This Old House
“Quick, out of the house,” my mother yelled to her three little girls. There was no argument from any of us, by the tone of her voice she meant business.
“Quick, out of the house,” my mother yelled to her three little girls. There was no argument from any of us, by the tone of her voice she meant business.
September is always about the creation of the world. After the summer’s haphazard ways, we find new patterns and new ways of being. It is, as Thomas Merton once wrote, the time of year when everyone is filled with ambition.
And then there are the little details. How do we all stay clean, and how is that going to affect the fragile planet?
Okay, so perhaps not so little.
It was seven days of sea-sickness on the old Franconia, which I believe was dry-docked some time later.
How do you get the right style when leading worship songs rooted in popular and dance music? It comes down to rhythm. Here are some practical helps, with links to online videos.
I’ve often described myself as a postmodern being, without being quite sure what postmodernism is. It has, however, never led me into a slough of despond.
With a lift of his glass of egg-nog, my husband wished us all a Merry Christmas. They were the last happy words I heard from him for over a week.
Growing up, every Sunday morning saw me in a big stone church in downtown Ottawa. I was one of the kids in the pale blue choir gowns, my pigtails scruffily bunched up (again), much to my mother’s chagrin.
It was one year ago this week that the Spouse lost his job. The timing of this only occurred to us a few days ago as we drove to the airport.
His two hands reach out and enclose mine in greeting. We have not seen each other in 40 years.
I wonder if we suffer, not from a lack of faith, but from a poverty of imagination. Or do we accept what is dysfunctional because of our fierce loyalty to the church? Here are some more hymns to balance and shape us anew.
“Farewell, farewell, but not forever!” the Malawians sang as the Canadians began, one by one, to vanish into Chileka airport security.
“What do you most want to see?” asked our guide, Raphael, who looked all the world like a gun-toting Peter Pan.
“Elephants!” came the communal cry.
Inside one of the classrooms of Ng’onga Primary School, about a dozen villagers meet each Monday. All of them are HIV positive, and live in an area that has been particularly hard-hit by the pandemic.
Alex, 19, is unable to speak or walk, and he lacks motor skills. At Tidzalerana Club, a meeting for people living with disabilities, he lay with his head in his grandmother’s lap.
Some had spent the weekend in beautiful houses behind high walls and well watched gates, with attentive maids and personal drivers. The homestay experience had been a glimpse into the world of Blantyre’s upper class. But today it jarred with another part of the same world.
The morning meant departure from the beauty of Likhubula House and the ever-present vision of Mount Mulanje. It was time to return to the city, and to face a new cultural challenge.
The climb began at 6 a.m. on May 12. It took over six hours to reach the CCAP cottage on one of Mount Mulanje’s most popular plateaus.
“This was the one thing on the itinerary that I felt uncomfortable doing because it’s something I’d never do back home,” admitted Sarah Smith as she sat with the other youth on a concrete floor at Mulanje Mission Hospital. “It was like I was being a tourist of sickness, almost, but I don’t feel like it did any harm so I’m not sure.”
It was a sentiment commonly expressed by participants on short term mission trips. “The people here seem so happy, even though they have so little.”
