baby jesus

It's weird to think of Jesus as a baby.

I mean, really. A baby.

I've had two baby brothers. One was born when I was twelve years old, so I pretty much know the drill. The diapers, the crying, the cooing, the way you want to eat their chubby cheeks up with kisses every time you see them. The way they sleep. The way they grab hold of one of your fingers with their entire fist.

And that was the Son of God. Totally helpless. Entirely dependent. Vulnerable. Simple.

It hit me today when I heard this carol:

Mary did you know that your baby boy would one day walk on water?
Mary did you know that your baby boy would save our sons and daughters?
Did you know that your baby boy has come to make you new?
This child that you've delivered, will soon deliver you.

Mary did you know that your baby boy would give sight to a blind man?
Mary did you know that your baby boy would calm a storm with his hand?
Did you know that your baby boy has walked where angels trod?
And when you kiss your little baby, you have kissed the face of God.

Oh Mary did you know

The blind will see, the deaf will hear,  the dead will live again.
The lame will leap, the mute will speak, the praises of the lamb.

Mary did you know that your baby boy is Lord of all creation?
Mary did you know that your baby boy would one day rule the nations?
Did you know that your baby boy is heaven's perfect Lamb?
This sleeping child you're holding is the great I am.

("Mary, Did You Know?")

the beautiful reflection

Alright, ladies (and some guys - I know you're out there), you've come to the right place for details.

He picks me up from work and we start driving into the city. "But," I argue, "aren't we meant to meet up with Jacob and Carolyn?"

"They canceled. Wanted to stay in tonight instead."

[Lies, all lies.]

We ended up at Ki (in the BCE Place) which is a favourite of Andrew's and a restaurant that we've wanted to go to since we started dating, but haven't had the chance. Salad, sushi and sake later, Andrew's jumpy to leave...

[I later discovered he visited the bathroom to intercede for himself.]

We stop at a Starbucks long enough for me to jump out, run in and buy two teas while Andrew circled the block.

[I later discovered he drove around the block interceding for himself.]

We drove to University College, King's College Circle which is a very sentimental spot for us. Andrew graduated from this college, we love walking its halls and outdoor paths, and, most memorably, we had our first kiss outside its big, double doors.

But hark! Before we exit the car, now parked outside University College with the engine running, Andrew reaches into the back of the car to pull out a stack of paper with writing on it. For a moment, I think he brought office work with him on date night. But lo! It's not office work, but handwritten notes he wrote out from his journal entries over the past two years.

Oh my.

He started reading, I started crying. I don't recall much of what he was saying...so it was convenient that he let me have the notes to keep. His journal, from the beginning of our relationship, had been peppered with thoughts about me, prayers for me, prayers about me and some of the most beautiful prose I had ever heard between himself and God about Andrew's dreams, his trust in something unknown, and his desire to honour me.

He ended the notes, wiped his eyes, looked at me with love in his eyes and stammered:

"That's it. Just wanted you to know some of that stuff."

Oh. So we got out of the car, he ran back to "get mints"...

[I later discovered he had forgotten the ring in the car. Although, to his credit, he did return with two mints.]

...and we went into the college to walk the halls. Upon discovering that the front doors had been locked while were were inside...

[Which again was unfortunate because Andrew had thought to propose after we had grandly walked out through them.]

...so we walked through the college and out a side exit. Meandering towards the soccer pitch in the middle of King's College Circle, Andrew asked, "What's the word for something like vertigo but you're looking around at things in a circle, instead of straight down?"

I did not know.

[This is because there is no such thing. Although I didn't know that at the time. Convenient for Andrew.]

So we slid ourselves across the frozen field to the middle of it to test this panorama-vertigo-that-didn't-exist. I had spun around once, twice, three times (not feeling anything) and a fourth for good measure (still nothing) when Andrew pulled me into a hug and whispered into my ear the kindest words I had ever heard from a human.

Then he knelt.

Me: "What are you doing? It's snowy."

Then he took my hand. Oh.

He: "Sarah, you would make me the happiest man in the world if you would be my wife."

He pulls out a blue Birks box, I think. The box was a marginal distraction to the look on his face. He fumbles with the ribbon on the box. Opens the box. Opens the ring box.

He tries again: "Sarah Aubrey Hunter, will you be my wife?"

At this point I realized that the question he had asked, asked twice, would continue asking until I answered, the same question I had rehearsed a thousand times in my head, was such a silly one. As if he had to ask. But I'm so glad he finally had.

Me: "Of course!" As the two and a half feet height difference was suddenly unbearable, I dropped to my knees and messily covered him with teary, snotty, cold kisses. "Of course, of course, of course. Of course, you silly boy."

Hysterical laughter ensued and Andrew shouted, "I'M GOING TO HAVE A WIFE!" which, I believe, was overheard by a small pack of university students of Indian descent.

Then back to the car to call his parents and mine.
And I've never been so happy or at rest in my entire life.

You are the beautiful reflection
Of his love's affection,
A walking illustration
Of his adoration

His love makes you beautiful,
So beautiful,
So beautiful,
You ask your looking glass,
What is it?
Makes you so exquisite?
The answer to your query
Comes back, dearie --
His love makes you beautiful,
So beautiful,
So beautiful,
And woman loved is woman glorified!
You'll make a beautiful,
Beautiful,
Beautiful,
Beautiful bride!

("A Beautiful Bride", Funny Girl)

tamed

'Cause even on a bullet train
or a jet plane
I won't leave
'cause I'd be alone.
- Kidding Ourselves, Stabilo

"What does that mean -- tame?"

"It is an act too often neglected," said the fox. "It means to establish ties...But if you tame me, it will be as if the sun came to shine on my life. I shall know the sound of a step that will be different from all the others. Other steps send me hurrying back underneath the ground. Yours will call me, like music out of my burrow..."

The fox gazed at the little prince, for a long time. "Please -- tame me!" he said.

"I want to, very much," the little prince replied. "But I have not much time. I have friends to discover, and a great many things to understand."

"One only understands the things that one tames," said the fox. "Men have no more time to understand anything. They buy things all ready made at the shops. But there is no shop anywhere where one can buy friendship, and so men have no friends any more. If you want a friend, tame me . . . "

"What must I do, to tame you? asked the little prince.

"You must be very patient," replied the fox. First you will sit down at a little distance from me -- like that -- in the grass. I shall look at you out of the corner of my eye, and you will say nothing. Words are the source of misunderstandings. But you will sit a little closer to me, every day . . . "

The next day the little prince came back.

- Le Petit Prince, Antoine de Saint Exupéry

deck the halls

I am so in the Christmas spirit. I can't remember looking forward to Christmas as much as this year... Perhaps when I was four.

Today, I was introduced to the bowels of the storage room, where we defied all WSIB warnings by climbing on rickety metal shelving to retrieve: several boxes of glass balls, six strings of silver beads, five strings of fairy lights, four gold-trimmed garland, three chubby Santas, two turtledoves and a scrawny, top-heavy Christmas tree.

Le Front Reception
(a.k.a. My Hideout)

Chris, our creative director, getting into the Christmas spirit.
Or, perhaps, drunk.
Turtledove #1.
The Santa doll plays "Here Comes Santa Claus" in an eerie, recorded voice when his hand is squeezed. I suspect the Santa doll to last until the end of the week. If it's lucky.

Our Charlie Brown-esque Christmas tree.
Turtledove #2.

boost

It's not every day that one gets to have a cameo in a commercial. Especially when that day is your first at a new job. I love working for an ad agency.

These PSAs were produced for a company called Boost (which used to be the Toronto Child Abuse Center) and done by the ad agency I work for, Yield, pro bono. Yet another reason why I love my job.

"Boy"
(I'm in the courtroom scene)


"Girl"

touché

As iron sharpens iron, so are we:
Our wits, our words, our wills are often caught
In swordplay; leaving both sides overwrought
And out of breath, though neither claim defeat.
Some might find us brazen, not so me
Although our love is oft a lover's knot
We burnish one another's sully spots
In light of an alliance yet to be.
For now, I rest my head upon your chest
Until the cadence of our hearts are one,
My fingers and your own create a nest
Until the warmth of both have been outdone,
I step towards the steps that you request
Until a greater fusion has begun.

silver bells

Oh no. It's only November 8th and I'm already humming Christmas carols...

It's not entirely my fault. First, a friend of mine blogged about Christmas turds (?). Then, this morning, I witnessed the first few flakes of winter outside the kitchen window. Over lunch, I read an article in the Toronto Star about the window decoration on Bay Street. Which nearly made me cry.

I can remember going to "see the windows" with my great, great aunt Dodie back she was alive, back when I was young, back when the Eaton Centre was owned by Eaton's, back when we had one-dollar bills. I love that the city is so much a part of my childhood. It's why I love the Christmas carol Silver Bells (beware: link will get the song stuck in your head all day) - "It's Christmas time in the city..."

On my way into work this morning, due to an accidental lie-in, I was doing my makeup on the King streetcar.
Lady next to me: "Wow. Applying liquid liner on a streetcar. You're brave."
Me: "Toronto, born and bred. That's all I gotta say."

do you mind?

Do you applaud fear
Do you hold it near
Are you afraid to live your life
The way I perceive
In my arms I’ll catch you
Do you mind if I always love you

Heaven’s gonna burn your eyes

"Heaven's Gonna Burn Your Eyes" (Thievery Corporation)

to write love on her arms

I heard about these guys first through MySpace but only just read the story today. I suggest you do the same. Then get involved.

www.twloha.com

TO WRITE LOVE ON HER ARMS
by Jamie Tworkowski

Pedro the Lion is loud in the speakers, and the city waits just outside our open windows. She sits and sings, legs crossed in the passenger seat, her pretty voice hiding in the volume. Music is a safe place and Pedro is her favorite. It hits me that she won't see this skyline for several weeks, and we will be without her. I lean forward, knowing this will be written, and I ask what she'd say if her story had an audience. She smiles. "Tell them to look up. Tell them to remember the stars."

I would rather write her a song, because songs don't wait to resolve, and because songs mean so much to her. Stories wait for endings, but songs are brave things bold enough to sing when all they know is darkness. These words, like most words, will be written next to midnight, between hurricane and harbor, as both claim to save her.

Renee is 19. When I meet her, cocaine is fresh in her system. She hasn't slept in 36 hours and she won't for another 24. It is a familiar blur of coke, pot, pills and alcohol. She has agreed to meet us, to listen and to let us pray. We ask Renee to come with us, to leave this broken night. She says she'll go to rehab tomorrow, but she isn't ready now. It is too great a change. We pray and say goodbye and it is hard to leave without her.

She has known such great pain; haunted dreams as a child, the near-constant presence of evil ever since. She has felt the touch of awful naked men, battled depression and addiction, and attempted suicide. Her arms remember razor blades, fifty scars that speak of self-inflicted wounds. Six hours after I meet her, she is feeling trapped, two groups of "friends" offering opposite ideas. Everyone is asleep. The sun is rising. She drinks long from a bottle of liquor, takes a razor blade from the table and locks herself in the bathroom. She cuts herself, using the blade to write "FUCK UP" large across her left forearm.

The nurse at the treatment center finds the wound several hours later. The center has no detox, names her too great a risk, and does not accept her. For the next five days, she is ours to love. We become her hospital and the possibility of healing fills our living room with life. It is unspoken and there are only a few of us, but we will be her church, the body of Christ coming alive to meet her needs, to write love on her arms.

She is full of contrast, more alive and closer to death than anyone I've known, like a Johnny Cash song or some theatre star. She owns attitude and humor beyond her 19 years, and when she tells me her story, she is humble and quiet and kind, shaped by the pain of a hundred lifetimes. I sit privileged but breaking as she shares. Her life has been so dark yet there is some soft hope in her words, and on consecutive evenings, I watch the prettiest girls in the room tell her that she's beautiful. I think it's God reminding her.

I've never walked this road, but I decide that if we're going to run a five-day rehab, it is going to be the coolest in the country. It is going to be rock and roll. We start with the basics; lots of fun, too much Starbucks and way too many cigarettes.

Thursday night she is in the balcony for Band Marino, Orlando's finest. They are indie-folk-fabulous, a movement disguised as a circus. She loves them and she smiles when I point out the A&R man from Atlantic Europe, in town from London just to catch this show.

She is in good seats when the Magic beat the Sonics the next night, screaming like a lifelong fan with every Dwight Howard dunk. On the way home, we stop for more coffee and books, Blue Like Jazz and (Anne Lamott's) Travelling Mercies.

On Saturday, the Taste of Chaos tour is in town and I'm not even sure we can get in, but doors do open and minutes after parking, we are on stage for Thrice, one of her favorite bands. She stands ten feet from the drummer, smiling constantly. It is a bright moment there in the music, as light and rain collide above the stage. It feels like healing. It is certainly hope.

Sunday night is church and many gather after the service to pray for Renee, this her last night before entering rehab. Some are strangers but all are friends tonight. The prayers move from broken to bold, all encouraging. We're talking to God but I think as much, we're talking to her, telling her she's loved, saying she does not go alone. One among us knows her best. Ryan sits in the corner strumming an acoustic guitar, singing songs she's inspired.

After church our house fills with friends, there for a few more moments before goodbye. Everyone has some gift for her, some note or hug or piece of encouragement. She pulls me aside and tells me she would like to give me something. I smile surprised, wondering what it could be. We walk through the crowded living room, to the garage and her stuff.

She hands me her last razor blade, tells me it is the one she used to cut her arm and her last lines of cocaine five nights before. She's had it with her ever since, shares that tonight will be the hardest night and she shouldn't have it. I hold it carefully, thank her and know instantly that this moment, this gift, will stay with me. It hits me to wonder if this great feeling is what Christ knows when we surrender our broken hearts, when we trade death for life.

As we arrive at the treatment center, she finishes: "The stars are always there but we miss them in the dirt and clouds. We miss them in the storms. Tell them to remember hope. We have hope."

I have watched life come back to her, and it has been a privilege. When our time with her began, someone suggested shifts but that is the language of business. Love is something better. I have been challenged and changed, reminded that love is that simple answer to so many of our hardest questions. Don Miller says we're called to hold our hands against the wounds of a broken world, to stop the bleeding. I agree so greatly.

We often ask God to show up. We pray prayers of rescue. Perhaps God would ask us to be that rescue, to be His body, to move for things that matter. He is not invisible when we come alive. I might be simple but more and more, I believe God works in love, speaks in love, is revealed in our love. I have seen that this week and honestly, it has been simple: Take a broken girl, treat her like a famous princess, give her the best seats in the house. Buy her coffee and cigarettes for the coming down, books and bathroom things for the days ahead. Tell her something true when all she's known are lies. Tell her God loves her. Tell her about forgiveness, the possibility of freedom, tell her she was made to dance in white dresses. All these things are true.

We are only asked to love, to offer hope to the many hopeless. We don't get to choose all the endings, but we are asked to play the rescuers. We won't solve all mysteries and our hearts will certainly break in such a vulnerable life, but it is the best way. We were made to be lovers bold in broken places, pouring ourselves out again and again until we're called home.

I have learned so much in one week with one brave girl. She is alive now, in the patience and safety of rehab, covered in marks of madness but choosing to believe that God makes things new, that He meant hope and healing in the stars. She would ask you to remember.

holy matrimony, batman

It's been nearly a month since my last post. On the upside, things have been so busy recently I feel as if I haven't had time to suffer my September seasonal allergies. I feel like yesterday was the end of camp...and now it's basically Christmas.

I've been doing some beta.blogger.com housecleaning and have stumbled upon some drafts that I either a) lost interest in finishing, b) ran out of time to finish, and/or c) felt they were too personal to post. But, since I've recently opened a 24-7 Prayer Room (a seven-year dream realization for me) I've decided:

to heck with procrastination, and

considering approximately 8-14 people are daily walking in and out of a room that I feel is a symbol of my heart, to heck with self-preservation and fear of vulnerability.

So. Here they come.

First, a few quotes on the sanctity and communal protection of marriage. An idea I've been chewing, like so much cud, over many months...

"We want our marriage to fulfill all of our emotional and physical needs; we ask our partner to do what an entire village once did; and to desire nothing or no one else while doing it."
- Esther Perel

"Suddenly I realized - two people isn't enough. You need backup. If you're only two people, and someone drops off the edge, then you're on your own. Two isn't a large enough number. You need three at least."
- Marcus ("About A Boy")

"Though one may be overpowered,
two can defend themselves.
A cord of three strands is not quickly broken."
- Ecclesiastes 4:12

"Do you, their family and friends, promise your support and encouragement to the commitment that they are making to one another here today? If so, would each of you please respond by saying 'I promise'?"
- Pastor to the members of the congregation, traditional wedding vows

miss you, ed

Honest Ed Mirvish (1914-2007)

It's one of those moments that I miss my great aunt Dodie. Dodie introduced me, at the age of three, to the city of Toronto and I fell in love. With Dodie I experienced all the glories of the city, including riding the swans at Centre Island, going through the Bat Cave at the ROM, watching matinees at the Uptown, and feeding the pigeons at Queen's Park. For those of you who understand, she was my Dumbledore.

And she probably would have wanted to attend the funeral. And I would have had someone to go with.

www.torontounlimited.ca/video
www.mirvish.com/edwin/edmirvish
www.mirvish.com

i take you, barbie, to be my lawfully wedded wife

From http://www.weddingtutu.com/plastic_surgery.shtml

Pre-nuptial cosmetic surgery is become very popular, and medical technology and procedures are rapidly improving and allowing easy rejuvenating procedures with quck healing time and minimal post-operative bruising and marks. Consider including beauty costs in your wedding budget for services such as breast augmentation, cosmetic dentristy, porcelain veneers, teeth whitening, micro dermabrasion, laser hair removal, restylane, facials, liposuction, face lift, and other pre-marital nips and tucks, and weightloss!

shabbat

Shabbat

So, running myself ragged, I realized, was bound to end somewhere.
I guess it ended partway through my second month of back-to-back engagements.

All I want is a room somewhere,
Far away from the cold night air.
With one enormous chair,
Aow, wouldn't it be loverly?...
Aow, so loverly sittin' abso-bloomin'-lutely still.
I would never budge 'till spring
Crept over me windowsill.
-Eliza Dolittle, "My Fair Lady"

Peace when trouble blows,
Jehovah sees, Jehovah knows;
He is my peace, when sorrow nears,
Jehovah sees, Jehovah hears.
Like the breath, I need to live,
Jehovah takes, Jehovah gives;
Gives me peace,When trouble blows,
Jehovah sees, Jehovah knows.
- Peace

SOS 8:14

Song of Solomon 8:14 (Amplified)
A much better version than the NIV one I grew up with.

[Joyfully the radiant bride turned to him, the one altogether lovely, the chief among ten thousand to her soul, and with unconcealed eagerness to begin her life of sweet companionship with him, she answered] Make haste, my beloved, and come quickly, like a gazelle or a young hart [and take me to our waiting home] upon the mountains of spices!

knock knock

While on I walked, a comfort seemed to touch
A heart that had not been disconsolate:
Strength came where weakness was not known to be,
At least not felt; and restoration came
Like an intruder knocking at the door
Of unacknowledged weariness.

William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

who did swallow jo-jo-jonah?

Ever have that feeling that you

have been running

from something? Or Someone?

Maybe for so long that you can't remember what you've been running from? I sat here for about 10 minutes with snippets of an old childhood poem I remember reading in one of my favourite books growing up, Arrow Book of Funny Poems, which I was finally able to track down via Google:

The Ostrich
(Mary E. Wilkins Freeman)

The ostrich is a silly bird,
With scarcely any mind.
He often runs so very fast,
He leaves himself behind.

And when he gets there, has to stand
And hang about till night,
Without a blessed thing to do
Until he comes in sight.

If God calls you to do something, and you don't do it, is it sloth or sin? Yes, he gives second and third and fourth chances - but, usually, those chances are to do what we should have done the first time around...not opportunities to re-write the script. Do we run, frantic, attempting to track down our "place" only to realize we probably had a better grasp of the complete picture before we started running?

God is patient. God is kind. He'll wait, as we wait, to figure out what's gone wrong, to figure out why we're inside the belly of a giant fish, to recall, dimly, that there might have been something that we were told to do...

"God's calling and you're the one
But like Jonah you run
He's told you to speak
But you keep holding it in,
Oh can't you see it's such a sin?"
- Keith Green, Asleep in the Light

arg

(from a website yoinked from my boy)

Who enjoys going around the mountain a second time?
Anyone? Anyone?
Bueller?

Much like this time last year, I find myself unemployed and wondering why. Not only that, but in the search to be gainfully employed I find myself asking those deep, sometimes helpful, always time-consuming questions like:

Well, what do I want to be doing?
What was I made to do?
Do I still belive in destiny?
Should I just plant a garden?*

Neck-deep in recently published books on finance, loaned excerpts from inspirational authors, quotes from big-name dreamers, and a myriad of interests, skills and goals, I seem stuck. How many people do I know who are doing what they love AND getting paid for it? Is it (hu)man's task to seek out a hidden destiny?

* "It is the mark of maturity to stop waiting for someone to bring you flowers and plant a garden."

007 Kitty

Emails passed between my roommate, Nicole, and myself today regarding our mischievious cat, Audrey Hepburn:

From: Sarah Aubrey Hunter
To:Nicole Evans

Oh, here's a fun story: as I got ready for work, I washed my face and realized....no Audrey sitting in the sink. Then I realized...no Audrey hanging around the apartment. I whistled and called for her EVERYWHERE and realized....no Audrey at all. Then I looked out of the dining room window. She's frolicking in the garden.

OK, this was at 12:30 IN THE AFTERNOON.

So she had been frolicking since about 8:30 when you left. It's hilarious that she had four hours to kill and didn't get any farther than that garden. Good to know for later. She's pretty house trained, I guess...just keeps mistaking the garden for another living room.
S.

From: Nicole Evans
To: Sarah Aubrey Hunter

I KNEW IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Oh man, she’s quick – I watched the door, but turned my head for literally one second and I heard some trees rustle right next to the door. I stopped. Turned around. Looked through the bushes….. but saw nothing. She must have jetted out the door and hid, waiting for me to walk away before she moved again. 007 kitty.

I personally think she was out looking for Andrew. But she would have had to venture a little farther than the front garden to find him in Dallas, Texas...

shree-yimp

Southern Dictionary:
shrimp - "shree-yimp"
mother - "moe-ther"
amen - "ay-min"
expression of exasperation - "Great day in the mornin'!" expression of exasperation, short-formed - "Great day!"

AJ Malett Jones and I went ("wee-int") to North Carolina this weekend for a women's conference at a church called East Side World Outreach Church (aka: "The Purple Church") this weekend and had an absolute blast. Let me tell you, those Southern women know a thing or two about love, life and laughter. I feel like I have a dozen mamas and a dozen more sisters in Shalotte now - and I miss them already.

AJ's little one, Zoe Abigail ("Abi") Jones, was a 4-month-old traveling MIRACLE. She grinned, snoozed and cooed through security checks, take-offs, landings, three days of conference, 37 degree heat, being jostled in car seats, strollers, cribs and various people's arms and even sleeping through a delayed flight in Washington D.C. on the way home and an impromptu hotel layover. Oh, and have I mentioned how cute she is?
Things I Learned:

1. Millionaires are sometimes confused as gardeners.
2. Lightening can strike your bum if you're sitting on a toilet during a storm.
3. There are at least five ways of eating rotisserie chicken.

two weeks

two weeks, at one time
the limit - but now two weeks
apart is as loss

it deserves to be mentioned...

...that A. and I celebrated a little milestone on Tuesday.

...and that I've been swooning ever since.


This first kiss on this cold street
could have jailed Galileo
for the heavenly point it proves
but tonight, merely moves
our two souls into steady revolution
around and about the warm fixed fact
of our brilliant lips.
Jason Guriel, "As Suggested By The Calculations Of Copernicus"

impostor

I'm hoping she doesn't become too popular...
...because then I'll end up reaping how much I teased my friend Ricardo Martin in university.

iBible

Yoinked from Angela's blog.

boys will be...men

Boy meets girl.
Girl comes on to boy.
Boy gives in.

"Well, what guy is going to turn that down?"

This story was relayed to me this morning by my co-worker (like, totally in more, like, detail). It's a morally complicated tale, involving infidelity, deception, and dodgy booty calls - the usual water cooler gossip - and was summed up with the dismissive quip:

"Seriously, what guy?"

Why does society not only excuse but expect animalistic behaviour from men? Why do we patronize them, like dogs, saying, "Well, what do you expect?", "He couldn't help himself.", or "Boys will be boys."

Girls, stop believing the media. Stop hardening yourselves. Stop making excuses for the behaviour that you will undoubtably be subjected to. Men are not animals. Men are not helpless to temptation. Men can be incredible, inspiring, caring creations.

As the daughter of one, the girlfriend of another, the sister of two, and, one day, hoping to be the mother of a few, I would like to stand up for men. I'd like to introduce my co-worker to not just one man, an anomaly, but many men who are "what guy".

"So society tells guys that we've got elephant-sized libido...that men are driven by sex and sexuality and that it's our number one focus, that's all men care about, it's pretty much all we're interested in...there's that saying that men think a sexual thought every five seconds - that's garbage."
- A. (March 19, 2006)

Where is my John Wayne?
Where is my prairie song?
Where is my happy ending?
Where have all the cowboys gone?
- Paula Cole

nessun parole

Before Al Pacino played a creep in Ocean's 13, before he had his face reconstructed with plastic surgery and tanning, he stole my heart in this scene from Scent of a Woman (1992).

I still get chills.

potential

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate,
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us.
We ask ourselves,

“Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?”

Actually, who are you not to be?
You are a child of God.
Your playing small doesn’t serve the world.
There’s nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people wont feel insecure around you.

We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us.
It’s not just in some of us,
It’s in everyone,
And as we let out light shine,
We unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.
As we are liberated from our own fear,
Our presence automatically liberates others.

~Nelson Madela~
(thanks, Jessica)

hot time, summer in the city

Happy June 21st.
Happy summer solstice.
Happy first day of summer.

This time last year I was moving into my apartment in High Park, returning from a road trip to Texas with the Youth Net Band and watching the FIFA World Cup finals. This year, I'm settling into my new apartment in the Bloor West Village, planning to attend Jacob and Carolyn's wedding in Texas and going to the FIFA U-20 World Cup with my brother.

New developments also include re-activating myself as a University of Toronto student, being serendipitously named the officer for 24/7 Prayer Toronto, and making time to go sailing with my family on our boat, Fledge.

Summer afternoon - summer afternoon...the two most beautiful words in the English language.
- Henry James

In summer, the song sings itself.
- William Carlos Williams

The summer night is like perfection of thought.
- Wallace Stevens

"And now, Harry, let us step out into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure."
- Professor Dumbledore, Harry Potter and The Half-Blood Prince

retrospect

"Tu seras pour moi unique au monde. Je serai pour toi unique au monde."
(Le Petit Prince)

Dear self in 2001,

You heard correctly. He has a crush on you. That's right: a crush. Don't roll your eyes. You're not so grown-up that the word doesn't have an effect on you. You're much younger than you think.

Forget your fanciful expectations for a minute. Didn't you enjoy yourself at Second Cup? You must have. You didn't move from that table all evening. Didn't he treat you with respect? Didn't he speak to you truthfully? Didn't he make you laugh?

You and I both know that you won't listen to me, or anyone else, on the subject. That's fine. You still need to discover more about yourself and life before this gift is offered again. You'll graduate university, you'll run national commercial awards, you'll travel the globe, you'll publish your poetry, you'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll mellow. And how then, I hear you wonder, will this little crush have any effect on you at all?

Just keep it in mind.

See you soon,
Self in 2007

My dear, I went for the steal
Maybe it was rushed
Oh, my crush
Damaging my soul
You blew me off, but I don't mind
I just get better with time
And so do you
So do you
My crush

- Gavin DeGraw, "Crush"

scombridae

Spelling Bee Champ He`s home-schooled? Really? He seems so normal and well socialized.

Well, not all homeschooled kids can be as talented and socially ept as my brothers.

happy beersday

By the numbers:

27: number of years I have been alive
6: number of people chorusing "Happy Birthday" in three birthday phone calls
52: number of Facebook birthday greetings I received
(1 each from B.C., Montreal, Manitoba and Saskatchewan, 2 from England, 1 from Japan, 1 from Korea, 1 from Alaska, 2 from people I have never met in person and 1 from my old hair dresser whom I haven't visited in over three years)
3: number of office assistants from Equador who sang "happy beersday to joo" at work on Friday afternoon
4: number of hours my first birthday meal, celebrated with Amy, lasted at Joy Bistro
11: hour of the morning my incredible boyfriend, Andrew, took me out to breakfast the next morning

19: number of tracks on the birthday mix CD he made me
2,472: approximate number of freckles that appeared after an hour at the beach with Jesus

4: hour that we caught the "Pirates of the Carribean" matinée at the Paramount

9: number of cloud I was on during dinner with A. at Ultra Supper Club on Queen West

3: number of lit fountains in the pool at Queen and University that I walked through

2: number of stunning pearl earrings A. gave me...again*
15: number of minutes I spent climbing the mulberry tree in my parents' backyard with my brother, Seth
24: number of tulips sent to my office by my Kate Graham
20: number of marvelous friends that showed up at Whelan's Gate Irish Pub to celebrate last night

8: number of shots purchased for me at Whelan's...I think
4: number of days my birthday celebration lasted
2007: easily the best birthday year of my wee life

* Yes, again. In fact, the first time A. stunned me with pearl earrings was LAST year on my birthday...much weeping and gnashing of teeth followed my realization that I lost them.

mawage *

While enjoying a contemplative conversation over pints with a friend, I was reminded of two wonderful quotes - both of which are written down in a dank, dark journal of mine somewhere and should be allowed to play online.

Love is a wonderfully labyrinthine thing and, in the words of St. Paul, "I don't pretend to understand it at all", but I do know that older, wiser contemplators have gone before me. Their words, like handprints cast in concrete, show me that there is much more to learn and much more room to grow.

"Nearly all marriages, even happy ones, are mistakes; in the sense that almost certainly (in a more perfect world, ore even with a little more care in this very imperfect one) both partners might be found more suitable mates. But the real soul-mate is the one you are actually married to."
- J.R.R. Tolkien

"We want our marriage to fulfill all of our emotional and physical needs; we ask our partner to do what an entire village once did; and to desire nothing or no one else while doing it."
- Esther Perel

- - - - -

* "Mawage. Mawage is wot bwings us togeder tooday. Mawage, that bwessed awangment, that dweam wifin a dweam...and wuv, twoo wuv, wiw fowow you foweva... so tweasure your wuv..."
- The Impressive Clergyman, The Princess Bride

oenophilicious party

I discovered a new word:

oenophile
oe·no·phile (plural: oe·no·philes)
noun
Definition: connoisseur or lover of wines: a lover of or expert on wine
[Mid-20th century. French "oeno-" Greek "oinos", "wine"]

How I haven't known about this word prior to now astounds me.

On that note, my lovely roommate, Nicole, and I will be hosting a housewarming soirée at our new apartment. If you are friends of ours feel free to contact us for details. If you're thinking to yourself, "I don't know Sarah or Nicole's contact information as I only visit this blog to stalk..." then you're out of luck, sweetheart.

That means you, Anonymous.

ghost stories

This is a post I originally began about a month ago, then under the working title "rennies", referring to Ericka and Andrew pictured above, respectively. Rennie-Hunter History 101: I first met Andrew at an awkward Hallowe'en "dance" at Tyndale (imagine a grade eight dance in a grade school gym...then take out the prepubescent kids and replace them with seminary students) and we e-corresponded while he traveled to India and I to Korea. He later met and wed the lovely Ericka who has become not only my downtown fortnightly lunch date but an excellent source of godly wisdom, smart-ass commentary and easy girly-camaraderie. I didn't have much to say about them after I ranted about how cool they were, but now I do.

You see, the Rennies have given birth to their second. Event, that is. They two are founding members of an uber-relevant project called Empire Remixed. Click on the link to hear what they're about in their own words (much more concise than I am apt to write), which include:

One might claim that we need to tear the walls down. Another might claim that we have no business acting on such a grand scale. And yet, in the midst of this all, in the midst of our culture, we hear a new song. A new sound.

The group was behind another tremendous event, this one self-titled, that I was privileged to attend last year where N.T. Wright (or "The Bish" as he was referred to all evening) spoke to a packed out club (one-time Baptist church, named, of all things, Revival) in Little Italy. The subject matter, or "conversation" as you'll hear it commonly called, was, and still is, Christian relevancy and integrity in a world system overwrought with capitalism, consumerism and individualism. I was hooked.

Last night, the Empire struck again with a brilliant event called "Ghost Stories :: Local Pain, Local Hope" hosted in the heart of Parkdale in a pretty presby church auditorium. Among the throng were Phyllis Novak (founder and director of Sketch!), musician Sam Sunder Singh and author of The Irresistible Revolution, Shane Claiborne of The Simple Way community in Philadelphia.

I'm left with images and words that I can not shake from the corners of my mind... What am I doing to help the poor in my community? Am I being Jesus where I can? How comfortable have I become in my 9-to-5 job, my cosy apartment, my familiar church family? Am I still dancing upon injustice?

“Seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you,” Jeremiah relates, “for in its welfare, you will have your welfare.”
(Jer 29.7)

mars and venus

Ooh, I found some fun articles.

For women, including:

• Necessities
  Men and women have different ideas about necessities.
• Superman Syndrome
  How to let your man feel like a hero.
• The Man Behind the Curtain
  In the companion article to How to Read a Woman, Fred describes in detail the eight categories of men.

And for men, including:

• How to Read a Woman
  The answers all men have been waiting for.
• What Women Want
  Fred has discovered the seven things women want!
• If
  Rudyard Kipling teaches us how to be men.
  

tuesdays

Tout doux, tout doux, tout doucement
Toujours, tout doux, tout doucement
Comme ça
La vie c'est épatant

Tout doux, tout doux, tout doucement
Toujours, tout doux, tout doucement
Comme ça
La vie je la comprends

N'allez jamais trop vite
Vous avez tout le temps
Attention à la dynamite
Prenez garde aux volcans
A ces jeunes énervés
Qui ne savent pas aller

Tout doux, tout doux, tout doucement
Toujours, tout doux, tout doucement
Comme ça
En flânant gentiment

N'allez jamais trop vite
En aimant simplement
Pour avoir de la réussite
Soyez très très prudent
L'amour alors viendra
Se blottir dans vos bras

Tout doux, tout doux, tout doucement
Toujours, tout doux, tout doucement
Comme ça
En flânant gentiment
En souriant gentiment
En flânant gentiment
Tout doucement

Feist, Tout Doucement
(for you unilinguals)

madness in the spring

Spring reminds me of paintings by Max Liebermann, one of my favourite artists.

Spring fever officially hit yesterday with an afternoon dedicated to shenanigans, tomfoolery and monkeyshines. We strolled around the BWV for a spell, watched Shrek 3, ate Chinese downtown and wound up shooting each other with roman candles in a park until the cops broke up the festivities.

Not bad for turning 27 in eleven days.

A little Madness in the Spring
Is wholesome even for the King.
- Emily Dickinson

get out of my facebook

The Boss and I were attempting to track down the Canadian managing director of a rather large company, which will remain nameless. For two days we used the tools of canada411.com, yellowpages.ca, toronto.com, and Google, to no avail. After countless attempts (including automated telephone service, outsourced help desks and American headquarters who didn't know where Canada was) we decided that this particular company prefers being nebulous and de-centralized.

Then, The Boss: "I just found him. On Facebook."

Indeed, the acclaimed managing director has a Facebook page complete with a profile picture of him being hugged by a life-sized character of Cookie Monster.

Under orders from The Boss, I sent sent the managing director a message requesting his mailing address.
He wrote a note back with a mailing address.
I thanked him and wished him a happy long weekend.
Now we're Facebook friends.