my grace notes

An invitation to something new…

2010-01-08T10:23:00.001-08:00

It's just become evident to me that I can't do everything! Wow, what a revelation! I can't believe I've spent so many years of my life (partially) believing that I can. Sorry, I'll try to stop doing that!

Since my last post here a lot of things have been happening… and I'm going to try to give you a window into that part of my life by inviting you to my new blog, BUDDY BREATHING.

Buddy Breathing… a blog about hope, is where I will be spending my blogging energies for now.

Please come and join me there, and thank you for following this blog and commenting and for encouraging me. Your words speak life into me!

Peace, out.

Lesley-Anne

Words for the New Year, images from the past.

2010-01-01T16:27:00.000-08:00

My great-grandfather, Sgt. James Hislop Cook's A Coy, 20th Battalion at the C.N.E. in Toronto, March 1915. His Brigade was commanded by Brigadier Armand Armstrong Smith, of the famous E.D. Smith & Sons. He is fourth from the left, seated in the front row. He was a certified marksman, and was wounded three times in battle. Photograph with permission of Joel Clements, Brainstorm Studio.

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible, without surrender;
be on good terms with all persons…
And whatever your labours and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul.
With all it's sham, drudgery and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

'Desiderata', by Max Ehrmann

'Hum V' Jesus

2009-12-11T09:04:00.000-08:00

photography by
Joel Clements,
Brainstorm Studio

Your 'Hum V' Jesus don’t cut it with me.
Your tear stained prayer books,
pious acts and sideways looks don’t touch my pain.
The demon in me plays addictions winning game.

And while you dine with your lunch bunch,
sip chardonnay and plan a warm beach holiday,
I sit inside the bus stop, waiting for the rain to stop,
dying for my next hit, and feeling like a piece of shit.

So when I show up, you gonna grow up,
walk up, cough up some loose change
and be Jesus in a real way? Let me eat and drink today?
Or will you just drive by while I’m contemplating suicide?

‘cause Jesus was a walking man.
He walked and talked and sat down
by the side of the road, in the ditch. That man wasn’t rich.
Jesus handed out life and fish.

That’s the Jesus I wanna know
that’s the one you gotta show me
If you wanna reach me, teach me,
then you gotta touch me where it hurts.

And if my next score is what makes me tick
it might make you sick, but it
might take me through another night.
Yeah, it ain't right, I ain't a pretty sight
but this is real life, so you gonna get real?

The good news, the upside
is that the will to survive
could arrive in your shaking hand,
slow steps, down-turned eyes.
Your spare change; my fish and life.

Lesley-Anne Evans
February 2008

The fear of white

2009-12-04T08:00:00.000-08:00

I have found there to be voids, like the
times when the stark white of it is blinding
transfixing all attempts at meaningful expression,
mocking my tongue-tied immobility with blank eyes.

A fading memory of grade school reminds me that
figures placed in appropriate order upon paper make sense,
so that is where I begin to break the curse,
to place one or two words, tentative sentences into

the void. But my heart longs for the rush of thought
and the cramping of my fingers as they frantically try to
match the pace of mental discourse around
something glimpsed in passing, a brief transcendent

thought, that should someone happen upon it, they might
feel a catch in their throat or an ache in their gut
and maybe the urge to cry -- Do you know what I mean?
Like when you listen to a particular piece of music, and

it tears your heart from your chest, and leaves you
struggling to breath.

Lesley-Anne Evans
December 2009

Ode to Arid

2009-12-02T10:47:00.000-08:00

my own photography…

She described you as ‘brown’
and ‘not to her liking’
in a turned up nose distasteful kind of way.
‘I like the green of it,’ she said
and I wanted to take my little soapbox
stand upon it
and sing your praises…

Instead,
I sit down, righteous pen in hand, and
write an ode to the proven beauty that is dryness
and would argue that
green is needy, garish and greedy,
fed day after day upon relentless rain…
soaking in, sodden, superfluous super-saturation.

While the brown of it --
the golden stretches of rolling bunch grass and
Ponderosa dotted highlands are soft, undemanding
on my eyes, providing
fodder for ranging cattle and quarter horses
and contentment
for those satisfied with ‘just enough’.

…A conservative abundance.

Lesley-Anne Evans
November 2009

You might like me

2009-11-28T18:56:00.000-08:00

I long to share things with you
thoughts, feelings, my heart
Yet you choose to talk about the weather
and the son of a long forgotten friend

I’m part of you
I came out of you
Yet you deny the part of me
that I want to give back to you

So, I share in the superficial
join the chatter, and fill the dead air
with lifeless words
inside me is me
unspoken, unrealized, unknown

I retreat to my room to my
pen and paper expose,
And wait for the airport farewell
my crocodile tears
the prolonged goodbye,
to a cardboard cutout of someone
I want to know better
who smiled and said,

......“not today thank you.”

Lesley-Anne Evans, Sept. 2007

Daughter of the King

2009-11-23T13:58:00.000-08:00

One day she wakes up weary,
of the life she’s come to know.
She used to feel potential
now all she feels is old.
Her eyes have lost their brightness
and her soul is growing cold.
Nobody seems to notice but the Lord...

and He whispers....

You are lovely
You are worthy
You are my delight, for you are daughter of the King.
Broken beauty
sing a new song,
lift your eyes and see yourself through me.
You’re in me.

She looks for ways to feed
a hunger she can’t name.
The black and white of childhood
is lost in shades of grey.
And to find herself she thinks
she must give herself away.
She prays in desperation
to hold on another day,
Then she hears him...

You are lovely
You are worthy
You are my delight, for you are daughter of the King.
Broken beauty
sing a new song,
lift your eyes and see yourself through me.
You’re in me.

You’re his chosen and beloved one, be free.
You’re the perfect, precious daughter of the King.

You’re his chosen and beloved one, be free.
You’re the perfect, precious daughter of the King.

You are lovely
You are worthy
You are my delight, for you are daughter of the King.
Broken beauty
sing a new song,
lift your eyes and see yourself through me.
Lift your eyes and see,
Lift your eyes and see,
Lift your eyes and see yourself through me.
You’re in me

Written by Lesley-Anne Evans and Shawna Froese, Feb. 2007

Emerging

2009-11-16T13:39:00.001-08:00

Photography by Lisa Mabey

Today, at the public pool edge
a fleeting reminder of who you once were --
golden haired cherub in ruffled daffodil-yellow swim suit,
precariously teetering on the edge.

No longer infant yet not quite child
rounded, soft, with her
eyes wide open and heart untouched
by pain of knowledge or experience.
Touching and trying with a tiptoed courage
and insatiable appetite for all things new,
a fearless explorer with Daddy trailing behind.

Only yesterday this was you…
Darting out in ever widening circles into the world,
then back to hold tight to my hand.

I want to breathe this moment deep into my lungs…

… savor the taste with my eyes.

Lesley-Anne Evans
November 2009

First bite

2009-11-02T14:47:00.000-08:00

Self portrait by Graeme Evans

Do you feel it…
sometimes…
an insatiable striving for knowledge?
Do you crave it, because
Knowledge is achievement.
Knowledge is position,
Knowledge is power?

I know I want it.

So I have to ask…
When Adam and his first mate took that one (small) bite of
the fruit of the Knowledge tree,
was it sinfully delicious, and dripping
with the juice of ‘knowing’?

Was that first nibble what started it all?

‘Cause it seems we spend so much of ourselves
in this obsession with understanding,
researching small nuances on every possible subject.
In our information age, our research culture…
the possibilities are virtually endless.

So we log on,

…and surf away…

Lesley-Anne Evans
July 2009

OUTLASTING MOTHS: Great Men

2009-10-30T09:09:00.000-07:00

Dear readers,

In this wide brave world of the internet, my mention of another human being behind some more words may or may not matter to you… but I have found some incredible writers and poets 'out there', and want to simply ask you to consider the words of this one.

Rachel Phillips;

OUTLASTING MOTHS: Great Men

Walking wounded

2009-10-27T10:03:00.000-07:00

photography by Joel Clements

Here’s to the walking wounded --

The ones who continue to stand upright,
mortal wounds hidden from public sight,
bleeding relentless, internal blight,

… Here’s to the walking wounded.

Hearts ripped beating from red blossomed chests,
fermented promises long time suppressed,
still hoping while hope dies a prolong-ed death,

…Here’s to the walking wounded.

Half awake players of first dance wedding nights,
catatonic creatures with complacent lives,
silent screams in pissing down rain endless nights,

… Here’s to the walking wounded.

Red letter leaders turned concrete grey,
futures tainted by moral and economic decay,
as pink slips beget need for food stamps today,

… Here’s to the walking wounded.

The smelly man hunched on the bus shelter floor,
the starving children of front page tabloids galore,
the haunted eyed stranger I’ve learned to ignore,

… Here’s to the walking wounded.

Lesley-Anne Evans
October 2009

The Fallen

2009-10-19T10:48:00.000-07:00

The leaves fall under the trees in autumn. Oak leaves under oak trees, maple under maple, aspen under aspen. Branches reach over them, as if in one last attempt to capture the past.

With branches outstretched, the trees stand as silent sentinels. Wet with autumn rain, they stand alone in their solitary sadness and mourn the loss of their magnificence. Maple tree mourning maple leaf.

But oh, the brilliance of the leaves as they lie on the ground, glowing with intensity. Adorning the tired green of summer’s remaining grasses, they are as significant in this new setting as they were in the old. Leaf tips curl up to hold captured rain drops. They lie together in a riotous celebration of colour, each leaf worthy of belonging in a child’s collection of special things.

Until their colours slowly fade, and the leaves become a patchwork quilt for the roots.

If you look up into the trees now, you will see that their grieving has ended. On the once leaf-laden branches, a hint of life appears again. The buds lie dormant, waiting for the day that the upward flow of sap will swell them into significance, burst them into beauty.

Pregnant with hope, the trees await spring.

Lesley-Anne Evans
Autumn 2006

Brave New Day

2009-10-15T10:15:00.000-07:00

My blood runs thick this morning
a heaviness wraps around my joints --
and it greets me sheepishly, like an uninvited guest
returned for a longer stay.

My drug of choice… hot coffee
with milk and white sugar… is not enough
to awaken my inner workings.

My mind anticipates a thaw later in the day, when
joints will move easily -- though creaking -- and
blood will pump like oil to lubricate my extremities.

So, this morning's walk is slow and deliberate, as
dog strains ahead, then stops to
breathe in reminders of passersby.
He marks the spot.

Beside the pond, a branch accepts heron graciously,
as indigo mirror perfectly echos the vignette.
Cattle singing over breakfast in the farm yard
invite me to linger, feel their song.

To the south heavy clouds are parting and
blue is there, with it sun on Okanagan Mountain.
All this is enough to draw me on, and

keep my leaden feet upon the path,
enough to hope for sunshine
and for hope itself --

On this brave new day.

Lesley-Anne Evans
Oct. 15, 2009

Outside the door

2009-10-14T12:23:00.000-07:00

Ancient history, I thought,
what's done is done --
on to new things and a fresh start.

But, it shadowed me
lurked in dark corners.
Peered, with bloodshot eyes into
conversations sprinkled with
insinuations.

I realized, after a time,
that hurt cannot stay outside the door.
It must come in,
sit down,
and acquaint itself

… with grace.

Lesley-Anne Evans
2009

Legacy

2009-10-10T08:00:00.000-07:00

photography by Robert Evans

You would think
the smell of death would
have the power to break down
unforgiveness and stubborn pride.

What I mean is
there might be a coming to terms
with stuff,
like slights and rifts and differing opinions
and even some bigger things,
when coming to terms with
endings.

Yet, the broken breaches
caused by words poorly spoken
are a series of little deaths
adding up to
mortal wounds -
irreconcilable differences.

And, being human,
we clutch tightly to what is ours -
fighting for
the last word,
the last breath,
and leave behind
a legacy of

… regret.

Lesley-Anne Evans
09/26/08

Road Warrior

2009-10-08T10:07:00.000-07:00

photography by Lynda Norman

She defines a small space really --
a brown speckled bump on
the solid yellow line
of Gordon Drive.
Feather’s ruffled by
intent mini-vans and
self-focused lives,

her expiration date is blessedly past.

They say mallards mate once,
for life,
and I wonder…
what will he think
when she doesn’t come home for dinner?

Lesley-Anne Evans
2009

Three Short Poems

2009-10-07T14:27:00.000-07:00

1.

Blackbird, blackbird, blackbird, blackbird.
Blackbirds on a telegraph wire.
Jostling, bobbing black head hellos,
sanguine communicados.

2.

Hard to swallow lump,
heart beat tangible.
I wait for your call --
do you forgive me yet?

3.

Panic packed in matching bags…
do I have all I need
to make a good impression,
to be who I really am?
Just three days at home
that isn’t home anymore.
I left a long time ago
and going back hurts.

Lesley-Anne Evans
2008

Child of Darfur

2009-09-30T12:23:00.000-07:00

There are six things a child’s eyes should not see, seven that break the heart of God --

Mother, large with child, shot dead and
sand drifting over the still smoldering village.
The last piece of bread.
The loss of all comfort -- and a culture.
The stiff back of the world.
The death of hope.

My faith without action.

Lesley-Anne Evans
September 2009

Photography by Mia Farrow, 'Darfur child traumatized baby', from www.miafarrow.org.

Words sink in

2009-09-27T08:00:00.000-07:00

photography by Susan Scantland

Do you hear the words --
the lyrics of the Top 10,
and New York Times Best Sellers
calling out of love and fame and fantasy.
You can have it all.

Are you buying in,
Are you selling out?

Do you hear the voice
older than the ages
cutting through the noise
telling tales of upside down and inside out.
Are you listening?

Will you let it in,
Are you selling out?

The world is calling
the voice is loud
still a small voice whispers
beyond the crowd.

Are you buying in,
Are you selling out?

‘cause the truth is out there…

Lesley-Anne Evans
November 2008

Land

2009-09-26T08:00:00.000-07:00

photography by Lynda Norman

Give me space

breathing room

a place to think.

Give me land so vast you could get lost
just by standing in the middle of it.

Give me room enough to look from a distance,
and see without obstruction.

Allow me to consider unhindered creation
and in the looking

see God.

Lesley-Anne Evans
06/02/2009

Tangible

2009-09-24T21:49:00.000-07:00

Now you might think otherwise
or question my experience
but the truth of the matter is --
I’ve grown accustomed to wide open spaces
and finding God there.

Lesley-Anne Evans
August 2009

Out of my depth

2009-09-23T21:42:00.000-07:00

I’m standing on the gravel shore, yelling,
waving madly with both arms,
me -- middle aged mom in large sunglasses
anxious at the sight of you
drifting just outside the bouys.

It’s not that far, I could wade to where you are,
or maybe swim the last few meters…
I'm pretty certain I could, if necessary.

Still, an instinctual flush of hot danger grasps my throat
and launches me from lawn chair to water’s edge,
exposing my maternal obsession and modestly clad flesh
to the beach crowd.

Lesley-Anne Evans
August 2009

Compulsion

2009-09-17T14:11:00.000-07:00

How subtly do I
flick the switch
from collection to compulsion
interest to obsession --
just as cat lover becomes cat lady
filling my shelves morphs into building shelves to fill.

Now here I am, slave to the superficial
while lovely, hungry, complicated eyes wait
watching, wanting only love
in mine.

My eyes, flitting frantically for another something
to fill the gaping maw of my misplaced need --

Help me --
flick the switch.

Lesley-Anne Evans
August 2009

Wind

2009-09-17T08:00:00.000-07:00

photograph by Joel Clements

I cannot see the wind
(in a tangible way) with my eyes
no matter how long I stand and look
for it’s source, for it’s destination
(yet I know that it is there).

I see how it plays on the surface of the water
creating patterns, ripples, white caps, storms.
I feel it pulling at my hair, convincing loose strands from my ponytail
that tickle my face, get into my eyes.
I see it sway the Ponderosa as easily as the fields of grain
that move in waves before it’s breath.

And I think, how like the wind
to be so hard to pin down, yet everywhere
around, in, over, under, upon me.

I cannot see the wind
(in a tangible way) with my eyes
no matter how hoarse my voice for asking
how bruised my knees for bending
(yet I know that it is there)

I feel how it presses me, presents itself in people,
circumstances, undeserved kindnesses and grace.
I hear it in the melody of Chick-a-Dee
and child outside my open window.
I know it in my deep and silent places, my hurts,
my dreams, my unexpected realizations.

And I think, how like the wind
to be a thing of faith, unseen yet everywhere
around, in, over, under, upon me.

How like the wind.
How like you.

Lesley-Anne Evans
September 2009

Horses

2009-09-16T11:15:00.000-07:00

They stand in the clarity of valley's first light,
knees loosened,
heads bowed,
eyes closed,
facing sunrise over the south-east bench.

Steam rises from sway backs like
prayers of the faithful in a
black poplar cathedral.

Trail weary travelers worship early morning rest.

Lesley-Anne Evans
Feb. 2009

There is a Place

2009-09-14T11:29:00.000-07:00

His family is broken, and his life torn apart
His Daddy left them for a woman and a new start.
And he’s only a boy, now he’s man of their home
Keeps a stiff upper lip when mom leaves him alone.

She sits in the chair, feet submerged in the tub
inviting wellness to come with wax, polish and scrub.
Then she books another appointment for the very next day,
tries to hang onto feelings that will soon fade away.

Just a bystander wondering what you can do
‘cause life and confusion is clouding their view.
It would be so easy to just look away
than to point them to Jesus, than to openly say...

There is a place,
there is a plan,
there is a story of grace,
written by the Great I am.…
You could point them to Jesus.

He’s working so hard that he’s missing the truth
that the dream that he’s chasing has stolen his youth.
He’s feeling the pull and he’s longing for more
He’s paying for a lifestyle he can barely afford.

Her husband can’t love her the way that she needs
and this man that she met is so easy to please.
So she picks up her phone, makes a questionable call
His voice drowns out another voice, gentle and small.

Just a bystander wondering what you can do
‘cause life and confusion is clouding their view
it would be so easy to just look away
Then a voice deep inside you compels you to say...

There is a place,
there is a plan,
there is a story of grace
written by the Great I am…
You lead them to Jesus.

Lesley-Anne Evans
2008
These words were written as song lyrics… the tune in my head still not put down onto paper.

31 Flavours

2009-09-12T17:09:00.000-07:00

Do you ever really know where you stand with a women?

Tempting hues of bosom buddies and best friends forever are shadowed
by thoughts of becoming next week’s awkward acquaintance.
How uniquely feminine that friends can be chosen like flavours of ice cream;
Sweet, but too rich for my taste; A little tart; Too chunky;
Plain vanilla’s my favourite, but perhaps a tad expected, uneventful?

Ah yes -- now we are friends for life,
or at least until a better offer comes along.

Why is it so hard to get past superficial infatuations,
work through sticky messes and stay,
for the long haul?

Are your young emotions caught up in the evolution
of your relationships like mine are?
I try not to watch from the parking lot.
Slights and alliances and gossip and groupies… imagined or real?

My concerns may be so much baggage on your tender shoulders --
echoes of my past an unsolicited prophecy of pain.

Lesley-Anne Evans
September 2009

Delight

2009-09-11T16:45:00.000-07:00

Unexpectedly you appear,
in wild and lusty profusion --
floating over the wayside grasses
like exclamation marks, or
polka dots on an apple green summer dress --
As if our passing somehow matters
in your tentative lives at the edge of the interstate --
That we are worthy of spontaneous celebration.
So, you clap your hands in abandon,
then lift up your lacy skirts
and dance.

Lesley-Anne Evans
July 2009

Returning

2009-09-08T12:20:00.000-07:00

First day --
subtle glances, eyes meet
as you move from my world to theirs again
and I trust you there
(for the most part).

Locker filled with all you prepared well,
mind open to new facts, figures, friendships.

I stand back and watch you go,
leaving me incrementally,
each year a little easier, for both of us.

The youngest one, the last
to need me in that physical way of
tuck-ins and bed time prayers, applied bandages, and
now it will be mine to tend to bruised feelings, and broken hearts.
Not long now, I fear.

For you are a beautiful one --
strong and athletic and
able to take on the world courageous,
for that I am thankful.

I remain here, peripheral --
daughter of my mother and mother to this daughter
waiting, praying,
cheering on the inside.

September 8, 2009

Dusk

2009-09-05T16:37:00.001-07:00

photography by Bob Evans

There’s an expectation at the coming of night
that with the curtain of darkness drawn down tight
activity will cease with a deep sigh,
and peace will come.

Yet, all it really takes is a step onto my back porch --
to feel a playful breeze rise over my wakeful skin,
to smell lavender preparing to be ravished by tomorrow’s honey bees,
to hear the trill of tree frogs promising passion in the darkness,
to know that night is not a silent ending
rather a dark resurrection of life and love.

Lesley-Anne Evans
September 2009

Pink Warrior

2009-09-04T08:02:00.000-07:00

Girl in the fuscia raincoat
twirling at the top of the playground hill…
Round and round, eyes closed

(fully in the moment), until
he advances up the slope
guns blazing.

Fists clenched, you
stand your ground and
force his retreat.

Warrior princess of the school yard
you spin around again,
a vision of victory

while your pastel clad playmates
run screaming
for a teacher.

Lesley-Anne Evans
Fall 2008

Love is stronger than death

2009-08-30T12:45:00.000-07:00

photography by Lesley-Anne Evans

It wouldn’t take much, maybe
just belief in a love greater
than the separation of two lanes of worn asphalt,
to reach out your moss covered arms,
roots stretching triumphant down the embankment,
and take back the forest primeval.

Lesley-Anne Evans
July 2009

Conflicted

2009-08-27T09:00:00.000-07:00

'Glaring empty', by Lisa Mabey

I sit on the edge of your bed
and watch you leak
small drops
of life.

I anticipated doing things for you,
rather than this --
this waiting, hovering,
trying to interpret
what your heart mumbles
between slurred words.

Like a beachcomber, I search
for tiny wave tossed treasures,
then leave for home - empty handed -
and pray for the tide to turn.

Lesley-Anne Evans
03/02/09

Jazz singer

2009-08-26T09:31:00.000-07:00

Five o’clock shadow on your eight o’clock face,
you hold the mic tenderly in your embrace.
Your baby face wet with traces of sweat, and
you sing to me, you sing to me.

Main stage lights glitter and black ebony glows,
brass band sparkle matches the shine on your shoes.
The boys play on as you croon your song, and
you sing for me, you sing for me.

Heat wave in the words that haunt your lips,
crowd of thousands wrapped ‘round your fingertips.
Platinum wives and young women breathlessly gaze, as
you toy with us, you toy with us.

Black patent shoes dance on the door to my heart,
your flirtatious promises are a well rehearsed art.
I’m mesmerized by your contrived gestures of hand, and
I swoon for you, I swoon for you.

Then it’s over, the starry night fantasy done.
You exit stage right, your encore is sung.
My heart quietens, then resumes a familiar dance
to my true love’s song, my true love’s song.

photography courtesy of our imac
photobooth application

Lesley-Anne Evans
2008

Returns

2009-08-22T20:53:00.000-07:00

I want to draw your attention to this lovely photograph 'Backstage', by my friend Lisa Mabey. She's a very talented, beautiful and humble woman whom I had the delight to meet when our daughters played soccer together last year. It's my absolute honour to begin posting some of Lisa's photography in concert with my poems, and hope that you will visit her blog 'Breath' to view more of her glorious work.

Lesley-Anne

Returns

It could be pure coincidence
that on the afternoon you come back there is a storm brewing.
I feel the heat of August sun withdraw behind clouds
moving in fast from the west.
I see pampas grass bend low to accommodate the breeze.
I hear the porch chimes call out, "storm warning"
as my head unpacks memories.

You are unpacking cardboard boxes
and maybe expectations of a renewal, or at the very least,
a new start, just up the road.
So it could be an aligning of circumstances --
the weather, you, and my dramatic tendencies
to sense something more than a change in the wind.

Still, there’s something emerging within me --
resolve like an Oak tree, deep rooted, watered in,
able to withstand storms.

Lesley-Anne Evans
August 2009

Diversity

2009-08-17T08:58:00.000-07:00

photography by Claire Evans

The same God; angry, jealous, holy
cracked open bedrock chasms to devour hard-hearted betrayers,
also holds my tears of grief and self-pity
in the palm of his open hand,
delights over me with singing.

The same God; creative genius, humorist
dreamed up aardvark and blue-bottomed baboon,
also considers my heart's response to quail babies
following their mother across my cul-de-sac
in a perfectly straight line.

The same God; mighty, just, compassionate
inspired men and women to leave complacent lives
take up causes of world proportion, like aids, orphans, slavery,
also removes my insecurity, my near-sighted view of life,
anoints my pen.

To God be the glory, forever and ever.

Lesley-Anne Evans
August 2009

Transcendent

2009-08-11T12:35:00.000-07:00

photography by Joel Clements

Toubadours --
lyrical lines of airborne comrads
inhabiting space between sea and sky.
Harmony in form and function

yet, mammoth and undeniable,
like heat-seeking missiles --
transcending watery depths
and drawing up fish.

Lesley-Anne Evans
July 2009

Old growth

2009-08-10T10:04:00.000-07:00

Driving through I couldn't help but notice
how the forest flourished,
to the very edge of the asphalt.

As if, at any moment
the deer ferns might grow legs,
tumble down the loamy banks
and run, unhindered, with long lost cousins

on the other side.

As if the Sitkas waited, breath held,
for our transient passing
only to close in upon themselves
in an ancient prayer circle, and

again offer up forgiveness for our misguided intrusions.

Lesley-Anne Evans
July 2009

Visit

2009-08-10T09:46:00.000-07:00

photography by Claire Evans

You waited, didn't you…
until the last evening
as the sun was kissing clouds
like pink candy floss at the horizon.

I wasn't expecting you
and so, all the more sweet.
Your breath erupted and hung above the deep
and my heart sang out … whale…

Lesley-Anne Evans
July 2009

Cut

2009-08-05T19:41:00.001-07:00

photography by Robert Evans

In the distance striped fields of ochre and green show how
one day, soft topped grasses moved like waves in the wind
and how a passing Massey Ferguson laid them down, unresisting
into rows like palomino manes, subdued and willing to embrace
the sun, heat up, dry out, offer up body and blood
as fodder for ruminations of cattle and poets and
farmers at the Feed and Tack.

Lesley-Anne Evans
August 2009

Away

2009-08-04T15:50:00.000-07:00

Some days
if the truth were told
that is, if I were speaking it aloud
I’d say I want to run away
opposite direction to anywhere you or they are.
To a pine box even, or to float, lifeless,
in cold silent fathoms.

My mind screams
shut up shut up shut up
to incessant words, arguments, bickering.

I settle for an angry walk, wet faced in
pissing down rain.
Until mercy comes with full mouth kisses,
turns my heart home.

Lesley-Anne Evans
July 2009

Forgiveness

2009-08-01T10:40:00.000-07:00

I looked down only for a minute
to scribble something
(meaningful)
in my journal,
lifted up my eyes and it was gone.

All of it --
foreshore,
headland,
horizon.

Suddenly shrouded in a veil of soft grey mist,
making mystery of what was,

like a covering over all of my sins.

Lesley-Anne Evans
July 2009

Crescendo

2009-07-28T08:00:00.001-07:00

There’s music in the vineyard --
a rising tympani of leaves
exposing their soft bellies to
the western wind.

Harmonies of vine and wire
vine and wire, vine and wire
and the rhythm of staccato posts
support the melody.

Bees buzz, tasting floral hints
of autumn’s fruit
while heavy hot summer sun
pulls the song from root to blossom tip.

There’s music in the vineyard --
a complex composition carries on.
And, the cry of red-tailed hawk -
a grace note.

Lesley-Anne Evans
01/07/2009

Crow Babies

2009-07-28T08:00:00.000-07:00

photography by Claire Evans

The whole, wide, white-crested ocean
and within clear view of your
wind beaten pine
was not enough
to draw your
bright, black, beady-eyed attention.

Instead, you flew
with your fuzzy-headed sibling
from pine branch to cedar-shake roof
of the cottage next door,
chortling softly to each other
and attempted to take a bath
in the rain water trapped in the gutter.

Lesley-Anne Evans
July 2009

Walk a mile

2009-07-27T19:57:00.000-07:00

photography by Claire Evans

Say nothing.

First, slip your foot into
my travel-worn shoes.

Can you see
scenic bi-ways, foot paths
and well intentioned plans
realized but for weather and love?

If so,
come share
the warmth of my hobo fire
and billy can coffee.

If not,
wipe the dust from your feet
and walk on down the road

in silence.

Lesley-Anne Evans
July 2009

Seabird

2009-07-24T14:26:00.000-07:00

Photography by Robert Evans

How does it feel
to leave land behind
take to the sea
live on silver offerings
and faith in your ability
to stay afloat
regardless of weather?

Such humble beginnings
you wake alone
to dirt walls
and just a glimmer of light.

Hunkered down in your snug burrow
fed by swift and sleek parents, then
pushed from your nest you fledge quickly
to cries of their approval

Now it’s time…

No backward glances
or salt pillars
You fix your eye on the watery horizon
and fly seaward.

Lesley-Anne Evans
July 2009

Husband, hunter-gatherer

2009-07-21T08:00:00.000-07:00

Husband, hunter-gatherer

I’m looking for bits of rope
tossed up by the sea
Anything, really…
with knots tied in them,
some remnant of a sailor or fisherman’s craft.

Ok, you said.

Relieved to find some tangible purpose
for our walk to the tidal pools,
you searched a short time
and pulled a long, knotted, shell-encrusted, perfectly weathered rope
from between the rocks.

Holding it up to me
with a smile
you asked…
Like this?

Lesley-Anne Evans
July 2009

Words 2

2009-07-19T08:00:00.000-07:00

When I plumb the depths
and draw up fresh
wet and glistening considerations,
presenting them on
heirloom plates -
an offering

Do you quicken, hunger
for the taste of complex spice,
pour Shiraz and savour
... slowly...
or do you crave
simpler
sweeter
things?

Lesley-Anne Evans
28/07/2008

Channel Swimmer

2009-07-17T08:00:00.000-07:00

You stand on the edge
waves lapping at your ready feet.

In your gut emotions wage war
provoked by whispers of darkness, sharks
and endless miles of open water.

Yet, out there is the siren call… of land
and other less solid surfaces.

Just offshore, bobbing
in a liquid trail of moonlight
the support boat waits.

You raise your hand
tighten the strap of your goggles,
and step into the water.

Lesley-Anne Evans
29/07/2008

Leg Hold

2009-07-15T08:00:00.000-07:00

He kicks the ruler once, hard
It skids across the linoleum and
connects with Connor's foot
Resentment stuffed deep
fists shoved in pockets
he shoulder slams Connor
into a locker door
then shuffles his untied DC's
on past him to Room 105

It is only 9:15

Walls and expectations
might hold him
'til 3

Lesley-Anne Evans
07/03/08

Hawk

2009-07-13T08:00:00.000-07:00

Treetop sojourner --
feather’s ruffled against the early morning chill.

Expectant sentinel
over earthly offerings that scurry in frosted stubble.

I wait

and watch

as hunger takes flight.

Deadly beauty circles heavy over me and
life ends…
within a sweep of un-gleaned grain.

Lesley-Anne Evans
06/02/2009

Things I saw while not looking…

2009-07-11T08:00:00.000-07:00

A lone robin -- Spring’s ambassador --
hopping tentatively over the tired snow.

Redwing blackbirds calling in raucous warbles
from hidden perches in the frozen marsh.

Three tundra swans banking wide white circles
in the valley below us, on our way home from school.

The sun painting my kitchen a watery yellow
through fingerprinted winter windows.

Lesley-Anne Evans
02/03/2009

You might like me

2009-07-09T08:00:00.000-07:00

I long to share things with you
thoughts, feelings, my heart
Yet you choose to talk about the weather
and the son of a long forgotten friend

I’m part of you
I came out of you
Yet you deny the part of me
that I want to give back to you

So, I share in the superficial
join the chatter and fill the dead air
with lifeless words
inside me is me
unspoken, unrealized, unknown

I retreat to my room to my
pen and paper expose,
And wait for the airport farewell
my crocodile tears
the prolonged goodbye
to a cardboard cutout of someone
I want to know better
who smiled and said,
“not today thank you.”

Lesley-Anne Evans, Sept. 2007

Open Water

2009-07-08T08:00:00.000-07:00

Dedicated to my friend Art Suke, 1958-2009

Open Water

Launching at the ‘El.’ is easy,
dry-dock jockey does the work,
lift, drop and go...

Mirages shimmer at the horizon
the sun burning colour from
the bleached blue Okanagan sky.

On the lake it’s 10 degrees cooler.
I cruise south to Okanagan Mountain
no commitments,
no expectations
...alone.

The lake ahead waits like flat glass while
Albertans take their time at brunch --
their loss, my gain.

Peace, open water, silence as
I cut the engine and the boat settles
into dark wash denim liquid.

Well seasoned fisherman, an eagle
flies large circles overhead.
I watch him watching me
...competition for the morning calm.

I fill my thirsty eyes, my mind, my soul
with a deep and quiet gratitude...
a silent prayer to my Creator,

Who watches, and walks with me,
and knows what lies ahead -- all of it --
open water, life
... eternity...

by Lesley-Anne Evans
Oct. 2008

Gulls 2

2009-07-07T17:54:00.000-07:00

Gulls 2
by Lesley-Anne Evans, Jan. 2008

Gulls are drifting inland on updrafts from the sea.
Wantonly weightless they float overhead,
calling boldly to me of flight and freedom.

Creature of the middle earth I stand in salt spray, toes
sink in wet sand, thoughts sink deeper.
I lift my face skyward, and consider their foreign tongue.

Then, rusty hinges on the screen door and
you call me from the cottage…
warm voice carried on the wind.

I turn,

my heart welcoming the parameters
of love and life.

Lake Stone

2009-07-06T08:00:00.000-07:00

I walk to the edge of the water… only yesterday it was rippled by a soft wind moving the surface and my attention had been drawn to the rhythmic sound of the waves. Today the lake is almost silent. Snow is falling unexpectedly as it’s April and time for Spring. But the falling snow adds to the silence, the hush, and I find myself in a holy place.

My eyes are drawn to the stones along the shore. The water level is low at this time of the year, so the rocks are exposed in a way that they never are in summer when I’m down at the beach more regularly.

The stones along the edge of the lake are rounded, beautifully smooth and round and coloured in tones of red and brown and grey. The water is transparently clear, so every rock on the bottom of the shallows is distinguishable. There too, the colours are similar to those on the shore, yet defined by the water they are darker, more dramatic. They too are rounded and smooth.

As I stand and look down at my feet and around me, I can see that there are millions of rocks, each one different and unique. It reminds me of people… side by side and some touching and each one different and unique. Some rocks are in the shallows, some in the deeper water. Some are in the transitional areas along the lake’s edge where they will sometimes be submerged, sometimes exposed. Some are permanently part of the beach… unless someone picks them up and throws them unexpectedly to a different location. Beach stone to lake stone and back is possible with the help of someone, some child perhaps.

What stone am I God, I wondered. Am I on the beach, warm and dry, or am I submerged in water, wet and cool and defined by colours only the water can provide? Am I a stone in the shallows, or the deep?

I sense that I am an emerging lake stone… in the riparian zone where sometimes I am more of the lake and less of the land, yet sometimes the very opposite. My circumstances still change me, storms can move me, and I appear quite different one day from the next. The parallels are not what I’d like them to be… a rock , stable and fixed.

Then I’m reminded of stones of another kind, and it doesn’t matter their origin or their appearance or even their location, rather it matters their purpose and usefulness for the task. I think of the stones that were lifted from the bed of the Jordon River and placed on piles as a sign, altars of worship to the God that delivers. And I desire that for me. That my life be a living sacrifice, each day laid on the altar with other stones as a sign of what God has done. A simple lake stone, emerging and becoming part of something beautiful and significant and pointing to God.

by Lesley-Anne Evans, April 2009

Dark Lamb

2009-07-05T08:00:00.000-07:00

On the morning that you pushed out of
her warm yet constricting comfort;

Did you know --
that you weren’t snow white
pure, and commonly desired?

Did you sense --
the beginning of knowledge in your belly
of things outside commonplace, or
revelations of rebellion?

Did you guess --
as you kicked up your heels
running joyful on your newly dried legs
in stubble not yet promising summer sweet grasses,

that the darkness that set you apart,
might be your complicated saviour?

Lesley-Anne Evans
April 2009

Words

2009-07-04T08:00:00.000-07:00

Words

Today
I have grown weary of utterances
both yours and mine
spoken, heard, yet
not sinking in,
words ripple out to
the horizon
... gone...

Yesterday’s words return like echoes across
a darkly organic lake,
alive with possibilities of leaping trout
and pan fried fillets for supper.

Claire at Play

2009-07-03T08:00:00.000-07:00

Claire at play

Tousled waves halo your sun blessed face.
Sweetly rumpled, fresh from dreams,
other awakenings yet to come, and

your hands are busy, intently moving cards
this way and that, humming, happy,
oblivious to my thirsty eyes,

so I sit, coffee in hand, bible in lap
torn between morning devotions
and the vision of glory at my feet

while this small solitude is injected with life.

Lesley-Anne Evans
18/08/2008

I Saw a Poem

2009-07-02T08:00:00.000-07:00

I saw a poem

I saw it clearly as I let my eyes linger --
something there
just beyond the obvious

and, like a trout hovering while the fly is cast and
insistently played upon the surface of the pond,
I felt it drawing me

words forming on my silent lips
as God spoke poem into existence
and I, taking the barb-less hook

swallowed deeply.

Lesley-Anne Evans
07/04/2009

Nightfall

2009-07-01T08:00:00.000-07:00

A dog barks in the distance
carried on the still warm evening
breeze through my open window

the leaves of the katsura whisper
of water over stones
and thoughts washed clean

I lounge in cotton sheets
while indigo darkness absorbs
twinkling lives of distant neighbours

careful

hush now

and you will hear…

waves embracing shoreline
and the stirring of gentler things

Inspiration of the garden…

2009-06-30T17:17:00.000-07:00

Winged Joy

I heard you --
calling out from the top most branches
of the transplanted maple that was
driven four hours over mountains
and dug into the bed of my back yard.

Perching there --
you surveyed all things around you;
children splashing in the neighbour's pool,
orchard trees fresh sprayed with dormant oil,
lawn mown and edged and irrigated,

and me --
dozing in the late day sun,
book open in my lap, a brief
escape from earthbound thoughts.

You roused me --
and I saw your winged song take flight…
and then recalled that joy
is often found
on wings.

Red cedar in Spring

2009-06-26T10:57:00.000-07:00

It begins almost imperceptibly,
faint tremor of evergreen fronds, quivering,
stirred awake by the promise of a breeze.

Anticipation, expectation of what is to come.
Primeval language, from deep root to leaf tip,
speaks of warm wind whispers and old growth sway.

Lesley-Anne Evans
07/03/08

The spirituality of choice…

2009-05-28T11:24:00.000-07:00

I just found an amazing blog called Conversion Diary… it's quite unique… all about an Atheist who found God… she's now a converted Catholic, and writes about her life and her faith and how the two intertwine. I like what she has to say.

Today's blog was all about discernment… a word that's flung around in the evangelical church without a lot of discussion or understanding on my part (and maybe on yours too?). I now have a little more of a window into what discernment might be… and how I might take some steps to incorporating this spiritual habit into my decision making process.

My newly expanded understanding of discernment is this;

The idea comes first. Before any decision is ever considered, there's the idea. So I must ask…

What is niggling away at me… what thought, what idea, what unique and/or odd thing is coming to mind again and again… could this be the Holy Spirit's nudge… or as Jennifer says, is The Finger of God pointing me in a certain way? Do I have peace about my action or inaction on this?

Then I am faced with a decision to make. So I must ask…

How will this particular decision effect my primary calling or vocation in life? This involves knowing what my primary vocation is… do I know that? Figure it out… is it being a Godly wife and mother… is it being Godly writer… is it being a Godly care-giver to my ailing parents? I believe in first things first, in their appropriate season. Carefully think this through… then carefully consider what is holding you back… are these surmountable reasons?

Keep your eyes open for confirmation that you are heading in the right direction… often this comes in the form of words that others say to you, especially those wise individuals whom you ask for input (spouses, mentors, spiritual friends) or a series of events that appear uncanny in their significance, or God speaking in various ways through scripture, worship music, nature etc.

Keep in mind that you can't possibly know what God has in mind for the future… as Jennifer says, you don't have a crystal ball. So, proceed, in peace, knowing that God is in control of the details and you are not.

And then, close your eyes and prayerfully let God lead you… with fear, with doubts, with unknowns… trust that when he is up to something, he will be enough for you no matter what. He will provide, he will support, he will catch you when you fall. Ask him to lead you. Tell him you trust him. Thank him for being in control.

Choose.

The duck in my pool

2009-05-26T09:30:00.000-07:00

So, why do I have two blogs… and what is the difference between them? Maybe I'm off base here, but I really do think these two places allow different parts of me to emerge. While there's this deeper more spiritual side of me, and while I believe with all my heart that God is the foundation of, the purpose for, the captain of my life ship, there's also a part of me that is separate… gosh… does that sound anti-Christian?

I've found myself surfing some Christian Women's sites of late, and I have to say that while I admire them, while I learn by reading them, this other separate part of me says, but what about the times when I don't relate… the times I question… the times of darkness and I feel separation from a real close connection with God??? What about those? I don't know, but I feel these times are sort of glossed over by some Christians and painted into a pretty picture most of the time. I just don't want to, I've grow tired of, spiritualizing absolutely everything in my life… and thinking that if I just pray the right thing, say the right thing, read the right scripture, that this too will pass.

Yep, it will pass, for sure it will… I trust in God that it will . But, I want to be alive and fully aware of how I am feeling, thinking, acting, observing RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE of these other times. Somehow… I think that I'd be less than forthright or a shadow of myself if I just glossed over these places in my life that are a little off-kilter, or off the beaten path. They are who I am too. God didn't say only focus on the mountaintops, or on the spiritual highlights… did he?

So, I'm still working through what this means in my life… and obviously, but the very fact that I currently have two different blogs… one focussed on the good and Godly, and one focussed on the real means I'm a little bi-polar in my approach and not yet fully willing to be or accept or live what I'm suggesting I should live. But the blogs are linked, not hidden, and neither is this struggle I feel.

Truth be told I'm still a little afraid… of the Christian women knowing this other side of me… the doubting, struggling, slightly profane at times side, and of the other non-religious women - knowing the spiritual side, believing, connecting with God, living my life as an act of worship side! Does that mean I'm more concerned about what these groups of women think than anything else? Is that ridiculous 'need to be liked' the guiding force behind what I do, say and blog? PLEASE NOT THAT! But hey, I'm human like the rest of you… and so that need to be accepted is real. I've certainly come a ways from that being the guiding force, but it's still there, rearing it's ugly little head and so I need to figure out what that means, and how to deal.

So, I hope you can hang on with me through this process of figuring out who I really am and whether I can somehow take these two parts of me -- the Sometimes Suicidal Mama -- and the -- My Gracenotes -- parts of me, and combine them into a relateable whole that brings something to the table that is palateable. And that's gonna take a while and a whole lot of trust in God's plans… not just mine.

Which brings me to the insight that I believe God gave me yesterday… and the reason that I was going to post it on My Gracenotes rather than SSM… yet after 'writing this down' right now, with you, I believe I will post it in both places (how's that for taking a risk)

So, yesterday morning I got up early… I've had times where I regularly do this, but this Spring has not been one of them. Lots of reasons and excuses come to mind. Anyway, I managed to get up with my 5:40 alarm, took a quick shower and then took my bible and notebook out on the porch with me. I read a bit, listened to the sounds of birds in the early morning garden, and then it happened… the duck… darn that duck… dropped from the sky into our pool. The mood and the atmosphere of peace and Godly connection was immediately broken for me.

My dog dropped down into his 'point', quivering with excitement at this visit from the duck (who returns many times during the day, much to our frustration), and I got up and scared Mr. Duck away with waving of arms and clapping of hands. The dog ran around the pool deck sniffing and wagging his tail, as I returned to the porch again to try to regain my quiet time.

I felt ticked off at first… as I sat and watched the dog and realized that it was almost time to wake up the family. And then, I really watched the dog… and recognized something on the verge of profound… at least it was for me at that moment.

Buddy, my dog, was sitting at attention at the corner of the pool, ears perked up, looking at the sky and wagging his tail. It was a funny posture… sitting while wagging… but Buddy has a very small tail and it was wagging excitedly. He did what he always does after a duck encounter… he sits and waits for the duck to come back… excitedly waiting, expectantly waiting, for what he KNOWS is going to happen again. He shows no interest in his breakfast, in me, in anything but the duck's return. And, due to his amazing ears, Buddy always hears the duck while he's a long way off… before I can hear him, Buddy gets to his feet and looks at the sky… and then the duck comes back, splashing into our shallow end.

I'd been reading these verses in my bible yesterday morning that you probably know… the Lord's prayer… and Jesus is telling his disciples how to pray and it says, "Your Kingdom Come," and those particular words attracted me for some reason… as I thought about what it would be like to pray this, and ask God to take over so many ways in my life, and make it about His Kingdom rather than mine. So, I was thinking this just before the duck encounter.

What hit me between the eyes as I watched the whole thing with the duck and the dog was that Buddy illustrated to me what it might be like to have a Kingdom Come heart. If I was able to live the way Buddy illustrated … anticipating, expecting God to show up and focus on that whole-heartedly… wow, might that be a wild way to live. I know God is there… why not look for signs and sounds of his presence? Now, I'm not suggesting I sit and don't eat or do anything, but I'm saying I need to be attentive and watching. And when God shows up, I'll be ready for whatever he's got going on at that particular moment!

Anyway, that picture of the dog's anticipation and joy and the recognition of an application to my life was unexpected and awesome.

Gotta go, I hear quacking in the distance.

Lesley-Anne

So, I guess that makes me old?

2009-04-22T10:51:00.001-07:00

I have some admissions to make… first, I feel younger inside than out. Second, I guess I try to appear younger than I am. But the past few days have really hammered home the truth that I'm getting a little long in the tooth. Now that doesn't mean I'm going to start dressing like my mother (bless her heart), nor do I want to chop off my hair or anything that drastic, but maybe I should be a little more realistic with myself?

So, it started last week when I was anticipating some friends dropping over for coffee. I rushed around the house to de-clutter things, hide things, dust and vac. quickly, and then as a final touch I thought I'll just spray some 'Febreeze' on the couch and rugs to have that fresh scent as they first enter the door. (A little background here… these same friends told me on their last visit that my home "smelled funny", and I haven't quite gotten over that yet!)

I went to my bucket of cleaning supplies, reached down, grabbed the 'Febreeze' and started spraying. I moved quickly around the main floor of my home, a quick spray here and there, ending up in living room when I suddenly smelled, not the scent of fresh rain, but BLEACH! And in horror, I looked down to see a bottle of 'Fantastic with Bleach' in my hand. Oh my goodness, I thought, I've ruined everything because of my panic stricken and bruised house-keeper ego! I ran to grab a cloth and frantically rubbed down everywhere I could remember spraying. And, in the end, I was blessed with no white blotches on anything! Wow!

Two days ago I prepared a nice dinner for the family, having picked up some beautiful, fresh, tender asparagas for my husband, who loves it. I washed it, put it in a dish with a little water, then put it in the microwave to steam it. I found it this morning when I opened the microwave door to soften butter for toast!

So, maybe I have too much on my mind? Or, maybe I get distracted by our three kids, one dog, the telephone and the computer and knocks on the front door? Or, maybe, just maybe, I'm getting old?

I remember a story my father-in-law told us about my 70-something mother-in-law. She was searching the house for her glasses which she couldn't find anywhere. She said to him, "Where are my glasses… have you seen them anywhere?" And he replied, "They are on your head, Julie." We laughed and laughed at that story.

And now, I'm just beginning to understand…

Open sea

2009-04-04T10:06:00.000-07:00

It’s been a day since the word ‘veer’ was posted at Pink Ink Workshop in the Outrageous Vocabulary forum… and I’ve been thinking hard on that word, chewing on it. I immediately loved it’s meaning, especially the turning toward the course of the sun. I thought what a lovely image that is, with obvious spiritual connotations, but I wasn’t suspecting anything beyond that.

This morning brought feelings of shame in my recognition of a deeper association with this word veer. As I walked and considered veering, and my desire to be on course, I saw myself as a small boat, one who was choosing to sail close to land rather than in the open sea. At first I thought nothing much wrong in this, and then the land forms, islands, began to take on labels of things that I was returning to and circling around and enjoying the waters of. And that’s where the shame crept in.

That’s when I knew my walk would be one of repentance and forgiveness, which interestingly is what repentance is about… a turning from, a veering away from and setting a course toward something else. In my case, the repentant veering was to be about the repetitive patterns of jealousy and envy in my heart that I steered my boat dangerously close to.

As I walked and thought through this ugly reality, I recognized other islands of shame… pride and conceit were also in my archipelago of dishonour. I named it all… out loud. At first I thought that asking for forgiveness was enough, and asking for change. But I realized that for me anyway, I needed to speak it out first… own my lies, own my dirt, and then ask for forgiveness and the supernatural power to veer my small boat of a life toward the course… of the Son.

The walk was good today. I met God there. I was real with him… no masks or excuses today. I saw the instances in my life both long ago and recently where I chose to sail in dangerous waters, close to reefs that could have capsized my boat. Sometimes there was an awareness of where I sailed, other times I just found myself there, with guilt and shame and trying to adjust my sails alone. Sometimes I even moored there for a while.

But today as I worked this all out with God, I realized that the course I want to set for myself is directly into the open sea. I believe the course of the Son is where I am to be. I believe he has so much more for me than were I to remain in the shallows of islands that offer some sort of sick attraction for a time. He has uncharted waters, exciting destinations, and navigational expertise that I can’t even imagine.

I know my boat has a tendency to get off course and that I will continue to veer to correct it. But, I desire to set my compass to true north - and follow that course.

Sheets unfurled, spyglass in hand,

Lesley-Anne

In a London Fog!

2009-03-27T15:26:00.001-07:00

Tonight I went on a little date with my husband… just for an hour to escape from the house and get a little face time together. We ended up at Starbucks, and when I looked over the menu I decided on a new drink. A London Fog is new to me… I've heard someone order it before, but had no clue what it was. So, I decided that I was up for a little adventure tonight but needed to know a little more about what I was ordering.

I looked at the 16-something trendy 'barrista' and asked, "What's in a London Fog?" He looked me directly in the eye and said this, "Well, it's earl grey tea, with shots of vanilla, and half water, half steamed milk. And the tea is really cool… it comes in it's own little fabric bag that floats in your cup." I swear to you… that's what he said! He didn't smile, blink or give any indication that he knew that tea ALWAYS comes in little fabric bags that float in your cup. I looked him directly in the eye and said, "Then I'll take a tall London Fog."

Then I sat with my new drink, and marveled at how the fabric bag floated there, and shared a good belly laugh with my husband. And I wondered how many other young employees thought that this new tea thing was "really cool", having no idea that they are living in a bit of a Starbucks induced London Fog of their own!!!

Bottoms up!

Lesley-Anne

Palm Sunday Meditations

2009-03-24T16:05:00.001-07:00

Meditations on Palm Sunday, 2008

Over 2000 years ago you rode into the city that would be the death of you. You rode on a donkey, and people flocked to see you and lay down palm leaves and their clothes on the road in front of you. They called out to you with shouts of excitement for who they, in their narrow minds, thought you were -- deliverer from the oppression of the Roman rule, catalyst for a new power, a new age, a warrior prophet - one whose words promised a better way.

“Hosannah in the highest,” they cried out in a euphoria that passed in waves throughout the crowd. Did they wonder why their future King rode on a donkey? Did they question your lack of weapons or armour? Did they wonder what action you would take in the capital, who you would see, what you would say? Or were they merely curious about this one whom they heard had raised the dead?

And your closest followers - what were they thinking? You had given them fair warning on several occasions yet did they really fully understand that your journey to Jerusalem would be a one way trip? As the crowds screamed, did the disciples glance at one another with a hint of pride to be counted as one of your friends? Or did they get caught up in the party atmosphere and miss the look of intent on your holy face?

What gripped Peter’s heart that day? A warriors heart, was he preparing for a fight? And Judas, where was his heart as he walked beside his comrades? Was Satan working on him even then? Did he feel discomfort, embarrassment at the spectacle his teacher was creating? Did he lag just slightly behind the rest, distancing himself from direct eye contact with you?

Who was in that cheering crowd? How many of those whom you had touched with your healing hands, had received your life-changing words where there watching, celebrating, feeling a renewed and overwhelming thankfulness mixed with disbelief at what you had done for them?

Did the man with the once withered hand lay his coat on the road in front of you? Did the bleeding woman, fully healed, weep for joy? Did the demon-possessed, now spirit filled one, sing songs of freedom that day?

And then you passed by, and they watched your figure grow smaller in the distance, the sounds of rejoicing fading with you. What happened to them then? As they returned to their homes, their vocations, their families, what occurred in the hearts of so many who, only a few days later, would be part of another crowd of people screaming, ‘Crucify him, crucify him.”?

And I see in that fickle crowd a snapshot of myself. My heart full of adoration one day then sidetracked the next, allowing circumstances to dictate my feelings and overrule my heart for you. My intentions for service, love, relationship, grand and strong, and then slowly becoming complacent. And I , like Judas perhaps, avert my eyes in embarrassment and shame for who I am, for my lack, for my defeat and I drift even further from you as I choose to look inward rather than into your eyes.

I see me in that crowd - euphoric in worship on Sunday then discouraged in my real-life by Tuesday. How many of us experience our faith like that? Striving, trying, desiring, hoping, but with no staying power?

Fall on God’s grace, you say! Let go and let God! Surrender! Yield! And my heart cries, “Yes”, while my head asks, “How often”? How often must I revisit this place of surrender, of repentance, of crying out to God to rescue me from my self? How often?

It’s getting late on this Palm Sunday and I realize the nature of time and the need to make the best of it. And my responsibility therefore lies in choosing how to spend my limited time… both today and for the rest of my life, choosing You over and over again.

So right now, I choose again to stay close to you, to do my best, to learn the sound of your voice and obey it, to love my husband and my children faithfully and well, and to learn what it means to love my enemies, and to serve you with the gifts you have given me.

And when I fall or grow tired, complacent and ashamed, I will choose to come to you again and again and again - to get a fresh look into your eyes - to fall on your mercy and grace - and to call out “Hosannah to my King”.

Simply Irrelevant

2009-03-19T08:26:00.000-07:00

Do you ever get frustrated trying… not the frustration of trying to do a certain thing, but just frustrated with trying? I mean the energy it takes trying vs. just doing what comes naturally, what comes from an outpouring of who you are, rather than a striving to be more, be better, be more effective, be excellent.

Maybe I'm offending some here, but I find there is so much out there about being relevant, and effective and making a big influence, and not so much about the humility of being who you are, living in the moment and doing what needs to be done, well. It's a hyped up Christian world sometimes… on steroids at times… and while I understand the need to read authors that pump you up, attend conferences that take you to mountaintop places, I also recognize that we need to come down to the real world and live.

So, my point it this, if we are to live our lives like Jesus, would he be all over this excellence thing? Did he run around to various seminars, read the best sellers and spend time networking with the top people in order to get his message across? Nope. He simply lived, and walked and talked with people… yeah, the people that he met each day in the market, on the streets, and who he ate and drank with.

So maybe, just maybe, I should like that too. Rather than the rushing from one great opportunity to the next one, one visioning meeting to the next, I should simply put on a pot of coffee and visit with my neighbour? Or, chat to the cashier at the grocery store, look her in the eye and ask her how she's doing? Or wave when someone lets me in in traffic? Or thank the mailman for bringing my junkmail.

I don't know, maybe that's just me, but I think we/I make too much of myself sometimes. Yeah, I'm an annointed, chosen, forgiven, princess of the almighty God. But, I'm also a simple woman with a sphere of influence that starts at my own kitchen table.

Just thinking…

Peace.

Lesley-Anne

Freedom

2009-03-16T15:26:00.001-07:00

Sleep eludes me.
My spirit engulfed by guilt, grief and loss
I rise before dawn and walk to the garden alone,
seeking solace
seeking peace.

The garden is cool
and the sweet smell of jasmine hangs in the air,
I want to escape from the realities of day,
that You are dead
and our love dead with you.
The false loves of my old life haunt me.
What will happen to me now?

The events of the past week play out in my mind.
From joyous celebration to sudden death and I,
weak willed bystander, fair weather friend,
watched from the sidelines.
I fall to my knees, prayer-less, powerless, broken.

I feel a presence before I hear a sound.
Someone is standing close to me.
A gardener arriving before the heat of day?
“Who are you? What do you want?” I ask.
A moment’s silence, then a single word is spoken
...my name.

I look up in confusion.
Is this someone’s cruel trick or is this a ghost?
Yesterday he was unrecognizable, yet he stands
before me now without a mark on him.
There is no denying His voice.

Astonished, I rise to my feet
and look into the eyes of my beloved.
He touches my face with warm fingers
He smiles with understanding.
My heart breathes
as I enter his holy embrace.

And then, with the lightness of fresh knowledge and freedom
I turn, laughing with delight
and run to tell the others.

“At this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not realize that it was Jesus. He asked her, "Woman, why are you crying? Who is it you are looking for?" Thinking he was the gardener, she said, "Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will get him." Jesus said to her, "Mary." She turned toward him and cried out in Aramaic, "Rabboni!" (which means "Teacher"). - John 20:14-16

Prayer: Jesus, like Mary I am overwhelmed by your death on the cross. Sometimes I forget that you died to take away all of my sins, no exceptions. Help me to receive your Easter gift of total forgiveness. And help me to live in the grace-filled freedom that you promise me. Amen.

Altar

2009-03-03T10:41:00.000-08:00

Over and over
I drag it up
and lay it down
only to pick it up again,
and here I am,
ashamed,
hooked in,
co-dependant.

Laying my Isaac down
sounds so noble,
honourable,
but with coals glowing hot
on the altar,
my greedy fingers reach out
to snatch back
the sacrifice.

I convince myself of
another way,
with another lamb,
'cause this one is virtually unblemished
and strangely precious.
Somehow larger than life.

And although I know a
higher
holier way
waits on the other side of the flames,
I choose to
trade redemption
for burn’t fingers
and slightly charred
remains.

Lesley-Anne Evans
Jan. 2009
copyright

Things I saw while not looking…

2009-03-03T10:18:00.000-08:00

A lone robin -- Spring’s ambassador --
hopping tentatively over the tired snow.

Redwing blackbirds calling out raucous warbles
from hidden perches in the frozen marsh.

Three tundra swans banking wide white circles
in the valley below us, on our way home from school.

The sun painting my kitchen a watery yellow
through fingerprinted winter windows.

Lesley-Anne Evans
02/03/2009

Look at You

2006-08-25T23:10:00.000-07:00

I saw you today as you walked towards me, I mean I really saw you. So handsome, so pleased with your new haircut, and so unaware of how you looked to me. You took my breath away. My son, no longer a baby, no longer even a little boy, but suddenly a young man.

My heart welled up within me as, in that instant, I realised the passing of time and the result of the years. And how intensely I loved you, and wished that I could freeze-frame that moment of time. You had no idea, of course, as you smiled and said, do you like my haircut mom? Like it, I said, I think it’s fantastic. You look wonderful. Thanks, you said, shy smiling, blue-eyed boy of mine.

And as I reflect on you and how the years have flown by, I have to wonder where will we go from here? Time will march on, and you will continue to grow away from me. You will find your independence, your passion, your purpose, and it will all be without me, just as it should be. But oh, how it hurts. How I wish it wasn’t the way of growing up. How I wish I could stay here with you always. Melancholy mother, I know, but the heart is not logical. It loves, it feels, it remembers and it cries.

So for a little while longer I will try to prepare you for your future, give you the tools that you will need, offer the advice that you may take, and point you in the direction that you may choose to go. I’ll make mistakes and forget some things, but my mother’s heart knows that God’s grace will cover all my inadequacies. And then it’s a matter of trust after that.

Then I will stand back and watch you go with God, my son.

Tarp People

2006-08-25T23:07:00.000-07:00

I was out for a walk with my dog today. As usual, my mind moved from one thought to the next. Uninterrupted time is what I like most about my walks. Time to think and breathe deeply.

As I walked, I saw a common element in many yards and driveways that I passed by.

Things were wrapped up tightly in colourful tarps. Some tarps were green, others orange. Though slightly obscured by the tarps, the shape of each underlying item was visible. I saw a trailer, a boat, an R.V. and a 1967 GTO.. (nice car!) all wrapped up in plastic.

The tarps have a purpose. They protect and preserve surfaces from harmful UV rays and from rain damage. But the tarps can’t hide what is beneath them. The shape of the object always shows through.

I think we are often like that. We wrap ourselves in physical and emotional layers. Our tarps of choice have labels like The Gap or Lululemon. This layer expresses our personal style, and keeps us warm and dry. But, this layer is not who we really are.

We have also learned to wrap ourselves with emotional coverings. Pasted on smiles, “I’m doing fine, thanks.”, “Everything is under control”, or busyness layers, protect us from the “elements” of others. Sometimes these tarps are very thick and seemingly impenetrable.

The thing is, no matter what physical or emotional layers we choose to put on, the truth of who we are shines through in some form or another. Our tarps are often quite transparent. And, if the truth were known, most of us would much rather remove the tarps altogether and show who we really are.

Being real is something most of us long for. To trust one another enough to be who we really are, is our heart’s desire. And it is only through being real that we can experience true intimacy in relationships.

So, what’s the solution? How can we find safe places to be real? How can we trust others and ourselves enough to remove our tarps?

I think the ability to be real comes slowly and with age. It comes with being sure of who we are, and in putting our identity in who we were created to be. It comes with taking chances, learning lessons, and trusting again. It comes with healing. It comes with grace. But, it does indeed come.

So, if you catch a glimpse of the real, "untarped" version of someone you know, take the opportunity to affirm their courage, and shed some tarps of your own. The blessings will be mutual.

The fallen

2006-08-25T22:24:00.000-07:00