Finishing

It's been quiet here as I've been taking more time than usual to pray, journal, and meditate on the Bible, usually the "verse of the day" supplied on my phone by the BibleApp. It is handy (source of the German word for mobile phone which is literally, Handy) and usually very applicable to my day. I am attempting to truly meditate on a verse: let it circle round and round in my mind, pray and reflect on which words or phrases stick out to me. I read the verse several times throughout the day and let it sit in my Spirit, make room in my mind and life for His words.

We gave up our daily double espresso infused cappuccino (or two) for the last two weeks of February. Something dear to us, and time consuming to make and enjoy, to make more space for God. I was surprised how dependent i have become on coffee in the past two years, how much I savour and enjoy it. I had withdrawal symptoms for several days and often sorely missed my morning delight. Instead, we've been going to God in extra measure for strength, for alertness, for help to get into the day. We've gone to him with concrete questions and He has met us there. Not always with answers spelled out just the way I'd like, but with a calm confidence that He has a plan, He is good, I can trust him. After a week I felt our questions answered, but we continued the commitment we'd made, also interceding more for friends and bringing their questions and big decisions before His throne of grace. 

I've realized I am not always good at finishing.

But in Christ, I am a finisher.

In Christ, I can be true to my word, finish the project, write the chapter, tackle the overwhelming, follow through.

May the God of endurance and encouragement grant you to live in such harmony with one another, in accord with Christ Jesus, that together you may with one voice glorify the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. Romans 15:5-6

What initially stood out to me in this verse I meditated on a fortnight ago was that he is a "God of endurance and encouragement." He encourages me. I often sorely need his encouragement (especially on no coffee). To continue with my PhD. To get up when I am exhausted. To pursue friendships. To persevere in prayer for people. He cheers me on to keep going in faith, in good works. He endures. He doesn't leave a task incomplete. He doesn't give up on people. He doesn't quit when things get too hard. He doesn't get bored. Oh, how I need his endurance!

The mountain.

Also about a fortnight ago, we finally sent off the very thick wad of paperwork for my husband's permanent residency application so he can live in Canada (!), replete with around 100 photos I had carefully dug out or printed, sorted, and labeled to prove our true and enduring relationship. I had to re-read my old journals from when we fell in love to put down accurate dates. We included a few old love letters and even the notorious phone bill of over $1000 that we accidentally incurred while he was staying at a friend of a friend's house in Alberta, calling me on my not-so-handy Handy in Greece.

Somehow, I couldn't believe we act finished it. We had worked on the paperwork over the course of several months. He had to drive 3 hours each way to Munich just for a doctor's appointment to prove he is perfectly healthy (and his lungs so big from his daily cycling commute the technician could hardly fit them on the x-ray). We had to pay for various forms, proofs, official translations. I had wanted to finish the application during Christmas break and felt it was a huge mountain we would never conquer amongst the rest of life's laundry, labour, loving we have to do.

But we did. We finished it. We did the next thing, and now those things are done. Amazing! 

February has been a month of feeling free, following the plan of simply doing what I can do, doing the next thing. Now we have other next things, but I feel a momentum building, like we are coasting along a flat plain rather than staring at an insurmountable mountain. And soon, I know God is going to come through with the things that only He can do.

What tasks feel insurmountable to you today? Big things, little things. Stuff you hate doing and just put off? I'm tackling my mountain (of books, that pesty theory chapter I simply need to write), just doing the next thing, eating my frogs. Join me?

Iron sharpens iron {we need each other}

This past week this proverb has been reinforced to me so tangibly.

I spend most of my weekdays alone at home working in the mornings, or alone at home with my kids in the afternoons. Beyond the quick chats with other parents and caregivers at Kindergarten, or the occasional afternoon play date, I sometimes do not talk to another adult until my husband comes home in the evening. Social media can give you the feeling of being connected to the outside world, but it is very shallow communication. Very rarely are we honest and authentic online. We do not bare our souls or ask our big questions (nor perhaps should we!). A "like" or re-tweet will never replace a friend's hug or someone looking into your eyes and truly seeing you.

As an introvert, I need time to recover after a full day or two of being with people. I need time to process, journal, contemplate things I have heard, seen, experienced. After a busy day I lay in bed thinking, no matter how tired I am, until my mind whirs to a stop. I can feel alone in a crowd, I find small-talk difficult and when things get awkward or difficult my default mode is to flee.

But I also desperately need people.

Those of us contemplative types can just get lost in our own heads, analyzing, and debating, praying and seeking, but perhaps we are just too close to see the full picture, blind to our blind spots.

This past week, feeling weighed down, confused, and discouraged, a friend spoke the words I needed to hear and prayed for me the conviction that was already pressing in on my heart. On my one day at the university, I ran into a colleague who encouraged, gave perspective, and showed me light at the end of the dissertation tunnel. Then my half-a-world-away sister gave me practical help proofreading some documents via email, improving my work with her talent and skills. I was so much the better for them; my spirit calmer, my mind sharper, my heart happier, thanks to them.

I felt my iron getting sharpened.

Oh, how we need each other. I am learning that even the most put-together, successful-seeming person deals with bouts of self-doubt, insecurity, discouragement. All the people you are intimidated of may just as well be intimidated of you. Every woman I know struggles at times with feeling alone, feeling like her friends never call, that she is the only one who is left out.

Let's be the first to love, to pick up the phone, to encourage, to stop and see someone and listen. Let's ask for help when we need it, let's be vulnerable with friends or family or pastoral leaders close to us, show them who we are. Let's be present where we are now, sharpening each other.

Leaving the Boat Behind

We're moving to Montreal this summer.

After a decade in Europe, 9 of those years in this city in Germany, we're packing up our two kids, a few suitcases and our lives and moving back to Quebec. My heart has always been there, he knew that when he married me. And we finally sensed it was time. That there is a small fishing boat leaving the shore and we are to step into it. We're both on board with this, with our whole hearts.

Most of the time.

Then, there are those moments while cooking dinner when I think how much easier it would be to just stay here. To keep my husband's secure job (which he loves) and our friends and our stuff and our life. There are moments of doubt. Moments when I am afraid. When I don't want to take my son away from his little friends and church community and all he knows (but will, after all, quickly forget at his age). When I want the clothes and nice furniture and a vacation and career advancement. The idols in my life of comfort and security loom large and it can be hard to throw them away. We like safety. We all prefer the known over the unknown. There are times like these, I won't lie.

We'd talked about it back when we met, and that first year and a half were so hard for me in Germany. Then came a time when I knew that Germany was where we needed to be, and for a few years my thoughts didn't even go to Quebec much. I knew I needed to put down roots here and live fully where I was in that moment. That if God wanted me there, he would bring it about in his timing, in his way.

Deliberating over the last year or so about whether or not we would go on this journey was exciting. Adventure! Faith! Brave dreams! Step out in trust!
But now that the boat is leaving the shore this ride is starting to feel a little bit choppy. This dory is looking rickety, and I hear some creaking and is that a bit of water seeping through a crack I see?

When my daughter wakes me in the wee hours, I remain awake even after she has gone back to sleep. I wrestle it out with the Author of our story, for hours. In the morning I journal and find peace. I smile at my phone when I see the verse of the day on the screen:

"My soul yearns for you in the night; my spirit within me earnestly seeks you."

 I am reminded again that I really want his plans. That I really want the trust, the faith and the bold dreams. That his ways are always better, not always easier. I am thankful I get to be a part of his adventure. The wind is picking up and we're sensing that some of our plans and priorities might be shaken up, but after a few days' wrestling we're ready to be shaken. We're sensing that our rickety dory's going under.

That we might actually have to do what we said yes to and step out onto the water.

The Trail

Hiking those familiar trails
felt like coming home
to a place I had lived in thrice.

weeks, months, weeks

In a lifetime, short
but pivotal
times
of learning, growing, stretching, straining, singing
laughing, cherishing, changing, celebrating.

Moments on benches and paths
scribbled prayers
tear-stained journal
Surrender and new life.

The Alpine air filling lungs broad and clean
built strong on the spiritual heritage in this place.

I am reminded of lessons learned, mentors gone before, strangers-become-friends who shouldered packs and hiked for hours in front and behind me.
Incompatible tribe
different nations
different ages
different allegiances and preferences
different everything
but one God.
And the strong and fast took the heavy things from the weaker, slowed their pace, took the last place in line.
And we pressed on 
and we listened and we tore down borders and we let each other in and we learned to love 
in spite of it all.

They taught me that I too can love 
those whom I at first didn't like, 
with whom I had nothing in common. 

They taught me why Church matters, 
that I need others
to be fully who I am meant to be.
That those fruits of love, 
joy
peace
patience 
kindness 
goodness 
faithfulness
gentleness 
self-control 
only grow in the rich soil of community
Fertilized with annoyance and waiting and offense and hurt.

They taught me to go from this place 
and put down roots and let people in. 

And, eventually, I did 
and I am grateful for 
that motley tribe and what they teach me still, 
when I remember.

I am reminded that the trail 
is sometimes flat and open and comes easily. 
The ground springs beneath my boots, coniferous cushion.

But sometimes it is steep and arduous
and I have to put my head down
and need an encouraging word to get to the top.



The trail is sometimes muddy
and I have to slog my way through
and progress can only be made slowly.

Sometimes the trail is littered
with branches 
or it is closed 
and we have to find another way
and there are obstacles to overcome. 



Sometimes the fog descends and we can't see the peak 
or even the next bend
but 
there are trail markers, if you look for them.
And if I missed it someone on my team has spotted it 
and they show me which way to take
so we keep going
together.



I am reminded 
that I don't need to know what awaits today
or exactly where the trail leads
if I trust the Guide.

(And we never really know it)

I can see the next step, and that is enough

to follow.

Live fully

I was reminded the other day by a wise friend to live fully where I am now.  To be faithful where I am today, the people and places in front of me now. We are in a time of transition, changes are coming. It seems easier to shut down emotionally, just a bit. To distance myself, to hold back. To revert to my hermit-like tendencies. There is much to do. But I find when I focus only on my own family, my own plans, my own career that I am soon empty.

It's when I am giving to others, listening, giving time, a word of encouragement, pouring myself out that others might be refreshed, that I have the deepest joy.

When I am living for more than myself, I am truly alive.

Another friend told me today of a tragedy, a young mother gone suddenly, shockingly. Leaving behind three little children. The youngest of whom is fighting cancer, now without his mama.



We only have today. Let us be thankful for this place, this season, here. Let us engage with the people and relationships here and now, that we might not be filled with regret.

Let us love deeply, and live fully.

Let us give up ourselves, to get more of His life, true life.

On having no idea where I am going

It has been a little quiet around here, I've been tuning out of most blogs and social media lately. I feel a need to quiet my mind, fill myself with God's Word, to open my mouth and eat what he gives me. And it is "as sweet as honey in my mouth."

We're in a season of seeking, listening and planning. Looking back and looking forward. I dug out my journals and notebooks from a decade ago. Sometimes I shake my head at the folly of my ways, sometimes in wonder at my youthful boldness and wisdom, and mostly I bow it in thankfulness for God's faithfulness and all that He has done. He has led and guided when I was all confusion and striving and questions. He has done far more than I ever asked or imagined. I have so much peace going into this next season knowing who holds me, us, our little lambs. As our pastor reminded us beautifully in church this morning, the other disciples stayed in the boat while Peter stepped out bravely on the waves, thinking the boat was safer. But that little fishing boat in the storm was never safe. Either way, He has always been the one holding me.

Everything I knew and believed 10 years ago has been taken apart and put back together again since, through the storms of depression, changing continents and countries, culture shock and wedding planning in a foreign culture, moving, marrying, being student-poor newlyweds, planting ourselves in a church for the first time (really putting down deep roots), writing theses, graduating, first jobs, having babies, moving again. 

It's funny, even, to see things I wrote a decade ago still ring true today. To see many of the same truths and adages, now believed with even greater conviction of a bit more life experience.

I came across the prayer of Thomas Merton copied out in my journal, sent to me by my sister. I prayed it with all my confused little heart back then, and rest today in the firm knowing that he has led me by the right road, a good road and still, he leads me on.

My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going.
I do not see the road ahead of me.
I cannot know for certain where it will end.
Nor do I really know myself, 
and the fact that I think I am following Your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. 
But I believe that the desire to please You
does in fact please you.
And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing.
I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire.
And I know that, if I do this, You will lead me by the right road,
though I may know nothing about it.
Therefore I will trust You always though I may seem to be lost
and in the shadow of death.
I will not fear, for You are ever with me,
and You will never leave me to face my perils alone.

Required Reading {Engaging Culture}

As a child, I lived much of the time in the imagined 19th century of my mind, playing dress-up and reading hundreds of girl's novels about the olden days. Laura Ingalls and Mandie were among my best friends. 

It seemed more exciting, more romantic, more adventurous than my own farm childhood.

I often wished I had been born in another time and place.

~

At a recent academic conference, I was chatting with an acquaintance from another university, catching up on our private and professional lives. We discussed her past research in Canadian literature, and a novel both of us had read. She raved about this novel, while I expressed that although it was a page-turner I had read within the space of 24 hours, years ago in a tent while camping in Austria, I had found some scenes in the novel extremely disturbing. 

"Am I just overly sensitive when it comes to protecting children and abuse?" I wondered. The novel gave a stark and realistic portrayal of a Maritime community, a certain kind of life in a specific time and place. 

Knowing each other to both be believing Christians, we cautiously broached the subject of what is acceptable for a Jesus-follower to read, to research, to teach. 

Is there merit in fiction which portrays evil? In filling one's mind with images, stories which disturb, even disgust?

This is a topic I have wrestled with for a few years. On the one hand, I believe each reader must be discerning about what does them good and may cause them to have thoughts which are negative, unhelpful, even sinful. The Bible teaches us to "gird up the loins of our minds." To think about, to dwell on, that which is honourable, pure, just, lovely, excellent, commendable, praiseworthy. 

But perhaps there is a difference between reading, and dwelling on. 

I do not believe Christians should confine their reading to the sterilized "Christian fiction" (often taking place in a romanticized 19th century or among the Amish) of the Christian bookstore. This kind of reading seldom portrays realistic, present-day characters, with real questions and problems, real sin, real struggle, and real redemption. It rarely helps you to better understand your neighbour who is facing a divorce, your brother-in-law's alcoholism, your high-school aged son who feels lost and isolated, hiding a porn addiction, the bi-polar colleague with erratic behaviour, nor the homeless man you pass everyday in the street feeling guilty about. Rather, "Christian fiction" provides escapism from the realities of life in the here and now, the place God has pulled me out of eternity to live in. 

Escapism does not honour a God who determined the exact times and places where we should live.

~ 

As I've mentioned before, I found great encouragement in knowing that the prophet Daniel did a Bachelor's in literature. He was appointed to a place of influence in a foreign Kingdom after having studied the language and literature of the Chaldeans for three years.

Jesus hung out with people of all walks of life, from the despised prostitute to the hated rich tax collector, from working-class fishermen to the religious leaders of the day. He engaged with his culture, ate and drank and went to parties, and never shied away from a controversy. He cared about people. Messed up, broken, sinful people like us. He was not oblivious to the world going on around him, to the needs and struggles. He was not hiding in his holiness.

~

Literature - short stories, novels, poetry - is an amazing tool for understanding and engaging the culture we live in. Classic works of a nation's fiction, as well as current bestsellers, should be required reading for anyone hoping to impact that culture. Fiction gives us a window into understanding peoples' motivations, their world view, the history and politics which impact their way of reasoning, behaving, deciding, believing.

There will be things which disturb. You probably won't like all of the characters and wish you were like them, or even want to cheer for them. 

Fiction gives us eyes to see, ears to hear. It enables us to go where perhaps our own feet never will, to ask questions we are too embarrassed to speak out, to understand and give a frame of reference for starting a conversation.

Here. 

In the real world, with our real, broken, messy colleagues, family, neighbours, ourselves.

Now.

For such a time as this.

I am from snow boots drying upside down

I am from snow boots drying upside down on the heating vents, warm air blasting away at soggy lining.

I am from a dishwasher that hadn't worked in years and remained as an island for the microwave to rest on, the microwave dishes stored inside.

I am from "the first long lane on the right" and the house with white siding.

I am from doing the dishes with mom every Tuesday and Saturday after supper, from cooling scalding corn cobs in water in that same sink at harvest time.

I am from meat and potatoes and a vegetable on the side. I am from salt and pepper and mom's cherry pies.

I am from humid August nights and crickets hopping across my bedroom floor.

I am from lining up the marshmallows from Lucky Charms before eating, and real maple syrup from our own woods.

I am from the rich Ontario farmland, humus black and sun bright fields. 

I am from hours trailing behind the tractor picking up stones, from days on the tomatoe harvester snatching clods of dirt, weeds, and frogs off the conveyor belt.

I am from jumping in the ditch when we saw the bus coming, hiding so we wouldn't have to run to catch it. I am from huddling in the grey building to keep out of the icy wind.

I am from sliced carrots and celery every day in my lunch bag, and an apple alongside my sisters, catching up after school.

I'm from treat night on Fridays and popcorn after AWANA on Wednesday nights.

I'm from too much prime time TV and too many isolated hours after school.

I'm from sweaty gyms and a sports team for every season. I'm from cross country races in the warm autumn sun, throwing up afterwards from the exertion.

I am from bus 17, from Kindergarten to OAC, rattling around the same gravel country roads.

I am from a small town church meeting in a municipal office, from spinning in the councillors chairs after service. I am from Sunday school in the basement, filling in the ant holes of the dirt floor with the heels of my shiny Sunday shoes.

I am from an Easter and Christmas dress from Grandma and Grandpa and showing off a Grandpa with the real name "Donald Duck."

I am from "push yourself" and "hold your horses," from unspoken apologies and silent I-love-yous.

I am from Saturdays playing card games at Great Aunt Helene's. I am from Bunco and Rook and stories of the Depression.

I am from dressing up in olden days clothes, from living most of my childhood in the 19th century of my mind. I am from Ska-Nah-Doht and First Nations beadwork.

I am from beyond-class enrichment and molding a sculpture at the cultural centre.

I am from the green station wagon and packing the car-top carrier for camping trips, sent up on the roof cause I was the lightest.

I am from the Lake Erie beach, cool between my teenage toes in the evenings, writing and dreaming of life yet to come.

I am from Charles Street West and late-night runs for chocolate cake at Raba. I am from new friends in res and sleeping above my desk. I am from 5 a.m. rowing practice in the choppy darkness of Lake Ontario. 

I am from summer in St-Jos, from fires on the beach of the St. Lawrence and a circle of friends who welcomed me in.

I am from rock scree sliding in the Austrian Alps, from "don't argue, just climb" and "there's a time to be wet."

I am from les îles and sleeping in a tent for 4 months. I am from the smell of salt in the air, fresh pine forest and a transparent screen roof between me and an ocean of stars. I am from cigarette smoke Au Centrale. I am from québécois violin and guitar jam sessions late into the night.

I am from Quebec City winters and tire à l'érable. I am from cold that stings the skin around the eyes, the only bit exposed. I am from a view of the Chateau at night, debating God and politics and existentialism.

I am from German pretzels for the kids and a capuccino every morning made by my husband.

I am from crossing borders and erasing them. 

Linking up with SheLoves today - it's easy and fun, come tell us where you are from.

Why I didn't go to my university graduation

Call me a CanLit nerd, but the Giller Prize longlist came out today and that's cool.

I've always been what you might call a "nerd." I got good marks. I liked reading. I was the kind of kid who dreamt of studying at Oxford, who slogged my way through classics of English literature passed down from my seven-years-older brother when he returned home from university in the summer (for some reason I wasn't daunted by titles like Jude the Obscure and Hard Times). The other kids on Bus 17, trundling around the dusty Ontario countryside with the windows half-open and gravel ricocehting off the rattling sides, had a nickname for me: "Coolness Einstein." I was OK with it.

I don't remember anyone ever trying to help me choose a career when I was a teenager. I had a guidance counselor, but I don't recall any meetings with her or personality tests filled out, although I am sure I must have done something of this nature. I always knew which subjects in school interested me the most, and as I was at the top of my class in several subjects my teachers probably assumed I'd turn out alright and left it at that. My parents have always been supportive of whatever I have chosen to do without trying to bend my interests one way or the other.

This resulted in me leaving the farm for university in Toronto at the naive tender age of 18 without having a specific career in mind. Nor did I know what my majors would be. (We only had to decide in second year, as far as I remember, and I could change these later as well.) This all seems very namby-pamby when told to Germans, where there are 3-year apprenticeships for every kind of trade and a university student must apply for a specific program of study, having chosen her major/minor combination before taking her first class (though this can also be changed later, after a lot of wrangling with German bureaucracy and possibly changing universities).

I arrived at Victoria College in the University of Toronto in September 2000, full of romantic ideas about studying in ivy-covered walls, having signed up for five courses in five different subjects. English literature, French language, the History of European Civilization, Political Science 103 and a special first-year seminar with only 10 students taught by an esteemed professor about Renaissance Rome. It was a phenomenal first year, broad, enriching and with all the excitement of a WASP farm girl in an international metropolis (fellow residents on my floor marveled "Your grandparents lived in Canada too?!" while others corrected my pronunciation of Cal-gary).

The following year I chose a double major, but after spending my third year at Université Laval in Québec City I chose not to return to Toronto for my fourth year. I was in love with Quebec and when presented with an invitation/challenge to stay, I jumped at the chance. I changed my double major to a double minor and suddenly, just like that, I had finished my B.A. My graduation was scheduled for a few months later, on my birthday actually. I weighed the cost of the 8 hour train ride, the fact that I would not be graduating with any of my friends, and that I would only be allotted 2 tickets for guests, and decided not to attend the illustrious ceremony at Convocation Hall in Toronto.

Photo via utoronto.ca

Deciding to not get the four-year "Honours" BA was a challenging decision for my young self who had always placed a great deal of stock in my grades, measuring my self-worth by whether or not I excelled in academics. I was sent a notice to pick up a package at the post office on a cold November day in Quebec City, my boots squeaking on the narrow, hard-packed snow-path that had replaced the sidewalks. When I picked up the sturdy, flat, cardboard envelope, I knew it contained my Bachelor's degree. I didn't open it.

Not wanting to mar it, I carried the closed envelope gingerly as I tramped onwards to my intended destination, a movie theatre in the pyramide. I was a little distracted by the envelope at my feet while I watched Mona Lisa Smile in French. In the English-speaking world, graduations are a rite of passage, a big deal. I didn't celebrate mine, which felt a little strange. I wasn't sure if I should care. I winced knowingly at how the movie's motif was rather à propos to how I had bucked the expectations I had had for my own life. At the time, I thought I was giving up the possibility of ever doing a graduate degree (little did I know I would end up marrying a German, start a Master's degree 5 years later in English literature, and afterwards do my PhD in Germany where there are no 4-year B.A.s anyway. And where just getting your degree sent to you in the mail is par for the course.)

Now I can see that those hard decisions I made at 21, to "give up" my academic dreams and pride to stay in the culture I loved were a necessary part of sifting my character. I needed to learn how to not find my self-worth and value in my performance, in what I achieve, what I do. Finding my value in who I am in Christ, in being simply a child of God, looking at his promises and what his word says about me has proven to be enough, more than enough, and the only thing I can't lose when life doesn't turn out how I planned.

I find myself this week marking undergraduate term papers and attending an academic conference in Konstanz. That confused, -40 winter in Quebec City with my Bachelor's degree in a cardboard envelope at my feet, I would never have guessed I'd be here in Germany, doing this, exactly a decade later. I still have that envelope, it now houses a few more Very Important Things and has proven handy as I traipse across borders. There is an upcoming crossroads, and again my career could take several diverse turns. The pathway to your dream is not always straight or without delays, and sometimes the way you end up taking is the way that took you. Rarely is it the way you once thought would best get you there. The destination, the dream, often grows up along with you.

The closing down of summer {Bringing forth life}

This time of year, the closing down of summer (to borrow a phrase from the great Alistair Macleod, whose prose is so evocative, spare and gracious it makes me want to pack up and move to a barren Cape Breton fishing village), will probably always remind me of my babies being born. 

Two years and two weeks apart, my boy and my girl have changed my life forever for good. Tomorrow our baby girl turns one, and I am full of remembrance of her birth. 

5 days over the estimated due date after one month of pre-labour, contractions slowly building, my body preparing itself to bring forth life. I had thought she might come a few days early, simply because her brother did and because it seemed most convenient for us. Yet birthing something new rarely goes hand in hand with what is most convenient for us. 

I was happy when big brother's great day came and went, relieved that they wouldn't have the same birthday. At least a week between birthday parties, that seemed like a good idea. But as Papa's summer holidays dwindled and the start of a new school year approached, she still wasn't coming. The weekend before my husband-the-teacher returned to work, I made peace with the fact that she would come in her own time, when the season was ripe. 

My first birth had not gone as I had expected. My water broke a week before due date, slowly trickling down my bare leg as I stood in shock in the line at the university library. I was taking care of an errand, trying to return some books. Could this really be it? I actually waited my turn in line, gave the librarian the books but did not wait for my receipt like a good German, saying breathlessly "Can I just leave these here?" As quickly as I could waddle, I went up the stairs, abandoning the second task I had come for. My husband, who was parked illegally close to the door waiting for me in the car looked up from his book, saw me coming and waved cheerfully. I made some kind of frantic hand motions and when I tottered up to the open window gasped, "My water broke!" He immediately burst into tears, the softy.  

We drove home, packed a few things, showered. Called the midwife, a woman I had not yet met as mine was on holiday. She confirmed we could go to the hospital, although I was not having contractions. I'll spare you the details, but our son was not born until 42 hours later. Contractions never came on their own, and because of risk of infection labour had to be induced. 

Thus, the second time around, I was more than willing to wait patiently for my daughter to come when she was ready. I was hoping and praying contractions would start normally on their own, that my water would not break early again. I didn't do any crazy schemes to try to make labour start early. Waiting for the right timing, the right season is always the better way. 

Birthing something new will always push you to your limits, it will call forth all of your strength and stretch your capacity beyond what is comfortable or what you even think is possible. And birthing that new thing in due season is always the less painful route, requiring fewer interventions or painful procedures, fewer last-minute rescues. 

This second birth, I was much more informed about labour and also what I wanted. I had changed to a midwifery practice who were on call for me around the clock beginning 3 weeks before my due date, able to come and support me at home and thus prolonging a trip to the hospital too early. The German system does not allow for a woman to bring her own midwife to all hospitals (only some), but I was hoping to avoid the hospital altogether this time around. We had researched and prepared for a home birth. The weekend before he returned to work, my husband set up the birthing pool we borrowed from our midwives in our living room. 

On Tuesday, the second day of school, I had a check-up at my midwives' office. All quiet on the labour front. I played with my son at the playground, and after his nap in our back alley we kicked the soccer ball around in the shade. I was feeling strange, I told my son, "Mommy needs a drink of water." We went inside, I laid down, drank water, sent my husband an SMS: "Labour might be starting, but I am not sure. I feel strange. Come home as soon as you can." He came home around 5 pm while I was preparing supper, at times gripping the counter through the contractions. I shooed them out of the room to play and tidy up while I finished dinner; I needed quiet. Then I told them to eat while I laid down to see if the contractions would ease up while I rested. I took a shower; they got closer together. I called my midwife, the main thing on my mind was whether or not to call a friend to pick up our son. I thought labour was probably beginning, but surely it would take all night. We couldn't imagine it going quickly. I didn't want to send my son away too early, and I thought him being sent away at bedtime would really confuse and scare him. My midwife came 20 minutes later. Simply by observing my breathing and behaviour she could estimate how far along labour was. She planned to leave again for a few hours, and left the room to make a phone call. My husband and my son were filling the birthing tub with warm water. Suddenly contractions increased in intensity so that I needed to tönen (make deep vowel sounds with a slack jaw, to release tension) through them. My son heard me from downstairs and moaned along with me, matching my pitch. When my midwife saw this, she said she was definitely staying. 

Labour proceeded quickly. My husband put the boy to bed while I worked through the contractions in whichever position was most comfortable for me in the living room, my midwife at my side. When my husband finally joined us (doing all the bedtime routines as usual, even slowly), having not understood how fast things were progressing, it was almost time to get in the pool. He quickly lit the candles, turned on my "quiet birth songs" playlist and put towels in the oven to warm. With my husband and trusted midwife at my side, I stepped into the water. The warmth lapped away at pressure in my lower back and abdomen. There were a few moments of self-doubt, where I felt like please, can't someone else do this?, but my team reminded me that I could, I would, bring forth this life. The uterus, one of the strongest muscles in the body, which had been contracting in preparation for weeks, building up my fierce, mama-strength, pushed through and delivered her.

Twenty minutes later, less than two hours after I had called the midwife, I was able to look down in the water and see baby Annabelle Hope floating peacefully there. 

I lifted her to my chest and we breathed out our hallelujahs together.

Happy birthday baby girl.
Pic via Curtis Hildegrand Photography

She was worth the wait. Worth the 41 weeks of being knit together deep within me. More than worth every second of the stretch, the discomfort of bringing forth life.

 

In Memorium: My Austrian Spiritual Father

We had slept in the parked car since about 3 a.m. I got our almost 3 year old son out of his car seat and let him snuggle on my lap so that I would have enough room behind me to recline my seat. My husband held our daughter in his arms to give her a break from her car seat, although he was unable to sleep sitting up in our tightly packed rental car. We'd decided to undertake the 8 hour drive from my parents' place in southwestern Ontario, Canada, to Montreal overnight so our kids would sleep through it, but stopped in the parking lot of an OnRoute rest stop to (try to) sleep for a few hours. At 6 we went inside for some breakfast, to freshen up and to enjoy the free WiFi. After getting our kids settled with juice and yogurt, my husband checked his phone. I was laughing at my son's excited antics when my husband nudged me, "Look at this." His voice broke.

A friend back home in Germany had alerted us to the sudden announcement on Tauernhof's Facebook page. Hans Peter Royer, the director of Tauernhof, an mountain retreat centre and Torchbearer's Bible School in Austria, had died suddenly in a tragic paragliding accident.

a snapshot of Hans Peter from the summer of 2007
when my husband & I returned to work as guides

We were shocked. He was only 52. He was an experienced mountain guide, often rescuing others. For a few moments I wondered if it had been some kind of sick joke, how could he have passed away in the same manner as his predecessor? My heart broke for his family, knowing his daughter Lisa, with whom I had hiked when she was 8 years old, had celebrated her wedding only a few weeks before.

We held it together so our kids would not notice our sadness. Back on the road, when they were sleeping again, we shed tears and reminisced about our times at Tauernhof, where we met at Fall School in 2004, and how Hans Peter had impacted the narrative of our lives.


I first went to Tauernhof in 2002 for a mountaineering program called Upward Bound. Those six weeks truly changed my life. Never had I understood or experienced the sweetness and beauty of Christian community like that before. We were often pushed to our physical limits, hiking with heavy packs for up to a week without having a shower, sleeping in a cave 1200 m under the Dachstein mountain in utter darkness at 0 degrees. We were challenged emotionally, putting up with teammates from all over the world of various ages, abilities and personalities, with whom we had to live, cook, and sleep in tents or mountain huts (note the aforementioned lack of showering). We were forced to work together to cross glaciers, literally shouldering each others' burdens when injuries or weakness brought some teammates to their breaking point. I remember fondly the morning we woke up to find our leaders had abandoned us in the night, and we were left to make our own way down the mountain, and then run a 12 km jaunt back to a warm shower and a real bed. My time at Tauernhof taught me that, by God's grace, I am capable of loving other people, even those whom at first impression I thought would drive me crazy, whom I judged and wrote off as uncool or too cool. That I can learn something from everyone.

entering the cave

In those six weeks I learned things that have shaped me continually since then, though I have to admit forgetting how profoundly my character, my outlook and beliefs, were formed in the Austrian Alps. Once we got back home to Germany a week ago, I spent a jet lagged night reading through my journal from that summer in 2002, my first time in Europe. My 20 year old musings are at times cute, painfully embarrassing (I was just getting to know myself), at times profound and still true. And such a reminder of God's faithfulness. Reading through this old journal reminded me that the roots of all the spiritual growth I have known as an adult go down to the cold mountain stream that runs through Schladming and the teachings of HP.

I don't want to try to tell Hans Peter's story here. I can't. Not only is it not mine to tell, hundreds of people knew him better than I did. HP's ministry, not only at Tauernhof but traveling and speaking all over the world, has touched tens of thousands of lives. But he is part of my story, for whom I will be forever grateful. His strong leadership, blunt manner and challenging messages called out to the best within me. He stirred up my desire to grow and change, he made me want to "live a life worthy of the calling you have received" in Christ Jesus. Many students seemed a little bit afraid of him, intimidated by his expertise in the mountains and straightforward Austrian ways. But I saw the twinkle in his eye, the sarcasm and fun behind his rather stoic exterior. I wrote in my journal back then, "If he wasn't so demanding, I wouldn't be confident enough to do all these things [in the mountains]. The staff are totally not about babying us, especially Hans Peter. He just presses on, you don't have a choice or time to think or worry, just go. It's so good, no time to fear." One of the strategies of the program was not to reveal much about what activities we would actually be doing in the course, in order to simulate real life (we do not truly know what the next day will hold), teaching us trust, spontaneity and shaking us out of our desire to control our lives and circumstances.

spot the hut we were headed for...

I remember a particularly painful day in the climbing garden by Hofpürglhütte. I was new to rock climbing, and trying to find my footing wearing big hiking boots on the slick rocks was proving nearly impossible. I was complaining to my belayer why it wasn't working and Hans Peter hollered from a nearby peak, "Don't argue, just climb!" Even after HP scurried over to try to help me, I failed to make it to the top of the route. I fought back hot stinging tears while others took their turns. I was embarrassed and felt terrible, being someone who had always put her self-esteem and value in what she could achieve. Later I wrote in my journal "HP had tried to help me and I felt like I had failed him." But with the encouragement of others and knowing I would only feel better if I got up and conquered something, I completed the Klettersteig and went on with the day, proud to have overcome failure and fear. I'll never forget his words, it meant a lot to me that he noticed me and pushed me to go beyond my comfort zone to achieve what I guess he somehow knew that I could. Others told me later they would have been embarrassed if he had hollered at them like that, or perhaps found him too challenging. But for me, I needed that and it stirred me up to want to achieve the potential he saw in me.

Another day in that same climbing garden, with Heli sitting in the top spot

"Don't argue, just climb" became my motto in the following years, as I tried to stop arguing with God about all the reasons why I can't or don't want to do things and instead get on with obeying him, stepping out in trust. I hadn't thought about that now in a few years, but HP's wisdom has proven timely again.

We were all impressed with the stoic confidence of his children in the mountains. Lisa who told me, "God gave us legs to use them" as she cheerily hiked about 10 hours uphill with us. Lukas as an 11-year-old, helping us slow, somewhat scared, 20-somethings through a wind tunnel in the cave which blew out our lights, telling us in a semi-bored sounding Austrian accent, "I am coming, give me your bag."

I remember him teaching on death in the context of Ecclesiastes, quoting Psalm 90:12 and Amos 4:12, telling us to be prepared for and comfortable with it. Hans Peter told us, "We aren't afraid of dying as much as dying without having really lived." I think everyone would agree, Hans Peter was a man who really lived. And he read us a quote which I took down in my journal, "I depart from this life like a little boy running home from school."

Hans Peter truly was a spiritual father to me, his teaching and timely guidance forever changed me and the course of my life. Tauernhof taught me to love the local church and directed the passion I had for Jesus. We loved you HP and grieve with your beautiful wife and children. Thank you Hannelore, Lukas, Lisa and Eva for sharing him with all of us. His legacy lives on in the thousands of lives he touched, and the millions of lives they will in turn reach.

"But as for you, continue in what you have learned and have become convinced of, because you know those from whom you learned it."

2 Timothy 3:14