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..
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
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.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
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)
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)
Monday, December 8, 2008
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 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.
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