what do you want for christmas?

Santa rides the escalator. It's unbelievable, I know. You'd think with his ability to travel the globe in a singular night, he'd at least be able to call in a reindeer when he wants to get to the second floor of a mall. But, no. He rides the escalator. This is what Santa does when he's bored. He wanders. Not that he's been too bored lately. There has been a lot of kids who'd like a word with the man in red. Ah, Christmas. What would it be without Mr. Claus and us elves?

My life as an elf began with a simple, innocent reply to an employment ad on Craig's List: "Wanted: Photographer. Email resume and availability to address below..." Perfect, I thought. Dreams of driving around Vancouver, camera in hand and freedom to snap whatever and wherever filled my mind. Though, in hindsight, I should have been tipped off about the reality of the position by the email address to which I sent off my resume. It consisted of two words: "hyper" and "busy". Dense, Matt. Dense. One week later I found myself behind a camera in a North Vancouver mall, ringing bells in order to attract the wandering eyes of children before snapping their photo on Santa's knee. One by one, the families line up like dairy cows queuing for their daily milking. Then in ones and twos and threes and fours, the kids crowd around Santa, or simply sit on his knee. And await the question.

I'm not sure I ever grew up believing in Santa Claus. Either my parents never properly introduced us, or my older siblings ruined the falsity of it all at too early of an age for me to remember leaving milk and cookies out the night before Christmas. Come to think of it, we never really had a night before Christmas full of expectation. Our night before Christmas was our Christmas, and was always the same: church and then presents. So, unless I was told that Santa came while we were in church, I guess I never believed in the guy. And here I was, day in and day out, reinforcing the lie that the man in the centre of my viewing lens was the Santa Claus. "Say cheese!" Click.

While the image transfers from lens to computer to paper, Santa Claus has a one-on-one discussion of all matters important. He asks them their name and how old they are. He sits them on his knee and whispers gently in their ear stories of life in the North Pole. Watching him at work, watching the look in the eyes of a child as they are told the story of a magic apple almost makes me want to believe in him as surely as the children do. But when all of the formalities are finished, he comes to the moment every child who believes in him waits for. He asks the question.

"And what do you want for Christmas?"

I see this happen over and over again. The question is asked, and the list that has sat so patiently inside the mind spews out of innocent mouths. One child, as Santa tells me later, wants a Robot for Christmas. But not just any robot: "By the way, Santa," he says a few minutes later, "I want the robot to clean my room." I watch this scene play out, child after child, list after list. A young child jumps on Santa's lap and waits to be asked the question.

Enter a young girl, about 12 years old. She is dressed all in pink, and stands beside her father, waiting for a chance to sit on Santa's knee. But she must be patient, as there are many more children with a wish list on their minds.

"I want an iPod," says one child.
"Transformers!" yells another.

You almost wouldn't be able to tell there is something wrong with her, this twelve year old girl, if she only stood still. But then you see her walk. She limps a bit, evidently by her right leg, which seems to be unable to bend as well as the left. And then there's her arm. It doesn't move so well, either. In fact, it seems permanently stuck in an upright position, bent at the arm, holding her slightly contorted hand ever so close to her face. And still, she waits.

"I want a Barbie," a young girl announces.
"I want a Motorola Razr flip phone with a 3 year talk-and-text plan from Rogers." Teenagers.

The girl still waits. Perhaps it is autism that has stolen some of her ability. But she smiles. And when it is her turn, and Santa beckons her to come and sit on her knee, her smile grows ever wider. She will soon be asked the question. And so the young girl sits on Santa's knee. "Say Cheese!" Click. She continues to smile through the small talk, and patiently listens to Santa's reassuring words. Finally, the question. The question.

"And what do you want for Christmas?" he whispers.

"I want ... a new brain ..."


...so, what do you want for Christmas?

winter in white rock.

I had a job interview tonight at a church in White Rock, an upper-class town on the shores of the Pacific Ocean. Unfortunately, my interview coincided with the first real sign of winter in BC: snow. I say unfortunately for one reason, and that reason has to do with the reaction BC drivers tend to have towards the fluffy white stuff: panic. Sheer panic. A drive that should have taken 25 minutes turned into an hour and a half of agony as traffic came to a grinding halt, and I showed up for the interview half an hour late. Granted, there was quite a bit of snow, and most of the Lower Mainland has no way of cleaning it up. It usually sits on the ground for a day at most before warmer temperatures melt it away. But I'm not sure there was enough snow to account for the poor state of traffic I encountered everywhere I turned. So, in memory of this night, a poem:

Winter in White Rock

Snow fall, snow fall, it covers the land,
Roads are a mess, with not a spot of sand.

Cars in the ditches, hazards aglow:
Oh look! A Mercedes is stuck in snow!

Luxury cars, they put up no fight;
Beamer to the left, Lexus to the right.

Snow fall, snow fall, it covers the land,
Roads are a mess, with not a spot of sand.

seattle.

This past weekend brought an experience much enjoyed in the grand city of Seattle. It only takes a couple of hours to drive to the Emerald City, plus an hour or two for border traffic. Not bad for a lazy Sunday afternoon. I love Seattle. It settles nicely between Vancouver and Los Angeles on my rank of places I would love to live. Not only is it a beautiful city, but it is also extremely well designed, infrastructurally. Seattle boasts a well-organized spiderweb of bridges and tunnels and real highways, of which none exist in the Lower Mainland of BC. It's such a joy to weave through four lanes of highway. Vancouver has so much to live up to.

This latest venture to Seattle brought us to the Moore Theatre to catch Rob Bell in all his story-telling and deconstructing glory. He has an incredible way of picking apart the Christian faith, shuffling it around, and reorganizing it in an easy-to-understand-and-follow manner. Not that he gives a 'how-to' guide towards a better Christian life, like the latest book in the For Dummies series. Though I wouldn't be surprised if he published a book entitled Christianity for Dummies somewhere down the line. Never mind.

But one thing I do value in Rob Bell's words is his understanding of culture, and how certain ideas and stories in the Bible would be understood and read inside that culture. It's a perspective thing. Why would God ask Abraham to sacrifice his only son? Because, in those days, many cultures followed gods that demanded such a sacrifice. Child sacrifice was just a step towards appeasing the gods, and so it may not have come as a surprise to Abraham that the god he chose to follow would demand the life of his son. It's what you do to keep the gods happy. What's different about this god is that, at the last minute, he stops Abraham in mid-stab and provides an animal in recognition of Abraham's faith. The point of the story, according to Bell? Abraham's god is a god of provision. His god is different. His god cares. Unlike the gods of the surrounding cultures who would have allowed the murderous appeasement to continue.

The other aspect of Rob Bell's teaching that I much enjoy is the connection he makes between such age-old faith issues like sacrifice and present-day realities. Is sacrifice dead in our current Christian sphere of life? We'd like to think so. I mean there's no slaughter, no fire, no altar anymore. But we do still have the guilt and shame that was so directly associated with the sacrifices of old (the sacrifice was basically used to 'wipe the slate clean', so-to-speak. Forgiveness of sin came through sacrifice). So how do we deal with that now? Could it be the legalism that the church has fallen under? The 'do's' and 'don'ts' of Christianity? 'Do' this and you'll be right with God again. 'Don't' do this and you won't fall away. Yeesh. Not only does our society continue to pump fear into us, but so do many of the words we hear from the pulpit. And I'm not advocating a watering-down of the truths found in the faith, either. But there has to be a balance.

So what I love the most about the way Rob Bell's mind works is that he weighs everything out on the words and actions of Christ. Why is the altar no longer present in Christianity? Because a final sacrifice has been made. No more blood needs to be spilled. We hear it over and over again, but still struggle with this new foundation of faith: Grace. ...we'll save that topic for another day.

For more from Rob Bell, read his books or watch his movies.

african children's choir

hyundai.

Great Hyundai commercial about commitment. Kinda too bad it comes from a car company though.

100k. settling. & leprechauns.

Apparently, I'm Irish. While staying with a family in Idaho a couple weeks ago, I was questioned by one of their son's girlfriends:

Her: Are you Irish?
Me: I sure am! Blah blah blah. Why do you ask?
Her: Because your ears are pointed. You look like a leprechaun!

It's been a good month.

Almost two months after leaving Nakina, I once again find myself and Swift in British Columbia. And I wonder if it is sad that Swift holds such a high pedestal in my life as to necessitate her mention here. But 100,000km after buying her two and a half years ago and a full 278,000km into her 10 year life, I almost think she deserves some kind of longevity medal. Seriously. Swift rocks. And this was her latest adventure as Jimmy and I once again made the cross-country trek, in reverse. And through the States this time, hence my recent discovery that I can easily pass off as a Leprechaun. ...though I'm still searching for that pot 'o gold.

At any rate, my pot 'o gold must exist in British Columbia, as that is where we traveled, following the rainbow in my mind. And while I have yet to even begin a trickle of financial windfall (a.k.a. a job), I have determined one thing: it's time for me to settle. This is it for me. A couple of days ago I was driving around Abbotsford, and without even thinking the words before they spewed out of my mouth, I said to myself: 'It's good to be back.' The jigsaw puzzle is coming together, piece by piece. And for anyone who knows me well, it may only be a matter of time before I begin the removal of pieces again, but hey. That could just be the Irish in me.

well, it's something.

sometimes, you don't quite know what to do with information. with facts. with statistics.

I just finished reading the book, Race Against Time by Stephen Lewis, the former UN special envoy for HIV/AIDS in Africa. It was lying around the house I'm staying at in Waterloo and, what with having little to do, I picked it up and began reading. The reading of this particular book follows closely behind the reading of another fantastic book; one that I must read again: 28 Stories [of AIDS in Africa]. Okay, so it's not a fantastic book. Well, it is. But it's a book that brings the statistical fact that 28,000,000 (that's million) people in Africa live with HIV/AIDS down to an individual level. This woman has HIV, this husband does. This child.

And yet, in this world so far removed from the one in which the epidemic exists, they remain just as they are written: stories. Stories of survival, despair, and hope. Stories of another time, another place, another life. If we choose it to be so. For these stories are of today, and are of our world, and are taking place in our lifetime.

Still, it seems we do nothing. And by 'we', I do not necessarily mean you. Or I. As individuals it is difficult to put a dent into an issue as complex as AIDS in Africa. The issue itself, at the core is not the problem. There are 28 million humans living with HIV/AIDS in Africa. That part is simple to understand. What is difficult for the individual to understand and change is Western government policy, apathy, budgetary commitments, and backsliding. Granted, governments have a responsibility to its own people that it must commit to. And even there, it fails. What government does not have a single complaint against it from one of the thousands of sectors of it's society? But perhaps, what we fail to realize, what I have come to understand further through reading this book, and perhaps what the point of this post is this: our governments have made commitments to the developing world. Commitments that it continually neglects, postpones, and vacillates endlessly on.

There are a few links that I have put up on the side of my blog. They have been there for some time, with the expectation that one might stumble upon it, scroll the cursor over and click. I will now emphasize a few of them. 1) The UN Millenium Goals. Read them to understand what our governments have jointly committed to doing to improve millions of lives in the developing world. 2) Human Rights Watch. Understand a little about what's happening to human lives here and around the world. 3) Micah Challenge. Sign the Micah Challenge to hold the UN and it's member states to it's commitments with the Millenium Goals. If you're not a fan of the Micah Challenge, go to Make Poverty History. 4) Free the Drugs. I was told about this one recently, and am not positive about it's validity so it's not on the sidebar yet. Read it to understand what it's about, and sign it if you understand and agree.

I don't attest to know all the ins and outs of the UN, it's policy-makers or it's member states. Nor do I know a lot about the epidemic of HIV/AIDS in Africa and other developing nations. What does seem to be consistent, however, in the small amount of books I have read that mention these things, is that not enough is being done. And that profits take precedence over humanity. With that in mind, I end with the final paragraph of Lewis' book. I was recently asked if I am a pacifist. Perhaps, for this reason alone, I will become one:

In 2005, the world will pass the trillion-dollar mark in the expenditure, annually, on arms. We're fighting for $50 billion annually for foreign aid for Africa: the military total outstrips human need by 20 to 1. Can someone please explain to me our contemporary balance of values?

in a community of God doubters...

The other day, I was shown a website for a church down in North Carolina. On top of their awesome Jesus Video parodies, they have a pretty interesting slogan: a community of God seekers, God followers, and God doubters. Hm. It's a slogan that fits well with the emerging church philosophy and it's response to postmodernism. Links abound in this post!

God-doubters. There is a movement, it seems, of churches who are trying to be everything that a church is not. The Meeting House, in Oakville, Ontario, has a slogan that basically states just that: a church for people who aren't into church. What? Are people getting sick of the church? Or are people just longing to see more from church? ...maybe a breakdown of the facade of perfection that many of our North American Churches portray. To suggest that their church is a community of God-doubters seems just as blasphemous as a church that claims it is a community of sinners, isn't it? Wait a minute...

So what's with this movement? Why are there now whole communities of Christians who claim to be anti-establishment, in a sense? Are their churches simply formed by individuals who have grown tired of church, and long to build something new and unique, with new and unique names? Or are they churches that have been built upon a deeper understanding of the world in which we live, the people who live in it, and the questions they are asking? Perhaps the most appealing aspect of the emerging church movement is that it replaces the idea of fixed doctrines and static beliefs with more flexible doctrines and a lot of asking questions. To them, faith is less about answers, and more about questions. It's a dialogue, not an indisputable statement of fact. While this has created animosity between mainstream churches and the emerging movement, it has also, in my opinion, given the church a glimmer of hope. A dose of reality. I have often been told that, when Christ was asked a question, he didn't provide a quick, ready answer. He responded with a question. He was into this dialogue thing. His parables often needed interpretation because he didn't always state outright what his point was. And though he might not answer a question, or might not interpret his parables, he was viewed by many as one who had authority.

So, the question: Does a community of God seekers, God followers and God doubters lose it's impact on the world? Or, through it's authenticity and lack of false-pretense, does it actually earn it's authority?

the end of the beginning.

I don't know why that's the title for this post, but, for just a split second in the random meanderings of my mind, it made sense. I've been back south for about a week now. My brother and I made the drive last Saturday, leaving Nakina around noon and arriving in Hamilton at 3 the next morning. I've been in Hamilton since, hanging out at my bro's place. It's been a semi-relaxing time and I've managed to maintain my Nakina schedule of staying up until the early hours of the morning and waking up in the late hours. There's a little coffee shop around the corner that I have frequented over the past few days, and I have spent some time wandering the streets of Hamilton, observing people, capturing the creativity in the architecture, listening to the chimes of local churches, and remembering what it is like to be bombarded by the constant noise a busy city brings.

Swift (a.k.a. Tigo, as named by some of the Aroland kids) remains in Nakina, getting tuned up for her next road trip. It might be her last. I'll return to her in a month's time, after I fulfill a couple of commitments here. I've been busy working on a bit of a side-blog that will document the stories behind a number of my photos. The idea came to me while up North, but the possibility of doing so there was severely limited by a lack of internet. There's still much to be done on the site, but I have found that, whenever I see an artistic photo, I want to know how the photographer came to be in such a place, or meet such a person, or what the significance of that particular photograph has to the artist. Or, I'm just dreaming that people will be interested =).

I'm not fully convinced yet that my time in Aroland, or with the kids in Aroland is entirely over. I initially went with an understanding that I would be there to see if I could be of service for longer than my commitment of four months. I can see the value of continuing my work there, but find it hard to imagine myself living in Nakina at this point. Time will clear that up, I'm sure. In the meantime, I've got a month at home, enjoying the company of family and friends, with the additional bonus of a canoe trip, planned for a couple weekends from now. I look forward to the peace that only the shores of a small lake in Algonquin can bring.

kayaking [pt. 2]

Read Part One

We decided to wait until a break in the storm, as the idea of packing up soaking wet gear in the pouring rain didn't appeal to any one of us. Everything seemed secure, and we figured we would be fine until the rains stopped again. Not long after, the sun made it's first appearance of the day. It broke through a small hole in the clouds, and we made our move. The rock became a bustle of activity as tents came down, tarps were folded, kitchen supplies were gathered and kayaks were filled. We each grabbed our wet wetsuits, slid them uncomfortably over our skin, donned our spray skirts and lifejackets, and were ready to go. One by one, a kayak was placed in the water, someone jumped in while two others held it in place, and he was pushed out into the roller-coaster of waves.

Kurt and I were the second last to go in our kayak fit for two. He jumped in the front while John and I held it steady. As Kurt slid his spray skirt around his cockpit, protecting him from any water that would try to infiltrate it, I jumped in the back and attempted my spray skirt. The waves bashed our kayak from both sides, and I was forced to give up as we banged into the rocks. We were pushed off, just as a wave crashed into the side of our kayak, filling my cockpit with water. Paddling as hard as we could, we managed to get away from the rocks before any further damage was done. As soon as we were safe enough in the open water, we swung our boat around and I grabbed my camera. After snapping a few shots of John preparing his escape, I packed up the camera and we, too, headed for safer waters. It was the most adrenaline-pumping fun I have had in a long time. We paddled our way a few hundred feet to the backside of an island. There, protected from the wind and waves, we eventually found a new campsite. The storm seemed to have subsided as the rains stopped and we were able to set up camp and hang some of our clothes on a clothesline. The Coast Guard reported that the storm was only going to get worse as the day progressed, but our area seemed further unphased by the weather.

We ended up on a campsite that had been frequently used over the years. It boasted such amenities as clotheslines, a picnic table, some counter space next to our a well-planned fire pit and a plaque naming our new location. A paddle had been nailed to one of the trees long ago, and either through abuse by human hands or by Lake Superior weather, it had broken in two. The plaque appropriatetly called this place 'Broken Paddle Campsite. It was a little disappointing to be on such a civilized campsite in the middle of Lake Superior, but it was a much-needed reprieve from the worry of the potential disaster we had just averted. We slept in the rain that night.

Sun. The morning met us with the warmth of the sun, and we capitalized on it in order to dry the rest of our damp clothes and equipment. We took our time getting ready that morning for two reasons: we needed to soak up as much sun as we could before jumping into our kayaks, and we had our best breakfast yet. Time has no relevance when pancake batter is mixed and heated over a morning fire. Satisfied with our sweet escape from bland oatmeal, we gathered our gear and prepared for another day of paddling. We left with the sun ahead of us, but were well aware of the clouds that loomed all around, their bottoms darkened by the shadows of their towering peaks. It rained off and on as we kayaked, and the waves once again began to grow. The winds pushed us along, however, and the kayaking was easy. We pulled up to shore for our lunch, where we huddled together in the cove of a cliff while we ate our regular lunch of soup and noodles. The winds persisted.

As the clouds continued to block and reveal the distant sun, we repacked our lunch gear and hit the water. We paddled East with the wind and the ever-growing swells, eager to arrive at the final campsite of our trip. Soon, the land that bordered our route to the North came to an end and we struck for open water, Battle Island in the distance. We had no intention of approaching our lunch site of 3 days before, as it would take us off course, so we continued with the island to our East. As the swells grew, we would at times disappear from each other's view as we became separated by the peak of a wave. We estimated the height of the waves at 2 metres. The further we got from shore and the closer we got to our destination, the larger the swells grew. As the peak of a wave passed beneath the centre of our kayak, it would throw us slightly off course as our rudder would leave the water, hovering above it until our back end was gently lowered back in as we entered the waves' trough.

Soon we could see the opening between two islands that we were aiming for. The waves continued to grow, and soon were at an estimated 3 metres. We would lose each other for several seconds as our kayaks entered separate troughs simultaneously, a mountain of water between us. Apprehension was in the air as our paddles continued their monotonous strokes through the waters. Waves broke ahead of us, and we knew it would be difficult to steer our kayaks through the narrow passageway that lead to the relative safety of a bay. As we approached the opening, it became clear why the waves were breaking so far out in the lake. Rocks. We had to pass between a set of rocks straight ahead and a set of rocks to our right in order to get to the passageway. As we altered our course, the waves broadsided us and water would spill into our kayak. I was with Cody that afternoon, and we knew that all we could do was paddle. And paddle we did. As we passed between the rocks, the set of rocks to our right broke the waves up so that they became much more small and manageable. We were the first ones through, and had not looked back as we steered through the obstacles. Finally, we swung our boat around and I again grabbed my camera to capture the efforts of our fellow paddlers as they navigated the rocks. We all cleared the obstacle safely, though we each had a story to tell of nearly capsizing. Another adventurous day was behind us, and we paddled the calm waters of the bay where we set up our final campsite.

Our final camp was set up in the rain, which came as no surprise. We had taken down camp in the rain, kayaked in the rain, breakfasted, lunched and suppered in the rain, and so it was only fair that we now had to set up camp in the rain. We had our final supper under a tarp, and stood around the fire to warm us in the cool evening. Not long after, each of our three tents were occupied by a leader while the kids stayed with the fire singing Johnny Cash, and a host of other songs we requested. The night was cool as we slept, the sound of a light rain pattering against our tent flies. The final morning of our trip began with Cream of Wheat, and the excitement of knowing we would soon be back in the Suburban on our way to Transformers in Thunder Bay. We had a couple of hours of paddling ahead of us, and we were eager to begin the day on the water. Our site was packed up, our water bottles filled and our breakfast was eaten. We were soon on our way.

Coming out of the straight, we were immediately hit by wind and waves, while rain gently fell on our kayaks. We paddled. The waves battered us broadside as the crosswind had built them up from the open lake to the West. We paddled. We passed by the points of several islands, knowing that each was another island closer to our destination. Rounding the final island, we could see the buildings of Rossport in the distance. We paddled. Each stroke brought us closer to the sandy beach where our trip would end. As our kayak scratched the soft sand of the beach, we jumped out as the excitement of using a real toilet became a reality. Soon we had all of our kayaks emptied, and all our gear lying in wait to be loaded into the truck. I stood staring down the road when an amazing thing happened. A blanket of rain made its way up the street towards us, soaking everything along its path. It poured. The final rainfall soaked everything we had left in wait, leaving not one item dry in its wake. It was the final kick in the pants on this trip, and it came as no surprise. Our week had been plagued by wind, rain and waves, it was only fitting to finish with a good drenching. We threw all our wet gear into the truck and jumped in, leaving the weather, the waves and the excitement of Lake Superior behind us.

More Photos (lots more)

kayaking [pt. 1]

Last week was spent on the waters of Lake Superior. It was a week of rain, hot sun, cold water, and windy days. It was a trip of almosts. We almost lost our kayaks, almost lost a tent, were forced out of a campsite by mother nature, and almost capsized in 3 meter waves. And it was the most fun I have had in a long time.

Our trip began two Saturdays ago, kind of unexpectedly as Jordan and I were not planning on going until the number of kids increased, necessitating our help. So seven of us, John, Jordan, Dillen, Cody, Keith, Kurt and I jumped into the Suburban in the early afternoon and made our way to our launching spot at Rossport, on the shores of Lake Superior. We were met by rain right away. It would become a constant for us, as 5 of the 6 days we were on the water left us wet either in our kayaks or at the campsites. We took it easy our first day, making our way to a sandy bay where we set up camp. It was a relaxing night for those of us who did not have to train in a wet exit (how to get back in your kayak when you capsize). And the sand made for a comfortable night's sleep. The rains poured on us that night, but we awoke late in the morning to a bright sun and wispy clouds overhead. Our morning was spent puttering around the campsite, eating our oatmeal while we walked along the rocks that extended along the sides of the bay to the open water of Lake Superior. At the edge of the bay, we built a monument of rock called an Inukshuk (though the terms Shuknook, Shukshoonk, Nookshuk and Shusk-a-shook-shuk were all used to describe our creation, as none of us were really sure how to pronounce it). We departed our campsite a couple hours after noon and began our days travel.

We lunched on Battle Island. Situated on the opposite end of the island is a large lighthouse, manned over the summer by two senior volunteers. We went for a hike to see it, and spent a few hours on its surrounding large rocks, watching the kids play football and eventually watching the football float away into the vastness of the lake. Continuing on our way, we picked up the football as it floated along our path, something we would grow accustomed to doing during the week. A few hours later, we arrived at our next campsite, a rocky outcropping on the edge of a bay. It was a beautiful afternoon, and not a drop fell from the sky. We got there early enough to give us time for a swim across the bay. Though we camped close to the water, we weren't too concerned about rogue waves sweeping us off our rock. The water was calm and the sunset left us feeling as though we were in a bit of a paradise. We all went to bed early after a long day of paddling.

The next day was the most beautiful day of our trip. The sun shone over us as we cruised the cold waters of the lake. Unfortunately, our attire was meant to suit the water, not the air, and so our wetsuits kept us sweating as we paddled. It was a long day of paddling as we planned on camping on one island, only to find it inhabitable. We continued on our way, hoping to find a site that allowed the evening sun to keep us warm as we set up our camp for the night. An hour later, we found our perfect camping spot -- another rocky outcropping that looked out on the seemingly endless waters of Lake Superior. It was about the most exposed campsite we could have found, but on such a beautiful day and after a great sleep the night before on a similar outcropping, the thought of what could happen never crossed our mind. We spent the afternoon relaxing on the rock, leaving our mark with sidewalk chalk and building a bonfire on the edge of a perfect cliff diving spot. We enjoyed a round of soup, topped off with cherry-covered bannock. It had been a perfect day. We left the flies off our tent as it was turning out to be a perfectly clear night as well. And we slept soundly under the stars on our perfect little campsite.

The next morning, I woke up around 9:30 and looked up. Clouds. They weren't the kind of clouds that cause one to sit and stare at, trying to imagine what shapes they create. They were the kind of clouds that cause one to get out of the tent as soon as possible in order to put the fly on, in expectation of the raindrops that were sure to fall from them. John had been up for a while already, securing our tents and stowing all of the equipment we had left scattered around the night before. Soon we were all up, working frantically to prepare our campsite for the weather. We set up a tarp over our fire, gathered large rocks to tie our tents down to, and attached our flies. We planned on waiting the storm out. The storm, however, had other plans.

Soon enough, the rains came. Our regular morning meal of oatmeal was had under the tarp with much difficulty. While some of us ate, others would stand on opposite sides of the tarp to hold it steady as the winds picked up and threatened to rip it apart. We ate quickly, made a pot of coffee quickly, and then lowered the tarp to the ground, covering our kitchen supplies. While some of the group returned to a tent to stay warm and dry, John, Keith and I remained out to finish off our securing. As Keith and I stood beside our tent, a gust of wind grabbed it and started pushing it towards the water. We chased it down and secured it with even more rocks. The kayaks were covered with a tarp and tied together with the reasoning that if the waves came too high, they would have more difficulty carrying away all five kayaks at the same time. We found as many rocks and ropes as we could to secure our tents and, satisfied, we all retired to our tents to wait out the storm.

The thing about constant wind over a large body of water is that it tends to cause waves to increase in size. We hunkered down in our tents, listening to the sound of the waves breaking all around us, and even coming close enough to touch the corner of one of the tents. During a break in the storm, Cody ran out to go to the bathroom, and on his return he came by our tent, telling us he was going to grab a deck of cards and come back so we could play a game. We never had the chance. A few minutes later, we heard Cody yell, "Our kayaks!" Under normal circumstances, one could assume that Cody was just joking around, as he often does. But these were not normal circumstances. And his scream coincided with the sound of what could only be our kayaks banging into each other as they were being swept into the lake. Sure enough, as I jumped out of our tent, I looked over to where we had docked our kayaks. The spot was empty, except for the waves that had commandeered the kayaks position. Cody had managed to grab onto the end of one of our kayaks and was holding on for dear life, effectively saving them all as they were tied together. Jumping into action, I ran out and grabbed the other side just as Jordan arrived in his polka-dot boxers. Then, joined by John, and with the rain beating down on us, driven into our skin by the forceful winds, we managed to pull the kayaks ashore and onto higher ground. A quick decision was made, and we all agreed to it. We had to get off this rock. Fast. ... read Part Two

pow wow.

A couple weekends ago was another cultural experience for me, as I attended a First Nations Pow Wow on Mount McKay in Thunder Bay. I was spending the weekend with Josh, a friend and young adult from Aroland. He had previously educated me on First Nations culture and traditions, and I was eager to spend a weekend with him in the midst of hundreds of other First Nations people from the greater Thunder Bay area (by that I mean within 10 hours of driving or flying).

We drove into the city in the late afternoon on Friday, and began our weekend with some Chinese Food. It's a real treat to be back in civilization, and I never realized how much I really do miss suburbia. Though Thunder Bay is an old relic town, far removed from the more modern cities such as Toronto or Vancouver, it boasts a population that is 200 times the size of Nakina, where I live. Thunder Bay has the basic necessities of life: a mall, a Future Shop, Starbucks, Tim Horton's, four-lane highways, and stop lights. I've noticed that my driving has digressed as I have become accustomed to small town driving: yield signs, potholes, and no need for signalling turns. With the Chinese sitting weightily on our stomachs, we made our way through the First Nations Reserve at the base of Mount McKay, and winded our way up the road to its plateau.

The Pow Wow didn't officially begin until Saturday afternoon, but already there were people pitching their tents and setting up their snack and souvenir shops around the pow wow grounds. I imagined that, traditionally, there were no vendors selling hot dogs and bannock burgers around the site where the drumming and dancing was to occur. But today's pow wows aren't just for the native culture. They also are a display of how life was before the White People came, and are open to those same people who like to eat hot dogs and bannock burgers. We stayed on the pow wow grounds for a few hours while Josh caught up with some friends from other reserves, and I hung out with some of the kids from Aroland who had arrived on a bus that night. My experience of the pow wow was slightly diminished due to the fact that Josh and I had chosen to not join the tent-dwellers for the evening. We left to find a place to stay.

We arrived late at Keith's place. Keith is a cousin of Josh's, and a former resident of Aroland. He is also an amazing artist. We spent the first half hour in his room, flipping through his drawing book, mesmerized by the life-like characters he created on its pages. Our tiredness quickly overtook our interest, and we were soon sleeping uncomfortably on the two couches in Keith's living room.

The pow wow began in the early afternoon on Saturday with a Grand Entry of all those who had come, dressed in their native regalia. Pow wow's are a step back in time. Each participant made their way around the centre gazebo, where a handful of drummers beat a single drum simultaneously and monotonously. While they drummed, they sang. There never seemed to be any words, only vocal peaks and lows in a well-rehearsed pattern. Meanwhile, the dancers walked, skipped and glided to their beat in a one-two step pattern. This went on for hours. Only once during the day did the drumming and dancing stop.

I had noticed that everything had stopped, and that a few of the older men were all standing in a small circle to one side. Asking the man beside me what was happening, he explained that they were having a ceremony. A feather had fallen. A few of the regalia worn by the men had wreaths of feathers on the back, and one had fallen from its place. A fallen feather represents a fallen relative, and the men were standing over the feather, saying a prayer for the relative. It was a five-minute long ceremony, after which they picked the feather up and gave it to someone else in the group, as it could not be returned to its original owner. Soon the drumming began, and the dancers slowly made their way back out onto the pow wow grounds. The Pow Wow was back into full swing, and it continued that way until late in the evening, as different drumming groups had an opportunity to showcase their talent. The next day was no different. The Pow Wow began with a Grand Entry and ended late in the evening on Canada Day.

While the festivities came to a close, I returned to my car to wait for Josh as he said farewell to his friends and family. As I passed the ridge of Mount McKay, it became clear to me that there was more to see. This night was not yet over, for in the city below, the population was celebrating the birth of a country. I joined and was joined by a number of others who were eager to see the constant display of light and sound from Thunder Bay. We stood there for another half hour, watching as hundreds of fireworks were set off in backyards, followed several seconds later by the sound of each explosion. Canada Day was spent between two worlds. One celebrating a history not-yet forgotten, and another celebrating the beginnings of a country that was then determined to see the end of a beautiful culture.

the coptics. [pt. 2]

"The Egyptian Coptic Church" is a sequence of words that has never crossed my ears before. I had never heard of this denomination of the Christian faith, and was curious to find out more while a group of them lived in Nakina and served in Aroland. All I knew of this group beforehand was that their priest (or Father) had to wear his uniform at all times, and that they were going to have mass every morning. Based on such little information, I had already decided what the Egyptian Coptic Church is: another church bound to a series of man-made laws that overshadow the teachings of Christ. A harsh judgment, sure. But I, along with a number of other young adults have become jaded with the structured, institutionalized churches of our North American society. Turns out, the Coptic church far precedes even the discovery of North America. It also turns out that they are, in fact, Egyptian, and date their beliefs to the gospel writer and apostle, Mark.

The Coptic church claims to have stuck to the original traditions handed down from the apostle Mark to the present day. I experienced and learned a number of these traditions: the holy bread with it's thirteen stamped crosses, the reciting of the Lord's Prayer, the reciting of Psalms, facing east while in communal prayer, the saints and the status of Mary, the incense and the chanting of Scripture. While many post-Reformation denominations form and divide over such trivial matters as whether congregates can wear perfume in the sanctuary (true story), the Egyptian Coptic Church has remained unwavering in the issues that matter. In some ways, it has no choice. Any decisions passed down by the Pope are established and made into law -- no questions asked. While it does put a lot of power into human hands (though the Pope is accountable to its council), it almost leaves no room for the questions that we (those of us who feel we have a better understanding of truth simply through our attitudes towards our modern day North American churches ) have. . I'm still deciding whether that is a good thing or not.

If I were to look at my beliefs, they would look like a mishmash of post-Reformation churches: Christian Reformed, Pentecostal, and Mennonite. I was raised in the Christian Reformed Church, experienced much spiritual growth through the Pentecostal Church and was educated under the Mennonites -- all the while learning more about the nature of an infinite God. My experiences with the Coptics has, in a way, grounded me. I have begun to ask a different set of questions, even of the benefit of Martin Luther's Reformation. Though many of Luther's issues with the Roman Catholic Church of his day were valid, was it necessary to break off from a belief rich in history and tradition? Is that what he really hoped for? This only resulted in a hodge-podge of denominations, each claiming to know the answers to every question of faith. Many of our modern-day North American churches root their beliefs in a set of man-made doctrines. These doctrines were written down hundreds of years ago in response to the heretics of their day. In essence, they were "solid" answers to valid questions, and have since never been questioned in return. And so, the debate continues between child and adult baptism, predestination, the power of the Holy Spirit, the infallibility of the Bible, and all the other theological questions that various demoninations differ on. This brings me back to the only question that should really matter: what does it mean when Christ says to love God and love my neighbour in the world I find myself in?

the coptics. [pt. 1]

They came. And they went. This past week has been busier than any week so far in Aroland. A group of 28 young adults from Mississauga spent an entire week serving the community of Aroland. They are the Coptics. Twenty-eight people from an Egyptian Coptic Church, wanting to serve closer to home than their previous experiences in Africa and Mexico (though perhaps a flight to either country would take less time than a drive from Southern to Northern Ontario. Who doesn't love a road trip though?). It has been an interesting experience in two ways: 1) being on the flip-side of a mission trip and 2) a new understanding of a faith group I had never heard of before.

I have been on a number of mission trips before. Though I have only ever played the role of a leader on these trips (Mexico, Michigan, Ontario, California), there has always been a responsibility on my shoulders for the group I am serving with, as well as those we are serving. Never have I been the 'co-served', so-to-speak. Though the Coptics were directly serving the kids and the community of Aroland, they co-served those of us who have a longer-term, direct vested interest in the community. I have gotten to know quite a number of the youth in Aroland and, in a way, felt responsible for how they were treated and served by these young adults from Southern Ontario. At times, it has felt like I have been running a babysitting service in Aroland, and am simply maintaining control. This past week has shown me that I have been doing more than that...without even really realizing it. I wanted to protect them, and in recognizing that, I learned that I deeply care for the youth in Aroland.

Not that I had anything to worry about. The group worked amazingly with the kids. I observed many handshakes, many high-fives, and many high-energy games. I heard many positive and encouraging words spoken to the kids, and I read them on the backs of their signed t-shirts. And I listened to their questions about the validity of short-term mission trips. That question has been around for a long time. It is a question I have never fully had an answer to, mainly because I have only ever been the short-term missionary -- the one who sweeps in for a week, does some work, and leaves everything behind. The question is a valid one. How can short-term missionaries possibly be effective? Why is it so important to befriend a kid in Aroland, if I only plan on leaving that kid behind?

Yesterday, one of the teenagers told me of an encouraging word he received from one of the Coptics. In a way, it serves as an answer to the question of the effectiveness of short-term mission trips.

"Tamar told me I have potential," he said. "What's potential?"

This ninth grade young man learned something invaluable: That he has potential, something he had never heard of before. To have a group of 28 young adults pouring out their words of advice, wisdom and hope, has accomplished more in one week than one or two of us could have in a month. These kids need to be hearing what the Coptics had to offer -- even if it is just one word that sticks in their minds for years to come, providing constant encouragement and hope. From what I observed in this past week, there are at least 28 youth in Aroland with a word like that. Thanks, guys. ...read Part Two

the driving range.

Today we went to the driving range. The nearest golf course is an hour away from Aroland, which really isn't that bad. The kids are often wandering Aroland with their golf clubs, whacking their balls into the forests.. They are actually really good golf players, but their knowledge of how a driving range work is limited, as I was soon to discover. We got to the range around 6pm, and retrieved our buckets from the pro shop. Now, i have been to a number of driving ranges in the past, and usually one of two things happen: either we are given a bucket full of balls, or there is a ball dispenser that fills our buckets for us. Neither option was available to us at the pro shop. We were simply given our buckets and told that the driving range was across the street. So, the six of us walked over to the driving range, empty buckets in hand. I kind of assumed we would find a dispenser at the range itself, but that wasn't the case either. All we saw was a giant open field with distance markers, golf balls and broken tees scattered about. Odd, I thought. And then I watched. Even odder, thought I. For, as I stood there, I watched three of the boys, buckets in hand, walk out into the open field and proceed to pick up golf ball after golf ball. it was like an easter egg hunt set to the easiest level.

"This is how it's done," said one of the boys. "We have to collect our own balls."

It simply didn't seem right.

And so, while they continued on their golf ball hunt, I trekked back to the pro shop, hoping to get some answers for this peculiarity. Maybe things were really done different up north. Still, come on. There was something fishy going on. The minute I walked into the pro shop, the girl behind the counter smiled and looked at me. She said one word that confirmed my suspicions: "Balls?"

"Yup," I replied. She pointed, and, lo-and-behold, over in the corner was a large tub of balls, ready to be shoveled into the buckets for the driving range. A couple of minutes later, I left the pro shop with 6 pre-filled buckets, a golf cart to deliver them with, and a great story...

dogs.

Dogs abound in Aroland. Many of them are ragged, rough and large. Often you will come across a few of them hanging out together, waiting for a lone dog to come across their path. I have seen several dog fights in Aroland, and have rescued one or two along the way. One dog, Trigger, seems to remember the day I kicked his attackers off of him and brought him in the Shack to lick his wounds while I dripped some hand sanitizer in an open wound on his neck. Now when he sees me driving towards the Shack, he will often sprint along my car and meet me as I get out. It probably helps that I feed him some dog food. He was one that got away.

I attended a dog funeral yesterday. Cody and Brady, two brothers in Aroland, had a little dog called Sebastian. Cody found his body on the side of a back road the other day and threw some logs on it. Apparently Sebastian was a little promiscuous, and the other dogs got jealous. Promiscuity kills in the dog world. As he finished telling us about it yesterday, he asked if we wanted to go see. "Sure," we said. I really don't know why we decided to go check out a dog's carcass, but that's what we did. We brought a shovel along, too. Sebastian needed a proper funeral. There were a couple of interesting elements to this impromptu funeral. Brady, the younger brother, didn't want to see his dog in it's expired state. Cody explained that he might get angry at the dogs who killed him. Brady said he was afraid to look. It took a little coaxing to get him out of the car and, in his own way, say good-bye to his dog. "I'm gonna hit this golf ball," he said. He set down the golf ball that he had hit and retrieved several times over during the day, grabbed his driver and took a swing. The ball was gone. And so was his fear and anger, it seemed. His way worked.

Sebastian was kind of gently lowered into a fresh hole, dug by Cody. Somebody mentioned something about saying a prayer. It was a half-joking, half-serious comment, but nobody wanted to say it. So I simply prayed that God would take good care of Sebastian and that Brady and Cody could get another dog. "Yeah, a better dog," said Cody. And with that, we hopped in our car, and drove away.

elusive bears

The drive from Nakina to Aroland and back generally consists of two things: trees and potholes. Lately, I’ve been adding bears to the list of sights to see. Bears are elusive creatures. For weeks now, I have been trying to get a decent picture of one in particular. It usually seems to be wandering close to the road, just past the railway tracks close to Aroland. Yet, whenever it rests its beady little eyes on my Swift, it takes off into the forest and out of sight. Dang thing. The other day I was driving a few teens from Nakina to Aroland when we spotted her. Jumping into action, the two boys advised me to honk my horn and drive up to the bear in an effort to ‘tree’ it. It worked! The bear ran only a few feet into the woods and began its ascent into the closest tree it could find. It would have been a great opportunity for a picture, had the weather cooperated. It didn’t. It rained.

And the one thing that I thought I had going for me turns out to be my downfall. I had long hoped to slowly creep up to a bear in my car. Swift is fairly bear-shaped. It’s got a rather large rear end and a beautiful sharpened front that sits close to the ground. With the potholes constantly shaking and jostling my car, she even moves like a bear. Surely she’s the perfect disguise. Alas, the creeping thing has yet to pan out. I can only imagine it has to do with colour. Swift is green. The bear probably mistakes her for some sort of sea-sick relative and runs in the opposite direction. My only hope is to find someone with a black Swift. With a gray interior. And standard, as bunny hops might help in the disguise. Yeah, that’s a hint, James.

time passes by

it's amazing how quickly time passes. almost one month ago, i drove my little swift into this little town with little clue as to what i would be doing. one month later, i sit in my little swift outside the local elementary school, 'borrowing' their high-speed internet connection. it's a decently warm day here in nakina, which is nice as the sun continues to melt the snow. yeah, that's right. snow. it fell from the sky a couple days ago, and on days like today it seems to be quickly disappearing into the earth. yeesh. 25 degrees earlier this week to freezing rain and snow a couple days later. northern ontario at it's finest, i'm sure.

as in the days of youth pastoring, i find myself questioning my effectiveness among the kids in Aroland. and i am learning to be content with the fact that this is likely a consistent concern among many who work with kids, teens, adults, elderly. it's part of our human desire to feel effective, useful, needed. i am not being asked for miracles. i am not being asked to solve the problems in Aroland. i am not being asked to meet every need that passes through my ears. for now i am simply being asked to show love to those whom i cross paths with in aroland. for some of these kids, it means encouragement, for others tough love, for others it's about reminding them that they have value. and for me it's constantly reminding myself that i don't have the answers, that i, too, am learning. it's reminding myself to put my pride aside -- that i am just like everyone else. no better, no worse. the difficulty is not in the reminders to humble myself, but in actually doing it. Pride can be such a blinder. For me, and likely for many in our culture.

radio.

Last Saturday, John Reynolds had the opportunity to share what he is doing in Aroland on The Drew Marshall Show. He was interviewed along with a survivor of the Canadian residential schools ("a religious system that abused [him]"). To better understand the current situation in many northern reserves and learn about one persons experience in the residential school system, download the mp3. Find the May 5 broadcast with John Reynolds and Rene Meshake.

shooting stars and satellites.

One of the amazing things about the North is the vastness of stars. I’ve noticed them several times while on my drive from Aroland to Nakina late at night, and tonight I decided to just sit on the back porch and stare at them for a while. There are two things that amaze me about the night sky: shooting stars and satellites. If you watch the night sky long enough, you will eventually see the dim light of a satellite as it maintains its orbit around the earth. To think that we have left our mark in the vastness of space is amazing. Yet, amazing as they are, they are in no comparison to nature’s satellites. The fact that there are objects crashing to earth, burning up in the atmosphere with such fanfare and beauty, blows my mind. It’s so easy to get caught up in the day to day and forget that we are just a speck in the vastness of this universe. Literally, just a speck. What is man that You are mindful of him?

.Sunday

Today I find myself at a new home, in a new town, doing a new thing. After a great week in Mexico and two awesome weeks in BC, I flew back into Thunder Bay on Monday morning. Following a pit stop at Starbucks for my last experience with a Starbucks coffee and high-speed internet, I began the trek up north to my new stomping grounds, still unsure of what to expect.

While in BC, I got an email from Ryan in Nakina. At one point in the email he mentioned something about getting my feet on the ground, and that they would be hitting the ground running. He was right. Between Nakina and Aroland, it’s been a busy week. A week of remembering names from my time here in December, of meeting new kids and new faces, of finding new muscles in my body, of learning the rules of floor hockey and of completely enjoying the life up here. I’m not sure I can call it the ‘Simple Life’ here, because this week has been anything but simple:

1) Hanging out and cleaning up around The Shack in Aroland
2) Refereeing a full day of floor hockey between area elementary schools
3) Hours of biking around Aroland with the kids
4) Weight-lifting with a teen in Aroland
5) Sorting and organizing wilderness trip gear
6) Moving boxes of clothes for a garage sale

Though most nights ended late for me with closing The Shack around 11 -11:30pm and then driving the half hour back along the potholed road between Aroland and Nakina, I have found myself going to bed with a smile on my face. Despite the busyness, it’s been a great week. Right now I feel like I’ve quietly slipped into life here.

And today it’s Sunday. A much needed day of rest. While it’s tempting to sit here and plan out a schedule for The Shack, or to drive out to Aroland to hang out with some of the kids, I now recognize the importance of taking a day to sit back and relax. Those things need to wait. Tomorrow’s a new day...

religion at a pub.

It doesn't take much to become involved in a conversation about religion. And more often than not, the topic is not even breached by the 'religious' ones....

This weekend we found ourselves at a resort in Kamloops. All eleven of us. We know eachother through school and through school connections. Over the past year we have all moved our separate ways, only to return to this chalet that overlooks Sun Peaks for a pre-wedding celebration. Our numbers will be reduced to nine in a short week's time.

Last night, we hit the town. ...well... We hit the village. Ski hills always have a village, and this one is no different. Though, with the end of the ski season, the village seems more like a ghost town. Those that remain behind are the outdoorsy type that find value and contentment in hanging around the ski resorts year round. Four of whom we met last night.

Part of our pre-wedding celebrations involved dressing up the bride and groom and heading to the local pub in search of a dance floor to bust some moves. The only pub open had no dance floor, and played 80s music all night long. Hardly conducive for us Dutchies (plus some) to break out our amazing dancing skills. And so, our night involved sitting around a table making as much noise as possible and talking to our local pubmates while enjoying the antics of the bride in her snakeskin pants.

Ski bums are cool folk. The four we met at the pub had an uncanny interest in our group. Probably because we tripled the amount of people in the pub while tripling the noise level inside those four walls. Our conversation began while paying the bill.

"Where are you guys all from?" one pubmate asked.
"The Lower Mainland area," I replied.
"How do you know eachother?"
"Most of us went to school together in Abbotsford."
"What kind of school?"
"It was a Bible College."

Let the religion discussion begin.

For the next hour and a half, four of us found ourselves engaged in conversation with the four of them. They were surprised by us. Surprised that we would walk into a pub at 11:30 at night. Surprised that we would order beer, and not 'specialty coffees', as was one girl's expectation. Surprised that we were 'cool people'. And perhaps they were surprised that we didn't sit and preach. We listened, we engaged, we challenged as much as we were challenged. I think in the end, we all learned a little more.

And we all agreed on one thing: Religion sucks. It truly does. Religion is the paintbrush that so easily strokes any person who might believe in a god with the same colour as the abusive priests, the hypocritical homosexual pastors, the adamantly anti-gay marriage campaigners (all three of which were mentioned by one pubmate as reasons why religion sucks). It's so easy to overlook us regular hypocrites, sinners, and God-followers when religious hypocrisy is such a mainstream idea to the atheist. The perception of Christianity is so easily skewed when human nature is involved. Does hypocrisy exist? In all of us, I would think. We all fail. All of humanity fails. Christian, Muslim, Jew, Atheist. That's just one thing that makes us all the same. But there's an expectation that Christians are perfect. Far from it.

Is the pursuit of a god just a crutch? A cop-out? Potentially, yes. If we let it become that. If the pursuit stops. If those of us who profess Christ fail to recognize 'the golden rule' that is so well-known (even by our pub friends): If love of self becomes more important than the love of our neighbour (and, ultimately God). When that happens -- and it will -- hypocrisy is soon to follow. Thank God for grace and forgiveness.

relaxed and random.

slightly more enjoyable than sitting on planes and slightly less enjoyable than sitting on trains is another favourite past-time of mine: sitting in coffee shops. It's a beautiful day in BC. A day in which I find myself hanging out in the Crescent Beach area of South Surrey taking in the sun, the beach, the railway that hugs the ocean's shore and the relaxed atmosphere of a local coffee shop. Today has been a day of catching up. On email, on photos, on Facebook, and on friends. I know these next two weeks will pass quickly, so I hope to enjoy as much of this atmosphere as I can before heading back to Nakina and the Starbucks-free world of Northern Ontario. Since my time has been spent catching up, I have had little time to reflect on my recent travels to Northern Ontario, or on Mexico. With those two events in the back of my mind, I have discovered a new joy: younger siblings. I've been staying at the home of one of the boys that I took to Mexico. They've taken in another roomer from Holland, so right now there are 5 boys aged 11 through 27 staying at my adopted home. Younger siblings are great. I find myself just sitting back and watching the antics of three brothers mocking and hitting eachother, laughing and talking together, and basically creating and maintaining insanity in their home. Younger siblings rock as much as older siblings. It's nice to be the older brother for once though.

lessons learned.

Another week flown by. The past 7 days have been spent with a group of 40 teens in Juarez, Mexico. It’s hard to describe the week that was. I am learning never to underestimate those whom I see as inferior. And it’s not the Mexicans I speak of.

One morning in Juarez, I stumbled upon another lesson in life…a lesson in humility. While seeking out my third cup of coffee, I happened to catch the tail end of an impromptu prayer session. Walking into the dining room at our work site, I came across a young man pouring his heart out to God. He sat at the table fervently praying for our team, for the Mexicans we served, for Juarez and for the hearts of everyone involved in our trip. His hands moved eloquently with the words he seemed to so carefully choose. The clarity with which he spoke seemed to contradict the person I saw him to be on the outside. And yet his words were so impactful, it brought a few of us to tears. Here was a young man of 22 years old, pouring out his vision, his dreams, his heart and passion in the presence of the few of us fortunate enough to observe and listen. Here was a young man completely devoted to what he believed and what he desired for our team and for those we served. Here were prayers straight from the heart. Prayers that in an odd sort of way, put me to shame. For though this 22 year old may look and act several years younger due to Down Syndrome, he has the one thing we so often lack: The faith of a child.

Kudos, Jasen

turning the page.if life is a book, it probably has a lot of chapters

I have often seen a book as a great metaphor for life. When fairly significant life changes occur, I tend to symbolize these moment as the beginning of a new chapter in my life. It seems I'm turning the page once again.

Chapter Seven

When I was in Nakina, I was presented with the opportunity to work with John Reynolds and the youth of Aroland for a longer period of time. It was an opportunity that excited me when I was up there, but was only something I kept in the back of my mind for the next few months after returning to the Grim. My desires to return to BC always remained, yet despite them, the timing never seemed fully right. I couldn't justify returning with nothing to do, and none of the passenger rail companies in BC responded to my resumés. So I began to resign myself to the fact that I would likely end up remaining at the print shop for a while until something else came up. Then came the call that I was being "let go". Something came up. Perfect. My decision to quit the night shift job was not as rash as it may appear, as I had always intended to quit before heading west in late March. And so begins chapter seven.

Around the same time as the job situations came up, I received an email from John. He was wondering what I was up to, and if I was still thinking about Aroland. Suddenly, the idea of Aroland worked it's way from the back of my mind to the very front. Three weeks later, it seems I'll be packing up the Swift for Northern Ontario. I leave Monday. The plan is to drive to Nakina, then fly out of Thunder Bay to Vancouver. From there, I will fly down to Mexico with some youth from the old church for a mission trip, then return to BC for a wedding in late April. Then it's back to Thunder Bay, and up to a new life in Nakina.

I've committed to being up north for four months, from May to August, giving me enough time to understand the needs in Aroland and whether I can be of service for a longer period of time. Since my work will primarily be volunteering with the Reynold's and with the youth of Aroland, I will be needing financial support. For more information on what I will be doing, please read my Support Letter. If you would like to support me financially, click here. Though I'm not sure exactly what to expect when I arrive in Nakina, I am expecting chapter seven to be a huge challenge. Pray.

Postmodernity, Atheism, Christianity, Questions

I'm not much of a YouTuber. Despite the hype and the innumerable mentions on nightly news, I've never caught on to the fad. Until today. I had no idea there was this secret underground world of Christian vs. Atheist debating going on via video. Encroyable, I say! I don't profess to know much about Atheism. Heck, I don't profess to know much about Christianity. It seems that whenever a discussion, editorial, video, blog, or any form of interactive media touches on why one chosen path is superior to the other, a heated debate ensues. More often than not, the debate occurs between head-in-the-sand, self-proclaimed Christians, and head-in-the-sand, self-proclaimed, 'free thinking' Atheists who banter back and forth with no real point. Search for "blasphemy challenge" on YouTube and you will come across a host of videos dedicated to an organization's call for people to 'commit the unforgivable sin' and deny the existence of any god. Read through the comments, and you will inevitably come across a debate where both 'sides' attempt to 'prove' why their 'belief' is 'right' and 'true'. Postmodernity in essence.

What is postmodernity? For the purposes of this post, I will use only one part of the ever-broadening definition of postmodernity, that is: all truth is relevant. That what you believe is fine for you to believe it. Meanwhile, I'll believe what I want to believe, because it works for me. There is no foundational truth in which to place our belief system because we will all have our own.

There are elements of truth to that. What I believe is based on my experiences, my understanding, my upbringing, what I read and how I interpret it. However, for me all of that is filed under the foundational beliefs of Christianity. Ugh. Ugh because that label is so despised by the 'rational-thinking' atheists in the world. To them, I have bought into a system of comfort. I've been brainwashed by a human contraption. Could it be that they have simply bought into a different system of comfort?

What I've come to understand through reading the various comments and debates on YouTube is this: Nobody has it all figured out. It takes faith in the words of a centuries-old book to believe in God, and it takes faith in scientific theories to believe there is no God. Neither 'side' has their faith figured out. All we can do, really...is ask questions. When the question-asking stops, legalism sets in. It becomes harder to grow in an understanding of what your beliefs mean when the answers are already provided for you by way of a faith doctrine or the doctrine of rational-thinking. For the Christian, the question we need to be asking should be: what does it mean when Christ says to love God and love my neighbour in the world I find myself in? Start there, and the questions will never stop. For Atheists, the question they need to be asking should be: Why do I find myself in this world? To atheists though, maybe there is no point to our existence. I think it would take a lot more faith to believe that. Then again, I am biased.

the B-I-B-L-E (yes, that's the book for me!)

I've taken to reading the Bible lately. It's a Lent thing, don't ask. Funny how one can pick up a book on any topic and start reading it with no thought as to what the 'underlying meaning' is behind the words read. Not so with the Bible. Since birth, I've been told that there is meaning behind everything that's written between Genesis 1 and Revelation 22. Everything. So, say when you read about the Israelites slaughtering the Canaanites, we're taught that God was giving them the Promised Land. If the Canaanites stayed, they would taint the Israelites, we're told. And that just couldn't be. Complete, total annihilation. And the Israelites failed. Complete, total failure. They got tainted. So we go through the Judges, who basically set the Israelites straight before dying and leaving them to their own waywardness. Proving that God cared for them because he sent them various Judges to rescue His people, we're told. How I would love to read the Bible for the first time. Maybe then I could get through more than 5 chapters at a time. It's ingrained in us, I think. Those of us who have been listening to or reading this thing for decades; we're conditioned to read between the lines. At all times. No longer can a story simply be a story. It has to have some sort of profound meaning. I'd probably read a lot more if I could just read it as a story. And if I hadn't heard most of the stories since birth. Yet, despite all that, I still love what I read ... between the lines ...

a backpack or bookends

Sometimes we make decisions. Other times, decisions are made for us.

I've been fired.

Ha. I'm laughing. This is great. Okay, so I haven't really been fired. I've been 'released'. Freed. As my boss put it, he's throwing me into the pool. He's letting me go. The print industry is slow these days and I'm too expensive to keep as the sole employee of a small business -- the same business I considered purchasing on my return to Ontario. So, I did what every rational person would do in such a situation: I called up my other boss at the group home and told him I'm quitting. No more night shifts at the group home. And no more day shifts at the print shop. As of March 16, I'll be unemployed. And as of April 1 I'll be homeless, as my parents are also forcing freedom on me. They're not heartless and cruel. They just want their life back. I don't blame them. Ha. Nothing surprises me these days.

I have a tendency to take some things in stride. It's a tendency that drives my mother crazy. But I can't help it. It's who I am. So, now I am faced with a question: a backpack or bookends? It's been brewing in me for a while to just pack all my stuff into a backpack and take off for unknown destinations. What holds me back is the other desire: to find a home, a wife, and a bookshelf on which to hold all my books. To settle, or not to settle?. That is the question.

pain.

I think if we were given a reason for why there is pain and suffering in our world, we would use it as an excuse to not care for those who are experiencing it. Now we're left with the option to care. Because there's no reason for it.

The other day, an email was waiting in my inbox. It was from a youth who is working through an age-old question of faith: Why does God allow suffering in our world? Her question wasn't raised through class discussion, a youth group Bible study, or through a sermon she may have listened to. It was not philisophical in nature. It was not even blatantly theological. In fact, that wasn't really her question. Her questions were raised through her experiences in life: Why is a friend, who has been through so much crap and who doesn't have a strong relationship with God suddenly being dealt another rotten situation? Why is my life so easy in comparison? And what do I do?

Whew.

I could have responded with one of many Christian clichés about sin and the fall of man, but I think answers like that are designed to give us an excuse to carry on with our lives with our backs turned. Especially here in North America. I know I've used that as an excuse, and I continue to do so. She's probably heard all the clichés anyway -- after all, she did grow up in the church. What I've discovered in my few and brief experiences of talking to, listening to and being around those who suffer, is that I become the better for it. But I don't think that others are meant to suffer for my sake. For my growth. There's a balance that needs to be found. Though I'm not sure I've found it yet. I remember an episode that took place in Uganda last summer; something that I wrote about, but never posted here. It's the story (and thoughts) of Xavier:

We were brought to one of five campuses of the Kampala Pentecostal Church (KPC). In some ways it was like walking into a North American church. In others, it was a brand new experience. We sang the same worship songs, with the added bonus of a 50-something voice choir and 2,500 strong congregation. Following a message on loving our neighbours, we walked back out onto the streets of Kampala, right past a man sitting on the corner of the parking lot. He sat with his wheelchair, crutches, and a pan. As usual, questions, concern, and a bit of frustration weighed down my thoughts...all compounded by the fact that this man was sitting right outside a church where those walking past had just listened to a sermon on loving their neighbour. Looking back towards him, and then looking towards the team I could tell that Simon had possibly similar thoughts running through his head.

"I can tell you're thinking," I said. "What about?"
"Same thing as you," he replied.

So, together, we walked over and sat with Xavier. Unfortunately, that was about the extent of our knowledge of Xavier as he was rather hard to understand. After our brief and disjointed conversation, Simon left some money in the pan and we walked back to our waiting van.

Much of the past few days has been spent trying to understand the desire to care that I feel when I meet the David's, the Justin's, the Xavier's. What is it about? There's a tension that happens between whether it is about them or about me. David still sleeps in the roundabout. Justin still walks several miles to his bed. Xavier will still sit at the corner of Buganda Road and the KPC parking lot. And I will return to my bed, my car, my job. I will return to a better life, as I understand 'better' to be. And I will leave David, Justin and Xavier behind.

Compassion is a fickle thing. Does God give a heart of compassion to change others, or to change the compassionate? Or is it both? Will David remember the white guy who gave no money, gave no food, took no pictures and asked questions? Will Justin? Xavier? Or are the stories I've heard, the poverty I've seen, the lives I've collided with in Uganda forever remain solely with me?

I still don't have the answers. Which in a way, is cool. Because I couldn't give any answers to the youth who was asking the questions. It's something she'll have to figure out as she discovers her own heart of compassion. All I could tell her is that all she could do -- and all she is called to do -- is walk alongside her friend. And it was in that reply that something profound struck a chord in my thoughts. That's really all Christ did. He didn't leave this world in perfect order. He didn't heal everybody. He had to leave behind the broken, the hurting, the lame, the deaf....

And he told us to walk with them in his place......

Many people use the excuse that there is too much pain and suffering in our world for there to be a God. God or not, pain and suffering will still exist. The choice remains ours.

two.

She's two years old now. Well, technically she's ten, but I've only really gotten to know her over the past two years. Happy Birthday, Swift! It's been a good year for her. She has continued to serve me faithfully, from daily commutes in the Lower Mainland of BC and a 4,000 km journey home for more daily commuting in Southern Ontario. This year has proved much less expensive than last year with my only expenses being oil changes, gas, insurance and two speeding tickets. But she's entering the terrible two's, and I'm worried she'll start acting up. I think she has bladder control issues....I noticed some yellow snow under her front end this morning. Oh, Swift.

purpose[fulness]

It's coming back. ha. It's all coming back to me now. My apologies to all non-Celine fans. Especially to those of you who now have the song stuck in your head; her voice torturing your inner ear. At any rate, the lyrics ring true.

Youth work has not really been something I've been involved in since returning to Ontario. ...Well...I have been. But I haven't been. Let me explain:

The week I got home, I was 'informed' that my church was in need of some leaders for the grade 9 boys. I say informed because the underlying intent in my informant's mind was to play the guilt-trip card that I so easily fall for. And I fell for it. Next thing I know, I'm spending my second weekend in Ontario with a group of youth on a retreat. And thus began the saga of this burnt-out-former-youth-director-struggling-to-find-his-way-in-life-grade-nine-boys-youth-leader. [Fortunately I had some affect on one other person to join me in this struggle (thanks James)]. While we have managed to put together some decent group material for our kids, I've realized that I am doing to these youth exactly what I feared I would do to the youth in BC: not care about them. It's a harsh realization. I simply put my time in, about 4 hours a month. Beyond that, I am not involved in the lives of these youth, something I know is the foundation of youth work. I just do what I have to do month after month. Because I suckered myself into it.

Which is a thought that will lead into the point of this post: purposefulness. I was asked a little while ago which of the jobs I have worked were the most enjoyable. Truth be told, there are aspects of every job that I have enjoyed. If I were to be honest, the job I currently have is a dream job for many: I sit behind a desk most of the day and am only required to do 'work' when a customer walks in the door. Upon further reflection of her question though, I have in a roundabout way asked myself a different, related question: which job have I felt the most purpose in? The answer to that is a lot less complicated. Youth Work. There has been purpose in every job I have done: whether it be carting around barrels of maple syrup, cutting flowers, delivering newspapers, or printing menus and business cards. But I have only truly felt purposeful in my work with youth. It's like the difference between breathing in fresh winter air and breathing the air in my car today after I stepped in some dog crap. Either way, I'm breathing air. Youth work just feels better deep down. [not that my other jobs have been crap...it's just an analogy that works for today because of stupid neighbour-lady's dog]

I can smell a hint of fresh air. It's coming. I'm not gonna rush it...it'll come when the time is right. First things first though: I gotta get Celine's voice out of my head...

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Purpose

I need to elaborate on what I mean by this word. I want to stay away from any reference to the word 'purpose' that might automatically put into the reader's mind two things: 1) The Purpose-Driven Life and 2) Rick Warren.

The 'purpose' I am referring to makes more sense when put it into the words of James as we discussed life over our regular $2.50 pasta meal last night. I wish we recorded the conversation (as we often say after such conversations), but here's the gyst of what he said and what makes sense to me as I type it out: it's like there's a sine wave of what you know you are capable of (gifted in) and what you are actually doing--and whether they line up or not. It was along those lines, and maybe something I'll elaborate on in a future post. Hope that makes sense.

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Max.

there lives in grimsby a man by the name of Max. if you have lived in this town long enough, chances are good you have crossed his path. rarely will he cross yours, as most times it's you who walks by while he stands still on the street or sits on a chair in the local grocery store. long-time residents of this town affectionately (or not-so-affectionately) call him 'crazy Max'. it's not really that he's crazy, per se, but it is clear that he has some wires crossed. he used to live just up the street from us, so i would often walk past him while delivering newspapers in the neighbourhood. i remember how he would always comment on the weather.

'hi Max, how you doing?'
'oh, the weather is great today. just great. yup, the weather ... i say, the weather is great today.'
'it sure is, Max. have a great day!'
'well thank you. thank you. yes. thank you...yes...'

that's Max.

Max doesn't much talk about the weather anymore. it wasn't uncommon in the years before leaving the grim that i would see Max standing on the street corners in the very early hours of the morning. he didn't much talk about the weather then either. in fact, he didn't really talk at all. he yelled. and he would yell at no one and nothing in particular. Max picked up a very colourful language, too. i still remember the day i watched helplessly as some local teens swore at him while he stood in front of milk 'n things.

i've run into Max a few times since returning to the grim, most often as he sits just past the express check-out line of our local food basics. tonight he sat there drinking a one litre of chocolate milk. it seems he had a bad day today, though he wouldn't elaborate. he was just too tired to elaborate. maybe it was the weather. it hasn't been so great lately.