Category: teacher

Re-framing Old Stories and Writing New Ones

Do you remember your first day of school? I do. I have a flashback of a little girl standing all alone underneath the wooden stairs that led to the classrooms above. My parents had said goodbye to me on the other side of the flooded river that cut our farm off from the local township and school. Prior to school starting they sent me to board with another family we knew from church, who lived in town. They reminded me that our family friend and neighbour was a teacher at the same school. She crossed the flooded river just like me, in a ‘duck’-an amphibious modified truck.

I was four years old when I started school. I turned five the week after. As long as I can remember I was the ‘big girl’ of the family. I never had much of a chance to be a baby, as my first sister was born a year later and by the time I turned four, I had another sister and a baby brother. I accepted the mantle of being the responsible older sister and a good girl, very early in my life. This was expected of me when I started school.

My sister started school the following year. The same river was flooded. This time though, my mother rented a house in town until the floods abated. She shared that house with another church family and neighbour. This time four children started school; two for the first time.

They say children are keen observers, but poor interpreters. (Rudolph Dreikurs) I observed that the year I started school I was sent to board with almost strangers. The year my sister started school, mum rented a house with friends. What I interpreted though was different. I believed that I was not special enough for my family to rent a house. I found out decades later that my parents could not afford to rent a house by themselves. The family my mother shared with had recently arrived in town and at our church. Their eldest two children were the same age as my sister and me. Their second child was also starting school for the first time that year. Combined, both families could afford to rent a house. The story I told myself for all those years was not entirely correct.

I have other stories in my past that have also shaped what I believe about myself and the roles I have played. I wonder how many other stories I have misinterpreted?

Standing at the threshold or maybe even having crossed it into my ‘second act’ or ‘last act’ of my life here on earth, I want my stories from hereon to be different. I am tired of always being the responsible one and the ‘good girl’. I have overdone that role to the point of enabling and exhaustion!

What I have come to understand is it is not so much about making external changes and trying harder with new behaviours, but rather it is an internal shift. It is time to re-frame some of those stories and start living out the new and truer ones; from a deep place.

I also belong to a far bigger story that calls me into a relationship with my Creator and Redeemer. My identity is based on His truth about who I am and who He is calling me into being. For someone who has taken on much more responsibility than was ever necessary, it is liberating to know that I am not walking this journey alone. And it is time to leave some of that baggage behind as I write new stories.

I would love to hear from you how you have re-framed old stories and what new ones are you writing?

March 18, 2018
Finishing the race

I completed my first ever ‘fun run’ this morning. Actually, I walked it; and for that matter not a lot of it was fun! I kept up enough pace to finish the 8-kilometres just shy of an hour and a half. I am satisfied to have simply finished the race.

The Bible talks a lot about our life being like a race. One verse in Hebrews (12:1) emphasises some of the qualities of any race. There are those who have gone before us that have finished the race; the witness of the veterans who cheer us on. There is also a necessity to strip down to essentials and all that hinders us before starting. It is then with perseverance that we finish the race marked out for us.

Francis of Assisi says “Start by doing what’s necessary; then do what’s possible. And suddenly, you are doing the impossible.” Today was a bit like that. My first step was to register, the next to get myself at the starting line early this morning and then the next step was to simply start by putting one foot in front of the other. My only goal was to finish the race before I got kicked off the course. I finished sooner than I thought I would. If you had told me I would make that time yesterday, I would have thought that was impossible.

My understanding of any race, and especially the particularly challenging marathons is that the qualities of comradeship, dedication and perseverance are embodied therein. Today’s fun walk for me was enriched by my companions; my son and his fiance who started the footrace with me and also those I knew who cheered me on from the sidelines. At times, I was spurred on to maintain my pace simply because others were ahead on the course.

My heart has been heavy this week for those who are struggling to run-or even walk, their life’s race. Some have been running hard but cannot go any further because they have broken down. Some are close to falling out because of exhaustion. Others have lagged at the start and seem to have made no progress at all. I hurt for those that have been sabotaged by others. I just want to cheer them on and say keep going; one step at a time; just hang in there!

Verse 2 of Hebrews 12 encourages us to keep our eyes on Jesus- the pioneer and perfecter of faith. He endured opposition and yet finished. We must not grow weary and lose heart. At times, our life’s race is tough and there seems to be more hills than flat straights. I am glad that Jesus and many saints before us have completed their race.

I love the way the Message Bible puts it “When you find yourselves flagging in your faith, go over that story again, item by item, that long litany of hostility he (Jesus) ploughed through. That will shoot adrenaline into your souls!”

This morning’s fun run has put a shot of adrenaline into my body- and my soul. I hope that you too may find a shot of adrenaline for your soul this week to persevere with joy the course set before you.

August 20, 2017
The Humble Hen- the Extra in My Story

For most of my life the humble garden-variety chook has been a supporting actor-or an extra in our family’s story and my story. The hen has provided us with eggs (and in my childhood-meat), affection, therapy and some funny moments.

My earliest chook memory involved my little brother who was very indignant, and chasing a chook around the family’s backyard. She had swallowed his tooth- and with it the anticipated windfall from the tooth fairy.

Hens have always eaten our family’s kitchen scraps. This was our practice way before it was prudent to consider what you did with your green waste and considered the environment.

When our children were in primary school, they won a day-old chick in a fete raffle. We kept “Chickee” and put her on the lawn during the day in a little mesh and timber cage- loaned by Granddad. At night, we brought her in and kept her in a box in the laundry. It was not long before the fluffy yellow chick turned into an auburn pullet. The cardboard box could not contain her, so we had to find her a new home. Granddad adopted her and found her a permanent perch in his chicken coop.

The telling moment was when I woke up late one night to realise my husband was not yet in bed and the television was still blaring. I found “Chickee” out of her box, on the couch and nestled in the crook of his warm sleeping body. When she moved to Granddad’s, she soon transferred her affections to him. He would often have to scoop her off the top of his ‘fridge on his back deck and return her to the coop.

“Mrs Chook” was our last hen. We have been moving about this year and she was the last girl on the perch. All the others had died separately from old age and we had not thought to replace them. We eventually gave her away to another family who now enjoy her cuddles and eggs.

She too was affectionate and there was a telling moment. She had taken to perching on our back deck rather than returning to the hen palace at night. I did not mind hosing her poo off the back deck but I soon did mind, when in our new home she perched on the cars in the driveway and on the carpeted front entry’s handrail. It was okay when her cloaca faced the garden but not when it faced the door. Unbelievable how much fertiliser one chook can deposit in a night.

I miss not talking to my ‘girls’ in the morning. There’s something enjoyable about wandering out to the backyard to be met by hungry and warbling, happy hens. I would often stumble out with sleep still in my eyes and with recycled food scraps and grain in my hands. When mowing the backyard they would chase me and the lawnmower to catch any dislodged insects from the freshly cut grass. I confess it’s rather nice to have company like that.

Equally satisfying is eating a poached, fresh egg that sits pertly on the breakfast plate with its saffron yolk. It did not seem quite so wasteful to dispose of the yolks when making a wicked pavlova with whites, when the fridge was full of backyard eggs. It does feel wicked nowadays though; as I scrape our food scraps into the rubbish bin.

The chicken coup and hen’s palace currently lay vacant. Instead of hens to feed in the morning I am now picking tomatoes. We have an abundant crop of cherry tomatoes that have sprung up from the mixture of chicken poo and food scraps.

Thank-you “Mrs Chook” -and “Chickee”, for your part in my story. You are very humble and your role may have been minor, but your presence brought much joy. Next time around I might be a bit more creative with names though!

August 12, 2017
A matter of perspective

At a recent meeting, I spent over half an hour listing off my qualifications, my roles and my interests to provide my background story. The person I was meeting with then asked me a question that required an answer from a different perspective. On a full page of preparatory notes filled with dot points, I had recorded only three lines that helped me answer this question. The question he asked was something like “What has God been doing in your life?” At first, I was overcome with emotion and felt quite vulnerable to share that which was deeply personal. It was not something I usually talked about when discussing my business and career goals, even though we were both Christians. It got me thinking though…

Is there more than one way to frame my life’s journey and tell my story? What if my particular way of recalling my life needs to change or at least be broadened? Perhaps it’s time I focused on a different perspective.

A number of themes have started to emerge as I have been looking back and telling my story. I have been convicted that perhaps I have been focusing a little too much on as single perspective . What would my story be if I asked different questions of myself and my life?

Abe Lincoln is attributed with having said “We can complain because rose bushes have thorns, or rejoice because thorn bushes have roses.” Have I, I wondered, been looking at the thorns and missing the beauty of the roses in my life? Instead of asking “Why did this awful thing happen to me?”, what would my story be if I asked myself “How is this the best thing that happened to me?” Instead of looking at the trials in my life, what would it look like if I looked for God’s providence instead? Instead of looking at achievements of the ‘head’, what if I looked for achievements of the ‘heart’?

I started a journey today going back through some of the scripts I have recorded about my life and have been asking myself different questions. I still have a way to go and am getting a little excited. As I look past some of the thorns I am beginning to notice some of the roses.

This reminds me of an old Indian story I once heard about six blind men who approach an elephant for the first time. These men describe the whole beast deduced from the portion they could feel. Of course, when one is feeling the trunk, another the tail, another the leg, an ear, the belly and the tusk it is any wonder they could not agree on what an elephant looked like. The problem is that each one only had a partial view and were describing the whole from their single perspective.

I draw comfort from the fact that God can see the whole clearly. I may never know everything that He is doing in my life. I do know though that He loves me and that in all things He works for good because I love Him. (Romans 8:28) The Bible talks a lot about being thankful and having gratitude. I confess that when my perspective is small and certainly in the midst of pain that can be hard to do. I do not want to grow old recalling only the thorns and missing the roses. I am committed to recalling and perhaps retelling my story from a different perspective.

“It’s not what you look at that matters; it’s what you see.” Henry David Thoreau.

Photo by Kristina Flour on Unsplash

August 5, 2017
A week in the slow lane

I spent this past week away from home and looking after my adult daughter who had a knee reconstruction on Monday. The rehabilitation process demands she walks on her injured leg and she started that immediately following surgery. This means she still walks; but she is slow.

I laughed with her the first day joking that God had allowed her to snap her ligament so she would slow up and allow her soul catch up with her body. We both knew that the past few years her pace has been fast. First the injury and now the necessary surgery has slowed her down. As her carer that meant that I too had to go slow.

Getting out the door from the third-floor apartment, down the three flights of stairs and into my car parked on the street took considerably longer than normal for both of us. Meeting up with people elsewhere for a coffee or a meal required us to leave much earlier to allow time for her to walk slowly. There was no point in being impatient. In fact, impatience could undo all the good work of surgery and healing. Being pushed in a wheelchair or taking off on crutches was not an option either as her healing depends on her using her muscles and walking; just slowly.

I love spending time with my daughter so visiting the local coffee shop recently opened by friends of hers was no chore. There was no popping in for a quick coffee however. The sheer effort of getting there and back as well as the luxury of her being on medical leave, meant we could linger. There is something special about lingering over a good coffee with friends; sprawled out on cushioned seating, leaning against the wall awash in the morning light and its warmth. Even now I remember the scene as if the slower pace permitted the enjoyment of the experience to permeate my soul.

This slower pace necessitated setting priorities for each day. There was no way we could schedule multiple outings and had to be content with a slower pace. Even my exercise this week seemed to reinforce the message to slow down. I took the opportunity to use my daughter’s membership and attended two classes of ‘Hot Pilates’. While the exercise includes moments of high intensity it is balanced out with intentional deep breathing and stretching.

As I write this, I recall a book I purchased many years ago. Carl Honor wrote “In Praise of Slowness” in which he challenges the cult of speed, our addiction to speed and our obsession to do everything so quickly. I acknowledge that I have been guilty of the same love affair with efficiency and speed.

I have also lifted down from the bookshelf another book by a Christian author Richard J. Foster called “Finding Harmony in a Complex World: Freedom of Simplicity.” I am drawn to the potential of a life in unhurried peace and power.

My one week in the slow lane has given me food for thought. Perhaps it is time to reread these books and put into practice some of the suggestions. This week has hinted at a life with depth, deep breathing and unhurried experiences. Maybe it’s time to start a love affair with slowness and simplicity as well as minimalism.

“Most men pursue pleasure with such breathless haste that they hurry past it”. Soren Kierkegaard.

Photo by SnapbyThree MY on Unsplash

July 30, 2017
Decluttering my world

Working towards my goal of minimising my possessions, this week I emptied my craft and sewing cupboard. I heard somewhere that one of the guidelines to reducing or minimising your possessions is to ask yourself if you have used the item in the past nine months or plan to use it in the next nine months. Using this guideline, boxes and boxes of fabrics had to go. Fortunately, I had previously boxed everything up to tidy up the cupboards. I say fortunately because if I knew everything that was in those boxes, I may not have parted with it so easily. I started to go through one box and was tempted to pull out bits and pieces I was fond of or thought were beautiful. I slammed the lid back down and marched it all out to my car and sent a message to the woman I planned to give it to.

I could not believe how much I struggled to emotionally part with this stuff. It was a reminder to me of a lovely season in my life when as a Home Economics teacher, I taught units on textiles and embellishment to teenage girls. It was a reminder to me of a season in my life when I enjoyed making aprons from pretty craft fabrics. It reminded me how I found solace in creativity when mum was dying. I remember my ‘artist dates’ and how much I enjoyed choosing the fabrics and my delight at the fabric’s colours and patterns. I started to rethink my decision and wondered if I might start creating with textiles again. Then I stopped. I had not touched an item in those boxes for over two years. If I was completely honest I did not love textiles as much as I loved baking and my boxes were also full of unfinished projects. And even more so, I could not carry on with the things I believed that this season asked of me as well as start sewing again. So, in spite of a surprising sense of grief I slammed the car boot shut and delivered everything to the woman I promised it to.

I heard a message from a visiting Christian speaker recently that reminded me my inner world might need some decluttering too. There are memories and experiences from my past; both good and bad, that may be holding me back from the things I believe that this season is asking of me. Some of that inner world has already been packed in little boxes. At least I have sifted and contained some of the clutter. But, I have another step I must take and that it is to finally let go. I am not advocating living in denial or pretence, but rather handing those boxes over to a loving God and trusting Him with the contents. I am not sure which boxes are going and which are to stay, but I do know hoarding boxes are both weighty and distracting. Minimising my inner world is necessary.

As I pause to reflect I realise that some of my boxes represent unrealised dreams, broken relationships and seasons that have ended. As my sewing boxes highlight, my outer world’s stuff is intertwined with my inner world. As difficult as it is to let these go, it is necessary to lighten the load so I may move forward and into a new season.

How about you? Do you have clutter in your life: outer or inner? Have you done any sorting or sifting at all? How are you going with letting go of those boxes?

July 22, 2017
Taking a Godly risk.

As I am moving further towards retirement I am sobered to realise how conservative and safe my thinking has become. This is being challenged though. This week an internal war seems to have broken out between my responsible and fiscally sensible inner person and a quiet voice whispering ‘take a Godly risk’!

As I get closer to my death I sometimes wonder if I have conceded to ordinariness out of weariness and sensibility. Erring on playing it safe and being responsible, I have been considering my choices on the basis of practicality and what promises security. Security in what? I could be taking Godly risks that involve faith and placing my security in a dependable God.

But when does risk taking turn into foolishness? When does daring turn into folly? How old is too old to take risks?

My husband and I have done some things others have considered foolish or folly. Our lives have been richer though for the adventures we have been involved in.

In our mid-twenties, we packed up everything, gave up our jobs and travelled Australia in a four-wheel drive. We left our then home in Western Australia and returned to Central Queensland to leave a ‘spare’ pup and our cat with my parents before heading off with our dog and friends in a matching two-toned Toyota Landcruiser. Over a five-month period we travelled through New South Wales, South Australia, Western Australia and onto Darwin before returning to Central Queensland. We setup a tent and air mattress most every night and lived out of the back of the wagon. We came back with many stories to tell.

In our mid-thirties, we sold up everything we had accumulated, wrapped up our business and moved overseas to live in Vanuatu. We sold up our home in Central Queensland, left our little dog with a church family before flying out with our two children. Over a three-month period, we lived in villages on three islands. We came back with many stories to tell.

The past decade we have been consolidating, accumulating and evidently putting down roots. We have been busy raising teenagers into young adults and in my case, saying goodbye to both my parents. We have had some adventures and we have some stories to tell.

But now, we are empty nesters stumbling in the dark as we consider our lives beyond raising a family. Apart from all the ‘stuff’ that clutters our lives, we do not have too many adventures planned. I fear I have become more of a spectator of life than someone living it. My stories are old and my enthusiasm has waned. Perhaps it is time to get out there again and start a new adventure.

If I am to be a co-creator of my future story with God then I have to become a participant in life and not just be on the sidelines. That means I might get hurt, I will get tired, I may end up with scars and bruises but I could also have stories of miraculous wins and jubilant celebrations. It is time to shake off the unnecessary conservatism if my remaining decades are going to be story worthy. Time to take a Godly risk-or two!

July 15, 2017
An Accidental Minimalist

My husband and I moved cities this year so he could be closer to the university he is studying at. We did the maths and decided to buy a little house instead of rent. As this home was both an investment and a short-term home, we made a conscious decision to move just enough possessions into it so that we may live and study. We left behind all our ‘stuff’ in the large family home on acreage, intending to return on weekends.

I had not considered the concept of minimalism until I set about purchasing a new fridge. When I chose the small and cheap fridge I realised that I did not have the space to purchase bulk groceries, as I was used to. I made a choice that day that we would live day to day with just essentials. Did I just become an accidental minimalist?

What I found sobering was how much we did not miss the stuff we left behind in cupboards in our family home. We also took items from the family home to furnish the new home without a ripple in the decor. Essential personal items were chosen for their portability and were carried with us when we returned home for the weekend.

What started out to be a practical decision became a liberating experience. I was awakened to the benefits of minimalism. The dilemma now is what am I going to do with all the ‘stuff’ in the family home? I have not missed it nor have I needed it. Do I have sufficient momentum or energy to purge, declutter and become a genuine minimalist?

I see two obstacles. One is detaching from the memories of past roles and interests and the other is the hard work of disposing of it without just dumping it. We have a games and puzzle cupboard leftover from the years we raised our family. I have a sewing and craft cupboard that is full of projects and materials. There is a kitchen and pantry full of catering and cooking equipment. And a cupboard full of spare linen. And that is without starting in the library or the shed.

Seventeen years ago, we sold up or gave away almost everything we owned before moving overseas. I was much younger then and very focused; perhaps even ruthless. Our children were eight and ten at the time. They were left with one suitcase of clothes, one briefcase of school work and one box of special items, including toys. As a family, we were never so free to go wherever we were called.

We came back, we settled into a house and we started to accumulate ‘stuff’ very quickly. Before long the suitcase grew larger, as did the box and the books. New hobbies and new adventures mean more stuff and more storage. The children grew up, left home and left their ‘stuff’. And here I am owning more than I ever have in my life.

Whether accidental or intentional, I think minimalism is a fantastic goal. However, my overwhelming task and question is “how do I dispose of the ‘stuff’ well’? My kids sure don’t want it!

photo by Florian Klauer

July 8, 2017
I’m just a kid from the sticks

When I was ten years old, my family moved 300 kilometres east to settle closer to the coast. We moved from a 2,500-hectare property where my father was a share-farmer to a 4-hectare rural block. My father went to work as a bricklayer’s labourer and later as a security guard. Mum went from being a farmer’s wife to a housewife.

The actual move itself must have looked like a circus convoy. Dad led the way in a truck with a cattle crate on its back. All our family’s possessions were in that crate and the family’s pet baby kangaroo was in a hessian bag on the floor of the Bedford. My Pop in his little green Hillman was next. His passenger was my Nan. Mum drove the family’s station wagon; a red and chrome Ford Falcon filled to overflowing with kids, chooks, cats, guinea pigs and dogs. I still recall my utter embarrassment when we stopped midway for fuel. When the hens poked their head out of the crates to look around I tucked mine in so no one would notice me.

My new school was smaller than the one we had left behind but this time we could walk or ride our bikes. While I made plenty of friends, I always felt a little different. My first ten years in the bush had not prepared me for pop culture; especially the latest music and fashion. Three years later I made the daunting transition from the little primary school of 100 to attend the nearest high school with over 1000 students. This time living twenty kilometres out of town on a rural block meant I was labelled as ‘a kid from the sticks’. I wore this label as a defect.

It has occurred to me recently that I have been fighting this label for the past 35 years. Leaving home, going to university and living in Brisbane and then interstate I have tried to shake off this lingering tag of being a ‘kid from the sticks’.

Last year, my job took me inland and west of the Central Queensland coast. I was surprised by my tears one day as I was driving down a narrow country road. The landscape was nostalgic of the farmland I had known the first ten years of my life. I think a little of my heart was healed that day as I realised that I was first ‘a kid from the bush’ and I could be proud of being ‘a kid from the sticks’ too.

I feel sad that I felt embarrassed about who I was growing up. I wonder if things would have been different if the family move could have been re-framed? Maybe I was (and am) just a sensitive kid. One thing I know is that it is never too late to revisit childhood memories and re-frame them. My story may not be yours, but I am no less or no more because I was first a ‘kid from the bush’ and then ‘a kid from the sticks’. Perhaps I have been resisting too long and the saying is true : “you can take the girl from the country, but you can’t take the country out of the girl’!

Photo by Mark Galer

July 1, 2017
Looking in the rear vision mirror

This is my father’s family. That is my dad in the middle. He is; or rather was, one of five children. He was the only son. Dad had four sisters.

We said our farewell to one of those sisters on Friday. All but one in the photo above have passed away. Dad’s eldest sister survives all.

I never knew my grandfather. He died in 1965; the year before I was born and while my parents were on their honeymoon. My grandmother died when I was eight years old. I have few memories of her although plenty of wonderful respect for her through stories told by my father.

When my Dad died three years ago, I went searching for stories so I could put together his eulogy. I knew very little of his story before the age of thirty-two; the year I was born. In doing so I unearthed some notes that not only provided story material but shed some light on some of the why’s Dad chose some of the roads taken in his life. I learnt how a childhood lived in the shadow of the Great Depression and the resultant poverty shaped both his dreams and his determination to be a landowner.

As sobering as a funeral is I am also grateful for the time to pause to remember someone’s life and reflect on our mortality. It occurred to me that while this side of my family tree is well researched and I may know who my ancestors are, I do not know their stories. I am confronted by the fact that time is running out, because soon, my generation will be the eldest and their stories will be lost.

I suddenly have a desire to look in the rear vision mirror. I feel an urge to look beyond my own life and begin to really listen and understand the stories of my father’s family. Perhaps in doing so I will come to understand a little more of who I am and the whisper of stories that are in my DNA.

June 25, 2017