God's Pool

At Mass this morning, a guest priest asked for prayers for our country, that we might stand firm and protest same-sex marriage and abortion. My sons, standing on either side of me, turned their handsome faces up in confusion.

Huh?

"Does he mean boys can't marry boys? Mummy, you said they could."

For a moment, I could say nothing. My youngest Red is a week away from receiving his First Communion, which is essentially, being invited to sit at the Lord's table.

 I walked away from it for many, many years but found that I was drawn back to the ritual and community, especially when I became a parent. I have sometimes wondered at the wisdom of returning to a church whose ideas I do not wholly embrace, nor support. Some, I outright defy.

This is one of them.

"Some people believe that only men and women should marry," I finally whispered, "But I don't. I think God wants you to love who you love and that's that."

"But can we still come here if you think that? For my communion? I'm learning all the songs, even though the words are hard."

In my mind, I pictured myself gathering up my children and making a big show of huffing from the pew and into the aisle, incensed and hollering, "MY God welcomes everyone to His table!" and then storming out. Alas, I am not that brave, so instead, I sat when I should have remained standing and tugged them in close to me.

"God says that whenever two or more people get together and sing about Him and pray to Him and enjoy their time together, He's hanging out, too. Invisibly. And He loves us. Period. Full-stop. Forever. So, yes, we can come here. Especially since you're learning all the songs."

"But...why did the priest say that?" This from my oldest, the champion of "Why?" questions that make my head hurt.

"Because he believes it. Because it scares him. Because the world is a different place than it used to be, when men couldn't marry men and women couldn't marry women. He's sort of...stuck there."

"But who's right?"

"Who do you think is right?"

"You."

"Why do you think I'm right?"

"Because you said that if we want to marry a man then you'd be ok with that because it means you get to have more sons to love. And God helped us choose you to be our mummy and so if He chooses us to marry a man, He's really choosing you for them, too. Or them for you. Kind of. Do you know what I mean?"

I closed my eyes, offered up a silent prayer of thanks for these tiny souls. "Yes. Yes, I do. Now let Mummy pray here, ok?"

"Ok," my youngest again, tugging impatiently on my arm, "Can you pray that the person I marry has a pool?

I opened up one eye. "A pool?"

"Yeah. God would probably want me to have a pool. And a diving board to practice flips. I bet He's choosing that for me right now. I just have to wait and find out."

I guess we all will.

That God. He's so funny.

Life With Molly the Dog

Molly the Dog, ours since Christmas 2013, will be going home today.

Mostly, I am happy for her - and for us. Her new home is a horse farm, where she often goes to play. My friend, Raphael already loves her and she, him. She will be happy and free and beloved: knowing that makes this ache in my heart not as painful as it might be.

Today, I offer some snippets of life with Molly the Dog, as we knew it, culled from my Facebook page:

 

 

It's a good thing I got paid today because Molly the Dog just ate my LAST pair of sandals. I got them last pay day. Since that time, she has devoured my old sandals, a pair of flip-flops and my slippers.

It's no use complaining to Mark because he has told me a dozen times not to leave my shoes all over the place and I have cheerfully agreed and them promptly forgotten.

I hate when he's right.

 

 

 

So, if you were Molly the Dog and managed to snag one of those white things that covers the screws in the base of toilet and you raced downstairs despite your person hollering at you to "Sit, Molly!"...where would you hide it?

 

 

I cracked the back door open to let Molly the Dog outside. She sniffed the air, looked up at me as if to say, "Are you KIDDING me?" and then turned and swished her way back upstairs. I'm pretty sure I heard her "Hmph!" as she settled down.

I DO wish she'd learn to communicate her feelings more clearly...

 

 

Molly the Dog just stalked, killed and ate the BIGGEST house centipede I have ever seen.

Molly the Dog is my new hero and is hereby forgiven for every single status update containing curse words that I've written since bringing her home.

 

 

 

 

 

Molly the Dog did not get to the dog park today. To demonstrate her displeasure, she ate Mark's ball cap, one shoe, a tiny birchwood canoe off my dresser.

Just now, she decimated a roll of paper towel and when I looked over and asked, "What have you DONE?" she farted.

Molly the Dog is a pre-teen boy in a dog's body.

 

During Parent-Teacher interviews, I left a lasagna cooling on the stove.

While we were gone, Molly the Dog ate it. Well, most of it. The rest, she dragged across the kitchen floor, the dining room and the family room.

For dessert, she ate my phone.

Molly the Dog is now in the newly-resurrected crate.

Molly the Dog is grounded.

 

 

 

 

Molly the Dog during a rare, calm moment.
 

Dear Molly the Dog,

I am so mad at you right now, I can't even look at you. Partially, this is my doing for not following through on the "Come!" portion of your TWO rounds of obedience training. I was lulled into complacency, it seems, when vigilance was needed. There talk of electrifying the fence, my girl. And that chain that so terrifies you? Get used to it, until I can figure out how to keep being your owner without losing my mind.
And therein, lies the rub: it goes against your nature to be chained and tied and boxed in. It goes against my heart to be the one who chain and binds you when the beautiful dog that you are only longs to run freely.
I cannot decide if keeping you is selfish, or if offering you a different home where you can roam and run would be...

St. Patrick's Day 2015

Sometimes love means letting go.

 

Steady as you go, Molly the Dog.

 

Remember love.

 

 

 

 

 

Meeting Jason...

*One of my new favourite phrases, as I settle into my 40s, is "That God. He's so funny."

I am not a particularly religious person. By that, I suppose I mean that I am not a regular church-goer and my faith, while strengthening, is often fraught with doubt and questions. Despite them, every once in awhile, I receive a gentle nudge from the universe - one that lets me know that I am on the right path. I call that God, but whatever floats your boat works for me, too.

This piece, lifted directly from my Facebook wall shortly before Christmas, 2014, is a vivid and pointed "steady as you go, Skipper" moment, given to me by a lonely, troubled stranger on a rainy winter's night. *

I have been given the enormous privilege of being one of a Circle of Accompaniment for my dear friend, Jen, who is seeking ministry with the United Church of Canada. Tonight's meeting was the first of many with her circle and it was interesting. Even MORE interesting? What happened before:

Before the meeting began, I volunteered to open the church's locked side door to those attending. A lone man appeared, seeking the pastor, or he muttered, "someone to talk to," hastily yanking his tattered hat from his head as I ushered him in, out of the rain.

Together, we searched the meeting rooms, interrupted some strangers, but found no pastor. At a loss, I gestured to the bench in the foyer and so he eased himself down and then looked up at me.
"I just need someone to...listen, " he said quietly. And so I sat, too.

Opening up...

 

 

He said nothing for awhile, so I didn't, either. To be honest, I was a little bit afraid of him and his need and worried that perhaps I shouldn't have let him in. This was not my church, or my home and its congregation were strangers to me. I tried not to fidget and willed someone - anyone - to come and tell me, tell us, what to do.

"You know what's hard?" he asked, turning a battered face to mine, eyes blazing.

I shook my head.

"That there is no place for me to go, when I need to. The library will close soon and I have no money for coffee. I don't want a fucking coffee anyway, I just want someone to take these thoughts out of my head for awhile. Where's the pastor, that's what I want to know. WHERE THE HELL IS HE?"

"I don't know. But...I have a cell phone. Is there anyone you'd like to call?"

"Look at me! Do I look like the kind of person whose call would be answered?"

I blinked, afraid. "Uh...well, maybe not. You look sort of scary and mad. But you SOUND like someone who's smart and aware. And you need those thoughts out of your head, right? You could call up anyone and leave them on their voice mail, if they don't pick up."

With a loud bark, he BURST out laughing, and I jolted, which made him laugh even harder. I chuckled along, in that "ha-ha-holy-shit-you-freak-me-out" kind of way, until he stopped and then stuck out his hand for mine. "I'm Jason. Who are you?"

"I'm Liz."

"Has anyone ever told you that you're not to supposed to encourage the crazy people, Liz?"

"Well...yeah. But I can't seem to help myself. It's a curse, really."

Jason pitched over laughing again, while I sat there trying to figure out what to DO. And then he got up, jammed his hat back on his head and turned to haul me to my feet. I asked him what he was going to do.

"I'm going to go now, Liz. It was a pleasure meeting you. Thanks for making me laugh. I can probably hang onto my head until I get to the next church."

"Well, good luck. And Merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas to you, too. And hey, if anyone ever tells you to stop talking to the crazy people, you tell 'em to go f*ck themselves. Got it?"

Got it.

That God. He's so funny.

Welcome, Sailors!

And so...a new journey begins.

I "retired" my old blog "Life With Bellymonster" in August of 2014. At that time, the stories I wanted to share were not mine to tell. Most of them still aren't, though perhaps one day, they will be.

However, it  became apparent, by the rapid and almost immediate lengthening of my Facebook status updates, that I simply cannot NOT blog. Somewhere, I still needed a place to share the extraordinary lessons I am learning as I move through my days. They are not always happy ones, but nor are they always hard. I have also discovered, in sharing, that the lessons are not only mine: there is much to be said for letting another's story change one's own.

Safe harbour

Mostly, I hope that this space will become a harbour of sorts - where I can share and reflect upon the stories others bring to my sphere. And where you can dip your feet and heart in, every now and again, for some inspiration, or simply, a shoring-up.