Sailing.

This steady rocking is safety to me.  It’s organic and lovely,  like the peace and assurance of sitting on Grandma’s lap under a sweater in a rocking chair,  or comforting a child in your arms, swaying gently. 

The damp salt air quenches my need to breathe.

Breathe.

It’s been a day of planes, trains, and automobiles, as I make my annual trek home for the holidays.  My heart’s home is Ottawa- but as I sit on the deck of the “Spirit of Vancouver Island,” mesmerized, praising God who has created such indescribable beauty… I think my body’s home will always be on the Coast.  I left my apartment in the dark, bussed to the airport, watching the sun rise over Ottawa.  I boarded a plane and was lulled to sleep, waking to see glimpses of golden sun and patchwork prairies and majestic mountains.  Bags in tow, I found the sky train, and watched the Pacific Ocean meet the city of Vancouver and both be united under a lovely clear sky.  And now I’m outside on the ferry, the photographers and excited kids have moved into the warmth of the indoors, and I’m alone on the deck, watching.

It’s kind of blue for Christmas: blue sky, blue ocean, blue mountains.. even the trees which I’m slowly inching away from seem to have a blue tint, but it is the happiest kind of blue -  like giggling, sticking your blue tongue out after a blue freezie or blue lollipop, or possibly even blue pop rocks, if you like those.

I don’t know what to expect when I get off the boat.  It doesn’t feel like the Christmas I’m used to.  I ‘m not particularly in the mood for Christmas carols, I’m not super excited to watch Christmas Movies.  The lights are lovely…but I just like shiny things.  As I sit here, fingers cold, heart warm, I’m realizing that maybe this isn’t the Christmas I am used to or dream of – even Ottawa has no snow, I haven’t gone caroling, I’m not wrapping gifts or baking obscene amount of delicious sweets…though I do have some in my bag, waiting to share with my family.  But when did the world become so wrapped up in all those things?

Jesus was carried in Mary’s womb as she travelled with Joseph from their home to the home of his fathers.  He was born outside – and the stable probably didn’t smell like cinnamon or mandarin oranges or savoury turkey.  The wise men followed a shining star to bring him their gifts.  Shepherds were in the fields. 

I look around me – why is Christmas to me a comfortable, warm, electric home? Why isn’t it in the smell of the forest? Why isn’t it in staring at billions of stars, shining from farther away than I can imagine, in a way that no bulb or picture or human creation of any sort can possibly represent. 

I want to discover CHRIST in the journey from home to home.  I want to celebrate CHRIST in the most intimate, natural way possible – and maybe that isn’t in the traditions that I have cherished for so long.  Maybe I need to learn to step outside of symbolism that I love, and the rituals that I’ve explained, and the false depth that I’ve tried to create but can’t understand -  and exchange it for raw, real relationship.  Maybe I need to cling to Him in rolling hills and stiff cold fingers and tide-stained air.  Maybe it’s time for me to learn to come home to worship a King, to give him all that I can, to love Him as much as I know how – and to trust Him to draw me even closer. 

I love presents, and turkey, and candles, and carols, and fires, and movies, and family.

But I love His presence more.  And his gifts are eternal.  And His fire in me is life changing.  And His Word is truth.  And this Father – this Brother, this King, this Friend…is everything.

My Top Methods of Procrastination this Exam Period (in no particular order).
1. Unnecessary changes: outfits, my blog background, Facebook profile, meal plans, study locations...

2. Discovering the things I don't usually have time for... Like reading forwarded emails, and finding that my star wars name would be Emema Jeery, and looking at obscure "galleries" on news sites (for your own protection, do not look at anything involving strange family portraits).

3.  Food.  And good food.  And Lots of food.  Isn't it time for Christmas baking and fancy meals with   friends?  Isn't it important to eat the perfect combination of healthy, beautiful meals and comforting homey  treats?  It's the perfect time for Grandma's cookies and 10 dish breakfasts.  And isn't it better to share and please others, and make 5 kinds of pancakes, not just one? I wonder what would happen if I were to study food...

4.  Cleaning.  (Maybe this goes under number 2?)

5.  Music - choosing the right stuff to listen to helps me focus...and it only takes me...a long time to find it... But I need the right mood, the right instruments, the right speed, the right language...  And then there's the guitars and keyboard that are really just sad if they aren't being played.  And I need to practice singing high so that I can sing all the Christmas carols, inevitably in an uncomfortable key.

6. Unusual levels of interest in the fact that others are studying, and what they are studying - helping someone with French is really helping me study, right?  And I'd like to say that meeting people at the most convenient place for them is completely me being a nice person...but there's probably a bit of "oooh, that means a longer break from studying too.

7. Writing anything other than exams or study notes.  Cards, letters, blog posts, references, journal entries...

8.  Checking the weather.  How was it possibly more than 10 degrees in Ottawa YESTERDAY??? Fear not...the average temperature for tomorrow (which I may have looked at 5 times today...) is -7.  And Snow is coming...supposedly.

9.  Planning.  Planning when I"m going to do what (and knowing I probably won't actually follow the plan).  Plans to meet up with friends, trying to figure out what's going on with my family and friends over the break, thinking about what I want to do next semester, next year, after school...for my life...

10.  It's already been mentioned, but I think it's worth mentioning again.  Facebook.  I've never been such a Facebook creep in my life...except maybe in that one phase, last summer.

Communion

I'm the only one awake in my apartment right now.  The wind is whistling outside, rattling the glass windows against each other.  It's gray outside. Gray like a resting early morning, lulling you back to sleep in the coziness of a comfy bed.  It's gray like a blanket of wetness, the air is cool and damp, and the road is shining wet, and the colours of cars are brighter wet, and there world sounds different wet.

I look at the leftovers from last night: two mugs of grape juice on the living room table, a plate of crackers, a guitar next to the couch.  Extra chairs are pushed around the dining room table, which has a sparkly runner and glass candlesticks and paper hats left on it.  There's a basket of blankets, sweaters, toques and mittens on the ground beside the table left from yet another D-St welcome-to-the-team fire (not too major though).  I'm sitting on the couch, toes warm in wool socks, with a cup of tea, a clementine, and some cookies, listening to people wake up, completely at home.  

Sometimes I think I use the word love far to liberally.  I love this person, I love that feeling, I love these objects.  And I have to check my genuineness.  What does the word actually mean when I use it to say I love the combination of smiles, and light, and glass? Or that I love sharing food with friends - and at the fellowship that comes through it?  Or that I love having a crowded table, and listening to a conversation that flows to the most ridiculous places? Or that I love opening the door, and putting food on the table, and just being with people?

And it means that I love the pause it provides.  I see light shining here - my spirit is lifted, and it's a feeling that warms my heart.  I'm thankful for those moments.  I'm blessed by those people.  I experience pure joy.  I see God working. I hear Him speaking.  I'm learning who he has made me to be, and how he has made me to live.  

And sometimes it just means I'm laughing really hard, and nothing else seems to sum up my thoughts when friends are deciding what gender numbers are, or her surprise when the Christmas cracker popped, or their concern for various foreign objects being added to the beloved fish's home. 

When dinner was finished, we moved into a time of worship and prayer, and communion.  And that is the point.  It's not the presents and the fancy glasses and the silly hats and the decorations.  And it's not the food or the conversation or the laughter. 

 It's Him. 

 It's abiding and dwelling and breathing and living in, with, and for a King who humbled himself, and was born to us.

I am overwhelmed and softly held and completely in LOVE as I learn to hope - to eagerly expect God, to eagerly expect His presence, Him working, Him moving, Him changing, Him providing,  Him Preparing.  

I am amazed by the power and incredibly thankful and completely in LOVE as I experience His Peace in my life - the rain that washes all the junk away, His breath in me, His arms holding me, His voice in my ear - shhh.  

I am swept off my feet and surrounded by light and I'm completely in LOVE as I am flooded by His Joy - his joy that surprises me when I struggle, His creativity, His complexity, His plan for me, His heart for me. His presence with me. 

And this is really LOVE.  This baby king, who would live and demonstrate and speak and inspire and die, and rise to bring full LIFE.  And this is LOVE, that perfect in every way, his Body was pierced for my transgressions, broken for me.  And his blood was shed for me.  And I am forgiven, wholly.  I am loved, entirely.  

And this is what we share and celebrate together.  

kyo͝orēˈäsitē

I've pondered a lot of mostly-pointless things this week.  At some point in my life, this may have been called wide-eyed curiosity, a thirst for learning.  But as I enter a second very full, busy week, coming in with a cup of strong coffee and no where near enough sleep, I doubt as to how "wide-eyed" anything can really be.  (The coffee isn't that strong!)

For instance, does anyone know how the letters of the alphabet came to be the the characters we read every day? Is there a relationship between sound and shape? Like when I look at a large wave coming in against little rocks, I know how those shapes are going to sound together.  And I know how wind sounds different going through thin soft needles or large dry maples leaves. Do the curves and lines and short or tall letters actually mean something? Maybe they don't in my alphabet, but do they in another? Or what were people thinking when they chose these characters to represent our language? Sometimes I wish our written language was more beautiful to just look at as art - and not to think about the meaning.  Sometimes I'm glad our letters seem relatively simple to draw.  But really... what inspired these letters?

Last week I was thankful for my selfless roommates, who cooked for me, ignored my disastrous study habits, and put up with my moodswings.  And I was thankful for the breaks from the craziness to spend time with God and in Christian community.  Sunday our new youth pastor and his wife finally arrived in Canada, and the youth spent the afternoon helping the two move into their first home.  It was fun to watch him "carry her across the threshold" and to be there as they tried to decide where to put things, and how to put things together.  Tuesday I had the opportunity to do backup vocals at the GYG.  I love worship. I love helping to lead worship: and it was such a blessing to be in the sanctuary instead of the hall, and to be joined by other members of the congregation, worshiping as one body.  There's something immensely beautiful about pouring my heart out through song, and encouraging others to do the same thing.  

Thursday our small group was helping a young family move in to what I could actually describe as my dream home.  I'm serious.  The house that I always imagined as a little kid with fireplaces and a twisting staircase and a loft -attic, and a white kitchen with exposed white rafters...this is it.  Maybe it was just because it seemed like all I did last week was either school or helping people move, but to some extent it made me so restless and anxious to move on to that part of my life.  None of the people we were helping are that much older than me.   Sometimes I'm more than completely content to be sharing an apartment with five sisters in Christ.  I somehow can't imagine the kinds of escapades we have still happening when married.  And sometimes I just really want to be a wife, and be a mom.  On Thursday night, after most of the moving had been finished, I sat watching three beautiful girls putting on a show for us in their new family room.  Singing in complete freedom and dancing joyfully around.  Sometimes my tired heart melts at their beauty.  And sometimes it cringes in irrational fear and premature longing and, to expose all my stains, even some jealously...feelings which have a horrible tendency to penetrate my joy.  

It's 8 degrees and raining in Ottawa this morning.  There are 13 more days until I'm finished for the semester: 3 of class, 10 of exams. I'm struggling to stay motivated ...There are so many things in my life that seem so much more important than school, and even the dull rainy sky seems more interesting than my books.  

Look out the window!

Amber, Danielle and I woke up slowly this morning.  And as I lay in my cozy bed, eyes half open and still half dreaming, Danielle said, "Look out the window!"

And the world is blanketed in the gentlest, softest coat of fresh white snow for the first time this Winter.
It's still magical waking up to snow.  I'm excited for tea, baked oatmeal, and a cozy sweater.

It's taken me a few years to find places at school that I would actually choose to be.  I'm sitting at a table in a little lounge called Déjà Vu right now.  To my left is a wall of windows overlooking a terrace and a greenspace, and some walkways.  The sun is shining.  Bright blue skies, sturdy brown leafless trees casting forest green shadows on slightly sloped green grass.  The sun is making the wooden picnic table glow.  Some guys are kicking a hacky sack, and it makes me think of middle school or high school.  People look generally happy, even those who are clearly walking with a purpose.

School seems to be one of those things that I have a love-hate relationship with.  There are time when I love being a student: when I look back at aw eek and feel like I've actually accomplished something, or learned something.  When I sit in class and am excited to be there.  Last week was full.  Full of exams, of assignments, and classes.  Full of appointments and to do lists.  Full of late nights and early mornings.
One night i sat, cozy in a chair at my neighbours house, working on a French assignment until 2:30 in the morning, and then returning to my family of roommates, all asleep.  One light left on for me.   I'm so glad for friends that remind me the reason I have this entire life which amazes me every day - is because God called me here for SCHOOL.  And school is why I sat, tired enough to be comfortable speaking French with my neighbour, cozy in her apartment while she encouraged me through my assignment.  And I loved coming home quietly, seeing life paused for sleep.  Books left open, pens and paper, notes sitting in peace for the night.  I'd like to say it was the moon that lit my apartment, but it was probably the city lights.  In the soft glow of the early morning, I crawled into my bed smiling.  All the drama, all the stress, all the laughter, all the things paused for gentle rhythmic breathing, resting eyes, and dreams.

The week before last week was full.  Full of heart.  Full of intense, heavy conversations.  Full of huge, challenging realizations.  Full of God speaking.  Full of fun too.  And good food.  And great friends.  How in the same week that Kammy and I painted each others faces, had a toy bow & arrow fight, and climbed trees, I could also have grown and ached and smiled and changed so much, I'm not sure.  But I did.  And it was...God.  God in the sense that I can't fathom His name or come up with any words to describe him.  Because this entire language is too weak.  And too small. And too vague.

I'm feeling content.  I'm feeling immensely blessed.  I'm feeling rooted.  I'm feeling like a tree in Pocahontas, when the wind starts blowing and the music is playing.  And you see the wind: its motion, the emotionally coloured specks and sparkles carried gently in it.  My roots are firm - I'm planted deeply in solid ground.  But I smile as the wind dances around me, and I'm excited to know which direction the wind will stretch me, and where it will blow my leaves.

At the tables around me, people have settled down to study.  The pathways outside are nearly empty.  I like watching the university breathe.

Moments.

I feel like there are so many little moments that I've been meaning to sit down and write about, that just have been lost in the abyss of school, life, work, and never being caught up at any given moment.  In the rush from task to task, I think that's what I really love about those little memories: for a brief tidbit of time, I was completely caught up in the moment.

Like the moment when I was walking with Carla, and staring down at the wet pavement under my shoes, and was suddenly struck by the depth beneath me.  Stretching into the ground beneath my toes as I stepped were the coloured reflections of my shoes, purple coat,  yellow umbrella, and beside me Carla in red boots, black coat, and blue umbrella.  Sometimes the world is beautiful and elegant and stunning and captivating in black and white.  I'm thankful that when it turns to dullness, it's time to paint.  Paint the world with smiles and laughs and colourful clothes and splashing puddles and singing songs.

Like the moment of teleportation when I'm thrust from my normal place in the dining room with friends back through time and and space to my younger self, walking home from the park with Mom and Tim, licking melting cotton candy ice cream.  And the thick curls on my shoulders fade into strait fine hair blowing across my cheeks.  And my cozy sweater becomes  a well loved purple t-shirt, and I can feel sun and slightly salty air on my arms and toes.  And I swallow and am surrounded by my "grown up friends", and I smile.

Like the moment the bowl of cookie dough is placed on the ground, and we are ready with blue, green, and pink cups of milk, spoons in hand, crisscrossed on the kitchen floor.  Our friend comes over to paint our nails purple, blue, yellow.

Like the moment when I walk into the hall at church on a Tuesday night, and I hear my name - and I melt in thankfulness for the love around me.  I don't think there are or will be many who call me in such a beautiful voice as hers - I hear her week in my name, how she's feeling, if she's tired, if she's excited, if she's anxious.  I love the series of hugs that follows, and the smiles, and the excitement.  God blesses me so much through those girls.  And as I hug her, she's young and small in my arms, and I'm young and small in God's arms, and I pray fervently for her to fully, deeply, forever know how much He loves her.

Like the moment when Gracie and I are sitting across from each other in the living room, couches covered in books, coffee tables covered in dishes, epic movie scores playing in the background.  Amber and Carla are in the dining room, and even though everyone is doing their own thing, I love the togetherness.  I love the relief of sudden bursts of outrageous laughter.  I love the knowing glances of exhaustion and brain overload.  I love that Carla and Amber started serenading.  I love that this is our normal.

Trust

It's pitch black around me.  My heart races in anticipation of whatever ghoulish actor could pop out at any moment, catching me off guard, making me jump, scream, or do something else irrational without thinking about it.
 It's pitch black around me.  My eyes dart around trying to catch a glimpse of my surroundings, but I think I can see more with my eyes closed than open.
It's pitch black around me. I don't know where the walls, floor, or ceiling are.  I don't know the path we are walking.  There's noise enough that I can't hear steps in front of or behind me, but there are hands on my back, and my hands are on someone else's back, and luckily there is so much else going on that I'm not thinking about it, and we just walk.  And when I can't feel the leather coat in front of me, I'm terrified, and I race forward until my hands rest safely there again, and I'm not the one leading the way,  I'm not making decisions on my own, and I don't need to fear what is in front of me.  The hands on my back assure me that I don't need to fear what's behind me.  And we progress through the darkness in a line of trust that explodes in laughing, relaxed breathing as soon as we get out of the "haunted house."

~

It's bright outside.  The vibrant pink, orange, red, blue, and green of the blanket underneath me dance with my sunglasses and rolled up jeans, the sun beams down and my hair is hot.  Summer and Fall tango around me: the wind is not summer's gently laughing child with flowers in her hair, but it's Fall's French artist, direct and to the point, wearing red, black, and white stripes, with a piercing laugh.   I'm supposed to be reading about Canada's First Nations.  But thoughts and feelings and questions and dreams are swirling around in my head, morphing fun experiences into something else.  Twisting conversations into too much or not enough or...I dont even know sometimes.  Probably most of the time.

And I know I need more faith.  Faith when I can't see.  Faith that's firmer than feelings.  "The one who doubts is like a wave of the sea that is driven and tossed by the wind." (James 1:6) I need to trust that God' in front of me, behind me, beside me, over me, under me, in me...living, breathing, speaking, shaping, moving, loving.


I need to move by His calling and leading, and not be driven by feelings, led by hope and faith at one moment, cowering in uncertainty or doubt in another.

My anchor is down in His love.  My heart is filled by him.  He's with me whether I can feel him or not, and as I learn to trust more, the walk through the dark becomes more of an adventure something to be scared of.

Heart Beating Truth

So I wonder if I can see the future.
Because there are just some moments when I look at people as they are, and I see them full of this incredible potential.  And there are some moments when I just know, as I sit eating my dinner wearing three shirts and a sweater and a toque, that ice cream is for dessert.  Moments when doubt doesn't even cross my mind that this person is going to have a huge impact in the world, or that person is going to be an incredible parent, or this one is going to be a strong leader, or that one is going to be a lifelong friend.

Six months into life as a single 20 year old, I sit on a school bus surrounded by friends, driving along a bumpy road in the dark, laughing hysterically.   These are people I live with, go to school with, and love my community with: and in the effort to breathe, to sit up, to contain myself, I think about the friendships forming.  I think about the things we are learning about each other, the things I'm letting slip about myself.

I always wash my feet before bed.

I've butchered a rabbit.

I love airy singing voices.

I love opening a new tube of toothpaste

I drink tea that's been in my cup for a few days.

Sometimes I'm a terrible sister.

I have terrifying nightmares.

I love to stand on busses.

I love the closeness that I see developing.  And I'm scared of the closeness.

I wake up one morning, tired.  Sad.  Because that dream with the vintage motorcycle and the artsy pottery and the homey storefronts had way too much to do with my heart.  Because the touch, and smiles, the words, the tears held-back, and the butterflies  in it were way to real.

So I pray that I can't see the future.
Because there are just some moments that I look at things as they are, and I see them full of an inescapable stagnancy. Questions surge through me: am I ever going to learn this language? Am I ever going to have clear, grown up skin? Am I ever going to move past this ache? Am I going to get in to teacher's college? Am I, am I, am I, am I....

If I take the punctuation out I 

am I am I am I am I am I am I am....

If I let the circle go on long enough,

I come back to 

I am.

I am a child of a God who knows every part of my heart.  Who knows how many hairs are on my head,  who spoke and created the universe, whose voice calmed the seas, who says

I AM the bread of life, I AM the true vine, I AM the good shepherd, I AM the door, I AM the way the truth and the life, I AM the light of the world, I AM the resurrection and the life. 

Yesterday, a friend was over helping me eat some beets. Beet tangent - beets are beautiful.  I love their deep rich magenta, purple, red colours, and the delicate pattern unique in each one.  Their shape reminds me of a soft, precious jewel or stone... something of natural value.  They have a full, lovely roundness.  Almost an emotional shape.  If there was a vegetable that was a happy tear...I think it would be a beet. End of beet tangent.  So, I'm sitting in the living room with friends, talking after we finished eating the beets, and the conversation carries forth to French, to teaching, to my fears of inadequacy or just not being able to do what I want to do, and then being lost.  And my friend looks at me, and says something along the lines of "do you seriously think that God would bring you all this way, and then just leave you here?"

Thanks for your wisdom, Jared. And for encouraging me to finally try eating beets.

I am the child of the master planner. He knows all the cards, and he knows every bend in the path, and he is the destination.  Why should I worry?

~

(That was the official end of the post...here's the P.S. part....)
Some tidbits of what I haven't had a chance to post in the last month...
My apartment in wonderfully full, fun, and lively with 6 girls living in it.  We have lots of bunkbeds, it's kind of like camp.  Kind of.
School is off to a quick, crazy start
I received a package of blackberry goodness in the mail
I went to a corn roast which combined so many great things: forest/country, church potluck, campfire, and some great friends.
At Summit with c4c on the weekend, we jumped in a lake! (That's where I was going on the school bus, and where we had icecream for dessert.)  This is the first time I've been swimming outside since leaving home last summer.  WAY too long.

feet in the water.

Carla, Amber and I spend a ridiculous amount of time talking about liking and loving and dating and marriage and trips to the muddy east coast and hiding dentures and early morning greetings and children and parenting and…a whole bunch of largely unnecessary things.

This has now become a fairly significant part of our nightly ritual.  We start with a party in the bathroom, to wash our feet, since both Carla and I have issues with dirty feet in our beds.  It then turns into dancing and singing and teeth brushing and face washing before we make it back into the bedroom, plop down on the bed with various bottles of moisturizer, music, and a bible.  In the dimly lit room, we take turns reading, talking, and rubbing each other’s feet.  And I can’t help but feel that in the week since this feet rubbing began, I’m coming to understand so much more the depth of friendship. 

(I was skeptical about people touching my/me touching other people's feet too...but it's sooooooo nice)

As Amber massages my feet, I’m in a beautifully relaxing, refreshing free point of openness, partly brought on by my lack of sleep in recent weeks, but I think it’s more than that.   We switch places, conversation moves to marriage – and how deeply I desire to have a family of my own, and how impatient I am for that part of life to start (and how fervently I pray that it is part of God’s will for my life)  - I realize how unready I am, and how blessed I am to be in this exact moment, lying beside Carla on my twin bed, rubbing cream into Amber’s feet.

Because I’m learning that I can know people so much more, and that people can know me so much more.  And I’m learning to value friendship in a way that is deeper than it has been in the past.  I’m learning a new part of love and realizing that I need to grow so much in faith and in friendship before I can even begin to know how to love a husband, or to let him love me. 

Amber and I often stay up long after Carla, recognizing our need for sleep, says goodnight and goes to her room.  We tell each other about the boats we are in.  I’m alone in a heavy white rowboat with a wooden rim, in the middle of a lake.  I can see most of the shoreline, but I don’t know it.  The boat has everything I need to survive, I’m warm and safe in a red lifejacket, but I only have one oar.  The water around me dances, but not enough to push my boat to the edge of the lake.  And I can dive in and enjoy the water: the lake is small enough that I could probably swim to the other shore, but my boat is precious.  I can’t abandon it, and I’m not strong enough to pull the boat ashore.  I can panic, and paddle desperately with the oar I have left, but I just spin around in circles, exhausting myself, getting nowhere.   

I’m not hopeless.  I’m not scared. I wish I had another oar, and I go through cycles of patience and impatience trying to get somewhere, but I realize that I have to wait.  I have to wait for God to send along wind and waves to push me to shore, or for Him to send someone with another oar, or a boat strong enough to tow me home.  Truth be told, even in my impatience I’m thankful that there is no risk to being in the boat.  I long to be on the shore – but I’m grateful that, where I sit surrounded by water and sky there’s no chance of being lost in the unknown forest.  

One night, we talk until we can smell breakfast: a feast being prepared before the sun rises and many of our neighbours begin to fast.  We fall into sleep.

I don’t really remember the last time I blogged.  And I know I didn’t really write about anything that was going on.  Really, I’m just working a lot.  Like, a lot a lot.  I miss being in my apartment, seeing neighbors, eating dinner with my roommates.  I miss having more than an hour of “free” time in a week.  I miss having a social life.  I have one more week of work, and then a week off before school starts…and I’m eagerly anticipating both.  Well, almost.

This summer has been nothing at all like what I imagined. It’s been long: in the sense that school seems like it was sooooo long ago.  And all the things that were going on seem like such distant past.  But at the same time, it’s just whizzed by.  I can’t believe that school is two weeks away!    I’ve been blessed with two really great jobs that are stretching me in amazing ways.  I’ve rediscovered my LOVE for God’s word, and a deep deep craving to know it more. 

I haven’t died in the heat: infact, I’ve loved the weather.  The warmth that coats the world and builds and builds until all tension is let loose and washed away by intense storms.  I’ve enjoyed many a night, running outside really late to be soaked by massive falling drops, engulfed in pure joy as I share the experience with dear friends.  I really miss going camping, swimming at the Sooke Pottholes, canoeing on Kemp Lake, walking the boardwalk, or just hanging out on a beautiful beach until it gets dark and I have to catch the last bus. 

But my love for this place is increasing too…so much.

The love story of my life is so full of things I didn’t expect.  And I’m so grateful for its unpredictability.  After all, who doesn’t love a pleasant surprise? And how much more exciting is a story where you know the ending is good – but you have no idea what it is?

(It’s probably annoying for the parent, reading the story, while the child constantly asks questions, not realizing if they just listened, they’d find the end sooner!)

transparency.

I've

 found myself wondering if

it is only the people who have developed superman

eyes, the kind of x-ray vision that sees through the walls I've so

 meticulously put up around me, that are able to see into the things that are really

going on in my heart. And a part of me hopes that its only God, and those older, wiser,

married, parents who make these sort of observations. And part of me yearns for more.  And

part of me is taken aback by this  paradox: the more others can see through me, the more

real I am. I have to be intangeable to be tangeable. The more tangable I become, the more I

am seen and known not for my body, my presence, my physical being, but for my intangable

soul.  I'm discovering more and more of these which-came-first-the-chicken-or-the-egg kinds of circles. They get bigger, deeper, thicker, stronger, and more complexly, intricately beautiful

as I go along.  I'm discovering that more than just road signs and maps and combinations of

line segments with clearly defined beginnings and obvious ends can point. The best directions

are not necessarily found by allowing your eyes to follow the path of converging lines in

order to continue your momentum in that direction. I think the chicken egg

debate points to God.  The intangable - tangable circle leads

 me to God.  I'm excited by circles joining circles forming

 faith. I'm excited that even circles can

point.

...and this makes me think of bubbles.

The dove returned with an olive branch.

Staring out in wonder at the violent storm around me, the city lost in a torrent; grey infinite, I'm at an ironic peace.  Red, White, Yellow, and Blue lights are trapped behind opaque cloud and immeasurable numbers of large soft drops,  whipped around by wind and crashing down to whatever lies beneath.   My hands on the rail in front of me, I curve my back, stretching my neck and ams, my hair dangling off my shoulders as I lean to watch the rain dive through the illumination of the streetlight below.  Some drops slash at my exposed skin, but then water streams like gentle caressing hands through my hair, down my arms, down my legs.  My shirt clings, pressing a beautiful, reaching coolness through me.  It's so nice to stand here, water flowing over me, almost shivering a little; relief.

Relief from the thick sticky air of the afternoon.

Relief from the monotony of a long, work filled week.

Relief from every emotion inside me, my heart is full of the rain, the fresh water is part of my smile, pouring into my mouth and I can even taste the quenching, satisfying, sweet relief.  I love the rain.

I love my roommate, Carla, who notices the lake forming in the parking lot below.  As the sky stops flashing, and the thunder is farther off, we race inside, struggle to slip our soaked feet and legs into trendy rubber boots, and race outside.  Jumping, splashing, screaming, racing through the puddle, which is nearly up to our knees, and many car lengths long, our laughs pierce the evening,

this is joy in the storm.  I loved watching her, folded into an abandoned shopping cart, sailing helplessly,  to the centre of the puddle, ripples and currents whirling behind the wheels that I've sent speeding away. I  [try to figure out the word I'm thinking of: not a graceful movement, but a messy, loud, topsy-turvy kind of exhausting frolicking....Carla looks at me, that look which I'm sure means "what on earth goes on inside your head...] 

I galumph through the waves as her vessel looses inertia.  She hops out.  

And later our red and black boots are emptied in the bathtub, which we end up sitting inside of, our clothes sopping wet and our hair dripping dry as we take photos and read children's stories, and make actions and sound effects for one-another.  

This is the kind of free-spirited, adventurous, living-in-the-moment, memory building ridiculousness that I love about our apartment. 

By morning, the lake had completely disappeared, and was replaced by hot pavement, with not a record of the night's festivities.   We spend the afternoon with cookies and icecream and chalk and bubbles and frisbees and guitars and beautiful young neighbours under immaculately warm rays, with an energetic breeze, and a smiling air which reminds me, despite whatver trials may come our way, why I LOVE dwelling here, and why I am so, so THANKFUL to be BLESSED by the Spirit, dwelling within in me.

It's been the kind of weekend that reminds me of floods and arks and rainbows and olive branches, and a dove that eventually, flies to find a thriving strong tree to call home.

My peace has deep roots. 

"I have a plan, do you trust me? "

(PART 2) Exuse me, July, (Jennifer), but where are you going?

We stopped and stared at three, stunning monarch butterflies.  I'd never seen one in the wild.  Papaya orange, and ink black, with pure white dots perched on vibrant green leaves, delicate wings slowly opening, closing.  Two tango under a blue sky, swirling past purple flowers and smooth round lily pads over  blue and green and brown and black water.  I'm mesmerized.  There is a soft breeze, I can smell the water.  My ears are filled with birds singing and waves flapping and distant voices of kids playing elsewhere on Petrie Island.  After church, Kammy had said, "I have a plan for this afternoon, do you trust me?" And so we said goodbye to Sam, Lane, and Brittany, and hopped in the car to head off to this mystery destination, a place I've heard stories about, and imagined going to, but hadn't yet been to.  We've finished a picnic of ginger-peach sun tea, deviled eggs, homemade spelt buns, kolrabi, zucchini, peaches and plums, and now I smile, the sun finally in pleasant rays.

The last time I thought about butterflies was Thursday morning, when I stepped out of my office to get the mail, and upon opening the door was engulfed in thick, hot, wet air.  It smelled and tasted hot.  It coated my skin and clothes hot. It reminded me of  going to Butterfly Gardens, wearing bright colours, folding brouchures and fanning hot air in attempt to escape the heat. It's like breathing soup.  

The heat hasn't been unbearable though.  In fact, sometimes I enjoy walking outside and being covered in a perfect hot, invisible blanket. I like that every bit of me absorbs the warmth, my toes and fingertips are warm.  My lungs are full of saturated, warm air.  My skin is glowing warm.  My clothes are fresh out of the dryer warm.  I like the heavy, slowness of it.  The heat moves like a majestic large animal - a whale meandering in an endless ocean. I'm taking the heat in stride.  I don't think I would enjoy it if I didn't have the hope of cozy sweaters, thick wool socks, flannel pyjamas and a thick down duvet to dive into in the snowy white winter, which, is only four months away.

And so now excuse me July, but where are you going? The summer has certainly been nothing like I had expected it to be.  I never imagined that I'd be so busy, or that I'd be blessed with two really awesome jobs.  The heat isn't want I expected, my plans aren't what I expected, it's going faster than I had expected, I'm not as homesick as I expected.

July has been a time of growth in faith, it's been a time of ajusting to a full schedule, it's been a time of combining very planned out time with go-with-the flow, and attempting to have a more open and accepting attitude - hopeful, joyful, and content to ride the waves that come my way.  I've been spending so much time in the bible of late, and am really enjoying studying it.  In fact, as I wonder about where time is going, and how quickly I seem to have found myself entering third year, I've been pondering a lot about where it is that I'm going.

I still want to be a teacher - but now I'm seriously considering what the next part of my path toward that goal will look like.  What am I going to do next summer.  Home for a while? Work up North? Go on a mission trip? Take summer classes? And what am I going to do when I graduate - for the first time ever I'm thinking of doing some more non-teacher-college related schooly stuff.  Maybe I should do a Discipleship Traning School wtih YWAM, or do a similar bible college program somewhere.  Maybe I should spend a year or two doing mission work.  Maybe I should do Oddyssey, a government funded program where I'd be a language assistant in a small French community.  I'm keeping my options open - I dont know what the  future holds.  So much could change in two years! So much will change in two years!  The exciting thing is that there is a plan.  All I have to do, is hop in the car, soak in the scenes, and let God prepare me for the journey.

Excuse me, July, but where do you think you are going?

Some things seem to be at a beginning when they enter the twenties.  It's the beginning of warm, sunny summer weather.  The beginning of a decade that tends to include all sorts of crazy life changes.  With other things, like the melting of days to nights, and the slipping from day to day to day as the month flies by, the twenties suddenly catch you, jumping up and down with flashing signs that that the day or month is coming to an end.  Seriously, doesnt 21:00 sound alarmingly later than 9:00 pm? And 22:00 or 23:00, the times that I seem to be getting home from work, bible study, or other engagements is a sudden clue to me, incase the setting sun hadn't been enough  of a hint, that another day is coming to aclose.  Sometimes I worry that squeezing every last drop out of a day, unlike trying to get the bittersweet fresh juice out of a lime, or finishing off the bag of milk or bottle of sauce, is really not the best idea.  Other times, I realize how good and productive it makes me feel - I'm actually accomplishing something.  I'm actually walking up this hill for a reason.  (I'm actually losing my mind.)  And then there's this whole matter of pages of the calendar, I can picture them and hear the flapping of papers as I imagine the movie-time-passing scene of a rapidly flipping daily calendar.  It's the twentieth of the month today...  Excuse me, July, but where do you think you are going?
It seems to be storming off somewhere, although not really in a huff, maybe in a purposed productivity, maybe in a freeing run, maybe on a gust of wind, maybe to a calling loved one, maybe to the open arms of memory.  Time is one of those little tiny fish in the water that you can see curiously swimming towards your toes and swirling around your ankles, and racing past your net as you bend over, splashing a little, butterfly net in hand trying to catch one.  I can see it, I can feel it, I can watch it: but I can't do anything when the slippery, mysterious entity darts away.  My hands aren't swift enough to catch it; I fumble and fall into the water.
I imagine the spot, a little pool slightly shaded by trees on the edge of the water, my feet now hardened standing comfortably on the edges of rocks.  I'm super proud of my pink two piece bathing suit, and I'm not in the slightest bit worried about how I look.  If only I could catch one of those cute little fish.  And hopefully before Tim does.  We giggle and squeel and splash and laugh, and tease and plead for just a few more minutes, until are teeth are chattering, our toes, fingertips and lips are blue, and the comfort of socks in ziplock bags and grandma's warm pink sweater and comforting arms and delicous smelling towels becomes more enticing than the fish that swam away.

A trick of time perhaps.
I blink.
23:00

I still have hats and explosions and infinite to talk about...

Sometime around noon on July 1st Carla and I made it out the door, suited up in sunscreen and sunglasses and semi-patriotic outfits ready to brave the unthinkable downtown Ottawa.  We didn't see a singler person outside in the park between the apartment buildings.  There wasn't a single car in the parking lot of the strip mall in front.  There were basically no cars parked at the mall, no people running through it.  And this could potentially have been a good point at which to turn around.  As we got to the bus station and hopped onto a crowed red and white bus filled with red and white people excited to go downtown, catch a glimpse of the royals and find a beer...it should have been a reasonably big warning that we were about to step into as close to infinite as I ever want to encounter.   We met with Veronica and Taylor (who was back in town from Thunder Bay for the weeked) at the University and ventured closer to the hill, joining an unimaginably large crowd, all the streets closed and filled to the brims with Canadians.  Music playing, sun beating down on our heads, sweat dripping down faces, tattoos, facepaint, umbrella-hats, t-shirts, and flags eveerywhere.  We did manage to catch a glimpse of Kate, driving away from the chaos in a black car, turning, her vibrant red hat and her white dress and her flashing white smile rousing the crowd into cheers and clicking cameras and somewhat ridiculous excitement.

We spent the afternoon hiding from the city wide party in the quiet and relative coolness of Taylor and Veronica's house, before venturing back out to Major Hill Park to watch the fireworks.  Dramatic, emotional music was playing in the background as massive explosions of colour lit the night sky, sparkling purple gold, red, blue and green dancing in the hovering smoke.  The banging ringing in my chest.  Mesmerizing rain of dazzling light filling the sky infront of me, a collective sighing, breathing, gasping of the crowd as the show went on.  So beauitful.  And it wasn't even toooooooooo crazy trying to get a bus away from downtown afterwards.  In fact, I've waited longer to get a crowded bus home from school.  The weirdest thing, was that after wandering aruond all day and seeing hundreds of thousands of people - but not running into anyone that I knew, at 11:30 at night in the bus station by my house, I ran into Natasha W, who I've known since being in brownies or guides in Sooke! It's a small world! She had come from Cornwall where she's finishing up some studies, and was on her way back.  It was cool to catch up with her and talk a bit about "escaping Sooke" - and now after escaping, understanding what would draw someone there in the first place.

The next day (July 2nd) Taylor and Veroica came over for dinner, and we were supposed to watch the movie Amelie, which we've been trying to watch together for almost two years now and haven't managed too. They didn't get a chance to pick it up before coming, so instead we watched Amelia, which is about the flying career of Amelia Earheart.  At the end of the movie they had a few credits about her life, ending with "Amelia went missing on July 2nd, 1937.  "Guys- that's today!!!" Carla noticed.
Kind of weird.
King of scary for Taylor, who was flying home the following day.

The following week was the start of my new life.  The life of long busy days juggling two jobs, approximately 12 hours of commuting, and trying at the same time to have a life.  Monday I left home at 7:45, worked at the church until 5, bussed to Orleans, and then started my second job doing admin for Celeris Aerospace.  I got home at 23:30.  Tuesday I worked the same hours at  church, then Sam picked me up and we went to bible study in Orleans, and he dropped me off just after 22:00, in time for me to go to the grocery store to get some things I needed for Carla's birthday.  I dont know how I'll ever live without a 24 hour grocery store in front of my house again.  Wednesday I left for work at the usual time, and worked until 21:00, then went home and baked three types of cake for Carla's birthday. 
We have a thing in our house about being crazy, and especially when it comes to the last night of being a teenager, something ridiculous must be done.  On my birthday, we turned an entire bedroom into a fort and slept in it for a week, among other excellent childish things.  For Carla's last night of teenage-dom, we stacked up her double boxspring, mattress, then two futon mattresses and three single mattresses in the dining room for her to sleep on.   In the morning I asked her if she felt the pea.  She'll never know if there was one or not!! By the time all the cakes were baked, the bed was made, and things were semi-cleaned up, it was 02:00. 
Thursday I worked, went home, and put together Carla's amazing neopolitan cake: six layers of chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry cakes all baked from scratch, covered with a light and fluffy strawberry "angel-feather icing," which I then used a toothpick and food colouring to decorate wtih swirls and words that describe Carla, and added some fresh sliced strawberries around the edges.  After enjoying some cake and skyping Amber, we stayed up cleaning and putting the dining room back together.  I went to bed at 02:30.

Friday I went to work, and then picked TIM UP AT THE AIRPORT!!!!! YAY! I made a sign that said "Professor Mittwit" and stood at the bottom of the stairs into the baggage area, wearing one of those pastic nose/glasses disguises.  Everyone around me enjoyed it.  If I had to go home to some sens fans at Christmas, I figured Tim could handle me wearing something silly.  It was fantastic.  Beware anyone who comes to visit me - I now enjoy doing silly things at airports.

It was so cool to have Tim here- and not at all what I had expected.  It was more like having him chill in my bedroom at home, or taking him on a tour of Journey or EMCS for the first time, than having him visit me in Ottawa.  And I guess, really it was like that - just on a slightly larger scale.  Here's my home.  Here's my city.  Here's my life! But I loved that it wasn't foreign for him to be there.  Maybe because I've had so many other visitors from hom in the last few months? But I think it's deeper than that.  I think it has more to do with the brother-sister bond that I pray we'll always have.  I think it has to do with making warm-snugglies on matching twin beds, and hunting for gruzzles, and building tree forts, and burrying eachother in sand, and painting on bubble beards while buiding bubble scupltures in the tub, and sharing the bed at Grandma's.  I think it has to do with having wars on the trampoline, catching snakes, listening to mom reading us stories, and watching Jurassic Park with Dad.  I think it has to do with duplo houses and toy cars and lego masterpieces and pokemon cards, and stuffed Simba and Nala toys with magnetic noses.  I'm sure it has to do with a very young Tim, insisting on wearing my dresses, and my name changing to "Tim's sister" when he started Kindergarten.
We ate yummy homey meals: curry, stroganoff, barbequed pork chops. We went to the children's museum at the museum of civilization, we ventured around the market, the canal, and parliament - we looked at my apartment from the peace tower.  We worshiped outside together, we went to church, had lunch with Lane and Sam, and then all jammed together at Sam's parents.  I loved having him there with us, and just being totally free to play the drums or guitar miserably, and enjoy the afternoon with the group.  We had dinner with Lane's family - where of all things Lianne could possibly have dreamed up, rabbit sausages were one of the meat options.  (Tim wouldnt' try them.  But they were good!)  We took photos, "basked" in the heat, and just hung out together.  We even had some coffee together.  Aaaaaaah...I love having people visit!!!!

Sunday after a very rushed day that included 9 transit busses and a school bus, I had successfully gone to church, taken Tim to the airport, and taken a lovely group of girls from the community swimming without getting caught in the crazy storm.  I didn't even really get rained on! But I loved watching the sky go black, and forks of blue lightening reach towards the earth, and yellow flashes illuminate the clouds among deep rumbling thunder.  There could have been planes battling in those clouds.  

I'm long winded.  I'm looking down at my outline for this post, which I frantically jotted down last night in hopes that I would actually finally update my blog...and there's still so much that I want to write about.  So I think I'm going to end this post here, and start another one, just incase you are a normal person and can't sit down and absorb a month of thoughts, activities, and rambling in one go!

. . .  

I've got to get better at finishing what I've started...

(left incomplete some time last week)

When it rains here, there is so much water falling so fast from the sky that the air appears to be filled with an opaque mesh,  slightly tinged white fills up empty space, and if it werent for the thundrous sound of drops splashing hard on the pavement, shingles, leaves, and windows around me, I could be convinced that it is violently snowing. It's just before noon, and as I take a sip of my tea in the office, I stare out at a rushing stream of water pouring off of soaked shingles, and glossy leaves. The sky is dark dark grey, enough that despite the ample amount of windows in the office, if I turned the light off, I wouldnt' be able to read. Thunder crashes and rain smacks hard against any surface, pounding the ground, coating th windows.  This is a calm storm.  Even at it's climax lightening only flashes once or twice, and the electricity stays steadily on,  I'm still awed by the snapping raging power of a sky, which yesterday was pure lazy blue, and as night came in only a few clouds danced around a giant, rusty moon, which hovered low on the horizon, as though it was a part of the city scape.

...

Imaginary wax museum.

22:00

The city is still softly awake.  Time is moving slowly, as  though our life source is the sun. We fade as it fades, the sky dropping various flowing blues, spotted with luminous clouds, some look brown at first glance, but really they are peach and mauve, others are not charcoal gray but phtalo blue splattered ink that looks like a pile of cars, or an alligator, or just a well loved stained blanket, that rolling back leaves the stars.   I’m sitting outside, in a place that I’ve comve before to write. I can see the neighbourhood.  Couples walk, their hands swinging.  There is muddled laughter,  yellow globe lights reveal the swaying sillouettes of long skirts, gracefully complementing silent, aimless steps.  I can see the sparkle of cigarettes dancing along pathways from hand to mouth, coming closer or moving farther away. I can see the bedroom light in our fifteenth floor apartment, left on accidently when we spontaneously decided to go out and enjoy the twilight. 

            The air is blissfully light and refreshing.  A few hours ago, the sun, blazing down in it’s nightly finale, splashing orange and pink shadows on the wall through the gaps in our closed curtains, took with it the hot, saturated air, and now the breeze is beautiful, the temperature heavenly.  And a better heavenly than the air conditioned waiting room just outside the laundry room, or the basement where we had juice and strawberry shortcake and icecream after church. 

It’s been an unusual Sunday, no fresh baking this morning, no wild music on the way to Grace.  Instead, a perfectly timed bus ride to Parkwood, where I’m working for the summer.  Carla and I sat on hard wooden pews in a warm sanctuary, with brick walls and thick wooden beams in the lofty ceiling.  My fingers ran along the grain of the wooden pew in front of me as I sang, eyes closed, an old melody of organ notes resonating through the room, a joining of old and new spaces: the sanctuary itself being built in two stages, the hundred year old hymn digitally projected onto a screen while books are left in the pews.  The grain and the ringing and the song and the lighting and the fan above me spins me into my childhood.  I watch the children run up to the front of the church, and crowd around the pastor, white collar around his neck against a black shirt and jacket.  He smiles as he holds a piece of fishing line, and talks about Jesus calling Simon Peter to be a “fisher of men.”  I smile too. But mine is not at the child dancing as we sing, or at the pastor teaching actions, or at the sun shining in windows, but at my younger self, standing in the front of Knox, learning the same song, making the same actions, hearing the same story…and I ponder a child like faith. 

              It’s been a beautiful weekend, with just the right amount of chores, relaxing, and spending time with friends.  And it’s so lovely to finish it off, sitting in the quiet of the night outside with Carla, who is reading by flashlight, patiently keeping me company as I write.   She’s always selflessly dropping things to come along with me, and I appreciate it so much.

            This post was supposed to begin on Thursday night.  I thought it out while I was at work, in the process of making a banner for a childrens’ activity coming up this Fall.  I was in my office, alone in the building, choosing crayola wax crayons out of a little glass, colouring in grapes and squash and apples and nuts and leaves and pears in a cornucopea.  I love the feel of crayon on paper.  It’s an unpredictable conglomerate of smoothness and resistance and the smell of colour as it slips and glides and sticks and stains, swirling curuleon or magenta thoughts in pictures animating the inanimate, lifeless, emotionless page.  But as I attempt to place the colour where I want it, trying to blend colours together, and keep the entire potpourri of news hapes within the restricting black lines infornt of me,  I realize how impractical they are.  Why is it that every child learning to colour starts with crayons? These are the tools we choose for children – instruments of the imagination, the recording of a language that can only be spoken in the moment, and interpreted thereafter.  A dull, rounded tip makes tangible abstract thoughts, in the hands of a child who is refining motor skills, and being told to clour within the lines.  I cant even see the crayon touching the page, my hand is in the way.  A light touch just skims the page, leaving a disappointing line compared to the vibrant wax I hold in my hand.  When you press harder, the crayon breaks.  And then theres the complications of paper wrappings and small boxes, and white, freshly painted walls. 

Don’t get me wrong – I love crayons.  I love the dandilion and forest green box, especially the big one with the useless plastic sharpener on the back.  But I wonder how many more artists there would be if we started with something more suited to our five year old selves. 

 23:00 

I still have hats and explosions and infinite to talk about...but heavy eyelids and an acute awareness of time restrictions are calling me to a land of dreams...stay tuned for part two, hopefully before the words spinning around in my head are replaced by something less exciting. 

Luckily, Someone's ideas flow more logically than mine.

I was perusing my memories the other day, walking through moments both recent, and distant.  Memories that made me smile: because of their joy, or because of overcome growing pains.  That beautiful smile of yours - it hurt when your teeth came in.  The happy place I'm in - I remember my legs aching as they grew, stretching towards taking bigger and bigger steps.  I remember curled toes in the tips of my shoes. I remember painful partings with much loved pajamas, characters faded, flannel pilled, white stained.  I remember falling off of my cool bike - sky blue tires, lime-green frame handle-bar gears which didn't match after that fall; tomboy self.  I vaguely remember a banana seat bike, maybe it was red, but maybe that bike was only real in my dreams.
(Though as amazing as such a bike would be, my younger self would likely have been horrifed by it)

I stopped at a memory a few months old, in a kitchen with a friend, stepping up on eachother's feet and trying to walk in the other's steps, until I shied away. I'm too old for this.  My fears are too beaten into my bloodstream for this.  And they are ridiculous fears too.  I'm too distant from the child who should so this. I can't just throw my arms up, slip my hands into safe, strong, large hands, feet easily planted on the tops of mom or dads, and laugh together, walking.

Here's what I've learned about the path I'm on.  It's winding, surprising, challenging, sometimes a little hidden.  But the hardest turns come when I try to take off on my own.  When in frantic impatience I bolt from the trail I've been set on, following my own arrows, trying to make the same or maybe a "better" destination.  I never have been the best navigator.

In my dreams I see myself, a child, running to the open arms of Father God.  He takes my hands and spins me around until I stand in front of him, staring out in the same direction.  I step onto his feet, small and safe in his arms, and He walks with me.  I want to see the path He has for me.  I want to step in the way he plans for me.  I want to be so close that I can hear and feel him whispering in my ear. I want to see what He sees in front of me. 

As I learn to let go and put my life in his hands, I look back at a path that is carved by someone who has to see  and hold the universe. My eyes may see corners, mountains, oceans - but what if I could see the arial view? I piece together fragments as I glance behind my shoulder, and the picture that I imagine is so intricately beautiful.

(And after reading this, maybe if I share a song I'm writing with you one day...you'll understand it)

~

I'm climbing out of the darkness that has held me captive for the last two months.

I've finally started a summer job in Ottawa - and it's a job I'm more then happy with.   After all the searching, doubting, applying, waiting, and stressing, I'm going to be spending my days at a church that is surrounded by green grass and green trees, doing administration and whatever else comes my way. 

Yesterday at GYG we were asked to share what makes us stop, and go WOW about God. 

I chose the university of Ottawa after a very out-of-character choice to skip class, and go to a University Fair when I'd already "decided" where I'd be going for school.

I heard about the church that is now my home because before I was born, the Pastor who would talk me through all my highschool drama planted it.

I am so happy in my communtiy, that I would never have moved to if I hadn't met my roommate in a randomply assigned group during froshweek.

I applied for a job after talking to someone I don't usually get a chance to speak with after church one Sunday - and she happened to have noticed a posting on the bulliten board that I didn't see.

I am working at a church which was started by the Minister who shared God's love with me when I was in elementary school, who took the time to get to know me and made me feel special and grown up. Who taught me songs which still encourage me and  pop into my head when I'm feeling down. 

/It's a small world after all/
/There's no such thing as coincidence/



God gives me not just food, not just water, not just {brocolli}but
EVERYTHING
I need.

Some thoughts I found scribbled on an envelope from a few weeks ago.

I feel the most beautiful right after I've washed my face.  Standing in front of the mirror as I turn off the taps, water dripping down my face, eyes shining, lashes clinging together.  Dirt is washed away. Remnants of sticky sunscreen are lifted.  The mask I hide behind is swept off.  My blemishes are exposed.  My hair isn't perfect, my skin isn't perfect, my face is usually looking tired.  But I feel beautiful. And not made up, imaginary, princessy beautiful.  Not picture beautiful.  I feel real.  I feel genuine.  I feel open.  I feel refreshed. I feel cleansed. I feel beautiful.  It's the type of beautiful I want others to see and bring out in me.  It's the type of beautiful I want to see and bring out in others.

It's the same way with my heart.  Soap and soft, colourful cloths, and running water are replaced by silence, or freely singing, or just pouring my thoughts out in prayer.  In moments of true worship and confession, my stains are washed away.  My burden is lifted.  I have a prettier attitudee, I have a purer heart.  I see more beauty around me.  I draw closer to God.  And filled with his light, my heart with his heart, I feel wholly loved. I feel completely known.  I feel like a child in awe.  I am glowing in love.  I am beautiful in His image, a masterpiece.

Captured, Packaged, Shipped, Received.

Today's mail: letters from two very missed friends, and my Ontario Health Card.  I live here. Officially, officially, officially.  Permanently (?)

Still waiting for my driver's license to arrive.

See D-S

The sun is hot, bright, and silencing.  People meander along paths through green grass, dotted with yellow dandelions and with the waiting wishes of flowers gone to seed, ready to sail into the wind at any moment.  The breeze is warm too, but the moving air makes the heat bearable. The community looks like one that you would see in an artists rendering.  A young woman in a t-shirt and sweats walks her dog, a guy, hair gelled and leather coat walks with a coolness about him, in step with the music playing on his ipod.  A mother sits on a park bench beside her stroller, her two toddlers in the grass around her.  A father pushes a little girl in a flowing dress and bouncing pony tail on a swing.  It squeeks.  There are some older women sitting on a retaining wall, shaded by a planted maple.  But the park is mostly empty.  The kids are still at school, parents still at work, people fearing the blazing rays of the sun,

I sit here thinking about life and plans and dreams – in both interpretations of the word.  Sometimes I dread going to sleep, not because I fear the dreams per say, but because I just don’t want to be dreaming them.  Sometimes I’m pleasantly surpised by them though.  Saturday night I was dreaming about being at church, and seeing my pastor from home…I thought I was hallucinating when I saw him and his wife at Grace on Sunday morning!  But I wasn’t. Hugs and words and jokes later, I think about being content where I am.  Which doesn’t mean that I don’t desperately want to hop on the first plane back to the Island, but it does mean that I see God working in this city.  I see him working at Grace, I see him working on D-Street, and I am so excited to be a part of what he is doing here.  

Yesterday I spent the afternoon and evening with three different families from church, just chatting and enjoying good (free!) food together.  Of course the inevitable discussion about what I’m doing and where I’m going comes up.  I wonder what else 20 year olds have to talk about? I’m studying French and History.  No, not French History.  French, the language, and history…in general.  I want to be a teacher.  Maybe I’ll go “out west” maybe I’ll stay in Ottawa, it depends on where I get in. 

Maybe you’ll meet someone here, and then that will be a factor too.

Maybe. Yes. It would be.  

My life depends on a lot of variables. 

I’m thankful for a constant, unconditional love.

They talk about their children growing up and their friendship with Pastor Gordon, who I know from home.  I think about watching my dad at Christmas time, looking at Gordon’s family and young grandchildren, turning to me and worndering “what next year’s return will be.” I think about how much I love reading stories and playing with kids and cooking for people and having someone to look after…and try to be a patient waiter.

Then the older couples begin reminiscing about their college days, and meeting each other, and family histories, which leads to war stories, which leads to current politics.  What would we talk about if it weren’t for current politics?

Coffee and tea get cold.  One person’s daughter told her that caffeine makes it so you don’t dream at night.  I consider the possibility of this and compare the benefits of sleeping without dreaming with the other effect of caffeine, just not sleeping period.  How much truth is there in either?

I sip my coffee slowly, finishing the cup.  It’s only my second cup of coffee ever. And it’s about 10 times stronger than the last cup I had.  I laugh at myself.  I think about how it sits in my stomach, and how my legs are tingling, and wonder if its’ from sitting so long, or from coffee, or from wanting to run away from swirling, aggravating, heart wrenching thoughts, and I wish things were simply like daisy petals, which are each plucked and when it’s over the yellow centre is tossed over the shoulder, and forgotten about.

My black keyboard is  soaking up the sun and burning my fingers.  I can tell I’ve been playing the guitar today, my left hand stings as my fingers touch the keys. The mom in the park beside me wipes tears from her young son’s eyes,  her knees in the sand as she tries to console him.  It’s time for them to go home for lunch now.

I feel the sun hot on my arms, and think about going inside to make lunch and get on with the day.  Writing some more cover letters, calling some places, sending out some more resumes, paying rent, tidying my papers,  going to the bank. 

I feel conflicting urges to lounge in the sun, and to do something really meaningful.  I want to be writing newsletters and planning events. 

I pray I get a job which will either incorporate those things, or allow me to have time to still do them.

I pick a perfect globe of soft, wispy dandelion seeds.  I rub the white milk from the stem over my fingertip, it’s soft and even still intrigues me.  Why is it white?  Clasping the stem between my fingers, I blow softly and watch the seeds fly through the air around me. 

A dream is a wish your heart makes.

Here’s wishing for good wishes.

Bountiful smiles, iced tea and lemonade.

Some photos from the last Month...slightly out of order.

Craft Time.  Like my face? Mmmm...glue and vaseline all over.

The beginning of the Tulip Festival

It's ringing, really...it is...

Statues...

Montreal!

Imprints 

Roomies.  We're in for a grrrrreat time!

Almost time to dangle and jump...Way to be the risk taker Carla!

Swings downtown? Best thing ever.

CLOTHES.

A Sunday Afternoon in Orleans, with Sydney and Kammy

What lovely roots you have!

Sydney in the Sun at Parliament

On the Locks

Sunset on a super windy balcony...

My last night of being 19...and I'm covered in chalk dust.

These cookies didn't even make it to the cookie jar

Our fort/sleeping quarters for an entire week.  

Welcome to our apartment, Carla! 

The Chalk Mural we created

Easter Sunday at Mer Bleue with the Cote family

TREES!

Rachael and I making some very Spontaneous, Artistic Ribs.