Monday, 24 December 2007

And in the midst of Termoil comes a babe, the light of the world...Thank Goodness!

Okay so in this time of Advent we hear of pain and suffering prophecy and hope...and through it all, this evening will burst through the light of the world, the Christ child. In keeping with the Advent Christmas theme I have lived out my own creation and destruction scenario over the last few days. Which has lead to madness, at least 15 new ticks on my confession checklist and the odd smoldering creativity. But that happens when one almost burns down a church...

So this year I refuse to get caught up in Christmas madness in Advent. I pace myself am even feeling kind of cool about it then two days ago after completing two icons for gifts two disasters strike.

When leaving the church where I have been painting, I blow out a candle only for it to reignite, catch alight and when found (thanks be to God) it has burnt through the carpet and down to the floor. Way to almost destroy a 150 year old historic building.

Then the next day (before I have heard about my arson attempts) I wake up and go to use a new spray to coat my newly completed icons only to have them start bubbling the moment the spray touches the gold leaf protector and in a matter of seconds they are destroyed.

I don't know which made me sicker both in their own way I guess.

I sat in the church when I heard, in what is now been renamed the smokers chapel because of the smell and just wept. Actually more sobbed, I don't think I have felt such belly tears in years. Where it physically hurts to breathe. And I am not sure if people being really nice about this makes it better or worse!
So what so you do well besides as many good works as possible in supplication well you spend the last few days, day and night re-doing the icons. And here is the annoying bit, within this I find an interesting piece of flawed theology I had ingested once upon a time reemerges in a seemingly innocuous thought that wafts past whispering dark words of wondering ... that maybe the destruction of the icons had been a punishment for setting fire to the church, an eye for an eye or an icon or two for a church smoldering. And there is an attraction in such twisted thinking, in a paying of a price. We are after all in a time now of illumination.

The Light of the world who within our darkest night never dies away... drat another thing to take to Spiritual direction.

Blessings to you all this Christmas see you later

Meg fire starter extraordinaire...




BTW finished the icons

Thursday, 13 December 2007

Be still and Know that I am God

Okay this is ridiculous I have started over 5 different postings and put none on so this partial one i will post just so I can convince myself let alone others that I am alive!

"Be still and know that I am God"

It's a line that I haven't been able to get out of my mind all day. Which is kind of interesting as the pressure of 4 services (one very complex), an over worked team, and the end of year madness, creeps in around me, I find that I am humming or singing this with an edge of ever increasing mania. At least it is not a song like Copacabana by Barry Manilow I suppose.

Such meandering on a 35 degree day leads me to two thoughts.
The least relevant of the two takes me to a job I had once working night shift in a factory so I could study in the day.

In our lowest moments of mind numbing monotony we would forgo the humane and try to infect those around us with the worst catchy song possible. Yes we were very bored, and had already dispensed with any deep theological or political discussion some time back.

Not only in our lack of humanity were we happy to infect our co-workers, the real challenge was then to see how long it took to spread down the factory line. In the more surreal moments you could look up and see a production line of people all humming "I will survive" and moving in time.

So here I am sleep deprived aware somewhere that everything has taken on a vaguely manic tome with these words going round and round in my head, each line repeated three times:

"Be still and know that I am God,
I am the God that healeth thee,
In thee O God I put my trust".

At such times I can not see this as coincidence, instead I see it as one of those times when God finds what ever way possible to break through, to call me into consciousness of self and the divine. I think of it as being called or invited into relationship.

When I stop long enough to ponder this I am aware that this has happened before in similar ways. Each time I tell myself I will not let such stress in and around me, that allows that pool of absence to grow within. Yet here I find myself again, humming unconsciously the words God wishes me to heed, time to be still it will all be okay.

Wednesday, 28 November 2007

We the bereaved are not alone.

I have been thinking about grief, both mine, the grief of those around me, and indeed the collective grief we as a community share.

As Christians we are called to stand in a place of grief and transformation in the crucifixion and the Resurrection we are given a template for living through such times. For dying to old ways to transformation into new.

The other day just before staff Eucharist I got a news alert saying that they body of Emma Agnew had been found. Somewhere we all knew she was dead yet we hoped against hope I suppose as the days of her disappearance lengthened that she would be found alive.

Then of course there are the feelings of horror the deep sadness of what as a community we have become and I would also have to say that although her deafness was not something that held her back in life, it seemed to add an edge of vulnerability to her story that touched our own sense of vulnerability I guess.

My family have for many many years had a connection with the deaf community in one way or another, from my Fathers creating the news for the deaf to our own family members with Margaret our foster sister. Funny to find that it has been over a year since Margaret died suddenly in the states. A brilliant musician I have over the last few weeks as Emma has been missing thought a lot about her and about Margaret. About her horror of losing her hearing, losing her music and how it was to have those signals, those warnings she had relied on daily in sound had been taken away from her.

The comments in the community over this have been interesting. One hearing woman I spoke with found comfort in discovering that although Emma did not have speech she could at least scream. The thought of her not having a voice had haunted her for days.

Another was horrified to find her self saying 'at least its not another toddler', words she wished she could take back the moment she said them. All were touched by the horror of what must be unfolding for the family and indeed Emma in her last moments.

I was on prayers that morning and we dedicated our service to Emma, her friends and family and the people who had been touched by such a tragedy, a tragedy which is all too common.

I really thought that I had it together until I opened a prayer cycle that said today we celebrate . the 'International Day for the Elimination of Violence against Women and Girls. As I prayed for this I looked out the window where clearly seen was the Police building where the press conference announcing the finding of Emma's body was concluding as we prayed.

So I pray for all those who suffer mutilation and violation,
for those sold into slavery or who simply disappear,
for the abused ,
the hopeless,
the fearful,
the forgotten,
for all those named and unnamed known only to God
and for those of us left with dark twisted questions
and inconsolable grief.

In the words of another awesome deaf woman, Helen Keller,
may we remember:

We bereaved are not alone.
We belong to the largest company in all the world –
the company of those who have known suffering.
When it seems that our sorrow is too great to be borne,
let us think of the great family of the heavy-hearted into which our grief has given us entrance,
and inevitably, we will feel about us their arms, their sympathy,
their understanding.

Believe, when you are most unhappy, that there is something for you to do in the world.
So long as you can sweeten another’s pain, life is not in vain.
(Helen Keller)

Amen

Friday, 23 November 2007

Generally ramblings on Icons

Well the Desert Mothers Course into the Wilderness has come to an end and tomorrow I am beginning to co-lead a new icon group concentrating on the The Nativity Icon.

Here are some photos of two icons I have recently finished. The first St Veronica I have recently re worked. Unfortunately the reflective surface of the gold leaf has meant that taking photos has been difficult but I hope you get the idea.

The second is the icon of Mary of Egypt I have commented on here before. She is in a different style.

I also as soon as I find it on my computer have one of my portraits which I would like to take some photos of.
Many people have found Mary of Egypt ugly or more to the point 'not pretty' which is kind of the point.
But then you don't live for 49 years alone in the desert seeking God and not be transformed.

The Icon course we are starting to teach tomorrow will be interesting. It is very much a taster, a way in for people where icons are concerned.

It has been advertised like this:
For centuries people have been drawn to the unworldly images of Icons. Unsettling and enticing, these creations have been called the windows of heaven. This Advent you are invited on a journey of discovery as we explore the creative power of the nativity through the art of Icon writing. A course suitable for beginners, each
week we will meet together in prayer as we create our own icons in anticipation of the coming of the Christ child.

Now to live up to the advertising blurb!
For my Christmas Icon project I am tossing up between several icons. I would like to do a large John the baptist with wings. I have a small Joan of Arch to finish and sitting in the back of my mind are some of the advertising posters that have come out about Elizabeth the I and how good they would look transformed into say a Joan or Arch. The other morning I was talking on the Cathedral on the Air programme and what struck me also were the people in the last 200 years who at some stage I would love to create icons of. Mother Aubert comes to mind, some of the awesome women from the Community of the Sacred name. So many possibilities. I would be curious to see who others would see as impactful in their journeys and someone whom you may paint an icon of.
In the end I will give it over to God and probably find myself in some unexpected place as so often happens.
Peace to you all.
Megan

Monday, 19 November 2007

Sermon preached in Hanmer Anglican Church Yesterday

Sermon at Hanmer Anglican Church Nov 18th
Luke 21: 5-19

May the words of our mouths and the meditations of our hearts be acceptable in your sight oh God our strength and our redeemer.
When I was invited by the Diocesan Ministry Adviser to preach here today I would have to say I felt rather honoured, then I read the title of today’s Gospel “Signs of the End of the Age” great! Here was a sign one that said very clearly “Be careful what you wish for”.

In Luke Jesus’ tells his disciples of his departure and of the chaos and persecution that will follow. He talks of portents and signs, of destruction and betrayal. Of bejeweled temples rendered as to dust, of false prophets and persecution. I often wonder what a stranger who following the signs to church today would make of this text:

"Nation rising against nation, great earthquakes (5.4on the Richter scale here in the last fortnight), famines, pestilence, fearful events and great signs from heaven.
If that isn’t scary enough, for those contemplating Christianity Jesus then says about his followers (that’s us by the way.)

They will persecute you, deliver you to prisons, you will be betrayed even by parents, brothers, relatives and friends, and they will put some of you to death.

Not exactly the fluffy message of hope for those contemplating Christianity. Advertising campaigns entitled “Come join the family of Christ and be persecuted” generally don’t tend to get the Fair Goes Commercial of the Year Award.

Such persecution was then, and indeed still is in many parts of the world, very much a reality. If we let them, these first destruction filled passages can overwhelm us, leave us afraid, and in times when our own worlds fall apart, leave us fearful of a personal, communal, or global end of times. We are after all, a people of signs, we use them unconsciously every day, and at times of great suffering we seek them out like never before.

Luke was just such a seeker of signs; he after all lived at a time of great persecution. Luke the gentile, the physician, the seeker, was a man passionate about discovery, a man desperate to understand this Christ, who had entered his heart and refused to let go. A man who not only understood signs but also at times how these signs can overshadow the message.

And to be honest I myself, at times of stress, am no different. I too seek signs. This church has become very much a sign for me. A year ago after a when my mother and father in law nearly died, God being God, decided I didn’t have enough stress in my life and placed before me the possibility of ordination. Did I leave my relative comfort for a life dedicated to the service of the church? With so many questions buzzing around my head, I came, here in the middle of winter for a weeklong silent retreat.

The signs as far as I could tell were actually pointing in all directions. I needed the time to clear my head, to dedicate my time, to listen to God. Actually what I really wanted was a reason, a direction, I wanted a decision an encounter with God to me through the madness.

When you come on such a retreat there’s a time of settling into silence, of getting into a routine. The Reverend Boss with all her tenderness and care guided me on this retreat; we met here in church, four times a day in prayer and for Eucharist.
And this was good; I’d have to say it wasn’t long before I began to feel rather holy. I could do this; I had the look, it must be a sign...

It was the second night when sitting here in semi darkness the church door flew open and a man stumbled in. As I practicing being particularly holy at this moment kept my eyes firmly on the Gospel (least I miss a sign) as this man, who was weary, wild, hungry and homeless and pretty ripe, stumbled up the isle and joined us in prayer.

Settling back into silence our calm was once more disrupted when his cell phone rang loudly through the church to the tune of “I’m too sexy for my shirt”. About this time any shred of piety went out the window.

The man shared with us that he had come here because once many years ago he had been in rehabilitation at Queen Mary hospital and with it gone he had looked for a reference point, a sign- for him a steeple. You see he knew that where there was a church, this church, there would be church people who would take care of him until he’d recovered enough to carry on with his journey.

His turning up presented your vicar with a bit of a dilemma. The bed she would normally give him to sleep in was taken by me. In the end she gave him her nursing sister look – a look she told me she had used to drop a junior Dr at 50 paces. She told him he was welcome to sleep in the church but that “nothing what so ever was to be damaged or taken or there could very well be hell to pay”. And then she opened her heart, she fed him, made him warm, and we made him up a bed down there at the back of the church.

In the days that followed in the midst of my own inner turmoil, this man would join us through the day, sometimes in the early hours still in his sleeping bag he would hop his way up the isle to join us in morning prayer. Always reading a little slower a little more carefully than us, I remember his Amen would echo just that little bit later through this church.
I came to value his presence; one of the things I loved was that all his uncoordinated messiness that spilled everywhere around him on the outside, pretty much reflected how I felt on the inside.

Yet In the middle of his own life traumas (that were extensive), this mans faith and expectation that he would be cared for, and fed by,
the body of the Church,
by Christ’s body,
by us,
was a gift.

Half way through my stay he left, heading off up north to find some friends who would give him a bed for winter. The day he went I walked him to the place where he hoped to hitch a lift.
“You don’t say much” he said to me.
I smiled, I was after all on a silent retreat.
“Sign of a listener”

On returning here to this church that evening I found Anne sitting as she had every day as she journeyed with me on this retreat. She told me with tears in her eyes how the man whose name I can not to this day recall, as he left had handed her a till receipt from your local supermarket. She had given him money for a feed but both of us had feared the very real possibility that the money would be spent on alcohol or drugs. He had given it to her as he left so that she would see that he had been trustworthy, to show her that he had spent the money on food.

We sat here the two of us that night in silence, humbled and blessed by a simple sign, a piece of paper from a man who understood what it was to have to embody the second part of our Gospel reading where Jesus not only speaks about the destruction and mayhem we will all live through, but gives us a message, a sign of hope that in him we can live through such times in faith.

Make up your mind not to worry beforehand how you will defend yourselves. For I will give you words and wisdom that none of your adversaries will be able to resist or contradict. Not a hair of your head will perish. By standing firm you will gain life. In the original Greek by standing firm you will gain sozo -breath, Life, salvation, .Body, mind and spirit by. staying the course experiencing the sorrow and the joy you are delivered lifted above trouble
In a till receipt, in an unguarded moment, in times of desolation and turbulence, Christ offers us his hand as a sign of peace,
We need merely reach out and take it.
Amen

Wednesday, 14 November 2007

And next...thinking about too much

There are times when words come to me in the dead of night. Lines that I sometime scribble down in hope that in the cold light of day they actually
a) mean something, and
b) are actually as good as I thought they were at the time.

From here, I more often than not kick them to the curb, sometimes though they become poems or journal entries, short stories or film scripts.

In the early hours of this morning as my husband and I lay awake these words circled around my tongue. There are a couple we care for greatly who at the moment are faced with an agonising grief, all we could do in the end was lie there and talk softly to one another and pray for miracles and blessings. The horror of the event washed over me again and again and I frequently found myself in tears. The words were not great or profound they were simply

"I am struck by an unbearable grief
Silent to all but young mothers in closets,
and old spinsters in ruin.
It curdles milk in the breast
And sends us screaming silent dark into unlit alleyways and cruel places"

At such times I find my prayer to be closer to begging. There is a pleading quality in my tone as I beseech God for a miracle for those I love. Please Please Please I hear myself say. I list the qualities of these people in hope of making the case for divine intervention stronger, yet even in saying this I know that God knows all of this, all the reasons that this pain should not be so. And also God knows the little girl in me that aches for the heavenly Father to make things all right. For miracles that fit my desires to be fulfilled, and that in doing this, this trying to direct or control God that I end up missing Gods working in and around me and indeed in and around my friends.

It is easy at such times to get angry at God, to hear myself saying all those things that I have sat with other people in distress saying. To demand a sign, a wonder. The irony today is that I am preaching this weekend on Luke 21:5-19 the ultimate signs, wonders and temples falling and persecution and betrayal.

In the end of the text I see the words "Even so, every detail of your body and soul—even the hairs of your head!—is in my care; nothing of you will be lost. Staying with it—that's what is required. Stay with it to the end. You won't be sorry; you'll be saved."

In my Ordinands training group we mull over the text and in the translation from Greek we find not only will you be saved but that the same word means life, breath, psyche, and soul. Jesus never said there wouldn't be pain and suffering, in these words I see not a proclamation that we will be saved from suffering by God but instead I hear a call to stay with that pain, to be with that suffering, to lay this before God because here through all this I know that in somewhere through this I will be saved.

Tuesday, 30 October 2007

It's just a 40th Birthday Nothing to get upset about

You know you are turning 40 when you can't get it together to write on your blog.
Yes it is true, at 10 past 8 this morning I turned 40. Over the last day or so I have had a range of responses from people including:
"You are joking there is no way you are 40" Bless them bless them I say!
to " well it's all down hill from here" which was accompanied by a series of brochures from aged concern.

I don't care what you say the glass half empty or full, in the end it is a mile stone I would rather were not here. Usually I just embrace such things to the max yet with 40 it is different. Now the expectation is a mix of seriousness, ticking clocks and a penchant for tragic 80's hits entitled "Life Begins at 40 you wonder why you feel so naughty".

Enough I say! Life wasn't supposed to be like this for me at 40! I was supposed to be super cosmopolitan artsy girl with a baby on one hip and a film script in the other. I would travel the world and come back to New Zealand to my wonderful little cottage in the city or disappear to my imaginary batch on the west coast where I would watch storms unfold over turbulent seas, safe and cosy with a coal range and a wide screen tv.

At the traditional dio office morning tea I was asked what wisdom would I like to impart from my 40 years experience. A disturbing question at the best of times made even more so when the question is asked by the bishop.

Then I thought actually it is very simple
'take more risks,
go on spontaneous road trips,
love as deeply, dangerously, and adoringly as possible,
create great works of art that only your loved ones could love,
and make sure that every now and then you catch fish yourself from the sea and cook and eat it right there over a smokey fire on a rocky shore.

What more can I say I need to remember to practice what I preach

Happy Birthday to me

Tuesday, 23 October 2007

It's odd to discover you are odd

It is an odd experience to discover that by the worlds standards you are odd.

This weekend on an invite from the neighbours we headed off to a 40th birthday BBQ. As I am about to turn forty on October 30th (yes I have begun the therapy) it was interesting to see how this ritual unfolded and indeed put myself in the position of having to make conversation with strangers.

It is very easy to get comfortable with your friends and to forget that how people outside of your circle view you may be as a little odd. When people asked what I was doing I told them honestly about being a part of the Diocesan Ordination training towards priesthood. It was there that I for the first time came across the the look of people keeping an extra polite neutral face whilst various fantasy's, questions, judgments and expressions zip through their minds.
As the people we were with were predominantly catholic by schooling and unchurch in adulthood, there was some confusion over the term priesthood until some bright spark said "Ohhhhhhhhhh like the vicar of Dibley" - thank you Dawn French. The conversation flowed fairly well yet I was struck that to these people I might seem a little odd. Training for ordination, creates icons, into sacred art, talks to people who sleep on park benches, shaves her head... I guess it all sounds a little other worldly (that or really nerdy).

One women kept looking between my husband and I and finally asked..."So do you have to be celibate?". Whilst part of me was thinking where is this woman from? I was also aware that we must seem an odd breed. And that this was anything but a silly question as this woman struggled in her mind to redefine a whole set of predefined rolls and terms. Years ago in my ardent political feminist teenage years, to come across someone such as myself would no doubt lead to fantasy's of kidnapping and reprogramming said Christian away from a den of misogynistic patriarchal oppression. Not - I have to admit that I really knew what a misogynist was for sure, but everyone around me said that was what they were so it must be true.

I guess the sad thing for me was not being put in a box or being seen as potentially a bit strange (because they were really nice and generous people) but that to be a part of a church community was seen as an oddity. To want to know God, to serve others was strange. That these things were seen as a barrier to friendship least heaven forbid I try to convert them!

One couple who we talked to for some time has invited us to join them next week at a bar as they celebrate ...yes another 40th birthday. As I was leaving I overheard the woman say to the hosts.. "oh yes they are coming next week... and you know she actually likes a drink now and then same as me!

And you thought I was a nerd!

Monday, 15 October 2007

what can I say in 5 mins?

Okay what can I say.

Life is full on at the moment, my husbands father is due back into surgery and we are not sure he is going to make it. Around him (now very much a broken patriarch) the family disintegrates, comes together briefly and scatters again.

Yet the person who is with me today is Bernie from Dunedin. Strong Catholic who has suffered so long with cancer to the point where his ears have long ago fallen off and there are holes in his face his whole body riddled.

His response has been to give himself to science whilst alive. He has told the Drs at Dunedin hospital to do every test they have ever wanted and to try any procedure, not to extend his life but so that someone else may benefit from their learning.

Bernie may not make it through tonight. But God is waiting in anticipation to catch him the moment he falls.

For both Harold and Bernie and their families your prayers would be greatly appreciated

Blessings

Megan

Friday, 28 September 2007

Day 5 the last day of Fasting


An extra long blog to make up for my absences
Okay it's day 5 spiritually and physically cleansed I know longer have cravings... which is why I am spending my lunch time down here writing my blog and not in the cafeteria where it is chocolate biscuit and real coffee day and what do you know someone put on a lunch.

Actually this has been a really powerful experience for me. After three days of headaches and withdrawl, an extremely unbiblical attitude to my co workers, and general lethargy, Thursday and Friday have been my most productive and thought provoking in some time. Of course I am not sure that what I produce makes sense and I may next week look at the course outline I have been designing and cringe but it feels okay. It has been important I think to take this time and to dedicate it to this course which hopefully is going to run over the next four Wednesday nights. The course is called:

"Into the Wilderness - A prayer meditation series on the early Desert Mothers and our journeys of encounter in the urban wilderness" at Theology House.

I say 'going' to run because I am not sure if we have the numbers to go ahead with it.
Here is the intro and outline.

For centuries men and women have journeyed into the desert in search of the divine. Here you are invited to explore the urban desert as we take time out to actively cultivate
a burning love relationship with God.

Across time these deeply soulful women, full of passion, insight, caring, (and occasional divine madness), reach out, to us in ways disturbingly relevant to today. Through their stories, sayings, prayers & meditation we’re invited into the world of the Desert Mothers .


Session One
Into the Wilderness – How on earth did I get here?
In this session we look at how the remarkable women of the 4th and 5th Century came to the barren places, and how we too, by accident, calamity or design, find ourselves entering the fertile wasteland
of the soul.

These women entered the wilderness re-calling through cleansing, acts of compassion, fasting, and prayer that which was of the greatest importance, the real work - the work of the soul.

Today is not that different, through the traffic jams and meetings God calls us to enter the desert, to remove that which gets in the way of our love relationship. Our desert may look radically different but still we are called to re-prioritize, to return to the centre.

Session Two
Hymns to the Silence - Is there anybody Out there?
In this session we hear of the some of the experiences of women in the wasteland and look at what happens when we give ourselves over to the possibility of silence.

Amma Matrona said “We carry ourselves wherever we go and cannot escape temptation by mere flight,” this 5th Century Desert Mother knew the women who came to her for guidance well. The act of meeting oneself was essential in the life of the Desert Mothers. Facing up to oneself was not (as is so often today) obtained through the noise of continual dialogue, but by letting go into the silence.

In this fertile ground of waiting on God in silence and prayer one came face to face with their raw selves. For some This was a place of madness, for others of joy, loneliness, temptation, doubt, and abject terror. To come up against oneself, was to face ones transgressions and place them before God.

Session Three
If You remember me — Did I ever really know you?
In this session we are encouraged to look at how we do or don’t encounter and experience God. We will hear the remarkable stories of faith and encouragement from women who spent their lives serving and waiting on God. Amma Sarah said “If I prayed God that all people should approve of my conduct, I should find myself a penitent at the door of each one, but I shall rather pray that my heart may be pure toward all.”

The experience of God is different for each of us. When faced with ourselves, the
temptation is often to bolt rather than stand under the gaze of the divine and be open the challenge of experiencing God anew. How the Desert Mothers related and communicated with God was just as varied and challenging. The records of their time spent in prayer and reflection has left us with a rich legacy of insight and inspiration on the work of the soul.

Session Four
Coming Back to you -Where to now?
In this final session we reminded of the words of Amma Syncletica who said “imitate the publican, and you will not be condemned with the Pharisee. Choose the meekness of Moses and you will find your heart which is a rock changed into a spring of water.”

After gathering for an agape meal we will gather in prayer. Here to focus on the words of Amma Syncletica reflecting on those places within us both the rock and spring of water.

Our own urban wilderness awaits us. Not just concrete and high rises not just meetings
and business, but rich and abundant ground for us to reflect, refresh and engage in the
continual act of coming back to God.

At this point you look in shock realising that this is just what you have always been looking for! and rush off to enroll at theology house.

Actually scurrilous advertising aside even if this doesn't happen there has been something powerful in returning to these women over this week. At one point I was caught with the image of a family meeting for the last time with their daughter before she went to the desert and I felt humbled really at my winging and pettiness and at their strength of faith. 5 days nothing really.
and this was what I wrote (post fast I may look in horror and remove you never know). I kept thinking about for all the thousand of women who went into the desert in search of God how we have so little. How many of them dried up and blew away on the wind. Gone within two generations.

They hardly remembered I was here.
And that was my own family.
One Brief visit from my father, proud somewhere?
Confused yes!
The leader of our family
unsure with me now.
His little girl KHaB'iYB,T'Y D'B,aRT,oA
whose motivations he can not condemn,
but out here, in me, there is no place for him.

Out here, there is no power but god and silence,
sun and the wind.
He no longer has a way to control me,
or indeed to wrap me in those safe meaty arms
and make me giggle like a child.
Never again will I hear him call me
the sweetness of light,
or to feel his snores bounce of walls-
Our mother joking when we grumbled
‘At least I know where my husband is at night’

They hardly remember I was here
My mother, just cried when she came,
and I cried too
tears deep and wide.
My father joked ‘we had broken the drought’ -
my mother and I’
that my family need no longer pray for rain
But we knew the taste of last
We kissed tears off each other
Whispered and laughed
Tried somewhere, hurriedly in the remembering of family stories,

to let each other know that they were loved,
important,
vital even
at first…
before he came.
We tried to hold on to the colour of each others eyes
To clutch the feeling of skin as we rubbed each others hands over and over,

so cool on such a warm day.
In the end, no more to say
Just breathe deep,

capture and hold the fragrance of each other.

Before silence
I hear them as they weave there way down the valley
My father chiding my mother
Telling her she 'should be proud,
if it wasn't a sin'
His voice lurching between annoyance and placation
His last words telling her to stop looking back
least she be renamed Ildeth
and he end up with a pillar of salt for a wife.

Blessings to all fellow fringedwellers from the urban wilderness

Meg

Monday, 24 September 2007

Day One of 5 day detox fast

Had great expectations of writing about the importance and spiritual depth found in fasting
however at the moment I am just struck with nausea and one hell of a headache.
Usually I would be on about coffee 9 by now instead I am on water and some horrid soy by product.

All of this I know is good for the body and the soul

I wish to apologise to any of you who I may meet over this time
as I am an ingrate at this point and not the most pleasant pixie to be around, a good thing my boss is on holiday

God give me grace, patience and friends quick to forgive

Meg

Monday, 10 September 2007

Who is this that comes to us in our dreams?

The other night in my dreams I was visited by a wild woman.
I was in the Cathedral at a grand refurbishing opening. Along the back walls were random quotes, words and names of holy people all carved into the stone and gilded. Along much to my amusement with one of the craftsmens favourite country singers.

After a redundant attempt to help set up, I sat on a pew against the back wall. A few chorus’s of triumphant classical music began - all very rousing stuff, then the Bishop begun an oration, a great thanks to all who had been a part the refurbishment.
Suddenly from the glass doors at the side of me there came a great booming, the place shook and out of the corner of my eye I saw a wild woman. I was aware of not wanting to look directly in her eyes and a sense of conflict where as a Christian it was my place to welcome her in whilst at the same time her feralness, her fierceness made me hold myself still least I be … well I’m not sure what.

As the whole place froze she slammed her fists against the glass shaking the Cathedral and screamed at us all to “Still your heads” “Your minds are too busy” “Stop screaming in your heads”

And then I woke up.
It may not sound much to anyone but me, but I woke with that profound sense that I had to listen to this one, that this dream was important.
If I go along with the thinking that each person in a dream is an aspect of ourselves then there is an instinctual, the intuative femanine part of me that is demanding that I stop the performance, that I attend to the madness, stress and business in my head. That somewhere she can hear me screaming when I can not. That in the pomp and circumstance I risk loosing something essential. Her call to me so loud that the very dust is shaken from the stones of this refurbished Cathedral.
This may sound crass afterall we are always for intereted in our dreams than anothers but if anyone has any insights I would be interested.



Thursday, 6 September 2007

Here we Go Here we go Here we go

Okay several major events this week. One which has kept me glued to the computer in a work sense all week. One that will have me glued to the tele in another

Synod verses the world cup
both intense
both bruising
both a situation where the saying "it's not about winning it's about how you play the game" is something that is secretly followed by 90% of us muttering "yeah right".

When its over there are those for whom the victory lap will echo for... oh miliseconds, before talk of strategies for next time will come into the fore, before reruns will have us re-examining the form of suspect players, and new team line ups will be tossed around.

Lord help me I have become a cynic. You see if I am honest I still actually believe at some level that it's not about the winning. That we miss the point, and no I am not just saying that because that is what I am supposed to say. This year I have been sequestered back at HQ as 'office support' and I find a sadness in that. You see in all the dramas of Synod the feeling I am most often left with (besides moments of outrage and mind numbing boredom at the accounts sections) is a profound mix of love and grief.

Love because this is the place for better or worse that I see my strange diverse family together, where I catch up with people I haven't seen for an age, where I move between worlds and care about how those worlds work together, about how we care and come before each other. And grief because of how quickly I see the ego come into play, how seemingly without effort we move to an offensive game, of how our humanness gets in the way of our humanity.

A while ago during a controversial period I suggested that all clergy who wished to fight it out, be made to go and do the most unmentionable jobs possible, to care for those for whom even Mother Teresa would be having to suck it up to go to, to clean up vomit and diarrhea to minister without words to the worst of our societies creations. Then and only then when they have done this to a point of being brought to their knees, would they be able to come back to the table and talk. Funnily enough the clergy at the table at the time got rather uncomfortable although there were a few lay people rather over enthusiastic about the idea, that is until I widened it to include us all.

Families can be difficult especially when your own personal ministry through your work is to serve them all. Maybe that's why in the rugby world cup my favourite games are not between world heavy weights but between teams such as Togo verses Japan. Both teams know that they have little hope of winning the world cup, what I see in them is the delight in actually getting there, of being together in all their diversity of skills and experience, of being able to learn from each other and take that learning home, to take part and be proud of that, what they have archived and each other.

Here We Go... Here We Go... Here We Go...

Friday, 31 August 2007

Being Broken

On Saturday my icon class was visited by two of the monks from the Little Brothers of St Francis. As I was painting, I was half listening to the people around me sharing their stories as to why they had chosen the particular Icons they were painting. One thing I like about the people in my Icon class is that they, like me, are broken. In fact it is that brokenness that in many ways is our greatest strength.

One young woman shared her story of struggling with a brain tumour and how her icon had given her focus and courage recently when we almost lost her. I remember sitting with her in hospital, breathing with her through such pain that left her screaming and tearing at her flesh. Her Icon had sat with her on the window sill, a reminder that she had something to finish and that someone else before her knew what it was to live in agony and had screamed out to God. I don’t think I have ever heard such raw prayer as those screams. Gut wrenching in their desperation they were almost too much to hear.

Other people too shared different stories with these men, of how the art of icon painting had enriched and moved them, deepening their love relationship with Christ. The Desert Fathers are very much a part of the life of the Little Brothers of Francis tradition so when Brother Geoffrey and I spent time together my love of the Desert Mothers was something that we automatically had in common.

In the next few weeks I’m preparing a prayer meditation series on the Desert Mothers. In light of that I have been writing an icon of Mary of Egypt. It’s an unusual icon in aching. As we sat there Brother Geoffrey looked away and said “Those eyes are so intense I can hardly bring myself to look at them for long, and I was reminded of those agonising prayers of my friend almost too desperate, too raw to hear.

To paint or write such a challenging icon takes its toll, to be up close and personal with an image of a crucified Christ, a grief stricken mother, a skeletal aching saint is to be called into relationship with God in a way that challenges you to expose your pain as well. Every agonising raw scream of the heart it says may be placed here, you just have to let it out. In my time painting this Icon of Mary of Egypt I have been intensely aware of past pains and sufferings and how I too have a place to lay these down.

The irony in this, is that this week I have been struggling with a piece I want to write for a fellow bloggers site on Christianity and body image. I have begun it many times and written it from many angles. The one that seems most real, & most genuine is the one that at a personal level exposes my humanity in all its flawdness the most to the world.

I can hear my Spiritual Director now saying "And that surprises you how?..."
Weather or not I practice in such fullness, what I preach? well…watch this space

Wednesday, 22 August 2007

Beeseaching the Stone

There are times when I experience God in a raging storm. Like one of the mighty willow trees I pass on the way to work. Here in the midst of the storm I stand with my back pressed back against the ancient trunk. With the fury battering around me I am reminded that the base of the tree is solid, has my back, and although not totally sheltering me, gives me enough support to be able to face, to endure, the storm that whips around me. It gives me a place with which to look out at the fury with new eyes.

Such images at times of stress hold me in what ever is going around and at times pull me back. There is also crucifixion here I am after all standing against a tree.

Sounds all very poetic, very Byronesque (note to self: develop tubercular like symptoms, practice swooning and acquire large silk white hanky for maximum effect). In reality it is often a lot messier and takes me a lot longer to remember that God is in the darkest night, in the cruel lesson and the raw… not just the sweetness of light.

Such images I am reminded of today when I came across this.

Beseeching the Stone

She had waited as women for a thousand years had waited at the Rock.
Wind slapped, hand warn, sea-spray-salty to the tongue.
Driven by calling rather than design.

Most often the migration fell to the soulless night.


Creeping out of weathered shelters along cliff top tracks huddling into crevices,
Before a porcelain dawn they came,


fell to their knees and pressing themselves against the rock - beseeched the stone.

Lips scuffing against lichen – in familiar manic tomes whispering,
staining the granite blood brown with the thumping of hard heads.

“Rock what am I to do?”
“Rock how may I serve you?”
“Rock how long must I be Grey?”
“Rock is there room for colours beyond just you?”
“Rock how can I ever be enough for one as ageless as you?”
“Rock how am I to be all I can be for you?”
“Rock tell me what you want for me?”
“Rock sweet Rock tell me what to do”
“Rock I came back to you!”
“Rock I danced for You- did you see?”


and the Rock sitting with only the top peaking out of the earth in the stillness of an in-drawn breath asks back the same question.

Friday, 17 August 2007

Ave Maria

On Sunday we celebrated the Feast of Mary at Church. It is one of my favourite festivals and one not often acknowledged now besides a casual passing remark in the Church.

In part I guess there is very much a feeling of too much adoration of Mary being dare I say it Popish. Lets not set her up as the Mother of God, lets not venerate her as one, and sadly in our throwing out the mother with the bath water lets not acknowledge her as the Theotokos the Christ bearer. What happens in our turning Mary and dare I say women in general in the bible to curious footnotes or the good old Christmas favourite, is that we end up blocking a way back to God for many.

When I first came back to faith it wasn't God that clinched the deal it was Mary.
To come before God seemed too overwhelming on a first try, but here in Mary I found a way in. As someone who had spent a lot of time in the feminist movement the thought of a male God was quite frankly terrifying - after all you know what Christians have done to woman over the years. I think of it almost like people think of a genetic memory, that somewhere at a fight or flight level I held a sense of distrust and weariness of Christians. Of course this all becomes very confusing when the very thing you have been taught to beware of, is the very thing that continues to pull at your soul. And somewhere you know that if you don't go there, the real healing that needs to take place will never occur.

When I finally, after a sleepless night, found myself manically walking through the streets of Christchurch, driven by the knowledge that somehow I had to make a connection with God or I would be lost, it was Mary that pathed the way back in. After trying Church after church (closed) & finally finding an open one, I was left with a cold chill. I am standing on the threshold of this Church not even sure how I got there, very much aware of the doorway in which I stood being a portal to something new. On one side the old familiar 'drowning here' life, a step into the church and there a life fraught with danger and unfamiliar dangerous people with strange ideas.

This is not a logical moment, it is an instinctual one, one of intimate need and calling. Either way possibly destruction. As I stand there still in the door way my eyes become accustomed to the light, and there she is, a statue of Our Lady of Walsingham, Mary. What tiny biblical knowledge I have resurfaces and I see her not as the Mother of Our Lord, or any fancy title, but as the young woman in fear, met by an angel, given a challenge. The young woman placed in a situation where to say yes or no, is intensely dangerous. In her I found someone I could relate too, someone I could understand and who could understand me. A tentative step later and I am through the door.

The Visitation

He comes to her,
midnight blue meets bold as light- courageous day.
He pries the fist from her mouth
gently
finger by finger
Releasing lips he whispers thoughts of revelation
swallows whole... sweet words of decent

This is our secret little girl
our silent revolution.

Into this absolution... black... soft...uncertain
crashes the first and final son

Monday, 13 August 2007

Sometimes You Got to Go Where No One Knows Your Name

It strikes me today that sometimes you just have to go somewhere where no one knows your name.

This weekend at ordination training I spoke of my feeling of being churched out. I was encouraged to hear it was a common experience. Time pressures and the change of role meant nothing is the same as before. I realise there are different expectations on me now; I no longer fit into my community the same way as an ordinand, although how I fit in has yet to be defined. My behaviour is a little more scrutinised and I realise that what my church community has been, will never be again. I guess we are all looking at each other in a different light.

On Sunday I ended up at my husbands Church, I go to an Anglo Catholic Anglican Church, he to a 3rd Wave Vineyard Church. One of the things I notice when I go to different Churches is that I look for the people on the edge, to see how people who don’t fit with the norm are embraced by that Church. (And yes I do wonder about my own agenda of looking at this when I too have been feeling on the edge).

Anyway I was struck yesterday by a man I have often seen on the streets of the city, an older man who looks a little different, raggedy clothes, walks with a limp, whose hands are crippled, who has that air of someone so profoundly wounded that to look too deeply into his eyes would make you weep. To see him in the context of the Church though was a delight, here he was beaming, being greeted with genuine love by those around him, standing tall and fully immersed and involved in what was happening. His is a story of utter joy and abject sorrow. Institutionalised within the medical system at an early age he was so badly beaten there that he was permanently disabled. Yet here he was a man who I am told that on their recent men’s camp, put young men to shame with his courage and enthusiasm, a man whose share presence lifts you. At that moment who the leaders of the Church were was turned on its ear for me. Here in this man I saw the last become first. Someone who emulated what it was to be broken and raised up at the same time. His very presence let other broken people (and lets face it that's all of us) know that they had a place there. By simply being himself he gave permission to others to step forward in weakness, and authenticity. 'If he can do this, and the sky doesn't fall then so can I".

And what do you know, to my surprise I too find myself compelled to step out of the known and go forward for prayer at the end of the service. Standing there in the this foreign place, I realise that there is a relief in not being 'the ordinand', in not being known, or indeed needing to find the words. When I am asked what I want prayer for I pause all I can say is that, "I just need a moment, somewhere where I may break".

Thursday, 9 August 2007

Hello God is anybody out there? Churched out

Ever get so Churched you get Churched out?
This is how it feels to me at the moment, almost like a disconnection where God is concerned… well not with God but where I experience God. One of the dangers of working for the Church, and going to Church, and studying Church, and socialising Church… is that there are times when I want to scream at all things Church to just get over yourself and back off!

This is a full on time, we are fast approaching Synod and all around me tensions are rising, people are wound too steps too tight on the sensitivity front , factions are aligning and consolidating and dissolving, administrators are being stretched to the limit and me I am watching this bazarness unfold before me with a vague sense I should be interested.
In the past when things were stressful, Church was my solace rather than the protagonist. I am usually a full on liturgy girl, the way it holds me, the shape of it, the taste of it, the way that it acts as an access point for making a connection with my community and with God in the Eucharist is profound for me. This week though something has happened, I feel like I have overloaded somewhere and God feels a distant presence. In Church on Sunday the absence of feeling was so intense that I almost ached. I did my reading, and then sitting there what kept going through my head was “What am I doing here?

And I left, just snuck out before the Eucharist. Now understand me here, the Eucharist for me is central, it is everything. It is what fills me up, it is where I bring my brokenness before God where I gaze at God and God gazes back. Then the next morning at staff Eucharist I once more made my apologises. At some distant head level I find this curious, I watch my self in meetings, teaching all those things as if I were in a play.

I am not sure what else to say really…
What I know though is that if I have any desire at this moment it is to earth myself. To stand on the port hills and let the winds carry my scream, to fall on my knees and bury my hands deep in the earth, to sit with my feet in a tidal pool for a day till my toes become like yams and the water has run its full cycle.
All suggestions greatfully accepted

Thursday, 2 August 2007

Just where I am

For the last few days I have been on the edge, of a series of cluster migraines.
Sometimes it’s a case of bang they are there, nothing to do but ride it out, at others it’s the gentle nagging that manifests in over sensitivity, a distortion of light, and a stepping just out of phase with reality. Here there is a vague tension and an inability to get what seems clear to me out into the world in any way that is concise let alone coherent. Even what I am writing today has taken three times longer and needed constant editing.

It can take some time with these to realise that something is going on. Funnily enough as much as the pain and the night vomiting are a down side, there are moments in the lead up and wind down, which I value.

Last night I interviewed Steve Taylor for a local radio programme (more on that when I am more with it). Listening back to it I found myself to be waffly and vague (one of my least great moments). I was also aware at the dinner and meeting I attended afterward of falling into that place where it is as if I have stepped out of phase with reality, I am aware of what is going on but it is as though it is being played out before me. Insights occur here and intuitions.

Something else odd happens in this place for me, it is a place of great inspiration. Here is where I am called to paint, not just icons (which require so much precision and form) but where my wilder paintings occur. This is where my fingers are used as much as my brush, where unearthly landscapes, pained portraits and images of Mary falling into the arms of shadowed angels appear on the canvas. This is where words fill my mouth to bursting; tumbling out in what rarely at the time makes sense but certainly feels right.

These paintings, these poems, will be the raw beginning to something new.

On the internet I see them called migraine auras. Hildegard of Bingen is the Patron Saint of these as she suffered both migraines and visions. On this day I see people such as Salvador Dali, and Georgia O'Keeffe also had these times and how they were a great source of inspiration for them. Not that I am as talented as them

With such Saints and mentors as these this is an interesting place to be… now I wonder how church will look today in such a space.

Nothing profound today simply a statement of where I am…

Monday, 30 July 2007

In the Fertile Dark sits the Dream

It’s been a month where everything has raced. Over the last couple of days I have fallen into the world of Harry Potter. I am discovering at such times when I am propelled along by the story that I miss an awful lot. A rollicking good tale is all very well but the share pace can mean that the subtly, the moments of significant impact, are lost as we are suddenly thrust forward into the next drama.

Now to a point with Harry Potter this is intentional. The constant hunting and being hunted doesn’t allow one to slow down- keeping people transfixed for 600 pages with excitement and danger (this is an art in itself). What I am noticing now, is that I want to go back to places where I was momentarily moved to the tissue box and absorb them and the impact of them slowly, to allow the story to unfold in its fullness. And indeed discover what I missed and how that effects the telling of the story.

Just as I respond to the inevitable Monday morning question of “How was your weekend?” with “it didn’t really feel like I had one” I find such pace, such over stimulation and the need to “fill” space/time damaging.

Is this how I approach God? What does it do to my faith to indulge in such a fast paced, once only examination of something which is precious beyond all measure.

Recently I was at a talk by Bosco Peters when the comment made was: “We searched for meaning, the danger with young people today is that they search for stimulation”.
Young people gently aside, I wonder if I indeed fall into that. I say I crave stillness but aside from painting (my blessed icon group) and small moments in the week, I find more often than not a desire for more “bigger, stronger, faster, better?

At the moment I have two assignments due! (It’s okay Meg of course you can study, teach, be a wife, and work full time toughen up). One of the assignments asks that we find a passage in the First Testament that moves us. I find it intriguing that at a time when I feeling like a Koala-Bear-on-acid, the passage that continually calls to me is the beginning of the creation story in Genesis

Translation1
In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.
Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters.

Translation2
First this: God created the Heavens and Earth—all you see, all you don't see. Earth was a soup of nothingness, a bottomless emptiness, an inky blackness. God's Spirit brooded like a bird above the watery abyss.

Translation 3
In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.
The earth was barren, with no form of life; it was under a roaring ocean covered with darkness. But the Spirit of God was moving over the water.

This moment, this beginning of the greatest story ever told,
stills me in the madness. Here in the cauldron before creation is where as an artist I am drawn, where I find breath, where my dreams, my creations take form. And here there is no place in the inky blackness for the hunt or the hunted- for the manicness of life, only room to float under the surface of the inky blackness as the Holy Spirit hovers above me, igniting me as she goes.

In the fertile dark sits the dream
Eternally begotten of the Father
it flows through the edge of sleep
Wraps us in still deep pools of possibility

Such places reshape our waking
Our faces forever changed in bathroom mirrors

Thursday, 26 July 2007

Nothing Deep today

Nout deep today
I am too busy being romanced by soft evening winds
and the tease of a spring in the middle of winter

Even assignments nag from my desk
Harry Potter has priority now

Friday, 20 July 2007

How as a Church we hold the role of Mother

There are times I would rather avoid church. Times when to slip out during the peace seems a more dignified option than shattering into a thousand pieces on the floor in front of an alarmed looking congregation. Of course God is rarely interested in us being dignified, in fact being broken and bringing our brokenness to the Eucharist is what we are continually called to do.

The times I refer to are when we read the stories of women whom “God had closed their wombs”, times which are invariably followed by miraculous stories of said women, Hannah, Rachel etc praying really hard and hey presto having finally (in some way unknown to the rest of us) getting the magical formula just right, being blessed by God who according to Psalm 113:9 " maketh the barren woman to keep house and to be a joyful mother of children. Praise ye the LORD."

Okay that’s a little simplistic and this is a tender issue for me… as a woman yet to be blessed (and yes I notice the language I use) with a child, I am profoundly aware of how motherhood is held up as a pinnacle of achievement for women not only in society but also in the church.

Such Bible stories read and talked too without sensitivity can leave one raw and exposed.
I remember sitting in Church when the reading and sermon were based on the story of Hannah. It was a bad week, I was trying to celebrate with one side of the family the news of a new baby (number four), whilst another part of my family grieved over the unlikelihood of them ever being grandparents (not having children never just impacts on you).

As the sermon began I glanced at the women around me. On one side a young women fighting cancer that had left her sterile, another grieving her last unsuccessful IVF treatment, whist on the other side sat one woman who’d adopted, with the last woman in our row for reasons much to tender to broach, too was without children. It felt at the time almost as though we had been made to sit together as examples of women who’d somehow 'let the side down'.

The sermon to those unaware of the impact of being without children, would have seemed totally acceptable with a feel good factor of 5. Yet aspects of the sermon left our row sitting rigid with guts twisted. At one point the women preaching shared how proud she was to be a woman, “how only a mother of five beautiful children and a grandmother of a further five children could know a true sense of accomplishment as a woman...”
After that I don’t recall much, the rest of the sermon was pretty much along the same lines. I do know that at that point there was much gentle touching of knees and hands in our row, and for me a deep sigh.

I have no doubt that if challenged the preacher would have been devastated at the impact of her words. This was not a conscious act on her part to cause distress.
On this day I watched as women around me measured themselves- however much they knew it was a futile act, against the story of Hannah. To weigh themselves in the balance and be found wanting.

Even I in a disserted Church later cried out to God “what more can I do, how much more do you want me to suffer, what more do you want from me, cos you’ve got it all ...”

In the end such thinking becomes damaging, one can get caught in a loop of:
“If I only do this…
Maybe if I hadn’t done that…
I am not good enough for God…
Am I being punished…?
I am unworthy…
Is my faith not strong enough…good enough…?
If I pray more…fast more…give more…

You can see where I am going with this.
Our prayer becomes a defilement and judgement of self, and in turn we risk projecting onto God an image of an angry fickle tyrant, who sits in judgement playing with our emotions and punishing on a whim. Not an image of God one would like to companion you through the dark night of the soul.

A God of love and compassion, who aches for relationship with us, and waits with infinite patience and expectation beside us, I don’t at such times always remember or indeed recognise. I said earlier that God is rarely interested in us being dignified, and that bringing our brokenness to the Eucharist is what we are continually called to do. And here we were this group of women all in pain, all for this moment (a moment that has never been repeated) in the same place at the same time. Able to, when pain struck, gently through the touching of knees the slipping of hands into hands, breathe and break together.

Such a moment of awareness does not however let us off the hook as Church.
I am in no way advocating that we do not honour and support women in our communities as mothers far from it! Or indeed women who by choice choose not to be mothers.
For me this is about:
being aware of our congregation,
of the impact of our words,
of how our experience colours how we interpret and share that word
to ask ourselves how as a church we interpret the role of women
how that interpretation of role is reflected in all that we do and are,
…and what happens to those who do not fit that role for what ever reason.

Recently I read a prayer written by Lynne Taylor of Opawa Baptist Church for mother’s day. I have included a link here to it because I see in her prayer she has looked at her congregation and sought to understand and honour the struggles and longings of the women of her congregation
http://www.emergentkiwi.org.nz/lynne/archives/001443.php

I leave you after what has been a too long post with a request for your prayers for the women around you dealing with an as yet unfulfilled desire for children, and with an anonymous prayer from one of the 1 and a half million sites on the net that asking for prayers of women aching to be parents

Lord, Give me Strength...
To keep my cool when another period starts.
To keep my chin up when a co-worker announces her pregnancy.
To have a good relationship with my friend in spite of her ability to conceive easily and not be jealous of her.
To endure my sister-in-law's comments about toilet training.
To keep from crying when I see neglected children around me born of parents who find them a burden.
To forgive my doctor when he keeps me waiting for two hours for a consultation - and then can't remember my name.
To make the right decision about treatment.
To maintain a good relationship with my husband in spite of all this.
Not to scream at the well meaning person in my congregation when they ask yet again “Do you have children?”
To step back from fear when that question no longer is asked
To endure the vestry who always expects you to do things because "you don't have any Children to worry about".
To not fall apart if one more person asks, "Why don't you adopt?" Easy, right?
When I feel like avoiding friends who are pregnant or with newborns because you just can't handle the situation at that moment.
To not feel like I have to apologise to family for not
fulfilling their dreams of the future.
To allow myself to reach out to those in my community and be vulnerable with those who are safe in my brokenness



Monday, 16 July 2007

We are the embodiment of stories most potent.

We are the embodiment of our story. The way we talk, the way we catch our breath, what causes us to howl with laughter or hold back tears is all influenced by our story. And indeed the big stories in our lives, the stories of great wounds and epic challenges create a template by which all other stories are invited to follow.

I have for some time been interested in what happens to us when we look at our lives as story. How does the retelling of one particular story over years change our history, as intensity shifts and understanding evolves? Where do we hold this sorrow? How does our belly react to that joy?

How often do we see a person and reflect on how their lives are etched across their faces. And what is etched across mine for all the world to see.
I ask myself how understanding the Christian story alters how I now tell the story of my life.

Such questions are large for me at the moment as I embrace the complex world of Hermeneutics and indeed question not only the influences I bring to my interpretation of Scripture, but also to the Story of me.
Several years ago when I first wrote the piece below I had just begun to identify the Holy Spirit as Feminine and indeed beyond those qualities attributed to scripture I personally had begun to relate to the Holy Spirit as very much a creative force that moved in and through me. Reading this I am encouraged to step away from the madness and and in an unguarded moment see how this story has evolved.

She wrote on me the Mother of the unformed word
Carved love songs and agonies into my flesh
She made me living word
And loved me when even angels turned their backs


She wrote on me the Mother of the unformed word
Word made flesh she nuzzled every story thread
Followed it with her teeth
Every revelation partially read she tasted

She wrote on me the Mother of the unformed word
With printers ink and captains feathers

she carved stories of tall ships
and small coves across my back
And wept rum when she had finished

She wrote on me the Mother of the unformed word
Of Unthinkable confessions
and dark tales in deep places
She sung sea shanty’s like lullabies
and whistled through worn down teeth

She wrote on me the Mother of the unformed word
Earthing me madly.
Mapped each sorrow, each delight
On completion her she paused
and whispered ideas for her next novel into the cove of my back
“A love song baby, something delicious-twisted sacred and pure”.
At this moment I am surprised how much I miss you