Story Telling

I am like a child and I ask you to read me my favourite storybook over and over again. Each time you tell me the tale it gets further and further entrenched into my being. I notice new things and I am drawn deeper and deeper into the drama of the narrative – I become a part of the story and the story becomes a part of me.

Don’t ever stop telling me that story. I want to hear it again and again. I need to hear it again and again.

Remind me of the One who created me and sustains me, the One who created us and sustains us. Tell me again of the One who made a space for us, of the One whose love will stop at nothing, of the One who is love. Remind me of the One who reconciles and restores, the One who redeems.

That’s the story I want to hear, that’s the story we need to hear. Tell it.

Ride it Like a Wave

'The Lords of Dogtown' is a movie about a bunch of surfers-come-skaters in Sante Monica, America in the early 1970's. The story is set during the time when the standards of skateboarding were taken to a whole new level. Skip, the coach and mentor of a group of teenagers, introduced his boys to a new variety of wheels for their boards that would change their world - they would be able to perform tricks that were never possible before. Skip took them out to a concrete drainage system and called out "ride it like a wave boys!" And they did.

You may have heard that grief is like a wave; it comes and it goes. Sometimes the full force of its raging power comes crashing down on you and you're left breathless as you struggle to the surface. Sometimes its swift and steady as the current carries you. And then at other times it's still and serene and you feel quite secure.

The change between these states can be quite unpredictable and I've been caught out more than once. It happened again while I was away.

I'd met my Aunty in Prague, she was heading over to the Czech Republic for a wedding of this guy she knows and I got to tag along. Three years ago her husband, my mothers big brother, passed away. It's been three years, and although I've come to accept the fact, I don't think I'll ever get used to Uncle Ron not being around. It's not right that he's not here and I found myself continuing to grieve his death. Perhaps the process is never completed. Ride it like a wave, Cate, ride it like a wave.

Jesus knows what it's like to lose someone; his friend Lazarus died. Jesus got word from Mary and Martha, Lazarus' sisters, that he was sick. When Jesus arrived Martha said to him, "where were you? If you'd been here Lazarus would still be alive."

I found myself saying something similar, "Jesus, where were you? If you'd been here Uncle Ron would still be alive."

Martha told Jesus she knew she'd see her brother again, at the resurrection, on the last day. He told her that he, himself, is the Resurrection.

He told me the same thing.

Grief sucks, it really does. I dont think it will ever stop hurting, but I think that I am getting better and better at riding the wave. I have become honest enough to ask Jesus where he was when it happened, and he keeps me humble enough to hear him say that he was right there with them, and that he was right there with me too, he's always with me, closer than my breath.

Jesus is the Resurrection and the Life, in him we live and move and have our being. Nothing changes that. Not even death changes that.

Imitation (sing it the way U2 sing 'Elevation')

My dad knows Dr Seuss' 'The Lorax' off by heart. He read it to us so many times as kids that it will be imbeded into his memory forever. When he is too old to remember the names of his own children, I bet he will still remember the names of the Brown Barbaloots, the Swammi Swans, the Hummingfish, and the Lorax.

My father has also recited this story to me so many times that when he begins, 'At the far end of town where the grickle-grass grows...' I am able to repeat the words along with him. I am yet to learn the entire story by rote, and I rely on him to help me along, giving me prompts and clues and suggestions for expression.

In Prague I attended a strings performance held in the old museum, which is closed for construction until 2015. It opens in the evening though, especially for these concerts.

The museum sits at the top of Wenceslas Square and is hundreds of years old. We entered the atrium and filed up the stairs to the main landing. From there four stair cases, two on each side, lead to the balcony above. I imagine that the rooms which run off from the balcony are full of history and mystery, and will be nothing but beautiful when the renovations are complete.

The musicians stood on the landing and we sat on the stairs. Sitting on the steps diagonally across from me was a blond haired boy in a blue shirt, about 12 years old. He too knew some of these songs off by heart. He played the air violin note for note, stroke for stoke. I valued his contribution and his enthusiasm. I suspect that the quality of his performance was thanks to his familiarity with the song and his opportunity to imitate the master musicans below.

Imitation isn't mere copy-catting. When I recite 'The Lorax' I am telling the same story as my father, but I tell it slightly differently, with my own particular emphases and personal style. When violin boy plays Mozart he is animatedly and energetically playing the song that was written all those years ago, and he plays with the passion his personality brings.

In his letter to the Corinthians, Paul said 'imitate me as I imitate Christ.'

As I reflect on this I give thanks for those mentors and role models who have significantly impacted my life. I have been blessed with people who are familiar with the story of how God entered human history and showed us what true and perfect love is. They know the story well, they tell the story well. They sing it. They play it. And I have seen something of Christ at work in and through them.

I've been shown how to love the story. I've been shown how to live the story. I've heard the beauty of the song and I've been given space to play along.

Together, let us continue to imitate Christ and share in the life of his story

He Tangata

My friend Mia has been living in Switzerland and I went and stayed with her for a few days. We caught a train from Gland, near Geneva, to Interlaken - the Queenstown of Switzerland.

The train was quite full so we had to sit with some strangers. Mia and I sat facing each other. I was next to a woman with her ear phones in and her eyes closed. Mia sat next to a man, she looked at me and made a baby motion with her hands. This young dad had his wee girl in a front pouch. She lay asleep against her fathers chest for a while.

Mia is an au pair and over the last few days she's been telling me that although she likes kids, she also likes her time off and can find children irritating when she's in "holiday mode." I felt for Mia when this wee lass started grizzeling and let out a short cry - Mia hates crying babies.

The dad opened up the pouch, kissed his daughter on the head and took out a bottle for her. Four month old Sophie spent the remainder of her time with us wooing Mia with her big, beautiful, blue eyes, staring intently at bright colours and chewing on her dad's finger to help her teeth come through.

As we watched and delighted in new, vulnerable life, and made sporadic small talk, I was reminded of the old Maori saying He aha te mea nui? He tangata, he tangata, he tangata (What is the most important thing? It is people, it is people, it is people.) I whispered it too myself and gave thanks to God for our humanity.

This is the Life

I stayed with the Iona community for a week and learnt about life. We all came  from different parts of the world, with our different journey's and our different stories, and we came together for seven days. We ate together, and worked together, and played together, and prayed together - we did life together. Nothing extraordinary, just everyday life (except that we had left our other everyday lives, with all their routine and reunions, at home).

On Friday we caught the ferry to Fionnphort and said our farewells. I continued on to Inverness to stay with some friends for the weekend.

Wendy, and her girls Megan and Allie, met me at the train station and we had dinner together. Spending time with this family of six (plus the dog and a visiting Granny) was another experience of sharing everyday life together. Callum was kind enough to give up his bedroom for a few days and Hugh had made some space on his floor for his brother to sleep.

We went sight seeing and grocery shopping, hired books from the library and had lunch at Loch Ness. Angus and I chatted about theology and us girls discussed wedding dresses with Granny. Wendy and I reflected on life, and we all played with the dog.

On this journey I have been blessed with community; first at Iona and then at Dingwall. This is what we were made for - for life - and life is something that is shared, something that is done in community. I can not create or sustain life, nor can I live in isolation. I can only share in the life that God has created and sustains.

During those times when I seek my own individual, self-centred life that I can preserve according to my own agendas, I find that I am not creating any kind of life for myself at all. I become arrogant and insular, and that will suck up any health and life within me, and I'll be left for dead.

But when we submit ourselves to God and sharing in his life as his people, that's when we find life, that's when we share in something far more beautiful than we could have ever created. It's not pristine and perfect, it can be messy and laboured, and beautiful.

I am reminded of the time Jesus told his followers that whoever wants to find thier life will loose it, and whoever wants to loose their life will find it. I want to loose myself. I want to be lost in the life of God - the life that his people share. Because, really, that's a pretty good place to be lost, and because, really, that's when I am found, that's where I am found, that's when I expereince real life - life in the Spirit.

This Moment

Earlier this month I spent a week on the island of Iona on the west coast of Scotland. This island is where St Columba first landed when he made his voyage from Ireland back in the 6th Century. The Abbey on the island has largely been restored and services are held there at least twice a day. 

The nunnery, on the other hand, lies in ruins.

At first I wondered why there had been no apparent attempt toward restoration or recovery - to put the stone slabs back together or pull the weeds from the walls. And then I wondered why I had this desperate need to return things to their former glory, as if a particular moment in time ought to be permanently preserved for fear of change. But lately I have been learning how to allow things to be what they are, when they are; delighting in each moment for all its familiarity as well as its diversity.

This place was a nunnery - it served that purpose for a moment in time. And now, now it serves a new purpose, and I can see the beauty of it. The rugged beauty of this outdoor garden, with its flowers that just seem to grow wild where they are without wandering all over the place, is just as meaningful and intentional and purposeful. This collection of stones was what it was, and is what it is.

May the bones of my body be the same: living each moment meaningfully and intentionally and purposefully. May this be true for you too. And may we allow ourselves to be changed by the one who is steady and unchanging, the one who is the beginning and the end, the one who says "I Am Who I Am".

A Mothers Love

I caught this train from London to Glasgow today. It was a 4 hour journey and half way through I scored myself a sweet window seat. I spent the remainder of the ride gazing out the window, capturing the countryside.

All along the edges of the train tracks there were pockets of wild foxgloves bursting with beauty.

My mother loves foxgloves.

My mother loves me too.

As I rocked along the train tracks I was struck again by the beauty of creation, and the beauty of love. I too know what it is to love, and I too know what it is to be loved. It almost seems paradoxical, but in the bonds of love we are set free.

This bought tears to my eyes - the kind of tears that just leak out and you can't stop them. I wasn't sad, I was grateful, and this was my response.

I understood anew that I am loved, by my mother and by my God, and it is this love that defines me. As I travel through this world and as I travel through this life, I don't always know what I'll be facing, but I face it with the knowledge that I am loved. I think that's beautiful. I think that defines all that I am. I think that defines all that I think and say and do. I think love defines everything.

(p.s. I love you mum, and I think that I may just be learning to love foxgloves)