coming out of rehab

Finishing up Lent was like leaving rehab. A few weeks before Easter I realised that we weren't going to be able to stay completely sugar-free. It's complicated. I already knew that both Greer and I couldn't eat too many salycilates, but then Abigail woke up one morning with the most hideous bright red nappy rash and I knew what it was. It was the honey they'd been eating every day on their porridge, the dates I'd been adding to the porridge, and the sultanas I was putting in those porridge muffins, not to mention the sultanas and cinnamon in the hot cross buns. Every natural sugar alternative is high in salycilates. (Except maybe stevia - I haven't figured that out yet.)

There's a reason that we had become so dependent on sugar, and it wasn't just the little quiet sugar addiction I had going on under the radar. Sugar is completely salycilate free. It contains no artificial colours or flavours, obviously, and it is completely neutral as far as Greer's asthma goes. Sugar is also an essential ingredient in most gluten-free baking, because it masks the strong flavours of the gluten-free flours. That pear cake I told you I made that weekend I decided to go sugar free, it takes TWO cups of sugar, plus one cup of pear syrup as well! But although that seems terrible to me now, I was so grateful for the recipe. Everyone loved that cake, and most people never even guessed it was gluten-free. So other than perverting our taste buds and filling us with empty calories, sugar was fine. Sugar was our friend.

That's why going sugar-free really was a revolution. To say "no" to sugar took a lot of gumption, and once I'd done it, as you know, I didn't want to look back. I felt amazing. I had visions of health and well being for all of us. When Abi woke up that morning with terrible nappy rash, my heart sank. We were not going to live happily off honey and sultanas forever after.

Interestingly, though, I had packed up all of our sugar and given it to Mum just the day before. The white sugar, the brown sugar, the icing sugar, the castor sugar and the golden syrup. I had smuggled it out without anyone seeing, and in the empty containers that were left I loaded up all the bread flours I had started using in the breadmaker. It was a good trade, and as much as I had to face the fact that some sugar was going to be part of our lives, there was no way I was letting all of it back in.

So this is where it stands. I am so scared of what chocolate can do to me that I don't think I'll be touching it for a very long time. The girls know why giving up sugar for Lent was good for us, and they know that as a family we now try to avoid it when we can. They like the muffins I've been making with only THREE TABLESPOONS of sugar in them. (If you'd told me three months ago that I'd be making muffins with only three tablespoons of sugar in them I'd have scoffed!) The pantry is now almost sugar free. After the nappy rash incident I added back in a small glass jar of raw, organic sugar. It's sugar, yes, but it's expensive. I won't be dishing up cups of the stuff in anything. The girls get a small sprinkle on their porridge, and I use it in the breadmaker and in those muffins. That's it.

I was worried about Easter. How can you do Easter without chocolate? How could I do Easter without chocolate? Then I saw some small Easter gift bags at the supermarket, and in a flash I knew I could do it. I bought a bag of dried apple rings, a bag of cashew nuts and a pack of Easter stickers. I bought the girls one tiny chocolate rabbit each, and I took one marshmallow egg each out of a bag I'd bought before Lent, and then gave the rest of the bag to Mum. I packaged up the dried apple and the cashew nuts, and tucked them under the chocolate. The photo doesn't really show how small it was. The rabbit was 35g of chocolate. I think we can manage that.

Me, this was my first Easter without chocolate. My first Easter in maybe thirty five years that I haven't eaten significant amounts of chocolate. I lived to tell the tale. I was tempted, but not tempted enough. There was no spare chocolate anyway. Once upon a time I might have sneaked some of my children's chocolate when they weren't looking, but this time they had so little that there was no way I would have gotten away with it!

But I got the jar of homemade strawberry jam my dear friend Amy had made for me for Christmas. I spread it thinly over cream cheese on a piece of toast, for the first time since before Lent, and I was happy.

I know a little bit about addiction. I know that for those who suffer the weight of an addiction, one of its worst curses is a self-hatred that's suffocating. Nobody feels good if they can't control their own behaviour. My little sugar addiction may have been small-fry amongst the hideous spectrum of addictions, but even still, I like myself better now. I can say no to sugar. I'm very proud.

alive

There's only one of these every year, a Resurrection Sunday. Just one chance to really let our joy ring out unabashed. All around the planet there are Christians meeting. Some in magnificent cathedrals, some in tiny wooden churches, some in school halls or sitting rooms. Some meet with candles and incense, following ancient patterns; others raise their hands to loud anthems. Where ever they meet, and however they do it, their focus is the same; Jesus.

Our congregation always manages to find a nice groove somewhere between ancient and loud, and this morning we sang the classic hymn "Thine be the Glory";

Thine be the glory, risen conquering son,
Endless is the victory, thou o'er death, has won.
Angels in bright raiment, rolled the stone away,
Kept the folded grave clothes, where thy body lay.


Lo, Jesus meets us, risen from the tomb,
Lovingly he greets us, scatters fear and doom.
Let the church with gladness, hymns of triumph sing,
For her Lord now liveth, death hath lost it's sting.


Thine be the glory, risen conquering son,
Endless is the victory, thou o'er death, has won.


There really aren't any other words better than those for today. It puzzles me that some would say you can have Christian faith without the resurrection. I can't agree. The resurrection, that other-worldly, incomprehensible battle against death is the crux, literally, of everything we believe. If it didn't happen, then we Christians, wanna-be's that we are half of the time, should just pack up and go home.

My good friend Heidi shared her story today in church. She's had her own other-worldly battle against death. A few years ago she became very sick. Mis-diagnosed pneumonia turned into multiple organ failure with frightening speed, and within hours she was in a coma. The coma lasted three weeks, and during that time she died nine times.

She stood in front of us today, her face bright and her smile wide. Heidi walks, talks, works, sings, loves her husband, gardens, cooks, eats and dances. She dresses with spunk and has a great sense of humour. She is infectiously alive.

There was a period of time where Heidi's husband and family were being repeatedly told to expect her to die. They were told this by doctors in such a resigned way that her husband, a normally reticent man, couldn't take it any more. "Stop talking about Heidi as if she's already dead!" he said to them as his frustration exploded. "You are robbing us of the dignity of hope."

The dignity of hope.


We can't live without hope. It's a tangible thing. We feel it, like a light or a flame inside of us. It comforts us and feeds us. It enables us to endure.

Heidi breathed through a tracheotomy while she was in a coma, and even when she woke up, that tube kept her alive. She said today that it's really lonely having a "trachy", because you can't speak, you effectively have no voice.

I think I know how that feels. When it comes to putting words to this faith of mine I've felt silenced. Like I've had no voice. There have been plenty of voices around me and in the public sphere, but I haven't always liked the words they used. They haven't spoken my language. And I didn't realise I needed to find a language of my own.

My faith is nothing more, and nothing less than persistent hope. It's a persistent hope that has never really gone away since the moment I prayed as a four year old asking God to be with me "for all the days of my life." That hope stuck around through a less than perfect childhood and through angst-ridden teenage years. It never left when depression lurked in the shadows of exhaustion, and it wrote itself over my heart while I took an eternity to figure myself out. It never left me through those shocking first years of motherhood, nor through the highs and lows of marriage. My hope remains.

Today, Resurrection Sunday, is my hope. The easily misunderstood, often mocked and barely explainable death and resurrection of Christ is the source of my hope. He lives, and so do I.

a good day

I went in to the girls' room this morning and I said "it's a good day girls, it's a very good day." And it was.

I spent most of it in the kitchen. Making hot cross buns for the first time, cleaning up from making hot cross buns, feeding people, cooking dinner. The sky was blue and clear and the sun was warm and the girls spent most of it outside. My thoughts were constantly turning back to this day two thousand years ago. That day, as I told the girls at breakfast, which was so sad and so wonderful.

We finally sat down to eat late. I put out green salad and potato salad to eat with schnitzel and lit a candle. It was haphazard, hardly planned, but beautiful. We prayed and ate together, and then Paddy decided to pull out his phone and read from John. It was about the time of the afternoon that Jesus died, way back then. When the sky grew dark. It wasn't dark here as we listened to those words, so familiar and yet new all over again, but our hearts were heavy.

I noticed something I'd never noticed before. In John 19 the narrator describes how one of the Roman soldiers was ordered to break the legs of the three crucified, so they could hurry up and die. Jesus was already dead, so his legs were not broken, and the passage goes like this;

But when they came to Jesus and found that he was already dead, they did not break his legs. Instead, one of the soldiers pierced Jesus side with a spear, bringing a sudden flow of blood and water. The man who saw it has given testimony, and his testimony is true. He knows that he tells the truth, and he testifies so that you may also believe.  (John 19:32-35)


And it hit me that this is why I live the way I do. Because I believe the testimony of those people, all those years ago. Ordinary people who lived ordinary lives until they met Jesus. And then they witnessed the strangest, most unexpected series of events.

Bishops and televangelists and soap-box preachers alike all want you to believe that the story of the Christian faith is a seamless narrative. That it begins at the beginning, moves through to a second beginning, and will finish in good time and in a manner that can be predicted, if you read the clues right. They think their job is to convince you by making it all seem reasonable, believable. And right there is where they fail.

There's nothing reasonable about the story of Christ. It's hardly plausible, barely possible. It is filled with mystery. I can't give you scientific evidence for my faith in those witnesses of old, but I can tell you about the mystery. I can tell you that I felt my spine tingle as I listened to this song while I was busy in the kitchen. I can tell you that my heart warms when I pray, that the whisper I often hear is not my own. I can tell you about growth, and I can tell you about hope.

There is plenty of evidence that the gospels can be read as history, as reliable as any of the texts we have from those far away days. Sure there are discrepancies between voices, and some of the details get lost in translation. But many of the facts are confirmed from sources outside of the bible. It's a story that has more than a ring of truth to it.

After dinner we left Paddy at home perfecting another batch of hot cross buns, and went to visit the favoured brand new cousin. The late afternoon sun was still warm and the sky still blue. We took hot cross buns, of course, the best of them, and we cuddled and fed and doted on that precious boy. There was washing to fold, and stories to hear, and a family to watch as they tried on their family-of-six-ness for size. It was good.

Nothing is easy, and nothing is perfect, not on this side of things. But there's a sense of motion and growth amongst the Christ-followers I know. They believe the ancient testimony, and it changes them.

everyday resurrections

I took this photo yesterday, although I should probably say chance took it. We stopped at a park on the way home. The carpet of autumn leaves under the trees was calling us to run scrunching. I took some photos on my phone of the girls kicking the leaves around, and then I as I was putting it back into my pocket this happened. A photo-fluke.

This photo looks a bit like my life at the moment. Lots of things going on, balls in the air, my head spinning. Tomorrow our house sale will go unconditional, and our purchase of the big house in the bush will go unconditional as well. When that happens I will tell you all about it! So exciting!! But as you can imagine there has been a lot going on, and all at the eleventh hour.  Not just house stuff either. There have been so many words I've written to you in my head over the last month. So many things I've been thinking about that I just haven't had time to write. So my head feels a bit like that photo too.

Yesterday my Dad fell five metres from a tree he was trimming in my sister's back yard. It is a very large tree, and the huge branch he had just sawn off swung around instead of falling straight. It swung right round to the opposite side of the tree, round to the ladder Dad was standing on. It broke the ladder and sent him flying. How he ended up with nothing more than an enormous fright and plenty of bruising is a miracle.

Then last night I went to Taize Prayer at the Fransiscan Friary. It was a moment of clarity in the midst of all the spinning, like that spot at the top of the photo that's almost in focus. Suddenly everything was still. We met in the chapel, the chairs in a u-shape around a collection of candles and autumn leaves on the floor at the centre of the room. Incense hung in the air. I looked around at the random bunch of people gathered. Some older, some younger, but all at home, all happy to be there. I was a newbie but I didn't feel out of place. It was a sacred hour of sung chants, readings, and silence. It was like sitting down beside a cool mountain stream and taking a big drink.

The readings were for Easter, and the one prayer we all prayed together was this poem by Joy Cowley.

Easter Sunday

This is the day of festival
and we thank you, O God of celebration,
with hymns of praise rising like balloons
and banners of love waving from our hearts.
Today we dance with the angels
round all the empty tombs in our lives,
celebrating transformation,
from grief to laughter,
from darkness into light.
Today we glimpse the truth
of suffering and death
as we move with you in your Jesus song
of resurrections without end.

This Easter I thought of something I'd never thought before. What happened in that moment directly after Jesus' resurrection? When Jesus is standing on earth, breathing our air again. The ground has shaken, the stone has been rolled, the soldiers have fled, and there is no one in the garden except Jesus, all new. What was he thinking? How was he feeling? What did he do? Did he touch his body all over just to be sure? Did he sit and stare at his hands, remembering? Or did he walk through the garden, talking to God, taking a moment alone like all those other moments alone we know he took. How did their conversation go?

I like the line in Joy Cowley's poem about dancing around "all the empty tombs in our lives" and the idea of "resurrections without end." We celebrate the greatest resurrection at Easter, but what about all the other, everyday resurrections? When problems that seem to have no answer are suddenly resolved, when two friends get over a disagreement and embrace, when despair hanging over a heavy heart lifts, and when a man falls five metres and gets up without a broken bone, what do we do? Do we stop and witness these extraordinary moments? Do we stop to breathe again, to sit and stare at our own hands, to see how new we are?

Light and truth, life and laughter. They come to us in spite of our brokenness, in spite of our ignorance, and despite the darkness that threatens. Our own everyday resurrections.