Tough seasons don't last, but they sure test you on the way

   ‘And I...and I...’  Miss Five was doing her best to explain the excitement of being confined to a hospital bed in an isolation ward. ‘I can have brekkie, lunch and dinner in my bed! And they moved me from one place to another on my bed!’

   The last few days have been one of those times you’re glad you only have to live it once! In the past six months our family has walked some challenging roads. Five or more times, we've seen the inside of emergency rooms. 

   One time a granddaughter arrived in ambulance in full spinal precaution. Another trip ended in an appendectomy. Then, on another occasion, we were given an appointment for an MRI where they were looking for a ‘space invading lesion in the brain’. And now the littlest one has one arm attached to an IV machine and the other hand lying idle as it is covered with massive blisters. As well as that we've discovered the wonders of epipens. This is a small device that when activated injects enough adrenalin into ones system that it stops life threatening allergic reactions. Three times in eight days they've injected into one of my kids as she is grabbing at her throat, struggling to breath.

   As I tell this story very calmly all appears to be well. However, perchance I had put on my novelist hat and helped you experience the emotion of these last months, it would be a different story! And where was God whilst all this is happening?

   To answer the question, let me tell you another grandchildren story. Some years back, we were blessed with two baby granddaughters in one year. They were born healthy, strong and gorgeous. When the first one was six days old, she was rushed into emergency with raging temperatures. Doctors did a spinal tap, looking for meningitis. They inserted a drip into her tiny veins and poured antibiotics into her for eight days before her exhausted mother could bring her home to her brother and sisters.

   When the second beautiful baby was about three months old, her mother, for some unexplainable reason, checked her in the night. Her skin was burning hot. They raced to the hospital where doctors did a spinal tap and then administered antibiotics.

   I was mad, hopping mad! What was going on that two of my little babies would have to suffer this way. Where was my God? Why wasn't He on the job?

   So I went to God demanding answers. ‘What is going on? These are my grandchildren! We've prayed for them, covered them with your protection. How could you let them suffer this way?’

   In the silence, after my ranting was spent, I heard a little voice. I could sense the pain of one falsely accused.

   ‘But, Jo. I saved them both for you.’

   Those few words broke my anger and humbled me, moved my complaint into worship. Yes, they could easily have died, have become statistics in the cot death numbers, or be among those who succumb to meningitis. God did work on my behalf.

   So as I reflect on these few days of drama, I am thankful; thankful for medicine that is fighting infection, thankful for doctors, thankful for an epipens that save lives. I'm thankful for the loan of my friend’s car. Thankful for countless little things. I'm thankful that God looks after our finances and so there is no need for me to count the dollars as they fly out of my purse. He will meet all our needs.

   I watch and pray as assault after assault hits my family. I know this is a season and it will pass. God does have all things working together for good - for everyone’s good. I'm expecting great things after the battle. All battles do end and I know the plunder will be good.

This Time its Divorce

    This time it is divorce  I'm determined. I've threatened it before, but never carried through. There is always some excuse, some lame look that makes me run back.
    Why? Why do I go back to the abuse and the lies? Why do I swallow the perception that she is good for me? She is so attractive that I end up succumbing again. When freshly dressed in white, accompanied by her heady perfume I'm putty in her hands. She is so soft to touch and comforting.
    Yet our relationship always leads to abuse. Although my belly is often swollen and sore, there is never enough evidence to bring a clear conviction that she caused it. I feel the pain, but if anyone else notices they don't connect it to abuse by this long term partner of mine.
    I can't remember when this relationship began. I know I was only little, maybe only one. I do remember as a child frolicking extravagantly with her. Even then, I felt the abuse in my gut, but didn't connect the two.
    She arrived every Wednesday and Saturday, just in time for lunch, always dressed in white with that strong, heady perfume. All other friends were pushed aside at the table as she took pride of place, usually with jam and thick cream. I guess what followed was a gluttony of sorts but we saw it as a celebration and I ignored my mothers dire warnings.
    As I grew older, I left home for boarding school and then college. She followed. I distinctly remember spreading Vegemite and jam (yes, together) with her at boarding school. Somehow in those days, the softness and aroma weren't the same. Not being so attractive, I wan't so co-dependant and the abuse was infrequent.
   But in the last twenty years, I've seen the facts more clearly leading to times of total separation. You know the story. "Get out of my life! You have nearly destroyed me! Look at me! Fat, bloated, blotchy and depressed. I'm blaming you. Now, get out."
   And I remain strong, resolute, determined until one day, with out warning, there she is. She walks in beside the grand kids or turns up at my elbow at a public function, unavoidable, soft, fragrant and so attractive. I justify a short interaction, just for old times sake. But like smoking one cigarette, it is hard to say goodbye and walk away. Soon I find her back in my house and I indulge in long sessions of deep intimacy. We pull out butter, cheese, jam and honey and enjoy each others company.
   Then I realise - I've been hoodwinked again. I throw her out! She doesn't resist, just smiles and gives me that  knowing look. 'I'll be back.'
   These days I've done some snooping. I discover that she has been charged with abuse. Yes, an invisible abuse that results in bloating, discomfort and, in the long term, obesity and other nasty conditions.
   So I'm resolute. Here in this public forum I declare: "White bread, I divorce you, I divorce you, I divorce you! Be gone. I will never commune with you again.'
   I've done it! Victory! She's gone.
   I do hope she takes her relatives with her. Though I will miss Swiss Grain loaf, banana bread and rye wraps. Do you think it is okay to visit her family occasionally?

Floods of water and gratitude

    Just before the Australia day floods a young girl gave birth to a baby boy. No, not these Australia Day floods. The big ones, back in 1974, when the unbelievable happened. The river flooded to heights that we couldn't imagine, but were seen on our TV screen. We were stranded behind flooded rivers and broken bridges and it was days before I could join a mud army. One day, sifting through one china cabinet, redeeming crystal glasses from gooey, stinking mud, was enough for the smell to permeate my memory for ever!
    But I digress. Back then in 1974, during the rain that always precedes a flood, a young girl birthed a gorgeous child. And I will be forever grateful. I imagine she was overwhelmed and frightened by the experience. I hope her home wasn't flooded after she walked away and left her baby for us to raise.
    Over the years as we've watched this baby grow and develop into a strong well balanced young man and then embrace the challenges of fatherhood, I've often thought of her. Does she think of him, her son? Does she think of me?
    I know she is lovely. Her son is a wonderful man. He carries her DNA. I also know she requested her little boy be placed in a Christian home. She cared enough to do the best she could do for him.
I wonder...where she is now? Does she have other children? Is she a grandmother?
I'd like to meet her, to say thank you, to hear her story and give her a hug. But our common son chooses not to find her, and that is his choice. He claims I'm his mother so why should he go looking for another. As I said he's a lovely son.
    But as the deluge of water fell on our state at the time of his birthday, the memories flooded back. I remember again a young girl, labouring on my behalf, bringing me years and years of love, joy and pleasure.
    If you are listening, please accept my gratitude.

Disposing of things that breed in the night.

    Where does it all come from? Does it breed? Do ghosts add to the piles in the middle of the night? And why my place?
    I've seen pictures of other desks that are tidy, clean and attractive. Why is it always my desk that is covered with untidy piles of paper, containers of hand cream, various dead pens, old Christmas cards, shopping vouchers, crumpled receipts... Isn't it my turn to be pristine, to have an office that would look charming in one of those glossy magazines?
    Then it hit me. "This desk could to be faulty. Maybe I need to buy a new one."
    I raised the idea with Steve. He laughed, pointing out that only my side seems to be malfunctioning.
    We share a desk. It is old, antique even, and very large. It is configured with two towers of drawers on each end of the desk top. One set of drawers faces his side, one opens to my side. We sit looking at each other - well we would except I have a very high, wide computer screen that blocks his portion of the desk.
    Walking around my screen, I surveyed his side. It didn't quite fit the glossy magazine image, but it seemed to be functioning much better than my side. That would be right. His part of our joint world is always more ordered.
    Returning to my chair, my shoulders slumped. I considered dropping my head upon my folded arms in the magazine posture of despair. But...there is no room on the desk for my arms.
    Then, in a flash of inspiration, or was it frustration, I understood! The problem is I!
    Sigh!
    Why can't I be more like him? I marched outside and wheeled in the rubbish bin.With the broom I could sweep it all away, and then my desk would be clean.
    But, I couldn't. Everything seemed too valuable. There was the recipe for Peppermint Coconut Bark, the BAS forms, addresses that must be kept, unpaid bills,  invoices to be entered in MYOB, CDs of old sermons, and grand-kid's paintings. There were the sketch drawings for the book I started over a year ago, the character sheets for the one I started last year, the notes on another. The more paper I moved, the more treasures were disclosed.

    After returning the unfed wheelie bin, I sat in my chair and developed a plan. I will deal with a bit each day. I will use the filing cabinet. I will dispose of the eight A4 bound copies of early versions of Though the Bud be Bruised. I will!
    Is the plan working?
    There is definite progress. Now the mouse can move! That's a great help.
    Tonight I found a card. Opening it, I read, "To dearest Jo - writer of wonderful, soul-searching books".
    And I remember. I'm unique, made in His image to do the work that only I can do. I walk to the beat of a creative drum. I'm spontaneous rather than ordered. I enjoy being innovative rather than tidy.
    Now, if I can only find that piece of paper....

Not this girl - I'm not addicted

    I'm not an alcoholic! Nor am I addicted to nicotine or and kind of drug. No vices for this girl.
    I started smoking in my teens. I remember the day I purchased my first packet, telling myself that a few smokes wouldn't do any harm. By the time I had smoked half the packet, addiction was wrapping its tentacles around my throat. The fear of my mother made me quit. I balanced the remaining filthy weeds on their filters, lit them all and watched the ashes of my smoking life.
    For years I've walked in that self righteousness that comes from escaping the snare. But, if I'm honest  my addictive personality is exposed in other places like the bathroom scales! Recently I've discovered that some people can become addicted to carbohydrates. I didn't know such a thing was possible. I mean, you don't hear carbohydratics talked about very often.Where are the support groups? Weight loss groups you suggest? But they spend all their time discussing new and innovative ways to eat more carbs. I know. I've been there.
   Surely I'm not an addict. I can control my eating. When I wake in the morning, I give myself a pep talk. You can do this. Only two pieces of fruit (sob) and two pieces of whole grain bread. Easy.
    Well it is easy-  until I finish the first piece of fruit, or toast. Have you ever noticed that one piece is never enough? My body demands more. So I come up with some clever justification and have another. Then the chocolate jumps out of the pantry and assaults me. With a great struggle I push it back but not until a couple of slabs have accidentally fallen into my mouth. While in the pantry, I pull out the savoury biscuits. Feeling smug now because I've beaten the sugar, I spread crackers with butter and Vegemite. This is better. I need the vitamin B.
    I settle in my chair with crackers and that little oblong device that helps me while away time. I won't play long. I have things to do. Soon the plate is empty. I finish this game of Sudoku and grab a few more biscuits. Luckily I've left the spreads on the bench. I'm hurrying now. I need to try and better my score at Sudoku.
To free my hands, a whole biscuit jumps into my mouth at a time. Two hands are more efficient and enable me to get a better score in the game. I push away the empty plate. I don't want any more. See I can say no to carbohydrates.
    My fingers punch numbers into the grid on the screen. I watch the score. This may be a record. Just then the home phone rings. I pause. Oh, no. I've let myself become distracted! I pull my attention back to the task at hand. I'm relieved when the phone stops ringing. It was interrupting my concentration.
    A little later hubby comes in from the garden looking for lunch. Lunch? I'm not hungry and and I'm too busy. I think he has a problem. Maybe he's addicted to food. But, I can't be worried about that. I have a new level of Suduko to conquer.
    As previously stated. I don't have any addictions.

A gift with a difference.

It is uncle Baden's fault. I received a Christmas card from him a couple of weeks ago, but, then, this year he decided to spend Jesus's birthday with Christ himself. He departed a few days before Christmas in his ninety-fifth year.
So last night, I found myself in Glen Innes. Steve and I had decided to drive to Uncle's funeral in Newcastle. We are on holidays after all.  Choosing the New England highway, one of his favourite roads, we left home yesterday about lunch time and skirting the heavy traffic we soon were enjoying stunning scenery. As we drove over Cunningham's Gap, through farm lands, wineries, orchards and rocky hills we were like kids in a candy shop. 'Look at that rocky bluff...the spot of sun on that hill...the shaft of light slicing through the clouds...the crop of tomatoes...the bolt of lightening over the purple hills. We could feel our souls being restored as only God's nature can.
The day was perfect for driving. Storm clouds provided a constantly changing backdrop to green hills, red cows and trees sparkling in the freshly washed sunlight.
Instead of the planned stay at the coast for these few days, we were far from the madding crowds, enjoying an evening of misty rain and an expected low of ten degrees at night.
Today we drove a road called Thunderbolts Way, for us, uncharted territory, unexplored wonder. Passing through miles of lush pasture land, towering gums, mountains and rushing rivers we stopped at a goat cheese factory to sample wondrous flavours whilst the goats were being milked outside. Ah, how I love this amazing country!
If we enjoy driving so much, why does it require a necessity to push us out of our rut and get us on the road?
God made the world for us to enjoy and I realise that in my tiredness I have neglected to worship Him in His creation for a few weeks. Maybe that is why I have been so tired!
Thanks Uncle Baden for your parting gift to us. This trip to farewell you has been a wonderful blessing.

He has His Father's eyes

   She doubled over in pain, her hand pushed into her lower back.
   'Please, Mary. Ride on the donkey. If you keep walking you'll have the baby beside the road.'
   'The donkey's back is so hard.'
   Joseph rummaged in his bag and pulled out another coat. Folding it, he placed it on the donkey's back and lifted his wife. 'I'll walk beside you. Lean on me, but lets keep moving.'
   Can you imagine trying to sit on a donkey when in the early stages of labour? I guess the discomfort took her mind off the baby. She must have had so many questions.
   Her baby was a boy, she was sure of that. But what would the son of God look like? Would he look like her or like his Father? And what did his Father look like? She had never seen God. Yes, the angel said God would overshadow her and she would become pregnant, but my guess is she didn't even know when that had happened, much less get a glimpse of the baby's Father.
   So when the Son of God emerged from her womb into the smelly stable, like any mother, she must have grabbed him and studied him carefully. Not to count fingers and toes, but to see...to see God. Mary was the first person to come face to face with God. I can imagine her gazing with awe and wonder. 
   And then he opened His eyes. She connected with the King of Kings, not body to body but soul to soul, spirit to Spirit. It took her breathe away.
   'He has His Father's eyes.' 
   Joseph looked over her shoulder at the baby. 'What do you mean?'
   'His eyes. They are so deep, pure, clear. It's like he looked into my very heart and I could see into His heart. Never before have I seen such love. Oh, He is the Son of God!'
   Her baby squirmed and she lifted him to her breast. He latched onto her nipple and sucked. 'He loves me, Joseph. I saw it in His eyes. He loves me.'
   'The angel told me that he would save the people from their sins.' Joseph stroked the cheek of the feeding infant. 'I guess He loves everyone, Mary, everyone.'
   The moment was broken by a slight tap on the wall of the stable. 'There He is. Just as the angels said.' The shepherds were panting hard. 'Sorry Ma'am, we ran all the way. Did you know your baby is the Messiah?'
   Baby Jesus stirred and opened His eyes.
   Mary pulled back the cloths so the shepherds could see. 'I know. Look. He has His Father's eye's - eyes of love.'