Great mis-heard moments in the bible

(copyright unknown, but God bless the farker that created this one)

THIS is crouched outside my toilet as I write...

What can I say but "AAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUGHHHHHHHHHHMOMMYMOMMYMOMMYOHDEAR
LORDNOOOOOOOOOOOOGETITOFFBWAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAUUUGHHHH
HELPMEJEBUSNAAAAAAAAAOHHEEEEEEEEEEEELPGETITOFFFFFFFFAAAAHHHHH
BBBBBBBBBBBGAAAAAAAAAAAACCCCHHHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEKKKK!!!!!!!"

I mean, its the only sensible response.

And I am SO not using our toilet until 2008.

Let's paaaaaaaaaarty!!

One facet of my job is spending time in a classroom setting with children that have emotional, spiritual or social issues; getting to know them, spending time with them, developing a trust relationship with them.

Another facet is the care relationship with our teachers, so sometimes, on "wet days" (where lunches and morning teas must be taken indoors), I like to go 'round to the classes and help with the kids - letting the teacher have a break and giving me a chance to get to know the kids.

Yesterday, was my kindergarten (or "prep" class) day. I spent the morning and lunches drawing pictures of pirate ships, making play-doh pizzas, dancing a conga line and learning the YMCA dance.

This is apparently part of the core curriculum in Queensland. Who knew?

But the real joy was excitement of the little ones about their "prep disco" tonight. They are ecstatic about heading off to the community hall to "boogie" (yes, a child actually dared use that word), and to "shake their butt" (although, with Oscar's speech impediment, I heard him say "shave my butt". Knowing little Oscar, I wouldn't put it past him...)

I asked them what they would be wearing, and some said they were going to wear a pretty dress - including one boy, oddly enough; some said they were going in swim togs, and a surprising number will apparently be going naked, or with underpants on their heads.

Australia is a social minefield, I tell you.

And children are weird and wonderful creatures....

The SAS of God's Army

This is how school chaplaincy has been described here in Australia: as a covert force operating behind enemy lines. Where ministers try to bring people into churches - safe territory for the Godly - the chaplain's mission is to go out into the community where there is no safety. Chaplains are charged with learning the language of the schools we are in so we can speak of God in a way that will be heard; we are under fire from those that do not believe that religion has a place in schools; we are wary of children and parents that might make false and damaging accusations against us; and we are sometimes the only person of faith charged with speaking the Gospel in a school community of thousands.

And yet we are part of something incredible here in Australia. The Australian Federal Government has poured 165 million dollars over three years into school chaplaincy. That means that in Queensland alone, 140 of us hit the ground running in early October, and the next round of hiring begins in a few weeks. Over 500 schools now have access to a Christian of faith as part of their regular, daily life. Thousands upon thousands of children, school staff and families now have the Gospel planted in their communities, and that number will explode over the next year. The Lord is just pouring out His Spirit on this country, I believe; putting His Word where it matters so much: our schools. He is reaching out to the children, their families and those that care for and educate them.

What an incredible, awesome God we have.

And as for me? Well, as many of you know, being turned down by the Diocese of Brisbane was the most hugely liberating moment of my spiritual "career". Indeed, I am in awe of the fact that within six months, I have come from a country that has never heard of "school chaplaincy" and been transported across the planet to become a minister in a school. And yet, doesn't Acts 17 tell us to expect that?

"26From one man he made every nation of men, that they should inhabit the whole earth; and he determined the times set for them and the exact places where they should live. 27God did this so that men would seek him and perhaps reach out for him and find him, though he is not far from each one of us. 28'For in him we live and move and have our being.'

I had always expected to be classified as a "minister of religion"; but I suppose that I always understood that to require the collar. Here, legally, in the eyes of the government (and more importantly, the taxation office!), chaplains are classified as ministers of religion; and I am thrilled to realize that I need no collar, no denomination (Scripture Union is an ecumenical Christian organization), no affiliation to any particular church.... to be a minister here in Australia, all I need is a bible, my scruffy old jeans, some hand sanitizer, sunscreen, and a heart for God's work in the lives of families and the community.

As a primary school chaplain (Prep 1 (kindergarten) to Grade 7), I am hoarse by the end of morning tea, my bible has glitter paint all over it, my chair is sticky, there are animal cracker crumbs stuffed into my filing cabinet, I write bible study notes in crayon, my office (and I am one of the few chaplains blessed enough to have one) is furnished with bean-bag chairs, stuffed animals and posters of the word "LOVE". My typical day can involved anything from helping a young child understand why his mother walked out on the family while he was at school one day, to a day-trip to Sea World. In striving to be open to the Holy Spirit, I am learning to shape the message of God into something that children, the unchurched, the God-fearing and the religion-fearing can all hear and accept.

I am part of an incredible ministry team, from the "Local Chaplaincy Committee" that works to raise funding for the chaplaincy in the community; to Scripture Union that administers the hiring and training of chaplains; to the local churches that have come together to ensure that God is entrenched in the local school; to the parents, friends and families that pray for God's work to be done here in the local community.

And the incredible gift of being able to live and minister in your own community has proven to be both thrilling and disturbing. I cannot go to the fish and chip shop, the chemist or the local supermarket without a dozen children (many of whom have names I am struggling to remember) coming up for a hug, a chat or to tell me about something that happened to them that day. I run into parents wherever I go, many of whom I see later in my office for a quiet talk. I can no longer go out without makeup, or in my track pants, or cross the road against the lights, or use colourful gestures to the driver that cut me off in the parking lot. And last Friday, we took my husband to the local pub to celebrate his birthday, and I found myself facing a real moral dilemma as I queued up at the bar to buy him a birthday cocktail, and spent the time chatting with the half-dozen kids and their families that came up to say hi.

And today, my biggest challenge is to decide which Scripture Union camp to volunteer for over the Christmas break: do I want to go the beach? Rollerblading? Enjoy a day trip to DreamWorld? Learn to surf? Naturally, on all these camps, my job is to be there to care for the kids as they enjoy a summer holiday; to talk to them about life and God, to listen to them, love them, play with them, coach them, and model the fact that Jesus loves each and every one of them deeply and completely.

It may be my job, but it’s certainly not work!

Operation Christmas Child

Operation Christmas Child is an extraordinary endeavour that it is my great privilege to be a part of here in Australia. It is a simple act of kindness and giving of the sort that truly shakes the foundations of the world. And there is an amazing poignancy in watching the magic unfold.

As part of the life of Samford State School, acts of service and giving are not only encouraged, but built into the curriculum. Operation Christmas Child is one such initiative. For the last few weeks, as we ramp up to Christmas, our school assemblies have been forums in which a deeply touching video from Samaritan's Purse (the organization that oversees Operation Christmas Child) is shown again and again. It shows the amazing joy that comes in the third world with receiving an unexpected and unconditional gift; it shows the happiness, the ecstasy, and the delight that children in deeply underprivileged societies feel when presented with a simple shoebox filled with delights that we, in the first world, take for granted.

And yet, were I administering this project, there is another video that I would make to show people; and it would star my own hero - Bruce.

We are not rich people - Bruce works very hard to earn a decent living for us - and a Chaplain's wages are almost an insult to Christ's own teaching - but there is an incredible "other side" to the story that I think needs to be told as well.

This weekend was Bruce's birthday, and on a day on which we should have been celebrating his special day, we walked into Crazy Clark's (a local discount chain, and one much like "Dollar Stores" everywhere") and I reminded Bruce that we needed to pick up items for our own Operation Christmas Child shoebox.

Bruce was immediately engaged.

"Boy or Girl?" I recall him asking. I told him it really didn't matter as long as the package was filled with age and gender appropriate items.

"Right, then. A boy. " he said, the father of a nine-year-old boy himself. "What do we need?"

"Well," I said, as we steered into the toiletries aisle, "something for personal hygiene. What do you think a boy might like?"

"A toothbrush" came the immediate reply, and I watched as my husband scanned row after row after row of children's toothbrushes to find just the one "a boy" might like.

"How old?" he asked me again. I replied that we could simply decide on say... somewhere between six and nine, and fill the box with suitable items.

"Right," he said, and I watched in amazement he carefully looked over each toothbrush to see if it was not only a "cool" design, but had a head that would fit into the mouth of a little boy that he would never meet. He rejected the "duckies" and the "bunnies" immediately, but gave serious thought to the snakes and robots before finding the exact one he thought a little boy might like.

The toothbrush decided on, he asked what was next. Following Samaritan's Purse guidelines, I said "something to play with". Off to the toy aisle it was, and my suggestion of a selection of "jungle animals" or "dinosaurs" was rejected as being "too lame" for a little boy. So I watched in amazement as Bruce took his time looking over each and every model car before deciding on a replica taxi.

"A taxi?" I asked.

"Well, yes," Bruce replied. "I don't think he'll have TV, so these 'monster trucks' won't mean anything to him; and he probably won't know what these modern, North American cars are. But he'll know what a taxi is, won't he?"

I was deeply moved by the love, care and thought that Bruce put into selecting Christmas gifts for a little boy he'd never know, in a country we may never visit. And as we worked through the list (something to write on and with, something sweet to eat, something to wear and something to love) I had the immense privilege of watching an incredibly loving, giving heart search out just the right coloured paper and pens to draw with; just the right kind of shorts to wear; just the right flavour of lollies a little boy might like... and watching Bruce walk up every aisle and sift through every table of merchandise to find just the right singing toy elephant a little boy might want made me realize that there is so much more to God's giving than meets the eye.

And as we walked out to our shiny, new, less-than-a-week-old car, I told Bruce that I was really touched by his immensely giving heart and caring soul; and his response floored me yet again:

"Baby," he said, "If I could afford to send 30 of these, I would."

And while Bruce is my hero, he's not the only hero out there. In fact, its hero's like him that make Operation Christmas Child the success it is.

And that is the documentary I'd make: not the one that shows the incredible joy of receiving an unexpected and unconditional gift; but one that shows the immense joy in giving it.

"We of the Maybe Maybe"

"We of the Never Never" is famous Australian novel from the turn of the last century, detailing the adventures of an Englishwoman, "Mrs. Anaeas Gunn", as she moved to rural Australia to live in the outback with her rural Australian husband, erm... "Mr. Anaeas Gunn". It is also a wonderful movie, directed by Igor Auzins; and was for a very long time a favourite of mine, mainly because it featured a very young John Jarratt and Lewis Fitz-Gerald stuffed into tight trousers, spitting in a manly fashion and wrestling horses.

*sigh* But I digress.

In her classic novel, "Mrs. Anaeas Gunn" describes her challenges as a new wife, and more importantly as a new settler in this magnificent land. Through her eyes, I felt - as a new settler to a rural area myself - that in some small way I had connected with her; and curiously, it was as though this remarkable woman were reaching across the centuries to teach me about the dangers of rampaging livestock; the culture clash between the white man and the native, the risks posed by angry bulls and the fact that some men viewed trousers as a privilege rather than a necessity.

What she failed to warn me about, however, was snakes in your toilet, spiders the size of chihuahuas, moths in your pants, flies in your ears, and the dangers of rampaging possums.

Indeed, as I reflect upon my own "settling in" period here in wonderful, rural, Samford; I am reminded of the words of that great philosopher, Melman:













"Ahhhhh! Nature! It's all over me! Get it off!"

I wish I could convey to you, dear reader, just how...erm.... "natural" life is here is beautiful, rural Samford.

Why, simply going to the toilet after dark qualifies as a National Geographic Special; and the experience has actually taught me that there are indeed some nature encounters where only the word CRIKEY!!!!!!! will do.

Many of you have heard about the time I woke up with a fly in my ear. (For those of you dear readers that haven't: I once woke up with a fly in my ear. It was a moment filled with new understanding of God's creation, a deeper connection with nature, and me running around like a five year old girl shrieking "BRUCE!! THERE'S A FLY IN MY EAR!!!! THERE'S A FLY IN MY EAR!!!! "

Good times, good times.

Then there was the time I cavalierly zipped myself up after a pleasant enough period of meditation only to discover I wasn't alone in my trousers. As kinky as it sounds, it isn't as thrilling as you might think to discover a tickle in your trousers that you are at a loss to explain; only to discover - after some hasty investigation - that you aren't the only creature zipped into your pants.

In all honesty, my heart goes out to the wee moth. NOTHING that I am not married to should have to suffer like that.

And it gets better: I have learned what it is to enjoy the al fresco experience of a toilet which is not only an outdoor adventure playground, but also an entomologists research lab. I have shared my most vulnerable moments with many a species of moth, spider, skink, cockroach and gecko; and will in all honesty admit that I will never take going to the toilet for granted again.

You see, for most of you, this basic biological function consists of simply entering a private room, doing what you need to do, and exiting gracefully.

Not so in Samford: for me, simply going to the toilet involves asking myself:
a) how badly do I really need to go?
b) can I outrun a huntsman spider with my pants around my ankles if I have to?
c) how likely is it that the toilet/ my pants will be filled with wildlife, and
d) WHAT THE #$(#^ IS THAT GROWLING SOUND OUT THERE?????????

Thank God I have a nature expert like Bruce around to tell me that if we simply turn out the lights, those thousands of tiny flies clustering around the overhead lamp will stop annoying us by falling off the ceiling and into our bed; and that that huge ground tunnel three feet from the house (big enough to admit John Goodman) was likely made by a snake; or that that awful smell from the back cupboard is "not a worry".

I feel much better now .....................