Confessions of a Snoopy Pants

With these hot summer days, I’m taking my walks in the cooler early morning and have discovered unexpected benefits. I walk farther. I encounter less human traffic and more pets, bunnies, and squirrels. Plus, it’s a lot more satisfying to shower when I arrive home knowing the exercise portion of my day is over and I can get on with life.

On most of these treks, I haul my carcass over the Tupper Street bridge for the added calorie-burn, then straight on until I come to Crescent Road. I usually then take the sidewalk on the north side rather than the walking path along the lake. I tell myself there’s more shade and less goose poop, but really it’s because I am snoopy. I love a close-up view of the homes and yards. I’m mind-boggled by the gorgeous landscaping, vibrant flowers, shrubs trimmed to perfection, rocks arranged just so with nary a weed. How do they do it? I could do yard work full time and my yard would still be mediocre. Not that I’d want to. And therein lies the secret, I suppose.

This adorable "Hobbit door" can be found in my home town.

I enjoy walking around Portage and seeing the variety of homes all jumbled in the same neighborhood. I love sizing up old houses and imagining what they originally looked like and who lived in them. It’s delightful when a hundred-year old house looks well kept but depressing when it’s not. Sometimes I’ll see an overgrown yard with perennials that might have been planted half a century ago fighting through weeds. Crumbling brick flower beds attached to the front of the house. Once gorgeous porches in shambles. My heart breaks a little whenever I see boarded and broken windows, knowing someone once loved and cared for that home.

My place would neither break your heart nor wow you with its beauty. I need to find other ways to bless my community and when I’m out walking, I can think of three. The first is simply that by keeping my body healthier, I’m bringing a better self to the world around me.

Secondly, I make a point of picking up at least one piece of litter every time. Sadly, I can always count on lots of options. Lately I’ve seen more face masks littering the ground than I see on faces. Seriously? I know my readers aren’t litterbugs, but I don’t know for sure whether they are litter picker-uppers.

Thirdly, I try to remember to pray for my community as I walk. You don’t need to know the people you’re praying for. Someone hasn’t found time to mow their grass? Pray for them, they’re probably under stress. These folks are renovating? Pray for peace in the household, because you know they’re going to need it. This house has a wheelchair ramp? Pray about all the challenges attached to living with a disability, both for the disabled person and their family or caregivers. See toys or a swing set? Pray for those children. That business. This school. That church. Every step you take can bring a blessing to your community, whether you see it or not.

 Happy snooping! I mean, walking.

 

What's the Word?

It occurred to me recently that I can say I’m married to a disabled immigrant and that we are both residential school survivors. It would all be true.

But it would all be so wrong. Is it any wonder the media can spin stories in any direction they wish?

Words are funny things. Take the word “virtual.” I used to think it meant “actual” or “literal” because that’s how I heard it used. So when a radio announcer recently invited people to a celebration event and added, “Virtual only, please don’t come here,” I thought the word had taken a complete reversal in definition. During this pandemic, we’ve attended far more virtual meetings than in-person ones. I now know that “virtual” means “almost” or “nearly.” But now my online thesaurus says its primary meaning is “computer-generated” even though the word was around long before computers.

It’s the same reason we still “dial” a phone number even though phones haven’t come with dials for decades.

How do you feel about the word “commit?” It can mean so many things. To promise, devote, give, perform. It’s a good word and being committed to something is usually seen as a positive trait. So I was surprised recently to learn that it’s no longer acceptable to say someone committed suicide. The S-word is not the problem. It’s the C-word. Apparently, “commit” implies a crime and therefore stigmatizes suicide. I’m still trying to wrap my head around that one.

Then again, I’m still wondering when “impact” became something you do and not just something you make. It’s called verbing nouns.

With all the challenges of our language, how do you know what to believe? The conflicting information floating around about Covid-19 and face masks alone is enough to make your head spin, even without the claims and accusations in political boxing rings. Someone recently posted a meme that said, “If lying really did set one’s pants on fire, the nightly news would sure be a lot more entertaining.”

Some say there’s no such thing as absolute truth. But is that absolutely true?

As far as I know, Jesus Christ is the only person in history audacious enough to call himself THE TRUTH. Talk about a bold statement. Either it’s true, in which case he’s worth not only paying attention to but devoting your life to. Or it’s false, in which case he was either a lunatic or a liar. I see no middle ground. Do you?

One of the things I try to remember when I don’t know how to pray about a situation is simply to ask God to help everyone involved hear and speak only truth and to silence all lies. You can’t go wrong with that prayer, and the only one who can grant the request is the one who called himself Truth. The Word. (See John 14:6 and John 1:1)

As for my opening claim? It’s true my husband immigrated to Canada from the United States—no language or cultural learning curves to conquer. It’s true he lives without his right arm. But I can’t think of anything he can’t do if he puts his mind to it, other than the assumptions others impose upon him. As for the residential school? We attended a Christian boarding school of our own free will and with our parents’ blessing. A more suitable word than “survivors” would be “thrivers.”

If only it were a word.

 

If My Hostas Could Talk

I knew when I planted them that it wouldn’t be ideal, but I did it anyway.

Six years ago, my sister gave me a bunch of Hosta plants. The long strip of crushed rock running along the east side of our fence screamed for something green and growing. Like most people, I knew Hostas love shade and that the strip would be too sunny for them. But since the plants cost me nothing, I plunged ahead.

Planting them turned out to be a crazy enough project to warrant a blog post of its own back in 2014. (Not, however, a story that made the cut for my book.) The job involved moving rock, chiseling holes through hard-packed gravel, filling them with compost, laying landscaping fabric on a windy day, and other exhausting shenanigans for which I have no energy six years later.

The Hostas have not exactly thrived. Oh, they’re gorgeous through June and partway into July. But by mid-summer, they usually look as appealing as an overflowing ashtray. Brown and burnt leaves replace lush and green ones. They are basically cooked.

It’s not the Hostas’ fault. Somebody planted them in a place where they were never intended to thrive.

Full disclosure. Not my hosta.

I pondered this one June day as I pulled weeds out from between them. They still looked beautiful and brimming with potential. They desperately needed dividing and still do, but any suitable spots I have for them would involve a repeat of the digging-holes-through-rock scenario. I can’t face it. So I leave them, knowing they’re going to do their best anyway.

I thought about how you and I were designed for a better place, too. The garden in which God placed his first people was beautiful beyond our imagination and perfectly good. Every physical, emotional, and relational need was met. Then our enemy moved in and nothing has been the same since.

We live in a broken world and deep inside, every one of us knows this is not where we truly belong. It’s why we demand justice and scream with indignation when confronted with evil, sickness, and death. Our souls long for a better place to grow to our full potential, where we can bless others with life and beauty.

But we remain stuck here. For now.

The wonder of my Hostas is that they have survived at all. They continue to grow, to reproduce, and to grace my yard with beauty despite their less than ideal conditions. They give what they can, when they can. I like to think they are stronger because they’ve had to survive the hot sun. Yes, they could do even better elsewhere and perhaps someday I will move them and give them that opportunity. Until then, they bloom where they are planted.

You and I can learn a lot from the humble Hosta plant. Let’s not wait for ideal circumstances. One day your creator will move you to a place of perfection, but until then…bloom!

“Blessed is the one who trusts in the Lord, whose confidence is in him. They will be like a tree planted by the water that sends out its roots by the stream. It does not fear when heat comes; its leaves are always green. It has no worries in a year of drought and never fails to bear fruit." (Jeremiah 17:7-8)