The turn of the year…

The last day of 2012! I should have something to say on such a landmark occasion, but as so often happens at these moments, I am just filled with nostalgia. And not necessarily about 2012. At my age, these things called "years" race by with such speed that I can hardly see it all the first time by, never mind in recall mode!

I "discovered" my fountain pens again last week. You didn't know I had fountain pens? There was a long period in my life when that fetish was active. Over the years I have collected five really good fountain pens, three the 'suck up the ink' type, two the 'cartiridge ink' type. Three are Parkers, two are Shaeffer's. I have gone through long periods when I loved to write with REAL ink. It's classy, smooth, and my signature looks really professional. Such juvenile wanderings! Perhaps it's a sign of maturity that, although I've kept these pens all these years, I haven't touched them, or even knew where they were, for fifteen years! Perhaps it's a sign of senility that, once again, I am thrilled to have them working, and use at lest one of them each day!

Then, there is the clock. My daughter asked me about the old windup clock that sat on my mother;s buffet all the time In was growing up. It was wound faithfully, kept pretty good time, and rang out the hours regularly, sometimes waking me at night when I slept in the bedroom next to the dining room. The fact is, I have no idea what happened to it. When we broke up my mother's house after her death, furniture went in all directions, and the clock got lost in the shuffle. I'm sure it "went" to someone, but I have no idea to whom! Perhaps Caley; I'll ask when I see her next month, almost this month.

It's odd how year end meditations take you one far into the past, rather than just down the block of this past year. I remember the New Year's Eve when I was seventeen. Three of us - Casey, Al and I, decided that we would make "New Year's visits" on all my parents Scottish friends. And so we did. Of course, New Year's visits - or 'Hogmanay' visits, as the Scots would say, require the host to invite you in and offer you a drink. Wikipedia sums it up nicely: " It is ordinary among some plebeians in the South of Scotland to go about from door to door upon New-years Eve, crying Hagmane."

Folk were very welcoming, though I'm sure that they could all see what we were about. Underage though we were, they could "no refuse uz  drink" on Hogmanay. And so off we went, three increasingly tipsy teenage boys, proud as punch to have found a legitimate way to get drunk on someone else's money, and all the time being well within the bounds of cultural convention. We gave no thought to the mixture we were imbibing: rum, here, scotch there, wine at that place, a beer at the next. These were all short visits, you understand - less than a half hour, so were drinking at a steady rate. None of us had wheels in those days, so were walking all over Transcona on a cold winter's night,  -25 at least. 

I got in around 1:30 AM: we split up at a corner, and each walked his own way home. In the morning, I felt fine. My partners in pleasure were not so lucky. Each had a blinding headache and a bilious stomach I even smoked a cigar that New Year's Day! That was the only time in my life that I did such a thing, and I have wondered more than once if the folk we visited had a good laugh at us after we left, being quite aware of what we were up to.

So, in a few hours, the year will turn, at least in our minds. Useful to remember that on the Christian calendar, the last day of the year is "Christ the Kin g" Sunday in November. Advent begins the next Sunday, and is the opening of the Christian Year. The Chinese have a different New Year, as do many other cultures I'm sure. (I'm too lazy to look it all up. If you care, google it!)

But I do wonder how January, the two-faced month, (named after Janus, the god facing in two directions) will unfold. I have traveling to do, and surgery to undergo, and a bit of a planned confronting of my partner in ministry to initiate. Well, not a confrontation as such; the opening of an issue that needs resolving in his life before he gets another permanent partner. I'm the one person who can raise the issue…so by the end of the month it will be on the table. As for the remainder of 2013, it will unfold as it will. Global warming will worsen, the plight of democratic government in Canada will also worsen as our current government turns us slowly into an oligarchy, while we plan trips to Mexico and ignore the whole thing.

Through my cynical lenses I pray that there are some principled idealists and determined democrats who can lead the rest of us into open revolt against the smug stateliness that has overcome or PM. I will cheer and contribute, but someone younger, smarter and more energetic will have to lead.

In the meantime, a "Guid New Year t'ye" any and all readers of these lines. Sing  Auld Lang Syne once at least, and lift a glass of something to welcome 2013.

Christmas arriving…

It's the afternoon of Christmas Eve, and I am putting in time before going off to Lacombe to lead the early Christmas Eve Service at St. Andrews. Two families are doing the bulk of the reading, and the Junior Choir is singing, so it's light for me. But I'm extremely nervous! I've figured out that this is  because I have so little control over the evening. Once things are under way, I get to sit and watch! Probably very good for me, but new, and different.

Christmas Eve brought us more horror, with the shooting of four firefighters in a town near Rochester New York. They had apparently been "lured" by a fire to the scene. Two killed, two critically wounded. The gun demons are afoot tonight, for sure. Echoes of the Christmas story with Herod's plotting to kill the newborn "king of the Jews." Evil always has a foot, or more, in the door.

You know it's Christmas when even Tim Horton's will be closed tonight and all day tomorrow. Walking past in the dark tomorrow morning and seeing it all dark will be a new experience for me. It's about half way on my 4 km walk, and is sort of a beacon of light in the dark world of 5:30 AM.

What Christmas thoughts do I think on a day like this? The insanity of God, in a way, for invading the human world in a baby, the most vulnerable of the vulnerable. And yet, it worked then. It's hard for me to see it working now, with so much violence in our world. I suppose that's the genius of the Ultimate Spirit, the Creator of All: to come in under the radar, in a form that melts even the hardest of hearts most of the time. Who can ignore an infant? Who can not smile at the squeals and twitches of new arms and lungs? It isn't without careful thought that the author of the Carols and Lessons Service for Families that we are using tonight has one of the Wise Men be a twelve year old girl!

The Santa Claus story puts it another way: the Great Gift Bringer is an old man. Hale and hearty in the story, but old, an elder, not a warrior, but a charmer who wins hearts with that smile and laugh. I saw a news item on St. Nicholas' Day in Holland, with the old bishop arriving by boat, with Black Peter close behind. Closer to the origins of the Santa myth, and closer to the religious and spiritual roots of the tale that is all "consumerism" today.

I wish I had more profound thoughts this afternoon. I feel like I should have. Just back from Tim Horton's, where many of the regulars were there, including some old and lonely folks who will have nowhere to go tomorrow. Perhaps they'll end up at the community dinner where Beatrix and I are working for the day. A different Christmas for us, one we've itching for over a number of years.

I look forward to year end, and year beginning, which will bring changes for me, and hopefully, a restoration of urological health! Some hard decisions to be involved in, and some renewal to share, I hope. May your Christmas celebration or feast be happy and blessed, and may your entry into 2013 be filled with hope and peace. Ciao!

Bang, bang, your kids are dead!

This has been a terrible weekend in the life of the USA, and in the lives of all of us in the first world. A young man marched into a K to 9 school in Newtown, Connecticut, and shot 20 children, aged 5 to 7, along with 6 adults - some of them trying to protect the kids, his mother, a substitute teacher, and ultimately, himself. The media, of course, has covered this story like a blanket, and given the victims families no peace.

President Obama gave a heartfelt and moving condolence speech, close to tears himself as a father with children in school. "We must see that something like this never happens again in America." But, of course, it will happen again. It will happen again in weeks or in months, because the USA is a gun culture. The second amendment to the US Constitution gives every citizen the right to bear arms, although how that covers automatic assault rifles, I don't understand.

there have been nineteen such events in the last decade or so, and still the gun lobby keeps expanding its influence, so that now, in the State of Illinois, people have the right to pack a weapon even in school! The State of Connecticut is home to three or four of the largest weapons manufacturers in the world. The second largest association of gun owners in the country has its home in Newtown, Connecticut! IT WILL HAPPEN AGAIN!

It will keep happening regularly until some laws are changed in that country, until the control of personal and impersonal weapons becomes real and stringent. There is no use in praying for a change; it must be legislated by men and women with the guts to stand up and do it.

We have more stringent gun control in Canada, although guns can still be had if you know how. God forbid that our laws loosen; God help the Americans who want the shooting to stop, but who will not stand against the gun lobby. It's them I pray for: get a spine; say no!

Make a straight path…

It was a routine call to the Chaplain's office. A young psychiatric patient wanted to see the Chaplain. I arrived at her bedside to find a distraught, unattractive, pimply 17 year old, sobbing and red faced, looking miserable and lost. It was 1968, in the autumn, and here she was, a psych patient instead of a student. God wouldn't talk to her, she said, and she ruminated on scripture, finding herself more wanting each passing hour. She looked awful, she felt awful, and life was awful…

In saw her a few times over the next few days, and one time, following a hunch, I directed her to the story of Elijah asking God to speak to him (1 Kings 19:11-19) God's voice does not come to Elijah in fire, or storm, or earthquake, but finally, in a "still small voice" (KJV). More contemporary translations call this "a gentle and quiet whisper." More like an interior voice. So, I suggested that Julia listen for that interior voice, and know that God was in it.

On the last day that I saw her, I brought her a book to take home. I suggested she read it a few times, and then write a reflection on it. The book was The Ugly Duckling. She said she would, and I left her with a handshake and a hug. That seemed to be the end of it.

And then, one day, I got a package in the mail. It was the book I had given Julia, with an enclosed note. The note began, "It has taken me twenty years to complete the homework assignment you gave me…" It was 1988, and I was packing to leave the Health Sciences Centre in Winnipeg. The note went on to explain how she had read the book, and re-created herself in life as the swan she was. By now, she had completed seminary and was an ordained minister of the denomination of which I, also, am a minister. She was married, and living and working in the suburb of a large eastern city. I later learned that she had two children, and was loved by them and her husband, and was living the happy, chaotic life of a minister who is also a parent.

I pondered then, as I have many times since, about the way God had seemed to use me, a fledgling hospital chaplain, to touch and change a hopeless young woman's life. She moved from being the ugly youth she had been, to being the beautiful swan of an adult in ministry. When I thought of this today, the third Sunday of the Advent season, I remembered that we were talking about John the Baptist. John was Jesus' cousin, and had felt called to prepare the way for the Messiah into the life of the world. "Make a straight highway for our God." I thought how I had somehow prepared the way for this young woman to be touched by God in a healing and renewing way, and how that had made all the difference in her life. God had indeed 'come' into her life. Adventus. 

Over the years, as I have remembered this event, I have been comforted by the fact that, if I have accomplished nothing else in 50 years of ministry, I have made a straight path for God to find and heal and use Julia. May you ponder the same possibility in your own life. Merry Christmas.

Anatevka revisited

Our local theatre group mounted Fiddler on the Roof the past two weekend. They did a very credible job, semi professional for a bunch of folks with little or no dramatic or vocal training. A couple of the female voices were stellar.I hadn't seen Fiddler since 1952, when my best friend, David, was the Fiddler on the Roof, dancing with his violin at various places in the story. I have begun rereading the stories of Sholom Aleiechem, whose stories are the basis for Fiddler on the Roof.

Seeing Fiddler brought back all kinds of memories, many of them about David's family. His father and mother dashed out of Lithuania in 1929, seeing the signs of 'things to come' in Europe. As it turned out Hymie and his wife were the only ones of his generation in the family to reach 1945 alive. I watched my second Fiddler performance with a lump in my throat, realizing that the culture and lifestyle portrayed on the stage virtually vanished into the ovens of Auswitchz and Dachau and their ilk. I dislike the attitude currently displayed by the state of Israel regarding those who threaten it, but I understand where it comes from. It is a very sad legacy, to behave so heartlessly out of the memories of one's own past.

This issue has come up in my inner life in a number of ways in the past months. As I read theology, I am driven more and more away from the conservative Christian notion that God "saves" only those who make a specific Christian profession of faith. Since scripture everywhere tells us that the Creator loves the creation, that humans of all kinds are God's children, I am more and more comfortable with the ideas of universalism. If we emerge into an afterlife, or another life, I can't believe that any humans are left out of this transformation. Of course, some may wish to exclude themselves. I have no idea what to do with that. But I don't believe that faithful Muslim, or even a faithful humanist, would be shut out because of different beliefs!

Which leads me to my theological dilemma. If all of humanity is loved by God, and if the transformation that occurs is for all, then could we say that ultimately, Hitler is 'saved?' Or Idi Amin? Or Joseph Stalin? If I say no, then where is my universalism? If I say yes, what is the quality of the morality in life that I embrace?

I know, I know, it's all in my head. And yet…are not our ideas and our thoughts part of reality as much as our actions? When Jesus said, "live in the kingdom of God," was he just blowing smoke? As you can see, I still think and ponder. I do feel that sometimes my tired old brain isn't up to this kind of complicated stuff. But I think it anyway. "Ah well," as Tevyeh would say, "would it spoil some vast eternal plan…?"

Memories…

The hardest part about writing a blog is trying to think of something useful or important to say. I imagine it's easier if you are a focused person and you're writing a "themed" blog. Me? I'm just writing about life. No theme, no focus. Like life.

Anyway, at noon today, I was half listening to a radio program on CBC, during which people phoned in with a story of either their favourite teacher, or a prank they pulled at school. That reminded me of a memorable afternoon when I was in grade eight, sitting at the back of the room in Miss Hammond's classroom. Miss Hammond was an elegant single woman of uncertain age. Her hair was grey, and tied back in a stereotypical bun. She was slender and willowy, and she wore dresses that came well below her knee, so she looked almost formal. She a brooch on her dress, which was high collared, right up to her neck. She looked like she could have been a teacher in the 1800's as easily as the 1900's. Miss Hammond was my favorite teacher. She was gentle and quiet, and taught us in such a manner that we all went along with her quietly and actually learned things.

It was a Friday afternoon, the witching time of the school week. Almost time o go, but not quite. Everyone itching to get out, itching to…do something. That Friday, it got to me. Just behind me, at the very back of the room, was Miss Hammond's Art cupboard. In it, she kept all the material she needed for our Art classes. She was, I'm sure, an artist in her soul, rather than a school teacher in a small town in Manitoba.

When we had Art, Miss Hammond could get carried away, forgetting time and running out of it. So, in her Art cupboard, she kept an alarm clock to help her be on time. It was one of those old fashioned ones, with two bells on the top, with a clanger between them. When it rang, it really rang!

That fateful Friday, when her back was turned as she wrote on the front blackboard, I sneaked to the Art cupboard, got out the clock, and set the alarm for 3:00 PM, just 15 minutes away. I made it back to my seat before she turned around. The witching afternoon crawled on until that fateful hour, and the alarm began to ring. And it really rang! The sound came out of the cupboard in such a way that you couldn't really tell where it was coming from. Miss Hammond looked confused, befuddled, and then annoyed as she scurried down the aisle to the cupboard and opened it. There was the clock, dancing on its legs, clanging away the time. Miss Hammond turned it off, and then walked severely to the front of the classroom.

She folded her arms and glared at us, although Miss Hammond's glare was pretty mild. "Who did this?" she asked once, then twice. I really liked Miss Hammond, and by now I was feeling a little guilty that I had upset her, so I put up my hand. I hadn't known until that moment that I was probably one of Miss Hammond's favorite students, because her face crumpled and she looked stricken. My guilt increased and I was very uncomfortable. Miss Hammond recovered her composure and told me to come to the front of the class. She delivered a "stern" lecture to me, although, to be fair, it wasn't very stern at all. But I was wilting inside. I had hurt my favorite teacher, and even my heartfelt apology sounded weak in my ears.

Miss Hammond told me that she would have to punish me, and she turned to her desk. From the top drawer, she brought the strap that resided in the teacher's desk in every classroom in those days. Corporal punishment was still allowed, and by many, still preferred. Miss Hammond marched me around the corner into the "cloak room," a narrow room with hooks on the walls for our coats. She couldn't do this in front of the class, No teacher did that.

In the cloakroom, I obeyed her order to hold out my hand. I did, and she brought the strap down on it. But not too hard. It was amazing to me that this gentle woman could wield the strap at all! Twice more it came down, hurting just a bit. At that moment, I looked up at her face, and I was astonished, horrified, to see that Miss Hammond was crying. Tears ran down her cheeks as she swung the strap. She looked desolate. I wondered if Miss Hammond had ever strapped a student before.

And then, the truth hit me. Miss Hammond was grieving! I thought, "She really liked me, and she never thought I would do such a thing to upset her!" The pain of that realization was far worse than the strapping. I wanted to throw my arms around her and tell her it was OK, that I didn't mean anything bad by my prank, and that I really, really liked her. Of course, i didn't ouch her. I didn't speak. I stood there, miserable, and took the strapping and the pain of knowing that I had hurt a teacher that I really loved and enjoyed, and she was devastated by that…betrayal, I guess is the only word for it.

She stopped hitting me, and stood there, drying her eyes and "straightening her self up," as my mother would say. And then we walked back into the classroom, to face the gleeful and grinning faces of my classmates. That was even worse. I didn't mind that they enjoyed hearing me get the strap. But they were laughing at Miss Hammond! And I wanted to shout at them, "Stop that! Leave her alone!" Of course, I didn't.

Four o'clock came, and we left the classroom. I didn't have the courage to stay behind and really apologize to Miss Hammond. I wish to this day that I had, and that I had told her how much I liked her, and what a good teacher I thought she was. But I lost the moment, and I am left with one of the most poignant memories of my childhood, a memory of how important it is to let teachers know when they are loved, and when they display competence and skill. I have never forgotten Miss Hammond. I can see her elegant walk down the aisle to this day if I close my eyes. She wasn't the only teacher that I ever loved, but she was the first.

Stall

Some powerful ups and downs over the past week. Almost a week ago, I was at a Church Board meeting where an extremely tangled problem was tabled. It was never actiulally talked about, but everyone is concerned about it.The committee having the conflict was so at loggerheads that it dissolved itself and asked the Board to strike another committee. I've never been involved in such a volatile situation. People shouting at each other, confidentiality being broken, name calling and raw hostility. No idea how this will work out, The Board is hiring a mediator so the committee members can achieve some degree of reconciliation. More anon, as Doris Black used to say…

On the weekend I had the opportunity to take in a lecture series in Calgary, featuring a very radical and intense philosopher-theologian from Ireland, Peter Rollins. Very good stuff, but high intensity. He actually didn't "lecture," but talked rapid fire, with lots of movement, and a thick Irish brogue. Altogether stimulating and enlivening. Of course, now I have three more books to read!

On the weekend, I also had the opportunity bto visit with a friend with whom I worked briefly. I stayed with he and his wife. Great visit, fun playing with their Jack Russell terrier, and planning to go to a conference in Nashville in spring with him. It was actually good to get away and take a fresh perspective on things from a different angle.

Every now and then I remember that the world is bigger than the small circles in which I move, and that there are big movements happening that I can touch, and from which I can learn. The problem, of course, is how to actually put the new learning to work in a situation where I have very little power and control. Most of the time, that doesn't bother me: at my stage of life, being a supporting actor is just fine. But sometimes I see that those with whom I work are bogged down, and need a "re-invention" in order to be effective. I'm not quite sure how to broach this with the person concerned, or how deeply to go into it since there appears to be no invitation for this forthcoming. I'm learning to just sit and wait for things to unfold…or unravel!

I'm flat tonight, and although a lot is rolling around in my mind, I can think of no way to put iot our. Perhaps tomorrow, in the light, inspiration will come.

"…The poppies grow among the crosses…

Yesterday (November 11) was Remembrance Day in Canada, when we all stop to remember and give thanks for the sacrificial living of the men and women who gave themselves to the military, and who gave their lives up for the nation. This day or remembrance has taken on new meaning since the Afghan conflict, because sudden,y there is new crop of youthful soldiers of both genders, and a new list of those who lost their lives in this war. There is renewed interest in the schools to study the history of conflicts in which Canada has been involved. Students have visited the sites of famous battles in Europe, as well as distant cemeteries where the bodies of Canadian soldiers lie far away from home.

Because of the beautiful poem written by John McCrae in 1916 (In Flanders Fields), the poppy has become a national, and virtually universal symbol for the remembrance of war dead. An author, interviewed on CBC the other day, commented that, while in Europe for a Remembrance Day ritual, she saw poppies on the graves of German soldiers. Although they were enemies in World War Two, they have adopted the poppy as have we.

A number of things filled my mind as I worked my way through Remembrance Day. (I conducted worship and preached in the church where I work this Sunday). First of all, I reflected on how the poppy might become a 'tainted symbol' for Afghan vets. Poppies grow in Afghanistan as well as in Flanders. And in Afghanistan they are guarded and defended by the Taliban as a source of income for their war effort. I imagine that at lest some of our war dead there died in, or near, poppy fields.

I also thought about the veterans who return from war, and how they are affected by that experience. Only with the advent of modern psychological understanding has the reality of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder come to be acknowledged and treated. In the old, old days, it was called "Shell shock" and left untreated. And veterans rarely, if ever, talked about what they had seen or had to do. Today, that is changing, and soldiers are getting healed from their war experience rather than being traumatized for the rest of their lives.

I also reflected on the smaller number of World War Two vets who appeared at the National Memorial in Ottawa. Thy are old men now, and they are dying out. The opportunity to say thank you to that generation of soldiers is slowly coming to an en. It is beautiful to see young children, getting an idea of what war had done to these old warriors, can thank them face to face for their sacrifice of life.

When the Korean War came along, I was sixteen, and longed to be a soldier and be involved. It didn't happen, and now, I'm glad. I have a neighbor who managed to enlist at age seventeen, and at seventy-eight, he still cannot assimilate the horrors he witnessed in Korea. That experience has marked his life indelibly to this day. His seventeen year old mind simply was not prepared for that experience, and his seventy-eight year old mind still struggles to deal with it. Who knows how I, at sixteen, would have been twisted by that "adventure?"

So, I am thankful for all the people who entrusted their lives and skills to the military over the decades: I thank my father, James Sr., Nicola Goddard, Red Campbell, Mel Moroz, and the thousands of others whose names I do not know. And I wear my poppy humbly, and with gratitude.

Not forgotten

This afternoon, I attended a memorial service for a 48 year old man who was my friend. I met him while I worked as Chaplain in a Psychiatric Hospital. He was a long term patient, a man who suffered from schizophrenia. He was pleasant, quiet, soft spoken, friendly and industrious. All the time I knew him he worked on the "Outside Gang," doing the gardening, lawn care and snow removal. He loved being outside and useful, He died of complications after surgery. His name was James.

He and I shared a little joke every day. If we met in the hall, him walking one way and me walking the opposite way, we would meet and I would say, "Good afternoon, James." His response: "Good afternoon, James," with a smile and a nod. Both of us got immense pleasure out of this greeting of equals.

I frequently had coffee with him. We'd sit together and not talk, both staring out the window, two comfortable introverts, sitting with a friend. At the memorial service today I learned that James remained an important memory of his family till the day he died. His mother was in long term care in Ponoka, and he visited her two or three times a week. Regularly, family members took James out for drives, or all the way to the family farm, a five hour drive away. He got to fiddle with farm machinery, and ride a dirt bike, pleasures from his youth, thirty years ago. When he was a lad, he took an interest in rockets, and would send one up now and then - a rocket he had made. Once or twice year, James' brother would drive him home to the old farm, and help him build a rocket, which they would then "send up." The memorial service picture display showed many photos of James with his family members at every stage of his life. The whole thing was touching, and very sad for me, because I have lost a friend.

Less than two weeks ago, I was visiting in the Red Deer Regional Hospital, having coffee in the atrium before I left, when James sauntered by. We connected, he sat down, and after pleasantries, we stared out the window together. It was a lovely, companionable time - old friends comfortable with each other. James asked if I would buy him coffee - he was wearing hospital clothes, so had no money with him. I was embarrassed that I hadn't thought of it, and got him coffee. The kind of thing one friend does for another. After a brief time, I had to go, he had to go, and we parted. Who knew that less than two weeks later, one James would be dead?

I shed tears at the simple memorial service today. I was surprised by them. I realized that James was my friend in a deeper way than I had realized. He had started out as a patient to whom I ministered, and then, I became his friend, and he mine. I will miss him, as I know the people who work with him at the hospital will miss him. He was worth nothing, damaged, and warmly human. Like the blind beggar, or the poor widow with her "mite," like the countless people who called out, "Teacher, help me!" James never called out to me that I heard, but he worked his way into my heart. And, I hope that I worked my way into his. James P.:  R.I.P. Gone, but not forgotten.

ADeath in the Family…

Important week in my family: my ex-wife's husband died suddenly. This means my children's step-father passed away. Huge impact on them…all of them. Michael was the first person on my generation in the family to die. Mortality hit with a crash on the adult children. Everybody knows about death… but it isn't real until somebody you depend on to be there suddenly is not!

Pressure on the kids in other ways as well. Joan will need extra support, she'll have many needs that suddenly emerge, and there will be no one else to help but…her children. Heavy time for them, one in particular.

The whole thing gave me pause as well. I knew Michael would die soon, but not this soon. He died in his sleep; great shock for his wife to wake up and find that she was lying next to a corpse, the remains of someone she cared about deeply. The shock would take a long time to dissipate.

I pondered a good while on how I "should" feel. Not exactly sad… he wasn't that close to me. Suddenly anxious for my children and what this would mean for them. Wanting to talk to them and realizing that this wasn't "my" time. They needed their space to grieve without the imposition of another parent asking, or telling, them. It was interesting to me that one of my children called me almost the next day, for no reason, except just to reassure herself that at least one Dad was still alive.

In the wake of this death, I found myself reassessing my own body. Where did I hurt? what did that mean? Was I OK? Would I keep living for awhile? And I wondered, who would be next? There are four of us left, all from families that are notoriously long-lived. So…it's a crapshoot!

I wait until the weekend, when the funeral will be over, and the children will begin to return to life that is "normal," so to speak. I'm sure I'll hear from at least one of them, perhaps two. And life will begin again for them, with that one sobering note: who will die next? And when will that happen?

Turbulence

This has been a week of turbulent connections, and disturbed emotions, and anxiety and uncertainty.  At work and in my personal life I have had to face consequences and observe people in significant pain, all of it tracked back to me, at least in part.

Not the kind of week you ray for, but probably the kind of week your soul needs now and then. Certainly my soul deserved such a week. You act, however responsibly, however carefully, and sometimes the pieces fall into place, and sometimes they don't. They just fall…

I am finding that afterward, it is important to simply wait, quietly, for the smoke and dust to clear, so that perhaps you can see the situation a bit more clearly than previously. For sure you have more information about the Other feels and responds, and that gives you the grist to ruminate and ponder next steps.

I am part-way through the 'pondering' part, and that has allowed me to see the whole field a bit more in the way that the Other has seen it. I have gained some understanding. That helps to lower my anxiety, and begin to balance out "blame," most of which felt like it had landed on me. (It reminds me of a cartoon by Ashleigh Brilliant. A man stands under a cone or funnel. Large stones are tumbling down the funnel. The caption reads, "Everything is falling into place…on me.") However, I am realizing that responsibility for a situation is often shared. There are always at least two perspectives on a situation, and in the clearing atmosphere, the perceived partial responsibility of the other makes it possible to draw a deep breath and realize that your initial guilt is overmuch, and requires balancing out. As you relax into that awareness, the thought processes slow down and reflection is possible. A basis for future conversation is beginning to be established. And the world hasn't ended after all.

In the meantime, I'm glad of a short time of oasis, of peace and of time to 'replay the tapes' and learn from the past. Thank God there is the possibility of balance in my life…for now.

A Dilemma of Aging

Woke up this morning to the first real snow of the season. Chilly, sloppy, wet stuff that soaked through my shoes as I walked. I was thinking as I trudged along that, although I love winter, this kid of west-coast start to it always depresses me. The sky was dark and angry looking early today. A bit later it cleared and the sun even shone for a short time. But my mood hasn't changed. The internal experience reminds me of many winter days in Ottawa - dark, heavy and wet.

In all likelihood, my mood is also related to he day I will likely have tomorrow. In charge of worship in the morning, Lodge practice at 2:00 PM, then a potluck at the church at 5:30, and a presentation on the Israeli-Palestinian situation and the United Church's resolution on boycotting goods produced by Israelis in the incursion areas of the Occupied territories. That should be informative, but it's a long day, with very little in the way of breaks. A sign of age, I suppose…

I had a productive and interesting day at work yesterday. I did some planning for Sundays coming up in the morning, and then in the afternoon, I visited an elderly lady in The Lodge, and an old couple where the wife is just out of hospital. The difference between these two situations was dramatic. The lady in the Lodge is alone in the world, even tough she has two sons. They visit her, but she is separated from her husband by their different living needs. He is in a Care facility - an Alzheimer's patient- and she, even with the beginnings of Parkinson's disease, can live a bit more independently. The situation means that after 60 years of marriage, they are wrenched apart overnight - a medically forced divorce, if you like. She gets her son to take her to the nearby city where he lives, perhaps every three weeks. She misses him terribly, and told me a couple of times about the sixty year marriage.

It seems so cruel, and yet necessary, given the limits of our system. It's interesting to me that she feels so alone even though her sister takes her out to church in her old home town quite regularly, and her boys call quite often. But, as she said, looking around her quite nice bachelor apartment situation, "It's not home."

Over my decades in ministry, i have reflected on the fact that when people become unable to live independently, they are given access to care, but often feel "put away" in the literal sense. One woman told me, many years ago, that once a person is institutionalized, the church effectively "excommunicates" them, loses track of them, and they disappear. I'm actually pleased that part of my responsibility in this part-time, short-term position, is finding and visiting these people - assuring them that they are not forgotten, at least not by everyone.

The old couple I saw are still able to live in their own small but comfortable home. Each is active in the things they enjoy. The extrovert wife can get out and visit with her friends, while the introvert husband gardens his head off all summer, and creates beautiful wood-worked items all winter. And they are together, and see their kids regularly. Of course, things could change drastically if one of them collapsed, or became demented. They are both sharp and intelligent at the moment. Down the road, who knows?

Of course, inevitably, I wondered about my own situation.The day may come when I am unable to live safely in my own home. With great trepidation I look at the possibility of instant separation from Beatrix, and being cast among strangers with whom I would be expected to interact. Feels like work without end.

Perhaps this fear in the background is one of the factors that keeps pushing me back to work all the time. Even though my energy isn't what it once was, I enjoy being involved and somewhat useful in my professional life. That tells me that I am still alive and active, reinforcing the positives against the negatives I fear. I could learn a lot from the old gentleman I talked with yesterday. He has two hobbies that e loves, and he can immerse himself comfortably in these without anxiety in his own home. He seemed a very healthy man, with a lively and healthy partner, even though she has medical problems. Talking with people like them, I am in a learning situation, where I can watch and evaluate approaches to life that could serve me well. Perhaps I should seek out a Seniors group that would discuss these things together. I need a friend or two. That would help me t live a bit less alone, even though I have a partner who is a huge part of my life. This kind of struggle is mine alone, as I suspect it is with all of us as we age. Enough for today. Back soon, I hope.

The letter and the spirit of the law

The letter of the law and the spirit of the law.......frequently two different things.

Yesterday, walking in the Byward Market, we met a Muslim woman on the street. That she was Muslim was evident from the scarf wrapped firmly around her head, covering her forehead and all of her hair. The letter of the law was kept.

The remainder of her dress was something else. She was a delightfully ample woman, pronounced of bust, for sure. Her top was right orange, ver a yellow turtleneck. Both were more than snug. As she swept by, with a small, self satisfied lok on her face (she had, after all, been noticed), one could not help a backward glance at her. Her slacks were beige, and call them "form-fitting would be an understatement. Each full cheek of her bottom was perfectly outlined and presented to the world. The spikes c ame all the way down to her spike high heels. She minced along at a fast pace, the letter of the law kept, but the spirit of the law?.......That was a whole other story.

It's easy to notice the glaring dichotomy in person from another culture, but much more difficult to be aware of the same tendency in ourselves......in myself. Christians easily mouth phrases about giving to the poor of the world, of sympathy for those who will go hungry today....and tomorrow, in faraway  places. But that won't hinder our thanksgiving feasts, in some cases orgies of overindulgence. We will simply be blind to the contradiction. Perhaps that's the only way to survive. But there are moments when the realization hits, and a small flood so shame advances through the brain. Like today....

Fathers and sons.......

My father was raised in a very strict and oppressive environment. Family values were stern, and different rules applied to boys and to girls. The girls, for example, we're allowed to complete high school. The boys - namely my Dad, the only son, was working in the coal mines by the time he was seven. Relationship with his father was distant and fraught with tension. Much was expected of him, and he was punished if he failed to live up to expectations.

As a result, my father grew up with a very narrow and constricted understanding of  parenting, and of fatherhood. Consequently, he and I had a distant and puzzling relationship - at least puzzling to me. I don't recall any conversations with my father taking place before the age of six. I remember being carried on his shoulders for a long walk, and being punished afterward because I cried along the way, for some reason. At age six, my father went away to war, and I didn't see him again until I was twelve, and just launching into adolescence, with everything that meant for North American boys. Once agai, I recall few, if any, conversations with me, and plenty of tension when my behavior did not match his expectations. (I recall the dictum applied to school matters: if  you get In to trouble at school, you'll be in trouble at home. A far cry from the parents who today are ready to sue the school if little Jimmy isn't treated with kid gloves).
As a result, my father and I were never close.
During my high school years, we had few conversations, and those we had were usually vaguely hostile, with him disagreeing with most opinions I held about most topics. My father died in 1988, and I have found myself reflecting on hi and his importance to me many times in the subsequent 24 years. I have come to realize how important a figure he is for me now, in retrospect, than he ever was during his life!

As you might expect, my son and I are not close. During his early childhood, we had a lovely relationship. Even during his adolescence we were quite compatible. During his earl twenties, decisions that I made had a huge negative impact on him, although he never shared much of that with me. He was hurt, angry and confused, but only rarely did he talk about that with me at the time.

As time passed, it seemed that his feelings around my life changes grew stronger and deeper. We talked far less, and then mosly about non-personal matters, or things technical. Now that he is middle GED, and I am an old man, we ear to have little or no relationship. Although I have made attempts qto open conversation with him, he responds neither to written or spoken messages. I feel like a door has been closed rather firmly in my face, and that I will not speak to him again for a long time, if at all.

As I reflect on this possibility, I am profoundly saddened. It  as though my sone might have to go through a repetition of my own experience, reflecting on the importance of his father after my demise.

Edwin Friedman, in Generation To Generation, writes about the repetitive patterns in families and other institutions. It seems clear that such a pattern is at work in my paternal family.

Hubris unmasked

Over the last ten days, I have worked hard learning PowerPoint, which I had never opened before. All this effort was in aid of preparing a slide presentation to be used in worship on "Sky Sunday," the third Sunday in the season of Creation. I had about 50 slides lined up to show the many moods and "voices" of the sky.

Gave the flash drive to the sound and light man at church, only to find that their ancient PC system would not accept a Mac formatted drive. No slides. I was totally deflated. In the scramble to be ready for worship starting, I began reflecting on how such an occurrence helps one to keep one's grandiosity in check.My hubris showed, at least to me, and it was instructive to see technology bring me down.

The upside to all this is that Dean (the soon man) figured that if I emailed a slide file to him or to the system, it would convert and be usable. So there is hope for the future.

This morning, autumn landed with a vengeance. Plus 4 outside, with occasional driving rain. Killing frost promised for tonight. We got the yard cleared and the garage cleaned last weekend, so we are more or less "ready" for the winter onslaught. I actually look forward to it. As a born-again Winnipeger, I relish the challenge of defeating the weather and doing my walking, no matter what it's like outside. When I was running, in days of yore, the same held true. It's this crappy, rainy, damp and chilly autumn that I don't like. Ah well, off to Ottawa in a day or two, to experience autumn where at least the trees will be colourful. National Art Gallery, dinner out, and visits with grandchildren and daughter will make it a memorable 25th wedding anniversary. It's hard for me to believe that it has been that long. The time has been smooth and deeply joy-filled, so it races by swiftly.

 Chores to do, so…as Grandma Black used to say, "More anon…"

The value of a rant

Just opened and read part of the newest Macleans Magazine. Best bit: an article on "Rants" by Rick Mercer. Who does a better rant than Rick? Only me, in my car, in my head. If only I could remember them later, or have the courage to phone someone and deliver it. He skewers Question Period. He reminds us that if anyone delivered such a shouting match in any other workplace in the country, they'd be fired. Right now! Amen to that.

The solution, says Mercer, is to put cameras in the House of Commons. If the general public could actually see what their fat-cat elected MPs are doing as part of their workday, they'd be enraged, and it would stop forthwith.

Of course, the MPs get all huffy and say that cameras in the House is…not done…"it would make us look like children or criminals…" Well, that's how they behave, many times. Mercer reminds us that we are all on camera in stores, and in the Toronto Subway, so why not in the House? The question hangs in the air, begging for an answer. It'll never come, not from my Conservative MP who has a job-for-life here in Alberta, and who is a dork on person. Great article Rick. I think I'll write a supportive letter to the editor about it. Perhaps you should as well. Maybe we can wipe the self-satisfied smile off Herr Harper's face for once.

I'm currently spending time with a group of people who are deeply divided into two opposing groups. The division is hot, and at times, quite verbal. Observing it, and trying to find ways to participate in deliberations without inflaming the division, is difficult. Sometimes I succeed, sometimes not. Keeps me awake, however, and thinking. All the time, thinking….

Back in the pool yesterday, after three weeks off, due to maintenance closure. My rib didn't hurt, so I'm off to the races. First day was tough. It's amazing how a three week layoff sets you back in terms of fitness. Perhaps it's only like that for old folks, but it's certainly sobering for me. So the walking is on daily, and the pool is on whenever I can get there.

Paid to have my car "cleaned" yesterday. Wow! It looks like a new car inside. Seats shampooed, cup holders mucked out, all the crap taken from under the seats! I feel like I should sell it while it looks so good! How long it will last, i don't know. I have a great capacity to collect junk, one piece at a time. Soon, it adds up to a mess. Looking around my cubby hole office right now, i see the mess I live with. Thirty minutes of "putting away" would change everything. But I lack the enterprise. Sloth reigns supreme in this area.

The Commander-in-Chief is calling for me to make a salad, so i must leave for now. Back soon…I hope.

Great events and big preparations

I don't know whether my life is actually busier, or whether it just feels that way because I spend a couple of days each week at work in a nearby town. In any case, I feel like it has been awhile since I shared some thoughts here.

A unique event occurred yesterday at the church where I work. After some years of deliberation and study, the congregation officially became "An Affirming Congregation." In the parlance of my denomination, that mean a gay and transgendered friendly congregation. There are only 17 of these critters in existence in this very conservative province of Canada, and all of the other are in two major urban areas, Calgary and Edmonton. The emergence of St. Andrews, Lacombe, as an Affirming congregation is a signal occurrence - almost a miracle in central Alberta.

It was quite moving to be a small part of that event, and to watch the people who had worked so hard to change attitudes and bring people on board see the fruits of their labours blossom in a formal way. It's impossible to tell just how this move will affect the future of the congregation. But as a step in justice-making and openness, it was very satisfying to see.

I'm also involved in another aspect of the congregation's life. I am a representative from the Court of Presbytery to their Joint Search Committee looking for a minister to replace Rev. Mervin Gallant, who left in June. The Committee's work is done within the confines of a confidentiality covenant, and with great deliberation. We've had only two meetings so far, and are just barely getting under way. At the moment, we lack a youth member, and I hope that will be remedied in the near future.

The Aquaplex opened this morning after a three closure for maintenance! Back in the pool at 8:30 AM. I felt the layoff in my legs and abs, but it feels good to be back on the road to some level of fitness. A layoff such I've just experienced reminds one of how quickly fitness deteriorates, especially in an aging…or aged…body. Of course, the latest round of "information sharing" among the male members of the group was good to experience gain as well.

I was very pleased to find that my broken rib has healed enough that i felt no pain during the time in the pool. At least I heal relatively quickly. Of course, I have been earned by others who have been down this road that full healing of a cracked or broken rib takes four or five weeks. The big test will come tomorrow evening, when I venture into a more strenuous workout in the deep-water pool.

I'm doing a big PowerPoint presentation as part of worship this coming Sunday. It's the third Sunday in the season of Creation, and the focus is on"The Sky." It seemed to me mandatory that I allow the sky to "speak" with its own voice, which is visual rather than auditory. Everything I say will be accompanied by slides, and I will encourage people to see the images as the "voice" of sky, with whatever I say as backdrop and commentary.

Preparing for this has involved learning to use PowerPoint proficiently enough to create a simple presentation. This seemed to me to be a monumental task, since I had never even OPENED the PowerPoint program previously! Initially, I was simply overwhelmed, until I asked for help. I got it from two young people, aged 13 and 17, both very proficient at using the program. They were also good teachers. They showed me things, encouraged me, offered on-call help, and then left me to apply what I had learned. The encouragement gave me confidence, and I am almost finished, thanks mainly to them. I plan to thank them in a public way on Sunday.

I think I'd best get back to the completion of my presentation. If I don't keep at it, the anxiety drives me crazy!

The people I meet

This week, part of my task at work has been to find, and to visit, elderly members of St. Andrews Church who are and have been for awhile, in Nursing Homes or Lodges. For te most part, I have enjoyed this exercise, and I also feel that it is a good deal more important for congregations than most people realize. Once a strong and contributing member is old enough to be no longer able to "do their part" or more than their part, they are soon replaced, and, after a time, forgotten. They become, as one older lady told me many years ago, "excommunicated from their Church."

In the last three weeks, I have found a few people like that. One gentleman, soon to move to another city, who was a major contributor to the social life of his community as well as his church, whose name is already strange to those under sixty years of age in the church. Another person, a woman, whose children now hold responsible positions in the Church administration provincially, and who herself was key person in the education enterprise of her congregation for many years, reflects not unkiondly on her inability to contribute more, or even to attend worship, without assistance. She is 95 years old!

Of course, not all of these folks harbour negative feelings toward their church for "forgetting" them.  Some of them are releived that the active and arduous part of their lives is over, and that they can relax and reflect fondly on the times when they were extremely busy. Very pleasant memories were shard with me, and enjoyed in the telling. But they did need someone from their faith community to come and hear their stories. That may be the crucial part of church ministry to the institutionalized elderly that is missing.

As I think about it, I wonder if this concern of mine, which I have heard few other clergy voice, may be related to my own diminished sense of self, and my own nee to be "seen" and acknowledged as a person of worth in the church. That would certainly go a long way toward explaining why it is so important for me to continue taking pastoral appointments, and demonstrating that I am, in fact, still  competent pastor and preacher. Could it be that any effectiveness that I demonstrate is part of a mildly pathological pattern? How badly do I need help?

Another aspect of my work this week involved meeting with, and getting to know, a group of senior high youth in the congregation, around the subject of a potential Church School class for them. They were about a dozen in number, engaging and attractive as a group, and obviously keen to seek out appropriate leadership for their class. In some ways I found them quite intimidating. They live comfortably in a world where I feel alien, uncertain and unskilled. I found them admirable in terms of the issues they navigate daily with apparent ease. Of course, they are an unusual group in some ways. The bulk of them are high achievers, and they come from families that are almost universally church families in one way or another. I may have the opportunity (the requirement?) to work with them a bit. That could prove to be both exhilarating and terrifying. A couple of these youngsters are helping me put together a slide show for a worship service i a week or two. They may be able to teach me how to do some of this myself! Imagine, another example of the student being the teacher. I can hardly wait!

Enter the young teachers

This past summer (note: it already feels like autumn, with frost predicted for tonight!), we had a 16 year old granddaughter living with us. First time living away from home, first job. It was wonderful. This young woman is intelligent, articulate, knowledgeable and energetic. She appeared to enjoy working, and also appeared to enjoy spending time with her elderly grandfather and Oma. She is also cheeky, a trait she inherited from her mother, and…I have to admit… from me. We had some memorable exchanges. If I complained about being unsure about trying something on my new smart phone, her response would invariably be, "That;s because you're so OLD, Grampa." It was back and forth like this all the time. Interacting with her took years off my internal self image. Here she is, in all her glory, as we prepared to go out on the one occasion when she wore a DRESS!

Of course, when she left, the house felt quite empty. We had been a bit prepared for this when her younger brother left, a few days before. He had been with us for just a couple of weeks. Quieter and less extroverted than his sister, he had the same twinkle in his eye, and a similar wicked wit and cheeky repartee. I came to appreciate him a whole lot during the time we got to spend together while his sister and Oma went to work. He helped me cook, shop, and play games on the computer. His favorite way to bug me was to start describing his favorite game, involving monkeys and balloons. He would launch, and I would yell at him until he stopped, laughing and snorting. It probably seemed outrageous to see. It was wonderful to experience.

This summer with the kids was great preparation for the part time ministerial job that I started in August. I am working in a congregation in a nearby community. Their youth minister left, and I am filling in until they can call a replacement. Most of the task I have been given involves Sunday morning worship and contacting neglected seniors. However, I have the opportunity to interact informally - and perhaps formally as things develop - with the youth of the congregation. I am finding that my summer experience has not only prepared me for this, but has also whetted my appetite for it. I have been aware for many years how grandparents often can come closer to young people than can their parents, because there are fewer developmental issues to deal with. Thus far, I have found  interacting with the youth of the congregation to be enjoyable and satisfying for me, and, I am discovering, is stimulating for at least some of them.

I feel like I have been back to school, and have learned some fresh things about the world of at least some young people, as well as about myself. This experience has buoyed up my sense of hope for my own gifts in ministry at this advanced age. I am realizing that, as I age, I tend to close off areas of experience as being improbable for someone my age - like relating creatively with young people - and that now, I am having to revise my self image and reclaim old competencies. It's all quite stimulating.

Tomorrow, I'm off to work again, this time, to Bible Study and visits with ailing elders and shut-ins. Youth will have to wait until the weekend!

At loose ends…

Ten days since I've written a line; a busy week and more both here and in Lacombe, where I'm spending more than two full days each week. When I look back over the time, I see meetings, computer time, and time spent hunting for and finding senior citizens who haven't been contacted by anyone from their church for quite awhile. That experience - quite rewarding, actually - drew my mind back half a century to a conversation I had in a Nursing Home in Winnipeg with an elderly lady who had been active in Augustine Church until she was forced into long term care by her health.

"When you get old and sick, you get kind of 'excommunicated' from the Church. Every body's busy, and your old friends are as hampered as you, and pretty soon everybody forgets you're alive!" That shocked me back in 1966, and I've reflected on it many times since then. Although it's an over statement, it carries an element of truth in it. My personal observation is that some congregations have worked hard at picking up the slack in this area. Pastoral Care Committees labour away at making sure old folks get visited, and kept in touch with things. Some clergy are more faithful than others at maintaining contact. And long term care facilities whip up many activities that fill the elders days,even if they aren't as challenging as folks are used to.

Thinking about this, I wonder if this is part of the reason that I keep revolving back into paid employment? It's a way of keeping myself alive in peoples' eyes, public and active and useful. It's worked reasonably well so far, although I'm wondering this time if I won't do this another time, when these few months are over. I feel even less interested in attending meetings than previously - too many years of managerial meetings in institutions, doing things that made someone feel important, but lie as not accomplished very little in the long run.

The current Search Committee at St. Andrew's in Lacombe holds the promise of being an 'accomplishment' committee, but then, it's just been organized, and the politics have barely started. Time will tell if I feel any differently.

One evening, I had a long and stimulating conversation with a young woman (she'll snort to read that description) about my long career in Pastoral Ministry in institutions. The talking stimulated my memory, and I began to recall things that I haven't thought of in years, from parts of my internal "hard drive" that is covered with dust! There is at least one other conversation to come, and I can hardly wait to see what that one stirs up!

Klaglahachie (local drama and musical group) is doing "Jake and the Kid"by W.O. Mitchell, adapted for the stage by a local woman, Connie Massing. They did a credible job! It was fascinating knowing all the people behind the characters. The production suffered from the pains that many local drama groups face: the sound wasn't good at the back of the church, and some people complained of not being able to see. The young man who played "Jake" is a boy I've known for over four years, and it's terrific watching him develop into a confident young man with potential in many directions. He's currently deciding about his future education.

All the fresh work trying to contact and relate to seniors I've never met is stirring up lots of personal reflections in me. I've mentioned one, but there are more. I've been thinking about people from my past, and wondering where they are, what they're doing. I've lost touch with most people from my childhood and youth years, eve from old College mates. I seem to live mostly in the very 'here and now,' with little reach into the past. At a time when "old friends" could be a great blessing, I have few, if any. With Vincent's death I lost a friend whose presence in my life reached back well over 40 years. I stepped away from Roy when his abusive mouth got to be too much for me, and I'd been in a kind of relationship with him for over 50 years. I was really Betty's friend from those College days, and once she died, the relationship with Roy changed and soured, as far as I was concerned.

This must seem like a weird blog to you: it certainly seems weird to me. It's more the internal ramblings of an old man than an article about anything substantial in world terms. Having greased the wheel, perhaps I'll have more on the ball next time.

When you pray…

This afternoon at Tim Horton's, a friend talked to me about the sense of "stuckness" in his prayer life. I was surprised that he was so open about such a sensitive matter. Initially, I felt a bit intimidated, since I don't consider myself to be much of a model in this area. However, less than two weeks ago, I had a conversation with a woman just s few days before her death, during which she asked me how to pray. Without thinking, a sentence popped into my head that I shared with her. "Place yourself intentionally in the presence of God."

As I thought about it later, I realized that this is really my own understanding of prayer. I believe we live always in the presence of God, a fact which sustains our lives. But most of the time, we are unaware of this, and consequently, we trundle on, oblivious to what keeps us alive. When I think of 'placing myself in the presence of God, intentionally,' I am making myself aware of the reality of the spiritual reality of my life. And in that awareness, whatever I think or say, constitutes prayer. Prayer, for me, is a conversation with God, or whatever you image God to be. A conversation requires no special forms, no deliberate pattern, no special words. A conversation just is.

In that conversation, I think or say what is on my mind. I assume that will be received. No response may come, but I feel "listened to." Now and then, I feel a response. Not always to my liking, not always what I'd like to hear. But I hear it. Or I hear/feel something later that is kind of an answer to my side of the conversation. Then I have to decide what I will do with this 'answer.' Will I take it up, ignore it, or say "pardon; can you say that again."

For so many people, prayer is such a formal thing, such a disciplined matter. I feel embarrassed that for me, it isn't. I am not a 'prayer-warrior,' I guess. I just try to place myself in the presence of God and 'share.' Often, I feel like I haven't prayed. Some of things I think/say are negative, comments about others or situations that piss me off. These days, it's often about our PM, the model Christian, who sounds like a demagogue to me. I am aware that I have received no confirming responses from The Beyond to these thoughts of mine. I'll keep asking, to see if I can provoke a response. I want divine support for my annoyance. I suspect I may not get it. God probably listens to Stephen Harper as well as me. That galls me. Small man that I am.

I wish I was disciplines…I wish I was a warrior…but I'm just ordinary me, warts and creaky joints and all. Sigh…

One…maybe two… for the road

Two news items on the AM news this morning caught my ear, and then my heart, and then my brain, and finally my emotions. One item was about a two-year old accident in Red Deer, in which a drunk driver killed a couple and left their five children orphaned. The second concerned an accident last year near Grande Prairie, in which a drunk driver hit a car load of high school football players, killing four of them and maiming the fifth.

In the first case, the driver was given a three year sentence, and released after having served 18 month. Life in Alberta is, apparently, quite cheap. The accident tore apart the lives of five children, and their aunt, who gave up her career in Vancouver to adopt and raise the children. The driver's needs were cared for carefully; he even got last Christmas out of jail to spend with his family!

The slaughter of the high school football players is just entering the preliminary hearing stage, to see if the case is worthy of a trial! There seems to be no guarantee that the perpetrator in this case will even get a jail sentence!

All of this hooks my emotions, specifically, rage. I cannot fathom a system that is able to overlook the actions of an inebriated person while operating a vehicle, and allow them to return to their life with no responsibility for the support or compensation of the family shattered by their actions. Defraud someone of money, and you will definitely do time; kill a group with your car while bombed, and you'll serve a minimal jail sentence, with no ongoing responsibility for the wreckage left behind your accident.

I had assumed that the Canadian justice had caught up with community values regarding the operation of a vehicle while under the influence of alcohol or drugs. I was certainly wrong about that! Now I am wondering who to contact to support efforts to pressure legislators to change the laws regarding penalties and compensation in drunk driving convictions. Since the lives of victims are affected for the remainder of their days, it seems reasonable for the life of a perpetrator to affected long after the event as well. Jail sentences are one thing, and probably should be more severe, but a family left to struggle without parents needs financial support for twenty years at least. Chad Olsen, the driver in question, should be coughing up big bucks monthly to care for the children whose lives he ruined.

I'm sure this last bit sounds pretty draconian, but it seems reasonable to me that since the effects of an action carry on for many years, the effects of that action - a chosen action (driving while drunk) - should be extended over time to assist recovering victims. Maybe I'll call M.A.D.D. Perhaps I'll write to the Premier, or my MLA. No use trying to reach my MP. He's on vacation, or in a committee, or otherwise occupied. He hasn't answered the letter I wrote him 8 weeks ago yet!

Any thoughts out there on this matter? Any useful proposals?

Today marks the official end of summer for me. I am back at wor part time, beyond orientation, engaged and planning...and Emma returns to Manitoba this evening. Angus left a week ago, and Emma finished work at Tim's yesterday . She is presently completing her final singing a lesson for the summer, and the it'sload up and head for Edmonton International.

Having the two of them for part and all of the summer has been a treat beyond description. Conversations and banter with intelligent and informed adolescents is wonderful! both were willing Tao help with anything a hey whereas,Ed to do, from harvesting rhubarb to hanging out clothes. Emma isan expert "cinephile" and Angus was willing to go for walk with me, or to the pool for exercise withy bunch of decrepit -  izing adults. On occasion, with a wicked twinkle in his eye, he would "explain" the endless game of monkeys and balloons to me until I screamed for mercy. Both of them read voraciously - Emma, too much Stephen King - Angus, whatever he could lays hands on.

I'm sure hey can't be typical teens; no. Antrums, no insults (beyond returning the ones they received). We had, we figured, one evening of mild attitude, and that was just enough to make us look a one another and say, "really? Was that IT?"

Whatwas so marvellous about this experience was the opportunity to be allowed into the confidence and thinking of Nellie at young people. We got sage responses to sermons, analysis of feminism today among the young, about the education system....and on and on. Analysis and enthusiasm around movies and how they are crafted and made was a special treat. Watchingfilms will never be the same....dull is what it's will feel like.

We got the chance to really be grandparents without reservation, and to appreciate the extremely fine job Joe and Caley are doing as parents. I have developed such respect for them! Wow! And of course, I cannot wait to see the kids agai, and to have them back in our home as part of the family. That's an important distinction; they were guests in our home; they were family. Nothing was put on for he. hey ate what we ate, they changed their beds and did their washing, they helped prepare meals.

I am hopeful that. Next summer they will rerun on one basis or another. They will always be welcome, indeed, there is a place already waiting for them. My visits to Tim Hortonswon't be the same for awhile.

Nothing is working....

I have written this blog TWICE on this iPad, and the man thing has dumped it at the moment of publishing. I'll try again later at home. Some days, I just won't happen...

New Moderator

Recently, an article in the Vancouver SUN advised the United Church of Canada - my denomination - to "stick to matters of religion," rather than commenting on the virtues and vices of the Northern Gateway Pipeline, or the Israeli policies in Gaza and the West Bank. Perhaps the SUN journalists should be required to take a course or two in New Testament theology, where both human misery and care of the earth are considered matters of "justice," which is a decidedly Biblical concept, and word heard on Jesus' lips now and then, not to mention the words of the Hebrew prophets!

In The Sun Media Corporation is critical of United Church policies, perhaps that means that we are doing something right! Sun media, whose major radio mouthpiece is Chuck Adler, whose musings make Newt Gingrich sound like a liberal, is a beacon for the political and social right. It would seem that the theological right also comes under their purview!

I can imagine the thunderings that will emerge in tonight's or tomorrow's editions of Sun rags. The United Church has elected a new Moderator, an openly gay man from Vancouver, Rev. Gary Patterson. We my even see scripture misquoted in the SUN; certainly hellfire and brimstone should be evident.

Since 1988, the United Church has declared gay persons to be eligible for ˆfull membership" in the Church. We have gay ministers, and now, a gay moderator. The fact the Rev. Patterson is gay is not nearly so important as is the fact that he is one of the best pulpiteers in the Church, and a man of huge integrity and skill. Rev. Patterson's election signals to the world, as well as to the whole Christian community, that the United Church embraces all humankind, not just those of particular gender or sexual orientation. Many Churches proclaim that they are not anti-gay, but they are opposed to gay marriage. I wonder, will they find reason to decry the election to the Moderator's chair an inappropriate selection for an individual who is embraced as a person, rather than as a straight person?

Many times, the speaking of justice is a good deal easier than the doing of justice. In this case, the United Church has acted out of its commitment to the whole of humanity, has lived its understanding of justice. I wonder how Chuck Adler will respond to such an action?

Underground…a novel

I've had not much reading time lately, what with part time work and interaction with grandchildren, but one volume that I found particularly intriguing was a new novel by Antanas Sileika, a Lithuanian, now Canadian.

In his native land, Sileika discovered and read the Journals and records of the Lithuanian underground from the late thirties until the 1950s. From these Journals, he produced a novel - Underground - about the life of those who were strong nationalists and thus fought first, the German Nazis, and then, after the Soviet occupation, the "Reds" as they called them. This underground resistance went on until the last of the resistance fighters died in the mid-fifties!

The story is gritty and violent, but maintains a thread of humanity through the central character, Lukas, a former scholar, now an underground legend. We follow him through the forests, into Sweden and then France as he attempts to raise money for their cause. Along the way, he marries Elena, who supposedly is killed in a Red raid. After moving to France and after some time has passed, Lukas marries again - to Monika - and they have a child. Lukas returns to Lithuania at the urgent request of his former leader. In fact, the invitation is a lure to allow the Reds to catch and eliminate him. In the process, Lukas discovers that Elana is alive and has had a son, Jonas. Lukas surrenders himself in order to conceal his family's whereabouts. Much later, after Lukas' death, Jonas and Lukas' son by Monika, Luke, find one another, half brothers through war, and begin to piece together their father's life.

I think this book touched me so deeply because it carried me back to the days of WW2, when I as a child, remembering the chaos and terror of those days, and of the sacrifices people made for their families and for their country. In the face of the frantic right wing screams from south of the border, and the increasingly conservative values being imposed on our country by a government demonstrating its heartlessness again and again, Sileika's book is a potent reminder of what it costs individuals to maintain their freedom in the face of oppression of whatever kind.

I watch Romney and Ryan and fear for democracy as we know it in the US. I listen to Harper, Toews and Baird and harbour the same feelings about my own country. Dissent is being choked off, critique is buried or crushed economically. The vulnerable are threatened, and the young brainwashed about the importance of "conservative Canadian values." The country I grew up in, and matured in, is dissolving before my eyes. And I feel helpless to do anything.

A recent McLean's article on the Dieppe Raid assisted in this process of seeing things again through the eyes of a wartime child. General make stupid decisions, and privates lose their lives because of it. I remember my Dad saying, during the Viet Nam war; "They shouldn't send eighteen year old kids to fight. They don't know anything yet, and they need to live. Send the old farts, like me (he was in his 50's at the time). We'd march a bit, and then sit down and have tea - ask the locals where the good tea was. And if we got killed, so what? We've had a chance to live!"

I think it would be a similar parallel if we asked our leaders to live on a welfare cheque for a month or two, in order to feel the squeeze down at the bottom of the pile. Decisions might get a bit more real…and perhaps a lot less frequent. At least that's how I feel today.

Who decides?

Just watched the Canada-USA soccer game. Overtime, US by one goal at the last minute. The Canadian team pushed the US to the limit and could have won if the gods had been with them, and the ref hadn't called so many Canadian penalties. Gold in my heart, whatever. Go, Japan!

The deomocratic process in canada took another hit the other day when the Conservative government changed the rules regarding the Northern Gateway Pipeline. Previously, the National Energy Board, reviewing all the data, including local views, was to make the decision. Suddenly, its the Cabinet who makes the choice. This means that the pipeline is a certain "go," and the will of the BC folk and the Aboriginal communities aganst it, will be ignored. Slowly, we are becoming an oligarchy, a subsidiary of US interests, with Canadians having virtualy no say in our resource development.

Too hot today to think. Enough for now.

The Games

Lately, I've been watching a lot of 'jock TV,' aka The Olympics. Some neat moments, demonstrating the commitment and dedication that so many youthful competitors put into the thing. Some shameful moments, such as the badminton cheating incident. Started watching female beach volleyball for the babes, and began to appreciate the effort it takes and the skill they develop. I felt for the Russian woman with the heavily taped shoulder, who kept it up until the last ball had dropped.

Of course, my pet peeve is with the designation of M.Phelps as "the greatest Olympian."Nonsense. I'm glad they changed that to "the most decorated" Olympian. Many other could qualify as great. Fanny Blankers-Coen in '48, running and wining in four events, just three years after having been in a world war. Or Emil Zatopek, the runner with such dogged determination. Of course, I think that almost any medalist in the male Decathlon, or the Women's Pentathlon would be greater than Phelps. They must be competent and superior in multiple disciplines, rather than just in one venue.

Dumbest comments from Olympic TV: "She finishes a solid sixth in this race…" An attempt to put a bit of shine on a near-to-last-place finish by a Canadian cyclist in the sprints. At the moment, I'm feeling a bit more up, as Canada currently leads Great Britain in soccer, 2-0. Ready to cheer if it lasts. Got to see Christine Sinclair 'bend it like Beckham' for the second goal in a penalty shot.

Reflecting on the Games always produces ambivalence in me. Such courage and determination on the past of some, such cold-eyed killer instinct on the part of others. Such beauty and power, and such egotism and pettiness. I also shudder to think of the cost of the Games, while multiple millions starve because of a dearth of funding for food aid.

It's weird how I flip-flop around. I enjoy many events, and then one comes along, like Phelps with his umpteenth medal race, and I think, "Why doesn't he just take the pile of medals and get on with the endorsements and the ads?" As I watched the heats for the Women's 100 Metre race, I was touched by the beauty, regalness and power of some of these ladies. One or two look like they could rip up the field wit their teeth - lionesses, really! But they managed to do the whole thing with such class.

I admit to being a hopeless homer as I watch. "Go Canada!…" But I guess we don't spend quite enough money on their training, for they so often miss by just a hair. (Should make Harper happy: few Canadians beat the US and thus piss off his best friends!) See how small I can be when the flag is flying and the legs are kicking?

I will enjoy the track events, especially the longer distances. That's where GREAT athleticism comes to the fore. Training, ability and guts does it. I can hardly wait to see another fleet African roar home in the 5000 meter or the marathon. Or perhaps it will be an Egyptian or a Tunisian. Somehow, this sort of thing seems symbolic for me. The long distance people are those who have learned how to suffer and who can turn that into success. I believe our own Clara Hughes does that. Training for her final Olympics with a broken bone in her back because she just wanted to be in it again. She looked as pleased with her fifth place finish in the time trials as if she had won She was there! She was in it! I'm so glad she embraces Right To Play. And I'm so glad she's a Winnipegger! (See how small I am?) More after the races.

Full life

It’s been a while since I sat down to post here with intent. Life has been full. Two grandchildren, their parents, chaos all around, and a lovely visit with adult children. I haven’t been caught up in the Olympics…yet. But that could happen.

Big news in my part of the world has been the catfight between the Premiers of Alberta and B.C. – both females. The issue is the Northern gateway Pipeline. Most of it crosses B.C. and the Premier wants some cash to balance the huge risk they take in hosting that long pipeline through pristine wilderness. Premier Redford of Alberta is huffing about the royalties for the sludge they are transporting belonging to Alberta ALONE! Any change to that fact would require a change in our Constitution, according to Redford. The tension has become quite high, influencing even the Premiers’ conference this past week.

The Alberta paranoia regarding the possibility of even compensating B.C. is ironic. The province that boasts proudly of being ‘Christian to the core’ seems rather reluctant to consider the risk management needs of others when that threatens Alberta’s wealth. We are a manifestly self-centred and greedy province. We are rich, and we intend to stay that way, no matter whose territory is threatened!

Actually, I think B.C.’s concern is well founded. The pipeline is in the hands of Enbridge, which seems to be dealing with a new leak every week in some part of the world where they have pipelines. They have stopped talking about “no leaks will happen,” and now say, “When there is a leak, we will respond instantly!” I don’t think I would trust them to transport anything myself. But that’s just me.

Apart from the depressing tone of the news this week, we watched a powerful film last evening. It is Detachment, the story of a brilliant, but damaged teacher, who goes through his career avoiding strong attachment to any student, while being a good strong teacher, whom the students respect and admire. Barthes (his role name) becomes attached to a young street hooker and a bullied student, and slowly loses his detachment as the movie progresses. The death of his beloved grandfather is a major crisis for him, and the young people help him through it with their care and admiration.

The perspective on the school system and its effect on the teaching staff is dramatic and demoralizing, and provides a dark backdrop for the personal tale of the movie. The two crucial young people in the film are played by virtually unknown actors, Sami Gayle and Betty Kaye, about who there is nary a word in IMDb! Great movie, though not a happy one. See it if you can.

Detachment caused me to reflect on the similar story that can be told about the life of many in ministry, people who enter the work of preaching and pastoral care as a way of doing therapy on their own lives, and who are then broken by the reality of the all-too-human congregations they serve. So often the Church of our idealized studies bears little relation to the churches within which we carry out our ministries. Many a priest or pastor plumbs depths of disillusionment, even despair, in their careers. I’m quite sure the same can be said for others who travel different career paths, and experience the same disappointments. Perhaps many withdraw as Barthes does in the film, and require some kind of healing, or ‘conversion’ at some point in life.

Beginning next Sunday, my free weekends are over for the foreseeable future. I am filling at Rimbey through August, and then move to work half time in Lacombe until they are able to call a new ‘second’ minister. I am glad to be going back to work, while at the same time I feel some loss of my nice ‘retired’ routine, so stable, so relaxing. More for me to think about: I have been a notable failure at retirement over the past decade. One day soon I will have to change that. But not this autumn.

The Future

For Father's Day, some of my children downloaded a trio of books to my Kindle. One is a history of the famous Hatfield-McCoy blood feud in the Ozark mountains - now a movie, I understand. Interesting, if confusing reading. The families intermarried and fought on both sides of the Civil War in the US. Some of the "Northern" Hatfields/McCoys were slave owners; some of the "Southern" branches of both families did not own slaves. Go figure. Of this, more another time.

A second book is called "2052," and is a calculated prediction of what our world will look like in 2052 - forty years hence. It is well documented, with many experts in various fields contributing expertise to the enterprise.What I have learned to date is that our world, particularly the Western world, is living in a manner that would require 1.5 earths to sustain life as we now know it. This over consumption will continue until either we reach a collapse point, or governments get real about living in a steady-state economy rather than a "growth-despite-everything" model.

Reading this sobering, but fascinating treatise has prompted my thinking in a couple of directions. I think of some of the people I know locally, in a booming economy, who live very high off the hog. A lake cottage, a big "fifth wheel," two powerful trucks, a couple of ATVs, a brace of snowmobiles, and an annual trip to the warmth of the southern hemisphere. This may not be typical of Albertans, but it the standard everyone who works in the oil patch aims for. I can't imagine what percentage of the earth's bounty such a lifestyle consumes. My lifestyle - much simpler - consumes plenty. This one? God knows.

Despite the appearance of wealth that such a lifestyle gives, the plain fact is that these people are virtual slaves to the oil company they work for. Their slavery is economic, rather than physical. Once they become used to the six figure income they draw by working six or seven days weekly, at least twelve hours a day (Albertans work more hours per year than people in any other Canadian province), they feel a great need to adopt "the lifestyle." That lifestyle is the one I described above. The slavery aspect comes when you tote up the monthly payments that such a lifestyle entails. It is a staggering amount. Attempts made by more than one individual that I know to escape the work pattern of the oil patch has met with failure, because no one is willing to give up "the lifestyle," but without an oil patch salary, the lifestyle cannot be sustained. They are stuck. Family life suffers, marriage collapse, addicts crowd in, but the 'beat goes on.' And the earth pays the ultimate price which will one day swamp all of us, and force changes that no one is willing to even contemplate in the midst of a boom.

The authors of the study I am reading, "2050, a Global Forecast for the Next Forty Years," tell us that as the Third World catches up with us, our lifestyles will stagnate and then begin to sink. How will our people tolerate this without depression and madness of other kinds? More importantly, how can we, those of us who are becoming conscious of this now, make an impression on others, or even begin to shrink our own lifestyles to survival levels?

This future, bleak, but not terminal, will not be my future. It will be the future of my great-grandchildren and their children. Already the Western dream of each generation being "better off" than the previous one is grinding to a halt. I wonder how the "typical" Albertan great-grandchildren will live in 2052 or 2072?

I can understand how people are drawn to religious fundamentalism. It solves a lot of problems and removes the anguish of thinking of these things. Armageddon is coming, so care of the earth is irrelevant, and if I am  "saved" I will go to heaven. Problem solved. "Gas up the RV, honey, we're off to the mountains! We'll say a prayer before we go, so God will be our co-pilot on the road."

So I am left with: "What can I do today, in the face of these facts? I believe God has given us the earth to care for and nourish, as well as use. How much clout or power do I have to make an impact on the future that is coming?" Does this raise any questions for you, dear reader, or will you think of becoming a fundamentalist to set the whole issue aside?