Adversity

Have you ever eaten so much that your stomach felt uncomfortable? No, no, of course you haven’t. Well, try and imagine it. You feel bloated and uncomfortable. Imagine that feeling and then increase it by, I dunno, maybe 1000%. That is what it’s like to be pregnant, full term.

You start off rubbing your belly as a small bump emerges. Caressing it, enjoying the sensation, swanning around the shops in a fitted dress with your belly on show, buying cute booties that you’ll never use and obsessing about which pram to buy because having the right pram is important so maybe we should mortgage the house a little.

That’s 30 weeks.

Then there is 38, 39, 40 weeks.

Your swanning around becomes waddling. Your fitted tummy dress is quietly replaced with a tent. You buy bras with letters from the alphabet you did not know existed. Your feet have swollen, but it’s not so much of a problem because you can’t see them anymore. You wee… a little too easily. And you can’t wait. You can’t wait to get this HUGE THING OUT OF YOU. And do you know what you don’t think? In the history of pregnancy do you know what thought has never entered the mind of a full term pregnant woman?

I feel like riding a donkey.

I’m pretty sure Mary was stoked.

Cos when you are about to give birth to the son of God it’s not like you are thinking perhaps God would grant you some kind of comfort? Some special treatment? Perhaps a delivery fit for a king ?

Cos God’s plan for my life includes a smooth road right? No adversity? No discomfort?

Cos that was what he promised right? If I follow him?

Or does he ask me to trust him through adversity?

Trust that even though I pictured myself reclining with a glow on my face as my brow is wiped by my buff husband, my pillows fluffed and my hair cascading over my shoulders as  I birth my son with minimal discomfort and maximum elegance, I find myself straddling a donkey at 39 weeks pregnant, frequently wincing as my hemorrhoids kiss the saddle, that God knows what he is doing.

Because he is God.

And I am not.

*Mic drop God*

Celebrating Christmas when you want to punch someone in the face

Celebrating Christmas when you want to punch someone in the face...

Like when you’ve spent 3 months researching and preparing the perfect Christmas lunch, something on trend, perhaps Jamie Oliveresque, with hip rustic table ornaments made from old jars, a salad with Kale, some socially responsible bon bons, colour coordinated crockery and perfectly placed jugs filled with Christmas cheer and Aunty Vera arrives with her 3 day old potato salad that gives everyone the squirts, presented in the crystal bowl she received as a wedding gift in 1969 and plonks it with pride in the middle of the table sending your kikki K mini wooden peg place holder cards flying into your bowl of raw vegan chocolate fruit balls.

And you want to punch her in the face.

Or perhaps you yell at the kids in the car on the way to lunch because you are tense about seeing your sister who never ceases to offend you and you arrive covered in a thick shell of bitter resentment ready to endure the festivities and she opens the door, ushers you in, gives you the once over, spins you around as she laughs, nudges you and slaps you on the back saying “Look at you! You even have back cleavage.”

And you want to punch her in the face

Or perhaps you are sitting on the couch watching the kids open their presents and you look over at your spouse with sorrow and regret, staggered by the enormous crater of sadness and hurt that has formed between you, and a tear slips down your face as you mourn the loss of what was, and steel yourself for the prospect of what will be.

And you want to punch him in the face.

Or perhaps you wake on Christmas morning with a pit of grief and loss threatening to destroy you, you swing your legs over the bed and gaze at the empty pillow of your loved one who is no more, whose memory brings joy and unbearable pain, and you wonder how you will survive the day, if you want to survive the day.

And you want to punch God in the face.

How do you celebrate Christmas when you are in pain? When you have suffered injustice? When you are hurting?

Well, here's a cheery idea...

Serve.

Wait… don’t punch me in the face.

I am going to try, just for one day (and then I can go back to normal thank the Lord), to put aside my anger, fear, resentment, grief and hurt and serve. BORING.. maybe, HARD definitely, but  I reckon that serving is a good way to celebrate the King who gave up his life for me.

Wash Aunty Vera’s crystal bowl and ask her to bring it again next year. Pay our sisters a genuine compliment, squeeze the hand of our spouses, surrender our pain to God. Just for one day.

Never know, it may be good, and we might keep on doing it.

No promises though, because the face punching option is still quite appealing.

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.

Fear

Sooo… this is awkward… hopefully God doesn’t read my blog.

I’m afraid.

All the time.

Afraid that if I put my guard down, if I stand still for too long, you might see me, that I might see myself.

I’m afraid of the truth.

The truth is ugly.

I’m afraid to have nothing but you.

You are not enough.

I’m afraid to let go, I’m afraid to hold on to you.

I don’t trust you.

I’m afraid to follow you, I’m afraid of where you might take me.

You may have my best interests at heart, but I prefer my own interests.

I’m not afraid of your wrath.

Fearing you is hard because I have reduced you into a handy friend to get me through hard times.

I’m afraid to let go of my comfort.

My comfort means more to me than obedience does.

I’m afraid to trust you with my children.

My love for my children means more to me than my love for you.

I’m afraid I don’t love you enough.

I’m afraid that despite these truths, you love me, and you are waiting. Waiting for me to let you take my fear away.

What then?