Dear friends, kind readers,
Life has a way of becoming more than crazy-busy at times and mine has taken this road of late. I am taking a course that adds many hours to an already full work week. It's not forever. It's just for a season, a three month season. And it's good. It's a course that will help me be a better teacher, a better reading teacher...and oh how I want my students to love to read! That being said, I will take a break from blogging weekly, as I'm sure you've already noticed. Come the end of July, I'll start again, start the discipline of writing regularly. So till we meet again, God bless you!
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Breakthrough
After about five solid days of precipitation and giving in to the temptation to just hole up inside the house, it was time to venture out. So Sunday night about 6:30pm, my husband and I decided to go for a drive up to the lake. It's early in the season yet, to pack the car with fishing gear, so we just drove for the sake of driving. It was mostly a silent drive, a peaceful drive, as the radio in my car is broken. We left in light drizzle and about forty minutes into the excursion, the sun peaked through. And behold....a rainbow. A reminder of God's promises and faithfulness. And then we entered the "golden hour' - that time just before sunset until dusk, where everything changes colour. And this is what we saw:
The sky was crimson. After days of grey drizzle, it was all we could do to get pulled over to the side of the road safely and start snapping photos. And it got even more dramatic:
I couldn't help but think about God's glory, His provision, His handiwork. And breakthrough! There are areas in my life for which I need breakthrough. Patterns need to be broken, relationships mended, changes made. And here by the lake I was reminded that He lives and is in charge. The long days of rain will come to an end. He is the God of breakthrough! I look up!
The sky was crimson. After days of grey drizzle, it was all we could do to get pulled over to the side of the road safely and start snapping photos. And it got even more dramatic:
I couldn't help but think about God's glory, His provision, His handiwork. And breakthrough! There are areas in my life for which I need breakthrough. Patterns need to be broken, relationships mended, changes made. And here by the lake I was reminded that He lives and is in charge. The long days of rain will come to an end. He is the God of breakthrough! I look up!
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Off to Camp
Just spent about 30 hours with a bunch of 11-13 year olds at an outdoor camp north of here. It was raining much of the time, but the infectious glee exhibited by these kids was hard to ignore. The noise level, piercing at times, could not be diminished as their seeming freedom from the daily school routine fed the collective din. They loved it. We canoed, ran through the forest playing survival games and worked in teams to solve problems. The affect of this camping experience cannot be measured as yet. This is the stuff of memories.
I got thinking back about twenty years to when my own son was a young camper….
When my son was eight, he begged to go to camp, so I enrolled him, almost unthinkingly, at a Pentecostal Camp on Vancouver Island. This resulted in us having to take the ferry from Horseshoe Bay to Nanaimo and drive north to the camp. I don't know what I was thinking. We didn't know anyone who was going to the camp, though my friend and pastor had stayed there in one of the few private cottages and vouched for its reputation. I was a busy mom at the time, and probably longed for some sort of respite from full time mommyhood. A mother of an only child has special challenges. Having to be on all the time...the mom, the companion, the teacher, the friend. I needed a break! And so too, did he need a break from me. We didn't live in a particularly kid-friendly neighborhood in Vancouver, so buddies were not in abundance. This would give him a much needed opportunity to hang with kids his own age.
We pulled into the camp and much to my consternation, were advised that they were doing a "lice check" and not to be alarmed. Not the welcome I had hoped for. We were given a cabin number and a counselor's name and we set off to unpack. The camp seemed a little shabby, but my boy was beside himself with excitement. We laid out his sleeping bag on his bunk of choice, toured the grounds and I realized I had to go to catch the return ferry. He looked at me and said, "What do I do now, Mom?" I had no idea. I didn't know what to say. I wanted to grab his hand, pull him close and never let go. I wanted to take him home, tell him I was sorry for every time I showed impatience or ire and just keep him. But instead, I gave him a quick hug, a brush of a kiss and said, "Walk me to the car." I pointed out a group of kids and said, "See you in a week. You know you can call me anytime if you need me. Call me at work, call me at home. It doesn't matter. I love you, love you, love you!" And I let go of his hand. I let go of his hand….I tried not to look in the rearview mirror at that little boy, standing alone in the driveway. But I did. He turned and walked timidly toward the others.
I cried all the way to the ferry. I cried in the bathroom on the ferry. I felt that strange exhilaration at knowing he was in safe hands and that my schedule was my own for six days, but there was that gut-wrenching guilt at feeling like I had abandoned him.
It was a long six days. Long. I fought the urge to call until about Thursday. The camp office assured me that I wasn't the only parent who called to check and said he was fine. That would have to do until Saturday at noon, when I'd arrive back to fetch him.
I didn't know what to expect. Perhaps a cold shoulder, a reproachful glance. But no… he came bounding up to the car with a big kid-made wooden cross on a string around his neck. He talked a mile a minute, recounting all the prayer times, worship services, altar calls. His eyes had a light in them, a new light. I asked about canoeing, and golf and archery and he went on about Jesus. I was humbled. He had been touched and comforted and befriended by the Prince of Peace.
That was his first experience at that camp and he returned for five more summers after that. As he progressed into the teen years, his experience took on a different dynamic. It was all about friends, then girls, then dates for dances at teen camp. No more wooden cross around his neck, but he did tell of long worship services and encounters with the Lord. He was growing up in spite of me. He was his own person with his own destiny calling. It was so hard to let go. Was then, still is. But I’m grateful for all the help along the way….the teachers, the camp leaders, the youth leaders, and our beloved Heavenly Father, the parent of all.
I got thinking back about twenty years to when my own son was a young camper….
When my son was eight, he begged to go to camp, so I enrolled him, almost unthinkingly, at a Pentecostal Camp on Vancouver Island. This resulted in us having to take the ferry from Horseshoe Bay to Nanaimo and drive north to the camp. I don't know what I was thinking. We didn't know anyone who was going to the camp, though my friend and pastor had stayed there in one of the few private cottages and vouched for its reputation. I was a busy mom at the time, and probably longed for some sort of respite from full time mommyhood. A mother of an only child has special challenges. Having to be on all the time...the mom, the companion, the teacher, the friend. I needed a break! And so too, did he need a break from me. We didn't live in a particularly kid-friendly neighborhood in Vancouver, so buddies were not in abundance. This would give him a much needed opportunity to hang with kids his own age.
We pulled into the camp and much to my consternation, were advised that they were doing a "lice check" and not to be alarmed. Not the welcome I had hoped for. We were given a cabin number and a counselor's name and we set off to unpack. The camp seemed a little shabby, but my boy was beside himself with excitement. We laid out his sleeping bag on his bunk of choice, toured the grounds and I realized I had to go to catch the return ferry. He looked at me and said, "What do I do now, Mom?" I had no idea. I didn't know what to say. I wanted to grab his hand, pull him close and never let go. I wanted to take him home, tell him I was sorry for every time I showed impatience or ire and just keep him. But instead, I gave him a quick hug, a brush of a kiss and said, "Walk me to the car." I pointed out a group of kids and said, "See you in a week. You know you can call me anytime if you need me. Call me at work, call me at home. It doesn't matter. I love you, love you, love you!" And I let go of his hand. I let go of his hand….I tried not to look in the rearview mirror at that little boy, standing alone in the driveway. But I did. He turned and walked timidly toward the others.
I cried all the way to the ferry. I cried in the bathroom on the ferry. I felt that strange exhilaration at knowing he was in safe hands and that my schedule was my own for six days, but there was that gut-wrenching guilt at feeling like I had abandoned him.
It was a long six days. Long. I fought the urge to call until about Thursday. The camp office assured me that I wasn't the only parent who called to check and said he was fine. That would have to do until Saturday at noon, when I'd arrive back to fetch him.
I didn't know what to expect. Perhaps a cold shoulder, a reproachful glance. But no… he came bounding up to the car with a big kid-made wooden cross on a string around his neck. He talked a mile a minute, recounting all the prayer times, worship services, altar calls. His eyes had a light in them, a new light. I asked about canoeing, and golf and archery and he went on about Jesus. I was humbled. He had been touched and comforted and befriended by the Prince of Peace.
That was his first experience at that camp and he returned for five more summers after that. As he progressed into the teen years, his experience took on a different dynamic. It was all about friends, then girls, then dates for dances at teen camp. No more wooden cross around his neck, but he did tell of long worship services and encounters with the Lord. He was growing up in spite of me. He was his own person with his own destiny calling. It was so hard to let go. Was then, still is. But I’m grateful for all the help along the way….the teachers, the camp leaders, the youth leaders, and our beloved Heavenly Father, the parent of all.
 |
| The Cross...Our Life Saver |
Friday, April 22, 2011
What did you say?
Disagreeing, misunderstanding, misreading, not listening, not hearing, debating, squabbling, struggling, tussling, contending, altercating, opposing, disputing, fighting, combating, sparring, pounding and then...a slugfest, free-for-all, fisticuffs, and all out war!No matter what, there are wounded.
No one comes unarmed.
Snide remarks, nicks, wounds form battle lines
ever waiting, at watch for the signal
and then...
New wounds, confusion, self-doubt, recriminations, mistrust, blood...
Such is life in the trenches of sinful humanity.
But there is ONE who can make a difference.
Drop the weapons. Kick them to the foot of the cross.
Look up.
He's the heart changer. He's our hope.
Look up.
Monday, April 18, 2011
There Are Days and There Are Days
Being an elementary school teacher, there are days when you think there is not enough money in the world that's worth the noise and heartache. Then there are days when you can't believe you get paid to do it, it's that wonderful. This happened on one of the latter types of days.
About twelve years ago, I moved from British Columbia to Ontario to take on a new teaching position. I taught a particularly precocious group of grade two students. The Ontario Curriculum required me to teach music. Well, I like what I like, but shamefully, except for about three years of piano lessons that my teacher begged me to quit when I was a preteen, my musical knowledge is limited at best. One of the curriculum objectives states that students, “express personal responses to musical performances.” That seemed easy enough. I came up with a plan.
About twelve years ago, I moved from British Columbia to Ontario to take on a new teaching position. I taught a particularly precocious group of grade two students. The Ontario Curriculum required me to teach music. Well, I like what I like, but shamefully, except for about three years of piano lessons that my teacher begged me to quit when I was a preteen, my musical knowledge is limited at best. One of the curriculum objectives states that students, “express personal responses to musical performances.” That seemed easy enough. I came up with a plan.
Each student was eager to sign up to the “My Favourite Song” program. All they had to do was to bring in a recording of a piece of music near and dear to them, tell why it was notable, and make known which instruments they could hear. I heard raunchy rock music, Inca instrumentals, hoedown music and a smattering of young pop singers. I even was privy to a few children's ditties. I was astonished at the variety of styles.
Then one day it was my turn. I was all prepared. I started with a recording friends had sent me from Holland. They had taken part in a project called, “War Child,” - a musical fundraiser, to help children from war-torn countries. There were 2500 singers in their choir. I played the recording and the students had to guess how many people were singing. They could easily tell it was more than one, but the first guess was 10 singers and we played the “More Than That” game until we got to 2500. Wonderful.
Then, in trying to instill in them an appreciation of all types of music, I told them they were about to experience something very special. I was excited to see their first reactions to the Three Tenors: Luciano Pavorotti, Placido Domingo and Hose Carreras singing “Nessun Dorma.” I was careful not to tell the meaning of this dramatic song, which was easy since it was of course being sung in Italian. I just told them the translation of the last line, "At dawn, I will win, I will win, I will win.” I think I told them the hero was going out in battle. As they listened, I allowed them to draw and colour. Crayons waxed along their pages as Luciano belted out the final lines.
A wonderful little guy, whose mother got me to admit that yes, he DID ask more questions than any other child, said, “Mrs. D.?” I said, “Yes, Mark?” He said, “Well, I like them
- the three guys, but I like the three Stooges better.” I stifled a laugh and asked why. He told me the three stooges were funnier. It was one of the moments that make teaching worth it all. That young family left the school that year to move away and I've always
wondered if Mark remembers that day. I always will.Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Lullaby and Good Night
If I had a dollar for every time I've said, "I'm so tired," in the last five years, I could have retired, (and maybe have gotten some sleep.) I've felt old and guilty and powerless over this constant dragging about. I've blamed diet, stress and sheer laziness, telling anyone who'd listen that when I come home from working all day, all I want to do is fall down on the couch and descend into a vegetative state. Complaining to my family doctor, he sent me for a sleep study. I was referred last August, got a call in October, went for the overnight ordeal on Boxing Day and got results the beginning of April. Meanwhile...you guess it - tired! All this to find out that I have sleep apnea. How in the world did this happen?
Upon hearing the diagnosis of "moderate to severe," and reading the doctor's notes to discover that I've been waking up as many as 67 times in an hour, I felt giddy with relief that no, I'm not crazy, and no, I am not lazy. I AM tired because I don't sleep well. I'm not an indolent slug. I just don't breathe well when I lay down. After my giddy relief subsided, reality set in. I now have to wear a sleeping contraption. A heated hose stuck to a mask, bound about my head with my nose and mouth sealed in tightly. They estimate a full month to adjust to such and then alas....another sleep study.
I am trying to keep grateful....for the technology that might keep me from having a coronary or a stroke or high blood pressure. Technology that may actually help me to sleep. (It hasn't yet.) Even a major weight loss won't help much, I've been told, so it's time to (literally) suck it up!
Hopefully, next time you see me I'll be well rested, clear-thinking, brimming with creative surges and smiling! Psalm 4:8 says, "In peace I will lie down and sleep, for you alone, LORD, make me dwell in safety." Thanks, Lord for your peace!
 |
| The Dreaded "Darth Vader" mask |
I am trying to keep grateful....for the technology that might keep me from having a coronary or a stroke or high blood pressure. Technology that may actually help me to sleep. (It hasn't yet.) Even a major weight loss won't help much, I've been told, so it's time to (literally) suck it up!
Hopefully, next time you see me I'll be well rested, clear-thinking, brimming with creative surges and smiling! Psalm 4:8 says, "In peace I will lie down and sleep, for you alone, LORD, make me dwell in safety." Thanks, Lord for your peace!
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Home Again, Home Again, Jiggety Jig
What a holiday! To say I was stressed in the weeks prior to takeoff would be a true understatement. I didn't like me much as I finished off the term and packed my suitcase. But I was given just what I needed on the two week break.
After spending six days at the "White House B & B", and being spoiled silly, I'd like a dumpster to haul out my stuff and start over. My friend Marjorie is a true decorator; every piece in her living room reflects the colours embodied in a number of collected paintings purchased in Israel. Rich brocades and leather, her home is an earthy reflection of comfort and stability. For me it was an oasis of much needed peace and quiet. I am just so grateful for James and Marjorie's hospitality. I even had use of a "silver bullet" car to chase photographic dreams up and down the coast. Thank you dearest friends!
And then there was a blessed reunion with my son and daughter-in-law. I hadn't seen my son in a year - just long enough for his hair to reach well below the shoulder line. After a day's conversation and dinner out, I was tricked into reading a letter that I thought was from the bank to find out that my son passed his RN exam! I was beyond thrilled...relieved to see him begin a career, a destiny, I believe, in helping others in the health field. What a week of answered prayer! God is good.
There's nothing like one's own bed after a two week journey. I love visiting, but I love coming home. Home to a beloved husband, a treasured abode and the firm knowledge that no matter what, I am planted where I belong.
After spending six days at the "White House B & B", and being spoiled silly, I'd like a dumpster to haul out my stuff and start over. My friend Marjorie is a true decorator; every piece in her living room reflects the colours embodied in a number of collected paintings purchased in Israel. Rich brocades and leather, her home is an earthy reflection of comfort and stability. For me it was an oasis of much needed peace and quiet. I am just so grateful for James and Marjorie's hospitality. I even had use of a "silver bullet" car to chase photographic dreams up and down the coast. Thank you dearest friends!
And then there was a blessed reunion with my son and daughter-in-law. I hadn't seen my son in a year - just long enough for his hair to reach well below the shoulder line. After a day's conversation and dinner out, I was tricked into reading a letter that I thought was from the bank to find out that my son passed his RN exam! I was beyond thrilled...relieved to see him begin a career, a destiny, I believe, in helping others in the health field. What a week of answered prayer! God is good.
There's nothing like one's own bed after a two week journey. I love visiting, but I love coming home. Home to a beloved husband, a treasured abode and the firm knowledge that no matter what, I am planted where I belong.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)