Just thought I'd let you know I have established a new blog which contains my most recent musings and writings. The address is:
http://karencollum.wordpress.com
Thanks for reading!
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Like a Child
Stop being so childish. Grow up. Act your age…reprimands that as an adult I have both given and received. It is true – there is a time to grow up and learn to deal with things in an adult fashion. In 1 Corinthians 13:11 Paul makes this observation about himself: “When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me.” (NIV) Like Paul, I want to put my childish ways behind me. I have to remind myself that there is no longer a place for foot stomping, temper tantrums or a world view that revolves around ‘me, me me’...as tempting as they may sound.
But there is a place for child-likeness. There is a place for a child’s heart. Jesus says so. In a world that didn’t value the young, Jesus placed great worth upon these little ones. We are familiar with the image of him blessing the children, but there’s more to it than that. Look closely at the words Jesus spoke:
“Some people brought their little children to Jesus so he could touch them, but his followers told them to stop. When Jesus saw this, he was upset and said to them, "Let the little children come to me. Don't stop them, because the kingdom of God belongs to people who are like these children. I tell you the truth, you must accept the kingdom of God as if you were a little child, or you will never enter it." Then Jesus took the children in his arms, put his hands on them, and blessed them. (Mark 10:13-16; NCV, emphasis mine)
With a toddler of my own, I’m beginning to get a sense of what he was talking about. There is no doubt in my mind that God has a special place in his heart for children. Otherwise, why would that beautiful, whimsical and sheer delightful world of the child have been part of his plan? Surely we could have been born knowing what we needed to know, self-reliant and independent from the get go. There is something important about the process of growing up, something of which we are never supposed to forget. As I watch the physical, emotional, mental and spiritual development of my son, I can’t help but learn a lot about myself, my faith and my God in the process.
Two-year-old Possum loves the Sabbath School lesson. He had heard the same story every night for a month but was still excited by it, his little mind comprehending the basics of the account. Peter and John came across a lame man, and in the name of Jesus were able to heal him. Every night Possum questioned why the man couldn’t walk and every night I explained that his legs were ‘broken’ but that through the power of Jesus he was healed and could walk again. There were hoorays and claps from my little one when the man stood up upon his healing. By the end of the month he knew the story so well he could complete the sentences and help tell the narrative.
A few weeks later we were out at the clothesline hanging out the never-ending mountain of washing that our household seems to generate. There was a large beetle under the clothesline that was distinctly…well…dead. All six feet were in the air and the beetle lay motionless on its back. Possum, curious, went to investigate.
“Mummy, why beetle not moving?” he asked me, earnest eyes looking for the explanation that would satisfy his thirst for knowledge.
“Because the beetle is dead, darling,” I replied. He had a basic knowledge of death having just been to the funeral of a much-loved church member.
“Like Rosie died?” he asked, just checking his understanding.
“That’s right, just like Rosie,” I responded, pegging another item on the line. Little Possum pondered for a moment and crouched down on his haunches over the beetle, like only a toddler can. With the confident voice of authority he spoke.
“In the name of Jesus, stand up and walk.” I stifled my giggles of delight at his faith and knelt over the beetle with him, explaining that although Jesus could heal the beetle, we would probably have to wait until he came back again and took us all back to live with him for that to happen. But the magnitude of Possum's statement struck me. He had greater faith than I. And upon reflection, I may not have been surprised to see the beetle roll over and start walking. What I had processed and rationalised through my adult mind as an impossibility, Possum viewed as an opportunity for God to heal. The story is cute, but more importantly it is a profound example of what it means to have faith like a child.
I have also learned the power of forgiveness from Possum. We had a particularly trying Tuesday where he was being what can only be described as two (anyone with a toddler will understand). He had been reprimanded severely for running away from me at playgroup.
Later that night at bedtime prayers I took the opportunity to have our first real discussion about sin and how we can ask Jesus to forgive us. A simplistic explanation, yes, but it was enough for a two-year-old to grasp. When I asked Possum what he had done that was wrong he said very sincerely, “My runned ‘way from Mummy.” I told him how he could pray and ask Jesus to forgive him and everything would be OK again. As he bowed his head, tears filled my eyes as the little voice next to me said, “Dear Jesus, please ‘give me for running ‘way from Mummy. Amen.” Opening my eyes I looked upon his face to see it glowing. I can honestly say he felt the burden of sin lifted from his tiny shoulders. He felt and knew the power of forgiveness. I don’t know if I can ever recall experiencing that myself in such a tangible way, but through my little boy I was privileged to bear witness to another one of heaven’s miracles.
In The Adventist Home, Ellen G White talks about how powerful the presence of God can be in our little ones’ lives. Commenting on Jesus words in Mark 10, she writes:
He knew that these children would listen to His counsel and accept Him as their Redeemer, while those who were worldly-wise and hardhearted would be less likely to follow Him and find a place in the kingdom of God. These little ones, by coming to Christ and receiving His advice and benediction, had His image and His gracious words stamped upon their plastic minds, never to be effaced. We should learn a lesson from this act of Christ, that the hearts of the young are most susceptible to the teachings of Christianity, easy to influence toward piety and virtue, and strong to retain the impressions received. (page 275)
I can only agree wholeheartedly. Without the cynicism, head knowledge and rational thought that accompanies growing up, I believe our littlest disciples truly experience God in a way that we can only imagine. Possum has not yet been hardened by the world, he does not have the understanding to question on a logical or scientific or rational basis. He purely believes in a God who loves him and experiences first hand the expression of that love. Sure, he’s got a lot to learn. (Just the other day he was asked who made the stars – his answer? Nanny Thel. Now as much as that pleased Nanny Thel, we have a long way to go in the spiritual education of our beautiful son!) However the fact remains that God is touching his heart now. God doesn’t wait until our children reach 5 or 10 or 15 – he speaks to them and through them from the moment they are born – and we as parents and caregivers can facilitate that process and partner with God in shaping and moulding his most wonderful works of art.
As a parent I am delighted by Possum's mental development and love to hear his growing vocabulary. I am thrilled at his physical development and get a kick out of watching him ride a bike without training wheels. I am excited by his emotional development and am happy when he shows concern for a crying friend. But my greatest joy comes from watching him develop a relationship with God. The gentle sounds of him singing ‘Jesus Loves Me’ to himself before going to sleep; when he points out the ‘bootiful’ sunset that Jesus has made; when he speaks words of life to a dead beetle – these are the moments I treasure most. Become like a child? I’m trying, Lord. For the kingdom of God belongs to people such as this.
But there is a place for child-likeness. There is a place for a child’s heart. Jesus says so. In a world that didn’t value the young, Jesus placed great worth upon these little ones. We are familiar with the image of him blessing the children, but there’s more to it than that. Look closely at the words Jesus spoke:
“Some people brought their little children to Jesus so he could touch them, but his followers told them to stop. When Jesus saw this, he was upset and said to them, "Let the little children come to me. Don't stop them, because the kingdom of God belongs to people who are like these children. I tell you the truth, you must accept the kingdom of God as if you were a little child, or you will never enter it." Then Jesus took the children in his arms, put his hands on them, and blessed them. (Mark 10:13-16; NCV, emphasis mine)
With a toddler of my own, I’m beginning to get a sense of what he was talking about. There is no doubt in my mind that God has a special place in his heart for children. Otherwise, why would that beautiful, whimsical and sheer delightful world of the child have been part of his plan? Surely we could have been born knowing what we needed to know, self-reliant and independent from the get go. There is something important about the process of growing up, something of which we are never supposed to forget. As I watch the physical, emotional, mental and spiritual development of my son, I can’t help but learn a lot about myself, my faith and my God in the process.
Two-year-old Possum loves the Sabbath School lesson. He had heard the same story every night for a month but was still excited by it, his little mind comprehending the basics of the account. Peter and John came across a lame man, and in the name of Jesus were able to heal him. Every night Possum questioned why the man couldn’t walk and every night I explained that his legs were ‘broken’ but that through the power of Jesus he was healed and could walk again. There were hoorays and claps from my little one when the man stood up upon his healing. By the end of the month he knew the story so well he could complete the sentences and help tell the narrative.
A few weeks later we were out at the clothesline hanging out the never-ending mountain of washing that our household seems to generate. There was a large beetle under the clothesline that was distinctly…well…dead. All six feet were in the air and the beetle lay motionless on its back. Possum, curious, went to investigate.
“Mummy, why beetle not moving?” he asked me, earnest eyes looking for the explanation that would satisfy his thirst for knowledge.
“Because the beetle is dead, darling,” I replied. He had a basic knowledge of death having just been to the funeral of a much-loved church member.
“Like Rosie died?” he asked, just checking his understanding.
“That’s right, just like Rosie,” I responded, pegging another item on the line. Little Possum pondered for a moment and crouched down on his haunches over the beetle, like only a toddler can. With the confident voice of authority he spoke.
“In the name of Jesus, stand up and walk.” I stifled my giggles of delight at his faith and knelt over the beetle with him, explaining that although Jesus could heal the beetle, we would probably have to wait until he came back again and took us all back to live with him for that to happen. But the magnitude of Possum's statement struck me. He had greater faith than I. And upon reflection, I may not have been surprised to see the beetle roll over and start walking. What I had processed and rationalised through my adult mind as an impossibility, Possum viewed as an opportunity for God to heal. The story is cute, but more importantly it is a profound example of what it means to have faith like a child.
I have also learned the power of forgiveness from Possum. We had a particularly trying Tuesday where he was being what can only be described as two (anyone with a toddler will understand). He had been reprimanded severely for running away from me at playgroup.
Later that night at bedtime prayers I took the opportunity to have our first real discussion about sin and how we can ask Jesus to forgive us. A simplistic explanation, yes, but it was enough for a two-year-old to grasp. When I asked Possum what he had done that was wrong he said very sincerely, “My runned ‘way from Mummy.” I told him how he could pray and ask Jesus to forgive him and everything would be OK again. As he bowed his head, tears filled my eyes as the little voice next to me said, “Dear Jesus, please ‘give me for running ‘way from Mummy. Amen.” Opening my eyes I looked upon his face to see it glowing. I can honestly say he felt the burden of sin lifted from his tiny shoulders. He felt and knew the power of forgiveness. I don’t know if I can ever recall experiencing that myself in such a tangible way, but through my little boy I was privileged to bear witness to another one of heaven’s miracles.
In The Adventist Home, Ellen G White talks about how powerful the presence of God can be in our little ones’ lives. Commenting on Jesus words in Mark 10, she writes:
He knew that these children would listen to His counsel and accept Him as their Redeemer, while those who were worldly-wise and hardhearted would be less likely to follow Him and find a place in the kingdom of God. These little ones, by coming to Christ and receiving His advice and benediction, had His image and His gracious words stamped upon their plastic minds, never to be effaced. We should learn a lesson from this act of Christ, that the hearts of the young are most susceptible to the teachings of Christianity, easy to influence toward piety and virtue, and strong to retain the impressions received. (page 275)
I can only agree wholeheartedly. Without the cynicism, head knowledge and rational thought that accompanies growing up, I believe our littlest disciples truly experience God in a way that we can only imagine. Possum has not yet been hardened by the world, he does not have the understanding to question on a logical or scientific or rational basis. He purely believes in a God who loves him and experiences first hand the expression of that love. Sure, he’s got a lot to learn. (Just the other day he was asked who made the stars – his answer? Nanny Thel. Now as much as that pleased Nanny Thel, we have a long way to go in the spiritual education of our beautiful son!) However the fact remains that God is touching his heart now. God doesn’t wait until our children reach 5 or 10 or 15 – he speaks to them and through them from the moment they are born – and we as parents and caregivers can facilitate that process and partner with God in shaping and moulding his most wonderful works of art.
As a parent I am delighted by Possum's mental development and love to hear his growing vocabulary. I am thrilled at his physical development and get a kick out of watching him ride a bike without training wheels. I am excited by his emotional development and am happy when he shows concern for a crying friend. But my greatest joy comes from watching him develop a relationship with God. The gentle sounds of him singing ‘Jesus Loves Me’ to himself before going to sleep; when he points out the ‘bootiful’ sunset that Jesus has made; when he speaks words of life to a dead beetle – these are the moments I treasure most. Become like a child? I’m trying, Lord. For the kingdom of God belongs to people such as this.
The Waiting Game
According to the ticker on my computer, I have exactly 23 days to go before I reach full term with this pregnancy. In reality, it's probably going to be half that. So I've reached that phase where I'm just, well, waiting!
The twins are growing beautifully and last Wednesday were approximately 5lb 12oz according to the ultrasound. By now they have probably hit the 6lb mark. Not bad for two! But the downside is they are running out of room...and there's only so far I can stretch. Apparently I'm stretchier than I realised, although the reverse stretchiness that is required after the birth...well, let's just say I'm not counting my breath on ever wearing a bikini again!!! Which, by the way, I have no problems with whatsoever. Stretch marks and extra skin are the least of my concerns and pale into such insignificance compared with the joy I've had at carrying my boys.
But I do wonder when they are going to arrive. Today is Labour Day in Queensland - so I don't know if that's a good thing or not!! I could give a new definition to the term, perhaps its true meaning afterall. None of this marching on parliament for better working conditions - check out your local maternity hospital instead.
Sleep is a challenging prospect with two babies wriggling around. Hiccups from the boys now feel like small earthquakes in my nether regions, which is not exactly what I would call comfortable. And if either of them decide to stretch lengthways, I'm in real strife! There's just no more room and they run into ribs and pelvis...and a range of internal organs that I'm quite attached to and still need.
I'm not ready for them to come just yet though -although I'm sure I would cope if they did. I'm happy for them to stay put for another week. And I hope it doesn't sound like I'm complaining because I'm honestly not - just making a few observations about what being 36+ weeks pregnant with twins is like!
What a privilege it is, however, to actively partner the Creator in creating new life. I am so blessed.
The twins are growing beautifully and last Wednesday were approximately 5lb 12oz according to the ultrasound. By now they have probably hit the 6lb mark. Not bad for two! But the downside is they are running out of room...and there's only so far I can stretch. Apparently I'm stretchier than I realised, although the reverse stretchiness that is required after the birth...well, let's just say I'm not counting my breath on ever wearing a bikini again!!! Which, by the way, I have no problems with whatsoever. Stretch marks and extra skin are the least of my concerns and pale into such insignificance compared with the joy I've had at carrying my boys.
But I do wonder when they are going to arrive. Today is Labour Day in Queensland - so I don't know if that's a good thing or not!! I could give a new definition to the term, perhaps its true meaning afterall. None of this marching on parliament for better working conditions - check out your local maternity hospital instead.
Sleep is a challenging prospect with two babies wriggling around. Hiccups from the boys now feel like small earthquakes in my nether regions, which is not exactly what I would call comfortable. And if either of them decide to stretch lengthways, I'm in real strife! There's just no more room and they run into ribs and pelvis...and a range of internal organs that I'm quite attached to and still need.
I'm not ready for them to come just yet though -although I'm sure I would cope if they did. I'm happy for them to stay put for another week. And I hope it doesn't sound like I'm complaining because I'm honestly not - just making a few observations about what being 36+ weeks pregnant with twins is like!
What a privilege it is, however, to actively partner the Creator in creating new life. I am so blessed.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Chuckling and Church?
Imagine for a moment that we are playing a word game, a game of association. I say a word and you have to say the first thing that comes to mind. Ready?
Sharp. What did you think of? Knife, tongue, needle – or did you go straight to the opposite, blunt?
Ready for the next one…
Sport. Ball, bat, football, basketball…what was your association?
OK, here comes the clincher.
Church. What do you associate with the word ‘church’? Worship, prayer, singing, silence, boredom, God…there would be as many answers as there are people. But I’m wondering if you ever thought of the word ‘laughter’? Seriously.
I’ve been to many church services in my life and do you know the ones I remember the most? The ones where I had an emotional response. Now I’m not suggesting that church should be solely about how it makes me feel. That would be shallow and hollow at best, self-seeking and selfish at worst. But the fact remains that the moments of worship that stand out in my memory all have an emotional label attached. Those times when I cried, those times when I was angered or challenged – I remember them well. I also remember when I laughed.
But is it OK to laugh in church? Is it appropriate to have a quiet chuckle or a belly laugh during worship? Like a child who asks his parents if he can go to a party, the answer is the same – it depends. For the party, it depends on who is going, where it is, whether there will be adults in attendance. For laughter in church it depends on what sort of laughter, the motive behind it and the impact it has on the message being preached.
Just like word association can often result in opposites (say the word ‘black’ and most people will think ‘white’), let’s look at the times when it definitely wouldn’t be OK or appropriate to laugh in church.
Firstly, it’s not OK if it’s at someone else’s expense. Now I’m not talking about those times when someone makes a faux par that is just too funny not to giggle at. I’m talking about the hurtful, degrading kind of laughter that all of us are capable of, the teasing, taunting laughter that has the sole intention of bringing pain to the subject. That sort of laughter is definitely not OK in church – but then again, it’s not OK anywhere else either. We are supposed to build each other up, not tear each other down.
Another sort of laughter that would be inappropriate would be anything that is the result of an off-colour joke. We’ve all heard them, most of us have told them. Church is not the place. Perhaps that would be a good rule of thumb for us all – if we wouldn’t say it in the foyer to someone at church, then we shouldn’t say it at the footy ground or on the bus either.
So we’ve established laughter at someone else’s expense and laughter that is associated with anything that is not pure or good or lovely are not OK. But what about the rest of the spectrum of things that make us chuckle? What about those jokes that you could happily share with your grandmother? You know the ones – Which Bible character had no parents? Joshua, son of Nun. (OK, my joke repertoire is sadly lacking, but you get the point…) How do they stack up in church? Well, at this point the content is not in question – there’s nothing offensive or off-colour, nothing that pokes fun at someone else. But then we come to the impact it has. If you whispered this to your pew-mate at the peak of the pastor’s serious plea for people to make a commitment to Christ, well, let’s just say your timing is off. It wouldn’t be OK. It has the potential to detract from the worship experience of you, your mate and those around you. And all of us can attest to how hard it is to contain a fit of the giggles. The more they need to be contained, the funnier the situation seems until someone either makes an inappropriate snorting noise or spontaneously combusts. It’s not exactly conducive to worship. The joke may, however, be perfectly appropriate to share in the carpark or at the pot-luck lunch…just not during grace.
So that leaves us with a thorny question. Is any laughter OK in church? My answer would be yes. If we are created in the image of God, then there can be no argument that God has a sense of humour (just take a look at the platypus if you don’t believe me). So working on the premise that laughter and humour are not some evil force that need to be eradicated from our lives, how do we use this precious gift to bring glory to God?
Psalm 126 sheds some light on the subject. The Israelites had been held enslaved in Zion for many years. The Lord brought them out of captivity. Whilst they were in shock and disbelief at their good fortune, verse 2 tells us how they responded:
“Our mouths were filled with laughter, our tongues with songs of joy.” (NIV)
Were they worshipping? You bet! This was the sort of laughter that emerged from the well-spring of gratitude and joy from within their now free hearts. This was true worship.
I don’t know about you, but sometimes when I find something so overwhelming, so amazing, so unfathomable, my first response is to laugh. Not because I’m making fun of it or being silly, but because my finite mind is trying to comprehend something incomprehensible. My laughter is an expression of my awe. In the right place at the right time, that can be worship.
And what about those times when things are just plain funny? We had a Kids Church program recently that was a highlight for the entire congregation. One of the special features of Kids Church is that the adults come down the front for the adult’s story. The children are laughing even before we begin, just at the sight of their parents and grandparents sitting cross-legged on the floor, ready to listen to a story with a spiritual message. The paradox of the circumstance is not lost on them – or the adults for that matter.
The adults helped re-enact the story of the Unforgiving Servant, which can be found in Matthew 18. This particular story was chosen as it tied in beautifully with the theme of the day, forgiveness. Entering into the spirit of things, the adults gave a convincing performance that quite frankly, had everyone in stitches. It didn’t detract from the message. It didn’t take away from the moral of the story. In fact I would argue that it enhanced the message and emblazoned the moral on the hearts and minds of both adults and children that day. They won’t forget that particular parable in a hurry. It was worship – just a different sort of worship.
Those who would disagree with my perspective would probably use one word in their argument against laughter – reverence. But when did reverence come to only be associated with silence? According to the dictionary, reverence is “a feeling or attitude of deep respect tinged with awe” 1. Reverence is not the ability to sit through a sermon without making a squeak. It is not necessarily speaking only in hushed tones. Reverence, is in fact less of an action and more of an attitude. To me, that means it is possible for me to whisper and be irreverent, or enjoy a good belly laugh and be totally reverent to my God. It’s all a matter of heart posture.
So next time you feel the urge to laugh in church, run through a checklist and make sure it’s reverent kind of laughter, the kind that God would join in with rather than frown at. And if it’s still appropriate, go ahead and enjoy the wonderful and joyous experience of being a child of God. Because in heaven, I’m pretty sure there’s going to be a lot of Godly laughter. Why don’t we get some practice here on earth? - It might just make today a day to remember.
1. Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.1). Retrieved April 25, 2008, from Dictionary.com website: http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/reverence
Sharp. What did you think of? Knife, tongue, needle – or did you go straight to the opposite, blunt?
Ready for the next one…
Sport. Ball, bat, football, basketball…what was your association?
OK, here comes the clincher.
Church. What do you associate with the word ‘church’? Worship, prayer, singing, silence, boredom, God…there would be as many answers as there are people. But I’m wondering if you ever thought of the word ‘laughter’? Seriously.
I’ve been to many church services in my life and do you know the ones I remember the most? The ones where I had an emotional response. Now I’m not suggesting that church should be solely about how it makes me feel. That would be shallow and hollow at best, self-seeking and selfish at worst. But the fact remains that the moments of worship that stand out in my memory all have an emotional label attached. Those times when I cried, those times when I was angered or challenged – I remember them well. I also remember when I laughed.
But is it OK to laugh in church? Is it appropriate to have a quiet chuckle or a belly laugh during worship? Like a child who asks his parents if he can go to a party, the answer is the same – it depends. For the party, it depends on who is going, where it is, whether there will be adults in attendance. For laughter in church it depends on what sort of laughter, the motive behind it and the impact it has on the message being preached.
Just like word association can often result in opposites (say the word ‘black’ and most people will think ‘white’), let’s look at the times when it definitely wouldn’t be OK or appropriate to laugh in church.
Firstly, it’s not OK if it’s at someone else’s expense. Now I’m not talking about those times when someone makes a faux par that is just too funny not to giggle at. I’m talking about the hurtful, degrading kind of laughter that all of us are capable of, the teasing, taunting laughter that has the sole intention of bringing pain to the subject. That sort of laughter is definitely not OK in church – but then again, it’s not OK anywhere else either. We are supposed to build each other up, not tear each other down.
Another sort of laughter that would be inappropriate would be anything that is the result of an off-colour joke. We’ve all heard them, most of us have told them. Church is not the place. Perhaps that would be a good rule of thumb for us all – if we wouldn’t say it in the foyer to someone at church, then we shouldn’t say it at the footy ground or on the bus either.
So we’ve established laughter at someone else’s expense and laughter that is associated with anything that is not pure or good or lovely are not OK. But what about the rest of the spectrum of things that make us chuckle? What about those jokes that you could happily share with your grandmother? You know the ones – Which Bible character had no parents? Joshua, son of Nun. (OK, my joke repertoire is sadly lacking, but you get the point…) How do they stack up in church? Well, at this point the content is not in question – there’s nothing offensive or off-colour, nothing that pokes fun at someone else. But then we come to the impact it has. If you whispered this to your pew-mate at the peak of the pastor’s serious plea for people to make a commitment to Christ, well, let’s just say your timing is off. It wouldn’t be OK. It has the potential to detract from the worship experience of you, your mate and those around you. And all of us can attest to how hard it is to contain a fit of the giggles. The more they need to be contained, the funnier the situation seems until someone either makes an inappropriate snorting noise or spontaneously combusts. It’s not exactly conducive to worship. The joke may, however, be perfectly appropriate to share in the carpark or at the pot-luck lunch…just not during grace.
So that leaves us with a thorny question. Is any laughter OK in church? My answer would be yes. If we are created in the image of God, then there can be no argument that God has a sense of humour (just take a look at the platypus if you don’t believe me). So working on the premise that laughter and humour are not some evil force that need to be eradicated from our lives, how do we use this precious gift to bring glory to God?
Psalm 126 sheds some light on the subject. The Israelites had been held enslaved in Zion for many years. The Lord brought them out of captivity. Whilst they were in shock and disbelief at their good fortune, verse 2 tells us how they responded:
“Our mouths were filled with laughter, our tongues with songs of joy.” (NIV)
Were they worshipping? You bet! This was the sort of laughter that emerged from the well-spring of gratitude and joy from within their now free hearts. This was true worship.
I don’t know about you, but sometimes when I find something so overwhelming, so amazing, so unfathomable, my first response is to laugh. Not because I’m making fun of it or being silly, but because my finite mind is trying to comprehend something incomprehensible. My laughter is an expression of my awe. In the right place at the right time, that can be worship.
And what about those times when things are just plain funny? We had a Kids Church program recently that was a highlight for the entire congregation. One of the special features of Kids Church is that the adults come down the front for the adult’s story. The children are laughing even before we begin, just at the sight of their parents and grandparents sitting cross-legged on the floor, ready to listen to a story with a spiritual message. The paradox of the circumstance is not lost on them – or the adults for that matter.
The adults helped re-enact the story of the Unforgiving Servant, which can be found in Matthew 18. This particular story was chosen as it tied in beautifully with the theme of the day, forgiveness. Entering into the spirit of things, the adults gave a convincing performance that quite frankly, had everyone in stitches. It didn’t detract from the message. It didn’t take away from the moral of the story. In fact I would argue that it enhanced the message and emblazoned the moral on the hearts and minds of both adults and children that day. They won’t forget that particular parable in a hurry. It was worship – just a different sort of worship.
Those who would disagree with my perspective would probably use one word in their argument against laughter – reverence. But when did reverence come to only be associated with silence? According to the dictionary, reverence is “a feeling or attitude of deep respect tinged with awe” 1. Reverence is not the ability to sit through a sermon without making a squeak. It is not necessarily speaking only in hushed tones. Reverence, is in fact less of an action and more of an attitude. To me, that means it is possible for me to whisper and be irreverent, or enjoy a good belly laugh and be totally reverent to my God. It’s all a matter of heart posture.
So next time you feel the urge to laugh in church, run through a checklist and make sure it’s reverent kind of laughter, the kind that God would join in with rather than frown at. And if it’s still appropriate, go ahead and enjoy the wonderful and joyous experience of being a child of God. Because in heaven, I’m pretty sure there’s going to be a lot of Godly laughter. Why don’t we get some practice here on earth? - It might just make today a day to remember.
1. Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.1). Retrieved April 25, 2008, from Dictionary.com website: http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/reverence
Monday, April 28, 2008
What an Exciting Time...
Yesterday was a great day. I ended up getting a contract in the mail from the Queensland Writer's Centre for my article, The Unutterable Phrase which will appear in their September edition. I also got an acceptance email from Copeland Publishing for my article, Earning My Stripes. They want to keep it on file to be used in a future edition of their Brisbane's Child magazine, which also has a Sydney, Melbourne and Perth version - I think they are pretty much the same just with local advertising. I guess in reality this one may never be published, but at least they want to hang on to it for a while.
I also was approached to write for CQ (Collegiate Quarterly) which is the Sabbath School lesson produced by the Adventist church for young adults. I jumped at the chance - it's a nice change to write to someone else's specs rather than just where my whim and fancy takes me. I decided to get stuck into it last night, as I'm very aware each evening could be my last before the twins arrive, and became quite inspired by it all. The end result was really pleasing. That one will be published in the fourth quarter, 2009 (Oct-Dec).
It appears that I may have found my calling. This whole process is sitting so well with me - probably because it is me. Hopefully the motivation will continue! It's just so much fun! And even my rejection letters aren't actually bothering me. I guess I've had a balance of yesses and nos, so that helps.
And I've also decided that there's a good reason why I like Christian author, Max Lucado's books. I love the way he writes and I can pick his work just about anywhere. I've decided it's because I actually write in a similar way. Now I'm not suggesting I have his ability, talent or anything else for that matter - it just suddenly hit me why his writing resonates with me so much. Who knows, maybe one day our names will appear in the same sentence!!! It doesn't hurt to dream does it??
I also was approached to write for CQ (Collegiate Quarterly) which is the Sabbath School lesson produced by the Adventist church for young adults. I jumped at the chance - it's a nice change to write to someone else's specs rather than just where my whim and fancy takes me. I decided to get stuck into it last night, as I'm very aware each evening could be my last before the twins arrive, and became quite inspired by it all. The end result was really pleasing. That one will be published in the fourth quarter, 2009 (Oct-Dec).
It appears that I may have found my calling. This whole process is sitting so well with me - probably because it is me. Hopefully the motivation will continue! It's just so much fun! And even my rejection letters aren't actually bothering me. I guess I've had a balance of yesses and nos, so that helps.
And I've also decided that there's a good reason why I like Christian author, Max Lucado's books. I love the way he writes and I can pick his work just about anywhere. I've decided it's because I actually write in a similar way. Now I'm not suggesting I have his ability, talent or anything else for that matter - it just suddenly hit me why his writing resonates with me so much. Who knows, maybe one day our names will appear in the same sentence!!! It doesn't hurt to dream does it??
Read the Signs, Baby
There has been a lot of media coverage in recent times about the benefits of using baby sign language. The information presented often focuses on the educational and psychological benefits of signing giving the impression that it might just help little Johnny on his way to a Rhodes Scholarship.
I chose to use baby sign with my son, but not for such high and mighty reasons. In reality, my decision about whether to sign was less about IQ and more about intuition. I just felt there was so much going on in that little head of his that I couldn’t access. If this gave me a window into his mind and soul then I wanted to know about it.
When I informed my extended family that I was teaching my seven-month-old to sign, there were raised eyebrows and rolled eyes all around. It was put down to another one of my pseudo-intellectual fads – a clear product of reading too much apparently.
My experiment also had a rather selfish secondary motivation. I had read that children who sign have less of a tendency for tantrums. That was it – my decision was made. If there was anything, anything at all that could prevent the inevitable toddler tantrums I would give it a go.
In the beginning I chose two or three signs that were common elements to our day – DRINK, EAT, MILK. For three months I consistently signed and said these words to him at the appropriate time. He didn’t sign back, but it had become part of my daily routine and it wasn’t adding any extra stress to my day, so I continued.
One day when hewas ten months old, he looked out the window and spotted a bird in the bird bath. He turned to me with wide eyes and pointed. I saw what had grabbed his attention and signed BIRD. He looked at me with excitement and signed BIRD back. Our wonderful journey of signing had begun.
Over the next few months he learned quickly – but not the signs I thought he would or should know. It was far more exciting to sign DOG, PLANE and CAT than SLEEP, EAT or DRINK. He was more interested in describing his environment, what he was seeing, than the mundane experiences of daily life. He wanted to share his joy as he discovered an amazing world for himself.
As his signing vocabulary took off he learned the power of being able to tell me what he wanted. Although his spoken vocabulary was limited to ‘mum mum mum’ and ‘dad dad dad’, through his hands he could tell me when he wanted more, when he’d finished and eventually, when he was thirsty or hungry.
By the time he was fifteen months old he had a signing vocabulary of approximately forty words. Whilst it meant leaving a long list of interpretations and symbols for the babysitter, it was an absolute God-send for me. I was able to communicate with my child, to get inside his head, to understand him, before he was effectively using the English language.
So what are some of the practical benefits to signing? Here are four reasons why I would recommend signing to any parent:
1. It gave me an insight into my child’s world.
Although I introduced signs I thought would be useful, in reality my son directed the learning. Once he worked out that he could talk with his hands, he would bring things to my attention and watch closely until I could give him the appropriate sign. Then the things that interested him became a source of mutual delight. We’d spot a plane in the sky and his little hand would zoom across the sky. He purely wanted to share his excitement. I got to see the world through my child’s eyes.
2. It encouraged my child to look at me.
This might sound like something inane, but I am convinced it set him up for some really good communication skills. To this day, as an almost three-year-old, he looks at me when I’m talking to him. All those months of signing encouraged him to develop the habit of listening with his eyes as well as his ears.
3. My child experienced less frustration
Now it’s hard to say for sure how much signing impacted his frustration levels, but I honestly believe it helped. It’s true that he is a calm and placid child by nature. However, rather than point helplessly at the cupboard and scream to be heard, he realised very quickly that he could ask quite specifically for something. Sure, there were still tears when mummy said no, but there were very few tears of frustration. The power of being understood was powerful in his life, even when he entered those toddler years.
4. It encouraged me to interact closely with my child.
It’s so easy as a parent to get distracted. There’s always dinner to cook, clothes to wash, appointments to keep, let alone work to accomplish. Signing forced me to stop and focus on him, eye-to-eye, countless times across the day. I showed him through my undivided attention that I was listening – really listening – to what mattered to him. That was great for our parent-child relationship.
So is signing for everyone? Possibly not. Although it’s not difficult it is one more thing to think about during the day and only reaps rewards if you are consistent. It requires reinforcement time and time again and there is effort involved. All I can say is that in my experience it was well worth it. So much so, that there is no doubt in my mind I’ll be using baby sign again soon. You see, we are expecting identical twin boys any day now and in six or seven months time the signing will begin. Will they benefit in the same way as our first child? I hope so. But even if the only benefit is the development of a relationship based on mutual listening, even if their signing is limited to showing me the dog or bird outside, it will still have been worthwhile.
As for the future impact on my boys’ intelligence or education – to be honest, I’m not that fussed. Any positive impact will be a bonus. In the meantime I’ve been able to get inside their heads and see a little of what makes them tick. For me, that’s time well spent.
I chose to use baby sign with my son, but not for such high and mighty reasons. In reality, my decision about whether to sign was less about IQ and more about intuition. I just felt there was so much going on in that little head of his that I couldn’t access. If this gave me a window into his mind and soul then I wanted to know about it.
When I informed my extended family that I was teaching my seven-month-old to sign, there were raised eyebrows and rolled eyes all around. It was put down to another one of my pseudo-intellectual fads – a clear product of reading too much apparently.
My experiment also had a rather selfish secondary motivation. I had read that children who sign have less of a tendency for tantrums. That was it – my decision was made. If there was anything, anything at all that could prevent the inevitable toddler tantrums I would give it a go.
In the beginning I chose two or three signs that were common elements to our day – DRINK, EAT, MILK. For three months I consistently signed and said these words to him at the appropriate time. He didn’t sign back, but it had become part of my daily routine and it wasn’t adding any extra stress to my day, so I continued.
One day when hewas ten months old, he looked out the window and spotted a bird in the bird bath. He turned to me with wide eyes and pointed. I saw what had grabbed his attention and signed BIRD. He looked at me with excitement and signed BIRD back. Our wonderful journey of signing had begun.
Over the next few months he learned quickly – but not the signs I thought he would or should know. It was far more exciting to sign DOG, PLANE and CAT than SLEEP, EAT or DRINK. He was more interested in describing his environment, what he was seeing, than the mundane experiences of daily life. He wanted to share his joy as he discovered an amazing world for himself.
As his signing vocabulary took off he learned the power of being able to tell me what he wanted. Although his spoken vocabulary was limited to ‘mum mum mum’ and ‘dad dad dad’, through his hands he could tell me when he wanted more, when he’d finished and eventually, when he was thirsty or hungry.
By the time he was fifteen months old he had a signing vocabulary of approximately forty words. Whilst it meant leaving a long list of interpretations and symbols for the babysitter, it was an absolute God-send for me. I was able to communicate with my child, to get inside his head, to understand him, before he was effectively using the English language.
So what are some of the practical benefits to signing? Here are four reasons why I would recommend signing to any parent:
1. It gave me an insight into my child’s world.
Although I introduced signs I thought would be useful, in reality my son directed the learning. Once he worked out that he could talk with his hands, he would bring things to my attention and watch closely until I could give him the appropriate sign. Then the things that interested him became a source of mutual delight. We’d spot a plane in the sky and his little hand would zoom across the sky. He purely wanted to share his excitement. I got to see the world through my child’s eyes.
2. It encouraged my child to look at me.
This might sound like something inane, but I am convinced it set him up for some really good communication skills. To this day, as an almost three-year-old, he looks at me when I’m talking to him. All those months of signing encouraged him to develop the habit of listening with his eyes as well as his ears.
3. My child experienced less frustration
Now it’s hard to say for sure how much signing impacted his frustration levels, but I honestly believe it helped. It’s true that he is a calm and placid child by nature. However, rather than point helplessly at the cupboard and scream to be heard, he realised very quickly that he could ask quite specifically for something. Sure, there were still tears when mummy said no, but there were very few tears of frustration. The power of being understood was powerful in his life, even when he entered those toddler years.
4. It encouraged me to interact closely with my child.
It’s so easy as a parent to get distracted. There’s always dinner to cook, clothes to wash, appointments to keep, let alone work to accomplish. Signing forced me to stop and focus on him, eye-to-eye, countless times across the day. I showed him through my undivided attention that I was listening – really listening – to what mattered to him. That was great for our parent-child relationship.
So is signing for everyone? Possibly not. Although it’s not difficult it is one more thing to think about during the day and only reaps rewards if you are consistent. It requires reinforcement time and time again and there is effort involved. All I can say is that in my experience it was well worth it. So much so, that there is no doubt in my mind I’ll be using baby sign again soon. You see, we are expecting identical twin boys any day now and in six or seven months time the signing will begin. Will they benefit in the same way as our first child? I hope so. But even if the only benefit is the development of a relationship based on mutual listening, even if their signing is limited to showing me the dog or bird outside, it will still have been worthwhile.
As for the future impact on my boys’ intelligence or education – to be honest, I’m not that fussed. Any positive impact will be a bonus. In the meantime I’ve been able to get inside their heads and see a little of what makes them tick. For me, that’s time well spent.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
The Writing Bug Has Bitten Me...and Hard!
Well it's been an interesting week at my house. I am now over 35 weeks pregnant and am half expecting my boys to arrive at any given moment in time. Each night I go to bed and wonder, "Is tonight the night?" For some reason I can only imagine myself in labour at night...I may fall apart at the seams if it happens in daylight!!
But the insomnia that goes with being this heavily pregnant ("heavily" is actually a really good adjective for the situation I might add) - and that is that I am having time to write.
I have started a novel - yes, another one - but this one is going to be different; not because I'm a better writer (which I think I am compared to 5 years ago), or because it's more interesting (once again, I think it is!), but purely because this time I am going to finish it! It's hard to believe, I know. But armed with me NEO I actually think it's possible.
In my previous attempts at novel writing I have jumped ship when the waves hit. If I felt the storyline was slowing down or my characters were too one-dimensional, I would throw my hands up in despair and abandon the keyboard forever. This time around, I have experienced both of those sensations, yet I'm proud to say I have kept on writing. I have - honest! Because I can't critique what I'm doing on the NEO, I have written through the writer's block barrier (which I personally find more painful that the so-called pain barrier).
So, I am now six chapters into my little creative endeavour and am over 22,000 words on my way to the end. Where the end will be, I'm not exactly sure. But gee I'm having fun getting there!
"What is this novel about?" you may ask. Well, I was inspired to write about something that doesn't require a lot of research, something I know fairly well...so I am writing about the experiences of 5 women who become first-time mums. Of course they have wildly varying personalities and backgrounds, but they are thrown together by a maternal health nurse who links them to form a playgroup. Through their experiences you will get to see varying perspectives on issues such as circumcision, breastfeeding versus bottle, going back to work versus staying at home - none of which I am actually making a statement on. I am simply exploring the perspectives and attempting to show how good mothering means different things to different people. An one of the underlying themes if the devastating impact of post-natal depression...
So far, I like my characters a lot, and they are starting to become real. I don't like chapter 5 at all, but I will wait until I reach THE END to do anything about it. There may be something worth saving. In the meantime I'm writing a chapter a day (which involves me writing from each of the five character's perspectives around a similar theme or timeframe - or dialogue as the case may be). I'm finding the dialogue the hardest part - it's tricky getting the voice of each character right, but I think I'm getting there. I am hoping my boys will wait until I get finished or close to finished before they arrive. I'm writing on average 5,500 words a day so will have to wait and see how far I get!
But the insomnia that goes with being this heavily pregnant ("heavily" is actually a really good adjective for the situation I might add) - and that is that I am having time to write.
I have started a novel - yes, another one - but this one is going to be different; not because I'm a better writer (which I think I am compared to 5 years ago), or because it's more interesting (once again, I think it is!), but purely because this time I am going to finish it! It's hard to believe, I know. But armed with me NEO I actually think it's possible.
In my previous attempts at novel writing I have jumped ship when the waves hit. If I felt the storyline was slowing down or my characters were too one-dimensional, I would throw my hands up in despair and abandon the keyboard forever. This time around, I have experienced both of those sensations, yet I'm proud to say I have kept on writing. I have - honest! Because I can't critique what I'm doing on the NEO, I have written through the writer's block barrier (which I personally find more painful that the so-called pain barrier).
So, I am now six chapters into my little creative endeavour and am over 22,000 words on my way to the end. Where the end will be, I'm not exactly sure. But gee I'm having fun getting there!
"What is this novel about?" you may ask. Well, I was inspired to write about something that doesn't require a lot of research, something I know fairly well...so I am writing about the experiences of 5 women who become first-time mums. Of course they have wildly varying personalities and backgrounds, but they are thrown together by a maternal health nurse who links them to form a playgroup. Through their experiences you will get to see varying perspectives on issues such as circumcision, breastfeeding versus bottle, going back to work versus staying at home - none of which I am actually making a statement on. I am simply exploring the perspectives and attempting to show how good mothering means different things to different people. An one of the underlying themes if the devastating impact of post-natal depression...
So far, I like my characters a lot, and they are starting to become real. I don't like chapter 5 at all, but I will wait until I reach THE END to do anything about it. There may be something worth saving. In the meantime I'm writing a chapter a day (which involves me writing from each of the five character's perspectives around a similar theme or timeframe - or dialogue as the case may be). I'm finding the dialogue the hardest part - it's tricky getting the voice of each character right, but I think I'm getting there. I am hoping my boys will wait until I get finished or close to finished before they arrive. I'm writing on average 5,500 words a day so will have to wait and see how far I get!
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
The Hunter (published 26 April 2008 in the RECORD)
(To see this article in the RECORD please go to http://record.adventistconnect.org/ and click on the April 26 issue.)
*******************
The hunter crouches, muscles tense, watching and waiting, waiting and watching. It is silent, except for the rush of blood pumping through veins and his shallow, rapid breathing. He runs the net through his fingers one more time, rough fibres chafing at his skin. It shouldn’t be long now.
There it is! In a single movement he launches himself from his hiding place and throws the net with such accuracy, such skill, that it is obvious he is an expert. He captures his prey quickly and subdues it. He hands it over to be destroyed. The hunter is victorious once more.
This is not the hunter’s first attempt. At first he was clumsy, unco-ordinated and plain unsuccessful. He has spent many hours honing his craft, practicing in controlled situations – all to prepare him for this moment. He has invested the time, the energy and the commitment to his cause to become a skilful hunter. It was a slow process, but with each catch it became increasingly natural, increasingly automatic – as though the very nerves in his body knew how to respond and when. Now, he could complete a capture with a minimum of fuss and expend a minimum of energy. He is truly the master of the hunt.
So what exactly, is in his net? What wild beast, savage and ferocious lies tangled within the knots and folds? Is it a jaguar, or a tiger, or some kind of fearsome reptile? No, it is indeed something far more sinister, more dangerous, more unexpected. It is something that lives on every continent in the world; it can be found on desert plains and mountain ridges, in the deepest valleys and rockiest outcrops; it is present in every race, every culture, every creed. In fact, it dwells within each member of the human race.
What lies at the bottom of the hunter’s net? His thoughts. The ideas, the inspirations, the concepts, the criticisms; the flashes of words that flicker through his brain at lightning speed. These are what he has worked so hard to subdue. These are the prey he has hunted and conquered. He has read the words of Paul and he has taken them seriously: “We capture every thought and make it give up and obey Christ.” 2 Corinthians 10:5 (NCV)
It wasn’t easy at first. Initially, he wasn’t even aware of many of the thoughts that trespassed his mind. They were so automatic, so momentary that it was hard to focus on them, let alone capture them. His first job was to listen - listen to the soundtrack of his life, the running commentary of ceaseless “brain chatter” that dwelled within his mind. Listening was harder than he thought. It took time, it took effort, it took commitment. But eventually, he could hear the inner workings of his thought processes more clearly. At times he was horrified by what he heard; other times he was confused, bewildered by the logic or lack thereof of his own thoughts. But still he listened.
Once his listening skills were honed and his senses alert to the thoughts that narrated his life, the hunter was then able to begin the process of thought catching. Using the Bible as his guide, he assessed each and every thought against what he knew to be true, right, honest, pure and good. The standard was high, the effort required monumental. Those thoughts that were acceptable, pleasing and obedient were allowed to continue and to grow. He nurtured those thoughts he knew would be pleasing to his Lord. Those thoughts that were contrary and disobedient were the ones he sought to capture.
Once captured, the hunter’s thoughts were made to give up and obey Christ. How? By being reworded, revised or replaced by Christ-like thoughts. It took effort, it took time, it took commitment, it took prayer. At times he won the battle and captured a net full of useless, negative, destructive thoughts. Other times his humanity prevailed and one got away. But he didn’t give up.
Today, he was once again successful. Crouched behind the foliage of his mind, a thought had been festering. It was a critical, hurtful thought that would only bring pain and destruction. It would bring no glory to God. With ease that only comes with practice, he had waited for the right moment and had cast his net. He had captured his dangerous prey and handed it over to his Master to be destroyed. His job complete, the hunter brushed himself down and continued on his way.
Imagine if each one of us took Paul’s advice seriously. How would it transform our relationships, our families, our churches if we took captive every thought and made it obedient to Christ? It takes time, it takes effort, it takes commitment. It’s something worth thinking about. After all, “As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he.” Proverbs 23:7 (KJV).
*******************
The hunter crouches, muscles tense, watching and waiting, waiting and watching. It is silent, except for the rush of blood pumping through veins and his shallow, rapid breathing. He runs the net through his fingers one more time, rough fibres chafing at his skin. It shouldn’t be long now.
There it is! In a single movement he launches himself from his hiding place and throws the net with such accuracy, such skill, that it is obvious he is an expert. He captures his prey quickly and subdues it. He hands it over to be destroyed. The hunter is victorious once more.
This is not the hunter’s first attempt. At first he was clumsy, unco-ordinated and plain unsuccessful. He has spent many hours honing his craft, practicing in controlled situations – all to prepare him for this moment. He has invested the time, the energy and the commitment to his cause to become a skilful hunter. It was a slow process, but with each catch it became increasingly natural, increasingly automatic – as though the very nerves in his body knew how to respond and when. Now, he could complete a capture with a minimum of fuss and expend a minimum of energy. He is truly the master of the hunt.
So what exactly, is in his net? What wild beast, savage and ferocious lies tangled within the knots and folds? Is it a jaguar, or a tiger, or some kind of fearsome reptile? No, it is indeed something far more sinister, more dangerous, more unexpected. It is something that lives on every continent in the world; it can be found on desert plains and mountain ridges, in the deepest valleys and rockiest outcrops; it is present in every race, every culture, every creed. In fact, it dwells within each member of the human race.
What lies at the bottom of the hunter’s net? His thoughts. The ideas, the inspirations, the concepts, the criticisms; the flashes of words that flicker through his brain at lightning speed. These are what he has worked so hard to subdue. These are the prey he has hunted and conquered. He has read the words of Paul and he has taken them seriously: “We capture every thought and make it give up and obey Christ.” 2 Corinthians 10:5 (NCV)
It wasn’t easy at first. Initially, he wasn’t even aware of many of the thoughts that trespassed his mind. They were so automatic, so momentary that it was hard to focus on them, let alone capture them. His first job was to listen - listen to the soundtrack of his life, the running commentary of ceaseless “brain chatter” that dwelled within his mind. Listening was harder than he thought. It took time, it took effort, it took commitment. But eventually, he could hear the inner workings of his thought processes more clearly. At times he was horrified by what he heard; other times he was confused, bewildered by the logic or lack thereof of his own thoughts. But still he listened.
Once his listening skills were honed and his senses alert to the thoughts that narrated his life, the hunter was then able to begin the process of thought catching. Using the Bible as his guide, he assessed each and every thought against what he knew to be true, right, honest, pure and good. The standard was high, the effort required monumental. Those thoughts that were acceptable, pleasing and obedient were allowed to continue and to grow. He nurtured those thoughts he knew would be pleasing to his Lord. Those thoughts that were contrary and disobedient were the ones he sought to capture.
Once captured, the hunter’s thoughts were made to give up and obey Christ. How? By being reworded, revised or replaced by Christ-like thoughts. It took effort, it took time, it took commitment, it took prayer. At times he won the battle and captured a net full of useless, negative, destructive thoughts. Other times his humanity prevailed and one got away. But he didn’t give up.
Today, he was once again successful. Crouched behind the foliage of his mind, a thought had been festering. It was a critical, hurtful thought that would only bring pain and destruction. It would bring no glory to God. With ease that only comes with practice, he had waited for the right moment and had cast his net. He had captured his dangerous prey and handed it over to his Master to be destroyed. His job complete, the hunter brushed himself down and continued on his way.
Imagine if each one of us took Paul’s advice seriously. How would it transform our relationships, our families, our churches if we took captive every thought and made it obedient to Christ? It takes time, it takes effort, it takes commitment. It’s something worth thinking about. After all, “As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he.” Proverbs 23:7 (KJV).
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Finding NEO
I have a new best friend. I apologise to my old writing buddies, but you’ve been usurped. I am a NEOphyte in the truest sense of the word. Allow me to explain.
I was first introduced the wonderful world of the NEO at a writing workshop with Canadian author, Trudy J Morgan-Cole (you can check out her blog at http://trudymorgancole.wordpress.com/). Whilst being inspired, encouraged and extended throughout the workshop, I was curious about a nifty little gadget Trudy had on her desk. Black, slim-line, sleek.
At the question and answer session, I couldn’t help myself, I had to ask. “What exactly is that keyboard computer looking thingo on your desk?” (My spoken eloquence was hopefully not an indication of my written expression.) Trudy picked up the item, clutched it to her breast and sighed. She literally sighed. Forcing herself back to the non-transcendental world, Trudy told us all about it. It was her NEO by Alphasmart.
Essentially, it was a stripped back computer that enabled her to do one thing and one thing only. To write. More valuable than her American Express card, she never left home without it. Trudy reeled off a list of the NEO’s highlights – light-weight, tough, portable, instant on/off, automatic save. But that wasn’t the bit that impressed me most. I was interested, but I wasn’t about to rush out and buy one…until she mentioned the power of the NEO to keep her focused on her single most-important task as a writer; that is, to write. With no internet capabilities, no web-surfing distractions, no games or instant messaging, the temptation to procrastinate, to meandre through cyberspace was gone.
Trudy talked of the common experience of being part way through a paragraph on her laptop, only to discover that she really needed to research what people ate for breakfast in 5th Century BC Persia. And so she would Google…and while she was waiting for the search engine she would check her email…and update her Flickr photo album, respond to Facebook comments and check out the most recent Target catalogue. Two hours later she hadn’t written another word. The opportunity was lost. The scenario resonated with me and so my NEO fact-finding mission began.
The NEO is originally designed for use in the classroom. It is a teaching tool for those who don’t want their students to be diverted from the primary task of writing. There are a few built-in features that are custom-designed for the classroom – a keyboarding tutor, the ability for quizzes to be downloaded and the potential for NEO’s to connect to one another. As a teacher, I was impressed. As a writer, it didn’t really matter.
What did matter was the single phrase Trudy used in the climax of her sales pitch (I think she may be a secret agent for Alphasmart and part of their grand plan to overtake the world…). The NEO overcame her inner critic. Now that was a big call. Was it really possible that a less-than-one-kilo word-processor could overcome that hideous, loud and insistent voice in my head that keeps telling me my stuff is rubbish, I need to rewrite the first paragraph – again – and I may as well give up because it’s never going to be good enough? The simple answer is yes.
So I decided to commit. There are two suppliers of NEO’s in Australia: Spectronics (www.spectronicsinoz.com), a Brisbane-based supplier of learning technologies and Battery Powered Computers (www.batterpoweredcomputers.com) out of Sydney. Being parochial, I chose the QLD based supplier (plus they were $14 cheaper) and promptly ordered my NEO for $385 including postage and GST. It arrived within three days. My techno-head husband was somewhat bewildered as to why I would want something so, well, primitive. But sometimes less is indeed more.
Typing on the NEO is easy – the standard QWERTY keyboard applies, although it is a little smaller than the average laptop and may take just a bit of getting used to. The instant on/off feature is an absolute delight. No more waiting for my laptop to boot up. Come to think of it, my laptop is arrogant really, not allowing me to even type until it finishes thinking. In contrast, the NEO is ready to go literally within three seconds. The other night I had a visit from the middle-of-the-night writing fairy who gifted me with a poem. Rather than lying in bed, tossing the words about in the ocean of my brainwaves, I decided to get up and write them down. Then maybe I could get some sleep. I switched on my NEO and my laptop at the same time. Without a word of a lie I had finished typing my poem (about 40 lines) before my computer had finished booting up. I was back off to bed while my arrogant Sony Vaio was still contemplating its navel.
The NEO is also amazingly conservative when it comes to power usage. The unit runs for approximately 700 hours on three AA batteries. No, that’s not a typo. 700 hours.
There are eight files in which to store your work. That means I can be working on multiple topics at one time. Each file has approximately a 50 page capacity. I can switch effortlessly between the eight files simply by the push of a button.
Another great feature is the automatic save. You seriously cannot lose your data. I’ve even tried on purpose. Nope. Can’t be done. I turned the NEO off a nanosecond after I’d typed a letter…but when I turned it back on, the letter was there. There is no need to press SAVE or CRTL+S – it all happens as the words appear on the screen.
Speaking of which, the screen is tiny. It can be formatted to display between 2-6 lines, depending on what font you select. I have mine set to four. It doesn’t sound like much and at first I was a little nervous. But by keeping my screen to four lines I am forced to write in the moment. I can’t easily re-read the entire paragraph or page – that will have to wait till I dump the file onto my computer. In the meantime, I continue to write until I am finished. The NEO single-handedly silences my Inner Critic. She has no choice but to submit. When there are only four lines to see at a time, she hasn’t got much to say. Put to bed like a naughty child, she is told not to come out of her room until I say so.
So how do you transfer your unedited, raw first draft to your computer? It’s really simple. The NEO has two options – a USB cable which comes with the unit or via infrared – whichever you prefer. I just have to start my word processor (in my case Microsoft Word, but it works on Macs too), wait until the blank page is ready, and then connect my NEO via the USB cable. The NEO leads me through the rest, asking me which file I would like to transfer. I press SEND and the words begin to appear as if by magic. It’s not an instant dump of text into my Word document. Instead, it happens at the rate of an exceptionally fast typist, which I actually kind of like. It allows me time to re-read what it was I wrote at the start of the document twenty minutes ago and get a feel for the text as a whole. If you prefer, you could always go and make yourself a cup of coffee in celebration of getting to the end of your first draft and come back to find the text transfer complete. If you have multiple files to transfer into one document, you just transfer them one at a time – the text will be dumped to wherever you place your cursor on the page. It really is that easy.
I’m nearly to the end of my article, which of course I am writing on my NEO. I am about to dump the text across into Word and shamelessly edit. The Inner Critic can come out of her room and correct typos, check my tense, add and delete words and shuffle paragraphs to her heart’s content. But I have finished the article without a single interruption. That in itself is a miracle! I’ve done more writing in the weeks since I got my NEO than I have in the previous twelve months. It really has changed my life. And maybe, just maybe, it will enable me to get to the end of a novel one day instead of being stuck in the endless loop of trying to write the perfect first chapter.
And just so you know, there really will be a neophyte - or should I say, neofight – shortly…a writer friend is coming to visit and one NEO between two authors is simply not enough.
I was first introduced the wonderful world of the NEO at a writing workshop with Canadian author, Trudy J Morgan-Cole (you can check out her blog at http://trudymorgancole.wordpress.com/). Whilst being inspired, encouraged and extended throughout the workshop, I was curious about a nifty little gadget Trudy had on her desk. Black, slim-line, sleek.
At the question and answer session, I couldn’t help myself, I had to ask. “What exactly is that keyboard computer looking thingo on your desk?” (My spoken eloquence was hopefully not an indication of my written expression.) Trudy picked up the item, clutched it to her breast and sighed. She literally sighed. Forcing herself back to the non-transcendental world, Trudy told us all about it. It was her NEO by Alphasmart.
Essentially, it was a stripped back computer that enabled her to do one thing and one thing only. To write. More valuable than her American Express card, she never left home without it. Trudy reeled off a list of the NEO’s highlights – light-weight, tough, portable, instant on/off, automatic save. But that wasn’t the bit that impressed me most. I was interested, but I wasn’t about to rush out and buy one…until she mentioned the power of the NEO to keep her focused on her single most-important task as a writer; that is, to write. With no internet capabilities, no web-surfing distractions, no games or instant messaging, the temptation to procrastinate, to meandre through cyberspace was gone.
Trudy talked of the common experience of being part way through a paragraph on her laptop, only to discover that she really needed to research what people ate for breakfast in 5th Century BC Persia. And so she would Google…and while she was waiting for the search engine she would check her email…and update her Flickr photo album, respond to Facebook comments and check out the most recent Target catalogue. Two hours later she hadn’t written another word. The opportunity was lost. The scenario resonated with me and so my NEO fact-finding mission began.
The NEO is originally designed for use in the classroom. It is a teaching tool for those who don’t want their students to be diverted from the primary task of writing. There are a few built-in features that are custom-designed for the classroom – a keyboarding tutor, the ability for quizzes to be downloaded and the potential for NEO’s to connect to one another. As a teacher, I was impressed. As a writer, it didn’t really matter.
What did matter was the single phrase Trudy used in the climax of her sales pitch (I think she may be a secret agent for Alphasmart and part of their grand plan to overtake the world…). The NEO overcame her inner critic. Now that was a big call. Was it really possible that a less-than-one-kilo word-processor could overcome that hideous, loud and insistent voice in my head that keeps telling me my stuff is rubbish, I need to rewrite the first paragraph – again – and I may as well give up because it’s never going to be good enough? The simple answer is yes.
So I decided to commit. There are two suppliers of NEO’s in Australia: Spectronics (www.spectronicsinoz.com), a Brisbane-based supplier of learning technologies and Battery Powered Computers (www.batterpoweredcomputers.com) out of Sydney. Being parochial, I chose the QLD based supplier (plus they were $14 cheaper) and promptly ordered my NEO for $385 including postage and GST. It arrived within three days. My techno-head husband was somewhat bewildered as to why I would want something so, well, primitive. But sometimes less is indeed more.
Typing on the NEO is easy – the standard QWERTY keyboard applies, although it is a little smaller than the average laptop and may take just a bit of getting used to. The instant on/off feature is an absolute delight. No more waiting for my laptop to boot up. Come to think of it, my laptop is arrogant really, not allowing me to even type until it finishes thinking. In contrast, the NEO is ready to go literally within three seconds. The other night I had a visit from the middle-of-the-night writing fairy who gifted me with a poem. Rather than lying in bed, tossing the words about in the ocean of my brainwaves, I decided to get up and write them down. Then maybe I could get some sleep. I switched on my NEO and my laptop at the same time. Without a word of a lie I had finished typing my poem (about 40 lines) before my computer had finished booting up. I was back off to bed while my arrogant Sony Vaio was still contemplating its navel.
The NEO is also amazingly conservative when it comes to power usage. The unit runs for approximately 700 hours on three AA batteries. No, that’s not a typo. 700 hours.
There are eight files in which to store your work. That means I can be working on multiple topics at one time. Each file has approximately a 50 page capacity. I can switch effortlessly between the eight files simply by the push of a button.
Another great feature is the automatic save. You seriously cannot lose your data. I’ve even tried on purpose. Nope. Can’t be done. I turned the NEO off a nanosecond after I’d typed a letter…but when I turned it back on, the letter was there. There is no need to press SAVE or CRTL+S – it all happens as the words appear on the screen.
Speaking of which, the screen is tiny. It can be formatted to display between 2-6 lines, depending on what font you select. I have mine set to four. It doesn’t sound like much and at first I was a little nervous. But by keeping my screen to four lines I am forced to write in the moment. I can’t easily re-read the entire paragraph or page – that will have to wait till I dump the file onto my computer. In the meantime, I continue to write until I am finished. The NEO single-handedly silences my Inner Critic. She has no choice but to submit. When there are only four lines to see at a time, she hasn’t got much to say. Put to bed like a naughty child, she is told not to come out of her room until I say so.
So how do you transfer your unedited, raw first draft to your computer? It’s really simple. The NEO has two options – a USB cable which comes with the unit or via infrared – whichever you prefer. I just have to start my word processor (in my case Microsoft Word, but it works on Macs too), wait until the blank page is ready, and then connect my NEO via the USB cable. The NEO leads me through the rest, asking me which file I would like to transfer. I press SEND and the words begin to appear as if by magic. It’s not an instant dump of text into my Word document. Instead, it happens at the rate of an exceptionally fast typist, which I actually kind of like. It allows me time to re-read what it was I wrote at the start of the document twenty minutes ago and get a feel for the text as a whole. If you prefer, you could always go and make yourself a cup of coffee in celebration of getting to the end of your first draft and come back to find the text transfer complete. If you have multiple files to transfer into one document, you just transfer them one at a time – the text will be dumped to wherever you place your cursor on the page. It really is that easy.
I’m nearly to the end of my article, which of course I am writing on my NEO. I am about to dump the text across into Word and shamelessly edit. The Inner Critic can come out of her room and correct typos, check my tense, add and delete words and shuffle paragraphs to her heart’s content. But I have finished the article without a single interruption. That in itself is a miracle! I’ve done more writing in the weeks since I got my NEO than I have in the previous twelve months. It really has changed my life. And maybe, just maybe, it will enable me to get to the end of a novel one day instead of being stuck in the endless loop of trying to write the perfect first chapter.
And just so you know, there really will be a neophyte - or should I say, neofight – shortly…a writer friend is coming to visit and one NEO between two authors is simply not enough.
Friday, April 18, 2008
The Secret Service
It’s time for a change. You’re not sure why, but your nine to five job at the potter’s wheel just isn’t giving you the job satisfaction it used to. You’re feeling restless. You’re not sure what it is you want to do – something with a bit more excitement, a bit more risk. That’s when you spot it in the ‘Positions Vacant’ section of the Persian Times:
WANTED: Secret Service Agent. Loyal and trustworthy person required to serve in the palace of the King. Training will be provided. Must possess ability to stand perfectly still while looking interested at all times. Royal robes and handsome remuneration offered to the right man. All applications to be directed to King Artaxerxes.
Wow! This is it! The Secret Service. You couldn’t get much more exciting than that. And you’d get to work in the King’s palace, with the King himself, wearing royal robes. What an honour!
Of course you apply. You go through a gruelling interview process where you have to name the last thirty kings of Persia from tallest to shortest, and list the king’s 379 concubines in reverse alphabetical order. The psych test consists of some pretty straightforward questions: “Do you want to be King?” Check ‘NO’. “Are you planning on killing the King?” Ah, ‘NO’ again. Finally, your loyalty to the king is tested when you are asked if you are willing to lay your life on the line for His Majesty. You pass the tests with flying colours and humbly vow to serve the almighty King to the best of your ability as a member of the Secret Service.
You are well aware of the pitfalls and dangers of a position such as this. There are countless assassination plots at any one time. From straight out coups to subtle attacks, the king’s position is never safe. You imagine yourself protecting the King as he comes under fire from a hail of arrows, your bravery and skill displayed in a Crouching-Tiger-Hidden-Dragon-esque manouevre. As you fly through the air screaming a slow motion “Nooooooooooo!” you take an arrow in the chest for the King and die a hero.
You are overwhelmed when you are chosen to be The One. Out of all the applicants in the land, you are the man deemed fit to fulfil this important role. You bid a hasty goodbye to your family and skip merrily up to the palace door, presenting yourself for service.
You are treated with absolute honour. Firstly, you visit the tailor who whips up an outfit like you’ve never seen. If only that kid from school who used to laugh at your tattered sandals could see you now. Gold – real gold – lines your gown. Your extreme makeover continues with some accessories, a hair cut and some grooming tips on how to look your best at all times. After all, you’re in the public eye now. Paparazzi lurk at every corner.
Then comes the part you’ve been looking forward to most of all. Up until this point, no-one has said what it is you will actually be doing (that’s why it’s called the Secret Service). But now that you’ve cleared level 7 security checks, you’re about to find out. You’ve been working out lately and you know you’re looking ripped, so you’re expecting to be added to the list of the king’s personal bodyguards.
It is with great anticipations that one of the King’s advisors greets you and pronounces, “I now bestow upon you the instrument of your service, the tool through which you will ably and humbly serve your King.” Your heart is beating with sheer excitement. You’ve seen the swords those bodyguards carry and they are impressive. It lies on a cloth-covered table. Barely able to contain yourself, you shift from one foot to the other. Here it comes…
Like a child at Christmas you close your eyes and hold out your hands in anticipation. The aide places it in your hands with great pomp and ceremony. You open your eyes in wonder. You can’t believe it. Finally! You are a servant of the king. You hold in your hands…a cup. What? There must be some mistake. What happened to the spear, or the shield, or the bow? Wait a minute. You are going to hold a cup for the king? Surely not.
The realisation dawns on you. You are not part of the elite fighting force protecting the king. You are not going to march stoically beside him as he ventures outside the palace gates. No, you will stand, slightly to the left behind a veiled screen holding a cup. It is a pretty cup, this is true - gold, lots of jewels, engraved with the Kings’ seal. But it’s just a cup. You quickly run your hands over it, looking for the secret compartment that holds the weapon, but alas, it’s just a cup.
Apparently you are the Royal Cupbearer. Your disappointment is overwhelming. Your visions of grandeur are shattered. You’re going to be the pretty boy, dressed in finery, who stands silent all day behind a screen holding a cup. At some point during the day the king will grunt, or beckon or look slightly to the left and you will know that it is you he is seeking. Not because he is under attack and needs your expert fighting prowess. No, because he is thirsty. And you will pass him the cup, which he will put to his lips, then pass back to you again. It’s about as exciting as watching your fingernails grow – possibly less so.
Oh, and I forgot to mention – you could die at any moment. No, not from the sheer burden of carrying the king’s best golden goblet, but from poison. Any day now you could be writhing in agony on the floor, blood dripping from every crevice in your body. Just so you know. You see your job of the cupbearer is two fold. Yes, you pass the king his cup when he is thirsty. But here’s the catch - before you give it to him, you take a swig first. That’s right. Take a sip of what’s in the cup and count to ten. The king will be watching with interest.
It’s the Persian equivalent of being the President’s Chief Mail Opener. In the post-2001 terrorist era of white powder in the mail, it’s like being the one to personally open and lick all the president’s letters – just to see if that white powder really is anthrax – or icing sugar, as the case may be.
What a job. Cupbearer to the king. Impressive sounding, impressive looking, but not much chop really. Are you sure you want it?
The Bible tells the story of a cupbearer named Nehemiah. This was a guy who took his job seriously. Although he no doubt spent many boring hours standing like a sack of well dressed potatoes next to the king, he was a man of integrity, a man of principal. Royal cupbearer to the king may have been a poor second cousin to the real bodyguards who muscled and grunted their way around the palace, but a faithful cupbearer he would be. He took a job that had little going for it and made it his own. If that was what God was calling him to do, well then by golly he’d be the best he could be.
A few hundred years later, Jesus told a parable of the master and servants. There was a faithful servant who was left in charge of a small amount of money while his master was away. He took his job seriously and did the best he could with what he had. When the master returned, he praised him highly. “Well done, good and faithful servant! You have been faithful with a few things; I will put you in charge of many things. Come and share your master's happiness!” Matthew 25:21 (NIV).
The same thing happened to Nehemiah. He was in charge of something small, but he was true and honest and trustworthy. And God had big plans for him.
How long did he serve the king before he got his real assignment? I’m not sure, but it was long enough for the king to learn about Nehemiah’s character. It was Artaxerxes who noticed Nehemiah was unusually sad. The king was concerned about his friend and wanted to help. He listened to Nehemiah and gave him permission to go and supervise the rebuilding of the wall around Jerusalem. He also bundled him up with gifts and letters to ensure safe passage along the way. Rebuilding the wall around the Holy City? Now that was God’s big plan for Nehemiah.
What is God calling you to do right now? It might be something significant, or it might be something small. Either way, be faithful in what you do, because God has something in store for you. He needs faithful people who will help fulfil His plans. Are you up to the task??
WANTED: Secret Service Agent. Loyal and trustworthy person required to serve in the palace of the King. Training will be provided. Must possess ability to stand perfectly still while looking interested at all times. Royal robes and handsome remuneration offered to the right man. All applications to be directed to King Artaxerxes.
Wow! This is it! The Secret Service. You couldn’t get much more exciting than that. And you’d get to work in the King’s palace, with the King himself, wearing royal robes. What an honour!
Of course you apply. You go through a gruelling interview process where you have to name the last thirty kings of Persia from tallest to shortest, and list the king’s 379 concubines in reverse alphabetical order. The psych test consists of some pretty straightforward questions: “Do you want to be King?” Check ‘NO’. “Are you planning on killing the King?” Ah, ‘NO’ again. Finally, your loyalty to the king is tested when you are asked if you are willing to lay your life on the line for His Majesty. You pass the tests with flying colours and humbly vow to serve the almighty King to the best of your ability as a member of the Secret Service.
You are well aware of the pitfalls and dangers of a position such as this. There are countless assassination plots at any one time. From straight out coups to subtle attacks, the king’s position is never safe. You imagine yourself protecting the King as he comes under fire from a hail of arrows, your bravery and skill displayed in a Crouching-Tiger-Hidden-Dragon-esque manouevre. As you fly through the air screaming a slow motion “Nooooooooooo!” you take an arrow in the chest for the King and die a hero.
You are overwhelmed when you are chosen to be The One. Out of all the applicants in the land, you are the man deemed fit to fulfil this important role. You bid a hasty goodbye to your family and skip merrily up to the palace door, presenting yourself for service.
You are treated with absolute honour. Firstly, you visit the tailor who whips up an outfit like you’ve never seen. If only that kid from school who used to laugh at your tattered sandals could see you now. Gold – real gold – lines your gown. Your extreme makeover continues with some accessories, a hair cut and some grooming tips on how to look your best at all times. After all, you’re in the public eye now. Paparazzi lurk at every corner.
Then comes the part you’ve been looking forward to most of all. Up until this point, no-one has said what it is you will actually be doing (that’s why it’s called the Secret Service). But now that you’ve cleared level 7 security checks, you’re about to find out. You’ve been working out lately and you know you’re looking ripped, so you’re expecting to be added to the list of the king’s personal bodyguards.
It is with great anticipations that one of the King’s advisors greets you and pronounces, “I now bestow upon you the instrument of your service, the tool through which you will ably and humbly serve your King.” Your heart is beating with sheer excitement. You’ve seen the swords those bodyguards carry and they are impressive. It lies on a cloth-covered table. Barely able to contain yourself, you shift from one foot to the other. Here it comes…
Like a child at Christmas you close your eyes and hold out your hands in anticipation. The aide places it in your hands with great pomp and ceremony. You open your eyes in wonder. You can’t believe it. Finally! You are a servant of the king. You hold in your hands…a cup. What? There must be some mistake. What happened to the spear, or the shield, or the bow? Wait a minute. You are going to hold a cup for the king? Surely not.
The realisation dawns on you. You are not part of the elite fighting force protecting the king. You are not going to march stoically beside him as he ventures outside the palace gates. No, you will stand, slightly to the left behind a veiled screen holding a cup. It is a pretty cup, this is true - gold, lots of jewels, engraved with the Kings’ seal. But it’s just a cup. You quickly run your hands over it, looking for the secret compartment that holds the weapon, but alas, it’s just a cup.
Apparently you are the Royal Cupbearer. Your disappointment is overwhelming. Your visions of grandeur are shattered. You’re going to be the pretty boy, dressed in finery, who stands silent all day behind a screen holding a cup. At some point during the day the king will grunt, or beckon or look slightly to the left and you will know that it is you he is seeking. Not because he is under attack and needs your expert fighting prowess. No, because he is thirsty. And you will pass him the cup, which he will put to his lips, then pass back to you again. It’s about as exciting as watching your fingernails grow – possibly less so.
Oh, and I forgot to mention – you could die at any moment. No, not from the sheer burden of carrying the king’s best golden goblet, but from poison. Any day now you could be writhing in agony on the floor, blood dripping from every crevice in your body. Just so you know. You see your job of the cupbearer is two fold. Yes, you pass the king his cup when he is thirsty. But here’s the catch - before you give it to him, you take a swig first. That’s right. Take a sip of what’s in the cup and count to ten. The king will be watching with interest.
It’s the Persian equivalent of being the President’s Chief Mail Opener. In the post-2001 terrorist era of white powder in the mail, it’s like being the one to personally open and lick all the president’s letters – just to see if that white powder really is anthrax – or icing sugar, as the case may be.
What a job. Cupbearer to the king. Impressive sounding, impressive looking, but not much chop really. Are you sure you want it?
The Bible tells the story of a cupbearer named Nehemiah. This was a guy who took his job seriously. Although he no doubt spent many boring hours standing like a sack of well dressed potatoes next to the king, he was a man of integrity, a man of principal. Royal cupbearer to the king may have been a poor second cousin to the real bodyguards who muscled and grunted their way around the palace, but a faithful cupbearer he would be. He took a job that had little going for it and made it his own. If that was what God was calling him to do, well then by golly he’d be the best he could be.
A few hundred years later, Jesus told a parable of the master and servants. There was a faithful servant who was left in charge of a small amount of money while his master was away. He took his job seriously and did the best he could with what he had. When the master returned, he praised him highly. “Well done, good and faithful servant! You have been faithful with a few things; I will put you in charge of many things. Come and share your master's happiness!” Matthew 25:21 (NIV).
The same thing happened to Nehemiah. He was in charge of something small, but he was true and honest and trustworthy. And God had big plans for him.
How long did he serve the king before he got his real assignment? I’m not sure, but it was long enough for the king to learn about Nehemiah’s character. It was Artaxerxes who noticed Nehemiah was unusually sad. The king was concerned about his friend and wanted to help. He listened to Nehemiah and gave him permission to go and supervise the rebuilding of the wall around Jerusalem. He also bundled him up with gifts and letters to ensure safe passage along the way. Rebuilding the wall around the Holy City? Now that was God’s big plan for Nehemiah.
What is God calling you to do right now? It might be something significant, or it might be something small. Either way, be faithful in what you do, because God has something in store for you. He needs faithful people who will help fulfil His plans. Are you up to the task??
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Rosie's Glasses
Rosie only liked nice things. Sunshiney days, happy faces, laughing friends - Rosie liked them all.
But there were lots of things Rosie didn’t like – rain that wouldn’t stop falling, sad faces and angry, upset people.
Whenever she saw something that wasn’t nice, Rosie would put on her special pink glasses. Then she could pretend everything was lovely again.
When it was raining outside, Rosie put on her glasses and pretended to only see the sunshine…but she still got wet.
When Rosie felt sad she put on her glasses and pretended to feel happy again…but the tears still ran down her cheeks.
When her two friends, Elsie and Jemima, were fighting, Rosie put on her glasses and pretended they were playing and laughing together…but they were still cross and grumpy.
Rosie didn’t like feeling sad or lonely or hurt or scared. Her glasses made her feel safe.
But one day Rosie decided to be brave. She didn’t need her glasses anymore.
When it started to rain Rosie didn’t wish it was sunny. Instead, she splashed in the puddles under her stripy umbrella and counted the colours in the rainbow.
When Elsie’s rabbit died, Rosie didn’t put on her glasses and try to make Elsie smile. Instead, Rosie sat beside her and helped her cry.
When she accidentally broke her mum’s favourite plate, Rosie felt terrible. She wanted to put on her glasses and pretend that her mum wasn’t upset. Instead, she said sorry and helped clean up the mess.
Rosie still didn’t really like rainy days, sad faces or angry, upset people, but she was glad she didn’t have to pretend anymore. Now that Rosie was brave, she could see the beautiful rainbow… the friends who needed her…and the mess that she could help clean up.
And Rosie didn’t want it any other way.
But there were lots of things Rosie didn’t like – rain that wouldn’t stop falling, sad faces and angry, upset people.
Whenever she saw something that wasn’t nice, Rosie would put on her special pink glasses. Then she could pretend everything was lovely again.
When it was raining outside, Rosie put on her glasses and pretended to only see the sunshine…but she still got wet.
When Rosie felt sad she put on her glasses and pretended to feel happy again…but the tears still ran down her cheeks.
When her two friends, Elsie and Jemima, were fighting, Rosie put on her glasses and pretended they were playing and laughing together…but they were still cross and grumpy.
Rosie didn’t like feeling sad or lonely or hurt or scared. Her glasses made her feel safe.
But one day Rosie decided to be brave. She didn’t need her glasses anymore.
When it started to rain Rosie didn’t wish it was sunny. Instead, she splashed in the puddles under her stripy umbrella and counted the colours in the rainbow.
When Elsie’s rabbit died, Rosie didn’t put on her glasses and try to make Elsie smile. Instead, Rosie sat beside her and helped her cry.
When she accidentally broke her mum’s favourite plate, Rosie felt terrible. She wanted to put on her glasses and pretend that her mum wasn’t upset. Instead, she said sorry and helped clean up the mess.
Rosie still didn’t really like rainy days, sad faces or angry, upset people, but she was glad she didn’t have to pretend anymore. Now that Rosie was brave, she could see the beautiful rainbow… the friends who needed her…and the mess that she could help clean up.
And Rosie didn’t want it any other way.
Baby's Breathing?
I had a bizarre experience last night. Sitting on the couch I had my hand resting on my ginormous belly...a regular practice for me! I can't help but want to touch my beautiful baby boys and I love to feel them move.
Twin #2 sits highest on my belly and is closest to the surface. I feel him move much more frequently than my placid Twin #1. As usual, it was Twin #2 that I noticed. It was a really subtle, gentle movement. It suddenly occurred to me that it was just like I had my hand on his chest and he was breathing. It wasn't like the hiccups - both boys have those on an almost daily basis so I was certain this was different. It was gentle and rhythmic, a rise and fall.
I called Mike over and he too could feel the regular movement. It felt like breathing to him too. So we decided we had been privileged to feel our baby breathe in utero...
...until this morning when I sat down and thought about it - and of course, the obvious suddenly struck me - he can't breathe yet!! He has no need to breathe yet! There is no oxygen in the womb. So, what was this all about??
I have decided that he was practice breathing. Apparently, in utero babies swallow amniotic fluid and practise the breathing process. I think Twin #2 was doing exactly that. If anyone else has any wonderful explanations of this unique experience I'd love to hear from you!
Twin #2 sits highest on my belly and is closest to the surface. I feel him move much more frequently than my placid Twin #1. As usual, it was Twin #2 that I noticed. It was a really subtle, gentle movement. It suddenly occurred to me that it was just like I had my hand on his chest and he was breathing. It wasn't like the hiccups - both boys have those on an almost daily basis so I was certain this was different. It was gentle and rhythmic, a rise and fall.
I called Mike over and he too could feel the regular movement. It felt like breathing to him too. So we decided we had been privileged to feel our baby breathe in utero...
...until this morning when I sat down and thought about it - and of course, the obvious suddenly struck me - he can't breathe yet!! He has no need to breathe yet! There is no oxygen in the womb. So, what was this all about??
I have decided that he was practice breathing. Apparently, in utero babies swallow amniotic fluid and practise the breathing process. I think Twin #2 was doing exactly that. If anyone else has any wonderful explanations of this unique experience I'd love to hear from you!
The Writer's Shopping Mall
My local shopping centre provides a range of consumer experiences. From speciality stores to generic cheap shops, there is something for everyone. Writing is the same – from contemporary to classic, crafted to common, there is something for everyone. So as a writer, what shop am I?
Firstly, I can tell you what I’m not. I’m no Collette Dinnigan, that’s for sure. As much as I appreciate finery and lace, the haute couture is simply not my style. There are some writers who are highbrow and literary, advanced in their understanding of language and nuance…the company of which I would be grossly inferior to reside amongst. They are well-read or well-bred – or both – and wind their way effortlessly through the literary world. The Vogel award would be at home with the Dinnigan’s of the writing world. But alas, probably not with me.
So then we come to the next shop along our tour, a stark contrast to Collette Dinnigan…Bras ‘n’ Things. Hmmmm. As seductive as the window dressings always look, it’s simply not me. The most you’ll get from me is a hint of lace every now and then and a sexy silhouette. Some things are just better left to the imagination. Plus, my Mum might read it. Yet, there are those writers who delve deeply into the world of g-strings and push-up bras with great success. You just won’t find my name listed amongst them.
So what about the $2 shop? Call me proud, but I’m hoping that you won’t find me there either. The translation is often poor, the English appalling and the smell…it’s enough to turn me off before I even buy anything. Not that I’m a snob – remember, I’m no Collette Dinnigan – but I would like to think of myself slightly above the mass produced, exploitation based consumerism of the cheap shops.
The homewares shop with the beautiful dinner setting in the window? You may find me there occasionally, turning the practical into the beautiful, combining form and function. It is true, there are elements of me to be found amongst the shelves, but it’s all too narrow, too limiting, too perfect. For me to reside there would need to be a second-hand aisle with the chipped plates, dishwasher worn glasses and a few family heirlooms. I aspire to broader pastures where the crockery isn’t always sparkling.
The florist, with it’s beautiful ribbons, magnificent colours and aromas of decadence? I can appreciate it, but I can’t write it. Description has never been my thing. Some writers do it well with their flowery descriptions, but even the good ones can only hold my attention for so long. I like a few ribbons and bows as much as the next gal, but continue with the description of each individual gerbera petal and the subtle hues of the coral pink roses juxtaposed against the iridescent green of the leaves…and you’ll lose me.
So what does that leave for my shopping tour? There’s the shoe shops – once again a little too specific for my liking. I’m into practical but every now and again it’s time to launch into the world of the impractical – purely for the sake of it.
The music store? Possibly. I spent many years writing songs, so it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that you will find my work there, sung by someone else. Unless you read the CD covers and the fine print you’d be unlikely to recognise me.
The gamers shop? Definitely not. Fantasy and sci-fi just aren’t me. I like a good story and can live with odd names and unusual places as long as there’s a plot solidly built around relationships. Plus I like a good, healthy dose of reality. I can understand the need to escape, but reality always speaks so much more vividly to me than fantasy.
The coffee shop? Once again, you’re likely to find me there occasionally. The overheard conversations, the chance to observe and report on the body language on display – all of these are crucial to my writing. But I am not limited to relational tales of the surface level; the gossip that is shared over a celebrity magazine is simply not enough.. So yes, I will be there…but not in totality.
Maybe I’m a Target kind of girl. Like my wardrobe, my writing reflects the varied nature of a general store – a bit of this, a bit of that. Some poetry, mixed with a few short stories – and don’t go down the novel aisle just yet because it isn’t finished…and I’m not sure if it ever will be. The clothes are functional, perhaps a bit too similar to what you’ve already seen, but if you find the right accessories you might just get away with it. The price tag is reasonable and you are going to get what you expect. There will be a few surprises – like when you find something that you didn’t like on the rack but it looks great on you. It’s quite possible that’s where you’d find me a lot of the time. Accessible, unintimidating, friendly. A place you go to relax, but also to find just what you’re looking for.
The baby shop? You’ll definitely find me there. With three kids under three I couldn’t help but be. The fodder they provide me with is too good to not explore occasionally, but I am more than a mother, more than a parent. I am also a wife, a lover, an independent thinker. Don’t confine me to the baby shop alone…but do occasionally come and have a look at the gorgeous blue outfit that just makes you smile because it’s too cute and join me for a giggle.
But that’s not the sum total of me as a writer. I would like to think that when true inspiration strikes, you’ll actually find me in that little obscure shop tucked away in the corner. In my shopping centre it’s called Sobi. It has a slightly distinctive look and feel – not so out there you need a personality of enormous proportions to wear it, but different enough to be unique. It doesn’t shout, but it stands quietly and confidently in its identity. You know there’s not going to be thirty other people in the same outfit, yet the style is congruent with the trend. It has some off-centre things, some crocheted shrugs and your favourite paisleys. But most of all you can’t help but look each time you pass, just wondering what great little find you’re going to make this time. The racks never get boring, the stock is constantly changing. It’s a reflection of who you are and where you’re at. You’re not a high-class socialite with a budget to match; you’re not a no-name shopper without discernment. You’re somewhere in the middle where class meets individuality and sophistication meets style. And you know you’ll keep coming back because there’s just that undeniable x-factor, that special something that you can’t put your finger on. It’s bright and colourful without being gaudy. It’s trendy without being a slave to fashion. It has something that will bring out your best bits and let you gloss over those bits that everyone knows you have but you’d rather not see, let alone draw attention to.
So that’s who I am. That’s the sort of writer I want to be. Real, relevant, entertaining, enlightened and just a little bit quirky – just so you know it’s me.
Firstly, I can tell you what I’m not. I’m no Collette Dinnigan, that’s for sure. As much as I appreciate finery and lace, the haute couture is simply not my style. There are some writers who are highbrow and literary, advanced in their understanding of language and nuance…the company of which I would be grossly inferior to reside amongst. They are well-read or well-bred – or both – and wind their way effortlessly through the literary world. The Vogel award would be at home with the Dinnigan’s of the writing world. But alas, probably not with me.
So then we come to the next shop along our tour, a stark contrast to Collette Dinnigan…Bras ‘n’ Things. Hmmmm. As seductive as the window dressings always look, it’s simply not me. The most you’ll get from me is a hint of lace every now and then and a sexy silhouette. Some things are just better left to the imagination. Plus, my Mum might read it. Yet, there are those writers who delve deeply into the world of g-strings and push-up bras with great success. You just won’t find my name listed amongst them.
So what about the $2 shop? Call me proud, but I’m hoping that you won’t find me there either. The translation is often poor, the English appalling and the smell…it’s enough to turn me off before I even buy anything. Not that I’m a snob – remember, I’m no Collette Dinnigan – but I would like to think of myself slightly above the mass produced, exploitation based consumerism of the cheap shops.
The homewares shop with the beautiful dinner setting in the window? You may find me there occasionally, turning the practical into the beautiful, combining form and function. It is true, there are elements of me to be found amongst the shelves, but it’s all too narrow, too limiting, too perfect. For me to reside there would need to be a second-hand aisle with the chipped plates, dishwasher worn glasses and a few family heirlooms. I aspire to broader pastures where the crockery isn’t always sparkling.
The florist, with it’s beautiful ribbons, magnificent colours and aromas of decadence? I can appreciate it, but I can’t write it. Description has never been my thing. Some writers do it well with their flowery descriptions, but even the good ones can only hold my attention for so long. I like a few ribbons and bows as much as the next gal, but continue with the description of each individual gerbera petal and the subtle hues of the coral pink roses juxtaposed against the iridescent green of the leaves…and you’ll lose me.
So what does that leave for my shopping tour? There’s the shoe shops – once again a little too specific for my liking. I’m into practical but every now and again it’s time to launch into the world of the impractical – purely for the sake of it.
The music store? Possibly. I spent many years writing songs, so it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that you will find my work there, sung by someone else. Unless you read the CD covers and the fine print you’d be unlikely to recognise me.
The gamers shop? Definitely not. Fantasy and sci-fi just aren’t me. I like a good story and can live with odd names and unusual places as long as there’s a plot solidly built around relationships. Plus I like a good, healthy dose of reality. I can understand the need to escape, but reality always speaks so much more vividly to me than fantasy.
The coffee shop? Once again, you’re likely to find me there occasionally. The overheard conversations, the chance to observe and report on the body language on display – all of these are crucial to my writing. But I am not limited to relational tales of the surface level; the gossip that is shared over a celebrity magazine is simply not enough.. So yes, I will be there…but not in totality.
Maybe I’m a Target kind of girl. Like my wardrobe, my writing reflects the varied nature of a general store – a bit of this, a bit of that. Some poetry, mixed with a few short stories – and don’t go down the novel aisle just yet because it isn’t finished…and I’m not sure if it ever will be. The clothes are functional, perhaps a bit too similar to what you’ve already seen, but if you find the right accessories you might just get away with it. The price tag is reasonable and you are going to get what you expect. There will be a few surprises – like when you find something that you didn’t like on the rack but it looks great on you. It’s quite possible that’s where you’d find me a lot of the time. Accessible, unintimidating, friendly. A place you go to relax, but also to find just what you’re looking for.
The baby shop? You’ll definitely find me there. With three kids under three I couldn’t help but be. The fodder they provide me with is too good to not explore occasionally, but I am more than a mother, more than a parent. I am also a wife, a lover, an independent thinker. Don’t confine me to the baby shop alone…but do occasionally come and have a look at the gorgeous blue outfit that just makes you smile because it’s too cute and join me for a giggle.
But that’s not the sum total of me as a writer. I would like to think that when true inspiration strikes, you’ll actually find me in that little obscure shop tucked away in the corner. In my shopping centre it’s called Sobi. It has a slightly distinctive look and feel – not so out there you need a personality of enormous proportions to wear it, but different enough to be unique. It doesn’t shout, but it stands quietly and confidently in its identity. You know there’s not going to be thirty other people in the same outfit, yet the style is congruent with the trend. It has some off-centre things, some crocheted shrugs and your favourite paisleys. But most of all you can’t help but look each time you pass, just wondering what great little find you’re going to make this time. The racks never get boring, the stock is constantly changing. It’s a reflection of who you are and where you’re at. You’re not a high-class socialite with a budget to match; you’re not a no-name shopper without discernment. You’re somewhere in the middle where class meets individuality and sophistication meets style. And you know you’ll keep coming back because there’s just that undeniable x-factor, that special something that you can’t put your finger on. It’s bright and colourful without being gaudy. It’s trendy without being a slave to fashion. It has something that will bring out your best bits and let you gloss over those bits that everyone knows you have but you’d rather not see, let alone draw attention to.
So that’s who I am. That’s the sort of writer I want to be. Real, relevant, entertaining, enlightened and just a little bit quirky – just so you know it’s me.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
The Unutterable Phrase
The sheer audacity of the phrase terrifies me. I try it on for size. It fits - just like the black hounds-tooth dress with the velvet collar and cuffs I bought when I was seventeen. It was in the Myer store window. On my way to school each day I coveted that dress, yet somehow felt it was out of reach, out of my league. I tried the dress on three times before I plucked up the courage to buy it. The hemline was short, the cut striking. Could I really pull it off? Did it fit as well as I thought it did, or was I just fooling myself? Something inside proclaimed that with a pair of black seamed stocking and stilettos it would work…but what if it didn’t? What if, instead, there were whispers behind shielded faces - “She thinks she can get away with wearing that?!”?
Teacher. That’s a title I’m fine with. Someone gave me a piece of paper that says it’s so, so it must be so. I earned the right to claim it. It fits like the business suit I used to wear in interviews. Snug but stylish, confident but approachable. No-one can question my teacher status – although some past students may have tried. The confidence comes from the bestowal of the degree and the years of classroom experience. It is rightfully mine.
Wife? That took a bit of getting used to. It began as a pair of highly impractical yet beautifully made high-heels that I thought I was supposed to wear. I wobbled and fell. A lot. It wasn’t a good look. I ended up with a few blisters but eventually I made the role my own, like my favourite pair of cowboy boots. Easy to wear, my choice of attire and so practical – with a bit of sexy thrown in with leather and silver buckles.
Mother? Now that’s a title I wear with pride. Like my old ugg boots, worn and weathered it brings me comfort. I relish the warmth, the familiarity, the homeliness. It’s my safe place to fall and one of life’s greatest blessings.
But writer…I’m not so sure. It sounds so, so…pretentious. Do I have a rightful claim to the title? Can I really get away with saying it? True, words have always dominated my thoughts, my consciousness. To be honest, they have probably dominated everyone around me too. I’ve never had a shortage of them, never experienced a drought. But does that give me the right to use the word ‘writer’ in a self-description, or does it just suggest I am prone to dribble and drivel? Having a lot to say and having something worthwhile to say are often polar opposites.
Writing? Yes, I’ve done plenty, but always for a purpose, a reason. A narration, a eulogy, a farewell, a drama. I put my hand up. There were anniversaries, births, deaths, all set to the rhythm of my words. A poem or song was never far away. But those were private endeavours filled with sentimentality as much as skill.
Me, a writer? I harboured secret dreams as a child. I would live by the sea in a ramshackle yet quaint weatherboard house that would creak and groan in the winter storms. The ocean would be my inspiration and I would be content to live a life of solitude, surrounded only by the company of my endless supply of words…and possibly a cat. Maybe that’s part of the problem. I know I could never live a solitary life and I don’t particularly like cats. My dream of living by the sea was shattered, along with the illusion of being a writer.
I am a writer. There is such confidence in those words, such intent. It would invariably lead to other questions. What do you write? Have you been published? What are you working on now? “I don’t know,” “No,” and “I’m not sure,” just don’t seem to be sufficient. Right then and there I would be exposed as a fraud.
I like to write. I can live with that one. It doesn’t imply a great deal of skill or talent or finesse; it simply expresses the enjoyment of a hobby, a past-time. One may like to sing, but it doesn’t mean one can. There is no expectation, no judgement, no standard to be reached or exceeded. It’s just something I like to do, along with eating fairy floss and watching grass grow. But it doesn’t say enough.
It doesn’t convey the perpetual motion that comes when I allow the words to breathe. It doesn’t tell of the joy, the excitement and the single mindedness that comes when I write. No, it’s more than that. I don’t just like to write. Without words I would cease to be. Writing is an integral part of who I am.
Do I deny that I am Tasmanian by birth just to avoid the inevitable jokes? Sometimes, but most of the time I stand proudly. It’s an undeniable part of me. Do I argue that I’m not really that tall, or that I’m not really a mother? Of course not. It would be ludicrous to dispute the facts. (Although I did spend quite a few months slouching in high school to make my short boyfriend appear taller than he was…)
Why, then, do I deny that I am a writer? What stops me from proclaiming my soul to the world? Is it the fear of failure? Perhaps. Is it the fear of success? More likely. Just like the stares I got in my velvet cuffed dress from other big-haired girls, some are not comfortable with the success of others. It would mean I could be, would be criticised…possibly by those closest to me.
So what do I do? Do I continue to deny the power of the written and spoken word in my life, the amount of time I spend creating the perfect manuscript in my head whilst I’m busy doing more ‘meaningful’ things? Or do I surrender to the irrefutable knowledge that I am a writer. Not because of what I have had published; not because of the critical acclaim I have received for my work; not because of the income I derive from my passion (the sum total of which is zero). No, I am a writer because I breathe. It’s as simple as that.
It still feels like I’m wearing my big sister’s clothes, playing dress-ups and wobbling in heels too high for my immature legs. It feels like I’m trying to be grown up when I’m not, but over time I’m hoping I will grow into it. I’ve tried other outfits - what people want me to wear, expect me to wear, would like me to wear. But none of them were me. And so I have to trust that I am who I say I am. I need not fear reprisal or judgement or criticism – although all will undoubtedly come my way. Instead I hold firm to the knowledge of my authentic self, the person I was created to be.
I am overwhelmed by the privilege. I am humbled by the task ahead. But I will no longer deny it. I have come out of the closet.
I am a writer.
Teacher. That’s a title I’m fine with. Someone gave me a piece of paper that says it’s so, so it must be so. I earned the right to claim it. It fits like the business suit I used to wear in interviews. Snug but stylish, confident but approachable. No-one can question my teacher status – although some past students may have tried. The confidence comes from the bestowal of the degree and the years of classroom experience. It is rightfully mine.
Wife? That took a bit of getting used to. It began as a pair of highly impractical yet beautifully made high-heels that I thought I was supposed to wear. I wobbled and fell. A lot. It wasn’t a good look. I ended up with a few blisters but eventually I made the role my own, like my favourite pair of cowboy boots. Easy to wear, my choice of attire and so practical – with a bit of sexy thrown in with leather and silver buckles.
Mother? Now that’s a title I wear with pride. Like my old ugg boots, worn and weathered it brings me comfort. I relish the warmth, the familiarity, the homeliness. It’s my safe place to fall and one of life’s greatest blessings.
But writer…I’m not so sure. It sounds so, so…pretentious. Do I have a rightful claim to the title? Can I really get away with saying it? True, words have always dominated my thoughts, my consciousness. To be honest, they have probably dominated everyone around me too. I’ve never had a shortage of them, never experienced a drought. But does that give me the right to use the word ‘writer’ in a self-description, or does it just suggest I am prone to dribble and drivel? Having a lot to say and having something worthwhile to say are often polar opposites.
Writing? Yes, I’ve done plenty, but always for a purpose, a reason. A narration, a eulogy, a farewell, a drama. I put my hand up. There were anniversaries, births, deaths, all set to the rhythm of my words. A poem or song was never far away. But those were private endeavours filled with sentimentality as much as skill.
Me, a writer? I harboured secret dreams as a child. I would live by the sea in a ramshackle yet quaint weatherboard house that would creak and groan in the winter storms. The ocean would be my inspiration and I would be content to live a life of solitude, surrounded only by the company of my endless supply of words…and possibly a cat. Maybe that’s part of the problem. I know I could never live a solitary life and I don’t particularly like cats. My dream of living by the sea was shattered, along with the illusion of being a writer.
I am a writer. There is such confidence in those words, such intent. It would invariably lead to other questions. What do you write? Have you been published? What are you working on now? “I don’t know,” “No,” and “I’m not sure,” just don’t seem to be sufficient. Right then and there I would be exposed as a fraud.
I like to write. I can live with that one. It doesn’t imply a great deal of skill or talent or finesse; it simply expresses the enjoyment of a hobby, a past-time. One may like to sing, but it doesn’t mean one can. There is no expectation, no judgement, no standard to be reached or exceeded. It’s just something I like to do, along with eating fairy floss and watching grass grow. But it doesn’t say enough.
It doesn’t convey the perpetual motion that comes when I allow the words to breathe. It doesn’t tell of the joy, the excitement and the single mindedness that comes when I write. No, it’s more than that. I don’t just like to write. Without words I would cease to be. Writing is an integral part of who I am.
Do I deny that I am Tasmanian by birth just to avoid the inevitable jokes? Sometimes, but most of the time I stand proudly. It’s an undeniable part of me. Do I argue that I’m not really that tall, or that I’m not really a mother? Of course not. It would be ludicrous to dispute the facts. (Although I did spend quite a few months slouching in high school to make my short boyfriend appear taller than he was…)
Why, then, do I deny that I am a writer? What stops me from proclaiming my soul to the world? Is it the fear of failure? Perhaps. Is it the fear of success? More likely. Just like the stares I got in my velvet cuffed dress from other big-haired girls, some are not comfortable with the success of others. It would mean I could be, would be criticised…possibly by those closest to me.
So what do I do? Do I continue to deny the power of the written and spoken word in my life, the amount of time I spend creating the perfect manuscript in my head whilst I’m busy doing more ‘meaningful’ things? Or do I surrender to the irrefutable knowledge that I am a writer. Not because of what I have had published; not because of the critical acclaim I have received for my work; not because of the income I derive from my passion (the sum total of which is zero). No, I am a writer because I breathe. It’s as simple as that.
It still feels like I’m wearing my big sister’s clothes, playing dress-ups and wobbling in heels too high for my immature legs. It feels like I’m trying to be grown up when I’m not, but over time I’m hoping I will grow into it. I’ve tried other outfits - what people want me to wear, expect me to wear, would like me to wear. But none of them were me. And so I have to trust that I am who I say I am. I need not fear reprisal or judgement or criticism – although all will undoubtedly come my way. Instead I hold firm to the knowledge of my authentic self, the person I was created to be.
I am overwhelmed by the privilege. I am humbled by the task ahead. But I will no longer deny it. I have come out of the closet.
I am a writer.
The Code
“I can’t.”
“What do you mean you can’t?”
“Well…there’s this thing, and I kind of said I would go…”
“So you can’t.”
“Exactly. I’m sorry. I really want to, but I just don’t see…I mean I don’t want to let Frank down and then instead I’m letting you down and….ohhhhh.” I was hoping he’d let me off the hook, but it didn’t appear that was going to happen.
“Well if you had to let someone down, why d’you pick me?”
“I didn’t pick Frank if that’s what you’re asking. And that is what you’re asking, isn’t it?” I waited, the silence the only confirmation I needed. “It’s just the way it happened.”
“Ah hah.” The flatness of those two words spoke volumes.
“Oh I get it. You think that just because I said that it didn’t sound like my cup of tea, then I actually went out of my way to find an excuse not to go with you.” Silence. “Well, I didn’t, OK. Frank asked me, I completely forgot that this was on and it’s just one of those things.”
“I see. Just forget about it.”
“No, I’m not going to just forget about it. You said…”
“Just drop it, OK. I’m not in the mood.”
“So now it’s all about you is it? As usual we can’t even have a civil disagreement over something trivial without you…”
“Trivial?” He was standing now, scarf in hand. “You think this is trivial? Shows how much you know.”
“I know enough, thank you very much.”
“Oh do you just? You think you’re so clever, so high and mighty that you know enough. Well you don’t know squat!”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“If you know everything then why don’t you tell me?”
“You are a mongrel, you know that? You always twist everything I say. I said I was sorry right at the start, but noooooo, you had to keep going, keep pushing me until…”
“Until what? Until you snap like you usually do? Until you lose control and chuck a hissy fit? Why don’t you just grow up!”
“Me, grow up?? I can’t believe I’m hearing this! You want me to grow up?” I was standing now too. “Let me give you some free advice – I’m not the one who can’t hold down a job, OK?”
“Oh, so that’s what this is really about, hmmm? Another chance to take a dig at my work. Go on then, take a free shot. Give it your best.”
“Well you aren’t exactly beating down doors to get an interview are you?”
“What, so a man’s not allowed to take some time out every now and then? Fine.” He threw the remote control across the room. “I’ll start looking right now. In fact, I’d be glad to get another job. At least it would mean I wouldn’t have to put up with you.”
“Well go on then, be dramatic – you’re so good at it. And I hate to point out the obvious but exactly where do you think you’re going to find a job at 7:30 at night?”
“You have such a smart mouth, you know that? You just can’t help yourself. You have to have the last word.” We were toe to toe now.
“Oh I think that honour is actually one that you deserve – not me. What about last year? In September? Who had the last word then, hey? Did I challenge your stupid decision? No. I gave in for the sake of the code – just like I always do.”
“If life is so tough for you then why are you still here?”
“Sometimes I ask myself that very question…”
“Well let me make it easy for you…I’m done.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what I said. I’m done. I’m done with being treated like dirt and disrespected by a wannabe like you.”
“Wannabe? Puhlease! Surely you can do better than that.”
“You want better, baby? I’ll give you better. It’s over.”
“If you walk out that door don’t think for a moment that you’re coming back…”
“Fine by me.”
“I mean it. You can’t say that…that…stuff and then just expect to walk back in tomorrow morning and everything is back to normal…I mean it this time.” He threw me a withering look as he grabbed his jacket and walked out the door for the game.
Oh man. This is ridiculous. We’re going to get divorced over the code. I can’t help it if I like AFL more than Rugby League.
“What do you mean you can’t?”
“Well…there’s this thing, and I kind of said I would go…”
“So you can’t.”
“Exactly. I’m sorry. I really want to, but I just don’t see…I mean I don’t want to let Frank down and then instead I’m letting you down and….ohhhhh.” I was hoping he’d let me off the hook, but it didn’t appear that was going to happen.
“Well if you had to let someone down, why d’you pick me?”
“I didn’t pick Frank if that’s what you’re asking. And that is what you’re asking, isn’t it?” I waited, the silence the only confirmation I needed. “It’s just the way it happened.”
“Ah hah.” The flatness of those two words spoke volumes.
“Oh I get it. You think that just because I said that it didn’t sound like my cup of tea, then I actually went out of my way to find an excuse not to go with you.” Silence. “Well, I didn’t, OK. Frank asked me, I completely forgot that this was on and it’s just one of those things.”
“I see. Just forget about it.”
“No, I’m not going to just forget about it. You said…”
“Just drop it, OK. I’m not in the mood.”
“So now it’s all about you is it? As usual we can’t even have a civil disagreement over something trivial without you…”
“Trivial?” He was standing now, scarf in hand. “You think this is trivial? Shows how much you know.”
“I know enough, thank you very much.”
“Oh do you just? You think you’re so clever, so high and mighty that you know enough. Well you don’t know squat!”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“If you know everything then why don’t you tell me?”
“You are a mongrel, you know that? You always twist everything I say. I said I was sorry right at the start, but noooooo, you had to keep going, keep pushing me until…”
“Until what? Until you snap like you usually do? Until you lose control and chuck a hissy fit? Why don’t you just grow up!”
“Me, grow up?? I can’t believe I’m hearing this! You want me to grow up?” I was standing now too. “Let me give you some free advice – I’m not the one who can’t hold down a job, OK?”
“Oh, so that’s what this is really about, hmmm? Another chance to take a dig at my work. Go on then, take a free shot. Give it your best.”
“Well you aren’t exactly beating down doors to get an interview are you?”
“What, so a man’s not allowed to take some time out every now and then? Fine.” He threw the remote control across the room. “I’ll start looking right now. In fact, I’d be glad to get another job. At least it would mean I wouldn’t have to put up with you.”
“Well go on then, be dramatic – you’re so good at it. And I hate to point out the obvious but exactly where do you think you’re going to find a job at 7:30 at night?”
“You have such a smart mouth, you know that? You just can’t help yourself. You have to have the last word.” We were toe to toe now.
“Oh I think that honour is actually one that you deserve – not me. What about last year? In September? Who had the last word then, hey? Did I challenge your stupid decision? No. I gave in for the sake of the code – just like I always do.”
“If life is so tough for you then why are you still here?”
“Sometimes I ask myself that very question…”
“Well let me make it easy for you…I’m done.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what I said. I’m done. I’m done with being treated like dirt and disrespected by a wannabe like you.”
“Wannabe? Puhlease! Surely you can do better than that.”
“You want better, baby? I’ll give you better. It’s over.”
“If you walk out that door don’t think for a moment that you’re coming back…”
“Fine by me.”
“I mean it. You can’t say that…that…stuff and then just expect to walk back in tomorrow morning and everything is back to normal…I mean it this time.” He threw me a withering look as he grabbed his jacket and walked out the door for the game.
Oh man. This is ridiculous. We’re going to get divorced over the code. I can’t help it if I like AFL more than Rugby League.
Let There Be...
It wasn’t the light that drew me; it was the darkness beyond. A moth mesmerised, I sought you. Your light was easy to see. It was what you wanted me to see, what I wanted to see. But I knew the darkness that lay within. I pretended I didn’t know, sheltered my wings from the night – but I knew.
I was content to flutter around your halo, comfortable in the eerie glow you cast. But the darkness was always there, always encroaching, always enveloping. I was stronger than the darkness…or so I thought.
Why did I keep coming back again and again, knowing what I knew? Was I that weak, that desperate that a true angel of light I would not seek? But you needed me. You needed my light. Without my light you would be enveloped in darkness.
And I needed your darkness. For neither was complete without the other. What is a moth without a flame, night without day, good without evil? When I was with you I could believe that the darkness belonged to you and you alone. I could disown my blackness, make myself one dimensional, golden, safe. It was you who was dangerous. It was you who was dark. And beside your darkness I shone all the more. My brightness was only enhanced by your shadow. So in your shadow I dwelled – by choice or by design I know not.
Darkness has a way of diminishing the sum of the light. The strength, the energy, the power required to shine into the abyss drained away. I became disenchanted, oblivious to your light. I no longer just saw the darkness hovering beyond the light; the light itself dimmed and the darkness grew. I began to lose my soul, myself, my light to you. I had resisted my own darkness for so long, I had not the strength to resist yours as well. I was drowning.
I was lost to the darkness. The light that shone from me was willed into existence. It no longer shone from my soul, but from my consciousness. I still shone, that is true. But not quite so brightly, not quite so easily. I was light, but not authentic light.
At the point of despair I realised that I too had darkness beyond the light. The grief, the sorrow, the loss. I didn’t want the darkness, I didn’t understand the darkness. It surely could not be mine?
But until I claimed the darkness as my own I would never again rightfully possess the light within. It was hard and scary and painful. Darkness threatened to drown me once more – this time my own. The sheer depth within was terrifying. I couldn’t fight anymore. And so, I surrendered to the darkness within.
Surrender brought unexpected relief. The less I struggled, the looser the grip. The darkness was retreating, backing away, diminishing at my acceptance, my validation. It no longer needed to prove itself, to shout to be heard. It was content with a whisper.
And laws of nature directed the void it left behind be filled. It could only be filled by something equally as powerful. And thus the light returned. Slowly at first, it waited to be claimed, to be adopted once more as my own. The light and dark respectfully sought balance between themselves, the overlap defining who I was. There were no outbreaks of violence, no power struggle, no sabotage. Just a simple acknowledgement that one could not exist without the other. The light needed the darkness to shine; the dark needed the light to lurk. There were shadows and shades of grey, neither of which were possible without both darkness and light.
And so, dear one I am no longer simply drawn to the darkness beyond your light. Nor am I hypnotised by the light that emanates from within your being. Instead I am aware that you are both light and dark, shadow and shade, truth and lie. I have learned to celebrate your light, but not deny your darkness, embrace your golden embers and acknowledge your blackness. But I have learned something even more important, more precious. No longer do I need your darkness to shine brightly. I have my own. I too am darkness and light, shadow and shade, truth and lie. For until I claimed the darkness, I could not claim the light. My darkness. My light. My authentic light. Like a moth to a flame I am drawn to you. Let there be light.
I was content to flutter around your halo, comfortable in the eerie glow you cast. But the darkness was always there, always encroaching, always enveloping. I was stronger than the darkness…or so I thought.
Why did I keep coming back again and again, knowing what I knew? Was I that weak, that desperate that a true angel of light I would not seek? But you needed me. You needed my light. Without my light you would be enveloped in darkness.
And I needed your darkness. For neither was complete without the other. What is a moth without a flame, night without day, good without evil? When I was with you I could believe that the darkness belonged to you and you alone. I could disown my blackness, make myself one dimensional, golden, safe. It was you who was dangerous. It was you who was dark. And beside your darkness I shone all the more. My brightness was only enhanced by your shadow. So in your shadow I dwelled – by choice or by design I know not.
Darkness has a way of diminishing the sum of the light. The strength, the energy, the power required to shine into the abyss drained away. I became disenchanted, oblivious to your light. I no longer just saw the darkness hovering beyond the light; the light itself dimmed and the darkness grew. I began to lose my soul, myself, my light to you. I had resisted my own darkness for so long, I had not the strength to resist yours as well. I was drowning.
I was lost to the darkness. The light that shone from me was willed into existence. It no longer shone from my soul, but from my consciousness. I still shone, that is true. But not quite so brightly, not quite so easily. I was light, but not authentic light.
At the point of despair I realised that I too had darkness beyond the light. The grief, the sorrow, the loss. I didn’t want the darkness, I didn’t understand the darkness. It surely could not be mine?
But until I claimed the darkness as my own I would never again rightfully possess the light within. It was hard and scary and painful. Darkness threatened to drown me once more – this time my own. The sheer depth within was terrifying. I couldn’t fight anymore. And so, I surrendered to the darkness within.
Surrender brought unexpected relief. The less I struggled, the looser the grip. The darkness was retreating, backing away, diminishing at my acceptance, my validation. It no longer needed to prove itself, to shout to be heard. It was content with a whisper.
And laws of nature directed the void it left behind be filled. It could only be filled by something equally as powerful. And thus the light returned. Slowly at first, it waited to be claimed, to be adopted once more as my own. The light and dark respectfully sought balance between themselves, the overlap defining who I was. There were no outbreaks of violence, no power struggle, no sabotage. Just a simple acknowledgement that one could not exist without the other. The light needed the darkness to shine; the dark needed the light to lurk. There were shadows and shades of grey, neither of which were possible without both darkness and light.
And so, dear one I am no longer simply drawn to the darkness beyond your light. Nor am I hypnotised by the light that emanates from within your being. Instead I am aware that you are both light and dark, shadow and shade, truth and lie. I have learned to celebrate your light, but not deny your darkness, embrace your golden embers and acknowledge your blackness. But I have learned something even more important, more precious. No longer do I need your darkness to shine brightly. I have my own. I too am darkness and light, shadow and shade, truth and lie. For until I claimed the darkness, I could not claim the light. My darkness. My light. My authentic light. Like a moth to a flame I am drawn to you. Let there be light.
Supply and Demand
Words, words
Always too many words
White noise static
A cacophony a caucus
A raucous relentless ranting
In the depths of my mindlessness
An abundance of words in short supply
A ramble a rumble of words
A jangle a jumble of words
Tumbling twisting turning the page
Winding wending their way to my fingertips
Gentle now gentle
Coax them caress them woo them
The weft and warp of the weaver’s loom
Allow them to relax to rest
To be to believe
That there is room for all words
That all words are created equal
Every word is welcome and wanted
Allow them to breathe
To prove
To grow
Gentle now gentle
Wait….
Wait…
Now cull
Cull!
Eradicate erase annihilate
Show no mercy
No sacrifice is too great
To survive all must die
Crucify to resurrect
Slaughter mercilessly for it was a lie
All words are not created equal
Demand perfection
Demand perfection
A ramble a rumble of words
A jangle a jumble of words
Tumbling twisting turning the page
Too many words always too many words
An abundance in short supply
Supply and demand
Demand and supply
Supply and demand the right words
Always too many words
White noise static
A cacophony a caucus
A raucous relentless ranting
In the depths of my mindlessness
An abundance of words in short supply
A ramble a rumble of words
A jangle a jumble of words
Tumbling twisting turning the page
Winding wending their way to my fingertips
Gentle now gentle
Coax them caress them woo them
The weft and warp of the weaver’s loom
Allow them to relax to rest
To be to believe
That there is room for all words
That all words are created equal
Every word is welcome and wanted
Allow them to breathe
To prove
To grow
Gentle now gentle
Wait….
Wait…
Now cull
Cull!
Eradicate erase annihilate
Show no mercy
No sacrifice is too great
To survive all must die
Crucify to resurrect
Slaughter mercilessly for it was a lie
All words are not created equal
Demand perfection
Demand perfection
A ramble a rumble of words
A jangle a jumble of words
Tumbling twisting turning the page
Too many words always too many words
An abundance in short supply
Supply and demand
Demand and supply
Supply and demand the right words
The Three R's
It is said that there are three r’s
Reading ‘riting and ‘rithmetic
Rong.
The three r’s are in fact rumbling, ranting and ‘riting
The rumbling begins
An idea germinates in the hydroponic hothouse of your mind
A phrase here
A picture there
And so the words begin to grow
Slowly at first
Often vanishing just as quietly
Until one word, one phrase
Is written in flashing neon lights
And thus the ranting ignites
Building to a crescendo at terrifying speed
Words, words and more words
Jostling for prime position
Ricocheting through the silence of the night
Phrases and fragments
Similes and sentences
Metaphors and musings
Merging into a life force
A roar that cannot be ignored
A roar so intense it must be heard
And so we come to the last of the three r’s
(Which is not really an r at all)
Riting…or writing if you would prefer
Unable to hold back the floodgates any longer the author submits to the words
They spill out onto the page,
Viscous
Slippery
And undeniably untamed
Sweet relief!
And so the agony is over…
Or has it really just begun?
For it is an unmistakeable fact that there is a fourth, lesser known r
It is a poor cousin to the three r’s
Almost unwelcome in attendance
It bears not the excitement, the new birth of rumbling
Nor the perpetual energy of ranting
It brings not the relief of ‘riting
It is simply hard work.
Refining.
It’s almost a dirty word.
Reading ‘riting and ‘rithmetic
Rong.
The three r’s are in fact rumbling, ranting and ‘riting
The rumbling begins
An idea germinates in the hydroponic hothouse of your mind
A phrase here
A picture there
And so the words begin to grow
Slowly at first
Often vanishing just as quietly
Until one word, one phrase
Is written in flashing neon lights
And thus the ranting ignites
Building to a crescendo at terrifying speed
Words, words and more words
Jostling for prime position
Ricocheting through the silence of the night
Phrases and fragments
Similes and sentences
Metaphors and musings
Merging into a life force
A roar that cannot be ignored
A roar so intense it must be heard
And so we come to the last of the three r’s
(Which is not really an r at all)
Riting…or writing if you would prefer
Unable to hold back the floodgates any longer the author submits to the words
They spill out onto the page,
Viscous
Slippery
And undeniably untamed
Sweet relief!
And so the agony is over…
Or has it really just begun?
For it is an unmistakeable fact that there is a fourth, lesser known r
It is a poor cousin to the three r’s
Almost unwelcome in attendance
It bears not the excitement, the new birth of rumbling
Nor the perpetual energy of ranting
It brings not the relief of ‘riting
It is simply hard work.
Refining.
It’s almost a dirty word.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Glow
I could hear the glow across the room. The luminescence caressed my ears and drew me in. There was a warmth, a gentle crackle that invited me to search, to look. I knew she was here. Somewhere.
The crowded room was a hub-bub of noise, a gaggle of words and movement. It was hard to see her. She was just a waif, a will-o-wisp that melted into the cacophony. I had seen her once before, but like so many others she was just a faceless name, a nameless face. In a place where the days blended into one long nightmare, it was hard to distinguish just one soul.
“Number 342987,” I called. The line in front of me shuffled forward en masse, a human caterpillar that never seemed to run out of legs. No response. Louder this time. “Number 342987.” The desert of faces stared back at me blankly. I held up a sign with the numbers clearly displayed. Worried brows compared their page to mine, until finally, an old man appeared. He was hunched and wrinkled from a thousand days in the sun.
I motioned for him to approach. “Number 342987?” He nodded and handed me his grey card, crumpled from the long journey. I examined him and his card closely. There was no date of birth. And so I bestowed upon him the first gift he would receive from my country – a birthday. April 16. I studied him more closely. Age was hard to determine when a life had been marred by this much tragedy, this much pain. 1945. That would do. “You’re 63,” I said with a smile. He nodded, clearly not understanding.
He watched nervously as I reached for my stamp. Side by side, they were the determinants of destiny. One signified freedom, or at least the chance of freedom. The other was a death warrant. We never said as such, but we knew. His English was non-existent, but every traveller in this room knew the difference between life and death, the red stamp and the green one. I emblazoned ACCEPTED across his card and returned it to him. His toothless smile emerged from its hiding place as he ran his fingers over his precious card. The green ink smudged proudly on his fingers.
I motioned him away from my desk. The human caterpillar shuffled forward once more. “Number 342988.”
The next day continued as did the last, with little to bring to my attention except the depth of need, the depth of sorrow, the depth of desperation experienced by the numbers in front of me. Immersed in the mechanics of stamping red, green, green red, red, red, green, I was suddenly jolted. She was here again.
It took me a few seconds to find her. She was small and gangly. Her face was not dissimilar to the thousand other faces I saw everyday. She was an urchin, a waif. Nobody’s child. In the weeks I had been here I had never seen her with anyone. No adult had caressed her, no child had played with her. She had simply appeared each day, then disappeared back to the camp in the evening.
I placed a sign on my desk and stood up to stretch. Break time. It was a little earlier than usual but I was compelled to find out more about her. Snaking my way through the quagmire of people, I reached the point where I had last seen her just a few moments before. But she was gone. The glow was testament to her presence, but she herself had vanished. I ran my fingers through the remaining particles, their soft timbre welcomed by my ears. I thought I caught a glimpse of her ragged dress and strained to look, but she was gone.
The processing continued unabated. The line was never shorter than it was on that first day. The decisions became mechanical, detached, unimportant. The pleading eyes of those who presented themselves did not need interpretation. The eyes shouted, screamed for mercy. “Please!” they all begged. “Please let me stay.” But there were quotas, there were numbers, there were rules. Occasionally I wasn’t sure and would call over the uniformed superintendent for clarification. One mother attempted to stifle the wracking cough of her small child, but I had heard enough. DENIED. Drops of blood dripped from the page, tears mingled with red ink. A small part of me winced, knowing what their combined fate would be, but it was out of my hands. I was just doing my job.
I took to eating my lunch in the windowed room above the gallery. I wanted to see her again. Sure enough, my vantage point offered a commanding view. And I did see her. She glided amongst her fellow refugees with a grace and gentleness I had rarely seen. No-one spoke to her, no-one claimed her. I don’t think anyone even saw her. She was just another lost child. There were so many, they themselves were unable to differentiate one from the other.
Her pitiful dress grew more ragged each day. She moved with her hands in her pockets and through the rotting strands of material I could see her fists were clenched tight. She was holding on to something tight. The glow. It wasn’t always present. Sometimes I had to look twice just to make sure it was her – without the glow I was uncertain. But then I would see it. The glow. Just a glimmer sometimes, at other times a bright burning flame. I appeared to be the only one surprised – perhaps I was the only one who noticed.
I came across her once, on my walk from the lunchroom to my desk. For the briefest of moments she was there, in front of me. Involuntarily, I drew breath. My gasp caught her attention and for a split second, I held her gaze. She didn’t smile, she didn’t speak. But in her eyes I it was unmistakeable. The glow. And then she was gone. It happened so quickly I began to wonder if I had dreamed the whole thing.
But then the lines began to diminish. The ships stopped appearing. The people stopped coming. Word had spread that red was as common as the blood that had been spilled. Pirates captained their ships to other ports, in hope of finding a pasture of lush green. They wouldn’t find that here.
The human caterpillar shrunk, and shrivelled until at last there were just a few stragglers left. The processors were sent home, one by one, until it was just I who remained. In the end, it was me…and her.
I had run out of numbers. She was not on my list. But still she stood in front of me, eyes defiant. In the weeks, no months, that I had been here I had never seen her stand still. But there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. She was exposed, she was raw. And she was in front of me.
I motioned for her to come forward. Her tight fists bulged in her threadbare pockets. The luminescent dust decorated her skirt.
I motioned again. “What is your name?” I whispered as she came close. She took a deep breath and drew herself up to her full, unimpressive height. Shoulders back, those eyes flamed at me once more.
“El ayami per Tala,” she said. I had learned enough not to need an interpreter. Tala. My name is Hope.
The crowded room was a hub-bub of noise, a gaggle of words and movement. It was hard to see her. She was just a waif, a will-o-wisp that melted into the cacophony. I had seen her once before, but like so many others she was just a faceless name, a nameless face. In a place where the days blended into one long nightmare, it was hard to distinguish just one soul.
“Number 342987,” I called. The line in front of me shuffled forward en masse, a human caterpillar that never seemed to run out of legs. No response. Louder this time. “Number 342987.” The desert of faces stared back at me blankly. I held up a sign with the numbers clearly displayed. Worried brows compared their page to mine, until finally, an old man appeared. He was hunched and wrinkled from a thousand days in the sun.
I motioned for him to approach. “Number 342987?” He nodded and handed me his grey card, crumpled from the long journey. I examined him and his card closely. There was no date of birth. And so I bestowed upon him the first gift he would receive from my country – a birthday. April 16. I studied him more closely. Age was hard to determine when a life had been marred by this much tragedy, this much pain. 1945. That would do. “You’re 63,” I said with a smile. He nodded, clearly not understanding.
He watched nervously as I reached for my stamp. Side by side, they were the determinants of destiny. One signified freedom, or at least the chance of freedom. The other was a death warrant. We never said as such, but we knew. His English was non-existent, but every traveller in this room knew the difference between life and death, the red stamp and the green one. I emblazoned ACCEPTED across his card and returned it to him. His toothless smile emerged from its hiding place as he ran his fingers over his precious card. The green ink smudged proudly on his fingers.
I motioned him away from my desk. The human caterpillar shuffled forward once more. “Number 342988.”
The next day continued as did the last, with little to bring to my attention except the depth of need, the depth of sorrow, the depth of desperation experienced by the numbers in front of me. Immersed in the mechanics of stamping red, green, green red, red, red, green, I was suddenly jolted. She was here again.
It took me a few seconds to find her. She was small and gangly. Her face was not dissimilar to the thousand other faces I saw everyday. She was an urchin, a waif. Nobody’s child. In the weeks I had been here I had never seen her with anyone. No adult had caressed her, no child had played with her. She had simply appeared each day, then disappeared back to the camp in the evening.
I placed a sign on my desk and stood up to stretch. Break time. It was a little earlier than usual but I was compelled to find out more about her. Snaking my way through the quagmire of people, I reached the point where I had last seen her just a few moments before. But she was gone. The glow was testament to her presence, but she herself had vanished. I ran my fingers through the remaining particles, their soft timbre welcomed by my ears. I thought I caught a glimpse of her ragged dress and strained to look, but she was gone.
The processing continued unabated. The line was never shorter than it was on that first day. The decisions became mechanical, detached, unimportant. The pleading eyes of those who presented themselves did not need interpretation. The eyes shouted, screamed for mercy. “Please!” they all begged. “Please let me stay.” But there were quotas, there were numbers, there were rules. Occasionally I wasn’t sure and would call over the uniformed superintendent for clarification. One mother attempted to stifle the wracking cough of her small child, but I had heard enough. DENIED. Drops of blood dripped from the page, tears mingled with red ink. A small part of me winced, knowing what their combined fate would be, but it was out of my hands. I was just doing my job.
I took to eating my lunch in the windowed room above the gallery. I wanted to see her again. Sure enough, my vantage point offered a commanding view. And I did see her. She glided amongst her fellow refugees with a grace and gentleness I had rarely seen. No-one spoke to her, no-one claimed her. I don’t think anyone even saw her. She was just another lost child. There were so many, they themselves were unable to differentiate one from the other.
Her pitiful dress grew more ragged each day. She moved with her hands in her pockets and through the rotting strands of material I could see her fists were clenched tight. She was holding on to something tight. The glow. It wasn’t always present. Sometimes I had to look twice just to make sure it was her – without the glow I was uncertain. But then I would see it. The glow. Just a glimmer sometimes, at other times a bright burning flame. I appeared to be the only one surprised – perhaps I was the only one who noticed.
I came across her once, on my walk from the lunchroom to my desk. For the briefest of moments she was there, in front of me. Involuntarily, I drew breath. My gasp caught her attention and for a split second, I held her gaze. She didn’t smile, she didn’t speak. But in her eyes I it was unmistakeable. The glow. And then she was gone. It happened so quickly I began to wonder if I had dreamed the whole thing.
But then the lines began to diminish. The ships stopped appearing. The people stopped coming. Word had spread that red was as common as the blood that had been spilled. Pirates captained their ships to other ports, in hope of finding a pasture of lush green. They wouldn’t find that here.
The human caterpillar shrunk, and shrivelled until at last there were just a few stragglers left. The processors were sent home, one by one, until it was just I who remained. In the end, it was me…and her.
I had run out of numbers. She was not on my list. But still she stood in front of me, eyes defiant. In the weeks, no months, that I had been here I had never seen her stand still. But there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. She was exposed, she was raw. And she was in front of me.
I motioned for her to come forward. Her tight fists bulged in her threadbare pockets. The luminescent dust decorated her skirt.
I motioned again. “What is your name?” I whispered as she came close. She took a deep breath and drew herself up to her full, unimpressive height. Shoulders back, those eyes flamed at me once more.
“El ayami per Tala,” she said. I had learned enough not to need an interpreter. Tala. My name is Hope.
Monday, April 14, 2008
A Frog In My Throat
Hi everyone
Just wanted to get some feedback on a short story I've written for kids. Imagine you're a 10-year-old boy and see if you find this amusing...I'd love to hear from you.
Just wanted to get some feedback on a short story I've written for kids. Imagine you're a 10-year-old boy and see if you find this amusing...I'd love to hear from you.
A Frog in My Throat
It was just another ordinary day. I woke up in the same house, in the same street, in the same bed as I always did. But then things got weird. Really weird. Like you-won’t-believe-what-I’m-about-to-tell-you-but-it-really-happened kind of weird. It was the day I got a frog in my throat. Seriously. I really got a frog in my throat.
It all started when Mum came in to wake me up. She knocked on my door, opened it and said a cheery, “Good morning, Gilbert,” as she threw back the curtains. I went to say a sleepy good morning back, but nothing came out. Mum glanced at me as she walked out of my room and said, “What’s the matter, Gilbert? Got a frog in your throat?”
At that exact moment, I really did feel a lump in my throat. A wriggling lump. A lump that had arms and legs. I started to panic as the lump crawled up my throat, tickled past my tonsils and hopped onto my tongue. I opened my mouth wide to scream, but nothing came out…except a little, green frog.
My little sister, Debra, happened to be walking past my room at that exact moment and caught sight of the frog hopping out my door. “Mum!” she yelled from the top of the stairs. “Gilbert had a frog in his room!” She dobbed on me every chance she got.
“Gilbert!” I knew I was in trouble from the way Mum said my name, and it wasn’t even seven o’clock yet. What a way to start the day.
Things got worse over breakfast. While Mum had her back turned, I glared at Debra. I was so distracted I didn’t hear Dad come in from his morning walk. He must have asked me a question, because the next thing I knew he was standing behind me. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “What’s the matter, Gilbert? A cat got your tongue?”
Before I knew what had happened, there was something in my mouth again. But this time instead of being cold and slimy, it was soft and fluffy. It wriggled a lot and had really sharp teeth and claws. Worst of all, it was attached to my tongue! Debra’s eyes were as big as saucers. There was a cat attached to the end of my tongue!
After about five seconds, the cat relaxed its grip and dropped into my cereal bowl with a splash, before high-tailing it out the kitchen door. Debra was still staring, her mouth wide open, with a spoonful of cereal suspended in front of her. Mum hadn’t seen the cat. Phew! But she did notice that I’d made a mess with my cereal. “For goodness sake, Gilbert! Please be a bit more careful.” She looked at Debra, frozen like a statue. “And hurry up, Debra. Finish your cereal or you’ll miss the bus.” Debra opened her mouth to dob on me again, but was so surprised she closed it and didn’t say a word.
I couldn’t wait to get out of the house. Hopefully at school things would be normal again. I got dressed in record time, brushed my teeth for twice as long as usual and grabbed my lunch off the bench on the way out. “Bye Mum!” I called, as the front door shut behind me with a thud.
Van and Thomas were waiting at the bus stop for me as usual. The bus was running late and Mr Howard, the bus driver was anxious to get everyone on board. “Hurry up, you lot,” he grumbled. Van and Thomas got on ahead of me, while I fumbled around in my bag looking for my ticket. I knew it was in there somewhere…among the old chip packets, the half eaten sandwich and the crumpled up note I forgot to give Mum.
Everyone was on the bus now, except me. I stood on the top step, still searching through my bag. Mr Howard glared at me. “I said hurry up! I don’t know, you young people today. It’s like talking to a brick wall.”
As he craned his neck out the window waiting for a break in the traffic, I felt the now familiar feeling. Oh no, it was happening again! There, on the top step of the bus, I turned into a brick wall. Row after row of red bricks cemented themselves around me until I was completely covered. The noisy bus suddenly became very quiet and everyone stared straight at me. Van leant forward to speak. I saw his lips moving, but I couldn’t hear a thing. I guess brick walls don’t have ears. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the brick wall vanished and I was left standing there with my bus ticket in my left hand and a single red brick in my right. Mr Howard looked at me again. “For goodness sake, put your ticket in the machine and go and sit down,” he ordered. “And put that brick away. The things you kids have in your school bags never ceases to amaze me…”
I mumbled a quiet ‘sorry’ as I shoved the brick in my bag and went and sat in the first seat I could find. Nobody spoke a word to me for the rest of the trip.
At school I waited by myself outside the classroom until the bell went. I was too scared to look at anyone or say a word. Three weird events already today – what else could go wrong?
Sitting at my desk, I tried to concentrate on what Miss Walker was saying. We were in the middle of maths – my favourite subject – but today I just couldn’t focus. I was supposed to be copying down multiplication problems from the board. Instead I kept coughing, trying to get rid of the fur ball stuck in my throat from the cat who got my tongue. I also noticed that my jumper was covered in little bits of cement from the brick wall, so I quietly picked at my sleeves. “Gilbert, will you get back to work please,” said Miss Walker, frowning. She’d already spoken to me twice before.
“Sorry,” I replied, as I tried to concentrate on problem number six. I wriggled around on my chair and took a sip out of my water bottle, trying to get comfortable. Miss Walker looked at me disapprovingly.
“I’m not sure what’s gotten into you today, Gilbert. You are normally the first one finished.” She turned to walk to the whiteboard and said over her shoulder, “It seems to me that you’ve got ants in your pants.”
I groaned. This was not going to be good.
It was just another ordinary day. I woke up in the same house, in the same street, in the same bed as I always did. But then things got weird. Really weird. Like you-won’t-believe-what-I’m-about-to-tell-you-but-it-really-happened kind of weird. It was the day I got a frog in my throat. Seriously. I really got a frog in my throat.
It all started when Mum came in to wake me up. She knocked on my door, opened it and said a cheery, “Good morning, Gilbert,” as she threw back the curtains. I went to say a sleepy good morning back, but nothing came out. Mum glanced at me as she walked out of my room and said, “What’s the matter, Gilbert? Got a frog in your throat?”
At that exact moment, I really did feel a lump in my throat. A wriggling lump. A lump that had arms and legs. I started to panic as the lump crawled up my throat, tickled past my tonsils and hopped onto my tongue. I opened my mouth wide to scream, but nothing came out…except a little, green frog.
My little sister, Debra, happened to be walking past my room at that exact moment and caught sight of the frog hopping out my door. “Mum!” she yelled from the top of the stairs. “Gilbert had a frog in his room!” She dobbed on me every chance she got.
“Gilbert!” I knew I was in trouble from the way Mum said my name, and it wasn’t even seven o’clock yet. What a way to start the day.
Things got worse over breakfast. While Mum had her back turned, I glared at Debra. I was so distracted I didn’t hear Dad come in from his morning walk. He must have asked me a question, because the next thing I knew he was standing behind me. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “What’s the matter, Gilbert? A cat got your tongue?”
Before I knew what had happened, there was something in my mouth again. But this time instead of being cold and slimy, it was soft and fluffy. It wriggled a lot and had really sharp teeth and claws. Worst of all, it was attached to my tongue! Debra’s eyes were as big as saucers. There was a cat attached to the end of my tongue!
After about five seconds, the cat relaxed its grip and dropped into my cereal bowl with a splash, before high-tailing it out the kitchen door. Debra was still staring, her mouth wide open, with a spoonful of cereal suspended in front of her. Mum hadn’t seen the cat. Phew! But she did notice that I’d made a mess with my cereal. “For goodness sake, Gilbert! Please be a bit more careful.” She looked at Debra, frozen like a statue. “And hurry up, Debra. Finish your cereal or you’ll miss the bus.” Debra opened her mouth to dob on me again, but was so surprised she closed it and didn’t say a word.
I couldn’t wait to get out of the house. Hopefully at school things would be normal again. I got dressed in record time, brushed my teeth for twice as long as usual and grabbed my lunch off the bench on the way out. “Bye Mum!” I called, as the front door shut behind me with a thud.
Van and Thomas were waiting at the bus stop for me as usual. The bus was running late and Mr Howard, the bus driver was anxious to get everyone on board. “Hurry up, you lot,” he grumbled. Van and Thomas got on ahead of me, while I fumbled around in my bag looking for my ticket. I knew it was in there somewhere…among the old chip packets, the half eaten sandwich and the crumpled up note I forgot to give Mum.
Everyone was on the bus now, except me. I stood on the top step, still searching through my bag. Mr Howard glared at me. “I said hurry up! I don’t know, you young people today. It’s like talking to a brick wall.”
As he craned his neck out the window waiting for a break in the traffic, I felt the now familiar feeling. Oh no, it was happening again! There, on the top step of the bus, I turned into a brick wall. Row after row of red bricks cemented themselves around me until I was completely covered. The noisy bus suddenly became very quiet and everyone stared straight at me. Van leant forward to speak. I saw his lips moving, but I couldn’t hear a thing. I guess brick walls don’t have ears. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the brick wall vanished and I was left standing there with my bus ticket in my left hand and a single red brick in my right. Mr Howard looked at me again. “For goodness sake, put your ticket in the machine and go and sit down,” he ordered. “And put that brick away. The things you kids have in your school bags never ceases to amaze me…”
I mumbled a quiet ‘sorry’ as I shoved the brick in my bag and went and sat in the first seat I could find. Nobody spoke a word to me for the rest of the trip.
At school I waited by myself outside the classroom until the bell went. I was too scared to look at anyone or say a word. Three weird events already today – what else could go wrong?
Sitting at my desk, I tried to concentrate on what Miss Walker was saying. We were in the middle of maths – my favourite subject – but today I just couldn’t focus. I was supposed to be copying down multiplication problems from the board. Instead I kept coughing, trying to get rid of the fur ball stuck in my throat from the cat who got my tongue. I also noticed that my jumper was covered in little bits of cement from the brick wall, so I quietly picked at my sleeves. “Gilbert, will you get back to work please,” said Miss Walker, frowning. She’d already spoken to me twice before.
“Sorry,” I replied, as I tried to concentrate on problem number six. I wriggled around on my chair and took a sip out of my water bottle, trying to get comfortable. Miss Walker looked at me disapprovingly.
“I’m not sure what’s gotten into you today, Gilbert. You are normally the first one finished.” She turned to walk to the whiteboard and said over her shoulder, “It seems to me that you’ve got ants in your pants.”
I groaned. This was not going to be good.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Look Out World, I'm Having a Book Published!!
I'm a sucker for sharing news - good and bad. As soon as something significant happens in my life I'm on the phone. It usually goes in this order...Mum, Ally, Sarina, Karly, Belinda...and whoever else happens to be home. Of course Mike gets first dibs if it's something that would interest him...I think he's secretly glad I have girlfriends I can talk to - otherwise I'd drive him crazy.
Anyway, my good news is....drum roll please....one of my picture book manuscripts has been accepted for publication by a small publisher, Innovative Resources (http://www.innovativeresources.org/).
The picture book is called There's an Elephant in My Loungeroom and deals with the harsh reality that many of our kids are growing up in homes where there are addictions or compulsive behaviours influencing their lives in profoundly negative ways. The book is a therapeutic picture book that will hopefully allow children the opportunity to explore what elephant lives in their loungeroom and open up a dialogue with counsellors and therapists about how it impacts them. It could also be used in the classroom but would need a really sensitive teacher to guide the discussion.
So, I'm very excited. I won't see a contract until about July as they need to source an illustrator first and it won't be off the press until the second half of 2009. And I'm certainly not going to be rich! I will get 2.5% of the retail price at the most...which will be somewhere between about 50c and $1 per copy. So I hope you all buy 10!!!
This rates as one of my top 10 achievements in my life. I have always wanted to be a published author and it's going to happen - with a lot of divine intervention!! God's timing was perfect - I sent off the manuscript just when Innovative Resources were discussing the exact metaphor I used. I just feel really led in this direction. I would love to be able to make a living from home as an author...it's what I feel is my true calling and it appears God is confirming that desire He placed within my heart.
So, look out world, I'm having a book published!
Anyway, my good news is....drum roll please....one of my picture book manuscripts has been accepted for publication by a small publisher, Innovative Resources (http://www.innovativeresources.org/).
The picture book is called There's an Elephant in My Loungeroom and deals with the harsh reality that many of our kids are growing up in homes where there are addictions or compulsive behaviours influencing their lives in profoundly negative ways. The book is a therapeutic picture book that will hopefully allow children the opportunity to explore what elephant lives in their loungeroom and open up a dialogue with counsellors and therapists about how it impacts them. It could also be used in the classroom but would need a really sensitive teacher to guide the discussion.
So, I'm very excited. I won't see a contract until about July as they need to source an illustrator first and it won't be off the press until the second half of 2009. And I'm certainly not going to be rich! I will get 2.5% of the retail price at the most...which will be somewhere between about 50c and $1 per copy. So I hope you all buy 10!!!
This rates as one of my top 10 achievements in my life. I have always wanted to be a published author and it's going to happen - with a lot of divine intervention!! God's timing was perfect - I sent off the manuscript just when Innovative Resources were discussing the exact metaphor I used. I just feel really led in this direction. I would love to be able to make a living from home as an author...it's what I feel is my true calling and it appears God is confirming that desire He placed within my heart.
So, look out world, I'm having a book published!
Friday, April 11, 2008
A Lot Can Happen in 8 Months
I've been a very slack blogger I know, so here's a summary of what happened after my last post...
- had another IVF cycle, this time classed as a natural cycle where I didn't have any drugs until about day 10
- scans showed I had 2 follicles
- Dr decided that was as good as it was going to get so went ahead with egg pick up
- ended up having 6 eggs (4 were playing hide and seek)
- 5 fertilised
- 4 made it to day three
- 1 embryo was transferred on Sept 5, 2007...
I knew I was pregnant within about 5-7 days - it was just something that felt very familiar. I had the positive home pregnancy test, followed by successful blood tests and then booked in for my 6 1/2 week scan with Dr Julie.
Scene: Curtained cubicle in Julie's office
Cast: Me, hubby & baby #1
She Who Writes (SWW) is lying on the bed, discreetly covered by a sheet. Dr Julie approaches with the lovely ultrasound wand for an internal ultrasound. We are looking for a foetal heart beat.
SWW watches the grainy screen for the tell tale flutter...but also watches Dr Julie's face. There is always that seed of fear of "What if there's no heartbeat..."
Dr Julie scans the uterus and suddenly becomes very still.
SWW holds her breath for a moment, noticing Dr Julie's change in demeanour. She wonders for a split second if her worst fears have become reality...
Dr Julie looks at SWW and says: My darling, there's 2.
SWW starts to cackle at the absolute irony of it all. How hilarious! I'm pregnant with twins.
From behind the curtain hubby takes a sharp intake of breath and shouts: No way!!!!
It really was a funny situation. Here I am, laughing at how ridiculous life is and how lucky we are; Dr Julie is shaking her head in disbelief - she's on a run of twins at the moment; hubby is picking himself up off the floor just in time to ask the all important question: Do we get double the baby bonus (a $4,000 payment the Aus government gives you when you have a baby). The answer is yes.
So here I am now, almost 34 weeks pregnant with my identical twin boys. We assume they are identical anyway - that's the only logical explanation but we'll be having DNA tests done on the placentas at birth just to make sure.
I've had an easy pregnancy with no complications, the boys are growing absolutely on track and all is well....except for a revolting bug I've picked up that I can't get rid of. You know, the head cold, aching body, rib-hurting cough etc. If only I could have codeine or pseudoephodrine, but alas, mummy-to-be cannot. So instead I sleep a lot and rely on hubby to look after baby #1. My obstetrician, Dr Neroli (fantastic, awesome, wonderful woman she is) says that it's going to take a long time for me to get over this as my boys are taking priority.
The good news is that it hasn't affected them at all. And sometime between now and 6 weeks down the track I will get to meet my beautiful boys. We are so excited and so blessed. These are my promise boys - they are God's extra special gift to us.
I will keep you posted...although it may be another 8 months before I get time to write!!
- had another IVF cycle, this time classed as a natural cycle where I didn't have any drugs until about day 10
- scans showed I had 2 follicles
- Dr decided that was as good as it was going to get so went ahead with egg pick up
- ended up having 6 eggs (4 were playing hide and seek)
- 5 fertilised
- 4 made it to day three
- 1 embryo was transferred on Sept 5, 2007...
I knew I was pregnant within about 5-7 days - it was just something that felt very familiar. I had the positive home pregnancy test, followed by successful blood tests and then booked in for my 6 1/2 week scan with Dr Julie.
Scene: Curtained cubicle in Julie's office
Cast: Me, hubby & baby #1
She Who Writes (SWW) is lying on the bed, discreetly covered by a sheet. Dr Julie approaches with the lovely ultrasound wand for an internal ultrasound. We are looking for a foetal heart beat.
SWW watches the grainy screen for the tell tale flutter...but also watches Dr Julie's face. There is always that seed of fear of "What if there's no heartbeat..."
Dr Julie scans the uterus and suddenly becomes very still.
SWW holds her breath for a moment, noticing Dr Julie's change in demeanour. She wonders for a split second if her worst fears have become reality...
Dr Julie looks at SWW and says: My darling, there's 2.
SWW starts to cackle at the absolute irony of it all. How hilarious! I'm pregnant with twins.
From behind the curtain hubby takes a sharp intake of breath and shouts: No way!!!!
It really was a funny situation. Here I am, laughing at how ridiculous life is and how lucky we are; Dr Julie is shaking her head in disbelief - she's on a run of twins at the moment; hubby is picking himself up off the floor just in time to ask the all important question: Do we get double the baby bonus (a $4,000 payment the Aus government gives you when you have a baby). The answer is yes.
So here I am now, almost 34 weeks pregnant with my identical twin boys. We assume they are identical anyway - that's the only logical explanation but we'll be having DNA tests done on the placentas at birth just to make sure.
I've had an easy pregnancy with no complications, the boys are growing absolutely on track and all is well....except for a revolting bug I've picked up that I can't get rid of. You know, the head cold, aching body, rib-hurting cough etc. If only I could have codeine or pseudoephodrine, but alas, mummy-to-be cannot. So instead I sleep a lot and rely on hubby to look after baby #1. My obstetrician, Dr Neroli (fantastic, awesome, wonderful woman she is) says that it's going to take a long time for me to get over this as my boys are taking priority.
The good news is that it hasn't affected them at all. And sometime between now and 6 weeks down the track I will get to meet my beautiful boys. We are so excited and so blessed. These are my promise boys - they are God's extra special gift to us.
I will keep you posted...although it may be another 8 months before I get time to write!!
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