- Published on
I wrote this over 15 years ago. Sharing today for Mothers' Day.
The elevator door opens. I step inside and hold the “door open” button for other shoppers coming in with their carts and packages. It is an impatient door and waits for no one unless held.
As I look up, I see my mother looking at me over the heads of the other passengers. I am surprised to see her and smile.
Then I am confused. It is her, but it is not her. She’s had her hair cut short like mine.
And I realize that I am looking at myself in a mirrored wall.
Although I feel foolish, I am also strangely pleased by this. It is comforting to know that my mother is so close.
The elevator stops and I hold the door open while the other shoppers leave. I look over and see that my mother is doing the same thing.
*
From my father I have a name as a family identifier. But from my mother I don’t need one, so many other things identify me as her daughter. They become greater as I grow older. My voice, my face, my gestures. I’m even getting plump around the middle in the same way she has.
My mother has four sisters. Although they are each very different they share many characteristics. I find that I share them too.
The ache in my hands is the same arthritic ache that mom and sister Grace have. My hair texture is smooth like mom and Mary’s.
Sometimes when the sisters are together they bicker at each other. But sometimes they laugh and laugh so hard until they cannot speak and no one remembers what was so funny in the first place. When I am with my mother I can laugh like that too.
People who know my mother or her family know me instantly. The turn of my head, my small mouth. “So lovely, just like your mother,” they say and smile approvingly, as if I have somehow deliberately carried on the good family tradition so very important in Japanese culture.
I could be her mirror image. I am certainly a reflection of her. But like a reflection, backward, opposite. Opposite and the same. Like she and her mother.
Mother tells me that she and her sisters were always proud to be recognized as their mother’s daughters. I have learned to be proud of my mother too. And I wonder; when she looks at me does she also see her mother in the mirror?
*
Her eyes are closed. She turns her face up toward mine and I cradle it in my hand. She smiles at me. So trusting.
She doesn’t flinch as I begin with these pointy metal tweezers near her eyes. Her skin is so soft. Eyelid skin especially, stretching out as I pluck. Poing, poing. And we laugh together at a particularly stubborn hair that stre-e-e-e-etches her lid before releasing its hold.
I look down at her in wonder. This is how I must have looked to her long ago—face upturned, trusting.
I am happy I can do this small task for her as she attended to me for so many years. And she is pleased. Her bifocals, she explains, make it difficult for her to see her eyebrows in the mirror.
The elevator door opens. I step inside and hold the “door open” button for other shoppers coming in with their carts and packages. It is an impatient door and waits for no one unless held.
As I look up, I see my mother looking at me over the heads of the other passengers. I am surprised to see her and smile.
Then I am confused. It is her, but it is not her. She’s had her hair cut short like mine.
And I realize that I am looking at myself in a mirrored wall.
Although I feel foolish, I am also strangely pleased by this. It is comforting to know that my mother is so close.
The elevator stops and I hold the door open while the other shoppers leave. I look over and see that my mother is doing the same thing.
*
From my father I have a name as a family identifier. But from my mother I don’t need one, so many other things identify me as her daughter. They become greater as I grow older. My voice, my face, my gestures. I’m even getting plump around the middle in the same way she has.
My mother has four sisters. Although they are each very different they share many characteristics. I find that I share them too.
The ache in my hands is the same arthritic ache that mom and sister Grace have. My hair texture is smooth like mom and Mary’s.
Sometimes when the sisters are together they bicker at each other. But sometimes they laugh and laugh so hard until they cannot speak and no one remembers what was so funny in the first place. When I am with my mother I can laugh like that too.
People who know my mother or her family know me instantly. The turn of my head, my small mouth. “So lovely, just like your mother,” they say and smile approvingly, as if I have somehow deliberately carried on the good family tradition so very important in Japanese culture.
I could be her mirror image. I am certainly a reflection of her. But like a reflection, backward, opposite. Opposite and the same. Like she and her mother.
Mother tells me that she and her sisters were always proud to be recognized as their mother’s daughters. I have learned to be proud of my mother too. And I wonder; when she looks at me does she also see her mother in the mirror?
*
Her eyes are closed. She turns her face up toward mine and I cradle it in my hand. She smiles at me. So trusting.
She doesn’t flinch as I begin with these pointy metal tweezers near her eyes. Her skin is so soft. Eyelid skin especially, stretching out as I pluck. Poing, poing. And we laugh together at a particularly stubborn hair that stre-e-e-e-etches her lid before releasing its hold.
I look down at her in wonder. This is how I must have looked to her long ago—face upturned, trusting.
I am happy I can do this small task for her as she attended to me for so many years. And she is pleased. Her bifocals, she explains, make it difficult for her to see her eyebrows in the mirror.
- Published on
When I was in Africa, I stayed in a village that was a journey and a half away from the things we would consider modern conveniences, nay, modern necessities. After a journey by trotro, taxi, large river boat, small river boat and many foot paths, we arrived in the village of Adexor-Kpodzi. This is a small farming village with no running water, no cars, no electricity. It's the no electricity that I'm thinking about right now.
An absence of electricity is almost unfathomable for a big-city North American girl. I live in a place where electricity is so prevalent, I don't even have to use it myself to have my environment changed by it. Light is perhaps the most significant. If I get up in the night to go to the bathroom, I don't need a night light to see. The light that spills in through the windows, even with the blinds shut, is enough to navigate through the apartment. Conversely, I remember one summer being at Naramata, which is a village and still small enough to escape the complete washing away of darkness by excessive lighting. One night I woke up and wandered off toward the bathroom. I was sure I could navigate in the dark. Only I found myself confronted by a guitar which was nowhere near where I was sure the door was.
Even that experience was unlike the nights in Adexor-Kpodzi. There, without room lights, streets lamps, car headlights, tv screens or computer monitors, unless someone lit a kerosene lantern or had one of the few and really inadequate flash lights, night was total.
Total night did not, however, mean a complete absence of light. This is where I learned how distanced I normally am from the rhythm of the moon. Here in the city, the phase of the moon means very little to me. It doesn't even affect the rhythm of my menstrual cycle. Although full and new moons are marked on the calendar, I have to really think about it to remember if the black circle or the empty circle means the moon is full. It really makes no difference. But it did make a difference in the village. Full moon nights are bright enough to light the footpaths. New moon nights are not.
And here's something else I learned; walking on the path by the light of the full moon is actually easier than navigating with a flashlight. The flashlight is too harsh. It casts shadows and makes it difficult to see upcoming bumps and holes in the trail. The brightness of the artificial light causes the eyes to set for bright and creates night blindness. Meaning you can't see in the dark. But by the moon you can. Moonlight is lovely and gentle. It lets your eyes keep their night vision.
I have found myself lately longing for an African night. In part it's because life in the village was lived mostly outside. So night was a time of being out and surrounded. Surrounded by dark, yes, but also by stars, by a gentling of the heat of the day, by quiet. At home night often means harsh lights and the noise of all of those electronic things that fill our lives from the television to the refrigerator. Night time in the village drew us in, made the world a little, not smaller exactly, but more focussed.
Last year I attended a workshop where one of the activities we had was to wander through a room of photographs and select one that called to us. The one I chose was actually a drawing and it depicted a fairytale creature sitting on a boulder in a grove of trees, in the moonlight. It was a space surrounded by night. Look out your window during the day and your eyes are bombarded with a hundred different things to look at. Look out your window at night and your eyes are immediately drawn to the lit kitchen window at the neighbour's house. Darkness allows us to focus our attention. In Adexor-Kpodzi I learned that the light of the moon created a space. Sitting outside at night was like gathering in the family room with the darkness creating the walls. Walking at night, the moon lit the path but somehow didn't illuminate all of the other things that can become a distraction.
This is what I found myself longing for. We seem to do everything in our power, with the literal power of electricity, to stave off the night. But letting it be may be what truly enhances our vision.
The dark hours reveal the comfort of night-built walls that leave open, and just enough lit, the thing that are most important: the path, the family, the food on the table, our next first step into the unknown.
May it be so.
January 10, 2015
An absence of electricity is almost unfathomable for a big-city North American girl. I live in a place where electricity is so prevalent, I don't even have to use it myself to have my environment changed by it. Light is perhaps the most significant. If I get up in the night to go to the bathroom, I don't need a night light to see. The light that spills in through the windows, even with the blinds shut, is enough to navigate through the apartment. Conversely, I remember one summer being at Naramata, which is a village and still small enough to escape the complete washing away of darkness by excessive lighting. One night I woke up and wandered off toward the bathroom. I was sure I could navigate in the dark. Only I found myself confronted by a guitar which was nowhere near where I was sure the door was.
Even that experience was unlike the nights in Adexor-Kpodzi. There, without room lights, streets lamps, car headlights, tv screens or computer monitors, unless someone lit a kerosene lantern or had one of the few and really inadequate flash lights, night was total.
Total night did not, however, mean a complete absence of light. This is where I learned how distanced I normally am from the rhythm of the moon. Here in the city, the phase of the moon means very little to me. It doesn't even affect the rhythm of my menstrual cycle. Although full and new moons are marked on the calendar, I have to really think about it to remember if the black circle or the empty circle means the moon is full. It really makes no difference. But it did make a difference in the village. Full moon nights are bright enough to light the footpaths. New moon nights are not.
And here's something else I learned; walking on the path by the light of the full moon is actually easier than navigating with a flashlight. The flashlight is too harsh. It casts shadows and makes it difficult to see upcoming bumps and holes in the trail. The brightness of the artificial light causes the eyes to set for bright and creates night blindness. Meaning you can't see in the dark. But by the moon you can. Moonlight is lovely and gentle. It lets your eyes keep their night vision.
I have found myself lately longing for an African night. In part it's because life in the village was lived mostly outside. So night was a time of being out and surrounded. Surrounded by dark, yes, but also by stars, by a gentling of the heat of the day, by quiet. At home night often means harsh lights and the noise of all of those electronic things that fill our lives from the television to the refrigerator. Night time in the village drew us in, made the world a little, not smaller exactly, but more focussed.
Last year I attended a workshop where one of the activities we had was to wander through a room of photographs and select one that called to us. The one I chose was actually a drawing and it depicted a fairytale creature sitting on a boulder in a grove of trees, in the moonlight. It was a space surrounded by night. Look out your window during the day and your eyes are bombarded with a hundred different things to look at. Look out your window at night and your eyes are immediately drawn to the lit kitchen window at the neighbour's house. Darkness allows us to focus our attention. In Adexor-Kpodzi I learned that the light of the moon created a space. Sitting outside at night was like gathering in the family room with the darkness creating the walls. Walking at night, the moon lit the path but somehow didn't illuminate all of the other things that can become a distraction.
This is what I found myself longing for. We seem to do everything in our power, with the literal power of electricity, to stave off the night. But letting it be may be what truly enhances our vision.
The dark hours reveal the comfort of night-built walls that leave open, and just enough lit, the thing that are most important: the path, the family, the food on the table, our next first step into the unknown.
May it be so.
January 10, 2015
- Published on
Roots deep in the soil, woven into earth's fabric.
Holding firm as wind spirals.
Buffeted into dance
graceful, intense
like the chaotic first dance
out of which emerged creation.
This is what I want to be
grounded and sure and gracefilled enough to allow the wind to blow me into beauty.
Holding firm as wind spirals.
Buffeted into dance
graceful, intense
like the chaotic first dance
out of which emerged creation.
This is what I want to be
grounded and sure and gracefilled enough to allow the wind to blow me into beauty.
- Published on
It's kind of a joke to say that all Asians look alike. It's still rare enough to see an Asian woman in just a regular role on TV that even my mom thought that Sandra O and Lucy Lui were the same person. I say even my mom because she is full blood ethnic Japanese, although born and raised in Canada. And I'm a generation later but I was 22 before I ever saw something that looked like my own mixed race family on television and we're now a generation past that.
I was at a funeral for another one of us mixed people, hapa. I looked around with a kind of befuddlement at this family that looked like mine but was not mine. Big blond hakujin and small black-haired men and women eating sandwiches and sushi, Nanaimo bars and manju. My people, yet not mine.
And my red-haired, green-eyed child who looks like someone elses' kid although he's birthed from my body and I've got the stretch marks to prove it. He does not look alike with even me.
But he is beautiful, like someone on TV. And a generation after me his family is just starting to look normal.
May 10, 2014
I was at a funeral for another one of us mixed people, hapa. I looked around with a kind of befuddlement at this family that looked like mine but was not mine. Big blond hakujin and small black-haired men and women eating sandwiches and sushi, Nanaimo bars and manju. My people, yet not mine.
And my red-haired, green-eyed child who looks like someone elses' kid although he's birthed from my body and I've got the stretch marks to prove it. He does not look alike with even me.
But he is beautiful, like someone on TV. And a generation after me his family is just starting to look normal.
May 10, 2014
- Published on
When people talk about Canada, it's often about hockey and snow. As someone who grew up in Canada, I'm familiar with the schtick. But as someone who has spent most of my life in the lower Fraser Valley of BC, aka Metro Vancouver, the whole Great White North thing is not a lived experience. But I've had a taste of it this past week in Winnipeg and Beausejour, Manitoba. This has been the snowiest, coldest winter on record since sometime in the 1940s.
Winter, I realize, is actually a culture. The ability to survive in such extremes of weather really does shape people. It's not just remembering to plug in the block heater before you take the car out, it's also the skill of driving in snow, both snow on the road and in the air. There's something shared by people who survive months of winter, like people who went to the same university or fought forest fires together.
Simply to go outside to walk to the market requires a level of preparation akin to packing for a weekend at the lake. Careful layers of clothing are the only thing between you and frostbite. There is no just tossing a jacket on to run to the corner. When it's -30 before the windchill, that's enough to kill you. This winter Winnipeg has seen temperatures plummeting to -50. Even my die-hard, winter-loving friends hung up the snow shoes and stayed inside.
This week was more like -25. That's still cold enough to feel the crackle in your nose when you step outside and to appreciate the wooly mittens over the gloves. But I loved the moment of stepping out and really feeling the cold on my skin. It felt like a reminder that I am alive. It felt like God calling me back to myself.
People who live in winter appreciate the spring. I was here in Winnipeg early in June last year as the weather warmed up (and before the notorious mosquitoes) and everyone, everyone was outside, walking, cycling, sitting in cafes, working in the yard. When you've been either housebound, or wearing so many layers that it was like walking in a cocoon, you're happy to stretch your wings and feel the warm air on your skin.
I have travelled to Winnipeg several times a year for several years, but only one other time in the heart of winter. It is stunningly beautiful when the sun shines, which is often. One complaint that people often have about the mild Vancouver winter is the lack of light, the greyness and rain. It's mostly true. Here, the sun on the snow and the big sky fill the day with light, as if to make up for the shortness of the day.
Winter can be a spiritual practice. This week has been like a retreat for me. Indeed I spent 5 days in circle at the Sandy Saulteaux Spiritual Centre. It was that, and also the early morning walks through snow, the deep quiet of the snow-buffered land, the beauty of the landscape and surprise of seed pods and rabbit footprints. Winter, by its nature, slows down the world. You can't walk quickly through the snow, nor drive too fast. It's a good time for slow food and long books. Days are short and the dark nights invite early bedtimes.
While my time here was relatively short, I am grateful for this Canadian winter experience. I feel a bit of solidarity with Canadians outside of south west BC. And I feel closer to our Creator, in awe of the vastness and diversity of the Creation in which we live and of which we are a part. I am whelmed. Thanks be to God.
Photo: Late afternoon walk on the Assiniboine River, Winnipeg.
Kimiko Karpoff, 2014
Winter, I realize, is actually a culture. The ability to survive in such extremes of weather really does shape people. It's not just remembering to plug in the block heater before you take the car out, it's also the skill of driving in snow, both snow on the road and in the air. There's something shared by people who survive months of winter, like people who went to the same university or fought forest fires together.
Simply to go outside to walk to the market requires a level of preparation akin to packing for a weekend at the lake. Careful layers of clothing are the only thing between you and frostbite. There is no just tossing a jacket on to run to the corner. When it's -30 before the windchill, that's enough to kill you. This winter Winnipeg has seen temperatures plummeting to -50. Even my die-hard, winter-loving friends hung up the snow shoes and stayed inside.
This week was more like -25. That's still cold enough to feel the crackle in your nose when you step outside and to appreciate the wooly mittens over the gloves. But I loved the moment of stepping out and really feeling the cold on my skin. It felt like a reminder that I am alive. It felt like God calling me back to myself.
People who live in winter appreciate the spring. I was here in Winnipeg early in June last year as the weather warmed up (and before the notorious mosquitoes) and everyone, everyone was outside, walking, cycling, sitting in cafes, working in the yard. When you've been either housebound, or wearing so many layers that it was like walking in a cocoon, you're happy to stretch your wings and feel the warm air on your skin.
I have travelled to Winnipeg several times a year for several years, but only one other time in the heart of winter. It is stunningly beautiful when the sun shines, which is often. One complaint that people often have about the mild Vancouver winter is the lack of light, the greyness and rain. It's mostly true. Here, the sun on the snow and the big sky fill the day with light, as if to make up for the shortness of the day.
Winter can be a spiritual practice. This week has been like a retreat for me. Indeed I spent 5 days in circle at the Sandy Saulteaux Spiritual Centre. It was that, and also the early morning walks through snow, the deep quiet of the snow-buffered land, the beauty of the landscape and surprise of seed pods and rabbit footprints. Winter, by its nature, slows down the world. You can't walk quickly through the snow, nor drive too fast. It's a good time for slow food and long books. Days are short and the dark nights invite early bedtimes.
While my time here was relatively short, I am grateful for this Canadian winter experience. I feel a bit of solidarity with Canadians outside of south west BC. And I feel closer to our Creator, in awe of the vastness and diversity of the Creation in which we live and of which we are a part. I am whelmed. Thanks be to God.
Photo: Late afternoon walk on the Assiniboine River, Winnipeg.
Kimiko Karpoff, 2014
- Published on
I recently received the most beautiful e-mail invitation.
It came from Christine, a mutual friend of my friend Wade. There was no explanation, only a request and a list. On the list were 52 dates, the first Monday of every week of 2014. Beside each date was a name or cluster of names. My name was beside May 12.
The request was this:
"The hope is that you will put something in the mail to Wade during that week.
You are welcome (but not mandated) to get creative. Mail a card. An art project. A mixed-CD. Chocolate. Pictures. Poetry. A book. A copy of a Wade-inspired letter-to-the-editor. There are no limits. And there is intended to be no pressure."
On March 3 of last year, I'd had a phone call from Wade, fairly late in the evening. He called to tell me some news and ask me a favour. Wade's news was that he had just been diagnosed with colon cancer. He then told me that his mother had also been diagnosed with ALS, Louis Gehrigs disease. It was pretty aggressive. She wasn't expected to live past the summer. He was putting his Masters of Divinity on hold and moving back to Enderby to be with her. He was also expecting to undergo surgery within the next few months. The favour he asked was that I contact some of our mutual friends so that they would hear the news from someone, rather than through social media.
This e-mail says something about Wade. There were more than 52 people on that list. These were 52-plus people who Christine and Wade were pretty sure would be willing to mail him something. And I know that if they wanted to do two years, they could have found 52 more people who would have mailed him something. I can't think of 52 people who I would even consider asking to mail me something, let alone who I thought would actually want to.
People love Wade. They do because he is generous with his own love. He is the kind of guy who could be called the face of love. He is intentional, mindful, creative, wise and kind. When he went to Africa, to thank the people with whom he stayed, he created theWATERproject.ca and brought fresh water to their village, devoting six years to the project. You want him as your minister, even if you don't go to church. And he's willing to be open and vulnerable. And that's what makes this e-mail so beautiful. In his willingness to ask his friends for something that will help lift his spirit, he has given each of us the opportunity to spread love. In participating, I get to practice being intentional, mindful, creative and kind. I can only hope to ever be so wise.
*
Update:
E-mail from Wade, February 13:
Hi Dear Ones~
Letting you know that Mom died today. My brother and I were with her at home, which is exactly how she wanted to go. I’m feeling lots of things – sad and grateful being the biggest themes.
Love you all – thanks for your love.
~Wade
It came from Christine, a mutual friend of my friend Wade. There was no explanation, only a request and a list. On the list were 52 dates, the first Monday of every week of 2014. Beside each date was a name or cluster of names. My name was beside May 12.
The request was this:
"The hope is that you will put something in the mail to Wade during that week.
You are welcome (but not mandated) to get creative. Mail a card. An art project. A mixed-CD. Chocolate. Pictures. Poetry. A book. A copy of a Wade-inspired letter-to-the-editor. There are no limits. And there is intended to be no pressure."
On March 3 of last year, I'd had a phone call from Wade, fairly late in the evening. He called to tell me some news and ask me a favour. Wade's news was that he had just been diagnosed with colon cancer. He then told me that his mother had also been diagnosed with ALS, Louis Gehrigs disease. It was pretty aggressive. She wasn't expected to live past the summer. He was putting his Masters of Divinity on hold and moving back to Enderby to be with her. He was also expecting to undergo surgery within the next few months. The favour he asked was that I contact some of our mutual friends so that they would hear the news from someone, rather than through social media.
This e-mail says something about Wade. There were more than 52 people on that list. These were 52-plus people who Christine and Wade were pretty sure would be willing to mail him something. And I know that if they wanted to do two years, they could have found 52 more people who would have mailed him something. I can't think of 52 people who I would even consider asking to mail me something, let alone who I thought would actually want to.
People love Wade. They do because he is generous with his own love. He is the kind of guy who could be called the face of love. He is intentional, mindful, creative, wise and kind. When he went to Africa, to thank the people with whom he stayed, he created theWATERproject.ca and brought fresh water to their village, devoting six years to the project. You want him as your minister, even if you don't go to church. And he's willing to be open and vulnerable. And that's what makes this e-mail so beautiful. In his willingness to ask his friends for something that will help lift his spirit, he has given each of us the opportunity to spread love. In participating, I get to practice being intentional, mindful, creative and kind. I can only hope to ever be so wise.
*
Update:
E-mail from Wade, February 13:
Hi Dear Ones~
Letting you know that Mom died today. My brother and I were with her at home, which is exactly how she wanted to go. I’m feeling lots of things – sad and grateful being the biggest themes.
Love you all – thanks for your love.
~Wade
- Published on
December 3, 2011
It's Advent. The dark part of winter. A time to prepare.
It's a funny thing to prepare for the lifting of darkness, the coming of spring, the birth of hope. Normally we do the opposite. We prepare for winter, putting up food and fuel against harsh weather, cold and darkness, when times are grim or unsure.
We say hope for the best but prepare for the worst.
But Advent is different. In Advent we say prepare for the hope.
I'm not sure I know what that means. I know we get ready to celebrate Christmas. It's like festive winter preparation, one where we stock up on food and hang out extra lights against the dark nights, sometimes so elaborate that people make a special point of coming around to see. Is that more preparing against something than for something?
In Advent it's ok to walk in darkness, to notice the challenges we face, to acknowledge the fear, risk, cruelty, oppression, lonlines, sadness and hunger that people experience, that creation experiences. Not to repent; we leave that for Lent. We do it to connect--with ourselves, with our neighbours, with the world and with God. We do it to be reminded why Jesus' birth was so significant. We take a moment to really experience winter in all of its cold, dark brutality so that the moment when it is once again light when our alarm sounds, the sighting of the first robyn, the day we no longer need gloves and local asparagus shows up at the market--we take a moment to really experience the season of darkness so that our hearts truly soar in praise and gratitude with the return of the spring sun.
We don't live in the time that Jesus was born into and I think we sometimes take his existence fo granted. It's easy for us to forget how new it all was for the disciples, how much Jesus disrupted their lives.
We have the advantage of 20/20 hind-sight while the disciples took the risk of living in the moment without any idea of what is all meant, or even, much of the time, what was going on. Sometimes we read the gospels as mere story without really seeing what crazy and completely irrational risks these people were taking. And beyond the gospels, later followers, early followers of "the way," not now following a charismatic person inviting them, incongruently to leave their livelihoods and fish for people, but now following a guy put to death in the most shameful way possible. Nailed on a cross.
It's hard for most of us here in middle class Canda to imagine just how dark, cold and hungry people were to take such risks for even the possibility of spring. And so we take this time of Advent to try to get even a little glimpse into what it might have been like to put aside everything familiar and comfortable to follow the possibility of hope.
Amen.
It's Advent. The dark part of winter. A time to prepare.
It's a funny thing to prepare for the lifting of darkness, the coming of spring, the birth of hope. Normally we do the opposite. We prepare for winter, putting up food and fuel against harsh weather, cold and darkness, when times are grim or unsure.
We say hope for the best but prepare for the worst.
But Advent is different. In Advent we say prepare for the hope.
I'm not sure I know what that means. I know we get ready to celebrate Christmas. It's like festive winter preparation, one where we stock up on food and hang out extra lights against the dark nights, sometimes so elaborate that people make a special point of coming around to see. Is that more preparing against something than for something?
In Advent it's ok to walk in darkness, to notice the challenges we face, to acknowledge the fear, risk, cruelty, oppression, lonlines, sadness and hunger that people experience, that creation experiences. Not to repent; we leave that for Lent. We do it to connect--with ourselves, with our neighbours, with the world and with God. We do it to be reminded why Jesus' birth was so significant. We take a moment to really experience winter in all of its cold, dark brutality so that the moment when it is once again light when our alarm sounds, the sighting of the first robyn, the day we no longer need gloves and local asparagus shows up at the market--we take a moment to really experience the season of darkness so that our hearts truly soar in praise and gratitude with the return of the spring sun.
We don't live in the time that Jesus was born into and I think we sometimes take his existence fo granted. It's easy for us to forget how new it all was for the disciples, how much Jesus disrupted their lives.
We have the advantage of 20/20 hind-sight while the disciples took the risk of living in the moment without any idea of what is all meant, or even, much of the time, what was going on. Sometimes we read the gospels as mere story without really seeing what crazy and completely irrational risks these people were taking. And beyond the gospels, later followers, early followers of "the way," not now following a charismatic person inviting them, incongruently to leave their livelihoods and fish for people, but now following a guy put to death in the most shameful way possible. Nailed on a cross.
It's hard for most of us here in middle class Canda to imagine just how dark, cold and hungry people were to take such risks for even the possibility of spring. And so we take this time of Advent to try to get even a little glimpse into what it might have been like to put aside everything familiar and comfortable to follow the possibility of hope.
Amen.
