In around an hour my bubble of denial will burst when I visit my Naturopath after a 12 month break.   I walked out of there feeling slim, energetic and hopeful, and I’m walking back in feeling bloated, sluggish and ashamed.  Yet it’s time to return and face the music.  The fat lady is about to sing.

My vacation from the battle of the bulge has been a luxury.  I’ve sipped fine wines, nibbled cheese and eaten dessert.  My visits to the gym have become less frequent and even my walks have dwindled.

I’ve been asking myself how I allowed myself to slip into chubby-land.   It started last Christmas with lots of merriment and socializing.  At first my party dresses were loose and flowing, but gradually the seams became firmer.  February was a month of highs and lows.   After a holiday brimming with restaurant meals and treats, we came home to face the heart-breaking loss of Mum after a long battle with cancer.  Where others stop eating during times of grief, I ate twice as much.   Eating seemed preferable to going mad or dissolving into misery.

Mum was the healthiest woman.  Her days began with an hour of TV aerobics, followed by some serious line dancing and then she went for an evening walk.  She followed a strict diet where pastry, sugar, alcohol or anything vaguely delicious never touched her lips.   She shunned microwaves,  mobile phones and  any additives or food colourings as they ‘give you cancer’.  She died from the most aggressive brain tumour you can get.    I threw up my hands and decided I may as well eat, drink and be merry.

I’ve always been fiercely opposed to the idea of conforming to the herd of women striving to be perfect and valuing themselves by the size of their jeans.  Surely we women have so much more to offer the world than our bodies.   Surely being overweight isn’t the end of the world?  

Yet after one scary brush with cancer, I’ve learnt the value of good health.  If we lose our health, we lose a whole lot of our lives.   After cancer I faced the deterioration of my hip joints and the prospect of no longer being able to walk.  Carrying excess weight isn’t a sensible option for me.  This year I’m planning an overseas trip and I want to do it feeling fit and strong, not waddling around feeling tired and old.  

So I’ll take a deep breath, lift my chin a little higher, stick out my ample chest and head off to face the ‘Moment of Truth’.  Please God don’t let me faint or cry when the scales do their little dance and finally settle on a number.   Today I will make the most difficult step – admitting that I need some help.   Losing weight can be tough.  But often the toughest part is taking that first tentative step.   So here I go…  My first step in the climb over Fatty-Boom-Bah Mountain.

Everything is permissible for me-but not everything is beneficial. Everything is permissible for me-but I will not be mastered by anything.  Corinthians 6:12

Christmas Eve is alight with anticipation.   The presents are wrapped, baking complete, salads prepared and decorations in place.   Coloured lights flash in the Christmas tree and a certain magic fills the house.   Only three hours until our friends will arrive for our annual Christmas Eve celebrations.  I find the red candle holders and little tinsel tree to decorate the table, and pull out my best platters.   Now where is the table-cloth?  Last year after a succession of tacky plastic Santa cloths I splashed out at David Jones on an  elegant white cloth.   Eventually I find it at the bottom of the linen cupboard, hastily washed after last Christmas, but obviously not ironed.

The three-hour window of time fades to two as I push a hot iron over and over the wrinkly white cloth.   No matter how much steam and Fabulon I use, the wrinkles won’t budge.   Then I notice a pink tinge, the remnants of last years’ late afternoon musings over several bottles of Merlot.    We must have been talking with our hands, with wineglasses still in them, as we solved the problems of the world. 

I remember last Christmas.   After Santa’s visit to my boys, I packed a picnic for the nursing home and met my sister and her family there.    We sipped champagne and nibbled on cheese, biscuits and chips.  Mum ate nothing and I spoke brightly, giving my sons gifts from Nanna while she looked on blankly.  I gave her ‘Beautiful’ perfume and matching body lotion, holding it up to her as I unwrapped it.    I wanted the morning to be perfect.   Next to us a DVD played karaoke Christmas carols, well-known songs accompanied by clichéd Christmas scenes.  The carols were simply background noise until Silent Night began playing.   Mum looked at me then, eyes shining, and began to sing.   With a melodious voice and word-perfect, she sang the entire song, and I sang along with her through my tears.   No longer able to speak, her words returned in the lines of this carol.   Silent Night brought Mum back to us briefly.  It had always been her favourite.

It was hard leaving Mum at the nursing home on special days.  We trailed back to our house for the usual mish-mash of Christmas fare, bon-bons and presents.   By evening I was feeling weary but relaxed in the soothing company of my family, our conversation expansive and the wine flowing.

Thankfully my Christmas Eve friends aren’t the types to notice a few pink stains on a table-cloth.   I lay it out on the table and add the decorations.  It is still wrinkly, and pink around the edges, but it looks festive all the same.   Chris comes in and says ‘Don’t you think you should iron that?‘ and I laugh.

I haven’t sung Silent Night this year as Mum is no longer here to sing it with me.   Perhaps by next year I’ll be able to sing it again.   I suspect the cloth will gain more colour tonight – perhaps some seafood sauce or chocolate cheesecake, and I’ll soak it and wash it again.  Next year there will be some new stains – memories of another Christmas spent with people I love.

Every Christmas I have an irrational desire for the perfect day and the perfect life.  Yet what is perfection anyway?   A white table-cloth without stain or wrinkle to impress my friends?   A life without pain or heartache, spent guarding my heart?  Or is my challenge to live with the spills and stains, the pain of loving people and losing them, and the knowledge that nothing ever stays the same?   Next year I’ll iron the white table-cloth again, and remember that a few stains and wrinkles never hurt anyone.   In fact it is imperfection and difficult times that have the potential to transform us and to form our most cherished memories.

In my usual style, I went on to ponder the movie.   Why were we moved to tears – adult and child alike?  The theme of love and loss gets to us all, of course, but I suspected there was more to it than that.   I began to think more about love, and why animals so often get it right, where we humans fail.   What can we learn from a Red Dog?

This week I’ve taken to the shopping centres, dodging the frenzied crowds, and ducking under the baubles and tinsel adorning every spare surface.   I spotted a tiny blonde girl perched on Santa’s lap, whispering about her dreams for Christmas, eyes gleaming as if in a magical trance.   I gazed at the rotund gentleman in the red suit with the dishevelled white beard,  nodding attentively with the occasional ‘ho-ho-ho’ thrown in.  Something about Santa reminded me of Red Dog.

One touching part of the movie portrayed Red Dog fulfilling the role of friend to the men when they were unable to get along with each other.   One guy drove everyone mad talking about his old home town in Italy.   His endless banter led him to a fist in the face and alienation from the group.   His isolation ended when he discovered the dog would sit quietly with him and listen to his stories.   The dog accepted him, listened to him and was in no hurry to rush away.  This was all he asked for in a friendship.

Christmas reminds me of the joy of being part of a family, of giving and receiving, and spending time celebrating together.  It also reminds me of the people I’ve loved and lost, who once spent this special day with me.  For many people Christmas illuminates disappointments and loneliness.   Fractures in families which can be overlooked during the year tend to split and shatter during the festive season.   Christmas  may remind us of our need for our own Red Dog who accepts us and looks at us with loyal, trusting eyes.   We may reminisce about the days when Santa remembered us and stuffed our stockings with gifts wrapped lovingly in bright paper.   We long for simplicity.  We long to be loved.

I wonder if we humans are less complex than we think.   How many of our desires are simply camouflage for the need to be loved, accepted and valued?  We love our dogs because they love us first, and accept us just as we are.   Perhaps, if we are honest, we will acknowledge that we are like little children hoping we’ve been good enough for Santa to validate us with his gifts.   We long to believe that there is love, hope and goodness out there somewhere and that we are worthy to receive it.

Red Dog and Santa have plenty to teach us, but so does the Christmas story itself.   Leaving aside the baby in the manger, the frankincense and wise men, the story goes a bit like this.   The Creator of the world has been misinterpreted and misunderstood.   The human species he’s created have set up complicated rules and their religion has sucked the life out of his one main purpose.   He wants mankind past, present and future to know how much he loves them.  He wants to have a relationship with these unpredictable creatures.   A baby is born so God may extend his hand in love.  There is no obligation to take the hand, but it is offered.  The baby is born to live a life of love and sacrifice.  He travels across the land, befriending those nobody wants to know, and helping them to believe that their lives are worth something.

No matter how the human race has managed to complicate, misinterpret or totally miss the point, the Christmas story is simply a story of love.  It is the unconditional love of a Red Dog and the generous heart of Santa rolled into one – plus it is so much more.

Wherever you’re at this Christmas, I wish you a large dose of love – the simple, child-like, ‘Red Dog’ kind of love.

The supreme happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved.      ~ Victor Hugo

Recently I watched a documentary about a woman with a very successful blog.  Like me, she writes about her life and shares very personal experiences.  However, there is no death and grief in her blog.  She goes out each evening, seduces an unsuspecting man, and then writes vividly about the experience the next day.  Apparently her blog stats exceed 100,000 each week.  Whether her lovers realise it or not, they share their bed with a cast of thousands, and I suspect the satisfied smile the next day has little to do with their fine performance, but a lot to do with achieving those six figures.  Sex certainly does sell.

But if I were to write about sex, where would I start?  The only man I’m interested in having sex with these days is my husband of thirteen years.   I’m not sure that middle-aged-married-monogomous-sex would fall into the best-seller category.  Judging by the tabloid magazines, most of us are more intrigued with beautiful young nymphs cheating on their partners on exotic beaches, and out of focus photos of ‘love romps’ at movie premiere after-parties.

I suppose I could delve into those dim and dusty old days before I became ’Mrs Ozzie’.   Good writing involves re-living our past, and allowing the words to flow from heart to paper, but the thought of re-living those years horrifies me.   I made it through that jungle once and have no desire to go back again.  

Even reading about casual sex leaves me feeling intellectually and spiritually bloated yet not satisfied, as if I’ve gorged myself on Big Macs, fries and a large chocolate thickshake.  Although its delicious as I scoff it down, it doesn’t fulfill any need in me, or provide any nourishment.  

Comparing authors such as Jackie Collins and Catherine Marshall is like comparing fairy floss to home-made vegetable soup.   One  entices you with its bright colour, sugary fluff and glamour, while the other is filled to the brim with farmfresh vegetables, lovingly chopped and simmered for hours with garlic and herbs.   Jackie’s writing is like the mass-produced poster of a pop-star, and Catherine’s a timeless oil painting, hanging dusty in an old gallery, but with a depth and purity of soul which grows in beauty the more you look at it.

As much as I’d love to have thousands of readers every week, I’ll be content with the thoughtful comments from my loyal group of readers (thanks guys!).   Writing has been my therapist, and has allowed me to process, understand and accept some sad times in my life.   When I write about my greatest fears I lay them to rest and make sense of them.   Hopefully, the etchings from my heart may help another trying to make sense of the world.  If one person finds comfort from my words, then it was worth spending the time to write it. 

Some say life writing is a self-indulgent pursuit, but I disagree.  To the contrary, I believe it unites us with others facing similar challenges, and helps us to discover that under our skin we are all made of the same stuff.

So I’m sorry darling, but I’m never going to make a fortune writing about sex.  I’ll leave that to the busy-tell-all-blogger and Jackie Collins.  Instead I’ll look to the spiritual and the mystical – the homemade vegetable soup that nourishes my soul.  I’ll explore the mysteries of the human heart and the love, grace and hope I find in God.  This is what really excites me, makes my finger tips tingle, and my soul sizzle.

Write from the soul, not from some notion of what you think the marketplace wants. The market is fickle; the soul is eternal.    - Jeffrey A. Carver

In our grief process, we are moving into life from death, without denying the devastation that came before.         Elisabeth Kübler-Ross

Rushing as usual, I lifted the sizzling leg of lamb from the oven, using a towel rather than oven mits.   Something moist and heavy landed on the ring finger of my right hand.  I didn’t take much notice until I felt the burn and threw my arms around madly like the robot in Lost in Space.  On closer inspection, I discovered a droplet of fat had hit just on the wrinkly joint.  Cold water helped a little, but my finger was red raw.

By the time I finished chopping the greens, shouting commands at the kids to do their homework and shoving dishes into the dishwasher, I discovered that an enormous blister was growing on my finger.  As it grew into a giant bubble, the pain subsided, and it cushioned the soreness from the inevitable bumps inflicted.   The ‘big bubble’ was my companion for several days and, although it looked awful, it protected my finger perfectly.

Sadly on Day 4 the bubble burst.   There was blood, pus and a gaping hole over my joint.   It became almost impossible to flick through files at work, as every bump and scrape caused a searing pain to shoot up my arm.  I tried a band-aid but it rubbed against the wound so roughly that it was easier without it.  I tried to hide my hand away from everyone.

Gradually over the next fortnight I noticed the burn begin to heal from the inside out.  The hole in my finger became shallower, and the pain less intense.   Now, three weeks later, I’m left with a small scar, and although the finger is more tender to touch than the others, the pain is minimal.  My body worked a miracle in healing a finger which looked so horrific only a few weeks ago.

Last Friday I had the unenviable task of taking my parents’ ashes to the crematorium to have them moved into smaller urns, for placement in a cemetery in a few weeks.   On the way to the crematorium I chatted to them and somehow the heavy boxes no longer filled me with dread and horror.   When the attendant asked me if I could leave them with her for a few hours as they were very busy, I felt again the gut-wrenching anxiety of leaving my babies in child-care for the first time and announced loudly in the crowded office:  ‘Well you won’t lose them or get them mixed up with someone else will you?’

The woman smiled kindly and assured me she wouldn’t and I realised how foolish my comment had sounded.  I giggled as I walked outside, knowing how Mum would have found my comment hilarious.  A few hours later I called to pick them up in their smaller urns, and drove them home, chatting merrily and laughing at some old jokes we shared.  They are now safely stored in readiness for our trip to the country where they can be laid to rest.

Six months ago the experience of picking up the ashes was so different.   The bubble which had surrounded and protected me as I sat beside the nursing home bed to say my farewells, and as I greeted friends and family at the funeral, had unexpectedly burst just as the blister on my finger had.   When it burst I missed the cushioning effect, and was forced to feel the full brunt of my loss.   As all the fuss and attention wore away, I was left to nurse the gaping wound alone.

Clawing my way back to everyday life, the wound looked a little better.  The pain wasn’t quite as debilitating, but would come and go like the changing tides.  When a wave hit, I’d have to hide away for a while, but I began to realise that a new day would come, and I’d feel better again soon.  I tried several band-aids – too much wine and keeping too busy, but they didn’t help.

For months certain places and people would injure the wound as memories re-surfaced.  Thoughtless words would inflict far more damage than was intended.   I had to avoid certain people who suffered from ‘foot in mouth’ diease, for fear of my reaction.   The wound remained tender, and it was often easier to hide away.   Tears would linger just below the surface and would emerge at unexpected moments.  Just as I thought the wound was healed, I’d knock it again, and I’d notice how easily it bled.

My trip with the ashes last Friday reminded me of how my heart is healing at last, just as my burnt finger did.   The bubble of denial came and went and the ugly wound in my heart gradually became easier to cope with.  Just as my burn healed from the inside out, so did my heart.   I no longer cry when I hear their names.   Happy memories are starting to come flooding back, along with a deep sense of joy, and I have had some belly-laughs as I reminisce.   I’m sure the scar will remain, but I’ve heard that scar tissue is much stronger than healthy tissue, so long as it heals correctly.    The healing of our emotions can be complex, but it is similar to the healing of our bodies.  It is a process that can’t be rushed and has much to teach us.   Every healing, from burnt finger to broken heart, is miraculous and speaks to me of a Creator who longs for us to be healed and whole.  Each healing shows me that wherever there is life, there is also the chance of a new beginning.

Psalm 30:2 -  O Lord my God, I cried to you for help, and you have healed me.

Charlie lives by the principle that a doctor should always treat his patients as he would a member of his own family.  (from Dr Teo’s website)

Dr Charlie Teo is an esteemed neurosurgeon.   He operates on brain tumours that other surgeons won’t touch.   He creates hope where there is no hope, and allows miracles to happen.   Yet the most remarkable quality I see in Dr Teo is his willingness to get to know his patients and allow himself to care for them.  In a recent interview he conceded that his caring bedside manner has a cost.   Opening his heart to his suffering patients allows the pain of grief and loss to invade his world, and that of his family.  Yet Charlie also spoke of the way the positives of his work far outweigh the negatives.

Yesterday I attended a Remembrance Service at John Paul Village, the nursing home where Mum and Dad resided until they passed away.   The Hub was filled with families of all ages, many familiar faces I used to pass in the corridors on my visits.  Each of us were given a white pillar candle bearing our loved one’s name.   When Mum’s name was called, I walked tentatively to the front where the candle was lit and placed on a table with many other glowing flames.  It was a moving and healing ceremony.

Some of the deceased had no family to represent them.  I noticed a few of the pastoral care workers carrying candles on their behalf.  One pastoral worker in particular had tears shining in her eyes and I noticed how reverently she read the name one last time and placed the candle on the table.   ‘Elsie’ was just another resident’s name in a long list, but I could see that she had meant something special to this woman.

In his paper ‘A Plea for Emotional Closeness with Patients’ Dr Mark Ragins MD makes this poignant observation:

When I ask psychiatric patients who have done well, what I did that was helpful to them they rarely answer. “It was that brilliant combination of Depakote, Risperidone, and Zoloft.”  They almost always recount some moment of human connectedness:  “It was when you hugged me and I could tell you knew how much it pained me to have my child taken away.” “It was when you believed in me, when I couldn’t believe in myself.” “It was when you lent me $5.00 even though you’re not supposed to.” “It was when you drove me home from the hospital in your car even though I was smelly.” “It was when I knew you really cared and wouldn’t give up on me.”  Almost all of those healing moments are “against the rules” of my profession: Don’t share yourself, don’t break boundaries, and don’t get emotionally involved.

From my own dealings with doctors, nurses, pastoral care workers, church leaders and counsellors I can see the power in becoming emotionally involved.  It is costly, difficult, painful and sometimes messy, but the testimonies of healing, health and wholeness speak for themselves.

Apparently one of my failings is being ‘too sensitive’.  Mum would accuse me of this as a child when I dissolved in tears, particularly when Dad raised his voice to me or disappeared on his lengthy overseas trips.  This flaw emerged again when a few of my early lovers cheated on me – usually with somebody blonde, thinner and more charming.   I recall in vivid heart wrenching Technicolor the handsome young faces looking at me disdainfully and saying:  “Well, you are just too sensitive“.  Their own dishonesty and deception were conveniently swept to one side.   My ‘sensitivity’ stood out like a beacon and usually led me to months of self-doubt.

There certainly is a type of sensitivity which revolves around our own feelings, and leads to other distasteful qualities such as self-pity, self centeredness and chronic navel-gazing.   However, the sensitivity which exists in the Charlie Teo’s of this world is something completely different.  It is the willingness to sacrifice one’s own happiness and sense of security to care for those who are in pain and need.   This type of sensitivity demands a self-less attitude and an open, loving heart.  Very few of us are capable of it.

One of my hopes is that as I grow older my sensitivity will be focused less on my own needs,  and more on the needs of others.     I want to embrace the sensitivity of the strong of heart, the unselfish and the brave.   The shortest verse in the Bible reminds me that Jesus wasn’t worried about crossing boundaries or getting emotionally involved.   His friend, Lazarus, had just died and Jesus goes to him, full of compassion, and we read these simple yet powerful words:

Jesus wept.    John 11:35

The emotional pain he experienced led to the miracle of Lazarus being raised from the dead.  He paid the cost of caring, and the result was the healing, health and wholeness of his friend.  I wonder how many of us are willing to pay the cost?

Parents need to fill a child’s bucket of self-esteem so high that the rest of the world can’t poke enough holes to drain it dry  - Alvin Price

The rhythmic beat of the drum was mesmerizing.  I was in the tropics, surrounded by exotic bare-chested men in grass skirts, dancing to the intoxicating beat.  The air was warm, the firelight shining in my face…  Tentatively I opened one eye and realised it was morning – and the bright light was the sun shining in my window.   The drum beat, however, was continuing.  Along with the regular thump came crazy laughter, high-pitched and demented.   Reality returned and I swung out of bed, heart beating wildly, throat dry, and bolted to the sunroom.  There stood my two sons, aged two and three, one with a plastic guitar and the other with a plastic keyboard, pounding the back window with all of their might.  The window pane had already cracked and a large shard of glass was jutting out, about to fall.   I screamed and they turned to look at me, little mouths opened, eyes wide.   Whatever was wrong with Mummy?

Motherhood for me has never been an easy ride.   If you are looking for advice or words of wisdom about how to be the perfect parent, I can’t tell you.   There are many Magnificent Mamma blogs out there, written by women who spend their days making play dough, teaching their little ones French whilst sweeping the floorboards until they shine and creating mouth-watering multi-layered cakes (without packet mixes) for the school fete.

Last week my son’s teacher called to tell me that he’d been farting in class, and not saying excuse me.   I wasn’t quite sure what to say, but he then went on to tell me that he has also been circling rude words in his dictionary and giggling with his friends.  Memories came flooding back of huddling in a corner with my girlfriends doing exactly the same thing.  What could I say?  I also reluctantly recalled the times I didn’t pluck up the courage to say ‘excuse me’, but allowed the person sitting beside me to take the blame.  When I found my words, I apologised profusely and offered to send a peg for his nose the next day.

Worse was yet to come when he disgraced himself at kids club, talking during the bible lesson, playing his Nintendo DS (which I shouldn’t have allowed him to take with him) and then throwing food around afterwards.   When the flustered teacher confronted me with this sorry state of affairs, I felt a weird mix of emotions.  Firstly I felt embarrassed, ashamed and disappointed.  I then felt the need to grab my boxing gloves and try out some of the new moves I’ve been learning at the gym.   Driving home I wondered at the wisdom of locking my kids in the cupboard for the next ten years, to avoid all the distress that seems to follow us around.

Yet despite it all, I love my boys with all my heart.   I believe in them without reservation.   Beyond the naughtiness I see an ocean of potential, kind hearts, intelligent, inquisitive minds, laughter and fun.  I’m not the perfect mother, and maybe I’ve contributed to their problems.  There have been times when I’ve been distracted by my own problems, juggling the care of my parents, my job and my health issues, when my focus should have been on them.   Perhaps I should have sent them to the naughty corner more often, screamed a little less or set up more star reward charts.   I could have done better. 

When I was in my late twenties I went to counselling for a time to sort through issues I had with my mother.  Mum could be controlling, manipulative and selfish at times.   The counsellor encouraged me to separate myself from Mum, to recognise her negative influence over me and to see all of her failings.  Down the track I realised that this counsellor was estranged from her own mother, and I remember visiting her just after her mother had died.   I noticed the stark despair in her eyes and realised that despite the strong boundaries she had established, and her healthy inner child, she was just as lost as I was.   Her mother was gone and there was no hope of reconciliation.  I began to question the wisdom of judging and blaming our mothers.

If you ever feel like a ‘bad mother’ and feel condemned by a world that expects perfect kids, you may find some comfort in a poem I found today.  It encouraged me, and brought a spark of hope to my gloom.  Perhaps even we ‘bad mothers’ can love our kids enough and show them in silent ways how to live well – even if we don’t get it right all the time.   Maybe we can show our kids that despite the difficulties  and challenges of life, they are loved, special and have a unique role to play in this world.

When You Thought I Wasn’t Looking          - Unknown

When you thought I wasn’t looking,

I saw you hang up my first painting on the refrigerator, and I wanted to paint another one.

When you thought I wasn’t looking,

I saw you feed a stray cat, and I thought it was good to be kind to animals.

When you thought I wasn’t looking,

I saw you make my favorite cake for me, and I knew that little things are special things.

When you thought I wasn’t looking,

I heard you say a prayer, and I believed there is a God I could always talk to.

When you thought I wasn’t looking,

I felt you kiss me goodnight, and I felt loved.

When you thought I wasn’t looking,

I saw that you cared, and I wanted to be everything that I could be.

When you thought I wasn’t looking,

I LOOKED… and wanted to say thanks for all the things I saw when you thought I wasn’t looking.

Death— the last sleep? No the final awakening   — Walter Scott

A sight that intrigued me in Fiji was the backyard graveyard.   Right beside the backdoor of many humble abodes stood large concrete graves, often covered with colourful blankets and decorated with flowers.   Apparently this practice is no longer allowed as it prevents development taking place, but the ancestors who are buried there are treated with respect and appear to be a welcome part of the family.   There was something strangely comforting about the old graves, covered in warm rugs of vibrant purples, oranges and reds – nurtured and loved.   There was certainly no chance of their being forgotten.   I was told that the Fijians did not believe in exhuming bodies, so they were there to stay.

In more primitive cultures it seems that illness and death are handled very differently than in the affluent West.   Supportive communities support the infirm and elderly.  They are not sent away to nursing homes where strangers take charge.   Death isn’t sanitized and hidden from their gaze.   It is part of life, sad but real, and exists beside all the motions of living.

The backyard graves reminded me of the precious ashes that sit in my wine cupboard.   When nobody is around I joke with Dad and tell him to stop stealing the best Merlot from the rack.   I’ll swear I hear him laugh heartily at my hackneyed joke, and I’m quite sure that the wine stocks are disappearing faster than ever before.

Next month I will be taking the ashes on a journey to a small country town to lay Dad to rest beside Mum in niches they chose many years ago.   This, of course, is their rightful place, but I’m really going to miss having Dad in the wine cupboard.  

Last week the old family home was sold to a young family.  I’m grateful that it will once again be the place of childhood games, of galloping horses, cowboys and indians, and hide and seek.   The garden is crying out for some fresh life, and the walls longing for the energy of a young family.    It is the right thing but I’ll miss the times I’ve spent over there, tidying up and wandering around, lost in my memories.   At the old house there is a certain aura, rich with the aroma of the past.   I can see Mum so clearly, in her apron cooking dinner and sweeping the paths.   I see Dad too, reading his books and watering the gardens.   I close my eyes and we are together again.   I fear that one day, when the house is sold, these memories will fade and vanish.

I can see why the Fijians keep their family close, why they cover their graves with bright blankets and cherish their memory.   Yet I can also see how important it is to let go, to allow the spirits of those we love to rest peacefully and walk into the next life.   I’ve had to remind myself recently that my parents don’t exist in the old house, nor do they live in the boxes of ashes.   These are only the discarded tents they once inhabited.   However, the memories will remain.      I will write about them, remembering the advice they gave me, the home they made for us and all of our silly jokes.   I will place colourful blankets over their memories in my heart to keep them safe, and look forward to the time when we’ll meet again.

 For we know that when this earthly tent we live in is taken down — when we die and leave these bodies — we will have a home in heaven, an eternal body made for us by God himself and not by human hands.  2 Corinth 5:1

 

Some items on my list are like boomerangs.  No sooner do I tick them off, than they return to me.   These items include the grocery shopping, the dusting, the bills, and sweeping the floors.  How I would love to eradicate them altogether, but I’m afraid they are here to stay.

Then there are the work commitments, the school commitments, the family commitments and the friend commitments, which I juggle with all my might.  These are like colourful balls, some large, some small, tossed into the air, as I stagger around under their weight, doing my best to catch them before they crash down to earth.  Sometimes I’m successful in keeping them in the air, but at other times the balls go bouncing in all directions.  I don’t know which way to run to try to grab them.   My to-do list is heavy with juggling items.

So often I let the list slip under a pile of other rubbish and I get caught up in meaningless pursuits – surfing the internet for nothing in particular, staring blindly at an irritating television program, or shopping for things I don’t really need.   Then I remember my to-do list and gasp at how far behind schedule I’ve become.

Right at the end of my to-do list are a few entries that sparkle  like diamonds.   These are the things I love.   I  long to go straight to them, to by-bass all the necessary chores that stand in the way.    These final lines evoke feelings of guilt when I indulge in them, but without them my list would be lacking in light, energy and colour.   These last few items are the hours I spend writing, allowing my thoughts to spread across the page, as meaning emerges from the rush and tumble of my life.    These are the hours I spend making ‘welcome packs’  for the women and kids in the refuge who are victims of domestic violence.   As I shop for toiletries and meet with my friends to fill baskets with luxuries, my passion to help and bring hope injects me with energy. 

Tucked at the end of the list are the hours spent walking, breathing the fresh air and marvelling at the sunshine on the water and the rustle of wind in the leaves, as I pray, dream and simply be.   Also lurking there are the precious moments spent with my favourite friends, the ones I can be transparent with, who make me laugh right down to the depths of my stomach, and those who inspire me and restore my faith in human nature.

The items at the end of my list open the door from the stifling indoors and take me into the wide open spaces, where my face is swept by the fresh breeze, and I’m no longer smothered by monotony.

I’m realising that I can get so caught up with the items at the top of the list that I often don’t get to my favourite bits at the end.  I wonder what would happen if I simply started at the bottom of my list – with the items that glow like diamonds.   As a child I was taught to eat my vegetables first, and save the delicious bits until last, but does this theory still hold true as we grow older?   Would the earth stop spinning if I ignored my domestic responsibilities one day each fortnight, and just focused on my passions?  What courage does it take to devote yourself to what you  really love?   I wonder.

Be daring, be different, be impractical, be anything that will assert integrity of purpose and imaginative vision against the play-it-safers, the creatures of the commonplace, the slaves of the ordinary.
- Sir Cecil Beaton

Over the past few years death has hung around me like an unwelcome party guest, suffocating my joy and adding a murky grey tinge to all the colour in my life.   A diagnosis of cancer had me ducking for cover several years ago, and just as I was given the all clear, my mother and father each became ill with terminal diseases.  I was free, but I watched as death’s dark fingers clung tightly to two people I loved so much, eventually stealing their lives.

Last month we travelled to Fiji, with light hearts, sighing with relief after such a long time of sadness.   After six sun-drenched, perfect days, we boarded a bus to travel to another resort on a smaller island, where more luxury awaited.   My body was remembering how to relax, and the only parts of me which felt fatigued were my smile muscles.   We eagerly peered out the windows of the bus, discussing the many interesting sights of the Fijian villages and breathtaking coastal scenery.  

As we sped around a sweeping bend the bus lurched into a skid and hurtled off the road toward some trees.   Unbeknown to us, a large yellow wasp had flown in the driver’s window, causing him to panic and lose control of the bus.     In a split second we were headed toward disaster.   I silently cried out:  Is this it God?  I survived cancer and everything else, and now I’m going to die on a Fijian road?   Momentarily I accepted this and focused on the irony, but then I became aware of the two innocent boys sitting beside me and behind me – my sons who have barely begun to live their lives.   No, God, no, not yet! - I cried out.   The trailer behind our bus snapped off, flinging our luggage into a ditch, and we skidded one way, and then the other, until we finally fishtailed to a stop.    Violently shaken but unharmed, we staggered out of the bus.   On a busy road, no vehicle had been coming the other way.  I think each of us enjoyed the rest of the holiday with a renewed gusto, simply celebrating being alive.

There is one thing we all know for certain - we are going to die one day.   Perhaps we will have time to say our goodbyes, and to mourn our loss before we depart.   We may have the opportunity to make amends, ask for forgiveness and wipe our slates clean.  Or maybe one day a wasp will fly in our window when we are least expecting it, and we will be called to leave in an instant.

I have some friends who believe there will be nothing after death.  They believe this life is all there is, and afterwards is a void of nothingness. Other friends believe we will be reincarnated and return to do it all again, many times, until we reach enlightenment.   I believe in heaven – not a heaven with white cotton wool clouds and angels floating around with golden harps, but nonetheless a place of immense beauty, surpassing our wildest dreams and imagination.

On the day my Dad passed away, I had an experience which has confirmed my views about heaven.  As Dad’s breathing became more laboured, and our anguish increased, I felt the sudden need to pray for him.  I shut my eyes and prayed.   Immediately I was taken in my mind to a beautiful place, shining with the brightest light, and I was walking along with Dad, holding his large rough hand.   Next to the path I caught  glimpses of aqua waters flowing in a stream, but my eyes could barely focus because of the brilliant light.   We paused for a moment, and Dad turned to me to say goodbye.  His eyes were sad, but full of peace.  He let go of my hand, and walked on alone.  I hated to let him go, but I was so happy for him, my heart was swelling with joy.  When I opened my eyes after the prayer he had stopped breathing.  He had indeed let go of my hand and continued to walk toward the light without me.

Ever since this experience I’ve had no doubt about the existence of heaven.   I know that leaving this earth will be a wrench, but I believe some awesome things await us in the afterlife.   Of course, my eyes are not yet adjusted to the brightness of the light or the intense beauty that lies there.  The Great Divorce by C S Lewis describes a bus trip from hell to heaven where a bunch of shadowy ghosts, lost in their selfishness and phobias, attempt to take in the colour and beauty of heaven.  They are so transparent that they are unable to walk on the grass, which is so real and sharp that it pierces their feet.  The heavenly people shine so brightly that they terrify the ghosts.   Many flee and wish only to return to the grey city which is hell.  Our narrator takes the brave journey to become solid and whole.

C S Lewis touches on an idea which intrigues me.   Perhaps heaven begins for some of us while we are still living on earth, where we begin to grow solid and whole so we are ready to continue the journey into heaven.   Others perhaps wish to avoid all pain and growth, and shy away from love, wanting to remain transparent shadows, living a kind of hell on earth before death sweeps in to consume them. 

I hope I live a long, healthy life, and I hope you do too, but I know that when my time comes, it will be the right time.  I’ll be looking out for Dad waiting for me beside that aqua stream, holding out his hand to me with a wide welcoming grin.    May the lessons we’ve learnt in this world make us solid, colourful and brave enough to face all the wonder that lies ahead.

That is why we never give up. Though our bodies are dying, our spirits are being renewed every day. For our present troubles are small and won’t last very long. Yet they produce for us a glory that vastly outweighs them and will last forever! So we don’t look at the troubles we can see now; rather, we fix our gaze on things that cannot be seen. For the things we see now will soon be gone, but the things we cannot see will last forever.  (2 Corinth 4:16-18)