The Smallest of Things

 

  “Those who live in the shelter of the Most High will find rest in the shadow of the Almighty.” Psalm 91:1

  I’ve whittled away a good chunk of the day making miniatures: a boxed set of paints, brushes and a tiny artist’s palette. It literally took some whittling to pare down toothpicks into brush handles. My thumb frequently bears witness to the sharpness of the Exacto knife point but not today. It escaped unscathed.

  

It’s time to get down to business. So, here I am, Lord, at the kitchen table, surrendering to the process.

  Cricket and I haven’t finished talking about our core beliefs; the toxic ones that are deeply ingrained.

  How to not believe is the challenge. I wish it was simply a matter of saying I don’t believe the lies. But, here’s the thing about core beliefs, they become core beliefs because they are reinforced time and again through different circumstances and different relationships.

  Core beliefs can also be good but they are extremely vulnerable especially when a hurt that is contrary to this belief starts the record spinning. For those of us old enough to remember record albums, they would get a microscopic scratch which caused the needle to skip, repeating the same few words over and over until you moved the needle.

  I need help moving the needle because I am done listening to this broken record, the one that plays the song of pain and doubt and ugly.

 

  God is not a liar.

  This I know for the Bible tells me so.

  Jesus loves me, this I know because the Good Book teaches this, too.

 

  Cricket remembers being at the doctors. He was examining my hands, feeling the thickness of the finger bones closest to my palm but wouldn’t operate to make them thin and ladylike. I was stuck with thick, ugly fingers.

  Thank God.

  What these good, strong and healthy hands have accomplished! Music, rising up from my soul, is played without thought. Letters are typed without thought. Without letters, there would be no words. A paintbrush, a pencil, a pen moves across a blank surface to create the image in my head without thought.

 These not so “ladylike” hands are the subconscious creators of so much beauty!

  I am thankful to not be concerned about wrecking an expensive manicure because these “ugly hands” never deserved one. Instead, they are adorned with calluses and scars that tell a story uniquely mine. Like when I slid into home plate at a childhood softball game…unfortunately, this clumsy teenager slid face first. The right hand trapped beneath my stomach raked across the ground. The now faint scars are still on my knuckles where the gravel tore them open.

  Good things don’t leave scars, do they?

  So maybe, instead of fighting the scars, both visible and invisible, I need to let them tell their story. I need to let Cricket tell her story. More importantly, I need to let her tell Jesus.

  Amen!

Time

   "For everything there is a season, A time for every activity under heaven." Ecc 3:1

  It was rather shocking to realize I hadn't written since June. Numerous reasons...busy with summer gardens and ensuing harvest, finishing the group, my laptop broke down...it took a good nine weeks to get the part. Mostly, there's been a great deal of reluctance on my part to sit down and write.  

  Let's catch up. 

  The group ended mid August. It's left me with some unfinished business that only God can resolve because I have no idea how to proceed. 

  We went to my friend's brother's cottage on Lake Saint Lawrence for a few days. It's where the mighty Saint Lawrence River widens so it's called a lake. Had a great time watching the ships sail past and got some kayaking in on a couple of the less windy evenings. I learned about Quebec jade...the bright green, smaller-than-a-pebble granules hide themselves in the sand. It was fun to look for and I managed to find a few pieces as a souvenir. 

  The shed got finished with board and batten siding. It meant moving a ton of dirt and building a couple of stone retaining walls first. Now it's landscaped, adorned with flowering baskets that, now, are pretty much dead. I am pleased with the final result. I have headed into the basement to make wooden stars to replace dead flowers.

  There's been plenty of woodworking this summer. I've built some faux windows that will fit between wall studs. It meant learning how to make window mullions even though they won't have glass in them. It's for a friend's front hall that is rather dark. The three "windows" will allow some natural light into the space without having to do major, structural carpentry. Only the drywall will have to be cut away. I can't wait to see them installed!

  I have poured myself into making another doll house. It's 1:12 scale. I'd been toying with the idea for a while and was going to purchase an inexpensive, three shelf book shelf as the foundation. It needed to be smaller than the last one I made. Low and behold, there one was, sitting at the side of the road. I couldn't resist!

  Am I hiding? Yes. Am I having fun? Yes to that as well. It's a great way to practice making furniture without the expense of messing up life size pieces of wood. If anything, mini-measurements need to be even more accurate! Decorating the doll house uses many of my other skills as well although painting a miniature landscape has been an exercise in frustration. Again, it's miniature so if it ends up in the trash, so be it.

 It's a brain challenge, too. To look at big things and think how they can be used to make small things. 

 Is it hiding, though? No, that's not the way to look at this. I have experienced a great deal of emotion as I decorate the little girl's room in the attic room added to the top of the shelf. I find myself giving her the things that brought me joy as a child: colouring books, a rocking horse (always wanted one anyways), a bucket of pencil crayons, a sketch pad. Next on the list is making her a horse and wagon just like the one I once played with, part of the Jane West collection. Although, I don't know how I am ever going to make wagon wheels!

  Then there is church. Much has happened since I last wrote. Our pastor put forward a motion that we should leave the Meeting House and wanted us to vote within a couple of weeks. He had grand plans for the church and the direction he wanted to go in. I was surprised to find myself against this idea despite all that has happened. TMH has done an admirable job of coping with the fall out of Bruxy's abuse coming to the light. 

  The teaching coming from them has a humility, gentleness and compassion it never had before. 

  I wasn't alone in my reluctance. The vote was postponed for a while before it became apparent that the majority of the church did not want to leave TMH. Our pastor left before a vote was ever taken. Some people followed him. The rest, stayed.

  So we are leaderless, again. Our last pastor died suddenly several years ago. It's why we ended up part of the Meeting House family. This time we have the BIC to help. We already have an interim pastor and a steering committee has been appointed to move us into the future. The BIC call us a church in distress.

  I think back to my first reaction to the news about Bruxy, about wanting to leave. But as I thought about it, I realized we shouldn't walk away, but stand alongside the church we chose to be a part of. Staying as the Meeting House has brought new people in despite the scandal. It's wonderful to see new families with small children join us each Sunday. A church will fade in to nonexistence without them.

  That's where I will end for today. I won't make any promises about writing soon or more because, it appears, I can't keep them. 

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Justice

   “Learn to do good. Seek justice. Help the oppressed. Defend the cause of orphans. Fight for the rights of widows.” Is 1:17

 

  “I know that the Lord will maintain the cause of the afflicted, and will execute justice for the needy.” Rom 13:4

 

  Somebody flicked the summer switch and sent a blast of heat our way. Plants exploded so the yard and gardens needed some TLC. The veggies are planted and doing well. The new shed is now 75% completed, just waiting on some more barn boards to finish it up. I also returned to work last week, doing my part to get our temporary location up and running: sign painting mostly.

  My group has started, too, on a Tuesday evening.

  Most of all, I needed a break.

  It rained a much needed dose of rain most of the day, shutting down any outside work. I hadn’t thought I’d be painting today but here I am.

  There hadn’t been much in the way of information from TMH regarding the ongoing investigations until yesterday. Police have arrested and charged Bruxy with sexual assault. I don’t know if this is connected to the circumstances at church or if it is a separate charge.

  CBC News posted an article. The press doesn’t know either.

  In the article, police stated they want all sexual violence survivors to know the service believes them.

  It’s about time.

  Justice has turned a blind eye on far too many women. I have heard story after story of how police downplayed, blamed the victim, or out and out ignored a woman’s story of abuse and assault.  He said, she said always favoured the man.

  There is no statute of limitations on sexual offenses. This is a good thing but utterly useless if police don’t do their part and take victims seriously.

  My friend asked me if I had thought about what had happened to Bruxy that led him down this dark path. My gut response was, “Don’t know. Don’t care.”

  But as I sit here and write, the hard truth of multiple offenses by one person has me wondering if the men who abused me also abused others. Have I, by being silent, granted tacit permission for them to hurt others?

  There is no statute of limitations on sexual offenses.

  This means if Bruxy was abused, he also can come forward.

  99.9% of the time abusers were themselves abused. I just can’t wrap my head around why they do this when they know how much damage and pain it causes. Is it because if a boy has been abused by a man, he grows up needing to go the extra mile to prove his manhood and sexual prowess with women? How do adults who molest children fit into this puzzle? Do I even want to know?

 

  I’d rather be in the garden right now rather than think about all this. I’d rather be inhaling the sweet fragrance of the peonies that always bloom the day before it rains. Rain isn’t kind to the massive blooms. They end up a pink, soggy, ground kissing mess. I am thankful that only one of my half dozen plants has flowered. The rest have yet to open. The necessary ants are hard at work to help them along. They have a symbiotic relationship with the flowers, feasting on the sticky excretions of the buds. Without ants, the peony flowers would stay stuck closed.

  Maybe that’s what justice is. It plays a crucial role to help a flower bloom.

  So, Lord, where there needs to be justice, grant the people involved the courage, the integrity, and the desire to see it done.

  Wikipedia notes the blindfold on the justice figure was originally a satirical addition intended to show justice as blind to the injustice carried on before her. Even though it’s now interpreted as impartiality, there is still far too much truth in the original intent.

  Lord, here’s another prayer thanks to Wikipedia. Let justice be applied without regard to wealth, power or other status. AMEN!

Beyond Art

 

  “Give justice to the poor and the orphan; uphold the rights of the oppressed and the destitute. Rescue the poor and helpless; deliver them from the grasp of evil people.” Ps 82:3-4

 

  “Dear children of the world

 

   It’s not supposed to be like this.”  Darnell Harris

 

  Twenty-one. Nineteen children, two teachers gone. Just. Like. That.

  Seventeen others were injured.

  The injuries to the minds and souls of the survivors could last a lifetime.

  The gunman, an eighteen year old boy, has been killed.

 

  Former pastor of The Meeting House, Tim Day, is facing allegations of sexual misconduct and abuse.

 

  The missing and murdered indigenous children have been forgotten by Canadian mainstream media. So have the missing and murdered indigenous women.

 

  A teenage boy died by suicide while being treated for depression in an institution.

 

  MILLIONS of children are trapped in the sex trade around the world. It’s called a tourist attraction.

 

  She came out from behind the stage curtain, walking like the dead. A grade eight teacher had just put his hand down her shirt.

 

  Some of this has a personal connection.

  Some of these facts are found on the internet where it’s possible to buy a pair of shoes. It’s just as easy to find and purchase the services of child prostitutes involved in sex tourism.

  I could probably write forever about how the abuse of power has destroyed lives. I could probably write forever about where the weak and the helpless have been robbed of dignity and worth and even life itself and nobody noticed or cared.

  I could probably write forever and never come to the end of the grief I am feeling for the children.

  I’ve mentioned adults in this sad commentary. They are or were somebody’s child. Or maybe they were nobody’s child. Maybe parents sold them, their children being a commodity for cash.

 

  And I am blessed to teach my granddaughter how to paint via internet. I look forward to our weekly session and the chance to connect when physical distance is too far to travel for an hour long lesson. These precious moments help me know there is some good in all this awful.

  God, save the children.

Featherweight

   “He will cover you with His feathers. He will shelter you with His wings. His faithful promises are your armor and protection. Do not be afraid of the terror of the night, nor the arrow that flies in the day.” Ps 91:4-5

 

  I went to a staff meeting yesterday to get the lay of the land about our reopening after the fire. A temporary location has been found. There is much to be done. My part is to make two new signs. One sign is for the temporary location, the other to tell everyone where we are hanging our hats until the repairs have been made to the original building. We hope to be open the first week in June.

  I am still struggling but that’s okay. I told everyone I would help where I could. I can't help but be thankful to work for an organization that is willing to work with limitations.

  Last night was the first night for the Healing Care Group.

  So here’s the thing, I picked up this feather from the side of the driveway earlier in the day. I’d never seen one like it. It’s a wing feather about seven inches long. Definitely doesn’t belong to a song bird.

  I wondered if it was an eagle feather.

  My friend and I had spent quite a while watching a Pileated Woodpecker tackle the rotting tree stump in my neighbour’s front yard; long enough she was able to capture it on video. They are a big bird and usually rather shy. To see one up close, tossing chunks of bark aside as he hunted for crawly delights was amazing. The sun hit his huge, red crest and turned it to fire.

  He eventually flew off, heading south over my driveway, dropping a feather in his passing.

  Thanks to Google, the feather has been confirmed it was his.

  The group was given homework: find an object that depicts what we want to see happen during the group.

  God sent a bird and gave me a feather in exactly the right colour before I even knew I needed it! You see, I am the black part, the colour of grief and mourning. He is the white part, the shaft, the base of the feather that will support me during the next several weeks.

  The feather affirms I am exactly where I am supposed to be.

  I am in awe of everything that had to happen to get it into my hands at exactly the right moment in the entire history of mankind. I am comforted to know God is close beside, behind and in front of this next journey, no matter where it may lead. And peace floods my soul.

 

Loss

 “The Lord is like a father to his children, tender and compassionate to those who fear Him. For He knows how weak we are; He remembers we are only dust.” Ps 103:13-14

 

  The opening line for today’s post came to me in the small hours of the morning. It was beautiful and said everything. I should have gotten up and started writing because now, with the sun well above the horizon and a few more hours of sleep behind me, I don’t remember what it was.

  It has blown away like dust.

  The image of the abandoned and falling down house was the best way for me to encapsulate the idea of loss.

  It was a home, once upon a time, which held a young couple’s dreams. This humble fairy tale castle kept a child safe from dragons. The kitchen was where Gramma baked her delicious cookies, the ones someone always asked her to share the recipe for. It held a puppy, too, at one point or was it a kitten? It was a place where booboos were made better and birthday’s celebrated. The walls witnessed its share of life, like when Gramma had to go live in a place where others did the baking.

  But now, the home is only a house. The windows where a welcoming light once pierced the night are broken. Shards of glass feebly glint under the light of stars. The flower gardens have long disappeared including the special one where the puppy was lovingly laid to rest. The essence of home has blown away like dust.

 

  Maybe this is the hardest loss of all, realizing everything we perceive as safe, as home, is really only a passing illusion, an artificial construct fed by culture, the media, and lies. Or maybe this is only me in this place of grief.

  The young couple got divorced, the child wasn’t safe from dragons, Gramma never baked…

  Why do I grieve the loss of things I never had?

  Why do I find myself feeling a deep sense of loss for other people who never had a home that was a haven, a safe place where the roof barely contained the love within?

  Why do I find myself feeling the loss because so many pastors, priests and people of God turned God’s home into a house with broken stained glass windows?

  Why do I mourn the loss of illusion? I should be celebrating that truth is finally coming into the light; that the blanket of dust has blown away.

  Maybe I am not there yet. Maybe there’s been far too much truth coming my way over that last few months and I am not sure what to make of it all. I am not sure what to do with the sorrow the truth causes.

  It is better than the pain secrets cause.

  It hurts to realize I, too, fell far short of fulfilling the hopes and dreams encompassed in the ideas of home, family, Mom, daughter, and friend. My failures taste like dust. It hurts to realize I have caused others tremendous harm because my compliant nature made it impossible to do otherwise.  

  The Lord is washing the dust from my eyes with tears as I face the consequences, the losses caused by brokenness in myself and in others. I have no idea how to forgive them, me or even where to start.

 

  “I need Thee, oh, I need Thee. Every hour I need Thee. Bless me now, my Saviour, I come to Thee.”  Annie Sherwood Hawks 

 

Yeast

 

  ”He also asked, ‘What else is the Kingdom of God like? It is like the yeast a woman used in making bread. Even though she put only a little yeast in three measures of flour, it permeates ever part of the dough.” Luke 13:29

 

  The Healing Care group was postponed until next week to give the facilitators a chance to meet everyone. It was disappointing but, having run groups, I recognize it’s important to know the lay of the land before starting. My meeting with them happened Tuesday afternoon. I confess to being very nervous in the beginning, not knowing what to expect.

  There are three facilitators to six group members. Intercessory prayer is a huge piece of what they do. They also take turns teaching and leading. Good practices because it changes things up but also spreads the responsibility of leading.

  I had a sense they are trauma informed, meaning they have learned about the devastating impact traumatic events can have on every aspect of our lives. This is a good thing, too.

  During the interview, I was happy to realize there is an element of peer support in this group, too. While faith makes us peers, knowing they have personal understanding of some of the challenges their group members struggle with puts my mind at ease.

  No one gets it like someone who’s been there.

  This is the first faith based healing group I’ve ever been involved with. Secular programs like WRAP (Wellness Recovery Action Plan) and Pathways to Recovery have been part of my journey already. Because faith is very important to me, I was able to incorporate this into the process.

  WRAP is an amazing program. It’s been adapted for various purposes above and beyond mental health recovery. First responders were the first to adapt it to job specific needs. It teaches some fundamental life skills we all need.

  I was trained to be a WRAP facilitator but have never needed to run a group. The Krasman Centre has a core group of WRAP facilitators who offer it all over York/Simcoe and online. Running an art group is more my speed.

  I’ve missed doing the group but with Covid...

  It will be nice to have it resurrected. Things are still up in the air because of the fire.

  It’s funny, but not in a laughing way, how the word, “fire,” stirs up a bucketful of grief. I guess my resiliency bucket is still rather empty. The thought of the chaos and decision making involved in setting up a temporary location sends waves of anxiety through my body. I am not sure I am ready to return.

  I hadn’t done a painting for this post but an idea just came to mind. Stay tuned.

  The frequency of the posts may fluctuate over the summer. The gardens already need weeding. There’s seeds to be planted, grass to cut, a shed to finish…I am thankful it’s raining today.

  You know something? I don’t think God means for me to feel guilty about taking the time to write or paint instead of taking care of the yard. I don’t think He means for me to feel guilty for taking the time to work in the yard and not write or paint. But it’s there.

  Someone needs to give me a Godly slap upside the head.

  The art and writing have been a full time job over the last few months. I could cut myself some slack. Nobody works 24/7 without taking a break.

  I need to hang onto the excitement that comes when a painting is inspired by God. It is okay there isn’t one a day; that kind of pace would cause terrible burnout. God knows.

  I’ll trust Him to take the lead.

  If I hadn’t been outside yesterday I wouldn’t have witnessed one of the strangest things I’ve ever seen. I am sorry I didn’t film it.

  There was a chipmunk sized hole at the side of the driveway, handy to the bird feeder. I noticed it the other day and figured a chippy made a burrow as close as possible to the free meal restaurant.

  A half inch long bumblebee was working hard to cover up the opening.

  She had put bits of grass in the hole and was shoving dirt over it. Watching a bumblebee work like a bull dozer where grains of sand were mountains of earth was utterly fascinating. She made a furrow about eight inches long where she’d scrambled to find adequate dirt for her purposes. What those purposes are, or why she was doing this is beyond me.

  A grain of sand was a handful for her but she kept at it for a long time. The hole has been completely hidden from sight. The bee is nowhere to be seen. Google has no information about this type of behaviour. I guess it’s not something easily witnessed. It’s tempting to undo her work to see if she does it again but, there’s a reason she covered it and with all bees in such trouble it’s best to leave well enough alone.

  I plan on watching it to see what happens next.

  Anticipation is a wonderful thing.

Four

“ 'Am I a God who is only close at hand?' says the Lord. 'No, I am far away at the same time. Can anyone hide from me in a secret place? Am I not everywhere in all the heavens and earth?' says the Lord.' ”  Jer 23:23-24

 

  “I don’t just like women, I love them!”  Bruxy Cavey

 

  The Lord opened my Bible to Jeremiah 23. Chapter 9 and onward is the Lord’s judgments on false prophets and priests. He comes down really hard on them. I was tempted to write the whole thing out because of this:

  An email came through this morning from the Meeting House Board of Overseers. Another woman has come forward with allegations against Bruxy. That makes four.

  The quote from Bruxy has been on my mind a lot. He said this long before Covid happened during a series entitled, Her Story. TMH has removed his teaching from their website, understandably so. I hope my quoting him hasn’t caused anyone any more pain but, as I said, it’s been on my mind.

  It has me thinking about how men love women. I’ll admit there’s a severe lack of personal experience with any sort of love not related to power and control. But that’s not really love, is it?

  When I first became a Christian, the woman who mentored me told me to get a concordance and look up every scripture with the word love in it. When I was finished reading though them, I was to keep starting over until I “got it,” to use her words. I had to give up because the word study drove home the fact I only knew what love wasn’t. It made me terribly sad.

  God knew. That’s why He started me in Ephesians instead of the Book of John, the Gospel of Love. It takes time to tame a feral animal. He gave me meat instead of cuddles.

  I think back to the old cartoon, the single pane, “Love is…” usually followed by something like “a puppy, a warm blanket,” ad nauseum. (Smile. It would appear I still don’t have much patience for the mushy, corny stuff.)

  What is love?

  Now there’s a question that has stumped philosophers and poets for eons. A few paragraphs probably won’t even come close to understanding love.

  Isn’t love about being seen? Having lived as the incredible invisible woman for so much of my life means this is important to me. I’m not talking about being cognizant of the physical space my body takes up by wanting to “do me.” It’s more than that, this being seen.

  Is that why God is Love?

  Because He sees us? Psalm 139 says it all.

  This could be why I am so angry about Bruxy. He saw Hagar, a woman in a vulnerable time of her life, and took advantage. He didn’t see her at all, just the space she took up. If he had truly loved her, he never would have done what he did. He wouldn’t have (allegedly) done this with Two, Three or Four. I have to write allegedly because the results from the investigations have not been released.

  How did things go so terribly wrong?

  How does the idea of love give us permission to hurt one another in terrible ways?

  Maybe because we have no idea what it really is.

  Every once in a while I catch a glimpse. Maybe I am ready to accept being loved, the kind that comes without strings.

  Maybe I finally believe I am worthy of the type of love God has to offer.

 

  Today is a question day.

  The Healing group starts tomorrow night. Maybe I’ll find the answers I am looking for during the next few months. We are supposed to journal so, dear readers, the blog will be mine. That’s not to say the art will stop. It might change. It might include the lady. The art and writing have become united in ways I never imagined possible.

   God knew.

   God knows.

   Maybe that’s enough of a lesson in love for today.

   As for all the maybe’s? That’s hope speaking.

 

Plans

 

  “Those who live in the shelter of the Most High will find rest in the shadow of the Almighty. This I declare about the Lord: He alone is my refuge, my place of safety; He is my God, and I trust Him.” Ps 91:1-2

 

  The last couple of weeks in particular have left me struggling. My pastor was on holiday. My psychiatrist cancelled our appointment. I reached out to two of those call in prayer lines but they were only there to lead people to Jesus. It left me feeling resentful, neglected and despairing that, like always, I was going to have to get through this storm all by myself. Self pity had a party going on.

 

  I reached out to the Meeting House for counseling, something they offered to support anyone struggling with the circumstances around Bruxy. Compounded by what was happening in my own life, it seemed to be the logical thing to utilize.

  The first person I reached out to and spoke with became ill. Five days later, she apologized for not having been in touch then informed me she was fully booked and unable to work with me.

  See what I mean? More of the same, “Sorry, no help here.” Yah, self pity was having a party in my soul.

  She apologized again for having taken so long to reconnect and referred me to someone else on the team. It took a couple of days to connect with this counselor for the first time.

  When we are in crises, help is needed NOW!

  My “NOW,” and God’s “now,” are not the same thing.

  I said to my friend that maybe all these doors have been closed for a reason I know nothing about. The bath in self pity lasted a little bit longer.

  While talking with the second counselor, she told me this: The Meeting House has a program called Healing Care. One of the group’s leaders had reached out to her that morning, saying they had an opening for one more in a women’s group starting on Tuesday night. Did she know of anyone who might be interested? This is unusual because normally there is a wait time to attend the sixteen week course.

  The counselor thought it might be exactly what I needed. Her excitement about the timing blasted away any last shreds of self pity.

  Do I believe in coincidence?

  Nope.

  Do I believe in divine intervention?

  Absolutely!

  Do I know what I am in for?

  Nope.

  Does it matter?

  Nope.

  God saw fit to slam a pile of doors shut then opened this one. Curiosity urges me to see what’s on the other side. (Forgive me, Lord, for the pity party.) It’s going to be done online so there’s no travelling. I can sit at my kitchen table, my place of coming before God, and wait with anticipation and excitement to see what He has in store.

  The group helps believers get closer to Jesus. As I filled out the required personal information form, I shared how the song, “Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus,” has been at the forefront of my mind for a couple of weeks now.

  It dawned on me that God put it there, not for me to sing, not only as protection against the dark stuff in my brain, but for me to do.

  I’ve often shared how I have no issue with relating to my Abba Father but found it difficult to connect with Jesus: God as man, as Bridegroom, brother and friend. I understand why it’s hard. My personal history with men has a grave impact on any sort of ability to connect with and relate to God’s Son. He's more like an acquaintance, someone you'd say, "Hi!" to as you pass on the street.

  My life and faith feels incomplete because of it.

  Two thirds of a whole isn’t enough.

  As Ariel in Disney’s Little Mermaid sings, “I want more!”

  More than anything, I want the whole package a Christian life enables me to lean into.

  This will give me strength. It will refill my rather empty bucket of resiliency. It will enrich my faith and my life. I know this as surely as I knew, despite the pity party, God had a plan.

  That is worth having a party for! 

Grief

  The last couple of days have been spent outside playing in the dirt. The weather was perfect, the mosquitoes non-existent. A birdsong orchestra played as I heaved earth and rocks around to build the two small retaining walls on either side of the new shed. Now I can get the materials to finish it. Not today, though, my muscles, unused to such heavy slogging, need to rest and let the mental ones go to work.

  Today’s image represents grief. It’s a ball of yarn with a whole bunch of ends. Pulling one end unravels another. Pulling it unravels another one, too. There is so much interconnected grief with everything that is coming into the light it’s hard to know where to begin to unravel it all.

  It’s why the lady is dressed in ashes.

  Grief is not something experienced only because of the death of a loved one. Mourning, or grief, happens so often Jesus made it the second beatitude. I wish it was talked about more because any loss can cause grief. Trauma is full of loss. So is abuse. So is betrayal. So is neglect. So is truth.

  Yes, learning the truth can ignite a deep sense of loss.

  Bruxy’s dismissive confession is a huge thread. Waiting for the results of the investigation involving his behaviour with two more women is tough. Knowing where there’s smoke there’s fire only fuels the grief and sorrow. I hold a lot of anger towards him because he chose not to mention them first. But then, based on his confession, he really doesn’t understand the damage his actions caused.

   Or is it denial? Grief is also part of being reconciled with our own unhealthy choices especially when we realize how much harm we left in our wake. Maybe Bruxy isn’t ready to move on just yet; not ready to face the responsibility of his choices. (Thank You, Lord, for allowing me to find a glimmer of grace this morning.)

  There’s corporate grief tied up in the ball, too, for women who have experienced abuse and trauma, for Hagar, for other children who suffered as much as Cricket if not more.

  I think a ball of yarn with multiple ends is a good metaphor for grief itself. I don’t know how many times I’ve read the Five Stages of Grief, hoping when I’d reached acceptance it would be over with. Identifying grief as having stages is misleading. It implies a linear, set pattern to something that is completely un-linear!

  Tugging on the end of acceptance often unravels other emotions especially if acceptance for one thing is tied to other events God hasn’t finished healing yet.

  Being angry while learning not to hate is hard. The hate I sometimes feel ignites its own sorrow. It’s ugly.

  Hate suffocates.

  When yarn is wound too tightly into a ball and left for too long it loses its’ flexibility. It becomes like string, stretched and inflexible. The flexibility is needed for yarn to bind itself to the stitches that came before. Flexibility is needed to unite with the next stitches that will be connected to it.

  Hate is inflexible.

  I tried bargaining a couple of nights ago, telling God I was done. I let Him know I would be more than happy if He would bring me home rather than leaving me to feel all the layers of grief in my heart: for the past, the present and the future. The Black River ran swift and deep in the late hours of the day.

  If He had listened, I wouldn’t be sitting here, typing. The art journey that isn’t finished would be left incomplete. I wouldn’t have been able to look forward to today’s writing session and hearing what God has to say.

  I often think of Judas on days like this. How he hung himself for having betrayed Jesus to the cross. It’s so sad he never got to experience the forgiveness and grace of Christ.

  That’s the good thing about grief. It enables empathy and compassion to wrap their own yarn in the ball of sorrow and anger and depression.

  Poetry, art, and music are full of haunting expressions of mourning.

  Grief drove science to find a cure for polio.

  Grief over white history birthed the beginnings of reconciliation with our Aboriginal peoples.

  I never realized that the pain of grief is often the labour pains experienced before giving to birth something beautiful, wonderful and amazing.

  I just wish it didn’t take so long. I wish it wasn’t so hard to check off the five stages and have them done with, forever.

  I think I’ll knit a soft blanket with this tangled up ball of yarn because, Lord, I could use a bit of comfort.

  "Blessed are those..."

 

Anger

   “Look! The Lord’s anger bursts out like a storm, a whirlwind that swirls down on the heads of the wicked. The anger of the Lord will not diminish until it has finished all He has planned. In the days to come you will understand this all very clearly.” Jer 23:20

 

  “Here’s my heart, Lord.
   Here’s my heart, Lord.
   Here’s my heart, Lord,
   Speak what is true.”   Casting Crowns

 

  Today, the lady’s womb wasn’t big enough to contain the size of her burden. I wanted to illustrate the seething rage and fury that resides within my heart. God, in His faithfulness, provided an iceberg made out of fire. Most of the anger is hidden beneath the surface but it is there, stoking the flames of the visible.

  My last post left a bad taste in my mouth. Name calling serves no purpose. I felt disconnected from the love I know God has for all His creations, even the ones who do unspeakable harm to others. This is such a tough thing to wrap my head around.

  The Casting Crowns’ song was sung at church yesterday. I offered a heart full of rage to God. He began to speak with me about anger and peacemaking.

  Unless we are able to identify the areas of conflict, anger and disconnect, there can be no peace making.

  Peacemaking is not denying the feelings which keep us apart from God. It is offering them to Him.

 

  My sons were wrestling in the living room. This wasn’t an uncommon situation. Being five years apart, personality differences, sibling rivalry and probably stuff I had no inkling about had the two of them butting heads regularly. I would frequently, crossly, put a stop to it before things got out of hand.

  The youngest son put his foot through a glass pane on the antique pocket door dividing kitchen from the living room. The weak and bubble filled glass shattered. His foot was fine. No cuts.

  Something went out of me that day. I felt it leave as I looked at the broken glass on the floor.

  I stopped caring.

  I stopped being angry.

  I stopped trying to stop the conflict between them.

  The fiery iceberg sank beneath the surface.

  Most of it was already submerged anyways. I’d learned very well that any expressions of anger were completely unacceptable. At least for me they were. Double standards are the posts that hold a gaslight.

 

  Of all the emotions in my heart, I have the greatest difficulty expressing anger aka rage. There’s a deep fury fanning the flames of some very ugly ideas about how to punish someone for the pain they have caused. Not just to me, but to others as well.

  Maybe I am afraid anger will consume me like the tears I am afraid to let fall because I don’t know if they will ever stop. I am afraid the anger will spill over onto those who don’t deserve it. I can’t do to others what has been done to me.

  A lifetime of anger denied by self, minimized by others, mocked and shut down by the dictates of social structure (it’s so unladylike!) is rising up from the depths.

  I honestly don’t know how to handle this desire to lash out and destroy. It is utterly offensive to me, a person who had to crawl out from under the relentless and unabated rage of others.

  Now that’s an interesting thought.

  Bullies, chauvinists, sexists, bigots, sexual predators, liars and thieves are fueled by hate, the evil twin of rage. It might even be worth thinking about how much they must also hate themselves.

  The shocking statistic states 99.9% of the time someone who has been sexually abused goes on to abuse others in the same way. It’s beyond me to understand why they do this when they have firsthand experience of the pain such things cause. (My inner, angry voice says, “What is WRONG with these people?!!!!!)

  Is it because such things have been sickeningly normalized in their lives?

  My angry voice says, “Don’t care. It’s wrong. It’s sooooo wrong!” But I must admit this makes me pause in my tirade.

  What is normal for a pedophile? A sex trade worker? A pimp? A drug dealer? A con man? A thief?

  It has to be so different from anything I have ever known. In ways I can’t possible begin to imagine.

  Maybe God can channel anger into a cry of outrage. Maybe anger is needed to de-normalize this crap.

  Isn’t anger also a love language?

  Hate isn’t, but anger?

  Anger turned tables over.

  Anger destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah.

  Anger defeated Pharaoh.

 

  Anger killed Jesus.

  God redeemed the last one, didn’t He?

  So we could be redeemed.

  We means everyone, even the ones caught in the ageless lies and snares of the devil.

  Maybe I am angriest about the evil that is thriving in our society. A satanic prayer recently opened the Alaska legislature where the Lord’s Prayer has been banned. (Yes. It did.) It's no wonder my lady is crying.

  Evil is getting bolder.

  Maybe I am angry because of the damage evil does.

  And maybe, this will enable me to warm my hands on the flames inside instead of trying to extinguish them—it’s more than okay to feel this way about evil that creates nothing but destruction, devastation and death.

  There are so many trapped by it, just like I used to be.

  May God use my anger as a righteous fire to light the path to peace.

 

 

Gaslighting Ignites Fury

 

  “The sacrifice You desire is a broken spirit. You will not reject a broken and repentant heart.” Ps 51:17

   God’s timing is perfect. Always. God will use all things to His glory, even social media. 

  The term, “gaslighting” originated in a 1938 play by Patrick Hamilton called, “Gas Light,” which was made into a movie in 1944. That’s how the term gained exposure although it’s not one I was familiar with until reading the post above.

  I have been on the receiving end of every single one of these abusive tactics. Seeing this appear on FB, identifying what Gaslighting is, I shared it with the sad realization I am not alone.

  My ex never hit me. He didn’t need to. See? He was a good man!

  Not. There’s something terribly sad that this single quality was my only understanding of what defines excellence.

  The arsenal of gaslighting is why I was unable to see my ex for who he was. It’s why it took so long to see the truth. By the time he had finished grooming me into submission, the self doubt and confusion fostered over the course of twenty years lasted a long, long time.

  I keep hearing stories from women who went to the police to press charges. How they were treated, how they were gaslighted by the officers makes me absolutely furious.

  A pastor did it to me, once, when I turned to him for help, in crises and reeling from information about my ex coming into the light. “It’s good to see you’re not angry at him,” he gaslighted. It took a long time to recover from the damage this pastor caused. His words left a swathe of confusion and self blame around my very valid emotional state. These terrible words denied my right to feel the way I felt.

  It could have been my ex I’d been talking to.

  Women don’t need to make anything up. That’s the hard, cruel truth.

  I don’t need to see an avalanche to know the dirt and boulders blocking the road were put there by one. I know the puddles left in my driveway are there because it rained, even if I didn’t see the drops falling. I have come along side woman who share my challenges with PTSD and know it’s because some awful, terrible and unimaginable things happened to them.

  Gaslighting is an effective weapon whose sole purpose is to subdue and discredit victims. Heck, I didn’t even know I was abused until a few years after leaving the marriage. God’s timing brought a small pamphlet my way so I could begin to see the truth. My therapist used stick figures.

  It’s why I continued to defend my ex for so long. The sick and twisted SOB that he is was buried by my ingrained inability to discern what was true or what wasn’t. He made sure of it so he could keep on trucking. He made sure I was very good at making allowances for his horrible behaviour; allowances that gave tacit permission for it to continue, unabated.

  I have much to repent of: for not standing up to him, for failing to protect my children from his poison. I don't find any comfort to realize, at the time, a gas light made me a moth hypnotized by a flame.

  I can’t begin to tell you how important this recent information is in validating all God has shown me over the last several years. It has eradicated the seeds of doubt entrenched in my understanding. It’s stopped the second guessing and self blaming triggered by memoires of this long, hard season. It’s exposed the ingrained lessons that were still shaping unhealthy relationships.

  Gaslighting is a brainwashing weapon. It’s the foundation for Stockholm Syndrome where the abused, the trapped, the prisoners end up “loving” their abuser to the point they continue to have them in their lives. Maybe part of it is because of what role they fulfill in our lives. We continue to hope they will be true to their calling as spouse, mother, father, sibling, friend…they won’t. Not if they are gaslighters.

  The worst of it is the crumbs of kindness that get tossed on the floor for us to eat. A crumb of kindness is a feast for those starved for affection and validation. It allows us to believe the one who is crumb tossing is truly the person we imagine them to be. And maybe, just maybe, we hope things are going to change.

  They aren’t. It is merely the start of yet another cycle of abuse and manipulation.

  Knowledge is power. I hope in sharing this with you, dear readers, you can take your life back.

  God never meant for Scriptures to be used as prison bars. Honour your father and mother and obeying your husband should never, ever be used as a weapon of control.

  If you are in a relationship with a gaslighter, run, leave, flee for your life. Throw yourself into the arms of Jesus.

  Leave the reconciliation to God. Leave the fixing to God. Leave the people who will fill your vacancy to God. Pray for the SOB's who use these evil tactics and for others held hostage by them.

  The only way to extinguish a gas light is with the wind of your departure.

Gates

 

  “Open up, ancient gates! Open up ancient doors, and let the King of glory enter. Who is the King of glory? The Lord of Heaven’s armies—He is the King of glory.”  Interlude    Ps 24:9-10

 

  “Interlude” in the NLT Bible translation replaces, “Selah.” It’s the Hebrew word for pause, reflect, to meditate on. It’s taking the time to have God’s word filter into our hearts. It’s embracing a moment of peace and stillness where worldly distractions have no place. It defines when it’s time to stop reading or listening to scriptures for a moment to give what we heard or read the opportunity to sink in.

  It’s a Selah day today, a rest day. I might paint later. I might not.

  The weather has finally warmed up enough to make me want to, need to, get into the garden. There’s a lot to do outside. The pond needs cleaning and refilling before the winter, leaf filled water gets too smelly. The small, split rail fence I built to disguise a stack of bonfire wood has fallen over. There are many plants needing last year’s dead growth cleared away. The grass needs cutting.

  It’s a different sort of rest, being outside and getting covered in dirt. It’s still too cold for bare feet. That’s the best. Feeling the warm earth and soft grass beneath my feet is one of my simplest pleasures. (I wear shoes when mowing the grass.)

  By the time I am done, there will likely be smears of dirt on my face. My nails will need scrubbing because I don’t like to wear garden gloves. I’ll likely be tired, too. It’s a good tired, a physical tired which is so different from equally exhausting mental and emotional work.

  Opening ancient gates is tiring especially when the metal has rusted and seized; when corroded and solid hinges groan and resist movement.

  Until you anoint them with oil.

  Selah.

  Yes, wait. Give the oil time to soften the rust, to break down the corrosion.

  I have decided to take another couple of weeks off work. Things are still up in the air because of the fire. A temporary location has been found but to be in the chaos required to set it up is more than I can take on at the moment.

  That’s okay.

  It gives me time to focus on stepping through the gates God has opened; the ones that have been shut for so long I forgot they were there. It gives me time to invite others to walk through gates of their own.

  The grass is greener over here.

  Selah.

  Stepping through the gate leaves barren and desolate wastelands behind.

  I love that God gives me the choice. He doesn’t force me to go. He doesn’t demand I paint or write. He doesn’t chain me to the table.

  He called me. So I came. (Smile. At least this time I did!)

  Selah.

  This is a different sort of compliancy. It holds no fear. It isn’t filled with the despairing alone/lonely aloneness that fed its need for existence. It isn’t there to keep the peace at all costs.

  This time compliancy is needed to make peace.

  A friend FB posted a photo of a pot full of seedlings. She forgot to label them so she asked, “Does anyone know what these are?”

  I responded with a smile emoji, “Seedlings that have yet to identify themselves.”

  Every seedling has a round, double leaf before the unique leaves that identify who they are begin to appear.

  I guess the old, outgrown version of compliancy looked like round leaves. The plant never had a chance to grow out of this beginning stage.

  Selah.

  I’ve learned a lot over the last several weeks; far more than I could ever sum up in words. The result is a deeper understanding and acceptance of my imperfect self.

  One of my early diagnoses was Borderline Personality Disorder. It’s a terrible label. It screams, “There’s something wrong with you!!” There’s been a movement towards naming it a Socialization Disorder which is a far better description. Not being taught how to properly cope with life creates a breakdown of personhood, never mind a whole whack of unhealthy and toxic behaviours which further compound the problems.

   When traumatic events are not addressed or are silenced, the piece of us who lived when it happened never gets to grow up. It’s why I still want Bear when life gets really tough. It’s why the closet door has to be closed before bed.

   I probably don’t fall under this diagnosis any more. I will probably continue my nightly routine of door closing as an expression of love, not because of fear. The last few weeks of letting Cricket finally share her story has unified the parts of me that were, basically, divorced from each other.

  God opened the gate to her, our, traumatic experiences because He knew I was ready to step through it. The border lines were opened; the guns protecting them were disarmed. God made peace between two countries, hers and mine.

  “He restoreth my soul.” Ps 23

Overturned

  “Don’t you realize that your body is the temple of the Holy Spirit, who lives in you and was given to you by God? You do not belong to yourself, for God bought you with a high price.” 1 Cor 6:19-20

 

  “He (Jesus) knocked over the tables of the money changers and the chairs of those selling doves. He said to them, “The Scriptures declare, ‘My Temple will be called a house of prayer,’ but you have turned it into a den of thieves.” Mat 21:12

 

  Today’s painting was done without photo reference. Google contained no images of a woman turning over a table. So, even though I am not overly pleased with the final product, it’s a global first! 

  I feel like knocking over some tables of my own. The unbelievably deep and smoldering rage seething through my heart is begging for an outlet.

  How I imagine venting this anger is not very Christian of me.

  My church is doing a series on Peace Making.

  Go figure.

  Just when I am ready to explode in a violent outburst, God says, “Make peace.”

  The good thing about Sunday’s teaching is I now understand that peace making is not the same as peace keeping.

  Peace keeping is maintaining the status quo by all means necessary. From a military standpoint, they use guns. From a personal standpoint, I used compliancy and submission.

  Peace keeping’s sole purpose is to keep tables from being turned upside down.

  Some tables need to be.

  Is there a wood named evil used to build huge conference tables where the corrupted gather? Is this where they meet to share unimaginably twisted schemes? Is the evil-wood conference table a gathering place for people who built their corporation out of filth? Does its gleaming surface reflect the dark and murky shadows of things done in darkness?

  Sometimes this evil-wood table is much, much smaller. It makes it less obvious.

  I have reluctantly sat at such a table far too often, forced to eat the rancid feast being generously passed around by the others sitting around it. The food was seasoned with hate, cruelty, lust, alcohol, prejudice and conspiracies of secrecy.

  Jesus pulled my chair back so I could leave. Nobody stood up when I left. They just carried on feasting on their own poison.

  It takes a long time to get poison out of your system, especially the kinds that are absorbed through the skin.

  God has me here, at my solid, tiny, and pretty kitchen table surrounded by safety and trust. The words He gives me are offered in the hope that they are helping others like you, dear reader, pull away from a table you no longer need to sit at. I will even put out my arm to steady you in case your legs are stiff from being in one place for so long.

  This is peace making.

  It’s writing, speaking, sharing the hard truth that sets a match to burn evil-wood tables from the face of the planet. It is giving the board members a chance to escape the flames even though I would give anything to see them consumed by fire.

  There are no such things as coincidences. I must give thanks to another artist for a series of paintings entitled The Footwashing Series. They spoke to my heart in ways that exceed words, in ways that help me step away from wanting vengeance. www.saltandgoldstore.com 

 

  Jesus didn’t throw people around, just the table, spilling their corrupt and stolen earnings onto the ground.

  He set the innocent and flawless doves free; the ones no longer needed to pay for another’s sins.

  I finally understand why a dove is a symbol of peace.

 "And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus." Phil 4:7