Wednesday, May 8, 2013

A letter to Scott about why community is crucial


Dear Scott

From time to time we take you to the barber. We love your crazy blonde curls but if we leave them for a couple months you resemble the wild toddler of Borneo.

So today you endured the taming of the locks. It happened like this.

We park outside the barbershop and you say, ‘I still don’t like it!’ I’m calm-on-the-outside and even-keel, coaxing and cajoling. They see us coming –the two girls who work there – and I know they’re mentally preparing. Inside the shop you start screaming. It takes two of them to get me-with-you-clinging into the chair. They put one of those gross shower-curtain hairdresser-cloak thingies over me – a black one – and you – funky jungle theme – but you claw it off and claw at them. I grip you like it’s the days before anaesthetic and they’re about to hack off one of your limbs. You are scarcely breathing from hysteria but you manage to scream unnervingly and unremittingly. And loudly. One of them – the slightly more hardcore one – fires up the clippers [insert sound effect: chain saw] and attacks the luscious flaxen thickets. The other one tries to distract you with her blue bling manicure. The scrum collapses several times and we have to regroup. Eventually it’s a flailing loose maul except there are no gum guards though there probably should be.

When the whistle blows there’s less hair. More snot. I clean you up though we’ll both be itchy until we’ve showered and changed.

And you look gorgeous. Cherub-like. Tiny handsome little man with the smart new haircut. You promptly cheer up. Because the ladies always give you a lollipop when we’re done and we go to the Wimpy for chips – standard Reyburn haircut treat.

But they’ve run out of lollipops. They are mortified! Apologetic! You are nonchalant in a sort of I’ll-be-the-bigger-person way. You forgive and forgo the sucker without frenzy. Possibly you’re just suffering from post-tantrum exhaustion. (You later describe the haircut ordeal to Cammy with animated head gestures: ‘Lady shooting me!’)

I’m getting you back into the car with some groceries when the hardcore one runs out with a cherry fizz pop. She went and bought it for you. She says she hopes you don’t hate her. I give her a hardcore hug.

So this all made me think.

I’ve been given the amazing opportunity to do a course through Regent University on spiritual formation, under the gracious teaching of Dr Corne Bekker. He talks a lot about community and the essential, inevitable role it plays in making us more like Jesus.

It’s like, if I hadn’t taken you to the barber, we would have passed a peaceful Wednesday morning in the playroom. You would have been angelic and engaging and curious and busy and full of kisses. You wouldn’t have had cause to unleash your indignation when your security was threatened. But we can’t live in the playroom. We live in a community. With hair clippers.

Dr Bekker points out that whenever I say ‘Yes’ to any community – church, family, friends, marriage – God will send people my way to reveal things about me. Communities make me bump into all sorts of folks but mostly I just bump into myself. I don’t know the dark depths of my character or my intuitive reactions until I’m backed into a corner or challenged or annoyed or envious.

And the key to being transformed as I live and move through the big and small Venn-diagram communities that make up the patterns of my life is humility.

Which means, as Dr Bekker puts it, that the posture of my heart should be so kind, so honouring, that every handshake or hug or casual ‘Hi’ should say, ‘You’re more important.’

So my bear, the privilege of living in community is that all sorts of people show up to give us a short-back-‘n-sides and almost always it’s when we really don’t want it. And almost always it shows us how much we need Jesus. And almost always it’s a sparkling opportunity to choose a response that will show the world a bit of Jesus. It’s how they will know we are his.

I love you with my whole heart, soft sweet brave child of mine. I’m unspeakably grateful for the privilege of living in community with you. You’re a game changer, my Scott-Scott.

Sleep tight now,

Mom

xx

Wednesday, May 1, 2013

For Cam: A gross poem about snot


I wrote this today for Cam. He thinks it’s cool so I’m hoping it works on him. You’re welcome to use it if you have a small person in your house already plotting a career in mine engineering…

The story of Jeremy Jot and his green slimy snot

This is the story of Jeremy Jot:
A small sweet boy who ate his snot.
It wasn’t his fault, he told his Mum,
The fault was his fingers, though seldom his thumb.
He found that those fingers, so nimble, so quick,
Would creep up a nostril – and then have a lick!
‘Gross!’ shrieked his mother. ‘That’s horrid!’ she cried.
‘You keep eating snot! Now you must decide!’
‘Decide?’ asked Jerry, ‘Decide about what?’
‘Decide between ice-cream and pizza, and snot!’
Jerry turned pale. What was he to choose?
Which one of those delicacies could he lose?
He slunk out the house and climbed up a tree
Where he sulked and ate snot, with no one to see.
Just before supper Dad gave Mom a wink.
Then he loudly announced, ‘We’ll have pizza, I think!’
Pizza appeared! Dad was magic that way.
There was chicken and pineapple – ham – hooray!
But on Jeremy’s plate? Not one cheesy slice.
Just: ‘Sauce with your snot, or maybe some spice?’
Jerry frowned at his family. This wasn’t fair.
Snot sounded lousy, with pizza to share.
‘Um.’ He said softly and thought for a while.
‘I’m giving up snot,’ he declared with a smile.
‘It’s filthy, not filling, and doesn’t smell good
(Though right up the nose, it definitely should.)
From now on I’m keeping my ten fingers clean –
No slime, no snot, no grime, no green!’
He kept his word, did Jeremy Jot;
He never again went digging for snot.
Instead he ate sausages, yoghurt, beetroot,
Raisins and porridge, carrots and fruit.
And just now and then, just for a treat,
Dad would bring pizza and ice-cream to eat.
So when your fingers creep close to your nose –
Stop! And choose what Jeremy chose!