Brokenness - Faith Jam

The Princess wonders if you ever broke something when you were a child?  What did you do with it?  Did you take it to your parent, confident that they could fix it?  Did you hide it in fear, knowing that you would be blamed and punished?

Did you ever break a bone in your body and have to be helped while it healed?


Princess Morag does not have a memory of a broken toy, or a broken bone from childhood.  It is hard to pin down exactly what was broken.

Something was broken when she needed to hide her emotions.  Something was broken when she gave up trying to communicate.  Something was destroyed when she was finally rejected.

Maybe what sums it up, is the phrase sometimes used for the family in which a couple is divorced: a 'broken home'.


Princess Morag comes from a broken home.  She was sixteen, and she felt shame.  She leaned on her friends, and hid from the others.  She thought for sure that everybody knew but in reality it's likely that few knew and few cared - that's called high school!

When she met Sir Rianus three years later, she met a kindred spirit.  He knew.  He came from a broken home too!

Fifteen years later, the Princess is trying to keep their home intact.  No more brokenness, that's the goal.  A few cracks have appeared that's for sure.  But she's striving for the happily ever after ending.  It's much harder than she thought it would be.


In her broken home, the Princess gave in to despair.  In her brokenness, the Princess was silent.  In her brokenness, the Princess was rejected and left alone.

At Easter-time, we remember Jesus in distress at the garden of Gethsemane - he pleaded with his friends to stay awake with him but they were blind to his emotions as they slept.  We remember Jesus being tried for crimes, taunted and beaten and though he was innocent, he remained silent.  His body was hung on a cross and he died (though his bones were not broken).  He was buried alone in a tomb.  In all of these things, Jesus appeared weak, but really he was strong beyond belief.

He followed his path, and beyond the grave He showed us victory.

What does the path to victory look like?  Often it looks like a lot of brokenness.  Crawling through days of depression and despair can take strength that belies the sight.  Somehow keeping going, because of hope.  Because of faith in the unseen.

If the source of brokenness can be invisible, so can the source of strength.  Like it's counterpart, it comes through words and actions and inaction.

Words of comfort and encouragement.  Actions of kindness.  Choosing not to criticize or mock or shame.

Jesus came fulfill Isaiah's prophecy.  He came to bind up the broken-hearted.  How will you help him to do that today?

My cross - Faith Jam

My cross is invisible
Constructed of the things never done,
Never said,
Not even begun.

How can you blame someone
For something they didn't do?
But when that omission
Was excruciatingly painful,
Whose fault is the wound in you?

Is it my fault, for all my expectations
Or yours for having none of yourself?

Relationships don't work by magic
An occasional loving glance or a daily kiss.
It is so easy to be in the same room,
And at the same time, completely miss.

You don't notice my sighs,
My words simply waft away
Unacknowledged, unheard
They fall to the ground.

I think of them like paper airplanes,
they are strewn everywhere,
but they are completely invisible to you.

Sometimes, when the conditions are right,
You catch one and even send one right back
But then you are gone again
The air traffic tower is closed,
The landing lights switched off.

Where am I to go?
Who will hear me?
I go to the same place as the psalmists,
They understand.

I look to the mountains,
I look to my God.
Who hears all
And sees all
And knows me inside and out.
He knows my words before they leave my mouth
He knows my heart before it spews out the good and the bad.

When I'm invisible to you,
It feels cruel
It's torture but you can't possibly know what it's like,
Because you're wired differently
Your hurts are of another kind.

I know I've hurt you.
And knowing that hurts me
But I don't think you'd get that
It requires true empathy.

That's what's missing
What is killing me softly
But I realise that in a way it's more comfortable for me
To hide in the shadows and not really be seen

When we're naked and one
I tremble not just with passion, but fear
It's then that you 'know' me
But I wonder how much you care.

Do you long to know me,
Or just to be satisfied?
We are completely united
but still disconnected.

If my eyes meet yours,
I can't handle it either.
We're oh so different,
but then sometimes we're peas in a odd pod.

My cross is not unique,
there are others like us.
That knowledge comforts me
Makes me feel less alone.

I've got to the point
Where I can thank God for my cross
When I ask him to help me
I now know He will.

This is my life,
The past, present and future
To carry this cross so it can fit me for heaven.
Sometimes painful, sometimes gloriously noble.
It was made for me.

Wounded - Faith Jam

As part of the visa process for the new realm, Princess Morag had to undergo a physical examination.  One of the requirements of this physical, was to show the doctor any scars that she had, for them to be documented.  With slight bemusement at this unexpected request, the Princess opened her shirt to show the two open heart surgery scars, and then stretched her waistband far enough in order for the c-section scars to be visible.  The princess supposed it must be important for the government of the new realm to have a record of identifying marks.

The first heart surgery was when she was three years old so the princess has no recollection of her body before the wiggly worm of her scar was a main feature from collar bone to the end of her rib cage.  A mere four years later the second scar overlapped the first in some places, but was a lot straighter.  It snakes down slightly right of centre; nestled in her adult cleavage, it adds a slightly eye-catching effect.  Her scars are noticeable as they are keloid; when they were new in her childhood they were bright red, now they have faded to pale pink.  Although she did get a little frustrated as a teenager when the top of the scar was the last part to fade, the princess rarely bothers about what it looks like as her scars are simply part of her, a silent witness to her survival.  The mechanical heart valve implanted in the second surgery is the not so silent witness.

If her heart surgery scars were an indication of a new lease of life for the Princess, her c-section scars indicate literal new life.  A son and a daughter in consecutive years.

The government of the new realm have a record of Princess Morag's scars, presumably to confirm her identity - their record could one day be used as proof that she is indeed, Princess Morag.  What does a scar prove?  That once there was a wound.  In the case of Princess Morag's scar, those wounds were produced intentionally, using a scalpel, in order to bring ultimate healing to her body and new life from it.

But what of the wounds that Princess Morag has suffered that cannot be seen?  The scars that are not visible to the eye.  All of her life the princess has been asked about the scars on her chest (the other ones don't normally come up in conversation!)  She has always been happy to engage in conversation about the resolution of her congenital heart condition.  But even after that part of her broken heart was mended, her heart has been broken many more times.  A cardiologist could do nothing to fix these other wounds.  She has required a different heart surgeon.  His name is Jesus.

Jesus has scars.  Thomas said he wouldn't believe in the resurrection until he saw the marks and Jesus was happy to oblige when they were standing face to face.  (John 20)

His wounds were born of violence, but his scars bring healing.  As the princess has so often encountered, scars beg to be explained, they provoke curiosity.  Not only about how they came about, but why.  The princess can simply say, 'my scar is from open heart surgery', but really people want to know the story behind that; they want to hear the story of healing.

The princess has told her children of how they were born.  She was willing to be cut open for them to be brought safely into the world.  She is not especially brave, but she loved them and longed for them to be born.

The story of the scars of Jesus follows the same lines:

• Despite his wounds being evidence of his body's defeat, he was restored to life - his is the ultimate story of healing.

• And his scars are an invitation for you to be born again.

They tell the story of a Father, who loved the world so much, that he sent Jesus to us.  That he would suffer many wounds and die with his hands and feet nailed to a cross and rise again with scars from those wounds that don't just speak, but shout of healing and new life.

What visible or invisible scars do you have?  Were the wounds intentional and wrought for good?  Or were they caused by painful, violent circumstance?  Is the wound fully healed?  Is the scar almost invisible, or like the Princess's raised and obvious?



Surely he took up our pain
    and bore our suffering,
yet we considered him punished by God,
    stricken by him, and afflicted.
5 But he was pierced for our transgressions,
    he was crushed for our iniquities;
the punishment that brought us peace was on him,
    and by his wounds we are healed.     Isaiah 54: 4-5

Remembrance - Faith Jam

I remember the pain.  It was driving me.  I wondered at the strange things that tempted me, that had never previously held any attraction.  I marveled at the way my pelvic bones jutted out and my stomach was flat, almost concave when I lay on my back.

It made some sort of sense.  There wasn't enough money; I had no appetite.  I filled my stomach with coffee and then there was no room for food.

I filled my mind with judgement and bitterness and then there was no room for compassion.

I mused my way through my memories of life, and found many reasons for the pain.  I wrote some of them down.  I allowed myself to see: it wasn't me.  The disappointment was not unfounded.

Now that I had physical distance, I had perspective.

What I craved, had always craved, was impossible.  It was hard to accept.  A tough pill to swallow.  Is that what was stuck in my throat?

But the craving wasn't the problem, it was seeking satisfaction from the wrong source.

I knew He was the answer, but I didn't know how to make that work.  Months before I had confessed 'I've looked to everyone for love, except directly to you' and now I needed to take that further.  Once again, I came tearfully, and told him:  'I want to trust you, Lord, but it's hard for me'.

He helped to make it easier, I read scriptures that appeared directly relevant to my life and seemed to come alive.  It took time, but the pain started to ease.  I let some people know the truth of how much I was struggling.

I don't want to forget that process.  It was like birthing pains, my fight to come out of the chrysalis.


Then came the conviction:  "Do you not know that your bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God?  You are not your own; you were bought at a price.  Therefore honour God with your bodies."  1Corinthians 6:19-20.


I wasn't honouring God with my body.  I was depriving it of food and telling it that it was unworthy and undeserving and must be punished.  I hadn't been entirely conscious of it.  A 'stress-reaction' was what I'd figured.  But then it dawned on me that eighteen months of stress was maybe too much.  Maybe it was time to stop.

My self-deception was the scariest part.  I hadn't trusted anyone, had been paranoid at times, yet, it turned out the least-trustworthy person was myself?!  

It was the last barrier to complete surrender.  If I couldn't trust myself, then there was no one left.  God could have all of me because He was the only one who would want me, and could do anything with me.  He was the only one who held any hope.

When I didn't eat, I felt faint and weak, I couldn't concentrate.  That was the fruit of deprivation.  My goal now is to be strong: to get physically fit and be strong in my mind and in faith.  Body, mind and spirit are linked, I can see that now.  I was trying so hard to grow in faith, but when my body and mind were weak, that was difficult.  Growing in faith is hard work - it requires fuel.

I remember the anxiety and depression.  I remember my desperation.  I remember that I needed love and mercy and grace and still do.  If I don't remember those things, pride creeps back in along with unrealistic expectations.  I had held myself, others and the world to such sky high standards, it was exhausting.  I discovered layer upon layer of brokenness in my life, it humbled me.  I am so grateful to remember how he redeemed me from that pit.

Journey - Faith Jam

I hate not knowing where I'm going.  It's why I much prefer trains to buses.  When you are on a train, the train has to follow the tracks, there are not going to be any detours (as long as you get on the right train).  On a bus...what if the driver decides to change route...there is nothing to stop him or her from doing so!

It's why I find my life difficult right now.  I don't know where we're going.  I don't know whether we are going to move city/state this year, I don't know if I'm going to find a job. It is unsettling and I don't like it very much.

When change is on the horizon, I feel like the whining kid in the backseat on a long car journey...are we nearly there yet????  If something good is planned, I enjoy the anticipation of waiting but if it is a major change or something less wonderful, I hate the waiting time.

In the church, we practise waiting twice a year.  In Advent we wait in wondrous hope for the celebration of the birth of Jesus.  And during Lent we solemnly wait to remember Jesus' death but then holding our breath just for a few days we are then able to celebrate with joy his resurrection and share in the new life that he offers us at Easter.

Sometimes waiting means to share in the sufferings of Christ.  When I remember the one hundred or so days that I was waiting for my visa, those were days marked with suffering for me.  I didn't know how long I was going to be waiting.  I was homeless.  I was separated from my husband.  I was single-parenting two small children.  And even when I reached my destination, I wasn't going to know anybody there.  It was a long, hard wait.

I lived day by day, I lived by faith, I lived through the words of the psalms, I lived through the eyes of my children, I lived through new understanding, I lived through a period of grief and heartache.  The waiting changed me, it drew me closer to God.  It was another step on the curriculum of learning patience.

Then after the days and days of waiting for the visa, for the passport to be returned, for it to be the day, it came.  Then came the hours of waiting.  At the airport, on the airplane.  But these hours seemed easier.  We were nearly there - we were on the journey - we were limited in what we were able to do.  The only possessions we had access to were our hand luggage (admittedly there was a LOT).  The only space we had were our seats.  The destination was decided, and the pilot was responsible for getting us there and we didn't need to worry about that.  Constrained by those boundaries, I was more relaxed than I'd been in months.  I no longer had the illusion of having to be in control.

The other thing that helps a long journey, like that twelve hour flight with two small children, is to have things to aim for along the way.  We were filling the time getting settled into our seats and checking everything out until it was time to buckle our seatbelts and then we filled the time until it was take-off, then there was meal-time, then (please God) sleep time!!  Knowing that there are pit-stops on a journey makes it less intimidating.  Sometimes the big picture is too big to take in: I was emigrating, but thinking like that made me freak out inside, so instead it was just a transatlantic flight, the same as many I had been on before (except I was emigrating..shh).

If I view my life like I did that journey, I would probably find more peace.  I am not the pilot. I only need a few possessions for along the way (and probably only a small proportion of them in reality - I tend to over pack) and if I stop worrying about when I'm going to get there, I am a much more pleasant travelling companion!

Impatience and frustration are not attractive qualities.  Excitement and anticipation are definitely preferable when waiting for something good.  And if waiting for something that might bring sorrow, I want to strive for a quiet hope; not necessarily that the bad thing won't happen, but that God will work it all for good.

What journey are you on?  What kind of travelling companion are you?

What I'm learning about myself - Faith Jam

Moving five thousand miles from everyone and everything that is loved and familiar definitely creates perspective.  So in the last two and a half years I've been getting to know myself without being able to make excuses about things being 'caused' by my circumstances or people around me or my past, because I left those behind me.  I have had to take responsibility for the likelihood that if I'm still bothered by something - the cause is in me!

(1) Even though I don't want to be, I am responsible for my own happiness

(2) I am not ashamed of the things that make me happy anymore.  Bring on those singing/dancing tv shows!

(3) There is no substitute for scripture in my life.  If I keep feeding on the word, it keeps bearing fruit in my life.

(4) Exercise makes me feel much better than starving myself.

(5) It doesn't matter how much time I have, I still won't do housework until it is desperately bad.

(6) I need more alone time than I thought I did.

(7) I might not be enthusiastic about outdoor pursuits but walking out my front door and just walking for twenty minutes (without having to worry about the weather) is wonderful.

(8) I know which kind of coffee I like the best. [And seriously, NOT in a paper cup]

(9) The more I count my blessings, the more there seem to be to count!

(10) My emotions are signals; they shouldn't be in charge of my life but maybe it's better not to ignore them completely.

(11) It is possible to be free from anxiety sometimes (Praise God!)

Small - Five minute Friday

I used to think that small = insignificant, not very important, not weighty.  Small things were no replacement for the BIG things - like happiness, support, things going my way etc.  But now I've changed my mind.  Because small things add up to become the big things, just like when you look at your supermarket receipt in complete wonderment that it came to that much when all you bought were all those little things.

The idea made it's way to me through a couple of different sources - to keep track of three things each day that were good.  It helped me to stop my exaggerated negative thinking that absolutely everything in my life was terrible.  At that stage, when my mood was black, the small things seemed so meagre but it helped nonetheless.

Finding my voice - Faith Jam

My voice isn't necessarily always in tune.  It gets nervous at the idea of being heard.  It has been compared to others and fallen short.  It has been rejected and deemed not quite good enough.  It has been included in the choir and rejoiced at being part of the chorus.

When it sings to God sometimes it soars.  Someone once asked how it got so strong....probably due to having to fight to even exist.

I didn't dream much about singing in public when I was a schoolgirl - solos were a petrifying idea, even though I liked thinking of the honour attached to being chosen.  But now... I live vicariously through the tv shows and wonder if my idea of taking singing further is a delayed adolescent dream, or something that ultimately might be part of a plan...

Currently my favourite show is "The Voice" - the auditions are conducted in front of a live audience but the judges are facing the other way and cannot see the contestant.  The idea is that they will be judged on their voice alone and not on how they look or anything else.  I like the premise.  I have also been inspired by the criteria they are looking for.  They have 'turned round' for people sometimes who have not sung perfectly, they might have made some small mistakes or their nerves might have become audible, but, their voice is unique, their voice is interesting, their voice expresses their emotions and tells a story.

Those features that they are looking for on 'The Voice' have become my goal for my own voice.  The voice that comes out of my mouth both spoken and sung, my voice here on my blog and my voice that is how I live my life.  I want my voice to be authentically 'me' - it might take a while to evolve, but that's ok.  I want to have the courage to put my voice out there, even if it shakes or hits an occasional bum note, if the message is significant then those things don't matter.  I would rather be judged on my voice than what I look like or other choices I make in my life.  I'm learning that people might actually be interested in my story.

I feel happiest when I sing.  I feel close to God when I worship in song.  It makes my stomach churn with emotion and urgency.  I have a list of songs that tell the story of my life as they are attached to various times of my life.  And then God gave me a new song.  One that was my own.  He gave me the words and then I prayed for the tune and up popped a folk tune that was familiar to me that fitted with the lyrics - amazing!

I carried my song with me for more than a year until I found the right place and time which turned out to be my bible study group.  And now I'm going to be even braver and share it here.

Love - Faith Jam

An ode to my daughter:

I mistook her for myself.  I thought I was staring into my own eyes, but I wasn't in front of a mirror, I was standing in the school playground.  Five thousand miles and and twenty-nine years since I was the five year-old waiting to be picked up after school.  Her eyes don't hide from mine.  There is not shyness there.  She was excited to be in the play: "I'm going to be on the stage!" she said with breathless delight and I shared her joy.  She is my love, she opened up my heart wider than I knew it could stretch.  She forced me to give, give, give when she was tiny and needed my breasts, needed my milk, needed all the love and patience I could give.  And through all that pain and stretching, in that season when I didn't think I had enough, I was reborn.

This nurturing that my soul was compelled to give my daughter was foreign to me.  How could that be?  As I gave to her, I gave to myself.  It opened a wound that I hadn't been consciously aware of.  It made me raw.  I needed comfort.  The fact that I couldn't find any spoke volumes about my life and relationships.

She was only a baby but already she was more responsive to me compared to anyone else.  She was delightful to me.  I remembered a time when I was seen as delightful.  I mourned the loss of that coming to an end.  She will always be delightful to me.  She is my love.

I broke down and the people I was with didn't understand.  I had to wait until I found the one that did.  I had to wait months.  I prayed.  Even though it felt like my prayers bounced off the ceiling.  I found more holes in my heart that hurt so bad and made me cry so hard.  All the while, every hour of the day, I belonged to them.  I gave my love to them.  And they got my anger too.

She was safe.  The first person to be clear on the boundaries and then let me be me.  I bared my soul.  It was terrifying and liberating.  It was surrender and victory.  It hurt and it healed.  She asked why I held back?  I saw she told the truth.  I could guess why, but it was more important to try not to do that anymore.  She encouraged me to trust that people loved me.  That was difficult.

To allow myself to receive.  To allow myself to reveal my failings.  To let others see a few tears while she saw the ones that fell like rain in the counseling room.  I believed her sweet words even though they made me squirm.  She built me up inside like a stack of duplo bricks.  Such basic ideas that had never been my foundation.  That I was loved, that I was worthy of love, that I was strong, that I was worth listening to, that there was a great future ahead of me.

If she hadn't given me those basics, I don't think I could love my daughter the way I do today.  I long for her to be more confident than me, more beautiful than me, more talented than me.  I am not jealous, it doesn't threaten me.  It fills me with absolute joy that we say "I love you", that we remember that Jesus loves us.  That we kiss and cuddle with natural affection.  That she sees my grown-up body and we talk of when she will be a woman too.  That she wants to "do all the things" for me when I get old.  That she is secure.   She is my love.

{Soul Rest} - I'm falling, catch me Jesus.

I couldn't pinpoint it...why I was falling.
I tried to distract myself with grand ideas.
That used to work, when I believed they could come true.
And that's when I realised what was wrong.
I'd prayed all last year for one thing.
And then, wonderfully, He made it happen.
But I thought, that's it.  There won't be anymore yeses after such a big one.
There won't be more for me.
Because...why?

I don't deserve it?
But that's always true.
He is a gracious God.
He is a generous God.
He loves to give good gifts to His children.  Isn't that what the scripture says?
So will 2014 be bereft of anything good?
Unlikely, but still I struggled to believe.
And I was exhausted.

He carried me through the weekend.
And then today, suddenly, there is Hope.
After grief and despair.
I want to follow His footsteps.
I want to see them clearly.
I worry that I'll hesitate and then they will disappear from sight.

But Jesus didn't let Peter drown.
When he walked on the water.

"Immediately Jesus reached out his hand and caught him" (Matthew 14.31)

I want to hold your hand, Jesus.
I want to be reassured that you are there.
I want to look on your face and know I am loved.
I want to have faith.

The little girl in me

The little princess was cute, and she knew it.  And she remembers when that particular currency lost it's value (around age 4).  The new currency was 'being good': doing as she was told, being 'clever' at school and helping at home.  But the new currency wasn't about who she was, it was about what she could do.

She remembers discovering her parents' tape collection and playing ABBA on the stereo and dancing with complete abandon.  Until she realised her dad was watching and despite his pleas for her to continue, she was too self-conscious.

The little girl had also loved to sing, and remembers performing her shy rendition of 'Little donkey' one Christmastime for adult acquaintances.  When she was a little older, she discovered that apparently her parents no longer rated her voice as very good, a brother was touted as being the better singer.  Looking back, the comparison was completely unnecessary, but the temptation to categorise seems to have been too great for them to resist.

The little girl was astute, she picked up on what was said, and what was implied.  She molded and camouflaged herself into the position allotted to her.  She desperately wanted approval.  Unfortunately approval meant silence; a no news is good news kind of a deal.

Now, Princess Morag has a little princess of her own who loves to dance and sing.  What a joy!  What a wonderful thing to celebrate and share.  The princess is rediscovering through her daughter, how delightful little girls are.  She knows this is the truth, yet there is a commentary tape that plays in her head, with barbed and snide comments, that threatens to taint those precious mother-daughter moments.   But the princess is determined to escape from the lies that have infiltrated her consciousness.  She proclaims that those automatic thoughts deserve automatic extinction.  She declares that the attitudes that stink be replaced with gracious incense.  The princess may have been small but she was NOT like the fragile Christmas ornaments or a snowflake so easily melted.  She was, and is, like a little candle burning in the night.  She might be hiding inside her grown-up body, but she has power and perseverance.  Keep her shining Lord.

permission to...let the tears fall

The princess has never cried so much as she did in that counseling room.  At times, she felt outside of herself looking on at this woman who was a weeping mess, and she thought "wow, what a fuss!"  Tears had always been greeted by her family as a sign of her being 'too much'.  But there, in that room, in the presence of an empathetic soul, she could finally shed so many tears that she'd kept inside for so many years.  And they weren't 'too much', they were 'just right' even if her counselor did gently wonder at how many tears there could be!  They were the silent expression of pain and grief and longing.  And when met with tenderness, they were the most healing relief.

The princess used to laugh when she cried - it was a learned response from example and reaction.  It was a cover.  She has learned not to do that anymore.  She also wants to analyse her tears, and find out why on earth she is doing this strange thing called crying.  But sometimes it doesn't make sense, other than the fact that she is full of emotion, and it has to get out somehow.  At the beginning of advent it seems like tears are coming easily.  Having tried the analytical route and come up with a few ideas but no real answer, the princess is instead going to give herself permission for it just to happen.  The tears aren't for anyone, she is usually alone when it happens, they simply are.

It seems that many different things bring the tears, and not just sad things, but things of beauty, tenderness, innocence, longing, music.  The princess is no longer rock-like, for others to lean on.  She is more tree-like; she is still dependable but she can move, and swaying in the wind of life, she is allowing her tears to fall as the leaves do in the autumn season.