Thinking to myself about limits and disappointments, weariness and pretense, I wrote this in my journal. I know the word failure can be contentious - it's not a popular word to apply to ourselves - but despite all the positive self talk in the world, and the way we can spin our failures to be steps towards success, I believe there are still days when we feel/know our failing deeply. This 'think' is for those days. ​

***

​Quit pretending
that you have it all together, 
that your dreams came true
and you look upon your life
with satisfaction. 
The truth is
and you know, know, know it

This is my favourite cup. 
Or it was.
Until last week when it slipped, hit the kitchen tiles and splintered all over the place. 
I'll admit, I almost cried. 
Why? Because this wasn't any old mug. It was my 2023 Blue Ridge Mountains Christian Writers Conference cup. It was big, blue and full of memories with every sip.
​And now, it's broken.

I was flicking through one of my journals recently and found these two 'thinks'. They were from totally different days and yet touch on some similar, if a little heavy, themes.
I guess I've been thinking about the layers and rub of perseverance lately.  

​#1
​Can God redeem
the stained things?
The hasty mistakes
second chances

​My house is built on the side of a hill. You walk in the front door and through the loungeroom to the kitchen, where you look out, directly east, across the tops of the trees. In the afternoons, as the sun sets in the west, the house and the trees in our front yard cast shadows over the view from our kitchen. We look out over the dulling colours of the day, waiting as everything visible sinks into dusk. 
One time, as I stared out at the fading sky and shadowed trees, a cluster of cockatoos flew past. I caught my breath at their beauty.

​Sometimes, more often than the ‘good Christian I try to be’ likes to admit, the word of God surprises me.
Not because of grand theological wonders. Not because of supernatural revelation. But because this ancient book, with its often stilted and formal language (trust me, I haven’t found a western Sydney translation of the Psalms yet) can hold a group of children captive.
It happened again the other week. I was sitting with a group of young people, aged about 7 to 12 and I set them a task. ‘Read Psalm 145,’ I said, ‘and see if you can write down all the things you learn there about what God is like.’
And the room went quiet.