The lawn furniture is tucked away; the bird baths wiped dry and the rain barrels emptied and standing upside down.
The vegetable garden has been raked bare, the flowerbeds snipped back and the flowerboxes removed. The firewood is stacked; the hearth scrubbed with a basket of new unread books waiting upon it and the fruit cellar is full of sustenance.
Our winter sweaters, mittens, toques, scarves and jackets have been aired on the cloth line while our boots now line the back hall. It has been a busy week but never before have we been so ready for the arrival of winter!
On Sunday, we paused from all the busyness to take a leisurely hike down some familiar trails. As we crested a small hill the wind blew strong enough to loosen hundreds of leaves which rode the breeze in descent; they danced gracefully towards us. We stopped and reached upwards to receive. The leaves fell like confetti around us.
This awe-filled moment was so brief yet it refreshed us beyond measure; to be able to stop all the busyness and fill up on God’s presence is a divine gift indeed. These are “Selah” moments.
Selah is a Hebrew word with various meanings all relating to pausing long enough to venerate God’s holy presence and to reflect on these holy moments.
The author of Psalm 46 wrote of Selah, “When the mountains quake and the waters roar, the Lord is my refuge and strength….Selah. (I will pause and reflect on this)! God makes wars to cease and breaks the bow… the Lord of hosts is with us…Selah. (I will pause and reflect on this)! Be still, and know that I am God…Selah. (I will pause and reflect on this)!”
May you too have many Selah moments that amount to days enlightened by God’s quiet and beautiful presence.
Country Cemeteries always remind me of a one eyed dog, hand dug graves and musty sanctuaries.
The reason for this is due to an incident that happened early in my ministry. My presence had been requested at a grave side service for a family that lived in Toronto. This family had, years earlier, purchased plots in the cemetery related to one of the, now closed, churches of my pastoral charge. I was asked to preside at the grave side service of a deceased elderly male. His wife and adult children, along with the Funeral Home staff, would drive the 3 hours north from Toronto and meet me at the cemetery at 1:00 p.m.
Upon my arrival on that hot and humid July day I was met by a friendly one eyed dog that took his job as host very seriously and kept close to me for the remainder of the day. It soon became clear that this cemetery was his home and among the long grass and weeds one had to step carefully. I made my way to a dirt covered man who was busy digging the grave with a pitch fork and shovel; that was the way of grave digging in this neck of the woods. Before returning to his work Syd told me that this was the last plot to be filled in this cemetery and it would be officially full.
About half an hour later, off in the distance, I saw a hearse approaching followed by a few cars. It was then that the Syd approached looking a bit upset and asked if I had a key to the old church building beside the cemetery. Yes, I did have the key but the building, which leaned dangerously to one side, was condemned. “Open it up and have the family wait in there. We have a problem.”
I nervously unlocked and slowly opened the heavy doors of this tired old building to be met by an earie scene. The hymn numbers were still in the hymn board at the front of the sanctuary, hymn books were laying on the torn pews, candles poised on the communion table and an open Bible laid across the pulpit. It looked as though a worship service had just happened days earlier. I stood in the silence almost expecting to hear singing rise out of nowhere. As the confused family filed in they also paused, looked around and carefully took seats close to the back doors. The musty space did offer a break from the oppressive heat that hung just outside the doors and for this we were thankful. I went back outside to discover what problem had arisen.
A rather upset Funeral Director approached me in his three piece black suit and while wiping his forehead explained that Syd had discovered a body was already in the plot! In complete disbelief I looked over to the plot to see Syd and three others looking down.
After some discussion and a confession by one of the sons the mystery was solved. It turned out another family member had been buried there four years earlier; an estranged son of the deceased. We were told that this son had been estranged from the family for many years, caught up in the wrong crowd and one night had died. Not wanting to upset his parents this son arranged his brother’s burial in this forgotten cemetery. Thankfully, it was the same funeral home four years earlier that had accompanied his mother on this hot July day. After a few phone calls it was confirmed that this burial had been recorded, they had paper work to prove who was in the plot and there was no criminal intent. With Syd’s quick thinking a second plot was quickly dug.
I asked this one son to take me to sit with his mother as he explained what had happened. The mother did not speak English but no words were needed for me to understand her grief; the language of a mother is universal. I sat with her as she grappled with the news of her son’s death while waiting to bury her husband. Perhaps the setting of an old, sad looking sanctuary fit the scene perfectly.
Eventually, we made our way out to the plot and with the one eyed dog by my side we continued the service. The Mother did not understand a single word I said but she did understand the actions and when we were done she knelt down at both plots and marked them with the sign of the cross before standing tall and walking back to the car.
Syd, the one eyed dog and I stood silently by as this sad procession headed down the road toward Toronto.
Each Halloween I think of that sad day so long ago and wonder what other odd and unusual stories are hidden among the graves of old country cemeteries.
Every year at Thanksgiving, whether there are only two around the table or twenty-two, each plate has 3 small kernels of un-popped colourful dried corn placed upon it. Before the meal is served we each take our place around the table and together share three things we are thankful for in the past year. Then we place the kernels in a glass bowl which is placed in the middle of the table. It is a thing of beauty to see the many different coloured kernels knowing each represents gratitude.
Tevye the Dairyman in the play Fiddler On the Roof sings a ‘tongue–in-cheek’ song about the importance of traditions and he concludes that without traditions life would be as shaky as a “fiddler on the roof.” I tend to agree with Tevye; traditions help to steady us in an otherwise unstable world.
It is important to me that my children witness traditions that tether them to faithful living and teach them to find hope in a difficult world. By demonstrating gratitude we are living what the Apostle Paul teaches, “Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.” (Thessalonians 5:16-18)
This year, as my family gathers for Thanksgiving we do so with three less family members; it has been a difficult year. And yet, we will keep the Thanksgiving tradition of ‘Counting the Kernels of Gratitude’ because each small kernel reminds us of God’s presence, providence and promises. As Henri Nouwen writes, “Gratitude goes beyond the ‘mine’ and ‘thine’ and claims the truth that all of life is a pure gift.”
May everyone take time this Thanksgiving to pause and count enough blessings until you too are confident that life is pure gift!
One day in 1973, a little girl named Phyllis Webstad from the Stswecem’c Xgat’tem First Nation began her first day at St. Joseph’s Residential School in Williams Lake, British Colombia, Canada. She proudly wore an orange shirt her granny gave her for this special day. Soon after she arrived at school, that shirt was removed from her. Forty years later, September 30th, 2013, she publicly shared her story for the first time and Orange Shirt Day was birthed.
Sadly, in May of this year, with the use of ground-penetrating radar, 215 unmarked graves were discovered at the former Kamloops Indian Residential School. Since then, over eighteen hundred unmarked graves have been found; children who died in Canadian residential schools.
Phyllis Webstad most likely never guessed the significance of what she began the day she nervously shared her story. Her voice is now the voice of over eighteen hundred children and the Orange Shirt Day has become Canada’s first National Day for Truth and Reconciliation.
The Government of Canada has legislated every September 30th as National Day for Truth and Reconciliation. The passing of Bill C-5 follows the 2015 TRC recommendation that Orange Shirt Day be formally recognized as a federal statutory holiday.
This day is set aside for listening deeply and holding space for the stories of the survivors. We are to reflect on changes needed to elevate the voices of our First Nations, Metis, and Inuit neighbors.
And, if you do decide to purchase an orange shirt, please do so from an Indigenous designer that gives proceeds to survivors and reconciliation work. The photo with this BLOG is of a t-shirt purchased from M’Wikwedong Indigenous Friendship Centre in Owen Sound and was designed locally.
There are angels among us; I know this to be true because I have seen them.
It wasn’t easy to make out their faces as they kept their identity well hidden behind protective glasses and face masks. Most of them had tucked their hair up in tight caps on their heads. These colourful caps had a large button sewn on each side and from what I could tell these buttons were used to hold up their glasses and face masks, a most ingenious design.
My mother had been taken by ambulance to the local hospital and was later admitted. She had been bravely battling cancer and due to some complications of her treatment was in need of some special care. Definitely the angels that surrounded her bed were offering a compassionate and dignified care.
One afternoon, as a couple of these angels were tending to my mother in her hospital room, I stood in the hallway with my back up against the wall. From this vantage point I witnessed as they swirled about pushing folks in wheel chairs, aiding others to walk steadily with their canes and in one case aiding a young man with his broken arm; they were in constant motion.
A few days later, after my mother had been moved to the local hospice I again witnessed the gentle yet strong energy of these otherworldly beings. They tended to my mother and in equal measure took time to care for our grieved and saddened souls. My dad, who was helplessly watching the love of his life fade away, was tended to by these angels in such a way it ministered to us all.
What I cannot understand is how can there be both atheists and angels among us? How can one witness the selfless care of nurses; their willingness to step fully into people’s pain, illness and messiness and not see the divinity of their presence? They step forward when most of us purposely run in the opposite direction. Only a great and loving God could create such beings as nurses; those both skilled and called to help others.
I cannot watch the care of a good nurse and not turn to God and say, “Thank you!”.
After my mother had taken her last breath and all the arrangements had been made one last nurse came to offer words of comfort and as she turned to leave the room I am almost 100% sure I heard the fluttering of wings.
There is a new addition to my backyard garden, a sculpture of sorts. It isn’t pretty, kind awkward if truth be told but it has a most important purpose.
It all started mid-summer when I was startled early one morning to discover a neighbor sitting rather comfortably in my backyard. To be exact she was sitting proudly by the bird feeders looking rather pleased with herself. Without hesitation I opened the back gate and made it clear she wasn’t welcome, “Be gone!” I yelled while waving my arms.
She just looked me up and down then returned to studying the bird feeders.
Again, I said, louder than the first time, “I said be gone!” and to make my point clearer I stepped closer and clapped my hands. Again, she simply ignored me. So, I picked up the hose and with one squirt made my presence hard to ignore.
She ran just far enough to be beyond the spray of water, she wasn’t going to leave easily. I then found myself chasing her down the side of the house spraying the hose wildly. Anyone looking on must have wondered what I had for breakfast that morning. In hindsight, I am now certain I heard some snickering as I rounded the house and found this neighbor back under the bird feeders. I knew this meant war!
Thing is, only a week earlier I had caught my next-door neighbor doing the exact same thing and giggled at how silly she looked. Now, I knew the nature of her yelling, running and waving of her arms.
Within a couple of days this unwelcomed neighbor returned several times. One deterrent I discovered was putting on the sprinkler; this pleased the birds and kept this unwelcomed neighbor at a distance, but my water bill was climbing.
One afternoon while weeding the flower bed under our front window this neighbor happened along, I stood up offering no words of welcome. As she walked past another neighbor crossed my lawn saying, “Her name is Buttons and she has been the terror of the neighborhood all summer.”
Terror doesn’t even come close to describe Buttons! A couple of days earlier, upon hearing yells, I looked out my front window and witnessed a woman with a rather large dog on a leash; both were being chased by Buttons down the street.
Jesus said we are to love our neighbors as ourselves but Buttons wasn’t making it easy!
So, a couple of days ago when I discovered Buttons back under my bird feeders, I knew something different was required. Now don’t get me wrong, I love cats, but Buttons is like no cat I had ever met.
Do you know that cats are the number one killers of songbirds? Well, not on my watch! This time I grabbed the hose and didn’t try to scare Buttons, but instead planned on giving her a thorough soaking.
As she darted away, I kept close pursuit and soaked her backside good. Then I devised a plan. Remembering an unused metal shepherd’s hook plant hanger in the shed, I knew what to do.
I put this shepherd’s hook in the ground positioned strategically between all the bird feeders, which happens to be about the middle of the yard and hung the hose sprayer on it. Even with the hose off, just the sight of that sprayer is enough to keep Buttons away. I watched as she rounded the garage, spied the sprayer, sized up the situation and decided to turn tail.
It would seem Buttons and I have come to an understanding.
So, standing up in my back yard is a large metal shepherd’s hook with the garden hose and sprayer poised for battle. It looks rather ridiculous but as Lord Polonius said in Hamlet, “There is method in my madness!”
Later, as my husband came through the back door from work, he just looked at me, shook his head and said, “I am not even going to ask.”
The Season of Creation has arrived! Do you know what the Season of Creation is? Just as there is the Lenten Season and the Season of Advent there is within many denominations a Season of Creation. For some denominations this Season runs from September 1st to October 4th while for others, such as the United Church of Canada it is called “Creation Time” and runs from September 12th to Thanksgiving Sunday, October 10th, 2021.
Although we may differ in the exact dates of this liturgical season we all agree on its focus; our God-given role as care takers of God’s wondrous and amazing creation. We are called to awareness, prayer and action to strengthen our response to God’s presence and glory in all creation.
And what an introduction to Creation Time we have had this past week in Grey-Bruce! Late on Tuesday afternoon darkness overtook the usual commute home which was followed by large hail stones, wicked winds and a torrential rainfall. Trees were toppled, roofs torn off, fences and sheds scattered about as if they were simply children’s toys, and hydro wires downed that would take days to repair. And, just as the Creation Story begins in the Bible, there seemed to be chaos everywhere.
This sense of chaos can leave us bewildered, exhausted and lost but that is not the end of the story; it is only the beginning! Some have asked, “Where was God in this storm?”
God was right where God always can be found, with us in healing and helpful ways.
Before this storm hit we were warned. My cell phone sounded an alarm at 4:50 p.m and again several minutes later telling me to take cover and stay still until the storm had passed. God has gifted us with those who have the knowledge of such meteorological events and the means to communicate warnings to us all. With thanks to God for such gifts no one died during this storm.
God’s presence was witnessed in those who jumped into action and began to ensure everyone’s safety. The first responders such as the police, emergency crews and the hydro workers who immediately began to fix the downed wires; the following two days the sounds of chain saws and tree shredders echoed throughout Saugeen Shores.
One way God brings order out of chaos is by using us. God created us to be the care takers of creation which includes each other. We are called to aid others, those with the knowledge provide warnings, those with means provides the funds, those who can swing a hammer help to rebuild, each of us gifted in one way or another to aid our brothers and sisters through their chaotic times.
May we all look around and see clearly the presence of our Great Creator even in the storms and seeming chaos.
At first I didn’t notice the cause, only the effect. As I carefully folded each sheet from the clothesline, birds dove around me, dancing overhead. One little nuthatch stopped mid-air, made a 180-degree turn, then darted back into the treetops. There were robins, at least 3 blue jays, a couple of orioles, a cardinal, about half a dozen chickadees and a handful of nuthatches displaying a choreographed routine.
After all the laundry was folded, I sat down in a lawn chair enthralled by the show. It was remarkable! More than once a Blue Jay dove so close I could have reached out and touched him. And the best part: when the orioles joined the dance! Their orange plumage added much to the display.
I silently tip toed inside to get my son who, upon arrival, immediately assessed what was happening. A nest of flying ants must have hatched in the soil under our patio stones and were marching in a straight line across the stones, through the lattice and up to the top of the fence post, which is positioned directly under the clothesline. By bringing in the laundry I had startled them into flight, triggering the neighborhood birds into a feeding frenzy.
We sat back and watched with fascination as the seemingly thousands of flying ants marched up the post and took flight, only to be nabbed inches away. However, we soon realized that some were making it high into the great blue yonder because several sea gulls began to dip, dive and turn above the tree tops.
Later we reflected on the plight of the flying ants, having barely hatched and already were someone’s evening snack. However, I must admit, the blackened top of my fence post thick with flying ants disgusted me. I fought the urge to get the hose and wash them away! Thankfully nature once again amazed me with its balancing act.
My boring evening of house work and laundry turned into something exciting; life is such an adventure! One moment I was mindlessly folding laundry, and the next looking up in awe at God’s creation. As the Psalmists declare, “How many are your works, LORD! In wisdom you made them all; the earth is full of your creatures.” (Psalm 104:24)
If pandemic living has taught us anything it is that we don’t always have control over what happens to us. Between the lock downs, necessary public health protocols and workplace restrictions we haven’t had a lot of control in our lives and nor has our opinion on these matters been requested.
However, in Canada on Sunday August 15th, 2021 that changed. Our opinion was sought in a big way to help make a most important decision. We don’t have a lot of time but there is enough time to develop an informed opinion on who we each think should lead this country. The deadline is September 20th, 2021 when finally we all will have the opportunity to make a difference.
To choose not to vote is to choose to give up on the future of this country. As Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. said, “Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.”
So, what is your opinion? Who do you think should lead this country out of the pandemic and into a bright new future? Your opinion has been sought because it matters! Take time to prepare yourself for an informed decision on Monday, September 20th.
Her arrival was a bit unexpected. We found her in a sad situation, the runt of a rather poorly kept litter of pups in a wooden box kept in a dark and cold barn. We had gone just to take a look, but left with this wee bundle of fur in our arms. Her little ears stood straight up on a tiny head under which were two serious eyes that studied our every move. Once placed on the floor this bundle of fur would never wander far, always staying close encouraging pats of assurance. I should have been exhausted from the several “bathroom” breaks each night and the early morning play sessions, instead by day 3 I knew exactly what to name her, Abigail.
Abigail means “cause of joy” in Hebrew. In the Bible, Abigail, King David’s second wife, is described as a beautiful and intelligent woman. My canine sidekick has lived fully into her name.
Each morning as we sip our coffees and read over the difficult headlines our “Cause of Joy” lies between us having her ears massaged or her belly rubbed, as if reminding us not to despair. Each evening she brings her balls and toys dropping them at our feet as we watch the 6:00 news not allowing us time to wallow in the sadness of the world. By bedtime this “Cause of Joy” has had us out for an evening walk among the tall trees and along the babbling brook. She is our angel and I cannot imagine life without her.
Life isn’t easy these days. It never has been. There will always be difficult people, painful prognosis, frightening headlines and causes of grief. We must counter this with causes of joy.
I know one woman whose cause of joy is her house plants. Two hours each Saturday morning is dedicated to their care. Her love of plants has resulted in a degree in botany of which is the field she now works. She is blessed to have discovered a source of joy which fills her days.
Another woman tells me her joy comes from reading. She takes great delight in finding a new novel and before starting it she arranges herself in her favorite chair, with a cup of tea and a plate of cookies. Then the ceremony of meeting new characters and going on an adventure begins.
I have met several grandparents that have discovered great joy when time is spent with their grandchildren. Some even commit to babysit regularly so to fill up on that joy!
What is your cause of joy? What brings a spring to your step and a song to your heart? Fill up on this joy as often as possible; it is the antidote to all the sadness of life!
Stain Glass Lens of the 21st Century 