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Rejection must be one of the most wounding experiences any human being can suffer. To be cast out by another human being, scorned, insulted, the possibility of a relationship spurned because somehow you are not good enough surely has to be the most painful emotion.

Rejection has a twin cousin, betrayal. Betrayal is the highest form of rejection: with the insidious twist that someone close to you, someone intimate with you, someone whom you believed loved you and cared for you, turns on you in hatred or abuse. The highest example is probably the spouse who cheats. It's worse than simple rejection because it carries with it the force of shock: I can't believe you're doing this to me, I thought you loved me, how could you treat me this way. It's a killer, emotionally and sometimes, literally.

All of us have experienced rejection in one form or another. Maybe it was on the playground, when we weren't chosen for the team. Or when the "cool" group at school wouldn't let us hang with them. Maybe our parents hated us or never thought we were good enough. My first conscious experience of rejection came as an eight-year-old at summer camp. A homeschooled oddity from a distinctly weird family, living in my own world because I had no group of peers to shape me, I was hated and ridiculed by the other girls. The entire week was an experience of rejection that left me wary of peer groups for years to come.

Later on, as a shy, awkward, depressed teenager, I felt rejected by those my own age whom I considered "cool". Painfully introverted and fearful, living in a small town where I didn't go to school, I had little opportunity to make friends. Boys were distinctly intimidating, though I'd hung out with them and played sports with them throughout most of my pre- and early-teen years. I felt ugly and unwanted, without the confidence to befriend others, though I longed for closeness.

But probably the deepest and ugliest form of rejection came from my father. A harsh, controlling and abusive man, he made me believe that I was worthless, never good enough to merit his approval, much less his love. He was distant and uninvolved part of the time, violently and irrationally angry the rest. I hated and feared him and at an age when I desperately longed for my father's love, his treatment closed my heart against him.

After I left home, for years this was put behind me. I was fortunate enough to fall in with Christians, go to a Christian college, be embraced by a warm and loving church (another story). But still I fenced my heart off from close involvement. I had few or no close friends to whom I divulged what was really going on inside me. The only person I trusted was the man who became my surrogate father, offering me the warmth and acceptance I'd always craved from my biological dad. I never allowed boys my own age to come too close. Although I had plenty of male friendships, whenever one showed signs of developing into something more, I put up the "No entry" signs so quickly that none of them had a chance. I was determined to protect myself, to keep my heart to myself so that I'd never hurt again. Close relationships, trust, meant pain, and I didn't want it.

But this summer, somehow, one of those boys managed to crash through those barriers. Do you believe in love at first sight? I felt a deep and instant connection to him, and somehow he slipped through. His confidence and attractiveness, coupled with reassurance that he loved me and wouldn't hurt me, intrigued my scarred and wounded heart enough to make me believe that maybe this was a chance. It's not that I didn't try to rebel against it; I did my best to push him away. But he persisted, and I believed him. More fool me? Maybe. But it was what in my heart of hearts I wanted, despite my resistance.

I know now it was meant to be. It was part of a greater purpose wielded by somebody far more powerful and more loving than that boy. He wanted to win my heart even more than that guy did, and was willing to do exactly what he had to do to accomplish it.

The relationship ended with the shock of betrayal. Hurt and astonished by something he did, and his refusal to apologize when confronted by it, I felt that I had no choice but to end it. I cried for days. Despite my certainty that I'd done the right thing, I called him a few days later to talk. I wanted to patch things up, I wanted to sort them out, I wanted to discuss getting back together. He didn't, didn't want to talk, finally became harsh and abusive and in one painful confrontation said words that still sting, told me he didn't even want to be friends and he never wanted to talk to me again.

I've written about it in earlier posts, but it had the effect of a verbal nuclear bomb. I don't give my heart easily, but when I do, I give it all, and despite the fact that I knew that we shouldn't be together, I still loved and cared for him. I'd hoped that if we couldn't be together as a couple, we could at least be friends. When somebody rejects that completely, and goes from vowing love to you to protesting hatred, cutting off the possibility of any kind of relationship, it's a vitriolic shock.

That episode got me to thinking. A lot. And ultimately it was used for a lot of good. But what it made me realize, which hit home with almost an equal force of shock as the event, was this:

Betrayal is probably the most painful of human emotions. But Jesus experienced it. One of his disciples, Judas, a man who'd followed and lived with him and served him and sat at his feet and apparently loved him, betrayed him. To death. Not only that, Peter, one of his closest friends and a member of the "inner three" of disciples, denied even knowing him in his final hour. Imagine being betrayed by a friend, given up to death, undergoing trial and torture, and yet another friend, one of your closest, denies acquaintance. Then Jesus went through the deepest darkness of rejection by his own Father as he carried the sins of the world. It must have been like acid thrown over his soul.

I realized that Jesus had shared in betrayal, and understood it, but not only that: I also realized that that is what I had done to him.

We're not used to thinking of God with emotions. We're not used to thinking of him as a person, who thinks and feels as we do. Much less are we used to thinking of our treatment of him as capable of affecting his emotions. Yet in the aftermath of my boyfriend's rejection, I understood: I had done the exact same thing to God.

I loved my boyfriend. I longed for relationship with him. I longed to patch up the problems, I longed to be close to him, I longed to make things right, and if we couldn't be together, at least to be friends. I genuinely wanted his welfare and hoped I could somehow be involved in his life.

But he wanted none of it. In fact, he ended up by hating me and pushing me out of his life altogether. He rejected even the possibility of a cordial relationship, wounding me deeply. None of my outreaches to him affected or changed his mind.

And I had done that to God. Finally, I understood.

God loved me. God longed for relationship with me. God kept on reaching out to me, showing me through people and circumstance his love for me. I knew he wanted to be close to me. I knew he wanted my surrender. I knew he wanted access to my heart. He wanted to befriend me, to know me intimately, for me to love him back and to long for his presence.

And I refused.

I shut God out. I did it consciously and willfully. I knew he was trying to break in and I kept him out. Due to past hurt, I didn't want to yield to protect myself. I hardened my heart and refused to give in to his advances. I hated him, accused him of ruining my life and deliberately hurting me, and I told him to "F--- off" more than once. I knew he was real, but I didn't want him.

After going through the same thing with my boyfriend, I finally understood. I understood the pain God must have felt as he reached out to me again and again and again and watched me slap his hand away every time.

I knew. And I never wanted to do it again.

He had loved me all along. Same as I loved that boy. He cared, and he never gave up.

I'm more thankful than I can ever be able to say. And he won, in the end.

In the interests of maintaining this blog, which I very much desire to do, I'm posting mostly to say that I'm still here. I apologize to those who read it regularly, few as they may be, for my long silence.

This weekend held another out-of-state trip. I moved again two days before that. This is my third week out of work, and only now am I starting to feel settled enough to really begin looking.

And, the relationship. It's still consuming much of my time and energy. As with any relationship, there are times of incredible joy. There have been a few moments where we couldn't stand the sight of each other. We're learning and growing and understanding one other better. We are deepening our trust and dependence on God to be at the centre of this relationship and of our hearts, because without him we're nothing. Only with him can this work, and it cannot be for the relationship's sake, but for his and our sake.

Some of the barriers around my heart toward God are coming down. It's a good thing, and I'm very happy that this catalyst has come along to cause that to happen, to make me realize how radically dependent I am on him and how desperately I cannot guard my heart against him any longer. I believe God has purposely begun an invasion, humanly spearheaded by this guy, into my heart. It's sneaky, but it has worked.

So. Again. I'm sorry to have no entertaining story, no deep thoughts, that yet again a blog post is consisting of nothing but my life. But there it is, that's it, and I hope that I'll be able to write again soon. Love to all those who are still reading...

It's curious, isn't it, how in the aftermath of the breakup of a relationship, there is a grief which is nearly the same as the grief at a death. Shock, denial, desperate sadness, horrific pain, numbness, loss—and eventually, with time, acceptance and moving on. The breakup of a relationship is compounded, in many cases, with the fact that it is still possible—or so one hopes, however improbably, to win them back. To make the case. To change everything that was wrong. To be sorry. For them to be sorry. For it somehow, someway, to work. To get back together and for everything to be all right.

It is a loss; in a sense, a death. The loss of a hope. The loss of a dream. The loss of a future. The loss of a friend. The loss of a lover. The loss of time enjoyed in another's company. The loss of all the little things that only lovers know. The loss of what most of us long for above all on earth, the affection and companionship of another similar to us yet opposite, the two shall become one.

That's what I'm going through right now. The relationship with my boyfriend ended swiftly and rather spectacularly nearly three weeks ago. Hence the lack of posting. Those who have gone through this, will know, that it tends to consume almost everything until there is nothing left.

With time, I've gained a healthier perspective. I knew then, and I know now, that it was the right thing to do. That no matter how much we loved each other, and I still love him, that it wouldn't work. That it is healthier for us to be apart. Much as I wish it wasn't so, and ask the futile "whys", that is the case.

I won't pretend it has been easy. There have been times of such darkness that I questioned my sanity, my ability to cope, to ever emerge. There may be such times again. But healthy doses of reality, with help from perceptive friends, and good resources on coping with breakup (try googling "relationship breakup" for some interesting results), have worked their way. Having God to depend on also helps immeasurably, though I won't pretend that I haven't also been angrier with him than at almost any other time in my life, and I also won't pretend it makes the pain any less. It doesn't, though it does at times as your soul breaks the cloud of this perspective and sees the sun of ever-constant love. There's no way around working through the agony that results from the rending of two hearts, the separation of yourself into the person-you-are and the-person-you-still-love-but-cannot-have.

So. Anyway. That's all that's on the plate for now. I can't come up with any amusing anecdotes, any interesting stories, no gutted cows or fish. Just the dark night of the soul. I'll emerge. I'm strong and this will make me stronger. It will have its good results. It already has. I wish I didn't have to go through the pain. But sometimes, that's the only thing that works.

Yet again, this post is going to be on a similar theme as the last few. This may be a difficult post for those who are not Christians or who don't consider themselves to have a faith relationship with God to relate to. I apologize, but this is what I'm wrestling through right now, which is why there isn't much else I feel like writing about.

I grew up in an extremely dysfunctional and even abusive family which claimed to be Christian. My idea of God was of an overbearing, tyrannical, angry, intolerant, judgemental, demanding, impossible-to-please, punishing Father. Kind of like my own dad.

He ruled by fear rather than by love. I was right with God on the basis of my own works, not by faith in the total grace of God given as a result of the death of Jesus. I could never do enough, never accomplish enough, never be good enough, to merit his favour. Rather, I was sure his wrath was waiting to descend on my head.

When I went away to Bible college, this view of God clashed radically with what I learned there. Particularly from a man who became my mentor and substitute father—a man whose relationship with God was strong and committed and who sought to reflect God's love to me.

But I still didn't quite "get" it.

A few years ago, I was drawn into the charismatic movement. For those who don't know what that means, it's basically a belief that the gifts of the Holy Spirit, including miraculous gifts such as tongues, healing, and prophecy, didn't cease with the apostles but still continue today. The ongoing revelation and activity of God are welcomed and sought out. It's marked by a hunger for God's presence, a desperation for his power, knowing that without him we're nothing. We need him to speak to us, to heal us, to love us, to "show up" every time we pray or gather together.

I was powerfully touched by God, in some miraculous ways. There's no doubt about it; it was strong, unmistakeable, and real. I was not expecting any of it, and it cannot be said that it was psychological. I won't go into details about it, but it was real. I was set free. I soaked in the presence of God. I worshipped, I found a new love for him, I was set free from bondage, I had a power to talk about God and to pray for people and to see his presence touch them. It was wonderful.

Until, old hurts cropped up. And I found myself increasingly dragged down again into darkness, into shutting God out, into anger at him, into isolation, depression, and desperation. A cycle set itself up: God would break into my life, speak to me, touch me. I'd be on a "high" for a little while, but then would start to descend again. Until, after a while, I got so disillusioned and burned out that there was no "high". Just anger, bitterness, and a desperate wish to die.

I knew God still loved me. I knew I was his child. I couldn't escape that fact, much as I wished to. There were still unmistakeable signs of his care. He still spoke to me through other people. He still manifested love and grace and forgiveness, reaching out to me to demonstrate that he still wanted me. If only I would have him, if only I would let him in, he would do anything that I wanted him to. Set me free from fear. Give me the love I craved. Never let me feel alone.

But I shut him out. Disappointment, anger, and despair were too strong to allow me to yield. Stubbornness and a long history of being alone created in me a fear of being vulnerable, of being in relationship, of allowing him inside me to see what was really there. To deal with it. To love me.

Until. God sent along this boy. Who has a passion for God. Who has seen God invade his life incredibly and deliver him from in some ways worse darkness than I've ever seen. And I can no longer run. I can no longer hide. My alienation from God, despite my belief in him, is being forced out into the open. He, both God and this boy, will not allow me not to deal with it any longer.

It's a good thing. But it's hard. So very hard. Everything in me wants to run away. Everything in me wants to hide, as I've always hidden. Everything in me wants to tell God to "F*** off," as I often have, and leave me alone. Everything in me wants to stay stubborn and proud and alone, not to humble myself, not to admit my need, not to ask for his grace, not to allow him to invade me and take over. I don't want to have to talk to other people and admit my need of help. I don't want to have to humble myself.

But I do. And that's causing a lot of conflict right now.

Fortunately, God is very patient. Fortunately, the human agent he's sent seems very committed to this and has the spiritual vision to see the end result. But I still know it's my choice. I still know that in the balance hangs my life, both spiritual and otherwise. I still know that I can turn either way.

But I don't want to. I want to choose life. But it's killing me right now. The habits of a lifetime, born out of hurt and fear and cemented when this girl was very, very small, are hard to overcome. The fear of being hurt. The fear of being vulnerable. The fear of being abandoned, left alone if I show them who I really am.

What's going to happen? Well, God's pretty strong, so I'm rooting for him in this one. But it's not something that I can lie back and passively have happen. I have a part to play, a part in actively submitting to him and seeking out the means he's given me to be made well. That's faith. That's obedience.

For the first time in my life, I think that I need to do it. Praying, that he is going to give me the grace. Because otherwise, I'll cut and run.

Working through the myriad dynamics of a relationship right now. For years after vowing to be single, and expecting never to find anyone with whom I deeply connected, it happened. Just. Like. That. In almost an instant. And turned my life upside down.

So now I'm one half of a couple, and learning and exploring what that means. Opening myself to another person. Overcoming my fears of relationship. Deeply depending on God as I cry out to him for wisdom. Exploring the landscape of another being, fascinating and mysterious yet beautiful. Learning what it means to bear patiently with another as I discover his faults. Realizing that I need to lean on God completely because he is the one I need, not another human.

So. That is why I've been so preoccupied lately and haven't had much time to write. Job hunting as well, and moving yet again next week. Life's in turmoil. Change. It can only be a good thing.

It's very weird. Even though I wanted to write about something else, I feel compelled to blog about blogging (although I'm not the first one to do so, I'm sure, it is what I'm thinking about at the moment).

In real life, I am a very closed and quiet person. I am friendly and outgoing, but do not have many very close friends and tend to keep my inner life fenced off. My greatest joy is to spend long hours by myself, taking photos, writing, surfing the internet, or doing graphic design.

When I started this blog, it was out of an impetuous desire to get the many competing and vigorous thoughts in my head, out, in a form that others could read without knowing who I was. I find the discipline of writing in a public setting invigorating: you have to choose words carefully, be less emotionally entangled in what you write. You must be concise and compelling, engaging others in your thoughts without becoming too personal. You are writing in one sense for others and in another sense for yourself.

I find myself increasingly self-conscious as in recent days others have discovered my blog. Now I know someone is reading it besides myself! As rewarding as that is, it is also somewhat panic-inducing. I find myself faced with the temptation to retreat back into the cave, drawing the curtains closed to keep the outer world, out. I won't do that, because I know it is not healthy. Plus I started this for this reason.

However, one thing I didn't realize when I started blogging is that blogging is not only about writing (though it is that), but about community. Face it, the reason we write our innermost thoughts down for all the world to see is that we want others to view them and acknowledge. And, as with self-revelation in private life, this is designed to create relationship. Knowing and being known. Going deeper into another's soul and secret, inner world. Even if the person who you are reading and to whom you are commenting is totally anonymous, it still initiates relationship: if only briefly.

I feel as if when I was blogging for myself alone, I was skating along the ice of blogging. Now that a few people have discovered and started reading, I feel as if (to mix metaphors in an odd way, but it's the image in my head) I've been sucked under the surface into a little pod of community. The blogs I read and their friends have opened up a whole other world. And as scary as that is for me, and as much as I'd like to withdraw, I won't. Because, after all, we were created for community. We need to know and to be known. And it is good.

Peace to you all.

I have come to the conclusion that one of the things that we as human beings can stand the least is uncertainty.

We can cope with almost anything as long as we have a fairly certain idea of its outcome, or think that we do. Remove the element of certainty, up the stakes of whatever's in question, and we are tailspun into paralyzing fear and anxiety. At least, I am. And I think we all are: a cancer diagnosis, a loved one's descent into the hell of mental illness, a questionable relationship, a friend who's disappeared—all can play havoc with our emotional and physical health.

It stems from our need to be in control: to know what is going to happen, to have some measure of influence over the outcome, to know. To not ever have to worry about what might possibly be, but to be certain that in the end, it's going to turn out all right and we'll understand.

Life isn't that way.

As a Christian, in a tempestuous and often un-faith-filled relationship with God, I know that I ought to be able to trust him with all of the "loose ends" of my life. To know that even if I don't know what will happen, he does, and he's ultimately going to do me good in all of it. Even when bad stuff occurs.

But the truth of it is, I don't. I usually feel like I need to figure it all out. I worry. I fret. I don't believe in my heart that he's got it all under control.

What do you do if you feel that you have no father? That you have to take care of everything all on your own? That otherwise, you'll die?

It's not a nice feeling. It's not the truth, either. Trouble is, I have issues believing that sometimes.

Maybe, I just need understanding.

With the approach of yet another Mother's Day, I think about my own mother.

Thoughts of her are always mixed at best, even now, though I've come to love her and forgive her; memories of terrible times are coloured with the tints of pity, remembrance diluted with the salve of understanding.

My mother was only a month short of her twentieth birthday when I was born. When I think of that fact now it is with a mixture of awe and horror. At twenty-six, I do not feel capable of taking care of a child; and at nineteen, I cannot imagine my own sister doing so either.

My parents had been married slightly less than a year; he was six years older than she. They'd met when she was fourteen and he twenty, an age gap which understandably caused great concern to my grandmother and step-grandfather. They went so far as to forbid the marriage, a prohibition my father overstepped: which has caused him much private agony of conscience since.

My earliest memory of my mother is of her stepping away as I lay naked and terrified on my stomach on the changing table, a thermometer protruding frighteningly from my behind. I screamed and kicked my legs, twisting my head to look back at this unknown intruder. As my mother left, she left my line of sight. I desperately wanted to cry "Mom, Mom," but I was too young to say the word. My mother tells me I was six months old when this happened. As I look back on it, it strikes me as being somewhat symbolic of our relationship.

My parents met at youth group in their local church. My father, a recent convert, began attending shortly before she, invited by a friend, did. I remember a married female friend of my parents', also a member of that group, remarking that all the girls had been after my dad. My mother, a naive fourteen-year-old, liked to bicycle. In a spurt of impulsive enthusiasm, she invited my father along. Thus grew the relationship.

It was rocky from the start. Not only did her parents disapprove, my father was tormented by doubts and wavering. In his misguided zeal, he thought that God was calling him to be celibate. He even went so far as to throw the rings he'd bought her into the Susquehana River, a fact we joked about whenever we crossed it on a family drive. Eventually he somehow settled it with his conscience, and they married. She was eighteen; he was twenty-four.

I've struggled for some time to understand the brand of Christianity they imbibed. One thing is for certain, it could be described as fundamentalist. Women were subordinate. A married couple's duty was to produce as many children as possible. Corporal punishment was the way proscribed by God for disciplining children. A man was the king of his home.

To this was added the darkness of my father's upbringing: a cold, loveless father who believed the only purpose for life was work and who was incapable of emotional attachment; and a harsh mother. My mother also had her damage: I believe my grandmother could be and was a martinet; and she'd been severely wounded by her parents' divorce when she was five. To this day she speaks about it with pain; the alienation from her father lasted until late in her life and when he finally did make re-contact, it was less as a father and more as an acquaintance.

My father had and has complete sway over my mother. She is an emotionally vulnerable, easily-influenced person, yet with a will and character that can be hard as rock. Added to this was her belief that as a "Christian wife", it was her duty not only to submit but to obey her husband unquestioningly. He treated her like a child: ordering her around, threatening her, putting her down, talking to her in the sort of way mean people do to their dog. He would not allow her to use "his" possessions, like the electronic copier; she could not work outside the home. Her purpose was to be a wife, mother, and homemaker, and to do as he pleased at all times.

Once as a teenager I saw her sobbing inconsolably after he'd treated her particularly badly. In a rare display of sympathy, I tried to hug her; she pushed me away with a fierce, "Don't touch me." In her distorted philosophy, to accept sympathy for her husband's mal-treatment was tantamount to betrayal.

She had mild cerebral palsy and overcame it as a child through sheer discipline and the prodding of my grandmother. She learned to walk, though to this day she does so with an odd swinging, pigeon-toed gait; and to write, though she does so with a shaky, uncertain hand. She was also prone to sudden strings of drool; a fact that embarrassed me excessively growing up.

My parents believed that the God-ordained way of educating children was to homeschool them. In this way, we were to be spared the evils of a godless, unbelieving world and be kept more "pure" than our peers. My mother, in a genuine act of self-sacrifice, taught us at home for years, until my youngest sister persuaded my parents to let her attend public high school for her last two years. We were five siblings and all of us but the last home-educated from kindgergarten through twelfth grade.

I think of her, a young mother of twenty-five when I began school, with three small children under the age of five. She taught us all how to read, write, and do arithmetic. She did this while cooking, cleaning, and caring for the home incessantly. I am flabbergasted by this accomplishment, whatever the reasons driving it; and I respect her for it now. I didn't always.

The family life was chaotic. Her method of keeping order was screaming, insults, facial slaps, and the frequent and harsh application of the rod. Small frustrations would escalate till she was yelling, face red and furious. She had a gift of incredibly cutting invective which left deeper wounds than the stick. Our behinds were often sore and the only form of discipline was anger, an anger which descended unpredictably and uncontrollably. We lived in fear and the constant effort to outwit our parents. This proved depressingly futile because it was impossible to know what would bring on displays of disproportionate wrath. When parents have issues with anger and believe in corporal punishment, the children had better beware.

As a teenager, I despised my mother; and yet, at the same time, felt strangely protective of her. I recognized her weakness; she was emotionally unstable, and, I believe, depressed for most or all of the time I was growing up. I never felt guarded or nurtured by her. In so many ways she was the child and I was the adult. I knew myself to be stronger, wiser, more savvy. I spurned her pitifulness and determined not to invent myself in her image. I became a tomboy. In my world, to be female was to be weak, vulnerable, downtrodden; to be male was to be strong and free. Therefore, I wanted to be a boy.

My mother was never emotionally available to us, as physically available as she was. The only emotion we had was her anger or her tears. Still, she represented the closest thing to love that I knew. Compared to my father, who alternated between total unavailability and demonic rage, she was almost gentle and kind. When I wished my parents dead in a car crash, I sometimes hoped she'd survive. She was more forgiving and more permissive, when not curbed by my father. She occasionally tried to speak up for us against his unjust wrath. He was unbendable and illogical, and her efforts generally useless; but she earned my grudging respect for it nonetheless.

When I left home at nineteen, I threw myself into my new life with total abandon. When I attempted suicide after going into a psychotic depression, and the secret of my family abuse came out, it caused an uproar at home. My parents felt hurt, angry, and betrayed. A small firestorm grew, with my father accusing the people who helped me of "brainwashing" me. They denied abuse, though my mother guiltily admitted "mistakes" and being "too harsh" on me as the eldest. For a while, until I learned better, visiting home was an ordeal of terrible fighting, with my parents flinging accusations too hurtful to be borne. I handled it unwisely and said things which only precipitated arguments. These days, we just don't talk about it.

My mother doesn't call me. My father, in a surprising development, sometimes does. I call my mother at intervals of a few weeks and listen to her talking about her life. She sometimes asks questions about mine, though the answers must be brief or they will be overtaken by a stream of response. I get impatient with her interruptions and angry at her inability to listen. I sometimes get the feeling that I am wounding her by talking at any length about what I am doing, as though I violate her by having a life of my own. She was devastated by each of us leaving home; perhaps because a chunk of her life's purpose walked out the door with us. Perhaps, too, because she understands our rejection of our upbringing, and feels it as rejection of herself and her beliefs.

There is no place for emotional honesty in our conversations. No room for talk beyond life's surface. Lurking below the pleasant chatter about the gym she's joined and what my siblings are doing, there is a firestorm of woundedness which it is our mission to avoid. Scratching that surface provokes hysteria; though it means paying the price of superficiality, not doing so also means peace, false though it may be.

When I visit, the relationship is awkward and strange. Her initial excitement at seeing me quickly dissipates and she doesn't talk to me at all beyond essential pleasantries, unless I initiate conversation. I inhabit a house with a silent and disengaged stranger who buries herself in chores or reading and leaves me to fend for myself in finding a bed. I end up rushing around with my siblings and re-bonding deeply with them, then leaving feeling guilty for not having paid attention to her.

She's been very depressed. Issues with my sisters pushed her nearly beyond her limits. A few years ago she went through a period of suicidal thoughts. She's now on medication, though I know the issues that provoked those thoughts remain unresolved.

But when I think of her now, it is not often or not usually of the bad times. A fierce nostalgia comes over me as I think of her long and arduous years of sacrifice to teach us, to cook and to clean and to watch over the house and to put up with all of our mischief. I long to make up for it to her, and I wish I could soothe her hurts. Sometimes, it feels as if with a word everything could be put right. I know it cannot. I pray for her instead.

And she is endearing. She is pathetically childlike, capable of genuine glee over small gifts like a certificate to her favourite restaurant, stamping supplies, flowers for her garden. She loves her dog and taking walks outside. She generates projects with lots of enthusiasm and finishes them haphazardly. She sends me handmade cards, as whimsical and naive as their maker. She buys me small gifts for Christmas, and sends little checks on birthdays. She tells the same stories again and again. She's physically frail, with a litany of complaints.

I wish I could protect her. She needs care, a fragile but plucky flower. Despite our problems, I long to enfold her in my arms and tell her everything's going to be OK.

I sometimes think that one day the roles may be reversed, and I may be caring for her. I hope that I can; I wonder if I would be able to. Would I have the patience and the kindness to bear with her foibles, to perform the most demeaning and intimate services for her without thinking of the ways she abandoned me as a mother? Will I have the grace then to understand and realize that her own hurts were driving her, that she knew no better, that she had no one to weep over her pain? That she was just a child when I was born? Can I imagine what it would have been like had she met a kindlier man than my father?

I hope so. Deeply flawed as she is, she is my mother. And I love her for it, despite everything else. Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

How much do we love her?

I'm a big fan of Giuliana . No, I do not know her personally. And yes, she is a TV Host/reality star so I might only be seeing an edited version of her but the reasons I admire her, I feel, are very genuine. Giuliana is a woman who had a dream and worked really hard to achieve her goals. What's not to admire about that? Plus, I feel like she is gracious about her success. She didn't expect it, and is in slight awe and disbelief of it despite the fact that she earned it. That humility is what, in my opinion, makes her so likable.

I also really like that Giuliana is a woman who proves that you can have it all-a successful career, a functional/loving relationship and motherhood (as was announced yesterday...yeah!). Just because you are driven, doesn't mean that you don't want those other things and I like that she represents that in a positive way. And she might have achieved love a bit later in life but I think that is because she only planned to do it once and waited for the right man. I respect that.

And Giuliana is positive and funny. Two things that are very important! Giuliana has been really optimistic throughout her quest to get pregnant, despite how emotionally difficult and physically taxing that must be on her. And now that she is also fighting breast cancer, she is still finding a way to remain encouraged about her future. Somehow she continues to work hard, keep a smile on her face and make jokes despite all her struggles.

I totally started bawling yesterday when I heard that they were going to have a baby! Again, I do not know these people and I really don't watch their show that much but I have just been a cheerleader for them (along with the rest of the world)! And as an unmarried 36 year old woman who wants five kids (yes, I know) I think their story pulled at my heart strings. Anyway, so so happy for them!!!

And now to bring it back to interior design...

I've also enjoyed watching them tackle the building/remodeling of their homes. I love'd G's quote "I need Rosetta stone for decorating" when she was complaining that she didn't understand what Bill and their decorator, Jennifer were talking about. Hilarious.

[Giuliana if you happen to be reading this, there is no need to get a restraining order.]

This article by Jonathan Rauch in the Atlantic Online has gathered a lot of attention. Judging by its popularity, a lot of people had the same "A-ha!" moment that I did upon reading it. "So I'm not alone?" Someone has accurately and summarily crafted a rallying cry for the introverts of the world, who, if we are to believe the numbers, are outnumbered by about three to one by extroverts. The entire article had me saying, "Um-hum, yup, yes, yippee! That's me," and so on, all the way through.

It has helped me to understand my and others' social interaction in far more meaningful ways. For example, I used to run occasionally with a work colleague. It was irritating me more and more, although she is a lovely person, and I finally realized why: she's an extrovert! For her, the run was valuable social time in which to chatter away about all sorts of related and unrelated topics. I, on the other hand, view running as a solitary exercise, a way to get away from the world, time to recharge after a long day at work, time to delve so deeply into my inner consciousness that at times I barely notice the world around me. Running with her exhausted me mentally as well as physically and was becoming unbearable, until reading that article I understood why and stopped the social runs (as nicely as possible). Doing so has preserved my sanity, and my solitude.

It has also made me realize that introverts and extroverts fundamentally view communication differently. Extroverts talk simply for the sake of talking. Social interaction, to them, is an end in itself and they will happily chatter away about the most mundane and irrelevant aspects of their lives, for hours on end, and feel energized by it. If you are an introvert forced onto the receiving end of this barrage, your eyes and your brain have long since glazed over though you continue to listen politely and even encourage them by conversational murmurs and the occasional question. If they are interesting enough, this can be a life-saver, absolving you of the responsibility to come up with topics to discuss and meaning that you don't have to perform that most introvert-hated of all activities: talking about yourself. If they are uninteresting or excessive, as most extroverts unfortunately are, it is a tortuous experience in which your um-hums and oh-reallys and what-happened-nexts mask an inner soup of mental agony or a private wander into fields of speculation far removed from what they are going on about.

Extroverts thrive on relating ad infinitum the details of their tax problems, their sore foot, their relationship issues, what they are having for lunch. It doesn't matter what it is, if they're thinking about it, an extrovert will blurt it. To any warm body standing nearby. Introverts, on the other hand, prefer communicating on a much more fundamental basis: need-to-know. We like the world of thoughts, ideas, meaning, what we are passionate about. We prefer a conversation to have a starting point, a definite path of navigation which proceeds logically and connectedly from one subject to the next and does not take a jump into neverland every other sentence never to return whence it launched. We want discussion to accomplish something: learning, educating, informing, connecting, forming new thoughts and ideas and fueling one another's mental life. We HATE, and I repeat, hate, talking about ourselves. We find the external details of our lives utterly meaningless compared to the inner issues we face, and dread no question more than those of the variety: "So, how's your job?"

Last night, all of these points were nicely illustrated for me. I went out to coffee with the ladies from my church home group. Recently, the home groups have started meeting separately as men and women twice a month. I viewed this development with dismay, despising as I do women's groups (gaggles of women are exponentially worse than women singly); however, the value of faithfully attending home group has compelled me to participate. Three women were definitely extroverts. Three of us were either introverts or more introverted. The extroverts happily chattered away. The introverts by turns either gave up and watched the fray; or found one conversational partner. At one point the conversation turned to photography, a subject I am interested in. As an introvert, I weighed in to give information on the topic. I was only about halfway through and had a point I was working toward when I was abruptly sidelined by the extroverts jumping in again. The conversation happily continued on with no meaningful conclusion and nobody noticed. The introverts didn't stand a chance.

Ah, well. I'm glad at least we have a framework for understanding this, though I'm afraid that for me social groupings will continue to be either opportunities for silent observation or annoyance at others' verbal prolixity. What can you do, if you're an introvert. However, I prefer it that way: extroverts can have their fun, and I'll take my deep thinking and artistic sensibility, even if it means I'm a little quirky, odd, and even anti-social.

It's something I've thought about a lot lately.

Not that that is anything unusual--it's often in my thoughts, either subliminally or as a flicker when something happens to arouse it, sometimes more as a conscious thought pattern. I think recently it has been pushed to the forefront by moving back to the United States (no offense, Americans. . .)

Racism came to my life early. In the area of the northeastern United States that I grew up in, it was a tension that split our culture in two. Ever-present, nobody that I knew would acknowledge it openly. It was just there, evidenced in the way that blacks and whites did not live together or do things together. In my circles, when someone who was not of a white skin colour was spoken of, it was obligatory to mention that he or she was black. Dark-skinned people lived in separate colonies (everyone knew where the "black section" of town was); worshipped at separate churches, and had separate social lives. When people of different skin colours did meet, it was nearly always in the public sphere: at work, in the store. The worlds did not mesh but only touched and stayed apart. The order of the day when it came to feelings between the two cultures was one of suspicion and sometimes open hostility.

My parents, I know (though I love them) had, and I think still have, some racist feelings, deeply-entrenched. This is probably largely due to the fact that they grew up in a generation one removed from mine. My father, to do him credit, had several work colleagues who were black, and frequently commuted with one of them. I know he was as friendly with black folks as white. Yet, when it came to the issue of inter-colour dating (I won't use the term "interracial" because I believe it is inaccurate at best), he was vitriolic, as he was on many topics: white girls who went out with black guys "were just looking for a sensation, looking to cause attention."

My mother, when I asked her what she would think if I married a black guy (as a teenager, I wanted a black boyfriend), responded, "We'd rather you married someone from your own culture." How a fellow American of a darker skin colour could possibly be said to be from a different culture still mystifies me. (I don't dis-acknowledge the existence of different ethnic and cultural roots--I know they affect me just as much as anyone else).

One of my most uncomfortable memories is of being twelve years old and seated in the back seat of our family car as a work colleague of my father's, an intelligent, cultured black woman, leaned into the window to talk to my parents. "Oh, hi, Anne," my mother said, in a high, quick, too-polite tone that I knew meant that Anne was BLACK. I squrimed inwardly, hoping against hope that Anne didn't notice but fearing she couldn't but.

As children, I think we had little racism, as children do: they see with open eyes and have not generally been taught the prejudice that exists among their elders. We had fewer black friends than white, simply because the cultures did not collide; but we had some. One of my earliest friends was a dark-skinned girl called Marianne; however, the friendship ended abruptly when she decided to do an experiment to see whether my rescued baby squirrel could swim and tricked my brothers and me into leaving while she did it. I came back to see the poor blind thing feebly and futilely stroking away at the water, and my rage ensured the end of Marianne's visits.

Later in our next childhood home, a black church met in a property almost directly behind our backyard. Playing in their parkinglot, which offered a wonderful paved space for countless games, we couldn't help but meet our peers when they were released from the seemingly endless services. One boy in particular became a friend and others, frequent playmates.

As a preteen I underwent a brief and embarrassing feud with a girl from the "black" apartment just up the street; we'd meet for pre-arranged insult matches, cheered on by our respective groups of friends. I think that our skin colours were an incidental excuse for a rivalry that in reality our gender and emotional problems fueled. It never escalated to physical violence; and later with more maturity the girl and I enjoyed a cordial relationship of "hellos" and smiles as we passed on the street.

At the age of nineteen, I had the privilege to move to what by informal accounts ranks as the most multi-cultural city in the world: Toronto. There, at my college, at church, in my wider circles and in encounters on the street, I had what I count as the inestimable privilege of being able to meet, talk to, and befriend people from literally almost every culture and major country in the world. Chinese, Japanese, Koreans, Africans, Indians, West Indians--you name it, I met and talked and ate with them and became close friends with many of them. What that experience taught me, not to mention hard evidence (more of that later), is that all people, no matter what culture, what country, what skin colour, what facial features, are just the same inside: people. Same thoughts, same feelings, same loves, same sorrows, same experiences, same humour, same soul that's been created in the image of the eternal God, same proneness to depression and emotional problems, same hopes and dreams of falling in love or having a good career, same need for a love that goes beyond them. THERE IS NO DIFFERENCE.

This tallies with what the Apostle Paul said in what is one of the theme verses of my life:

From one man he made every nation of men, that they should inhabit the whole earth; and he determined the times set for them and the exact places where they should live. God did this so that men would seek him and perhaps reach out for him and find him, though he is not far from each one of us. 'For in him we live and move and have our being.' As some of your own poets have said, 'We are his offspring.' Acts 17:26-28, emphasis mine

Certainly culture exists. Certainly differences that are caused by growing up Asian or African mean that people will perceive things differently, think differently, act and react differently. But no matter the differences in the expression of culture, the cliche remains true: our basic similarities are greater than our differences. Some of my most cherished memories are of time shared around a meal with people from two or three or more different cultures, bonding, sharing experiences, and learning from one another. Why is that possible? Because in spite of our divergent experiences, we are the same race and are enriched by our discussions with each other.

One of the things I personally can't wait for is heaven. One of the things that I most can't wait to experience is this:

After this I looked and there before me was a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, tribe, people and language, standing before the throne and in front of the Lamb. They were wearing white robes and were holding palm branches in their hands. Revelation 7:9

This comes about because, as we are told earlier in Revelation:

And they sang a new song: "You [Jesus] are worthy to take the scroll and to open its seals, because you were slain, and with your blood you purchased men for God from every tribe and language and people and nation." Revelation 5:9

I can't wait. Jesus' whole purpose for dying was to bring a people to God, a people who are completely united in thought and purpose and love. And these people are going to come from every race, every nation, every language, every tribe, every people group: and we will meet and worship as one at Jesus' feet in total rapture and grateful abandon forever, all differences still gloriously present yet beautifully harmonized as one. Racism gone, prejudice gone, hatred gone, the curse erased, no longer even a memory--just as God created it to be. Wow. Makes me long for heaven even more. And in the meantime, for our churches, which are little outposts of heaven on earth, to look like this.

Check out this great article for a scientific perspective on the myth of "race" (popular level read, non-technical)

What does disappointment mean to you? The crushing of hope? A dream gone dead, squashed into the ground, perhaps by the unfeeling heel of another person? The crash of expectations smashing into hard reality?

I remember one of my most disappointing moments. Father’s day, when I was about ten. We had planned and plotted and saved up to buy him what we thought would be a smashing present: a weedwhacker. My mother, my two younger brothers, my sisters (even though they were too young to really comprehend it), and I had schemed, together with my grandmother, who had helped us financially as it was beyond our slender means. The weedwhacker had been successfully purchased and smuggled into the house. We decided, as it was too big to really wrap in its long rectangular box, that we would command my dad to stay upstairs, lay it on the diningroom table, and, when everything was ready, call him down to triumphantly present it.

I still remember the feeling of expectation, of hope hanging on edge, as his quick footsteps descended the stairs. The anticipated joy of presentation, of his laughter, of his loving appreciation, of his hugged and kissed thank-yous, of his delight in it, of his use of the gift.

No matter how terrible the relationship with my father was, no matter how things normally were, nobody expected what happened. There was still the childish, and adult, pleasure of giving something to someone whose approval means an awful lot to you, even though you never get it, and whose love would be the world to you, even though you don’t get that either. This was what kept small smiles hovering on our faces as we waited.

But we didn’t expect what happened. He opened the door to the diningroom, looked at our hard-bought present, and immediately said, “What’s this? A weedwhacker? I don’t need a weedwhacker. We’re taking it back.”

And over my poor mother’s weak attempts at protest, his firm insistence, and his retreat back upstairs without even thanking us, I quietly crept away into my room, sat on my bed, and cried.

I don’t know what my siblings did. But I imagine they did much the same. What would you have done?

I still remember that crushing feeling of disappointment. It was so unanticipated, and it came on top of the pleasure of planning and getting a gift that we felt would be so appreciated. I can still call it up, though the sting is mainly gone. But none of us has ever forgotten that Father’s Day gift.

I use to know you as this...

But now I know you as so much more!!! Our relationship is growing and there is just so much I like about you.

I like you on walls...

I like you on floors...

I like you on tabletops...

Click here for the tutorial.

I like you on windows...

And I even like you on me!

I really hope you like me as much as I like you!