This is a poem about hair.
It may sound superficial but there’s more to the story
These strands of thread are tied to the thoughts we
think as we try categorise each other
And the maker of all knows all by number
But, this poem was born for my firstborn bubba

When he entered the world he had glorious thick, dark hair
Like his mother
And she said,
Let’s not cut it until at least two years old
Let it be wild,
like the heart of our child
And so it grew,
and it said something about being free.

But the boxes come early and things must fit,
We must see the world through the lenses we get
So as my boy made his way through the world looking free
People began to say, ‘Wow, isn’t she
a beautiful little girl that you have?’
And I, fresh Dad
traipsed through mental mazes
As I heard their comments, saw their gazes
This is son, not daughter; boy, not girl
Why are we so quick to divide up the world
Based on arbitrary factors like the length of the curls?
And I felt some discomfort over the confusion
And some more discomfort over my internal responses
If I care so much when he is mistaken
Am I feeding into this system of simplistic division?

And so I decided
I want to be wild, I want to be free
And rather than boy just bearing the image of me
It is I who would would like to become more like he
And so out grew the locks, up went the bun
Wild and wavy, like father, like son

A small act of saying to the children I parent
That our external differences may be most apparent
But the length of our hair, the colour of skin
the clothes that we wear or our favourite things
These do not change the deep stuff we carry within
(we are all fragile bundles of the same stuff within)
We are complex for sure, but we’re also quite simple
This is part of the paradox of the humanity riddle

And so, this is a poem about hair.
But it’s also about being wild and free
Whether you rock dreadlocks, a bun, a mullet or fade
Blonde, brunette, ranga, hot-pink or grey
May your hair just be one of the ways that you say
The way that I am is more than ok.
Whether you are he, she, or don’t fit either so cleanly
May you know who you are, and learn to love yourself freely.

This Spoken Word piece was written for Baptist Youth Ministries Youth Pastor's & Emerging Leaders Conference, 2019. 

So we come as we come
from many places we come
some of us feeling undone
but each of us together, 
we are being 
restrung

You cannot expect the instrument you are trying to play
to sound the same as it did on the day it was made
unless you are willing to take it out of the case
and be retuned and renewed by the tools of the trade

Are you neglecting it by leaving it hidden from site
or do you abuse it by using it day after day and night after night
without ever pausing to let things rest and be made right?

If your leadership is an instrument
what kind of song are you playing? 
What kind of sound do you leave
in the ears of those listening? 

Who are you teaching how to play this song?
Who are you learning how to play it from?

Now pause. 

Leadership can be:
buzzword. 
hashtag.
Trending topic. 

But easy to forget the words of the rabbi:
‘In this world, leaders lord it over the people
but not so with you'

Ironically the Lord of all 
doesn’t lord it at all
He inverses it
flips it and reverses it
You want to be a great leader?
Then learn to be a great servant

Techniques, life hacks, programs, podcasts
I love ‘em, 
I use ‘em
but you learn pretty quickly,
you can’t outsource or fast track
the fruit of just being with the one
who says 
‘be with me’

And so, 
here let me shift it

No techniques
to take note of and implement

Let these words just be a song from instrument
to instrument

A reminder
A blessing
A song for fellow pilgrims 

let us be orchestral
whether you are from Wagga Wagga
Toowoomba, Narara or Thornleigh
whether you reach hundreds of young people or just 2 or 3

We play the same song
We follow the same conductor
We are filled with the same power
that conquered the grave

Now that
Sometimes is hard to believe

But breathe...

Every day new mercies come
Breath, a reminder of spirit in lungs
Taste the grace on your tongue
with every mouthful of oxygen
every beat of the drum
every movement, the strum
of your heart being strung
together into one 
with the cosmic son

Do not miss the reminders of the miracle of resurrection
Occurring even in your cells right now, the progression 
of new life bursting forth from yesterday’s graveyards
Yes, today’s hard
But you are a vessel
waiting to bloom with power in weakness
when you are feeling defeated you are closer to Jesus
than in your moments of strength where you feel you don’t need him

Somewhat ironic. 
A whole lot liberating. 
You don’t need to be amazing. 
You can let go, let grace in. 

Power begins in powerlessness,
in the moment you acknowledge 
you are not at the centre
you are not holding things together
you are animated by forces beyond your control
are you pushing against them or embracing the role
of an instrument
a conduit
a river
a branch in the vine
meeting place of the dust and divine

May you and I be water turned into wine

May we lead like water turned into wine

May we serve like water turned into wine 

During Noah’s first year of life, he had very intense gastro-oesophageal reflux. I wrote a number of posts during that time reflecting on what I was learning through that difficult and seemingly endless season (see some here). There were times during that year Sam and I struggled to stay sane. Coming to terms with a baby that spends a disproportionate amount of its days and nights screaming inconsolably is hard.

Yes, it passes.
Yes, these babies are generally still healthy.
They won’t remember it.
You’ll move on from it.
These are some of the things people remind you.
And they are true.

But to be honest, they just aren’t helpful things to hear when you are in the thick of it. Really, you just want someone who understands.

You just don’t want to feel alone in it.

That’s not just true of reflux — it’s part of what it means to be human.

As we prepared to meet our second baby, our experiences with Noah were obviously present in our minds. Will our experience be more ‘normal’ this time? Will we have one of those babies that sleeps? I am ever the optimist — but in this case the odds were stacked against Leo (as my father, myself and both of my brothers all had bad reflux when we were bubs).

Three weeks into Leo’s life and it seems fairly apparent that his journey may be similar. His early days have begun to move in a direction we are familiar with. Short patches of being settled (10-15 minutes), followed by long bouts of crying and screaming, settled by a feed, then repeat the process. When precious sleep arrives, it is often interrupted early by stomach acid coming up little throat.

I have been reminding myself that similaries do not mean same. Whether reflux this time round lasts 1 month, 6 months, 9 months, 12 months does not change the fact that Leo is not Noah. Whether or not we use the same coping strategies, or find different ones, Leo is not Noah. Leo’s first week, first month, first year of life is his own. And whilst we may find ourselves walking through similar territory we have trudged through before, we will remind ourselves that we have not been here before. This is new. This is difficult. This is beautiful. This may be familiar, but this is fresh. When I find myself wondering ‘how will we survive that again?’, I tell myself that is not what is happening here. This may stretch and test us, but this is a new path, we walk together as four of us. And it will have its own highs and lows to navigate.

Like this profound moment last night,
this memory I am drilling into my brain,
this lesson I do not want to miss.

Leo was in one of his worst bouts of reflux screaming yet. Sam was preparing some dinner and I was just holding the little guy and rocking in the rocking chair while he screamed. After 20 minutes or so of his cries, Noah came over to me, and climbed up to sit on my right leg, while Leo rested on my left shoulder. For a good couple minutes Leo continued to cry, Noah snuggled in, and he gently touched Leo a couple of times, while he watched him struggle.

In many ways, it was ordinary. It was something I could have missed. A blur between loads of washing, changing nappies, keeping little and big humans fed and watered.

But here is why I noticed it.

So far during Leo’s short life my impulse has been to want to shield Noah from Leo’s cries. Obviously this is somewhat unavoidable - but where ever possible I have tried to take Leo outside to walk up and down the driveway when he is in discomfort, or I have encouraged Noah that he can play in his room if he feels uncomfortable when Leo is crying. I know how my insides can feel after a long session of baby screams,  so I can’t imagine what they feel like for a two year old who has only ever lived with two adults so far and did not have any choice in sharing life and blood and bedroom with this new housemate.

But, last night on the rocking chair I had given up trying to ‘resolve’ the crying. I just held my roaring lion and gently rocked back and forth, trying to be present with him in his pain. And Noah, chose to engage by moving closer to suffering. He climbed up to share lap with screaming brother. Without a word he gently touched Leo’s shoulder, and back and forth we rocked, we three. Authentic. Messy. Wonderful.

And moments like this speak truth deeper than themselves don’t they?

A Dad, a rocking chair, a toddler and a crying baby.

But more than that, a window into what happens when we stop trying to fix each other’s pain. When we sit together, rock together, presence ourselves exactly where we are. Awake and aware.

And even here, we will find beauty.

​Even here, we will find grace.

Well, it's officially a few days into 2018. 

I'm not big on New Year's resolutions - given their tendency to lean towards super unrealistic, guilt-laden goals rather than the steady forming of small habits that can lead to lasting change,

BUT having said that, 

I do love beginnings. (I'm a 7 on the enneagram* - basically meaning I get PUMPED about starting things...even if I struggle a little more at the finishing end). 

It can be daunting thinking about how you 'begin a year', but it's a lot easier to  think about how you begin the simple gift that is the day before you. 

So, here are my personal 'secret ingredients' for starting the day well. I don't always get to do each of these, but I definitely notice the difference on the days I do.

Recently, we moved house. 

There were numerous lessons in this.

There was the confronting experience of realising just how many items we had managed to accumulate. When you load the hired truck for the fourth time and there are still odd bits and pieces left in the house that you will need to come back for tomorrow…you start disliking your stuff and asking some hard questions about why you have so much of it. ​

In the previous post, I shared 'Three things that have changed since I became a parent', reflecting on how much taking care of a tiny human can flip your world inside out. 

Everything changes. 
Well, almost everything.

Note: After posting this it was brought to my attention that this piece of writing may seem insensitive to those who have had difficult experiences on the road to becoming a parent - or who have desired parenthood but have not been able to fulfil this desire. There are many people in my close circles who have these stories, and if this is your story , I want to acknowledge your grief and loss. My story has its own scars (which I've written about in earlier posts), but it also has enormous privileges that I know are not shared by all. This is intended as a lighthearted and humorous reflection on things that may impact the decision to try and have a child, but it is not intended to make light of the difficult road this can be.

​
There's no two ways about it. 

The rumours are true.
​
Becoming responsible for a tiny human flips your life upside down,
shakes it like a snow-globe, 
waits for you to think the contents are just about to settle...
then shakes it all again.

It changes...pretty much everything.
Well, not quite everything. 

Last month I did something I don't often do. 

As in, I don't ever do. 

I read a poem I had written off my phone. In front of a crowd. And it was how I set the tone for the monthly spoken word night I host.

I have so many mental reasons why I tell myself I don't do this. 'You're a professional! Real performance poets memorise everything! People expect a certain standard from you!'

And I'm not chucking the baby out with the bathwater. There are good reasons I memorise my poems. I want to wear them like skin for the audiences I share with. I want to know I can look into people's eyes while I share what I have carved out with care. I want to be able to breathe the full life I intended into the phrases I crafted.

But, in all of those reasons, what am I saying about others? 

What am I role modelling to the student I urged to share,
even if it was just one shakey line from a phone,
even if it was just saying their name,
​even if was just sharing their breath on a stage?

I am saying I am past that. That I am bigger than that. Above that. Beyond that.

But, here and now, I am calling myself out. 

I am the student, who sometimes needs to urge myself to share,
even if it's just one shakey line from a phone,
even if it's just saying my name,
​even if it's just sharing my breath on a stage.

I'm a learner. I'm small. I'm a work in progress.

So, I did this. I took my own advice. I became vulnerable. 

I made a confession.