Someone I didn't know very well died last week. She was important to me. She was not famous. But she was faithful, generous, and beautiful. She was Pat.
Decades ago, Pat went to a Billy Graham crusade, and became a Christian.* From the time that Pat decided to follow Jesus, she never gave up doing so. She joined a church. It happens to be the same one you will find me in fairly frequently. Despite difficulties with her health, and her advancing years, Pat was extremely faithful and attentive to that church. She was still attending up until a few weeks ago, at the age of ninety. When I say attentive, I mean to play on the word. Because, while Pat attended church regularly, she was also attentive to the needs of the people she came into contact with through that place.
I didn't know this until today: Pat was a prayer warrior. She prayed often, faithfully. She prayed for people's babies when they were born. She prayed for the children. She prayed for any need that she knew that anyone had. For decades. And because of that she prayed for me, and for my brother.
I'm new in town. I moved here in January. But I've lived here before. My parents and I lived here when I was a toddler. We happened to attend the same church that I've been talking about. And my brother was born here. Pat was here then. I find it staggering, really. Not just that someone would go to the same church for half their life. But that someone would so selflessly, quietly pray for so many people.
Years ago, Pat started praying for more men. Not for herself (!) If you've ever been in an Anglican church, you'll know that the common demographic doesn't include as many men as the general population. Also, most men tend to be older. Pat decided that she would pray for more young men to be involved at her church. She knew how brilliant men's contributions can be - to friendships, acquaintance-ships, families. So she prayed. Looking around the chairs this morning (I was going to say pews, but we've modernised), I could see at a glance how God had answered Pat's prayers in this matter. Lots of lads. Masses of men. Great gobs of grandfather-figures. Awesome.
My brother, who would've been one of the Pat-prayed-for babies, is also an awesome man. I'm not crediting Pat entirely with that. I'm just saying.
Tuesday will see our church filled with people celebrating Pat's life. Ninety years of being gorgeous. One of her last requests was for flowers, especially yellow ones. So tomorrow I'm going to raid my garden of every last daffodil and jonquil I can find. I'm also going to prune my just-flowering magnolia. Take down a boot-full of blooms for Pat.
No more pain for Pat. Just meeting her saviour and hearing, "Well done, good and faithful servant".
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Nothing Personal
"Taking care of your personal appearance can make you feel better about yourself, give you more confidence...a spring in your step, a readiness for anything." Women's magazines (yes, I am going to criticise them in general, even though it is a cheap shot), advice from advertising, marketing, that silly shallow voice in your head. If you just dress nicely and put on a bit of makeup, you'll feel better. Hands up if you've heard it all before.
Well, my hand is thrust skyward like a teacher's pet's. And sometimes, this advice is true. Feel better, look better; look better, feel better. The bone of contention today is this: when you become a mumma, your appearance is not personal anymore. For a while, at least.
My personal appearance? I do beg your pardon, but I'm left barely a moment to myself to even visit the toilet, let alone have a shower, dress in anything resembling an 'outfit', or do any cosmetic-waving whatsoever. Also, these things cost money. Having given up paid work toherd cats raise kids, I don't have quite enough to splash around on this season's faux-minky-doo-blinky-whatsit. I do, however, have this charming (black) long-sleeved t-shirt with snot on it, which I would be quite happy to wear over my jeans that don't quite fit anymore, if I just give it a sponge touch-up. Go shopping? Well, thank you so very much for that sparklingly generous suggestion. Shall I go on a Saturday so that I don't have to drag two or three reluctant maningerers with me? (Yes I did make that word up: it's an amalgam of 'whingers' and 'malingerers', for those with an etymological bent.)
Ok. I'll stop it. I'm just stroppy today because my snotty almost-two-year-old will not nap, and my seven-year-old is home from school early (also snotty) The five-year-old better not get snotty or I'll have conniptions.
Sometimes, a mother's appearance is actually 'corporate' as opposed to 'personal'. Her man has loved her into a different shape. Her babies have changed her boobies, her toddlers have used her as a climbing-frame. Her older kids have run her a little bit ragged. So let her relax and dag-it-up for a season if she needs to. Soon, those charcoal bags under her eyes will be replaced with crinkles, and she'll be sporting a charcoal handbag instead. (O, gosh, no. Not 'sporting'. Erk.) Ok, she'll be carrying it, with a picnic-face on. (O, no, not 'picnic-face'. That chocolate bar add from a few years ago called the picnic bar 'ugly'; it makes her sound ugly instead of sunny-faced happy.) Ok. She will be looking ALL NICE and with SOMETHING NEW TO WEAR. (That will have to do.)
Right, the advicey-bit is here: if your friend/self/significant other is looking shabbier than usual, remember, in interior decorating: Shabby Chic is great.
Note the key-words above: age, signs of wear and tear, distressed combined with soft, minimalistic, feminine, chic. And the most important word: chosen. Yes. Chosen.
I now consider my changed-bits and tired-lines to be 'badges of honour', thanks to a smart suggestion from a friend a few years ago. I'd rather be chosen than selected, soft than hard, distressed than cosseted. If there is one thing I have learnt recently, it is that when things are easy, cooshy, I don't learn very much at all.
Well, my hand is thrust skyward like a teacher's pet's. And sometimes, this advice is true. Feel better, look better; look better, feel better. The bone of contention today is this: when you become a mumma, your appearance is not personal anymore. For a while, at least.
My personal appearance? I do beg your pardon, but I'm left barely a moment to myself to even visit the toilet, let alone have a shower, dress in anything resembling an 'outfit', or do any cosmetic-waving whatsoever. Also, these things cost money. Having given up paid work to
Ok. I'll stop it. I'm just stroppy today because my snotty almost-two-year-old will not nap, and my seven-year-old is home from school early (also snotty) The five-year-old better not get snotty or I'll have conniptions.
Sometimes, a mother's appearance is actually 'corporate' as opposed to 'personal'. Her man has loved her into a different shape. Her babies have changed her boobies, her toddlers have used her as a climbing-frame. Her older kids have run her a little bit ragged. So let her relax and dag-it-up for a season if she needs to. Soon, those charcoal bags under her eyes will be replaced with crinkles, and she'll be sporting a charcoal handbag instead. (O, gosh, no. Not 'sporting'. Erk.) Ok, she'll be carrying it, with a picnic-face on. (O, no, not 'picnic-face'. That chocolate bar add from a few years ago called the picnic bar 'ugly'; it makes her sound ugly instead of sunny-faced happy.) Ok. She will be looking ALL NICE and with SOMETHING NEW TO WEAR. (That will have to do.)
Right, the advicey-bit is here: if your friend/self/significant other is looking shabbier than usual, remember, in interior decorating: Shabby Chic is great.
"Shabby Chic is a form of interior design where furniture and furnishings are either chosen for their age and signs of wear and tear or new items are distressed to achieve the appearance of an antique. At the same time, a soft, minimalistic, and feminine feel is emphasized to differentiate it from regular vintage decor; hence the "chic" in the name."(Yes, I Wikied it. Four years of Uni and now most of the time I use Wikipedia and Google for research.)
Note the key-words above: age, signs of wear and tear, distressed combined with soft, minimalistic, feminine, chic. And the most important word: chosen. Yes. Chosen.
I now consider my changed-bits and tired-lines to be 'badges of honour', thanks to a smart suggestion from a friend a few years ago. I'd rather be chosen than selected, soft than hard, distressed than cosseted. If there is one thing I have learnt recently, it is that when things are easy, cooshy, I don't learn very much at all.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Tea and other Reckless Pursuits
"One of the things I love about you is your wanton abandon," my husband said. Don't be concerned, I know you're probably thinking this will be the most hideous over-share in the history of blogging. But honestly, I was washing up at the time. James' reaction was ironical, and in response to my suggestion that we have a cup of Earl Grey tea and eat chocolate in front of Doctor Who, "...it being Saturday night and all".
I get this a lot. I'm sure many many parents of small children do: that sudden realisation that large wads of your life and your character are, well, 'lame'.
If I were a racehorse, this would mean that I could not run, but I could breed instead. I am not a racehorse, but the difference is minimal. (Excepting that, in actual fact, I may have reached that stage of life that is more like being 'put out to pasture'. That is, I'm not planning on having any more foals.)
And so, to lameness. Our subject for the day. And it is intended to be something of a celebration of all things twee, uncool, lame-ish and even old-hat. Because, let's face it: the concept of 'trending', as Twitter calls it, is repugnant to me.
I had a wonderful meal recently at an Indian restaurant with two of my girly friends. Without our kids. It was bliss with raita on top. I did the Vindaloo thing just because I could. Across at another table, there was a family accompanied by a bunch of balloons clearly indicating that they were celebrating a 10th birthday. Not having my glasses on at first I had thought it was a 70th. And so proceeded a bit of a discussion about how unusual it was, or was not, to have a 10th birthday party with your family at an Indian restaurant.
My lovely companions, clearly being cooler than me, reminisced about their birthday parties, and I have to say that "Grease" was mentioned. Dancing, and costumes, and girlishness.
All I could remember was that I got my first mountain bike when I was ten, and that my mother, throughout my childhood, threw parties for me that were organised, fun, well-attended and....a mystery to me. That's not to say I didn't enjoy them. I did. But partying didn't come naturally to me. As I said to my dinner companions, "I was that girl enjoying eating Indian with my family...that girl reading books in the corner on the weekends, or playing with my siblings in our big, bushy backyard". I went off to primary school in 1986 not knowing who Kylie Minogue was. I thought neighbours were the people next door, and also some assorted Samaritans. I thought grease was what lubricated wheels. I have, in fact, probably dozens of people whom I attended high school with, who can attest to my 'preppiness' or 'dagginess', who liked my anyway. Bless them for that.
And I haven't really grown out of it. Hence my lovely hubby's comment about my daring plans with tea. (In my defence, it has been rather keeping me awake at nights recently and I do quite like my sleep.)
Which reminds me. Earl Grey turned up on some Twitfeeds recently. I will use letters, not names, so that the gentlemen in question can only claim notoriety if they wish to, but the thread went like this: [I am s, by the way.]
j: mmmm great start to the morning [pic of his cuppa - it looks like a latte]
w: you have the same latte cups as t?
s: we used to have those coffee cups too. The handles kept falling off.
w: Yes, and then you can put them on upside down. My morning pick me up includes bergamot [another pic of awful looking milky tea]
s: Bergamot = not so manly
w: it's Earl Grey, not Lady Grey
j: isn't the manliness of the tea only related to the cup it's served in?
#mugnotchinaismanly
#chaicanbemanlytoo
As you can see, I also have nerdy friends with occasionally questionable taste in beverages. And their hash-tagging can be a source of bemusement to me. I also note that 't' kept well out of the conversation, from what I can tell, which indicates a decent level of shame related to his choice of mug. What I say to this is, 't', if you like the mugs, stand up and own them. And if, like me, you always hated that kind where the handle falls off, stand up and stomp them into little pieces!
But I digress.
What I'm trying to get at is quite illusive, really. How do we even decide what we want for ourselves, or what is ok for other people, and what is patently not? What is our yardstick? Do we have a right to lambast other people for their choices? Big questions. I can't answer them all here because my fingers have gone somewhat numb and my Earl Grey has gone cold.
But I did hear a wonderful sermon this morning. It was based on 1 Peter 3:15 [find it here, or the larger context, aqui. Don't freak out about this passage. It's not your imagination: it really is chock-full of theological intricacies]. The question asked by the preacher-man, who was in fact my lovely hubby, was, "Whose are you?" Other variations thereon included, "whose opinion do you care about?", "who can make or break your day with their remarks?" and "on whom do you rely for your sense of self?". And the crux, for Christians, is that if we rely on anyone or anything other than Jesus, we have our focus in the wrong place.
So, in a sense, we don't need to decide what is lame and what is not. If we are lame, we can come to the One who heals the lame. If we have 'got it', we need to see that as just another label that we humans put on ourselves and each other, and get over it. Because, what does 'it' matter? At the end of time, when He returns, all our latte receptacles will mean nothing at all.
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