I left my AirPods in Tasmania. As far as I know, they’re either chilling by the Little Blue Lake, swimming with the platypi in the Ringarooma River, or, most likely, wedged between the bed and the century-old wall of a small hotel room in Winnaleah. 

I first discovered the AirPods were missing after my sister and I had driven two and a half hours southeast to our next destination—there was no going back. Within minutes of checking every bag and pocket for the little white case, I messaged the hotel owners and begged them to search for them.  Sadly, there was no luck finding them, not yet anyway. Over the course of our holiday, sporadic hours were spent browsing online earphone sales, but I never bought a new pair. There was still the possibility that they’d turn up in the post. But it felt strange without them. I don’t have them constantly attached to my ears, but I do use them while walking the dog, going to the gym, or, when I can’t be bothered with a screen or a book and would rather listen to music in bed. 

Is it ‘bad’ to be a ‘Martha’? Does being a ‘Martha’ mean you are obsessed with cleanliness over godliness?

I can be a bit of a ‘Martha’ in that I gravitate towards what needs to be done. Mess and clutter make me stressed and anxious, and one reason why I can’t watch those hoarder shows on TV; they give me cold sweats. I find my depression and anxiety is worse the more clutter I’m surrounded by. Decluttering is one of my hobbies and I did consider starting a business at one stage, helping other people to have one almighty throw out, but I could see myself being a hoarder’s worst nightmare (having said that, I don’t care what your house looks like; please still invite me over for dinner). My house is nowhere near as clean and tidy as I would like, and I’ve learned to live with that. But I still have minimalist tendencies. I’d be quite happy in a caravan with few earthly possessions. I’m not a cook, like Martha, but I often felt guilty for not having a chaotic house full of people all the time. I tend to jump up in the mornings (once I’ve had my coffee) and start thinking of my to-do list, rather than God’s to-do list, which I’m sure involves sitting at His feet first.

Everything I do accommodates two 

From the coffee I pour in the morning 

To the seven extra mugs in my drawer 

To the spare camping chair 

Tucked in the footwell beneath the door 

And the extra van keys 

I get it, I get it - not everyone loves sport. Perhaps sport evokes memories of enforced laps during PE lessons, or spectacular unco-ordinated free-falling on the football field.

Perhaps you would share the perspective of my Year 10 form teacher. Upon looking at my truly ridiculous list of extracurricular activities—at peak craziness I was in four different sporting teams at the same time—she asked incredulously, “When do you have time to have life?” To me, being in four sporting teams was ‘having a life’!

If you are like my form teacher, then I ask for your indulgence for a few minutes. I invite you to step inside the mind of a person like me. A person who genuinely loves throwing, catching, kicking and shooting balls of all shapes and sizes. A person who loves sport. 

Late summer fruits. Fluffy scavengers. Early rain. Lines hung full of washing. Making indoor fun. Heads full of curls. Quiet moments. Little seedlings poking their heads up through the soil. Waiting for produce to ripen. Siblings to hold, always. Adventuring outdoors. Roasting marshmallows over the fire. This is our autumn daze.

Eighty percent of my childhood family holidays were exactly the same. We’d pile into the 1985 Tarago and drive for an hour until the first of us shouted, “I see the trees,” shortly followed by “I see the sea.” Our Gran owned a beach shack where we’d spend a week every school holidays. Tall gums lined the only road in and out, and we’d crane our necks on the approach to be the first to spot the sign we were almost there.

When my grandad died on April 10th in 2021, he left behind a memoir. When I finally read it, I was also reading Destiny: Learning to Live by Preparing to Die by David Gibson. The two were weirdly complementary. With the first I was saddened by the passing of time; with the second I was almost comforted by it. The first had me dwelling on the past while the second had me anticipating the future. The first helped me to process the death of my grandad. The second helped me to process the inevitable death of all my loved ones, even my own death.

Last month, I had the opportunity to attend an art retreat in northeast Tasmania with my sister. She is an artist, and a very good one at that. My own artistic experience, however, was limited to high school art class, a paint-by-numbers kit, and a paint-and-sip evening with colleagues.

The retreat had been pitched to me as a relaxed and flexible do-what-you-want kind of gig. So rather than feel daunted by trying something completely new, I devised a simple plan: I would discover a hidden natural talent and amaze everyone, or failing that, I’d use the time to get some writing done.

In a perfect world, I would support our local school as a Christian family by keeping my children there until the end of their schooling journey. I would keep my children living at home with me. They would continue to be involved in our local church each weekend.

But we don’t live in a perfect world.

A year ago, I was determined not to be seduced by the idol of education. Nothing much has changed in that sphere. I must constantly remind myself that we serve the Lord Jesus and not the shiny aspirations of the world.

I am listening 

to the laughing kookaburras up the tree

to the wind blowing down the chimney 

to the piano which is out of tune 

to the possum crawling in the roof 

to the bubbling of slow cooked beef stew 

to the swaying clothes on the line 

to my client who’s having a hard time 

to the chicken scratching a place to sleep 

to my loose fan belt starting to screech

What does it take to be joyful?

I pose this question to myself as I sit opposite my husband at our local café/playground. It is a beautiful spot, framed with gum trees and filled with casual weekend vibes. It’s a pleasant 30-odd degrees, the kids are playing, and I have a latte and the paper. It is a picture of the idyllic Saturday morning for our family.

Quite different from the scenario earlier in the week when I had endured a severe case of gastro overnight. As I lay in bed, hoping to get some relief, my four-year-old daughter came and informed me that Daddy had now been sick too. So as I was the better of the two of us, I hauled myself to the lounge room with the minimal aim of ensuring no children injured themselves. Inevitably, a few hours later, one of the children succumbed to the illness. Several loads of washing, much Glen 20 and Hydralite later, I collapsed into bed. What a contrast. 

I am learning that friendship needs a sustained curiosity to last the distance.  Last week I sat by a pool with a couple of good friends. We sat in the shade, ate snacks and swapped book recommendations between dips into the glistening water.  It has been over fifteen years since we forged our friendship. One of us has an appetite for bike riding, another loves attending live country music and the third enjoys ocean swimming. Perhaps these interests have not changed much over the years, but we have. We attend different kinds of churches, have different strengths and have not followed the life paths that we expected for ourselves when we were in our twenties.  Nonetheless, we enjoy a warm curiosity towards one another that has sustained and deepened our friendship. If we had assumed on being the same people that we were when we met, our friendships may not have continued. 

As a young woman I remember wondering who went to the gynecologist. Women seemed to talk about it in the movies, but I didn’t know anyone who had a gynecologist. I thought maybe it was something Americans did. Now I realise–it’s middle aged women who go to the gynecologist. All my friends are doing it. Things just don’t work quite how they should anymore. Copy and repeat.

“Hurry, make more

Hustle, cut through

Quick, achieve it

Climb, how high?

What can you win?

What can you gain?”

The middle months of the year are often long. The cloudy, rainless days seem to drag on and on. The brilliant colours of summer are over and everything seems brown, grey, unexciting, dull. Daylight is short, and is filled with endless tasks, some that inspire, but many others that must simply be done. 

And yet, even in these gloomy days, there are moments of joy. Of discovery. Of creativity. Of wonder. Oh to wonder as a child does, with even the smallest of things inspiring great fascination and delight!

I started my journey with music at a fairly young age. From six  years old I recall sitting in front of the stereo for hours listening to Celine Dion and Whitney Houston, trying to imitate their melody lines (not bad vocal coaching and ear training!) I made mix tapes on my radio and cassette recorder. Music was my love and passion from very early on. I was drawn to it. It conjured emotions and communicated in a way that was transcendent. It expressed heart sentiments and soul longings that I didn’t know how to express, or even quite what they were. 

But I grew up on a diet of popular music that mostly consisted of love songs, breakup songs, “how will I live without you?” songs. Let’s just say the lyrical (or musical for that matter) depth and breadth of the songs was not particularly vast. And when you listen to commercial radio today, not much has changed. Although these days, it seems there are less straight up love songs, and more “I am bitter/ I really don’t like you/ watch your back” type songs. Songs that express a cynicism or skepticism of love. 

His daughter spoke first. And then his brother. And finally, two of his friends. Several days ago, I turned in at four o’clock in the morning after staying up to watch a friend’s funeral online.  It was the second funeral I had watched in the space of a few days and whilst the formats were similar, the stories were literally worlds apart.  One detailed a life lived in Australia, teaching in theological colleges, a much-loved mentor and friend to many. The other had grown up in a street overlooking Aston Villa Park before a Billy Graham crusade had changed the course of her life. Long before tourists had caught the travel bug to South America, she had moved to Bolivia as a missionary and raised her five children there before returning to the UK. 

“I didn’t know that she spoke Spanish to her grandchildren,” my sister said when I told her about the funeral. Neither did I. We need to hear their stories. We need to hear the tributes. From childhood memories to honed skills, celebrations and losses, untold achievements and comical anecdotes; eulogies may be the hardest speeches to write but they are an immense privilege to hear, often inspiring and encouraging a community of listeners to live well.

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