Aw crap.

A couple of years ago I reviewed a book called "Knitting and Tea". One of my favourite patterns in the book is the Garden Jacket, a cool reverse-stockinette thing with a trowel and a garden fork knitted right onto the front. I LOVE it.

I started knitting it last week, using my stash sweater-bag of Jo Sharp "Luxury Merino 8-ply DK" wool, which is not really DK at all. Using the ball-band-recommended needle size, I got a comfortably dense fabric of 19 stitches to 4 inches.

The ball band says I should have 22.5 stitches over 4 inches.

With nothing else appropriate in the stash, and having stared at this yarn for a year, wanting to knit it, I decided to just go with it anyway. I did the math and cast on for the smallest size...with the tension difference, I will end up with a size 44, which is perfect.

I was really motivated on this project, and knit the back in about three days. The back has a great little flower motif knitted into it high up between the shoulders...look how cute.

Carrying on to the front, I knit the right side first, and was about two inches from finishing it, when something bad happened. I picked it up and noticed there was a tightly gathered row right at the bottom of the trowel motif (four inches or so from the cast-on edge). There was a yarn end at the side, so I thought it was where I had joined in a new ball of yarn, and that it must have been pulled somehow and gathered the row. I smoothed the gathering out, and to my horror this is what came next.

ARGH!

I think what happened is, I (or someone - because I have no recollection of doing anything like this) must have pulled that piece out of my knitting bag, and it caught on a stitch holder or something, hooking it onto the end of one knitted row. It pulled out a length of yarn and snapped it. I thought it was a yarn tail from joining in a new ball, smoothed the gathers out, and.....

Sigh. I'm reknitting the entire piece. It is fixable - I've done this kind of repair before - but honestly it might be for the best...the piece was looking like it might be a tiny bit too small. I was using a Hiya Hiya needle, which is just like an Addi Turbo. They're slippery and I think I tightened a little to compensate.

So now I reknit with a bamboo needle, and hopefully the size is better. And hopefully I remember to take all sharp, hooklike objects out of my knitting bag so we don't have to go for Right Front 3.0.

My in-laws are visiting from Ontario this week, and my lovely mother-in-law brought me some cool Old Stuff from her house. I love it when she does this. She has lovely old things she has saved from the previous generation, and doesn't know what to do with them all. When I came along and married her son, I turned out to be a good solution...I love Old Stuff.  Look at these beautiful tea cups she brought.

I love these colours. I think I'm going to go put the kettle on, so I can rip out my carefully-knitted trowel while sipping soothing Earl Grey out of a pretty new cup. "Frogging and Tea"...great title for a sequel.

Anywhere but here...

We had a family reunion...did you know? I can't recall whether I posted about it. It was about 3 weeks long altogether, but it felt like, alternately, a couple of days or a couple of years. I am tired.

We did a lot of cooking, plenty of eating, a great deal of talking and laughing, and some crying. We went camping, we went canoeing, we played badminton and jumped on the trampoline. We stayed up late, and got up late for toast and marmalade. We drank tea and home-brewed and mineral water, and a few bottles of wine.

We never got around to the champagne though.

Camped out with the whole bunch of us, at a nearby lake where we spent our happiest times as children. It wasn't so happy for my daughter, as you can see here:

Sorry in advance if the price of calamine goes up. It's a supply and demand thing. And we still don't know what kind of bites these are but only the blonde children were affected, Charlotte worst of all...over 300 bites. She looks cheerful here...that's the homeopathic ledum talking.

Celebratory roast chicken at my house. Sixteen of us were there - only missing one. My sister's husband couldn't make it. Pardon the homely laundry and ugly trampoline...I should have taken this photo from the other end of the table so you could see pretty flowers and so on.

On one of the last days, Gwen and I took four of the kids to the lake (not the one we camped at). This was the view from my blanket...one of the most relaxing afternoons of the whole trip.

Mark, Amy, Gwen, Usko, and of course the Seven Dwarves....I miss you all.
Kiss, hug.

Things You Don't Know About

Pictures!

It seems, these days, not much makes it to the blog. There are a lot of reasons for this - most not very good ones, but one or two completely valid. Anyway, lots of text-heavy posts have shown up lately, and I feel a need for balance.

What I've been doing without telling you:

1: another doll outfit for a birthday present. It's become a goal of mine, when making these, to only use what I've already got in the house. Added some nifty needle-felting to this little vest.

2: One morning I said to myself, exasperated, "Where are all my knickers? I have, like, NONE." Then I remembered I own a washing machine. Here's what the clothesline looked like an hour later. (I nearly had to wear something from my thong collection, circa 1998. What on earth was I thinking back then?)

3: A pencil crayon roll, in progress.

4: Rheingold, blocking.

5: My daughter and I went to the beach one day.

6: And at the beach, a transient poem in the form of an unread letter, beginning "This is where I got over you." On a piece of driftwood, fittingly. One line says "This is where I found out I needed something new." I wish I could decipher the rest of it.

7: Mudpies with my daughter.

8: A sweater for Ruby. Knitted, sewn, blocked, wrapped, and delivered, with not a word to you about it.

9: Last year, I knitted a Sackboy. Here, he doesn't have a face yet.

10: Went to see Alison Krauss & Union Station at Vancouver Island Music Fest two weeks ago. No photos, as I decided to LIVE the concert rather than DOCUMENT it. Was quite amused by people getting frustrated trying to record favourite numbers on their cell phones, and as a result, missing the music.

And that's all, folks! More later, when I'll bring you up to date on the (soon and very soon oh my gosh I have so much to do) family reunion happening here in ten days. Smooches!

Four.

In the last post I wrote about being aware of the moment - how important it is not to distract ourselves from what is happening. That if we are open, if we allow ourselves to Be where we are, change comes - we grow. Amy left a comment in which she quoted the phrase "Beauty for ashes."

It's from one of the world's most poetic and beautiful texts: the Bible - Isaiah 61. Expanded (and expurgated), it reads:
...the Lord hath sent me to bind up the brokenhearted...to comfort all that mourn...to give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness...that He might be glorified.

I feel better about everything, ever, just from reading that.

As a Christian, one of the interesting - and sometimes difficult - parts of my life is that it is always reflecting God. Even when I don't talk about it (maybe especially when I don't talk about it), even when in my frailty I do a pretty damn poor job of it, I am here to represent Jesus.

There are lots of signposts in the Bible. There is the bit about going into all the world to preach, and there is the bit about forsaking your family and everything you have to follow Christ. Well, the Bible also says that we're all given different gifts, different talents.

It naturally follows that different parts will resonate with different people. Here are the bits I like the best:

"Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might." I've been doing this all my life. Living HUGE. Chopping wood? Put your goggles on, baby, because the chips will be a-flyin'. Knitting? Hold onto your hats, people, my needles are smoking and I am churning out cables, colours, socks, lace, you name it. Cannonballs? That pool is going to be EMPTY, I tell you. Better move your towel.

And then there's the quote above, another favourite of mine, from Isaiah. "The Lord hath sent me to bind up the brokenhearted...to comfort all that mourn..." Can I claim that part? I mean, I'm not a prophet, and I live thousands of years after the man who wrote this passage, and I have nothing to do with Zion, as such, but....this speaks to me.

"Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him." This one is tricky. Ten little one-syllable words, but...wow. When you think that one through, right through to all the possibilities, it's actually a little scary. Thing is, in this life bad things happen. Where does my help come from? Well, I choose to call on the Prime Mover, the Creator, the Maker of heaven and earth, who is more interested and invested in me than I have even the slightest idea. That makes me feel okay about the 'trusting' part.

A few days ago there was another of last year's posts to read - fourth from the end. In this post Sandy wrote about going to the school she taught at, to speak to the students during a chapel (it's a Christian school).

I wanted to go to the students and tell them that God is listening.
I wanted them to know that He is working.
I wanted them to see that I am alive, and to tell them that my heart is being healed, and renewed, and changed, and restored.

And that my body still needs some work.

I wanted them to know that whatever happens to me, God is still GOOD.
I needed to tell them that God is GOOD no matter what. Even if my body dies.


"Even if my body dies."

Do you know what's cool about this? And what's important about this? It occurred to me today that one thing leads from another. The amazing and wonderful and intense things that happened during Sandy's last year - how fantastic it all was, how lifechanging - those things came from the spirit realm. Was her death any more significant than anyone else's? In the big picture....No, probably not. Though, to quote again, "Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints." To God - yeah, it was significant. She was precious to Him and He valued her death as He valued her earthly life, and as He values - indeed bought at considerable expense - her afterlife.

The thing about Sandy's death, and the ripple effect it's had on me and on others, is that all the events leading up to it were made possible by spiritual openness. On her part, on my part, on the part of others who were involved.

Her openness to the end of her life, her openness to the will of her God, her trust in His ultimate goodness, created a passage through which incredible power flowed. People saw it, were touched by it.

Even you, reading this blog over the last year, have been touched by it.

I love how, though months have gone by, that power hasn't stopped flowing. The lessons just keep coming my way - little epiphanies keep happening, little bits of my life keep falling into place. The quote from Isaiah, which I've had in my memory for so long that I don't remember not knowing it, has come back to me via my sister-in-law, through a comment on the internet. How weird is that?

And now I'll put those two quotes together.

The Lord has sent me to comfort those who mourn, with all my might, that He might be glorified.

"And I did that!" I marvel to myself. Yes, with all my might. The way I do everything. The way God made me.

You know what else I love about this? The "glorified" bit at the end doesn't have any directive attached to it. Do you notice the passive voice? The passage could read "The Lord has sent me to comfort those who mourn, and to glorify Him while doing it." But it doesn't say that. It just says to bind up the brokenhearted, comfort those who mourn. And He will be glorified.

Because I'm just here to reflect. I'll be open in spirit, I'll do what I can for people with all my might, and He'll make sure that what needs to happen, happens. It's such a relief not to be in charge.

All this time, for the last year and a half, I thought I was mourning. And I was - I am - but I'm also learning. And it turns out that all along, important bits of theology, spirituality, and guidance for my life have been waiting to be revealed.

Looking ahead, I am excited about life for the first time since Sandy died. Not excited about an event, a concrete time or thing that I know to expect, but excited about the big impulsive unknowingness of it all - happy about the way God's plan keeps turning out to be better than my plan.

I like that about Him.

Five.

I was thinking today about the last six months of Sandy's life. It occurred to me that a lot of people miss out on things - critical truths about life and the nature of being human - because they don't want to look closely at the process of death, the leave-taking from Earth, the last stages of the first stumbling journey.

I'm trying out these sentences on you:

The best thing that has ever happened to me is that my best friend died.


The most important thing that has ever happened to me is that my best friend died.


I am who I am because she died.

I'm so thankful that God handed me this gift - the gift of walking beside her, holding her up a little bit, listening to her, watching her turn away, and then throwing her, with enormous effort, into blinding light. How many people get the chance to be there when the door opens and then closes? How many people catch that glimpse through the veil as it's pulled back for a soul to either arrive, or leave?

Her blog continues to be a gift to me. She wrote down a little bit of what she was going through, and although I suspect she didn't share the half of what was really going on, what she did write was full of import. It came from a person already partly gone.

Last June 15, Sandy wrote this.

I don’t really know where I belong anymore. Most of me is still in this world: doing laundry, making lunches, playing with my children, tidying my house; but at the same time, the rest of me is in this new place, a place where making long term plans seems presumptuous, and where I don’t really know what to do with myself. It’s a place of transition, maybe.

Part of me wants to forget that I’m sick, and go on as before. And maybe that’s what I SHOULD do; maybe I should just continue on as if nothing had happened, and live my life as best I can until I can’t, anymore, or until I’m restored to health.


But that seems so dishonest.

Dishonest. Dishonest to go on as if she had never been sick, as if she were not dying.

A lot of people denied that truth. They didn't want to either believe or admit that she was dying. This denial, this bright, cheerful confidence, this fatuous belief that things will turn out exactly the way we think is best if only we have enough faith...it didn't help her. She talked about it to me often. "It's exhausting," she said, "I feel like I'm a disappointment because I'm not getting better."

And then I need to prepare my children for life without a mother. But, I don’t know how to do that either – does that mean writing lists? Does that mean shopping for Christmas presents? Does that mean writing a journal of my life? Does that mean composing letters for every major event in their future? I don’t know.
 
People often said, "God wouldn't take a mother away from her children."

Oh really?

People said to her, "Cancer is not part of God's plan."

Oh really?

Last March Sandy posted this: "We have a propensity to make judgements about the things that come into our lives; to declare whether something is good or bad in our life....we make judgements about what happens in our story based on whether things make us happy or sad. If it makes us happy, it must be a good thing. If it makes us sad, or causes pain, it must be a bad thing.

And, we think we can figure out what it all means.

Maybe God will write some really hard things into my life to perfect my faith.
I don’t want to say that cancer is a bad thing in my life; that it’s evil. I don’t want to say that if God’s big plan is to use cancer to perfect my faith.

I was talking about this to a friend the other day. She lost her mum last February - nursed her through the final stages of cancer. She said to me, "I had 'accepted' that my mom was dying and that allowed me to be there for her and look after in a way that others couldn't. I still believe God is Sovereign and can heal anyone he chooses but he doesn't always choose that. And when we can grasp that we can move onto the next stage in a person's life journey...and that, I believe, is a gift to them."

What a relief, to hear someone else say that - and someone who knows what she's talking about.

When Sandy's life was drawing to an end, when she was suffering, when she was floating in pain and her consciousness was no longer of earth, it wasn't easy for me. Two days before she died I spent the day with her while her husband took a bit of time away. On that day, I messaged my sister and my mum midway through the day. I said "I'm screaming on the inside over here. I don't want to be here, don't want to be here."

But if you had showed up at her house, handed me your car keys and said "Okay, GO!" I wouldn't have gone. You couldn't have moved me with a lever. There wasn't a concrete thing I could do for her but I could sit there in her living room and love her like freaking crazy.

My answer for how to be with a dying person is the same as Sandy's answer for how to BE a dying person.

So, what do I do in this season of transition, or how do I live? I received the answer as I read Psalm 27. “One thing I ask of the Lord, this is what I seek; that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to gaze upon the beauty of the Lord and seek Him in His temple.”

Simple. Just BE. Find Him where I know He lives, and soak in His beauty.




Just be.

Just be, I think to myself, watching her restless sleep and quelling the panicky, buzzing need to distract myself - do something, clean something, send an email.

But I suspect the deepest mysteries, human and divine, don't often unfold themselves to busy minds.

So be there in love, I tell myself, and let the silence go on. Let the truth be there. The map is laid out between us and we can both see the destination. Why pretend it's House Beautiful when it says Celestial City?

I almost wrote "I wish I could do it all over again," but the truth is that, though I miss her, I wouldn't change a thing. I wouldn't have her back if it meant she would never have been refined by her illness. I wouldn't have her back if it meant she would be fated for another forty-seven years in Vanity Fair. I wouldn't change what happened if it meant she and I must have continued as we had been: unchanged, ignorant, static.

This week, summer solstice marked nine months since her death. In the confusion and sadness, in the gradual lightening, in the altered quality of my emotions, what comes next?

I know this one. I already know. I had this lesson earlier.

Just be.

And be thankful.

What are you saying, girl?

We drove past an apartment fire today. Smoke poured out of a fourth-floor sliding door and wafted across the road we were on. As we crawled past the ladder trucks and the scuttling firemen my daughter looked up from her book and said, surprised, "Ooh, look! That building's on fire!"

The younger one sniffed the air and said absently, "Hm. Smells like cookies."

Sigh.

We definitely didn't deserve to win, but I sure wanted us to.