Calling Time-Out

Most Western parents would be familiar with the phrase, "time-out". It is used when a child old enough to rationalise with continues misbehaving and is usually followed with the phrase, "go to your room."

While I don't have kids of my own, because of the nature of my job, I often find myself in discussions of behaviour management--more specifically, figuring out what we need to include in our programming to support behaviour management both at home and at school. In one of those conversations, a parent shared that sometimes, it isn't the kid that needs the time-out. It's the adult.

"Sometimes when there's just been so much else going on in my day, all it takes is a little bit of a whiney voice for me to snap. That's when I realise I need to send myself to time out, take a chill pill before coming back to be with my kid."

This week, I sent myself into time-out. Or in a different translation, "sabbath".

I could list the 101 ways I had snapped before I finally went into time-out, but I'd rather not remember those. I cringe every time I think, "Urgh... I did THAT?"

But no, I didn't go to my room. I didn't go out to a countryside and spend 2 days in a quiet cottage meditating. I didn't even go to a monastery as I thought I would like to do.

I went to Wellington instead.

"Wellington? Are you mad? I thought you needed time-out (read: quiet space to think)?"

To be honest, I don't know why Wellington. All this while I had been quietly researching (with some help from Helen) monasteries to go for my time-out, but yet it was still Wellington. Maybe it was the thrill of booking a flight. Maybe it was the thought of airports and being in planes. Maybe it was because Wellington was the cheapest place to fly to, and I already knew a little bit about getting around the city.

What I didn't realise was that back in the heart of the city, my very, very parched soul was about to be quenched again.

"What did you do in Wellington?"

To be honest, I don't know. All I remember was that I sat and stared. A lot. No, really. I stared so much that this guy in the next table, whose conversation about what we call Grid Iron here in Kiwi-country (better known as American Football or the NFL) I was eavesdropping on realised I was staring.

It got awkward.

No, I mean really awkward. Because I stared again, even after that awkward moment. Like I did with the middle-aged man sitting across the lounge at the backpacker moving to the music. It was the first time I actually witnessed "dance like nobody's watching," and it moved me almost to tears.

Or staring at the screen while Bilbo journeyed to his decision-point of not quitting the team--and listening to the quiet sniffles of the man in the row behind as Bilbo made his commitment to help the dwarves reclaim their home--and struggled to keep the tears in myself.

Or staring at the houses on the walk up to Mt Victoria, realising some dreams are still alive even as I continually try to shove them away into neat boxes to pretend they don't exist so I can get on with the busyness of life.

Or staring into the waters surrounding the heart of the city, remembering what a simpler life was like in the days where I loved the water--the days before I grew afraid of drowning.

Or staring at quaint dining places, and colourful personalities, and all the possible stories to collect if time only allowed and social boundaries weren't drawn so neatly and fearfully.

Or staring at the pages of history, and finally understanding how a treaty intended for peace and protection became so misunderstood in the mad rush to appease the human obsession with "the ego" (or in my very loose interpretation of Luther and Bonhoeffer's theology of sanctification: "the self").

Or simply staring at how humanity come together--perfectly strangers--to cheer each other on, to help locate a missing tennis ball, to say hello to a puppy.

But more than staring, for once in a long, long time, I listened to myself.

And I heard.
I heard those dreams again.
I heard the voices of those cheering me on again.
I heard my innermost desire for community that understands my need for wide open spaces, possibilities, and dreams again.

But most importantly, I heard the voice of the most loving Creator saying, "Just sit and stare, and watch me do my work." Anne Lamott calls that showing off. But if all that the Creator is showing off is Love, why not?

John and Jodie once said, "Once you can't simply laugh at the crazy anymore, you know it's time to take a break." Time-out isn't about being in trouble. It's about learning to sit and stare and listen to yourself and think again--and finding sacred spaces to watch the Creator at work play all over again. I wouldn't recommend colourful Wellington to just anyone needing a time-out, but those 48 hours were precious in creating that sacred, sacred space in the midst of all the hustle and bustle to find that inspiration all over again.

Special thanks to the cheerleaders from the sidelines who followed up whenever I checked in on Facebook or Twitter.
Thanks also to the ones who gave me space for minimal interaction in those 48 hours.

Most importantly, thank you to that lovely bunch of you who sent tea, a sabbath read, and comfort sugar. It made all the difference as I finally, finally allowed myself to mourn the transition away from that safe community that understood even before words were spoken or tears were shed. So thank you, Jen, and Joe and Gwynne, and Shannon and Brett, and David and Tara.

Have I reflected during this time-out? You bet.
Have I learnt anything? Definitely. (Staring can get REALLY awkward, for starters)
Have I made decisions about how to behave differently now? For starters, I will write again. Not because I have anything good to say, but because I've missed it. It's my safe place to go to. So I will write. It will not be fancy, but I will write anyway.

I think it's safe to say, time-out mission: accomplished. Ready to head back to real life.

Morning Meditations: Thoughts From the Garden

Chad and Diane have taken his parents to the South Island this week. Which means it's another week that I get to cause as much trouble as I want without them around :)

It also means I have to make sure the household is still looked after while they are gone since we practically live on a farm. Missy, the mutt of a dog, is with her maternal grandparents this time since I'm staying over with Ariel while Rhonda is in Australia over the weekend. But the chickens still need to be fed and watered, eggs taken out from the coop and poop cleaned up. And since the last time they were gone, Diane also put two new fishes in the pond in the front of the house.

Last Sunday, as we were getting ready for church, Chad asked if he could walk me through all the tending that needed to be done in the garden. I thought to myself, does he think I'm that silly that I don't remember what needed to be done since the last time they were gone, which was only less than two months ago? But I went with him anyway, just in case there were things I forgot.

As I mentioned, we practically live on a farm. Chad's parents, Warren and Suzanne run a business where vegetation is their thing. I don't know what the official title is, but it involves scientific research of horticulture, and Warren often gets invited to speak about... stuff. Clearly, I know a whole lot about plants. But what that meant was Chad and his brothers grew up going on walks frequently with their parents and Warren would point things out about plant life.

This also means Chad takes gardening very seriously. I often tease him about spending his days off in the garden much like William Wilberforce in the scene in Amazing Grace where he simply lies on the grass in the quiet until his butler comes calling for him. So when he asked if he could show me what needed to be done in the garden, I knew to take him seriously.

I'll let you in on a secret. I hate tending to the plants and animals. I would happily do it for a couple weeks while they are gone, but I simply don't have the patience for these things. But Diane takes such delight in her animals that out of love and respect for her, I've allowed Missy and Penelope, the littlest of all the chooks (Kiwi lingo for chickens you keep as pets), to grow on me. You've probably noticed Missy in a bunch of my pictures from our adventures.

And then there's the garden. The last time Chad and Diane were gone in November, every morning I would wake up praying it had rained in the night so I didn't have to go out and do the watering. It was the beginning of planting season, so there was hardly anything to harvest, but plenty of watering.

But this time, when Chad was giving out instructions about the garden, there was more to do. He had put in even more stuff in the last two months and we're starting to get the first of the harvest. Chad gets giddy like a child in a candy store at the first fruits. When my parents were here over Christmas and New Year's, Mum noticed how much pride Chad had in his harvest. Diane often has to tell him we don't have to immediately eat what he's harvested, and that we can leave them for a couple of days. When we got home from Tiritiri Matangi last week, Chad said he was going to check on the cucumbers. The conversation went something like that...

Diane: Ok, you're just checking on the cucumbers, right? You're not going to harvest them yet, right?
Chad: Yeah, I'm just going to check on them.

Few minutes later, Chad walks in with a handful of cucumbers in hand.

Diane: I thought you weren't harvesting them? Well, fine. But we're not going to eat them right away.
Chad: Yeah, ok.

Next thing you know, he had cut one up. "Well, I just need to make sure they're ok! It's a different kind we put in this year. I need to have a taste so that I know when's the right size to harvest! Here, try some."

Diane refused. "It would be like I'm giving him permission to keep doing that!"

I felt like a kid stuck between two fighting parents and having to take sides.

But learning about gardening reminded me of The Poet Gardener, the text we used in one of Dr Brewer's pastoral care classes. About how pastoral ministry is like tending a garden. About how the needs of a garden are different in every season. And even in every season, there are different things that need to be done at the beginning, in the middle and at the end.

It also begins with an understanding of what it means to take care of a garden. Like going on walks with someone who's done the work, and having them point out what each plant looks like and need. And then one step at a time, learning the ropes of working in a garden.

It's the same with doing Church and soul-care. It's a process of learning and experimenting and not always getting it right.

Chad often said to Steve and I (back when Steve was still around) that WCF was a safe place for us to experiment and make mistakes. We both have had our theological training--a time of learning about the plants and the needs of the garden--and now it was time to experiment and make mistakes.

I'm thankful that for a first real gig in a church, the lead pastor I've gotten to work beside has that gardener's heart. Chad will be the first to admit sometimes he gets a little too "take care of business" -minded, but I have that same struggle. It helps to know I'm not struggling alone, and sometimes, watching him get business-minded makes me stop to self-reflect and remind myself to continually put relationships first.

And on the days that I run out of patience and just wish it would rain so I didn't have to go do the work of watering the garden, I hope remembering that child-like giddiness of harvest time (allow me also to point out here I don't define "harvest" by evangelical terms of number of converts, but simply as a matter of tasting the fruits, whatever that looks like) will keep me going even as a grumble my way through.

Rites of Passage

Growing up, I was never the kid who loved school. I was (and still am) socially awkward, had a substitute teacher come in at the end of the year who picked another girl to be prefect over me even though I had been on my best behaviour and was the top girl in my class that year, and a best friend who eventually decided it was cooler to hang with the good kids than the one who didn't turn in her homework on time. I even told Mum once that I had really bad cramps because I was tired of being the black sheep that got to school late.

I had every reason to hate being at school. But every year, at least at the beginning of the year while I was in Primary, I LOVED starting school because I had new textbooks that had pages that still sometimes stuck together and smelt like they came fresh off the press. There were no creases in the spine--at least, not yet--a reminder that it was another opportunity for a fresh start, another opportunity to make it better than the last year.

And there were the coloured pencils. Every year around December, Mum would take us shopping for new pencils and erasers and coloured pencils and clothes for Chinese New Year. Every year, I would wrap those up and tuck them under the Christmas tree until Christmas morning when we got to unwrap all our new school supplies.

I didn't realise it then, but that became my rite of passage into a new school year--the little things we did to celebrate another year, another day.

This year, I find myself looking into the faces of the kids in Kids Club, each one of them proudly telling me, "I'm one year older this year, one year closer to being an adult." I marvel at their joy and pride in growing up, and wish I could keep their childlike perspective so I don't lose sight in the everyday miracle simply known as Life.

And the precious year 6s who will be graduating and heading on up into Intermediate, where they finally get to hang out in youth group with those cool big kids--an experience all fun and terrifying at the same time.

I remember being 11. I started being a part of the worship team at church, which brought with it questions of why I'm even serving when I don't get what being a Christian meant. It was the same year I wrote in my journal that I felt like a rubbish bin that was used by the once-bestfriend where she unloaded and unloaded all her junk, then set me out on the street for the dumpster-man while she ran off to play with the pretty girls. The dumpster-man that never came.

I look back on those experiences now and wish there had been an adult in my life that I could talk about those experiences with. Adults who would allow me to question my faith instead of telling me I just needed to know the Sunday School answers. At 11, Sunday School answers weren't cutting it anymore for my faith journey. I knew them all, but still they did nothing for my feeling like a complete fake when I sat at the piano in front of the church because what I claimed to be believing had no real meaning.

And then I look back again at the faces of the precious year 6s whom I've had the joy (and sometimes sorrow) of walking with in the last year. I wonder if I've done enough to help them along their journey. I want to say to them, it's ok if you don't understand the faith thing. It's ok to have questions. It's ok to be socially awkward. You don't have to pretend to be looking forward to Intermediate if you're terrified deep down inside that you're not going to be the big kids at school anymore.

I want to tell them, I was a mess when I was 11--still am a mess today. But we have a friend who knows our mess and will not leave us out on the streets for the non-existent dumpster-man. And you have friends in this place we call Church who will walk with you.

In a little less than a month, we'll be kicking-off kids' church for the year. Just like the coloured-pencils I looked forward to every year, I hope whatever we end up planning for the kick-off will be that same celebration of a rite of passage for these kids. But more importantly, I hope they know that these same people (maybe not the exact same faces, but the same people we call the Church whanau) who celebrate their rites of passage with them now will continue to celebrate every milestone with them along the way.

Happy 2013, my little people.

On Social Media

Ok, I'll admit it. I'm a social media snob.

When my parents were here recently, Dad asked what kind of smart-phones Kiwis were using. It made me realise a couple things:

1) I don't talk much about these things with Kiwi friends.
2) Social media hasn't quite caught on here like it has in the US or Singapore.

Take for instance one of my biggest pet-peeves on social media: those who don't understand how to really use it. No, I'm not even talking about those who go off on their soap-box. Even those rants can be considered proper use.

No, there's one particular Twitter account that drives me nuts with the way they tweet.

nzherald National ‏@nzheraldnznewsPolice identify Arkles Bay body: The body of a woman found dead on the beach at Arkles Bay on the Whangaparaoa P... http://bit.ly/WqGmYk 

nzherald National ‏@nzheraldnznewsAuckland barrister denies drink driving charge: An Auckland barrister accused of driving drunk and carelessly ha... http://bit.ly/V5D5C4  

If news is your business, by all means, make it your business. But recognise that Twitter's 140-character limit has conditioned the human (at least this human's) attention-span for that much information. To have to click on every link to read the end of your sentence is just a little bit annoying.

Ok, end rant.

Anyhow, for the last several months now, I've been mulling over how to use social media more effectively. It began with Katherine's question about how I use Facebook, and the realisation that I've become so dependant on those avenues to communicate with the global village--the local whanau, the supporters in other corners of the world, old friends, new friends, and staying in touch with blood relations. Realising that I'm such a social media snob made me realise that part of the reason I stopped communicating this year was because I keep beating myself up over communicating poorly.

As mentioned in a previous post, one of my goals for 2013 is to live simply--which translates to these outlets as well. So in the next couple weeks before kids' church kicks off for the year again, I'll be working on coming up with strategies to better use these tools to say less and communicate more.

Watch this space.

Morning Meditations - "Mountain Goat" #2

I tried not to stare as she wrapped her fingers around the mug. The lines and folds on her hands told of stories beyond what I had found in the history books.

I had recently moved halfway across the world for the second time in my life. The wise sages of the previous dwelling were still but an e-mail away, but I desperately missed having tea with my Church Mothers--women whose greatest accomplishment was their love for the Kingdom beyond their cultural borders.

And then I remembered her that I had read about in the history books. Mum came across her name some nine years ago when my brother and I were looking up baptism names, and told me to find out what it meant. Google only gave me two words:

Mountain Goat

Here I was, hoping for an impressive Biblical name that started with the letter J because that was what my brother and I agreed on. And since Mum was dead against Jezebel (what's wrong with being named after Ahab's evil wife??), the only other option we could come up with at the time was "Mountain Goat."

Not "Father is rejoicing" like Abigail, or "Full of Grace" like Hannah.

Mountain Goat.

But then I read the rest of her story in the history books and the more misogynistic side from back in the day greatly admired that she wasn't simply a woman who sat and looked on while there was work to be done. That her story wasn't featured in every other sermon also helped.

And so it was.

And now, she sat across from me in the chair, her legs crossed at the ankles with the warm cup of milk in her hands.

"Tell me the story again," I urged.

She took a sip from the cup, her eyes betraying she was in a world far beyond the present.

"Even if they remember my story, they don't remember my name," she said quietly. "And rightly so. Who remembers a Jewish name that means "mountain goat," much less the name of a woman whose husband is barely mentioned?"

But it mattered to me. I needed to hear it again.

"Please, ma'am," I asked again. "It's important to me."

She gave me a full look for the first time, her eyes searching. They were a deep brown and looked like deep pools that drew me in.

Then she took another sip from the cup, and took a slow breath. It was like that with her every movement, slow and thoughtful.

"It was a day like today..."

To be continued...

Based on a loose interpretation of Judges 1-5.

Morning Meditations - "Mountain Goat" #1

"Tell me the story again," she said with a quiet urgency.

I took a sip of my warm milk. What did a young woman like her want to have anything to do with this old lady? The history books gave me a few short paragraphs, and I was only to be remembered as the lady who drove the tent-peg into the head of the enemy.

"Even if they remember my story, they don't remember my name," I whispered under my breath. "And rightly so. Who remembers a Jewish name that means "mountain goat," much less the name of a woman whose husband is barely mentioned?"

"Please, ma'am," she begged. "It's important to me."

I looked into her eyes for the first time. They had an urgent sense of purposeful searching, and while I didn't know her story yet, I had a feeling it would be important I told her my story.

I took another sip of my milk and inhaled slowly.

"It was a day like today..."

To be continued...

Based on a loose interpretation of Judges 1-5.