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.