The Gospel According to Gord

Last night,  along with the rest of Canada, I experienced The Tragically Hip play their last show.  Even though I was one of the lucky ones to get tickets to see them play live in Winnipeg a few weeks ago, I knew I had to be a part of the last show as part of the wider community of people who loved them.

Mike and I brought our girls with us to watch the show.  It wasn't a tough sell.  The girls have grown up listening to The Hip.  No road trip for our family was ever complete without The Tragically Hip joining us on our soundtrack.  But for me, it wasn't just about the music.  It was about them experiencing a piece of Canadian history that will always be remembered, and having them deposit their own memories into their vaults of "Where were you when The Hip played their last show?"  It was about them being swallowed up into a crowd of people who knew this was more than a show.  It was about them touching the emotional experience you get when you say goodbye to someone you love, and being part of something so much bigger than yourself.  And so, there they sat with us

It was an unforgettable night, that's true.  Though obviously weary and worn, Gord brought it all to the stage in Kingston last night and offered it up to the people.  I've always been intrigued by fans of the band.  Going to their live shows, you'll see a little bit of  everything and everyone.  Maybe that's a part of what's made them so Canadian.  Last night at the Lyric, the crowd was no different.  A cross-section of Canada where you have a place.  Trades people and academics, high school drop-outs and historians, and everyone in between.  There was a Hip song that everyone could relate to; everyone could claim as their own.

There were moments for me, last night, when time stood still for a moment.  One image I'll never forget is Gord kissing his friends and band-mates on the mouth with tender affection.  This is how he started the show backstage, and how he ended the show on stage.  These are more than his friends, they have been his journey mates and spiritual pilgrims through 30 years of life and music.  But in an age where men are still working their way out of social norms that have painted them into too-small boxes of expectations, to see Gord hold his friend's faces in his hands and kiss them said, "Don't be afraid.   Live what you feel.  Make sure people know.  Love deeply, openly, and exuberantly.  Do what needs to be done.  To hell with what people think."

The most heartbreaking and compelling song for me was Grace, Too.  Gord taught us all something about living, grieving, and dying all in a 4 minute song.  Near the end, supported by his friends as they played, Gord screamed again and again, without restraint.  The tears poured down his cheeks.  He lived in that moment.  What he must have been feeling could only be communicated with  screams that came from his depths.  He didn't control it, didn't save it for later, didn't cover his face with his hands, or choose to withdraw from the pit of his pain.  His tears flowed unabashedly for the entire country to see. What a message he lived, our rock-star, crying and feeling openly with no shame.  I will never forget it.

In all the interviews and commentary I've seen of Gord, one thing that is always paramount is his humility.  Last night this was so present, but it went even deeper than that.  There he stood, with the mic in his hand, saying what he wanted to convey to the entire country.  He could have talked about his career, his life, his memories, his disease, his fame.  Instead, he talked about "the least of these"- the Indigenous people of Canada who have had everything taken away, yet continue to remind us of their resilience and their fortitude.  When Gord talked about Canadians being trained our whole lives to forget and dismiss the Indigenous community I got goosebumps.   How many spend their last season on earth using their time to remember and respond to someone or something else?  This left an indelible mark on me.

Thank you Gord.  It's been a pleasure doing business with you.

What Together Looks LIke

They've been together for 69 years.
Lived a lifetime and raised some kids.
Now those kids have kids and those kids have kids, and on and on their story will go.
It's been a long and full story -
Young love, jobs, moves, children, dreams, adventures...
Until it's finally just the two of them again.

It's been just the two of them for awhile now.
They slowed their stride and knew the best years had already come and gone.

She only leaves him, now, when there is someone else with him.
He's prone to wander, and she feels the fear in places only she knows.
She lays out his clothes and helps him with the hard parts -
The buttons and the zippers.
The parts that need to be held together for fear of falling apart.
As she bustles around their apartment he follows on her heels.
Just wants to be close, just wants to stay connected.
So does she.
But it's hard sometimes, to always have someone underfoot.
To never be able to just "get it done".
After all those years of needing him to keep them afloat, now she's the one he clings onto.

In the afternoon he needs his rest.
She needs a break - some space -
Only he won't lie down in their bed unless she lies down beside him.
Once her head is on her pillow, and her body beside his, his breath slows and his eyes close.
He is safe now, he has all he needs.

Walking down the hallway, he won't use a walker, or a cane, or even the railing.
He holds her hand fast and tight, leaning in just a little.
"It's the way we've always walked together", he says.
"I just need to hold onto you".

Sometimes she wants to run away- loosen the grip and find space and time.
But she loves him.
Whether he remembers what happened yesterday or five minutes ago - this much she knows.
She holds out her hand, and he holds on for dear life.

This is what together looks like.

223 Names Not Forgotten

Each year, at Christmas, our family dedicates a small tree in our dining room to a cause or an issue that we want to learn more about, remind others not to forget, or both.  It's never very hard to come up with the issue for the tree.  There is enough tragedy and injustice in this world to fill every tree in every corner.  This year, I knew the tree had to be about missing girls...

On April 14,  2014, 276  girls were abducted from their school in Nigeria by Boko Haram, an Islamist Terrorist group.  Amazingly, 53 managed to escape.  Christmas day marked 255 days since they were taken.

At the beginning, this story was in the news.  You heard details.  People talked about it and posted stories about it.  Not anymore.  It's almost as though the world has gone silent.

On Mother's Day, the five of us went to the Manitoba Legislature for the rally organized by the Nigerian Community in Winnipeg.  There was singing and dancing and impassioned pleas for the safe return of the girls.  I felt honored to be there - to stand side to side with those from the Nigerian community who spoke and pleaded for the girls to be found and returned.  There was a long line-up of local politicians waiting for their 5 minutes at the microphone at that rally, and it disturbed me.  It was opportunistic and self-serving.  I haven't heard from any of them since.

As the five of us talked about the missing girls and society's collective failure in not keeping their story alive, we talked about why the world might have gone silent about it.  I asked my own three girls why they thought the media and the governments of the world don't seem to care.  We came up with a few different guesses...

        Those who are missing are black and are female.
         If 223 white boys were taken from their school, would we be silent?  I have a hard time believing that if the same story happened at a private boy's school in the UK or North America the media would forget about it.
   

        The girls are citizens of an African nation which has little of value to offer the West.
        If the West had something to gain or a vested interest in the resources or political climate of the    country they were taken from, would the story have played out differently?


        It's old news.  It happened so long ago, people just don't care.  
If people don't care, media outlents aren't going to report it.  I wonder about the flipside of this - would we still care if the media hadn't stopped?

      Those were our explanations.   You may want to share some of your own.  In the end, it all felt hopeless and overwhelming as we read through the list of 223 names and thought where they likely ended up.

Yesterday morning I read a news report of another massacre by Boko Haram in Nigeria and it sickened me.  No one was talking about it or posting about it.  The world was mostly silent over the slaughter.  Although I agree that loss of life anywhere under violent means is a terrible tragedy, I wondered why the world continues to talk about the 12 dead in Paris and cease to mention the 223 girls missing in Nigeria.  The questions haunted me all day and I couldn't let them go.

In all honesty, I don't think those girls are ever coming home.  The anthem of the tragedy, "Bring Back Our Girls" has a bit of a hollow ring for me now.  But even though those girls are lost, we cannot let them be forgotten.  I don't want to forget.  I don't want you to either.   How can I not hold space with the mothers and fathers whose daughters may never return?

In some of my reading yesterday, I came across a story which wouldn't let me go.  In the time since the girls were abducted, 11 of the parents have died; some of high blood pressure, heart attacks and similar ailments.  Others must have simply died of broken hearts.  The story specifically spoke of one father who, as he lay dying, spoke his daughter's name over and over and over again, even as he took his last breath.

Then I thought of the power and importance of names.  That father chose a name for his daughter at her birth.  It was gifted to her, attached to her, and she was known by it.  I started to wonder what we may have lost by always referring to the missing as "The Nigerian school girls".  After all, there are 223 individual girls with names, families, and stories.  They are not just school girls.  They are each their own, and they deserved to be thought of that way.

And so, I started writing.  I began to write the names of each of the girls who are still missing, each on her own small white square.  I wrote their names deliberately.  I said them each out loud as my script followed along.  I paused to think of the individuality and beauty of each name and the person it reprsented.  At the end, I was overwhelmed by the enormity of the stack of names I was left with.

I had a vision of stringing the names up for a visual symbol of who has not returned home.  As I punched holes, and began pulling yarn through each one, the names went around my entire living and dining room.  

These names.  These girls.  Who is remembering them?
If we don't, who will?



     

Always Learning

I've been at my new job for nearly two months now.  It came after a traumatic end to my last job, followed by a few months of recovery, and a few months of searching for something new.  I had almost given up when this one came around.  I was tired, frustrated, and beginning to doubt my skill-set and my abilities.  I always pictured myself working with children, teens, or young people.  And now I go to work and sit across from people with grey and white hair who are older than my parents.  I love how life ends up being what you don't expect and how those surprises are often what give you the most joy and satisfaction.

I'm working at a non-profit independent living seniors residence.  My official job title is "Resident Care Coordinator", but in actuality I'm a family counsellor.  I get to spend my days with clients who have a myriad of issues and struggles - most of who just want someone to talk to.  I get to work with clients in their 60's, all the way up to their late 90's.  I get to problem-solve and work together with their families, and consult and case-manage with health care professionals.   My clients all have sharp cognition, most are busy, active, and living really full lives.  Some are on the cusp of a move to more supportive housing and need extra support to get to the next step.  I see it all, and I'm always learning.

In just the past two months....

I've learned that sometimes what people come to talk to you about has nothing to do with what they really want to talk to you about.  You can have three sessions about doctor's appointments and the hum-drum of life and then ask the right question and know you've hit gold.  Regrets, disappointments, and shame will rise to the surface and then the work begins.

I've learned that it's never too late to begin.  You can be in your late 80's and know the time is right to do personal work to make your life better or easier, or make your load lighter.

I've learned that shame is so prevalent.

I've learned that you can keep secrets for a very long time.  I've sat with clients who tell me things they've never spoken out loud in over 70 years.  There are times I sit feeling like I'm sitting on the most sacred ground as things are uncovered, spoken, and brought to light.  Sometimes it's like I can see the heavy burden lifting.

I've learned that older people are just like you and me.

I've learned that you can pretend your whole life, but it will all catch up with you eventually.

I've learned to sometimes speak really really loudly and enunciate my words very very clearly.  I've also learned that there are times when my voice needs to be soft and soothing, just above a whisper.

I've learned that 95 year olds still like to read romantic fiction and that if you drive a scooter and get a flat tire, CAA will come to the rescue.

I've learned to not expect certain ideas, opinions or lines of thinking from people just because they're old.  Age means nothing.

I've learned that in some ways, age means everything... especially when you think your memory is failing, or judgement is going, and you're scared you're losing yourself.

I've learned that you're never too old to fall in love.

I've learned to trust myself and go with my hunches.

I've learned to remind people that it's OK to need someone to help, especially when those people have lived their entire lives proving to everyone that they are self-sufficient and don't need anyone.

I've learned that you can be young in age but very very old in disposition, or old in age and as youthful as they come.

I've learned that people usually reap what they sow.  If you're alone and isolated, there is almost always a reason.

I've learned to value stories more than I did before.

I've learned that I love working with seniors.
I am reminded every single day at work that my job is a gift and the conversations I have are sacred.

The Personal is Political

Tomorrow marks the end of an era for my family.  It's the first time in 32 years that my dad's name has not been on a ballot for the municipal election in the community I'm from.

32 years isn't just a season, or a good run.  It truly is an era.

When I was 8 years old my dad took his first stab at local politics, putting his hat in the race to become a school board trustee.   It's interesting to me that he was younger then, than I am now, when he got his start.  He won his position handily that year and continued to sit as a member of the Garden Valley School Division Board of Trustees for 10 years.  Looking back, I love the poetic irony of it all.  Here was a man who hadn't graduated from high school himself sitting in a seat working to make the decision and policies for the schools in the community he loved.  No one that voted for him cared that he had never graduated.  They cared that he said what he believed and he didn't waiver.  He cared about the school system because it represented the future of his town, and it was educating his own two kids.  10 years later his youngest child had graduated from high school and it was time to move on a new battle.

22 years ago my dad continued his political adventure and ran for what was then the position of town counsellor for what is now the city of Winkler.   His connections, friendships, and passion won him that election, and every one since.  In every way and in every opportunity he made his mark on council.    My dad's never been known as someone to sit idly by when something is happening that he doesn't agree with or believe in.  If he's passionate about something, you'll know about it.  If he thinks something is happening that is underhanded or not in the best interest of the community, you'll know about that too.  If he disagrees with you, you'll most definitely know about it.  He made his positions crystal clear during his time on council, sometimes offending, usually challenging, often stirring-the-pot, but always promoting the community he loves.

My dad has never backed down from a battle or a fight he believes in, even if it wasn't the  politically astute thing to do.  He has championed the underdog and the forgotten, never agreeing to something just for political gain.   His mantra has always been that "I'm not a politician".  He's fashioned himself as a blue-collar, "every man's man" who remembers the ones that many have forgotten about.  He's taken his lumps in the media and on the street, but he's never stepped back when his integrity is on the line.

I get my passion for politics and my willingness to engage in battle from my dad.  It's not an easy row to hoe, but if it's how you're built, you can't help yourself.   Much to his chagrin, my political stripes are vastly different than his in many ways.  We disagree on many issues on many fronts... religion, politics, world events, ideology, just to name a few.  We can spar and verbally banter until the heat is on, and our tempers are flaring.  And then we agree to disagree, shake hands, and wait for our next chance to do do battle.  He taught me well.

This past year I was engaged in a situation where my integrity and beliefs resulted in me loosing a job I really cared about.  I knew that lots of people would question my decisions, my motives, and my actions,  but I never wondered if my dad would support me.  I knew he would, because standing up for what he has believed in is how he's done politics his whole life.   It's how he started, and tonight - after 32 years in municipal politics,  it's how he's ending.

Well done, dad.  You did your community, and yourself, proud.

Home is Wherever You (and They) Are

Something funny happens when your kids grow up.  They grow bigger.  And they also have more stuff.  In the past year our house has felt like the walls have been closing in on us a bit.  Our house is relatively small for a family of 5 by typical North American standards.  It's a 1065 square foot bungalow with no garage.  When we  bought it 13 1/2 years ago it felt really big to us.  We only had wee Hannah and there were a few rooms to fill.  Now we fill them up and are usually overflowing.

It was the "overflowing" part (as well as the lack of garage) that prompted us to start looking for a different house last Spring.  We had really specific parameters, as well as a really specific geographic location that we'd consider.  This was a move that was supposed to make our lives simpler and less cluttered with more room to breathe and less ice to chip off of the windshield.  We said we wouldn't move unless it was the "perfect house in the perfect location" (something that probably doesn't really exist), because there was too much good about where we were.

We've spent the past several months weeding through listings and seeing houses.  I'd say we've seen about 15 houses in since April, with the last one, for the second time just this afternoon.  Until this afternoon we were pretty sure we would be putting in an offer on this one.  Some things seemed perfect.  It had 4 bedrooms upstairs, it had lots of room in the living room, dining room, and family room for people.  We knew just how we'd gut the kitchen and start it all over again, and the yard and gazebo were beautiful.  The extra-wide double garage was big enough for our vehicles and our bikes.  It wasn't in the area we really wanted to live in, but we thought we could over-look that to get the other stuff.

We took the girls, and Mike's long-suffering kitchen-designing sister Corina, to see it yesterday.  We spent an hour pouring through the house, taking some measurements, imagining where we'd put things and who would get which room.   We came home and made lists and crunched numbers and anticipated what different repairs and upgrades would cost us.   Although there were things about the house the girls liked, they made it very clear to us that they really didn't want to move.  We've heard this loop on repeat since last Spring.  Anytime a move seems closer or a house seems better, their refrain gets louder.  They don't care if their bedrooms are minuscule or if they almost tumble down the basement stairs when there is more than one person getting their shoes on at the same time, they tell us. They like where we are and they don't want to leave.  We spent some time yesterday reassuring them that we will always try our very best to make decisions for our family that are for the best for everyone, and if we went ahead and bought this house, they would have to trust us to know it was a good decision for all of us.

Then this afternoon Mike and I went back alone to the Open House to take one last look.  We went expecting to be more convinced than ever that it was perfect.  Only when we got there, that wasn't the feeling we got.  We noticed the work that would need to be done, and not the space.  Our eyes found the cracks and the curling shingles instead of place our couch would go.  But it wasn't just that.  It was the packing and the planning, and the fixing things here to get ready to sell this house.  It was the boxes and the expense, the tightened budget, the inability to take big family vacations and sign our kids up for extra saxophone lessons if they want them.  As that mountain of things accumulated, all of the good things about the house got smaller and smaller.  By the time we got into our car, we both agreed that we don't have it in us right now and that sometimes, maybe our girls are smarter than we are.

Somehow we always think bigger is better, and sometimes it really is.  There is nothing wrong with bigger.  But there is something good and satisfying about keeping things simple and manageable and consistent.  (Remind me that I said this when I'm chipping a few inches of ice off the van in January when we're already late for school.)  For now, our girls crave familiarity.  They don't care if their room is tiny, or if we have to leave the house in shifts.  They aren't unsatisfied.  They need memories and holidays and things to remember and laugh about.  We'd have those in the new house too, but they would likely be interspersed with more talk about budgets and dread of anything breaking down or falling apart.

For now, this is where we're staying.  It's small and squishy, but we're all together.  We have places to visit and things to do.  We have neighbors we love and friend's houses that we can bike to.  We have people to car-pool with, and relieved kids.  For now, that's all we need.  In a year it might look different.  But for now, this is enough.

Forty Things

I'm forty today.  Interestingly, it's a day I've been looking forward to.   My twenties weren't great.  My thirties had some rough patches, but they were better.  If the pattern holds, I know that the forties will be even sweeter.  In honor of my forty years, here are forty random thoughts about life as I know it, who I am now, how I've changed, and other somewhat useless drivel.

1.  I got asked in my MFT class last night which of the roles that I play I am most proud of.  I didn't have to hesitate for a second.  Being a mom.  No question.  It's been the hardest job in the world, but the one that makes me most grateful.  I'm not great at it.  I mess up a lot.  I make people cry sometimes.  But I know that they know I love them.  I'm also pretty good at saying "I'm sorry".    If you can do those two things, you're probably doing OK.

2.  I'm more content with mess than I've ever been.  Some people might think that's not a good thing!

3.  I'm getting better at saying "no" without explanation.

4.  I swear like a sailor.  I'm not proud of it, but neither am I ashamed of it.  It's just more of me I've come to say "yes" to.

5.  I will never belong to a church or organization that values me less than others because I am female.

6.  I like staying home a lot.  I used to want to spend my evenings and weekends out and about.  Now I just want to be home.

7.  When I turned 30 I was pregnant with Sasha.  I'm glad I'm not pregnant with anyone today.  I like our trio just the way it is.

8.  I've grown comfortable with having a raw and  disheveled appearance in public.  Make up is often over-rated.  I don't necessarily want to run into everyone I know while raw and disheveled and out in public, but I'll happily pick up my kids at school.

9.  I wasn't remotely sporty as a kid, but I love watching my girls play sports.  I stand up and scream and yell and may even be considered obnoxious at times.  I didn't see that coming.

10.  Don't expect what's not realistic.  Half of the hard days in my life are because I didn't follow this mantra.

11.  I fall asleep almost the second my head hits the pillow at night.  There is almost nothing I love more than a glorious nap in the middle of the day.  Sleep is beautiful.  There have been times in my life I've used sleep as a way to cope or escape.  I still fall back into that sometimes.

12.  I didn't think I'd be forty and part of an Anglican church.

13.  A few years ago I never thought I'd be part of any church again.

14.  I am most relaxed and at peace when no one has expectations of me.

15.  I know I've mentioned this a million times, but my life's favorite book is Anne Lamott's Travelling Mercies.  I go back to it all the time.  That book kept me afloat when little else could have.

16.  I wouldn't go back to my twenties for a million dollars.  I finally have a lot of compassion for my twenty year old self.

17.  My two favorite gelato flavours are pistachio and coconut.  Having them together is a match made in heaven.

18.  Getting rid of things energizes me.  When I fill a bag up to donate and can lift it out of my car, I feel 20 pounds lighter.

19.  I miss living in Vancouver.  I miss our friends.  I miss the abundance of spectacular beauty.  I miss the simple life we were able to lead.  I don't get to talk to those friends often, but I hold them so close.

20.  My closest friends from elementary and high school are still close to me.  I think this is a great and miraculous treasure.  In fact, to celebrate our fortieth birthdays,  I'm meeting 3 of them in Las Vegas for a wild weekend in October.  I've been dreaming of this trip for years and I could care less where we're going, as long as we're together.

21.  I still don't really feel like an adult.  I waste a lot of time on frivolous things and don't often keep up with the "work" real adults do.

22.  One of my favorite things to do in the morning is go into Sasha and Ellie's bedroom to wake them up.  I always go in ten minutes before the have to get up for the day and I crawl under the covers with Sasha on the bottom bunk.  I snuggle right into her and breath in the smell of her neck and savour the warmth and slow breaths of her body.

23.  I  secretly wish just one of the Dugger children would rebel.

24.  Does number 23 "out me" as someone who occasionally watches "19 Kids and Counting"?  Damn.

25.  I see the sacred all around me in ways I never used to.

26.  I'm glad I married someone who cries during episodes of Little House on the Prairie and Derek.

27.  I say weekly that if Mike ever dies while our girls are still in school, they're screwed.  I can't even help Ellie with grade 6 Math.

28.  The older I get, the less time and tolerance I have for people who aren't interested in anything but their own stories.

29.  There are very few people who know me well enough,  to stop my  unending questions and make me talk about me.  There are then even fewer people who I trust enough to tell the gritty parts of my story.

30.  I like lemon more than chocolate.

31.  I can't believe some of our friend's kids are grown ups.

32.  I hope our girls chase their dreams instead of being hung up on what's practical.

33.  I hope I have the sense to help them do that.

34.  I will never be an e-book reader.  I love holding real books in my hands.  I think books are a little bit like trophies.  Part of what I like about going to other people's houses is seeing the type of books they have out and about in their home.  It tells me a lot about them.  I'm probably definitely a bit of a book snob.

35.  I spent my 40th birthday evening with my family doing  what we always do, and what I love best... eating pizza and watching a movie.  I love tradition.

36.  Mike should be grateful I'm so low-maintenance.

37.  I think forty sounds a lot younger than it did when I was a kid.

38.  I'm getting better at being mindful and compartmentalizing what I'm feeling.

39.  I base my prayers on Anne Lamott's book Help, Thanks, Wow.  Really, what more is there to say?

40.  I'd really like a "pause" button, because this is a pretty sweet spot in life.

Drowning In White Privilege

It hit me again today, as I read the morning paper, how surrounded I am.

Surrounded by something most right wing commentators would deny even exists.

My oldest daughter is nearly fifteen.
She is on holidays, so she sleeps in late in a bed with clean sheets.
She doesn't lock her bedroom door at night because she knows she is safe inside and outside.
She pins quotes from academics and literary giants on her boards, together with color palettes and ideas for a new bedroom.
She has friends who tell her she is beautiful and worthy.
She gets told every day that she is loved, sometimes more than once.
She wears clothes that make her feel good in her body.
She has parents who set boundaries and limits and walk with her through all of her choices so she doesn't feel alone.

She's never run away from home.
Never been in legitimate fear for her life.
She's never been placed in care because her circumstances weren't safe.
She's never had to look for a decent place to crash for the night because she had no where else to go.
She's never had her face on the cover of the Winnipeg Free Press.

She's safe and sound.
White and privileged.
Middle class.
Indulged and encouraged.

And she wasn't found wrapped in a tarp floating in the Red River this week like 15 year old Tina Fontaine.

When I looked at Hannah this morning I was overwhelmed by how different her one shot at life was, compared to the one Tina got.
I was overwhelmed with the way I had everything in my arsenal as a mom to give her everything she's needed for her chance to be.
Money, safety, doctors appointments, school, support....
....but I'm white, you see.  She is too.  So is her dad.

Tina wasn't.
She was a 15 year old First Nations child, disposed of in a dirty, filthy river.

May I never  drown so much in my white privilege that I can't come up for air long and often enough to see those fighting to stay afloat around me.

ABC's, 123's, and Mental Health Education

So much has been written and published today about mental illness and suicide since the news of Robin William's tragic death broke yesterday.  In times like this I find myself "peering in" as the words appear.  I read them gingerly and cautiously with fear close behind.

I am afraid, in these days, that those who mean well and wish to offer their form of healing to those who are in despair will lead them further to the cliff's edge.  I've seen this, even today.  Perhaps you have too.  There are the posts and articles about the steps that only the Bible can offer for healing  mental illness.  They read as if to say, "If only Robin Williams had known God, this wouldn't have happened."

I don't know how to address all of this.  I do know that for many years now, I think I have had a pretty good idea of what will make a difference in combating the pain and isolation of mental illness.  It can happen by bringing the dark dogs of depression and other disorders out from the dark and dusty corners, wiping the cobwebs off of them, and placing them into the light.   Naming them.  Holding them up.  Looking at them from all corners and from all angles.  But the key to this exposure is being sure it happens early and often.

When I was a young girl, I spent hours thwarted by bouts of anxiety.  I didn't have a name for it.  All I knew is that when the weather got bad in the winter months I'd spend chunks of my school day looking out the classroom window consumed with fear.  Fear of blizzards, of icy roads, of drifting snow and bad driving conditions.  My dad worked on the road and I wanted him to make it home.  When the snowflakes started my stomach would get tight and my mind consumed.  The fear took up so much space in my heart and mind there wasn't any room left for anything else.  If I tried to turn off the fear and worry I felt I was being disloyal and betraying my role as the keeper of fear.  If I worried, and it consumed me, I was doing my "job" to make sure my dad would make it home at the end of the day.  Seeing other kids excited about the snow or enjoying the coming of a blizzard irritated me.  I felt isolated and old.  I had a job to do, and that job was to worry.  There was no time for fun or games.  If I left my post, who knew what the outcome would be?

When I think of that young girl now, I feel sadness and compassion.  If only I'd had a name for what I was living through then.  If only I could have had someone take that anxiety and put it up on a shelf and studied it with me - helped me to see that my only real job as a child was to "be"... not to worry, not to ensure the safety of others, not to stop the weather if only I prayed or wished or hoped hard enough...

When I spend time in school now, as a parent volunteering or as a substitute teacher, I see the dark dogs lapping at the feet of children nearly every time.  They are nipping at heels and tugging on leashes, and so many of the children I see are powerless to stop and silence them.  No one has given them names for what they're feeling.  No one has illuminated the dark space around them so that they can see their reality for what it is.  No one has said, "This isn't who you are and you don't need to live like this.  Let me support you in helping to find a better way."  I can't think of a more fitting place to do this than in the elementary school classroom.

If mental illness was part of every child's elementary school education, we would be shocked at the reduction of stigma in our communities.   We'd be able to give those things that are held in secret a name.  They wouldn't look as scary and wouldn't need to be as hidden and covered if we knew their names and could call them out.  We'd give children the gift of having a vocabulary to explore their feelings and challenges.  Things aren't as intimidating when you know their name.

If I'd had a name for what I experienced as a child, I'd have had power to control it.  To call it out.  I'd have been able to tell fear and worry and anxiety they were not who I was and were definitely not my job.  I'd have been able to shine a light on the dark places.  I'd have been lighter and laughed more.  I'd have spent more time making snow angels and less time begging God to stop the blizzard.

The Province of Ontario is on the right track with this.  They've started implementing mental health education in all schools and are working to develop mental health literacy among all students in the province.  This is a step in the right direction - one that Manitoba's department of education could learn from.   But there needs to be more.

I want to see more mental health professionals working within the early years, middle years, and senior years of all schools.  This is particularly important in the early years - before stigma has a chance to solidify and settle on young hearts and minds.  I want to see more accessibility to counselling services within schools in the early and middle years.  Having counsellors available one or two days a cycle, or not accessible at all isn't enough.  I want to see Guidance Counsellors having actual legitimate training in techniques and interventions to help students cope.  I want to see classroom teachers incorporating mental health literacy into their classrooms and giving their students the names and terms they need to describe what is nipping at their heels.

I want to see every child who is dogged with depression, anxiety, or another form of mental illness have the voice and the words to point to it and to say, "This isn't me.  This doesn't define me.  I am bigger and stronger, and with support, I will be OK."  Imagine how the world would change if children understood this.  Imagine how the shame and need to conceal would melt away.  Imagine those children as adults, having years of practice, skills, and language at their disposal to fight whatever they struggled with.

Let's work to end the power of mental illness by empowering our children to believe and know that with support, there is hope.

Monday With Lucie

A million years ago I used to be a teenager who loved to babysit.  There were two little girls who were on my "favorites" list.  The older of the sisters had ginger hair and freckles, while her little sister had dark hair and brown eyes.  Until they moved away, I got to watch those two little girls grow up, and I loved it.

Now I have a teenager of my own who babysits.  That older sister that I used to look after?  She has two girls of her own and just happens to live not too far from me.  Now my daughter babysits for her.  

Hannah fell in love with little Lucie the moment she met her.  She met her when she was drinking a bottle and was just learning to sit up.  Now she's two and she is precocious, adorable, observant, and full of silliness and chatter!  She also has a new baby sister at home, so the girls and I thought it would be fun to give her mom a break and have a day with Lucie.

We played...

...and built things.

We met some tiny new friends...

... and we snoozed away the afternoon with a soother and a stuffy under each arm.

And we danced.  We swung our arms from side to side and did the toddler shuffle while bouncing up and down.  We still remember how it's done.

I was the lucky one who got to lay down beside Lucie at nap time.  We chatted quietly until her eyes got heavy and breathing got slow.  I loved listening to her breathe and suck her pink soother.  I watched  her chubby hands gripping the necks of her stuffies and her little chest go up and down with each deep breath.

When she woke up the chatter began in earnest.  There was so much to say and so much to see!  I think those conversations used to exhaust me, but now they gave me life.   As I was making supper, my own three girls were playing and chatting with sweet Lucie.   I got to stand at my stove and just listen.  It sounded beautiful.  I could really hear what she was saying and take the time to savour the sound of her voice and her belly laughs.  And for a moment, Lucie faded into the background and the questions in my head became louder...

Did I laugh loud and often enough when my girls laughed?
Did I spend too much time getting them to play on their own when they only wanted a companion?
Did I stop and savour their words, their blossoming vocabulary, and the sound of their footsteps following me from one room to another?

I hope so.
Oh, I hope so.

I wish I could do it again... just for a day...

A Monday with two year old Hannah.  We'd sit and read book after book after book because she'd never tire of them.  Then we'd do it all over again.

A Monday with two year old Ellie.  We'd walk to the playground and I'd push her on the swing and hold her hand as she goes up the big big slide.

A Monday with two year old Sasha.  We'd color deliberately and carefully, just the way she likes to.  Page after page.

There'd be no hurry and I'd savour it all.

For now, I've got my days with fourteen year old Hannah and eleven year old Ellie and nine year old Sasha.  We do the things that need to be done and go for bike-rides and sit side by side on the porch, each with our own book.

My Monday with Lucie reminded me that the good stuff happens on any given Monday, of any given week.

I hope I see it and hear it - all of it - more fully.  Even the slamming doors and eye-rolls and exasperated frustration.  That is the good stuff too.

It tells a story of its own.
I don't want to be in too big a hurry to turn the pages too quickly.

I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For (Or Perhaps They Haven't Found Me?)

I've often heard it said that "looking for work is a job in and of itself".  I think there are parts of that statement that ring true.  It takes effort, it takes diligence, and it's not a lot of fun.

I feel like I've spent the last year looking for work.  Last year at about this time I began my quest in earnest.  I wanted to venture out from teaching and look for a job that more closely matched my current area of study.  I perused job search engines, networked, and applied for a lot of jobs.  It was kind of fun at the beginning.  The world was my oyster and the sky was the limit.  I was sure there was going to be something that matched my skill-set and would give me great experience to combine with my master's studies.

It took a long time.

Finally, this past January I found what I hoped would be the perfect job.  It was half time, it provided me with clinical experience, and I believed in the work I'd be doing.   I breathed a huge sigh of relief that my job of searching for a job was over.  I quit checking my job matches on the search engines, I stopped checking the "Careers" section of the Free Press, and I was grateful my hunt for work was over.

Just over three months later, that search began again, in earnest.   It came along with disillusionment, sadness, cynicism, and heaviness.

I've been at it again for nearly three months.  It's no more fun this time around than it was the last time.

Anyone who has looked for work for a significant amount of time can probably relate to the varying emotions you go through when you think you've found yet another "perfect job".  After awhile, it doesn't even have to that close to perfect to fit the bill.   First there's the excitement of seeing something that piques your interest that you know you can do.  You're sure the job is meant just for you!  Anticipation builds as you picture yourself in the job.  You find out as much as you can about it, search your friends list for possible connections that can get your foot in the door, and begin the process of fine-tuning your letter and cv to fit the position.  After you spend hours perfecting both and securing references, you submit it feeling optimistic and confident, sure you'll get an interview.

You wait.  And wait.
And you don't.

It doesn't take long for rejection to hit like a  good old knock upside the head.  This is only amplified by the fact that you may have told people close to you about the great job you're SURE you're going to get an interview for, and out of kindness and curiosity they check in to see what the status is on the job.  Then you get to tell them you've been rejected.  Again.

It's a cycle that keeps repeating itself over and over.

Two weeks ago as I was about to hit "send" on my application to another one of those perfect jobs, I told Mike I didn't think I could keep doing this.  If this one doesn't come through, I don't think I can do this again.  

It didn't come through.
But this last week I did it again... because I have to.

After enough rejections you begin to look at that finely polished cv and the letter that highlights all of your strengths and you begin to doubt it all.  It almost reads like something you've made up, after awhile.  If it was true, you'd get the interview, you tell yourself.  You start to re-read it with a healthy dose of scepticism.   You talk yourself into it and write that next letter with a somewhat forced hand - as if you're trying to convince not only the potential employer but yourself that what you've written is true.

All I need is the interview, you think.  And so you do it again and again.

Maybe this next one will be "the one".
One of them just has to be.
Right?

Unconventional Wine Review

We were in church last Sunday evening.  It had been a few weeks since we had sat in the hard, upright wooden pew.  (Doesn't that sound inviting?  It's the truth though, our faith community meets in a very old, very beautiful Anglican church with the most upright backs on the pews.  There is no slouching, as slouching is not even possible!)

We sang and we sat and we stood and we passed the peace.  When we got up to take our place in the circle for communion, the familiar words rang out.  "Behold who you are.  Become what you receive."  They get me every single time.

Mike was playing violin, so the girls and I stood in our circle together, facing other parts of our community and took the piece of sweet spelt bread, then the pottery goblet in our hands and drank the (real) red wine.  It was just as it is any other Sunday night.

As soon as we got back to our hard, upright pew, Sasha leaned over to me and whispered in my ear, "I loved that.  It was SO good."  I squeezed her shoulder and agreed, yes, it was so good.

She was talking about the wine, you see.  We're hoping she won't become a lush, as our 9 year old really loves the taste of the communion wine at st. ben's.  To be fair, it is good.  It's sweet and rich and lingers long after you've swallowed.  Quite honestly, it's delicious.  And obviously, Sasha agrees.

That's how I want "it" to be and to remain for her.  Delicious.

"It" being shared faith experience.  Communion.  The body of Christ.

I want it to be free of expectation and hoop-jumping.
Void of regulation and exclusion.
Not about what she can't do and who she can't be.

I want it to be full of flavour.
Flavour on her tongue, yes, but flavours in her circle.
Heavy with differing expressions and the freedom to chase and pursue them.
Beautiful in variation and always delicious.
(It's the delicious part that will draw her back.)

I can't imagine better words to hear than "I loved that.  It was SO good."
May the wine draw her back again and again.

Just a Crack...

I have not been writing as much as I used to.  The word slow-down started when I began my job in January.  Suddenly, it seemed, there was no time for words.  I used to have space in my day and in my mind where words would take hold.   I didn't even have to try.  After I started working more, the spaces in my days and in my mind were taken over with "to do" lists and my client's stories.  So many stories.  It was almost impossible for me to write because the words of their stories took center stage.  

I missed the space for my words to find their place.

At the end of April it seemed there would be lots of time for words again.  My job was gone.  Suddenly the stories stopped.  Someone had pressed "stop" and "eject" without my permission.  Things came to a drastic, painful, all-consuming end, and I wasn't ready.  There were words in my mind and on my screen then.  Seventeen pages of words that described my experience with toxicity and confusion, and stories of others living in fear and repression.  I shared those stories and I waited.

Suddenly, I had lots of time again.

Sometimes the thing you need to do most is the very thing you oppose and push away with every morsel of your being.  It's often like this for me.  When I feel the most alone and am filled with sadness, I have an overwhelming desire to shut the blinds, lock the doors, and burrow myself into my bed, only coming out when I must.  When I have the most words to write, are the times I often feel paralysed to even open my computer.  The more I obey the feelings that isolate me, the more impossible it is to move forward.

Finally, this week, I heard stories again.  I saw people.  I heard phrases and expressions that gave way to my imagination.  The beginnings of blog posts appeared in my mind as my head lay on my pillow at night.  My consumption with the abrupt ending to the job I loved was shifting into the background.  It's still in the picture.  I can still see it in every view and every scene.  But it's no longer always in the foreground.

And so, I'll begin again.

I'll begin because it's good for me.
Because I have things to say.
Because I feel more alive when I do.
Because there are voices and stories all around me that need to be told.
Because I must.

This is my attempt at cracking the blinds open a little and letting some light in.
Perhaps,  I may even have a little light to let out.
I know there is darkness to let out;  I'll have to be ok with exposing that too.

I do know one thing.
You can't move forward unless you begin.  Again.

Pride

Today was a beautiful day for Pride.  The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and according to local media, there were record numbers of people out to show their support and celebrate the LGBTQ community in Manitoba.

The first Pride parade in Winnipeg was held in 1987.  There were 250 people in attendance.  Today, over 10,000 people came out.  What a story numbers can sometimes tell.

After last year's fight for anti-bullying legistlation which included the provision for each publically funded educational institution to have the right to have a Gay-Straight Alliance, it was rewarding to see the numbers of high school students proudly walking behind their banners.

I love the fact that the Pride parade brings out the best in people.   People are free to express themselves exactly as they want to.  They are free to express their affection for their partners and their friends in the way that they choose.  There is music and dancing, and young and old.

I was thrilled to see faith represented in a few different expressions in this year's parade.  There were several denominations marching proudly behind banners...

.... including my Alma matter - the Mennonites.  It was a proud moment!

This might have been my favorite slogan of the parade.

There was a large contingent of CBC staff out in the parade, including a big crew from DNTO.

People sometimes ask me why this is important to me.  Why we'd bring our girls out to an event like this.  Ellie and Sasha would tell you they go because it's fun.  I'd tell you that it's because there are still countries in the world in which being gay can result in a jail sentence, a beating, or death.  It's because in Canada, over half of homeless youth identify as LGBTQ, and likely found themselves in that position because they were afraid, conflicted, and unaccepted.  It's because my own personal research this year led me to discover that suicide rates among those in the church who identify as LGBTQ are substantially higher than those who do not.

I'd tell you that I support people to love who they choose, and I value them exactly as they are.

For the record, I think God does too.

Today was a great reason to celebrate.

Pioneer

I grew up in a small prairie town.  I was surrounded by familiarity, Mennonites, and tradition.  Each year of school began with most of the same people I finished with the year before.  The same faces and names, with most of the those faces and names having a similar story to my own.

So imagine the buzz in my grade three class when a new student was to join us who was from a place very far away.  His name was Peter, and his family had just settled into town from South Africa!  Imagine!  My curiosity was brewing, and my mind wandering, at just the thought of meeting someone from someplace so exotic.   Soon we met.  In walked a small in stature, beautiful (to my mind now) boy who spoke with the most amazing South African accent.  He seemed to be from another world, and was full of stories of a life that seemed like a dream.  Although I was intrigued by him then, I can't say I was all that fond of him.  He seemed to steal the show.  He was very bright.  He gave me a run for my money, and he even tripped me on my way to the chalkboard one morning which resulted in a nasty bump on my head.

Soon, the whole town knew of the Hargraves family.  They had arrived with three girls and Peter in tow, and were settling down in the middle of the prairies to begin again.  Their arrival brought questions and queries.  Their accent made their words sound like poetry, and their family always looked  and seemed as though they knew what adventure really was.

Their family stayed.  When they settled in that prairie town they made it their own.  As the years went on, the girls and Peter began to lose their accents and became, what appeared to be, regular prairie kids.  They played sports, made music, and were part of the fabric of the community.  Peter truly became my friend.  He still is.

Today we gathered in a church in that same prairie town to say goodbye to Peter's dad, David.  The afternoon was full of stories of his courage, his brave pioneering spirit, and his unwavering convictions.   I always knew Mr. Hargraves as Pete's dad.  Today I saw him as something else all together.  Maybe it's because I'm a parent now, and my girls aren't that different in age as his four children when he and his faithful companion Judy left their beloved South Africa to begin again.  They had to leave.  It was not longer safe, and his couldn't raise his children in a country where apartheid existed.   There have been times, over the years, when I wondered what it must have been like for them.  Today I tasted just a morsel of it.  I saw that young family in their train car leaving their home and was filled with incredible awe at the journey this family took.

I like to think a life is well-lived if there is something another person can take from it to make themself better. I took many things with me today.  I heard of how David adored his beloved wife Judy, and never let a chance go in conversation to remind his company of how amazing a woman she was.  When I see the strong, capable, creative, compassionate women his daughters have become, it is so clear that he held women in high regard and expected the very best.  When I see the way Pete operates in partnership with his wife and parents his own three daughters, I see that same thread running through another generation.

There were stories of his faith, his adventures, and his passions.  But what struck me most today was the way he could not tolerate injustice.  He simply couldn't bear it.  When he knew something was wrong, he spoke up and out, even when it cost him his home, and meant leaving his family and the only life he'd known.

I felt like I feasted today;  on stories, words, music, and memories of a life well-lived.  I get to continually feast on my friendship with Pete that was made possible for me, way back in grade three, by a brave man who started over with his family in a little prairie town.

There is so much goodness in lives filled with story.

Bring Back Our Girls

Nearly three weeks ago, 300 school girls were abducted at gun point from a boarding school dorm in Nigeria.  Amazingly, it has taken the media weeks to make this a lead story and for the world to get interested enough to make something happen. 

The Nigerian community knows what this kind of abduction can cost them.  They know that if you take a group of  educated girls, the size of a village, and force them to disappear, the consequences go on forever.  This crime isn't just about those 250 girls still missing.  It's about the chain of events down the line, and the culture of fear it will breed.  It's about sending a message to young Nigerian women that getting an education is a "crime" worthy of abduction at gun-point, being sold into marriage, and possibly never being returned to your family and home again.  

We still live in a world where there are people who think educating women is dangerous enough to warrant this kind of punishment.   

Today we gathered with the Winnipeg Nigerian community to stand with them and show our support and commitment to bringing "our" girls home.  They really are our girls, aren't they?  Unless we believe that, it won't matter enough for us to do something.

There was so much color and vibrancy at the Legislature this afternoon.  We gathered and sang and were rallied on the steps...

... then began a walk around the grounds to mark the start of the call for action.

There was a sea of red.  You almost felt as though you were crashing a family gathering of a family that wasn't yours - only this family invited you in and gave you a seat at the table.

Our girls were recruited to carry some letter signs and stand together with a host of other kids to spell out #Bring Back Our Girls.

The rally began with two prayers - one from the Nigerian Christian community and one from the Nigerian Muslin community.  Two men stood side by side and prayed to God and Allah for the country they love and the safe return of the girls.  They want the same things.  

Side by side is a powerful place to be.

There were impassioned words from leaders of the Winnipeg Nigerian community.  Most powerful were the words spoken by the women.  Women who know first-hand what education means to a young woman in Nigeria.  And when the passion took over, the resounding cry from those who were gathered echoed through the crowd.

There were the most beautiful sights and colors.  

Profound images that demonstrated strength and resilience.

 The colors, the drumming, the music, the words drifting over the crowd calling everyone to care about our girls coming home...
...that's what I want my three girls to remember and take with them.

My three girls who have the right to be educated with no fear.
My three girls who truly can choose to become as smart and informed as they want to be.
My three girls who know that the sky is the limit to see through their passions and dreams.

They are not "their" girls.

They are our girls.

Bring them back.

Catching Up. Always Catching Up

What I want to do:

-answer the phone when it rings
-return emails in good stead with thoughtful responses
-invite people I love over for good food and long visits
-remember important things and honor the changes that are happening in the lives of people I love
-spend time with my girls one-on-one and engage them in weighty conversations and belly laughs
-always be up on the girl's homework, school projects, and correspondence
-meet people I love for long and rambling dialogue, tears, and laughter over hot tea, or good gin
-offer to look after the toddlers of my friends so that they can have a break
-plan and shop for healthy and delicious meals for my family
-read to my hearts content
-write a blog post for every time I am stopped in my tracks by something that hurts or delights me


What I actually do:

-never answer the phone
-occasionally return emails, rarely with the immediacy their senders deserve
-think of people I want to spend time cooking for and sharing a meal with
-feel guilty about not inviting them over
-wallow in a bit of shame for not being able to
-forget milestones, events and changes my friends are experiencing
-become frozen at responding to my failures because I feel I've let them down
-lay awake in my bed at night thinking of all of the things I want to talk to my girls about
-forget piano lessons, deadlines, and forms
-lament how much I miss the most significant people in my life
-wish I could give my friends in the toddler trenches a break, but know I have no break to give
-fly by the seat of my pants and spread peanut butter and jam on bread more often than I used to
-stare at the stack of amazing books on my bedside table and dream of longer days to read them
-say the words I'd write about what hurts or delights me, in my head at night - in lieu of the page


What I need to do:

-become more organized and intentional about guarding the things that are most important
-get up earlier to make more of my day
-say "no" without guilt or excuses


What I want to do:

-forgive myself for not measuring up
-create a way to press "pause" on life and catch up, once and for all

Breathe.

We sit in a circle, listening to stories, singing songs, and reciting the words of the liturgy.  It's the last gathering of our weekend at the spring retreat for our church community.

At my feet and to my right sits a young man with eyes that sparkle and a half-smile on his face.  At his feet lays a black lab named Charlie, who brings a calming and soothing presence to his companion who happens to be profoundly autistic.

His hands are busy, brushing over and over his i-pad; zooming in and out and changing color.  Deliberate motions and changes that are done with intention and purpose.  He is leaning back on his mom's legs.  Every so often she leans down to reassuringly rub his shoulders or kiss the top of his head.  He is over 6 feet, but he needs his mom to be close.   Every so often, his low voice, sounding more and more like that of a man, repeats the same word, over  and over, while using his fingers to tap his chest in tandem....

"Breathe.  Breathe.   Breathe."

He looks up at his mom and she says, "yes, breathe", and so he does.

In a few minutes, he repeats the word and the tapping again, and then again.  On it goes as the morning goes, and his voice saying the word, together with the sound of his fingers tapping his chest take up residence in my memory.  I can hear him now, as I sit at my keyboard, in the quiet of a house that sleeps.

When the bread comes around, I break off a piece and place it in his hands, and he takes it.
"The body of Christ, broken for you."

The wine comes next, and I help tip it back for him as he takes a generous gulp.
"The blood of Christ, shed for you."

His eyes hardly leave his i-pad as his images zoom in and out, and the tap tap tap of his fingers on his chest begin again as he repeats the word.   "Breathe.  Breathe.   Breathe."

It's like a soundtrack that doesn't stop, and as it's repeated over and over again, most people don't even hear it.

And in the midst of all of the words of the weekend, spoken, shared, and sung, it's that one word from his mouth that stays with me.  I can't shake it, because it has gone to my core.

"Breathe".

When his anxiety rises, he tells himself to breathe.  He taps his chest to remind him, to make a physical action to connect the dots and get his body to fall into step with the word his voice knows so well.

When my anxiety rises,  I don't usually breathe.  My fists clench, my shoulders rise, my chest tightens.  How much better would it be to just breathe?  To connect with the rising tension, inhale, and exhale the tightness and discomfort that wants to take up space where it doesn't belong...

So this week I will remember the word, and the voice that spoke it.
The tap, tap tap of fingers on a chest that has learned to breathe.

Who Ellie Is, Now That She's Eleven

She is getting longer and taller with legs that seem to go on forever.
She still has scrumptious squishy cheeks that she lets me sink my whole face into when I kiss her goodnight.
She still wants to sit on my lap and lets me wrap my arms all around her and squeeze her tight.
She actually craves moments like that.
The space around her is never quiet.
She is always singing.  Her mantra seems to be, "If you're going to sing, sing so the whole world can hear you".
She still doesn't really like reading very much... except books that involve people dying.  I don't get it, but as long as a book is open on her lap, I don't ask too many questions.
She dances three times a week and loves every minute of it.
Her heart is still so very soft.  A word with even a hint of harshness will disolve her.
She does amazing accents.  She spent 2 straight hours on Sunday working with Mike on her Science Fair project, talking like a southern belle.  She's convincing too.
There are moments I catch a glimpse of teenager in her and I want to hold it back.
She loves guacamole, samosas with tamarind sauce, and pad thai.
Most days, she'd rather stay home than go to school.  She's been this way since Kindergarten.
There is nothing she likes more than a Saturday morning snuggled up with Sasha watching bad TV.
I wish she could see how captivating she is.
She is the comic relief in a household full of high-strung and somewhat tightly tightly wound females.
She really wanted a onesie for her birthday.
When she put on the fleece one she got, and I hugged her, she felt like a great big stuffie.
She is learning how she fits in between two sisters who are so different from her.
She fills a space in our family that was made just for her.

Nine

She's nine today, that baby of mine.

Sasha loves to hear the story of when she came to be.  How we were only at the hospital for a very short time when she arrived - all pink and beautiful,  with a perfectly round face and lips like tiny rosebuds.

Sasha is the baby and she always will be.  She is growing up with her older sisters going ahead of her to navigate some of the twists and turns to make things a little easier for her.  But so much of her life is far from what her sisters have choosen for themselves.   While they have loved dance and a little bit of bling, Sasha throws a mean spiral and loves her Jets jersey.  They have wanted long hair to braid and curl and Sasha wants hers short to stay out of her way when she's on the basketball court.  They don't tend to enjoy "constructive criticism" while Sasha spends hours taking guidance from Mike and perfecting her throw or her shot, without even a hint of frustration.

She might be a mean competitor on the court or the field, but there is nothing she likes more than a warm arm around her snuggled right around her body as she falls asleep.  After we've chatted and prayed, and the last kiss is planted, she almost always says, "stay with me a little longer", and I almost always do, because requests like that don't last forever.

She is serious and deliberate.
Disciplined and stubborn.
Always the baby.

And today she is nine.