The invitations we accept

The other day I received an encouraging note from a reader of Holiness Here, and this is part of what he said:

“Pages 81 and half of 82 are ‘gold’ for me. I have been frustrated by a good friend. You know what I mean. These pages will change my attitude toward him. I think I wore out a highlighter reading your book. Thank you many times over.”

Because I wanted to feel warm all over for just a few minutes longer, I did what I would like to think any self-respecting writer would do, and I rummaged around for a copy of Holiness Here to see for myself about that gold.

I was shocked to learn that a woman author who wrote so well about the lives of girls and women, which is also the title of one of Munro’s most famous works, could so deeply betray one of the most important girls in her life.

And then again, I wasn’t, or not for long. I think that is partly to do with the series of grief shocks I have lived through in the last 18 months which means that not much surprises me anymore. But mostly, and predating the turning of my life, it is to do with my deep steeping in the Christian faith, which tells me that anyone is capable of anything, and that a lot of us are still wearing masks. We all wouldn’t do what Munro did — or didn’t do — (I would choose anything else on Earth before I chose to betray my daughter), but I do believe as the historic faith teaches, that we are all born with shadows.

And we are also born into a warm and gentle light.

At one of the book launch events I was privileged to have (and it is a privilege, and they were all so fun), my kind host asked me how we should think about the saints and maybe especially the martyrs of the faith who did big holy things. Brave and beautiful things because they loved God and other people really well, and somehow chose goodness and hope over darkness and despair. It’s a good question. Sometimes we look at people who seem Exceedingly, Shockingly Good who did Big, Bold and Excruciating things and think that they are other than we are, cut from velvet when we are just polyester.

That’s just not so. That wouldn’t make sense.

Yes, we are all capable of making terrible choices. And thankfully, mercifully, amazingly, we are all also capable of choosing the brave and beautiful.

You don’t know how courageous you are yet. You don’t know how giving you are becoming. You have no idea — yet — how generous you could grow. You have no idea the depth of your potential hope, and the extent to which you can put others first, and allow them also to take a turn at putting you first.

We probably have an idea, this far in, of how grouchy and discontent we can be, but we don’t know, yet, how wide our arms and our hearts can open.

That concludes my sermon. Thank you if you sat still through it.

I do have some writing-related news. I applied and have been accepted into the Doctor of Ministry in the Sacred Art of Writing, at the Eugene Peterson Centre for Christian Imagination at Western Seminary in Holland, Michigan. Isn’t that cool! The program invites writers to “think deeply, theologically, and artfully about their work.” When the admissions office called to tell me the good news, I felt a shot of excitement that was very good to feel. Our cohort of 25 will meet in person twice a year for a week each time.

Next to hanging with my kids, there’s not much I like more than being with a bunch of writers.

So, I’m glad to have the chance to learn with and from other writers in a small group over the next three years. I’m happy that a couple of good friends from Vancouver were also admitted so we will have some fun together, I am positive. And I’m hopeful that under the watchful eye of a program and the nurture of wise faculty, I may be able to write something big again. And maybe something good.

Based on my earlier sermon, every writer can write something not good, and every writer can write something good-good. Right?

Today I walked about 14 km as part of my preparation for a walk through the Cotswolds region of England with a very good friend of mine. Needless to say, I Ubered home from the walk. “We’re going to die,” I texted Fawna. But we won’t, because we have each other. Maybe we can take turns piggybacking each other when we need a little break? That’s what friends do.