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.