Still As.

What if my life is as boring as bat shit?

I hate bats. And apparently even their shit is boring, poor suckers.

My life is so boring that yesterday I tried to write a blog about rolling a gum nut down a hill. Because that was the most interesting part of my day.

Lord help me.

This morning I got so desperate for entertainment I Jiffed the sink.

The horror.

Do you know when it’s easy to trust God, to pray, to give it all to him? When you are hanging by a thread for your dear life from a cliff face. God and I are tight during the fearful, angsty, stress riddled days.

But what about those days when you start folding undies into origami or alphabetising your spices? Is God there? Do I care? Am I comfortable with the silence?

Is it enough to just be in his presence? Is he enough?

Am I so consumed with achieving things for him (wink, I got this God, you relax) that I forget to listen to him?

Can I stop asking myself challenging questions?

Sitting still. How dull. No filter on earth can make that Instagram worthy.

Psalm 46:10  (NIV)

 “Be still, and know that I am God;”

But don’t you have something glorious for me to do?

“Be still, and know that I am God;”

Surely you have some great plan? A bold vision?

“Be still, and know that I am God;”

Don’t I need to be in a position of influence?

“Be still, and know that I am God;”

Don’t you have something for me to say?

“Be still, and know that I am God;”

Ok, Ok!... But what do I put on Facebook?!?!

Status update: “Like dried up bat dung on a footpath, so these are the days of my life.”

OK, back up.

“Be still, and know that I am God;”

Let’s take this verse seriously for a moment (Not a bad approach generally I’ve found). Read it again.

“Be still, and know that I am God;”

CRIKEY. I get to KNOW that you are GOD. Like know, like in my bones. I can know that I know that I know.

What a gift. How Badassical.

Check this. I am going to march boldly into my laundry RIGHT NOW and COLOUR CODE my towels. Do I have an AMEN?

Because I KNOW that you are GOD, and I can be as still as.

Fist pump.

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*

Fluffy

This Christmas as you hustle and bustle about, shopping, baking and carolling I’m pretty sure I know what question is rattling around in your head, on the tip of your tongue, just busting to be voiced… was Jesus born with shit on his face?

Am I right?

I’m tempted, when walking past perfectly poised nativity scenes, to wipe a bit of vegemite on those baby cheeks, to ruffle Josephs hair and to perch Mary in a more I can barely stand to sit on those special parts so I’ll lean back awkwardly to take a load off while still looking engaged in the moment and desperately hoping my breasts don’t leak everywhere type pose.

Cos really. Just really.

Jesus was born in the shed. A shed with perhaps a few skanky cows, and an annoying goat.

I’m guessing Joseph didn’t remember to pack the calming essential oils with handy aroma diffuser to minimise the awkward moment when you realise that cow urine soaked straw is not the same as sandalwood.

There was no sterile environment, nurses with gloves, birth plan, monitoring equipment, Mary hoping her hair would still be on point for the ensuing Instagram snap, Joseph excusing himself to top up his macchiato between contractions.

I can imagine a slightly more harried, uncomfortable, slightly terrifying, sweaty, smelly, raw and undignified event.

I reckon perhaps Jesus' first breath of life as a human was welcomed with a face plant into a cowpat.

Welcome to the world Jesus.

No special treatment.

Jesus rocked the undignified entrance.

Because Jesus is not fluffy. He’s not some stained-glass pathetic halo wearing weakling. A statue. A relic.

He was a man who was poor, homeless, rejected, despised, betrayed, and killed. A man of great strength and bravery who was bold, steadfast, loving, compassionate and obedient.

The son of God.

He’s the real deal.

So, if you look at nativity scenes and think, what has that baby got to do with me? Just imagine him with vegemite on his face and think, what kind of man would face plant poo for me? Is that the kind of man I want to get to know?

Don’t be put off by our feeble expressions of who Jesus is, or by mine for that matter. Find out for yourself. It’s the best birthday present you could give him.

Blinkin Lights

I showered after a day in the sun, marvelling at my browned oops that may just cause cancer later in life but oh well it’s the 70’s skin I dried myself, combed my wet hair and put my Christmas nightie on.

Christmas was so exciting. I twirled around the lounge room, my toes tangling in the shag pile carpet, it was good to be alive. My Dad agreed that this would be the night we would put our Christmas tree up. We waited in anticipation as Dad did the boring laborious Christmas tree assembly. I sat ready to offer assistance once things got a bit more interesting, like hanging ornaments or throwing shreds of tinsel on the tree that would clog the vacuum for the next 6 months. After what felt like an eternity of Christmas tree assembly, pine needle decoding and frustrated huffs we were ready. Ready for the lights.  I watched in awe as my Dad wound the string of lights around the tree. Predicting perfectly the length of lights he started at the bottom, painstakingly winding up and up and up until finally, he came to the end of the lights right at the top of the tree. Well done Dad!

My family gathered in the lounge room in excited anticipation.

“Bec, I think it’s your turn to turn the lights on this year.”

OMG OMG OMG

Springing to life I catapulted towards the power point, I grabbed the plug, thrust it in and turned on the switch with as much pomp and ceremony as I could muster. I swung around to gaze at the wonder of our Christmas lights and… nothing.

Nada.

Not a single light was working.

Oh dear, we forgot to check the lights before we dressed the tree.

Slightly deflated, Dad proceeded to undo his handiwork and I trudged off to bed.

Because back in the day, if just one globe on your string of Christmas lights wasn’t working, then the whole string wouldn’t shine. You would go through the painstaking process of checking each globe until you found the sick globe and fix it. Then you could enjoy the twinkling string of healthy lights.

Not like today. Today you just throw the bunch out and grab a new lot. Disposable lights. No one wants a dull globe ruining the party, get rid of it, move on.

Like dull people. People who are sick or hurting or broken are such a buzz kill. I guess it’s easier to discard them.

But I reckon the old string of lights are the kind of lights I want to belong to. The kind that notices if you have lost your shine, the kind that stops and waits if you are having a hard time, the kind that doesn’t treat you like you are disposable, the kind that makes you want to share your light.

Christmas lights, celebrating Christ.

Pain

 

Today I watched as my sweet 9-year-old daughter sat in a chair clinging to her favourite teddy while someone drilled a hole in her tooth. For such an occasion, I thought it prudent to bring with me my arsenal of parenting weaponry. The peaceful smiley “it’s all ok” face, the over enthusiastic thumbs up shrug and in my back pocket for emergency use only, the stern but confidence inspiring Mummy voice.

I sat helplessly as she lay back and endured the pain. I watched as her legs tensed, her toes wriggled in her shoes, and she squeezed the living daylights out of her teddy. I sat, and watched, and pondered the award-winning parenting advice I had given her earlier. “Yes, this may hurt, but it’s ok to feel pain, it’s part of life. Sometimes it’s best not to try and avoid pain, just face the feeling.”

And then I nearly choked right there in the Dental Clinic as I attempted to swallow the huge ball of hypocrisy in my throat.

Great advice. Why don’t I take it?

Clarity’s a bitch.

Cos right now it feels like God has snapped on his industrial strength gloves and decided to give me a root canal.

He’s got his big ole drill out and has been relentlessly carving away at my insides. He’s drilled in nooks and crannies I didn’t even know I had. He’s drilled for so long I’ve started to think its normal to have a jackhammer constantly chipping away at my life, and just when I think he is finished he shakes his head, opens me up, and drills a bit deeper.

Then, for good measure, he holds his little tricky dicky mirror up so I can see the gaping holes he has drilled. See? See what I did there? You don’t need that.

Still more? Sure. I’ve got this pick axe I can also use to get in those sneaky crevices, you know the ones where you like to hold on to things. Let’s get those too while we are here.

Great. Now let’s get a torrent of water and blast every remaining speck out, and suck out the remaining dregs of your life with this life sucking vacuum.

Cheers.

“Yes, this may hurt, but it’s ok to feel pain, it’s part of life. Sometimes it’s best not to try and avoid pain, just face the feeling.”

Eye roll emoji. Stupid parenting advice.

So, I could rave on about how God took out the decay in my life so he could fill the cavities with himself.

But that is trite bullshit.

He didn’t just take decay, he’s taken half of my teeth out. I’ve even taken a few out myself, and now I’m hobbling around with a numb toothless grin.

There’s no happy ending, neat package, moral to the story. Sometimes we do just walk around with a gaping hole in our life.

It hurts. Deeply. To the core.

Our nerve endings are exposed, and it’s incredibly painful.

And when those feelings are front and centre, when our life is sucked away into a vacuum and we are left rocking in the corner dribbling saliva do we take our own parenting advice? Face the pain?

I’m trying to, and I’m also hanging onto God, squeezing the living daylights out of him. Because sometimes when you have nothing left but him, you are blessed. Blessed to be hanging on for dear life, blessed to have a Father I trust despite my feelings. Blessed to have a life that knows joy and pain.

Do I get a sticker?

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!

Significance

I think I was sold a lie.

I grew up in the era of vision. To succeed at life, one had to have a bold vision and clear goals, not just goals, but big hairy audacious goals. I was told to dream big, God has a plan for your life! You can achieve anything you put your mind to.

What a crock of….

I’m pretty sure no matter how much I put my mind to it I’m never going to be a prima ballerina, sorry Mum.

I grew up with a great expectation that God had a huge, special and, let’s face it, better than everyone else’s plan for me. *high five God*

I waited, searched, sang, and when desperate enough read my bible in search for this awesome put Bec on the map plan.

It seemed to escape my attention that maybe God’s plan might be for me to clear the dog poo off the lawn.

I persevered, waiting in expectation for the moment the clouds would part, and God would announce his big hairy audacious plan for my life.

And then nothing….

So I started to find meaning and joy in the everyday of life. That’s a good thing, surely. God can take small offerings and make them great after all. I’m on board with that God, in fact to be honest I don’t have the energy for much more so if you could just zap my meagre offering and make it awesome I’d be pretty happy with that. *Cheers God*.

And so I became content with Instagram validation of my piss weak existence. You go girl, you got this, you’re ok.

Except I wasn’t. Because somehow those roots, those foundations had screwed me over. I had become a grain of sand on eighty-mile beach throwing my hands in the air screaming “what about me! I’m special, I’m significant!”

After all it says in the Bec paraphrased version

Then Jesus told his disciples, “If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his position of significance and follow me. 

So. What if… it’s not me that’s significant. What if I am a grain of sand?

What if I realised that it is my greatest privilege to bow at the foot of the cross and plead for a cross to bear for his names sake. What if I fell to my knees and asked forgiveness for the sheer arrogance of my search for significance. What if I understood that my only and every significance is in who he is, and that I am deeply, deeply significant to him.

What if my life is to glorify him, not me.

Significance.

Who am I? I am a child of the King.

And yeah, I didn’t grow up hoping to be the palace pooper scooper, but if that job is going I’ll take it, anything to hang out with my King. *Chest bump God*

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?