20 Years

In only two and a half weeks, I'm turning 20 years old. That seems so unbelievable. My teen years have been some of the best of my life, and I have some amazing memories from the past twenty years of my life. As I pass into my third decade of life, here are 20 things I have done so far that come to mind:

Sang in a gospel choir. Built a house for a family of five. Ate a monkey. Graduated from high school. Became 1/4 of a nurse. Lived in Peru. Been so high in the Andes that there was no oxygen. Danced in front of thousands of people (and won gold more than once). Ate pasta in Rome and pain au chocolat in Paris. Fallen in love. Floated down the Amazon in a river boat. Had the Promised Land take my breathe away. Celebrated Easter in Mexico. Performed in a play. Explored the wild west coast islands. Became a sister. Learned to ride a horse. Raised thousands of dollars for Darfur. Been a camp counsellor for some beautiful young ladies. Received Christ as my Savior.

That's just one tiny glimpse of the things I have done. There's so much more! And such an incredible amount more to come. I am so excited. It's cliche... but life is a gift.

A Rather Blustery Day

I love days like today - blustery days. It has to be one of the best types of weather... I wouldn't call in windy.... I associate 'windy' with 'cold', but today isn't cold! It's warm... although the wind can make it seem cold.

I'm sitting inside writing a paper (the longest I've ever written, actually) with a cup of tea and the heater set to a tropical 80 degrees. I'm snug as a bug in a rug, you could say. And I'm watching the wind play in the trees outside, buffeting them to and fro, and making that delightful whooshing sounds that only a fierce wind in tree tops can make. Those long-awaited spring flowers who had finally dared to poke their delicate heads above ground are taking a beating. They just weren't cautious enough, I suppose. The birds had all started coming out from spring as well, flitting about the backyard and chattering madly... but not today. Today they are all huddled down together somewhere warm and sheltered, waiting for the winds coming up off the Pacific to pass.

But not me! It can stay as long as it likes, as far as I'm concerned. Somehow the fact that the weather outside is less than ideal, makes my being warm and comfy inside that much more enjoyable. And the wind astonishes me! Some of those gusts are worrisomely powerful. They come so suddenly, and I actually fear for the trees - they are bent so tremendously from side to side... it's amazing how they can endure such violence.

But did you know it makes them stronger? It does! The bending back and forth of the tree's trunk forces it to adapt and grow to be stronger the next time. It's even possible to see the stress lines in the rings of a tree... it's very fibers.

The same is true with human bones... I learned that last semester. The more exercise you get, or the more stress and pressure you exert on your bones, the more tough and durable the become!

Perhaps the same is true with believers. James 1 famously states: "My brethren, count it all joy when you fall into various trails, knowing that the testing of your faith produces patience. But let patience have its perfect work, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking nothing."

It makes me wonder... if trees could talk, would they tell us they are thankful for the wind?

In honor of this blustery day, I present you all with this YouTube clip. I will forever associate the word 'blustery' with my old friend Winnie The Pooh... enjoy!

A Strange Comparison

Today I had seven hours of Biology class - a lecture in the morning and a lab in the afternoon. In between these two classes, there's an hour break... for lunch. During this break I walked down the hill to a local coffee shop I love and got a bowl of soup.

Now, you have to understand how great a victory this was. This coffee shop is always out of soup by the time I get there, and yet somehow today when I arrived the sign read 'Wicked Thai soup' instead of the usual 'Sold Out' that I'm used to. I snatched up my cherished bowl, shielding it from the greedy eyes of the other patrons, and took it outside to enjoy in the sunshine.

I chose a bright table-for-two directly in a particularly large patch of sun, and thoughtfully munched my soup while people watching (a past time I've always enjoyed, and find quite fulfilling).

Picture this: There are three table on the patio. One is all on it's own, off the side... probably 20 feet from the others - that's where I was sitting. The other two are quite close (maybe 6 feet apart?) and it was at those two tables I saw a peculiar sight...

First, a tiny wisp of a girl slipped into a chair at one of the tables. As far as I could tell, she was wearing 3 t-shirts and 2 skirts layered on top of one another, and yet she still was so thin I could barely see her when she turned sideways. I was afraid that with a particularly strong gust of wind, she would just flutter away into the sky, her colorful skirts whirling around her weightless body into the distance. She pulled a salad out of her bag and started nibbling at it. Now, I'm being very generous using the term 'salad'. Is there was anything besides lettuce in that container, I didn't see it. Maybe a cherry tomato or two... maybe.

Second, a woman I can only describe as 'hefty' waddled into view. Not to be insensitive, but I'm fairly sure I could have used the shirt she was wearing (identifying her as an A & W employee) as a tent... for me and several other people. She carried with her the tell-tale McDonalds bag - Brown paper emblazoned with a golden 'M'. She plopped down in her chair (at the table next to the lettuce-eater) with a thud, the thin metal legs groaning worryingly under her weight. She pulled not one, but two burgers out of the paper bag, along with two super-sized fries and and extra-large pop. Then she lit up a smoke.

I sat and watched these two ladies from afar, and found their differences so striking. There they sat, right next to each other... completely unaware of the strange pair they made. A leaf-nibbler and a fried-food-guzzler. They seemed so unalike, but the more I thought about it, the more similar they seemed - One so healthy she was killing herself, the other so unhealthy she was doing the same.

I thought about it, I smiled, and then I finished my soup.

The Sacrifice of Silence

All too often in my life I have regretted things I've said. I've reacted too quickly, spoken too soon, and aimed to wound. And I've been around people that struggle all too much with this same issue. We all do.

That's why I really enjoyed the article on Boundless this week called The Sacrifice of Silence. It's written by Laurel Robinson and she talks about what sacrificing one's right for an immediate reply or defense can produce in terms of peace and godliness.

I didn't sacrifice anything for Lent this year, but this is something that I'm going to pray for myself about. With the season of life that I'm in, I'm often feeling the need to prove to some people who I am, or defend my actions and decisions. It's an endless source of anxiety and sadness for me. I'm praying that I will have the wisdom to know when to speak and when to hold my tongue, that I will ever quick to listen and slow to speak.

I'm praying this for you, too.

Here are some excerpts. Enjoy!

This Lent, a friend of mine committed to a practice I found fascinating: she vowed to refrain from rushing to explain and defend herself, even when she felt she might not be fully understood. This discipline was inspired by the well-known prayer attributed to St. Francis, which includes the line: "O, Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek ... to be understood as to understand."

Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to become angry, for man's anger does not bring about the righteous life that God desires. (James 1:19)

Since Ash Wednesday, Marie has been attempting to submit herself to this discipline daily, particularly with Gary, her husband of three years. The results at home were almost instantaneous. The first time Gary said something that Marie felt was "snide" toward her, she remained silent. Normally, she might have retorted with a scornful remark or with an indignant "that was rude!" Then, the argument would have escalated, and the next two hours would have been robbed of joy, tainted by coolness toward one another.

After a few moments of her prayerful silence, Gary apologized for his statement. Marie was shocked. He had seldom apologized lately. He knew his words had been hurtful, and her silence gave him the chance to reconsider. Instead of the all-too-common bitterness, there was a relative calm, and the two were able to continue to enjoy one another's company.

James wrote to his fellow believers, "Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to become angry, for man's anger does not bring about the righteous life that God desires (James 1:19)." Frankly, words spoken thoughtlessly do not bring about a righteous life, either. They only distract others or puff us up with pride or self-importance.

Ecclesiastes 3:7 reminds us that there is a proper time for every activity, including "a time to be silent and a time to speak." Surely there are times when it is brave, and prudent, and right to speak up: to defend an innocent person, or to speak the truth boldly to people who are deluded by a lie. However, I wonder how many times in a week the "speaking up" we do is for our own benefit and comfort

A long lost favorite

I recently took some time to sort through all the photos I have on my computer... dating back to as early as January, 2008.

To my delight, I discovered a photo of what was once my favorite painting in the entire world...

When I first started attending a church, I idolized my youth pastor, Ryan. He was the coolest person in the entire world. Without a doubt.

And he had the coolest office in the world, as well. It was a loft, up in the far corner of the church... far away from the hustle and bustle. I used to love sitting up there in an old beat-up rocker, chatting with him and throwing darts. It's where he kept his cool computer, his cool guitar, his cool library, and, at times, his cool girlfriend.

He had the above painting hanging in that office, and I always loved it. You can't tell from the awful, slightly-fuzzy photo I took, but it really was quite lovely... bold shades of blue and black, the paint shoveled on so thick that it stood out from the canvas, bumpy, alive.

Several years after my youth pastor left to pursue a career in carpentry, I was hired as an intern to work with the youth at the same church. I was given the option of what office I wanted, and I knew instantly that I wanted to excavate Ryan's old office from under the 2 years of cumulated church junk, rubble, and un-wanteds. It took me almost a week... but I was so pleased with the finished product.

There was only one thing missing: a painting. This church happened to have a large number of artists in attendance, and many of them stored their artwork in the building. I was handed the keys to several walk-in closets full of paintings to choose one for my work space.

I spent an entire glorious afternoon sitting cross-legged in closets and sorting through beautiful things.

And then I found it. That same old painting I had always adored. I happily carted it up and off to my little room, where it remained until the end of my internship.

So there you go, that's the story. And there's the painting.

Manliness

Today, as I sat in a very public and crowded place, I overheard a conversation between two twenty-something guys. One was tucking into a Subway sandwich, taking bites that were worryingly large, and obviously enjoying the experience, while the other sat with his head in his hands, looking as though his heart was broken... and, in fact, it was.

It was loud, and I was concentrating on homework, so I heard snippets of their conversation at best, but the overall theme was that the sad one was relaying the story of a recent (and still very painful) breakup, while the sandwich-eater was supposed to be providing some sort of comfort and/or therapy.

After what was, I assume, a particularly shocking part of the story, the teller paused (presumably for dramatic effect). His friend looked up from his meal, realized he was expected to say something, and said between munches, "I'm so sorry man. Here, eat this." Then he tossed a tiny and rather slimy looking green pepper slice half-heartedly across the table.

They both burst into uproarious laughter, the kind that is only borne forth by sheer hilarity. All was well.

I've thought since then about the difference between men and women. If it had been two girls sitting at that table, things would have been very different. The story would have lasted for hours. Every detail would have been told, and then scrutinized - poked, prodded, analyzed from every angle. There would also have been much more touching... several hugs, hand holdings, and shoulder pats would be expected.

I've been reading in the past few months about what biblical womanhood looks like. It's been a incredibly rewarding time of study of me, and I've grown in my understanding of my role as a Christian woman, and how the God-given traits that make men and women different, compliment and uplift one another.

I'm so saddened to see how those biblical gender roles have slipped away in recent years, and how we as a society are suffering as a result.

Which leads me to introduce a recently discovered website that is so cool that I almost (almost) wish I was a man so I could enjoy it more - The Art of Manliness.com, dedicated to "reviving the lost art of manliness". If you are a man, and wanting to become a better one (I joke), check it out!

Now, this site is not Christian, however I do believe it touches on part of what has been lost with the assimilation of women into male roles, and the assimilation of men into females ones. Men love to provide for, protect, and lead their families. But what happens when women reject those desires in favor of providing for, protecting, and leading themselves?

My favorite article so far is The Ultimate Straight Razor Shaving Guide. Now, that's a skill!

I'm hitting midterms, so free time is nearly non-existant, but I hope to write more about these issues soon!

Just as a note, this blog is now regularly viewed by 50-odd people! Thanks so much for your support and interest (especially the thought-provoking and complimentary emails). I appreciate you all so much :)

Cemeteries Part II

This is Part II of 'Cemeteries'. Read Part I here.

Ok, I'm going to try and articulate this once again. Every time I've tried so far, I've felt that my explanation has fallen short. Hopefully this time...

My earliest memory of a cemetery is of one in Vancouver, where we gathered to bury a relative. I remember my grandma taking me and showing me the plots she had already bought - the place where she and my grandfather would be buried. It was such an odd feeling to look down at that grassy bit of land and know what would one day lie beneath it. I'd imagine it would be an even stranger experience for her, however my warrior of an Oma has never been one to flinch at death. In fact, she's always discussed it openly and freely. Perhaps this has contributed to my lack of fear surrounding it all.

Since then I haven't been to many graveyards. I've taken the odd walk through one with a parent, and while in Europe I toured some of the more historic graveyards... Charles Dickens, Jane Austen, Isaac Charles Darwin , St. Francis of Assisi, and the like. It has been saddening at times, but never frightening.

Then last year, at a time and for a reason that is forgotten, I made a trip to Ross Bay Cemetery by myself one afternoon. Maybe it was just curiosity. I wandered through the sun-dappled grounds, and finally came to rest in the shade of a tree where I read the Bible (James if I remember correctly) for an hour or so before continuing on with my day. It was a glorious way to spend my time, there is a quiet and peace to be found in cemeteries that I've been unable to achieve elsewhere. A sense of depth and meaning. Hundreds of years of laughter, tears, longing, dreams... and memories.

Since that day, I've returned to Ross Bay maybe four or five times. Why? Besides from the above, let me try to explain:

I don't know about you, or anyone else for that matter, but I'm often so caught up in my day-to-day life that I forget the big picture. What is the purpose of our lives here? Well, the Westminster Shorter Catechism says "the chief end of man is to glorify God and enjoy Him forever". Think about that. It's so simple, so wonderful. It's exactly right. I know this, and I desire to do this more than anything else.

But... somehow, I forget. This morning I woke up and my 'chief end' was to get to the library to finish a project that's worth 50% of a certain final grade. I did the minimum for my morning devotions, scarfed down a banana, and was out the door. Last week my 'chief end' was to just get through the week, trying desperately to keep my head above water with all this homework raining down.

It's so easy to get wrapped up in the daily stresses and worries of each day. In our culture, everything is in fast forward! We rush from place to place, always harried and haggard, never enough time, never enough money, never enough belongings. More, more, more. It seems to me that there's no time to think.

I know that I should be meditating on the nature and character of my wonderful heavenly Father, that I should study the Word, serve in the church, and reach out to the unsaved. But instead I race about, grasping for something that always seems out of reach. When I get this semester done, then I'll be happy. When I graduate, then I'll have time to study the Word more in depth. When I'm a missionary, then I'll serve the Lord with every ounce of my being. When I'm married with children, then I can fully put others ahead of myself. I always feel discontent here and now, and I always feel like what will fulfill me is just ahead in my future.

That thinking is wrong. And when I wander through a cemetery, reading the abandoned and weather-worn gravestones, I remember.

Every achievement in this life is for nothing, apart from the goal of glorifying and enjoying the Father. Your new car, your lovely home, your great job, your full bank account - Everything this world praises is all for nought.

I see this when I read those gravestones. An entire person's life, from beginning to end, all their laughter, joys, sorrows, heartbreaks, worries, and tears, are all summed up in the words:

JOHN MCDOYLE 1902-1989 BELOVED HUSBAND, FATHER, AND SON. That's all.

In the cases of some women, there's even less...

AND JANE MCDOYLE, WIFE OF THE ABOVE.

Your entire life, forgotten. Everything we strive for and are so proud of obtaining throughout our lives is forgotten within a generation. Maybe our kids remember, then our grandchildren remember half... then, nothing.

So why do we bother? What's the point of working our knuckles to the bone for things that don't last? Storing up treasures here on earth, instead of in heaven.

That's what my time in these places helps me grasp. It helps me grasp that I will one day die. So will you. And what do we want to leave behind us? What do we want to be remembered for? What's worth pursuing - what truly has value?

One of the gravestones I walked by the other day made me laugh out loud at the inscription on it's face.

JONATHAN KLEISMAN (don't know if that was actually the name)

19__ - 19__ (forget the dates)

RESPECTED FUNERAL DIRECTOR

Is that really all they could think of writing? Was there no loved ones? No achievements besides that? It got me thinking...

I want to leave children that I've raised in the 'fear and admonition of the Lord', that serve and love the Father long after I'm gone; a faithful wife and loving mother.

I want to be remembered as a servant of Christ, someone willing to follow His leading despite it's cost to my own personal happiness or comfort.

I want to leave a body of believers that I've blessed through my ministry and constant prayers.

I want to be remembered as a one who had a heart for the lost, a woman that reached out to the suffering, and declared the saving Gospel of Jesus Christ boldly in every circumstance.

I DON'T want to be remembered for the nice house I lived in, the stylish way in which I furnished it, the lovely clothes I wore, or whether or not I used a Mac or a PC.

But even these things will be forgotten. In the end, all that matters, all that I desire to the very depth of my being, is to spend eternity singing praises in the presence of my Lord and Savior. In the end, the only praise I desire to ever hear are the words, "Well done, good and faithful servant.... Enter into the joy of your Lord." (Mat 25:21).

Now if I could only live like it!

Where are your priorities?

Trinity Western faces pressure over faith statement

If you're in the mood to stare at something in horrified disbelief, read the article I read this morning in the National Post, found here. My favorite quote? "This is not about the school being Christian, but about faculty having to sign a statement of faith before being hired. A university is meant as a place to explore ideas, not create disciples of Christ." According to who??

Caring for those who don't care

Matthew 5:7 "Blessed are the merciful, for they shall be shown mercy"

This week of nursing school has opened my eyes to an aspect of this profession that I had never considered... and I still don't know how I feel about.

As many of you know, I started clinicals this week, and my first community placement was at AIDS Vancouver Island. Leaving that evening after an afternoon spent with people who are suffering and dying, there was so much on my mind.

First a excerpt from my personal journal about my experience (edited a little so you can better understand):

I realized I had a view of those with HIV/AIDS that was both ignorant and biased. I've always seen this virus as the 'disease of homosexuals', and thinking back on it now... I'm really not sure how I got that impression. How wrong I was!

AIDS is contracted through the exchange of body fluids, such as semen, cervical or vaginal secretions, and blood. At AIDS Vancouver Island (AVI), the majority of patients have been diagnosed with AIDS due to intravenous drug use, presumably having used a needle previously used by someone HIV positive (blood to blood).

However, AIDS is also commonly contracted through any sex act where there is an exchange of bodily fluids, as well as through the placenta of a HIV positive mother to her child.

If the world was perfect, then AIDS would not exist. It is the direct result of an immoral and fallen world... a world where sexual sin and having multiple partners is not only common but even applauded. A world where husbands cheat and then infect not only their wives (who are innocent), but their future children as well. There are stories out of Africa and Asia about clinics that are so short on supplies and funding that they have to reuse needles in order to be able to immunize children and families, not realizing they are infecting hundreds of people with the disease that will kill them by extension.

So, despite the fact that HIV/AIDS is spread to a large extent by sinful acts, aren't we all sinners here? I've heard brothers and sisters in Christ say we shouldn't support research for a cure, or assist the sufferers - that AIDS is a punishment from God on these people who live so immorally. Can they really say that? Surely we are all equally as fallen, and we aren't saved by any righteousness or worthiness that we ourselves possess, but solely by the grace of God. Right? Does having contracted a disease because of an ungodly lifestyle make someone unworthy of treatment? Aren't we called to show mercy and the love of Christ to those who don't know Him? I don't know what to think. I do know that the people I met today were lovely human beings, making the most out of a horrible situation. And I know that I want to help them. I want to heal their bodies, but more than that, I want to heal their souls... or more accurately, I want my Savior to heal their souls. To fix their brokenness, to give them peace instead of evil, to give them a future and a hope (Jeremiah 29:11).

I wrote that on Tuesday. Then today I had a nursing practice class and we had the chance to talk about our different experiences in clinical this week, since we all have various placements around the city. During my turn, I spoke about my realization that as nurses we won't always be working on patients that want to get better... my example was of the addicts at AVI who come each week for their antiretroviral meds , but go right on shooting up and getting high the rest of the time. Bringing up this point led to a discussion that lasted over an hour. This same idea applies to smokers who come in for cancer treatment, go into remission, then grab a pack of smokes from the hospital gift shop on their way out the door... or an obese patient admitted for a heart attack, who then drives to the nearest McDonald's as soon as they are released.

Do these people deserve to get expensive treatments if they aren't even willing to take care of themselves? Shouldn't people who try to stay healthy take priority over those who repeatedly poison their bodies? Canadian Health Care seems to say yes.

Our teacher told a story about a friend of hers who lived up island and was a chain smoker. As a result, he required coronary bypass surgery, but the surgeon refused. He asked the patient if he would be willing to quit smoking after the surgery and when the patient said no, the doctor told him it would be a waste of time to perform an operation on someone who would just reverse it all in a matter of months. He never got the surgery. Now he's dead. This is allowed in Canada.

And it happens much more often than you would think. Alcoholics are repeatedly bumped to the bottom of waiting lists for liver transplants, because preference is given to those without a history of alcohol abuse, for example.

I don't know how to feel about this issue. On one hand, I do struggle to see the point of striving to save someone's life when they'll just be in the following week with the same issues. I've heard stories about alcoholics who come in weekly for kidney dialysis. It seems as though it's only fair that they be working to make changes to their lifestyle as well expecting hospital treatment (again and again).

On the other hand, I am outraged that someone, anyone, would be refused treatment and essentially left to die. It just doesn't sit right with me... and as much as I don't like that they aren't putting in an effort to change their lifestyle, I dread having to look into the face of one of these people and tell them we won't give them life-saving surgery because of the way they live their life.

The way I see it, giving them even a few more days on this earth is giving them a few more days to come to a saving faith in Christ and spend eternity praising His name.

It's definitely an tricky issue, and one that requires a lot of thought and prayer for me. However, regardless of my personal beliefs, if I work in Canada I am bound by their regulations. The nursing knowledge base teaches that everyone is worthy of care and no one should be turned away. What do you think?

Cemeteries Part I

(in Part I, I will explore cemeteries in general, in Part II, I'll talk about my own experiences with them. Please keep in mind as you read that I've attempted to keep this post neutral and applicable all of mankind in it's fallen state, but in the following post I will speak as a Christian on what graveyards mean to me. As a follower of Christ, death holds no power over me and I don't fear it. To further prove this, I have included some verses from the Bible at the end.)

Ah, cemeteries. The perfect setting for a horror movie. The ultimate Halloween party location. Described adequately with such adjectives as 'creepy', 'spooky', and 'eerie'. But why do the places where we bury our dead have a reputation like this? What's with our culture and death?

It's not like this everywhere, you know. In Europe, cemeteries are regarded more as pleasant places to take afternoon strolls, not so different from any other park or green space (if a little more solemn). In much of Latin America, cemeteries are respected, spiritual places that are honored and cared for (this is best seen on the Dia de la Muerte if ever you are interested).

Here in North America on the other hand, children are afraid to enter graveyards and teenagers lurk around them at night, thinking they are tough for picking it as a hangout and desecrating graves with graffiti, etc. All of our most horrifying movies feature at least one cemetery... preferably on a cold dark night, shrouded in mist. The general feeling in graveyards is one of unease and fear... and a desire to get away from it all.

I don't know if you've ever taken a stroll through a cemetery, but if you have, you've probably felt something noteworthy about the experience -- something different from all the other spaces and places that fill our lives. After all, graveyards are the final resting place for many of our dead. People say their last goodbyes there, sometimes returning year after year to leave flowers or say a few words.

Whether the grounds are finely manicured or left to the weeds, graveyards exist as the place where the living contemplate the mysteries, traumas and heartbreaks associated with death.

In North America, graveyards are unpleasant places to go and people who go there without reason are thought to be strange and likely troubled in some way. I am one such person, and when my dad found out that I liked them, he compared me to Harold from the movie Harold & Maude. Perfect. But why are so many people afraid of graveyards? Is it the thought of all those decaying bodies under the dirt or the idea of a bony arm emerging from the soil to grab your ankle and pull you into the underworld? Or is it something deeper?

For a cat, graveyards may just be another place to sleep away the afternoon, but to the (unbelieving) human, they represent the mystery and the outrage of mortality. Like it or not, we're all going to die. You may think you've accepted that fact, but it's an issue humanity has struggled with since the beginning of time. Unable to avoid it, we've tried to figure out what lies beyond it's doors. Will we live forever in a golden paradise, be reincarnated as a goat or simply cease to exist? We've pined for understanding in the shadows of the pyramids and stared into the blinking eyes of guillotined heads, hoping to glimpse something other than the emptiness of nonexistence.

Biologically, fear exists as a response to stimuli that threatens our survival. We're programmed to fight or run from anything that might cause death, and we approach death itself with the same attitude. We flee from it every day by distancing it from our thoughts and lives. In many parts of the world, we've handed the duties of interring the dead over to mortuary professionals, which limits our intimacy with death.

An excellent example of our culture's understanding of cemeteries is a story my dad told me just the other day from his high school years...

One day he and his friends ate lunch in the cemetery across the street from their school for no particular reason other that it was uncrowded and sunny over there. That afternoon they were all called to the principal's office, and after questioning them about there reasons for their earlier foray, the principal forbid them from ever returning while attending his school.

Now, why would he deem it necessary to take such drastic action? Why was it so disturbing that young people would choose to spend there time in such a place?

We're a race that instinctively fears death, yet we work to maintain hallowed spaces where the dead are memorialized and at least partially preserved. There's also thousands of years' worth of superstitions, folktales and ghost stories to add to the excitement.

We've poured a lot of sacrament, superstitions and fear into our graveyards, which makes for quite a powerful atmosphere. Not only do graveyards play on past memories of loss, they also invoke potentially potent themes of supernatural terror. It's not just horror movies that contribute to this frightening reputation. Cemetery preservation groups and historical societies sometimes get in on the action with haunted tours.

In more extreme cases, people actually suffer from coimetrophobia, the fear of graveyards. The conditions involves a heightened, unrealistic fear of graveyards that actively interferes with a person's life. But unless walking past a cemetery makes your heart rave or the words "graveyard shift" make you faint, your fear probably doesn't qualify as a phobia.

For the most part, the only things you really have to fear in graveyards are collapsing tombstones and monuments. Besides that, living, breathing humans are responsible for more graveyard assaults than all the vampires, zombies and ghouls combined.

"Brothers, we do not want you to be ignorant about those who fall asleep, or to grieve like the rest of men, who have no hope. We believe that Jesus died and rose again and so we believe that God will bring with Jesus those who have fallen asleep in Him." - Thessalonians 4:13-14

"Since the children have flesh and blood, He too shared in their humanity so that by His death He might destroy him who holds the power of death - that is, the devil - and free those who all their lives were held in slavery by their fear of death." - Hebrews 2:14-15

"Now we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, an eternal house in heaven, not built by human hands. Meanwhile we groan, longing to be clothed with our heavenly dwelling." - 2 Corinthians 5:1-2

"For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen in temporary, but what is unseen is eternal." - 2 Corinthians 4:17-18

"The righteous perish, and no one ponders it in his heart; devout men are taken away, and no one understands that the righteous are taken away to be spared from evil. Those who walk uprightly enter into peace; they find rest as they lie in death." - Isaiah 57:1-2

Stay tuned for Part II!

Popping My Watermelon Head

Yesterday afternoon, in between bites of lunch, I chatted casually with a new acquaintance sitting across the table. One thing led to another, and our conversation took on a more serious turn. "I believe that all people are inherently good," the friendly woman commented, smiling widely.

A few minutes later, this pleasant lady revealed that she was unconcerned about what would happen to her after she died. She shrugged, "Some questions can never be answer." Morality is grey, she explained, not black or white. All religions are equally valid. Then she handed the discussion off to her friend, an animated young man in his twenties, who had been listening to snatches of what we were talking about.

He jumped into the conversation eagerly, and we began to discuss Christianity. It was immediately apparent that I was speaking with a a highly intellectual and well-read individual. He had perused the entire Bible, to conclude that the Old Testament God was inconsistent with the God of the New Testament. Paul, he claimed, could have very well been a homosexual. And as for Christ? Well, He certainly was an "enlightened being", but we cannot possibly know if He actually claimed deity. Perhaps, he suggested, the Lord's Prayer can be interpreted to mean that we are all God. Ultimately, we must each fashion truth for ourselves.

"For the time will come when they will not endure sound doctrine, but according to their own desires, because they have itching ears, they will heap up for themselves teachers; and they will turn their ears away from the truth, and be turned aside to fables." - 2 Timothy 4:3-4

This is our world. These are the people you pass by in the produce aisle - the cousin at a family reunion - the neighbor next door. And they need answers- answers that require a thorough knowledge of Scripture. Never before has our culture seen so many competing ideologies vying for attention. And yet, beneath all the clamor and chaos, our world is starved for truth.

My friend's father loves to pose thought-procoking questions. As we're discussing some attribute of God, he always asks, "Now, tell me: how does this doctrine effect you neighbor?" It's a pivotal question to consider. If we can talk at length about the omnipotence of God, but cannot draw the connection to real life and real people, there is a serious problem.

Why? Because if theology is simply loved and studies for itself, the knowledge us not only futile; it is dangerous.

Like the Pharisees, our heads will swell up like ripe watermelons, as we grow increasingly enthralled- not with God, but with ourselves. Intoxicated with the staggering grandeur of our own high contemplations, we'll miss the point altogether.

Incredibly, instead of falling flat on our faces in adoration and worship, Christians are easy prey to pride within the enticing web of lofty knowledge. Rather than being unspeakably humbled and awed, we can even have the audacity to approach our Maker as if He is a grand scientific specimen- dissecting His words, toying with them carelessly, and twisting them whenever it suits our theological purposes.

And then, I'm tempted to be impressed. Not with the Holy One, who I examine detachedly, but with my own meager intellect. Astounding, isn't it? Unless our hearts are postured in humility, a dose of good theology will only inflate our egos. Once infested with pride, even the study of theology becomes detestable in God's eyes. But when theology is studied truly, the very opposite is true. It is impossible to evade being humbled, as the pages of the Bible trumpet the truth about our Lord, and ourselves.

Studying theology is not enough. It must also be studied for the correct reason: To magnify the name of our God, and show others how to join us in doing so.

See ya '09

That last day of another year. It always catches me by surprise, this passing of time. I keep trying to stop it - or at least see it go by. But like breath, it's imperceptible. Until it's gone.

So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.

That's what Moses prayed. And of late, it's my prayer too. I don't want to find myself sad that more time has passed. After all, isn't such sorrow simply because I didn't make the most of each moment? Not in a "be all that you can be" or carpe diem sloganeering way, but in a faithful stewardship, fruitful for the kingdom sort of way.

And so again, tomorrow I will spend some time thinking through my priorities and set goals for the new year. A clean slate. A fresh start. As much as I'm wistful over this year's ending, I'm excited about the new year's coming!

Just as this last day gives me pause, and even a pang of sorrow for opportunities lost - moments that will never be again - so tomorrow's first day fills me with joy and wonder. So much possibility. What will the next season hold?

I'm ever thankful for a God - our loving heavenly Father - who gave us time. When we use it for His glory, it's a gift.

And so, with Moses, I pray,

O satisfy us early with thy mercy; that we may rejoice and be glad all our days. Make us glad according to the days wherein thou hast afflicted us, and the years wherein we have seen evil. Let thy work appear unto thy servants, and they glory unto their children. And let the beauty of the Lord our God be upon us: and establish thou the work of our hands upon us; yea, the work of our hands establish thou it.

Lord, help me. Guide me into your will and help me to be a good steward of the days, hours and minutes ahead. Amen.

Another Christmas

Am I too young to be feeling nostalgic around Christmas time? Sometimes I can feel as though I am so incredibly old, although not at all wise... which is one of the only upsides to aging that I can see.

I spent Christmas and Boxing day in Vancouver, visiting family. We started at my Oma and Opa's house (dad's parents), migrated to my aunt and uncle's (dad's sister), and then made the long drive to my Omi's apartment(mom's mom).

In each place I was repeatedly reminded of the increasing age of those I have always known and loved. With no cousins, my brother and I are the youngest in our immediate family, with the next youngest already in their 40's.

I was looking around the table and thinking, "What are we going to do once their gone?" Christmas for me has always been about sharing food and laughter with these people... but as their mortality becomes more and more clear (aches and pains), I'm forced to realize that we won't be together forever.

There was one point during Christmas dinner that we went around the table and shared a memory of Christmas from when we were younger. I thoroughly enjoyed hearing the stories of those in their 80's who grew up in Germany, Austria, and the Ukraine; Christmas was so different for them... more like it should be. And when my turn came around I realized that when I am their age, looking back at my childhood, it will be these people and their stories that I'll be talking about with an ache in my heart. This loud, eccentric crowd of Germans, always shouting over each other, always speaking half the time in a language I don't understand. It will be dinners like the very one I was eating that I will remember with longing, and traditions like the one's we kept that I will make sound so delightful.

And so I realized that someday, these Christmases that are so beautiful and full of warmth, love, and belonging will be just a memory, foggy remembrances that I will try to cling to and recall as much of as possible. Of course, they will be replaced with traditions that are just as beloved and people who are equally as cherished, and life will go on. Just as it always does.

Maybe one day I'll sit at the head of the table as the matron of a family and talk about what Christmas was like when I was a girl. Some teenager down at the other end of the table will be playing with her fork in an attempt to stay awake, and I'll smile one of those secret smiles that old people seem to favor, knowing.

Strange little life we live, isn't it? So short, so perfect.

Vacation at last

I'm home at last from our vacation up island to Mt. Washington. It was a lovely time and exactly what I needed after so many weeks of never-ending and difficult work. I wouldn't say that it was completely relaxing, because every day was jam packed with activities... but I think that the word 'refreshing' fits quite perfectly. I got to play for hours with my beloved new camera lens, explore wintery wonderlands, dig snow tunnels, and read john keats by a warm fire.

My favorite moment? Yesterday night. Earlier in the day my dad and I had sat at the Nordic Centre and dreamt up the idea of a wonderous snack... and so later the boys made a midnight trek outside and returned with a bucket of snow. We each helped ourselves to a bowl of it, and then dosed the stuff with the purest of maple syrups. It was SOOO very Canadian! We sat, ate maple syrup snow, and said things like, "This is great, eh?" and, "What are you talking a-boot?". I've never felt so patriotic. haha.

Ah. So happy.

Those crazy Brazilians

Check out this news article from the BBC: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/8416667.stm

Meat without Animals... would you eat it?

Check out this article, it's totally given me the freaks:

http://articles.mercola.com/sites/articles/archive/2009/12/12/Growing-Meat-Without-Animals--Would-You-Eat-It.aspx

Christmas Album a Requirement?

It started over a month ago: Christmas songs on the radio. But at least then they were mixed in with a variety of other, less seasonal, options. Now, the holiday favorites are all I encounter when I switch on the radio and browse through the stations. It's unavoidable. And this bombardment with songs made me start to wonder something this morning.

What if when someone is becoming a musical artist of some note, they are called into a meeting where they are told that in order to be permitted to continue on in this line of work, they must commit to producing a Christmas album at some point in their career? It certainly could be the case, couldn't it? I jest of course, but it seems like every successful artist has come out with their version of the same old Christmas carols and hymns.

I like Christmas music as much as the next person, both the secular and the Christian variety. I will always enjoy hearing Bing Crosby's "White Christmas," and Handel's Messiah never fails to send chills down my spine. My favorite of them all, "Oh Holy Night," is sung beautifully by so many artists (Celine Dion, Josh Groban, Charlotte Church, Il Divo).

Many popular acts have been putting out their own take on Christmas songs for at leeeast the past 50 years. Elvis did it. So did John Lennon. I love Nat King Cole's version of "The Christmas Song". Bizarrely, Bing Crosby and David Bowie did a duet that proves that some people's voices are just made to be together (seen here, but be patient through the corny fake dialogue, the good part starts at about 1:50 in).

But it now seems that everyone has to produce a Christmas album! It's one thing to write a new song unique to you, as Elvis and John Lennon did. Jethro Tull's "A Christmas Song" is but an extension of their usual fare.

But I just find it awful (forgive me) when someone whose musical style doesn't lend itself to Christmas music still tries to adapt some holiday songs. I mean... Bob Dylan!? I half expected the lead song to be "Buh Naah Guh Bo Duhh Buh Wuh Dah" (Translation: "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus"... anyone whose heard that guy sing knows what I'm talking about). I generally like Dylan too, but this is one album I think I'll skip. And Reo Speedwagon!? Goodness, those guys were SO 35 years ago! Why plague us with a gimmicky album? Try coming up with something new for a change. haha.

If a musician wants to come up with a new album, I'm willing to listen. But I find myself turned off by the apparently naked opportunism of Christmas albums. No thanks.

Do I sound like a Scrooge?

Certified to SAVE LIVES

THE TALE OF MY STANDARD FIRST AID/CPR CERTIFICATION:

Before I'm able to start clinical practice next semester, I need to be certified in First Aid. Makes sense, right? So me and 2 of my girlfriends signed up to get certified this past weekend, after months of putting it off.

I'll admit I went in with a pretty bad attitude. I remember doing this course 3 years ago (expires after 3 yrs - hence me taking it again) and it being incredibly grueling... the hours dragging past. So I expected the same thing again. Instead, I ended up learning SO much and actually having a lot of fun.

Three Factors Made It Bearable -->

1)Our instructor, Justin, had an amazing sense of humor. I can't stress how much a difference that makes

2)I was with friends, so we talked and joked and went to Logan's Pub for dinners afterwards because another friend from our program works there.

3)We had TONS of practice. For every hour that our instructor talked, we spent an hour practicing the skill... so out of the 16 hours of the course, 8 of those hours were spent doing the skills. This is how it worked: After a morning of Justin teaching, we had lunch then came back and broke into partners. One of the people in the pair would leave the room, and the other would stay and Justin would set them up with some kind of elaborate injury or medical emergency. He had a whole box of fake blood, skin with bones coming out of it, harmful objects, etc, etc, etc. So when the other half of the class came back into the room, the room was filled with people all suffering from various horrifying injuries, and they had to find their partner, find out what was wrong with them, and then act appropriately. It was actually kind of stressful at times, but more than anything I had a lot of fun with it.

So, this weekend I: had hypothermia, an allergic reaction to a bug bite, slit my wrists, got knocked unconscious by a piece of cement, and got second degree burns on my hands. I also saved the life of someone: having a diabetic seizure, hit my a car with their intestines hanging out, with heat stroke, with a broken leg including deadly bleeding, and suffering from a stroke.

It was like dressing up for Halloween! He painted our faces, supplied us with fancy wounds and extravagant costumes, along with imaginative, long stories about how we ended up the way we did. It was admittedly a little over-the-top... but it made it so much more enjoyable and realistic.

Afterwards, I actually feel confident in my abilities to help someone in an emergency... or for something more minor. Turned out well I think.

There was something that bothered me though. Something Justin said again and again is, "... until a health professional takes over." Now, in most 911 emergencies, it's going to be a paramedic that's first on the scene... but after the ambulance gets them to the hospital, or after the first aider drives the individual to the hospital, the care of that person will be in my hands. Unlike everyone else in the class, I can't take comfort in knowing the help is on the way and afterwards I won't have to deal with it anymore. It takes the ambulance 4-8 minutes to get there in most urban areas. Instead, I'm the one the injured person is being handed over to. That was kind of shocking to realize... but the longer I let the thought sit in my mind, the more I like the idea of it. I like that I will be trained to handle things like that, I love that I will be saving people's lives for a living. What could be better?!

Back to my old romping grounds

Today, after I dissected an eyeball in Biology, my nursing class held a health fair at a local school. Now, it was up to the students to find a place to hold the fair, and to figure out the time, etc. We called around to schools, rec centers, and other hot spots in the community... and it turned out that Lambrick Park Secondary was our best option. My old high school!

Our class of 30 broke into four teams, each with a different health focus. My group did body image, and the other groups did sexual health, drugs/alcohol, and hand washing. We spent the whole afternoon at the school, and had six grade 9 classes come to walk through our stations. It was a lot of fun, and I saw many kids I've known since they were just toddlers. It was surreal seeing them so grown up and 'cool'. I was also able to talk so some of my old teachers and share with them what I've been up to for the last couple years since I graduated.

When I first walked into the school I felt anxious and unhappy about having to be in a place I had loathed for 4 years... but upon leaving 3 hours later, I felt quite content and at peace. I'm glad we ended up at Lambrick, it was the best place for me to be. It made me remember that not everything about that place was awful... I have some good memories too :)

Ol Danny Boy

I get along splendidly with my Relational Practice teacher, who upon learning that I was a closet artist, referred me to Danny Gregory's website (found here). I'm now in awe of this man. Check him out!