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.

Celebrating Christmas when you want to punch someone in the face

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

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

And you want to punch her in the face.

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

And you want to punch her in the face

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

And you want to punch him in the face.

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

And you want to punch God in the face.

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

Well, here's a cheery idea...

Serve.

Wait… don’t punch me in the face.

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

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

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

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

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*

Fear

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

I’m afraid.

All the time.

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

I’m afraid of the truth.

The truth is ugly.

I’m afraid to have nothing but you.

You are not enough.

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

I don’t trust you.

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

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

I’m not afraid of your wrath.

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

I’m afraid to let go of my comfort.

My comfort means more to me than obedience does.

I’m afraid to trust you with my children.

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

I’m afraid I don’t love you enough.

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

What then?

Letterbox

 

What if we all had really ugly letterboxes?

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

Because we have an embarrassing letterbox.

A letterbox is a box… for letters.

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

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

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

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

Lord have mercy.

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

So why the angst?

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

Because that’s just how fucked up I am.

Truly.

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

I need a perfect letterbox.

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

Guess what. It’s a lie.

I don’t need a perfect letterbox.

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

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

I’m serious.

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

1 Chronicles 29:11   New International Version (NIV)

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

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

Rebel I say.

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

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

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

Light

Matthew 5:13 The Message (MSG)

Salt and Light

“Let me tell you why you are here. You’re here to be salt-seasoning that brings out the God-flavours of this earth. If you lose your saltiness, how will people taste godliness? You’ve lost your usefulness and will end up in the garbage.

Salt is pretty awesome, especially if you mix it with caramel.

Add that to salty chips and you’ve got to say salt is the most important food in life.

I Love salt!

So it’s a pretty big gig for God to say we are salt, and that we are to bring out his flavours. I wonder what his flavours are?

I notice that this verse doesn’t say “If you lose your saltiness, never mind. It’s the thought that counts. Keep calm and carry on.”

Errr… it DOES say “You’ve lost your usefulness and will end up in the garbage.” Maybe that’s just The Message version, let’s look up the NIV … “It is no longer good for anything, except to be thrown out and trampled underfoot.” Hmmm not much better.

Crikey this sounds serious. Am I salty? (Pink Himalayan rock salt of course)

Let’s read on: verse 14-16

“You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven.”

I think a little wee just travelled down my leg

Is it just me or does that sound like a big statement? “You are the light of the world”. ?!?!

I mean thankfully in John 8:12 Jesus says “I am the world’s Light. No one who follows me stumbles around in the darkness. I provide plenty of light to live in.”

So that’s good, but still… I am the light of the world seems like a big ask to me.

It also seems that I am not supposed to hide this light, it should be like a town built on a hill.

I have to say, I have hidden this light A LOT. I mean not just a little oops I forgot to share the light and hid it under bowl occasionally type hidden, but the I’m sorry but I’m too self-absorbed, embarrassed and ashamed of you Lord to share this light even though I know its life and death important I’m not willing to upset my well-manicured social boundaries on your behalf type hidden.

Its seems like this might be an important/serious area of my life to grow in if I want to keep out of the garbage… Am I a salty light? Or am I a bland bowl hider….

Fruchocs

 

If you don’t know what Fruchocs are then, my friend, I gnash my teeth and tear at my clothes with grief for your woeful life experience.

Imagine you have an apricot and you dehydrate it. Then you take a miniscule sample of your dried up apricot and add other unknown substances to it (possibly laxatives). You then dip it in brown matter that is designed to resemble chocolate. Voilà. You have a Fruchoc.

I may or may not be known for my love of Fruchocs.

When I was 12 my Dad took me to the movies. I was so excited, we were going to see the Muppet movie. I loved watching the Muppets with my Dad because he laughed... loudly.

We daringly decided it was worth putting second mortgage on my parents’ house to purchase something from the “Candy Bar” (helloooo this is not America…).

My excitement levels were reaching epic proportions… a movie AND “candy”. We discussed what we could purchase and the vote was unanimous… we shall go forth and order FRUCHOCS. My Dad leaned down and whispered into my ear “they are my favourite”.

DING. Synapses connected in my brain. These are my Dad’s favourite, they shall now and forever more be my favourite.

I placed my hand in his gigantic hand, my Dad, my hero, a huge influencer in my life, not only leading me in my love of Fruchocs but in my faith, and the faith of many others.

Such a precious treasured memory. Thanks Dad.

Little did I know, as I devoured Fruchocs and lol’d with my Dad that I was about to encounter another enormously influential character in my life… Miss Piggy.

What a woman/pig.

If you don’t know who Miss Piggy is then, let’s face it, your life is seriously troubling.

Give me a problem, I can solve things… Miss Piggy style.

No problem is too big… for example, lets look at a biggie right here... the crucifixion (I told you, no problem is too big).

John 19: 18 (NIV)

There they crucified him, and with him two others—one on each side and Jesus in the middle.

I’ve read the account of Christ’s crucifixion a few times. Sometimes I think, how could they do that??... How could they be so barbaric, how could they kill Jesus?!

Like so many moments in history, let’s face it, if I was there it would have turned out rosy. I would have thumped everyone with my hand bag Miss Piggy style, HIIYAHH!, stormed onto the hill and demanded the release of Jesus.

Right?

Well… not like the time when I couldn’t even muster the courage to mention his name because of peer pressure… and not like the time I disobeyed even though I knew I was heading down a path of destruction…

Or maybe it was my sin that took him there, and his love and obedience that held him there, no handbag bashing required.

*clears throat/snout*

*Storms off in a huff…*

Hmmm maybe not the best influence…

Anyway… I do love Fruchocs, and my Dad… any sometimes still Miss Piggy…