Part 2: The Church- My Experience

**Note from the Scribbler: This was ridiculously hard to write. It's very personal, and I'm sure it's going to seem like I'm just spewing out a lot of things that just don't matter, things I should have let go and/or forgotten by now. I came very close to not posting this and just chucking this whole series. However this has been very therapeutic for me, and per usual, if you don't like it, don't read it. I promised myself when I started this blog that I was going to be brave, confront all of my 'demons' if you will and this is just one more. This is my testimony, mixed with life experiences, mixed with the beginnings of my frustrations.

Like everyone else, I have certain biases. The following experiences/memories are to better enlighten you as to where I'm coming from, and to explain why I feel a certain way about topics that are coming up in the next post. Most of these memories are things that I should have, and need to let go. I didn't realize how much they were still affecting me until my dad and I were having a discussion a few weeks ago and the hurt came out. Maybe this is how I finish that once and for all.

Nothing I say is to change anyone's opinions of places or events, because to be quite honest, I don't care what your opinions are. We can have completely opposing views, that is both of our rights. This is simply to explain my experiences. This is the second instalment of a four part series I'm doing. If you haven't read the first part, it can be found here.**

I was raised in the Christian church. I went to a Christian school, most of my friends were Christians. I attended Sunday School, we prayed at dinner, and did devotions as a family. I spent summers at Fair Havens, where we had 'Sunday School' type sessions every single morning. I was, what would be described as 'Christian'. Through and through. My grandmother was instrumental in my faith growing as a child/youth. She would take me to various events, concerts, conferences etc that would stretch my faith and introduced me to various branches of Christianity and worship. So I feel I had a fairly well rounded upbringing in terms of the church. I was never uncomfortable in any church setting, I could easily go from a Mennonite church to a Pentecostal church and not bat an eye.

I remember when we were kids, there was this huge hype put on accepting Jesus into your heart. Once you did that, you were saved. I was so scared that it didn't work the first time, I went up to the front every alter call for years. Maybe I recognized how much I 'sinned' on a day to day basis.  Maybe I simply didn't think I was good enough.

I went to a K-12 Christian school in London, and I loved it. My dad was a teacher there, so I spent a lot of time before and after school just wandering around and playing with the other teachers' kids. It was a small school with small classes, and I'd been attending since I was 3 years old, so these kids were all I knew! We were super sheltered, we never heard swear words on the playground, and kids would complain how saying 'shut up' or 'crap' got them a detention. Life was good. My dad taught Phys-Ed and coached several of the sports teams. So that meant we got the joy of sitting through several practices, for several sports, for several evenings. That aspect was terribly boring. Until Ross.

Ross was in the high school part of the school, while I believe I was in grade 2. When my dad would have them running drills for badminton, Ross would call me over and let me get in some swings, and just let me participate in various activities. In the hallways, he'd stop for a quick game of rock, paper, scissors and let me tell you, having that extra attention was quite pleasant for the very quiet, meek little me (my how things have changed!). A few days before Christmas in 1996, Ross was killed in a car accident. This was my first experience with death, and shook me up. The finality of it all got to me. It's something that always stayed with me, and probably always will.

We left CAWO at the end of grade 5. I was heartbroken. I've always been a very nostalgic person and have a lot of trouble moving on and getting excited for new experiences. Mom's foray into the world of homeschooling lasted a whopping 6 months before she threw us into the Stratford & District Christian School, probably to save her sanity as well as our lives.

SDCS was nothing like CAWO. It was a bunch of farm kids who were all related I swear, and a bunch of cliquey girls who didn't like that someone new came in. Bullying commenced and I found refuge in the guy friends I made at that school, and my new found best friend I'd met through church. The principal was quick to lecture you on why you shouldn't say 'Oh my gosh' but was very quick to turn a blind eye to the issues going on within the social ladder. This school is where I learned to get a mouth, and was forced out of my shell. I didn't really have a choice on that one. I hated that school. I felt that I was seen as a 'lesser' person because I hadn't been there from the beginning.

Shortly after we moved to Stratford, we started at a new church. It was very small, and tight knit. Honestly, I've never encountered anything as cliquey as youth group growing up. High school was not as cliquey as youth group was. It was a youth group set in it's own ways, uninterested in outside conferences and other activities, as well as uninterested in new members. I didn't find an open space within the firmly cemented friendships in that group, so I started looking for other outlets. Other groups to go on retreats with and to attend various youth groups with. I met with a group of unlikely friends in the school library where we would discuss various aspects of God and His work. I met some amazing, grounded, loving and welcoming people. It was just very sad that I didn't find that in my own home church.

In our faith, when you get older, you get baptized. I didn't get baptized until I was 18 I think. This was quite late for someone who had grown up in the church. Many of our friends had been baptized at 14 or 15 and I remember one of my mom's friends once asking her if I'd done it yet and being nearly rude when mom told her I hadn't. Apparently my choosing not to be baptized yet was an affront to this woman. The week before my baptism I emailed Josh, a mentor of mine since I was a child, and somebody I have a great affection and esteem for. In the email I basically flipped out wondering why I was doing this. I had felt pressured to do it, and why did I want to join and proclaim myself as part of such a hypocritical and judgemental people?! He agreed with me, but gently reminded me why I was doing it. More on that later, but this serves to show that I had these feelings long ago. Doubts and concerns.

Please don't get me wrong. In everyday life, I'm quite content overall. I feel loved, and accepted. However not from the Christian community. I've never felt so rejected when it came to life as when it involved Christians. At nearly every turn, I felt like I didn't belong. And most definitely like the black sheep. I've always felt more acceptance and love from those who didn't practice 'Christianity' as a whole. From youth leaders who allowed and almost encouraged segregation among the youth, to a work environment turned sour due to people's biases and misdirected beliefs, I have never found a true 'home' within the Christian environment, with a few specific exceptions.

Every summer growing up, I camped at Fair Havens for the summer. It was my refuge. I LIVED for it. My favourite place in the entire world. Playing basketball with Cam in the morning, giggling in the girls bathroom with Rachelli, waiting and wondering which of our friends would be returning for the next week. Not to mention our AMAZING leaders. Joel & Joel. Terry. Scott. It was fantastic and every summer was exactly what every child's summer should be like. Building forts, swimming, boating, watching fireworks, catching fireflies, roasting marshmallows, just living life big.

If I were to get super deep about it, I would say that I think my complete and total infatuation for the place stems from how I was able to be a through and through child at Fair Havens. I could just run free. At home, we had to be good examples to the hundreds of foster kids who came through our home. I don't think people understand what a big responsibility it is to be a biological child in a foster home. When I escaped to Fair Havens, it was just pure fun.

So the natural progression would be that I should work there when I became older. Right? Of course. When I found out I'd be working at Fair Havens as a guinea pig SIT, I thought it was going to be the best summer of my life. It was unfortunate that I was so wrong. One of the biggest mistakes of my life, to be honest. Right behind returning for two more summers. I felt alone, rejected, and like a black sheep for each and every of the three years I worked there.

I should mention that I have been blessed and cursed with a gift. One I did not ask for and would sometimes like to return. People have a natural tendency to trust me and will open up to me for no reason about things that they generally won't open up to anyone else about. Foster children would tell me life stories that their workers had been trying for months, sometimes years to get out of them. Girls at school would come up and tell me their problems (ie; possible pregnancy) and ask for aide. Co-workers at camp would come and tell me their stories and issues, and I, being 14 at the time had no idea how to cope or deal with these situations. One such co-worker opened up about finding his deceased mother a few months before, while we were playing with a bunch of two year olds in a sandbox. Kind of heavy stuff for a 14 year old. I went to leadership for advice and aide, and I think I was labelled a 'drama queen' because I brought the issues to light, and admittedly was truly freaked out with the responsibility, when really I was just trying to figure out a way to deal with all of the many things being heaped on me constantly. I'm also a fixer. I hate injustice and I hate having things hanging over my head where it concerns people and their problems. I want them to have peace of mind. I tend to get pushy to achieve that on their behalf. Character flaw? Perhaps.

The following summer I knew that Fair Havens wasn't going to be the place for me so I applied, and miraculously got accepted to a summer work internship in Quebec through the government, to better my french speaking skills. My french vocabulary may not have expanded, but my view of the world certainly did. It was eye opening to say the least. I'd always been sheltered, and suddenly I'm in Quebec, with a bunch of non-Christians who simply did not understand my way of life/ thinking. Our first night in Quebec City, our group went to get pizza and everyone at our table ordered beer except me, who was admittedly that loser who asked if they had root beer. We were 15, and drinking had always been a firm no-no. I grew up a lot that summer, and had to find the boundaries of what I would and would not do on my own, apart from my parents and the boundaries they had set for me. I did things I knew they wouldn't approve of (such as attending an overnight work party they had told me was 'mandatory' where basically they all used the leftover day camp money to get smashed. I literally slept under several stacks of chairs that night.), and learned why maybe those restrictions had been put in place.

Basically, my nostalgia and love for a place that didn't really exist anymore, and maybe only ever really existed in my own mind made me make horrible decisions for myself, putting myself into a toxic environment repeatedly. I worked at the camp for two more summers, alternating years. I think I kept going back because I wanted to be accepted, and in some twisted way I wanted approval from the place and people I held in such high regard. I felt like each year I was a failure, but I couldn't make sense of it since on the opposite years, when I worked for the low income housing day camp, I had rave reviews and they begged me to return. Year after year. At the day camp we were treated with respect, and I felt that it was lacking at Fair Havens. I pulled away from other staff members, and found solace in CH. I'll get to that as well.

Prior to my final year, I was struggling with whether to apply or not. My mom said I should absolutely go for it, that it was in God's hands and if He wanted me to go, I'd get the job. I couldn't see it happening, at that time I was in a place of eternal darkness, but I went ahead and applied. By some miracle or twist of fate, I got the job. When I arrived, I was asked to fill out a health form. I wasn't sure about listing my anti-depressants on the form, the whole concept was new to me, but my mom said to do it, it was against the law for them to share that information without my permission to anyone who doesn't need it (ie; anyone but the nurse). The result of this simple act was having my supervisor drive 3 hours to the camp, to berate me for 3 hours, sending me back to my doctor's and in effect having my medication doubled for my depression because I was so upset about the things she said, simply because she found out I was on anti depressants to begin with. My doctor pressed me to quit and sue for misusing information and causing harm. That was not even an option in my mind, however in retrospect, I wish I would have done something, anything so that what happened to me wouldn't happen again later to somebody else. The pills did make me physically sick at times. I did miss work at times from it. This is 100% true. However I did a good job in that program. I still have countless notes and letters from parents thanking me for making their week enjoyable, since they didn't have to worry about their little ones, and knew they were in good, caring hands. Regardless, a month or so into the program, I was asked to step down. To add insult to injury, after I'd signed the papers that removed me as a staff member of the camp, I was given until 5:00 that evening to get off the property.

I think what got to me most was the inequity of it all. In a place that preached love and Christ's compassion, it was severely lacking in the actions. While other staff members were doing drugs, and getting drunk in guest rooms and bathrooms, I never once crossed any lines like that. While other staff members were making blatant and horrendous attacks on their supervisors, I did not. Yet the only one who would stand up for me, was me! Not even my parents, who I thought would be on my side through thick and thin did anything. In fact, when I was asked to step down, it was my mom who took over my job. Oof. Kick to the gut. 

 This was a place I had trusted wholly, and it let me down completely and I have never and will never get over what it did to me. I hate failing and I beat myself up over it constantly. I still harbour a lot of anger towards the place, and the people involved, as I've realized recently. The feeling of betrayal is a harsh one.

Three weeks after I left Fair Havens, I moved to Edmonton, dumped my anti depressants down the drain and have never needed them since. You see, it was situational depression. I wasn't happy in school, I felt alone and not where I was supposed to be, so I got depressed. I went to Fair Havens hoping for some light, but got more of the same, only worse! At least with school, the professors and school recognized that I had a medical issue, and it was dealt with accordingly. With *some* Christians, I should have been trusting God to heal me, so I was sinning, and should not have been taking the medication. Being on anti-depressants doesn't mean that you are broken. It means you recognize there is a problem, and instead of ignoring it are attempting to fix it. Do I need to say that a little louder maybe?

Now, to counteract those that will say that I'm whining, and only looking at the negatives, I do need to say that there was a bright light within all of that darkness. At Fair Havens, there was a group from Christian Horizons who worked with physically and mentally handicapped adults. They were the most honest, open, truthful, loving group anyone could ask for. They didn't preach at you. They just practiced it, and because of that it made you want to be more, to know more and to love more. They would talk about anything, things that would get you a one on one meet with a 'mentor' if those at Fair Havens heard you talking like that, but things that needed to be discussed. Nothing was awkward. It was just honest and true. They are one of the two most incredible groups of people I have met.

There was Momma. She was the cook at Fair Glen and probably one of the most loving, caring, God fearing women I have ever met in my life. To meet her is to know what it is to be loved, and what it is to be treasured. She guided us in God's love, while being able to allow us to enjoy our summer. I can remember more than one food fight in that kitchen that ended up with ketchup everywhere, and some very amused guests documenting the entire escapade through the lenses of their cameras. She took care of us. She never judged, she just loved. And always saved me a batch of my favourite muffins.

There was Josh, who has known me for far too long, and I've had so many incredibly eye opening discussions with concerning God, the church, disappointments and frustrations. He was always so down to earth, and honest. He was a brilliant mentor over the years. He never tried to justify anything. He would listen, usually tell a hilarious anecdote from his own life, and remind me, again, to look to God, not the people who fail continuously while claiming to do 'His' bidding. I probably drove him nuts over the years with my questions and frustrations, but I will always adore him, because he was there.

The second 'incredible group' I mentioned before was my young adults group out in Edmonton. They were amazing. They were that cohesive accepting group I had been craving and searching for. I still love them all so much and miss them more than I can say. I remember when I found out my mom had passed. I drove to the church, and they met me at the door. They just hugged me. They never said that 'God has a plan' or that 'This was God's will'. They just let me be broken.

That's another thing! Why do Christians feel the need to fix everything, or justify it saying it was God's will?! That is bullshit. There is no way it was God's will for my mother to be taken away from our family. For my siblings to have to grow up without her. For all those future potential foster kids to not have a chance to be blessed by her.

After mom's death, I was completely apathetic towards God. I didn't care if there was one. I didn't care what people believed. He had no impact on me. I didn't feel anger, hurt, betrayal. I felt nothing towards Him, and the concept of Him. It literally was like somebody took an ice cream scoop and scooped out all of my feelings regarding God. I think it was about a year after the accident that one of my Christian Horizons friends tricked me into going to church. I agreed, but wasn't happy about it. I sat there, angry and annoyed at being there. I also sat there with tears in my eyes. This was the beginning of my road to healing.

Several months later (because I am a truly stubborn creature), I realized that I was talking to God. In times of pain and sorrow, or in the quiet moments, I would realize that I was praying and in my stubbornness I would remind myself that I didn't do that anymore, and that I was mad at God. It did make me realize that in praying, I was acknowledging there was a God again, so that was one more step.

One day, a few of my girlfriends and I had taken Eli to church. They had run to the bathroom, so Eli and I were sitting in the pew, waiting for the service to begin. This is when I heard a few elderly women talking in not-so-hushed voices. They were watching us and talking about what a 'shame' it was that so many young girls were being so 'deceitful' and 'sinful' and that 'poor child' having a 'teen mother' was just so sad and horrendous and on and on and on. I stayed quiet for as long as I could, and when I couldn't take it anymore I turned around in my seat, and said 'I'd like to tell you a story. It's about a good Christian mother of four who dedicated her life to raising children. Her family decides to try to adopt the foster baby they are looking after, and when it gets approved she goes to tell her husband. On the way home, she gets hit by a truck and dies. *I pointed at Eli* That, is the baby. *Pointed at myself* I, am her eldest daughter. Now I get to help raise my siblings. Try not to judge before you know facts.' and turned back around. I was rattled, and given that they stood up and relocated to the other side of the church, I'm thinking so were they. All I could think was what if I had been some poor young girl, in this scary situation, and I came to a church hoping for some light, hope and support, and this is what I was confronted with?! Sad.

Goodness, I've been talking about this for hours it seems, and I haven't even gotten into Africa! Maybe I had better leave that for another time.

There's a theme here. Do you see it? I hate being belittled, and pushed down. Whether it was in elementary school, in youth group, at Fair Havens, in every harsh experience, it was the Christian community, the one that preached goodness and love, and had trusted to not hurt me that let me down. I couldn't care less about anyone else that hurt me because I didn't expect more from them. I expected more from the community that preached and taught love.

Now, I will admit openly that I am not perfect. I have judged. I have judged hard. Although, not the unbelievers. I judged my fellow Christians. When you preach something, and turn around and do the opposite, you are a hypocrite. I hate hypocrites. I recently stopped volunteering with one of the local youth groups because I felt like in doing so, I was being hypocritical. I am not in anyway absolving myself from guilt. I have done things, said things, thought things that I shouldn't have, and have regretted. I have handled situations poorly. Believe me, you cannot judge me more than I already judge myself.

The point of all of this is to show that I have seen people judged for so many things. I've seen people be ostracized from their community because they chose to stand up for themselves, whether it was in choosing divorce in a difficult marriage, choosing to keep the baby after a young misguided mistake, coming out as a homosexual, or the decision to take pills that could change your life, the list goes on and on. So for those of you who don't like Christians, let me tell you. I've had my fair share of negative experiences. I have been judged. I have felt the disdain. I have been on the receiving end of all of it. I understand where you are coming from.

However in spite of all that, I learned there is redemption.

**P.S. from the Scribbler: I may have ranted about Fair Havens in this post, however if you are a camper I need to say that it is the perfect place to go for the summer. It is brilliant. I still have a great love for the place itself. The leadership is forever changing, and I am extremely hopeful for the future. I'm not trying to stir the pot, or turn anyone against the place that helped make me who I am today. Again, it's simply an explanation, and purging of all my thoughts/ feelings**

Part 1: The Church - An Introduction

Can I be really honest with you? Truly and completely honest?

This topic is a difficult one for me to approach. Being raised in the church, I feel a loyalty to it. However my experiences within the church make me want to flat out rage. So here goes my attempt at explaining exactly what I'm thinking, and feeling.

Have you ever googled your name? Just to see what comes up? If you are someone that is fairly well known, you can usually get a sense of what is thought about you through people's searches of particular traits and questions simply by adding the word 'is' after your name. It gives you an idea about what the greater world thinks of you.

So I did the same with Christianity. I typed 'Christians are' into google, and this is what I got.

Or how about 'Christianity is'? 

To me, this is not only heartbreaking but truly unfortunate. Something I grew to love over the years has become tainted, not only for others in the greater worldwide community but for myself as well. Within those 18 phrases, only two of them I wish to be true, although probably about nine of them really are. But I'll get into that. This is the beginning of a series of posts. I find I get rather long winded about these topics so I have broken them down into a few posts, just so I don't bore anyone to death.

This isn't going to be pretty. I'm not going to hold back and be kind. I'm going to be honest. If that offends you, feel free not to read it. I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing this for me.

The following posts, spread out over the next week or two will be as follows:
1) My experience with the church (The Past)
2) Where the church is failing (The Present)
3) My take on all things Christian and God (The Future)

I ask you to remember that there are three sides to every story. Yours, mine, and what actually happened. Ask the other people involved in my stories what happened, and doubtless there would be a different story for each person involved. However these particular ones are my stories, thoughts, feelings and memories. I would never venture to say that I have the straight of what has gone down over the years, however I'm very clear on my perception of how things happened, and i think when you get right down to it, that's all that really matters. How we perceive situations and experiences is how we remember them, and shapes who we are and how we react in future situations.

As always, I welcome discussion and respectful debate. However please don't judge too critically until you read the entire series. Sometimes you need to see the whole picture to understand what one is trying to accomplish.

Guest Post: One Person's Experience Concerning Assisted Suicide

**Note from the Scribbler: I've opened up this blog for this week to discuss assisted suicide and invited anyone who had any thoughts they wanted to share, to write up a piece and I'd post it. I think doing pieces like this allow for discussion, healing  and community to happen. I've had a lot of messages about this topic, and if you have any thoughts, please let me know. I'm interested in your opinion. Opening up and sharing is the only way for us to grow, and to relate to one another wholly. As always, I believe everyone has a right to their own opinion, and any comments/ responses I deem to be disrespectful, rude or unkind will be deleted. Share your opinion, but do it with grace and an open heart.**

My views on this issue are simple & colored by experience. I believe simply in honoring a person's wishes & to not allow further suffering.

The 1^st line of the Hippocratic Oath in that mentions healing reads:

“With regard to healing the sick, I will devise and order for them the best diet, according to my judgment and means; and I will take care that they suffer no hurt or damage.”

I will take care that they suffer no hurt or damage.

To me, this means that when the learned physician knows that death is imminent that they take the responsibility of ensuring that the patient suffers no unnecessary hurt during the process of death. Hospice care tries to satisfy this edict.

A week prior to entering hospice care, my loved one had attempted to commit suicide for he feared what was ahead of him. He was already too weak at that point & he failed. He was admitted to hospital & they released him home to enter hospice a week later. Had he succeeded, I would have never had my final conversations with my loved one. The last words I would have spoken to him would have been me telling him that he was a dick.

Hospice is not perfect! But it allowed me to make some peace; to gain some understanding of my loved one. Hospice gave me the final opportunity to tell him that I loved him & to hear that he loved me. That has to be enough. Hospice gives you what you put into it. Ask for pain to be eased & your loved one to be comfortable & that request will be answered with compassion.

My loved one had a rare & incurable cancer. He entered hospice care 2 weeks before he passed. He stopped the cancer treatments & his medical care focused on making him comfortable. I repeat: Hospice is not perfect. He developed bedsores within the 1^st week. His body was wasting away faster than than we could feed him calories despite the high calorie foods we prepared. His cancer spread, using the energy we were trying to give to him. & so he finally stopped eating. He quite simply didn't have an appetite anymore. He suffered personality changes and became physically & verbally combative, perhaps it was stroke induced but we'll never know what caused that. He was sedated as a result for his own safety. He had already began to drink less and less. After his sedation, he no longer drank at all.

Slowly, he sank into a coma. Slower still, his lungs began to collapse from the cancer caused pneumonia he suffered from. At a snails pace, his body shut down.

Through it all, pain was evident on his face. A line appeared between his eyebrows that never quite went away, despite alternating doses of Morphine & Xanax. Every hour I watched his caregiver & wife dose him with one or the other. There was a pact between them, for him to receive help in finally crossing over when the time came. As I watched him slip further away, I watched his wife slip into shock over his imminent passing. I knew his final wishes and so I suggested that we try harder to make him comfortable and a decision was made together to call hospice & request a higher dose of pain medications because I, no, we knew he still suffered.

I knew when that call was made that he could not survive the dose that was going to be required to make him comfortable: His lungs were collapsing. His breathing was a death-rattle. He was not responsive & he had ceased to return the squeezes of his hand. But his last wishes were to not suffer any more than was necessary & to not allow this slow, terrifying process to be prolonged.

So the call was made & the dosages adjusted according to hospice instructions.

Finally, that line that had plagued his brow smoothed out. His face relaxed and he looked peaceful.

10 hours after that call to hospice care, he passed quietly to the sounds of his wife laughing as she relived memories of his favorite place..

The entire process lasted almost a week. 5 days to be exact. I sat with him & his wife throughout all of it.

No last minute miracle cure was going to save him. After a point, the damage done to his body by the very process of dying became irreversible. A body starts to not want food as it feels death coming closer. It starts to not want to drink. This is a biological process that will has little to no effect on. And it has a point of no return.

Did making that call kill my loved one? No. The side effects of a terrible cancer did. Did I kill my loved one with the decision to call hospice? Hell No. I helped to ease his suffering in the final hours of his life & set him free. And I do believe that he is in a better place now. That he has indeed gone on to meet whatever amazing thing that awaits us after this life.

Let me state this: Death is not pretty nor perfect, no matter how it happens! Most of us will shit our pants when we die. Death is not dignified nor graceful & we can't make it so, no matter how many pretty words we try to use to describe it! Death can, however, be compassionate and perhaps that is the best we can strive for in this life. I do feel hospice, despite not being perfect, delivered compassion for us all in the end of my loved one's life & it may be the best we can strive for.

And yet there is not a single day that goes by that I do not think of him. That I do not think of the decisions I have made. I did what I still think was the right thing to do. I still stand by my decision.

And while I know I will one day be whole again, I know I will never be the same nor do I want to be.

~Anonymous Commenter

The Scribbler's Take on Assisted Suicide

My Aunt did a fantastic job explaining her views on assisted suicide. Mine is going to be much shorter and less poetic, because I am not completely certain of what I believe, however I can share some of my recent thoughts.

This is a really brutal subject to try and approach. There are so many factors and so many variables that makes every single situation different. What I can say is this.

I believe that life is precious. However I also believe that the quality of life one endures has a bearing on decisions such as these. If I were at the end of my days, living in pain and discomfort, or have completely lost my faculties, then I would want it ended. In fact, my wishes regarding this have already been made known to those who will make the decision if I happened to lose the ability to do so myself. Being, for all intents and purposes, a vegetable, being kept alive on machines is not how I wish to spend my days. The pain and misery people go through in terminal diseases is brutal, and as one commenter on the previous post said, we put down dogs because it is more 'humane' than to let them suffer.

I bring forward the idea of passive euthanasia. Why do we put people on machines, and medications to hold them here, just a little while longer, when those people we knew and loved are pretty much gone? Why are we fighting a never ending uphill battle, when death will come regardless. I think we hold onto them because we can't imagine a world without them, and even a small piece of them still here is better than none. That's not really fair to the suffering, nor, if we are going to be honest about it, ourselves.

I keep going back to thinking about my mom. Wondering, if she had had a choice, whether she would have chosen to go by way of some drawn out disease so that we could have worked through our grief slower. At first I thought that if she were doing it for us, and not herself, than yes. She would have chosen to go after a time, so that we could have said goodbye and had some more time together knowing it was ending. However then I thought about how my memories would have changed to ones containing a broken woman, frail and wasting away instead of the vibrant, bright woman I remember now. I think how it happened, would be exactly how my mother would have chosen to go, although about 50 years later.

I'm not saying it's right or wrong. It truly is a very slippery slope. Allowing this to become a legal practice means that soon we will be discussing what age, what illnesses, how advanced do the illnesses need to be to allow such a seemingly monstrous action to occur. That all seems too horrific to discuss.  I'm also not advocating suicide. I do believe if there are options, they need to be attempted. Preserving life is always preferable than ending it.

Maybe this is just one more reminder that we need to live every day to the fullest. That we need to express our love for people. That we need to live this day as if it could be our last.

Guest Post: A Christian Woman's Thoughts on Assisted Suicide

**Note from the Scribbler: This piece was written by somebody I love and respect deeply. I'm going to post my own thoughts/ feelings on this matter in a few days, but I would love to see some respectful responses to this topic, whether it be here or on Facebook. Any comments/ responses I deem to be disrespectful, rude or unkind will be deleted. Share your opinion, but do it with grace and an open heart.**

Disclaimer from the author: The title of my piece let's you, the reader, know where I am coming from. Yes, I am a Bible believing, God fearing Christian woman. Yes, my beliefs have a huge contribution to how I view the world and how I form opinions on many important and controversial topics. I make no apology for that fact. Everyone brings their own personal bias to a conversation. Those that are atheist, or those who believe science is the only truth there is, bring just as much bias and agenda to a topic as a christian person. Once we realise we are all on an even playing field, that is when true conversation and respectful interaction can occur. The moment we look down on others and assume they are less of an intelligent person simply because they are religious, or atheist or agnostic etc... - then we are robbing each other of the chance to share some life experience and wisdom that may actually have an impact on our lives.

On to the topic at hand. As I write, Canada's supreme court is hearing a challenge on the ban of physician assisted suicide. Advocates for assisted-suicide in Canada call it the right to die with dignity. Let's think on that for a moment. Suicide is dying with dignity? Those who choose to end their life at a time of their choosing have dignity? Dignity- "the state or quality of being worthy of honour or respect, self-respect, self-worth". So those who choose to fight until the end, or whose families and doctors take care of them through their suffering, those people don't have dignity? My opinion is that those people are much more worthy of honour and respect than those who choose to hasten the end of their life. How is it dignified to decide when life is worth living and when it is not. 

We have seen the value of human life slowly chipped away over the last 40 years- and yes I am going to bring up abortion, because it and euthanasia are two sides of the same coin. The question is not should a person have the right to end their life if they are facing terminal illness- the question is do we value human life enough and are we going to stand up for that value with everything we have?! For years I have watched Christians and non-Christians pulled into the lies of our society- maybe abortion is ok if the woman was raped, maybe abortion is ok if you're a teenager, maybe abortion is ok if you are not ready for kids, maybe abortion is ok and should be on demand and without apology. Now we are at the place where people look down on others who dare to stand up and speak out for life. The same thing is happening with assisted- suicide... maybe it is ok because those poor people are suffering, maybe it is ok because I just watched my dear loved one suffer a terrible death, maybe it is ok for the severely depressed to have assisted suicide because their lives are a misery and what kind of life is that...and down the slippery slope we all go.

Also, one might wonder how doctors who have studied for years how to prolong life, how to save lives, how to make life better for people; can decide to go against everything they have learned and help their patient to die before their time. Possibly before a miracle cure is found, before they get much more time than the doctor's thought they had. I think that doctors, like so many other advocates of assisted suicide really do have good intentions. They think they are helping people, empowering them. However, they fail to see the whole picture. They brush aside arguments against assisted suicide- saying that only religious people are against it and assume those against it are just unintelligent people who believe what they have been taught.

I  try to work things out for myself. I read and research. I put myself in other peoples shoes and try my best to understand where they are coming from. However, I have been against abortion ever since I found out what it was at age 11. No one had to brain wash me or preach at me to form my opinion. I knew in my heart and soul that it was wrong- that abortion ended a life. And I know in my heart and soul and mind that assisted-suicide is wrong- it is ending life and devaluing human life. 

So, what does the Bible say about suffering and death- verses come to mind like 'Endure to the end" "Finish the race" "Choose life" and "If we suffer with Him so that we may also be glorified with Him" Romans 8:17. People might say to me; how can you tell others what to do with their own life and decision to die. I'm not telling people what to do- I'm standing up for what I believe to be true. 

To those who may think the Bible should have no influence in this topic, I would say this. We need to set an example to others, if we want our lives to matter and have a lasting effect on those around us and to have some benefit to the world we are leaving to future generations. We need to set an example to those who are suffering mental illness, bullying, stress at work, abuse at home, financial troubles, anger issues, illnesses, disabilities and many other terrible things we all suffer through. We need to send a message of hope that we can embrace life, choose life in every difficult circumstance and carry on through the most awful of circumstances. Because in that enduring, in that suffering to the end we will find something beautiful- we will find dignity and worth.

Life is beautiful, life is hard, suffering is a part of life whether it's physical, emotional or something else. I do not completely understand what people considering this are going through- these people who are facing terminal illness and imminent death. Let me tell you about someone who does- a man who faced a terrible death, a man who endured suffering beyond what we can even imagine so that we may have life, eternal life. Jesus knows and He understands- He prayed in the garden of Gethsemane "Father if you are willing, take this cup from me, yet not my will but yours be done". Jesus was tempted to avoid the awful suffering but He overcame that temptation and I am so glad that He did. For it is His suffering that has brought me new life, it is His suffering that means I can face death and know that it is not the end. Kara Tippetts has terminal cancer and she wrote a beautiful letter to Brittany Maynard (the young woman who is ending her life in a few weeks and who is being used by many to further the agenda of assisted-suicide). Let me share what she says about Jesus " He died and He overcame death three days later and in that overcoming He overcame the death from cancer that you and I are both now facing. He longs to know you, to shepherd you in your dying, and to give you life and to give you life abundant- eternal life". Hastening death may rob you of the greatest thing of all- knowing Jesus.

~ Debbie Allen

A Love Story

We all have that person. That one person you were absolutely convinced growing up that you'd be with forever. I'm talking before high school, middle school, even before we went through the cootie stage! When we were little tykes running around and our best friend was whoever we happened to be entertaining us at that particular moment.

*Note: This is going to be a possibly horribly boring post that reminisces about childhood, friendship and loss. If these things bore you, or you simply don't care, fair warning! Close out now! I think as adults, we tend to brush aside the feelings of little ones as inconsequential or trivial and don't necessarily give them the attention they sometimes deserve. So I suppose in a way, this is my way of grieving something I was told to simply 'get over' all those years ago. *

My person was Chris. He lived next door to us while I was growing up. He was my best friend, and I was convinced we'd be friends forever. I lived an hour away from the city I went to school at, so getting together with friends from school rarely- if ever happened. So to have a friend to come home to was kind of a big deal after they moved in.

Chris was the eldest of 2. He had a brother, Tom, who was roughly my brother J's age. Tom and J were best friends as well. As you can imagine, the four of us had many adventures together. I distinctly remember several afternoons where we would play 'Princess and the Knight vs the Bad Guys' which would land me (despite my objections and frustration) reading in my tree house while Chris 'battled' Tom and J to 'save' me from being 'kidnapped'. We would spend hours in the summer picking raspberries and concocting various drinks/ snacks etc to serve to our parents after we'd eaten/ drank our fill (which would probably explain my aversion to them now. Too much of a good thing, ya know?).

In the evenings, after our parents had ordered us inside and to bed, Chris would climb out his window, then hop up over the water barrel next to his shed, walk across the roof of the shed and climb down the tree, then somehow climb up on the roof of my house to my window. I'd open it and we'd continue talking/ joking- in hushed voices of course because heaven forbid we get caught! He was my best friend, a brother, a confidante, and playmate.

One day I returned home from school and he was gone. His parents had split and his mom had taken off with the boys. I never saw Chris again. I felt his departure from my life keenly. Someone who had been so integral in my day to day life to suddenly just vanish? Surreal.

Looking back, had we all continued living in that little town, I wouldn't be surprised to find our story to be one you could find outlined in an old school Taylor Swift song.

A few years ago, I learned that Tom happened to be in the same high school as my siblings. What were the chances?! We now live over 2 hours from where we lived as children, however somehow they end up at the same school. Through some pretty amazing cyber stalking research, I found Chris on Facebook and sent him a message. Let's just say, what I found out was disappointing, sad, and that the years had not been kind to him. My rose coloured glass memories of him were smudged from the encounter.

Here's to innocence of youth. To lost love. To what could have beens and might have beens. To what made us stronger. To those we left behind. To those we still carry with us, and probably always will.

Grief, Sorrow and Joy.

One of the things that stunned me about Africa was how open the people were about everything. There were no 'taboo' topics when it came to family, or friends.

When we entered a family's home, it was tradition to have chai with the women before any chatter could really commence. At this time we were immediately presented with photo albums. Albums we assumed to be filled with smiling children, laughing parents, happy grandparents. Of weddings, birthdays and happy joy filled times. We assumed that when opened, these albums would give us a glimpse of this families most cherished moments. We assumed that the pictures held within would be similar to the ones you would find in in photo albums in own homes.

This was not the case. The photo albums held grim pictures horrific scenes. Pictures of a casket, often holding an infant or small child. Of mourners gathered, of family members and friends holding the dead child, of devastated mothers. Of tears, and heartache and loss and misery.

I was confused and even a tad disgusted. Why would they show us this? Our visit was meant to be one of joy and friendship, a light hearted blessing, a communion among friends, and this is how we are greeted?! With a situation we could do nothing about and do not know how to proceed or how to act, what to say?! They just made this whole thing incredibly awkward.

As I watched the women eagerly pointed out various people, and held a hand clutched to their hearts, I realized what this truly was. There was no malice or ill intent in their actions. Quite the opposite in fact. It was an acceptance, an invitation, a blessing.

They were not looking for sympathy, or empty sentiments of regret. They were simply sharing their lives with us, allowing us to come closer to them. It came down to the fact that they were as willing to share their grief and sorrow, as they were to share their joy.

In our society, its common to hide that which makes us seem weak, or vulnerable. To shy away from sharing feelings that are not of happiness and light. When we ask each other 'how are you?' what we are really looking to hear is 'good, how are you?'. Ninety percent of the time, we don't ACTUALLY want to hear how the other person is actually doing. If they answer with 'I've been better', we kind of die a little on the inside knowing that this is going to be a much longer conversation than you had anticipated and you were really hoping you were going to be able to get a coffee before picking the kids up!

Grief is something meant to be shared, and felt as a community. Something to be lived, and experienced. It's how grief turns into memories and hope. Whenever anyone would ask how I was doing after my mom's passing, I would smile, say we were doing well, and invariably turn the topic to Eli. What a saving grace having him in our lives was. Again, the truth is is that people have enough sadness and anger and hurt in their own lives, I didn't need to be adding to it. I heard time and time again. 'You are so strong!' However this was a lie. I wasn't strong, I'm just a good actress.

Why do we hide our emotions? Why are we so afraid to show our pain and fear and scars? Why do we wait until the second trimester to share our joy in a pregnancy? Because we may feel embarrassed, or inadequate or don't want to share the pain if something happens and we miscarry? Why do we try to explain away our pain?

Why can we not share our joy immediately, and allow others to share our grief and bad times as equally as we invite them to share in our happy and cherished times? When we make the decision to share everything, the good and the bad, we extend the possibility of relationship with those around us. We open doors. We invite others in.  We lean on one another, and celebrate one another. We have a deeper understanding of what the other people are going through, and what makes them who we are today.

If,  as a society, we were more open with those around us. Less quick to judge. If we taught the value of letting others in, maybe it could change a few lives. Teenagers who feel forgotten and unloved and hurting may find solace in others, rather than ending their lives too soon. Mothers who've lost unborn children could be surrounded in love from their grieving friends, mourning their loved one's infinite loss. Maybe the world would be a bit of a better place.

Next time you ask somebody how they are doing, and they say 'fine' or 'good' or some other cookie cutter response, try looking them in the eye, touching their arm, and asking again. Maybe you'll make a difference.