The Retreating

   "Now let Your unfailing love comfort me, just as You promised me, Your servant. Surround me with Your tender mercies so I may live, for Your instructions are my delight." Psalm 119:76-77

  There's this thing I do whenever my emotions run deep and high. I withdraw, retreat, into a profound silence that echoes with the memories of a solitary life. I don't always know what triggers the retreat. It could be something as simple as the scent of a man's aftershave, a touch, a look, that kicks this primal response into full gear.

  I guess it's a legacy of having to live small to survive.

  I don't speak the language of connection very well. How could I? I never learned how.

  While praying through art today, I came across the image of an umbrella. It was just the skeleton: bowed ribs and a handle. The protective fabric was missing. As far as its ability to protect you from the elements, it was utterly useless.

  As I pondered this, it helped me understand that my childhood had been lived within the framework of family and home that, based on all external appearances, was as it should be. I had a roof over my head, piano lessons, schooling, food on the table. But this framework was just a skeleton that required me to add my own layers of protection.

  The lessons learned in childhood were honed to perfection in a marriage that also was nothing but a skeleton of appearance. It was not safe. Not for me. Not for my children. I did my best to be the fabric of protection while wrapping myself in the fabric of smallness. Just to survive.

  In all of this there was no room for fears, or questions, or discussion. There was no room for emotions or needs or desires. To have any was a punishable offence.

  One spring morning on the farm, my ankle got pinned between the barn wall and a two hundred pound sow. It was because of my ex's careless handling of the animal. I thought it was broken.

  The hospital wrapped my ankle in white athletic tape so I could leave. The x-ray results weren't available until the next morning. When I found out I needed a cast, my ex's angry response was, "What am I supposed to do about it?" A cast meant I could not do barn chores.

  The sad but funny thing is I didn't know I was allergic to athletic tape. When the nurse peeled it off, I had a rash from mid calf to the ball of my foot. It had been driving me crazy with the itching but I never said a thing to anyone. It was bad enough being injured and not being able to fulfill my responsibilities.

  The nurse was horrified and told me I should have taken the tape off! 

  In the end, it was just a bone chip, albeit a very painful one. While a cast would have made me more comfortable, I opted to simply wrap my ankle with elastic because the chores were more important...appeasing my husband even more so.

  There's something terribly wrong with this picture. Part of me knew it then. I definitely know it now. I just wish these lessons would get unlearned because it impacts my ability to trust others with my needs. And the great retreat remains my first go to. 

  It will take time to break the habits of a lifetime and I am getting better at it. But it's awfully hard to over-ride the survival mechanisms that are so automatic, I don't even realize it's happening.

  Lord, help me do better. In Jesus name I pray. AMEN!

  

  

  

  

  

The Critic

   "The mouth of the godly person gives wise advice, but the tongue that deceives will be cut off." Proverbs 10:31

  It's time to cut a tongue off. More than one, actually. They are the tongues that sing the songs of destruction. Their lyrics mock and belittle. Discordant harmonies serve one purpose: to make you afraid.

  As I sat in church, I started drawing measuring tools. A ruler, triangles, a set square and anything else I could think of at the time. 

  A tape measure was drawn as though the case was far away. The metal measuring part stretched back across the page, growing smaller and smaller as the rules of perspective were honoured. It was as though time was also being measured.

  Then I realized the tape measure wasn't mine. It belongs to those who taught me I could never measure up or be good enough. It's the tape measure that taught me I could never measure up or be good enough as a child, a daughter, a teen, a wife, and a woman. 

  Perversely, it also taught me not to be too good at anything because why would I even try to be the best? It was never enough. 

  The voice of the destroyer has a familiar sound. How could it be otherwise? It's the compounded voice of the one who raised me, who was a sibling, who was a spouse, a teacher, a culture, a gender expectation. And sadly, it is also my own. How could it be otherwise? 

  I never knew anything better.

  Even when the Lord set me free, their voices continue to be at war with the truth God was trying to have me believe.

  Today is the day these voices will be cut off, their tongue silenced. The only way to do this is to choose to forgive the critics, the judges, the cruel tongues whose voices echo across the years. So I will choose to forgive them. 

  I can thank the Lord for helping me find compassion for them. Their world is an ugly place.

  Then there's the hard part. Lord forgive me for allowing the critic's voice to become my own.

  He reminded me of my once four year old son and a little girl I was babysitting. The two of them were squishing grapes into the carpet, utterly silent, utterly enthralled by it.

  I've realized watching grapes explode was exactly the same as my sugar melting cereal bowl. I reacted just as my mother had with a cross "What were you thinking?" Forgive me Lord, for that.

  But then, when this same son wrote, "Welcome home, mommy, I love you" on the wall by the front door, I didn't get mad about it. How could I? We did have a chat about the wall not being the best place to write notes on. 

  Thank You, Lord, for forgiving me, for Your patience.

 It's time to put the tape measure that was never Yours back in the box. 

  I want to do better. I want to celebrate the giftings You blessed me with without shame or guilt or deception. But most of all, I want to learn to protect and nurture them without shame or guilt or deception.

  I want to live as the woman You created me to be and celebrate all You have made.

  Lord, hear my prayer! AMEN!

  As for the critic. I know its voice now. It's been a companion for far too long. It no longer has a place in my heart, my mind or on my tongue. Lord, I give it to You to do as You see fit. AMEN!

  

  

  

More to the Story

   "Give thanks to Him who made the heavenly lights--His faithful love endures forever. the sun to rule the day, His faithful love endures forever, and the moon and stars to rule the night. His faithful love endures forever." Psalm 136:7-9

  I woke up early this morning with a sense of urgency filling my being. For decades I've felt the need to do this painting. For decades I have put it off. Until today. I might put a bit of varnish on it once the paint has cured for a couple of days. It will make the dark and somber colours come to life.

  Creating art is always an emotional thing. To create is to bare your soul.

  This is the view I wrote about a few days ago as being the birthplace of faith; of believing there was something, Someone, greater than I. Painting it transported me back in time and while my eyes and hands worked away I listened to the heart of a twenty year old.

  Pat Benatar sang. People were laughing. The aroma of smoke filled the cool, spring air. 

  Mixed in with the awe and wonder was a sense of being utterly insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Big night skies can do that sometimes. But, I also felt puzzled. How on earth did I end up at a party where I really only knew the man I was dating?

  The great "Not Belonging" whispered. 

  In hindsight I've realized I was living under a blanket of severe depression. My dad had passed away suddenly just before Christmas. With his passing, I was left feeling truly alone in life. 

  Truthfully, I was alone. 

  How can words describe it? How can words describe the ache? The hollow emptiness that comes when loneliness inhabits your soul?

  Yet, in the night sky littered with a billion stars, a ghost of a hope that someday, someone would love me for who I am. That I would finally find the place where I belonged.

  Maybe it was my twenty year old heart praying to the great Someone. 

  He answered my wordless prayer by being by my side without me ever knowing He was there. For decades, He waited until I reached the end of myself. A woman who had no more strength to fight through the suffocating and lifelong Great Alone finally learned His name.

  I haven't done this painting before because I didn't believe in my abilities. The inner critic planted in my heart has left a legacy of self doubt and confusion. To finally see the memory manifested just as it has always been in my mind's eye is to be so incredibly thankful. 

  I have a God Who Never Fails. 

  The victory is His.

  The victory is ours.

  

PS. The related post was written on Feb. 14, 2026

  

   

The Secret Silence

   "Even Death and Destruction hold no secrets from the Lord. How much more does He know the human heart!" Proverbs 15:11

  I was given the task to begin looking at my childhood with the focus of finding Jesus. This is not an unfamiliar practice and has already brought great healing from some of the most traumatic events in my life. Finding Jesus in those memories has redeemed these things into places of great comfort.

  It doesn't erase them. It doesn't mean they don't still cause me pain but, now, interwoven with the darkness is a light beyond imagining. There's a joy, and a fathomless upwelling of gratitude in knowing I wasn't as alone as I believed at the time they happened.

  Come back in time with me to a holiday; the kind of holiday where a feast is prepared for company.  A padded table protector is placed on the formal dining table, hidden from sight with a tablecloth that only sees the light of day for such a feast.

  The good dishes are pulled out of the china cabinet. The special silverware is unwrapped from its protective felt storage bags. The crystal is set out according to the proper etiquette of table setting as passed down through generations of women.

  As soon as the table is set, a child sits down. Not because she is hungry. Not because she can't wait for the turkey to be carved. She sits there, still and quiet, utterly fascinated by the play of light and sparkle that only silver and crystal can generate under the light of a chandelier. 

  Everywhere she looks there are dancing prisms and rays of brilliance. She is utterly delighted and filled with a sense of awe and wonder at the beauty before her.

  She is chased away from the table, a critical comment made about her appetite and greed.

  She slinks away, silently, because she knew the chaser would not understand. Somehow the world was just a little duller, a little darker away from the table.

  Another table. Another meal only this time it was a solitary breakfast. A bowl of cereal floated in milk. The sugar bowl was on the table beside her. Left unattended, she put her allowed spoonful of sugar on the cereal. Grain by grain, the sugar melted as the milk seeped into the dry. The sparkle of the sugar vanished as milk drowned it. She couldn't resist repeating the experiment with spoonful after spoonful of sugar poured out with delighted anticipation.

  You can guess where this is going. The parent came into the kitchen, furious that I though I should eat that much sugar. The breakfast bowl was snatched away and the sugar crossly scraped into the sink. "Such a waste!"

  The magic vanished. And a shame that should not be moved into a heart that knew it could not share the world she saw in a bowl of cereal.

  I never minded the arduous task of polishing the good silver. Being able to release the light from beneath the choking tarnish made it a joy. 

  I think of all the times I've been utterly enthralled by the play of light and shadow. They were always secret moments, a place of being alone, being still, with the beauty I might find. Even if is in something as small as a pebble. 

  In these countless memories, the teeth and fangs of other, darker, secrets would vanish. 

  And that's where Jesus was. He was in the light. He was in the joy and peace I found in seeing the world in a way that I instinctively knew was different. And for those around me, unfathomable.

  In spite of everything that has tried to chase me away from the Light, this gift of seeing the world differently has never vanished, never been suffocated. Maybe that's because I kept such a treasure a closely guarded secret, just for me.

  Only now I can say, for us, for Jesus and me.

  

  

Carried by Hands I Cannot See

   "Won't you ever stop blowing hot air? What makes you keep on talking? I could say the same things if you were in my place. I could spout off criticism and shake my head at you. But if it were me, I would encourage you, I would try to take away your grief. Instead, I suffer if I defend myself, and I suffer no less if I refuse to speak." Job 16:2-6

  God is good. All the time. He chose this verse for me today and that last line...that last line...is the cry of my heart.

  

  I've had to speak to my mother. She fell and broke her wrist. In one conversation, she asked if I could come down this weekend to look after her. I told her I would think about it.

  

  It took a couple of days to give her my answer. This weekend was unavailable because I had previous plans. She twisted the story line saying she had never asked me to come this weekend; that I had misunderstood. 

  Gaslighting sucks. For a moment, I believed her.

  However, after our initial conversation, I wrote down what she had said so I could refer back to it. It's part of learning to trust my own mind. Writing everything out enabled me to see the guilt tripping, the manipulation tactics and recognize them for what they are. Those words on a piece of paper became a powerful shield against poison darts.

  Moving forward, I will do this for every single conversation we have. 

  Not that having any sort of a conversation will get us anywhere. 

  Instead, I give her to God to do as He sees fit despite the harsh words I long to speak. To avenge Allan. To treat her as cruelly as she treated him. I wouldn't be human if I didn't feel these things. 

  I choose silence because it is the greatest weapon I have.

  I am at peace about my decision not to go. 

  Had the events of this past summer never happened, I would have. And an upwelling of grief floods my eyes. God used the passing of a good man to lift the scales from my eyes. I see her for who she is. 

  "Walk on," Allan said to me. His last words. They bear repeating over and over again, these two words with the power to break chains.

  Not that it was an easy decision. It was a hard won battle to break the patterns of a lifetime, to disentangle myself from the guilt and self doubt that comes with making decisions. I am so grateful for the support of good friends and a trusted counsellor. They helped me find my way out of the confusion that is so much a part of interactions with her.

  Confusion is not of God.

  I will try my hardest to find the resting place of clarity and truth and wisdom. Guilt, shame, false responsibility, debts of gratitude and the weight of a duty that is not mine to bear cannot stand before God. 

 Note: Today's title is a recently released song by Josh Groban. It "suddenly" appeared in my friend's Youtube feed. God is good. All the time.

  

   

Doing What is Right

  "Who will harm you if you are eager to do what is right? But even if you suffer for doing what is right, how happy you are! Do not be afraid of anyone, and do not worry." 1 Peter 3:13-14

  A blizzard rolled in yesterday and dumped ten inches of the white stuff. There are areas around here that were much harder hit. My thoughts and prayers go out to them as they work to clear driveways, as the snowplows work double time to clear the roads.

  It was enough to warrant getting the snowblower out. It wasn't happy. The motor started squealing, the thrower blades wouldn't turn. I left it to warm up a bit and eventually it did what snowblowers do. I was able to chew through the deep snow on the driveway.

  The snowplow went past some time in the night. Like always, they toss heavy, and compacted snow across the end of the driveway. It wasn't enough to stop my friend from getting out but it needed to be cleared. It's mild and if it freezes, it makes things a whole lot worse should more snow come. A highly likely event. Winter isn't over yet.

  The snowblower squealed like it did yesterday only this time it didn't start operating like it should at all. When smoke started coming from the engine and my nose detected the unmistakable odor of burning chemicals, I shut her down. (Forgive my language, Lord.)

  Thankfully, we have a decent snow shovel. As the shovel scraped and tossed snow, it gave me time to ponder the blower situation, about what might be the problem.

  By no means am I a mechanic but God is good. I realized I hadn't checked the oil lately. Let's just say there was barely enough oil in it to stop the engine from seizing completely. After topping it up, restarting it and letting it run for a bit, I tentatively pressed the gear handle. One squeak and she ran smoothly.

  It could have been so much worse! Had the engine seized, the blower would have been nothing more than scrap metal. The odds of finding a new one this late in the season are practically nil. The shovel and I would have gotten to know one another very well. 

  Lesson learned. Check the oil. Regularly. It's the right thing to do.

  I've come to realize something, though, my life has been governed by a command I feel doesn't come from God. All I need to do is look at the fruit it has produced.

  DO THE RIGHT THING has been twisted into a snare.

  But...there is also another side to this. Doing the right thing is also one of my core values. Hmmm...that's interesting. 

  However, when doing the right thing was an exercise of free will and choice, it was a punishable offence. Even when I did as I was asked (or told) because this, too, was the right thing to do it was never done right. Or worse, what was right changed daily. It's a vicious tactic of gaslighting that I am working to overcome. Do the right thing was doing anything and everything that was asked of me regardless of the personal cost.

  But, if this is a core value, the damage is far deeper because it is an assault on the fabric of my being.

  

  I hear Cricket playing in the yard. She is laughing and running and enjoying the outdoors. Thirst drives her into the kitchen with tousled hair sticking to her face. Maybe we had been called in for lunch. She had a joyful heart from the fun she's had.

  But I'd done the wrong thing in playing, in having fun. I lost the bobby pins that were meant to keep my hair neat and tidy. The smile, the joy...simply being a child was the wrong thing to do because it was CARELESS.

  In that moment, doing the right thing was blanketed by fear.

  Lord, I forgive the one who said, "You are so careless!" because the truth of the matter is I care deeply. It is a gift from You. I might even say it is a treasure to guard.

 In a final ah-hah! moment I finally understand that boundaries are a right thing to do after all.

  Smile...I think the Lord just added oil to my engine! 

  I want to embrace this core value because it is a good thing. But how do I know what is truly right? 

  Trust the Lord and seek His guidance first. AMEN!

  

  

  

    

Total Eclipse

   "What I (Jesus) tell you in the darkness, shout abroad when daybreak comes. What I whisper in your ear, shout from the housetops for all to hear!" Matthew 10:27

  A song came on the radio at work and I was instantly transported to a place and time that passed long ago. It's a memory absent of trauma or hurt but it is one that comes to the forefront of my consciousness regularly. I don't know why I remember it but there is something about it that needs exploring.

  It happened in my late teens while at a party on a rural property. It was long before I knew the Lord. The music was loud, conversations were loud, bolstered by free flowing beer. The bonfire crackled, wafting smoke and sparks into the night sky. 

  How is it, sometimes, when being in a crowd is the loneliest of times?  I decided to stretch my legs and get away from the noise for a bit. I walked to the edge of the property just as the song from yesterday started playing.

  And this is what I saw:

  A freshly turned field stretched into the horizon, glistening, the only way a heavy dew can glisten under a full moon. The mathematically precise mounds and shadows laid down by a plough drew the eye to the other side of the field. A farm house and farm buildings complete with silos became the focal point of the field's perspective. It was generic sight made special by a few gold lit windows in the house and a yard light that bathed it in a golden glow. The few trees around it were black silhouettes against the bright, night sky.

  At my feet, where turned earth met the field boundary, a chaotic swirl of bent and crushed grass became a kaleidoscope of shadow and sparkle and silver. In the midst of this, a wooden toolbox lay on its side, discarded and forgotten. It was a long, slender box with carefully formed sides that extended up. A wooden dowel the size of a broom handle had been worked to fit across the top, It was the kind of box that would bear the weight of many tools. The worn and smooth solidity of it was at odds with the ethereal, transient quality of the surrounding grasses. 

  Pat Benetar's "Total Eclipse of the Heart" played on. My soul connected with the lyrics in a way that some songs can make you do. In the deep aloneness of being, I hungered for something more. I believed in something more: a Something greater than I. I just didn't know their name.

  As I sang the lyrics in my mind, they became transformed into a prayer, a cry to this wonderful, life giving Something who made a moment lit by a full moon unforgettable.

  The man I was dating at the time came over to get me, to bring me back to the party. I tried to share how much the view had touched my heart, wanting him to see it like I had. He was more interested in getting another beer, in being in the midst of the noise and chaos. 

  I reluctantly turned away from a place I could have stood in forever.

  Over the next two decades, I carried the longing and the unshakeable belief in a great Something. It would rise up from a forgotten corner of my heart when I was enthralled by the aloneness of being. 

  Until I learned His name. Now, in the priceless, magical, beautiful moments of being, I am not alone any more. And I remember this place, not with a questioning heart but with the understanding that in that moment at the side of an unknown farmer's field, faith was born.