Feb 2012

 

Last week, I spent the morning with a local man who collects ancient coins. It was amazing. We sat at his dining room table (beneath a table lamp) and he showed me his Old Testament dacrin, his denarius and his shekel (the silver coin that Judas was paid 30 of for his betrayal of Jesus). He also showed me his old Roman dice and a collection of ash that was (part of!) the remains of the temple burnt in 70AD. 

But the coin that moved me the most was his widow's mite. It was tiny... it was 10mm wide at the most, and so old and worn. With all those shekels falling into the receptacle at the temple, you wouldn't have even heard the two mites drop. Yet they did, and as soon as they did, Jesus turned to his disciples and said, "I tell you the truth, this poor widow has put in more than all the others. They gave out of their plenty... but she gave everything she had to live on." (Luke 21:3,4)

And it moved me again. She gave everything she had to live on. What do I have? What do I give? How much do I have to live on? Whom do I give it to? And what do I think about, as I give?

Yet, even as I questioned myself, seeing the coin deeply encouraged me. If God was good and present and working out his plan 2,000 years ago (when people were passing that mite around the marketplace), then He is equally good and present and working out his plan, now, today, in this moment, as I question myself.

He's still the Ancient of days. And I'm still his child.

Thankyou Lord.

 

Dec 2011

 

I can tell that it's December in Australia... because every day I walk past Jacaranda trees in flower (which is beautiful)... and every day my (junk) email inbox fills up with headings like 'last chance to buy', 'last chance to save on pre-Christmas sales.' They don't realise that I don't care - because I don't want any of those things. 

 

But what if my email inbox came with headings like, 'last chance to trust, last chance to wait, last chance to believe... or last chance to hope'. Would I? Does the ticking clock that exists in December teach me anything about my days and my life for the rest of the year? I hope so.

 

June 2011

 

Darren and I leave for Amsterdam this week, and then London, Exeter and Birmingham the following week. We’re looking forward to it! He’s presenting his PhD research at the World Physio Congress and then I’m speaking at a women’s meeting in Amsterdam, followed by radio and television programs in London (see the calendar). It’s all wonderful! Even apart from the new contacts we might make, we’re just excited about spending two whole weeks together (without the kids)... in Europe.

Actually, the more I think about this trip (and this whole season) the more thankful I am for it. Even if I sat here all day, I couldn't dream up anything more wonderful than what I’m doing now. I love writing and I love speaking and I love encouraging people in their faith… and I particularly love the fact that I can do all this and still be at home with the boys.

Unsurprisingly, other people have noticed my season and said things like, “Wow Naomi, God is really blessing you at the moment.” Mmm… I know what they mean. It’s a nice season. And for all of us, there are times in our life when we feel like everything is good – the sun is shining and the roses are blooming and even the kids are happy. The problem is... I can also remember seasons of grief and confusion and war and rain and sadness and death. And do you know what? God was equally blessing me then.

 

June 2011

 

Often, I sit here at my desk and think that if I can't see it or hear about it, it musn't be happening. Only the things that I can see or hear or provide a concrete link to are worth telling you about. Maybe everything beyond that swims around in an immeasurable and indefinable vacuum. But in book publishing, it feels like almost everything is in that second category. The book goes off on its own journey and as the author, I wave goodbye to it and hope that it has a nice time. At the very least I hope that someone buys it and enjoys it.

This April, My Seventh Monsoon was released in the UK by Authentic Media. It's wonderful, the cover is glossy (see the book page on this website), the colour photos work well, and I'm very happy with it. But it's life is being lived out a long way away from me. It's like I've said goodbye to my adult child and I don't even have a mobile phone number to keep in contact with it.

Perhaps this month I have to keep telling myself that I don't need to. It's grown up! Instead, I have to trust the One who inspired the story, who gave me the grace to believe and the faith to keep going... I have to trust that He will also keep an eye on the book. 

 

May 2011

 

We’ve been back from Nepal for exactly five years and in that time I’ve spoken at 281 events – at churches, conferences, schools, town halls, restaurants, prisons and hospitals. I’ve loved it. I'm very thankful. And I’ve also learnt a few things along the way;

 

1.                   If the lectern has a sloping surface, don’t try and balance your glass of water on it.

2.                   Never assume you can tuck the radio mic into your pants. It will slip into embarrassing places while you’re           sitting on the stage.

3.                   If you sew the purple button back on your jacket on the way to the venue, don’t leave the needle sticking into your pocket.

4.                   Try not to visit the bathroom with your radio mic already wired up.

5.                   Just because you’re on television, it doesn’t mean you should talk twice as fast as you normally do.

6.                   If they ask you to speak in a pub, assume that everyone in the pub will be listening.

7.                   Audio books take a lot longer than two days to record, no matter how quickly you speak.

8.                   Remember to explain to the sound guy in advance that yes, you do have a rather large mouth.

9.                   Some places have glass lecterns. That means the audience can see all the way through them.

10.               Don’t schedule a big performance six hours before you catch an international flight. Don’t even think about it.

 

March 2011

 

"It's very difficult to see the ants from way up here," said Jem, (who is 130cms tall), looking down at the pavement on the way to school this morning.

"Yes," I agreed with him, also trying to see that far down, "I can hardly even see the centipedes."

Some time later, after spotting five centipedes, we said goodbye at the school gate and I made my way home. But instead of spying ants, I spent the ten minute walk wondering whether our sense that God is 'way up there', leads to the delusion that he can't see us or know us or care very much, either way.

 

February 2011

 

I'm sitting at my desk in the Blue Mountains... staring out at our bushy backyard (when I probably should be writing a talk for Saturday night). But it's gorgeous, it's a sea of green... so I let myself be distracted for a while. Then I notice that it's also the particular week of the year when the gum trees lose their bark. Last week, they were standing there happily clad in thick brown layers of protection. They were withstanding the elements in their usual way. But today, they're naked. They're exposed. Their coats are lying in great piles at their feet and they're standing alone. So I wonder, momentarily, do they mind? Do they feel vulnerable? Do they worry about being seen? Do they want to pick it all up and cover their limbs? But as soon as I begin to wonder, the sun breaks through behind me and their trunks begin to gleam white and gold and bronze. It's staggering. They reflect the light in ways they never did last week. The colours are new and personal and moving. I stare at them. They remind me of the sun.

 

And Lord here I am, honest, worried, frightened, exposed... and yours. So many times I wonder about my life, about my decisions or my calling... and I worry about what might happen if someone saw who I truly was. But I'm yours. Help me this week to bring glory to you, to reveal those things that will gleam and surprise and point people to your truth and your sacrifice. Help me Lord to be vulnerable in ways that reflect you and your glorious love. Amen 

 

January 2011

 

I’m writing this from Pokhara, Nepal, where we’re staying at the Leprosy and Rehabilitation Centre, run by INF. It’s the middle of winter, so it’s quite cold. The snow is low on the Himalayas and we’re wearing our beanies to bed. During the day, the patients are wheeled out into the sunshine in front of the hospital. Nearby, the buffaloes wander by and our boys are playing footy in between the poinsettias.

 

This morning, I needed to go back to the bazaar to buy more yoghurt, so I walked past a group of patients and smiled and said hello. The patients with leprosy raised their stumps of hands to me in greeting. Those with spinal cord injury raised their heads and smiled. I enjoyed the interaction. But later, as I continued along the bumpy path, I began to think about pain. Pain is still a gift, I thought, and the absence of it is still a terrible burden.

 

For someone with leprosy, their lack of feeling means they often burn their hands and injure them, while trying to cook or perform simple tasks. For someone with spinal injury, the lack of feeling means they’re prone to bedsores on their backs and hips and ankles, which can get infected. Pain is still a gift, I thought, seeing their deformed hands and feet in my mind’s eye. It protects us from injury. It teaches us to respond. It’s a warning. But then, as soon as I had that thought and before I reached the bazaar, I shied away from it.

 

I don’t want it. I don’t want the pain and I don’t want the thought. It’s too awful. Two nights ago, we spent the evening with my close Nepali friend Lalu. We ate dal bhat and caught up on the years we’d been away. They’ve been terribly hard years. Her only child, Dil Maya, died last year. She died of an illness that would have been preventable in the west. We cried and cried. Then yesterday, we spent the day with Pratima. Her husband threw himself in the gorge last year and drowned. He was a good friend of ours. I’m still crying as I think about it.

 

And now tonight, I opened my Bible to the end of Matthew, “They stripped him and put a scarlet robe on him, and then twisted together a crown of thorns and set it on his head. They put a staff in his right hand and knelt in front of him and mocked him. “Hail, king of the Jews!” they said. They spat on him, and took the staff and struck him on the head again and again. After they had mocked him, they took off the robe and put his own clothes on him. Then they led him away to crucify him.” (Matt 27: 28-31)

 

Jesus chose the pain, the dying, the torture, so that there would come a time when we would never have to feel pain, ever again.

 

Lord, you know what it means to be beaten and stripped and spat upon. You know what it means to feel intense pain - the pain that destroys and maims and kills. And you chose it. It wasn’t forced upon you. It wasn’t a result of natural forces in the world. You chose it. You felt it in your shoulders, in your hands, in your lungs, in your legs, in your heart. You chose it and you felt it, so that we can look forward to a time when we will never have to feel pain, ever again.

Help us today, wherever we are, and whatever burdens we carry, to know again, deeply, that you walked our road and you felt our pain – so that there would come a day when we won’t even remember what it is. Thank you Lord. Amen. 

 

 

December 2010

 

We’re about to spend our seventh Christmas in Nepal. And I can’t wait. I’m looking forward to seeing old friends again and to laughing and crying in Nepali. I can’t wait to feel the ground beneath my feet and walk down the paths to the bazaar and up the dirt track to the top of the Dhulikhel hill. I’m looking forward to dal bhat and snowy peaks and the chaos of horns in Kathmandu. It’s so close that I can almost smell it.

 

But as we’ve been packing, friends have been asking us, “What are you going to do there?” and “Is it a holiday?” To be honest, I haven’t come up with a very good answer. I don’t really know. Darren is taking eight physiotherapy students from here and giving them a short term Missions experience. They’ll be visiting hospitals and projects and ministries… so that’s probably not a holiday. He’s also booked to teach at a physiotherapy conference in Kathmandu, so that will most likely be work as well. I’ll be running a workshop in Kathmandu on ‘Personality and Mission’ so that’s probably work too. Chasing after our boys up the Himalayas… well. that will have to fit into a category of its own.

 

But our definitions of work and holiday are strange at times – perhaps they’re too exclusive. Nepal feels a bit like another room in our house. We’ve lived there for a significant portion of our lives and so have our kids. It’s true that we haven’t opened the door for a while, but it still feels as real and significant, and as much part of our lives, as the other rooms. So, we’re looking forward to being there, sharing life in Nepali and drinking lots of chiya. We just want to be there, with the people who were part of our lives, and who we loved. We want to remember and be thankful to God for what we shared - rather than necessarily doing anything.

 

Perhaps it’s important for all of us at this time of year. It’s so easy here in the West, to be overwhelmed by the Christmas deadlines – and to let the doing overwhelm the being, especially when there’s so much to be done. There’s all those gifts to be bought and decorations to be made and events to attend. But what if, wherever we were and whatever we were doing, we could focus more on being. What if we could sit in the sunshine, and be thankful to God, that he loves us more than we can imagine. What if we could wake up in the morning and be humbled, that he chose us to be his. And what if we could walk through our favourite paddy field and be overwhelmed, that the death and resurrection of Jesus meant that we’ll be his forever. What if, the most important thing we did, this Christmas, was to be gripped by the gospel…?

 

 

 

November 2010

 

"Mum!?"

"Yes Jem?", I say, looking up from the computer screen where I'm trying to write a talk.

"When you were little," he says, "did you go in running races?"

"I did... yes."

"And when you got to the end, did you ever feel that maybe you could have run faster? ... That you hadn't really run your fastest?"

I pause for a bit and then I say, "Yes Jem, I think I always felt like that..."

 

Then I look back at the screen and realise that I still feel like that, all the time, even now. But not with running... I know how slow I am! I feel like that with my use of words and the way I speak. I spend hours going over and over sentences, always thinking they could be better or more engaging or more evocative. I always think my message could be clearer or more pronounced, while staying subtle. I always feel like I haven't run my fastest! So I go on and on and on, editting. And that's all good. But I also have to be able to stop, and say, "Okay, it might not be my fastest but it's the best I can do for  now, today, given who I am and given where I am. It's all right."

And the thing I need to keep learning is that God doesn't only ever use our 'personal best' times. He doesn't say. "Oh bother, that was more than 15 seconds, I can't do anything with that run, or with those words." He's always at work in people's hearts - changing, conforming, moulding - and sometimes he even using our very slow, stumbling runs and words in the process.  

 

August 2010

 

Strangers and Friends. There’s a lot more movement between those two definitions than I used to think there was. This month I’ve had so many ‘strangers’ come up to me after speaking engagements and say exactly the right thing to me… as if they knew what I needed to hear. And it made me think more about the mystery of friendship. The dictionary says that a friend is someone whose company, interests or attitudes we find sympathetic. And a stranger is someone who is unknown to us, whom we're not acquainted with. But for me, I often experience immediate intimacy and friendship with strangers. It’s probably because they know me through my books – and then friendship develops. It’s a wonderful thing to enjoy shared values and beliefs.

And maybe for some of us, friendship with God also begins in a moment. We’re suddenly confronted with his presence and purpose in our lives… and that he gave his son on our behalf - so that friendship could be possible. But sometimes the most mysterious aspect of it is that we’re known by him, and we always have been. It’s more than immediate intimacy. God hasn’t merely read the books of our lives. He wrote it.

What worries me more though, is the days when I have friendship with God but I assume strangeness. He knows me better than I’ll ever know myself but I ignore him and go about my business as if he’s not present, or as if he’s not relevant, or unacquainted with my life.

Lord, let not today be one of those.

 

June 2010

This week I’ve been thinking about taking ‘time-off’ and it strikes me again that it’s such a western concept. When we lived with a Nepali family during our early years in Nepal, I remember having a conversation with our Amma (mother), who was then 64 years old. She told me that she hadn’t had a day off since she married Ba at 8 years old. I remember staring at her uncomprehending and trying to work out the Maths. That's a very long time, I thought. Imagine working for 56 years straight, without a break – milking the buffaloes, digging the fields by hand, harvesting the rice, cutting the grass for the buffaloes, making yogurt and buttermilk, as well as cooking for the extended family. Wasn’t she tired? I thought. Didn’t she long for a holiday? But when I tried to ask her, she didn’t seem to know what I was talking about. Where would they go, she asked? And who would feed the buffalo, if they did go? And perhaps we should just have another cup of chiya, she said.

 

So we drank more chiya and years later the conversation came back to me while I was talking to my friend Srijana in Dhulikhel. She described her daily work collecting water for the family and wood for the fire. It was very hard labour, she said, so for her, a break was to come to our house and cut the grass for her buffalo. It was almost pleasant, she said, swinging the scythe back and forth across our terraces and chatting to me. It was so much easier than carrying 30kg of wood across the mountains to her mud house. And I looked at her small frame as well as the sun setting over the Himalayas and was inclined to agree with her. We were certainly having a pleasant late afternoon but how did she manage, day in and day out? And what if it were me, in her shoes? It made me realize over time that for many Nepalis (especially rural women), taking time off meant merely doing a different version of what they normally do. It was still ‘work’, but it was a change in the physical effort or mental effort or the company or the location in which they did it in. 

 

And that thought returned to me this week. I’ve just had a busy time of speaking in Brisbane and then in Sydney and Toukley and I loved it. I felt re-energised and incredibly privileged to be able to speak of God’s love and plan for his people in a variety of settings. But this morning, I wondered whether I should take time off? What was the opposite to my work? I wondered. I’d already been able to spend time in prayer and God’s word and in fellowship with others. I’d had a lovely weekend with my family. So how was I going to spend this morning? The thought confused me for a while until I realized that it was tied up with the way I saw myself and what I was really doing. If we primarily see ourselves as children of God who use every opportunity to point to his love and respond to his love, then taking ‘time-off’ can’t really be the opposite of that. Perhaps instead, it will be more like the Nepali version – the setting changes or the company changes, but in essence we remain the same, alive on this earth to love God and to love his people in whatever way we can and with whatever opportunities and gifts he’s given us. Let’s keep doing that!

 

 

 

March 2010

 

Last week, I was at a women’s event in Western Sydney and before I got up to speak, a lady reviewed ‘The Promise’ (my fourth book). She spoke very well and it was one of those reviews that actually had me in tears. I find it quite amazing that I can write 65,000 words and then a reader not only understands what I was trying to capture but also stands up and explains it far better than I can! If I hadn’t been so focused on what I was about to say in my talk, I might have written down what she said… it could have been quite useful! Anyway, as well as capturing the themes of that book, she also mentioned that it was a bit of a departure from my previous three books, which had all been about cross-cultural mission.

And that’s what has me thinking this month. You see, I love speaking about cross-cultural mission. I love speaking (and writing!) about the needs of the world – both spiritually and physically. Because even as we sit here, there are 2 billion people in the world who haven’t heard about the God who loves them, the God who hasn’t given up on them, but instead gave up his only son so they could be in relationship with him. So I love to speak about mission and challenge all of us in the way we support mission – through praying and giving and going. Even to challenge myself every day would be a good thing!

 

But lately I’ve been thinking that our desire to serve God (anywhere – in Iraq or Nepal or down the end of our street) only ever comes from a heart that’s been changed by him – that’s been overwhelmed by his love and forgiveness. Because unless God does a deep work within us, unless we’re unalterably changed by his message of love and forgiveness, unless we wake up in the morning astounded by the love of God that he should so love me… then we won’t serve him anywhere. We won’t want to serve him anywhere. We won’t want to talk about him anywhere either – at the end of our street or at the ends of the earth – which, by the way, can be exactly the same place.

 

And so I think that’s why I wrote ‘The Promise’ – because I wanted to engage with God’s word in a way that would cause me to be moved by the gospel. I wanted to read the Bible in a fresh light and weep over the cross, and be speechless over the resurrection and then fall on my knees with astonishment over the promises of God. You see, sometimes it’s possible for me NOT to read the Bible that way. So, then, as I read the Bible in that fresh way, two years ago, God spoke to me and changed me – and as he did, the voices of the female characters just came alive and carried the narrative and I wrote ‘The Promise’ out of response to what God was showing me.

 

So for me, I guess the message of that book is not a departure at all, it’s the essence of mission itself. If we aren’t moved by God’s message of repentance and forgiveness, if we aren’t astounded by the fact that the curtain has been ripped in two and we can speak with God himself, then we probably won’t be bothered getting on a plane and going anywhere. We might not even be bothered getting out of bed. Because the only thing that’s going to get us out of bed is understanding that he loves us… that he loves me, and he loves you, and he loves them.

 

 

February 2010

 

Every month I write a column about cross-cultural mission for the Presbyterian Pulse. And I’m sure that writing it challenges me far more than it challenges anyone who reads it. Last month was a good example. I called it ‘Pray, Give, Go… but what if I’m too old?’ and I spent 800 words describing how there’s always something to stop us from going to the needy places of the world. In our twenties, we’re not fully qualified yet, or we haven’t found our life partner or we need more time at Bible college. In our thirties, we may have issues with pregnancy or childbirth or paying off the mortgage. In our forties, our children need secondary education and peers that can speak English. In our fifties, our parents begin to age and may need our assistance. Then after that, there’s issues with superannuation and retirement funds and weddings and grandchildren. There’s always something!

So I wrote in my article that maybe, instead of dwelling on the problems, we should keep reminding ourselves of what’s at stake. Why are we choosing to live and minister where we are? What are the needs and the resources in the places where we are? What skills and gifts has God given us and in what ways are we being accountable with those gifts? Could he be leading us to use those gifts elsewhere, where the workers are fewer? Syria for example has a similar population to Australia and yet has only a few dozen cross-cultural Christian workers. It’s the same in Iraq and Yemen and Uzbekistan and many other countries. Every day fifty thousand people die amongst the unreached people groups of our world, without ever having heard of Jesus. And we sit and worry about our grey hairs and reading glasses!

And no sooner had I written that paragraph than I leant back in my chair and stared at it… for a very long time. I realized how long it had been since I’d asked myself those questions. Darren and I have been back from Nepal for three years now. We’re happily serving at the University and in the local church and community. We enjoyed our time in Iraq. I’m happily writing and speaking. But we also need to keep asking ourselves the same questions. Where does God have us at the moment and what does he have us here for? Why are we choosing to live and minister where we are? How are we using our gifts? Could the year ahead hold something different? Are we still open to new places and people and opportunities and ways of serving? Or have we become so comfortable in our home and community and church that we’ve forgotten what’s at stake?

Many hours later (after I’d faced some uncomfortable answers), I closed the computer and realized that for me, I need to be more available to the wider church in NSW and Australia. For this time and season, I feel like God is saying to be more available to present the message of The Promise in churches and at special events. I feel like I need to go to the places where a fresh perspective and gospel presentation is needed. But mostly, I need to keep asking myself the questions… and remembering what’s at stake.

 

January 2010

 

We holidayed at Ayers Rock and the Olgas this month. It was one of those spontaneous decisions that we made after Darren found some really cheap flights from Melbourne to Alice Springs. Various people told us that it might be hot. But we just looked at them. “Well, if we’re going to see the desert,” we said, “we might as well see it at it’s most extreme.” And then when we got there, we realized why the plane was so empty! It was 47 degrees at Uluru on New Years Day! And there we were in our little tent, wrapped in soaked towels in an attempt to stay alive. Stephen got heat stroke. Jeremy got heat rash. And my face erupted in a painful allergic reaction. But we loved it!

There’s something so inspiring about desert scenery. You look out at the landscape and think that it’s harsh and dusty and severe… as if nothing could possibly be alive. But then, on a closer look, you realize that it is! There’s all this plant and animal life that is not only surviving… but actually thriving – producing the most beautiful flowers. It’s amazing! And walking around Ayers Rock was like walking into a photo that we’d seen all our lives but always assumed was two dimensional. And it’s so much more than that! We were staggered by the contours and colours, the rock pools and the plant life that was flourishing at the base. And as we walked around it (for hours – covered in soaked towels), I thought about the year ahead. No matter what happens, I want to be like this desert scenery. I want to be able to adapt and thrive – not because of rainfall or lack of rainfall, not because of heat or hailstorms – but because of who I am as a child of God, as someone for whom God has given life, and given it in abundance – at the cost of his only son.

 

 

2009