13 Hours of Rain

Supper dishes are washed and put away. The children's eyes close as they drift to sleep. The floors are swept clean. Two cups of tea are brewed and placed on the table. And then we talk. This time it is my Mother and I. My Mother enjoys many types of activities. But I believe one of her favorites is to sit down with a close few and have a leisurely chat. So she begins. Her eyes take on a far-away look and she reminiscences about her childhood days... My Mother's father, or my Nana, was a pastor. He dedicated his life to sharing the Good News of Christ's birth, life, death, and resurrection. He was passionate about what he believed and he was not ashamed to be called a Christian, even in the face of persecution. He was an intentional man, a man who embraced his life of ministry with zeal. Thus, Christmas was time to reach out and celebrate the coming of the Saviour in the package of a baby. Celebrations began in early December. All the pastor's children excitedly vis...

My husband claims that he is a Post-Evangelical Neo-Anabaptist . He came up with this denominational category during his University days. At the Catholic Outreach booth, he filled a survey to get a free New Testament. He was asked to classify his Christianity. Since none of the options sufficed, he created a new version under "Other". Not wanting to be part of the negative stigma created by many Evangelicals, yet still desiring to adhere to his Anabaptist leanings, he added "Post" and "Neo" to existing types. Very creative! What denomination am I? Good question. Some days I am not sure because I have been exposed to many varieties under the Evangelical umbrella. In the theme of Brain McLaren's Generous Orthodoxy (A book I still mean to read someday), I compose this post. I am Brethren . I believe in the priesthood of believers and sometimes wonder if a pastor is even necessary. After all, if we all used our God given talents appropriately, there w...

The doorbell rang. I opened the door. It was one of the cabinet makers that I had asked to provide an estimate to rebuilt our kitchen. With a thank you, I took the paper and ran up the stairs. My heart raced as I skimmed through the details we had discussed earlier. Then I reached the bottom of the sheet. The price. I caught my breath. My dreams of a remodelled kitchen sank like the Titanic. "We can't afford this," I whispered under my breath as my little toddler danced around my feet. I walked back to the kitchen and scrutinized it for the millionth time. Dark wood. Scuff marks. Cracked back splash. Chipped counter top. Scratched sink. My brand new white appliances seemed ridiculously out of place. "Oh, yes, we could take out a fantastic loan equivalent to a brand new domestic car and wallow in debt for awhile. And true, we were willing to increase our mortgage by about 3.5%, if need be. But this number, THIS NUMBER is too much," I protested. Ugh. A bla...

Dear Son, We didn't choose your first name for the meaning per se , but for who you were named after. Your grandfather. Your Daddy's father. With pride, we carried the name on. Because your grandfather is a man of God. He is hardworking and hard playing. And his blue eyes are filled with an unmistakable twinkle generously peppered with laughter. I love that about him. And I pray that you will grow up to emulate these traits. Your middle name reflects the ethnic roots of the woman who composes this post. And the heritage of your Nana and Nani, your Mommy's parents. Your eastern roots are rich, my son. We overflow with passion and spice for life as exhibited in our food, the vibrant colors that decorate our fabrics, and our zeal for God and family (to name a few). And you are especially blessed with a legacy of devoted Christ-followers, a rare commodity in the country of your Mother's ancestors. May you embrace the good of your "Indian...