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Do All Good Things Come to Those Who Wait?

I answered the question in the title as a response to today's assignment for my writing group, in which we  were asked to argue against a common cliche we chose from a list. I hope you enjoy mine.  For most of my life, I’ve been the kind of person who made a change only when circumstances forced me to. The philosophy of “all good things come to those who wait” seemed to work. But I have come to doubt this philosophy. It’s not that I’m discounting those who patiently wait or entrust their hopes and dreams to God and leave them there. On the contrary, my life following this way of thinking was happy and blessed. But I have taken on a more active and engaged approach lately and found it invigorating, fruitful, and even more honouring of God. Change is deeply uncomfortable for me, although I have friends who thrive on it and are energized by it for its own sake. I am learning to embrace change actively instead of passively, though. Perhaps because realistically, in my seventies, my f

Four Cookbooks and a Yellow Giftbag

Over this weekend, I inherited four cookbooks. Three came from my friend, V, who is also the mother of my much-loved son-in-law. V's force of nature Russian mother, Julia, also a friend I used to visit occasionally, moved into a retirement home some time ago. One of V's parts in sorting through her mother's belongings that couldn't move with her included a small library of cookbooks. She gave me the first refusal at several she thought I might like and sent photos of their covers so that I could select the ones I'd like, including a selection last week. Then, on Friday, she came for dinner with her son and our daughter in our downstairs apartment, which they're renting for a few months. She brought the three books I'd chosen in a repurposed cheery bright yellow gift bag: The Oy of Cooking, a treasury of a Jewish grandmother's recipes, complete with stories; Baking with Julia (no need to add the last name!) and a book of Amish cooking. Yesterday my friend

More on Listening

 Yesterday was a day of sleepy exhaustion, and I reluctantly dragged my feet to start our first Life Group meeting of the year in the evening. Trying to prepare by reading the chapter for discussion felt so difficult. I repeatedly tried over two days to get through it, but I was so tired that I fell asleep every few minutes, and as a result, it took so much longer than it should have. The topic, “The Art of Spiritual Dialogue,” was a good one and connected to Brenda Ueland’s essay, “Tell Me More: On the Fine Art of Listening,” which I had read the day before, the topic of which was the importance of really listening to others. I do that poorly, I realize, and maybe everyone does in general. Sometimes it’s because it is an art, and I need to work at it deliberately, as we must do to acquire any skill. Still, underlying anxiety often causes me to fill conversational space too quickly instead of drawing out the other or others around me. I can see this so easily when someone else does it,

Listening

Yesterday I read an essay on listening by Brenda Ueland, a writer whose book, If You Want to Write, inspired and instructed Edna Staebler, lately one of my writing heroes. I loved and learned from Brenda’s beautifully written essay on listening. Still, I will reread it today, and perhaps many times in the future, to absorb it well enough that I can practice what she describes so brilliantly; to listen intentionally and well. I remember from my first quick reading that she learned to really listen in a way that draws something of the speaker out. But, of course, this doesn’t happen automatically, only in the presence of a skilled listener. It saddens me that we miss this—that I have missed this—when each person we encounter has a bright soul and spirit locked up inside unless drawn out into the light to be revealed and honoured. Brenda Ueland writes of how she used to prepare for social occasions by thinking she had to be “on,” She meant by that to be bright and animated—artificiall
Words—what a fantastic thing they are! At the moment, a tiny being is visiting the apartment downstairs. At least twice a day, the door from the apartment opens, and our daughter, Brenda, announces, “We’re here for a visit!” Paul and I drop whatever we are doing, and like iron filings to a magnet, we gather to receive this marvel--a child just twenty-three months in the world. The child’s chief joy at the moment is naming, starting with us, at whom she points, dubbing us with our sweet titles: “Mi-mi,” for Omie, and “Gandad,” for grandad. “Yes!” we say enthusiastically as she looks up at Brenda for confirmation and affirmation. This wonder-child then proceeds to name everything else she notices in her surroundings for the next few minutes. “Tree” (for we still have two Christmas trees standing,) and then the decorations on the tree—the letter “B” which appears a few times, and an ornament that is “pink,” and contains “books,” a gift from a friend to me, a book lover. And we respond wit

New Year Thoughts

A new year feels like writing for the first time in a new journal, one of those special ones gifted by friends who know you love new journals, no matter how many you have tucked away. Those first lines always feel so important and significant! Also, opening a new book adds to the sense of opportunities ahead and a new determination to seize them when hopes to do so before were subverted by other pressing priorities or the mere lackadaisical way in which everyday life can steal our promises. A new year can also overwhelm with thoughts of calls to duty and responsibilities that seem impossible to fulfill when considered as a whole: letters to write, rooms to be tidied, organized and decluttered, relationships to nurture, passions to pursue and latent gifts to practice, polish and hone into true excellence. Yet at the centre is a quiet call to be still and know: “Be still and know that I am God,” writes the psalmist in Psalm 46, verse 10. The psalm is written for the director of music

The Gift

I read the story over lunch a few days before Christmas of 2016. Alone, I laughed aloud, as it brought to colourful life in my imagination, a hilarious scenario played out in black on white. A day or so later, I was talking to my son, and I said, "Pete, there's a gift I'd love from you this Christmas." "Oh?" he said, surprised, I suppose, at my unusual boldness in asking. "What is it?" "It's a story," I said, "And the gift would be that you would read it for the rest of the family and me when we all get together for Christmas."  He agreed, on condition he might get the story ahead of time to practice. Life being busy, he didn't pick up the story ahead of time. But I had not forgotten, and on Boxing Day, when we all assembled to celebrate what was for some family members, "Christmas--version # 3, at Omi and Grandad's," I kept the bright-yellow-covered book with its coffee-stained pages near at hand