On Being Made Vulnerable

On being made Vulnerable.

Being made vulnerable was forced on me

Like a strong armed man beating his opponent to the ground

Or a wrench clasping and turning that bolt

Opening up the object held shut beneath it.

And so a real, deep sharing happened.

It was not that long ago

When the newness of life uncurled itself

And breathed it’s very, very first and precious breath.

How very deeply personal and precious

being made to be vulnerable is.

It is like handing the most delicate thing

Into the hands of another.

Will they receive the gift with the care it needs?

Will they trample on vulnerability itself

And laugh as they leave?

Being vulnerable hovers and hangs.

It hovers in that place between secret and known;

Between darkness and light

And it pushes and prods to rush out and scream

“I am here”

And so it was that deep things were shared

in that giving of myself all other parts changed.

I changed.

But this I know;

He was there then.

He is here now.

Shirt sleeves pushed up

As he carves and shifts,

As He carefully, thoroughly

Weaves His perfect pattern.

Yet, the struggle continues

It can not seem to find a resting place.

my thoughts are restless

my soul cries out to Him.

Oh how he washes his love and presence

It flows like a never ending river

Bringing life and hope

Because the cost for Him was complete

And He gave everything he had

The world? Oh much more.

He gave his all and I lost some too.

Yet he understands that, even that.

Thank you.

Being made to be vulnerable

Brought deep love

It revealed His hand and plan, in part.

Yet sadness and sorrow rested there too.

For haughty eyes and proud hearts

Gathered to peck at the remains.

When life runs smooth and kind

And struggles seem few

Beware, beware, beware!

For you know not the depth and toil

That another might have.

Rather let gratitude and love rest

You know not when time will call you

As it gathers the wind to blow and thrash

Upon the shores of your life.

Calling you to be made vulnerable.

All in a day!!

This life of mine is full of news. Stories and tales and gossip of sorts. Most of it happy and glad and fun but then there are times when my heart is so burdened; so saddened ; so cast down with the deep sorrow that flows from a life.
Like the sadness I heard this week of a young man who died. He died in his sleep with his mother and father and brother still there. They tried, oh how they tried but he died. All the hard work of the years at University brought to a sudden and untimely end. It is wrong when children die. it is all wrong!
Or the sad news I heard from the mouth of my boy. " Olivia 's brother died". I stopped. I knew him you see. Though his brain was broken and he drooled and grunted, he was a alive and now he is dead. Today I saw his mother. Strong and independent in spirit and yet so sad and distracted. I wanted to call out to her above all the noise. " I am so, so sad for your loss". But really what does one say to a mother who is grieving the loss of her child. The child she carried for 9 months and knew and loved so. There are no words you see.

Yet Jesus sees all this and he weeps too. All I can do is talk to him about the this mom and that one. And then there is the friend who is picking up the pieces of a marriage all broken and gone. How do I care for her and love her? I ask Him to hold her and love her as I try and mumble some words that encourage and extol her to carry on in life.

And then in the midst of all this my boy is so sad and anxious and I have to leave and big tears roll silently down his round cheeks and my heart all but breaks in two. And when we are home and my other boy comes and shares his pain and heart ache over a friend who is mean. He cries and I cry inwardly. My bucket is not big enough Oh Lord to hold all this pain and sadness. But you Jesus have hands and a heart that can hold it all. Please take it and lift load.

I am old now.

Thomas' class put on a show for at a local old age home. It was both beautiful and sad. That is what this poem is all about.

I am Old Now

The sign above the entrance reads " Service Center"
A sea of grey hair was spread out in front of us.
They wait so still, so patiently for us
to come and bring in cheer
with flowers and smiles and songs
we brighten their day.

You were there too.

Once you were full,
full of life and energy,
Once time ruled you like a fist
as you were rushed about by the real demands of this life.
But now, time spreads endlessly before you
like a flat, still ocean.
What does time hold for you today?

Once , not so long ago, noise and purpose filled your day
But now you rest and wait in the stillness of The Home.
Before your busy hands helped those who you love and cared for
but now unknown hands lift you up so you can stand
and walk
and go where you are told to go.

When time was young and life was full
You kept yourself busy with the things of life.
You crammed your brain with words from books you loved
You allowed your thoughts to focus and grow
But now you thoughts are hard to contain
They flow here and there and words ramble
and confuse themselves.

When you look in the mirror
where once a young face stared back
with expectation and confidence
now the eyes that gaze back at you
are old and lost
hidden in the wrinkles of skin stretched by life
held up by a bent and broken body
frail and brittle.

And so you wait
the fullness of your life has passed
for you and so you wait......

What are you waiting for?
Do you still have hopes and dreams ?
Or have you said goodbye to these
buried beneath a pile of a shattered life?

A strong wooden cross stands tall
It casts a shadow over all the grey,
old people in The Home.
You are there too.
It stands tall and strong
He calls to those who sit expectantly beneath it

While the body ages
and does not last; while you wait for death
look to the cross that stands so tall and strong
so that you can wait with hope and real expectation.
For the One who rules and loves is the One who died
so that this curse called aging and death
would loose its sting.

Wait knowing that the One who died for you
is eagerly , patiently waiting
for you.

So when the body breaks a grows oh so weary
Take heart in your spirit oh soul
for God is not finished with you yet
and when he is done
and you have run His race
the waiting will be done
you will be going home.

A Fab School Outing

The Grade 3 classes at Sweet Valley Primary School visited an old age home in the area today. We boxes and boxes full of pretty spring posies. The children were all dressed up in colourful clothing and had created giant, hand held drawings of spring bugs and flowers to use as props in their little performance.

The men and women in the home were all seated and waiting when we arrived. Row after row of aged, grey haired people sat facing the little make shift stage. In the background a giant wooden cross stood tall on the wall.

And off they all went. What a delightful show it was including specially chosen and thoughtful songs that would hold appeal for these old folk. It was grand and colourful and fun with lots of smiles and even some chocolates to go around. Well done sweet grade 3 children and well done teachers and music department.

Wriggle and Rhyme

For almost 2 years now I have been running the Bergvliet Wriggle and Rhyme music groups in my home. It has truly been a time of great fun and learning.
I simply love having the parents, nannies or grannies in our home. The little children who come and share in the music time have been a great delight to me.
Wriggle is awesome. The actual programme which is the brain child of Kirsty Savidies, is well thought through and caters to the ages of the children exceptionally well. It is fun, engaging and the children get to learn while having fun with music and instruments.

My highlights are the beginning when we all settle down to sing the familiar hello songs. To see the recognition and delight as I tap out a beat on the wood block never ceases to amaze me. Whenever a child begins to grasp the concept and join it it is very special for me too. It is actually a privileged to she in these little lives.
I love to see how each little person develops over the term. He or she might be an observer and suddenly become an active and real participant. Wriggle has afforded me enormous pleasure and has allowed me to enjoy the teaching aspect of teaching while in my home.

I am so grateful the The Lord for this time. I can love other children and still get to be with my own children.

My old Friend

My faithful old friend is back.

He has returned so strong and full of courage.

Not the kind of courage one needs to face a fear

But the kind that lays bare the heart and reveals old wounds

That tramples and rides rough shod over ground long forgotten.

My old friend rejection is back

To rule and swagger as he likes.

He laughs and jeers as he roams.

Who can stand when rejection comes around?

He knows just where to prod and push

Deep inside where old wounds lie buried.

He digs them up and waters them so

Fresh growth sprouts and sadness grows;

Here he has some rich soil to toil and play.

My old friend rejection has come knocking

Once again he calls me out

So that he can play.

The rules of this game are oh so familiar

He roams freely, gathering a memory here and an old hurt there.

My old friend rejection is here again

How long will he stay this time?

And when will he return?

He was carried along when words of “love”

And “kindness” and “this is for your good” – we love you so

Found place in hearts and hands that scribed them down

And rushed them on like a speed train destined for nowhere in particular.

Yet the “love” and “kindness” brought no love or any kindness

but rather, left their mark or deep despair and great heartache

where rejection stands tall and powerful

and laughs out loud for all to hear.

The Invisible - anon

When I opened my mail today, a friend had sent me this beautiful story as an encouragement and a blessing. Here it is.......


It all began to make sense, the blank stares, the lack of response, the
way one of the kids will walk into the room while I'm on the phone and ask
me a question.

Inside I'm thinking, 'Can't you see I'm on the phone?'

Obviously, not.

No one can see if I'm on the phone, or cooking, or sweeping the floor, or
even standing on my head in the corner, because no one can see me at all.

I'm invisible. The invisible Mom. Some days I am only a pair of hands,
nothing more: Can you fix this? Can you tie this? Can you open this?

Some days I'm not a pair of hands; I'm not even a human being.
I'm a clock to ask, 'What time is it?' I'm a satellite guide to answer,
'What number is the Disney Channel?' I'm a car to order, 'Right around
5:30,
please.'

I was certain that these were the hands that once held books and the eyes
that studied history and the mind that graduated suma cum laude - but now
they had disappeared into the peanut butter, never to be seen again. She's
going; she's going; she is gone!

One night, a group of us were having dinner, celebrating the return of a
friend from England ..

Janice had just gotten back from a fabulous trip, and she was going on and
on about the hotel she stayed in.

I was sitting there, looking around at the others all put together so
well. It was hard not to compare and feel sorry for myself.

I was feeling pretty pathetic, when Janice turned to me with a
beautifullywrapped package, and said, 'I brought you this.'

It was a book on the great cathedrals of Europe .

I wasn't exactly sure why she'd given it to me until I read her
inscription:

'To Charlotte , with admiration for the greatness of what you are building
when no one sees.'

In the days ahead I would read - no, devour - the book.
And I would discover what would become for me, four life-changing truths,
after which I could pattern my work:

No one can say who built the great cathedrals - we have no record of their
names.
These builders gave their whole lives for a work they would never see
finished.

They made great sacrifices and expected no credit.

The passion of their building was fueled by their faith that the eyes of
God saw everything.

A legendary story in the book told of a rich man who came to visit the
cathedral while it was being built, and he saw a workman carving a tiny
bird on the inside of a beam. He was puzzled and asked the man, 'Why are
you spending so much time carving that bird into a beam that will be
covered by the roof? No one will ever see it.' And the workman replied,
'Because God sees.'

I closed the book, feeling the missing piece fall into place.

It was almost as if I heard God whispering to me, 'I see you, Charlotte. I
see the sacrifices you make every day, even when no one around you does.
No act of kindness you've done, no sequin you've sewn on, no cupcake
you've baked, is too small for me to notice and smile over. You are
building a great cathedral, but you can't see right now what it will
become.'

At times, my invisibility feels like an affliction. But it is not a
disease that is erasing my life. It is the cure for the disease of my own
self-centeredness. It is the antidote to my strong, stubborn pride.

I keep the right perspective when I see myself as a great builder. As one
of the people who show up at a job that they will never see finished, to
work on something that their name will never be on.

The writer of the book went so far as to say that no cathedrals could ever
be built in our lifetime because there are so few people willing to
sacrifice to that degree.

When I really think about it, I don't want my son to tell the friend he's
bringing home from college for Thanksgiving, 'My Mom gets up at 4 in the
morning and bakes homemade pies, and then she hand bastes a turkey for
three hours and presses all the linens for the table.' That would mean I'd
built a shrine or a monument to myself. I just want him to want to come
home. And then, if there is anything more to say to his friend, to add,
'you're gonna love it there.'

As mothers, we are building great cathedrals. We cannot be seen if we're
doing it right.

And one day, it is very possible that the world will marvel, not only at
what we have built, but at the beauty that has been added to the world by
the sacrifices of invisible women.