They're just things. {The end of decluttering}

With our inter-continental move coming up in two weeks (what?!) we finally had our big Flohmarkt (yard sale) on the weekend. We had an amazing group of friends help us out with setting up and keeping me sane while my husband had fun haggling over prices with neighbours and strangers. (Who has fun doing that? An introvert's hell. I cracked under the pressure of the two older ladies who arrived early while my husband was on a coffee run.) Two of my dear sisters-in-law came down for the weekend and gave the kids the time of their lives, caring for them so well, taking them out swimming all day and singing them a harmonized lullaby.

As we are only moving across the pond with 4 suitcases and shipping a few boxes, we have sold most of our furniture and belongings over the past few months. On Saturday, several people asked me if I felt sad seeing our stuff walking off in the hands of others.

I said, "No. It's a relief."

Partly because no appliances could be brought along, needing an adapter and a transformer, plus the cost of shipping made that an easy decision. Partly because much of it was stuff we no longer used, books we had no time to re-read, ill-fitting clothes, furniture we can't bring on a plane and is not worth its weight to ship. Our tastes have changed and we look forward to decorating a new home slowly, hopefully choosing very carefully and hunting for good deals rather than taking everything we were offered for free (as we did as newlyweds) or buying whatever was cheapest (as we did as newlywed students). What we had been planning and preparing for for months was finally reality, and it is good to see progress.

I've been writing a lot around here (and here and here and here) about decluttering over the past few months. I've found it freeing. I've found it shocking (to see how much we really have accumulated that we don't often use or like). So many times when we've sold something my husband and I both agree "wow, it looks better now without that." Our almost-4-year-old son has dealt remarkably well with seeing things go, taking it in stride when we reassure him that his favourite toys will come along, and explaining that that lamp doesn't fit on the plane.

I did have a bout of sadness six months ago about leaving behind our couch, the one piece of furniture we longed for through years and carefully picked out only 2.5 years ago. I love it, it's comfortable, and it would've lasted til our children brought their boy/girlfriends home to meet us (how long my mom always told us our couches had to last when we were jumping on them). And we are taking some things with us -- I would be sad if our suitcases of current clothing and favourite books didn't arrive, quite at a loss if my boxes full of PhD research got lost, and utterly devastated if something happened to my children's baby books. There's nothing wrong with having a comfortable, inviting home where people feel welcomed, we hope to set up one of those in Montreal when we arrive. There's nothing wrong with enjoying the things we love and find beautiful and useful.

But the main reason I didn't feel sad when selling much of what we've owned is that they're just things. They are. Just stuff.

So many people have lost everything in fires, tornadoes, floods, war. Suddenly. They didn't have a year to carefully pare down their excess baggage like I've had. They didn't get to choose the best and most beloved toys for their children to keep to give them a sense of familiarity when all else around them changes.

Best friends.

What does make me tear up over these last few weeks is imagining how to help my son say goodbye to his best friend. I cry about leaving behind the beloved friend who is so kind to my children, that there will be no one in our new city who has known them from birth. That there will be German family parties and celebrations where our places will be missing. People matter. Eternal things matter.

I hope I'll never set my heart or hopes on my furniture, my technology, my trinkets, my status symbols, whether they be clothes that flatter or books that reflect my interests or decorative items that show I'm hip. I hope I can enjoy the gifts God gives, create a home that welcomes and offers comfort, but keep my heart truly at home in heaven, in eternal things. I hope I will be willing to give things I have to people who need them, without a wince. I hope I'll always trust the One who has provided thus far to provide again. I hope I'll always be willing to sell all I have to follow Him.

Feeling lighter all the time {Decluttering, Part 4}

As I head into sorting my bookshelves and binders full of class notes, reducing more stuff, I am thinking about what I really need to keep. I came across this blog about reducing your stuff as the path to pursuing what you really want to do in life. The author brings up a point I hadn't thought about lately -- why it is we gather so much stuff in the first place.

We buy new things all the time with the promise it will free us up. We’ll feel better about ourselves and our lives. We’ll have more fun, be less insecure, have more friends, and just generally be happier. And truth be told, stuff does tend to mask my insecurity and unhappiness for awhile.
But then, when the buzz fades, I’m more insecure and unhappy than I was before I had the stuff.

It might seem obvious to you, but I hadn't really thought about it so bluntly: we buy stuff to make us happy. Or perhaps, I never realized this was not just something "other people" did, it also applied to me. I have not done any actual research into consumerism or hoarding or shopping, but reading Allison's words here resonated with me: 

I’ve had to confront my insecurity and tendency to compare myself with others by healing it rather than masking it with new furniture or clothes.

I remember buying a new dress for an event a couple of years ago (with a red theme, mind you. Not my choice as I had nothing red, not even an accessory). Even though I had no plans of doing so, at the last minute I ordered a red dress, simply because I heard a few other girlfriends were doing it. Looking back at our financial state at the time, I should not have been buying any new clothes. I knew better. But I let the subconscious comparison with others, or insecurity about what I would wear, motivate a choice.

When thoughts of this intercontinental shift began to get serious last spring, our monthly "house and garden" budget line in our zero-based budget went down to zero. And it felt good.

It felt so good to escape from the rat race of keeping up with what our friends have. We say we don't compare ourselves to others, but truly? When you see their nice dining table and chairs, its hard not to want to replace the hand-me-down one that's been known to fall apart at times over the past 8 years. When someone the same age or at the same stage of life as me [or, horrors, younger or less educated than me] has a nicer home or nicer things, some subconscious thought made me feel "I should have that, too."

We quit that race two years ago and I regularly fight against that deep inner sense of entitlement that wants to push me back on the hamster wheel. I love the freedom of being off the wheel, trying to live with less, on less, to be able to do more and bless more. I have tasted the freedom of encouraging others instead of being jealous or tearing them down, the freedom and peace that comes from contentment rather than comparison.

This past year we have not invested anything into our home, furniture etc. because we knew we would be moving. (Actually I did buy cute napkins a few times. Truth.) It has freed up money but also our thoughts. No longer scheming about what to buy next, how long to save up for something, or keeping a list of things we want.

We've sold things online. We've given stuff away to friends, we've traded babysitting for books and furniture with some uni students we know well (win-win-win!).  I am feeling lighter all the time.
Like pretty soon I could walk on water.

Brave girls run in our family.

------
This post is part of a little series on stuff and decluttering. See links to posts one, two and three.

Decluttering house, mind, and soul {Part 1}

In anticipation of our Big Move this summer, this week I've been relentlessly sorting and pricing stuff to sell at the Kinderbasar held by our local Kindergarten this weekend. We've been hosting parties and giving away DVDs and books that weren't worth selling on Amazon, posting ads and getting stuff picked up. We've been stealthy; so far the kids haven't even noticed anything missing as we pare down their book selection, unused toys and outgrown clothes.

Where did all this stuff come from?  It wasn't always this way.

When I as 21, I lived in a tent in the woods for 3 months with only a backpack's belongings.

Here, in the raw, windswept beauty of the Îles-de-la-Madeleine (even their name is beautiful). It had been a dream of mine to visit this archipelago of tiny islands in the Golf of St-Lawrence since I had discovered their existence about 3 years prior. I've always had a thing for maritime culture: the boats, the fishing villages, the ocean, the céilidh kitchen parties of Canada's East Coast provinces, the fiddle music and boisterous singing. The smell of salt water in the air, the feeling of sand between my toes, and the ethereal glow of moonlight on the water.

Even better, these islands belong to Quebec and are (save two tiny anglophone communities within the archipelago) about 96% French-speaking. I was hooked. During my year studying at Université Laval I made some friends from the islands who kindly and generously invited me into their circle of friends, helping me to find a job and figure out the logistics of a summer in their islands.

So I spent 3 months that summer living in a tiny North Face 2-person backpackers tent. It was perfect. A colleague at the vacation center where I worked helped me (that is, I mostly watched him) construct a raised bed of sand under my tent, and we strung a large tarp from the trees branches above, meaning that no rain ever touched it all summer long. I had chosen an isolated spot in the woods down a barely-there path, not near any of the other summer employees also living in tents, as I prized my sleep and privacy.

I slept breathing in the crisp salty-pine air. Upon hearing this, Europeans ask me about animals (they are convinced bears stalk every Canadian's daily life); there are none larger than a house cat on the islands, so that was not a worry to me. My biggest problem was finding my nearly invisible path to my tent in the dark when I would return from an evening out and had, yet again, forgotten my flashlight. Stumbling over underbrush with arms stretched straight out, the glow-in-the-dark zip pull on my tent faithfully guided me home.

I loved the freedom of waking up in the morning, maybe going for a dip in the ocean if I had time, pulling on some clothes (my belongings, which could fit into a large hiking backpack all laid out beside my sleeping bag in the "second person" sleeping spot in the tent), walking up to the campground showers to freshen up for the day. Eating in the restaurant at an employee discount and being immediately at work. It was a little-to-no-makeup/jewelry summer, a few outfits, a few books and my journal. I caught rides to the main island with friends or we hitchhiked. A friend's family let me stay with them when I needed to, I must have done all my laundry there.  It was a simple life, and the lack of possessions to maintain and bills to pay was incredibly freeing (especially to a student-loan-debt plagued young graduate).

It was a summer of sun, sand, sea, and wind. When I returned to the City at the end of 3 and a half months, quickly, via a two-hour plane ride rather than the 24-hour drive by which I got to the islands, I was hit with culture shock. So many buildings. So many advertisements and billboards. So many things. To buy. To pay off. To house. To clean.
So much materialism.

Back then, I wished I could live in that simple, clutter-free island summer bubble forever.

Part one of a little series...

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.

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.

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

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?

On Soul Friends and driving 3 hours to give up your bedroom

There's something special about the friendships forged in your early 20s, in those formative adult years when you are discovering who you are apart from your parents and siblings and hometown. When you actually start to choose your friends, rather then being semi-forced into friendships with those who happen to be in your school class, or live on your street, or the children of your parents' friends.

An old friend is going to drive 1.5 hours to pick us up from the airport in Toronto on Friday evening, then take us the 1.5 hours back to his home where he and his wife are going to give up their bedroom to hunker down with their 2 tots so we can crash with them for 2 nights. (Oh, and did I mention the jet-lagged baby and unpredictable almost-3-year-old we're bringing along? Saints is what these people are.) 

I lived in the same residence (Canadian-speak for "dorm") with Jayden for our first two years of university at Vic. Since then we have kept in touch sporadically, my husband I visited him a few times on our returns to Ontario, we were thrilled to meet his lovely wife Amie when she came along. (She's an amazing photographer, check her out! Shameless plug.) We four have seen each other only once or twice over the past 4 years, but manage to have deep soul chats when we do, encouraging and speaking life over each other. Some call these kinds of friends "a friend to your destiny."

The ivy-covered walls of our residence building and dining hall at Vic

I have lately been amazed at the close bond I still feel with old friends my 18-23-year-old self ma de back in university and during my first travels in Europe. Even though we only spent a short time together (3 months at Tauernhof or in Greece in some cases; 1 or 2 years at uni in Toronto or Quebec City with others), somehow we still stay in touch (with a helping hand from social media). There is still a strong level of trust and appreciation; we deeply value each other. You don't stay in touch with everyone, of course, but those with whom your spirit resonates, with whom your heart really connected. There is a bond there that transcends borders and oceans, marriage and kids and a decade. We don't talk often; we may rarely even directly address one another on said social media. But we lurk follow, we keep up, we still care, and when the chance to see one another again comes, we take it and it is like the intervening ten years were only a few months.

From the ages of 18-23 I was very nomadic; I moved every 4-8 months. I lived in numerous cities, apartments, residences, and in a tent on the Îles-de-la-Madeleine for two summers. I met a lot of brilliant people, who I am still honoured to know and rejoice when our paths cross.  

What about you, do you agree that the friendships forged in your young adult years (circa 18-24) were the strongest? Or does it have more to do with being in a life-changing place/formative experience and less to do with age?

Old Vic, across the quad from home during my first two years of university