Letters to Arden - May 6, 2010

Written eleven days before Arden's birth

Dear baby,

Today was the first warm rain of the season! I went out to run some errands in preparation for your arrival, just as the first gentle drops started to fall. There was a light, fresh breeze, mingling earth and sky in a delicious springy smell. You would have loved it! I can’t wait for you to experience the wonderful world and all its simple joys. The leaves should be out on the trees by the time you arrive. You’ll learn that green makes such a difference in the look of things.

We’re buying a new house just after you arrive too. It’s a big old house in Wheatley River. I’m excited for you because you’ll get to discover life beside a river. Rivers have their own music. So do oceans and streams . . . what fun we’ll have learning all their songs!

God has created such delightful things. If you look closely, you’ll be able to see glimpses of God’s face in the flowers, His nature in nature. He loves us so much! The best thing about living in the world is meeting its Creator. It’s only through Him that you will understand life and find fulfillment. He knows you already, more than I do or ever will. But I hope I will do a good job of introducing you to him, of helping you know Him as Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Jesus has made our humanity such a grace filled existence. I’m so thankful He has entrusted you to your Father and I. We love you already!


~lg

the hidden root

There was something growing in my heart
Almost hidden in a corner
It had been pruned and trimmed many times
But I secretly watered it
Its sharp and twisted roots took hold
Till I couldn’t imagine living without it

It imitated nobler plants
At times flowering with pleasing petals
But when I peeled back the bark
It was rotten at the core

And so when spring came
I took a walk with the Gardener
And he helped me understand
That it was not rooted in love
That it had never born fruit
That I must pull it out with my bare hands

And oh how it hurt
But I grabbed hold of that thorny stump
And pulled with all my might
I fought those stubborn roots with blood and tears
Till I felt his calloused hands close around mine
And with the strength of two thousand springs
We uprooted it

Now all that remains is a fragile plot of earth
Loose, broken, empty
Ready for something beautiful


~lg

momentary prayer

Today I don’t have time for a long conversation
Just moments when you are on my mind and in my breath
I open the windows and let your breezes blow in
Noting your beauty in the sun’s pattern on the floor
I scrub baby toes and musty cupboards
And this work is my worship
This peace in my heart is prayer
These are the moments of our communion


~lg

Letters to Arden - April 23, 2011

Dear Arden,

Today is Holy Saturday. You are too little to know what this weekend is all about, that today was the day the world fell silent as the grave. It is a busy weekend of worship and presentations and cleaning and reflection. But all that is on hold this afternoon as I take you in my arms. I don’t know what’s wrong, but you are inconsolable. Are you teething? Do you have a tummy ache? Are you getting sick? I try nursing, I try bouncing, I try distracting you with toys, I try a nap, I try cookies, I try funny faces, I try Tylenol, I try giving you to Daddy and leaving the room, but nothing works. You cry and contort in pain and discomfort.

Finally I scoop you up and take you to the kitchen, where the washing machine is spinning and the floors still haven’t been mopped. I turn on the little stereo and its glowing blue light grabs your attention. I put the iPod on the Passion week playlist and turn it up. The music begins – Come and Mourn with Me Awhile, How Deep the Father’s Love For Us, Sing to Jesus. I dance and sing and rock and your sobs turn to whimpers. You couldn’t possibly know what these words mean, yet as I sing the story of the cross over you, you soften in my arms. I sing them by heart and with all my heart, embracing these moments of broken worship, soothing you somehow with Christ’s sorrow. You settle into quiet rest, and still I sing, praying these words will find their way into your bones and blood, that they will grow with you till one Holy Saturday they will spill out of your own mouth like tears of praise.


love Mommy

The graspable God

Jesus
You were a real flesh-and-blood man
With carpenter’s hands and dusty feet
Who ate and slept and cried
The graspable God

I find myself longing to touch you,
The human-God you
Even just the hem of your garment

I get how people want to be near the places you were
God-touched places, where physical and spiritual fused together
To touch someone who touched someone who touched Peter who touched you

You embraced the ones you loved
Washed their feet
Let them wash your feet with their hair

Now we cannot cling to you
The closest we can come is a piece of bread, a sip of wine
To remind us that the living bread once lived on earth
By your invisible Spirit and by faith we hold on

But one day
One day I will have eyes to see you
Hands to touch you
And lips to kiss your feet


~lg

a Narnian moon

Sometimes when the moon shines through our open window
And the wind blows across the fields
Playing the dry stalks of last fall like so many wooden flutes
We hear Susan’s horn in the distance
And smell the salt spray against Cair Paravel
Then turning to you I catch Magnificence in your eyes
And the squeeze of your hand stirs a gentle valiance within
For a brief moment our hearts beat with the blood of a far off country
And our eyes turn with longing to the closet door


~lg

Single-Handed Theology - Where Are the Children?

Single-Handed Theology: one hand in motherhood, one hand in theology, each inspiring the other.

Tonight, while nursing Arden before bed, all the while humming old hymns and drinking hot lemon tea, I was considering the relationship between Christ and the church. In a sacred mystery I am not sure I understand, the apostle Paul identifies Christ as the husband and the church as the wife. That got me thinking – where are the children?

We’ve got all sorts of relationships pictured in the Bible, relationships that exist among God and between God and humanity. There’s God the Father, and His Son, with the Spirit as the bond of love between them (to use Augustine's analogy). There’s Christ the bridegroom, winning a bride for Himself, the Church. The Spirit may also be seen as the chemistry, or divine electricity that draws and binds each to the other. (Of course the Spirit is also a person, not simply a force, with whom we have a relationship with as well, though He is always handing us off to Christ.)

Surely the greatest romance of all time would find fulfillment in the natural outcome of marriage, that is, offspring. We are God’s children, but the Church as she is now has borne no children.

But of course. The marriage has yet to happen. The Great Wedding is an eschatological event, and we are still the betrothed, not yet a wife, not yet a mother.

When I thought of this, a little tingle of excitement ran through me, and it wasn't the lemon tea. Sometimes when we think about the end of this world, or life after death, or eternity in heaven, we struggle to imagine what on earth we’ll be doing. (And yes, there will be a new earth too, as well as a new heaven.) Getting to the Marriage Supper of the Lamb seems like a pretty ultimate arrival in and of itself. But just think, we will be marrying Jesus, the One by whom and through whom all things were created! With such a creative husband, I wouldn’t be surprised if our union brings about some kind of new life. I’m not thinking of more human children, or a race of demi-gods, but something alive nonetheless, something that will recreate the church anew as baby recreates a woman from the inside out.

Perhaps we will experience a glorious motherhood, perhaps there will be things that need our nourishment and our love, love which has been made perfect through the fires of tribulation and resurrection. Perhaps we will be the co-creators we were meant to be. Perhaps the Spirit will birth new life in us as a surprise wedding gift. Who knows?

There is a reason a veil hangs over our faces as we look past the future into eternity. But you know what they say. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes . . .


~lg

Empty Me

A song for Lent.

Hunger

In fasting
I am stripped down to hunger,
to desire, raw need.
What are these cravings that gnaw at the pit of my stomach,
directing my heart and mind and hands,
eating into my dreams,
demanding to be fed?

In fasting
I must face hunger,
look into its greedy eyes,
and deny it,
deny myself.

In fasting
my soul growls at God,
honest in doubt, honest in need,
empty
with no bread or wine in sight,
only an invitation to "Follow Me."

~lg

Secrets of the woods

Do you wish to hear a secret?

Put on your boots and go into the woods

Go as a child would

Running and skipping with eyes full of wonder

There you will find a certain grove of trees

And a little patch of moss in the centre

Plant your feet into the earth and

Stretch your arms up to the patch of blue

Now close your eyes and breathe

If you stand very still, very patiently

Your eight year old ears will open

And you will hear once again the murmurs of the forest

The trees are speaking

Telling the story of the deepest mystery

The rising of sap in the spring

And the origin of the colour green

~lg

eyes of faith

I met a man in the grocery store with the face of a wanderer
And a cart full of hot dogs
He stopped me to tell me he saw faith in my daughter’s eyes
The faith he needed to keep going
I almost brushed him off
Too busy to talk to an old drunk
Too busy to talk to Jesus


~lg

Aurora

Aurora
I close my eyes and create your contours
Relive our last slow dance beneath the stars
That night we said farewell

I saw your true colours
The reward for my insomnia
But you are a shape-shifter
And my feet too clumsy to follow

You are too easy to love
But too quick to leave me

You left a magnet in my chest
An image burned in my mind
I can still feel your movement
Though you dance a thousand miles from me

One day your music will draw me back
I will succumb to your cold breath
Your fingers of fire
If only for one night

Oh Aurora!
You are too easy to love
But too quick to leave me


~lg

*photo by Karl Johnston, Fort Smith, NWT

Ode to Winter Camp

This is a poem I wrote years ago in honour of our winter camp at PWK High School in Fort Smith, NWT. Every February, my thoughts inevitably turn back to the happy days spent in the bush. And so for a little fun, here is my Ode to Winter Camp.


It's winter at PWK
And every student knows
The boldest campers will set forth
To brave the ice and snow

In the light of February's dawn
Their silhouettes appear
Framed with furry parkas
And ski-doos piled high with gear

We are the winter campers
Winter campers ho!
We will brave the northern bush
At twenty-two below!

Doucette and Ransom, fearless leaders
Forge the trail ahead
We follow in their snowshoe prints
To Louie's trapper shed

We make our beds on boughs of spruce
We shiver through the night
We chop down trees at midnight's stroke
To keep the fire bright

We are the winter campers
Winter campers ho!
We survive the northern bush
At thirty-two below!

We set our nets beneath the ice
To catch our fill of fish
We trap and snare for furry beasts
To fill our supper dish

We skin the bloated caribou
On Piers Lake's floor of ice
We revel in the blood and guts
And my those steaks taste nice!

We are the winter campers
Winter campers ho!
We will thrive in northern bush
At forty-two below!

We cut a path through barren lands
Our topo maps to guide
We sweat and toil to find our way
With compass at our side

We do not fear the howling wolves
Nor trees lit from a spark
We do not shrink from frozen toes
Nor outhouse in the dark

We are the winter campers
Winter campers ho!
We have conquered northern bush
At fifty-two below!

We have danced with northern lights
Around the campfire's glow
We know the secrets of the bush
And how to pee in snow

We are a strong but stinky crew
Adventurers at heart
We love to tell our stories
And embellish every part

We are the winter campers
Winter campers ho!
We will camp in northern bush
When none else dare to go!


~lg

Drunk

If I were strong enough, I could bear this pleasure. But I am a mere mortal, and my vanities incline me to drink too deeply. The sweet drop, fitting in its place, swells to drown me. I fumble the gift, stumble overboard and promptly sink to the bottom of the sea. The great fish saves me, and I am left three days to sober up and consider my shame. When I am spit out, I lay this pleasure in the hot sand, and turn my back till it dries out like a stranded starfish.

~lg

one morning

One morning I woke up to discover the Trinity had a pillow fight the night before. Giant feathery flakes were floating from the heavens, the overflow of some secret joy. I wonder who won. Did the Father strong arm Jesus and the Holy Spirit? Did Jesus fake an injury only to jump up and whack the other two in the face? Did the Spirit distract his opponents by blowing down into their eyes? Did they declare a truce after realizing they were equally matched? It is a quiet morning, so they must be resting now, but close your eyes and you can hear the echoes of midnight laughter.

Are you surprised by this undignified display? Perhaps a game of chess seems a more appropriate activity for such important persons, if such a thing were possible with three players. Or perhaps a stirring rendition of the Hallelujah chorus, accompanied by winged harps, of course. Maybe they are debating the merits of one creed’s wording over another. Or perhaps all their time is consumed by gravely counting out souls into one pile or another.

But this descending beauty erases all notions of a gloomy gathering of Greek terms. This beauty did not appear out of thin air. Everything wonderful about this morning was laughed into existence by the God of all joy, joy that is meant to be shared, joy that bursts out of the seams and explodes over creation. It is not a secret after all. This delight is over you and over me, and we are invited to the next pillow fight.


~lg