Badass Bingeing

It’s not what you might say that scares me, it’s that you might say nothing at all.

This statement has been rumbling around in my head for a few months. Quietly clever prose that I stored away ready to share when I had discovered some eloquent framework to hang it on. A punch line so to speak.

Blogging gold.

A punch in the guts to a God who at times seems so silent I feel as though I’m underwater, caught in a vacuous rip of forlorn hopelessness.

Because he’s not always the most chatty fellow.

And so, in the absence of chattiness from the all powerful creator of the universe, I take it upon myself to get in a huff with the Almighty and fill the deeply spiritual void at the core of my being with Netflix bingeing.

Take that Jesus.

Clearly my ploy worked because just as my legs were about to atrophy and my eyelids scraped past my eyeballs offering the last scintilla of moisture remaining in my emaciated but strangely bloated body my spirit woke from its content coma during the 5 second loading between episodes to a quiet whisper deep into my spite filled void.

“It’s not what you might say that scares me, it’s that you might say nothing at all.”

Dang.

Counterblow. Touché God.

But, what if I stop and you are….. (shudder) silent? What if I stop and I don’t have anything to say? (ok, highly improbable)… What if I can’t hear you? What if I try to follow you, but can’t find you? What if I can’t make it?

What if you are not enough?

What if I don’t soar like an eagle?

What if you don’t call me out upon the waters?

What if you want me to find freedom, but freedom means letting go of things I’d rather cling to?

What if I don’t like the clarity you give me?

What if my lists of what ifs is so long I never shut up for long enough to find out?

Like it says in the Bec paraphrased version

Psalm 46:10

“Be still, log out, let go of your incessant what ifs you exhausting woman, and know that I am God”

OK. Right after the last episode…

It's My Birthday and I'll Cry if I Want To

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The day of my birth, no doubt a glorious day in the history of mankind, is to be celebrated this day.

As one reaches… lets say… the later years… birthday thoughts change.

Birthday thoughts, birthday wishes, once consumed with party dresses and gift analysis, waft towards reflection and introspection.

I’ve had some great birthdays. Like the time my new pet bird Misty Blue escaped his cage 30 mins after my parents gave him to me. Or the time Mum decided to book me into the dentist to have 4 teeth removed on my birthday… because one can’t have crowded gums on their birthday. Perhaps my favourite birthday was my 40th, when I told my husband not to buy me a gift or make a fuss… so he didn’t.

But even having had such a stellar birthday history, there was one other birthday in particular that will forever be my favourite.

My birthday in India.

3 years ago, I spent my birthday in India. We were in an area of North Bengal called Baharampur. It was hot. I was with my precious kids and husband, sitting on a concrete floor, sweating our butts off, eating rice with our hands, and I remember smiling and thinking, thank you Lord, thank you for this day.

You see, we had tried to move to India for the previous 5 years. It rolls off the keyboard… 5 years…  but they were long, hard, desperate, agonising years. We sold/dismantled my business, we sold our possessions, we sold our house, I even had an organ removed for flips sake. We could not, I repeat, could NOT have tried harder.

And I got to celebrate my birthday in a place that stole my heart. With people that stole my heart.

And I hope I never recover.

Banging on about poor people can be such a buzz kill.

But it’s my birthday and I’ll cry if I want to.

Why? Because she doesn’t have a birthday.

She won’t wake up to eggs on toast, she will wake up to an empty stomach and the prospect of rape being the only currency with which she can buy food.

She doesn’t receive a gift wrapped with care, she is purchased, for less than the price of my birthday card, and discarded like wrapping paper on the floor.

She isn’t celebrated, loved, cherished, she is invisible, lonely, wretched.

She doesn’t live, she salves through a horrid existence.

I see her. I feel her. I love her.

I want to see her, I want to feel her, I want to love her.

It’s easier not to. It’s easier to blur my vision.

Why think on such things? Why bring her plight into such sharp focus?

Because it’s my birthday and I’ll cry if I want to.

I cry for you, precious girl. I rage at the injustice, the evil that enslaves you.

I want to scream, I want freedom to rain down on you, cleansing you, restoring you, bringing you life.

I want to hold your hand, to stroke your hair, to wash your feet.

I want the spirit of the living God to rage against your oppressors, even if your oppressor is me.

I want to beg for your forgiveness.

I want to do you the honour of looking you in the eye, that’s my birthday wish.

Because it’s my birthday and I’ll cry if I want to.

Soaring

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Soaring

That’s me.

In the morning my soul is plump and full of promise. In the morning my soul sings ‘Hallelujah’. I stride into my day, expectant. Alive.

I set my Spotify to a random selection of worship songs, desperately hoping it will choose Eagles Wings. I chat to God, I picture myself with a big life, abundant, full, free.

Let’s do this. Let’s soar.

And then. Afternoon. As the sun starts to set, so too doth my spirit. Like a dried up bird poo on my windscreen that once flew carelessly through the air, there goeth my soulful soaring.

I scramble for my phone, willing my Spotify to give me some sort of miraculous revival, I eek out a dry mouthed ‘it is well… with my soul…’ as I sob into my carbonated caffeine.

My souring ceases.

I want to fly through the air like a bird poo! But every day I hit the windscreen and dry up.

Eventually I stumble into the shower and wash away my failings like a wind screen wiper.

Ever hopeful I wake up the next day, ready to soar.

Perhaps I have misunderstood the verse?

Like the Bec paraphrased version says…

Isaiah 40:31 (BPV)

 but those who hope in the Lord
    will renew their strength.
They will soar like eagle excrement;
    they will run and not grow weary,
    they will walk and not be faint.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dad

Sunday.

My favourite day.

I pull my bed spread up over my shoulders and stare at my doll lamp.

Impossibly huge blue eyes stare back at me, dewy cheeks, white skin, perfectly pinched bustier. Layers and layers of purple tulle, pink lips, perfection.

I switch on the lamp, showering my doll with light from her perfectly poised parasol.

Time to get ready.

I love Sundays.

I slip on my highly flammable dressing gown and stripey toe socks to enable stealth mode. Time for covert operation spy on Dad. I creep slowly out of my room, willing the creaky floorboards to keep my secret. Then, sliding effortlessly on the lino floor in our paisley kitchen, I find my position behind the cover of our macrame door hanging. Perfect spot. There he is, lounging on the white plastic pivot chair, his lanky legs crossed, his shoes pushing against the shag pile rug.

My Dad.

He sits in silence, with the big heavy bible on his lap. His hands perched together like a steeple, he adjusts his cuff link, deep in thought.

Every morning.

Every morning you could find my Dad up early with his bible, reading, thinking, praying. Spending time with God.

I watch as he turns the frail, well-worn pages.

I love the smell of that bible. One of the best smells on earth, it smells like My Dad. That, and his cream polo neck cable knit jumper. Dad smells.

I venture onto the shag pile and I’m spotted.

“Morning Muff”

Dad always calls me Muff.

I run into his open arms and climb onto his lap. Dad, my safe place.

::

Do people in America have black moustaches like my Dad? I wonder. Dad is going to America. I can’t believe it. He is going to Disneyland, and to do some other boring work stuff at churches, but DISNEYLAND!! He is leaving today. Dad will be away for six weeks! Mum is weird, like she wants to cry and she is holding it in so she looks like her forehead might pop. Mum is wearing a brown skivvy and her hair is permed into a brown ball. Mum twists her chain necklace with an orange swirl disk that smells like metal around her finger. Mum will miss Dad. Dad gives Mum a present. It’s a record. Some smooch lovey dovey thing. It’s nearly time to go, and Dad is on the front porch cutting his toenails. Mum gets annoyed because why would you cut their toenails on the front porch? Dad likes to pick his nose in the car right when we drive into our street too. Poor Mum. Dad rushes off to get his bag.

I trudge out to the porch. I’m going to miss Dad. I start to cry. I see a little pile of Dad’s toenail clippings. I scoop them up. They smell like Dad’s feet. I quickly rush into my room with my treasured stash. I make a little pile. Dad’s toenail clippings are strong and sharp!

I know exactly what to do with them. I put them under my pillow.

I’m going to miss Dad.

We take Dad to the airport and everyone cries. Ian and Alison are there too, they are our best friends. Mum’s forehead finally bursts and Alison gives Mum a purple polyester hug. Mum buys me a harmonica to cheer me up.

I don’t like having Dad away. My tummy starts to hurt.

Mum seems worried. Poor Mum. Mum decides to take me to the doctors. She sits me on my bed and pulls my cream stockings on and buckles my patent leather shoes. Mum likes to get dressed up to go to the doctors.

The doctor tells Mum I have a condition called “Daddyitis” or “missing Daddy syndrome”. Whatever, he thinks it will go away when Dad gets home.

Dad sends us an aerogramme. A letter on super thin paper. I read it a hundred times.

I miss Dad. My tummy still hurts.

FINALLY Dad comes home! Dad gives me a present all the way from America! A wooden letter B for Becky, on wheels! I love it!

Dad seems happy to see us. I take Dad into my room and lift my pillow. He looks down and sees a pile of his toenails. He smiles, with a twinkle in his eye.

My tummy stops hurting. Dad’s home. Dad, my foundation. Dad, my rock

::

I’m so excited. We are going on a family trip to Melbourne. Mum has knitted me a new beanie. It’s a bit tight and it gives me a headache, but I love it.

On the way, we are going to Monash Playground. My brother Martin says they have the biggest slippery dip ever!

Mum and Dad are dressed in their double blue matching Puma tracksuits. Mum and Dad often buy matching tracksuits, I might think this is weird when I get older, but for now it seems normal.

We are nearly ready, I am waiting outside on the front door step. Dad rushes past, but then he stops, turns around, and comes back to me. Dad puts his big cold hands on the sides of my head, they smell like toothpaste. “You are beautiful” he says. I feel goofy. He doesn’t let go of my head. He seems to be thinking something, a bit like he might be crying a little bit behind his eyeballs… “you are beautiful”. He says again. How embarrassing. Dad, my admirer.

::

Here’s the thing… I haven’t practised.

So, on the way to my flute lesson, I feel sick.

Self-inflicted.

Dad leaves work early every Thursday and picks me up in his mustard yellow Renault. Spluttering noises escape that pipe at the back of the car as it comes up the hill. I hop in.

I hate the Renault. It’s embarrassing.

I look at the long skinny gear stick and wonder how Dad knows how to work it.  He’s clever I guess. I look at his hand on the gear stick, his wedding ring. Dad has hair on the back of his hand. Big man hair.

I look over at Dad in his suit, he smells a bit like a Gestetner machine.

I love Dad.

Dad has big hair, and a square man face. It’s the Smith good looks according to my Uncle Robert.

On our way to my flute lesson/torture session Dad always asks me the same question… “have you got any important questions for me today?”.

It all started one day when I said, on the way to my lesson, “Dad, I have a very important question to ask you.” I remember when I asked that question he had the biggest smile. He liked it. So, from then on, each lesson he asks me if I have any important question for him. I don’t have one today. I can’t even remember what my first important question was. But I like it when he asks me.

We arrive at my flute lesson/appointment of doom and I drag myself out of the car. Dad waits in the car reading a book while I face the music.

Dad is patient like that. He doesn’t mind.

It’s the best feeling when I finish my flute lesson/scolding session. I leap into the car and look at Dad. We both know without saying anything what happens next.

The deli.

Time to spend my pocket money. I buy a fizzy drink, one for me and one for Dad. Dad likes ginger beer I think, so I get that for him. Sometimes I also get a packet of chips to share. Smiths chips, the original and the best.

It starts to get dark as we drive home. Dad turns the headlights on with the skinny stick poking out of the steering column. My special time with Dad is nearly over. Until next time. I better think of an important question for next week. Dad, my friend.

::

Dad sits me down on my bed. He seems serious… and sad. “Muff… Poppa died today”.

Dad holds his super sad feelings deep deep down inside. He is like a tree. When something bad happens, like really bad, like his Dad dying of bowel cancer, or my uncle dying of a heart attack, or his sister dying of cancer, or his brother dying of heart failure, or that lady from church taking her own life, or that baby dying when it was born, or that teenager dying in a horrible accident… he is a tree.

A life giving strong tree that everyone leans on. Sturdy. Wise. Protective. Dad makes me feel safe. Dad is the person people turn to when they are sad. My Dad is a Dad to many. I like sharing my Dad with others. Dad always lets me be sad too, when I need to. I think Dad is such a strong tree because God made him that way.

Sometimes I think the storms are too hard on my Dad, burdening him, sometimes a branch brakes and I get mad at God.

I like to climb up and find safety with Dad.

Dad didn’t grow up with a safe tree. Dad grew up with a scary tree like in my bad dreams at night.

I love that Dad made the choice to be a safe tree.

Dad plants new seed. New life. My Dad has planted new seed in lots of people’s lives. Dad doesn’t seem to know how many people have found shelter under his tree, but I know. I’ve seen it.

Sometimes I dream that in heaven there will be a beautiful garden of flowers that sing praises to God because Dad planted seed and offered shelter.

Dad, my tree.

::

Today my Dad turns 70. I’m so grateful to have shared 45 years with him so far.

Dad, thank you for being my safe place, my rock, my friend, my admirer, my tree. I love you. Luvooo - Bec

Disguise

My boobs are on fire

Just a regular Sunday I guess.

I find myself in strange territory. I am unknown in the place I now live. I have no story, no memories, no identity.

I am new, even though I’m old.

I have history and experience, I have had a long and painful journey. And yet to the people I meet I am one dimensional.

So, I adapt to my surroundings. I add a layer or two, I change shape, I disguise myself.

And before I know it I’m in a life I don’t recognise, with too many things on the boil and I lean in too close to the flames…

And my boobs catch fire.

I manage to suffocate the flames with saucepan lids, but now I’m walking around with scorched bazookas and a bad smell.

I’m discovering the value of being known, of friends that know your ugly bits.

I’m understanding that who I am is shaped by my community, in good and bad ways.

I’m understanding that I’m not the only one with flaming knockers.

It’s exhausting really, trying to reflect a life I didn’t expect.

I should say something wise like my identity being in Christ and all that jazz but I’d rather just eye roll and find comfort in Hollywood if it’s all the same to you.

Thanks Mrs. Doubtfire, you da man.

#Lost

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I Googled Jesus today.

Desperate times.

I’m trying to find him, have you seen him?

Cos today my brain let a tiny sliver of empty space into my conscious thoughts = dangerous.

You know, that dreaded naked space that occasionally appears when you haven’t escaped into an alternate reality and you think, what the heck is this life?

I slowed down just long enough to remember some of those bible verses I learned as a kid about giving to others, and trusting God, and following Jesus and I start to feel annoyed that Jesus seems to be AWOL… what…?... didn’t he hang around while I invested quality time into Netflix?

I expect him to be front and centre, on Sundays of all days!

So, I Googled him, and was relieved to find he is on Wikipedia. He also has some profile pictures of him looking like he could be on a shampoo advertisement, which is comforting.

I’d like to follow Jesus, really, I would. But he’s not on social media, which makes it difficult.

Why doesn’t he have a Facebook profile? Imagine the tribe he could generate, the likes, the filters, the hashtags!!! THE MEMES!!!

If he is not on social media, how can he stay relevant?

Where is he?

I try and distract myself by being annoyed at my husband, which works quite well actually, but eventually my long-suffering life mate finds solace in cleaning the toilets, a blissful alternative to listening to my barrage of complaints.

Sigh.

Maybe Jesus is in the fridge. I better investigate. Hmmmm… he’s not there, but I do find many Jesus alternatives, things that make me feel better, perhaps I don’t need Jesus after all.

Tragically my tasty Jesus alternatives only satisfy briefly, and somehow my longing for him is only made deeper.

Where is he?

Hellooo Jesus…! though I walk through the shadow of my own selfishness I expect you to be there! Hellooo…! footprints in the sand?!... I don’t care how weighed down by my own excess I am, you are supposed to be carrying me dude! That’s the deal, right? I ‘accept you’ into my heart and you carry my heavy burden?

You must be stoked.

Like the Bec paraphrased version says

 “And surely, I am with you always, relax and kick back Bec, I’ve got this.” - God

In a last-ditch attempt, I’m going to go looking for you at Church, surely you are there, you know, where 2 or more are gathered and all that.

So, you better rock up Jesus, cos I’m coming to visit. I need a top up. You in?

 

Ps. Sorry Jesus, God, Spirit dude, I know you are there, I just need to fall on my knees, which is hard to do in my skinny jeans.

Pps. Just jks, as if I have skinny jeans!

Happy Mother's Day God

Slippers, whispers and giggles filled the hallway early in the morning. Little toes ventured towards my bedroom door, big eyes peeked in, making sure I was “asleep”. The door closed and excited whispers were mixed with bowls crashing and toast burning.

Mother’s Day.

I lay in bed awaiting my surprise.

Soon a delivery of orange juice arrives, its tastes good despite the addition of the My Little Pony polyester dressing gown sleeve that took up residence in the glass during delivery.

I smile. They love me.

I wait a few more minutes and am invited to sit at the breakfast table.

I sneak into the bathroom to add some undergarments to my pyjamas because no one wants to see that truth of motherhood first thing in the morning.

I enter the kitchen to find a beautiful bunch of flowers, a cooked breakfast and four smiling children.

I smile. They love me.

I bask in their home-made cards, cuddles and general adoration.

“I Love you so much my head could pop off Mum!”

“You’re the best Mum in the whole world!”

“I love you Mum”

We giggle and laugh as we celebrate our relationship. Home.

As we delve into our morning feast my eldest slides his thumb across his phone, raises his eyebrows and asks with a slight hint of annoyance “Why did we make Mum breakfast?”

Like a needle scratching across my favourite Abba record, my Mother’s Day nirvana came to a startling halt.

“What do you mean WHY?”

“I just looked it up, It’s not Mother’s Day until next week”.

Adoring eyes swiftly transitioned into vacant stares across the table.

“Are you serious?”

“Yep”.

The horror of the situation descended upon them. Arising early unnecessarily - devastating. Futile breakfast preparation – mortifying. Inessential pocket money purchases – highly regrettable.

Awkward silence ensued.

The youngest one, not yet having learnt the art of subtlety, shrugged her shoulders and got up from the table in search of the IPad. The others took the cue and rushed off to pursue more enjoyable activities leaving me sitting at the table with a selection of toast crusts, a stack of dirty crockery and a burnt beyond recognition frying pan.

So… we will pick up where we left off next week then?

Being Sunday we still had church to attend.

We scurried around sorting outfits, brushing hair, finding shoes, spruiking the time every 2 minutes in the vain hope that it might cause family members to… I don’t know… pick up the pace perhaps?

We cram into the car, all six of us. We smell good, we look good, we are primped, we are primed.

Church.

We love going to Church, Celebrating God. On Sundays.

Soon the music starts. It’s a bit wobbly to be honest, earnest, but wobbly. Still, I’m sure God enjoys it all the same, it is offered with love.

I smile, I love God.

We sing aloud our jubilant praises to our God, we lift Him high, we honour Him, we praise Him, we exalt Him.

How Great is Our God.

I bask in the glow of worship, I love spending time with God, he is my everything, my all.

We listen and learn as we gather as a family to study his word.

I escape momentarily into the blissful alternate universe where I, once again, remember that I am a fallen creature, redeemed by my loving Father. So undeserving, I am so loved. Thank you, Father.

I smile, I love God

The service ends and I waft out of the church caressing my new-found peace and all round Christian awesomeness.

Then, like a sledgehammer to my tender heart my husband trespasses into dangerous territory, daring some horrid indiscretion. Perhaps he didn’t hear me when I asked him a question, perhaps he spoke to the person next to him leaving me awkwardly hanging, perhaps he blew his nose too loudly, whatever, he offended me.

And it was all over.

I’m leaving you at the table God, with a few crumbs, a bit of pocket money and an hour of my heartfelt love and thanks. I’ll see you next week.

Because for some reason this grouchy unfulfilling bitter life is easier than living in the freedom of your love every day.

So yeah, Happy Mother’s Day God.

Follow Him

Easter Sunday has been. Today is Monday.

The morning after

Have you been there?

You go to church on a Sunday in an attempt to block out the  Sunday afternoon doldrums, and also because you are young and single and hoping to meet a cute boy. The music is awesome, the songs are awesome, the cute boy is awesome.

The speaker gets up. He (it was always a he in my day) starts to speak. I’m on the edge of my seat with my tongue out like a dog waiting to be thrown a morsel. Give me something, anything to hold onto. Explain this life to me. Quench my angst oh powerful leader and speaker of truth. Maybe after this talk I will get it. I will understand God, and be the type of Christian who has one of those leather bound bibles and walks purposefully into their day with the Lord. He gets up… and glory be I’ve hit the jackpot… he is AMERICAN. Americans have all the answers! I’m gonna leave here with the answer for sure. I listen as he explains that Jesus has risen! Jesus has conquered death, but apparently I have a God shaped hole in my heart. I can try and fill this hole with other things, but only God will satisfy me and fill that God shaped hole.

And WHAM! Like matching rings thrust together the neuro pathways in my brain connect and I get it! I get it! I get it!I’ve got a God shaped hole! I ask God to fill my God shaped hole, and sing 3 rounds of I have decided to follow Jesus!

I hug everyone after the service, and shed a tear or two. I exit the spiritual nirvana of the service, get into my car and go home.

My hole was filled completely and miraculously that night… for at least 45 mins. But the next day it looked a bit liked a balloon the night after the party, or a belly after bearing 4 children (apparently).

It had lost its filling. Is my hole leaky? Are you freaking serious? I am the one Christian on the planet with a leaky hole? (I’m so tempted to go there but sometimes I DO show restraint). The American all-knowing man with the big belt buckle didn’t mention anything about defective holes?!

Typical.

I don’t get it. I understand Jesus died for me, he rose again, but he said people fill their God shaped hole with the wrong things. I’m a good daughter of a Baptist pastor, I follow the rules, and OK yeah I’ve turned the illustrations in my Good News Bible into speech bubbled comics, but c’mon what’s with the leaky hole?

Seriously folks this question lasted for the next 25 years.

So this is what I’ve come up with over the last 1300 visits to Church.

If you’d like to think of the human condition as one with a God shaped hole, that’s fair enough, it certainly feels like that. And yes, we do fill that yearning,  that discomfort, that absence with our top three favourites - drugs, sex, and alcohol. But we also fill it with money, with possessions, with food, with movies, with holidays, with shoes, with social media, with relationships, with freaking chocolate eggs if we are desperate enough.

God does NOT like to share your hole. He’s not the Easter bunny. He is a jealous God.

Exodus 20:4-6 The Message (MSG)

No carved gods of any size, shape, or form of anything whatever, whether of things that fly or walk or swim. Don’t bow down to them and don’t serve them because I am God, your God, and I’m a most jealous God, punishing the children for any sins their parents pass on to them to the third, and yes, even to the fourth generation of those who hate me. But I’m unswervingly loyal to the thousands who love me and keep my commandments.

He wants you. He wants you bad man. So bad he sent his son to pay your debt in an excruciating death. The story doesn’t end on Sunday, he’s looking forward to Monday. He wants you to follow him.

Matthew 16:24New International Version (NIV)

Then Jesus said to his disciples, “Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.”

Errr…. You want me to deny myself and follow you? Now if I was Jesus marketing manager I would advise against this as his campaign slogan. It is quite frankly, appalling. That does NOT sound like freedom to me. It sounds like something to run run as fast as you can like the gingerbread man from.

Hence my leaky hole.

Monday is a struggle, but I’ll follow with my leaky hole.

Easter. We despise and reject him, we wait on him, we celebrate him, we follow him

Celebrate Him

When I was six, I woke up early on Easter Sunday, threw off the bed covers and sprang into my parents room. Much to their delight, no doubt, I jumped onto their bed with my arms raised super hero style and proclaimed “The Lord has risen, and so have I!”.

Celebration, that’s what today is all about Today is Easter Sunday!

Time to celebrate the rising of our Lord!

To be honest I miss the six year old me. Celebrating with abandon. I’m such a boring old fart. But I’m gonna do it, I’m going to spring (definition: climb gingerly) onto my bed today and yell at the top of my lungs (definition: murmur pathetically) “THE LORD HAS RISEN AND SO HAVE I!

Will you join me?

Will you spring onto your bed, and join the chorus of celebration?

“THE LORD HAS RISEN AND SO HAVE I”

May the mattress springs of our city groan under the pressure of our celebrations

Will you bust a move in your pyjamas and disgust your teenagers with your verve and vigour?

“THE LORD HAS RISEN AND SO HAVE I”

May snapchat be flooded with eyerolls and embarrassing photos of our celebrations.

Will you shout to your neighbours as you retrieve your morning paper?

“THE LORD HAS RISEN AND SO HAVE I”

May the neighbourhood gossip be fueled by your outlandish outburst and celebration.

Will you look to the heavens as you purchase your morning coffee and proclaim

“THE LORD HAS RISEN AND SO HAVE I”

May your barista’s instagram be hashtagged #instagoodcelebration

Will you shout aloud a song of joy to our God?

“THE LORD HAS RISEN AND SO HAVE I”

Because we are Christians! And OUR CHRIST IS RISEN!

Don’t know what I’m banging on about? Hop along to Church, apart from being pyjama wearing, bed surfing neighbourhood nuisances, we are fairly normal. You won’t find the Easter bunny there, but you will find out about someone who loves you beyond measure. Jesus, the Risen Lord.

It’s Easter Sunday


RISE UP!

Wait on Him

What about that awkward moment when God is… well… silent?
 
I’d give him a bad report.
 
Attendance    F
Actively participates in class activities    F
Completes tasks to the best of their ability    F
Meets course requirements    F
Works cooperatively with others    F
 
Fail God, Fail.
 
Like, when you’ve been pounding and pounding on the door, begging, pleading for him to answer … and silence.
 
Like when you ask him for your deepest heart’s desire... and nothing
 
Like when you put yourself out on a limb, and you hang there, exposed, naked... and he doesn’t come.
 
Like when your heart gets ripped out of your chest, and numbness swallows you… and you can’t feel him
 
Like when there is pain and desperation all around you… and he doesn’t rescue you
 
Like when you pray and pray and pray for healing with all the faith you can muster… and he doesn’t heal him
 
What gives?
 
What’s with the silent treatment?
 
Like when you followed him, believed he was the son of God, and then he died.
 
He died.
 
You buried him, so you knew he was dead, dead, dead.
 
And you woke up the next day, and he was still dead.

The dark silence of death. Crushing silence. Silence that makes you question God. Silence that makes you want to scream. Silence that makes you beat the chest of God in anguish, doubt and resentment. Silence that brings your entire faith into question.
 
Deafening silence. Easter Saturday.
 
Yes, Sunday is coming. But today is Saturday.
 
Because some days, some months, some years are desperately silent. 

Maybe God isn’t just failing in the silence. Maybe he isn’t caught up playing Candy Crush or having a nap on the couch. Maybe he is at work in ways we cannot fathom. Maybe he knows that Sunday is coming.
 
Still…

Let’s not pretend that life is all Cheerios and Cherubs.

Because Silent Saturdays Suck.

Separation from Jesus sucks.

Romans 8:22-25 (NIV)

We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time. Not only so, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption to sonship, the redemption of our bodies. For in this hope we were saved. But hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what they already have? But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently.