Hallowed Ground

Cookie Monster

Dear Friend,

I’m tucked in my living room at the moment, sitting on the settee with a cup of tea on the table beside me.  The rain is falling though we had a small break in the clouds two hours ago.  I was hoping the day would manage more blue sky before it started to get dark.  Not happening.  

Not that the rain bothers me much.  You can’t live on the pacific coast for 40 odd years and still have issues with rain, but tomorrow is Halloween: the combination of rain and candy harvesting can be difficult.  Am I allowed to confess to trick or treating, or is that too pagan for you?  Having been in the church most of my life, I’ve worn many hats in the church’s approach to Halloween.  From ignoring the holiday to harvest parties, candy drives to bouncy houses, volunteer burnout to neighborhood prayer walks, I’ve been there.  (Except the whole judgement/ hell house thing.  Never done that - not sorry.)  I most prefer the approach that gets me chocolate, but I’m shallow that way. Possibly apostate…

I was blessed to grow up in a small town, the population in the 1970’s was between 7 000 – 10 000 souls.  We didn’t have a lot of options for Halloween back then, things were basic.  Spending money on costumes was unheard of, normal children raided their parent’s closets and imagination filled in any missing details. 

My parents were from the old country, immigrating to Canada in the late 60’s, they never really left the 2nd world war behind.  If your parents were European, you know exactly what I’m talking about.  Your school lunches didn’t look like your friends', you had sensible shoes and it wasn’t a euphemism, and your family didn’t have a set of dishes.  As such, my mother grew up celebrating Guy Fawkes Day not Halloween.  She recounts tales going door to door to ask for “a penny for the guy”  to construct an effigy of the man, that would later be hurled onto a community bonfire as fireworks were set off. Granted, the practice seems perplexing, there is a deadly and complicated history to it but I assure you the memories are recounted fondly. 

I can say that costuming was not her strong suit, yet she managed to come up with costumes for 1-6 children over 33 years.  She wasn’t an amateur by any means.  Perhaps it is fair to say she started slowly.   The older children in my family remember the year my oldest sister couldn’t think of a costume.  My mother, suggested she dress as Madame Defarge from Tale of Two Cities.  In an uncharacteristically dark reenactment, my parents rigged my sister up with a head on a spike:  a Javex bottle wearing my mother’s wig mounted on the broom handle.  This was to give the less literate town members clear clues as to my sister’s identity.  We lived in a time when neighbors spoke directly to each child that came to their door and children were expected to answer.  My sister’s explanation of her costume started out strong, but as the evening progressed, she became discouraged by the interesting responses her outfit was garnering from the adults.  As if an 11 year old dressed as the physical embodiment of the blood lust of the French Revolution was something out of the ordinary. 

Our route Halloween night was simple, along our back street to visit the couple who gave you two dice to roll when you came to the door.  The number on the dice equaled the number of candies you could take from the candy bowl.  From there to the Bool's house, then up main street for a chat with Mr. and Mrs. Long.  Continue up the road and hang a left into the rec centre parking lot.  There, the firemen provided a free hot dog and a can of Crush to all who came to the serving window.  We would receive our hot dog joyfully and proceed to the bonfire,  tended by community minded men who kept our world safe.  Children wearing garbage bags were cautioned to stay away from sparks, while those wearing sheets were liberated by Dad’s who ripped the eye-holes so heads could be free from restrictive flammable fabric.  I clearly remember the heat from the fire, the thrill of being up late and the extravagance of an entire can of pop to myself.  It was childhood magic.

I wish I could go back and thank those volunteers.  Appreciation is a slow growing crop, I regret not being able to thank them face to face as an adult. A belated thank you, to the men and women who served in my town during those years.  You gave me the opportunity to experience childhood joy. You built into my heart a sense of community that haunts my urban world to this day. 

So my friend, I’m praying for you as you encounter Halloween this week.   That you glorify God and build your neighborhood, eat sugar and smile at strangers and thank the Lord for the grace that saved you and set you free from fear.

xoxKaren 

Rats!

It was the munching noise that woke me.  Whatever was snacking in my ceiling was directly above my bed.  Rubbing my eyes, I sat up and tilted my head toward the ceiling.  Silence.  Had I dreamt it?  I listened again and suddenly the sounds of munching and scurrying filled the room.  I groaned and threw myself back on my pillow. 

It was exactly the right time of year.  The rain had started in earnest and evening temperatures were dipping into the 40’s.  Precisely the time when rodents feel they should move indoors to prepare for winter. The chewing stopped and started again.  In the silence, the noise was incredibly loud.  Unclear what to do, I pulled up the covers and lay in the dark listening.  I really wanted Mr. Rat to leave, but I would be satisfied if he went to sleep.   My clock read 2:15.  What exactly are you supposed to do in the middle of the night when a rat is in the attic?

When I awoke the second time, the clock read 2:27.  Mr. Rat had invited a friend over for hors d’oeuvres.  I was getting mad. The covers around my head were uncomfortably hot, so I sat up and took off my cardigan.  I needed to do something.  I took a drink of water and sat in the dark listening to the sounds of vermin date night.   I wasn’t thinking too clearly at this point.  My head felt full of stuffing as I padded around to my husband’s side of the room and started to root around for his back scratcher.  I knocked over a glass of water and a couple of books before I found it.  My husband stirred slightly.  I smiled to myself.  We had come a long way since the early days in our marriage.  Back then, the least sound would have him running for the front door with a bat before he was even conscious.  I grabbed my weapon and headed across the bed.

I was waving the scratch stick at the ceiling, when I realized I was behaving like an idiot.  I decided if I stood on the bed and rapped the ceiling a few times, there was a small chance the rat couple might change location to the other side of the attic.  I stood up on the bed.  Except it didn’t happen that easily.  Standing up straight on a soft mattress isn’t easy at the best of times.  Standing up straight on a soft mattress when you are half asleep in the pitch black is like engaging in seniors balancing class.  I stood wobbling in the dark.  It was then I started to feel weird about my circumstances.  Reaching down to see if my sweater was nearby, I overbalanced and landed face first at the bottom of the bed.  My husband sighed and rolled over.  I sat still, face smashed in the covers, until his breathing slowed.  I stood up again.  Raising my left hand to the ceiling, I gained some stability. (I remember being pleased I could reach the ceiling whilst standing on my bed.  I’m short and I don’t spend much time near ceilings.)  I kept one hand on the ceiling and struck it twice with the end of the backscratcher.  The rats stopped munching.  Success!  The ceiling was more solid than I expected, making me think I could hit it a bit harder without waking my man.  I repeated the process, adding a bounce to each strike.  Suddenly, out of the darkness my husband asked, “Karen?  What exactly are you doing?” Startled, I jumped (again), landed criss-cross apple sauce on the bed beside him and thanked the good Lord for high quality drapes.

I had two options.  I could attempt to explain why I was ill clad, jumping up and down on the bed, smacking the ceiling with a backscratcher at 2:30 in the morning or I could say “Nothing, go back to sleep.”  Choosing the latter seemed the fastest way to get out of an embarrassing situation.  He must have been really tired because he mumbled “with pleasure” under his breath, rolled over and was out again.

When I woke up the next morning, I trotted to the kitchen to make myself tea and grabbed my phone to call the exterminator. Reflecting on my behavior, I’m still uncertain what I should have done.  It would have made more sense I guess, to go into another room to sleep and waited until daylight to deal with the intruders.  But sometimes, darkness makes us do strange things.  I’d never been awoken in the middle of the night by munching rats, it was a bit surreal.  I was doing what seemed right at the time.

This week as I have been walking alongside a handful of friends that are struggling, I have thought about how we behave in the dark.  More specifically, I have thought about some of the ways I behaved in the depth of my family’s crisis those years ago.  A casual observer would have had ample cause to wonder about my behavior, my susceptibility and intentions.    But those whom God sent to help me were able to see past my situation.  They could hear the fears that haunted me, could cover my vulnerability and could come along side in ways that brought me through the long dark night.   I will be forever thankful.

And you my friend, do you have anyone in your life who has hit upon a dark season?  Continue to ask God for the grace to love, the courage to stand, and the weapons to fight until the light comes on again.

I’m praying for you this week,

xoxKaren

Manure Mess

Hello Friend! 

My goodness, it‘s ages since we chatted.  I confess I got attacked by September.  It’s a peculiar month.  Each fall I engage in home school visions of cozy family breakfasts followed by hyper spiritual devotions before school.  It never turns out that way.  In reality, it takes all the strength I have to pry myself from my bed as the leaves change and the sky turns slate grey.  Most prayers rising from my house come from my children, begging God to keep me away from their bedrooms so they can sleep 5 minutes longer.  It’s a spiritual time but not in the way you’d imagine.

Though I wake them with a cup of tea and a chipper attitude each morning, someone is always cross about being conscious, as if it were a rare occurrence.  I soldier on though, dodging estrogen ladened comments and critical levels of teenage hormones, a valiant warrior set on conquering the teen years.  The task seems endless and thankless, truthfully, but not much is going as I’d imagined these days.  What about you?  How are you fairing?

Some of my closest friends are blazing through trials and tribulations while I try to find my shoes and offer support.  At times I feel lame.  Last week I prayed for a friend in Haiti as hurricane Matthew drew near and spent part of Saturday praying for another in Charleston as Matthew passed off shore.  The storm knocked out communication so I turned on the news.  That only made matters worse, everyone was speaking in hyperbole without giving any information. 

Since Friday the problem has only increased. Listening to news is like being dipped in vomit.  Lies, vulgarity and opinions are everywhere.  The reporters are repeating the day’s nonsense, adding layers of commentary to words that are best left to rot on the floor.  What I need to do is turn off the radio.   

My youngest daughter helped clarify my thoughts while we were cleaning the barn this week.  When I say “cleaning the barn” I’m using a euphemism.  What I mean is that I used a rake and picked up vast quantities of horse manure and deposited them in a wheelbarrow.  Then, I waded through steams of horse urine and emptied the full wheel barrow of poop on a horse poo mountain and went back and repeated the process.  Many times over.   It is messy work, when it’s raining, it can be miserable.

Last week we had three new horses at the barn.  Instead of cleaning for 9, we were cleaning for 12.  On top of that, bad weather meant the stalls weren’t cleaned for two days.  When we arrived at the barn, it was a heck of a mess.  I’m not going to describe the scene but my heart wilted just a fraction.  But, we got to work, pulling bedding into buckets and getting the wheel barrows ready.

My youngest is new to this kind of work.  She gets stellar marks for enthusiasm but her skill set is being built so it takes a bit of instruction to get her through a stall.  Which is why she and I paired off and worked on the stall of a beast named Jackson.  After leading Jackson outside, my little returned and looked inside.  “Ugh,” she muttered.  “I know it’s bad,” I agreed.  “But you take that corner and I’ll start over here.  We can put the wheelbarrow in the middle and do the stall together.”   “Thanks Mummy,” she replied, pleased to have help.  We set to shoveling.  A moment later I was called from the stable.  I ran out to the ring to help a friend and returned a few minutes later. 

Did I mention my youngest is honing the skill of accuracy?  It’s easy to shovel manure, but her older sisters, who have a years’ experience, toss rake-fulls of dung into the wheelbarrow at an impressive distance.  This knowledge might explain why my youngest, upon hearing me enter the stall, turned and hurled a rake full of warm horse dung at my chest.  Rake control is the second skill my youngest lacks. Without knowing this, you might have been surprised to watch the rake slip from her fingers as she stumbled forward to retrieve it.  Retrieve it she did, just in time to grasp it and jab it into my unprotected squishy middle parts.  An innocent bystander might have thought she was trying to destroy the Pillsbury dough boys’ evil manure twin with a rake. 

What followed was a fair amount of screaming.  I didn’t say anything because I had horse dung up my neck and headed for the hose. Not sure what else to say about the experience my dear friend.  It was thoroughly unpleasant.

That’s what I was thinking this week as I scoured the inter-web.  “This is unpleasant.”  People are throwing around a lot of dung and stabbing people with their words.  It isn’t easily dismissed either, words hurt and emotions are running high.  I’ve decided it’s a hard time.

I was expressing my Canadian amazement at the American political system when my girlfriend sent me a most useful text.  “We need to you be patient with us, we are trying.”  From that moment, I’ve tried to imagine Jesus sitting in on all my discussions, political or otherwise.  Guarding my tongue is easier when I picture him alongside me.  I’m reminded it is easier to be silent than to clean up a mess of words. 

So I’m praying for you this week my friend.  That you turn off the radio and enjoy conversation with those you love.  Say something kind to someone grumpy this week.  Clean up a pile of dung, mind your tongue and don’t stab any anyone by accident. 

Thinking of you,

xoxKaren

PS.  Happy Thanksgiving Canada.  I miss you so much. 

Photo: Manure, a field in Randers in Denmark  

2005-06-23

Credit Malene Thyssen

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/User:Malene