A Ritual to Read to One Another by William Stafford

I love this deep and meaningful poem by American poet William Stafford. It speaks to me of the importance of being who we really are and the importance of letting others be who they are.  It is only as we get in touch with the treasure of our own true self that we can be truly awake and offer the world around the gift that is ours and ours alone to give.  

If you don't know the kind of person I am
and I don't know the kind of person you are
a pattern that others made may prevail in the world
and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.

For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,
a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break
sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood
storming out to play through the broken dyke.

And as elephants parade holding each elephant's tail,
but if one wander's the circus won't find the park,
I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty
to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.

And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,
a remote important region in all who talk:
though we could fool each other, we should consider-
lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.

For it is important that awake people be awake,
or a breaking of the line may discourage them back to sleep;
the signals we give-yes or no, or maybe-should be clear:
the darkness around us is deep.

Night by Elie Wiesel

The book Night by Elie Wiesel has been on my to-read list for a very long time. Elie Wiesel tells of a desperate struggle for survival and how far people will go to keep on living for another day.  Elie Wiesel writes from his own experience as a 15 year old boy who survives the brutality of a Nazi concentration camp.  What makes this story so powerful is that Elie does not just talk about what happened, but tells you how it felt to be there with such raw intensity that you stand appalled in the midst of the story. 

A theme throughout the book is relationships between fathers and sons. Elie enters the concentration camp with a grim determination to stay near his father on whom he feels his life depends.  Near the end of the book he struggles with a sense of wanting to distance himself from his father who has become a detriment to his own survival. In spite of these feelings he continues to fight for his father's life.  One very stark story that Elie shares  which is particularly gut wrenching is of an old man clutching a crust of bread to his chest. The man’s son comes and violently rips it away.  The old man says, “Don’t you remember me. I am your father.”  Others come and violently take the bread away from the son. Both father and son end up dead.   

A very haunting part of the story for me as a person of faith is the death of God.  When an angelic looking boy is hanged someone asks, “Where is God?”  Elie responds by saying, “Where is he? Here he is – he is hanging on the gallows.  What I think Elie means is that his faith in a God of love dies on the gallows with that boy.  This question resonates for me as a Christian. We all ask ourselves where God is in the face of suffering. I too would say that God was hanging on the gallows, but when I say that I would mean that God suffers with everyone who is a victim of the world’s brokenness.  I am reminded of a prayer, “Crucified savior, naked God, you hang disgraced and powerless.  Grieving, we dare to hope, as we wait at the cross with your mother and your friend.”   

There is an important question that arises when we read a book like this. The question  being what we would do to survive.  The history of the world suggests most of us would let go of our humanity in a bid for survival.  The studies done by Milgram on obedience suggest that there may not be as much separating us from the Nazi prison guards as we like to think.  We need to ponder this question.   There are some things worse than death.  Becoming a person you detest is one of those things.  

A Couragous Joyous Love Filled Life

It was my privilege to lead a celebration of life for Ruth Robinson when she died at 92.  It was a wonder that Ruth lived that long for she had the worst health of anyone I have ever known. Ruth was written up in a Medical Journal because of her many complicated health problems. The family was told several times that Ruth was not going to make it through the night. In spite of these challenges Ruth radiated joy. I have permission to share two poems that Ruth wrote.

I Am Blessed

I am thinking today of the blessing I have,

And find that as they unfold

I feel overwhelmed by their numbers,

And their value more precious than gold. 

 

Today

Looking outside my window I see

a new day and only I can tell you

what kind of day it will be.

It can be busy, happy, laughing and gay

It can be dull, unhappy and grey.

My mind is the determining key.

For I am the person I myself will be.

I can be kind and thoughtful

I can do what I can to help others.

Or I can think just of myself.

I can enjoy what I do and make it fun.

Or I can complain and be miserable and

make it hard on someone.

I can be patient and loving and kind

I can hold out my held and be helpful,

Willing to understand other’s problems

and be with them whenever I can.

I have faith in myself and God willing

I will make the best of every day I live. 

Poems by Evangeline Paterson

I was at a workshop on Saturday where the leader shared this poem by Evangeline Paterson. I loved this poem.  It really spoke to me about how life feels sometimes.  

The water that I live in

is full of piranha
and it doesn't do
to have a bleeding heart
in this locality.
Please God
get me out of this water
or give me a shell
or teeth...
Just don't leave me here
with nothing
but the conviction
that piranha
are all God's children too. 

Another wonderful poem by Evangeline Paterson.  I think Evangeline is becoming my favorite poet.  Unfortunately her books of poetry are out of print. 


I used to think   —   loving life so greatly   —  
That to die would be like leaving a party
Before the end.
Now I know that the party is really happening
Somewhere else;
That the light and the music   —
Escaping in snatches to make the pulse beat and the tempo quicken   —
Come from a long way away.
And I know too that when I get there
The music will never end.

—   Evangeline Paterson

Good Clean Water Needs to Be Protected

In a poem entitled Mass for the Rivers Ian McDonald says: 

It is not your fault you mix with everything

You pick up whatever you flow through

Everything the rain catches coming down

Everything tiny silvery streaks of droplets soak from the ground and bring to your banks in quick rivulets.

It is not your fault you mix with everything

Becoming more and less than yourself mile by mile.

Solvents from the factory

Tailings from the mine

Fertilizer from the field

Shit from the feedlot

Waste from the leaking tanks the army base left behind

Sewage from the city’s raw flush.

You take it all in; it changes you.  And it is not your fault. 

You bead on my sun-blocked arm,

My paddle cuts into your brown flowing current,

Tiny condoms float by, bobbing up and down in the waves without apology.

But it is not your fault. 

Safe clean drinking water was something we took for granted as children.  We turned on the sprinkler and ran through it without any thought of conservation. We delighted in the minnows that swam in tiny creeks alongside the road. Those tiny creeks and minnows are not there any more.

One day I hiked into a spot on a river that feeds Lake Cowichan.  The person I was with had hiked into that spot before.  In his previous trip there were fish fry everywhere.  We saw one or two.  The change was related to poor forestry practices.  Instead of the gravel that fish need for spawning the river was full of boulders that had been washed into it because of clear cutting.  In the spring and fall there is the sound of bowling balls as the rocks washed into the river from clear cutting bang against one another on their way further down river.   Clear cutting has meant that many of the rivers that used to run all year now go dry in the summer.

There was the day when I saw two well-dressed respectable looking senior ladies open the trunk of their car and take out garbage to dump in the Fraser River.  A lot of people dump their garbage in the river as the clean-up society can tell you. 

I also have a story from the ocean. We went fishing one day and there were lots of fish. Over night a tanker purged its bilge and the next day there were no fish to be found. We went for miles and in every direction we looked there was oil floating on the surface.  One of the reasons I do not support increased tanker traffic carrying bitumen to China is I know that this will happen again and again and again.   

How long can we keep doing these things and not put ourselves at risk?  I know lots of people who say don’t worry about the earth because it has an amazing ability to heal itself.  That feels like we are playing a dangerous game with our very lives.  We don’t know how much is too much. We won’t know until it is too late. 

People treat water as an expendable resource that does not need to be cherished and valued.  Yet water is our most valuable resource.  More important that the gas we pump it into the ground to bring to the surface.  Without water no life is possible.  Without it the human body cannot last long. 

Water refreshes us.  It renews us.  It is an essential component of healing.   It cleanses us.  It is a metaphor for a healthy and life-giving spirituality.  Water is something we need every day.  Life demands it.  So care for the earth and its waters. And take a moment to think about the spiritual water you need to refresh and restore you soul. 

Life is Not Fair

Some people teach that you can achieve anything if you want badly enough. While there is some truth to this, it is much harder for some than it is for others. 

Take the case of Kali Rufus, who experienced sexual and physical abuse as a child.  Between the ages of 11 and 16 he was placed in 10 different foster homes.  This experience left deep scars. In his teens Rufus made bad choices, if you can call the actions of a troubled teenager with no food a choice.  Rufus sold his body to men willing to exploit him.  

There were some lights in Rufus’ life: Some teachers and social workers encouraged him: With their support Rufus graduated from Grade 12.  The local social workers gave him a graduation present – a copy of Dr. Seuss’s book “Oh, the Places You’ll Go.”  Then these supportive people were gone from his life as he aged out of the foster care system.   

Rufus is now 21 years old. The place Rufus ended up was Vancouver’s downtown eastside where he has spent more than one night sleeping on a pew at First United Church.  He calls Crystal Meth his best friend.  Rufus believes his life might have turned out differently if there had been supportive adults in his life after he left Grade 12. Most 18-21 year olds continue to have supportive adults in their life after they graduate from high school. 

Rufus writes poetry to help deal with the deep wounds that remain in his life.  The wounds are not just on his psyche.  As a teenager Rufus dealt with emotional pain by cutting himself. 

The following poem was shown beside a picture of his scarred arm in the Vancouver Sun on February 22^nd, 2014 in an article written by Lori Culbert. 

Every scar has deep meaning
Deep cuts
on the heart
the soul
Remembering times of harsh reality
the present and past
Times being unfaithful
Times being unforgiving
to ourselves and others
Leaving deep gashes
unhealed wounds
That lie deep inside oneself
like cracks in the cement streets
No time for healing
Overlook emotions
Try to forget them
As if it never happened
The scars of now
Homelessness
Welfare
Addictions
The pain you present
Shows in your eyes
Deep pain
Of mistrust and misuse
Does someone see my scars? 
Or are they hidden deep inside.
                Kaki Rufus – published in the Vancouver Sun Feb. 22^nd, 2014

The next time you see a homeless person on the street take a moment to wonder what their story is.  Ask yourself if there is anything you can do to prevent other children from going through what Rufus has.  Ask yourself if there are things you can do to help the adult who carries this wounded child within themselves.  

One of the ways I have helped is to listen to people share their fifth step in the AA program.  I have marveled at how much some people have survived.  Some have battled with demons most of us cannot begin to imagine.   It is a testament to the quality of their hero’s quest that they have chosen to face the past and try to stop it from controlling the present and the future.  They are true heroes in my eyes.  They inspire me by their decision to move beyond the injustices done to them.  They inspire me to renewed effort in my own hero’s quest of self-discovery and change.  My quest is not as hard as theirs and for that I am thankful. 

Believe in Yourself and Others

Some time ago I watched a TV series called the 4400 which was filmed in Vancouver.  In this series people who had disappeared over the years from around the world suddenly reappeared.   Each of the disappeared came back with a gift that began to manifest itself.  One woman was a teacher and she came back with the ability to see and call forth the gifts that lie buried deep within her students.  Her students began to excel.  The students began to see themselves in new ways because their teacher was able to see something beautiful in them.   This is fiction, and yet it can happen in real life.

One day a teacher asked her grade one class to write a story. A boy I knew was in that class.  He was two years behind his classmates developmentally.  When he finished the story it was impossible to read. Every other student had written a story that was technically better than Jay’s.  Yet the grade one teacher gave Jay an award for being a good story teller.   She then read his story to not only his class, but to the other grade one class at the school.

Through the years Jay carried an image of himself as a good story teller and he struggled to overcome his learning disabilities.  In Grade 6 he couldn’t write a sentence so his mother home schooled him for that year.  Jay graduated from university with a degree in Creative Writing.  I doubt he would have done so without that grade one teacher who saw something special in him and named it.  Or perhaps she was simply being kind, but Jay believed her words and was given a vision of himself which kept him pressing onwards. 

Susan Boyle suffered from oxygen deprivation at birth and was never as quick as other children.  She was bullied as a child and experienced more than a little rejection throughout her life.  When she came onstage for Britain’s Got Talent and said she wanted to be a professional singer eyes rolled and people laughed.   What they saw was a frumpy older woman who in their eyes did not belong on that stage.  Then Susan opened her mouth and began to sing. By looking at her people thought they knew all that there was to know.   Yet it took mere seconds for their vision of who she was to be forever changed.  With it came a lesson that you cannot judge people by what they look like. 

Every one of us has talents and abilities. Some will remain unused for a lifetime.  Some people will believe a lie about themselves.  A lie that tells them they have nothing to offer the world.  They will believe the lie and make it true. May God help us to see beauty and ability where it lies hidden.  May we have the grace to name the ability and talents we see in others when they are unable to see it themselves.    

Billy Elliot and the Treasure of Our True Selves

Diversity is a given.  There are no two of us are alike.   We bear the imprint of our uniqueness in our very bodies.  It is not just our finger prints that are unique, but the patterns on our tongues, toes, and eyes.  It is not just our bodies that are unique, but our minds and souls as well.  

I was reminded of this when I watched a British movie about a boy named Billy Elliot.   Billy lived with his father, brother and grandmother in a coal mining town.  His mother had died some time previously.   His father and brother were coal miners on strike.   Out of the little money he had, Billy Elliot’s father gave Billy money for boxing lessons.  Billy went to the lessons wearing boxing gloves that had belonged to his father and grandfather.  The problem was that Billy did not want to box. 

A ballet group composed entirely of girls practiced in the same gym.  It was not long before Billy was giving his father’s money to the ballet teacher.  Things went along nicely until Billy’s father discovered what was going on. Billy was forbidden to go to ballet class again.  However he secretly met with the teacher.   When his father caught him teaching another boy to dance, Billy was defiant and danced across the gym.  His father recognized that Billy was a brilliant dancer.

In the church that I attended as a teenager it seemed to me that there was no room for choice, there was only one right way to think, to vote, to be.   I never seemed to fit expectations.  As an adult it was good to learn that Jesus had no standard type when he called disciples.   Jesus never told his disciples it was wrong to be a Zealot or wrong to support Rome.  He allowed room for individual choice in many matters.

The world often tries to fit us into a mold. I don’t think God wants us to lose our uniqueness and spend  time chasing the dream others have for us that do not fit who we  are.  I truly believe we bring God joy as we discover the treasure of our own true selves and act like an original rather than trying to be a copy.  So my friends bring God joy by being who you truly are.  

 

Inviting Dirty Hitchhikers Home for a Bath

Some years ago I was returning home from work on a city bus in Vancouver.  For some reason I began to think about how hard it was to get personally involved with real people in real need.  As I thought about this I noticed two filthy dirty men on the bus.  The thought came into my mind that I should invite them home for a bath.  I had the strong impression that this is what God wanted me to do.      

The two men were not sitting close to me, but  I could hear their conversation.  While I thought  about the idea of inviting them home for a bath one of them asked a person sitting near them whether they knew a place where they could go to clean up. 

My stop was the end of the bus line at the University of British Columbia.   The two men got off at this stop as well.  We got into a conversation about where they could go to clean up.  My first suggestion was the UBC swimming pool. I was understandably reluctant to invite them home for a bath.  The very next words out of my mouth were, "But you are too dirty. They will never let you in.  You had better come to my house for a bath."

By the time we got to the small apartment where I lived with my husband and three children I had also invited them to have supper with us.  Now I had a problem.  How do you tell your husband that you have invited dirty hitchhikers from the bus home for a bath?

I left them standing at the corner of the apartment building and went in.  I spoke very rapidly to my husband saying, "I have invited two dirty hitchhikers home for supper and a bath."  I turned and ran out before my husband could respond.  The two men ate with us, washed their clothes and had a bath. 

It turned out these two men were bible school students on spring furlough.  They had been hitchhiking when it started to rain and had hopped into a box car that had previously carried coal.  They were delighted that God had provided a woman on the bus willing to invite them home for a bath. 

Homeless and Hungry

The week I graduated from high school I left my parents a note. I told them I was off to find myself and God.  While those things might have been true, I also left because I was pregnant and did not want to tell my parents.  

With very little  money in my pocket I hitchhiked out to Vancouver where I experienced what it is to be homeless and hungry.  I remember seeing some bread crumbs left for the birds. I thought seriously of picking them up for myself.  

My boyfriend and I broke up and I took a job as a live-in nannie for a well known doctor.  What was less well known was how domestic employees were treated. I don't remember  a day off.   I was not fed what the family ate.  They ate bacon and eggs or waffles, but made porridge for me. I was accused of stealing when I added just a little more milk to make the porridge more palatable.  The food I was allowed never felt like enough. One day the doctors wife had me wash the bathroom floor with a toothbrush. 

I left their employment and applied for welfare which was granted because I was five months pregnant. The words of the teller when I tried to cash my first welfare check live on in my mind, "what are you stupid or something, you can't cash this check here."  I had not noticed that the only place the check  could be cashed was down on Vancouver's skid row.  It was a frightening experience for an eighteen year old to walk down those streets alone.  

Everyone we meet has something to teach us in our journey of self discovery and change. The doctor's wife and the bank teller gave me an example of what I did not want to be.  The experience of being homeless and in poverty has made me more compassionate than I would have been. So I look back with some sense of gratitude.  All things do indeed work together for good.  (Romans 8:28)

Interpretation of Psalm 1

Psalm 1

We like to say there are many paths and many ways, and while that may be true, not all paths lead to life. Some paths lead us away from God, away from the treasure of our own true selves, away from who we were created to be.

To find the right path we cannot listen to those with malicious intent, we cannot follow those who are corrupted by greed and selfishness.  The right path is not found by mocking the faith of saints or the words of prophets.  

Some will heap scorn on you for believing, but the path that God gives is the path that leads to life. On this path you learn the holy ways of God. As you learn to walk in God’s way the Spirit of Life plants you by streams of living water and makes your life fruitful and beautiful to behold.  You are blessed to be a blessing through all the seasons of your life.  

The alternative is to be like those who have no roots and no purpose in life.  Such people are blown away when the winds come.  They will not hear the words, “well done my good and faithful servant.”      

There are many paths, as many paths as there are people, but only one choice that matters.  There is only one choice that leads to a blessed life:  Will we choose to love God and seek the unique path that God lays out that only we can walk?  Or will we choose the dead end street of wearing masks and trying to conform to human ideas of who we should be?  Will we seek the treasure of our own true selves and use that treasure to bless the world God loves? 

 

This is the beginning of a New Year.  It is also my very first blog post.  I wandered along with the dog and wondered what I would blog about.  What would my focus be?  This title came to mind,  "Redemptive fiction, psalms, stories and whatnot."  Pretty broad.  There is room for the awesome pancake recipe that is good for diabetics with heart disease.  There is room to share some Psalms paraphrased in modern language.  I can ramble on about the latest movie watched or a book read.

Most of the movies and books that touch us deeply have a redemptive theme.  I watched three movies over the Christmas season: The Hobbit, the Hunger Games, and the Book Thief.  Each of these movies had the theme of characters making a sacrifice for the good of others.  Bilbo goes on a quest to help the dwarves regain their home from an evil dragon.  Katniss is willing to die for her sister when she takes her place in the hunger games.  Then she is willing to give her life so that Peeta might live. In the Book Thief several characters make a sacrifice for the sake of others.  Rosa and Hans hide the Jew Max Vandenburg and share their very limited rations with him. "I've nearly starved us to feed him," Rosa says "I am not going to see him die now."  Max chooses to leave their home when it becomes too dangerous for them to hide him. And Liesel is determined to remember her friend Max always, when fond remembrance of a Jewish friend is a subversive act.

Redemptive fiction is fiction I care about.  It is fiction worth writing and blogging about.  Redemptive fiction inspires us to live lives that matter and make a difference in the world.