Brave

Sasha and I were snuggled in beside each other at her desk this morning.  It was "Family Reading" in Ms. Collins classroom and Sasha was reading me a tale of the latest shenanigans of Junie B. Jones.  The desks are arranged in groups in her classroom, and yesterday a new desk was added to Sasha's group.   As Sasha turned a page, the new member of her group slowly sat down in his desk.

"He doesn't speak any English at all, Mom",  Sasha told me yesterday as she unpacked her lunch kit.
"That must be so hard",  I said back.

And today I got to see what hard looks like.

As he slid into his seat, I watched him.  He looked nervous and tentative - his beautiful brown eyes darting from side to side, watching to see what everyone around him was doing so he could do the same.  I stopped Sasha for a moment and said "hi" to him - wanting to make him feel welcome, noticed and seen.  But it's not the grown-ups around you that you want to see you when you're new.  It's the small people who look just like you.

Sasha continue reading and I kept watching - growing more anxious for him as the moments slipped by.

And then it happened.

One of the boys from grade two that everyone loves and wants on their team came and stood at the new boy's desk.  He had a Where's Waldo book in his hand.  It's as though he knew it would be the perfect book for just this time.   He motioned for him to come and join him at the group table and look at it together. And the new boy did.  Without hesitation.  Soon they were smiling and pointing together.  His nervous eyes relaxed and he was caught up in the moment of acceptance he found himself in.

And I could breath just a little easier.

That moment was beautiful.  You see, that confident and engaging kid who invited the new boy to look for Waldo with him was new once too.  He came from the Philippines just a few years ago and didn't speak a word of English either.  He knows just what it feels like.  And he knows just the remedy.

Later in the morning as I'm pulling kids out of the classroom to work with paper mache' in the hallway, the resource teacher walks down the hallway with the new boy.  She is holding his hand and pointing things out to him in English, slowly and deliberately.  That nervous, anxious look has found its way back into his eyes.  As they're making their way toward the classroom, I ask her if he can have his turn with paper mache' too.   She does her best to explain with gestures and simple words what we are doing.  He has no idea what she's talking about.

I take his hand in mine and lead him to the table.  I push up his sleeves gently and lay out the newspaper.  I can't imagine what he must be thinking or wondering.  I bring over a big bucket of  warm,slimy goo and I stick his hand into it slowly.  We take a hand full together and begin spreading it slowly over the newspaper.  He gets the hang of it quickly and keeps working at it - stopping to dip his hand in the bucket a few more times.

When he is finished we walk together down the hallway, hand in hand to the staff room to wash up.  I can't imagine how hard it must be to go from one thing and one place to another never knowing where you're going or what you're going to do when you get there.  To hear the words and sounds of a language you don't understand floating relentlessly around you.  To know that the words inside you have to stay where they are, because letting them out won't achieve a thing.

I take him back to the classroom and leave him.

After I'm finished cleaning up the trail of paper mache' in the hallway, I come back into the classroom to gather up my things to leave.  It's recess now and there is a lineup of students at the door waiting to go outside.  The new boy is there, right beside the kid who befriended him earlier.  The new boy looks more relaxed again.  There are balls in some of  the boy's hands and fresh air on the other side of the door.  There is grass to run in and there are soccer balls to kick.

You don't need to know English to do that.

But you do need to be brave.
And brave he is.

Sunday Morning Service

On Sunday mornings during ski season,  we attend a very good church.  

Some may call it the Church of the Slopes.... or the Palace of Powder.

We just call it Mount Seymour.

Who could blame us with a view like this?

Yesterday morning's service was particularly memorable.
There was no one preaching and there were no alter calls, but the sun was shining like we haven't felt in months.

We ditched our jackets right off the hop and entered the sanctuary of sun and slopes.

There was no worship team, but on one of my rides up the lift, I heard Dan Mangan's "Rows of Houses" blasting over the speakers.

He was preaching to the choir.

Sasha and Mike ventured up to the very top of the mountain so that Sasha could try her very first intermediate run.   Uncharted territory.  Kind of like Sunday School but with more speed.

Our Sunday service was just what we hoped for.
Inspiring, motivating, and invigorating.

That's some church.

Merciful Traveling - Some Thoughts on Faith (Part 3) The Story

You can read Part One here.
You can read Part Two here.

I love to hear stories.

If you’ve ever told me your story, you’ve likely been peppered with one million questions as I’ve tried to find out more.  I want to know your likes and dislikes, your political persuasions, your plans and dreams, but what I really want is your story.  It’s the heart of who you are and how you became you.  And that is what I'm after.

Stories are powerful.  Give me a vulnerable and honest story over a “how to” or a “should do” any day and I’ll be eating out of the palm of your hand.

Shortly after we chose to leave “church” we found ourselves in the middle of a community of people who were in the process of telling their stories.   Some of us had already left church, some were in the process of leaving, and some just didn’t know where they belonged.  There were threads of disappointment, pain, confusion, anger, sadness, grief, expectation, hope, relief, freedom, and curiosity running  through  and alongside us.  We all had a story.

This community of story-tellers became our safe place.  We were understood there.  Doubt was accepted.  We could say what we wanted without fear of judgement.  We could approach faith unconventionally.  We could vehemently disagree and argue with passion and then share a glass or two of wine afterward.

As is the case with most times in my life, what I was reading and listening to at the time painted a hue over my experience.  Blue Like Jazz by Donald Miller and A New Kind of Christian by Brian McLaren were on my night table.  Both books were rich with story.  I felt as though mine was intertwined with both of those.  I loved Donald Miller’s honest narrative.  I had never read anything before where a Christian exposed the nagging thoughts of my mind like he did.  His story was rich and honest.  I cried through most of it and underlined the hell out of that book.  With A New Kind of Christian,   I loved the way Brian McLaren used the fictitious relationship between a disheartened pastor and his daughter's high school science teacher to tell his own story.  It was creative and edgy.  While some in my old circles said it was blasphemous, I simply said, “thank you”.

Our little gathering of vagrants solidified to become our faith community.  We continued to hear each other’s stories alongside the story of Jesus.  We listened to His stories and held them up to our own.  We invited our kids to join us and tell their stories.  They discovered that their voices were just as relevant as ours.  They expressed their faith in ways that made sense to them.  We created and listened and talked, explored and muddled our way through months like this.

Around this time, I heard a song that became that season’s anthem.  It was Brandi Carlile’s The Story.  The first time I heard it I got stuck on one of the lines in the song.  I furiously scribbled it down for fear that I would lose the power it gifted me in that moment.

“But these stories don’t mean anything if you’ve

got no one to tell them to.”

For the first time in a long time, I had a place to tell my story.  Not the version that was appropriate for church or leadership.  No, I was no longer looking for nods of approval or an  endorsement from an authority. 


I was simply looking for a place to be - messed up story and all.

Know your Voice

Sasha found her voice this week.

Let me tell you how.

In the Burnaby School District, there is an annual event called "Primary Days of Music" where primary students from across the district come together to sing for an afternoon.  All of the schools learn some songs in common and also prepare a few songs that just their school gets to perform for the rest of the students.  The location of this rotates around the district so that each school gets a chance to host.

Sasha is in a grade 1/2 combined class this year.  It's been a fabulous learning environment for her.  It just so happened that this year, the Confederation Park grade ones were not going to be able to be included in the Primary Days of Music, however, because the grade twos were going to be going, the grade ones (including Sasha) learned all of the songs and prepared for it because they share a music class together.

As the day for Primary Days of Music approached, Sasha would share her frustration and sadness about not being able to participate or take the bus to the neighboring school.  She didn't think it was fair.  This generated lots of discussions revolving around how life just isn't fair, plain and simple.  When the day finally arrived, Sasha was so downtrodden.  Many tears were shed about this "injustice" and lots of anger brimmed to the surface too.  After using all of my parental tools to talk her down, she just wouldn't let go of her offence.  I told her that the only way to put an end to her feelings of being slighted was to talk to Mrs. Ishii, her music teacher, about it.  "Holding on to offense just makes you miserable", I told her.  Sasha didn't think she could do that, but she did think she could write Mrs. Ishii a letter describing how she felt.  

So Sasha took pencil to paper and composed this.

She carefully folded it up, put it in an envelope and delivered it to the office for the secretary to put into Mrs. Ishii's mailbox first thing yesterday morning.

In the afternoon, Sasha's backpack contained an envelope adorned with a sticker and her name.  It was sealed up.  She opened it up and began to read the thoughtful and sensitive response from Mrs. Ishii.  It explained that District policy and funding for buses couldn't accommodate the grade ones being part of Primary Days of Music this year.  It explained the process and Mrs. Ishii's feelings about it.  And best of all, it said this, 

"Thanks again for expressing your voice.  

It is always important to speak your mind."

I could not have wished for a more powerful statement for Mrs. Ishii to have ended her letter with.

When Sasha finished reading the letter she folded it up and carefully put it back into the envelope.  She said the reasons Mrs. Ishii gave made sense to her.  But more important, you could see a sense of relief and peace come over her. 

She had been heard.  

She had been listened to.  

Her voice mattered.

As we chatted about it later in the day, I reminded her that she won't always get a response when she speaks her voice.  She won't always hear what she thinks she is entitled to.  The answers won't always make sense.  But even then, I said, know your voice.  And make it sing.

Like / Don't Like

Things I Like:

Taking dishes out of the dishwasher and setting the table with them instead of putting them away in the cupboard

The feeling of zipping up the 3 full lunch kits in the morning knowing I pulled it off again

The sound of my girls busting a gut laughing at each other when it sounds like they're more like friends than sisters

Coke Zero, lots of ice, a wedge of lime

The new CBC drama "Arctic Air"

Seeing crocuses and daffodils blooming in early March

Black Pilot Fineliners

Peanut sauce

Rolling up the remnants of birthday parties, complete with crumbs and spills, into the plastic disposable tablecloth and throwing it away

Toothless grins

The Hunger Games


Looking forward to going to see The Hunger Games with Hannah when it opens next week


Really firm mangoes

My GPS

Pumpkin anything

Knowing I have only one more birthday party to do before our winter birthday marathon is over

Time and space

Challenging conversations

Kleenex with lotion

Cutting my girl's finger nails nice and short

Old friends

New friends

Being able to borrow cash from my very wealthy 12 year old babysitting kid

Looking at Scholastic Book Orders

Words that inspire me

Words that challenge me

A warm, safe bed

Katie Herzig's music



Things I Don't Like:


Thinking of things to make for supper

Returning phone calls

Making appointments for my kids

Losing an hour of sleep

Cold feet

Brushing knotty hair that isn't mine

Washing muffin tins

Seeing kids exist on "the outside"

When Jian Ghomeshi has a guest host on "Q"

Hearing that things my girls love to do at school (like dance club) have been cancelled because of the BC Teacher's Federation strike

Feeling obligated

Making hard decisions that affect your whole family



******

It was way easier to come up with things I like.  That's a good thing!

Words

We tell our children that words are powerful.

That the words they choose bring healing or hurt.  That they must choose their words carefully.

That their words make a difference.

I love words.  I love the written and the spoken word.  I too love the unspoken - the ones that swirl around in my mind telling a narrative of what I see and feel and long for.  What I despise or fear, what I value and notice, what causes me pain or disappointment.

This past week I got stuck on some words and they've been nagging at me for days.

They are missing words.  And for me, their absence yields more power than ones that are present.

I've made reference here to a controversial situation that has been unfolding in the small Prairie community of Altona Manitoba.   This past week, the Superintendent of the Border Land School Division, to which the affected school in Altona belongs,  announced the board's decision on the Ally Certificates.  They were to be removed.  In their place, teachers have the option of posting a sign which states, "As your teacher I am your Ally.  I accept and support you in every way."

I don't think there is anything wrong with the words on the sign that the teachers have been given the option of posting.

What I am stuck on are the absence of the words that are at the heart of this issue.  Words like

gay
lesbian
transgendered
bisexual
and queer.

Those words have been deemed to inappropriate, too controversial, too offensive, too out of place to be present on a certificate hung on a classroom wall.

You see, words do have power.  And it is the absence of those words that make me stop and think and wonder.

There are lots of kids in our schools who need an overflowing dose of acceptance.  Kids from visible minorities, kids who live below the poverty line, kids who lack support from home, obese kids, mentally ill kids, abused kids, lonely kids, kids with special learning needs, and the list goes on and on and on.  The thing is, if any of the characteristics or labels given to the kids I just mentioned were put onto a certificate and hung inside a classroom, this wouldn't have been a story.

It was a story because of the words.
And the kinds of people those words describe.

I've heard it said and I believe that we are afraid of what we don't understand.
When we are afraid of something, we try to block it out and rid ourselves and our environment of it so that we won't feel threatened.

I think it's the fear of those words that have fueled parents in Altona to pressure the school division to make the decision they did.

Only, they have nothing to fear.  If their kids are gay or lesbian, transgendered, bisexual or queer, it won't have been a word on a certificate that made them that way.  They already know they are and are figuring out what that means for them in the words that swirl around in their heads everyday.

Words are powerful.

Happy Hula Birthday Party

 Though her birthday happened nearly a month ago, today was the day of Sasha's birthday party.

While we were on our holiday and had lots of time to chat and dream a little, Sasha said she wanted a Hawaiian themed party.  I loved what I heard.  That I could do.  And so the Happy Hula Birthday Party came to be.

When Sasha was shopping in Hawaii, she found something that she wanted to buy that made us all laugh so hard.  A PIG hula dancing wearing a red grass skirt.  Sasha loves pigs more than anything.  Red is her favorite color.  She loved being in Hawaii.  This little piggy became the perfect inspiration for her birthday cake.

I love watching little girls at a party.  They come dressed to the nines with moods to match.  They chitter and chatter and "ooh and ahh" and just love the fact that they're even in the room.

Sasha's friends are cute as buttons.  

No doubt about that.

Another thing I love watching at these girl's parties is the expectation the gift giver has as the birthday girl is opening her gift.  I love the anticipation and  the joy I see on their faces as they wait for their friend to open something special that was picked out just for them.

The big squeezes of gratitude and squeals of delight are pretty great too.

Before we knew it, it was time to gather together and celebrate Sasha.

Seven candles seem like a lot to me.

We wrapped up the party with a little Hula dancing by our resident expert, Mike.  I don't know a lot of dads who would dress up and hula dance with a gaggle of 7 year old girls.  But I am glad I know one.

He had them eating out of the palm of his hand.

It was another one for the memory books.