From the Blog
Our almost five year old, she stands in front of the mirror bold and studies herself with a child’s clear-calm and she sees it too, what we’ve all been seeing, in the new level of her dress, the inching of her toes over her shoes… ‘My legs are getting longer,’ she says with glee.
Psalm 139:12. Romans 5:8-10. 2 Corinthians 4:7. On those days (or weeks, or months) when it feels like darkness is a swooping bird hanging over your head that just won’t let you go, remember: It’s okay to be not okay. Really.
It began simply enough, as significant events often do, with an exchange of gifts between young neighbour-friends on our shared front-lawn before we departed for an early holiday. It was starting to rain, and we adults were pondering the vicissitudes of the sky, when upstairs neighbour O, the eldest of the clan of kids, appeared with her signature blue gumboots. But instead of putting them on her own feet, she passed them to our daughter E. For jumping in muddy puddles, O elaborated, echoing wisdom imbibed from one of their mutual heroine’s, Miss Peppa Pig.
We had this ‘situation’ the other day. While I don’t think I should share all the details, I imagine you’ll still be able to get the picture. Let’s just say one of our children was less than perfect. While it was no surprise to me that our curly blond-headed, dimpled, oh-so-blue-blue-eyed offspring could misbehave, there was a slight difference in the scenario this time: the misbehaviour happened while I wasn’t there. I was working, or resting, or one of those things I do when I’m not hanging with the three. I wasn’t there.
I left off the first section of this story at the turn of the years 2009-10, our fears and desires dangling prayerful and hopeful as we sat by the water of Lake Jindabyne. We were a month away from moving to a new city, a new job. Would a change of scene also mean a change of circumstance, a shift of inner landscapes as well as outer ones… perhaps even a resolution to our infertility impasse?
As I write this, Baby J has been taking his first hearty, wobbly steps towards walking. Any moment now he’ll work it out and then he’ll be off…leaving his well-scuffed knees for a more upright view on the world. Perhaps even in time for his first birthday. That’s right, in just a couple of days our third child, our uncanny surprise, our marvellous medical mystery, our God gives even more one, will be crossing over from the measured-in-months age bracket to solid figures.
One advantage to being a parent is the often unplanned early rising. There is no more effective alarm than a persistent child. This morning I woke not only to Baby J’s forceful crys (he has no snooze button!) but to something else. To the most perfect pink-purple, mottled-cloud, orange bordered sunrise.
You desperately need something to shift. To give. And you know that it will. Sometime soon. It’s the way of things. One day seeps; unstoppable into another. Today’s narrow focus; becomes lost in tomorrow’s vast forgetfulness. The single; thing that never stops ticking-on is time. You can be sure of that.
Before there was me there was my older brother Greg. Gregory David van der Kwaak. Or simply GVDK, as he was often known. Greg was, among other things (and there were many) a poet. Like many people of gifting, he started creating young. When Greg died in a car accident aged 22 he left in his wake a trail of grief the size of continents, and literally hundreds of people stumbling around in the darkness trying to stay upright his absence. But he also left behind something else. His words.
A few days ago this happened: I lost my iphone. I’m pretty sure it’s hiding somewhere in the apartment, not lost in the greater world. It’s just that no matter how many beds I look under, I can’t seem to find it. My last recollection of its being with me was a foggy 5am, when I was awake with the sun, and, as is often the case, with an over-active Baby J.
Our almost five year old, she stands in front of the mirror bold and studies herself with a child’s clear-calm and she sees it too, what we’ve all been seeing, in the new level of her dress, the inching of her toes over her shoes… ‘My legs are getting longer,’ she says with glee.
Psalm 139:12. Romans 5:8-10. 2 Corinthians 4:7. On those days (or weeks, or months) when it feels like darkness is a swooping bird hanging over your head that just won’t let you go, remember: It’s okay to be not okay. Really.
It began simply enough, as significant events often do, with an exchange of gifts between young neighbour-friends on our shared front-lawn before we departed for an early holiday. It was starting to rain, and we adults were pondering the vicissitudes of the sky, when upstairs neighbour O, the eldest of the clan of kids, appeared with her signature blue gumboots. But instead of putting them on her own feet, she passed them to our daughter E. For jumping in muddy puddles, O elaborated, echoing wisdom imbibed from one of their mutual heroine’s, Miss Peppa Pig.
We had this ‘situation’ the other day. While I don’t think I should share all the details, I imagine you’ll still be able to get the picture. Let’s just say one of our children was less than perfect. While it was no surprise to me that our curly blond-headed, dimpled, oh-so-blue-blue-eyed offspring could misbehave, there was a slight difference in the scenario this time: the misbehaviour happened while I wasn’t there. I was working, or resting, or one of those things I do when I’m not hanging with the three. I wasn’t there.
I left off the first section of this story at the turn of the years 2009-10, our fears and desires dangling prayerful and hopeful as we sat by the water of Lake Jindabyne. We were a month away from moving to a new city, a new job. Would a change of scene also mean a change of circumstance, a shift of inner landscapes as well as outer ones… perhaps even a resolution to our infertility impasse?
As I write this, Baby J has been taking his first hearty, wobbly steps towards walking. Any moment now he’ll work it out and then he’ll be off…leaving his well-scuffed knees for a more upright view on the world. Perhaps even in time for his first birthday. That’s right, in just a couple of days our third child, our uncanny surprise, our marvellous medical mystery, our God gives even more one, will be crossing over from the measured-in-months age bracket to solid figures.
One advantage to being a parent is the often unplanned early rising. There is no more effective alarm than a persistent child. This morning I woke not only to Baby J’s forceful crys (he has no snooze button!) but to something else. To the most perfect pink-purple, mottled-cloud, orange bordered sunrise.
You desperately need something to shift. To give. And you know that it will. Sometime soon. It’s the way of things. One day seeps; unstoppable into another. Today’s narrow focus; becomes lost in tomorrow’s vast forgetfulness. The single; thing that never stops ticking-on is time. You can be sure of that.
Before there was me there was my older brother Greg. Gregory David van der Kwaak. Or simply GVDK, as he was often known. Greg was, among other things (and there were many) a poet. Like many people of gifting, he started creating young. When Greg died in a car accident aged 22 he left in his wake a trail of grief the size of continents, and literally hundreds of people stumbling around in the darkness trying to stay upright his absence. But he also left behind something else. His words.
A few days ago this happened: I lost my iphone. I’m pretty sure it’s hiding somewhere in the apartment, not lost in the greater world. It’s just that no matter how many beds I look under, I can’t seem to find it. My last recollection of its being with me was a foggy 5am, when I was awake with the sun, and, as is often the case, with an over-active Baby J.
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