Remember

I got a rather nasty anonymous comment tonight on the Remembrance Day post I wrote this morning.

But, there was some truth in the words of the comment that caused me to re-think, and pull the post.

Mostly because I think the things I initially talked about take away from the sentiment that I really wanted to express.

That sentiment is this:

I'm definitely a person with pacifist leanings, but I'm so incredibly grateful for those who serve in the armed forces of both of the countries in which I hold citizenship.  I'm thankful for all of those who gave their lives and served (and serve!) their countries, in order that I can have the freedom to live out a lifestyle that prefers a pacifist approach.

I'm proud to be both Canadian and American on days like today.  Proud to be from two countries that both exemplify freedom of religion and expression.

And it's important to me to stop and remember the fallen and carry the torch of freedom.

Thank you - to those in my family who have served in the armed forces, and to all of those who are members of someone else's family.

Thank you for sacrificing yourselves for my freedom.

Thursday

It's Thursday morning and I'm sitting in the sun in my parent's living room.

Today will be full of cleaning tasks.  Getting the basement ready for the influx of company from my mom's family that begin to arrive tomorrow.  I have mixed feelings about mom's family a lot of the time.  They all live far away, and most of the time I regret that I don't really have much relationship with an entire side of my family.  When they're here, though, (and that's rare) I remember that I find it really bizarre to be with these people.  These people who I share blood with, but not really a lot of relationship.  These people who suddenly want to know stuff about my life - lots of stuff.  I'm an introvert, and don't readily share the private stuff with even my immediate family, but I have a hard time evading direct questions, too.  And, they're intense people, these family members.

So, I'm mentally preparing myself for this.  Especially since for the first couple of days, my parents will be out of town, and I'm actually playing host.

In the meantime, it's Thursday, and I'm going to clean.  I'm going to pray for a friend grieving a fresh loss, and one remembering a loss that happened 20 years ago today.  I'm going to go to house church tonight, and pause and rest a little somewhere in the middle of the day.

And I'm remembering.  Because it hit me last night that three years ago this weekend a sequence of events that have changed me life completely were set in motion.  It's been a crazy three years, and nothing looks the same.  And I'm okay, but I'm pausing for a moment too, to breathe a little.  To absorb the stunning reality that it has really been three years. 

So, it's Thursday, and I have things to do.  Thinking. Praying. Remembering.  Resting. Cleaning.  Worshipping.  Trusting.  Preparing.  Things to do on this Thursday.

Good Friday Service

I attended a church service this morning, at a large local church.

Dad and I went together.

After it ended, he waited until we got to the car to ask if they had mentioned the crucifixion even once.

Only in a song.

An hour and a half long service, on Good Friday, and the crucifixion wasn't mentioned.

It wasn't that it was a bad service, the music was well done, and so were some of the other elements.  It was nice to share communion today.

But today is the day for remembering the suffering of Christ, and, it seemed that they couldn't be bothered.  To pause and allow suffering to exist for a few moments.  To imagine what it would have been like to be the disciples, watching their beloved die, and then, sitting in the dark, seemingly hopeless day, waiting.

We jump right to resurrection, and it seems we cheat ourselves out of something that comes with the waiting in darkness.

And so, I offer you this - posted on Dana's blog today as well - as a beautiful reminder to pause today, and be grateful for the sacrifice of the cross.

Remembering

It's the last of a set of four anniversaries, and I am remembering this morning a Thursday in Rome, two years ago.  I have many thoughts that I may share later today about that day, but for now, I'm quietly remembering.

I'll crawl out of bed soon, and take care of some of the smaller details of the day.

And then I'll head out.  Maybe to the zoo.  Most certainly to my parent's house later this afternoon.

I feel lost in thought this morning, in the memories, and I'm okay with that for now.

Remembering Ashes

Two years ago today, it was Ash Wednesday, and I was in Rome with dear friends.

It was the moment of a lifetime for me - to finally see some of the things I'd studied for all of those years in high school classes, and on through a university degree in European church history. 

But it came on the tail end of 4 very challenging weeks, and I was a bit discombobulated.

It was a day that I won't ever forget, though, for all the deep memories it holds, and for where it came in a sequence of four or five very challenging days.

It ended with the final Ash Wednesday mass for the year, with two dear friends, in St. Peter's Basillica, in the Vatican.

That mass is full of moments that like others from this series of anniversaries are both hopelessly blurred and incredibly clear.

I was wearing my hair in French braids, and the feeling of the ashes in the part of the braids is one I still recall.  The cross marked on my head.  That moment standing before the priest as he spoke (in Italian, or maybe Latin).  That day that reminds us of our fallibility - from dust we came, and to dust we will return.

It ushered in one of the most intense Lenten seasons of my life.  A season of fasting and praying and waiting and longing.

Today I'm remembering the ashes.  And the blessings spoken.  And praying for those who were with me in those moments.

Looking Back

Two years ago today I had one of the most powerful encounters with Jesus of my life.

I was half a world away and watched something I'd seen in a dream play out in real life.

It was nothing like what I expected.

The days following weren't what I'd expected either.

The years in between then and now have been some of the most difficult of my life, and at times I've resented the way that day played out.

Today, I simply remember.  I remember the shared moments, and the things in those moments that only my heart can know.

And I'm grateful for those who stood with me.

And for Jesus who met me in a field that day.

I remember the smell of wine mixing with the soft, freshly tilled soil.

And I remember the line that started it all, the line that interpreted the dream in the first place.  A line from a Rob Bell sermon, long forgotten now... "Wine is about the shalom of God, the wholness of God, the healing of God."

And I'm grateful for that shalom poured out that day, and in a myriad of ways since.

Flander's Fields

Image via Wikipedia

It's kind of a tradition for me to post the following classic war poem on Remembrance Day. I've been thinking a lot more than usual about the importance of pausing to remember this year. The particular religious group that I work for refuses to acknowledge Remembrance Day, or participate in the national poppy campaign to raise money for veterans. They are pacifists, and argue that acknowledging this holiday legitimizes and glorifies war. I feel just the opposite - that while I generally hold pacifist principles, it is the contribution of those who fought that lets me hold those principles. So, this year, like each and every other year, I present to you, "Flander's Fields" by John McCrae and "We Shall Keep the Faith" by Moina Michael.

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep,
though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

We Shall Keep the Faith

Oh! you who sleep in Flanders Fields,
Sleep sweet - to rise anew!
We caught the torch you threw
And holding high, we keep the Faith
With All who died.

We cherish, too, the poppy red
That grows on fields where valor led;
It seems to signal to the skies
That blood of heroes never dies,
But lends a lustre to the red
Of the flower that blooms above the dead
In Flanders Fields.

And now the Torch and Poppy Red
We wear in honor of our dead.
Fear not that ye have died for naught;
We'll teach the lesson that ye wrought
In Flanders Fields.

Remembering...

Last week saw two ten year anniversaries:

The shooting in Columbine, Colorado, and, a few short days later, a copycat shooting in Taber, Alberta.

Both impacted me greatly at the time, and continue to have an impact today.

I was in high school at the time. My school, like so many others, was on high alert. We had bomb threats called in, and the general dis-ease of having the security of someplace that should be safe challenged.

The boy killed in Taber was a pastor's son. There were so many similarities in his situation to my own. The testimony of his father in the days following his death was hugely impacting. A few years later, in university, I received a memorial bursary set up in the boy's name.

Ten years. I reacted strongly on the tenth anniversary of the Columbine shooting. I was with a friend, and heard the news on the radio, and felt my insides clench, "Is that today?"

There was a certain urgency in that, a memory that came back so strongly.

I read the following two articles in the last few days, and was struck by each.

My Columbine

Taber Shooting "real awakening" for Canadian Schools

Ashes

A little over a year ago, on Ash Wednesday last year (which fell earlier in February than it does this year), I landed in Rome.

As that day drew to a close, two friends and I were able to be part of the last mass marking the day being celebrated in St. Peter's Basillica.

A year and a bit later, I still have very few words for those moments.

To describe what it was to stand in that place, after the trip that was drawing to a close, and mark the beginning of Lent.

To remember the scent of incense that seemed to linger long after it should have drifted away.

To recall how I'd French braided my hair into two separate braids that day, and remember the sensation of the ashes sitting in the part of my hair, resting on my head for the day that followed.

To remember the blessing of standing amidst a deep and holy space with friends.

Much has changed in the year that has followed, and I remain uncertain how I will mark this Lenten season.

But today, today I'm remembering the ashes. The feeling of them on my head, and in my hair. The moments that are too deep for words, but are treasured in my heart.

Today I'm marking again the beginning of a season of fasting, waiting, praying. A season traditionally of preparation for baptism. A season that moves without faltering towards death, and then culminates in the celebration of life.

And so, I will wait and watch and fast and pray. For miracles of joy and hope and restoration. For miracles of resurrection and new life. For peace. And I will remember ashes and dust and let my heart be changed.

Remembering

It may be quiet around here for the next few days. I'm not sure yet.

The next three days all mark significant "anniversaries" for me. Things that happened, things that are deep and full, but are also marked with deep pain and high cost.

I'm not sure where my heart will be at as I face these days.

I'm not sure if there will be words, or only silence.

But I need to walk these days out.

I need to take the time to remember.

I'm thinking again about the verse in Psalm 27 that says something to the effect of "my heart has heard you say, 'come and talk to me.' and my heart has responded, 'Lord, I am coming.' "

I'm going to give my heart the space and permission to write or to be silent, to remember, to pray and wait, to feel the presence of Jesus deeply, and grieve the wounds that still remain.

Remembering

I woke a bit late this morning, and stumbled out of bed to Alan Jackson’s song “Where Were You When the World Stopped Turning” playing on the radio station I listen to in the mornings as I get ready for work. It took me a moment to realize why they were playing that song today. It’s 9/11 once again. Six years later, once again a Tuesday morning, and people are pausing again to remember.

I am a historian – that is, my bachelor’s degree is in history, and I have long been a lover of classes like social studies in high school, and whatever history related classes I could enroll in for university. The classic question for defining and personalizing moments in history seems to be this – where were you when….occurred? Where were you when you heard that John F. Kennedy had been killed? The classic Canadian one – where were you when Paul Henderson scored the winning goal in the 1972 series of the century? Where were you when you learned that the Challenger shuttle had exploded? People define these moments by their location when they learned of them.

September 11, 2001 has become one of those moments – not because of the aforementioned country song that asks the question “Where were you?” but because of the way the events of that day and the response to those events have shaped the following six years.

It is hard for me to believe that it has already been six years. The events of that day seem to live on in daily ways – reminders in the media each time conflict arises in the Middle East. Each time the death of a Canadian soldier in Afghanistan is reported in the news. Each time the world begins to debate the merits of the American presence in Iraq. This is an event that lives not in the past, but in the present psyche of the North American world.

In the same way that my dad can tell you where he was when Paul Henderson scored that famous goal, and my mom can tell you where she was when she learned that President Kennedy was killed, I can tell you the exact location when it hit home that a plane had flown into the World Trade Centers, and that they had collapsed.

It was my first semester of university, and I was sitting in the only 8:00 am lecture I took in the five years I spent getting my degree. It was, “Psychology 205: Introductory Psychology.” I was in a second floor classroom, poorly lit with feeble florescent bulbs. A very beige sort of place. A classmate came in and told me that a plane had flown into the World Trade Centers, and speculated that it was terrorism. I remember dismissing her concerns, automatically assuming that it was a tragic accident. Our professor entered moments later, and repeated the news, this time confirming that this was indeed an act of terrorism against the United States.

Not a particularly profound memory, I suppose. I spent the lunch hour that day like so many others, glued to the television sets that had been set up in the hallways to allow students to follow the stories. I remember feeling dazed as I moved from class to class, not quite able to absorb this thing that was happening.

I remember walking into a video rental store a few days later, when the news coverage of the rescue efforts was still going on 24 hours a day on all of the television channels, determined to rent something funny, because I was done with the grieving, and the reality, and wanted to simply escape for a little while. I remember feeling a little bit guilty for wanting to laugh in the midst of all that sadness and fear.

Six years later I’m still remembering. I’m feeling grateful for the lives of the police officers and firefighters who sacrificed themselves in the attempt to rescue others. I’m wondering at the state of unrest in the world – the constant fear of terrorism, the lack of peace. I’m feeling a bit more proud than normal of my dual American and Canadian heritage and citizenship – and also conflicted as the retaliatory American presence on the world stage clashes with the peacemaking Canadian presence. I’m thinking about the world seems less innocent the last six years – or maybe it’s simply that a tiny bit of naiveté was lifted from my eyes that Tuesday morning. I’m remembering, and grieving, and praying for peace.