How it happened- Part 1

It's Christmas 2008 and my wife is mourning the lack of Christmas cartoons on TV. She grew up with them and it was one of the things she really loved about Christmas time. Exactly 10 years ago, I felt rather differently.

Christmas 1998, and I am standing in the middle of my lounge room by myself, shaking, paralyzed and engulfed in euphoric love- taken totally by surprise. I wonder how I might have looked from the outside because only I knew what was happening on the inside. I had just gotten up to walk away from the TV. There was one of those Jesus cartoons on.

'Oh no! Just go away would you?' was about the gist of my thoughts, so up I went. And that's when it happened. I had just turned 17.

Rewind to my childhood.

I believed in God. I knew He was always watching. I lived with my Grandparents for a significant portion of my childhood. My Grandfather was not committed to religion, but was Anglican by name. I lived with three (later two) out of five uncles. The oldest had become a 'born-again Christian' a number of years before. He didn't live with us, but I knew he was the butt of many jokes in the family, and fit the sandal-wearing, bearded, nerd-zealot, bible basher model of the 80's Australian Christian (sorry Greg if you're reading this :) ). My Mum despised much about him and didn't appreciate some of his comments towards her.

My Nanna was (and still is) a traditional, mass-attending Roman Catholic. I never saw her as particularly pious or as expressing any real open affection for God. But she tried to do the right thing, always attended Mass, attempted to bring up her children as Catholics (not very successfully unfortunately) and obeyed the statutes of the Catholic Church. She was very affectionate towards me and we spent a lot of time together. My actual mother would get upset when I accidentally called my Nanna "Mum". It would rub salt in my mother's wounds as she would be working shift work a lot of the time to try and make a life for us. Nanna was mostly lovely but she did have a passionate streak in her about some things. One was the Australian Labor party. Another was getting to mass. Come rain, hail or shine we would get to mass.

So, part of the deal of my mother and I living with my Grandparents was that I had to go to Mass. Mum had well and truly pulled herself out of the grip of the Great Mother Church by now, bitter and twisted by the memories of cold Nuns striking her at school for being left-handed. She still considered herself a Catholic though- one of the masses of Australians who live the normal life, often criticize church in general, yet still feel an unexplainable link; an inexplicable identification with being Roman Catholic. Mum agreed to the deal despite my protests.

I hated church and I feared God- sometimes in a good way, sometimes in a bad way. It would not be unusual to see a young boy screaming, crying and running down the street, being chased by a young fit uncle, on any given Sunday morning trying to somehow get out of the mind numbingly boring and guilt inducing Roman Catholic service.

However, I had a soft spot for God. I knew he was good, and I wasn't. My uncle once joked that at my first confession I'd be in that little room all day. I burst into tears as I thought he was probably right. When I got to that room I told the priest I had never sinned.

'Surely you've done something?' he asked. 'Oh, I guess I ran away once' I replied, squirming in my chair, my eyes darting around the room, refusing to make contact with his. I lied to the priest.

In fact, I was actually a pretty good kid, with a sensitive conscience. I was intensely, and sometimes painfully, compassionate for the suffering of others. I would cry when I saw those World Vision ads. I would cry if I accidentally hurt someone while playing. I couldn't stand to see anyone get bullied and wouldn't retaliate if anyone bullied me. I just couldn't. It was like I had empathy on hyperdrive. And it wore me out, as little as I was. Of course this wasn't always consistent, I could be a brat too, especially to my Nanna. But in general, this is how I was.

I was also a deep, complex little kid. My mother tells me that in my first days of school, the teacher asked the children what their favourite colour was, and why. I answered 'Red....because it's the colour of life'. 5 year olds don't generally say that. Anyway, more on that another time...

As I went through my first years of school, a combination of an enquiring mind and guilt fatigue drove me towards a sort of intellectual atheism. I equated the idea of the God of the Bible with Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and fairy tales. I can't quite pick the age I came to this conclusion, I may have been about 7, but at some stage I found it difficult to reasonably believe in the existence of a personal God. And the relief from the constant guilt was nice too.

Fast forward 10 years.

I stand in the middle of my lounge room with a tear streaming down my eye. Shaking and totally transformed.

To be continued..

A day in the life of....

Tis the season to be jolly apparently. Except if you are Christmas shopping in my local shopping centre, Macarthur Square. We were doing our usual last minute shopping yesterday when my wife asked me if I could pop over to the McDonalds in the busy food court for a frozen coke, to help her feel refresheir and a snack for the kids in the form of cookies. No worries. 'I'll get a pick-me-up black coffee while I'm at it' I thought. Easy done, and then we'd go back to frantic shopping a little more refreshed.

So, after waiting in line for fair bit longer than I expected (about 20-25 minutes), a stocky, teenage boy with squinty, cheeky eyes and a swagger walked out from behind the McDonalds counter, pushing the side gate open with a confident thud. He had obviously just finished work as, instead of a McDonalds uniform, he wore a shirt with the words 'I'm mean because you're stupid' printed in big letters on the front. A friend caught his eye, ahead two places in line in front of me. He wandered over and greeted him by calling him a nasty swear word and giving him the typical hybrid homey high-five/handshake. So they were were just talking. No worries. I continued to wait my turn, eyes wandering and mind elsewhere.

It came to be their turned to be served. Squinty went first and ordered a meal- effectively meaning he had pushed in. Noone likes being pushed in on. I'm usually happy to take a fall to keep the peace but this instance was different. A treasured social convention was being tread upon! 'Someone must speak up against this travesty!'

I tapped a 40-something lady on the shoulder in front of me and asked whether she noticed what I had noticed, in a volume loud enough to be heard by her and perhaps our immediate neighbours. She answered in a volume where everybody would hear, in a feisty aussie kath and kim-esque tone, expressing her open disgust to me without actually confronting Squinty. So, as I fueled the irate lady's fire (which was also obviously exasperated by Christmas shopping and the long wait in line), I decided to get the attention of Squinty who may or may not have noticed my colleague's uproar and simply asked him why he thought it was okay to do what he did. I didn't ask him to leave the line. I didn't yell, I just calmly asked for an explanation. He squirmed a little, losing his bravado, and simply said 'um sorry'; he did seem like he wasn't used to be called to account like this and he knew immediately he had done the wrong thing. We told him we would be letting the manager know. He took his paper bag and cup and left, eyes down.

We managed to get the attention of the blue-shirted manager who chuckled and said he'd "have a word to him". Yeah right. They then stuffed up the order of the lady in front of me several times. She just about had steam coming of her ears by now. When it was my turn, I was greeted (kind of) by a teenage girl with dark circles under her eyes, a blank stare and a slightly monotonic voice. Then it got even more fun....

let me continue....

(after brushing off the previous annoyance).

Me- May I have a box of cookies please

McCheckout Chick- No, we don't have any.

Me- Hmm okay, let me think about that, can I have a frozen coke then?

McCheckout Chick- No we can't do that. All out.

Me- (trying to hide a bemused smirk) Um......hmmmm.... no frozen coke..... my wife sent me especially for that... (remember I'd been in the line a long time and my family were waiting for me.)
Um.... ok can i just have an ordinary Coke then?

McCheckout Chick- No we don't have Coke, we're all out of it.

Me- Well gee I'm running out of options here...

McCheckout Chick- Yep

Me- Well okay before I get to that can I at least have a coffee?

McCheckout Chick- (Turns around and looks at machine and turns back again) No, sorry. (said without much hint of regret)

Me- No?

McCheckout chick- No

I found it hard to hide my wry smile and laughter as I lent on the counter and looked around for allies in the queue as if to say "Are you seeing this?". Something in me wanted to see people shaking their heads and tut-tutting in superior disapproval.

Me- *Using my obviously superior powers of observation* I can see on the machine that black coffee is lit up. That was what I was after. Can I have a long black coffee?

McCheckout Chick- (Turns around again and turns back) Yeah you can, we just don't have milk in the machine.

Me- Oh good! That'd be great! I'll have a long black with 2 sugars thanks.

The fact that I wouldn't have got even that unless I had inquired merely fuelled my pride. I stood tall and kind of felt sorry for them all.

By now we'd gotten the attention of some sort of assistant manager who was obviously drawn by the "I'm still waiting on my complaint form" comment intermittently squawked by the lady who had been served before me.

I had managed to negotiate a large chips as well when all of a sudden all of the missing items began to appear before me, like magic, offered by the hand of the assistant manager. A frozen Coke! Not one but TWO boxes of cookies! And my boiling hot black coffee which I was not going to be charged for. I also got a given a quarter pounder by the lady who didn't order it but was given it anyway.

By now the justifiably irate lady had gotten her complaint form.

Well no, not exactly a complaint form. More like a blank envelope to write on. Not to send, but obviously because they didn't have any other paper to write on (and probably because it was going to be put in the bin as soon as it was handed in and she was out of sight).

I gathered my food and kind of waited to see what was going to happen with the form, whether I was going to write on it too. I didn't want to hold up any more of my fellow comrades of war.
The call came 'next please' and the next customer promptly asked for a coke. He then turned to me upon his answer and said 'geez, McDonalds without coke?" Where was he the last 5 minutes? I went to move my items out of the way as I was handed my chips, still thinking about how and if there was any point to complaining and remembering my wife, my 3 year old and 1 year old would all be waiting for me. I began to make my move feeling all high and mighty about having to be in the presence of this shambolic establishment.

Then....

I can't remember exactly how or why it happened....

Maybe the lid wasn't on properly? Maybe it was too darn hot? Maybe I was just being clumsy?

I dropped my boiling hot coffee on to the floor, right into the middle of the crowded McDonalds queue. It splashed everywhere- but mainly on to the shoes and stockings of a smartly-dressed seemingly genteel 20-something lady. She inhaled deeply and surveyed herself, trying to somehow make it stop by looking at it. "It's hot", she said timidly and brokenly a few times, standing on her tippy toes. "It's.....it's....really really hot", she said a more firmly and in a panic as, I'm guessing, the boiling coffee seeped through her black high heeled shoes.

Then, she ran (after standing in line for a long time mind you).

She just took off, clip-clopping in her high heels through busy Macarthur Square Food court as I stood there shoulders hunched up, face wincing, and palms raised- repeatedly, and uselessly, blurting out "I'm so sorry!".

So there I was, with my free, peacepipe, we-were-wrong-and-you-were-right black coffee all over the floor, surrounded by a bunch of people with probably a gamut of opinions to offer about the whole thing. One or two shared them.

One bloke comforted me by insulting the lady I had just scolded.

"It wasn't even that hot. pfft what a ...."

Another lady comforted me by saying

"One of those days hey?"

I'm pretty sure a few people had some nastier things to say about me to their observing neighbours, just so I couldn't quite hear them clearly.

So what was I to do now? Do I go after the lady and make sure she's alright? I'd be a bum if I didn't, right? Do I clean the mess, which the employees obviously would have trouble doing.... being overrun by impatient customers like me? I'd be even more of a hassle to the poor struggling shop then right? Or do I just try and think of a clever one-liner to help ease my embarrassment and arouse a light-hearted sympathy and/or empathy?

The consensus seemed to be 'just go man'.

So I did, tail between my legs.

I went from 'Captain Justice', here to save the world from fast food incompetence- a picture of togetherness crying out in the wilderness in a world of selfishness and suffering- to a bumbling misfit, who burns nice young ladies who are just minding their own business.

I walked and found my family waiting for me, luckily out of the line of sight of the dreaded shopfront.

"What happened?", asked my wife, who had expected me gone for only 5 minutes.

I took a sip of my remaining, free, cold black coffee out of my stirophome cup which I had deciding to pick up of the floor and keep with me- recognizing the rich metaphor I held in my hand. I took a second, ruing the lack of rocks to crawl under in Macarthur Square Food Court. I recounted the story and ate the quarter pounder given to me by irate lady, feeling guilt with every bite and regularly dripping sauce on the table.

Later, we needed to have dinner and Issy asked for chips and nuggets.

We went to Red Rooster. It was an uneventful transaction.

It's character building...

The dreaded 'c' word....

I came to learn pretty early that when people would talk about something being 'character-building' it usually meant something unpleasant.

For example, I have rather thick eyebrows. Most kids considered them a source of amusement. Mum said they 'added character'.

Also, it was not uncommon to hear any number of 'VB' singlet wearing Aussie blokes grunt out something or other about schoolyard bullying building 'character'.

So I should have been dripping in the stuff.

One particular instance should have earnt me enough character to deserve some sort of honorary degree.

I was in Yr 2 I think. There was going to be a fancy dress parade at our school. We were to dress as a famous fairytale character of our choice and be paraded for this spectacular day of cultural celebration for all to see and marvel. I was the sort of kid who would always forget mufti day- you know, one of them. So, when I suddenly realized the night before that I hadn't organized my fancy dress, I ran to my Mum in a wild panic.

"Mum! Mum! I forgot the fancy dress party! It's on tomorrow!" or something like that...

Now Mum had quite a bit of ingenuity and came to the rescue. So at the last minute she whipped up a costume. I was in a black leotard (I have NO idea how or why we had a kid-sized leotard... maybe it was something similar?? That's how I remember it...) and had a black stocking stuffed full of scrunched up paper and pinned to the back for a tail. There was a black headband with makeshift black paper ears pinned on. In the morning, Mum drew on whiskers, put me in a pair of black gumboots and voila!....the manliest of fairytale characters- Puss-in-Boots!!

I breathed a sigh of relief as Mum quickly got me ready in the morning so she could get to work on time. I looked ridiculous but at least I wouldn't be the odd one out.

Mum dropped me off and I walked into school as Puss-in-boots with a backpack.

And then the horror.

Everything slowed down. My breath caught in my throat and my eyes wouldn't blink as I surveyed all around me.

Eyes everywhere staring at me.

Eyes, in perfect school uniform, staring at me.

Some pointed and laughed till they were ready to burst. Some looked befuddled. My feet dragged as adrenalin pumped through my poor little body. I was Puss-in-boots, in a black leotard, drawn on whiskers with black cat ears and a tail dragging behind me, holding the straps of my backpack with trembling hands, walking into what was not fancy dress day, but a normal school day. It was the wrong day.

It was the wrong day.

Some teachers saw me and ushered my distraught, weary, little body to the office, tired from dying a thousand deaths. My Mum couldn't get me because she worked a job in a precarious, unsecure position. I can't remember exactly what happened next, but I think they gave me a uniform, cleaned my face and sent me to class to sit with all my supportive fans.

I must have laid down a pretty hefty deposit for a megaplex skyscraper of character that day. Character just oozing! How wonderful!

But it gets better...

A few months later. Once again, a fancy dress parade ensued and I'd forgotten again, until the night before. This time we had to dress as a character from one of the Australian stories much of our school had been reading.

Mum- "Ben! Ben! Are you absolutely sure it's the right day?"

Me- "Yes! Yes! Quickly can you make me something?"

Mum- "Absolutely sure?"

Me- "YES!"

Mum's creative genius kicked in again. She dressed me as a cockatoo- white strips of crepe paper aplenty and the headband now turned back-to-front with some sort of awesome folded yellow paper creation as my crest. She also made a beak for me using the string from a party hat and some cardboard or something. She's one clever lady! I was a cockatoo with a backpack again as Mum hastily dropped me off, late to work. This time it was gonna be okay.

Then.....

the unimaginable horror.....

Somehow, some way, I had managed to crawl deep into the recesses of stupidity and complete ineptness to somehow, some way,

make

the

same

mistake.

One time, undeniably traumatic. Second time. What can you say?

I

DID

IT

AGAIN

I don't think anyone could quite possibly comprehend how I could have managed to do that.
I don't even know, I was SO sure this time....I mean, I'd lost the note and was using my razor-sharp reliable memory (I always lost notes) to remember the date, but I was SO sure this time.

Where does a little boy's head go after an experience like this? Why 'character' of course! Lots and lots of 'character'!

So hands up if you want 'character'? Well, actually.... despite of it all..... me please.

As I said in my last post, I've had a pretty stretching year. The fact of the matter is, before all this, I put my hand up for 'character'- to be mature and complete. I specifically prayed for it. Not just any old character. I'm not talking about 'personality' or that 'whatever-doesn't-kill-me-will-only-make-me-stronger' hard nosed resilience. I'm talking about the character of Christ. I want to love more, live more, have greater capacity to serve and have self-control so that I can be all that I was meant to be.

I'm broken and messed-up. But I know that I can be put back together by the master-builder Himself. He can mould me to have the 'character' that has purpose, that can actually make a difference. People like me are his specialty. But the transition is going to hurt. Old habits and old inner natures die hard.

Why is the Bible so clear that true character is borne out of suffering? That we must have 'growing pains' of sorts?

Why must it be that bad things happen to bring about good purposes? Is this just an excuse to make some sort of sense out of personal suffering? To salve the senses under the self-delusion of some sort of greater purpose? Why is it even necesary?

I'm sure this is material for future ponderings.

However, suffice to say, bad things don't always produce good fruit. They can make us grow. Or they can make us bitter. It all depends on what we think the 'point' of it all is. What is driving us? Where are we trying to go? What's the destination?

It all depends on whether we're thrashing against the rip or happy to be pulled out to sea.

Being absolutely honest, I seem to be deciding between the two. I don't think my trials are over. I think my pondering on my trials are part of the trials as well.

So it seems, as much as I'll be grimacing, bracing myself and full of hesitation, I will continue to reach out for more of the dreaded 'c' word.



Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness. And let steadfastness have its full effect, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing.

(James 1:2-4 ESV)

2008

So....

I'm actually a little afraid of this thing because once something is said, it can't be unsaid. There it is in black and white and a throwaway comment said in the heat of emotion or a bad moment is digitally etched into the annals of the world wide web. I'm not sure how significant anything I say actually is but it still is a worry. But I'll speak anyway.

I'm coming towards the end of what has been a difficult year for me. A new chapter is beginning I feel. I have been studying full time at Bible College doing a Bachelor of Theology for four years now and this is coming to an end. I will finish the remaining subjects one at a time over the next few years but I am going to take a 6 month break from it. I desperately need it.

The year is coming to an end for Kingdom Kids, the children's ministry program I run at my church. It's been a hard slog with some successes but many things have happened to make it difficult to bring the ministry to the next level. I have a great team of ladies who I'm really thankful for.

I'm also finishing my first year of high school music teaching. It's a bit strange because I'm not actually a high school teacher, I'm a teacher's aide. But I was thrown in the deep end this year and asked to actually take responsibility for some of the classes for the year and pretty much be their teacher. I loved it and I've learned so much. I feel much better prepared for next year as well. I'm looking at doing this, along with working for a company called 'The Music Bus' (formerly Mobile Music Express) next year, teaching guitar and piano in primary schools. I really hope it all works out because it sounds like it will be lots of fun (and having money will be nice for once too!).

Lots of things happened this year. And I can't say I'm better off for it in all honesty. One of the most major deals this year was my wife's health. At the end of last year, she badly broke her arm. So for 6 months I had to take the full responsibility of running a household with a 2 year old and a baby as well as attending to my wife's every need- down to the very details of bathing her in intense pain and helping her go to the toilet (I'm sure she wouldn't be thrilled by me sharing those details!). I regularly got about 4-5 hours sleep per night (usually interrupted by having to get up and give our baby milk). She couldn't feel her arm and with the nerve damage she sustained there was always a chance her arm wouldn't come back. That doesn't seem to be a problem now, though she is much weaker.

It got to the point where my wife was starting to take on responsibilities again and she regained her strength when a series of viruses swept through our family. My wife was pregnant again by now. It wasn't long after, when one day we were making our way back to the car from the shops where she had a sudden gush of blood that soaked her pants right through. Obviously our hearts were in our throats as we tried to comprehend what just happened. We were sure she had just had a miscarriage. I took her to the hospital in a fog of blank stared disbelief and emptiness, though I wasn't sure what the point was.

They were to run tests. Everything we heard was from the medical staff from there on in continued to be negative and preparing us for the worst. But one thing after the other continued to prove our baby was alive, and holding on. It was a 'threatened miscarriage' caused by a 'subchorionic haematoma'. It could have gone either way. The doctor was basically booking our appointment for the soon-to-be-dead baby to be removed and telling us to expect that. He was pretty blasé about it.

We consulted Dr Google and saw everything from a 50/50 chance of survival to as small as 5%. Joelle had to have absolute bedrest until further notice. Too much movement or strain would start the bleeding again and threaten the baby. So after 6 months of juggling everything, I was doing it again. And not getting much support. Thank God though, our baby survived and the problem has well and truly resolved. He's a fighter!

So I went through this in the midst of running a ministry, doing a full time theology degree, doing my first year of teaching (only 1-2 days a week though) and looking after two small children.

Many other things have happened this year that have knocked me around. The most important is one I can't talk about just yet on here. But it's the very thing that has made everything else almost impossible to cope with.

This year could have been an opportunity for tremendous growth and increased maturity.

Instead, I'm tired, cynical, jaded and burnt out. I'm happiest when I'm in denial.

I'm still here

I haven't given up on this blog! I really haven't! It's just been busy busy busy of late.

I'm currently on a number of special extensions for assignments from Term 2. The 'Reasons for Extension' section that I filled out makes for some tragic and/or funny reading. I'll catch you up on it shortly. I feel we're over the worst of it, but boy have I been stretched to the very ends of myself. I have a few posts up my sleeve which I will share shortly. God has been teaching me some deep things about maturity, suffering, tests and His love amongst many other things.

Looking forward to sharing....

The Best Policy

EDIT- 24/09/12  4 years after writing this post I read it and realize how risky this is. I'm getting into higher profile levels of ministry and I don't want this to be misconstrued or taken out of context. I'm meeting lots of new people who may read this blog at some stage. I'm not going to delete it but I do want to emphasize something. The battle that I describe here was a childhood problem. I am 30 years old now. I am excited and proud that God takes sinners and helps them to overcome even the most embarrassing of histories. God helped me to deal with this sin in my first year of Christianity, as an 18 year old. I entered adulthood having a radical turnaround and anyone who knows me now knows how much I value honesty and transparency. Sometimes my problem is being TOO honest and transparent now (not that I haven't told a 'white' lie over the last few years) ! HAHAHA! I think this post may be an example of that. So I just want to be careful but still leave my post as it is, as an 'honest' account of my journey. Enjoy. :)




_______________________

Some extraordinary things have happened in my life- things that often seem too far out to be true. I hope to share many of them with you. I am about to do the very thing you wouldn't do when trying to convince people of the extraordinary things that have happened to in your life- potentially take the first step in ruining my own credibility.

This is not the first time I have shared what I am about to tell you. I've told many people, as many as I needed to. I've preached about it publicly and had the message recorded on the net. My pastor has told a whole bunch of people from the pulpit about this openly, with me there. It's humiliating and embarrassing and the sort of thing that makes people bury their face in their hands and shake their head "aw geez Ben". Well that's what I would have expected people to do anyway. That's the way I thought about myself.

I was a chronic liar. From a young age, I felt compelled to tell people things about me that weren't true. I would tell people 'secrets' about stuff that made me look 'special'. Stupid, boastful stuff- like I was a rep cricket player or a state chess player and I didn't want anybody to know.

The main one I used to say was that I was a black belt (it later became a blue belt) in karate. I figured that this one would put doubts in people's minds who wanted to hurt me or bully me. A fringe benefit of a stupid boast. It didn't work! There was a particular kid when I was in Yr 2 that I told multitudes of lies to, that steadily got worse. I think his parents got wind of it and probably told him to stop hanging around me.

I went to 4 different primary schools and each time I would promise myself I wouldn't get myself entangled in stupid lies I had to maintain again. Sure enough I would fail and trap myself again. I very rarely got caught out, I can't think of one that I did. I didn't lie about others, I didn't want to hurt anyone- I just wanted people to believe that I was more than a fatherless loser . I wanted sympathy. I wanted respect. I wanted pride. I wanted positive attention. It was worse when I lied about personal deep stuff.

I thought I had rid myself of the karate lie when I got into high school until one guy came up and questioned me. "Hey Ben! I know a guy who knew you growing up- he said you were a blue belt in karate. Is that true?". Damn it! It followed me. I didn't deny it. I just told him to keep quiet and not tell anyone.

He told people.

And so I found myself saying it again- bluffing and making up details in a few instances.

I would have awkward conversations with a friend who really was doing karate (he's a black belt now) and I'd bluff my way through the lingo. (I was obsessed with karate as a kid- books, movies etc. I had tried white belt a number of times but didn't persist).

Most of the stuff I said were half-truths- things I could pull off, or thought could have been true. For example, I was a pretty good goalkeeper at soccer. I told people I used to play reps. They believed me because I played like it might have been true. The truth was I was asked to try out for the Sutherland rep team. I attended the first of two trials and was too sick with nervousness in the second. I didn't even keep- they already had several keepers. The list goes on.

I had a pretty good hold over it as I moved through my later years in high school. I had a couple of minor slip ups, but I pretty much stayed in maintenance mode. I lied my butt off once in Yr 12 to save myself getting bashed and losing my only allies- managing to convince everyone, but other than that..... All of this was a source of shame and stress for me.

But I tried to avoid it and not think about it as much as I could. Most people have a particular disdain for liars. I would cringe as people would talk with me about another particular friend who was a habitual liar behind her back- how they were catching her out in her lies and how 'sick' they thought she was.

At the end of Yr 11, Christmas 1998, I became a Christian- which is another story altogether. God had many things to deal with in my life and during 1999, one by one, he began to deal with them. He helped me stop binge drinking, quit smoking, begin to change my attitude towards schoolwork and discipline, stop swearing- many of the peripheral things.

Then the day came. I think I had been a Christian for about a year when God gently spoke to me in my bedroom. "It's time to deal with your lies Ben. It's time to tell everyone everything you have said and confess." You have to realize that there wasn't much more terrifying a prospect than that. I was happy to have swept this issue as far under the carpet as possible. Every time one of my old lies came up, I had become good at changing the subject as quickly as possible.

Many thoughts fly through your head at a time such as this. Panic, denial, negotiation etc.
God wasn't going to give me a chance to think about it too much- I became aware that there were people at my front door. It was night time, and who was standing there? A group of my best friends who I played sport with regularly, and had lied to the most. Obviously my heart skipped a beat. These were my Sri Lankan and Indian friends who usually had strict curfews. They were never allowed out at this time of night. But there they were. Just after God had spoken to me.

"Hi Ben. Our parents, for some reason, said we're allowed to stay out a little longer. So we thought we'd come and visit you!"

I gulped, tried to breathe and told them to wait just one minute while I had several , silent mini nervous breakdowns on the inside. I ran back to my room and mildly hyperventilated. I psyched myself up. "Alright God. I get it. I have to do it now." I returned to my friends and said we had to talk.

In the dark, we walked to and sat in a little enclosure next to Wattlegrove tennis courts. I was shaking like crazy and holding back tears. I found it really hard to get the words out. I was convinced they would hate me, be disgusted with me or disown me and I wouldn't have blamed them in the slightest. I told them that I would understand if they did that for what I was about to tell them. I was even more concerned that, as a new Christian, they would no longer believe anything I would say as I tried to share the love of Christ with them.

And so I began to confess everything, detail by painful detail, as I gauged their silent, shadowy outline and streetlight-lit faces. I especially watched my closest friend as he listened, mouth open. And so I did it. It all came out. And then there was silence.

"So do you hate me now?". They shook their heads in disbelief, so I interpreted that as a 'yes'.

But quite the opposite was true. I tear up even now as I remember what they said. They hugged me, laughed about it and comforted me. One even said they respected my belief in Christ even more, as that is what prompted me to come clean- a really hard thing to do.

But my closest friend still looked shocked. I paused for his final response which I thought wouldn't be too good.

"I can't believe that you thought a thing like that would affect our friendship" he finally said with as smile on his face.

The legends. Absolutely beautiful people (I have tears in my eyes as I write this). A weight lifted off me like you wouldn't believe. I felt instantly lighter.

I spoke to a number of other people after that with much the same response. It may not have been as big a deal to them as I thought. It even seems childish now as I look back so many years later. But it was huge then. For me. And who knows what might have happened, what burdens I would continue to live under, if God hadn't prompted me and orchestrated that meeting that night.

So I believe in God. And, as I've said, in this blog I want to share my life and thoughts with you. And some of these things are challenging and paradigm pounding. And so I've proceeded to do the opposite of worldly wisdom and tell you something that may very well make you hesitate to believe me. That's fine. I've discovered that risky faith-oriented actions are the way to go. Honesty really is the best policy, even if you seemingly take yourself down with it. God knows. He knows my heart inside out. And if I choose to do things His way, even if it hurts or seems stupid, things always work out for the best.

That's it from me tonight. Thanks for letting me continue to share a little of my story.

Flyman

EDIT- 24/09/12   I wrote this over 4 years ago now. Yesterday, I met my father and some extended family for the first time. While once I had no desire to meet him and he seemed little more than a hazy, ethereal 'character' my heart changed and I went to look for him. It was a beautiful experience and I feel nothing but a surprising love and compassion for him and I want to give their family a chance to tell their side of the story. I was more than surprised to find out how much Mum and I meant to them and how much they have thought of us over the last 30 years. I have a cousin NAMED after me!

Anyway, I remembered that I wrote this blogpost and realized how this perspective might hurt them. They have gone from being a vague, stranger-than-fiction part of my history to real flesh-and-blood people who have their own story to tell and deserve the grace, understanding and compassion of God. My Uncle Greg, who knew my father, pointed this out to me before I knew them (that it was harsh).

Having their life (given to me through the perhaps skewed and biased perspective of my family whose sole intention was to protect me and justify why I didn't have a father) splashed into the public like this may not be the best. However, I have decided not to remove this post, as I want it to remain as an accurate representation of my PERSPECTIVE and thoughts about the father's side of the family at that time. It's not necessarily the absolute truth, but what I had been led to believe at the time. It may also help the Mustafays understand where I was at and why I didn't pursue my father earlier. Now I know that they were counting the years waiting for me and my father was preparing himself to look for me as he thought I was old enough to be able to talk maturely about what happened. He knew and feared that I thought the worst of him. I never even considered this possibility. Thankfully, I found him first.

I am so glad I found him and instantly knew that I want not only him, but their whole family in my life. It's a sad fact that though my step-dad embraced me, I feel that my step-dad's side of the family never truly accepted me. They were always warm towards me, but the feeling was I was still somewhat of a passenger in Mum and Dad's new family. I feel nothing bad towards the Skinners and understand their perspective. My Step-Father has been incredible towards me and offered to adopt me. I said no and I never understood why. But I did take his last name.

Anyway, here is the blogpost I wrote 4 years ago. It comes from a different place and a different heart and I hope this edit helps make things clearer.

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On a more serious note, I'd like to continue to introduce myself and let you in on my story a little.

I don't know my real Dad, or my 'sperm donor' as my Mum would call him. He's out there somewhere, if he's still alive. I only know a few details about him. One of my uncles, when I was a baby, burnt all the photos my Mum had of him, with good intentions apparently. I once saw a hazy picture of him in a newspaper article when I was a teenager. I was into adulthood by the time my Grandfather one day nonchalantly informed me he had a photo of him with my Mum and proceeded to go and fetch it from his study. He placed it in my hands and I was gobsmacked. He seemed to not realize the gravity of his actions. I stared at it for hours. I now have it framed. It's small, about 5cm x 5cm, but it's something. I'd never really felt anything for him until then.

Mum fell pregnant with me when she was 19. She was swept of her feet by a charismatic, charming and exciting guy (by her description) in his mid-twenties. His first line to my Mum was 'hello beautiful' said in a deep, breathy, smooth tone, saturated in an exotic European accent. I know this because when Mum told me, I tried to impersonate it, and she was freaked out about how accurate it was. He was from a family of gypsies, and also a family of liars, so they may not actually have been gypsies (Gypsies are apparently liars anyway ;) LOL) More on that another time......

By Mum's hazy description, my Dad was half Albanian and half Turkish. Which makes me 1/4 Albanian, 1/4 Turkish and 1/2 'moy eh-ncestors were on the first fleet mate' Aussie. My father's family were a dodgy bunch apparently. They were once owners of a famous nightclub in Brisbane which got burnt down in suspicious circumstances. I think I was told that they were apparently pretty 'in' with the criminal underworld scene- drugs and brothels and all that, it's all hard to remember. One of the cousins, I think, was later revealed to be a police informer.

My father was not the nicest of characters. He was addicted to gambling- betting on horse racing in particular- and would steal to feed the habit. He would get himself in trouble with debts from shady characters and Mum would bail him out. He would beat the hell out of her for her trouble- something about his honor or some garbage....

He was a successful amateur boxer and was a drummer as well. He had left early in high school to work but was quite intelligent according to Mum. He was apparently not the angry scary woman basher type, but the remorseful, bawling his eyes out, 'take me back' woman basher type.

When Mum fell pregnant with me he was excited, she tells me. He wanted to marry Mum, to be my Dad and even had a name for me- Yasmin. I would have been named Yasmin Mustafa. I even had the engagement ring he gave my Mum- I wore it- until a few years ago when it was stolen in a house break in (I'd cut it off because it was too tight. I might also add that it looked more like a wedding ring so it wasn't girly).

But his ensuing fatherhood didn't change him. He still couldn't control his impulses to gamble, to lie, to steal, to lash out at my mother, and perhaps even more. So whilst Mum was pregnant with me, he still bashed her- even in the stomach. It could have killed me.

So Mum did the smart thing. She ran. She came to Sydney, where the rest of her family had moved, and moved back in with her parents. I always ached for a Dad as I grew up. But I knew that I didn't want to know my real one. And I always respected my Mum's decision to run and raise me on her own. He probably would have done the same terrible things to me. "He would have broken your heart," Mum would say with a trembling voice.

Many people told my mother to abort me. Mum was brought up under a reasonably strict Catholic upbringing. A young, single mother doesn't fare too well in that context. Other things happened too, which I can't get into here, that sought to come against my very existence. I was born in fetal distress, the cord wrapped around my neck several times. I would be born and grow up in the affluent Anglo-Saxon Sutherland Shire, where the nuclear Anglo family was the norm. I would be literally, pardon my French, a poor mongrel bastard.

So half my heritage is a mystery to me. I have a whole bunch of family out there somewhere that probably look like me and it's possible my real father may still think about me. Him, or someone who knows him, may even run into this blog. His name is Ismet Mustafa (I'm not sure if that's how it was spelt). People called him 'John'. I've never thought too much about it before, and some people have been quite taken back at my lack of desire to find him. But as I write this, I can't help but wonder...... it's all so surreal and vague. And I also don't want to dishonor my stepfather who I consider my real father (he came on the scene when I was 10). He says he doesn't mind. All of my family are supportive of me if I want to look for him.

One final note- you're probably wondering why I called this log 'Flyman'. Here's where it gets interesting, and it starts to sound too weird to be true. My father was a cat burglar of sorts, and was pretty good at it too. There was a man who became notorious in Brisbane in the 80's for scaling hotel building walls and breaking in. In the papers he was known as 'Flyman'. That was him- he went to jail for a while a little later, but I'm not sure if it was for that. It's all a bit mysterious and vague, but the older members of my extended family remember it and had the paper clipping- I don't know what happened to it unfortunately.

I had a very brief job for a company selling security systems. I was on training and in the car with my partner, and he was telling me some of the stories they say to emphasize the importance of security. He told me of this guy in Brisbane, in the 80's, that they used to call 'the Flyman'. And how he used to scale hotel buildings etc etc. If I was eating something at the time, I would have choked on it!

Truth can be stranger than fiction. Hope it helps you continue to get to know me a little better.

Thanks for reading,

Ben

How to lose a blogfan in 10 days

Well there you go, I've made my debut in a blaze of glory.

But rather than bask in the adoration of my throng of fans, I must promptly get to work driving them away. I figure that my arsenal of potential posts in waiting will do it anyway so I may as well look like I did it on purpose. Alice, the proud executive of the REALITY CHECK fan club, has boldly stated her intentions to stick with my blog through thick and thin. Are you sure about that Alice? Can I hold you to that? Must I appeal to your sense of integrity?

You see, I need loyalty Alice. Because my subject matter will sometimes be 'change the channel' material. Have you counted the cost? Will you be there with your pom poms and choreographed cheers then Alice? Can I count on you to hang on my every word?
-----
Ben: Today I would like to talk about William Lane Craig's "Middle Knowledge" theological approach to the problem of divine foreknowledge and free will...

Alice: Woot woot bring it on. Yaaaay for Middle Knowledge *shakes pom poms*
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Ben: In this edition we will explore the quality of my SX electric guitar. Should I upgrade my pickups?

Alice: Yeeaaahh wwoooot Tell me more!!
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Ben: Today I am exploring why I am compelled to look in the toiletbowl before I flush.

Alice: Give me a 'B'! Give me an 'E'! Give me an 'N'! What does it spell???
----

On a serious note, I'm really not sure who would be interested in sticking with me. Just have to wait and see I suppose. It doesn't help that I'm a weirdo amongst weirdos amongst weirdos. Let me explain-

* I am a born again Christian. This identity is central to my life, my thinking, my passion and
my purpose. And that doesn't make me terribly popular to the mainstream. Our thinking grates with society's thinking. Which inevitably leads to conflict. And we all know the great Australian adage 'never talk about politics or religion'. I'm not overly political. But Jesus Christ saturates everything I do. Hello? You still with me? Walked away yet?

* I am a Pentecostal/Charismatic Christian. That means I believe in a specific expression of Christianity that takes the ongoing supernatural work of God seriously- like healings, prophecies, tongues speaking etc- all that weird stuff. So, in other words, even amongst the majority of Christians, I'm weird. And Mainstream Christians don't always feel terribly positive towards Pentecostals. I hate to say it, but there's often that same awkwardness directed towards me when a Christian finds out I'm one of 'them', with what I would feel from someone who feels uncomfortable around Christians. (Just an important sidenote- please don't think that early morning 'God will make you rich' tele-evangelists are representative of Pentecostalism. It's not. It is an offshoot that most Pentecostals would not associate themselves with.)

* I take theological pursuit, wherever it takes me, seriously. Which means I won't always agree with the status quo. So I sometimes find myself needing to hold my tongue as to some of my beliefs, so as not to offend my Christian brothers and sisters. And it has led to some 'weird' beliefs, of which I will probably share some over the next coming months. And so my next layer of isolation.

So I am a weirdo amongst weirdos amongst weirdos. And I'm mostly okay with that. So if you want to hear my thoughts, my past, my stories and don't mind being offended or hearing stories that will mess with your worldview, stick with me. Get inside my head and see what makes me tick. And I'd love to do the same with you. But that's the thing about blogs and social networking and all that. You've just got to be who you are. Chameleon's get found out.

So if you don't care about what I write, don't read it :).
Except Alice. She has to read it. And like it. She promised :)

Ben

Name that blog...

So.

I'm named after a rat.

It's not a point of great pride for me but Mum had good intentions. You see, Mum loved a song named 'Ben', famously performed by a young Michael Jackson. I'm told there was a film clip where ;Ben' was a cute little Golden retriever or something like that. The truth is, the original song was written about a pet rat- more than that- a homicidal, man-eating genius rat who was the leader of a pack of killer rats (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0068264/) sworn to protect his owner from bullies by eating them.

Thanks Mum ;).

Upon entering school, I quickly found my species changing. Ben the homicidal, man-eating genius rat became 'Ben the Hen'. And in case I forgot this fact- that I was now a hen- I was reminded by my friendly classmates on a regular basis. What a helpful bunch they were. :).

The thing about the name 'Ben' is that my Mother was quite proud of it's originality. What she didn't realise was that her thinking wasn't original. Every one of my classes had another Ben in it. So instead I was called by my surname 'Mason'. Until I got chicken pox in Yr 2- and then it became 'Measle Mason'. My protests as to the inaccuracy of this designation seemed to only increase the name-calling funnily enough.

My Mum married when I was in Yr 6 so I became a 'Skinner'. I was very happy to take the name. But it didn't take much imagination for my continuously courteous classmates to think of lots of fun derivatives.

So I've had lots of experience in names. In setting this blog up, I had to name it. In all honesty, I didn't think too hard about it. I really couldn't be bothered. I remember trying to name our band with my friend in high school and it was hard work. Name after name sucked. We made great big long lists and of course every name but the one we came up with, we figured, would be disasterous to our potential world domination for one reason or another. My Dad and Mum (yes the one that named me after a rat) would happily join our vocal brainstorming to suggest ideas. "How about 'Snot boys'?" Dad would say, struggling to get it out, as he keeled over with laughter. "How about *snort snort* "The pimply faced greasy teenagers" *hahahaha* Mum would retort. And they'd continue thier interjections in tears and laughter, while we tried to ignore them, until Mum eventually ran to the toilet and vomited (it's true. It would happen often when she laughed. She had a hernia.) "Stop laughing Mum, you'll vomit" was advice that would often pass my lips. Advice unheeded of course.

We eventually settled on M-phasis. That's right. Spelt with an 'M'. We thought that was cool. We'd be in a talent contest and the compere dude would screw up his face and read our band name. "Next up is...um....Emphasis?" "That's right. Spelt with an 'M'," I'd yell out from stage right. And then, on would we strut, promptly asking a few disinterested middle aged ladies in Greenacre shopping centre if they were 'ready to rock'. We were M-phasis. We were gonna make a statement. Our name was who we were.

I have called this blog 'Reality Check' after a song I wrote in Yr 11 and 12 (it took me a while to complete). I was named after a song, and so will be this blog. It's generic enough to not box me in yet representative enough of what I want to communicate. And I'm sure it won't effect my chances of world domination. I think it's cool ;). I hope that this blog can be a lot of things- a journal of my thoughts, stories, journeys, experiences, things that have shaped me etc etc.

But most of all I want this blog to be an honest account of my regular head on collisions with reality.... With what I continue to discover to be real, rather than what I thought was real- the reality that "I didn't see officer..." until I hit it. My life as a continuing "reality check".

So please- join me, subscribe, interact, criticize, enjoy, be bored by, 'all of the above' me. And let me know I'm not just talking to myself :)

Ben the 'pen'.


Last verse of Ben (Michael Jackson)

Ben, most people would turn you away(turn you away)
I don't listen to a word they say
They don't see you as I do
I wish they would try to
I'm sure they'd think again
If they had a friend like Ben
(A friend)
Like Ben
(Like Ben)
Like Ben