In the shallows, I’m in control. My toes grip the earth and I know what to expect. I get a bit wet in the waves of God’s love, but only what I can manage and I measure out to others the same. But inside of me I hear, “Will you go deeper? Are you brave enough?”

As I wade farther in, the water is rougher, more demanding, not as pleasant. Will I love the unlovely? Forgive those who wound me? Serve those who despise me? Each time I answer yes, the water engulfs me and I no longer touch bottom. I struggle to keep my head above the waves, to preserve some mastery over my life. And again I hear, “Will you go deeper? Are you brave enough?”

I’m afraid of the deep. I can’t see what lies waiting underneath, what will be asked of me and I feel exposed, vulnerable. Out there is the fullness of God’s love. Love that emptied itself of awesome glory and power, poured itself into human flesh and then suffered on a cross to the point of death. Jesus was willing to go to the depths for me, can I do the same for him?

I’m not out there yet, out in the deepest, darkest waters; but I can see others ahead of me who’ve followed him there, the ones willing to lay down their lives to love as he loves, and it gives me courage to press on.

Suffering comes into every life. It’s part of existing on this planet. In some religions it’s viewed as a creation of the mind, an illusion. Maybe it’s comforting somehow, to believe that if we can only achieve the proper mental state, we’ll no longer experience pain. I read an article recently about a Buddhist retreat in the desert. The participants are spending three years, three months and three days in total silence in order to free their minds from suffering. One woman had to leave early after being bitten by a rattlesnake. Mental, emotional and physical pain is real, as real as a snakebite.

I would like to think if I could become spiritual enough, fasted enough, was holy enough, I could escape affliction, but God has not promised me that. In fact, when he came to this earth as a human being, he came to live, not above our condition, but to join us in it. He suffered. God, himself, suffered WITH us, and promised he would bring about purpose in our pain, if we would follow him. Without God, suffering is like the fires burning up California, destructive, wild, deadly, uncontained, something to flee by whatever means necessary. When we trust him, the fire is confined to the crucible of his hand and cannot escape those parameters.

Being in the crucible hurts, sometimes to the point of agony. When solid gold is in the refining process, the fire is so hot, the gold becomes liquid and then the refiner skims off the impurities. Each time the process is repeated, what remains is purer, more beautiful and of greater worth, but it has to be destroyed first. Last month, I felt like I was surrounded by death, as if everything had died and I mourned the loss, the loss of security, dreams, hope. All I could hold on to was that God is a God of life, not death and I would somehow see his goodness.

In the past week, I’ve returned to the truth that God is the master refiner, expert in producing the fine gold of beauty, perseverance, faithfulness, honesty, goodness, hope, character, integrity, holiness. He has used what is excruciating in my life to reveal what is of greatest worth and I am in awe. I’m not the same person I was back in April and I’m glad. There’s real joy here, not in changed circumstances, but in a changed me. More of my character has been revealed in this season and I’ve lost some of the things that were weighing me down in the fire. I feel freer, stronger, shinier like 24k gold.

I’ve been disgusted, over the years, by the injustice visited on women in some Muslim countries and even in Muslim communities in the West: murders of females by men protecting an evil and twisted lie called family honour; women beaten and imprisoned for being unaccompanied in public; teachers of girls who are harassed for daring to educate them; little ones, who should be playing with dolls, sold to men as prospective brides.

I’m ashamed to say, I’ve always let my disgust and fury satisfy me. As if my emotional response was enough to prove I care. Then I put the articles down, or change the channel, and move on to lighter fare.

I can’t say there was anything more dramatic or moving in this story. When I finished reading, I felt the familiar anger at their suffering. I’d read stories like it before, but this time I couldn’t just walk away. I didn’t want to be mollified with cheap compassion. I knew that if I let myself be angry at the injustice I was seeing and did nothing, my heart would grow colder.

As I thought about the suffering of women in that part of the world, my favourite scripture from the Old Testament came to mind: “The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me, because the Lord has anointed me to preach good tidings to the poor; he has sent me to heal the broken-hearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of prison to those who are bound” (Isaiah 61:1). When Jesus began his public life, these are the verses he identified himself with. This was and still is his mission and as someone who follows him, it has to be my mission too.

So, I’m beginning a movement, which, so far, has one member, called, For The Daughters Of Allah. I’m starting with prayer and fasting, two of the most powerful weapons in my arsenal. Eventually, my vision is to support girls’ schools, shelters and micro-businesses in Muslim communities where women have no options. I’m putting out the call to others to join me. We can make a difference, even if it’s giving some young girl more hope than setting herself on fire affords.

Maybe it’s wacky that an Americanized Scot thinks she can influence a problem this big, but I believe God can take this little acorn and multiply it. He’s not looking for people who have all the answers to make a difference, he’s looking for people who’ll say yes. What I’ve discovered is that sometimes saying yes is most difficult of all.

I’d like to propose a different way. It’s counter-cultural and for some, it won’t make any sense, but it’s how I’ve chosen to live. Let’s stop dating and learn to appreciate the people who come into our lives as friends, enjoying them without any expectation they’ll feed something in our hearts and souls they’re not equipped to fill. They may be able to satisfy that need temporarily, but eventually, they’ll run dry and although true commitment is birthed in life’s deserts, unfortunately, many relationships are aborted there instead.

People fail. It’s really simple. They screw up, get sick, act selfishly; some of them have no interest in sticking around. If our expectation is that some human being is going to meet our every need, we’re fooling ourselves; yet, that’s exactly what our culture proposes dating, as it exists, will accomplish. Make me happy; make me feel worthy and worthwhile; shore up the places in me that feel like they’re crumbling. I need your strength, your beauty, your money, your sexuality, your companionship so I can feel better about me.

When we find someone who’s able to provide us those things, we’ll give him or her anything in order not to feel empty again. So, relationships and love are reduced to transactions…and what happens when the resources run out? Any marriage built on this foundation is built on sand.

I try to treat the men in my life with the honour and respect they deserve. I get to know them as friends without the complications of romantic and sexual connections. It’s amazing what you’ll discover about someone when they’re no longer trying to impress you. I believe it will be out of these relationships I’ll find the person I’m to spend my life with. This does not mean I’m looking at all the guys in my life as potential husbands, but it does mean that no one who hasn’t taken the time to develop a foundation of friendship with me has any chance of taking it farther.

This has not been an easy choice. I like to be wanted as much as anyone, but I came to the decision not to date a year and a half ago when I recognized how wrong it would be for me to engage the heart of anyone I wasn’t convinced I could give back to completely. I didn’t want to take something so precious and not be able to honour the gift as it deserved.

Our hearts and bodies are like treasure caves, filled with valuables, I like to imagine along the lines of Tutankhamun’s tomb, and just as there are passwords on our bank accounts and locks on our doors, there should be a guard over the entrance to our caves. I’m not going to let just anyone who pays me some attention, or shows some interest in me to take from my cave, and I’m not going to take from theirs. How foolish is it that we allow people we’d never give our social security numbers to to have pieces of our hearts and access to our bodies?

I know I’ve set the bar really high for anyone who wants admission to the deepest parts of me, but I don’t want ten men to go over, only one. For many of us, we set the bar low, so more people can get over it, try to find someone worthy in the crowd and then wonder why there’s so much disappointment and pain. I believe my job right now is to keep adding to the treasury by working on who I am, caring for my body, pursuing my dreams. Then, when the right person comes into my life, the one who’s not intimidated by the high bar, I’ll give him, and only him, the right to all that’s most precious in me.

Next time, I’ll talk about my views on courting. Yep, courting.

Placed in every one of us are dreams and talents, acorns of dormant splendor that if cultivated, can develop into prolific oaks. As kids sharing our dreams, our excitement about the future is like wind blowing through the forests in our imaginations. Our oaks will be the tallest and most beautiful; they’ll be famous. they’ll reach the stars and change the world. Then we grow up. We sow a seed and it dies, never germinating at all. We sow another, but the seedling doesn’t look anything like we thought and in discouragement we abandon it. Or, people we trust tell us our dreams are too big for such small seeds and we let their opinions become verdicts on our future. Until our hearts sicken and we stop trying, resigning ourselves to living with a pocketful of acorns.

Dreams and talents were never intended to be carried around. They’re too heavy. When we nurture them, they’re no longer a burden and the anticipation of what they can become creates excitement and produces life. But courage is the soil required to see them realized, especially as we grow older and the imaginations that once inspired us to greatness become our enemies, with fear of failure tempting us to protect ourselves from more disappointment. The only path guaranteed to fail one hundred percent of the time is surrendering to fear and never trying at all. Yes, we may plant something that doesn’t produce, or look the way we thought it would, but in order to yield a harvest, we have to be willing to put our seeds in the ground, all of them.

People who accomplish greatness are big dreamers, who understand the principle of sowing and reaping and are willing to devote time and resources in order to cultivate their dreams. An oak tree needs twenty years to mature and more than fifty gallons of water a day. That may seem prohibitive, but an established tree yields over two thousand acorns a year and can continue doing so for centuries. The payoff is worth the investment.

There’s no expiration date on acorns, just as there’s no age when we’re too old to see the seeds of our dreams and talents produce life. My mother left school at fourteen and by the time she was twenty-four was living in a room and kitchen in Scotland with her five children; yet, at fifty-seven, as an elected city official in Southern California, she proudly received the bachelor’s degree in English literature she’d struggled ten years to obtain. She’ll tell you she felt foolish sometimes, sitting in classrooms with twenty year olds who had a much quicker grasp of the subjects than she did, but she’d planted her acorn and wasn’t going to abandon it until she saw an oak tree standing in its place.

Maybe we won’t be prima ballerinas, or astronauts, but there are places we can express and develop our talents and see our dreams realized. It doesn’t matter if we’re nine or ninety-three, as long as we’re breathing, those acorns were destined for greater things than just wishful thinking. They were meant to reach for the sky as majestic oaks.

Ever been on a car trip and played Madlibs? These are books of short paragraphs with some parts of speech left out. The idea is to fill in the blanks, without reading the story, with whatever is requested, the more ridiculous the better. When all the empty spaces are filled, then you read the finished product, usually out loud. The resulting tales are sometimes very funny, more often stupid, but even stupid can be funny when you’re driving through the Utah desert hyped up on Big Gulps.

Girls, with their facility for language, are really good at this game and grown up girls are even better at it, only most men are unaware they’re the pages being written on (until it’s too late and the woman who acted as though you walked on water, now treats you as if you’re all wet). Women who play Madlibs are those who are gaga for a guy initially and later pick him apart. For example, when he says, “I don’t want to have children,” she hears a blank at the end of his statement and fills in, “yet,” because of course he’s going to want to have children with HER. Then, later, when he doesn’t follow her storyline, she complains to all her girlfriends. This inability of women to accept the men in their lives for who they really are, is ridiculous and, I’m going to use a really old-fashioned word, dishonouring.

Our culture reinforces that it’s okay for women to play Madlibs. This hit home recently when I opened a national women’s fitness magazine and saw an ad for rice cakes. In bold letters it said, “If rice cakes can change, maybe there’s still hope for men.” I’m sure it was meant to be funny, but I found it so offensive. Maybe what needs to change is the way we females take the plain canvas of a man’s life and character and embellish it so it’s more to our liking, instead of taking the time to soberly evaluate what’s on the page BEFORE we commit our hearts.

I’ve listened to friends criticize their men and I always ask the same question, “Was he this way when you met him?” The answer’s invariably, yes, but… Ladies, it’s time for us to stop filling in the blanks and look at men as they are, not how they will be once we make them over. We want to be loved and appreciated for who we are, men are no different. Even if you think you can write a much better story than the one he’s written, resist the impulse, and either cut him lose and find a story you can live with, or learn to appreciate the one in front of you.

“Taco Bell,” I repeated.

“No, in Scottish,” #4 replied.

“Tahcoe Behl,” I said, repositioning the words in my mouth. Laughter from the back seat.

“Say, Anderson.”

Cluing into the game, “Ahnderrrsun.” More laughter.

“McDonalds,” this was #3.

“MihkDawnahlds.” In Scots, the hard “c” sounds like I’m clearing my throat.

“Mickey D’s.”

“Mihki Dees,” more throat clearing.

This unleashed a torrent from my two aspiring linguists: car wash, Denny’s, book (one of their favourites as the “oo” sound is formed on the very front of the lips and sounds really funny), park, etc. The game continued for about fifteen minutes until I dropped them off and gained peace once again.

This, um, talent I have for switching back and forth between my native Scots’ and adopted American accents has entertained friends and family for years. It shows up whenever anyone with any kind of British accent is around. I have been known to walk through a room while the BBC is on television, and when I walk out the other side I’m being asked, “Why are you speaking Scots’?”

It’s even funnier when new people are introduced and another Scot is in the group. Then, I switch between the two, depending on whom I’m speaking to at the moment. If you can imagine a conversation where one of the participants’ voices changes continually, sometimes in mid sentence, you get the picture. I just laugh and say my name is Jekyll.

I’ve tried sticking with just one and it’s never worked. If I use the American and should be speaking in my native accent, I’m distracted and feel like I’m having to think about every word. When I use the Scots’ and the group is American, it feels like I’m singing off-key, with a few exceptions. Do not ask me why, but when I speak to babies, I’m more likely to switch into Scots’. And if I become REALLY emotional, the Scots’ will come out, no matter who it is I’m talking to. My American children are most often the beneficiaries of this one. There’s nothing like being good and mad at someone, letting them know it and they look at you and say, “You’re talking Scots’ again.” It’s a great tactical weapon to throw mother off point.

I’ve always been a bit embarrassed by this propensity. It comes from moving so much as a kid and not feeling like I fit in. When my family emigrated from Scotland to Canada, I spent the first month practising Canadian at home. During this period, I earned the reputation as the quietest girl in the class. Fortunately, as soon as I nailed the accent, I released a flood of pent up verbage that has yet to run dry (a period of silence did not occur when I moved to the States, probably because the accents are so similar and being quiet was an unbearable torture, not to be repeated)

Recently, I’ve noticed my speech is changing a bit. The colours are mixing more, creating interesting shades which sometimes appear at the oddest moments. I feel a bit like Jekyll losing control of Hyde. Maybe it’s time to unleash the monster within. Finally!

Well, pride comes before a fall and I repent. I’ve finally seen the lighbulb. I’m confessing publicly, I REALLY like technology and don’t care if it makes me one of the masses. The internet is cool, as long as I delete the messages in my inbox from Eastern European women with unusual skills and very bad grammar.

And then there’s Facebook. I joined about a month ago, but did nothing with it. My sole purpose was to keep an eye on my soon to be teenage son (who still hasn’t “friended” me for some reason). Big Mama is watching. Three days ago, an old friend from high school “friended” me – my first Friend. This led to another high school friend I thought was living in a different state; turns out we’ve been attending the same church for the past year. If it hadn’t been for technology, who knows how long we would’ve passed each other at the water fountain. We had a reunion this morning. First time we’ve seen each other in about 25 years and she’s just as lovely as she was back then. It was so much fun!!! So now I have a new Friend who’s really an old friend.

The cool thing is, all of the people I’m in contact with on Facebook, have been treasures in my life at one point or another. Finding them, or having them find me, has been like opening Christmas presents I wasn’t expecting. That’s the beauty of this new technology, new to me anyway, the ease with which we can stay connected. And now I also have a new outlet for procrastinating when it’s time to write, because I really need technological assistance with that!

I find it fascinating that unaltered, glass on the beach is dangerous and something to be avoided. Even a small sliver can cause harm when embedded in a foot. Yet, throw the same piece into the water, and in time, a hazard is transformed into an object which has lost its ability to inflict pain. I’ve held sea glass tightly in my palm and rubbed it between my fingers. It’s still glass, retaining all the physical and chemical properties of that substance, but is no longer a danger.

Every one of us has suffered some kind of brokeness in our lives. Like shards of glass, we carry our shattered dreams, promises, relationships, hearts, once so precious, now smashed by the choices of ourselves or others. The act of breaking is excruciating enough, but the pieces left behind, like small, deeply embedded bits of glass quickening our hearts in sharp, unexpected agony, can affect us for lifetimes. There they become distortive lenses between us and the world and weapons wielded against others’ souls.

There is an ocean in which to throw these shards so they lose the ability to hurt. Cushioned by the deep fathoms of God’s forgiveness, love, and grace, our brokeness is buffeted against the rocks and sand of his power. Just as this process of abrasion is traumatic, but crucial for the glass to be changed, so too for us as he grinds the sharp edges, making them safe for ourselves and others, etches the surfaces so we no longer see the world through them, and completely fashions each piece into something that is not only not dangerous, but actually beautiful. The memories will always be with us, part of who we are, but buffered in his unrelenting waves of grace something lovely is made of our devastation. By saying, “Take this God,” we yield each piece, as often as it takes for it to be completely worn down, to the one who promises to bind up the broken-hearted, proclaims freedom to the captive, comforts those who mourn, and provides for those who grieve, gives beauty for ashes, and joy for despair, who takes the shards of our lives and crafts them into pearls.

On the way home, we passed my favourite hill. I call it the “Bomb Hill”, because it’s steep and grassy and you can roll down really fast. I got that glint in my eye and dared her to go with me. I know beneath her propriety is a naked little girl wanting to be free and it’s my job to instigate the jailbreak.

We went down several times, laughing all the way. She managed to stay tidy, while my hair was full of leaves and dead flowers. I know this, because she pointed it out. People walking by smiled and a couple of homeless guys stared like they thought we were crazy.

“You know, Mom, that’s just weird!” said #3.

“Oh,” I replied, “funny weird, or strange weird?”

“A bit of both.”

“Why’s it weird?” I asked her.

“Well, there aren’t many forty-four year old grownups who roll down hills. That’s why everyone was staring.”

Recognizing a teachable moment dangling in front of my face, I grabbed it. “I want you to promise me when you’re forty-four, you’ll roll down a hill and think of me.”

“Okay,” she said and I tasted the sweetness of victory over her decorum. “But I’ll have to take a video and bring it to Heaven to show you.”

Apparently, the child doesn’t plan on me living into my eighties.

I consider myself a hedonist (SEE: A Hedonist Manifesto), but not of the partying ilk, more in the mold of your average kindergartener. Little kids, before they become all self-conscious and proper, know how to have fun. They can take something as simple as mud and turn it into the best game ever. They don’t care if they get dirty, or look silly, they’re all about enjoying the moment. I want to be free like them and jump into life with the same abandon. I’m always on the lookout for opportunities to indulge that part of me.

So, the following night, I took #’s 2, 3 and 4 out for another walk. We went to the park first and I planned on ending the evening with more hill rolling. There were a lot of kids climbing on the jungle gym and swinging. I thought about having a go on those, but noticed off to the side, two little round-a-bouts. For those who don’t frequent children’s play equipment, these are small disks you sit or stand on and someone turns the handle and spins you.

Feeling pretty cocky about being such a free spirit, I sat on one while my youngest daughter twirled me. It stopped and then #2, my twelve year old son, asked if he could pitch in. Yeah, I mean, if it was fun with the seven year old turning it, how much MORE fun would it be with my son. I wrapped my arms and legs around the pole in the middle and held on. He pulled with both hands, running faster and faster. I threw my head back, laughing. It was a blast… and then it stopped.

“Ohhh!” I groaned. The kids wanted me off so they could have a turn. “I can’t.” More groaning. “I shouldn’t have eaten spaghetti before we came here.” I was afraid to move in case said dinner made a reappearance, but knowing I looked a right idiot sitting there, holding on for dear life, managed to get off and hobble over to a bench.

“I have to go home!” I cried.

“Great! Can we go roll the hill now?” asked my now overly exuberant darlings.

“Nooo, I need to go to bed! I feel old!” As I shuffled away, I looked back at my nemesis. “Next time,” I vowed, ” I’m coming back with an empty stomach.”