Empty

I eventually gave up on sleep.

My heart ached with emptiness as I went about my morning routine. I had hoped a new day would bring respite from the events of days past.

I felt completely empty, an unquenchable thirst had drained me, despite my attempts to console myself, leaving me barren.

I went outside to water the garden when a crisp cool breeze surprised me as it blew past, lifting the suffocating heaviness from the air. I lifted my head to see a crowd gathering down the street.

I dropped my water jug and ran towards them, desperate for something, someone to offer me respite from this vacuous affliction.

I crouched beside one woman who was relaying the most unbelievable story.

She said the man was no longer in the tomb. She said the man we had killed had risen from the dead!

My mind refused to believe it. That’s impossible, and yet she was sure of it. As she shared her story of the man they call Jesus something inexplicable happened, the pit of emptiness I had been carrying inside me started to lighten.

The tomb was empty.

And somehow this man, through his death and resurrection, had brought peace to me, a kind of peace that is beyond my understanding. As I listened my thirst began to be quenched!

I knew at that moment that I needed to know more about this man. I needed to talk to people who knew him, who know him! I needed to ask them how I can know him too because it seems he can reach into my ravenous void of restlessness and bring me peace.

Who is this man?

Jesus.

Jeremiah 29:13 .  You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.

#tryalpha

Thirst

I’m not a morning person at the best of times, but the next morning I woke up feeling desolate, empty, parched.

The day before I sat for hours waiting for the darkness to lift, clinging to a rock, I lay on the ground as the earth shook violently.

And then it was over.

The man died, the man they call Jesus.

I still tremble when I think of it. I decided to shake it off, embrace a new day hoping I could put the man’s gruesome death behind me. I made myself a cup of tea to calm my nerves.

I tried to keep busy but my day felt empty, in fact, the more I tried to fill it up, the emptier it felt. It’s as though my soul was groaning, I felt incomplete, like a part of me that I couldn’t identify had been torn from me, I was thirsty, desperately thirsty.

I went out into the street hoping to escape my solitude. As I walked I saw men kneeling on the ground, beating their chests in anguish. The mood was sombre and I started to feel afraid.

What had we done?

What was this unquenchable thirst that had come over me?

I sought solace with a group of women who were gathered nearby. They were saying that this Jesus was the son of God and that he was being buried in a tomb owned by Joseph of Arimathea.

I couldn’t believe my ears, how could this man be the son of God, and if he was why didn’t he save himself?

I couldn’t sleep at all that night, I lay awake, hungry for answers and afraid that I might have to endure this ravenous void in my soul for the rest of my days.

Who was this man?

Bread

So annoying right?

When the bible app spits up a corker.

Don’t mess with me bible app. I think I should suggest a 28 day cycle of verses that cater for the… shall we say… treacherous days?

Pfft! “I am the bread of life”

I’m gluten intolerant.

John 6:35 (NIV)

Then Jesus declared, “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never go hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.”

I mean, be careful there Jdawg, that’s a pretty bold statement.

Cos I am ravenous.

Every waking moment I am in search of you, watching, waiting, hoping for more of you. Hungry. Thirsty.

Ok, well sometimes I may look for satisfaction elsewhere…

Perhaps my Bec Paraphrased Version needs some work.

“I am the bread of life, Whoever visits me once a week and enjoys Christian fellowship will never go hungry because they are bloated by their own striving for fulfillment, and whoever invited me into their heart in 1985 and has a worship playlist will never be thirsty as they shall inherit the wellsprings of Coke.”

Come to you.

Can’t I just friend you on Facebook? Or better still, follow you without friending?

How close do I have to get?

Where do I find you?

If only there was some sort of book, like a get to know you manual. I would definitely read it. Well, I’d read 150 characters a day if perhaps someone tweeted it. Perhaps you could constantly remind me of the same verses over and over using an on trend font via instagram? Just the good ones, tho. #instagoodnews

Sigh.

Being hungry is so exhausting.

Come to you.

Why is that hard?

Why do I satisfy myself with cardboard when there is bread to be had?

Stupid bible app. I’m going to move you to my second screen.

Maybe I’ll come to you tomorrow… cos that 100 percent post-consumer recovered fiber is lookin good.

Adversity

Have you ever eaten so much that your stomach felt uncomfortable? No, no, of course you haven’t. Well, try and imagine it. You feel bloated and uncomfortable. Imagine that feeling and then increase it by, I dunno, maybe 1000%. That is what it’s like to be pregnant, full term.

You start off rubbing your belly as a small bump emerges. Caressing it, enjoying the sensation, swanning around the shops in a fitted dress with your belly on show, buying cute booties that you’ll never use and obsessing about which pram to buy because having the right pram is important so maybe we should mortgage the house a little.

That’s 30 weeks.

Then there is 38, 39, 40 weeks.

Your swanning around becomes waddling. Your fitted tummy dress is quietly replaced with a tent. You buy bras with letters from the alphabet you did not know existed. Your feet have swollen, but it’s not so much of a problem because you can’t see them anymore. You wee… a little too easily. And you can’t wait. You can’t wait to get this HUGE THING OUT OF YOU. And do you know what you don’t think? In the history of pregnancy do you know what thought has never entered the mind of a full term pregnant woman?

I feel like riding a donkey.

I’m pretty sure Mary was stoked.

Cos when you are about to give birth to the son of God it’s not like you are thinking perhaps God would grant you some kind of comfort? Some special treatment? Perhaps a delivery fit for a king ?

Cos God’s plan for my life includes a smooth road right? No adversity? No discomfort?

Cos that was what he promised right? If I follow him?

Or does he ask me to trust him through adversity?

Trust that even though I pictured myself reclining with a glow on my face as my brow is wiped by my buff husband, my pillows fluffed and my hair cascading over my shoulders as  I birth my son with minimal discomfort and maximum elegance, I find myself straddling a donkey at 39 weeks pregnant, frequently wincing as my hemorrhoids kiss the saddle, that God knows what he is doing.

Because he is God.

And I am not.

*Mic drop God*

Fluffy

This Christmas as you hustle and bustle about, shopping, baking and carolling I’m pretty sure I know what question is rattling around in your head, on the tip of your tongue, just busting to be voiced… was Jesus born with shit on his face?

Am I right?

I’m tempted, when walking past perfectly poised nativity scenes, to wipe a bit of vegemite on those baby cheeks, to ruffle Josephs hair and to perch Mary in a more I can barely stand to sit on those special parts so I’ll lean back awkwardly to take a load off while still looking engaged in the moment and desperately hoping my breasts don’t leak everywhere type pose.

Cos really. Just really.

Jesus was born in the shed. A shed with perhaps a few skanky cows, and an annoying goat.

I’m guessing Joseph didn’t remember to pack the calming essential oils with handy aroma diffuser to minimise the awkward moment when you realise that cow urine soaked straw is not the same as sandalwood.

There was no sterile environment, nurses with gloves, birth plan, monitoring equipment, Mary hoping her hair would still be on point for the ensuing Instagram snap, Joseph excusing himself to top up his macchiato between contractions.

I can imagine a slightly more harried, uncomfortable, slightly terrifying, sweaty, smelly, raw and undignified event.

I reckon perhaps Jesus' first breath of life as a human was welcomed with a face plant into a cowpat.

Welcome to the world Jesus.

No special treatment.

Jesus rocked the undignified entrance.

Because Jesus is not fluffy. He’s not some stained-glass pathetic halo wearing weakling. A statue. A relic.

He was a man who was poor, homeless, rejected, despised, betrayed, and killed. A man of great strength and bravery who was bold, steadfast, loving, compassionate and obedient.

The son of God.

He’s the real deal.

So, if you look at nativity scenes and think, what has that baby got to do with me? Just imagine him with vegemite on his face and think, what kind of man would face plant poo for me? Is that the kind of man I want to get to know?

Don’t be put off by our feeble expressions of who Jesus is, or by mine for that matter. Find out for yourself. It’s the best birthday present you could give him.

Celebrating Christmas when you want to punch someone in the face

Celebrating Christmas when you want to punch someone in the face...

Like when you’ve spent 3 months researching and preparing the perfect Christmas lunch, something on trend, perhaps Jamie Oliveresque, with hip rustic table ornaments made from old jars, a salad with Kale, some socially responsible bon bons, colour coordinated crockery and perfectly placed jugs filled with Christmas cheer and Aunty Vera arrives with her 3 day old potato salad that gives everyone the squirts, presented in the crystal bowl she received as a wedding gift in 1969 and plonks it with pride in the middle of the table sending your kikki K mini wooden peg place holder cards flying into your bowl of raw vegan chocolate fruit balls.

And you want to punch her in the face.

Or perhaps you yell at the kids in the car on the way to lunch because you are tense about seeing your sister who never ceases to offend you and you arrive covered in a thick shell of bitter resentment ready to endure the festivities and she opens the door, ushers you in, gives you the once over, spins you around as she laughs, nudges you and slaps you on the back saying “Look at you! You even have back cleavage.”

And you want to punch her in the face

Or perhaps you are sitting on the couch watching the kids open their presents and you look over at your spouse with sorrow and regret, staggered by the enormous crater of sadness and hurt that has formed between you, and a tear slips down your face as you mourn the loss of what was, and steel yourself for the prospect of what will be.

And you want to punch him in the face.

Or perhaps you wake on Christmas morning with a pit of grief and loss threatening to destroy you, you swing your legs over the bed and gaze at the empty pillow of your loved one who is no more, whose memory brings joy and unbearable pain, and you wonder how you will survive the day, if you want to survive the day.

And you want to punch God in the face.

How do you celebrate Christmas when you are in pain? When you have suffered injustice? When you are hurting?

Well, here's a cheery idea...

Serve.

Wait… don’t punch me in the face.

I am going to try, just for one day (and then I can go back to normal thank the Lord), to put aside my anger, fear, resentment, grief and hurt and serve. BORING.. maybe, HARD definitely, but  I reckon that serving is a good way to celebrate the King who gave up his life for me.

Wash Aunty Vera’s crystal bowl and ask her to bring it again next year. Pay our sisters a genuine compliment, squeeze the hand of our spouses, surrender our pain to God. Just for one day.

Never know, it may be good, and we might keep on doing it.

No promises though, because the face punching option is still quite appealing.

Heart Bleeds

She strokes her daughter’s hair, as her head lay on her lap. Gently following the curve of her hairline, her fingers caress her young, unblemished hair. As the train rocks her from side to side she gently sings their favourite song. “Mummy loves Divya, yes she does, Mummy loves Divya yes she does….” As her daughter sleeps her mind wanders to happier times. Memories so beautiful. Her daughter playing with her little brother, the dinner time banter, and that time her first tooth fell out and she was so worried she would spend her life toothless! Oh the hours of assurance she needed to calm down about her teeth! Blessed child. She smiles at the memory. Tears stream down her cheek. Silent tears, silent pain.

The train stops. More passengers cram into the grimy carriage. She wakes her daughter and wedges them both against the window, hoping the air will cool their sweaty faces. The journey is long. She wishes it was longer. Her daughter leans her head against the window her hair billowing as the air rushes past her. Her daughter dreams flights of fancy as she gazes listlessly out the window. Hopes and dreams of a little girl. Dancing. Twirling. Giddy laughter. She lets them go, one by one, she offers them to the wind. They are not hers to have.

Slowly the train comes to the end of its tracks. Its engine turns off. The journey has ended.

She lifts her daughter to her feet. She grabs her daughter’s little cloth bag filled with memory trinkets. The little stone she used to put under her brother’s head while he was sleeping just to annoy him, the pressed flower her mother gave her in celebration when she had her first menstrual bleeding last month, the hair band her best friend gave her when she said goodbye. She placed the bag over her daughter’s shoulder, grabbed her soft fragile hand, and lead her outside.

Gripping tightly to her daughter through the bustling crowd she leads her away. With each step her resolve weakens. Her feet become heavy. She can’t look at her daughter, she keeps her eyes ahead, trying to be strong, for her daughter’s sake, for her family’s sake. They walk together in silence. The world around them, the ringing bells, the cars, the shouting, the sounds of India merge into deafening silence as they walk helplessly to their fate. The fate of so many.

Her heart tears, her breath leaves her. They arrive.

Her eyes become vacant. The depth of her pain is death to her soul. She is no more.

She bends her knees to the ground and places her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. She chances a look into the eyes of her daughter. They weave their pain together in their last embrace. Beauty dies.

Without words, she tilts her head to the side, indicating to her daughter to enter through the metal door. She follows her in.

It’s dark.

He shouts “bring her to me”.

The daughter steps toward the man, and turns back to look at her mother, pleading with her with brave silent tears. Her mother looks to the ground.

“$60”.

She tilts her head in sorrowful agreement. He thrusts the money into her hand and shoves her out the door.

She sinks to the ground, vomit rises as she tries to purge herself of her grief. She pounds her chest, she mourns.

Hope dies.

John 13:35 NIV

“By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.”

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!)