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)