More than enough

Read: Psalm 23, The Passion Translation

We’re all sitting here at the end of Easter Sunday somewhat stunned.
That was weird wasn’t it?
Whatever our traditions at Easter would usually entail, today wasn’t it.
And we tried hard to keep some semblance of normality, despite that we wouldn’t be gathering for lunch with our people, or doing egg hunts with cousins, or gathering to worship in our church buildings. We hid chocolate eggs and put on our new pyjamas and smiled and said happy Easter, and curled up to watch sermons online.

But if you’re anything like me, you refreshed Instagram 643,768 times, switched to Facebook twice that many, and scrolled, not really seeing anything, not really engaging, but hiding there in a social media stupor.
I couldn’t put my phone down today.

I already knew this weekend would look different—months ago, we knew that Daniel would be working, so we planned our Easter celebrations for Good Friday, and we egg-hunted and ate hot cross buns and gorged on too much chocolate already—but no one predicted just how different today would look.

This Easter we’re choosing to celebrate the joy of answered prayers—that we’re not where we were this time last year.
We’re celebrating the new spaces we’ve walked into, and the redemption of old hopes and dormant dreams. There is so much good, and I choose often to keep my eyes on that.

But even though I had hot cross buns rising ready for the oven, and even though I was busy shaping sourdough early, and even though I got to see some of my favourite neighbour-bestie-family faces while I pinched rosemary from their front garden… it was an uncomfortable Easter. It was the first in our entire marriage that we hadn’t spent together as a family. It was knowing I couldn’t visit my parents, because of travel restrictions. It was not being able to gather, either in worship or in friendship.
I was distracted, and unfocused and scattered.
I tried reading, picking up and put down my current novel. I picked up and put down my phone a bazillion times, wandered aimlessly starting things and then walked away forgetting what I was doing, and starting something else.

And all day I kept going back to the day’s Psalm.
I hadn’t realised that after the tumultuous prophecy of the cross in Psalm 22, that it was this one we’d be lead to; one of the most famous and well-known Psalms.
The Lord is my shepherd.
My Passion Translation Bible tells me that the translated word here for ‘shepherd’ is ra’ah which is also the Hebrew word for best friend.
The Lord is my best friend,
I always have more than enough.

I needed this Psalm today.
I needed it like I needed a quiet walk to gather my thoughts.
I needed it like I needed a tight squeeze from a close friend.
I needed it like I needed a hot cross bun straight from the oven, lathered in butter.


He knows what we need.
He knew today would be lonely the Lord is my best friend (vs 1), I’ll never be lonely, for you are near (vs 4).
He knew my mind couldn’t settle, He offers a resting place for me (vs 2).
He knew what the world would look like today, why would I fear the future? Your goodness and love pursue me (vs 6).

So on this strange Easter Sunday I’m grateful.
I’m grateful for the Word that became flesh, so that I could find the aliveness of God.
I’m grateful for the expression of Him across the earth, for creativity and beauty, and friendship and grace.
And for a God who does not remain silent, and for a cross that has the last word.

xx

It’s crazy but I’m convinced

Read: Psalm 22, The Passion Translation

Yesterday I stood at the coffee machine. I ground the beans for our double shots, let the machine groan as it poured them into our favourite cups as I thought absentmindedly about the Psalm I’d read and write through; I wonder how God is going to speak to me today.
It struck me suddenly and with full force. I know God. And He is waiting to speak.
I realised that this daily communion with God is no small thing, yet its a thing that is so accessible to us, so readily available. I imagined Him, leaning forward, his elbows resting on His knees, waiting for me to pick up my Bible—the inspired Word—and meet Him.

And then there’s the coincidence of today’s Psalm, Psalm 22. I hadn’t planned in advance to read particular Psalms on particular days. But of course, God knew… another divine ‘coincidence’ that makes me laugh and gives me goosebumps all at once.
This chapter’s opening refrain are the words Jesus echoed on the cross, “God, my God! Why would you abandon me now?” The cross that we celebrate this weekend.
The cross that hasn’t changed, even though the world has changed too much, too fast.

The next verse, “Why do you remain distant, refusing to answer my tearful cries in the day and my desperate cries for your help in the night?
I can’t stop sobbing.
Where are you my God?”

The entire Psalm prophecies Jesus’ death on the cross, and the victory after. The last line holds more words echoed by Jesus, his very last, as He hung there, waiting to die: It is finished.

This is why the Word became flesh, why Jesus became this living expression of the Word.
He was the Word of God, but with legs to walk towards humanity, with arms to reach out to draw us in.
When we feel like God is far from us, we can reach for our Bibles and find that He hasn’t gone anywhere.
Because we know what it is to sob and ask, ‘God, why aren’t you listening? God, where are you?’ when our lives are messy, and our prayers don’t ‘work’ and we could die of loneliness and old wounds don’t heal.
But the Word became flesh and reached out although we’re the poor and the broken, we’re invited to eat until we’re satisfied. (Psalm 22:26)
The Word became flesh and drew us to the Father, and He ascended but left us His Spirit— and it all sounds crazy but I’m convinced.
I’m convinced because He shows up in burning bush moments of white linen sheets hanging on the line, and a moon hanging large in a dark morning sky.
I’m convinced because when I pray coincidences happen, and when I seek Him in the ancient text He invades my modern life.

And in this waiting space, this thin space where all of us hold our breath, I know that joy comes in the morning, and that He was here all along.

xx

the long way home

I had a myriad of reasons not to go.
Some of them were legitimate: he’s been working all week, we haven’t had much family time.
Others were not so much: I can’t be bothered, I can write from home, why do I need to drive so far [out of my comfort zone].
I’d said I was going a month ago, but if I’m honest, I probably only made the decision fully the day before. Okay yes fine, I’ll just go.

A weekend in New Norcia, a tiny town that took me almost three hours of driving to reach (Friday afternoon at peak hour was probably not the best time to get past the city!), with a bunch of other women writers, eating and sleeping in a monastery.
It was twenty four hours of adventure that I almost passed on because I was tired. Also because I was facing an existential crisis with regards to my writing. I’d thrown my hands up in the air, with the figurative pages of my book manuscript flying up with them. I’d stopped working on it months ago because of all the self-doubt and angst that writers face when their work just doesn’t feel good enough— I decided that my shitty first drafts were too shitty (Anne Lamott, thank you).

Our first night at the monastery, we walked up dark wooden stairs that were slippery with rain, and sat in a small study. The lights were dim, it was warm and we were donned in ugg boots and cosy jumpers.
Here, we were given our first assignment. Write what you’re giving yourself permission for.
Permission to write nothing, permission to write terribly, permission to have fun or take a nap or eat chocolate.

I needed permission. Not from anyone else, but from myself.

Facing another couple of hours in my car alone on my way home, I was tempted to rush.
Rush out of the moments I’d experienced, and rush out of the slowness into the fast pace of my brain’s to-do list. Rush home faster so I could tick more things off before bedtime.
So that I could go home and once again be comfortable and in control.

As I was driving through the country I started telling myself I had permission not to rush. To keep my writer-hat on and sit with my soul-bucket full, and not to hurry into responsibility and motherhood and pouring out again.
As I was giving myself these permissions, I passed the cutest little green caravan with a fruit stand.
That would make the cutest photo I thought. And kept driving.

Coffee, I’ll stop and get a takeaway coffee for the road. The bakery wasn’t far.
The line was long, so I took a seat while I waited for my order, and pulled out my journal.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the fruit stand with it’s old green caravan, and bags of fresh mandarines.
My fountain pen scribbled these words:

I give myself permission to take the long way home.
The way that backtracks to the mandarine stand, because I desperately want a photo. And a bag of freshly picked mandarines.
The long way, past the bakery to stop for a coffee and something sweet. The long way that says stop – your family are fine without you for this moment. It’s okay to fill your own soul before you pour out for others.

And look. Look how lovely it is to lean into the solitude instead of rushing straight through it.
How lovely it is to embrace adventure, to backtrack to country fruit stands, to stop here in this busy bakery and write, as you sip your long macchiato.

Why don’t we go ahead and give ourselves permission?
Right now. Give yourself permission to take what you need—space, solitude, time out, a night off cooking or cleaning. Permission to say yes to fun: a netball game, a novel, a movie, an ice-cream with the kids.

I drove home, peeling farm-fresh mandarines that filled my car with one of my favourite winter smells. I drove, with their sweet juice bursting in my mouth, savouring each segment as I smiled to myself, full and alone and unhurried.

You’ll have time to tick all the must-do’s on your list tomorrow.
For now, give yourself permission to take the long way home.

xx