Articles by Elizabeth

Chapter 1 of 38

Tomorrow's happy birthday

As I sit here and recollect

It’s the eve of your day of birth

I open the curtains and look

While I breathe contentment

I wish good things for you

You seek good and give

I wish for that to return to you

Like a beautifully wrapped gift

You have equipped me for my days

Particularly when anxiety beckoned

You’ve held my hand, held my fears

And brought beauty into my chaos

You have this way

You hidden treasure

You don’t show off

You precious one

You go about sometimes unnoticed

Or noticed for things only obvious

But beneath that exterior is life,

real joy, laughter with steadiness

Circumstances dance around

Never quite settled down

But in each moment

You decide to be you

You have an anchor of wisdom

A mix of intellect and perspective

You know when something’s not right

And you know when something is

As the night gets darker

your light draws brighter

You light my life

That light is real

Chapter 2 of 38

The sandpit

My dad gave Grace a sandpit this week.  For the last couple of days she has been really enjoying it.  I on the other hand was not.  Worries surfaced about more grit in the house and on our artificial lawn. The first day she had the sandpit, I sat at a distance, enjoying that she was enjoying it, but also preoccupied with my phone hoping she wouldn’t notice.

The second day of the sandpit, I sat my chair closer to the pit.  It made Grace feel at ease knowing I was close.  It also was tactical on my account, because it meant that she was less likely to shovel full loads of sand to where I was sitting.  Although I was now close enough to reach the sandpit with my feet, I anchored them solidly on the ground.  I was reluctant to balance my feet on the pit’s edge, as I was concerned that sand would be flicked into my socks and shoes.

Day three of the sandpit.  I back-peddled and sat at a distance from the sandpit once again.  This plan was soon foiled because Grace called me over to sit closer to her like yesterday.  But something else was calling me somewhere.  Some voice inside said, “Get in the sandpit”.  I shuddered at the thought and ignored it, sitting perched on my chair instead.  Grace continued in her usual fashion, tipping sand out of the pit, close to my feet.  Occasionally she would toss handfuls of sand into the air, not caring that it was close to flinging in her eyes.  I couldn’t avoid the voice inside, whispering, “Get inside the sandpit”.  With a big sigh of reluctance, I chose to answer the inner plea.  Well, I first asked Grace to confirm it was a good idea.

“Grace, do you want me to go in?”

She shook her head.  That was all the answer I needed to reaffirm I was exactly where I should be, on the chair.  But the voice inside grew louder, “C’mon, get in the sandpit”.  Again, I wanted to make sure it was a good idea from Grace.  I mean she’d already declined the offer before.

And immediately as I asked her whether she wanted me to go into the sandpit, Grace gave me this big gleaming smile of anticipation.  I realised she misunderstood the first offer, thinking I was asking permission to go back in the house.  It was too late now, Grace knew now what I was really asking.  There was no backing out.

I slowly, yet almost willingly took each sock off, one at a time alongside their accompanying shoe.  I tucked the socks back inside the shoes and placed the shoes further from the sandpit.  If I was going to get sand on me, the least I wanted was sand in my shoes too!  I took my phone out of my pocket and placed it snug in the crevice of the chair, hoping that it too would not be lured into this mess.

And then the magic began…I got in the sandpit!

It took me back to preschool days.  Gee I hated preschool.

Yet this time was different.  I stood in the sandpit for a good minute, before deciding I was too awkward towering over Grace.  With a bit more determination, I pulled myself down to the ground, firmly sitting on the sand.  The sand was cool and forgiving between my toes.  It wasn’t so bad.  I thought I felt an ant on my leg.  Swinging my head around all I saw was sand glistening in the sun.  It was actually quite beautiful.  It wasn’t so bad.  I welcomed the play and put a little more energy in than I usually do.  Grace loved it.  It wasn’t so bad.  In fact, it was good.  I let myself be so immersed in building sandcastles that I even ran back inside, with a little sand still on my feet, to grab some more containers to build more and more.  Coming back to the pit, the artificial grass seemed even more comfortable after the microdermabrasion of the sand.

Grace almost fell asleep afterwards eating her lunch, she was so content.  Through my morning in the sand, I gave a nod to fresh chances, new perspectives and responding to that voice.  I sit on the couch writing this and I think I might just be a little more content myself.

Chapter 3 of 38

Quitting quitting

I have a tendency to quit

I’m all excited about fresh starts and beginnings.  However when it gets too hard, or when the shiny newness has worn off, I’m just left with the need for routine and consistency.  These things seem boring and lifeless.  It’s fun to start something new, to rip open the plastic wrap of a new journal.  When Bridget Jones was given a new diary it gave her the permission to start again with hope and expectancy.  When I set up an intention to journal every day, it becomes tiresome.   My errors and sloppy writing seeps through the pages into my mind.  I miss several days of journaling and before I know it, there are more consecutive days of not journaling than of journaling.  Then I remember I’m not perfect.  I’m sitting here after eating a handful of party mix lollies for breakfast, knowing that I reach that understanding plenty of other times.  Rather than quitting sugar, I quit diets.  Why is it that I can have so much intention and motivation on week one day one, yet it all flies out the window by week one day two and a half?  Some people motivate themselves to keep going by recognising that each day is a chance for a new beginning.  I’m glad that it works for them.  But it generally doesn’t for me.

A new look with open eyes; a second chance

Yet this wonderful thing happened the other day in the waiting room at the doctors.  My doctor’s waiting room is on the second floor and has this hallway that loops around with all the doorways running off it.  Well that wasn’t the only thing running that day.  My doctor was running late, as you’d expect and in that time my daughter found it fun running the loop faster and faster, not needing to turn back to check that I was yelling after her.  So I grabbed her up to me and held her, until she squirmed enough for me to release her.  This little game played out twice.  By the third time I picked her up and she tried to be released from my clutches, as calmly as I could I said, “Did you want to try again?”.  She nodded.  I repeated the rules that she needed to stay close to Mum and Dad and that she could not run away.

For her I don’t know what happened.  But for me, the phrase, “Did you want to try again?” gave some sort of hope.  Part of me knew she was very able to run away again.  But part of me recognised there was a chance for a change in behaviour this time.  As I then watched her spin on the spot, close to her dad and me, I was spun out that she chose to comply.

Lessons learned in the waiting room

I feel that there were a few lessons to be learned in that waiting room, for me and for her.  When I am on the precipice of wanting to quit something, next time I plan to whisper through my mind, “Did you want to try again?”.  In fear and fatigue the answer may be a strong “no”.  But wherever there is a “yes”, albeit a quiet one, it gives my mind the possibility to have the willingness to try again.  Maybe I’m daydreaming, but I feel that when my daughter looked up and nodded for another chance, she was ready to try again and differently this time.  There was hope.

They say the definition of insanity is repeating the same mistakes over and over again and expecting different results.  Perhaps a secondary definition for insanity is repeating a good thing once or twice and expecting to build results.  There is some truth to the “practice makes perfect” phrase.  Routine, whilst it’s boring and tedious, can actually be a good thing repeated to build great things.  Maybe I quit because there are annoying, frustrating and “bad” things that corrupt the good things I’m trying to achieve and build upon. Or even I quit because the things I half commit to are actually hard work and doing them consistently is a challenge.  In these instances there is no hope.

Sure, quitting the diet on day two with lollies in the mouth may seem okay for that moment.  But it’s moments like that you don’t need Minties.  Rather in those times where there is a choice, big or small, I need to look at a bigger picture with hope.  The big picture is hope, it’s gotta be.   That’s when it’s time to get back to the vision and the missions for life.  It’s not just about diets, it’s about health in spirituality, health emotionally, health mentally, health relationally, health occupationally.  The choices I make now impact future outcomes.  When I decide to quit my progress due to wanting to take the easier route, it will potentially only delay and expand the problem later.

Hope for the soul

While our bodies and minds at times want to choose the easy option, maybe easy is not what our hearts and souls need.  When there is something of a challenge to our days, which is further facilitated with kids, it has potential to grow our heart and soul.  I’m probably still going to eat the rest of the lollies in the bag later on.  But when I can I’m going to give myself the hope that there is room for having another chance and recommitting to my intentions.  I don’t want to be short sighted.  Fresh starts can happen when your mind allows it.  The mind will be flexible to allow it when there is enough perspective and hope for what that future could be.  In some not too distant future, I’d love to start an article with, “I have a tendency to try again…”

Chapter 4 of 38

Money is my business

Recently, it occurred to me that money is the thing I trust most. I’m not exactly proud of this fact, and I want to change it. But acknowledgement is the first step.

When I say that money is the thing I trust most, I don’t mean that I have faith that I will always have enough money to provide for myself and my family. In fact, I constantly worry about money. I mean that money makes me feel more secure than anything else in the world, even more than my Christian faith or my trust that God will provide.

It’s easy to see how I became so preoccupied with money. We all need money to survive. But money doesn’t grow on trees. And this is a stressful thing.

We devote our professional lives to making money. It isn’t enough to work for fun. It isn’t enough to work for passion. It isn’t even enough to work because that fits your ethic. No, we must work for money. Some people might be in a comfortable enough financial position to truly volunteer their time, but in most situations there always seems to be at least one person somewhere along the line that is concerned with money and the bottom line.

Even though I trust in money, I can’t say I love it or even enjoy it. I find that money really rots my heart. It is my security, but there is something sinister about it. And, even when I have it, it never makes me entirely comfortable. If my annual income is not what I feel it should be, I tend to flail at work. I believe that I’m worth more. Conversely, when I have a job where I am earning a lot more money than I imagine I am worth, it places me in a web of confusion where I think that I’m not worth it. I start to feel anxious and the fatigue of imposter syndrome sets in. With money, it’s always too much or not enough.

Worrying over money often makes me ungenerous to my family. I get frustrated at my daughter for wasting food not because of any environmental or health reasons, but simply because it had cost me money. I get angry at my husband for buying something frivolous over eBay, when if he found it on the side of the road, I would be proudly holding it in the trophy cabinet of my home.

Worrying over money often makes me petty and even melodramatic. When I feel the slightest absence of money, I become worried that I’ll fall into the hell of what it’s like without any money at all. And most of the time I am not even thinking about necessities like healthcare. More often I’m worried that if I have less money I might have to settle for being a one car family. How inconvenient would that be?

Money —or how we use it — can give a facade that things are okay. We can try to project some sort of image with the fruits of our money. I feel good about myself when the clothes I wear reflect an image. That image is that I am financially secure to dress how I want. I don’t have to settle for looking daggy.

I find that the passing of money from generation to generation tends to create a fracture in familial relationships. We come to expect some sort of inheritance, more than a legacy of good character. And yet, if someone is lucky enough to get an inheritance before it’s due, they can find themselves forever indebted, believing they should spend it in a way reflective in their mind that it is well spent.

Of course, money can do good. Money can help provide cures or better situations for people.

I recently read a couple of books written by Peter Singer that highlight the problem of extreme poverty and what we can do about it. Whilst we can point the finger at larger corporations or at big businessmen, and criticize them for not doing more to help end extreme poverty, we also own this problem. We are the businessmen of our own lives. I get to choose how I spend my money. I get to budget. What a blessing! Yet I see it as such a curse.

Businesses certainly have the means to do good for people in extreme poverty and set an example, but so do I. As someone who lives every day in excess, always having more than I need, I also have the opportunity and freedom to give away some of that excess to people who could do more with it for their basic needs.

These facts are often so clear to me right after I read Singer’s work and think about those living in extreme poverty. But I lose sight of them over time. Each passing day gives me time to forget about people living in extreme poverty. And my own anxieties about money creep back in. I get worried that I won’t have enough, yet that has never been the case. In the times of COVID, we are told to only go out for essentials. For me, this is a joke. What I go out for, which I consider essential, is luxury to the unseen people overseas.

It is time to reconnect with the thoughts that stirred my heart weeks ago. Something must be done for change to happen. Change can start with anyone. Yes, even me. I can change today. Why wait until tomorrow?

Money is not necessarily the problem. If we cut it out there would be other associated problems. But my understanding of money and my attitude towards those in extreme poverty should change, thus changing my behaviours.

I’m writing this not as a guilt to anyone reading this, but as a reminder to myself of the convictions I have had. There’s a chance for me to look money squarely in the face and think of it as nothing more than a ticket. That ticket can be for my benefit and luxury. It can also be for others to survive. It can be for others not to die tragically without. There is so much pain in this world. Some pain is caused by the anxieties of having too much, and then some by a deeper pain of not having enough.

What if I helped balance the scales with my money? It would give me the opportunity to look at life differently, to live with less. Maybe that is all I need.

Chapter 5 of 38

Let Her Rest

Let her rest

You are alive

Yet in a grave you stay

Let her rest

She feels no ill

It’s peaceful where she lay

Let her rest

You wrestle and writhe

But best to let it be

Let her rest

You know her well

Far more than memory

Let her rest

Don’t worry now

Let her go beyond

Let her rest

She did her job

and now she has gone on

Let her rest

While she was her

You, must be you

Let her rest

While you still wait

For now her wait is through

Let her rest

She permisses you

A small grace, you could say

Let her rest

You are alive

Look upon today

Chapter 6 of 38

The Thief of Joy

I find it funny how I can feel completely content whilst I sit at home, but if you put me in the ring with a few other women, one of two things may happen.  I can feel completely at home and connected with a sense of belonging.  Or I can feel inadequate, not enough and completely at a loss due to comparison.  This comparison can range from insecurities that my face is without foundation to feeling left wanting, for not having private health insurance.  Something that is more sinister than “Compare the Meerkat”.

I was talking with a good friend recently about how shame researcher and writer, Brene Brown, talks about the difference between “fitting in” and belonging.  Where “fitting in” makes the individual need to blend in and change, belonging rather, upholds individualism and is where acceptance abounds.

What is bizarre is that the comparison is more fierce for me when it is women that I am comparing myself to.  Moreover if she has some similarities to me, such as age, occupation or stage of life, the problem seems to skyrocket.  The reason for this stems from the unhealthy belief (when comparing) that if she is made up of similar things to me, then I should have the same opportunities or things as her, if not more.   It hurts, for example when someone you went to school with is thriving in their life compared to you.  I mean they had a similar opportunity for education you think, which compounds the hurt.

I feel there are three antidotes to comparison, to the “thief of joy”, as Roosevelt puts it.

Have sincere love for others and hope they will succeed.

Be grateful for what you have.

In humility, know that you don’t know everything.

I have been one of the few Australians interested in watching the television game show reboot, The Weakest Link.  I think the reason why I like it is because I compare myself with the contestants.  It makes me feel good about the random stuff I can prove I know by shouting at the TV screen.  I snicker at the contestants when they don’t know answers to seemingly easy questions.

There’s an element where this extrapolates to the real world.  If we can “one up” and prove that we are smarter than the next person, it makes us feel good.  We have “won”.  My mum used to say, “There’s always someone out there smarter than you”.  While this had some negative outcomes for me, it sometimes did keep me grounded.  If I thought I was the smartest in a cohort, it meant that the cohort did not include enough people.

Another interesting thought is that if you are the smartest in the room, it doesn’t necessarily mean that people will gravitate towards you.  The pride that washes over a person can be a stench to others.  Intelligence coupled with humility and love for other people however, is a healthy mixture of what helps someone feel more real (and enjoyable to be with).

Having said this, it doesn’t mean that we need to dismiss compliments or downplay the successes we have in our life.  We ought to be proud of our achievements.  If someone says a compliment, a “thank you” and acceptance of it can be nourishing to both souls.

Even as I type, I wonder, will people think that I am “up myself” or pious for writing these things?  I do hope the answer is no.  While some people retort that “people are just jealous”, if they don’t like you.  It can be helpful to remember that not everyone will like you.  There is no law that everyone must get along.  By recognising the differences that we have between us, we can have more realistic expectations on others and ourselves.  Difference is good.  We should honour others and ourselves when we spot differences, whether they feel superior or inferior in nature.  This will help guide us to becoming and invite belonging.

Chapter 7 of 38

I can’t breastfeed…and other revelations to me

“Fed is best”.  The first time I heard that phrase was when I was having a deep and meaningful conversation with a friend after having my daughter.  Prior to having my daughter I had attempted to collect breast milk antenatally, without any luck.  After having her, I attempted to breastfeed, without any luck.  I attempted to express breast milk, without any luck.  This process involved syringes, midwives getting up close and personal, an expensive lactation consultant, a store bought breast pump, a hired hospital grade breast pump, Motilium medication and more.  Eventually, on the phone to the Australian Breastfeeding Association, the experienced breastfeeding counsellor told me the reality that I was likely at the end of my journey of attempting to breastfeed.  After 14 days and not one drop of breast milk, I too came to this conclusion.

And so, my daughter was only ever on formula.

One thing I realised recently, through the help of a counsellor, was how my inability to breastfeed impacted on me.  I was well aware of how this inability may have impacted my daughter, but I had neglected to realise the compounding effect on me.  The big lightbulb moment occurred recognising the link between my inability to breastfeed and my own insecurities of being Mum to my daughter.  I had incorrectly subconsciously believed that because anyone could actually feed my daughter with formula, that she actually did not need me.  This perceived lack of need from my daughter for me made me disconnect from the fact that I am her mum.  Whilst there were several others that I allowed to bottle feed my daughter, each allowance blurred my understanding that my daughter is primarily my responsibility.   In the same way we tend to like people who like us, parallel to this, I needed to be needed by my daughter.  Feeling obsolete or redundant because I didn’t breastfeed, gave me the false belief that I wasn’t the provider for my daughter.  My body and mind made an unhelpful correlation that if she didn’t need me physically, she wouldn’t need me in other ways, thus creating an emotional disconnection.

This revelation has had great positive outworkings.  By highlighting the unhelpful beliefs I had about being a mum, it in turn renewed my focus.  I now understand that not being able to breastfeed, when I had intended to, was an acute loss to me.  While I pushed through at the time, needing to be ready for the next obstacles I would face in early motherhood, reflecting back on this recently has helped.  I now can look at my daughter and see her as mine.  This allows me to enjoy the daily motherhood experience substantially more.  It has shifted something within me.

“Breast is best”.  It’s funny how I had heard that phrase since I was a young girl, but I had never heard the equivalent phrase of “fed is best”.  Insufficient Glandular Tissue was another term I hadn’t been acquainted with either.  But there would be many things I would learn over the next few months and onward.  She is now almost 21 months and she is going great.  I am supremely grateful for being able to talk to professionals and friends about these things.  Moreso, I am thankful for the refreshed relationship I have with my daughter.  I am sure it will be an ever evolving relationship as she grows and changes, while I do too.

Chapter 8 of 38

20 Rules for Life

Love deeply. Love so much for the other person.  Love that person as much as you love yourself.  Love isn’t easy.  It’s hard work.  Love because you are loved.

Stop upholding your image.  Do not hesitate because you are worried about what another person will think of you.  Yes, to some degree reputation is important.  However, stop being so consumed by your image, that you fail to do what is right.

Use your head and your heart.  Listen to both.  You know what you need to do and you know what your heart is pulling you to.

Be specific.  If you have a problem with someone, talk about it with them specifically.  If you have a problem with yourself, work out a game plan specifically to knock down those barriers.

Balance and moderation is the key.  Extremes and binges can be unhealthy.  Whether this rule reminds you to not eat the whole packet and drink water, or if it reminds you to just have a little, think about this as a healthy alternative.

Get up and wash your face.  This is not just metaphorical.  When life starts afresh with its challenges, get up and prepare yourself for that.

Watch what you say.  Watch what you say out loud and what you keep in the recesses of your own mind.

Prioritise what is important.  This doesn’t mean that urgent things won’t be addressed.  But it does mean that important things need to be.

Be less manicured and manipulative.  Try to be less filtered in your responses to people.  Be genuine.  You don’t have to over or under emphasise things in order to try to get what you want.  Tell it as it is.  You be responsible for what you need to be and let them be responsible for their stuff.

Kill that nagging thought.  Put it to death either by addressing it now, scheduling to address it later, or letting it go with acceptance.

Stop the flattery.  If you don’t mean it, don’t say it.  Better for your words to actually mean something.

Remember your tattoos.  If you have them, you have them for a reason.  Remind yourself what is important to you and live accordingly.

Laugh out loud.  If there’s nothing funny in your life, then watch a comedy.  If you don’t feel like comedy, remember the comedy reel of your own life.

Be grateful.  Expect that you are forgetting and taking for granted some aspects of your life.  Identify easy and hard to see things that you are thankful for.

Get some sun.  Get outside.  Shift focus.  Refocus.  Change where you are sitting.

Be intentional.  Know what you want to commit to.  Say no to what you don’t want to commit to.

Have integrity.  You can relate to people differently.  But don’t change who you are to a false self when you are around certain people.

Find forgiveness.  It’s not always about you.  It sometimes is bigger than you know.  Give the benefit of the doubt.  If you’re hurting, release this burden.

Live a motto life.  Sit down with yourself every now and then and work out your life mission and value statement.  If you stand back and look at the big picture, are you moving in the direction you want to be moving?  Even if you are at a plateau, is that the place you want to be staying?

Surrender to sovereignty.  Know that your God has plans and purposes.  He has the whole world in his hands, even your world.  Rest in that.

Chapter 9 of 38

Scared of the dark

I don’t like the dark.  I might even go as far as saying that I am scared of it.  Each night I leave the kitchen light on in our house as we all climb into bed and fall asleep.  Before I was married, I used to like to sleep with my bedside lamp on.  Since being married, there is an increased sense of security, having another person to ward off anything scary from the darkness.  Yet, there remains an acute awareness and my senses are heightened to the sounds from spaces that I cannot see.

It surprises me that my 18 month old daughter can fight the darkness and fall asleep and still I cannot.  In fact I’m scared of a lot of things.  Cities, maps and the ocean, to name a few.  The things that I am scared of all have a commonality.  They emphasise that I am small and I cannot control these bigger things.  Take for instance my fear of the city.  Being born and bred in the country has had its benefits, but one big negative is that I’m so engulfed by fear when I have to go to the city.  Although some can navigate maps, buses, trains and timetables, I cannot.  The result is that I’m left crippled and only venture where I need to go when I have all of the routes memorised and have overfilled my Opal card to ensure that I’m not left stranded somewhere without having the funds for the card to help find my way home.

So I do what I do best when I’m anxious.  I over-plan and over-organise.  I try to recreate in my mind every scenario, good or bad, that could ever eventuate in order to cushion the effects with my premade solutions.  Amongst other things, this is exhausting.  My thoughts dart around, never settling, only ruminating on the perfect way to respond and react to what could be.  It feels as my brain ducks and weaves through the many and varied possibilities that it may just explode.

Perhaps that is part of why I like to have a light on.  To be able to have advanced warning that there is a threat and to be ready to combat it.  Whilst the power bill climbs with the light on, my hypervigilance and alertness during the day is more of a problem.  The consuming worries don’t just waste electricity, they waste away my health.  As the cortisol levels increase with every anxious moment, my body plays up and so does my mental health.  It’s not sustainable to run at this level for so long.  I don’t have a tiger chasing me where I need a quick burst of adrenaline to fuel my body to run out of trouble.  Instead, all it takes is me trying to plan which lane I need to be in three blocks ahead so that I don’t get caught in a traffic situation where I have to merge without leaving enough space.

Even as I write this, my heart is pumping faster and my eyes alert, triggered by just thinking of these things that scare me.  I want to be in control.  I want to know the future.  Not necessarily to have an all-knowing to me, but a super power of being able to know a few seconds ahead would be enough.  In this way I could be prepared and ready for anything. Instead, I’m left with my mind trying to be two steps ahead with all the variables.  It shifts my being from the present to the future.  In my struggle to be present I lose the beauty of the now that can only be experienced once before it disappears.

Being aware of this is the first step to defeating the dragon of my mind.  I can dampen the flames that leave each worrisome thought.  I can instead fight the inner turmoil with a determination to focus on the present.  A recognition that the overdrive of my mind is too consuming.  That the payoff is too demanding.  This is not science fiction.  This is reality.  This is life.  That means that there will be messiness.  There will be future events that no amount of hypothetical planning will ever be sufficient.  I need to stop, take a breath and ground myself, knowing that I cannot ever fully know.  My goal is to turn off the light and let my weary body and mind rest.  It is then that I recall that the darkness is only momentary and the sun will come out tomorrow.

Chapter 10 of 38

The Impact of our Giving Decisions

There is a lot of need around us.  From advertisements highlighting malnutrition, to aid concerts for natural disasters, to individual requests on social media for those in hospital treatment, it can be hard to know where to start with charity.  One of the difficulties is deciding where our money should go.  Should I give it to someone in my street?  Should I give it to someone on the town street?  Should I give it within my country?  Should I give it overseas?  “Charity begins at home, the saying goes, and for many people, charity also stops at home, or not very far from it”, writes Peter Singer in The Life You Can Save.  Generally we know how to provide for our home, those we know and love.  Yet knowing how to contribute abroad effectively can seem difficult.  The problem is when this difficulty ends up creating an inertia to giving charitably, even preventing it entirely.

It can be helpful to consider the effectiveness of the money we wish to give.  For example what would $11 do at home, compared with the concentric circles working outwards.  In my circumstances $11 would let me shout a coffee for myself and a friend.  Whereas that same $11 can provide mosquito nets for ten people that can protect them from malaria for up to 3 years.  Malaria can result in death.  $11 can prevent that unnecessary death.  What $11 can provide domestically differs from it’s efficacy abroad.  By choosing effective charities this may sometimes mean choosing to be charitable internationally rather than domestically.

For those wanting to be effective in our giving, our inner questions need not deter us, but rather spur us.  Being equipped with knowledge, we can wisely choose where the money we have goes.  Did you know that some charities provide hundreds, even thousands, of times greater impact per dollar than others?  It is a relief to know that there are effective charities.  A tool at thelifeyoucansave.org website shows what your specific donation has the opportunity to provide someone in extreme poverty.  Furthermore it also lists specific effective charities where you can have confidence in the effectiveness of the donation.

Choices are sometimes made without consideration of their resulting impact.  Whilst I believe that we should give where we feel compelled, if we are seeking wisdom of where to start or where to increase our giving, then that is a matter of the heart and the head.  Generally, where we give our money has little to do with the efficacy of each dollar and the benefit it could have.   Typically we are motivated out of love or fear.  We spend money due to our love towards something or someone.  Alternatively we spend because we heed the ramifications if we don’t.

A challenge in psychology is to know what you don’t know.  A challenge in sociology is to know who you don’t know.  A challenge in my heart is to love those who I don’t know.  One way towards this is to decrease ignorance with information and to increase effective giving through effective charities.  Because it makes a world of difference when the consequence of our decisions can make a difference to the world.

Chapter 11 of 38

Learning to Swim

One of the biggest obstacles in my life was that I couldn’t swim.  From the annual school swimming carnival, to birthday invitations at friends’ pool parties, to beach holidays…Not being able to swim and trying to hide that fact was all too much.  My family knew I couldn’t swim.  Non-swimmers kinda ran in the family.  But I tried hard to hide that fact from my friends and peers.  It was a cause of embarrassment.  Only now can I joke about it when the topic arises.  But I wonder if there is still some hidden shame about the fact that I haven’t been able to conquer a skill small children are able to pick up.  It wasn’t for lack of trying either.

My parents enrolled me in swim schools.   I remember with dread, the horror of swimming lessons during Summer holidays.  I don’t remember being in swim school when I was really young.  Perhaps that was part of the problem.   I recall the other kids bobbing up and down in floaties, whilst my feet were firmly planted on the pool floor.  They would have been 5 or 6 while I was 11 or 12.  A major age difference, further magnified by my prepubescent frailties.

Now 20 years on I still struggle with swimming.  But this obstacle generally recedes in my mind.  These days I still tend to avoid swimming and pools and the beach.  And thankfully I don’t have an annual school swimming carnival to worry about.  Friends tend not to invite me to their pools to swim.  I don’t really have friends with pools.  If I did it would be socially acceptable to just bob around in the water.

But 20 years on my obstacle is much larger.  My obstacle is not because of something that I can’t do.  My obstacle is because of someone that I can’t have.  I feel like I’m climbing mountains with too much weight, doing hurdles upside down and treading water all at the same time (and you can imagine I can’t tread water either)!  My current obstacle is that I don’t have a mum anymore.  It’s more than that.  I don’t have my Mum anymore.

I feel like I can’t move.  It’s all too hard.  My compass is gone.  My guide has gone.  The best person I’ve known and trusted and relied on is no longer.

Even now a lump has risen in my throat.  She would have called it “yit hei”.  That’s the phonetic spelling.  Yit hei is hard to define.  But growing up with a Chinese mum, I knew exactly what it was.  Or at least I knew what it meant…for me.  It meant not eating chips when you were yit hei, because chips are yit hei.  It is a noun, an adjective and definitely a consequence.  I don’t expect someone to understand this if they haven’t grown up with their Chinese mother not letting them eat certain things for the sake of avoiding yit hei.

I remember my sister in law was first indoctrinated into the ways of yit hei at a very early time in her marriage to my brother.  She was yit hei according to my mum.  My sister in law believed she just had a sore throat.  Potato, potatoe.  Either way, Mum was not going to let her eat the pork crackling on the roast.  No, that was reserved for those who were not yit hei at the time.  That lunchtime, my sister in law learnt what yit hei was and probably also learnt a thing or two about Mum’s ways.

I wish my daughter would have had the same privilege.  I wish she could have grown up being scared of Granny restricting yit hei food from her, sneaking the chips anyway and hiding the fact she had a sore throat (was yit hei).  But no, none of these things will happen.  My daughter won’t get to meet my mum.  She’ll see photos or the odd video of her for sure.  But they are so two dimensional.  I would give anything for my mum to be in the flesh, for her to have laid eyes on my daughter.  Then she could do what Mum did best…bluntly tell the truth.  I would want her to tell me what I haven’t done right in motherhood.  I would want her to state the obvious and especially the not-so-obvious to me.  I need Mum now.  I don’t need her more than ever.  There’s been plenty of time for that in the past.  But I definitely want her more than ever.

I sit shaking my head, repeating the regular phrase, “I can’t do it”.  The problem is not that I can’t swim.  The problem is that I can’t do life anymore.  Well obviously it looks like I can.  To the untrained eye it might look like I’m coping.  Nah, let’s face it, everyone knows I’m not coping.  Why?  Because of the obstacle.  The biggest obstacle of my life yet.  The fact that I don’t have Mum.

I blame her a bit.  When I couldn’t do something, she would sometimes take over.  She would effortlessly complete a task that took me tears and tantrums to not complete.  Everything seemed easy to her.  If I couldn’t do it, Mum could.  If I didn’t know it, Mum did.  She was the wisest person I’ve known.  Not only street and book smart, this lady was able to utilise her knowledge and have wisdom.  It was as instant as a formula could be answered in the next cell of one of her Excel spreadsheets.  She didn’t have to ponder and wonder and toss and turn with her words.  She spat them out.  Sometimes these words appeared to be hurled as insults.  But no, in reality they were pearls of wisdom, sometimes just cast before the recipient before they were ready.  Yes, I’d give anything to be delivered a verbal truth-bomb from my mum right now.  Because that can’t hurt as much as the pain of living without her.

Sometimes when I try to be rational I think that I do have her wisdom swimming around my head.  While it’s the only type of swimming I would want, I still fear that I will drown and suffocate in the deep waters without her there to save me.  There is no silver lining to her being gone.  Of course, I would not want her to suffer her physical pain that she experienced in the last years of her life.  In some ways I am glad that there is no more pain for her.  But dammit I miss her.

I could fill a swimming pool with the tears I’ve cried over losing Mum.

I guess it’s time to learn to swim.

Chapter 12 of 38

I don’t like…

I don’t like being a mum.  I don’t like the monotony, the repetition, the feeling that there are hours you’ll never get back.  I don’t like the lack of productivity, the boredom and the mindlessness.  I don’t like hanging around my daughter half reading the same books again.  I don’t like putting the dolly’s clothes back on, again.  Again, I don’t like being a mum.

Unless.

I like being a mum when I’m not pressured by time.  When I’m not tired.  When I can sit back with her and enjoy the laughter and the gobbledegook words that are forming.  I like dancing with her.  I like turning my head around in the car, catching a glimpse of her joy.  I like that grin.  I like when I least expect it, she surprises me with something she’s just learnt.

So is it that I don’t like being a mum?  Or maybe I just don’t like being?

What I mean by this, is that maybe I don’t love sitting, waiting, and being…being unproductive, being me.  Being so slow that my mind catches up with my body and I realise that there’s parts of me that I don’t like.  In those moments of apparent boredom, I have the capacity for frustration and fatigue.

Or.

I have the capacity to reach a depth of my mind where the silence and solitude allows me to think about what I’m thinking about.  A space for me to sit with the uncomfortable truths that I had numbed out with chocolate, sleep and TV.

Before having my daughter, I was able to rush from one event to the next.  Not stopping for much.  Not stopping for fear that if I did then the cries of my soul would leave me unrecognised.

Now I get cranky over the byproduct that I’m left with when I look after my daughter, being a piece of seemingly unproductive time.

What if?

Instead I looked at the possibility of all those little interactions of nothingness to me, as a big piece of something to her.

And what if it is just a waste of time to both of us?  Is that so bad anyway?  To waste time with someone I love seems like the best sort of way to pass time.  Whilst the dishes remain dirty and the to do list is growing, I have that opportunity to be.

In the dryness of the days with my daughter, to experience a kind of unproductive, unsettling, unique passage of time.  To forget about time.  To just be with her, with me.

Chapter 13 of 38

Carrie-ing On

There’s something very Carrie Bradshaw, therapeutic-like writing these little things.  Although my views don’t totally align with Bradshaw’s (the Sarah Jessica Parker – Sex and the City character), I see a beauty in her.  She has a confidence that a lot of women don’t.  Her ability to say what she thinks doesn’t go unnoticed.  I’ve been thinking a bit lately about what I wear and my body image and how that affects the way I carry myself.  But it’s not just that.  Our self confidence comes from our ability to be assertive and set boundaries.  My confidence also is strengthened when I know what I want and don’t.  I enjoy life and what it has to offer when I like who I am, once I know who that is.

Generally, when I walk into the Mall, if I’m wearing daggy clothes, aside from hoping noone I know is shopping that day, I’m also inwardly (and outwardly) pretty uncomfortable.  And when I’m looking the best I can, with the best threads I have, I immediately have an air about me, a peppiness in my step.  It’s weird how just a cut of clothes can make you feel a cut above the rest.  It’s funny how it seems most women don’t dress to attract men to them, but rather to make sure they fit in and feel good with the women in their circle. But it’s not even just about comparison with other women, it can also be about comparison with yourself.  I think that’s the case anyway.

I don’t know what comes first, being assertive or being confident, or if it is a bit of a chicken and the egg thing.  But somehow confidence and assertiveness are related.  Being on the other end of assertiveness can sometimes be frustrating, probably because we can’t just get what we want when we want it from that person.  Yet noticing someone’s assertiveness can also lead to both empowerment and admiration for that person’s character.  There is a true beauty in someone both being unapologetically themselves, as well as being able to apologise when they themself were wrong.  Assertiveness is not about dominating the conversation and getting what you want all the time.  Part of assertiveness is respect for others and mutual respect, treating others as you’d like to be treated.  Part of assertiveness is saying what you mean and not saying things to flatter others that aren’t exactly what you believe.

I’ll keep this writing short, partly because I haven’t got much more to say (as I’m still working this out for myself) and partly because I think what I have said is enough.  I hope I can practice what I preach and enjoy the freedom of being true to myself and my beliefs.  I hope next time I’m walking around in public, whether it is in my finest clothes or looking daggy, that I can know who I am – more than the clothes I have bought – rather someone who is loved and who can love.

Chapter 14 of 38

Time with Mum

There is a chasmic, cyclical, unquenchable grief.  I wish for the hands of time to unwind.  Then I would reclaim that unique moment I felt adequate peace.  A point in history where I could embrace my mum, wrapping my hands around her stomach, nestling my head under her arm.  Instead, the last time I held my mother’s body was when my sisters and I were given the task of washing and dressing her ready for viewing.  In the instant she drew her last rasping breath I saw what I had only seen once prior.  I had experienced it with the passing of my grandfather.

At the moment of death, the body lay unrecognisable, with every pleasant, warm and vibrant feature suddenly evaporated.  The corpse becomes an empty shell that once housed a spirit.  The bodies of those bedside also expel air.  Their bodies are not wholly void of spirit, but an energy drains, never to be regained.  The bereaved have not only lost their loved one, but part of their own aching soul has departed.  Unmistakable and apparent, something seemingly extinguished from the physical world has now been transformed into the unseen.

It’s said there are five stages of grief.  Some would say seven.  Since my mum died, it seems my mind oscillates between believing I’m stuck in one stage, to reluctantly imagining I’m moving through hundreds of stages.  Perhaps they are like steps.  I climb up and trudge down in determination to not reach a destination.  The end point is too jarring to find.  I don’t want to move on.  I don’t want to go forward.

Funerals have the potential to create a space to soberly reflect on the life of our loved ones.  A scurried attempt to capture all that is to be told.  The service takes place only days after their end, when our bodies are still running on adrenaline.  By the time our mortal frames have caught up, we realise that the funeral could not have been timed otherwise.  Any later and our bodies would not have the capacity to step up, to show up and to face the day.  Once the condolence cards have stopped filling the mailbox we lay in a heap, unable to move.

Our best friends offer sympathy, but this is rarely significant.  Whilst their efforts are accepted, they aren’t acceptable enough for the situation of lost meaning and purpose.  Hallmark cards contribute words in a font of understanding.  Yet the only measured consolation for a fragment of the pain, would be to suggest that the friend actually doesn’t know what to say.  Truly, there is nothing that can be said.  Phrases of comfort or verses from poems or religious texts are overlooked by those left behind.  Because during this step, nothing short of our loved one’s resurrection could bring sufficient solution.

The family unit now feels small.  At a time where family seems to be the only source of relief, we realise we are stepping differently through our stages.  Why can’t we all grieve at the same pace?  Why do some members accelerate and others lag in desperation?  Soon enough reality creeps in.  There is a recognition that while blood is thicker than water, blood leaves a permanent mark.  We know that an integral piece of our family is no longer and now the roles require redefining.  The matriarch has gone.  The person who assumes her role draws criticism from all angles with their mismatched abilities.

The flavour has leached out of life.  Taste-buds readjust to a simple diet of burnt toast or soggy cereal when the body gives way to hunger.  Olfactory glands sense that something has changed.  Hints of smells from the past evoke a memory.  Sweet smells can be offensive in the griever’s mind.  It’s too soon to smell her familiar scent, her favourite dish or something that was long forgotten till now.  Our breaths are shallow, as our lung capacity seems restricted by our intention for our own breath to cease.

If only we could have taken their spot.  If only we could have battled the disease on their behalf.  If we could have exchanged places, it seems I would.  The sorrow shifts the mind to consider ending the pain through my own accord.  It seems valid enough, as what I am living now is not life anyway.  The mind retorts back that this idea should be suppressed.  It was never a true option.  Although the ruthless act may feel justified, I could not bear for my poverty of spirit to be the emphasis.

Silence, a symbol of unanswered prayers.  Petitions for healing are long gone.  Now I request for my fragility to be mended.  A stitch in time can save nine.  If I don’t choose to act, I’ll unravel.  Or worse, pull the thread tightly till it snaps.  In a call to persist, I move.   I want the energy to be redirected to grip strongly onto what Mum would have wanted.  Her best interests for me, always captured a truth I couldn’t see for myself.  While it is a startlingly foreign concept, a sudden shift did not occur.  Rather, a gradual transformation of self was held on offer.  A glimmer of hope in an otherwise pit of darkness.

Routines and rhythms are begging to be restored.  My body yearns for nourishment.  The morning cuppa.  Warm showers.  Regular showers at least.  Moisture to be replaced in the skin.  Some Vitamin D, not packed commercially, but from sitting beneath the sun.  A return to cooking meals.  The chance to focus again at work.   Afternoon walks through my neighbourhood.  The choice to smile and force a laugh.  This bodily response will require more repetitions before it responds again naturally.

Anniversaries provide a context.  They invite a practice, a symbolic gesture, rituals.  It’s not only the anniversary of your death that will be observed.  Each anniversary shares a new meaning.  Whether intentional or not, your birthday, my birthday, your wedding anniversary, Easter, Mother’s Day and Christmas all acknowledge that your presence is missed.  We would have celebrated together.  Now, without you.  You would have remembered the dates that were significant, rather than calendars or Facebook revealing these to those here on the day.

New events carry on without you.  The birth of my first child.  My pregnancy alone was unbearable.  I wanted to search your mind for questions that the midwife requested.  I wanted to search your mind for questions that I had for the unknown.  I named my daughter with you in mind.  I cannot wait to be asked by her the significance of the choice.  I cannot wait to share stories before bedtimes of who you were.  Hopefully these will permeate our dreams.  I find that the dreams of you provide a balm to the wound of your absence.

I see her look from her cot at the ceiling and giggle.  She’s chatting away to someone and I know it’s not me.  As she develops I recognise a mannerism, a microexpression, even a delightful squeal which indicates that somehow she has a connection with you.  Some things have skipped my generation and you two share a sacred bond.  Her smile reminds me of yours.  I catch sight of a photo as I scroll through my phone and it’s uncanny how she resembles you.

Grandparents Day will be on the school calendar.  Only then will my daughter compare and contrast.  She will realise that her friends may have the luxury of four or more grandparents.  She has been wonderfully supported by her father’s parents and her solitary grandfather.  Yet what’s normal for her is to ask questions and recall the stories of Granny.  Although never truly seen, you are intact in her mind through photos and videos.  Her present is mixed with the past in a natural and familiar way.

Her adorable infancy will come to an end.  We will both enter her teen years well before we’re ready.  She has a sass about her that could be described as being strong willed.  She will likely colour her hair to something unnatural.  We will start to bicker and fight when I’m tired and she’s filled with determination.  She will slam her bedroom door.  I will start to believe she has shut me out completely.  This is all ahead of me.

While you have been my past, she is my future.  You have donated your wisdom to me and I’ll try passing this on to her.  Although you aren’t here to offer a quick solution, I know you.  I know what you would have said.  I know how you would have encouraged me to keep going.  Time functions as it should, moving forward with continuity and control.  It manages to heal unexpectedly so that I can look back with nostalgia and forward with contentment.  There is no contest to compare the past with the future.  But at the point of their meeting is the present.  Somehow their intertwining creates that adequate peace that I had almost forgotten.

I slouch in the lounge after a tiring week.  My daughter nestles under my arm, wrapping her arms around my waist.  There is a chasmic, cyclical, unquenchable love.

Chapter 15 of 38

Playing the keyboard

When I was born, the doctor exclaimed that I would make a great pianist.  This was due to my long, slender fingers.  My parents recounted that story to me often.

My mother wanted us children to learn to play the piano.  So much so, she made the offering of swapping skills: her maths tutelage to some kids, in exchange for their mother to teach me piano. I remember Mum suggesting this to me.  Somewhere deep inside, I wanted to learn, but I fobbed it off.  At that young age I thought it would be an inconvenience I didn’t want to put Mum through.  It’s strange to think that I rejected an offer that she made willingly (and probably would have loved doing).

I may have refused to learn the piano, but I was not allowed to refuse to learn to touch-type.  I couldn’t understand at the time, but Mum said that computers were going to be very important in the future and that it would be relevant for me to learn the skill.  So my parents paid for me to go to TAFE and learn the qwerty way.  There would be no slow pecking of the keys when trying to type up my assignments in the future.  The ten week afternoon course brought out my competitive side, as I raced other children in the number of words per minute.

Today I’m grateful that Mum forced me to learn to touch-type.  It has made typing for work particularly, an ease.  I know I could start learning the piano now.  But something stops me.  I’m not entirely sure what. So when I type at my computer for little stories such as these, it transports my fingers to a place of believing instead that I am playing a piece of music on the piano.

This piece is for her.

Chapter 16 of 38

Is that a good thing?

She is a woman who is praised for her compliance.

Is that a good thing?

Her emphasis is not important, nor what she wants

Is that a good thing?

Her beauty is apparent to all that meet her.

Is that a good thing?

She is lusted after, betrayed and falls victim.

Is that a good thing?

The way that she says no, but this is taken as a maybe.

Is that a good thing?

A maybe is almost a yes in others eyes.

Is that a good thing?

The way she is given a job.

Is that a good thing?

She’ll never reap from her work, yet is expected much.

Is that a good thing?

She is told what she needs to hear.

Is that a good thing?

Filled with sugar coated half truths where she is not placed for reality.

Is that a good thing?

She’ll never want for anything.

Is that a good thing?

She’ll never know what she can have.

Is that a good thing?

She keeps smiling.

Is that a good thing?

The pain of vulnerability aches from within.

Is that a good thing?

Everything looks fine.

Is that a good thing?

She cuts her body where public eyes cannot reach.

Is that a good thing?

“She’s so beautiful!”

Is that a good thing?

She is dying inside, where they have reached her.

Is that a good thing?

It’s not a good thing.

It’s not human.

It is her now, yet it should not.

Chapter 17 of 38

Alive

I’m approaching my birthday.  Although it is not a “significant one”, I’m caught in awe about life.  I was looking at my daughter in her pram this morning and I was brought to a realisation that it’s such a privilege to be a mother.  Then my meandering mind brought to the fore that my life too, is special.  My mind is often quick to dart to the negative and see the depressed side of life.  But today I want to celebrate the day, the life and the light that can pour from my face.

I want to write about goodness.  I want to sing about the great things of life.  I want to sit by the warmth of a million good thoughts.  I want to let that be treasured now for today and for another time that it still reigns true.

I love the clear sky.  Even when the clouds poke through the bright blue, they stunningly waft past, knowing that time can and will keep ticking.  Rather than watching the clock, there is beauty in looking up and seeing the sun, it’s position and radiance.

I love it when my daughter smiles at me.  Not for anything I have done or for a memory, but just for the now.  I just walked into her room and for that I reap the reward of sharing her giggles and I smile.

I love an old ottoman that I picked up off the side of the road.  It was dusty and coated with cat fur, but my husband dandied it up and now it is our ottoman.  It provides, amongst its original intentional purpose, a spot that my eyes stare at when I’m in our lounge room.  My eyes trace the floral pattern that is on it.  My mind diverts through the files kept inside, yet tracing the pattern somehow slows down the process and allows me to start to be mindful once again.

I love the clothes basket filled with clean clothes.  I’m thankful for clean water and the ability to clean my surroundings.  I don’t want to ever take for granted that I have all that I need for every day.

I love the bookshelf in our study.  With its books reaching different heights as they rest against each other.  Some have been quite significant to me in my pursuit of growth and truth.

I love the mug full of pens.  They await at the ready, poised in position to write something important in my calendar.  A special date or an anniversary or simply an appointment.  Whatever they jot, I’m thankful for the occasions I celebrate and I’m even grateful for the times of sitting waiting for good medical care for my family.

I love these things.  They are silly little things and inconsequential to some.  Yet they are the comforts that I am thankful for.  They are the things that are emptied out into my dreams at night, scattered around trying to find a place to settle.

And while we are not called to treasure things.  They can be a continual reminder that I am provided for.  I am loved.  There is one greater than me who sits and rests, but does not sleep.  Even when my mind calls out for something more, I sit back down and look at these things and they ground me.  They remind me of my place.  A place where I dwell.  A spot to consider and grow.  A place of thanksgiving.  One day I’ll thirst for this place to come alive like it has for me just now.  I hope that I can read through this script, satisfied that there is deep fullness available.  And for that I am grateful.

Chapter 18 of 38

In the Meantrim

I once overheard a word from a colleague that she unintentionally coined.  The words of meantime and interim were beautifully wound together to create “meantrim”.  Someone else pointed out that meantrim is in fact not a real word.  I loved hearing it though.  I like thinking of this invented term, because it casts a beautiful shadow on what we often neglect.  I would define meantrim as that space of time where there’s lack of clarity and messiness instead.  It’s the spot which you would like to fast forward at times.  The word runs parallel with experience, which is what you get when you don’t get what you want.

The meantrim is vital to pave a way forward.  We all spend most of our time in the meantrim.  It takes time to get out of it and reach an apex of our growth and understanding.  Yet even when we reach the apex, we generally go back down (ready or not) to reach another apex.

We applaud a person who has come though the messes of say, alcohol abuse or mental health issues or anger.  We love hearing stories of someone who has developed and come out of these stages into a space of valuable change.  Yet when people are in the meantrim, when addiction strikes, delusions are apparent or someone lashes out, this is often met with fear and caution.  Rather than applauding these people, disdain abounds.

However if we treated people with respect and dignity wherever they are at, this could lead to a greater appreciation of life.  We wouldn’t be judging the person based on what they have done, instead we would love them for their being.  In a previous article I talked about the danger of judging a person by their outer appearance (titled, Don’t Judge a Book by it’s Cover Girl).  However this is also true of judging people based on their inside appearance.

The problem with judging people on their inside appearance, is just that, it is an appearance.  As a third party, we don’t know the full story of what is going on for them.  Sometimes people can understand, which is why they empathetically say “hurt people hurt people”.  But I think overall if someone is in their meantrim stage of developing some emotional or spiritual muscle in their life, it is often met with misunderstanding, stigma or fear.

It seems to me, that once an individual has come out the other side of the meantrim, they are only then recognised as being a valuable member of society.  Until then these individuals are often met with fake support and superiority.  I wonder why this is?  Is it because people are scared of others in their meantrim, not knowing what they are capable of doing?  Is it because if an individual is doing something morally wrong, then they need to be cast out?  Is it because people want to associate with success rather than apparent failure and neediness?  It could be a lot of things.

I just think it’s sad that while we all have the capacity to love and grow, in our minds we kick people to the ground and elevate ourselves, believing that there is some sort of ranking system.  A person seems more valuable if they are busy.  A person seems more valuable based on their title.  A person seems more valuable if they are charitable.  A person seems more valuable by what… (insert anything that they do).

The antidote to this behaviour of labelling people into categories, is to realise that being in the meantrim is okay.  Difference is okay.  Sure it looks like some have a longer way to go in their maturity and growth and sometimes it seems they are not moving forward in their meantrim circumstance.  The path to reconciling our minds into a growth mindset is recognising that each person is a human being.  We are not human doings.  If we were human doings, it would be fair to judge each other on what we do.  Being beings, the person is alive.  They hold a valuable life and must be treated that way.

We are all capable of growing through the meantrim.  Each person’s meantrim is different and individual to them. One person’s meantrim involves years of heartache, with a possible resulting melody of colour and seeing the world anew.  Others might have a new meantrim that they work through each day.  We often perceive where people are (emotionally, mentally, spiritually), at the point we interact with them.  Yet our day of interaction is not the end day.  It is not the end of the story.  It’s just the meantrim.  Let us sit beside each person, whatever chapter they may be in.  The meantrim in its glorious way will not last forever.  What will last is love.

Let’s stop criticising of people where they are at.  Let’s love them in their meantrim.  At the very least it will help us in ours.  And at the most, there are endless possibilities.  I aspire for change, growth and development.  All these things don’t happen by themselves.  They need a meantrim and a love for the human being.  Instead of exposing others’ shame, let’s be in a place of respect and appreciation.  There is purpose in the meantrim and while it’s not a real word, there still is meaning.

Chapter 19 of 38

Remember

It’s the thing you don’t naturally want

But what you choose out of love

You become willing because of wanting the best

Not for you, but for other

It’s seen in war

It’s shown at home

You give without expectation

In this deal you’ve lost

Yet there is a grand plan

A greater belief in good

You choose the harder road

This gives others opportunity

There is a choice to forgive

And lest we forget

A cost that bears weight

So others can go free

It hurts, it’s real, it’s needed

This is sacrifice

Chapter 20 of 38

The Duet (This I know)

You loved me before I knew it.

You loved me before I loved you.

You loved me when I was unlovable.

You loved me when I left you bleeding.

I love you with inconsistency.

I love you in a thoughtless, casual way.

I love you, yet leave you in a heartbeat.

I love you in my shallow sort of way.

I know.

But I’ll keep loving you.

I’ve loved you before and I’ll love you last.

I’ll wait patiently for I love you.

You miss the mark.

You forget what we’ve done.

You disengage quite easily.

You remain beautiful to me.

I know.

I don’t love you the way you love me.

I don’t recognise the little things you do.

I don’t even acknowledge those big things.

You are too hard to understand.

You are beyond me.

You are always for me.

You are always with me.

I know.

I get that you misunderstand.

I get that there is doubt within you.

I get more from you than you know.

I will continue to love you nevertheless.

You will not receive what you deserve.

I’ll keep giving you all you need.

I’ll never leave you.

I know.

That I don’t deserve it.

That I am willing and weak.

That I think more of me than you.

You keep your promises.

You remain constant.

Your creativity delights me.

Your grace never denies me.

I know.

You get worried about small things.

You don’t take the chances you could.

You don’t trust that I’m right here.

I’m in love with you.

I’m devoted to our story.

I’ll embark on this challenge with you.

I’ll love you  tomorrow like I did yesterday.

Chapter 21 of 38

Don’t judge a book by its cover girl

I was about to write an article about true beauty.  It was going to go speak something about natural beauty and the need not to wear makeup.  I was then going to go a step further and start judging hard on women who use fillers and the like.  But I stopped before writing a stroke.

I realised that my judgements and preconceived ideas are part of the problem.  Yes, fillers can (and do most of the time) look ridiculous (well at least the ones we see on the screen).  I’m trying to posit what real beauty is like, yet in doing so I’m excluding some true beauty on the basis of what the outer shell depicts.  I find that three things have got me to where I am with the whole judging people based on appearances and looks thing.

The first is that when I worked in my gap year I started my own business.  Well that is what we were encouraged to call it, but in my instance it was quite laughable.  I was a Mary Kay girl. I bought makeup wholesale and sold it retail. Well actually, I bought lots of products wholesale and ended up giving them away/chucking them out after 10 years.  It’s hard to market products in that sort of structured approach when you either don’t have friends or don’t wish to kill off the good friends you do have!

Anyway I had a lot of experiences brushing up against women that were totally into makeup.  To which I playfully called “fake-up”. But I remember trying my best to look my best with makeup and my boss at the time (in my real job) saying, “Lib, you look better without makeup”.  I went back to my Mary Kay senior consultant, explaining that women look better without makeup and her reply to me was, “Well you ask him whether his wife looks better without makeup!”

The second example from the past (that has led me to my conception of looks and the like) is that some of the greatest women I have known have not concealed their face or their emotions from me.  Sure, they may choose to doll themselves up on special occasions.  But for some reason I always equated and concluded that their genuineness had something to do with their lack of concern for makeup and fanciness.

My third life example has less to do with makeup and more to do with the outward appearance.  When my mother was alive in the last years of her life she was bound by a wheelchair (well physically).  It was really interesting to see the difference in the way I saw other people see my mother (from when she was in full health to a wheelchair user).  My mother saw it too. I remember her reflecting that because she was in a wheelchair, coupled with her inability to speak clearly and dribbling mouth, that people then perceived she wasn’t with it in the mind either.  Some people unconsciously would start elevating their voice at her considering she was deaf. She wasn’t.  Some people would look at her and not say much at all thinking they weren’t going to receive much from the conversation.  They didn’t.

This third example really hit me.  I knew my mum was so much more than the way I perceived people perceiving her because of her outward vessel.  And that really bugged me (still does).

I guess what I am saying is that I have this notion of what true beauty is based on by my life experience, of seeing people with and without makeup and being with and without the expectant norms of how people should look.  I usually semi-consciously sit up on my high horse and somehow conclude that real beautiful people don’t wear makeup and don’t look a certain way.  But I think I have just done the same thing I have criticised, in reverse. I have looked at the figure and determined who they are from that.

I’m not going to say that appearances aren’t important.  Because it’s not that black and white. When you go for a job interview, you shine your shoes and comb your hair.  What I am saying is that we should take a step back from judging people based upon their physique and outward package.  Because like the best gifts, the packaging is just that. It needs to get discarded at some point and the gift inside is what is treasured.  I would like to start treasuring what is inside people. I would like to do this however they look on the outside. Maybe I can provide the same consideration to myself too, when I gaze into my reflection.

So whether you have greys or peroxide.  Whether you have fillers or seemingly in need of some.  Whether you look one way or another. I’ll tell you this (what my husband gently says all the time), “You are loved”.  You are loved for being you, in whatever shape or form.

Chapter 22 of 38

Where I see myself in five years

Five years ago I was selfish, non-committal and arrogant.  I still encapsulate some of these attributes, but I believe there has been growth.  The hard part is that growth usually comes exponentially when hardships or challenges are in the way.  So in becoming more authentic, being able to make decisions and being on a path of humility took a range of circumstances like marriage separation, the thought of infertility and not being on top of my job.  I also grow through reflection. Reflecting on how I treated people, for example my mother, as she was both dependent on others for her physical needs but craving time. And reflecting on how I treated my husband and contrasting that on how he treated me, also sped up the trajectory of growth.

My husband has taught me so many things. He has taught me how to resolve conflict (quickly, with apologies and fun). He has taught me that money is not what should be loved or that status should not be attributed by your paycheck.  He taught me that family comes first. And he also taught me how to be funny and at times he recognises and concedes that I’m the funniest member of our household.

Having pointed out some of the things about my growing knowledge of previous blindspots, I would like the next five years to equally be filled with positive change.  I remember once on a farewell card, one of my colleagues wrote, “Don’t change Lib”. To which my boss’ wife wrote underneath, “No, change, change, change”. She was a counsellor and I think was qualified to say that change in terms of personal growth, is to be aspired to.

So where can I see myself in five years?  Probably circumstantially there will be some similarities and some glaring differences.  I hope situationally that I am in the same job that I want to continue to commit to. I hope that my daughter continues to develop strongly as she will have gone through her critical forming days.  I hope that my husband and I are healthy, in the full sense of the word. I hope that with maturity of age comes further wisdom. I don’t yet know the pitfalls that I’m currently in through my mind traps.  But I hope that in five years time I’m surely aware of these and am in the position to adapt and continue to morph into a better version of myself.

I know that if I am wanting all this, as explained that this usually means that obstacles need to be overcome, that life may be hard.  I know that if I am wanting the results and change, usually there is an instigator. But I pray that through these difficult catalysts ahead that I will have a steady mind, acknowledging a readiness and even if unprepared for the heartache, I hope that my heart becomes bigger.  Bring on the good, the bad and ugly of the next five years! I want to be ready for the next evaluation come mid-decade, to be able to reflect on further internal development. Bring it on!

Chapter 23 of 38

How to truly help someone

There’s so many of us that want to be of assistance to people, because we love people.  But sometimes we don’t know where to start and where to end. This article looks at ways in which we can truly help someone.

I have had two stand out times in my life where I’ve felt truly helped by someone.  I have the luxury of many lovely people in my life, but these two times stood out.  They stood out because these friends met me where I was at, in my physical and emotional mess and practically loved, listened and laughed.

The first time I felt truly helped was in the week after my mother died and my friend asked me an important question.  It was not a vague and open ended promise of, “If you need anything you can call me day or night”. It was simply a question of “What do you need?”.  Once my friend asked me that question the floodgate of emotions flowed out, with my first response being, “I need my mum”. After she listened compassionately, she asked again, “What do you need, that I can provide?”.  A need that had not been met, that had been stupidly taking up space in my mind was my pile of dishes. “I need my dishes washed”. And with that my friend told me when she was available and confirmed when any of those times would suit me best.  She told me she would be there at my house to clean my dishes. The next day she came over with another dear friend who also came to clean. They sat me down and let me put my feet up. I sat on the couch in our open planned room, while I watched my friend clean my dishes.  And the cherry on the top was that she asked me beautiful questions surrounding things of my mum, who I was already dearly missing at that stage. The other dear friend cleaned my bathroom (and shower) with such unspoken, yet apparent grace.

Another time I felt overwhelmed and in need was more recently when I had to abide by the post emergency c-section ‘6 week rule’.  I was not to lift anything heavier than my baby or drive for the six weeks postpartum. I was starting to get cabin fever after three and a half weeks at home as a new mum.  It was then that my friends intervened and whisked me away. They drove my car, ensuring that my three week old daughter could come in the car seat. They took me to a lovely little cafe. When they flagged the idea that it might be good for me to get out of the house, I replied “as long as we go somewhere cheap and nasty”.  This was because funds were tight and we could no longer afford to live the life of luxury. My friend said that this would not do (after she checked that the reason I wanted to go somewhere cheap was due to financial pressure) and said she would shout me. My other friend drove my car safely so that I felt comfortable.  They piled in with me in the car for my first trip since coming home from the hospital. As we pushed the pram towards the cafe I started having doubts, being my first expedition out. They gently yet firmly reassured me that all was well.

These two events will always remain in my memory as expressions of love in the form of true helping. Through these beautiful acts of kindness I learnt a lot about the art of truly helping.  I learnt:

If you want to help, ask what the person needs.  Evaluate if you can help in this way and be open about your abilities and limitations.

Invite conversation with the dear one you are helping around things they want to talk about.  If you’re not sure, simply ask directly what they want to discuss with you.

Listen, not just in that moment, but try to remember who that person is from the culmination of previous times you’ve been together.

Get out of your comfort zone, so that they can be within theirs in their time of need.

You will likely lose your own money, time and energy if you are truly willing to help.

Be gentle and compassionate, but don’t tip toe, be upfront and lovingly brutal to remind that person of what they need to hear.  Talk like you always talked to your friend.

And that is my final point. If you truly want to help someone, bear in mind your friendship status.  Because if they are not already a dear friend, you owe it to them to be a good friend to them in the future. We all go through seasons with friendships (which is a story for another article), but when it’s cold outside for someone, provide a warmth that will be welcomed and treasured for years to come.

Chapter 24 of 38

Something I have learnt in the last 12 months

It’s one of my favourite questions that I ask people.  “What have you been learning lately?”

So I ask myself this as a time of reflection and inner growth.  I feel like I have been learning a lot. One of the things I have been learning in the last twelve months, alongside with the last twelve hours, is trying to work out who I am.

I feel like I don’t know who I am because I am so busy ensuring that I get it “right” all the time, so I outsource my problems to others.  This outsourcing gets the right answer in someone else’s perspective and so I feel justified in putting my next foot forward in the recommended direction.  The problem with this though, is that I have up until recently, failed to know what to do or more importantly what I want. My counsellor would constantly ask me to figure out what I wanted in a variety of situations.  This irked me. On the surface I said to myself, that being a Christian, this was the wrong question to be asking. But in the last twelve months I have delved deeper and recognised I haven’t even known what I wanted.  I didn’t allow myself to think what I wanted due to fear that I would get it wrong.

The thing is that there have been plenty of seemingly wrong decisions in the past.  Maybe these were fundamentally wrong because I was answering what I was seeking through someone else’s lens or worldview.  And at the end of the day, although my actions affected others, it affected me the most.

What my lack of confidence has looked like has been a flip flopping of decisions.  At one time I will be fully gung-ho in one direction, only to question the decision in my uncertainty to go the completely other route.  And this often involves more than one flip and one flop.

In the last twelve months and last twelve hours too, I’ve had to work out who I am.  What makes me tick? What do I actually like? What do I actually want? It’s actually too vague to say that I want what God wants.  And actually most of the time I reckon God leaves decisions in our hands because he knows we are quite capable of making them.  I want to follow God and walk alongside him. But that can look like a myriad of different things to different people.

So I’ve worked out more of who I am, and thus worked out what I want.  I am a believer in Jesus. That shapes who I am. But within this, I am a mother, a wife, a daughter and a friend.  I love inward growth, pampering myself, eating good food, connecting on a deep level with people and sharing with others.  Through all these likes I want to connect with God, look after my family, honour my husband and work productively and with beauty and joy.

This still all sounds a little vague.  But I’m enjoying what these different facets of me look like in the recent and future decisions I make.  Sure, it’s a great idea for most to pause and ask for other’s wisdom. But I think for me, with my level of insecurity and dependence, I need to pull my own finger out and start some trial and error.  Because I think that’s what life is, fumbling and bumbling our way through, with some things working and some things not. But even when there are seeming errors of judgement there is still grace and beauty that is worked through.  Somehow there is an ability to grow through our faults and be more ready to conquer the future.

I know that the future won’t be perfect, as it involves me.  But I’m going to be ready for the fun and learning along the way that it will involve.  I’m ready to be seeking forgiveness. I’m ready for the fault to be mine and to relish in that.

Chapter 25 of 38

The B**** at Work

I’ll leave names out.  But I think you’ll know who I’m talking about.  That b**** at work. She may be a Laura, Genevieve or a Sue.  I’ll keep your name safe, but I’ll proclaim what you do. You go into the stationary cupboard and get the best things out.  You hear a new project idea in the tea room and claim it as your own. You tap loudly on your keyboard in our office with your acrylic nails.  You yawn and sigh at 10am, yet you’ve already been out for three ciggy breaks. I can smell the coffee on your breath. You always say it’s your shout next time for the coffee cart, but next time doesn’t come around.  You send emails with exclamation marks and caps-locked biting words.

And yet.  You’ve been off work for three weeks now.  I heard from Dan that your toddler has fallen ill.  I heard that things have been tough financially since you have used all your leave.  The snide remarks I’d say about you by the water cooler don’t seem so funny anymore.

The fact is that you brought something to our team that has been lacking since you’ve been off.  Sure for the first day I enjoyed the freedom, but I’m starting to worry about yours. Yes you, I’ve been worried about you.  And I’ve started to wonder what your child’s name is, as I’d never cared to listen. And I’ve realised that maybe I shouldn’t have been so quick to judge or blacklist your name.  I know it’s not just because things are going hard for you that I’ve had a change of heart. The thing is I’ve missed you.

I’ve gone into the stationary cupboard and thought about the pink scissors you would have usually nabbed.  I’ve taken them, but realised you were cutting things out to stick on colleagues birthday cards. I’ve missed the fact that peoples ideas are not coming forward, because I think you were just wanting the ball to keep rolling as you had things that you wanted to achieve with your workday.  I didn’t realise that you have acrylic nails because you are trying not to stress and it was one of the tactics your counsellor suggested to stop biting your nails. And yes, you haven’t managed to cut the habit of smoking, but you’ve called QuitLine and started to wear the patches. You don’t chew gum after coffee, as you were worried that the chewing noise was going to offend the others in our office, as you heard Jerry make that comment once and you listened.  The truth is your income is not as secure as mine or Jerry’s and you don’t even want to be in the shout. But we’ve kept on assuming you’ve wanted another coffee, as truth was we didn’t hear you say “no thanks”. Maybe that’s why you send those biting emails with capitalised exclamation. I haven’t heard you. I haven’t listened.

I’m sorry for the assumptions.  I’m sorry for talking behind your back.  I’m sorry for rolling my eyes when you’ve talked in meetings.  I hope your child’s okay. I know they’re in good hands.

Chapter 26 of 38

It’s not fair

I live in a bubble, and I’m not talking a Coronavirus related bubble.  I live in a bubble because I don’t think enough about the world outside my postcode.  I live in a bubble because it’s too hard to acknowledge the truth and what to do with it.  There’s no way of dressing up what is happening in our world. Here are some cold hard truths at the time of writing:According to the World Health Organisation’s website, there are about 1.2 billion people in this world who try to live with less than a dollar a day.https://www.who.int/hdp/poverty/en/I was watching ABC News the other night and in India there are people walking over 200km in order to find food and work.  Doing all this without food and water. As I tried to find the statistics on the ABC News website, I eventually found some information on India.  In order to find the information on India, I had to scroll past a big photo of Prince Charles and Donald Trump. I had to scroll past news of New York and how big businesses would cope with the saga of having employees working from home.  I had to scroll past news of those affected in Australia who stepped off of cruise liners in disgust. And once I finally grew drowsy, skimming through articles of seemingly hotter topics of more important people, I got to the story around India.  According to the UN Women website:“It is estimated that 35 per cent of women worldwide have experienced either physical and/or sexual intimate partner violence or sexual violence by a non-partner (not including sexual harassment) at some point in their lives.” and “Approximately 15 million adolescent girls (aged 15 to 19) worldwide have experienced forced sex (forced sexual intercourse or other sexual acts) at some point in their life. In the vast majority of countries, adolescent girls are most at risk of forced sex by a current/former husband, partner or boyfriend. Based on data from 30 countries, only one per cent ever sought professional help”https://www.unwomen.org/Refugee Week website tells of current statistics where“The world has 25 million refugees but each year fewer than 0.5% get the chance to resettle in a safer country.”https://www.refugeeweek.org.au/This is only a little drop of what is going on in the world.  And frankly, I don’t really know a lot about these situations.  I hide myself from these truths because it seems overwhelming. I get guilt. I don’t appreciate the sadness it brings to my day.  But it’s not fair.  I’m not being fair to other human beings around the world.  It seems silly what I worry about. It is ridiculous that I can grumble.  Why don’t I have gratitude for all I have? Why do I read so many celebrity gossip news feeds, but scroll past the news articles on poverty and abuse?  I think I partly know why. Part of me doesn’t want to interrupt my seemingly happy day. Part of me doesn’t have much understanding about refugees. Part of me has heard flippant comments.  Part of me has thought that it’s beyond my capacity, both my mental ability and my financial generosity.But that is not fair.  It’s not enough. I’m not doing enough.  I’m not being enough. Real bubbles break soon enough.  I hope to break the bubble I’m living in. Getting informed is pivotal to this.  With that knowledge I hope that wisdom will form. And through that wisdom may I start to love others on the other side of the world.  That won’t make it all of a sudden fair, but I want to give it a fair go.

Chapter 27 of 38

More than a Swear Word

There’s a chance I may offend you.  There’s a possibility you won’t care.  There’s a point at which you may roll your eyes and scroll your screen.  But I want to share something special to me. The reason I do so, at risk of wasting 7 minutes of the weekend, is because you too are special to me.

I admit that sometimes when I see the picture of a wooden cross on my Facebook feed, I keep the pace of the scroll, maybe even pick up the pace to move past more quickly.  Sometimes the positioning of words indicates there is a Bible verse on a social media post and I don’t want to stop. Instead I choose to move on.

It’s not just the insufficiency of time that makes me skip past.  It’s this inner stirring that I’m better than that. That somehow I don’t want to look like that, be associated with that.  Part of it is the ancient fonts with the old fashioned images. More than that, it’s probably the disconnection my life feels with these words and icons.  There’s something screaming loudly, that this is not relevant.

Yet another part of my heart faintly stands to attention.  There is a longing for something more. My heart knows and my mind sobrely acknowledges this truth.  Deep down I want something deep. My heart flutters in anticipation when I have a meaningful conversation, when I hold my child, when I mindfully eat a lovely meal.  These times capture my heart. Especially though when the discussion changes, my child screams and the food turns cold, I find that I’m not just longing for the opposite, I long for more.  There is a wholeness that I’m missing. I’m not saying that everything sucks. But things aren’t perfect either. Even a perfectionist like myself will regularly buckle trying to ensure everything is okay. I do appreciate the good things of life.  My body instinctively wonders where these blessings have come from. In my wiser moments, I concede they are not of my own accord.

We all know the story.  God makes world. God makes man.  God makes woman. Man and woman both stick it to God.  There is the fall. And like dominos we continue in this fallen story.  Until…until Jesus enters. He fixes the broken chasm. He restores the relationship.  We may sit in awe and thanks or keep sticking it to Him. The very nature of not giving a second thought to Him, is neglecting the truest part of who we are.

I know this story.  Sometimes the repetition of this story turns me off the central character.  Sometimes I stupidly believe I’m the central character. Often people only heed this story because of some sort of fear of how it will end.

But for me, my forever life has started.  I fumble around in my thoughts entertaining the idea that I can go solo.  Entertaining the idea I can count on money, family, friends and time. And whilst I can in a way, I also know full well the uncertainty, instability and loss that accompanies these.

Strangely, the end point is not death.  Equally the start point is not death. Now is important.  Now is relevant.

I probably will continue to be naturally inclined to flinch when I see messages about faith, hope and love with the background picture of a brown leather Bible.  You may too. You may only utter His name when you’re searching for a word to nail home a point. But sometimes we need a reminder of other nails in history and His bloodshed for us.

I’m definitely not advocating that life is any easier.  It’s not. At times it seems harder. But Jesus came so we could experience the fullness of real life.  When you’re tired of the story and you’re sick of us followers this Easter, please know that Jesus can be more than a swear word.  Remember the central character and embrace his invitation to live with Him.

Chapter 28 of 38

An open letter to my husband on his birthday

Forty-three huh!  Happy birthday Caravajio Johnson.  Congratulations on making it this far, not just in age, but in maturity.  You are the best husband for me. I’m sorry that I have not always appreciated this.  But now I do and I want to share some of your beautiful qualities and what makes you special.

The way you interact with our daughter, showing her loving fun.

The way you get worried when our daughter cries.

Your deep love for your son.

The way you play Monopoly with us.

How you are a good sport.

How you don’t watch sport.

How you ask your dad about sport.

How you make your mum laugh.

How you love your sisters.

The way you tell the same old fart jokes over and over.

The way you care about our planet.

The way that one of us knows our right from our left (politically).

How you talk about me to others.

The way you write letters.

Your writing.

Your editing.

Your quirky videos.

Your silly memes.

The way you do something about your dreams.

The way you know about computers and tech.

The way you invent cool nick-names for us out of thin air.

How you watch my TV shows with me.

Your creativity.

The way you check if I understand what you’re on about.

How you let me talk about me.

How you console me.

Your ability to create a funny song off the top of your head.

How you make a running commentary in song throughout the house.

The way you create songs about your children.

When you ask for me to keep singing.

When we hold a duet.

When we have a dance off.

When we do dueling bogs.

The way you encourage me to grow and develop.

The way you teach me.

Your love for to-do lists and productivity.

The way you listen to books in order to be changed.

The way you’ve changed and remained constant.

When you show up.

When you come to church with me.

The way you try to make me look good.

Your pride (like in a good Mr Darcy way).

When you say, “listen to your heart”.

When you say, “find love in your heart”.

When you say, “you are loved”.

Your values.

Your love for your family.

The way you give me the better blanket at night.

How you can’t lie.

Your integrity.

The way you passionately eat a handful of chips.

Your dependability.

The way you apologise.

The way you manage conflict.

The way you choose to right wrongs.

Your quickness to forgive.

Your ability to say sorry.

Your trustworthiness.

The way you trust me.

Your deep conversation.

Your Socratic method.

The way you don’t value money.

How you cry.

The way you old-man dance.

Your eagerness to get bifocals.

Your sexiness.

The way your beard makes you a silver fox.

That you are large and in charge.

That you listen to my advice.

The way you don’t expect change, but help make it happen.

That you try to change.

Your pursuit to learn.

That you give me the best bits of food.

That you cook for me.

That you clean for me.

How you try to practice good habits.

Your patience with me.

Your playfulness.

When you put on your Playschool voice.

The way you dance to Bluey.

Your family focus.

Your protectiveness.

The way you care.

Your passion.

Your commitment to us.

Your priorities.

Your sacrificial love.

How you put me before you.

Your intelligence.

Your humour.

How you let me be me.

Your readiness to help and serve.

Your introversion and extroversion.

Your openness.

That’ll do you.  I don’t want to give you the false impression that you are perfect.  But on your birthday, I just wanted to say you are loved. You are loved by me and your children, not just for long lists of reasons, but because you’re simply Dad.  You are loved by a lot of people, who want the best for you.

I can’t wait to continue on this adventure of creating with you.  I love you, my Boss Hog.

Chapter 29 of 38

The Problem with MAFS

Remember when the biggest drama on Australian television was to do with Alf trapped in a fire at Summer Bay?  Or if Karl and Susan’s marriage was really over this time in Ramsay Street? Or if the return contestant on Wheel of Fortune was going to win the car?  Now we know what the word drama really means as we are thrust into the real lives of people, as we watch them fall in love, be torn between potential suitors or simply (or not so simply) get married at first sight.  Television really has come a long way since the turn of the Millennium. Or has it? Are we just watching unscripted (or poorly scripted) versions of shows that are preying on the minds of our impressionable youth, transforming the views of the modern relationship and giving unfair expectations?

To be sure, we have been given unrealistic expectations since Jane Austen’s books were adapted into BBC movies.  Do most of our poor girls end up having potential suitors that are millionaires that are interested in them solely for their intelligence?  So yes, our unreality is stemmed from an early point in television’s history and in fact in the history of story writing. But it could be argued that reality television is shifting us into a seeming reality.  I mean isn’t that why it’s named reality TV anyway? So our youth (and let’s face it, adults too) are given the impression that what we see on TV is the way things end up in the real world.

The pace at which relationships develop and end are interesting on reality television.  We have ideas from the shows about what it means to “have the feels”, “be falling in love”, “be in love”, “have good banter”, “have butterflies” or “be friend-zoned”.  These evening television shows tutor the viewer in how to face relationships and what modern day romance should look like. And I think that is a dangerous thing. But let’s be honest, it is pretty entertaining.

“I love love”, is what one of the Bachelor contestants explained on the red carpet during her first impression introduction to her man dressed slick in a tux with great hair and make-up.  And really we love watching people that love love. Well I do for one. It is the drama that makes you squirm in your seat and hang on until the next episode. It’s the times where you share in the blossoming romances and the underdog or wallflower transforming into the one that you want to get out of the limo last.  It’s the times where you really love the expression on the face of the groom, as he impatiently waits at the end of the aisle, to catch his first glimpse of the one that he will be with “for the rest of his life”. And we are rocked when there are cheating scandals, crying out at the television of the injustice at the husband who has been cheated on.  So I’ll be the first to admit, these shows have got me hook, line and sinker.

But I think there in lies the problem with MAFS and The Bachelor and all the other formats.  The problem is we love watching people love love. But this is not true love. While that may seem obvious in a theoretical sense, it can surreptitiously change how we define love and relate to others.  It’s the way that either in the schoolyard or office or Australian home we have changed minds on what is the way that we should operate. I acknowledge that Home and Away and Neighbours also had their cheating scandals.  However we were a few steps removed from Summer Bay and Ramsay Street. Now we are delved into the lives of people, sometimes ones who we know through only a couple of degrees of separation. And if not we feel like we can relate to them on the level that they are Australians living in real suburbs we know and have been, not fictitious named streets.   And these small, but sure elements allow us to think that we are not too dissimilar to these reality stars, which then permits us also to lust, cheating, inconsideration and lack of commitment.

We frame our lives on what we see around us.   And when the things we see around us appear to be real, then that is what we copy.  This is not necessarily intentional, but it does happen. When our news feeds elevate these reality stars into the positions of royalty rather than actors, we start thinking that reality television is reality.  Although these stars have the luxury of gloss, make-up and editing. We do not. We cannot edit out our lives into a thirty minute episode. We live with the implications of our actions for a lot longer than these marriages are lasting.

I guess what I’m saying is the tantalising episodes I watch are transforming the way we interpret modern day relating.   And while we watch for entertainment, our relationships are likely the poorer for it. I’m choosing to turn it off. I could think critically and separate myself from the unreality of the reality television.  But the messages I’m receiving are not creating a healthiness for my mind. And at the end of the day, I want to spend my evening with my husband and not someone else’s.

Chapter 30 of 38

The expectation of our vocation

“A type of work that you feel you are suited to doing and to which you should give all your time and energy, or the feeling that a type of work suits you in this way”

Cambridge Dictionary definition of vocation.

This is a wonderful definition in the sense that it visualises an expectant beauty.  It seems we don’t need to term things as work or tasks or worse, the daily grind. Instead we have found our vocation!

Yet, what happens when we find our vocation? Well, we can still feel uneasy.  One problem lies I believe with part of the definition of vocation being what “you feel you are suited to doing…”.  As kids we’re asked what we want to be when we grow up and sometimes this answer is met with laughter, further questioning or a reality slap. As we grow into adulthood, the same idolisation can occur.  Some of us still have our childhood notions of what we would like to be doing with our days and then the people around us snap us back into the status quo of normality and “shoulds”. So maybe the problem that is inherent in the definition of vocation is not that we “feel”, but rather that we are steered away from considering this as an option any further.

Another problem with vocation could be that it is tied with work.  And work can be tied to money. The definition speaks of giving all your time or energy to this work.  I have always found however, that at some moments, when money is involved it clouds the whole experience. Sure, we are excited by money coming in for our labour.  However then we start having feelings of entitlement. “I’m only going to work the 7.5 hours allocated per day because I don’t get paid overtime. I’m not going to work a second longer.” We start thinking of the value of our work in terms of the money it generates.  Something that we might have actually loved doing for free, is soured when a monetary figure is attached to it.

The word vocation originated from Christian circles.  Some of us use the word to inspire us that work is more than work.  I thought at one point my vocation was as a social worker.  That stressed me out too much. At another point I thought my vocation revolved around the church, but this did not pay the bills.  Now I see my vocation as a mother. But this seems painfully arduous and tiresome.

Maybe at the end of the day work is work.  We try to pretty up the concept by intertwining words like vocation into it.  But this stuff we do isn’t easy. We are met by challenges, boredom, amotivation and stress.

I don’t believe anyone has the luxury of loving their daily activities/job/vocation all of the time.  Sooner or later we become disgruntled, disillusioned or sometimes even dishonest. We try to escape our work with hobbies, because these alleviate the stress and move our attention away from something we are aiming to forget (at least momentarily).  And even those who fulfill their childhood dreams start to see what their parents were warning them about.

Maybe that is part of the answer.  Recognising that we have an expectation for our vocation that can never be fully met.  Maybe rather than fleeing to a different job or a whole new industry, we can sit and have a more realistic view of our vocation.  At times we will want a break. At times we may even want to give up completely.

Putting this into practice for myself in my current mothering role, I need to see that the grass is potentially not greener on either side.  I need to stop looking in other paddocks and focus on my own. I need to admit to myself that I’m not perfect at this job and I never will be. I don’t need to force anything, such as forcing a love of a role that is hard.  Instead I can expect that it will be hard.

Simultaneously I can remember that difficulties are not always bad.  I toil in my job as a mother and consider it hard work. But this work is developing a character, in me and my daughter.  This work on a larger scale is about making progress. It is hard. I might not see the progress or change readily. But there is work to be done.

Rather than expecting money, fame or success.  I should expect feeling spent, being in the background and feeling like I’m not always getting it right.  It’s not about being cynical or pessimistic. It’s about having a realistic expectation of our vocation and what it brings.  When “mumming it” brings me a repeated tiredness I will remember that’s consistent with vocation. And while this is not a quick fix or the answer I want to hear, this truth somehow cements the reality of my situation.  If I want to sustain myself in this role, I will stop being surprised by the difficulty and the challenges. I will stop thinking I won’t get tired or will have a limitless supply of passion. Hard work will not signify that I should give up.

Then at the end of the day (and the start of the day) I can meet my vocation with an understanding and appreciation for what it is.  Holding on to this reality will help teach contentment and joy for what’s to be done.

Chapter 31 of 38

Getting things done

Do you ever get to a place where around 3pm you wish that the day was already over?  I do this thing where I start my day full of promise, but I end up petering out and not getting the things done that I wish to.  And so, 3pm rolls around and I wish the day was over. That way I could start a new day, one full of hope and promise. Sometimes I even go to sleep early, believing that this will help me wake up early the next day.  Yet, when my body does naturally wake up earlier than usual, my brain fires back at me that I should really keep to my routine morning wake-up time.

Oh the games we play in our heads.  I kid myself that I will try better tomorrow because it seems too hard to activate and make a massive turn around half way through.  There is something we (or at least I) like about starting from a clean slate. This is exemplified by our New Year’s resolutions where we try that little bit harder (for a time anyway).  We love a clean slate. But what do we do with it? We tend to mess it up, repeating the same cycles!

Perhaps one solution would be to just start now and start with a smaller increment than a full day.  We sometimes can nail a day seemingly perfectly, but if you’re anything like me, they are few and far between.  So if we know that most of the time we can’t perfect the day, then how about perfecting the next 30 minutes (or whatever is going to be realistic to you)?

I’m keeping this article short.  Time for change and that starts now…well, at least for the next 30 minutes!

Chapter 32 of 38

I miss my mum

I wish I could switch my phone off. And I mean off. Not on silent or vibrate. Power off. I even asked my boss for special permission to hang my phone on a lanyard around my neck during work times and to take calls when they came in. Phone at the ready I was always waiting for bad news. Specifically for a call from my mother telling me she needed help, or potentially the dreaded call from the staff at the nursing home where Mum resided for the final years of her life. She was 58 where she died, hardly nursing home age.

I miss my mum dreadfully. It has been just over two years since she passed. I tell countless people that it is not the anniversaries that are hard. It’s the everyday, those moments that can catch you unawares. That’s the hard part. One moment you’re eating a packet of Smith’s Crinkle Cut Salt and Vinegar Potato Chips and the next, you’re in bed for two days without showering. It’s the times where you look down at your own daughter, wondering what the hell you are supposed to do without having your own mother to ask questions. It’s that time when I was in a hospital bed and the consulting doctor flippantly says, “It’s okay, you should talk to your mother about your worries”. It’s when you’re watching something on TV and you’re confronted with the classic ‘Hollywood Trope’ where mourners stand by their loved ones graveside with black umbrellas in the rain. And yet I loved my mother’s funeral. It was one of the last times where life was all about her and we got to openly talk about her and how damn great she was, without friend’s awkwardly biting their tongues and changing the subject as soon as there is a break in mourning or them spitting out some pithy quote that may have come from the Bible or some other book of inspiration.

What I most miss about my mum was her wisdom. Gee, I need some of that right now and every day. I had a bitter sweet relationship with her matter of fact statements. She would tell it like it was. Not stuff that didn’t matter. But stuff that did. Her remarks stung, but the sting would be taken away by the potential growth that it brought. And because of her no bullshit attitude, it also meant that when she gave you a compliment, it was not a wishy washy, fluffy nicety. When she said it, she genuinely must have meant it. When I applied for jobs over $100,000 when I was inexperienced and in my 20s, she would reply, “You know what, you’ll probably get it”. Having Mum on your side meant the world, because most of the time she was right on the money.

My mum was the biggest fan of my husband. Mum trusted my husband’s love for me before I trusted it myself. She was his biggest advocate. Sure, she wanted him to get a job and go to church. She would tell him that upfront. But she would also recommend to me strongly to stay with him when I wavered. To realise the gold that I had.  And to stop being so stupid and immature. She was right. It took me almost six years to learn that myself (that’s a story in itself).

I’m trying to pick the best bits about my mum and communicate that to you. But it’s kinda like you had to be there. You had to be with her. You had to see her to believe her. And now she’s gone. And photos of her and her handwritten old cards and her clothes are just not enough. There’s no moral to the story. Every story ends. Good ones. Bad ones. Dreams. Nightmares. They all end. And we wake up. It’s time to wake up.

Chapter 33 of 38

My Struggle to Be Authentic

“Oh, f@&k, w@nk, bugger sh%tting, arsehead and hole!” is the line from the movie ‘Love Actually’. The sleazy guy played by Bill Nighy vomits it out unconsciously while trying not to swear. In one sense, that’s the kind of person I’d aspire to be. I wish words just flew straight out my mouth from my cranium. I do it intuitively – filter myself that is. It’s tiring being on the ball all the time, having to watch what comes out of my mouth. For one crowd I’d be lucky to say the word “crap”, then for others, I’d be speaking just like that sleazy character in that movie.

It’s not just about the use of crass and unsavoury words that makes me feel that I’m not being genuine or that I’m not living my authentic life. I say things that I don’t believe and believe things I don’t say.

Most people can agree that a white lie comes in handy when searching for a compliment about someone’s weight or commenting on the face of a friend’s newborn baby. But what if instead, we practised radical honesty? I mean yes, there is offense in honesty, but at least a spade would be a spade.

In a world of radical honesty, people would probably trust each other a lot more as they would know that if you said it, you meant it and you weren’t giving some sugar-coated version of the truth. Some cultures seem to be more abrupt and unfiltered than others. In some corners of multicultural Australia, they make allowances for such apparent rudeness. What if we did tell that person that we weren’t sure if we liked their new haircut. Or better yet, that we don’t like their new haircut and that they should definitely not repeat the same instructions to their hairdresser next time.

I’m tired of giving excuses in order to keep people on side and my image intact.  I have excuses ready on hand for most situations. This could be anything from blaming my husband to blaming tiredness, to blaming my financial situation, and so on. When really the true answer is, “No, I don’t want to do that.” I need to learn to speak my mind and tell it like it is.

But it goes beyond just speaking your mind. I mean if we want rich and fulfilling relationships, we need to admit to one another that none of us is perfect, and that includes ourselves.  Once we admit we aren’t perfect, then we can throw off our masks by acknowledging it in the way we present and represent ourselves to each other.

I don’t really want to be the sleazy character off that rom-com.  I don’t have to go to the extreme of saying everything that pops into my head.  Or spare no hurt in the search for truth. If I’m going to spare anything, I’ll spare some thought for others, while being myself.

If we want to get to the core of it, it’s about being authentic to yourself and that means being honest with yourself. I don’t even know who I am a lot of the time, as I am too busy people-pleasing to have a real hard look at myself and trust in what I know to be true, or what I want or need. If I regarded my own opinion as gospel, just as much as I regard the Gospel as gospel, then maybe I’d start getting somewhere. I want to be me, whoever that is, not a version of me that I find acceptable to whatever group or individual I’m around at the time. Sure, there will be mistakes and lessons along the way, but I think there is a beauty to that too.

I’m ready to be the real me.  I’m ready to see who I am. Because I’m sick of being someone else.  For me, my words are the starting point for a more authentic life.

Chapter 34 of 38

Saying Goodbye to Ruff: An example of submission in practice

Ricky stuffed Ruff into the large lavender scented bin liner.  Once the bag was full he tied a knot at the top.  I checked with him that this bag was destined for the car boot.  It was.  Inside I felt a knot in my stomach.  I added the bag to the rest of the collection of toys destined for donation to the op-shop.

Ruff was one of my favourite stuffed toys when I was a child.  I fondly remember lying next to him, my pale furred puppy, as I tried to drift off to sleep each night.  I even kept a leather tag around his neck, that ordinarily any other child might rip off upon receipt.  But instead I wanted to keep him looking new.  My intention was to keep him forever.

I am no longer a child, but I have a child of my own.  Graciously my parents allowed me to store my treasured childhood possessions.  This granted me the ability to pass down Ruff and other beloved toys to my daughter.  Grace did not take to Ruff especially, much to my dismay.  I wouldn’t have minded Ruff taking up space in her bed for my own purposes of nostalgia.

When the time came for our biannual toy clear-out (chuck/keep/donate), I faltered when Ricky, my husband turned his attention to Ruff.  It hadn’t ever occurred to me that Ruff wouldn’t hold pride of place in our home or at least be laid somewhere in a box in our shed.  But Ricky was on a path of simplicity and Ruff was in the way.

Whether you can empathise with my love of childhood belongings being retained or whether you follow minimalist principles, this is a small example of choosing submission in marriage.

Submission in marriage, whereby the wife submits to her husband, often gets a bad wrap.  It can denote ideas of abuse, neglect or power imbalance.  Yet the Bible suggests a completely different idea of submission in marriage.  God’s word on the issue is that the husband ought to love his wife to the extent of laying down his life for her.  The wife ought to submit and respect her husband.

It can take a lot of time to grapple with these ideas.  But even for those who choose to agree with Biblical submission in marriage, there are often questions that arise of how the idea is demonstrated in practice.

Saying goodbye to Ruff may not appear a big deal.  And maybe in actuality it is not a big deal either.  But perhaps that is one point to deciphering how the principles of Biblical submission in marriage works in practice.  Sure, sometimes there can be examples where submission to her husband can be heartbreakingly hard and painful for reasons universally agreed to be obvious.  However I posit that more regularly in marriage, there is a tendency for a mountain to be made of a molehill.  Perhaps if those molehills were analysed with less intensity and more face value, then the practice of submission would be easier.  Or perhaps not.

Fundamentally the problem that wives may have with submission is the idea of injustice and lack of fairness.  Maybe it’s not about Ruff.  Maybe it’s about me valuing something that my husband doesn’t or doesn’t appear to see.  And maybe that stings more because that may indicate a false conclusion that he doesn’t actually value me.  And perhaps that hurts all the more because I struggle with valuing myself.  So what seems superficial about stuffing a stuffed toy into a charity bin, can actually have depth about things a lot harder to consider.

There are countless other opportunities for a wife to submit to her husband, which involve other deep concepts.  Things that happen in the daily run of the mill that affect finances, esteem, hope for the future and planning (to name a few).

Maybe if you were faced with the example of saying goodbye to Ruff and choosing submission, there might have been a completely different outcome.  You might have decided with your husband to submit and save Ruff.  This article is not about a three step plan for how to submit.  It doesn’t even outline all of what happened in detail around choosing to submit to my husband in this instance.  But my rationale for writing what I have is to show a beauty to submission.  To show an example in practice of submission in marriage, even in the daily mundane things of life.

I believe that in the end submission has its chance to flourish and shine brightly when it’s the regular and dull moments that are involved.   Definitely in the big choices and big consequences we can see submission at work.  However it is in the daily, sometimes hourly choice to submit in marriage, that God is glorified.  Let us not forget that marital submission is a micro picture of the love between Jesus and his bride, the church.  When we see a good marriage, we can catch a glimpse of our God.

Chapter 35 of 38

Giving our Priorities Perspective

Get an eternal perspective and surrender

When I was a counsellor, one important step for clients was to gain a greater perspective.  One strategy for doing this was to think about the concern they were going through in the lens of time.  How important will this be in 6 hours?  How important will it be in 6 days? 6 months? 6 years? 60 years?  The point was that those things that seem significant at the time, may have less sting and weight to them with time.  This is not always the case.  But it certainly has been helpful for some clients who are ruminating over things they recognise they ought not to.

An Eternal Perspective

It makes me think about our life with Jesus.  Something that recalibrates me is thinking about an eternal perspective.  It really helps me to weigh up my current worries and priorities.  How important will this thing be in 600 years?  And beyond?  This is obviously not a one size fits all approach as a strategy.  But I think you know the things that you are holding on to that you may need to loosen your grip on.  I know that I need to physically hold out my hands in front of me in a surrendering posture at times, to get my frantic mind to catch up to the visual.

Eternal Life Has Already Started

What I really love is that we don’t have to wait.  Eternal life has already started, by sheer definition of eternal life.  We are at the beginning of our eternal life.  Sure, it’s not the perfection that our bodies currently ache for.  But it’s the start of knowing God and being in relationship with him through Jesus.  We can begin to change.  We can put off our old ways and start anew.

I can’t comprehend eternity.  But I certainly want to live for the kingdom.  We might not be in the eternal place yet, but I believe we have the deposit, the Holy Spirit, alive in us.  And even now, Jesus rules.  He has dominion and power.  I’m asking God for the new heaven and new earth to come soon, for Jesus to return.  But while I wait, I want to look forward.

Chapter 36 of 38

The Holy Spirit: Who he is and what he does

Bible Verses on the Holy Spirit

I don’t know much about the Holy Spirit.  I feel like I feel the Holy Spirit even less, if that is even how we experience him.  I want to document some of the Bible passages that talk about the Holy Spirit, so that he can be more readily in my mind.

1 Corinthians 6:19

19 Do you not know that your bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own;

John 14:26

26 But the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you all things and will remind you of everything I have said to you.

Romans 8:26

26 In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans.

Galatians 5:22-23

22 But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.

The Holy Spirit is crucial for us now

Wow! After looking at these verses, it is evident to me that the Holy Spirit is vital to our walk with God.  He is a helper to us in many ways seen in these few verses.  I am also convicted by the first passage that we are not our own.

What a beautiful person of the Trinity!  I don’t often expect much from the Holy Spirit.  But now having looked a little at the Holy Spirit’s role, I want this to change.  I want to feel further equipped in this life by having the Spirit within me advocating, interceding, teaching, reminding and allowing me to produce fruitfulness to God.  I want this to shape my thoughts, words and actions.

Chapter 37 of 38

God is good, loving, wise and sovereign.

Four important aspects of God

When my husband and I were in a period of separation, I was seeking God for answers and help.  I came across a video of a sermon by Jerry Bridges.  Jerry wrote several books in his time, including The Pursuit of Holiness; and Respectable Sins.  In the sermon I watched online, Bridges suggested that by understanding four important aspects of God, you will have a firm foundation.  God is good.  God is loving.  God is wise.  God is sovereign.  He went on to say that if one of those four characteristics were not to be true (or not believed to be true), it would undo God (or our perception of him).  However, because all four things are true, by knowing this, it can stabilise your faith and understanding of God, yourself and the world.

My mind constantly comes back to that video sermon I watched in that season of my life.  It was important then, and since that time, running through those four attributes has helped me know that in any circumstance I can trust God.  One of the attributes that I have reflected on lately is God’s goodness.

God is Good

I often hear Christians say “God is good”.  Usually I hear this when there is one person sharing some positive news in their life and another person echoes with the phrase.  But I want to suggest that we can still use this phrase, “God is good”, when we are going through hardship and pain.  Of course I don’t mean saying it in a trite or unsympathetic way.  But in genuine acknowledgement, that in all things and through all things we can trust in God’s goodness.  His goodness might look different to what I define as good.  But I trust that God is also sovereign and loving and wise.  With this combination, I know that whatever I face, he will work good through it.

It’s more than just clinging to a phrase like, “It wasn’t meant to be” or “It all happens for a reason”.  I do see truth in these statements.  However they are only half statements.  Once I put God in the picture and once I am confident in who God is, I can be more confident in the circumstances I find myself in.  I can stand firm, knowing that I don’t have to be shaken by this or that, no matter how hard, but I can know God.  I do know God.  My God who is good, loving, wise and sovereign is bigger than the hardship.  I am thankful in his loving kindness, that even when in pain and hurt, I can say, he is good.

Chapter 38 of 38

Bible Reading: The difficulty and the blessing

The Discipline of Regular Bible Reading

I love writing.  I love Jesus.  The aim of this blog is to provide a space for real talk about Jesus.  I want to be able to authentically put down words from my present and my past that point to Jesus.  I envision that some of the writing will make myself look foolish.  But I never want to make Jesus, God or his word; the Bible look foolish.  I know that God is big enough to still rule through my blunders anyway.

I’ve recently gotten into a rhythm of Bible reading.  It’s only taken me 33 years.  In my life, I have struggled to read the Bible regularly.  I knew its power and its beauty.  But part of me also saw a boring, ambiguous text, mixed with hard to read parts and things I’ve already read before.

How I became disciplined in reading the Bible

Fortunately, my desire to escape the morning activity of the home, led me to be able to carve out a time to spend with God.  After waking early every morning with my daughter, an hour in leaves me wanting out.  So going for a 6.30am morning walk, I have my phone at the ready to listen to Christian music and God’s word.  I really enjoy this time of day.  I don’t wear earphones, as this adds another thing that I have to do.  I just play the audio Bible and music on speaker, altering the volume depending on what or who I come across.  It has set me on a path of appreciating the Bible and doing so daily.  It has been such a blessing.  A couple of months in, and I still walk in the morning with Christian music.  But I have been reading the Bible at home with an accompanying study book.  Currently I’m reading Judges, so the study book helps a lot.

The Discipline of Bible Reading

I don’t exactly know why Bible reading seems so complicated or boring or unsatisfying.  But I know from speaking with women throughout my life that Bible reading generally doesn’t come easily.  It’s a discipline.  I started reading a book called Everyday Faithfulness.  The premise of the book was that you need to come to God every day and be disciplined, knowing that you can’t expect a strong relationship with God without it.  Well, that’s what I think the premise is anyway, as I was so convicted by the opening chapters that I put that book down and picked up my Bible.

I believe we shouldn’t read the Bible out of guilt.  I don’t think God would want that of us.  But there seems to be a lot of feelings associated with not reading the Bible regularly.  Conversely, there are a lot of feelings associated with soaking up God’s words to us.

I don’t know what the answer is for other people on how to try to establish a rhythm of Bible reading.  But one thing I’d suggest is praying for it!  I have off and on prayed that I might know God better and delight in his word.  I feel that at this season of life, that prayer has been answered.  Thank God for that.

Not Waiting for all to be Perfect

Another book I started reading is Present over Perfect.  In some ways you only need to read the title to gain some wisdom.  I do think that being present with God, rather than being perfect with him, is another way for regularly connecting with him.  We are not going to be perfect with him anyway.  But somehow I strive for what I have as an expectation in my head as the perfect Bible study and until I get to that point I just give up.  But what if I just start reading and see where God takes me?  I don’t need to wait for motivation, inspiration or a good journal.  I can start now, regularly coming to God in anticipation.  It has been such a joy to go for walks in the morning.  But better still, I feel it’s as if God is walking with me.  The regularity of my walking with him means that there are ripple effects into my life beyond that 40 minute morning stroll in the cool of the morning.

Now I challenge you.  Pick up your Bible, in whatever translation or form.  Do it for yourself.  See where God takes you.  Be ready to meet him.