Molly (RIP)...
I am sorry that I never got the chance to introduce you to Molly. Molly was our first family pet.

I say was because while we were at the sea last week for a bit of a break, Molly was hit by a car just outside our house and killed. I believe she was killed instantly and didn't suffer. We weren't looking for a family pet, Molly found us. A friend, Matthew Tarboton, was moving from Queenstown to East London and couldn't take his 1 year old cat with him. When we heard that Molly was looking for a home we didn't immediately respond, but waited for a while to see if perhaps she wasn't meant to be with someone else. When "someone else" didn't materialise we knew that we were supposed to take Molly.

We bought her a collar with a heart-shaped tag, stamped with her name and her home telephone number. After a while we realised we would need to get a bell for her collar because she kept killing birds and dragging them into the house. Michael Watson, another friend of ours, said this was because she was looking for attention and approval. I think it was because we were underfeeding her. We started feeding her meat portions every second day instead of just pellets and since that day she didn't kill a single bird. She was a very affectionate girl who loved a warm, inviting lap. She did however have the unfortunate habit of wanting to lick our skin wherever she could find an exposed bit. This was not pleasant at all so at times Molly got a gentle reprimand.

When we received the news of her death we felt quite helpless being 178km away. Her body was still in the road when we received the phone call although someone had been kind enough to move her to the side. I took a chance and phoned Romain & Gcez, two of our other friends here in Queenstown. I asked if they could dispose of the body for us, quite a big ask wouldn't you say? They not only agreed to do so but they took time off work to relocate her body from the road into our garden until they could deal with her properly. After work on that same day Romain and Gcez fetched Molly from our garden and took her around the back of the house to the foot of Long Hill Mountain. There they dug a grave, lined it, placed Molly inside and buried her. Then they made a wooden cross, said a few kind words in memory and sang a song.

I know what you are thinking. What kind of friends are these? Exactly! Romain and Gcez, thank you for handling our first pet's passing with such care and love. You guys are exceptional friends.

Molly, RIP. We will miss you, even your tongue.

Winter Reflections…
There is this street in my town. It is right up against one of the mountains that hold Queenstown in hand.

The street is lined on both sides by poplars and oaks. I like the poplar side, not least because poplars are my favourite tree. When fully clothed in summer green they remind me of fire reaching to heaven, burning for their Creator and pointing towards their source of life. When the wind blows gently they tremble in a shimmering emerald-flame dance.

But in winter they are stripped naked. In the late afternoons when I run along this long road the scouring winter sun calls the bareness of each branch into full disclosure and the wind whips through each unprotected limb. Yet the trees do not look pathetic. Their arms remain raised upward in surrender as the sun reveals and the wind cleanses. I must confess a terrible jealousy as I consider the bold presence of their unruffled vulnerability. There they stand; they cannot run and give no hint that they want to hide. Rooted in the place they were planted, once ever year, they are cleansed of pretence and outward adornment and allow themselves to be tested. They know that they are not there to impress. In the exposure of winter they do not care about who may see what. They are in a time of scheduled stillness, rest and simplicity; fasting from every superfluous activity and focusing on the most important thing. Remaining in an attitude of sustained respite there is truth between them, their Creator and those with whom they share the street.

This is such an important element of life as an object of creation. There must be sincerity between the created order and its Creator. But there must also be seasonal shedding of all the stuff we accumulate as we live, even the good that keeps us from the best, from naked worship. Worship, I think, is that place of truth where we get undressed before our God of naked light. He too, holds nothing back. The Light reveals what we cannot see; between the crusty bark, right inside these open cuts and scrapes. The Wind cleans and washes.

But often when the Light shines and the Wind blows in our vulnerable moments we tend to hold on to our coverings so fearfully, so successfully, that we miss the blessing of winter. We remain clothed. Dignified, protected, safe and unhealed. We remain hidden from God (so we think) and others, hidden from true life because there is a kind of life that is counterfeit. The harsh discipline of winter can bring truth and wholeness back to into everything we are. I wish I could live this honestly in the winter of my discontent. How much more integrity would there be? How much of a healthier, stronger place would the world inside and outside of me be?

Like I said, I envy the winter poplars.

“In repentance and rest is your salvation. In quietness and trust is your strength”. Isaiah 30:15.

Autumn Reflection...
I'm not sure why but until very recently I had associated Winter with death. Summer was for life and fun, Spring for the budding of new life and Autumn for decline.

Autumn has always been my favourite season. Living in the Eastern Cape for most of my life has reinforced this. Summer is too hot, humid and rainy. Spring is too windy. Winter I like, except towards the end when it starts to get windy. Autumn means dry, warm days, cool nights, very little wind and no humidity. Also, I am a little melancholic so I feel that Autumn gets me.

I had always seen the natural cycles of death and life in the seasons and had made great peace with this, accepting that one day I too would become like an autumn leaf; older, blemished, dry and on my way to death. But this year I have seen something else in Autumn besides just the beauty of the colours.

I have seen that there is a promise of continuity built in to Autumn, specifically into the colour and smell. Not the continuity of karma or reincarnation because that is a never-ending, defeated cycle of hopelessness. I know that Nirvana sounds great to those who are sick of the pain of living and who would want to reach an eternal state of bliss; to dissolve into the collective divine consciousness, hey it even sounds great to me, but is it attainable or even desirable? I think not.

I see in the colours of autumn a promise of the colours of spring. In the last moments of a deciduous leaf's life it is transformed into a flag of hope that flutters and signals towards something that will have to be believed by faith because of course after the incredible parade of beauty comes death and as we all know, death is final. Or is it? And then the smell. I had not noticed before that autumn has a signature smell. Spring is obvious and in your face; overwhelming and undeniable - new life is here! But autumns scent is veiled and gentle; perceived by those who may be searching for meaning. It is very slightly sweet and softly spicy; like embalming lotion? But there it is, the second bridge of hope to cross the the chasm of death. It is not a negative smell and therein is the confirmatory sign. A scent from realms beyond what we now know.

Autumn just got better for me. It used to be my favourite season but things just got metaphysical. Now it's unbeatable.

Milk Teeth…

After weeks of red mouth, spotty chin and painful moaning Joel’s first teeth have broken through. Two, in the middle, at the bottom to be precise.

Kylie has all her teeth now, thankfully. When Kylie had a tooth making headway through the gums the whole universe got to know about it. Joel is not as bad as Kylie was but he has not got molars. Yet. Exciting times. Trying to get Kylie pinned-down for her daily teeth brushing is an exercise in strategy, skill, stealth, manoeuvrability and, when she has been caught, brute strength. It’s not that she minds having her teeth cleaned, she just turns it into a game of “catch me if you can/ hold me down if you can”. When we have finally caught her and when gasping for breath we try to keep her from squirming away, she often bites down on the brush, rendering it immobile in her vice-like jaws. This she does with a massive, teeth-clenched smile on her face and with giggles erupting from the pit of her belly. The threshold for parental sense of humour failure is around about this point of the game. What was meant to be a simple two-minute task is turned into a fifteen minute tag-team wrestling match with a Barney toothbrush. Needless to say that toothpaste often ends up in the hair, under the chin, behind the ears and eventually in the mouth. Welcome to parenthood.

Yet to not go through the (massive) effort of cleaning the milk teeth regularly and of teaching a child good habits is to set them up for greater pain later. Think holes, infections, dentists, drills, needles, medical bills – you get the picture. I have found great value in learning how to take care of what I have been given. The less I wash my car, the quicker it rusts. Not backing up my data will lead to the loss of my whole life, well almost. Spending quality time with my family leads to better family life, closer relationships and fewer arguments. The Bible calls it stewardship. As God’s image-bearers everything on the planet has been given into our care. If we tend to all we’ve been given with unselfish love then it will support us and provide for us. People, animals, rivers, plants air, sea, our bodies, our spirits, our minds etc. This is the inconvenient truth to beat all others. It’s all connected and we are responsible to take care of it all. Fail to steward one area properly and it affects all others. Philosophers call this Chaos Theory, or The Butterfly Effect. Earl calls it Karma. But we won’t get into that now.

So we will be buying Joel his own toothbrush and we will start brushing his two teeth as soon as they are brush-able. Gotta keep the world turning.

“And let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up” Galatians 6:9

Superheroes…
There are a few lines of this song entitled “Superman” by the band Five for Fighting that are part of who I am.

“I can’t stand to fly, I’m not that naive. Men weren’t meant to ride, with clouds between their knees. I’m only a man in a silly red sheet, digging for kryptonite on this one way street. Only a man in a funny red sheet, looking for special things inside of me”

You know how in the Superman movies, nerd guy Clark Kent enters a telephone booth or a secluded alleyway and comes out transformed as a basically indestructible superhero in a really tight leotard? Life doesn’t work that way right? At least not for us mortals.

Caryn and I were married for two and a bit years when these photos were taken in the beautiful city of Durham, England. By the way, Durham boasts one of the top universities in the world and the greatest (and sublimely beautiful) Normal Cathedral in Europe. Kylie had been swimming around inside Caryn merrily for twenty-one weeks at this point. We are now into our sixth year of marriage and we love each in so many more ways now than then.

Yet there are times when things break down. This is so often a matter of the heart not being in the right place and when it happens communication becomes hard and painful. Things get said out of a place of unrest and perhaps accumulated negativity in the heart and before you know it someone is wounded; usually both of you since married couples tend to love a good volley.

That’s why I felt the telephone booth was such a great analogy for what can go wrong and right within a marriage. We are not closet superheroes who can save the world and save each other’s lives, marriages, children and so on with a simple transformational procedure like the one Superman does. All humans are broken and fragile, carrying around wounds that are partially healed or open and it is so easy to act and react out of our hurt when someone presses there. Perhaps what we can do though is go into the booth together and talk about our pain, the places that hurt. Not so that we can have an up-close and personal blame game, but rather a time of confession, of soul-baring.
"Sorry" is always the door to a conversation like this. Relationships can become sterile deserts, bleak, harsh and unliveable instead of the life-giving oasis they were intended to be. Without an apology there can be no honesty. We need to talk about our weaknesses and ask for help. Much like the songwriter for the song above. Great empathy and compassion is aroused when we understand each other and why we are the way we are. This is not a quick fix but a rocky path that can be long but which leads to ever more frequent sanctuaries of rest, peace and wholeness between us.

We so badly want to change the world as people; we all dream of doing superhero stuff. The greatest heroes start with their own hearts, admitting their weakness. Then they work to reconcile their marriages. From a strengthened heart and restored relationships the world can become a better place.

One person, one family at a time.
“…and in you all the families of the earth shall be blessed” (Genesis 12:3; ESV).

The Pot Stirrer…
Kylie is incurably curious about everything at the moment and wants to be involved in many of the details of housekeeping. Except cleaning up and packing away her daily tornado of mess that is.

The other day I was making potjiekos and she offered to help me stir the onions. She loved it and seemed to get such a great sense of worth out of feeling like she was contributing to something meaningful.

This got me thinking about how many times I so easily assume that she is being naughty when in fact it is me who is not relating to her properly on her emotional level. I just learned (through books and friends) recently that when I tell Kylie to do something in an authoritarian way I am bypassing her free will, a fundamental human value and one Kylie treasures. By doing this I naturally invite rebellion. Nobody likes being told what to do. She then says no, and I end up shouting at her, or worse. This escalation is pure failure to misunderstand that my daughter has a younger intellect and emotions that are not yet manageable. Not sure if ladies ever quite get the managing part perfectly right but that’s another post for another time. (I think I’m gonna get creamed for that one).
The new approach that I have learned is to first show her that I understand her crisis, acknowledge her feelings. “Kylie I can see that you are angry with Daddy”. This makes her feel heard. Secondly I empathise with her. “Daddy also gets upset when he has to….” This connects with the emotional place she is at and makes her feel vindicated. Her feelings are not good or bad, they just are. Thirdly I look for ways to solve the problem together. This is the difficult part but when, say for example we come to the decision to pack toys away together, she is getting a value instilled by example and by cooperation. This is a double reinforcing of good values. Lastly praise. By now she will have sensed great feelings of solidarity and worth by the joint completion of the task so when she is praised for doing it, it will be the icing that seals the lesson.

This really works by the way. I have now tried it a couple of times. I don’t always remember to stop and consider her first before I lose control and blow my lid (thereby giving her an example of what to do in a similar situation when her will is blocked), but when I do it almost always works.

I say almost because when I forget or when the situation deteriorates I need to remember that I can be just as big a pot stirrer. And then I wonder where she gets it from.

Blue Monday...
Mondays have an almost mythical blue-ness about them. The weekend starts on Thursday evening as one starts to anticipate the weekend and all around you just feel the spirit of TGIF. The number one Facebook status on Friday is, well, you know.

But not for most pastors. For us the weekends are just the beginning of our working week; Mondays are like Red Bull for us. In fact, the only blue in my Monday was the Tanzanite canopy of the sky on this rare, windless twenty four hours in Jeffreys Bay.

Kylie and I have needed some bonding time since I feel like all I do is reprimand her lately; me being a grumpy old fart and her being a precocious little 2.5yr old. Not a happy mix. So we hit the beach this afternoon whilst leaving Caryn and Joel to gel back home; not that the latter relationship needs any encouragement. We live one street, or, in a straight line, 150 metres from the beach. This translated into a 3 minute walk on my own and a 15 minute walk with Kylie.

She picked almost every wildflower growing through the cracked pavement and stopped to point out a house under construction, very troubled that it was "broken". We had a great swim in the waves, dug holes in the sand, sat in the holes and got covered up, dug our toes into a beached jellyfish, skimmed (or simply chucked) stones across the water and had some good laughs. Some moments you wish you could just push pause. This was one of them.

Life goes on but for one Dad, I will giftwrap this memory and keep it for when the weekends are like Mondays for everyone else.