Got this?

Stupid…mumble, scowl…. expletive…. Jesus following, mountain climbing, shit storm called life.

Why is it so hard?

I get that following you isn’t the easy life, but I thought it was the instant life.

You know. I ask, you give. #blessed

I thought I was a leaf in the fresh winding stream, gliding along the buoyant waters, twisting and turning as you make the way for me.

So, WHATS UP WITH THIS CRAP. My leaf hit a rock in the stream and is being pummelled by oncoming water. I’ve been there so long I’m getting slimy. Other leaves whisk swiftly past me singing, rejoicing and reminding me about your perfect bloody timing as they high five me at 40 knots.

Can I just say your timing is tardy Buster. (I’m using a capitol letter to maintain respect)

So what gives? And don’t give me some ocean dreaming, paddock gleaming Instagram tripe.

And don’t. I repeat don’t say “you go this”. BECAUSE I DON’T.

You do.

So please lift my slimy and battered ass out from against this rock, pleeaassse.

Let me not have this but have you have this even though I want to have this and I think you need me to tell you how to have this and I’m not sure all the time that you do have this but then I remember you do of course what was I thinking sorry for doubting you but sheesh I’m only a leaf, can you please help me?

OK… *clears throat*

Amen.

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?

First steps

In case you thought this was romantic

Today I woke to the knowledge that we will sign up our house for sale. Our home.

I went for a walk. I walked and I cried. I cried that you would take this cup from me. I cried for the home I had made that my children will never hold in their memories. I cried that I am asked to take them to live among filth and depravity. I cried that I will not dress them in their sweet school uniforms or watch them dance along manicured paths picking up honkey nuts. I cried that my daughter will leave behind her purple bike with the cute basket. I cried that I won’t be able to eat cheezels anymore. I cried for all the times I was dissatisfied and wanted more. I cried, not my will but yours.

I’m afraid. Afraid of the cost. Afraid of failure. Afraid of living without comfort. Afraid of not being able to provide financially for my children. I’m afraid of you God. I’m afraid to follow you. I’m afraid because following you doesn’t mean an easy life; it means giving my life.

I’m grateful. Grateful for a husband who grapples these feelings and doubts with me. I understand that if I had chased the manicured life, if you hadn’t challenged me, then our relationship would not be as strong as it is today. Loving you, following you, shouting at you, crying to you, submitting to you has knitted us together and bound us to you, the 3 string cord that is hard to break. That cord, I have learned, is to be put to work.

I am at peace. I am ok to fail. I trust you.

I will follow you, but don’t be offended if I cry like a baby in the backseat, ok?

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!)

Clarity

Authors note: I’d like to introduce Kevin for those of you who haven’t met him. Kevin is a man who sits on the streets of Kolkata. He begs. He pops up from time to time.

Sometimes clarity is a bitch. Like when it bites you on the bum at the supermarket.

As tragic as it sounds, I found myself excited by the prospect of a new supermarket opening in my neighbourhood. Yeah, sure it is the same as all the other surrounding supermarkets, selling the same produce at the same price, but this one is new!

Wide clean isles, boxes and jars aligned perfectly in rows, a bounty of fresh produce in plentiful supply, the latest in trolley design and cash register technology. It's like stepping into an artificial universe. It is… perfect. Except for bloody Kevin. I push my not annoyingly wonky because it is new trolley through the fresh produce aisle. I see Kevin sitting in the corner, wishing someone would throw him an apple, even a blemished one. Get lost Kevin. I start to feel nauseous. The perfection of it all, the over abundant supply, it starts to make me sick. Is there something wrong with me? I wondered.  “Nice trolley” says Kevin as he sits slumped on the wooden trolley he is wheeled onto the street on every day. I notice the ergonomic design of my trolley handles, moulded to maximize my trolley pushing comfort. I feel a bit dizzy. Is this real? Is there really a place as perfect as this for me to purchase to my heart’s content while Kevin sits on the street in Kolkata and begs for his own survival?

I happen upon the pasta sauces and browse the 12 different varieties of the same sauce, trying to decide what sauce I feel like having. I start to feel a bit anxious, I get a bit teary in the pasta sauce isle, no one notices, I just blend in with all the other depressed shoppers. I wonder what would Jesus say to me? Is this ok?

Of course it is. It must be.

For goodness sake can’t I just buy my baked beans in peace Kevin? Do you have to follow me everywhere? WHAT DO YOU WANT??

What are you trying to say Kevin…..?

“Remember me.”

My friend Jen and I went on a girl’s trip, of sorts. We are both a bit weird to be honest, although I’m certain Jen outranks me in a big way on the weirdometer. Anyhoo we decided, as you do, that we would visit Bangladesh together. This was the first time either of us had visited this part of the world, and it was a life changing experience. Jen has since gone on to create a hairdressing training school in Bangladesh that trains women/girls and gives them relief from their grinding poverty. I, on the other hand, am hallucinating in supermarkets…. Hmm perhaps I’m tipping the weirdometer scale…

Anyhoo this trip, as I said, was life changing.

One day while we were in Bangladesh we had the privilege of visiting a village right near the border. Most of the people in this village had not seen white people before, so we were fairly popular. Kindly the villagers charmed some snakes for us (!) and showed us around their houses made of mud. These people were heartbreakingly poor.  After an hour or so of trying to communicate with smiles and head nods, and trying not to dry reach at the stink of poverty it was time to leave. As we came to get in the car one of the older men of the village approached me with his toothless grin and took hold of my hand. He looked me in the eyes and said “remember me”.

I smiled, squeezed his hand and slid into the back seat of the 4WD. As we drove off I looked through the back window of the car, I looked at this weathered desperately poor man and I whispered to myself with tears welling in my eyes, I will remember you.

I swung around in my seat and told Jen what the man had said to me.

She looked at me a bit stunned before she reminded me of one small fact I had forgotten.

He doesn’t speak English. He hasn’t even seen a white person before today.

Holy shitballs.

That’s a moment of clarity I will never forget.

I remember you. Forgive me brother. I remember you.

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.