I can live like this

this being

blessed and blessing

in the same motion

            Richard Wagamese, from “Poem” in Runaway Dreams

Advent is over—Jesus is born.  But, The Christ was already here. So, what did I wait for?

Perhaps, it is human awareness that comes again and again or comes into being when we are open to see. Perhaps, it is what we do while we wait that matters.  After a disarray of readings and experiences during the last few weeks, I wonder: how am I feeding a life that is being blessed and blessing in the same motion?

The winter solstice has passed, and each day will bend a little farther toward the light.  Our recent unexpected weather event made me more aware of the subtleties and energy of being open to wonder.

Almost 40 cm of snow fell here in Victoria.  That is a lot of snow for this city which is known for the warmest climate in Canada.  Winter is supposed to be a rainy season with just enough snow to remind us what it is.  This snow changed the way we lived for a few days.

The plumber we expected at 9:00 a.m. phoned to say he wouldn’t be coming. Visitors we expected to drop by that afternoon also reported they couldn’t get out of their dead-end street.  I didn’t have to clean up the kitchen early or wrap the gifts I had. I didn’t feel compelled to consider that “one more thing” I might need before Christmas. Our collective sense of what are “have to’s” shifted.

Bundled-up families and pets replaced cars on the streets.  I saw new sights: a man skied past my house and our neighbour’s dog sported a festive sweater with matching knitted leggings.  My friend reported that she wore her sunglasses in her house; the light reflected off the snow was so bright. All of our spirits seemed lighter, too, on this curiously quiet week before Christmas.

I had been given three cards to deliver for the church and the sunny snow made the task an adventure. I didn’t really know two of the three recipients but I knew that personal delivery would amplify the care and connection with their church community.  

A purpose for reaching out to someone can be both a solution and a problem for me. I would have to muster up a bit of courage to ring their doorbells.  The risk, after all, was very small—they wouldn’t know me—I was just delivering this card for the church.   I had that greater purpose to hide behind.

Wrapped in layers and long johns, I set out and made the first footprints in what was the driveway. My first stop was Rosamond’s house near the park. I noticed that her walk and driveway were already cleared of snow and a green de-icer was strategically placed. I don’t really know her and I gathered that she was being taken care of—that’s good.

I easily made my way up the steps to her door. I didn’t see a doorbell so I knocked.  No one came. I decided not to try again; after all, I would look like a stranger.  I felt a little hesitation, should I try harder?  I placed the card in her mailbox and continued my walk down the snow-covered side street.

My next stop was several blocks away and I took my time, awed by the brightness of the day. I passed people shovelling their sidewalks and kids trying out scooters and wagons in the snow and more dog walkers.  The snow was too deep to move easily off the sidewalk to let another person pass which I’d become accustomed to doing to keep a distance.  Most greeted me with a nod and a smile.

Turning onto Oliver Street, I crossed to the other side and came upon a gentleman chatting with a young couple who were clearing their driveway.  It was obvious they knew each other and were catching up. There was no way to get around so I waited. I heard the woman ask, “Ian, is this the most snow you’ve seen in Victoria?”

I realized the man I was following was my destination. These people were Ian’s next-door neighbours. His house, where I think he’s lived his whole life, was my next stop.

We had a pleasant conversation when I offered the card.  I don’t remember meeting Ian myself, but my husband has tea with him occasionally.  He remembered that I had been liturgist on Sunday and told me how much he liked “the Reverend.”  This conversation was comfortably familiar and I was reassured to go beyond putting a face with his name.

My next visit was a familiar one.  I meandered a bit and discovered new sights on my way to Bev’s house.   When she learned I’d come from Oliver Street, she reminded me that block is where her late husband grew up, too. She shared some of her own adventures growing up in the majesty of mountains and lakes in the southern interior of British Columbia. She is attuned to the wonder of days like today.

As I headed back home, I was on my own again. Yet, I felt accompanied by the people I’d met along my way. There was an openness to each other that was hastened by our shared awe of the extraordinary weather.  There was a shift in how we navigated our paths, depending on others to shovel out the way or to find someone else’s footprint that had gone before to lessen our struggle. 

I had waited to see again the wonder and goodness of One who never tires of coming into my world.  Blessed and being blessed in the same motion.

In my last writing, I said I wanted to widen my lens, to wander, to be open, to see what I could see during these weeks of Advent.  I knew that would come as I read and prayed and pondered each day.

However, I was a little disappointed. The words I tried to read just seemed like a schooled assignment. I expected I would be challenged by the insight that would appear on the page. Maybe, I was trying too hard to pay attention to the wrong thing. It is easy to say I am going to be open to whatever comes, but most often, what happens catches me unaware.

And that is what happened on Tuesday. In the middle of the day, the unexpected unfolded. In the midst of the ordinariness, I guess I did open up just enough to receive the lesson of trust, but it did not come from my own trusting.

Driving home, I answered my phone because it was my daughter and she doesn’t usually call me often.  After she asked the question she had called to ask, she followed with, “Do you have a few minutes?”

Usually, that question means “I have something important to discuss.” So, of course, I said yes and I parked so I could listen.  I am not good at attentively listening and attentively driving at the same time.

“Would you pray for me tomorrow?”

“Yes, I pray for you every day, but I’ll pray extra tomorrow.”

“I’m on overnight call for the first time since before Stella was born.” 

“What if…”

Ahhh, her mind goes to the “what if’s,” just like me.   She continued to describe her mind’s race, She concluded that she knew her husband would care for their daughter and her brother and it was more than that.

She was sad.  Every morning and every evening for all of her life, Stella wakes up and goes to bed breastfeeding. This would be the first time that wouldn’t be possible. I thought about the sacredness of that bond. I thought about how hard it is for a mother to let go, even when her children aren’t even children any more.  I hope I listened. 

My daughter trusted me with her sadness.  She didn’t want my advice or the stories of my days with young children.  She didn’t want me to fix her problem or assuage her feelings.  It wasn’t easy for me to not give solutions or worse, to say it will be all right.  I just hope I listened.

My daughter wanted me to hear her sorrow, to share her grief.  She trusted me to do that. She trusted that her husband would soothe Stella in his own way, in those moments before sleep the next night. She trusted Stella to be satisfied with the cup of cold milk she’d be offered the next morning. Being able to trust, even for one moment, changes the way we see one another.

Being trusted is a gift we do not earn, despite the popular notion that many mothers repeat.  Trust is a gift we give because that is what has been given to us. Mostly, the gift has to be given over and over until we learn to give it back ourselves.