Play Against The Fear

Two days ago I read a post from Lisa- Jo Baker (who I read because her posts come to my email. Could everyone please have their blogs do that? All of you who I want to read, please email it to me.)

Lisa-Jo talked about how fear of failure had her in danger of not dreaming big dreams.

Failure was my enemy and it made me afraid. 
Maybe you have a dream you’re too afraid to put on paper?
Maybe you’re so busy weighing the odds of failure that you haven’t started?

I realized there is a part of me that is still afraid to jump in, to commit to the dreams of spas and shops, and handwashing seminars and education, and moving our family around the world. It is so huge.

This fear of failure has the danger of keeping me from another big adventure that has just been offered to our family here in Vancouver. 

It's this same fear that I have fought time & again, in being afraid to love because I might get hurt, to commit to investing in one more person who might just move again.

It's this fear that was unwittingly passed down to me by my dear Mum, who never really wanted to invest in any of our houses over the years, because just when you invest... you might get transferred again, so guard your heart.

I have fought this fear. I have invested. I have had my heart so broken by investing in a home I loved, by investing people who moved far, far away, by investing in faith communities who are imperfect, by choosing to love. And I am not sorry. 

Gwen and I talked about this mystery tonight, the mystery that this willingness to love, to be broken, to be so hurt by having the ones we love go away from us - that it is worth the risk, it is in this pain we find Love with a capital L. 

Tonight I sat at dinner with Don and Gwen and Chris and Wade. Don can not move the right side of his body well any more at all. His sentences are quiet, at times they are mumbles, disjointed non-sequiters.

But his eyes. Every now and then, you could see his eyes, pick up the flow of conversation. Widen in reflection or surprise or amusement. Once he made one of his inimitable whistling-whooshing noises. And each time I hugged him, kissed him, he squeezed my hand, my arm, repeatedly, as he always has. He sat and listened to his grandchildren in Australia make noise and he smiled and smiled.

There is every reason for Don and Gwen to despair, to lose hope. They have had their moments, but tonight their home was full of peace, full of joy. They are still finding joy. Gwen sang out, while reading an email, "I have such great friends! Of all people in the world, surely I am the most blessed!" 

Before we were married we sat in their old house in Oyama, choosing songs for our wedding where their two eldest sons sang. The boys introduced us to the music of David Wilcox, and his song Show The Way, which we chose as our wedding song. I told Gwen I had been singing it to the children at night as a prayer for Don. Gwen said their son Ari had sung it for Don just last week, and tonight as we sat down to dinner, Gwen lovingly positioned Don at the table, moved the foot rests on his wheel chair, moved his feet, placed the Joie apron around him, she sang:

You say you see no hope, you say you see no reason
We should dream that the world would ever change
You're saying love is foolish to believe
'Cause there'll always be some crazy with an Army or a Knife
To wake you from your day dream, put the fear back in your life...

Look, if someone wrote a play just to glorify
What's stronger than hate, would they not arrange the stage
To look as if the hero came too late, he's almost in defeat
It's looking like the evil side will win, so on the edge
Of every seat, from the moment that the whole thing begins
It is...

Love who makes the mortar
And it's love who stacked these stones
And it's love who made the stage here
Although it looks like we're alone
In this scene set in shadows
Like the night is here to stay
There is evil cast around us
But it's love that wrote the play...
For in this darkness love can show the way

So now the stage is set. Feel your own heart beating
In your chest. This life's not over yet.
so we get up on our feet and do our best.   

We play against the Fear. We play against the reasons not to try.  

We're playing for the tears burning in the happy angel's eyes

For it's...

I will not despair. I will NOT fear failure, in life, work, home, especially in loving people. I will honour what Don & Gwen have taught me - to see this life as a grand adventure. 

There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love.

1 John 4:18

Sabbath

"Remember the Sabbath" means "Remember that every that you have received is a blessing. Remember to delight in your life, in the fruits of your labour, remember to stop and offer thanks for the wonder of it."

Hide and Seek

On Thursday the girls were at their Home Learners program and Pax and I were running a few errands. We passed a man on the street who I have seen around my neighbourhood for at least 10 years. I know I used to see him and pray for him when Wade and I regularly volunteered at the Chili Wagon outreach our church does in a neighbourhood park.

I haven't had much engagement with him, I know his partner's name and in past years I have been more in the habit of passing him by, but I had an impulse we were to stop that day and talk to Ken. I took some coins from my wallet & handed them to Pax, and crouched down at eye level with both him and Pax. Ken was sitting on the sidewalk, Pax was standing. Pax put the coins in Ken's hand.

I greeted Ken and told him I knew from the Chili bus, and enquired about his partner, and began to make conversation with him. I noticed a crutch and Pax asked "What that for?" We told him. I admired Ken's new shave and haircut, and for the first time I can remember he was smiling, chatting with both of us.

I asked about his injured ankle and he began to tell us his story, and I asked if it would be weird if we prayed for him. He said it would be fine, yet I wondered of he was just being polite - but I don't always feel like it's right to ask, so I try to go with my gut on these things.  I prayed a simple one-sentence prayer, encouraging Pax to pray with me, "Jesus, please heal Ken's foot, Amen."

Something struck a cord in my boy, because we have been praying for healing a lot these days. Our dear friend Don is Wade's spiritual dad. He officiated at our wedding and baby dedication, and he is family to us. Don has an inoperative brain tumour and it is getting worse every day. We are praying for a miracle for him, as nothing else will suffice at this point. His body is slowing fading along with many other faculties. We grieve each loss, and remain astounded and inspired at Don's joy, his thankfulness, his right priorities, his love for his family and friends, his faith.

Wade trims Don's beard on their last visit together. 

Wade often calls him, "Oh Captain, my Captain."

Pax has made some connection to praying for healing, as he looks at Mr. Ken, sitting on the sidewalk.

"You have a tumour?" he asks.

Ken smiles and says he does not. I explain to Ken that Pax's Papa has a tumour. And I as I do, I begin to tear up a little. And I notice, so does Ken. I am awestruck after 10 years I have finally made a connection with this man, but it's not me, it's Pax.

"Yeah, " Pax continues, "my Papa have a tumour. His brain is hiding."

"His brain is hiding?" I ask, as this is not language anyone else has taught him, but clearly his understanding of what we have said.

"Yeah," he continues, holding his new glo-in-the-dark Lightening Mc Queen and Mater night time pull-ups, noticing the big bus, making conversation, "yeah, his brain is hiding, and we can't find it."

My tears spill over as I look back at Ken, who is also looking back with brimming eyes. "Well, I guess he has been listening," I say, but really I feel like I am learning from Pax, listening to him. That night I will pray that God will help bring Don's brain out of hiding.

And after 10 years of not much connection, Ken struggles to his feet and to my shock, holds out his arms to me, to hug me. On the corner of Slocan and Hastings as everyone passed by, I received his hug, and his assurance that he would be praying for Don. Then the magic moment ended as Pax made a mad dash into the McDonald's and I had to chase him down, but I had felt the Kingdom come.

Oh Don. Come out, come out, wherever you are.

Home = Tea

I have not forgotten a post for yesterday, something happened and I have it stored away, but it is an important post and I don't want to rush it.

I just wanted to say that today must be marked down in history as the first day my eldest daughter made me a cup of tea.

She made it all by herself with my favourite tiny creamer jug and the mug I love and her own sugar bowl from her Nana and her teapot from Auntie J'aime that used to be Kira's.

In my house, in my parents house, tea = home. When we walk in the door at my Mum and Dad's first one in puts the kettle on. Something bad happens, good happens, a long day, a good chat, all require tea. My Mum and my friend Jan can both make tea that has healing powers in it.

When I returned from California, where the beloved friends I had there rarely drank tea, my Auntie Gill and dear friend Jennifer together made me a cup of tea to drink with a piece of cake without being asked, and without needing to ask how I took it, they just put it in my hands. I wept with the comfort of being with them, and being known.

I come from fantastic stock. I like to think that Ruby and Bert Payne and Nell and Bert Moloney got to have a little peek on the earth-cam from their spots in heaven of their great-granddaughter making her Mum a cup of tea. A delight indeed. I can see their grins all around.

Nori Neutrino

He noticed yesterday that she left for school with a hole in her black leggings. So many Dads would have no idea, but he noticed.

He was going to a neighbourhood near a store where I had a credit, so I mentioned to him he might stop in to see if they had any new leggings for her.

He has never been nervous to shop for tampons or diapers or lingerie, or anything else. He had to learn his own identity, the fit of his own skin, at a young age to survive. He has complete confidence without  a trace of arrogance.

It was no big deal to him that he knows the right size, and that he knows she would prefer the ones with the ruffles.

The delight in her face upon returning from school to hear Daddy had bought new tights. She has always been like a comet - a neutrino - one friend says, and she hurled herself at him with joy.

This morning he taught her how to vacuum the floor, and I heard him, as I stood in the bathroom, guiding her around, encouraging her, placing into her with every movement the skills and time and love I see whole generations lacking.

To him it is just what you do. This is what real men do, this is what Dads do.

"That's it! That's how you do it! Good job, Eleanor! Good job! That's it, just like that."

That's right babe. Just like that.

Photo by Wade, taken after he had sung Eleanor to sleep.

Tears for Charlotte

I feel totally vindicated.

I posted last weekend about reading the girls Charlotte's Web, and how I always cry when Charlotte dies. This time, Sophia, who is becoming more sensitive was embarrassed I was crying. Today, I was reading about the 60th anniversary of the book, and it included this, about the author, E.B. White recording the audio book:

“He, of course, as anyone does doing an audio book, had to do several takes for various things, just to get it right,” Sims says. “But every time, he broke down when he got to Charlotte’s death. And he would do it, and it would mess up. … He took 17 takes to get through Charlotte’s death without his voice cracking or beginning to cry.”

I feel so in tune with the author. So there.

Writing Us Out of The Dark

Lisa-Jo Baker writes in her blog post today:


I etch words over memories. Over emotions.
I write and scratch at all the complicated inside-outness of my own head. The words, no the writing the words down, they help make sense. I draw my own road map in reverse. It happens and then I write it.
Looking back I can see the direction where we’ve come from and it feels less scary.
Sometimes other people can find themselves in the backwards map I write too. In the one you write as well.
We color in a road map for the lost and we find ourselves in the process. All these words leading me home.

I write to make sense of things, but not often. Usually when I am at my most desperate, I know I can not keep functioning unless I sit down with my journal and sift thoughts.

I am a verbal processor. Sometimes I don't know what I think unless I say it out loud. Writing is saying it out loud, to myself and then to the world. 

I started to blog way back when to share stories of Sophia with the many people around the world who could not see her day to day. Then Eleanor came, and with her the the brutal transition of our eldest child changing overnight  into a distraught elder sister who was really just 2 1/2, whose world was upside down. And Eleanor, who was super happy until she wasn't and then she screamed and screamed and screamed.

I have a friend who has a new-born baby with health issues and a three year old who screams the same way and I wish there was a way to put my hand on  her heart so she could know, just know that I was there, and I was at my worst, and it does change, it does get better.

But we draw our maps in reverse. It happens and then we write it. Or for me, I have not written much of it til now, for many reasons. Things felt too unknown, for a long time. too overwhelming, the road map not visible days afterward, but only years, so I draw in reverse now.

This is a picture of newborn Eleanor wearing a sign that 2 year old Sophia wrote that said, "Don't hit me" That we used to need to pin to Eleanor to wear all day to keep Sophia from sneak-attack beating her. When I showed this picture to the girls the other day,they thought it was hilarious. Ha ha ha.

But I still see Sophia's little head from behind the day she came up to me with a new born Eleanor in my arms, and hauled off and hit that tiny baby so hard, and I was so angry I simply reacted and hit her back, on the back of her head as she turned away. As soon as I did it, I felt the impact of it go up my arm, and through her body and I was the most horrified I had ever been at my own behaviour. (Oh, I've surpassed that moment since then. I just don't need to tell you every ugly thing here today.) And later that day when Wade came home, Sophia said, "I hit Eleanor, then she cried, then Mum hit me and I cried and then Mum cried. We all cried."

I think of the time I yelled so hard at the kids I peed my own pants. (My bladder has never been strong. these three kids finished it off. And I am still glad I have them.) Or how, just two night ago, after weeks of feeling like I had finally been calm for a long time, my screamer, who can still really scream when she needs to, made me so mad I just screamed right back in her face, just a big, frustrated wordless scream. And it didn't even fix anything.

Then I apologized and she apologized, because now my two daughters are old enough now to talk with, to reason with, to express independent thought, and  they know I love them and that I am broken, and that I apologize when I mess up, and they do the same. I have enough moments with them under my belt to see that it is enough when we mess up to say sorry, that they know how much I love them, and they tell me often how they love me. That we do more good than harm to each other, by the grace of God.

We are writing road maps out of the dark, for those who are in the trenches, in the dark right now, and who will need weeks and months, instead of days, to see the way out. That is the point of being mothers, sisters, friends. Why I read Lisa-Jo's blog for a year before I really began to believe I was as a good a Mum as she said I was, because I had suspected it all along, but I spend so much time noticing what I do wrong it was hard to hear.

Believe it, you and this story and this time is worth the refining, that very very hot heat, it is worth it. You will be able to say to another one day, "I know."

And right now we are in the midst of some potentially dark stories. Our dearest friends, our loved ones, are walking through some of the darkest moments life can bring, and our hearts with them. But the practicing this backwards-map writing brings me such comfort in that I know I will see the way out, and that my access, our access, to the light, the wealth, will be much quicker this time. It will not take years, I hope, I hope.

School picture day

Today our girls got all prettied up for school pictures. Here is a picture of them taken by our good friend Lawrence, who adores them, and had to stop working to take their photo. I love that we have a pciture of them in the sanity-saving, life-giving tiny house garden. I would lose my mind were it not for this little fully fenced yard.

I am convinced one of the reasons God took us out of our old house (and He did say that clearly to me during the gray fall of waiting , "I TOOK YOU OUT OF THERE." as clear as few things I know I have heard in my spirit) was because I could not send the kids out to play in the yard and I did not feel safe with them playing outside. God knows what we need in a home better than we do, I have learned, and it is important to learn what each one of us needs. It is a big deal. we have sacrificed a lot in this season, but we know more what matters.

HOME group

Today we met for the first time as the new home group Wade and I are leading. Interestingly enough on the theme of this 31 days, I had an interesting discussion with my sensitive friend Peter about how he thought of a "small group" and  "home group" as two different things, and how it was important that we were having a HOME group.

My writing prompt today is to write kind words, and  must say how proud I am of Sophia. She took on the task of taking care of our friend's 3 year old and Eleanor during our meeting, and she was lovely. She sung songs and did stories, and has a lesson and a bible DVD. She took it seriously and was such a blessing. She is a fascinating mix of incredible maturity and extreme innocence and I like her very much.

A Rich and Steady Time

For Sat Oct 12

Finished reading Charlotte's Web with the girls. It has truly become one of my favourite books. I weep whenever I read about Charlotte dying, I think the sentence "No one was with her when she died." is one of the saddest sentences in literature.

This was the quote that stood out to me this time. Sophia agreed it was timely, not because she feels like we are waiting to go to Thailand, and actually, neither do I anymore, not in that pressing, urgent way, but in waiting to see what happens with this Just Soap dream all together. Sophia felt it was more for her about waiting to have her ears pierced.

The narrative says, in anticipation of the arrival of Charlotte's children after her death,
"Life is always a rich and steady time when you are waiting for something to happen or hatch."

I think I have moved from pressing and urgent and uncertain to rich and steady. That feels good, as if Charlotte would approve.

Race

Race

Last year I ran my first half-marathon by accident. Really. I never, ever ever thought I could. I committed to go to the training sessions while we were in San Diego because I didn't imagine we would still be around for it to happen.

But it happened. Week after week I kept running a little more and a little more. A friend suggested to me a few months in that I did not decide what I could or could not do a few months down the road, but to keep running it.  Our work project ended right in time for me to run the race and leave the next day.

People call it a race. "When is your race" or refer to it as "race day". But I never raced anyone except the wonder in my head as to whether or not I could do it. And I did it. I wept and hugged a total stranger, a small, jumping black woman at the finish line,  hugging me, yelling, "You did it! you did it!"

And it is good for me to remember as we are in a season of waiting, living in the waiting, that other people might call this life a race,  but to me it feels like a marathon. I have meditated on this verse often in this season:

12 Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, ² fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame,and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. ³ Consider him who endured such opposition from sinners, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.

I Am Home

My friend Heidi, who I mentioned earlier this month, has been featured in a short film about what Home means to four nomads.

You can check it out here:

http://vimeo.com/39100216



A paraphrased quote from the film: "To me, home is not a place, but a state of mind. If home was a place, I would picture it like an archipelago, all the countries I grew up in... like the islands, and me, I am the sea, connecting them all."

and... "I feel at home, here, there and everywhere, but belong nowhere...home keeps moving."

40

Today I told stories to the young women I am mentoring for our current missions training school. To one, I told the story of Wade washing me with his words of truth. And I also told our story of home, the journey of the last 2 years. TWO YEARS.

The story that two years, 3 months and 10 days ago we were evicted from the house where we had birthed 2 of our children, and made home for countless people.

The story that I knew that I knew that I knew that I knew that we were not supposed to rent another house.

The story that there was no plan B for homelessness, except trust.

And the story that we were not without a place to lay our heads for the 17 months we were without a home of our own.

The story of the deep blue heartache and pain of waiting in the fall in Canada, the golden winter in California, and mean reds of a return that felt like tearing things out again and again until we landed, exactly 40 houses later

I SAID FORTY, as in biblical times of waiting and preparation and lesson learning 40, houses later at the tiny house.

I always thought I knew that the journey was the thing. But I know now. How long? How long?
As long as it takes.

Show, Not Tell

Tues Oct 9

Lovely opportunity not to blog. Pax needed a snuggle, and I lay down with him and fell asleep for the night.

Wed Oct 10

The challenge from www.lisajobaker.com today:

Write with all five senses.

Give us the flavor of the day, the moment, the memory. The more details you weave into your story the easier it is for us to relate. Because now we’re right there with you. On that hard packed sandy beach with a breeze that feels more like an old friend than a reason to tie hair up in a ponytail.

Slow down and remember. Then write – like you’re serving a five course meal. So that we can savor every delicious word of your story.

   
I remember. Because it happened at a photo shoot, so it is well documented, by David, for us. What you can see in our faces, is how much fun we had. None of it was made up. 

We were moving as fast as Dave talks, as fast as he thinks, and he caught it all. He was as generous with his energy, and his praise, and his rapid fire lens as he and Andrea were with their home, and their time and their food and their lives. 

  
You can't see Andrea often. She is only in one or two pictures. You can't see that even though she is quiet, if you talk with her she is just as likely to tear up with emotion as she is to bless you with her cracked-open grin. You can't see that she brought the cookies, and crackers and blankets, that she rigged Nori's dress with the clip from a bag, that she is the reason Dave can operate like he does. 

And Nate, Nate who chased the waves with Sophia until they were tired out, chasing the sun, letting the waves chase them down. And all the while, their Philadelphia bones, our Canadian bones, sang to us... "You are on the beach at sunset, when everyone at home is wearing sweaters..."

We were on the hard-packed sand, the waves crashing into the pier. The salt air around us, gulls crying. 

We were there at sunset for the shadows, for the light, on purpose, but it put into us a feeling of catching magic, catching moments and we were sucking the marrow out of it. Perhaps that is why only amazing Mexican food afterward would suffice. 

You can see in our faces how well we were being loved. 

You can see in us how much we love each other. 

You can see how we were healing there, re-writing our story there, becoming more, becoming closer, how we were loved and celebrated and supported, by strangers who became our friends, like family. 

You can see why it was so hard to leave, and why it fueled us for this journey, why now, as fall turns towards towards winter in Canada again, these are the pictures that sing to us from the walls in the tiny house in the dark.

All photos, includig the IMAGE AT THE TOP OF THIS BLOG AND MY PROFILE PICTURE,  by the incredible David Difuntorum, San Diego California. 

But he sometimes goes to Philly, or really, he'll do almost anything to take photos that will strengthen your marriage and family to thrive, survive and come alive.  
www.daviddifuntorum.com www.awesomedave.com

Happy Thanksgiving

When Sophia is happy, she sings. I am in my room, and I can hear her outside right now. It is a cold, crisp, beautiful fall day. We can se the mountains of the North Shore from our little back yard. She is painting outside on her new easel, she is painting a picture of the sunrise. Prior to her painting her own picture she set Eleanor up first, and encouraged her as she painted. "Mum, come look at Eleanor she is doing so well!" They were such a lovely picture, in their pajamas topped with coats and vests to stay warm, topped with smocks and aprons. Sophia is singing long swooping lines adapted from the score of the How To Train Your Dragon films, and there are words mixed in I can't make out. "La da da da da da da" .... She is blissfully happy right now, without worry, and I am so, so grateful.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

A Day Of Rest

For Sunday Oct 5

Yesterday, on Sunday, we had a busy morning with various church commitments and a big lunch after church. We were all tired and when we came home, Pax fell asleep. The wonder of the afternoon was, so did Wade and I. The girls played and watched some Netflix, and we slept until Pax woke up. The girls crawled into bed with me and we read Charlotte's Web and ate chocolate while Wade made supper. Our upstairs neighbours are away, so the house was quieter, and while our girls adore having their little girls to play with all the time, it was so nice to have no one coming and going. We all settled in and had the most restful, lazy afternoon and evening. I can not remember the last time we did that, and I am not just using an expression. I actually can not remember a day so restful in our recent family history.

It occurred to me that I would not have been able to be so relaxed and restful had I been purposeful about making this house feel more like home for myself in the last few weeks. It has not been much of anything physical, simply being more intentional about tidying up, getting out my fall decorations, choosing to light candles in the evening, and embracing this season of fall in all its fruitfulness and wisdom. The incredible sunshine has been helpful beyond expression. It blesses me that this is how patient and caring God is in speaking to me when I am aware. Layer upon layer, moment upon moment, building one on the other until I am able to say: "How did we arrive at this lovely place? Ah, yes, all your hints and nudges, pointing me in this right direction. Thank you."

In A Tiny House

In a tiny house, by a tiny stream, lived a lovely lass, had a lovely dream...

So goes the first line of a song my Mum used to sing to me when I was a little girl and I sing to my Eleanor now as a lullaby. I have never before this moment googled it, but I have just learned it was a hit in England in 1954, when my Mum would have been 6 years old. A perfect example of something that feels like it belonged to only me, only my family, when really it came from the land of my parent's birth... I just don't realize it.

My Mum and Dad came to Canada in 1970, leaving both their families in England. Later my Dad's sister and her husband followed as well as his parents, but all of my Mum's family is still in England.
My Dad's sister is my Auntie Gill. Auntie Gill and Uncle Paul are my godparents and live about a 40 minute drive away from us now. Their only son, and my only Canadian cousin, lives in South Korea now, but we have the honour of being close enough to them to soak up their love, and provide them with someone to make some noise and eat their food when they are lonely. Their house feels like a home to me, a piece of familiar connection, a tie to my British roots and a source of love and welcome. Tea flows there almost constantly, and we read Hello! magazines and have entirely unironic conversations about whether or not Camilla will ever be Queen.

We spent a glorious day with them today. It was an incredibly beautiful fall day, and had a wonderful time making lots of memories. There were both pony rides and gelato involved. Two years ago, a month or two after we had been evicted, we spent an equally glorious fall day with them, but I remember being in so much pain from our eviction and the fallout afterward, and deep in the mystery of what on earth we would do while we were homeless (we had all our stuff in storage waiting for God to do something, and God did, just not the something we thought God would do) and Gill said something along the lines of, "It hurts now, but one day you will realize it has gone, and that you have moved on, and it doesn't hurt so much any more." That was true today, and a blessing to reflect on.

While we were together today, I told my Uncle Paul about a conversation Sophia had recently had with her friend. Her friend was upset becasue Sophia had tried to change the direction of a game while they were playing, by introducing a whole new story line to the game about fairies. Her friend had protested and told Sophia that Christians could not believe in fairies because God didn't make fairies and they were not real. This grieved Sophia to the point of weeping, a long, sobbing weep and conversation with Wade and I that lasted for what felt like an hour.

It came out that she absolutely believes in fairies, and that she also absolutely believes in Jesus and being a follower of Jesus is very important to her and she could not reconcile the two. Now, her friends parents and we have talked. We have applied all the lessons about how we can be friends with people who do not believe the same things as we do, and how incredible Christian writers have conceived the greatest works of fantasy and magic, and Sophia and her friend are still dear friends because Sophia has a lovely elastic, generous forgiving heart.

The other thing you should know is that when Sophia was small I was VERY concerned about her knowing the truth, and that when she was 3 I told her that Santa Claus was a game we play and that the real meaning of Christmas was all about Jesus. And I did the same thing at Easter with the Easter Bunny. And you know what? She did not ignore me, or not listen, I just think she believes in magic too much to possibly take it in. She said, "Yes Mum, but do you know where Santa lives?" and so on. She taught me that it was very, very, very important to believe in fantasy and make-believe. and she has no memory of  those early conversations and has invested in Santa, the Easter Bunny, the tooth fairy and any other fairy, for that matter. She knows and senses truth but she holds just as holy any time she can sense grown-ups investing in a magical world and she RUNS with it and we have learned not to take it from her, but go with it, because we learn from her every time.

When I was telling my Uncle Paul all about the fairy conversation, little did I know what he had on his mind. He was almost sick, and needed to go for a walk and a smoke, and I reassured him she still believed in fairies but I had no idea the level of concern.  When we got to his house, he kept hinting and hinting that he had discovered something special while he had been digging in the yard. Sophia and Eleanor and I went out to explore, and behind an incredible gnarly stump in the yard, surrounded by tiny iridescent stars, was a fairy house. A tiny red light glimmered and shone as the girls looked at it. There was a door, with the handle carved, with (what must have been) fairy runes on it. There was a little wooden table and chairs, all carved from stumps. There was a basket with the tiniest tomatoes in it, a holder with three wands in it, a message on a leaf wrapped up in a hole. There was a wooden fairy ring and a tiny, silver, blue bell shaped lantern. Sophia could not contain herself, physically or vocally. Eleanor ran in circles. Eleanor saw the red light again (it looked a lot like the red light that shines from the end of Uncle Paul's laser level, but she didn't know that) Sophia squealed with delight, "I can not believe I found evidence of fairies!" It was so real, and palpable, I thought that there was every single possibility that there really are fairies in the world and that I was ridiculous to think I could know there were not. And as the girls ran around the yard I could not contain my tears of wonder and joy. All that time. All that effort.

And Uncle Paul had no idea that this special magic faith of Soph's had been so threatened. He just loved that the girls like Auntie Gill's fairy statues, and that have spent time in his garden waiting for fairies and wanted to help them along in their sense of wonder and magic. He told me today that when he was a boy, his Mum read him Peter Pan, and that it is still his favourite, and that he still wants to fly. I so believe that the Father above, the giver of good gifts, the Mother heart, gave my crusty atheist Uncle a nudge to deliver the purest joy I have seen. I also believe that God gave me a similar nudge, to provide the back story today, to choose, of all the stories I could have told him about the girls, that particular one, so that Paul could know the depth of his gift & how much it mattered.

We were so happy we took no pictures. It was too special. We were all giddy with joy. Auntie Gill has promised to send one later, but she doesn't do the digital send. The girls named all the fairy statues, convinced now that Bagitte, and Joy, and Angela would come to life when it was dark, when we weren't looking. Before we left we had to sneak peeks out the darkened windows and turn on the porch lights to see if the statues moved. On the way home in the car, with the younger two asleep, I had no idea Sophia was still awake. I said to Wade, "I can't believe that fairy house." And a little voice piped up, "I was just thinking the same thing. At Easter time, instead of an easter egg hunt, I want to have a fairy hunt."

In a tiny house, by a tiny stream, lived a lovely lass, who had a lovely dream.

Sure was twitchy

Today Eleanor was telling us a story. She said, "They made the witch so angry that her eyebrows twitched." Her eyebrows twitched.

And Pax has taken using the word "sure". "Lowly Worm sure love apples." or "That sure a good banana." Tonight he pretended to be a waiter and went to each of us and said, "Hello sir" before asking us what we wanted. He wanted Wade's last piece of watermelon, and sauntered over to him and said, "So, Dad..." and then casually pointed at the watermelon. He likes to say about Wade, "I love Dad, he's my buddy."

Welcome

This the Five Minute Friday theme from The Gypsy Mama Lisa-Jo Baker at www.lisajobaker.com. I love her. Thanks for the repeat encouragements to tell my story.

Welcome.

I work for a missions organization, and there are times when people come to work with us, that they have left everything familiar to them to come and join us.  I still remember when my friends Mark and Karen left their home, uprooted their three kids, changed jobs and moved from another country to come and work with us, my dearest Angela met them at the door of our ministry centre and the first thing she said to them was, "Welcome Home". Mark never for got it either.

It has taken me a while to embrace our current house as home. This week we had our friends over. We always go to their house because is bigger, but this week, I knew it was really important to not just cook food for them and take it there, but that I needed to have them here, so it felt more like my home. We creatively shuffled all around and passed things in arms reach from the counter, and it was crowded and perfect. I need to be welcomed but I learned this week I need to welcome others too, that it is just as vital for me to say, come on in, this place is safe, this is warm, this is home.

Home Keeps Moving

For Thurs Oct 4

Thursday I had an opportunity to meet some of the students for our new training school. I have the incredible privilege to meet with two of them once a week to help them process what they are thinking, feeling and learning for the school.

When I did my own missions training school I met my good friend Heidi. Heidi grew up between two different countries and had strong ties and allegiances to her parents home countries as well. For her, one of the hardest questions to be asked is "Where are you from?". It still is, though, the first thing I want to know, and one of the first things I ask. I think of Heidi every time I ask the question.

I had an opportunity to talk to a girl from Sweden the other day. She has been sick since she arrived in Canada, and she spoke of missing home. For her, home was the forest, the cold forest with open spaces. I thought again of my friend Heidi, who loves Scandinavia so much. I am praying for a Swedish angel for my new friend, one who has walked those forests and can keep her company in her new home.