friday foto: trash talking

I took this photo a few weeks ago when the notorious Toronto garbage strike was in full swing. Those of you who are Torontonians need not be reminded, and those of you who aren't probably knew enough about it since Toronto tends to monopolize national news. Especially when there are headlines like "TORONTO STINKS...LITERALLY" just begging to be born.

Clicking on the photograph will give you a larger view of the tag written on the brick wall, which reads: "Who watches the garbage men?"

Both the city and the strikers were stuck in a 36-day stalemate while the rest of us argued, ranted, and blogged about whether the city workers had chosen the worst possible time to ask for more benefits and pay increases, during a GLOBAL RECESSION, or the best possible time since the hot summer weather always seems to hurry things along. Especially when it comes to garbage pick up. Especially when the Pope is coming, circa 2002.

I was amazed at the sheer VOLUME of garbage that accumulated in temporary dump sites around the city in a very short amount of time. Most sites remained open for a few weeks at a time, then were closed because THEY WERE AT MAXIMUM CAPACITY, and new sites would be opened in another part of the city. It was odd to see all those black plastic bags, piled one on top of the other, until the mountain reached 10 feet in height. Those black plastic bags that are usually set out on the sidewalk in front of a house, one or two at a time, I mean, what is one or two bags? to be taken away by city workers and delivered...to a magical place where garbage goes. Which, for now, is called Michigan.

The motto "Who is watching the garbage men?" should, in my opinion, read: "Who is watching the garbage men?" because we only need the workers if they're necessary in taking away OUR CRAP. Take a moment and think: how many black garbage bags am I responsible for in a two-week time span? Now, multiply that by the number of garbage pick ups in a year, and multiply that by your age. Or, the number of average years a person lives for. THAT'S A LOT OF GARBAGE. Multiplied by 2.5 million Torontonians.

This video is an excellent (and fun) place to start if you're looking to educate yourself about waste and how to help lessen yours. And here are 10 ways that you can get started right away. (Thanks to Mark & Beth for introducing me to it!)

I'm reminded of Aldous Huxley's ominous prophecy in Brave New World: a dystopia where the mantra "ending is better than mending" promotes a mindset bent on the disposable. I'm not as "green" as I'd like to be, or, perhaps, should be, but I'm starting. Care to join me?

God spoke: "Let us make human beings in our image, make them reflecting our nature so they can be responsible for the fish in the sea, the birds in the air, the cattle, and, yes, Earth itself, and every animal that moves on the face of Earth."

God created human beings; he created them godlike, reflecting God's nature. He created them male and female. God blessed them: "Prosper! Reproduce! Fill Earth! Take charge! Be responsible for fish in the sea and birds in the air, for every living thing that moves on the face of Earth."

Then God said, "I've given you every sort of seed-bearing plant on Earth and every kind of fruit-bearing tree, given them to you for food. To all animals and all birds, everything that moves and breathes, I give whatever grows out of the ground for food."

And there it was.

God looked over everything he had made;
it was so good, so very good!

(Genesis 1:26-31, The Message)

wifercize wednesday: secrecy

I just finished reading an article in MORE: Canada's Magazine Celebrating Women Over 40 which is delivered free of charge to my office every month. I read it because, well, if 40s are the new 30s, and 30s are the new 20s, then I NEED TO START THINKING ABOUT RETIREMENT. Plus, it has a pretty, shiny cover.

In it, the author (under the pseudonym "Ivana Filler", a bad joke which will make sense shortly), goes to a cosmetic dermatologist to have a wrinkle filler treatment (called hyaluronic acid...who voluntarily injects ACID into their FACE?) without her husband's knowledge. The trick is to see if the treatment can remain unnoticed by her husband, since he is an outspoken advocate of aging gracefully. She maintains her anonymity throughout the article and ends the piece celebratorily, since he seemed more interested in a "small, black streak on the underside of the front bumper" of their car than her facial alteration.

She advises him to just rub it off. "No one will even notice," she concludes. Zing!

My issue isn't so much her anonymity (although I have opinions about that), or anti-aging treatments (surprisingly, I have opinions about that too), or the tired stereotyping of men who are more into cars than relationships (right on cue, hubby tweets this), OR that it seemed her secrecy stemmed from selfishness desire (the mighty "I"), but that she would a) do something that her husband obviously didn't like (or consider necessary), and b) keep it from him.

It reminds me of this great quote of Michelle Pfieffer's, from an interview with InStyle:

When Pfeiffer heard a so-called expert on marriage and romance advocate "keeping the mystery" between partners, the actress found it hilarious. "Can you imagine, for 20 years, trying to stay mysterious in your relationship?" she asks, guffawing. "That's the worst advice I've ever heard. Of all the people in your life you don't want to hide from, it's your partner."

If the first year of marriage has taught me anything, it has taught me communication and openness. It's a two-way street that requires a lot of bravery and courage but is the only way, that I can see, of fulfilling the mystery of "oneness" that marriage promises. Since you see each other naked, you might as well be honest with your other half. Message to wives: lets not bluff our way through life. Better a disagreement in the light than a secret kept in the dark. Things that grow in the dark aren't pretty. Not even if you inject them with hyaluronic acid.

Which, I suppose, makes me wonder how integrated we are before we get into a marital relationship. Are we being honest with ourselves? With our friends? Message to pre-wives: start living open, honest lives now. It'll make it easier to live an open, honest life with a hubby.

"I want to be clear, I want to be open
I want my eyes to be deep as the deep blue sea
I want to live real and transparently
So if you want to see me, you can see me."
- Jeanine Noyes, Transparent

crazy town

Since I promised, here is the aforementioned tale of Crazy Town.

Simcoe Day dawned sunny and work-free, so Andrew and I decided to spend it giving the house a much needed cleaning. He started on the laundry and I began the vacuuming.

The longer I worked the more exhausted I became and although giving a 2-second thought towards what time on the month it was might have saved us what happened next, I did not. I just kept working. I was in lock down: vacuuming, mopping, washing dishes...

In fact, I brutishly washing dishes when Andrew, sitting on the couch, looked up from his laptop and asked, "Are you ready to go to Walmart?"

Me: "I WAS READY TO GO TO WALMART 45 MINUTES AGO."

For the next 5 minutes all Andrew did was stare at me, bless him. I continued scouring dishes in silence. Stare. Scour. Stare.

I couldn't articulate why my reaction was disproportionate to the question (although, logically, I knew it was), or why I was actually upset (although, emotionally, I could have just as easily cried instead of yelling), or why Walmart was the catalyst of such malice (although, reasonably, enough facts exist about the conglomerate that make me wary). I only knew I was miserable and anything could have set me off. Including Walmart.

Andrew's silent stare (which he later informed me was a calculation of What Just Went Wrong - an internal dialogue that sounded like: "Was it Walmart we were going to?...Was it somewhere else?...What was the last thing I said before that?...Is it the dishes?...") was the second best thing he could have done. I later informed him the best thing would have been to hug me, perhaps against my will, until I chilled out.

It's the elephant in the room, once a month, that neither spouse wants to acknowledge. One for fear of being exposed, mocked, and/or stereotyped. The other for fear of being drawn, quartered, and/or disemboweled. Premenstrual syndrome. And using the word "syndrome" makes it so much more palatable, doesn't it? Like, "I'm sorry. Your wife has fallen prey to an incurable syndrome."

The day following that fateful Simcoe Day, once I had some perspective, I apologized for my outburst. "I think I took a trip to Crazy Town," I admitted. More like won the race to become the Mayor of Crazy Town.

friday foto: label-making

I've already started to stress about these Friday Fotos since I've never given myself any deadline to work towards on my blog. Except for the time I vowed to blog every day. But then there was a tragic accident and a canceled bachelorette and planning for a wedding you can't really blame me for falling through on that one.

Today's Foto, therefore, comes to you from my very own receptionist's desk, or The Bubble, as it is fondly referred to. The environment of The Bubble was extra dynamic today since I was asked to organize one of the partner's client files. There's only one thing I like better than labelling and organizing my own stuff: labelling and organizing someone else's stuff. You might call me anal, but the hubby says it's hot. And I like what he thinks.

Here are the delicious before and after shots:

Before

After(the labels revealing client company names have been blurred to avoid being dooced but, I assure you, they are top-notch in reality)

On a related note, I enjoyed a wonderful lunch today with Noel, pastor of Central. While we chatted I realized that the past year solidified who I am, what I am best suited for, and where I am going. As Andrew and I faced the challenges of our first year of marriage and were frustrated by situations that restricted us from planning and giving vision to new projects, we creatively channelled that energy into areas where we could plan and give vision to. We bought a house, painted the house, re-roofed the house, renovated the house, adopted two pets, planted a garden, poured ourselves into the young adults we lead, and loved every minute of it because it was WHAT WE WERE MADE TO DO. It was freeing, knowing that we could - together - dream, strategize, plan, build, and execute ideas regardless of season.

Even if it's just an afternoon spent labelling and organizing files so that they are uniform in colour and parallel in arrangement, I'm happy because I know what I do well.

there's a hole in the bucket

What is it about Twitter that seems to syphon off my desire to post here on my blog? My reliable, constant, wonderful, trusted, been-with-me-since-2005 blog? Andrew pointed out to me that, while my tweets remain upbeat and interesting, my blog has become the place for me to rant about the state of the world. In mini dissertations.

I feel as if I've left Blogger for a newer, younger fling and now only come home to complain.

BUT NO LONGER.

Now that my new iPhone arrived from Rogers after a month and a half of waiting for it (right: no ranting), so I'd like to introduce to what I've entitled a Friday Foto. I am aware of the spelling error. On Fridays, I will post a photo (or "foto" - see?) of something that will blow your mind with awesomeness. On hump day, I'll post a Wifercize Wednesday, or something to do with marriage, being a wife, the husband, or other. It will might be P.G. The term "wifercize" I am hereby copyrighting (or would, if I could figure out how to cut and paste the copyright symbol from Word) since I came up with it before I was married when I would weekly, on a Wednesday, subject my parents and two brothers to a recipe I had figured out. "Figured out" was a relative term since most of the experiments went awry. God must have been whispering that I'd marry an Italian in the end and would have to worry too much about cooking anyhow.

Stay tuned for a juicy post on P.M.S. or, as we like to call it in our house, Crazy Town.

defiance

Andrew and I watched "Defiance", starring Daniel Criag (who doesn't try to be a beefcake in it), on date night and both of us HIGHLY RECOMMEND IT. I wouldn't say that this aligning of our opinions is rare, but... Well, let's just say it's nice that it was he and I against 50% of the Top Critics on RottenTomatoes.com (although we were backed by the New Yorker, and so felt justified).

Before you wonder, as I did, how it could be possible that yet another WW2 movie had been written, cast, produced, shot, and released that somehow managed to cover a perspective that hadn't already been written, cast, produced, shot, and released in the form of ALL THE OTHER WW2 MOVIES, don't. It's different. Just watch it.

The summarized plot (yoiked from IMDb.com):

Jewish brothers in Nazi-occupied Eastern Europe escape into the Belarussian forests, where they join Russian resistance fighters and endeavor to build a village in order to protect themselves and about 1,000 Jewish non-combatants.

One particular scene, of no importance, grabbed me. As Jewish refugees discovered the forest village they signed up with administrators, stating their name and previous occupation: watchmaker, nurse, intellectual, accountant. Although the watchmaker had a knack for repairing rifle triggers and the nurse's skills were of instant value, the community had little use for the latter two - "accountant" being particularly derided. Everyone then learned skills that were necessary for survival in their new environment. Building shelter, thieving food from neighbouring farms, aiming and shooting firearms, etc.

One of the travesties of Hitler's regime, one that preceded genocide, was that "die Endlösung der Judenfrage" ("the final solution of the Jewish question") meant their complete erasure from society. Before they were taunted, threatened, hunted, criminalized, and annihilated, Jews were respected members of a civilization that needed them. They were doctors, lawyers, teachers, government officials, bankers, and, yes, accountants.

Buckle up.

Why are we, as Christians, ghettoizing ourselves? There is no external threat great or valid enough to justify our exodus from society, nothing near the extent that real refugees feel, so why are we VOLUNTARILY fleeing, removing our skills, our creativity, our opinions, our collaborations, our inventions, and our wisdom from a civilization that needs us? Why are ministerial positions (pastor, intercessor, worship leader) held in piety, since they only serve the needs of our tribe? Why are cowering in forest hovels, applying our energy to building a subculture of...defiance?

Not that it matters, since angered readers are most likely drafting a scathing response and skimming the rest of this post, but I am a pastor. The Christian family needs a place to call home, needs its wounds bathed, needs its belly fed, needs its soul refreshed. It is, however, my goal to excel both in church and state affairs and to counsel others to do the same.

A good friend recently quoted God as having told her: "Live offensively, not defensively." Since no one hunts us but a finite enemy who feeds himself on the authority WE GIVE HIM, having been given to us by our infinite Father, let's pray our maranatha in praise instead of panic. Let's take the FIRST step, not the last and most begrudged, in establishing egalitarian movements, writing government policies, being informed about foreign affairs, being involved in domestic affairs, initiating philanthropic activity, and becoming leaders of education, medicine, law, media, and business. Like God intended.

"We must become the change we want to see in the world."
- Mahatma Ghandi

God doesn't want us to be shy with his gifts, but bold and loving and sensible.
(2 Timothy 1:7, The Message)

Let me tell you why you are here. You're here to be salt-seasoning that brings out the God-flavors of this earth. If you lose your saltiness, how will people taste godliness? You've lost your usefulness and will end up in the garbage.
(Matthew 5:13, The Message)

Ask of me,
and I will make the nations your inheritance,
the ends of the earth your possession.
(Psalm 2:8, NIV)

Those who carried materials did their work with one hand and held a weapon in the other, and each of the builders wore his sword at his side as he worked.
(Nehemiah 4:17-18, NIV)

Let your light so shine before men that they may see your moral excellence and your praiseworthy, noble, and good deeds and recognize and honor and praise and glorify your Father Who is in heaven.
(Matthew 5:16, Amplified)

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!)