Tuesday, July 30, 2019

dear mom and dad,

remember that time you won a trip to vegas at the legion? i couldn't stop thinking about that as i spent a day there last week. i remember how excited you were; you deserved that trip so much.

i hiked the grand canyon last week also. thought of you then, too. i can just picture your very different expressions; mom, you would have been so excited for me and happy to live vicariously through me, and dad, you would have lost sleep until you got word that i hadn't fallen in or been trampled by a mule. you always were a worry wart.

i got my credentials a month a go. missed you something fierce that night. the table was full of people cheering me on; amanda, al and jensen came - so did sharon and cindy - yet i longed for there to be two more chairs. you would have been so proud; i would have hugged you so tightly and thanked you over and over until the lights turned out and we were the last ones to leave. all eyes on you two, the givers of this ever-growing and ever-soaring life.

i'm healthier now. my depression episodes are few and far between and far less intense, i moved to toronto, my friends are incredible, i always have a place mat set for me every holiday and i finally found my place in this world work wise. you would love the organization i work for; they care about me more than any other place has and show me this in so many different ways. i wish you could meet the people i work with and wish more than anything that they could meet you. they'd love you instantly; everyone did.

they say that the grief process gets easier with time, but i don't know that it does. while i don't feel crippled by it like i did during the first few months following your death, the time between hearing your voice gets further and further away, and THAT is what i find the hardest.

i sent you a text once telling you how much i missed you, mom. alliston felt so far away that night. your response? "i'm always with you, paula. just close your eyes"

well, i am closing my eyes a little tighter tonight. miss you both so very much. xoxo

Sunday, July 28, 2019

he waved me down during our community dinner, motioning that he needed to talk.

the second i sat down beside him, he burst into tears, 'confessed' that he was drunk, told me he doesn't usually cry, and apologized for both. an apology wasn't necessary for either, i told him.

turns out that his wife is in the hospital, he's afraid of losing her and that he has had 'the week from hell." he talked, i listened, and then he asked me to pray for him - for them - right there at the table. jesus, be near.

a few minutes later, i noticed a friend who looked quite sad. when i sat down beside her, she told me how stressed she was that her son was in the hospital back in her home country, how she is pleading with God to make him better, and asked me to pray for them, too. jesus, be near.

this seemed to be the pattern for the night as a few more people approached me for similar reasons later, too. so much pain. so many unanswered questions.

i'm not exempt from either, of course. in fact, if you recall through a recent facebook post, last time i was in regent park, i was the one who needed some love.

one man in my church noticed that i wasn't okay that night. he gave me a big bear hug (no, seriously, the man is over six feet tall and over 200lbs) and carried on. a few minutes later, though, he came up to me again, looked me in the eye and said, "you're really not okay", and from there, he hugged me again and prayed for me right there in the hallway. i, like the friend i mentioned in the beginning of this blog, cried in his arms (more like his armpit) as he did, and walked away from that interaction feeling relieved, at peace and cared for. jesus, be near. (that's really all there is to pray sometimes, you know?)

a lot of my friends in regent park are stuck in cycles of addiction and poverty, worrying about loved ones who are sick or battling sickness themselves. some of them are dealing with work stress and financial ruin, mental illness and grief - you name it - and so are some of you.

m
y friends in parkdale would say that life is 'brutiful' - an often frustrating and conflicting combination of brutal and beautiful - and i think they've nailed it; there are so, so, so many things to be thankful for, but hidden behind those things (and at times even covering up some of those things) is a lot of hardship and pain. balancing both can be tricky sometimes, but at the end of the day, as i was reminded about the last two weeks at church, being part of a community can take away the sting a bit.

jesus, be near. to my friends in regent park. to you and to me.

amen.

Wednesday, July 24, 2019

it was unlike anything i had ever seen before.

below my feet stood a ridiculously deep hole surrounded by an array of colourful rocks and edges. if i looked close enough, i could see several trails with a copious amount of mule poop covering them, and many courageous hikers carefully making their way around it and through the trail my friend and i had chosen to conquer that morning, too.

the hike down was fairly easy outside of a few really slippery slopes, but the way back up was an ... uphill battle.

i learned a lot about myself and life during my hike, though.

i learned that past experiences really do help you build resilience. it wasn't uncommon for me to remind myself along the way that i had conquered two major, strenuous mountains in the past. recounting these specific times reminded me that, although i found this hike extremely difficult at times, i was capable of completing it.

my friend, who is way more fit than i am and could have reached the top in half of the time that we did, was great with me. she was patient, let me take breaks when i needed, made sure i was fueled with snacks, coached me on how much water i was drinking when i got a stomach cramp, reminded me of a more effective way to breathe when i was breathing like puff the magic dragon, and pushed me on the last leg of the trip when the end was in sight. although there wasn't a moment where i didn't think i could do it, having her beside me reminded me of how much further (and faster) we can go in life when we do it together and that no journey is meant to be traveled alone.

sometimes, keeping your eyes on the prize helps, but other times, focusing on the step ahead of you does. at the beginning of the way back up, looking at where we had come from seemed daunting and so far away and would have discouraged me to think about how far we had left to go, so i pulled my hat lower to block my view (and the hot, hot sun) and paid attention to each 'next' step. when i saw the "when mules pass" sign at the bottom of the last hill, however, i redirected my attention to the finish line. there's a time for both, after all.

i gained strength from the messages my friends sent me beforehand, a timely "you got this" from my travelling companion, positive self talk, and the gospel music i blared through my headset when i found myself needing a little more than all of the above.

i reminded myself of where i came from and the importance of enjoying the journey by choosing to look behind and around every time i stopped to catch my breath, and made sure that i took time to celebrate this huge accomplishment once i got to the top. i think there are lessons to be learned in that, too ;)

all in all, i'm very happy i did it; i felt proud of myself, the rim hike we did afterwards felt like a breeze in comparison and the sun set we watched at the end of it brought our beautiful day to a close in the most perfect way.

Sunday, July 14, 2019

as a christian, our whole belief system can be summed up by recounting a few very significant events (give or take): the crucifixion of Christ, His resurrection, and His promise to return for us one day, and it's through the reading of scripture and the ways in which the living word transforms our lives that we can hold fast to this truth of these promises.

but sometimes, i think, we forget that there were three days in between the cross and the resurrection; three very, very dark days, in fact.

days filled with sadness and sorrow, doubt and confusion. feelings of abandonment.

but here's the thing - though the disciples (and every one else who believed in Jesus) possessed hope in who he said He was all along, i imagine that they still wrestled through, and had to sit in, all of the other emotions i mentioned above.

so why can't we?

we're quick to tell ourselves to move on; we drink one too many beers or watch hours upon hours of netflix to numb our pain or cover it up by saying things we think we should or things we want people want to hear. we tell our friends to pray harder, to read the bible more, or to move on or snap out of it because of the hope we possess in Christ.

there's a time for this i know; i, for one, am thankful for my friends who shed some much needed perspective on stuff i go through and in doing so, point me back to the truth, but what if, instead, we allowed ourselves (and our friends) to process and feel sometimes? to wail and cry? scream? hide under the covers and sit in our pain for a *little* while?

because, truth be told, there's no escaping difficulty and heartbreak here on this earth and we're doing ourselves an injustice if we try and avoid it or bury it, and like some of the disciples in Jesus' day, just because you allow yourself to feel an array of emotion during the 'in between' doesn't mean you do so without faith or hope.

"there is a time for everything,
and a season for every activity under the heavens
...a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance."

[ecclesiastes 3:1,4]

Wednesday, July 10, 2019

i've been on this journey of healing.

a friend of mine came up to me during church recently and told me that he could sense that my greatest desire in life was to have a child of my own. my jaw dropped. i mean, how did he know? i thought i was doing a good job of playing it off like i don't want children (because i'm old and have lost hope more and more with each passing year), but he was right; he is right. i want to have a child of my own. (that's the first time i have been able to say that aloud in years.)

sure, there are different ways of being a mom and i am reminded of this every mother's day (adoption, spiritual motherhood etc), but what i really want is to be able to experience a child growing inside of my womb and feel it move around; what i really desire is to be able to nurture him or her and help them grow, give my baby a strong name (i have a list tucked away just in case) and pick out cute clothes that i don't end up wrapping and bringing with me to someone else's shower.

the thing with desiring something, though, is that we have no way of knowing whether or not it will come to pass, and there's risk in that; there's risk involved in longing for something so deeply and speaking it aloud, and this is no different; admitting that i want to bare a child at the age of 39 (with no prospects of marriage at this point) is scary. hope is scary.