the bubble

My hubby recommended that I write a post about The Bubble. Since we spoke at Central on Sunday about evangelism (aka: being a person of excellence in the workplace so that people see your good works and notice God in them) I figure this is a perfect opportunity to introduce you to it.

[to hear our message, here's the link]

The Bubble had its birth after a significant bout of really bad days at the office. You know the type. Mistakes (your fault), other people's bad moods (not your fault), weather, layoffs, miscommunications, fax machines from the 80s that chew up paper... After a few of these such days I lamented to Andrew that I had had it UP TO HERE. He calmly pointed out our new house and mortgage to go with it as well as the increasing unemployment rate, suggesting that, perhaps, honey, now is not the time to be fantasizing about quitting.

Instead, we prayed.

We prayed, but not the "Dear Jesus, help me at my job, Amen." kind of prayers. We prayed because we knew there was a better perspective on my work situation and that God wanted to show it to us. Because he's cool that way.

With my eyes closed I pictured myself at my job, where I work as a receptionist. I could see my desk, the overhead lighting, the main doors to the office facing me, my phone, my computer, my little to-do-list with another little to-do-list attached to it. I could envision my coworkers walking through the office, getting something to drink from the kitchen, and stopping at my desk to chat.

What I hadn't expected to see was The Bubble. It touched one side of the hardwood floor on the right side of my desk and reached over my head in an arch, sealing itself on the left side. From the inside, I could see that The Bubble was thin and clear enough to see through, with the opalescence of a bubble blown on a sunny day. From the inside, I observed office interaction and felt peaceful. From the inside, I was safe.

God told me that not only was The Bubble a representation of the peace that was mine on a daily basis but it also became what I brought to work on a daily basis. All the aspects of vacation that we strive after (and count down on our calendars, waiting for) could be with me, and should be shared by others should they need them: peace, space, patience, forgiveness, humour, safety, counsel, repose. The Bubble afforded me the protection I needed internally so that I could perform my job better externally.

I'd suggest you do the same. Ask God where The Bubble is in your workplace. How has he made provision for you to remain peaceful, yet efficient? Instead of facing the day's challenges fully suited in cast-iron armour, prepared for the worst, try letting your guard down and allowing God to handle things, expecting the best.

"Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid."
- John 14: 27 (NIV)

[Stop allowing yourselves to be agitated and disturbed; and do not permit yourselves to be fearful and intimidated and cowardly and unsettled.]
- (Amplified!)

mythbusters

On the way to work this morning I was listening to Sigur Rós, a song from their album "( )". Much like the name of the album, the songs have no distinguishable titles - the one I was listening to simply called "Untitled 1". Parts of the song are sung in what I assumed to be Icelandic so I attempted to Google a translation. After 15 minutes spent with the steady click, click, click of my mouse, finding nothing, I happened upon an explanation from their website:

what language does jónsi sing in?
...jónsi sang most songs in icelandic but a few of the songs were sung in 'hopelandic'. all of the vocals ( ) are however in hopelandic. hopelandic (vonlenska in icelandic) is the 'invented language' in which jónsi sings before lyrics are written to the vocals. it's of course not an actual language by definition (no vocabulary, grammar, etc.), it's rather a form of gibberish vocals that fits to the music and acts as another instrument. jónsi likens it with what singers sometimes do when they've decided on the melody but haven't written the lyrics yet...

So Jónsi is singing in...gibberish? What caught me off guard was that I felt moved by the "words" - or, I suppose, the music - and figured something sung so beautifully and fervently would have to have literal meaning behind it (hence the search for a translation).

I've noticed that some things - delicate, rare, eternal, mysterious - are either hidden from view or require an indirect glance to be seen. A faint star appearing only when spotted peripherally. A solar eclipse requiring a long box or filtered glasses for safe observation. A fetus hidden for nine months. The wind. Hopelandic.

Some of the most influential and acclaimed Christian writers (writers who happen to be Christian, as opposed to those who pen Christian non-fiction), such as J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, and George Macdonald chose myth and allegory to simultaneously veil and unlock profound truths. It's as if they hoped their audience would be intrigued enough to read on, to press on, to take on the complexities of life, eternity, identity, destiny, the Trinity, salvation, faith, hope, and love since it was presumed we were intelligent enough to do so. Myth is just the vehicle to spark our interest.

John Eldredge ("Wild at Heart") speaks often on myth. He quotes:

"The truth is, we have not taken them [myths] seriously enough. Myths are stories which confront us with something transcendent and eternal."

And since Jesus himself used parables to decode the secrets of the kingdom to his followers, how much more should we embrace them?

The disciples came up and asked, "Why do you tell stories?"

He replied, "You've been given insight into God's kingdom. You know how it works. Not everybody has this gift, this insight; it hasn't been given to them. Whenever someone has a ready heart for this, the insights and understandings flow freely. But if there is no readiness, any trace of receptivity soon disappears. That's why I tell stories: to create readiness, to nudge the people toward receptive insight. In their present state they can stare till doomsday and not see it, listen till they're blue in the face and not get it."

- Matthew 13:10-12 (The Message)

Until we face eternity for ourselves I don't expect we'll fully understand everything there is to understand, although that doesn't look like it'll prevent us from trying. And sounding important about it. That must have been why Jesus speculated that kids were closer to comprehending what faith meant, since they haven't the sophistication to miss it.

beauty

It's been a glamourous week, what with meeting The Sartorialist on Wednesday downtown at Holt Renfew and Kevin and Susan's wedding this weekend at One King West, and it has me thinking about beauty.

Recently I've been poking around design blogs, both for fashion and home decor, such as Lookbook, Apartment Therapy, and Etsy. What hooks me is the visual intrigue: a textured scarf, the smooth edge of a coffee table, the classic colour red. Seeing The Sartorialist face-to-face, however, made me question a few things about beauty. Surrounded by a crowd of 20-somethings, most of whom were overdressed and preening themselves in obvious attempts to be "discovered" by him and featured on his fashion blog (admittedly, I did fantasize Scott Schumann dropping the pen midway through signing his autograph, holding out a hand and whispering, "Hold it. Hold it right there...", whipping out his camera and photographing me in my drab office attire), he was shorter than I thought he would be, wore a wrinkled dress shirt under his (designer) pinstriped suit, and spent a great deal of time talking about himself. Which, I suppose, was fine considering we had traveled there to bask in all his Newman but it struck me as odd.

Odder still were the VIP Holt's clients who were treated to instant personal greetings by Scott - they squealing in sugar-coated glee, he double-kissing (*mwah, mwah!*) them on each of their stretched, tanned cheeks. These women and, by association, the whole scenario made me feel as if I was having an out of body experience. The sculpted face, the manicured hair, those teeth like rows of Chicklets, the bony shoulders, that designer dress, that patent purse, those goggle sunglasses, those four-inch stilettos... That voice... That laugh... These people pushing up against me to be next to meet him...

I felt like yelling, DO ANY OF YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE?

If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, what I beheld on Wednesday wasn't beautiful. It was fake. Money itself was not the issue. I have a feeling that the extravagance of Susan's wedding on Saturday at a four-star condo hotel will match the elegance of Melissa's wedding at her parents' house last week - the wedding budget of either is of no consequence. The brides are beautiful, and release beauty wherever they are, because they free.

What struck me most about Melissa on her wedding day was not her coiffed golden curls, her vintage birdcage that veiled her azure eyes, or her beaded Spanish inspired gown, but that she laughed. She laughed walking up the aisle. She laughed during the vows. She laughed through the speeches. She laughed during their first dance. She laughed. All. Day. Long. A bright, sparkling, top-up-my-glass-of-champagne-garçon laugh that starts in her belly and rolls right up through her being, tinkling each one of her teeth on the way out like orchestral bells. A laugh that you can't help but laugh along with. Her laugh is an invitation.

And that's gorgeous.

And it's not sold at Holt Renfrew.

This passage from Matthew used to bother me:

"Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more important than food, and the body more important than clothes?[...] Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life? And why do you worry about clothes? See how the lilies of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith?[...] Each day has enough trouble of its own."

before I realized that Jesus was not an ancient sartorialist, imposing his fashion faux-pas on those who wished to live a pious life. His point was don't worry. If his point was to poo-poo creative outfits, I'm pretty sure he wouldn't have used lilies as an example of beauty. AND COMPARED THEM TO SOLOMON AND ALL HIS SPLENDOUR.

The equation goes a little something like this in my mind:

Solomon + all his splendour〈 the lilies of the field〈 you when you stop worrying

So stop worrying. Be gorgeous. Take a page from Melissa's book, and laugh at the days to come.

What you feel is what you are
And what you are is beautiful
- "Slide", The Goo Goo Dolls

date with death

Do you have €4,000 saved up? That's the equivalent of $6,314.88 CAD, according to xe.com this morning. If so, you have just enough, along with the cost of airfare to Switzerland (one way, of course, not return), for a date with Death. Legally.

In the news today an elderly British couple, Sir Edward and Joan Downes, are either applauded or condemned, depending on the article you read, for admitting themselves to notorious Swiss suicide clinic, Dignitas. In Switzerland, as well as Belgium, Luxembourg, The Netherlands, Thailand, and the states of Oregon and Washington, active euthenasia is a legal practice.

Sir Edward was a maestro had lost most of his eyesight and was beginning to experience hearing loss as well. This, in combination with his wife's terminal cancer diagnosis, made them decide to terminate their lives, together, at Dignitas.

Last year, a program called Sky Real Lives reported on another assisted suicide, this one of Craig Ewert, at Dignitas and aired it on television (be warned) as part of a documentary called Right to Die.

"After you drink this, you're going to die," the Dignitas representative (consultant? doctor? euthanizer? is that a word?) states simply.

Craig and his wife, Mary, embrace before he takes the lethal drink.
"I love you," she whispers.
"I love you, sweetheart. So much."

Then, to Beethoven's 9th symphony, Craig dies.

Euthanasia has perplexed me for as long as I can remember being aware of it. Additionally, I've discovered that the subject is associated with a host of other equally disturbing issues. Why, in states that oppose euthanasia, do they support capital punishment? Who is profiting from the suicides? €4,000 a death is a fairly significant fee... Dignitas made €8,000 off of the Downes'. Conversely, will governments begin to promote euthanasia in order to offset the demand for health and old age care since seniors are the world's fastest growing demographic?

In an interview before his assisted suicide, Craig Ewert expresses his rationale:

"If I go through with it, I die, as I must at some point. If I don't go through with it, my choice is essentially to suffer and to inflict suffering on my family. And then die. Possibly in a way that is considerably more stressful and painful than this way."

Since the enemy comes only in order to kill and steal and destroy, it should be no surprise that Craig felt he had little incentive to live before he decided to die. The situation was to him so dire that suicide was the preferred solution. Where is the life he was meant to have and enjoy, the life that was his in abundance and to the full, the life that overflows? The death of his hope, his joy, his peace, his comfort and his security was stolen long before before Dignitas offered him a way out.

I wonder what would have happened if someone had been there to introduce him to life.

I wonder how many times we pay a hefty fee to euthanize parts of our hearts, our dreams, our goals, our hopes, and our relationships because it's preferred to carrying on in a state of half- or barely-living.

Where are we dating Death?

advertising, the list

[Part 3 of an interesting debate. Links to Part 1 and Part 2.]

Having spent the last weekend with a few of my girlies - some single, some engaged, some married - I was made to remember one of the main sources of my elongated single phase and the near-cause of a breakup between Andrew and myself in our early days of dating: The List.

My particular version of The List had several incarnations, the first being one that I wrote when I was 19 on a train from Pune to Delhi during a trip to India. It consisted of exactly 47 calculated questions designed to snare potential suitors in a trap of their own making (The List can be found here...because I'm feeling extra generous and self-deprecating today).

#15: "Do you like cats?" (This was added because I myself like cats, and was aware that many men did not.)
#16: "Do you like polka music?" (Added directly after #15 to ensure that He Who Was Being Questioned was not absentmindedly answering "yes" to all questions in a sly attempt at winning me over.)

The second draft came about in my early 20s and was an attempt at spiritualizing The List. I wanted characteristics such as loyalty, prophetic inclination, leadership skills, an ability to mentor, and a strong testimony. In addition, I wanted him to enjoy dancing, playing piano, have interesting eyes, be a good hugger, and, of course, be fond of cats.

By my mid 20s I decided The List could do with more editing and I narrowed it down to three top points:

1. Ability to hear God's voice and follow it.
2. Big.
3. Can make me laugh.

Before anyone gets the wrong idea about #3, let me explain. I had, at the time, a penchant for what I referred to as "teddy bear guys". Tall, yes, but more importantly sturdy. Beefy. Pudgy. My family came to know this phase in my life as my "inFATuation" with large men and would routinely compete to point out men bearing the greatest resemblance to the Koolaid guy.

"Sarah! Look - it's your boyfriend!"

My obsession with writing, rewriting, editing and agonizing over The List made it nearly impossible for me to see the potential that was right in front of me, which is where Andrew sat for six years before we dated. Consumed as I was with designing an ideal husband I hadn't given thought to how ridiculous The List was, how unattainable, and how restrictive.

When Andrew and I began to date, The List took on a life of its own - not unlike Jabberwocky deriving the power to terrorize Alice from her own imagination - haunting, taunting, and reminding me of the prerequisites I had established. "He's great," I thought, "but he doesn't really dance, he's not a teddy bear guy, he hasn't technically been to India, and HE DOESN'T LIKE CATS."

God had to arrest me in order to keep us together. "Sarah," he cautioned, "Andrew, the man you are falling in love with, is more than the sum of his parts. He is more than the accumulation of check marks off The List."

Recently I came upon this delicious little controversial article: right here, and, consequentially, the true meaning behind The List.

Bad experiences and damaged trust are often catalysts for rule-making, says Evan Marc Katz, the Los Angeles-based author of Why You're Still Single: Things Your Friends Would Tell You If You Promised Not to Get Mad . It's a natural defence mechanism, he says.

The List was designed to keep the bad guys out but I hadn't realized it had acted to keep me in. Looking over those 47 questions I recognize the frightened 19 year old who had already known Those Scary Guys who hooted and hollered at other women (#5), were too clingy/needy (#13), were serial daters/players (#23), who punched girls (#31), who ran to alcohol/women/other when they were upset (#32), and told me how to dress/behave (#43). I was so busy protecting myself I hadn't realized the purpose to a REAL relationship was to extend myself, to expose myself, to make myself available to Andrew, who needed me to assure him that I, also, wasn't one of Those Scary Girls.

And, yes, by the way, you caught the title of that book correctly. OMIGAH, right? OK, I just want you all to know: I did not write this book although I kind of wish I had. It's available on Amazon if you'd like a pick up a copy. You know, for "a friend". It includes such tasty tidbits of wisdom such as:

• Don’t be the "men are pigs" woman. She’s boring. She’s unhappy. And the good men don’t want her.
• Don’t demand the right to set arbitrary rules, let alone change them every five minutes. Act like a crazy person and you’ll be treated like one.
• Realize when he doesn’t want to talk and give him that space. Men don’t usually feel the need to share as much. Respect that or watch him shut down even more.
  

Get the healing you need to move on. Once you move on, don't look back. Make yourself as available as you would like a partner to make themselves available to you. Emotionally, mentally, spiritually, and warmly. Replace The List with non-negotiables: values that you have seriously thought through and prayed about; the ones that you know you could not spend a lifetime without. A word to the wise: a fondness for cats shouldn't be one of them.

And then, date. GO OUT AND DATE. He's out there, hoping that you'll be soft enough to let him woo you. She's out there, hoping that you'll pursue her.

Despite her single status, Ms. Di Bari sticks to her regulations. They help keep her standards high and maintain her dignity. But most of all, they protect her from heartbreak. Sometimes, she feels a little like she's missing out.

“There were times when having the rules actually hurt me because I might've missed out on an opportunity because of them,” she says. “I guess I'm a glutton for punishment.”

crouching tiger

Andrew, asleep, is one of my favourite things in the world. I've mentioned it here, here, and here. Anyone asleep is pretty much adorable, but it's the juxtaposition of Andrew's daytime persona and his asleep persona that charm me the most.

My husband is a strong, assertive, firstborn alpha male. He has a preternatural gift of leadership. He is as quick with his opinions as he is firm with them. He oversees a youth group, a cell group, a band, an album, our finances, and the strict training of our 4-month old lab all while drawing up blueprints for the future. He loves innovation. He loves intentionality. He loves intelligence. He's the character in the story that you want to be on the same side as. For many reasons.

Where Andrew goes, action follows. Whether it's social or strategic or creative: he is kinetic energy. That's not to say that he's frenetic because his actions - internally and externally - are always deliberate.

This confidence, which Kris Vallotton says "always looks like arrogance to the insecure", has carried its share of woes including misunderstandings, assumptions and intimidation. Somehow, those who misunderstand, assume and are intimidated (including, on occasion, yours truly) are invited to eat humble pie when it is proven that he had, in fact, nothing but the best intention and outcome in mind. And, oh! the outcome. The boy has a touch of genius about him.

He wears sleep well. It is his state of uncoiling and unraveling. It is his time of peace and safety. My little heart melts because who am I - me, with my bad moods and barbed words - who am I to share this bed? Who am I to see him so poufy-haired, so slack-jawed, so utterly like his six year old self in weathered, matte, 4x6" photographs displayed in his grandparents' basement?

What is my shoulder that he would touch it in the middle of the night to see if I am cold and then, because I am, to pull the duvet over me?

"And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?"
(The Tiger, William Blake)

"Greatness lies not in being strong, but in the right use of strength."
(Henry Ward Beecher)

erase and rewind

A funny sort of feeling, a familiar feeling, romanced me the other day as I was waiting for the subway after work. One of my favourite songs, "Reign of Love" was chosen at random by my iPhone.

The piano chords, like little waves, rolled over and over as I visited happy memories from a year ago, two years ago, five, ten... I remembered a time when I wasn't a wife, when I didn't have Andrew to confide in, to grow with, to hold. I remembered the eve of my 20th birthday, in India, when I was in a foul mood because I couldn't control time. I knew would turn 20 the next day no matter if I wanted to or not. I remembered the exact view of the white topped Himalayas the next morning from my tent flap door. I remembered the smell of the thin air. The taste of yellow curry. The dense fog in the valleys.

C.S. Lewis' theory, that "humans are amphibians - half spirit and half animal" and "as spirits they belong to the eternal world, but as animals they inhabit time" speaks sense to the lurching sensation I sometimes feel from being thrown into the future or being dragged from the past too soon for my liking. Or not soon enough.

Let me visit the Himalayas again with the understanding that my 20s would be far superior to my teenage years. Let me explore my 20s again with the understanding that the man of my dreams would be patient, kind, not envious, not boastful, not proud, not rude, not self-seeking, not easily angered, would keep no few records of wrongs, would rejoice with the truth, would protect me, trust me, hope and persevere for me.

Those of you who have seen Click will share with me the shock experienced at the end of the film when, somehow, Adam Sandler makes you cry. More ridiculous than the concept of a universal remote that controls one's universe is the idea that he fast-forwarded and slow-motioned his way through life. But, given the chance, wouldn't we all?

Is it any wonder that we worry, as I did on my final day lived as a 19 year old? Do we not all spend the greater part of our lives under the shadow of an event that has not yet come to pass?* Is it any wonder that we desire to freeze moments in time and revisit them on occasion? Is it any wonder that we think longingly about our past and wish we had the perspective that we have now?

As the subway screeched into Dufferin station and the force of air hit me I felt doused in hope and, more than hope: joy. Joy that life has turned out far better than I could have imagined, has never been as dire as I predict, and has only big, open arms for me in the future. As long as I am forced to inhabit time I will make a friend of it.

* Maurice Maeterlinck

'Cause you can't jump the track, we're like cars on a cable
And life's like an hourglass, glued to the table
No one can find the rewind button now
(Anna Nalick)

Reign of love
I can't let go
To the sea I offer

This heavy load
(Coldplay)