I was a young teenager when I saw an episode of Touched by an Angel that addressed race. I remember the black male character saying, “You don’t know what it feels like to walk on a bus and see the women all hold their purses a little tighter.” And I remember thinking, Oh please. Racism is not a real problem anymore. Slavery had been long abolished, black people could vote and they even starred in TV shows like Family Matters which we watched every week. Obviously, racial equality had been achieved. The guy was just being sensitive.

That’s my first memory of my white privilege talking.

Years later I went to university to study literature. Let me tell you, in the humanities/art/social sciences, folks are kind of obsessed with talking about gender and race. It’s almost all they talk about anymore, and I got sick to death of it. It felt absurd, sitting around as a diverse student body and a diverse staff (in terms of gender, race, and sexual orientation) to talk about discrimination and inequality. Does nobody notice how many women and people of colour there are here? I constantly thought. The head of the department is a woman! Obviously equality has been achieved here. We are so past this; can we talk about something else now? Like whether this book is actually any good?

I thought anyone in the university who still thought racism and sexism were still problems was being ridiculously oversensitive. (And what about this institution’s prejudice against Christianity? I wondered.)

A lot of the things Matt Walsh writes about these days remind me of the ways I used to think and feel.

* * *

I’m not sure when things started to change – when I started to become aware of the realities of race, gender, class, and sexual inequality.

It was definitely after I left the academy — having that stuff shoved down my throat every day by upper-middle-class elites hadn’t been very helpful.

I think it started when I began actually listening to the voices of people from marginalized groups. I started to listen to the stories of gay and black folks, of immigrants and people with disabilities. This was all still through the easy, sanitary media of books, blogs and magazines, but still: I heard stories I had never encountered before. About exclusion and violence and systematic oppression. People really did seem to be suffering from injustice due to their sex, skin colour, or physical appearance. In Canada and the U.S.! They weren’t just making it up. People of privilege really do systematically ignore, silence, insult, and marginalize minority groups, often without realizing it. And I realized that I’m one of those privileged people, who never has to worry about my race or sexuality working against me.

I also started thinking differently when I learned that the Church is still the most racially segregated institution in North America. So just because my all-white church can hold hands and sing kumbaya, it doesn’t mean we’ve achieved reconciliation with the rest the world.

Yes, we have made a lot of progress towards equality since government-sanctioned slavery was abolished and women got the right to vote. But just because we’re not allowed to own people doesn’t mean everything’s okay.

How do I know? Because members of marginalized groups are still saying they’re being discriminated against. And I’m going to go ahead and believe them.

* * *

Earlier this week, Matt Walsh published a post entitled, “Sorry, but it’s your fault if you’re offended all the time.” He begins, “I truly believe that we are the most whiney, sensitive, thin-skinned, easily offended society in the history of the world.” He makes fun of the concept of “microaggressions,” and makes a number of declarations like, “If it wasn’t intended to offend you, then you shouldn’t be offended,” and “Being offended is a choice you make. Nobody is responsible for that choice but you.”

Then Walsh lampoons ethnic minorities and transgender people who share experiences of microaggression on the internet.

As a straight white person like Walsh, I will never know or completely understand the experiences of the people he’s mocking. But instead of calling them names (overly-sensitive, thin-skinned, etc) I think it might be more helpful to actually listen to what they’re saying.

And here’s where I especially disagree with him: the speaker’s intent is NOT the only thing that matters. You are still responsible for hurting someone if you speak out of ignorance.

Because here’s the thing. I also know what it’s like to be alienated and insulted without the speaker’s intent. You probably do, too.

For example.

When we were having a hard time getting pregnant, people said a lot of things that hurt me. They didn’t mean to. They just didn’t know.

Once, in a group setting, a friend shared about another couple that was spending a lot of money on repeated fertility treatment. Another friend spoke up, remarking, “I don’t know why they don’t just adopt. It’s selfish to keep spending money on fertility treatments when there are so many babies that need families.”

That wasn’t meant to hurt me – we weren’t even talking about me, and I wasn’t even undergoing treatment – but I wept the entire way home that afternoon. It wounded me so deeply not only that she didn’t understand, but that she didn’t care to understand the unique pain that comes from infertility.

It would have been nice if she could have tried to hear their experience from their perspective.

* * *

I agree and understand that it is difficult to say anything without offending anyone. It can get really tiring, always rethinking what you’re going to say so as not to hurt anyone. Especially those of us in positions of privilege, who have never had to think about race and sexuality being a disadvantage to anyone. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try to be polite and sensitive at all times. It doesn’t mean we don’t need to apologize when we’ve unintentionally hurt someone’s feelings and try to learn from the experience.

I know I have and will continue to hurt people with my words, in part because my experience is incredibly limited. But instead of ridiculing and belittling people when they point it out, I want to actually hear their perspective, apologize, and try to be more sensitive next time.

And yes, part of maturing involves getting a tougher skin at times and not letting people’s words get to you. We don’t need to throw a tantrum every time someone says something that hurts our feelings. I agree with Walsh here, and am always trying to grow in that respect.

But at our core, we’re all dreadfully tender. We all ache to be loved and accepted. We all bleed at the slightest scratch if it hits the right spot. We just all have different tender spots. Haven’t we all been brought to our knees in agony by a glance, a word, a sneer, a phone call that never came? But instead of mocking people for their tenderness, we ought to try to be more gentle. Because we’ve all been there, haven’t we?

It’s easy and fun to make fun of people for being “sensitive” about things we’ve never had to deal with. Mockery shuts down the conversation quickly, so we never have to take responsibility for our ignorance.

But I’d rather go out of my way not to hurt my fellow bleeders. I owe it to them. And the best way to learn how to do this, I believe, is to listen. I’m going to try to keep my ears open and my judgey mouth shut as much as possible.

And definitely not tell them how they ought to feel.

Image courtesy of sciencesque.

This month Ben and I celebrated nine years of marriage. Nine years! Holy smokes . . . when did we get so old?

My husband and I are both super-not-romantic. We don’t buy each other gifts (for any occasion) or write love notes. He never gets me flowers and I really couldn’t care less.

I still don’t consider it a lot of “work” to be married. We’re friends. I enjoy his company. We like watching the same TV shows and have a lot of the same life goals. He likes my cooking, and I appreciate all the work he does around the house and yard. Sometimes we argue about housework, but overall, I feel we contribute equally so there’s not too much to get upset about.

Since having a kid, though, I do find we need to make a bit more of a conscious effort to stay connected, since our daughter is ALWAYS awake and ALWAYS around us. Sometimes we need to set special time aside to care for one another and just enjoy each other.

In honour of our anniversary, I thought I’d share a few of the simple ways we care for each other and our marriage.

Monthly Date Nights

I know, I know, I know. SO cliche.

We were never really into date nights before we had a kid because, well, we were already always doing things together. Having dinner, going for walks, watching movies. It seemed kind of pointless to label one of these nights “date night.”

But these days, we spend SO much of our shared energy on parenting. Our conversations are always being interrupted. We’re constantly answering questions, taking her to the potty mid-meal, telling her not to climb on the furniture, taking her off of furniture, etc. Weekdays, weekends. Morning, afternoon, evening, nighttime. ALL. THE. TIME.

So we make an effort to get a babysitter once a month (usually the first weekend) and just hang out together for an evening.

For special occasions (like birthdays) we’ll get dinner and/or a movie, but other times we’ll just get ice cream or go shopping together. Not even for sexy or fun things — I’m talking a new mop or underwear. (And by “underwear” I don’t mean lingerie. I mean a three-pack of cotton Hanes hipsters. Those are the best.)

Our goal is just to be together and have uninterrupted conversations. On the drive to the city we might talk about stuff we did before we met each other or chat about bigger purchases we want to make. Occasionally at our destination we sit across from each other and set formal goals together. Just something where we can relax and be ourselves, just the two of us. To remember that we’re a team and that we’re friends.

Expressing Gratitude

This one we do a lot less consciously, and I have to credit Ben for starting it: we regularly take a moment to thank each other for the things we do.

“Thanks for taking care of that.” That’s probably one of the most common sentences we say to each other, and it has enormous positive consequences for our marriage. I’ll say it when he takes out the recycling, when he plays a game with Lydia so I can write, or when he cleans up the kitchen after dinner by himself while I dash out to quilting. It’s become kind of automatic, though no less sincere. I just want him to know that what he’s doing is making my life better.

Likewise, he thanks me for making dinner or baking muffins, for organizing a social event or mopping the floor. He actually notices when I do that stuff and appreciates it. I love it. It makes all my work worthwhile.

As a woman who does mostly traditionally-female work (which has been historically undervalued), I appreciate that he constantly validates the work I do as important, challenging, meaningful, and life-enhancing.

He doesn’t have to get me flowers to tell me I’m special; he just has to let me know that he sees my work and it matters to him. That’s all I want, really.

And to occasionally hear that I look good, too.

Mutual Submission/Service

Neither of us is “boss” or “head of the household.” Neither of us “wears the pants” (although I really do love dresses and skirts.)

Instead, we both take seriously Paul’s injunction to “submit to one another out of reverence for Christ” (Eph 5:21) and to “use your freedom to serve one another in love” (Gal 5:13). We try to take Jesus as our example and use our power and freedom to serve one another. I try to put my husband’s needs before my own, and vice versa. (In fact, the same goes for Lydia. We are her servants. I know that sounds zany but it’s true. Sometimes we have to tell her she can’t have a snack because it’s almost supper or that she has to brush her teeth, but our job is to serve her. We pray that she will grow up following our example and serve those around her, too.)

Of course, this only works if both members are committed to putting the other person first. It falls apart if it’s only one person doing all the serving. I feel so blessed to have a partner who feels the same way I do.

Obviously, we suck at this most of the time. I hate giving him back rubs and he absolutely loathes putting Lydia to bed, even though I usually spend the whole day with her. We get grumpy when one person wants to use the computer at the same time as the other.

But we both see our roles to one another as that of a servant, and pray for the patience and positive attitude to actually fulfill that role. Overall, I think it works out quite nicely.

So as most of you know, after months of planning and building, we got our very own chickens last month. I thought I’d introduce you to our newest residents, and give you a quick tour of their home. Fun, right?

We took home four red sex-link hens from my parents’ flock one evening a few weeks ago (on my birthday, incidentally. What a great birthday present!). We chose the breed because they’re consistent layers and generally pretty calm and friendly. My parents have about a hundred free-range chickens that they let roam on the field, and they’ve been letting us have free eggs for the past several years. So they didn’t even make us pay for the chickens. They just let us have the hens instead of continuing to give us free eggs. Amazing, right? The hens are already about a year old, and have been laying steadily.

A few people have asked them what the chickens’ names are. We’ve chosen not to name them, since they are likely to end up in the soup pot in a couple of years when they’re done laying. (Sorry, dear vegan friends! Jut the facts). I just don’t think I could stomach eating a chicken I knew by name.

Why Raise Our Own Chickens?

I just want to say up front that we’re aware that we’re totally not saving any money by raising our own egg-laying hens. Even if we’d been paying my parents for the eggs, it would take a loooong time to recoup the cost of building the shed and run and paying for feed. (Raising your own poultry rarely results in much money-savings.)

We mostly wanted to raise our own chickens for the learning experience. We already had access to fresh, pastured eggs before, which is important to us; but we wanted the chance to do it ourselves. We aim to be as self-sufficient as possible, for reasons of food security and also simply for the joy and satisfaction of it. It feels amazing to eat food from your own back yard! And we really, really strive to only eat meat, eggs and milk from animals who have had the chance to live happy, healthy lives. We want to know where our food comes from. And this way, we know exactly where our eggs come from!

Anyway. On to the tour!

We converted a part of our shed into their coop, and added the run. (Ben built the shed himself a few years ago. He’s pretty handy.)

The first thing he did was construct a wire-fence wall inside the shed to section off about a third of the  building, and install a door. The rest of the shed will continue to be used for storage (gardening tools, bikes, etc). He then built a couple of nesting boxes out of scrap pine and a roost for them to sleep on (chickens prefer to sleep off the ground.) He also installed a window to let in sunlight and fresh air. Also, he cut a hole in the wall to give them outdoor access.

(Aside: don’t you just love Lydia’s gardening tools?)

Here are the nesting boxes from the front. Ben included a perch for the chickens to land on when they jump up to the nesting boxes.

And here are the nesting boxes from the back.

I love how Ben included little doors on the backs of the nesting boxes so we can take out the eggs without walking into the coop. I don’t need to put on shoes to collect eggs! And he made them with the same welded-wire fencing, so that we can see whether there’s a hen sitting inside without disturbing her.

(As you can see, the bedding is quite messy. Ben had to add a strip of wood at the base of the doors to make the frame go up higher so it doesn’t come out so easily.)

I read a suggestion to line the bottom of the nesting boxes with shelf liner to ensure a soft landing for the eggs if the bedding all gets kicked aside; but the hens kicked that stuff out of there the first night they were here. So Ben put down squares of old carpet, and that seems to be working just dandy.

We’ve also included pine shavings for the bedding (Ben makes plenty in his shop), both in the nesting boxes and on the floor of the coop, since chickens like to scratch around before laying, and it provides a soft landing on the floor when they jump out.

Yay eggs! (The purple one is a plastic Easter egg. Apparently chickens prefer laying in nests that already have eggs in them. So that one stays there.)

We had to make some adjustments to the roosts, since the chickens didn’t seem to like them at first, prefering to roost on the nesting box perch. (Which meant they would poop in the nesting boxes.) Ben lowered the nesting boxes (chickens prefer to roost on the highest available space) and made the roosts a little thinner, which they seem to find more comfortable.

(Roosting for the night at 8:15pm. Early to bed, early to rise. Aren’t they cute?)

But this gal still prefers to roost by the nesting boxes. Oh well.

Anyway, moving on to outside!

We gave them a nice big run outside where they can scratch around in the dirt, take dust baths, and get some exercise, fresh air, and sunshine. You know, all those things chickens need but don’t get in factory farms.

Ben constructed the run out of 1×1″ welded-wire fence, which is both stronger and (in my opinion) more attractive than chicken wire. It provides better protection against predators,  which can be a problem even in the suburbs. The top is covered with this fencing, too. We often see hawks in our trees and don’t want anyone nabbing our hens.

We quickly decided we wanted to keep the food and water outside as well. It keeps the coop cleaner and drier, and it means we don’t have to walk into the cramped coop to feed/water them. We’ll see what we do in winter.

We just set the feed and water containers on tree stumps to raise them up off the ground so they don’t get dirt kicked into them. The thrifted Pyrex bowl is where we dump messier treats, as well as crushed eggshell for calcium. We also toss kitchen scraps into the run, and the chickens usually take care of it within minutes.

We’ve also been experimenting with letting the chickens roam free on our yard for a few hours here and there. I like for them to get a chance to run around, nibble on fresh grass, and catch a few more bugs (especially grubs! Please eat the grubs, dear chickens!!). It’s also quite shady in their run; this would allow them to catch some more sun. They always head back inside for night, so we don’t have to worry about chasing them back inside.

The only two downfalls to free-ranging on the yard are (a) poop — they poop everywhere, and it’s pretty messy; and (b) they like to kick the bark chips out of my flower beds. That’s annoying. So we’ll probably limit it to once a week or so.

There you have it! Our first foray into raising farm animals!

Hope you enjoyed the tour! Do you raise chickens? Any tips for us newbies?

I’m over at Red and Honey today, sharing six reasons we’re choosing a home birth the second time around (as long as everything goes well, of course). So I thought I’d share Lydia’s birth story over here while I was at it. I first shared this story almost three years ago on my old blog, but I’m hoping to slowly transfer the few good posts over here to my permanent online home.

P.S. forgive the horrible quality of the photos. All we had at the time was a crappy point-and-shoot. And we never thought to take pictures during the labour. These pictures are the best I have.

I woke up around 1:30AM on August 17^th 2011, with my abdomen tightening painfully, the way it had done repeatedly a few days before. I was confused. It was still a week before my “due date,” and I had assumed my baby wouldn’t be coming for another few weeks, since most first babies take 41 weeks to incubate.

My stomach repeated this painful tightening a couple of times while I lay in bed, so that I had to sit up. This woke Ben up. I told him I thought I was having contractions, though it might not mean anything. It might be another bout of “false”€ labour, or it could be early labour which could last another twelve hours. I decided to go to the bathroom downstairs to see what happened.

It got worse. I told Ben to start timing them, which was easy for him since I felt better if I moaned through them. We decided to run a bath to see if that either sped things up or made them stop. I got into my bathing suit and got in. The water felt wonderful and soothing though the pains got stronger and longer. We decided to call my midwife.

She listened to me labour through another contraction and decided I should take some Tylenol and some Gravol to help me sleep, return to the tub, and call back in a few hours. Ben brought me the pills and I lay down on our couch but the pain just got worse until I was almost hysterical. We tried the birthing ball, I tried going on my hands and knees, but before I knew it I was vomiting violently and yelling, “Call her back, call her back!”€ While Ben was on the phone and I lay yelling in pain on the couch, I started to feel warm water leak out of me. “I’€™m leaking! This is for real!” I hollered (Up till then I was convinced I might still have a few days). Ben reported that my midwife was on her way, and suggested I get back in the tub.

Waiting for the midwife in the tub was a surreal experience. I would yell, “€œAnother one is coming!” so that Ben could time the contractions. I would bellow through the pain, and then everything would let up and I would lay there peacefully for several minutes.

“My baby is coming,”€ I would whisper. “€œI wonder if it’€™s a boy or a girl?”€ But before long I was yelling, “I want to push!”€ and I had to climb out to crouch on the floor with my butt in the air (I’d read that this was a good position if you have the urge to push before you’re ready.)

I don’t remember ever feeling scared; I was just intensely focused on making sure I did everything right. All my energy was centered on making it through the pain. I had to make it until my midwife showed up and told me what to do.

I surprised myself: I never thought I’€™d be so vocal in labour. I’m an introvert; I kind of assumed I would labour quietly. But I was bellowing like water buffalo; roaring like a lion. I have never made so much noise in my life. I filled the whole house with my voice.

My midwife found me an hour later slumped over the edge of my bathtub, moaning pitifully. I think she was a little shocked. She and Ben helped me to the futon we’€™d set up in our living room and she checked me. “The baby’€™s right there,” she said, sounding a little worried. I was relieved, and asked if that meant I could start pushing it out. She explained that she would need to call an ambulance and have paramedics standing by until her backup midwife showed up. “Don’€™t push yet,” she told me.

Being told not to push when you have the urge is like being told not to cough when you’ve got crumbs in your throat. It took all the willpower I could muster to keep from heaving that baby out of my body.

But her student showed up soon, and my midwife told me I could start pushing. I was relieved to see the student midwife –€“ she was a young woman whom I really liked. So with the next contraction, I pushed. It was a mix of the most satisfying and most horrifying work I’€™ve ever done.

The two women cheered me on: “€œYou’re doing so good! That’s exactly right! Give us another one just like that!” They encouraged me to try different positions: leaning against Ben, crouching on my hands and knees. I hollered and screamed despite what I’d heard about how you shouldn’€™t make noise when you push. The midwives didn’€™t seem to have a problem with it so I went with it.

Between contractions, I was blissing out. (If you’ve never gone through it, it’€™s important to remember this detail: at their worst, contractions only last about a minute long, and then you have three to five minutes of complete calm with no accompanying pain [unless you are experiencing back labour]. So really, only a small fraction of labour is spent in actual pain). I felt calm and peaceful and so, so grateful. “You guys are so awesome. Thanks so much. This is so great. You guys are the best,”€ I kept repeating. I couldn’€™t believe how much I had lucked out, having such a quick and easy birth, with the greatest midwives a woman could ask for, and a truly fantastic husband. I couldn’€™t stop telling everyone how amazing they were.

At some point the backup midwife showed up as well. She quietly worked in the background. I was told later that I pushed for about an hour when it finally came to forcing out the ridiculously massive head of my child. (I was later informed that her head was actually on the small size, along with the rest of her body).

When they put that monstrously huge baby on my chest I lost my mind.”€œIt’s a baby! Look at the baby!” I exclaimed frantically. It took me a moment to realize that the baby had a sex and that I didn’t yet know it. My midwife turned the baby to my husband who said, “€œIt’s . . . a girl?”€

I was euphoric. I had so wanted it to be a girl. I told everyone that her name was Lydia.

The rest of the story is a blur and not that interesting. She was weighed — 6 lbs 11 oz. I delivered the placenta, and I got stitched up, a process that was easily as horrible as everything that has preceded it, but at this point I was also elated and chatty. My mom arrived and came in to hold my hand while Ben helped to clean things up.

I was seriously in hysterics about how perfect everything was. The backup midwife’€™s job was to clean, examine, dress and wrap up Lydia while the other two fixed me up.

The women made sure I€™’d fed Lydia, I’d been to the bathroom, and was comfortable and safe before they quietly left me and my new baby to sleep, all cozy in my own living room. I was so, so proud. I fell asleep to the thought, “That was awesome.”

It was about five hours from when I first woke up until she finally made her exit. It hurt a lot, but it was also exciting and wonderful. From my perspective, everything went beautifully.  I announced to Ben that if every pregnancy and birth went like this one, I’d happily have eight more babies. We’ll see what God has in mind!

Image courtesy of Sherman Mui

We got our income taxes done last week. We went in with our tax lady to go over the numbers and make sure everything was in order. (My husband is self-employed, and we just don’t have the skills to do taxes ourselves.)

Let me tell you, I was STUNNED by the final number — our last year’s income. It was staggeringly low. We fall way, way below the poverty line for our area. As in, guess a ridiculously low number for a family of two adults and one child, and then divide that by half. That was our last year’s income. (Ben had a lot of major expenses for his business — he built his own shop to work out of.)

I was surprised by the final number I saw because I don’t feel that poor.

A friend recently asked me whether I still considered myself poor (I will often refer to myself as poor in a somewhat facetious tone). And I told her that no, I don’t. (That was before I saw the numbers.)

True, our annual income is alarmingly low. But I am so rich in so many other resources that survival is not a daily struggle. There are people who may have similar (or even slightly higher) incomes than us who are still way worse off, because they don’t have access to the other resources we do.

Here are just a few of the resources I have access to that make me comparatively wealthy, despite what the income tax forms say.

Skills in Frugality

I was raised by frugal Mennonites. I learned early on in life how to care for a home. I was taught basic sewing skills. I learned how to cook from scratch — I grew up helping my mom bake bread, can tomatoes, and cut pasta. I knew how to make a roux for cream sauce before I knew what that was. I even know how to butcher a chicken and make smoked sausage from a freshly-slaughtered pig. These are handy skills when your income is low.

Likewise, my husband learned how to change his own oil, repair an engine, build a fence, and other valuable skills to help reduce costs.

My mom taught me how to find a bargain, how to scan a yard-sale, and what to look for in thrift stores. I also grew up wearing thrift store clothes and hand-me-downs, so I’m used to a certain level of thriftiness in my wardrobe.

My husband and I both also learned the important skills of money-management. We’re not amazing money-spenders, but we know how to avoid debt: we’ve never had a credit card bill or purchased a vehicle we couldn’t pay in full.

Not everyone is lucky enough to have grown up with these skills instilled in them at a young age.

Fluency in English

It’s easy to overlook the huge advantage we have in being fluent in English in North America. But English is not our parents’ first language, so it’s easier for Ben and I to recognize the advantage. We have seen firsthand (mostly through older relatives) what a disadvantage it is when folks can’t speak the language.

We can make our own doctor’s appointments and explain our symptoms. We can update our passports and set up savings accounts without (too much) trouble. We can call around and find the best insurance policy, or notify the sales clerk that they’ve overcharged us. And perhaps most importantly, we have easy access to unlimited information, thanks to our fluency in the national language.

Education

Not only are we fluent in the dominant language, but we both received a decent education. We can read, write, do basic math, and use the internet. I’m even somewhat fluent in academic discourse (having gone to graduate school), giving me access to a greater range of information.

It’s an enormous blessing to be able to read books on natural healing, budgeting, education/parenting, gardening, and the like. Our potential for learning is unlimited, since we got this strong foundation as children. Not everyone we know has received this enormous advantage.

And thanks to internet access, we can buy and sell used items cheaply online; we can watch music videos for free on Youtube (no need for satellite here!); we can renew library books online; etc. There are so many ways to save money with the internet!

Strong Family and Community Support

My immediate family. Look at all those potential babysitters.

We live within a ten-minute drive from both sets of parents. Between the two of us, we probably have a hundred aunts, uncles, and cousins living within a half-hour radius of us. We hang out with my cousins on a nearly weekly basis, and know at least ten couples from our church whom we consider “close friends.”

You know what that means? That means free babysitting almost any time of the week if we need it. It means free home-cooked meals when we’re sick or have a new baby. It means we can swap books and share outgrown baby items and clothes so we don’t have to buy everything new. These are also people I can go to for ideas, suggestions, and emotional support.

And also, I get free eggs and garden produce from my parents.

Life is so much easier (and cheaper) when you have friends and family around you.

Universal Health Care

Our health care in Canada isn’t perfect. But at least I know that if I get in a car wreck, the only costs I have to worry about involve the vehicle(s). If my daughter breaks her arm, my only concern is her comfort as she heals. I’m also able to have a baby (wherever I want, with whomever I want attending) without paying a dime out of pocket. I never have to worry about crippling medical bills that will haunt me for the rest of my life.

Our Health

So far, Ben and I are enormously healthy. (Thanks in part, I’m sure, to our education and health care, above. We also have access to good food, good sanitation, nutrition information, and safe streets/jobs. Serious communicable diseases are rare.)

Thanks to our health, we can do things for ourselves. We can hang laundry, clean the house, run errands, etc, completely independently. We can do all these money-saving things because we’re physically able. I never want to overlook this advantage.

A Loving Maker

I tend to forget about this one (and I understand that it looks a little out of place in this list. But as a Christian blogger, I felt a little obligated to include it). I have to remind myself every so often that even if I had none of the above things, I still would be rich beyond compare because I know that I am loved by the one who made me. My personal value does not depend on my bank account, my skills, or my health, but rather depends wholly on the fact that God bestowed upon my unsurpassable worth when he made me, and assured me of his love when he died for me.

So you see, I’m really quite rich.

The income tax statement may not agree, but our wealth can’t be measured in numbers. I personally think riches primarily come from relationships, health, freedom, and access to information; but above all, the knowledge that I’m wholly and completely loved.

What am I forgetting? What else (besides money) makes you feel wealthy?

Image courtesy of annstheclaf

For better or worse, I’ve been pretty open and public about our difficulty conceiving babies. It just takes us a long time — 20 months the first time; 19 months the second time.

So every now and then, I’ll get an email from a friend or reader in a similar place seeking advice. Something like the following:

“We’ve been trying to have a baby for 10 months. What do you think we should do?”

And my first question is always the same:

“Well, are you charting?”

Most often, they’re not.

So my first piece of advice? Start charting!

(Please note that I am NOT a qualified medical expert; I’m just speaking from experience and personal research. This is my own personal opinion.)

Regular readers will know what I’m talking about; but new readers might not, so I’ll explain:

I’m talking about learning about and tracking your fertility signs.

The broader term for this approach is known as Natural Family Planning (NFP) or Fertility Awareness Method (FAM) (I generally prefer the second). It is a form of birth control used either to avoid or achieve pregnancy, by being aware of when you’re fertile and timing sex accordingly. (The average woman is only fertile for a handful of days every cycle, so you can choose what you want to do during that time: abstain or use a barrier method if you want to avoid pregnancy, or have well-timed sex if you want to have a baby.) There are several forms of NFP/FAM, including the symptothermal method, the Billings Ovulation method, and the Creighton method, just to name a few.

If used properly, FAM can be as effective as contraception for preventing pregnancy. And it can really enhance your chances of getting pregnant when you want to have a baby.

But knowing your fertility signs can do so much more than that, too. It can also give you valuable clues about your fertility and overall health. This information can be key when you’re having a hard time conceiving.

You can see whether or not you’re ovulating, or if you’re just ovulating late in your cycle. Maybe you’re just not timing sex right. You might find that your post-ovulatory phase is too short to support a pregnancy, or that you don’t have enough fertile-quality fluid. Maybe you’re actually repeatedly miscarrying very early and missing it. The easiest way to find out is to start charting.

In my opinion, learning about the Fertility Awareness Method is the least invasive and most empowering step towards understanding and enhancing your fertility.

Now, charting mostly just provides insight into the female half of the fertility equation (and about half of all fertility issues involve the man). As far as I know, the only way to get insight into the male half is for the husband to get a sperm analysis. I definitely recommend considering this option at some point as well; but I understand that many men are reluctant to take this step. I don’t blame them. And it’s possible that this unpleasant step may be avoided if the woman’s charting shows that her fertility needs improvement. Yes, it’s possible that both have fertility issues that need to be dealt with — in fact, about 10-20% of cases involve both partners. But depending on how long you’re willing to wait, if correcting the woman’s problem alone doesn’t help you could always take a look at the man’s later. (Or at the same time, if you’re in a hurry.)

Conversely, if the woman’s charts seem to show a very healthy cycle and strong fertility, you could look into male factor issues with more confidence that that’s where the problem lies.

Basically, as far as I can see, there are NO down sides to charting. It just provides you with knowledge.

It takes some time to learn, of course. And if you want to take classes with a qualified instructor (which I recommend) there is usually a bit of a cost (much less than most fertility testing and treatments, though). And charting can be more difficult if you already have children (who follow you into the bathroom and wake you up multiple times at night, making it slightly more challenging to observe your cervical fluids accurately and get a good basal body temperature reading). But no matter what, the information you get from charting is empowering.

(Of course, some women report feeling more stress when they’re always keeping such a close eye on their fertility signs, and worry that this might put a strain on their fertility. But in my personal experience, it’s more stressful not knowing what’s going on; and I can’t see charting being any more stressful than medical testing and treatment.)

If you identify any fertility problems in your charting, you can know more precisely what issues to target:

Not ovulating? There are approaches you can take — both medical and alternative — to stimulate ovulation. Luteal phase too short? There are approaches you can take to increase progesterone and lengthen that phase. Inadequate cervical fluid? There are ways to encourage production of fertile-quality mucus. Wildly irregular cycles? You can learn to pinpoint exactly when to time sex, regardless of cycle length, to maximize your chance of conception.

Charting does not in any way have to replace getting medical help. Rather, it can enhance it: if you need fertility treatment, your charts will arm you with another layer of information about what needs correction. This can reduce the amount of testing that needs to be done, and hurry the process along.

Instead of telling the doctor, “We’ve been trying for ten months and we have no idea what’s wrong,” imagine being able to say, “I know I’m ovulating every cycle on day 21, but my post-ovulatory phase is too short to allow implantation. I think we need to work on that.” (Or even, “I can tell that my cycles are regular and I ovulate every month, and we’ve been having sex at the right times. But nothing has happened in ten months. We’d like to have a sperm analysis.”)

Already knowing your body can eliminate unnecessary steps in the process, and help put the focus on the right things. And most of all, it puts you at the helm so that you know what’s going on. In my experience, this is so empowering.

Of course, the ideal time to start charting is before you even start trying to conceive. That way you’re already familiar with your cycles by the time you want to start trying. You might already have some clues into potential problems before you get started. (This would require you to go off the Pill, if you’re taking it, several months before you want to conceive; but that sounds like a good idea to me regardless.)

But it’s never too late to get started.

If you’re hoping to conceive, or think you would like to start trying soon, I highly recommend you look into NFP/FAM and start charting. Knowledge is power!

Resources for further research:

• Taking Charge of Your Fertility: The Definitive Guide to Natural Birth Control, Pregnancy Achievement, and Reproductive Health by Toni Weschler (my absolute favourite FAM resource. Great for getting started!)

• The Couple to Couple League offers resources and classes with certified instructors in the sympto-thermal method. I haven’t read their student guide, The Art of Natural Family Planning, but I’ve had it recommended by friends.

• Honoring Our Cycles: A Natural Family Planning Workbook by Katie Singer was also recommended by several friends.

• Fertility Flower is a highly-recommended online resource for charting. On the site you’ll find blogs, forums, and online charting.

• FertilityCare offers instruction in the Creighton model — a highly scientific and thorough approach that focuses on cervical fluid (the site can help you find a teacher in your area). I’ve worked with the Toronto branch — they helped me find a teacher, and arranged an appointment with a NaProTECHNOLOGY physician. This is a costlier approach but I highly recommend them if you’re dealing with infertility issues.

*If you have any additional resources to share, please let us know in the comments!*

Disclaimer: this post includes affiliate links.

I’ve started so many blog posts in the last couple of weeks, but haven’t had the energy or mental clarity to finish any of them. So I thought perhaps it was a time for a personal update. Which of course involves an update on the pregnancy. (I promise these won’t take over the blog.)

I’ve been having a hard time writing about it for a couple of reasons.

1. My brain. It’s not fully functioning right now. I walk around feeling like I’ve been drugged — I can’t concentrate, everything is muddled, and I just want to sleep. I don’t remember this with my last pregnancy. I can’t write more than three sentences without wanting to go lie down. (This post was written in stages).

2. One thing I do remember from my first pregnancy is that carrying a child tends to turn my whole being inwards. My introverted tendencies get ramped up and I become more private. At least in the first trimester, I temporarily lose all interest in my outside goals and pursuits as all my energy is sapped up by the work of creating another life.

3. When you talk a lot about infertility, you end up building connections with a lot of other people going through the same thing. And then if you end up getting pregnant, it gets kind of awkward.

Because you know how heart-wrenching it is to get pregnancy news when you’re still waiting. You just know you’re causing someone pain. You’ve been there yourself. So it’s hard to talk openly about it. You don’t want to talk about how awesome it is, because then you’re just rubbing it in their faces; but you also don’t want to talk about how hard it is, because then you’re being ungrateful for this incredible blessing you’ve been given.

But of course it’s still important to talk about it. I want to be honest and open. (I can’t not be, I guess. It’s a disease.)

So here’s where I am with my pregnancy.

(I’m at 10 weeks).

It’s been a long month. I’m tired all the time, and until recently, have been pretty nauseous most of the time. (But not throwing up, thank goodness.) Food is my nemesis. Even on good days, I get little pleasure from food. The smell of the fridge interior repulses me. Cooking is a nightmare.

I praise the Lord daily for my wonderful mother, who has brought us more meals than I can count and saved us from starvation (or at least bankruptcy from all the Vietnamese takeout.) On days when we aren’t given food, I heat up a frozen pizza or cook store-bought perogies. Yesterday for lunch I got dangerously close to picking up Arby’s, but then Ben suggested we try the local cafe and we were saved by vegetarian ciabatta sandwiches.

I’m just starting to feel better, though, and am hoping I will be back to regular cooking soon. I miss real food much.

But food hasn’t even big my biggest adversary.

It’s been anxiety.

Here’s the thing with the first trimester:

1. You feel awful: nauseated, bloated, tired, foggy, constipated, breathless, etc. All you want to do is eat and sleep and puke. All at the same time. But

2. You have no reassurance that this will all be worth it. The baby’s chance of survival at this point is only like 75%. There’s a good chance you’ll go through all this and more and end up where you started: without a baby.

And then there’s the fear of if the baby does make it to delivery.

This anxiety is especially heightened for me because Ben and I both have genetic problems in our immediate family.

I had a brother who died after three days due to a severe genetic disorder which prevented his bones from fully forming. He suffocated to death because his rib cage couldn’t support his lungs. All my parents could do was watch and grieve.

Ben has a brother with autism (and also two cousins, one of whom passed away in childhood.) Twenty-three years later, he still brings his mother to her knees with exhaustion on a daily basis.

What kind of baby could I be carrying?

If he/she makes it, will the burden of caring for him/her weigh me down from being a good mother to Lydia (to say nothing of the child him/herself)?

At this point I haven’t heard a heartbeat. I haven’t seen an ultrasound. I just saw a plus sign on a pregnancy test and then started feeling crappy for six weeks solid.

There haven’t been any bad signs whatsoever; but nor have there been any real reassuring or good signs, either.

* * *

I go to see my midwife for the first time tomorrow. Hopefully I’ll get to hear a heartbeat, and hopefully that will inspire some more hopeful feelings.

I feel a little crappy talking to God about it, because he finally and miraculously gave me my heart’s greatest desire, and all I can do is worry.

I feel selfish asking for a perfectly healthy baby when my own parents — and countless others — have had to suffer.

So this is where I’m at. I feel like I’m in a kind of limbo, just waiting. I have no idea what my life will look like in seven months. Waiting around, feeling exhausted, sickish, guilty, worried, and occasionally hopeful and even excited.

I hope to be back soon with more interesting, less depressing words. I just wanted you to know where I was.

Image by Jim Linwood.

Note: this is a part of my series on evangelism, which started here.

There are a lot of reasons I’ve changed my approach to evangelism. A huge factor, of course, were my disastrous past attempts to convert people.

There are other reasons as well: a changing definition of salvation; a new view of nonbelievers as my equals and allies; and a new appreciation for genuine relationships and what actually changes a person’s heart. (I hope to get into some of these other issues in future posts as well.)

But the biggest change was in this: I went from seeing myself as a member of the oppressed minority – an underdog who needed to “defend the faith” which was under attack from the dominant society – to the realization that I am a part of the powerful majority.

As a white, educated, straight, English-speaking, Protestant Canadian, I enjoy the advantages of generations of white, educated, straight, English-speaking Protestants wielding the power of the Bible to oppress others.

It took me a long time to recognize my privilege. I don’t know how I didn’t see it sooner. I grew up being warned to watch out – The World was out to get me. And so I internalized this idea that as a Christian in North America I was a part of the underclass, the target, the prey.

Before, I saw myself as a part of the victim class. Gays, liberals, feminists, atheists, evolutionists, university professors, The Media – they were all scary adversaries, bullies out to denounce God and get their way. We, the weak and humble Christians, needed to stand our ground. We needed to invoke the name of the Lord to defend ourselves against brutal attacks. The World was out to get us.

And I understand now how we got this mentality. We read Jesus’ story, and we naturally identify with him and the early Christians. We too have committed our lives to following him. We read the stories of faithful followers being stoned or imprisoned, and we shiver.

Jesus and his followers suffered severe persecution. They were desperately poor folks, religious and ethnic minorities, during a period of time when the Romans held ferocious power. You could lose your life for being a follower of Jesus. Jesus warns us that the same can happen to us. We identify with these humble Jewish fishermen – we’re Christians, too! – and forget that in fact, if we were to translate that world into contemporary North America, we white evangelicals would be members of the Roman Empire. At our worst, we’re not even the Pharisees. We have way more power and wealth than that.

Sure, some of us are poor by North American standards. But we white evangelical Americans and Canadians still have power and privilege in our race, citizenship, education, and religious association (Christians make up the most dominant religious group in America, with evangelicals being the largest denomination. No other religion comes close. Not even atheism.)

And sure, some of us are really benevolent Romans. We donate and volunteer. Some even fight for justice and equality. But that will never erase our privilege as Roman citizens. We always still have more power and privilege than immigrants, people of colour, members of other religious groups, and GLBT folks (among others).

I have since discovered I don’t need to defend the gospel against powerful attacks from above nearly as much as I need to step down and apologize to all those who have been hurt by it. My job is to try to climb down from my advantaged position and make amends. My job is one of reconciliation.

If I want to be a missionary in this land, I need to come to terms with the fact that the first Christians to reach this land — my predecessors — did not bring good news. They brought tyranny, death, war and disease.  (To this day, many evangelicals continue to bring bad news to women, immigrants, GLBT people, and other minorities.) I (and people like me) can never be done repenting of what my forebears did to the people who first lived here. Our job of reconciliation will not be done until Jesus returns.

This understanding of my place in society has changed the way I “evangelize.”

Image by butupa.

Knowing that I come from a position of privilege, I’m less afraid of “attacks” on my faith from non-believers.

I don’t live in fear that atheism and secularism are taking over society – we’re far from that here in North America. I fear that ignorant evangelicals (like myself) are a much greater threat.

I’m no longer scared of marriage equality for the LGBT community, or nervous about what they teach in science classes at public schools. I no longer worry about carrying an arsenal of arguments in my back pocket in defense of the faith. I am not a victim in this culture.

And while I used to view all non-Christians as potential projects – folks I needed to save, to introduce to Jesus — I now only see broken relationships that need to be healed. I need them to help me get to Jesus just as much as they need me. Perhaps more so, for Jesus blesses the poor and humble.

Recognizing what powerful white Christians have done in the past, I sometimes think our first and most important message ought to be something more along the lines of, “I am not a threat. I won’t hurt you. You have little reason to trust me, given our history; but I promise to serve you, respect you and love you.” (This, as opposed to the conventional evangelical message that goes something along the lines of, “You’re wrong and headed for trouble. But I have information that can save you. Once again, I have the upper hand.”)

I used to think it was important to make friends with people who were different from me so that I could teach them (about God and the Bible).

I now think it’s important to make friends with people who are different from me so that I can learn from them. What’s it like to be Muslim? To be black or Hispanic or Native American? To be gay? Because how can I serve them if I don’t know their experience?

As an evangelical, I used to see my role as a teacher and a savior. I now see my role as a student and a servant.

I still believe I have good news to share. But that good news is less about an abstract God in heaven who will save you after you die and more about a God who is lives upon the earth right now, desperate to serve and reconcile, through people like me.

My new ministry involves a lot less talking and a lot more listening, as well as acts of kindness and service. I’ve done a lot less talking about God since my eyes were opened to the reality of my privilege, and instead I’ve tried to make changes in my life to help bring heaven to earth.

It’s less about “Jesus loves you and can save you from your sins if you say this prayer!” and more about “I’m happy to serve you, just the way you are, because that’s what Jesus wants.”

The World is not my enemy. The World is not out to get me. The world is full of my brothers and sisters, waiting for reconciliation – with me, with each other, and with God.

Eighteen-year-old Me. I dunno.

Note: I’ve been talking about evangelism around here, sharing my personal stories. You can find my introduction to the subject here.

In my last post, I shared my humiliating and disastrous attempt to convert my sweet friend Marie, which resulted in a shattered friendship. Today I’m continuing with another story.

I wrote this several years ago on my embarrassing old blog, and thought it would be fun to repost it. I mention this only to highlight that you might notice my writing style is different, and I’m probably even less evangelical than I was when I wrote this.

I never tried to convert another person to Christianity after the incident with Marie.

Okay, I only tried to convert one other person. But she didn’t mind because she was actually interested in my faith. She was taking philosophy with me in the same semester that I was taking sociology with Marie. So I was evangelizing them both simultaneously. I thought I was doing pretty good with this other girl, too, until she dropped out of the class before I got a chance to lead her to Christ. She never responded to any of my emails.

So that was that. I ditched that form of evangelism almost as quickly as I had picked it up. It clearly wasn’t working for me.

The fact that I gave up “evangelism” in the traditional sense, though, doesn’t mean I stopped talking about God. Far from it.

But after I gave up on conventional evangelism, my conversations about God were different. They just sort of happened spontaneously. They were natural and organic and never premeditated.

And I lost the whole idea that I was a spiritual teacher seeking disciples. I was a twenty-year old kid, for goodness sakes. I was just some girl in university who believed in God and liked to talk about him if people were interested.

And lots of people were, it turned out.

Wendy

A year or two after Project Marie fell through, I took a summer art class at the university. I was getting married in a few months and wanted to decrease my upcoming semester’s workload by doing a class during the break. In art class I met a remarkable woman whom I’ll call Wendy.

I have met few human beings in my life as beautiful as Wendy. She was sweet and honest, with a personality that was as warm and golden as her hair and her amber complexion. She had a younger brother with a developmental disability whom she absolutely adored and about whom she talked with refreshing fondness. As a result, she was extremely sympathetic to all people with disabilities and loved hearing their stories.

She was a generous and friendly individual, and she struck up a conversation with me on the first day of class as we were setting up our easels. When she found out where I lived she suggested that we carpool to school. So, for the rest of the summer, I got to drive back and forth with her every day in her parents’ big white Expedition, talking about music, boys, family, and art. She would play her country music really loud and keep the windows down, and then yell over the roar of the wind about how she loved the singer’s voice or how she wanted to collect paintings for a gallery some day.

I don’t even remember ever mentioning that I was a Christian. I never do anymore. It seems people can just tell, or maybe I let it slip without realizing it. But on our last day of class, as we were heading home for the last time down the highway with the wind roaring in our ears and Rascal Flatts serenading us over the speakers, she yelled to me, “So . . . why do you believe in God?”

I explained to her, as best as I could, that God just made sense to me, and helped me to make sense of the world. I explained that I was pretty sure that Jesus was God. I explained how I believed the Gospels were accurate historical documents and that I found Jesus a pretty compelling deity. Wendy said that she wasn’t really convinced but she would probably remain open to the possibility that God existed. We drifted on to another conversation topic, and shortly after that we arrived at her house. I got into my car and exchanged warm goodbyes, and I gave her an invitation to my wedding before I drove off.

We didn’t ever talk about God explicitly again, but we continued to hang out every once in a while. She even came to my wedding, looking like a goddess in a short white dress, and danced with all the people with special needs, including my autistic brother-in-law. I visited her a couple of times at her place until she moved to another province to do another degree.

As with Marie, I never succeeded in converting her; but that was no longer my mission. And neither did I turn her off from God or church. I figure that’s gotta count for something.

I loved this new way of talking about God.

I loved being asked about my faith, and being able to talk about it openly without any pressure to change the person who was asking. I realized that I had no control over whether or not Wendy wanted to know Jesus, and that was okay. That wasn’t my responsibility. I was available to her if she ever did want to know more, and I’m sure she knew it. I didn’t have to give her a weird, “I’m available to talk if you ever want to come to Christ” spiel. That was already apparent.

My job was simply to continue loving God and living in relationship with him, and to make friends and to be open to talking about God with them if they were interested. And if they simply weren’t? There was nothing I could really do about that.

After that summer, I was often surprised to find myself in the middle of a conversation about heaven with a friend over lunch or a chatting about prayer while walking to the library. I was surprised to find how naturally – and frequently – it occurred. People — particularly atheists — loved talking and hearing about God, as long as I wasn’t giving them a sermon.

And it never felt weird. It was just as natural as talking about our weekends or our boyfriends or the authors we were reading. I simply shared some of my own young thoughts and experiences when the subject came up. And my friends seemed to value them.

I never had to intentionally steer the conversation in that direction if it wasn’t going there. God came up on his own accord.

Using this approach, I also had plenty of time to get to know my friends first before diving into God stuff – to learn what kinds of things they found interesting or exciting.

I also found I was never nervous about talking about God anymore – my friends cherished my views and often found them intriguing. What was there to be nervous about? We were equals; we were both spiritual seekers, even if we had come to different conclusions about the universe. I had no responsibility but to be loving, open, honest, and thoughtful.

This is the form of evangelism I have embraced since the failed Convert Marie Project, and I have had no shortage of conversations about God since then.

Lighthouse image from Rene Gonzalez.

(Kathleen, the 19-year-old Evangelist)

Note: I’m continuing my series on evangelism, which started here.  I shared my thoughts and experiences on door-to-door evangelists, and now I’m sharing some of my own stories.

My career as an unofficial evangelist began in my first year of university.

I had been a Christian all my life and had been made to feel guilty about my failure to “share my faith” for many years already. But that year, when I was nineteen, I attended an enormous Christian Revival event with my youth group. After that I became On Fire for God and ready to spread the Gospel. It was a life-changing event. I became so ready to share my faith.

The first casualty of my newly-acquired fire was a friend from school whom I’ll call Marie.

We were both first-year English literature students who had met in our first semester, and were now taking a sociology class together. Marie was fantastic. On the outside, she looked like a very ordinary, very shy girl who liked to blend in. At first I had thought we probably wouldn’t like each other because she seemed so quiet and normal, and I was so “artistic” (I wore colourful vintage shoes and plaid pants and carried around an artsy notebook); but once I got to know her I discovered she was uproariously witty and terribly smart. Her humour was unlike anyone else’s I had ever met.

And after the Revival I realized that she needed to know the Lord, and that I would be the one to arrange the initial meeting.

So in soc class one day shortly after the event I passed her a note with a few lines of small talk, asking “How was your weekend?” or something customary like that.

She responded, and we went back and forth a few times like that while I planned my attack.

I decided to segue into my intended subject with, “So, what are your thoughts on spiritual stuff?” The question was a mere formality. I wasn’t really interested in her take on spirituality. I was just getting her primed for a lesson on what I thought about spiritual stuff, and I couldn’t just launch right into it without any warning.

She wrote back something about how she sometimes wondered whether this life was all there really was, or whether we were just animated “bags of bones” that came and went without any real meaning. Ahhhh, I thought as I read it. I have an answer for this.

My fingers quivered as I nervously filled up the backside of the page with the solution to the universe. I don’t remember exactly what I wrote – I think it was a combination of half-informed creation science material, mixed in with some smatterings of theology I had recently encountered and a few personal theoretical musings. In the end, I proved that God existed, that He created the world 6,000 years ago, that Marie was in need of a personal saviour, and that Armenianism was more true than Calvinism. All in one page.

Actually, I didn’t even get a chance to get to the good stuff before class was over so after we got up I walked with her to her minivan and continued to evangelize as we went along. I told her everything I knew (which wasn’t a lot) about the need to repent, about God’s relationship to time and space, and about the Bible’s historical validity. And also that evolution isn’t true. The more I talked, the more uneasy she looked. We ended up standing under a tree by her van, with her shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot while I picked twigs off the tree to make illustrations.

Eventually I could tell it was time for her to go and we awkwardly said our goodbyes. As she climbed into her van, a huge weight lifted from my shoulders. I had done my duty to Jesus. I had shared my faith.

I called out generously, “And if you ever have any questions for me . . .” I paused, looking for the right words, “. . . feel free to ask.”

“Oh good,” she said with a look of relief. “That’s all. For a minute there, I was afraid you were going to give me a pamphlet or invite me to a Bible study.” And with that she shut her door behind her and left.

* * *

We were never quite able to repair our friendship after that.

The semester soon ended and we emailed each other a couple of times. She was still very polite and even left me a funny little note on my car’s windshield one afternoon with a drawing of Helen, the enormous plush sombrero-wearing frog who lived in my Pontiac Firefly.

But I could tell that something had changed between us. Eventually she stopped responding to my emails.

We lost touch. We were no longer friends.

The next semester we didn’t have any more classes together and we didn’t see each other again.

In my evangelistic efforts, I had crossed over from being a real friend to being a missionary whose only apparent aim was to convert her. I can only guess that she may have felt a little used and dehumanized. As far as she could see, I no longer valued her intrinsically as a person and a friend, but only as a recipient of my Good News.

And that was so far from the truth. Marie was a brilliant person, a gifted writer, and a devoted and warmhearted friend. I genuinely liked her. After I totally botched things up with her, I found I missed her terribly. I missed her unique sense of humour and the fun conversations we had in the campus Subway. I had messed that all up when I decided to make her my religious project.

* * *

Nowadays, when I get an evangelist at the door, I can’t help but cringe to think that I was once that person to someone else.

What frustrates me about most door-to-door evangelists is how they don’t seem to give two craps about me – about who I am and where I’m at. They’re usually not interested in finding out what kind of a relationship I already have with God; they just want to tell me what it ought to be like.

For all they know, I could be Christ himself in the form of a drowsy, gnome-loving grad student in her slippers at the door; but all they want to do is preach to me. They’re not interested in two-way conversations. They see themselves as the teachers with something to offer, and me as the empty vessel waiting to be filled.

It’s insulting.

And I did that to Marie. I didn’t show any interest in her own thoughts or experiences; I just wanted to teach her what I knew.

Ever since my disastrous attempt to convert poor Marie, I have had to rethink the way that I – and presumably many other believers – think about evangelism.

The first thing I learned is that if you do not respect the beliefs of those who don’t share your faith, and do not value them as individuals the way they are, they will not have any reason to be care about what you have to say. People can sense when they are someone else’s religious project, and it doesn’t feel good. I know it from experience. I hate to be proselytized to.

Consequently, I don’t feel comfortable viewing the world purely as a mission field that needs to be blessed with our own wisdom. Rather, I like to see it as more of a grand seminar room, filled with allies in all shapes and forms. We live in a world full of wisdom and beauty to be acquired and shared with others.

Marie didn’t just need me; I needed her too. I’m certain she could have spoken wisdom into my own life if I had given her a chance, even if she wasn’t a “believer.” But I didn’t give her a chance. I shut that door when I decided that the conversation was a one-way thing.

And for that I am terribly sorry.