The boy has a new obsession with making things and doing science experiments. I am good at neither. This means I regularly let him loose with some paper plates, a yellow napkin and an extravagant quantity of sellotape,
Before the party, we were all, “It will be legendary! The kids will be talking about this party when they’re SIXTY! When the other kids hear about this party they will be sobbing to their parents and berating them for taking them to Disneyworld instead of going to our boy’s party!”
After the party, we remembered that only really happens when you’re eight. I fear we may have peaked too soon…
When the grief of chronic illness strikes, I am Adam and Eve, homesick for Eden, looking at the angel barring the way back. My sickness is part of the metaphor that reminds me of the brokenness of the world. When I am paddling in the clear Mediterranean, I am John in Patmos, with a glimpse of heaven and the riches of eternal life with the Creator.
For the times when we despair of humanity and ourselves, and think, ‘we can’t do this’, it is a good reminder to do as the writer to the Hebrews instructed the first Christians: remember Jesus. At those times when we feel frustrated, we need to be reminded that we don’t see it yet. We don’t see the ending, when goodness and order will be restored and the earth will be as it should. But we do see Jesus.
For us it was my unexpected neurological illness that turned our love upside down. If love languages were inflexible things, we would have been sunk.
My son had his first movie premiere at the church with about ten of his classmates, who were kind enough to come on a Saturday morning and were fed popcorn and ice cream for their efforts. Alas, there will be no sequel, however – even before the boy said his emphatic ‘No’, you could have guessed from looking at the director’s bloodshot eyes that this would not be repeated. (Magic Man got bored of wearing the helmet about one day into filming.)
I’m a mezzo soprano, mezzo meaning ‘middle’ and sounding like ‘messy’, both of which I feel. In our culture, we are accustomed to disdaining the middle. The words ‘average’ and ‘mediocre’ sound insulting – we like the top, and even the bottom; we like the extremes, the specialisms.
Eventually I sob out to a few friends on Voxer: Who am I? What am I doing with my life? – and it feels good to have released something. My friend Sarah replies, and says that in lots of cultures around the world, the women, particularly the mothers, are the archivists. They record the memories, take the photos, write the stories.