Sheepish

Just saw a photo of a shepherd playing with one of his sheep in a meadow in Israel. 

Couldn’t help but think how big and dirty the sheep looked. They weren’t those cute, fuzzy babies you see at petting zoos. These animals were shaggy and horned, kind of ugly really, with their varicoloured coats of black, brown and grey-white, bits of debris caught in their wool. I guess they poop, too, at least as much as the raccoons in my backyard.

Thought of how sentimental we get about Jesus as humanity’s Good Shepherd, picturing him cuddling a small white lamb. 

Thought of what a rough, messy bunch His flock of humans are – hooves, horns, dirt, loudly bleating, always consuming, “munch, munch”.

At funerals we listen to the sweet Psalm 23, comforted by the warm welcome of a dinner table, green grass and still water. Can you imagine how real sheep would wreck that family picnic?

Just feeling awed by the radical Christ – cosmos-creator who morphed into a faithful, rescuing shepherd of unruly sheep.

 “I am the good shepherd; I know my sheep and my sheep know me…and I lay down my life for the sheep. I have other sheep that are not of this sheep pen. I must bring them also. They too will listen to my voice, and there shall be one flock and one shepherd.” (John 10)

Dear shaggy Reader, let us be thankful, so thankful.

Light in Every Ghetto

My clever, kind doctor relocated her office recently. It used to be in a neighbourhood just like mine – a middle class, comfortable ghetto where people’s gardens are like mini-parks and we say hello to strangers when we pass on the street.

Because she is the perfect family doctor, I have followed her to her new office in a very different area, closer to downtown. Driving there takes nerves of steel to avoid jaywalkers, delivery trucks and street cars. I park in a crazy mess of an outdoor mall where it’s unclear exactly which part of the pavement belongs to cars and which to pedestrians. As I walk toward her office I’m stepping on polka-dots of old gum. How can people just spit the contents of their mouths onto the ground?! Ugh.

There isn’t a tree, flower or blade of grass in sight. Instead I notice a chewed chicken bone beside an overflowing garbage can. Yuck.

I dodge two older folk riding bikes toward me along the sidewalk, neither one meeting my eyes, careless of any bylaw that requires them to ride on the street. I suddenly sense someone closing in from behind. I turn in time to step aside for a scary-looking body-builder, swaggering past in his sleeveless t-shirt. I notice a building across the street whose facade holds three gigantic red boxing gloves - his training gym, I guess. 

The intersection is dominated by a large building painted in a repulsive black and yellow giraffe pattern. 
At the traffic lights I smile sympathetically at a swarm of scowling students glumly heading for the stairs of their Secondary School. To them I'm invisible.

After crossing I enter the medical centre’s lobby and say “Excuse me. Thanks.” as I squeeze by the huddle of drug addicts waiting for their methadone treatment. It’s true. I checked. I feel sad.

This neighbourhood is not my home. I wouldn’t want to live here. I don’t like coming here. I don’t feel safe and it’s so ugly. 

Romero house is nearby. It’s a home for immigrant refugees, led by one of my heroes, Mary Jo Leddy (see her book, Radical Gratitude).

I wish I had her guts to be part of a community like this. I wish everyone had my choice of neighbourhoods.

Back in the parking lot I glance up at the grey sky that seems to match my concrete surroundings. A flock of pigeons flap above me, their pale feathers pretty against the dark clouds. I’ve heard some people call them “rats with wings” but I gaze at their flying loveliness for a moment of relief. I give thanks for the birds and for my doctor and for Canada’s universal healthcare.

I pray again for the energy to add my meagre bits of light and love to this unjust world.

Thankful

For goldenrod and purple asters banking a highway exit ramp

For neighbours, thoughtful and friendly

For the weightless majesty of hawks soaring

For non-profit artists who share their creative gifts at street festivals

For rainbow miracles when sunlight shines through a glass prism

For a three year old who runs grinning into my arms and lets me hug her tight 

For red and rusty garden mums that faithfully bloom in the dying season

For Canada’s political freedom and safety, imperfect though they are

For writers who have kept my Christian faith alive

For nature’s music in birdsong, river rapids, blowing pines trees, crickets and a crackling fire.

For all who labour persistently to bring justice

For pumpkins, apples, cranberries, onions, potatoes and farmers

For bodies that endure and heal themselves

For three daughters who are compassionate women.

For the breathtaking glory of deserts, mountains, oceans, and forests

For all musicians, from reggae to motet, from viola to conga drum

For sleep. Ahh.

For religious freedom and gender equality laws

For relatives and friends who put up with me

For the tiny wonders: grasshoppers, frogs, snails, moss and mushrooms

For all who feed the poor, cure the sick and visit the prisoner

For the astonishing star-filled night sky and scientists who discover creation’s deep secrets

For all who tell the good news of Jesus, Light of the world

For…

“I will exalt you, my God; 

I will praise your name forever and ever.

I will meditate on your wonderful works. 

One generation commends your works to another. 

They tell of the power of your awesome works. 

They celebrate your abundant goodness

and joyfully sing of your righteousness

and I will proclaim your great deeds. 

You open your hand and satisfy the desires of every living thing.

My mouth will speak in praise of God. 

Let every creature praise God’s holy name forever and ever.” 

(Psalm 145, excerpts)

Ludicrousity (I know it's not a word but...)

In the midst of highways, condos, construction sites and two million Torontonians, wild animals survive. We see mallards, hawks, beavers and muskrats, opossums, foxes, coyote and deer. 

And then there are racoons. Thousands of racoons entertain city residents with their aerial acrobatics in neighborhood trees and cute troops of babies. 

Since I learned not to leave compost garbage out overnight, I have thoroughly enjoyed spotting them. I’m thankful that we don’t have to drive for two hours before we can enjoy nature.

But now…

We arrived home after a two week vacation to find racoon droppings spread over one quarter of our back lawn. After much unpleasant internet reading I can tell you that racoons typically designate “latrines”, family toilets that they and their relatives use every night. Some prefer rooftops, others, a crotch in a tree, many, a cosy corner on someone’s deck. Although we’ve seen racoons on our property for decades, they had never before situated a communal bathroom near us. Ugh!

My long-suffering husband dutifully shovelled up dozens of messes until the yard was poop-free. 

For one day. 

Back they came the next night.

If you ever want a laugh, read the internet suggestions for stopping this animal behaviour. The posts go like this:

One person declares, 
“What worked for us was _______”, describing a technique about which the next person writes,
 “We tried _______ but it didn’t work.” 

I started our own skirmish by sprinkling garlic powder, not because anyone had suggested it but because I had a stale bottle at hand and figured the smell would repel any animal. They have sensitive noses, don’t they? The next morning, when I walked out to the back with my coffee, the whole property stank of garlic and there was a new dropping right in the middle of the sprinkled area. 

Then we tried one of the internet recommendations, red chilli pepper flakes. We used a seed spreader to strew $12 worth of vicious smelling stuff over the lawn. With our usual smooth marital team work we managed to get pepper into my eye, but the area did now look a scary orange colour. That should do it. 

Apparently not.

The City of Toronto’s website advice was to cover the area with “pure soap flakes”. This also had been recommended elsewhere on the Web. What are those and where would one buy them? I asked for help on Facebook and got absolutely none from my knowledgeable FB Friends.  When we took our request to staff at hardware stores and grocery stores they stared silently at us with narrowed eyes before they muttered, “Sorry. Can’t help you.” and sidled away.

 One middle-aged Sobey’s manager said, 

“Soap flakes. Oh, I remember those. Hmm. I don’t think we carry them.” He came with us to search and we all agreed that it sounded like something that might have been used in the 50’s. There was no such thing on his shelves. We suspect now that some city employee had copied what they found in an ancient printed manual about deterring racoons and typed it into the current website, chuckling with the gleeful knowledge that NOTHING gets rid of a determined raccoon. We, however, were innocents as yet.

Soap? Alright, then. I didn’t like the “natural” but ineffective dishwasher detergent I was using so we sprinkled the rest of the box over the red grass. Next morning? More droppings. After a couple of days we noticed that the orange corner of the lawn was turning brown. Maybe our soap wasn’t pure enough.

My affection for wild life was starting to fade.

What about light? Would a bright light convince these furry, masked poopers to relieve themselves elsewhere? Our neighbour scoffed aloud at the mere idea. Nevertheless, my husband hung a spotlight focussed on the large patch of dead grass and left it on overnight. 

The next morning, victory! No droppings!

Alas, the second night, the racoon apparently decided that it didn’t mind spot-lit glory and there were new droppings. After she saw our latest attempt, our neighbour phoned to tell us that Nuit Blanche was not for another couple of days. Haw Haw. 

I started referring to our nightly backyard display as a son et lumiere.

The next thing I knew, my husband was rummaging through the Christmas lights. If a spot light had scared off the beast once, maybe more lights would up the ante. As darkness fell I looked out to see a cheery, celebratory display, with the white spotlight now joined by a string of blinking red, green, and blue bulbs. 

I glanced around for video cameras. We were becoming cartoon characters.

Another morning of celebration - No poop! 

But we were sceptical by now. What would the next night bring? No guarantees that the war had ended. Battle fatigue was creeping in. 

On a planet that holds starving children and heinous crimes, I’m embarrassed to make this confession. We sat during our morning prayer time counting our blessings and reminding each other that it could be worse. I’m serious. Listen to two ‘mature’ Christians trying for a godly perspective on the unspeakably trivial:

“At least we have a backyard. At least we’re well enough to shovel up the droppings. At least we don’t have little children who need to play on the lawn. At least…”

Pitiful. Just pitiful.

Just a Cold

How quickly illness can take us down. I’ve been sleeping around the clock for two days because of a cold bug.

You know what it’s like. You’re clicking along in the day’s schedule and gradually start to realize that your throat is kind of sore. After a couple of hours it’s hard to think anything except, “My throat hurts”. You feel shivery and then hot; the aches begin. Your deepest longing is to lay your head on your pillow and let the world disappear. Juice, kleenex, blankets, tea, antihistamine!

I wish I had the self-discipline of renowned atheist, the late Christopher Hitchens. His widow has released a book written while he was dying. I heard her tell a CBC radio interviewer that Hitchens “never complained”, neither when he was diagnosed with terminal cancer, nor during his illness and deterioration.

Please do not tell my husband about this. 

If I can’t bear a common cold cheerfully and stoically, what hope do I have for courage when the real trials come? If Christian faith makes a difference, shouldn’t the believer’s behaviour trump the atheist’s?

HA! Think again.

Here’s the truth. I trust my life to Christ because I’m inconsistent, often weak, and downright selfish. Unlike Christopher Hitchens, I’m not tough and self-sufficient. As far as I can tell, Jesus came to offer us God’s loving acceptance and the chance to become better at being joyful, compassionate and principled, to find in God the very strength that we do not have.  

I’ll never be as good as you probably are, but I’m pretty sure I’m better than I would be if I didn't keep trying to rely on God.  I love reading the Bible biographies of characters who failed right, left and centre. These histories remind me that our Creator doesn't give up on wimps like me.

Stop Being So Stupid

Once upon a time there were two young siblings who spent their days playing with each other happily except for getting into fights every five minutes. Both of them were regularly frustrated to the point of tears …and punches. One day recently, an arbitrating parent halted the violence yet again, and asked for negotiation.

Parent, to Sibling #1 “What would you like him to do?”

Sibling #1, “Stop being so stupid!”

Sibling #2, in a moment of wisdom beyond his years, “How am I supposed to do that?”

I have yet to outgrow completely the bad habit of being frustrated by other people’s “stupidity”. Oh, I wouldn’t say it to their faces, and I struggle and pray to stop thinking it silently. 

But still at times, when another driver forgets to signal a turn, or when I read the “Comments” section on a website (now who’s stupid?), or when I hear certain politicians speak, or when a fellow committee member arrives fifteen minutes late to every single meeting and every time apologizes and offers some reason why she’s late this time, or when I watch a parent talking on a cell phone as they drag their precious toddler along by the hand, I may think ugly thoughts. And then there are those inconsiderate pet owners with their unleashed, pooping, barking, trespassing, cute little animal friends. Oh dear.

Thank goodness I don’t hear it when other people lament my own stupidity, although I have seen them using sign language when I’ve made a driving mistake. I scare myself sometimes when I remember that my stupidity likely extends way beyond my own awareness. Maybe there are folks all around me praying for patience with me (maybe?!). After kicking around the theme of this post I found myself wishing that some brave, kind soul would gently tell me about any of my hurtful patterns that I haven’t noticed.

Meanwhile, I’m considering getting this bible verse tattooed somewhere on my body where I might notice it several times a day:

“Don’t judge…Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye?  How can you say to your brother, ‘Let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when all the time there is a plank in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye.” (Matthew 7)

No Need To Travel

I felt drunk. On an August day in my Toronto backyard I lay in my hammock intoxicated with Nature’s sweet largesse. 

Green surrounded me, above, beside, and below, celadon, lime, jade, olive. The hammock hung above my scrubby lawn whose grass was threaded by plantain and clover. I looked up through a thousand leaves that sprouted from a giant Manitoba Maple, a “junk” tree as foresters call it, not one of the sturdiest species. But really, what benighted soul could classify this fractal wonder as “junk”? Look at its angling branches long enough and awe creeps in. 

On either side of me grew ferns, Lilies of the Valley and Spirea bushes, all foliage at this time of year. Leaves and grass blades flagged nature’s irrepressible life. 

The sunny aqua sky held a few popcorn clouds. Random breezes tickled the maple leaves into shimmying and I saw that the same wind was creating a dance floor out of the lawn, with roaming spots of light and shadow.

Cicadas’ loud whirring filled the air. Clutches of sparrows dashed here and there from lilac to forsythia shrubs, twittering their familiar chatter. A finch whistled soprano notes. I searched for him and spied his flashy yellow feathers accessorized smartly with black. He perched on the stalk of a mustard-yellow yarrow plant in my neighbour’s garden. Nearby, puffs of brilliant white phlox stretched in the warm light, looking like fluffy clouds themselves.

High above it all, swallows flew spectacular swoops while peeping modestly.

As if to underline the abundance, two monarch butterflies floated in to settle on the milkweed plants next door. Suffusion of beauty.

Then an unannounced circus act began. 

One of the resident squirrel gymnasts began to tight-rope along a telephone wire 12 feet in the air. Half-way across the yard she lost her balance and swung upside down, still clutching the wire from below with all four paws. Embarrassed, I’m sure, she seemed to pretend that her slip was part of the act and carried on rapidly, now hanging beneath the wire, scrambling toward the nearest pole. When she was safely upright again she shook herself off, ignored my laughing applause, and ran out of sight.

With one foot I gently rocked the hammock, wishing everyone could have such joy.

Pied Beauty 

by Gerard Manley Hopkins

Glory be to God for dappled things –

   For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;

      For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;

Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;

   Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough;

      And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;

   Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)

      With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;

He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:

                                Praise him.