Life Together

Author Note: This is my latest poetical effort, in honour of the fact that graduating uni and leaving behind the wonderful Christian family that are Student Life.

Life Together

Life together is in the taste of marshmallows all gooey in the centre and made smoky by the campfire at Heathcote; of bitter tea prepared by one of my sweet brothers at 3am after a long night in the drop-in centre; of rich chocolate consumed to excess in the giggling company of my dear sisters.

Life together is in the smell of tomatoes and fragrant herbs as Sam makes pasta sauce to feed hungry pray-ers (who have become more than slightly sick of pizza); of sunscreen and overheated plastic under the tarp of our stall at O-week; of the cold misty air that rises off Lake Hume mingling with the stubborn tinge of pancake residue that somehow still clings to my hair from a morning of cooking.

Life together is in the sight of two heads bent over a familiar little green booklet; of a smile of relief as a first year discovers that surveying isn’t that scary after all - and no, I didn’t die; of watching the majestic sun rise as we stand together wrapped in blankets on the beach at Lorne, bleary-eyed after only 2 hours sleep – or less.

Life together is in the sound of those familiar words – “Would you like to do a quick survey? There’s a free Chupa-chupa” – as we hope to find that one student who is curious to find out more; of crowds of hyperactive students screaming “Living on a Prayer” at the top of their lungs – just because it’s the last night of MYC and we can; of the whispers of a prayer in a quiet corner.

Life together is in the touch of a brother’s hand on my shoulder, wordlessly asking “Are you okay?” when I come into Weekly Meeting looking like death warmed up; of my sister’s arms around me as I lament the newest shadow to cross my life; of heads brushing as we huddle together to cry out in prayer.

Life together is in the feeling of overwhelming love and “rightness” of being amongst friends; of delight and freedom of being loved by grace, of the peace that transcends all understanding found in finally seeing where my heart’s true home lies.

Life together is in every memory made, every moment of joy celebrated, every heart changed and future transformed. Our friends, our family, our fellowship. Our Student Life.

Book Selection

(My apologies this is very short and a bit random, and has rant-ish tinges to it, but I've just finished exams, and I felt the need to write something without really thinking what I wrote.)

I have two rules in regards to books that I want to read or buy. If the book is worthy of being read it will:

1. Not have the author's picture on the cover. I never trust books that have the author's picture on the cover... somehow, no matter how great that person is, I always feel like they are trying to sell me their image rather than their thoughts. I'm paying for your words, not a picture of your shiny orthodontically perfected teeth!
2. Not have the author's name written in larger letters than the book title is. Unless you're Charles Dickens or Jane Austen and your books have been so popular for a 100 years or so, and you've earned the right to have your name big, keep your name small. Again, I'm interested in the topic of the book or its story, not who it's written by. Just cause you're a great 'brand name' (ahem... Tom Clancy, Nora Roberts etc.) doesn't make every book you write interesting or good.

Now I shall get back off my soap box and let the rest of you resume whatever more interesting things you were doing before.

A Poetic Turn

This started off as something entirely different... it was originally a poem of thanks to a friend, but somehow became something else entirely. I'm not sure about a couple of the lines... but I needed to 'publish' it or I will keep using up time when I should be doing assignments tweaking it.


"Of Grace"

Out of the darkness you heard my cries
Fought a path through the forest of lies
Called me beloved and opened my eyes
To grace

You whispered of a Way and a Light
To lead my heart from its starless night
Having tasted it, my soul will fight
For grace

Unashamedly my soul now sings
For God has given this fledgling wings
My spirit soars free as each dawn brings
His grace

KJGH, May 2009

Unfallen Tears

I had the fantastic opportunity last night to see Casting Crowns live in concert in Brisbane. This has been their first trip to Australia, and their concert was awesome! If you are ever offered the chance to see them, even if you're not familiar with their music, I would highly recommend you go see them.

I love their music, although sometimes I think I become over-familiar with it, and it becomes less meaningful - just a beautiful collection of notes and rhyming phrases strung together. But last night I was really struck by the lyrics of "Does Anybody Hear Her?" Mark Hall was talking about the girl who inspired the story - a girl, only high school age, who came along to his youth group, only to be turned away by the judgemental attitudes of some of the Christians.

Part of it made me sad, thinking of not dissimilar moments in my own life, where I have struggled with throwing my self after the wrong things and with hypocrisy in the church. It made me want to cry, but I could not. The tears would not fall, because even as the sadness grew, so did the hope of the knowledge that my fate was not to keep wandering. God found me, and he drew me into a family of believers who accepted me just as I am, and even better, he accepted me into His family. Stains and all.

So if you are still wandering, keep seeking. Even if you've had bad experiences with the church before, keep trying. God is much bigger and much better than the church could even be. The church is just a imperfect pointer to a perfect God, who loves you.

It was the book's fault, I swear!

Do you think its possible that a work of fiction can take over your mind and heart?

I do.

I know it sounds foolish, but I have just finished reading the (huge) latest installment in one of my favourite fantasy series, The Obernewtyn Chronicles, and in some ways, I found myself struggling to escape the book. Not just in a "I couldn't put it down" kind of way. I mean, when I did put it down, for the necessary tasks of eating, sleeping and spending time with family and friends, it was still there, within my mind. If you think I sound insane, stop reading now.

Sometimes, you just connect with the story's narrator, so that you aren't just listening to the story, you become a part of them. You start asking "Where will I be taken next? What is happening to my friends?" And when you are forced to stop reading for a little while, you are still partially that person. Their expressions creep into your speech and you start to have thoughts that reflect their 'point of view' of a situation, more than your own. And then finally you finish the book, and the spell is broken.

The written word is a powerful tool. As a reader and sometimes writer, I know this quite well. But it always shocks me, the hold some books can have on my mind and even my heart - for my emotions tend to follow my thoughts closely. So be careful what you read!

The Christmas Sessions: Part 1

Yes, the title is stolen from MercyMe's Christmas album. I chose it because I wanted to reflect a little on a couple of my favourite Christmas carols. Often, we hear carols so often they become background music to us. But they're so much more than that - they are beautiful hymns about one of the most spectacular events this world has ever seen, the night God himself came down to become human and to live amongst us.

O come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant... As Christians, because of our faith in the grace of God, we can be both joyful and triumphant. Joyful, because of all that Christ has done for us to bring us home. And triumphant, not because of anything we've done, but because of the victory won for us by Christ, defeating sin. Isn't it amazing that no matter what sins dog us, we can have confidence that God has already won the war for us, and sin is no longer in control of us?

O come, let us adore Him... I know this is something I never spend enough time doing. Just loving, worshipping and adoring Jesus for who He is and what He did. Pray, sing, write, create, whatever... just try and spend some time this Christmas appreciating the child whose birth we celebrate and the Saviour he would be.

O come, all ye faithful,
Joyful and triumphant.
O come ye, o come ye,
To Bethlehem.
Come and behold Him,
Born the King of Angels.

O come, let us adore Him.
O come, let us adore Him.
O come, let us adore Him,
Christ the Lord.

Haunted

Some of my university friends and I - two guys and two other girls - really enjoy watching movies together and eating a lot of junk food. So we've developed a holiday ritual of crashing at someone's house, hiring three or four movies and lazing on the couch all day. Now, particularly because of the influence of the boys, we tend to watch a lot of thriller and horror movies.

We had such a movie day last Wednesday, and I have been haunted ever since. The first movie the group decided to watch was Wolf Creek, which is an Australian horror movie. It has an 18 plus rating in most countries and it definitely requires it, because it has haunted me since.

And I only lasted for half the movie.

Most of the first part of the movie is spent setting it up, but when it starts to get gory, it goes all the way and very quickly. After 10 minutes of this, I was crying, shaking and completely nauseated.

One of my male friends, who regularly watches this kind of movie, was surprised by my strong response to what I was watching and hearing. He made a remark that seemed to imply he thought I should be able to seperate reality from the make up, effects and acting that is on the screen. I was unable to answer him at the time, and at that point, the other guy (whose house it was) stopped the movie to escort me to somewhere I could sit and entertain myself for the rest of the movie, as he could see I wasn't enjoying it.

Though he will probably not see it, here is my answer to why I think I responded so strongly to the scenes in Wolf Creek. One is that, in Australia, this story of kidnapped and tortured backpackers is not so far-fetched. We have had two high profile cases in my lifetime of backpackers or stranded tourists picked up off the highway and killed, sometimes in very brutal ways. The second is that this film is really confronting in the fac that it gives no excuses for the cruelty and sadistic inhumanity of the villain. In the other thriller/horror films we watched that day, we saw violence and death blamed on haunted houses, on curses and hoodoo, on alien invaders, and on schizophrenics who believe they're God. The killer in Wolf Creek was none of these things. He simply... killed and raped and tortured because he found pleasure in it. He found pleasure in evil.

I fear this. I fear it, because I know there is a tiny bit of this madness in every soul on this Earth. My own included, for certain. Because when we're left alone, in the wilderness, and all the rules seem to go out the window, this is what can come out. Maybe not to the same degree, in the same gruesome way, but it is there.

I certainly won't be watching horror movies anymore. It scares me too much, but not in the way most people think. I am not afraid of blood; I am afraid of people.

Where I am from...

This is the speech I gave at my 21st birthday, which was last week - you may have noticed I had to change my header quote from Elizabeth Bennet's "not yet one and twenty" because I now am! It is a sort of poem - I got the idea from Elizabeth at The Merry Rose, who published hers a few momths ago now. There is also a website which explains how to write your own here. There are some explanatory notes at the bottom.

I am from the warmth of a crotcheted blanket, from vegemite on Sao biscuits and from Cruskits smeared with honey, eaten with my grandmother, hearing stories during breakfast in bed.

I am from the fragrant lavender and gardenias along our front path, the heavenly scented wisteria that drooped overhead and the weeping cherry who sways gracefully in the wind and blossoms in the spring, outside my bedroom window. I am from the creek where tadpoles were captured and from the mint and tomato plants that grew intertwined in my grandfather’s garden, sweetening the sea air.

I am from Scotch pride and from stories reported differently with every telling, some tales older than the hills and maybe a little overgrown with fiction. I am from the farm at Harry’s Creek, the post office in Yackandandah and those lost buildings of Old Tallangatta. From the little house where Grace lived and read her Bible every night and the street where bones were broken riding into a parked truck in the dark.

I am from Elizabeth’s prejudice and Mr Darcy’s pride, from Anne at Green Gables and her diamond bursts and marble halls, from Rebecca and her fairy story of Sunnybrook Farm. I am from worlds inhabited by dragons and dryads, where fey moons rise over emerald forests and epic quests for magic lions and magic rings unfold through the unlikeliest of heroes.

I am from long conversations on instant messenger programs and hours spent viewing the world through a computer screen. I am from a life with many cables attached, that yearns for the simplicity of the hand-written and the handmade.

I am from the sherry trifle for every special occasion, always with that extra dash of sherry for good measure, and from rich warm casseroles on the coldest of nights, straight out of the oven and soaking into toast.

I am from my father’s answers for a child never satisfied with not knowing why or how or when or what; from my mother’s arms around me, sacrificing her sleep when I could not, holding my hand through each time of stress or sickness or pain. I am from the games I played with my sister, the songs that we would sing, jumping of beds in our pyjamas and those old clothes we would dress up in when we were princesses or witches, nurses or brides.

I am from a second birth, a new creation of God, changed by grace and love, given yet wholly undeserved; from the Potter’s hand, which took an uncertain and unwilling heart - claimed it, reworked it and gave it purpose.

I am from a past of plenty – many smiles and tears, memories and photographs and stories. And I am from a future that will be far richer, in joy and in suffering, in wonder and in sadness and in hope, and always in love, as I discover who He made me be...


Notes:

Stanza 1: My maternal grandmother passed away when I was in Year 8. I miss her greatly, though I have strong and treasured memories of sitting up in bed with her each morning. My aunt would always bring Grandma her morning tea and the decribed biscuits (with extra ones for the little intruders) and Grandma would tell us stories of when she or her daughters were little. All the time there would be much fussing as to whether my sister and I were bundled up warm enough.

Stanza 3: The places listed as of historical significance to my mother's family. Grace was my dad's grandmother, and was something of a family matriarch. She was also the last 'born-again' Christian in my family before me. It seems doubly ironic to me that as well as inheriting her faith, I also inherited her name. (It's one of my middle names, for any one confused.) My dad broke his collarbone riding his bike down his street in the dark.

Stanza 4: Yes, in many ways, I am a 21st century girl - I love MSN, Blogger and my iPod! But I also love the satisfaction of knitting my own cushion covers, embroidering a brithday present for a friend and am looking forward to the challenge of learning to crochet this winter!

Stanza 8: A few people have questioned my use of suffering and sadness in my list of things I'm 'looking forward' to in the future. I'm not saying that I'm excited for the sad times or pain. I just know that God has a life planned for me that is going to challenge me as much as it is going to be joyful and beautiful.

A Fairy Story

This is an extract from Kate Douglas Wiggin's novel, Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. This is one of my favourite children's books, and I hope one day to read it to my own daughter (or son, but I tend to picture a daughter). While I love the whole book because of the beauty of the story and the charm of the characters, this 'story' written by Rebecca as her entry for her school essay contest touches my heart and my spirit. It's beautiful analogy of the earth bound princess having her burdens lifted by the command of "the King" (God) and her growing awareness of Him, and the joyful return of the "Fairy Godmother" (a servant of God - a believer) to His presence. When I go to God's presence, I hope that He will say to me that He heard me on the road to doing His work and be pleased.

A FAIRY STORY

There was once a tired and rather poverty-stricken Princess who dwelt in a cottage on the great highway between two cities. She was not as unhappy as thousands of others; indeed, she had much to be grateful for, but the life she lived and the work she did were full hard for one who was fashioned slenderly.

Now the cottage stood by the edge of a great green forest where the wind was always singing in the branches and the sunshine filtering through the leaves.

And one day when the Princess was sitting by the wayside quite spent by her labor in the fields, she saw a golden chariot rolling down the King's Highway, and in it a person who could be none other than somebody's Fairy Godmother on her way to the Court. The chariot halted at her door, and though the Princess had read of such beneficent personages, she never dreamed for an instant that one of them could ever alight at her cottage.

"If you are tired, poor little Princess, why do you not go into the cool green forest and rest?" asked the Fairy Godmother.
"Because I have no time," she answered.
"I must go back to my plough."
"Is that your plough leaning by the tree, and is it not too heavy?"
"It is heavy," answered the Princess, "but I love to turn the hard earth into soft furrows and know that I am making good soil wherein my seeds may grow. When I feel the weight too much, I try to think of the harvest."

The golden chariot passed on, and the two talked no more together that day; nevertheless the King's messengers were busy, for they whispered one word into the ear of the Fairy Godmother and another into the ear of the Princess, though so faintly that neither of them realized that the King had spoken.

The next morning a strong man knocked at the cottage door, and doffing his hat to the Princess said: "A golden chariot passed me yesterday,and one within it flung me a purse of ducats, saying: 'Go out into the King's Highway and search until you find a cottage and a heavy plough leaning against a tree near by. Enter and say to the Princess whom you will find there: "I will guide the plough and you must go and rest, or walk in the cool green forest; for this is the command of your Fairy Godmother." ' "

And the same thing happened every day, and every day the tired Princess walked in the green wood. Many times she caught the glitter of the chariot and ran into the Highway to give thanks to the Fairy Godmother; but she was never fleet enough to reach the spot. She could only stand with eager eyes and longing heart as the chariot passed by.Yet she never failed to catch a smile, and sometimes a word or two floated back to her, words that sounded like: "I would not be thanked.We are all children of the same King, and I am only his messenger."

Now as the Princess walked daily in the green forest, hearing the wind singing in the branches and seeing the sunlight filter through the lattice-work of green leaves, there came unto her thoughts that had lain asleep in the stifling air of the cottage and the weariness of guiding the plough. And by and by she took a needle from her girdle and pricked the thoughts on the leaves of the trees and sent them into the air to float hither and thither. And it came to pass that people began to pick them up, and holding them against the sun, to read what was written on them, and this was because the simple little words on the leaves were only, after all, a part of one of the King's messages, such as the Fairy Godmother dropped continually from her golden chariot.

But the miracle of the story lies deeper than all this.

Whenever the Princess pricked the words upon the leaves she added a thought of her Fairy Godmother, and folding it close within, sent the leaf out on the breeze to float hither and thither and fall where it would. And many other little Princesses felt the same impulse and did the same thing. And as nothing is ever lost in the King's Dominion, so these thoughts and wishes and hopes, being full of love and gratitude,had no power to die, but took unto themselves other shapes and lived on forever. They cannot be seen, our vision is too weak; nor heard,our hearing is too dull; but they can sometimes be felt, and we know not what force is stirring our hearts to nobler aims.

The end of the story is not come, but it may be that some day when the Fairy Godmother has a message to deliver in person straight to the King, he will say: "Your face I know; your voice, your thoughts, and your heart. I have heard the rumble of your chariot wheels on the great Highway, and I knew that you were on the King's business. Herein my hand is a sheaf of messages from every quarter of my kingdom.They were delivered by weary and footsore travelers, who said that they could never have reached the gate in safety had it not been for your help and inspiration. Read them, that you may know when and where and how you sped the King's service."

And when the Fairy Godmother reads them, it may be that sweet odors will rise from the pages, and half-forgotten memories will stir the air; but in the gladness of the moment nothing will be half so lovely as the voice of the King when he said: "Read, and know how you sped the King's service."

Rebecca Rowena Randall

Text copied from Project Gutenberg. You can read the whole book free there (or copy it to wherever you like), as this work is now out-of-copyright.

Semi-Charmed Kind of Life

I've just been reminded tonight and this morning (it's very early morning here, believe me) about how truly blessed I am...

I've just come home from seeing the most fabulous production of Phantom of the Opera, held at the Lyric Theatre in Sydney. It was wonderful, the beautiful singing, the passion of the acting, the incredibly effects, and just the magic of the whole atmosphere - plus I got to share it with someone as dear to me as a sister, as well as 11 other awesome friends and acquaintances. We were talking about musicals afterward, and the comment of a friend made me realise how lucky and indulged I was as a child, that I have experienced so much of the theatre and its magic. How many kids nowadays get taken to at least 5 musicals before the age of 9? My parents have been very good to me, and it's only now I realise just how incredibly blessed I was.

The other thing, which is even more special, is knowing that I am blessed by God. I had an exam two weeks ago, that was incredibly hard. I was certain I was going to fail. And not just a "Oh, I don't think I did incredibly well and I don't want to lose face" but a "I had know idea what they were asking in that question, and I hadn't even studied that material" kind of fail. But God "saw me out of the corner of his eye" and He carried me through. I can only say that the wisdom that ended up on that paper must have been heaven sent, because I certainly didn't take it into the exam with me. So, here's to God, for carrying me through this exam and giving me another chance.

He likes what?!

Despite this journal having a readership of one... although maybe it will become more eventually, or possibly I have a secret stalker I don't know about... but that is beside the point. In spite of the fact that no-one beside myself views this sad little corner of the internet, I would like to promote to you all a little piece of silliness that restores my sanity just by looking at it. I wish to present to you the website "I firmly believe that Mr Tulkinghorn likes muffins", generally found at http://www.loggods.com/pestilence/tulkinghorn/home.html. It is a delightful piece of whimsy (and you know how much I like whimsical things!) and it is just so funny.

Granted, it takes a fairly extensive knowledge of "Bleak House" to fully appreciate it. Not to much a sense of the ridiculous. But since I have the latter in spades, it is matters very little whether I have the former or not. But how can you not be amused by such a line as "Perhaps you missed the subtleties of what occurred during each jam-packed (strawberry jam, I assume) episode." I grant you in isolation, it is merely amusing, but in the context of the whole website, it is hilarious. In fact, the whole site is hilarious. I mean, a website dedicated to the idea that one of Dickens' most despised characters could have a secret yearning for good muffin is incredibly amusing, is it not?