Post #48: Pregnancy, Moving, and the Art of Being Humbled

My plan was to sit down at the end of the school year and write this post. I thought that would be that sweet spot in between no work responsibilities, but would also happen before Baby #2 made his/her appearance. Which obviously means that nothing happened according to plan!

Since it has been a while since I last wrote, allow me to update you. In September 2018 I went back to work after my mat leave, but only returned to work part time (I held a 2/3 position, so I taught two classes a semester instead of three). By the end of October we found out we were pregnant with Baby #2, which meant I entered into that world of working, raising a toddler (and one incredibly independent, energetic one at that), and experiencing pregnancy. By January 2019 we began to get the sense that our two bedroom unit wasn't going to work anymore for two kids plus housing any of my family that came to visit when the baby arrived. By the beginning of April our house had sold and thus began the stress of having just over two months to find a house. By the end of April we had found a house and I began the process of packing, knowing that the end of the school year would be incredibly busy as well as that moving at 37 weeks and 5 days would make packing close to impossible. Just over a week after the purchase of our house was finalized, we ended up in the hospital for a pre-term labour assessment as I started having some mild contractions (I was 31.5 weeks pregnant). Everything was fine, though the overall assessment came back that I was stressed. Somehow we made it through the next month and a half. In the two weeks leading up to our move, Jordan implemented a new system at work that took longer than anyone anticipated, and so he had to put in 12-16 hour days for those two weeks, as well as going in on Saturdays to work. I was in the throes of marking, final summatives, and report cards.

I honestly don't know when I have been as stressed as what I was. It got to the point where I found myself wishing for high blood pressure at each midwife appointment so they could tell me I had to go off work. I figured that would remove one stressor from my life, even though I really wanted to finish the year (I loved my classes. My grade nines challenged me in a way I had never been challenged, and my grade twelves were a class of introverts who loved to write... did it get any better?). At each appointment my blood pressure betrayed me and my midwives declared me perfectly healthy.

The Thursday before the move we met with the lawyer, met with the bank, I had a midwife appointment, and then I was late picking up Anson from daycare. I got home, fed Anson, bathed him, and dealt with "strictly-bath-related" meltdown #9 in that two week period. I had finally gotten Anson dressed when my father-in-law called. It was pouring rain and he told me Jordan had asked him to drop a package off and did I mind leaving the front door unlocked so he could just pop it in and not have to wait in the rain. Like I good daughter-in-law I said "Sure." Then I hung up, looked towards Heaven, and cried out to God, "I don't need another f***** box, Lord." And I cried.

A few moments later I heard the door open and shut. As I went downstairs, one of my best and oldest friends appeared. And I lost it. I wept.

*Thank-you, Ashley, for not posting the video you were recording of when I first saw you. I don't think the world is ready for that level of ugly crying.*

Which leads me to the point I really wanted to reflect on in this post. I have never been more humbled that I was throughout this move. I often struggle with feeling like I don't belong. Like I'm just on the outskirts of friend groups. Of wondering why anyone would want to help me or be my friend. And during this time, I had more people offer their help than I thought was possible. And not just in a "Let me know what I can do" kind of a way, but in a "I'm free this Thursday. Can I come clean and pack boxes for you while you sit and mark." I had meals made for us so we were eating something more nutritious than chicken fingers and french fries. I had people offer to watch Anson for me so I could get work done. On the weekend of the move, we had more people come to help load, unload, and clean on the Saturday, Sunday, and Monday, than I thought was possible. Once we were moved in, I had people come to watch Anson so I could get some unpacking done. Ashley and Jordan took over the logistics of moving weekend, and I was sent away on the Saturday to get marking done. Which meant that by the time our first weekend in our new house arrived, my marking and report cards were done.

I don't like asking for help. And I hate feeling like an inconvenience to people. But this experience brought me to a whole new level of realizing that I can't do things on my own. I was physically, emotionally, and mentally unable to do everything that needed to be done. But what humbled me far more than having to ask for help, was the vast amount of help that was offered. To those who helped watch Anson, cooked meals, helped me pack and clean, and helped us move, thank you. Thank you so much. You will never know how much your friendship and help means to me (I have cried so many thankful tears over this, it isn't funny!). To those who helped with Anson and food our first week in the house, thank you. To Ashley and Jordan, thank you for getting Ashley out here. It is amazing how after 20+ years of friendship, you are able to completely hand over the reigns of your own move to your friend and know that she will make sure everything gets done the way you need it done. To Donut Monster and Vintage Coffee, who kept us alive over that weekend, thank you.

What blows me away, is that God didn't stop humbling me with help at this point. We moved on June 17, and on June 22 I finished my report card comments and sent them to my proof reading partner. On June 23, while running errands in the morning, my water broke. That night I submitted report cards (finishing the last of my work responsibilities), and on the morning of June 24, we headed to the hospital to be induced. That night, at 10:57, Gwendolyn Margaret Anne Visser was born (she was 8lbs 13oz and 20.5in long).

*pictures included because I think my kid is adorable and couldn't resist*

As I had to ask for help with Anson, God continued to humble me with the help that came. When Gwen and I were released and I was told that I was supposed to do as little lifting and moving as possible for the first week, I was again overwhelmed with the people who showed up to help. Friends would come and spend a morning with me so they could keep Anson occupied so I could just feed my baby girl and rest. Friends who provided meals. Family who helped me clean and continue with the whole moving process (given that we had only had a week in our house before Gwen came, and there is only so much unpacking a very pregnant woman with a toddler can do).

And even now, with Gwen already being 6.5 weeks old, people continue to bring meals and offer help. God continues to provide. As I slowly start figuring out the steps that are involved in this dance of being a mom to two kids instead of one, God continues to provide.

As I look at the life I have here, as I realize that I'm not on the outskirts of a community but am instead immersed and a part of a community, I see God's provision. When I have to be vulnerable and ask for help, I see it as God's grace on me. He is stretching me and growing me, even though I am in a season where I don't feel like I have the capacity to offer Him as much as I know He deserves.

The moral of the story? If you want to feel humbled, time a move at the intersection of several major points in your life. And then be required to ask for help, lol!

Post #47: The Sunrise Festival

One of the things I love about my childhood is where I grew up.  While I was born in Ontario, at the age of 4 my family moved to Rankin Inlet, Nunavut. When I was 5 we moved to Yellowknife, NWT, and at age 7 we moved to Inuvik, NWT, where we stayed until I was 11 and we moved to British Columbia.  When asked where I would place my hometown, I say Inuvik.

Inuvik is a pretty neat community and I have so many fond memories of growing up there. I remember spending many weekends, or afternoons once school let out, sledding. I remember that instead of playing "house" I used to play "whaling camp." When I close my eyes I can still see myself biking with my friends during the long summer days.

And they were long summer days.

Inuvik was the "Land of the Midnight Sun." It was above the Arctic Circle and for a period of time every summer, the sun never actually dipped beneath the horizon. You had 24 hours of light. People would drop by to visit at midnight. My brothers could play basketball with their friends at two in the morning and it was the same as if it were two in the afternoon. I hated bedtime as a kid because it was still so light out and I felt like I should be allowed to stay up.

It was a pretty incredible experience.

But there was also a flip side to this.

That flip side was that for a month in the winter, you also didn't see the sun. I can remember walking home at lunch time and the sky would lighten, but the sun never rose above the horizon.  I still loved this time, though, because it meant that there were numerous mornings when I would walk to school and see the Northern Lights.

I would pick up one of my friends on our way to school, and the two of us would do our best to whistle at the Northern Lights (because legend has it that whistling to them will make them come closer).

I wish I could adequately describe for you the awe that filled me every time I saw the Northern Lights. Trails of green literally danced across the sky (I always said their dance looked like hundreds of knives chopping as fast as they could).

A friend on Facebook is currently living in Inuvik, and she posted pictures from the Sunrise Festival. You see, to celebrate the sun's "return," the people of the community throw a festival that culminates in a night of fireworks.

So what's the point of all this reminiscing?

On Tuesday morning I went to Coffee Break, a women's bible study at my church. In the opening session before we broke off into our groups, our leader talked about hope. About how none of us, when the sun sets at night, worry about whether it will rise again. He have faith and hope that we will see the sun again and it will be soon.

Which is true.

But I think for some of us the darkness lasts longer than just the night. And that is when we lose hope. Sometimes the sun disappears for longer than several hours. Sometimes it seems to be gone for days... weeks... months... years...

R.C. Sproul refers to what is known as the "Dark Night of the Soul."  He describes this as "no ordinary fit of depression, but a depression that is linked to a crisis of faith, a crisis that comes when one senses the absence of God or gives rise to a feeling of abandonment by Him."

In my daily devotional the other day I read Psalm 6.  Here it is:

1 Lord, do not rebuke me in your anger
    or discipline me in your wrath.
2 Have mercy on me, Lord, for I am faint;
    heal me, Lord, for my bones are in agony.
3 My soul is in deep anguish.
    How long, Lord, how long?

4 Turn, Lord, and deliver me;
    save me because of your unfailing love.
5 Among the dead no one proclaims your name.
    Who praises you from the grave?

6 I am worn out from my groaning.

All night long I flood my bed with weeping
    and drench my couch with tears.
7 My eyes grow weak with sorrow;
    they fail because of all my foes.

8 Away from me, all you who do evil,
    for the Lord has heard my weeping.
9 The Lord has heard my cry for mercy;
    the Lord accepts my prayer.
10 All my enemies will be overwhelmed with shame and anguish;
    they will turn back and suddenly be put to shame.

In Keller's commentary on this Psalm, he talks about how verses 8 and 9 show that God has heard David's cry, that David gets "an assurance that God is listening even though he hasn't done anything about the circumstances--yet" (8).

I know a lot of people who are in the midst of waiting.  Who are experiencing dark nights of the soul. Who struggle to find hope and hold onto faith because it seems like God is doing nothing. They "flood their beds with weeping and drench their couches with tears." They are worn out from groaning. It seems like the sun just isn't going to rise. And with each passing, dark day, their home dwindles more.

I have been in that place on more than one occasion.

On the darkest of days in Inuvik, the Northern Lights appeared.  I see that as the picture of verses 6-9 in Psalm 6. Everything is dark and there is no light. No hope. But God still hears and is present. He doesn't always make the sun shine right away when we want it to. But He is with us in the darkness. In the sorrow and the pain. In the waiting.  That's what the Northern Lights remind me of.  God's presence even when all hope seems lost.

And eventually, the sun will shine again. That may not mean a change in circumstances, but in the same way that David's cries in Psalm 6 turn into praise in Psalm 150, our prayers and pleas will do the same.

Post #46: Tale from the End

I realize that my titling this post as I did, it sounds rather foreboding and ominous. That wasn't my intention. The title has more to do with it being December 31 and the reflection that comes with the end of a year than it does with any other end.

As I write this, my husband is enjoying his last remnants of sleep and my son is sleeping in a chair beside me.  I was prepared for a lot when it came to having a child.  From the time I was eight my family fostered, so we always had babies in the house. I got to become pretty adept at walking children who wouldn't be calmed, being spit up on (among other things), and just discovering, by watching my parents, what it means to love children and maintain a home.  So when we found out we were pregnant, I buckled down and made all sorts of vows about the mother I would be and the choices I would make. I was ready for fussiness and sleepless nights.

I wasn't ready for having a sick baby and dealing with the constant worry and breaking of the heart that happens every time your little one lets out a cry to let you know they are hurting or uncomfortable.  I wasn't prepared to watch him be unable to sleep well because of his discomfort.  Throw into that the Christmas holiday and a change in his routine and this poor little guy has had a rough week.

But he appears to be on the mend and sleeping peacefully right now.

But that is the story of my life. I always go into things trying to prepare myself so that I won't be hurt or surprised. It's a way to keep myself guarded. And at this time every year I get myself ready and prepared for what the following year will hold. I make promises to myself about ways I will change, and I set certain expectations.

As I have mentioned before, if there is one thing God likes to remind me of, it is that He knows best. He rarely (if ever) does things in my timing and my way, but instead reminds me that he is sovereign.

So what's the point of all this?

This year I want to try something different.

For Christmas this year I asked for The Songs of Jesus by Tim and Kathy Keller (again, for anyone who knows me, big shock there... I love me some Keller).  It's a year of daily devotions that work through the book of Psalms.  I have found that lately I don't always have the same amount of time or focus to put into reading larger chunks of the Bible and then contemplating them. My brain just isn't in the place of drawing the same conclusions and connections in a shorter period of time like it used to be (I have been mulling over this post for almost a week... so it isn't a spur of a moment thing).

Now I probably should have waited to start this devotional on January 1, but I started it right away.  Which lends an interesting perspective.

On December 25, Keller makes the point that the final five psalms are all ones of praise. If you read the book of Psalms, there are times of praise and times of lament. But the book ends off with a call to praise. So today, we read Psalm 150.

Psalm 150

1 Praise the Lord.

Praise God in his sanctuary;
    praise him in his mighty heavens.
2 Praise him for his acts of power;
    praise him for his surpassing greatness.
3 Praise him with the sounding of the trumpet,
    praise him with the harp and lyre,
4 praise him with timbrel and dancing,
    praise him with the strings and pipe,
5 praise him with the clash of cymbals,
    praise him with resounding cymbals.

6 Let everything that has breath praise the Lord.

Praise the Lord.

In the reflection that is written on this psalm, the Kellers note that "The psalms are, in the end, a miniature of life. Every possible detail, if prayed to the God who is really there, is destined to end in praise" (365).

Every possible detail, if prayed to the God who is really there, is destined to end in praise.

In the time leading up to finding out we were pregnant, I worried that it wouldn't ever happen. I had a dream about how many children I wanted to have, and with each passing month I watched that dream fade away. Then, when we were pregnant, I lived in fear that something would happen to my baby. Even though I knew it was healthy for me to run and be active while pregnant, every time I ran I was scared that I was hurting my child. I counted movements and listened to the heartbeat with a doppler to make sure that baby was still strong. In the last three months I have discovered that worry doesn't stop. Now I worry when Anson is sick, when he doesn't sleep well, if he isn't eating well (though if you check out this kid's thighs I think he is getting enough food).

At around 3:30 this morning, as I sat holding my coughing child who was trying to hard to sleep but kept waking himself up, I found the fear and anxiety overwhelming. What if he wasn't getting enough fluids? We took him to the doctor yesterday and were told it really is nothing more than a cold, but the fear was still there.

As Anson coughed in my arms, I found myself praying the word "peace" over and over again, asking God to give him peace to sleep. That He would give me peace to rest.

The Kellers go on to also say that "Confession leads to the joy of forgiveness. Laments lead to a deeper resting in him for our happiness. If we could praise God perfectly, we would love him completely and then our joy would be full" (365). We are told to praise God "everywhere (verse 1) for everything (verse 2) in every way (verses 3-5)" (365).

Last year at this time my prayer was for peace and for hope. This year my prayer is that I will truly pray every detail to God, and that every prayer will end in praise. Whether I receive what I want or not, my hope is that by truly taking everything to God, I will remember that He is Emmanuel. God with us.

May God's peace rest on you, and in whatever you are going through, whether it is a time of rejoicing, a time of lament, or something in between, may God give you the ability to bring it to Him. And may He remind you that He is in control. And may that lead you to praise Him.

Happy New Year!

Post #45: Tale from the Waiting

I love Advent.  It's one of those times that just grows in meaning to me with every year. And the last post I did was over a year ago in the advent of Advent. I talked about waiting and how that seemed to be a message God was always working with me on. I was always being told to wait and to trust.

The last post I wrote was over a year ago. This wasn't because I had nothing to write about. It's because the pain and hurt and longing I was experiencing left me in a place where I just wasn't willing to share it publicly. I wasn't able to be that vulnerable

You see, a year ago we were in the midst of trying to get pregnant (about 7-8 months into it), as well as dealing with the fact that my Mom's yearly cancer check-up came back with high cancer markers. I was waiting for answers about Mom's health and we were waiting for a child.

Two years ago one of my closest friends gave me a book for Christmas.  It was by Ann Voskamp and was called The Greatest Gift.  So last year I started reading through it during Advent.

Advent is a time of waiting. Waiting for our Saviour. Waiting for hope. For peace. For perfect love.
At no time have I felt that waiting as deeply as I did last year. As I read through the book it resonated with my personal wait. As I waited for hope. For peace.

Very few people know the depth of what I felt at that time. That very few days went by where I didn't cry. That there were times when I could barely hold it together until my students left class. That my heart felt so fragile and my pain so real.

I wish I could adequately portray for you the depth of emotion I felt. As Christmas approached we were so sure this was going to be the month. That I could go out west for Christmas and that even in the midst of uncertainty with Mom's health, God would give us this beacon of hope and light.  Instead we found out just before Christmas that that wasn't the case. Instead I remember sitting at the back of my darkened class as my students watched Home Alone and I cried.

I didn't doubt that God was still good. He had spent years teaching me that just because I don't get what I want, or what my heart desires at the point, doesn't mean He isn't good. That sometimes His goodness is shown BECAUSE I don't get those things. Because the process of waiting makes me more like Him.

I knew all of this. I knew that God was still faithful. That He loved me.

But that didn't change the fact that last year, during Advent, was the worst pain I had felt. Everyday it seemed like my heart broke a little bit more as we waited for answers. Waited for our hope.

God was still faithful. He spoke to me and to my Mom in the midst of our uncertainty. He reminded us both that just because we hurt and just because we were scared, it didn't mean He wasn't with us. It didn't mean he was going abandon us.

January came and with it brought a clean bill of health for my Mom, but still no baby. But it also brought peace. My heart hurt and I still longed and wondered, but God gave me His peace. And in February we found out we were pregnant.

On September 23rd, 2017, at 8:36pm, we welcomed our son, Anson Daniel Gerry Visser, into the world, almost four weeks early. The first of his week was a bit scary for us, as our baby boy had to stay in the NICU (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit) because of breathing issues, sugar levels, and jaundice.  All were pretty normal things for a baby born early to deal with, but it was still scary. Every time I walked into the NICU to feed and hold my boy, I felt my heart break just a little bit more. I shed more tears that week in the hospital than I think I did during the previous season of Advent.

But our boy came home, and Anson is one healthy, happy little guy who is discovering what it means to smile.

Today we sat down for the first day of Advent. One of the gifts we were given after Anson was born was The Wonder of the Greatest Gift by Ann Voskamp. Each day comes with a devotional for the day and an ornament to hang on a tree. Today, as a family, we read day one. The Scripture came from Isaiah 11:1: "Out of the stump of David's family will grow a shoot--yes, a new Branch bearing fruit from the old root."

We read about the family of David that was big like a tree, but because of different troubles, the tree had crashed to the ground and was more like a stump. We read how a miracle came, not as something big, but as a small leaf growing from the stump. A miracle came as a tiny baby.

We read that sometimes miracles don't start big. Sometimes they start small. But that miracle is God bringing something good out of something that seems dead.  Last year my miracle came in the form of God's peace.

This year, as we celebrated the first day of Advent, as we read about this miracle, this hope, I looked at Anson. He's my Advent baby. The child we had to wait for. I remember the pain and sorrow of waiting.  I remember God taking me on a journey of resting in His peace and trusting Him. Of having to put into practice my belief that God's good for me isn't always me getting what I want when I want it.

I think with each year Advent makes a bit more sense to me. This year I understand a bit better what it means to wait for your hope. I think of Israel waiting and wondering about the coming of their Saviour. About how when Jesus came, as a baby, it wasn't at all what they were expecting. It wasn't what they wanted.

But it was the miracle they needed.

Post #44: The Advent of Waiting

Waiting.

I got my first cell phone just over nine years ago.  I was one of those hold-outs who really didn’t want to have one, but was becoming so busy and involved in different groups and events that it was a necessity.  Getting this phone also coincided with my first break up and a ten day trip to Ireland that my sister and I took.  While we were in Ireland, I remember getting off the tour bus at a look out point.  There was fog everywhere.  Then I saw this bench.  I remember it catching my attention. This bench was nestled in the fog.  You could sit and wait, but wouldn’t know when what you were waiting for would arrive until it was beside you.  I snapped a picture and used it as the backdrop on my phone.

I remember praying through my own heartache at the time, and God giving me the word “waiting.”

Having struggled with being single, I assumed His giving me that word was strictly meant for my relationship status.  Wait for Mr. Right to come along.  Wait until I’m ready for a relationship.  That sort of a thing.

But what I have come to discover in the last nine years, is that “Waiting” is the anthem for my life.  A year after I took the picture of the bench, I was waiting to find out news about the tumour doctors found in my Mom’s colon.  Then I was waiting to finish school, a process which took far longer than the original five year plan I had had when I graduated high school.  I met Jordan and then I was waiting to be closer to him, which took a year longer than anticipated when I was offered a job in BC.  I have been waiting for jobs.  Waiting for friends.  Waiting for God.

But today I find myself waiting for peace.

As I was getting ready this morning, I found myself thinking about the sermon from Sunday.  Advent starts next week, and our new pastor, who makes me look tame when it comes to celebrating Christmas, did a pre-Advent sermon.  He talked about the fulfillment Christ brings.  How He is our constant companion, the answer to our conflict, and ultimately our Peace.  How nothing we desire will fill the empty space within but God.

This morning I was thinking about Advent.  About waiting.  About anticipation.  I was thinking of Israel waiting for their Messiah, not knowing when He would come.

I thought of sitting on that bench in Ireland in the fog, waiting for what I couldn’t see.

I have said this before.  I love plans.  I love knowing how things will work out.  I love being prepared.  But God has been continually teaching me to wait.  To rest in Him.  And to try to wait in anticipation for Him.

Right now I find myself heading into the Advent season, and it is the start of another season of waiting for me.

For all who are waiting, may we be reminded that the Prince of Peace is our Emmanuel, which means our Peace is with us.

Post #43: Resting in the Confusion

August has been crazy!  Between visits with family and camping, I think we managed to successfully never be home!  Our poor cats were going through withdrawal (Mortimer seriously won't leave my side when I am home on my own).  We have had so much fun getting to touch base with people.

We arrived home from visiting family in Minnesota late Sunday night (awesome visit, by the way... there was Play-Doh, painting, puzzles, manicures, and even some interpretive dance.  Because every child needs me to teach them "The Sprinkler").  Monday morning had me heading to the school for a week-long course/conference on Project-Based Learning (PBL).

Rather than tell you about it, I thought what I might do is post the reflection that I shared with my fellow staff and the admin team at the school today.  We had to reflect on our experience throughout the week and touch on the project that we designed.  The pictures below were ones that I had on a slide in the background while presenting.  Here it is:

The harsh beauty of the North

I'm the cute munchkin bending over on the snow drift.

Welcome to Rankin Inlet, Nunavut, land of tundra, -100 with wind chill weather, and whiteouts.  It was also my home when I was 4 and 5.  Now Rankin was tundra.  That means no trees and no wind blocks.  So in the middle of winter when it started to blow you had crazy cold mixed with brutal whiteouts.  It was not uncommon for someone who had grown up in the town to get lost in a whiteout, end up wandering out of the community, and freezing to death.  When I was sick my Dad had to take me to the nursing station.  He loaded me onto our sled and proceeded to pull my five year old body through blowing winds.  One moment this was going smoothly, and the next my Dad’s arm was up in the air with the sled while the wind was blowing me back down the road.  One of my strongest memories of living there is of walking to kindergarten with my Mom.  She had a special parka that had ties around her waist.  In these conditions my job was to hold onto those ties for all I was worth so that I didn’t blow away (which had happened to me before) and so that I didn’t get lost.  That was how I got through the storm.  That was how I muddled through the confusion.

On Day 1 of the Academy we were told to just live in the confusion.  If you get to know me you will discover that I don’t like that.  When I am confused I am driven to get through it as quickly as I can.  I cannot rest until I have done that.  In my mind, resting or living in confusion means you get lost.  And getting lost is the equivalent of dying on the frozen tundra.

I also came into the Academy with plans for creating a great overarching summative project for my Grade 10 Applied English course.  Watching everyone talk about the big projects they had completed made me feel like mine had to be big too.  And this overwhelmed me.  I felt like I was floundering.  Nothing was coming together and by the end of the day I had scrapped this idea of a big project and thought I would just look for a way to make poetry interesting to a group of 15 year old boys.

When I went home that night I was exhausted and my gut reaction was to sit down and drill out the question and details for my project.  But I kept hearing Harry saying “Live in the confusion.”

So for one of the first times ever I made the conscientious decision to live in it. I kept it in the back of my mind but allowed myself to just rest that night.

The next day I started talking to a few people and began to develop the idea of using slam poetry to have my students combat injustice.  The literature in this course deals a lot with issues of racism and discrimination, and I could see students picking an injustice they are passionate about, and being able to express their frustration and passion.  I saw us looking at the idea of righteous anger and addressing issues of social justice.  It was something I could see them getting passionate about.  We did protocols and with feedback I began to see my audience growing from peers, staff, and parents, to a competition at a school assembly and maybe even presentations of their poems at downtown coffee shops.  I started to get excited.  I began wondering if I could find a local poet to come in as my entry event.  I started contemplating what videos I could use to grab their interest.  It felt like everything was starting to come together.

Have you ever noticed that sometimes you feel you have learned a lesson God is trying to teach you, only to have Him teach it to you again and again in different contexts?  Welcome to the story of my life.

Part way through the week there was a dialogue regarding this specific English class, and as a result it was switched around and I was given a different class.

So there’s me, midway through the Academy week, working to develop a project for a course that I am no longer teaching. At first I was scared.  What should I do?  Should I scrap it and pick something completely different for a different course to go with?

I talked with some people and we decided that I should just keep going with the project.  Aaron was also very excited about this as he was the one now teaching that course!  And on my own time I have been using the skills I have learned this week to start working on a project for one of my other classes.

Living in the chaos and confusion.  It is not easy, and I don’t know if it ever is.  But what I noticed this week is that I am not alone.  No matter what stage of confusion I was in, whether it was the ideas, planning, or adjusting phase, there were people I could talk to.  I love collaboration, yet often try to do things on my own due to a mixture of reasons.  I can be insecure but I also hate bother others.  But we need each other.  Sometimes I get so muddled in the chaos that I need someone to run after me so that I don’t get blown away, like my Dad rescuing me from the wind.  And other times I just need people to walk alongside me, so that we can both help each other along, like with my Mom in the midst of the whiteout.  Sometimes it takes time for God to end a whiteout, and sometimes it takes time for confusion to become clear.  But I learned this week that I can rest in those times, because there are others who are going through it with me. And by the grace of God, we can support each other and get through that.

I guess the reason I wanted to share this with you, is because I know that most of us can understand that feeling of not knowing what is going on around us.  Of feeling like we are living in a constant state of confusion, asking God "When is this going to become clear?"  I wish I could tell you that your whiteout was only going to last a few hours, a day, or maybe the season of winter.  But I can't do that.  A whiteout could last only that long... or it could be years.  If we are being really honest, sometimes it can last a lifetime and we may not get the clarity we seek until Eternity.

But I don't want you take that as something depressing (as hard as I know that can be).  One thing that really struck me this week is the connection I felt with the staff at my school.  I saw myself forming not just working relationships, but also friendships with multiple people.  And that means I'm not alone.

You're not alone either.  Cling to those people that God has placed in your life.  Sometimes you might be rolling away into the storm and they will be the ones to grab by the fur of your parka (metaphorically speaking, that is), and yank you back to the present.  Or maybe they will be the ones that you hold to in the whiteout, taking baby steps forward as you make your way through together.  God created us to be community, and part of being in community means being there for each other.

Post #42: Striving for Balance... and Tipping the Scale

You know, I have been wanting to write a post all summer and yet have kept putting it off.  Even after I got a full-time job for next year at the school I love (huzzah!) I had a hard time making myself sit down to write.  The month of June was incredibly stressful as I waited to hear about the job and it definitely put a new spin on trusting God.

But still I didn't write.

I couldn't figure out my problem with writing.  I wanted to.  But I just couldn't bring myself to do it.

You know, in all the time I have kept a blog I don't think I have ever been convicted about not writing.  This afternoon I was getting ready to take my computer onto the front porch with something cold to drink, all set to do some planning for the fall.

And instead I was convicted.

On Monday night (technically Tuesday morning) hubby and I returned from a trip out west to see my family.  I had been gone for a week a half.  It was an incredible visit full of lots of cuddles from kids, walks, runs, and great visits.  

Throughout the visit my sister-in-law shared a book she was reading with some of the ladies from her church.  It's called Sacred Pathways by Gary Thomas.  She was talking about how the book delves into the idea that different people connect with God in different ways.  A good friend of mine read the book a few years ago and I remember her telling be about it too.

I found this intriguing and so picked the book up.  I know that in the past I have connected with God in different ways, and was curious what the book would have to say.

Before I get into that I want to share something else I have noticed lately that also came up in some of the conversations I had with family.

Several years ago I made the decision to leave the church that I had been a member of for years.  I had been heavily involved in this church and had called it home for a long time.  Then I hit a point where I left church angry over what I was hearing preached, where sermons could be summed up by "read your Bible and pray," where it felt like an experience was being sought after rather than God, and where I no longer felt like I belonged because of the path I was taking in life.  Within months of leaving the church, the leadership did something involving my family that it took me a very long time to forgive.

The reason I tell you this is because in response to what happened I more or less shunned everything that I felt had to do with this church and the Pentecostal denomination as a whole.  I attended a Mennonite church throughout the rest of university and during my first year of teaching.  After getting married I then became a member of the Christian Reformed Church.

Over the last two years, I have come to enjoy watching the reactions of the students I teach (as most of them are CRC kids) when I tell them I grew up in a Pentecostal Church.  This is usually followed by the question, "How Pentecostal?"  They tend to think it's pretty fascinating when I answer with "Hands raising, dancing with flags in the aisles, people falling down Pentecostal."

It has also been interesting to talk with my friends who were raised in the CRC denomination.  Many of things that they find repetitive or maybe even lacking in meaning (such as liturgy), I find refreshing because it engages my mind in a way it hadn't been engaged before.

I have also been slowly coming to a point where I can say that I appreciate having attended the church that I did.  While I felt they focused too much on the emotional and experiential, and didn't focus enough on the intellectual, as a result I do know that God uses experiences.  That He created our emotions and speaks to us through them and not just through our minds.

And so I have worked to desperately balance the emotional/experiential and the intellectual aspects of my faith.  But in doing so I have definitely been leaning more to the intellectual side of things.

While attending the Pentecostal church I got heavily involved in the worship team.  This meant that I would often sit at the piano in my parents' home and play worship music.  I would sing along and that was my worship time.  I know I have mentioned before that when things get rough, that is where I would turn.

This summer has been good but it has also been hard.  I have been battling some pretty intense self-esteem issues (to the extent where hubby actually had to take my scale and hide it because how I felt about myself that day was wholly determined by what my scale told me).  The job situation was pretty stressful too, and there have just been other things going on that cause fear to rise up in me and I find myself again struggling to trust God.

Today was one of those days where things just felt hard.  I could barely run 3km this morning and felt like I had to do a 12km run/walk (more walking though as for the latter half of this excursion I was carrying potatoes and such) to make up for that.  I had had a rough sleep last night, battling some uncertainties that scare me a little, and found myself today still struggling with that and trying to distract myself.

When I came into the living room I saw the piano we are housing for my sister-in-law.  The music that stared back at me was for the song "Oceans" (I know I have shared before that this has become my go-to song in times of uncertainty).  Instantly the thought came to me that I should sit and play.  Instead I pushed it away and focused on my exercise, on getting some food ready for going to my parents' cottage this weekend, and on sitting and doing a puzzle while binge watching the show McLeod's Daughters.

At one point I started reading the book I had mentioned, Sacred Pathways.  In the intro Thomas gives a brief overview of what he refers to as the nine main pathways, or ways that people tend to connect with God.  And to be honest I was struggling with staying focused on this and ended up finishing this off with the sense that I had no idea where I fit.

As I neared the end of the intro, Thomas referenced a man, Dr. Wayne Grudem, who was working the English Standard Version translation of the Bible.  Grudem spent his days delving into Scripture and its meaning, but as a result he neglected his personal prayer time with God.  As a result, he began to feel spiritually sick, where he felt "pride, talking about myself a lot, inwardly hoping people would praise me, lack of love for friends, irritability, a general inward feeling of unease, self-reliance, no peace" (34).

The moment I read this I put the book down, sat at the piano, and started to play "Oceans."  By the time I made it to the second verse I could barely sing along because of weeping.

Almost everything on the list was something that I feel like I have felt for the last few months.  I would read my Bible, listen to podcasts, and read non-fiction books.  And I felt like I was learning a lot.

But in my effort to distance myself from the "Pentecostal" way of things, I think I also distanced myself from one the biggest ways that I connect with God.  I also don't think I realized that that was one way I connect with Him until today.

That way is music.

Over the last few months I have also been asked to play piano in church periodically.  And I have to be honest, those few times have probably been when it has been the easiest for me to connect with God during singing.  For whatever reason, sitting at a piano and singing/playing my heart out, not caring who hears me, is how my soul connects with my Heavenly Father.

It's also how I find rest.

But music is not the only way that I connect with God.  Writing is another way.  And in the last few months (well... the last year, really), I have been neglecting doing that.

I have wanted balance so badly in my spiritual life that, without realizing it, I was ignoring some of the main ways that God speaks to me.  And for that He convicted me today.

This doesn't mean that I ignore all other ways of connecting with God--I still read my Bible and challenge myself to learn.  But I also need to remember that for me, the experience of worshiping through music and through writing is how best I connect with Him.  And when I don't make the time to do those things as well, I will feel spiritually sick.

So there are my thoughts and convictions from the last little while.