery in terms of complete inability to comprehend on a cognitive or emotional level. And that's where I kind of find myself. I just can't seem to wrap my head around this Christ-child. I find myself wrestling, not rejoicing.
So the one thing that I have found most meaningful to me this Christmas is the gift of a sturdy gospel. By that I mean scriptures that have withstood the test of time. Scriptures that speak regardless of my ability to comprehend them. Scriptures that are not threatened or harmed by my wrestling. Scriptures that are not simple or straightforward. Scriptures that have been written by and for real people. Scriptures that are mystery.
Sometimes I have to remind myself that the Christian Bible really is mystery. So often in contemporary Christianity I hear scripture used as the answer key to the exam booklet of life. I go through life, a little problem comes up, I pray and read a verse, and the little problem goes away. Faith is simple. Faith is straightforward. The Bible is happiness packaged in flashy wrapping and tied with a neat bow. But I just haven't experienced the Bible or faith like that. And I haven't experienced life that way either. Life is messy. Far messier than a little exam booklet!
While sometimes I think it would be easier if the Bible was actually a book of answers, I know that in the end a Bible like that would be insufficient. It would not be sturdy. I need a sturdy gospel. Sturdiness does not develop out of simplicity and happiness. Sturdiness develops out of wrestling and struggle alongside profound joy. And I am endlessly grateful that the gospel of Jesus Christ is a gospel of wrestling not of pat answers. Because pat answers simply fall flat in the face of real life.
Wednesday, 19 December 2012
It may not be my House, but it is my Home
It is not uncommon, I have experienced, to hear people speak of the difference between a house and a home. A house being described more in terms of the physical structure, while a home denotes something more experiential or with more emotional value. For me, these two words have taken on significant meaning since as an adult, I have always rented the space in which I live. For me, a house is something you can own, it can be purchased, while a home can, and often must, be created anywhere.
I have now lived in 6 (or 8 depending how I count) different rental spaces in the past 18 years of my life. It has often been the case for me, that people ask me when I am going "home." I understand what they mean. They want to know when I will be returning to visit my parent's house. And sometimes I do think of that space as my home as well. Yet it is my home in terms of memory, it is my home in terms of my family of origin, it is not, however, my home in terms of the space in which I have settled, my sanctuary, where my being resides and lives. Renting space does not mean I have no home. Renting space means I don't own a house. There is a massive distinction it seems to me.
The people I have encountered over the years have understood this distinction to various degrees. Good friends who have visited our home (the homes Alicia and I have created) have certainly entered into those spaces with a sense of respect and honouring of the home we have created. Occasionally the owners of those spaces have also shown that respect. However, not all people have done so. To some, our space is just a temporary flop house of sorts. It's where we dump our stuff in between where we are now and the permanent life we might someday have. The space is not ours, it belongs to someone else, and thus it is not our house, and there is no home. It is simply space with stuff in it. This whole idea of not owning a house goes hand in hand with not being an adult. Adults, own houses, adults get married, adults are employed or raise children. Thus, I am not an adult, and I have no home. This is demeaning.
Alicia and I are both adults and we have a home. We have had 4 homes together. Each one has been a holy space. Each one has been created with intention, gently cared for (or not so gently depending on what was required!), laboured in, cried in, laughed in, prayed in. Each space has been one in which we have lived and grown. Each one has seen moments both holy and mundane. We delight in inviting people into our home, we delight in spending time together in our home, we delight in dreaming about what our home might look like in the future. And when others dismiss our home as simply a space that they own, or a space that doesn't matter because it is temporary, I feel saddened. Saddened because what we have worked so hard to create and the treasured life that has been embodied in the space has not been respected, but also saddened because those individuals have missed the gifts that are always available when you enter into a home.
I would love to someday own a house in which I can create a home. I feel this particularly keenly since I grew up on a farm and would love to have land on which to settle and grow things. Since this has not yet been possible, I have needed to learn to embrace the act of homemaking wherever I am. For many people, this is the only way they will ever have a home. It is unfair to equate having a home with owning a house. And if each one of us has to wait until we are fully settled in a house that we own, a house that we will remain in for decades, until we can have a home, then that leaves a whole lot of people "homeless." I could not have lived well over the past number of years if I had not embraced the space in which I found myself and learned to call it home.
I always wish I had something wise or witty to say at the end of these posts. But all I have is a reminder to respect the space in which people find themselves, the physical space, the life space, whatever. Please, especially this Christmas, as you meet up with people who may not fit the mould of married, employed, owner of property, raiser of children, please do not make the mistake of assuming that they are incomplete, that they don't have a meaningful life, that they don't have a home. Value them, hear their stories, receive the gifts that they have to offer. They are many.
I have now lived in 6 (or 8 depending how I count) different rental spaces in the past 18 years of my life. It has often been the case for me, that people ask me when I am going "home." I understand what they mean. They want to know when I will be returning to visit my parent's house. And sometimes I do think of that space as my home as well. Yet it is my home in terms of memory, it is my home in terms of my family of origin, it is not, however, my home in terms of the space in which I have settled, my sanctuary, where my being resides and lives. Renting space does not mean I have no home. Renting space means I don't own a house. There is a massive distinction it seems to me.
The people I have encountered over the years have understood this distinction to various degrees. Good friends who have visited our home (the homes Alicia and I have created) have certainly entered into those spaces with a sense of respect and honouring of the home we have created. Occasionally the owners of those spaces have also shown that respect. However, not all people have done so. To some, our space is just a temporary flop house of sorts. It's where we dump our stuff in between where we are now and the permanent life we might someday have. The space is not ours, it belongs to someone else, and thus it is not our house, and there is no home. It is simply space with stuff in it. This whole idea of not owning a house goes hand in hand with not being an adult. Adults, own houses, adults get married, adults are employed or raise children. Thus, I am not an adult, and I have no home. This is demeaning.
Alicia and I are both adults and we have a home. We have had 4 homes together. Each one has been a holy space. Each one has been created with intention, gently cared for (or not so gently depending on what was required!), laboured in, cried in, laughed in, prayed in. Each space has been one in which we have lived and grown. Each one has seen moments both holy and mundane. We delight in inviting people into our home, we delight in spending time together in our home, we delight in dreaming about what our home might look like in the future. And when others dismiss our home as simply a space that they own, or a space that doesn't matter because it is temporary, I feel saddened. Saddened because what we have worked so hard to create and the treasured life that has been embodied in the space has not been respected, but also saddened because those individuals have missed the gifts that are always available when you enter into a home.
I would love to someday own a house in which I can create a home. I feel this particularly keenly since I grew up on a farm and would love to have land on which to settle and grow things. Since this has not yet been possible, I have needed to learn to embrace the act of homemaking wherever I am. For many people, this is the only way they will ever have a home. It is unfair to equate having a home with owning a house. And if each one of us has to wait until we are fully settled in a house that we own, a house that we will remain in for decades, until we can have a home, then that leaves a whole lot of people "homeless." I could not have lived well over the past number of years if I had not embraced the space in which I found myself and learned to call it home.
I always wish I had something wise or witty to say at the end of these posts. But all I have is a reminder to respect the space in which people find themselves, the physical space, the life space, whatever. Please, especially this Christmas, as you meet up with people who may not fit the mould of married, employed, owner of property, raiser of children, please do not make the mistake of assuming that they are incomplete, that they don't have a meaningful life, that they don't have a home. Value them, hear their stories, receive the gifts that they have to offer. They are many.
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