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

Have you ever seen that series of photos which show elderly people looking in the mirror and seeing the reflection of their much younger selves? Nurses, soldiers, young brides; I find those photos utterly heartbreaking. Within the decaying body and mind is a vibrant youth screaming, “I was young once.”

I’m writing this on the cusp of my forty-second birthday. Only in medieval times would I be considered ‘old’. I have relatively good health and a lot to be thankful for, but recently, I’ve found myself looking at photos with melancholy welling up inside me.

This is me. Running. Feet pounding the pavement as the sun rises, warm breath clouding the cool morning air. Music beating in my ears—wakening my brain from the haze of sleep. I take my time. I extend my route on a whim. I sprint the final stretch home. I stretch my limbs. I watch the news while getting ready for the day.

I’ve always imagined a squirrel's nest as a hole in the trunk of a tree lined with soft feathers and leaves to keep them warm. Given that we don’t have squirrels in Western Australia, I’ve relied on picture books and movies to accurately depict a squirrel's nest, and I’ve never questioned it—then again, maybe Bali squirrels are a different breed. At this moment, I’m sitting on my hotel balcony watching squirrels dive in and out of a hive-like contraption of sticks, twigs, and leaves, somehow held together between the outer bushy branches of a tree. I’d love to know what holds it all together: tree sap? Saliva? Human hair?

The other morning I was caught up in a daydream

Walking through rows of tomato vines

They were taller than me, wildly twisting up to the sun

I was lost in a food forest

The soil damp beneath my feet

They weren’t just any tomatoes

But my tomatoes

Organic, heirloom, self-seeded from the year before

Accidental and deliberate

Wild and tamed

Tethered and free

There is a brilliance the darkness cannot swallow 

There is a joy, a hope that never dies 

There is a Son, a Servant and a Saviour

There is only One, and His Name is Jesus Christ 

My top suggestion for “what to bring if you’re coming to visit the Middle East” is…. silicone earplugs. Not foam ones. Silicone putty ones, that you use for kids with grommets who go swimming. I speak from nine years of trial and error to find a way to a good nights sleep. Sound pollution is not a concept here. 

I don’t know how she got in, but she likes to call out the dust on my blinds, the dishes in my sink, the tone in my voice.

I tick something off the list. Guilt slips her arm over my shoulder, whispers in my ear about the three other things I didn’t do. 

When I get something done, she slips into bed next to me, touches my face and says, “But honey, you didn't do it very well.”

Today the first-ever pin cushion flower burst into my garden. I spied it while I was mowing the lawn. The tree has been wearing its pointy white buds for a while, but the first flower still managed to surprise me. A flower! I promptly abandoned the mowing, snapped a pic and sent it off to two garden-loving friends. Ta da!

This summer looked like big sister squishy snuggles, puzzles all over the floor, and building Duplo zoos. It looked like fairy floss flowers, tomatoes in bloom, and endless washing drying outside. This summer looked like afternoons in the pool, overcoming fears and growing in strength. It looked like vibrant blooms defying the sweltering heat, chooks dust-bathing to keep cool, and surprising new growth, found only if you look closely.