Christmas Feels

There’s nothing like acts of generosity that cost you almost nothing to get you feeling good about yourself this Christmas!

One day I came home to find a Christmas hamper had been delivered to our door.

 I immediately fell to the ground and wept with gratitude that someone had thought to anonymously love us enough from a distance to deliver tinned ham and out of date shortbread to our family.

Once I had recovered from my outburst of appreciativeness I lugged the hamper inside and began to unpack the contents into the cupboard. (Imagine me in my spotless kitchen with my hair on point if you will.)

 It won’t surprise you to know that during the said unpacking of no brand groceries there was some dialogue taking place in my head. Why does my chest hurt? Why does this feel like an act of cowardice and unfriendliness? Why am I such an ungrateful cow?

Because we had just returned from India having sold our whole lives in Australia and so a few groceries were helpful to be sure. And someone had obviously observed our colossal heart ache and failure and thought we needed ….blessing. (shudder)

But what I really needed was someone to sit with me, to ask me if I was ok, to cry with me, to pray with me. Someone to know me.

And anyone that knows me would not send me Diet Coke.

Do we really care what people want or need?

Or do we care about feeling good about our generosity?

It’s a bit like that time I gave my left over pizza to a woman living on the street with her newborn baby.

We had filled our stomachs to overflowing at a pizza restaurant in Kolkata, but there were a few slices left. I don’t want to boast so I’ll try and say this humbly, but we decided that we could give the extra we had (once we had had far more than we needed) to someone in need.

I know right, I’m getting a mansion in heaven.

So we carried our pizza in a box all the way home, because we knew there was a woman who lived in the gutter with her family just outside our house.

We found her, a baby swaddled in a dirty rag and children playing in the gutter.

We warmly presented her with 3 slices of left over pizza, and damn, it felt good, what a rush. Is this what Jesus would do? I’m thinking yes, no doubt. #blessed

She sat there with a box made out of the same cardboard as her home and fed pizza to her children. Because she doesn’t have the luxury of being an ungrateful cow. But when I smiled triumphantly and turned my back to escort my family into our home, I wonder how she felt?

I had decided to be generous on my own terms, I had decided what she needed, it hadn’t cost me anything.

I didn’t want to know her.

It was an act of selfishness.

It was hurtful.

As I think of her now, I deeply wish I had taken the time to sit with her, to ask her if she was ok, to cry with her, to pray with her.

Sometimes our helping hurts.

So, let’s stop thinking that giving “things” is the answer.

Let’s not congratulate ourselves for our generosity.

Let’s know each other.

Let’s know God.

Amber alert.

I sat in the front.

Yes, yes I did.

I sat in the front with the taxi driver today. I leapt into the front seat full of verve and bravado. I’ve got this, I’m a social whizz, he will be so blessed by my presence, watch and learn peeps.

I clicked my seat belt in and gave him the quick side eye once over. Covert. Slick.

Recon complete, I quickly searched through my mental list of witty opening lines ready to slay him with my friendliness.

I searched… and searched.

Amber alert.

Nada.

Nothing.

My brain. Stopped. Working.

Not surprisingly, my lack of brain function did not impede my mouth function... My lips parted and spewed forth such horror I shall forever recoil at the memory of it.

“It hasn’t rained much today.”

My words fell into the atmosphere, reverberating off the array of dashboard devices creating a tunnel of banality neither of us could escape from.

Yay.

What a winner.

The taxi driver replied with the tone normally reserved for the local checkout operator asking if I have a rewards card.

“No. it hasn’t.”

Epic fail.

It has to be said that so far it wasn’t looking like I was going to have the chance to segue into the 4 spiritual laws before I arrived at my destination.

C’mon Bec you can do it.

I muster the courage for a second attempt.

“It didn’t rain yesterday much either.”

*crickets*

Mercifully I arrived at my destination moments later and alighted forthwith.

Light of the World, that’s me.

So… sometimes I’m a disco ball reflecting your light all bejazzled and jiggy with it, and sometimes I’m a bit more like those key ring lights you used to buy to see your keys in the dark even though the batteries ran out before you used it in situ but we don’t buy them anymore cos we all use our phones now type lights.

Today I was a key ring light on its last legs, blinking a couple of times, illuminating nothing.

But praise be, I ain’t the only light. (Good plan God). So hopefully the next butt perched on that front seat was a freaking strobe light of missional success.

That’s my prayer anyways.

Shine on.

Open

If you want to get me in a really good mood (and let’s face it I know getting me in a good mood is pretty high on your to do list), just tell me to have my house ready for an open inspection at 9am. Wait for me to wake up an hour earlier than normal, clean like there’s no tomorrow, scrub the shower, hide the toaster, vacuum every speck off the floor. When I am doing the final polish on the sink (because everyone lives with a polished sink), when I am out of breath, exhausted and harried, call me.

Call me at 10 minutes to 9am. Call me and tell me that the open inspection is cancelled.

THAT puts me in a good mood.

Because unnecessary cleaning is a crime against humanity. Add to that one less hour of sleep, and you’ve got a crisis in the Oates house.

Why am I feverishly cleaning for house inspections? Because we want to sell our house. And to sell your house you need to present it in the most perfect light. You need to present it with such outrageous perfection that to maintain the façade in reality would leave you dead inside. You need to present your home, your life in a way that makes others want to be you, makes them want to have what you have.

No one wants to see your hair in the drain, the dribble on your pillow or the greasy roasting pan you couldn’t be bothered to wash so you hid it in the wheel barrow in the shed.

And don’t get me started about kids wanting to poo in the toilet 5 mins before a home inspection. We don’t defecate in this family!!!!!

We need to be ready. Ready to be viewed. Ready to be judged. We need to prepare, polish, sort and primp. We need to worry about what people think, how they will measure us.

We need to be perfect.

Because that’s what Jesus asks of us right? To be perfect? To construct a shell of perfection that is impossible to maintain, all the while letting our insides, our reality, our honesty rot away? To become weak and brittle?

If Jesus came to my open inspection, I reckon I know what he would do. He would walk right past my throw rug and perfectly perched cushions and head straight for the shed. He would lift my greasy roasting pan out of the wheelbarrow and say “I love you Bec”.

SOLD!

My obvious Olympic prowess

I could totes be an Olympic swimmer.

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

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

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

PFFT!

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

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

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

So yeah, I could have.

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

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

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

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

Podium finish?

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

#mymediocrelife

Got this?

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

Why is it so hard?

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

You know. I ask, you give. #blessed

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

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

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

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

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

You do.

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

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

OK… *clears throat*

Amen.

Utopia

Stupid Netflix.

Yeah sure, I’ve got house work to do, dishes to wash, places to go… well, the first two at least, but no… Netflix.

Stupid skinny, hot, capable, wealthy, smart, buff, quick witted impossibly good looking people on Netflix.

My life wouldn’t score a guernsey on Netflix. I don’t jog through central park with sweat in all the right places, vibing come hither undertones. I trudge through the burbs with sweat in places that shouldn’t exist vibing last nights garlic bread. I don’t power stride into my office an hour early carrying my macchiato ready to take on the world. I shove the kids out the door in my dressing gown, rush the kettle like a dog on heat, make myself a Nescafe gold and stare at the pile of breakfast dishes my tribe of 6 have left on the bench like an in your face ‘have a good day’ finger.

Sigh.

I live in the real world. How dull.

If only Netflix was pretend. If only the real world was real.

I suck at real life.

Look. I have improved.

I now bi annually make the bed, sometimes I get up early and make my husband breakfast and yeah I make my kids the same birthday cake every year but I haven’t Febreezed any undies since 2001.

Actually I lied, I’ve never woken early to make my husband breakfast… *teeth baring emoji*

Real life alludes me. How do the Netflickers do it? It’s almost as if it’s imaginary. Like a cruel joke engineered to make me feel dissatisfied with Febereezed undies, because my life should be full of colour coordinated days of splendour. I should enjoy daily witty banter, challenging and meaningful relationships while my hair looks on point.

Imagine if there could be life in this real life, that was satisfying, meaningful and purposeful. Imagine if it was ok to vibe garlic bread, if I could find fulfillment in the everydayness of things. Imagine if there were other people like me.

It’s almost as if I’m being tempted and tricked into thinking that a glamorous life is what I was made to strive for. It’s almost as if being dissatisfied with my life, dissatisfied with who I am and dissatisfied with God is some kind of ploy to distract me from knowing the true source of fulfilment.

Maybe the Netflix life is a trap.

Maybe my real life is a gift that I’ve hidden below years and years of greed, years and years of selfishness, years and years of self indulgence.

Maybe, at its core, the Netflix life is hollow. Shiny and appealing, but shallow and unfulfilling.

Perhaps, if I could find other people who suck, we could live lives that are authentic, open and honest. Not like in an oops yes sorry my bad I did exaggerate the other day when I said this dress was nothing just an old thing because I actually spend a small fortune on it type way, but more like a you know what I stuffed up majorly, I’m broken, feeble and small, and without God I am nothing type way we could break the bonds of this Netflix lie.

Naked.

Shudder.

Awkward.

Whose up for a nudie run?

Coffee

 

In order to celebrate the last blog of my 30 day challenge I thought I would hit you with some honesty. A confession if you will. I should warn you, that this confession could disturb some readers, so feel free to avert your gaze. Also I will apoligise in advance. I’m sorry. Truly.

Ok here we go…

I like to drink instant coffee.

I know. Any slither of respect you may have had left for me after I used the word shitballs in my blog on clarity has now flown out the window. Heathen.

I know what you are thinking…. What the heck does she put on her insta feed? #blend43 #flatlayfauxpas #instacoffee #tbtfromthe70s

Given my shameful secret I find myself bringing my coffee from home in a keep it hot for ages type mug thingy. Today I took my keep it hot for ages type mug thingy to the school cross country event. Back in my day the parents didn’t give a rats about these type of things, but now apparently we do.

For some reason, these type of events make me teary. It’s quite pathetic. I just love my kids so freaking much it’s like I’m going to burst out of my skin. I stood at the sidelines of the running track with all the other bursting parents ready to embarrass my son with way too much cheering and jiggling up and down. Never fear, I had prepared with a sports bra after that incident last year when I knocked someone out cold….

Ahem. *sips coffee*

So, I was standing on the sidelines when my boy came to the end of his 2.5 km race. He came around the final bend towards the finish line breathing hard, running with all his might and smiling the biggest grin you can imagine. Somehow, in the midst of his exhaustion he managed to be beaming with pure delight. His whole face was alight, his eyes, his mouth, his whole being radiated. A few of the women around me awwwwed at him. Sometimes there are such precious moments in life, such unbridled beauty and innocence that I think I may be crushed by the welling in my heart.

He crossed the finish line, bent over, out of breath and smiled at the grass. Nothing could keep the smile off his face.

“You know, that’s what I want for you. I want you to run a good race, and yes it will be hard, and you will be exhausted and grow weary, but you can still have joy, you can find it in me.”

Psalm 51:12   New International Version (NIV)

 Restore to me the joy of your salvation and grant me a willing spirit, to sustain me.

It may surprise you to know that I’ve never been much of an athlete, in fact my Mum took pity on me and used to let me wag school sports day. So I don’t generally think of myself as a runner. I certainly don’t imagine myself SMILING whilst running. *snort*

But you do, you are cheering me on, you want me… to run. Dear lord. You want me to run… and smile.

Smile with sweet joy that pervades your very being, because you know, that you know, that you know that I am God.

How about you put down your crappy coffee, take my hand, and we will run together.

*grateful for my sports bra preparedness*

Ready (no), set (not really), go..... (whoo hoo!)

Clarity

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

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

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

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

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

Of course it is. It must be.

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

What are you trying to say Kevin…..?

“Remember me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holy shitballs.

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

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

Midlife

I know a rude woman. Seriously she is just so offensive, saying highly inappropriate things all the time, it’s embarrassing. For example, for my 30 day writing challenge she offered me the word MIDLIFE.

She might as well have slapped me on the face with a wet fish. I mean, what do I know about midlife?

Midstream, yeah maybe I could work with that. But Midlife? So rude.

Anyway, she threw down the gauntlet and I accept. I will muster all of my observational skills and creative wherewithal to imagine what midlife might be like.

I think I can sum it up in one word.

Gravity.

It’s proven that the gravitational pull gets stronger as you get older. Things… drop, droop and drag. Earlobes get longer, hairs drop from your head and start trying to escape through your nose, even you insides start trying to escape in unsavoury ways. Your skin loses any hope of staying abreast of things and just gives up, hanging there like a burst party balloon.

Boobs. I can’t even….

So yeah, gravity.

We don’t leap, spin and twirl like we used to or if we do, we end up requiring medical attention.

But it’s not all physical.

We are truly weighed down. It gets harder to take risks, the implications of failure seem greater. The more we have accumulated, the harder it is to give it up. We get scared, we are prudent. We are safe. We find ourselves trapped in a cage of our own making.

We are wise. Apparently.

We are not frivolous.

We are mature. We are mundane. We are midlife.

THAT’S A CROCK OF SHIT. *whistling sharply through false teeth*

We are fearless followers of Christ known for flights of fancy!

Isaiah 40:28-31   New International Version (NIV)

 Do you not know? Have you not heard? The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He will not grow tired or weary, and his understanding no one can fathom.  He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall;  but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.

 Eat my dust young thing, my strength is renewed, and I’m grabbing a Poise and running towards Christ.

Letterbox

 

What if we all had really ugly letterboxes?

Today I was assigned an important task by my husband. I have been asked to research letterboxes to purchase.

Because we have an embarrassing letterbox.

A letterbox is a box… for letters.

Who am I kidding? A letterbox is a defining statement of our worth on the posessioness ladder, a metaphoric finger at your neighbours, my letter box is bigger than yours, a phallic symbol of our success and enormous wealth. DO YOU KNOW HOW IMPORATNT MY MAIL IS?

Our embarrassing letterbox is clearly a bit of a weakling, a bit scrawny, somewhat flaccid.

I find myself apologising for it. Boring people senseless with my bashful banter about our silly letterbox *shrill stick poke in the eye level of annoying giggles*.

Please, don’t think we chose this letterbox, or that we can’t afford a better one.

Lord have mercy.

It is a box, it functions perfectly, it stores letters which I retrieve.

So why the angst?

How can a box on my front lawn designed to collect my Telstra bill and annoying real estate magnets (does ANYONE put them on their fridge?) cause me angst? How did this box become a defining statement of worth for me and my family?

Because that’s just how fucked up I am.

Truly.

I am seduced. Somehow, my brain is so conditioned, so covered in layers and layers of wealth filth and deception that I allow myself to be seduced by a letterbox.

I need a perfect letterbox.

And that’s just the tip of the iceberg isn’t it?

Guess what. It’s a lie.

I don’t need a perfect letterbox.

But guess what else? I need help, I need help to not need a perfect letterbox.

Because that’s how strong the pull is, the deception, the slimy clever evil one will use anything at his disposal, even a freaking letterbox, to keep me from finding that there is freedom to be had.

I’m serious.

I am so fallen, so broken, so sold into the lie, that I would think for one nanosecond that anything, that any possession here on earth could come close to the majesty of Christ, and the freedom to be found in following him.

1 Chronicles 29:11   New International Version (NIV)

 Yours, Lord, is the greatness and the power and the glory and the majesty and the splendour, for everything in heaven and earth is yours. Yours, Lord, is the kingdom; you are exalted as head over all.

And here I am, clinging to my letterbox like a spoilt brat.

Rebel I say.

Be brave. Let go. Repent. Give it ALL to him.

I was going to smartly say in all my smarty smart smartness to save your gold letterbox for heaven ready for letters from Paul. But guess what? I reckon heaven will be full of ugly letterboxes, cos we will be too busy living in freedom to care.

Ps. I NEVER swear in real life! I tried and tried to replace that word but the creative in me just knew it wouldn’t be strong enough, and still the nerd in me must apologise – soz.