Christmas Greetings from the Kuss Clan!

Dear family and friends,

Wishing you and yours a joyous Christmas and trusting that this finds you well and rejoicing in the Saviour who is Christ the Lord of all.

Lotsa changes going on in the family this year. We’re gradually emptying out the nest. Two down, one to go …! Ash is flat-sharing with one of his old school mates at an apartment in Nundah, overlooking his friendly neighbourhood Woollies, Nundah train station and some large cricket fields. He is hoping to move to the south side of the river when his current lease expires in March. One highlight of the year was when Ash’s mate’s song (which he recorded the bass guitar part for) was released on Spotify and other music streaming sites. It’s called “If You Saw Me” by John Keenan. Feel free to check it out and give John some love! Ash is continuing his Bachelor of Ministry studies through Alphacrucis College in Woolloongabba and hoping to work in psychology on completion of his degree. He currently attends Collective Church in East Brisbane (a member of Australian Christian Churches) and participates in their worship team. He appreciates the pastoral care, the fellowship and the coffee! 

Following an ectopic miscarriage earlier in the year, Millie has moved to Westbury, Tasmania, to help in her mum & stepdad’s business. At this time, we understand she has no plans to return. Your prayers are appreciated.

After completing her Speech Pathology degree 12 months ago, Naomi had some casual work in outside-school-hours care and the local fruit farm, before accepting a speech pathology position with Autism Qld in Mackay. She moved up there in late April. Her work is mostly with children, from 18 months to mid-teens. She is currently flat-sharing with three other young professionals and attending a Baptist church in town. After a minor car accident in late September, she sold the Holden Cruze as a repairable write-off and bought a midnight blue Mazda 3. Naomi enjoys the country lifestyle, visiting local places of interest around the Capricorn Coast, and the river views from her apartment. She will be with us for Christmas, and then off on a cruise over the New Year with her boyfriend Callum. In the long term, she hopes to return to Brisbane to work in speech pathology in education or paediatric (children’s) health environments.

Rowan is currently working as a yard-man / forklift driver for Newnham Scaffolding at Archerfield. He hopes to continue with them in 2020 and plans to get his forklift licence and heavy-rigid licence to drive semi-trailers and 12-tonne trucks. Rowan has recently been made permanent with them and enjoys the everyday challenges and responsibilities of the role (as well as the paid holidays and sick leave.) He has recently started training with the Capalaba warriors local footy team with some mates from church and taken up his trumpet again for the first time since high school (3 years). He attends ThreeSixteen Wesleyan with us. Rowan still has his Holden Commodore SV6 ute. He enjoys working on cars and bikes here and there and keeping fit.

Gordon continues to teach for Kingsley Australia and co-ordinate the Kingsley Brisbane South hub. He is trying to complete his upgrades for his Certificate IV in Training & Assessment (mandatory for teaching in the Vocational Education sector). Gordon also continues as treasurer for the Wesleyan Church Sth Qld District, and has recently taken over as book-keeper for ThreeSixteen Wesleyan, in addition to his Zone Supervisory role.

I (Deb) have had a productive year academically, completing 3 subjects of a Graduate Diploma in Creative Writing through Tabor College of Ministries in Adelaide. My short story “Storm Child” was published in their student anthology “Tales from the Upper Room” earlier in the year. I plan to finish the final subject of the Grad Dip in Semester 1 2020 and continue with my Master of Arts in Creative Writing beyond that, while developing a small business in editing and academic writing support. My novel/memoir about my great-grandmother is still a work in progress. I hope to send it out to publishers early in the New Year. Church involvement keeps me busy, with responsibilities on worship teams, and heading up women’s ministries. I’m also still editor of Women in Touch and looking forward to seeing how that develops over the year to come. 

Blessings to you and yours for the Christmas season and 2020.

Gordon, Deb, Ash, Naomi & Rowan.

Truth in the Centre

 

Thanks to one of our young guys at Threesixteen Wesleyan who recently preached on his experiences as a student pilot. He shared how he had to learn to trust the artificial horizon generated by his instruments when he couldn’t see the ground. How much more so can we trust our Father who knows all things and works them together for our good!

Centred on the horizon

When it all feels wrong

Heading off-course

Spiralling into nowhere

Eyes on the horizon

Trust the centre

Know the truth

Focus on the faith you know

Not the feelings that come and go

Lots of stuff that distracts

Clutters up your thoughts

Let the clutter go

Focus on the horizon

Fly free in truth.

(c) Debra Kuss 2019. If you would like to reproduce this poem, you are welcome to do so, but please cite me as the original author and copyright holder. 

 

Scam

SCAM

I promise this post is free of any malware, or links to same. Having been robbed by a scammer once, this was my attempt at putting the experience into perspective. Let me be clear. I don’t condone scammers. Like most people, I think scammers should get a life and a real job. This was my creative attempt to understand what they do “from the other end of the phone”.

‘Your phone is ringing. Do you need to get that?’ The woman’s voice in my headset is doubtful. Not now, lady, I’m too close to finishing this.

I glare at Shushila, and jerk my head at the ringing telephone. She ignores me, or pretends to, comfortably parked on the couch with a Coke and her iPhone, lip-syncing to the ‘Jai Ho’ scene in Slumdog Millionaire. She says she knows one of the dancers, some guy from New Delhi, but I think she’s dreaming. My sister is sixteen, not old enough to …

Focus. ‘It’s fine, someone’s taking care of it’, I soothe the doubtful woman, careful not to let anything in my voice show as I lunge across the room and snatch the receiver, tossing it into Shila’s lap. It doesn’t matter who’s calling. Anything to keep this woman’s attention. If I can pull this off, it’ll mean a big fat pay cheque and we can eat for a few weeks, pay our phone bills. Even catch up on some rent.

This conversation’s been going on for close to ten minutes already. I’m amazed; everyone else I’ve tried it on so far realises it’s a scam, and hangs up, usually with a mouthful of abuse, or a click and the buzz of a dead line. I keep stalling her, putting her on hold, while I think up new topics of conversation. We chat about her studies; she’s a history student in Australia somewhere. I tell her history was boring at school, teasing, flirting just a little bit. It’s a risk; she could be offended, but she laughs. I shake my head in silent disbelief. The longer she talks, the more I find out about her. She’s probably about my mother’s age, married, grown-up kids. Maybe she’s lonely, or bored, needs someone to talk to. Is she flirting? Get a life, lady. But not until you’ve paid my rent bill.

Bleep, she’s actually given me her full name, her contact details, her system password and … will you look at that, her bank account details. Ye gods, it worked. That’s way more than flirting. It’s gonna be one expensive phone call lady. I name a price, pulling a figure out of the air, thinking this is gonna blow it, for sure. She immediately says she can’t do it, and I quickly temporise, offering her a ‘special price, just for you, ‘cause you’re such a great customer’.

She’s still doubtful, but I think I’ve convinced her I’m working for Microsoft, and I’m going to fix her virus. Yeah, I can pull the virus off her system, but it’s gonna cost her, big time. It’s a sweet little bug, one I call ‘Herbie’, just to myself. Like the Love Bug in the movie. That IT degree really does have its uses, sometimes.

STRANGERS ON A TRAIN

This was an actual incident, as well as I can remember, from several years ago. I still don’t know who these characters were, or what they were upset about!               

STRANGERS ON A TRAIN

‘Oh f—!’ It should have been a routine afternoon commute. It’s cranky hour, the hour of summer storms and early childhood temper tantrums. We’re on the express train from Park Road to Manly, heading for the bayside suburbs east of Brisbane.

Perhaps temper tantrums aren’t just for the very young after all. At the far end of the carriage, a young woman jumps up, banging in panic on the guard’s door. There’s little he can do; she drops back into her seat, sobbing aloud behind her waterfall of long black hair. Strangers roll their eyes at each other in silent pity. Missed her stop, poor thing. Her noisy cries make any kind of conversation awkward.

‘B— f—- h—!’ No one knows what he’s angry about, just a greasy young guy in dirty work-clothes and a whole trainload of attitude. ‘What’re you lookin’ at? You wanna fight me, or what?’ He repeats this with varied expletives, every few minutes for the next half-hour, to anyone who meets his eye.

One man tries, braver than the rest of us. ‘Oi mate, what’s goin’ on?’

‘F— y–! You wanna fight or somethin’?’

Don’t look at him. Don’t look at her. The scenery, the book, the game of solitaire becomes all-engrossing. The work projects on the tablet or the laptop that weren’t so pressing take on new urgency.

After an increasingly embarrassing duet of Hysterical Girl’s sobs and Angry Young Man’s snarls from opposite ends of the carriage, we stop at Manly. Hysterical Girl jumps off, running to the train on the opposite platform.

Brave Man peers out the door, looking for the guard. ‘Hey ‘scuse me, this guy’s being really obnoxious. He’s been swearing at everyone all the way from town.’

The guard looks in. ‘Him? Is that true, he’s been swearing at everyone?

Angry Young Man is slouched in his seat, muttering ‘f— b— c—! You wanna come and take a poke, or what?’

Several of us nod, belatedly finding our courage in solidarity. ‘Yeah, he’s been carrying on like that for the last half-hour.’

‘Listen mate, you’re gonna have to get off. You can’t behave like that on Queensland Rail trains. D’you understand?’

‘Ah s—! F— y–!’ Angry Young Man lunges off the train.

Did you see that? Strangers, allies in adversity, glance around, exchanging half-smiles and disbelieving headshakes as the doors slide shut and the train gathers pace on its homeward way.

Gotcha!

This is an original short story for young readers originally written for a Children’s Literature subject at Tabor. It has been submitted for consideration by The School Magazine (NSW Education Dept). Gotcha! explores themes of courage, resilience and facing fears. You are welcome to use it, but please acknowledge ownership and don’t copy or sell it. 

GOTCHA!
‘Think you can manage the goats by yourself, Luce?’
‘Don’t worry, Dad. Popeye and me, we can sort them out.’
Lucie hoped she sounded brave. She was nearly nine; well, six whole months past eight. That was old enough to bring the goats up, wasn’t it?
Lucie loved the goats. The kids were so cute. They had long skinny legs and soft wet noses. They were just the right size to cuddle and play with.
Mum frowned. ‘Don’t let Big Billy poke you.’
Butterflies flapped in Lucie’s tummy.
Big Billy was scary. His big sharp horns could really hurt. Those red eyes always looked mean.
But nothing was going to stop Lucie working with the goats. Not even mean old Big Billy.
‘Pheweeee! Come, Popeye!’ Lucie whistled.
Popeye was scratching himself against a tree. He trotted up and Lucie fed him an apple.
Popeye crunched it all up. He slobbered in Lucie’s hand. He smelled like Granny Smith apple and pony.
‘Yuk!’ Lucie wiped her slobbery hand on the grass. ‘You’re a messy eater, Popeye.’
Dad put Popeye’s saddle on. ‘So were you when you were little,’ he grinned.
‘Eeww.’ Lucie giggled. She buckled the girth straps under Popeye’s tummy.
Sometimes Popeye pretended he was a puffer fish. He blew his tummy up big and fat. He didn’t want Lucie to cinch him too tight.
Lucie knew she’d fall off if Popeye’s saddle was loose. She checked Popeye’s girth. Just in case he was pretending to be a puffer fish again.
Not too loose.
Not too tight
No twists.
Just right.
‘Want a lift?’ Dad used to boost her up into the saddle when she was little.
‘No thanks Dad. I can manage.’ Lucie climbed up the fence beside Popeye. She put one foot in the stirrup and swung her other leg over Popeye’s back.
‘All set? Off you go then. Show ‘em who’s boss.’
‘Let’s go, Popeye! Whee!’
The sun felt warm on Lucie’s back. ‘Where would they go, Popeye? Maybe the swimming hole?’ Lucie liked the swimming hole. It was cool and shady on hot days. She wasn’t allowed to swim there by herself. Mum said it was dangerous.
Maybe there were dinosaurs.
Or alligators.
Or fire-breathing dragon-lizards.
Butterflies flapped in Lucie’s tummy. Just like when she thought about Big Billy.
Popeye shivered. He didn’t like dinosaurs or alligators or fire-breathing dragon-lizards either.
The swimming hole was cool and shady. The goats were snoozing in the shade.
Lucie counted them. ‘There’s Betsy, and Trix, and Dribble, and Susan. There’s Flo, but where’s Billy the Kid?’
Billy the Kid was the biggest and bossiest of all the kids. He had hard little bumps on his head. They’d grow into sharp horns when he was bigger. He had mean red eyes too. Just like Big Billy.
Billy the Kid made the butterflies flap in Lucie’s tummy too. Sometimes, he ran at her and knocked her over, when she was carrying the scrap bucket to feed the chooks. Then Billy gobbled up all the scraps!
Now Lucie and Popeye rounded up all the goats. ‘We’ll get them up first, and come back and look for Billy the Kid later on’.
Dad was waiting for them at the paddock gate. ‘All safe, Luce?’
‘Billy the Kid’s missing, Dad. Should I … go back and have another look?’
Lucie half-hoped he’d say no. She didn’t think she could manage Billy by herself.
‘Yep, just watch out for snakes. They like to sunbake when it’s warm.’
Butterflies flapped in Lucie’s tummy again.
Dinosaurs were scary.
Alligators were scarier.
Fire-breathing dragon-lizards were even scarier.
But snakes, with their flickery tongues and their scaly slithery curves, were the scariest of all.
Lucie swallowed a big lump in her throat. ‘OK’.
‘I don’t think you’ll see any. But if you do, keep still. Don’t touch them, and you’ll be fine. They’re more scared of you than you are of them, remember?’
Lucie nodded. She turned Popeye around. They went back to the swimming hole.
Popeye’s hooves went shush-shush-shush in the soft sand. His ears flicked back and forth, listening.
Lucie listened too. She could hear trees rustling. Maybe they were telling each other secrets. She could hear a whipbird singing ‘coo-EE.’ But she couldn’t hear Billy the Kid.
‘Billy! Billy the Kid! Where are you?’ Lucie shouted. No answer. She shouted again and again. Still no answer.
‘Maybe he’s around the bend.’
The creek was deep there. Ti-trees cast squiggly, wriggly, jiggly shadows over the water.
Something else wriggled in the soft deep sand. It was a little green tree snake. Green tree snakes were harmless. Dad had told her lots of times. But the butterflies still flapped in Lucie’s tummy anyway.
Popeye shivered. But they both stayed very still.
The snake was wriggling away fast. It must be scared, too. It wriggled up a big old ti-tree.
‘Meh!’ Billy the Kid came running, straight toward Lucie. Straight towards the creek.
Billy didn’t look mean any more. He looked terrified! But he could drown if he went in the creek! Lucie had to stop him! ‘Billy!’
Billy ran past her. Lucie jumped off Popeye’s back. She landed smack! on Billy the Kid! She wrapped her arms and legs around him. Lucie hung on tight.
Billy the Kid swerved sideways. ‘Meh!’
Lucie nearly fell off. She slipped around under his belly. She remembered Popeye pretending to be a puffer-fish. She wasn’t letting go until Billy stopped!
Billy puffed to a halt in some soft sand. ‘Meh!’
Lucie let go. Plop! The soft sand didn’t hurt a bit.
She laughed, and jumped up. Billy the Kid was a big baby. He wasn’t scary at all!
‘Gotcha! Now go home, silly Billy!’ She smacked him on the rump. ‘I’m not scared of you anymore!’
Lucie wasn’t scared of dinosaurs or alligators or fire-breathing dragon-lizards any more. Not even green tree snakes or Billy the Kid.
Silly Billy the Scaredy Kid trotted off home.
Big, brave Lucie and Popeye trotted home too

 

Storm Child (updated)

This version printed in Tabor College’s Tales From the Upper Room 2019 Speculative Fiction issue.

Photo by Suparerg Suksai on Pexels.com

 

Storm Child

Copyright Debra Kuss 2019

Do you ever wonder why summer storms strike in the shadow of sunset, or why small children throw feral temper tantrums as darkness sneaks like a thief to steal the day? When it’s too muggy to breathe or move. Still, so still. Tired and sticky and ready to snap. Thunder snarls, away out to sea, and you wait. Wait for the rain, for freedom, air and release. Small children know this, but they can’t tell you in words. That’s why they throw temper tantrums. They know when a storm is coming. Something in their blood; instinctive, primal. Can you feel it? Listen. Listen for the storm coming. Listen…

The child of late afternoon summer storms was born of spirit beings that live in the heavens. He passes his days under the stern gaze of his great Father Sun, joyous, playing, running among the clouds. He splashes in mountain streams and tumbles down vast grassy sand dunes. When the summer heat stifles like a heavy blanket over the earth, the days linger, long and slow. The storm child still dances and frolics. He chases cloud shadows on the cliffs and sunbeams in the rainforest.

Once the work of the day is done, Father Sun lays his head on his western pillow. A fireshot cloud of violet and amber and vermilion illumines his rest.

But the storm child is not yet ready to leave his play. One by one, his companions, the wallaby, the possum, the sleepy goanna, slip away to their rest. The storm child shouts and throws himself about, whining and teasing the branches of the red Poincianas. He yanks at the roots of the ancient Moreton Bay fig which stands sentinel over the long sandspit.

She creaks, that ancient crone, woken from her afternoon doze by his childish cries. She shakes an admonishing branch like a wagging finger, and resumes her lonely vigil over the ocean. No one knows for whom she waits. A lover, lost to a bushfire long ago. Children grown, or never born. Still she endures the passing of the seasons, around and again. Always different. Always the same.

Not just his particular playmates, all the animals know when the storm child is aroused. Possums and snakes hide in their holes. Koalas nestle deeper into the sheltering arms of the scribbly gums. Busy black ants scurry about, collecting food. While the light lasts, their work is not done. Storm birds sound their warning cries against the rising drone of the wind on the ocean.

Tired of the endless sticky day and his own company, the storm child jerks on the fringes of the Norfolk pine. She bends toward him, as if to hear a secret, springing back again when he lets go. He kicks the little waves that froth white on the sand and scowls as they turn dirty brown in protest. Out to sea, their bigger brothers and sisters goad each other to casual violence, stirred by the teasing, spiteful wind. Lightning flirts with thunder. Teasing, drawing ever closer, never quite touching.

The storm child, exhausted by the sticky heat, has worked himself into a tantrum, shrieking, screaming, thrashing. With his sobs comes the rain, beating, savage, mindless, against the land and the waves. Dry earth absorbs the lovely lash, bleeding scents of wet soil and scorched tree trunks and sodden dead leaves.

With a hiccup, he stops, draws a shuddering breath. Where is Mama; where did she go? In a panic, he grabs at the branches of the old Moreton Bay Fig, shaking them as if to pry loose what she knows. But she will not tell. His terror turns savage, snapping branches and shredding petals off the red Poincianas. They scatter on the wind like drops of blood rain.

Mama has gone. He has stirred up this mad frenzy of rain and lightning, wind and thunder. But she will not answer when he calls. He runs to and fro, screaming for her in terror. Mama, Mama, why won’t you answer me? Sobbing out the last traces of his frenzy, he curls into a ball at the tip of the sandspit.

Great Mother Moon comes and gathers up her child, his fury spent, still snuffling and hiccupping in his sleep. She is a stately lady, with starlight shining on her silver hair. Kindness and serenity are in her gaze. Mother Moon tucks him against her shoulder.

Comforted, the storm child sighs and nestles closer. There you are. Why didn’t you answer me? I called you and called you. He hears her timeless heartbeat in the rhythm of the tides. This sound he has known since before his birth. His mother’s heartbeat means safety, I am here, all is well.

What he does not know, is not ready to hear, is that Mother Moon has been there all along, never far away, waiting, for him to stop and listen. He has been absorbed in his own small concerns; who will play with me? who will sing me songs, and tell me stories? who will make me laugh?

He has never noticed that she is always there, not always seen, but ever-present, waiting, beams outstretched to light her children home. But she will not interfere. Only when they are ready to listen, will she speak. You are strong. You will learn to temper your strength with patience and kindness, and the wisdom of the years. But for now, know that you are loved, and you are safe.

The storm child’s face is flushed and sweat-sticky from temper and tears. Soft baby curls tickle Mother Moon’s chin and she brushes the top of his head with a feather kiss, the touch of a seagull’s wingtip. His drowsy sighs echo back in the dying murmur of the wind and the sleepy calls of the night birds. Stroking and soothing, Mother Moon settles her child to sleep in the hollow of the hill.

The ancient Moreton Bay fig stretches out her gnarled branches to shelter him. This is what she has waited for. She will cradle the storm child in the nest of her skirts as he sleeps. His lullaby is the song of the waves, his light the kindly glow of the gentle stars. Rest, storm child. Sleep, and be at peace.

More bits & pieces I’ve been reading … and wishing I could write

(The inspiration for this blog …)

The road goes ever on and on

Down from the door where it began

Now far ahead, the road has gone,

And I must follow, if I can,

Pursuing it with weary feet,

Until it joins some larger way,

Where many paths and errands meet,

And whither then? I cannot say.

(Bilbo Baggins, on his way to Rivendell, in Lord of the Rings, JRR Tolkien.)

 

Some books should be tasted,

Some devoured,

But only a few

Should be chewed and digested thoroughly.

(Inkheart, Cornelia Funke)

 

‘…everyone knows that sometimes the contract to forget is as important as any promise to remember. Children can grow up having no knowledge of the indiscretion of their father in his youth or of the illegitimate sibling who lives fifty miles away and bears another man’s name. History is that which is agreed upon by mutual consent.’

(The Light Between Oceans, ML Stedman).

 

‘History isn’t what happened; it’s just what someone wrote down’ (Diana Gabaldon).

 

‘We are a problem that needs to be solved;

We are children who need to be loved’

(‘What About Us?’, Pink.)

 

 

 

APPOINTMENTS WITH THE BOSS

Just found this script in my worship file when I was looking for something else…as you do.  

Characters:  Narrator, Boss, Receptionist, Sleepy Mother, Teenager, Apologetic Man, Small Child.

Props:  Tablet, phone, reception desk & chair, exec desk, chair & phone, duster, ipod, skateboard, cotton wool, outsize glasses, big lollipop.

Narrator:  What do you think would happen if, when you wanted to talk to God, you had to make an appointment to see Him?  What would you say to Him?  What would He say to you?  We present “Appointments with the Boss”.

Boss:  Morning Jackie.  Who’s on the schedule for today?

Receptionist:  Morning Boss.  Your first appointment’s already here, bright and early…well, early anyway.  (Ushers in sleepy mother).

Boss:  Good morning Christina.  It’s always nice to meet with you. How can I help you today?

Sleepy mother:  (Sits down, promptly starts to nod off to sleep).  Oh, sorry, Boss, so sleepy… (yawns).  Our Father, who art in Heaven…. (snores).

Boss:  Well, I’m sorry you’re too tired to talk today.  I know you do a good job looking after your small children.  Maybe tomorrow we can have a chat?  Jackie, can you please show Christina out?  (Receptionist blinks, jumps up & ushers sleepy mother out.)

Receptionist:  That was quick.

Boss:  She didn’t have a lot to say apparently.

Receptionist:  Well, she was up at 11.00 pm, 1.30 am, 3.15 am and 5.30 am with the baby.  I guess she was pretty tired.

Boss:  Yes, I suppose so.  Well, who’s next then?

Receptionist:  Well, the person who was supposed to be next hasn’t turned up yet.  Oh, but Skeet’s here.

Boss:  Who?

Receptionist:  Skeet.  You know, black and red skateboard, listens to Kanye West at 125 decibels.

Boss:  Oh, that’s great!  Send him in.  Hi Skeet, how’s things with you?

Skeet:  (Skates in on skateboard, hops off, bopping with his ipod).  Hey dude.  Have you heard this song?  Man, it’s really awesome!

Boss:  What are you listening to Skeet?

Skeet:  Later, dude.  (Bops out).

Receptionist:  See I told you, Kanye West at 125 decibels.

Boss:  I don’t think you can play an ipod that loud.  Anyway, is there someone else?

Receptionist:  Oh yes, Dr Augustine-Luther-Calvin-Wesley.

Boss:  Oh good, I haven’t had a chat with him for a while.  Show him in please.

Apologetic Man:  (Rushes in, shirt buttoned crooked, shoelaces flapping, hair untidy, outsize glasses on crooked, big wad of cotton wool on a shaving cut).  So sorry boss, I’m so late.

Boss:  That’s OK, Dr Augustine-Luther-Calvin-Wesley.  You know I always like to see you, whenever you can manage it.

Apologetic Man:  Boss, I’m so sorry, so sorry.  It’s so awful….

Boss:  What’s so awful?

Apologetic Man:  boss, I’m so sorry, I have to go.  I’m so late.  So sorry, so sorry…. (hurries out).

Boss:  What was he sorry for anyway?

Receptionist:  His LinkedIn profile, his Twitter account and his FaceBook profile all say he has a PhD in Apologetics.  From Bible College of Queensland.

Boss:  Oh, not from Kingsley Australia?

Receptionist:  Now boss, you’re not supposed to be partisan.

Boss:  I know.  But this has been a pretty ho-hum day so far.  First Christina who’s asleep by the time she gets here, then Skeet and Kanye West at 125 decibels, and now Dr….

Receptionist:  Augustine-Luther-Calvin-Wesley.

Boss:  Yes, well, once upon a time, he was just plain old Marty.  And none of them even bothered to really talk to me anyway.

Receptionist:  That’s really sad boss.

Boss:  Oh well, is there anyone else for today?

Receptionist:  Well, there’s no one on the diary.  But there is someone waiting.  I don’t know if you’d want to see her though.

Boss:  Why not?  Show her in.

Small Child:  Hello mister!

Boss:  Well, hello there!  What’s your name?

Small Child:  I’m Cathy.  Do you like my lollipop?

Boss:  It’s huge!  What can I do for you today?

Small Child:  (Thinks about it, face screwed up).  I dunno.

Boss:  You mean you don’t want to ask me for anything, or tell me something or apologise for something?  You’re not going to fall asleep are you?

Small Child:  (Shakes head).  I don’t have a sleep in the daytime any more!  I’m nearly big enough for prep!

Boss:  I see.  Then why are you here?

Small Child:  I dunno.  Just wanted to say hello.  but, hey, do you wanna see my bike?  It’s red and it goes really fast!

Boss:  I’d love to see your new bike.  Let’s go have a look, shall we?  I want to hear all about it.  (Small child grabs him by the hand and they run out together.)

Please feel free to use in your ministries.  Names & props may be modified as appropriate.  Let me know how it goes!

Urban Jungle After the Storm -and- The Smell of Melted Chocolate

These are a couple of short pieces I wrote at a “Writing Water” workshop at Uni last November.  The workshop was held at Qld College of Art at Southbank.  We were encouraged to go outside into the Parklands at one point during the day & write about our sensory perceptions.  Herewith ‘Urban Jungle After the Storm”.

The sky has just opened and released its burden of summer rain.  Residual drips off the trees touch my skin in afterthought, like the touch of an invisible friend’s fingers.  They dance on the surface of the water, marking rings which are there for a moment and then no more.

Birds call, their sounds drowned by the motor of a vacuum blower, pushing the slippery leaf-blow off the walkways.  Petrol fumes dominate other smells; wet wood and wet concrete, leaf mulch and the scent and taste of more rain to come.

There is no rainbow, but the heavy clouds promise more rain, and freshness, and relief from the humidity that blankets me, broken only by an errant breeze and the touch of water.

‘The Smell of Melted Chocolate’ is another sensory exercise from the same workshop.  Friend, you know who you are:-)

I sit in Max Brenner’s at Southbank with my friend, her teenage daughter and her baby son.  We share a fondue for two between us, enjoying our friendship with the sweet, rich taste of the chocolate, pink and white marshmallows, red strawberries and yellow banana in white bowls.  Her small son investigates the soft warm chocolate with his little boy hands, busily smearing it on his face and chest.  We use forks, although we smile at him, remembering and wishing it was still OK to enjoy food like that in such a tactile way.

Came across these today while clearing off my desk in preparation for start of Uni next week, and procrastinating about an OUA exam to sit before the end of the week!

“So how are you really going?” (Or look out, this could get messy really quickly.)

Borrowed, with thanks, from Ann Voskamp’s website “A Holy Experience”.  Love her definition of ‘messy grace’.

So she looks me in the eye and asks me how it’s going.

And yeah — what are you gonna do but sorta, kinda smile?

And I tell her that there are pots on the stove and crumbs on the counters and kids loud and everywhere and needing a million things —

and yes’m, wherever we are, there’s always ridiculous grace and good and there are always ridiculously hard things.

There’s all these lists. And the laundry, the books and the homework and the learning and the pots and pans.

And these kids we’re raising, they keep falling — yeah, a whole lot like their mother.

Nobody ever told me, but, it’s sorta crazy how it just comes down to this: Parenting’s this way of bending over in humility to help the scraped child up because you yourself know it takes a lifetime to learn how to walk with Him.Parenting’s this way of bending over in humility to help the scraped child up because you yourself know it takes a lifetime to learn how to walk with Him.

And then on top of all of that, there’s this fear beast that I thought I’d already wrestled down, skinned, hung and mounted — and it’s the thing that breathes again right down my neck, ugly and way too close.

It’s strange how knots in the pit of the stomach can try to undo everything.

Yeah, so I guess, really, for the life of me?

“I can’t get it all right.” I just tell her straight up. I’m a mess and there’s no getting it all right.

“Yeah — How’s it going? I guess it’s always just about going to Jesus.” Women can smile while their eyes are saying a million things to each other.

Yeah — I’m a mess — and this is exactly why the bruised knees just have to bend at the table of communion, and say, yes — yes, please.

I need Jesus.

I need His life.

I just desperately need the perfect, sinless sacrifice of Jesus Christ who can take all my broken messes and make them into mosaics of Grace.

I just desperately need to come to His table of communion so I can celebrate one ridiculously messy life. Because this is how the dictionary defines a celebrant: “The person who stands at the table of Communion is a celebrant.”

The person who lives in communion with Christ is a celebrant! The one keeping company with Jesus is a celebrant — is the one who gets to always celebrate grace! The one keeping company with Jesus is a celebrant — is the one who gets to always celebrate grace!

A celebrant is one who celebrates the extravagant grace of Christ.

A celebrant is the one keeping her eyes on Jesus and His perfect sacrifice — precisely because she isn’t perfect.

Precisely because: Perfectionism is slow death by self.

Perfectionism is an idol that chains you to yourself — and blinds you to the waiting embrace of Gospel grace.

But grace?

Grace lets those whose messes and wounds are many — simply see Jesus and Him only.Grace lets those whose messes and wounds are many — simply see Jesus and Him only.

It’s the sinners and the sick, the broken, the discouraged, the wounded and burdened — we are the ones who get to celebrate grace!

The timer’s beeps.

I pull the roast out of the oven. And grin — It’s time to roast the fattened calf of perfectionism and start celebrating the Grace of Living!

There are dishes in the sink and kids’ books and papers and life everywhere. And it’s crazy — this relief of just smiling.

Christ invites us to celebrate the full life as the celebrants — not because we’ve got it all together, but because He’s finished it all at the Cross!

The Art of Celebrating Life isn’t about getting it all right — but about receiving all His Grace.The Art of Celebrating Life isn’t about getting it all right — but about receiving all His Grace.
Regardless of the mess of your life, if Christ is Lord of your life — then you are the celebrant out dancing in a pouring rain of grace!

Because when it’s all done and finished, all is well, and Christ already said it was finished.

When sin threatens to deafen you — listen for the soft sound of His sandalled feet coming to literally hold you away from the lies that threaten to condemn you.

I light a candle for the table – two, three!

This could be the full living: make every moment communion with Him, be the celebrant and let a celebration of Grace inhabit the days — let God open the hands, lift the arms and make us even here into praise, a rising incense, a certain song.

Aren’t all the worshippers celebrants? When should we stop worshipping? When should we stop celebrating grace even when all the crazy starts — or never stops?

Grace is sufficient, grace is amazing, and grace is for everyone imperfect.

The only thing you require to get His grace — is that you get that you’re a mess.

I wipe off the counters just before dinner — cup my hand at counter’s edge for the crumbs and the mess and whatever comes —

and then turn towards the table already set and call everyone just to come.

My funny messy extended family…love ’em all long time!