Open

If you want to get me in a really good mood (and let’s face it I know getting me in a good mood is pretty high on your to do list), just tell me to have my house ready for an open inspection at 9am. Wait for me to wake up an hour earlier than normal, clean like there’s no tomorrow, scrub the shower, hide the toaster, vacuum every speck off the floor. When I am doing the final polish on the sink (because everyone lives with a polished sink), when I am out of breath, exhausted and harried, call me.

Call me at 10 minutes to 9am. Call me and tell me that the open inspection is cancelled.

THAT puts me in a good mood.

Because unnecessary cleaning is a crime against humanity. Add to that one less hour of sleep, and you’ve got a crisis in the Oates house.

Why am I feverishly cleaning for house inspections? Because we want to sell our house. And to sell your house you need to present it in the most perfect light. You need to present it with such outrageous perfection that to maintain the façade in reality would leave you dead inside. You need to present your home, your life in a way that makes others want to be you, makes them want to have what you have.

No one wants to see your hair in the drain, the dribble on your pillow or the greasy roasting pan you couldn’t be bothered to wash so you hid it in the wheel barrow in the shed.

And don’t get me started about kids wanting to poo in the toilet 5 mins before a home inspection. We don’t defecate in this family!!!!!

We need to be ready. Ready to be viewed. Ready to be judged. We need to prepare, polish, sort and primp. We need to worry about what people think, how they will measure us.

We need to be perfect.

Because that’s what Jesus asks of us right? To be perfect? To construct a shell of perfection that is impossible to maintain, all the while letting our insides, our reality, our honesty rot away? To become weak and brittle?

If Jesus came to my open inspection, I reckon I know what he would do. He would walk right past my throw rug and perfectly perched cushions and head straight for the shed. He would lift my greasy roasting pan out of the wheelbarrow and say “I love you Bec”.

SOLD!

Utopia

Stupid Netflix.

Yeah sure, I’ve got house work to do, dishes to wash, places to go… well, the first two at least, but no… Netflix.

Stupid skinny, hot, capable, wealthy, smart, buff, quick witted impossibly good looking people on Netflix.

My life wouldn’t score a guernsey on Netflix. I don’t jog through central park with sweat in all the right places, vibing come hither undertones. I trudge through the burbs with sweat in places that shouldn’t exist vibing last nights garlic bread. I don’t power stride into my office an hour early carrying my macchiato ready to take on the world. I shove the kids out the door in my dressing gown, rush the kettle like a dog on heat, make myself a Nescafe gold and stare at the pile of breakfast dishes my tribe of 6 have left on the bench like an in your face ‘have a good day’ finger.

Sigh.

I live in the real world. How dull.

If only Netflix was pretend. If only the real world was real.

I suck at real life.

Look. I have improved.

I now bi annually make the bed, sometimes I get up early and make my husband breakfast and yeah I make my kids the same birthday cake every year but I haven’t Febreezed any undies since 2001.

Actually I lied, I’ve never woken early to make my husband breakfast… *teeth baring emoji*

Real life alludes me. How do the Netflickers do it? It’s almost as if it’s imaginary. Like a cruel joke engineered to make me feel dissatisfied with Febereezed undies, because my life should be full of colour coordinated days of splendour. I should enjoy daily witty banter, challenging and meaningful relationships while my hair looks on point.

Imagine if there could be life in this real life, that was satisfying, meaningful and purposeful. Imagine if it was ok to vibe garlic bread, if I could find fulfillment in the everydayness of things. Imagine if there were other people like me.

It’s almost as if I’m being tempted and tricked into thinking that a glamorous life is what I was made to strive for. It’s almost as if being dissatisfied with my life, dissatisfied with who I am and dissatisfied with God is some kind of ploy to distract me from knowing the true source of fulfilment.

Maybe the Netflix life is a trap.

Maybe my real life is a gift that I’ve hidden below years and years of greed, years and years of selfishness, years and years of self indulgence.

Maybe, at its core, the Netflix life is hollow. Shiny and appealing, but shallow and unfulfilling.

Perhaps, if I could find other people who suck, we could live lives that are authentic, open and honest. Not like in an oops yes sorry my bad I did exaggerate the other day when I said this dress was nothing just an old thing because I actually spend a small fortune on it type way, but more like a you know what I stuffed up majorly, I’m broken, feeble and small, and without God I am nothing type way we could break the bonds of this Netflix lie.

Naked.

Shudder.

Awkward.

Whose up for a nudie run?

Coffee

 

In order to celebrate the last blog of my 30 day challenge I thought I would hit you with some honesty. A confession if you will. I should warn you, that this confession could disturb some readers, so feel free to avert your gaze. Also I will apoligise in advance. I’m sorry. Truly.

Ok here we go…

I like to drink instant coffee.

I know. Any slither of respect you may have had left for me after I used the word shitballs in my blog on clarity has now flown out the window. Heathen.

I know what you are thinking…. What the heck does she put on her insta feed? #blend43 #flatlayfauxpas #instacoffee #tbtfromthe70s

Given my shameful secret I find myself bringing my coffee from home in a keep it hot for ages type mug thingy. Today I took my keep it hot for ages type mug thingy to the school cross country event. Back in my day the parents didn’t give a rats about these type of things, but now apparently we do.

For some reason, these type of events make me teary. It’s quite pathetic. I just love my kids so freaking much it’s like I’m going to burst out of my skin. I stood at the sidelines of the running track with all the other bursting parents ready to embarrass my son with way too much cheering and jiggling up and down. Never fear, I had prepared with a sports bra after that incident last year when I knocked someone out cold….

Ahem. *sips coffee*

So, I was standing on the sidelines when my boy came to the end of his 2.5 km race. He came around the final bend towards the finish line breathing hard, running with all his might and smiling the biggest grin you can imagine. Somehow, in the midst of his exhaustion he managed to be beaming with pure delight. His whole face was alight, his eyes, his mouth, his whole being radiated. A few of the women around me awwwwed at him. Sometimes there are such precious moments in life, such unbridled beauty and innocence that I think I may be crushed by the welling in my heart.

He crossed the finish line, bent over, out of breath and smiled at the grass. Nothing could keep the smile off his face.

“You know, that’s what I want for you. I want you to run a good race, and yes it will be hard, and you will be exhausted and grow weary, but you can still have joy, you can find it in me.”

Psalm 51:12   New International Version (NIV)

 Restore to me the joy of your salvation and grant me a willing spirit, to sustain me.

It may surprise you to know that I’ve never been much of an athlete, in fact my Mum took pity on me and used to let me wag school sports day. So I don’t generally think of myself as a runner. I certainly don’t imagine myself SMILING whilst running. *snort*

But you do, you are cheering me on, you want me… to run. Dear lord. You want me to run… and smile.

Smile with sweet joy that pervades your very being, because you know, that you know, that you know that I am God.

How about you put down your crappy coffee, take my hand, and we will run together.

*grateful for my sports bra preparedness*

Ready (no), set (not really), go..... (whoo hoo!)

Letterbox

 

What if we all had really ugly letterboxes?

Today I was assigned an important task by my husband. I have been asked to research letterboxes to purchase.

Because we have an embarrassing letterbox.

A letterbox is a box… for letters.

Who am I kidding? A letterbox is a defining statement of our worth on the posessioness ladder, a metaphoric finger at your neighbours, my letter box is bigger than yours, a phallic symbol of our success and enormous wealth. DO YOU KNOW HOW IMPORATNT MY MAIL IS?

Our embarrassing letterbox is clearly a bit of a weakling, a bit scrawny, somewhat flaccid.

I find myself apologising for it. Boring people senseless with my bashful banter about our silly letterbox *shrill stick poke in the eye level of annoying giggles*.

Please, don’t think we chose this letterbox, or that we can’t afford a better one.

Lord have mercy.

It is a box, it functions perfectly, it stores letters which I retrieve.

So why the angst?

How can a box on my front lawn designed to collect my Telstra bill and annoying real estate magnets (does ANYONE put them on their fridge?) cause me angst? How did this box become a defining statement of worth for me and my family?

Because that’s just how fucked up I am.

Truly.

I am seduced. Somehow, my brain is so conditioned, so covered in layers and layers of wealth filth and deception that I allow myself to be seduced by a letterbox.

I need a perfect letterbox.

And that’s just the tip of the iceberg isn’t it?

Guess what. It’s a lie.

I don’t need a perfect letterbox.

But guess what else? I need help, I need help to not need a perfect letterbox.

Because that’s how strong the pull is, the deception, the slimy clever evil one will use anything at his disposal, even a freaking letterbox, to keep me from finding that there is freedom to be had.

I’m serious.

I am so fallen, so broken, so sold into the lie, that I would think for one nanosecond that anything, that any possession here on earth could come close to the majesty of Christ, and the freedom to be found in following him.

1 Chronicles 29:11   New International Version (NIV)

 Yours, Lord, is the greatness and the power and the glory and the majesty and the splendour, for everything in heaven and earth is yours. Yours, Lord, is the kingdom; you are exalted as head over all.

And here I am, clinging to my letterbox like a spoilt brat.

Rebel I say.

Be brave. Let go. Repent. Give it ALL to him.

I was going to smartly say in all my smarty smart smartness to save your gold letterbox for heaven ready for letters from Paul. But guess what? I reckon heaven will be full of ugly letterboxes, cos we will be too busy living in freedom to care.

Ps. I NEVER swear in real life! I tried and tried to replace that word but the creative in me just knew it wouldn’t be strong enough, and still the nerd in me must apologise – soz.

NZ Breakers

 

In an effort to throw me off my game a Kiwi gave me the word NZ Breakers for my 30 day writing challenge.

Initially I was flummoxed. What was I going to write about? Dealing with devastating Loss? Being second best? Grace in the midst of agonising defeat? The lifelong battle to pronounce vowels correctly?

But then, it came to me. I should reminisce about the time I was set upon by a gang of 40 somethings.

Do you know what I love? I love getting up early on cold winter mornings to watch my son play basketball in the sub zero climate of a basketball stadium. Combine that with teenage man sweat in the air and you’re on a winner.

One such morning was extra special, because it was the grand final! Yes!! My son’s team had reached the final, and the air was a buzz of expectation. I sat down on the slightly too narrow for my girth icy bench seat (WHHHYYYYY do they make them out of metal???). I was super anxious for my son’s team to win, but had also researched and rehearsed the platitudes for a crushed teenage soul in the face of devastating loss. Either way I could see a trip to McDonalds in my future.

I sat ready for the game trying to blend in as instructed by my son (apparently it was not a good idea for me to spray paint the team colours on my hair, how dull.)

Suddenly the coach approached the pumped parent group with a furrowed brow (I’ve always wanted to use the phrase furrowed brow, tick!) he was saying that he needed someone to volunteer to operate the electronic score board. Eye’s darted, awkward pauses commenced, a sudden need to fossick in my handbag overcame me, but as often happens my mouth works faster than my brain and I accidentally volunteered.

How hard can it be?

The game commenced. I sat aside a delightful woman from the opposing team. She had the hard job, she held… the pencil. She dutifully recorded every point, foul, and knee scrape. She was AMAZING. I sat there and pressed a button. 2 points = press 2 times, 1 point = press one time. I SO NAILED IT.

The game was close. Really close, but I kept up with my score board duties with aplomb.

In the last quarter I was informed that because it was the grand final, when the ball was not in play I had to stop the clock, and then of course start the clock when the ball went back in to play. How hard can that be, after all I’m a woman, I can multitask.

It was, shall we say, harder than expected.

Tension was high, 2 minutes remaining, scores are tied. We missed our shot, they blocked the ball, it went out of court, STOP THE CLOCK, the umpire passes it, the player passes it in, START THE CLOCK he trips over, there is teenage man sweat on the floor STOP THE CLOCK, the young fella wipes it up START THE CLOCK the player fouls STOP THE CLOCK she scribbles with her pencil START THE CLOCK, he blows his whistle, STOP THE CLOCK, he blows it again START THE CLOCK…. It was terrifying!! My finger is trembling, my mind racing, the scores are so close, each second counts, I hope I’m doing a good job, my heart is beating out of my chest, 10 seconds remain and the scores are… wait.. the scores… teeth clenching bowel twisting blood rushing Oh Em Gee… I had forgotten to adjust the scores.

So, as you do, with 10 seconds remaining in a hotly contested grand final you adjust the score board you had momentarily ignored from my sons team losing by 2 points to my sons team winning by 2 points.

…I tried for a sheepish look on my face but it didn’t cut it.

The stadium erupted… (so I stopped the clock)…

They descended upon me, it was, actually, a bit scary. They were ANGRY, I was surrounded by a mob of 40 something angry parents. Not players. The young boys were just standing on the court, understandably crushed and perplexed, but the parents… There were finger pointing, accusation spitting, forehead vein popping tirades being fired at me from all directions. The umpire had to position himself between them and me and blow his whistle. He checked the score on the sheet recorded by the pencil lady. Yes, it was correct, we were winning by 2 points.

So… I started the clock, 10, 9, 8… the time ran out… and we won. (yay…)

There’s so many deep and meaningful illustrations I could draw upon from that character building moment in my life, but that would be trite so I’ll just say…. I’m available for hire if the NZ Breakers need a little help getting over the line ;)

Marriage

Next to the drawing of my daughter with crepe paper hair and the netball roster we have this verse on a magnet on our fridge.

Proverbs 21:19   New International Version (NIV)

 Better to live in a desert    than with a quarrelsome and nagging wife.

Well… maybe not, but perhaps we should have it on our fridge?!

(Yes fellas, this is one of those moments that you DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES AGREE)

…But… (clears throat)… is it sometimes perhaps in some small iddy biddy way a little true?

Today I watched my son play hockey. Man he is so delightful to watch. Unfortunately he is a bit too polite, letting the opposition players have a turn of the ball, bless.

Today however was special, because today I discovered hockey Mums. These women lined the hockey pitch in their active wear for non-active spectators and screamed their lungs out like a herd of rhinos in active labour. Oh em gee they spewed ferocious, beastly blasts of acrid ‘advice’ for 90 mins straight. I was ashamed to be a woman.

And then I thought… wait… these women make me look good! See Paul! I’m not like that! I’m a good wife! I smiled to myself as I sat on the chair Paul had carried for me from the car, sipping my coffee.

And then from somewhere deep deep in my brain, the part I try to ignore, a thought crept up. Am I? Am I a good wife?

Am I perhaps sometimes quarrelsome and nagging?

(Yes fellas, this is one of those moments that you DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES AGREE)

Is it good enough for me to just not be truly horrible? Do I need/want to be a proactively good spouse?

Note to self-DO NOT read proverbs Proverbs 31:10-31   The Message (MSG)

  A good woman is hard to find, and worth far more than diamonds. Her husband trusts her without reserve, and never has reason to regret it. Never spiteful, she treats him generously all her life long… Blah blah blah it gets worse and worse ladies for the next 30 verses!

Never spiteful… I guess maybe sometimes?...

(Yes fellas, this is one of those moments that you DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES AGREE)

She treats him generously.

Hmmm. Ok . time to get off the computer and make my fella a cup of tea.

And maybe I should aim for the proverbs 31 wife, and less of the hockey screamer, do you think?

(Yes fellas, this is one of those moments that you DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES AGREE)

Ps. I love you Paul, you are the spouse I aspire to be. (Yes Paul, this is one of those moments when THERE IS NO CORRECT RESPONSE YOU SHOULD STEP AWAY, STEP AWAY FROM THE CONVERSATION WITH CAUTION).

Poverty

WARNING: PROCEED WITH CAUTION FOR TOO MANY REASONS TO LIST HERE

I have a faeces fascination. Say that 3 times fast.

I don’t know why.

It’s a gift I guess.

So many wonderful memories….

Don’t panic. I’ll show some restraint… but not much.

So, let me tell you about the time I saw diarrhoea flying across the street.

I was strolling along a busy street in Kolkata one hot, and humid day. I was chatting (possibly/probably nagging) away to Paul. As I looked across to speak to Paul, I happened to time my head movement perfectly to see a woman rushing towards the bushes/dead plants on the side of the road not even 2 metres away from me. She was lifting her sari, but didn’t quite make it. She shared the contents of her bowel with the street.

Why? Because Poverty is shit.

Poverty means she doesn’t have a public toilet to visit or basin to cleanse her hands (that doesn’t require any tap turning, I mean, I’m not a savage).

She has no privacy, no dignity, no choice. She doesn’t even get to choose where she takes a dump.

That my friends, is poverty. Say it with me “poverty is shit”.

Do you know what I love?

I love when we sit in our sanitised sanctums on our arrogant wiped clean arses and spew out this vile justification for our lives… “the poor are happy”.

Sorry Mum… arrogant bottoms.

I partly hate it so much because I fell foul to its alluring safety. The belief that yeah, that kid has made a toy out of a piece of old wire and a discarded tomato can, but he is so happy, so content.

I can learn so much from him, because although he has nothing, he is so happy.

WHAT THE? So I decide to envy his serenity? I covet his brief moment of happiness before he possibly dies of an ear infection because his Mum can’t afford antibiotics? Can I really look at him and think, what take away can I have from this to make my life better?

Lord forgive me.

All together now “poverty is shit”.

Bec, you are being a bit gross. No one wants to hear stories about women pooing in the street.

No. We don’t.

But I’m pretty damn sure that woman doesn’t want to be pooing in the street a whole lot more than we don’t want to be reading about it. And if we can’t even abide having that image briefly cast before our eyes, then we have no chance of seeing ourselves.

Because poverty is shit.

And unless we can look poverty in the eyes, see the degradation and loss and pain that poverty causes, if we insist on taming it down, on turning it into palatable pieces, then we will never become the instruments of justice and mercy that God wants us to be.

So next time you’re in the dunny relieving yourself, and in fact from now on, every time you defecate, I want you to think of me. Think of me and say with me “poverty is shit”.

And as we chant our loo time mantra, perhaps we will grow an army of shitting believers who will ask the question.

“What does God want me to do about it?

Perspective

 

Perspective

It’s ALL a matter of perspective right?

You know, when you are seeing things one way, but then some light gets shed and your perspective shifts and perhaps things are not the way that they seemed?

I’ve had some deeply defining moments in my life, where my perspective was critically flawed.

You know. Like that time when I was in the choir that I wasn’t in.

I’m sure you’ve all had that experience, where you end up on a stage in front of hundreds of strangers unexpectedly and you start to sing?

I was 14, so not at all hormonal and self-conscious. I was visiting an old church in Adelaide where my friend was singing in a choir. I was excited to see her, and so I raced up to say hello to her before the performance and wish her luck. We no doubt giggled and frolicked or something that sounds like girls from an Enid Blyton novel, I can’t really remember. After we said our hello’s we were ushered into the church (because in church you usher). How exciting, the performance was about to start!

We rushed excitedly through the church shaped door (because for some reason old church architects thought that the windows doors and walls all had to have the same pointy top). I sat next to my friend.

I’m not sure how long it took me to look up from where I was sitting and realise that sitting with my friend was not a good thing.

Perspective, and possibly bowel contents, successfully shifted. Heat rose from my chest and my eye started twitching as the realisation hit me. I had entered through the church shaped door into the choir stalls at the front of the church.

I was… in… the choir.

Oh Dear.

Now at this point a normal person would simply realise their error, get up and leave. But for some unexplained reason I decided that it would be prudent to add a freeze option to my fight or flight response. So froze I did.

I sat there. Dumbstruck.

My friend cast me a questioning look. I shrugged my shoulders. Now, it’s not like this was a big choir, there were maybe 20 people in it, so there was no hiding me.

The organ commenced.

The choir master stood up, hands poised, she scanned her vocal prodigies. As her gaze fell upon me her forehead creased, her neck stiffened and the pointy tips of her eyebrows clapped together like a high five so full of friction it could start a bonfire.

WTF... (why the face?)

Ever the professional, she didn’t miss a beat. Turning her palms up she instructed the choir to stand. So I stood (I mean what was I going to do? Sit?). In a flurry of hand waving the song commenced.

So, I sang.

Well… I pretended to sing. I didn’t know the song so I contorted my lips in a way that resembled someone dribbling profusely after recently having a tongue piercing.

Needless to say I was unconvincing.

Eventually the song ended.

Blessed relief. I finally came to my senses and realised that if I moved my legs they would carry me away from this nightmare. So I got up and left.

The End.

Ps. Sorry to anyone who was hoping for something slightly deep and meaningful :)

Serenity

Serenity : Content or composed; untroubled

If Jesus was Australian, would he rock up to the barbie in his flannie and his stubbies?

Would he bring the beer? Would he knock the top off a cold one, slump down on his fold out chair with his feet on the esky, take a swig and proclaim “ahhhh maaate, how’s the serenity?”

Or would Jesus float around with a cool calm and collected air about him? Seemingly above it all? Serene?

Cos Jesus was serene yeah?

Serenity mate. A bit of inner peace. That’s what we all want isn’t it? That’s what I want.

Angst. I hate angst.

In fact I will go to great lengths to live an angstless life.

But is that how Jesus lived?

Let’s see.

Matthew 26:36-46    The Message (MSG)

36-38 Then Jesus went with them to a garden called Gethsemane and told his disciples, “Stay here while I go over there and pray.” Taking along Peter and the two sons of Zebedee, he plunged into an agonizing sorrow. Then he said, “This sorrow is crushing my life out. Stay here and keep vigil with me.”

39 Going a little ahead, he fell on his face, praying, “My Father, if there is any way, get me out of this. But please, not what I want. You, what do you want?”

40-41 When he came back to his disciples, he found them sound asleep. He said to Peter, “Can’t you stick it out with me a single hour? Stay alert; be in prayer so you don’t wander into temptation without even knowing you’re in danger. There is a part of you that is eager, ready for anything in God. But there’s another part that’s as lazy as an old dog sleeping by the fire.”

42 He then left them a second time. Again he prayed, “My Father, if there is no other way than this, drinking this cup to the dregs, I’m ready. Do it your way.”

43-44 When he came back, he again found them sound asleep. They simply couldn’t keep their eyes open. This time he let them sleep on, and went back a third time to pray, going over the same ground one last time.

45-46 When he came back the next time, he said, “Are you going to sleep on and make a night of it? My time is up, the Son of Man is about to be handed over to the hands of sinners. Get up! Let’s get going! My betrayer is here.”

I think I like the lazy dog sleeping by the fire life. Well actually… I don’t think, I know I TOTALLY ROCK that life. That sounds like serenity to me! But Jesus seemed to be like, a tad anxious. In fact he plunged into an agonising sorrow… “This sorrow is crushing my life out”. What a party pooper.

It doesn’t sound like he perched himself atop a mountain where he sat like a pretzel humming. I doesn't sound like he spent his time trying to escape life with all its responsibilities and angst. In fact, he fell on his face.

Then he says something interesting (I have found that Jesus quite often says interesting things). He says “There is a part of you that is eager, ready for anything in God. But there’s another part that’s as lazy as an old dog sleeping by the fire.”

I’m going to take a stab and say that Jesus meant that a life that is eager and ready for anything in God is the kind of life we should pursue NOT the life that is as lazy as an old dog sleeping by a fire.

An old dog sleeping by the fire sounds like the picture of serenity to me! Sounds like the life I aspire to. One power ball and I’m a comatose dog bro.

Isn’t that the peace that surpasses all understanding? The one that makes you so lax you start to drool?

Or maybe (but hopefully not) whilst serenity is important, it isn’t a feeling we are asked to constantly pursue. Maybe we need to face our agony by face planting the ground and wrestling with it. Giving it to God doesn’t mean he will take it away, it doesn’t even mean he will stop you feeling sorrow and angst.

But if we can surrender and be ready for anything in God, perhaps his army will rise! Perhaps millions of sleeping dogs could become warriors? Because following Jesus isn’t about peaceful vibes on a Sunday morning, it’s not about feeling content, composed and untroubled, it’s about drinking the dregs.

Perhaps if Jesus was Australian he would throw a snagger on the barbie, crack open a cold one and say righto you lot, whose up for anything with God? Follow me.

Cake

 

So there’s a story in the bible about Joseph. I’ll give you the Bec paraphrased version (BPV)

Jospeh is a dude with a cool jacket who gets sold by his brothers (nice) and gets put into prison. After he suffers in prison for a few years he gets to be Pharaoh’s right hand man, and his family decide he’s not that bad after all. Ohh, also he interprets weird dreams and shit.

I may have missed a few things but that will do it for now.

So Joseph. He’s in the bible. And there’s this one bit where he is in prison and he interprets dreams.

I’ll put the REAL version in (apparently it’s better than the BPV)

Genesis 40    The Message (MSG)

40 ^1-4 As time went on, it happened that the cupbearer and the baker of the king of Egypt crossed their master, the king of Egypt. Pharaoh was furious with his two officials, the head cupbearer and the head baker, and put them in custody under the captain of the guard; it was the same jail where Joseph was held. The captain of the guard assigned Joseph to see to their needs.

^4-7 After they had been in custody for a while, the king’s cupbearer and baker, while being held in the jail, both had a dream on the same night, each dream having its own meaning. When Joseph arrived in the morning, he noticed that they were feeling low. So he asked them, the two officials of Pharaoh who had been thrown into jail with him, “What’s wrong? Why the long faces?”

⁸ They said, “We dreamed dreams and there’s no one to interpret them.”

Joseph said, “Don’t interpretations come from God? Tell me the dreams.”

^9-11 First the head cupbearer told his dream to Joseph: “In my dream there was a vine in front of me with three branches on it: It budded, blossomed, and the clusters ripened into grapes. I was holding Pharaoh’s cup; I took the grapes, squeezed them into Pharaoh’s cup, and gave the cup to Pharaoh.”

^12-15 Joseph said, “Here’s the meaning. The three branches are three days. Within three days, Pharaoh will get you out of here and put you back to your old work—you’ll be giving Pharaoh his cup just as you used to do when you were his cupbearer. Only remember me when things are going well with you again—tell Pharaoh about me and get me out of this place. I was kidnapped from the land of the Hebrews. And since I’ve been here, I’ve done nothing to deserve being put in this hole.”

^16-17 When the head baker saw how well Joseph’s interpretation turned out, he spoke up: “My dream went like this: I saw three wicker baskets on my head; the top basket had assorted pastries from the bakery and birds were picking at them from the basket on my head.”

^18-19 Joseph said, “This is the interpretation: The three baskets are three days; within three days Pharaoh will take off your head, impale you on a post, and the birds will pick your bones clean.”

^20-22 And sure enough, on the third day it was Pharaoh’s birthday and he threw a feast for all his servants. He set the head cupbearer and the head baker in places of honor in the presence of all the guests. Then he restored the head cupbearer to his cupbearing post; he handed Pharaoh his cup just as before. And then he impaled the head baker on a post, following Joseph’s interpretations exactly.

²³ But the head cupbearer never gave Joseph another thought; he forgot all about him.

OK.

I like to think of myself as Joseph in this story.  An epic story of how God made him a great leader, and yeah he suffered terribly along the way, but eventually his prayers for that one power ball were answered.

But what if I’m the baker in this story? What if my life consists of  baking cakes all day (bearable but not my idea of fun) and then getting thrown into jail perhaps because Pharaoh didn’t like my sticky date?

So I’m praying for release from prison and God gives me a dream! Awesome. But it turns out to be a nice little heads up that in 3 days I’m gonna have a huge pole stuck up my butt and have my head cut off. (no reference to sticky date required)

#theawkwardmomentwhenyougetyourheadchoppedoffandapolestuckupyourarse

So whilst it’s nice to hear about old Joe and his flash jacket, I’m kind of interested in the baker.

I don’t want to gloss over this poor dude. Cos not everyone gets to be Joseph. In fact most people don’t get to be Joseph. Some people live a horrible unfair torturous existence and die a cruel and painful death.

So if God is good, then he isn’t just good when we triumph with a power ball life that makes our neighbours weep with jealousy. He is good when we live a life that by all accounts seem insignificant, unfair and uncomfortable.

He is good even when we are being impaled. This, my friends, is a struggle. To understand God’s goodness amidst horrific mistreatment and agony.

Don’t worry, I haven’t arrived. I’m still bitching and moaning about having to drive a purple car for crying out loud.

But I do think about the baker (not too much cos it makes my sphincter clench)

I think of him and remind myself that God’s goodness transcends my limited understanding, and I can only hope that the baker met Jesus during those 3 days of gracious warning God gave him, and that he is now sitting on his ring cushion baking triple choc deluxe cakes for the King of Kings.