Pain

 

Today I watched as my sweet 9-year-old daughter sat in a chair clinging to her favourite teddy while someone drilled a hole in her tooth. For such an occasion, I thought it prudent to bring with me my arsenal of parenting weaponry. The peaceful smiley “it’s all ok” face, the over enthusiastic thumbs up shrug and in my back pocket for emergency use only, the stern but confidence inspiring Mummy voice.

I sat helplessly as she lay back and endured the pain. I watched as her legs tensed, her toes wriggled in her shoes, and she squeezed the living daylights out of her teddy. I sat, and watched, and pondered the award-winning parenting advice I had given her earlier. “Yes, this may hurt, but it’s ok to feel pain, it’s part of life. Sometimes it’s best not to try and avoid pain, just face the feeling.”

And then I nearly choked right there in the Dental Clinic as I attempted to swallow the huge ball of hypocrisy in my throat.

Great advice. Why don’t I take it?

Clarity’s a bitch.

Cos right now it feels like God has snapped on his industrial strength gloves and decided to give me a root canal.

He’s got his big ole drill out and has been relentlessly carving away at my insides. He’s drilled in nooks and crannies I didn’t even know I had. He’s drilled for so long I’ve started to think its normal to have a jackhammer constantly chipping away at my life, and just when I think he is finished he shakes his head, opens me up, and drills a bit deeper.

Then, for good measure, he holds his little tricky dicky mirror up so I can see the gaping holes he has drilled. See? See what I did there? You don’t need that.

Still more? Sure. I’ve got this pick axe I can also use to get in those sneaky crevices, you know the ones where you like to hold on to things. Let’s get those too while we are here.

Great. Now let’s get a torrent of water and blast every remaining speck out, and suck out the remaining dregs of your life with this life sucking vacuum.

Cheers.

“Yes, this may hurt, but it’s ok to feel pain, it’s part of life. Sometimes it’s best not to try and avoid pain, just face the feeling.”

Eye roll emoji. Stupid parenting advice.

So, I could rave on about how God took out the decay in my life so he could fill the cavities with himself.

But that is trite bullshit.

He didn’t just take decay, he’s taken half of my teeth out. I’ve even taken a few out myself, and now I’m hobbling around with a numb toothless grin.

There’s no happy ending, neat package, moral to the story. Sometimes we do just walk around with a gaping hole in our life.

It hurts. Deeply. To the core.

Our nerve endings are exposed, and it’s incredibly painful.

And when those feelings are front and centre, when our life is sucked away into a vacuum and we are left rocking in the corner dribbling saliva do we take our own parenting advice? Face the pain?

I’m trying to, and I’m also hanging onto God, squeezing the living daylights out of him. Because sometimes when you have nothing left but him, you are blessed. Blessed to be hanging on for dear life, blessed to have a Father I trust despite my feelings. Blessed to have a life that knows joy and pain.

Do I get a sticker?

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!

Significance

I think I was sold a lie.

I grew up in the era of vision. To succeed at life, one had to have a bold vision and clear goals, not just goals, but big hairy audacious goals. I was told to dream big, God has a plan for your life! You can achieve anything you put your mind to.

What a crock of….

I’m pretty sure no matter how much I put my mind to it I’m never going to be a prima ballerina, sorry Mum.

I grew up with a great expectation that God had a huge, special and, let’s face it, better than everyone else’s plan for me. *high five God*

I waited, searched, sang, and when desperate enough read my bible in search for this awesome put Bec on the map plan.

It seemed to escape my attention that maybe God’s plan might be for me to clear the dog poo off the lawn.

I persevered, waiting in expectation for the moment the clouds would part, and God would announce his big hairy audacious plan for my life.

And then nothing….

So I started to find meaning and joy in the everyday of life. That’s a good thing, surely. God can take small offerings and make them great after all. I’m on board with that God, in fact to be honest I don’t have the energy for much more so if you could just zap my meagre offering and make it awesome I’d be pretty happy with that. *Cheers God*.

And so I became content with Instagram validation of my piss weak existence. You go girl, you got this, you’re ok.

Except I wasn’t. Because somehow those roots, those foundations had screwed me over. I had become a grain of sand on eighty-mile beach throwing my hands in the air screaming “what about me! I’m special, I’m significant!”

After all it says in the Bec paraphrased version

Then Jesus told his disciples, “If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his position of significance and follow me. 

So. What if… it’s not me that’s significant. What if I am a grain of sand?

What if I realised that it is my greatest privilege to bow at the foot of the cross and plead for a cross to bear for his names sake. What if I fell to my knees and asked forgiveness for the sheer arrogance of my search for significance. What if I understood that my only and every significance is in who he is, and that I am deeply, deeply significant to him.

What if my life is to glorify him, not me.

Significance.

Who am I? I am a child of the King.

And yeah, I didn’t grow up hoping to be the palace pooper scooper, but if that job is going I’ll take it, anything to hang out with my King. *Chest bump God*

My obvious Olympic prowess

I could totes be an Olympic swimmer.

I just didn’t want to get up at 5am every morning. I mean, I’ve got what it takes of course. I can eat 12 Weetbix like the rest of them. Bring it on.

But no, I’ve chosen a slightly more…. shall we say… idle path. My beastly engine is idling in the garage, you know, to give others a fighting chance at the race. Plus, I didn’t really like the idea of wearing my bathers in front of the nation, and don’t even, with that swimming cap.

There was a small moment, in my youth, when I foolishly thought I could achieve great things.

PFFT!

Thank goodness I learned to squash those thoughts, or at least to keep them private. It was almost as though I heard God say, I have created you for a full life, a life of wonder and passion and drive. I made that engine for a reason, so we can work together and run the race.

Who does he think he is? A performance enhancing substance?

Hard work? No thanks. As for enhancing my performance …. Could you just keep it to Sunday feelies thanks!?

So yeah, I could have.

But you know, sitting on the couch in my dressing gown watching other swimmers, shedding the odd tear, and felling proud of ‘our’ achievements is good enough for me. I don’t need any skin in the game.

In fact, I find that when you don’t take your engine for a spin, when it sits idling, you don’t need much fuel. Sweet.

I’m ultimately working towards a fueless engine, completely self-sufficient.

Whilst it’s nice to loll about watching Olympians, I’m glad it’s only every four years. I mean who wants to be reminded of the fruit of sacrifice and years of hard work, determination, commitment and perseverance? Who wants to be reminded of their potential and the value of team work and comradery? Who wants to be reminded that we are all created with spirit, passion and promise?  I don’t need that in my life.

Podium finish?

I guess I could aim for a Jesus style podium finish, although that may be too many metaphors for one blog.

#mymediocrelife

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.