Today

 

Epiphany

from here

Not too long ago, a chaplain friend asked a stack of people to help her answer some questions she’d been asked by year 6 kids at her school, and I did some proofreading of the final booklet. Part of my husband's response to the question, “God, why don't you come down to earth to visit us?”, was this:

Some people like to think of the world as having an upstairs and a downstairs. They think that God lives up top, we live down the bottom, and mostly we keep to ourselves. But that's not the way that the Bible sees things. The Bible tells us that God is always here! When a baby is born God is there. When people gather together God is there with them. When we stand up or when we sit down God knows about it. God is part of every bit of our lives! He knows the tiniest details like the number of hairs on our heads.

I was surprised by how many of the answers challenged me to think through my own beliefs; year 6 kids ask hard questions! I agree with my husband's response in theory, although in practice I think I’m guilty of splitting the world in two. I know I’ve often (sometimes uncomfortably) assumed that it was right to elevate ministry positions to God’s ‘upstairs’, forgetting that “The earth is the LORD’s, and everything in it, the world, and all who live in it” (Psalm 24:1) and there’s only one storey in this very big house. But what he wrote means that a minister is no more Christian than a Christian dentist or train driver, and God is no less present in the days of a cleaner or an engineer than He is with an MTSer or a missionary.

It was suggested to me recently that perhaps sacrificing me-stuff in order to let my husband pursue him-stuff was easier for me because he was in ministry. I disagreed then for non-theological reasons, but that conversation was the first thing I thought of while processing my husband’s answer. If it is easier for me to give up time for my husband’s sake, it’s not because he’s doing special God stuff which therefore trumps anything downstairsy I’d potentially be interested in doing. Our lives are equally God-filled, even though he spends his days studying theology and I spend mine finding new and exciting ways to say “No” to my defiant toddler. And if a day comes when we sense I’m being called to wax legs or start my Moody Groovers classes, my husband’s sacrifice to make time for me will be no bigger than mine has been for him.

This is currently making my brain explode.

Meat, vegies and good gifts

from here

Eating Meat by Jonathan Safran Foer has been on my to-read list for over a year now, but I haven’t brought myself to actually borrow it from the library knowing that I’d probably be hesitant to touch a steak again if I did. But then a friend wrote an article called Serving the Lord at Supper, and I recently clicked on the link and read it because that’s what friends do, little supposing that it would be the thing that made me hesitant to touch a steak again. I emailed it to my husband with the subject line “Become a vegetarian or people will DIE,” which sparked a fearful but decisive conversation between us about our family’s need to eat far less if not zero meat in future, and from then on we... Well, we went along on our merry ways pretending that we’d never seen the article or decided to move towards becoming vegetarian-ish. We’re both extremely skilled at denial and pretending to forget things that bother us, which is perhaps one reason we‘re still in the process of marriage counselling.

But a move to a new place seems like the perfect opportunity for a move to new ways, and it’s somewhat reassuring to know that we’re in a better position to start our eat-less-meat project than other vegetarians we know of, seeing as we actually like eating vegetables and legumes. I can salivate just as easily over a well-described vegetarian meal as a meaty one. My son is bananas for kidney beans and I have to stop him from taking bites out of the raw broccoli in the trolley at the shops. My husband was raised with tofu and has been obsessed with Red Lentil Loaf since we tried out the recipe last year. We’ll have options. And we’re not planning to go cold tofurkey, for adjustment and health reasons (though I used to have iron levels “like a boy’s” (as a nurse at the blood bank once described them), in recent years they’ve slipped closer to the anaemic end of the iron-level spectrum. I’d prefer to keep them as manly as possible, so I plan to find out more about good beef).

Back to the article I mentioned: I’ve had conversations with other Christians in which we’ve both/all agreed that it’s soooo hard for us to look different from the world these days, and my emphatic nods and “Hear, hear”s have been sincere. But even then I knew, as I know it now, that I can spend far less time and money on myself than I do, and I know that I can give far more to those in need. (As a long aside, it seems that even those pressed for time seem to make it to a Bible study group each week; perhaps Christian guilt-trips would be better aimed at how we’re doing at loving our neighbours rather than how many churchy gatherings we’ve attended – after all, “Religion that God our father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world” (James 1:27). If our Bible studies aren’t one of the key things driving us to get out and live more like Jesus amongst the needy, what’s the point of them?)

Looking different isn’t hard because I can’t think of things to do to look different, it’s hard because I lean towards being self-centred and unwilling to make sacrifices for other people, particularly those who can be easily avoided and therefore ignored as I gad about, enjoying my wealthy and privileged life. I take God’s gifts and treat them like they’re wages, like I deserved to be born into this land of plenty and therefore should be allowed to use the good things I’m blessed with for my own pleasure and entertainment (giving a little here and there to Compassion and CMS, of course, like a good Christian). I hold on too tightly and am slow to let go of things I should be sharing around, and I hate this about myself. So I’m trading some of my beef for beans and some of my chicken for chick peas as a starting point in my effort to better marry my faith with my daily life, in part because Rachel’s article revealed yet more ugliness in me that needs to be starved, and in part because Jesus’ story in Matthew 25 (verses 31-45) scares me: 

When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, he will sit on his glorious throne. All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate the people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats. He will put the sheep on his right and the goats on his left. 

Then the King will say to those on his right, “Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.”

Then the righteous will answer him, “Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?” 

The King will reply, “Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.” 

Then he will say to those on his left, “Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me.”

They also will answer, “Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you?”

He will reply, “Truly I tell you, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.”

Quote of the fortnight

I'm procrastinating, can you tell?

Me: “Do you sell pesto?”

Employee at Woolies: “Er... Is that, like, an insect spray?”

Women of Letters and other correspondence

Mobile phone + lamp light = atrocious photo

My darling husband bought me Women of Letters: Reviving the Lost Art of Correspondence for my birthday, because he knows I’m in love with Marieke Hardy and he’s secure enough to accept that (it's curated by Hardy and Michaela McGuire). The book is a compilation of letters that were written and read by their writer/actor/musician/politician/etc. authors at various Women (and Men) of Letters events that have been happening around the country; tickets to one of these events was my husband’s first idea for a gift, but they disappear quickly. I’m glad I ended up with his backup plan, though, because this is a book I’ll reread (at least parts of) over and over again.

The letters are grouped in themes, such as “To the song I wish I’d written” or “To my twelve-year-old self,” and part of my enjoyment of the book was thinking through the letter I’d have written if challenged with the same topics. I didn’t enjoy all of the letters, but I loved some. Many made me smile, and a couple made me really laugh: Jane Clifton’s letter “To the best present I ever received” was one, and Sophie Braham’s love letter to email was another. There’s a section written by men, “To the woman who changed my life,” and almost all of them made me cry. The guys seemed to be much more honest than many of the women (perhaps because of the topic), and that section was/is my favourite by far. 

It’s been a great book for reading over the last couple of weeks, as the letters are short (even the long ones), and therefore perfect for the small amounts of reading time I’ve snatched in between unpacking a ridiculous number of boxes and sleep. (I should warn you, however, that the shortness also means it’s dangerously easy to convince yourself that getting through just one more letter won’t take too long, and then you think maybe you’ll just finish that whole section, and then before you know it it’s 12:30am and you’re reading with only one eye open (and that’s only because you’re holding your eyelid up.)) You should definitely check out this book, or buy it for someone who has a crush on Marieke Hardy. They’ll love you for it, trust me.

On the topic of letters, I’ve taken to writing more regularly to people I’d usually only talk about writing to, and I’m always overly thrilled when they respond. When this blog was but an infant, I wrote to John Stackhouse to ask him if I could use a picture of his book cover for my review, and his reply made my heart want to burst with delight and gratitude:

And though it was only a line, I’ve still held on to Anthony Albanese’s response to my passionate plea for him to do the right thing and vote for Kevin Rudd during the ALP leadership showdown thing last month:

Finally, the following letter is from my dear Grandma, who writes here in response to the email I sent to thank her for the money she’d given me for my birthday. For a little more context: I told her I was planning to buy some new clothes, and she thinks I wear too much black (she’s sure this is why I feel depressed sometimes):

Growing up

More than having a child ever did, living in a house with a dishwasher and a garden shed makes me feel like I’m expected to be an adult. IT'S FREAKING ME OUT. I hear myself saying absurd things like, “Ooh, I could sand that back and paint it!” For the first time ever, our shopping lists include hose reels and undercoat. I feel like a fraud. I’m scared the Grown Up Police are going to show up at our door, give me the Weed Test (“That one looks pretty so it mustn’t be a weed,” I’d say confidently, thus failing), then confiscate my Bunnings purchases and escort me back to an apartment where I belong.

A letter to the apartment that was

To my dear former apartment,

It sends a pang through my heart to add ‘former’ to that greeting, beloved. I still can’t quite believe that you’re no longer mine. You’ve been a part of our family for a little longer than our son; he was conceived within your walls, and though my husband went to sleep the night our baby finally decided to join us on the outside, you were my constant company as I paced back and forward between rooms during contractions. You were our son’s first home.

It was through you that we met our beautiful neighbours: Deb and Pip, who graciously coped with sharing a wall with our noisy newborn and encouraged me as a bewildered young mum; Helen, who loved our son like her own grandchild, bringing him toys (which have run out of batteries now, thank God) and always stopping for a chat each time she saw us; Coco, who supplied us with banana breads and that massive tray of sushi one night at 10pm, telling us it had to be eaten before the next day; Maria, who lived next door and would call out hellos from the garden or her balcony, who twice invited us over to hang out in her glass-filled-and-absolutely-not-child-proof lounge room while she made us fresh orange juice.

If only you’d had three bedrooms rather than two, were on the ground floor rather than the second, had a yard rather than a balcony and were located in the outer rather than inner west, we’d have stayed. Alas...

Our footprints have now been steamed from your carpets and our grubby smudges Magic Erasered from your walls. You are once again a blank stage, ready for the next players to arrive and act out their scenes. You have nothing to remember us by, indeed, no reason to remember us, just one family out of the many who will pass through you over time. I, however, will remember you. I’ll remember family and meals and Bible studies and friends, lessons about motherhood and marriage and growing up. I have these photos now, which show you nearly empty, though I’ll remember you full of love and life. And they show you bathed in warm light, which is how you will remain forever, in my heart.

Farewell, my love.

Belle

Glenmore Park

Before we even knew we’d be moving to Glenmore Park, I’d been told (repeatedly) that the suburb was a rabbit warren. It seems the locals have been programmed to make a comment about the bendy roads or the stress on car tyres as soon as the place is mentioned; I’ve heard the words “rabbit” and “warren” more times over the last few months than I have before in my entire life.

Anywho, it turns out Glenmore Park is seriously like a rabbit warren. We went to visit our new house on Friday afternoon after signing the lease, and if I wasn’t following my husband on his motorbike I would have had to pull over to re-check the directions. There are approximately three straight roads in the entire suburb; all of the others wind this way and that like a drunk and if you were to drive along them too fast or for too long you’d risk vomiting on arrival at your destination. Here is a picture of a normal suburb (Penrith):

And here is a picture of Glenmore Park:

Our place is right in the middle.

I should be looking for things I’ll love about living out there, but I’m beyond the excited, “YAY, we finally got a place!” stage and am currently hovering around the sad, “Maybe if I just write blog posts instead of packing we won’t ever have to move and we’ll be able to stay here forever and live happily ever after” stage. It’s been a busy week of lasts – last time changing the sheets at this place, last time the Palace Cinema in Leichhardt will be just down the road, last time I can easily go out with a friend for a giant cookie and gelato sandwich in Newtown, last time we visit this or that park – and I’m starting to feel bummed about the whole move.

Our new place is so nice, the backyard is amazing, the carpet is new and squishy and a yummy shade of brown. We'll be closer to Nanna and Pop. It won't take us 45 minutes to get to church. We’ll be able to have a Bible study group meet at our house and start getting to know our church family so much better.

And we’ll at least be safe if ever a fox comes sniffing around one of the entrances.

Sleep

The photo above was taken early in our married life to add weight to my accusation that my husband was too often taking up more than his half of the bed.

I usually don’t read the ‘Odd Spot’s on Libra packaging, but this one caught my eye: “The average person falls asleep in seven minutes”. SEVEN MINUTES! I haven’t even finished getting comfortable by that stage, let alone revised the day’s activities and conversations, prayed about the way I spent my time, tried to figure out which day of the week it is and then vaguely planned the following day’s activities, put a reminder in my phone to tell my husband about that funny thing my son did at the park, wondered if my son will be warm enough tonight, crept into his room to check the temperature, turned the fan off, flopped back into bed, re-started the getting-comfortable process while wondering how my friend’s first book club went, prayed for her and the group, thought about starting one myself after we’ve moved, imagined the flier I could make to invite people, thought about which book we’d start with, pictured a meal together with my new book club friends, repositioned my pillow, prayed about opportunities to meet people when we’re in Glenmore Park, imagined how I’ll arrange the furniture in our new house, tossed up the pros and cons of a tiled lounge area, designed a giant rug, panicked about packing, written a blog post in my head about how hard it is to fall asleep, considered getting up to type it, decided not to, worked out whether some cereal would help me drift off, decided no, stretched my calf muscles, added another reminder to my phone about reporting my income to Centrelink, and rolled over.

Most nights I wait for at least an hour before sleep shows up. My husband, on the other hand, is one of those people who bring the average waaaaaaaaaaaay down, balancing out my lengthy pre-sleep sessions by dropping off within a few minutes of adjusting the covers and flipping onto his tummy. Sometimes I’m shocked to hear him snoring what feels like seconds after he’s kissed me goodnight. The other night I was reading my book and he snorted loudly and woke himself up; he was too confused to see the funny side of it but it had me sniggering for ages. Occasionally he also talks in his sleep for my entertainment, and I talk back. Once I’ve finishing laughing quietly I have to write our conversation down so that I can tell him about it in the morning.

I sometimes catch myself lying awake and wondering about things I really don’t need to lie awake wondering about. At the end of last year, the night after my husband mentioned that the college library wouldn’t be loaning books until January because they were doing a stocktake, we hadn’t been in bed for long when I whispered, “Are you still awake?” He left my question hanging for approximately 20 seconds before responding with a half-hearted, “Mm.” “How do you think they stocktake a library?!” I asked. “Do they print out a list of all of their books and walk along the shelves ticking them off one by one? And then go back to their computer and mark the missing ones?” It didn't take me long to realise how ridiculous these questions would seem to my husband. I then had to try to suppress my giggles for the next couple of minutes because we’ve been married for long enough for me to sense when he’s unimpressed, even in the dark.

So, yeah. Seven minutes would be AWESOME.

The language of us all

from here

I recently watched a fascinating documentary on SBS called The Musical Brain; if you’re into music or brains or documentaries, I highly recommend this one. In it, a doctor points out that humans are the only species who can synchronise their movements to music (how interesting is that?!), and the results of one of the experiments mentioned earlier in the documentary suggest that “the more we respond to a piece of music by moving to it, the more we activate the pleasure circuits of the brain, which in turn stimulate the release of Dopamine, the so-called ‘feel good’ hormone.” I wonder if anyone’s started dancing sessions for depressed people? (THIS COULD BE MY CALLING! I’d name my group The Moody Groovers.)

I love music, although watching this documentary made me realise that describing yourself as someone who loves music is as un-profound as declaring that you have a heartbeat or are a human being. I love that music can turn a traffic jam into an opportunity to sing at the top of your voice for a little while longer, and dinner preparation into a chance to boogie in your kitchen using a salt shaker for a microphone. I love that when my son was much younger, Beck’s Lost Cause could stop his wails much faster than any shushing or soothing on my part. I love that it’s almost impossible to not bop to some songs, and that my list of bopping songs will differ to yours. I can’t imagine how awesome the music in heaven will be, but I’m eager to find out; a group of people (no matter how small) singing the “We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise” line of Amazing Grace invariably makes me tear up.

Learning to play an instrument is up the priority end of my bucket list, but I’ve never had the patience to stick at any for long enough to see encouraging progress. My guitar and djembe drum – both presents from my “I will embrace whatever craze you mention”-super-supportive husband – are currently in our lounge room for decoration rather than music-making. My husband tried to give me guitar lessons himself a couple of years ago, but he was a no-nonsense teacher and I was an all-nonsense student; the sessions did not go well.

I look forward to watching my son’s taste in music develop as he grows. At the moment he’ll dance to whatever’s playing, and I take joy in introducing him to a wide range of artists, from The Beatles to Beyonce to Birds of Tokyo to Ben Harper to Boys II Men. This is the only home-schooling subject I feel partly qualified to teach so I’ve started it early, playing Nelly when Daddy’s not around to mock us, and Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds when Daddy is around so that he’s satisfied with his son’s musical education. I try to vary our car music, but nothing quietens my bored boy quite like Play School; I’m not sure whether I should be bothered by the fact that I always know which song is coming up next on that CD but I still struggle to find 2 Peter in my Bible.

Thinking about the amount of good music in the world overwhelms me, and sometimes I get sad when I realise that there are brilliant songs in Iceland (for example) that I’ll (probably) never get a chance to hear. But I turn my stereo up loud and cut a rug to Love Like Semtex by The Infidels or Two Shoes by The Cat Empire or The Salmon Dance by The Chemical Brothers and then I feel much, much better.

Gratitude, Part Two: The Practicalities

I’m pretty sure it’s No Compromise (Keith Green’s biography)* in which there’s a woman who drives everyone crazy by saying things like, “We’re out of milk, praise God!”. This is one part of what I’m aiming for now: acknowledging God’s involvement in the small and seemingly insignificant moments that don’t go my way. It will take a lot of retraining to respond to fresh crises and disappointments with the same kind of thankfulness that springs up so naturally in happy moments, but I expect I'll have daily opportunities to strengthen my thankful-muscles.

The second part of my goal is the harder one: I want to acknowledge God's involvement in and become deeply thankful for the big trials that have left me bruised and occasionally bitter. Though my head’s on board with the logic behind this aim, my heart's finding it much harder to accept; there are things I don’t yet feel ready to give thanks for. Like forgiveness, I think learning to be thankful for some things will be a slow and lengthy hike in the right direction, with God holding my hand and catching my stumbles each step of the way. 

I tested Him yesterday, sitting on the lounge room floor in meditation position (it seemed the most serious and focussed to take) and listing the things I was not-really-but-trying-to-be thankful to Him for. It hurt, I cried, but God showed up, as requested. It ended up being less scary than I’d expected, although I imagine it’ll be just as hard to repeat that prayer next time I work up the courage, and the time after that and the time after that. But then maybe the time after that will be a tiny bit easier, and by the time I’m grey and wrinkly my thanks to God for all that’s been will flow spontaneously and sincerely.

Maybe one day in future I'll respond to new batches of suffering a little more like Jesus, who “entrusted himself to him who judges justly” (1 Peter 2:23) and who fell on the ground at Gethsemane and cried out to God, “I really don’t want to do this, but I totally will if that’s what You want” (or words to that effect, in Matthew 26:39). And maybe one day in future I'll look a little more like Joseph, who, after messing with his brothers (as if tempted to make them pay just a little bit for what they did to him) and crying a lot**, comes to a point where he can say, “You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good” (Genesis 50:20). I’m not there yet. I’m not even close to being there. But I do trust God (“I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!”***) so I’m lacing up my hiking boots.

I hope God packs snacks****.

-----

* I ought to check information like this before posting. You should read this book, though, it's pretty inspiring. Just don't read the plane chapter in public, because you'll cry large, ploppy tears everywhere and embarrass yourself.

** Genesis 42:24, 43:30, 45:14, in case you wanted proof.

*** Mark 9:24

**** I don't even know what this metaphor means, but I love imagining us trekking along side by side, and God saying, "Hey, I brought banana chips!" and me saying, "Yay, I LOOOVE banana chips!" and Him saying, "I know!!!"

Gratitude, Part One: The Problem

from here

A couple of Saturdays ago, my mum cried, “Thank you, Lord!” as we noted that the predicted storm had held off for her birthday party. It made me uncomfortable in the same way I felt after my husband came home after his exams last year and thanked God for giving him the perfect questions: “What about the people who studied really, really hard but don’t have your uncanny knack for guessing what the examiners will ask?!” I protested. And what about the people who were desperate for rain that Saturday? For a while now I’ve felt guilty each time I've thanked God for things that may have benefited me while disappointing someone else, somewhere, as if He’s involved in one but not the other. My mum’s comment finally forced me to confront these icky feelings and work out a better response. 

I know that part of the right response is to continue to thank God for good things, and to encourage and allow others to do likewise without freaking out; I wholeheartedly believe James when he says that “[e]very good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights” (1:17). I should thank God for beautiful weather and perfect exam questions and the health of my child and the food and clothes and shelter I enjoy every day, knowing it all comes from Him.

I also wholeheartedly believe Paul when he says in Romans that “in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose” (8:28), although I wouldn’t be surprised if you hadn’t noticed. I respond to the irritations and pains in my life with dramatic “YOU’RE SO MEAN TO ME, GOD!”s rather than submissive, “Your will be done”s. It doesn’t come naturally to thank God for the day-to-day things that don’t seem to go my way (a dwindling bank balance, my hair dryer dying the day after I decide to chop myself a fringe); it’s well-nigh impossible to respond with gratitude to the things that continue to haunt and hurt me after many years (the effects of my parents’ divorce and remarriages, the disproportionate size of my nose).

But if I really do believe that God is transforming and redeeming all of these sad and annoying things in my life for my good and for His glory, then I have to thank Him for them, too. To do any less is equal to declaring to God that I don’t actually trust Him. While reading a section from Cornelius Plantinga’s Not the Way It's Supposed to Be: A Breviary of Sin for my college subject the other day, I came across this paragraph (on page 22): “A thoroughly ungrateful person... may be ungrateful without having in any way chosen to be so... Her ingratitude is scarcely under her control in at least these respects and hence can be said to be involuntary. But it is also clearly sinful. If the ingrate were to detect her flaw and see its unloveliness, she would rightly feel obliged to confess and repent of it.” As is usually the case, I was applying my readings to everyone but myself until I was stung by this passage.

I have to learn to be thankful in all things because to not trust and thank God in the rough times is an unlovely sin to be confessed and repented of. I’d like to think I’m not “thoroughly” ungrateful, but the Holy Spirit’s sharp poke to my heart let me know clearly that I’m ungrateful enough. Also, if I honestly believe Romans 8:28, then to not live by that truth makes me unlovely, ungrateful and a hypocrite. If my faith is to have any integrity at all, I must give thanks for everything God is doing in my life, in the lows as well as the highs, the hurts as well as the joys. How else can I prove to others in this world that I truly believe God is bigger than the yukky stuff, that Jesus has conquered sin and death and pain and fear?

*Hyperventilates*