So we've had an online conversation about Boxing day. From boxing as a sport (so called - although it seems more like legitimized scrapping with gloves on) to actually putting things in boxes for the poor (its probable origin with money popped in at Christmas and the boxes opened for the poor on St Stephen's day)- the conversation wandered off at various tangents like Boxing day test cricket and the boxes cricketers use to the boxes in which people return unwanted presents. Or just the billions spent on boxing day sales.
Well that's over then. Boxing day is done for as far as 2011 goes. Christmas day too - it was my first in six years that required speaking at Christmas day services - both on Christmas Eve and early on the day proper. I had forgotten how exhausting that is - being the one who has to make sense of it all while the congregation's collective minds wander off to deeper contemplations (getting below the surface meanings for example - like reflecting on what is actually on the inside of the coloured paper hiding their Christmas gifts)- or wondering what the minute to kilogram ratio is for turkeys and hams waiting to be sizzled in various kinds of ovens.
I survived but did not last the day - falling asleep in the afternoon into one of those very deep sleeps that leave you with a sledge hammer feeling for some time. We ended the day walking along Brown's Bay beach - what a delightful place with an intriguing collection of dogs only two of whom were law breakers. Of course the owners looked kind of perplexed by their offering - no sign of the mandatory plastic bags for evidence removal. One young lady looked the other way while engaging in a sea sand cover up exercise with her foot. The other dog owners simply pretended that they were not related to the offending canine who seemed to merge into the sand (colour wise) as did its offering.
Apart from that anomaly, the walk on the beach was great! And today's entertainment included not being able to wake up (recovering from those Christmas sermons no doubt) and getting one of our number packed and loaded into a Naked Bus in Auckland city. Yes you heard - one of our local bus lines - a very cheap one - is called the Naked Bus. Turns out it was well covered and left on time. And then there were four.
So the remaining members of our clan will stick around in Auckland until the new year arrives.
Speaking of new year and resolutions, we have but a few days to come to a resolution on these matters. How many more years will we attempt to lurch into the new year with a better plan for health, fitness, diet and priorities? Truth is - if we don't get fitter etc. we will run out of years sooner than expected. Our Queen's Prince Phillip is 90 and is doing well despite requiring a stent in an artery. Trick is he is a military man and has a fitness regime! O dear.
Looking back on 2011 - it has been quite a journey. We are grateful for a whole new opportunity and look forward to an exciting new year. For many our deepest desire is that there would be some sanity and stability - especially for those whose lives are constantly disturbed by earthquakes, conflicts, and shortages of basic necessities. Our world is relatively simple in comparison to the terrible tragedies that so many have to deal with. Why should we ever complain?
So we come to an end of another year thankful and with hope and determination to be part of the future solutions that are needed - insofar as we can do something to change things.
Here's to a great year.
Monday, 26 December 2011
Saturday, 19 November 2011
November and that's it
It's the last Sunday of the Christian year. Nice to be different. We begin again next Sunday which is the first Sunday of Advent. Today was "Christ the King" Sunday - an interesting celebration. You can read the sermon here: http://robinpalmer.wordpress.com
What do I make of this post-world cup time of the year - the wonderful pre-election weeks in which our local politicians have gone on and on and on about the state of the nation? Not much really. I voted for the winners last time and all opinion polls indicate that my team is still the winning one. Beats all those voting queues over the years in my old country where we always voted for the losers!!! :-)
The shops are already shouting at us about spending more money than we can afford! So we are trying to avoid the dollar Christmas this year, if that makes sense. The season that we celebrate as Christians was never meant to be the annual shot-in-the-arm for the economy!
We do have two family birthdays in December - both R Palmers celebrate a day of birth before Christmas. That is worth celebrating! Not that we need lots of presents - we really need to be grateful that we have made another year in one piece.
All in all New Zealand is doing well - considering the year we have had. We had the first anniversary of the Pike river mining disaster this week. The Royal commission still taking place is revealing to say the least. And our friends in Christchurch are still struggling with the outcomes of various earthquake-related problems. In short - life in Auckland is relatively simply and safe - although there are still tragedies that happen in the community.
We have had our first Christmas card!! Yes they still do exist - and they are rather a nice way of catching up with old friends. We will see how many people still do this as the digital age takes a stronger hold in people's lives. A personal note or letter sent by snail mail is still a treat.
Spare a thought for those who have nothing this Christmas - there are so many stuck in poverty and terrible conflict zones. For some reason we seem to forget the wider world - and how easily we take for granted the luxuries we enjoy. Let's pray that people do make the effort to support those who are in the midst of famine and disaster.
What do I make of this post-world cup time of the year - the wonderful pre-election weeks in which our local politicians have gone on and on and on about the state of the nation? Not much really. I voted for the winners last time and all opinion polls indicate that my team is still the winning one. Beats all those voting queues over the years in my old country where we always voted for the losers!!! :-)
The shops are already shouting at us about spending more money than we can afford! So we are trying to avoid the dollar Christmas this year, if that makes sense. The season that we celebrate as Christians was never meant to be the annual shot-in-the-arm for the economy!
We do have two family birthdays in December - both R Palmers celebrate a day of birth before Christmas. That is worth celebrating! Not that we need lots of presents - we really need to be grateful that we have made another year in one piece.
All in all New Zealand is doing well - considering the year we have had. We had the first anniversary of the Pike river mining disaster this week. The Royal commission still taking place is revealing to say the least. And our friends in Christchurch are still struggling with the outcomes of various earthquake-related problems. In short - life in Auckland is relatively simply and safe - although there are still tragedies that happen in the community.
We have had our first Christmas card!! Yes they still do exist - and they are rather a nice way of catching up with old friends. We will see how many people still do this as the digital age takes a stronger hold in people's lives. A personal note or letter sent by snail mail is still a treat.
Spare a thought for those who have nothing this Christmas - there are so many stuck in poverty and terrible conflict zones. For some reason we seem to forget the wider world - and how easily we take for granted the luxuries we enjoy. Let's pray that people do make the effort to support those who are in the midst of famine and disaster.
Wednesday, 26 October 2011
October
So New Zealand won the World Cup. Rugby that is. There are no other cups that seem to matter now. The cup for being the greenest country? Nah. Leaky gas pipes and flatulent cows, plus a whole heap of oil trickling or gurgling off a vessel parked on a reef on the east coast. Salvors sound very messianic... These specific salvors are waiting for a king tide this weekend. NIWA says its the best time to try to refloat the ship. Rena is her name and she and her dear crew are almost as unpopular as the opposing rugby teams.
The world cup is over and three victory parades have been held. Poor old Dunedin got left out. And even in the rain the Wellingtonians poured out in droves to welcome their newly crowned heroes. A general election will probably not galvanise the nation quite so enthusiastically. And as a side-show a bunch of students are holding a sit-in in sympathy with those occupying Wall street. They're not getting much good press either. The issues of corporate greed are not really bothering a lot of people who seem quite content with this bizarre world economic system and the stranglehold of debt over the poor.
In this month the rest of us have got on with things. I remember the staff of my old school (not where I was a student but also on staff) commenting that students who were disaffected with the system and threatening to spoil the schools unblemished (and carefully managed) academic results were simply to "put their heads down". You can't tell that to idealistic university students. But miraculously enough the most vocal will still study for their exams and line their pockets for the future in terms of qualifications and careers. They put their heads down when it suites them.
Jesus in the meantime keeps reminding us that the greatest is the one who serves. and the last shall be first and vice versa. Preposterous is a great word to describe our world. And of course preposterous means the same thing - back to front!
On 11 October I remembered the 40th anniversary of my father's death. What a long spell as an adoptee - happily my faith as a child of God has made all the difference in this journey. I am forever grateful. And I know that my dad was remembered by many as a man of character and integrity at a time when the old South Africa was also preposterous.
So October is almost done. There have been many uncomfortable contradictions in the events around the world at this time. At a simple level we continue to serve. Was it not Milton who once penned these words: They also serve who only stand and wait?
The world cup is over and three victory parades have been held. Poor old Dunedin got left out. And even in the rain the Wellingtonians poured out in droves to welcome their newly crowned heroes. A general election will probably not galvanise the nation quite so enthusiastically. And as a side-show a bunch of students are holding a sit-in in sympathy with those occupying Wall street. They're not getting much good press either. The issues of corporate greed are not really bothering a lot of people who seem quite content with this bizarre world economic system and the stranglehold of debt over the poor.
In this month the rest of us have got on with things. I remember the staff of my old school (not where I was a student but also on staff) commenting that students who were disaffected with the system and threatening to spoil the schools unblemished (and carefully managed) academic results were simply to "put their heads down". You can't tell that to idealistic university students. But miraculously enough the most vocal will still study for their exams and line their pockets for the future in terms of qualifications and careers. They put their heads down when it suites them.
Jesus in the meantime keeps reminding us that the greatest is the one who serves. and the last shall be first and vice versa. Preposterous is a great word to describe our world. And of course preposterous means the same thing - back to front!
On 11 October I remembered the 40th anniversary of my father's death. What a long spell as an adoptee - happily my faith as a child of God has made all the difference in this journey. I am forever grateful. And I know that my dad was remembered by many as a man of character and integrity at a time when the old South Africa was also preposterous.
So October is almost done. There have been many uncomfortable contradictions in the events around the world at this time. At a simple level we continue to serve. Was it not Milton who once penned these words: They also serve who only stand and wait?
Monday, 26 September 2011
A weekend away - in Northland
Paihia
So we’re in early mission territory. Just up the road Samuel Marsden preached his first sermon in New Zealand on 25th December 1814. We attended the local Anglican Church this morning. The change to daylight saving time influenced the punctuality of the attendees. Is that what you call people at a church service? We had a second round of Hospital Chaplaincy week – with a very nice lady chaplain priest doing her thing. Once has to say that small churches in country towns seem to be the playground of religious women who are engaged in their faith hobby. Where are the men? Sad when you see the line of tombstones in the church yard of great men of God who served over the years. The service was a curious Anglican experience – one unhappy lady announced half way through that she had the wrong service sheet – the correct one of the day was produced for her and a few others who had picked up last week’s programme! She was unimpressed it seems and did not communicate (well she did as I said but not at the Communion table later). The poor chaplain priest person lady also had to contend with another enthusiast who thought it was her job to say all the prayers that were not in bold etc, but at her own pace. The organist was pretty organised I had to say, and the liturgist tried to recruit me to lead the singing on a weekly basis.
What do you learn from a sermon that is a series of testimonies with the occasional loose link to the scriptures (two in fact – one mention that miracles do happen (prayers answered in the hospital) “as we saw in the gospel reading”, and that God could be in this place (a la Jacob at Bethel).
What does one learn? That most Presbyterian sermons are too cerebral and need some more testimony. Yes. And also that the liturgy itself teaches one every time. And of course (is this a third “finally”?), that God is in the place even in the depths of grief and the darkness of the separation and grim reality of mental illness.
Straight from this Anglican stoush (the cherry on the top was the testimony/sermon which had been interrupted by “I think I may have lost a page of my notes here”, and ended with a very unbiblical “go the All Blacks”), we entered into the very depths of Catholic country. After a fashion that is – we went to Russell. This was achieved by driving onto a Ferry which was driven by another woman driver (like the team of Anglicans who ran the show at Paihia) and being ferried across a bit of water for the sum of $11.00 for me and the car, and $1 for my spouse and passenger. We passed the site (this time driving the car on land) of the original capital of New Zealand to Russell as it now exists, and had a drive up Flagstaff hill. The story of the flagstaff is all to do with the British firing up on the town back in the day because a certain person of the land had chopped the flagpole down more than once over a few years (one assumes the Union Jack was on the thing at the time). The oldest church in New Zealand still stands in the town (despite having holes in it from the canon – or rather musket balls hurled at the place). And then there is the Roman (and oldest functional) printing press still churning out things (we were able to print something ourselves). The tour of the Pompallier museum was fascinating, especially the Freudian slip in which the enthusiastic lady in red indicated that the Roman Catholic mission had been divided into to dossiers (I think she intended to say diocese/s). I thought immediately of my good friend John in Wellington and took a special photograph of one of the exhibits which recorded the protestations of the non-Catholic missionaries and their concerns about the antichrist. Either way the French were lurking here and in Akaroa.
I can happily report that we sailed back to our base in Paihia. Waitangi is just down the road and we were able to have a quick look yesterday at the place where our founding document was signed in 1840. Tomorrow to Kerikeri where we will visit the mission station. I promise to continue my report thereafter on the local history and the burial ground of the Rainbow Warrior.
The evening of this Sunday ended with Dory and chips from the local fishing and chipping people –served by a Kiwi person man at the counter and a very English fishing and chipping cooking guy deeper in the recesses of the facility. All were talking about rugby, as was the conversation at lunch time in Russell – as we had a pleasant meal in York street with seagulls and sparrows vying for the crumbs at the table.
The point of these weekends away is a rest and restoration. I think the aforementioned three year matter is still lurking as I find myself dozing off during one of the better movies on TV for some months. I would prefer not to feel weary and to have the energy to engage the history of Mission that we have found here. A pile of books in my study still keep bothering me to that end.
Postscript Sunday 25th – three months to Christmas.
I have to add this peculiarity about today. The local Anglicans are on one end of the spiritual spectrum for the day. In Russell there was this added twist on the other end of said spectrum. Or somewhere on the spectrum. Walking along the beach road in the direction of the Pompallier Mission site and printing press we turned left at the sign which read TOILETS. A deceptive route indeed as we walked up a ramp on the side of what turned out to be the town hall – mislead by another sign above a door at the end of that room or passage also reading TOILET. The very nice lady redirected us down the ramp again and behind the building. We had stumbled on the end of a Christian meeting – the third wave it seems (neither Papal Roman nor ostentatiously Protestant, but probably Pentecostal as there was some serious ministry of prayer being applied to their attendees). Jacob and Bethel all over again – God was in the place.
Kerikeri
Monday in Kerikeri is not exactly your overwhelming experience of masses of people frantically shopping. The town is pleasantly quiet, and if you keep going down the main street you find that the road ends. The river seems difficult to cross without a bridge, although if you park in the allocated parking you can walk across the footbridge to the other side. The old stone Mission house is still standing – the oldest it seems of its kind in the country. And Kemp house is still there too. The local historical society has worked hard to preserve the integrity of the area and there is a reconstructed village – “Rewa’s village” where you can see what it was like for the early pioneers.
The Mission history is fascinating and the people were a fairly rugged and courageous bunch. The town itself is a bit too small for my liking although I could retire there and write one day I suppose. In short the trip reminded me of our journeys to the Lowveld – to places like Pilgrim’s Rest. The countryside is beautiful – we will post some photos on Facebook for all to see.
Looking back… (written in Browns Bay on Tuesday!)
The weekend has been good – getting a sense of the beauty of the place, and also trying to get a sense of the courage of those early settlers. The large pot at Pompallier’s place (back in Russell) was an ominous reminder (to me at least) of the cannibalism that was rife during the war years – how risky things were (mainly for weaker tribes who were conquered and consumed literally). The sadness of the story – how the nation has lost its heritage in many ways. The conquests of the All Blacks will never match what God has done for us – His amazing gift of life in Christ and life on these islands. Have a listen to the New Zealand National Anthem again during this World Cup and think about the heritage again.
And if you want to read a bit of fascinating history look at the lives of Henry Williams and his younger brother William. It was moving to walk through Paihia in the place where they lived and worked. And get a sense of the distances the early missionaries travelled on foot to get their work done. Strong men and women indeed.
So I am back in my books – reading “Bible and Treaty” by Keith Newman”. More on that another day.
Robin
So we’re in early mission territory. Just up the road Samuel Marsden preached his first sermon in New Zealand on 25th December 1814. We attended the local Anglican Church this morning. The change to daylight saving time influenced the punctuality of the attendees. Is that what you call people at a church service? We had a second round of Hospital Chaplaincy week – with a very nice lady chaplain priest doing her thing. Once has to say that small churches in country towns seem to be the playground of religious women who are engaged in their faith hobby. Where are the men? Sad when you see the line of tombstones in the church yard of great men of God who served over the years. The service was a curious Anglican experience – one unhappy lady announced half way through that she had the wrong service sheet – the correct one of the day was produced for her and a few others who had picked up last week’s programme! She was unimpressed it seems and did not communicate (well she did as I said but not at the Communion table later). The poor chaplain priest person lady also had to contend with another enthusiast who thought it was her job to say all the prayers that were not in bold etc, but at her own pace. The organist was pretty organised I had to say, and the liturgist tried to recruit me to lead the singing on a weekly basis.
What do you learn from a sermon that is a series of testimonies with the occasional loose link to the scriptures (two in fact – one mention that miracles do happen (prayers answered in the hospital) “as we saw in the gospel reading”, and that God could be in this place (a la Jacob at Bethel).
What does one learn? That most Presbyterian sermons are too cerebral and need some more testimony. Yes. And also that the liturgy itself teaches one every time. And of course (is this a third “finally”?), that God is in the place even in the depths of grief and the darkness of the separation and grim reality of mental illness.
Straight from this Anglican stoush (the cherry on the top was the testimony/sermon which had been interrupted by “I think I may have lost a page of my notes here”, and ended with a very unbiblical “go the All Blacks”), we entered into the very depths of Catholic country. After a fashion that is – we went to Russell. This was achieved by driving onto a Ferry which was driven by another woman driver (like the team of Anglicans who ran the show at Paihia) and being ferried across a bit of water for the sum of $11.00 for me and the car, and $1 for my spouse and passenger. We passed the site (this time driving the car on land) of the original capital of New Zealand to Russell as it now exists, and had a drive up Flagstaff hill. The story of the flagstaff is all to do with the British firing up on the town back in the day because a certain person of the land had chopped the flagpole down more than once over a few years (one assumes the Union Jack was on the thing at the time). The oldest church in New Zealand still stands in the town (despite having holes in it from the canon – or rather musket balls hurled at the place). And then there is the Roman (and oldest functional) printing press still churning out things (we were able to print something ourselves). The tour of the Pompallier museum was fascinating, especially the Freudian slip in which the enthusiastic lady in red indicated that the Roman Catholic mission had been divided into to dossiers (I think she intended to say diocese/s). I thought immediately of my good friend John in Wellington and took a special photograph of one of the exhibits which recorded the protestations of the non-Catholic missionaries and their concerns about the antichrist. Either way the French were lurking here and in Akaroa.
I can happily report that we sailed back to our base in Paihia. Waitangi is just down the road and we were able to have a quick look yesterday at the place where our founding document was signed in 1840. Tomorrow to Kerikeri where we will visit the mission station. I promise to continue my report thereafter on the local history and the burial ground of the Rainbow Warrior.
The evening of this Sunday ended with Dory and chips from the local fishing and chipping people –served by a Kiwi person man at the counter and a very English fishing and chipping cooking guy deeper in the recesses of the facility. All were talking about rugby, as was the conversation at lunch time in Russell – as we had a pleasant meal in York street with seagulls and sparrows vying for the crumbs at the table.
The point of these weekends away is a rest and restoration. I think the aforementioned three year matter is still lurking as I find myself dozing off during one of the better movies on TV for some months. I would prefer not to feel weary and to have the energy to engage the history of Mission that we have found here. A pile of books in my study still keep bothering me to that end.
Postscript Sunday 25th – three months to Christmas.
I have to add this peculiarity about today. The local Anglicans are on one end of the spiritual spectrum for the day. In Russell there was this added twist on the other end of said spectrum. Or somewhere on the spectrum. Walking along the beach road in the direction of the Pompallier Mission site and printing press we turned left at the sign which read TOILETS. A deceptive route indeed as we walked up a ramp on the side of what turned out to be the town hall – mislead by another sign above a door at the end of that room or passage also reading TOILET. The very nice lady redirected us down the ramp again and behind the building. We had stumbled on the end of a Christian meeting – the third wave it seems (neither Papal Roman nor ostentatiously Protestant, but probably Pentecostal as there was some serious ministry of prayer being applied to their attendees). Jacob and Bethel all over again – God was in the place.
Kerikeri
Monday in Kerikeri is not exactly your overwhelming experience of masses of people frantically shopping. The town is pleasantly quiet, and if you keep going down the main street you find that the road ends. The river seems difficult to cross without a bridge, although if you park in the allocated parking you can walk across the footbridge to the other side. The old stone Mission house is still standing – the oldest it seems of its kind in the country. And Kemp house is still there too. The local historical society has worked hard to preserve the integrity of the area and there is a reconstructed village – “Rewa’s village” where you can see what it was like for the early pioneers.
The Mission history is fascinating and the people were a fairly rugged and courageous bunch. The town itself is a bit too small for my liking although I could retire there and write one day I suppose. In short the trip reminded me of our journeys to the Lowveld – to places like Pilgrim’s Rest. The countryside is beautiful – we will post some photos on Facebook for all to see.
Looking back… (written in Browns Bay on Tuesday!)
The weekend has been good – getting a sense of the beauty of the place, and also trying to get a sense of the courage of those early settlers. The large pot at Pompallier’s place (back in Russell) was an ominous reminder (to me at least) of the cannibalism that was rife during the war years – how risky things were (mainly for weaker tribes who were conquered and consumed literally). The sadness of the story – how the nation has lost its heritage in many ways. The conquests of the All Blacks will never match what God has done for us – His amazing gift of life in Christ and life on these islands. Have a listen to the New Zealand National Anthem again during this World Cup and think about the heritage again.
And if you want to read a bit of fascinating history look at the lives of Henry Williams and his younger brother William. It was moving to walk through Paihia in the place where they lived and worked. And get a sense of the distances the early missionaries travelled on foot to get their work done. Strong men and women indeed.
So I am back in my books – reading “Bible and Treaty” by Keith Newman”. More on that another day.
Robin
Monday, 29 August 2011
The three year sleep
I did say I would write about this one. It's about the tiredness that comes from stress - and from living on the edge of burnout and flirting with PTSD. I have this hospital chaplain friend in Wellington. Before we left the capital (Wellington is in New Zealand - I am sure you've figured that out by now especially those about to invade these islands for the Rugby World Cup), I went to visit my friend to say goodbye. It was he who told me about the three year sleep. His friend, a Roman Catholic priest who had been a school chaplain for about the same length of time as me, also went back into church (parish) work. My friend (the hospital chaplain) mentioned this to me as he wondered how I would cope with the move. His friend (the catholic priest) informed him that in his recovery process from school chaplaincy he had slept for the first three years of his parish "job".
No sleeping on the job, they say. I have to say that my plan was to hit the ground "praying" rather than "running". I read a book with that title before coming here. I ended up reading another book on arrival on grief and clergy. Clergy grief - that rare privilege of being able to grieve when you are regularly conduct funerals, for example, of people who are close to you, and you're the one who can not publicly express your emotions. One can understand why - watch the more than unhelpful pastor in the movie 'Eulogy' who falls apart at the grandfather's funeral. It's more than hilarious but also close to the bone.
An astute leader in the church here has mentioned more than once her concern about our grief. When you move you experience grief - the death of an old lifestyle and the loss of relationships that once energised you and brought you joy. She's right of course. We are grieving many losses - through immigration, relocation, and the death of many aspects of innocence - and of course the loss of the exhilarating southerly winds of Wellywood. I jest of course.
The post traumatic stress has eased. A siren today fired up the process again as a reminder that it hasn't totally gone. The things that I have left behind in Wellington which caused deep pain have been a good farewell. My five years at Scots did much to contribute to profound levels of stress. At the same time there were so many highlights and reasons to celebrate along the road. The grief of loss of the energy of the inspiring young men and boys of the College is offset by the occasional call or on-line conversation I have where they tell me how life is going and share some pleasant memory. I will always celebrate their successes.
What does one do about the tiredness? Sleep, mainly. I know I have to pace myself and not be the author of my own demise.
The simple joys - a six month old puppy who shares our journey and happily chews too many things for our good. The coming spring - the sound of the doves in the garden in the morning and the warmth of the sun. Having all my children at home with us - and watching them find their direction and energy again. The discipline of weekly prayer and preaching - trying to open God's word in a community of faithful people. There are many joys as our new life unfolds on this North Shore. And sleep - such a blessing which we are reminded of by the Psalmist: It is in vain that you rise up early and go late to rest, eating the bread of anxious toil; for he gives sleep to his beloved. (127:2)
I can't sleep while speaking in public. I can leave the things too hard for me in the hands of my gracious Father. I tend to leave many things to others now - knowing that I am long past a futile belief that I have some messianic role in the world. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me, but not everything is my responsibility.
So I will be sleeping for the first three years. And beyond. Our keeper neither slumbers not sleeps (Psalm 121:4). We can afford to let go and rest each night - for even if we never wake up in this life again, we are still His.
No sleeping on the job, they say. I have to say that my plan was to hit the ground "praying" rather than "running". I read a book with that title before coming here. I ended up reading another book on arrival on grief and clergy. Clergy grief - that rare privilege of being able to grieve when you are regularly conduct funerals, for example, of people who are close to you, and you're the one who can not publicly express your emotions. One can understand why - watch the more than unhelpful pastor in the movie 'Eulogy' who falls apart at the grandfather's funeral. It's more than hilarious but also close to the bone.
An astute leader in the church here has mentioned more than once her concern about our grief. When you move you experience grief - the death of an old lifestyle and the loss of relationships that once energised you and brought you joy. She's right of course. We are grieving many losses - through immigration, relocation, and the death of many aspects of innocence - and of course the loss of the exhilarating southerly winds of Wellywood. I jest of course.
The post traumatic stress has eased. A siren today fired up the process again as a reminder that it hasn't totally gone. The things that I have left behind in Wellington which caused deep pain have been a good farewell. My five years at Scots did much to contribute to profound levels of stress. At the same time there were so many highlights and reasons to celebrate along the road. The grief of loss of the energy of the inspiring young men and boys of the College is offset by the occasional call or on-line conversation I have where they tell me how life is going and share some pleasant memory. I will always celebrate their successes.
What does one do about the tiredness? Sleep, mainly. I know I have to pace myself and not be the author of my own demise.
The simple joys - a six month old puppy who shares our journey and happily chews too many things for our good. The coming spring - the sound of the doves in the garden in the morning and the warmth of the sun. Having all my children at home with us - and watching them find their direction and energy again. The discipline of weekly prayer and preaching - trying to open God's word in a community of faithful people. There are many joys as our new life unfolds on this North Shore. And sleep - such a blessing which we are reminded of by the Psalmist: It is in vain that you rise up early and go late to rest, eating the bread of anxious toil; for he gives sleep to his beloved. (127:2)
I can't sleep while speaking in public. I can leave the things too hard for me in the hands of my gracious Father. I tend to leave many things to others now - knowing that I am long past a futile belief that I have some messianic role in the world. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me, but not everything is my responsibility.
So I will be sleeping for the first three years. And beyond. Our keeper neither slumbers not sleeps (Psalm 121:4). We can afford to let go and rest each night - for even if we never wake up in this life again, we are still His.
Tuesday, 23 August 2011
Stress
I've been back in this line of work for five months. Work is a strange word for it. We are called to a vocation, we are in service - and ordained to preach and baptise and break bread (Holy Communion in our tradition). I left a very rewarding but highly stressful job to come here.
Naively I thought I could leave stress behind. I was wrong. It's a funny old life. Without any stress we would get nothing done. No expectations - and no results. They say we need good stress. Like deadlines, assignment dates, exams, and goals. Good stress. I was told that going back "into the church" would bring enough pressure to bear that I would be driven to my knees. People stress!
It seems to me (not that I have great expertise here) that we should be on our knees anyway. And I am sure that people in war zones or attacked daily by the shakings of earthquakes or other threats have much more stress than we could imagine - and are more prayerful as well. I am sure that God by his grace gives them strength to cope.
I like the Bible's prayers because they are more honest than many of ours. The beauty of these prayers is not just in their poetry or wisdom, but in the way in which the writers spit it out. They are quite direct with God as they wrestle with their enemies, their doubts and their impatience. It's quite refreshing.
So how will I deal with my stress? The good old "balanced life" philosophy demands exercise and rest, proper diet and boundaries around my work - so that I can manage to juggle the balls and spin the plates.
God's way seems to be to rest in Him. Wait on Him. Depend on Him. Cuddle up to him, sheltered by the shadow of his wings, as one old song goes. I think that I should be a little child again - happy to ask Him and trust Him fully.
That sounds more restful than stressful to me. I think the three year sleep sounds quite attractive after all. (That story for another day!)
Naively I thought I could leave stress behind. I was wrong. It's a funny old life. Without any stress we would get nothing done. No expectations - and no results. They say we need good stress. Like deadlines, assignment dates, exams, and goals. Good stress. I was told that going back "into the church" would bring enough pressure to bear that I would be driven to my knees. People stress!
It seems to me (not that I have great expertise here) that we should be on our knees anyway. And I am sure that people in war zones or attacked daily by the shakings of earthquakes or other threats have much more stress than we could imagine - and are more prayerful as well. I am sure that God by his grace gives them strength to cope.
I like the Bible's prayers because they are more honest than many of ours. The beauty of these prayers is not just in their poetry or wisdom, but in the way in which the writers spit it out. They are quite direct with God as they wrestle with their enemies, their doubts and their impatience. It's quite refreshing.
So how will I deal with my stress? The good old "balanced life" philosophy demands exercise and rest, proper diet and boundaries around my work - so that I can manage to juggle the balls and spin the plates.
God's way seems to be to rest in Him. Wait on Him. Depend on Him. Cuddle up to him, sheltered by the shadow of his wings, as one old song goes. I think that I should be a little child again - happy to ask Him and trust Him fully.
That sounds more restful than stressful to me. I think the three year sleep sounds quite attractive after all. (That story for another day!)
Sunday, 7 August 2011
Memories
Mum would have been 86 today. She's been dead for 14 years. It seems just the other day that we were at her bedside for those final moments as she breathed her last. I shared a profound anniversary of someone's death this weekend and felt the pain of those who lost their dad just a year ago. Words, poetry and music all helped to carve out a memory and paint a fresh canvass of sorrow. It was a measure of progress for that family, a hurdle which when clambered over at least brought a step forward.
The idea that grief is a process was a step forward too in understanding how people muddle along that path. Attempts to make the process linear and neat were useful in the sense that people could try to see where they were along the track, but of course deceptive as it's neither neat nor linear. A heart torn by loss remains wounded and dismembered really.
Jean Palmer was a brave woman. Her aristocratic mother was probably too dominant in the worst possible Victorian sense. Her father died when she was very young, thus depriving her of that special anchor. Her husband, my father Ernie, was only with her through fourteen years of marriage when she was robbed of her man by his inevitable death. And as a widow she did a pretty impressive job raising my sister and I through the tumultuous teens and the pains of our school years.
She took no nonsense from us, and always told us not to cross the proverbial bridge before we got there. She believed in us when we didn't, and managed to navigate us through a fairly simple and frugal course which was grounded in a secure and welcoming home. When mother arrived, we were always forewarned by that raspy cough. Her humour was infectious, and our friends enjoyed her cheerful disposition. She would yell for us on the sideline (not that I had too many of those) and support our activities and organizations with zeal. She was prolific in her catering, producing all manner of goodies for various events, and a bit to liberal with the salt pot.
Over many years of living away from her because my work and vocation took me to other cities, a morning phone call to her would always be an inspiration and give warmth and courage. She would quip at times that it was just as well the phone didn't have a camera if we called too early. She never did get the chance to skype us. But she wrote long and newsy letters, and kept us up to date with all kinds of clippings from the local papers.
At the end of her life the poster that I found with signatures of her buddies at the back summed it up quite succinctly. φίλος πιστὸς σκέπη κραταιά, ὁ δὲ εὑρὼν αὐτὸν εὗρεν θησαυρόν. From Sirach 6:14 it reads: A faithful friend is a sturdy shelter: whoever finds one has found a treasure.
Such wisdom indeed from the sage. What a treasure she was.I mourn her still, and give thanks for her life and all she invested in her children and grandchildren.
Blessed be the name of the Lord.
The idea that grief is a process was a step forward too in understanding how people muddle along that path. Attempts to make the process linear and neat were useful in the sense that people could try to see where they were along the track, but of course deceptive as it's neither neat nor linear. A heart torn by loss remains wounded and dismembered really.
Jean Palmer was a brave woman. Her aristocratic mother was probably too dominant in the worst possible Victorian sense. Her father died when she was very young, thus depriving her of that special anchor. Her husband, my father Ernie, was only with her through fourteen years of marriage when she was robbed of her man by his inevitable death. And as a widow she did a pretty impressive job raising my sister and I through the tumultuous teens and the pains of our school years.
She took no nonsense from us, and always told us not to cross the proverbial bridge before we got there. She believed in us when we didn't, and managed to navigate us through a fairly simple and frugal course which was grounded in a secure and welcoming home. When mother arrived, we were always forewarned by that raspy cough. Her humour was infectious, and our friends enjoyed her cheerful disposition. She would yell for us on the sideline (not that I had too many of those) and support our activities and organizations with zeal. She was prolific in her catering, producing all manner of goodies for various events, and a bit to liberal with the salt pot.
Over many years of living away from her because my work and vocation took me to other cities, a morning phone call to her would always be an inspiration and give warmth and courage. She would quip at times that it was just as well the phone didn't have a camera if we called too early. She never did get the chance to skype us. But she wrote long and newsy letters, and kept us up to date with all kinds of clippings from the local papers.
At the end of her life the poster that I found with signatures of her buddies at the back summed it up quite succinctly. φίλος πιστὸς σκέπη κραταιά, ὁ δὲ εὑρὼν αὐτὸν εὗρεν θησαυρόν. From Sirach 6:14 it reads: A faithful friend is a sturdy shelter: whoever finds one has found a treasure.
Such wisdom indeed from the sage. What a treasure she was.I mourn her still, and give thanks for her life and all she invested in her children and grandchildren.
Blessed be the name of the Lord.
Thursday, 28 July 2011
Good grief, or maybe not
I've been reading a profound book about grief, loss and death. It's subtitled "the shadow side of ministry" and it's by a catholic priest. I haven't really processed the losses of our most recent move from chaplaincy to parish ministry. I do know of a catholic school chaplain who was also in a school for five years. He reported some years later that he slept for the following three years in the parish. Recovery, or grief? Probably both.
I remember when a friend died when I was a youth leader."Back in the day" is the kiwi term here for many long years ago. Well Duncan died when he crashed his bike on the way to a piano lesson. He was about 18. It was my first grief experience in which I thought I saw him a couple of times. After his death, that is. It was quite weird and yet I believe not unusual. I keep having the same experience - seeing people from my previous work at the school. No I am not seeing visions, but rather expressing my sadness at the losses I am still experiencing. I was blessed greatly by a skype call this week from a student. It was so nice to chat and share again in the life of a young man who not so long ago was mourning my departure.
My book is challenging. We hide behind our profession - priests and ministers tend to be a problem if they cry at funerals when they are supposed to be comforting the bereaved. And people prefer it that way. They don't want our doubts - rather they like our faith and hope expressed in the face of darkness.
So I do most of my weeping alone. It would be better to have angels with skin on helping me in those places of deep groaning. But it's not like that. I will read some more and share more later. Spare a thought for the parents around the world who mourn the death of their children at this time.
My losses are not that grim. With the exception of one tragic death my clients are still alive. I have lost the privilege of sharing their stories. I will still have many in my heart and memory, and I can still pray for them. May the seeds sown in those years still bring the delight of fruit that endures.
I remember when a friend died when I was a youth leader."Back in the day" is the kiwi term here for many long years ago. Well Duncan died when he crashed his bike on the way to a piano lesson. He was about 18. It was my first grief experience in which I thought I saw him a couple of times. After his death, that is. It was quite weird and yet I believe not unusual. I keep having the same experience - seeing people from my previous work at the school. No I am not seeing visions, but rather expressing my sadness at the losses I am still experiencing. I was blessed greatly by a skype call this week from a student. It was so nice to chat and share again in the life of a young man who not so long ago was mourning my departure.
My book is challenging. We hide behind our profession - priests and ministers tend to be a problem if they cry at funerals when they are supposed to be comforting the bereaved. And people prefer it that way. They don't want our doubts - rather they like our faith and hope expressed in the face of darkness.
So I do most of my weeping alone. It would be better to have angels with skin on helping me in those places of deep groaning. But it's not like that. I will read some more and share more later. Spare a thought for the parents around the world who mourn the death of their children at this time.
My losses are not that grim. With the exception of one tragic death my clients are still alive. I have lost the privilege of sharing their stories. I will still have many in my heart and memory, and I can still pray for them. May the seeds sown in those years still bring the delight of fruit that endures.
Sunday, 24 July 2011
The light went out for a while
I started my Christian journey as a Methodist in the city of Durban. So I was baptised in the Methodist church as a baby.
This evening we travelled to Mount Albert and attended the Methodist church worship service for the Synod of the region. What a lovely evening.
Am I still a Methodist? Great question.
So why did the light go out during the sermon tonight? It was only during the preacher's second point - where he was trying to explain the treasures that he held to - his second being that he was Evangelical. The light went out. Not sure whether that was the radical nature of the statement for today. Or was it because he tried to explain his theology of inspiration of the Bible?? What an interesting thing. A sign? :-)
Well the light above the pulpit came back on when the man started his third point. Hmm. A sign perhaps that things were back on track...
Great singing from the choirs tonight.
The question as to whether I am still a Methodist is still up for grabs! And the mystery of the light above the preacher going out during that part of the sermon remains intriguing.
I must check whether there is a light above the place where I speak from on Sundays. Worth keeping an eye on it.
Vocatus atque non vocatus, Deus aderit
This evening we travelled to Mount Albert and attended the Methodist church worship service for the Synod of the region. What a lovely evening.
Am I still a Methodist? Great question.
So why did the light go out during the sermon tonight? It was only during the preacher's second point - where he was trying to explain the treasures that he held to - his second being that he was Evangelical. The light went out. Not sure whether that was the radical nature of the statement for today. Or was it because he tried to explain his theology of inspiration of the Bible?? What an interesting thing. A sign? :-)
Well the light above the pulpit came back on when the man started his third point. Hmm. A sign perhaps that things were back on track...
Great singing from the choirs tonight.
The question as to whether I am still a Methodist is still up for grabs! And the mystery of the light above the preacher going out during that part of the sermon remains intriguing.
I must check whether there is a light above the place where I speak from on Sundays. Worth keeping an eye on it.
Vocatus atque non vocatus, Deus aderit
Wednesday, 20 July 2011
Winter
I have only one follower of my blog. That in itself should not be too depressing. When I look at the statistics I have more readers from the Netherlands than any other country. That is fascinating. Well put it this way - they are my audience, but do they really read what I say? Americans and Kiwis follow them in terms of numbers.
So if you are reading this now - say hello will you!
Winter here would normally be a suitable topic for complaints and groaning on my part. This week has been a very pleasant one however - with real sunshine and temperatures of up to 15 degrees in the City of Sails.
A friend remarked this week that there is just SO MUCH WATER. Indeed this is true. We are surrounded. Mind you we are an island nation!
How's this for something exciting - let's see if there are any Israelis reading this. There is a bit of a buzz here over allegations that some of the people injured and killed in the Christchurch earthquake were Mossad spies. Well I never.
What this nation should be agonising over is really the spiritual state of the place. Here we are trying to get people to believe again - the whole place has a strong Christian heritage which has been systematically jettisoned.
Now all you Dutch readers - what's happening in your part of the world? You too had a great reformed history which was exported to South Africa our old country.
So get to your local Presbyterian church will you and discover the real life we share!
Greetings again from the wobbly islands. Let's see if my one follower has anything to say on this winter night!
So if you are reading this now - say hello will you!
Winter here would normally be a suitable topic for complaints and groaning on my part. This week has been a very pleasant one however - with real sunshine and temperatures of up to 15 degrees in the City of Sails.
A friend remarked this week that there is just SO MUCH WATER. Indeed this is true. We are surrounded. Mind you we are an island nation!
How's this for something exciting - let's see if there are any Israelis reading this. There is a bit of a buzz here over allegations that some of the people injured and killed in the Christchurch earthquake were Mossad spies. Well I never.
What this nation should be agonising over is really the spiritual state of the place. Here we are trying to get people to believe again - the whole place has a strong Christian heritage which has been systematically jettisoned.
Now all you Dutch readers - what's happening in your part of the world? You too had a great reformed history which was exported to South Africa our old country.
So get to your local Presbyterian church will you and discover the real life we share!
Greetings again from the wobbly islands. Let's see if my one follower has anything to say on this winter night!
Monday, 20 June 2011
Mid winter in Auckland
What an uncreative title. Mid winter where? Auckland is the largest city in New Zealand, and the most stable in the wobbly islands. The volcanic craters now green and happily shorn by sheep or mechanical movers are evidence of a fairly dormant present and one-off blasts from the past. The weather has been wet and mild, and all in all it's not the kind of winter we have had in the last five years in the Capital. Wellington continues its traditions of a variety of winds (northerly or southerly, fast or fairly fast) and extreme cold. Auckland is quite predictable in a different way - you get all seasons in a day on a regular basis.
Our house is a Manse, thus part of a working arrangement and suitably close to the "church" where work takes place - in theory. The truth is that the church is out there in the community, and the community itself is a mission field, a caring opportunity and potential for a wide range of possible engagement. So "work" happens everywhere and a lot happens here in the study, where this aging brain and still enthusiastic heart tries to make sense of the weekly readings and make the message relevant to the two morning congregations. And of course there is the renewed opportunity of all age worship and children's stories and songs in the second service which is a kind of "family" service. We are blessed with a team of people who carry out all kinds of ministries, and trust that the work will grown in scope and influence.
Today was a typical Monday at this time of the year - an array of weather patterns most of of which involved copious precipitation. There was a dry patch when we processed out to the hearse at the end of a service of thanksgiving for the life of one of our elderly members. In that sense it wasn't a typical Monday, but I will have another "sabbath". It's also the 20th of June 2011, a remarkable date as my dad was born on this day in 1911. I am battling to get my head around this phenomenal moment in my life. What a thought - not that he could have made it to 100 (he died at 60), but that I have this link in two generations that goes back so far. Well I am thinking of him today especially - his birthday was always close to Father's Day in South Africa. The memories I have, however blurred, are primarily those of a good man, which was testified to by people I met years after he died - people whom he had worked with and who noticed that he was always fair! Justice I guess remains a passion of mine too. A worthy heritage.
The Auckland lifestyle has been tainted by the endless rain (yes we were warned) and the fact that you can get sick here and take a while to recover. It seems the equivalent bugs in Wellington blew away quicker or were frozen. My beloved has battled to recover for two weeks. We are expecting some sunshine hours tomorrow and will get out for some vitamin D therapy. I am sure the summer will be nicer.
Our middle child has a birthday on the 22nd. His age matches the date this year. So we also have a mid-winter celebration in the family. And of course our numbers have grown - young Jessie the Labrador X is now about 18 weeks old and is adjusting to life in our family. We are blessed with a lovely park across the road with a walkway and stream, ducks included. I think I shared that with you before - I am still amazed at what a nice setting it is.We have not been to the beach much, but I do still enjoy the proximity of the sea.
I have conducted four funerals in 10 weeks. Two have been folk with cancer. One very brave lady who lived behind the church (building) was Irish born and lived in South Africa for some 20 years - in the same street where my 100 years ago dad and my late mum lived when they were married, and where we grew up! A lovely family and look how our paths have crossed - across the oceans! As the years progress I do become more aware of my own mortality and incessantly grateful for each privileged day. I quipped at today's service that where Paul says "love keeps no record of wrongs" - the task of such love becomes easier when you get older - you tend to forget easily anyway! Love remains patient and kind - and never easily angered. The part of that passage that we don't think of enough is the line that says "then we shall see face to face". I wonder what that means and who is involved?
So mid-winter in Auckland is milder than our last five years. No doubt our blood will thin, and we will complain that the place is too cold in the years to come. Compared to the 45 degrees mentioned by a parishioner recently returned from India, this remains cold! There is still plenty of green on account of the rain. And the skies are mainly grey.
I pray that your winter - if that is your season - is kept warm by the extent of God's love and the love of those who care enough. If you are heading for summer, then may it be lovely and bright for you.
Peace from these very wobbly islands, where some barely sleep because the earth is so disturbed. May they too soon have stability and peace.
Robin and the rest.
Our house is a Manse, thus part of a working arrangement and suitably close to the "church" where work takes place - in theory. The truth is that the church is out there in the community, and the community itself is a mission field, a caring opportunity and potential for a wide range of possible engagement. So "work" happens everywhere and a lot happens here in the study, where this aging brain and still enthusiastic heart tries to make sense of the weekly readings and make the message relevant to the two morning congregations. And of course there is the renewed opportunity of all age worship and children's stories and songs in the second service which is a kind of "family" service. We are blessed with a team of people who carry out all kinds of ministries, and trust that the work will grown in scope and influence.
Today was a typical Monday at this time of the year - an array of weather patterns most of of which involved copious precipitation. There was a dry patch when we processed out to the hearse at the end of a service of thanksgiving for the life of one of our elderly members. In that sense it wasn't a typical Monday, but I will have another "sabbath". It's also the 20th of June 2011, a remarkable date as my dad was born on this day in 1911. I am battling to get my head around this phenomenal moment in my life. What a thought - not that he could have made it to 100 (he died at 60), but that I have this link in two generations that goes back so far. Well I am thinking of him today especially - his birthday was always close to Father's Day in South Africa. The memories I have, however blurred, are primarily those of a good man, which was testified to by people I met years after he died - people whom he had worked with and who noticed that he was always fair! Justice I guess remains a passion of mine too. A worthy heritage.
The Auckland lifestyle has been tainted by the endless rain (yes we were warned) and the fact that you can get sick here and take a while to recover. It seems the equivalent bugs in Wellington blew away quicker or were frozen. My beloved has battled to recover for two weeks. We are expecting some sunshine hours tomorrow and will get out for some vitamin D therapy. I am sure the summer will be nicer.
Our middle child has a birthday on the 22nd. His age matches the date this year. So we also have a mid-winter celebration in the family. And of course our numbers have grown - young Jessie the Labrador X is now about 18 weeks old and is adjusting to life in our family. We are blessed with a lovely park across the road with a walkway and stream, ducks included. I think I shared that with you before - I am still amazed at what a nice setting it is.We have not been to the beach much, but I do still enjoy the proximity of the sea.
I have conducted four funerals in 10 weeks. Two have been folk with cancer. One very brave lady who lived behind the church (building) was Irish born and lived in South Africa for some 20 years - in the same street where my 100 years ago dad and my late mum lived when they were married, and where we grew up! A lovely family and look how our paths have crossed - across the oceans! As the years progress I do become more aware of my own mortality and incessantly grateful for each privileged day. I quipped at today's service that where Paul says "love keeps no record of wrongs" - the task of such love becomes easier when you get older - you tend to forget easily anyway! Love remains patient and kind - and never easily angered. The part of that passage that we don't think of enough is the line that says "then we shall see face to face". I wonder what that means and who is involved?
So mid-winter in Auckland is milder than our last five years. No doubt our blood will thin, and we will complain that the place is too cold in the years to come. Compared to the 45 degrees mentioned by a parishioner recently returned from India, this remains cold! There is still plenty of green on account of the rain. And the skies are mainly grey.
I pray that your winter - if that is your season - is kept warm by the extent of God's love and the love of those who care enough. If you are heading for summer, then may it be lovely and bright for you.
Peace from these very wobbly islands, where some barely sleep because the earth is so disturbed. May they too soon have stability and peace.
Robin and the rest.
Sunday, 22 May 2011
Auckland in Autumn
So we're well into our second month in Auckland. If you can call Browns Bay Auckland. We are really in the far north, and the big city is well out of view. We have been to the airport quite a bit - that in itself is like a major journey, especially considering we were able to walk to Wellington airport in our previous abode.
The "bay" as they call it is a small village, a curious mix of holiday feel and residential units in the village, surrounded by businesses and an array of fitness institutions and dance schools. The Presbyterian church is in Anzac Road just a few hundred metres from the sea. Right opposite is a very nice butcher who makes great biltong. Our new doctor is just up the road at the Medical Centre. All within walking distance really.
South Africans abound in the area - in every business or shop you will meet them. It's a very curious feeling hearing those now almost unfamiliar accents each day. The family mix is a bit different at home too. Our eldest is in Pretoria for a few months. The remaining four of us have been added to by a now 15 week puppy called Jessie, a labrador cross collie who is a busy little family member who enjoys her daily walks in the local park - a real gem with a walkway and stream with ducks and other locals.
The change in lifestyle is quite marked - with just Robin working at present. Keeping an eye on Jessie during the puppy years does require a lot of attention - and she does enjoy having company at home.
The winter is just around the corner, but as yet we have not really felt that cold - temperatures are a good 4 to 5 degrees higher than Wellington. Auckland's rain is notorious - it can rain and shine at regular intervals within a few hours. the difference is that the rain is vertical compared to the wind-driven horizontal version the capital offers.
Well enough for this Sunday evening. Tomorrow is not a working day - it is a change not rushing off to school each Monday morning. More later.
The "bay" as they call it is a small village, a curious mix of holiday feel and residential units in the village, surrounded by businesses and an array of fitness institutions and dance schools. The Presbyterian church is in Anzac Road just a few hundred metres from the sea. Right opposite is a very nice butcher who makes great biltong. Our new doctor is just up the road at the Medical Centre. All within walking distance really.
South Africans abound in the area - in every business or shop you will meet them. It's a very curious feeling hearing those now almost unfamiliar accents each day. The family mix is a bit different at home too. Our eldest is in Pretoria for a few months. The remaining four of us have been added to by a now 15 week puppy called Jessie, a labrador cross collie who is a busy little family member who enjoys her daily walks in the local park - a real gem with a walkway and stream with ducks and other locals.
The change in lifestyle is quite marked - with just Robin working at present. Keeping an eye on Jessie during the puppy years does require a lot of attention - and she does enjoy having company at home.
The winter is just around the corner, but as yet we have not really felt that cold - temperatures are a good 4 to 5 degrees higher than Wellington. Auckland's rain is notorious - it can rain and shine at regular intervals within a few hours. the difference is that the rain is vertical compared to the wind-driven horizontal version the capital offers.
Well enough for this Sunday evening. Tomorrow is not a working day - it is a change not rushing off to school each Monday morning. More later.
Thursday, 13 January 2011
January in Wellington
So here we are well into the new year. Two weeks down and fifty to go.
At the beginning of the year we were able to testify that the new year seemed safe enough as we communicated with people on the other side of the date line. Perhaps we were wrong.
The abundance of rain – monsoon rains or otherwise – and the floods we have seen, described by an Australian as being of “biblical” proportions, has brought chaos across three continents this week. Australian and Sri Lankan floods, Brazilian land slips – perhaps the weather watchers are right about global warming after all.
Here in Wellington we have yet to experience the big one – the earthquake that is inevitable. In 1855 in the Wairarapa, not far from here in seismic terms, an 8.2 earthquake caused a shake up on 23rd January, the 15th Wellington Anniversary Day. As Anniversary day comes around again it makes you think.
The advantages of that quake were threefold. More land to use in the city (one can find the old water line marked in a street), a decent road and rail link to the Hutt Valley, and a cricket stadium in an area called the “Basin Reserve” – the area was thus a nice place to park your yacht, if you had one.
If we get another big one, we are told that the whole lot will go down again. Underwater cricket, like underwater hockey our favourite spectator sport, could be the latest Olympic challenge.
We will be at the Basin Reserve tomorrow to watch New Zealand’s Black Caps play Pakistan. Hopefully we won’t need a snorkel and goggles as we watch them drown again. The last game ended dismally on the third day.
In the meantime the 14th of January is a pleasant sunny day with a pleasant southerly breeze. What to do? We could carry on packing and sorting, or we could go out and enjoy the capital of the wobbly islands, said to be second only to New York as a world capital. True enough, it’s quite a small capital. But it has its beauty. And given the right kind of earthquake, could have a new series of islands. Not as big or fancy as Manhattan, Staten or Long islands, but then the peninsula we live on will probably be an island again! It does not compare of course. Our suburb was described by an unimpressed and here unnamed relative as being like “Umbilo during the war”. Only Durban people would get that!
We think of the thousands displaced by floods around the world this week, especially our Australian cousins in Queensland, who are showing their standard grit and determination that make them great at many things including cricket.
Happy New Year sounds a bit thin in this context. Courageous perhaps – filled with love and community spirit that exudes resilience and compassion.
Dominus Vobiscum.
At the beginning of the year we were able to testify that the new year seemed safe enough as we communicated with people on the other side of the date line. Perhaps we were wrong.
The abundance of rain – monsoon rains or otherwise – and the floods we have seen, described by an Australian as being of “biblical” proportions, has brought chaos across three continents this week. Australian and Sri Lankan floods, Brazilian land slips – perhaps the weather watchers are right about global warming after all.
Here in Wellington we have yet to experience the big one – the earthquake that is inevitable. In 1855 in the Wairarapa, not far from here in seismic terms, an 8.2 earthquake caused a shake up on 23rd January, the 15th Wellington Anniversary Day. As Anniversary day comes around again it makes you think.
The advantages of that quake were threefold. More land to use in the city (one can find the old water line marked in a street), a decent road and rail link to the Hutt Valley, and a cricket stadium in an area called the “Basin Reserve” – the area was thus a nice place to park your yacht, if you had one.
If we get another big one, we are told that the whole lot will go down again. Underwater cricket, like underwater hockey our favourite spectator sport, could be the latest Olympic challenge.
We will be at the Basin Reserve tomorrow to watch New Zealand’s Black Caps play Pakistan. Hopefully we won’t need a snorkel and goggles as we watch them drown again. The last game ended dismally on the third day.
In the meantime the 14th of January is a pleasant sunny day with a pleasant southerly breeze. What to do? We could carry on packing and sorting, or we could go out and enjoy the capital of the wobbly islands, said to be second only to New York as a world capital. True enough, it’s quite a small capital. But it has its beauty. And given the right kind of earthquake, could have a new series of islands. Not as big or fancy as Manhattan, Staten or Long islands, but then the peninsula we live on will probably be an island again! It does not compare of course. Our suburb was described by an unimpressed and here unnamed relative as being like “Umbilo during the war”. Only Durban people would get that!
We think of the thousands displaced by floods around the world this week, especially our Australian cousins in Queensland, who are showing their standard grit and determination that make them great at many things including cricket.
Happy New Year sounds a bit thin in this context. Courageous perhaps – filled with love and community spirit that exudes resilience and compassion.
Dominus Vobiscum.
Monday, 3 January 2011
So you think this year is going to end...
(Written before the end of 2010)
I've been wondering about this end of the year thing. It's a bit like the date line. It had to go somewhere. People have various new year celebrations. This one, with its number system, is quite convenient I suppose. Number two thousand no hundred and ten is about to be finished. Roll along two thousand no hundred and eleven.
Fifty times I have been through this ritual - initially with parents but more recently as a parent of older children. The idea is that you leave the stuff behind in this year and start again with the new one - a new blank page, a new diary for traditionalists, and a new beginning. New hopes and dreams. Sometimes new homes and jobs. New intentions to be better at some things, and to lose the things that weigh us down, both physically and metaphorically.
The truth is the year won't end. We can't leave behind the things that have happened - even though we may hope that the next year will be much much better. We take with us the memories of lovely people who have died. We carry with us the memories of people who have challenged and exhausted us - of colleagues and friends who have journeyed with us and supported us - and of the tragedies and disasters that have forever shattered families and communities.
I've been to church a few times recently - lots of Christmas services. Twice I've picked up on a prayer used in which the Priest prayed, I think, about being inside or outside of time. I'm sure that's what I heard - twice. I could be forgiven for making it up once. The Christian faith is about eternal life - a life that begins now in relationship with God through Christ, a life in love, and a promise that not even death can separate us from this love of God.
My belief about death is uncomplicated. We move outside of time. The numbering of the years does not matter then. We dwell with an eternal God who I suspect, not being bound by time, sees it all at once. Not surprisingly, we are not to consult fortune tellers and astrology is not required - forget the stars. A simple faith in God who is above all means that we are to trust him fully for the bit of time we have labelled 2011.
May your next bit of time on earth, conveniently divided into days and months, be filled with this love that Jesus showed forth in his life, death and resurrection. Read the resurrection accounts in the New Testament. It's quite lovely how Jesus showed up when the doors were locked. Not a ghost, he confounded them with a rather nice barbecue on a beach. And of course it wasn't easy to describe how he left them at the end. Hidden by a cloud perhaps? He has not hidden his truth from us.
Following him in this bit of life labelled 2011 will make for a better journey. Thankfully we take with us the courage and faith that kept us moving steadfastly forward through this year, and the best promise of all - that He will never leave us or forsake us - that He is with us always!
I've been wondering about this end of the year thing. It's a bit like the date line. It had to go somewhere. People have various new year celebrations. This one, with its number system, is quite convenient I suppose. Number two thousand no hundred and ten is about to be finished. Roll along two thousand no hundred and eleven.
Fifty times I have been through this ritual - initially with parents but more recently as a parent of older children. The idea is that you leave the stuff behind in this year and start again with the new one - a new blank page, a new diary for traditionalists, and a new beginning. New hopes and dreams. Sometimes new homes and jobs. New intentions to be better at some things, and to lose the things that weigh us down, both physically and metaphorically.
The truth is the year won't end. We can't leave behind the things that have happened - even though we may hope that the next year will be much much better. We take with us the memories of lovely people who have died. We carry with us the memories of people who have challenged and exhausted us - of colleagues and friends who have journeyed with us and supported us - and of the tragedies and disasters that have forever shattered families and communities.
I've been to church a few times recently - lots of Christmas services. Twice I've picked up on a prayer used in which the Priest prayed, I think, about being inside or outside of time. I'm sure that's what I heard - twice. I could be forgiven for making it up once. The Christian faith is about eternal life - a life that begins now in relationship with God through Christ, a life in love, and a promise that not even death can separate us from this love of God.
My belief about death is uncomplicated. We move outside of time. The numbering of the years does not matter then. We dwell with an eternal God who I suspect, not being bound by time, sees it all at once. Not surprisingly, we are not to consult fortune tellers and astrology is not required - forget the stars. A simple faith in God who is above all means that we are to trust him fully for the bit of time we have labelled 2011.
May your next bit of time on earth, conveniently divided into days and months, be filled with this love that Jesus showed forth in his life, death and resurrection. Read the resurrection accounts in the New Testament. It's quite lovely how Jesus showed up when the doors were locked. Not a ghost, he confounded them with a rather nice barbecue on a beach. And of course it wasn't easy to describe how he left them at the end. Hidden by a cloud perhaps? He has not hidden his truth from us.
Following him in this bit of life labelled 2011 will make for a better journey. Thankfully we take with us the courage and faith that kept us moving steadfastly forward through this year, and the best promise of all - that He will never leave us or forsake us - that He is with us always!
Sunday, 2 January 2011
And a Merry Christmas to you too.
(From the December edition of "Quad" Magazine).
Quite amazing it is that we are talking about Christmas already. Apart from the speed at which “time flies” in our lives, it seems peculiar to be assailed by festive advertisements towards the end of October. How merry we are when Christmas injects life into our ailing economies around the world. But are we really happy?
Our year ones and twos watched a delightful story in the Veggie Tales series about “Madame Blueberry” – yes a blueberry with a French accent, who was horribly duped into overspending by some scheming salespeople from a local departmental store. The plethora of goods and gadgets failed to induce a state of happiness in this dear woman. The boys were quick to remind me of this outcome when I asked them what they could remember about the term’s work in Religious Education. Stuff doesn’t make you happy, as nice as it may be to upgrade things all the time. In the case of Madame Blueberry, she remained so “blue” despite her goodies and goods. At the end of the story, when her tree house fell down from the weight of her purchases, good friends saved the day.
It is no real surprise when we hear from researchers that our forbears did not get depressed because they had plenty of sunshine, exercise, good community life (relationships a priority!), ample sleep and a good diet. Somehow the picture of sleepy children clinging to a computer in the dark, feeding on junk food and talking to people in cyberspace, doesn’t match this hope of a non-depressed existence. The boys at school look at me very suspiciously, of course, when (on those rare Wellington sunny days) I chase them out of the passages into the sunlight muttering about fresh air and the sun’s gift of vitamin D being good for their low moods.
So as Christmas comes along, beware the fact that our moods are mixed by a combination of festivities and memories that are painful, and the added arrival of equally challenging relatives! Like weddings and funerals, these important rituals mean that we get together to reconstitute the networks that once would have been common in extended families. The beauty of permanent extended families is that people benefit from ongoing support and have no choice but to forgive each others’ failings and work together! Our isolation in “western” societies has the potential of breeding separation and a dubious self-sufficiency which detaches us.
What’s to be done then? Read Dickens’ A Christmas Carol? Perhaps. A Scrooge-type conversion would make the world nicer – but it’s more than individual change that is needed. Corporations and the wealthy ones who invest in them, and in many countries governments and leaders, are probably all in need of a major transformation or change of heart. We need more than just a festive season as well.
The year will run its course. There will be many celebrations of success and progress in the lives of our students and their families. Well done to so many who have given it their best shot and more! For those who are moving on to new adventures and places, we wish you well. For all of us – there is the hope and prayer that our happiness will be deeper and wider, richer and stronger than the temporary joys of a festive season’s merriment.
The quest for meaning in life - to quote psychotherapist Viktor Frankl - the “will to meaning,” still rates high in our human pursuit for happiness and fulfillment. Frankl, a holocaust survivor, remained resolute in his thinking that happiness can never be a direct goal. How easily we fall into that trap, especially as parents, when we want our children, above all else, to be “happy”. This Viennese psychiatrist suggested that we can live through anything if we have something to live for.
Happiness is the by-product of fulfilled and purposeful lives in which we live for a greater power or cause outside of ourselves. At Christmas we celebrate the birth of Christ, described both as the light of the world and the desire of nations. There is no better model than his loving and sacrificial life, the one fittingly described as “a man for others”. It is this Jesus who calls us to follow Him. May you find fulfillment in your quest for a truly happy and successful future, and may God bless you richly.
Quite amazing it is that we are talking about Christmas already. Apart from the speed at which “time flies” in our lives, it seems peculiar to be assailed by festive advertisements towards the end of October. How merry we are when Christmas injects life into our ailing economies around the world. But are we really happy?
Our year ones and twos watched a delightful story in the Veggie Tales series about “Madame Blueberry” – yes a blueberry with a French accent, who was horribly duped into overspending by some scheming salespeople from a local departmental store. The plethora of goods and gadgets failed to induce a state of happiness in this dear woman. The boys were quick to remind me of this outcome when I asked them what they could remember about the term’s work in Religious Education. Stuff doesn’t make you happy, as nice as it may be to upgrade things all the time. In the case of Madame Blueberry, she remained so “blue” despite her goodies and goods. At the end of the story, when her tree house fell down from the weight of her purchases, good friends saved the day.
It is no real surprise when we hear from researchers that our forbears did not get depressed because they had plenty of sunshine, exercise, good community life (relationships a priority!), ample sleep and a good diet. Somehow the picture of sleepy children clinging to a computer in the dark, feeding on junk food and talking to people in cyberspace, doesn’t match this hope of a non-depressed existence. The boys at school look at me very suspiciously, of course, when (on those rare Wellington sunny days) I chase them out of the passages into the sunlight muttering about fresh air and the sun’s gift of vitamin D being good for their low moods.
So as Christmas comes along, beware the fact that our moods are mixed by a combination of festivities and memories that are painful, and the added arrival of equally challenging relatives! Like weddings and funerals, these important rituals mean that we get together to reconstitute the networks that once would have been common in extended families. The beauty of permanent extended families is that people benefit from ongoing support and have no choice but to forgive each others’ failings and work together! Our isolation in “western” societies has the potential of breeding separation and a dubious self-sufficiency which detaches us.
What’s to be done then? Read Dickens’ A Christmas Carol? Perhaps. A Scrooge-type conversion would make the world nicer – but it’s more than individual change that is needed. Corporations and the wealthy ones who invest in them, and in many countries governments and leaders, are probably all in need of a major transformation or change of heart. We need more than just a festive season as well.
The year will run its course. There will be many celebrations of success and progress in the lives of our students and their families. Well done to so many who have given it their best shot and more! For those who are moving on to new adventures and places, we wish you well. For all of us – there is the hope and prayer that our happiness will be deeper and wider, richer and stronger than the temporary joys of a festive season’s merriment.
The quest for meaning in life - to quote psychotherapist Viktor Frankl - the “will to meaning,” still rates high in our human pursuit for happiness and fulfillment. Frankl, a holocaust survivor, remained resolute in his thinking that happiness can never be a direct goal. How easily we fall into that trap, especially as parents, when we want our children, above all else, to be “happy”. This Viennese psychiatrist suggested that we can live through anything if we have something to live for.
Happiness is the by-product of fulfilled and purposeful lives in which we live for a greater power or cause outside of ourselves. At Christmas we celebrate the birth of Christ, described both as the light of the world and the desire of nations. There is no better model than his loving and sacrificial life, the one fittingly described as “a man for others”. It is this Jesus who calls us to follow Him. May you find fulfillment in your quest for a truly happy and successful future, and may God bless you richly.
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