here i sit in the bakery on the corner, a stones through from my back door. pick it up and give it another toss and you’ll find the church where i work. i have spent many a morning here over breakfast, across the table from someone i care about and who cares for me. i have consumed my fair share of afternoon coffee here as well with the same such folk. i am glad to have an employment which encourages me to connect with folk in a personal way, be it over eggs, cinnamon buns or coffee. i might add that the coffee has definitely improved since tim convinced the owner to go freshly roasted and fairly traded over the mother parkers packaged stuff they were passing off a few months ago. i wish i could say the breakfasts are on the rise, but they tend towards the wrong side of hit and miss. al has vowed never to return as two eggs scrambled seems an impossible task.

today i am here solo. have been swinging by on my own from time to time in the last few weeks. sometimes to work on my course, but more often to think and pray. i have been finding this silly little spot a sacred space. i didn’t know that God decided to meet folks at 275 queen street, but i know we’ve had a few rendezvous recently.

today i couldn’t wrap my mind around another day in the big empty building, cold and dark. i jotted a note to tim to say where i was in case he came by and headed over. i nestled into a sunny booth with a familiar royal blue mug of bitter brew. the cups are small, but the refills are steady so i really don’t mind. today i felt a sense of expectation, like i was waiting for a familiar face to show up. i thought maybe i was waiting for tim, or brett, a bell worker who takes coffee breaks here over the best toast in town. but as i opended my buechner book, i looked across the table to the empty seat and realized that i was not alone. with grattitude, comfort and some tears, i read. the words i heard were how we all long to be saints, which is what being human really means, and that such an endeavour is not nearly so hard as it may feel. that in the midst of it all we come across a pearl for which all others pale in comparison. that as much as we pursue the kingdom of joy and life, it pursues us.

i’m not sure why God has chosen this author as a voice to speak with me, but he has and he does. a thin place is what the celts called such moments. you know, those times and spaces where the spiritual seems to be so close to the firm reality of things. where tables and benchseats, mellow waitresses and coffee, black type on white pages convey the very presence of God.

thanks Dad, i needed this…

cotton headed ninny muggins
son of nutcracker
i feel warm when i’m around you
i forgot to give you a hug

these and many more, every year on channel eleven. every year it cracks me up. will ferrell knows how to milk the awkward shtick.

sometimes i wish i was a human raised by elves…

so here’s the mo and it’s looking pretty sweet if you ask me. shan hasn’t seen it yet, but she will in the early light of dawn when she wakes up beside this thing of beauty. get a load of these handle bars honey! abbey the tabby didn’t seem to mind…

sponsor me here! it’s all for a good cause – raising awareness and funds for prostate cancer research.

word.

tiss the season. not for jingle bells or greeting cards or evergreens laden with tacky ornemants and bright lights. tiss the season for… moustaches. that’s right, movember is here! the month formerly known as november is now dedicated to growing facial hair on the upper lip. moustache november. be it a ned flanders-esque push broom, a curly waxed gunslinger, or the classic sleaze attributed to salesmen of the traveling or used car variety, all manner of lip hair welcome. why, you ask? what is the reason for this scruffy season? movember is a moustache growing charity event held during november each year that raises funds and awareness for men’s health, specifically prostate cancer. changing the face of men’s health you could say. all monies raised support the Prostate Cancer Research Foundation of Canada.

if you want to support my efforts you can (1) donate online using your credit card or PayPal account, or kick it old school and (2) write a cheque payable to the ‘Prostate Cancer Research Foundation of Canada’, referencing my Registration Number 1895961 and mailing it to:

Prostate Cancer Research Foundation of Canada
Attn: Movember
145 Front Street East
Suite 306
Toronto Ontario M5A 1E3

Did you know:

– every year around 24,700 canadian men are diagnosed with prostate cancer and about 4,300 die of the disease, making it the number one cancer threat to canadian men.
– 1 in 7 men will develop prostate cancer in their lifetime.
– all men over the age of 40 are potentially at risk and should talk to their doctor about the disease and early detection. Prostate cancer is 95% curable if detected and treated early

grampa wiebe, clean shaven in his later years... but you should have seen his chops!

on a personal note, my very own grampa wiebe died from cancer that originated in his prostate. he was a vibrant man with enviable facial hair (most of the time). my son’s middle name was his first. arthur.

i’ll keep you, good readers, up to speed on my moustache growing endeavour and the response of my good wife to the whole ordeal.

peace.

community is a strange bird and family an odd duck. one moment she holds you close and whispers sweet somethings in your flushed ears and the next your at arms length on the wrong end of a tongue wagging. we are fickle fickle folk. some like it hot, some like it cold. many swing left and others veer right. everyone’s got an opinion. what holds a flock together? how is it that we manage to stay we and not me, he and she?  what keeps things us and not them?

relationship. choosing the to see the best in the other. granting grace to be different. also grace given to change or perhaps even to stay the same. there’s a piece of marital advice that says “you can be married or you can be right”. any given sunday and days in between, the good ship next seeks to navigate these tricky seas. there are times when we sail in deep waters, all hands on deck, sails full and trimmed. this is when care and sensitivity, honesty and integrity carry the day. there have been times, oh there have been times when one opinion steamrolls all others. when his view is the best view, her account is the only account. such self-centered rocks threaten the love boat on a regular basis. mutinies and pirate talk may bound.

there, but for the grace of God go we.

for all the tension, there’s a whole lot of beauty. yes – i belong here. these are my people. my family. my community. my tribe and my kin. i’m with you, you nutty bird!

that’s all i got for the moment…

(two birds with their boys)

9:15 – wake up somewhat rested but thankful for a spouse who let’s me sleep in from time to time

9:32 – mess around with the kidlets in the living room

10:20 – on a bike heading for artillery park with ela

10:30 – in the water in record time

10:32 – racing for the change room and the nearest toilet

10:33 – ela “drops the kids off at the pool” so to speak and not without much fanfare and drama

10:35 – back in the pool (much shrieking, laughing, coughing and sputtering ensues)

11:05 – hide and seek with ela as she hides in any number of a bank full of lockers

11:25 – hot chocolate and cookies at the wolfe islander to celebrate the great feat of pooping on the potty

12:00 – a nap on the floor cushions

1:00 – lunch, news and opra’s make over special

2:00 -  burn far too much time on this ridiculous blog of mine

3:28 – get off this damn computer

i’ve heard that words are powerful. i’ve been told the pen is mighty. seems probable. i’d like to write more. i’m not sure if it will be on this here blog or in my journal or on a napkin from the brew pub. incidentally, birddog and the fear has been intermittent at best. incidentally, the journal is a lee valley model with acid free pages and sturdy binding. the description says the words written in will pretty much live forever save for fire and floods. unfortunately, most of the scribbles it contains are rather depressing and probably not worth preservation for future generations. incidentally, my napkin rambles are far better. silly tales from my youth they are – love on a yellow bus, falling out of tree forts and that time i ran with my eyes closed into a cabin wall. it may be that a circle of good folks around an old oak table laden with beverages and deep fried food brings out a simpler side of me. the current storytellers table on main street does similar good things for me as well.

the thing with writing is that it takes more than a little effort. i generally enjoy the exhilaration of holding a finished piece above my head in triumph but the process of getting to that point much less so. getting started is usually hardest. generating an outline is tedious. writing a first draft is agonizingly slow. backspace and delete are my constant companions. once i’ve cranked out said rough copy i’m mostly there – a little tweak of the adverbage here, tighten the presupositionals there, correct the imperfect tenses, cut the dangling modificator, and make sure all t’s are dotted and the eyes are crossed. done. and it’s generally worth reading, too. i’m not saying pulitzers are flooding my way. nor are publishers banging down my doors. but my friends smile and that is enough for me.

thanks friends.

i am well. tired and overwhelmed also. hopeful to. life has a way of pressing in and pressing me to God. next is good and challenging in the very same breath. my family is beautiful and exhausting all at once. kingston is much to big and way to small at the same time. i am a ball of contradictions at the moment. cryptic i know, but how does one type these things.

i have been face to face with anger, bitterness, and evasive behaviour. such sullen company weighs heavy on a little heart. a death grip i will soon shake. i have looked truth in the eyes and loved her. her gaze is most dangerous; she calls me to move. but i do not know what direction. i am without compass heading or map. and my hiking boots give me blisters.

i have a friend, he tells me when you are lost that you stay put until help arrives. make a smoke signal and wait for the search party. you will be found, he says. stop the talking about doing and just be. be. seriously, how does one be? can you do be? (doobie! hahaha! i think i can figure that out!)

all i can think about is praying. it is the topic of sunday morn at next. more than that, it is a recent compulsion of mine. bang on the doors of heaven. ask a favour. break the night’s stillness with your request. loud and abrasive, an ill-set alarm clock ringing in your friend’s ears. she will answer if only to quell your midnight demands. he will respond just because you’re there, in the yellow glow of his porchlight, ringing the doorbell until the deadbolt retracts.

but i approach one much more than such a friend – one to be pried from bed by the irritating spade of an incessant knock. it is Father to whom i call. Dad. Goodness, Light and Love. i plead for fish and eggs and receive Spirit.

ask, seek and knock. this is what Jesus taught. in the asking there is receiving, in the seeking there is finding, with the knocking hinges swing. it is the way with prayer.

ever heard of this site?

http://www.rejesus.co.uk/

i’ve had it bookmarked for a while and drop by every once in a while. my visits have been mostly to the spirituality page. i especially appreciated the daily prayer exercises.

there’s some pretty creative meditations, exhibits and what not. i imagine i’ll pilfer some of it for next in the not so distant future.

someone i know died last night. chances are you’ve seen him but i’d be surprised if you could say you knew him. he wasn’t a friend to many and it wasn’t because we didn’t try. we did, but he was locked in an embrace with alcohol even as it pulled him under. Jesus can you take the time to throw a drowning man a line.

he said he loved Jesus. i can do nothing more than trust his soul into the care of God. i trust he is no longer captive to the chemical forces that have long had his shoulders to the mat. i trust that he is free like he has never experienced before. i trust he is living life as he was meant to live it. i trust he is well and whole, his eyes bright and clear as they take in Piercing Glory without blinking. i picture the smile on your lips and a bounce in your step – the relief you’ve so longed for.

i am glad you are safe, my friend. i only wish you could have experienced more life in the land of the living.

we all believed, hoped, expected that you’d make it, that you’d get a taste of joy this side of heaven. an operation, then long-term treatment, then a fresh start in tight quarters with those who’d see you the rest of the way. that’s how it was going to go. i never thought it would be anything different. none of us did