Gave Me My Life Back

If you live in Manitoba, you may have seen a recent television ad paid for by the Manitoba Association of Healthcare Professionals. In it, a man who has had emergency brain surgery describes his recovery, from diagnostic tests and surgery through his rehabilitation and recovery. As he does so, he comments about the many different professionals who helped him along the way--learning to walk again, and talk again. "These people, beautiful people," he says, "gave me my life back."

I don't have cable, and so when I watch tv it's online--and one of the things I have noticed about these online shows is that the commercial breaks often consist of the same commercial played over and over and over again until you've got the whole thing memorized. This was one of those commercials.

But one day, as I watched it, I began to think about the beautiful people who gave me my life back.

______________________

I had reached the point mid-way through my seminary studies where I was struggling hard not to be done with the church. I was genuinely, deeply hurting from the mixed responses of a church to my gifts and desire to contribute to the body of Christ. I was growing weary with the recognition of the fact that very often, even in the safe space of my classroom community at seminary, I was downplaying my intelligence in order to try to be less threatening. I was not convinced that there would be space in the church for me to thrive anymore. And I was deeply discouraged by how the church was handling conversations about gender and sexuality, and how many people, people who are dearly loved by God, were being hurt in the process.

I still loved the church, but I wasn't sure how to belong to it anymore.

In the midst of this struggle, a friend invited me to attend a weekly potluck hosted by her community, a group of people trying to follow God's call among people struggling with poverty and related challenges.

I confess, I've lived my whole life taking my privilege and upper-middle-class-ness for granted, and I was uncertain about what I might find in this community, and yet something made me accept her invitation nonetheless.

That is how House Blend came into my life.

These people, beautiful people, gave me my life back. They gave me the church back.

From the moment I rang the doorbell on that very first night, I was welcomed as one of the family, without question. Add your casserole to the table, fill your plate, find your spot at the table, and join the conversation--you are here, and you are one of us now.

As I struggled with the pressures of working, taking classes, and juggling the deadlines of writing a Master's thesis, these friends faithfully prayed for me and encouraged me, even when some of them were keenly aware of the barriers that prevented them from pursuing their dreams of similar studies.

Although they themselves might struggle with faith and believing in the reality of a loving God, they were the first to cheer me on whenever I was invited to preach somewhere. They were the first to assure me, without hesitation, that I had gifts that the world needs.

And when I was having a hard week, and came to potluck with very little to offer, they were the first to quietly put the kettle on, offer a hug, make me a cup of tea, and set the table while I collected myself, regardless of the fact that this was technically my job. They gave me the precious gift of allowing me to be human, and teaching me to embrace my own humanness as a gift from God.

From these beautiful people, I learned perseverance, resilience, and hope. Over pots of tea and walks in the neighbourhood, I experienced the love of God being given to me, even when I felt like it should have been me giving to them. Here, more than anywhere else, I learned about the truth that each part of the body of Christ is beautiful and necessary and has its own gifts to offer--none to be valued above all of the others. I learned about belonging, about being loved, about what it is to be human.

I am so grateful for this small community of people who choose, week in and week out, to love one another and share life together. I'm so grateful for the sharing of highs and lows, for the communion of casseroles and coffee, for the candlelit prayers and honest conversations. Church has forever been changed for me because of them.

And I just needed to say so today.

"Now you are the body of Christ, and each one of you is a part of it." 1 Corinthians 12: 27

Who Cares?

I'm usually the one in the caretaker role.

Whether it's in my work in health care, or in my vocation as a pastor, I'm usually the one doing the caring most of the time. Add to that the fact that I am in many ways a typical oldest child, and a 'teeny bit' of a perfectionist who likes to be in control--and I'm usually the one who does the caring in the majority of situations.

And I don't usually give it a second thought.

But a couple of weeks ago, while I was on vacation, I found myself in one of my happiest of happy places--sitting on a rocky shoreline beside a large lake in the heart of the Canadian Shield. I was feeling unsettled, and trying to find the words to voice my prayer to God, when the words that emerged from my mouth surprised me.

"Will you care for me, God?"

In the midst of my mental list of the cares that I was shouldering, and my attempts to give them voice in prayer, the deeper need came bubbling to the surface when I was least expecting it. But as soon as the words were spoken, I could tell that they got at the heart of something important within me.

Even as I care for others, I too need to be cared for sometimes. Even as I try my best to figure out how to love those around me, I also need to know that I am loved.

There was no immediate answering voice to my question. I'm not sure I expected one, exactly.

And yet, there was an inexplicable relief that came in simply voicing the question aloud to God. In admitting my own sense of need, and my fear that God will somehow abandon me in this season of change and uncertainty.

There were no answering words. I wasn't expecting any. But there was the solid certainty of the rock beneath me. There were the trees firmly rooted all along the shoreline, trees that had stood in that spot for generations. There was a solitary loon, its haunting call echoing across the glassy-still lake, its very presence reminding me of the God who cares for the birds of the air and the flowers of the field, whose care extends to all God's creatures, no less to me.

And now, as the summer days grow shorter, and the leaves begin to fall from the trees, my first instinct is to want to fight to cling to summer and ignore the slow movement toward winter. I want to hold tightly to the reassurance of greening and growth. But autumn invites me to trust in the God who created the seasons of the year--winter, spring, summer and fall, each with their gifts, each with their challenges. It invites me to trust that as the leaves begin to yellow and fall to the ground, hinting at the colder weather to come, just as surely the green buds will reappear next year, and the cycle begin itself all over again.

Autumn's approach invites me to open my hands, to stop clinging and trust myself to the care of the One who holds the whole world in God's hands. Just as summer leads into autumn, then winter, and then  rolls back around to spring again, I'm reminded that God is a God of resurrection and life, who promises trustworthiness and steadfast love.

And if I forget these things, I have only to look around me at all the examples of life effortlessly springing forth--flowers, trees, insects, birds, the ever-present rabbits taking over the grass beneath my balcony. If God cares for these ones, surely God will care for me too. There comes a time when I too can let go, trust my care-full-ness to God, and just be held by the One who loves me. Thanks be to God!