The Quest:

who you are to me

2005-07-25T11:09:00.000-05:00

You’re the girl who won’t renounce
Though you wage a war within
You grapple with life’s obscurities
Wondering when life will begin

You implore and plead with God on high
To let your life expire
You yell and scream obscenities
But the Divine will not conspire

Your mind is ravaged by tormenting thoughts
Forever lurking in the shadows
They claw at your heart, they scar your soul
Disturbing thoughts penetrate - hijacking control

An Average Day

2005-04-20T08:56:00.000-05:00

On an average day, in an average moment, in my average car, at any given time you can catch me singing. Radio blaring, bass bopping, I'm drumming it out on my steering wheel singing like there ain't no tomorrow.

Until I reach that stop light, that is . . . When I hit the stop light and a car appears in the corner of my left eye, I quickly regain composure, sit up straight, and rest quietly without motion until the light turns green and vroom out of eye view I go. . . Then it's back to: Radio blaring, bass bopping, drumming it out on my steering wheel like there ain't no tomorrow.

Last night as I came home from a coffee date with a friend things were different. As I rolled up to the stop light I didn't stop singing, I actually belted it out even louder! And when the black Ford pick-up peeked up beside me I turned my head, smiled a friendly smile and then sang right at 'em! They must have thought I was a whack job, and perhaps rightly so but I felt good! I didn't care! I was gonna sing!

I had a rough week last week. I saw someone I love so so very much hurting. I witnessed the shell of what had been a person with a desire so strong to end her suffering that she was willing to end it all. I saw desperation. I saw hurt. I saw ultimate sadness.

But God prevailed . . . and today I rejoice.

Today I sing my guts out!

185 Hope St.

2005-02-03T13:47:00.000-06:00

I know four boys.

They tread with joy, and have big plans for the future.
Their friends are giants. Their bikes are small.
They never complain, but they have every right to.
When they get tired, sometimes they fall.

I know four boys.

Their bodies, they fail them.
They work twice as hard as anyone I know.
They live in a mansion, infested with insects.
They eat like kings, but never do they grow.

I know four boys.

Their backs are all twisted, not one can deny.
They take morphine like candy; the pain they can't hide.
The moment will past.
They will survive.
The place where they live reads: Hope St. 185.

They walk tall and proud . . . but only so high.

the salesman

2005-01-11T13:12:00.000-06:00

For the past three months I have contemplated going to the gym. I've weighed the pros and cons. I've considered the realities of work and the constraints of time. I've thoughtfully asked questions like "Can we financially afford such a venture?" and "Am I committed to be still going to the gym in six months?" and have come to the conclusive conclusion that yes . . . a membership is right for me.

* * * * *

I've been going to the gym for about three weeks now and things have been going well. . . However, last week something happened that made me mad. . . and then got me thinking.

As a member of the gym you have to go through a physical evaluation. Not a test! but an "evaluation". An evaluation where doctors measure your height, weight, arms, legs, waist, and flexibility, examine your endurance, ask you very personal presuming questions, and then do it all over again. A lovely experience, really. (If you're into strangers poking and protting you, while simultaneously wanting to engage in conversations about your physical "strengths" and "weaknesses" as you prance around in what's suppose to be a garment that covers your "whole" self.)

Well, after my initial evaluation I was told that ANOTHER appointment needed to be set up in order to meet with a work out guy who would show me how to use the equipment properly and would help me set up a plan to reach some of my goals. Sounded not too bad.

Well, I showed up to my appointment on the set date and time. . . and I met Brad. The instant I met Brad I could tell we were destined to be new best friends. Brad listened. Brad understood. Brad Knew.

If I had a dog, Brad had a dog. If I liked working out, Brad liked working out. If I had trouble lifting freeweights. . . you guessed it so did Brad. If I was on my monthly. . . you get the picture. . . At one point I said I wanted to focus my time building and strengthning my core back area . . . Brad thought that was an exceptional idea he thought we should focus time building and strengthning my core back area too. Best friends. In that brief hour and twenty minutes we laughed, we joked, we cried.

When his tour was over we went back to his office to go over what we had talked about. . . He encouraged my present equipment abilities saying I had a good grasp on the importance of the equipment and blah blah blah. . . Brad laid out a work out plan in which he suggested I should invest (notice the carefully chosen word "invest") in a personal trainer. He suggested I start with a trainer 2 times a week for a month, then 1 time a week for a month, and then 3 times a week for a month. Brad thoughtfully said it would maximize my time at the gym, helping me see results quicker. (Notice again those carefully thought out words. . . Maximize. . . Quicker. . .) I asked if this was extra. . . He said "Yes. . . but Sharlene we like you and we're here to help you. We can help find a payment plan that is good for you." "How much is it going to cost me, Brad?" I asked. "$50 an hour 3 times a week".

What the *&^$#?????

I sat back slightly stunned by the realization that Brad really wasn't my friend. . . he was just another minion in an army of men trying to sell me another package, more stuff. . . I expected more from MY OWN GYM!! For countless minutes to follow Brad attempted to sell me on the importance of having a personal trainer, and the results I would see if I was willing to invest. ("Invest"! huh!!)

I finally told Brad I REALLY wasn't interested, and I couldn't (and wouldn't) afford anything extra considering my current financial situation. . .

I couldn't believe what happened next.

Brad gathered his papers quickly and abruptly, stuck them in his folder and left me sitting in the office. . . alone. . . alone and waiting. I waited a while and when I was certain he wasn't coming back, I left. As I left I passed him in the foyer. I said smiling, "Thanks for your time. Have a good day." Brad didn't lift his head from his papers. Brad didn't ackowledge me. It's as if I wasn't even there.

It was all a scam. . . work-out-dude was just trying to sell me more freakin' stuff.

I was so mad. I was livid. I was fuming. . . I wanted to have muscles NOW. . . I wanted to punch him in no-mans land. Brad was not my friend. I was just a toy in his evil game to sell more.

Well. . . when the "mad" left. . . I got to thinking. I hate being sold stuff! When Ian and I were on our honeymoon we got suckered into hearing a time-share presentation in Puerta Vallarta, Mexico. For over two hours a man tried to convince us on the needs and benefits of buying pre-paid vacations. I hated it, I hated feeling as though I had wasted two solid hours allowing some stranger to emotionally and mentally manipulate me into buying something I didn't want and didn't need. I hated knowing that our new "friend" had a hidden agenda. I felt bullied, and I was made to feel irrationally scrared about my future. . .

I got to thinking more and I think this is the way Christians make non-Christians feel sometimes. Christians can come across as being so darn nice, helpful, and all-around wonderful. . . but then there's always that hidden agenda. Christians can be overtly pushy, though, too. Sometimes in desperation they use the scare tactic to convince people that if they don't turn immediately they will burn. Christians sometimes toss non-Christians aside when they feel like they aren't getting anywhere. Christians can me manipulative. Christians can be so fake. . .

I'm a Christian. And I don't want to be a pushy salesman, anymore. I want to be real, but I'm not sure exactly how to do that.

Christmas Celebrations

2004-12-29T14:10:00.000-06:00

It's Christmas.

My most favorite time of the year!

Good eats, good treats, family, friends, and so much love.

Thanks Jesus.

an eclectic christmas

2004-12-07T09:39:00.000-06:00

My dad has always loved wandering the mall. As a man he remains in the pack as to his thoughts on shopping (he hates it) however wandering through the mall allows him to people watch (which he loves!). I think he must learn a lot by watching people. I know, for sure, it's entertaining.

People walking funny, talking funny, sometime even looking funny. Kids on parents shoulders. Women in a daze. Men on a mission. There's a lot to be learned.

This Sunday I went shopping and I watched. I was at the new H & M clothing store in the Eaton Centre, in downtown Toronto. For a Sunday afternoon the store was buzzing. There were lines for the dressing room. Display tables were now random chaos. Everyone was looking for the right size - but no one could find it. People were pushing by. Everyone looked n a hurry. "Christmas is here," I sighed.

When I had tried on my last piece of clothing and decided what to buy I headed to the cash register to pay. I knew the wait would be long but the shirts were on sale, and a really good deal. . . I'd wait.

While waiting I could only watch. What I saw touched me. There were two men standing about 4 people back from me. The way the line curved they stood right in front of me. Both men were what I would call: Artsy. They had funky haircuts, numerous piercings, and their clothes were somewhat eclectic. "What were they doing in H & M?" I thought. There style, although different, worked for them. They could pull it off, I thought.

A woman had finished paying for her choices and was preparing to leave by putting her wallet in her purse when the young man's attention was taken. I could see him looking at the woman and then at his friend but didn't know what to do. He looked excited, but trapped in shyness. He looked like he had something to say. I waited. He waited. The woman prepared to leave. Finally, he said something. His friend knew what was coming. I didn't. So I watched.

The man said in a soft yet still confident voice, "Excuse me miss? I was just noticing your purse. Can I ask you where you got it?" I could tell the woman was flattered. Slightly blushing she said, "I got it at an art show. A woman I met there makes these purses out of recycled material. This one is made out of old seat-belts, and car upholstery." I couldn't figure out how the artist had turned such every day items into such a lovely piece of art, but I had to admit it was beautiful. The man said, "Do you have a name and number for the artist? My wife would absolutely love these purses, and I'd love to surprise her for Christmas." The woman paused and smiled and said, "I think I do." She began to ruffle around in her purse but after a few minutes I knew she would not find it. The man said, "Thanks anyway," smiled, and the woman was on her way.

My turn was finally up. I proceeded through the regular purchase requirements, and was on my way. As I turned to leave, I notice the woman had come back. She was saying to the creative man, "I was walking down the mall still looking for the name and number and I found it at the bottom of my purse. I thought you might still want to have it. . . For your wife." They smiled, he took the card. . . and she said: Merry Christmas. And I was on my way. . .

As I left the store and met up with my friend I couldn't wait to tell her all about what I had just seen. I was touched by the simple act of love and kindness. . . The man for his wife. The stranger for a stranger.

This is what Christmas is all about. Merry Christmas!

love stinks

2004-12-06T09:14:00.000-06:00

Routes, the drop-in centre I run, is a live wire. Friday nights, especially. Youth 14 and over running in and out, playing pool, table soccer, and air hockey. Youth demanding someone to listen to them, asking questions, telling jokes. Youth in crises; Break-ups, new found love, failed classes, new jobs, drugs, alcohol, familial feuds. . .

Sometimes I think I'm going crrrrazy!

This past Friday one of our volunteers said to me when reflecting on her night that she felt like she had at least 5 conversations happening all at the same time, for the entire evening. Someone was always in want. Someone was always needing a question answered, or a joke laughed at. . . She found it overwhelming to have to be constantly engaging all the time. And for good reason.

I believe that this buzz that we are feeling at Routes is a symptom of community. A beautiful thing really. Kids and volunteers are feeling connected and are thus journeying together! Wow. Youth are showing up on Thursday and Friday nights wanting desperately to share a piece of themselves with us. They want our opinions, reactions, and responses. They want our love and care. And the funny thing is: We want to hear it! We sincerely look forward to hearing the latest news, and sharing in our youths experiences from week to week.

Volunteers at Routes have been trained and encouraged to accept youth no matter what they look like, act like, or who they say they are. volunteers know that listening is a key component to being a successful volunteer. And they have been chosen to be a part of this program because they love youth and want to see them making good choices in their lives as they increasingly gain independence.

It gets tricky though. . . (Most things aren't as straight forward as we'd like). We have built a place that is warm and welcoming; A place where kids know they can come and be themselves. Routes is a safe haven from the rest of the world where youth can truly be the centre of the universe! The centre was designed for them. And it's jam packed with pool tables, air hockey, and foosball table, computers, video games, and cheap snacks. When youth come in there is always a volunteer ready to listen, play a game with, or answer a question. Routes is a place where when the doors are opened at 7:00 pm on a Friday night there is nothing more important than our youth!

It's easy for them to feel like the most important thing in the world when they step through our doors. And part of me loves that!

It gets tricky though when our youth are being what we want them to be - themselves - but we don't like the people we're seeing. Girls come in scantily clad because they feel like they can. . . and we hate it. We hate that they barely dress ultimately seeking male approval, and hate even more the way our guys treat them. . . like just another object, just another skirt. We want kids to feel comfortable making jokes and goofing around but sometimes when 10 John Smiths are all yelling and laughing and running around at the same time our heads hurt and we want nothing more than to yell "SHUT UP!!" (we of course want to yell this in love . . .) . Youth come in with another sad story, feeling comfortable enough to share it with us, and we hurt so bad for them we almost don't want to hear it. When our youth hurt we want desperately to take them home and tell them that life will now be better for them. . . It sucks when we can't. It sucks when we can only pat them on the back and tell them we care for them, and that everything will be alright.

Sometimes being in community hurts.

the panopticon

2004-11-29T09:18:00.000-06:00

You better watch out
You better not cry
You better not pout
I'm telling you why

Santa Claus is comin' to town. . .

He's making a list
He's checking it twice
He's gonna find out
Who's naughty or nice

Santa Clause is comin' to town. . .

He sees you when you're sleeping
He knows if you're awake
He knows if you've been bad or good
So be good for goodness sake!

There's a book written by Philosopher Michel Foucault called Crime and Punishment in which he discusses the panopticon prison. The panopticon prison is architecturally designed in a circular fashion. The prison cells are around the perimeter, and in the centre of the structure there is a watchtower designed so that a warder in the watchtower can see all. The inmates, however, never know if and when they are being watched. . .

In the panopticon prison there is an all-seeing warder would sits in darkness, in a watchtower, observing the inmates without them being able to see him. Foucault suggests that eventually, the degree of control would become so powerful that the watchtower would need no occupant as the inmates would behave as if under constant surveillance and discipline themselves. For Foucault, "this mind control reflected the idea that knowledge is power and can be used to de-humanise the individual."

Since first reading Crime and Punishment in University I've been fascinated by the idea of the panopticon. We see parallels of the panopticon all around us in today's society. Photo/speed radars come to mind. You don't know where they are. You don't know who they are. You don't know if and when they're going to strike. . . But you know they are watching you. And if they catch you breaking the rules you will undoubtedly pay! Times when I have been caught speeding and slapped with a ticket I have later found myself painfully aware, especially while driving, that someone could be watching. My obsessive awareness has led me to follow the rules a little more, o.k MUCH more carefully.

Shoplifting. Although I'd like to believe there are many reasons why I don't shoplift, one of the biggest things that keeps me from sneaking those beloved-need-to-have jeans into my purse is the knowledge that someone indeed could be watching. Surveillance cameras, hired police in disguise, another customer with a higher regard for the law. . . They're watching.

Sadly, for many of us, the idea of the panopticon has translated into our ideas of church and our ideas of who God is. We picture God as The Warder watching our every move eagerly waiting for us to screw up. For some even,God is no longer even a reality but rather has become that presence in the back of our minds causing us to walk on egg shells, to be unable to let loose, and to live in constant fear.

It's no surprise really. Even our cheesy children's Christmas songs have us paralyzed with fear. Someone may be watching little Johnny, and if you're not good. . . bad things will happen to you. Isn't that what we really mean when we sing: He sees you when you're sleeping, he knows if you're awake, he knows if you've been bad or good. So be good, for goodness sake!! We use fear to control.

I'm glad I finally know how much God truly loves me, and know He is watching down from heaven with only the highest of hopes for me. He wants to help me make good choices, but knows that I find that hard. I know He is always willing to help me out, I just have to ask. His presence gives me peace, and I like having him around. He never sneaks up on me and scares me, but rather I know He's just always here with me. . . loving me, caring for me. When I mess up, I feel sad but not afraid anymore, I know that God understands. He's my buddy. He patiently teaches me day after day. . .

church casseroles

2004-11-17T15:44:00.000-06:00

My mom used to make this creamy vegetable/chicken casserole that I absolutely loved. . . It had the perfect vegetable to sauce ratio topped with a crispy topping that led to its absolute perfection.

It was a fave. . . until I found out that one of its key ingredients was MAYONNAISE. I'm not sure when exactly mayonnaise became the anti-christ. . . Perhaps it was on the 265th day my dad made me a ham and mayonnaise sandwhich for my school packed-lunch. . . Or the day my mom let me take a bite of her mayonnaise on white bread sandwhich. . . Gross! Whenever it was, is not important. . . The fact remains: I hate mayonnaise! When I found out the true identity of the beloved casserole, I questionned my past like for it. It was now tainted. . . It's not perfect. It can't be good.

This same thing has happened to me in reference to church. I've been to churches that outwardly seemed to have mastered the art of 'church'. . . Only to find out weeks later its true identity. Gossips, liars, cheaters. Mayonnaise! Eggs! Onions!

I must be growing up because when I now look at my church community I know it's far from being perfect. Whatever my first impressions I know today it's got a heeping portion of mayonnaise running through it. . . But the beauty is, I know it's o.k!

Being an authentic Christian does not mean attaining perfection. And finding a good church does not mean finding perfection, either. . . I think being an authentic Christian and finding a good church is acknowledging, and accepting 'the mayonnaise' while simultaneously being willing to succumb to Christ's changes in us as He sees fit.

hyper-clarifying super-defending manically-introducing

2004-11-17T13:42:00.000-06:00

My most recent Quest for Personal Betterment has been to: Let things be what they are. Over the years I have developped this bad habit of over-explaining myself. Recognizing it's not healthy, and I'm losing friends over it I want to stop hyper-clarifying, super-defending, and manically-introducing stories, thoughts, and ideas. I have a problem, and it needs to stop.

Perhaps you know someone like me. . . They go something like this:

The boss sends out an e-mail saying:

"We're looking for some extra help. Is anyone able to work an extra night a week during December to help with our Christmas Fundraising Campaign?"

Instead of letting her yes be yes, and her no be no you find these peoples responses often look something like this:

"I would love to help out and would normally say yes without having to think about it except that on Tuesdays I lead a discussion group, and meet with a friend immediately after, blah blah Wednesdays I help lead/attend a group called Theology Pub which goes until late, Thursdays and Fridays I have drop-in. . . Blah de blah blah. . . Which leaves Mondays. Mondays are an option, however because Sunday nights I have church, and Saturdays I try and keep open to connect with people I try and save Mondays for cleaning, me time, and time with my husband. I would like to help though, so if you're stuck give me a call and either I'll do it myself or I'll find someone who can. . . Blah blah blah. . . I love what you're doing Mr. Boss, and support you whole heartedly I hope you don't think that my not helping out is because I do not value what you are doing. . . because I do. . . Blah de blah blah blah blah. . .I hope you understand blah blah. . . I'm not sure I can do it. . . blah. . . but maybe I can. . . blah blah blah. . ."

I know I have a problem because I often find friends saying things like: "Shar, just say what you're trying to say! We don't need you to buffer your stories. And we certainly don't need a lengthy introduction! What are you trying to say."

When I tell stories they often go as follows:

There was this man. Well, he wasn't really a man. . . he was 18, I think. . . so really he was just a kid. . . well not literally a kid. . . technically he would be a teenager. . . blah blah. Anyways this guy was tall and skinny, not like scrawny skinny but he wasn't very big. . . tall and slim I guess. . . blah de blah blah blah. He had on a raptors hat or did he. . . I don't really remember but I think he did? Anyways this guy seemed like he was a nice guy because earlier I heard him talking to the sales girl and he was really polite, blah blah bla blahh I thought he was polite because he was really patient even though the girl was taking a long time and he said thank you like 10 times. . . blah blah well actually it was probably 4 times he said thank you but that's still a lot since he was only talking to her for about 3 minutes. . .or was it 4. . . Well, anyways later on I saw the same guy trying to sneak into the movie theatre. Actually I don't know if he was trying to sneak in or if he had already paid and he just left for a smoke, blah de blah or because he was meeting someone, blah blah or forgot something but he went in without giving the ticket guy his stub and the ticket guy was mad. . . blah blah blah

Excessive. I know. I have a problem.

If I'm about to state an idea I'll often start by saying something like:

"Well, I've been thinking about this idea. I know it might not be good but I think it could be. . .but maybe not. . . I thought about it when I was talking to a friend, and well she thought it was a good idea, however we think alike so maybe we both just have bad ideas. Anyways, the idea goes along the same lines as what Joe Smith was saying last week. I thought it was a good idea so I thought about it and adapted it. So, it's along the same lines but a little different. . .we can always make changes to my idea by encorporating more colours and people but we could also. . .

What the . . .

JUST SAY WHAT'S ON YOUR FREAKIN' MIND!

It's not easy changing. But as friends, colleagues, family, and aquaintances I give you the right to tell me to "say what's on your freakin' mind" when my stories, thoughts and ideas have turned into verbal diarrhea.

I have a problem

. . . but I know this is for the best. . .

Help me Help you.

for every season

2004-11-15T14:56:00.001-06:00

for every season

.

2004-11-15T14:56:00.000-06:00

period

in Christ's camp

2004-11-15T14:55:00.000-06:00

he rests

suffocate

2004-11-15T14:52:00.000-06:00

breathless

deadly destruction

2004-11-15T14:48:00.000-06:00

deadly

departed

2004-11-15T14:47:00.000-06:00

gone

2004-11-15T14:46:00.000-06:00

death

trivialized

2004-11-11T14:13:00.000-06:00

According to the developers, Call of Duty: United Offensive "builds on the cinematic feel" of Call of Duty, so you can expect more of the same exciting moments that made the original so memorable.

Call of Duty: United Offensive is a new video game released this year, whose advertisement campaign claims it to be "even more realistic than the last". Robb Alvey one of the games creators said in an interview about the new product: "We're adding a bunch of new single-player maps. Lots of new features, such as being able to cook off grenades, use the flamethrower, actually have a deployable machinegun. Sprint across battlefields, use smoke grenades in multiplayer. We've completely revamped the particle system. So when you're up in that B-17 Bomber, blasting planes out of the sky, you're gonna see some brand-new effects that you haven't seen before. . ."

It's rememberance day today. . . And I can't help but wonder what our veterans think of this "even more real" game. I wonder if they see it as a slap in the face. Or, perhaps as trivializing the time they spent fighting for our freedom.

But. . . "It's JUST a game."

Exactly MY point: "It's NOT just a game"

We Remember.

it don't get much better than this

2004-11-11T13:29:00.000-06:00

One of those days. . .

1. A friend called yesterday afternoon but the answering machine caught the call . . . I called her back right away. To my confusion the line was busy. Weird I thought, she called less than 8 seconds ago. I called again, but it was still busy. I waited a few more minutes and called again. The fourth attempt I was getting a little annoyed but my persistance wouldn't give in . . . I called again . . . And it was on that fourth try I realized I wasn't in fact dialing my friends number, but was infact dialing MY OWN telephone number. . . It of course was busy.

2. After leaving Slaintes Pub last night I had another moment. I took out my keys, said goodbye to friends then proceeded to unlock my vehicle. I tried once, twice, three times. . . nothing. The key wouldn't budge. Right, left. . . NOTHING! I tried again . . . then realized: Crap. This isn't my van.

Ah life doesn't get much better than this!

home away from home

2004-11-01T11:44:00.000-06:00

You know the hospital is your home away from home when. . .

1. You know that Sunday is Turkey for supper, Monday is Mac & Cheese, Tuesday is soup & sandwich, and Wednesday is sausage. . .

2. A nurse asks what will it be for lunch and you respond: "(S)He'll have the usual".

3. You're told what room (s)he's in, and you say: "Oh great, the same as last time."

4. You don't need to ask anyone for directions to: parking, the cafeteria, washroom, or emergency. . .

5. . . . and you can give directions to the OR, ICU, CCU, AND ICCU. . .

6. (. . . and you know what the acronyms for each stand for . . .)

7. The ambulance attendants ask you: "So how'd you do on that test, anyway?"

8. You call a friend at midnight, and before you have a chance to state your cause they ask: "Which hospital?" and "Which parent is it?"

9. You've been on the church prayer list 8 times in the last 6 months.

10. You know all the short cuts, and alternate routes, to all medical facilities in the Greater Toronto Area.

11. While most patients pay for t.v. use by the day. . . you have a yearly rate.

12. Hospital food is better than homecooking. . . and your mom is asking the nurse if she can get the recipe.

13. You've mastered the art of "the bed pan".

14. Your dad has made "patient of the month" . . . more than once. . .

15. You noticed when one of the janitors got laid off.

16. You have the General Hospital's phone number on speed dial.

17. You dial 9-1-1 and you DON'T have to give them your address.

18. You dial 9-1-1 and they say is your phone number STILL 522-1100?

20. A nurse can't work the heart monitor and you say "I'll do it."

21. Visitors have to leave by 8:00 pm but you stay 'til 9:00 pm because everyone assumes you're on staff.

22. You bump into a doctor in the hospital lobby and he asks: "Is it mom or dad this time?"

23. You know what the question of the day is : "Have your bowels moved today?" And you're not embarrassed by it.

24. Wheelchairs are for racing.

25. You call going to the hospital giftshop: shopping.

no more drama

2004-11-01T11:05:00.000-06:00

No more pain. No more game. No drama (No more drama in my life. . .) La, la, la. . . La, la, la. . .

I was driving to Staples this morning to pick up some ink for my computer when "No Drama" by Mary J Blige came on the radio. I'm feeling pretty tired today, and this song pretty much sums it up.

NO MORE DRAMA.

I want a week where everyone is o.k. A week when no one is getting kicked out of their apartment, feelings aren't hurt, late night emergency visits aren't expected, friends aren't sad, grandmas don't have alzheimers, there's no reason to worry about kids going home at night, no more messy breakups, families don't need foodbanks, and people aren't sick.

NO MORE FREAKIN' DRAMA!

My dad was rushed to the hospital this past Wednesday night. 11:30 pm I got the call. 11:50 pm I was at the hospital. 3:30 am I got home. Monday morning 12:25pm, he's still there.

There isn't another place in the world I would have rather been on Wednesday night. Although there is little one can do in these situations except love, support, and get the occasional glass of water it's nice to feel needed, and nice to hear first hand what the prognosis is. . .

Those who know my family know that these visits to the hospital aren't anything new. For the last three years between my mom being diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis (MS), and my dad being diagnosed with heart disease the hospital has been a home away from home. . . No really. If it's any indication that we've spent a lot of time at the hospital over the last three years, we were able to name many of the nurses on ward 8 south (the cardiac unit) before they even told us their name. We've had them before. Familiar faces. Old friends.

This morning I feel tired. And for the first time in a long time I'm simply tired of the drama. I just want my dad and mom to not be sick anymore.

shattered

2004-10-27T16:32:00.000-05:00

Have you ever been in one of those moods that you just couldn't kick. . . Sad, miserable, irritable, angry, hurt, frustrated. . . Then the unthinkable happens:

A baby enters the room.

Your mood is shattered. Your sadness, misery, irritation, anger, hurt and frustration: All Gone.

You're now happy.

A friend and I meet every Tuesday to connect, encourage and journey together and her sweet little baby girl comes along. Last night as people walked by goo-ing and ga-ing I was reminded of how much joy babies bring us. Last night it didn't matter the mood people were carrying when they entered the coffee shop, it all seemed to disappear when that tiny little girl confronted them with her toothless grin. Every person, young and old, could only smile back.

A little baby girl made a difference in somebody's life last night. . .

10 cents

2004-10-19T14:33:00.000-05:00

When my sister worked at Casey's Bar and Grill she often brought home a 4 litres container full of loose change. The servers, and bar tenders hated carrying around loose change, so my sister got smart. She put a container at the bar and whenever the staff got tipped pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters and even loonies, they would discard them into this container which my lil' sis would later bring home, count, roll, and cash. She made a small fortune.

I was reminded of this this morning when I went out for lunch with some of the kids from the youth centre. The girls each contributed 3 dollars towards lunch, and tossed their coinage into the money holder on the front dash of the van. Already in the change holder was a couple of dollars in loose change. I had forgotten the money was there. I'm not even sure when I put it there. It certainly had little or no value to me. . . because I obviously hadn't missed it.

I got to thinking: How is it that there are people all over the world who would kill for my $1.87, but to many of us "it's just a couple of bucks".

Last winter a woman came into the food bank, which is run out of the same building as the youh centre. She was an old lady, frail looking, and obviously quite poor as she came to the food bank often. When asked by the food bank administrator how she would be getting home she said "Oh, I'll be walking dear." She paused and a little embarrassed continued, "I walked from home, and will walk back. I have $2.00, but that's all I have. It costs $2.10 to take the bus." This lady lived a couple miles away, and walked to the food bank and was prepared to walk back because she did not have 10 cents.

She didn't have 10 pennies. She didn't have 2 nickels. 10 cents!

The juxtaposition hit me this morning. My complete disregard and appreciation for money has rendered me careless. Not meaning too, I have been tossing away money while others have been starving for it.

remember when

2004-10-18T19:35:00.000-05:00

I remember when:

i didn't need punctuation to tell a story

love never hurt

my parents were the smartest people I knew

my family could do no wrong

i wanted to be a missionary doctor who lived in Africa

money was for candy

my biggest problems were figuring out how to convince my parents to let me stay up late at night and not getting caught talking in class

i loved jesus because he was jesus and I believed in god because he was god

i didn't care what I clothes I wore and how my hair sat on my head

purses were for playing house

i thought the government really was good and did all things for the betterment of its people

santa clause brought gifts the easter bunny brought chocolate and the toothfairy left money

singing didn't have to sound good

spatulas were for licking

mud baths were better than bubble baths

eating chocolate cake didn't mean counting calories

I remember when:

Life was simple.

2004-10-13T15:53:00.000-05:00

still

2004-10-13T15:51:00.000-05:00

it feels like home to me

2004-10-13T15:43:00.000-05:00

change is good

i can see you. . . can't you see me

2004-10-13T15:10:00.000-05:00

Half way through my day I needed a serious break. Ideas had ceased to flow, my ergonomically INcorrect desk set-up was giving me a headache, and my non-existent caffeine addiction had kicked in. . . I decided to take a little drive to my friend Tim Horton's.

As I waited at a red light a young man in his car came rolling through. . . Although both our car windows were shut, traffic buzzing around us, and our engines running I could hear every word he was singing. "I wanna rock'n roll all ni-i-ight. . . AND PARTY EVERY DAY. I. . ." You didn't have to be a mouth reader to figure out what he was yelling . . . or was it singing. I've never seen a person rock out like he was apparently rockin' out in my whole life.

It was the funniest thing I had seen all day and I wondered if he realized the whole world could see him. . .

A friend of mine says her husband still thinks people can't see him once he's inside the confines of his car. Once they were at a convenient store grabbing milk, and embarrassment struck! Her husband waited in the car, parked clear view in front of the check out . . . and waited. . . picking his nose like there was no tomorrow. Needless to say she was mortified when standing in line she looked out into their car and saw her husbands fingers diggin' up his left nostril.

I can see YOU. Can't YOU see ME?

2004-10-05T14:18:00.001-05:00

action

2004-10-05T14:18:00.000-05:00

action

2004-10-05T14:17:00.000-05:00

action

old people talk a lot

2004-10-05T09:12:00.000-05:00

Last night my husband and I were invited out for supper. I was looking forward to the evening but really knew not what to expect. Well, I was immedietely blown away by the extravagance of the meal.

Pita and hummus to start.

Spinach salad, with grapes, strawberries, and pineapples, drizzled with a warm homemade poppy seed dressing.

Then the fresh bread.

The wine.

Moroccan vegetarian (for me) and lamb (for Ian) stew laid over a steaming hot plate of rice.

Mild (which was really hot) Chutney on the side.

And for dessert: HOMEMADE FAT FREE ice cream with raspberries, strawberries, and blueberries.

Unbelievable let me tell you! I was in supper heaven.

The entire experience brought me back to childhood. The chit-chat munching on finger foods while waiting for the hostess to complete the final preparations of the meal. The polite 'May I please have' s , the appropriate ravings of the meal whenever there was a lull in conversation, elbows off table, napkin in lap, chew and swallow before speaking. . .

My ma and pa went'in done me good.

Well, we had the most wonderful time last evening. We listened to countless stories from the 70 something year old hostesses, we debated theology, and lamented on change. . . But by 9:55 pm my husband and I were ready to go. By 10:00 pm we were fidgeting, and by 10:03 I got the eye. My husband was so tired he could almost take no more. He shot me the "let's get going" eye and I knew it was up to me to get us out. . .

Not having been too actively involved in the conversation for the last 16 minutes I knew my task wouldn't be easy. . . and it wasn't. . .

5 more stories were told before we left, but at 10:38 pm I had done it! My slow edging off my chair and 6 consecutive declines for more tea or wine finally gave them the hint, and we were out. . . It was a lovely evening but old people talk a lot.

I can remember my parents being in similar predicaments when I was little. Only they had "the escape" down to an art. When one was ready to go, they would shoot the other "the eye" at which point the other would say at the first opening in conversation "Well, the girls look like they're tired. We'd love to stay longer but we really do need to get the, home to bed." At which point the host and hostess would quickly agree feeling gravely bad for keeping us poor children out so late. . . Within 4 minutes we were out.

I need to fine me some of them ol' kids.

the process

2004-10-04T14:48:00.000-05:00

As I looked in the mirror Sunday afternoon I was overwhelmed.

Dark circles.

Pimple.

Ungodly state of hair.

And well. . . an overarching lack of aesthetic pleasings.

I was still in my pajamas by 4:00 pm and had made no attempt to pull myself together until then, when I knew time was ticking if I was going to get to church on time. Up to this point I hadn't been feeling badly about my state. . . Then I looked into the mirror!

Before I had time to process anything even close to being considered 'rational' thoughts, about my slightly-less-than-perfect appearance, I was in my room ransacking draws and closets for: Frizz-free serum, papaya straightening balm, extra firm hairspray, super volumunous mousse and my quick heat hair straightner. Trip two and I had face wash, exfoliating scrub, moisturizing cream, perfume and makeup.

Then the process began. A process I have become all too familiar with . . .

Scrubbing, rubbing, wetting, removing, wiping, painting.

And then the brushing, combing, infusing, separating, spraying, scrunching and straightening.

As I looked in the mirror when the process was just about complete, I was mad. I was mad because it occurred to me that I had spent 42 minutes prepping and crimping, whereas my husband who was carrying a similar just-rolled-out-of-bed morning predicament on his face took 4 minutes to reach the same emotional end.

I can't lie. When I looked in the mirror when the process was over, I felt better. I didn't have to run and hide anymore; I could be me. (Ironic isn't it!?) I was now able to leave the house and have a good day because all of my flaws were well concealed and my positive physical attributes were highlighted. I felt good.

When I saw my husband feeling similarly good after just brushing his teeth and putting on deodorant I got to thinking: As far as society has come in our quest for the equality of woman we're still light-years away. That a woman feels the need to spend 45 minutes prepping herself for the world speaks volumes doesn't it? especially when it's juxtaposed my her male counterpart who spends no more than 5.

Although I'd like to say that my "daily process" is done only for me, such a statement would be highly untrue. I did it (and do it) for everyone but me, and mainly for the men in my life whom I question would take me seriously if I looked like I just crawled out of bed.

The hard cold truth is: I love my jogging pants! I love track pants, big baggy sweaters, and flannel. I love my hair out of my face, and to not wear makeup is the most freeing thing next to going commando.

For a long time I shied away from embracing the term "feminist". Because after all isn't "bra burnin', tree huggin', nature lovin', hippee" at the core of the feminist tradition? Well, I can't financially (or physically) justify burning my braziers. . . But for what it's worth I'm a feminist!

We are.

2004-09-28T21:41:00.000-05:00

I am.

2004-09-28T21:37:00.000-05:00

the impossible

2004-09-27T17:06:00.000-05:00

When I'm not careful I can be a bit of a doubting thomas . . . This term of course alludes to the disciple Thomas, who doubted Jesus had risen from the dead until he had first-hand evidence of it (John 20:24-29). Yeah, you know my kind . . . I'm the skeptic in the group. . . The one who won't believe it 'til she's seen it. Everyone else is yelling and screaming elated by the news proclaimed by the professor just moments before: "Your class average will be increasing by 4%, I made an error on the grading scheme." With the inevitable rolling of the eyes, I'm like: "Yeah, right. I'll believe that when I see it!"

Thomas and I would've been tight.

This whole doubting thing fundamentally contradicts my beliefs in who God is and His ultimate power to do the impossible, so I've been needing to get this thing straight.

I had an unexpected visit last week from a friend that was in serious need of help. For so long he has struggled with drugs, alcohol, and depression and after many many attempts to make things right, I had all but changed my name to Thomas when responding to yet another cry for help. "Sure, I love you." "Sure, I'll do whatever I can to help you out." "Of course you can do it." But in my mind I'm thinking: "I won't believe this 'til I see it."

What a jerk, I know.

In the last few days, however, every doubt I've even thought to think has been shattered. God has rudely awaken me, reminding me that He's way bigger than I give Him credit for. The impossible is happening right before my eyes.

2004-09-27T16:50:00.000-05:00

The Sacrifice
Giving up control, trusting someone else may have a better point of view.

a Jesus moment

2004-09-22T15:42:00.000-05:00

I was at D&D last night, which is a group of teens and young adults that meet Tuesday evenings at 6:00 pm (until whenever) at a local Pizza shop in Dundas, and I had a Jesus moment.

I was sitting at a picnic table surrounded by 16 or so teenagers who were all chowing down on pizza and engaging in chats about their days and past weekend. As I looked around at the scene unfolding, a scene not much different from any other Tuesday for the last three years, I realized I was just one them. As they shared their frustrations, and high points of this past week I was overcome by their acceptance of me. I have done nothing to deserve my place in their social circle, but I have it. They have let me join their world. They have allowed me to see their true thoughts and feelings about life. They have permitted me to listen to their rants and raves, and they even seek my honest opinion.

As I left the group last night, I found myself thinking that this is where Jesus would have been. I don't think if Jesus were walking around today he would have been handing out top notch flyers advertising upcoming Christian speakers, condemning the lost through musical verse, or preaching a culturally relevant sermon on the top 10 deadliest sins. I think Jesus would be hanging. He would be showing sincere love by entering into community with people.

What an honor to be accepted by such an incredible group of youth. What a privilege to be granted the opportunity to see things through their eyes. I love my job and I love the kids who teach me so much everyday!! I just hope I can do Jesus justice.

Sick

2004-09-21T18:01:00.000-05:00

I've always considered my diary and personal journal . . . umm . . . how would you say . . . ahh . . .well: Personal. So, this whole concept of having an online journal where friends, family (and strangers for that matter) can see your inner workings, weekly thought patterns and check up on your grammar is a wee bit invasive.

(Invasive: adj. 1. Tending to intrude or encroach, as upon privacy).

Earlier today I was reading through some friends blogs and for a second I felt dirty. It just seemed so wrong. I can remember as a kid being punished once for reading my sister's pad locked diary . . . And now someone is deeming such an act not just o.k. but actually welcoming it. Sick!

(Sick: adj 1. "cool" or "awesome." Used in situations like: "That movie was sick!")

As I type this first blog entry I feel like I'm on a first date. Awkward. Hyper self-aware. Hesitant to devulge too much, too fast. My hands are sweating . . . My heart is beating fast . . .

But I'm pumped. Gosh darnet I'm ready, and I think I've met my match!