In totally un-Bek form (*chokes on own sarcasm) it takes the aftermath of a historical event that has no immediate or direct impact on me (this really isn’t true, think The Butterfly Effect), to bring me out of my six month blogging hiatus (please let the record show that my phone just autocorrected ‘six month hiatus’ to: ‘mystic hiatus’- which sounds far more interesting, spiritual and less self-indulgent than the lazy self-induced, self-conscious apathy that’s actually been occurring. Count the ‘selfs’. So much maturing yet to occur *sigh). Because yeah, I have an opinion on this. Ha! On everything really. And hey, prophetic declarations are being made, so that’s practically a personal invitation to speak up…right?
This morning I desired nothing more than deep fried, hashed up potatoes to start my day. These I fantasised, would be delivered under golden arches, in a brown paper bag by an anonymous face. Dispensed into my outstretched hand as I sat in the safety of my vehicle- oh the irony of deeming my car to be safe, only seven days after I was involved in a minor car accident (I’m good y’all, seriously, the car…eh…not so much).
Funny how the things we view as ‘safe’, or familiar, can oft house the most harm.
Still, I perceived my car to be at least emotionally safe, because there in its claustrophobic confines, I could host a casual paper napkin dinner party with Shame, later hiding all evidence, so no one ever need know, unless I chose to divulge.
Tonight this mumma’s heart is burgeoning with an eclectic mix of excitement, anxiety, joy and sadness, none of which I was entirely anticipating. Tomorrow our firstborn child: aka Captain Responsible, Master Maturity or Sir J, departs for his longest stint away from home, and his first of hopefully many overseas adventures; a mission trip to Cambodia with his school.
Throughout these last fifteen years I’ve come to realise that motherhood is simply -oh the oxymoron that is the word ‘simply’ in this context, a perpetual journey of learning to love wholeheartedly, whilst simultaneously letting go.
“When you can tell your story and it doesn’t make you cry, you know you have healed.”
~David Avocado Wolfe
This quote popped up on my Facebook newsfeed a few days ago, it was credited to David (Avocado) Wolfe, so I’m going to go ahead an assume that the sentiment is his also, because you know, the Internet never lies and all of us aren’t continually re-articulating AKA plagiarising the ideas and words of those around us, either intentionally or otherwise. I love David Avocado Wolfe, he’s a wise man, but on this occasion I have to disagree with his stance. And not just for the sake of publicly disagreeing and sprouting my differing opinion to ‘stir the Internet pot’, but for the sake of you, the person who may have read the above quote and become discouraged from sharing your story.
I like closure. I like nice, clean resolutions. Because of this, I’m not a fan of movies that leave you filling in the blanks and drawing your own conclusions- just tell me how to think darn it! I jest, although thinking for yourself is kind of hard work y’all! I like neat little packaged happy endings, sealed with pretty closure bows (they’re totally a thing, trust me). It’s been over a decade since I watched the movie Lost In Translation and truth be told, I’m still not entirely sure I’m over it. And don’t even get me started on The Perfect Storm!
For the last few years corporate prophecy in Australia, and I suspect in nations across the world, has centered on Revival. Many believe that a spiritual pregnancy is currently occurring, and its delivery will be a great awakening of faith that culminates in miraculous manifestations. Surprisingly, given that I try to shy away from spiritual ‘hype’, I agree. I believe that revival is coming. I believe that revival in the church is overdue. The western church, and isn’t it ironic that how as one Body we still divide our self into hemispheric categories, seeing our brothers and sisters as ‘us and them’, has for too long been in a lax state, spending the little energy we do have fighting battles that I just don’t believe are on the Father’s heart.
“I too was once a male trapped in a female body, but then my mother gave birth.”
I’ve seen this meme pop up on my Facebook newsfeed over the past few weeks, and each friend who has posted it is Christian. These are all friends whom I admire and respect, they are not malicious people. What I think perhaps happened, in the moments before they pressed ‘share’ was that they didn’t quite evaluate the possible implications of their actions, they saw only momentary humour.