The world watched in horror as the Cathedral of Notre-Dame went up in smoke in Paris and my thoughts drifted back to my visit to the City of Lights at age 20. The student tour that I was on visited eight countries in the space of eight weeks, with tiny Liechtenstein possibly making for a ninth.
I was in my early teens during the years of World War II, 1940-1945, having been born in 1930. Though those events took place more than half a century ago, I remember some details clearly.
I “taught” (using the word loosely) Joy Jam at Jubilee Fellowship church recently to a roomful of third and fourth graders bumpily becoming fuller images of God, a.k.a, naughty boys. “Roomful” in this case is four, plus one imported first grader, for the longest 43 minutes of my life.
With a second-hand acoustic bass and zero real practice since high school, I joined a Hope Fellowship praise team last summer. There are a lot of talented musicians at our church, so this felt like a big deal.
I’m still stuck on this poem by Mary Jo Leddy that I shared here several months ago. Somehow this Catholic nun/neighbourhood builder/writer/refugee advocate has packed all the lessons God’s trying to teach me right now into two lyrical stanzas.
Celtic Christianity holds out three “offerings to Christianity,” according to John Bell, featured speaker at a conference called “Ancient and Ever New: Spirituality in the 21st Century,” held in Calgary on March 22-24.
I spent one day last week tidying our bookshelves because they needed it. They were a jumbly, unstable mess of books and papers, everything balanced horizontally and pushed in the wrong spaces. The poetry shelf threatened to collapse. The travel books had found their far-flung ways everywhere, appropriately enough, and the novels were on the march.
Easter celebrates the catastrophe of the Gospel story. “Catastrophe” in literary theory wraps up the plot, because it was originally applied to tragedies. But the Gospel story is not a tragedy. Easter changes everything, but it is not the end of the story.
I’m thinking you need to be of a certain age, a certain vintage, to use a word like ungodly with any seriousness. For added bluster, sure there’s usage, as in, “It was ungodly cold last night, wasn’t it?” As an add-on maybe, an adjective or expletive. “Who on earth made this ungodly mess?” You know.
It’s a season of snow melting and sun shining through windows and spring cleaning. I’m driving home from a chiropractor appointment, singing. It’s afternoon and my husband is home with our youngest as he only teaches part of the day on Mondays and the sky is stretched blue and peaceful above me.
We have all been tempted to complete any one of many personality tests that can be found in papers or online. Some tests like the Myers-Briggs have acquired notoriety in that they are quite popular in employment circles but have been discounted by psychologists as having no predictive value.
Have you ever heard someone, after reaching an impasse in a conversation focused on politics, religion or entertainment, conclude by saying, “Well, that’s your interpretation”? With this statement, all argument is expected to end. But should it?