Barefoot & Preaching is a syndicated monthly column in The Catholic Register.

Awkward stages and making peace with a spirituality of growth

Awkward stages and making peace with a spirituality of growth

Awkward floated to my lips a few times last week before I saw the pattern. The stumbling and crashing of growing children and adolescents finding themselves in bigger bodies than the days before. Constant adjustments during mask practice sessions. Remembering the diapers and the keys and the shoes, only to forget to pack lunch in a new season’s morning routine. We are making it through, but it is painfully awkward.

As my daughter, Robyn, sits on the ledge of the last month before officially being a teenager, she is nearly full grown with red hair tossed anything but effortlessly into a ponytail and strong feelings about every song on her playlist. Noticing her labour to grow brings palpable memories into my middle-aged guts: the planning of a perfect first day of school outfit, longing to belong, feeling stuck between an adult and a child.

And the garden, too, is pressing into the last days of summer, with leaves dying while perfectly imperfect beans and beets and pumpkins grow under leaves, beneath the earth, and off the vines. Parts of the plants have been burned by the sun, torn by the wind, look worse for the wear, and still they grow. We forget to water quite as often. An awkward vine or branch escapes its cage, hanging from a planter or crawling into the grass.

My carefully nurtured succulents have made their annual pilgrimage from the deck table to my office window. They are packed too full. A bit overgrown for their pots, Awkwardly pressed into each other in anticipation of the winter

In all of the distancing required by the pandemic, I still have not found a way to encounter and leave people that feels right. Deep longing looks are not replacements for teary hugs. Nodding is not the same as a high-five or handshake. Waves are terribly lacking when I really just want to walk you down the hall to the door. The awkward absence of touch will be a thing of my worst dreams for many years, I think.

The leaves are turning and beginning to fall. A tree that never quite gets established in my front yard is nearly naked. For years I have felt anguish for naked fall trees, as though it is me who has been caught between the light shift dresses of leaves and the shawls and sweaters of snow.

And all these awkward stages in life and in creation are part of the miracle of being alive. They are neither better nor worse than seedling or mature stages of growth. Where did I learn to judge the awkward as bad, the uncomfortable as awful, the exposed as wrong?

Here I am, at this stage of life, parenting a toddler and a teen, crawling through a pandemic, reimagining my heart for work, walking gently out of the legal stages of grief. This is my right now life, pressed too tightly into the pots of my own home and office, and simultaneously hanging out into unknown territory, bumping into the walls I hadn’t noticed before. It feels awkward. I long for the comforts of the places I have been before, while I ache into whatever reality is coming next.

What if one of the grounding gifts we receive in living is just continual growth? If each stage is just as necessary as the one before and after, then this awkward place and space is gift too. Gently, God is revealing a spirituality of growth in my life, where some things emerge, awkward and new, while other things fall away. 

The gardener that is God is so much less concerned than I am about what is produced when and how quickly. There are whispers in my discomfort that I am not alone. I can feel my kids joy despite being cramped up with it. It is so easy for me to see Robyn’s beauty even while she works so hard to find it. My life is full of dead leaves and bright red and green tomatoes, organized shelves and junk drawers, kids who can do it themselves and who still need to learn.

This awkward place is full of grace, so I am pulling out my socks and scarf. I am learning and growing in love here too. May it always be so.

The Space Created by Love…

The Space Created by Love…

Space is not a word I associated with love for most of my life. I grew up longing for the freedom of stretching further away from the intimacy of my family and small, Saskatchewan town. I sat in the farm house window sill in my bedroom, staring up at the expansive,...

Resistance as choosing death, not life

Resistance as choosing death, not life

At different seasons in my life, I needed the protection Resistance offered because I wasn’t ready to face reality. She sheltered me from greater pain and gave me space and time to grow. Having grown and healed, however, I am recognizing that I have outgrown my friendship with Resistance because she brings more pain that she shelters me from now. It just took me awhile to see because the resistance has become an insidious habit.

On Being Barefoot…

Before the burning bush, God asks Moses to take off his sandals, to notice and reverence that he walks on holy land. This holy land continues to burn before me, before us, signaling God’s presence before we arrived rather than because we did. This life we are living was holy before we existed in it. This land and creation we call home is the first book of revelation, God’s love letter to us, bearing witness to the Creator of it all.Our lives and the moments that make them up are the stuff of sainthood, our invitations to participate in Divine life to be swallowed up and fulfilled by God. At the grocery store, in the false solitude of our cars and commutes, in our laundry rooms, and over text messages. My shoes run the risk of “protecting” me from the sacredness of this naked moment. And how I love shoes, and how my sensitive toes resist the prickles of grass and the mess of sand. But barefoot is how my spirituality works, daring to live an embodied and earthy love of Jesus who took on flesh. I’m wandering through this life, yearning to let go of my shoes, to walk reverently and with deep attention to what passes under my feet and to what isn’t yet my path. Barefoot is how I write, how I speak, how I work. Experience shored up against an insatiable thirst for knowledge; direct honesty honed by sensitivity; and vulnerability chained to a commitment to competency. And an unapologetically barefoot tendency to speak it as I feel it, which leads me to…

…and Preaching

I’m a preacher without a pulpit, with words that burn until they are spoken ~ aloud or on a page.

My ministry is one of colliding words and ideas, reaching out to find a connection with God’s amazing people.

The world seems to me to be spilling over with grace and we seem to be people who, all too quickly forget that all of this is pure gift.

When I’m driving, eating, visiting, resting, cleaning, working, playing, and almost everything else, I’m frequently stunned by the pure miracle of what simply is.

It’s not all promised joy and ease, but it is all presenced and remembered by the One who gives it. And I can’t stop talking about it, proclaiming it, preaching this good news that we have not been forgotten or forsaken in any moment of this life.

For reasons I don’t quite understand, my words seem to be given to encourage and inspire. In a world where women and girls are still too-often silenced or secondary, I’m barefoot and preaching because my soul won’t rest any other way. If my words can be a gift to you, then that is a gift for me.

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