Hip Hip Hooray

Recently, two brave young women I know had hip replacements with the gifted surgeon, Professor Michael Neil of St Vincent’s Hospital in Sydney – the same surgeon who worked his magic on me.  With Christmas only five sleeps away, it seems an appropriate time to reflect on this miracle in my life.    Here are my thoughts from last Christmas:

Over the past decade walking had become an ordeal.   With bilateral dysplasia of my hips, pain was always my companion, accompanying me when I sat, stood, walked, or tried to sleep.   After giving birth to two sons and reaching my forties, time was running out for me to remain mobile.  I had consulted surgeons who considered my condition too complicated to pursue.

One autumn morning about two years ago, I was hanging clothes on the line in my garden when I smelt the eucalyptus of the bushland beckoning me.   I prayed silently, tearfully longing for the days I had enjoyed bushwalking.   Almost immediately I heard a soft voice in reply: “You will be bushwalking again.  Do you think this is too hard for me?”    Momentarily I was alarmed.   Was I now hearing voices?  At the same time a spark of hope ignited within me.   I went straight to the telephone to enquire about surgeons. 

All avenues led me to one surgeon, but to confirm I was on the right track I prayed specifically for certain qualities including compassion, competency, a sense of humour, being of a certain age and, most specifically, that he would look at me and say “I can fix it”.

Can you imagine my joy when I met my surgeon?  He was the right age, he laughed at my jokes, he was kind and, last but not least, he examined my X-rays carefully, turned to meet my gaze and said “Your hips are bad but they are fixable – I can fix them.”   The exact words I had asked for.   I learnt that if I had left the surgery much longer it would have been too late for the operations to be successful.

So 2008 was my year of the hip replacements.  I had my right hip replaced in early March and my left in early July.   I had to face many obstacles during this process.  

Only a week before the first operation I had a call from the hospital telling me I wasn’t fully covered by my health insurance.   We were able to find the money but it was a great disappointment and it was only my hope in God’s plan that kept me going.

I originally planned to wait twelve months between the operations so my health insurance would fully cover the second operation.  However, I suffered the most extreme pain in my un-operated hip, which started to regularly dislocate.   I was baffled to even know what to pray for but three friends stepped in to pray for me at this time, independently of one another.  They each prayed that the operation would be expedited and I would be relieved of the pain.    At the time I thought they were all well-meaning but misguided as we couldn’t afford the further surgery straight away and Chris certainly wouldn’t be able to get more time off work.  A couple of weeks later the surgeon phoned to say he had a cancellation.   Was I interested in an earlier operation?    My heart missed a beat as I recalled the ‘misguided’ prayers of my friends.  My husband’s employer went to great lengths to accommodate his leave and again we found the money.

With sons aged five and six, my mother with a terminal brain tumour, and my father and mother-in- law suffering from dementia, dropping out of life for several months to recuperate was a daunting experience but God’s presence prevailed throughout.   My husband was able to care for me throughout the considerable recovery period and our friends  rallied around making a difficult time seem almost enjoyable.   I must say my husband was the most devoted and helpful nurse any woman could hope for.

I am overwhelmed to be starting 2009 with a body no longer dominated by pain.   I feel like I have been physically re-born and can be the wife, mother and friend I’ve always dreamed of being.  Yet the lessons I’ve learnt about God’s immense love for me and the wisdom of trusting him, even when things looked hopeless, have far outweighed all that I’ve gained on a physical level.    I realise that my physical healing won’t last forever – but the emotional and spiritual healing I’ve received will endure.

During a recent holiday to the South Coast of New South Wales I completed a bushwalk to the top of Minnamurra Falls without any pain.    A year ago I could barely walk to the letterbox and here I was climbing a steep path through a rainforest.   I thought I would burst with gratitude when I reached the waterfall at the top.  God is so faithful to his promises and nothing is too hard for him!

 But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.  Isaiah 40:31 (NIV)      

 

Tiger or Lamb?

A few days in the Children’s Ward of my local hospital, watching my son fight an infection in his leg, allowed me plenty of time to drink take-away cappuccinos and ponder the daily news.   Top of the list of juicy news items this week was Tiger Woods, caught out in his adulterous indiscretions, with not one, but four women.   Photos revealed these mysterious women, each one pouting and resembling sex-on-two-legs, without blemish or apparent remorse.

I was impressed when I read of Tiger’s  wife attacking him with a golf club.  As a wife and mother with young children myself, I applauded her for her spirit and I agreed with the sentiment that next time she should go after him with a driver rather than a 3 iron.

The media, usually quick to applaud success, fame, money and sexual prowess, have enjoyed pointing their fingers at this man who has found himself caught in the headlight of the world’s condemning glare.    I’m not sure when the media discovered their morality and virtue.   

I began to wonder how many people, joking and laughing at Tiger’s expense, would have been able to resist the same temptations if they had been in his shoes.

As I thought about Tiger and his fate, I was reminded of an old tale.   A woman had been caught in the act of adultery and was dragged to Jesus by the Pharisees and teachers of the law.  In those days the punishment for adultery was to be stoned to death.    The indignant men asked Jesus for a verdict on the woman.    Imagine her fear and shame as she stood there trembling.    Jesus didn’t react immediately.   He bent down and drew lines in the dirt.   His answer surprised them, and it still surprises me today:

If any one of you is without sin, let him be the first to throw a stone at her.

Each of the woman’s accusers dropped their stones and walked away.   Jesus spoke gently to the woman and told her that he did not condemn her either and to ‘go now and leave your life of sin.’

Jesus is described as the Lamb of God.    His ways are in stark contrast to the ways of this world and our human hearts.    As humans we love to judge and point fingers, but Jesus teaches us to forgive and show compassion.    As humans we see the faults of others magnified, but ignore our own failings.   Jesus challenges us to know and accept ourselves, and to know and accept others.   He enables us to do this, by loving and accepting us first.

Despite the luxuries of wealth, success and fame, I reckon Tiger Woods is just another man trapped by his own desires and sickened at times by his own actions.   He probably does love his wife and kids, but he can’t resist the excitement of his ‘other life’.    He’s not alone in this.    We may not have four lovers on the side, but most of us are trapped by something in this life.   We are only human and we are all flawed.  

The question is, are you going to pick up a stone and launch it at Tiger, and others who have disappointed you, or are you going to let your weapon fall gently to the ground beside you?    I’ve decided to put down my stone and pray that Tiger, and all of us, figure out what is really important in this life, and have the courage to give up the things that will rob us of that.

‘Drop Everything’ Friends

Best friends are like diamonds, precious and rare
False friends are like leaves, found everywhere.                 

                                                    Anonymous

Recently I attended a meeting with a group of inspiring, intelligent and amusing women.   We had lots of fun, and I left thinking they were the type of people I would like to get to know better, and perhaps one day they would become real friends.    I went onto meet another friend at a cafe for lunch, only to look up to see the same bunch of women from the meeting having lunch together.

Childishly, I felt my stomach tighten and an overwhelming need overtook me to fold myself up and slide under the table to hide.    I was again the awkward twelve-year-old girl starting high school amongst strangers who stood giggling in huddled groups while I stood alone.    I was the new girl, sniggered at, and not included.

Once upon a time making new friends felt like gathering pretty shells along the sea-shore.   There were a multitude to choose from, in all shapes, sizes, colours and textures.   You could hear the ocean when you put one to your ear, others brightened your world with their rich earthy colours, and there were those rare few from the ocean’s depths shaped just right to give you a good belly-laugh every time.   Our friends widen our outlook and bring new worlds to our doorsteps.

These days I find my beaches much emptier and the search for true friendship much lonelier.   It is easy to be surrounded by smiling faces and companionship, but there are invisible walls between us, busy lives and careers to pursue, children to chase and scold, and a lot of fear and apprehension at letting our hearts be seen.

Thankfully, I have a handful of people I refer to as my ‘drop everything’ friends.   When a crisis hits we literally ‘drop everything’ for each other.  There is no guilt, fear or embarrassment in asking for help.    These friends are there for me, and I am there for them.

Yesterday I had a pedicure with such a friend and our time together having our feet massaged in perfumed oil, sinking into cushioned massage chairs, glasses of champagne in hand, was like gold.   These physical luxuries were nothing compared to our lively conversation.   There is never any doubt that my friend wants to hear about my life, and I love hearing about hers.   There is an equality to the exchange, giving and taking, laughing and crying, or sitting together, relaxing and feeling connected without the need for words.

It is painful to lose a true friend.   I had a friend once who was in the ‘drop everything’ category.  We spent lots of time together for a number of years – weekends in the country, evenings in Double Bay watching the rich people while eating mudcake and sipping coffee, and many nights sitting up until the small hours discussing our hopes and dreams.  She was like a sister to me.

However, when I got engaged and the wedding loomed closer, I felt a shift in her attitude toward me.    I tried to ignore my instinct.    A week before my wedding I checked my answering machine one evening and heard a very strange message.   My friend had accidentally recorded herself on my answering machine, speaking on her mobile phone about me to a friend.    Her words were venomous, cruel and dishonest.   I kept thinking she must be talking about somebody else, but then she mentioned my partner’s name and I knew that it was me.    I cried every night that week, leading up to the happiest day of my life.

She smiled at me sweetly and said kind words to me on my wedding day, and I smiled back through clenched teeth, holding in my hurt and anger.   After our honeymoon I wrote her a letter telling her what I had heard.  Even then, I would have accepted an apology or an explanation.   I hung onto hope.   Her reply finally came but was one line.   She was guilty as accused and she said goodbye.  That was it.

I am grateful for that bizarre twist of fate, or as I believe, divine intervention, which revealed her heart to me.   As sad as it was, it would have been much sadder to maintain such a dishonest friendship.

In the Gospels I read that Jesus had twelve best mates who he walked through life with.   He had gathered a rare assortment of shells from the beach, as each of his disciples had unique personalities and related to him in different ways.   Yet out of this group of true friends, Peter, who boldly professed his love for Jesus and said he would die for him, went on to deny even knowing him three times to a servant girl.    Then there was Judas who betrayed Jesus with a kiss leading to his death, for the price of some bags of silver.    Being hurt and disappointed by our friends certainly isn’t a new concept.

When I’m deeply hurt it takes a long time to recover, but I’m learning that the only way back to wholeness is to forgive, let it go and walk away.  I embrace the richness of my true friendships and cherish them as one of life’s greatest gifts.    I also continue to search the seashore for any shells hidden in the sand.   You can never tell how colourful and unique they are until you take the risk and reach out your hand.

Behind Locked Doors

The first time I really heard the word ‘dementia’ and took notice was standing on the footpath outside my family home, as a doctor gave me her devastating diagnosis about my father.    In that moment our family home was no longer a safe haven to me, and my parents were no longer my nurturers.   That one small destructive word swept it all away.

The same doctor who hugged me outside my family home as the truth sunk in, warned me that what I would see inside the acute dementia wards would be disturbing.   Certainly, I was entering into a new world – a topsy-turvy land where normal doesn’t exist.    The door to the outside world was locked at all times.    When leaving the ward I learned how to key in complex codes and check over my shoulder to make sure I wasn’t being followed.  

I met Allan, formerly a successful accountant, who had forgotten how to walk and instead used his bottom and hands to move around the floor like a crab.   He was intrigued with the texture of the carpet, and spent hours examining it.    Mary liked to discard her clothing and launch into a striptease at any time of the day – flowery frock and matronly bra flung across the room with wild abandon.  

Gina was devoted to her pet giraffe and baby doll.   She rocked them to sleep and carried them with her religiously.  They were her babies.   Martha cried for her mother and shrieked insistently ‘Where is Mummy?  Where has she gone?’   The little girl words jarred as they came out of the thin wrinkled mouth of an 80-year-old.

Ethel was infatuated with my husband and exclaimed ‘Oh it’s you’ and chased him around for a kiss on many occasions.     Jim had been a popular radio announcer and in his well-modulated voice asked ‘why am I in here with all of these mad people?’ as he shuffled along in his brown slippers.

I watch these unique individuals and wonder why.   They were all once bright-eyed babies, cherished by their parents, playful children, who grew to marry, make love and have children of their own.  Some held influential jobs and impacted the world around them.    Then they got dementia.

I have become accustomed to this world of shadows.    Watching my father’s decline consumed me with grief, but at the same time I adjusted to this strange world of dementia.

When Mum became too ill with her brain tumour to stay at home the hospital placed her into a nursing home also.    It was a dark place.  Visiting her there felt like trying to swim in a lake of concrete.    Most visits involved arguing with staff to take her to the toilet, and refusing to allow them to use restraints to tie her to her chair.   I was always yelling at someone.   I would leave and drive home squinting through the haze of hopeless tears.   It was agony.

One day a thought jumped out at me as I struggled through the visit.   ‘You need to bring light into the darkness’.   The nursing home was indeed a place of darkness.   I wondered how I could do this.

On the next visit I took along some books and read Mum some psalms and poetry.   Her moaning ceased and she calmed down.  I could see that she could hear the enriching words and her thirsty soul was nourished by them.    The surroundings were just as unappealing but the atmosphere shifted as my quivering words rung out -

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not be in want.  He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he restores my soul.

Today  Mum is in another nursing home which offers 5-star accommodation and compassionate staff.   Yet I still operate on the theory of bringing in the light.   I arrive armed with bright fresh flowers, funny stories about the kids, chocolate cake and French perfume – little snippets of being alive in a place that is punctuated by death.

I no longer feel afraid of the bottom walkers and the elderly strippers.   In fact I have become quite fond of many of them.   Who is really normal anyway?

My children have grown up visiting dementia wards.  I remember as toddlers they would get down on the floor and bottom walk around the place with Allan, and join him in examining the floor.    They would have a good giggle when Mary’s dress came flying by.    They haven’t once looked shocked and turned away.    Children can certainly teach us some lessons in acceptance.

Alzheimer’s Australia reports that the number of people diagnosed with dementia is projected to increase, with the number of cases increasing from 245,400 in 2009 to 1.13 million cases by 2050.

Dementia is ugly and it creates darkness.   If you have a loved one who is facing it, I empathise with your pain and encourage you to bring your own unique light into the situation.   Don’t let it beat you.   It is amazing what we humans can cope with.    There are little ways you can improve the quality of life of your loved one.    You can be their advocate and fight for them to receive the compassionate care that they deserve.   You can bring snippets of life to them, even if it is only a milkshake or a mango.   Most importantly, you can show them that you still love them, despite everything.   Nothing can take that away from you, or them, not even the ugliness of dementia.

If you are caring for a loved one with dementia, or another debilitating illness, or have been through this experience, I’d love to hear from you about how you cope.   Perhaps if we share our insights and support each other, we can make the journey a little easier. 

A Rainbow Over My Head

As a wide-eyed six year old I listened in awe to the story of Noah and the Ark.   Imagine his apprehension as the ark hit ground after the flood and it was time to step out and see what had become of the world.   The flood waters had receded and a rainbow lit up the sky, showing him all would be well.   The rainbow was Noah’s sign of hope.

Yet it wasn’t only my Sunday School teacher’s eager words that convinced me.  I could see it for myself.

The rainbow has a language all of its own, with luminous pastel shades reaching across the grey sky, transforming an ordinary scene into a surreal vision.    Could anyone ever capture a rainbow or find the pot of gold at the other end?   The rainbow will always escape our grasp.   It is  a glimpse of another world, heaven perhaps, that we humans in this lifetime could scarcely understand.  

I was far too clever for rainbows during my adolescence and in early adulthood and barely noticed them.   I considered them a childish crutch.

However, one afternoon at ‘twenty-something’ I walked along a lonely beach, deep in thought.   I had just made all the calls to cancel my wedding.   In six weeks time I was due to start a new life and become a married woman – just in time for my 30^th birthday.   However, the illusion of a happy future had been swept away by the painful reality that I was about to marry the wrong person.   I knew I had done the right thing, but the right thing felt so wrong as I padded through the soft cool sand on bare feet, and listened to the crashing waves.   Threatening grey clouds were building in the sky.   The salty cold breeze bit into me, and the beach looked empty.   The emptiness had spread to my heart.   I cried out silently for some reassurance and comfort.

In an instant it appeared, arching magnificently across the sky above me and reaching out into the hazy depths of the ocean.  It was my old friend from Sunday School, the rainbow, pastel shades scribbled with a child’s crayon, surrounded by the aura of mystery as in the days of old.    I smiled stupidly at the sky and warmth spread to the cold empty places in my heart.   There was hope.  Everything was going to be okay.   Three months later I met my husband.

Two years ago I was bracing myself for a cancer scan.    It had been three years since surgery and two grueling sessions of treatment.   Against all advice to ‘think positively’ I was terrified.

The day before the scan, my son came home from preschool and proudly presented me with a painting.    He explained it to me – ‘There is Mummy with a big rainbow over her head.’   In my fragile state, the tears sprung into my eyes and I had to turn away.   This painting meant so much to me.

The next day I walked down Belgrave Street toward St George Hospital.   I pressed the cold silver button to cross the last street before the hospital and as I looked up I saw it.   High above me and stretching right across the road was a particularly bright and glowing rainbow.    I crossed the street, rainbow over my head, the very image my son had created.   Again I smiled stupidly and hoped nobody was watching.   My hope returned, warming me deeply inside like a grandmother’s hug, and I was able to walk confidently through the green hospital doors.    A few hours later I discovered that the scan was clear.

Powerful Women

I was terrified the evening I met my future mother-in-law.   It wasn’t only her role that frightened me, it was her aura of authority, and the strength that oozed out of her.   She was quick-witted and watched me with bright eyes, seeing through all of my pretences.   Yet at the same time I was drawn to her, and realised she was a remarkable woman, worthy of my respect.   We are now the best of friends.

Prior to meeting her, I had been questioning my own beliefs about the role of women.   Growing up, I was taught that a woman’s only chance of happiness or success was to find a suitable husband, with enough cash and intelligence to support a family, and to pop out a few beautiful babies.   A career was a disposable option, but a hobby or interest was just as good, and the main challenge in life was to be attractive, house-proud and slim.

I scoured the library for books about feminism, and embraced the theories I discovered.   As I read, a few of the shackles fell away, however deep inside there was still the disturbing fear that I was somehow less of a woman without a husband and children.  

Continuing my pursuit for feminism, I bought a home unit so I could finally be the queen of my own castle, and submit to nobody.   The only unit I could afford had one bedroom,  a tiny Jaffa orange kitchen, far too many stairs to climb, and threadbare carpet, but it was paradise.   The first night I stood on the balcony overlooking the gum trees and sipped champagne with a long satisfied sigh.  I was an independent woman at last, free and unfettered by the chains of domestic life and tradition.   The fact that my unit was empty of furniture at that stage didn’t bother me in the slightest.   

So when I met my future mother-in-law I felt I had already come a long way from the submissive days of  my youth.    It wasn’t until she started sharing her own yarns that I held my breath in stunned admiration.    She told me of marrying in World War II, her much loved young husband going away to war and never returning, and of her dear father who was killed in an industrial accident shortly after, leaving her to support her family and face a double dose of grief.  I began to see what being a truly independent and strong woman was all about.  

The stories that have impacted me the most are those of the years she spent travelling throughout Australia and New Zealand managing motels and hotels, building up floundering businesses until they were thriving, and then leaving for the next challenge.  She drove alone for miles in country Australia, before there were any decent roads, getting dirt tracks confused with dry river beds, happily heading into the unknown.   In the 1950’s when many women aspired to vacuuming daily and bringing their husbands slippers &  a newspaper, she was hiring and firing men and ejecting  drunken patrons from her pubs at 6.00pm closing time.

She thrived on her career and didn’t settle down with another man for many years, discovering motherhood in 1966,  in her mid forties.

I will save the details of her colourful life for another time, as they would richly fill a book, but her stories warmed me and re-assured me beyond anything I had read by Germaine Greer, that women are indeed special, worthy and powerful, with or without a man, and can do anything they want to do.   I’m so grateful to have a mother-in-law who taught me that.

I think the key is for women not to set any limits.

— Martina Navratilova

As a woman I have no country. As a woman my country is the whole world.

—Virginia Woolf

 It is easier to live through someone else than to become complete yourself.

- Betty Friedan

Remember, Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did, but she did it backwards and in high heels.

- Faith Whittlesey

 Amen to that sister!

 

 

Waterloo Bridge

Have you seen Waterloo Bridge?    Not the actual bridge in London, but the beautiful and profoundly sad black and white movie which has been known to reduce many a sentimental soul to tears.

The film begins with Colonel Roy Cronin (Robert Taylor), on his way to France to fight in WWII,  stopping his cab on London’s Waterloo Bridge to reflect on the past, to a chance meeting in 1914 during an air raid with Myra Lester (Vivien Leigh), a beautiful ballet dancer. They seek shelter together and a whirlwind wartime romance follows, resulting in Roy asking Myra to marry him.  

Before the ceremony can be performed, however, Roy is called to the front and Myra is fired for her impetuousness by her ballet mistress. When Myra’s friend Kitty sticks up for her, she is also fired. Unable to find work in another ballet or show, the two dancers soon find themselves broke and hungry.  When Myra reads of Roy’s death in a newspaper she falls ill and lies close to death from grief.  To earn money to cover her friend’s medical expenses, Kitty drifts into prostitution. When Myra recovers, she is touched by her friend’s sacrifice, and with no desire to live, she, too, becomes a prostitute.

One year later, Roy returns to London, and the first sight that he sees upon getting off the train is Myra, who has come to pick up soldiers.   The only difference in her appearance is her glamorous dress and slightly darker lipstick, which she tries to discreetly wipe away.   He believes that she has come to meet him, and knowing nothing of her life in the past year, takes her home to his family estate in Scotland. Although Myra tries to convince herself that they can be happy, she soon realizes that her past will ruin Roy’s life and, after confessing all to his mother, she runs away.  Roy follows, despite Kitty’s revelations about Myra, but she  kills herself by throwing herself in front of a truck on Waterloo Bridge.

As the movie draws to a close I’m a wreck, beyond repair, and have to go shakily to bed with a mug of warm milk and honey with the faint strains of Auld Lang Syne echoing in my ears.

I was startled to discover this week that in the original movie, made in 1931, the heroine was nothing more or less than a prostitute during World War I who falls in love with one of her clients, a young officer from an aristocratic family.    After being warned by her lover’s mother that marriage isn’t an option, she ends her life by walking in the path of an enemy bomb.    Hearing this, I realise I’ve been seduced by the movie-makers of the 1940’s, with their romantic notions, subtle manipulations and shadowy half truths, which soften and justify.

Was Myra simply a realist, or did she mistakenly give into despair?   I like to believe that Roy would have continued to love Myra despite her past and her mistakes and that love would have conquered all.    However, her despair consumed her and most of us who have felt despair can empathise with her plight.

Life Line Australia quotes that around seven people die each day from suicide in Australia alone, the same statistics that apply to those who  die from breast cancer.  This figure does not include the unsuccessful suicide attempts, which are believed to be ten times this figure.

The tendency to give into despair and lose hope is not confined to bittersweet love stories played out in black and white.   I know I’ve felt it before and have felt incapable of reaching out for hope in a situation.  Hopelessness is a black place, and options don’t exist.   Lack of hope is often quoted as the main cause of suicide, along with a sense of lack of purpose and meaning.

When I lived in London I went alone one day to pay my respects to Waterloo Bridge.   I was close to reaching my first anniversary of living in the UK and was contemplating returning to Australia.    It was a rare sticky hot summer’s day in London.  My forehead was sweaty, my shoulders sunburnt, and there were vibrant colours and laughter all around, in stark contrast to the gloom, mist, darkness, and coldness in the Waterloo Bridge of my imagination.

However, that day I did have a ‘Myra’ moment.   I took an honest look at my life and allowed myself to feel the disappointment and loneliness.   Although surrounded by good friends, travelling to amazing places, and constant partying, I felt empty.  My heart was either shattered or numb from my messy romances, and alcohol, once the perfect accessory to any social event, was reaching into every area of my life with invisible fingers and taking control.   If I were to walk under a truck, I wondered if anybody would weep for me.

God tapped me on the shoulder that day.   It had been an adventure, but it was starting to get ugly.    I had been running away, but I was getting lost in the process.   Inside I felt so murky and fragmented – a jigsaw puzzle with many missing pieces.    I was ashamed of who I was becoming.  Yet the shoulder tap was not about judgment, it was a knowing  smile,  tinged with sadness, and open, accepting arms to fall into.   It was about love, the very love I had been searching so desperately for.   Later that day I phoned the airline and booked my flight home, content to cry over the movie, and to begin walking on a bridge toward hope.

He is the living Alchemist who can take the dregs from the slag-heaps of life – disappointment, frustration, sorrow, disease, death, economic loss, heartache – and transform the dregs into gold.   

(Catherine Marshall from ‘Beyond Our Selves’)

 

Remembering Arthur

Arthur  Granville Sims (5 December, 1928 – 12 October, 2008)

These words are from my Eulogy:

Dad really knew how to work hard and play hard.  I greatly admire him for his achievements in his career, but his ability to play hard, and enjoy life to the full, is probably the part that I learnt the most from.

Dad loved to travel.   He travelled overseas extensively as part of his job but he also took us on some wonderful family holidays.   We would pack up our caravan and take off on adventures.   As a city child I spent lots of time in the wilds of the Snowy Mountains.  It was nothing unusual to be swimming in a river with a platypus – with no-one around for miles.  Dad was an excellent trout fisherman.   Our freezer was often overflowing with trout.    Dad taught me to fly fish and we spent many wonderful times together on the trout streams.   He spent a lot of time untangling my line from bushes and swearing but that was all part of the fun!  Dad was always more comfortable in his waders and old flanellette shirt than a business suit.  He made great billy tea & nothing tasted better than a glass of red wine at sunset after a long day fishing.   Chris and I will teach our two boys to fly fish when they are old enough.  I’m sure Dad will be smiling down at us when we are trying to untangle the lines!

Dad passed onto me his love of travelling.  When I was very small he used to return from overseas business trips with his suitcase stuffed full of presents for us.   The presents were so exotic and fascinating to me.  I always longed to go to the places they came from.   I had the perfect opportunity when I was 23 and Dad took me to Shanghai and around China with him.   Even though I went on to live in London and travel around Europe – my time with Dad in China was the most interesting and educational holiday I’ve ever had.   It was also an invaluable opportunity to spend one on one time with Dad.

I remember one night he took me along to a banquet with an important member of the Chinese government.  I had my one and only opportunity to walk up a red carpet to meet this man.  He said something to me in Chinese and my interpreter relayed that he had said I was just like my dad.  I remember feeling so proud of this – but then he said something else in Chinese and the interpreter said ‘especially around the nose’.   To this day I’m sure the interpreter must have got that wrong!

But seriously, I am very proud to be Dad’s daughter.   As a father he was kind, generous, sincere, strong, always giving practical help, unpretentious, unselfish & humble.  He was the original good bloke.   He was such great company and so easy to be with. He showed me the importance of just being myself & not worrying what anyone thinks, of  ‘having a go’ and believing in the impossible.

He enjoyed the simple things in life.   I have great memories of watching the Six Million Dollar Man on television with him every Sunday night and eating violet crumble bars.   He loved violet crumble bars and he used to get a packet of them from each of us at every birthday, Christmas and Fathers Day!

It is difficult to think of one good thing to say about the dementia which plagued him for the last few years of his life.   However, being the inventor and pioneer that he was, Dad managed to bring something positive out of it.  When his mind began to slip he discovered a faith in God, which was something he hadn’t had time or inclination for throughout his life.    This faith made things easier for him as he neared the end of his life & faced a lot of suffering.

I loved Dad very much and when I feel really sad about losing him I focus on his wonderful life and imagine him as the free-spirit that he was in a much better place – where the trout are all ‘this big’, the ski slopes never ending, and the traffic lights are always green.

Arthur invented the first computerised traffic signal controller in the world and the first traffic signal control system linking traffic on the road with big brother in a remote control office. He alone changed the whole operation of road traffic in cities in the world, which has led to completely different thinking about how we manage road traffic…

Inventions like this only come from geniuses.  Arthur was a genius.

(from an article by Ken Dobinson, former RTA Director)

 I miss you, Dad.

Hypocrisy Unveiled

Some of the most inspiring, compassionate and godly people I’ve met in my life have also been alcoholics, compulsive liars, adulterers, expert car thieves, cheats, drug abusers, or have tried to kill themselves several times.    If they attend Church and profess to be Christians, are they hypocrites?

A ‘hypocrite’ is defined as:

A person who professes beliefs and opinions that he or she does not hold in order to conceal his or her real feelings or motives.

One of the most compelling arguments against the modern Christian Church is that it is full of hypocrites.   As a Christian myself, I empathise with this  accusation.   The Church is indeed full of imperfect people and some of them are hypocrites.

Jesus hated hypocrites and was scathing when he spoke to the Pharisees, the religious leaders of his day.   He pointed out their motives of trying to impress those around them with their ‘good deeds’ while concealing hidden ugly agendas.  He called them ’blind guides’ , ‘vipers’, ‘full of greed and self indulgence’ and:

You are like whitewashed tombs, which look beautiful on the outside but on the inside are full of dead men’s bones and everything unclean. (Matthew 23:27)

A true hypocrite may be difficult to spot at first.   Some wear the shiny crown of a perfect reputation, wealth of knowledge and tireless church activity with such pride that it is difficult to see beyond the impressive veneer.   They have the answers, but never ask questions.  In fact, they steer away from people who ask too many questions.    They display the fruit of their lives proudly - exquisite shiny & brightly coloured fruit arranged attractively on a crystal platter, so enticing and delicious, until you actually reach out and take a piece.   Longing for sustenance, understanding and love, you are left with a distasteful mouthful of plastic and wax.   The fruit you were expecting from this  ’good’ person, such as love, joy, peace, patience and kindness, are in fact only deceit, rejection and emptiness.

So how does the Church deal with this accusation that it is full of hypocrites?   In Luke 12:1  there is a warning against the ‘yeast of the Pharisees, which is hypocrisy’.    Yeast grows and spreads.   If you are surrounded by ‘whitewashed tombs’ who appear perfect and hide away the true nature of their hearts, there is the tendency to want to pull down the shutters and hide away your own heart.  

I feel the answer lies in having the courage to stand up and be real with one another, and to shed this veil of hypocrisy that can smother our faith and our relationships.    We need to have the courage to be our authentic imperfect selves, to confess our struggles and failures, and to have the compassion to continue loving other people who are struggling too.   Secrets, like monsters, seem to grow larger and more imposing when kept locked away in the dark.    We need an environment of acceptance and love where we can speak honest words.     The problem does not lie in our being human, but rather in our attempts to hide from this.    Hypocrisy will wither in an environment of pure truth and transparency.  

The ironic part about admitting imperfection and failure, is that this is so often the catalyst to overcoming the vice itself.     Indeed, isn’t this the bottom line of the Christian faith?   Nobody is good enough in their own strength to have a relationship with God, so Jesus died for us.   If we don’t accept the imperfection of our own humanity, and that of others, and our complete helplessness,  we are rejecting our very faith.

My inspiring and colourful friends have overcome many of their problems.    It has taken a long time.  Some still struggle, but in accepting themselves and relying on God, I’ve seen immense healing take place in their lives.   I’ve seen the same thing in my own life, and I know I still have a long way to go.

Many of us are still broken, and in this life we will remain imperfect,  but for those truly seeking God,  a seed has been planted in our hearts.   Small tender green shoots are reaching upwards toward the light, and one day a grand oak tree will stand tall and strong.    There will always be hypocrites in the Church, but there will also always be honest people growing in their faith and being gradually refined and renewed.   Inside such people you will not find  ’dead men’s bones’, but rather the living water that Jesus offered to the woman at the well in John 4:13:

whoever drinks the water I give him will never thirst.  Indeed, the water I give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life.

Don’t allow the hypocrites to rob you of this life.

 

The Brussel Sprout Myth

If you want people to nod in agreement and smile sympathetically, tell them how you hate brussel sprouts, and the torture you endured as a child when forced to eat them.    You will find a like-minded friend every time.

However, I have a confession to make.   I know this may shock you, but I  like brussel sprouts.    I was reminded of this last week when I was selecting my vegetables at the local fruit market.   Behind the huge stack of broccoli, and the over-flowing bin of beans, hid the forlorn corner of brussel sprouts, overlooked and under stocked.

Viewing this sad corner, I had an idea.    In true ‘Myth Busters’ style, I collected a bag full of the little green vegies.  Rather than admit my desire to eat them, I headed home to conduct a social experiment to uncover what the latest generation of kids really think of the humble brussel sprout.

Amidst anguished cries from my husband, I steamed them lightly, with a hint of honey, and served them with our evening meal.     My sons asked me in surprise - ‘What are those little things Mummy?’ to which I replied ‘Little cabbages’.    The years of scathing criticism prevented me from uttering their real name.   The response amazed me – ‘Oh yum, I love these little cabbages.  Can I have some more?’

Now I realise the enjoyment may be fleeting, but I reckon I have successfully ’busted’ the brussel sprout myth.   The experiment made me wonder how many other false judgments and assumptions have crept into my life over the years.

I remember in kindergarten I was warned not to speak to an Aboriginal boy in my class.    One of the reasons  given was that he was ‘dirty’.    One day the teacher sat him beside me and I lent over tentatively and had a good sniff.    I discovered to my surprise that he smelt quite nice, looked perfectly clean and had a beautiful smile.   I particularly loved his dark shiny skin and wondered why I had been told such an untruth.

William Booth was a man who wouldn’t accept the ideas of his time, even within his own church.    As a young man he began inviting the poor and homeless to church services.   When his friends  arrived in their dishevelled state, without shoes, money, or airs and graces, they were met with hostility by the church leaders.    Booth questioned this.    If Jesus come to save the lost, why was the church turning these desperate people away?  He left this church and went on to start the Salvation Army. 

Lord Shaftesbury, a leading politician and evangelist at the time, described William Booth as the “Anti-Christ”.     One of the main complaints against Booth was his “elevation of women to man’s status”, an outrageous situation at that time.

By the time Booth died or, in Army terms,  was “promoted to glory” in 1912, the  Salvation Army had grown into a giant of international evangelism and gained a modicum of acceptance. In his lifetime the Army was established in 58 countries and colonies, with multitudes of people receiving a second chance at life through the compassionate arms of the Salvos.   Imagine if Booth had accepted the myths existing in the church of his time urging him to turn away the poor, or if he had been defeated by the criticism and accusations against him.    

I’m sure I’m still ruled by some ‘brussel sprout’ myths in my life.    Are you?   I’m going to keep watching out for them.    Why allow stale ideas and  ugly prejudices  to rule your life?    Ask some questions.   Be a Myth Buster and seek out the truth for yourself.   You may be surprised at what you find.

Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.   John 8:32