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  • A Risotto Summer

    A Risotto Summer

    This week we flipped one page in the calendar from July to August, signaling, for many the halfway point of summer holidays.  Standing by the kitchen calendar I tried to recall all that July held and was hard pressed to remember much of it, where did the month go?

    Refusing to let July end on such a sour note, I decided to mark the day with something symbolic.  And I knew exactly what that something would be.   Just that morning a friend had emailed me a recipe for Risotto.  I had decided to set it aside as the recipe started with the statement, “Many say Risotto is a difficult dish to make but it really is very simple, all one needs to do is slow down and take your time.  Risotto teaches that slow brings the best results.”

    With recipe in hand, I headed to the grocery store and later, after watching a video on how to make the perfect Risotto, I started up the frying pan.  As I diligently followed every word in the recipe, even timing the stirring to a perfect 20 minutes as directed.  I realized this recipe was exactly the spiritual exercise I needed to set the tone for the month of August.

    This month I will slow down, taking time to gaze up at the fluffy clouds by day and the starry sky at night.  I promised myself I would spend time running my toes through the warm sand at the beach and plan at least one evening by a crackling campfire.  There would be time to attend open-air concerts and to walk under the tall maples along the river.  I would slow down enough this month to savor all that the month of August offers.

    As the list formed in my mind, the Risotto slowly formed into a lovely creamy dish.  Topped with freshly shredded parmesan and garnished with herbs from the garden it became a reminder of the need to slow down and enjoy the good things in life. It is true, Risotto does teach that slow brings the best results!

    May it be a Risotto August for us all,

    Rev. Heather McCarrel

    Photo by Lucas Lobak Neves/Unsplash

  • Summer Sabbeth

    Summer Sabbeth

    Summer worship has always been my favorite kind of Sabbath keeping.  Gone are the early mornings of shoveling, clearing off the car and maneuvering through snow packed streets.  In summer the singing seems brighter, the energy lighter and there is extra time for chit chat and lemonade.  

    And yet, it is easy to get so caught up in the relaxed pace of summer that we forget the most important day of the week; the Sabbath day.  We kid ourselves by believing time spent in nature walking garden paths or hiking forest trails can replace the importance of time in Sabbath. However, to buy into this way of thinking is to rob ourselves of a most profound gift. To witness the beauty of God’s creation is only part of feeding our souls.

    As Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel (1907-1972), author, professor and activist, writes, “Six days a week we wrestle with the world…on the Sabbath we especially care for the seed of eternity planted in the soul… The seventh day is a palace in time which we build.  It is made of soul, of joy and reticence.  In its atmosphere, a discipline is a reminder of the adjacency to eternity.”

    Setting aside one hour to join others in praise, song, scripture, reflection, prayer and fellowship feeds a sacred element of our soul, so ancient in fact,  it can only be nurtured through this Sabbath keeping.  This one hour a week measures immensely in our entire well- being.  As the old hymn goes,

    “Lord, what a change within us one short hour.               Spent in your presence will prevail to make.       What heavy burdens from our bosoms take.                            What parched grounds refresh as with a shower!” (Lord, what a change within us one short hour, by, Richard Chenevix Trench)

    Blessings,

    Rev. Heather McCarrel

    (Photo of a stain glass window in Owen Sound ON)

  • Momentary Miracle

    Momentary Miracle

    On our recent trip to Wales we left the Toronto airport at midnight and arrived to the airport in Manchester, England at noon.   The direct flight did not take 12 hours; it was a 7 hour flight with an additional 5 hour time change.  At about the half way point we witnessed something phenomenal, something we will never forget, a momentary miracle.

    In that moment we were traveling between the two time zones. Ahead of the plane, on the horizon was a thin line of light but as we approached this line it grew taking over the sky above us.  Behind the plane was the darkness of night. 

    It was as if the day was turning like a page in a book and the plane was positioned immediately over the turning page; on one page Canada still slumbering in yesterday’s darkness while on the other, Great Britain fully awake in the new day’s sunlight.  In that moment, it was as if the plane was suspended between the two time zones; between yesterday and tomorrow.  What a moment!    

    As the plane glided over darkness on one side and light on the other, I realized it was a visualization of remaining in the moment.  Often we spend time looking back or rushing ahead planning for tomorrow, forgetting to grab hold of the beauty in the moment.

    Sure, the nostalgia of yesterday is nice to recall but we usually forget the struggles and the sacrifices remembering only the good times.  A long time ago, ‘the good ol’ days’ were called ‘these trying times’ just as the days we are living in now, will someday be ‘the good ol’ days’.  I can understand why we try to orient ourselves in planning for tomorrow; it makes us feel more in control, even if it is just an illusion.

    Thing is, as we gaze back or look head, we miss out on the beauty right before us, that magical moment where we live our daily lives.  As American Author, Alice Morse Earle penned, “Yesterday is history. Tomorrow is a mystery. Today is a gift. That is why it is called the present.”

    May we all enjoy these summer days, savoring the gift of each moment,

    Rev. Heather McCarrel

    Photo by Eric Fotos /Pexel

  • Writing Our Stories

    Writing Our Stories

    It was 17 years ago that I accepted a new position titled “End of Life Chaplain”.    My pay came from a large corporation whose focus was the care of the elderly in over 400 long term care and assisted living facilities across the country.  I was hired to help 4 of those facilities.

    Two coronaviruses later (SARs and COVID) and 17 years of experience have resulted in many changes; both to myself and the setting in which I serve.   My title now is “Spiritual Care Provider” and I work for a local Health Care Service in a hospice setting.   

    Despite the clinical changes over the years human nature has remained much the same.  As I accompany those and their close friends and family toward death, I have learned the power of story.  To listen to the stories of other people’s lives; witnessing their struggles, sacrifices, regrets, achievements, and joy is a profound privilege.

    Rarely do I hear stories of things accumulated.  Those summarizing their lives tend not to list what furniture they had or how many homes they owned.  Not once has anyone told me what kind of car they drove or how much Gucci they had in their closets. Instead, I have stood witness to childhood memories, stories of perseverance over trials, and setbacks recovered. There are always stories of love; the kind of love that leaves its impression on one’s life, the love of parents, siblings, spouses, children, pets, and dear friends.  These are the stories that matter at the end of it all.

    These are stories of how each has filled their space in the world; how their lives came to have meaning and this meaning is significant.   

    Concentration camp survivor, Viktor E. Frankl wrote in his book, Man’s Search For Meaning, “Everyone has their own specific vocation or mission in life; everyone must carry out a concrete assignment that demands fulfillment. Therein they cannot be replaced, nor can life be repeated. Thus, everyone’s task is unique as is their specific opportunity to implement it.”

    It is never too late to rewrite the story of our lives asking, “how am I filling my space in the world?”  

    Blessings,

    Rev. Heather McCarrel

    Photo by Angela Roma/Pexels

  • Reaping What We Sow

    Reaping What We Sow

    The vegetable garden has been a source of constant inspiration this summer, time spent weeding, poling up the beans and peas and trying to stay ahead of the many intruders trying to nibble at my pending harvest.  Recently, under a smoke filled sky and through a dense humidity I found myself wondering why I even bother gardening but the answer came almost as soon as the question was formed.

    The answer arrived at the far corner of the plot where I purposely planted the tomato plants. I had arrived prepared to cage up the four tomato plants I placed weeks earlier and was surprised to find not 4 tomato plants but three times more!

     Puzzled at first I took to pulling up the weeds only to discover growing wildly among the rows were tall tomato plants, seemingly they were the result of the seeds from last year’s fallen fruit.  I wasn’t sure at first if they should be allowed to continue or if I should pull them out, especially since they dared to grow where I had planned straight pathways.

    Some were pulled out while others were left to grow and now, they bear fruit with just as much pride as their purposely planted neighbors. 

    It has reminded me of a lesson Jesus teaches in the Gospel of Luke and Paul repeats in the Epistles; we reap what we sow. Meaning, those who spend their life spreading seeds of kindness, patience, joy and understanding will gather in a harvest just as rich. However, the opposite is also true, spending one’s life selfishly focused on your wants, at the expense of others, results in a lonely and conflicted existence.   It is a lesson in karma or as Robert Louis Stevenson writes, “Sooner or later everyone sits down to a banquet of consequences.”

    Robert Louis Stevenson advices us to “not judge each day by the harvest we reap, but instead by the seeds we plant.”  May we all have a rich harvest.

    Blessings,

    Rev. Heather McCarrel  

    Photo by Binyamin Mellish/Pexels 

  • Proud To Be Canadian

    Proud To Be Canadian

    This past month my husband and I spent some time traveling around England and Wales.  Prior to leaving Canada we had been advised to place small Canadian flags on our luggage and back packs so everyone would know we were Canadian.  Not thinking much of it, I did pack a few Canadian pins into our carry-on luggage but failed to pin them on.        

    That was until the second evening of our trip.  We had just finished placing our order in one of those quaint village pubs when the gentleman at the table beside us turned and said, “Oh, a couple of Americans! I have wanted to ask about that Trump fella you choose as a President.”

    We were quick to fix that misunderstanding.  He apologized and offered to buy us each a pint so to “mend the fence”.  Once back at our hotel room I pinned a small Canadian flag on both of our backpacks and these little pins made all the difference!

    We were stopped by waitresses, hotel staff and complete strangers wanting to share their Canadian stories; stories of family members and friends who now make Canada their home.  We heard heartwarming stories of Canadian care and hospitality.  One hotel worker asked if we had ever heard of a place called Kitchener-Waterloo as he will be moving there this September.

    It wasn’t until we visited St. Margaret’s Church in Bodelwyddan, Wales that my Canadian pride filled my eyes with tears.  In the churchyard of St Margaret’s, locally named the ‘Marble Church’, is the cemetery of over 100 Canadian servicemen and women who died during the First World War and two servicemen of the Second World War. Carved into each  headstone is a maple leaf along with the names, birthplace, and age of each Canadian. This churchyard is kept immaculate and our Welsh guide solemnly said, “To think they came over to help us fight a war that wasn’t their own and they never went home.  We will always be grateful to Canada for this.” 

    In total there was an estimated 15, 000 Canadian Service men and women who went to England and Wales during WWI.  Standing tall amid the graves is a Memorial and inscribed upon it is: “To the memory of Canadian soldiers who died at Kinmel Park Camp during the Great War. This memorial was erected by their comrades. Their name liveth for evermore.”

    It was while we slowly paused at each grave, reading the names and ages that I began to tear up; young men and women between the ages of 19-21, mere children.  I took off my pack back and taking the Canadian pin from it, I placed it among the Canadian coins and river rocks that were scattered around the memorial.

    This weekend is Canada Day.  A day set aside to celebrate and reflect on what it means to be Canadian. We have a past both prideful and painful and a future full of opportunities to mend the wrongs and honour the rights.   

    Happy Canada Day,

    Rev. Heather McCarrel     

    Canadian Flag Photo by Erik McLean/Pexels

  • Putting Down The Heavy

    Putting Down The Heavy

    It has been a lot of heavy lifting lately:  worrying about the forest fires and those most affected, watching the war in Ukraine wondering how cruel can humans be to each other and listening to the news from our neighbors down south awed by how ridiculous it all can become.

    Life has been full of commitments, meetings and deadlines. The days turned into weeks, the weeks became months and the months have flown by.  Life is too short to live at such a pace.

    It is time for a holiday.  For two weeks my focus will be entirely on leisure. My cell phone and all its conveniences such as news feeds, text messages and email alerts, will be turned off.  I will be putting down the heavy stuff and traveling a lot lighter. 

    As French writer and philosopher, Albert Camus, writes, “Tame birds sing of freedom. Wild birds fly.”  For the next two weeks I plan on being as free and as light as a wild bird in flight.

    May we all take time off from all our worries and lighten the load long enough to be refueled and strengthened for the journey ahead.

    Blessings,

    Rev. Heather McCarrel

    Photo by Andrei Tanase/Pexels

  • June’s Arrival

    June’s Arrival

    The arrival of June was announced several days prior to June 1st.   Perhaps it was the excitement of this most happiest of  months that spurred the flowers to celebrate a few days earlier or maybe they just could not hold off any longer.

    The unmistakable fragrance of June seeped into the bedding drying on the clothsline and found its way into the mudroom perfuming our garden gloves and hanging raincoats.  It is a powerful elixir, causing one to stop dead in their tracks, distracted by its unexpected beauty wiping clear any former intentions.

    I stood transfixed in the driveway, forgetting why I had even ventured out.  It was as though a fog overtook me, a mix of Lilly of the Valley, Lilac, Crabapple blossoms, and Hyacinth aromas, combined to such a heavenly scent I stood, eyes shut,  smelling the air like a drunken fool. As British author, Beverley Nicols, writes, “To be overcome by the fragrance of flowers is a delectable form of defeat.” 

    May we all be defeated by this most rewarding fragrance, rendering us useless with its calming and satisfying effects and may we all pause to bask in all that June has to offer.

    Happy June Everyone,

    Rev. Heather McCarrel

    Photo by Tina Sara/Unsplash

  • Hiking For Hospice

    Hiking For Hospice

    It was late one cool September Saturday when my mother arrived to Hospice. She had one of those illnesses that crept through her body almost undetected until it was too late.  Once discovered there was a swiftness to her decline.  We had done all we could for her at home; rented the hospital bed, gathered in all the necessary equipment, shopped for the foods she could eat and where we could do no more there were these angelic nurses who arrived to do the rest of her care. She was a polite patient but not necessarily co-operative. By nature my mother was a very private and defiantly independent woman which, in the past, had bode well for her.   

    I recall my father, two brothers and I sat in silence while the Hospice staff settled her in. This was a silence of relief as we each began to relax from the weeks of emotional heavy lifting.  No longer were we the ones having to remind her to take her meds, rest, or use her walker.  Now, we could start to face our own grief and to be a gentler presence; a profound gift indeed.

    It wasn’t the first time I had been to the hospice. As a minister I had sat by the beds visiting both parishioners and their loved ones.  I had firsthand experience of the kindness and dedication of the hospice staff.

    So impressed have I been with the gentle but strong presence of this hospice that I am now counted among their staff.  It is with humble gratitude that I walk the halls as a Spiritual Care Provider, aka, a Chaplain.  I witness the dedication of all the staff from the remarkable clinical staff, compassionate kitchen staff,  friendly cleaning/enviromental services staff,  well trained and warm hearted volunteers to the busy Management Team.  It takes an army to run a hospice and lots of Chapman ice cream!

    It also takes a community to run a hospice.  That is why I will be at Harrison Park on Saturday May 27th from 11:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m. for the wrap up hike and BBQ as we rally around Grey-Bruce Hospice Inc, known to us all as Chapman House. This will be the first in-person Hike for Hospice in two years.  A day of fundraising and gathering, it isn’t too late if you too would like to join us. Please go to https://www.greybrucehospice.com/ for details.

    Hike-Bike-Ride-Paddle-Skip-Play all in the name of Hospice! I hope to see you there,

    Rev. Heather McCarrel

    Photo by Photo nic chiro/Unsplash

  • The Long Weekend

    The Long Weekend

    Finally, the May long weekend has arrived!  Three days of rest, relaxation and time spent with family and friends.

    We deserve a few days of spring celebration after what has been dubbed, “The darkest winter in 80 years” by the United States National Weather Services.  In fact, Southern Ontario saw the least amount of sunshine than just about anywhere else in all of North America.

    Couple this with the chilly north wind which outstayed its welcome this past spring and we all are due for a few days of warmth and sunshine.

    Friday began calm with a warm breeze and a hint of sunshine.  By noon folks appeared with rakes, hoes, and flats of bedding plants eager to get started on beautifying their yards.  It was a productive day with happiness not witnessed in months. 

    Then, as if on cue, just as the workday was ending a dark ominous cloud slowly made its way over the Bay and by early evening the rainfall had begun.

    We sat listening to its steady drumming commenting on the beauty of its rhythm; grateful that the dry lawns and gardens were receiving warm sustenance.

    Two hours later this rain seemed less romantic and by bedtime we knew the long weekend was a bust.   The weather forecast shared news of rain and lots of it for the next 24 hours. 

    However, it is the early dawn as I write, and the view is remarkable. A soft mist has settled in some low-lying spots and the hours of warm rain encouraged the maple leaves, stunted by the cold north wind, to fully realize their growth.  There is vibrancy all around.

    The maple trees have filled in making it difficult to see through to the other side and a green carpet stretches across the yard dotted with happy dandelions.  The crabapple trees are in full bloom adding a celebratory brightness while the pastel shades of magnolia blossoms deepen the beauty.  Perhaps this won’t be the long weekend we had hoped for, but it may just be the long weekend we need.

    Whatever the weather in your part of the world, may this be a blessed time of growth, greening and renewal.  

    Blessings,

    Rev. Heather McCarrel

    Photo by Mateusz Stepien/Unsplash