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Saga of the Lost Wallet...Continued

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 This morning I was having tea with a friend and discussing a particular child's recent ADHD diagnosis - what that might mean for us - what it means for their future. And, as she was such a great listener, I began to tell all about my own and our various family members' experience with neurodiversity. I started to tell her about my experience raising kids and how different ones had different gifts - various blessings - bestowed on them during their early years. I told of how overwhelmed I was with young children and how when Mom Logan came to live with us, I was so grateful for her presence, I simply handed the youngest (then, Andrew, 11 months) off to her so I could get a good night's rest.  In my previous post ( here ), I mentioned near the end how Mom Logan has recently transitioned from this earthly life, to her heavenly home. And how my lost wallet had been hinting to me that life - our own very selves - hold gifts that are meant to be used. As I told my friend today a

Saga of the Lost Wallet

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 On January 18, Sam and I headed out to a dinner to celebrate (with his work colleagues) their accomplishments from the previous year. I remember thinking how nice it was of them to treat us all to a lovely meal in an upscale restaurant, and noticed with gratitude, that I didn't need to pull out my wallet to pay for our meal. I was so aware of not needing to do this, that upon returning home that evening, as soon as I walked in the door, I noticed my wallet was missing. I checked everywhere - my coat, purse, the car, under seats, on the ground outside the car. I realized I had lost my wallet at that dinner. And I was super annoyed. We called the restaurant. They had already closed. We waited until the next day, and called again. We were SO hopeful that it had been picked up by the staff or seen in the parking lot. But no - there was no sign of the wallet. And so began the saga of the Lost Wallet. I didn't know it would be a saga. I told myself not to worry. I could be alright w

Infancy

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 Infancy is weak, fragile, cute, maybe even a bit scary. I know infancy. Not only holding my own infants, but the infancy of hope in my own soul: the infancy that seems only a tiny spark of light in a long, dark, tunnel - this is a fragile and even scary dawning of hope.  These 24 hours are some of the hardest of the year for some: there are hopes, fears, expectations, longings, moments of despair, regrets, losses, hardships - this list is not exhaustive. And somehow the hopes and expectations seem to all land on this day, and how easily we forget space must be made to accommodate the losses and hardships as well. In fact, even the lack of fulfilment of hopes needs space to be grieved on a day set aside for celebration and joy.  "The hopes and fears of all the years are met in Thee tonight" - and as we sing this Christmas hymn, we mean it. The hopes AND fears - of this loooooong   year - these meet together in this infant child, Jesus.  I imagine the time of Jesus' birt

Finishing 46, Turning 47

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 I like the thought of 'turning' - in this case, turning the number of my age, the years I've completed of life I didn't volunteer for, of life that was handed to me, that I now know has been a gift - an unasked for gift, a surprising gift, but a gift nonetheless. On birthdays we typically receive gifts (unless you are Chinese - then on your birthday it is a chance to give gifts to all your friends). And I wonder if this is to try and remind us that our lives are gifts. Even the dark days. The lonely days. The 'Well,-that-didn't-go-like-I-thought-it-would' days.  In Spanish you don't 'turn' a number - you complete a year. It is a more accurate rendering I suppose - the "cumpleanos". Turning 47 doesn't mean I'm beginning my 47th year. It means I finished it. I feel a year older already!! But in this turning is a chance for reflecting. Today was another day in my life. A completed day. A special day, to be sure - I only get a birt

What Do I Do With My Fear?

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 Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and start to imagine the worst. I think of all the things that could be going wrong in this moment. I imagine what might possibly be harming my kids, both from without and within. I may dabble in worry for a time before other imaginings take over. My mind may go down a spiral and end up with the whole world falling apart - not only rumoured wars, but actual wars, disrupting the safety of all who inhabit planet earth.  I think of those who prepare for the end of the world and imagine them as lonely wanderers on the earth, finding all the others who prepared and stepping over the carnage of those who weren't (us among them!) Then, when I've mused about all this, I swing back to the immediate and wonder how we'll make it through the next week or month. Is it just me, or do our own hearts sabotage our rest, feeding us with potential far-off, unlikely fears, while also tasting a daily dose of very potential and likely fears that lo

Saying Goodbye To September

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  I can't believe September is done. It feels like a gap in my year - that a whole 30 days was swallowed into some black hole or vortex of suffering. I don't know how all those days went by when I wasn't paying attention. On October 3, I usually remember the line in the sand of my life - that fateful day when I witnessed violence and fear like nothing I'd known before or since. (Link to that saga here)  It is one of those days - a before and after, where my life is forever marked as having crossed a bridge that can never be reversed. In other words, I can't unsee that.  This September feels strangely similar. Timo's motorcycle accident has thrown me face to face with the unpredictableness of all of life.  One moment I was heading to bed, the next, I'm riding an ambulance...it's still so surreal that I actually lived through this, and even more, that Timo did! And then two all-nighters, back to back. And to sit dazed in a hospital room, stunned, numb, and

What if I'm not a Victorious Christian?

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 The existence of fairy tales and their universality tells me something about the condition of the human heart: We love neatly contained stories with closure. It comforts us to feel the end of a story coming, and to know there will be a resolution, even if imperfect, brings a kind of relief. Most fairy tales have happy endings, some have gloomy endings, but they all seem to have a kind of solidly-footed ending. It wraps up the package, the telling: the journey for the hearer is complete. And I wonder if this universal yearning isn't also re-worked within Christendom to promote ideals that may yield fervour on the one hand, but despair on the other. For our fervour, consistency, zealous striving, and success are all prone to wane at times, and we may expect more from ourselves than is possible or realistic. Yet that doesn't stop Christian publishers from churning out books that beckon more from each seeker.  Who am I to complain? I wouldn't read such things anyway - though I