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Meeting the man

10/30/2018

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Wikimedia Commons - Clappstar
I love seeing the way God draws together all the threads of our lives to achieve his purpose, something we only get to understand in hindsight. I knew Eugene Peterson’s writings, they had significantly impacted my life, so when I heard he’d died I began wondering about his life, what made him tick, what contributed to the man he became? This week I got to ‘know’ something of the man behind his words
 
Eugene grew up during the Great Depression. Much of his early life was spent in a cabin he helped his father built on the edge of Flathead Lake, Montana. When the sun shone and the lake was still, it glimmered with the reflection of a thousand trees and the backdrop of the towering Mission Mountains. It was a magical place for a boy birthed with a great imagination.
 
His father was a butcher and Eugene helped his father in the shop from the age of five and over the years he learnt a thing or two about slaughtered sheep and blood poured out. But the greatest influence of those days was his father’s compassionate care for people and his ability to be present with them. In that most unlikely place Eugene learned the gift of shepherding.
 
He headed into the academic world, becoming a professor of Greek and Hebrew. After he married, to help balance the budget, he took on part time work pastoring a church. Before long he realised that being involved in the messiness of human life, caring for people through their joys and sorrows, was much more fulfilling than standing on the sidelines of life as a professor.
 
He served as a Presbyterian pastor for 29 years and during those years he wrote 36 books. By far the best known of his work is his translation of the Bible called, The Message, which has sold over 16 million copies.
 
Eugene didn’t set out to write another translation of the Bible. He had a  congregation who didn’t read much and the scriptures, written in another time, culture and language didn’t resonate with them; they just didn’t get it.  After 6 years of sharing their lives he hit upon the idea of translating some of the scriptures into their vernacular. He wanted to wake them up to the wonder of the gospel. Beginning with Galatians he translated it just a page at a time and gradually saw the Word come alive to them.
 
If it hadn’t been for his training in Greek and Hebrew, the particular congregation he was pastoring and his struggle with the Psalms as a 13 year old boy when he first discovered the wonder of metaphor in making the invisible visible, The Message would never have been written.
 
He had his critics but for millions of people, the Word of God came alive with a freshness and understanding they’d never known.
 
Some years ago a friend of mine was struggling with severe anxiety. I suggested she read The Message. About two weeks later she rang to say that she couldn’t put it down, everything was coming together for her in a way it never had before, even though she’d been a believer for most of her life. She understood for the first time the love of Jesus and the glory of grace in relation to her everyday life.  
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Eugene was a man defined by joy.  In his book, As Kingfishers Catch Fire, he wrote,  “The story of our faith, our very existence, begins and ends with joy … Joy at the beginning, joy at the end, joy everywhere in between. Joy is God’s creation and gift. No authentic biblical faith is conceivable that is not permeated with it.”
 
Those who knew him well talk about the deep joy of his life. Laughter was never far from him. He had a twinkle in his eye, an engaging smile, was playful, loved walking in nature, swimming, kayaking, gardening and hospitality.  And although he called himself a loner, he had a passionate love for people. 

 
He and his wife, Janice, chose a simple life, giving themselves away, their time, their energies, their love and their money, poured out for those in need, for mission, for students and pastors. They let go of this world’s trappings to follow closely in the footsteps of Jesus.  
 
Eugene learned to live an unhurried life, to savour it, observe it and to notice what God was up to. He took time to think, to meditate, to choose his answers carefully. David Taylor, assistant professor of theology and culture at Fuller, put it this way, “I was anxious for him to get on with his lecture notes, but for him the silence, the praying, the singing, the listening, the waiting, the being present were the teaching,”  He knew how to be still.
 
But what impacted me most was his humility and gentleness. A man who’d learned to be content to be himself and no one else, unpretentious and gracious to the end. Fame did not change him. He and his wife spent their retirement back in the cabin on the lake where he had grown up … a coming home.

His paraphrase of Romans 12:1 aptly describes the way he lived. 


"So here’s what I want you to do, God helping you: Take your everyday, ordinary life—your sleeping, eating, going-to-work, and walking-around life—and place it before God as an offering. Don’t become so well-adjusted to your culture that you fit into it without even thinking. Instead, fix your attention on God. You’ll be changed from the inside out."

Eugene lived the Word.

My words feel totally inadequate to accurately portray the measure of this man so take a few minutes to enjoy and be inspired by this truly beautiful video, the photography, the scenery and a glimpse into his everyday life beside the lake. May his life challenge you as it has me.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=youtu.be&v=LaMgIvbXqSk&fbclid=IwAR2cY1cAjKmLlLFc4H1Mt-f7WRKwmKeC7vbb84jz6u9fiO2wsfFgMS-RRaw&app=desktop
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The gift

10/23/2018

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I have a friend who has learnt the art of listening. Not just to my words, but to the cry of my heart and the longing of my soul. The questions he asks lets me know he’s heard me, that’s he’s not thinking about the next think he wants to say or the other things on his to do list. I have his undivided attention.

It’s a gift. Something I don’t experience very often. It seems as if listening has become a dying art. In the busyness of life it’s easy to be distracted with our own thoughts, plans and decisions, or the insistent digital world vying for our attention, and conversations somehow become part of the to-do list.
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In The Road to Daybreak, Henri Nouwen said, "To listen is very hard, because it asks of us so much interior stability that we no longer need to prove ourselves by speeches, arguments, statements or declarations. True listeners no longer have an inner need to make their presence known. They are free to receive, welcome, to accept”.

Listening is one of the greatest of human attributes. Love and true intimacy depend on being heard. We only really get to know someone when we take time to listen, not just to their words but to their heart. Listening opens the door to understanding and in the process something amazing happens … the person feels heard and the door is opened wider.
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But listening requires a sacrifice of my time and a giving up of myself for another. Whether that is to hear the still small voice of God or the cry of my friend, neighbour or child, is it an investment I am willing to make?

Do you have a friend who listens well or are you that friend?  

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You too

10/16/2018

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You know that moment when you read something and immediately think, “Oh you too!” That illuminating instant of connection when someone puts words on what you are feeling.
 
It hit me when I was reading an interview with Markus Zusak, author of The Book Thief. After that book's phenomenal success, selling 16 million copies in 30 languages, his publisher signed him up for a new book, gave him an advance and four years to write, Bridge of Clay.
 
Markus wrote and rewrote the first page thousands of time.  He moved on and tried writing other pages and different chapters, but the story just wasn't coming together. He was under pressure from his publisher and fans of his previous books, “It was awful”, he said, “Nothing I did was working, I was just failing and failing, over and over again”. Many times he wanted to quit because he felt deep inside himself, “a barren wasteland of failure”.
 
He did eventually finish the book. It took 13 years to complete and it was released last week.
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While I’m never likely to write a book akin to The Book Thief, it’s his struggle to pull his writing together and his sense of failure I instantly relate to.
 
Sometimes the words come pouring out like a raging torrent, inexcusably insistent and with a mind of their own. That’s the good days. Other days the page is indignantly blank. It stares back at me resisting all coaxing, pleading and first attempts like a rebellious child determined not to cooperate.
 
On those days it feels like being in the labour ward trying to give birth, excruciating, and agonisingly slow. For the thousandth time I ask myself why do I think I can write, why would anyone want to read my thoughts?  I feel an imposter and sometimes like Markus, a complete failure. Yet something compels me, something deep inside me that is determined to be heard … the passion of my heart.  
 
I love Markus’ honesty and vulnerability. I love that he calls himself a failurist, that despite all his success he’s humble enough to share failures part in that success. It was Winston Churchill who said, “Success is stumbling from failure to failure with no loss of enthusiasm” and for Markus that meant persevering again and again for 13 years to see his latest book become a reality.
 
It takes a certain degree of courage to face repeated failure and not give up but it takes even greater courage to live with transparency. It’s in my willingness to be vulnerable enough to share my feelings of inadequacy and my struggles in all areas of life that I allow others to know they are not alone … to understand our common frailties.
 
How little we realise the universality of our struggles, that you and I and the man next door are all grappling with similar feelings we’d rather no one knew about. I doubt there is a more illuminating and comforting experience than that moment of connection when with enormous relief you can say, “Oh you too!”
 
“Authenticity is a collection of choices that we have to make every day. It's about the choice to show up and be real. The choice to be honest. The choice to let our true selves be seen.” Brené Brown
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Timeless

10/5/2018

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It was a favourite memory of my childhood, apples straight from the tree and freshly crushed apple juice that tasted like nothing I'd ever tasted before. For a little girl, Logan Brae orchard was a magical place, like a setting from one of the Girls Own Annual stories I treasured. Set on the Shipley Plateau in the Blue Mountains, it had a big old apple shed and what seemed like oceans of apple trees dripping with fruit. It was rambling and rustic with lots of hidden corners to explore.
 

The orchard was planted in 1919 and when I was a child it was farmed by Graham Jackson, a third-generation apple grower. The orchard seemed like it had been there forever, the trees gnarled and aged and the apples huge and sweet and wonderfully juicy.

When my children were growing up we took them to Logan Brae so the family tradition continued, but after they left home I didn't go back for many years. Not so long ago my son took me back for a trip down memory lane. 

The nursery has changed hands but stepping back into the old apple shed it seemed like time stood still and the smell of fresh apples still hung in the air.
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Sam Edwards bought the orchard in 2011. It was his little piece of paradise. By then the orchard was very run down and the trees spent. He set about replanting trees, many of the old favourites, but also new varieties. There is still an intensity to the flavour of the apples that you don't find in store bought apples and the juice is just as magical, but Sam has introduced hot spiced apple juice, sensational homemade spiced apple pies, apple chutney, apple jelly and apple butter.  

As we sat looking out over the majestic views of the Kanimbla valley, munched our hot apple pies and savoured spiced apple juice, I realised that seeing it now through adult eyes hasn't diminished the magic.
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I love the fact that Sam and his partner, Asia, (with daughter, Grace) haven't modernised the orchard, there are still many reminders of the past. It still has the rambling atmosphere and the wonderful feel of authenticity so rare to find these days. Now chickens roam the orchard and provide wonderful free range eggs and if you're lucky you may glimpse the Alpacas popping their heads around the apple trees. 

They've managed to breathe new life into the orchard without changing it. There's something solid about that, as if the roots have run deep and the winds of change that have shaken so much of the rest of our world have not been able to move this timeless institution. It feels constant, stable and a piece of history that's survived the ravages of technology and the necessity to destroy in the name of progress. It's treasured and respected the past.
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Graham still lives next door and pops in from time to time for a yarn. How delighted he must be that almost 100 years of tiling the soil, nurturing the trees and harvesting the crops will now remain alive and vital for future generations - his legacy. Sam admits it's been a challenge. He's planted 6000 apple trees and is just beginning to see the orchard become profitable. He and Asia continue to dream about all it can be. 

I'm delighted too that now I get to take my grandchildren to enjoy the simplicity of life I discovered as a child, the taste of apples fresh from the tree and the uniqueness of this beautiful corner of the world. It truly is a timeless piece of paradise.
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Out of the ashes

10/2/2018

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Last time I visited Cape Solander it was a blackened moonscape. Devastated by fire, as far as the eye could see all that remained was a sea of ash. Once beautiful Banksia trees were no more than charred remains, their Banksia men silent observers of the fires force.
 
This week I returned. From the shoreline, nothing had changed, a sea of black remained, but when I walked across the cliff tops everything had changed. Beneath the blackened landscape a carpet of wildflowers had exploded through the ashes.
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Their colour and profusion took my breath away. I spent the next three hours down on my hands and knees capturing the wonder of the emerging beauty. How did something so bleak and deathly give birth to such life?
 
Fire, one of those things we avoid at all costs, fearing its ability to destroy everything in its path. We rarely think of its positive purpose in nature, to clear out the overgrowth that threatens to choke out life, to germinate seed and to replenish the soil. It’s part of the cycle of nature; perfectly designed to play its part in the continuation of life.
 
It's a brilliant design. Soil is a great insulator. It protects the buds, seeds and tubers from the heat of the fire, allowing them to regenerate from beneath the earth. The ash left by the fire is nutrient rich and contains chemicals known as karrikins that support new growth. Some plants that have remained dormant because they can’t compete with dense undergrowth suddenly reappear in this new open landscape.
 
It made me think about the cycle of life, the bleak and devastating times we all go through that feel a lot like death but are what the scriptures call a refining fire. The times we’d avoid at all costs if we could, yet so often they are the precursor of new life … new directions … new beginnings.
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Sometimes those difficult times force us to give up what we are holding onto so fervently, the very thing getting in the way of us becoming all we could be … clearing the landscape for new growth.  Maybe what emerges from our refining fire will leave us shaking our heads in wonder at the beauty we never thought possible.
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The pea flowers are some of the first to bloom because they fix nitrogen in the soil making it available for other plants.
I wandered back across the cliff tops deep in thought and into my consciousness came the sound of a harp … hauntingly beautiful music. It was a photo shoot complete with harpist in a flowing gown and two cameramen perched right there amongst the rocks. It was the pinnacle of an amazing morning. I sat in the sun’s warmth and let the music transport me.
 
How priceless are the small things, the things that money can’t buy … those serendipitous moments, the wonder of nature, the beauty of music and art, memories made with family and friends … and how often we miss them or trade them for the trappings of life.
 
Make space in this week to look for 'wildflowers', capture the priceless moments and listen to the music of life.
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    Author

    Glenyss Barnham
    ​I'm a mother and grandmother who loves  discovering beauty in unexpected places.

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