Anyone who knows me well knows that one of my favourite places in the entire world is the Royal Ontario Museum, aka the ROM. Anyone who knows me well also knows that one of my favourite activities in the world is knitting.

Last Friday, those two things combined in a most excellent way.

I have a new friend who is a PhD student at the ROM, and is able to get a guest in for free. He (yes, he) asked me to teach him how to knit, so we agreed to meet for a knitting lesson at the ROM. After grabbing a quick bite to eat in the cafe, we navigated to a corner of India, where we settled into a pair of comfy armchairs next to Buddha, who was in the process of enlightenment, according to his card. My friend picked up knitting in no time, and we sat and happily knitted away while ROM visitors wandered by no doubt wondering what in heck we were doing there.

We've decided to make knitting at the ROM a regular institution. This time we're heading for the top floor, where I think we might knit in Textiles, which seems appropriate. I would love to knit in Dinosaurs, but dinosaurs apparently don't go in much for armchairs.

Knitting, at the ROM, with a guy, seems like a trifecta of awesomeness which simply cannot be topped. I'm pretty stoked about it.

So, on Friday I quit my job. Handed in my two-weeks' notice, to be more precise. It got to the point where I realized that was my only choice. In most respects the job was ideal, but the one that wasn't was becoming unbearable. So, we'll see what's next. It's an adventure, again. I don't seem to ever be able to get too settled...we'll see what God has next.

The first bleat of my alarm snatched me out of sleep at 6:30 Saturday morning. I hastily switched it off and jumped out of bed. After dithering a bit about what to wear, I dressed, grabbed my bags, ate a quick breakfast, and set out. It was still dark and cold. Walking the block from my house to the subway station, I was glad I'd worn my woolly hat.

The train rushed in just as I entered the platform. There were more people on board than I expected for such an early hour, scattered loosely about the car, many dozing. I thought of that saying, "The city never sleeps."

At my station, I came out into the cold blue city, emerging slowly from the dawn. The grey buildings were almost at one with the grey-blue sky. The hot dog-stand man was asleep, just a slumped-over hood behind the ketchup and mustard pumps. I was in plenty of time to buy my ticket and board the coach. I hesitated about whether to go and buy a coffee or to wait inside, and decided against both.

There was already a longish queue at the boarding platform; more people than I thought take the New York bus in the early hours of the weekend. A Pakistani family collected behind me, jabbering animatedly, I gathered, over whether this was their bus.

As I stood waiting, I decided to knit. I pulled my yarn and needles from the bag and began fruitlessly hunting for the pattern. Drat, I realized, I left it at home. Oh well, I think I remember enough of it to keep me going for a while.

Then, a much more horrifying realization hit. I had forgotten my passport and my permanent resident card. I stood uselessly in line for another moment. There was no way to retrieve them in time; the bus was boarding in fifteen minutes. Conceding defeat, I left the queue and went back inside. Without those documents, I'd simply be turned back at the border. Even if the Americans let me in, the Canadians wouldn't on my return.

A ticket agent informed me that the next bus was leaving at 10 and arriving at 3, too late to make it for my sister's bridal shower/going away party. After a disappointed phone call to my other sister, who'd been scheduled to pick me up, I explained my predicament to another agent. He mumbled something that I gathered meant they couldn't refund my ticket, but could cancel the transaction. Somebody else would have to do it, who was now on break. As I waited for him to return, I weighed my options. Probably the only way I could get there in time was a car rental. If I left at 10, I'd arrive by 2, just in time for the party. In any case, I'd have to go home first to pick up my documents.

As I walked back across the parking lot from the subway station to my house, a feeble but warm light from the east touched the tops of the buildings, promising a golden day. A rich carpet of amber-gold leaves covered my neighbours' path thickly. Back inside, I booted up my computer and searched for car rentals, only to be confronted with the notice, "International car rentals require a 24-hour advance reservation period."

So that was that. I was stuck in Toronto. Maybe I'd go back to sleep.

Just then, a friend struck up an IM conversation. "I'm not working this weekend, so I'll be able to go to church tomorrow."

"So will I :(," I responded.

"Why the frown?"

I explained my situation.

"You can borrow my car," he immediately responded. "Hold on, just let me ask my wife."

A moment later he was back with the news that it was fine with her. Half an hour later he was at my door with the car, and at 10:00 I was on the road. Four hours of a beautiful autumnal drive later, I walked into my parents' house precisely on time to confront some very surprised relatives.

It was a nice weekend with family, and I got to see my brand-new nephew, only 6 days old. But that's a story for another time. In the meantime, I do wonder if I'll ever grow out of being so absentminded...

"We do not want you to be uninformed, brothers, about the hardships we suffered in the province of Asia. We were under great pressure, far beyond our ability to endure, so that we despaired even of life. Indeed, in our hearts we felt the sentence of death. But this happened that we might not rely on ourselves but on God, who raises the dead." (The Apostle Paul, 2 Corinthians 1:8-9)

Abraham is called in Scripture "the father of all who believe" (Romans 4:11-12). What kind of faith did Abraham have?

He had faith that God would raise the dead. First of all, he believed that God would bring life from his and Sarah's dead and barren bodies, to give them the son that God had promised (Romans 4:19-21). Later, after that son had miraculously been born, he faced an even greater test when God demanded that he sacrifice him. Still, he didn't waver in his faith but believed that if necessary, God would raise Isaac from the dead (Hebrews 11:19).

God tells us that this is the faith that saves us. When we believe that God raised Jesus from the dead, he credits us his righteousness and our sins are forgiven (Romans 4:24, 10:9).

However, this faith goes far beyond salvation, as the example of the Apostle Paul in 2 Corinthians 1 tells us.

Many times as Christians we are faced with situations in our lives that seem like death. In fact, they are death: the death of our hopes, our dreams, our desires, our loves, our flesh. Many times they can seem excruciatingly painful, "far beyond our ability to endure," as Paul put it.

There is a Christian aphorism that goes like this, "God will never give you anything that you can't handle."

I don't believe that is true.

I believe that very often, God can and does allow things in our lives that we cannot handle, that are "far beyond our ability to endure," that could easily crush us to death.

And why?

He does it so, as Paul says, "that we might not rely on ourselves but on God, who raises the dead."

When you are faced with a situation that you simply cannot handle, that is impossible for you, that in your strength cannot be moved, this happens so that in your manifest weakness you would cry out to God, who is your only hope. It happens so that when you have put your hope in him, confessed to him that he alone is your refuge and your salvation, and that if he does not raise this thing from the dead there will be no life, you will see his deliverance.

Paul went on to say,

"He has delivered us from such a deadly peril, and he will deliver us. On him we have set our hope that he will continue to deliver us, as you help us by your prayers." (2 Corinthians 1:10-11)

Are you faced with a situation that is impossible? Does it seem like there is no hope, no end in sight, no deliverance that you can see? Your hope is in the God who raises the dead. Your salvation is in the God who does the impossible. Turn to him, trust in him, so you can see his salvation.

I believe that is why James can tell us, "Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds." Though the trials themselves are not joyful, there is joy in the opportunity to cast yourself on the God who raises the dead and see what he will do. There is joy in the opportunity to grow in your knowledge and trust of him, and to prove yourself faithful through the testing rather than abandon God.

He will be faithful to us.

This is going to be one of those silly, inconsequential, "my life" blog posts.

I have my first "real" professional wedding photography gig tomorrow. Actually, I won't be doing much shooting, just helping the photographer with things like transferring photos to her laptop and carrying stuff. I do have to shoot the guys getting ready, but other than that I can just shoot as I want for my own portfolio. The budget doesn't cover a full second shooter, so I'm just there as a gofer and to shoot for fun as I please.

That's a lot less pressure. However, as much as I've done this before, I have to admit there are a few more butterflies than normal at the idea of this being my first "real", paid gig. I tried for a long time to secure assistant wedding photog jobs, with no success. This one came out of the blue, through a friend of mine who is a pro photographer and recommended me to the woman I'll be assisting.

So I'm pretty excited about that. Who knows where it might lead? I'm hoping to be able to get more weekend gigs to boost the income and to get some much-needed professional experience on my photography resume. Plus, it'll just be fun. I love mucking about with photography anytime.

Last night, I was sitting outside knitting. I was waiting until a specified time when I was supposed to meet someone at their apartment, so, having arrived early I did what I always do when I have a knitting project on the go and a bit of spare time: pulled it out and started working.

Suddenly I heard, "That is the cutest thing I have ever seen!"

I looked up, confused. An extremely good-looking Chinese guy was standing there smiling at me. Tall, well built, very cute.

"What, knitting?" I laughed.

"Knitting in front of an apartment building. What are you doing here?"

We started chatting and exchanging flirtatious banter. I have to admit it was a bit flattering: it's been a long time since a cute guy flirted with me.

"So, tell me something about yourself," he invited.

"Well, I knit."

"I know that! Tell me something I don't know."

I paused for a moment. I had a choice. Do I tell him the most important thing about myself, something guaranteed to stop the flirting and frighten him away, or do I give in to the flattery and say something lighthearted and inconsequential?

"I'm a Christian," I said.

His smile froze. He went silent. He looked at me warily.

"I thought I'd tell you the most scary thing about me," I said, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

"That is scary," he said. "Are you, like, a hardcore Christian? I've had a lot of conversations with hardcore Christians, because I'm a Buddhist."

"Oh yeah?" I asked him a few questions about his Buddhism, and he asked me about my Christianity. I told him what it meant to me to be a Christian. I left him with a card from my church with my phone number on it.

Somehow, I don't think I'll be hearing from him. But hopefully, the conversation meant something more than a random flirt. Hopefully, God's on his case and tracking him down. I don't know. I prayed for him.

Sometimes being a Christian is harder than others. Like, scaring away the first cute guy in ages to flirt with you by talking with him about Jesus. It hardly qualifies as suffering for the gospel. Nonetheless, I have to admit that there was a little twinge of regret. Ah well. Maybe I can start up a ministry: street evangelism to cute guys. With knitting.

So, this week I'm going back to New England for ten days.

It's a bit of a funny feeling. It's been ten months since I moved back to Canada. I don't know how it will feel to go back.

Yesterday I was talking on the phone to the woman whose home I lived in when I first moved to New Hampshire. It seems like only yesterday, though it was over three years ago, that I got her and her family's names by email and tried to imagine what it would be like living in this strange place, on a farm, with these people I'd never met.

Now it's three years later. I'm back where I started, in Canada. In Toronto. And yet I'm not. I'm a completely different person than when I left for New Hampshire. Much of that is due to the things that happened there. It was a difficult time of my life, one that I wouldn't want to repeat. It's had some good results, that I wouldn't want to erase.

So, it will be interesting to go back. I find sometimes you can't understand your time in a place until you do. I'm wondering what I'll find out this time.

One of the interesting things about commuting daily by subway and bus is other people. And even more specifically, what makes it interesting is the people you see every day.

I've been commuting Monday to Friday by TTC for almost 3 months. And without fail, some of the same people are nearly always on my bus.

Some of them stand out more than others. First, there's Bus Guy. I'm sure Bus Guy has a name, but in my mind, he's Bus Guy.

I first noticed Bus Guy (B.G. for short) on my very first commute. He's skinny, with short-cropped hair and a scruffy beard. His eyes are always hidden behind brown aviator sunglasses, and iPod wires snake from his ears to somewhere in his pocket. He has two Chinese characters tattooed on his neck. He often wears a hat. During the winter, he wore a long brown leather trench coat and ripped jeans; now that it's warmer he favours light-coloured checked button-down shirts and ripped jeans. His shoes are black-and-white Pumas.

Then there's Bubble Girl. It's not a flattering name, it's just how I think of her. The reason I call her that is that she wears huge bubbled-out sunglasses and has a very full lower lip that sort of echoes them. She always wears black leggings, black shoes, and a cropped black jacket. She works somewhere in the same complex I do.

Then there are others. Korean High School Guy. Old Bald Indian Guy with Briefcase. Older Guy with I'm Lovin' It jacket. Some of them are there day in and day out. Others appear, disappear, reappear. Some for whatever reason commute regularly for a time and then are gone.

It makes the bus trip more interesting. Because, you know, when you spend an hour commuting every day, you've got to do something to keep yourself occupied.

I have a necklace that reminds me of Portsmouth, New Hampshire, where I lived for two years and two months. The pendant is a piece of sea glass that I found one day among the rocks on the beach and saved in case one day I could have it made into a necklace. It sat inside the cupholder of my car for months, waiting.

It's pale sea green and roughly one inch long and three-quarters of an inch wide. It's an irregular rectangular shape and has a raised pattern that looks vaguely like the top of an anchor but is probably part of some writing. It's pretty, that's what made me save it.

One day I went downtown to see my friend Ford. When I found him, he was sitting talking to an old Deadhead who called himself Smoke. Smoke had a big bushy grey beard and a Buddha belly that was covered by a tie-dyed Grateful Dead t-shirt. He was sitting cross-legged on the pavement twisting silver wire with a pair of pliers around a pretty stone. Spread in front of him was a black velvet case showcasing his wares: every variety of coloured stone, polished smooth into beauty and wrapped around with silver wire.

I asked Smoke if he could wrap sea glass, and he said that he could. He said that he'd charge me $5. So I walked back to my car again, fetched the piece of glass, and took it to Smoke. He pulled out a length of silver wire, and a few minutes of careful twisting later, handed me my piece of sea glass, ingeniously but minimally wrapped, with a loop at the top for a chain. He then cut a length of black cord, threaded it on, tied a knot, and it was a necklace. Ten dollars, he said.

I hesitated, because he'd told me five. But I handed him ten, even though I was angry about it and complained to Ford later. However, I had to admit the result was pleasing. The thin silver wire cradles the ocean-smoothed glass, twisting to hold itself in place and spiraling up to the loop that holds the cord. When I wear it, it reminds me of the ocean. When I wear it, it reminds me of Portsmouth. When I wear it, it reminds me of countless sunsets viewed over the beautiful Piscataqua River from Peirce Island or Memorial Bridge. When I wear it, it reminds me of a time in my life that was bitter-sweet. When I wear it, it reminds me of a chunk of my past.

And it's beautiful.

I got onto the subway car. I sat down in the only available seat, next to a very sunburnt, red-skinned man in a wife-beater and jeans. I immediately semi-regretted it. He apparently hadn’t showered or applied deodorant recently.

He turned to me. “Pretty cool on the subway,” he said.

I agreed. “Cooler than outside.”

He laughed. “I might just ride the subway all day.”

“That’s one way to stay in the air conditioning.”

“Cheaper than air-conditioning your house.”

I agreed, and there was a pause.

“I’m going to the Writer’s Guild at U of T,” he told me.

“Sounds interesting. What happens there?”

“It’s for writers. People who write poetry and fiction. They get together and critique each others’ work. I pretty much have to go there every Friday. This week, Maggie McDonald is going to be speaking. In honour of her, I bought 5 liters of wine and 10 pounds of smoke—“ I thought he was going to say “smokes”, but he continued “d oysters, and five different kinds of black olives.”

“Sounds good,” I said.

“Yeah, and I got these!” He reached into his bag and pulled out a bag of tortilla chips. “They’re called ‘Scoopers’. You can see how you could put a smoked mussel into the center, like that…”

“Smoked mussels, I’ve never had those before,” I said.

“Smoked oysters, I mean,” he amended.

“I’ve never tried those either.”

My stop was announced, and I got up. “This is my stop, take care,” I said.

He reached into his bag and pulled out a pink-and-white box, which he thrust at me. “Here, take these,” he said. I looked at them. It was a box of smoked oysters.

“Why?” I protested, but he insisted. “Just take them!”

I got off the train and left the station, unable to stop laughing, with a pink-and-white box of smoked oysters in my hand. The city is such a strange place sometimes.

The smoked oysters were disgusting. But it makes a good story, and it was certainly a kind gesture.