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Unanswered questions

12/27/2016

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One of the joys of spending a few days with my daughter and her family is having time with a little boy who creeps into my bed for a cuddle and chat each morning. He knows the rule. Don’t wake grandma before the sun comes up. He’s very good at obeying that rule, except for the last morning I was there.
 
He crept in while it was still dark and gently nudged me awake. I reminded him of the rule and he said, “But grandma the night was so long and I couldn’t wait any longer” (heart melts).
 
How could I say no to that sort of love? He cuddled down with me and we talked about life, about nature and about dreams. He’s a never-ending source of questions. Anything from, “You’ve been to the Colosseum haven’t you grandma?”
“Yes I have”
“What’s inside it?”
“Cats, lots and lots of cats”
Of course we talked about all the other things inside and why.
 
Not all his questions are as easy to answer. “Why doesn’t my friend like me anymore?” I had no answer for that one except to admit honestly, “I don’t know”.
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Our lives are full of questions without answers. Why did my friend’s teenage son commit suicide? Why cancer, Parkinson’s disease and a child's disability?
 
Madam Guyon put it this way,
"If knowing answers to life’s questions is absolutely necessary for you, then forget the journey. You will never make it, for life is a journey of unknowables, of unanswered questions, enigmas, incomprehensibles and most of all things unfair.”
 
Quite a while ago, a wise man encouraged me to live the questions and not need to know the answers. There’s a peace that comes with that … an acceptance that allows me to live in the tension without being eaten away with frustration, resentment or anger … without beating my fist against a closed door demanding entry.

Ken Gire puts it this way, “Someone once said that writing a novel is like driving at night with your headlights on – you can only see a few feet ahead, but you can make the entire trip that way. Living life is like that. Certainly a life of faith. Give me the grace, O Lord, to live such a life … and to realise that though the light given me is never as much as I would like, it is enough”.
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The wee stranger who came for Christmas

12/20/2016

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My firstborn arrived unexpectedly for Christmas. Born on 23 December, he was a month premature and weighted only 2.2kg. Our old Scottish minister sent a telegram, “To the wee stranger who came for Christmas”.
 
I didn’t get to take my wee stranger home for three weeks. They were difficult weeks but the homecoming was wonderfully exciting … and just a little scary. I’d never handled such a tiny baby before and now he was my responsibility.
 
Suddenly all the books I’d read and classes I’d been to in preparation for motherhood didn’t seem to help. He had trouble feeding, didn’t sleep and suffered with severe colic. Month after month without sleep, I felt helpless and inadequate.
 
Who was this little man who’d been given to me for a few short years to nurture and to love? What qualified me to be the mum he needed? Absolutely nothing. But parenting is something you learn on the job … there’s no apprenticeship … just walking by faith, one step at a time.
 
I guess it was no different for Mary. Amidst all the glory and wonder of the birth of Jesus, I often think about her. The journey she and Joseph made to Bethlehem was approximately the distance from Sydney to Lithgow (140kms). Whether on donkey or on foot I couldn’t imagine making that trip while pregnant, especially over rough dirt roads and hilly terrain. It would have been demanding and exhausting and oh so uncomfortable. 
 
And at the end of the trip there was no comfy bed with ensuite. Contrary to the common belief that she gave birth in the stable of an inn, Mary and Joseph are believed to have bedded down on the lower floor of a house of one of Joseph's relatives. It's thought that they stayed in the area of the house where the animals were brought in for the night ... why? ... because the house was already filled with other guests.
 
I wonder how Mary felt as she cradled her baby in her arms for the first time … grateful … honoured and maybe just a little overwhelmed? God had chosen a young village girl to be mother to His Son, to feed and clothe him, nurture him, bandage his knee, wipe his tears and love him to the end.

She could not have known or even begun to comprehend what lay ahead of this baby she’d just birthed. Like Abraham before her, who could not have imagined that obeying God and leaving Haran would set in motion a stream of history so vast and one which would include this moment in the manger.
 
Mary helps me grasp just a tiny bit more, the reality of the Incarnation … the incomprehensible truth that “The Word became flesh and dwelt amongst us”. This ordinary mum … the everydayness of childhood, the joys and sorrows of family life and the embracing of humanity in a carpenter's shed.

​May the wonder and truth of the Incarnation be fresh for you this Christmas Season.
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Raindrops

12/13/2016

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I love going to sleep to the sound of rain on the roof. Maybe it just takes me back to childhood. Growing up we lived in a small timber cottage with a iron roof and somehow the rain sounded comforting and cosy like a warm blanket or a cuddly teddy bear. I’d snuggle under the covers and drifted off to sleep listening to its gentle patter.
 
I love the smell of rain. Sometimes you can smell it just before it arrives. There's the wonderful aroma of rain on freshly mown grass and the fragrance of the cool freshness of rain after a long hot day.
 
In his book, Surprised by Laughter, Terry Lindvall quotes CS Lewis as saying he learnt to enjoy the wetness of the rain. Not just endure it or live with it but actually enjoy it. I think I can understand that, living as he did in a country with an abundance of rain. It reminds me of the saying, “Some people feel the rain and others just get wet”. 
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I wish I could add the amazing fragrance of this Philadelphus
I love the joy of walking in the rain and the-world-washed-clean feeling after it's rained. 

​But most of all I love the way ordinary, everyday things have an added beauty when touched by raindrops ... a leaf, a spider's web, a simple flower.  
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Blueberry Ash - look closely and you can see a tiny face peeping out from one of the drops at the bottom
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I love the reflection of the surrounding bush in the raindrop
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There is a quiet beauty found in nature when heaven weeps
Photography has trained me to become more observant, to live in the present moment and become more aware of everything around me ... I now see things I would never have noticed before.
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Even a dead calyx becomes a thing of beauty, like a jewelled pendant, when touched by a raindrop
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Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, Bright copper kettles and warm woollen mittens, Brown paper packages tied up with strings, These are a few of my favourite things.
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Casuarina lit up by raindrops
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Berries of a native grass
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A thousand raindrops caught in a spider's web
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I love the raindrop caught in midair.
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So next time it rains, take the opportunity to 'feel' the rain - enjoy its wetness - dance in the rain. Be grateful for its life giving power and catch a glimpse of the beauty it paints all around you.  
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Tokens of love

12/6/2016

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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 the choosing something for me, is part of the gift … the part money can’t buy.
 
I have a beautiful 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. Priceless.
 
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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    Author

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

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