Freedom!!

"FREEDOMMMM!!!" cries William Wallace and his army of Scotsmen in Braveheart, defending their land and their lives.

I find the blood and sword-clashing mayhem in the movie hard to watch, but I resonate with its theme. In my life to this date, I would say freedom has been the strongest desire of my soul. From long solitary walks across field and woods as a child, to my love of airplanes as a teen, to the pull of the open road today, I want to be free. The tie-downs of modern society wear me out, maybe more than most.
Part of my struggle with teaching has been the rigidity, the insistence, the bells and the deadlines and the slavish consistency that goes into making the whole thing work. Some may think we do better in the idealistic conditions of measured hours, measured assignments, measured paces along clean floors, but I beg to differ. It does work, but it's a soul-killing business. At least for me. How do we train free, independent, deep-thinking young men and women by making them ask to use the bathroom all day long? And we wonder why they don't know their own minds when they get out of high school? Hmmm. I wonder why we all want to live in little boxes in little mazes with bells and line-ups for the rest of our miserable lives. Lab rats, all!

Ok I admit that is a bit extreme. My personal views on schooling are skewed a bit left of center, that's the truth. Let's leave this particular soapbox for now.

"You cannot parcel out freedom in pieces because freedom is all or nothing." -Tertullian 

"Freedom is the oxygen of the soul." - Moshe Dayan

I love to see a motorcycle at the gas station. The heady smell of leather and exhaust makes my head spin. Though I don't ride, the image of a motorcycle heading down the highway is one of freedom. A child in a field of flowers, like Heidi with the goats in the mountains, is freedom. A jet leaving a high ribbon of white against the blue is freedom. Horses running, powerful and beautiful - free.

What images evoke the word 'free' for you?

     .......camping in the wilderness
     .......mountains
     .......travel far away
     .......a cup of coffee alone with a book in a quiet café
     .......the call of a loon across the lake


I believe all people desire freedom. For some it is just a quiet house and room to breathe, for others it's a chance to do what they love. What binds us?
Necessity, and need.
Fear.
Expectation.
Things we own, that own us.

"Freedom lies in being bold." - Robert Frost

Music makes people feel free; it is a freedom in the mind. The same task that would be done as drudgery can be accomplished with spirit and ingenuity to the beat of a favorite song. Saying what we think is a type of freedom which we generally deny ourselves as we get older. We become wise, we say, but in reality the price exacted for speaking we are no longer willing to pay. Wisdom is born of experience and is more often cynicism's child than insight's.
What I'm saying is we call ourselves wise when we are really just careful - careful not to expose ourselves to any blame or hurt. Self-preservation at the expense of everything else.

I am trying to be more bold, like I was in younger days. The straining toward freedom cannot be fully realized here, on earth, though we can live with more boldness and passion.

"The most important kind of freedom is to be what you really are. You trade in your reality for a role. You give up your ability to feel, and in exchange, put on a mask." - Jim Morrison

Oh Jim Morrison I wish you were alive, and we could talk! You said it well. What I know of your life, however, is a travesty of freedom taken too far. Your wild and insatiable appetite for it made rock legend. To die at age 27 from drug and alcohol abuse...this is not freedom.

"Seek freedom and become captive of your desires. Seek discipline and find your liberty." - Frank Herbert

I think you're on to something there, Frank, though your name I do not know.
Those who express themselves with reckless abandon burn themselves out like comets or meteors entering the atmosphere of earth. A bright and searing light, then emptiness. And so freedom has its dangerous edge. But I still long for it.

If you see a woman with a face painted blue shouting "freedoomm!!" in the grocery store parking lot, that's me, and I've gone too far.

"Freedom is the only law which genius knows."                        - James Russell Lowell

 

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Reap the Whirlwind

They sow the wind...

I've had this phrase going 'round in my mind for a couple of weeks, and recalled that it was from the book of Hosea.

"They sow the wind and reap the whirlwind. The stalk has no head; it will produce no flour. Were it to yield grain, foreigners would swallow it up."    Hosea 8:7

Sow the wind, and reap the whirlwind.

Poetic, evocative. You can see the imagery; a hand sowing seeds into air, the crazy, howling twister approaching.

This phrase has been used for book titles, poems, songs, speeches -- both in and out of Christian circles. Many people quote these lines with no idea they come from the Bible, much less the context of the prophet Hosea and the Israelites who were spending themselves on idols, and still expecting the blessing of God.

But for here and now, how to understand the meaning? It can't be divorced from the original intent, a warning to people that their striving was leading to nothing, and even worse than nothing. The biblical people were expecting their God to come through for them, while they bowed to the neighbor's idols and basically did as they pleased.

A wind is nothing; it buffets, you feel it against your face, but it can't be seen or grasped. A wind is an emptiness. It blows where it wants. Who can direct it? 'Who Has Seen the Wind', writes W.O. Mitchell in his title, one of my favorite novels. Sowing the wind means sowing nothingness into air.

The whirlwind.... much different. A terrible force - a destruction that leaves chaos and scattered ruin as it passes. The power of the whirlwind belies the fact that it is wind, made up of only wind...of nothingness, of emptiness pushed. Little puffs of air, in tremendous synchronization. A whirlwind wreaks havoc.

In what ways do I sow the wind?

It's easy to look at society in general, to point fingers at aimlessness and the empty trappings of materialism.

"You have planted much, but harvested little. You eat, but never have enough. You drink, but never have your fill. You put on clothes, but are not warm. You earn wages, only to put them in a purse with holes in it." Haggai 1:6

Small, meaningless acts that may add up to horrible consequences. I think of our endless upgrading of computers and cell phones, and of the huge piles of discarded technology I've seen in pictures or documentaries. Children in China and other places burning holes in their fingers and lungs while separating the salvageable with vats of acid. A teenager in Somalia sifting with a stick through smoking circuit board remains to find a piece worth selling. The air above and the rivers above and below, a conduit of toxicity. When will we see the whirlwind? It grows in menacing strength over scenes like this all over the world.

Depressing, isn't it? Not exactly the cheery winds of Mary Poppins, or even the magical cyclone of The Wizard of Oz. But  I'm not thinking so much of the environmental storm clouds the world over -- though they are significant.

In what ways do I sow the wind?

I can sidestep the question by thinking closer to home. Those I know who I have watched, with a sinking heart, sowing the wind. Some reaping their own personal whirlwinds of pain, some who have the shadow of it over them. A useless and finger-pointing sort of business it would be to discuss. It does seem to make some people feel better to scrounge through the scattered remains of a life in a whirlwind's wake, poking and looking for reasons and holding up scraps of sins. What good is that? And if I haven't sounded a warning, who am I to shake my head after the destruction passes by?
How do I know the real story, the one I couldn't possibly understand even if I did know it?

In What Ways do I Sow the Wind?

So, back to a more personal (uncomfortable) level.

Empty conversation where I could be speaking life and truth.

So many times I hear my voice saying words that just stuff the air, as feathers in pillows. I meet someone, and tell them nothing that will save their soul. I keep my treasures under wraps, like rings turned backward on a royal hand. Tramping the water into mud underfoot, instead of holding it out to cracked lips.

"It's just not the right time." "I don't really know them". "They probably know already." "They've already made their choices; and rejected mine." "I have to work with these people."

Eternity waits. The blind man thanks Jesus for not making light conversation when he cried out for mercy. "Son of David!!"

I've been blind. Now, I see. Jesus I'm definitely not, but I can see.

Wasted time where I could be investing it wisely in things that count.

Entertaining myself. Stupid games are fun. I do need to have some fun, everybody does.
How long? What could have been carved into stone while I sifted sand through my hands?

I avoid fixing problems because it feels so futile. I don't know where to start! And the finish line is broken or obscured, and there doesn't seem to be anyone else running. I stop in the race and look around. It's lonely and meaningless. Household tasks I've put off for years. I sit down in the track and trace shapes in the sand.
.....The sands of time speed on.

When the Glass Runs Out

Sometimes I'm just tired, really, truly exhausted, and we all know life has a way of sucking us dry, day by day. A good rest can be the best use of time possible now and then!
There are a lot of messages out there to just take it easy, to relax, you deserve it. And once in a while it's good advice to take.

But what are we doing with our lives? Are we simply animals, to sleep, to wake, to feed, to procreate, to have the best day possible until the next holiday comes around? Is that it??!



Wow. If it is, 'tis misery. I can't be satisfied with that. I would be very like Van Gogh. Pursued by too much emotion and striving into madness, and worse. I don't know enough about his life, but I think I understand some of the agony and ecstasy. Always a dark corner, an obstruction of the light, searching, finding, trying, failing.
Beautiful starry, starry nights. Ragged men in ragged clothes. Too much life, in life, for it to be a futility, a grasping of wind.

If I sow the wind, giving way to meaningless words, empty work and endless entertainment, bowing low to the rituals of pleasure and profit, of town and country, what then?

There are days when that is enough.
Today, obviously, is not one of those days. It may be good to keep me busy, so that my thinking is so wrapped in the cellophane of urgency that I ship it off heedlessly and never unwrap it or set it out to observe. It's a rainy day. I was meant to be mowing the grass today...see, it's the fault of the rain.

I do know from observation, history and my own little life that trouble is stacked up bit by bit and then crashes down suddenly. The Bible is full of
wisdom, and warns often to avoid the fury of the whirlwind and live with eyes upward, watching what we sow daily take root and grow into a healthy, edible stalk of grain. When I don't know where to start and the sands of time seem to be running out way too fast, I will look at this hour.

Those who sow the wind, will reap the whirlwind. It strikes fear into me while at the same time there is hope, because I know Who holds the future, and I know Who holds my hand.

"Whoever sows to please their flesh, from the flesh will reap destruction; whoever sows to please the Spirit, from the Spirit will reap eternal life." Galatians 6:8

Quality Work

Well, there are 101 reasons I haven't blogged in a while. 

Mostly I've had responsibilities that are more pressing...like massive amounts of yard work (knew that was coming) and house work (always) and transporting my kids everywhere, everyday (that's life) and meetings (sigh). But I could always get up earlier. There ARE more hours in the day...but they often belong to the night, and I'm generally using them for sleeping. Or trying to sleep/pretending to sleep, depending on the situation at hand, or who is calling.

One reason is my little job, cleaning the offices and shop bathrooms at my dad's business. It's a bit of drudgery that I don't mind too much. Somehow it's easier cleaning any bathroom other than my own, and mopping and sweeping up anyone else's mud but the stuff that's tracked all over my own house. At the end of a long day, when I'm rushing to finish so I can go pick up kids or get home before midnight, it's not that fun. And really quiet....a bit creepily quiet....just the howling and banging of the vents near the ceiling, a random tool crashing, the squish and slosh of the mop. At times I break out into song, a bit nervously, thinking probably no one is listening, but if they are, I'd better at least sound good.

As I stack chairs and wipe tables, walking past trucks, trailers, graders, a pump truck, and various tools of the trade, I think back. Back, and back...to the lone rubber-tired hoe parked outside a little house on the street. My mom working all hours at the hospital, my dad working all hours in the bush. No mobile radio, no cell phone, not much in the fridge. There's a picture of dad pointing to a few eggs on the top shelf, smiling, cuz that was it. The little house whose floors sloped in so many directions you had to get your sea legs.

Then, a wee bit 'o trouble. The town getting all up in arms over a backhoe parked on the street. Well, well. Have to move. Into the country, out of the way, into a trailer. Trees to clear all around, but no matter. The backhoe was well-oiled and practiced. Just not quite paid for. So work, round the clock, keep it working. When's he coming home? Late, for sure. Lots to do, and now we need a truck. A trailer, another hoe. A gravel truck, a shop, a set of fuel tanks. A few good men to leave early in the dark morning, and come back tired, full of sweat and dust from the road.

We went out a few times, to see where dad was going. Is this a road? Well...not really. Are we crossing the creek?! Oh yes, I do it all the time. But there's no bridge! Just hang on. I smile....how many times did I hear that, "Just hang on!". How much further? Are there bears? Oh yes, lots of bears. So many animal stories.....wolves, cougars, moose, fish the size of Friday, if you could only get a rod in there and catch them. Or have the time to.

Us kids would watch from the upstairs window of the new house, waiting for dad. There he was in a swirl of dust and grime, his hat on, moustache full of exhaust and prickly as he raised us over his head, laughing and saying, "Just wait, I've got to fuel up, just wait a bit. Go on in. I'll be right there. You want a ride in the hoe? Alright, hop in, we'll ride to the house." Favorite thing!! Up, up the orange metal stair and into the cab that smelled of rubber, leather gloves, and a hard day's work.

Years went by, and the office went from a pile of papers on the kitchen counter and a mobile radio that squawked all the live-long day, to a trailer you got to by walking across the yard by the garden. One time my banana-seat blue-sparkly bike got run over by the gravel truck. Well, it wasn't mine anymore, it was my sister's, but still it was hard to see it go that way. I talked to the guys often, as they trooped in the house with a question or stood shooting the breeze in the cool of the shop. I heard stories of washed-out culverts, impassable roads, places where you could get a huge piece of pie and a coffee for almost nothing. Stories of break downs, the near miss, the lost driver from the city who had to get pulled out of the ditch. And dust, always dust and diesel, and little oil slicks on the puddles in spring time. Working six days a week, early morning, late night. Supper waiting on the stove. A bit of fried egg on a plate to say someone was at the table, long before the sun stole onto my bed and woke me up for school.

More years, and the office moved to town. The shop too, and now it stands by the highway, a big sign and a big Canadian flag. We always had the flag; we were Canadian. The yard was quiet now, the shop empty but for the riff-raff leftovers that belonged to the domestic life. No more convoys of gravel trucks rolling down the driveway, quick get off the road with your bike! Life and business separated. The house was left for a bigger one. There were horses -- real horses that you paid money for, not the Paint with the matted mane and broken hooves that would stand stock still for no reason at all and had to be moved on with a good deal of boot action. There was more stress but less dust - computers, not piles of paper held down with a rock. More desk chair, less fresh air.

When I finish the cleaning, lock up and walk out to my car, I look up and see the lone rubber-tired hoe on the sign. "McPhee Construction. Quality work". In brown and tan, just like the old Ford we had in 1979, and the business cards we were so proud to sniff, crisp and new in the packages. It's a strong emotion, and it hits me sometimes when I hear people talk, about oh, the money, and when they demand things, and complain, and take advantage. If they could see the mud, sweat and tears that went into that first lone backhoe, and all the bills and sacrifices. To me, it's as clear as the creek water flowing over the pit run. I lean out the window and smell the pines and the diesel, and I know. 

A Lot Of Heart

Earth's the right place for love. I don't know where it's likely to go better.
                            Robert Frost

Haven't written here in a little while. My thoughts have been switching stations like a kid with a car radio dial. I have trouble concentrating in general, but these last couple of weeks I've had a spastic brain -- just focus on a thought, and it switches to another. I want to write about something -- then I want to write about something else. SHINY!!

One common theme has been a song that I. Cant. Get. Out. Of. My. HEAD. But I like it so it's okay. Ha ha. Lady Antebellum's "Just A Kiss". I know, I know....it's sappy and I'm not even a big Lady A fan, but there's something about the harmony, the melody, the lyric....it's crazy but I could have it on repeat for half a day.
(Not that I've tried that. No, believe me, I have NOT. I might though. Just as an experiment, for Science, like.)

So the song gets me thinking about emotions, about feelings, about the way we turn away from sappy-ness and gag.
I've always felt things too deeply, too much. I always hated that about myself. As a kid, I wore my heart on my sleeve, and it got roughed up. When I had a friend, I loved them to the moon and back. When I was hurt, I cried for a day.  (seriously I cried for a day when I was seven. yikes.) I felt everyone else's heartache and joy too. It wears a person out.
There's something rotten in human nature that rejects too much feeling in others, I think. I was open, I was honest, I was myself. I laughed too loud.
I was too much.

I learned, like we all do, to hide the truth of how I felt, finding a neutral expression that would stand by me through painful rejections, awkward moments, electric joy... that would cover my features through the sound of a heart breaking in half, mine or another's.

Another song I love is The Killers "Be Still".

Be still, wild and young

          Long may your innocence reign

          Like shells on the shore
         And may your limits be unknown
         And may your efforts be your own
         If you ever feel you can't take it anymore --

         Don't break character
         You've got a lot of heart

         Be still, one day you'll leave fearlessness on your sleeve...steady and straight
         And if they drag you through the mud,
         It doesn't change what's in your blood
         When they knock you down

         Don't break character
         You've got a lot of heart...
         Be still, be still

         Over rock and chain, over sunset plain, over trap and snare, when you're in too deep,
         In your wildest dream, in your made-up scheme, when they knock you down....

         Don't break character, you've got so much heart....

I don't mind expressing myself more these days. I can take the strange looks I get from people and just laugh at them. I've learned that there are those who are like cold fish on a marble slab, cold through and through, and there is no waking them. You could pour on passion, fire, wind and water. Just dead eyes staring. I don't waste a lot of time, these days, in reviving cold fish.

Others feel a great deal and hide it well. They've got a lot of heart, but they've had to lock it in a safe, that's locked in another safe, that's locked in a vault. That's in a bunker at the bottom of the ocean.
To you I say, don't break character -- be you, your wonderful self. Let yourself feel again, though it sears -- earth might be the best place for love, but it will never be safe.

I can be unbelievably cynical. I surprise myself with my lack of faith in the human race, sometimes. But I'm not willing to bury myself with the cold stones that break and bend; I want to be the river that runs over them, that ripples and sparkles and rushes down falls, that roars and trickles and bubbles and rests in deep dark pools.

I know what is sappy and ridiculous -- I revel in it. I laugh at it, I relish it.
I'm alive and arms outstretched on the open shore.

I have a lot of heart. I'm betting you do too.

If Charlotte Bronte and I Could Have Tea

I have just learned, through the reading of Syrie James’ Author’s Afterword in her book The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Bronte, that poor Charlotte died from hyperemesis gravidarum.  I was startled when I read the line; it struck me hard, as in "What?! That's like me!"  I even allowed myself a few tears, suddenly recalling my own wasted body and the feeling that I was not going to survive during  my two pregnancies. It sounds melodramatic, but there were times I wasn’t sure I would make it. It's not your run-of-the-mill morning sickness. I always feel a bit ashamed though, trying to explain to people.

Charlotte Nicholls (Bronte), married not even a year, died with her baby yet unborn . Weak from fever, nausea, vomiting, not able to eat and eventually unable to speak, she fell into a stupor and finally passed away.  What a tragic end— how many family deaths she had endured, years of heartache, and how brief her and Arthur Nicholls’ joy in being together.

The excerpt from James’book:

“Early on Saturday morning, March 31, 1855 – just three weeks short of her thirty-ninth birthday – Charlotte Bronte died….Charlotte’s death certificate made no mention of her pregnancy, stating that she died from “phthisis,” the same progressive wasting disease from which her brother and sisters had perished. Modern medical opinion, however, cites hyperemesis gravidarum (excessive sickness in a pregnant woman) as the cause.”  (James, p. 452)

Living a century and a half later, I had the medical care (eventually) that gave me a chance to recover and have my two children born, healthy and strong. But I remember the delirium,  the strange light-headedness of actually starving, sitting half passed out in a wheelchair in emergency, and later lying on a gurney in a crowded hallway. Late in the night a female doctor pried open my eyes and shone a light into them, one at a time. I heard her murmur, “You, my dear, are very far gone.”  Thankfully, over the next few days on IV drip, my mind and body came back to itself. A week later, I was in awe looking at Lauren’s tiny hands waving on the ultra-sound. How could someone else be surviving in my emaciated self? It felt actually miraculous. I am very blessed to have my two children. They are even more precious to me because of the struggle and intense battle that precluded their births.

 I know many mothers feel this way on some level, as there are many difficulties that occur on the way from pregnancy, to birth, to the newborn life. I’ve never met anyone though, who really understands what I went through. It was lonely and painful, but I think I understand something of the lucidity and deep waters that come from suffering, and for that I’m actually thankful.  To read that Charlotte Bronte, the author of Jane Eyre, eventually died from hyperemesis made me feel a strong kinship with her, long gone as she is. My heart broke for her, and her new husband, and their unborn little one who would never see the light. So much on earth ends in pain and sadness. I hear myself sounding terribly sentimental, but I suppose we all have our themes of sensitivity. Each of us has certain thoughts that summon sorrow and cause us to reminisce.

Apart from the sadness, and the kinship, the thing I most feel is gratefulness. Thankful that I was born in a time where help was available, when I could raise my beautiful girl and rambunctious boy and carry on with the business of living.

 If it wasn’t for the lasting literary triumph that is Jane Eyre, the world wouldn’t know of Charlotte Bronte, and I definitely would never have learned of how she left the world too soon.

Charlotte wrote under the pseudonym Currer Bell.

A portrait of Charlotte Bronte

 

 

 

 

 

 

Devotions From the Rut

My last post mentioned being in a type of spiritual rut.

    That's the low, carved-out place in the road, the easiest place for the wheel to fall into. I'm picturing a grey-brown side road in the country, rather muddy, trees close on each side, no gravel to speak of, and you're on your bike bumping along the rough middle when the tire slips into the deep rut on one side. It feels confined and hard to balance, but you stay there, hoping a chance will come to pull out of it. If not, you know you'll have to dig in and pedal hard, wrestle the handlebars and push the bike out with gritted teeth and determined effort.


That's the way it is.   Not a perfect analogy, but it works.   The trouble with ruts is you know you can't stay there too long. The close sides mean that if there is something ahead, if you hit a rock or a root or a bend in the road, you're hooped.   I'm still on the road, but how did I get in this rut? I wasn't paying attention. I didn't really care. It just happened.   And spiritual ruts are part of the journey, sometimes. I don't always feel close to God, I know that. I've been here before. He's still there, but my angle of looking at Him is different. Sometimes shadows pass before, or obstacles, or I don't want to look.  I'm upset, I'm sad, I'm angry.....apathetic......any of those will lower my gaze.   The world is noisy; I was watching it and got distracted.   My troubles are many; I was pondering them or blinded by their intensity and turned away.   The good news is, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that this is the right road. "Blessed are those whose strength is in You, who have set their hearts on pilgrimage."  Psalm 84:5 I'm not turning off the road. What a waste of time I know that to be! Not going to pretend I'm having the time of my life though; it's a lot of uphill. I'm tired and the bumps are jarring and I'd prefer to jump off the bike and throw it in the creek, yelling like a savage. "All my longings lie open before you, O Lord; my sighing is not hidden from You. My heart pounds, my strength fails me; even the light has gone from my eyes."  "I wait for You, O Lord; you will answer, O Lord my God. For I said, 'Do not let them gloat or exalt themselves over me when my foot slips.'"    Psalm 38:9-10, 15-16 I haven't made much progress this year, which is discouraging. I haven't become amazing and conquered all my fears. Falling down a lot of times, I have scratches and bruises that hurt and make me feel resentful. Bitterness can derail a journey faster than anything. I think some people shake their head at Christians because we seem so attached to our little circles, our work at church, our way of life. We've found a nice, comfortable perch on which to look down at the rest of the world. People can see it's not all that genuine, at times, just comfortable. We don't talk about Jesus much. He's there in the background, smiling approvingly at our efforts, our tidy lives. At least that is the impression we have.  I don't know many Christians who are open about their actual struggles; it is harder than it might seem to be honest and open. One reason is the smugness of other Christians who enjoy gossip and the good feeling they get when someone else is having a tough time. Another reason is human nature - we've learned to put our best foot forward. "I'm fine, thanks, just look at my Jesus bumper stickers!"                                                       *       *       *      The father of the demon-possessed child said to Jesus, "I do believe! Help me overcome my unbelief!" Mark 9:24 This has been called the foundation prayer of faith. He wants desperately to  know for absolute sure, to feel like he believes. He's humble enough to admit he does not. True, deep commitment....can it exist with mental reservations? Seems so. There needs to be space for doubt in the church. "You know what? I just don't get it" has got to be allowed. Swallowing doctrine and dogma hook, line and sinker can make a bunch of pretty dead fish. Think about it. Is blind acceptance real faith? Doubt has been a part of the Christian walk for thousands of generations of true saints. Doubt can be used as an excuse for endless non-commitment. This is a different journey. This is an excuse to do nothing and look pretty good doing it. Help my unbelief. I continue to pedal up the rutted, pocked and slippery road, spattered with mud and looking less-than-lovely. I'm gathering strength from His Spirit within, from His words, His songs. I'm really glad to be on this road. This is the road that leads home. "Therefore, since we are receiving a kingdom that cannot be shaken, let us be thankful, and so worship God acceptably with reverence and awe, for our God is a consuming fire."   Hebrews 12:28-29

Stories, Poems, and Devotions. Oh MY!

I restarted this blog thing a while ago because I wanted to write devotionals, based on the Bible, with substance. What is a devotional, you might say? Yes, it is a word from the "Christianese" dictionary. It is simply a written or spoken mini-sermon, a short message that is meant to encourage, instruct, or challenge believers in God. My hope was to write devotionals unlike many I had tried to use in the past, especially with young people -- so many were trite and fluffy and trying really hard to be cool.

The thing with me is I never have to try to be cool because I simply am - Cool. (snort, smerp, chortle, simper, cough!)

Today I am battling a lovely lung infection or whatever, it makes me weak, tired, and my breathing is shallow and my heart is beating a little too fast. Now, don't be alarmed, I'm quite sure it's not pneumonia. I know, because I've had THAT thing twice. Which is why what for some people is a run-of-the-mill cold or flu, for me can be actually debilitating.

All That To Say.....

I noticed I haven't been writing devotionals lately. First, I'm in a bit of spiritual rut. A low point. Kind of muddy and well, low. Have I lost my faith? Oh no, not at all. I've been in these ruts before. It takes some serious horsepower to blast out of one, sometimes, and I haven't got the jam. Trouble is, the longer you stay in a rut, the deeper it gets, sometimes. If you could experience the Spring road conditions in Alberta right now you would know how appropriate this imagery is!

Second, I'm distracted by thinking up and writing stories. Plot lines and characters pop into my mind all the live-long day; it's like living in a parallel universe. The writing is going slowly as I feel discouraged a lot of the time, thinking that it's all garbage. It may very well be. The last thing I want is someone to read it and say, "Wow, yeah, amazing! I'm enthralled, really, I am!" while inside they are thinking "What-on-earth-was-that-even-about??" As in when a child shows you a painting and you rave and rave, it's beautiful! A pretty red flower on the hillside! but actually it's a helicopter filled with zombies that are spurting out red blood as they devour the passengers.... awkward....


The trouble with the stories I want to write is I have to be dead before they are published. The situations I want to write about would be too real, too obvious. It's a no-win situation! The proverbial Rock and Hard Place that my little ideas are stuck between.
I know how writers do it, they stick the character in but change the name, the age, even the gender, and then have them do the idiotic things that another heavily disguised character loathes and exposes.

For example, say a person you know lives in complete denial of an obvious problem. Let's stay very general, no reading between the lines, I'm actually not thinking of anything or anyone. Well, you change the problem, you change the person, but you take enormous delight in having them deal with it, vicariously through another character. A writer can even take a modern issue and transfer it, say, a few hundred years backward to the French Revolution, and deal with it there. Or take a hypothetical situation and thrust it forward fifty-odd years. What would the world be like, IF? Take Orwell's 1984.

The other writing I do is poems. Also rather obvious. Now I know why Emily Dickinson hid all her poetry in the dresser. No one needs to know how crazy I actually am! So what is the point of writing them, you ask? It's like condensed feeling. Like putting oranges, bananas, pineapples, mangos, and apples into the juicer, and all the pulp and peelings and unnecessary, fruity trappings are left in the bag and you have.... a small glass of pure flavor.  Writing a poem is like letting some air out of a too-full balloon, like hugging someone you love but haven't seen in a long time, like a loud laugh outside after a 4-hour silent examination in a stuffy room.  It has to be done. It brings relief. Simile number four...it's like exposing a festering, painful wound at last to open air and clean water.
Regardless of the readership, poems get written.

I've wondered if I should have three blogs,  Devotions, Stories, and Poetry. Maybe in future, if I keep this up. I don't think I'm brave enough, though, for the Stories and Poems. Maybe that's a good thing.