The sound of silence

Sorry it's been a while.
I know my last blog post was pretty grim (ok so they pretty much all have been recently) but hey work with what you've got right.
I did mean to post again and try and be a little more cheerful, but for one, that's easier said than done, and for two, I was feeling a little guilty about all of my emotional tirades without actually putting in the framework of our grief and honestly explaining all my rants and ravings to those of you who are actually still reading who don't already know.
Was feeling quite indulgent and arrogant about swimming in my frustration and pain when God knows there is a big huge world out there with MUCH larger problems, and from my first world little life that really is all together peaceful I should probably count my blessings on my fingers and toes, probably 4 or 5 times, and be quiet.
The sun has been shining, the birds have been singing, we've had good friends visiting, hanging out, eating, laughing, relaxing together, work is good, life is ticking on.
But I feel hollow, and that I can't deny.
I was given a ticket to a beautiful choral performance on Saturday night. It was the summer finale for the Vancouver Summer Chor, (Thanks Laura S!) a mishmash group of amazing singers from all over Vancouver who take a break from their more regular more structured choirs to sing and have fun together through the summer, and then end in one big performance, where on one hand they dazzle, and perform with excellence, and then on the other hand they invite members of the audience to come and sing favourite movements with them, welcoming others into their excellence, in a relaxed manor that seems so rare from more classical performances.
They did half the show with excerpts from Handel's Messiah (this was where audience participation was welcomed given the ubiquitous-ness of these pieces) and I have to admit I even chirped along to the soprano part of the Hallelujah Chorus (thanks to church choir for that one!) and it brought tears to my eyes. There were probably 150 people in the choir, and another 400 present to watch, and simply by the laws of averages there was a lot of heart break in that room. People sick, people dying, people grieving, people lost, people in the middle of life changing transition and adjustment. And then little old me, chirping along, and then melting back into a puddle to listen to the rest (including AMAZING presentations of Mozart's Requiem)

Now I know that I could get a lot of response about this, and sure, feel free to comment, I'd love a good discussion, but while I know that it's next to impossible that all the people singing there that night were really realising what they were singing, that there really was a camaraderie that was soul deep, in knowingly giving glory to God, it was still a hugely worshipful thing.
Even if they didn't know it, 400+ people were singing at the top of their lungs, Hallelujah to God in heaven! in the middle of Vancouver, one of the most secular and post-Christian cities I've ever lived, and know it or not, there was great spiritual significance to the whole night.

And it made me feel a little better.

Bless the one who invented morphine.

I have been thinking about pain a lot recently.

Physical pain, emotional pain, mental pain, spiritual pain.

As a birth doula I've seen lots of pain, meaningful, productive pain, contracting muscles, new life coming into the world. And also some pretty horrific pain, suffering, agonizing pain, needing rescue, needing treatment, pain that didn't go anywhere.

As a babysitter, aunty, godmum and a kid once upon a time, I've seen childhood pain, scraped knees, shampoo in eyes, sisterly hair pulls and brotherly punches. Pain springing from learning, new relationships, testing boundaries.

As a woman, I've felt heart break, distance, relationship failure, illness, death of those I love so dear, loss. Pain that seemed senseless, and almost a punishment for the day to day joy of the life I've chosen.

I had a friend once who told me that pain was good and should be cherished. It was our world's way of telling us something was wrong, something was not as it should be, a marker of something that needed to be fixed. And he was a little right you know, but also so very wrong.

Pain can lead to change which can be good, can lead to learning and growth and maturity, and in our broken fallen world pain is an absolutely inescapable part of our lives, at some point or other.

A doctor told me this week that pain can come just from something passing, cells dying, moving on. And then the pain will go away. Expect it to hurt. Take the help and treatment offered. And know that it will all go away.

I've looked into my dear husband Mark's deep, loving, kind blue eyes so many times in the last 3 weeks and said 'This isn't how this was supposed to be' and he has held my hand, and said 'you're right, it isn't, but we'll get through it'. It will get get better, it will hurt less.

But pain is not how it was supposed to be. Pain, by the grace of God, doesn't have to be the end of the story. It may be a stop along the way, but one day there will be no more pain, no more sadness, no more death, and He WILL wipe every tear from our eyes. And that will be how it was supposed to be.

Personality tests

These are my favourite procrastination tool, especially ones that give you pretty pictures.

Apparently, this is me when I'm summed up in a colourful box.
Well ok, several colourful boxes.

Advocating Inventor

My personalDNA Report

Sunshine and cookies

It was beautiful outside today, and fresh air made me breathe in deeply, warm and real.

It's been 8 days. Where does the time go.

I know it's been vague on this blog so far about all that has been going on in our lives, if you want to know more details, feel free to ask, for now I'm going to keep going exactly as is. If this frustrates you, you know where the little red 'x' is or how to use your 'back' button. If not feel free to keep reading.

Memories are a strange thing. Grief and memories together are even stranger.

Everything reminds you of something else, something you had, something you hoped for, and missing things becomes tangible, salty and stinging at the same time, like seawater when you get dumped on the beach by a rough wave. You dream of all the alternatives, all the possibilities, and it's easy to forget what was. Good and bad. Or maybe you just remember what you were supposed to?

We are having a dinner party with some dear friends in two weeks. We had been thinking for the last week or so what the theme of this party should be, and tonight I decided.

"Summer favourites"

We are going to get together and share food and stories and memories, and relish the joy that is now. Vancouver can be a bitingly lonely city, but today, it was sunshiny. And I baked really good cookies. Let me know if you want to come over and eat some. It should be sunny and warm out tomorrow....

Grief in summer

I was speaking with my dear friend Angela this week, and talking about how while on one hand our lives can make us want to shout from the mountain tops and dance, there are days where we want to hide in the dark, quiet and alone, just listening to our breath, hoping that maybe, just maybe, the next drama won't see us, or will wash right over us, giving a gentle reprieve.

But the longer you hide the more numb you feel, and the stranger the world seems when you eventually emerge. So I'm emerging. Well sort of. Still not quite ready for both feet. But here's my toe in the waters of blogging and life.

We just had a sermon series at church about seasons of faith and life, one sunday for each season, and with all our travelling and busyness we missed the week on 'winter' which was the one that felt the closest to how I feel right now, the season I'm in. We are full of grief and pain and sadness right now. We are in winter.

So I didn't want to go on Sunday. I didn't want to be around happy church people. I didn't want to be asked how I was doing, I didn't want to cry. I didn't want to talk about the summer of my faith.

After hiding in the dark, the sun is so bright it hurts your eyes, and you feel like somehow the dinginess of the darkness is still clinging to you too, and you are exposed.

But I did go. And I did cry. Because I know that even though grief and pain and loss are real, and summer feels a world away, it's still inevitable. Whether it's this world or the next, summer is inevitable. That season of taking a big deep warm breath of fresh air and life, and knowing that it will never be taken away again; that season is coming. It might be a world away right now, today, but it's on its way.

Trevor talked about how when we are in bad times, the temptation is to look behind us, at the good times, and yearn, nostalgically, for what is past and who is lost and who we are not anymore. So much so we can get ourselves stuck looking backwards. But God taught Israel that when we look back and see those good things in our past, we should be grateful, yes, and miss it, sure, but that it should remind us of just how much more there is still to be given, and all that is inevitably yet to come. Good things should be Ebenezers, markers of God's goodness, to keep us moving forward, not taunting reminders of all that we've lost.

I have a lot of people to thank from the last month or so. Friends and family who have listened and cried, and prayed, and hugged, thank you for walking with us. You know who you are. We are truly blessed.

I know I'm a huge nerd for what I am about to say, but I've been listening to a lot of Sinatra lately, and the song 'The Best Is Yet to Come' I know that Sinatra is the king of the lounge, but my nerdy Star-trek loving self still loves this version the best............

Favourite line? You think you've seen the sun? You ain't seen nothing yet!