from the archives: goodnight, Mister Tom

If there's a star of this blog, it's our irrepressible 5 year old Thomas, because he asks such impossible questions and makes such unique observations about life, the universe and everything. Here's one of the first posts I wrote about Tommy, on his lengthy bedtime routine.

One year later, and his bedtime routine is as convoluted as ever. Every night I sing him a song of his choice (at the moment it's usually The Carpenters Close to you, but I made up a song about Thomas last night, and I suspect I started something), we count kisses (we're counting 1 number closer to 100 every night, and we're up to 99 tonight - counting by 9s or 11s, no doubt!), and I answer the same 4 questions (When's Benny coming to bed? How long till Mummy goes to bed? How long till morning? Can I get Mummy if I need to during the night?). Then it's "kissy kissy kissy" and goodnight.

Here's how it went a year ago:

Jean (38) - "How many kisses do you want tonight?" (to be asked every night)
Thomas (4) - "60 100 and 2."
Jean - "Do you mean 162?" (and yes, I mean every night)
Thomas - "YES!"
Jean - "Let's count by 20's" (anything to shorten the process)
Thomas and Jean together - "20 (kiss kiss), 40 (kiss kiss), 60 (kiss kiss), 80 (kiss kiss), 100 (kiss kiss), 120 (kiss kiss), 140 (kiss kiss), 160 (kiss kiss), 161 (kiss), 162 (kiss), CUDDLE!"

Mummy rises to her feet...

Thomas - "I want a story."
Mummy - "Ok, Thomas. Once there was a boy called Thomas.
He woke up in the morning, had breakfast, and got dressed. Then he went on the computer.
He watched Playschool, had some special time with Mummy, played with Andrew, and had lunch. Then he went on the computer.
He went to school to pick up Lizzy and Benny, came home, and had afternoon tea. Then he went on the computer.
He played with Lizzy, Benny and Andrew, ate dinner, and went to bed. The end."
(I kid you not. Just you try keeping Thomas off the computer. And I'd make up a story, but I'm better at non-fiction, worse luck. NB Just to let you know, I do limit Thomas's computer time to 1/2 hour a day!)

Mummy begins to leave the room...

Thomas - "Mummy, open the door."
Jean - "Look, Thomas, I'm opening the door. See, the door is open. The door IS open. THE DOOR IS OPEN." (to be said every night as emphatically as possible accompanied with repeated door opening actions)

Mummy begins to head down the corridor...

Thomas - "MUMMY, YOU FORGOT TO OPEN THE DOOR!"

And yes, I mean EVERY night.

Goodnight.

2/11/08

from the archives: the bigger the raindrops

Another from my back verandah post, where I reflected on my father-in-law David's illness. He went to be with Jesus on the 15th of May last year. We still miss him greatly.


The rain was plopping down in huge, fat drops the other day, and the sky glowed lilac in the late afternoon sun. I stepped out on the back verandah, and this is what I saw.

Those aren't water droplets on the lens: they're raindrops in freeze frame.

The bigger the raindrops, the brighter the rainbow.

We also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us. Romans 5:3-4

Please pray for our family. Steve's Dad is very ill, so there are a few extra large raindrops in our family right now. Praise God that the rainbow of hope shines brightly in his life.

The rainbow fact is from Ben's Freaky Facts book.

8/5/08

from the archives: this weight I'm carrying

This was written three months into this blog, when the pressure of posting every day, the expectation I was feeling from others to keep writing, and the unfamiliar sensation of exposing my inner thoughts and feelings to others, was starting to tell.

I've been feeling down recently.

I'm on my morning walk. I have dragged my feet to this rock, and am sitting here writing this in a tiny notebook, next to a lake with a rippled blue surface and visiting wood ducks and herons. The beauty is the furthest thing from my mind: it doesn't even touch the way I'm feeling.

I hesitate to call this feeling "depression" because I know clinical depression is far worse than this. I can get out of bed in the morning. I am aware of the cool breeze on my face, and the soft, deep blue of today's sky - although, like inadequate pain medication, they only take the edge off. When I pray, I can feel God's nearness - the skies haven't turned to brass, and my prayers don't feel like they're echoing off an empty heaven.

But my insides feel like a medicine ball which I am doomed to carry around with me. A wide band of over-tight elastic seems to press around my chest. I find it difficult to breathe - in, out, in, out, each breath meets the resistance of the weight I'm carrying.

I can identify some of the reasons for what I'm feeling. I'm over-tired and over-wrought after months of blogging, writing, dreaming, planning and raising 4 children. I've repented (repeatedly) of people-pleasing, of trying to live up to others' expectations and hopes for me, of the over-conscientiousness and perfectionism which will make me read what I'm writing 10 times before I post it.

But the weight remains, heavy and suffocating.

I know this is normal. While only (only!) 5-8% of people will experience clinical depression in their lifetime, the kind which often requires medical treatment, most of us will experience this heaviness from time to time.

It's part of life, a normal reaction to stress, loss, tiredness. It comes and goes: sometimes it's with us for an hour, sometimes for a week. Sometimes it persists for months on end, like the mild post-natal depression after my second baby, when I cried for an hour every afternoon and barely made it through each day.

I know Jesus probably felt like this too. If it's part of the normal human condition - this sadness, this melancholy, this heaviness - then he experienced it with us. He stayed up nights praying desperately for his Father's comfort and direction. He felt every temptation as we do - the idolatry of human need, the pull of expectation, the siren-call of human praise. He dragged his feet through days of tiredness and discouragement.

Somehow, the fact that my Lord in heaven knows exactly how I feel is intensely comforting.

And now I will drag my feet home again. As I open the door, all 4 children will probably have a fight to settle, a hurt to comfort, or a need to fill. There's cooking to be done, piano lessons to be given, family Bible time to sit through (sorry - I mean enjoy). I will do these things as cheerfully as I can, because it's my job and I love my family. I know from experience that I may feel some small comfort in the hard labour.

I will keep forcing myself through the motions of love and responsibility until the day - maybe tomorrow, maybe in a month - when happiness becomes a normal state again, rather than a fragile surface like thin ice, which I press on gingerly to see if it will give way.

I will go on knowing that Jesus went on, that he battled exhaustion and despair, that he put one step in front of the other, spoke one more word to the demanding crowds, escaped in a boat and found the crowds still waiting, called out to his Father on a night lonely with cold stars, went back and kept on loving. All in the knowledge that the day would come when he would plumb the ultimate depths of sadness and endure his Father's abandonment on the cross for our sake.

Meanwhile, I will try not to treat my children's demands as interruptions, or this sadness as a burden, for sadness is God's blessed gift to grow me in love, patience, trust and hope. Sadness is not something to be rejected, but something to be embraced, for in its fire my faith grows stronger and I become more like my Lord.

Therefore, since we have a great high priest who has gone through the heavens, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold firmly to the faith we profess. For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who has been tempted in every way, just as we are—yet was without sin. Let us then approach the throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need.
Hebrews 4:14-16

3/2/08

from the archives: sleep deprived mamma

This post struck a chord with sleep-deprived mums. Written out of my experience with 4 very different children, it reminds us that babies don't always follow rules, that we can relax and do what works with our particular infants, and that struggling mums of newborns need sympathy, support and encouragement, not judgement.

Last week I caught up with two new mothers.

I asked one how her 6 week old baby was sleeping, and she said, "Fine! She's only had two bad nights sleep!"

I asked the other how things were going with her 3 month old baby, and she answered "Not so well", her face pale with tiredness and her eyes brimming. Things had reached a low point the week before when her baby woke every 1-2 hours 3 nights in a row, and slept no more than 40 minutes at a time during the day.

Add to this the fact that her baby was refusing to breast feed - and this after weeks of anguished persistance through pain at every feed, until she finally reached a point where breast-feeding became possible - and you can imagine her frustration.

Sleep deprivation does odd things to the mind. Believe me, after 4 children, I know.

I remember pushing Lizzy to and fro in her pram while she screamed for 2 hours every afternoon, and the numbing bewilderment that comes with a first baby. I remember making every mistake in the book, and how badly she slept in consequence, and the dragging exhaustion after 8 months of waking up every 2 hours every night. How everyone asked "Is she a good baby?" meaning "Does she sleep through the night?", and how I would cover for her, saying "Yes, she's a good baby" and meaning "I love her."

I remember training perfectly sleeping Ben (who would have slept whatever I did) according to the strictest baby-training methods, desperate not to make the same mistakes. I remember getting up with him at 5.30 for weeks on end, when his perfectly trained little body clock woke him, and he refused to go back to sleep in bed with me (after all, I'd trained him to sleep in his cot, hadn't I?). Every day I sat holding him and watching the sun rise, filled with resentment against the world and everyone in it, especially my sleeping husband.

I remember being more flexible and relaxed with Thomas, but still becoming so exhausted and irritable that I would slam objects down hard with frustration (I had the self-control to ensure they were plastic, not glass, but I've replaced a few plastic containers in my time). When each baby grew older I thought I had outgrown such childish displays, until another baby came and rudely reminded me that it was sleep, not godliness, which had increased. I remember that there were times when I sat staring into space crying with exhaustion, and I had to will my feet to walk across the room to settle my screaming child one more time.

I remember Andrew, the worst sleeper of all my children, who didn't sleep through the night until after 14 months, even though he was the 4th child of an experienced mother. I perfected the art of dropping back to sleep to the sound of crying, before automatically waking up after the recommended 10-15 minutes to re-settle him, hour after hour after hour every night. Each time I thought he had learned to sleep, he would disappoint my expectations by screaming through the night again.

I remember the different feel of the night hours: how at 12.00 your head is stuffed with cotton wool and you sleep-walk to the cot, how at 3.00 the world turns into a gothic nightmare full of gloom and despair, and how at 5.00 the lottery of "will I fall back to sleep before the baby wakes up?" begins.

And I remember how unfair life can be where babies are concerned: how one mother can be given the "perfect" child, who sleeps through from 2 weeks, while another receives a baby who wakes every 1/2 hour for their first 6 months.

Once I would have put this down to different baby-handling techniques, and smugly advised a new method, until I saw how little my 4 babies' waking habits had to do with anything I did. How I used identical training techniques, and some slept through the night, and others didn't sleep at all.

It took me 2 babies before I became wise (or humble) enough to ask for help, and accept it when it was offered. I learned to stay in the hospital as long as possible (ah! the bliss of a quiet hospital room!), to say "yes!" when someone offered to cook us a meal, and most importantly, to call a friend the minute I started to feel depressed.

Wonderful aids to humility, babies. The more, the humbler.

And oh, the bliss of that day when you wake up in the morning and realise that your baby and you have just slept through the night for the first time in many, many months! It comes to all of us in time.

There are lots of books on settling babies. The most sane, flexible and helpful (and shortest) book I discovered on the topic was Settling your baby (a survival guide for parents - birth to 12 months). When anything worked, it did. And it didn't make me feel inadequate when nothing worked, either.

11/2/08

from the archives: the faith that comes from obedience

The mug which inspired this post is long gone, broken on our hard white tiles, and has been replaced with new mugs, but none have quite taken its place. This is an ode to a favourite mug and a lesson long remembered.

I have a beautiful thing, a mug with an oddly curved handle. It is the perfect size, the perfect weight, the perfect shape for my morning coffee. It is patterned with a delicately stylised tracery of leaves and flowers.

It has a chip on its rim.

Six months ago I would have noticed the sharpness against my lips and been irritated. Not just by the jarring sensation of roughness where I expected smoothness, but also by the fact that my perfect mug's perfection was now blemished. I would have made a mental note to go and buy another perfect mug to replace the damaged one.

But today I noticed the chip and, instead of being an imperfection, it became a symbol of value. An indication that I have treasured this lovely object, that it has been used many times and bears the signs of cherished age, that it is more beautiful for having been loved.

And I realised how insidiously our disposable culture - where a damaged object can be instantly and cheaply replaced with a quick trip to the shops, rather than mended and used again and again - teaches us to value that which is new, young and perfect over that which is old, worn and restored. A devaluing of the aged which is subtly transferred to people as well as objects.

I also noticed the changes that the practice of self-control has wrought in me. How something as simple as not buying new things for half a year has transformed the way I see the world. How an object which was once worthless and only fit for throwing out has become something to treasure. How what was once a difficult struggle for obedience has become a joyful freedom.

Obedience not only comes from faith, it also reinforces faith. Enacted truth, it helps us see God's truth more clearly. It creates a subtle shift in perspective. It remakes the world in new and startling ways. We begin to see the world as God sees it.

Jesus said, "If you hold to my teaching, you are really my disciples. Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free." John 8:31-32

30/1/08

from the archives: getting to know you

Are you leading a new Bible study group this year? Here's an excellent idea for a get-to-know you game from my friend Jenny, which I thought was worth repeating!

Here's a brilliant get-to-know-you-game my good friend Jenny used at her first Bible study for the year.

You write all the questions on separate pieces of paper, fold them, and put them in a bag. Then you go round the room and people take it in turns to pick one out and answer it. She says her group got to know each other much better, and had so much fun they didn't want to stop!

Here are the questions:

How did you become a Christian?
Name one film or book that you hated and explain why.
Who was the best teacher you had at school and why?
What is one of your favourite parts of the Bible?
What is you favourite ice-cream flavour?
If you were an animal, which animal would you be?
What is one of your favourite songs we sing at church?
Tell us about one time when you were really scared.
What is one thing you think you are very good at?
What's the most important thing that happened to you this week?
I've always wanted to...
The person in my family that I get along best with is...
What was one of the nicest presents you ever received?
If I could be an animal, I'd be a...
Tell how you are feeling today in the form of a weather report.
If you could go anywhere in the world for a holiday, where would it be?
One of the hardest things I have ever done is...
I'm most aware of God's presence when...
Three things that make me angry are...
Three things that make me happy are...
An embarrassing moment...
Three of my favourite films are...
My favorite tv show is...
If I could be one fictional character who would it be and why?
A talent or skill I have is...
Something I’m not good at but would like to be is...
On the way to this meeting, I was feeling...
Introvert or extravert? And would you change?
The first album I ever bought was...
My first job was... And I was paid...
My favorite pizza topping is...
Tell us something about the shoes you're wearing.
Who is your favorite super hero and why?
What would your family say you're like first thing in the morning?
What’s your favourite room in the house and why?
What's the weirdest thing you eat at home?
What is a Christian book you have enjoyed? (not including the Bible)
Name a Christian leader or historical figure you admire.
If you could have a full day at home by yourself what would you do?
Which fruit of the Spirit do you struggle with most?
What is something goofy that another family member does that makes you laugh?
What is one habit you just can’t break?
What is one thing your parents did for you that you are really grateful for?
What is one naughty thing you did when you were little?
A toy I really liked playing with when I was little was...
A film or book that really made me laugh was...
Name two of your favourite film stars.
Tell us about something you collect.
Can you think of one thing you might be doing differently if you weren’t a Christian?

12/2/08

from the archives: meditation on a lettuce leaf

Memorably, it was around the time of the blog post on the lettuce leaf that Nicole started reading my blog - and thus a great friendship and, dare I say, partnership, was born.

I was sitting in the Maternal and Child Health Care Centre yesterday morning, waiting for the nurse to appear, slightly anxious because I had brought Thomas' yellow record book instead of Andrew's blue one (an essential item on all visits to the nurse). I had been congratulating myself on remembering the record book during my mad rush to get out of the house by 8:45 (after having suddenly realised it was 8:30 and I hadn't showered, dressed Andrew, done Lizzy's hair, put on Andrew's and Thomas' shoes, or finished packing Ben's lunchbox) until I arrived at the nurse and realised I had picked up the wrong book.

So I was sitting there waiting, somewhat anxiously as I explained, while Andrew and Thomas played with the toys, when Thomas said "lettuce!" and pulled out an incredibly realistic toy lettuce leaf. My immediate reaction was to wonder why someone had left a fresh lettuce leaf among the toys, when I picked it up and realised that no real lettuce leaf has the weight and rubberiness of seaweed, let alone a small circle on the back where the rubber/plastic mix has been poured into the mould. But this toy lettuce leaf was meticulously contoured and coloured, perfect in every detail, obviously one of those expensive toy foods. (Those of you who are not parents or childcare providers may be surprised to discover that toy food has a range of accuracy depending on its price, but I assure you it's true. One of the advantages of wealth is realistic plastic food.)

What a miniature world of wonder is the lettuce leaf! Seeing it lying there, in all its perfectly detailed moulded plastic glory, led to a lengthy reflection on how beautifully God has made the humble lettuce. Have you ever noticed how the flesh of the lettuce leaf bulges out between each tiny vein, so that the whole leaf is ruched and fluted? Or how delicately coloured a lettuce leaf is (and no, I'm not talking iceberg, this was your top end lettuce) from palest green at the stem, gradually shading to a rich, deep green at the edges? Or how the texture varies (at least in a real lettuce leaf, not a rubbery plastic one) from the curved firm stem at the heart of the leaf, with its long, straight veins holding the leaf erect, fanning out to the delicately thin, crisp leaf, with its tiny hills and valleys, trimmed at its edges more daintily than any frock, with minutely ruffled edges?

This simple toy lettuce leaf filled me with awe for the God who made real lettuce leaves, with his detailed attention to the beauty of humble things. I guess he could have given us a perfectly flat, spherical, vitamin-filled leaf. Instead, he gave us an incredible variety of lettuce leaves, each one meticulously textured, coloured and detailed, a small object of incredible beauty, if only we stop to look before we crunch. Praise be to the God who created this world so wonderfully, a world in which even the lowly lettuce leaf bears witness to his glory, and fills our hearts, if we take time to reflect for a moment, with awe and admiration for him.

This, by the way, is an example of what the Puritans called "creaturely meditation", much easier to do with a sunset than a lettuce leaf, in which we reflect on how God's character is revealed in the things he has made, and allow them to lead us to him in wonder and praise.

20/12/07

from the archives: the maelstrom and the sea of tranquillity

A post about my two very different, but equally wonderful mums. Which just goes to show, now I think about it, how much freedom there is in loving, godly mothering.

I was standing in the kitchen on Saturday, feeling like the still centre at the heart of a tropical cyclone, a whirlpool of love, affection, enthusiasm and joy. My mother had come over to help out while Steve was away.

Children were running, shouting, playing. Mum was alternately reading a series of board books to baby Andrew, helping Thomas with the dot-to-dot and sticker books she brought, patiently listening to Ben recite lists of Pokemon and their evolutions, creating beautiful cards with Lizzy using every scrap of fabric and craft paper in the house, and intermittently asking me "Is there anything I can do to help?"

When my mother walks in the door, all four children run screaming "Grandma Ruth's here! Gwandma Wuth's here! Ga-ma!" depending on their various stages of verbal development, and she drops all her belongings on the floor while she cuddles each one and tells them how much she loves them and has missed them since last time she saw them - yesterday.

When she stays the night, at 6.30 they all creep into bed with her and time-travel the globe in the stories she tells: "Where shall we go today? I know, Imperial China!" At the end of her stay, after numerous hugs and goodbyes, the house is littered with unfinished cups of tea, forgotten possessions, the detritus of numerous craft projects, and four bereft children. Thomas speaks for all of them: "I like she! When is Gwandma coming back? I want she!"

When Audrey, Steve's mother, comes over, I stand in the kitchen and feel a warm, peaceful stillness descend on the house. You can barely hear the "click" of the door as she steps inside: I will sometimes go into the kitchen and realise she has been unpacking the fruit, vegetables, jams and eggs she has brought from her garden and chooks, without me noticing her arrival.

She spends her time in the kitchen, scrubbing cupboard doors, unpacking the dishwasher, heating soup; or in the garden, pulling weeds out of garden beds, fussing over the neglected lemon tree, and pruning rampant rose bushes. The children trail behind her, fascinated, as she bakes trays of anzacs and gingernut biscuits, or shows them worms and snails as they dig in the dirt together.

Audrey is a midwife, and has brought a quiet calm to the birth of each of our children, and a secure feeling of being cared for during the days of recovery. She leaves as silently as she comes: sometimes I only know she's gone by the empty yard and kitchen, and Thomas asking "Where's Gwandma Audrey? Can I go and see Gwandma?"

Somewhere between the maelstrom and the sea of tranquillity there's me: enthusiastically affectionate or calmly loving, reading stories or mopping floors, excitedly playing or quietly present. When one of my mothers enters the house, it takes on their character. When they leave, I slip back into my own skin.

But while they're here, these two wonderful women introduce us to two different ways of being, bringing with them an exuberant love and joy in life, or a gentle affection and serenity, as their gift to me and the children.

26/11/07

from the archives: wild beauty

Remember those from my back verandah posts? No? Well, there were a few of them. This was the first.

I woke up this morning to the creaks and groans of lemon-scented gums bending in the violent gusts. I stepped out on the back verandah, and this is what I saw.

Wild wind like a giant's paintbrush trailing brilliant orange over a purple canvas.

God splashes his colours across a squally sky.

Lest we forget his glory.

8/2/08

from the archives: universities

I've spent my life around universities. Even now, we can see one from our back fence. Here's a post inspired by my gratitude to God for universities.

I love universities.

I love the long, echoing corridors, the book-lined offices, and the ridiculously steep lecture theatres. I love the lawns and paved areas spotted with students chatting, eating lunch, reading, or kissing. I love the beautiful old stone buildings, and the funky modern ones, with their round windows and lime-green fittings.

I love university libraries. I love working in the far, dim recesses of the library, where the silence is broken only by the rustle of turning pages. I love the eye-boggling microfilm screen, filled with tiny, wavering, impossible-to-read words. I love the dark shelves devoted to journals, where you pull a cord to turn the lights on, only to have them turn off half way through searching for that elusive article...leaving you imagining someone creeping up behind.

I loved visiting my father's university as a child. White concrete stairs led to his office, with its linoleum floor and sunny window, smelling of ink and paper. A glass cabinet near the building's entrance displayed crystals in a mind-boggling array of colours and shapes, from magenta fuzz to silver cubes: some glowed mysteriously under ultra-violet light. Outside the door, my brother and I played on the huge rocks which dotted the lawn, pretending they hid buttons which produced any food and drink we desired.

I love to walk and pray amongst the ancient red river gums which grow in the university near our home. I love to sit at our back window and watch the rising sun reflect from the university building's curved walls, tawny orange tiles glowing against the deep velvet blue of the sky. I even love the car park lights shining like stars brought to earth, glinting through the trees behind our house at night.

I love the feeling of intellectual discovery which hangs over a university, the sense that great ideas are taught in the shabby lecture theatres, and wonderful discoveries made in the laboratories and libraries.

I love students, their enthusiasm, idealism and readiness to learn.

Of course, this is only half the picture. Students don't usually go to uni to pursue intellectual discovery: they go to get academic recognition, or a ticket to a more prestigious and better paid job. In one philosophy class I attended, the Christian doctrine of sin was openly mocked and attacked. I was also exposed to pornography publically displayed without warning (twice!) by lecturers who took great delight in shattering our innocence.

But I feel immensely privileged that Steve and I work with uni students. We enjoy helping students to find their way through the bewildering moral and intellectual climate at uni, to teach them about a true knowledge which lasts forever, and to encourage them to live for someone outside themselves.

Meanwhile, I get to hang around universities for the rest of my life.

15/11/07