Things of Good Report


In the last few months, though not nearly as often as I thought I would, I have been writing about some of the difficult things I faced after first becoming a mother. Those days of muddled thoughts, body-aching tiredness and never quite reaching the expectations set for me. I have never been as lonely as I was then, and now that I’m on the other side, I will always say that I think it is vitally important to talk about those things and to acknowledge the feelings and struggles that are unexpected, far from pretty and not what we think a proper, godly mama should have.

I do not usually like disclaimers. To me, they blur a message, sound apologetic and lower a writer’s credibility. However, a couple of things have been churning through my head since I started writing on this subject.

You’ve likely seen me roll my eyes over cheesy romances or rant about the flawless, picture-perfect lives found in some conservative literature. I will be the first to shudder at a photoshopped selfie paired with the perfect inspirational quote and wince if I see a smile plastered over tired, hurting eyes. There is something in all of us that yearns for authenticity, and as women who already struggle so much with comparison and identity, we have found relief in recent years as it has become more and more okay to talk about “real life.” In fact, it’s become the new trend: we are now more cool and more worthy of being looked-up to if we fill our instagram accounts with photos of our messy houses and dirty toddlers and talk about the hard things we went through last week. We are now gloriously authentic.

This is my fear: I think sometimes we are now far too comfortable with being real and vulnerable and we can veer to the other side into cynicism and negativity instead of focusing on what fills our lives with beauty.

I have seen this in myself and it’s a weight that I am constantly mulling over and trying to balance. How do I strive for authenticity and the breaking down of walls through vulnerability while maintaining a spirit of delight and joy? How do we gently reign in our “real lives” to have no fear in being honest about our messy hearts but no longer compelled to advertise them? Why have we over-reacted into feeling shame over sharing a moment of peace and calm without the disclaimer of the chaos behind the scenes?

(As a personal case, I thoroughly love housework and have felt guilt before over having a tidy, organised house nearly all of the time. I know it’s silly, but I have on occasion deliberately left a messy corner of toys or a sink full of dirty dishes for visitors to see, because what if they think I’m less of a good mother or hiding something if my house looks too good to be true?)

I say all this, because I have been convicted into a new focus regarding these things I have written and want to keep writing about. I long for authenticity, and if you are another young mama who has struggled with postpartum depression or finding fulfilment in motherhood, then I hope that my talking about it will give you some companionship and that you will know I am beside you and deeply care. But I do not want to react with frustration that nobody acknowledges these things by veering deeply into the opposite direction and defining motherhood (or any other area of life) with cynicism and darkness. Just because these things are real doesn’t mean that they must now be expected and normal, and if you are one of those new mothers whose real life actually is just as beautiful as one of those photo-perfect squares and you have found the transition into motherhood to be a seamless one, I want you to know that you belong too. If I have made you feel ashamed or less-than-normal for feeling nothing but joy over your role as a mother, I have discredited you, and I am sorry.

I want more than anything to live a legitimate life and I will never apologise for writing about it. But if darkness and hardship become the bulk of what is real in my life, then my heart is not fully grafted into the Father of Light, and I am not being defined by the loveliness found in Him. Pursuing life in Christ does not mean we will hide behind walls of perfection or pretend that life is flawless, but it will instead change our focus onto how we find victory over these things of darkness, and not on feeling comfortable or normal by dwelling in them. We will find no fear in the vulnerability of acknowledging struggles, but as daughters of One spectacularly perfect, we should also find no fear in the telling of beauty, without shame and with no apology.

 Finally, brethren, whatever things are true, whatever things are noble, whatever things are just, whatever things are pure, whatever things are lovely, whatever things are of good report, if there is any virtue and if there is anything praiseworthy—meditate on these things.


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Portrait of an Evening

Journal Excerpt, Family Holiday, June 4


“It is the third day of winter. The days are warm enough to blush the skin and the nights cool enough to warrant slippers and steaming mugs. Oh Queensland, your beauty! It is golden hour and the shadowy green lawns are strewn with yellow highlights as the sun ducks beneath the horizon. The eucalyptus trees are glimmering and the afternoon is a symphony of bird-song, colour and water rushing over river rocks. Around me, voices hum and chat. There is the loud chewing of pretzels and the slurping of chocolate milk. Here, two people sit with foreheads wrinkled in concentration over ColorKu, and there a little brother whoops over the discovery of another fish in the creek. My little girls are napping: one, hair and legs strewn over pillow and bed, those dear lips slightly parted in heavy, peaceful breathing, having finally succumbed to holding still enough to shut her eyes. The other is tucked up onto my chest. Her soft breath is warm and puts goosebumps on my skin chilled by twilight. Three little boys kick a ball down the hill, the birds are chirping good-nights and the cows in the neighbouring pasture mosey slowly along the fence towards home. The french-press has been brewed now and an array of hot teas are fanned across the table. Mama just brought me a blanket for my legs and the dying sun is level with my face. There is talk of a campfire and the inevitable s’mores, and we all know that a proper holiday requires all participating members to be doused in the scent of wood-smoke. I relish the gift of this moment, this grace of rest and renewal. The country is God’s place, I’m sure. I feel His presence especially much now, but I think I’m just finally quiet enough to be aware. I whisper a prayer now, a longing for refreshment and a new vision: “Restore unto me the joy of Your salvation!”IMG_6799



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Dear Kezia: I pray you’ll go deeper

Dear Kezia,

Welcome to our big world, little one! You are here with every ounce of darlingness imaginable, and only heaven knows the fierceness of the love you’ve evoked in us these past seven weeks of knowing you in person. You were wanted and prayed for and from the moment we knew that you were; that moment when two little pink lines were never such a big deal, when I was so surprised by joy that I could barely squeak out your daddy’s name – you had yourself all tangled up in the deepest parts of our hearts.

There were months of anticipation, waiting, and longing; forty weeks of you nestled under my heart and leaving no question about the fact that you were there and that you lived.  As you are today, you have been from day one: wildly, assertively certain of your existence.

I don’t know how to be your mom. Truth be told, I vouched for a boy, because I know the hard work and high maintenance of a beautiful relationship between a mother and daughter, and thinking about you scared me. It still scares me. But after your birth, while you squeaked on my chest, and time stood still while our tears, laughter, coos and exclamations serenaded those first minutes of your life, I’ll never be able to describe the giddy anticipation I felt when we realised we had forgotten to check out your gender after five minutes, or the overwhelming gratitude and sheer elation that welled up inside me as soon as we flipped you over and we knew. Our daughter. 

Little girl, I dream big for us. More than french-braiding your hair, baking cookies with you, reading you stories, singing with you, and walking together to the patisserie down the street. I dream of all that and a hundred things more, yes, of meaning the world to you, of being your best friend- but mostly, I dream of giving you glimpses of your Creator. There is nothing now that pulls me down onto my knees more than seeing your big brown eyes stare into mine with all the trust, dependency, and wonder in the world. I dream of you always needing me like that, but I will let you down countless times, so I pray you’ll go deeper. I am deeply flawed. I’ve pursued things that brought repentance but scarring, and I pray you’ll never believe those lies from Satan-the ones that tell you there are deeper pleasures in life than knowing and being known by God. I’ve been well acquainted with the grip of insecurity, teenage obesity, and depression and I pray you’ll never have a doubt in your mind that you are beautiful; that your worth is more precious than gold. I know rebellion and ugly relationships from the inside-out. I don’t know what we’ve got ahead of us, but I pray you’ll aim higher, and I do know this: I will fight for your heart. In a world where being a little girl is defined by ruffles, embarrassing amounts of tulle, tacky glitter, gold amd enough Frozen paraphernalia to make me nauseous, I pray you’ll know the difference. That you’ll know the true grandeur of womanhood, modesty, graceful beauty and charming femininity in ways I could never grasp. I’ve played it easy too often, sacrificing relationship & vulnerability for a safe heart, and I pray for you a wilder imagination and bigger risks.

Jesus. You hear His name a lot these days, whispered in the dark when it’s just you and me, your heavy breathing, wide-awake eyes, and the clock striking midnight. Mostly, I must admit, I pray to Him about please getting more sleep. But I tell Him too all about you, what I dream for you, how my fears blind me, who I hope you’ll become, how much your dad & I need grace on grace for being entrusted with you.

I want Him for you too. But I pray you’ll discover and know Him beautifully in ways I never even brushed the brink of.  I pray you’ll go deeper.

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Hi, I’m Needy.

I sat quietly on my hard chair this morning, in a room full of noise, sweat, smoke, and strangers. Next to me, a bedraggled kid with spaced-out eyes pushed against me to get through the crowded aisle. I pushed my nose further into my book to quench the nauseating combination of cigarettes and body odour. A minute later, my toes barely escaped being backed into by a severely overweight and bearded woman. I felt my face flush when the man in charge started handing out the flyers—the ones advertising a free dinner under the railway bridge tomorrow night.

A friend of ours once told us about a church down the road which collects leftover stock from all the local grocery stories–perfectly good things that are on the verge of expiring or have some slight cosmetic damage. The church then sets up its own market with truckloads of produce that come through every week, and gives it all away to anybody who comes through their doors. Free groceries! I suppose that’s enough to make anybody’s ears perk up, and I thought I’d check it out. (Disclaimer: I’m not one of those die-hard bargain hunters who’s always digging for the next freebie, but my background is Mennonite. And I am the wife of a med student. I have yet to meet somebody else of this enchanting combination who won’t go to a few measures to save a couple of dollars.)

I went, cloth bags from Aldi in tow. I got there a bit late, so I was number 73 in line. I walked past the 72 other people to get to the back of the queue–some of them grinned toothlessly and cautiously in reply to my smile, but most suspiciously squeezed a bit tighter together as if I was going to dare to butt my way in. Number 74 came up the sidewalk, and decided to stand in front of me, holding her head high as if she was completely unaware that she had just jumped the line. The man beside her swore under his breath. I just shook my head because one number’s difference isn’t enough to complain about. The guy up at the front with curly hair and rings under his eyes proudly held up his “Number 1” card and told everyone there how he had come at 10PM the night before to camp at the gates, so he’d be the first through the door on the morrow. I felt myself shrinking against the fence. What kind of place was this? I stared straight ahead, into a sea of backs. Tattooed backs. Dirty ones. Backs half-covered with frayed singlets–three sizes too small.

It started raining. We were finally allowed inside. There was a mad rush for the chairs in one direction, and a reckless stampede in the other towards the free cappuccinos and chocolate muffins. The pushing, the shoving, the undignified, less-than-human behaviour: it was too much, and I slipped quietly inside, becoming more embarrassed by the minute. I would just stand up to wait, and I did. For one hour. And then two. My feet and back throbbed, and I tried to push my pregnant belly out as far as possible. But the front row full of capable men didn’t budge-they sat with arms crossed in front of them, holding down their treasured seats as if it was Life’s Most Serious Business. Then the numbers started being called, the piles of fresh bread and shiny fruit began slowly dwindling, and I collapsed into a now-empty chair to wait some more.

And while I waited, I let repulsion, embarrassment, and frustration fester deep down inside me. These people–these homeless, needy, simple people–were the kind that I imagined serving. Ministering to. In my imagination, I’ve been the one with my arm around them, praying with them, showing Christ to them. I’ve imagined before being a person in that same sort of room, only I’d be behind the counter giving, not waiting in line to get. But I was sitting with them. Surrounded by them. One of them. Me in my maxi dress and coral shoes, feeling so out-of-place, and desperately hoping in my mind that all the workers there weren’t associating ME with the others–as one of the crowd.

I sat, feeling more self-sufficient and righteous by the minute, thanking God that I had a cozy home, a clean-cut husband, a reasonable income, the decency to shower daily, and the ability to live above government welfare programs, when it hit me. A tidal wave of shame and regret like I’ve never felt before.

I’ve always imagined serving people like the ones I was sitting with, because there’s safety and a secure identity there. I am The Giver, stooping to their level to meet their needs. It keeps me just slightly set-apart from them. The idea of “reaching out” appeals to me, because it naturally assumes one to be a couple rungs higher than the needy to begin with. It’s clean, it’s safe. People will see me as a godly, humble servant, but will of course know that I’m different than the ones I try to help. It’s predictable, it’s expected. And it’s dangerous.

I sat quietly on my hard chair this morning, in a room full of noise, sweat, smoke, strangers, and a mysterious, overwhelming feeling that Jesus was there. I closed my book, (which I hadn’t really been reading) and looked up with eyes on the verge of filling with tears. I could see Him–in the hands of the people giving food and blessing people, yes; but mostly, I knew He was there. On the uglier side of the counter. Waiting in line too. Among the swarming masses of tattered shirts, mismatched socks, tobacco-stained teeth and the lost souls behind the beautiful eyes of each one of those people. That’s where I felt Him, and that’s where I sat: ashamed, embarrassed, defensive, and then ashamed again. In my quiet, proud apathy and silent, smug resentment of the people who I was being associated with this morning, I let my Jesus down.

There, in those ten minutes before my number was called, I thought hard, and I repented hard. I’m a person slow to accept help. I get things done more quickly and efficiently on my own. Today went against everything inside me: sitting in a room full of people who actually depended on that free food for survival. Being far from homeless or deprived or disabled, but being seen as one of them.

And there, in those last ten minutes, it was okay. Okay to need with them. Okay to accept those 10 potatoes and the soft loaf of bread and glossy plums being dropped into my bag. Okay to admit that we do need to pinch our pennies and that these countless food items really will come in so handy this week. Okay to close my eyes and let the worker there put her hand on my shoulder and pray for all my needs to be supplied. Okay to be where Jesus would’ve been too: on that same, uncomfortable, embarrassing side of the counter. 

I am needy. Much more so than the people I was surrounded by this morning. They lack the physical–a roof over their heads, hope for next weeks’ meals, and a predictable tomorrow. I lack something much deeper.

I don’t want to reach out to people anymore, because reaching means distance. I want to find Jesus in the arm-to-arm, the gritty, the dirty, the being right next to. In seeing the beauty behind the puffs of cigarette smoke, grungy hands brushing my dress, and the grey beard of a woman. I want to know Him by becoming one of them too.

May the dirty, worn floor I waited upon today become holy ground.


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