Monday, November 05, 2007

The Train Trip

The commuter train sways and clacks its way downtown. It’s the first time in years I’ve been to the large port city of Vancouver. I’ve grown far too fond of simpler ways in a smaller town farther up the Fraser Valley. At home in the valley the fragrances, and often downright awful smells of local agricultural, waft into our two measly shopping malls. So when necessity dictates, and I must join the ranks of those who make the daily trip en masse into the big city, it's an adventure.

Like any country hick who wants to blend in, I buy my coffee and snap open my newspaper and head downtown, pretending I have a wall-wall glass office in some corporate tower overlooking the Burrard Inlet. I fit right in. At least I think I do.

On the way home I scramble for a seat. The one I get faces backwards and I look out the window at passing scenes from the viewpoint of where I’m coming from. The track curves and I see the last car dragging behind. Maybe I'm tired from today's seminar. Or maybe, because I'm looking backwards, I feel memories pulling at me. Or maybe it has more to do with our youngest, nineteen-year-old Rob, who announced the other night that he’d like to move out with some friends of his? Nice boys from church. They'd make good roommates. But all the same, he’s our baby.

I was nineteen when my mother and ‘us’ three kids came out to Vancouver to start all over again. Thirty-one years ago. You do the math. The first three years in Vancouver were filled with the loneliness of losing all that was familiar. It was a complicated move. Family situations often are. There was the poverty of a single-parent family, new schools to be found for my siblings, new jobs for mother and me. And then, for me, the next three years held the life-changing episode of getting pregnant by a guy I could never marry, and making the choice to relinquish my baby to adoption. When you say it fast it’s not so bad. No need to explain that’s why I write these days.

The train whistle blows, the conductor announces we’ve reached the first station. I watch husbands, wives, mothers, fathers, singles, leave the train in droves. They bustle to parked cars, waiting buses, loved ones in idling SUV's. The conductor announces the doors will close. The chime goes. The train pulls away from the station and picks up speed.

It was twenty-eight years ago I signed up for a course at a Bible College in Vancouver. By then I’d learned some hard lessons giving up a child. Quite simply I wanted to do things God’s way from then on. It was the ah-ha moment I’ve never regretted. I met my husband at that Bible College.

The train passes a road that leads to one of our first apartments, twenty-four years ago. It was one of the worst places we ever lived, a dark, damp, dismal basement suite. But somehow looking back I miss those days when David and I were young and our first two kids, Lana and Kyle, weren’t even in school yet. Close to the next stop the train passes under a walkway bridge that takes pedestrians down to a park. We have photographs at home, of Rob when he was three years old running to catch up to Lana and Kyle, crossing that bridge to get down to the beach.

The clacking over the tiles takes on a hollow resonance. The train crosses the Pitt River. Soon we’ll be in Maple Ridge.

Rob was born in Maple Ridge hospital, and all three of the kids started kindergarten and went to high school in that town. We still lived in Maple Ridge when I was reunited with Sarah, my birth daughter eight years ago. It was only seven years ago that I stood on our front porch and realized Kyle’s eyebrows had reached a higher altitude than mine. Of course now they're all a head taller than me, and Kyle has made me a grandmother.

The train leaves Maple Ridge and the view outside changes. Less city. Less ugly backdoors to businesses, train yards. We’re back in the country. I see logs stacked by the Fraser River. The train pulls into Mission City, the last station on the line. My husband is there with the car for our forty-five minute drive deeper into our valley and to our home.

The trip has left me unsettled. I remind myself there’s still more life to come, more graduations—God willing, more weddings in God’s timing, more grandchildren. I sit beside David as he drives toward the lights of our small town in the distance. I much prefer this facing forward.

"Do you want to stop off somewhere for dinner," he says, "so we don't have to cook? I fed the dog before I left, the cats are okay."

I smile. "Yeah, that would be nice."

Monday, October 01, 2007

A Strangely Beautiful Light - Ann's Story Ch. One


It shouldn’t be there, but it is.

It is the worst of autumn days—clouds heavy with rain, a sky like cold pewter. Without the help of lamps and fireplace inside it is dismal and uncomfortable. Coming home from church, rain dripping from our coats, my son and I see something that shouldn’t be there, but it is—sunlight casting its rays on a wall inside our home. It is the reflection from a small tree that stands in the backyard, actually throwing light from its leaves of orange and yellow—and some that still cling to the branches pale and delicate green—until they too will change into that warm and brilliant glow.

A naturally occurrence, yes, but breathtaking . . . oh yes. You have to stop, to look, to ponder on this strange beauty of light.

It reminds me of the woman I talked with this morning, Ann, not the first time we’ve chatted by no means. She’s one of those people I make a bee-line for in the church foyer—one of those women who are what I consider successful. In Ann’s case that means an unusually caring attitude towards others, where she asks you what’s going on in your life and how she can pray for you. You know by just the way she talks about your life—business, career, family—that she’s done things with her life. You trust that proven wisdom because it’s a life that’s been bathed with the Holy Spirit. In Ann, it’s visible. I've admired Ann for several years now. Oh, not just because her personality is laced with genteel Irish humor or that she exemplifies the words, elegant and feminine. I admire her for what shines through her eyes when she stands, tiny and slim, on the platform and sings. Ann means the words. She may sing them for us in the congregation, but she is singing the words to God.

Our whole church has watched Ann these past number of years—and others who also struggle with terminal illness—how these brave souls face circumstances that to me sound as horrifying as Auschwitz. Each one has a story that needs and deserves to be heard. It is Ann’s story that's filled my mind at lot lately, especially when I pray for her. Like that small tree in my backyard, Ann faces her illness and the awful word 'terminal' by casting a light that shouldn’t be there, but is.

What should I pray for Ann, and for her husband? They’re both in this. She’s the one who’s sick, but his pain is great too, watching the one he loves suffer. Ann hopes this whole situation will glorify God. But how? Can I pray that she’ll feel no more pain? Or should I pray God will give her the strength to keep fighting, no matter how hard that may be? Should I pray that her time remaining be an incredible witness? Or what about Heaven? Do I dare ask her—who may be going before me to our eternal home—are you ready? Are you afraid? Or are you excited to know you’ll be in the actual presence of God? Do you try to anticipate the fantastic things you will see or do? Or is the pain of leaving loved ones behind unbearable? Do you want to hang on to this life?

Do I sound like a curious, impertinent child, raising questions that should never be raised in polite conversation? Or are they questions we must all face sooner or later? I look at Ann and wonder, is this brave and beautiful woman, strangely lit from within, showing us the way home?

Sunday, September 16, 2007

The Arrangement

It was my first day of unemployment. I woke up at six, a smudge of anxiety lurking in the gray shades between asleep and awake. I kept my promise to myself that I’d get up early to spend the morning in prayer—after all I had no blueprints laid out for my immediate future. God had neglected to give me a set.

All I knew was that I felt prompted to step out in faith; that I needed to make some changes, and that meant leaving a position at Trinity Western University that some people would give their eye-teeth for. Oh, there were other reasons, health, long commute, but I won’t bore you with them, because the underlying reason was something deeper.

I long for that dream career—or ministry as I prefer to call it—that I’ve felt led to pursue for the past seven years. But it was scary to make that decision. Real scary. It is a risk isn’t it, to step out in your life having no concrete plans for the immediate future. But God promises that He has plans for us--doesn’t He?

My co-workers and supervisors sent me off in royal style. For the past week I’ve been lunched, hugged, kissed, encouraged, prayed for, blessed, given a psalm to read, had a sparkler on ice-cream, wore a moose head (another story) and yesterday—my last day at work—a big, big cake, and a beautiful bouquet of flowers left on my desk. I reveled in it all.

It was so obviously the Lord working through the wonderul people I’m leaving behind. To add to all of that a brand new grad student—reminding me a lot of one of my sons—came into the office. He was just entering post graduate work in Biblical Studies.

He sat at my desk in biker’s leathers, long blond hair in a pony tail, and as I registered him in his classes he delighted me by asking if he could arrange my floral bouquet in a vase. We chatted and I was charmed by his interests in music, his commitment to come back to the study of theology, the simple quixotic kindness he showed to an older lady just leaving Trinity as he was re-entering.

I sat back in my chair and across my desk watched him trim the ends of the stems and artistically arrange my going-away flowers. He even wrapped up the garbage at the end and disposed of it. We shook hands—giving each other our blessings on our separate new beginnings. For me it was just one more thing to add to an already auspicious day and the love of God flowing through another human being.

This morning I woke up in not-so-cheery-a-mood. When I read my Bible and prayed for a while I didn’t feel any of the encouragement that I’d felt for weeks. Instead I thought what a fool I was. Who was I to think God would lead me into something special?

Then I remembered the psalm a friend gave me yesterday and I turned to it, Psalm 65. To my surprise it was a psalm I’d read almost a year earlier and had written copious notes in the margins of my Bible. It was just after my mother collapsed and I’d given up all my own personal hopes and dreams to care for her in what I thought would be forever.

But here I am a year later, my mother more than fine, and once again I felt compelled to hope for my own dreams—dreams I thought were seeded by the Lord years ago. The encouragement rushed back and I prayed again, really searching for the face of my God.

It was then that He came, not after a perfunctory time of prayer, but one of really seeking. He reminded me of the young grad student yesterday who sat at my desk and arranged my flowers. My God spoke clearly to my heart, It wasn’t just that young student, it was me, He said. I was the one who arranged those bright yellow gerber daisies for you in that vase. The image behind my closed eyelids of the young student in biker’s leathers disappeared and superimposed upon it was the One who died on the cross for me. I saw His long flowing robes, his dark hair and beard, as He sat at my desk and said to me, It’s not just daisies I’m arranging for you, and He smiled.

I broke down, weeping at the sweet intimacy of our awesome God caring for one of His own. Is He going to give me that long sought-after dream career? I don’t know for sure. What I do know is that I have nothing to fear. I’m going to continue to seek that relationship that is better than bread or even breath, and whatever He brings into my life will be personally and perfectly arranged by His hands. It will be bright, and golden, and wonderful.

Monday, February 19, 2007

I have now entered year SEVEN of my journey to become a published writer. Been a long time since I first felt the whisper of a call to create inspirational fiction. The whisper grew to a passion. Anyone who knows me or has read my earlier blogs will know how much this calling means to me. I did hear Him . . . I know it . . . Didn’t I, Lord? But . . . still . . . this is my SEVENTH year of marching around my own particular set of Jericho Walls, puffing madly on my little trumpet of faith, that soon I will enter the publishing world. Maybe this year, Lord???Those of you who are fellow writers, perhaps my blogs ‘Stepping Stones’, ‘What my Birthday Means’ and “Confessions of a Former Blogger’ will encourage you in your literary journey unless you’re one of those infinitely few who are an overnight success. The reality for most of us writers is to plod steadily at a day job while working on our art on evenings and weekends. That along with all those years of apprenticeship spent in writing classes, writing groups, attending writers Conferences, reading books on writing, and of course, writing, writing, writing.At this point – for those of you who have desires in your heart to be a gardener, a plumber, a teacher, a secretary, a banker -- please just insert your heartfelt calling into the above and carry on.

So what do you do when you feel so sure God called you to a particular profession, art or work? What do you do when you’ve done all the work, prayed through it all . . . and God seems to stop the work in its tracks?

Maybe you’re like me and have pleaded with the Lord to show you if He wants you to put your desire aside, asking him “Do you want me to do something else maybe?” I’ve heard the same lament from others . . . if the Lord is ‘stopping’ this desire of my heart (a baby, a spouse, a career, the list of desires is endless) then why doesn’t He show me what it is He wants me to hope for instead. Or . . . has the heart’s desire become an idol? Have you or I put the longed-for person, career, event before the Lord? Is this why He has delayed . . . or even said no?

I had to ask myself, what do I actually hear from the Lord right now. Did I hear Him say to stop hoping or praying for that desire of mine? In my case the answer has not been a definite no, but a continual message to wait. So there it is – God’s will – WAIT. And while I’m waiting I do whatever else I know clearly to be His will; being sensitive to those around me and their needs, serving others and thereby serving God, rejoice always, pray without ceasing. These things I know for sure are His will.
Besides, it can’t hurt, maybe help pass the time. It also just might – and maybe this is what it’s really been all about – it just might do some good for someone else and make me into a more caring, and less self-centered person. Is that what He had in mind all along . . .?

Jericho Walls

I have now entered year SEVEN of my journey to become a published writer. Been a long time since I first felt the whisper of a call to create inspirational fiction. The whisper grew to a passion. Anyone who knows me or has read my earlier blogs will know how much this calling means to me. I did hear Him . . . I know it . . . Didn’t I, Lord? But . . . still . . . this is my SEVENTH year of marching around my own particular set of Jericho Walls, puffing madly on my little trumpet of faith, that soon I will enter the publishing world. Maybe this year, Lord???Those of you who are fellow writers, perhaps my blogs ‘Stepping Stones’, ‘What my Birthday Means’ and “Confessions of a Former Blogger’ will encourage you in your literary journey unless you’re one of those infinitely few who are an overnight success. The reality for most of us writers is to plod steadily at a day job while working on our art on evenings and weekends. That along with all those years of apprenticeship spent in writing classes, writing groups, attending writers Conferences, reading books on writing, and of course, writing, writing, writing.At this point – for those of you who have desires in your heart to be a gardener, a plumber, a teacher, a secretary, a banker -- please just insert your heartfelt calling into the above and carry on.

So what do you do when you feel so sure God called you to a particular profession, art or work? What do you do when you’ve done all the work, prayed through it all . . . and God seems to stop the work in its tracks?

Maybe you’re like me and have pleaded with the Lord to show you if He wants you to put your desire aside, asking him “Do you want me to do something else maybe?” I’ve heard the same lament from others . . . if the Lord is ‘stopping’ this desire of my heart (a baby, a spouse, a career, the list of desires is endless) then why doesn’t He show me what it is He wants me to hope for instead. Or . . . has the heart’s desire become an idol? Have you or I put the longed-for person, career, event before the Lord? Is this why He has delayed . . . or even said no?

I had to ask myself, what do I actually hear from the Lord right now. Did I hear Him say to stop hoping or praying for that desire of mine? In my case the answer has not been a definite no, but a continual message to wait. So there it is – God’s will – WAIT. And while I’m waiting I do whatever else I know clearly to be His will; being sensitive to those around me and their needs, serving others and thereby serving God, rejoice always, pray without ceasing. These things I know for sure are His will.
Besides, it can’t hurt, maybe help pass the time. It also just might – and maybe this is what it’s really been all about – it just might do some good for someone else and make me into a more caring, and less self-centered person. Is that what He had in mind all along . . .?