today's biggest small pleasures.

waking up before my alarm goes off. with a smile on my face. having stepped out of peaceful dreams. into a crisp snowy morning. ~

hearing the quiet hum of the dishwasher.

it means all the kids are asleep.

or at least drifting in that direction.

and i can wrap up all the loose ends uninterrupted.

~

opening my email from the boss.

to find a get out of jail free card.

for a month in the summer.

so i can go to oregon.

~

getting a phone call from my dad.

at 11:03... that's 2303 in work time.

just to make sure i'm coming home.

because that's where he'll be tomorrow too.

AA for a Recovering Balloon Chaser

My uncle used to drive a balloon chaser - a big red truck with "Balloon Chaser" splashed proudly across its side, made and marked to track and retrieve hot air balloons as they surf along the wind and slowly drift back to earth. I don't remember us ever having chased a balloon, though I always thought it would be a grand adventure, and dreamily traced the bold white lettering with my grimy fingers each time we visited their home.

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I attended Missions Fest this weekend - kind of an annual tradition for me. Wander through the rows of booths, making casual inquiries of a variety of missions agencies about the opportunities that they offer. Fly off to Namibia or Burkina Faso to rescue prostitutes from their lives on the street. Live village life in volatile southern Sudan with people who know war because they've experienced it. Teach in a rural Kenyan school and adopt a precious Kenyan child. Those were the dreams... the balloons I've chased. Not out of certainty that God is leading me in that direction, but out of the need to go somewhere and do something adventurous and meaningful. North America has always seemed dull, boring, second-rate, less significant.

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I felt like a misfit this weekend. I did not fit in my own skin, like a reptile molting, its outer skin having grown stiff and brittle, slowly flaking away. It was uncomfortable and awkward. I found myself robbed of my ability to make casual inquiries of ever-patient mission reps some of whom have now heard my casual inquiries several times over. The balloons had vanished, and I didn't know what to do without the thrill of the chase. I tried really hard to resurrect an old balloon or two, but I couldn't. Like it or not, I have lost the desire to go balloon chasing on an adventure to some far-off land.

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I finally stopped. And now I hear Him ask me from His position beside a barely anchored balloon, "Want to go up?" I have never had a hot air balloon ride. My dad was a pilot - wings, a prop, and landing gear - these are reasonable pieces of equipment. Balloons seem like they might just be full of hot air. Invisible, untouchable, weightless air.

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Where are we going?

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Wherever the wind blows us. You know well enough how the wind blows this way and that. You hear it rustling through the trees, but you have no idea where it comes from or where it's headed next. Want to go up? Stop pretending obedience to Me. Open your mouth wide and I will fill it.

-

How blessed is the man whose strength is in You...

No good thing does He withhold from those who walk uprightly.

O Lord of hosts,

How blessed is the man who trusts in You!

-

Want to go up?

Fear of Falling

Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is either a daring adventure or nothing. -Helen Keller

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Early on Sunday morning, clutching a go-mug of lukewarm tea like a still-drowsy toddler not quite ready to relinquish their blanket, I showed up at the arena like a good aunt to watch my nephew's 8 am hockey practise. My brother-in-law and I stood and watched, chuckling every once in a while at the zealous efforts of the four to seven year-olds. Not many words were exchanged - too early in the morning, at least for me - for that.

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Just staying upright on their skates was an accomplishment for these kids, and many times, I saw one of them lose their footing as if someone had pulled a rug out from under them, and land on their backsides, looking surprised as if wondering whatever in the world had happened. Shooting practise was multi-tasking... create some forward momentum, control it, and use that awkward stick to somehow guide a small black slidey thing toward a net, where the goalie is steeling himself to be plowed through unless the forward momentum is redirected. More than once, in their enthusiasm for scoring, a wobbly seven year-old took a swing, connected with the puck, sending it hurtling (in slow motion) into the net, only to find that they had so fully committed their body's momentum to taking the shot that they had, again, landed themselves on their sorry rears.

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In the course of forty minutes, I am certain that I witnessed upward of 200 falls had by the six players on the ice. Each time, they picked themselves up and tried again. No hanging onto the boards, no crying or quitting or sulking or self-doubt. Fall, up, fall, up, skate, shoot, fall, up...

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Failure scares me. There's nothing like the fear of falling to send me straight to the boards or back to the locker room, because of the dreadful possibility that my feet may slide out from under me.

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When did I forget how to fall and get up again? Somewhere along the line, I lost sight of what it means to risk, fail, and get off my bruised behind to try again. And when I lose sight of this, I lose the joy of playing the game.

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When you fall, get up. When your team mate falls, help them up. Relax. Have a little patience - life isn't a test to be perfected, but a game to be played. Staying upright isn't the point of the game - playing is. Learn to enjoy the game. Falling is part of playing. Laugh. Play.

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That's where God met me this weekend.

Procrastinating... procrastinating... Wishing I knew exactly how to say what I am trying to express. Procrastinating... Click on the x in the top right hand corner of the page that says http://www.youtube/... Pour another cup of tea. Back to work.

Know and Be Known

I hate small talk. The kind that happens at wedding receptions when you're assigned to a table full of people you've never met, or in church foyers and small town grocery stores. The "so where are you from what do you do where did you go to school and my isn't the weather lovely" small talk that lasts all of five minutes - if that - and discloses absolutely nothing about the kind of person you're talking with. The kind of small talk that's forgotten no more than five minutes later because it's so irrelevant. I love to know and be known. You? - If we really want to know and be known, then the real question is: Are we willing to share parts of ourselves that leave us a little bit vulnerable? I'm not talking about our skeletons. Everyone has those, and airing them for the general public is generally unpleasant for all parties involved. But sharing the experiences and beliefs that define us as people. - The other important question is: Am I ready to slow down enough to really see the people that I cross paths with today?

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I got tagged. About ten times. You've probably been tagged too. Slightly begrudgingly, because it felt a little like I was giving in to someone's demands (sometimes I'm still a 13 year old black sheep at heart), I wrote a list of 25 random things about myself and posted them on Facebook. Choose to know and be known, right?

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Long blog posts don't get read. [Edit: Long blog posts tend to lose my attention about two paragraphs in - congrats for making it this far.] So I copied the list into the comments section for your perusal there. And since you have the dubious privilege of hearing about me, consider yourself tagged. Just because you can - share a few things that you otherwise would not share, with a few people who you would not normally permit past the small talk check stop.

Will he do, do you think?

"Pardon me," he said, "if I have overheard words that you were saying. I don't pretend to understand what you are talking about, or your reference to burglars, but I think I am right in believing that you think I am no good... Tell me what you want done, and I will try it, if I have to walk from here to the East of East and fight the wild Were-worms in the Last Desert." (The Hobbit, p32) -

I have often fancied myself a Burglar. Not in the sense that I wish for the opportunity to sneak unseen and unheard into a dragon's lair and, unsinged, steal away with his treasures. It's just that, like Bilbo, I've always dreamed about what it would be like to be more than I am. As an eight year-old, my life plan was as follows: marry the man of my choice (I had a list of the top ten candidates), and live on a ranch with horses and lots of animals, eating apples and pears. -

My first problem was that I had not seen or eaten an apple or a pear since my family's last trip out of Zaire, as it was then called, to Nairobi. My greedy eyes devoured a dozen of those golden apples before I could get my hands on one. -

The next, and bigger problem surfaced when Aunt Jane found the list. I am so glad that it was Aunt Jane that found it... if it had to be found. She was the dorm mom of the junior high dorm at the boarding school my sister attended (I was just visiting), and being absolutely compassionate and discrete, she has graciously left this incident unmentioned since that day. (My sense of shame is, admittedly, grossly inflated.) When my mom found out, as moms are apt to do, she informed me that Nathan was more of a city guy, and not the ranch type at all. I was heartbroken. -

Horses... I could fore go the apples and the cowboy, if I could cling to this part of the dream. But horses are hard to find in eastern Africa. Long before the Hutu and the Tutsi had it out in Rwanda, the Tsetse fly set about systematically annihilating Africa's horse population. And on our return to Canada, I received the final blow. We moved into a house in Sundre. Hickville, Alberta. In the heart of cowboy country, I was relegated to the status of a town kid. At grade five camp, I finally got my first ride. After overdosing on Benedryl in preparation for the big day, I was assigned to the back of the line on a so-bomb-proof-he's-may-as-well-be-dead horse. I guess the wrangler found out that I was a town kid. And allergic.

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Did I only want what I knew I could not have? I thought so, until I was given the chance to taste the dream again. Armed with Claritin and second hand cowboy boots, I gained a glimpse into what can happen when a broken hearted child meets an understanding equine friend. In part, I was that broken hearted child, allowed to invite all the others into my experience of grace and acceptance. My heart came alive and I knew in an instant that some desires, however simple and childlike, are planted in our hearts by the Creator of dreams.

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Today held a few moments of doubting self-conversation, a subtlely sarcastic "dream on..." to my dreams. I'm choosing - carefully - my response. In any case, I'd willingly take on the wild Were-worms of the Last Desert, knowing that the Creator of dreams does indeed say... -

"That's right," said Galdalf. "Let's have no more argument. I have chosen Mr. Baggins and that ought to be enough for all of you. If I say he is a Burglar, a Burglar he is, or will be when the time comes. There is a lot more in him that you guess, and a deal more than he has any idea of himself. You may (possibly) all live to thank me yet. Now Bilbo, my boy, fetch the lamp, and let's have a little light on this!" (The Hobbit, p33) -

Not that I'm any good at burglaring. But Gandalf is the Master of the trade. Life by its nature is constantly changing and evolving, and I don't know where it will lead. But I travel in the company of "him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us". -

To Him be the glory!

Waiting for sleep

The wee hours of the morning are keeping me company. I have no wisdom (or folly) to share at this hour. Only the bleary wakefulness that comes from a mind full of... well, nothing really. Full of thoughts waiting to be acknowledged. Like much neglected pets waiting to be fed, they whimper and beg for my attention. Knowing what will be unleashed if I choose to open that door, I studiously ignore the pitiful whining. Nameless and undisclosed, they're easier to contain and control. Tomorrow, I tell myself. Tomorrow I'll think about it. Sleep eludes me and the nagging grows more insistent.