It’s Friday night. I’m a minister. I haven’t started to write my Sunday sermon yet. I mean, I have ideas. I’ve been thinking about it all week. I can see it in my head. I’ll do it tomorrow. For sure. It’ll be my last chance. I’ll be editing until 10 minutes before the service starts. It’s fine. I do my best work under pressure.
I get all the unnecessary things done while I’m NOT writing my sermon. I reduced our living room furniture by one couch and a chair. Everything is nicely rearranged. I have a floorplan ready to bring in and move around some more stuff – my piano is a biggie – what good is a piano if it’s tucked away and blocked by pet habitats and all their paraphernalia?
Did I mention that I organized the medicine cabinet and a book shelf? I took a quick drive to look at the lake. All’s well there, by the way. I dumped the contents of a junk drawer on the counter and sorted through it. I found the cassette tape of our wedding and the little light bulbs for the salt lamp. Impressive finds! I took a little run to the pet store to get poo bags and dog treats. All ready for our walk tomorrow!
I love all the reading and the research and the mulling of everything over while the words I will preach are simmering. I love writing, and I love preaching. God always has something fresh to add at the last minute. God is helpful that way. It’s all good. I know how it will end. Whatever comes out will emphasize that “You are not alone. God loves you just the way you are!”
This kind of procrastination is a process, a routine. Living my moments, savouring all the little Gospel connections, feeling the Spirit’s sparks, forming the stories and illustrations that will pop so that hopefully, maybe, someone might be moved in Spirit when they hear the delivery of the final draft.
I am informed by my own delaying tactics. My thoughts need time to vacillate and ruminate. I’m really good at this. Procrastination is a necessary tool. Perhaps it is a subject for which I can speak as an authority. Procrastination is my superpower. Thanks be to God!
My oldest brother would have been fifty-five years alive on July 4th. He died by suicide in 2012. Eleven years later, I find it hard to express how it affected me and continues to weigh on my being.
His only child, a son, turned sixteen this year. He and his mother daily face the stark reality of my brother’s death. I have the LUXURY of distance. I can choose to avoid the pain of it, at least temporarily.
His death demarcates the EXACT moment my parents began to visibly and mentally age. They were in their mid seventies then, enjoying retirement and grandparenthood. A wonderful life stage. For a time, their loss numbed their energy and emotional availability for the rest of us, the sibling survivors, and our families. Our relationships have been forever altered.
The night IT happened, my second oldest brother called me in the middle of the night. We had a very strange conversation. I wasn’t really awake. I wasn’t aware of the time and tried to sound like it was just an ORDINARY call. But it wasn’t. It was surreal. My brother, on the other end of the phone, was clearly not himself. It took the rest of the night for our words to translate into a small hint of understanding that my oldest brother was ACTUALLY DEAD.
I spent that first day sitting at the computer, watching all the messages stream in on Facebook, where I’d unceremoniously dumped the news. I was too overwhelmed to do anything else.
I did not see the place where it happened. I did not have the opportunity to go through my brother’s things. I didn’t even see his body (only his wife identified him). He was cremated. I arrived TOO LATE to be a part of those moments. We’d had to make many arrangements for a long road trip with young children and an uncertain date of return..
I did get to go with my disoriented father to “PICK HIM UP” when the funeral home said he was “READY”. Dad got lost on the way. He pulled into a fire station to get directions. Irrelevant details. Everything was irrelevant. We were stunned and enduring what we thought were necessities. We were moving like puppets with no self resolve, through what felt like someone else’s nightmare.
When I first saw my mother, she hugged me, tearfully saying, “This doesn’t happen to OUR family”. After the funeral, my father said to my sister, brother and I, “Don’t any of you PULL anything LIKE this on us again.” Their words have remained in my ear as my mental health struggles play out and my own family’s difficulties have evolved. What Mark opened up (that was his name, MARK,) was a Pandora’s box of all the things that were NOT talked about in our family. We knew my brother was a recovering alcoholic. We knew he took medication for mental illness. We knew he’d been a psychiatric in-patient. WE KNEW.
I always worried he’d get killed doing something wild like rock climbing or from a grizzly bear attack. An accident was probable (a gruesome, unintentional death would have, perhaps, been easier for us, I don’t know). I wasn’t prepared for his death by his own hand.
I held what was my brother in an urn on my lap. That’s the closest we’d been in many years. We’d always had a complicated relationship. I feared him as much as I adored him. Clutching his urn felt like a violation on my part. It was a much needed confirmation of his death. However, I wondered for months whether it was really him in that jar. Maybe he faked his own death? He was smart like that.
During the ensuing months, I morbidly pored over the internet for information and descriptions of the “how’s” and the “what’s” of his method of dispatch. I think he wanted to feel it, to know it was happening. You know, to be sure. I wonder if he changed his mind when it was too late?
I understand that he was in so much emotional agony that death seemed his only way to relief. Maybe he didn’t want to die, but it is certain he needed the pain to stop. The health system had worn out their resources without giving him peace.
He loved his son more than anything. It doesn’t make sense that he would leave him or believe his son or any of us would be better off without him. How could such an intelligent, creative man think so little of himself? It is simply irrevocably tragic.
My faith tells me that God is not the source of our suffering. God walks this road with us and leaves no one alone. Suicide does not deter God’s love. I take comfort in knowing God was with Mark, even if he wasn’t aware of this truth. I believe God wept for my brother and received him into all peace.
We don’t remember him for that terrible day or his final desperate act for relief. We remember him for his life, and we honour him by living out what we loved about him.
I empathize deeply with his pain. I am angry with him, and with the powers that be that failed him. I am ashamed for not supporting him in his struggle. I know now. I will do everything I humanly can to make sure my children, my husband, and all whom I love really know it. I will tell them how important they are and how worthy they are to live. I will take my meds and engage in self care to ward off the lure of that horrible surrender.
Please take good care. Be gentle with yourself and make lots of room to hold space for the ones you hold dear.
GAIA, touring artwork by UK artist Luke Jerram as displayed in Exeter, ON
I feel so blessed to have been able to visit this GAIA exhibit. It’s an extraordinary to-scale replica of the Earth, which has been suspended from the ceiling of Trivitt Memorial Church in Exeter, Ontario as part of the ‘Huron Waves Music Festival’ during the town’s 150ieth anniversary.
The resin sculpture is lit from the inside and slowly turns to the sound of ethereal music, the actual voices of astronauts in spacecrafts as they experience the real thing, and the artists rendition of the mysterious sounds of the universe.
I think the emptied out sanctuary of a large Church is THE PERFECT PLACE to display it.
When you LOOK UP, the peaked nave (above where the congregation would sit) of the church is reminiscent of the inside of the bottom of a LARGE BOAT. It made me think of Noah’s Ark and God’s promises of eternal love and protection. Here, the Ark domes over the delicate, breathtaking earth, like a rainbow, suggesting to me the everlasting presence of God holding our tiny planet in the enormity of space.
The narrow carpet which us usually the sanctuary aisle, forms a line extending from the earth to the BAPTISMAL FONT, which marks the exact distance the earth is from the moon. Viewers behold the planet just as astronauts have really viewed it from the moon.
Standing there brought feelings of humility and awe. The planet is astoundingly beautiful, and when you think about it realistically, in all its beauty, it is terrifyingly small in the vastness of the known universe.
I think it is very FITTING that the FONT is placed as the spacer for the MOON. The baptismal font represents the cleansing work of God’s Spirit that is forever guiding and accompanying us like the steadfastness of the moon. As the MOON reflects the light of the SUN on the EARTH through the night, WE reflect the brightness of GOD’S LOVE for all creation through the indwelling of Christ’s SPIRIT.
I doubt any of this was considered in the setup, but it certainly preached to me!
I will treasure the photos taken, especially of me in communion with earth. We must REMEMBER our God-given RESPONSIBILITY of stewardship for the sake of the environment and the SACRED BALANCE humans so thoughtlessly damage.
Animals are medicine. At my house, our schedules revolve around the needs of our pets. In our family of six, five of us live with anxiety ranging from mild to debilitating. Habits are very important to our feelings of safety and calm.
Our twins are 19. One will likely remain a dependent for life. The other will be slow to launch. We’ve chosen to make the most of any goodness we can provide them. They can have whatever pets they want.
The dog is mine. I couldn’t do this without her. The time of day varies, but she and I enjoy daily walks with or without the company of my girls. I also take dedicated time to love on her. She expects it in the evening, especially when she gets on the bed at day’s end. I swear she has superpowers.
We feed and clean the guinea pigs twice a day. Before I go to work and before we settle in to watch a bit of TV at night. They are super cute and super disgusting. It’s like having an indoor farm. I do the bulk of the work because they technically belong to my daughter who lives with severe OCD. She loves them so much. (And many other critters we don’t need to talk about now).
Gerbils are my second twins’ entire life. She has a few online contacts. She’s done with in-person school and will slowly finish her diploma virtually. Her day is her gerbils. I participate regularly with their floor time and cleaning. We suffered the deaths of her first gerbils of four years. It pretty near destroyed both of us. You wouldn’t understand unless you knew them. So bright, intelligent, and friendly.
There is NOTHING worse than watching your child as she comforts her heart as it dies. Months later, her heart burst again as the remaining gerbil died on her lap.
She was thrown into an abyss of loss. She didn’t know how to order her days without her precious fur babies.
We eventually got 3 young gerbils from the same litter. It took a bit – allowing them to use the sacred things of her firsts, but the relationship blossomed, and she was almost back to herself.
The gerbils are coming to maturity and becoming more territorial. To her horror, just randomly, totally out of the blue, one gerbil picked a fight with another, a ball of angry rodents in a death grip. She got them apart. She got bitten for the first time ever. By God, I was sure it was the end, both covered in blood. This is just so MUCH.
Thanks be to God, they will live. We’ve separated them 2 and 1. Our routine has doubled. Still, it is her life’s work to honour them. She finds comfort in talking to breeders and providing the best care.
Domestic animals are a blessing, for sure. Loving them, as with loving anyone, is risky business. Anything could happen. Love is always worth it. (Even spending hundreds of dollars on veterinary care for rodents!)
I pray about our animals as much or even more than I do for people. It’s the last moments of my day – the most consistent habit. I pray my children will be comforted, strengthened by their experiences, and blessed with new joy. I pray for the dog, the cat, the guinea pigs, and the sweet little gerbils to recover, to live long and be well, and to gladden the hearts of my complicated family. Love is rough, but God is good. Always.
At my monthly check in with my psychiatrist, I told him that my mood has actually been OKAY for a while. It WAS true. I saw him while I was still riding a wave of adrenaline after a surprisingly positive weekend among the people of the church I minister to.
With all my mood and personality disorders and my frequent depression, it is really something when I wholeheartedly feel hope, love and connection with them. Having a good, relaxed time socially is always a challenge. But I was feeling it.
Maybe it’s because my ‘Mommy senses’ tingled when I held the new grandson of parishioners who are integral to our faith family. A measure of their joy rubbed off on me and I am still so thankful.
Yeah! I held a perfect bundle of baby in my arms! I have longed for the pre-pandemic ease in which our interactions with the most vulnerable among us were not blanketed in fear. What a gift to count his tiny fingers and toes, to feel the warmth and weight of him and to marvel, to bask in the created perfection on my lap! God is good.
This was at a summer social so graciously hosted by members at their home. The sound of the giant Jenga blocks falling, the giggles echoing, the joy and exuberance of the children diving, somersaulting, and splashing in the pool. The watery trails of drips that followed them to their towels and snacks was nostalgic of when my own kids were small. I found it deeply satisfying to witness.
Sitting together with leisurely chatting, roasting marshmallows singing together around a fire, not to mention the perfect weather was just fantastic! God is good.
The next day followed with our Cemetery Decoration service. I was overcome by the turnout and hospitality shown to the bereaved. The mingling of relaxed laughter and vulnerable, unhidden tears was breathtaking.
How the sun, the breeze, the great outdoors, so comfortably provided us with a fittingly natural cathedral to do the work of remembering together. We stood on the holy ground of grief and faith together. Our church family graciously helping one another, teaming up to unpack an unrehearsed, gorgeously human service full of organic, heart felt love and tenderness. God is good.
So WHY, as I rode to my appointment did that familiar nagging ache of sadness and hopelessness clutch at my gut? Believing in God’s love for me and the goodness so evident around me DOES NOT fix my mental health.
It’s weird, but after each high, I seem to go right into a low. I came home from that appointment and sucked back my extra pills that are designed to curb the nagging feeling.
It doesn’t negate the wonderful feelings of the weekend but it does stir up anger and questions I’d rather not dwell on.
My spirituality is informed by my Christianity. However, you can easily be spiritual without being religious. I think it’s all about how we interpret our awareness of BEING.
I live and breathe my personal spirituality. It fuels my interpersonal relationships, my worldview, my faith, and my pastoral ministry. I believe in a Greater Power, the Uncreated Source of everything, a consciousness of something bigger than all of us. As a Christian, I’m referring to my God. The awareness of goodness, love, intrinsic worth, purpose, and eternity enacted in and through daily life is my spiritual goal.
My soul is always seeking the eternal who IS LOVE, who loves me. The energy, the supernatural vibration, the divine in me, my Godspark, keeps me constantly and eternally connected to God/the Source/ the All-Knowing and everything else that is also in energetic union through life and in death.
It’s important. Spirituality is my life’s purpose. Connection and unity is its desire. Spirituality makes me care about people, other creatures, and the environment. It drives me to seek kindness and justice in this world of pain. It helps me to act with humility and notice all the amazing things I’d miss if my mind wasn’t always head to head with God.
Five years ago, I actually had time to focus on my self-care. It was great, except I was on medical leave to recover from ‘continuing to work’ for a year after being diagnosed with a kind of liver disease related to toxemia.
The year I spent working after the fresh diagnosis was the beginning of a huge mental breakdown. I lost 100 lbs while restricting food in order to lose weight for the sake of my liver.
By the time I agreed to medical leave, I’d become a shadow of myself. While on leave, I was required to seek much needed help from the psychiatrist I still see today for my ever-looming battle with disordered eating and severe episodes of depression.
So, I set out on a six month journey of self-care. I walked the dog every day. I took time to eat healthy foods. I started daily yoga. A fitness guru friend trained me to lift weights every 3 days. I spent time enjoying reading. I spent a lot of time outdoors. It was Super Duper FANTASTIC.
When I returned to work I WAS much healthier. I wanted to continue keeping my self-care routines. I was DEDICATED.
There is a line between self-care and self-sabotage. I didn’t have time to do ALL the lovely and soul- nurturing THINGS. Self-care became a CHORE. It was another impossible box to check. It sent me spinning.
We need to be attentive to our bodies and our thoughts. Pushing ourselves to fit everything in is not helpful. So, now, I’m learning to be accepting and comfortable with my inability to do it all. I can do that sometimes when I stop and breathe and notice all that my senses are experiencing.
I’m embarrassed and a little anxious to admit that I waste too much valuable time on negative self talk and reactive arguing with my family. Terrible. I NEED to be right. I NEED to be validated. I NEED to know that I count. I know this stems from years of low self esteem. I have spent a lot of time competing for attention and tolerating the worst of it just to remain guarded and feel safe in my own skin.
I question myself at nauseum. Did I say the right thing? Did my facial expression reveal my inner thoughts? Do I look professional? Am I too casual? Did anyone notice me swearing?
Then there are the shouldn’t-s. You shouldn’t have said that, ate that, bought that, texted that, worn that, tolerated that. You shouldn’t have waved at that person. You shouldn’t laugh so loud.
Being distracted by personal negativity often keeps me from seeing the good stuff that’s happening all around. I miss too many moments that could be GREAT because ALL MY PARTS are too loud and I can’t hear the voice of calm and wellness. I even forget about my faith – and that’s something. I believe in God’s steadfast presence in me and in ALL, yet I let my fear of abandonment win out over my desire to love. When someone I care about tries to get me to knock it off, I waste even MORE time fighting with them. It’s such a miserable waste of time to be closed off to being, feeling, and living happy and well.
I hope we all remember our innate and divine worth and rise above our human crap to live openly and compassionately with others as well as with ourselves. Chin up.
Which food, when you eat it, instantly transports you to childhood?
My childhood memories are full of the good ‘healthy’ stuff of the 70s and 80s. My family camped every summer. We’d hunt for perfectly shaped sticks to cook our dough boys. Strange name. It’s like Bannock dough made from teabisk mix. Our sticks had to be straight and just the right thickness. We’d carve off the bark and carefully wrap dough around it, then cook them like toasting marshmallows over the fire bed. They puffed and browned. The best treat ever. Slice one open while it’s hot. Add a little butter and strawberry jam – yum. The best of my childhood races to mind.
I am really inspired by Julian of Norwich. She was a Christian Mystic who lived in Medieval England through both waves of the Black Death. She became an anchoress (well respected non-clergy theological expert) after surviving a grave illness in her 30ies. True to form, she lived her life secluded, sealed in a cell attached to St. Julian’s Church in Norwich. The cell had a window looking into the church and another looking out to the people in the street to whom she likely gave advice and wisdom.
She was kind of a cool, badass, preacher who walked the walk without limit. She had feminist and inclusive tendencies before feminism or the like even existed. She was the ultimate nobody of nobodies who had a superhuman ability to see a holy connection and the good in everything.
I am fascinated that no one really knows anything about her, probably not even her actual name. But, somehow, her writings about visions she had of Jesus while she herself was suffering a grave illness are full of theology and ideas far ahead of her time. She called Christ the true mother who birthed us through suffering. Our suffering, she said, is a reflection of Christ. Glory comes through Christ’s suffering, not in spite of it. We suffer to experience a share of God’s unconditional love for us and everything God created.
I’m a pastor and a nerd. My favorite quote from her is,
And all shall be well, and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.
Nuanced Niddy 