Author and Inspired Writer

A few days ago, I read a post on FaceBook that said, if you could go back to a younger you, what would you say to them in two words. I was surprised at my reaction.

I have a little picture of myself at six years old that sits on the desk in my office. My hair was a lovely shade of red-gold back then, a colour that sadly disappeared throughout the years (though I still have the highlights) but proof that I did inherit something from my Dad. Actually, Mum says I inherited quite a bit from Dad, including several personality traits, not all of which she found endearing. Ah Mama, it’s genetics. Whatcha gonna do?

It was picture-taking day at my school, not long after my very first day, and Mum had curled my hair, and pinned a blue silk rose beneath my collar. But I was so stressed and overwhelmed by what was going on, I couldn’t enjoy this rare bit of sartorial elegance, and in the picture my smile is tentative and the look in my eyes a bit lost.

Every time I see this picture, I feel great compassion for this little girl. There were such difficult challenges ahead – years of unrelenting bullying as a child, and long bouts of depression as an adult before she found the saving grace of writing. Disappointments, failures, medical crises, loss, much of which she was woefully unprepared for. The words that most often come to me when I look at her picture are, “You poor thing!”

But lately I’ve come to realize I’ve only been remembering part of the picture, the sad part. There’s more here. This little girl, unprepared though she was, will withstand every challenge that comes her way, sometimes with grace, and sometimes by the skin of her teeth. It will take her years, but she will discover her “No!” and that will save her dignity and give her the power to say “This far and no further!” And she will also discover her “Yes!” to situations that will demand every last ounce of strength and endurance, and she will not falter. She will learn to ask for help, she’ll make wonderful friends, she’ll find success in her chosen career, and one day she’ll trust herself enough to fall in love. There will be adventures, and fun, and growth, and wonder along the way. She’ll figure things out. She’ll even help others to figure things out. She won’t give up even in the bleakest moments. She’ll have faith. She’ll have courage. She’ll find the good, and keep on going.

So when I read the FB post about what would you say to your younger self, two words flashed through my mind like lightning, bold and joyous.

“Good girl!” I would say to her. “Good girl!”

…is when the Christmas season is over. And for me that happens January 1st, New Year’s Day.

For many years now it has been my tradition to take down the tree and restore my living room on the first of the year, much to my mother’s everlasting disappointment.

“Christmas isn’t over until the Feast of the Epiphany, when the wise men brought their gifts to the Baby Jesus, and that’s January 6th,” she would remind me when I’d mention I’d already packed the tree away.

“Yeah but I’m celebrating the feast of the even wiser wise men who found a shortcut to the manger, arrived New Year’s Day, dropped off the loot, shared a glass of nog with the happy family, then hitched up their dog team and hied themselves away!”

There’d be a long moment of silence on the other end of the phone. Then –

“I’m sorry, I must have the wrong number…”

Mama did try, she did.

Yesterday it took me two hours to strip the tree, disassemble it, and pack it in the trunks with all the other decorations. Then another hour to dust the living room and sweep, vacuum, and steam clean the living room floor. Not a year goes by that I don’t wash the living room floor.

Fess up. You just went back and read that last sentence again, didn’t cha?

OK, I DO wash the living room floor more than once a year, but actually move the furniture kind of washing, yeah, that happens once every 365 days. Don’t judge me. I’m sure if I came over to your place I’d find some skeletons in your neatly arranged, ever so pristine closets…even if I had to plant some there myself.

And I had a revelation (one might even say an ‘epiphany’) on this year’s cleaning spree. Last July there was a two week spate where it rained every day. Not all day long, mind you, but every, single, day. The result of all this moisture was a pretty nasty infestation of earwigs – of all insects the ones I hate the most! For two or three days, every time we went out the back door, the step was just covered with them. And a few did make it into the house (one even ending up in the washing machine – don’t ask me how), but I had thought I and The Mister had dispatched them all to their heavenly reward.

Until I moved the couch.

“Pa,” I said, turning off the vacuum, “you remember that earwig problem we had last summer?”

“Yep.”

“Remember how we thought we’d killed all the little critters that got into the house?”

“Yep.”

“Well, I think I found the place where some of them came to live out their final days.” And I pointed to the freshly uncovered floor.

“Mercy!” he said. “We’ve been sitting on that all this time?”

“Well, indirectly I guess.”

He turned to look at me.

“Kinda makes your butt itch, don’t it?”

“No it doesn’t! Well. It does now! Thanks Pa!”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Wish I hadn’t.”

And isn’t that what New Year’s Day is all about? No, not itchy butts. Rather a time to start over with everything fresh and new.

And steam cleaned.

As I’ve mentioned before, our minister of ten years retired at the end of September, and since then our little church has moved into high gear not only to find a replacement, but also to take up the slack and complete all the tasks, big and small, that need to be done to keep a church going. It’s an absolute wonder to behold! Everyone is doing something to help, fill in, lend a hand. To that end, in October sometime, I asked the person in charge of pulpit supply if it would help if I led worship on Cantata Sunday. (This would not entail preaching since the Cantata takes the place of the sermon, making my job a whole lot easier!) She responded with, “Oh yes! Oh yes! Oh yes yes!

Well!

Before the end of the week, I had my order of service written (I do like to be prepared well ahead of time!) and put it aside to tend to more pressing matters, like helping our guest organist settle in to take over the choir. Our usual organist had to take some time off to tend to her critically ill husband and so B. very graciously accepted to fill in for her, and more than just fill in – he helped us prepare all the hymns and anthems for each Sunday, and if that wasn’t enough, taught us a brand new Christmas Cantata. A prodigious amount of work! And all accomplished superbly, I might add. I made sure to acknowledge him from the pulpit during the service.

But wonder of wonders, our former organist was in attendance in the congregation yesterday much to the delight of everyone. And when I pointed her out, the place just erupted! The poor woman was almost smothered to death as it seemed every single person in the church wanted to hug her.

The energy for the service so positive, upbeat and happy, and it washed over me wave after wave. I teased the congregation saying that Minister of Worship isn’t exactly a glamorous job, but basically means I’m in charge of keeping things moving, or like my driving instructor used to say, “Just keep it between the fence rows, Penny-Anne.” So if I could get them to coffee hour without going off into the ditch, mission accomplished! And when they tried to applaud B. before I was done singing his praises, I stopped them and admonished them not to get ahead of me. Two sentences later I said, “OK, now!” and they warmly (and obediently) expressed their appreciation.

The Cantata itself went wonderfully well! I cannot remember ever doing a better job. I expressed my thanks to our narrators and musicians, and then said, “Choir, we rocked it!” A little girl, about three years old, looked up at her mother and whispered, “Did she say, ‘We rocked it?'” And her mum smiled. “Yup she did,” she replied. “That’s our Penny-Anne!”

Finally, as I was getting ready to go home, S. met me in the vestibule. S. is a great bear of a man, 6’4″ if he’s an inch, and built like a linebacker. And the sweetest, gentlest soul on the planet.

“Did anyone ever tell you that you are a child of God?” he all but bellowed.

“Uh, well, I suppose somewhere along the way someone…”

“Your words were inspired this morning!”

“They were?”

“And the way you ran the service just magnificent!”

I twisted the toe of my shoe into the linoleum and cast my eyes down modestly.

“I was pretty awesome come to think of it.”

Whereupon he gathered me up in this fierce bear hug that realigned my spine, markedly improved my posture, and put a huge smile on my face.

It’s still there.

I normally don’t post more than once a week, but I read this quote on FaceBook this morning and had to pass it on:

“On the whole I do not find Christians, outside of catacombs, to be sufficiently sensible of conditions. Does anyone have the foggiest idea what sort of power we so blithely invoke? Or, as I suspect, does no one believe a word of it? The churches are children playing on the floor with their chemistry sets, mixing up a batch of TNT to kill a Sunday morning. It is madness to wear ladies’ straw hats and velvet hats to church; we should all be wearing crash helmets. Ushers should issue life preservers and signal flares; they should lash us to our pews. For the sleeping God may wake someday and take offense, or the waking God may draw us out where we can never return.”

(Annie Dillard)

I just love that!