River

My eyes look into

Judging eyes staring

Back

Daggers of disgust

Shock

Shame racks my body

I turn in fear

To give in

“I’ll just wait”

the pain is easier to bear

than the disdain of my peers

Your clammy hand

That’s “been there, done that”

Stretches forth

And grabs my

Dry

Scared palm

River waves rush up

Their eyes still look

But I still

Walk.

You hand makes me

Protected

Fearless

Invisible

Your hand brings me

Confidence

Freedom

Life.

“You can go now” I say

and push you away

But no

You are in this for the long haul

By my side you stay

For what feels like forever

And a day

Until

Relief.

Hands still holding we walk back

Facing the eyes

We walk back to the shore

Get in our boat

And paddle into a

New adventure

Yet

Our story

Still follows us. 

Plan

The run up to this year’s birthday was not a happy one. Unemployed. Father-in-Law with cancer. Crazy travel schedule. No glamorous party planned. But the sadness seemed disconnected to the events. There was something deeper.

When I was a little girl, I loved Crayola pencils. I loved drawing people, and designing clothes for them. And I loved drawing families.

I spent hours as a child creating villages with my Playmobile figures, making houses & schools & shops, even creating oatmeal in bowls for them. I loved the dynamics of their little families.

I never imagined being married. I never dreamt of a big white wedding day. I never knew what kind of house I really wanted to live in (though the heated bathroom floors in my friend Freya’s house are pretty cool).

But I always had in my head that at 25 I would have a child.

25 just seemed like the right age; enough maturity, but still young and fun.

And here I was, the light fading on my first quarter of a century, and there was no child to carry through the sunset.  The tears fell swiftly.

My plan was ruined.

When you translate the word “plan” into Hebrew there are a number of terms used. As I was reading through them, one stood out to me:

‘Damah’ meaning “to be like”

Plan…to be like…

Is that the problem?

Our plans set an expectation; something or someone we desire to be like?

Married by a certain age, driving a particular car, living in a specific area, promoted by a specified time…so we can be just like

Our brother

Parents

Cousin’s girlfriend’s best friend’s uncle’s dog.

Just like…the schematics detailing our existence that we have held so tightly onto…

But are now weeping abysmally as the ink on the paper drips off the page

“Exactly as I planned, it will happen

following my blueprints, it will take shape”

That’s, what he said

As he set himself up for failure.

Because those words weren’t his own.

But the speaking

Of Father God.

We will never fulfill our plans.

Things will never work out the way we expect.

Get over it.

Now.

Before life takes such a massive bite out of your butt that you cannot sit down for weeks.

“We plan the way we want to live,

but only God makes us able to live it”

I never would have planned that Steve and I, after two and a half months of dating, would spend a whole year in different countries.

I never would have planned to have a wedding in another country and give myself five and a half months to get ready and only arrive ten days before the service.

I never would have planned to live 5000 long miles away from all I knew and all who I knew.

I never would have planned that the majority of my friends in Texas were at least ten years older than me, all with children.

I never would have planned to leave a job with no guarantee of another job right away.

This is not what I planned to be like.

But.

Blob

In church yesterday, we were looking at what is called 'The Blob Tree':

Our challenge was to look at where we felt we were spiritually in terms of following after the purposes of God and where we desired to be.

Which one do you feel like?

This is how I felt:

The person desperately grabbing onto, clinging onto the tree…a little way up there, but with so much still left to climb.

Situations in the past six months have seen me worry about finances, wonder about our future family, wish for healing for our current family, wistfully hope for a future job.

My hands raw and blistered from just trying to cling onto this tree, something stronger than me.

Barely surviving. Just about holding on.

My favourite part of my birthday is the cards/messages I receive. The narcissistic side of me wants to know what people think of me. But the sensitive and probably slightly insecure part of me wants, no, needs to be affirmed by words. Needs to feel the love, especially when far from home, that I am cared about, considered and matter in this world.

“Thank you for being you. Someone who refuses to settle for anything less. For fighting the good fight with the right gloves on, and for patiently waiting for the right ring to step into. I’m one of many in your corner. I truly believe in you!”

“It’s been an encouragement to us to watch you really support and love Steve through this rough time! You’ve really been a great role model.”

“I cannot thank you enough for the impact you had on my life.”

“You are the most enthusiastic person we know. You love everything and everyone.”

“Thank you for all your constant words of wisdom! You’ve spoken loads into my life and helped this young man grow!!”

“Although I don’t really know you, I know that you are so gifted in writing and having so much fun with friends and you are so full of love and joy!”

“You challenge and inspire me to be more just by being who you are.”

And my favourite:

“I know that you are in an awkward stage in your life, but I just want to say that it is no mistake that you don’t have a job. I honestly have seen you change more these past few months than over the past few years. You are in just the place God wants you to be in.”

When you look back at the blob tree, at the person I picked, you notice something special:

Beneath the clinging yellow blob, is another blob.

Streching an arm upwards

Looking for a way to get higher

Needing help to get to the next level

And in the frantic desperate clinging of the yellow blob, the green blob notices something that they want, something that they aspire to, something that they want to be a part of.

People are messy. And it isn’t restricted to the peeing, pooping and puking stages of our infant years.

It is unleashed into the emotional turmoil of relationships, the financial craziness of being a “grown-up”, the frustrating tangling of not being the person, not having the character we want to have right now.

But somehow despite that being messy, despite each feeling as if we don’t have all our stuff sorted out, we look to oneanother

For help.

Solace.

Guidance.

Support.

Words of affirmation.

We are not just blobs, fatty messes, with an indistinct form. We are not blobs of ill-defined shapes.

We are blobs, spots that make a mark on this world.

That make a difference.

That in a word, deed, action could profoundly impact someone’s life without even realizing.

That are used by Father God to bring love and hope to others.

He is not ignorant of the miserable mess of our lives.

Rather, He uses us in spite of our messiness.

You, little yellow blob, are important to the tree.

Feminists

Every since the days of the Suffragettes chaining themselves to railings, setting fire to mailboxes and smashing windows to gain the right to vote, us women have fought to be equal.

Equal rights. 

Equal opportunities.

Equal with men. 

Though we are from Venus and they are from Mars, we desire to be just like them, work just as hard, be just as tough.

If it’s possible for men, it is possible for women.

Watching ‘The Apprentice’ either stateside or in England, the longest surviving females are either

the most ruthless (backstabbing anyone on their team)

or

the most risqué (willing to pose half naked on a bed for a men’s clothing advertisement).

While listening to Destiny’s Child ‘Independent Women’ and reading the Feminine Mystique, we have bought into the lie that we have to do it all.

Have the A* in school.

Have the glittering extra-curricular activity list.

Have the degree.

Have the princess-themed white wedding.

Have the businessman husband who modeled through university.

Have the career we dreamed of before we are 30.

Have the beautiful children who everyone positively comments on.

Have the hot body that makes other women jealous.

Have the fresh bread baking in the oven.

Have the beautiful house in the suburbs of the city.

We want to have it all.

We don’t want to be equal.

That is obvious because we reached that goal long ago and yet we still desperately strive to achieve.

We want to be more than equal.

We overcompensate putting in the long hours at work, home, with friends. Our calendars are bursting at the seems with coffee dates, lunches, parties, weddings, business meetings, after-school activities, extra-credit reports, volunteer opportunities…

As I sat on the bus between Birmingham and Oxford earlier this week (driven incidentally, by a woman) I enjoyed watching the countryside, the beautiful fields, and reading my magazine (it may or may not have been ‘Closer’).

And I felt guilty.

I felt guilty about relaxing. Enjoying life. Looking at the scenery. Taking time our to think. Being inspired by creative surroundings.

When people have asked me about my job situation, I have felt ashamed describing how I’m not employed and spent my days writing, babysitting, teaching English, spending time with friends, and seeking volunteer opportunities. I feel as if I should be a professional cake baker and my house should be immaculate and I should be picking the best of the seven offers of work I have received.

Continually people ask about when the first (and potentially only if labour is as painful as everyone says) Miller baby is coming along. I am fully aware of how hot and amazing this child will be, and feel that pressure that if I’m not working, then I should start churning the babies out, justifying my staying at home status, feeling (re)productive.

One of my favourite sociological concepts to discuss is ‘body dysmorphia’. Seen painfully in those who suffer from eating disorders or have had multiple cosmetic surgeries, it is when there is a perceived defect in our physical appearance thus we are unable to see ourselves the way we truly are.

We don’t know who we truly are.

Unmarried at 27 or {gasp!!} at 30 and granny is frantic with worry that we will be a spinster on the shelf with a house full of cats.

Disney repeatedly projects the notion that there is something wrong with women who remain unmarried and childless, turning them into the baddies (think Cruella de Vil, or Ursula).

Not on the fast track at work, or not getting enough promotions and we panic that we have wasted our life and have nothing to show for it.

We don’t know who are we.

We don’t know that we are beautiful.

We don’t know that we each have an individual life plan.

We don’t know that we have a purpose far beyond what we can even dream.

We don’t know that we are shouldn’t compare ourselves.

We don’t know that we are free from judging words.

We don’t know that we aren’t expected to do it all.

We don’t know that we are loved by a heavenly Father ordering our everyday steps.

We are intelligent.

Let us not be dumb.

Dumb enough to be fooled by the modern lie that

we are not a complete woman

we are not enough

we are not equal

until we are working 12 hour days at the office, with straight hair, a Vogue wardrobe on a shoestring budget and a house out of a Victorian magazine, all while home-schooling our perfect children.

Be who you are.

Happily working part-time.

With one child at home.

Single and loving it.

With curly hair.

Unable to cook.

Teaching difficult kids for love not money.

Creating your own style.

Whoppi Goldberg said this morning: “Take a little time today to enjoy the view”.

Because maybe,

Just maybe,

That’s what it means to have it “all”. 

Winter

Researchers have proved that November 1^st is the most depressing day of the year.

66% of the population feel depressed as they struggle: It’s cold, the days are darker, and you’re miserable because it’s the first day after you that beautiful night when you got an extra hour’s sleep.

Besides the excitement of wearing your cuddly seasonal coat for the first time, Christmas dinner and a debauched New Years Eve, there isn’t much to look forward to in Winter. By its very definition it is a dark, rainy, cold, bleak time where all you want to do is hide away under your duvet covers sipping hot chocolate and come up again in spring like a hibernating creature.

Life is winter.

Your excitement at moving into a new house is overshadowed by the fact that your husband is still working in your old city, and it will be a couple more weeks before you join him…

…Him?! A Husband?! I’m so far from a husband it’s ridiculous! If I have to smile fakely at one more Christmas princess themed wedding I might just scream...

Screaming kid, all through the night never stops, when will I get to sleep and return to a sense of normality?...

Normal. There is nothing normal about living in a different country to your friends and family. Nothing normal about feeling unsupported and confused and unloved…

Unloved. Cast off. Ditched. What kinda friend was she?!

She can’t be ill. Terminal? No. She had so much life. I’m not ready for her to

Curl

Up

And

Die.

That’s how we feel.

The problems trail behind us like a grocery list.

The pain we feel is as raw as the day we first got cut.

The people around you just don’t understand.

I hurt right now. So much and for so many reasons.

But I know you are hurting too.

And that makes it better.

Not in a morbid, “Ha ha, sucks to be be you” kinda way.

But in a, “This is who we are as humanity” kinda way.

Broken

Desperate people

Coping

Barely

Each day

With the trials that come along our way.

Sometimes we feel that we are the only one.

But we’re not.

We’re not so special that we have been isolated and set apart for all the worst things in the world to storm and rain over our heads.

Even though it feels like that.

I love winter for the sheer fact that despite the cold, snow and rain, I can put on my bright coloured sugar boots with leg warmers, a cosy hat and scarf, and go outside

And revel in it.

I turn the winter

Into my wonderland.

I don’t ignore the weather.

I find joy in it.

I find others who are inside, depressed by the darkened landscape of their lives,

And I invite them to come out and enjoy what they can.

We don’t ignore our problems.

We don’t forget them.

We just realize that there is more to our life than them.

Some of my problems will be better in a day.

Others will take weeks, months…maybe years.

But I have been promised by Father God that we can be sure that every detail in our lives of God is worked into something good.

Every detail.

Every tear.

Ever snowflake of winter.

Worked into something.

And that something will be good.

You can always find colour in winter. 

Photos courtesy of Paul Green, an AMAZING photographer!! 

C

Chives. Cherries. Cheese. Chocolate.

The things I dislike most in the world, the things my stomach can barely stand the smell of, the things that I claim allergy/intolerance to, all coincidentally begin with the letter “c”.

Today we add another one to that list.

Cancer.

Pops Miller’s test came back on Friday and there wasn’t a smiley face, gold star or A+ in sight.

So many words to say that all seem so futile.

We had already begun to think that it would be good for Steve to fly back home and see his dad and support the family. Needless to say after this diagnosis, we are packing our winter woolies for England and both getting on a plane in the first week of November.

I question how much use I will be besides making inappropriate jokes to cover awkward painful moments, but I know Steve needs to be there with his family. My wedding ring says “Wherever you go, I will follow”, engraved Hebrew words quoting this passage from Ruth (a book in both the Bible and the Jewish Tanakh):

“Don't force me to leave you; don't make me go home. Where you go, I go; and where you live, I'll live. Your people are my people, your God is my God; where you die, I'll die, and that's where I'll be buried, so help me God—not even death itself is going to come between us!”

This is the promise Steve and I have between us. His people, His family, will be my family. Wherever he goes, I will go.

I never understood the whole Gladney job thing not working out. Until now.

This time when Steve has probably needed me the most in our short marriage, and had to rely on me emotionally, organizationally and spiritually, I am free to do that.  Yes if I had a job, I would have made it work, we would have got around it, you can always manage. But Father God in his sovereignty knew that right now, what we needed more than an extra paycheck was my flexibility.

We know that our family is being hurtled into a painful and difficult time. We are almost positive that both radiation and chemotherapy (another C word I don’t like) will be used to combat this illness.

But once again wise words from my little brother come to mind.

He told our mummy that some boys at school were trying to get him to skip school but he had resisted their temptation telling her:

“My feet are grounded.”

His words continually amaze me and they are what I hold onto. Our feet are grounded in our relationship with God. Our faith is what keeps us standing right now. Our belief of healing reassures us.

As I stepped into this time of uncertainty job-wise, Father God kept revealing passages from Psalms to me:

“You have not delivered me into the hand of the enemy; you have set my feet in a broad place”

“You gave me a wide place for my steps underneath me, and my feet did not slip”

“My steps have help fast to your paths; my feet have not slipped”

In short, Father God promised me that He was leading me into a time where my feet would be grounded. Where I would be secure. Where I would have Him as my rock.

My husband is covered by this word of encouragement as his wedding ring says too, “Wherever you go, I will follow”.

And his family, as his people who are now my people, are covered under that same blessing, that same promise.

Our feet are grounded at this time. 


We stand together, and we stand strong. 


We hope for the best. 


Pray for the whole family, but particularly for the healing of Pops Miller (Brian) as we rely on this final promise:


"But I trust in you, O Lord; I say 'You are my God', my times are in your hand."


This will not be another 'C' word that makes me sick. 

Life

Whenever it’s

That time of the month

Mr Red

Surfing the crimson tide

The painters are in

Amidst the cramps, pain, nausea and restless nights sleep, there is one thought that stops me cursing the day I was born with a uterus.

“This happens because, one day, life will come from me”

One day all this will be worth it because a tiny little fetus will grow inside of me, to be birthed (in literally a bloody mess) and come to be a part of this world

I will bring life.

I recently wrote on a status update that my motivation to go the gym was that I wanted “my baby to stay in the Hilton, not the Holiday Inn”; I want my body to be in the best shape possible so that it provides a luxurious environment for growth

I want my body to create an arena for the best life possible.

As women, we bring forth life.

We are intentionally created by Father God as

Caring

Loving

Kind

Hospitable

There is a reason we notice

That spot on the floor

The wet towels left out

The child who hasn’t been fed

The attempt at covering up bruises and cut marks on an arm

The person in the room who hasn’t been said “hello” to yet

The sadness in our friends eyes even though “everything’s fine”

Because we are made to bring life.

I have a beautiful friend who recently miscarried…ever had a situation where you felt like you fell short of bringing life, you didn’t say that word of encouragement, you didn’t stop the bullying, you didn’t defend that person…

I have another friend who after years of infertility issues is eagerly awaiting a precious baby boy as the due date looms just a week away…that feeling of life just ready to burst out, as you sing a song that blesses everyone, or you invite a sad friend over for dinner, or carefully wrap a present for a friend’s birthday…

Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.

You may be struggling to believe your life is anything special, or going anywhere, but there is a continual hope, a comfort that you will bring life.

You will make a difference.

You will birth that child.

You will get that job.

You will say the right thing.

You will make a great wife.

Each day brings a reminder

as we sit down

(rather than stand)

to pee:

“I was made to bring life”

In my words, my cooking, my work, my texts, my cleaning, my status updates, my studies, my ironing, my love for those around me…

The thief came to steal self-confidence, kill joy and destroy families; to ruin and break down relationships, tear apart hearts, but we, as women, join in the work of Jesus, and come to bring life in all its abundance and glory and brilliance, inspiring hope and happiness to all those we come in contact with.

You

Bring

Life.

A beautiful picture of life...
...Jemi was just 17 hours old in this picture!!

Way

I had this thought today (which I hope is NOT prophetic to my life!) as Steve and I prepare for our (Ikea and) San Antonio trip.

The one that we have to do before we leave is get extra copies of the Pais:USA advert printed. I pessimistically imagined Steve and I driving along the highway and then suddenly realizing that he had forgotten the flyers he was getting printed from a local print and copy shop.

As a loving, caring, dedicated wife, I couldn’t say “Well leave me to shop in this outlet mall while you go back and pick them up.”

Neither could Steve just stop, drop me off by the side of the road and say “Be back soon love”.

No, we would have to travel that journey back to Arlington, pick up the forgotten items, and then continue on our journey.

In marriage, when one person makes a mistake, it affects both people.

We would both have to turn back.

We would both experience delayed journies.

We would both be behind schedule and off course.

This highlights the importance of who you take your journey with you.

Though our crazy life together has meant that we have got lost in the car several times, I have never felt through our married lives like we went off course of what we were supposed to be doing, more than that, I have never felt that we missed out on what Father God had for us.

Because I picked well.

I picked someone I could trust to lead and navigate. Who I could enjoy short car rides, and long arduous journies through mountains with.

I didn’t pick someone who I felt would lead me to go back, drag me down, and cause me to miss out on what I was heading for.

Hopefully Steve feels the same.

[I’ll pay him $10 just to comment and agree at the end to save face.]

Who have you picked as your driving buddy? Are you happy with your choice?

If you are dating, it’s not too late

To let them out by the side of the road.

Or to get out of their car.

If you are married, its time for a hard conversation

and some truths to be told,

and counseling to be had, to

make sure you can go the distance.

If you are single, look carefully.

Don’t fall into the trap of picking up the random hitchhiker by the side of the road,

Because they look like “good fun”

Or you’re tired and you don’t know how much longer you can go driving by yourself.

Our road-trip buddy is second only in importance to the map we are using.

But both are essential

Because we all have a long way to go. 

Steve in his dream "family" vehicle!!

Brave

We’ve all heard the stories.

The girl from Columbine who just before she was shot proudly stated that she was a Christian, knowing that it would lead to her death.

Or the men and women led by Martin Luther King who fought for Civil Rights, sitting on buses, protesting in the streets, staring into white faces intent on segregation yet still believing in an end to inequality.

And the suffragettes, those crazy women they teach about in English History, who wanted women to get a chance to vote, resulting in their imprisonment (and as I remember from my classes, getting dragged and run over by horses!).

Or the man who risks his life to save the [young boy/puppy/neighbour’s cat] stuck up a tree or floating down a river.

The people who don’t just sit and watch the six o’clock news, but desire to change the news.

To be the news.

To be brave.

I always look at these people and think, “How on earth do they do that?” But the truth I have discovered is that most of us would probably do the same thing if we were put in that situation.

I think of some of my American surrogate parents, a district attorney’s assistant and Dallas SWAT officer [for my 22^nd birthday, they dressed up as Batman & Batgirl – with their crime fighting skills in real life, the suits were very apt!]. They have these massively hectic lives often risking their lives to serve the community, serve at church in various ministries, and have gorgeous twins who they cart around to ballet, baseball and birthday parties.

I think they’re brave.

They would say “We just get on with it; this is our life”.

I think about the people on Pais who I have seen pioneer new nations. Starting out with tiny teams, little support, low finances but massive dreams of what a massive God can do.

I think they’re brave.

They would say “We are just doing what we think is the right thing”.

As I served with a local agency today, providing free bags of food and hygiene products to those in need, I had to get the people who attended to fill out forms detailing their financial status. Numerous times I saw families of 3, 4,5 surviving on well below the poverty line. One lady had no income and three children.

I think they’re brave.

They would say “We just do what we need to do”.

The truth is within all of us, there are two things:

The desire to be brave

and

The ability to be brave.

We have found that out this week.

On Tuesday within the space of 10 minutes we found out that my great-uncle in Jamaica had died [following a stroke that we believed on Sunday he was totally recovering from] and that Steve’s dad [Brian of navy-velvet-jacket-at-the-wedding fame] has a brain tumour.

Life is so fragile.

Life is so precious.

Life that can be so easily created in a scandalous bump in the dark, is so swiftly challenged, tested, illness-stricken, stressed…

…and so easily taken away.

But we are brave.

After the Ghana trip, we had (yet another) talk about children and said, “How would we do a trip like that with a child?”

The answer: “We would just cope.”

When faced with the challenges of life that could cause unraveling, we just have to do it.

So Brian waits at home, preparing for surgery on Monday October 18^th that will take out as much of the tumour as possible, and to find out whether it is cancerous or not.

Ironically the surgery is on the same day two of our dear friends find out whether the squiggling fetus inside of the wife has girly bits or boy bits.

Life is so sweet, so fragile.

So we,

ourselves and our families,

are called

To be strong.

To have a resilient hope.

To trust and hope in our Father God,

the creator of the world,

who we believe is our,

and everyone’s

Lord and Saviour.

Called to be

at this time:

Brave.

Why?

“We have to do what you we have to do.”

(Brian indicating where the tumour is)

Big Difference

Father God has been speaking to me yesterday and today about the fraility of life...and then I read this blog entry from a dear friend Hannah who is serving in Zambia, working in schools and I HAD to put it up!! This is a word for all of us, to appreciate the life we have, strive for greater and bigger things and seek to bring change to those around us.

For those of you on Pais, use this to trigger conversations with the young people you work with

For those who are young people, compare your lives to the zambia students 

For all of us, think about whether the life we are living is really making a difference...

-------

I’m constantly struck by the differences between Schools Work in the UK and Schools Work in Zambia. The basic methods are the same: assemblies, clubs and discipleship groups, but the atmosphere is entirely different; not just continents apart but worlds apart!

I’m certainly missing the efficiency of the schools in the UK but I’m finding that the actual work, in some ways, is much easier here. This is most noticeable in the discipleship groups. While sometimes in the UK it seemed like a struggle to get people to join, in Zambia the students (aged from12-16) take the responsibility of running the groups much more seriously. They form committees; they meet after school in their own time; they have small praise teams and they expect you to come and speak to them for up to an hour. And they’re more enthusiastic than most churches I’ve seen in the UK! So why is this? Is it because UK teenagers are ashamed? Or do they just not care?

I think the difference is that in Zambia the frailty of life is a reality and therefore Jesus, and the hope that he brings, becomes much more of a reality too. In the UK teenagers can rightly assume that they will have bright futures, where nearly anything is possible, and then die when they are old and their lives are complete. Jesus is for later. Here though, futures aren’t always promised to be bright. Life will be hard, and often short.

I was thinking today, as I drove to work, how many funerals I have attended in my 27 years. The total was four, maybe five. There were my two grandparents, both over 80; a couple of old people from church; a friend’s father. Five. And I have never been to a funeral of anybody under 70 years old. Maybe I’m just lucky but I suspect that is the case for many people my age. Here though, death is everywhere. I drive past two graveyards on the way to work: every other day, sometimes every day, I pass a funeral party or a freshly dug grave. The notice boards at school have weekly obituaries. Parents regularly have to bury their own children.

So maybe that’s the difference. Maybe in the west life is just an assumption and not a gift. Maybe we could learn to treasure each moment and make the most of each opportunity that we are fortunate enough to have.

And let’s not stop praying that someday the futures of young Zambians could look as bright as God intended them to be.

Cookies

Waiting is boring.

Preparing is dull.

Quite often I fancy homemade cookies, but going through the actual process of getting out all the ingredients, measuring them, re-measuring them because I get confused in my conversion from English grams to American cups, getting out the (beloved) chrome Kitchen Aid mixer, following the recipe, dividing up the dough…blah blah blah, I’m bored, and now very much hungry, just thinking about doing all that effort and all that work.

All that preparation.

We just want the cookies. The main event. The end product.

I had a good crying session Sunday night with my beautiful & faithful friend Kelli McFarlane.

I was pouring out my heart over current situations and feeling like I’m in this random time of waiting for who knows what, and not understanding so many things. I know that this is the right path, yet I wonder and worry about so much. Am I really being effective?! What difference am I making?! And then Kelli did what she does better than most people I know.

She asked me an awkward question:

“Jesus spent only 3 years in recorded Bible work. What was he doing for the rest of the time? Was he wasting it?”

Silly Kelli, of course Jesus didn’t waste his time – He’s the son of God!! He would have got a right good spanking from His Dad for wasting time!!

But it got me thinking: What on earth was he doing for the first 30 years?!

So Monday morning I studied the structure of Jesus’ life.

1 day old: Born to a virgin, in a manger; random shepherds came to worship.

8 days old: Circumsised. Guess that was a rough day.

41 days old: Brought to the temple in Jerusalem to be presented; a sacrifice of two turtle doves/pigeons, made

12 years old: Feast of Passover, Jesus lingered behind in Jerusalem, spending three days in the temple, sitting in the midst of teachers, both listening to them and asking questions. All who heard Him were astonished at His understanding and answers.

Aged 30: Jesus began His ministry, after being baptized by John. The rest of those details are heavily recorded.

Aged 30-33: His “ministry” time. These details are heavily recorded.

What was he doing between 41 days old and 12 years old?!

(besides getting potty trained?)

What was he doing between 12 years old and 30 years old?!

(besides that awkward pubescent smelly phase?)

Looking at the few verses that commentate on this they say:

“And the Child grew and became strong in Spirit, filled with wisdom […] And Jesus increased in wisdom and stature, and in favour with God and men”

That’s a long time spent on growing strong, and increasing in wisdom, but obviously with the amazing things that Jesus did aged 30-33, that time was important. It had benefit. It had worth.

It was essential.

When Steve did his half-marathon, he trained for at least an hour, 3-4 times a week, for several months. His race lasted just over 2 hours.

At the end of the race he got a medal and the sense of pride of achievement, but the lesson wasn’t in the event.

It was in the hours of preparation. That’s where he learnt discipline, hard work, focus, sacrifice, commitment.

The race day was simply the painful culmination of it all.

University isn’t just about a degree, a piece of paper with your name and a grade.

Though I highly advocate further education and the value of a degree, university is a place where you learn social skills, independence, time management, discover who you really are, work out what you want from life, what you have to offer the world and learn from different teachers and different people from different backgrounds.

Father God puts us through times of preparation for a reason.

As I was worshipping God by singing songs tonight, He dropped in my head all my single girl friends.

He said: ‘I am preparing them for marriage’

There are things you are learning now, which will make you a better wife at the start of your marriage then people who get married 5, 7, 10 years before you. You will be better prepared at running a household, managing finances, looking after yourself and others because of your time spent in advance.

Maybe you’re unemployed, or stuck in an in-between temp job trying to work out what the next step is.

Maybe you feel like the country and role you have right now is the one you are supposed to be in, but you know there is something more coming up.

Maybe you have just come out of a long-term relationship, and are wondering why you had to endure that heartache.

In this in-between phase, there are things to be learnt, skills to be honed, adventures to have, wisdom and strength to gain that will make our main event, our race day, our marriage all the better because we were prepared.

It’s hard, because all we want is the cookie. 

But the cookie tastes so much sweeter when you know the effort that you put in to get there.

The ones brought straight from the store never taste as good.