Joy Project Update: Goodbye November!

Grandma says to the boy

"Everything has its time
And everything's time must end"
I thanked her for the checker games
And all the coffee talk
And said "I'm glad we had a chance to be friends"

                                                                                              - Craig Cardiff

 

Three months in. Three months. I can hardly believe it. When I started this project at the end of the summer, November seemed unreachable. Now I'm hearing Christmas carols on the radio, preparing music with friends for a Christmas banquet in a few days, and seeing snowflakes every once in a while. Where has the fall gone? 

 

To be honest, I'm actually quite relieved that November is almost behind me. November last year was terrible. Getting out of bed and managing to eat was an accomplishment. And really, I only was able to do that because I knew that I had a wee bairn in my belly to care for. This past month as the anniversary of John's passing loomed, I was preparing myself for the worst, probably creating more difficult days than necessary in anticipation of a possible crash on the 15th. Because of this, the 14th was the hardest day of all. In an effort to sideline my mental 'what if' games and to avoid possible collapse into an emotional puddle, I spent all my free time that day repeating an online quiz that tests your  ability to name the countries of the world. I didn't keep track of my attempts, but just to give you an idea of my obsessive behaviour that day, I was first able to name 86, now I can name 194 of 196 fairly consistently. Ahhh... it's over. Goodbye November.

 

I've been thinking of Craig Cardiff's song, 'Grandma' this morning. I love those opening lines. I love the idea that "Everything has its time". If that's true, and I believe it is, that makes it ok to have days when I feel like I'm going to cave in on myself. Feeling that is a part of being human and it really is OK. BUT there's also a time for hauling myself up, or for letting others haul me up, or to process things enough that I arrive at a place of peace. I hesitate to say it, but I think I'm there. I think climbing out of the pit has been a combined operation of clawing, climbing, and being pulled up and out with help; but really, what matters is I'm out. 

Looking back on the last few months, I can say with certainty that today I feel lighter, cleaned out, and more at peace. This process has been different than I had envisioned. I tried at first to make this project about DOING things to force Joy, but I've been after some failed attempts that Joy is something much deeper than that. Joy in my life has a whole lot to do with the condition of my heart. This past season has felt to be one of self examination where I stirred up some painful stuff for the sake of getting rid of it for good. Instead of trying to drown my brokenness with happy distractions, I have had to first face myself, recruit some help and undergo some mending. 

 

I'm not saying I'm forever finished with dealing with difficult hurts, just that in this moment, in this season, I have arrived at a place where instead of dealing with a back-log of messy heart issues, I feel I'm in more of a 'maintenance mode'. Ahhh... I don't think I could explain how great that feels if I tried. As the Irish say, "It's better felt than telt".

 

Yesterday was a particularly tricky day, Sophie wasn't feeling well, was having trouble sleeping and breathing and just wanted to be held. All. The. Time. There was literally a disaster in every room, poopy cloth diapers to deal with, stinky garbage silently making its presence known and I couldn't get to any of it. AND to top it off, two ladies were to be arriving in the evening to work on some music with me. Three months ago, all of this would have been cause for a tearful mess. Yesterday however, I mostly just felt disappointed that the day had gone the way it had.  Not upset, not angry, not even frustrated, just slightly disappointed. Progress? I think so.

 
Today, it's almost noon and I'm sitting in a messy house with dirty dishes, a scummy bathroom and still in my pyjamas. However, Sophie is sleeping, has had three diaper changes today, has been fed twice, has enjoyed lots of cuddles and a load of laundry has been washed. I'm marking this a successful morning. Done and Done.

Ecclesiastes 3:18, Craig Cardiff and Pete Seeger say, "For everything there is a season", so as November is on its way out (the month my sister Rachel declared should just be banned from here on in), I'm saying goodbye to the time for weeping and mourning. Laughter and dancing, here I come!

Kid, You'll Move Mountains!

It's just an ordinary day And it's all your state of mind

At the end of the day, you've just got to say it's alright.

                                                                                                   - Great Big Sea

My sister Jess, who is the queen of fun mail, sent a package this week with a "Green Eggs and Ham" onesie for Sophie. It is by far the most fun onesie that fits her at the moment, the fun factor being upped by the "Dr Seuss" across the bum. 'Fun' trumps 'cute' and 'pretty' just about every day for me. Let's be serious, in a couple years, she's going to have something to say about the clothes we put her in, so I need to get my fun in now.

I've been thinking about Dr. Seuss lately, and how perhaps I need to re-read some of his not-only-for-kids books. On Friday evenings, Sophie comes with me to hang out with the Youth at The Element. Last week, she lasted until nine, but when her happy shouting and 'finding shoes to eat' activities were seriously disrupting the movie, she was scooted out to the nursery. After I managed to get her to drift off and I had read all the books in the room, my eyes drifted to a big Dr. Seuss poster on the wall that declares, "Kid! You'll Move Mountains!". I remember hearing this book and loving this thought as a child and young teenager, but I think somewhere along the way I think I stopped believing it could be true. At some point, I started doubting my gifts, my intelligence, my abilities and making more of my introverted personality than necessary.

The truth is, I often struggle with feeling inadequate. At this point in my life, because I am at home much of the time with Sophie, this translates into feeling crumby about what I haven't managed to get done over the course of the day. Any day, I could give a "To Do" list of about 20 things I want to accomplish, and a "Ta Da" list of maybe three of those items. I have a Self-Improvement goal list with goals at least eight years old. I have a pile of books I feel like I should read, messes to be cleaned up, food to organize and a yard that needs some serious attention. Because I have an unrealistic idea of what I 'should' be able to do with my life, I'm not able to enjoy the feeling of accomplishment that comes with checking some things off my list.

I need to remind myself that feeling defeated and BEING defeated are two different things. The battle, almost always, is in my mind. So today I chose to fight. Today I need to speak some truth into my life. So here we go...

Stephanie. You can still move mountains. Later on, that mountain may look like a new career to explore, a stage to perform on, or a marathon to run. Today, your mountain may be a pile of laundry, and that's ok. When you get to the bottom of it, or half-way through, or use it for a fun smooshy pile to play with Sophie on, you don't have to feel crumby about not getting to the bathroom floor yet.

The house DOES NOT NEED to sparkle daily. So stop feeling guilty about it.

At this season in my life, my focus needs to be on loving Kyle and loving Sophie. She needs to be  fed and changed and dressed, cuddled and sung to and danced with. I need to eat properly, sleep, exercise and hang out with Jesus. I need to love Kyle. If I can honestly say at the end of a day that these things have been done, then I am a success.

The way life is right now is just that - the way it is RIGHT NOW. This season is not permanent. The things I'm worrying about today just need to be prayed about and left alone. My worrying about it doesn't do anything but keep me too occupied to actually do anything productive.

The things on my to-do list are often unimportant and not urgent. The sheer number of items makes finishing the list impossible for any normal human, so why do I routinely allow myself to feel defeated at the end of the day when it turns out I'm not a super-human? It's really ok that I'm just Stephanie. 

I am not a mess, although sometimes I may look like one. I am not a failure, although I sometimes feel like one. The truth is, I am God's masterpiece (Ephesians 2:10). I can attack today joyfully. I can be singing today whether or not the counters get cleaned. This evening I can throw the unfinished 'to do' list to the wind and hang out with my family in my messy living room. Whether or not we enjoy being together does not depend on the cleanliness of the floor.

So I don't need to be upset that my mountain isn't the same one I'll be moving in a few years. I'll get to that one later. In this season of my life, with the gifts and talents and tasks given to me for this moment, as Stephanie, even though they may look different than before, I can still move mountains.

10 000 Reasons

The sun comes up

It's a new day dawning

It's time to sing your song again.

No matter what may pass 

and whatever lies before me

Let me be singing when the evening comes.

                                                                         - Matt Redman, '10 000 Reasons'

Over the last month, many Facebook statuses marked "The Thankfulness Project" have been popping up on my news feed. Friends of mine have writing about something they are thankful for each day. I think this has mostly been for their benefit, but reading their posts has been a source of encouragement to me. As I too quickly approach the one year mark of saying goodbye to John, I have been finding the hard days are coming closer together once again. I have been thinking lately about what my sister Rachel shared during John's funeral. She cautioned that on that day in our sadness, it is so easy to focus on the way John was taken from us instead of the life he lived and the memories we share as siblings, family and friends of his. These are the memories we need to hang on to. As I've begun to struggle again, I think I had better add my voice to "The Thankfulness Project" to help me on November 15th to be singing when the evening comes.

So today, just one month shy of the year anniversary of the fire that took my brother's life, in my heart I echo my sister Jessica's mantra from that terrible week, we were so lucky to have loved him.

Today I am thankful for John's birth mother, a woman I'll never meet. She carried and bore my brother, passing him, and then Colin into strangers' arms when she was unable to care for them herself. I cannot imagine having give up my own daughter, I cannot imagine the depth of her heartbreak. For her incredible sacrifice, I am so very grateful. 

I am so thankful to have shared my childhood with John; for the ticklish giggly four year old that came into our lives full of stories about super-puppies, super heroes and policemen to the rescue. I am thankful for all the games of hide-and-seek, Monster (a game my siblings and I made up for lazy days at the cottage. It involves a Monster (my dad), a jail, a home base, and a whole lot of tearing through the woods, jumping in the lake and hiding in outhouses.) and make-believe we all shared as siblings that enriched all of our childhoods.

I am thankful that his entire-body-consuming laughter is still in my head. I think of the day 10 year old John was laughing so hard that tears were almost running down his face in the back seat of our Suburban as he tried to explain to us how the Paul Simon song we were listening to sounded like someone squeaking his bare bum on a window.  

When I go home to Blyth next week, I will be reminded of the time when in the beginning stages of building the house, shortly after we realized we didn't know of John and Colin's whereabouts, we heard mooing, and running, and looked out to the back orchard to see a frantic herd of cattle stampeding towards the fence followed closely by the boys. They were stumbling out of the trees, bent almost in half,  with their fingers sticking off the sides of their heads like horns, mooing and yelling, and chasing the cows across the field. I am thankful for memories of his goofiness.

I am thankful that there were a few years in-between the hard years and the time we said goodbye. There were far too few visits, hugs, the opportunities I had to affirm John's new plans and ideas, but I'm so thankful for the ones I had.

For the family adventures, the childhood shenanigans, and for the shared memories with my other siblings, I am thankful.

I am thankful for my beautiful brother with the huge smile and contagious laugh. I miss him. I love him. I am so thankful to have shared such an important part of my life with him.

So on November 15th, I will try to remind myself of how lucky I was to have loved John. I will cry for the brother I lost, I will pray for me and my family for hope, for peace, for strength and courage to face the hard days ahead. I will pull out my guitar, listen to John Denver to honor my country-loving brother and eat hot fudge pudding (an incredibly messy favourite childhood dessert of ours). I will share my hurt, my questions, my anger and my grief with the One who is big enough to handle all the messiness of my heart. I will roll with the waves and I will make it through the day. And because I have a Savior who is rich in love, slow to anger, who's name is great and who's heart is kind, despite all the reasons to be overcome with sadness, my heart can find many reasons to still be singing when the evening comes.

Bless the Lord oh my soul, oh my soul

Worship His holy name!

Sing like never before, oh my soul, 

Worship his Holy Name

Shedding Old Baggage

Glory I give Glory to the One who saved my soul

You found me and You freed me from a shame that was my own

I cannot begin to say how merciful You've been

Although my ears have heard of you, now my eyes have seen

                                                                                                        - Matt Redman

I love the crisp morning air of autumn. I love the crackling of the leaves, the paint-splattered look of the maple trees and the mountains of fresh vegetables at the farmers' market. I love pulling out scarves and sweaters and bundling Sophie into her northern Newfoundland fur-hooded jacket and felted booties to visit the swing in the park. The fall always fills me with a feeling of newness, like I've been given a fresh start, a blank page full of possibilities for this season. 

The past couple weeks I have been reminded of the fall of 2004, where for the first time, I was having trouble experiencing the usual joyful anticipation that usually comes with the beginning of September. Up until this year, 2004 had been the biggest personal growth year of my life. January through June had been spent just outside of Johannesburg, South Africa, in an orphanage being a part of an international volunteer team caring for abandoned babies. Soon after arriving home, still reeling from culture shock, I was thrown into the unique culture of summer camp Christian ministry in Chatham Ontario while making failing efforts to rescue my first serious dating relationship. On Labour Day weekend, the night before I was headed off for Orientation Week, marking the beginning of my studies at the University of Guelph, I sat on the limestone rock overlooking the shores of Lake Huron by my parents' cottage near Tobermory, watching the sunset and sobbing, feeling overwhelmed by the huge changes in my life that year, and nursing fresh wounds from the abrupt end to a slowly souring relationship. I had been loaded down with serious amounts of emotional baggage that year and was feeling tired, bruised and lost, and honestly, a bit of a wreck.

That was just a little more than eight years ago, and I'm kind of ashamed to admit that I recently realized that instead of long ago leaving all that baggage at the Altar, somehow the well-worn handles had slipped back into my hands. So I acted on my first instinct: I tried to deal with it on my own and sweep the rest under the carpet. And as usual, somehow the presence of my junk freshly hidden, was much more noticeable than before. Soon it was clear I needed some help, I needed to confess my issues to someone who would hear me out and who loved me enough to rebuke me if necessary.

This summer I have been thinking about the great importance of healing alongside forgiveness. James 5:16 says, "Therefore confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed." It makes sense that talking our stuff out with a friend will ultimately help us to shed our burdens, but really, it is much easier to talk about the benefits of it than to actually do it. Clearly I needed to share my baggage with Kyle, but, and I'm ashamed of this as well, although I didn't act on this, I considered talking to a girlfriend of mine instead to avoid the vulnerability of revealing my messy heart to the man who loves me.

When I finally gathered enough courage to tell Kyle what I had been struggling with, instead of being met with anger and rebuke, I was met with what I needed, undeserved grace, gentleness and love. We were able to slowly talk things out and even in the moment I could feel the burden lifting. In the minutes that followed, my heart felt lighter, my thoughts healthier, and I was washed over with gratitude for the heart of our Father so clearly displayed in the response of my husband. I was reminded again of the incredible forgiveness and grace He has waiting for each one of us when we turn to Him in our brokenness. I was reminded of "how great is the love the Father has lavished upon us" (1 John 3:1). I do not deserve this kind of grace, love or forgiveness; but oh, how I need it.   

Sometimes, my junk is going to end up in my lap again, I'm going to find myself carrying around baggage I thought I had dropped off ages ago. I think that's ok. Finding the courage to admit this to a friend who loves me and enlisting help to pry it out of my hands once more is the real struggle. Battling my pride is the issue.

But for today, I feel lighter. Today I feel loved. Today I feel thankful. This lyric is my anthem for the day, "I cannot begin to say how merciful You've been, although my ears have heard of you, now my eyes have seen..."

 Perhaps my first taste of true Joy? 

Heaven when we're home

It's a long and rugged road

And we don't know where it's headed

But we know it's going to get us where we're going

When we find what we're looking for 

We'll drop these bags and search no more

'Cause it's going to feel like Heaven when we're home

                                                                                            

                                                                                    - The Wailin' Jennies

A couple years into post-secondary school, I found myself somewhat disillusioned with my area of study. After having already switched my focus once, I was unsure of my direction and wondering if I was wasting my time. I had made the switch from Anthropology because as I could not fully embrace the "All Truth is Relative" foundation: I was going to make a terrible anthropologist. I didn't opt for Music so much as I gave into the fact that I can't fight how I'm wired. Most of my life I've enjoyed playing multiple instruments, listening to varied genres of music and learning about the music of other cultures. Also, musical theory just made sense to me. It seemed like a perfect fit. However, after a number of music history classes where the Organ was very much in the limelight, studying 20th Century experimental 'music' that set my teeth on edge and caused my fingernails to dig into the lecture-hall's chairs, and writing essay after essay on assigned topics I did not find worthy of discussion, panic set in. Four years in your early twenties is a long time to dedicate to something you are not totally sold on. At the height of my worrying and discouragement, I found myself crammed between friends on an old pew in a darkened church listening to the melancholy sweetness of Rose Cousins and beautiful harmonies of the Wailin' Jennys in all their acoustic folk-y glory. Right.  I thought to myself, This is why I love music. This is why I'm here. I don't have to love the organ or be able to dig John Cage's 4 Minutes 33 Seconds the way Professor James Harley does. I walked into the night air that evening feeling refreshed, refocused and with renewed excitement for the next couple years. In essence, Stephanie got her groove back.

That evening, the ladies sang one of my favourites, "Heaven When We're Home". I love the idea of life as a 'long and rugged road', because that makes stumbling OK. Also, getting stalled, slowed down and bruised doesn't mean I can't get back up, brush myself off and continue the journey.

This week, I admit, my engine stalled. Over the last few days it has become clear I have some serious heart issues to deal with before I can continue my quest for more joyful days. Earlier this week after a visit with a friend on a beautiful day I realized my problem. We had gone for a walk with our sleepy babies in the bright sunshine on a warm day, and despite the setting and company, I managed to find negative things to talk about the entire time. What was wrong with me? I've been getting enough sleep, the weather was beautiful, I was out for a walk with a friend, why was I having such a difficult time enjoying the sunshine? Luckily this friend and I have known each other long enough that we've seen each other's better days as well, so I'm pretty sure she'll give me another chance. Oh Stephanie.

I started thinking about Matthew 12:34, "Out of the overflow of the heart, the mouth speaks." and I think I hit on the problem. I am unable to experience outward Joy if I'm feeling negative on the inside. I have a feeling that simply 'trying harder' to stay positive isn't the key. Because really, if it's a heart issue, putting on a happy face isn't getting at the route of the problem. It's time for a clean-out, a 'heart check-up' of sorts.

So here is what I'm going to try to do differently this week...

1) I'm going to make an effort to take captive every thought (2 Corinthians 10:5). I'll try to be aware of what I'm spending my time thinking about. If I find myself worrying, I'll switch gears into praying about it and then do my best to leave it alone.

2) If I catch myself focusing on someone's not-so-lovable qualities, I'll do my best to remind myself of the things I love about him/her.

3) I'll try to recognize my bouts 'ugly/negative Steph' and deal with them using methods 1 and 2 before I open my mouth.

So up I get again, brushing myself off and getting ready for the next leg of this long and rugged road, reminding myself these initial struggles are worth the pain. The Wailin' Jennys are right, it really is going to feel like Heaven when I'm home; when I learn better how to operate in Joy. So onward I go! Let's try this thing again...

The Joy Project: Sleeping Beaut(ifull)y

Won't you run to see St. Judy's Comet roll across the sky

and leave a spray of diamonds in its wake

I long to see St. Judy's Comet sparkle in your eyes 

when you awake, when you awake

                                                                                               - Paul Simon

On August 24th, I realized with amazement it has been a whole six months since I first kissed the soft squishy cheeks of my beautiful little daughter. For six months I have carried her in my arms instead of my belly. There have been six months of diaper changes, bottle feedings, swaddling, soothing, sleep deprivation, and new discoveries. I've spent six months marveling at how this one little person with her chubby legs and wiggly little body, sparkling blue eyes and a big toothless grin has taken over my entire world, waking and sleeping.

This week, the theme of the Joy Project has been SLEEP. This seems pretty basic but important enough to spend some time focusing on because if I haven't slept enough I am not fun to be around. This is bad news for Kyle and Sophie, because, in the words of Tracy Byrd, "When Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy." I think if I made an effort to sleep enough my physical and emotional stresses would be seriously reduced. So sleep it is.

I do have a confession though: I hit a major stumbling block in this area directly related to my first major parenting goof, and man oh man, have I been paying the price. For a couple months now, Sophie has not needed any food at night time. She eats enough during the day and is quite happy to go from 9:00 pm to about 6:30 am without a bottle. This is wonderful. However... I have still been getting up with her sometimes up to four times a night to pop her soother back in, rub her back, or to jiggle her and sing her to sleep. After a particularly frustrating afternoon (2:30 - 6:00 pm) of trying to soothe an exhausted baby and get her down for a nap, I decided I like eating and having clean clothes too much to devote this much time to trying to get Sophie to sleep every day. I recruited the help of Tracy Hogg, the baby whisperer, and discovered... I have created a soother dependency.

I really have nothing against soothers, I had just been letting her use it too much. When Sophie was about 6 weeks old, she discovered a cute, but very noisy method of self-soothing. She would wake up and find her little thumb and index finger on her left hand and suck vigorously to go back to sleep. I should have just let her do this; she was figuring out how to get back to sleep on her own! However, as she was still sleeping in her little bassinet beside our bed, and I was an exhausted Mama struggling to find time to rest enough, I carefully removed her little fingers from her mouth and popped in the soother every time. And it worked beautifully. However, when Sophie woke up at night, she was unable to find it and put it in her mouth herself, and needed me or Kyle to help her to find it and get back to sleep. At first I was delighted to help her with the soother and jiggle her to sleep; it sure beat the hour-long night-time feedings of the early weeks. It has been half a year since I slept through the night though, and it is starting to catch up with me, mentally and physically.

So... what have we done about it? No more soother for Sophie! Yep. That's right. We just quit. And let me tell you, she was NOT happy about it. The first night she was inconsolable. We cuddled her and jiggled her, sang to her, patted her back, paced, shushed and rocked our little girl for an hour and a half until she had worked herself into an absolute tizzy. She knew what she wanted and she was not going to be fooled into sleeping without it. Eventually she was hungry enough for a bottle, drank 8 oz and fell asleep out of sheer exhaustion. We were all wiped the next day and it seemed what we were trying was somewhat counter-productive. However... Night two... after putting up a bit of a fuss, she slept for EIGHT HOURS STRAIGHT! Nine the next night, eight the night after that. She cries a bit before she sleeps but has rediscovered how to self-soothe, and after only one night is getting herself back to sleep without outside help. I am feeling more rested, our baby is sleeping and happier when awake, and less time is being devoted to helping Sophie sleep. Thank you Tracy Hogg!

Becoming a mum brings you to a new level of loving and needing sleep. This new development is going to make a huge difference in my emotional health. I feel more able to "laugh at the days to come" (Proverbs 31: 25). Sleeping though the night is just so wonderful; I had forgotten what it felt like. I'm looking forward to joy seeking in a more awake state. Bring on the fall!

First Steps

 Walking, stumbling on these shadowfeet

Towards home, a land that I've never seen

I am changing; less and less asleep

Made of different stuff than when I began

And I have sensed it all along

Fast approaching is the day

                                                                                     

                                                                                       - Brooke Fraser

Fresh out of highschool and hungry for adventure, my sister Jessica and I packed our bags and boarded a plane to Johannesburg, South Africa. Our destination? TLC Ministries, a home for orphaned and abandoned babies operated by Thea Jarvis and her family. Jess and I were young, had time on our hands and a burning in our bellies to do something noble. I wanted not just to visit, but to live somewhere new, to be under unfamiliar skies, and to have an experience not yet attempted by an older sibling. My large family was well-known in the small town where I had grown up and many times I had longed to be known as Stephanie, just Stephanie. This was my chance to shed all associations with my last name and simply be Stephanie, a girl from Canada who was here to help. As that plane took off, in my naiveté, I thought I was on my way to change the world. As is most often the case, it was me that was about to be changed.

Most of my five months in The Rainbow Nation was spent on a farm property just outside of Johannesburg, serving with an international team of volunteers, caring for up to 35 babies each day. Our days were a whirlwind of activity involving feeding, changing, bathing, cuddling and soothing peppercorn haired, milk-chocolately skinned, squishy nosed babies. During our 'time off', Jess and I hung out with the pre-schoolers, being turned into a human jungle gyms for the little squirmers desperate to show us how high they could jump on the trampoline, how fast they could swoosh (often face first) down the slides, and how loudly they could sing their sassy Zulu songs about staying away from strangers (all the while swiveling their hips seductively, which was hilarious, because, well, they were four years old).

One unusually quiet afternoon in the nursery, little Favian, (one of my favourites) who had been on the verge of figuring out how to walk for weeks, seemed like he was ready to give it another go. With most of the babies sleeping, the volunteers were free to experience the moment together. I cannot stress enough the anticipation in that room. Imagine the combined excitement of 12 mothers all in love with the same little boy and you'll begin to get the idea. Favian was in the centre ring. Surrounding him were ladies from Holland, Belgium, Canada, the United Arab Emirates, Germany and Austria. The eyes of the world, literally, were on him. "'C'mon Favian, you can do it!" We took turns offering him encouraging words and smiles. He sat on the floor, smiling at each of us in turn with growing confidence. Slowly, he pushed himself up into a crawling stance. The room fell silent. With great concentration and huge effort, little Favian struggled to his feet, picked up one of his little feet and... step! He did it! The room exploded with cheering and applause! The poor little guy was so startled by the commotion his accomplishment had caused that he immediately toppled over. Little Favian, our little Favian had taken his first step! Never in my nineteen years had I experienced such a proud moment.

Over the last few days I have been reminded of Favian's first step because, I must confess, the Joy Project has started a little less flashy than I had hoped. Part of me felt like day one should be marked by some grandiose undertaking, like baking all my neighbours squishy chocolate chip cookies. But as the morning wore on, my accomplishments had amounted to eating a bowl of Cheerios and feeding, changing, and dressing Sophie. I decided that baking for the entire neighbourhood was perhaps something to work towards. I decided I would let my first attempts at Joy be small changes, first steps, if you will, that would fit easily into my day. Like little Favian's first attempt at walking, my initial undertakings are certainly not worthy of Olympic medals, but can most certainly be celebrated.

So, with that in mind, this is what I tried differently the last few days. 

For the first time in months, I sang in the shower, just for me. This felt strange as my bathroom singing as of late has largely consisted of Raffi's "Baby Beluga" and the Elephant Show theme song - half-attempts at pacifying a disgruntled baby who thinks that because she can't see her mum, her mum no longer exists. Sophie's Nana spent the day with us to get in her Sophie cuddles, so I was able to have a delicious sleep. Kyle and I had a romantic date to Walmart (Haha...Yes, this is what our dates have come to. We're embracing it.) In the evening when my mum had headed home, and Sophie had a full tummy of sweet potatoes and milk, I strapped the little lady into her Baby Bjorn and headed out during Magic Hour to explore the neighbourhood. On Saturday Kyle and I dressed up and attended a 1920's themed Murder Mystery birthday party for a friend. Sunday brought more walks, an impromptu dance party with Sophie and Kyle in the music room, and enjoying the sound of the wind in the trees and the crickets in the field as I hung laundry on the line. Small steps, yes, but noteworthy none-the-less.  

Over the next while, as I make further attempts at Joy I'm tempted to belittle, I'll try to hear the voice of my own Parent whispering encouragement in my ear as I move slowly along, "C'mon Steph, I'm right here, take a step. You can do it..." I'll do my best to remember how I rejoiced over little Favian's first steps, and be reminded of how my own Father rejoices over His kids. I'll remind myself that my first steps, however small and tentative, are important and necessary, and when strung together will cover great distance to carry me slowly and steadily towards a brighter day.

The Valley

Walking Through the Valley: The Joy Project

In the Fall of 2001, my Irish Grandmother passed away leaving a legacy of love behind her. As a roomful of friends and family celebrated her life with tears and laughter and shared with each other how her life had touched ours, the pastor spoke of the "Valley of the shadow of death" as described in Psalm 23. He stressed how the psalmist specified a walk through the valley. Visiting the Valley on occasion is normal and even healthy, but it's not a place where we are supposed to set up camp. I honestly forget the rest of the talk, but the bit about the valley has stuck with me and other family members over the years. Reminders of how we need to walk through and not remain in "The Valley" have come up in conversations of comfort with each other over the years.

Fast forward ten years. Two more family funerals to be held within one week of each other: this time not for full lives lived or for tired bodies ready for the next adventure. My beautiful aunt Iris, one month shy of her 50th birthday and the most physically active woman I know, died of a blood clot on an airplane on the way to her brother's wedding in New Zealand. She left behind her husband Stephen, her two teenage sons and two stepsons. The day after her funeral, I was surprised to see my husband had arrived home from work, much too early for lunch. I met him at the door where he held me in a shaky hug and told me my dad had just called; my brother John had been killed in a house-fire that morning. Twenty two years old. Gone. This time in preparing our hearts for the funerals, the tears far outweighed the laughter. This time I was overcome with questions and grief. This time I experienced a crushing feeling in my chest every morning upon waking when I realized it hadn't been a nightmare; some mornings it took everything in me to make it out of bed.

In those first few days, I found incredible comfort as well as confusion in my faith. I found myself clinging to my Jesus while experiencing some serious trust issues with Him. Some days I would just collapse on the bedroom floor and in my attempts to pray for comfort and peace, find myself only able to call out His name. The first horrible week progressed; my family spent time remembering John, meeting with his friends, and just being broken together in our grief, our anger and our questions. Driving home to Guelph, with the visitation and funeral behind us, slowly, slowly, I found myself sinking deeper than ever before into The Valley.

Three months later, on February 24th, my little Sophie Hannah was born, and Kyle and I were thrown into the world of parenting; the joys, the sleep deprivation, and the milky tearful messes that come with it. At first we thought my frequent bouts of crying (sometimes 3 times a day for a solid 6 weeks) had everything to do with my breastfeeding fiasco, but it was later suggested by an insightful counselor that perhaps up to this point I had been finding ways to cope, until now, and with the help of sleep I had been able to keep my grief at bay. I had found myself in the Valley, slowed my hiking to a crawl and had started to carve out a camp-site.

As my sweet little girl sleeps more at night, and I allow myself time to process, I feel things slowly improving. The cloud cover is passing and I'm able to catch glimpses of the stars here and there. But between you and me, I've had enough of this season. For the sake of my own well-being and that of my little family's, I need to pick myself up, look to the hills and get moving. I need to fast-forward this process and seek out a huge dose of joy in my life. I want to be an example of living life for my beautiful daughter. I want my legacy to be that of joy.

So here's the challenge... I will spend the next 365 days seeking out joy. I will do at least one thing every day to bring joy to my life, my little family's or to someone else. I will try new things, re-experience old favourites. I will make new resolutions for this season and stick to them.  I will sleep more, sing louder, and exchange worry for prayer as much as possible. I will buy healthier food and eat more of it (proper nutrition has become an issue as of late). I will read books and listen to music that inspires me. I will spend time enjoying the company of my husband and daughter, feel the sunshine, explore our beautiful city and stay hydrated. I will roll with the waves when grief hits, but I refuse to set up camp; I will walk one step at a time until I make it through, until streaks of daylight bleed through the darkness. 

To my beautiful brother, who's legacy was that of adventure and joy, Johnny B. This one's for you. xox