Maybe I'm craaaaazyyyy...

I have three or four different things I want to write about, all unrelated, and all in different…moods. Some of them will have to wait.

Yesterday morning I came back from my Rock to find a great message on my machine. It was a 403 area code, so I thought it was my sister Sarah, but it ended up being Bob and Brandon Webber. (You may remember them from such posts as “Homowebmape” in May 2006). They were in Vancouver on a father-son road trip to see Sufjan Stevens in concert, and they wanted to hang out. And since they’re almost the closest thing to family next to my family, and I had a free night, I was thrilled.

So they picked me up and asked me if I knew of any restaurants nearby. I told them I don’t get out much, but I’d heard Regent students (and probably Danice) mention “The Naam” on 4^th. So I accompanied these two Alberta farm boys to “The Naam”. (If you live in Vancouver and you’re more cultured than me, you may already be laughing). The waiter who seated us had a very thin, braided goatee. This should have been my first clue. We opened the menus. I scanned the menu items. Bob and Brandon were silent, with quizzical looks on their faces. “Wait a minute,” Bob said, “…where’s the beef?” He was right. There was no beef. And no chicken. And no pork. This menu was starting to look, shall we say, tofu-ey. Under the “Burgers” heading, there were veggie burgers and tofu burgers and veggie-tofu burgers. I looked more closely at the front of the menu. “The Naam: Vancouver’s Oldest Vegetarian Restaurant”. Yes, of all the myriads of eateries in Vancouver, I, Beth Malena, took two beef-loving Albertans to a vegetarian restaurant. We had a great time joking around with gravelly soldier voices: “Yeah, I was in ’Naam. I had the miso gravy.”

So yeah, it turned out fine. Then Brandon took me to a movie. (Incidentally, this is the second time a boy has taken me to a movie in the past three days… I’m becoming quite a player. I’ll tell you about the first movie next time.) We saw “The Illusionist”, which Jordan and Chris told me was good, and it was good. I came home and my roommates were watching “Speed”. I got ready for bed, and the boiler furnace thing, which is right off my room, made loud banging noises and I thought it was going to explode. My roommates assured me that if it exploded, we’d probably all die, but I would die the most. How reassuring. Thankfully it hasn’t yet exploded.

I tell you all this to set up my final story, which took place this morning, but likely very much as a result of the weird, mysterious, expect-the-unexpected sort of mood I was in. And it was slightly foggy, which also makes things feel more surreal. I was sitting on my Rock, looking out at the ocean, like I do every morning. I saw a seal, and then it dove again. Then it resurfaced, and I saw more seals pop their heads up – there must have been at least four. I’ve seen seals in groups before, but this was different. They were swimming around like crazy, and there were some things that popped up out of the water that didn’t fit. One of them seemed to have something white in its mouth, which I thought was a fish. There was so much splashing. And then something weird jabbed out of the water suddenly – I swear it was a human leg. I think I saw a foot. “Oh my goodness… the seals are murdering somebody!” I thought. Then everything stopped, as quickly as it started. They all dove down, taking this poor soul to their secret undersea lair, presumably to eat him. I have a lot more sympathy for people who think they see sea monsters. The ocean can be very confusing. I was seriously disturbed.

I thought about telling the people at the yacht club, but they probably already think I’m crazy. Some of them are usually working on (sitting on, looking really cool in) their docked sailboats when I arrive at the beach, and they see me stumble down the hill with grubby clothes on and messy hair (because I wake up and go to the beach without combing it), sitting on this big rock with my binoculars, occasionally dancing (thanks to the suggestion of a friend). I wonder if they have names for me. They probably call me “beachcomber”, because many mornings, like today, I spend the first 15 minutes of beach time picking up after the previous night’s beach partiers. It’s so aggravating. There must have been 30 beer cans this morning, a couple of them floating in the water, and those 6-pack rings that choke sea animals (though maybe the murderous seals need to be choked…). I always bring the cans to my house and leave them in the alley for the shopping cart guys in the neighborhood. Occasionally I glean more exciting things… like when I find unopened beer cans (I guess the party people are too plastered to realize they’re leaving beer behind) – I usually give those to Danice, because I hate the taste of beer. And this morning I found a Nalgene bottle, which I think was a gift from God because I don’t have a water bottle here. Sometimes my conscience gets to me, and I wonder if I should leave these things on the beach in case their owners return (my bottle has “Marina” written in white out on it…), but my logic is that I’m cleaning up their gross mess, so I deserve to keep whatever I find in it. Tell me if you think I’m wrong…or crazy.

Stargazing

You may be saying, Beth, you have an obsession with starfish. Yes. I do. Well not really. I just like taking pictures of them, and watching them. Just think about these creatures for a second. Pretend you’ve never heard of them. Starfish are so surreal. They’re astonishing. Could you have imagined them up, had you never seen one? They’re just not logical. You couldn’t infer them from the rest of the animals you see. You couldn’t have predicted them.

I’m reading an incredible book called “Orthodoxy” by G.K. Chesterton, and it’s not about starfish, but he does say this, which I think applies (just replace “rhinoceros” with “starfish”): “It is one thing to describe an interview with a gorgon or a griffin, a creature who does not exist. It is another thing to discover that the rhinoceros does exist and then take pleasure in the fact that he looks as if he didn’t.”

Their shape is too easy, as if it were designed to be readily identifiable when seen outlined in children’s coloring books. Their color could be used to teach the same children the meaning of “purple” – it’s so well achieved. The amazing number of tiny suction-cup tube feet on their underside seems like overkill – couldn’t a few big suction cups have done it? The tiny white ossicles on their back are perfectly placed, like constellations. Constellations on a star…that’s a paradox. They glisten in the sun, leading me to believe that they’re slimy, but really they’re hard and unbendable.

They lay there, all overlapped. I think some of them are extroverted and don’t mind, but others are probably really uncomfortable touching that many other seastars and can’t wait until they can move again. Because they can’t move when they’re exposed to air – they move by a hydraulic system, using their tube feet, and when they dry out, they don’t have enough water to work the system. They’re so vulnerable in low tides, immobile, stranded, clinging to rocks, waiting to be revived by the ocean. I walk around knowing I could destroy them all if I wanted to. It doesn’t seem right that some of the most beautiful things are also the most fragile and helpless.

It’s weird to think that they’re alive, since I’ve never seen them move. They seem like part of the rock. But if you try to pry one off a rock, you see how much power they have in their suction-tube feet. They really are like aliens. They eat things by inserting their stomachs into them. They can squeeze their stomachs into a 0.1mm opening in a mussel shell. They secrete fluids to digest their food before they swallow it. They have no brain, just a nerve ring. They have a pair of sexual organs in each arm. Wow.

Listen to this… it’s so brilliant… I thought this deep thought one morning at the Rock. Ready? The stars don’t like the moon. Seriously. Think about it. The moon is responsible for the tides. When the moon pulls the tide out, it exposes the starfish, and the seagulls start pecking at them and dragging them around and eating them. Which, I assume, they don’t like. Therefore they don’t like the moon. This is logical. Although the moon also re-covers them with water. So I guess it all evens out.

Okay, I’m done with my starfish rambling. I want to tell you about something equally geeky I have involved myself in. I have joined a club at UBC called “Friends of Wetlands”. Yes. The shorter form is “FOWL”. Mostly what we do is restore the Camosun Bog on Saturday mornings. This is a bog that is close to where I live, on the edge of the huge forest that surrounds UBC. If you don’t know what a bog is, you’re not alone. It’s much like a blog, but without an “l”. Just kidding. A bog is a place with wet, spongy soil, mostly covered with sphagnum moss. It’s very poor in nutrients. That’s why almost all carnivorous plants live in bogs (they get their nutrients from the insects they eat). The problem is that in the 1920s, people tried to drain this bog to build houses nearby. As a result, it got a lot drier, and a lot of invasive species moved in. We mostly weed them out to let the natural bog species thrive, like the sphagnum moss. It’s great. There’s usually people of all ages working in there on Saturday mornings, and we all have a tea break together, and I get to talk about plants and birds with people who like them as much as I do. And I’ve already had a few great conversations with UBC students who are intrigued with my “interdisciplinary biology/theology” master’s degree. The best part: I got a pin that says: “I’m a crazy bogger”. Ecologists are the wittiest people around.

Of smores and labyrinths

Ok, first of all, this may not mean anything to some of you... but I have had a blogging epiphany, and it is called Firefox. I just downloaded it, and all of my blogging woes are gone forever. Blogger is a hundred times faster and more reliable in Firefox. I am in awe. I believe my father told me of the joys of Firefox, but I did not listen... oh, if only I could take back the hours of my life I wasted on Internet Explorer, waiting for a photo to upload only to find that it hadn't worked...what a waste.
On with the real reason I'm writing... I need to introduce you to my housemates – my surrogate family in Vancouver. They look rather scary in this picture, but I assure you, they're not dangerous. Danice (dance with an “i” in the middle) you may remember from last year’s blogging. She is a fellow Regent student, studying to be the really incredible youth pastor that she already pretty much is. She dances like Michael Jackson. Danielle is studying liberal arts at UBC and mostly enjoys making time-lapse videos. I like stealing M&M peanuts from her jar. Lindsey is studying Native people and coordinating the production of a TV show about Aboriginal athletes. She makes me tea. All of them are from places close to Vancouver. All of them are lovely. We decided to celebrate our housemateness by having a camp night. In other words, Danice had to air out her tent, so we set it up in the middle of the living room.The best part of camp night was definitely the smores. We roasted marshmallows on chopsticks over the stove element (thanks to Tora for this idea!). We didn’t have graham crackers, so we used arrowroot cookies – you know, the ones that are always in the closet of the toddler room at church. We spent a good amount of time singing campfire songs. Actually, they were Beth-songs. Songs in which you replace a word that sounds like “Beth” with “Beth”. For example… “You take my Beth awaaaaay…” and “You’re simply the Beth” and “Baby boy make me lose my Beth” and “Every Beth you take”. It’s a good thing that so many songs can become about me, because if you’re trying to write a song about me, I warn you, my name is very hard to rhyme with anything. So far, the only rhyming words for “Beth” I’ve thought up are “breath” and “death”. And, as Jared so helpfully pointed out this summer, “crystal meth”.
After a brief but vicious pillow fight, we put the tent to good use by laying in it and watching a movie through the door. The movie was Labyrinth, a movie from Danice’s childhood. I’m sure glad I didn’t watch this movie as a child. The title should have been “Some very disturbing Muppets with an even more disturbing David Bowie”. David Bowie was the King of Goblins, but mostly he wore tight pants and sang something like “Dance magic dance”. I am scarred for life.

For those of you who are worried about the possibility of more rats in my house this year, I wanted to show you this picture to reassure you. Our landlords built this lovely little door to cover the hole in the wall where Melba the rat enjoyed entering our basement. Unfortunately, the door is secured by Velcro. I surmise that a rat who had the sense and strength to chew through packing tape and Tupperware last year could push open a Velcro-ed door this year, if it didn’t chew through the door itself. So when I received a decorative bell as a present from my Japanese friend Toshi, I decided to hang it on the mini-doorknob, so that when the rat pushes through the door, we will at least be aware of its presence.
In other news, I’ve had a weird day...Lindsey and I were riding the bus to church, and all of a sudden, two cars smashed into the side of the bus. I think they ran a red light. I don’t think anyone in the cars was seriously hurt, but one guy was bleeding from his head. It shook us up pretty badly. We walked the rest of the way. Then, at the beginning of the church service, an elderly lady fell over after tripping, and an ambulance was called. And after the service, I was talking to a friend I’d met at the church last year, and I asked about her roommate, and she told me that he died suddenly, two weeks ago, after falling during a hike. All of this within a 3-hour period. I’m not sure what God’s trying to say through all of this, but all day I had a craving for the familiar and the safe. Luckily I had Jodi this morning and Rikk at Rock Garden, not to mention supper at Lindsay's, to bring some sanity back into my life. Also, I got to spend some time with Lisa Nazarenko tonight, which briefly satisfied my desire for familiarity and for Ukrainians, who I've grown to love. Sometimes I wish I were one of them... but my name would have to end with an "a". Betha. Bethica. Oh well. I think you've seen my name enough for one blog...

Looking down the Well

Well, it’s about time I wrote about Jacob’s Well, because it’s become a rather important part of my growth and learning here in Vancouver. Jacob’s Well defies definition in a lot of ways. It’s not a soup kitchen, although we do a lot of eating there. It’s not a shelter, although we hang out in the building a lot. It’s a place where I volunteer, but more accurately, it’s a community and a family I belong to. Words like “community” are over-used, but really, if ever there were a ministry that lived up to its mandate of being “relationally-driven rather than program-oriented”, it’s this one.

In case you haven’t heard about the Downtown Eastside, the neighborhood in Vancouver where the Jacob's Well storefront is located, let me fill you in on a few statistics (stolen from a talk I’ve Joyce Heron, the director of Jacob’s Well, give many times)… it’s the poorest postal code in North America. 16 000 people live in this 5-square block radius, mostly in SROs (single room occupancy), which are 10x10 foot rooms, usually in old converted hotels. The Jubilee is an SRO above Jacob’s Well, where 80 people share about 5 washrooms and 2 kitchens. Over half of the Downtown Eastside residents are mentally ill – this is 18% of all mentally ill people in BC, in one neighborhood. Out of the total 16 000 people, about 10 000 are drug users, and 5000 are needle users. 37% have AIDS, 67% are HIV positive, and 92% are Hepatitis C positive (also a terminal illness). This is the largest health pandemic in the Western world. By concentrating SROs and welfare systems in the Downtown Eastside and policing less aggressively there, the city is trying to contain it to one neighborhood. The Downtown Eastside is also a neighborhood with 84 non-profit organizations, of which a third are faith-based. You can get fed seven times a day, and more when Christians walk around at night passing out sandwiches.

So what do you bring to a place like this where people are already being fed and clothed and told the Gospel, but infection and addiction and death tolls are still rising? The idea at Jacob’s Well is that the method is as important as the message. The people at the Well see no biblical mandate to save or fix people – only to love them. As friendships develop between Downtown Eastside residents and volunteers at Jacob’s Well, as we live the everyday Christian life around them, and as we both serve and are served by them, God’s kingdom is announced in a powerful way. I feel privileged to have seen this in action, and to be continuing to learn what it means to follow Jesus’ example in being not a friend TO but a friend OF the poor.

In practical terms, this can look very different from day to day. Some volunteers help lead a worship service on Monday nights. Others join in Tuesday night community kitchen, when some of the 80 people who live above Jacob’s Well come down to buy food, prepare a meal, eat it and clean it up together. Wednesdays are usually days when volunteers tend the plots of land we’ve converted to community gardens. Thursdays and Fridays (I’m on the Friday team) are days when we visit friends in the hospital, deliver food to disabled members of the community, and open the storefront for coffee for whoever wanders in. We have a party every month. I have done many things on Friday afternoons, from cleaning bathrooms to baking muffins to playing guitar at the funeral of a man I’d never met, attended by five people.

There is much more I can and will eventually say about Jacob’s Well, but I wanted to post a copy of an article I wrote for their newsletter a couple of weeks ago. Visit http://www.jacobswell.ca if you want to learn more. Here’s the article:

Several months of volunteering at Jacob’s Well on Fridays have taught me to expect to be asked to do new things. Last week, as Joyce, Berto and I donned blue hospital gowns and latex gloves, preparing to enter a room in the intensive care unit at Vancouver General Hospital, I realized I was embarking on another unique experience.

Our friend Nicolai was in that windowed-in room, recovering from a back injury. When we walked in, I expected him to greet us right away, but all I heard was the electronic music of the many monitors attached to him. Then I saw the tube in his throat that robbed him of speech. Of all the people to lose their voice, I thought…

Nicolai’s voice scared me the first time I met him last year, when he wandered into Jacob’s Well, yelling loudly in his Eastern European accent. When he returned the next Friday, I remained wary of him. The other staff seemed relaxed around Nicolai, and asked him to play a song on his harmonica. He plucked it from his jacket pocket and obliged, and we clapped along. I noticed him repeating phrases he had spoken the previous week: “I’ll see you when I see you” and “So far so good,” among others. The last of my fears melted when he sang “Pretty Woman” with twinkling eyes and a mischievous smile. Later, I became a contestant in his favorite game: guessing the capital city of any European country he named. He had them all memorized. I did not. I failed miserably. (A tip in case Nicolai asks: the capital of his home country, Bulgaria, is Sofia.) As the weeks passed, I improved at the game, and gradually the voice I had feared became a voice I hoped to hear in the doorway.

But in that unfurnished and profoundly lonely hospital room, I barely recognized Nicolai. I had never seen him clean and shaven; his skin was a new colour. His old blazer and cane were hidden somewhere, replaced by a white gown. It made me uncomfortable to see this calloused, gruff man so vulnerable; I had a strange urge to cover him back up with his familiar stubble and dirty clothes.

Nicolai mouthed words to Joyce, the best lip-reader in the group, asking her to scratch his head. She did, with her latex-gloved hand. Sudden childhood memories surfaced; I recalled my father rubbing my head to help me fall asleep. At that moment, eyes closed and smiling, Nicolai seemed just as childlike as I had been. I couldn’t believe I had once feared this man. “Nicolai,” Joyce said, “they usually only let family members visit patients here. We told them we had become your family down at Jacob’s Well, and they let us see you.” Still rubbing his head, she told Berto and I how she and Nicolai had met at a bus stop, how he became part of the Jacob’s Well family. Nicolai interrupted often, mouthing out his own memories, visibly proud that his story was being shared.

Joyce suggested we sing, so we sang “Great is Thy Faithfulness” for Nicolai. As the familiar lyrics left my mouth in a shaky harmony, I wondered whether I would trust God’s faithfulness if I were in Nicolai’s place. Did Nicolai know God’s faithfulness? Would our visit communicate it to him? Would he understand our love?

We prayed together for God to bring him wholeness and peace. The room seemed less lonely and cold than when we had arrived, and Nicolai was calm as our visit ended. He told us not to worry about him. We assured him that we would, and that we’d keep praying. We said goodbye.

“I’ll see you when I see you,” he mouthed to us, with that familiar mischievous smile.

In defense of staying put

Permit me another entry in a similar vein to the last. Let me first tell you about the event that spurred this thought – another close encounter with the sea otters this morning. At the first sign of them, I was off my Rock, running to the water’s edge, my binoculars bouncing against my jacket. Three of them again – the same three? I realized what’s so eerie about them – every time they surface, they’re looking right at me. Seals turn their heads a lot, looking around in every direction, but the otters fixed me with their eyes, and seemed to express both an annoyance that I was there and a challenge or taunt for me to chase them. I followed them until they went under the bridge, and then, surprisingly, they sauntered out of the water onto the land under the bridge! I watched their silhouettes as they slunk around in the dark, secretly fearful that they’d run out and attack me. Then they slipped back into the water on the other side of the bridge, and I ran around to watch them for several more minutes. And get this – I did some research tonight, like the geek that I am, and I discovered that they are not sea otters! They are river otters, despite the fact that they hang out in the ocean. Sea otters live further out and rarely come on land, but river otters, which live in fresh and saltwater, spend 2/3 of their time on land. They can also hold their breath for eight minutes…

So for those of you I haven’t lost in my biological ravings, here’s the deep philosophical thought I’m getting to… part of me really doesn’t want to travel much. Part of me wants to stay put until I know a place. And how long does it take really know a place? Last year I sat on the same rock down at the beach just about every morning for seven months, which is about 210 days. This year I’ve returned the last 14 mornings, and in that short time I’ve seen three kinds of animals I didn’t see last year (including the river otters, and one tiny bird unfortunately called a bushtit… Chris has renamed them t-cups). The place I thought I knew is now surprising me again.

When will I know it? Every time I successfully make it down the steep and often slippery hill, I stand at the entrance to my “land” and survey it for a minute, forcing myself to notice the uniqueness of the scene every day. This place changes with the seasons, as the leaves change color and fall. I have never seen it in the summer. I saw it snow-covered only once. It looks different depending on the tide level. Sometimes I sit on the Rock and look out at a vast landscape of barnacle-covered rocks scattered with purple (ochre) starfish, and other mornings I have to jump on the Rock from behind because the ocean is covering the front of it, and all I see is water, and it slowly recedes as I sit there. The water holds the most secrets - I never know what will surface next - and it is also the biggest variable. Depending on the weather, it can be a gray, frothy mass or an expanse of still blue glass, or anything in between. The weather also changes the appearance of the mountains in the distance, and the strength of the wind affects how many seagulls are out and how many of the sailboat masts clink together.

I experience the place in a different way when I’m in a bad mood than when I’m afraid or when I’m at peace. I have yet to sit there for a long time with a friend. That would change things for sure. I have yet to bring a dog, like the majority of people who visit the beach. Maybe the dog would make me see it in a new way. And I have yet to sit there in the middle of the night. So I guess I don’t really know it. There is plenty left to sound the depths of, plenty of hidden parts to uncover and layers to peel back, things to experience there, things to delight in. Will God ever exhaust all ways of surprising me with joy there? And if I do ever really know it, will I get tired of it? Will I want to go somewhere new? Suddenly I feel like I’ve been talking about marriage…

And when do you own a place? When does it become yours? A lot of times I treat my Rock and surrounding area as my own. When people walk past me, I usually feel like I’m graciously allowing their passage through my territory, even though they don’t realize it’s mine. Why do I feel such a sense of ownership? It’s not a selfish ownership – I never lose the sense that it’s a gift to me, and a gift to be shared. But I get upset if there are beer bottles lying around. Sometimes I pick them up. And I feel that things I see were set up for my seeing. God speaks to me there. I guess I love it. I just remembered a passage in Brian McLaren’s book “A Generous Orthodoxy” that says it much more eloquently:

“I feel that I am carrying around this hilarious secret: that I actually own all things, that all things are mine – because I am Christ’s, and Christ is God’s, and God allows me to have things in the way that matters most. Not by having them in my legal possession (which has many downsides, including upkeep and taxes!) but by having them in my spiritual possession by gratefully seeing them, gratefully knowing and cherishing them. Those weren’t legally my goldfinches or my sycamore trees or my rocky-bottomed streams in the park that day, but did anyone on earth possess them as fully as me that day?”

Sometimes I’d rather think thoughts like this than study Hebrew, even though Hebrew can also be frustratingly beautiful. Which leads me to a closing quote by Bruce Cockburn (this one’s for you, Chris)…

“All these years of thinking ended up like this: in front of all this beauty, understanding nothing.”

Surprised by beauty

I wanted to post some pictures and thoughts that began in our post-wedding trip to Banff and Lake Louise. I realized something on our first day, when we took the gondola up the mountain: I have trouble taking pictures of - and even fully enjoying - things that have already been recognized by the general public as beautiful. If there’s already a postcard of it, I don’t feel like taking my own picture. On top of that mountain, I found myself lamenting that it was all so already-discovered.
It’s like beauty isn’t as beautiful unless you chance upon it, the way Daniel and I chanced upon this tree. I remembered Sophia’s story about the old church she found in the middle of nowhere, and the way Chris got excited every time an unannounced storm appeared on the horizon, and how Claire stopped by the side of the road to take pictures of cows. Part of the beauty of these things is that we were not prepared for them – they caught us by surprise and bowled us over.

I guess I’m not a fan of crowded, expected, publicized beauty. I want beauty new, just blossomed, fresh fallen. I want to be the one to find it and name it beautiful. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful – the boardwalks and stairs and gondolas were great, but they stole something, something private between my Creator and I. They stole that moment when hidden beauty is revealed and we delight in it together.
I heard a story about a scientist (I’ve tried for hours to figure out what his name was…) who was poring over his research on DNA, late into the night, trying to figure out something to do with DNA structure. After hours of thought, it suddenly came together in his head – he had discovered the secret and cracked the code! But instead of calling all of his scientist friends to share the news, he just sat there for the rest of the night. When his friends asked him why, he said, “For those hours, only my Creator and I knew this secret. I wanted to savor it with Him.” For the briefest of moments, after hearing this story, I wanted to go into research.

Until I realized I didn’t have to be in research to experience this. For example…the other day, early in the morning, I was down at my Rock alone, watching a few ducks and a goose splashing in the ocean. Then, in unison, they all calmly stepped onto shore and stood there. I felt like they knew something I didn’t. Full of anticipation, I looked out at the water, and sure enough, there were three heads poking out over the surface of the water. They looked like beaver heads, but beavers are freshwater animals…no…they were sea otters! The first ones I’d ever seen in the wild! I think I shouted something original like “Sea otters!” and took off running down the beach, chasing them along the shore. They dove and surfaced again, snorting water through their whiskers. I saw one catch a fish and eat it. They saw me – they seemed to look right at me and extend their necks far above the surface. I was in awe. At that moment, only God and I were enjoying those beautiful, playful animals.
Later that day, this group of leaves just popped out of a tree at me – all red and yellow, they seemed to be on fire, lit up with colour, like a signature. Again, I wanted to burst into song. These are my favorite moments – I’m sure they’re happening all the time, and I miss many because my eyes aren’t open wide enough. They’re why, whenever possible, I have my quiet time with God outdoors. I’d like to think He draws sea otters and leaves on fire towards me, placing them in my path, and then whispers, “Here, Beth. I want to share this with you – let you in on this secret. I want you to share my delight in this. My gift to you…”

Loren Wilkenson, my prof for “Christianity and Science,” read us a quote by E.O. Wilson, where he wishes God would take him to a new planet so he can spend years just discovering and exploring and being the best kind of scientist. I’m more optimistic. I don’t wish – I am confident – that this will be my experience when God makes the new heavens and new earth…I will spend eternity in endless discovery, with beauty always fresh and waiting, and hundreds upon thousands of secrets to be shared.

From one familiar to another

One thing about living here is that it forces more space into my life. I have to take time to walk to the bus stop, to sit on the bus, to buy groceries, to cook food, to wait for our slow kettle to boil water for tea… all things I didn’t have to do in Saskatoon. Space is good but it tends to foster a lot of thinking.

So during these spaces, I’ve been trying to sort out how to describe my state of mind in the last few days. I’m generally content, occasionally excited. I haven't cried at all yet. But I have felt a little... strange. Maybe my problem is that I flew. Sam and I once discussed airplane travel, how you jump so quickly from one bubble into another and don’t get the sense of distance. That’s what happened to me. I jumped from one familiar into another familiar, and it’s jarring, like skipping from one plot line to another. From a lake to an ocean.

It doesn’t feel like it did last time I arrived in Vancouver. Then, it was new, dazzling, something to get used to, something to feel my way into. Now, it feels too normal to live here, too easy to slip back into. It’s little things that haven't changed…like the fact that we still don’t have enough spoons. Our living room is still cold and my room is still hot. We still have the crazy patterned rug on the floor from whence nothing dropped shall ever return. One of our bathroom sinks is still plugged and drains slowly. The number 4 bus runs on the same schedule as before. My rock is still there, and the seal, the heron, the kingfisher, and other friends have already stopped by to welcome me back. Talking to Chris on the phone, with plenty of silences – that felt familiar too. My Regent friends, my Jacob’s Well friends… they’re here, and they don’t seem to have changed much. It feels like I’ve jumped back in time to last April, and this whole entire summer was just a brief dream I had one night.

Maybe that’s why I keep forcing this summer back into my mind. Forcing faces to appear, half-believing that person sitting in front of me on the bus might be Rachel, or Chris, or Robin, or Sophia or Lesya or Olya or Terice or Claire. Remembering them and praying for them. And I’ve been reminding myself that even though Vancouver feels familiar, I am not the same as I was in April. It was no dream - I have had experiences and conversations and developed relationships over the summer that have changed me and caused me to discover new things about myself, hopefully for the better. The old Vancouver will have to catch up to the new me. And I will have to keep learn that my identity is not tied to where I am but to whom I belong to. I will have to work to love people, near and far. It will be a difficult and sweet adventure.

Here is my paradox: can I really have two homes, Andrea? My soul is more tied to Saskatoon than ever and my soul is more at ease in Vancouver than ever. I knew I was missed and loved in Saskatoon, but now I return to find I was missed and loved in Vancouver, too. This brings me a melancholy combination of pain and joy no matter where I am. Each “glad to see you again” is counterbalanced by an “I wish you hadn’t left”. If one of you had the chance, you might tell me to stop living with one foot in each place. I don’t think I can help it.

My girls

Having covered the wedding, I will move backwards to summarize the rest of my summer for you – the camp part. What I feel about it is hard to express because it’s overpowering. Mostly the feeling is… fulfillment. Yes, there were difficult times along the way, especially in July. But I felt like we dealt with things very well as a staff, and I’m realizing how much I learned through these struggles. So despite those bumps, I would say this summer has been my best ever at camp.

Much of it is thanks to my girls. As I’ve written before, the largest chunk of my job this summer was meeting individually with each female staff member (usually there were 15-20 of them) for about an hour a week to discuss life, God, camp, worries, joys, or anything else that was on their minds, and also to pray together. I will never forget these hours I spent with them. Some meetings at the beginning of the summer were a little awkward, as we figured out what our relationship would look like and learned to trust each other. But by the end, I felt closer to some of them than I’ve been with people I’ve known for years. Never before has a job felt more like a gift – I looked forward to those meetings every day, and even praying for each of them became exciting as I understood them on a deeper level.

I have been given back more than I invested in these girls. They were so much FUN to be around – after a year being very mature (well, most of the time…) with people who were mostly older than me, it was so refreshing to be goofy and laugh about things that probably weren’t very funny with people who were younger than me. I enjoyed them; they were good for my soul. I felt comfortable and relaxed with myself when I was with them. They inspired me by their passion for God, and I loved being able to take pride in them. And they never held back their love for me – they always made me feel so wanted and appreciated. I am so sad to leave them. I know they need to find other people to mentor and listen to them, but I’m selfish and I want to keep on being that person. I still feel so warm inside when I think about them... man, I’m gushing. It must be late.

As a bonus gift from God, I’m now even more vocationally confused than when I started the summer. What does it mean that I got so much satisfaction from this kind of people-work-mentorship stuff? Was it just a fluke that I loved and worked well with all of them? Is this part of God’s plan for my life? How does that fit in with biology? Am I doing the right degree? Great thoughts to be thinking as I leave for Vancouver tomorrow to start school again.

This is what I was thinking at the end of camp… it is good, it is very good to be able to talk freely with people about what God is doing in their lives. I mean, with my job I was pretty much forced to talk to my girls about this. The whole set-up was designed to sidestep the small talk and jump into the good stuff. And for the girls who were there all summer, it got more and more natural to talk about God’s work in our lives – by the last couple of weeks they’d just dive right in without me even asking a question, and I absolutely loved it. But why can’t I do that away from camp, when it’s not my job? Why doesn’t it feel natural to talk about this stuff, even at Bible School, where spiritual conversations are supposed to feel normal? It still feels awkward. It feels like you’re trying to pry into someone’s life. But you know what – I’ve decided it’s worth it. I need to ask that question more often, no matter how awkward it feels. Because not only is it encouraging, it’s humbling to remember that God’s busy working on other people, not just you. And it helps you pray for them. So next time I see you, I hope we talk about what God’s been up to. If I don’t bring it up, you should.

Anyway, I feel the need to offer a tribute to the girls… especially the ones I met with more than once, who became my sisters. Here’s what they meant to me…

Claire showed me how to appreciate beautiful things like tea, candles, romance, and mannerisms, and was the best storyteller.

Tanya taught me about joy and unquestioning trust, and was a great little sister and roommate for the first two weeks.

Megan was willing to serve wherever we put her, always smiling and exemplifying humility, and loved the kids.

Lesya demonstrated every day that you can be beautiful in more ways than one, and not take yourself too seriously, and I love her.

Rimma made me want to dance and not care how I look, and also taught me the value of hugs.

Frankie impressed me with her strength of character and humble, self-giving service, and she always cared about how I was doing.

Keshia blossomed in Intermediates and gave herself in love for her cabin, I could see it written on her face, and it was a joy for me.

Jordan McGill showed maturity in the way she served, binding the younger staff together by her unconditional friendship, taking courageous leaps in her commitment to Christ.

Gen opened herself to me, honoring me by her trust, and impressed me by her perseverance and growth this summer.

Maja made me want to ask more questions, and her eagerness to do everything with as much enthusiasm as the campers was rewarded by deep relationships with them – a true cabin leader.

Lydia made me (even me!) want to express myself artistically and also challenged me with her love of and thoughts about the Bible.

Chantelle never hid anything from me; she made me feel wise because she sought out my advice, and I knew that no matter what she was dealing with, she was putting her campers first.

Sarah was so wonderfully and humbly herself, and blessed me with both her seriousness and sense of humour.

Danee was everything I hoped she’d be at camp, and more – I was inspired by her dreams and her purity, and the way she’d throw herself into things like dress-up meals, without caring how she looked.

Robyn H. made me feel needed, trusted, befriended, and even heroic, which is crazy because she’s so unique and hilarious and cool and real, and I felt that she was more of a gift to me than I to her.

Terice became a true friend this summer, listened to me, and affirmed me constantly; she had an incredible amount of passion for her campers, and it came out every time she prayed for them – God will continue to use her to speak to children.

Sophia has pretty much changed the way I see the world, inspiring me to write and be more spontaneous, and most of the time I wished our meandering conversations could have lasted three hours instead of one.

Olya is similar to me in many ways, she has light in her eyes and it’s hard not to smile when she speaks, and embarking together on the adventure of listening to God remains one of my favorite memories this summer.

And Rachel was my true sister, my best, the one who held me up and brought me down to earth, who made me want to burst with pride and made this summer perfect.

This is not to mention Shalisse, Kelli, Carley, Anna, Chrissy, Claressa, Kylie, Moraya, Chelsee and Vienna, who I saw less of but was no less proud of. And I can't forget Robin P. either, who I learned the most from and saw the most courage in. Girls, I'm not coming back next summer unless you're all there, and unless you all e-mail me this year...

Ok. Enough. Tomorrow, it's back to the Couv. Here I come again, Regent...

Something old, something new

A week ago to this minute, I was sitting in our van outside Grace Baptist Church with my sisters and Laura Lottes, all decked out to the nines, waiting for the signal to enter and walk down that aisle. We had just spent five hours preparing our hair and faces and the rest of ourselves, mostly relaxed and fun, until the tense last few minutes when we were rushing to finish, putting on our dresses and lacing up Sarah’s, pulling our bouquets out of their vases of water, brushing something shimmer-y on our arms. I thought about the days we’d just had together, filled with apple-decorating, way too many episodes of Gilmour Girls, Rachel and I putting the finishing touches (beginning touches?) on the song we’d written, tons of laughter and good food. Everything leading up to that moment at the doors of the church... yet for me, the moment didn’t feel climactic in a make-you-cry sort of way. It just felt like another step along the way, a good step, with a tangible intensity of meaning that skipped over sappy emotionality and landed somewhere in deep contentment.

I walked down that aisle and did not trip. The ceremony was one of the best kind, with just the right balance of light-heartedness and taking-it-seriously, simple and lovely. Sarah was the epitome of a bride, calm and joyful, relaxed and gorgeous; I was in awe. What a woman she’s become. At the reception, I told everyone that she’d taught me about moving through change gracefully. The wedding really was proof of this, because although I know our sisterly relationship has changed, I feel very little grief, very little desire to linger on what we’ve lost, and much more desire to embrace the wonderful now, to love this change, because it is above all a gain. I have a new brother. I have a sister who loves him and who has become more lovely because of him. I feel joyful and graceful.

The only thing I hated was having tons of people I knew and loved in one room, and not having any time to move past superficial conversation with any of them – it makes you a strange sort of tired. This is the reality of weddings, I suppose. Other than that, I really don’t see how anything could have gone better. I’m glad I still have the paint on my toenails to remind me of it. Nick and Sarah Hawkins, blessings upon you. I love you both and I see the love both of you have to give each other – may it overflow.

Check back soon… I have more to say and finally, the time to write it.

Long-awaited landmarks

Well, it’s August already. I have a week and a half left at camp. My sister gets married two weeks from today. I return to Vancouver in less than a month. Looking back, I may have learned just as much about leadership, service, and Christian community from practical experience up at camp as I did in the classrooms of Regent. I’ll have to write about my learnings sometime. I’m looking forward to being back at Regent, though. It’ll be refreshing to be in charge of only me again, and to see everyone.

I have many goals for this week. First of all, I need to learn how to walk in heels. I can’t. I discovered this today when I tried and then Rachel did an impression of how I looked. It was quite zombie-like. She then tried to teach me to use my hips, but I think I pulled a muscle. Another goal is to endure the week as a leader at camp without either leaving or cutting off appendages, like many other leaders have done in past weeks. My other goal is to not feel self-conscious as I play guitar on the worship team up at camp where Riley Armstrong, recording artist and excellent guitar player, will be present. Riley is our speaker at camp this week.

As promised, Rachel and I offer you our description of the landmarks on the way up to camp, a 2-hour trip we’ve now made forwards and backwards 12 times this summer. Witty comments will be inserted by Rachel in purple. We hope you find it enlightening, even if you’ve never made the trip. Maybe it will make you notice landmarks on your own well-traveled trails…or at least make you laugh.

1. The Coverall Factory. On the edge of Saskatoon, this marks the beginning of our trip. How ironic that our trip begins and ends with a coverall, wouldn’t you agree Beth? I would agree, yes, Rachel, thank you.

2. The Pioneer Grain Inland Terminal. Rachel says it’s not a landmark, but I think any grain silo with such a cool name deserves landmark status. Beth that isn’t a landmark.

3. The Warman Ferry sign. Again, Rachel disagrees, but I think it’s funny that we have ferries in Saskatchewan, especially after riding them in Vancouver. sigh

4. Neuanlage. This town has no services. No bathrooms in the entire town. Yeah, so don’t bother stopping there. Also note the wonderfully hard-to-pronounce Mennonite name. Others along the way include Gruenthal and Blumenthal.

5. Rumble Strip Test Section. They were trying to make the line in the middle of the road rumble when you drove over it. No word on whether it passed the test or not. Also not a landmark.

6. Hague. A town where you must slow to 80 km/h. Also a synonym for h-e-double-hockey-sticks among small-towners, as in, “What the Hague?”

7. Rosthern. This town has a Mennonite Museum and a Mennonite Youth Farm, where we assume they farm youth.

8. Secret Spy Posts. Some say these strange little orange tents scattered over the fields contain bees and honey, but we know better.

9. Duck Lake. As you can see from the sign, Duck Lake is home of one of the world’s largest outdoor art galleries. Which is incredible, because there’s so many of those. Glen Scrimshaw is severely over-rated.

10. Ducks. There’s always a lot of ducks near Duck Lake. Beth living things are not landmarks. Why not? Because they move. Fine. Whatever. Duck-hater.

11. Our Lady of Lourdes Shrine. We stop here every time we make the trip, and pray for at least two hours to the Lady of Lourdes. Good old lady of Lourdes. Who the hague is the Lady of Lourdes anyway?

12. Celtic Gallery and Highland Games. What do they display at the Celtic Gallery? Celts? What are Highland Games? And is Celtic pronounced with a soft or hard “c”? Maybe one day we will take the turn-off and solve all of these mysteries. I’ve heard they filmed A Knight’s Tale there.

13. Hubcap lane. For about a kilometer, each fencepost has a hubcap on it. Some bored farmer has been collecting for some time. He’s probably sitting there right now, by the side of the highway, just waiting for someone to lose their hubcap.

14. The Leaning Trees. Credit for this landmark goes to Sherri. See how they lean. Ok, I guess living things with roots can be considered landmarks.

15. Noah’s Ark Family Fun Park. One time, Rachel tried to turn off and find this fun park, and drove and drove and found nothing. Some sort of supernatural water-related disaster must have wiped it out… Yah, we found neither families nor fun.

16. Vintage Power Machines Museum. A bunch of old, rusting metal machines in one lot. Can you feel the power? No Beth, I can’t feel the power, because it’s NOT A LANDMARK!

17. Prince Albert ponds. I’ve never noticed these ponds right before the turn off to PA, but Rachel has. Let it be known that this is the only thing I think is a landmark that Beth doesn't. Here is where we turn left, and drive through (or more often, stop to get fast food in)…

18. Prince Albert, which has many of its own landmarks: the Galaxy theater, the McBarn (a McDonalds in a silo), the big hill, and the Sketchy 7-11. Oh the sketchy sev. Be careful you people of PA.

19. Smokey the Bear. A large bear with a moveable arm, set to point at “low”, “moderate”, “high” and “very high”, according to the level of risk of forest fires. Us camp staff are always checking it to see if we can have campfires.

20. The Craft Haven Unique Wedding Boutique. Because lots of people have the urge to get married as they drive along the highway to Christopher Lake. I know I do.

21. Tall Pine Bait. The large fish and fisherman statue on top of it is hard to miss.

22. Huge “Johnson’s” sign, lit up on someone’s lawn. This family is proud of their name. I think we need a big “Malena’s” sign on our lawn. I have a theory that Jack Johnson lives there. Rachel, that’s just silly. Hey I can dream!

23. Handson’s hill. On a hill, there’s a big red sign that has an outline of a hand and the word “son’s” on it. Hand-sons. Or, as Jordan pointed out a couple of weeks ago, it could be “Glove-sons”. Mmm Bop.

24. Northside, the town with the Jax Saloon.

25. The Left turn to Christopher Lake, where you’ll find Logan’s Grocery Store, Ed’s Chicken Inn, the Silver Bullet Bar, and not much else. One time Rachel and I parked at the post office and crossed the highway to go to Logan’s. Upon exiting Logan’s, Rachel lamented, “Aw, man… we left the car on the other side of town!” Haha I did say that. I’m freaking hilarious. Freaking magical. Yah, that too.

26. Sign to Tweedsmuir. We just like saying Tweedsmuir. This town doesn’t actually exist. No one could say the name of the town without laughing and so… they all moved away. Now it’s just a sign and a tumbleweed. Yup… one tumbleweed. We call him ol’ tumbleweedsmuir.

27. The Valley. Another one of Sherri’s landmarks – a lush green valley that looks like a scene right out of Ireland. Except for this year – it’s brown and dry. It’s taking a break, I guess.

28. The Turn of Death. A rather sharp turn for Saskatchewan roads. I don’t always remember to slow down, and I almost killed Rachel and Tall Jordan one time. I almost died for this landmark.

29. Ambrose, where you’ll find the closest store to camp. Unfortunately everything is really expensive, except for the ice cream. Callan called it HamGross. To learn more about Callan, visit http://rachelmalena.blogspot.com.

30. The culvert, where there’s some good fishing, if you can avoid the suckers.

31. The good old Quest sign, which is very professional-looking but small. Still, we never miss it. Yup small. unlike this blog.


The end. Chris, if you read this, I miss you already. Whatever you do, don't forget to find me a man in St. Vincent. It's the secondary mission on your missions trip.