I left there, but I'm not here yet.

"To leave one's country to go
and live in another country
in inferior conditions,
that is, without a safety net
and without recourse of return
to one's native land,
this seems to me to be the last great
human adventure.

I have to explain that people don't eat
the same food,
they don't dress
in the same manner,
they don't dance to the same rhythms,
they don't have the same smells
or the same accents,
and they certainly don't dream
the same way,
but it's up to me to adapt.

I have to explain it all in a language
that is not the one my mother speaks.
That's what traveling means.

[...]

I left there,
but I'm not
here yet.
Be patient, young man, it's only been a year.

I can't tell you
exactly when this city
ceased being a foreign city
for me.
Perhaps when I stopped looking at it."

Dany Laferrière, A Drifting Year (original French version: Chronique de la dérive douce)

I saved this excerpt as a draft in Blogger exactly 1 year and 1 day ago. About two weeks before we arrived in Montreal. While I was packing up my office in our house in Germany, taking notes on this novel for my dissertation.

Laferrière's writing is beautiful and painful, and I knew it would describe my experience in the year to come. I haven't opened Blogger in a year. But I knew this excerpt was here, waiting.

The first month in Montreal, I truly didn't have time to think much less blog or reflect. Each evening was spent apartment hunting, trying to figure out where to buy groceries, and clothes, and school supplies. And find a school for my son at all.

In the fall, I thought about blogging a little. But could only think of all the comparisons I would make between Montreal and Konstanz, Quebec and Germany, North American and European life and cultural norms. How some readers would laugh and nod in agreement. And others would be offended and think, "go back where you came from!"

Then the winter rolled in and with it all kinds of struggles. Finding our feet in my old-new land has been challenging. I had no desire to process it all on the internet. We went to far-away trusted friends and mentors for counsel. We changed our minds about some things. We made some mistakes. We learned. We clung to God alone. Not even close friends or church to cling to now.

We bought our first home, a tiny urban condo smaller than the last 2 homes we've had. Just a bit bigger than the 1-bedroom half-basement that housed us for the first 5 years of our marriage. I've plugged away at my dissertation in the midst of it all, and the end is in sight. My son learned to ride a bike, and understand French, and sing in Spanish. My daughter went from a baby to a fiercely independent child, diaper-free and talking a blue streak. We've made a surprisingly large network of contacts in different neighbourhoods, churches, schools. We've made some decisions, coming back to our true selves and defining our core values.

These last few months, I've realized I miss writing, and am starting to feel free enough to do it again in this space.

I write this on the eve of our first trip back "home" to that beautiful lake and city that nurtured us for 9 years. Where we got engaged, and grew up, and learned to open up in community. City of our children's births.

I guess you could say our feet have found the ground now in Montreal.
When we get back, they can start to grow roots.

Be patient, it's only been a year.

Freedom from the Career vs. Calling trap {Book Review}

"In the Christian view, the way to find your calling is to look at the way you were created. Your gifts have not emerged by accident, but because the Creator gave them to you. [...] What if you're struggling under and unfair boss or a tedious job that doesn't take advantage of all your gifts? It's liberating to accept that God is fully aware of where you are at any moment and that by serving the work you've been given you are serving him." 

(Every Good Endeavor: Connecting Your Work to God's Work by Timothy Keller, 241)

Over the course of my 20s, I went through a lot of angst about "career" vs. "calling". I had two desires within me -- to pursue academic studies and a "secular" career, in the jargon many Christians use, and the strong desire to help others find the joy, peace, and hope I have found in following Jesus. I hadn't had much career advice in my life, I more or less knew my strengths and I knew what I was interested in, but could always imagine a great variety of careers or "ministry" roles I would be happy in. I had the luxury and privilege most women in the world today don't have: choice. I had many options before me: travel to different countries, fields of study, pursuing paid work or volunteering, getting married or not, having kids or not, working or not. Sometimes I found these choices more bewildering than freeing. 

I sought counsel. I tried things out. I failed at things and, especially thanks to my husband's unflagging support and belief in me, picked myself up again and kept going. Even though I had always been interested in studying literature and writing, for too long I believed somehow that the humanities weren't important enough. ("Not that kind of doctor.") I didn't yet know that narrative could save lives, that stories change the world. I doubted doing a Master's, wondered if I should just spend that time and energy volunteering at church. This inner battle between "career" and "calling" led to a lot of worries, heartache, indecision, guilt and angst.

If I had read Tim Keller's Every Good Endeavor 10 years ago, it would have saved me a lot of grief. I started the book in January and could. not. put. it. down. 

The foreward by Katherine Leary Alsdorf grabbed me by the throat (I read it online and immediately downloaded the Kindle edition of the book). Someone was actually, finally verbalizing and addressing the questions I'd had rolling around in my subconscious about work, career and calling. 

"For the next decade, I served in executive leadership in several entrepreneurial tech companies in New York City, Europe, and Silicon Valley. In each job and each day I wrestled with what it means to be “called to serve God” as a leader in business. Redeemer and its senior pastor, Tim Keller, had given me good grounding. I’d learned that I was supposed to be changed by the gospel of Jesus Christ and therefore be “used by God” in my relationships with others, and maybe even be distinctive in the way I led companies. Nice concepts, but what did they look like in practice? The models were few and often seemed remnants of an age when most of America went to church. One CEO would share that he kept a Bible on his desk and that occasionally someone in the company would ask about it. Another prayed and the company thrived. Many viewed their corporate jobs primarily as a means to make lots of money to give away to charities and organizations they cared about. When I asked pastors and businesspeople how their faith related to their work, they often answered that a Christian's primary, if not sole, mission in the workplace was to evangelize those with whom they worked. But most business people would quickly add that evangelism was not one of their gifts. And none of these approaches addressed the issue of how Christians' faith should affect the way they worked." (12)

Keller's book goes far beyond these common, thin models of integrating faith and work and provides a thick, relevant theology of work. I was all "yes" and "amen" and highlighting. Keller addresses why we work--not as a punishment given to Adam after he ate the forbidden fruit, but that work is good, that Adam and Eve worked alongside God in the garden before "the fall." We get to work, to create, to contribute to society. Keller addresses God's Plan for Work, Our Problems with Work and the Gospel and Work. 

"The question must now be 'How, with my existing abilities and opportunities, can I be of greatest service to other people, knowing what I do of God's will and of human need?'" (67)

"Christians are to be fully engaged at work as whole persons, giving their minds, hearts and bodies fully to doing the best job possible on the task at hand." (214)

Too often in Christian circles there is a glorification of "church work", whether volunteer or paid, that being in the church building 24/7 is somehow better than doing any other kind of work. Yet it was Martin Luther who so profoundly preached the value and equality of all kinds of work. 

"First, if religious works were crucial to achieving a good standing with God, then there would always be a fundamental difference between those in church ministry and everyone else. But if religious work did absolutely nothing to earn favor with God, it could no longer be seen as superior to other forms of labor." (73)

 Keller writes so poignantly, 

"There may be no better way to love your neighbor, whether you are writing parking tickets, software, or books, than to simply do your work. But only skillful, competent work will do. [...] all jobs--not merely so-called helping professions--are fundamentally ways of loving your neighbor. Christians do not have to do direct ministry or nonprofit charitable work in order to love others through their jobs. " (76, 79) 

Keller gives insight in how to work for the glory of God and good of all people in many different vocations, often specifically dealing with higher education, artists and writers, of particular interest to me, but many other examples as well.

"So Christians are free to study the world of human culture in order to know more of God; for as creatures made in His image we can appreciate truth and wisdom wherever we find it." (182)

I highly recommend every person to read this book, whether you are in a "secular" or "ministry" job, stay-at-home parent, in the service industry, farmer, educator, in a helping profession, business executive, student or entrepreneur -- this book is for everyone. Keller's insight into the value of ALL kinds of work just might change your entire outlook on what you do each day. It is essential for the Church to value and understand the theology of work as Keller elucidates it and encourage its people how to live and work in this gospel freedom. This book is a game changer.

Review of: 
Every Good Endeavor: Connecting Your Work to God's Work by Timothy Keller (2012)
Amazon Affiliate Link used. If you buy the book by clicking on this link, you will not pay anything extra but I will receive a tiny subsidy to help finance this blog.

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.

The mystery and drama of the everyday extraordinary

Narrative helps us have eyes to see each other.

I love how author Alix Ohlin, in this post about her collection of short stories Signs and Wonders, explains how poignant and fitting a short story can be as a means of exploring our everyday lives and connecting to people.

In the stories I write, the people tend to be flawed, to make or have made mistakes -- because I think that's true of most of us. Nobody's perfect all the time, after all, and if they were, we'd have no need to tell stories about them. Real people struggle to connect with the people around them, even those they love the most.

And that's my main theme as a writer: the necessity and difficulty of the connections between people, how they sometimes break, how they can be sustained. I'm fascinated by the problems we have relating to other people -- their agendas, their emotional histories, their inner lives -- even as we crave intimacy with them.

There's something about a short story that is perfectly suited to exploring the mystery and drama of what we call, misleadingly I think, "ordinary life." (Because nobody's life is ordinary when you look at it closely.) In a short story, you don't usually cover a massive span of time or multiple generations of a family, say, the way a novel does. You can, however, do justice to the small moments that somehow become turning points in people's lives.

Our creative geniuses are looking for stories to come out of the fabric of our church. I hope this sets a few minds humming. We can use story, our stories, our creative stories, to connect to the real, raw, everyday extraordinary, to tell the greater Story.

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.

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

Sense of Space

"The sense of space might have triggered lighter emotions, less depressing thoughts, a sense of well-being."  Dionne Brand, What We All Long For (261)

Brand's novel refers to a downtown Toronto housing project lacking in any landscaping or foliage to ease weary urban eyes, what the sight of some flowers could have done to increase the sense of space the tightly-packed residents had. I find myself on the farm I grew up in in southwestern Ontario, Canada as I write these words. Surrounded by corn, soybeans, mown wheat fields, and no lack of native flora and fauna. Crickets and grasshoppers twirr in the humid night air. Earlier we were privy to a fantastic thunder and light show, the better part of an hour of torrential rain and skies repeatedly lit up like the day. It is 1:54 a.m. My late night imperative to write can not be blamed on jet lag. Our 6 hours ahead caused my little family to go to bed early and our bright-eyed baby to awaken us all at 4:30 a.m. for the first four days, eager to crawl and test her standing legs. But we've been in North America for over a week now, thus adjusted and truly I should be asleep. 

Yet I am awake and must write, writing has been pent up in my bones amidst days filled with children's games and squabbles, swimming pools and BBQs, steaks and corn on the cob. Traveling from one sibling's home to another, evenings after my generation's offspring are finally in bed spent catching up on two years of lives lived. We've been crossing borders; national, parental, traditional, faithful. How can four children of the same parents, living in one house on the same plot of land til their 18th birthdays, have developed so differently? We all share the Christian faith, a conviction of God as our Father, Jesus as our Saviour and the Holy Spirit as our Comforter and Empowerer. Yet we manifest quite a wide range of the expressions of that faith. This could lead to tensions and disputes, concerns and arguments, hurt feelings and misunderstandings. I want to choose to see this diversity as a beautiful, life-giving thing. There is space in this upside-down Kingdom for difference, for the beauty and complexity that we see embodied in each person, image-bearer of our beautifully complex, multi-faceted God.

Space, a sense of space in the family of Jesus-followers is what we all need. Space to be who we long to be, the deep calls out to deep inside us, to follow the nudges and Spirit whispers. Freedom from boxed in, pre-conceived ideas of who we ought to be, who others got used to perceiving us as, perhaps from what was inherited or passed down; free from labels, taunts, childhood insecurities.

A post card sent to my great-grandmother in 1906.

I love my family and am deeply grateful for them, for who they are, what they have given me and still give me. We have all settled geographically apart from one another, flung from west coast to middle America to Europe. The longer we live apart, the more we adapt to and are influenced by our cultures, be they national, church, political, or socio-demographic cultures. We find our place. The common bond of family runs deeper than this land on which we were raised, which our ancestors worked for inch by inch, struggling and straining to hold down the family farm, to keep the bank at bay. This hard-fought land may one day be sold to others, our generation having found our niches elsewhere. The family name may vanish and be forgotten from this farming community of which I, the youngest and last to go, have not been a part for almost 15 years now. But loss of land will not weaken the bond, will not change what makes us family, for better, for worse. Through email and Skype, rather than the leather post cards my great-grandmother received, we'll keep checking in, keep loving each other. 

A leather post card my great-grandmother received 1906

We do not have to think, act, decide, spend money, believe, play or work the same to be family. We do not have to be uniform to belong to this great, colourful, eclectic family of God, but if we give each other a sense of space to be who we are our lungs with fill, our chests will rise and we'll be able to fling our arms back in the warm summer rain, inhale the lush moist night, find our footsteps, and dance. 

On making the first move

Thinking about friendships from my early 20s -- when you're still in college or university, perhaps part of some kind of team or club, or you meet people while traveling the world -- got me thinking about how it is often harder to make friends later in life. I know many people who are very lonely when they move to a new city to start a job, or they buy a house and move to a new neighbourhood. A single friend recently told me she was suprised that I could be lonely, since I have a husband and kids, but married or not, everyone needs friends. 

When I first moved to Germany, I was very lonely. Yes, I had my fiancé, but I had moved to a new city in a new country, nowhere near any friends or family. The culture shock was rough, learning a third language was rough. I remember sitting in a pub one night with my husband and some of his childhood friends. After some initial greetings, no one talked to me all night. I sat there at the table becoming ever more stone-like, while inside I was sinking into a mess of despair and self-pity. I could speak only a little German back then, I couldn't follow the conversation and no one was brave enough to try speaking English with me (Germans tend to be very humble about their English speaking skills and are often shy to use it, though most can speak well or at least enough to have a conversation). Perhaps they thought I didn't like them or was some kind of snob (I was actually told this by a few people in my early days in Germany). It wasn't that I didn't want to talk to anyone, but I just COULDN'T SPEAK GERMAN! Some judged me as being too quiet/reserved/boring. This was a very hard season of my life. As anyone who has moved to a place where they don't (yet) speak the language will tell you, it feels like you have lost your personality, your sense of who you are. Normally talkative and outgoing in social settings, for a year or so I was quiet, simply because I didn't have the words. 


I had to find my personality again in this new culture and outwork it in my new language. Over that first difficult year and a half, I often got stuck in self-pity and depression. I felt that a lot of things weren't fair, that I had given up everything while my husband had to give up, seemingly, nothing. I couldn't see how the dreams I had had for my life would ever be realised and felt like I had forsaken my calling. I was working a job I did not enjoy, and we were on a shoestring budget while old friends back in Canada were going on with their careers and buying their first homes in their mid-20s. (In Germany, families often rent their whole lives or only buy a home in their late 30s or older.)  I was sure of my husband, but not of anything else. I had to learn that it was up to me to choose to guard my thoughts, to choose not to compare myself with others, to choose to stop thoughts like "It's not fair!" Nope, it wasn't "fair," but I chose this life, I love my husband and for better or for worse, I knew that for a season at least I was in Germany. I could choose to plant myself in the present, put down roots where I was without knowing how long we would live in Konstanz, rather than wishing I was somehwere else. For my own mental health, for my marriage, I had to choose life and joy and freedom.


Living in Germany has taught me, an introvert at heart, to get over myself and some of my fears, to do things I naturally wouldn't. (Still working on my hatred of talking on the phone...I heart you email & Whatsapp!) During my first year here, I was often annoyed that locals did not initiate conversations with me at church or in other social settings (that storm cloud look in my eye probably didn't shout out a welcoming come on over!) I thought, hey, I am the foreigner here, they should be coming to me, they should be asking me how I am doing and offering to help me.

German culture is just not (generally) as open and outgoing as in North America. People do not often talk to strangers in the street or in shops or playgrounds, they tend to be more guarded and contained. (Except if you break a rule like jaywalking, or not having a light on your bike. Then people feel at ease to give you a piece of their mind, especially the +60 generation. I came home in tears several times that first year after being yelled at by a stranger, often for doing something I didn't know was wrong, and we honestly had no money to fix that bike light!) Germans are lovely, warm, generous people when you get to know them, but it usually takes some time for them to open up or to call you a friend. 

After some time, I realized I would have to make the first move if I wanted friends. With all of my mom friends, even some friends from our church, which is a very open and friendly environment, I can remember clearly making the first move. When I read Emily's post on meeting mom friends in your city, I was reminded of how I met one of my current closest friends at the kids' wading pool in a large local park. It was two years ago, when our son was 11 months old and wanting to practise walking around holding our fingers all the time. I noticed among the busy crowd of kids and parents another baby at the exact same developmental stage as my son, and his beautiful Asian mom. She just LOOKED like my kind of girl. (You know how you are just "attracted" to your friends and sense you will click with someone?) So I strategically led my toddling son over closer to them and struck up conversation (probably something like "Is he almost one too?" or "Oh he's cute" or "My son does that too..."). Turns out her baby he was a she, but I didn't let that embarassing slip daunt me and persevered. She and her German husband had just moved into our neighbourhood from China and were very open for new friendships. Our husbands and kids also hit it off and they are some of our best friends now. 

A quiet morning at the wading pool, June 2012

God's grace and learning to control my thought-life totally turned my life around in Germany. Now it is home. We love our city, we have a large social network and good friends. Interesting studies and career opportunities fell in my lap and my husband got a much sought after position teaching at a local school after he finished his studies. We have been so blessed. I still have to be very intentional about making new friends and maintaining my friendships. In the busyness of life, and with the natural hermit tendancies that I have, it is easy to not call, not hang out, not have meaningful friendships. Especially in winter, I find it easy to stay home, sit and wait for someone else to call me, to invite me over. This still does not happen as much as I would like and I can either wallow in self-pity, complain about always having to make the first move... or, for the sake of my sanity and friendships I can get over myself and choose to reach out to that other friend. We're both always glad I did.

Tell me, do you feel like you always have to make the first move? I hate it too (introverts unite!), but if you are feeling lonely or frustrated in your friendships, I encourage you to try it. Germans, want to weigh in on how I have represented your culture?