Redirecting

In another part of my life I blogged about another avenue of my life. 

In which I was presented with a scenario I didn't expect and tried to fathom what it meant. Being me, I needed to know, understand and... Yes control, the process.

I have learnt a lot about myself, others and life ... This is a part of that blog, a post I recently put there.

Address for that blog is at the bottom of this post.

Me?
A broken vessel, still. 

Trying hard to be His daughter and worthy but failing miserably at every turn, still.

I do see God's hand.
I see how my research into adoption helped with visiting orphanages with a heart open to truly loving the children there.
I see how the same research and digging gave me an awareness of what is happening in adoption so I could have a heart ready for displaced children.
I see how my focus on one child opened doors that would otherwise have remained closed to my mind.
I see how blogging the mind wanderings led me to people I otherwise would never know. People who adopt more than one child, whose hearts are broken for and by the process, but who know that saving one child gives one child a chance.
I see how I gained more knowledge about special needs and differences.
I see how through showing me this, God broke me and remade me.

I see how I learnt mercy, grace, faith and obedience.
I see how I forget that I learnt all these things on a daily basis, as I am impatient, grumpy, inattentive, judgemental and unforgiving.
I see how far I can and do fall, and how He can pick me up again.

I see how through it all He had a plan.
I also see that it isn't finished yet.


Full blog: http://chinaheartofmine.blogspot.com.au/

Where in the world is common sense?

I am hoping those in power in America sit together and agree to agree on changing and or modifying their gun laws. To my knowledge, nobody is saying people can't have guns, just that they need to be more regulated.

I have friends with a farm who have a gun. They needed a higher calibre to protect the stock on their property from other predatory animals, and went through a veritable circus of paperwork and knock back before finally getting a gun up to the task.

In the same geographic area, I have friends with children who are so dead against guns they don't allow even talk of them in their home. They actually don't allow toy guns either, which means water pistols, nerf guns or gun play of any sort.
They also carefully monitor TV so there is no violence seen.
So who was I to tell them I saw their children play at kindergarten, school and child care and watched as they used a twig or their cocked fingers to simulate a gun to play 'shooting' games? Where did they learnt that?

I also know people who don't keep sharp knives on their kitchen counter in case they have an argument and they're seen as an 'easy' weapon.

Cavemen used rocks, people use glass, others use belts, rolling pins, bare hands... Whatever is handy or suits their needs and physical surroundings.

So while I'm acknowledging the gun issue needs addressing, there must be a piece of the puzzle missing.

And hey don't pull the mental health issue around me either. I happily admit to depression, (no humour intended in that phrasing) and am a pill taker for this. If it were to be suggested this (which IS classed as a mental health issue) makes me more prone to gun toting fury than the angry disgruntled and basically grumpy people I meet every day who refuse to admit they have anger or personality issues, then we're in a bad way.

While the nation and the world mourns the deaths of innocent children from sandy hook, let's not forget that there are gunshot wounds, murders and violent deaths every minute. From knives, cars, guns, fists, drugs.. You name it, innocents are dying. And every death is one too many.

Putting guards in every school isn't a guarantee of safety. 
Giving every teacher a gun isn't a sane answer.
It's also bringing our kids up in false fear and false security. 
It doesn't teach them resilience for life in the real world and it makes them fear life without an armed guard.

I don't know the answer and I'm glad it's not up to me, I just wish the common sense and the politics and the money and the power could all come together.... And make something workable. 

Because what the Internet needs is more stories about cats.

If I believed in reincarnation I would choose to come back as a cat, because life seems pretty good for them.
They can be as persnickety as they like and people shrug, saying "ah but that's cats".
They sleep all day, eat, then stretch and sleep again and people hug them tight, not tell them to get their lazy butt off the couch.
They can turn their back if they don't feel like interacting, ignore owners completely, look down their teeny noses in arrogance, walk away when their human is mid sentence, and what happens?
"Oh that's such a cat thing"

So I'm in.

Before we became dumdog owners, we owned a succession of cats. They have all gone to better places... But not all died.

Chloe was the first cat we both owned, bought from a friend in a moment of weakness (on my part).
I thought having a cat would be nice.
I'm sure for you it is.

But I didn't realise how frustrating having a cat meandering around my feet could be, especially when I was pregnant and couldn't see my feet. Add my already ungood (new word) vision and we had chaos with me tripping over the cat all the time.

Chloe tolerated our daughter while she was immobile, but once said daughter started to walk, things were different. Chloe scratched my baby from the outer corner of her eye across her cheek. (So blessed, so very very blessed it didn't connect with her eye)
We moved house a month later and chloe stayed behind with the neighbours.

Whaaaat....?
With their knowledge, of course!

Then when child one and child two were old enough they nagged for a cat. After about five years I gave in. Someone's cat had kittens and would we like one?
And the someone asked in front of child one and child two.
Who promptly burst into excited happy dancing with their father.....
So that year there were two kittens under the Christmas tree.

A black and white tuxedo señor named Daisy.
She wanted a cat called Daisy, what could I do? Stop looking at me like that, all judgmental like.

And his sister, a tabby called Buddy.
Yeah, yeah, go all side eye on me now. So my kids aren't gender biased in their cat naming. That's a good thing, right?

Daisy and Buddy were quite obedient, surprisingly, and their lives were fairly normal.
If by normal we're talking being dressed up, being locked in a food bin for six hours
taught to say "merl" instead of meow, straddling my husbands shoulders as he gardened,
being used in puppet plays, scaling the pantry shelves ninja style in search of treats...
then yeah, they were normal.
Until the day Buddy ran away. She didn't come for her meals for a few days and we were about to give her up as deceased when a neighbour came over holding her wriggling self.
He was devastated as he asked if it was our children's pet.
Apparently his own cat had died not long before and he was so upset by this he refused to ever have another cat... until a "stray" made itself at home in his shed, eating from the dead cat's bowl, sleeping in the dead cat's bed.... Until someone told him our kids had lost a tabby.

I told him that yes it was ours. Child two was over the moon excited to see his cat, and grateful for her safe return.

Not so Buddy.
Upon hearing our family sounds, smelling our family smells and seeing our family home, Buddy reared up, hissed and sprang violently from the neighbour's arms, turned mid air and ran back to the neighbour's house. She did this several times.

We decided that as she was now effectively a teenager, Buddy had in fact used her angst to run away from home and find refuge in a safe place.
And with that our double feline status was halved.

Daisy was a battle scarred beast at times. I'm sure the neighbourhood cats picked on him for his name and he had to fight for his honour. If that isn't the case then he was just a relentless bully who was compensating for his girly name. Either way, his ripped ears, battered belly and torn out claws gave us many a time of head shaking.

Daisy got old and crotchety but was loved nonetheless by all the other humans in the house. His arthritis, mood swings, deafness and senility began to overtake his youth, much to his own disgust.

Then a phone conversation between child three and her friend, the daughter of the local vet, a conversation which incidentally had started so well, ended with us saying we'd take a kitten off their hands.
The runt of the litter, this teeny tiny little ball of ginger fluff fitted in my cupped hand. Ginger fluff was renamed Jewel, partly in homage to the singer whose music I was flirting with at the time.
Jewel wasn't old enough to lap milk so much time was spent drop feeding and cosseting this 'toy' and thus a bond was being formed, dammit.

Daisy, heretofore, as mentioned, old and crotchety, became Jewel's own Mr Miagi. Hunting, stalking, toileting, ignoring the humans, there was noting too meagre or too grandiose for Daisy to not teach Jewel. The day we found Jewel on top of a garden pole ready to ninja pounce onto the unsuspecting deaf Daisy, we knew the apprenticeship was almost over and 'grasshopper' was ready to leave her mentor.

In another part of life, one of my brothers was going through a rough patch. He loved animals and took a special shine to Jewel, which was reciprocated. I offered him Jewel as his very own so he could have company.
The children were so overjoyed by my offering their pet in this way there was a deafening silence. Broken by I think a sob or a hiccup.

I did know how much the family loved Jewel, and this was not done in malice, which the children understood, but the big empty hole left, filled only by the sullen and grumpy disdain of Daisy, was palpable.

I think I've been forgiven.
Daisy eventually had to visit the vet for his final time. My husband rang me at work to tell me he couldn't stand seeing him in pain any more and the vet would fit him in right now.

Daisy now lives under a tree in our front yard, the same tree he used to sit under to snarl "hey you kids get off my lawn" any time passing children looked like they might be having fun.

And just like any grumpy curmudgeon unable to rest in peace, the stories of his youth are told and retold with more flavour and exaggeration over time. Just as he would wish.

How can we even...

How do we even remotely comprehend?
How can we even start to wonder?
Last Friday rocked the world in a way wars, famine and politics can't. It ripped at our heart strings.

We've all done the "what if it had been me?" thought processing.

Even planned-to-be childless couples understand the depth of the tragedy.

People, including grandparents, with children of all ages, shudder and vow to hold their children tighter.

In a world in which parents are already called too protective, too careful, too disinfected... The world now sees more need to be more protective, more careful and more disinfected.
Because.. 
How can you even...?

How can you sit at work after a terrible morning where you slept in, then grumpily rushed the kids through breakfast, through getting out of bed, through short tempered "you can't wear that it's dirty, hurry up hurry up hurry up" and a hasty peck n the cheek at the "kiss and drop" zone at school....
And wonder if you'll see them tonight to make it better?

How can you sit through the knowledge that they heard you and your husband arguing last night and saw you being distant with each other this morning over a trivial nothing ....
And wonder if you'll see any of them tonight to make it better?

You can't. You just can't.

Because life is full of risks. And we can't prepare for everything.

The chances of a gunman destroying your baby's school day are, what, millions to one?
The chances of the same gunman taking your baby's life at school are maybe rarer.
But it happened.

The chances of anything happening are exactly that, they are chances. Everything we do is full of risk. Even though we want to protect our kids, need to protect our kids, there is danger everywhere around us. 
Living life in a cocoon isn't the answer.

You can't know anyone's story, every person is fighting a battle we don't know about. And how and when their unknown reaction to their unknown battle will erupt is anyone's guess.
And it's not just the mentally ill or the traumatised. It's any person reacting to any situation.

But we can't raise our kids to be terrified, we can't pass our adult fear onto them. 
Depending on their age, they can't process properly. 
We adults can't process this tragedy properly, what hope have our kids got?
They see our tears, they hear our anger and frustration. Much as we try to hide it, they see the fear, sorrow and frustration in our eyes and in our movements. They see us angrily tapping into Facebook, twitter, blogs etc as we express our disbelief and question our government, our nation, our society.

Their innocence has been lost in this world where we ask why children have lost the art of playing, imagining and of fantasy. 

But they need to know there is also good in the world, there is wonder, joy, happiness and fun. 
That there are people who would give them the shirt off their back, the food off their table and the toys from their playroom.

We are the grown ups, the ones who grieve and who hurt.
We need to be the example and the 'safe place'.

We need to let kids know its still okay.
We need to let kids know people care.
We need to let kids see us picking up and going on.
We need to let kids know that there are safe adults.

Love them, give them a safe anchor at home and give them wings.
Pray protection over them, it's the best you can do.
Yes the Sandy Hook parents probably did the same that Friday morning, they did the best that they could do. 
Their hearts and lives will never, ever be the same and their babies didn't come home... Through no fault of their own.

I don't have the answers but I pray for our children growing up the generation of fear. 
They need to be able to soar, and we need to be proud of them stretching their wings and give them the room to be free.

In which I need to repent of Santa

It's more than that his name is an anagram of Satan, and more than that he just creeps me out. What is it I really have against Santa?

Why don't I just accept that he is part of society? 
Or that he stands for something magical? 
Or that he makes kids happy? 
Or that he isn't evil? 
These are all the questions I field when I say I don't "do" Santa. 

Before I had children I was determined that Santa wouldn't play any part of our family Christmas. 
The nativity would feature, and the children would all understand the relevance of the Christ child to their lives. 
They would most likely receive gifts but I would focus more on their birthdays than Christmas, because Christmas is now more about commercialism and their birthdays are about them.
I would be strong in all these thoughts.
I would, I would.

Cue my first child's second Christmas; she was 16 months old and I failed right away by giving in to the obligatory photo with Santa. In which she is seen screaming, arching her back, tears running down her face and Santa is saying "just one more minute"... And I wondered what I was doing.

Her next Christmas, she was therefore 28 months old and quite aware. She heard again the story of the baby in the manger sent as God's gift to the world.
She had a 7 month old brother and I again gave in to the Santa photo. Because I could send it to people, I told myself. But that was as far as Santa went.
Until every store turned into a battle zone of people asking her what Santa was bringing her. When I said "oh we don't do Santa", they smiled and rephrased their question to "oh what is Father Christmas bringing you?"

She looked totally confused, because we hadn't talked about Santa or Father Christmas. We had talked about some presents under our tree and buying daddy a present, and buying baby brother a present, but not this other story.

She grew. She went to child care very rarely, where she asked why they made beards for a picture of a man and why Santa came to visit. I brushed the man in red off but didn't go so far as to say he was a lie. She was too young to be told the world would lie to her, wasn't she? 
I didn't give Santa the credit for the gifts that arrived under the tree. They just appeared, from us.

Then, before many more Christmases, she started kindergarten. The crafts, songs, pictures, colouring in and stories were all about Santa. And the questions increased. 
By now she also had a younger sister, but her brother was just as inquisitive as she was about the man in the red suit who gave them lollies everywhere they went.
This brother was more persistent, however, and wouldn't accept a brush off as an answer. He wanted to know who this man was? 
So... I couched the story. The world was forcing Santa down their throats faster than I could stop it, and I was dizzy with trying to avoid him. I told them that Santa brought a toy. Not because they were good or anything, just because. 

The next year saw more evidence in their lives of Santa. Because their friends, their kindergarten and child care... And everything, just everything was smothered with Santa. Catalogues came in our letterbox, posters on store windows, cards In the mail and on a throne in the shops, his face was everywhere.

And again... I couched the story. I really didn't want to destroy the wonder of their imagination, after all. But this time I told them that mums and dads agree with Santa before hand what is needed so kids don't just ask for anything, and don't always get everything they ask for.
So then the questions...  when did I meet Santa? Or did I ring him? Or did I write to him? Or was it the one in the shop? If it was, which shop? Because there were three shops with Santa, did I talk to them all or just one? 

On Christmas Day, my son asked why everyone gives everyone presents. He was wondering why 'Santa' brought presents, mum and dad gave him presents and all the relatives gave him presents.
I told him it was in remembrance of God giving us His son Jesus as a baby. That was the greatest gift He could give, and we gave each other gifts to recognise that. That the giving of gifts to each other was a tradition; we couldn't hope to match a gift as valuable as God's but it was just a way of showing we cared.
Phew. I'd missed Santa and got in God, yes. 
*Insert imagined high five.*

Then The Visitor In The House said "yes and Santa brings us presents so we remember what Christmas is all about"
*Insert imagined "what the...?"*

The next year, we had another baby boy in the house. Only someone who has had four children close together on one middle income with a mortgage (signed the week before finding about the fourth baby) can know how tight money is. There was no money. There was only just money for the essentials.

Roll to one year later, when the children are 7, 5.5, 3 and 1. Theres still no extra money, and because I'm determined to be a stay at home mum, there won't be. The five and a half year old has outgrown his bike. We all know it. He decides to ask Santa for a bike. And a DVD.
And that's all.
But there's no money for a bike.
I have to tell him.
He says "I didn't ask for much because you said you talk to Santa about it and he only brings what we need. I need a new bike, this is too small and has got wrecked."
I told him it just couldn't happen, I was really sorry but t just couldn't.
He was persistent.

In the end... I couched the story. I told him that Santa brings the presents after the mums and dads buy them, and we didn't have money to buy one.
This blew his mind.

And I cried when I went to bed, because I couldn't give him a bike and because I had compounded my lie so much and had lied to one of the most precious things in my life.
The next day, I sat he and his older sister down and I told them the facts of Christmas. That there was no Santa, that he was made up. Mum and dad buy the presents and wrap them up.
I expected surprise and maybe sadness.
I got anger. I got tantrums and frustration. And confusion. 
I told them that it was pretend and that their friends might still like to believe in Santa, and we wouldn't spoil that. And that while I didn't want to lie to the little kids... maybe we wouldn't tell them just yet, we'd try to let them enjoy Santa because it was hard to fight it.
And mr 5.5 said "what happens when they don't get what they ask for?"

I have since read something which did resonate with me about why I hated the Santa thing so much. In this the author (and I wish I knew who it was so I could link!!) said something along the lines of the following, which will now become my words.

... we tell our kids about Santa and spend years telling them he's real, only to then tell them he's not. 
He gives them things if they've been good, and visits them in person at their child care centre, kindergarten, department store, street party and parade.
We sit our children on his knee, take photos and let him give them gifts and lollies because he's a nice guy. Everybody says so.
He answers their letters and on Christmas morning, the food left out for him is gone and there are presents under the tree.
Magic.

And the world assures them he is real.


We spend years teaching our children about a God they can't see. We assure them He is real.
He doesn't give them everything they ask for, He gives them what they need. And they receive it through His grace and mercy, not through their works or behaviour.
We go to his house, His church, but we don't see His physical presence, because He isn't here. He's everywhere around us if we only look for Him.
He sent His son to earth. People abused him, tortured and killed him. Then He rose from the dead.
We can read His words in the Bible and we can talk to Him through prayer. If we listen heard enough we can hear Him talk, but those who don't know think that we make it up.

And we assure them He is real.

And after we tell our children that Santa isn't real, that the tooth fairy isn't real and the Easter bunny isn't real, we still tell them about Jesus who is real... Jesus who isn't allowed to be read about or talked about in school or kindergarten, who isn't allowed to be part of their education, who is frowned on by some people of the world and other, namely your kids, are teased for believing in Him. 


And so that, gentle reader, is why I don't like Santa. You may think he's only a white lie or a good lie or a little kid lie, but when I'm faced with the reality of them wondering if God is a white lie too, there is no question about the line I wish i had taken.

obstacles

Funny, that experience... 

that when you find out you're pregnant, all you see everywhere are pregnant women. 

Or prams, or babies.

When you're looking for a new car, all you see are new cars.

When you're thinking of buying an elephant statue for the garden, all you see are...

... wait.

No, that one's just me.... ?

So now when I'm thinking about mission trips all I see are blogs about mission trips.

I realise it's all a psychological something, that you actually only tune in to what's been in your face all along anyway, or you sub-consciously seek out these topics, but it's funny the way our mind tricks us into believing this.

I was doing one of my favourite things the other day - no, not the ones involving chocolate and hammocks, one of my other favourite things; listening to a podcast while out walking in the morning. (shh yes okay, it's a NEW favourite thing, don't tell my body or it might decide to give up before it becomes a habit)

In this, I heard the following - and this isn't verbatim, because if I take time out to find the podcast, listen to it, find the spot and write it all down, I'll have seen something else to listen to and completely forget to come back here....

so I heard something like this: 

"Being on a mission trip in a foreign country is different. You walk down the street and all the shop signs, the people, the smells and the food are all different. The main religion is different. Without even trying, you KNOW you're in a foreign country, you are the different one, and every moment, you're reminded of your purpose in being there"

And BAM - it hit me between the eyes ... ain't that the truth.

The speaker continued that as believers we are called to be missionaries where we are, but that it can be harder because where we are... it's not different. We get caught up in the every day and the details and the... familiarity of it all.

And forget our purpose in being here.

And then today I found this:

 "..all I can say is that ministry is way harder [home] than it ever was in [away]. Being an agent for Love and Grace in a place where people truly don't recognize their own need is really tough...
I believe Jesus has competition in the ... suburbs like no place else on Earth. Everyone here is surrounded by so much shiny new stuff, it's hard to see the Light...

Here, poverty is internal, hunger is spiritual, and need feels non-existent. But it's there."

 http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2012/11/jesus-in-cougar-town.html

Hands up if your church has a sign on the door as you leave which says "You are now entering the mission field".

Hands up if it occasionally makes you guilty.

Hands up if you've forgotten it's there or will check next Sunday because you can't remember.

The not-so-funny thing is that you could put that sign in front of your face, tattoo it on your hand, post-it note it on your car steering wheel, your workspace, your kitchen sink.

Everywhere you go is "entering the mission field".

Even inside your church. The sign works on the in and the out doors.

The needs all around in the everyday are different, but no less needs. 

There may not be abandoned babies but there are broken "children" of all ages.

There may not be obvious homelessness but there are emotionally displaced people looking for comfort and a safe place.

There may not be abject poverty but there are bankrupt hearts.

The needs are different, but not less.

And that's not saying being the missionary in your own day to day is easy. 

Far from it. There are always distractions, always frustrations.

So much hurt has already been done in the world by Christians using their agenda not God's, and it can be a scary place to go - putting yourself out there. Christians fail every moment of every day because they are human.

Whether overseas or in our backyard, we need open eyes and open hearts to really see what's to be seen. Because sometimes our biggest obstacle is ourselves.  

 
 





 







 

The dumdog millionaire

Once the children in the family had stopped fighting over the fact that their father cheated to get to name the dog with his choice (Milhouse) - long story, you don't want to know, it involved a lot of crying and tantrums, and the kids weren't much better - they joined forces and set about destroying the 'rules of dog' as set out by me.

Apparently it's a fairly typical scenario, unbeknownst to me, that this happens.

My rules were simple, really.

Ahem.

Rule 1: "The dog is an outside dog"

As we'd had an attempted break-in in our house and the dog was our safety measure, I thought this made a lot of sense.

Rule 1 amendment 1: the dog is an outside dog except for the back room. 

Rule 1 amendment 2: the dog is an outside dog except for the back room at night for sleeping and the lounge room during the day.

Rule 1 amendment 3: the dog is an outside dog except for the back room at night and the bean bag in the lounge room. Definitely not on the lounge.

Rule 1 amendment 4: the dog is really only an outside dog when he needs a bathroom break, and is only allowed on the lounge on someone's knee.

Rule 1 amendment 5: the dog sits wherever he wants whenever he wants and with whoever he wants. And definitely in the bean bag in the lounge room at night.

Rule 2 "the dog doesn't go in the bedrooms"

This only came into place after the rule one amendments had been made, of course.

Rule 2 amendment 1: the dog is only allowed in the bedroom if the room sharer permits it.

Rule 2 amendment 2: the dog is allowed in the bedroom at any time but not on the bed.

Rule 2 amendment 3: the dog is allowed on the bed but not IN the bed.

Rule 2 amendment 4: the dog is allowed in the bed but not while humans are in it.

Rule 2 amendment 5: the dog can go in the bed, but mum thinks this is a disgusting habit and doesn't want to hear about it.

Rule 2 amendment 5: the dog just does what he wants anyway and mum always hears about it.

Rule 3: "the dog is only fed at his dinner time and in his bowl"

This is just plain good manners.

Rule 3 amendment 1: the dog is fed anytime but only in his bowl.

Rule 3 amendment 2: the dog is fed anytime and can have scraps from food preparation while he's in the kitchen, but he is NOT fed at or from the table.

Rule 3 amendment 3: the dog is fed whenever you feel like giving him food and you can feed him from the table but he's not allowed on your chair.

Rule 3 amendment 4: kids who have left home and come to visit still shouldn't put the dog on their lap at the table. Anyone sitting at the table needs to be able to contribute to the conversation.

Rule 3 amendment 4: watching intently while someone is talking then turning his head to the next contributor, then panting or jumping down and onto the lap of the person being teased is NOT to be considered contributing to the conversation and is therefore still a moot point.

Rule 4:  "The dog is a dog and not a person"

Rule 4 amendment 1: the dog thinks he is a person, but this doesn't mean we need to treat him like one, he's still a dog.

Rule 4 amendment 2: just because the dog talks, sings and does tricks doesn't make him a person, he's still a dog and needs to be treated as such.

Rule 4 amendment 3: if you want to treat the dog like a person, do so just not while mum is around.

Rule 4 amendment 4: just ignore mum, dad treats the dog like a person so it must be okay.

Rule 4 amendment 5: just because the dog has a wardrobe of dress ups doesn't make him a person. 

Just because he likes wearing them doesn't make him a person. 

He is a dog.

Rule 4 amendment 6: whatever.

Rule 5: "the dog isn't allowed in mum and dads bedroom. Ever"

No amendments needed.

Then there were severe night thunderstorms. The dog was outside barking at the sky as usual, and I told him to shut up... He ran inside, through the room he had once been banned from, past the dining table where he was once banned, through the lounge room where he was once banned, into our room where he is still banned, onto our bed which is obviously therefore banned, then under the covers which is banned, and by my husbands feet..........

He lasted ten seconds there before I registered what had happened and ordered him out.

My husband cooed "naw poor puppy, he's scared of thunder...just this once can't he?"

...........
...........
...........

I said no.

And still no amendments required.
C'mon he's a dog! 
I don't give in that easily.

Good grief. Or, 'the dog who came in from the cold'

"A family once looked for a pet
They'd tried rabbits, cats and turtles, and yet...
Not til they went to the pound
And found their crazy hound
Did they realise the trouble they'd get".

Our dog is a lunatic.
There I said it.

He IS from the pound, therefore the reuse & recycle philosophy was successfully applied. The day we set out looking for a dog, I sternly warned the family (again) that even though their hearts were set on it, the only rule I had was that I did NOT want a Jack Russell. Not no way not no how.

And all the family nodded and said "we know".

We saw one dog and all the family said as one "aaaaaaah"
The attendant told us he had just that minute been spoken for, sorry.

And all the family said as one "aaaawww"

And we dragged our sorry behinds around the hotel, I mean pound, but no other dogs appealed.

As we left, I spoke to the lady at the front desk and asked if we could be put on a waiting list for the dog.

She raised an eyebrow and said "we don't do that, that dog is spoken for. The lady who has asked for him is just bringing in her other dog to make sure they get on, which they will because this one is so even tempered, then she's taking him home"

I showed her the sad faces of my four children, who, by the way, so earned the KFC for lunch promised for their sad faces, and she sighed and said "oh oh-Kay then, but please promise me you won't get their hopes up, that dog will be gone in half an hour"

We left with the children and their by now genuinely sad faces.

About ten minutes down the road, my phone rang.
"Um, that lady just decided she didn't even want to try her dog with this one, she doesn't want it. If you're interested, he's yours"

And all the family rejoiced greatly, for this was their wish.

The sign on his door read "CORGI X" and I smiled, as corgi was the royal breed; therefore they couldn't be stupid dogs, could they? My plan was successful. A not stupid, not crazy dog, one who knew his place and was happy in it.

And we were allowed to play with the dog to check he fitted the family.
We threw a ball, we let the youngest ride him like a horse, the oldest to smush his face into crazy expressions and the middle children to chase him til they were exhausted.
And all the children said "come to the one you love the best" and the dog came to me.

Thus, we purchased our dog.

One the ride home in the car, I turned and looked at him. His squat corgi legs, his envelope fold ears, his unusual corgi colouring, his docked tail (courtesy of the people who had dumped him) and his face.... His.... Face.....

'Hang on... The corgi bit, I get. The cross bit... That's jack Russell, isn't it?"

My husband looked into the mirror at the faces of the children in the backseat, who looked back at him, alarmed; as co-conspirators in the 'let mummy have a blonde moment' affair.

"Please don't make us take him back, mummy...."

And thus we had purchased a dog who half broke the rule.

This became the first time he broke a rule.
And he didn't even know there WAS a rule.
And thus, a pattern was set.

not so girly ...

I went to a friend's handbag party a while back and embarrassed myself.

I didn't, for once, tip my coffee, talk about someone's sister or trip over the table. No, I showed my ungirlyness.
And yes that's a word. I just made it so.

Here's what I did.
I asked why people have more than one handbag.
(gasp) 

which then led to my discovery that "other" women have more than one shade of lipstick. 
In their bag. 
At the same time.
(yes the crickets chirped when I dropped that clanger, too)

AND more shoes than just work shoes, thongs (flip flops), and sneakers. 

Seriously, there were lightbulbs snapping everywhere for me that day. 

Here I had been thinking all those shades of lipstick were just for different skin tones... And you can only wear one colour at a time, right?
When they asked what I do for lipstick when I wear a different colour, I answered "that's WHEN I wear lipstick". 
I forgot to say "if I remember where it is"

Hmm.

Back in the day when I tried to fit in, I noticed my friends "popped their collars" (ie for those like me who don't understand the lingo of he hip, they wore the collar of their shirts UP instead of down) so...I did the same.
And the effect?
"Oh you silly sausage" clucked one of my popped collar friends "you haven't dressed yourself very well today have you?.. " and she straightened my collar back down.

Another time I had my very best Meg Ryan tousled hairdo just so. As I walked up to a friend, she patted me on the shoulder and said "an extra five minutes in front of the mirror this morning just didn't happen for you today, did it?"

Yet another friend describes me thus: "She's like a kindergarten (4 year old) girl. She has her favourite shirt, her favourite skirt, her favourite shoes and she wears them ALL together, and doesn't even care if they match or not"

And you know what? I think their comments are hilarious. And so me. I laughed then and I laugh now. (well okay maybe I didn't laugh THEN, but you know, a week.. or maybe it was a year ... later I did) because I know I'm not a girly girl.

I'm not a bling, sparkle, glamour or fluffy girl at all.

I'm a denim and tshirt girl. My Doc Martens are my favourite footwear and apart from mascara (so you can see I have eyelashes), I don't wear makeup.
My hair is cropped short unless in its current longer style pulled back with a scrunchie.

When I tried on my wedding dress waaay back in the day, I wore big boots and football socks (it was cold alright?) - much to the horror of the starchy sales assistant.

I had no idea at the time that it would become one of my very favourite retold stories - man, the look on her face when I held up the skirt of the dress and she saw my footwear was priceless  - and I was totally clueless. 
I had NO idea girls wore heels and maybe even took more than one pair of shoes to try on a dress. 
Like.. why would you even...?

My daughters, therefore, have grown up with me as their 'womanly' role model. 
And I grew up with a mother who was the same. 
As was her mother.

Not that I even remotely come near their examples. Maybe when I'm a grown up?

I saw my mother dressed in her non matching clothes and no makeup as she offered a place at our family dinner table to the hungry, a place of rest in our living room to the unloved and a heart for God to anyone she met.

She saw her mother who had six children, a deserter husband and no money give the little she had to help others. Yes, in her non matching clothes and no makeup.

And I know five minutes more in front of the mirror never even occured to either of them.

Back home....

You know how if you've done something...or experienced something... And you try to explain it... And you just want to say "you had to be there"... ?
Whether its a holiday, a visit, a conference, training, whatever, "you had to be there" to understand the nuance of the conversation or the vastness of the countryside or the taste of the coffee or the information absorbed.
And that's not snobbery or exclusivity, it's a fact.

Coming back after anything of note makes you reassess life, home, work. Coming back from a different culture or experience can make you look twice at your lifestyle and your country's choices. You question your motives, second guess your thoughts.

And there is a part of you that will never be the same. A certain part of you that you have left with a someone or a someplace that you may never recover even if you go back to the same places.

"In Poland, I saw God's Holy Spirit work in ways I'd never seen before. Back home in my everyday routine, that wasn't the case. For one thing, I have found entire days passing...  without my talking to God. In Poland, the ways I saw God at work drove me to my knees multiple times each day" 
http://home.snu.edu/~hculbert/reentry.htm

I read this the other day and knew I had to use it, because it kind of describes my experience. Okay I didn't go to Poland, but other than that it's pretty close.

I did see things that drove me to my knees, things that made me cry to God either in joy or anger. Things that made me gasp in wonder, that made me shake my head or that made me thankful for His hand holding mine.

And when we're on our knees the best place to look is up. 
And I looked up into God's face so many times, sometimes in laughter at a child's comments, sometimes seeking mercy over a child's situation.

And every time, He answered.

Not with a loud voice or a booming sound, as some imagine.
Sometimes it was a feeling of peace, other times a distinct thought that I knew wasn't mine. If it was of love, I knew it to be of God.

And back in my own country and home, things drive me to my knees, but I forget to look up. I am tempted to sort out my own issues and control my own environment, forgetting the one who is in control.

Meanwhile, 
A throwaway comment by someone may set off memories both good and bad.
A casual conversation can have my mind wandering in other directions.
Seeing an action or behaviour can give me a revisit. 

... And I go back to remembering that I don't have control and I need to seek the one who does. 

And that the answer is here with me, not just in China.
And that's a hard one to remember!

What dreams may come... And go.

Years ago my dream was shattered.

Let me explain. (Please add snarky voice when you read this in your head)

Are you old enough to remember waay back to when chocolate brown was de riguer for kitchen cabinets? Chocolate brown doors...  and benchtops and door handles of daffodil yellow, lime green or orange..
That gives away your and my ages, you know, so maybe stop nodding.
Wow were the 70s really that bad?

So anyways, back in the day, we young womenfolk had a cute tradition of keeping a "glory box" which we filled with treasures of many shapes and sizes in preparation for the day of our divine wedlock, after which we would be mistress of a domicile.
(Gag)
And these various treasures would form the basis of our domesticity, for within the confines of the "glory box" could be found tea towels, towels, china plates, cutlery and anything else great aunt Ethel thought we might need.

Not to be outdone, I also started to fill my chest with oddities (a wooden storage chest, stay with me here) and amongst my prized pieces was my Tupperware dream team. 
You may remember the most awesome set; the breakfast delight pieces which were mustard coloured? There was a bread holder which precisely fitted one loaf of crusty bread, a butter container which held precisely a pound of butter, a sugar and creamer set, and, because I hosted a party, I received a bonus gift of the triple jam holders in the matching colour! (Oh joyous rapturous wonder) If you're too young to understand that last sentence or two, be thankful.

Added to this I had my large collection of canisters of assorted sizes, all in lime green (because my dream kitchen would be chocolate brown and green, of course, duh). So my Tupperware dream was born while I was still a fledgling adult. I married in my teens - maybe because I was so anxious to use my plastic fantastic, maybe for love - and kept the Tupperware hidden for when our real lives would begin.

The life of my dreams.

In my dream, we were a wonderfully loving family, and I saw us, two adults and two children, all four blonde, with white shirts and white pants, sitting outside on a timber deck on our picnic table style setting, wind blowing my hair as I casually laughed at my husbands uproarious wit, serving my children breakfast from my delightful Tupperware breakfast set. They sat transfixed in wonder at the glory of the moment, my husband sharing witticisms and astute political opinion as he read the newspaper out loud.

We prepared meals together, all four of us helping prepare, cook and serve meals for which the ingredients came from (all together now...) the Tupperware.
Salads would be divinely displayed in Tupperware, the salt and pepper shakers plus the oil and vinegar servers were all matching T stuff and.. 
(wow we're impressive, aren't we? Don't you wish you grew up in this family?) ...

... then somewhere along the way, i met reality.
We ended up with four children, all blonde, all born with 5.5 years.  None wore white because I couldn't stand keeping it clean, and we didn't have a timber deck or a picnic table style dining. We had a dirt area which would one day (please God, one day) be a pergola and some odd chairs we sat around a rickety third hand outside table.
The kids tipped their bowls, slapped each others hands away from the milk and sugar, poked holes in the bread, fell off their chairs and laughed uproariously at each others farts.
My husband and I shared witty comments, by which I mean sarcastic rejoinders, by which i mean arguments, about the lack of money and how we were going to afford the car repairs and that the kids needed new shoes again and it wasn't my fault they kept growing and no they couldn't hand-them-down.

I had long given up using the Tupperware for actual food. It became perfect for bath time play (those suckers are good pouring toys), sand pit toys - they scoop sand like nobody's business, pencil holders (The number of coloured pencils you can fit in a one loaf sized container may stagger you. Or it may stagger you that we had that many pencils)
My lime green canisters held Barbie shoes and play dough cutters, lego pieces and the occasional chip because seriously, you can't see what's in those lime green containers and you keep buying more stuff when we've already got plenty you just can't see it in the pantry and how ridiculous are they anyway?

Instead of heading out together on date nights to see good quality drama, we stayed home, watched TV and tried to avoid getting involved in the kids night time morning time any time of day time dramas.
Instead of sitting together of an evening after dinner listening to music, we either yelled at each other over the wiggles or collapsed exhausted in front of the TV too shattered to think let alone appreciate the soundtrack that had become our lives.
Instead of growing our own vegetables and creating healthy nutritious and totally awesome food together, encouraging the kids to try new foods, we ate the crusts off the peanut butter sandwiches and the pizza and we grew very fond of macaroni cheese.

Nearly thirty years later, I look back and see so many dreams trampled along the way.
I see so many thoughts dissolved and plans gone awry.
I see so many things I thought important relegated to becoming background noise.

But I see that just like the Tupperware became useful in a new existence, so did we. 
Neither of us planned four kids so close together.
Neither of us planned five house moves in five years in amongst having babies.
Neither of us planned for our lives to become so irreconcilably intertwined with our children's.
But neither of us planned to be strong enough to overcome four kids so close in age; all non sleepers; three refluxers and oh the nappies....
Neither of us thought we'd become so adept at packing a house, making new friends, moving on and finding our way.
Neither of us planned that when the kids left home there'd be a big empty noise left behind.
Neither of us planned to find so much fun in the loss of the dream.
Neither of us expected to grow to like Tupperware again, either.

Re-entry reality

They call it "re-entry". A small hyphenated word that describes something you can't prepare for.
It's the term used to cover a person's arrival "home" after a trip away, in my case a short term mission trip. The same occurs after holidays etc but in this case it's a psyche and spiritual change as well as the cultural experiences.

In the same way you can be told about childbirth, then go through it and wonder why nobody actually TOLD you about it, you can read and hear about "re-entry" and then experience it.

Our team did undergo re-entry discussion sessions and heard from others who had already done this re-entry thing before. 

And we nodded sagely.
And we were warned gently about the things that can happen, the things that might happen and the things that rarely happen but we needed to be aware of.
and we nodded sagely.

The discrepancy between the culture we were leaving and our 'home' culture could cause stress.
Our friends and family not knowing what we have been through could cause stress.
People asking if I had a "nice holiday" could cause stress.
Watching people indiscriminately spend money could be a stressor.
Things unknown could cause stress.

And I arrived home overprepared to deal with the stress. 
I was so in control of my situation I would be unfazed, wouldn't I?
I would handle this with grace and aplomb.
Humour intact at all times.

And my husband asked questions I didn't expect from an angle I hadn't considered.
And people asked questions I didn't expect.
And I wandered through the days in a nice vague cloud. 
Conversations happened around me and I smiled and nodded and agreed. I raised an eyebrow or shrugged, but didn't actually engage with any comments.

I saw my husband struggle to come to terms with a wife whose earth axis had shifted without him. 
I showed photos of the beautiful children I met, I talked in vague terms about what we did, I shrugged and said that yes it was an incredible experience.
I sent emails, checked Facebook and chatted on the phone.
And I told people it was "awesome awesome"

But only a part of my brain was responding. How did I not see?

Life was fairly subdued in my cloud. I stayed there for a while, confident I was coping well.

Then one morning the cloud went away.
I hadn't even known it was there, I was only made aware of it by its absence.

And I thought "man ... I've been to freaking China."
How can this have happened?

.... To be continued