Mommy Thoughts

From the two tiny whispers of noise I hear upstairs, I know that it's you who is awake and not one of your siblings. I hear from that small, "oh" that you're in need of help in the bathroom. 

I run up the 18 stairs to see that I'm there a little too late. Oh well, no problem. It happens sometimes. 

I pop you into the tub and start the shower as you remind me in a small voice to make sure that it's not too 'hot-y' or too 'cold-y'. You rub your eyes, not sure if you need to cry or sleep or trust that mommy has got this under control.

I can't reach your towel so I grab my fluffy yellow one and ask in a silly voice if it's Eli or a burrito in there. Your eyes light up with a smile and a flash of fun before staring off, smile fading, as shadows of sleep invade your little face. 

I carry you to the door of your room where daddy crosses our path, mop in hand. He asks who the person is that has stolen mama's towel. You smile and whisper, "daddy..." in a tone that shows you know full well daddy is teasing. "Are you a baby again?" Daddy asks. You take a breath and think about saying, "no, a big boy" like you've been insisting these past weeks, but instead you surrender with a sigh. "Yeah."

Together we sit on the rug on the floor. I hold you and think how you will forget this night, these moments. The monotony of every day life that moulds a mother's heart. You stare at the wall behind me, eyelashes moving down and up, down and up, slowly inviting sleep. I kiss underneath your left cheek, knowing you hide a tickle in that spot. You giggle and wake enough to ensure that it's the sheriff pyjama top and red shorts that are chosen and then, instead of putting you in bed, I scoot back-against-the-wall and cradle you in my arms. Just as I've always done. 

I kiss your head through tufts of brown hair. Your breathing settles into a slow deep rhythm. Downstairs daddy makes a loud noise. He's fixing a door that won't lock, ensuring that our home is secure before bed. The noise makes you jump. I move my hand from my knee to your back. You twist your tiny body closer to mine and sigh one big sigh. 

I kiss your head 20 times more then, lifting you up and squeezing you tight. I bring you to the the bed that you and your brother have turned into a tent, while I thought that you were sleeping.

I lay you down and with eyes still closed you find your teddies and settle down. "A cuddle, mommy." Your voice muffles from behind your dodo. Once, twice, three times you adjust your little arms ensuring that the hug is tight and close. "I love you" I whisper. Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone. "Love you. Too. Mommy." Sleep envelopes you. Your arms relax. I slip away. You will forget these moments, but I will not. 

International Women's Day

I sat down this evening, finally stealing some minutes to indulge in an idea I had earlier in the day. It was simple. Today, international women's day 2016, I would look through my friends list and select all the women who have inspired me and tell them why. Easy, right? Wrong. 

The problem is I have a finite amount of time and energy and as 11:50pm comes and goes I realise I have WAY more inspiring women in my life than time in the day. I started at the top of my friends list, and systematically began writing to each of you, only realising with heavy heart that I don't want to miss anyone and discourage people who had seen me write to mutual friends and not them.

So I had another idea. I scrolled through my list and paused to write descriptive words for people who stuck out. I filled a page. A whole page, you guys. I hope my technologically challenged self can stick it to this blog. 

I got to thinking about women who had encouraged me over the years. Given me a word of comfort when I needed it. Stood by me when times got tough. Trusted me with their story and honoured me as a friend in honesty and vulnerability. Laughed SO hard with me/at me. Had babies at the same time as me.

There are neighbours, aunties, cousins, sisters, fellow mothers, dear and well missed grandmothers this is only a small number. There are too many things that each of you are or have been to me. I am simply overwhelmed by the positive impact fellow women have had in my life. And here's the thing, I am only one person armed with one, relatively small, list of friends. We as a body of women are half the population of the world!

On this day, or what's left of it, I propose each of you who are reading this pick a handful of women who have inspired you or gave you encouragement, support, love or friendship - whatever it is that they have taught you, and tell them! This isn't just for the women, you men are invited to take this up too. You never know how much it will mean to say to someone, 

"when this situation happened, you had the wisdom to tell me this, and it gave me such courage/made me feel not so alone/helped me realise someone understood." 

It's just an idea, and it certainly doesn't have to be public, but there is so much value in building one another up in love and support. You'll be glad you did it.

I'm so privileged to have you ladies in my life. You are brave and you have what it takes. You are strong and wise. You are funny, smart, determined and valuable. You are people who have seen and gone through hard things and come out the other side changed and stronger. I am thankful to call you sister and friend.

I also have no idea how to stick a picture to a blog.

Depression diaries - Remembering

I can't sleep. I've never been able to sleep after an argument if it hasn't been resolved, and so, I lie here awake thinking and remembering. 

I'm becoming aware of this nauseous feeling filling my heart rather than my stomach. I don't think I've had a nauseous heart before! It causes me to run the numbers and find, to my disbelief, that it was on Valentine's day last year that I walked to our highway and planned to not come back. My heart is pounding now, probably in the same way every person's heart who cared for me at the time did. I wish I could speak to last-year me. I wish I could draw along side her and comfort her. I would hold up a looking glass to the year to come and watch her expression change from confusion to surprise. From despair to hope. From pain to disbelief with how things would change, how *I would change. She would take a deep breath and sigh the weighty sigh of one who had seen the impossible and dared to believe it could be true. She would look into the eyes of the year older, stronger and peace-filled me and know it was true.

I remember how that day went. Remember making Valentine's Day crafts with the kids, keeping my "normal" on as their sweet voices sang out the reasons they loved each of our family members. I remember being slain by Jason's note to me, "I love that you're always here for our kids." I used that little red heart note as a bookmark over the days I spent convalescing at my pastors house in the days following. I allowed it to judge me terribly. (Silly last year me, forgive yourself.) I mourned the fact that I was too "weak" to stay with them over that time. (Exhausted last year me, rest.) I filled those days reading and tentatively trying my hand at drawing. (Timid last year me, draw, draw, draw! You're better at it than you think!) 

I lie here so very thankful for those who stood up, like a hedge about me, and blocked out some of the darkness with their love. I thank God for you. I thank God. I am so thankful I don't live in that heavy mist anymore. Please give me grace when I say I am not sorry I went through that time. I don't say it lightly, as I am keenly aware that some of you reading may still be in that place of depression and desperately want a reprieve from it. When I say 'that time' I mean my whole lot. That year and a half of change and difficulty were the labour pains that gave birth to the person I am now. (Thank you last year me, in your weakness you were made stronger than you believed you could be.) 

This year has birthed confidence and clarity of thought. It has birthed new ideas, artwork, increased love and understanding. It has been a year of nurtured relationships and rest. It became the year I struck something off my imaginary 'list of impossible' and travelled back home, alone! It has been a year of SO.MUCH.HOPE. Perhaps there had been plans for harm, but there were better plans set before me on the table. Plans for hope and a better end. I chose them.

**If anyone is self harming or thinking suicidal or despairing thoughts, tell someone. Do it now. Much love to you, dear heart. ❤️ **

For Better And For Worse...

This time last year, I was wondering what I could honestly write on our anniversary to my love. I made a card for him that declared on the front that he was "My Favourite," because he was - still is! We had just survived our first difficult year in the 17 we had been a couple. It was our 11th anniversary and I felt like writing, "Happy Anniversary! Well, we had a good solid 10 years and then this one...It will be better again." Of course, I didn't write that. I think I wrote something like, "this year was awesome because it brought us Eli." This was true, but not the whole truth. It was (is) a challenging season in our relationship.

I came across an old blog entry. You can take a look here if you like. I wrote this three years ago and, I don't mind telling you, it made me cry a little at the sweet memories of how things used to be. It's not like we hadn't had troubles before now, just not ones that divided us so painfully.

In the year since last, things have gotten better for both of us and if not better, at least different - not worse. I can safely say it was a "not worse" year, apart from the brief time where I wanted to kill myself, but apart from that, not worse. (Too soon to joke? I have a problem with inappropriate humour...) We're still sorting ourselves out, still wading through stuff and getting to know our new selves and each other better in the process. I can safely say, we like one another better than last year and we're still very much in love - that never changed.

When I hear couples say things like, "we had a few rough patches - every couple does," I used to think, "not us!" We did just fine for a huge chunk of our lives so this "excrement smacking the fan moment" was a steep learning curve for both of us. I told jay I was going to tell you good people what we have learned from this time. He laughed at the idea we had learned anything...so I continue speaking for myself, haha! ;)

I have learned that we have the ability to hurt each other terribly...so be kind. Empathy. I can't tell you of its importance. Even when you think you know what's going on with someone, you might not. I'm not sure how empathy is even possible without a deep understanding of each other and open, honest communication. 

I have learned that we all need somebody to share hard times with...so we need more people than just us. (Hi friends, I love you! Sorry about the inappropriate joke - you are literal life savers.)

I have learned that honesty is better than bottling things up...but that it's good to chose your timing wisely. Every moment is not a good time to share your deepest thoughts and feels.

I have learned that when you come to an impasse, you should probably seek outside help. Communication is SO important. It is also probably the most cliché thing to say when talking about marriage, but it's true. You would not believe how fantastically terrible Jay and I are at communicating when we disagree. (Mostly Jay, but sometimes me too 😉) I'm pretty sure we need help in that area and since we both want to improve we will work it out.

I have learned that love is pretty powerful. Jason is a great many things to me, and I to him. *We are not our disagreements. Our differences don't get to define our relationship. Outside of those things, he is my best friend, the best parent tag-team member for our children, the hottest man around (at least in my eyes.) I love talking to him, I miss him when he's not here, basically, I really really like him. There's no one else for me, he is unique. I truly love him and because of this, we'll do what we said we would. I continue to take him to be my treasured husband, to have and to hold, for better AND for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health to love and to cherish till death us do part.

I love you babe, happy 12th anniversary!

Depression Diaries - Getting Better

Eleven weeks ago today, I was going through the paces of what might have been my last day.

I know it's eleven weeks because I counted it and was shocked at how little time has passed and how very different I feel. I hadn't methodically planned to kill myself or thought the plan through fully, but there was a vague plan that had been brewing and being modified in my mind for the weeks and months before hand. 

It's funny how clear hindsight is. It's like not realising you would miss something until it's gone or not valuing freedom until you've been enslaved (figuratively or literally.) This is how I feel about clarity of thought after being banished to confusion and half truths for a time. I don't know quite how long I had depression for before I recognised it for what it was. I found a poem in my journal yesterday dated almost a YEAR ago. The date surprised me more than my own words:

She stops. Shocked by the reflection that catches her eye.

Slowly, deliberately, she touches the cheek of the woman before her.

She looks closer, deeper into her eyes.

She recognises that feeling.

Look away.

Keep going.

Don't stop to feel or wonder.

Get

To

The

End

Of

The

Day.

One day I'll sleep forever.

The fog of confusion that has plagued my mind for God-only-knows how long appears to have left. I don't know exactly when but I think now that there are only shadows of it left. Thankfully shadows are evidence of darkness leaving and light being allowed in. The shadows themselves are not the darkness I felt, but reminders of what was and where I no longer want to be.

I imagine surviving to the other side of depression is a different process for everyone, but I thought some of you might like to know what I did and perhaps it might help you or someone you love.

The first thing I did was recognise that another trusted person looking in on this situation might have better judgement than me at that lowest point. This particular someone came to my house and, with Jason's permission, took me away to stay at my Pastor's house for a few days. I honestly had no idea of the seriousness of my actions and ideas until many weeks later.

I rested. Painfully and forcefully I submitted myself to rest. I started a medication that caused me to sleep all through the night and then during those days away, I journaled and doodled and read. I met with people I trusted from my church and they encouraged me, prayed for me and gave me practical advice and guidance. They allowed me to sob out my feelings and confusion without judgement. I can't express the value of having people listen with love and empathy.

I was as honest as I could be with Jason and worked out some steps to take, for our relationship, for our family life and for our future together.

I truthfully told some of my girlfriends what was going on. You can't know what a relief it was, during the worst times, to have them tell me, "if you feel like you want to self harm, text me. I'll come right over." Something that stopped me trying to work out how to hurt myself without detection was one of them saying, "it won't matter what 'accidents' you find yourself having. I will suspect you did it on purpose." Tough love is still love.

I stopped blaming myself for things that were beyond my control. I took responsibility for things I was guilty of. I got help to decipher the difference. This wasn't comfortable - no one likes to be in the wrong. I tried (am trying) to right my wrongs.

The reason I waited so long to talk to someone was that I didn't believe I was depressed. I knew why I was feeling the way I was - and since no doctor or therapist can change my circumstances and because I didn't feel like I had words to explain what made the circumstances hard, I didn't ask them for help. I only went to the doctor after taking an online mental health test...(not recommended - the internet told me I had many mental health issues including bi-polar.) Dodgy diagnoses aside, I knew by answering some of these questions that something was wrong. My friend told me to get off the computer and see a doctor. So I did. Who knew "reactive depression" was a thing? I do now.

One other thing I did was stop taking the medication I was initially on. I found that after a few weeks, I was having extreme and regular panic attacks that I didn't previously have. I can't recommend coming off medication that your doctor has put you on. I can, however, recommend listening to your body, reading the leaflet that comes with the tablets and involving others in your decision to take them or not. In my case, Jason could see the day-to-day change in me and was more objective than me in identifying the behaviour I was exhibiting and feelings I was having pre-medication versus the time I was taking it. Your doctor should be able to advise you how and when to transition off medication.

There are other practical things I did and am doing to stay mentally healthy. I know now the circumstances that will invariably cause me to sink into despair again and so I try to avoid them if possible or when faced with them, try to work out a better plan of action (and plan of thought, where necessary) to keep things clear.

I exercise to burn off adrenaline and release endorphins.

I draw, paint or write - anything creative releases something in me and brings me contentment.

I pray and find peace and hope.

I worship and practice deep thankfulness to change my perspective.

I take time off to rest.

I date my husband to revive and keep moving forward.

I realise this is long. I'm not through yet, but it is getting better. It will for you too.

Depression Diaries

I keep having this thought that *one day* I will blog about all of this. One day, when I feel better and I'm not confused or hurting and it makes some organised sense and I can share how it got better and give hope to others. You know what, though? I've read articles like that, but none that say, "I HAVE depression." Like, *right now,* I'm wading through the stinking debilitating mess of it - because depression is rude like that. Like pain, it can be dulled, but it refuses to be ignored. I suspect that if I write about this and post it in public, people will want to either console me or silently judge me for over sharing personal information. I'm not trying to get consolation and, for once, I find myself not caring if anyone judges me. I want to have a record of how frustrating depression is, and maybe I need to write that in the middle of it, because I can't not feel what it is like.

Right now I'm trying to stop my anxious thoughts shooting miles ahead of myself, drawing wrong conclusions along the way. Jay has to go away for work in a few days - 'I'd run away from me too,' are my thoughts about that. He's been tied up in work most of this week. He must not want to be near me. (I realise that this is not true, he tells me the truth of how he feels about me. I find it hard to accept his guaranteed love.) It is stressful to live with me these days. I withdraw from him. I know I'm doing it. I can't not do it.

My empty (decaf) coffee cup sits beside me - decaf by necessity rather than choice. It sits next to a pile of scrunched up tissues from my latest anxiety moment when I couldn't stop panic bubbling up and my heart pounding, my face flushing and tears effortlessly gushing. Gasping air to calm myself, covering my face, embarrassed and wanting to be alone but simultaneously wanting to be comforted...that's the confusing reality. I want to be better. I don't know how to be better.

I look at my body in disgust and wish I had've had the self control to not eat the seven peanut m&ms I just ate (yes, I counted them to make sure I wasn't eating too many - knowing full well 1 was too many.) I catalogue what I've eaten today, wondering when jay will be back so I can run my 2 miles. I've been running two miles every day this week. My tablets have increased my weight suddenly and rudely and I'm angry about that. Stupid medication. 

Must fight the medication. Maybe I'll just not take it. It hasn't made that much difference anyway. Sure, I'm not hurting myself or willing myself not alive anymore, but aside from that, it is NO GOOD because it made me fat and, if anything, I am *more* anxious now. I wouldn't want me. I feel disgusting and embarrassed of myself.

I think about how people still think today that depression is all in your head and how I should snap out if it. I half believe it and judge myself so very harshly for not doing just that. Catch a grip and stop going on about yourself. Think of others for once, will you? And so I think. I think about frustrating and frightening things happening to people all around the world, like little Febrina who just had her 4th birthday. She is a few months older than Sophia, but her birthday means she is too old to have the privilege of sitting in an air conditioned room for a few hours a day. Instead, she has to get used to 40C heat in a frightening and unsafe detention centre tent on a water ration, indefinitely. I think about my brave friend, a wonderful mother who battled cancer, and is still recovering from its unfair attack. I think about my dad, living with all the pain and frustrations of going blind... "What have you got to be depressed about?" I try to jolt myself out of it with shame, but that response appears to be broken. Comparative studies just make me feel sad. Sad for those people. Sad for myself. Sad for the future of everything and everyone. I am cynical. I am pessimistic. I just *know* everything will eventually go to crap. Time passes through me and I wait for these feelings to diffuse and fade as it goes. 

One day I'll write the 'feeling better' blog. Today is the 'it will get better' blog, because despite myself, I find a hope anchored in rescue. Hope for laughter without fear of the future. Hope for a better end.

Advent - The Silent Wait

Friends and family have asked what we will be doing for Christmas this year. The answer has been, "I don't know." We've never done Santa and I don't plan on buying back into the commercialism that the season brings. I don't have a tree, I do have fairy lights and some dodgy sharpie art.

We don't have an advent calendar, we do have a pay it forward calendar.

We plan on buying the kids a few presents each, like we did last year. We also plan to spend Christmas Eve in a long established "friends Christmas" tradition that we got adopted into last year by our Aussie family. Part of that will be a handmade gift exchange. Expensive only in thought and time. 

I'll do some reading of the Jesus Storybook Bible with the kids and maybe we'll attend a Carol service. That's about it for the things that we're doing but it's not all that is happening in me. 

Much has happened this year in and to my heart and it feels ready to rest. To rest. In this the crazy season of presents and cleaning and shopping and cooking and busyness and, for us, moving house too. I listened to a podcast about the silent years. About what it meant to wait for God before Jesus came. He talked about the parallel between those silent years and the advent period. To silently wait for God in the 'most wonderful time of the year' seems almost impossible, but it's what I'm doing this season. 

I was alone last week - and by alone I mean, Jay was travelling, I was very much still surrounded by children! Anyway, I was alone-ish and I took time to think and pray and sit in peace and just be still. I listened to music and wrote a bit and read and slowly the fog that has plagued my mind for months has begun to lift. 

It has been a hard year. I am so weary and so very ready for it to be over. It has brought me to dark places that are hard to speak out loud. It has brought me to the end of my faith and a tentative beginning of faith. Maybe I can talk about things more deeply when I'm rested. It's important to talk about mental health, because when it's broken it can lead to death, just as poor physical health can. This year hasn't been devoid of joy, it brought me my littlest son and kiddie birthday parties and family visits and close friendships and peace and love increased. These things are good. These things are necessary.

I haven't worked anything out. Except that I desperately need this Advent. I need the silence and the hope. I need Immanuel. God with me.  

Jesus' not-birthday

Two years ago we abandoned Christmas. We had done some research and with encouragement from some non-celebrating friends told our families. To be honest, it was a HUGE relief. Each Christmas, for us, was bound up in excess and debt and guilt. So much debt. So much guilt. We borrowed to buy and to look like we were doing fine financially. We borrowed to give it away to friends and family including our kids. We borrowed and I felt guilty. Guilty because I hadn't given enough, guilty because I knew we couldnt afford it. Guilty because it had to be paid back.  Somehow borrowing to give robbed the joy of receiving presents too. It felt wrong, but confusing because I loved spend time with family on Christmas Day, but I couldn't afford the shame of not affording it. It also felt wrong to give our kids boxes of stuff on one day and expect them to believe it was all about Jesus.

We had read about the origins of the season, the evils of what the tree represented and the pagan roots of the holidays date. We were rather dogmatically convinced that *Jesus* would not be bothered if we celebrated Christmas or not. We ran with this as the primary reason, "it's not Jesus' birthday."

I still feel a bit self righteous when I think that even if it was Jesus' special day, He definitely *would feel strongly about me stuffing my belly and expanding my stuff collection while emptying our wallet into our loved ones under the guise of celebrating Him. But I still think it, self righteously or not. (I'm allowed to think this way, because I'm judging myself and how we celebrated the holiday, not you!  I realise many people give to charity and give their time serving others, etc.)

That first year of 'giving up Christmas' we spent having lunch with friends, playing at the park and giving the kids a gift each so they weren't missing out. It was a lovely no-pressure day that I still have fond memories of.

The second year was a bit more surreal. Our first in the summer heat of Australia, waddling around like Mary herself in my 9th month of pregnancy. Jay had just told me he was not a Christian any more, so I had no idea what I was supposed to do about Christmas. One of Jason's work colleagues and his wife dropped in unexpectedly on Christmas Eve with a thoughtful gift for each of our children. The wife asked if we had a tree she could place them under? "Errr, no." She asked if we had a manger, perhaps?! (Still makes me giggle awkwardly) "No, no manger! I'll just put them on the counter." The truth seemed too odd to explain. We gave the kids three gifts each last year and I gave promises to My Love. We ate a meal together and Jay prayed for the last time. It too was a day I remember as being really special in a difficult time. 

Now to this year. I'm happy with giving three gifts each to our children. (Neither Jay or I are particularly motivated about gift giving for each other.) I'm feeling fairly neutral about a tree, although we don't have one. I kinda want to celebrate Jesus on His not-birthday. It feels like the right thing to do. I'm not sure what we'll do. In a months time it will all be over and I hope it will hold special memories too, whatever the day brings.

Spiritual Leadership

There was a time where I would have considered 'spiritual headship' to be a uniquely male entitlement. I easily assumed the role of 'humble helpmeet' in all submissiveness and was perfectly happy to do so. I felt secure under the authoritative and trusted judgement of my husband and this spiritual role spilled over into almost every area of our lives. It was never a position that was demanded by him, but rather one we mutually observed to work. Since we rarely disagreed on ANYTHING, it was simple and joyful to follow him wherever he went in spirituality and physicality. We were a team. A linear team.

My thoughts and actions on this topic have shifted. We have recently both abandoned religion. It looks different on us. Dramatically so. It has, however, been painfully and beautifully liberating for me.

At first, the burden on spiritual leadership felt uncomfortable, so much so that I pushed it off my shoulders almost as soon as it was placed there and half heartedly and begrudgingly dragged it around on a rope behind me. I knew full well that it was mine, but I pretended it wasn't there. I think I was hoping Jason would come along and absent-mindedly pick it up again, perhaps exclaiming, "Ah that's where I left it! Thanks for minding it, babe." That, of course, has not happened. At the time, I was alarmed at the thought that I would be forced to pick it up. I realise now that it's mine to carry and perhaps always was, at least in part. Surprisingly, if you hold it right, it's really not that heavy. 

Spiritually speaking (and I think Jason would agree) I was always more intuitive and discerning than he was. He specialised in correctness in doctrine and things that could be quantified, whereas I always felt more passionate about relationship. I enjoy talking with God, listening to the Holy Spirit, being whole heartedly in love with Jesus. For me, religion sort of got in the way of the organic loving relationship between my creator and I. Things got a bit skewed with religion when it implies that God views men more importantly than women. I mean could God really look upon me more favourably if I wore a hat in a building self-entitled as 'church?' Does it please Him when I keep quiet, in that place? Perhaps if I fulfilled traditional roles like serve tea or look after the children I would be a more 'Godly woman.' When my experience of religion aligned very little with my experience of the love relationship I had with God, then one has to go. 

So religion, good riddance. I may feel a little wobbly without your familiar borders, but I also see more clearly and move more deliberately towards God without you. 

As far as taking spiritual leadership over my own life and our home, I was very reluctant. I believed what had always been implied, that it was a mans job. I wondered what to do without my husband to fill that gap. However, I am being made whole. I am stronger than anyone gave me credit for - myself included. I am a work in progress and am discovering who I truly am and perhaps more telling, what I am not.

I am no longer a nurse, but a strong mother.

I am not stupid, but becoming wise.

I am not weak, I am a warrior.

I am not passive, but confidently active.

I am not ugly, but have lasting beauty in heart.

I am not a dependent of my husband, but serving alongside him; excelling beyond him in some areas, submitting to him in others. Remaining equals throughout.

I am not Debbie. My name is Deborah.

I am the spiritual leader of this home.

 

No Favourites

Gracie, “Wow, momma! You’re really getting thinner already.”

Me, “Thank you, Gracie. You are now my favourite child!”

She smiles and rolls her eyes, knowing that I’m teasing and then I squeeze her because she recognises aloud, “You don’t have one favourite. We’re ALL your favourites.”

The sweet compliment she paid me has encouraged me today as I reluctantly put one foot in front of the other and invested some time on the treadmill. On my own in the garage, with music playing in my ear and feeling the rhythm of my feet turning minutes into miles is a great place to gather my thoughts or at least attempt to un-muddle them a little.

We have been blessed for the fifth time with an adorable little von Meding. Eli James has been here for ten days now and long anticipated before that. I found it difficult, while pregnant, to accept that we would soon have a new little one in the house. I often struggle with this reality while pregnant, not really believing that it’s happening (even while in labour) until I scan their tiny face, hear them cry and hold their precious fragile body in my arms. I.am.overwhelmed. Overwhelmed, and in awe of the fierce and gentle swell of love for them. I have done nothing to my heart to facilitate this emotion, it just happens. Effortlessly, painlessly my heart expands to love another little one without condition, protect without fear, serve without (much) complaint and sacrifice. Sacrifice to the point of death would not be too costly to me; such is my love for them. My Gracie Boo is correct. I don’t have favourites. Each is as precious to me as the last. Each one in their diversity and with the different challenges they bring us hold their place firmly and independent of merit in my heart.

These thoughts come to me in a jumble of tears and with a quiet voice in my heart that whispers, "How much more does the Father love me?” 

I am loved. You are loved. No favourites.

Making friends

I was made a friend today. I had no choice in the matter. She saw me and decided I would be hers. She ran over, gesturing that she could hold Eli. 

I'm not in the habit of handing my baby over to strangers but I told her that she could hold him when he wakened. She squealed in delight at that promise and ran off to play.

She held me to it, calling me over to sit with her family when she saw him awake. "My baby! I love him!" she exclaimed repeatedly, excitedly requesting her mum take pictures of them together. Her Mum, who spoke no English, made herself understood, asking my permission in gestures and looks for her to hold Eli too and to take my picture.

My new friend, a sweetheart of a ten-year-old, dropped down onto the checkered rug beside me, giggling. Inches away from my face and in plain sight of my freckles and imperfections, she stared into my eyes and told me I was beautiful. It's funny that she could see my heart, for I saw hers clearly too. 

This beautiful bundle of energetic joy interrupted me today. I'm excited to call an Afghani, Muslim, Asylum seeking, Child of God my friend. This Northern Irish, Jesus loving, Child of God can't wait to see her and her gentle family again.

You are the God who sees me.

For many months these ugly thoughts have invaded my head at the most ungracious of moments. I remember all I 'gave up' to be here. I think about the nursing career I might have had. I wonder if I would ever have pursued that Masters degree I had secured a place in. Perhaps I would have been a university lecturer too? People would see what I did. It would have value.

I look around at the mess of toys and clothes and dishes undone. The floor rightly accuses me of not mopping it any time recently and I have curtains unmade and painting to do between school work and entertaining busy preschoolers and feeding a newborn. There is always more to do, even though I have not ceased working since my feet hit the floor today. Everyday. 

(I'm nursing Eli as I write this...and then putting him down for a minute to chase down the bin lorry because the bin didn't get put out on time, he sees me, empties it and I wave 'thank you' before catching my breath and typing again...)

Every-so-often I ask Jay of my value. Every-so-often the kids tell me my value, as they see me. I humbly read heavy things in their school work like, "when I'm happy, I tell mummy." "When I feel sad, I talk to mummy." "If I am scared, I go beside mummy." These things aren't exclusive to mums who stay at home with their kids, but don't steal my thunder, this is my value. Isn't it??

Months ago I sat at the side of a swimming pool drinking coffee and willing my very pregnant body to wake up into Monday morning while I watched the kids take their swim lesson and thought about all I had to do at home. Another week of service, another week of exhaustion, another week of work nobody sees.

I see you.

I imagined I heard it through the echoey pool noise. I stopped and listened again to that small voice that whispered despite my exhausted and ungrateful attitude.

I see you.

Right where I sat I began to cry and laugh and cry again as peace filled my heart. (Like I said - I was very pregnant, no one batted an eyelid.) My God sees me and that was enough for that day.

I soon forgot about that moment and continued getting bogged down in service because that's what I do. It's my job and I couldn't work out why I wasn't getting any better or any happier at it. If anything, I found I was correcting the kids more and more. I was repeating myself in frustration and despairing at times, as if I had taught them Nothing about having character and obedience and showing love...even though I spoke those things to them all.the.time.

It took me longer than I care to admit that I was speaking other things louder. Those things made my words clanging cymbals. Big, loud, repeating, clanging cymbals. 

For a few months things have been different over here. I've been walking on what feels like shifting ground. All I thought I knew and how I thought my future would look is up for change and I feel uncertain. JJ Heller's lyrics sing in my head, "When my world is shaking, Heaven stands. When my heart is breaking, I'll never leave your hands...The hands that shaped the world are holding me, they hold me still." I realised that I never held the future, I never had control of anything in fact!  I am guilty of running to God more when I have a problem, or I'm scared, or I'm happy - (like my kids say of me!) Many early mornings and late nights I found myself awake and running to God. I started reading through the Bible start to finish and it was there, near the start, where I met Hagar. Hagar is a lady who lived her life as a slave. She knew what it was to be unloved, used, treated cruelly and ultimately driven out by her mistress and master - whom she was pregnant by. She fled to the desert where we read the angel of The Lord •found her •called her by her name •instructed her what to do and left her reeling in the knowledge, "You are the God that sees me." (Genesis 16)

Many times these past few weeks, I've thought of Hagar. Of all the Hagar's that followed after who had/have a much harder life than me, and yet God finds me, calls me by my name, tells me what to do and leaves me reeling in the knowledge that He sees me too. I didn't get it the first time, but I get it now and I'm writing it down, because I know I'll forget. 

Serving without feeling like a servant is not possible. It just isn't. You will, at times, be taken for granted. You will feel like the work never ends (because it doesn't.) You will wonder about the worth of your work, since you may not have any monetary value placed on it. Sacrifice is hard when you're forced to make it, but when you willingly sacrifice it becomes something different. It's an act of love and there is a joy I never thought possible in truly serving in love. Love is a game changer. It's a heart and life changer. It's my value.  I want to be measured by how well I love - even when no one else sees me. My God sees me and that's what makes the difference. I love because He is Love.

"Let your light so shine before men (and your children) that they may see your good works and glorify your father in heaven."

Walking the race

I remember one day, in my teenage years when my dad gifted me with some knowledge about myself. I laughed at his observation because it didn't seem like a compliment to be called 'a plodder!' Seeing my confusion he clarified and said something like this, "when others run ahead into things you are consistent and just keep going." I think he said something about having a quiet confidence and after that, I was satisfied he hadn't just insulted me! :)

My teenage years have been long left behind me but here I am at 32 years old, 37+ weeks pregnant, still plodding along - currently walking the treadmill because my actual running days have left me for a while too. 16 years after that conversation and I am still encouraged by my dad taking the time to share his thoughts with me. All these years later I am still walking the race and I'm ok with that. 'Slow and steady....,' I've got the slow bit down, but the steady doesn't come to me naturally. Being blessed with a currently over active and somewhat overwhelmed set of emotions I find I need to seek out refuge in the storm. Too often these nights and mornings I find myself awake in the wee hours, every time running back in the arms of my Heavenly Father. 

I still have questions unresolved. I'm not into blind faith. Eyes to see, ears to hear and patience to be taught and grow in understanding are what I long for. I'm pretty sure I left most of my stupid complex back on the graduating stage with my nursing degree in hand and 10 years of carrying that word around my neck, on the floor behind me. Still, I cannot compare any facts or head knowledge I may or may not possess to the incomparable knowledge and wisdom of the creator of heaven and earth, made available to us if we just ask. James 1 :5 "If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you."

In the arms of my Father, my doubts and fears and hurts and uncertainties are exchanged for the indescribable peace, comfort and joy that I cannot provide myself. It is there I will renew my strength, because I am weary, and head into the storm again.

I look up toward the hills.
From where does my help come?
² My help comes from the Lord,
the Creator of heaven and earth! As for me, I will always have hope; I will praise you more and more. 

Psalm 121:1-2, Psalm 71:14

Richer in Heart

Shop owner, "Are those ALL your babies?!"

I laugh and confirm they're all mine.

Shop owner, "Are you rich?"

Me, "No! I'm rich in heart though."

He paused and put his hand on his heart as he considered that phrase. 

"Rich in heart," he said quietly, "rich in heart, I like that very much..."

This is a conversation I had with a man some weeks ago, that I hope will never leave my memory. It seems like a good place to set the scene for a story that begins in Sunny France almost a year ago. 

We had arrived early to the missionary conference that Jason had travelled to for many summers with his mom and siblings. This year he was returning as a man with his own family of four small children. Our family was complete with two boys and two girls, and as we fumbled around the car making sandwiches and stretching our legs after the long hot drive, another vehicle pulled up beside ours. The man and wife started out of the van, introducing themselves and welcoming us. I noticed their van full of suitcases and faces and tried to count how many kids this fellow mama had hidden in there. They introduced the smiling and well mannered children in their van. "Five children!" I remarked, pleased to have a similar number and I was certain we'd become friends. "Yes, this is five of them, the other three aren't here this year." 

"Eight children," remarked Jason this time (we are mathematicians.) I shot him a warning look, recognising the hopefulness in his eyes and reminded him sternly, "FOUR children, Jason." I held up my fingers to reveal 1,2,3,4 - just incase he hadn't understood my limitations. The conversation shifted to the practicalities of where to check in and locating a pool to cool off in and we never did discuss family size with them or why they had chosen to have so many. 

Something happened that week. A series of events that started further back, when I started to obey - really obey - as God asked me to hand over certain areas of my life to Him. I got stuck at this same area every time, point blankly refusing to hand over how many children I would have. As far as I was concerned, I had gone beyond my duty already. I had four in a world where one or two is supposed to be plenty. I had survived the looks and typical rude comments about getting a TV or knowing how to 'stop that' as if children were an accidental inconvenience. We do, of course, get encouragement and compliments from strangers too, but for some reason those negative remarks survive longer in my memory. 

After a week long, amazing conference filled with excellent teaching and precious friendships we set off on our way to Switzerland for a work conference that Jay had to attend. The car was full but quiet, only for the sound of the CD playing, as we drove though the beautiful mountain roads. The words in the song were the final straw to my already weakening resolve, as they gently dissolved every reasonable remaining thought as to why this area could not be released....and then I began to cry, as I accepted two names from the Lord for our future children and surrendered as the words of the chorus washed over me along with my tears.

"Be strong in the Lord, and never give up hope. You're gonna do great things. I already know, that God's got his hand on you so don't live your life in fear. Forgive and forget but don't forget why you're here. Take your time and pray. These are the words I would say."

- Sidewalk Prophets, 'The Words I Would Say'

I handed over the fear of having disabled children, knowing I was blessed to have four healthy kids. I gave up the anxiety that cripples me over weight gain in pregnancy and being terrified of facing labour again. I gave up the, "what will people say about us?" I surrendered financial concerns and stopped my repeated question, "how will I cope?" I offered my fear that I will be tired foreverrrrrrr...an absolute possibility, and resigned my confusion as to why He would want me to have more children when I knew others who were desperate to have just one child. I still have no explanation on that, except that I know it is not because of anything I deserve. God has absolutely seen every single daily and hourly failing I commit as a parent so there's zero evidence to suggest I would be trusted with more because I'm so good at parenting! It's simply not the truth.

Poor Jason hadn't noticed my quiet cascade of tears until he caught sight of my red and swollen eyes and heard my stifled shudders of breath. He looked concerned and then smiled gently (while carefully manoeuvring the roads, cos he's awesome like that) as I explained the battle that had been going on all week and the result and most recently the names I had been given and what they represented. We talked and cried (mostly me...ok yes, just me) and rejoiced in obedience and the hope of plans for good that God promises us. (Jeremiah 29:11)

It just so happened that we had opportunity to stay a couple of nights with the family of 10 from the start of the story while making our way back to the ferry to Ireland. Dear Jennifer got the whole story in one go, and we finally had opportunity to hear their journey of how they ended up travelling the path of trust and surrender before us. It was a God ordained visit and one I will always remember as one of those pivital times in my life.

On we journeyed back to Ireland, cracking the cars sump on a low speed bump and leaking oil all over the ferry. We prayed together that night as we looked towards a long day of tow trucks and exhaustion. The next morning we woke to Grace's smiling face as she asked, "are you excited to see what Jesus will do today to help us?!" Shame on me, I wasn't. She was full of hope based on the Bible story I had told the night before. She heard the Word and believed it, as I silently prayed for God to prove Grace's faith and work despite my lack. Somehow, the car started. Miraculously, the car didnt explode as we made it to the first petrol station purely on the hope of a God who can be trusted. A God who works miracles and does things that aren't logical, in ways I'll never understand. And it's a good thing too because He has given us something else. Someone who will make us richer in heart. Little Von Meding number 5, the one I wasn't going to have, will be blessing us with their presence in January. Here on the other side of the world. A gift from God despite my failings and doubt. A miracle knit together in my womb, how every child begins. For no child is anything short of a miracle and a gift. 

As we start these first weeks and months the doubts and fears I gave up are starting to whisper again, as if they have permission to be here or belong in this heart. They do not. By God's grace I will see them transformed into faith and hope and love and freedom. Because God does that like no other. From the burnt ashes of my offerings to him, beauty will rise. To Him be the Glory!

Return to me

Return to me

Return to me with fasting.
Fast from all that distracts
and steals you away from me.

Return to me

Return to me with weeping.
Awake, and weep for what has been lost.
Weep in the shield of my arms,
my beloved.

Return to me

Return to me with mourning.
Do not rend your garments for
I do not require your shame,
but your exposing.

Return to me

Rend your heart, tear away the mantle.
It can not protect, only harden.
It can not heal the crevices chiseled
or hide the lies engraved.

Return to me

I will remove this heart of stone
and offer you a heart of flesh;
a whole heart bound up
and protected by my law of love.
I will inscribe upon it true things.

Return to me

For I am the LORD your God.
I will not hasten to anger
but am extravagant in love.

I put before you life,
Wholehearted life.
Return to me
and LIVE.


Joel 2:12-13, John 8:44, Ezekiel 36:26-27, Luke 4:18, Jeremiah 31:33, Matthew 7:12, John 14:6, Deuteronomy 30:6, 16, 19-20, John11:25.

Our homeschool story

I never dreamed we would decide to homeschool our children. It started seemingly by accident. It was December 2007 and I had just felt God calling me out of work as a paediatric nurse. It made no sense. We wouldn't have enough money. I had a good job and Jay was studying full-time at University with only his scholarship money coming in. God has a way of getting his point across and He made it clear and unmistakable that I was to be promoted to stay at home with our two children whether it made sense to me or not.

As the months began to roll in, I grew accustomed to spending more time with my very smart 3 year old and very cute baby girl! I decided not to send Caleb to nursery school. I had just started spending all this time with them and I didn't want to send one to be looked after by someone else while his sister and I were right there at home!

There are people who we have had the privilege of wandering into our lives and impressing us with their parenting long before we were parents ourselves. Some of these wonderful people were homeschooling families. At the time I assumed it was an American thing to do because all three were American. Jason (who himself was homeschooled until age 9) did some research with me and we were pleasantly surprised to find out there were some families in Northern Ireland 'home educating' as they call it. I had the opportunity to meet with some of these mothers and the possibility of schooling my eldest child for his first year sounded reasonable. So we did it.

Caleb flourished in this environment, learning quickly and enthusiastically. He read in no time and had a passion for all things maths and science. I found it easy balancing time with baby Grace and schooling with Caleb.

What I did not expect, somewhat naively perhaps, was the criticism! I'm still not sure what fuels it. I suppose it strikes fear in some that I'm damaging my children by not doing what everyone else does. Perhaps they think I'm not up to the job and will eventually mess it up. I imagine some must believe that my actions are a direct judgement on their choices for their children. Whatever it was, the impression they left was that we were starting something terrible awful, and this was sometimes discouraging.

I should add at this point that there were some who fully supported us and their kindness has not been forgotten. There were also a few who weren't sure we were right in the head but they had the grace to stand with us anyway.

I felt (and still feel) that God led us gently to the path we're now on from day one of calling me out of work. On that particular day one we were in Florida. Next door to the condo we were saying in came a homeschooling family who were good friends with Jason's aunt. They only stayed a few days but as they read scripture and prayed with us they sealed the truth firmly that it was our responsibility to train our children in the way that they should go and for us it fit with this idea of schooling at home.

Two years passed and in September 2011, while travelling on a Ferry, our class gained another pupil, miss Grace! She is a delight to teach. She's smart and eager to do well. A little praise goes a long way with her. She's also easily distracted, so regular twirling breaks are needed (for us both) but she gets the work done and thrives. Caleb regularly has to take himself to another room to read because she does her best and most fanciest writing while singing (her own songs!) She is quite the artist, enjoying every art challenge I set and plenty more that she sets herself in her spare time. Her favourite lessons at the minute are learning to read with daddy.

This September, the rambunctious whirlwind that is Judah will storm the class adding another personality and teaching challenge to the mix while the sweet and determined Sophia Hope tries her best to get involved in whatever the big kids are up to.

Our kids are friends, they like each other! Yes, they still argue sometimes, but then come the moments to treasure where you can see how close they really are, with a random hug/kiss or random act of kindness. Our kids are happy! They have travelled a lot. They have seen poverty first hand so are learning the value of what they do have. They demonstrate better than some adults (myself included) a passion for making a difference for the poor. They are compassionate. They are not embarrassed to pray. They've talked to people of all skin colours, ages, walks of life without apprehension. They are confident. We encourage them to think for themselves, not just do what we do.

You could say they are sheltered...if you mean that they don't know swear words or questionable songs. They don't know what they're supposed to be watching on tv or what the latest 'must-possess-or-you're-not-cool' gadget is. I can live with that.

They don't have 30+ friends of the same age that they see everyday, but they do have friends. In fact they have great close friends. They are learning now what I didn't learn until much later that having a handful of close friends, the kind you keep your whole life is better than having 200 acquaintances. More than this, they are learning how to BE a friend.

They are not your definition of 'normal.' Every child is created extraordinary and we intend to keep them that way.

Hurt feelings

Last week a teary eyed and angry boy came back from youth club. A great act of injustice and embarrassment had been served and his young heart didn't know what to do with it.

Accused in the wrong of something he would not do, he was told off in front of the whole group and singularly denied the end-of-club-treat.

Daddy found him hidden behind the church piano when he came to pick him up and the great injustice was explained to me upon his return.

I stored away my immediate reaction which would have been to hug and soothe him and give him a treat bigger than he would have got at youth club and wallow in his injustice with him, I wanted to call up the leader in question and give him a piece of my mind, but something stopped me.

I went to his room where he sat quietly on his bed and told him the same story my dad told me. It was my dads injustice story from when he was a boy. He too had been at a children's club where part of the uniform was a hat. Some boys had been throwing their hats in the air (dad was likely one of them!) when a leader came in demanded that no hats were to be thrown any more. Dad obediently put his hat on and stood in line when some smart Alec came up behind him, took it off his head and threw it in the air - dad got in trouble and for once it was not his fault!

Caleb enjoyed this story so much that he asked for more. I told him of the greatest injustice, that Jesus was punished for the sins of all, for the sins of mine, of his, of the smart Alec with dads hat and even the leader who told Caleb off just an hour before.

Still he pressed me for my story of injustice. I feel I was quite a naughty child, perhaps more mischievous that naughty, but either way I was hard pressed to find a childhood story that I was not at least partially to blame for!

We settled him to bed minus my story and I promised I'd think about it and get back to him.

Today a teary eyed and angry lady stands at the stove typing and stirring a cup of tea. Great acts of injustice and embarrassment have been served and her (slightly) older heart doesn't know what to do with it.

I haven't been searching out these stories, I'd put Caleb's request out of my mind and stored it with the rest of the crazy that bubbles beneath my facade of serenity. Quietly Jesus is nudging me, standing beside me and encouraging me to allow the hurt to surface. He is here, it is safe.

What to do, what to do. My heart demands justice. My heart desires reconciliation...but I stop dead in my tracks in the shocking realisation that for every way I have been wronged I have also been wrong. I have been unjustly treated and I have served injustice. I have been the victim, I have been the victimiser. It's easy to be the hurt party. It is harder to admit guilt.

Mercy.
Forgiveness.
Grace.
Peace.
Freedom.

You know who you are, I'm ready to be reconciled.

The day I became European

This is perhaps an abuse of my blog's title, presuming that I will always have spiritual things to talk about...however I find myself in a strange world here in "Europe" and often times am walking myself into trouble of my own making through lack of knowledge of the places I am visiting and wanted to write a bit about it.

I have often struggled with where I am from. Am I Irish, am I British? (I am Northern Irish, but have a UK passport.) I feel no pride in the country of my birth, actually I'm feeling no "pride" in anything anymore - when did being proud become a good thing?! I should say instead, I feel no sense of identity in my small part of the world. Anyways, there are many things I am sure I am not. "European" is one of those things.

I'm not sure why 'European' is a bad thing to me. Perhaps it's because that title presumes to strip all personality from each of the many European countries and places the worst of the 'decision making / law enforcing / politically correct' masking tape over all of them.

I'd like to think that's where my reasoning lies, but really it's the little things that identify me as a non-European. I don't go nude on beaches, I definitely rid myself of body hair, I don't pedal around on a bicycle with a cigarette in my mouth...there are other little things like the fact that I like to use actual toilets and not...well, I don't know what they're called. Let's say 'squatties' (as opposed to 'potties'.)

I want to just set the scene of my unfortunate incident - just so you don't judge me too badly & see that I had no other choice. We had been travelling for a couple hours, and as unaccustomed as I was to the heat, I had been drinking a LOT of water. (We don't seem to have air conditioning in France.) Anyways, we couldn't seem to find the hotel and I was BURSTING to use the bathroom. Seldom have I ever found myself in such a predicament of NEEDING to find a bathroom. We stopped at a supermarket and asked in our best French, "Ou est la salle de bains?" The assistant smirked at our accent/use of their language and told us something about "the back." Assuming she meant the back of the shop I took step after painful step in search of relief but to no avail. There was no bathroom at the back nor at the front or the sides of the supermarket so outside I went hoping to find one behind the shop. There wasn't one. There was, however, quite an empty car park with a partially tree shaded recycling unit in the middle. It was a spur of the moment emergency decision as I marched with purpose towards the unit, Judah in tow. "Keep a look out!" I called to Jay as I did the unthinkable.

Imagine then the surprise of the French person who was minding his own business pulling into the car park, his car full of recycling. I was past the point of no return when I caught a glimpse of a dark green vehicle pulling up behind us. Assuming that Jay, in his wisdom, had thought to protect our dignity by pulling over in the car; I and my now half-naked son continued in the task at hand until I heard the alarming sound of the clinking of glass entering the recycling bin.

For a split second I panicked and stood up - skirt still aloft, thus startling the eco-friendly Frenchman. Ducking back down to correct myself and cover up my son, I took Judah by the hand and casually emerged from behind the bins and made the swift walk of shame to the cover of our car, as if I had not just become a nudist, squatting-al-fresco European.

There are other stories, such as speaking 'Franish' to a French family (that would be me speaking in error a poor mix of French and Spanish in a conversation) but frankly, that's enough embarrassing confessions for one day.

*Special thanks to my friend, Anne Cortez who helped me identify the language I was speaking. I couldn't have written this blog without you ;)

Supernatural

This is the place where the darkness invades
In the shadows they're lurking and plotting my fate
Mocking and cursing so impatiently restless
Grotesquely huddling against the gate.


The snarling subsides as attention is turning
In silence and terror they stare to the east
For the Heavens are opened and the angels defending
Come charging in power on command from the King


Trembling, cowering, resigned and retreating
The victors are coming, greater power they bring.
Shrieking and fleeing - the name of Christ Jesus,
The blood of the lamb, dissolving their schemes


Quietly, fervently, reverently whispering
"Jesus! Jesus!" the prayer of the saints
What Power! What Might! What Authority bringing!
Our war cry, our mission must never abate.


"For we are not fighting against flesh-and-blood enemies, but against evil rulers and authorities of the unseen world, against mighty powers in this dark world, and against evil spirits in the heavenly places." Ephesians 6:12

I will never be the same again

For the past few weeks we have been experiencing life without television. I can honestly say that I seldom miss it. At first it was a little odd in the evenings, to have settled the kids into bed, made a cup of tea and then instead of picking up the remote i've been picking up a book. My heart has been convicted, warmed, challenged, made ill by some of the truths I've been taking in.

Most recently, I started to read 'Crazy Love' by Francis Chan. Near the start of the book he encourages the reader to put the book down and look up this YouTube clip. I would encourage you to watch it, just so you know where I'm coming from.

The short clip shows in ever increasing distance the known size of our Universe. I'm reeling still at the thought of just how big our God truly is. At the very least, it confirms what my heart has known to be true - that all of creation could not have been an accident.

In the days that followed I mentioned to Jay that I was having trouble perceiving who God is on an intimate level after really acknowledging His vastness. I feel that the Universe must stretch even further than the Hubble telescope's impressive range. This element of who God is has always been known in my head but somehow it doesn't penetrate my heart on a daily/weekly/monthly basis. I have begun to wonder how well I really know my Father. I've been seeing these verses in a new light:

Isaiah 55:8-9 8 “For My thoughts are not your thoughts, Nor are your ways My ways,” says the Lord.
9 “For as the heavens are higher than the earth, So are My ways higher than your ways, And My thoughts than your thoughts."

As I've been wondering where to go with this blog, I've almost expected to round it off in a pleasant, "whatta ya know, I've found my intimate relationship again. Now I'm back to normal!"

I am not back to normal.

It seems I didn't pay close enough attention to the verses I cited. In fact last night I felt awakened again by the most uncomfortable of subjects - one that I have no claim to understand. Hell.

A while back I heard of book that was becoming popular that heralded the great news that God isn't going to send people to Hell anymore! As lovely as that sounds I'll just say it scared me that one man could claim he has understood the thoughts of a Holy God and has translated His Word in a way that could lead people in a false security all the way to Hell.

It's making me uncomfortable to write this, perhaps it's uncomfortable to read too. The Bible talks about people who will be sent away from God's presence who call "Lord, Lord!" - people who think they're safe and have their 'get into Heaven pass.' It made me stop and think - really think. How can I make sure I'm not one of those people! How can I be sure of my own eternal destiny?! How can I lead others into hope and faith if there is a chance I am not right with the Creator of the Universe, of all things seen and unseen? This is not a small thing. This is THE thing. Of all the small things and big things going on in our lives right now, this is the only thing that matters. At the end of this life it won't matter what anyone else did. I will be on my own before my God. Our decisions while on earth will determine our eternal life or eternal death.

To be sure to choose life both in Heaven and here on earth I need to do three things. First, believe in the Lord Jesus Christ - that brings me on par with the demons who believe in Him and tremble, so clearly that's not enough. Second, I need to confess my wrongdoings, my sin (what an unpopular word these days!) and claim forgiveness from the one who took the punishment for my sin. The one who defeated death and Hell through serving my death sentence. The one who rose again, who is now alive evermore and seated on the right hand of the Father in Heaven. The Lord Jesus Christ. Thirdly, and perhaps the most looked over, I need to live a life changed by the Holy Spirit living in me. A life of obedience to the commands of my Saviour, a life uncompromised! Number 3 should be the evidence of 1 and 2. To live moment by moment with Jesus, to do good works - not for mans praise - but so people will see the evidence of Christ in me, that my life would bring Glory to God.

So as I come to the end of this blog I have come to a new realisation. I will never be back to normal. I don't want to be back to normal. If I want to move on with Jesus, if I truly desire to know my God more, then I will be changed - daily!

I will never be the same again, Praise God!