* not with ink

5 Rules for Being a (North) American Adult (paraphrased from a lecture by Anne Lamott, whose priest friend shared them with her many years ago) 1. Have it all together. 2. If you don't have it all together, fix whatever is broken in you so that you do have it all together. 3. If you can't fix whatever's broken, pretend that you have. 4. If you can't pretend to be fixed, don't show up - it's a bit embarrassing to the rest of us. 5. If you do decide to show up broken, at least have the decency to be ashamed of yourself. -- We are encultured towards self-loathing and self-avoidance.  Be perfect. Do it all, do it right.  If you can't be better, pretend you are. Don't look any deeper. Keep busy. Keep your chin up. Keep up appearances. It takes so much energy. It takes too much energy. -- What would happen if I just loved myself? is the question I have been asking since my last post.   It's the question I ...

This is my story. From the time I was hardly more than a toddler, I knew I wanted to be a mother. I have loved babies (and kids) for as long as I can remember. Having babies of my own was always an assumption in my life. Until I hit 25. And was still unmarried. And I started thinking that maybe I would never be in a stable, long-term relationship. And then there was another factor. The biological one. A friend of mine had stopped getting her period a few years earlier; when she finally went to the doctor, she discovered she was in danger of developing osteoporosis. When I heard her story, I grimaced internally. My own period had been on the decline over the past few years; I'd never been "regular" and by 25, I was maybe getting it twice a year. To be honest, I didn't mind too much. It's not like anyone I know enjoys  having their period. In the back of my mind had been the fear of infertility, but it seemed so remote, so far off. I hadn't thought about...

We've been married for six and a half months now, and I finally feel like I'm beginning to surface. I'm surfacing and I'm settling. I mean, I knew what I was getting myself into. I've seen marriages, I've talked about marriages, I've thought a lot about marriage. "It's not easy. It's a lot of hard work. It's a lot of compromise. It's exhausting." "I wouldn't trade it for anything. It's incredible. It's the best thing that's ever happened to me." It's all true. It's a thing, that's for sure. And I feel maybe I'm just kind of getting into the groove. Not that things are EASY, not that life has stopped throwing curveballs and not that I've outgrown my insecurities and sometimes demanding ways. There are bumps and there are hiccups and there are fights. There's misunderstanding and miscommunication and no communication - and then there's dialogue. There's honesty and there ...

I didn't mean to disappear for almost a month. Honest. I thought that life might slow down a bit once the wedding was over, and in some ways it has. But in mostly every way, life is still life. And it keeps on happening. Friends have babies. Loved ones die. Your husband is grouchy one evening and says he doesn't feel well, shivering by the time you go to bed, and unable to get out of bed or speak in the morning. It's the flu. The actual flu. The lingering flu that takes something like 14 days to fully get out of your system. So you spend the weekend caring for him. And on Saturday evening you're not feeling so peachy yourself, so you cancel all plans and sleep something like 14 hours, and by Monday you're okay-ish, and grateful that the flu didn't hit you like it hit him, and you carry on with your week, and push through the sniffles and scratchy throat because you can. And you go to the spa because you have friends that are awesome like that, and you brea...

There is nothing funnier and more heartwarming than listening to grown adults of all shapes and sizes and styles read their childhood or adolescent words. And there is nothing more terrifying than deciding to take part yourself. Dan Misener has been hosting Grownups Read Things They Wrote as Kids  events across the country since 2007. The podcast ran for a season on CBC last summer, and new podcast episodes are coming soon! One of them features yours truly... ** It was a total whim, signing up to read my awful adolescent poetry. And of course, when the day arrived, the event was sold out, and NONE of my friends had purchased tickets, I was NOT feeling very excited to bare my teenage soul to an audience of strangers. Thanks, Karen, for being my cheering squad & photographer! Thankfully, Twitter provided a ticket for the lovely K-Ho, and I met her in a dark space that slowly filled to capacity... As I listened to other readers, I was both reassured and further terri...

It was April 2012, and I was having trouble breathing. I sat at my desk, staring blankly at the computer screen, reminding myself to breathe in and then out again, and slowly. And then I was okay for a day or two, because some little thing would buoy my spirits or make me think this panic was gone for good, and then it would wash over me again, and I would breath again and push down this anxiety so I could keep living and trying to walk forward. I told one of my friends how I was feeling,  and she commented that anxiety and fear often come into our lives when we are not believing the gospel, and maybe was there something off in my relationship with Jesus? I thought about this. Then I wondered,  "How would I even know? I don't remember what he sounds like." It occurred to me that if Jesus was trying to tell me something, I wouldn't have been able to hear it anyway. And the author of a memoir I was reading at the time mentioned her spiritual direct...

At 14 months, my genius-baby-nephew has named me Bep . I'm in love with this name. Because it comes in a growly little voice full of spunk and love. Toddler-love is one of the best therapies out there. Nothing sets my heart at rest like attention and affection from a small child. Even from afar, it makes me so. very. happy. (Thanks, Sarah, for sharing a whole series of these videos with me. They're all on repeat.)

I just wrote this email to a friend: There is a song by Gungor called "Late Have I Loved You" - do you know it/them? I've been a fan for several years. I recently discovered (via Dan's Lenten guide), that the lyrics of this song were originally written by St. Augustine. As I listened to this song, and thought about Augustine's words, I was struck by the opening line. What does it mean to "love late?" I sat with this question for awhile, and then wrote a poem: “Late have I loved you.” Late have I come to see and know what love is.                 I have tried to control,                 tried to use                 tried to prove and tried to know.  It is only after failing at each of these ...

From sometime in 2010. No edits. Last week, I got asked out. In Dreamland, this boy* and I had the sort of relationship where lots of people wonder if we're dating, or when we'll date, etc etc. (I think it's because Nadine told me that I am " the queen of the non-date date. " Which reminded me of this conversation and made me laugh.) As part of his I-like-you speech, he told me that a friend of his said to him, "Get gay, get out, or get balls." Meaning: if he were gay, then our friendship would make sense. If he had no plans to ever date me, he needed to not pseudo-date me. Or he needed to man up and ask me out. Clearly he picked option #3. Then he asked if he could borrow my car. Since it wasn't actually my car, but a car I had borrowed from a woman who goes to the church I grew up at (gotta love the random dream connections), I said I'd drive him. So we went to his "apartment," which was also on loan from someone else. I...

“Look at this!” I turn my arm to show her a bruise from yet another random mishap. “Woah! You’re getting pipes!” I’m confused by the genuine excitement in her voice. “What? Really?” “Yeah! Look at those!” I turn to the mirror, flex, and laugh. Maybe not pipes  but certainly less pipe cleaner  than usual. “Ooh, do you think maybe now I can do a push-up!? I’m going to try.” I cannot do push-ups. Not even one. Not even a girly push-up. It’s an ongoing joke in my life. But I kick off my slippers and put my face against the carpet – and lift. I groan, Gnnnnnnnnnn . And I do it. I DO A PUSH-UP . It is measly and it is girly, but it is a push-up. And then I do another. And then, just for good measure, ¾ of one more. How did this happen? I have not been working my arms on purpose. Ultimate Frisbee? Maybe. Probably. What else? “Great game, Beth,” he says, and I look up from the stuck zipper on my coat. “Thanks!” “You’re definitely getting better. You’re faster and your cut...

I love indexed.

I've been slacking on the blogging, etc etc... I have a myriad of excuses, as always, which I will refrain from explaining. --- Nadine gets married on Saturday and this week is incredibly fun and full. I am sure there will be pictures and stories to follow. My new roommate, the amazing Karen, moves in the weekend after. There will be stories a-plenty, and likely pictures. I am very excited to rearrange the living room. It's like a whole new apartment! I'm also considering moving my bedroom around, but there aren't many options to try... --- Post-Lent, my sugar consumption has increased, but not nearly to pre-Lent levels. Spiritual significance aside, I think this is a good thing. The reality is, my body no longer processes/wants sugar in the same ways I used to. Spiritually/metaphorically speaking, I am craving more substantial foods and less quick-burning calories. This is also a good thing. --- I have a friend in Portland with whom I pass my days. We g-...

Yesterday, as I stood in a pew with my sister’s arm around my waist, my younger brother walked over and said, “You look sad or down.” “Yes,” I replied, “A bit.” “Why?” he asked. “Because sometimes I am insecure and anxious.” “Well, you’re beautiful. And you’re a strong, independent woman.” Tears were too close for comfort, so I started to softly sing, “All you women, who independent, throw your hands up at me!*” “Am I allowed to sing that in here?” I continued, “What if I do this?” I raised my arms and swiveled my hips a little, repeating the chorus again. “Scandal!” he replied, “Not in a church!” and my sister grabbed my arm. “Shhhh!” We all laughed. Then I sang it again. Later, my other brother and his wife came over. My nephew crawled under the pews and tickled my toes like he was a churchmouse. My niece giggled and squeezed me and kissed me with her still-snotty face, and I didn't mind at all. Then they included me in a "family hug" and I was squis...

Yesterday was Grampie's 93rd birthday. NINETY-THIRD. I called him and we talked about all sorts of things, including (of course), his sweetheart of 63 years, whom he misses terribly. "It was love at first sight. She winked at me with both eyes and I knew she'd fallen for me. Of course, being a sophisticated city boy, it took me a bit longer to fall for her." "How much longer?" "About ten seconds." Oh, I love this man. He is a treasure. If I live to be his age, I hope that I have half the independence, humour, and heart that he shows on a daily basis. (Here he is in June 2008, on his 62nd anniversary.)

How can you NOT love these faces!?!?

I think if you do anything for 35 years, you should receive an award. (Actually, I think you often do.) If you have been married for 35 years, you should get an extra-amazing award. If I had lots of money, I would buy one for my parents today. THIRTY FIVE YEARS. And they still giggle and kiss and roll their eyes at corny jokes. I'm incredibly grateful that I know, with certainty, my parents love each other. To have that modeled throughout my childhood and into my independent adult life is a major blessing. They have taught me many things about marriage and romance and all relationships simply by living their lives together. When I think of how many broken marriages I know of among my peers, my heart breaks for their heartache. And it grows a little more afraid of my own hopes for life-long love. But I often think of my parents - imperfect people who make mistakes, but keep turning towards each other - and I hold that up to my fears and remind myself that it is possibl...

When I was fifteen, I started calling my sister Sa-Sa. She was twenty at the time, and in return I became Barfy. Eleven years later, these nicknames still make fairly frequent appearances. I don't know why. It is the sort of strange and inexplicable reality of our sisterhood. It is the same reason I will sit on her unannounced or hug her tightly from behind, or swat her bum in passing. (She "hates" all these things, and tolerates me with the not-quite-endless patience that oldest siblings develop over the decades.) Years ago, before she was officially dating her now-husband, I remember lying on my back stairs, talking to her on my landline (!) and processing the boy drama. I, of course, knew exactly how things SHOULD look when it comes to romance, and advised her accordingly. She commented at one point that it felt like she was the younger sister and I was the older one. I have learned two things since then. One is that I am not half the relationship expert I though...

A conversation from last July: person A: You know, I used to think there was an ocean full of options. And then, as I got older, I realized it was more like a large lake. Maybe Lake Ontario...there's still a lot of selection, but not exactly an ocean's worth. person B: And then one day, you eliminate another realm of options, and you realize it's actually more like a little camping lake. person C: And then a little while later, you know yourself better and you realize it's more like a backyard pond. There are a few fish that fit you, but not that many. person B: And then it becomes a bathtub-sized puddle. person A: And then you realize it's a fishbowl, and there's really only one fish for you. And he's just swimming around, and around, and around, oblivious to everything except his happy little bowl.

Last night, a friend asked me, "Have you ever been in love?" I have never been asked this question before. In November, the same friend asked me if I'd ever had a serious boyfriend. I answered something along the lines of, "Well, none of the guys I've dated have been flings . But none of them have made it to the six month mark." "So no," he replied, almost instantly. It made me sad. Not because of what he said or how he said it, but because it rang true. (I think this is one of the things that makes me sad about my relationship history - I've yet to get into the nitty-gritty of relationship, the daily grind, the conflicts that are inevitable. Is it strange that I want that?) This time around, I didn't have an answer very quickly. I scrolled through the memories in my mind. I umm-ed and uhhh-ed for a minute or so. Then I said something like this: "I don't know. I really don't know. I have been giddy and crushing a...

This is my most prized possession. A tiny New Testament given to my Grampie when he landed in England for training. It traveled through WWII with him. He didn't know Jesus at the time, but he read it, marked it up, studied it. Last time I was home, Grampie told me more about his war experiences than I've ever heard him share. He doesn't like to talk about the war, which I've always understood (in theory). He has a collection of amusing anecdotes from his off-hours, and has shared a few vague generalities, but nothing concrete. The two brief vignettes he shared were enough to shake me. It hit me, as I looked at the watery eyes of now-fragile man, that he has seen atrocities that would make me vomit. He had to kill or be killed. He saw death, more violently & more frequently than anyone else I know. His choice to be silent and to hold these memories within himself is a decision to protect those he loves. Because once you know something, you cannot un-know it. Nearly ...