tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-64127074126369803662024-03-13T21:56:23.452+11:00Time to Listentaking time to reflect, rethink and rejoice...Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06766959085269574785noreply@blogger.comBlogger299125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6412707412636980366.post-23515614339114840422013-04-20T01:43:00.000+10:002013-04-20T01:43:52.683+10:00ExperimentalThe mind is such a vast concept, especially as I've been told I have the mind of Jesus. Well not just me. A whole bunch of us have it and the taste of bread and wine fires thoughts of forgiveness and seventy times seven chances.<br />
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I'm starting with what I can see and hear and touch, because input is where we begin to interpret and convince ourselves that we understand. It's unlikely we fully do.<br />
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The air is cool because it's after midnight and the buzz of the hardware is muffled by the wind. I'm not in bed. Why not? I know so much better, but make the same dull mistakes over and over. Like a story about rip-off merchants on <em>Today Tonight</em>. Or maybe it's <em>A Current Affair</em>? You're right. It barely matters.<br />
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The world is full of writers and they type at odd hours and they tweet about it later, so you'll go and read their stuff. Or buy their books, and at least that'll keep them in coffee for their coffee machines, or perhaps bread for their toasters and milk for supper and the cat. Because Don was right. (He usually is. In his blunt and laughless way.) What the world needs is another Christian book.<br />
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So I'll soothe myself by calling this listening to the world. Listening, in order to hear and understand. Perhaps. Looking and observing. It's not easy to really see what's happening. Context matters, and perspective, and the kind of font you use, to say what you think is most important to get across. Not much really poetic or profound gets said in Comic Sans. I've noticed that it's a struggle to touch profundity with words at all. It's too much about an ache in my chest. Or perhaps a slow letting out of breath.<br />
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Predictably, I'll try. This is a blog, after all.<br />
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I'm trying to write research, too. To put the figures and data I collected, into context and make it scientifically presentable. Perhaps they'll realise how little I know, so I do nothing, betraying the fact. I'm longing to discover that inspiration is not so much about sweat and discipline. More about having unexpectedly discovered brilliance. Perhaps this is three year old petulance and fear of failure. And I don't want to be a perfectionist.<br />
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So the air is cool, and it's after midnight. The wind carries oak leaf rustle and an icicle. Part of this is experimental. An attempt to start. To put wishes into action. Disappointed that it's not enough, and knowing that I'll never know when to stop. How could it ever be enough?<br />
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I know I have perpetual struggle to put the life in my head into practice.<br />
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I'm howling at the moon and it helps me know I'm alive.Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06766959085269574785noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6412707412636980366.post-81668973251462473742013-03-21T23:12:00.001+11:002013-03-21T23:19:52.341+11:00The Boss<div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
I was twelve when Bruce Springsteen came to Sydney and I wished my dad would take me. I'm not sure I ever told him and he certainly didn't suggest it. I played the LP on dad's turntable and found my first famous person hero. The faded wish to see him lingers. Somehow he was the whisper of what it really meant to live and love passionately. So much more than he ever set out to be, and a life outside of his own corporeal existence.</div>
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I got married fifteen years later and we laughed over identical copies of <em>Ghost of Tom Joad</em>. We lay on the ugly blue carpet, smiling at the ceiling, and talking Springsteen.<br />
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Last night we sat in a room with Bruce. Us and a few thousand others, as he sang until he was exhausted. He crowd-surfed and joked. He dared us to get up and dance. The music was incredible, the band generous and exuberant. And now I've seen Bruce Springsteen. Seen him totally enjoy himself and totally spend himself.<br />
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He's a fascinating hero, partly because of his mystery. He's a little bit poet, a little bit philosopher. He's a little bit political and a little bit reclusive. I suspect he's pretty normal if you know him, and then he's a performer who loves to give a big show. He sings with all his passion and mourns for the lost of the world. He tells prosaic stories in epic ways.<br />
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He's an ideal hero, because I can read my own emotion and passion into him. <br />
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The memories I have, of listening to his songs, draw me back to the emotion of teenage me. In a funny way, he was a father alongside my dad. Not an everyday, bodily dad. But the dad of my emerging dream self. The big brother who taught me about life and love, in songs. Funny things, heroes. I'll never speak a word to him, but he'll have shaped my soul. Just a little. But enough that thirty years later, I can see the imprint. Feel the wish.<br />
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We spend a lot of time tut-tutting at foolish or ridiculous famous people. The ones that would just be embarrasing or shameful, if we didn't all know their names. But here's to the regular famous people. The ones who perform big but live ordinary. Who inspire us with their passion but exist without us in mind. The unselfconsciously famous.<br />
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linking with <a href="http://www.emilywierenga.com/2013/03/imperfect-prose-on-thursdays-when-you.html">Emily at Imperfect Prose</a></div>
Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06766959085269574785noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6412707412636980366.post-66379905663900150252013-03-08T00:24:00.000+11:002013-03-08T00:24:31.053+11:00Calling<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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But each day the <span class="small-caps" style="font-variant: small-caps;">Lord</span> pours his unfailing love upon me,<br /><span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks"> </span><span class="text Ps-42-8">and through each night I sing his songs,</span></span><br /><span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks"> </span><span class="text Ps-42-8">praying to God who gives me life. Psalm 42:8</span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-42-8"></span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-42-8">Sometimes I mourn the thoughts and inspirations of yesterday. Regret their transient fragility. Will them back to consciousness.</span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-42-8">Time casually evaporates them and new ideas take their place. The regret lingers. Is it the lost opportunity of impressing you?</span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-42-8"></span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-42-8">Other times, I imagine the future. Count down the interim, until I'm <em>there</em>. Where exactly?</span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-42-8"></span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-42-8">I could think myself the most important person in the world. Lots of us do.</span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-42-8"></span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-42-8">Stop. Time to be here and now.</span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-42-8"></span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-42-8">Sit with the jittery man, who averts his gaze. Cravings for a drink shame him. Listen to him.</span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-42-8"> </span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-42-8">Sit with the fragile woman who can't tell her ex that he's no longer welcome to invade her house. She can't remember ever saying no to anyone, and her shoulders carry that. Listen. Don't forget.</span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-42-8"></span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-42-8">Sit with the proud man who needs to have the last word. Don't resent him for it. Maybe just figure out a gentle way to guide the conversation to a place of common ground. There's something to learn from him, too.</span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-42-8"></span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-42-8">Respect. Respect, genuineness and authenticity. That's a tall order and I want to gradually wear them into my skin. Practice them. </span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-42-8"></span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-42-8">Perhaps this is how a call gets lived out.</span></span><br />
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<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-42-8">Each day the <span class="small-caps" style="font-variant: small-caps;">Lord</span> pours his unfailing love upon me,<br /><span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks"></span><span class="text Ps-42-8">and through each night I sing his songs,</span></span><br /><span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks"></span><span class="text Ps-42-8">praying to God who gives me life.</span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-42-8"></span></span> </span></span>Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06766959085269574785noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6412707412636980366.post-30058207756713048892013-02-26T00:39:00.001+11:002013-03-07T20:34:59.334+11:00Colin HayColin Hay is a very funny man. He's a musician, who plays guitar, writes spare, honest lyrics and peppers his time at the microphone with hilarious anecdotes. We've been to his shows twice and he has a way of drawing you into his stories.<br />
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He's obviously a talented musician, because he has three guitars on stage and swaps between them. They all looked the same to me, but he's good because he knows which one for each song. I think one was a twelve string guitar, but let's face it, we were at least five metres from the stage and well who can tell that stuff anyway?<br />
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He talked about sailing to Australia, from Scotland when he was fourteen years old, and that's a little of the reason my husband is a fan because he did the same thing when he was six. He told a story about having Paul McCartney over for dinner and Paul doing the dishes. Badly. And I'm sitting at the table, too, listening to Paul McCartney rinsing the crockery under the streaming tap.<br />
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He talked about becoming an alcoholic, and trying to stop drinking. He found it hard to stop here in Australia, because no one wanted to agree that he was drinking too much. Perhaps it was too confronting to their own alcohol intake. So he moved to California, and stopped drinking there. He talked about getting up and having breakfast one day, and thinking "Well. What now?" His question embodied the deep lostness and grief of giving up what is most habitual to you. Even (perhaps especially) destructive things. <br />
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And the experience of loss and change and discovery evolved into this beautiful song.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/IkME8kUzPe0" width="560"></iframe><br />
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I love that the simple act of swimming or drinking tea becomes a way to acknowledge the beauty of the world.<br />
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When I lie awake in the darkness and listen to the rain falling on the grass and the road, I can be worrying about not being asleep or anxious about tomorrow. Or I can just hear the water falling and feel the coolness of the air through the flyscreen and the slow breath in and out beside me. I can be here and awake and know the beauty of this world in the stillness of the moment. That is when prayer and miracles are possible.<br />
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PS. Linking with <a href="http://www.emilywierenga.com/2013/03/imperfect-prose-on-thursdays-day-i-knew.html">Emily</a>...</div>
Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06766959085269574785noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6412707412636980366.post-72738037470659895842013-02-17T02:38:00.000+11:002013-02-17T02:38:52.163+11:00Questions<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Days pass quickly, and it seems that I should have made pancakes last Tuesday. I forgot. <br />
I love the idea of reflecting quietly on Ash Wednesday, as a way to prepare myself for Easter. But I wonder what that means, too. Thinking about stuff can immobilise me, as I wonder what I should think or feel. As I become self-conscious. And maybe ideas of religious orthodoxy are always better in theory. Or blogposts.<br />
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The second thief asks Jesus to remember him, when he's king. But I might be the oblivious one, crowd-pleasing till its too late.<br />
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Church makes me dwell on the hurts we deliver to each other and the brokenness that's slung across our shoulders handbag style. I wait for the spirit to heal, but I'm impatient for change. I make excuses about inviting people into this mess, but it's how they'll see glory.<br />
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I ask myself questions that have no clear answers and turn them round and over in my mind.<br />
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How do I answer childish statements that God is boring?<br />
How do I calm my son's tantrum in the midst of leading playgroup, or teaching sunday school? Do I just stop doing it so the tantrums are more conveniently met?<br />
How does God spark passion for him in people's hearts? In my heart?<br />
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Answers that work one day, mutate to inadequate the next and I can't build up a self that's trustworthy. I long to be enough.<br />
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Everyday he tells me of his unfailing, covenant, extravagent, forgiving, <em>chesed</em> love. It awakens the memory of yesterdays within me and I can be, today. Be content in the fragile, illusory answers and the ever-changing questions. Be listening for the death that brings resurrection.<br />
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Jesus, remember me, when you come into your Kingdom.Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06766959085269574785noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6412707412636980366.post-8148452262934969302012-12-25T22:51:00.000+11:002012-12-25T22:51:26.244+11:00The GiftAt my most cynical, it's the shopping that saps me. I don't mind browsing, but choosing is agonising, and any time spent at the shops in December is uncomfortable. I care too much about buying the present that will delight.<br />
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We all sit around the pile of presents that dwarfs the tree. We've eaten chicken and ham and all the healthy vegetables, drowned in gravy. Now for the presents. The wrapping is torn off quickly and the excitement never quite satisfies. Are gifts a reminder that nothing in this world will ever fill our gaping hearts?<br />
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In the midst of Christmas spirit, giving is fun and the presents a ritual that brings us together. Advent is like a parade passing two warring factions in the middle of town. The howls of commercialism and my recriminations wave streamers on my left. The delight of enjoying good things and blessings from our maker shout from my right. There's no easy straw man here because we live in a world of things and expectations and people whose bread is bought by Christmas dollars. Take care with judging, I tell myself. My sister-in-law says I look tired, so I nod. I'm not sure if I am physically tired, but this moral mire drains me. Is this why Christmas fills me with both excitement and dread?<br />
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Family and giving and having my cooking on show lays me bare. I see my dependence on praise from others, my fear of disappointing, my pride. The gift I need is grace.<br />
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My daughter painted me a picture and my son found me a colourful tin at the op shop. No other gifts can compare in value, and I boast gently in them. Truly, I am blessed.<br />
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We cling to these Christmas rituals, don't we? Impressing each other with our hospitality or our generosity. Getting Christmas <em>done</em> earliest, being <em>ready</em> for it. I do it every year. And then I remember that we're celebrating a late arrival baby in a messy stable. How could we ever really be prepared?</div>
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It's such a time for love and acceptance. That it's OK when my roast potatoes are a bit cold and soggy. Or just plain underdone. That I didn't actually get you your favourite present, but you're glad to spend the afternoon with me. That your being unprepared or flustered or just tired is fine with me.</div>
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What about this gift? The capacity to sit amongst this mix of delight and expectation, impatience and weariness, with grace and patience. To let it be, without wishing it were something else, because God is here. </div>
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Linking with <a href="http://therunamuck.com/2012/12/03/abstractions-in-december-your-prompts-and-your-links/">Amber for the last December Abstraction</a>.</div>
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Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06766959085269574785noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6412707412636980366.post-29640707052340096182012-12-21T00:29:00.000+11:002012-12-21T00:33:56.662+11:00The Gold<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I look out at the soft buttered morning. The sun has her head on the pillow while she blinks into consciousness. I sneak out the door. The dogs don't bark, so nobody wakes and I can see across a thousand, thousand trees to the blue-streaked ridge.</div>
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I'm the only person alive and my feet crunch the gravel. This gold is the palest kind. The early morning misted sheen that caresses me awake and mingles perfectly with silence.<br />
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Later, it's more brazen and the shadows more defined. The morning is louder and the sun alert. Lustrous, hot gold.<br />
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There's endless permutations of light, all touched with gold. At the moment I love the early morning softness and the twilight orange-purple-gold. But I've flirted with different shades before. <br />
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We are built to long for light. To flourish in these golden rays. And at Christmas it's the gold that really matters. The emergence of light. <br />
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It's the summer solstice here in Australia, the day of longest gold. It's the longest visit we'll get this year, the time of greatest clarity. The northern hemisphere is buried in darkness and December 21 is the birth of light. But for us, we miss that tender link. Instead we are overcome with light in Advent and we glory in it. It is not so much an emergence as a flood, like the radiance of an army of angels in a midnight sky.<br />
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Some days it feels like this gold is ephemeral. Like it's just the background to a creaking, grumbling, churning world of darkness. To think the anxiety I have for my children is justified. To allow the obsession I have with myself to be acceptable. To give up hope for the hopeless. To go through the motions of caring.<br />
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It's so easy to think the light is pale, or fluctuating, because it's weak. That it's slowly drowning. But look again at the fading and surging, of days and seasons. Look at the remembering over and over again. I need to travel this path of emerging gold again and again. To let it burn in my core, so that I trust it's power, when the world says it's faded.<br />
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This gold is shining in the darkness. This light will not be overcome.<br />
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Linking with <a href="http://therunamuck.com/2012/12/03/abstractions-in-december-your-prompts-and-your-links/">Amber</a> and <a href="http://www.emilywierenga.com/2012/12/final-imperfect-prose-link-up-for-2012.html">Emily</a>.<br />
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<br />Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06766959085269574785noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6412707412636980366.post-38204013538004981442012-12-16T00:26:00.000+11:002012-12-16T00:26:06.696+11:00Christmas<div align="left" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">'We shall be celebrating no beautiful myth, no lovely piece of traditional folklore, but a solemn fact. God has been here once historically, but, as millions will testify, he will come again with the same silence and the same devastating humility into any human heart ready to receive him.' </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">J. B. Phillips, 1963.</span></div>
Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06766959085269574785noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6412707412636980366.post-49114959817719751212012-12-15T02:33:00.000+11:002012-12-15T02:33:21.857+11:00Real familyChristmas is coming and everyone asks if I am looking forward to it. Whether I am ready. To be ready for Christmas, can mean so many things and I'm usually up late on Christmas Eve wrapping presents. So I don't think I'm ready. No.<br />
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I'm trying to prepare myself for the Christmas that is God coming to dwell among us. The Christmas of Immanuel and babies born in inconvenient places. A baby loved and longed for - by generations of God-followers. A baby in a feed trough and angels that bring joyful news. A God who gives all for his people. His stumbling, small-faithed people.<br />
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I'm putting off the shopping because what do I really <em>need</em> to buy anyway?<br />
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Tonight we sang carols and Christmas songs. The curious blend of hymns to a child who brings grace and peace for all, and songs of a bearded, red-suited man who brings a list of naughty and nice and only rewards the good. <em>No presents for me, then, Santa.</em> <br />
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It is strange that we love Santa, the legalist, that he makes us cheer. And that we admonish our children with his gracelessness. Is it just that worldly push to measure and compare, to be able to be good enough ourselves? Does Santa speak to that part of us? Or is it that he demands so little of us? Nothing but a carrot and a glass of milk once a year.<br />
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We long for a jolly-faced man who visits with presents, out of the blue. Somehow Santa is a symbol of mystery and magic and the 'universe' blessing us. It is the love we long for, the belonging we seek. The comfortable lap of the one who lets us tweak his beard and nestle on his knee.<br />
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Again I come back to Romans 8. It's about belonging. To Christ and his father and finding real life and real family. This father lives in us. It's not just a visit each Christmas. It's God with me every day, hallowing my struggles and blessing my small joys with his presence. He's welcomed me into his family, with an embrace and the privelege of affectionately speaking his name.<br />
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This curious mix of awe and familiarity seems paradoxical. But it's real family.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">For all who are led by the Spirit of God are children of God. <span class="text Rom-8-15" id="en-NLT-28093">So you have not received a spirit that makes you fearful slaves. Instead, you received God’s Spirit when he adopted you as his own children. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="text Rom-8-15">Now we call him, “Abba, Father.”</span> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Romans 8:14-15.</span></div>
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Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06766959085269574785noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6412707412636980366.post-85175179273564279532012-12-12T22:02:00.001+11:002012-12-12T22:02:23.094+11:00The CinnamonI come from a line of aromatics.<br />
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My grandmother packed her shelves with tiny jars of dried fruit and nuts. She would lay out a plate of crisp, sliced vegetables with fresh molasses bread when I dropped in. She is here as I pull fresh loaves from my oven. She is next to me as I lather Pears transparent soap. Sawdust and enamel coat my childhood Saturday afternoons.<br />
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I watch my mother gradually develop the same papery skin and elegant jowls, the same slightly bowed shoulder set and the same row of tiny jars. Visiting is brushing past the gardenia near the gate and the welcome of a cool, dim hallway on a hot sun-bleached day. She can sense us coming and pours blackcurrant cordial for us all.<br />
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In the mirror, my hair has the same unruly corners. The same white streaks. The same droop to the edges of my green eyes. Something of each of us revisits in our daughters. And the sensory memories draw these women out as they course through my cortex.<br />
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The walk from my house to the top shops is two hundred metres up the hill. A gentle slope with a set of lights and too much litter. I walk past the fruit shop and the newsagent, skipping the chemist, too. I'm headed to Jacob's, where he and his wife line the walls with spices and huge bags of rice. Fresh made samosas are in the bain marie and Bengali DVDs are for hire. I'm almost out of ground coriander, and I turn the packet of star anise in my hand, wondering if I will brave that on our dinner table. The last packet I add to the pile is the cinnamon, atop the paprika and cummin, and I carry home a houseful of enticement.<br />
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The rolled cinnamon bark, like curls of decadent chocolate, waits in the darkness until I make something fit to bear its splendour. Cinnamon, the scent of waiting, the aroma of joy to come.<br />
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Linking with <a href="http://therunamuck.com/2012/12/03/abstractions-in-december-your-prompts-and-your-links/">Amber's December Absractions.</a><br />
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Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06766959085269574785noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6412707412636980366.post-86794012827089064762012-12-12T00:53:00.000+11:002012-12-12T00:53:37.334+11:00A Broken Hallelujah<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I am joining with <a href="http://www.prodigalmagazine.com/">Prodigal Magazine</a> and <a href="http://shelovesmagazine.com/">SheLoves Magazine</a> to explore <a href="http://www.prodigalmagazine.com/a-broken-hallelujah-post/">A Broken Hallelujah</a>.<br />
There's a big link-up so go and check it out for lots of different takes on the theme.<br />
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She apologises. She can't come because of the funeral, and I nod, that's fine. Please don't worry. I ask a little more and she tells me of a young boy's death. She whispers 'suicide' not wanting to tempt, by saying it aloud. Perhaps if the word is swallowed, unspoken, it will not have happened.<br />
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Family draw around as his mother bears and breaks. She bears as a mother should never have to. To imagine the loss of a son is not enough, but it is all, at this moment. To carry a little of the pinching, endless discomfort of walking in her shoes. The complexity, the mystery, of bearing one another's burdens.<br />
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I feel it too, with my friend as her shoulders shrug and fall. 'What can I do?', says her helpless, uncomfortable expression. We are so like animals, who retreat to tend their wounds, because we do not quite know how to be broken in company. <a href="http://alisteningspace.blogspot.com.au/2010/11/bother-is-good.html">We are reluctant to be a bother</a>, but it's being broken together that makes us family. That bonds us indelibly.<br />
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Judas hung himself, you know. Matthew said so. And he did it after the men who paid him washed their hands of him. "That's your responsibility" they said and would not accept the bribe back. The temple door slammed in his face.<br />
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So utterly alone. Left with his own failure. Unbearable. And he could not contemplate asking another to help him carry it. This is despair. To be so separated from community that no one can reach you to help.<br />
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And the paradox of desolation is that, in the midst of the deepest need for community, the desolate one feels an ocean away from everyone. How do we reach them? And how do we recognise who is desolate? There is no simple answer for recognising risk and who is really despairing. Psychiatrists <a href="http://www.academia.edu/1492918/The_validity_and_utility_of_risk_assessment_for_inpatient_suicide">struggle to predict suicide risk</a>, and despairing people do not want to cause us inconvenience, so they do not let us see their struggle.<br />
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Our sensibilities make some subjects harder to talk about and I think that despair and suicide are difficult topics to raise. I think we would learn more grace if we could allow more despair to be acknowledged. If we could listen to more struggle and allow our community to help us carry burdens. Sometimes soldiering on and covering up struggle teaches others that despair and brokenness are not acceptable.<br />
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There is one broken hallelujah we could look to. Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane, asks his friends to pray with him because he is sorrowing to the point of death. He does not hide his despair or withdraw from support. He is hungry for it in his time of need.<br />
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And I'm preaching this one to myself.Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06766959085269574785noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6412707412636980366.post-52433791281068503132012-12-04T23:59:00.000+11:002012-12-06T15:56:43.992+11:00Wife<em>I am trouble and strife.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>I am Sarah. I am Hagar. </em><br />
<em>I am Rachel </em>and<em> Leah. </em><br />
<em>I am Bathsheba. I am Ruth.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>I am stumbling. </em><br />
<em>Struggling. </em><br />
<em>Short-sighted and slow-witted.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>I am wielded. I am poured. </em><br />
<em>Tapped and driven. </em><br />
<em>A formation tool. </em><br />
<em>My blemishes smooth away your corners.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>My lateness is making you patient. </em><br />
<em>My forgetfulness is making you flexible. </em><br />
<em>My need is making you self controlled.</em><br />
<em>My hasty tongue thickens your sensitivity.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Tonight I long for distance.</em><br />
<em>My closeness makes for more bruises in you.</em><br />
<em>Tonight I long for proximity.</em><br />
<em>Your closeness comforts me.</em><br />
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I wrote this a few months ago, after seeing the pain I cause my husband. It burned me that he understood the pain and hard work of marriage. Through being married to me.<br />
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Again and again I realise that perfection, goodness, praiseworthiness is out of reach. That I long to be the one who excels, with ease and with pride. That if I succeeded at this I just might be insufferable. And that I make others suffer already.<br />
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And then I know (with a whole-body, whole-heart, deeply-relieved knowing) perfection is not mine to grasp. That we share need, my husband and I, because we let each other down. That we also share the intimacy of failing each other and it being OK. That I am his trouble and strife as well as his joy. That we clumsily love the other to show a tiny glimpse of God's perfect covenant love for each of us.<br />
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Tomorrow is our 14th anniversary. I'm not a sentimental blogger, but these years have been slowly teaching me the science and art of being known and what covenant love is. Truly I say, marriage is shaping me. Making me.<br />
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A curtain hides glory, truth and faithful love from us. My husband has lifted the bottom corner, beckoned me over and shared a peek with me.<br />
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I'm linking with <a href="http://www.emilywierenga.com/2012/12/imperfect-prose-on-thursdays-leaning-on.html">Emily at Imperfect Prose on Thursdays.</a></div>
Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06766959085269574785noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6412707412636980366.post-25793616025938631082012-12-04T00:32:00.000+11:002012-12-04T00:32:35.531+11:00The Ornament<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Santa chastises a wooden angel. He is held in one hand and the angel in the other. They tip and rock, back and forth in small hands, talking at each other. Who will stop and listen? Later, the pair are driven in a truck, right across the lounge room, parked next to the bookshelf. They lie awkwardly on their backs, staring at the ceiling.<br />
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The laden tree is a cast of characters for a three year old's imagined dramas. They migrate down from their perches, clutched in tiny fingers, and come to life. <br />
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It was hot the day we pulled Christmas out of hibernation and I was grumpy. Concentrating on untangling was an excuse to say little. A martyred attempt to stop myself from smothering the Christmas cheer. Twining tinsel round the bunk bed ladders was mindful, too, and I let myself get a little infected by the spirit. Just a little.<br />
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The children, the angels, the tiny gruff santa were Christmas. And I can resent Christmas. It's insistence, it's relentlessness, it's demands for peace and goodwill, and family and giving. I am selfish and ornamental and I hang from the tree of life with rigid thrust-out arms, a painted on halo and bizarre green hair. I am stubbornly stuck with the same smile on my face, year after year, as I am taken out of the box, dusted off and suspended by the string in my head. <br />
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The children, the angels, the tiny gruff santa are the today of a two thousand year old story. The flesh of a God who refused to leave us alone. The ornaments that remind us of a squalling child in a dirty barn, and the inconvenience of life. The ephemeral enticement of selfishness.<br />
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Christmas decorations at the shops are just window dressing, but these ornaments are part of the family, joining us again and again. They've been battered and broken by the laying out, the imaginary play and the packing up. They are family. They know last year's secrets and they've heard our prayers as we whisper them each evening in December. They witness to the miracle of Christmas. They've seen grace enter into my stubborn, grumpy heart. Year after year.<br />
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<br />
<a href="http://therunamuck.com/">Amber </a>has suggested writing on a concrete word - using it to flesh out the abstract. The <a href="http://therunamuck.com/2012/12/03/abstractions-in-december-your-prompts-and-your-links/">Abstractions in December</a> begin with <em>The Ornament</em>.Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06766959085269574785noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6412707412636980366.post-37276030415805740762012-11-28T22:55:00.001+11:002012-11-28T23:00:49.196+11:00Shame and VulnerabilityIt's the moment when you think, "I'm not good enough," that it's got you.<br />
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I went to the interview with my resume clutched in my hand. I'd forgotten to send it, so brought it myself. I'd not thought much about it's inadequacy. Not until he said in passing - "This is your abbreviated CV?"<br />
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The smart-mouth me thought, "No, that's all of it. Entirely." But I didn't think that till much later. Don't the best answers arrive much too late to use? Between the offhand query and the answer were a few hours of shame.<br />
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Don't get me wrong, I still drove home, cooked dinner, chatted with my mum, laughed with the kids and kissed everyone good night. My husband, too. But there were moments peppered through the evening of shielding my face with the pressure of my hands, feeling exposed, and calling myself an idiot under my breath. I remembered every clumsy answer, replayed unbidden.<br />
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Shame re-imagined is vulnerability. <br />
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The interview was important to me. Being seen as competent mattered in that place, with people I do not know. Making myself available for judgement exposes me. And this judgement is always harsher in my imagination than anything that happens in the actual moment. No one could ever measure me as harshly as I do myself when I say "I'm not good enough".<br />
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At it's heart, shame is a fear of rejection and disconnection, and when things matter to us, when we expose our heart and our true selves, we are vulnerable to it. But Brene Brown would say, that if we avoid shame, we avoid wholehearted living.<br />
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You may have already seen this talk. But if not, listen here. It has some really useful things to say about how perfectionism and controlling our lives can be a way to avoid vulnerability, and hence miss out on real connection with people.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="360" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/X4Qm9cGRub0" width="640"></iframe><br />
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Listen, too, to her comment that we make the uncertain certain to avoid vulnerability. I would like to think about this more in relation to the truths of the gospel, and the way we try to make some areas certain that are actually uncertain - perhaps this is because we feel vulnerable - questions can make us doubt the ability of God to stand up amidst uncertainty.<br />
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I also ponder the idea of believing that we are worthy of love and belonging, believing we are enough. On it's own, this lacks a degree of substance - I cannot quite grasp it. But in the light of God's love, it falls into place. His love and grace to us <em>mark</em> us as worthy of love and belonging. I am enough because I rest in God who is enough.<br />
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Watch her second talk, too, if you have time...<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="360" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/psN1DORYYV0" width="640"></iframe><br />
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It's paradoxical, isn't it? - that by protecting ourselves from shame or vulnerability, we actually limit our opportunities to really love, to really serve and to really experience God's work in our lives.Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06766959085269574785noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6412707412636980366.post-42356429603049732032012-11-27T23:30:00.002+11:002012-12-03T23:07:22.628+11:00Give it away<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgseH0P80ToR4YwifAdTuzstaVcmqKTZFZzllRDlmNqhCdXKvzImT4yDkLy8c0mEDEMnkL0ZexiEgBxnjRbike2MfK7SEluRL2nTEXyHcX9OCqmklnoULEBsIwl6taAHz_E_tiX4i-RIyI/s1600/6278626578_b19af70141_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgseH0P80ToR4YwifAdTuzstaVcmqKTZFZzllRDlmNqhCdXKvzImT4yDkLy8c0mEDEMnkL0ZexiEgBxnjRbike2MfK7SEluRL2nTEXyHcX9OCqmklnoULEBsIwl6taAHz_E_tiX4i-RIyI/s320/6278626578_b19af70141_z.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><em>image from </em></span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/skeggsy/6278626578/sizes/z/in/photostream/"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><em>here</em></span></a><span style="font-size: x-small;"><em> on flickr</em></span></div>
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I walked up from underground last Friday, emerging onto the city street. I'd arrived on a train the minute before and joined the crowd of tunnel-visioned commuters, through the Central ticket gates and up the stairs to sunlight. We marched sharing purpose and pace.<br />
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I have my morning habits so while I filed away my weekly ticket, I got out some change for a coffee.<br />
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Near the coffee stand, by the fence, three men were playing funk music and the crowd stopped rushing. We hesitated. The music changed the context and I stood to listen.<br />
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Strangely, I'd noticed another busker only two days before. I suspect I've passed many more without registering. It had sparked a thought about the generosity of playing music in public. Playing without a guaranteed return.<br />
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Perhaps it needs to be music you appreciate. Most of us only give attention to buskers who are good, ... or under the age of eight. It's like karaoke - we ignore it or block it out if it's average. But occasionally someone who can<em> really</em> sing gets up and I focus because I don't want to miss it.<br />
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So I stood at the kerb, turned back to the band and let the music enter my morning. My coffee money ended up in a stranger's guitar case and the exchange was complete. I walked up the hill, stopped to buy my coffee, the music carried with me for the day.<br />
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I love that they were <em>there</em> playing. That their abandon and fun touched a crowd of morning commuters. That the keyboard player's hair bounced with the music. That strangers can share connections, and that creativity is generously given.<br />
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What if we could all seek moments to give what we make or who we are to people? What if we could find opportunities to step into people's everyday rhythms and give them some fun? Be a blessing just because we can.<br />
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That moment of music has got me thinking. Got me looking for ways to deliver unexpected blessings.<br />
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<em><span style="font-size: x-small;">image from <a href="http://www.google.com.au/imgres?hl=en&tbo=d&rls=com.microsoft:en-au:IE-Address&rlz=1I7ADSA_en&biw=1920&bih=955&tbm=isch&tbnid=hC3QFgAQnmXLTM:&imgrefurl=http://www.gettyimages.com/detail/photo/buskers-hat-with-some-loose-change-in-it-london-royalty-free-image/142738177&docid=rGICDnBUt1BoaM&itg=1&imgurl=http://cache4.asset-cache.net/gc/142738177-buskers-hat-with-some-loose-change-in-it-gettyimages.jpg%253Fv%253D1%2526c%253DIWSAsset%2526k%253D2%2526d%253D5784pS1a87Uy%25252B%25252BT8EhW%25252FcfeIrn2xBbDC%25252FA25DnGZBlPi%25252Fh1gmYRXWTyRL3TIMWgF&w=509&h=336&ei=0q-0UKCwGKLymAWUiYCQCQ&zoom=1&iact=hc&vpx=1205&vpy=152&dur=132&hovh=182&hovw=276&tx=127&ty=106&sig=112476504449974038548&page=1&tbnh=132&tbnw=202&start=0&ndsp=51&ved=1t:429,r:6,s:0,i:100">here</a></span></em></div>
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Sharing with <a href="http://www.emilywierenga.com/2012/11/imperfect-prose-on-thursdays-in-which-i.html">Emily at Imperfect Prose</a>.</div>
Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06766959085269574785noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6412707412636980366.post-69400796901322233812012-11-20T23:45:00.000+11:002012-11-20T23:45:54.324+11:00Did you see that? on Facebook?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
It might just start with a status update. The comment appears within five minutes and it bites. Were you itching for the argument or did this just tickle a sensitive nerve? That is a world away from the update I *heard*... I see my friend answer graciously, as only she can, but it sets me thinking.<br />
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On Facebook, simple statements can be incendiary to someone reading from another perspective.<br />
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There's so much more than the words, to what we hear. Even on a screen. Can typeface have body language? Or is it just that the language I use, in this moment, draws on a million different conversations I've already had? And you've had a million of your own to activate besides.<br />
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Sometimes it's hard to hear the unadorned statement in the midst of all the triggered memories and associations. And most of the time that context and subtext makes words way more interesting and powerful.<br />
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Then there's times when I struggle to listen and not be ruled by my gut reaction.<br />
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To not bristle as he accuses me, or not wilt as she dismisses me. To hear a rebuke and not ignore it completely as inconvenient or unjustified.<br />
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It's easy to harden my heart, and in the process, stick my fingers firmly in my ears.<br />
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And that's when I miss the most. <br />
Opportunities to understand or to change or to bless evaporate.<br />
I long for a heart that doesn't harden, and ears that really hear, in the midst of the blaring context.Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06766959085269574785noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6412707412636980366.post-25469679206908678342012-11-08T00:35:00.001+11:002012-11-08T13:08:25.253+11:00What happened in the 31 Days?I've dropped it somewhere down between the cushions on the lounge. My clarity. <br />
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Thoughts, like disorderly books, resist my straightening. Their gentle jumble is familiar. Home is a welcome backrub and the scent of orange peel on my thumbnail. We eat lasagne from Aldi and talk school.<br />
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I'm scattered by the attempt to be in so many different places. This happens periodically and guilt rises. The next step in the dance is to criticise myself for being here. So let's not.<br />
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I'll tell you the good news.<br />
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I've been sitting with the Book each day, and <a href="http://alisteningspace.blogspot.com.au/2012/10/31-days-being-read-by-book.html">the Book's been reading me</a>. I haven't been able to compose words about it these 31 days, but I've been thinking on the pure and right, the noble and praiseworthy. Pondering the race laid out before us - not life lived for success, but life lived to be made holy and presentable by grace.<br />
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The background is that I struggle to be religious in anything. It's my nature to resist helpful habits. Like a baby, the moment I seem to find routine, is the moment I change what I'm doing.<br />
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But through some inexplicable work of God, his word has entrenched itself in me. In the last couple of years, reading the bible has entwined with joy and contentment. It has been my breath, and the breath of God in me.<br />
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And be sure that I don't say this to boast in me. I am actually mystified about the reason for this deep stirring. I am not a holy or particularly godly person. It is purely grace from God to me. I don't really tell many people because it seems like a weird thing to share... <br />
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"God has made me passionate for his word. It makes my eyes prick with tears and my spirit soar."<br />
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My earthliness chuckles "What the...?", while the word whisperingly leads me into the truth. That this is the most precious thing that could ever grow in me.<br />
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linked with <a href="http://www.emilywierenga.com/2012/11/imperfect-prose-on-thursdays-i-do-not.html">Emily's Imperfect Prose</a>.Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06766959085269574785noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6412707412636980366.post-18184283887835773242012-11-06T23:16:00.000+11:002012-11-06T23:16:03.396+11:00Climbing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Do you ever wish there was a simple answer?</div>
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If only we could stop doing the things that destroy us. </div>
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If only we could know how our efforts to connect can be so inappropriate and prey on the vulnerable.</div>
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If only we could know how to say what needs to be said, without offending.</div>
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If only we could decide to do something difficult, because we know it will yield a better life.</div>
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If only telling people they are loved were enough - that they would know it core-deep.</div>
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Remind me that I'm not trying to scale Mt Sinai.</div>
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I'm climbing Mt Zion.</div>
Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06766959085269574785noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6412707412636980366.post-75288948423212819912012-10-21T23:20:00.000+11:002012-10-26T21:37:44.011+11:00Courage<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiImZpFZPyeLlIxa7ucJw9pa4M2cqZUZrPpYncpt7Jr1deIem2rpXyAuJlsVO5SkWfUjdWA3iZIv4OgLLw5V1TlqttgqqA2FdfCMCAiBMZxHb3u0QZJZXQwTeTh5yJTGvpJN_gfnx8DeKs/s1600/DSC_0688.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiImZpFZPyeLlIxa7ucJw9pa4M2cqZUZrPpYncpt7Jr1deIem2rpXyAuJlsVO5SkWfUjdWA3iZIv4OgLLw5V1TlqttgqqA2FdfCMCAiBMZxHb3u0QZJZXQwTeTh5yJTGvpJN_gfnx8DeKs/s400/DSC_0688.JPG" width="265" /></a></div>
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There are words made specially for theology textbooks. People polish them and bring them out on silver platters for special occasions - when they want to look smart in a debate or prove they know lots of stuff.<br />
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Then there was the time someone talked about courage and introduced me to <u><em>imputed</em></u>.<br />
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I've read <a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=1 Samuel+17&version=NLT">the story of David and Goliath</a> before. I've taught it in Sunday School. I've heard other sermons on it. You probably know it, too.<br />
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Consider who you identify with in the story.<br />
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David arrives in the midst of frightened Israelites. No one wants to face the giant who never loses and so they all hang back. They discuss and ponder and plan and wait and in truth do nothing at all.<br />
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Young David doesn't understand the quandary. He just wants to get out there and finish it. They laugh at his innocent assertion that God is on their side. Of course it's not that simple. They know better than this naive young shepherd. This baby brother. Haven't we all thought better of our own opinion than our baby sibling's?<br />
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Alone he stands. Courageous. Trusting God to live up to his promise to rescue his people. Inflamed by the insults to his Protector God. Ready to kill the enemy.<br />
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Am I that little guy full of courage? Am I out there defeating giants in the power of the LORD? Is that the application?<br />
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No.<br />
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I am the cowering, fearful Israelites. I am sitting in a tent, offering David my polished, paraded, unused armour. The protection he couldn't wear because he was immobile within it.<br />
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Perhaps I'm putting a pillow over my head so I don't hear Goliath killing him. Me of little faith. Perhaps I'm sipping a cocktail as we watch him skip out to face the warrior. Observer of the real combat. Perhaps my armour has immobilised <em>me</em>.<br />
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I have to get them to repeat the news that he killed the giant because I think I've misheard. He what?<br />
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Then we're celebrating victory - won by a barely-armed shepherd boy, who delineates our lack of faith and bravery, by using his raw, unpolished courage. By trusting God.<br />
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I am suddenly being rewarded for his courage. If courage were a blanket, an entire Israelite army snores beneath it that night. One man has the courage, but a nation is blessed by the victory.<br />
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David's courage is <em><u>imputed</u></em> to the Israelites.<br />
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Here we go...<br />
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It's not just a shepherd boy and a giant and an embarrassingly cowering army. Here's where it all leads. It's the one righteous man whose purity is the blanket. There's no cover for any of us to shelter under but, miraculously, his righteousness blanket stretches out for us.<br />
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I'm crawling under and it's folds seem boundless. This imputing is good because finally I'm covered. I can rest in its warmth and my struggle to make a blanket of righteousness for myself is over. <br />
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I never was any good at conjuring thick warmth out of tattered, transparent threads. You?<br />
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Am I ready to finally trust in the efforts of the innocent? To stop obfuscating and prevaricating and pontificating? To accept the victory won by someone else's righteousness? <br />
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To let it become mine and finally change me.<br />
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<a href="http://alisteningspace.blogspot.com.au/2012/10/31-days-being-read-by-book.html"><em>31 Days - Being read by the Book</em></a> and linked with <em><a href="http://www.emilywierenga.com/">Emily</a></em>.Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06766959085269574785noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6412707412636980366.post-18296123724610944582012-10-08T00:11:00.001+11:002012-10-22T09:58:47.955+11:0031 Days - Being read by the Book<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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October has <a href="http://www.thenester.com/2012/09/31-dayers-2012.html">31 days to fill with ideas</a>. I'm starting late but not letting it get me down. I'm not an every day blogger so I'll dip in and out of the pool. I'll be living 31 days this October, and writing when I can.<br />
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The Bible Society have <a href="http://25words.biblesociety.org.au/" rel="nofollow">a great campaign</a> this month, too. A call to read God's word every day, for 31 days. <a href="http://25words.biblesociety.org.au/">Go and check it out</a> if you're wondering about ways to get into reading the bible.<br />
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Since July, my train trip to work has lengthened from 15 minutes to 50 minutes. The struggle to get to work punctually is easily matched by<em> more time to read</em>. Mornings are for bible reading and afternoons for other reading. This is structure!<br />
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More train time means more books shuffled off the list of yet-to-reads, and more space on the overstuffed shelf. Sometimes, furtively, more little packages from betterworldbooks arrive.<br />
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As I read God's word, it's tempting to tick more verses off (...done) but I'm starting to double and triple back. I can read the same words three mornings in a row and each time amble a little further on. It's not as defineable as two steps forwards and one step back back, but we're in that region somewhere.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgueAMl7HH_vK80KZd2yih75iDJ7BMAb3nD89NnzEoK7uuoBmwZ9FZgaJYKtZnUvQBr3-EgYb5vxq8-PHLWQF9Icyv8mJcKIWB9nyJb0kSnJ8QdQvLhK_yoavf49AhyphenhyphenHDJ0vhiqicV4-oQ/s1600/drb9_8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgueAMl7HH_vK80KZd2yih75iDJ7BMAb3nD89NnzEoK7uuoBmwZ9FZgaJYKtZnUvQBr3-EgYb5vxq8-PHLWQF9Icyv8mJcKIWB9nyJb0kSnJ8QdQvLhK_yoavf49AhyphenhyphenHDJ0vhiqicV4-oQ/s200/drb9_8.jpg" width="150" /></a>Paul wrote 'For God is working in you, giving you the desire and the power to do what pleases him.' (Philippians 2:13)<br />
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"How is God working in you?" <br />
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I rolled back and forth over this question for days. Not sure if I actually spoke the fear that God is not really working in me. It's the word of truth, but am I in it? Is it in me?<br />
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A week to realise the latter part explains the former. Quite a labour, to give me inclination <em>and</em> ability to please God. It's been a prayer, each day, as I read it. <br />
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Sometimes I wish bible-reading was just ticking more off and getting more done. Reading the verses, then getting on with the real living. But this is not another book to shift from want-to-read, to read-it. This book is a double sharp sword, the path of a consuming fire, an instrument of grace and truth, hewing me to shape.<br />
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I'll read this book for all the possible days of my being and barely start. It will burn back and forth in my thoughts, in my heart, in my dreams and my living. It will cut my self-satisfaction and self-delusion and self-obsession. Do I really want that? It will stoke the fire of my desire to see life in truth. The truth will totally deflate me, while it reminds me I am limp and wan without it's breath within me. It will gently build me and nudge me forward. Send me in unexpected and surprisingly sweet directions.<br />
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I am fooling myself to think I can read the bible. It's the bible that reads me.<br />
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And I am so defended from it power, so blinded to its clarity, that I have to press back and forth over its words to get their imprint onto my skin.<br />
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So I'm back to my question - How is God working in me?<br />
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He is slowly decanting his wisdom into me. He is turning my flitting heart to his steady rhythms. He is supporting my hands as they falteringly do the love-work they are formed for. He is stilling my nervous, inner chatter to hear his faithfulness and listen to his children.<br />
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Slow and patient is his work. In me, it needs to be.<br />
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How is God working in you?<br />
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linking with <a href="http://www.emilywierenga.com/2012/10/imperfect-prose-on-thursdays-boy-who.html">Emily at Imperfect Prose</a></div>
<br />Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06766959085269574785noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6412707412636980366.post-4920970572759652962012-09-03T23:38:00.000+10:002012-09-03T23:39:01.454+10:00This moment<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The magnolias are expectant hands. Fleeting cupped promise.</div>
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Midday warmth drips honey slow and enormous petals extend out, somersaulting down.</div>
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Silken soft. </div>
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White heart brave. </div>
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Longing to live with such blatant abandon.</div>
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To pour my everything into rampant, gorgeous crowns of life</div>
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that fall effortlessly to the ground, </div>
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becoming humus for next season.</div>
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Is this how we bear fruit in keeping with repentance?</div>
Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06766959085269574785noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6412707412636980366.post-55621984130396017512012-08-28T23:57:00.001+10:002012-08-28T23:57:27.569+10:00Blangst, navel-gazing, call it what you will.In blogging, I'd rather be artless, than artful. I'm not a writer and I struggle with self-revelation. I'm naturally a listener and the contents of my heart stick in my throat.<br />
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I spent a weekend with kind, comfort friends, sisters of many years standing and it was a gentle massage to my soul. Susan asked me about this blog, and I nodded that I'd been a little quiet. I'd like to ask more of her opinions and thoughts, but its hard to let anyone know that I worry what they think. That I know I struggle in relatability and funny stories. And I lack focus.<br />
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Here's her opinion. That people would be interested in hearing more about the life of a doctor, who works with people who have psychiatric problems and addiction problems, who has four children, is a baptist pastor's wife and lives in Macquarie Fields (yes, there was a riot). In hearing more about my life.<br />
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Maybe.<br />
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There's a few difficult spots.<br />
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I don't do advice - I find it hard to look at my life and tell you what you should do with yours.<br />
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I don't do contentious issues - I am not spilling my partisan beans about women's roles, Calvinism, creationism, same-sex marriage, schooling choices, denominational issues - yadda yadda yadda... Call it my concession to fence-sitting.<br />
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I don't do design or fantastic images or cool stuff. I am extremely un-hip. I am everything Frankie magazine is not. I dream about having a funky blog design. But I'm sure just as I get totally white/pastel/multi-image and have interesting fonts, hip blog design will have moved on anyway.<br />
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I do write about the following - emotions, anxiety, failure, grace.<br />
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I plan to write more about - listening, complexity and paradox ('nuance' as Tim Keller would say), not having all the answers, faith, and my work.<br />
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I am also open to suggestions or opinions or pointers from you. What are you interested in here?<br />
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<em><strong>Finally, some self-revelation</strong></em> - to engage you ;)<br />
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I love to skim gossip magazines, but I hate to buy them. Perhaps this reveals my tight fist and the messiness of my heart. Or that I like my vices surreptitious and almost acceptable.<br />
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I never put money in shopping mall rides. Never. Even when you have put money in for your child and let my kids ride too, I won't reciprocate. Thanks for your grace to me and mine.<br />
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I am not a good person. Even if you think my job sounds altruistic or hard, or wonder how I listen to people. Stop. I bet I couldn't do your job, or cope with your kids.<br />
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I love being alive. I revel in cheek laid on cheek, full-blown magnolia blossoms, beer-battered fish, passionfruit pulp, striding uphill in the city, patterned tights in boots, short-legged dogs running to keep up and footballs kicked hard past the goalkeeper. <br />
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I enjoy my 3 year-old's story, told in his bunk, about Simon the purple apple and Jude the green apple. My stories for him are lame in comparison.<br />
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Just saying.Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06766959085269574785noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6412707412636980366.post-68994912024385295762012-08-16T23:34:00.000+10:002012-08-16T23:35:44.423+10:00One less have-to<br />
Of course it's somebody else's fault. Telling himself that, makes it easier to be angry, to feel ripped off. He's the victim of his whole existence and taking responsibility for his own life is like a walk across the ice to the south pole.<br />
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We call it having an external locus of control. Psychological terms bring distance and a framework and they're an acceptable way to judge people.<br />
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How do we ever escape the power of sin?<br />
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Being human can feel like a trap, that we have to live out our passions or our mess. That no matter what we do, we'll always end up with a raw deal or having hurt someone.<br />
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But here is the truth. We may have a multitude of pressures pushing us to sin, <em><strong>but we don't have to</strong></em>. God's spirit in us frees us from the have-to of sin.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Therefore, dear brothers and sisters, </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><strong>you have no obligation to do what your sinful nature urges you to do</strong>. <span class="text Rom-8-13" id="en-NLT-28091"><sup class="versenum"> </sup>For if you live by its dictates, you will die. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="text Rom-8-13">But if through the power of the Spirit you put to death the deeds of your sinful nature,<sup> </sup>you will live. Romans 8:12-13.</span></span></div>
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Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06766959085269574785noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6412707412636980366.post-78462521331831362202012-08-12T01:40:00.000+10:002012-08-12T01:43:40.230+10:00What is it to be blessed?My head is full of grumbles when I sit down to ponder being blessed. My heart, well it's not that full. It feels kind of like my wallet after cleaning out all the loyalty cards and frequent sippers. Floppy with unintended, empty space.<br />
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It's not that I feel un-blessed. I know my glass is overflowing. But is being blessed really just having a middle class peachy life?<br />
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I can list all sorts of things that remind me how nice my life is. I'm uncomfortably silent when someone calls me a good person. But I don't laugh at the idea.<br />
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Is it just a way to stoke my home-pride fire? Is blessing meant to make me feel more secure and safe?<br />
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What if today's blessing is the grumbling dissatisfaction? The one thing between me and self-satisfaction.<br />
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The blessings I rely on make me educated, professionally employed, fertile, loved and appreciated, well-housed, optimistic, frequently hugged, respected, encouraged, healthy and well fed.<br />
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And the dissatisfaction, it's not a frequent pang. But I need it to long for heaven because I could easily be fooled that I'm already there.<br />
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Have you ever prayed that you won't be smug?<br />
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I want to be the one who cackles at being called good. Not me - my goodness is full of holes and crinkles. Everything I have is unearnt and undeserved. Given to me by the only one who is truly good.<br />
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And even more. What if the following is true?<br />
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That my greatest blessings are my inabilities. My losses. My uglinesses. The bits of me that spark shame. My anxious moments, my lateness, my impatience and my laziness. They are where grace and mercy smoulder. They are my possibility. The place where God can truly work, maybe because I can't interfere there. <br />
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Perhaps it is the place where my reliance on me is defused and I begin to rely on God - who is infinitely more trustworthy and gracious. And able.<br />
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I am <a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=luke%204:16-21&version=NLT">a poor, blind, captive slave</a>. I am blessed because someone has come to bring me favour and set me free. Isaiah's promise has been fulfilled. Today. In my hearing.<br />
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Linking with a<a href="http://www.emilywierenga.com/2012/08/what-it-means-to-be-blessed-synchroblog.html"> synchroblog</a> (?#*@?) at <a href="http://www.emilywierenga.com/">Imperfect Prose</a> with Emily.Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06766959085269574785noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6412707412636980366.post-31603063202615259622012-07-09T23:07:00.000+10:002012-07-09T23:07:42.200+10:00"We are dawn people."<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwkelJgSocVmsB3UwTK7IlN5UuUO_0sqvK7PtVrmW9OKKpKJL5e1P0YiO_QrodaJuEh5jeKszzdN17otFT-O4XoiG46YzsIW0OI885POCO-Fj_oPS_sLVPDaRz8PboEO2q2FzFxUeKcl8/s1600/sept+e+2010+305.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwkelJgSocVmsB3UwTK7IlN5UuUO_0sqvK7PtVrmW9OKKpKJL5e1P0YiO_QrodaJuEh5jeKszzdN17otFT-O4XoiG46YzsIW0OI885POCO-Fj_oPS_sLVPDaRz8PboEO2q2FzFxUeKcl8/s400/sept+e+2010+305.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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I've been getting up early to go out and exercise. It's cold and the pumping of my arms warms my cheeks and fingers. Our lithe little dog runs back and forth to keep pace with me as we go around the block, through the park and up past the local pool.<br />
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I can see early morning headlights rising over the train line and slowly-filling carriages thunder past sometimes. The sky is navy with a couple of tardy stars and a rumour of daylight. I try to run rather than shuffle, while dawn happens.<br />
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I am acqainting myself with the transition of night to day. Enjoying the emergence of light.<br />
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Later, I listen to Tim Keller talk about being <em><strong>dawn people</strong></em>. We are people of the light but the darkness lingers. One day we will live full in the sun, but while we wait for that fulfilment, we are walking in the pale, dark sunrise.<br />
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That's why we struggle with living the triumphant, sunshine life. That's why our thinking drifts to darkness, and we cannot find the way sometimes. That's why the light gently draws us on - nudging and caressing us into the day.<br />
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Have patience. Be ready. The sun is rising amongst us. We are the people of the dawn.<br />
<br />Kathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06766959085269574785noreply@blogger.com7