It has been six years since I have written a blog post. So much has happened. The problem is that it is hard to know where to start up again. How to address the changes? The losses? The additions?

To be honest, I’ve spent the last year trying to figure this out.

And obviously failing.

Then a possible solution occurred to me. I have a four year old granddaughter, one of the additions, and she has a sweet habit of saying to me, Grandma? Can I tell you something?

The “something” could be as profound as an expression of her love for me and as mundane as a need to poop.

Whatever she wants to tell me, I always listen to her, because she’s asked me to.

It doesn’t have to make sense, invite a reply or even be linear.

It just is.

I think that’s just what’s needed here.

No pressure.

No design.

No expectations.

Just…can I tell you something?

A little while ago, I was taking care of my step daughter’s litte dog, Guinness. Guinness is a Jack Russell/Lab mix, twently pounds of exuberant, friendly, bouncing fun. He’s small, and stretched out, like a sleek, black dashshund, with bright eyes and a decidedly big dog bark. He and my little pomeranian/chihuahua, Joey, are good friends. Where Guinness is sturdy and strong, Joey is older, lighter, half Guinness’ weight with a full coat of blond waves and a face that is more than half liquid, expressive chocolate eyes.

One afternoon, I was sitting on the front porch with both dogs. Joey was loose, having been well schooled in the rules of outdoor time. Guinness, being younger, less knowledgeable about road safety and prone to mad dashes for freedom without warning, was on a retractible leash. Both dogs were enjoying the early Spring weather, sniffing all the things and taking turns peeing on the apple tree in the front yard.

The dogs heard my neighbour across the street open his door before I did. A few months ago, a single man with a gorgeous German Shepherd had moved in, and while I’d only had one opportunity to meet his lovely dog, I knew him to be a gentle, friendly giant. Both of my dogs stood alert as the gorgeous fellow (Unfortunately I don’t know his name) loped gracefully down the stairs from the second floor porch to the walkway. Joey barked hello.  Guinness bellowed.

The friendly giant across the street ignored both of my dogs, having more pressing business to attend to. He headed behind the house for some privacy, and I reeled Ginness in for a teaching opportunity.  Guinness was barking and half growling, so I picked him up and placed him on the porch beside me, making him sit down. I had been working on helping him not to react so intensely to other dogs and certain people. I felt instinctively that he wants to engage with the dogs that he meets, but he gets so intense and his bark sounds so big and aggressive that most people aren’t comfortable letting him near their dogs, with good reason.

Joey was sitting on the grass watching his buddy across the street. Joey had been wanting to meet his new neighbour for ages. He barked occasionally, but didn’t leave our property. I had a moment of pride at how well he was obeying, before chaos literally erupted in the form of an innocent woman who came walking around the corner, down our street. She was middle aged, blond, and relaxed looking. For the moment, anyway.

The beauty across the street saw her first, and headed over to say hello. Joey, seeing his new buddy leave his property, decided to follow.  He trotted down the street, barking incessantly, after the German Shepherd.

Guinness lost his ever loving mind.

Before I caught on to what was happening, Guinness had thrown himself off of the porch and hurtled to the end of his leash, barking wildly and making noises that I’m fairly sure shouldn’t be coming out of a dog’s body. The woman, seeing a large German Shepherd trotting towards her followed by a small, excited, yappy dog, froze.

I stood up, and with some difficulty, began to reel Guinness in to me again, while shouting at the woman, “It’s okay! They’re good dogs! No, really, it’s okay!”

She remained unconvinced. I know this because she did the quickest about turn I’ve ever seen and began to speed walk in the other direction. I completely understand, of course. I wouldn’t trust me, either, standing on my front lawn wrestling 20 pounds of muscle and fury, legs flailing, leash tangling…the strangled, wailing howls were enough to unnerve anyone.

I finally got Guinness somewhat contained, and took him to the side porch, opened the door and tossed him in, leash and all. Joey had followed his buddy to the driveway across the street, where they both stood sniffing each other and just genuinely enjoying their new acquaintance. I called to Joey as I headed down my drive, but there was no way he was going to be distracted from his endeavor to make a new friend.

The man who owns the German Shepherd (I don’t know his name either. Yeah. I need to learn to listen better) opened his door and called out apologies to me. I waved as I reached the dogs and assured him that he had nothing to be sorry for. It’s hard to explain social distancing to dogs!

I gave the beauiful big boy a ear scritch and he headed into his house. I ordered Joey home, and he complied, head and tail up, jubilant in his successful endeavor. Guinness was sitting in the porch, waiting, ready to sniff Joey up and down and then to head into the house for the next thing. Which was a snack and a nap.

I, on the other hand, made a cup of tea with shaking hands, willing the adrenaline to settle in my veins.

And somewhere in Baldinville there is a lovely woman who will never walk down Circle Street again.

Until next time, friend.

All my life, even as a child, I have had a complicated relationship with hope. When I was young and in persistently painful
circumstances, I remember making efforts to not hope for better. Hope was painful. Disappointment crushed my spirit. I wanted to be safe. I wanted to not have to be afraid, to be able to rest in love and acceptance. I was broken, but as much as I tried to reconcile myself to a life of brokenness, I could not escape a nagging sense of hope.

Somewhere, Life existed. Somewhere there was Love. Somehow, the Power to heal and restore my heart and spirit was available. And yet, the hope of these things was frightening in itself.

I believe that the hope that kept breaking through my myopic pain came through the prayers of a grandma who lived far away, and who loved a Jesus who was always near. Her heart cry produced a divine whisper of hope in my life. A gentle call. Persistent. Terrifying. Real.

It was a hope rooted in the most hopeless of events. The crucifixion and death of Jesus Christ. Who but a fool would hold onto hope while placing a dead body into a tomb? Surely hope would die with the grind of the stone rolling into place.

And yet.

Easter.

He’s not in the tomb anymore. He’s alive. The craziest hope, the unimaginable, the wonderful, happened. Where there was death, now there is Life. Life that is for me, Life that is in me. Life that shines through me.

Jesus is alive, He has risen, and because of that fact I am free to revel in hope, to celebrate it, to embrace it and sing it out loud.

Jesus is alive and I am deeply and eternally in love with Him, and in Him I hope. And live. And move. And have my being.

Happy Easter!

Jesus, I’m anxious.

I know that You know that, but I need to say it. I’m anxious, and my anxiety is affecting my health.

Most of the time, I don’t even know what is making me anxious. Yes, we are in the middle of a global pandemic, yes, I have loved ones that are vulnerable to the Covid-19 virus, yes, things have changed.  I’ve had to take a leave of absense from work, I’m confined to my home aside from the weekly outing for supplies, and the occasional visit to Urgent Care, because my anxiety is messing with my body. Yes, there are things that warrent concern at least, even anxiety.

Too often, though, my anxiety feels detached from what’s happening around me, as if it has a life of it’s own. I feel like I’ve been drinking way too much coffee, shaky and irritable. My chest feels like there’s an angry badger in there, trying to make an escape, Alien style. And I’m exhausted.

You and I have talked about this a lot. It can be hard to talk to other people about this because I don’t want to look like I don’t have enough faith. I know, that’s my pride talking. I feel like that desperate father in Mark 9 who cried out to You, “I believe, help me overcome my unbelief!” I always want to trust You more than I do at any given moment. And what I need to trust You with now is this anxiety.

The thing that keeps coming back to me is the fact that “perfect love drives out fear” (1John 4:18) I don’t think the opposite of fear is necessarily courage, or fearlessness. I think the opposite of fear is love. Your love in me, Your love for me, Your love through me for others. In that place where Your love is filling me and pouring out onto others, I may be courageous, even fearless, but the key is love.

I can’t control what this anxiety disorder is doing to me, to my body. I can, however, control who I am in the midst of it.  I can keep my voice gentle, my hands soft, I can love in the means and ways that You set before me each day. If I am irritable, I can apologise, and then I can have patience for those that are irritable with me.

I can try. And try and try and try. I can remember that the perfect love that drives out fear is not just in me for others, it is rooted in You, Jesus, and it is for me, too. Your love. Your forgiveness. Your compassion. Your patience.

Today is Good Friday. It’s an emotional day, when I remember the road that You walked, to the cross. To Your death. All I can see is love. Passionate, sacrificial, determined, radical, messy, bloody, hard and fierce. Your love and sacrifice on the cross of Calvary ripped the veil that separated You from Your people. From me. You tore it to shreds with Your love for me. Like a mother ripping through a wooden door to get to her child, in danger on the other side. There is no power in Heaven nor on Earth that is as mighty as Your love. Your love is the air I breathe, the blood in my veins, the life in my hands and the beating of my heart.

Your love is the definition of perfection, and in Your love, I can live. With the angry badger in my chest and hands that tremble, I can live. When I’m easily distracted and falling asleep in my chair, I can live. With achy muscles and countless apologies, I can live.

Jesus, I’m anxious.

Still, in You I live and breathe and love and am loved.

Amen

I am presently at the “I forget how long I’ve been in flannels and leggings and also when I last washed my hair” stage of social isolating. Also I think my left eye is beginning to twitch. Since the sun is shining, the air is warmer than it has been, and my wee dog, Joey, keeps asking, I decided to spend some time outside. It was glorious.

I ended up raking part of our small garden in the front of our house. I didn’t take very good care of it late last summer and into the fall, so it was covered in leaves and dead plants. It was pretty bad. Lo and behold, though, once I got some of the dead stuff off of it, I found many perennial plants that had already started growing, my tarragon, oregano, chives, strawberries…small, green, and relentlessly growing in the dark of last year’s mess.

I love the way nature presses on. Spring highlights this. There’s life everywhere. Even now, in her early days, there is fresh color, a determination to live and grow and take up the space left for it from last year’s harvest. God has been using this to encourage me to press on, to keep moving forward, to live and grow, and yes, even to take up the space that He has left for me.

Most importantly, I can do all of this within the support and love of a community, whether it’s my church, my family, my work friends, phone calls with my dad or group texts with my sisters in Canada. These are times that aren’t meant to be lived through alone even though social isolation is the theme of the days. I am so grateful for the internet and social media, for being able to easily stay in contact with the people in my life.

I’m also grateful for a God that speaks to me in intimate ways that He knows will light up my heart and encourage my spirit. Even in my messes, the places I’ve neglected or overlooked, God is still faithful, and growth is still possible, because He lives, and loves and works in my life.

He never changes, He’s the same yesterday, today and forever.

Because of this, I can press on.

Bless.

Lord Jesus, it’s Monday. The beginning of the week. And I think it’s going to be a weird week. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I realize that I never really know what is going to happen, moment by moment, let alone week by week, but these days are especially unknown. The Corona virus is affecting everything, from what’s in my pantry, to the way I do my job or if I’m even allowed to do my job. And it’s posing a danger to people I love. I confess that I am anxious. I’m anxious about getting it, I’m anxious about giving it to someone else, I’m anxious about providing for my family and protecting them and I’m even anxious about  being anxious.

I know that You know all of this, but I feel like I need to say it. Out loud. The Bible says that there were times when You saw people struggling, and You had compassion on them.  (Mark 6:34)  I believe that You are having compassion on me now, because You love me. Sometimes I feel like I should be handling things better, but I want to be like You, and You are compassionate, even to me.

In fact, it’s Your compassion that makes me brave. Because even though I don’t know what tomorrow, or this coming week holds for me, I know You.  And You are loving to me. Your love is extravagant, powerful, intimate, in this moment and for eternity. You are fierce and gentle, and Your compassion is everything. You are also not hampered by time like we are. So You are as present in my tomorrow as You are in my today. Which is mindblowing, and I don’t really understand it, but I believe it.

Since You are already in my tomorrow and You know what my future holds, could You prepare me for it? And I will trust You to do that. Please help me to trust You more!

Jesus, I love You. And I want to love people with Your love. I can’t do that if I am afraid. Help me to choose love, because I know that everytime I do, a bit of anxiety is pushed out of my heart. Your word says that perfect love drives out fear. (1John 4:18) You are perfect love. Please fill me with Your love. Just the thought of Your love driving out my fear makes me want to sing for joy!

Thank You, my dear Jesus. You are everything. When I didn’t want anything to do with You, You still fought for me, and sought me and loved me. Help me to bless Your heart today.

Amen

“Vicarious intercession means that we deliberately substitute God’s interests in others for our natural sympathies.” Oswald Chambers, My Utmost for His Highest.

There are those that we are naturally attracted to, those people that we relate to, that are like us. And then there are those that we have no affinity for. We don’t understand them, they are not like us and we can’t naturally connect to them. There is nothing of God in these reactions, they are of our human nature.

Are we content to live and love in our own humanness or will we allow God to identify us with His interests in others? He sees no difference between us and them. He is as much theirs as ours.

Are we too easy on “our people,” and too hard on the “others?” Do we lean into those who touch our natural sympathies, but lean away from those who don’t? Do we preach forgiveness for those we can relate to and condemnation on those we don’t?

To be Christlike, to live apart from the world while living in it is to supernaturally identify with the concerns and grace of God in the lives of those He loves.

What good does it do to love those who love us back? Everybody does that. The Spirit of God is revealed in the supernatural, powerful, extravagant, reckless, passionate, foolish love of God in the lives of our “others,” no matter who they might be.