Diary Of A Sahm 115j6b

EVER HAD CHILDREN IN A GASTRO CHAIN REACTION? YOUR DOG IN THE SANDPIT AND THE SAND OUTSIDE? Then you’ll know the challenges and rewards of faith-based parenting, told here with wit and tenderness.

I love Diary of a SAHM. It’s fun, real and inspiring. Jess Newman’s engaging style feels like a chat with a friend. I’ve met her devoted family and seen firsthand the love they enjoy from God and share together. It’s what sustains her in the tiring, inspiring, maddening and enriching task of parenthood. Reading of Jess’ adventures and reflections, I, too, am inspired to live joyfully and well. MEL HAYDE, Author, Terrific Toddlers

PO Box 43428

Casuarina NT 0811

www.essentiallyjess.com

Diary of a SAHM AUTHOR ILLUSTRATOR DESIGNER PRINTER

Copyright © 2013 by Jess Newman. Jess Newman, www.essentiallyjess.com Rick Menard, www.rickmenard.com Stuart Gibson, www.bookdesign.com.au Mherson’s Printing. Printed in Australia.

First published 2013.

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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the publisher. All product and service names and marks referred to are ed trademarks™® of their respective owners. Reference to Preparation for Parenting by Gary and Anne-Marie Ezzo. Copyright © 2010, Growing Families International. Scripture taken from The Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan.

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry AUTHOR TITLE ISBN ISBN SUBJECTS

OTHER CONTRIBUTORS DEWEY NUMBER

Newman, Jess, author. Diary of a SAHM/ by Jess Newman; illustrations by Rick Menard. 9780987600417 (paperback) 9780987600400 Newman, Jess—Diaries. Mothers—Australia—Diaries. Motherhood—Australia—Diaries. Menard, Rick, illustrator. 306.8743

CONTENTS

MAY 24 MAY 26 MAY 30 JUN 1 JUN 10 JUN 14 JUN 22 JUN 24 JUN 26 JUL 4 JUL 8 JUL 13 JUL 18 JUL 23 JUL 27 AUG 10 AUG 20 AUG 24 SEP 1 SEP 15 SEP 22 SEP 28 OCT 1 OCT 26 OCT 30 NOV 6 NOV 18 DEC 10

Writer’s Block Jess’ Letter to the Corinthian Mothers Group The Definition of Insanity Conversations in Cars Perfectly Imperfect Too Hot to Handle A Purpose in Purple Don’t Stop Just When You Think You’ve Got it Right The Best Week Ever Hospital Epiphanies Happy Birthday, Bailey The Potter’s Hand Lessons from the Sandpit On the Hunt Stepping Out of the Cave Aiming for Euphoric That Guy If You Love Something, Give it Back Are We There Yet? One of Those Days World’s Best Mother My Own Worst Enemy Where You Start, Counts Catching Up Different Strokes for Different Folks At the Heart of It All Good Trees Bear Fruit

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A huge thank you to Stuart from Book Design Australia, who took my manuscript and turned it into something beautiful. I could not have done it without you, and consider you a blessing from Heaven.

Likewise the wonderful work of Rick in the illustrations; being able to so accurately capture my vision so perfectly is quite miraculous.

Thanks to my gorgeous friend Kate, who willingly read each draft, edited my errors and provided much-needed throughout. I’m so very appreciative of what you’ve done, and who you are.

Thanks also to my constant -team, Mum and Dad, for all your backing; financial and emotional. I wouldn’t be who I was without either of you, and I’m so grateful to call you both my parents.

To my kids: Taylah, Bridie, Bailey and Ava. I used to think that you made me what I was. Now I realise I’ve always been me, but you’ve been the ones to show me that who I am, is enough. Love you guys so very much. Calling you awesome doesn’t even cover it.

And finally, my Boatman. Thank you for always believing in me, for changing your schedule to help me pursue my dreams, and for being so darn hot as well.

Love you the most, I win.

DEDICATION

FOR MY CRAZY, WACKY, always making me smile, cry, or pull my hair out family. You guys are awesome, and I wouldn’t change you for the world.

INTRODUCTION

A FAMOUS PERSON ONCE SAID, ‘If you’re looking for a rainbow, check behind the garden fence.’

Actually I’m not so sure it was a famous person, so much as Tommy from Rugrats, but he certainly reaches celebrity status in these parts.

Most books start with a grand quote to set the tone for the pages to come, and let the reader know what journey they’re about to begin.

This one is no different. Apart, perhaps, from the grand part. (Unless you too are a fan of Chucky and the gang.)

I’ve always been a person who’s convinced that life should be big and great and wonderful. That we all have a capacity to change the world and achieve heroic things.

I’ve also always been a person who quite enjoys living a ‘small’ life, hanging at home, and, on occasion, avoiding people altogether.

I’m two parts melancholy, one part choleric with a half-dose of sanguine and phlegmatic added for good measure. I’m melodramatic, a dreamer, neurotic and obsessive, although occasionally laid back.

Not really the sort of person who you would pick to play an important role here on planet Earth, and yet …

I wrote this diary way back in 2009. At the time, Tim (my awesome and incredibly good-looking husband) and I had three children, and like the vast majority of people, we were struggling in our roles as parents. Some days were OK; others left us covered in wee and smushed banana, and ended with me rocking in the corner.

No, not figuratively.

But unlike many others, we also had tools and skills to help us make those bad days the exception, and not the norm.

About two years earlier, on a normal Sunday, we were in church listening to the standard announcements, and our lives were changed.

‘We’re running a Growing Kids God’s Way course, and looking for parents interested in taking part.’

Neither of us knew a great deal about the program, but we signed up anyway, thinking that any help would be—well—helpful.

We were right.

The information we received over the following five months, and then implemented in our home, changed everything. The kids were happier, Tim was happier, and I was happier.

We learnt tools to help develop our children’s character and train their hearts, rather than just focusing on their behaviour. But what we learnt about ourselves was even better.

I found that through the process of training my children, God was actually training me. I moved from being a mum who was concerned about others’ opinions of me, who looked for short-term solutions to life-long struggles and who dealt with issues reactively rather than pro-actively, to a mother who was parenting for the sole purpose of giving God glory. One who was making a difference, changing the world, and doing something ‘huge’ simply by being a mum.

And that’s how I began to see the rainbow behind the garden fence. The promise of God’s love and faithfulness right there in suburbia.

And so with that, I present to you the Diary of a Stay-at-Home-Mum. Authentic, hopeful, and a little bit crazy.

WRITER’S BLOCK

WELL THIS IS RIDICULOUS. I am sitting at the computer, ready to pour out my heart and soul to whoever might possibly happen upon this, and I have no idea where to start. And I almost didn’t get that sentence onto the page after inadvertently adding a header and footer. Removing them proved almost too difficult for my technology-challenged self.

Thankfully we made it though.

So anyway, back to the start.

This week has been a struggle for me.

Although I love my children dearly and find it difficult to be away from them for any length of time, I have been lamenting how deeply disappointing my life as a stay-at-home mum is. As far as I can see, I am nothing more than a highly-strung nappy-changer, and it’s highly likely that all my brain cells are soon going to completely deteriorate and drip out of my ears.

Now while that may sound truly terrible to some (the despondency, not the brain dripping), it may help to understand where I am coming from if I explain the past week.

My husband Tim (otherwise known as Boatman), is working part time on a fishing charter and part time in his own business. This means that when he is home, he is home for long periods and I love this (though he does have a tendency to mess my routine around). But when he is working, he is gone before the children are awake and back 20 minutes before they go to sleep.

That’s a long day for anyone, particularly when you have three children who are wonderful and exasperating all at once.

As most children are.

My middle child, Bridie, is almost three and finds these days particularly difficult. Did you ever hear the rhyme about the little girl who had a little curl right in the middle of her forehead? When she was good, she was very, very good, but when she was bad she was horrid. Well that’s Bridie, except her curls are at the back of her head and her behaviour is worse. I’m sure of it.

In the past week Bridie has:

argued about the need to wear knickers at least once a day.

weed on her sheets on four separate occasions after she was told to go to her room; and

weed on the carpet three times because she was unable to make it to her bedroom in time.

That, my friends, is a whole lot of wee.

But it hasn’t just been Bridie.

And it hasn’t just been wee. Oh no.

That would be too easy.

On several different days, all of the following scenarios occurred:

I forced my two older children to sit on the couch while I lectured them about their fighting and slamming of doors. I explained that the drama in the hallway did nothing to assist my ability to poo, something they both had taken the opportunity to do that morning.

I sat in the carport and cried while my toddler, strapped in her booster chair, screamed and screamed because she did not want to finish her banana, a fate which according to her, is truly terrible.

I stood at the kitchen sink and cried because my 10-month-old son doesn’t feel that he needs to sleep.

I sat in bed and cried because fishing charters don’t bring in enough money to five people, two dogs, a cat and a handful of guppies. The idea of me returning to work to bring in a second income is completely out of the question however, because even though I am tired, emotional and constipated, I love these children too much to give them anything less than God’s best, and unbelievably, I believe that is me.

I also have finally itted that I have an addiction to chocolate milk and if I didn’t drink so much of it, possibly my husband need not work so much. And …

I got my first boil ever.

On my butt.

I thought it was hard to poo beforehand, now I can’t even sit on the toilet.

Now if all this talk of bowel movements has not completely put you off, I hope you’ll keep on reading. I find God tends to talk to me as I move through a

process, and I am sensing that He has me at the computer to teach me something about being a mum and to help others who may be discouraged as well.

And if not, you can always just laugh at me.

JESS’ LETTER TO THE CORINTHIAN MOTHERS GROUP

I WAS READING THE BIBLE THIS MORNING, trying to find a particular scripture age (I am sure it has just fallen out; there really is no other explanation) when I came across this:

We put no stumbling block in anyone’s path, so that our ministry will not be discredited. Rather, as servants of God we commend ourselves in every way: in great endurance; in troubles, hardships and distresses; in beatings, imprisonments and riots; in hard work, sleepless nights and hunger; in purity, understanding, patience and kindness; in the Holy Spirit and in sincere love; in truthful speech and in the power of God; with weapons of righteousness in the right hand and in the left; through glory and dishonour, bad report and good report; genuine yet regarded as imposters; known yet regarded as unknown; dying and yet we live on; beaten and yet not killed; sorrowful yet always rejoicing; poor yet making many rich; having nothing and yet possessing everything. 2 Corinthians 6:3–10

As I was reading, it struck me that Paul may have been talking to mums as well as the persecuted church. I mean, I for one can relate.

Let me try and rephrase it in a way that will help you understand what I’m talking about:

We try not to put stumbling blocks in anyone’s path. Rather we make every effort to ensure our children are well behaved, so our family shows the light of

Christ.

As mums we encourage ourselves in every way: showing great endurance when the mornings are early and the nights are late;

in troubles, hardship and distress;

in beatings, whether they be from the inside (being kicked by our growing bub) or from the outside (being squashed inadvertently by a clumsy toddler trying to sit on our lap);

in being imprisoned at home with children while we wait for a repairman who is, of course, three hours late;

in tantrums that make prison riots look like a walk in the park;

in hard work, sleepless nights and hunger either because you forgot to eat, or because someone dropped a piece of half-chewed toast into your cereal;

in maintaining purity by turning off the TV when inappropriate shows (and sometimes the news) are aired;

in understanding what it means when your child says, ‘William made the thing with stripes and it had these other things coming off it and then he gave it to Jake’;

in showing patience especially when you have multiple children repeating, ‘MUUUUUM!’ at the same time;

in kindly sharing the chocolate you thought you had taken discretely from the fridge;

in learning that life would be so much more complicated without the Holy Spirit leading you;

in realising that sincere love is sometimes covered in snot;

in telling the truth at all times, even when it is easier to lie;

in learning that it is only by the grace and power of God that we have children, let alone raise them; with weapons of righteousness in the right hand and the left and no, that does not mean the wooden spoon, but being able to our children, constantly working on our own character so we can be strong role models;

through glorious school awards and dishonourable meltdowns in Coles;

major illnesses and perfect health (bad report and good report);

in explaining a thousand times, ‘If I tell you off, it’s because I love you, not because I like it’. (being genuine yet regarded as impostors);

walking them to their classroom only to see them run off with friends without saying goodbye (known yet regarded as unknown);

feeling like we will never make it through the day (dying yet we live on);

being bitten, jumped on, squashed, pushed out of bed, and yet we still keep going (beaten and not yet killed);

being completely exhausted, yet unable to sleep because we are gazing at the beautiful face of our newborn (sorrowful yet always rejoicing);

always putting ourselves last when shopping (poor yet making others rich);

sacrificing nights out with friends, nights at the cinema, the latest fashion trends and even family holidays, because you know the little people you are sacrificing these things for are worth every saved dollar (having nothing and yet possessing everything).

And despite all the craziness and heartache and mind-numbing boredom, we are more than a little bit in love with what we do.

THE DEFINITION OF INSANITY

IT’S SUNDAY TODAY and that means we have made it through another week! Or perhaps we are about to start another, in which case, we haven’t set off in the best way. As I sit and write this, Taylah is having thinking time in her room because she didn’t want to play with Bridie. Bridie is happily occupying herself with play dough and Bailey is crying in his room because he doesn’t think he should have a sleep, which seems to be the theme of the month.

When I had Taylah and Bridie, I had no idea you could actually train a child to sleep. I thought that it was normal to get up six or seven times a night to feed a baby. I thought that eventually, they would learn to sleep on their own and if not, you just got a bigger bed or put a mattress on the floor. That way when they did get up during the night, they wouldn’t disturb you too much. That sounds reasonable, right?

So imagine my complete surprise when someone informed me you can actually train a child so they were sleeping through the night by 12 weeks of age. To be perfectly honest, I didn’t believe them. But curiosity, and the extreme fatigue I experienced with Bridie got the better of me, so I decided to look into it.

About three months before Bailey was born, we discovered the material from Growing Families Australia (GFA) and completed a Preparation for Parenting course, which explained the theories and principles.

Now for those of you not familiar with the material, here’s a quick summary: mum and dad control their child’s day. They provide a flexible routine but determine when the child will eat, play and sleep. It’s about balancing the needs

of the infant, with a timetabled structure, that also benefits the rest of the family. So for example, newborns are fed when they are hungry, but mum makes certain the baby is getting a full feed and not just a snack. This eliminates the need to be feeding around the hour, which can be draining, but also benefits the baby by setting up healthy eating patterns. If the mother is successful, the baby falls into a 2½–3 hourly routine quite naturally, and then begins to stretch out his night sleeps until, by twelve weeks of age, he is sleeping through the night.

Bailey, upon his arrival into the world, decided that he would not be dictated by a book. Or by anyone else for that matter.

He would eat every two hours and sleep when he felt like it. If he was put to bed and did not want to sleep, he would lie contentedly staring at the world until it was time for his next feed. He would suckle for a few moments, then fall asleep, wake early because he was hungry, at which point he would start the whole process again.

By the time he was six weeks of age, I was dealing with a dramatically fatigued baby who wasn’t eating or sleeping right. In fact he wasn’t sleeping through the night until 19 weeks. That was when he got it. (A side note; I realise that most mothers would be ecstatic with a child sleeping through by 19 weeks, and I was too. Taylah had taken nine months, and Bridie took almost two years. However, in the context of Parent Directed Feeding (as explained above), over 90% of newborns whose parents follow the principles consistently, will be sleeping through by twelve weeks.)

What I didn’t realize was that Bailey needed a tight schedule. While most babies function well with a degree of flexibility, he doesn’t. Even now, when he is almost 11 months, I need to make sure he goes down to sleep at the right time. I can’t miss his schedule by even a few minutes, or believe me, we have hell to pay.

Of course Sundays present a small problem because we leave for church right on nap time. I can usually get him down for a short nap at church if I go to the nursery straight away, make sure the speaker is not too loud, and rock him to sleep in my arms. I don’t get to hear much of the sermon or participate in the worship, but I do ensure his sleep and my sanity for the week. And let’s face it, you can’t put a high enough price on parental sanity.

This morning we were getting ready for church when I suddenly realised the baby seat was in Boatman’s car. He left for work early, and whilst he usually moves it for me, he hadn’t been feeling too well this morning. I checked my car but there was no seat.

He had forgotten.

I thought about not going to church. Bailey would get a better sleep and it’s not like I hear a lot anyway. It would be easy and so much less stressful just to stay home. But deep down I knew I needed to show my children that church is a priority in our family, so I decided that today, we were walking.

It’s not really that far (about 20 minutes at a reasonable pace), but when you factor in a five-year-old, a two-year-old and a pram, you easily double the walking time.

We arrived at church half an hour late, hot and extremely sweaty.

I put the girls into their children’s church classes and headed to the nursery,

ready to start my usual rocking-the-baby-to-sleep routine, hoping that the cool of the air-conditioning would settle him, and maybe, just maybe, I could hear the sermon. Surely the mother who was committed enough to walk three young children to church in the heat would be rewarded with the most basic of privileges?

The 40-minute walk had, however, given Bailey time to sit, reflect and decide that he really didn’t need to sleep today. No; sleep is for the weak, and my little man, is anything but weak.

It didn’t help that I had left his special blanket (that he won’t sleep without), at home in my rush to leave the house early. I tried a tea towel from the kitchen, but that was not going to cut it. Instead, he decided that screaming at the top of his lungs was a far better arrangement because then maybe I would feed him and let him play. Which I did, so, I guess it worked.

As I was standing in the nursery rocking him in my arms and trying to concentrate on anything but his woeful tears, I reflected on my morning. As mums, we do some pretty crazy things. Walking three small children to church in the heat is probably not sane by anyone’s standards, especially when the lesson you are trying to impart is probably not going to be ed at their age. But my priority in parenting, is always to work at training the hearts of my children, so that they have a secure, moral base to fall back on. It’s not enough to just tell them what is right, but also to model it, and explain why we do the things we do.

In doing so, I also need to be concerned about training my own heart; making sure that I believe in what I’m doing, enough to actually live it. So even if the girls never I made them walk to church, it was still important, because I ensured the priorities in my own life were in order.

Since coming home, an extremely over-tired Bailey has slept an hour only, and an extremely frazzled Jess has learnt that Boatman did not take the car seat to work. He actually put it on the table in the carport, about half a metre away from the car. If I had bothered to look around I would have seen it.

Maybe this means I need glasses (or possibly a hired-hand to locate missing objects).

Maybe it means I’m going to have a hard couple of days while Bailey catches up on his sleep.

I’m kind of hoping that, today, it just makes me a good mum.

CONVERSATIONS IN CARS

I DIDN’T ANTICIPATE BEING BACK AT THE COMPUTER so quickly, but that’s the beauty of having children. There’s never a dull moment.

Actually that’s a lie.

There are quite a few dull moments, and once you’ve got a couple of children, you actually look forward to these moments with great anticipation.

On the way to school this morning I had to have a talk to my daughter about boys.

She is five.

OK, almost six.

In fact she turns six this Friday.

Either way, who would have ever anticipated this talk at this age? I was kind of hoping we could put it off until she was 14, but knew it was more realistic to think about 11 or 12. My worst case scenario was nine, but five?

Back in the good old days of preschool, Taylah came and told me about a boy she was going to marry. Since she was only four, and her intentions were innocent and cute, I thought nothing of it. (Besides, I had already married myself off at her age, and the apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree.) She was going to marry a boy named Will, and that was OK because he was a nice boy, from a good, Christian home and was also really cute (which is of course what matters).

She was happily betrothed to Will for about four weeks, then came home saying she wasn’t going to marry him anymore, that she was going to marry someone else (I can’t his name; obviously he wasn’t quite as spunky.)

‘What happened to Will?’ I asked.

‘Oh nothing. So and so said he wanted to marry me, so I said OK.’

I was slightly disturbed by the change of events, but whether that was because Taylah was changing fiancées on the random request of some four-year-old, or because she wasn’t marrying Will anymore, I couldn’t be sure.

But when she came home the following day and said she was engaged to someone else, I decided this had to stop.

I sat her down and told her we didn’t really need to talk about who she was going to marry because she was too young. It was something she could think about later.

When she was much older.

Like maybe 80.

Thankfully her teacher backed me up (turned out the boys were all fighting over her, as they should!), and all the marriage talk stopped.

Now I probably should point out that although my daughter is beautiful and lovable, with a great sense of humour and a natural affinity for dance, is athletic, with an optimistic outlook on life, and will be a great catch for the man lucky enough to marry her (and the list does go on), there are only four girls in her class of 22.

The boys really don’t have a whole lot to choose from.

We didn’t hear any more marriage talk after that, although she did ask a few months ago if I would help her find a good husband like daddy when she was older. I briefly considered getting her to sign a contract stating that she was handing all husband-choosing duties to me, but Boatman didn’t think that was such a great idea. Something about how she was not really able to understand what she was g away. In a few years, he is going to be regretting this decision I’m sure.

Anyway, a few weeks ago she told me she was going to marry Sam*. Again I reminded her that she was too young to be talking about marriage and thought nothing more of it.

So imagine my surprise when Sam bounds up to me while I am at school one day , and says with the biggest smile on his face, ‘Excuse me, but I’m going to marry Taylah!’. I have to say that it took all of my self-control not to respond with, ‘No you will not young man! Do you think you can just waltz up to me and tell me you’re going to marry my daughter? I don’t think so! I don’t even know you!’

Instead I calmly replied, ‘Well you’ll have to ask Taylah’s daddy about that.’ Ha ha, fat chance Sam!

Unfortunately neither Taylah nor Sam were quite aware of my internal monologue, and obviously took that as some kind of blessing.

At moments such as these, it seems self control is not such a great idea.

So this morning, while we’re getting in the car (with the car seat this time), dear little Taylah dropped an off-hand comment about how glad she was that Sam was coming to her birthday party. She said she and Sam really liked each other.

There was something about the way she said ‘liked’ that set off major warning bells, and made me realise I was dealing with more than just the innocent mumand-dad games of five-year-olds. In their minds, Taylah’s birthday party was probably a good way to get the families talking and planning the wedding.

We all know how conniving these five-year-olds can be.

So being the diplomatic, patient, ever gracious mother that I am, I chose that moment just before we left the house to say harshly, ‘That is silly talk! You are too young to be talking about boys and about getting married. It is inappropriate and I don’t want to hear any more about it!’

‘Yes mum,’ she replied meekly. And as we left the house, I saw the dejected slump in her shoulders and knew I hadn’t done the right thing.

I tried to fix it in the car by explaining that while it was OK to be friends with Sam and other boys, it wasn’t right to talk about them all the time or to talk about marrying them. I tried to give her examples of what to say if the subject came up with Sam or with her friends, so she would know how to handle herself.

In other words I tried to make it right, and do it the way I should have first time around.

‘Do you understand?’ I asked.

She spoke so quietly I had no hope of hearing her response, so I glanced in the rear view mirror to see her reaction instead. Her eyes were filling with tears and she looked just about the saddest I had ever seen her. I pulled the car over, unbuckled my seat belt and looked at Taylah.

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked

‘I don’t know.’

‘Then why are you sad?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘If you don’t tell me why you’re sad, I can’t help you feel better.’

‘I just feel sad.’

‘Did something Mummy say make you sad?’

‘Yes.’

‘Which part?’

‘That I couldn’t marry Sam.’

‘Darling, I know you like Sam and that’s OK. He’s a nice boy and it’s good that you’re friends. It’s OK to play games like mums and dads too, but mummy doesn’t want you talking about getting married. You’re nearly six, but mummy was 22 when she got married, so you still have a long time to wait. You don’t need to worry about who you’re going to marry because God has picked a really

great husband for you. I don’t know who it is and you might not have met him yet, but I know you can trust God. Right now you just need to worry about having fun with your friends, not about who you’re going to marry.’

There was still a sad look on her face when Sam arrived at school, but I distracted her with a hug and a tickle.

It’s clear it’s going to take a few more talks yet (I’m wishing her birthday invite list had just included girls) and it’s obvious that I need to take a closer look at the books she’s reading and the TV shows she is watching. Shows like Hannah Montana seem innocent enough, but when they are planting thoughts about boys and putting words such as ‘like’ into my daughter’s mind, I think it’s time to turn them off.

As a mum I really do my best to be proactive rather then reactive. Guarding Taylah’s mind against these sorts of thoughts has been a huge concern to me, and yet somehow I’ve missed the mark. Not to say that all is lost. On the positive side, if we can deal with it now (when she is almost six), then maybe at nine, twelve or even fourteen, the issue won’t be as big as it could have been.

This incident has really shown me why we need to guard our children with prayer. At the end of the day, there is only so much you can tell them. God has to do the rest. I’m encouraged by Hannah in the Bible. Even though she only had her son for a short period of time before she handed him over to Eli (who wasn’t exactly a role model for dads), he still grew up to be a Godly man. While there are seven hours each day when Taylah is not under my watchful eye, I know she is under God’s, and today I’m going to ask Him to watch her closely.

*Not his real name.

PERFECTLY IMPERFECT

APPARENTLY THIS WHOLE ‘TRYING TO WRITE REGULARLY’ thing I’ve been doing isn’t really working for me, because it’s been nine days since I last looked at the laptop, let alone sat down to write something.

I do have a wonderful excuse of course (as always).

Boatman has been doing a short course so he can skipper charter boats (and thus get paid more), which means he hasn’t been home a whole lot. When he has been home, he has been studying. It has been quite an adjustment and not one I have done all that well I might add.

Turns out I’m not as laid back and relaxed as I thought I was.

Taylah had her birthday on Friday, so she is officially six now. This milestone has opened up a whole new ball game as far as parenting is concerned. Whilst we have been dealing with different issues for a few months—we have moved from dealing with temper tantrums and knicker issues (which seem oddly comforting now) to trying to train an often unyielding heart to follow God’s commands—I don’t feel quite ready.

Unfortunately for me, my feelings have no say in her growing up, which I find ridiculously rude.

And whilst we’re talking about things that are beyond our control, we received news that Boatman’s Nanna was sick, and would probably only live another few weeks. While she is 96 years old, it still came as a shock.

Of course in true ‘Super Mother’ style, I made the mistake of telling Taylah in the car on the way to school this morning (I really need to stop these car conversations).

To say she was devastated would be a slight under-exaggeration. Completely heartbroken would probably come closer to the truth.

I tried to comfort her by telling her that Nanna was very lucky because she was going to get to see Jesus soon, and no one can be sad about meeting Jesus. She agreed, but as this is her first experience with death, it’s all still a bit sad and scary.

This news has led me to think about Nanna’s funeral, and all the wonderful things people will say about her. (Morbid, I know, since she is still around. Does that make me a terrible person?)

I think it’s sad that you don’t get to attend your own funeral. It’s the one day no one ever says a bad word about you. All your flaws and irritating behaviours are dulled by memory, regret and love.

It’s the one day you get to be perfect.

In light of this insight, I have decided I am going to make a list each week of all the good things I have done and all the mistakes I have made (this is so I can learn from them). I’ve decided I don’t need to wait until I’m dead to hear all the wonderful things people have to say about me. I’m going to say nice things about myself and you have to listen. Or read, as the case may be.

Here goes.

Things I have done well in the last week:

… mmm …

….

…..

This is taking a lot longer than I had hoped.

……

I made 42 cupcakes to take to Taylah’s school for her birthday. (Huzzah!!).

I made a blue-ringed octopus piñata for her birthday party.

I did the grocery shopping and put it all away on the same day! (A huge achievement for me).

I watched my nephew play an entire game of rugby (which is not something I would normally choose to do).

I made the bed every day.

I only bought two chocolate milks (super-impressive).

I made a mermaid palace birthday cake which almost resembled the picture in the book (not really, but there are no pictures here as proof. )

I hosted a birthday party for 12 children.

I enjoyed the Queen’s Birthday public holiday with the children.

I went to the shops late at night to get my husband a packet of Nurofen and then gave him a massage (best wife ever!!!).

Things I didn’t do so well and can improve on:

I lost my temper a few too many times (that’s putting it mildly).

I threw out a birthday invitation because Bridie kept going on and on about it (and in doing so crushed all her hopes and dreams of ever having a fun social life).

I left the washing in the washing machine for almost two days.

I forgot to feed the dog (please don’t report me).

On the way to school, I told Taylah her great-Nanna was dying.

I gave instructions and then didn’t check to make sure they were followed through correctly (one of those things I’m working on).

I ate 15 pieces of pizza (but it was over two days).

I ate a half-serve of chips. (After getting cranky with Boatman for buying burgers without chips, I had to prove a point, but I ended up with so many hot chips I became sick, and was almost put off them for life).

I told God that I was angry with him and I wasn’t going to talk to Him (as you do).

That last point is my personal favourite. If having a temper tantrum with God is something to get excited about.

It all started early on Saturday morning. Bridie had her best friend’s birthday party at 9:30 am, right in the middle of Bailey’s nap time. (This is the party from the thrown-out invite, just so you know. I’m not a complete ogre.) So that Bridie wouldn’t miss out, I arranged to go to the party half-an-hour late to give him a short nap.

So of course he wouldn’t sleep.

Instead I ended up at the party 45 minutes late, grumpy, beyond frazzled, with no chocolate milk, and a very tired baby, only to be told by one of the other mums at the party, that she’d just put her baby to sleep in the pram with a bottle.

Cue my internal rage at God, my children and everything that’s wrong in the universe.

‘Why can’t I do that, God? Why do I have these children that refuse to sleep? They don’t get it from me. I like to sleep!’

Between 9:00 am (when I put him down) and 10:15 am (the time I went to the party), I had tried everything.

I tried leaving him to ‘cry it out’ but he wouldn’t cry.

I tried cuddling him, but that didn’t work either.

I tried breastfeeding him to sleep.

Nothing.

So I decided that God needed to do something. I had tried everything, and it clearly wasn’t working, so it was now time for some kind of supernatural, miraculous intervention of the divine kind.

Now I know God does not violate our will, and Bailey’s will was set on staying awake, but I was sure God would override him this time. After all, he is a baby.

So I prayed. I asked, very nicely, for God to help Bailey go to sleep.

Nothing.

So I tried again. Less nicely, more whingeing and pleading that God would use those hands that flung the stars into space, to shut my baby boy’s eyes.

Still nothing.

So I cried, I begged, I made promises to do anything, so long as I could get

Bailey to sleep, and Bridie to the party.

And, you guessed it, still nothing.

Then I changed tactics. Asking wasn’t working, so it was time to try threatening.

I told God that if He didn’t help Bailey sleep, I would not be going to church tomorrow because I couldn’t risk missing another morning sleep. And surely God wants me to go to church, so He will of course provide a miraculous intervention in the same league as the parting the Red Sea.

Still nothing.

So then I declared that this was all clearly God’s problem, and I was not taking any responsibility! I was done! This was all His fault.

I carried on my little argument with God for two days.

I didn’t go to church Sunday, true to my word. (Yes, this is the same woman who walked her children there a week ago to prove church is a priority. I’m clearly contrary.) I barely said a word to Him all day, but every time I let my mind wander, I heard that soft whisper:

‘We need to talk.

‘Are you talking to Me yet?

‘C’mon Jess, you need to talk to Me.’

It started to wear me down, in a way that only the Holy Spirit can.

On Sunday night I agreed that yes, we did need to talk. Monday morning we (or should I say I?) made up.

I often look at myself and wonder how I can expect great things from my children when I am still throwing temper tantrums myself.

And at God of all people.

Seriously, what part of ‘fear the Lord your God’, don’t I get?

It’s ridiculous that I expect so much more from the little people that are just starting their life, than I myself, after 26 years on this earth, am able to give. When I can’t accept the word ‘no’ gracefully, how on earth can I demand it from them?

Then I ed we are all on a journey. I’m not just training my children, God is training me. Sometimes I get so caught up trying to teach them, I forget

that I have room for improvement too.

I need to learn not to become so disheartened when things don’t go the way I want.

Like when babies don’t sleep.

Or when they climb all over me for a cuddle, and all I want is some personal space.

Or when children want to play board games and I want (or rather, have) to do jobs.

Or even when my jeans don’t fit. This is the way my kids are; this is the way I am.

The way God made us.

The way He wanted us to be.

For some reason God has decided I should have three hyperactive children who don’t want to miss a thing, and who all think that sleep is highly overrated. I’m not exactly sure of how this is helping me grow in character, but I just have to take it as it is. I can’t change them but I can love them and ask God to change me.

I need to let Him change me.

TOO HOT TO HANDLE

IT’S SUNDAY TODAY and I have started the week well. I haven’t had a fit with God and I have gone to church. It was well worth it, I might add.

This month our pastor is focusing on ‘Urban Legends’: beliefs that are based on misinterpretation of scripture. Today’s legend was, ‘God will never give you more than you can handle’.

Fancying myself as quite the bible scholar, I immediately thought, ‘That can’t be right, that’s scriptural.’

It’s not.

The actual scripture says we won’t be tempted beyond what we can bear, not that God won’t give us more than we can handle. In fact, God quite often gives us more than we can handle because it is in our weakness that He is made strong. Look at Moses for example. That guy had no qualifications to be the perfect candidate for leading a few million people across a desert to take over a land. In fact even now, who could do that? I highly doubt that in military school they train their leaders for mass evacuation and occupation of new territories. It would be a logistical nightmare, even with our technology!

Anyway, I was listening to the Christian radio program, Focus on the Family recently and one of the male presenters suggested that mums are busier today than 20–30 years ago. He recalled that when he was a boy, his mother always

had some freshly-baked pastry to share with guests who had just popped around.

I have no idea what he said after that because my mind wandered and suddenly I imagined myself standing in the middle of my perfectly clean, beautifully designed kitchen. The front door opens and in pops my good friend. She is immediately captivated by the light airiness of my spotless house and the beautiful behaviour of my children, who have left the activity they were quietly engaged in, to come and say hello.

‘Sit down, make yourself at home,’ I say, starting the coffee machine.

‘What is that delicious smell?’, my friend asks.

‘I’ve just cleaned the floor,’ I reply. ‘It’s Mountain Fresh.’

‘No, not that smell. It smells like citrus … and golden crust pastry.’

‘Oh that,’ I say, smiling, as I tuck an imaginary strand of perfect hair behind my ear.

‘I’ve just baked a lemon meringue pie. Would you like a slice?’

Of course my guest accepts, and I serve a generous portion with some freshlybrewed coffee. We enjoy a lovely chat while the children quietly entertain themselves in the next room.

Oh and of course, I look perfect. I don’t have a hair out of place and I am wearing one of those 1950s-inspired dresses that perfectly accentuates every part of my perfect body. And maybe an apron …

In reality, this is what would happen if you were to pop by tomorrow:

My first words would be ‘Please excuse the mess’. I would spend the first five minutes of your visit trying in vain to pick up all the shoes Bailey has dragged from the shoe rack, all the toys that have made their way to the lounge room floor, all the pyjamas and knickers covering the couch, and all the water bottles that are lying in random places.

I’d make you a cup of coffee, but it would be instant, and I probably wouldn’t put enough milk in, because I never do. I would offer you a store-bought biscuit but secretly hope you’d say no, so I don’t have to give one to Bridie, and don’t have to worry about chocolate or crumbs all over the floor. A stupid thing to worry about because the floors won’t have been washed—cleaning them was on my list of jobs for today.

Something I probably won’t get around to now.

While your visit was a complete surprise to me, Bailey knew you were coming, and won’t sleep because of it. Bridie will become bored after about 20 minutes and spend the rest of your visit saying, ‘What can I do?’ And although I’ll suggest several different things, she will complain about all of them and end up crying on her bed.

I’d also spend a good portion of the visit being frustrated that you just popped

over, without warning, and threw out my schedule. I’ll be wondering how long you are staying, when you are leaving, and if I will get around to my to-do list at all today.

And worst of all, I won’t look perfect. I’ll be wearing old shorts and a ratty singlet. If you’re lucky I may have brushed my hair and shaved my armpits.

Only if you’re really lucky.

OK, I’m not that bad all the time. But I do have my moments.

I take this mothering thing so seriously sometimes: I worry about the routine and the schedule and all the things that need doing, that I sometimes forget that life is about people. Not about jobs or timetables or clean floors.

People.

I realised a few weeks ago that I have gotten so caught up in doing all the things a SAHM should be doing—and doing them well—that I have forgotten to sit at the feet of Jesus, the feet of my children and at the feet of my husband.

We went to a wedding last night. It was the second time in about a year that the two of us have gone out at night sans children. It was long overdue. I had no one to keep an eye out for, no one to carry on my hip, no one to be responsible for: and so I let my hair down. So much so that one of our friends asked Boatman if I’d had a bit to drink.

‘She’s had one glass of wine,’ he said. ‘But it wouldn’t matter if she’d had none or a bottle. That’s just what she’s like.’

She was shocked. Even though she’s known me for two years, she’s only seen half of me. The half that always has children around.

Which, let’s face it, most of the time, is the stressed-out half.

Now I love my children and I love to have fun, but I also recognise there is a time and place for everything. When my family and I are out, the preciousness of others is of prime importance. This means I am constantly ensuring my children are behaving appropriately, constantly checking where they are, and constantly monitoring whom they are playing with. It is so hard to carry a conversation and watch three children at the same time.

And this is where, sometimes, it feels like more than I can bear.

I don’t think God is giving me more than I can handle in my children or in managing the house, but I think I can manage my expectations differently; I can readjust them.

It’s still important to make sure that my children behave themselves, particularly in a public place. But if I only get four loads of washing done instead of five, is it the end of the world?

If I get no washing done and no dishes done, but you come over and we have a nice cuppa together, is that really so bad?

Of course not.

If I take extra time for my quiet time, or sit on the computer for an hour writing about all the things God is teaching me, have I lost valuable time? Or gained something so much more?

The beautiful thing about feeling like you have more than you can handle, is actually knowing that it means God has to come through. You have to lean on Him. And whether He provides a way out from it (I’d love it if He sent me a cleaner), or He just helps you through the challenge, it doesn’t matter.

I’ll take more than I can handle any day over not having enough, because this way I know I’ve still got more to learn. This way I know God’s still got room to move in my life.

And tomorrow, I bet I’ll regret writing that.

A PURPOSE IN PURPLE

IT’S BEEN A CRAZY MORNING!

And it is only 10:30.

I have had so many thoughts going through my head about what to write—then Bridie threw the mother of all tantrums, giving me even more fuel—but finding the time to sit down has been hard. Until now. So here goes.

Do you ever have days where you have everything planned nicely, but nothing EVER follows the plan?

Well, this was what my morning was supposed to look like:

6:30 Get up and go for nice long walk and have an awesome prayer time.

7:00 Come home, have breakfast, get dressed and put some washing on.

8:30 Get Bridie dressed and ready for a random hearing test I booked a month or two back because I am an overly protective, paranoid mother.

9:00 Hearing test.

9:30 Quick stop at the shop for cucumber, tomatoes, cheese and sandwich meat for Boatman.

10:00 Coffee and read my Bible whilst the girls play nicely together (it’s the first day of the school holidays).

10:30 Give Bailey lunch and then head out to the library to give Boatman the peace and quiet he needs to work on his business.

What really happened:

7:15 We all wake up late. Bailey needs to be woken up. This means his nap time has to be pushed back 45 minutes, meaning I’ll probably have to wake him up in order to go to the library.

7:30 Go for my walk. Feel very fit and have awesome time with God. Check.

8:00 Come home, have breakfast, shower, put Taylah’s sheets in to wash. Check.

8:24 Start to dress Bridie. She does not want to wear purple today. Today she hates purple. I tell her she is wearing it anyway, so she runs to her room and cries.

8:26 Bridie comes out and into the bathroom where I am brushing my hair. She doesn’t want her hair brushed because it will hurt.

‘I’ll be gentle,’ I tell her. ‘You need to have your hair brushed.’

‘I want you to put my clothes on,’ she says.

I ask her to wait for me in the lounge room, but when Boatman finds her he puts her clothes on. She screams at him, runs to her room and starts to take them off. He follows her and tells her to put them back on.

I go into her room and find her hiding underneath her blanket. I tell her she needs to come out and say sorry to daddy.

‘I don’t want to say sorry to daddy. I don’t like him,’ she says.

Where did she get that from?

‘Well you have to come out anyway to have your eyes cleaned and your hair brushed and if you don’t say sorry to dad now, when we come home from the hearing test you will have to sit in your room until you’re ready to say sorry.’

She comes out, cleans her eyes and has her hair brushed with minimal

complaints.

8:40 We get in the car. Bailey is crying because he wants to come too. Bridie still won’t say sorry to Boatman, but she is talking to him. He tells her he is very sad and she just looks at him. ‘I don’t want to say sorry.’

Boatman says again that he is very sad, and she will be very sad too when she comes home and has to sit in her room.

‘I won’t be sad. I’ll be happy,’ she tells him.

I seriously don’t know where this attitude comes from …

9:00 Arrive at hearing test and fill out relevant forms. Sit and read the notice on punctuality and the consequences of arriving late.

9:25 Finally get seen. Am starting to understand why people don’t bother arriving on time.

9:55 Am informed that Bridie has mild hearing loss and will probably need a skin graft to fix the huge hole in her right ear drum. Also, her left ear is backed up with fluid so I’ll need to an ENT specialist.

10:00 Arrive home. Bailey is still not asleep. Call ENT specialist in Adelaide and make an appointment for next week. Thankfully I don’t need a referral

because we have already seen him.

10:15 Go into Bailey who’s screaming at the top of his lungs. Boatman is dealing with the girls who are not playing as nicely as hoped.

10:30 Finally Bailey is asleep. Bridie is watching TV and Taylah is playing quietly in her room. I sit down for a quick cuppa before I will have to wake Bailey (it sounds cruel doesn’t it?) so I can get to the shops and library before lunch. Blow the library, but we do need lunch!

It’s funny how just a split second can change everything. On the way to the clinic this morning I was thinking how Bridie’s behaviour was not so different to how I occasionally act with God. One poor decision and our relationship changes.

I know I’m wrong.

He knows I’m wrong.

He’s hurt and I’m self-justifying, but deep down I realize that I will have to apologise eventually, knowing He loves me and knows what’s best, understanding that even if I don’t like purple today, God has a purpose for purple.

Then I hear the words ‘mild hearing loss’ and my world shifts just a little bit. Now I am no longer frustrated with Bridie, but concerned. As she sat on my lap

with her headphones on, I could see that sometimes she couldn’t even hear the sounds I could. And then as I ed how all this happened, I became angry. My little girl had a huge hole in her ear because of medical negligence.

Last September, I took Bridie to play group. She had come over to sit on my lap for a cuddle and when I leaned in to give her a kiss, I noticed her right ear was covered with dry pus. Taylah had a couple of eardrum perforations at a similar age, so I knew what the problem was. We left playgroup straight away and I went to the only doctor with appointments still available. He prescribed antibiotics and told me to come back in a few days.

So we did.

The ear wasn’t any better so he increased the dosage and again told us to come back in a few days.

Again we did.

While her ear was a little better this time, he suggested we see an ENT specialist just in case, and wrote us a referral. The local specialist, who looked as if he had been practicing medicine when Jesus was a child, was more thorough than the GP and prescribed different drops. Her ear cleared up for about ten days, before it started discharging again. We spent the rest of the year going to the doctor every seven to ten days (sometimes more frequently) to have her ear checked then rechecked, treating an ear drum that was consistently perforating, and barely healing before the next infection hit.

The only time she was problem-free was the three weeks we spent in South

Australia over Christmas and New Year, possibly because the air was dry and humidity-free.

When we returned to Darwin and she complained again about her ear, I took her to my own doctor and asked for a referral to another ENT specialist.

The new specialist diagnosed her problem within seconds. She had thrush.

He gave us a new, more expensive type of drop and said that if she were still having trouble he would put her under anaesthetic to have a good look at the ear.

I was so angry. A fair emotion considering it turned out we had spent about a thousand dollars on thrush. A condition other doctors surely should have picked up, a condition for which antibiotics were useless. We had missed out on swimming lessons, birthday parties and fun family afternoons in the pool for thrush.

And that was just the physical cost. Since discovering this, I have been racked with guilt, over not knowing what was going on, and not adjusting our lives accordingly. How many times had I over compensated for her loudness by talking quietly, too quietly, for her to hear, and then been impatient when she said ‘Pardon?’

I am so glad I decided to pursue my suspicions that there was something more going on, even though I knew I could look like a paranoid, overprotective mother. I am so glad my husband said he would my paranoid suspicions, that he had confidence in me. I am so glad I heard God’s voice and listened, and so glad I have a God who knows my daughter inside out.

When Bridie came home, she finally apologised to Boatman. Much like her mother, she eventually worked out that throwing a tantrum doesn’t pay; a mended relationship is far superior.

And she wore the purple clothes. Even though she didn’t like them. Even though she never saw the purpose in them.

Sometimes we miss seeing the purpose in purple.

DON’T STOP

TIM’S NANNA DIED THIS MORNING. At the time I was coming home from my morning walk, she was going home to Jesus.

Death is a funny thing. Here is a woman whom Boatman has known his entire life and suddenly she is not here anymore.

She’s gone.

To a better place most definitely, but still gone. You think it would make the world stop, but it doesn’t.

This morning I still went to Spotlight with my mum. I washed nappies and made lunch. I read my book. I played Trouble with Taylah. I took Bridie to the doctor. I went to the shops. I bought antibiotics and some bits for dinner. I sang along to songs on the radio. I carried around my whining son. I hugged my children. I kissed my husband. I tidied the kitchen bench.

We did everything we might normally do in a day, but she was gone.

Then this afternoon Boatman and I opened a bottle of Pink Champagne to toast Nanna, and thought of poor Papa. In his life there were only two things he had to do each day; walk to the dining room for his meals and walk to Nanna’s room to

see his wife.

Now half of his daily list of activities was gone.

What do you do when the person you have built your life around for over 60 years, just isn’t there anymore? Did the world stop for him?

I’ve only met Nanna a few times, but from what I’ve heard, she was a devoted grandmother. My favourite memory from our few meetings occurred three years ago when we went to visit her and Papa on our way to Melbourne. They were still in their own house back then and Nanna, who was 93 and very excited by our visit, walked to the local bakery to buy a cream cake and iced biscuits for Taylah. I lost count of how many Taylah ate; definitely far more than she should have!

Bailey is her youngest great-grandchild and she did at least get the chance to meet him before she died. Not that she probably ed. She barely knew who Boatman was, let alone the rest of us. When we saw her in January, I lowered Bailey towards her and said, ‘This is your newest grandson, Nanna. His name is Bailey.’

If I correctly, her response was, ‘Hmm?’ But she put out her hand and he held her finger like little people do, probably wondering who she was and what on Earth was going on. The moment seemed to drag, and for a few panicked seconds, I didn’t think either of them would let go and I’d have to physically remove them from each other. It’s sad to realise this moment is all he will ever have of his great-grandmother; that this moment was all she had of him.

But it’s not over yet.

Since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us. Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider He who endured such opposition from sinful men, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart. Hebrews 12:1–3

Nanna is now one of those witnesses, so she will come to know her greatgrandchildren better than she ever did on earth. She is probably encouraging us, urging us to press on, to do what we can to raise children with hearts turned towards the Lord because she knows—better than all of us now—that our actions have eternal consequences.

Some things truly do last forever.

All our actions have meanings; our heart attitudes are important. Eternity is constantly within our grasp—and how we will spend it is determined by how we live today.

When I look at it that way, I realise why the world doesn’t stop. It is because people in heaven haven’t really gone, they’ve just moved, and hard as that is for us, as different as that makes our world, eternity continues.

There are moments when, as a mother, I wish for just a few minutes to myself. A few moments of quiet with no interruptions. I dream of sitting down in the morning with my coffee and my Bible without Bridie calling out to ask me to wipe her bottom, or Bailey crying in his cot, or Taylah wanting to read her latest story to me. There are moments when I want the world to stop. Not because anyone has died, but just because I would like to get off the treill for a while.

Mothers know that doesn’t happen. Parenting is about eternity, not just about now. We don’t teach our children to sit and do an activity quietly so that we can have a few moments peace. We do it because training them to have self-control better equips them to follow God’s plan for their lives. We don’t teach our children to obey us because it makes our life easier, but because it teaches them to obey God. We don’t tell them to be kind to their sister because just once we would like to hear the sound of siblings playing nicely together, but because ‘Love your neighbour as you love yourself ’ is God’s idea.

So we press on towards Jesus, knowing we’re not alone. We are surrounded by those who have gone before us, who have done the hard yards, gone through the tough times and who now know it was worth every second.

We’ll do our best, Nanna. And though we pause to reflect on who you were, and the life you had, we won’t stop.

JUST WHEN YOU THINK YOU THINK YOU’VE GOT IT RIGHT …

DON’T YOU JUST LOVE the things little children say? I just gave Bridie a tub of fruit purée because it is the only way she will eat fruit, and she said to me, ‘What kind of fruit is this?’

‘It’s apple fruit,’ I told her.

‘What kind of apple fruit?

‘Apple.’

‘Oh, apple.’ And then she ate it.

It’s just a short entry today, because I have a million things to do.

It’s Bridie’s birthday on Tuesday and she is having a party on Sunday,

so there is much shopping to be done.

Boatman has not been getting a lot of work on the fishing charters lately and his business hasn’t quite taken off, so our financial situation is starting to reach the ‘dire straits’ stage.

I have decided to stop reading the book I am in the middle of (which is much harder than it sounds because it is excellent and I was barely able to put it down to do anything yesterday) and kind of fast instead. I figure that apart from sacrificing food (which I can’t do because I am still breastfeeding) and my children (which I don’t think is Biblical), this is probably the greatest sacrifice I can make.

Already I am feeling the pinch.

I also have to drop some things off at the church for the lawn sale tomorrow, and I need to clean the house because we have people coming for dinner. If there is any spare time, I’d like to get all Martha-Stewart (or imaginary baking-queen Jess), and make a dessert.

Maybe a lemon meringue pie …

I have also just realised that my plan of recording all the good and bad things I have done each week hasn’t really happened. In fact it has only happened once. So because I am feeling quite good about myself this morning (and thus will have lots of positive things to say), I thought now would be a good time to do it.

Things I have done well in the last little while:

I wrote myself a new parenting plan (basically a list of character attributes I want to work on cultivating, and how I am going to do that), so I can work on particular issues with my children.

I have stuck to almost all of the plan! I didn’t realise that Taylah would be so exhausting, so my efforts with Bridie haven’t been as intensive, but I figure I can look at that next month when I do my review.

I have not needed to get up to Bailey at all during the past four nights (as per the plan once his teeth were through). Poor little guy has had such a hard time.

I have set the alarm every morning for the last five mornings, so we start the day at the right time rather than over-sleeping.

… I have to add a little note here: I feel as if I have just negated every good act I have achieved above by raising my voice at Bridie for interrupting me for the third time. I feel awful. She is sitting on her bed crying because I scared her. Goes to show that even when you think you’re doing OK, there is still room for improvement.

Got up and went for a walk twice this week, which means extra prayer time, so yay me!

I am going to stop here. You wouldn’t know from reading this, but I have lost my drive because of the incident with Bridie. I didn’t just raise my voice, I took it to a whole new level. My throat actually hurts. In one instant, all the good I have done this past week or so has been erased by my impatience and my frustration at not being able to get five minutes alone.

She is waiting in the kitchen looking at me. I can see she wants a cuddle, but is too afraid to ask. I’ll go and make it right with her and then I need to make it right with God. He didn’t give me this blondehaired angel in a fairy costume, just so that I could yell at her.

THE BEST WEEK EVER

IT’S BEEN ANOTHER ONE OF THOSE WEEKS. I seriously could have written pages and pages, but on the rare chance that I had the time, the energy was sadly lacking.

The fun and games started last Friday night when Taylah and Bridie decided to stage a ‘Vomit Spectacular, Spectacular!’ while we had friends over for a pizzaand-movie night. Now I’ll spare you the gory details, but suffice to say, when we heard a blood-curdling scream from Bridie, we ran into the room to discover a scene equivalent to The Exorcist. It was literally all over walls, carpets, beds and children.

Taylah was even sleeping in it.

I’m fairly certain that if there was an Olympic category for spew, my girls would have taken the gold.

While our poor guests waited in the lounge room (ostensibly trying to work out how they could leave quickly and still be polite), Boatman and I spent the next half-hour cleaning and disinfecting the girls and their room, scrubbing walls and replacing bed sheets.

Because really, who has anything better to do on a Friday night?

Not to be outdone, Bailey ed the fun at five o’clock the next morning. It would hardly be reasonable if he didn’t: no one wants to miss out on that kind of family activity.

At seven I called my mum, begging for help. Boatman was already at work and I was literally running from one child to the other, not even having time to clean one mess before there was another. Because she is mother of the year, not only did she come to help, but she spent the whole day washing all the sheets and towels that had been soiled. And yes it took the whole day, because after a night of vomit craziness and many sheet changes, there were nine loads of washing.

By Saturday afternoon, Taylah was a lot better, Bailey was mostly better and Bridie was a little better. My concern had changed from how many spare clean sheets I had, to whether or not I should be cancelling Bridie’s birthday party for the next day, or hope that it was just some kind of 24-hour thing.

Drinking from the half-full glass of eternal optimism, I set to work on constructing a fairy palace made of cake and far too much icing, for the hopefully-still-happening birthday party.

And I did a mighty fine job if I do say so myself. (Which I do, because I am telling the story and there is no one here to contradict me). In fact, it was possibly as good as the fish cake of 2007, perhaps even better.

No, scratch that.

Nothing was better than that.

Sunday morning dawned bright and clear, and everyone seemed miraculously healed, meaning there was no need to hurriedly call all the guests’ parents. Boatman also had the day off, and what had threatened to be a complete wash out, was actually a great success. There were awesome presents (and it is all about the presents after all), there wasn’t too much to clean up, and the only vomit I had to deal with came from Bridie after she had blown out the candles and everyone had eaten some cake.

Sharing is caring after all.

By Sunday night I was feeling very happy, contented and only somewhat concerned about spreading gastro around the entire play-group. I had not only survived a killer tummy bug, but also constructed a gorgeous cake, entertained a whole bunch of three-year-olds, and amazingly scrubbed every square inch of my house with disinfectant.

Unfortunately the contentment didn’t last long. Again, I’ll spare the gory details, but it wasn’t long until there was a gentle rumbling in my insides that suggested I was either about to succumb to whatever the kids had—or I was pregnant.

A baby would have been nicer.

Of course, nothing is ever easy, and Monday morning, Boatman was back to work, and I was a pale, shaking ghost of my normal self, forced not only to get out of bed (which was an incredible ask), but to clean up after Bailey, who had again decided he couldn’t possibly miss out.

(Seriously, people who want to stop teens falling pregnant just need to tell each one this story. Best form of contraception ever.)

Thankfully Boatman, being the forward-thinker that he is, had made everyone’s breakfast and put it in the fridge before he left. So by the time Supermum arrived at 8:00 am, the (well) children had at least eaten.

The rest of Monday was a blur. Which I’m guessing is actually a blessing in disguise, because who needs to gastro in vivid detail? By the evening I was perking up a little, just as Boatman—who by this time was not feeling the best either—arrived home. We both went to bed early, hoping to knock whatever we had on the head.

Tuesday was Bridie’s actual birthday and by then, thankfully, I had enough energy to do presents and withstand company. However as I was gradually beginning to feel better, Boatman was gradually feeling worse. To make matters worse, he also had to get on a plane at midday to go to Adelaide for his grandmother’s funeral. But sending him away before Bailey again decided that he couldn’t miss out seemed like the best idea.

Of course someone must have called ahead to tell Adelaide we were bringing them a crazy case of gastro, because the weather prevented the plane from landing and he was diverted to Melbourne. Four hours after wandering around the airport, trying (rather successfully I might add) not to die, he finally made it in to the City of Churches.

I’m told the funeral was beautiful, and Papa is coping as well as can be expected.

And Boatman didn’t the bug on to anyone else. Melbourne must have held the cure, which provides a relieving—though somewhat anticlimactic—ending to this part of the story. (Mental note to send children to my sister in Victoria next time they get sick.)

On Friday morning we had our appointment with the ENT specialist about Bridie’s ear. She needs to have a grommet inserted into her left ear, and will probably need a skin graft on her right eardrum when she is six or seven. She can’t have the operation before then, because if she continues to have infections, there is a high likelihood she will perforate the new graft.

While she is having her grommets inserted, the specialist is intending to clean around the hole in her right ear, because rubbing the edge can often stimulate the nerve endings, and cause the ear to heal itself.

I am confident we will have a full recovery without further surgery. I’ve got a God who heals, and people praying for us.

Despite that relatively good news, I’ve been left exhausted by this week’s events. Sick children, sick self (I forgot to add that I also got my fourth bout of mastitis since having Bailey), birthday parties, crazypeople-at-toy-sales (yes, I braved the midyear one in the midst of all this; why do I subject myself to those things?), and expensive doctors.

With Boatman away for a few days, then straight back to work as soon as he returned, it has been tough. By Friday afternoon I was wondering how much wine I could drink before it started affecting my breast milk. Chocolate milk seriously wasn’t cutting it.

And that was all before Friday afternoon.

It was as if Bailey, using his super-sensitive almost-toddler powers, realised I was not only at the end of my rope, but holding on by a tiny strand, because he decided he wasn’t going to sleep, as he does every time I desperately need him to.

I had a simple, yet achievable plan; put a movie on for Taylah, send Bridie and Bailey to bed, and then enjoy a few quiet minutes with my book (which I’m reading again), before I slipped off into a peaceful doze. I would wake up refreshed, rejuvenated, and feeling like I had caught up on all the sleep I had missed during the week.

But I had forgotten that my son hates me.

Or sleep.

One of the two.

Possibly both.

It’s hard to distinguish the difference sometimes.

The movie finished, Bridie woke up and Bailey was still squealing in his cot. When I finally got him down for a nap more than two hours later, all hope for a quiet rest was gone. Thankfully my girls made up for their brother, and happily amused themselves with craft, bikes and roller skates—though not all at the same time.

Bailey, who never really sleeps for long, soon woke up, so we sat on the couch for a few minutes having a nice, quiet cuddle. It was just what I needed in the middle of this hectic day, at the end of this crazy week. I had worship music playing in the background, and was able to reflect on just how good God really is; a miracle when you consider I was as close to the end of my tether as one can be without losing it completely.

As I sat there and let the music surround me, I began to think about the words of the song:

Blessed are those who dwell in your house

They are ever-praising you

Blessed are those whose strength is in you

Whose hearts are set on our God

(Blessed by Hillsong.com)

I began thinking about dwelling in God’s house. Where is God’s house? What is God’s house?

Obviously I am missing something because to be honest, I am not ‘ever-praising’ Him. At the end of a week like this, I hardly get in a ‘thanks for the day’ before I fall asleep, let alone anything close to adulation. How can I dwell in God’s house? How can I get to the point where, no matter what the circumstances, I am ‘ever-praising’ Him?

The act of dwelling in His house is obviously not to be taken literally.

I’m gonna go out on a limb and say that even if I did move the whole family into the church building, I highly doubt I would be praising God any more than I do now. I’d just have a bigger area to clean, and people using my rooms every day of the week.

It has to be more than where you live. My children live in my house. Are they ever praising me? No. Though I have no idea why …

Don’t get me wrong, they have their moments. According to Taylah, today was ‘the best day ever’ because she got to ride her new roller skates and do craft. She regularly makes these declarations. Once we went to Bunnings and then to visit Boatman at work. That was the best day ever. Of course her birthday was also the best day ever. And during the holidays when I take her to playgroup, that’s usually the best day ever. I guess you could say she is singing my praise.

But after all that had happened this afternoon, added to the week before it, I was just a tired, crabby mummy and no one was singing my praise anymore.

I certainly didn’t classify it as ‘the best day ever’.

I am sure those who dwell in God’s house never feel like they are having the worst day ever. They would know their strength rests in God. They would know that in the midst of their terrifying weaknesses and devastating failures that God is reassuringly strong and magnificently perfect.

Dwelling in God’s house must therefore be about your heart, desiring to be near God and standing firm and enduring when trials comes your way. It’s about attitude, what you think and believe and know to be true of God.

It’s choosing. It’s a conscious decision to live your life so that even when you’re far from a church, or everything is falling apart, you can dwell in the House of the Lord and know that everything will be OK.

It’s knowing that the final thread on the end of the rope you’re clinging to will hold, because at the end of it is the One who never lets go.

And if you can do that? If you can choose to , if you can hold fast, if you can live in His presence?

Well, it won’t matter if there is vomit on the walls, or you forget the last time you slept.

’Cause it’s the best day ever.

HOSPITAL EPIPHANIES

SO, LAST WEEK when I crazily braved the mid-year toy sales to buy the girls some late birthday presents, I stupidly decided to buy Taylah some roller skates. To be fair, it didn’t seem stupid at the time but rather the opposite. I thought it would be a good, energetic, school holiday activity that would provide hours of fun, and further-develop her coordination, so she wouldn’t turn out like me.

That is, an uncoordinated klutz who’s a danger to herself and society.

It turns out that the best of intentions mean squat, when the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I now have a little girl with a broken arm. Or possibly a pulled elbow.

The jury (or rather, the collection of doctors at the hospital) is still out on that one.

Now whilst my daughter is wonderfully comionate and encouraging of other hurt people, when it comes to herself and pain, she is more than a little melodramatic.

In fact I’m surprised people don’t think I’m beating her with a stick every time I try to pull out a splinter. You can imagine how much worse it is then, when she has an actual injury. Just getting her to the hospital was an effort akin to trying to gently squeeze a newborn elephant into a baby capsule without bumping any appendages in the process.

In other words, impossible.

Honestly, she carried on about it so much, I’m seriously surprised no one called Child Welfare .

She screamed when Boatman put her in the car.

She screamed when I took her out of the car.

She screamed when the triage nurse did a preliminary examination, and she screamed when a lovely lady (also called Jess) x-rayed her arm.

She screamed when the first doctor looked at it, and again when a second doctor looked at it, and that was even after she was given another dose of painkillers. (Are you noticing a theme here?)

She was not going to let anyone fix it. Not at all. If they even thought about moving it or touching it, or even looked at it out of the corner of their eye from around the corner and four beds away, she managed to scare them away with her shrieks. In her mind, if she ignored the pain and felt sorry for herself, her arm would eventually get better, which I can imagine is perfectly sane logic when you are six. I had to tell her countless times that this was not how it worked and eventually the message got through … kind of.

The whole drama of the situation, and her utterly irrational reaction, got me

thinking back to last week and dwelling in God’s house. (Not that God’s house is anything like a hospital or an inconsolable drama queen.) Rather, I thought that if she had been having the same revelation as me, she might also have seen that dwelling in God’s house means we needn’t despair when hard times become harder. Instead, we need to be thankful that we are in the care of someone who can fix them. Even though a doctor’s prescription may be painful or unpleasant, at the end of the day we are thankful. (Particularly when the arm is set and everything is fine.)

When our hearts are in God’s house we’re able to praise Him always. Not just after the problem is fixed, but during any pain.

For me this means praising:

When Bailey practices his somersaulting ability while I am trying to put on his nappy. Why do kids do that?

When I don’t feeling like cooking and we can’t afford pizza. First world problem 1.

When Coles has run out of my favourite brand of chocolate milk. First world problem 2.

When my husband is working from 5:00 am to 7:00 pm and is falling asleep at 8:15 pm.

When the pizza dough emerges from the breaker grey. No idea why, but we still ate it.

When I empty the baby bag and a spider crawls out. Why did God make spiders?

When the washing basket is full, the ironing basket is full, the sink is full, the floors are dirty and I have people coming over in an hour. To be honest, at this point I’m just impressed I still have friends.

When I set the VCR to tape Grey’s Anatomy, only to find the next day that the double episode didn’t record. The VCR was set to the wrong channel because one of the children played with the remote. I cried over that one. It’s still hard to talk about.

When Bridie is in her room screaming because she believes it’s OK to hit her brother when he is stealing her toys. Why wouldn’t it be?

When Bailey is deliberately stealing Bridie’s toys because he knows she wants them. As you do.

When I have to pick up clothes from the bathroom floor again. First world problem 3.

When I spend the best part of an afternoon in the hospital’s Accident and Emergency department with a splitting headache. At least we have a hospital and adequate health care.

Obviously I find it far easier to see what is going wrong, rather than be thankful for what is going right. Obviously there is definite room for improvement. And so, with that in mind, I have set myself a goal:

I will not whinge at God.

And I will not whinge about the doctor (or the children, or the bathroom, or whatever else is hurting my feelings at the time).

I shall remain steadfast and true and positive at all times (please don’t laugh).

I will dwell in His house.

I shall ever-praise Him.

My children will then arise and call me blessed because of my sparkling attitude to life and my obviously close-knit relationship with God.

It’s going to be awesome.

Now whilst I was having this revelation in the corridor of the emergency department at Royal Darwin Hospital, Taylah was having an epiphany of her own (like I said: apple, tree).

Some time in between the istration of the second dose of pain killers, and them actually taking effect, she told me she would like to be a doctor.

‘You would make an awesome doctor,’ I said.

‘Why?’, she asked.

‘Because you’re kind and comionate and you really care when people hurt themselves.’

‘Do you think God would let me be a doctor?’

‘I think He would.’

‘But I know what you are. You’re a mum. If I’m a doctor and I have children, who will look after them?’

‘We’ll just worry about that when you’re older, OK?’

‘OK.’

We can all be better. We all have something we can aspire to. It’s entirely possible that I can transform into a much less frazzled, far more dazzling version of myself, who gives God glory in all circumstances.

But what both six-year-old Taylah and I are both still learning, is that we can’t do any of it without God’s help.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BAILEY

IT’S BAILEY’S FIRST BIRTHDAY TODAY.

There is something so momentous about a first birthday. I think it’s because the first year es by so quickly. So much faster than any other year because of the sheer amount of change that occurs.

It’s incredible when you think about it. This time last year he was just a tiny little person covered in goop, screaming for a boob. (Actually if you want to be technical about it, this time last year I was still in labour. Give me another 26 minutes, and he would be a scrawny, squealing, slimy little angel.)

And now …

Now he walks and talks (a little bit). He signs please and thank you and ‘all done.’ He throws tantrums and says no. He shakes his finger and yells at the dog when she barks. He will ‘clean’ the floor if a Chux or a tea towel is within reach. He won’t go to sleep without his blanket or his thumb in his mouth. His looks are similar to Bridie, his temperament much like my own, with Boatman’s complexion and his Poppy’s curls. He was the littlest of all my children when born, but is now taller than most children his age and has thighs that would make my sister cringe.

A year ago today, our hopes and dreams were wrapped in a mystery bundle inside me. Today he’s our hopes and dreams walking around for all to see. When he hurts, I hurt. When he smiles, I smile. When he runs away from me and I catch him, he erupts into a spontaneous little giggle.

There is nothing better than being a mum, and I cannot my life without him. Of course it has its moments, and yesterday when he refused to sleep, was grumpy, and carrying him around all day caused the muscles in my back to feel as though they might lock up at any moment, I fondly recalled that it was much easier when I carried him inside me.

I know God has given us the miracle of children. Better still, God has given us the miracle of family. He allowed Boatman and I to add to our brood, carefully choosing characteristics from mum and dad (not to mention grandparents and aunties and uncles) to create the perfect little person for our family. For our family to love and nurture, and to raise for God’s glory.

It’s a blessing too grand to fully comprehend.

It’s 7:27 pm. Bailey was born at 7:35 pm.

We are seven minutes away from starting his second year of life.

Another year of cuddles and kisses. Another year of tantrums and tears. Another year to sit back and ire God’s handiwork. Another year to shape him and mould my little man in Christ’s image.

Some women seek careers, prestige and money, but I believe there is no higher calling than to be a SAHM, and to raise these three human beings to the Glory of our Lord and Saviour. I choose to see my job as a blessing instead of a curse, to put my children and my husband above all else besides God, and to throw myself wholeheartedly into this ministry.

As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord. (Joshua 24:15)

It’s 7:35.

Happy Birthday Bailey.

THE POTTER’S HAND

MY LITTLE MAN IS NOT WELL TODAY. He has a fever and is a bit grumpy. Thankfully, by this point in my parenting journey, the appearance of a temperature does not send me calling for an ambulance. Not every time anyway.

Regardless of the fact that his body is fighting something, he is still not sleeping well (does he ever?), so I spent a good period of time this morning, rubbing his back and soothing him with the dulcet sounds of my beautiful voice.

Or more accurately, I warbled at him in what can only be described as a valiant attempt at singing.

The song I sang was one that just popped into my head. I hadn’t heard it for years. It was called ‘The Potter’s Hand’ and I singing it when I was part of a youth outreach mission trip to some small towns and communities throughout the Northern Territory and the top of Western Australia.

The basic gist of the song is that God holds all our days in His hands, and when we know this, we willingly begin to hand these days over to Him. On our trip we found the more we gave of ourselves to others, the more we began to really understand the lyrics.

When I sang that song ten years ago, I was an idealistic 16-year-old. I had no concrete plans or any idea of what God might call me to do, but I dreamt of traveling, of preaching and of changing people’s lives. I wanted to lay hands on

blind people, sing and laugh with children in an orphanage, and rock sleeping, abandoned babies in my arms.

I always knew I wanted to have a family and I couldn’t wait to be a mum. But in my dreams, I was raising children in a little African community. I was a wonderful mother; I never yelled and my children were well-behaved and kind. They never needed to be disciplined.

Oh how different my life is in reality.

I wonder if I were to tell 16-year-old Jess that 26-year-old Jess still lived in suburban Darwin, whether she would believe me?

I wonder if I told her that her longest trip away would be a threeweek vacation in South Australia, whether she would gasp in disbelief?

What would she say if I told her she had three children who were not born kind or considerate or obedient, and that she lived in a rented house where the floors were always dirty and the washing consistently threatened to take over?

Piles of washing never featured in my dreams.

How would she have reacted when she found out that 26-year-old Jess was not as mild-mannered as she thought she would be? That 26 year-old Jess had anger issues that had never been dealt with, and a temper that caused her to raise her voice over the tiniest thing?

The Jess of my dreams spoke loudly and ionately from the pulpit.

Real-life Jess speaks loudly and ionately about clothes on the bathroom floor, and turns into a cowering mess at the thought of public speaking.

The Jess of my dreams was a prayer warrior and a Bible scholar.

Real-life Jess tries to pray and usually falls asleep.

The Jess of my dreams lovingly rocked those abandoned children in her arms, because she saw that their value was beyond immense.

Real-life Jess occasionally considers abandoning her own children for the day because she is so exhausted that she can no longer see their incredible worth, only their constant demands.

There is a huge discrepancy between the person I always planned on being and the person I have actually become. I don’t think that the girl back then would know me. I don’t know if she would aspire to be me.

But if, for some reason, she has more wisdom than I give her credit for, I hope that—beyond the very typical ordinariness of her life—she would understand this: although she won’t have the most glamorous job in the world, she will have the most important.

I love being a mum. I don’t mind housework that much (except when someone pours juice over a freshly-cleaned floor). I love playing with my children. I love to teach them and watch them grow.

But I’m the first to it that sometimes, the best parts of my day are the moments I have all to myself.

The best days are the days I achieve everything on my ‘to-do’ list.

The best nights are the nights when my husband puts the children to bed, pours me a glass of wine and tells me the babysitter is on her way (which has never happened, but I live in hope. )

The best moments are the moments (and they are just moments) when no one asks me for anything, no one is hitting or fighting with someone else, there is no wee on the floor, and I can sit and enjoy the tranquillity.

Parenting is not generally characterized by those days, nights, or moments. In fact the majority of the time it’s distinguished by boredom, frustration, and ‘For the love of God, can someone please GET ME OUT OF THIS HOUSE!!!!’

Call me optimistic, but I choose to believe that it can be different. This is not a job I do; it’s a calling, and as such, I can’t just wing it. I need to rely on God. I need to trust God. I need to allow Him to be my strength when I am at my weakest. (Comes back to that whole ‘dwelling-in-His-house thing.’)

I was at GEMS (Godly Encouragement for Mums) on Tuesday, and a friend was talking about the nap-time difficulties she has been having lately. Her three-yearold has been pushing the boundaries and she has been struggling with how to deal with it, as we all do from time to time. A fairly typical situation for a mother of a preschooler.

Her attitude however, was anything but typical.

Firstly, she was appalled with herself because she had raised her voice at her daughter for the first time.

Yes, seriously.

The first time in three years!

I don’t even know how that’s possible!

Secondly, she had gone straight to God. Now if it was me, I would be wishing Boatman was home so he could deal with it—and, failing that, I’d probably start blaming God because He hadn’t dealt with the issue. (We all know how I like to do that! )

But not Christy.

No.

She simply quoted God’s word right back to Him;

For when I am weak, then I am strong.

2 Corinthians 12:10

When we have reached the point where we have tried everything and still don’t know what to do, God does. He is usually just waiting for us to give Him permission to move.

When we have reached the point where we literally feel like we have nothing left to give, He has enough to fill us to overflowing.

When we wonder what we have given up to be a mother and who we could have been, He is there to remind us that He is not limited by our circumstances or our location. He is able to make us into who He desires for us to become, regardless of whether the path is littered with lost socks and a trail of biscuit crumbs, or not.

I can look back at all the things I thought I was going to be, and maybe one day will be, but none of that is as important as what I am called to do right now. I think it is the same for others. I think there are many mums who wonder what their great purpose in life is, only to find that it in the bassinet, or the sandpit, or watching ABC4Kids, or interrupting you yet again for a cuddle.

In my dreams I did a lot of grand things, but if I compare it to what I am doing now, it’s not really all that different.

Instead of preaching from a pulpit, I read Bible stories and explain to my children that when we show respect for mummy and daddy, we show respect for God.

Instead of laying hands on the blind, I pray over scraped knees and grazed elbows.

Instead of singing and laughing with children in an orphanage, I sing and laugh with my own children so that they will always know where they came from.

Instead of preaching to thousands, I run a small GEMS group so that I can other mums.

Instead of rocking a sleeping, abandoned baby in my arms, I hold my muchloved son. I watch as his eyes close, as he cuddles into me, knowing his world is secure. Knowing that he is completely and undeniably loved.

As for my children being born kind and considerate and obedient, well I now know that’s impossible. But when my brother-in-law bought my children KFC for lunch today, and there was only one juice, Taylah said Bridie could have it.

And when I explained that Jesus wants us to put others first, Taylah let Bridie into the car first and Bridie let Taylah out of the car first.

And when I dropped the dog at the vet to be de-sexed, both girls were on the verge of tears because Angel obviously didn’t want us to leave her. So maybe they’re not born perfect, but I believe they are slowly making their way.

Maybe being a mum is not what I thought it would be. Maybe I’m not who I thought I would be. But it is what God has called me to be. It is my charge, it is my responsibility and until I’m told otherwise, it is what I will do faithfully. Minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day, year after year. Through joy and through sorrow, through laughter and through tears, through excitement and through boredom.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go watch Bridie ride her bike while I hang out the nappies.

LESSONS FROM THE SANDPIT

WHAT A BEAUTIFUL DAY TODAY! The sun is shining, there is a gentle breeze and it’s not too hot. Today’s weather is the exact reason tourists come flocking to Darwin in the dry season.

The other reason it’s such a beautiful day is because my friend is going to have a baby! I am very excited; perhaps even more excited than if I was having one myself! (And knowing the mechanics of childbirth too well, I think that statement is perfectly understandable!) I know she was due at the hospital about three hours ago to have a caesarean, so I am hoping I will hear from her very soon. Just between you and me, I’m hoping for a girl. [It was a boy!]

Anyway, I thought I would start this entry with my list of accomplishments for the past week. (Ha ha, so much for doing this weekly! But I figure you already know how all the weeks seems to just blend into each other. Maybe we can just pretend.)

Things I have done well:

Not only survived, but flourished through four weeks of school holidays.

Made the yummiest ever ‘drum’ cake for Bailey’s birthday.

Scrap-booked three pages.

Successfully taped the season final of Grey’s Anatomy (although I also stayed up and watched it just in case).

… mmm. I have been sitting here for ages trying to think of other achievements. Surely I have done other good things …

Yes! I ! Jogged a personal best distance of two-and-a-half kilometres! Go me!

I’ve taken multi-tasking to a new level. I played doctors with Bridie while looking at a book with Taylah and feeding Bailey dinner all at the same time (though I wouldn’t recommend it—I felt like my brain was going to explode afterwards).

I finished all the half-open bottles of wine that were left in the fridge after the inlaws came to visit (which makes me sound like an alcoholic, but I did share, and they were taking up valuable fridge space!).

I have dusted the entertainment system at least twice a week.

I continued to make the bed every day.

Things I haven’t done so well:

I must clean our bedroom, it’s terrible.

My hair.

I haven’t spent a lot of quality time with Taylah, particularly now that she is back at school.

I’ve eaten too much chocolate and not enough fruit.

I invited my mum to dinner and then bought take-away. To make matters worse, I allowed her to pay for half of it.

I forgot we were on church cleaning, therefore forgot to ask others to do it for us.

I made grey pizza dough (don’t know how, it just happened. Tasted alright though!).

I finished off all the half-open bottles of wine left in the fridge.

I tried too hard to strike up conservation with one of the mums at kindy. I think I may have put her off for life.

I didn’t try hard enough with some of the other mums.

I pretended to forget the gluing Bridie did at playgroup. This sounds really awful I know, but she hasn’t mentioned it and there was so much glue on the paper it probably would have stuck to the car seat on the way home. And let’s not pretend you’ve never done it right?

And then there was this:

Yesterday Bailey and I were playing in the sandpit together, as you do. Thankfully his attention for sandpit play is longer than my own, so once I was bored I convinced him to come and play with the hose, while I did more exciting things.

Like hang out the washing.

Now if you’re anything like me, you know how it is. You’re trying to do a job, while thinking about then next thing on your list, as well as supervise the kids, one of whom has a hose which you’re trying to keep away from the washing, and another who is proudly showing off their lack of training wheels. All those things occupy valuable brain space and you forget other, less urgent things.

Such as putting the cover back on the sandpit and weighing said cover down with multiple items of garden furniture.

Large pieces of garden furniture that are designed to deter your labrador, who is

quite certain that the new sandpit has been provided exclusively for her enjoyment of digging. In her doggy mind, if the plastic chairs aren’t on top, and there is no one around, it is perfectly acceptable to kick all the very valuable sand out of the sandpit, as far as the eye can see. I’m sure she sets her self a challenge; how far she can send it and how much she can remove. Her success depends on the level of my annoyance and frustration, and how long I am determined to sit outside with a dustpan and brush to collect it all.

So on this particular afternoon, when I had not only forgotten to cover the sandpit, but actually left the premises, she took it upon herself to beat any previous records, and build a sand dune on the lawn.

Needless to say I was really angry with myself and with the dog this time. It was almost impossible to collect any of the sand.

In my futile attempt to save every grain I could, I began thinking about Abraham and God’s promise to him; that his descendants would be too numerous to count, like grains of sand or stars in the sky. The current exercise was giving me a new found appreciation for how huge that promise actually is.

Now, I love this analogy for a couple of reasons.

One, I think it is awesome that we are the descendants of Abraham: we are his sons of faith. The idea that we are part of a family too big to count is aweinspiring.

Secondly, I love it because of what is written in Isaiah 40:26:

Lift up your eyes and look to the heavens: Who created all these? He who brings out the starry host one by one and calls forth each of them by name. Because of His great power and mighty strength, not one of them is missing.

I love the idea that every night God calls the stars out, naming them and sending them to their respective places in our huge universe. Each one is known to Him and they all have a purpose.

Despite our huge advances in astronomy, we are vastly ignorant of our universe. It is literally too big for us to explore or fathom, and yet God knows every single star.

Sometimes when I am driving in the car or I’m at an airport or a shopping centre, I stop and look at people. I wonder who they are and what they are doing. I find it amazing that there are billions of people in the world whom I do not know, who have the same everyday struggles and issues that I do. They have

bills to pay and children to feed, a house to clean, friends to visit, clothes to wash.

They have worries, concerns and funny little personality quirks.

They have dreams and fears.

They live in a world that is completely separate from my own, even though we live on the same planet, or even the same street.

I can be so self-involved I forget these people exist, but God knows everyone. And it isn’t just that He knows them (which is incredible in its own right), it’s that He has a plan and a purpose for each of them. He aches to be in a relationship with them.

Sadly some never will experience that relationship. Like those grains of sand that I just cannot return to the sandpit, they are gone forever. Lost in the garden, stuck to a foot, embedded in the dog’s hair.

Gone.

But those of us who choose God, we are never lost. We are known and called. Like the stars He places in the sky so carefully every night, we are carefully placed in our own worlds, in our families, to shine His light for all to see. And because of His great power and mighty strength, not one of us is missing.

I look at my list of accomplishments and failures for the past week, alternating between pride and disappointment. But I need to at the end of the day, it is only by God’s grace, by His great power and mighty strength that I am able to accomplish anything at all.

Every morning He calls me to be His light to the little people who follow in my footsteps, so that they too will shine His light into their own world one day.

When you look at it like that, there seems no other logical choice but to act faithfully, because I know that He will faithfully keep them safe.

Unlike the sand from my sandpit, not one of them will be missing.

ON THE HUNT

I WAS SITTING IN CHURCH YESTERDAY MORNING, wondering absently why I bother coming each Sunday when all I seem to do is sign the children into Sunday school and then sit in the parents’ room with Bailey. Of course then I ed the reason we go to church is so that they can learn about God, and also to model that church is a way of showing God that we make learning about Him and spending time with other Christians, a priority. All things I was trying to do, of course, when I made them walk there in the blistering heat not too long ago …

With this in mind, I decided to ask Bridie what she had learnt.

Our conversation went something like this.

‘We learnt about play dough.’

‘And what else?’

‘We learnt about games.’

‘And what else?’

‘I learnt about gluing.’

‘And what else?’

‘I learnt about drawing.’

‘And what else?’

‘I learnt about painting.’

‘And what else?’

‘No, I didn’t learn about painting! We didn’t do painting!’

‘Did you have a story?’

‘Yes! I learnt about stories!’

‘And what was your story about?’

‘I don’t know … Oh yes, Jesus!’

‘And what did Jesus do in the story?’

‘I don’t .’

Thankfully her craft activity was self-explanatory. They’d been talking about the ‘Feeding of the Five Thousand’ Bible story, which, ironically, we had also covered in church that morning. Pastor Nicky had taken a different slant and explained the tale in the context of capacity. God is not content to just leave us with our five loaves and two fishes; He wants us to have baskets overflowing.

This struck a chord with me, because just that morning I had been talking to God about two particular areas in my life that I felt were well below capacity.

The first was my relationship with God Himself. I have found it exceedingly hard to have any real quality time with God lately. At the moment my ‘quiet time’ is pretty much the length of a cup of coffee. I think that a lot of this has to do with the season of life that I’m in. I have small children who need a lot of assistance. My mornings are always early, my nights always late and the days full in between. I somehow fight through the haze of exhaustion, trying to be a pro-active parent, a ive wife and a writer. That’s enough to exhaust anyone. It’s no wonder that my quiet time is small and sporadic.

There are other issues, and ones that I can definitely improve upon. Such as my inclination to become completely-immersed in a book to the detriment of everything (and everyone) else.

Also the fact that many a time I use my kids as an excuse not to spend any quality time with God. Not because I don’t want to, but more because I’m scared of what He might ask me to do.

It’s definitely something that needs to change. I need to work more consistently on making time for God, and fighting the fear of what a deeper relationship might mean (but more on that another day).

The wonderful thing about God is that as soon as you draw near to Him, He draws near to you. There is always grace and forgiveness and the chance to start afresh.

Which leads me to the next area of my life that is still not filled to capacity; my relationship with Taylah.

Now I need to state for the record, that I love my eldest child dearly. I really do. She is polite, kind and comionate, eager to please and to help. And these are not just the words of a biased parent; this is what others tell me all the time.

She is a complete blessing and I don’t dare consider life without her.

For some reason though, I’ve always found it hard to get close to her. Although I tend to make inroads occasionally, these roads always seem to be washed away. I find it so hard to connect with her and I have no idea why.

Part of it could be her age. She has outgrown that cute-little-kid stage, but is not

yet old enough to treat like … well, an older child. (Not to say she isn’t cute. She’s gorgeous. She’s just not three anymore.)

Part of it could be that she is so easy, especially compared to Bridie. Taylah can almost fade in to the background watching TV or reading a book, while Bridie is constantly in your face. To be honest, quality time with Taylah usually involves Bridie, otherwise there is a fight and I don’t want to ruin my time with Taylah by having to deal with an emotional Bridie. Also Bridie loves to play with Taylah. So it’s easier when Taylah is home to let the two of them play together rather than to entertain them separately. As soon as you start to do something with one, the other wants to in and before I know it I’m obsolete or breaking up a squabble.

Part of it could also be that listening to her can often be difficult because she takes seventeen words to say what most of us can say in two. Furthermore, I know what she’s going to say before she says it, but I have to listen, concentrate and stop what I’m doing because I don’t want her to end up some emotionallyscarred adult who thinks her mother never had any time for her.

I can’t tell you the amount of times I walk into a room to put something away, only to cut her off as she starts one of her epic stories because I’m busy, or my mind is elsewhere, or I don’t have the strength to concentrate right then and there. Really, it’s a wonder she actually speaks to me at all!

Thankfully, she is wonderfully forgiving. She really is the most amazing child.

I can see it and I know it, and I want nothing more than to have a relationship with her that is easy, comfortable, and inspires her to be the best that God would have her be.

When I stop to think about the last few days, and how I can improve this area of my life, some beautiful images of my biggest girl pop into my mind.

On Friday night I read her a story about a boy who lived in a Watoto village in Uganda. We’ve read the story before, but this time I explained that some children really do live like the boy in the story. Some kids don’t have mums and dads to look after them, and some are taken from their families and forced to be soldiers. She cried upon hearing that. In fact she sobbed. Not because she was scared these things would happen to her (like I initially thought), but because she saw the injustice these people experienced. She knows it is wrong and that it shouldn’t be like that, which is fairly extraordinary for a 6-yearold child. (On a side note, Bridie piped in and helpfully suggested that we just step into the book to help the children. She is a very practical person, that one.)

After reading the story and talking about the truth that others’ lives aren’t as blessed as ours, we all prayed together. It was a great time to teach the kids how we can’t often make a change ourselves, but we can put things into God’s hands, and He is able. That gave Taylah the peace she needed to go to sleep, and while she was still upset over the wrongdoing, there was an obvious peace surrounding her, as she was able to take her concerns to God.

The following morning Bailey had his first swimming lesson. Taylah had the option to watch him or go and play on the playground, and she chose to watch. Every time he looked her way, she called out, ‘Go Bailey!’, in a most beautiful display of sibling encouragement. Anyone would have thought it was the Olympics, not Saturday-morning swim class. The beautiful thing about this is that it’s not an out of character thing to do. That’s just Taylah.

Saturday afternoon she had a birthday party. I watched as the boys pulled her around in a little red wagon. She was laughing and carefree, even though she

nearly fell out a few times. For the first time, I actually saw so much of myself in her. Despite the fact she is wonderfully feminine in the way she dresses and presents herself, she is a tomboy at heart. She plays with the boys better than the girls, which is just what I was like.

In that instant, silent fears crept in. As she gets older, will the boys only ever see her as a friend? I spent years being the ‘token female’ in my own all-male group of friends, so I know first hand that sometimes you want to be noticed for being more than just one of the guys.

You want to be noticed as a woman.

‘Oh Taylah,’ I thought, ‘Please don’t fall for a bad guy because you’re friends with all the good guys. Don’t make my mistakes.’

A little bit later at the same party, I saw her crying because she’d hurt herself on the see-saw. I ran over to see if she was OK and realised I wasn’t needed. The infamous Sam had saved the day. But alarm bells sounded when I saw the way he had his arm around my daughter. It wasn’t just a friendly hug; I guess the boys were starting to notice her after all.

My relationship with Taylah has been a ‘work in progress’ for sometime now. Sometimes it feels like we take two steps forward, then one step back, but I am working on it. In the back of my mind I have been telling myself, ‘It’s OK. You’ve got years before she is a teenager to fill the gaps.’ But now I wonder. Time is creeping up on me and I don’t know how to stop it. I don’t know how to make sure that I’m the one she looks to when she is hurt, and not a boy who thinks she’s pretty. I don’t know how to prove to her that in this chaotic family with a baby brother and a demanding little sister, she is just as important, and just as loved.

At one point in his sermon yesterday, Pastor Nicky deviated from feeding the five thousand, to the parable of the lost coin. Most of you are aware that the story tells of a woman who, upon losing a coin, searched her house high and low until she found it. The idea of doing that in our affluent society sounds rather ridiculous, but to this woman, that coin held incredible value.

‘Would you get off the couch for a two-dollar coin?’ Pastor Nicky asked. ‘And if not, what would you get off the couch for?’

It got me thinking about what in my life holds value. What would make me stop doing what I was doing: watching TV, reading, writing, whatever, because something of incredible value had been lost?

What would move you?

Last night we went to the markets for dinner with my dad and my step-mum, Sally. She and Bailey had gone for a walk by themselves, when Bailey saw a woman wearing a skirt similar to mine, and so went up and smacked her on the behind. He was quite upset when a strange lady turned around! At that point it dawned on Sally, that he had, in fact, been looking for me the entire time. He’s only one year old, but wasn’t fazed by the thousands of people at the market. He wanted his mum, so he got up and went to look for me.

Now if the situation were reversed, I’d naturally plough through thousands of people to find my son, as would any parent. We wouldn’t question it. But what if that lost child is not actually physically lost? What if they are in your home, but a little forgotten, a little neglected and a little overlooked? It’s easy enough to do.

I would get off the couch for Taylah, literally. I would put down my book and turn off the TV.

My goal is to have a beautiful relationship with my daughter, not just when she’s older and she wants to me to take her shopping (isn’t that the dream?), but now, when she wants to tell me her favourite part of her favourite movie once again.

Funnily enough, the latest book I am reading deals with the issues that arise when parents don’t really know their children; parents who think everything is fine and then wake up to discover their child has changed and they have no idea where this new person has come from.

As Christians, we hold onto the hope God will help us so that this will never happen with our children, but we know that we can’t just sit back and leave it all to Him. Relationships have to be built. Even the best children make the craziest mistakes in the absence of a relationship, and I don’t want that for my children. I want them to always know that they had a mother who loved them, looked for them, fought for their attention, and got off the couch for them.

I don’t want relationships characterised by the barest rations; two little fish and five tiny loaves. I’m striving for children who bless others in their abundance and who have so much overflowing, it’s impossible to contain.

I want to reach capacity.

And then sur it.

STEPPING OUT OF THE CAVE

FEELS LIKE AGES SINCE I LAST WROTE. We’re ten days into the new month already! I’m beginning to despise how time gets quicker when you’re older. It should be the other way around.

Anyway …

There are a few reasons I have been absent recently. The first is that I simply have not had the time to write. Boatman has been working almost every day. That’s fantastic from the financial side of things, but it has been really hard on the family.

He truly is a wonderful husband. Every morning he makes sure the kitchen is clean and that Taylah has lunch to take on school days. Just having to not worry about those two things makes a huge difference.

Bridie, however, is just not coping with going days without seeing him. When Boatman tells her he has to work, she bursts into tears and says, ‘I don’t want you to!’ In the morning she comes into our room, and cries when she realises he is not in the bed.

It’s heartbreaking to witness, but it’s not just the teary displays that are making things difficult. Her behaviour seems to have reached a new all time low, and she has been pushing all kinds of boundaries. When I say yes, she says no.

When I say sit down, she stands up.

We went to Big W the other day and she screamed at me at the top of her lungs because I wouldn’t buy her an ice cream and I made her sit in the trolley.

Now let’s be realistic here. I’ve got three children. I’ve endured many tantrums and rages, and been screamed at more times than I would like to it, but this really took the cake. Not only was it constant, loud and determined to draw as much attention to the situation as possible, there was major attitude behind it. She might as well have said to me, ‘I know that I’m in big trouble when I get home but until we get there, I’m going to raise absolute hell and make sure everybody knows it!’

She’s a lovely child like that.

And of course, everyone stopped to look, as they always do. Even the people with children. Obviously their own offspring are perfect and would never dream of shouting at their mother in public. I should have stopped and asked them what their secret was.

The second reason I haven’t written for a while is because God has been working intensively on my heart over the past couple of weeks, teaching me lessons that have been difficult to deal with at times.

My aim with this book is to be an encouragement to other mums. I’m hoping my mistakes, my shortcomings, the lessons I have been learning will help and be of

benefit to others.

Looking back at my previous entries, including the vomit spectacular and my weekly fits over a child that won’t sleep, I wouldn’t blame anyone for coming to the conclusion that I am a giant drama queen. They are probably right.

But honestly, I know that all that stuff is just small. It’s frustrating in the moment, and it can be all-consuming and feel like you will never get through it, but you do. Maybe not everyone thinks like me and that’s OK. That’s good.

But many of us do succumb from time to time, and that’s OK as well.

I’ve been told I have a melancholy personality and I guess I understand that. Maybe if you have read this far you think so too. I guess I can come across as a control freak; scheduling naps to the minute, and treating what some consider to be minor behavioural flaws as major concerns. Some say I look for trouble; that I take parenting too seriously, that I focus on the negative.

I personally don’t think so. I think I just accept that things are negative sometimes, and then try and laugh about it later.

The fact of the matter, is that I’m a SAHM.

My life is my children and I’m OK with that. I chose that.

It is hard sometimes. It is exhausting. I would love to say that it is all sunshine and rainbows and puppies dancing around with lollipops, but I can’t.

Or I won’t.

Because I know what it’s like to be stuck in the moment, when the littlest thing (like eating a banana—or not) is the biggest thing.

When the hill becomes a mountain, and you need to be prepared to die on it , or else be completely overrun. (If you disagree, I’ll let you take Bridie shopping to give you some first-hand experience!)

When you’re certain that if you hear one more bout of whingeing or listen to another random, ridiculously-long, convoluted story your brain may leak out of your ears because it has melted into a watery soup that is of no use to anyone.

That’s just part and parcel of this gig.

And I hope that my confessions are actually an encouragement, not a testament to my supposed melancholic tendencies. I hope it makes you feel normal if I complain about poo.

But here’s the thing: I may be melancholy.

I may become disheartened.

I may get frustrated by the mundane and the commonplace.

But the truth that drives me and pushes me through all that, the belief that holds me firm in every moment of sleeplessness or perfect rest, through every teethclenching tantrum and heart-melting cuddle, is this: being a mother is one of the highest callings you can ever have.

And I will proclaim that truth until my very last breath.

So while the purpose of this book may seem to be nothing but comic relief, what I really want is to encourage you and to show that you are not alone.

To demonstrate that what you do has worth, value, and is infinitely more important than you could ever understand.

Maybe we all thought we would be something different, or something better. Maybe we all thought we would have more to show for our lives than just a pile of dirty laundry and a small pile—OK, a whole bunch—of toys on our lounge room floor.

Maybe you dreamt of lofty professions and achieving great things.

Maybe you just wanted to have a clean house.

Maybe you feel as if what you’re doing now is less than what you thought it would be, and that’s OK. We all feel like that from moment to moment.

I never thought I’d be this. Not now anyway.

Not the way I am.

Before I was Jess, I was God’s.

I was not just an idea, an afterthought, or a mistake (which technically I was, in my parent’s eyes). I was brought into this world because the Creator of the universe dreamt about me. He thought the idea of me was too good to be left in His head, so He put me in a family and, with love and affection, watched me grow.

All the good that is in me is because I am God’s. While all the other stuff is important—crucial even—I can never operate in my full capacity as a wife and mother if I forget who I really am. I will only rob my family and those around me if I try to ignore that vital heritage. So in order to be not just the best wife and mother, but also the best Jess, I need to allow God to be God, which at times like these means giving Him the opportunity to perform radical heart surgery.

I grew up in a Christian home. My parents divorced when I was five but I had constant with my dad and I knew he loved me. I have three older sisters (and when I say older, I mean older. They are 16, 14 and 11 years older respectively). Two of them moved out of home before I was old enough to , and the third left when I was about seven, so I was more-or-less raised like an only child. My sisters all had children quite young and I had a lot

to do with them, so their offspring were really more like brothers than nephews.

Growing up, I had a good relationship with God. I loved Him and I tried to follow Him as best I could. I did some mission trips, taught Sunday school, and even ‘preached’ a few times at church. I won the Christian Leadership Award at my school and delivered a speech at an assembly about Jesus being my hero. I was a good Christian.

Can I tell you the moment it changed?

Not exactly.

I can look back and see signs though. Through school I had some great friends, but I was never exactly popular. I didn’t have the best self-esteem and was overly conscious about my weight (still am, I suppose). When I left school I went to university, found myself a job and, funnily enough, became popular. I think it was just because I was different. Because Jesus was in me and I was the salt and the light people needed. Prior to that, everyone I was around thought the same, felt the same and believed the same; no one notices your flame when you’re in a brightly lit room.

Uni changed that.

Sadly, uni also changed me.

I enjoyed the popularity and being well-liked, so I started to change. Slowly and

gradually, a little bit here and a little bit there. I’d spent my whole life around people who had never questioned my beliefs and as a result, neither had I. Now that I was on my own, I found I didn’t really know what they were.

When I started to slip into their mould, I stopped being so popular.

I lost what made me attractive.

I worked hard to get it back, trying more and more to wedge myself into the same cookie-cutter value system as everyone else, wholly missing the point. It was never me people were drawn to; it was Jesus in me.

In the back of my mind I guess I thought I was helping. I thought that if I could show them that Christianity was contemporary and cool, then maybe they would want it too. I didn’t know that when you’re in the dark, all you want is the light.

A good light.

Not a crappy torch with a faulty battery.

At the same time all this was going on, I also had some issues with people at church. I got angry. Angry at the leadership and angry at my friends. I found excuses to not go to church, and eventually managed to get my work roster to include every Sunday so I didn’t have to go. I still talked to God occasionally, but if I’m being honest, I think I was angry with Him too; angry for not fixing my life the way I thought He should.

To cut a long story short—and to spare you sordid details, which even I don’t want to recall—I found myself pregnant. It wasn’t planned, not in the least, but it was the best thing that could have happened. Through it, I found my way out of the downward spiral, and forced myself to grow up. In an instant I became a mother and I began thinking only of my child. I knew that although I had made some mistakes and God and I had some major issues to work through, I could not, and would not, bring my baby up in a world without God. That was not negotiable. And so I began the long, slow and painful task of rebuilding my relationship with God, and learning to trust other Christians again, particularly those in leadership. I let go of my pride, and the girl who had once been a poster girl for Christianity, walked back into church and sat in the front row, pregnant.

Obviously my life was never the same from that moment on. Not only did I become a mother. I changed. I embraced my responsibility and declared that I would look after my little girl to the absolute best of my ability, a pledge I have not walked away from.

God has blessed the road I’ve travelled. I met Boatman when Taylah was just six months old and we got married not long after she turned two. Although she still has with her biological father, Boatman has always been Taylah’s dad. In fact she chose to call him dad at just fifteen months of age, and they have a beautiful relationship. Sometimes I think he loves her even more than I do.

I know they say personality never changes, but I am not the same person I used to be. Before the pregnancy I was a bright, effervescent, crazy person, someone who people enjoyed being around. But the guilt and shame of my sin left me hiding in a cave and I had no intention of ever coming out. I thought I could hide behind being a mum; just throw myself entirely into looking after my child. Then maybe I would never have to deal with anything else.

A good, solid theory.

My cave was safe. A homey place. Comfortable, even if it wasn’t fulfilling. I resolved to stay there forever; there was no need not to.

But God, as usual, had other plans.

This year I have been forced out of that cave onto some dangerous precipice, and I don’t know if I’m going to fall or fly. I took a tiny step out of it last year, when Boatman and I agreed to be Life Group leaders. Then there was another step when we decided to do the Growing Families Australia facilitators course, and yet another when I volunteered to lead a small GEMS group. I was almost out of the cave, but was still sheltered enough to feel safe, and involved enough to feel like I was contributing to the importance of eternity.

Of course, all that was before my husband quit his job and started his own business, and our church put us on the invite list for leadership meetings, causing a not-quite-small case of anxiety. Suddenly I find myself out of my cave and hovering over a deep ravine, praying for a spot to place for my feet.

If that were not enough, (and I was quite sure that it was), God has been poking, prodding and drawing my attention to a number of issues I have hidden for so long, but now need addressing. My need to belong, my desire to be popular, my fear of talking in public or letting myself be completely vulnerable to anyone apart from my husband, and the fears I have that I’m not really a good mum. I yell too much, I never get enough housework done, I have run out of things to cook because I am the world’s fussiest eater and I don’t want my children to be the same. I find it hard to have enough time to build relationships with each of them, but particularly with Taylah, who is growing up so fast and who is always at school.

Add to these my secret fears that one day the neighbour will hear me yelling (although I am trying so hard to control my voice) and call Human Services and I’ll lose them all anyway!

Or (and possibly even worse) I’ll do my best and be the best, but then they will make the same mistakes I did and be lost that way.

Which is far too horrible to even contemplate.

All of that combined leaves me here. Forced out of my comfort zone. Struggling with three children and still wanting more. Trying to serve and honour God as best I can, while still preoccupied by what everyone’s thinking about me, and whether by writing this I am coming across as too melancholy.

But God …

Well, He doesn’t leave you hanging. And the concerns that keep me awake at night are nothing to Him.

The past few days I have been overwhelmed by God’s love and grace.

He loves us.

Really, truly loves us.

And no matter what we do or how many times we fall, He is there to pick us up again. To hold our hands. To reassure us that everything is well. It doesn’t matter what we have done, or where we have come from, He who began a good work in us, is able to carry it out until completion. (Philippians 1:6)

God is committed to seeing me be the best I can and in a similar way, I am dedicated to raising my children well. It’s just that sometimes I am so serious about it, I find it hard to relax. I struggle maintaining a conversation while out because I’m always on heightened alert as to what my children are doing and are they being considerate of others? I don’t think this is a completely bad thing.

The thing is that I still have that bubbly little girl inside of me, itching to come out—and not just when I have had a glass of champagne. I know God loves that girl and I know that He is calling out to her. The problem is, I don’t know how to reconcile that person with who I am now. I find it easy to recognise the calling of motherhood, but how does that gel with the bubbly, effervescent Jess who had no responsibilities and was driven by grandiose dreams?

Can they really coexist? If so, how?

I don’t have the answers to these questions. But I do know this:

Before I was a mother, I was Jess.

And before I was Jess, I was God’s.

And so long as I stay God’s, the rest will figure itself out.

AIMING FOR EUPHORIC

SO ABOUT THREE DAYS AGO, I came to the startling revelation that I’m not a happy mum. Instead I am an incredibly grumpy one. In fact, if you were on the outside looking in, it would be OK to assume that I don’t actually like my children, but rather just tolerate them for their occasional ability to be cute and keep me from full-time employment.

In light of this revelation, my original entry for today was about all the wonderful things in my life and how I was going to choose to be more thankful and aim for more jubilation in my demeanour. I doubted I’d get there, but I figured that aiming so high would at least make happy.

Of course my computer ate that entry, so you don’t get to hear about my wonderfully long list of grateful items, but I will tell you that Boatman has a new job (yay), which has much more regular hours, better pay and once again gives me the opportunity to iron business shirts! Which, I’ll it, is not something one usually rejoices in, but as I’m pursuing happiness, I’ll embrace it.

Besides that, I haven’t done very well today so I’ve got to make it look like I’m at least making some effort here.

To be honest, I’m totally exhausted! I was ready to burst into tears at about 5:30 pm, an emotion that has characterized every single day since my grand ‘happiness’ announcement.

And the blame for my sorrowful outbursts?

The blame for that, rests entirely on my offspring.

They are driving me nuts!

Taylah has decided that arguing with me every time I give her a directive is a perfectly adequate show of respect. If confrontation doesn’t achieve her desired result (or worse, results in a cranky mother) then a massive display of tears is the next-best thing.

Bridie, likewise, is being difficult about everything. When she is not flat out disagreeing with me, she is silently shaking her head in disapproval of my words, or (my personal favourite) entirely ignoring everything I have just said to her.

Bailey has started to climb. All mothers of toddlers know exactly what this means, but if you have never had the good fortune of mothering one, it just means he is into everything so much more than ever before.

Boatman’s new job (the one that has me ecstatically ironing longsleeved business shirts) means that we eat dinner a little later than usual, which would not be so bad, except for the fact I have a 13-monthold who is sure I am trying to starve him. I shouldn’t be too surprised; the boy’s first word was lunch.

If all that wasn’t enough to stretch my character to make me grow, and any of

those clichés that seem nice until they actually apply, my offspring are all fighting with each other.

Constantly.

Taylah wants to give Bridie a cuddle, but Bridie doesn’t want one, so Taylah cries.

Bridie wants Bailey to play with her, so is pushing him around. He inevitably hurts himself and then he cries.

Bailey steals toys from Bridie, so Bridie hits him and gets into trouble. Then they both cry!

Everyone is crying.

Including me. The wannabe happy, bright and shiny, virtually effervescent wrangler of these little people.

To top it all off, the dog got into the sandpit again. This would normally be annoying, but not tragic. Today however, it was the straw that broke this mother’s back.

Not only am I now worried the neighbours may report me for yelling at the kids, I am also slightly concerned the RSPCA may show up to discipline me for emotionally wounding the dog with my words.

Of course all of this is just symptomatic of the fact Boatman hasn’t been home as much as usual.

Now at this point, no doubt some of you are yelling at me to toughen up, because you are used to your husbands always working. You may even be tempted to put the book down.

Please don’t.

I’m sure that after the initial shock (it has only been about a week), I will be well adjusted, and cruising along (OK, limping haltingly) with our new routine. But for now, it’s hard. For the last nine months, his working life has been sporadic at best, non-existent at worst. The past four months he has had some work with fishing charters—including some very busy periods—but apart from that he has been home.

A lot.

Some might say too much. (But not me.)

Now he is working ten-hour weekdays and wants to go fishing all day Saturday because he needs to unwind. A fact that I completely understand because I too work long days and nights, and honestly, I want him to have that time.

The flip side is that right now, I seriously feel like I can’t cope.

He gets the first and last hour of the day with the children, the time when they are eating, bathing and going to bed. The times that are generally busy enough to avoid too much trouble.

He misses the crazy hour, when the girls are at each other and Bailey is following me around the kitchen, wanting to sit in his high chair so he can call me for lunch.

He misses trips to the shops where Bridie thinks she will get everything she wants if she just screams for it, and then screams to punish me when she doesn’t.

He misses line-ups at the post office and Medicare, places where ‘practise having patience’ almost becomes a threat rather than a gentle reminder.

And then when he gets home the children are all over him, unleashing hundreds of things on their minds. It’s not even worth trying to get a word in! Come 6:00, he gets to be the hero, running, playing and doing all sorts of fun things with

them, while I collapse on the couch and count the seconds until bedtime.

He gets to plan his fishing trip while I try to plan activities for the weekend that will cost very little, satisfy everybody and work around the three essential nap times.

He gets to watch an entire game of footy in the middle of the day, while I can barely watch the news without being interrupted.

I know I shouldn’t complain, and the last thing I want is to speak ill of my husband. He is wonderful. But I’m struggling with the very same thing that most mothers all over the world struggle with. Being the primary care giver is exhausting, often thankless, and some days it gets too much.

Some days I struggle.

The problem is, if I say anything, then I become the ungrateful wife who won’t let her husband go fishing, even though he works hard all week to his family. I’m blessed with the opportunity to be a SAHM because he works hard all week. The least I can do is allow him his down time, with a grateful heart.

So three days after writing an epic list of thankfulness (which I’m sure you are thinking is completely fictional by now), I’ve resorted to having a major whinge about how unfair everything is.

Obviously I am still a work in progress.

Honestly, I am thankful for his new job. Steady hours and solid pay are awesome things to have, and add in the fact that he no longer has to work weekends, means I’m pretty darn happy!

But I also have moments of feeling a little like a single parent, and doing that with one child was hard enough. Three is exhausting.

Before I go any further, I really need to clarify that not only is Boatman a great dad, he is also a fantastic husband. The last week has been very uncharacteristic of him, and it’s likely that he is also adjusting to the demands of his new job on his time and energy. In fact if I sat down and spoke to him about it instead of turning into a blubbering mess, I’m sure we would work things out so that both of us could be happy, glowing people.

Which would probably make for far better reading.

God really challenged me about a week ago, asking me to give the people I love the freedom to fail. I’ve been going crazy trying to be this supermum who teaches her kids all the right things to do, but it’s been too much for everyone. My children can’t live up to the unbelievably high expectations I place on them all the time. That’s not to say I shouldn’t have big expectations, but it does mean that when they don’t reach them they should be covered by grace, not condemnation. Grumpy mums don’t often give grace.

Not even to themselves.

I’ve been trying to synchronise the ‘Jess’ part of me with the ‘mum’ part of me, and I realise that part of my failure to do so is simply because I won’t give myself room to fail. Jess made some fairly major mistakes, but as a mum I can’t allow that; there are tiny humans at stake. Instead I beat myself up and strive for unattainable perfection, and demand the same from everyone around me. Like a bad photo posted on Facebook for all to see, I keep reliving the faults and failures from my past, never forgiving myself or letting others see my vulnerabilities. I’m trying so hard to distance myself from that person, that I’ve morphed into something else altogether. Someone who is neither euphoric nor happy, and has very little grace to give.

If I don’t have freedom to fail, how can I give my children the freedom to fail? Or my husband? I expect him to be my knight in shining-armour; the man who buys me chocolate milk, kills spiders and puts Weet-Bix in my bowl at breakfast time (I am capable of doing it; he just likes to. ) Sometimes I forget he’s also just Boatman. The man who works hard, loves fishing and ionately s the Adelaide Crows.

He doesn’t deserve my whingeing. He deserves only to be covered by grace, not condemnation, in the same way God covers me with grace every time I open my mouth or my laptop.

We women can be pretty quick to condemn the Y chromosome, as I have just so wonderfully illustrated, but we often forget to positively affirm them.

So here’s to husbands and dads!

The men who allow us to be the women we are. Who extend grace when the floors are unclean, the children are screaming and when we have take-out for dinner because there was no time to cook.

To the men who walk the dogs, mow the lawns, kill the spiders and clean their own fish.

Who tuck our children into bed and kiss them on the forehead.

To the men who are their little girls’ hero and their little boys’ idol.

To the men who everyday come home to a wife and children who have failed, and still extend them grace and mercy.

Let’s give them the same honour.

THAT GUY

I CAN BE A LITTLE FORGETFUL AT TIMES. Not usually over the big things like dates or anniversaries, but more so the little things.

Like forgetting to take meat out of the freezer for dinner or make sure Bailey’s hat is in my bag.

Or forgetting to lock the front door.

At least once a week.

You would think I would learn after the first time, but I just don’t. Or rather I do learn, but I have children whose apparent life purpose is to torment me first thing in the morning. Just getting out of the house at all is a major accomplishment, let alone ing to shut the front door (I may have left it wide open this morning … )

But what happened today is clearly not all my fault.

I got the kids out of the house to take Taylah to school, only to realise that the car seats were still in Boatman’s work car.

At Boatman’s work.

Not really the best spot for them.

I rang him to ask him to come home, and then opened the door (which I had not only closed but locked as well), so that Bridie could get her shoes. My previous plan simply included me dropping Taylah off, meaning that footwear for small people was entirely optional. Now that we were late, I was going to have to walk Taylah into her classroom, and I do draw a line at bare feet in public; boganness is not mandatory, just because I live in Darwin.

Boatman arrived home and while I moved the car seats, he chased the dog down the street after she had escaped through a hole under the fence. Because really, what morning would not be complete without an errant-canine chase?

Eventually he retrieved the dog, I organised the children, we both got in our respective vehicles, and left the house with the front door still wide open.

In my defence, Boatman didn’t notice either, and thankfully neither did any opportunistic would-be thief.

So we get into the car, and what comes blasting through the speakers, but the delightful tunes of Veggie Tales, a children’s show featuring a bible story narrating Tomato and Cucumber. It’s a fun show, with nice messages, and the soundtrack is also quite cute the first three times you listen to it.

After that it gets a little tired, unless you’re about three years old.

Nothing gets tired when you’re three. Except for your mother.

The compromise therefore is Veggie Tales in the morning and Mummy’s music in the afternoon. For the sake of my sanity and any remaining un-mushed brain cells, there needs to be a balance.

Anyway, this morning’s rush to school was brought to us from the ‘Rack, Shack and Benny’ episode, which is actually the biblical tale of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego. In one particular song the cucumber, asparagus and tomato (playing the roles of the story’s heroes) sing about their families. It got me thinking about all the Israelite families at the time, who had sons and brothers taken into captivity. Specifically, I started thinking about the mothers of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego. I wondered if they were left in Israel or taken into captivity too. I wondered if they were still alive when their sons were stolen. (If you’re not familiar with the story, the Babylonians invaded Jerusalem and took many of its people hostage. Any of the young men who were thought to be of value were taken to the palace to serve the king, which is where Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego ended up. The rest of the story includes King Nebuchadnezzar erecting a giant statue and commanding everyone to bow to it. The three Jewish boys refused and were thrown into a fiery furnace for their trouble, but were miraculously saved from the flames.)

When I heard the story told in Sunday School as a child, it was nothing more than an awesome story of God’s power, but now I find myself wondering what went through these mothers’ minds when they heard about the great statue? What did they think when they learned of the fiery furnace?

Were they proud?

Or did they panic?

I’m re-watching series two of Grey’s Anatomy at the moment. In one of the episodes, the doctors are operating on a man with unexploded ammunition inside his chest, and need to work out how to get it out without killing the patient and blowing up the entire hospital.

Which, I’m sure, is a completely realistic scenario and occurs on an almost daily basis.

At one point, an intern turns to her boyfriend (the surgeon performing the operation) and says: ‘You know in the movies, how there’s always the hero and then there’s the other guy? You know, the guy who sees danger, and then runs in the opposite direction?

‘Be the other guy.’

Being able to say that is a pivotal moment in the character’s story. It speaks of love, courage and wanting to put life first, not heroism or pride. In one way it’s selfish, but in another it’s beautifully romantic.

Now if I’m being honest, although I occasionally like to believe that my life is as dramatic as Grey’s Anatomy, Boatman will probably never be in such a situation, or one like it. But if by chance he were, I would say the exact same thing. Run away.

He’s not very helpful to me as a dead hero. I need him alive.

However, this begs a new question. What if it were my children?

As a mother, my goal is to raise my children to be Godly individuals. To stand up for what is right, to love others as they love themselves, to be kind when the world is cruel, and to follow the rules when everyone is breaking them. I pray for purity in an impure world, for courage in the face of fear, and for perseverance when others have sat down and decided it’s all too hard. I teach them not to conform to the pattern of this world, but to be transformed by the word of God and the work of His Holy Spirit. I teach, I train, I encourage and then I cover them in prayer so that when the day of evil comes they can stand strong against everything thrown against them.

I will spend their entire lives teaching them to be ‘the hero’ rather than ‘the other guy’—all while hoping desperately that they are never put in that position.

How much training did the mothers (and fathers) of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego have to put into those boys, so they could stand with conviction in the face of such strong opposition? It’s one thing to have a gun pointed at your head; at least you know death is going to be relatively quick. But thrown into a fiery furnace? That’s hardcore.

Faced with that prospect, I honestly don’t know what I would do. I hope I would stand.

I hope my children would stand.

We are so blessed to live in a country that allows religious freedom. We do not have to fear the lion’s den, a fiery furnace, a firing squad or an electric chair for simply believing in Christ. But like those three Jewish boys, we are still called to stand with conviction in the face of opposition, and to teach our children to stand with that same belief. When the bell rings at school, our children need to be able to make the choice to run to class instead of dawdling like their friends.

When faced with the choice of lying or being honest, they need to be strong enough to choose truth.

When they see someone being the victim of bullying, they need to have the intestinal fortitude to stand up and say, “this is wrong”.

I think the mothers of those four Jewish boys would have been proud.

I think they may also have felt panicky, sad and afraid. Maybe they’d have thought for a split second, “Don’t do it”. What mother wouldn’t?

But the ability to stand was not developed when the king ordered everyone to bow; it was made the first time those mothers laid hands on their pregnant bellies and prayed God’s will over their growing children. When they decided to dedicate their children to the service of the Lord, when they chose to teach them His word, and when they committed to write it upon their hearts.

It was strengthened every time they encouraged their sons not to hit their brothers.

It was ed every time they held hands and thanked God for a meal.

It was reinforced every time they cried because they were teased for choosing good over evil.

It was fortified when each one of those boys realised, for the first time, that he didn’t care what people thought of him.

God hasn’t called us to be ‘the other guy’. He’s called us to be heroes and to raise another generation of heroes to follow in our footsteps.

As parents we can choose to spend our days instilling Godly words and principles that will empower us to make bold choices.

Or we can run from the hard work and hope for the best.

Today I am choosing not to run.

Bring on the lions.

Bring on the fire.

Bring on the live, unexploded ammunition.

I refuse to be “that guy”.

IF YOU LOVE SOMETHING, GIVE IT BACK …

HELLO SEPTEMBER! You kinda snuck up on me there, in the midst of all the crazy.

For the last couple of days I’ve been trying to write about Bridie’s ear surgery last week, but I just haven’t found the right words. The whole thing turned into a huge dilemma because it looked as if it might not happen at all.

But perhaps I should start at the beginning.

On the Tuesday before the procedure (which had been scheduled for Friday), I called the doctor to enquire about whether I needed to fill in any ission forms or what not. I thought it odd that no one had sent me any.

Turned out that some istrative error had seen Bridie’s name completely left off the list, meaning she’d need to wait another six to eight weeks for the Adelaide-based ENT to visit Darwin again.

You can imagine how much I loved being told that!

However I must be growing or something, because I didn’t stay angry for long this time. (Amazing isn’t it?) I just thought that there wasn’t much I could do about it, except put the whole thing in God’s hands. Which ended up being about

the smartest thing I could do, because on Wednesday they called and said there was an appointment available for Thursday afternoon, and gave me an impossibly long checklist to complete before then.

Now, I like to think of myself as an organised person who needs a little warning. (Some might refer to me as anal and controlling.) Being told that I now had to get three children to the hospital for an anæsthetist appointment, fill out a whole bunch of forms, call all the ladies from GEMS to let them know it has been cancelled, ask Boatman to have the day off work, and make sure Taylah has everything ready for her book-character assembly, is almost enough to send me over the edge.

Almost but not quite.

Thankfully I’m getting this whole “put it in God’s hands” under control.

So Thursday morning rolls around, and fixated on the fact that I won’t be able to feed my three-year-old anything after seven (and force her to fast for morning tea, which is, according to her, the best meal of the day), I turn into some kind of Master Chef and whip up a meal fit for a queen. I’m talking toast, two eggs, chocolate milk, a fruit bar and some juice.

Which, in hindsight, is a ridiculous amount of food for a tiny person.

We all got ready for the day; Bridie in a gorgeous dress and her hair all pretty (because I was sure that if she looked cuter, the doctor would be nicer to her), and Taylah as a tomato. A costume, I should add, that was requested by her. It won her first place for the second year in a row. (Insert happy dance here.)

Arriving home, I put a movie on for Bridie (trying to conserve as much energy as possible) and so of course she asked for food. Having some kind of brainwave, I thought to give her a bowl of ice. An item I later realised, she shouldn’t have had. Thankfully it didn’t cause a problem.

We got to the hospital just before lunch and that’s when the real waiting began. Bridie had a quick nap on my lap, before we were shuffled from person to person, room to room, asked to answer a whole bunch of the same questions, and told to fill in the paperwork that should have been done a few weeks earlier. Finally, after what seemed like forever, they called her name and I took her (dressed in my blue scrubs like someone from the cast of Grey’s Anatomy) into the operating room.

Which looked nothing like the theatres from Grey’s.

A fact I was more than slightly disappointed by.

Once in the OR, all the casualness of the waiting room evaporated and it was all systems go. Nurses guided us towards a chair, where Bridie was covered in the warmest blanket I’ve ever felt.

I’d heard stories of kids going under a General Anæsthetic. Everyone said they go under quickly and easily, and it’s very peaceful. Boatman had taken Taylah in to have her adenoids removed, and said there was not a problem at all, and that Bridie would be fine.

But Bridie never does what’s expected.

Ever.

She fought the mask as she cried and spat, trying desperately and helplessly to get rid of the smell. It wasn’t long, but it felt like forever. Finally her eyes slowly closed against her will and I heard the anæsthetist say, ‘That’s it, she’s asleep.’

‘Are you sure?’ I wanted to ask. ‘Are you really, really sure?’

Then they took my baby, put her on a bed and the same busy nurses ushered me out of the room. My last view was of her on the bed, looking so very small, and totally vulnerable.

As mums, we would do anything for our children. The love we feel for them is overwhelming and incomparable. Which is why it is so difficult when you know a situation is out of your control. When you know that mummy can’t make it better, and there is nothing you can do except wait and pray.

I fought back tears all the way to the waiting room, still dressed like Meredith Grey, where I bumped into a lady from church who was waiting for a gastroscopy. It probably wasn’t the person I would have chosen to hang out with, but she was an answer to prayer; someone to keep my mind off what was going on.

About twenty minutes later they called my name. I followed the nurses to a hall where Bridie was lying on her tummy, crying and thrashing her head from sideto-side. As I climbed onto the bed, eager to envelop her in my arms, she told me her arm hurt. She still had a cannula and a big white bandage covering her hand and I think that was distressing her more than anything. Unfortunately the cannula couldn’t come out until she had eaten and had some water, which made her cry all the more. Then she started complaining about her ear.

Because Bridie doesn’t usually complain about pain and because she was almost screaming, I knew she was in agony. Thankfully the nurse came to the same conclusion and gave her a strong painkiller. She needed more than one dose to soothe her, but once it kicked in and the pain had settled, she was moved to recovery.

For the next few hours we sat in a cosy recliner, watching Veggie Tales dvds.

She threw-up a couple of times and complained of being cold and of having a sore ear. Her colour wasn’t great. The doctor came and spoke to me twice, but my recollection of both occasions is a blur. All I can is the surgeon saying the hole in her ear had doubled in size since her last appointment and that he needed to ensure her hearing would not be compromised. He assured me she would be fine in a few hours and he was right.

On the other hand, I am still getting over the whole experience. I was to learn later that he had performed what is known as a Tympanoplasty, which is a kind of graft to repair the hole. Because of the size and the degree of rubbish in her ear, he had to scrape away the dead tissue and clean it all up, which was where most of her pain was coming from.

We return to the doctors in a month or so. I am praying she won’t need more surgery and am forcing myself to that God is in control, but it has been hard this time.

For some reason, I have been feeling really low and I’m not sure why. Obviously the surgery was emotional, but she came away without experiencing any sideeffects, except the ability to hear better.

Maybe I’m feeling helpless because there’s nothing I can do but sit and pray? Maybe it is fear? Fear that we may have to do this all again?

Maybe it’s the thought that my children, although perfect, are still so breakable, and that I can’t protect them from everything. When we were at the hospital, Bridie, who had just woken up from a catnap on my lap, said, ‘Mummy, I love you.’

And so of course I panicked.

Under normal circumstances those four words would have been wonderful, but considering the situation and my tendency to over-exaggerate, I was sure that it meant something disastrous was about to occur. What did she know that I didn’t?

‘Why are you saying that?’ I thought. ‘Don’t tell me you’re going to die! You can’t die! God, you can’t let her die! You can’t take her from me, she’s mine.’

As clear as day, and at that very moment, I heard, ‘No she’s not. She’s mine.’

It stopped me in my tracks. (Metaphorically of course. Literally I was sitting on a chair while a nurse took Bridie’s blood pressure.)

‘Yes God, she is yours. I dedicated her to you and you can do whatever you like with her. But I am asking you, please let her stay with me longer. Right now, in this very moment, I renew my dedication to bring her up in your ways. I will try harder to teach her more, so that she will grow up to be a beautiful woman after your own heart. Please don’t take her.’

I am reading the book of Samuel at the moment and have been wonderfully amazed by the commitment of Hannah, Samuel’s mother. Hannah had been barren but made a commitment to God that if He would grant her a son, she would devote that son to God’s service by physically giving him to the temple. God heard her prayer and answered with a babe called Samuel. As soon as he was weaned, she honoured her promise and willingly gave her only child to God, even when that meant placing him in the care of a man called Eli, who was definitely not going to receive a ‘Father of the Year’ award. (His own children

were known around town as being irreverent womanisers.)

In the Bible, Samuel is credited as being the child who heard God audibly speak. He also went on to become one of Israel’s most renowned prophets.

Some suggest one of the reasons Samuel was able to hear God’s voice so clearly, and to become a great leader, was because Hannah was so diligent in instructing Samuel in the ways of the Lord in the few years they were together. She knew she only had a short period of time, and so she invested in it consistently.

During Samuel’s childhood, there was a battle between Israel and Philistia which had devastating effects on the nation. Not only did the country lose its most sacred possession, but both of Eli’s sons were killed in battle. Upon hearing of this tragedy, Eli himself suffered a heart attack and died.

I wondered what happened to Samuel after this. He was given to the temple which no longer had its ark, and the priests had all died. There seemed no purpose in him being there any more.

Finally, after searching through chapter after chapter to find the answer, I discovered one little verse which spoke of Samuel’s fate: he went home.

Hannah got him back.

Hannah gave Samuel to God for the rest of his days. She didn’t make a promise and then renege, or take him to the temple once a year on special occasions. Her

commitment was for life.

Then God—who always gives good gifts—gave Samuel back. And when she got him back, he was a much greater person.

God has our children’s best interests at heart, and because He is God, he manages to look after their best interests while looking after ours. Maybe not in the way we expect or want, but in the way that He knows is best.

In the hour before Bridie’s surgery I had the opportunity to give her to God again. Then, 20 minutes later, I got her back.

Better, healthier and closer to how God meant for her to be.

It’s such a comforting feeling to know that even though it feels like no one could love our little people more than we do, someone does.

And He never lets go.

ARE WE THERE YET?

WHERE TO START? To be honest I’ve been feeling very flat lately.

Glancing at my previous entry and ing Bridie’s horrible anæsthetic experience, I am grateful that I was able to be there for her, despite the fact that I hated it at the time. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to be with her for her next procedure, a gastroscopy. (Bridie has had stomach issues ever since she was a newborn, and now they are looking at going down the surgical route. We were hoping both the ear and gastroscopy could be done at the same time, but unfortunately the surgeons couldn’t coordinate it.)

She will be itted next Thursday, four weeks after her last surgery.

I went and saw the anæsthetist today and he is different from the previous gasman, in just about every way. (Including the obvious fact that he is not a woman.) He charges twice as much, is nowhere near as pretty, and does not allow parents to stay with their children whilst they are put to sleep.

It’s the last difference which has me worried. (As well as his exorbitant fee; why didn’t I become an anæsthetist?) I have no idea how I am going to send Bridie, by herself, into a room which is associated with such horrible memories.

How will she cope?

How will I cope?

I am desperate to know what is going on in that body of hers: every morning she complains of stomach (and now chest) pain. It’s probably something very simple, but with my leaning towards the dramatic, and the fact that I have watched far too many episodes of Grey’s Anatomy to think that any routine procedure is exactly that, I’m sure it is something terrible and sinister. I need to know what is wrong because I am letting my mind run away with possible causes, and they are seriously terrifying me!

I know I should trust God like Hannah did. ( that revelation, only two weeks ago?) But honestly, I’ve stopped focusing on the positive heart of that story (never a good thing), and have instead been questioning the particulars.

Especially one:

How long?

How long did it take before Hannah got Samuel back?

Was he seven or ten or thirteen or fifteen?

Was he even older?

Did she get him back after Eli had finished the important “talks” with him, once

he was sporting a full beard, and when she’d have to look up to see his eyes? Not many of us look forward to chatting about the birds and the bees with our kids, but if you suddenly knew you might not be able to do it, wouldn’t it be the one thing you would want more than anything?

There is no way I could have done what Hannah did! I’m one of those ridiculously soppy mums who misses her children when she is at the hairdresser! I spend a huge amount of time worrying that they will need me, or be counting down the minutes until my return. I’ve had to train myself to just chill out and enjoy the freedom of not being asked to wipe someone’s bum.

Suffice to say, the very idea of giving them to the local pastor and seeing them only once a year would probably have both of us (me and the pastor), rocking in the corner. Before I could even begin to slightly consider the possibility, I would be demanding a contract with length-of-stay stated firmly in bold and underlined; none of this”fine print” business.

If I’m giving my children away, I want to know the logistics.

How many birthdays and Christmases will I have to miss?

How many camping trips will we have to take without them? How many mothers’ days will I have to endure without a snuggle in bed and some kind of randomly glued and coloured macaroni craft, that I try to discreetly throw in the bin about a week later?

How long?

Hannah has to be, in my opinion, one of the strongest women in the Bible (with the possible exception of Mary. Let’s not even go there.)

I could handle leaving my family and my country and moving somewhere foreign and new, like Ruth. (So long as it wasn’t Oodnadatta.)

I could go uninvited before the king, ready to plead for the lives of my people, like Esther. (Or alternatively rock up at the Prime Minister’s door step and ask to have a cuppa and a chat.)

I could weep at the feet of Jesus, as a number of women did. Even pour my best perfume on His feet. (I’ve already cried to Him a number of times.)

But I couldn’t send my child away indefinitely like Hannah.

Not at all.

So if (and I hate to even think it) there is something terribly wrong with Bridie, I want to know how long I have to wait until I can have my little girl back. How long do I have to remain stoic and strong and trying to be some modern-day Hannah, when clearly I have nowhere near the strength of character to do so?

My answer: hope.

The Lord is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge … He reached down from on High and took hold of me; He drew me out of deep waters … He brought me into a spacious place; He rescued me because He delighted in me.

The Lord has dealt with me according to my righteousness; according to the cleanness of my hands He has rewarded me. For I have kept the ways of the Lord; I have not done evil by turning from my God … To the faithful you show yourself faithful. To the blameless you show yourself blameless, to the pure you show yourself pure … You are my lamp O Lord; the Lord turns my darkness into light. With your help I can advance against a troop; with my God I can scale a wall … It is God who arms me with strength and makes my way perfect. He makes my feet like the feet of a deer; He enables me to stand on the heights … You give me your shield of victory; You stoop down to make me great. You broaden the path beneath me, so that my ankles do not turn over. 2 Samuel 22:21–37

When I read this, the last two sentences were the ones the stood out and made me take notice. “You stoop down, to make me great … ”

When He stoops down, it doesn’t mean He makes himself less of a God in order to make us feel like more of a success, which is often what we humans equate humbleness with. Rather, it means He physically lifts us up from the blubbering mess we have become, and gives us the strength to keep walking. By His grace, he broadens the path so it’s easier to walk. (A fact I have full appreciation for, considering my propensity to twist ankles on an almost daily basis.)

My only problem with this scripture is that nowhere does it say “I’ll just lift you up and we can fly on to the next rosy meadow.” On the contrary, despite the fact that He is constantly with us, we still have to walk that road. If it is set out before us, it is our journey to take.

But I don’t want to. I want to do the flying thing and not have to think about where to place my feet. Even with Him by my side, it doesn’t sound very comfortable!

What the whole thing really comes down to is fear.

I am terribly afraid.

Afraid of not being enough for them if I occasionally enjoy spending time apart from them.

Afraid of losing my kids.

Afraid that maybe there is something truly wrong with Bridie and that I might not be enough to make it better.

At the crux of this deep-seated trepidation, is an anxiety born of perceived insignificance. I have placed all my eggs in one basket.

And when I say eggs, I mean worth.

And when I say basket I mean parenting.

I’m completely certain that all my strength lies in being a mum.

I have no other qualifications. A couple of years at Uni and a management position at McDonald’s is nothing to write home about.

However I am good at loving my children and my husband. I’m good at cooking, doing dishes and ironing. I’m good at taking temperatures and giving cuddles. I’m good at making sandcastles and I’m flipping awesome at Crazy Ball.

I’ve spent the last six years working very hard to place all my worth on my parenting and my desire to be the best mum ever, that I’m terrified that if I lost any of that, there would be nothing left of me. If there is something wrong with Bridie, or if something happened to any of them, what would I do?

Perhaps more terrifying though, is the question that comes next: what if I’m supposed to be more? What if I’ve built up this whole safety and security and sense of accomplishment around being “mum” that I’m neglecting all the other things God has called me to be?

And what if I have become so stubborn and self-involved, that the only way He can get my attention, is to take away my security?

Take away the very reason that I am “mum”.

In my heart, I don’t actually believe that He would do that, but there is a

lingering, tangible fear all the same. There always is, when you take your eyes off Jesus and think “what if … ?”

So I go back to the Scripture.

‘He rescued me, because He delighted in me … He stooped down to make me great.’

Those are not the words of a vindictive dictator who removes the good gifts He has given for fun; those are the words of an all-loving. Saviour who walks us through life’s mysteries, using them to mould us into who we are meant to be.

For a long time I’ve been content to stay in my little cave and be no more than mother to my young people, but I’m starting to see that being just a mum isn’t enough. I was made to be more.

It’s actually OK to be more.

I’ve been wondering how long it took for Hannah to get Samuel back, but now I wonder if God was not also asking “How long?”

‘How long until you realise that although the ministry of your children is great, I have called you to more?’

‘How long until you realise that I made you? You are beautifully and perfectly

designed in My image, for My glory, and you were created for more than the small life that you are limiting yourself to.’

‘How long until you realise that while the ministry of raising your children is vital, there are others out there who need what you have, and I want you to show Me to them?’

‘How long … ?’

Maybe Hannah needed to learn too. She lived in a culture that gave women very little value beyond the production of tiny humans, and she couldn’t even do that for the longest time. Maybe God needed to teach her that she was more than just a baby-maker. That her purpose in life was to glorify the living God by being who He made her to be in her entirety. Maybe there’s a whole side to Hannah that we have never heard about, a side that was developed because she learnt to give the thing that she held most precious, to the One who had given him in the first place.

I love being a mum. I love my kids. I love to serve Jesus by loving them.

But I love Jesus too. And I don’t want to be half of who He made me, or take a single second of the crucifixion experience for granted, by making it half as necessary.

My cave has been a nice safe place for the last I can’t how many years, but it’s time to leave it. I’m not doing anyone any service by being half of me. Including myself.

ONE OF THOSE DAYS

I AM JUST ABOUT OVER TODAY! It’s only the second day of school holidays and I am tearing my hair out already.

I have been trying to tighten my (or rather, the kids’) routine. It has become loose in some places and completely unravelled in others. In theory, it shouldn’t actually be a hard process because it’s already in place (and written down in an actual notebook, which is half the battle ). But tweaking it is proving to be a lot more complicated than I thought.

I know a lot of people aren’t fans of a daily structure and honestly, I wasn’t initially. It’s much easier to just go with the flow, be relaxed, laid-back and ‘free.’ I’m a big fan of anything that makes me seems less uptight than I probably am.

I’ve since learnt (the hard way) that planning the day’s activities not only keeps me in control (as opposed to the children, who seem to have inherited my control-freak gene) but also creates a lot less “free time” for destroying the house and my patience. I try to keep things fairly loosely structured, moving from inside to outside, and quiet to loud, whilst allowing for my housekeeping duties. (So outside playtime includes hanging out washing, and drawing at the table lets me do the dishes. In theory. )

In the past when I tried this with the girls, it was reasonably easy. There were a few battles over being told to do something from Little Miss Bridie (like I said, control-freak), but most things were done with little complaint.

Bailey, however, is a whole different kettle of fish.

The kid just doesn’t play with toys.

He’s happy to run around outside or play physical games, but when it comes to getting him to sit down quietly and focus on something, the effort is equivalent to pulling teeth.

It’s even hard to spend one-on-one time with him (unless it’s wrestling, but who has the energy to do that all day?)

He doesn’t mind sitting and rolling a ball to me, but then he starts throwing it around and doesn’t want to include me in his game anymore, which leaves me with not only a bruised ego, but often broken household items. He does love to read stories, so I have been spending a lot of time reading with him, but that has slightly backfired on me. I can no longer go to the toilet without being brought some reading material, and him pulling up a lap. (Does anyone else missing peeing in peace?)

I know I have been supremely slack with him over the past weeks. He has had too much time to wander and become master of his own destiny, and I am dealing with more temper tantrums as a result. He is constantly saying “No” and has started arching his back when I pick him up, usually after he has run away.

He is also refusing to sleep. He won’t sleep in the morning, he won’t sleep in the afternoon, and he is even refusing to sleep at night despite being completely

overtired. An hour-and-a-half after putting him to bed today, I had to go and tell him that my instructions were a directive, not a suggestion. Immediately I heard God say to me, ‘Yes. Yes they are.’

Thanks for that, God.

When we allow our children the freedom to choose what to do during the day, and which activities they will and will not participate in, we give them permission to be the boss. This means when we do tell them to do something, the instruction becomes interpreted as a suggestion in their little brains. If they don’t feel like it, they won’t do it.

Ideally, I would wait to make routine changes, until Taylah is back at school, (drop-off and pick-up times give me 30 minutes of planning freedom. The kids are securely strapped in their car seats and I don’t need to provide them with an activity. Winning!) Unfortunately I don’t have this option at this time; things need to change now.

It doesn’t help that I’ve had the ’flu for the past three days and so have given the children the freedom to do what they want just so I can lie uninterrupted on the couch. Add to that, Boatman is still in Brisbane after a suicidal bird grounded his plane. (Long story. He had to go to a work thing, and then as they were on the tarmac, a bird flew into the engine. So I guess, not that long a story after all!) I have Bridie’s surgery hanging over my head and I am in the middle of the world’s longest period. The accompanying cramps have been excruciating.

Good times, people. Good times.

At least I have formulated a “to-do” list:

I need to reign in Bailey’s free time and provide more structure to his day, without detracting from my time with the girls.

I need to give the girls (particularly Taylah) more time.

I need to get off the couch and finish more housework while the little ones are napping.

I may need to have my iron levels checked by my GP. I have no energy at the moment.

I must reduce Bridie’s TV-viewing time without conflict.

I need to make play-dough.

I need to forgive suicidal birds for keeping my husband in Brisbane an extra day.

I need to drink less coffee.

I need to pray more.

It seems so easy now …

I read about King Solomon this morning. He asked God for a discerning heart so he could rule over his people wisely. For as Solomon put it, ‘Who is able to govern this great people of yours?’ Sometimes I look at my children like that. ‘God, who is able to control these children you gave me?’ But the answer is always a resounding, ‘You’.

It seems He has far more confidence in me than I do myself, so I need to believe in myself and Him, so that when He says it’s possible, I know that it is.

If God gave them to me, I can do it. If God gave them to me, He will then equip me with all the skills necessary to raise them for His glory. Simple as that.

If you are in doubt, pray for a discerning heart. Pray for the ability to distinguish between right and wrong. Solomon was the wisest man on earth because of his prayer requests, and yet so often I fail to learn the lesson. I write lists, criticise myself and wonder how on earth we will make it through the day. And all my Heavenly Father wants is for me to ask Him. To seek His guidance, and to chase His Wisdom.

‘God, help me get through this day … ’

WORLD’S BEST MOTHER

YOU KNOW THOSE MOMENTS when, as a parent, everything seems to go perfectly well, and the world seems like a beautiful place?

Yeah, me neither

My life is more likely to end up as the basis for a family sitcom, with an added laugh track so people know it’s time to stop looking at me with a mixture of pity and condescension.

Last Friday was no exception.

It was the school holidays and I was looking for some fun activities to the time and to also, hopefully, teach the girls something, in a bid to further my quest for world’s best mother. So I decided to do some craft. Bridie had been given a book on the creation story, complete with a whole bunch of stickers, so we decided to make a series of posters on the seven days of creation to display on their bedroom wall.

It was very “special” looking, as most of my ideas usually are. Think random pieces of coloured paper, a Bible verse, stickers haphazardly attached, and some very “creative” interpretations of animals.

Basically the exact opposite of anything you would ever find on Pinterest, but it worked for us. Plus it took up a whole morning so we can hardly complain about that can we?

Now by some fortunate twist of fate (or the fact that the landlord had sent around a gardener to cut down some trees), our craft lesson soon became a practical one. Upon going outside to hang out washing, I discovered a tiny brown creature, lying helplessly on the ground. It was barely the size of my little finger, with a light covering of brown fur, tiny translucent ears and perfectly closed eyes.

Being the responsible person that I am I called the vet, and described the newborn orphan, all the while checking through the garden to see if the mystery baby had any siblings. With the assistance of the dog, we stumbled upon another two little babies, and being the gentle souls that we are, rescued them as well.

The girls, of course, thought this was wonderful. Within moments they had transformed an old nappy box using paper towel and grass from the lawn, into a soft cocoon for our wildlife friends, begging all the while for me to let them keep them.

Now for one very brief moment I entertained the idea of keeping the mysterious creatures and becoming some kind of Terri Irwin, nursing nature’s beauties back to health, and then releasing them into the wild to be free forever. I’d be one of those wonderful people who wakes up at night to give them their milk, who carries them through the shops in a pillow case, while children everywhere flock to my side, to get a glimpse of my hand-raised possums, or sugar gliders (which is what I was sure they were.)

Fortunately I came out of my day-dream long enough to that some days it’s an effort to keep my own children alive, so I said no. Instead I

explained that they would have to go to the vet who would find an experienced person to care for them, so that he or she could get no sleep, and be the woman I could only dream about.

Now wildlife warrior I may not be, but I did seize the opportunity to draw on the morning’s creation lesson, by reminding Taylah that God had commanded Adam and Eve to care for the animals, and so by rescuing these little ones, we were in fact doing exactly that.

I had barely finished the explanation, when my exuberant six year old exclaimed, ‘So by rescuing these creatures we are obeying God’s word?!’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That’s exactly what we’re doing,’ feeling quite smug in my obvious role as mother of the year, and protector of the weak and orphaned.

It wasn’t to last long.

Now our vet is literally just down the road. So once Bailey was awake, we went for a walk, carrying our box of baby possums, with Taylah delighting in our practical obedience to God’s word the entire way.

‘This is my first time,’ she told me.

‘Your first time at what? Obeying God’s word?’ I asked.

‘Yeah … No. Is it? Have I obeyed God’s word before?’

‘Yes, of course you have. Every time you do what mum and dad ask you to do, you obey God’s word!’

‘Oh yeah. This is my first time obeying God’s word about helping animals then.’

She was so excited about living out the command in Genesis, that I honestly thought she might burst into the vet surgery and praise the ladies at reception for their practical application of biblical doctrine. “Greetings, blessed veterinarians! We come to you in the name of the Lord and thank you for your service to His creation!”

Thankfully she didn’t.

No. Rather she stood next to me, with her fact lit up like the sun, gazing at the receptionist as I asked the all-important question:

‘What do you think they are?’

‘Hmm … by their long tails I would guess mice. Or maybe rats.’

‘Really? But they’ve got round ears. Don’t mice have pointy ears?’ I asked disappointedly. ‘They’re not possums?’

‘No, they’re definitely not possums.’

‘Oh. Maybe I shouldn’t have saved them then.’

Yes. I actually said that. Right after explaining that our role was to care for God’s creation, and while my wide-eyed, excited six-year-old was standing right next me, with a whole-hearted faith that she has just completed one of the most important tasks in the entire world.

The fact that she didn’t hear my carelessly uttered words is proof enough for me that God exists, and He loves us.

The vet took a look at the animals and confirmed they were indeed rats.

‘So will you bother getting a carer for them?’ I whispered, whilst glancing at the little girl with the sun shining out of her eyes.

She didn’t reply, but the look she gave said no.

Or rather, ‘Don’t be so ridiculous. They are a pest.’

Thankfully Taylah didn’t notice this either. There are moments when her ditsyness and failure to notice what is going on around her is a true blessing

indeed.

That night at dinner Taylah prayed for them.

‘Dear Lord, thank you for our dinner and thank you for the little rats we saved and thank you that they aren’t scared anymore. Amen.’

She definitely got that right.

I’m fairly sure that by that point, they weren’t feeling anything.

In other news (that doesn’t involve trying to subject the world to more rodents), Bridie had her gastroscopy and all went well. Despite my well-documented freak-out, I was able to rest peacefully in the fact that God was looking after her. All the fear just went. Completely gone. I literally went from constantly fretting and stressing about the whole experience, to having complete trust that God had the whole thing sorted. I sent out a prayer text the night before asking people to pray that she would cope without me, and I’m fairly certain this was a big help.

The morning of her surgery, Bridie woke up fine and relaxed. She knew what was happening and although she didn’t really like it, she was handling it well. She cried when the anæsthetist came and took her from us at the hospital, but wasn’t hysterical (and neither was I).

The surgery was only supposed to take 10 minutes, so I was beginning to wonder if they had found a problem when she failed to appear within 30 minutes. After 45 minutes I asked a ing nurse to find out what was going on, and two minutes later they wheeled her out to me, awake and alert.

Bridie is painfully shy; so shy she is actually rude at times. But the nurse said when they woke her up, she had a short whinge and then stated, ‘I got two new movies yesterday!’

Apparently she didn’t stop talking from that point on (which is really not that uncommon when it comes to her). In fact the nurses said she was welcome to come back any time, but I politely refused their kind offer.

We were discharged quickly, and she had no lingering effects from the anæsthetic at all. In fact the whole thing was such a completely different experience from a month ago, it has to be credited as a miracle.

We have to wait until Wednesday for results, which seems a long way off at the moment, but I’m feeling calmly confident. I figure if God can save three baby rats from the jaws of a dog (only to be killed at the vet’s, but that’s not the point), then Bridie’s sure to be fine.

MY OWN WORST ENEMY

ONLY 85 DAYS UNTIL CHRISTMAS, which means only 60 days to get all my shopping done, (I am a control freak and hate the thought of still having shopping to do during December). Now usually I would be excited by the thought of a mad present buying frenzy, but this year I am a little stumped. I can not think of one thing that anybody needs (except for me. I always need new clothes.)

Adding to this dilemma, about six weeks ago Boatman and I pulled rank, and put all the kids’ toys into storage because they weren’t keeping their rooms tidy, despite repeated reminders to do so. We said they could earn back the toys by ensuring their rooms stayed clean.

In that six weeks, they have earned back three toys.

My storeroom has been taken over by My Little Pony and a nursery of baby dolls, and no one seems particularly concerned. Obviously they don’t miss them, so the idea of buying more seems completely ludicrous. Boatman likes the sound of that (coming in firmly on the side of our bank ), but I find the whole thing rather depressing as I only have finite opportunities to buy my kids presents without getting in trouble, (when the bank informs Boatman of my excessive need to give. It’s rather rude really).

In an attempt to focus my mind on less disturbing matters, I opened my Bible and began to contemplate this:

To keep me from becoming conceited because of these suringly great revelations, there was given me a thorn in my flesh, a messenger of Satan to torment me. 2 Corinthians 12:7

I have decided, based on the evidence available, that I am the thorn in my own flesh.

Let me explain.

We received Bridie’s test results yesterday. Everything looks normal, praise God. There was some evidence of reflux and if she were an adult, she would have to stop drinking, smoking, and eating greasy foods. But since she’s a child, and obviously abstains from such practices, she is on medication. I also have to elevate her bed slightly. God really is awesome. All my worry and determination that we would somehow end up as a new plot line on Grey’s Anatomy was actually over a weak diaphragm that should grow stronger over time.

It turned out that instead of stressing about things that probably wouldn’t happen, I should instead be focused on the mundane activities of an afternoon, and how they could go crazily wrong.

Take heed, mothers of the world: you can get through just about anything life throws at you, except for arsenic hour.

So it was Wednesday afternoon. We had received the good news from the highly-expensive surgeon, picked up medication from the chemist and we were

heading home. I was looking forward to a happy, relaxed afternoon, plus a celebratory glass of red wine with my dinner.

Life is rarely the way you imagine it will be.

Seriously.

Bridie point-blank refused to take the doctor’s medication. She completely stuck her feet in the mud (metaphorical mud obviously), and refused to be moved.

The only person I know who is more stubborn than my daughter is me. And after having gone through an emotional roller-coaster to get this tiny prescription, I was not backing down. The result was a 30-minute battle, with the two of us staring each other down, determined to win. In the end I claimed victory, but it came at a high cost. There was wee everywhere, dinner was late, and Bailey missed out on his bath (which for a normal child, is not a big deal. But for a boy set on routine, it’s a complete disaster). This then led on to the heartbreaking, devastating moment when I discovered that there would be no celebratory wine, as there was, in fact, no wine at all.

In order to relieve my tension and to get out of the house for a bit, I decided to take the dogs for a run. Being a bit of an exercise junkie, and not having had an opportunity for a little while, I was determined to push myself. I figured attempting to jog with a Labrador and a Jack Russell would be the ultimate test in hopeful exertion, if not complete insanity.

I honestly thought it was an inspired idea; run a little faster, go a little further. No pain, no gain, that kind of thing.

Yeah? Well, I rolled my ankle.

It’s at this point in the story, that I should inform you that I am not a stranger to a rolled ankle. Back in high school (and primary school too) it was almost a daily occurrence and I never did any damage. My friends even stopped laughing when it happened, because nothing is funny when someone does it that often.

So when I did it this time, I didn’t think anything much more than ‘Not again!’

Which was evidently my first mistake.

I’m not sure if it was the fact it had been a while between rolls, or that I’m getting kind of old, but it did hurt a little more this time. Not a huge amount (because I like to think of myself as a pain warrior), and I could still walk, but I was left with a choice: turn left and head home, or continue straight on and resume my work out.

I chose to ignore the pain and continued straight.

Which was mistake number two.

Followed closely on its ankle-rolling heels by mistake number three.

Not only did I consider myself tough enough to walk the rest of the distance of my preplanned route, I grossly underestimated the extent of the damage and continued running.

Amazingly, the run did what it was supposed to, and I was feeling great when I got home. I even jumped in the pool and did a few laps: my fourth, and final, mistake.

Otherwise known as “Jess, you have completely lost your mind, and are going to pay for this later tonight.”

Feeling relaxed, rejuvenated, and like some kind of world-class athlete, I took pleasure in going inside to sit down. I knew Boatman had put the children to bed, and I actually had nothing pressing to distract me from doing absolutely nothing.

It was an hour of pure, unadulterated bliss after a crazy afternoon.

It wasn’t until I got up, that I realised I was sore.

My ankle was aching, my hands were tender—I had carpet burn all over my fingers from the dogs’ lead—and my butt was oddly sore. I limped to the bathroom for a shower and found (after examining my behind at a strange angle in the mirror) that my knickers had been rubbing against my skin, resulting in some serious chaffing. Not a pleasant feeling, as you’re no doubt aware.

Boatman, of course, thought the whole situation was hilarious. That is until about 11:30 pm, when I woke in excruciating pain due to a largely swollen ankle. (My Grey’s Anatomy-endorsed medical training helped me reach a diagnosis of “sprained”. Obviously my body had gone into some kind of shock that helped it get through my mini biathlon).

Have you ever had a sprained ankle? They are surprisingly painful! It hurt to move my entire leg and sleep was almost impossible. That left me hours to contemplate my stupidity regarding any form of exercise ever! It was clear to me then, in the middle of the night, that the uncoordinated should only do safe workouts. Like sitting on an exercise bike with no wheels. Or possibly playing the Wii.

No. No Wii. Even that’s dangerous for the athletically-challenged.

The upside to all this was that my injury prevented me from attending to the children, who were determined to play musical beds all night. The downside was that I had to listen to my sleep-deprived husband suggest very strongly (while strapping my ankle in a way that made walking almost impossible) that it would be better to return home after hurting myself.

Now you are probably wondering what the point is of this ridiculous tale of extreme uncoordination? Well, it all comes back to that thorn in the flesh and its five-letter name; Pride.

Revealing to the world the state of my red bum cheeks, and the fact that I really do run like a madly flailing girl, dissolves any sense of pride that I may be left with. And because I am committed to providing you with absolute honesty, I have to tell you about my sore bum so you know my life isn’t full of good times. Of which I’m sure you were convinced by now.

Besides all that, I think the situation is hilarious. Although to be truthful, when I was lying in bed and groaning at 1:00 am, wondering if I would have to go to hospital, and then realised that I had no idea of when I’d last shaved my legs, I was slightly less jovial.

But there is still more to this modern day parable—one that, no doubt, Jesus would have shared with the disciples.

Boatman and I have been reading John 15 together, which includes the parable about the vine and its branches. According to the scripture, “ … the Father will give you whatever you ask in My name”, but as Boatman has pointed out, there is a condition attached. It’s only when we are living our lives in an active relationship with God that we can claim His promise.

God is obviously very generous. We know that all good gifts come from Him, and that He sends rain on the just and the unjust. But when we are in a constant relationship with Him, we are so much more susceptible to His generosity. It makes perfect sense; if a friend asks you for a favour you’re more inclined to do it than for someone you just see every now and then, or who only shows up when they need something. God’s not stupid, and He won’t be taken for granted. He wants a relationship and our friendship. I have a whole theory about it that I will talk about another day, once I get the whole picture.

Now for me personally, I feel like I am in the best relationship with God that I have been for years. Spending time reading and praying is not a burden, and I can feel that I am becoming more able, and more open to His Holy Spirit. Obviously I’m not perfect, and I have a way to go, but there has been definite progress. So because of that, I knew God would answer our prayers concerning Bridie. It gave me something to hold on to all those times when it seemed like the medicine was stacked up against us.

It’s also just enough to let that little bit of pride creep in, and for me to say, “Yeah well my life is perfect because I’m like, the best Christian ever.” So just to make sure I don’t let it go to my head and think that it’s all because of my inherent awesomeness, I end up with a sprained ankle, a chaffed bum and leash burn on my fingers.

Don’t you love the way God does things?

WHERE YOU START, COUNTS

IT’S 2:00 PM. The house is quiet with sleeping children and a gently-snoring husband, and I have just awoken from an unexpected nap. Boatman is home on a day off. He has returned from his annual “Boys’ Weekend Fishing Trip”, and needs a day to recuperate. Apparently two days of trekking through mangroves trying to find mud crabs, and creeping along beaches at night to see how close one can get to a 3.5-metre salt-water crocodile before it moves, is rather taxing on the body.

As is solo parenting three kids for a weekend with a school concert thrown in for good measure.

Anyway, the quiet has given me some time to think, and I’ve been contemplating the John 15 age again.

My command is this: Love each other as I have loved you. Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends. You are My friends if you do what I command. I no longer call you servants because a servant does not know his master’s business. Instead, I have called you friends, for everything that I learned from my father I have made known to you.’ John 15:1–17

Whist doing the Growing Kids God’s Way course we learnt that friendship with our children is the goal of our parenting journey, not the starting point. If we assumed friendship from the beginning, it would be harder to teach our kids important qualities such as submission, respect and obedience. Our job at this

stage, is to teach or lead our children in the way that God would have them grow, by emphasising. His qualities, and then reap the benefits through friendship once they have reached maturity.

When I was about eight or nine I my mum’s friend Vicky moved away. Vicky was her best friend, and we spent lots of time (in my childlike mind) visiting Vicky or having her around to our place.

My sister Elsa was about 19 or 20, and I suggesting to Mum that Elsa could be her new best friend now that Vicky had moved. It seemed the logical conclusion, since we seemed to spend a lot of time at Elsa’s house too.

A few days later (or it may have been hours, who knows?) Mum questioned me about my comment. She was worried I might be upset that my sister was her best friend, not me. I thinking that was a silly thing to say; of course I wasn’t upset! I knew somehow that it was ridiculous for an adult to be best friends with a child. It just wouldn’t make sense.

Now of course, our relationship is different. Now I can easily call her a friend just as easily as I call her mum.

I’ve always pictured my relationship with God in a parent-child context. Maybe that’s because the Bible is full of instances in which God is described as our Father. In Hebrews 12 for instance, Paul advises earthly fathers to discipline their children, so these children will willingly submit to the discipline of the Heavenly Father.

Similarly, in the story of the prodigal son, God is portrayed as a patient, loving

Dad, who waits longingly for His son to come home.

Maybe another reason I relate so well to this type of relationship is because I have children. I know it’s not this way for all women, but my outlook on the world changed the instant Taylah was born. I was overwhelmed with love. I looked at my mum differently and I looked at God differently. I realised how powerful love was and how selfish I had been. I was loved by an awesome God who had sent His only Son to die for me. He then bequeathed to me a beautiful baby girl, so I could understand this love on a much smaller scale.

John 15 says there is no greater love than to lay down your life for your friends. Not your husband, not your children, but your friends.

Dying for your bestie, I think, would be a lot harder than dying for your child. I don’t know if this makes me the kind of person you’d rather just keep as an acquaintance, but I feel like there would be a lot more to evaluate. Maybe it’s because I’ve never had the kind of friendship with someone who seems to be the other half of the puzzle. Unless you count Boatman.

Even when it comes to God, I wouldn’t define our relationship as friendship. I feel a lot more like a servant, than someone He would want to confide in on a regular basis, and this makes me think:

ing on why we do things, is part of our parenting responsibility. As children grow older and begin to understand more, we provide them with the necessary reasons. “We wear shoes to protect our feet from the hot ground.” “We pick up our toys because keeping rooms tidy shows respect for the people living with us.” “We say grace because all good things come from God and we are showing respect when we acknowledge this.”

The goal is that as we teach them the reason why, our children will internalise those values and theoretically call on them when faced with similar situations. Hopefully by the time they are adults, we have offspring who are like-minded, and with whom we have much in common. If we have done our jobs correctly, our children become committed to their own personal and spiritual growth. They become people who are more like friends than servants or colleagues.

As I said previously, when it comes to God, I feel more like a servant than a friend at times. When reading the Bible, it’s easy to become frustrated or despondent about how hard it can be to follow His Word perfectly. It’s easy to forget that it’s all about the heart.

What I do know, is that His business is my business and when I am like-minded and am following his commands, His Holy Spirit reveals more of God and His will to me. Unlike our relationship with our kids, friendship with God is the starting point. He died for us because He called us friends. Our relationship with Him develops because He sees in us the heart of a person He wants to be friends with; not because we have already reached perfection.

I was listening to a song that I really love on the radio this morning. I have no idea what it is called, who sings it, or many of the words. But the one line I do is, “I’ll take you back”. (Just found it on YouTube. Jeremy Camp is the artist. )

I think an affair, being intimate with someone else, is just about the only thing Boatman—my best friend—could possibly do that would make it difficult for me to”take him back”. He would probably say the same. (Thankfully, it’s also something that neither of us would even think about doing; it’s just not an option.) God wants that same intimacy with us, the intimacy that we have in our marriage, where we would not even consider being unfaithful or walking away.

Where we only want to make Him happy for the rest of our days.

Similarly, I cannot keep a secret from Boatman. Whilst I do possess the self control to avoid telling him what I have bought for Christmas or his birthday (although I am tempted), everything else is shared. I just can’t keep it to myself. I recently bumped into a friend of a friend who is about 34 weeks pregnant with baby number five, and I asked whether she knew the sex of the baby. She said yes, but couldn’t tell me or anyone else because her husband didn’t want to know. There is no way I could keep that sort of secret from Tim!

That’s the kind of thing I would have to share with my best friend.

Sometimes our relationship with God can seem difficult because we have pulled away from intimacy with Him or because we are keeping secrets from Him, or just because of the way we picture how our relationship should be. But because God is God and because He is awesome, He is able to fill more than one role. He’s not just a great dad, He’s also a fantastic friend and husband (I’m sure He never leaves socks lying around on the floor). When we engage in a relationship with Him, we are opening ourselves up to all the promises in His word, and therefore inviting Him to be God in His entirety. Exactly who, and what, we need, when we need it.

I can’t tell you the number of times I have quoted Scripture on all our needs being met, to have it proved true time and time again. And not just in of our physical day-to-day necessities; it’s amazing the number of times I have asked for wisdom in dealing with child-raising duties, only to receive a perfect answer.

We are never alone in our parenting unless we choose to be. God is always available and ready to lend a hand—in fact, He is desperate to help.

Relationships though, are two-way and can be hard to maintain, particularly when you have baskets of washing overflowing and sticky spots all on the floor. But what I constantly relearn is that when I make the effort to keep my relationship with God a priority, the rest works itself out. And that doesn’t always mean seeing the hours in my day double, or that the washing just hangs itself out. (Although that would be awesome!) What it does mean is that I am better-equipped to cope with all the craziness that comes into my day because I am gradually becoming more and more like my Saviour.

My friend.

CATCHING UP

IT’S BEEN A WHILE since I evaluated myself, so here goes:

The things I have done well:

I’ve chosen Boatman’s Christmas present.

I de-cluttered the top of one cupboard.

I didn’t lose my cool when Bridie dropped the mop bucket all over the floor.

I didn’t spend any money yesterday.

I have cut back significantly on iced coffees (they stopped making my chocolate milk).

I’ve been exercising five days out of seven.

I’ve vacuumed the rug in the lounge TWICE this week.

I’ve had some huge success with Bailey’s mat time.

I moved the boat and boat trailer all by myself.

Things I haven’t done so well:

I forgot to make the bed this morning.

I didn’t empty the nappy bucket and so had to deal with maggots (ewww!).

I didn’t do enough dog-training practice, so Angel failed her class.

I bought myself a new book even though I really couldn’t afford it.

I didn’t take Bridie seriously enough when she jumped off the trampoline and hurt her foot. The poor thing was fine for an hour, then went as white as a ghost and threw up from shock. I took her to the doctor a week later because she was still limping, and it turned out she had bruised the bone, which is quite hard to do.

I wasn’t as organised for GEMS as I should have been. I have been struggling with this lately.

I lost my temper with Taylah yesterday.

I put on the air-conditioner at 10:00 am (although it has apparently been our hottest October ever).

I realised I have a habit of tuning-out when Bridie talks, because she goes on and on and on.

So a bit of a mixed bag there, but some definite room for improvement. And really, not making the bed is not the end of the world.

And that statement just goes to show how much I’ve grown.

DIFFERENT STROKES FOR DIFFERENT FOLKS

THE END IS NEAR …

… of the book, I mean.

I’m feeling that it’s time to wrap things up, but I haven’t had the time or the inspiration. You may have noticed the entries getting fewer and further between, and there are a number of reasons.

Firstly I have been working on my priorities, trying to make sure I have quality time with each child as well as get the housework done. That in itself is a completely full-time job and does not leave a lot of room for other things.

Secondly, Christmas is coming and I am trying to get organised, which means my mind has been somewhere else. (The kids have been gradually earning their toys back.)

And finally, I’ve been thinking about how important it is that my children’s hearts are set firmly on the path of righteousness, a fact made especially clear after my devotional time this morning.

I was reading about Elijah on Mount Carmel in the book of Kings. For those unfamiliar with the story, Elijah challenges the prophets of Baal to a fire-eating

contest. Each team must set up an altar, place a ram on top, and then ask their God to send down fire to consume the ram. The God who answers wins. It’s a story I’ve read a hundred times, but today the significance of one sentence stood out to me.

Answer me O Lord, answer me, so these people will know that You O Lord, are God, and that You are turning their hearts back again. 1 Kings 18:37

I am inspired by the ion of Elijah, as he begs God to do whatever is necessary to change the people’s hearts. In this case it took fire from Heaven, but sometimes it takes a lot less. Sometimes a gentle reminder and nudge in the right direction is necessary.

Lately I’ve been poor at enforcing first-time obedience* with Bailey and Bridie. I think it’s because Bridie has been so good with her firsttime obedience that I’ve let the little offences slide. Now I realise I have let them slide too far. My directions have become optional and this needs to change. As long as she thinks it is acceptable to choose if and when she follows my instructions, she’ll think it’s OK to choose if and when she follows God’s. I believe that respect of God starts with respect of your parents.

This slip into disobedience happens occasionally. We work on firsttime obedience solidly, until they say “yes mummy” or “yes daddy” to any instruction and then carry it out straight away. Then the slide happens and we have to start all over again. I hope I’ve caught it early this time so it doesn’t take much prompting to get that happy, obedient heart back again.

But I did realise this morning as I quietly pulled Bridie aside, that my approach

to obedience training has changed. Instead of pulling her up on every little mistake, bearing down on her in my horse-drawn chariot and waving my iron rod—I’m probably too harsh at times, not allowing her and the rest of my children the freedom to fail—I was gentle and firm. I pulled her up on her mistake straight away, handed out the punishment and then gave her a cuddle as we talked about it. Instead of yanking her heart, I gently tugged on it, turning it back towards God.

I know the responsibility that rests upon me, that rests upon us as parents, is to raise these little people for God’s glory. He has entrusted us with them. The hard part isn’t ensuring our hearts are always towards our children so we can achieve this purpose—it only takes a bump on the head or vomit in the middle of the night to prove what we’ll do for our children. The hard part is to raise them with a Godly attitude, to make certain that their hearts, and our own, are fixed firmly on following God’s.

Reading the story of Elijah and the fire on Mount Carmel, I love the prophet’s ion, but also the ion of our God. He thinks nothing of sending a fire from heaven to prove once and for all, that He is, exactly who He says He is. He will go to any length to get our attention, and the methods He uses perfectly fit our individual personalities.

As I’ve been studying the book of Kings, I’ve loved comparing all the different things God will do to get the attention of his chosen people: famine, fire, healing, and just ordinary, every day God mercy. There was King Ahab, who never consulted God when going to war. Despite this, God gave him the victory of Ben-Hadad, just to prove His power.

And the famous Elijah, who after calling down fire, ran away to the desert, like a big scaredy cat. Yet an ever loving God led him to a mountain and there the prophet waited, expecting the Father to talk to him through an earthquake or a mighty wind. He received a gentle whisper instead.

God will go to any lengths, and do whatever is necessary, to turn our hearts back to him. He works on a grand scale by turning nations like Israel to himself, and on a smaller scale by touching the hearts of individuals like Elijah.

As I look back through my journal, I see my heart has changed. This year has probably been one of the toughest our family has had to face. We’ve had income problems, health problems and a number of other smaller issues to deal with, yet Boatman and I both feel we have grown so much. God has definitely captured our attention, turning our hearts towards Him more than ever before.

In the writing of these pages, one thing has become abundantly clear: I am a “mum person”. I want to see mums doing their job well, because I believe God’s plan for motherhood is that it will be joyful and enjoyable most of the time, not stressful and disheartening. But in order to be the mums He desires us to be, we need to focus on Him.

He needs to have our heart. We can’t be distracted by the washing and ironing, the dishes in the sink, the weeds in the garden or the weeds in our lives. Not by Tonka trucks, swimming lessons, school pick-ups, scrap-booking or birthday parties, by our own children or by our husbands. While there is nothing wrong with these other things (especially the last two) focusing on them can lead us to taking our eyes off the person who gave them to us in the first place.

Where are you with God? Some days I do well, other days not so much. But like David, who made big mistakes in his life (adultery and murder), I hope my heart is characterised as one that follows God. If it drifts, I give Him full permission to do whatever it takes to bring it back again.

Whatever it takes.

*First time obedience means teaching your children to follow instructions, the first time they are asked.

AT THE HEART OF IT ALL

TODAY I FEEL AS THOUGH WE HAVE TAKEN ONE STEP FORWARD and two steps back with the children. The issues we were dealing with seven months ago have re-emerged.

Bridie has begun walking out of the bathroom without knickers again, although she doesn’t complain when I tell her to put them on. She is also better at tidying her toys, but terrible at picking up her clothes. I had to remind her again this morning to put her dirty clothes in the laundry basket. ‘Which basket?’, she asked me.

It never occurred to me that she wouldn’t know where to put them.

Taylah is not talking about getting married anymore, but told me she ducked her head yesterday when a boy walked past just before her ballet performance. She didn’t want him falling in love with her (she was wearing make up for the performance). I’m still laughing as I write this. However I wasn’t laughing this morning when she told me one of the boys in her class thought she was sexy. Thank God she is innocent enough not to understand what this means. She thought her friends were teasing her when they told her.

Then there is little Bailey, who at this very moment is supposed to be sleeping, and is once again bucking the system, wide awake and talking to himself. He has been a better sleeper as a general rule, but is now at the stage where he doesn’t need two day sleeps, and yet can’t get by on only one. I’m persevering though, insisting he has at least a rest.

And finally we have found out I’m pregnant again.

When I saw the doctor yesterday, she mentioned that it was possible I was carrying twins because my nausea started so early this time round. Knowing my luck, I probably am carrying two! [I wasn’t.] While I am very excited and happy, I am starting to wonder how I will find time for four children, when I struggle to find time for three. I know I can sometimes place a higher priority on a clean floor than a cuddle or a story or playdough in order to get everything done, but I have been really working hard at trying to find a better balance. Our children are little for such a short time, and lately I haven’t taken enough advantage of this opportunity.

I want to be a better steward of my time, and really enjoy the little people God has blessed me with.

It got me thinking again about Hannah and how wisely she used the short time she had with Samuel. But there was another woman in the Bible who faced an even greater challenge, and yet also raised an incredible prophet.

Like Hannah, Moses’ mother Tsipporah had a limited time to teach her son God’s values. As a little boy, Moses was placed in a reed basket then sent down the Nile to save him from being killed by Pharaoh. Pharaoh’s daughter found him and wanted to keep him, but needed someone to nurse him until he was old enough to be weaned. Thanks to Moses’ sister Miriam, who was keeping an eye on her baby brother the whole time, Moses’ mum was given the responsibility of feeding her own child. In this way, he returned to live with her before moving to the palace. She had just a three-to-five year window to teach God’s values to her son.

Unlike Samuel, who lived in a temple under the care of a high priest, Tsipporah had to send Moses to be raised in an environment that did not worship God. He was to be taught Egyptian spiritual doctrine, instead learning the names of the Egyptian gods and how to worship them.

Whatever Tsipporah did in those first few years though, she did well. As Moses grew, he chose to be associated with Israelite slaves, rather than Egyptian royalty, eventually leading the slaves out of Egypt and towards the promised land.

He rejected the privilege of the palace and stood up against injustice. And so the promise that God had made to Abraham (that his descendants would dwell peacefully in Israel) was fulfilled through Moses.

That’s a fairly incredible miracle in my book.

We face similar circumstances today. We have three-to-five years to shape our children’s hearts before sending them off to school. The school could be like Samuel’s destination (faith-based), or Moses’ destination (where the world’s values are taught). Parents often deliberate over the pros and cons of each option, but the good news is that both Samuel and Moses chose to follow God irrespective of their learning environment, and because of the hard work of their mothers.

This is not meant to discourage those who have missed the opportunity of the early formative years, rather it’s a reminder that, regardless of circumstances, environment, or any other factor, our God is faithful, and is able to do anything. His mercy is new every morning and nothing is impossible for Him.

Great is His faithfulness.

And great should be ours to His purpose as well.

As you know, I’m very ionate about staying at home with my children. I want to develop their values and grow their characters; to teach them the fruits of the Spirit such as self-control and kindness. But I do get busy, I do become distracted and I don’t parent with the same sense of urgency as Hannah and Tsipporah. And I should, because the temptation to conform to the patterns of this world will be a huge burden for my children. We only have a season, a window of opportunity to train their hearts. I need to make use of every minute.

Yesterday Bailey pointed to the trees. ‘Trees,’ he said.

‘Yes Bailey, trees. God made the trees,’ I replied. It was just a simple statement that I regard as truth. But it’s teaching and showing him the way that our world is. That there is a Creator who has made all things, who has a purpose for each and every one of us.

I long to please my God by teaching my children, but there are some things I need to learn first, or at least learn in tandem.

Hannah and Tsipporah’s most irable quality was their faith in God. Hannah prayed desperately for a child and God gave her a son. Tsipporah prayed for protection over her son, and Moses became the only Israelite baby boy not killed by Pharaoh.

Both of those women faced horrible circumstances beyond their control, and yet they never stopped trusting their Father in heaven to do what He does best: the impossible.

You may have your own little Samuel at home right now. One playing with his cars or her dolls.

You may have a little Moses asleep in bed after a busy morning or busy day.

And you have the opportunity to be a Hannah or a Tsipporah who leans completely on the loving arms of her perfect Saviour.

God can do anything with a soft, loving heart. We just need to turn those little hearts, along with our own, to the voice of the Lord.

GOOD TREES BEAR FRUIT

IT’S BEEN A WHILE SINCE I WROTE MY MOST RECENT ENTRY, simply because I have been feeling so tired and so sick. I haven’t had energy to do anything. I am behind on the washing and ironing and I don’t the last time I cleaned the floor properly. My in-laws will be up in 13 days, then of course it will be Christmas and I am hosting it for the first time. (I’ve always managed to get away with someone else doing it before!) Like everyone, we also have Christmas parties to go to, Christmas shopping to do, end-of-year school affairs, and school holidays to plan.

In all the business it’s easy to neglect our time with the Lord, forget the necessity of focusing on the eternal and instead be consumed by the temporary.

So in an effort to achieve simplicity and significance, I’ve made it my aim purely to be the tree that bears good fruit. Jesus says;

Make a tree good and its fruit will be good, or make a tree bad and its fruit will be bad, for a tree is recognized by its fruit. Matthew 12:33

But what makes the tree good?

King David achieved many great deeds during his life including killing Goliath and writing a good portion of the book of Psalms. However, he is also well

known for his affair with Bathsheba. If you’re not familiar with the story, here it is in a nutshell.

David was supposed to be at war, but decided he was going to stay at home this once. He was hanging out on the palace rooftop when he saw Bathsheba, who was taking a bath. Whether she intended it or not, she caught David’s attention and he sent for her, despite her husband being away fighting in the war. A couple of months later, David receives a message: Bathsheba is pregnant.

Now David has a dilemma. Not only was what he had done morally wrong in his culture, it was punishable by death. He decided to call Bathsheba’s husband, Uriah, home so he would hopefully do what husbands and wives do best. (That is, the dance, with no pants.) People would then assume Uriah was the father. But Uriah was an honourable man, and while there was a war going on, he refused to leave David’s side only to pleasure himself. David even tried getting Uriah drunk, but that didn’t work either. Finally, David arranged for Uriah to be killed in battle, before taking Bathsheba as his own wife.

Despite the wickedness of these actions, David was still considered a man after God’s own heart. Why?

David repented and learnt his lesson. He made a poor choice when he followed his flesh and violated God’s word, but he didn’t allow that poor decision—the bad fruit—to rot his tree. He repented, suffered the consequences and moved on, following God closer than before.

When we look at a tree, we can’t tell what is going on inside the trunk. But if the fruit is healthy, then we know the tree is healthy. In the same way, our actions reflect our heart and either point to God or away from Him.

Sometimes we see only bad fruit in ourselves. Our sinfulness feels so obvious that we wonder whether we are actually producing good fruit. But because the blood of Jesus was shed for those sins, our heart is made right before God. If we stay humble and it is only by God’s grace that we are made worthy, as He did with David, God will take our poor decisions and turn them into actions that glorify Him.

It was Solomon—the son of David and Bathsheba—who inherited the kingdom, who became the wisest man on earth, and who built the temple for God.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, our job as parents is to mould our children’s hearts. While we may not feel worthy, we are all capable with God’s help. I know I have room for improvement, but that’s where God wants me; ready to it my failings, ready to repent, ready to learn from poor decisions and to see the good fruit that He is producing in my life.

The road we are called to travel is not easy, but it is worth it and we don’t journey alone. We are bestowed with an incredible calling; to raise the next generation who will hear the voice of the Lord and follow Him with the humbleness-of-heart that David possessed.

As I complete the final entry of this journal, my prayer is that in these pages, you have gained encouragement from the fact that God can take a broken, somewhat neurotic, imperfect drama-queen like myself, and still do some good with her.

I hope that you are inspired to seek Him more tenaciously; to have a heart that runs after Him and worships Him with all of its entirety.

And I pray that you will bear good fruit, evident for all to see. I pray that you will stand firmly but humbly while you prepare your children to inherit the kingdom.

Love,

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