Friday, March 1, 2024

The Beautiful Cost of Unexpected 'Picture Perfect' Moments



As much as I adore February, where I live in Canada, this is about the time where I begin to crave the sun, leaving the house without boots/ toque/coat, and seeing green life. This is the time when I have to encourage myself and my family to seek out the lights in the darkness. Sometimes the world around us is bleak and it takes an activated mindset to see the good, the beautiful or the kind. Sometimes, we need someone to see it for us. At the beginning of January, we had a Disney Tangled moment made real thanks to my childhood best friend. The gratitude of that rooted connection manifest in a balloon floating to freedom which felt like the best type of paradox. 

This seemingly picture perfect moment (above) was actively chosen. I chose to attend this event even though I was still recovering from illness and talking felt like shard glass. I honestly did not want to go because I wanted my bed more. The picture looks more appealing to me than how I felt at the time (I am so thankful for photos where I can enjoy the moment once again without the sensory data messing it up and be grateful for it!) More importantly these moments were chosen long ago… when I chose to cultivate a deep friendship with the host of these festivities. One of my best friends since grade 5. This moment was brought to me by extremely tough past choices. 1.) Choosing to stay in a town we felt squelched by (now we thrive in the same town!) 2.) Leaning into friendship when at times the conflict or differing life choices can ebb and flow. 3.) Saying yes often when I want to say no. 4.) Choosing to have a family instead of rising in the ranks of career and being encouraged by a friend who chose the same. (I wrote about the thirty best choices of my life on my thirtieth birthday HERE. Re reading after my fortieth, I realized they still hold up for myself - but maybe toned down  a bit with some calm and a little less sass than at thirty? One can hope…https://worldwecreate.blogspot.com/2017/11/30-of-some-of-my-best-decisions-in-30.html?m=1

This is the only online space I am on (I do not have any Social Media) and yet I still feel compelled to point out that these beautiful picture perfect moments I have...Most of them have come with a cost. Most of them are beautiful because they are sought out, chosen, and hard won. Almost all have a back story...and then, there are the occasional moments that were simply a gift from above without merit or choosing or "winning" but just because...and those are rare jewels in a world full of competing images.


We have a resident Santa in town who gets paid at Fairmont Hotels in the mountains nearby. My husband has this running gag with him in which he yells to him, "Santa!!!” in a kids excited tone... Out of his construction truck window, all year round when the sun shines hot, and 'Santa' will holler back a deep “Ho ho ho!” Around ten on Christmas Eve after our company had gone a doorbell rang. Santa stated he just had to stop by after a gig he had (so he was dressed in his best!) because of my husband’s constant enthusiasm. He had a tough year where some fundamentalists (who make the mistake of seeing their issues before people) accused him of being Satan for promoting Santa. To which we heartily disagreed and stated that he is an icon of giving and modelled after a Saint. (Anyone who tries to bring joy and cheer to others can’t be equated with Satan as Satan can not bring anything good according to Christian belief- so these people are obviously not thinking logically.) That aside, we found his presence beautiful. People usually are startled and laugh when they hear my husband yell 'Santa' at a man with a beard all year long, but some people think we are weird. Because we are different and that is simply the complexity of community. People can be weird. Sometimes the magic is in the unexpected. Sometimes it is simply when we decide to open up our door.
My husband has always had an uncanny relationship with homeless people. He chats with them and draws out their stories and cheer. Against the brick wall on a cold December day, an older man whom was quite dirty and quite bent sat huddled. What struck our family was that he had the most beautiful, clear blue eyes. My kids said they were waiting for him to turn into a wizard like Gandalf because of his absolutely stunning eyes. I had to pick something up inside and I noticed there were fuzzy blankets there that were on from $80 to For $30 on sale so I bought him one of those. What you have to understand is that at the time, I had exactly 35 dollars in our account. We were late on getting paid and we were not sure (at the time) where our next job was coming from and currently do not have savings due to renos we are doing. So I was actually slightly torn for a moment...but then I realized all of our needs are met while his were not. 

How can I expect and trust God to meet our needs if we do not share when we can? On the drive to the city for our appointment and pick up, I was very worried about our upcoming finances and lack of job prospects ( as I didn’t know we had less lined up then we thought. God always provides but sometimes we struggle through and other times we are blessed beyond what we need) Most times I lean into faith because in our 20 plus marriage, we pretty much go down to zero for most of the month, but we always survive and we always have enough! When we are feeding a bunch of teen friends regularly, somehow the food keeps being provided for. Honestly, despite God continually showing us we have what we need, sometimes I struggle. I was trying to give my concerns to God, but I was still rather grumpy. My self discipline was failing and I was worrying anyway. I knew I was sullen and not a picture of grace for my kids so I tried to sing along to the music and not mope. All I really wanted to do was put my head in my hands and my kids were watching me and I was failing at having that balance … 

But in that moment, I think the homeless person ministered to me more than we ministered to him. It was right after we arrived in town and he was pretty happy with his life. While I was in the store, he told a lot of his life story to my husband and had a sense of contentment that I was struggling with myself! Seeing his clear blue eyes and the way he smiled despite what seemed like a very mangled body, I felt completely undone. I was convicted in the best way. I saw the mirror and realized what I wanted to be instead of what I was. I get to be forty! I have a thrift store that provides our families entire wardrobe of designer pieces for under ten dollars an item, so we get to dress well. My house is full of beauty to share with others. We eat and share. We have community and we have solitary faith. We have beauty to wake to each day. We have family and peace and warm beds and freedom. Yet, there I was, upset at what I perceived as a lack of certainty when that can also be a gift. A lack of certainty can cause us to rely on the ONE whom Is. While I do not uphold poverty, I do think there is something to be said for being  poor enough to wonder where the next meal or mortgage money is coming from but rich enough to have a home in the first place and it full of beauty.  How incredibly blessed is that? I was faced with the mirror of self and God flipped it with a man staring back with dignity and grace despite circumstances and I had to hold back my tears from this Aha moment of BEING.  

We will not be understood by the masses although Social Media sure makes us try our hardest to be liked. Not one of us will have all people like us or get us. Even good people will misunderstand due to differences in personality or brain wiring. In the last couple months I have had a few people remark on our home and it's "materialism." One was a kind intellectual priest who stated, "Your home is a blend of fantasy and tradition. The inner westerner and materialist in me loves it." To which I was both insulted and flattered. I realize he was being genuine and true to his philosophy in the world. He was a speaker in our home and new to us, so he did not know our context, which is always an enlightening evening. A few weeks later another stranger was in our home (we host many strangers in our odd little existence) and he stated a little sermon on materialism as he looked around. We knew where he was going with it, but we smiled and nodded and changed the subject. 
What I find interesting is that often the people who state these things, drive up to our house in vehicles we have never been able to attain. (Our recent truck was funded for us to pay back slowly by a generous person in the community who was tired of seeing my husband use a 500 van with busted doors to do his construction job. It was a huge blessing, but even the price tag for us was an insane consideration.) These same people are often rocking high end shoes, watches, the latest phone, or outfits and often when the conversation comes around to thrifting, it's met with confused looks. They talk about vacations as givens, and tickets to anything with ease. Which I celebrate for them actually! I love it when we have enough to do a small vacation or buy tickets to a musical. These are rare treats and life is also meant to be enjoyed! But we do not see these things as a given or part of a healthy life to thrive. We see them as bonuses. So why are we defining materialist labels based on stuff that is on a wall? There are MANY MANY ways to be a materialist.  As a caveat I will state, sometimes those who drop hints about our 'materialism' are not well off either, but generally, it is the poorer people than us, who stand in awe and say gracious things... I admit my home is odd and not everyone is going to like it. That I am fine with. But little digs or sermons on materialism have me biting down my self control. I realize they are not trying to be condescending or holier or judgmental...or maybe they are! But they are choosing to see the world in a certain slant. Because what a person sees is simply that I have a gift of using thrifted finds, colour, and gifted items, to make a space feel magical and cozy and FULL. I have a tough time seeing blank spaces with my particular autism quirks. I feel my home is a canvas of expression. I am great at finding quality items for barely anything or improving an item from a second hand store. I love my materials to work with as an image maker of God who enjoys creating. But I know that even if it was all gone, I would grieve but I would create again. I would slowly begin again until my home was once again full of colour, mirrors, sparkles and wonder. It's about beauty of creation. It's about rooted joy and making a space be a little piece of heaven on earth. When I decorate, I pray and sing and take joy the entire time that my family will feel inspired and secure so that they can go out and serve and share. I pray that those that walk in, even if they blatantly dislike it, will feel God's peace lived out somehow. This is a practice I have done since I was a teen in my own little room. My space is my place to act out a bit of my soul, so that I can in turn, give and share. Which I do not expect others to know upon walking in...but I hope they feel it. To those that don't- I have come to realize that they need different spaces and people...and that is ok too. "No regrets baby, you go your way and I'll go mine- It's been a real good time...No regrets baby, I just think that maybe it's natural when things lose their shine, So other things can glow. I've gotten older, now I know how to take care of myself. I've found a deeper well." - Kacey Musgraves lyrics.

My Father in Law has a similar gift when it comes to occasions and tablescapes. I am astounded at how he will take such time for a table that will become messy within minutes. It's a beauty given over to be messed up and cleaned up within hours. I feel it's another lesson.
My daughter, in turn from watching her Grampy host Valentines each year, hosted a Galentines table at our home. She spent almost an entire pay stub on her decorations, gift boxes to send home, and food for all of her lady co workers. Because she wanted them to be seen. Because she wanted them to feel cared for on a holiday when many of them were alone. One gal stated, "Juils I have never in my life had something like this before, when someone made something so beautiful for me, and made me feel so loved by the decor and food."
In the series 'The Chosen', many times throughout the first few seasons, Jesus is seen eating, feeding and healing and praying in quiet places. In fact, most of his time on earth is documented in this way. Jesus is doing these tangible, ordinary, yet extraordinary, daily tasks while taking the time to make others feel SEEN, Beautiful and HEALED. We can do the same with what we have been given. My father in law has been given Martha Stewart abilities with feasts. My daughter is gifted with incredible generosity and thoughtfulness. I have been gifted a rooted home to share with a husband who is capable of transforming it into the best possible state it can be for hosting and living. We are not the best at meal making but we do what we can in varying phases. We share with what we are able. Imagine the possibilities if each person gave what only they can give...and shared in the beauty of what others give without jealousy or comparison?


It wasn't until last year that I even had a big enough table to share. So we ate in our tiny living room and shared anyway! Until one day God put it on both our hearts to re structure our house...because sometimes our events stretched our cozy walls. I do not state that God put it on our hearts lightly as I dislike throwing that phrase around. It takes a lot of prayer, intuition and discernment and sometimes God just lets us manage our own lives. But every once in awhile something becomes incredibly clear. Because both of us took time away to pray and came back with the exact same idea without speaking to each other at all prior to...and then funds happened in unlikely ways and we reused most of our  building materials, worked long hard hours on top of normal life as a family, created and became. My husband's mantra was, "If we build it they will come..." And yup, our home has been a rotating place with strangers from fully garbed priests to people we never met and will never meet again. Most of all, in our stage of life, our home is a place for young adults to hang out, sleep over between work shifts when the weather is bad, and host different happenings. We hope it's a place for them to feel secure, safe and inspired. Youth today have so much uncertainty and live a life that is often intangible online. We want a place that forces them mostly out of that in awe or wonder or comfort.



Sometimes pleasant surprises happen. Silly things. Moments that do not carry much depth or weight yet become jarring in the everyday. I have never wanted pink hair. It is pretty on other people, but I have never been inclined to try it. I was going for a purple/brunette highlight look but people see colour differently...and also sometimes hair reacts. Even my fix became unexpected ( in that I still see pink more than purple but I must see colour differently !) but I like it enough that I will stick with it for a few months or maybe it will become a new fav? Already my family has stated my attitude has become spicier and they fondly call me "Lil' pink" anytime I make a forthright statement. Unexpected fun because of a mishap. As much as I would love to control so many aspects, often life just happens... Remember that little less sass I was hoping for from my thirty birthday post? Pink hair and a decade later I guess it re surfaced. There are seasons to everything right? Ha! The colour of life is never boring. I'm learning (still at 40) that it's ok to also have fun with the unexpected. "Cuz I, I, I'm in the stars tonight. So watch me bring the fire and set the night alight. Shining through the city with a little funk and soul. So I'ma light it up like dynamite." - BTS Lyrics


Song Choice: Deeper Well- Kacey Musgraves
Dynamite- BTS

Saturday, December 30, 2023

Medical PTSD/ Suffering and Spirituality

 “The body is the healthy persons faithful ally. The healthy person is allowed to BE their body and they make use of this  regularly. They ARE their body. Illness disturbs this assimilation. Our body becomes foreign to us.” ( The Psychology of the sick bed ) 

I have been accused of struggling with Gnosticism and while a quick google search shows me I am NOT Gnostic - I can see the merit in that observation. My medical history has had its share of trauma (in my twenties I went through many humiliations at hospitals. I’ve tried multiple avenues of healing. For the most part I’m over it but every once in awhile…) 

With chronic illness and my regular symptoms (exhaustion/ overwhelming random pain/ gastro pain and symptoms etc) it often feels like my body betrayed/ betrays me. If I suddenly experienced a “regular” illness on top of normal symptoms the pain is exaggerated . In turn it’s been normal for me to dissociate from my body when it begins symptoms of illness or when I’m in a flare. ( See THIShttps://aboutibd.com/category/podcast/ podcast for more about PTSD or PTS in chronic conditions.) 

“This feels like an assault - this is dirty, bad, gross, I’m unattractive… the list goes on with certain procedures.” ( enimas, barium’s, stool tests etc) “With medical PTS you can be over utilizers or under utilizers of the medical system due to this.” (Taken from HERE

I used to be an over user of the medical system in my twenties which often made my life worse in general. Now I’m an under user. I actively avoid medical situations whenever possible. It didn’t help that my Grandma lived with us and lived with multiple surgeries, pain, pouches and pouch infections and hospital stays that I witnessed from the time I was little. I was sick constantly as a child due to multiple illnesses. I had undiagnosed autism and the sensory / undiagnosed celiac (I haven’t touched gluten in over 14 years and don’t miss the extreme sickness that eased after year two of avoidance) / anemia and heavy periods from age 12 onwards/ undiagnosed fibromyalgia pain and diagnosed IBS … which was the only answer at the time the Drs. could give me. In fact, I recently requested IBS was taken off my chart as I know I have it, but when Drs. take notice that’s usually all they blame. It becomes the focus and most times that is not the reason I am in their office. However, out of all my chronic conditions, GI issues cause the most pain, humiliation and invasive procedures (more so than the multiple reproductive issues and procedures I had.) 

“Learning how to be in your body without wanting to scream and run away.” Source 

I laughed when the podcast suggested couples therapy with one’s own body: that actually sounds helpful. I find that generally healthy individuals have a tough time understanding this concept. My husband is healthy. He has watched me go through many years of procedures, pain and suffering. He has been my advocate and my ally. Yet, he still can’t fully comprehend why, at the first sign of a gastrointestinal illness I check out. He doesn’t fully comprehend why I can’t just allow myself in gratitude to have fellowship with my body on most days. He doesn’t understand my crippling low self esteem when I’m dealing with a new symptom. He doesn’t understand why I feel I always need to be prepared (shaved/ looking put together/ clean) in case I’m taken to the hospital. He is aware that it’s a constant battle for me, he often mentions my strength and endurance, but he is baffled why I can’t just accept a flu bug for what it is and move on easily. 

After all, that’s what he does. 

He doesn’t have lingering flare ups for months after. It doesn’t trigger unpleasant memories of being in his body while he was picked at and prodded or getting ready in the cold surgery room. He doesn’t have memories of being so sick with no end in sight of relief and no answers from medical staff. He can’t comprehend my knowledge of most antibiotic names and side effects or pain meds because he wasn’t tied to an IV multiple times for over a decade. He doesn’t understand that even in sickness I have to look calm and logical because I had a history of most Drs. blaming pain on me and anxiety instead of looking into actual causes. This in turn made me distrust myself even when I was right. It also contributed to my dissociation with my body. He doesn’t fight sensory problems unless he has a migraine. If I was him - I wouldn’t fully understand either. No one likes to be sick or have the stomach virus but for people who already deal with daily gastrointestinal pain and issues - it can feel like a dragon is setting fire to an already charred house. 

I’ve been told I handle death astoundingly well… in conjunction with darker human emotions. I don’t think I would handle the death of my immediate family well to be honest. However, it’s true that I have a certain steel when I need to step up and help someone else through grief or through the journey of the unknown. But in myself? I bury my grief deep. Deep down where the humiliation and shame of my body live, my grief knots itself into tiny barbs. These try to re surface when I’m sick with an unknown virus. It can take me days to recover mentally once my body recovers. Books or movies that normally would only bother me a bit, suddenly create a chasm of confusion and anxiety. I suddenly drown in an outpouring of emotion and stand confused as a few tears slip down my face. Shocked at my leaking eyes I think, “Uh oh K you don’t understand yourself again. Your body is leaking emotion. Disassociate more. Don’t encompass the pain or you’ll break. Compartmentalize! Deal! Move on! Serve others in your pain! Don’t over share … oh you already did? You sent that emotional text? Joke about it. Retract! Retreat! Send a strong message next time  or serve a need for them next. Don’t be a burden in your pain. You tend to verbally over process in distress. Picture yourself outside yourself.” 

It sounds insane on paper but this post is probably for the people who understand this type of insanity. You both ARE and ARE not just your body. Just like we ARE and ARE NOT our emotions. We are Spirit and Flesh. We are Imago Dei. We are the beauty of humanity… of course, of course, but we also still have to grapple with trauma, betrayal, the unknown, pain, and misery. 

I admire people with chronic illness because they are coping with all the hardships of normal life while being housed in an instrument that doesn’t always work. They have to walk the fine line of not allowing the pain and trauma to define them, but also not ignoring their body’s cues for exercise or rest or nutrition. They have to push through pain to BE. But they also have to acknowledge limitations. They won’t always be understood and most of the time their suffering will be unspoken so they can live their best lives without the spotlight of another’s judgement. They are heroes of their own ecosystem that consistently tries to undermine them. They are broken but generally this makes them healers for others because of their relationship to pain. They tend to be seekers of the spiritual truths… because at least that isn’t fully defined by their body. ( Thus the accusation of Gnosticism depending on that degree.) They live without full healing but are so grateful for any tiny easement of pain. 


They are the ones reaching for the hem of His garment. They are often the ones who cry out, “Rapha! Healer! Please Be here.” They can often be the ones who catch glimpses of God so clearly. In suffering Christ is there. At the toilet bowl when all else fades into the background. In the bed when pain is so great they are curled into a ball. On their knees begging for understanding when a scary new symptom surfaces. Stopping to breathe Yahweh - in and out. God is in the breath. God IS the breath. God is in the next right thing. God is suffering alongside. God comforts in strange ways. Mystery unfolds. Pain sufferers tend to have a tentative grasp with mystery. God speaks quietly. God holds and sometimes he even heals … though not often in the way we think. Despite that God IS. We are Imago Dei. We, though terribly broken and often in confused pain, are also beautiful precious vessels of unique BEING. It may not always be the answers we want but it’s the answer that IS. It’s that moment on the Chosen (season three) when the bleeding woman reaches so desperately for the hem of Jesus garment. It’s when he turns and asks her to speak for herself so he can acknowledge her and claim her as daughter. It’s the image of that story that mirrors the biblical account and shows the desperation and beauty of being SEEN in all humiliation, isolation, misunderstanding, misery and pain. We are not alone. Even in suffering. Don’t lose hope. 


Song choice : hallelujah Even Here - Lydia Laird: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jc-WPCQs6RI 

If anything take the song below from this post:

I adore this song!: Mother to A Saviour and King (obviously I’m not Mary but the tone of this song - the searching/ seeking/ choosing to still believe and follow/ being Known… that’s relatable. I also find it incredibly beautiful and vulnerable and my eyes fill up each time I watch her singing in that stunning orange dress in nature to God.)https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=s6qN8PMKGcY 

Bonus: the most touching commercial I’ve seen in a long time: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=xnZGEUA4oBk

Post script: when my husband was running my healing bath I asked him to put on my Spotify playlist called When I Can’t Love Myself … he started chuckling and responded, “yes my enneagram Four.” And then I realized yea I guess that could come across as having a flair for the dramatic … I just call it normal - it sounded like the right title at the time ! Ha ha 



Monday, November 6, 2023

Whatever Is Good

Be still and KNOW...

The pattern of fringes hanging off the table linen caught my eye. The diamond shapes were in close symmetry despite the cloth being washed numerous times already. Rainbow reflections from the sunlit crystals hanging from my windows danced over the patterns. My eyes traced the swirls imprinted above the fringe. It was not until much later that I realized I was simply absorbed in the moment. I wasn't thinking of what I needed to do, who needed my attention, or who I felt I should be. I just WAS. My heart was encompassed in stillness. I felt this unexplainable peace (that surpasses all understanding) and an indwelling of gratitude. I was immersed in a simple Holy Hallelujah. I KNEW deep down that I was more than I seemed to be. I was in Imago Dei - BEING God's Image.  

Each one of us is made in the Image of God, but it's easy to forget to REST into this fact. It feels more like a validation of our own being when we are "doing." Not to say that doing is wrong. Doing is beautiful to activate in our human form. But doing is secondary to being KNOWN and KNOWING. Ask anyone in love (not just lust) if this is true. 

Taste and see...

It used to be odd to me that the descriptor of taste is used to see that the Lord is good. Taste? Really? Taste invites most of our senses to be present. Taste is a physical knowing and a beautiful contemplative moment (if it is Go(o)d.) 

An interesting product of secret prayer (not shared) is that there is no one to witness the goodness of God. This communion instead becomes a private, sacred dance. It's a giving and receiving in a profoundly personal way that can not be fully explained outside of the moment. Much akin to the purely erotic (and not the profaned Porneia that Eros is often mistaken for) that symbolizes the joyful union of creation. Private prayer cannot be bragged upon, inflated with ego, disguised as gossip, or made to get a point across. I often wondered why Jesus was often described as "going into a quiet place" just as much as he was described as helping others. I sit in this similar contemplation and the mystical understanding underpins my confusion.

Private prayer is the being still to KNOW. It is edifying, gratitude filling, and often is both comforting and can lead to suffering. Yet, this is the kind of suffering that involves the growth of self. The falling off of old ways of ego that are not good for the self but are strangely addicting. It's the refinement of burning ashes before the Phoenix rising. This beloved mirror shows more of what we ARE instead of simple personhood. This mirror is Divine. This mirror is Imago Dei. 

Synchronicity is no longer coincidence. The fabric of existence begins to be seen on a micro level of divine threads of colours too numerous to mention. Each tiny thread has the choice and potential to walk closer to the larger Divine cohesion in a solid piece of more... or to a frayed, tattered version smaller, less muchier inclusion of that Divine. Deep down most of us want to be the whole vibrant thread but often instead, we choose to be frayed by our own doing.

Is it good? Is it noble? Is it right? Is it pure? Is it lovely? Is it admirable? Is it excellent and praiseworthy?

When the thoughts and actions we have are most of the above descriptors, an odd Presence of peace is within. That Presence is always accessible yet not often accessed. It is a JUST MERCY. A Grace freely given but often not taken.


It seems that the path of least resistance is to focus on the bad, the ugly, the injustice, the profane, the wrong, the disgusting...or if not blatantly focusing on these things, to instead bury ourselves in busyness to avoid. Instead of RUNNING to ALL THAT IS GOOD. 

Advocacy is good but not if it is done while also trying to rip other threads in the tapestry. Action is good but not if we are not recognizing the true mirror of Being first. Being informed can be a part of growing intellect but without Love, without compassion, it's just another empty state of mind. Beauty can be corrupted but why do we run from true Beauty? Why are we not eating the sunrise with our eyes or soaking up the sunset into our souls? Each day we are given little mercies in the guise of Beauty. There is no economic status, personality type, religion, family of origin, sexuality or any other set aside descriptor required to look at a blade of grass or a flake of snow and SEE a moment of intricacy...a gift shared for everyone. ( For those who can’t see there is a gift to feel - or another type of Knowing given.) 

A relationship is with a noun, a personhood, not a verb. Relationships must be put before issues. Whatever is good...think on these things. But seeing Good is almost an exercise in the paradox. It's a trained existence (ironic.) Mystical and practical blend. Becoming is a dance of the BOTH/ AND of life.

Our senses must become attuned. Often, when I think I am misunderstood, an outlier, seen as not welcome to most in my home town, or frustrated at my own daily incapability, I am in an adventure of missing the mark. Even if each of these statements own some truth at times, they are not THE Truth. I am missing the mark of Beauty. I am missing the true mirror. I am forgetting to LISTEN. When I retreat to contemplation an interesting path opens up. That path can wind through months of both agony of refinement and the joy of becoming. Books I never knew I needed show up with truths that soul sear. Seers of music, people and experience join the journey and point upwards. If I listen, I suddenly am a person who is BEING THROUGH the OTHER. Imago Dei. God THROUGH the tapestry of BEING. God encompassed in the threads woven into existence.



Whatever is GOOD. Think on these things.

Song choices: To Know Me- Lauren Diagle ( https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=cWQGJAhjFRc ) Such a gorgeous song! Moved me to a teary state 💝🥹

Thank God I Do- Lauren Diagle (  https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=wfR6XLXRNy0 ) 



 (Verses loosely quoted in this post come from: Psalms 46:10, Genesis 1:27, Genesis 1:31, Romans 1:25-28, Psalm 34:8, Phillipians 4:8-10, Mark 6:31, Luke 5:16, Matthew 1:35-39, Malachi 3:2-3, 1 Corinthians 13:1, Job 29:18, Matthew 11:28, John 20: 21- 22. Romans 15:13)

Tuesday, June 6, 2023

Recognized and Valued BECAUSE of One of my Worst Moments


 As I walked out the door I heard, "Wait!! I think I know you and I feel like it's significant!" She grabbed the door and I recognized her too but did not know why. We exchanged names but neither of us recognized the other. She tried again, "If it helps I teach nursing at the local college and have been a nurse for years."

"Ooooohhhhhh," I sighed, "If you worked about 15 ish years ago I practically lived at the hospital."

"Really? It must be that...but I feel like..."

And suddenly a memory came to me and I asked, "Wait. You wouldn't happen to be the nurse that held me?" And she finished my sentence, "In the hallway on the floor?" 

Before I knew what was happening she started crying and I was swept up into her arms, "You changed my nursing career! You impacted my life so fully! You left me a note and flowers stating how important that moment was to you. For years I thought of you and have used you as an example of how to follow your heart in nursing. I wasn't sure if I was crossing a line..but I felt so strongly that you needed me but I was unsure even after...and then the next day your flowers and note came to the anonymous nurse who held you...and I cried."

I was still being held by her through this whole dialogue as she was occasionally swiping her tears...to the point that I was tear filled from her expression. I have a terrible memory so it surprised me that I even thought to mention it. It has been so bad lately that I have simply given up on trying to salvage memories and instead I have prayed, "Please in the moment help me to remember what is important to other people or what is significant to share from things I should know." I'm so grateful this moment (however humiliating it was to me at the time) came to me.

"Thank you for following your heart," I sincerely stated, "I thought I was dying that night. I was so depleted from years upon years of being on IV and pain meds through horrible attacks in my abdomen and bad rashes and pain. I was constantly at the hospital and most nurses after awhile treated me poorly and attributed it to hysteria or anxiety but I could not make up the pain. The pain triggered the anxiety. Not the other way around. Years later I was diagnosed by a natural health practioneer with long term Lymes Disease (though not acknowledged by public health), Fibromyalgia from my former Doctor, multiple cycle diseases (PCOS, Andenomyosis, Endometriosis, Chronic low ferritin and Anemia) and finally Celiac. That night was my final straw because I was strung out on fentonyal (which I hated as it made me so loopy) and had been puking my guts out to the point of a little bit of blood coming out plus sitting on the toilet. I was so exhausted and desperate that I took my IV with me out into the hallway, slid down the wall and started bawling...and there you were, with your arms around me and I felt like it was an angel. Later I was appalled at my desperate drugged out behavior but you stuck with me. You gave me hope. You also changed my perspective slightly on nurses."

She gave me another hug and then her mother came around the corner, "MOM!! this is the girl! The girl that left me that note that changed my nursing career!" I recognized her mom too and she smiled, "Hi Kmarie (insert real name) I remember you. I worked as a receptionist at the hospital for years."

A part of myself shrunk inside. Of course the previous receptionist remembers me by name! I did not recall hers but she stated it and it was immediately familiar. I almost can't believe that was my life. Most of the time, if my health is brought up with new friends, it almost feels like I am lying. Because even though I struggle with energy and pain...I learned how to mostly manage my conditions to a degree. The pain attacks stopped exactly three years after my last taste of gluten. I still get them lightly if I accidently get glutened  but it is not near the same as that terrible 24-48 hours of a tight rubber band wrapped around my abdomen to the point that I could not even have a sip of water for a full day. It was absolutely hell on earth sometimes. To hear that I impacted someone in one of my worst moments was both validating and jarring.

I was at my worst on that hospital floor. I am a germaphobe by nature so the fact that I was even sitting on the Emergency room floor says something. I also am not naturally a person who likes to pubicly share my pain or be recognized while I am in a state of duress...so that fact that I was out of my room also shows my desperation. I was stinky. I was pale and shaky. I was out of it from the drugs coursing through my veins ( that did nothing to touch the pain by the way but only made time feel both longer and shorter which made everything more confusing.) I was completely vulnerable and weak...and when I arrived at the hospital one of the nurses gave me the "Oh it's you again" look and treated me with cold contempt. 

So for this nurse to say I changed her at that moment??? That truly testifies to me that sometimes when we are at our weakest, God is there to use us regardless. We are still a worthy vessel. We can still impact lives. We can still be given a different type of strength.

In all honesty, this is a tough story to tell. I was embarrassed to even show up with flowers and a card that was addressed "To the nurse on call Thursday night and the one who held me." I felt that the entire staff at the hospital was mocking me almost. I felt foolish but something in my spirit told me I needed to be acknowledge that beauty. I was taught by my Grandma, who lived in and out of the hospital with Colitis and a bowel pouch and then cancer, to treat those who help with extreme gratitude. She taught me to leave flowers for my Pharmacist, Notes for my Doctor, Christmas gifts for those who really helped me get through tough times... It was not until one of my friends was shocked that I did these things that I realized many people do not do this. And then I felt silly again.

I was between 20 and 30 when this event happened. I will be forty this year. I wish I could go back to my younger self and say, "You are legitimate in your pain. You WILL figure some of this out. You will suffer and continue to suffer with depression due to pain and energy on and off through the years. However, you will find supporters. You will find information. You will find some answers and some triggers. And believe it or not, you will not visit a hospital (besides blood tests and breaking your foot) for NINE years! You will avoid them like the plague instead of running to them! And you will find some angels on earth...

I wasn't going to the event where I met this nurse last week. I was not feeling well (again.) With chronic illness I pick my battles. My son specifically asked me to please try to be with my family...so I went. I was making a hasty exit to go lay down when this lady ran to me and held open the door as I was trying to escape. I didn't feel like talking. Yet, I have often found that in my weakest, Spirit shows up. Or that sometimes when I don't feel I have much to give, Spirit is still given. Or that sometimes someone needs me, even when I do not feel like showing up, and if I force myself to BE present, something magical happens.

Invisible Chronic illness is a tricky thing. I don't like to talk about it anymore yet it is still a huge (mostly secret) part of my life. I look like I am in the prime of health most days, besides being extremely pale for the native blood I have, but with a ferritin of two and a blood saturation of 0.13, that is to be expected. I went through a huge phase in my late twenties when I needed to blog about health constantly to work through the diagnosis process. I feel that is legitimate. Just like I feel this phase of rarely speaking about it is legitimate too. But I am grateful for a few lessons from my weakness.

1. If I have hidden things to deal with, it's easier for me to remember that everyone else has secret struggles. When I am dealing with someone I try to recall this fact.

2. In our weakness, Spirit shows up. A verse that has always been of great comfort to me has been, "Blessed are the poor in Spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven...and blessed are those that mourn for they shall be comforted." There are silver linings in struggle too.

3. Sometimes weakness allows another persons strength to shine. Sometimes our weaker moments can also later be turned into a strength.

I am not glamorizing illness. As I stated, I go through depression dealing with it on a regular basis. I find it tough not to compare. It’s hard for me not to wish I was only tired from a busy life or a bad night and not blood tired ( which sleep does not much for). Yet, I also don’t want to be a complainer or known for “ being tired.” It’s a state that I just live with. Some days it beats me, other days I try to befriend my own Being. I’m this fallen world, it is what it is… but I’m still SEEN. 

My family and I love to watch The Chosen series ( free on YouTube or the App) about the life of Jesus and his disciples. Even if one doesn’t subscribe to the faith, I would still recommend it for its historical accuracy, storylines, and beautiful sets and costumes. Anyway, in season three there is a story of the bleeding woman who I’ve  related to since puberty with my extremely heavy cycles. This woman is ostracized from her family in a time where being alone as a woman is dangerous. She is culturally considered “ unclean” due to the laws. She is anemic and exhausted from bleeding for years. As a desperate attempt she touches the hem of Jesus garment as he’s walking through a crowd on his way to visit a dying sick little girl. Jesus has an excuse to be in a hurry. (The little girl dies but he revives her later.) Instead the lady is immediately healed and Jesus stops and asks “Who touched me?” He knew, but he was giving her a chance to be SEEN and for her to use her own voice. No one, especially a man, would deem her worthy to speak to. Then he calls her “daughter.” This is not creepy but significant because her own family would not claim her due to her disease. She was unclaimed and thus, unprotected. By stating this protective title, Jesus was stating in essence “You are seen. You are worthy. You are protected. You are healed.” 

Maybe it’s ok to be seen and recognized and remembered for one of my worst moments?

I get bleary eyed each time I read that story but seeing it on screen ... I wept. I may not be healed in a huge way, but if I’m honest, I have small ways of healing. I have moments to be grateful for. I’m protected. I have loved ones. I’m valued in some of my communities. I have much more than this woman. But what we have in common is that we are SEEN in what we perceive as our wretchedness… when we are heavily bleeding and hurting and so so so tired… and we are still loved. 


May it be so. 





Song Choice  Woman at the Well (which is a different biblical story about a woman being SEEN):

Tuesday, March 28, 2023

The Seven Homes that Built Me




My husband is a carpenter. I always wanted to marry a man who could build dreams. Plus, Jesus was a carpenter, so my little girl brain thought it would be a blessed profession. Throughout his twenty years of building, I often have stated, “ Yours is a subtlety noble profession. Even in the mundanity of it, you are building safe places for people to choose how to live. You’re providing the basics. In lucky cases you’re creating. You’re creating dreams and extraordinary places. But overall you’re providing something that we all need to thrive…a home. You are also witnessing their lives in a way most professions don’t get to witness the lives of their clients. It’s an opportunity for ministry and it’s in opportunity for servitude, but it’s also an opportunity to build dreams. It’s a beautiful thing. Plus your hands are very capable at so many things… “ He laughs (and doubts me often on the hard weather days) but I believe it’s true. An honest, good carpenter is one of the worlds best professions.

Over my almost forty years on this planet, there have been many people in many homes that have shaped me. But seven stand out. These are the homes that I spent copious amounts of hours in different phases of my life. These are the places that fused my memories of heartache and dreams together. In fact I can’t think about aspects of these homes without deeply feeling gratitude. Sometimes even a tear in my eye forms or a lump in my throat forms due to the sheer beauty of the gift they gave me.

1. My paternal Grandma‘s home in British Columbia. My grandma still lives in the same home that I lived with her in over 30 years ago. Grandma‘s home was not only my home for a few years in my childhood with my parents, but it was also a place to go to every summer and as I became older each spring break. It felt like my home in every sense of the word. Most of my relatives disliked it because of the place it was in. It was a rough and tough town however that did not matter to my child like eyes full of wonder. It was the Southern facing warmth of her shag carpet smelling like sunshine. The sound of her knees cracking and her bracelets clanking as she joyfully walked down the hall to water plants. It was a beautiful castle mirror that my dad made, hung at the top of her stairs, that evoked my fairytale imagination, while the Chipmunks played on the record player beside it. It was sunny days spent smelling pine trees and all the wonders of her beautiful garden as I walked around her house over and over again. It was the feel of the concrete of her slanted driveway that I pretended was my castle. Secretly, I thought her castle was better than any other castle in the world. I still dream about that house. We designed our structure of our current home based on that home. It's standard and looks simple but it is full of memory, shared history and safe magical wonder. She is to move soon and my heart breaks for her and for myself. I keep crying whenever I think about it and generally I do not cry often.

2. Sanky  was the name of my early childhood home in Saskatchewan. I only lived there on and off until I was six. The summers I spent in BC. A decade ago the home was torn down due to the fact that it was so old and poorly built. My family was poor too so we made good companions. The boardwalk was wood and I can still recall the giant sliver that I got from running barefoot upon it. However, I also can recall short little walks to the park. I can recall watching Carebears with my brother while we were sick in the tiny little bedroom. I can  recall wearing my dad's headphones that were plugged into the record player and blasting Amy Grant or any of his other Christian albums. I can recall running around in the small college Library or lecture rooms while he worked and I flipped the seats up and down and up and down. It was a tiny town but I felt safe. I felt loved. I cried and cried when we moved to the town I still call home. 

3. We moved into a slightly larger subsidized home on a new college campus. It was larger than our previous town but still small enough to give the feeling of cozy. Our garden plot was as big as our home plot because that is how we were expected to get by on the wage my father was paid. Oh the amount of peas and raspberries I ate in the summer! Thanks to my maternal grandmother and mother we had canned goods in the winter for a break from the copious amounts of cheap gluten breads, pastas and cereals we lived off of. ( In hindsight being sick constantly in my childhood points to my current celiac condition.) I loved the eastern living room light that flung dust mites around. Dusting was my favourite job in that home because I could look at all of my moms pretty knick knacks while blasting the Beach Boys or Judy Garland or the Beatles (no I’m not that old but I was old fashioned) whilst pretending that the dust was fairy sparkles. At that point in our lives part of my dad's job was hosting college students at our house. I can still recall the amount of laughter. That tiny home was full of games and cheer and quirky fun neighbors. We suffered. I was sick often. I can recall some darkness, but overall it was an idyllic childhood. We were quite poor but I didn’t know it fully. Because I had community. I had nature to run around freely in, just outside my door. I had a garden in the summer, and the local food cellar in the winter. I had family and church and old movies and aunts and uncles and oranges at Christmas. I felt rich often too.

4. With the help of some relatives, my father built a new home (that they still reside in) facing the west. The sunsets from that home are unbeatable. On clear days the mountains can be seen in the distance over the rolling golden fields of the prairies. I felt safe moving into that home because the walls were fully concrete. I felt rich too. I had a huge room all to myself even though the ceiling didn’t get done for seven years and I had to help pay for it myself… But until then I had a huge event poster covering the insulation that my dad brought home from one of his youth ministry gatherings. I loved attending those even though I technically wasn’t old enough to. I got to see Christian bands throughout the 90s that were famous and fun. I was able to host my friends for sleepovers almost every weekend. Friends became family. Just passed 18, my husband and I moved into the basement suite made just for us when we married young and lived off of 200 a month. In later years, when each of my children were born they would visit that house for meals, Christmas, Easter and loads of holiday times in between. Back when my cousins came to visit every summer they would have the extra gift of extended family moving in and out of the house. My grandparents lived in the side of it. We could go steal cookies from Grandma’s and eat all of her baking. The yard of  half an acre was home to many trees and a small pool. My children still benefit from the gorgeous situation of that home. 

5. My maternal grandparents moved a lot growing up. But each of their homes I can recall and I cherish. Each one would have a similar feeling because they made it their home. Each home would always smell like coffee percolating mixed with the aroma of fresh buns. There was always my grandmothers weathered spinning wheel plant holder that reminded me of sleeping beauty. It now sits in my home, gifted to me before her passing recently. Baking was always a standard. The house often smelled of pickling spice and cinnamon. But the home that I remember the most of theirs, besides the one my grandpa still lives in as part of my parents home, was three houses down from ours up in the Heights. My grandpa became a janitor at the same college my dad worked in and thus lived in the subsidized  housing. Their garden was better than ours. After school I would run home to watch my grandparents cable TV because we weren’t allowed TV. We just watched movies. So I would run home to sit on Grandma's bed for the Care Bears or the Brady Bunch or Full house or Inspector gadget… Grandma would always come in with a plate of cookies or a bowl full of chocolate chips, marshmallows, raisins, sesame seeds and berries. I knew I was always welcome at grandma’s house and there would be food for my often hungry belly.

6. When my daughter was five months old my husband moved us up into the same heights that I had grown up in... only around the block to the east from my previous home. We ended up having the ground level home with the kitchen facing east this time and our living room facing west. We had about four boxes of belongings, an old couch, and a bed given to us by my mom. At that time I didn’t believe the friend who said, "Don’t worry, one day you will have so much stuff you won’t know what to do with it…" She was right. But when she was holding a box full of used toys given to my daughter because we had none… I didn’t fully believe her. I wondered how she could afford such toys! And how people could afford such meals! For that matter, how could people afford to share? I tried my best to share what we could, often sacrificing the decorations off my tree for the one who lost everything or the extra food portion saved or the milk money found...and it was a lesson on where treasure was truly found. It was a lesson on circumstances and boundaries. It was a lesson that only poverty can teach. Because what my husband made was just enough to cover our subsidized home bill and give us less than we needed to eat and clothe ourselves… And those years I learned how to get by. I learned how to be frugal and creative. I learned what I can do without. And what amazing things God provides when we trust. When my husband needed steel toe boots, and the 200 dollar price tag seemed enormous because it was our mortgage money, we prayed, he went to the local tilly (second hand College store) and there were steel toe boots in his size for ten dollars! There were so many moments like that, which is why I tend towards charity giving instead of garage sales ( the anonymity and less personal feeling of a shop gave me dignity.) I was the person who found what was needed with tears of relief at the second hand shop... I learned how much joy there is in life even when it seems like you don’t have much. I am so grateful for those years, even though they were some of the hardest of my life due to many factors. Budget just being one of them. Health scares. Miscarriages. Postpartum depression. Poverty. Family expectations. The tumultuous 20s. Finding oneself. Finding God. Finding lasting friendships.… All of it was very hard. But it’s shaped me to who I am today and I still have very fond memories of the youth my husband and I shared in that home. Now, I still find I have to fight the scarcity mindset and learn once again to live in provided abundance, yet when I do, miracles seem to happen.

7. When my youngest was a few months old, we moved into the house we live in today. My husband worked at a construction company who saw and felt for us I think. The boss offered my husband the home at cost. We had to get a special kind of mortgage. We switched a few years into our own but at that time we had to rely on others. I could hardly believe it when I walked up the stairs for the first time. I felt so rich. On my right was a beautiful new black fridge humming away. I had never had a new appliance before. The oven and the dishwasher sparkled. The rooms felt huge to what I was used to. The plot was gorgeous and full of potential for trees. The living room view faced south towards the fields on the school that I went to elementary in. It was only three blocks away from the home which my husband and I had previously lived in (which comforted me) and only a few blocks away from my parents house to the west. I suddenly recalled a moment in my childhood where I was playing in the elementary school on the north facing side at recess and I looked across the fields. At that point it was not developed land but just farmers fields as far as the eye could see. I remember a soft whisper of knowing; "You’re going to find a home here one day. There’s something special for you in that field. Something beyond what you could imagine. You will find home.” My children hear this story a lot because it feels providential. It felt like a prophesy of love and care at a time when I was often insecure. I was in about grade 5 and I remember feeling so perplexed. What could possibly be in that field? I pictured myself digging gold out in that field. When I would bike to the east of it where the pathway stopped I would just sit and stare wondering what could that mean? Little did I know that my home would be here. Little did I know that I would raise my children to adulthood in that field. Little did I know that I WOULD get the love story I wanted that was shaped by my obsession with 1940's films and musicals. I would learn the best lessons of my life in that field. The husband of my youth would become the husband of my middle age. That we would experience death and life together in that field. It was better than a treasure chest full of gold. Now I have a heart full of treasures.

We almost lost our home several times over the years, because we could barely afford to keep it, but I’m so glad that we were not able to move away. Over the years we have renovated it and we’re in the process of renovating it again, to make it work for our lives. This time the renovations are about community. They are about a calling and a new phase.  It’s been a beautiful home full of the provision we needed to become a family.

I often feel that God knows my heart and that rootedness would be essential to my sanity. He knew that I was wired differently and needed stability to flourish and be the best version of me. My gratitude for this is beyond measure.  We still have to weigh our budget carefully. But I would rather have stability and a sense of rooted belonging than all the riches in the world. Of course I would love to travel more but I am so blessed that occasionally we can travel between the three provinces that I grew up in on occasion. It can be both a hardship and a blessing to have the same people in one’s life that witnessed teenage hood or childhood or that tumultuous 20s or are searching 30s… But if they allow us room to grow and we allow them room to grow and change, something beautiful can happen. We can be a witness. We witness each other’s lives and we challenge, we encourage, we inspire. Change is part of life. It’s inevitable. So too, must we change. There’s a difference between rootedness and stagnancy.  Little did I know that my field of the unknown  riches would be the riches of hearth and home. When I look back on these seven homes, I see God was building so much within me, my husband, my children and our community. If anything makes me cry, it's gratitude. More than grief, I will often get choked up on gratitude. I don't deserve what I have. I hardly even earned it. It was grace given. It was prayers of my heart answered in such unexpected ways. Poverty is tough and I do not glamourize it, but like anything in life, there CAN be lessons learned and beauty that rises from the ashes. For us, it taught trust, prayer, sharing despite, balance, and the true joy of simplicity. 

When our family works on our home together on top of work and school and life, because we can not afford to pay another, we learn so much! We fight too at times, but we share in the glorious experience of building dreams. The electrical my son learned taught caution in power. The sanding and constant priming taught me patience and I also learned that just because I’ve never burnt wood designs before doesn’t mean I shouldn’t even try! Drilling screws and pounding nails taught my daughter precision and the gift of strength. Holding the light while my husband hooked up the plumbing in the lower level ceiling taught my youngest the sacredness of two and the crucial element light brings to any situation. We are not just building a home. We are building life. We are learning that what happens in the womb of secrecy will eventually expand into a life giving dream. We are learning that faith is often unspoken but that it is an aspect of All that IS. We see God in the mundane and our belief is stronger because in the practical we see beyond. 

All of these homes were not magazine worthy, or even sometimes up to code! They were all humble and almost all of them were the shape of a rectangle box. But yet each one held a richness I was formed in. A gratitude that cannot be replaced or fully expressed. 



 











Song choice: the House thatBuilt Me- Miranda  Lambert ( and Alan Jackson’s  Home https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=VAZZrj4LWA4