I walk THROUGH the Valley

The LORD is my shepherd;
I shall not want.
He makes me to lie down in green pastures;
He leads me beside the still waters.
He restores my soul;
He leads me in the paths of righteousness
For His name’s sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil;
For You are with me;
Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.

You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies;
You anoint my head with oil;
My cup runs over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
All the days of my life;
And I will dwell in the house of the LORD
Forever.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil;
For You are with me;
Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me. These word have been echoing in my head all day long. I was praying for my mom this morning, and this is the verse I heard, and it filled me with hope, because the emphasis was distinctly on the word "through".
It's funny, so often this lovely Psalm so full of promise and reassurance is read at funerals, when in fact every word calls out to the living. It is in this life, here & now He longs to feed us and shelter us.

I can not help but smile with delight when I imagine the banquet table He will lay before me in the presence of those who wish me ill. (OK, I'll admit it's a little vindictive of me, considering, but nonetheless, isn't that the promise?) Truth be told once I had an image of a glorious party with my enemies left out in the cold, noses pressed against the glass, watching with regret & longing, but, just now, as I was writing my parenthetical statement the picture shifted, and I saw my enemies forgiven and included in the celebration. Wow, now there's a picture!

Accompanying the verse I heard in my prayer time this morning was the most tender and beautiful picture. I was praying for my mom, whose cancer treatments began today. What I saw, as I asked for her to be comforted, encouraged and strengthened, was Jesus, holding her in His arms as she sat through the treatment, much as we as mothers have cradled our own sick and frightened children. I remember hold Emily when she cut her forehead open so the doctor could stitch her. She was hurting and scared and my embrace had to be gentle enough to comfort her and strong enough to hold her still. She knew she was safe and held her gaze, promising it would all be OK. The scale is immensely different, the picture is the same.
How often have I let myself fall into those everlasting arms for support and comfort? Too often to count.

What do you see when you picture the 23 Psalm?

Why pray?

Prayer. I suppose despite all the books written, all the sermons preached, we each still have our own take on it. Or maybe I'm wrong. I was raised Catholic, and so the prayers I learned were scripted, formulaic. I imagine they were penned by someone whose heart was genuinely seeking God. I also am sure that they are spoken still by both breaking and thankful hearts. To me, even as a girl hungry to know God and openly curious about church history and tradition, they felt empty and dead. (I know why now; the words did not come from my own heart). With this as my experience with prayer I found prayer difficult. I wanted to speak the "right" words. I wanted to know I was heard, and so often I felt like I was mouthing empty phrases I had picked up somewhere else, like a foreigner trying to learn a new language. And as a busy wife and mother finding private time to pray was in and of itself a challenge.
Eventually, and sadly, only in the past few years, I found my own prayer voice. I am a writer, and so I write. Yes, some days I speak aloud, but for me putting pen to paper allows my heart's words to flow. I stay focused, my mind is less likely to wander, as I write to God. When friends call on me to pray I pour out my heart in an email. Unorthodox, perhaps, but for me it works. Maybe it is simply how my mind works, but God created my mind, He gave me these skills, this penchant for the written word, and so I use it to worship and to petition. The greatest blessing in all of this journey was in learning that Father God is quite simply the Daddy who loves me and just wants me to talk to Him, from my heart, not from my mind.

I say all of this in response to a conversation I had earlier today. The subject of prayer came up, and my friend expressed a degree of despair, as he wondered aloud what the point of praying was when the friend for whom he had been praying (along with many others) was not getting better, but was in fact more ill than anyone had known. I expressed my belief that I do believe we can change God's mind, citing both Abraham pleading for Sodom & Gommorah and the Cannanite woman arguing with Jesus for the healing of her daughter. Unfortunately we were interrupted, but I've been thinking about it ever since.

The thing is I don't think the purpose of prayer is to strong arm God into doing what we want. We have, for starters, such a limited view of God's plan. I don't think God wants His children to suffer, but I do know that in my times of suffering I have been drawn closer to God, I have learned more, grown more than I ever did in times of ease. I also believe God knows both what we want and what we need long before we ever think to ask for it, and He has a plan and knows what is best for us (even if we may beg to differ). Prayer is designed to draw is closer to God, to enter into a conversation with Holy Spirit. We are called to give thanks for all He has given, and in praise the blessings we have received come into focus. Beyond that, I truly feel prayer should be a conversation, listening and speaking both. Someone once said prayer changes us. I know that it does. No matter what time of day (personally I like early morning best), no matter the circumstance that brings me to my knees, or has me leaping with joy prayer has always changed my perspective, brought me around to focus on God and not on my circumstances. And isn't that really what it's supposed to be about?
I've only just scratched the surface, and I am sure I will revisit this soon. Keep praying, you just never know what may happen.

Was it a whisper or a shout?

It's funny the rabbit trails my mind gets on when I try to use unplanned quiet moments to pray. I was sitting at an open house this morning, and not many realtors chose to come and see the house I was at. In itself that's not so unusual. I know I will likely have an hour or so of enforced stillness when I am asked to do these, so I take my notebook and look forward to using the time to pray, to write, to think.
Having said that, this morning I was looking forward to some time to really focus and pray for my mom. She had an appointment at the cancer clinic booked for this afternoon and I really wanted to press in and claim healing, because I know I serve a God of miracles and I know He heals still. And so, I began, calling on Jesus, compassionate healer of the sick, on Jehovah Rophe, the Lord Who Heals. My heart cried out, but my mind quickly wandered...and my thoughts went like this:
Was it with a whisper or with a shout that you spoke creation into being?
I see You, tenderly kneeling to fashion man from dust,
breathe into him Your holy breath and give him life.
Did You hold Adam in Your arms, as a mother holds her newborn son? Did you hold him close with an ache in your heart knowing he would fall?
I wonder

You saw he was alone and his solitary existence was not good. His only need beyond You was a companion.
And so You brought to him his other self. In the two one.
Did Your heart break a little when You set them in their perfect home, knowing they would stumble?
Knowing they would choose themselves, choose each other, over You?
You knew-
Before Adam drew his first breath, before Eve beheld her lover, before light & dark were separated, You knew.
You Knew, and You laid plans to bring them home to You.

Likely in the next few weeks I will begin to shape and pare those word & phrases until it feels "complete" to me. Far be it from me to understand even my own creative process. I've learned to just "go with it". How I got from Jehovah Rophe to creation I have no idea. I just know in my mind's eye I could see God kneeling in the garden, shaping Adam out of the dust. I saw Him cradle man in His arms, and lovingly breath life into him, the way I once cradled my babies and kissed them as they slept.
I suppose I was thinking about how we were each created in the image of God, and knowing He carefully crafted each part He could, with a single word, re-create those broken parts, even the broken parts no doctor can treat or mend.

I am eager to see what miracles await us around the next bend. The road is rough and full of thorns right now, but the sun is warm on my head, and I have a feeling something good is just ahead.

YES

I have written on several occasions about living without fear, living my life boldly and without apology or regret (easier said than done, believe me) but what I fear I have had to face has actually been relatively small, the fear of what others might think of me, the fear of getting hurt again, or failing again. But last week I found myself staring down a much bigger fear. The dread of it loomed so large I couldn't begin to express it or deal with it, so I tried to ignore it, in the foolish hope it would just go, be left in the realm of nightmares and misunderstandings. Six days have come & gone and I have come to terms in a small way. I have begun to try and acknowledge it, but speaking it aloud only makes it real.
My mother has been ill for months. What we first thought was a flu that had its grip on her, and then hoped was pneumonia has finally been diagnosed. And there is our collective fear-Cancer.

I believe wholeheartedly in the power of prayer, in the healing touch of Jesus. I have seen enough evidence to know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, these things still happen, are still possible. And yet I wrestle still with all the things I have prayed for and not received the answer my heart longed for. I know God is ever & always on His throne, that He works all things for good (even disease). The most awful things in my life have always brought startling blessings into my life...but I am having trouble remembering that just now.

One of the things that make dealing with this so difficult (and there are many, as you might imagine) is that all the things I know are true, that I would say to comfort my mother, my sisters, my step-father, sound trite and glib even to my own ears.

"YES"

This morning at church, during worship, I let my heart plead with God more on this. What I saw was sun beams streaming through the clouds (one of my favourite sights here) and I knew I stood in the presence of God. And I heard Him whisper in my ear one word-"yes". I have been asking for a lot of different things lately, but this disease was at the forefront of my mind today.
I suppose I will have to wait to learn what the "yes" was for. Perhaps, being a generous & loving Father, there were several gifts tied up in that one promise.

What Can Eat You Alive....

Its been a crazy kind of week, with bouts of busyness interspersed with periods of whatever the opposite of that busyness in the extreme. And in the midst of that I was utterly without ideas or inspiration to write about. Sometimes when I find myself staring at the blank screen or page i can just begin to write, stream of consciousness type stuff, and something generally will pique my interest enough to follow through. For some reason even the stream of consciousness tack failed me, which, by late yesterday was quite disconcerting. I have "lost" my ability to write before, usually in times of extreme emotion, but not struggling there I had to wonder at the numbness of spirit I was feeling. And numbness is the best descriptor I have...like an emotional epidural I was quite conscious of my thoughts, but utterly unable to feel anything.
That said I decided, by default, I suppose, to just ride it out. I have endured silence before, and if I am patient, if I can rest & cease striving for it, God does speak again so I can hear, and usually in unexpected and surprising ways and places.

Last night I was chatting with a new friend I met online (you'd think I'd learn, but I keep going back-I've "met" some interesting people and had some marvelous conversations along the way though). He is a cultural anthropologist and has traveled extensively in pursuit of his studies. It is unfortunate that he embraces all religions equally, but it has, thus far, made for some lively conversation!
As our conversation moved on, I found him somewhat reluctant to discuss his past-"the past is pain", he argued. My response? My past is covered by forgiveness. And it has served to make me, in part, at least, who I am today (The quote from William Blake; "The child is father to the man" was in my head). "Wow", he replied.
I didn't ask why that was his response, but it got me thinking about the power of forgiveness again. He commented how kind I was to give this gift, but in truth, I forgave for me, not for those who had hurt me. i explained that one day I looked in the mirror, and I did not like who I saw looking back. I knew the only way out was to forgive and to move forward.
There is freedom in forgiveness that can not be explained, it must be experienced. Anger and bitterness will eat you alive. It was as I typed those last words that I heard Holy Spirit speaking through me. The words rang with a truth to marvelous to have come soley from my selfish heart, and i knew what I needed to share.
I still don't know what in his past is so painful, nor does he yet know my painful past. I an hoping that as we continue to get to know each other something in my tale of forgiveness speaks to him., that it opens a dialogue about the amazing forgiveness bought on the cross for us.

Of course, forgiving someone who has hurt you deeply is no easy thing. I do not mean to make it sound so. It is hard, it takes time, and sometimes, being human many repetitions as old hurts rise in memory. Forgiveness comes at a price, but a price worth paying.
What is your story of forgiveness?

Approximately every minute of every day, someone in Canada needs blood. In fact, according to a recent poll, 52 per cent of Canadians say they, or a family member, have needed blood or blood products for surgery or for medical treatment.

The good news is that one blood donation - in just one hour - can save up to three lives.

I've been a blood donor for many years now-in fact today marked donation #47. I first donated at a mobile clinic just for something to do, and quickly became a regular donor. It costs me an hour of my time (an hour I get to just sit and do nothing, no less!) and I walk away knowing I have done something good.

Thankfully I have never needed to receive blood, but I have loved ones who have.

Yesterday I received some painful news about my mother's health, so today's donation was especially meaningful. It is a small thing I can do.

In Genesis, when Cain murdered his brother Abel God said his blood cried out to Him from the ground. Cain asked the eternal question; "Am I my brother's keeper?" I would say, yes, yes we are our brothers' keepers, and just maybe the world would be a better place if we all were accountable to one another.

The blood in my veins carries DNA from both my parents, I am who I am, at least physically, because of the two of them. I am who I am otherwise because Jesus shed His blood for me.

Like breathing, we rarely consider the beating of our hearts, pumping blood through our veins and arteries, a process begun long before we ever took our first breath. Amazing stuff, blood is, carrying our genetic code, making us unique, necessary for life. The little I donated this afternoon will quickly be replenished by my body. I have to pause & wonder, after so many donations, how many souls have a little bit of me coursing through their veins? That small thing connects us somehow, I think.
Consider taking an hour and donating...you never know whose life you may save.

Leviticus 17:11 reads:
For the life of a creature is in the blood, and I have given it to you to make atonement for yourselves on the altar; it is the blood that makes atonement for one’s life.

(One unit of blood is the equivalent to one donation)

The Agony of Waiting

Three days!

Three days become four, become a week, a month

How long will you make me wait?

“They also serve who only stand and wait”

And waiting has its own harvest

But the days slip like sand through my fingers

Am I greedy wanting more? More of you than memory

Like grit under my fingernails

My heart beats

The clock ticks

Sand falls

Hearts beat

clocks tick

sand falls