The Pegs that Don't Fit

I saw him standing by the road on my way to Newcastle a few weeks ago, box trolley piled high with tarps, swags and bags, cardboard in hand with "Sydney" scrawled on it in black sharpie. I was tempted to stop but knowing that my husband would be horrified if I did especially alone, I drove on. 

It wasn't the first time I had seen him; in fact, I had been aware of this man for years and years, first by seeing his box trolley either tied up out the front of my favourite coffee place or alternatively in the foyer of the local library. He would leave his trolley there especially in wet weather so his pile of possessions could stay dry as he floated about town, sometimes talking to townsfolk and sometimes just sitting on a bench in the main street. He never asked for anything that I ever saw, and certainly never asked me for anything. He seemed very quiet, very withdrawn, and would respond if greeted but that was all. Then he stopped coming to my coffee shop, and a sign went up in the library foyer forbidding anyone from leaving possessions there. 

So instead, I would find his box trolley chained up to a signpost outside of the chemist, and he would often be seen sitting out the front of Gloria Jeans, a silver and black coffee cup in hand. I and my gold lab would frequent the main street for early morning walks, especially in winter when the mornings were dark and frigid - it was often a slightly less distasteful thought to walk along the shops rather than bordering the river upon a levy bank where the wind would whip around us, icy and damp. I asked a girlfriend of mine about him at the time, she told me that he was well known around town, had been offered all manner of assistance but preferred to live 'off the grid' and had refused all help. She also said she believed he had some kind of mental illness. I remember thinking at the time that this was someone who had fallen through the cracks, and it made me sad. 

It was at least 3-4 years ago, definitely before COVID that he began setting up camp on a park bench along the riverwalk. My dog and I would pass the bench nearly every morning we went walking - the set up was quite impressive actually! His tarps seemed perfectly placed to cover the whole bench, forming a little tent that would completely cover the entire bench providing a tiny little bit of privacy. Depending on the time of day he would still be in there or will have just emerged, using the retaining wall behind him to house his meagre toiletries and a bottle of water so that he could brush his teeth. He lived there for a really long time, always packing up by early to mid-morning and then resurrecting his stuff as the sun went down. Going past that bench in the middle of the day you would never know that someone had even been there - the guy definitely kept to himself and despite his circumstances there was never an inconvenience to anyone else or an expectation that anyone do anything or suffer anything for his presence. 

Then, about six months ago, I went past his spot and the bench was suddenly gone. I was with the same girlfriend and asked her about it. She said they didn't want our transient friend to stay there anymore so they just removed the chair. There were plenty of other chairs along the river walk, and they were all left right where they were - it was JUST that chair that was removed. I couldn't help but feel the lack of humanity, the sheer pettiness of it - it was obviously a very targeted action. It felt malicious. It felt mean. And I felt mean. My friend then took that knife in my gut and turned it further: "He had a cat that he fed" - she pointed to a box of Friskies on the retaining wall - "he left a note asking whoever goes past to occasionally feed the cat" she said. My skin crawled. This very quiet, very lonely man had reached out to another living thing, and even that had been taken away. 

How could I blame the poor guy for now leaving town? So much for my country city being a friendly place! It got me thinking about the people that don't always fit within our societal expectations - and I'm not just talking about those who choose to live without a fixed address. I myself have experienced not feeling like I fit in anywhere - being in a body that doesn't fit, having interests that don't fit, having thoughts and feelings that don't fit, behaviours that don't fit, chromosomes that don't fit - I've spent the majority of my life not fitting in many different, very specific ways. Not enough for me to be displaced, but certainly enough that it has cost me many many relationships. I've been ignored by retail workers, excluded by so called friends, let down by people who gave up inviting me to things because I wouldn't turn up, I've been treated differently by bosses for not having children, sniggered at on public transport for my weight, laughed at, teased, yelled at, joked about, bullied and harassed. I know what it's like to not fit, yet as with all humanity there's something deep within us that, when challenged, always prefers to be on the 'normie' side by not speaking up for those singled out. We all want acceptance, we want to find our people, and there's nothing wrong with that so long as it isn't done at the expense of those who don't fit the mould we have come to expect. 

We all live in our own bubbles...I dont know about you but I have a particularly nice one. Good friends, good family, nice home. And yet I remain haunted by the man with the box trolley and I hope I remain so. I hope that I keep some degree of compassion for those who, like me, have found they don't fit. 

The Noob with Saggy Boobs

I have written in blogs past about my challenges with church - how I've circled around and around city blocks trying to drum up the courage to go in. I've joked often about having to 'run the gauntlet' - a term I use to describe the line of eagle eyed 'greeters' always stationed at the doorway to nearly every pentacostal church (and often other denominations besides..) scanning the crowds ready to pounce the minute they see an unfamiliar face. Then there's the awkward introductions, the fake smiles, the probing questions - just typing this makes me feel decidedly sick. 

I bring all of this up because it turns out, my assumption that my hang ups were strictly specific to church environments turns out to have been in error. This morning bright and early I fronted up to a free dance exercise class at my local PCYC. Doing dance for fitness is something I've said I wanted to do for a long time, and I thought perhaps it was about time I gave it a go.

I didn't quite anticipate how I would feel going in - I wasn't so much concerned about the dancing as I was having to do it in front of loads of other people and having to do the whole 'small talk gauntlet' thing. I also didn't anticipate the entire room being lined with mirrors nor did I realise that looking around the room I would be the most misshapen, bloated person in the room. 

And just like that, all of my body positivity, body acceptance, I'm ok just like I am blah blah blah went OUT the window. I went from prothletising about how awful weight loss culture is to in one fell swoop being the fattest girl in the room, smothered with all of the shame that comes with that realisation. 

The class was....good.....I gave a thumbs up in all of the right places, sipped water in between tracks and painfully felt my knee momentarily dislocate during one of the first stretches...owch....there goes the last grains of confidence right out the window!

By the time I got home I felt.....overwhelmed. I ended up getting teary as I described to my husband how I'd hurt my knee and my overall feelings of shame and embarrassment. It's going to take me a little bit to regain all of that confidence I thought I had, and while I do I will need to be kind to myself and try to just lovingly accept all of me, including my bung knee, colossal hips and saggy boobs. I think I also need to start figuring out what it is about being the noob that triggers me so much. 

Caught Between the Rock and a Faith Place

 As is so often the case when I write in this blog, it is late - or early depending upon your point of view. Yesterday was a perfect afternoon for a good old fashioned family nap, and succumbing to that irresistible urge to snuggle in and listen to the rain has thrown my circadian rhythm into a tailspin. So, here I am penning my musings instead of sleeping and tonight's topic is one over which I have long pondered - the question of faith versus the church. 

Some might argue that the two are inextricably linked. Others would say one naturally follows the other - if you have faith, then you must attend. The bible even says so. Hebrews 10:22-25 says: 

22 Let us draw near with a true heart in full assurance of faith, having our hearts sprinkled from an evil conscience, and our bodies washed with pure water.

23 Let us hold fast the profession of our faith without wavering; (for he is faithful that promised;)

24 And let us consider one another to provoke unto love and to good works:

25 Not forsaking the assembling of ourselves together, as the manner of some is; but exhorting one another: and so much the more, as ye see the day approaching.

Any time I have raised with Christians the question of church attendance this is always the first and often only verse that is cited. Don't get me wrong, setting aside the fact that it is not directly Jesus' words it's a good one. It seems pretty clear that the directive is to go to church. There are other verses that talk about Sabbath, that talk about gathering together - there's also the example of the early church that would gather together and pool all their resources and that grew in numbers every single day. The people that Paul was writing to believed in church. They believed in the power of prayer together. "When two or three...." etc etc. 

So, why don't I go to church? 

I've long battled with myself over this question. I've run the gauntlet of COUNTLESS different churches - pentecostal, anglican, conservative, liberal, you name it. I can honestly say it's been at least a decade since I was FIRMLY planted in a church community. I started my journey as a non catholic Christian 100% sold out: I was a hillsong singing, bible believing, sold out pentacostal that prayed in tounges, read Joyce Meyer and Lee Strobel and Max Lucado. I sang the veggietales theme song and ADORED full fledged worship. I listened to sermons every single day and did daily bible study with all manner of fervour. 

As time went on I felt like a veil was lifted off my eyes. I started to look around me and I saw the culture I had immersed myself in. As life began to wrinkle my mental health and my childhood trauma bubbled to the surface, I began to see that I was no longer fitting in quite as neatly as I once did. As my smile faded, so did the level of acceptance I felt from those around me. My social anxiety kicked in and soon I was attending less and less. I would go through phases of attending in earnest, swearing black and blue I would continue - but every single time I would fall away. Am I now the seed that never took root and now dying without fertile soil? Am I the lukewarm soul that God will one day spit out of his mouth? 

I have wanted with all my heart to throw that veil back over my face and go back to being fully sold out for Jesus. It was spiritually the most fulfilling time of my life. I grew fast and strong. I felt unwavering, convince I would never be one of those wayward Christians who 'forsake the gathering of themselves'. Yet, here I am, the veil still lifted, my eyes still fully opened. I know that I don't fully fit in the church wold, at least not in any church I've come across in the last 10 years. They don't deal with things like miscarriage, or depression, or anxiety, or grief, or trauma. They want smiles, and dresses, and perfume and makeup. They want 'amens' and #blessed and I just can't conjure that on a weekly basis. 

There's a part of me that questions the way we do church - we have this formula that everyone follows and cultural and social norms that are just there. We sing, we pray, we sing, we tithe, we read the bible, we listen to some guys opinions ABOUT the bible, we sing, we drink cups of tea and we go home. It doesn't seem to matter what church I go to that's basically the format with only a few exceptions. 

Jesus actually had very little to say about church and virtually nothing on HOW to do church. I'm still trying to figure out who I am, how on EARTH am I supposed to know who God is. The only example I have to follow is Jesus himself - anyone else is fallible. That's the reason I left the Catholic church, because I figured out that everything that made catholicism was old predominantly white men interpreting scripture for their own ends, and judging by the eternal wealth of the catholic church they did it rather successfully. Religion is big business. Just look at Hillsong, or Bethel, or even the more mainstream traditional churches such as Uniting or Anglican or Baptist. They all make serious coin, and from what I can tell a good majority of it goes back into either running the church or evangelising others. Or worse. 

I don't mean to paint all churches with a black brush. There's millions of Christians around the world doing amazing things and truly helping people. They do what they do because they believe with their whole hearts that this is what God has called them to do, and who am I to say they're wrong? There's so so much that I don't know, and so much I don't understand. But there's a lot that I do. 

So here is my declaration of Faith. 

I believe in God, the father the almighty, creator of heaven and earth. I believe in Jesus Christ, His only begotten Son, and I believe in the Holy Spirit, a gift given to all who believe. I believe in salvation through grace purchased by Christ's blood on the cross. I also believe that when you are saved through that grace you naturally act out your faith in Jesus in your life. The Holy Spirit convicts you to do better as a product of your conversion. 

I believe that God loves everyone, but that God is also Just and so God has rules. I also believe that it is not my place to convict someone else of those rules no matter who they are or what kind of lifestyle they are leading. I believe that sin is sin, and we have ALL fallen short of God's standards for our lives. I believe in God's forgiveness, and I believe that God never intended for any of his children to use their faith as a weapon to judge others. I believe God is our judge. I believe my name is written in the book of life, and I believe that God has forgiven me. God will judge my heart, as he will judge everyone's and that is not my place. I believe that the reality of Heaven is NOTHING like what we think it is. I believe that the reality of God, and Jesus, and the meaning of life is NOTHING like what we think it is. No eye has seen, no ear has heard, no heart has known. I believe that each one of us has ONE responsibility - to love God and to love others - and finally, I believe that I will be shocked at who I see in heaven......

Nearly as shocked as those who have already made it there to see me! 

Getting Busy Being Happy

 Grief is a queer thing....

I can honestly say that I've only really truly grieved a handful of times. I've been very fortunate in that regard so far in my life. Sure, I've had some pretty major emotional pain, but not what I would describe as pure grief - there's usually other emotions wrapped up in there. Relief. A tinge of sweetness perhaps. But true grief, real grief - it's different. 

I would describe grief as an endless chasm: a bottomless, aching pit in the depth of your soul. You know with some ancient wisdom that if you tip toe too close to the edge you will be lost, plummeting into the darkness forever like Alice in Wonderland falling down the rabbit hole. And so you carefully sidle your way around the edges like Sylvester Stallone in Cliffhanger, making sure never to get too close. And for the most part you succeed in smoothing those edges enough that you become familiar with the route around. 

But every so often, and often when you least expect it, you slip a little too close. A smell. A photo. A memory. Something starts to draw you towards the centre of that deep dark hole. Sometimes you even allow yourself to stand right on the precipice just long enough to remind yourself of the black terribleness that is there. You cannot truly numb yourself to it, not really. You can carve a safe journey around it through platitudes and pat responses, sometimes even with jokes. It doesn't take much to veer too close though. Something scratches at that very very deep wound and you find your breath is stolen again, like a punch to the gut that occasionally recurs without warning and without mercy. 

Today I told a friend that I am working really hard on just being happy. It is a very strange thing for me to honestly say that I am content, and yet here I am. For the first time in my life I would be perfectly content if the rest of my life went on in this direction. Then this afternoon I was sitting talking to my father in law when memories of my baby boy flooded my mind and I confessed to him that not a day goes by without me missing him. Every. Single. Day. 

Sometimes it's just me walking straight into the laundry without negotiating a baby gate and litter tray. Sometimes it's sitting out in the outdoor area next to the pot he is buried in, stroking the leaves and talking to him. Sometimes it's wearing my big chunky pink jumper and looking at all the threads he pulled with those claws. And sometimes when I emerge from my room first thing in the morning I swear I hear his velvet paws thump onto the tiled loungeroom floor as he stalks into the kitchen to give me his 'morning report'. 

My life is going really really well right now. Better than I think it ever has been. I just wish he was here to enjoy it with me. No matter how busy being happy I get, I'll never not miss you bud.