(Tuesdays will be a break from the blog as I continue with school. Wednesdays will be wordless, because that is always a good break in the week. See you all Thursday!!)

The days since March 2020 have been hard. The pandemic may be grinding to an eventual end, but it’s not the definitive, victorious, CLEAR ending we had hoped for in the early days.

It turns out that a pandemic – much like any other disaster – leaves all kinds of scars and altered realities in its wake. Our hospitals continue to struggle, people are burned out and thin on compassion, students are not where they should be after two years of interrupted schooling, and all the problems we had before Covid (climate change, poverty, nations that look to dominate others, violence, famine….) are still there. They didn’t magically disappear while we were all focussed on case counts and mask mandates and vaccination rates.

It’s enough to drive one to despair.

So I was grateful and greatly moved when I read this in my Facebook feed this past week:

Our hope might be beaten, might be spitting out a tooth, but DOES rise for another go.

And at this time of year, we are reminded again that our hope is Jesus. The child who comes into the world helpless, but nonetheless will overcome the world, will overcome death. A hope like that isn’t easily beaten or dismissed. And in that we know our hope rose again on the third day, and after a time, ascended back to heaven – our hope is eternal.

It’s a thought I reach for when the world drives me towards despair. And it has never let me down.

Our hope is eternal.

This season, may we reach for radical hope, and find that its name is Jesus.

Despite my best intentions and many thoughts and ideas for blog posts, I just haven’t been on top of it since the early summer. But today, Advent begins. And I find myself wanting to return to my practice of blogging during the high holy seasons (Advent and Lent). I won’t make promises about Lent – it all depends how school is going at that time. But I will endeavor to blog regularly during Advent this year.

Say what you will about social media – but one of the things I love about it is that I have many friends who share my faith on social media. And they often post things that help and enrich my faith. Take this, for instance, posted by the Rev. Becky Rousehorne-Lau:

As we observe the Advent Sunday of Hope, as we enter into the Season, may we be irrational. May love bloom bright and wild in us. May we have abundant room for the child – and for each other.

I look forward to journeying through this season with you!

Sometimes in the flow of a vacation, days pass easily, and almost without notice. Good things happen, and you enjoy them, but maybe don’t take the time to do anything to hold on to those memories. I’m always a little wary about that. I don’t want to forget the good times and the memories. So this post is dedicated to just that. The last few days of memories.

We mad a 10+hr road-trip from Jupiter, Florida to Miller’s Creek, North Carolina. I love road trips. I guess that is because as a kid, when we hit the road for a long trip it usually meant we were going up go Thunder Bay to see my grandparents, who I adored. I love a day spent with good tunes and the road stretching out before us. I love watching the landscape change and wondering what the lives of people who live in different cities and towns and rural areas are like.

The day after our road trip was Canada Day. It was pretty much as perfect as a Canada Day away from home can be. Lotsa hanging out, relaxing, watching Canadian things (Schitt’s Creek and a Jays game – first Canada Day they’ve spent in Toronto in 2 years, and they did us the honour of winning) and eating Canadian foods (chips and dip – I know, not specifically Canadian but very Canada-Day-friendly – poutine and Nanaimo bars). We ended the evening with sparklers on the porch, and then sat in the dark for a bit watching the fireflies in the field across the road. Perfect.

Today, we headed out for a drive to see the Blue Ridge Mountains. It was beyond breathtaking.

All my life there have been places that hold a kind of mystical quality in my mind. Places that I’ve heard the name of since childhood, or at least for decades, and never really expected to see with my own eyes. Narnia-esque places, you could say. There is little as an adult, that is as delightful as finding myself (sometimes quite unexpectedly) in those places. I felt that at the Sea of Galilee, I felt it when Tracey and I visited the Coral Castle in Florida (of Andrew Peterson song fame), and I felt it today driving through the Blue Ridge Mountains (with John Denver’s “Country Roads” running through my mind).

I’m thankful for good days, good friends, and the joy of unexpected places.

After 2.25 years of avoiding it, Covid found me this week. Actually, it found my hosts in Florida and none of us knew it until we’d all spent enough time together that it was a done deal for all of us.

The good thing is the timing – we are all triple vaxxed at this point. And our plans for this week were easily adjusted. So we are staying in the house and waiting out our quarantine time.

The only symptoms I’ve been feeling are a slight headache and exhaustion. I’ve slept about 24 hrs out of the last 36. I was definitely asleep more than awake yesterday. And then slept for a full 9hrs last night. This is not anywhere near normal for me. But if it is the worst thing that I must deal with in fighting the virus, that’s just fine with me.

It’s odd to think back to all of the fear and confusion of March 2020 – when we were afraid to touch anything and seeing another person on your sidewalk or in your grocery aisle could make you jump out of your skin. I’ve heard too many stories of people devastated by this disease: whole families who died separate and alone in hospital; people who should have weathered it fine but ended up staring death in the eye; those who continue to struggle with debilitating symptoms a year or more after infection.

And I guess what I mostly want to express is gratitude. For all those who have worked so hard to save or to comfort the sick and the dying. For all those who sat in a lab running tests that lead to the development of the vaccines. For all those who got their shots, masked up, and made the difficult decision to not spend time with a wide array of others.

My prayers are with the burnt-out healthcare workers, and all those who continue to grieve those they’ve lost to the pandemic. And I invite you to pray with me, dear friends. So many have lost so much in the last couple of years. So many of us have struggled.

So many are still hip-deep in the struggles, wondering if they can make it another step.

Let’s use our prayers to ask God to give strength, comfort, hope and undying love anywhere and everywhere it is needed!

A year ago, I couldn’t have imagined being where I am. I couldn’t have imagined leaving a life and a career that – sadly – were no longer bringing me joy and fulfillment. I couldn’t have imagined standing up for myself and saying – enough.

And – again, sadly – I couldn’t have imagined the pathway God has laid out before me. I should know better than to ever doubt that His Grace will always be more than I could ask or imagine…but every time I find myself stunned by it. Stunned that He really loves who I really am. Stunned that when I’m at the end of my rope, He’s just not anywhere close to done with me yet. 

And so I find myself sitting by a lovely pool, on a warm night. I just watched a truly spectacular sunset. I took a nap and read some of the book I’m loving, today.

And you know what? Slowly, I am letting go of the hurts of this last year. They still sting me from time to time, my blood boils when I think back on things, but I am also getting to the place where I regret nothing. 

I don’t think I’m at forgiveness yet – and I may not be for a while. But I can feel its approach. I will get there, just as I got here, in  God’s good time. 

And meanwhile, step by step, he is leading me back to myself. Not to the me I was, but to the me that I have become and am becoming. Because, after all, He’s still not done with me yet. 

And meanwhile, I am making space for myself – space to rest and to heal and to allow what is new to emerge. 

And meanwhile, I am blessed to reconnect with friends, to share laughter and silliness, deep talks and best scars. 

And meanwhile, my eyes are trained on the beauty of the world around me. I forgot, in my darkest times, that life really IS beautiful. I am remembering and recognizing it again.

So, dear friends, wherever you find yourself, may you know that God is not done with you yet. Whether you are thriving or just surviving, trust that God has you where He needs to you to be, and is laying out a pathway for you that is better than you can ask or imagine.

I’ve long said that I’ve got two black thumbs, that plants can just look at me and spontaneously die, that if you have a plant you can’t kill – just give it to me. I meant it to be funny and to reflect the reality that I have often been so busy that remembering to water the plants just doesn’t happen.

My mother loves flowers and cares for them tenderly. If you want to make her happy – give her flowers. Especially if they are potted and will bloom again. Or if they are bulbs that she can transplant once she’s done enjoying them.

I’ve tended to lean more towards the thought that flowers die. And they are pretty and all, but way more work than they are worth.

Now, planting a garden for food purposes….that I get. Both of my grandfathers were great gardeners. I know that there is nothing more tasty that food that has just been harvested from one’s own garden. I have a strong memory of sitting among the pea vines in the “back 40” of Nana and Poppa’s cottage, with one of our dogs (Penny, the miniature schnauzer, I think), pulling pods off the vine, opening them and eating the peas and sharing them with the dog. For an introvert like me, that was pretty much heaven.

So when I moved to the farmhouse, Mom asked if I wanted to plant a garden. She got plants and seeds for me, and together we planted them on the long weekend in May.

I’ve been delighted to wander up to the garden every couple of days and see the shoots coming up. The radishes were first, then lettuce and peas, the carrots were last, but are making a healthy go of it now.

As I watch the green and growing things in my garden, I’m reminded of many good things: that what starts out small may always grow; that in order for the plant to grow, it must die and be buried first – the life/death/new life cycle is imprinted in the very fabric of our world (and so the life/death/resurrection of Jesus is less incomprehensible miracle, as true revelation of how God made the world. We are NOT meant to end in death!); that even someone with two black thumbs can be changed into someone growing their own produce.

Today I am thankful for green and growing things – not just those in my garden, but those in the fields and forests around me, and especially those within our souls. God is doing a new thing – and even when we feel like we’ve been buried, faith tells us that this is just part of the process that God Himself designed.

A few days ago I moved in to my happy place. No, not the SkyDome/Rogers Centre, but the Farmhouse which has been the home-base of most of my vacations and some of my study leaves over the past 15 years.

I have always felt that there was something magical about this place. I can’t quite explain it – the house is a century-old and used to be part of a working farm. Now it sits on an acre of fenced-in land and plays host to my family, friends, and our various dogs. There isn’t a level floor or a square corner anywhere in the house. But it goes on standing through winter snows and summer storms.

And I guess the magical thing about this place is that it is a place of rest for me. A place where no one raises an eyebrow if I indulge in multiple naps. A place where I get to make really good meals for my loved ones. A place where my dog can get the zoomies as often as she wants, without any fear of being hit by a vehicle.

So I admit for the last two days I’ve just been taking it quiet. True – there is unpacking and settling in that needs doing, I have a few more things to plant in the yard, and I really ought to get back to running and walking regularly. Instead, I’ve cuddled the doggies (my folks’ bulldogs are with me for a couple of days), done some reading, watched the Jays win. I’ve stared out the windows at the colour of sunlight on Spring leaves, and taken deep breaths of air that smells like lilacs and freshness.

I’ve spoiled myself with quiet and rest.

The reality is that I’m tempted to feel guilty about that – I should be DOING more, I should be ACCOMPLISHING things. But a friend gave me some great advice yesterday. She said: do what feels right, this is a time of healing.

So I don’t apologize for nourishing myself with quiet and the lack of accomplishment. It’s what I need right now. It’s how I’m healing.

And I guess I just want to ask you to consider what you need right now, and how you might heal. And then I want to encourage you to do what you need to, and not apologize for needing it.

I came across this, this evening:

I loved it instantly and thought of two recent experiences.

I’ve been making runs out to the farmhouse as I get closer to move there – taking things like my art and other treasured belongings, and just spending time in the house (sometimes alone), as confirmation about the fact that I WANT to live there. My Mom warned me that the birds would wake me up around 5am if I left the windows open when I went to bed.

She wasn’t wrong – I left the windows open and heard the birds greeting the dawn. The crazy thing is that it didn’t bother me. It didn’t upset me. Instead, I felt a small smile form on my lips, my eyes still closed. Then I rolled over, and slept peacefully until I was ready to wake up.

I’m NOT a morning person, and sometimes I think of myself as not particularly outdoorsy. Yet, hearing the joyful song of the birds as light began to bloom again in that corner of the world brought me joy and peace, that I could not have imagined.

The other experience was a more difficult one. A dear friend’s (really, a chosen sister’s) mother is dying in palliative care. We visited her together in hospital . Visiting the dying is not one of my particular gifts. But I’ve always said that if a friend asked for something, and it was in my power to grant, the answer would always yes.

So we went. I prayed, and held her mother’s hand. And after a bit, I asked if it would be ok if I sang to her a bit. My friend told me to go for it. So I sang – just a couple of choruses, just some simple songs of our shared faith. And I don’t know – I can’t know – if her mother heard me. But I know I felt better singing over her.

Yes, we sing – like the birds – to say that we are still here, we made it. But I also think we sing to find our way through the darkness and the unknown. (The Australian Indigenous people have songs they sing to find their way through the barren outback. I’ve always loved that thought about why we sing – to find our way through the wilderness.)

So sing, friends. Whether you have a a “good” voice or not – sing. Sing because you are still here, sing to find your way through, sing to reach deep into your soul and find strength you didn’t know you had.

Sing.

In your car. In your shower. With an audience or without. And if you can manage it, find opportunities to sing with a group of other people – at a church service, at a choir practice, at a concert or as part of the crowd at a sporting event.

Sing.

I promise it will be good for your soul.