Crisp, sunburned leaves. A shrivelled stem gasping for water. Grey, sandy soil that repels moisture—much like my legs in summer. Toss in a grassless lawn for dramatic effect, and you’ve got a snapshot of my gardening track record.

I once thought it was a brilliant idea to plant baby fruit trees during a 40+ degree January heatwave, straight into what could technically be described as “dirt,” but more closely resembled beach sand. Yes, I was that person. Of the three trees I planted, one heroically died and was respectfully composted. The cause of death? Possibly the soil, the sun, the lack of water—or maybe the tree just took one look at its new home and decided, “Yeah, nah.”

There was a Word

Before the seas were drawn

And the earth received her form

There was a Song

Whispered at the first dawn

And hidden in each lightning storm

There comes a stage in pregnancy—the waddle stage I like to call it—where women who have been there before may just ask you: ‘how are you going?’ They give you a smile, they look you in the eye, and if it happens then you feel seen. And loved.  

They know that you are probably not feeling at your all-time best. Probably you get tired just by standing up and existing for a period of time. Probably your pelvic floor is not as functional as it could be. Probably picking up your toddler is becoming problematic. Possibly you are turning the corner towards the home stretch and starting to think that maybe birth is not so bad because at the end the baby is on the outside at last!  

Well, that’s what I’m thinking at least. 

Canoeing down the river

Gentle current moves me.

Ebbing, flowing water

And sunlight, all surrounding.

And as I go 

I’m leaving places,

Tearfully farewelling faces,

But the still, small voice,

He gently whispers,

“It’s time to let go”. 

It’s an object that’s out of place. 

My beautiful, Arab coffee ‘thermos’. It has an elegant gold spout and silver body etched with leaves. It looks like it belongs to a Saudi prince. But it’s actually just plastic and sold in cheap homeware shops. Something like it is used in most Arab lounge rooms throughout the Middle East during formal occasions such as Eid (religious holidays), funerals or weddings. Guests are honoured on arrival with a shot-sized serving of bitter, black coffee, usually cardamon-flavoured. 

But here it sits. This gold thermos looking out of place on my wobbly, dusty, laminated table under a noisy fan. Elegantly sitting between scattered lab request forms, hand gel, paediatric growth charts and my stethoscope. Ready to serve patients who come to see me at the clinic. 

I am playing offense. It is an experiment.

The bus lurches forward in traffic and the standing passengers jostle for space.  The commuters in front of me keep bumping against my feet and I am not sure who feels more uncomfortable.  Dangling my legs out into the central aisle of the bus is clearly not working.  I pull my feet up into my chest and I receive a grateful smile from a woman in front of me.  Sitting in the luggage rack of the bus, I concede that I have chosen an unusual seat.  However, now that I have discovered this hidden-in-plain-sight option, it has proved quite useful on my travels across this new city.

Two months ago, I arrived in a new country with my new husband.  With heavy suitcases in tow, we landed at midnight in Argentina, the country that my husband calls home.  A purple beanie was promptly put on my head by one of our friendly welcomers and in the blur of fatigue, jet lag and the bracing cold of a winter’s night, we were ushered to a waiting car.

For me, the new is always so… uncomfortably new. Like someone turning the light on when you are fast asleep and you awake in a confused fog and not a little bit grumpy. There are of course those who exuberantly embrace their new environment like rolling down a grassy hill.  When they reach the bottom, they jump up ready to do it again, laughing off the grass stains across their clothes.  Of course, they probably don’t have a pollen allergy either. 

See the galahs, the galahs, 

sitting on the powerlines! 

See how they laugh, they laugh, 

like mums on the sidelines 

From laughing

To screaming and crying

Feeling confident and on top of it

To low and flat

I’ll just go sit back in my corner….

Wait! 

I’m not made for that

Pick up the camera

Pick up the phone

Quick snap the moment

And then we move on.

There they were on our front doorstep, just like her text message said they would be. A box of donuts. There were six of them. Krispy Kremes in different flavours—and it was lunchtime. At that moment I thanked the Lord for my mother-in-law, that she loves others through gift giving, and that this particular gift arrived when it did: Husband away for the week, house in a state, kids fighting. 

On Thursday 12th June, after seventeen years of hellos and goodbyes, I said goodbye to my beloved dog Maya for the final time. She closed her weary eyes and drifted off while I hugged her tight and told her how much I loved her and that I was right by her side. The vet left us alone together and, strangely, sitting with my dog’s body didn’t seem too weird or morbid. I knew it was the last time I would ever see her. I thanked God for seventeen years of her faithful friendship and even for all the irksome things (like dragging home many revolting carcasses on the farm), with tears fogging my glasses.

Have you seen the trees,

that stood before my time and yours

Have you walked among them

and felt a peace beyond tomorrow 

Have you placed your hand against their bark

And remembered how to breathe

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a millennial in the prime of their life must be in want of a new hobby. From indoor plants to preserving foods, paint-by-numbers, smoking meats, and birdwatching (ahem, that is a raven, not a crow), social media takes great joy in making fun of millennial hobbies. Yet by the time you reach the end of this article and can quote at least three scientific names for orchid species, you and I will be the ones laughing… Probably at ourselves.

Ever since I can remember, I’ve hated lizards and frogs. I don’t know if it’s to do with the way they look and or the way they move, but they creep me out. Despite this, I love dinosaurs. (I went to watch Jurassic World a few weeks ago- five stars!) There’s just something about the way they look, and how angry the carnivorous ones are in movies that I truly adore. My husband has pointed out on multiple occasions that Godzilla is just a giant lizard, but every time he says this I just change the subject.

It was a f-a-n-c-y bathroom. 

It was very impressive, given the family was struggling financially. It was at the front of the house and particularly designed to impress guests. Everything was ‘gold’. The basin looked like marble. The lighting was soft and flattering. But the toilet didn’t flush and the taps didn’t work. When this experience was recounted to me I chuckled with understanding. All the money had been spent on the fittings and shiny things, and there was none left to connect a water supply and make the bathroom functional. Strange, yet not at all strange. 

In Arab culture, it has to look good. Appearance is everything and brings honour. Even in a refugee’s home, where they can only afford stale bread, I no longer blink an eyelid when I see something fancy in the room where guests are hosted. Perhaps some ruffled, satin curtains? Or a gold (plastic) coffee pot? I am slowly growing to understand this Eastern worldview, reflected in so many Bible passages which describe wealth, jewels, beauty and abundance to communicate significance and honour.

  What if they’re upset?

                                                  starts the slow descent 

                                               into the cave. What if

                                            they’re mad at me? 

                                          I squelch into dirt. What if 

                                      they hate me? I sink deeper    

                                    and deeper into the earth. 

                                   I’m stuck. 

                                 Limestone

                              slowly collapses

                                around me

                                       I’m stagnating.

                                    Fear of man is turning inwards,      

                                            spiralling, making everyone

                                                    happy to feel safe, but

                                                          the cave is airless.

I like to think I’m a curious person. Or perhaps more accurately, I aspire to be a curious person. It’s not because I think curiosity is a moral category. It’s not a fruit of the Spirit. And yet I’m increasingly convinced it’s a trait I want to possess. And in possessing it, I’ll gain something good.

Community is beautiful and needed but I haven’t always believed this. I once thought I could grow in my faith without Christian community. So much so that I chose to leave church because I believed I didn’t “need it”. This was a selfish and prideful viewpoint, but did I see it as that at the time? Most certainly not. I was blinded by my own behaviour. I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I was protecting myself. I thought it’d help me to heal. I couldn’t be further from the truth.

“The Way of Love” was inspired by the words of 1 Corinthians 13. Before I came to know Jesus, my understanding and experience of love was so distorted. I had to truly learn what love is and what it looks like. I learnt who love is, and what He looks like and how He defines love. And that changed my heart and life.

I walk with grief and grief walks with me

sometimes I swim in it

I’m stuck

Drowning

Stuck in these feelings that I can’t reconcile

Between the what I have and what’s to come

Sorrow blossoming into empathy and compassion

Able to hold others sorrow

While learning to live amongst my own