Fear

Sooo… this is awkward… hopefully God doesn’t read my blog.

I’m afraid.

All the time.

Afraid that if I put my guard down, if I stand still for too long, you might see me, that I might see myself.

I’m afraid of the truth.

The truth is ugly.

I’m afraid to have nothing but you.

You are not enough.

I’m afraid to let go, I’m afraid to hold on to you.

I don’t trust you.

I’m afraid to follow you, I’m afraid of where you might take me.

You may have my best interests at heart, but I prefer my own interests.

I’m not afraid of your wrath.

Fearing you is hard because I have reduced you into a handy friend to get me through hard times.

I’m afraid to let go of my comfort.

My comfort means more to me than obedience does.

I’m afraid to trust you with my children.

My love for my children means more to me than my love for you.

I’m afraid I don’t love you enough.

I’m afraid that despite these truths, you love me, and you are waiting. Waiting for me to let you take my fear away.

What then?

Why

I sat at my desk rubbing my eyes annoyed that I had set myself this stupid 30 day challenge. I looked through my list of remaining challenge words with my daughter Aubrey, hoping I would suddenly be struck with super Christian genius.

“What should I write about Aubrey?”

She flicked through the pages… “why”

“Why? Why should I write about why?”

“Why is a dangerous word.” She explained

“Why?”

“Because that’s what Adam and Eve asked. That’s why they ate the fruit because they wanted to know all the answers.”

Errrr what the?! How did she get so wise?!

I sat there gobsmacked, trying to remain cool calm and collected. Trying not to smother her with proud mumminess, I told her to get her feet off the desk and she trotted off with her netball to shoot some hoops.

So how much is too much why?

We are taught/encouraged as kids to ask why. Explore. Discover. It’s a good question, except when a 2 year old asks you repeatedly while youare trying to do your food shopping.

Why is the question of great men and women. Why is the question of the educated, the powerful, the wealthy. Inherent in our quest to ascertain why is the core belief that we are entitled to know why.

It’s the question of Julius Sumner Miller.

Why is it so?

Sometimes the why is grief filled. Why did you let him die? Why didn’t you stop it? Why didn’t you protect him?

Sometimes the why is selfish. Why do they have more than me? Why didn’t you give me what I asked for?

Sometimes the why is angry. Why did you let him hurt her? Why didn’t you protect her?

At what point does the why move from healthy inquisitiveness to poison apple?

Because I’m convinced that God wants us to ask why, to explore him, to test him, to be angry at him.

But I’m also convinced  that he doesn’t owe us an explanation. That knowing why won’t solve our problems.

It’s the wrong question.

Who? That might be a better question.

Who are you in the midst of my grief, who are you when I am feeling selfish and resentful, who are you when I am angry at injustice?

Who are you, that you would give up your life for me, and who am I that you should love me so much.

I’m learning to tame my obsession with the why as it’s often a self-centred question, and be more interested in the who.

I’m pretty sure if God revealed himself to me as I sit at my computer trying to wrestle with all the why’s flying around in my head, if he revealed himself to me in all his fullness and majesty I would choose option c)

a)   Sharpen my pencil, get out my writing pad and drill him with my many why’s.

b)   Share my disappointment in him, that he didn’t adequately answer the why’s of my life

c)   Shart my pants, fall face first onto the ground terrified, awestruck, and grateful that he would allow me into his presence, I would treasure any understanding of who he is that he would see fit to share with my pathetic whiney soul.

The apple would lose its appeal pretty quick smart in light of the who. And whilst I’m fixated with the apple, I’m really truly missing the point.

Thanks Aubrey, who am I that God should give me such a beautiful daughter <3

Midlife

I know a rude woman. Seriously she is just so offensive, saying highly inappropriate things all the time, it’s embarrassing. For example, for my 30 day writing challenge she offered me the word MIDLIFE.

She might as well have slapped me on the face with a wet fish. I mean, what do I know about midlife?

Midstream, yeah maybe I could work with that. But Midlife? So rude.

Anyway, she threw down the gauntlet and I accept. I will muster all of my observational skills and creative wherewithal to imagine what midlife might be like.

I think I can sum it up in one word.

Gravity.

It’s proven that the gravitational pull gets stronger as you get older. Things… drop, droop and drag. Earlobes get longer, hairs drop from your head and start trying to escape through your nose, even you insides start trying to escape in unsavoury ways. Your skin loses any hope of staying abreast of things and just gives up, hanging there like a burst party balloon.

Boobs. I can’t even….

So yeah, gravity.

We don’t leap, spin and twirl like we used to or if we do, we end up requiring medical attention.

But it’s not all physical.

We are truly weighed down. It gets harder to take risks, the implications of failure seem greater. The more we have accumulated, the harder it is to give it up. We get scared, we are prudent. We are safe. We find ourselves trapped in a cage of our own making.

We are wise. Apparently.

We are not frivolous.

We are mature. We are mundane. We are midlife.

THAT’S A CROCK OF SHIT. *whistling sharply through false teeth*

We are fearless followers of Christ known for flights of fancy!

Isaiah 40:28-31   New International Version (NIV)

 Do you not know? Have you not heard? The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He will not grow tired or weary, and his understanding no one can fathom.  He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall;  but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.

 Eat my dust young thing, my strength is renewed, and I’m grabbing a Poise and running towards Christ.

Legs

 

This is the internet. And we all know that anything that is on the internet must be true. So I feel it is important to put it out there into cyberspace that I have long lithe legs. Legs for days, the kind of legs that make other women weep with jealousy.

Excellent. I now have lanky cyber legs.

Shame about my planet earth legs. Perhaps… trunks would be a better word. Sigh. On the bright side, at least I’m not likely to be blown over by a gust of wind anytime soon. I do however, find I have a kinship with the hams in the supermarket fridge section which can be disturbing.

Anyhoo. When I was a young newlywed… you know, the sort that shaved/waxed said trunks more than biannually… we did a lot of travel. My husband is a traveller, and he also likes to ski. On mountains. With snow. (It’s proven to be better with snow present). Subsequently he decided to take me skiing. I had only seen snow for the first time 2 days before, so you could say I was a novice. For some reason he decided that my first snow skiing experience would be on Whistler mountain in Canada.

Wow.

No, really… wow.

What a mountain.

So in order to ski you need gear. You need clothing that makes you seem wider/cuddlier/everything I normally try to avoid. And boots. Boots that are not made for walking. Naturally I presented my slender calf, slipping it effortlessly into the boot wondering… will this be too loose?

I struggle. I cram, I hold my breath in, I squish and squeeze my hefty calf into the unnatural unforgiving cocoon of foam and plastic, praying that I won’t cause the buckle to burst off and hit my neighbouring skier in the eyeball, my leg finally acquiesces. I stand/lean awkwardly upright. I’m ready.

Then my husband, with so little experience in this wedded bliss we share says the unthinkable.

“Don’t worry Bec, you just have stubby legs”

(Yes, He is still alive, although he does now have a phobia of ski equipment.)

And there you have it. I have stubby legs.

I waddle my way in my it’s so tight I have no blood reaching my toes boots to the top of the ski run.

My husband, having recovered from his boot hire injuries, waved goodbye as he slid down the mountain like a gazelle.

I stood atop the mountain. I did know that the idea was to slide down the mountain. But I didn’t/ couldn’t. I just stood there, in my too tight concrete boots. I can’t go down there! What if I trip over? What if I run into someone? What if it’s a complete disaster and I embarrass myself?

I stood stationary for some time. Like a time lapse with people whizzing past me. I stood. I stood there ALL DAY. Knowing that there was fun to be had, there was freedom to be had, that yeah I might take a tumble, but the ride was worth it. I stood. Afraid.

I was on one of the most beautiful mountains in the world, an exciting and invigorating journey lay before me, but I chose to stay rooted in the known, in the security of my stubby legged hole in the snow.

Bummer.

2 Timothy 1:7King James Version (KJV)

For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.

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.

Light

Matthew 5:13 The Message (MSG)

Salt and Light

“Let me tell you why you are here. You’re here to be salt-seasoning that brings out the God-flavours of this earth. If you lose your saltiness, how will people taste godliness? You’ve lost your usefulness and will end up in the garbage.

Salt is pretty awesome, especially if you mix it with caramel.

Add that to salty chips and you’ve got to say salt is the most important food in life.

I Love salt!

So it’s a pretty big gig for God to say we are salt, and that we are to bring out his flavours. I wonder what his flavours are?

I notice that this verse doesn’t say “If you lose your saltiness, never mind. It’s the thought that counts. Keep calm and carry on.”

Errr… it DOES say “You’ve lost your usefulness and will end up in the garbage.” Maybe that’s just The Message version, let’s look up the NIV … “It is no longer good for anything, except to be thrown out and trampled underfoot.” Hmmm not much better.

Crikey this sounds serious. Am I salty? (Pink Himalayan rock salt of course)

Let’s read on: verse 14-16

“You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven.”

I think a little wee just travelled down my leg

Is it just me or does that sound like a big statement? “You are the light of the world”. ?!?!

I mean thankfully in John 8:12 Jesus says “I am the world’s Light. No one who follows me stumbles around in the darkness. I provide plenty of light to live in.”

So that’s good, but still… I am the light of the world seems like a big ask to me.

It also seems that I am not supposed to hide this light, it should be like a town built on a hill.

I have to say, I have hidden this light A LOT. I mean not just a little oops I forgot to share the light and hid it under bowl occasionally type hidden, but the I’m sorry but I’m too self-absorbed, embarrassed and ashamed of you Lord to share this light even though I know its life and death important I’m not willing to upset my well-manicured social boundaries on your behalf type hidden.

Its seems like this might be an important/serious area of my life to grow in if I want to keep out of the garbage… Am I a salty light? Or am I a bland bowl hider….

Fruchocs

 

If you don’t know what Fruchocs are then, my friend, I gnash my teeth and tear at my clothes with grief for your woeful life experience.

Imagine you have an apricot and you dehydrate it. Then you take a miniscule sample of your dried up apricot and add other unknown substances to it (possibly laxatives). You then dip it in brown matter that is designed to resemble chocolate. Voilà. You have a Fruchoc.

I may or may not be known for my love of Fruchocs.

When I was 12 my Dad took me to the movies. I was so excited, we were going to see the Muppet movie. I loved watching the Muppets with my Dad because he laughed... loudly.

We daringly decided it was worth putting second mortgage on my parents’ house to purchase something from the “Candy Bar” (helloooo this is not America…).

My excitement levels were reaching epic proportions… a movie AND “candy”. We discussed what we could purchase and the vote was unanimous… we shall go forth and order FRUCHOCS. My Dad leaned down and whispered into my ear “they are my favourite”.

DING. Synapses connected in my brain. These are my Dad’s favourite, they shall now and forever more be my favourite.

I placed my hand in his gigantic hand, my Dad, my hero, a huge influencer in my life, not only leading me in my love of Fruchocs but in my faith, and the faith of many others.

Such a precious treasured memory. Thanks Dad.

Little did I know, as I devoured Fruchocs and lol’d with my Dad that I was about to encounter another enormously influential character in my life… Miss Piggy.

What a woman/pig.

If you don’t know who Miss Piggy is then, let’s face it, your life is seriously troubling.

Give me a problem, I can solve things… Miss Piggy style.

No problem is too big… for example, lets look at a biggie right here... the crucifixion (I told you, no problem is too big).

John 19: 18 (NIV)

There they crucified him, and with him two others—one on each side and Jesus in the middle.

I’ve read the account of Christ’s crucifixion a few times. Sometimes I think, how could they do that??... How could they be so barbaric, how could they kill Jesus?!

Like so many moments in history, let’s face it, if I was there it would have turned out rosy. I would have thumped everyone with my hand bag Miss Piggy style, HIIYAHH!, stormed onto the hill and demanded the release of Jesus.

Right?

Well… not like the time when I couldn’t even muster the courage to mention his name because of peer pressure… and not like the time I disobeyed even though I knew I was heading down a path of destruction…

Or maybe it was my sin that took him there, and his love and obedience that held him there, no handbag bashing required.

*clears throat/snout*

*Storms off in a huff…*

Hmmm maybe not the best influence…

Anyway… I do love Fruchocs, and my Dad… any sometimes still Miss Piggy…

Fishing

 

Matthew 4: 18-20   New International Version (NIV)

As Jesus was walking beside the Sea of Galilee, he saw two brothers, Simon called Peter and his brother Andrew. They were casting a net into the lake, for they were fishermen. “Come, follow me,” Jesus said, “and I will send you out to fish for people.”  At once they left their nets and followed him.

When Jesus said “I will send you out to fish for people” did he mean:

a) Find a beautiful stream, make sure you wear on trend branded clothing, gear yourself up, (no not that rod, that’s sooo last season), gather some mates, throw your line in the water, sit back and enjoy the serenity, if you don’t catch anything, it’s all good just enjoy yourself, relax.

b) Stand out in the desert reading your fishing almanac and scream at the top of your lungs “You fish are all swimming in the wrong place, idiots!”

c) Sit in your dinghy staring at the fish around you, whingeing. I’m not really in to fishing, I’m not gifted in that way. I would however like a bigger boat…

d) Find a school of low key, bottom dwelling dull fish. Join them. Then proceed to judge the future prospects of the showy tropical fish given the climate change issues the ocean is facing.

e)Become vegan.

f) Get a massive net, scoop up as many as you can. It doesn’t matter if they flap around with no idea where they are or what is happening to them, as long as you catch lots.

g) Get a sharp hook, trick the fish into swallowing it thinking it was something else, yes it’s painful, but also effective.

h) Tease the fish, reel them in, then release, reel them in, release a bit more, until they are so confused that they acquiesce.

i) Get a baby fish, keep it in a bowl as it grows up, never let it out, maybe invest in a fake plant and rock.

j) Stand on the beach, marveling at your strength and cleverness. Haul in as many salmon as you can, unhook them and bleed them, bleed them dry, while you sit back and have a well deserved beer.

k) Gather as many shiny lures as possible and drag them in the water in the hope that the fish will miraculously understand your subliminal message that there is also a real fish to follow, its just a bit embarrassing to mention overtly,  but look at all our bright shiny lures...

l) Become a blow fish so you repel all the other fish.

m) Find out where the fish are swimming, dive in, join in, wiggle your tail and lead them to a stream of living water where you can be free together.

n) I’m not really sure, but I know it made a cool song when I was a kid ♬♪♫ “I will make you fishers of men if you foollloooww meee.”

Friendship

 

Today I checked in to an event on Facebook… it was my 20^th birthday. Well I guess to be more precise I should say it was the 20^th birthday of my church, so naturally, we had a party!

It was a great day to celebrate what God has done in our community over the last 20 years. A common theme of celebration, was that of friendship.

Many people shared about friendships that had formed that were beyond the surface, they were friendships of truly loving one another and being honest with each other. Friendships that built each other up.

Friendships that were built on Christ.

Like Paul wrote about mates:

Phil 2:5-7 NIV

In your relationships with one another, have the same mindset as Christ Jesus: Who, being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be used to his own advantage; rather, he made himself nothing by taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness. And being found in appearance as a man, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to death—even death on a cross!

Sure! Nailed that one, what’s next?

Hold on, my friend just updated their Facebook status… “feeling hungry… pic of a yummy low fat low carb  low sugar low taste meal… tongue out emoji” … lol

Wait, in my relationships with others have the same mindset as Christ. Oh I skipped that bit, I thought this was just about you and me God. Do we have to include others in this? Isn’t this just about my journey?

In my relationship with others, humble myself (cough) and become obedient to death – even death on a cross (lump in throat).

Seriously I am SO FAR from nailing this it’s not funny, and if you throw in that bit about people knowing I am your disciple by my love for others….

WHY CAN”T I JUST GET FAITH OUT OF A GUMBALL MACHINE??

That would be so much easier.

So, what you are saying is… ooooh wait, I just got a friend request from someone… let me just cyber stalk them to see if I want to be friends…

Oh sorry, so what you are saying is being a friend requires being a humble servant.

Sigh… that’s not altogether appealing, and more importantly there is no Facebook humble servant emoticon, so…. if I get a friend request from you Lord… I’ll probably accept, but I’m not sure I’ll follow your feed… Thumbs up emoticon.

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 ;)