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.
Showing posts with label article. Show all posts
Showing posts with label article. Show all posts
Sunday, May 4, 2008
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
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.
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
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.
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