Seems that family genetics can cross over into unexpected areas such as “last-minute packing” since I had a general feeling of déjà vu settling in while Kim relayed her version of Donald’s packing expertise.  Apparently stuffing assorted belongings into bags of any sort or shape at the last minute will suffice when Rubbermaid containers are filled to the brink, and any stores that might sell additional ones have long since closed while late evening packing perseveres.  (Just noting here that previously mentioned containers happened to be provided with a personal touch by me, when I realized that history might be repeating itself if I didn’t intervene.)

After chuckling over Kim’s frustrations, I shared my memories of the day over 29 years ago, which revealed the Ford moving gene as a study in positive packing.  I flew into Edmonton the day before the truck would arrive for Brad’s cross-country move to Massachusetts.  He had secured a job at a company in Norwood, MA where we would live after our wedding in July.  Imagine my shock when I discovered that Brad had saved all the packing for that evening!  He still maintains that we accomplished the necessary piling of goods into appropriate packages, moving his possessions in a patient and positive way.  Even as I review this particular pre-wedding dilemma, my stress receptors hum, and my body vibrates with the need to vent growing exasperation.  Clearly it seems that our moving methods present in very distinctive patterns; organization versus chaos from my perspective or annoying anxiety versus purposeful persistence from his point of view.

Brad and I made several more moves throughout the years of our marriage.  Each one offered its own unique set of challenges, and each one revealed the constant contrasts in our “moving personalities.”  Perhaps none so revealing as when we moved from Massachusetts to Virginia when I was 8 months pregnant with our second son, Christopher.

Every year during the days of Advent I marvel that Mary made one of the most significant moves of her life when she and Joseph made the journey to Bethlehem as she neared her time of giving birth.  While I cannot pretend to know how she felt, how she wanted to have everything packed and prepared properly for her pending predicament; I know all too well what it requires to put your limited physical self in an unknown, unexpected, new place.  She accompanied Joseph, who managed to pack the most important part of their household, the most powerful possession the two of them shared: their hope.

No matter how I look at the Christmas story, I will always hold immense admiration and commiseration for Mary, who after all was a woman about to give birth for the first time, and she found out that she also had to move with little time allowed for careful packing.  Oh dear Mary, I can only imagine how loudly your stress receptors hummed, and yet how Joseph probably reassured you by his certain attitude that the move would proceed despite any obstacles.

Throughout the day as we helped with Don’s move it was heartwarming to see him respond to Kim’s looks of frustration or exhaustion. He would come over to hug her and I could see the visible renewing of energy that each hug provided for them..

I remember during that long ago move, Brad would say to me over and over again, “There will never be another year like this, we just have to get through it.”  I wonder what did Joseph say to Mary as they travelled the dirty, bumpy road to Bethlehem?  What shared phrases kept them hopeful, how many hugs did it take to revive their spirits?  How much hope did they move??

A couple days later, we brought a meal over to Don and Kim to share in their new home.  Not every box was unpacked, not everything was in its perfect place.  But we joined in a blessing of the new home as we laughed together and planned for the Christmas season.  Kim pointed to a picture of her parents on their wedding day sitting on a wall shelf.  She asked if we would find a picture from our wedding that they could also display in their new home.  I suppose these small reminders that loving relationships last over many years, will serve as symbols of hope to them as they begin their own commitment.

Mary and Joseph shared a stressful packing experience and a challenging journey toward their new home.  They had no idea how it would all turn out, but they knew they were moving together following God’s guidance.  They packed and they moved with hope.

It is my prayer that during this Advent season, I will remember to let new Hope move in, and just as unpacking continues at Don and Kim’s, may it continue in my heart as I try to unpack God’s guidance in my life.  May I always find comfort and sanctuary at home with Him.

Luke 2:1-7

Emily Dickinson, one of my favourite poets, described hope beautifully when she wrote:

  Hope is the thing with feathers
  That perches in the soul,
  And sings the tune without the words,
  And never stops at all.

Picturing a ruffling of feathers stirring up energy and enthusiasm in my soul is like a deep breath surging through every fibre of my being. It’s as if I can sense tiny wings forming within, lifting on the current of my intake of breath. Hello Hope, you feel so grand!

Like so many of my friends and family members, I want hope this Christmas season.  But I don’t want soft simple flutters; I want a frenzy of motion that swoops in like the flock of waxwings that visited our backyard the other week.

One moment I contemplated in silence, the next I countered in shock.  I witnessed whirring wings with practiced precision pushing their body into perfect position.  Waxwings descended from every direction to delight in the delicacies of the shriveled crabapples.  I thought I had stumbled upon a crisply choreographed routine as I watched them take turns, soaring from precarious perches on nearby branches, then contorting and stretching to surround a prized morsel and bring it within reach.

Joyful chatter arose from the waxwings as they merrily encouraged each other to join the feast.  As if they had booked the backyard as their banquet site, they boldly boasted to each other as they stripped the crabapple tree to bare branches. Unlike any musical performance I had attended, this one inspired me with its rising crescendo.  A rising of wings, as if the conductor had signaled the strings of the orchestra, as if the momentum alone would transport all to another level.  A rising, a moment of hope.

Then as quickly as they came, they flew away.  Later, my dog, Dusty and I walked outside to inspect the tree.  Over to my right I heard the similar song from before, but offered in a quieter, gentler tone.  Looking up I saw a bird grasped firmly to a swaying branch.  I noticed the yellow tip of its tail feathers, the brush stroke of red on its head; I welcomed the waxwing with a wondering nod.  It stayed there as Dusty and I headed inside.  It’s singing accompanied us like a hopeful refrain repeating its rhythmic message.

It reminded me of the simple song I like to sing to myself as I start my day.  My paraphrased version is from a song I learned while teaching Bible school one summer.  I try to remember to sing it daily, to focus my thoughts, to continually hold hope within my soul:
  Good morning Lord, it’s a beautiful day!
  Good morning Lord, I’m going your way!

This Advent I’m welcoming hope’s enduring presence by reinforcing this hopeful refrain with the image of the lone waxwing singing merrily on its perch.  Like the waxwings that wait for the celebration of the feast to come, I want to embrace both ways to honour hope within me.  Sometimes I want it to slowly rise like soft feathers unfurling on a gentle breeze, but other days I want it to shake with anticipation as it purposely positions its feathers to align them for a powerful swoop. Then the celebration will begin!

  Good morning Lord, it’s a beautiful day!
  Good morning Lord, I’m going your way!

Thanksgiving morning sun finally breaks through the clouds to warm up my snow-covered deck.  I imagine its rays have long since risen over a scattered group of hikers, bravely finding footholds over a muddy trail through the woods of Macungie Mountain.

Every year this holiday settles around me bringing memories of pulling on long underwear, tucking toes into two pairs of socks that had yet to be stuffed into snow boots.  The mad scrounge for flashlights and missing mittens, the slam of the door behind us, as mom shouts, “Don’t go near the edge of the rock.”

Thanksgiving morning in Macungie, Pennsylvania where pies and turkey got shoved into the oven by my frenzied mom, while my sister and I joined our friends for a dark and cold hike to Sheep’s Rock.  We gathered at the Macungie Fire Company, in groggy groups of bundled bodies.  One of the Boy Scouts eventually would head toward the mountain trail and we would follow amongst our grumbling groups.  Looking ahead it always seemed like a bunch of glow balls had been tossed about as flashlights bounced back and forth to light the path.

We all knew that we had to keep moving to reach our destination before sunrise.  Despite tripping over rocks covered by wet leaves, and sliding on the steep sides of the rising trail, we would urge each other on through the darkness.  Regardless that scouts had marked the way the day before, it always surprised us as we rounded the bend for the final ascent.  We were sure we couldn’t have another push to the top of another curve. Yet soon we found the ropes where we could pull ourselves up with one last hurrah to the solid foundation of the rock.

And there we gathered.  On the rock that had stood for years and years above Macungie, overlooking the valley to the small borough below, on a wide, welcoming rock that gave us the opportunity to gaze with gratitude over our community.  We would huddle close waiting for the sun to break through and share its warmth with us.  We would listen to some words of encouragement and praise from a designated speaker, and then join in prayers and hymns as the sun rose above us.

Thanksgiving morning, I want to pull all those memories around me and settle into this holiday even though I am far away, without the sure foundation of the rock beneath me.

Perhaps the sun shoving its way through our foggy shadows has no idea that I am laying claim to its Thanksgiving glory.  It’s shining presence peeks under the spruce trees to uncover the tracks that tell the tale of deer traipsing through our backyard earlier this morning.  I think back to when I returned to make the Thanksgiving hike with my sons and husband a few years ago.

After the sunrise service, we were some of the remaining few who slowly departed from the rock.  We took our time enjoying the trail in the daylight, discovering what the dark had hidden from us.  As we paused to listen for any wildlife moving through the forest, we spotted a deer finding its way through the trees toward the stream.  It turned to glance at us, to acknowledge our presence in its home.

Perhaps that is what I am doing this Thanksgiving morning.  It isn’t an official holiday here in my Canadian country, but I am acknowledging its presence with me… here in my home.

Happy Thanksgiving to all my American friends and family!

“Prayer is like pulling on a scarf, before setting out on a walk, “ I thought, “I wrap it around and around, trusting it will be there for me.”

As Dusty eagerly led the way today on our morning walk, I tugged tightly on my scarf, I untwisted tangles of his leash, and I focused fully on pulling my thoughts into position.  I needed to pray; I needed to sense that with every step I would walk wrapped in a conversation of my concerns being heard with loving care.

I zipped my jacket against the cold, pulled on my gloves, and followed Dusty’s frantic leaps into the piles of leaves.  He poked his nose under a remnant of snow and simultaneously started digging to uncover a smell that instinctively urged him to action.  He felt the need to pry and pry and pry, while I felt pulled to pray and pray and pray.

“Okay, let’s pry and pray, Dusty!”

I often think that if someone listened in on my prayers it would sound like the beginning of a call between a service provider and a customer with an urgent need.

“This is Denise, Lord, thank you for taking my prayer request today. “

Okay, maybe I ‘m not always that formal, but I do consciously begin every prayer trying to focus on that tried but true “attitude of gratitude.”  For many years I have approached prayer as a gift.  We have the opportunity to accept it at any moment, and as such I attempt to acknowledge it as often as possible.  Granted I am a chatty person, I like my conversations with God, I linger in dialogue with Him, dangling all my hopes, dumping all my troubles, disposing all my regrets.  It’s a wonder He stays focused!!

However it seems that I sense those prayer nudges from God especially when Dusty and I take a walk alone.

“Do you want to talk about that, Denise? Are you ready to listen?”

I might hear it as a thought as clear as a letter written in my mind.   Likewise I could simply watch Dusty being pulled in a distinctive direction and just like that…  the invitation occurs to me.   “Let’s pray.”

Sometimes I don’t think I need to pray, so the nudge will begin to feel like a poke on Facebook… Remember me? I’m your friend!  Then I am reminded that He too wants to continue our conversation.

This morning I literally felt prayer nudges with every motion I made while I tied on my scarf.  I just wanted to pull on prayer and wrap it snugly around me.

Today I am thankful that I need to pray, whether to express my gratitude, to tumble about my concerns or joys, or to pull on a prayer while I listen to Him for guidance.  I am humbled that just as my Lord, my God sends His prayer invitations, He also accepts each one of my prayers as a beautiful gift from me.

November has arrived with a bit cooler weather…

So, go ahead, pull on your prayer… it’s the warmest scarf you’ll ever find!

I begin anew with gratitude as the Thanksgiving month ends in Canada and the Thanksgiving month is about to begin in America.  I’ve always felt fortunate that my fall, my favourite season of the year, finds a way to immerse me in extended enthusiasm towards being grateful.  The benefit of blending our Canadian/American family life doesn’t simply mean two turkey dinners to indulge in; it means I mindfully reflect on all that surrounds me, all that generously creates the beautiful life I enjoy.

I admit that I somehow slipped before this October began, and I fell into fear and worry instead of framing my perspective with my new way of approaching each day: Bring on the Bless-ed Beginnings!!  Despite trying to rise above all the anxiety and frustration in my life (like blowing fall leaves) I let it dump on me and pile up in a choking, nasty, gonna-get-you bunch of garden clean-up.  How did that happen?

All righty, the slump ends today.  I just stared into the eyes of Dusty for my recharging moment of oxytocin—just read that the other day, locking eyes with your dog generates a certain amount of oxytocin flowing through your system— and since I definitely want the “feel-good” hormone to swiftly sweep away my slumpiness, I begin with a prayer and a stare!!

Ha!! The spell checker would like me to replace slumpiness with sliminess, perhaps that describes the reluctant motivation that slithered through my core for the past month: a sticky, paralyzing goo that threatened to blur my focus from literally spinning out of this vertigo.  It’s time to shift the paradigm as those motivational books all declare, it’s time to thankfully begin each day connecting with the words I feel so compelled to share.

Let’s Bring on the Bless-ed Beginnings!!

Brad and I restarted our volunteer commitment to the Calgary Food Bank this fall.  He takes on a role on the distribution line bringing the food hampers to the clients and helping them pack up the grocery carts they can use to take the food to their cars.  I serve as a greeter, someone who attempts to lighten the atmosphere of the situation.  More importantly as families and individuals leave the Food Bank, carts crammed with generous donations, I serve as someone who can receive the simple word, “Thank you.”

I never realized how powerful and meaningful that word could be when offered with a sincere and heartfelt locking of the eyes.  But in that moment, when I receive it, I feel like I am opening a gift that rebuilds my spirit of generosity.  I share a moment of intense humility with families who struggle with too many bills, as they try to make their way through tough economic times.  I listen with empathy to the individual describing his medical ordeal that led to his reliance on the food bank.  I offer silent prayers as each story unravels in the quiet space when a “thank you” is given with meaningful intent and purpose.

Yes I know how to adapt an attitude of gratitude, to note and list all that I am thankful for, but I never knew how to honestly accept a beautiful “Thank you” until I served as a greeter at the Food Bank.

In those quiet moments when my eyes lock with the person sometimes smiling, sometimes aching, sometimes determined… in those moments I am rejuvenated by a gratitude connection, a prayer and a stare wrapped in Thanksgiving.

The CFL (Canadian Football League for anyone oblivious to the world of football) hosted a Pink Night on Friday, October 21.  When my husband turned on the television to tune in the Calgary vs. Saskatchewan game we discovered players, coaches, referees, and fans alike all transformed by touches of potent pink in varying shades.  While my husband concentrated on catching up on how his favourite Calgary Stampeders were faring against the Saskatchewan Roughriders.  I on the other hand felt like I had landed in one of those find the hidden picture puzzles, as I tried to spot all the many ways that pink had become the third team in the stadium.

It looked as if the pink fairy had literally pounced with a paint brush and dabbed it liberally throughout the playing field and spectator sidelines.  Pink chinguards protruded from under helmets, pink tape wound about players ankles, arms and legs, pink shoelaces looped through cleats, quarterbacks and receivers grasped the football with pink gloves, pink penalty flags flapped from referee pockets and they shoved pink whistles into their mouths to target wayward players; pink hoodies, caps, scarves and toques dotted the bleachers, cheerleaders pushed pink pom-poms together to pump up their respective teams.  Pink, pink, and more pink!!  Even the television station logo promoted prominently in pink!

I couldn’t wait to call my Mom to tell her about Pink Night which proudly supports the ongoing battle against Breast Cancer.  My Mom is a breast cancer survivor who this year celebrated 25 years since her mastectomy, a quarter century without cancer causing havoc in her body.

I’ll never, ever forget the morning of Mom’s surgery. I had come to stay at my parent’s home in Pennsylvania a few weeks before when my Mom received her diagnosis. This was no small feat since we lived in Massachusetts, I was 6 months pregnant with our second child and we were in the middle of moving to Virginia.  Nonetheless I made the trip with our toddler Donnie in tow, leaving my husband to pack up and complete the sale of our condo.

I didn’t go to the hospital but waited at their home with Donnie.  So the day began with the usual rescue from the crib, the happy snuggles as Donnie knew he would soon be free to explore.  I kept glancing at my watch as I silently prayed for the surgeon to use his skill and expertise in my mother’s surgery.  Suddenly the phone rang, and I quickly grabbed for it, hoping to cut off any unwanted news.  Surprisingly it was my mother’s voice on the other end.

I pictured her in her hospital room, submitting to the inevitable process of getting ready for the staff to wheel her to surgery.  But her voice sounded determined and focused.  She simply asked me if Donnie was awake and if she could talk to him, because she had a right to talk to her grandson on his birthday morning.  I took the phone to Donnie, telling him that Gammie wanted to wish him Happy Birthday.  Then we both listened as she sang with joy and love,

“Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday Dear Donnie, Happy Birthday to you!”

Afterwards she simply said, okay, “Now I’m ready.”

She probably wasn’t even wearing any pink, the surgery staff probably didn’t have any pink paraphernalia to arm themselves with on that particular day.  Perhaps only the prayers being sent by those who loved Gammie shimmered in a pink hue of loving energy.

Following successful surgery she told her doctors that she had to recover quickly as she was needed to help take care of her grandchildren.  She repeatedly said that she prayed that she would survive at least five more years to see how her grandchildren would grow.  To date she has celebrated her 50th wedding anniversary, her 81rst birthday, attended two grandchildren’s weddings, welcomed two great grandchildren, and this year sang Happy Birthday to Donnie over the phone for his 26th birthday!  Now she hopes she lives as many years “as the Good Lord allows me.”

I am forever grateful that we are still only a phone call away, and I can continue to send powerful pink prayers of love to her from Calgary to Pennsylvania!

Reassurance comes in various forms depending on the situation.  In our house it might wrap around me with a knitted afghan when I need a comfortable snuggle. It might find me as I pull the refrigerator door, pausing to notice a particular magnet I bought on a family vacation.  It might surprise me as I pick up pictures of loved ones while pushing away the dust beneath them.  It might stir my soul as I page through an inspiring book looking for encouragement.  It might trigger my husband’s sense of fulfillment as he slathers peanut butter and honey on a 12 grain piece of bread!

This morning Dusty is declaring his need for assurance by claiming a spot by my side, pressed in as close as possible, trying to tuck himself tightly against me.  Usually he provides some simple supportive care when he senses that one of us feels sad or ill.  However, it’s his turn now, having ingested unknown culprits on his first trip outside; his stomach revolted against him, forcing him to retch the contents in a lump on our kitchen floor.  After cleaning up the mess, I gathered him in my arms, and found a spot on the family room couch.  Since then, Dusty hasn’t budged from his place of reassuring relief.

Thankfully I could pull my laptop within reach and type this message without disturbing him.  As I moderate my movements to a slow and silent pace, I find I am responding as if I were one of his tennis balls that had just rolled in, coming to a stop, resting peacefully.

This morning I am here for Dusty, offering reassurance simply by my presence.

Not to brag, but then again of course I am; Dusty possesses a keen intelligence.  He learns tricks easily, and has a working vocabulary of words that tests my husband and my ingenuity in how we use our sentences so as not to mislead his interpretations. For instance we keep choosing new synonyms for the word walk, since he now recognizes the way we say, “hike, stroll and run.”  Fairly soon I believe he may begin to understand what we are saying as we spell w-a-l-k, and then we will need to begin speaking in another language!!

We enrolled Dusty in several dog classes to help us gain skills in our discipline techniques and in our training styles.  Very soon Dusty knew that “school” meant that he would be going to a place where he could be in the company of other dogs and expand his repertoire of tricks.  We also began experimenting at home with our own ideas of what we would like him to learn.

We discovered that if he repeated a response to a new instruction over and over again, in the course of 20 minutes he would master it.  Dusty truly enjoys a challenge but he also senses our excitement and pride when he shows his mastery of a new subject.  Sometimes he surprises us by reminding us that he knows a trick that would be perfectly suited to the moment.

Like today when we came inside following an inspection of the yard to see if the morning’s frost had overstayed its “bet you didn’t think I’d stop by” appearance.  I certainly didn’t feel pleased with the signs of the cool-fingered-frost-fellow lingering amongst my September garden.  I came inside sighing, stomping and shaking my head with frustration.  But before I could slip off my sneakers, Dusty hopped up on his hind legs, paws swiping up towards me. He spun himself around, backing up, stretching his paws higher and higher, twirling in circle after circle.

In that moment when I bent down to touch my open hands to his extended paws I forgot about that fickle-frosty-friend, and I remembered how to dance, delightfully with Dusty!  I had taught him to respond to my command, “Are you ready, let’s dance!”  But this time, he reminded me with his, “Paws up Mom! Just dance!”