Tag Archives: life

Who are the poor?

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Years ago, we were part of a group that decided to cook a sausage sizzle in the park on a Friday night and feed whoever might be in need.

It was an amazing experience and I learnt so many things, about myself and the world around me.

One thing has always stuck with me. I remember one of the other guys in the group expressing his consternation at what one of the people at the park had said. I can’t remember all the details but it ended with the man saying that we should be feeding them ‘because WE are the poor!”

I must admit, it surprised me too. A sense of entitlement that they should be helped was not something I expected, naively, I guess.

And it’s in contrast to my experience of the poor in Thailand.

The people I met in Thailand, who had far, far less than those people in the park on a Friday night, do not consider themselves poor. And, I suspect, would be quite insulted if it were implied.

We all have a different idea of what poor looks like, depending on our upbringing and what we get used to. And I think we all know, ‘poor’ here in our western societies is markedly different to a large percentage of the world.

And you know what struck me?

The people in the park are poor because they see themselves that way; victims, controlled by society and circumstance. They have a poor mentality that the people I met in Thailand don’t even entertain.

So, yes, they are right, they are the poor.

And the people I met in Thailand are the rich.

Winds of change

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I have a love/hate relationship with the wind, which I can directly attribute to my childhood.

As a chronic asthmatic, I spent more than the average amount of time indoors, while my brother and sister played outside. Growing up in Tasmania, and on a big piece of the bush, playing outside was what we loved to do. But for me, the cold Tasmania weather, particularly the icy winds that would blow, was not very friendly to my little lungs. I can still hear plain as day my mother saying “No, you can’t go outside today, you’ll get wheezy.” And the others would don coats and gumboots and eagerly venture outside while I had to find something ‘quiet’ to do inside. To be fair to my mum, it often meant I was included in the weekly baking of bread and other yummy things, so don’t feel too sorry for me :)

But I still have a wariness about the wind, and about going out in it. I have been left with the feeling that the wind is not ‘safe’. Now that my asthma is not a problem, I am certainly free to enjoy the outdoors as much as I like. So, when it’s windy, I am torn between going outside because I can, and loving the feeling of the wind, and staying inside because that feels more familiar.

As it was a particularly windy day yesterday, it got me thinking about the winds of change. I love the expression ‘winds of change’ even though I really don’t know where it came from. I love change, but I’m reluctant about wind. It reminds me that to have change, we need the wind in life.

In the natural, wind can blow rain away, it can blow away dust and clear the horizon. It can carry the scent of blossoms and spring. It can also blow roofs off, pick things up and cause damage. It can blow leaves and sticks into our freshly cleaned pool. It can blow sand in our eyes and blow our hats off. It can snatch the breath from our mouth and make us gasp. And it can make us stretch out our arms and run, invigorated.

Wind can be contrary. It is untamed and uncontrollable.

The winds of change can bring joy and sorrow, heartache and triumph.

For me personally, the winds of change are beginning to blow. And I’m feeling the first breeze on my cheek with anxious anticipation.

Will I stay inside and try to ignore it till it’s gone, or will I venture outside and embrace its freshness?

What do you do when the winds of change begin to blow?

Are you living in appreciation or fear of loss?

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Well, my husband and I survived our time apart – just. He has come back with some gems from all that time of reflection and contemplation, and although I haven’t checked, I’m sure he won’t mind me sharing one of them here :)

If you read this blog often, you’ll know that while I don’t always achieve it, I strive to live in a spirit of thankfulness. And true thankfulness and gratitude was a major theme for my husband last week, which has made me do a check on myself and see if my level of thankfulness is where it should be. It isn’t of course, so it’s been a great reminder.

I came across a quote today that said:

Fearing to lose what you have is not the same as appreciation. You have to take a step beyond that. ~ Terri Guillemets

It’s interesting isn’t it? We all fear losing people and things. We sometimes fear losing them so much that we grip them rather tightly and become so full of that fear of their loss that we choke out any thankfulness for the person or possession.

It’s easy to get them mixed up and equate our fear of loss with our level of appreciation and gratitude. But, as the quote says, there needs to be a step beyond that.

So how do we know if it’s fear of losing something or true appreciation?

I think the answer is in our response to the thought of it being lost. I think if we can let something or someone go and still be thankful that we had it or them, then we have been truly living in appreciation and gratitude.

Part of living immersed in a spirit of thankfulness is recognising we don’t deserve it. When we live in fear of losing something or someone, I wonder if it’s because deep down, we think it’s our right to have that thing or that person in our life.

If we can hold people and things loosely, with no sense of entitlement; if we can just dwell in that sense of appreciation and thankfulness; if we can simply allow the ebb and flow of life to give and take, as it does, maybe we will find that our spirits soar to the heavens in an unending stream of gratitude for the beauty, and the loss, that is allowed to colour our lives.

Maybe we will be released from the grip of fear and live inside the sweet peace that comes from a thankful heart.

 

Blowing away the cobwebs

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This week, my husband is off to spend some time in spiritual retreat. It’s also one of those rare weeks where we don’t have a publication to produce, and therefore pretty quiet on that front, so I have decided that in between getting the kids to and from school, packing lunches, washing uniforms and all the other routine activities, I would schedule in some ‘fun’ time for myself.

If you read this post, you will understand why I have decided to make one of those activities painting. I was given an extra nudge by a friend who hinted at maybe having a canvas from me for a very belated birthday present. So, she will get her wish (if it turns out okay!) and I now have a great reason to lose myself in the wonderful therapy that is contained in my paints.

paints

 

My easel is an old artwork desk that is a leftover from my father’s printing business, I think, and I have used it for years. It has been in two pieces in our garage, and, as you can imagine, was literally covered in dust and cobwebs and abandoned wasps nets.

I set to, cleaning it up, hammering in some nails that were loose, shooing away the daddy long legs and sweeping away their webs. As I did, I felt a cleaning going on inside too.

I was not only physically preparing for the creative in me to have expression, but metaphorically too. I could feel that little muse waking up, stretching her arms out and blinking as the sunlight streamed through the newly cleaned window. Something in me was stirring as I ran through colour combinations in my head, felt the plump tubes of paint in my hand and retrieved blank canvasses from deep within the wardrobe.

After getting it all organised, I stood back and sighed with satisfaction and relief; anticipation coursing through me.

I can’t wait.

The only problem I can see is forgetting to go pick up the kids after school. Oh and cook tea. And wash uniforms. And pack lunches.

Mmmm, maybe I’ll go on the retreat next time! And I’ll be taking my paints and canvasses with me ;)

Roses and the lesson of preparedness

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For the amount of times I seem to write a post about gardening, you’d think I was the owner and sustainer of a prize winning garden! Those of you who have ever come to my house, know this to be quite opposite to the truth.

My husband and I have a rather bad habit when it comes to plants.

Conversations go like this:

(At home)

Me: I really like those ‘such and such’ plants.

Him: Yes, they’re nice. Where would we put it?

Me: Mmmmm, not sure.

(At the nursery)

Him: Oh these are lovely!

Me: Yes, lets get them and some of the other ones and some veggies and….

And so that’s how we end up bringing home a heap of plants.

Now the problem is we haven’t prepared. We have no idea where they are going to go, what position they need, whether the soil is right or how big they will grow. Sure, we read the label when we’re at the nursery but, at the nursery, we are invincible garden wizards with not just green thumbs, but green hands!

We have killed more plants through lack of planning that I care to remember.

And so what did my lovely husband bring home the other day? Two rose plants. Where are we putting those, I asked. Yeah, dunno, he replied. That was about a week ago and they are still sitting on the outside table in their bag. We are so keen to have lovely flowers or fresh veggies that we put the cart before the horse, or in this case, the plants before the prep!

Made me think about how often we do that in life.

Are you trying to hurry up something because you know it’s going to be great and you just can’t wait?

I know I am. I complained to the same rose-buying husband about one area in particular and this is what he said (nicely of course).

“Just because you have swum one lap of a backyard pool does not mean you are ready for the Olympics.”

Yes, sometimes I just have to admit he knows some stuff and take it on the chin.

There is much to be said about preparing and doing the hard yards of checking soil ph levels, and positions in the garden. Less plants, and dreams, die that way.

Connections in a rice field

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I mentioned in an earlier post that you would hear more about Andy. It has taken me longer than I expected to be able to articulate why meeting him was such a life-changing event, so I hope I do it justice with this post.

We met Andy the day before we left for Bangkok to come home. I’d had enough of being away by then and was chomping at the bit to just be home already. As a group, I think we were wearing on each other a bit by then, so our moods were not exactly of a cheery, ‘thankful to still be here’ nature…well, certainly not mine, in any case.

Andy1

This is Andy. He is twenty years old and lives alone with his mum who has alzheimer’s. As is the Thai way, the youngest takes responsibility for the care of ageing parents, so Andy has come to live in southern Thailand leaving behind a burgeoning career in the music scene.

Andy and his mother live here:

Andy's House

 

Apart from church on a Sunday, Andy doesn’t leave the house as his mother is afraid to ride on a scooter, his only available transport. Andy also is studying International Law at university by correspondence.

The things I have already said about Andy show you something about who he is. But the fact that he is 20, the sole carer of his mother, is virtually isolated and is studying International Law weren’t what struck me most about him.

He was thankful for his circumstances. And I mean truly, truly thankful. Living in that house, in that situation – he was thankful. Although we could only communicate via our pastor friend interpreting, the joy in his heart needed no translation.

While we were there, we sang some songs together, with Andy playing guitar. Those twenty minutes or so were probably the most profoundly moving minutes I’ve ever had. Singing in the middle of a rice field with an ox bellowing on the other side of the house, just Andy, our pastor friend, Charli, another team member and me brought a whole other meaning to worship.

I was raised in church and, thankfully, had parents who saw ‘life’ as worship, not just as a Sunday thing, yet never have I experienced the level of deep connection to my Creator and fellow man as on that hot afternoon in the south of Thailand.

Andy’s love and gratitude to God for his circumstances was so staggering and made me wonder if I have ever really been thankful for anything in my life. He was totally at peace with where God had him. He wasn’t bucking against it, telling God He was doing it wrong or offering suggestions. He is just getting on with the life God put him in for this moment.

Does that mean he doesn’t have hard days, dark days? No, of course not. Does it mean he couldn’t think of 50 other ways God could be using his life? No, I’m sure he has great plans and dreams he would like to see realised. Does it mean he isn’t sometimes discouraged and down? No.

But it’s how he is living in this moment, that really resonated with me. I am so often straining to see far into the future, to see what God’s got in store for me; reminding God of all the things I would love to be used for; letting God know that if He needs any help with planning my life, He can just ask me because I have heaps of brilliant ideas.

I’m so busy anticipating that I can forget all about the moment. I forget to be right where I am.

Andy gave me so much and I will be forever grateful that we met. It really was the perfect, blessed ending to our whole trip.

There’s not a great deal I can give him in return. But the one thing I can do is pray. I would love it if you remembered him in your prayers too.

I hope to one day go back and see Andy again and hear all about the amazing things God is doing in his life. And I will smile, knowing that prayers said all around the world really do make a difference.

 

God’s pleasure

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It’s no secret that I love beauty. And I love art, whether that’s the written word, a painting, a sculpture, a play, dance – I love all forms of creative expression.

After our Thailand trip, I admit to struggling with my own creative desires. I would love nothing better than to be creative all day, every day, to write and paint to my hearts content. I have created just one piece of visual art since we moved into this house nearly six years ago. I have written only a handful of words on my story in the last six months. And I miss it. My creative side longs for an outlet. I have been keen to get in the kitchen and cook lately, and I only just realised that it’s the need to ‘create’, that this burning desire in me must find some sort of expression.

While I love and appreciate the arts, I feel guilty when I spend time on it myself. There are girls living in such horrific circumstances – how can getting the paints out help them? How does my story benefit anyone?

I used to struggle immensely with creating for seemingly no purpose. If I was going to paint, I wanted it to be for more than just something I put in a bottom drawer. If I was going to write, I wanted it to be an international best seller and not just a story my family read.

Now, I am happy to paint or write for the pleasure of only one or two, even if that’s just me. No, the struggle now is that there are so many people who need helping, that spending time on my arts seems selfish and self-indulgent.

The other day, I heard someone on the radio talking about feeling God’s pleasure when you do something that might not immediately seem to be ‘worthy’ by our standards. I have always believed that the God who created the amazing world we live in is surely the ultimate Artist but it really struck me afresh.

God created us with talents and gifts. He intended us to use them.

So my paintings may never be anything other than something to hang on a wall in my house, my story may never do anything other than provide entertainment to a couple of people…so what? They have served their purpose already, anything else is a bonus.

So the test is – do I feel God’s pleasure when I create? I would have to say yes. Being creative satisfies me in a deep down soul fulfilling way that I can’t seem to get anywhere else.

I feel right and good and wholly alive.

I feel God’s pleasure.

Mother’s Day

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Last Mothers Day, I wrote this post, a letter to my mum.

This year, I thought I would talk about what I love about being a mother, from when they were little to now :)

• the weight of a sleeping baby on my chest

• small sticky hands around my neck

• that double edged sword when only mum will do

• that first ‘I love you’

• the bittersweet moment when the sentence “I don’t need to hold your hand” is announced and you realise it’s true

• the ‘first day of school’ rundown over afternoon tea

• school plays

• sports games

• dance concerts

• late night chats

• the words “Wait til you hear what happened today!”

• an arm tucked through mine for no other reason than to be close

• the words “You will never know how much I love you, mum!”

• surprise cups of tea in bed

• notes and pictures

• early morning snuggles in bed

• phone calls just to say hi

• ‘thanks mum’ said with a smile

• the knowledge that no matter where they are in the world, they’re always with me

• knowing that there is nothing that can change the fact that I am their mum

And being okay with the fact that as long as I live, being a mother will cause me to experience extreme joy and extreme pain.

And everything in between.

Bravery.

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Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter. ~ Martin Luther King Jr

Last night, Graham, my dad, Charli, a friend of hers and I went to see Trade of Innocents, a movie about the sex slave industry, particularly dealing with underage girls in Asia.

To say it was compelling and confronting would be an understatement. It is profoundly moving, shocking and powerful.

I think it took some guts to watch. I say the statistics about human trafficking and the sex slave industry frequently. I listen to and re-tell the stories. I have my own photos of girls who have been rescued from the hell they show in the movie.

And yet I sat there wanting to get up and leave. I sat there, fists clenched, stomach churning at the pure evil that these girls live through. That these girls are living through right now.

At 40, I have seen some stuff. I have sat with friends as they have described physical and sexual abuse at the hands of their husbands. I’ve felt the pain of others as loved ones pass away. I’ve held the hand of friends whose relationships are falling down around them. I’ve looked into the eyes of a girl who has been repeatedly raped by strangers, forced to perform acts that no decent person would even know existed. And I think I should face these things. I should be willing to look evil in the eye and stare it down.

And yet there was Charli and her friend. Sixteen year olds. Sitting watching a movie that makes no bones about the suffering these girls endure, that did not try to hide or sugar coat what other human beings do to them.

Sixteen year olds who could have been watching the latest hollywood blockbuster. Who could have been at home painting their nails and doing their hair, flicking through magazines and talking about boys.

And there is nothing wrong with any of those things but when given a choice, Charli and her friend chose the hard path. The path that many adults will not even acknowledge is there, let alone walk down.

Charli and her friend chose to subject themselves to knowing about the plight of others.

They chose to know.

And once you know something, you can never un-know it. You can never again plead ignorance. You cannot un-see it or un-feel it.

You can never un-know it.

There is one word for Charli and her friend.

Brave.

Are you brave enough to look at the big problems we are facing as a human race? Whether it’s human trafficking, the sex slave industry, extreme poverty, homelessness, teen suicide, alcoholism, drug addiction – it doesn’t matter. What matters is that we be brave enough to look outside ourselves and act.

Will you do it? Will you be brave enough?

 

 

 

Margaret Thatcher, Rick Warren and us

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If you are a long time reader of this blog, you will know that I love people and am always looking for the good in everyone but two recent events have given me pause.

Some of you may have heard of prominent American pastor, Rick Warren. His son committed suicide last week.

And Margaret Thatcher died last week, too.

And for both there has been an outpouring of love…and hate.

Rick Warren wrote on Twitter: ”Grieving is hard. Grieving as public figures, harder. Grieving while haters celebrate your pain, hardest. Your notes sustain us.”

How can people celebrate the pain of another human being?

I disagree strongly with Rick Warren on many, many issues but does that mean I celebrate the unimaginable pain he and his family are in right now?

I was a teen during Thatcher’s time as Prime Minister, and I must confess, was wholly uninterested in politics, so I am pretty ambivalent about her policies and time in office. However, people holding street parties to celebrate her death? When news of Thatcher’s death hit the media, we were watching Q and A, where guest panelist Brooke Magnanti’s first response to the news was “Oh and here’s me without champagne.”

I was disgusted. Regardless of our views on a person, the key word here is ‘person’. To actually celebrate that someone has died is surely the basest of all human reactions. Or, in Rick Warren’s case, celebrate the fact that someone you love has died and you are in pain.

Is this what we have become? People so blinded by our own opinions and viewpoint that we fail to see the humanity in another? People so caught up with making our point and judging others that we forget that all people have feelings? That we all bleed when cut, that we all are loved and love in return, regardless of our religious or political persuasions?

It comes down to lack of respect and narrow mindedness.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, until we truly understand and believe that every other single person on the planet has the same intrinsic value that we do, we will continue to be a society full of bigotry, hatred and intolerance.