MISS MOOX: relationship

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.

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.

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.

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.

Yesterday, I got to thinking about something that, contrary to natural expectation, filled me with such an amount of joy that I was pumping my fist in the air as I ran down a country road. I felt almost like I was flying off the ground.

God has been doing a tremendous amount in my life lately. I don't even know how to explain it. It's like he's broken in, finally, and I'm loving him and enjoying life in him and being filled to the point of bursting by the Holy Spirit. I've had more joy, more closeness to God, more wonder, more breakthrough, more healing, more realization of truth than I think I have ever, ever had in my life before. And all of it came about as a result of the most horrific breakup I could possibly have imagined.

I don't even know how to explain it. The only thing that comes closest to describing it is that magnificent verse in Romans 8, "And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose."

That's the only thing that can describe it. God took what was possibly the worst thing that could ever have happened to me, humanly speaking, and somehow has turned it into the absolute best thing that could ever have possibly happened to me, divinely speaking.

I was utterly devastated by the breakup. It wasn't simply a breakup but a betrayal of the highest order. I felt like a nuclear bomb had gone off in my insides, leaving everything flattened, decimated, and destroyed. I felt that renewal would never come. I remember thinking as I lay on my friend's couch, in the darkness of her apartment, "I will never be the same again. This will change me forever."

And it has. But not in the way that I expected. In the manner of a volcano spilling lava and ash all over a landscape, and leaving it in the interim devastated but ultimately enriching the soil so that life forms grow and thrive there that never would have before, God has brought more good out of this incident than I would ever have dreamed possible.

Two days after the ultimate ending, when in hatred he spoke the words that broke off even the possibility of a friendship forever, I went for a walk. I didn't intend to speak with God. I was angry as I could possibly be, I felt hopeless, and I was certain that nothing I did, no matter what it was, would change the situation. Certainly talking to God wouldn't. He was the one who'd put me in this mess, and he wasn't about to get me out of it. I was as desperate as I'd ever been. I was convinced this was the end.

But God met with me. I can't even explain it. In an intangible yet utterly tangible way, in an indescribable, un-understandable, thoroughly mysterious way, such that I didn't even know what was going on but knew only that it was God, he met with me. I felt his presence. I was healed. I walked away having forgiven. I walked away understanding. I walked away able to love the person who'd hurt me the most.

And more than that, I walked away with God.

I have "known God" for a long time. I knew I was a Christian. I knew I was God's child. I knew even, in a distant sort of way, that he loved me. Yet life's disappointments had shut me up to him. I was enclosed within walls and fortresses, and his loving presence was not allowed inside to touch me and to heal. I was too afraid. I'd been betrayed too often. I had too thick a shell, too stubborn a will, to ever yield. Even to love.

As years went by, I despaired. I had prophecies and words spoken of God's love for me, of the purpose he had for my life. I believed somehow that it was true, but if so, why didn't it come to pass? Why did I go to church week after week and remain unchanged? Why did I harden my heart in the message or against prophecies that I knew were spoken directly to me, persuading me to yield? Why did I go weeks, months, years without reading my Bible, without praying, without talking to God except in angry, hopeless desperation? Why did I cry when I was alone, asking him with all my heart to let me die? When was his promise going to happen?

And this. It seemed like the ultimate betrayal, the ultimate trick played on me by a God who was determined to make me suffer. My life had been one long record of suffering, and this one thing, the thing that finally seemed like some good, had turned bitter and sour. It was as if you'd bitten into the sweetest chocolate and found it ridden with the most deadly poison.

But it wasn't. The poison gave way to the healing medicine of God's touch. I had no choice, in that circumstance, but to turn to God. He was literally all I had left. Finally, he got me to the point where even my supremely stubborn will and hardened heart had to give way. I had no other choice. It would have eaten me alive.

And my heart has been set free. I surrendered to God, finally. Laid everything down. Gave myself to him heart and soul. Gave up. Gave in. Allowed him to do what he'd been longing to do for all those years: take me over. And it has been the sweetest thing that I have ever experienced, and my heart is free. I have known his touch, his presence, his voice, and his love in ways that I have never known them in my life before in these last few weeks. I have a renewed thirst and hunger for him, seeking him in prayer, reading his word. I have discovered him to be sweeter than anything on this earth. And I want more.

And not just that. It's spilled over to other people. Last night I had dinner with a co-worker and he bared his heart to me about his recent divorce and how he'd been seeking God. Today, he was in church. His heart was touched and tears spilled down his cheeks as he received prayer. He gave me a hug and thanked me for inviting him. I know he'll be back. And all of that is because, if God hadn't done what he's done in my life, I couldn't have reached out to another.

The preacher in church today told us that our mission is to bless everybody around us. Everybody in our city, everybody in our region. And for that, we need to be filled with the Holy Spirit. And I can testify to the truth of that.

I'm loving God. I'm loving other people. For the first time in my life, I'm loving myself. And I'm free. I'm totally free. The thought that made me pump my fist in the air as I was running, was that absolutely nothing in my life has been permanent. I have shifted around so much, moved so much, changed jobs so much, lost relationships, been hurt by other people—all to teach me the glorious truth that made me so happy: all I need is God. He is enough for me. Nothing on this earth lasts, nothing is reliable, but he is faithful. He is permanent. He will never leave me or forsake me. And his love is the greatest thing I can possibly possess.

I used to never understand the end of Romans 8. It says:

"Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall trouble or hardship or persecution or famine or nakedness or danger or sword? As it is written:
'For your sake we face death all day long;
we are considered as sheep to be slaughtered.' No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord." (Rom. 8:35-39)

For a long time I judged God's love in my life by my circumstances. If I was suffering, surely God did not love me. Now, for the first time, I understand these words. God's love is greater. God's love is greater than my circumstances. It triumphs over any earthly reality, even persecution, suffering, and death. If I have that, I can actually go through anything. It's real. It's great. And it's believable. He is all that I want.

I'm loving this. And for the first time, I make no apologies about being so blatantly "Christian" on my blog. I want everyone else to know this, too. Because if God's done it for me, who was so bitter, so hurting, and so closed against him for so long, he can do it for anyone.

Even you.

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.

Yesterday I was working at a friend's farm. As I cleaned the horse stalls, I started thinking about my relationship to horses, about the enormous part they played in my childhood.

Growing up, I was a horse fanatic. It began when I was about two or three, when my mother told me about the horses she'd had as a child. From that moment, my passion for horses was ignited.

My first actual exposure to horses came when I was about five years old. My father took my brothers and me to the pony ride at the carnival. When I was asked which one I wanted to ride, I pointed. Not to the one standing directly in front of me, but to the very tallest horse standing just behind him. As I rode around the ring at a walk, I felt like the king of the world.

Unfortunately, for most of my growing-up years, my parents did not have the money for lessons. My longing for horses had to be confined to the realm of imagination. I checked out all the horse books in the library: Misty, Flicka, John Steinbeck's red pony, and the illustrated factual books about horses were my friends. I collected Breyer model horses and dreamed of a real stable full of such beauties as my friend and I acted out imaginary scenarios with our plastic steeds. I cut thousands of pictures of horses out of magazines and taped them all over my walls. I subscribed to Horse Illustrated. I read about riding techniques till I knew everything about how to handle a horse except the feel of one beneath me.

Finally when I was nearly twelve, a friend of my mother's mentioned a friend of hers who had a pony. He was rather old, but she thought the owner would be willing to let me ride. The answer came back: Sarah was glad to let me come over and give me a few pointers.

That was one of the most exciting days of my life. Finally! My mother's friend brought me and took along her camera: there are pictures of me, looking stiff and awkward, holding the horse's head and looking back over my shoulder as I ride him.

Sarah's pony was a good first taste, but ended up being unsatisfactory. It was a distance, I couldn't travel there myself, Sarah didn't have a lot of time to spend with me, and the pony was rather elderly and stiff. I never got beyond a trot and my legs swung wildly as I tried to post, far off the beat.

But it was a kind gesture and an opening to the world of horses.

For my twelfth birthday, my grandmother gave me the most priceless gift she could: a series of eight riding lessons at a local stable. My then-best friend Kathleen and I went together. Somewhere, I have pictures of us standing mounted in the middle of the ring, smiling triumphantly beneath our helmets as the rest of the class cantered around us. We were never deemed advanced enough to go faster than a trot.

That taste of riding was sweet but all-too-short. I begged for lessons but my parents couldn't afford either the money or the time. I contented myself again with reading, collecting, and dreaming. One day, I'd have my own horse. One day, I'd be able to ride as much as I wanted. I read tack catalogues obsessively and mentally outfitted my future horse in all his gear.

When I was fifteen, my younger sister began taking lessons with a friend who had a horse. That was the last straw. My younger sister, who had no real interest in horses except copying me, got to ride and I didn't! This time, I succeeded in being persuasive. I started lessons at Toraj Stables, the same place I'd gone when my best friend and I were twelve.

For four years, I rode at least once a week. When I got my own car, I was completely independent. I began working at the stable for a couple of hours early each morning before my "regular" job, mucking out stalls and feeding and watering to pay for lessons. In addition, it gave me a bit of extra income each month and meant that I could ride whenever I wanted.

I was a barn brat. I rode a lesson at least once a week; but at the end of the week, I'd take my favourite horse, Lucky, a big red chestnut Quarter Horse gelding, out on the trails for a wander. During lessons, I rode English. For trail rides, I slapped a big Western saddle on Lucky and took off. We'd roam the extensive acres of fields and orchards and watch wildlife and feel the sun on our backs. We'd ford streams and push through treelines and rocks. We'd climb hills, Lucky's back working hard. We'd pass migrant fruit pickers and wave hello.

And at the end of the ride, the biggest treat: a long, smooth, grassy stretch running along a field of apple trees. Lucky knew what this meant and became fidgety as soon as we reached it. I'd give him his head, kick his sides, and kiss. Off he'd tear, his Quarter Horse hindquarters working like pistons to thrust and drive, legs flashing, head down, mane and tail flying. I'd stand up in my saddle and lean forward as he sprinted at his fastest gallop, hooves thundering, grass whispering as we passed, again, feeling like king of the world. Finally at the end I'd slow him down gradually to a gentler canter, break him down to a trot, and as we reached the edge of the stable property, a slow walk to cool down. He loved it and so did I. I was free.

I groomed horses. I was the first to discover our broodmare's tiny chestnut baby standing in her stall the morning after she was born. I got kicked, bit, and stepped on. I fell in love and had my heart broken. I learned to communicate with horses and rode a mare named Suzy better than her owner did. I longed to buy King and was deeply saddened when he went away. I cried when a beautiful two-year-old that I'd been working, the first horse to ever buck me off, had such bad leg problems that she couldn't be ridden anymore. I loved my horses. They were the best part of my life, the ones who accepted me as I was, the ones who gave me a feeling of power and relationship.

When I went away to college, it spelled the end of my riding adventures. Toronto, like any big city, is not extraordinarily amenable to riding. I had no spare time as I threw myself into curricular and extra-curricular activities. Riding became something that happened, at best, once or twice a year. Something that had been an enormous part of my life passed away, just like that.

It's been seven years now since I left home, seven years since I have ridden regularly. The horse-bug has subsided. I doubt now I will ever own one of my own. Despite living with a horse-owning family for six months, I saddled up only a few times. Horses have become something I love but do not feel compelled to spend time with. When I visit the farm now, I nuzzle and pet and talk to them. They are my friends. But I don't need them anymore.

I still love to ride. One of my greatest pleasures is a leisurely trail ride through woods and fields. I love the beauty of horses. I still collect lovely photographs of horses, this time as desktop wallpapers or Flickr favourites, not tattered cutouts on my wall. Horses will always be a part of my past and a big element of who I was growing up. I will always appreciate them. But the horse-craziness has gone away. Maybe that's sad. Maybe, it's just part of growing up.

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.

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.

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...

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.