A Metaphor for Life

The sun is shining on this still August afternoon and I'm inside prepping my house for the new owners. Although there's a lot of packing and ridding left to do I'm cleaning rails, wiping down walls and imagining how best to leave my home for someone new.

Normally, I let go of a house grieving but his time I'm fussing over the place. Especially the loft, where I found solace, inspiration and gazed through the life cycle of the chestnut tree for seven years. There are plans now with the new family to enclose this space for -a baby. I wonder if this child will enjoy becoming familiar with the sky, the stars, the moon in the winter and naturally my chestnut tree in all four seasons as much as I have.

Frances Maye, a favorite author and poet of mine once said that the idea of a house as a metaphor for the way one lives intrigued her when writing Under the Tuscan Sun. I've read so much material on houses and healing especially when grieving over the letting go of a special place, the metaphor has come to life for me multiple ways.

I once lived in a Co-op, you might recognize it if you are a Van citizen. The Manhattan is a landmark at the corner of Robson & Thurlow. I lived there during those shipwreck kind of years - five to be exact. My suite, with it's 100 year old floors, 9 foot ceilings, black and white tiles along with the roof top garden, and joining the various committees in the co-op reshaped my identity.

My novel finally took shape, poetry flowed as a mentor in my early writing days declared it would. But it was the roof top garden where I spent too many nights starring out at the city, grieving (there's that overused verb again) over a past life, like a woman journeying for water when I began to notice so many things I had never noted before. I've put that story in a short that will come out in the next year - ​Life with Edits.

Until next time ...here's a glimpse of a roof top gathering with friends in the heart of Van on Sunday afternoon much like today!

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Moving

I usually spend the summer months poolside, books, notes and Instagram sending about the benefits of life in Vancouver. This year after passing through the waves of Big Dipper emotions and life altering health scares I made the decision to leave the bountiful Mount Pleasant and head back to La Belle Province. House sold , house bought I'd rather be writing about the upcoming Perseid Meteor Shower happening on Saturday — instead of decluttering and heading for the bins everyday. However, there are days when escaping takes over and a revisit to some favorite places and friends in Van must happen. Here's a fellow I've fallen for who abides in Southlands — an ideal haven ..in this urban oasis ..

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Seek the Peace of the City

“Vancouver has what you might call an 'improvisational air.' The city makes itself up as it goes along. What’s fresh about this place, a kind of cultural and economic tabula rasa has provided for some highly unstable outcomes.”
~ Author Timothy Taylor.

“Search for a theology as big as the city where you find the Creator, Redeemer, and Transformer”
~ Dr. Ray Bakke

How does God see the City? How do we understand what it means to Seek the Peace of the City? Dr. Ray Bakke addressed these questions beginning with Genesis through to Revelation at the recent Pastor's Conference at Regent College. Having a theology of the city versus a mission to the city will shape our capacity to be motivated from a perspective that overflows with love and hope. I wrote the poem Seek the Peace of the City as my reminder that in order to see through God's lens it helps to move beyond the familiar.


SEEK THE PEACE OF THE CITY

Before the city is lost to the real state few
and foundations crumble as the cranes
kiss mountains and mess with the view
as builders pervade--density in their veins,

we sit and savour our coffee locale
in a culture wrapped in beans and nature
with no chart, or map to any familiar space
the ghosts of architects loom over our fate.

And this endless wording like rezoning
lack of supply and demand for detached
dwellings - leaves us moaning.
as if Van has no heart to be attached.

What lies beyond the power-less and the power,
the open airy natural sophistication
a growing sense of social isolation –
a second glance, holy light, new music for the hour


Originally posted at ​redemptionchurch.ca.

Gates, Walls, and the Inner Jerusalem of Our Hearts

“As for you, you were dead in your transgressions and sins, in which you used to live when you followed the ways of this world and of the ruler of the kingdom of the air, the spirit who is now at work in those who are disobedient. All of us also lived among them at one time, gratifying the cravings of our flesh and following its desires and thoughts. Like the rest, we were by nature deserving of wrath. But because of his great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy, made us alive with Christ even when we were dead in transgressions—it is by grace you have been saved. And God raised us up with Christ and seated us with him in the heavenly realms in Christ Jesus, in order that in the coming ages he might show the incomparable riches of his grace, expressed in his kindness to us in Christ Jesus. For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—not by works, so that no one can boast. For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.”

~Ephesians 2:1-10

Our Lent focus turns to Holy Week and I invite you to imagine yourselves with the crowd of pilgrims preparing for the entry into Jerusalem, or Palm Sunday as we know it. The pilgrims were coming to celebrate the great Jewish stories of freedom and hope. Many of the participants along with the disciples believed that Jesus deserved a royal entry. But it seemed that few understood what Jesus was about when he entered Jerusalem on that colt, so who would be really prepared for the upside down turn of events. Even though Jesus had told his disciples that he would be mocked, insulted, flogged and killed, then rise again on the third day, they did not understand any of this. Its meaning was hidden from them and they did not know what he was talking about. (Luke 18:34)

It's interesting that while the crowds were cheering about what they knew not – Jesus wept. They just weren't in tune with the mission of Jesus.

The atmosphere was full of expectation, turmoil, uprising, and then a big disappointment for the disciples. I imagine if I were part of the scene at that time I'd have my own expectations and most likely they would have been displaced. I'd be focusing on the great kingdom life I was going to have once Jesus rose to the top, claimed his sovereignty, his Lordship over all. Of course I had not absorbed all the teaching he so diligently brought forth and I hardly knew him well enough to understand anyway. So naturally when he was crucified I'd be walking on the road to despair, wondering how I could have been so mistaken, so gullible to believe in the first place.

Holy Week is both about Jesus' outward, visible and historical entry into Jerusalem and what he did there, and yet also about his entry into the inner Jerusalem – the seething holy city as writer / poet Malcolm Guite calls it – of our own hearts. In his poem Palm Sunday he suggests that we pose a few questions about our inner lives.

Now to the gate of my Jerusalem,
The seething holy city of my heart,
The Saviour comes. But will I welcome him?
Oh crowds of easy feelings make a start;
They raise their hands get caught up in the singing,
And think the battle won. Too soon they'll find
The challenge, the reversal he is bringing…

The expectations of the crowd as well as my own are easily displaced. Disappointment follows. Jesus understood, as he wept over Jerusalem. It's taken me years to understand that scene. But somehow as I've returned to him repeatedly with misplaced expectations and disappointments he has met me with compassion and, of course, grace.

I've had my own intimate encounter with Jesus this past few months as I came to terms not just with a diagnosis of breast cancer but the difficult acceptance of the loss of Wendy Dubois, Elder of Redemption and friend, to cancer.

Wendy texted me in November during a Sunday service about her diagnosis.

I texted her several weeks later about mine, and she died shortly after. The gate in my heart closed and the walls went up for a season as I struggled to find my anchor in the dark days of January following her death and my own upcoming surgery in February. My journal entry records a time of depression, anguish, fear, doubt, repentance, faith, confidence and then true trust. Trust based on the progression in Holy Week that leads us to a new and greater understanding of what our Christian faith is about: cleansing the temple of our hearts, acknowledging his death on the cross for our sins as the means of a new life that is full of hope and faith, and perhaps fewer misplaced expectations.

I’m grateful to have recovered what Eugene Peterson refers to as my 'resurrection centre' – not just for my life, but Wendy's as well. The death and resurrection of Jesus creates and then makes available the reality in which we become God's workmanship. (Ephesians 2:10) I need to be reminded not just during Holy Week but especially those times when the gate in my heart closes and the walls go up. This year especially I’m looking forward to celebrating Easter with all of you.

P.S. Follow along with the continuation of this selected passage with the upcoming blogs of this lenten season here.


Originally posted at redemptionchurch.ca.

Love's as Warm as Tears

In my January blog, Write What You Have Seen, I wrote about the power of journal writing and how it is meant to be commentary on all of your life. If you allow yourself the freedom to get the words out, without worrying about who is going to read your material, you may experience the wonder of personal discovery – to let your true self come forth (good and evil) and then permit God to match His truths with your own experience. That inside look is measured by how much it moves us towards a greater love for God and others.

This month I'd like you to consider how the works of poets, writers, and artists can awaken our imagination and fill in the rescue at the right moment gaps on the journey God invites us to.

As I glance at the mess of books on my night table – like Maclolm Guite'sThe Word in the Wilderness; Walter Brueggemann's Finally Comes the Poet; Ann Voskamp's One Thousand Gifts (How long is your list of gratitude?); Ruth Haley Barton's Pursuing God's Will Together, a volume for anyone involved in group projects; and Lauren Winner's Wearing God, an incredible read on biblical metaphors; The New Yorker, and my Bible – I see mentors. Have you considered how much of life can be mentored through the poets, artists and writers, who are often in need of figuring out life's journey as much as you and I?

Poet Seamus Heaney claims that poetry, and more wildly the poeticimagination, is truth-bearing – not just some inner subjective experience but a redressing; the redress of an imbalance in our vision of the world and ourselves. Malcolm Guite writes that turning to poetry can clarify who we are, how we pray, how we journey through our lives with God, and how he comes to journey with us. I spent the Lenten days reading Guite's poetry along with others who are on a similar journey towards the heart of God. C.S. Lewis is less known as a poet, but his poem – Love's as Warm as Tears – speaks of human divine and the costly love of the cross:

Love's as warm as tears
Love is tears:
Pressure within the brain
Tension at the throat…

Turning to the poets requires time and reflection in order to slow me down and refocus – even if it's only a fleeting glimpse of the potential order of things, as Seamus Heaney eloquently writes.

How God comes to journey with us through the artist reminds me of a visit I made to the National Art Gallery in Ottawa, when viewing the works of the renowned 18th century artist, Camille Corot, who was appreciated for his depiction of biblical personalities such as Job, Rebecca, Ruth, Moses, and others. One in particular left an impression I will never forget – Hagar – the Egyptian servant belonging to Sarai and Abraham. By my estimation the painting measured 8’ x 5’ and depicts Hagar and her son in the desert with an angel hovering over them. The angel’s presence was predominant on the toile, however there was something else that caught my attention more than outstretched hands and enormous wings. Eyes. I think that artists must know that capturing the thoughts of any character has to come through the eyes. Corot managed to show the fear, confusion, and hopeless despair through the glaze in Hagar's eyes.

Hagar's story is the result of disorder in the house of God when lack of trust takes up temporary residence. Her life represents so much of the pain and injustice that mark so many women who are victims of a similar disorder in our society. Twice Hagar was driven to extremes and the second time resigned herself to letting her son die. Today there is an alarming number of women going to that extreme. Despair in the face of adversity pushes them beyond the limits of hope and dreams.

I stood in front of that painting for hours that afternoon. I was transported back to the street where my biological mother stood after giving birth to me – alone, rejected, and no baby to take home. It took her years to talk about that day and it took me more years to write about it, mostly through poetry.

But there is a hope side of Hagar's life in spite of the reality that she was a cast-out and alone in the wilderness. Hagar was the first woman recorded to have direct communication from God. Not just once, but twice the Lord appeared to her – twice in thirteen years. The circumstances of her life didn't change that much in those years but one amazing highlight will always bring hope to all generations. Hagar's eyes were opened to the knowledge of God – "I have seen the One who sees me." God called her name and she responded by obeying his voice. Not only does she experience the consolation of God in the midst of her hopelessness, but her eyes were opened to see the well of water that would save her son's life and her own.

The God who sees us also wants to open our eyes to envision where the wells are to be found. We may not always have a mentor or spiritual advisor in our contact list when we need them but we can listen to the poets, writers and artists that inhabit our night table, Kindle, or the art galleries.


Originally posted at redemptionchurch.ca.