When the perishable has been clothed with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality, then the saying that is written will come true: "Death has been swallowed up in victory."
"Where, O death, is your victory?
Where, O death, is your sting?"
The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God! He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. (1 Corinthians 15:54-57)

One of the greatest things about being a Christian, for me, and I'm sure for many others, is freedom from the fear of death.

Death, for mankind, is the greatest enemy. Death means an end to life, and possibly, the end of existence. No one escapes it; no matter how long we live, it will come in the end. We have no power over it; none of us knows when, or how, we will die.

Wealth doesn't purchase immunity from it; nor do fame, beauty, youth, love, or achievement. Greatness, by any of the world's standards, inevitably succumbs to mortality. As soon as we're born, we begin to die; and no matter what we do, our life in this world is an unstoppable passage along the swift river of time toward oblivion.

We have only one lifetime. Most of us, I think, cope with this reality by ignoring death. We occupy our mind with what we're going to do today and tomorrow, relationships, work, money, hobbies, unhealthier addictions. Pursuit of pleasure and the banal minutiae of life keeps us distracted enough that the thought of mortality is far from our minds.

Yet it's inevitable for all of us. And sometimes something happens that brings it sharply to mind. An accident. An experience of the supernatural. The death of a friend or relative. We contemplate it for a while, but most of us try to push it from our minds. Our own mortality is not a fact we like to dwell on.

And with good reason. It's too big for us. Most of us don't have a real answer for this problem. The world's philosophies and religions have come up with many theories. Incarnation. Annihilation. Purgatory. Nirvana. Even in most religions which believe in heaven, such as Islam, entrance into Paradise is by no means certain.

The Apostle Paul counseled the Thessalonians, when talking about the second coming of Jesus, "Brothers, we do not want you to be ignorant about those who fall asleep [die], or to grieve like the rest of men, who have no hope." (1 Thess 4:13) By implication, people outside of Christ don't have hope, for either a loved one's death or theirs.

I have a dear friend who is an atheist, a rationalist, and an evolutionist. His conclusion is that death is simply annihilation, a cessation of existence. At death, the physical substance we are made of returns to the earth, and, being nothing more than a "concatenation of atoms", we cease to exist.

It's a rational conclusion from his beliefs. In fact, it's a theory I held to before becoming a Christian.

But I don't believe it's true. And I don't see how anyone who sincerely grapples with the realities of life and death, and who has had any experience that points to the fact that we are more than merely physical, can accept it either. It's certainly not "hope".

Enter Jesus.

Since the children have flesh and blood, he too shared in their humanity so that by his death he might destroy him who holds the power of death—that is, the devil— and free those who all their lives were held in slavery by their fear of death. (Hebrews 2:14-15, emphasis added)

Death is our biggest enemy. Death is our greatest fear. Death is our most powerful limitation, the destruction of all we hold dear. What would happen if we were completely released from it?

Jesus entered into humanity, became one of us, experienced death like one of us, but then, by his resurrection, smashed death its own deathblow forever. For those who trust in him, he purchased the hope—not the uncertain wishing, but the absolute surety—of immortality.

1 Corinthians 15 lays this out in detail. Just as we have inherited death in our descent from Adam, so those who have put their faith in Jesus will inherit his life and immortality.

This is not some wishy-washy, pie-in-the-sky, religious delusion, nor is it based on our good works or the whim of a capricious god. Our promise of immortality is based on the historical fact of Jesus' resurrection, verified by witnesses and recorded in the Gospels. The Apostle Paul put it like this:

And if Christ has not been raised, our preaching is useless and so is your faith....if Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile; you are still in your sins. Then those also who have fallen asleep in Christ are lost. If only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are to be pitied more than all men. But Christ has indeed been raised from the dead.... (1 Corinthians 15:14, 17-20, emphasis added)

Jesus Christ's resurrection is the one solid fact upon which our faith is founded. In fact, it's both necessary for and a guarantee of true salvation: "If you confess with your mouth, 'Jesus is Lord,' and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved." (Romans 10:9)

Again, it's not just some pie-in-the-sky, vague hope that someday, when I die, I'll see Jesus and go to heaven and won't that be great. My experience of the Holy Spirit now assures me that I am a child of God, gives me a little taste of heaven (not just the hope, the actual experience), and guarantees that one day, I will experience it in full.

Having believed, you were marked in him with a seal, the promised Holy Spirit, who is a deposit guaranteeing our inheritance until the redemption of those who are God's possession—to the praise of his glory. (Ephesians 1:13-14, emphasis added)

Because of the Holy Spirit, when I worship, I experience a little bit of the glory of heaven. I experience God's wonderful presence, and I feel his love. I rejoice in him, and I cannot wait for the full thing.

I don't fear death. Although I want to accomplish more on this earth, and believe that's God's purpose for me, I look forward to the end of life here on earth and the beginning of Real Life, in eternity.

This is some of what I yearn toward:

Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and there was no longer any sea. I saw the Holy City, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride beautifully dressed for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, "Now the dwelling of God is with men, and he will live with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God. He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away."....I did not see a temple in the city, because the Lord God Almighty and the Lamb are its temple. The city does not need the sun or the moon to shine on it, for the glory of God gives it light, and the Lamb is its lamp. (Revelation 21:1-4, 22-23)

What about you?

I've got a post about something serious brewing, but in the meantime, I'd like to highlight what I think is a superb piece of art from the album cover of "The Eraser", by Thom Yorke:

I saw this poster hanging in the window of a CD shop that was going out of business in my neighbourhood, and was immediately struck by it. I can't quantify exactly what I like about it, but it's classic.

And I don't think it's just me, because when I went into the shop to inquire about buying it, the sheepish young shop attendant informed me that just about every day, people stopped in to ask. He told me to come back a month later.

I looked for that poster every time I walked by. A few weeks later, it was gone. I went in to ask, and sure enough, somebody had beaten me to the punch.

So I bought one on Ebay, from Australia. I plan on framing it, eventually. I wish I knew the name of the artist who designed it.

And in another completely useless digression, I really, really wish somebody would design a completely noiseless, high-resolution camera that could be run from a pair of glasses and be controlled by your eyes.

So very often when I'm out running, or on the subway, I see something I wish I could capture, but I don't have my camera. Or, I don't have the guts to snap someone while sitting directly across the aisle from them. My dream camera would be lightweight, noiseless, totally discrete, with lots of storage or the capability

Emerald the Terrible seems to be settling in. And Terrible, really, she isn't. In fact, she's turning out to be one of the sweetest little bits of felinity I've ever seen.

Her hissing episodes are few and far between, and getting rarer the longer she's here. Mostly, she "talks" to us all day long in widely-varied, squeaky meows and trills. She follows me around unceasingly, and begs to be allowed to sleep on my lap. Yesterday she even started running and chasing her toy.

She's not a jumper, and rarely gets caught on the table or countertops. She doesn't make much effort to go outside, or other places she shouldn't. She doesn't beg or steal food. She's not the sharpest pencil in the box, but she's the sweetest.

However, Emerald has a Talent that, while admirable, could not exactly be described as social. Emerald is a yowler by night.

Emerald's yowls are long. Emerald's yowls are melodic. Emerald's yowls are heart-wrenching and pathetic. Emerald's yowls are unceasing. They sound like a doomed soul futilely bemoaning his life of sin. When they occur almost anywhere in the house, but most particularly when they occur right outside your door, they jerk you out of sleep and shatter any remaining somnolence into a million little irrecoverable pieces.

If Emerald's yowls could be translated, they would say, "BA-ROOOOOOOOOOO, I haven't seen a HUMAN in A WHOLE FOUR HOURS! I'm sure they've abandoned me! They don't love me anymore! Human! HUMAN!! MUST. HAVE. HUMAN!!!"

As soon as she sees a human, these yowls immediately disperse into relieved, happy trilling.

One morning, Emerald sat outside my housemate's room and yowled for a solid hour. My housemates don't particularly need to be subject to that, especially the ones who get up in the morning for real jobs.

So I decided she'd have to spend her nights in the bathroom. It's heartbreaking, because she really doesn't like it, and there's a bit of disgruntled protest when bedtime comes and she gets carted off to her little dungeon.

However, it saves our sleep and our sanity, and despite her not enjoying it, it does have all the comforts of home: her bed, her food and water, and her potty. She survives quite well until the morning, when she is gratefully let out to resume her endless pursuit of cuddles.

In short, she's a delight, and I'd adopt her myself in a second if I could. She may be a nuisance, but she's a darn lovable one.

The tall, dark-haired man who rushes toward the subway train doors and lifts his hand like Superman to try to part them, too late, as the door chimes ring and they close. He turns and stares at me for a long moment, then turning his back to the train, delivers a swift and powerful kick to it with the bottom of his foot that sends a sharp loud shock through the station. He then stalks off again up the exit stairs, leaving behind several surprised and shaken people.

It's Valentine's Day, and it's hard to escape that fact. For the past two weeks or so, news outlets have been filled with stories about V-Day, both pro- and anti. Gift shop window displays are resplendent with red and pink hearts. On my run today, most of the people I passed seemed to be carrying flowers, wine, or other mysterious gifts in bags. Even Google and YouTube are in on the fun, with customized logos.

I have to admit I like it. I get as mushy as anybody when I hear a good love story, or read about a married couple still in love after decades. My disinterested cynicism has dissolved into, perhaps not full-fledged romanticism, but at least a tender-hearted delight in true love. Much as I hate the commercial aspects of the holiday, a day to celebrate all that's good about the love between a man and a woman seems positive.

However, as a single with no one to celebrate, it's not hard to feel left out. My singleness doesn't bother me, nor does it make me sad on Valentine's Day. I'm happy for those who have something to celebrate, and if that's me one day, I'll enjoy it then.

It did get me thinking, though, about the nature of love.

The definition of "love" that Valentine's Day celebrates is the kind that most people in the western world think of when they hear the word "love". The sparks and butterflies, swept off your feet, sexual attraction, obsessive, fairy-tale love between a man and a woman.

There's nothing wrong with that. It's God-created, and it's good.

But to me, it's a bit sad that for most people in the world, this kind of "love" is not just the only, but the highest kind of love. In the face of a 50% divorce rate, short-term relationships, casual sex, "friends with benefits", cheating, lack of commitment, and the thousand and one other heartbreaks that can come with "romantic love", this seems risky at best, dangerously deluded at worst. And if "love" was limited only to people in relationships, it would leave singles, the divorced, and the widowed in a pretty desperate place.

That's why I'm thankful that as a Christian, I know the source of true Love.

"God is love." The apostle John tells us this in 1 John 4:8. In fact, in the first part of that verse he says, "Whoever does not love does not know God."

The mark of a Christian, and of Christianity, true and Spirit-filled, is love.

God is love.

Those who know God, love.

I could go on and on quoting Scripture verses. This thread is woven throughout the whole New Testament. Jesus, when asked what to do to inherit eternal life, replied, " 'Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind'; and, 'Love your neighbor as yourself.'" (Luke 10:27)

It's pretty simple. God is love. He has first loved us. We love others. By the love God has given us, and its extension to others, we know that we belong to him.

God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us....God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us. (Romans 5:4,8)

This is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down his life for us. And we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers. (1 John 3:16)

By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another. (John 13:35)

Love each other as I have loved you. (John 15:12)

Dear children, let us not love with words or tongue but with actions and in truth. This then is how we know that we belong to the truth, and how we set our hearts at rest in his presence whenever our hearts condemn us. (1 John 4:18-19)

It's pretty simple.

It's pretty great.

His love is perfect, unconditional, never-ending, unlimited. It makes those who know it dance and shout and feel secure.

Real Christianity, not religious bunk, is a love-fest: God to us and us to God and us to others and others to us and out to the world that doesn't know him.

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone. And for those of you who know this love of God, happy every day of the year. All 365 can be celebrations of perfect love.

This is how days go now that Emerald rules the roost:

Me: sitting at desk working, or pretending to

Emerald (realizing she hasn't had human contact in a WHOLE FIVE MINUTES): "Mrrowrr! Meow! Maaah! Mrrrr!" (pacing around chair and looking up with pleading eyes)

Me: "C'mon Emerald! C'mon!" (patting lap)

Emerald: "Mrrarr! Mraah!" (putting up paws, clawing at my leg and back)

Me: "Jump, Emerald!"

Emerald: eventually, jumps onto back of chair. Or continues pacing around begging. Occasionally, she actually jumps into my lap.

Me: Picks her up if she hasn't jumped, settles her down if she has.

Me: petting

Emerald: blissful purring

Eventually, she settles in completely, draping her head over my arm, burying her face in my elbow, or hooking a paw over my wrist. I end up with one arm immobilized, typing with my left hand. Or futilely trying to manipulate the mouse with my right. More purring. Occasional hand-licking.

Eventually, I have to get up. So I disturb Her Royal Emeraldness. This displeases her greatly. Yesterday, we had a mild bite and some hissing. Today, we had some more hissing. I hiss back, gently tap her nose, and dump her on the floor. She stalks off, greatly miffed, into the other room.

Five minutes later, the whole cycle repeats itself.

Thankfully, so far we've had only one "hissy fit" per day. The rest of the day she's fine, apart from some complainy muttering when I get up. I think she's learning. Perhaps?

Whatever, having a lap-kitty to snuggle with makes work an infinite degree of purriness better.

After optimistically writing that post yesterday, I was treated to a display of Emerald's "bad" behaviour. It first occurred when I picked her up and took her downstairs, where she thought that she shouldn't be. So she hissed. I hissed back. She whipped her head around so fast that I think I'd have gotten a bite in the face if she'd been able to reach. I then tapped her gently on the nose, from which she recoiled and which stopped the hissing.

The next occurrence happened, again, when I picked her up. She hissed. I hissed back, and again did the light nose-tap. This time, there was no biting attempt.

That was the end of that for the day. A couple of times things happened that I think would normally have set off hissing, but she thought twice and didn't.

Today, she was lying on my lap, all blissed out, stretched over my arm and preventing me from typing. I decided to get up, and disturbed her, which provoked a gentle bite and a hiss. Repeat hiss back, repeat nose tap. That seemed to deal with it. No more episodes today, so far.

So far I think it's Me 3, Aggressive Kitty 0. The problem is that in her previous foster home, the humans were afraid of her, didn't know how to deal with her aggression, and basically let her do whatever she wanted. She has to re-learn here that the Humans are the Boss Cats, and she is the Much-Loved but Subordinate Cat.

Apart from the infrequent hissy fits, though, she is absolutely lovely. She is very vocal, gives little trilling meows, wants to be in proximity to a human 24-7, loves lap cuddles, purrs a lot, and is the sweetest little bundle of confection wrapped in a small black kitty-skin you'll ever see. I said it before, and I'll say it again, some lucky human is going to get a very special cat.

This is Emerald. Isn't she cute?

She arrived last night, along with her old foster mum, a small bag of cat food, and part of a bag of litter. She was in a cat carrier, and she wasn't happy about it, as evidenced by pathetic mewing and one small black paw pushed futilely against the door grate.

However, she cheered up as soon as she was let out into the relative freedom of my downstairs bathroom, where she had food and water, a litterbox, a scratching post, and a little bed I made her out of a folded-up blanket. After she'd finished exploring the limited space, she curled up into cat-loaf position on the bed and stayed there for the whole of the evening, until I went to bed. (That's where the above photo was snapped. She was falling asleep when I took it).

Having heard about her slightly obnoxious behaviour from the former foster home, I braced myself for crying and scratching during the night. Not a peep. I slept soundly and the first noise I heard out of her in the morning was scratching in her litterbox, until I made a phone call from my bedroom and she heard my voice, upon which she let out a plaintive meow.

Released this morning, she walked cautiously but inquisitively out of the bathroom. It took a great deal of coaxing from the top of the stairs to get her to come up, but she finally ran up the stairs and set about exploring the rest of the house. She now seems fairly at ease and is hovering within a small radius of me, meowing frequently when she feels she's being ignored. Quite endearingly, she paws my leg plaintively to request a pickup. Right now, she's "helping" me type this and licking my hands as I do.

She's extremely friendly and cuddly; loves to be held; sits on my lap; purrs; and talks a lot. So far she's adorable and I haven't seen any evidence of bad behaviour, apart from a hiss when I walked too closely behind her up the stairs, which is fairly normal. I'm anticipating that soon, a very lucky home will get a very special kitty.

The crazy guy who puts out his hand for a high-five as he approaches me on his bicycle on the sidewalk, swipes it away for a brief "psych!" moment, then puts it back so our pinkies just brush as he goes by.

I saw this pretty cool and fun-sounding meme thing over at That Night. Like her, I don't usually do these memes, but this one looked like so much fun I just had to try it.

Here are the instructions, quoted verbatim from ThatNight:

The CD Cover Meme group has only three rules: (1) The first article title on this random wiki page is the name of your band, (2) the last four words of the very last quote on this random quote page is the title of your album, and (3) the third picture here, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.

I actually really liked my results:

I'd buy this just based on the CD cover, wouldn't you?

Of course, I've always thought that if I ever had to make a CD cover, I'd use this photo:

Cool eh? Lots of atmosphere, lots of space for text...

One of the highlights of living where I do is the proximity of a Korean supermarket. I shop there fairly often, both for Korean staples and other basics.

The aisles are crowded with Korean people, mixed with the odd Caucasian, and chatter goes on all around in Korean, briefly breaking to English when they have to interact with the white person. The shelves are stocked with all sorts of intriguing delicacies, and it takes all my willpower not to add twice as much as I came for to my shopping cart. I make mental notes of some of the more interesting items and plan to find out what they're used for.

Today I go to buy ingredients for pa jon, Korean pancake. I've read that Koreans usually buy a premade mix of flour and other ingredients to use as the basis, so I slowly scan the aisle where I think it most likely to be. There are bread crumbs, of every variety. Flour. Sugar. English pancake mix. But I don't see the Korean kind.

I wander down the next aisle, till I find a man who works there, marked out by the white cotton gloves he's wearing to protect his hands. "Excuse me," I say. "I want to make pa jon. Where do I find the mix?"

He leads me off confidently, and my hopes go up, until he stops and points at a shelf of pre-made pa jon at the front of the store. "No, no," I say, "I want to make it at home."

"Ah!" he says, finally understanding. He leads me off in another direction. "First, you need vegetables," he says, and I show him my shopping basket full of vegetables, to forestall a trip to the produce section. "Then, you need egg," and we stop to grab a carton. He also puts some imitation crab in my basket, which I later discretely return. Finally, he leads me to the same aisle where I futilely hunted for the pancake mix, and pulls a small package off the shelf, marked with a photo of pa jon. "Kam-samnida," I say, bowing slightly, and with all the needed ingredients, head triumphantly for the checkout.

The girl who's ahead of me in line squeezes behind me to rejoin her shopping, plunking another item on the pile and loosing a stream of rapid Korean in my ear. I turn, surprised, and she laughs and says, "Sorry," in English. There's some debate about something, and the cashier calls out "Un-ni!" An older woman, maybe one of the owners, rushes over and resolves the problem. When it's finally my turn, I proffer my credit card, and the cashier, as they always do, shouts out "Card-" followed by a string of Korean syllables to indicate to the others that a card transaction is going through.

On my way home, I pass a little Korean cafe where my friend Angela and I once ate years ago. Unknown to me at the time, it's nearly across the street from where I live now. I smile at the thought, and go home to put my spoils in the fridge.

Today I got lots of kitty supplies, for free. I walked deep downtown to a building where a couple who foster for the Annex Cat Rescue live, and was met in the lobby by the husband, a pleasant guy called Joel. He took me down to their basement locker, which to my delight was chock-full of all sorts of kitty supplies, mine for the taking.

I walked away with a litterbox, litter scoop, scratching post, food and water dishes (cleverly built into a plastic mat to catch any mess), and cool soft-shell carrying bag for when (if) I have to take her to the vet.

Score!

There are still a few things I have to buy, but those are the main ones and a big financial help.

Afterward I went down to the Eaton Centre to check on a pair of boots I'd tried on a couple of weeks ago. They're now on sale at 50% off, so I figured I'd better grab them before they go. I was waited on by an exceedingly bored gay Asian guy with an affected demeanour that projected, "I don't want to have to talk to you any more than necessary."

While he was ringing up my sale, I suddenly remembered the exceedingly unfriendly and uncommunicative gay Asian guy who'd waited on me in that same store two years ago when I bought my previous pair of winter boots. In a moment of epiphany, I wondered if it was the same guy. And realized it probably was. Life's funny that way.

A few weeks ago, I went to the Toronto Humane Society with the intention of getting a cat. I checked them all out, wrote down the numbers of the ones I liked, and returned home intending to go back and choose one.

However, I started to think about the realities of cat ownership, and it tempered my excitement somewhat. Owning a pet is a big commitment. You are pledging to take care of this animal for the rest of its life, including any medical bills it might incur.

I'm realized I'm just not up for that. For one thing, my life is still unsettled enough that I'm not comfortable taking on the life-long care of a furry dependent. For another, my income is not steady or large enough to make me optimistic about paying vet bills.

So I decided I would volunteer at the Humane Society instead. Then I happened to see a flier for the Annex Cat Rescue, another organization in Toronto that cares for homeless kitties.

Somewhere, my desire to own a cat morphed into a desire to foster one. Fostering works like this: you keep the cat and care for it until someone adopts it. The organization pays medical bills and you cover food and litter. Potential adoptees, after being screened by the organization, visit the cat, and you assess them. You have final say about who the cat goes to.

This seemed like a much better deal to me.

So after sending some email messages and leaving some voicemails, I got a call from a very pleasant lady named Sharon, the foster coordinator for ACR. We had a lovely chat in which she told me all about my potential foster, an "alpha female" named Emerald with "dominance issues". Apparently this means that she hisses and taps you with her paw when you do something she doesn't like. I confess I laughed. I said I thought I could handle this.

Sharon directed me to the online application form. After I'd completed it, she informed me that a "home inspector" would be dropping by to assess the house. She also said that I could visit Emerald at the vet where she is currently boarding, so last night, I did.

Emerald turned out to be a small, longish-haired black cat, who crouched in the back of her cage uncertainly till the vet tech opened the door and I extended my hand to her. She crept forward slowly, sniffed it, I started stroking her, and we were in business. She seemed to enjoy the attention, and eventually began purring.

We were doing fine until I pulled her out and set her on my lap. At that point, loud and continuous muttering and hissing ensued, which increased in volume and intensity as she realized she wasn't being put down. I think part of the problem was that from this vantage point, she could see her next-door neighbour, a handsome white cat, with whom she seemed to have a problem. I held her for a bit while the complaining went on, then finally gently set her back into the cage. The vocalizing didn't stop. She had an awful lot to say, all of it negative. I don't really blame her in that situation.

But I loved her anyway. And today, I had the home inspection visit from a very nice girl called Michelle. She said her report would be positive, so, barring any complications, by the end of this week I may have my kitty!

Well, not my kitty. I need to keep in mind that she's only in my care until she gets adopted. Which hopefully, for her sake, will be soon. However, it will be awfully nice to have a cat around for the first time in years.

I'm still high from an absolutely fabulous weekend at the Newfrontiers Canada leadership conference. We had great worship, great teaching from Chris McLean, Roger Bye, and Joe Crummey, and wonderful fellowship as we prayed for and spent time with one another.

The most exciting bit was our visitors from Montreal. There is a group of young people there who are experiencing a real move of the Holy Spirit. Kids are getting saved, filled with the Holy Spirit, and healed. They're not formed into an official "church" per se, but they meet for worship, prayer and fellowship. God has brought about a connection with Newfrontiers in Canada, with the purpose of encouraging and helping them in whatever ways that we can.

Two of the young people who came from Montreal were guys who have only within the past few weeks been saved and filled with the Holy Spirit. Both quit drugs, alcohol, and smoking. One had been so violent and badly behaved that parents wouldn't allow their children to hang out with him. Now he's passionate about Jesus and they're both growing and radically changed.

I personally feel that God has given me a connection with them and I feel an urge to help them, pray for them, and do whatever I can to support them. I'm deeply grateful for their friendship, prayers, and encouragement to me.

The weekend ended rather spectacularly with a sledding trip to Toronto's Riverdale Park. The weather has been warm lately and many people have been sledding, so the hill is quite slick and icy. Somebody built a jump at the bottom, and several of us hit it, with predictably disastrous results. One guy has his arm in a sling, one girl had the wind knocked out of her, one guy has his back and foot hurt...and I'm sure there are more I haven't heard about.

I hit the jump on my first run, went flying into the air, parted with the sled, did several revolutions in the air, landed on my back, had the sled land on top of me and then bounce off. I felt fine yesterday but today have symptoms of a mild concussion: a quite peculiar feeling. No more sled jumps for me!

I am a klutz.

Yesterday I had to run a number of errands, among them buying a new blender for my roommate, whose blender pitcher I shattered by dropping it on the floor. I returned successfully with a new blender, which hadn't cost too much. Mission accomplished.

I then decided to make a small lunch to tide me over until my evening run. I settled on soft-boiled eggs and toast. I popped my toast into the toaster oven, set the dial, and returned to my computer to keep working till it was done.

Now, I am convinced our toaster oven is haunted by gremlins. It used to be that setting it to five minutes resulted in toast that was slightly done on one side, still cold on the other. Recently, it has been slightly burning toast around the edges when set to that time. However, I set the timer to five minutes.

A few minutes later, I began to smell burning. I returned to the kitchen to check on my toast. What I saw was appalling.

The toaster oven had turned into a mini-fireplace. A large and bright orange flame was slowly feeding off one piece of toast, which had turned into a black cinder. Black smoke was curling out of the cracks of the toaster oven.

I quickly a) grabbed a glass with some water; b) carefully unplugged the toaster; c) gingerly opened the door (which resulted in the flame getting bigger); and d) splashed water on the black cinder. It sizzled, and thankfully, completely extinguished the flame.

The toaster oven had scorch marks all along the inside. I hoped it was unharmed. However, I got up this morning (well, this afternoon really) to find the toaster oven sitting on the floor and an email from my roommate saying that it was dead. She'd tried it and the top element started smoking. Not a good sign.

So now I have to buy a new toaster oven. Perhaps I'll go back to the same place where yesterday I bought the blender.

Finally, I went for my run. I was about a mile from home on my 5-mile loop when my eyes briefly registered an irregular patch on the sidewalk. A millisecond later, my toe registered it; and a millisecond after that, I was lying sprawled and stunned on the cold sidewalk with a great shooting pain in my elbow, which had absorbed the force of the fall.

A man was coming along the sidewalk, so I pulled myself up to a sitting position to try to regain some semblance of dignity. He stopped. "Are you OK?" I looked up into a concerned face surrounded by the hood of a black down jacket.

"I think so," I said. "My elbow hurts, but I think it'll be ok. I'm just going to stay here for a minute."

"Do you want a hand up?"

"That might be a good idea." And he extended a hand and helped me up, then walked off with several admonitions to "take it slowly" and profuse thanks from me.

I walked around for a minute, then started slowly jogging home. The elbow pain had mostly subsided. When I got home I found it was bruised and scraped, but otherwise ok. And thanks to some application of arnica cream, today it doesn't even hurt very much.

Oi. Sometimes I wonder how I make it through life.