In The Tent

How to Love

"Hearts" - Aurelia Fronty

Love never gives up.
Love cares more for others than for self.
Love doesn't want what it doesn't have.
Love doesn't strut,
Doesn't have a swelled head,
Doesn't force itself on others,
Isn't always "me first",
Doesn't fly off the handle,
Doesn't keep score of the sins of others,
Doesn't revel when others grovel,
Takes pleasure in the flowering of truth,
Puts up with anything,
Trusts God always,
Always looks for the best,
Never looks back,
But keeps going to the end.

- God

Remembering

"Coeur Sentimental"

Tomorrow is Valentine's Day, and I will be spending a part of it at the Women's Memorial March, honoring the sixty-nine plus women missing and murdered from the downtown East side of Vancouver.

Many were First Nation women. All were sex trade workers. They were easy targets because they could be missing for days, weeks, even months before anyone would notice. They were faces, bodies without names. Without stories. Without relationships to anyone outside of their own communities. They made no contribution to society that was valued and recognized.

At least this is what we tell ourselves.

But the truth is that each one was someone's daughter, mother, sister, friend. They were born like you and I; innocent, beautiful, loved if even for a brief time. They played with dolls, giggled and laughed with their friends, put bows in their hair, chased butterflies and dreamed dreams. Somewhere along the line, somehow, things went horribly wrong. But the line between her and I is so very fine.

And I am ashamed to face the truth that if there were sixty-nine women abducted and murdered from any other neighborhood, any other suburb in this city, it would not be tolerated. They would be missed.  Justice would be demanded, and it would be delivered.

Look around. The nameless, faceless, voiceless are in your city too. They are nameless, voiceless because we have made them so. But that can change. Begin today. Look for the faceless, listen for the nameless, the voiceless. Give hon our to each  story. Not because it is the nice thing to do, not because it is the charitable thing to do. But because it is right. It is just. And because her story is in your story, and yours is in hers.

I feel a mixture of humility and privilege and sadness tonight as I think about tomorrow's march. But I will be there. To see, to hear, and to honor.

For Masha

"Flight of the Butterfly" - Merri Pattinian

I am so angry right now, I'm crying. 

Today I heard the story of Masha. You probably did too. She is a young child who was adopted from Russia as a five year old girl. Adopted to a divorced man from the United States who requested a blond, blue eyed little girl to adopt. No one followed up after this child arrived in the US.

And for the next five to six years this child was sexually abused, raped, tortured and photographed by her adoptive father. Her pictures were distributed over the internet. She was finally rescued by the FBI after they tracked her down while investigating child internet pornography.

This child was hunted down and trafficked into the US by a pedophile.  What adoption agency could have allowed this to happen? And where the hell were they after this child was delivered to this man??

There are US Senators currently working to pass new child internet pornography laws, inspired by this very girl.  And so they should. Senator Kerry was quoted as saying that the penalties for downloading music from the internet are three times more severe than the penalties for downloading child pornography. Three times. God help us.

My heart is broken. And I am so angry. As someone who has never been able to have children, who has lost three of my own, and who has wrestled with the idea of adoption, I am sickened at the thought of someone exploiting a child who is desperate for a family. Exploiting the gift of adoption in such an evil way.

And I am horrified to think of how many other children, in my country and around the world, right now, are being trafficked and violated and abused. And I don't know what to do.

You can read and begin to educate yourself here.

God bless you Masha. You are a true hero. Courage, deep peace and wholeness be yours.

Visitation's Way

"Femme" - Patrick Ciranna

Henri Nouwen, reflecting on the relationship between Mary and Elizabeth in his book "Sabbatical Journey", writes:

"...the two women who felt oppressed and isolated suddenly realize their greatness and are free to celebrate their blessing. The two of them become community. They need each other, just to be together and protect each other, support each other and affirm each other. They stay together for three months. Then each of them is ready to face her truth alone, without fear, willing to suffer the consequences of motherhood. I can hardly think about a better way to understand friendship, care and love than 'the way of the visitation'. In a world so full of shame and guilt, we need to visit each other and offer each other a safe place where we can claim our freedom and celebrate our gifts. We need to get away once in awhile from the suspicious voices and angry looks and be in a place where we are deeply understood and loved. Then we might be able to face the hostile world again, without fear and with new trust in our integrity."

Mary and Elizabeth, both pregnant in the most unbelievable and seemingly impossible situations, finding rest and safety and encouragement and strength in each other before the physical labor and birth of their babies. They were expectant. They prepared for their own births but also waited in expectation with each other. They honored what each had been through to bring them to this point, and sat, offering their presence and love, waiting and believing in what was to come for the other.

As I read this, I too was sitting, waiting. My best friend was in an emergency room, three thousand miles away, with severe abdominal pain.  Fortunately, it was nothing too serious and she was home in a few hours. But the sitting and waiting was horrible. A fate worse than death when you're a "go-er" like I am. When you find out something is wrong with someone you care about, you go. You don't wait for a call, you don't wait to find out what's happening, you just go. But this night, I couldn't do that. So I did the next best thing, which was to sit up til all hours of the night and pray and wait for her to call. In some small way I felt like I was there, the gift of presence when you're three thousand miles away.

Mary and Elizabeth offered the gift of presence to each other as they prepared for their physical labor and birth. And then I thought about how so many I know are on a journey of a different kind. Birth, but of the emotional kind. The spiritual kind. Laboring through pain, woundedness, loss, towards something that is trying to be born. New life. Healing and freedom. Dreams. Letting go and receiving. Truth.

Labor is less painful and birth so much more joyful when it is shared. I have always believed, and do more than ever, in the gift of presence.  Having a safe place for rest, shelter, comfort. Without fear or shame or guilt or judgment. I wish I could say that this is an easy gift to receive. For me, it is not. But I have learned, both the easy way and the hard way, that it is a gift to be treasured. Designed and given by God himself.

And it is priceless.

Home

"My House" - Emily Adams

After eight days of visiting family and playing with friends and eating and shopping and packing and traveling and unpacking, we are home.

It was good to visit. My youngest nephew is so sweet I could eat him up. My three older nephews are tall and have girlfriends and are driving cars.  Not sure when that happened. Shopping with my mom, my sisters. A wonderful Christmas Eve service. My childhood friend, now with kids of her own, and her beautiful dogs now aging and greying but still able to muster up a little jump and a lot of wagging to greet us.  Few airport hassles, and even fewer cold and snowy days.

It was good to visit, and it's great to be home.

Blessed Christmas

Early Wednesday morning Mike and I are heading East for eight days to celebrate Christmas with our families. I'm looking forward to spending time with them, but also hoping not to miss the rest and sacred stillness of Christmas.

Peace, love, hope and the light of Christmas be yours, and to yours, in the coming days.

Star Light Star Bright

"Brilliance" - Heather Haynes

A beautiful Christmas blessing for Light and Hope and Peace, especially Peace, this season and in all seasons.

Amazing Peace (A Christmas Poem)
by Maya Angelou

Thunder rumbles in the mountain passes
And lightning rattles the eaves of our houses.
Floodwaters await in our avenues.

Snow falls upon snow, falls upon snow to avalanche
Over unprotected villages.
The sky slips low and gray and threatening.

We question ourselves. What have we done to
so affront nature?
We interrogate and worry God.
Are you there? Are you there, really?
Does the covenant you made with us still hold?

Into this climate of fear and apprehension,
Christmas enters,
Streaming lights of joy, ringing bells of hope
And singing carols of forgiveness high up in the
bright air.
The world is encouraged to come away from
rancor,
Come the way of friendship.

It is the Glad Season.
Thunder ebbs to silence and lightening sleeps
quietly in the corner.
Floodwaters recede into memory.
Snow becomes a yielding cushion to aid us
As we make our way to higher ground.

Hope is born again in the faces of children.
It rides on the shoulders of our aged as they
walk into their sunsets.
Hope spreads around the earth, brightening all things,
Even hate, which crouches breeding in
dark corridors.

In our joy, we think we hear a whisper.
At first it is too soft. Then only half heard.
We listen carefully as it gathers strength.
We hear a sweetness.
The word is Peace.
It is loud now.
Louder than the explosion of bombs.

We tremble at the sound. We are thrilled by
its presence.
It is what we have hungered for.
Not just the absence of war. But true Peace.
A harmony of spirit, a comfort of courtesies.
Security for our beloveds and their beloveds.

We clap hands and welcome the Peace of Christmas.
We beckon this good season to wait awhile with us.
We, Baptist and Buddhist, Methodist and Muslim, say come.
Peace.
Come and fill us and our world with your majesty.
We, the Jew and Jainist, the Catholic and the Confucian,
Implore you to stay awhile with us
So we may learn by your shimmering light
How to look beyond complexion and see community.

It is Christmas time, a halting of hate time.

On this platform of peace, we can create a language
To translate ourselves to ourselves and to
each other.

At this Holy Instant, we celebrate the Birth of Jesus Christ
Into the great religions of the world.
We jubilate the precious advent of trust.
We shout with glorious tongues the coming of hope.
All the earth's tribes loosen their voices
To celebrate the promise of Peace.

We, Angels and Mortals, Believers and Nonbelievers,
Look heavenward and speak the word aloud.
Peace. We look at our world and speak word aloud.
Peace. We look at each other, then into ourselves,
And we say without shyness or apology or hesitation:

Peace, My Brother.
Peace, My Sister.
Peace, My Soul.

World AIDS Day

Water

"Healing Mandala"

In India, according to a 2001 Census, over 34 million widows are living in social, economic and cultural deprivation resulting from laws derived from religious texts from over two thousand years ago. This includes young children who, by virtue of being betrothed to a man who dies, become widows before they even become brides. These women are unclean. Cast off. Disposable. Upon being widowed, they are given three options. Burn in a funeral pyre with their husbands, marry the younger brother of their husband, or take refuge in a "home" for widows where they are resigned to living a life of self denial and exile.

The movie Water tells this very story.  This is such a powerful movie, I'm still processing everything I felt after seeing it.  But I have a few initial thoughts.......

One of the most powerful quotes for me in this movie was simply, "This child is a widow". There is something terribly wrong with that truth.

There is a beautiful scene where the women, heads shaved and uniformly dressed in plain white cotton saris, celebrate the Festival of Colour by smearing themselves and each other with powders and dyes of the most brilliant orange and yellow and pink. Freedom has a scent. It has a sound. It also has a colour. Though short-lived, this was a moment of pure freedom and it reminded me that freedom is not a destination but a journey.  Some moments are brief and unexpected, others hard-fought and lingering, all looking and sounding and smelling and tasting unique each time.

Captivity of any kind, in the name of religious tradition and rule, is always about something else. Economics. Politics. Protecting the status quo. Millions of women, living under patriarchy with no male to support them is too costly to any government.  What other injustices are happening in our world, and are allowed to continue because the cost of addressing them is seemingly too great to those with the power to do so?

I feel like I have so many questions swirling around in my head. Everyone should go and see this movie, and then let your own questions surface. My eyes have been opened a little more because of it, and I'm grateful. But I'm also humbled at all that goes on in my world, in the lives of the women of this world that I know nothing about.

God help us.

Lessons in the Mirror

"Mama Toto" - Cairns

Last night me, my bf and her nine year old daughter were the guests at a wonderful celebration of women and stories and global adventures. You can read about that here. Out of sheer practicality it ended up that I was getting ready for the evening at bf's house. It was a flurry of everything female. We took over her entire bedroom and en suite bathroom, and there were outfits (the hits and the misses) and jewelery and hair products and blow-dryers and makeup and lotions and potions as far as the eye could see. This ritual of preparation culminated with the three of us crammed into her small en suite, all trying to put the finishing touches in the right spots and get out the front door on time. Those who know me well know that it doesn't take much to fluster me, completely overstimulate me and send my body temperature through the roof with even the smallest exertion. The nine year old had left the bathroom creating a little extra room but within minutes had returned and wedged herself into the space between her mother and I and the bathroom sink. 

I was quickly reaching "that place".

But then, thankfully, my inner compass changed and I realized that something very sacred was happening.  The nine year old had a little palette of eyeshadow. She asked which one she could use. A very light one, her mother said. She chose the palest pink, barely there. She picked up the little brush and began to run it over the colour. We showed her how to blow on the brush to get rid of the excess, how to hold the brush, how and where to put the hint of sparkle on her eyelids. When she finished she stood and looked at herself, pleased. You look so pretty, we said. As I started to put my own makeup on I could see her out of the corner of my eye, observing and taking in everything I did. I smiled, but said nothing.

I could see in her eyes that it was "a moment".  Something she will look back on and remember. It wasn't about the makeup. Her mother is very conscious about encouraging her nine year old to be a nine year old, to not grow and mature beyond her years, beyond what she is emotionally ready for. But it wasn't about the makeup. It was about being part of something, sharing in all things female, the ritual of adorning and preparation. It was about honoring and celebrating an outer and inner beauty.

Self esteem, healthy body image, honoring the unique beauty within ourselves is such a struggle for so many women. I was struck, in this moment with the awesome responsibility and privilege we have as women to speak words of life and truth into the "little women" in our lives.  I have no earthly daughters, but I have been blessed with many daughters of the heart who allow me to share in these wonderfully unexpected and sacred moments.

And my heart is grateful.