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.

I was sitting at the dining table one morning in August 2023, after another sleepless night, spoon feeding my 12 month old baby girl as she sat in her high chair. Weary and worn out after months of sleep deprivation and doing life with 3 little, somewhat spicy, humans under 6 - I turned to the Psalms seeking refreshment for my tired heart (not that I could read well through my puffy, blow fish eyes). I had read the words of Psalm 23 many times, but this morning, in God’s kindness and in my desperate need, they had a particular effect on my heart.

How do you maintain your luminous colour amidst loss and grief?

I’ve been asking myself this lately. I’m not sure I have the answer, but it inspires me to keep looking for the colour. I’m learning that joy and sadness can coexist. Someone I admire once said “there’s a holiness to the sadness.” This is so true. The more I allow myself to be sad with God the more I know and understand the heart of God. I’m reminded of what Jesus said many moons ago, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted” (Matthew 5:4). When we mourn we’ll be comforted by God. What a beautiful promise.

Although I do question; what happens when it feels like the colour has left and it can’t be found again? How do we live the life we’re called to live, “a life to the full” (John 10:10) - when we face pain and suffering? Around two years ago, I received a life changing diagnosis. My perspective on my new normal fluctuates. Some days I feel acceptance, hope, on top of my recovery program and the symptoms are improving. Other days I feel helpless, isolated, and deeply sad.

As a parent, there is a great temptation to panic and worry about what everyone else is doing, about seriously screwing up your child’s future if you get this high school stuff wrong. Everyone else is sending their children away and mine will be the only ones left. To be honest, I think my boys would look handsome in a blazer and tie, and I like the idea of them having access to brand new performing arts theatres, swimming pools, gymnasiums, music lessons and overseas trips. People would see me as a ‘good’ parent. I would look acceptable, even though we don’t own a farm or any land at all.

The other thing that keeps moving with me, regardless of where I am moving to or from, or the type and size of my space, is my sinful heart, full of selfishness, pride, comparison, envy, discontent, and greed. For me, these are part and parcel of homemaking. As the years go on I have grown more alert for these sins in my heart and more willing to deal with them, but it is a battle.

But where is your voice?

You remind me of someone I know

You’re an echo of the Creator

You’re here

I can touch you, hold you

I can press my face against you, and feel you near 

I glance to my right, at the novel sitting neatly between Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien and Driving over Lemons by Chris Evans. My last name is written in bold capitals down the spine. I snort as I picture the ghost of Tolkien, a distinguished man with a comb over in coattails, standing with his hands in his pockets and looking between me and my bookshelf with arched brows as if to say, ‘You really think it belongs there? Next to me?’

Yeah, there was cultural semantics and language differences going on. But really my deeper irritation was the clanging reality of my heart. I felt estranged from the language and world of those beautiful people from the video. I often feel like a clogged up drain out of which overflows various types of sludge versus a flowing channel of the love of Jesus.

To begin my story, I must take you back to January 2015. I'm a broke 22-year-old music student looking for part time work, growing increasingly disheartened by rejection letters and having to say no to teaching positions too far to travel to by bus each week. The tip of the iceberg finally arrives as one of the drawers for my secondhand dresser starts to give way. My frustration grows as I try to force the front piece of the worn-out drawer back into place and I start crying—nothing is going my way and it is all so unfair! My mum suddenly marches into my room, points her finger at me and says, “Now you listen to me, all of this is happening because one day you told Jesus, thy will be done… And you meant it!” There is a moment of silence as I think about what she had just said. Then the front of the drawer falls off.

I almost feel embarrassed by how regularly I ask people to pray that I’d manage my time well. It’s not a bad thing to ask of God, but I wonder if beneath that prayer is my belief in a future when life will go at one speed. A future I could achieve by making the right decisions, saying the right yes-es and no-s. It would be a new way of living where I wouldn’t ever feel stressed or overwhelmed. I think I’m kind of always aiming for that era.

It was the socks that did it. Socks triggered my existential crisis. Apparently, you can discern between a Gen Z and a Millennial by their socks. Millennials wear ankle socks and Gen Z wear crew socks. I sit on the bed, look at my teeny tiny socks, and embarrassment nestles in my chest like a newborn. I don’t want to be like those Dads in the eighties who moved out to the suburbs and continued to wear their acid-washed jeans while the world moved on. But I don’t want to be like Regina George’s Mum in Mean Girls, trying so hard to fit in with teenagers.