MISS MOOX: people

  • Bags

    I have a habit of storing plastic bags, and, when I go to the supermarket to do my shopping, taking them along with me. This is to prevent myself receiving fifty gazillion more each and every time I shop which will carry my groceries for perhaps ten minutes between the store and my house and then go into a landfill somewhere to do their bit to clog up the biosphere for ten million years (do plastic bags ever break down?). This way, the idea goes, I will be doing my bit to save the environment and put a tiny finger in the very leaky dam that stands in the way of the flood of thousands and millions and trillions of plastic bags leaving supermarkets every day. Every day. Think of it. Think of how many they give you, then multiply that by how many people shop at your supermarket, and contemplate the staggering amount of plastic bag wastage that goes on at one supermarket alone. Then multiply that by all the stores in the world and, well—it's frightening.

    I severely miss the supermarket I shopped at in Toronto, which charged you 5 cents per plastic bag. The bags were capacious and sturdy and if you had forgotten to bring some of your own, it was worthwhile buying a few because they could be stored up at home for the next trip or used as dandy garbage bags. Failing that, there was a helpful stash of empty cardboard boxes that produce and the like came in to be had for the taking, if you were driving or had the African habit of carrying things on your head. This served very nicely to keep to an absolute minimum the number of plastic bags leaving the store, and to encourage everyone to bring their own and to stuff them as fully as possible. It was a brilliant system. And since most of the people who shopped there were recent immigrants from India, Africa, the Middle East, China and the Caribbean, who knew about economy and whose cash flow was generally not overwhelming, people followed it scrupulously.

    But, sadly, there is no supermarket like it, that I know of, in this area.

    And so, at the checkout registers of the supermarkets, plastic bags flow as freely as water. Buying a pack of gum? Put it in a plastic bag. Bread? Has to go by itself in another plastic bag. Cans? Three of 'em will be put into a double-bagger. By the time it's over, fifty dollars' worth of groceries has procured you fifty bags to boot.

    Most people are quite happy with this system. They stroll with their trollies stuffed full of bags to the car and take them home where presumably they keep some of them for cat litter and garbage bags and, I don't know, throw out the rest? I can't imagine one household creating a demand for that many plastic bags in one week, ever.

    Cashiers and bag boys like giving you plastic bags. It is what they are used to. Your purchases can be swiftly and easily deposited into bags using the neat little hanging system they have by their counter and hoisted into your trolley for takeaway. They know by heart what things should go into what bags and how many things to put in each bag and what to double-bag and what needs to go by itself. They like their little system. It is safe, predictable, easy, quick, and they can do it without thinking. I don't blame them. It's their job.

    And then along come I to put a monkey wrench into the works.

    Because I politely request that they use the plastic bags that I've brought. Or if it's just one or two items I just say, "I don't need a bag, thanks." Most of the time they are in the midst of swift and automatic movement to deposit my purchases into a bag. And they have to stop, and re-calculate. And look at me as if either I've grown three heads and announced that I'll be commuting home in my spaceship, or as if they've had to take their brains out of park to deal with me and they are not very happy with the disruption to their routine.

    Most of the time, they will politely comply. However, this is with varying degrees of success. Often, the bag boys don't realize that the giant canvas bag I carry my bags in is actually a BAG, and thus capable of stowing groceries in. So once I had a kind but befuddled bag boy give me new plastic bags in lieu of using the canvas one, which he folded neatly and returned to me. Once I told a cashier I didn't need the bag she'd put my purchase in, only for her to turn around and throw it out (I suppose it was unusable after holding a fleece jacket for all of three seconds).

    Last time I went shopping, the cashier, who hadn't heard my request, swiftly stuffed the few remaining items the bag boy hadn't yet gotten to into three new plastic bags. Then, the bag boy, now having two of my original bags left over, kindly put them into ANOTHER plastic bag for me to take home! I was staggered. I don't know what kept me from saying anything because it lurched forward out of my protesting brain and then somehow got stopped at my tongue. I suppose it's fear of making a public scene, or being perceived as peculiar and idiosyncratic, or of annoying someone who is doing you a service by requesting them to do it in the manner you actually desire. Whatever it was, I didn't say anything, but I carefully and vengefully left those three or four extra bags in the trolley when I returned it. I don't know what happened to them. Probably they just got thrown out. But at least it wasn't me who did it.

  • An Open Letter to the Fashion Industry

    Dear Sirs and Madames,

    Sometime in the last half-century (or more accurately probably, in the last decade), one of your number awoke from a lobotomy (or direct physical attack to the head, or alien abduction, or something equally drastic), and thought, "Low-waisted trousers! The next thing in fashion!"

    And somehow, out of all the hare-brained and idiotic ideas which are perpetrated in fashion designers' heads and parade down runways thankfully never to be seen again in the world of humankind, this one survived. And made its way to every single tiny little clothing store on the planet, to become de rigeur for jeans and trousers of every cut. That is, if they are designed for anybody under fifty.

    And now, thanks to this unknown genius, it is impossible to buy pants which have more than about two inches of waist. There is not only low, but ultra-low and super-low. And you have no choice but to succumb to this ridiculousness, if you want to buy trousers which are Not Dorky.

    Standing up, they rest directly on what I believe are known as the pubic bones. Which is all very well and good. Until you attempt sitting down or bending over, upon which they slide down nicely to reveal about fifteen inches of skin, half of your underwear, and certain anatomical details I won't describe except to say they are commonly known by the same name as those lines that occur at regular intervals in the sidewalk.

    Which may be fine for some people. I, however, subscribe to the old-fashioned theory that clothing is actually supposed to cover you. When I buy pants, I want them to be pants. Not leg covers. Anything less may be called Decorative Bits of Hanging for the Human Body, but not clothing. And I don't want to shell out my hard-earned money for it.

    There must be other people in the world who find it ironic that trousers cover every single inch of your leg, but up top, where it really counts, they leave you hanging. Literally.

    So: Messrs. and Mesdames Fashion Industry, a plea: please, please, by all the Fashion Power invested in you by goodness knows who, would you please come to your senses and determine that the next thing in fashion is going to be jeans with normal waistlines! That are actually cool! That are marketed to people younger than fifty! That cover you not only when you are standing upright but in every other possible contortion of the human body! I'm not talking about the above-the-belly-button styles that were popular up until the eighties, but it would be nice to come closer to that ideal.

    Good sense, and irritated consumers everywhere, demand it of you.

    Sincerely,
    A Shopper

  • Grateful

    Grateful

    Hi to all my dear family and friends,
    Today I have three special people that I want to THANK.

    Cindy from "OLD TIME FARMHOUSE" BLOG surprised me by choosing my name to win her vintage apron Giveaway.
    I love aprons...and, especially, gingham ones!

    Paula from "SUGAR SWEET AND PINK" BLOG created and lovingly stitched such sweet gifts for me. I'd like to share a few of them with you.
    I love each one!

    Mark...my hubby
    Thank you, Honey, for the cute as pie polka dot tea pot
    and the matching polka dot plates.
    You know just what I like.
    You are such a sweetheart 

    Polka Dots...
    Whiskers on Kittens...
    My favorite color...Red
    These are a few of my favorite things!
    
    

    Paula, My darling adopted daughter created this adorable kitty cat.
    She designed the pattern and the hand stitched touches.
    Paula added the crowning touch...the tiny blue and white creamer and saucer.
    I adore it, Paula!

    You guessed it...
    A few more of my favorite things!
    Gifts from my hubby...

    More RED...
    and
    More pretty Polka Dots!

    "My Little RED shoe Pincushion"
    It sits proudly in my sewing room.

    "Raggedy Ann"
    Do you see the light blue gingham apron draped over the chair back?
    Can you guess WHO gave it to me?

    Heart Shaped Pockets...
    Oh...How cute, Cindy!
    I love your darling giveaway!

    Cindy sent me this sweet vintage apron.
    I don't have the heart or wear it and get it dirty...
    I think it will hang proudly in my kitchen.

    My RED vintage kitchen chair
    with country tole painting.
    I found this at a Craft Faire in Tennessee.
    It has been used as a high chair for little visitors
    and has sat in my kitchen for many years.

    Sweet Paula gave me this beautiful vintage linen table cloth.
    I love the fine stitching and RED crocheted edging.
    Thank you, dear.

    Gifts from my sweet Paula
    Play Pals...
    Patti, Penny & Kitty

    "When you wish upon a star
    Makes no difference who you are
    Anything your heart desires
    Will come to you.

    If your heart is in your dream
    No request is too extreme
    When you wish upon a star
    As dreamers do.

    Fate is kind
    She brings to those to love
    The sweet fulfillment of
    Their secret longing.

    Like a bolt out of the blue
    Fate steps in and sees you through
    Your dreams come true."

    (Disney Theme Song)

    Special thanks to:
    Paula at www.sugarsweetandpink.blogspot.com
    and
    Cindy at www.oldtimefarmouse.blogspot.com

    Each week I love joining in my favorite blog parties. I'm linking with:
    Boogie Board Cottage
    www.boogieboardcottage.blogspot.com
    Mockingbird Hill Cottage
    www.mockingbirdhillcottage.com
    Sunny Simple Life
    www.sunnysimplelife.blogspot.com
    The Dedicate House
    www.thededicatedhouse.blogspot.com
    The Little Red House
    www.dearlittleredhouse.blogspot.com
    Etsy Cottage Style
    www.etsycottagestyle.blogspot.com
    Cozy Little House
    www.cozylittlehouse.com
    Knick Of Time
    www.knickoftimeinteriors.blogspot.com
    Lavender Cottage Dreams
    www.lavendergardencottage.blogspot.com
    Have A Daily Cup of Mrs Olson
    www.jannolson.blogspot.com
    My Rose Chintz
    www.sandimyyellowdoor.blogspot.com
    Common Ground
    www.debrasvintagedesigns.blogspot.com
    Farmgirl Friday Blog Hop
    www.deborahjeansdandelionhouse.blogspot.com
    I Gotta Create
    www.igottacreate.blogspot.com
    Rooted In Thyme
    www.rootedinthyme.blogspot.com
    The Charm of Home
    www.thecharmofhome.blogspot.com
    Meet and Greet Blog Hop by Laurie
    www.createdbylaurie.blogspot.com
    Show-Licious Saturday's
    www.sew-licious.blogspot.com

  • WE NEED TO TALK.

    WE NEED TO TALK.

    So, this has always been a strictly design based blog. I've never been very personal on here. I find that difficult. I'm shy, private by nature, my sense of humour is bone dry, and well, I'm British. However, I want that to change (not the British part, naturally). Don't worry, I'm not suddenly going to get all over sharey on you (sharey?) but towards the end of last year and now this year, things have started to change with me and while it's a long and complicated tale which I will save for another time, I felt the time was right to try and make a change.
    When I started this blog (I had a previous one back in '08) it was to aid my new business and to get a sense of what the community was all about - was this something I wanted to pursue? Could I keep it going etc. Since then, blogging has become more than a way to keep my business going. I won't lie and say it has no place within my business because the truth of the matter is that it is my main source of work and for that I am always truly grateful. However, the more I get to know people through blogging the more I love it for that very reason - getting to know like minded people. The world has changed in the past decade. Ten years ago when I was in my early 20s I would never have guessed that I would be into chatting to be people on the Internet... God forbid! But now with blogs & Twitter etc it's totally normal and I like that. I've met so many great people through blogging, that I feel my world both socially and professionally has changed irrevocably for the better. I've met lots of people in person and formed real friendships. Then there's those people who are too far away geographically to meet, but who I still have real tangible friendships with and who I genuinely know will be in my life for a long, long time.
    But the fact remains that I feel as though I need to redress the balance on my own blog to reflect how it has changed as a platform for me and my work. And, how I have changed as a person. One thing it has given me which I will forever be grateful for (and which I continue to struggle with on a daily basis) is increased confidence (which is going to be the subject of another blog post soon - it's all too much for one post).
    The thing is, I could go on about this subject for hours. Literally. But to cut a long story short, I intend to make my blog more of a place to come and chat alongside all the design stuff (that's not going anywhere!) and I hope you'll join me, still. I really do love having you visit here and it means so much to me to know you're out there. (See, I'm doing it! But, while it's still a bit against my nature, please bear with me!). After all, your support has made it possible for me to discover a career I never thought I'd be able to achieve... going it alone and freelancing and sustaining myself. The past two years have been unbelievable (both with highs and lows) and a lot of that is because I started this blog.
    So, onwards, friends... thanks again and as always, I'd love to know your thoughts.
    (I know, how utterly un-British of me! *waves Union Jack, makes a cup of tea, sings God Save The Queen and complains about the weather* Aaaand, relax).

  • RECENT WORK: CEREAL MAGAZINE (PT 2)

    RECENT WORK: CEREAL MAGAZINE (PT 2)

    These days when I travel I tend to use blogs as my primary tour guides with guide books being my secondary source of information (oh and I should point out at this stage that I am a major research geek when it comes to travel... not joking... I'm all about the detail). I love first hand knowledge of where the good stuff really is, and you can't beat someone who actually lives in an area or at least knows it really well. This brings me to Cereal mag whose focus on travel reminds me of those personal recommendations I love so much. They always have real insider tips of where to go and what to see and seem to have the ability to delve a little deeper to present the reader with a tailored experience of one place or another, rather than just a general overview. It's all in the detail people, I'm telling you!
    Recently I collaborated on another of their blog posts - this one being about a shop in Seoul called Your Mind. (Can we just take a moment to appreciate what a great name that is?... Ok. Are we done? Ok, let's move on.) It sounds like the most perfect shop full of amazing pieces that I would probably haul back in a spare suitcase I'd consequently had to buy in order to fit it all in.
    Your Mind in Cereal's words: "A haven for indie magazines, artsy books, cool stationery, records and the like, Your Mind in Seoul, Korea is a meticulously curated shop that you could easily lose yourself in, doting on say, a niche foodie title, or rifling through a selection of cards and CDs."
    Please check out the full post over on Cereal's blog, here . And while you're at it, have a great weekend, ok? Good.

  • BEAUTY IN MOTION

    BEAUTY IN MOTION

    . I came across these two videos independently of each other but felt they somehow belonged together.
    The first video is by Keaton Henson a 24 year old London based singer songwriter/artist whose debut album Dear came out last year. This particular video is called To Your Health which, aside from the music, features a stunning ballet performance. (I wish I knew her name, sorry). I love everything about this video from Henson's vocals right through to the hazy light spilling through the windows, not to mention the dancer and that dress! Henson's artwork is currently on display at his first solo exhibition Hithermost (until Saturday) at the Pertwee Anderson & Gold gallery in Soho. See more of his work here.
    The second video is quite simply the moon rising over New Zealand as captured by astrophotographer Mark Gee. But it's in REAL TIME, people. I KNOW! And as they say in this accompanying article: "...take another look at the video. This isn't a time-lapse. This is celestial movement happening at real, human speed." Beauty indeed.

    . .

  • Outdoors

    A few months ago, I spent a week living with a family who kindly offered to take me in when my then-residence was overrun by relatives, necessitating appropriation of every available sleeping space. So for a week I inhabited the second family's basement guest room.

    Living with anyone is an interesting and educational experience: you quickly get an honest and intimate portrait of who they are as people that is simply not possible any other way. It is rawer, realer, and sometimes drastically different than their social face. In their accustomed habitat, it is impossible for people to hide themselves. Everything from eating habits to leisure time to handling conflict is an open book to those with whom you share living quarters.

    This can be a good or a bad thing. The revelations range from the trivial (they eat a lot of sugary cereal) to the shocking (she's been viewing online dating profiles even though she has a boyfriend). Sometimes they can verge on the unbearable (she keeps using my things, leaving the window open in the freezing cold, and bossing me around about everything I do).

    Having lived or stayed with many different people, for differing periods of time, over the past several years, I've had plenty of up-front opportunity to avail myself of this education in humanity.

    But I digress.

    One of the things that surprised me the most about this family I stayed with was the leisure-time habits of their three young boys. Ranging in age from five to eleven, they came home from school every afternoon and promptly flopped down in front of the TV. Flicking it on, they lost themselves in rapt contemplation of kids' programs, movies, or video games until bedtime. Even things like eating or doing homework seemed to be viewed as interruptions to tube time: they'd reluctantly get up, quickly do the task assigned, and released, flop back down in front of the TV. Nearly every waking moment not taken up by absolutely necessary functions was devoted to the television. I don't mean they did nothing else with their leisure time: but their attention almost inevitably gravitated toward the TV at any given opportunity, like some kind of invisible but invincible pull of natural law. Even though the weather was nice, I never saw them play outside.

    I suppose the reason I was surprised was that it was so different from how my brothers and I grew up. One of the quirky policies of my family that I am thankful for (amid the many I am not), was the banning of television from our home. Even though it was done for reasons I would not necessarily agree with now, I am deeply grateful that it was because I'm convinced it contributed to our intellectual and physical development.

    Deprived of mindless entertainment, we were forced to turn to other occupations. Every waking moment not taken up by school was spent outdoors when the weather was fine. Joining up with our neighbourhood friends, we organized ourselves into teams to play the sport of the moment (football, baseball, basketball, dodgeball, road hockey, 4-square, obstacle courses, hide-and-seek, or one of many others depending on our mood). Our choice aligned itself with whatever big-league play was on at the time or simply our latest fad. Apart from sports, we often constructed imaginary play scenarios and acted them out together, or built legoes and created elaborate storylines for them.

    Even bad weather was no hindrance. On rainy days, we'd gather inside to play board games or just to talk. Winter presented us with unique possibilities: snow-fort construction, always striving for the biggest and the strongest. Snowball wars, divided up into teams and with rules about permitted materials (ice not included) and body zones to avoid (head shots didn't count). "Sledding" down the meager mounds we built from the snow shoveled off the driveway. When we couldn't feel our toes and fingers anymore, we'd collect inside to drink hot chocolate and play Monopoly.

    Darkness didn't stop us. On those endless summer nights of fireflies and seductive warmth we amused ourselves with a much trickier variant of hide-and-seek called "flashlight tag". The person who was "it" wielded the flashlight, and anyone caught in its beam was out. This necessitated much more inventive hiding and commando-like sneaking through the brush. Strategies included black clothing and face paint for camouflage.

    Sometimes, we'd just sit outside and look up at the stars and wonder at the universe.

    The nearby creek represented endless discovery. Despite the shallowness in summer, we waded into the deepest part to "swim", carefully avoiding the multitudinous crayfish and their tiny but vicious pinches. We constructed dams out of rocks and congratulated ourselves on the deepness of the pools that resulted. We caught crayfish, utilizing the most accurate method (carefully and slowly sneak a net or container down behind them, then scare them from the front, making them shoot backwards). We netted small fish: once I kept a stickleback for several months, until it slowly nibbled away at a tadpole I added for company. We went fishing, despite the fact that our most impressive catches rarely registered over six inches. We waded across and explored the woods on the other side, using a downed tree as a "fort". Once three of our most adventurous friends constructed a raft and floated down the creek into the pond, nearly capsizing themselves in the process and having to be rescued.

    We spent entire days hiking through the forest and swinging from the ponderous hairy vines that hung from the trees in a way that would have credited any tropical forest. We climbed trees: one in our yard was so perfect and climbed so frequently that I could swing up it as smoothly and as quickly as a monkey. One of my favorite spots to read was perched on the low branch of another tree. The giant willow with its two tire swings amused us endlessly until it came crashing down in an ill-fated windstorm.

    There were also more solitary pursuits. I was an inveterate collector and our yard represented collector's paradise. We theorized that it must have been a colonial dump due to the number of glass bottles, porcelain pieces, doll parts, and rusted iron implements we dug up. Once I found an African coin complete with a full-masted clipper on one side and a hole through the top (sadly lost long ago). I had a lovely collection of intact glass soft drinks bottles, including Pepsi and the famous Coke bottle. Ours was also an area rich in fossils, and my entire room turned into a display of my prized collection. Finally, fed up with dirt and stray rock bits, my mother made me move the impromptu museum into the basement: a transgression I have only recently forgiven her for since they all disappeared.

    Because we were solely responsible for coming up with our own entertainment, we were nearly unlimited in our inventiveness. My two younger brothers and I had to be forcibly pried away from spending every spare moment with our friends and outdoors. When we were (our parents were of the opinion that too much time with them wasn't good for us), we mourned. Nobody had to put us into a summer program, or convince us that physical activity was a good thing. We were lean and strong as whips and happily self-motivated. We got messy and dirty and cut and bruised and gloriously tired out. And we enjoyed it.

    When I look back, this part of my childhood seems like paradise: the writer's dream of a long, lazy, free existence owned by a gang of kids who roam at will.

    In a typical memory, it is summer. The sun has come up through the tree outside my window with the promise of another blazing-hot, perfect day. We will gather together with Casey, Mike, Dave, and if necessary, our wider circle of friends, and we'll plan what to do for the day. We'll pick teams, and go. All day long, until we are reluctantly called home for supper, we will play. We'll make plans to gather up again after supper. And we'll play again until our curfew cuts us off and we have to troop home, with assurances that we'll do it all again tomorrow.

    I never thought I was old enough for this kind of nostalgia. But when I compare our healthy lifestyle with the children who spend most of their time in front of a computer or a TV, I feel very lucky indeed. We were fierce and wild and untameable, but mostly innocent, and we had lots of fun. Thanks to my parents, for one choice well made.

  • Jobless in New Hampshire

    So, I'm without a job. Yet again. The temporary job I had ended just before Christmas last year, just before I took off for a week with my family and spent like there was no tomorrow taking people out and things like that. Because? You only see your family once in a while.

    I sort of half-expected that I'd come back and somehow go walking straight into a job, that I wouldn't be jobless for a month again and have no viable prospect on the horizon. I have an extremely zealous and over-enthusiastic lady working for me at one of my many staff agencies, who gushed, "I can't believe I don't have you working yet!" yesterday when she called me about yet another possibility. I can't believe it either, but it's ok with me, although the bank account has dipped close to zero more than once and is there again. I'm learning how to trust, though it's a rather unpleasant feeling at times when you don't have a clue how you're going to pay your rent in two days.

    But all that given, it's a funny period of time: I think I will probably be moving back to Canada soon, though I don't know exactly when; I need to be working until that time to cover my expenses, though I can't take a permanent job; and even temp jobs seem scarce these days. I'm waiting for a background check at another agency, and once that's completed, in TWO WEEKS, I can, if I wish, take a mind-numbing and low-paying data entry job at a large local insurance provider. Which I will. If I have to.

    So, I'm learning to trust. I've abandoned myself onto God and I know that he has to take care of me. So I don't worry. Not really. Not that I don't think about it. But it's out of my control. So I wait...and do what I can, in the meantime.

    I wish sometimes that life would just fall into place, that things would just happen, that everything would be smooth and normal and reasonable like some people's lives. But mine isn't like that! I seem to have drawn the most unpredictable and unsettled one that I know. But that's ok; I'm learning to surf the waves and live with the adventure. Even if that means close to zero in the bank account on a regular basis. Even if that means no job quite often, and not knowing what country I'll be living in in six months. Even that.

  • Canada

    Yesterday I heard from my immigration lawyer that Citizenship and Immigration Canada is requesting a medical exam.

    My application to immigrate to Canada was submitted a year and a half ago. During that time, I moved to the States, adjusted to a totally new and different place, lived in six different houses, had three jobs, suffered severe depression, went through a whirlwind romance and heartrending breakup, and got healed by God. I've been knit into the joyous and glorious dance that is my church, and ultimately, the kingdom of God. I've come to love people here and form good friendships, some of which I hope will last a lifetime. I've learned to appreciate the unique beauty of the New England seacoast. I will miss it here, in many ways, if I go back to Canada.

    Apparently, once a medical exam is requested, you are all but in. CIC only requires medicals of those they have intent of accepting; with no other problems on the application, a clear medical is a green light. Only if I exhibit some severe mental or physical condition or communicable disease requiring hospitalization and dependence on social services, with unlikelihood of being self-supporting, will they refuse me. Apparently.

    I confess I am divided, with the heaving thoughts and emotions associated with such a big step. When I first moved here, all I thought about was going back to Canada. I strained toward the day when I could return and resume "normal life". More recently, the connections I've formed here have caused such an attachment that I've wanted not to go back to Canada, but to stay here, remain a part of the church, keep up with the relationships I have, be a part of what's going on. I thought that if I was accepted, there'd be a long and difficult decision about whether to stay or to go.

    But when the news came yesterday an exultant flood of joy welled up in me that I couldn't suppress and didn't expect. "Canada! Canada!" was all I thought. The country I lived in for six years, came to love, became a part of, now could be mine! The city I lived and played and worked and studied and loved in, Toronto, could be my home again. The multiplicity and diversity of the ethnic makeup, the bustle of the city, the multitude of opportunities and the palette of crazy life on every corner: mine to inhabit. For real this time. As a resident. Belonging.

    All my reasons for staying here in a moment were torn away and I realized: there's nothing here I can't leave. No defining ties. Sure, there are lots of people I love. There's a fantastic church, the best I've ever been a part of, a leadership team I'm proud to support and exciting things that are happening.

    But when I gave my life to God, I meant it, and, as someone in our church likes to say, he took it. It's not mine to direct. It's his. And I sense he's saying, "Go."

    It will mean another rending. It will mean another ripping up of little roots that cling to the soil, leaving bits of me behind. It will mean the hardship of adjusting, once again, even to a familiar environment. It will mean the pain of missing what I have here. It will mean relationships which will have to be maintained long distance, and people I can no longer drop in to see once a week.

    But can I not do it? No. I heard God whisper to me, "Don't ever say you can't do anything I've called you to." And I believe it. And I know, if he wants me to move back to Canada, that he's got greater things there for me.

    But this place, will always be a part of me. It will always have my heart.

    I'm so thankful, as I was thinking last night during worship at homegroup, surrounded by some of the most precious people in my life: this life is so temporary. The rendings, the partings, the pain and the sorrow, are only for such a short time. We will be together again for eternity, united where no death, no move, no animosity or hardship, will ever part us again. United around the one who makes us one, the reason for our being: Jesus. And it will be forever.

    So that in mind, I can do this. Yes, it will be hard. But I can never say no. It's not my life. On to the next adventure.

  • So, I got into a bit of trouble today with Homeland Security

    I've heard about photographers getting into trouble for photographing buildings and other public spaces under the Homeland Security Act. Some have debated the actual legality of this. I always wondered if it would ever happen to me. Well, today, it did.

    About two or three miles down the road from where I live is a spectacular power station. Apocalyptic buildings, a railroad track running into it, steel structures, towers, multiple lines—the works. I'd often thought while running past it what a wonderful photo opportunity it would make, particularly at sunset as it's silhouetted by the gorgeous colours of the sky.

    Today, boredom (due to lack of a job, again), looking through some of my old film scans, and a brilliant sunlight combined to hatch a plan. I'd buy some colour film and take my lovely old Canon AE-1 out for a long-overdue expedition to the power station and shoot in the hour or so before sunset. I was a little wary of shooting in the area, realizing that I might get into trouble, but as there were no signs up forbidding photographs, I figured that I could always plead ignorance.

    So the plan was executed; I bought the film, headed out, and got several shots which hopefully will be as fantastic as the viewfinder promised. I worked my way down the road, shooting various vantage points as I went, all the time half-expecting some public service employee to zoom out in one of their official trucks, bark at me, and confiscate my camera.

    Sure enough, I'd gotten to the point at which I couldn't go any further without trespassing, when a grumpy gray-haired woman guarding the gate shouted, "You're not allowed to take photographs." Figuring my time was up, I shot one more and started walking back to my car. I'd gotten all the shots I wanted anyway.

    As I walked back down the road, a car approached, slowed, and pulled over to the side of the road. A big, pleasant-looking man in a green uniform got out.

    "Hello!"

    "Hello."

    "I'm sorry, but you're not allowed to take photographs of the station. Homeland Security and the Coast Guard regulations. You can shoot down the road and that way, but I'm going to have to ask you not to take any photographs past this point." He was kind and almost apologetic, touching my arm placatingly at one point as he spoke.

    "I'm sorry, I didn't know, I won't do it again," I said sincerely. It wasn't really a lie; I'd already gotten the photographs I wanted and had no need to go back.

    "I'm going to have to get your name," he continued, pulling a piece of paper and a pen out of his pocket.

    "What are you going to use it for?" I asked warily.

    "I have to write a report," he replied. "Don't worry, we're not going to use it for anything but that. I have to show it to PSNH, and they're the only ones who are going to see it."

    I've never been tempted so strongly to tell a lie in a long time. But I told him the truth, and watched as he scrawled it in faint pen lines on the graph-lined paper.

    "OK, you're all set, just don't take any photos here anymore," he said as he went to leave.

    I babbled apologetically, "It's just an art thing, I didn't mean any harm by it, I promise I won't do it again." All of which is the truth.

    "It's OK, don't worry, just don't do it again."

    He left and drove off, but not without driving by my car, turning around, and driving past it again. Getting the license plate number, maybe? Oh, well, I won't be back there again taking photos. I just have to hope the ones I got today will be good enough that I'm not tempted.

    But I'm left wondering about the actual legality of forbidding people to take photographs of public places, particularly when no warning signs to the effect are posted. Maybe I'm going to have to look that up...

  • One year later

    This is something I wrote on New Year's Day, 2006. I found it this new year, and could not believe what a difference a year has made. I could not write this anymore. I post it here just to show what my life and my thinking was like a year ago, what it was for years, and how profoundly changed it is now. This was not written for publication, obviously, but since I'm not living it anymore I can publish it without fear:



    I’m sitting here alone, in my rented room, high on the second floor of the house. My housemate and her guests were gone all afternoon and came back in a whirl of snowy laughter and left again just as quickly. I’m eating my not-too-bad packaged pad thai, cooked up for my evening meal. I feel as if I’ve spent the whole day cooking, and cleaning up afterward. Well, that’s a bit of an exaggeration. A significant portion of it more than usual, at least. . .

    Alone. I’ve been alone all day, since coming home from church. I left early. It’s to be questioned if I really wasn’t alone there either. I went, took in the service, talked to a few people and said the expected “happy new years”. The profound sense of not belonging, not fitting in, finally became overwhelming enough to make me walk out, long before the social hour afterward ended.

    The service was jubilant. The church was celebrating those who’d come to Christ in the previous year, and showed a video with highlights of 2005. The worship was exuberant, excited, and many people were dancing uninhibitedly, clearly enjoying God. I watched, the acute pain of feeling like an outsider in the midst of the celebration overridden in moments, but coming back with twisting sharpness just as inevitably. I watched with a smile on my face as Russell and his brother jumped, whirled, and clapped with fists raised in the air, totally abandoned to God’s worship at the front of the church, completely unconscious of what anybody thought. I watched as Megan worshipped God with arms spread outward and a smile of pure joy on her face. I watched as Seth received prayer from a group so large they were jockeying for position to lay hands on him. His hands were upheld and a peaceful smile of bliss was on his face as he received from God. How God must love that, I thought, and the whipping pain of realizing, “I’m not like that,” hit sharp as a fist. Why can’t I be like that? I wonder. How do some people sustain that? Why do some people have such tender hearts? Why do they have no problem allowing God to penetrate them? Why do they so easily bear fruit when I don’t? Hidden and shut away in loneliness and pain, I weep silently and nobody sees. I cry out to God but it seems to make no difference. Hidden from my sight, any prayers for help seem to be met with answers that cause only more pain and don’t bring the solution. Why, I wonder? Why?

    And I know the answer is nothing. I don’t know what the answer is. I bear this pain with a silent grimace and cries inside too stifled to be heard or even felt. I buckle under my pain and settle for enduring it because it seems no help is to be found, no answer is to be had, no solution is at hand. Wretched and hopeless endurance of what I feel that I cannot endure is my life. No amount of prayer, no amount of prophecy, no amount of “inner healing” seems to make a difference. I know that the problem lies with my stubborn will and my refusing to allow God in. But even realizing that makes no difference. I can’t overcome it.

    I live in pain. My days are spent in misery. I am eaten up with loneliness, with the longing for someone to see me inside as I am and care. I wish that someone could help me. I fear utter abandonment, total loneliness. My social encounters are meaningless and bored. I can’t recall the last real or memorable conversation I had with anyone. Glib exchanges focus on appearing as normal and happy as possible. Never do they dip beneath the surface because my highest value is self-preservation, my worst fear being found out. I keep polite conversations as short as possible, to minimize the length of time I have to make the effort to pretend. I hate parties, groups of people, and conversations where people ask about myself. Which is most of them, since all of us are polite enough to play that game.

    Whatever. Even writing this provides no catharsis. I will go to bed alone, in sodden and sullen pain, and wake up in the morning, and go to work at my meaningless job, and come home and go through the routines of eating and cleaning and checking email and talking on the phone and getting ready for bed and going to bed and I’ll get up again the next morning and do it all the same. No light breaks into this darkness, no respite from the pain. Where this will go or I will go nobody knows. Stay tuned.



    When I read this now, my only reaction is profound and absolute gratitude to Jesus. He broke in. He changed everything. That's the answer to anyone who wonders why I, or anyone else, would want to live for him?

  • Library card

    I have just become a fully-fledged member of my new community.

    Last week, I moved from the farm into a room in a house in the nearest Big Town. Which, after the city of Toronto, seems like a small town, but to my amusement residents here insist on calling "the city".

    However, part of residing once again in a somewhat more urban setting is the greater availability of amenities. The first I determined to take advantage of, after the supermarket, was the public library. With minimal investigation I happily discovered it is within reasonable walking distance of my house. So yesterday, armed with proof of residence (signed lease agreement) and photo ID (drivers license), I made a trip there over lunch hour. For the handing over of my documents and the filling out of a brief form with name and address, I received a spiffy new keychain library card. Just like that.

    I am also now the proud possessor, for two weeks, of Tutankhamen and the Golden Age of the Pharaohs, complete with tantalizing amounts of informative text and photographs.

    Libraries have to be one of the most incredibly amazing institutions of the civilized world. For minimal or zero fee, you have access to troves of the most wonderful substance on Earth: books. Freely yours is the most ancient and modern art, literature, knowledge, and thought, ranging from the sublime to the odd. Somewhere in those shelves is a book, or a video or DVD or tape, on any subject your heart desires, or a masterful work of fiction or poetry that may change your life forever. I hope heaven has a library.

    Libraries are the fabric of vast swathes of memory from my childhood. From a very early age I can remember my mother shepherding us three, my brothers and I, to the local library, from whence we'd return with stacks of picture books. I can still see in vivid detail its interior and layout and even recall its smell. It's always sunny in those memories of the library.

    We moved when I was eight, and the new library was driving distance away. Still regularly we'd make our pilgrimages to select suitable quantities of reading material for the next two weeks. Scanning the shelves was an art form for me, specific qualifications regarding age, genre and authorship my guidelines, only rarely overstepped. The classics were my swimming pool, a pool which rapidly grew narrower and narrower as I nearly exhausted the possibilities of our small local collection. Enormous numbers, twenty or thirty at a time, were required to keep me in reading, never failing to elicit gasps and tongue-clucks of astonishment from the librarians. Staggering with them to the desk, the car, and home was hazardous: aching arms and spills or near-spills of the precarious piles of books were a price I frequently paid for my voracious literary appetite.

    But that quantity of printed word was necessary to keep me satiated till the next library trip. From the moment I arrived home, I shut myself in my room and was lost to the world. Libraries, and the books they contained, were my passport to hidden lands of adventure. I'd travel with Rudyard Kipling to India, or Miguel Cervantes to Spain, or Dickens to nineteenth-century England. I became Nancy Drew and Miss Marple. I was secretly certain that the fantasies of Mary Poppins or Alice in Wonderland were possibilities, and could sometimes be found looking for Borrowers. For days after reading a particularly impressive work, I lived it in my imagination. My vocabulary reflected it and I'm certain that from an outside perspective I could reasonably have been thought to be rather odd.

    But books, and their characters, were my friends and companions during years when I had none. The worlds of the March sisters or the Pevensie children seemed far more appealing than my own dreary and circumscribed existence. They encountered adventure as regularly as afternoon tea, whereas my world went on depressingly and often horribly the same. Following them into their escapades allowed me to plunge into an alternate mindscape for at least the length of time the pages lasted, and emerge captivated and somewhat distracted.

    It also inspired me to attempts at emulation. In style deliberately imitatory of my favourite authors, I could often be found banging out some promising nonsense on the ancient typewriter which was one of my prize possessions, or later on, the computer.

    I learned almost everything from books. Geography, vocabulary, grammar, spelling, history—and the reams of widely varied and mainly useless triva which I seem to have an endless capacity for retaining, I owe mainly to reading. I can still recall a scientific study I read at the age of seven which demonstrated that people slept better while wearing wool socks than barefoot. It's a fact only occasionally useful and not one that generally enlivens social conversations. However, I'm sure I'm a richer person for all that I've absorbed, if only in the capacity for mental speculation.

    I never lost my fascination with the printed word and quantities of information. Real life—college and work—diverted the flow in other directions and truncated the possibility of limitless hours spent with books. The internet soon became my primary resource. But the internet, useful as it is, can never replace, either in quantity, quality, or sheer pleasurableness, the experience of sitting down to enjoy a Good Book.

    And I plan to do just that. One of the odd and unexpected side-benefits of finding myself in a new place, with few friends, and often too much spare time on my hands, is the opportunity to read again. Now that I have my library card, and a library just down the road, a world of adventure and learning awaits me once more. You'll find me there, often.

  • Christmas 2006

    On the road for seven hours, sliding through radio stations, the scanner rapidly flipping through frequencies for minutes at a time during long lonely mountain stretches, every once in a while popping alive with a blast of country or classic rock, startling me out of my daydreaming with a jump. Rain lashes down, turning the road into a steaming muck of mist thrown up by slashing tires. I slide by slower drivers. The serious speeders slide by me. A fellow driver honks and throws me the finger when I cut him off. I pray intermittently and fall into deep, pensive thinking in between. I stop only once, for fifteen short minutes. Finally, I arrive at my exit and signal to turn off with gratitude. Another forty-five minutes, and I am home. I walk in with apprehension, bags on my arms. Greeted by my sister, who is going out with friends, and my mum, who is the only other one at home. I settle into the familiarity of the family home quietly, tucking away my bags and resting after the long journey.

    Christmas with my family this year was a blessing, a nearly tension- and confrontation-free time. Grace for my parents, melted heart at my father's sorrow-tautened face as he held me for a long time when I left, saying goodbye. Laughter and tears with my sister, deep conversation as I sought to touch her with the grace I've been given. Love for the wild one, the prodigal, my youngest sister. Enjoyment of my boisterous younger brother's exuberance with life, his study, his calling. Thankfulness that the other brother and his wife, whom I don't know well, could be with us.

    I caught up with several old friends. I rested. I experienced grace in the middle of difficulty. I thanked my God that he was still there. I exclaimed over the handmade quilt my mother proudly gave me for Christmas, her first, love in every stitch. I left more confident than ever that my family are in his hands.

    And I came back, thankful to be with my other family, the people I know and love and walk with Jesus with as we seek to live out his calling in community.

    How was your Christmas? I hope it was as good. Many blessings to all of you in the new year.

  • Dave

    Who is the most interesting person you've ever met?

    By far the most interesting person I've ever met is a friend of my ex-boyfriend's. We travelled to the town where he grew up, and Dave's house was a requisite stop. Of course his name wasn't Dave, but it will be for this story.

    Dave lived way out in the middle of nowhere, in a dump of a house placed in the midst of fields and trees and woods and ponds and streams. His kitchen bore an incredibly exquisite pattern of blue-and-white linoleum, almost like Persian art, from the 70s. I told him that I wanted to take his linoleum. Though worn in spots, it was glorious.

    When we arrived we were greeted by a fierce, barking, stiff-legged Chow dog who glared at us like he would like to take off our heads. Dave's friend Mike, who seemed to be perpetually there, showed off a nasty purple-and-red wound he'd received to the thigh from this dog. We walked a long circle around his chain.

    The dog was only the firstfruits of the menagerie. All over Dave's house, all over his yard, chained or cooped or caged or roaming free, were an astonishing number of animals. Groups of semi-feral bunnies hopped and scattered as we approached, disturbing their grazing on the lawn. Another dog and two or three cats permitted us to pet them. Baby quails huddled under a heat lamp in their sawdust-bedded cage. Tom turkeys and guinea hens stalked the grounds. A peacock perched high up in a tree. A long snake curled sleepily in its cage. Overwhelmed, I gave up trying to count the species or number of the hoard. It was like Isaiah’s vision of the peaceable kingdom.

    Dave himself was quite the character. Short and grey-bearded, with an almost perfectly round, swelling belly and long, hanging arms, he bore an uncanny resemblance to a gnome. In fact, he cheerfully informed us, that was his nickname. He wandered around shirtless, in only an aging pair of gray sweat-shorts and sneakers. He was undoubtedly the hairiest person I have ever seen. Great rugs of hair covered his shoulders, chest, and arms, blending in with the long gray beard that covered his face and the top of his chest. The beard crept over and obscured most of his face, like untrimmed ivy. He even had a tuft of hair sprouting from the end of his nose. None of this bothered Dave. He was one of the most laid-back characters I have ever encountered.

    Dave hospitably welcomed us and offered us beer. Beer, marijuana, and home-made corncob tobacco pipes seemed to be the main occupations of the house. Dave and his friend Mike drank can after can of Budweiser and deposited the empties into a bulging garbage bag in the kitchen. Dave showed us his system of smoking: he rotated through about four or five handmade corncob pipes, smoking one and then laying it on the end of the line, then smoking the one at the other end of the line. In this way he always had a cool pipe to start with.

    In a lone conversation with Dave when he took me upstairs to show me something, he earnestly extolled the virtues of marijuana and psychedelic mushrooms. “It’s natural,” he explained. “Plants. Perfectly natural. They’re good for you.”

    Despite Dave’s eccentricities, or perhaps entwined with them, he was obviously an intelligent person. He had or once had, I’m not sure which, a good job in the city involving computer engineering or programming. He was something of a lay inventor, describing to us his latest creation. He was generous, open-hearted, warm, accepting, and supremely laid-back, even when referring to his ex-wife, who’d left him for another man. His lone daughter, who with her boyfriend operated a tattoo parlour and who demonstrated their art all over her person, obviously adored him. One couldn’t help but like Dave, once one got over the astonishment of his surroundings, his physical person, and some of his habits. He was truly one of kindest and most intriguing people I’ve ever met.

    Entering and leaving Dave’s place felt almost like those stories where children accidentally stumble into a strange, alternate magical world, experience adventures, and come back to the real world. It was a time, space and reality warp, this crazy kingdom populated by dozens of animals and eccentric people, and ruled over by a gentle, hairy gnome who drank beer, smoked pot and homemade corncob pipes.

    So that was Dave. Who is the most interesting person you’ve ever met?



    Update: Happy Christmas to everybody who visits this blog! I'm off to visit the family for the week, so I will probably not be in Blogland for some time. Hope you all have a wonderful holiday.

  • The Nativity Story

    Yesterday I went to see The Nativity Story. Overall, I thought it was well done, and I'd give it about 3-1/2 out of 5 stars.

    The film had a very authentic feel to it, from the costumes to the set to the background activities taking place. It "felt" like a fairly accurate portrait of Judea two millenia ago. Apparently extensive research went into making it as authentic as possible, and it paid off, really enhancing the experience of the movie. Some of the filmography was incredibly beautiful, particularly the shots of Mary and Joseph travelling by the Sea of Galilee or the Wise Men trekking through the desert.

    Quite a lot of "extraneous" material was added to "pad out" the story to the proportions necessary for a feature film. The "adding" was generally tastefully done, with nothing that detracted from the story (with possibly one or two exceptions, which I'll cover later on).

    The filmmakers did a good job casting actors from a variety of ethnic backgrounds who all managed to look suitably dark-haired and dark-skinned Middle Eastern. The accented English they employed was designed to mimic the effect of speaking Aramaic, and while this could have been distracting, managed to be rather effective (as compared to Mel Gibson's subtitles in The Passion).

    The film really focusses on the human element of the story. We tend to dwell on the miraculous (at least I do) and pass over the fact that this happened to real people in real time with real situations and real emotions. Some things it brought home to me: the brutal Roman oppression of the Israelites; their longing for the Messiah; the relationship between Mary and Joseph; the shame they must have suffered when Mary was found to be pregnant outside of wedlock and Joseph chose to marry her anyway. The cruelty of Herod was well-portrayed and emphasized the fact that the "opposition" was trying to destroy the Son of God from his very birth.

    The most touching moments of the film (for me) were the portrayal of Jesus' actual birth, and the shepherds coming to kneel before the manger. I have to confess that I cried. The fact of God entering human time and space through a teenager's body and the bloody, painful, raw experience of actual birth was astounding. He really became one of us in every way. As the shepherds knelt, I experienced a moment of awe. Their worship of someone who was nothing more than a newborn baby is astounding evidence, to me, that God revealed to them who he was.

    Despite the realism, some elements seem slightly out of place. One scene in particular seemed a little forced: Mary and Joseph are fording a stream, with Mary on their donkey. As they cross, a snake swims by. The donkey spooks and Mary is swept off and barely saved by Joseph. Perhaps, a la The Passion where Jesus stomps on the head of a snake, this is meant to depict the battle between the snake and the offspring of the woman foretold in Genesis 3:15, but it seemed rather out of place.

    Some bits of the film are rather anachronistic and/or a result of the "editing" necessary to make a coherent whole. For example, the wise men show up at the stable, rather than about two years later as most scholars believe. As they and their camels kneel on the right, and the shepherds and their lambs kneel on the left of the rock cave stable, the star shines down onto the baby and the camera pans out to show us the classic Nativity scene of modern portrayals. I rather wish the film had gone for a bit more authenticity at this point and challenged our cliched conceptions rather than confirming them.

    Other essential elements of the story were missed out: Mary's joyful song of worship, known as the Magnificat; the multitude of angels serenading the shepherds when the birth was announced.

    As for the acting, I was disappointed in the portrayal of Mary. As the film begins, she is a slightly sullen, rebellious, typically modern teenager who clashes a bit with her parents. As it progresses, she gradually and gracefully accepts her role, but I never got the impression that it was with the wholeheartedness and joy that the Bible portrays. The Mary of the Magnificat was clearly a mature, faithful, humble and robust believer who considered it the highest possible honour to be the mother of the Messiah, as any Jewish woman of her age would. The Mary of the film is accepting, but it almost seems like something that is thrust upon her and she has to learn to deal with rather than something she is fully cooperative with. Perhaps that is the effect the filmmakers were aiming for—and it certainly enhances the "human" element—but I believe that a look at the nativity story of the Bible would show us something far different.

    In addition, Keisha Castle-Hughes' acting was somewhat wooden and unemotional; I never felt like I got to "know" Mary as a person. She was silent and stoic; again, perhaps that was the effect aimed for, but I was disappointed.

    In contrast, the portrayal of Joseph (Oscar Isaac) was excellent. He came across as a warm, well-rounded, emotionally integrated man who fully interacted with his unusual circumstances. In addition, he was good, honest, faithful, fair, hard-working, self-sacrificing and merciful; genuinely loved Mary and was fully prepared to take her son as his own. By the end of the film, I wanted to marry him myself! Joseph definitely shone as the star of this story.

    In conclusion: this film focuses our attention on an often-neglected part of Jesus' story and is a valuable and entertaining visual. Go and see it, but make sure to read Luke 1-2 when you're finished to get the original story.

  • Homespun Christmas

    Homespun Christmas

    Greetings to all my wonderful blogging friends and family!
    I've been having so much fun adding festive Christmas touches to my home.
    I hope you'll come join me in the celebration!

    Sleigh bells ring...
    Are you listening?

    Each Christmas my little red sleigh sits happily in my kitchen.
    I love adding homespun items in hopes of filling it to the brim.
    Evergreens,
    Small pillows,
    quilted stuffies,
    wooden toys,
    patriotic touches,
    pretty red and green ribbons
    and a chubby quilted Santa...
    They all make the season so bright and colorful.

    "Gather Round the Christmas Tree"
    Do you see my shy little kitty, Abigail?
    She waited to come down and investigate until after I had left the room.

    When I decorate, my kitty, Zoey is always right in the middle of things.
    She gets so excited with all the activity and always finds a spot to claim as her very own.

    I love Teddy Bears!
    Over the years my family and friends have given me each one of these little darlings.
    Can you tell I love all things patriotic?
    I was a Navy wife for many years and always find myself favoring the colors red, white and blue.

    My mischievous Zoey is always looking for places to hide.
    When I discovered her she startled me!
    This adorable scene reminds me of one from the movie "E.T."
    "E.T...Phone Home!"

    Thank you for stopping by and sharing this wonderful season with me. Around the world people are celebrating this glorious time of year. I pray that you have a blessed Christmas as you celebrate The Birthday of a King Messiah Lord Savior Redeemer

    Blessings and A Merry Christmas! Carolynn xoxo "Behold, the virgin shall be with child,and bear a Son, andthey shall call His nameImmanuel,which is translatedGod with us."Matthew 1:23

    Oh, My Goodness! Have you seen Meri's giveaway? It's absolutely wonderful.If you would like to be included in her drawing you will want to pop inand say hello!www.imagimeris.blogspot.com

    I'm linking to all my favorite blog parties and giveaways this coming week.I hope you will stop by my side bar and visit with each lovely blog.

  • Temple

    I was worshipping the other night all by myself in my room, and I asked the Holy Spirit to come. As I did, it struck me:

    The Holy Spirit I ask to come when I'm worshipping alone, or whom we ask to come when we're worshipping corporately, is the same God who dwelt in the Holy of Holies in the Temple of the Old Testament. The high priest was the only one who could go in there without being killed, and even he could only do so once a year, after all the appropriate sacrifices and rituals had been made, or he would die.

    This is the same God whose presence came on Mt. Sinai in such a terrifying way that the people begged God not to speak to them anymore, and who told them that if even an animal touched the mountain, it would die.

    This is the God whom I invite into my body and into my presence when I worship.

    And it's safe. It's ok. And he comes. Every time.

    Because Jesus broke down the veil. Because he paid the price. Because he made a way. And now, by this same Spirit we have access to the Father. His presence. His love. His power. Me, a little blue-jeans-clad girl worshipping by herself in her room, can enjoy this Spirit freely without price and no fear.

    I love the New Testament.

  • Body Worlds

    Yesterday I went to see Gunther von Hagen's Body Worlds 2 exhibit at the Boston Museum of Science. To say it was fantastic, incredible, amazing, doesn't do it justice. It has to be seen.

    von Hagens' method of "plastination", whereby he slowly replaces bodily fluids with liquid polymers, preserves whole bodies or individual organs while retaining a remarkably life-like appearance. The result is a fascinating peek inside human anatomy. The accompanying audio guide, well-worth the extra fee, provides more detailed information.

    The most compelling part of the exhibit is without a doubt the entire bodies, devoid of their skin and arranged in life-like poses. They offer an unparalleled glimpse of the skeletal, nervous, and muscular structures and how these systems interact. In addition, the internal organs are arranged separately in roughly anatomical order, from the brain to the reproductives, with commentary on each. Often a diseased organ is compared with a normal one to illustrate malfunctions such as smoker's lung or cirrhosis.

    One of the statements at the end of the exhibit was to the effect that it would cause people to reflect on religious and philosophical questions, no matter what their beliefs. That was certainly the case for me. My impressions on the exhibit, in no particular order:

    1. I now feel like I have a far greater understanding or at least appreciation of anatomy than I did in high school. That alone was worth the price.

    2. The human body is such an intricately yet perfectly designed system. Just a description of the kneecap and the way it is held in place by a muscular support system, encased in a capsule, and shielded by cartilage to protect its role as the most-stressed joint in the body, is enough to convince me. Let alone the workings of the inner ear and how tiny delicate bones, fluids, and hairs interact to turn sound waves into electrical impulses that the brain then decodes and understands.

    3. How could anybody think this was a fluke of chance?

    4. Worship. Of a God so amazing who designed it all so perfectly.

    5. The reality of mortality. Probably most of the mostly young, high-school age crowd at the exhibit rarely if ever had given a thought to the fact that they'd end up like these corpses one day. Talk about death was interwoven throughout the exhibit, from the interviews with the creator on the audio guide, to the printed wall hangings. It's not something that allows that question to remain unconsidered—all of the exhibits were real people. Unfortunately the prevailing philosophy seemed to be that "with death, we cease existence." It's a grim outlook with little hope.

    6. That I am so thankful that I do have hope for life beyond death. My body isn't all there is, this life on earth isn't all there is, I have a certain future because of Jesus. 'Nuff said.

    7. That my time in this body is all I have before eternity—and how I live it matters. I won't get another chance. I want to make it count for God as much as I can, and not live it for myself. I don't want to end up like the rich but foolish man Jesus described, thinking this is all there is.

    Anyway, those are just my thoughts—but I'd encourage anyone who has the opportunity to see it for yourself. Just be sure you're not squeamish before you go—it's not for the faint of heart.

  • Faces

    Have you ever noticed that some people have fascinating faces? They may not be necessarily beautiful or handsome, but something about their faces draws you to look and look and keep on looking. I find this on the rare occasion with some people, and while sometimes they are beautiful, often they are not. I wonder if this "interestingness" can be quantified, and if anyone else has noticed it.

  • "Quiverfull"

    This morning I came across an article via Fark.com titled "Evangelical Group's Motto: Breed to Succeed."

    It's a long article, but for those who aren't interested enough to read it in full, here's a brief digest: a small but growing number of conservative evangelicals, mainly in the United States, subscribe to the belief that a married woman's main function is to bear children. They oppose all forms of birth control, believing that it's "obedience to God" to allow nature to take its course, and, in their view, to allow God to determine how many children they have. Logically, he will then take care of them financially, because if he gives them, he has to provide. Women stay home and take care of the children, including homeschooling, while men are the sole breadwinners. Patriarchalism is a given, with the man the head of the home.

    The reasoning behind this? Well, the more children Christians have, the more Christians there will be. Conservative (Republican) voters will be raised up, outnumbering liberals who are disobedient to the God-given mandate to reproduce. A Christian army will be launched who will vote red, fight the culture wars, and take the mission to the next generation. America will once again return to its "roots" and become the godly nation it was intended to be. The growing threat of Muslims, who often have large families, is a stimulus.

    This movement is called "Quiverfull", from Psalm 127, which reads in part, "Sons are a heritage from the LORD, children a reward from him. Like arrows in the hands of a warrior are sons born in one's youth. Blessed is the man whose quiver is full of them."

    This all sounds eerily familiar to me. That's because I grew up steeped in this reasoning, and I watched its effect on not only my family but countless others in our homeschool group and circle of friends who subscribed to this philosophy.

    My parents had five children and homeschooled. We were among the smaller families in our group—10 or 14 children was not unknown. Large extended vans with stacking-doll-like gradations of the same physical type spilling out were common. My parents' best friends were a couple, the weary wife-half of which produced a child about every year for as long as I knew them. Homeschooling was a given: if you were righteous you didn't expose your kids to the evils of the godless public school system. You taught them at home where you were free to indoctrinate them as you chose. The assumption was that if you raised them right and sheltered them enough, they'd turn out believing what you believe.

    Patriarchalism was also the norm. Men were the heads of their homes, and depending on the man, this could be a good thing or a very bad thing. Taken to its extreme, some men, my father among them, believed this conferred the right to do whatever they pleased to their wives and children—including ordering them around, shouting at them, and beating them. The men worked outside the home, and no matter how financially or materially deprived the family was, the wife never, ever did.

    Of course this was all backed up by certain well-worn verses from the Bible, interpreted by the men, and wives believed their duty was to submit.

    But I'm not interested in writing a story about my experiences. I'm more interested in explaining why I believe this mentality to be so sadly wrong. I don't write with any rancour against the people who believe this; I'm well-familiar with the reasoning and, at one time, would have swallowed it myself to some extent. However, I believe it to be a radically flawed system based on a very faulty understanding of the Scriptures, and that's why I don't subscribe to it and never will.

    Before I begin, a caveat: I realize with any response like this there's a danger of stereotyping or lumping all people in a certain belief system together. I certainly don't believe all "Quiverfull" families are headed by abusive men; or that they're all militant, hyper-legalistic, or naive. I'm sure there are many if not most who are gracious, well-intentioned, and lovely people. However, I do believe the reasoning itself to be misguided at best; and it's that which I'll attempt to address.

    The belief that Christian families are required to have as many children as possible and to leave birth control "up to God" is an Old Testament one. In Genesis, Adam and Eve were commanded to "Be fruitful and increase in number; fill the earth and subdue it" (Genesis 1:28). Abraham was told that he would be the father of nations and his offspring would be as numerous as the stars of the sky (Genesis 15 & 17). Psalm 127, as quoted above, states that children are a blessing and implies that the more one has, the more blessed.

    In Old Testament Israel, that was true. The Jews were God's "chosen people" out of all the nations of the world. To birth more ethnic Jews was literally to increase the number of God's people (outwardly speaking, at least). Added to this were the practical implications, not unique to Jews but common to every agriculturally-based society both ancient and modern, that the more children you had, the more labourers to work your fields and herd your flocks. Children were also the ultimate "old-age security", guaranteeing a future of provision when you were too old to take care of yourself.

    Barrennes was considered the ultimate curse. In Psalm 113:9, God is praised as the one who "settles the barren woman in her home as a happy mother of children." Barren wives such as Sarah (Abraham's wife), Leah (Jacob's wife) or Hannah (Samuel's mother) were grieved and deeply distressed by their failure to have children. In each case, God miraculously intervened and gave these women a child, sparing them a lifetime of dishonour. Often, however (as with Sarah and Leah), the ancient custom of giving the husband a female bondservant to bear him a child on the wife's behalf was practiced. This was seen as a better alternative than no children at all.

    The Jews were not unique in these beliefs and practices. However, one factor unique to the Jews was that the Messiah was expected to be born to a Jewish woman. Every Jewish woman hoped that she could be the one to bear the Messiah, or at the very least, to further his line. She was doing her duty to her people (and possibly bringing great honour and blessing upon herself) through childbirth.

    However, all of this radically changes with the New Testament. What was implicitly stated throughout the OT is now made explicit: that membership in the true people of God is no longer tied to ethnicity, but belongs to those who repent and have faith (e.g., John the Baptist's preaching: Matthew 3:9-10). In fact, we're even told that all along this has been the case: not everyone who was born an Israelite was a true child of God, but only those who had the same faith as Abraham (Romans 2:28-29; 4:12). The Jews' idea that by the simple fact of membership to a physical nation they were guaranteed right status with God, was knocked on its head repeatedly by Jesus (e.g., Matthew 8:10-12).

    All of this may seem rather pedantic and irrelevant, particularly to those who don't claim a Christian faith; but it's central to the reasoning behind this modern-day movement.

    Going further in the New Testament, we nowhere find commands to Christians to "be fruitful and multiply" in a physical sense. We do find very clear and explicit commands to be fruitful and multiply in a spiritual sense. In the so-called "Great Commission" (and in other passages throughout the gospels), Jesus commands us to "go and make disciples of all nations" (Matthew 28:18-20). The people of God are now the church, those who receive the mysterious new birth by the Spirit, those who repent and cast all their faith on Jesus. This people grows not by physically reproducing, but as those who've experienced it go out and share it with others, teaching and proclaiming what Jesus taught, accompanied by physical demonstrations of his power. In this way, the kingdom extends.

    If, as "Quiverfull" advocates state, a Christian's main duty is to produce children to grow the kingdom of God, then why is Jesus, the Lord and Head of our faith, completely and totally silent on the subject? He blesses children (Matthew 19:13-15), but never commands us to bear them. Even on this occasion, he uses it to teach a spiritual lesson. One would think if childrearing was a main goal of his church, he would have said something about it somewhere. Something to the effect of, "Blessed are the fertile, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven." But there's nothing.

    When Jesus does mention offspring, it isn't with the kind of positive spin that the "Quiverfulls'" beliefs would indicate. A sample: "If anyone comes to me and does not hate his father and mother, his wife and children, his brothers and sisters—yes, even his own life—he cannot be my disciple." (Luke 14:25-27). Jesus is not talking about hatred in the sense that we normally understand it, but a willingness to put him first, above even our closest family, to the extent that we'll suffer their loss if obedience to him requires it. Surely we'd expect that given Jesus' very limited discussion of earthly families, he'd devote the time he did spend to ideals like having lots of children! Instead, when he does mention the subject, it's to tell us that even this area of our lives is to lie in subjection to him. Jesus is paramount, not procreation.

    As we move into Acts and follow the apostles' example, the pattern continues. They go out, preach the gospel, heal the sick, raise the dead, cast out demons. The church grows. No word in Peter or Paul's preaching about the duty to have kids. 3000 were saved in one day as a result of Peter's first sermon (Acts 2)! Pretty effective church growth strategy: it would take a long time to achieve those kinds of numbers through physical birth.

    Moving on to the rest of the New Testament, we find nothing, anywhere, commanding Christians to bear children, or to have as many as possible. There are brief commands to women to love their husbands and children and to care for them (Titus 2:4-5); commands to fathers about how to treat their children (Ephesians 6:4); and a command to Christian children to obey their parents (Ephesians 6:1). The New Testament does not direct but assumes that many if not most of the new believers come from families. The kingdom, this new way of life, has its bearing and effect on every aspect of life, including how one treats one's offspring. Family life is important. But considering the proportion of importance the "Quiverfull" adherents give it, there is remarkably little about it in the NT.

    Instead, the primary thrust of the New Testament, and most of its commands, is about how we are to treat one another in the church. The church is the family of God. Even single people and widows have their rightful place in this new community. Spiritual ties, our common Father God, our Lord Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit indwelling us, are stronger than physical ties. There are clear warnings to those who neglect their families (1 Timothy 5:8), but the main focus of the NT is the newly-created family of God, made up of Jews, Gentiles, men, women, young, old, married and single. This family is to love one another, care for one another, practice family life as commanded by Jesus, and grow the family by telling others.

    In summary, the method of growth for the kingdom of God is this: preach the gospel. Make disciples. Do the works of Jesus. This kingdom will affect how we treat our biological families, but the family of God is our primary allegiance.

    But outweighing it all for me, is one striking factor that I can't help but believe the "Quiverfulls" don't take into account: the simple fact that Jesus, our Lord and Master, was single. He didn't ever bear children (extra-biblical speculation like Dan Brown's The Da Vinci Code notwithstanding). Paul, the greatest apostle, author of most of the New Testament, was single. Not only that, both Jesus and Paul state explicitly that some will be called to singleness for the sake of the kingdom (Matthew 19:11-12 & 1 Corinthians 7:1-9). Paul even says that if one can accept it, singleness is a better option because it allows undivided devotion to the Lord (1 Cor 7:32-35)! So were Jesus and Paul, and single Christians today and throughout the ages, radically disobedient? Were they missing the purposes of God, not furthering the growth and cause of the church, by not having kids? What would all the churches Paul founded say? What would Christians throughout two millenia of church history, myself included, who have benefited from the fact that Paul was single and free to travel and risk his life to spread the gospel, say?

    I think I know. I know what I would say.

    There are questions I'd love to ask the Quiverfulls. Like, how can you assume that by having children you'll further the kingdom of God when membership in the kingdom is not by physical birth but spiritual? Can you assume that all of your children will be Christians just because you are? Because you "raise them right"? What if a majority of your children choose to rebel (as so many do), and live their own lifestyle? What if they grow up outwardly conforming but inwardly empty? What if they carry on your values but never know God? How tragic!

    What about single Christians? What about Christian couples who are infertile? Are they somehow disobedient to God? What about women whose lives will be endangered if they bear more children? Are they "rebellious" if they undergo tubal ligation? Or should they simply "trust God" and risk major health problems or death?

    How are you living Jesus' radical call to leave it all and follow him if your main goal is a steady job and a nice home life for your kids and you wouldn't even consider getting up and going to another nation to give the gospel, perhaps to people who have never heard? How can you justify having little to give because your limited income is stretched to its capacity by the needs of multiple kids? How do you explain the fact that no New Testament command exists to have children?

    What about adoption? If the main goal is to raise kids who will carry on your Christian faith, why not make room for those who otherwise wouldn't have a chance by not having so many of your own? Why not show mercy by giving family life and the privileges of education, culture, and health care to a poor child from a third-world country? Why not adopt a child from another ethnicity? If you're white, take in a black, Asian, or Latino child. Why not help those who are already born but destined to a lifetime of disadvantage, rather than producing so many of your own?

    Please understand I am not saying it is wrong to have children. I am not even saying it is wrong to have multiple children, if a particular couple feels that is their calling from God and they have the desire, energy, and resources to care for them. I can't help thinking it's excessive and unnecessary, but then, that's my personal opinion. What I am decrying is the notion that equates having lots of children and raising them in a particular way is somehow integral to the purposes of God and advances his kingdom. It's not and it doesn't. It misses the point of the New Testament entirely. It's trying to build a kingdom on earth, and well-intentioned as it may be, it's never going to happen. Not only that, a lot of the kids raised in these families (like myself, my siblings, and many others I know) are going to see the emptiness and fallacy behind this mentality and either reject Christianity entirely, or discover a Jesus whose kingdom is not of this world. Like I, I'm thankful, did.