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The beauty of grace

11/29/2016

Twenty years ago I had the privilege of being a part of a Christian Counselling Course. On the last day of the final exams we gathered outside the exam room and everyone looked as if they were feeling as anxious as I was.

The subject was Sexuality. It had been a demanding and complex course and the reading list had been beyond exhausting. As we chatted, I realised that although we had all studied as hard as we could, none of us was feeling confident that we could even pass.

At nine o’clock precisely we entered the room to find our exam papers face down on the desk in font of us. The lecturer began to explain, “Your exam papers are before you but each of you has already been given an 'A'. You may leave the room, sure in that knowledge. However, if you prefer to sit the exam you are most welcome to do so but the mark recorded will be the one you earn”.

We looked at each other in total disbelief. Then we bolted for the door more excited and relieved than there are words to describe.

However, three people remained and sat the exam. They had done the study and refused to be cheated of the right to earn their marks. I’ll never know if they achieved the 'A' or settled for something less but it was for me a most powerful demonstration of grace at work.

I know without a doubt that I would not have earned an 'A' … it was undeserved grace. But some refused to accept grace, determined to do it on their own. One man was really angry that the rest of us got what we didn’t deserve ... and of course we had.

It reminds me of the workers in the vineyard, some worked all day, some only an hour but all received the same wage. The ones who were only able to find an hour’s work still had to feed their families just the same as those who were fortunate enough to be given a day’s work. Some were angry because grace was offered.

It leaves me pondering where I offer grace to the people in my life ... my family ... my friends and the stranger at my gate. I confess that many of my daily choices are made without conscious consideration of whether I am offering grace. How about you?

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Tokens of love

11/25/2016

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I love the old movie, The Waltons. It is set in rural Virginia where generations of the family have worked the land on Walton’s mountain. As the movie opens, the eldest son, John-Boy, is caught in tension between wanting to please his father and stay on the farm and the longing to follow his heart and become a writer.

On Christmas Eve, his father brings gifts for each of his children. John-Boy’s gift is a bundle of writing pads and pen. The gift, a token of a father’s love … he saw John-Boy’s heart and set him free to follow a writing career even though it would make his life harder without his son to help him.

It made me ponder on the value of a gift.

For me it’s not the size, monitory value or even the wrapping, although I love a beautifully wrapped gift. For me it’s about the way it makes me feel.

When the gift comes with the heart of the giver attached, I feel loved and known. The thought and care that’s gone into choosing something for me, is part of the gift … the part money can’t buy.

I have a leather-bound journal which my son and daughter-in-law brought me from Florence and a soft, grey felt-covered journal which my daughter and her family gave me for my birthday … each is a priceless treasure because they made me feel not only loved, but known. My children know my writer's heart.

A friend who knows my passion for gardening gave me his favourite gardening book, his prized possession and each time I delve into its pages I feel valued and appreciated.

What are the most meaningful gifts you’ve received? I can almost guarantee they were gifts from the heart.

In the school of giving, children can be our greatest teachers. A fist full of dandelions picked just for me … they grace a vase on my bedside table to remind me of spontaneous love … a true gift, expecting nothing in return.

And children teach us a lot about receiving. I love their unashamed excitement and enthusiasm; just watching their uninhibited joy is precious. There’s the rippers who can’t wait to find out what’s inside and the non-rippers, savouring every moment.

A gift is not a gift unless it is received. Receiving well is a gift … a gift to the giver.

Christmas is a reminder of the greatest gift of all ... the gift of a Saviour. May each of your gifts be a token of your love and generosity of spirit and may you be an enthusiastic and grateful receiver.

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The man at the back

11/22/2016

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It was summer. I was enjoying A Night in Vienna at the Sydney Opera House, quite swept away by the magnificence of the orchestra and the magic of the music. It whisked me back to the Imperial Palace in Vienna where I first heard the Hofburg Orchestra and fell in love with Viennese orchestras.

As I watched, I noticed a man at the back of the orchestra. He was short, with greying hair and receding hairline. He didn’t appear to have an part to play. Then, as the music reached its crescendo, the sound vibrating around the great Opera Hall, he stood, triangle in hand, and when the conductor indicated, he struck the triangle.

It seemed in that instant quite ludicrous, a tiny tinkle in that vast ocean of sound, but there it was, audible, harmonious and adding something very special.

I thought about the man and his triangle as I walked home that evening along the harbour’s edge, the city lights reflected in the now-dark sea. I wondered how many people noticed him, how patiently he waited for his time, his small part, and what a difference it made. I wondered about his life and how he came to be playing the triangle in that particular orchestra.

As the music died away and the grandeur of the night receded, he stayed with me.

Sometimes when I feel that what I have to offer is insignificant and unlikely to make any difference, I think of him and I’m reminded that in the hands of the Great Conductor, every part is significant to the beauty and overall harmony of the music.

I’m sometimes guilty of wanting the big part ... the significant role that makes a visible difference. Slowly (and what a slow learner I am) I’m learning that I was made for small things and my contribution will always be from the back of the orchestra but it’s no less significant.

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Till the cows come home

11/15/2016

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One day on my travels I was forced to stop and wait while some farmers tried to get these uncooperative cows across the road. There seemed to be no way to get them to move any faster even with a good hefty push from behind.

I know the feeling. I meet it as I stand behind people with trolleys piled high in the supermarket, wondering if I’ve chosen the quickest line … hanging on the end of the phone to solve a problem with Telstra or endlessly observing all the other people waiting, lined up around the walls of the doctor’s surgery as my 10 o’clock appointment drags on till 10:45 because he’s running late.

Waiting is an integral part of life.

There’s the joyful anticipation sort of waiting … to meet the little person you’ve been carrying for nine long months … counting the days till a birthday or Christmas … the homecoming of a loved one … the long awaited holiday. That type of waiting increases our anticipation, longing and hope.

There’s the waiting that tries our patience like queues, delays, interruptions (and wayward cows, if you're a farmer).

And then there’s the really tough one … the agonising wait to know if I got the job … for the medical results I fear won’t be good news ... to find a life partner or to hope that this month I might be pregnant after so many disappointments.

My first pregnancy was a breeze, almost textbook. My second was a very different story … month after month of heartache and disappointment waiting to fall pregnant. One night after yet another disappointment I did what I always do when I’m sad or stressed, I did the ironing. I ironed the laundry basket empty, tears streaming down my face over every shirt, tablecloth and pillowcase. Eventually, exhausted, I crashed into bed and slept until the early hours of the morning when I was awakened by the smell of smoke. The whole laundry was ablaze. Distracted by pain I had forgotten to switch off the iron.

Waiting can be excruciatingly painful.

Recently a friend waited, watching his wife slowly dying. Long gone was the day that the word cancer ripped through their hearts like an earth shattering quake, demolishing their life in it’s path. They threw everything the medical profession had at the hideous intruder, with courage and hope.

Oh how they hoped and prayed that she might be spared, but it was not to be. At times death seemed imminent but that was not to be either, as days slipping into weeks and weeks into endless months. With all the love and compassion and willingness in the world, exhaustion haunted my friend but he battled on, caring, supporting and waiting with her to the end.

I wonder how we are changed in the waiting?

Waiting invites me to face the reality of my own helplessness. That deep gnawing demand for control that we all know so well, comes up against a situation over which I have no control at all.

I can’t make the checkout person work any faster, I can’t turn the traffic lights from red to green, I’m unable to make Centrelink answer my call any quicker and I definitely can’t stop the march of cancer.

So I’m left with two alternatives. Continue to fume, fuss or stress internally and maybe verbally, or accept the invitation that is being handed to me and learn the lessons waiting has to teach me.

Waiting allows me the space to grow that still axis within myself that is comfortable with helplessness; that allows me to resign my demands for control. Then I am free to accept waiting as a gift.

Having got my attention, waiting enlarges me … it grows my patience, increase my mental and emotional strength and endurance ... it slows me down to remind me what's important in this moment, in this day.

It's a bit like the time spent on a flight between take off and landing. The in-between time which we can see as a inconvenient prelude to the main event or as an opportunity to prepare for what’s ahead ... to stop ... to rest ... to reflect ... to listen.

I think the in-between times of waiting may actually be the most valuable parts of life.

What do you think?

Going home

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Harnessed up

11/8/2016

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My grandsons enjoying the challenge

There were distinct similarities. Not just their caramel-coloured shirts and shorts, but their outgoing personalities, dry sense of humour and encouraging words. They had obviously been handpicked for the role and I was feeling very grateful as I harnessed up for a ropes course I hadn’t imagined I could or would ever attempt.

It’s amazing how laughter and a sense of fun can reduce anxiety or fear in a matter of moments. These guys were masters at putting people at their ease. They made the seemingly impossible sound like an adventure.

Just one of the many challenges we faced

Once in the treetops, facing one stretching challenge after another, if someone froze, one of the team would magically appear below to talk the person through with encouragement and reassurance. They seemed committed to making sure that everyone had an enjoyable experience. Of course it was their job, but somehow it seemed much more than that. They were passionate about what they did and it showed.

If anyone had told me that I'd be swinging through the treetops over Taronga Park Zoo one day, I'd have laughed out loud. But when a love of my grandsons and the strong encouragement of a son who knows me better than I know myself and believes in me, mesh together, somehow it made the unthinkable seem possible.

As I stood on the first platform with a single steel rope between me and the next platform it took all of my strength and courage to step out and walk across the rope. It didn't get any easier. Each new challenge came with a fresh call for courage, but to hear the shouts of my grandsons, "Good on you grandma" was such joy that I will treasure the memory forever.

And what a view from the top! Seeing the zoo from above was fascinating and when someone below heard by grandson's shouts of encouragement I heard someone say, "Oh looks there's a grandma up there." Read embarrassed and chuffed!

Then there was the spectacular view of Sydney Harbour shimmered in its summer glory.

I learnt a lot that day. I learnt that I wasn’t too old to try something new, to get out of my comfort zone and do something scary. I learnt that the reward for facing my fears was exhilaration and freedom and a deep-seated awareness that often the only barriers are the ones I put on myself.

I learnt that courage, like faith, only grows when its tested.

And I learnt that we all have the opportunity every day to encourage and spur each other on … to reassure … to challenge, and to help each other achieve what seems impossible ... to help awaken someone to the possibilities within them.

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Broken sea shells

11/1/2016

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I’m what my neighbour calls a ‘lapsed perfectionist”. I’ve spent half my life trying to do everything perfectly and the other half trying to accept the fact that this is a waste of precious time.

I remember a time when I would discard a batch of meringues that were slightly cream and remake them insisting they be ‘Persil’ white. When my neighbour discovered what I did she assured me that cream coloured meringues would be perfectly acceptable in her household and she became the grateful recipient of my perfectionist addiction.

Ridiculous isn’t it. A mixture of pride and shame masquerading as wanting to do my best in everything I did.

Then one day while holidaying at Callala Beach, I walked along the beach at dawn, the sand washed clean by the evening tide. Not a footprint or paw print in sight, just a band of freshly deposited shells.

Ever since I was a little girl I've loved collecting shells and I felt like that little girl again as I explored what the night tide had brought in. One by one I discarded the broken and misshapen ones, looking for that one elusive shell, unbroken, perfectly coloured and exquisitely marked ... unique ... perfect.

Maybe it was the beauty of the morning as the sun rose and sent soft rays across the waves as they unfurled on the shore, lighting them up like a thousand diamonds. Maybe it was being alone in all the glory of a new day dawning. I only know the question came to me, “Why do you think that beauty is found only in perfection?”

I was stunned. It was one of those "Oh yes" moments of illumination that come unbidden from time to time.

I went back to the shells along the shore, looking for the beauty in the broken, weathered and far from perfect. Often the broken shells revealed a far more beautiful inside than outside ... the pearlescent lining that shimmered with a myriad of colours. I wondered why all that beauty was locked away inside where it was never seen.

I think it was the beginning of my passion for finding beauty in unexpected places.

I’m not cured, just lapsed. I still like to do things to the best of my ability and feel disappointed when things don’t turned out the way I’d hoped but now it’s just a reminder that perfection isn’t within my grasp, its the domain of God.

At some level we are all broken human beings and just a little misshapen in one way or another. But we are all beautiful and wonderfully made, and more often than not our beauty shines brightest through the cracks and crevices of our lives. It’s our shared brokenness that makes us able to love each other.

In a world that hankers after the perfect body, the perfect image, the perfect children, home or holiday, it is wonderfully freeing to have the eyes to value the beauty in the brokenness in ourselves, in others and the world around us.

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The beauty of grace

Tokens of love

The man at the back

Till the cows come home

Harnessed up

Broken sea shells

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