Hint of Her Perfume

Autumn Tears
Just a hint of her perfume
so subtle it might be missed.

Like the turn of an ankle
a glimpse of her glory

Her robes in earths' own tones
colour and sky that intertwine

Just a hint, just a breath
almost impercetible
yet, indeed her arrival is almost here.

She left a calling card
to tell me so
painted in her own hues
of passion, of change
her very own - Autumn

Soaking in Fragrance and Flavour

Soak it in
The steep climb in the gondola took you from sea level, up several thousand feet, from the heat below to the cool breezes above, at the top of Monte Faito. The buzzing of Vespas, the constant cacophony of car horns, the odour of exhaust was below at sea level and up here was clear clean cool air. The temperature below was hot and sticky but here in the quietness, it was a balmy 80 degrees. Olive trees swayed and whispered, birds sang and their symphony was tender, dogs stretched out in the shade of the small cafe, and I sat with pen in hand, camera ready, letting this sacred space speak to me every time I sought it out. There were conversations with school children who wanted to hear about Canada - I shared about my country in their language. Sometimes it was English speaking tourists who had chanced upon this beauty and needed some help translating. There were days when the peeling back of the layers of my soul could not be done in the constricting confines of the four walls of my living quarters - only the wind and open space of a mountain top could hold the sacred of this work.Whatever it was Monte Faito became a place of soul soaking when I lived in Italia. Soul soaking that puts one in a place of inhaling the fragrance that begins to change the whole consistency and balance of Light and dark, of story, of pain and of joy, were the wind wipes away the tears and lets the sun turn them to diamonds.Tre Pini was a small ristorante. I say was because I know it has closed down now. Built with its back against the rocks, it nestled into the mountain side. Lina, whose family owned this place, became a friend who knew my face, and let me spend hours writing, while I enjoyed their delicious simple creations from the kitchen. At this time of year, August, the peaches were in plenitude. One way to enjoy them was to skin them, slice them, and drop them in a jug then fill it with home made red wine. We would enjoy the wine with our meal. When it was time to eat dessert the peaches would be skewered, then savoured as their wine soaked juice trickled down our throat. Intoxicating indeed! But mountain top experiences can be intoxicating. They are soaked in fragrance and flavour that at times cannot be described in our limited language of words.

Surprises and Serendipity

Serendipity and celebration -it's like they quietly step into the backyard and move the heart from solitude to communion with God. I firmly believe that both are when the wind of the Spirit moves into the stillness of the heart and opens all the senses up to the absolute deliciousness of that very moment in time. In the last few weeks several of these moments came to me, uninvited but welcomed. The need to be alone with the combination of warm sun and some spare time, gave me the opportunity to go to my favourite cafe. On the third floor, with a large sun deck, overlooking the bay, this cafe run by a couple from the Middle East has become sacred space for me. Ahhhh, the bistro tables, large umbrellas swaying elegantly in the gentle breeze, and a perfect vista out over the Georgia Straight made the perfect setting. A place to deep breath, feel very alive, bring out my journal and pen and ...just be. Then add to that the best baklava ever, not too sweet, just enough honey to let it melt in your mouth. Celebrate simply because I could. Celebrate with a special coffee - a French kiss that came with layers that looked intriguing. Hanni and Viva know that food at any time deserves respect and awe and this afternoon I wanted to be awed by the ordinary. Hanni brings pastries in from France and he was telling me about their croissants. My mind wandered back to Castellammare and our late night bakery visits. Often, after midnight, we would hop into Maria's bright orange Fiat Cinque Cento (500), buzz open the family gate, and navigate our way through the Vespa's roaring round the City streets. The streets in the Neapolitan area never go to sleep until about 4AM, taking a short nap before waking shortly after 5AM. She knew the streets well, especially the oldest part of the City that is inhabited by one of the oldest cultures of the country - the Camorra. Narrow cobblestone streets just wide enough for her machina, full white bedsheets fluttered from balconies above, drying in the night air. Rattling along we climbed up the hills until we came to the corner where the open door of the bakery welcomed us in. The croissants always came out of the oven between midnight and 2AM, and you could smell your way to them in this crowded, old part of town! Hot steaming croissants that could be filled with either custard or nutella - whichever you prefer! I smile, outside and inside, when I remember our laughter as we sat by the beach in the early morning eating this decadent late night snack. Hanni laughed at the croissant story and agreed - celebrating isn't necessarily for events, but simply for the serendipity of the moment. A few moments later he arrived at my bistro table with one of his freshly baked croissants! "In honour of this moment here and the memory of late night croissant runs" he said. Memory and present were entwined together. I was sharing this recently with my friend Anj, when the two of us were at Mars Hill Graduate School for a weekend workshop on writing our story. It was our final day, and there were a couple of hours of free time and a place to sit in the shade would be perfect. We strolled out of the air conditioned confines of the cookie cutter office building, longing for a serene spot to sit together, continue our writing, and our conversations. "For a shady place to sit and relax", Anj said. "Well" I replied, "if we can find a shady quiet spot, I have the chairs in my car". One must always be prepared for serendipity!! My end of season bargains last summer of those folding chairs in a bag are kept always available, just in case I can slip by the beach and read a book, or snooze in the sun - with an extra in case a friend is along. We didn't have far to go. The far back corner of the office complex parking lot had trees nestled at the base of a rock retaining wall, soft ground cover, shade and tranquillity. There we sat, feet up, Anj with her computer on her lap, I with my journal, wearing elegant skirts, sipping bottled water and basking in the delight of our own little "park". Ahhhhhhh sometimes serendipity is just too delicious to pass by. And sometimes it simply arrives before your eyes and begs you to take advantage of the moment. However it arrives I think we should celebrate it! The sun has come creeping through the blinds this morning, pulling them back I am drinking in the colours of my garden, and sipping my soy latte - this feels like celebration this morning. And perhaps I realize that before long summer will be gone and hanging onto it for as long as possible imprints this one on my memory with the previous ones.

Throw Away the Box Cover

Those who have wounded us most deeply are the ones we often wait for to say "I am so sorry I hurt you". Reality is they have not and maybe never will. They are the ones who somehow feel that relationship will be fine if it is never remembered, never spoken of, never acknowledged.

They have betrayed us.

They want life to be like the cover of the jigsaw puzzle, so perfect with nothing missing. The reality is we live in the pieces, some missing, some forever lost, some tattered and ripped. Yet we still live. We live in the pieces, in the brokenness, looking at the cover
of the box.

The cover be damned. It isn't truth or reality - it is the illusion of the perfect picture. Ilusions never tell the truth - they are masters at hiding it. While we wait for the words to be spoken or actions to give us back the picture, grief sits inside of us, unable to move through the illusion to break through it. Grief never comes while we remain in that unreal place.

Redemption may come in the most unexpected way. Someone will stand in the gap. Someone will bring us to the place where Jesus lets us see that this box cover has no life. It is not 3 dimensional, it has no senses attached to it- no colour, no smell, no feeling, no taste and no touch. Like the old idea that the world was flat - we may fall off the edge if we move from it! The picture enlarges for me as I write.

The redemption comes from moving in the circle of grace. There is no visible beginning and no visible end. The spherical shape allows us to begin to move, to move out of the staleness of the "still life" box cover.

In the last few weeks a huge piece of my story entered the place of redemption and moved into the circle of grace. I deep breathe as I begin to take in the miracle of it. Thank God for those who stood in the gap.

Grace and legalism cannot exist together. Legalism will squeeze grace out, but grace will invite legalism to shed it's coat and begin to find true life.

Shame and dignity cannot exist together in our story. Shame holds us in bondage. Dignity gives shame a kick in the butt and invites us to wear dignity and honor our story with the co-author of it - God.

Living in the Not Yet

In the early morning, before the dawn had whispered hello, before the stillness of the night was changed to the hum of the day, I awoke. In my mind, and my heart, were friends who this week have experienced the agony of “hope deferred”. That place of living in the “not yet” which holds disappointment, anger, questions that have no answers and tears that come from the soul retreating to desert places. Abba has chosen to leave some of these questions unanswered, yet my heart still asks for the dreams, for the why, or for the why not. Maybe it is because the thought of my questions and of my dreams slipping into insignificance with the Almighty feels like a betrayal of “hope”.

My thoughts today were of those I know who have in this past week have had to move into the desert of “not yet”.
- the little one conceived, unnamed, yet in Abba’s image, whose little heartbeat stopped much to early, and whose face you never saw. My friends you had waited so long for this moment, and hope deferred is breaking your hearts. I am so sorry.
- Another who has longed for a partner and the joy of a tentative new beginning has been “deferred”. You have so hoped for change, struggled with believing in your beauty and worth and this is a deep wound. You are still worth it, you are still beautiful. I am so sorry you must still wait in the “not yet” for what your heart longs for.
- A simple comment yesterday to another as she held someone’s child in her arms. This couple have so bravely lived in the “not yet” of being parents and their courage to embrace what has been placed in their hands now astounds me. You have lived with so much of “hope deferred” and the tenderness that has grown in the garden of disappointment is incredible. I am sorry for your pain but in that you have nurtured me in the birthing of story.
- In another “not yet” I have seen your heart long for your invitation to dance to be responded to. I am sorry for the angst in the place of waiting for the response.
- For Bobbie and Liam who wait for the Kingdom appointment that brings new, amazing freedom in their calling. I am sorry for the pain of waiting in this place.
- Those stories you shared with me of the “not yet” waiting room for the redemption of just that one particular story – I am sorry for the waiting and so admire your courage for continuing to seek redemption.
- For those of us who wait in the “not yet” to be chosen, I understand your pain too.

“Hope deferred makes the heart sick”, and “unrelenting disappointment leaves you heartsick” as Eugene Peterson translates this Proverb.

Hope has often been a four letter word in my life - hope and shit seemed to have the same stench. I don’t apologize for using this word because it is the most descriptive for the stench of refuse, of the unwanted, unusable. And at times hope can be defined no other way. My question to Abba this last week was for a redefining of hope. What I saw was that hope, without shame, is like the lingering delicate scent of freesias. Their scent is similar to the comforting aroma of a fresh cup of black tea, with bergamot. A pot of tea, that can refill cup after cup as you sit by the window in the morning watching the day arrive, legs curled up under you, letting this waking time gently unfold. It is like wrapping my hands around my beautiful china cup steaming and full of tea in the evening, pondering the unexpected or the unexplained of the day. Often I have put hope in an event but in this redefining perhaps hope is simply the expectation and the wonder of the unexplainable. Could it be hope and the “not yet” are entwined in a way that makes us always long for the redemption of the story as we live it without shame?

This morning I sat in hope, and brought you there with me.

It is only with the heart that one can see rightly …what is essential is invisible to the eye.
Saint Exupery

Barefoot Freedom - Shoes of Shame

Soft, warm sand that caresses your feet as you walk along the beach. Pebbles that are
warmed by the sun cause a slight discomfort as bare feet walk across them. Larger stones
become more painful to walk across but the bare soul of the foot will feel each stone as
your weight is put upon them. Hot pavement makes you jump and dance across it,moving as
quickly as you can to prevent that bare flesh from being seered by the heat. Crossing
mountain streams the cold water refreshes the sore flesh while at the same time causing
muscle cramps. One can only move with caution and tentative testing of the wet rocks that
may be smooth, or may be slippery with moss. It is so easy to fall in this crossing. Glass, sharp stones, hot pavement, soft sand, cool dew covered grass, puddles left by the
rain - ones bare feet will feel and register various levels of pain, temperature and texture
and varying degress of danger and difficulty in this life story. The flesh will become
tougher, more calloused, but it will feel every bit of life those feet stand fully connected
to.
For me, the call to freedom is to walk barefoot in life. This will mean feeling the pain at
deeper levels, in unexpected places in my soul from unseen sharp terrain that my life's
journey carries me across. It will also call my soul to come and venture into a deeper
degree of joy when I experience the beauty after a time of rain, or for that matter, any
season in the circle of life. Freedom calls me to a place of knowing the exquist softness
of life as much as the biting sharpness, the rollicking streams - and walk it courageously
barefoot.
Shame is those familiar old slippers - comfortable and easy to slip into. Shame is the
shoes that cover up my soul to hide from the pain while at the same time also isolate it
from the wonder of adventure and joy. I stop laughing, playing, dancing, sensuality
retreats, creativity seems blocked. Not only do I stop seeing the wonder, I have only
contempt when I see it in others. Damn those shoes of shame! They rob us so hideously!
How can it be so easy to step into the shoes of shame when with all my heart I am hungery to
live in this barefoot freedom? How can it be that only a word can cause my body to hunch
over, my soul run for the comfortable covering of the shoes of shame? I do not have answers
for this. What I do know is that over the last month I went to the cupboard of the past and
put on those shoes of shame. Sitting, asking questions, writing story, I am taken by
surprise when I see these old, unwanted, unexpected shoes again.
Only practice at walking barefoot in freedom lets us become more familiar with the delight
and wonder and beauty. Only practice will allow us to recognize when we have stepped into
the shoes of shame and let us kick them off. Practice and commumnity. Clarity on my shoes
of shame came this last weekend while I was in Seattle at Mars Hill Grad School. My
co-story tellers in my group challenged me to find truth in areas of shame. It was late
night talks with my friend and roommate who asked hard truths, and for more of my story,
that began to crack open the hold of shame on my heart and soul. As Anj says, sitting in
silence with your story is essential. Along with that essential silence we need community.
Community that in their brokeness calls us to hold each other to barefoot freedom. They see
our shame by our body language and our unkind words and tears to ourselves. Community,
Jesus kind of community,compassionately, honestly and lovingly reminds us we are on holy
ground and have forgotten to take our shoes off - barefeet feel so amazing on holy ground!

PS - sorry for the strange printing pattern - I am still having problems with my computer!

Today's Prayer

Dear Lord,

You are the Way,
I am the pilgrim.
You are the bearer of Good News.
By Your grace, I am Your voice.
You hold the keys to set the captives free
May I unlock the door?
You are the healer.
Make me Your caregiver.
You release the oppressed.
May I walk with them.
You proclaim the year of the Lord's favour
May I sound the trumpet?

Jesus, fulfill Your life in me and
hear my sighs and groans for suffering women.
Turn my every word into a creative act
as You establish freedom and justice on earth.
Make me Your instrument.

In Your compassionate Name,
Amen

from Day 1 (pg18)
Discovering God's Heart for Suffering Women

Thinking about Grace

Grace. A simple five letter word. A simple concept and yet, we have complicated it beyond acceptability? Last week at our faith community, The Whatever, Mike Todd asked us to think about the fact that grace stands alone, needs nothing added to it, should not have anything added to it. Somehow each of us put conditions on our own acceptance of grace.

What hooks do you have on grace? My hook, or rather one of the largest ones, is that in order to receive grace I had better not make mistakes. Making mistakes disqualifies me from grace – at least in my own mind, my own perspective of who God is, this is the caveat I have put on receiving grace. A caveat that is totally ineffective – there is no need to block grace and nothing can do so. Grace is simply unquantifiable.

Making mistakes, or not having things “perfect” not only isolates the heart and mind from grace but the reality is that in the places of brokenness and mistakes grace, amazing grace is offered. Grace and our imperfections can co-exist. In this place my story is being written and its redemption is actively taking place. It is 100% pure grace, unconditional love found where grace and our imperfections intersect and where we meet the giver of grace, Jesus. One more prison door is unlocked in our progression deeper into freedom, the freedom that is Truth and the place of Love that casts out fear. Grace pours in shalom and brings with it Light to break the darkness.

If grace in our brokenness brings redemption in our story, and we are moved towards freedom, then somehow putting conditions on grace says we fear freedom. Why? Why are we then, in effect, so profoundly afraid of freedom?

After ruminating on grace, and “mistakes”, I realize that grace, and our acceptance of it is essential to finding those essential threads necessary to embracing my story along with the Author of it. Healing takes place in the redeeming. Grace therefore is an essential healing agent in our lives. Grace with no hooks, no conditions, no additives or preservatives – just 100% pure grace.

For Those Who are Single

These quotations from Dan Allender’s book To Be Told are a tender acknowledgement about singleness that I have never read anywhere else.

Our story is a face-to-face encounter with all of life’s betrayals – not just the loss of relationship with close friends or siblings. (pg 83)

There are single men and women who exist in perpetual widowhood. They grieve what has never been and often surrender their present to dread of the future. (pg 84)

And there are many singles who live with not only the loss of absence of a partner but also the memory of past violence and the anticipation of once again being misused. It is widowhood, but without the benefit of a shared past or the anticipated reunion following death.
…the single experiences widowhood. She is single to some degree because she has not been chosen.
The single woman (and man) bears the same pain as a widow, but with the additional heartache of not having been chosen.” (pg 85)

Not being chosen can often be equated with the Psalm that says “hope deferred makes the heart sick”. People will be tender towards one who has lost a spouse, or to couples who are childless, but that compassion is often not offered to those whose dreams have been lost in other ways. One of those ways may have been for a spouse, a partner to share life with.

This is a tough subject to write on and yet I feel often that it is a subject no one wants to discuss or address but rather it is like whispered pity in church circles.

No matter what our story is, what the losses are, what the hope is or what has been deferred, the redeeming threads are woven as deeply into the singles story as into that of those with partners. Grace is no less, calling is no less, our personhood is not less valuable, and our identity is a strong as any others. Our identity is not based on who we are in relationship with in family or partnership, or by our gender, but it stands solely on who we are as designed by and breathed into by our Creator.

Angela wore purple

Purple. Angela always work purple. In fact Angela wore the same clothes every day of the school year. She never smiled, never laughed - I was afraid of Angela.

We were in grade 5 together. I walked past her house on my way to school, walking a little faster when I passed by her house on Blair Road. Her family were Scottish and there were 5 little girls with Angela being the oldest. The yard was littered with broken toys, broken windows, and rarely were any of the girls playing in the yard. Angela wore the same purple clothes every day of the school year.

I don't like to wear purple.

Angela's purple clothes had a terrible odour, in fact Angela stank. Her long blond hair was stringy, hanging in her eyes. She had huge brown eyes that watched everyone with such intensity. I was afraid to look in her eyes.

Rumours were all I knew about Angela. They said her father was always drunk, that he beat up his daughters, that he did horrible things to them.

I didn't understand any of it - but I stayed away from Angela, and I never wore purple. Now years later, after working on crisis lines, volunteering on the streets reaching out to prostitutes, working in a ministry that allows me to prepare gourmet meals for beautiful women who are caught in the sex trade, I understand so much more about Angela. And I am ashamed, so sorry that I joined all the others in shunning this wounded broken child. Ashamed that none of us ever got to know her. In Grade 5 I didn't know any of the signs of abuse. Now I know.

Back then we never spoke about "that" - sexual abuse. It was silent, secret and never to be mentioned.

In the last year as I have taken the journey of acknowledging and telling of my own incident of being sexually molested, I have cried for Angela. How I wish I could go back and ask her to play, to sit beside her, with her in the playground dirt, and be unafraid of the odour. Perhaps it was the smell of fear. Where is she now? Did anyone ever break through her silence and allow her to share her story? I have prayed for her, held her in the Light, asking Abba where ever she is to bring her out of darkness, into the healing that only Light can bring. Is there someone to hear her story? Does she still wear purple?

I sat in the sun today, the wind on my face, and looking across the balcony as I drank my jasmine green tea, I saw a lady wearing purple. It was the reminder to pray for Angela, to hold her in the Light.

Of all the things that purple stands for may Angela be wearing nobility, wisdom and dignity today. She was strong, she was courageous, she, in her woundedness, wore the colour of dignity.