Bees in My Bonnet

 19 years ago tomorrow I went to CDH to deliver our 3rd child. I didn't know then that we would go on to have 2 more babies. I was 29 years old and crossing that bridge where parents are outnumbered by children. I can't say I knew what we were getting into. It was a tumultuous time in our lives (I'm guessing that is more of a normal thing for the Logan family than for most!). Sam was still in grad school - having completed his first year, and was working odd jobs over the summer to support us. Throughout that hot and humid August, I was great with child, and fairly exhausted keeping up with a 5 year old Caleb and 3 year old Priscilla. They were ready and eager to greet their little brother, waiting with all the wonder and excitement a 5 and 3 year-old can muster.   At his high school graduation a year ago, I stood up to deliver this speech, which was in the form of a letter to my son: Dear Timothy Sheldon Logan, 18 years ago I was just beginning the 3rd and final trimester ...

 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...

 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...

 I'm going to let a bee fly out of my bonnet just now, so brace yourself. The term 'Best Practice' annoys me. It annoys me A LOT. It has burned me. I've used it myself; I've had it promoted to me. I've seen it in research, in literature, in pseudo-guru-speak jargon. And now I think I finally have the courage to push back. Hang On a minute!! Isn't 'Best Practice' automatically, by its very literal nature, completely warranted as acceptable? Doesn't everyone want to follow 'Best Practice' in every situation? Actually, No. No, we don't. And I'll tell you why. Because it's arrogant, proud, assuming, and lacking in nuance. It lacks a 'here and now' understanding of things. Sure, there's probably times where 'best practice' is helpful. If you are a clinician of some sort, and following a static experimental process; if you are a professional whose work is to follow exacting procedures, fine, go ahead, and consult...

 Part of being highly distractable is that when something is mentioned that has a whole category of memory or feeling, the mind takes a small hiatus - a short adventure into the realm of everything-in-that-category. This happened to me on Sunday when the sermon was regarding the 10 lepers (or, more accurately, the 9 and the 1). He was talking about what gratitude looks like, and trying to help us appreciate, in some small measure, what having leprosy was like in those days. He started saying how it was a socially isolating disease, a disease of separation, loneliness, scorn, rejection, humiliation. They had to walk about if they encountered healthy others, by calling out, 'unclean' to warn people to stay away. And he went on to focus on the theme of his sermon, which was gratitude. But I was already captivated, and brought to tears.  (There is something very healing about church: I go there to cry, then wait a whole week to return, only to cry again).   I believe God...

 When I was at the worst part of covid last year, I could barely keep awake and when I was awake, I had no mental stamina to read or concentrate on anything. I couldn't listen to a narrative, or I'd get lost. My mind felt numb and consumed with the pain going on in seemingly every part of my body. So I went to BibleGateway.com and started to listen to Psalms. I have been memorizing Psalm 119, so I listen to it routinely. I've made my own voice recording but I hadn't a year ago so I was still using the online Bible Gateway version, in the ESV. Because I wanted to focus on Psalm 119, and I often was tossing or turning for a few minutes beforehand, I would back it up to a few chapters earlier. Sometimes I'd start at 113, or 115. I wasn't necessarily focusing on the words - simply letting them fall into the air and pick up a phrase here or there which might settle in my soul.  Somehow, in some way, my mind was clear enough at one point to actually hear  what Psalm 1...

 So what might one write when not quite in a lucid state of mind? What might I say when I struggled to breathe, to prepare my teenage daughter for her life ahead?  I thought a lot about death a year ago. I looked at my life and told myself, 'Well, I guess 44 years is a good enough life. God hasn't promised more or less. Who am I to say that is too soon to go?' Then, of course, I noticed that in Hong Kong they didn't seem to like the number 4 very much. They thought the way it sounded 'say' sounded very similar to the word for death: 'sei'. And in fact, to me, they sound identical. And here I had completed 44 years around the sun, and in my glum state of being, figured my life was rapidly closing up shop.  I asked one of the kids to deliver the laptop to me, and I was able to put together a few thoughts for Priscilla on her orientation weekend.  Here is what I wrote, thinking it might be the last thing she hears from me: Dear Priscilla, I so much wish I c...

This time is like a conversation. I open my heart and say all the things - Sometimes nice things, Upsetting things, Confusing things. They’re all there, and I just say it all:  I don’t hold back. I imagine You curiously listening. You let it all come out, even when I’m frustrated. Especially when I’m frustrated. There is no slamming the door on our conversation. You are patient. Then there is a stillness - a pause. I wait. Maybe now You will speak. Maybe now I can hear. The pages of Your book are open before me: What might You say? You are alive in me - Of course in the words of the book too! The Spirit draws my eyes to read Your words. Oh You did hear me!  Your words soak into this parched soul. And I am satisfied.