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Archive for the ‘Reflections’ Category

African Violet

On Mum’s window sill in her Jaffa orange kitchen sat a colourful array of African violets.  The flowers would thrive with Mum’s attentive care, just the right amount of gentle sunlight and not too much watering.  I remember calling in for a cup of tea after work and seeing the row of pretty little flowers, bright and cheerful and always in bloom.

A couple of years ago I received an African violet as a gift and sat it on my kitchen bench.  The sight of it sitting there reminded me of Mum and her pretty window sill.

I kept the African violet, moving it around from bench to packing box to table as we recently renovated our home and somehow it made it through all the dust and chaos.  However, the little flowers soon disappeared and the leaves lost most of their green hue. When the building works were finally complete the little plant sat forlornly in the corner of our new kitchen bench and I wondered if it was time to throw it away.

Mother’s Day in my house is rich with all the best parts of family life:  breakfast in bed, laughter, gifts and precious time spent together.  I love being a Mum, but despite my thankful heart, I still miss my Mum.  This Mother’s Day was no exception.

Yet something happened this year which brought Mum a little closer.  A tentative shoot emerged from the bedraggled African violet for the first time in so long, and a small purple flower raised its vibrant face to the sun, bright and bold, greeting me on Mother’s Day morning.  Despite its haphazard care, its lack of watering and being abandoned to a dusty corner, the plant bloomed right on cue, a small reminder of another time, of a small kitchen with the Jaffa coloured bench tops and the banter of mother and daughter, chatting over numerous cups of tea.  That little purple flower brought back so many memories, of the complex mother and daughter bond, of laughter and of tears, but mostly the knowledge that I had been loved.

Sometimes it’s the little things that bring the past alive for us – allowing us to reach back and embrace the ones we’ve lost.  More than anything it reminded me that despite all obstacles in its path, even the depths of grief and loss, a mother’s love endures.

 

 

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christmas-tree

Each year our Christmas tree gains more decorations and loses any semblance of colour coordination.   But each year I love our tree a little more. It captures memories from long ago, with its frayed and faded decorations which once adorned the Christmas trees my husband and I gazed at as children and the collection of treasures made by our sons when their fingers were small and chubby and scribbly masterpieces were presented to us with enthusiastic smiles and lots of glue and glitter.   It’s a tree full of memories.

Christmas is a funny time which brings out both the best, and the worst, in many of us.  I think of it as the bipolar time of year.  When the mood is high, we have the warmth of community carol evenings, churches gathering treats for hampers for the needy, the giving and receiving of gifts and all of the champagne-popping feasting and festivity that happens when friends and family get together.  But then there’s the low mood moments – the pushing and shoving to be first in line at the shops, the road-rage to find a parking spot, the arguments in the supermarket, the stress about having too much to do, the anxiety of waiting to face a festering family conflict on Christmas Day and that lonely empty feeling that everyone else is having a much better time than you.

I witnessed both the highs and the lows last week on a brief trip to our local shopping mall.  There was the helpful man walking by in the congested car park who directed us to a free car space, just out of our vision.  He didn’t need to do this, but he did.  But then there was the lady who pushed into a queue ahead of us, making no eye contact, head held high.  The lady serving saw what had happened and pleasantly said to both of us:  “So who was next?”  The lady jumped in immediately, like a winning contestant on Family Feud punching her buzzer with: “I was”.  She reminded me of a footballer diving in for the winning try.  And I let her enjoy her victory.  When she left the shop assistant made a comment about the rudeness of shoppers at this time of year, and we laughed together. 

On the next leg of my journey I noticed a woman with a young daughter with her shopping trolley stuck on a busy escalator. She wasn’t strong enough to shift it and  the crowd grew rapidly behind her, building up like items on a conveyor belt.  There was lots of huffing and puffing and rolling of eyes and a few creative expletives were thrown around. Eventually one man found it in himself to assist her, but even then it was done in an angry and abrupt manner.  The lady’s small daughter looked on with large frightened eyes.  Meanwhile “Silent Night” played away in the background and the pretty lights twinkled. 

It’s interesting how stressed we become at Christmas.  There’s so much to do, so much to organise, and there’s this gnawing feeling deep inside that our lives have to look and feel perfect at this time of year.  Sometimes in all the striving, the worst in us can come to the surface:  the selfishness, the aggression, the Me-First attitude.  Just as we long for peace, joy and hope all we see are chaos, stress and misery staring right back at us. 

If you are feeling this way this Christmas, if that little knot of anxiety is starting to form and grow in your belly, can I encourage you to step back and remember what Christmas is really all about.  It’s not actually about overspending and eating lots of turkey.  It’s about the person we occasionally catch a glimpse of in the Nativity Scene or hear snippets about in a Christmas carol.  He doesn’t play a starring role in the whole Christmas extravaganza these days, but Jesus is the meaning and heart of Christmas. He came to bridge the gap between mankind and God and to model a life of sacrifice, service and compelling love.  

So please pause for just a moment this Christmas. If you have a long Christmas gift list be thankful for it.  My list is smaller than it once was, with a few key family members now missing.  If Christmas holds memories of absent family members and times long past, pause and remember them and don’t be ashamed of the tears.  Just let them fall as they heal and cleanse you.

If someone steals your parking spot, smile at them and don’t yell.   This will probably shock them more than your yelling will.  The other day I blew a kiss and smiled encouragingly at a man who cut me off in traffic.  You should have seen his face!  So much more satisfying for the soul than getting flustered.  Smile at strangers, help people when you can and give someone who really needs it an anonymous gift.  

Breathe and look around you.  Buy simpler gifts and serve simpler food if the effort of creating perfection is impacting your mental health.  It won’t matter.  You’ll be more relaxed and have more fun that way and that’s what people will notice.  Even if your house isn’t pristine and perfect, Christmas can still be wonderful.  I hope that whatever Christmas looks like for you this year, whatever memories and longing it stirs up, that you will be warmed by the true Christmas spirit  – the flame of God’s unconditional love and the light of peace which surpasses all understanding.

Have a very Merry Christmas!

" ... because of the tender mercy of our God,
     by which the rising sun will come to us from heaven
  to shine on those living in darkness
     and in the shadow of death,
 to guide our feet into the path of peace.”

Luke 1:78-79

 

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Some mornings I think buying the newspaper should come with a warning:  “This publication may distress sensitive readers.  Read at your own risk, and NEVER before coffee.”  Is it only me, or does the daily news often leave you speechless and despairing at what we humans are capable of doing to one another?

The breaking news today reveals another act of hatred in France.  We watch helplessly as terrorism flexes its grotesque muscles once again – using violence to enforce extreme ideas and beliefs on the innocent.  Some days reading the  paper or watching the news feels like gasping for breath, drowning in waves of sadness and waste.

Over the holidays I’ve been reading Phillip Yancey’s book: ‘What’s So Amazing About Grace?’.  This book grabbed my attention with its brutal honesty and offer of hope. It provided a positive sequel to the usual tale of disaster the media serves up. Phillip’s stories illuminate a different side to human nature,  a porthole we can peer through to see kindness and wisdom rise up above those waves of sadness.

One story that stood out to me was the story of Gordon Wilson, who was caught in the 1987 IRA bombing near Belfast, when a group of Protestants had gathered to honor the war dead on Veteran’s Day.  Tragically, Gordon’s 20-year-old daughter, Marie, was killed when she and Gordon were buried under five feet of brick and concrete after the bomb blast.   Phillip Yancey says of Gordon – ‘His grace towered over the miserable justifications of the bombers’.  Speaking from his hospital bed, Wilson said: ‘I have lost my daughter, but I bear no grudge.  Bitter talk is not going to bring Marie Wilson back to life. I shall pray, tonight and every night, that God will forgive them.’.   Gordon Wilson went on to crusade for Protestant-Catholic reconciliation, wrote a book about his daughter and spoke out against violence often with the refrain ‘Love is the bottom line’.

Even in the aftermath of senseless violence, we see there is another way of reacting – an attitude that builds a pathway leading us through the debris and decay.  This pathway is the way of grace.

Grace sits quietly in the midst of chaos – stoic and faithful in the storm.  Closely akin to forgiveness and unconditional love, it calls on us to surrender our rights and let go of our desire for revenge.  Grace invites us to behave in ways quite contrary to our human nature.

The Cambridge Dictionary describes grace as “approval or kindness, especially (in the Christian religion) that is freely given by God to all humans.”

How do we exercise grace in our lives?  It may be as simple as letting the pushy driver merge into my lane in heavy traffic and smiling at them rather than speeding up and swearing.  Or it may be more costly, such as forgiving a parent who has hurt us, letting a friend off the hook when they have let us down, or realising that it doesn’t matter if people don’t agree with us, share our beliefs, customs or ideas.  We accept and care for them anyway.  Just as God loves and accepts us, flaws and all, we offer our love and acceptance to others.

The way of grace is the higher road but it may also be the hardest and most painful way.  Bitterness and hate don’t require us to go against our human nature the way grace does.

But it is only grace that offers the freedom and healing we all crave.  It is a way of standing against the waves of hatred threatening to roll into shore and engulf us.

John Newton, who wrote the well-known hymn “Amazing Grace” published in 1779, knew what it was to find grace.  His discovery of grace led him away from his life as a slave trader, to become a Christian Minister and to advocate for the abolition of slavery.  Grace transformed his life, and we have been singing about this miracle ever since.

Grace is available for all of us – no matter how much we have suffered or how far we have fallen. It is the answer to our prayers and the healing balm for our many disappointments.

Amazing grace! How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found;
Was blind, but now I see.    (John Newton)

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Today I want to lift the lid on a phase in a woman’s life which is often considered ‘secret women’s business’. As a consequence many are left to suffer in silence. My hope is that by sharing my experience, someone else may relate and feel a little less alone.

As women we constantly evolve, grow, change and move on to the next chapter. Just as we become comfortable with the current version of our selves, along comes another phase.  Our bodies are both beautiful and miraculous in their capacity to bring about new life. We are strong and powerful.  With a flash of cleavage we can leave men speechless.  On a good night when we are in our prime, we can stride into a party and know that all eyes are on us. We are clever too – just as capable of getting the top job as any of our male counterparts.  We can do it all.  I am woman, hear me roar.  We are confident, productive and ready for anything.  But then along comes middle age…

As 50 approaches it’s as if a thick fog mysteriously rolls in and settles around us, rendering us colourless and, at times, completely invisible. As our ovaries sink into their gradual decline, the tide of hormones recedes and the woman we once were seems to vanish.

It’s around this time that we enter a phase of life which rarely features in glossy women’s magazines or reality programs.  I remember Mum whispering behind her hand that some unfortunate woman was acting strangely as she was ‘going through The Change’.  I recall the mysterious fanning of flushed faces and moodiness, but saw little other evidence of what this perplexing time in a woman’s life was all about.

So today I will lift the veil of mystery and talk a little about what it is like to be a ‘Menopausal Mama’. At 51, I’m right in the thick of it. If you (or your partner) are there too, you’ll know only too well what I’m talking about.

I’ll start with the ‘hot flushes’ which commonly accompany menopause. Firstly, they are not just hot, they are like being ignited from the inside out, particularly when they frizzle you awake at 3am.  It’s like encountering the Towering Inferno in your intestines.  The word ‘flush’ is way too pleasant a word and doesn’t come close to capturing the intensity.  For me it’s like being on fire, and then add feeling dizzy, disoriented and having difficulty remembering your own name.  The word ‘hot flash’ is sometimes used also, giving the impression that there is something akin to super hero status about this symptom. Believe me,  there is nothing akin to Wonder Woman happening here! On top of this there is the irrepressible desire to burst into tears about anything from the latest terrorist attack to the lid being left off the toothpaste and oozing all over the basin just cleaned that morning. If a ‘hot flush’ takes hold during a business meeting or even at the supermarket checkout, there is no hope of saying anything that makes any sense or of retaining any of your composure.

Then there is the issue of ‘moodiness’…. For most of my life I’ve prided myself on being a ‘nice’ person. I live in fear of upsetting anyone, do all I can to please others and mostly accept others as they are. However, during this Menopausal Mama stage, the niceness has left the building. People are becoming so intolerably annoying.

Cruel, thoughtless, narcissistic type-people have always disappointed me, but now I have to hold back from giving them a good slap and consciously avoid any close contact. Plus now the Smarty Pants I Know Everything types infuriate me too.  Particularly the ones who have had little life experience in a certain area but have done a course and proceed to dish out advice about issues they know little about at a heart level.  I’ve developed an animal instinct for sniffing out dishonesty, a superior attitude and falseness. Along with this, is an insatiable longing for authentic souls, who are brave enough to say what they really think, who genuinely care about other people and who are humble and kind.  The habits and expectations I’ve tolerated in others for years no longer seem to fit and sit around awkwardly like my discarded size 10 red jeans at the back of the wardrobe.

There is also the Complete Mental Blank moment which hits without warning. One moment you’re conversing intelligently and informatively on a subject, and then, whammo, all thoughts are inexplicably wiped from my mind and there is nothing there but blank space. Menopause doesn’t just kidnap your attractiveness, it abducts your mind as well, leaving you with intermittent dementia and dwindling confidence.

Living as an invisible, perspiring and angry woman is challenging, to say the least. If only Happy, Cool and Serene Me could re-appear and live in harmony with the world again.  If only well-meaning people could once again pass me by without attracting such violent reactions.   But is there anything to learn from this difficult yet inevitable phase of the female life?

It’s early days yet for me, but one thing I’m learning is that being a Menopausal Mama forces you to face the truth about your life and your relationships. It’s a time for taking off the rose-tinted glasses and taking a good hard look at your life in the glaring sunlight of truth.  Cracks and hidden doubts are fully visible, in all their confronting ugliness.  I know that the friendships I retain during this period will be true friendships, built to last the test of time, and all of those relationships fractured with dishonesty, deceit or lack of respect will simply fall away.

I’m also learning that being ‘nice’ isn’t always the best path to walk. It may be the easiest and the one which causes less conflict, but ‘nice’ can at times be another word for fear, avoidance, denial and dishonesty. Menopausal Mamas are no longer pretty young girls who bat their eyelids and wait for the world to pay them attention.  They are fearsome ladies who already know their value, whether or not anyone else agrees, and who inhabit their life and make their own fun, regardless of who sings their praise or strokes their egos.

And on the days when looking at life without the flattering filters becomes downright depressing, I tell myself that ‘this too will pass’. It’s a passing phase just as puberty and pregnancy were, and one day the fog will lift.  In the meantime, I hold tightly to the people I love the most and to God who created we women with all our uniqueness and wonder.  I hope that those I love will keep on loving me through this storm and that God will extend an extra measure of grace and understanding to all of us who are living life as Menopausal Mamas.

 


As Long As Your Eyes Are Blue by Banjo Paterson (first published in 1891)

Wilt thou love me, sweet, when my hair is grey

And my cheeks shall have lost their hue?

When the charms of youth shall have passed away,

Will your love as of old prove true?

For the looks may change, and the heart may range,

And the love be no longer fond;

Wilt thou love with truth in the years of youth

And away to the years beyond?

Oh, I love you, sweet, for your locks of brown

And the blush on your cheek that lies

But I love you most for the kindly heart

That I see in your sweet blue eyes.

For the eyes are signs of the soul within,

Of the heart that is leal and true,

And mine own sweetheart, I shall love you still,

Just as long as your eyes are blue.

For the locks may bleach, and the cheeks of peach

May be reft of their golden hue;

But mine own sweetheart, I shall love you still,

Just as long as your eyes are blue.

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Sydney flower memorial

Martin Place flower memorial

It’s Christmas night and a stillness has settled over our home after all the busyness.  Our bellies are full, our eyes bleary and there are discarded bits of wrapping paper all over the house.  I love the gently flashing Christmas lights – silver and gold dancing in our darkened loungeroom.  Tonight I can finally take a breath and think about all the joy, wonder and longing that Christmas evokes in me.

I think of the families who are facing a time of deep sorrow this Christmas. Sydney was adorned last week with a floral memorial in Martin Place, the vivid colours and sweet fragrances symbols of our collective grief and sadness at a cafe siege where two hostages and the gunman lost their lives.  The flowers brought beauty to a place tarnished by ugliness and evil.  They have since been removed, but the memory of that sea of flowers has left a lasting image in my mind.

The flowers were a positive and powerful reaction to an act of violence against innocent souls.  They demonstrated that people have the capacity to react with love and grace, rather than rushing to seek revenge or to judge others, and I felt so moved by this spirit of love.

Christmas is many things to many people. For some it is packed full of gift-giving, heart-warming folk stories of Santa, lights transforming ordinary suburbs into fairy lands, and bucket-loads of delicious food which we devour unashamedly. For others it is a lonely time where ‘Brady Bunch’ families flaunt their perfection and amplify the emptiness we feel, where fractured families are forced together and old grievances are revisited, or when financial pressure stretches us to the limit. Whether yours was a positive or a negative Christmas, it’s easy to forget the reason for all the fun and fuss – the humble birth of Jesus.

Reflecting on Jesus and the extraordinary way he lived his life tonight has highlighted a few truths for me.  These truths are just as relevant today as they were over 2000 years ago.  One thing that jumps out at me is the unexpected and controversial ideas Jesus held in violent and turbulent times:

“But I say to you who hear, love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you.… ” (Luke 6, 27-28)

History tells us that Jesus lived an exceptional 33 years on our planet. He wasn’t exceptional in conventional terms.  He wasn’t powerful or rich, but he was exceptional in his love for all mankind – particularly those who were doing it tough – the diseased, the mentally ill, the disabled, the homeless and those on the fringe of society, the prostitutes – and even the much hated tax man. He offered acceptance, healing and new life to everyone searching for it.  But he was betrayed and murdered while still a young man, despite the fact that he’d done nothing wrong. When faced with unspeakable violence, he didn’t fight back.  He didn’t condemn his murderers, but forgave them. Even while hanging on the cross, he spoke healing words to the criminal hanging next to him.  Yet in his life he was never weak or wimpy. He never hesitated in pointing out to the religious hypocrites the error of their ways. But he didn’t try to force himself on others, he never resorted to violence and he always responded in love. Jesus lived his life overcoming evil with good.

I wonder how somebody as flawed and ordinary as me can ever hope to follow in such lofty footsteps.  Two weeks before Christmas I was in my local post office and I encountered a woman who gave me a clue to the answer.

Struggling under my bundle of Christmas parcels, I hastily grabbed some post-packs and fumbled my way back to write the addresses. The post office was elbow to elbow crowded, with a line of flustered shoppers going right out onto the footpath. The atmosphere of tension and impatience was suffocating. Finally at the desk, I grabbed a pen on a string to write the addresses.  It didn’t work.  I moved to the next one, but this pen was out of ink too.  I scribbled and scribbled on a spare piece of paper, but all I got was dry scratching.  Anxious now, my face getting hot, I reached into my bulging handbag and everything you could wish for was in there – except a pen.  At this desperate moment I felt a gentle pat on my arm. I looked up to see a kind face of a woman, smiling knowingly at me.  “Here you are dear. I have plenty. You can keep this one.” It was a shiny, burgundy pen, full of blue ink.  I smiled and got teary all at once.  Her kindness and thoughtfulness overwhelmed me.  In that one simple act, a rushing tide of selfishness and stress lost all its power, and kindness and joy gently and gracefully took over.

So this Christmas, let’s not despair at the evil intentions of others, but instead remember that each of us has the choice to tip the scales for goodness.  Jesus is so much more than the baby in the manger in the nativity scene. His spirit of love lives on like a steady flame which ignites and glows more brightly each time one of us offers a simple act of kindness.

Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.    Romans 12:21

Happy Christmas to all and a big thank you to my readers, for taking the time to read my rambling thoughts, for your thoughtful comments and special friendship.

 

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orchid

I hold my breath as our son carries the wobbly breakfast tray down the hall, as my other son approaches menacingly with his plastic gun drawn ready to ‘wake Dad up’ .  This could end badly. An array of unique gifts, chosen with enthusiasm and wrapped with haste, follow in bulging Hot Wheels gift bags.  Another stubbie holder to add to the growing collection – and another musky air freshener to instill ambience to the work truck.  There is nothing like watching kids with their Dad on Fathers Day.

But once or twice I sense a chilly shadow.   Even in the lead up, choosing just the right card, my gaze pauses on the trout fishing cards and for a moment I forget and instinctively grab one.  Dad loved the trout streams with white water cascading into the deep blue pools, the thrill of the hunt and the skill of the cast.  But then I remember that the card is no longer needed.  The years of plastic golf balls became the years of smart going out shirts, and eventually led to the days of new pyjamas and elastic waist trousers.  Yet even in the difficult later days, Dad was always thrilled with his gift. It was always something he had always wanted.

For those of us who have lost our Dads, Fathers Day can have a bittersweet flavour.  It is another of those special days which brings back the memories, the regrets and the sadness.

When we emptied our family home over six years ago and had a garage sale, a few old potplants were left unsold.  A friend noticed a floundering orchid and asked if he could take it and try to nurse it back to life.  He named it ‘Arthur’ after my Dad and over the years he has mentioned it  from time to time:  he had repotted it;  fertilised it or moved it to a new spot.  The orchid stayed much the same.  However, a few weeks ago our friend announced very proudly that Arthur had just produced its first bud.  After all these years of nurture, the orchid is finally about to flower.

I thought of Arthur over the weekend, the orchid and my Dad. On Saturday I watched my sons hanging out with their cousins, and I saw a glimpse of their grandfather in each of their expressions and gestures, in their smiles and warmth to one another. Our sons often tell people that their granddad invented traffic light systems.  They know it is possible to do impossible things because Granddad did it.  Even  though we can’t see him anymore, Dad is still around us, his influence continues and the essence of him lives on in us.  And just as the orchid has endured in the background for all of these years, silent and inactive, one day a bud appeared, and soon there will be a flower.   We may be separated for now, but love doesn’t end with death, nor does the influence of a life well lived.  I suspect it doesn’t end there either, and one day death will no longer hold us captive and keep us apart. My excitement at hearing about Arthur’s first bud reminds me of an even greater joy:  the joy we will feel on that day when we meet again.

He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.    Revelation 21:4

Arthur Sims

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On the weekend I decided to tackle my messy wardrobe.  As I sorted through the dust and assorted treasures, I stumbled upon some vaguely familiar notebooks covered with pink and yellow flowers.  At first glance they looked innocent enough, pages of swirly adolescent writing, dog-eared corners and doodles, but on closer inspection I discovered their true nature.  Here stashed away under my old jumpers were my teenage diaries, with long-forgotten intimate secrets scrawled across the pages and tortured thoughts locked forever in faded blue ink.  

My blushing began after the first page. Thankfully I grew up in the 1970s and not in the current age of Facebook when my adolescent anguish would have been splashed across social media for all to see.   One page was agonising, the next excruciating and then another was laugh out loud funny.  How could this have been me? Apparently at age 15 the whole world revolved around me, who liked me, what everybody could do for me, and what I looked like.   Nothing else mattered.  Most of the time everybody hated me and I was so misunderstood.  The language in places would see my sons banned from Playstation for a week.   I shed a few tears when I read my 16-year-old self’s account of her breakup with her first ‘proper’ boyfriend.  I was so ill-prepared and naive.  I was Bambi running into the headlights.

A common thread running through the ranting and raving was a ‘poor me’ attitude.  I made passing references to giggly movie nights with my girlfriends, about doing well at school, about weekly gallops through the bushland on my favourite horse, and even of  coffee dates with boys who sounded very nice to my adult self. Yet I was so obsessed with  ‘him who had broken my heart’ and the people who didn’t like me, that the other seemingly pleasant and emotionally healthy people and pasttimes in my life didn’t even get a look in.

I guess there is  a tendency in puberty to thrive on the drama, to hold cut glass to your heart and wallow in the bleeding.  Sadly, it is a tendency that can form a habit and  follow us through life.  I know it took me a long time to shake the habit.

Sitting in a cafe today I read an intriguing passage from ‘The Great Divorce’ by CS Lewis.   Lewis, with all his Narnian adventure and wisdom, takes us on a bus trip from Hell into Heaven and we are able to observe the behaviour of the ghosts taking the trip.   Lewis describes a ghost with a thin and whiny voice.  She whinged on and on: “Oh, my dear, I’ve had such a dreadful time. I don’t know how I got here at all…”    Most of us will  know somebody like this with their nasally voice and negative undertones.  When the grumbling ghost finishes her rant, the Narrator is troubled and asks his Guide why this unhappy creature is in Hell at all.   She is annoying and pathetic, but surely not evil…  The Guide responds: 

The question is whether she is a grumbler or only a grumble. If there is a real woman – even the least trace of one – still there inside the grumbling it can be brought to life again.  If there’s one wee spark under all those ashes, we’ll blow it till the whole pile is red and clear.  But if there’s nothing but ashes we’ll not go on blowing them in our own eyes forever.  They must be swept up.

It seems at some point when we allow our selfish natures, our pride and our ‘grumbling’ to get out of control, like a run-away freight train gaining momentum and force, we are at risk of losing our true selves somewhere in the chaos.

What a scary thought! Could the Guide be right?   Is there the risk that each of us may in a spiritual sense become mere ashes that blow away?  Could it be that there is a possibility of losing our souls as we grow more and more self absorbed?

Carefully packing away my diaries  in the secret place once again, I wonder  if one day my sons will find them and have a good laugh about their mad mother.  But despite their embarrassing content,  I can’t throw them away. They remind me of the painful lessons learnt  and the arduous journey of discovering that life really isn’t all about me.   Somewhere in the years that followed I realised that letting go of that distorted sense of entitlement and self obsession is like opening a rusty old gate and stepping out into a world of wide open spaces, fresh air and endless possibilities.

When a man is wrapped up in himself, he makes a pretty small package.
– John Ruskin, English critic, essayist, & reformer (1819 – 1900)

 

 

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