I don’t. The frugal former farmgirl part of me is uncomfortable with impractical spending. Why spend money on a luxury that will die in a few days?
Praises be, I raised a city daughter who thinks differently. She willingly spends money on touches of beauty: plants with character, fresh flowers and unique throw pillows. (Frugal former farmgirl says, Throw pillows? Useless!)
Last week my daughter brought home pussy willows.
Boom! She transported me back to my childhood farm near a wooded area where pussy willows grew wild. In my barn-chore gum rubber boots, I’d walk through the soggy marshland in the spring and run my fingers over the soft pussy willow buds.
I wondered how many people in our oh-so-urban society are lucky enough to have such a beautiful memory. I felt privileged and full of gratitude.
My daughter, spending her money so willingly, bought more than fresh flowers. She bought a long-forgotten cherished memory, an appreciation for my carefree childhood, and gratitude for how her different approach to life makes mine richer.
Those aren’t luxuries, and they won’t die in a few days.
Sometimes when words won’t flow, I use a writing prompt. One of those prompts involves finding a certain page, in a certain book, on a certain shelf.
“Top shelf, third book from the right, page 56.”
I went to my office and looked at the top shelf. Among other books were some that contain short stories of mine. “Huh, what are the odds that the third book to the right is one of those?” I asked myself.
I counted and the Blood Is Thickeranthology, which contains one of my short stories, was third from the right. “That’s pretty amazing,” I thought, “but what are the odds that my story is on page 56?”
I opened the book and flipped to the right page. Yep. My story was there.
The line that stood out: “NOTE TO SELF: Those are pretty good odds.”
The title of my story?
Beating the Odds
I guess I’m supposed to write that even if something seems unlikely, if you set yourself in motion, you might beat the odds—and have a laugh while you’re at it.
There are days when I wish more people could say, “It’s not about me.”There are days when I wonder why people think life should only be about what they like.
I am guilty of it too. But I try to think: “It’s not about me, but there’s something for me here.”
I use it at the grocery store when I’m in a hurry and the person ahead of me is paying cash, counting out every nickel. Patience.
I use it in tense meetings. Conflict resolution lessons.
I use it at church every week.
I’m a member of a progressive, affirming congregation. The foundation of our group is that love and grace are available to all people, but beyond that we don’t dictate what anyone should believe. On any given week an atheist could be sitting down the row from a person who believes in the virgin birth. It’s fantastic!
Our conversations are authentic, and deep, and heartwarming,
And challenging. How to balance the content of a church service for people on such different places on a journey?
A service about an Old Testament story:
“Why do we even use the bible (small b) anymore? It’s thousands of years old, written by men in a patriarchal time. What does it have to do with me? “
“Thank goodness we’re finally talking about the Bible (capital B). It has timeless lessons, and it’s the foundation of our faith.”
“It’s a sacred ritual for me. A reminder that I’m not alone and that I have purpose.”
“It’s meaningless to me. A little creepy if you want to know the truth.”
“It’s barbaric. I would never wear one because it brands me as something I don’t want to be associated with.”
“It’s a symbol of connection with something greater than myself, the reaching and the grounding.”
“The music resonating through the pipes moves me to the depths of my soul.”
“How can people endure that horrible screeching?”
A short sermon:
“It’s about time. No need to go on and on about things. Just get to the point. “
“The minister needs to delve more deeply into the topic.”
Children in church:
“Oh, the noise, noise noise!”
“It’s good to see so many children. They bring the place to life.”
“We need to sing more of the old, familiar hymns.”
“Enough of the blood and the sin songs. Let’s sing something new.”
“Oh my God, the prayers are long. My mind drifts off.”
I need prayers. They are my time of centering. It’s when I connect with God, and when we connect with each other and the world.”
Every Sunday something happens that I would not choose to include if I were a member of a church of one. (And what fun would that be?) Every Sunday I have to remind myself that the thing I dislike is exactly the thing that someone there—maybe right beside me—is needing. Every Sunday I say to myself: “It’s not about me, but there’s something for me here.”
There always is. Something authentic, deep and heartwarming.
The bus we were taking to the stadium stopped dead in the gridlock. We hopped off and walked on the snowy, icy sidewalks for more than a mile to get there on time. We bustled along with people in the same situation. We acknowledged each other with:
People who didn’t have tickets to the event saw the mess and wondered about it. “What’s going on?” they asked.
“Trevor Noah,” was the answer.
The words Trevor Noah are likely to raise the blood pressure of many Ottawans for the next while.
But a little snow (or a lot) didn’t stop us. We arrived in time for the start of his show. He started with questions a South African who doesn’t like snow and cold would ask.
Why do we live here?
Why do we not move?
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since, because I love it here. But what exactly do I love, and how, and why?
Trevor Noah wasn’t a fan of our showpiece attraction – the Rideau Canal Skateway. But for us, it is JOY itself to skate for what feels like forever.
“In every religious tradition there is a practice of devotion and a practice of transformation . . . Devotion means trusting more in ourselves and in the path we follow. Transformation means to practice the things this path imposes on us.”