Lesson 184. Let them take your appendix.

Ready for some grotesque medical particulars? Bet you never thought you'd see that on my blog. Don't worry, I'll speak plain and simple because I don't know how to speak any other way when it comes to anything slightly scientific.

My mother is a nurse, so naturally when I had my appendix out, she pulled my file and got information about the state of it. She came home extremely excited to explain to me the condition of my seemingly useless organ, only to discover she'd forgotten the notes. However, this didn't stop her from doing her very best to put me off my dinner whilst describing what had happened. She told me that my appendix had already started to burst, one end was perforated, and had they waited even a few hours longer I would've been in serious trouble. Talk about timing. Had any of the events I'm about to tell you of occurred any later, things could've been a lot worse. There was someone looking out for me, that's for sure.

I got ill on the first day back at Uni and I thought it was just a 24 hour bug, so I went home and tried to sleep it off. I woke up the next day, still wasn't better so called Nurse Sheena. After a series of questions, she told me I needed to get to the hospital. So off I went with my fabulous flatmate to the emergency department. Several medical professionals prodded at my abdomen with great strength and disregard for my pain levels, and they all told me the same thing. In fact, one man even wanted to bring in a bunch of medical students because it was "such a classic case." Appendicitis, my friends, appendicitis.

No one told me why it happened, so I guess I can't tell you the answer to that. All I know is that my appendix wanted out, so it told the rest of my body in the most violent way it could. It gave me an ultimatum, it said"Let me out, or I explode. And then I riddle your body with potentially life threatening infection." I decided it was probably best to give in to it's demands.

So that night, they took me in and took it out. I spent four days in hospital, three of them in a shared room with an 80-something woman called Margret (Margret had three budgies called Twinkle, Little, and Star. Her favourite pastimes include: Sitting on my bed, waking me up when I'm sleeping, and telling me about her budgies) I had a few less than delightful post-op complications, I had strangers feeling my swollen belly on an hourly basis, and I had much time to think.

I pondered the metaphorical appendix. The things we keep inside that we need to let out before they explode and become seriously dangerous. The things that we need to entrust others to help us get out, that we don't want to face or talk about. The things that continue to make us ache and hurt for as long as we let them live inside of us.

We have to stop. We have to stop with this idea that suffering in silence is okay, because it's not. And the longer you keep it to yourself, the more troubling it becomes. Let someone who knows what they're doing help you get it out. Whether it's a trusted friend, or a professional, make sure you don't hold on too long. Make sure you don't make too many excuses about it being nothing, about you being fine, because it's something, and you're not. The best thing you can do, is take it to someone who knows what they're doing, explain your symptoms, trust their diagnosis, and trust the course of action they suggest.

It might set you back a little for a while, it might hurt, you might have scars, but you'll get there. Let them take your appendix.

Dear Friend, you are my silver lining.

Happy Monday,
I would offer you a cupcake to ease the pain of the afore mentioned turn of the week, but I've already made plans to eat the whole plate myself and I don't cope awfully well with a change in direction.

Speaking of which, everything about my life is different now. We should talk.

Surprise surprise, I've changed. I lost a part of my heart this summer, and the whole ordeal, the whole learning to breathe again thing has changed me. Now now dear- don't fret, I'm still charming, full of wit and perfectly capable of writing absolute codswallop for several sentences. But I've learnt and I've grown and I've experienced the most extreme emotions one can encounter. I have hit the lowest place and I have seen the greatest light. I have hurt more than I thought humanly possible, and I have hoped more than I ever imagined. I have realised that nothing is permanent. That I love you should always be said out loud, that arms and hands are for holding. I've realised that you shouldn't always do what you're told, that sitting in silence can sometimes be the sweetest shoulder anyone can give.

I have realised that now is the time. Now is the time to make a difference. Now is the time to feed the hungry and clothe the poor. Now is the time to make friends with the awkward-kind-of-quiet-slightly-creepy kid that you only talk to when you need to borrow stationery. Now is the time to shake off inhibitions and to simply love with reckless abandon. You don't get a guaranteed tomorrow, so quit holding back with what really matters.

I quit my music degree. I knew it wasn't where my heart really was, because my heart lies here, in writing about what means something to me. So I quit, and normal University is as challenging as it is lonely. But I'm back, and I'm brave. More importantly, I'm determined.

This is the beginning of a new season, for you and I. Fresh start, blank page, big scary challenges up ahead. I'm confident we'll face them with as much good grace as we can muster (You might have to muster up majority of it, I'm a little clumsy when it comes to physical grace) and I'm confident we'll get there.

So take my hand, and let's embark on this journey all over again.

Dear Friend, you are my silver lining.

Stop talking, start doing.

Over the last few weeks I’ve come to recognise a sense of desperation for justice within my community.  Even strangers, those far removed from an extremely complex situation, are demanding answers of us. Onlookers are stopped on streets and are asked for their opinions by provocative journalists, they are asked to serve the local paper by giving uninformed answers that are dripping with judgment. I am growing tired, as I’m sure many others are, of the accusations of hypocrisy and dishonesty.

I too long for truth and justice in a greater sense, don’t we all? Well if we’re a country so hungry for truth and justice, it’s time we faced the world’s greatest injustice and most swept under the rug truth, the one my friends died fighting against: poverty.

Take your eyes off controversy for a second, off your neediness and so-called right to know the details, and focus them here. The tragedy of this situation goes beyond the four lives lost, the tragedy of this is that the very cause the team were fighting for is being ignored- by you. Justice was and is at the very centre of this trip. Meet an incredible team of nineteen individuals determined to witness firsthand the truth of poverty, and then further serve in any and every way possible. Meet the kind of people who could change the world and deserve to be honoured.

You want truth? Here’s truth: People are dying and we are not doing enough. You are angry because you think you have right to information and you think you’re being denied this? Get angry because helpless children born into broken situations have the right to be healthy, to be educated, to survive, but are being denied it every single day. You want justice? Stop talking about who is right and who is wrong and start acting. Start acting on behalf of millions of helpless human beings and join the fight against poverty. Get your work boots on and go.

For the injured, for the hurting, for the families of the lives lost: do something. Before you point the finger, take a good look at yourself. Can you afford to impose such judgment upon people when the greatest injustice known to man is taking place everyday while you sit and do nothing?

Caitlin Dickson, Brian and Grace Johnston, and Christopher Mmata died fighting against poverty. The Kenya 2012/13 team were injured in the same battle. It isn't easy but it's more than worthy and it's your turn, your time. Grab hold of their torches and go forwards, honour their memory by carrying the crosses they so faithfully shouldered. Stop talking, start doing. 

Lesson 183. Life just keeps going.

Life just keeps going.

This is a concept that we accept with great ease when life smells of roses and throws sunshine on every path we tread. Or even when smiles don't ride ear to ear, even when we become complacent with our somewhat stereotypical lives, it's easy to simply nod when faced with the realisation that life just keeps going.

It's when grief strikes that the thought of life continuing to move at the same pace that we are faced with a mountain to climb. We often cling to pieces of tragedy left behind. We don't want to get out of bed in the morning, we don't want to see anyone living outside of our nightmare, we don't want to smile at the supermarket cashier and politely declining a flyer from an overly zealous stranger seems completely out of the question. But the truth is, it continues. We have to return to work, to study, to supermarket shopping, because life just keeps going. It does not stop and ponder, it does not eagerly await your return, it simply continues and expects that you do the same.

I'm living in limbo. To be perfectly honest with you, I'm absolutely terrified of the life that lies ahead of me. Moving forwards without someone who has always been beside you is scary, not impossible, but at the very least an extremely difficult concept to come to terms with. But I'm determined more than anything else to learn to love that life keeps going, not in an unhealthy shut-all-the-grief out kind of way, but simply in a way that honours the lives that I loved that were lost.

I'm determined to quit second guessing, to stop dreaming and start actively pursuing. I'm determined to stretch my arms further and to say I love you louder. Life just keeps going, so jump in and start doing it better. Let yourself feel, let yourself have bad days, recognise that it's okay to feel like this, but don't stop living because of it.

Life is going to break your heart and be breathtakingly beautiful at the same time every single step of the way, so here we go, headfirst, straight in. Fight with it, figure it out a fraction more and then celebrate the terrible wonderful truth that life just keeps going.

The acceptance of grace, the fullness of love, the power of hope.

The acceptance of grace, the fullness of love, the power of hope.

This is what we hold onto. When understanding is beyond us and questions send our heads reeling, we trust in God's goodness to get us through each day. I don't have answers, I am lacking in wisdom but I know that true forgiveness knows no bounds and open arms are always necessary. I know that in times of heartache and confusion we fix our gaze on our creator and wrap our arms around one another and we hold grace, love, and hope in our hearts. That through this stormy night we will see a sunrise, and we will see it together.

Bitterness and anger have lost their place, death has lost its sting as those who we farewell spend an eternity in a place far greater than here. All there is for us to do is embrace one another and stand firm in the hope that tomorrow will be better. For all involved, there is grace, love and hope. For the heavy hearts, the broken bodies, the burdened shoulders, there is a tomorrow worth seeing.

I have spent my days in almost silence considering words to say and have found few. I am so overwhelmed with love for the people that have dealt with the darkest days I have ever experienced, and I honour those involved with my whole heart, for their bravery and love for one another. 

I am not sure of an awful lot, but I am sure of this much: We have to accept grace, live in the fullness of love, and hold steadfast to the power of hope. 

Lesson 182. Life is lived, life is loved, life is lost.

Life is lived, life is loved, life is lost.

And then come the details. The intricate inner workings of hearts and heads and souls that weave together a canvas of a someone. A someone who meant a something to so many, a someone who leaves a space when their time comes to return home. And we don't cry because we worry, because we're scared of where they've gone, no no, we simply cry because there is a space. There are gaps in every area that that someone existed within, there are conversations stilled by silence where joy would've once filled the air, there is an emptiness within your arms from where that person often rested, there is an empty seat in a special place beside you.

How? How do we keep moving? Does anybody really know? I don't think so. I don't think anybody can tell you how to stop the space from seeping into your skin and reaching right to your core to shake you once again. But I can tell you that I intend to wake up, get dressed, breathe, and then rinse and repeat. We allow ourselves to feel what we need to feel and we cling to one another in the times of heartache, but we ultimately trust our God enough to be able to go forwards, not to move on, but to simply move towards acceptance and hope.

I'm not worried about my friends in heaven, I know they'll be swinging off gold plated streetlights and feeling the warmth of abounding love on their face as they stand before Jesus. I'm admittedly afraid for me and my friends to face a life without them, but there is no doubt or fear in my mind about where they are or the state of their hearts. I'm more equipped than ever to face the world ahead of me because of the lessons left behind, because of the songs that ring true through this season, because God is faithful and good, because he loves.

How do we say goodbye? Well, with God's grace in abundance, we simply say "See you soon." and believe that in what will seem like a blink of the eye in the scheme of eternity, we will. We bring hearts full or sorrow and gladness all at the same time and share them through hand squeezes and handkerchiefs. We'll celebrate the lives that were lived with everything we have and we grieve as a unit. We know that regardless of how it feels, we are never, ever alone. And then we just do our best to wake up each day and ask God to bring us through.

Life is lived, life is loved, life is lost.

Lesson 181. The clouds may be dark, but the water is still.

Tonight some close friends and I went to the beach. We watched the sunset and we talked, we climbed the mount and looked over the City, we held onto one another.

I was down by the water, looking out to sea. And it was still. Completely flat aside from the occasional ripple of the tide. I looked up to the sky and I saw dark clouds looming up ahead. There was no sign of light through, just dark clouds. And then I saw both in one picture, one frame. I saw the clouds that were up ahead, but I felt the water still beneath my toes. It was a perfect picture of the state of my heart.

I'm heartbroken, shattered, absolutely devastated. There doesn't seem to be any break for breath through this, grief is dark, it is painful, it is murky. But my heart, is still. It is at peace, it is resting in Jesus for the strength to simply trust what lies beyond the clouds. It's an odd conflict of emotions but it's one I'm coming to know on a deeper level with every day that passes. A sense of joy overwhelms me so regularly, because I loved the ones that I lost, but most of all because God is good. God is the water, still and at ease, knowing each wave that will follow and giving me grace to fare through.

Take heart, the clouds may be dark but the water is still.