Liminal Space

As the title of my post suggests, I find myself in a period of transition.  As a Lutheran seminarian from Canada at seminary in the Midwest United States, I am not unacquainted with the liminal space of transition.  Yet here I am here once again, and it is not the same.  

As my 'About Me' will suggest as I get around to editing it, I am just beginning the final preparations to embark upon my year of internship in Oslo, Norway.  Not only am I exploring what it means to be an intern for the year, I am exploring what it might mean to be a pastor in the Lutheran church, as well as what it is like to be immersed, surrounded, and encircled by a congregation that is very international, in a country that I have only ever visited for a week five years ago.  And most of all I am exploring, pondering, and trying to figure out to what and to where God is calling me.  

It is all extremely exciting and frightening at the same time.  

Therefore, I selfishly write this blog for me as a time to reflect upon, well, whatever happens!  If you know me and are wondering what I'm up to this year, I hope this will keep you updated.  If you don't know me and somehow stumble upon it, I hope you enjoy it.  If you read it and connect with it, please, write, respond, dialogue!  

To begin, I post something that I will likely never post again:  a poem.  

I am not a poet, nor have ever been a poet, but I recently had the pleasure of making one of my favourite trips, a 24-hour drive from the Midwest back to Canada.  I have made this drive with my family countless times, but this time, with Norway looming on my horizon, during the stint from 3-8am, driving across the plains of Saskatchewan, snippets of this poem were written.  Whether it is literal or figurative, I don't know.  It is no great piece of writing, but it is from where I am coming, and a fitting start.  

Liminal Space

Awakened at three

by the lulling motion

which comes to a stop, 

the door opens

and the 

refreshing breeze

sweeps in.  

Petro Canada,

Tim Horton's,

Coffee,

I crawl behind the

wheel

and drive North,

always North.  

To my right,

the deep blue

sky

is already

tinged

with a lighter blue.

The chaotic sea

hangs inverted

above my head;

or perchance

it is I

who hangs

inverted

above the chaos.  

For the

sky

is more expansive

than the land

which stretches out

before me

and

behind me

for countless

miles.

The dotted trees

of the horizon

both hide away

and point to

the prairie homesteads.

The majestic

wooden grain elevator,

rising out of

the sea

of grass,

is the only thing

to scrape 

the sky.  

Soon

I turn off my lights.  

They are or

no use

anymore;

the sky

is 

already

too bright.  

As I

drive,

the inhabitants

come out

in welcome.  

The swift fox,

the loping coyote,

the bounding jackrabbit,

the cattle

upon

the sea

of grass.  

Yellow heads

mingle with

red wings.  

The familiar 

waddle

of the 

raccoon

is replace by

the passing

nod

of the

wolf.  

A mixture

of French,

English, 

First Nations--

the names of towns

flash by

and bring forth

memories

long dormant

in my mind.  

Qu'Appelle,

Drinkwater,

Moose Jaw,

Pense...

je pense...

I think...

Something 

is awakened

within me

in this 

liminal space

between

the dark of night

and 

the light of day.

Until...

Until

the ray 

of sun

breaks

through

the swirling clouds

and

shatters

the spell.  

Until next time,

The Shoeless Seminarian