Nothing deep and meaningful today, just the story of a Sunday afternoon trip to the footy...
Sunday afternoon, and the shadows lie light and insubstantial on the grass.
The sun is warm and the air cool, luminous with the soft clear light of Autumn, when the sun rides low and lazy across the arc of the sky. The trees stand in solemn rows in the park, each on its elongated oval of shadow.
We're here for a suburban footy match. We pay our twenty dollars and walk through a gap in the old-fashioned red brick curve of the stadium wall. There's grubby concrete underfoot and leaning wooden benches on either side. We thread our way between the few spectators to the plastic bucket seats of the new grandstand, the product of a former club president's forgotten dream of glory.
The ground's name changes with every new sponsor, but the real matches have moved on to the glossy grey stadiums with their enormous crowds and television rights. Here only the suburban teams play. Crumpled crisp wrappers rattle down the empty rows, the grime grows thick and undisturbed on every surface, and pigeon droppings pattern the seats.
We choose a seat, half in and half out of the sun, and sit. My husband watches the game. My littlest boy trots between the chairs and up and down the stairs, sturdily independent. My older children take turns on a hand-held electronic toy, guzzle lemonade, and squabble over who has eaten the most chips. I read, legs comfortably extended, as the hours of the afternoon
stretch long and languid before me.
I glance at the game from time to time, ignoring the score but enjoying the play of light and shadow across the manicured grass. There is poetry in the rise and fall of legs, the red and blue of the footy jumpers, the ball soaring first one way and then the other. From the feet of the players trail elongated black versions of themselves, running, swooping and stumbling across the grass, a second team in precise
silhouette.
The quiet is barely broken by the distant rumble of Melbourne trams, the umpires' whistle, the occasional hopeful cheer from the tiny crowd, the constant calls of the players and the clap of shoe on ball magnified by this satellite dish of a footy ground. We sit in a bubble of warm air and silence, the sounds echoing as if from a remote distance.
Sunday afternoon, and the shadows lie long and lanky on the grass.
It's half-time. Kids and dads surge onto the ground, kicking their
footies, pretending for a brief moment of glory that they are footy stars rising to the cheers of thousands of fans and heralded by the cries of the commentators.
I watch my husband and children run onto the ground. The little one's legs piston frantically as he struggles to keep up, corn-coloured hair gleaming in the sun. The older kids scream, "It's my turn! Kick it to me, Daddy!". Our enormous translucent orange ball bounces erratically among the purposeful professional-looking footballs.
The sun gleams from the shiny silver girders of a half-built fitness centre. White motionless banks of cloud stretch flat over the curving lines of the grandstands, their smooth sweep broken by city buildings and the tops of palm trees. Seagulls fly low over the ground. I can smell dust and cigarettes.
My older two boys go on their own crazy exploration. I watch, heart in mouth, as they clamber from grandstand to grandstand, disappearing into the dark bowels of the stands then re-emerging, heads bobbing as they run between the seats and up and down stairs, smaller and smaller in the distance, until they sit far away on the other side of the ground. We wave, and they wave back. They return like homing pigeons to our side, puffing with exertion and exaltation.
The sun shines into our eyes,
dropping lower and lower, pursuing us into the ever-decreasing shaded parts of the grandstand. We move from one patch of shade to another, like frightened rabbits hugging the last stand of corn at harvest time.
The siren sounds. It's time to go home. I hold my tired middle son's hand, and my husband carries the little one, as we trudge through the park back to the car. Golden late afternoon sunlight threads between the trunks of the trees, each on its stripe of shadow stretching far across the park.
Sunday afternoon, and the shadows lie black and heavy on the grass.
images are from Crashy, pominoz, littlenutbrownhare & Barnstorm Creative at flickr.com
Sunday afternoon, and the shadows lie light and insubstantial on the grass.
We choose a seat, half in and half out of the sun, and sit. My husband watches the game. My littlest boy trots between the chairs and up and down the stairs, sturdily independent. My older children take turns on a hand-held electronic toy, guzzle lemonade, and squabble over who has eaten the most chips. I read, legs comfortably extended, as the hours of the afternoon stretch long and languid before me.
It's half-time. Kids and dads surge onto the ground, kicking their footies, pretending for a brief moment of glory that they are footy stars rising to the cheers of thousands of fans and heralded by the cries of the commentators.
The sun shines into our eyes, dropping lower and lower, pursuing us into the ever-decreasing shaded parts of the grandstand. We move from one patch of shade to another, like frightened rabbits hugging the last stand of corn at harvest time.
We're having salmon patties for dinner.
Today I pick up where I left off in my series on kids and chores. I'd like to tell you about a girl talk series on training daughters to manage a home.
What simple sentences do you use to remind yourself of God's truth?
So what I've done is to invent simple sentences, quick summaries of Gods' truth, that I can speak to myself when I feel the familiar pull to doubt God's goodness, or worry about my children, or drown in guilt.
Has "the fear of the LORD" got anything to do with fear?
because of his fearful acts of salvation and judgement, when he saves his people by bringing utter destruction on their enemies (Exod 14:29-31, Josh 4:23-24, 1 Sam 12:24 cf Ex 15:11, 34:10-11, Deut 10:20-22, 2 Sam 7:22-24, 1 Chron 17:20-22) 
Remember when God spoke out of fire and darkness on Mount Sinai? The Israelites were so afraid that they begged Moses to speak to God for them, so they would not hear God's voice and die.
The "fear of the LORD" is not a fear which drives us from God, but a fear which drives us to God. We flee from God's judgement to the arms of his mercy and love. Yet we still fear with trembling. We have escaped God's judgement, but we never take God lightly!
I'm leading Sunday School again this term. I've chosen a really easy topic this time (hah!): the Old Testament law and sacrificial system.
I've found that there's very little useful Sunday School material on the law and sacrifices. I bought a book on the tabernacle with some useful charts and pictures, but it uses typology in what seems to me a pretty unbiblical way (the show-bread is Jesus, the bread of life; the lampstand is Jesus, the light of the world; etc.) so I won't be using this book much. Any online teaching material on the tabernacle is along these lines.
I'm picking the kids up from school. I collect Thomas from his classroom, gather Lizzy on the way, and go to find Ben on the school playground.
"Do you think it would hurt if you had a Pokemon battle in a dream, Mummy? I'm sure it would! But I don't care! I want to be a Pokemon in a battle, even if it does hurt! Sometimes the attacks do 150 damage! That would hurt, wouldn't it Mummy? I think I'd like to be a Pokemon with really high health. Then the attack wouldn't do so much damage. But I don't care if it hurts! I want to dream I'm a Pokemon in a battle! I'm going to make myself dream about Pokemon, Mummy!"
It's morning, and Ben comes out of his room, all rumpled and bleary eyed with sleep.
