Thought y'all might be interested to know that I wrote a guest post for Sarah from Homeschool Authors about the top ten most influential books in my life. Click HERE if you're interested in reading it!

Betina had no idea what it was, where it had come from, or why it was there. She really shouldn't have been in the house to begin with, but it was too late now.

She had always been intrigued by the house next door. Though it was dilapidated and hadn't seen an occupant in years, its yawning doorway and watchful windows beckoned her each time she walked by.

Giving in to her curiosity at last on a Sunday afternoon, Betina finally dared to cross the threshold into the unknown beyond of the haunted-looking house. The light that made its way inside fell in shafts through the dust that hung in the air. Her feet crunched over the fallen glass from the shattered windows, and she looked down at the broken shards. Her face dimly stared back up at her through a coating of grime and she looked away, moving further into the room.

A family of mice must have taken up residence, as Betina could hear their small footsteps scurrying away when she entered the kitchen. A table lay on its side; one leg broken off, lying neglected on the floor nearby. Broken bottles were strewn everywhere from the last vagabond that had taken refuge within its walls. The young intruder wrinkled her nose at the pile of dirty rags that graced the empty fireplace. They smelled like they desperately needed some kerosene and a lit match.

On the whole, there was not much at all to see, and Betina marvelled that she had been curious about the run down old house in the first place. She turned to leave.

It was then she heard a tinkling sound, and chills swept across her skin as she stopped, turning to see where it had come from. To her right, leading off from the kitchen, she saw steps leading downward into what looked to be a cellar. However it was not the steps, nor the cellar itself that caused her to feel a cold draft up her spine - it was the eerie blue light that had fallen upon the lowest step. Something was down there - and it was glowing.

Betina took a few trembling steps towards the gaping hole in the house's rickety floor boards. The light seemed to pulse; beckoning; the sound of musical bells growing stronger. The young girl put her foot on the edge of the first step, and slowly, cautiously, descended the staircase. What would she find?


As she reached the floor of the cellar, she squinted at the source of the light, trying to see what it was. Drawing closer, the light dimmed a little and she could finally make out a silver edge that reflected around the light's perimeter. Cautiously, she moved towards it, and as the light continued to recede as she approached, Betina realized the glowing object was a mirror.

She recoiled inwardly. She had not looked into a mirror since the accident. She raised her hand instinctively to touch her cheeks and forehead - hiding behind it, as she had become accustomed to do. After that first glance upon her scarred face in the hospital during her recovery... Betina slid her eyes closed in anguish over the memory. She remembered that she had uttered a cry of horror and grief before hurling the mirror across the room; the tinkling sound of glass shattering against the wall still resonating in her ears. Never, she had sworn. Never again would she look upon the glass surface of a mirror again.

With her eyes clenched shut and her palms sweating, she turned from the glowing, ornate looking-glass, intending to return whence she had come as fast as she could; leaving the mirror and her fears behind.

“Don’t be afraid.”

Betina’s feet froze in their place at the sound of the mystic voice. Slowly, she turned her head to catch a glimpse of the bewitched mirror. The blue light was dissipating, revealing a cloudy surface of the mirror that seemed to be boiling into a steaming mass. The young woman stood transfixed by the sight of the mist that began pouring out of the glass and into the room; soft tendrils of smoky fog wafting across the floor of the basement to envelope her feet. Looking up again, Betina saw that the clouds inside the mirror had gathered together to form a blurry face; dark eyes and a solemn mouth, the only things that appeared human.

“Don’t be afraid.” It said again in a soft and breathy voice.

“W-Who are you?”

The dark eyes watched Betina intently.  “I am the mirror of the soul. I judge faces by their hearts.”

Betina dropped her gaze from the probing stare of the mirror, heat rising up her neck. Her hand rose self-consciously to her face again, tracing the familiar scars with her fingertips for the hundredth time. What was in the heart mattered not to her. She was ugly, a monster. She once was lovely to look upon, but not anymore. A tear slid down the scarred tissue and through her fingers. She would never be beautiful again.

“You are beautiful.” The silvery voice whispered softly.

“How can you say that?!” Betina shouted; her voice cracking as her throat constricted around welling tears. “Look at me!” She wrenched her hand away from her face and stood tall and defiant: facing the shame. Facing the fear - the truth - of her reflection.

The smoky face had faded, and her own face stared back at her. The deep slashing scars across her forehead and cheeks stood out starkly, casting shadows across the unmarred skin. The patches of burnt flesh destroyed what little had remained of her distinguishable features, rending her entire face completely disfigured and hideous to look upon. Only her eyes gazed back at her for a split second - fear and abhorrence unmasked.

She couldn’t bear it. With an anguished cry, she bent over and scooped up a shard of metal before advancing towards the glowing mirror. Choking back tears, Betina raised the metal shard, intending to smash the mocking reflection beyond repair. Slamming her free hand upon the surface to hold it still, she lifted her clenched weapon in the other, forcing herself to stare back into her own tortured eyes before their destruction -

But as she paused, something strange began to happen to her appearance in the glass. Her hideous disfigurements began to fade as the tendrils of mist slowly enveloped her reflection; fingers of fog reaching out and erasing the scars of cuts and burns. The patchy-coloured blemishes were replaced with smooth clear skin, tinged with a perfect rosy pink. Her eyes widened, and she saw her pretty duplicate’s mouth open with surprise; perfect full lips round with wonder. She was beautiful – the way she had been before the accident.

Betina glanced around and spied a glass hanging from the ceiling of the cellar. She moved forward slightly to peer into its dull surface. No, she realized. The mirror lied. She was still ugly.

“But this is not your face,” The mirror spoke softly. “This is your heart.”

Betina looked again at the mirror’s stunning image of her. “It doesn’t matter,” she whispered brokenly. “No one can see my heart.”

“Yes, they can. If you be just what you were created to be, your heart’s beauty will shine out of your face, regardless of the scars. And this is the unfading beauty; a gentle and quiet spirit that nothing can hide.”

The young woman let her hand fall to rest against her heart, feeling its gentle pounding against her fingers. A soft voice, a wisp of memory floated through her mind: you are precious and honoured in My sight… I love you.

As her heart swelled in an unexplainable way, Betina reached out and touched her reflection in the glass; the smooth mirror cool beneath her fingertips. The image changed, and she saw her real self - scars and all - in different places: serving people, loving the unlovable, using her gifts for good causes. She saw herself giving of her time and her money to those who needed it. She saw herself smile through the scars as she handed a piece of candy to a hospitalized child. Here she was baking a meal. Folding laundry. Delivering groceries. And throughout it all, her eyes were shining with the joy of giving, her face alight in a way she never realized. She barely even noticed the scars. She was beautiful... in a way the face could never be on its own. Truth dawning, she let out an amazed breath, and smiled freely, ecstatically. How beautiful was the Spirit inside of her heart!

The mirror suddenly reverted to a simple looking-glass, the mystic blue fog dissipating and seeping out of the room, Betina’s stark reflection staring back at her plainly beneath the palms of her hands.

The scars were still there, same as always. Yet the stillness of the now quiet room seemed to trickle into her soul, and as she gazed into her own eyes, Betina saw a peace fill her face;  the fear and shame vanishing. She smiled again, and the mirror glowed back. Throwing back her head, she laughed out loud. Raising her hands to the sky, she danced in the cellar and the blinding magic light, the sound of bells filling the air.

She was loved... and she was beautiful.

She knew summer was here, but that didn't stop her throwing open the sliding door to the outdoors and letting it blast her in the face.

Stepping outside and closing the door behind her, she squinted in the harsh, overly orange sunlight. Summer was a messy conglomeration of sights, scents, textures, and sounds. The powdery dust of the backyard that, once over the winter had been a green grassy velvet, coated her feet and puffed up in small clouds with each step she took. The hot westerly wind scorched her cheeks and blew dust into her eyes as if someone had just opened an enormous fan-forced oven somewhere and let the escaping air flood across the Australian landscape.

Trees bent and swayed, moaning as the wind tore at them; their leaves not shiny, but matte with the layer of dust that clung to their sappy greenery. Trudging through the blowing dust and thin spindly remains of what had been backyard lawn, she opened the gate and turned the corner of the house where she finally felt the full brunt of the gale. Magpies in the bush across the road continued to sing above the roar, and cicadas - the sirens of summer - shouted their guttural croaky rattle back at them. Walking through the tall brown grass, she felt intensely aware of her bare feet. Snakes are a common enemy in summer, and every slithery sound in the grass and every scuttle among the pebbles made her jump. It all sounded like summer.

The scent on the breeze was full of dry heat, bruised gum leaves, eucalyptus and smoke. Yes, smoke. Shading her eyes as she gazed into the distance, she could see rising billows on the horizon. Sadly, not clouds. Bushfire season was in full swing, and should could imagine the crackling rush as the out-of-control flames engulfed paddocks full of tinder brush and dry grass, hungrily consuming everything - and everyone - that stood in its path.

The Australian outback is a fierce place during the summer. Its dry hardened soil, browned trees, and intense sunlight that burns your skin so rapidly you feel you are under a magnifying glass is not for the faint-hearted in the least. But there is a rugged beauty in it. If the fires weren't so devastating for families and animals, and the heat such a toil to work in, she could almost love the wildness of it. She could feel the magic...

When tremendous storms roll in over the distant mountains at the close of day; lightning rending the air, and thunder cracking overhead, whilst the wind threatens to tear you from your feet and fling you into the sky; the trees whistling and singing in the almost frightening gale. When the sun goes down and leaves brilliant red streaks that illumines the appearing stars, and the purple-blue dusk of the night bends down to meet it. Somehow the smell of smoke that lingers on the air with the scent of twilight, and the gumtrees; the feel of the earth cooling beneath your feet, and the wind dying to a sweet whisper that ruffles your hair; the chirping of the crickets, a lone dog barking and the warbling greeting of the Willy-Wagtails: all of it becomes such an engulfing and entrancing experience that all she can do, is stand in that intrinsic peace and harmony of God's incredible nature, and soak it in.

Jacob and I at the studio

Curt and Jo

For Father's Day, our church pastor asked if I would give a five minute message on what God's Father heart means to me. Though the day was all about honouring our earthly fathers, my pastor wished for the focus of the message to be centered on how God is our ultimate Father. Since a couple of people expressed an interest in what I ended up speaking about, I thought I would post the notes I read from (I apologize that they are a little stiff and stilted, since I wanted to have the freedom to expand on these points without sounding like I was reading from a script).


I came up with a list of characteristics about God's heart that meant the most to me. So to begin with, God's Father heart is firstly -

1. Just and merciful.

God is fair and just; He corrects the misdirected, and sends them in the right direction. (Psalm 25:8 MSG)

God's discipline is always warranted. I know I needn't fear He is correcting me out of spite, because He is offended or wants to make me feel guilty, but I can be confident He has my best interest at heart and my ultimate good in mind.

 His chastening as a Father is never unfair, and is always beneficial with lasting value.

"Everything You do, You do because you love me." - Evan Almighty

2. Guides me faithfully when I seek Him.

In all your ways acknowledge Him, And He shall direct your paths. (Proverbs 3:6 NKJV)

God is my Father, and He didn't bring me into this world and leave me without direction. He has a plan and purpose for my life and He is always ready and willing to guide me when I seek Him.

He is never forceful with His wisdom, but allows me the freedom to ask it of Him, and I know as I press into Him, He will fulfil what He wills in me through His continued guidance.

I can always trust His Word to be true and relevant in my life. God uses people close to me to speak His words when I need to hear them, and although it's easy to be uncertain about an unknown future, knowing the One who holds it gives me confidence to live fully each day.

3. Protective of me

The Lord is on my side; I will not fear. What can man do to me? (Psalm 118:6 NKJV)

God is my protector. He is always with me, no matter the circumstance or situation. I love knowing that He holds my life - being, my soul and spirit - and nothing man can do can ever take me from His hand. Though we may face tribulation in this world, with God as our heavenly Father, He will protect us and bring us into eternity perfected.

We are troubled on every side, yet not distressed; we are perplexed, but not in despair; Persecuted, but not forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed. (2 Corinthians 4:8, 9 KJV)

4. Loves me perfectly always.

We have known and believed the love that God has for us. God is love, and he who abides in love abides in God, and God in him. (I John 4:16 NKJV)

There is no fear in love; but perfect love casts out fear. (I John 4:18a NKJV)

My love is flawed, and I can find it so easy to hold grudges, be unforgiving or judgemental. My love can be selfish and careless, but God's love never is.

God's love for me as a Father is perfect and complete, and I never have to be worried that anything I may do will separate me from that love.

Though people may fail me, and though I may be hurt or wounded by others, knowing God will never turn me away but will always be as the prodigal's Father with His arms open wide for me to run home to Him brings an indescribable peace to my heart.

When I become doubtful of God's goodness, or am unsure of Who He is, based on what I see in the people around me, God reminds me that He alone is perfect, and that I can't let my perception of Him be clouded by the bad things I see around me, or by the way we may have been treated. Our God is greater and higher than any other, and through His Word, His splendorous creation, and the sacrifice of His Son, He proves just how great and how perfect that love is.

This is what makes God my Father to me.
~

"How about a hug, instead? That's the best kind of magic!"  

- Merlin, Shrek the 3rd 

Cue much evil chuckling and rubbing of the hands together. It's one of those awkward topics again! The old "to hug or not to hug" argument is so widely debated between Christians that it has evolved into a full blown issue, often ingeniously and successfully dividing the entire Church into gender categorized boxes. No climbing out! So long as the distance between the boxes are just close enough for you to reach across the abyss and shake your fellow man's hand, you're safe. But beyond that - no way, no pushing, running or diving, do not pass go, do not collect $200.

Why all this awkwardness?

Okay, I'll be serious now.

To be serious, I can understand the conflict between both of the hug or not-to-hug sides. There are many people who - plain and simple - are not huggy people. They may still receive physical touch well, such as a handshake, a pat on the back, a stroke on the arm, or even a shoulder charge from a friend, but not hugs. It's just not the way they communicate.

Other non-huggers may find the physical contact with people of the opposite gender awkward, uncomfortable or just plain wrong. Thus, girls will hug girls, but not guys, or vice versa. Which is also understandable, since different things effect our boundaries in different ways.

The still other non-hugger type is the kind that just don't know how to respond since they weren't brought up with it (in which case, it is possible for these types to warm up to hugs. No pun intended).

On the flip side of the coin, there can be weird huggy people. There are some who are just plain creepy, which makes it clearly understandable why non-huggers exist. Others are far too exuberant, and take the entire definition of "glomp" way too seriously. Whilst still others simply... don't know how to hug properly, and just make the entire manoeuvre very awkward.

All of these points are fine for the most part, but for huggy people like me, it's no end of a nightmare. Hugs to me are neutral. I'm aware that they can be perverted, however like most bad things in the world, they all originated from something good God created. Hugs are no exception, and I think a lot of Christians have boxed them up with the bad, (or at least labelled them out with a "better safe than sorry" motto) and thrown the proverbial baby out with the bathwater. I beg to differ. I think hugs are wonderful, and are sorrowfully neglected these days.

This being true of me, greetings are never complete unless I've hugged you, simple. But since I always want to respect you in my greeting, I don't always do it because I'm not sure if you like hugs or not. I may extend a hand somewhat awkwardly, and shake your hand. You might smile back befuddled as to why I'm standing there tongue-tied and bent a little at the waist like a half opened pocket knife. Farewells are even worse, because I've gotten to know you better by now, and I wish to express my appreciation for you with a hug. My mind races around in crazy scared circles sometimes hours before anticipating a greeting or goodbye: Should I just go up and hug them to say hello, or would that shock them? I've spent some time with you, but I still can't work out how you'd react to a hug. Would you hug back, or would you freeze up, making me feel even more embarrassed and awkward? Would you take it as a forward gesture? Would others read things into this that aren't even there? But if I shake your hand and you're ready for a hug, I'll make things just as stiff and awkward, as though I really don't care about you. What do I do?! 

You see, hugs are a big part of the way I communicate. If I'm happy to see you, I hug you. If I love you, I hug you. If you're hurting, I gently hug you tight. If you're happy, I excitedly hug you. If I'm meeting you for the first time, a hug expresses my openness, acceptance and pleasure at being introduced to you. Hugs are inclusive for me, anything else is exclusive and translates - in my mind - that I simply don't care. This isn't to say that I'm all over you like a rash at any given moment, that would just be woefully out of place (not to mention creepy). But greetings and farewells, those are the biggies (or if I see you genuinely crying, sorry, I pretty much don't care who you are, you're getting a hug).



I sincerely believe that every human being needs physical touch (even you, yes, the one who's denying it right now). We are physical beings, and if you aren't familiar with the five love languages as pinned down by Gary Chapman, "Physical touch" is one of them. Though it may not be everyone's primary method for receiving love from another, it is still a deeply rooted need that I believe every person has, no matter how small. This is proven by the fact I know several people who came from rather loveless homes that have converted to liking hugs from being adverse to any physical contact growing up. I also recently heard of an experiment done in Russia some time ago that if a baby was raised with only their physical needs met, such as food, clothing, etc. without any affectionate touch whatsoever, they died. Makes me wonder how many teens and adults are out there dying for a hug. Literally.

People form an opinion on hugs based on what they mean to them. So, what do hugs mean to you? Think about it. Are they expressions of love, encouragement, appreciation, greeting, or are they awkward, uncomfortable, or threatening because of past experiences?

God created hugs, and I think they are an amazing expression of love and appreciation. It always saddens me to see people refuse a genuine hug, because they really don't understand what they mean in the way God designed them. I am often grieved that tragic experiences may have destroyed this intrinsic gift God gave to humanity. Whilst you're thinking about what a hug means to you, think also of how they could mean to you. Pushing past your awkwardness and/or fears, and embracing the full meaning of a hug the way God created them (also no pun intended) could help rewrite you some wonderful memories, and break down barriers that may have built up inside your heart. It may give you a release from your past experiences, or at the very least, teach you how to love others who desperately need physical touch.

In a world so based on text, voice and video, the actual physicalness of pure loving is becoming harder to find. Many teens and young adults express their feelings of depression and loneliness only through the safety of a screen, yet shrink from any open physical affection. On the other end of the scale, any physical touch under the label of "love" these days can be more accurately called "lust", as this immoral perversion of what God sanctified leaves people feeling all the more empty and unloved. Don't you think we may have taken our boundary markings a little too far? Are we protecting ourselves so successfully that we are neglecting to love the way Jesus calls us to? Could the gentle touch of a goodhearted person do more for someone than mere words?

So that was a bit deep. Though I am aware that this barely scratches the surface of reasons behind a lot of people's opinions, my main reason for this ranty post was to share my thoughts on hugs and perhaps raise awareness of humanity's need for this kind of love, especially within the church. We are brothers and sisters in Christ, and we are going to spend eternity together! So whilst ever it's proper, why don't we practise the heavenly gift of greeting each other with a warm hug before we get there?

In conclusion, let it be known: this Aussie loves hugs! When you come visit me, come with open arms, because I won't have any awkward handshakes for you! Here's an e-hug for all you faithful readers -

For the sake of those loyal followers who may - or may not - still read my blog, I'm here to announce that -

- I'm back!

From a long unintended break, I aim to resume my regular(ish) blogging, and to kick that off, I'm launching my business page. Yep! That shiny button up there with the ridiculously corny spelling that you might have tried clicking every time you visited? It works now. So if you're needing to make an official enquiry of me in order to create you a piece of would-be awesomeness, you're in luck! There's a nice little form over there for you to submit your questions through, and I'll be more than happy to get back to you and talk turkey.

On top of that, I have another announcement to make: I'm holding a writing contest very soon! Yes, another one, pretty much the same as last time, in which you must write a short story of 1-2k words long to a song that has been voted for by the good folks over at HolyWorlds. I expect plenty of entries, so I thought I'd give y'all a good heads up so you're prepped and ready for the official post with the rules and regulations and whatnot that will be up soon. So sharpen your pencils, flex your typing fingers! I want my inbox full of inspiration!

Also, if you are feeling particularly generous with me, I have some shinies for you all! If you like my work, my blog, or you like me (by which I would be very flattered indeed) feel free to snaffle one of these buttons to post on your own site. Directing traffic my way would be an enormous help to my getting this business off the ground, and you'd have my eternal gratitude and a mountain of virtual cupcakes every time you visit if you do!

(To add either of these buttons, copy the code, and paste it into a HTML gadget on your blog)


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Well, that's about it by way of an update. Thankyou for reading, and keep an eye out for future posts. I have a couple of poems and short stories coming soon, also another "out there" article as well, so stay tuned!

Sometimes I despise myself. I hear how I sound, watch how I act, and see the way I look. I wonder that anyone can bear to put up with me... my vagueness, stupidity and ignorance. The bumbling way I talk, my horrid laugh and my clumsy actions. People... what do they see? Am I merely tolerated? People on the street: am I just a silly, shy girl not worth their time? ... Losing people I counted as friends only now to be ignored by them... I really must be so disagreeable. People online are kind, but they only know text and a face. I'm certain, none would truly like who I really am... I fail my family consistently in countless ways. I feel I've done nothing worthwhile with my life, and I honestly don't know where God wants me to go from here. My faith is faltering and weak, doubts wreak havoc as I cling to Him, the only One I know Who will never leave me and will always love me. Tears make my jaw ache as I try to suppress them. I am tired, and just wish faith could be easy, then I feel guilty to think about all those so much worse off than I. Those who love me in my life, I wonder, do they really know the messed up person I can be inside?
-- My Journal, dated 27th May, 2013.

So begins the blog post of my unmasking.

This year, God's quest for me sounded simple: discover who you are. Since I've always considered myself a very simple and uncomplicated person, one would assume this task should have been easy. I have no past to speak of, I have the most amazing parents I could ever ask for, awesome siblings, a wonderful home, and an all round blissful life. This adventure should have been a walk in the park.

It hasn't been.

In fact, by far it has been one of the most deeply trying challenges I have yet encountered. I have learnt that one should not write/blog about the things they have discovered, because it does not mean they have learnt it at all. Far from it. It only proves to God that you are now ready to learn it. So we could say, this journey may have really gotten started after I wrote the article that became one of my most popular blog posts. Since then, I have been on a learning curve that has gone through many valleys, and over many mountains. It seemed as though God opened my heart like a clock, bare cogs and dials staring out, stark and uncovered; doubts and misgivings stripped bare and brought into the light. My follow up post on boycotting the masquerade was a nightmare to write, taking me many weeks, even after beginning it. Every time I sat down to write, the words simply would not come. Satan whispered in my ear every time I thought about it. "Hypocrite," he hissed. And I conceded; he was right. For the very thing I was going through at the time was exactly what I was writing against. I honestly didn't feel up to writing a blog post on not hiding your failures, or challenging people not to "hide behind a perfect front", and to not listen to insecurities, because I was feeling them. See my above journal entry again, if you need further proof.

Even whilst I was in the midst of dealing with this self-worth issue, God wouldn't stop reminding me. Just when I think I've mastered the art of seeing myself the way God truly sees me, I am disappointed by sad memories of bygone friends, or I'm hit by a wave of loneliness out of the blue, or I read something that challenges me again. And again. And again. Good friends in the blogging world, David and Lisa, both gave me huge nudges from God (without realizing it), and I finally figured: if they could be brave enough to do so, then I, who write about this stuff and tells it to everyone all the time, should also be brave enough.

You see, I have this mentality where I believe everything I say - for you. Yet somehow, I find it so much more difficult to live out myself. In boycotting the masquerade, I was totally preaching to myself the whole way through. And it's hard. It's hard to remember the truth in a world full of lies. It's hard to be real in a world full of fakes. If you don't believe me, you should, because I'm there; right now. More often than not, the battle is a constant thing in my mind, to remember, to recall, everything God sees in me, and not what others do. Some days I'll be going great guns. I know I'm loved by an incredible God, and He is all I need, and He's doing awesome things in me. Other days... Yeah. Just look at that first paragraph again.

So I'm removing my mask. I never thought I wore one, but it turns out, I still do carry it in my back pocket for a rainy day. What am I without it? Well, I'm not always this bright, bubbly, ever optimistic, big Bible discussion nut that people may think I am.

I fail. Often. I get so impatient so easily, and over the littlest things. I vent my frustration on my siblings, and lose my temper. I can be terribly sarcastic, and find it easy to mock.

I get lazy. I go at a job to get it done, and sometimes I get sidetracked and waste so many minutes or hours on something that doesn't amount to anything at all.

At times I feel ashamed by how often I appear so "spiritual" and Godly, yet my faith goes through so many deserts and dry places, and I hate that sometimes the things I say come out from force of habit, rather than sold out conviction. I rush my mornings, and hurry my Bible readings, and I seem to forget everything I read the second I leave my room. I fall into bed at night with a murmured prayer and a guilty heart, and yearn to do better in the morning, only often to repeat the same process again. I remember that my walk with God is a relationship, and wonder why He still sticks by a friend like me.

I like to think I'm strong, and confess it loudly. I listen to the many pains and struggles of others, offer virtual hugs, advice and encouragement, even whilst I might be suffering from a woeful head cold or a discouraged soul. Yet I - in my "strength" - rarely ever share my struggles with friends because I'm meant to be "there for them to lean on".

I am easily offended. I claim to have thick skin, and generally I do. But any hurtful comment against me or my character goes deeply within me, and I never forget it. Satan replays it at full volume in my brain whenever I feel low.

I feel like I am never doing enough, or what I'm doing isn't what I'm supposed to be doing. I'm sitting at the computer right now looking at the time and feeling guilty because I should be in bed. I get so much self-worth out of hard work, yet I tell everyone you can't earn God's favour. What's up with that?

I am not a good friend. That's what I tell myself. I don't make time for people, in my constant busyness. The times I do spend with them are hurried, in amongst my trying to listen and encourage. I hate feeling under par when it comes to caring for people, because it's also what I'm most passionate about. Helping people. Yet I fail to achieve even that to my satisfaction.

I find it difficult to trust people. As I have frequently shared with my Mum - who alone, I truly have the strongest heart tie with - I feel like I am a friend to many, but I myself have very few friends. Having loved and lost people before, I automatically expect that friends will never remain; they are to be held like butterflies in an open hand, and someday, they will fly away. I have trained myself not to need people, and I feel guilty over my heartlessness. Yet at the same time, I cherish my friends and mourn for them when they are gone.

I feel like a walking paradox. Because although I read over what I have just written and recognize which points are lies from satan, my flesh still desires to believe it, and hide it. My fingers are itching on the keyboard right now to go up and edit parts out of my journal entry, and amend my confessions. I don't want to appear weak! I don't want to appear as someone who fails, and falls short; I don't want people to think I need them at times, or need encouragement; that would surely damage how I help people - isn't that the reason people come to me, for love and care, because I'm so strong and invincible?

Nada.

If they come to me, it's because of God. Not me. Funny how hiding our flaws is pride.

Pride. Pride, pride, pride. This is the characteristic I despise in humanity the most. I loath, and abhor it. It riles me to no end to see people so puffed up with it to the point they cannot show compassion on their fellow man because they are so much "holier than thou". Yet what does that say about me? I am prideful. I don't wish anyone to know my weaknesses. I wish to appear strong and confident; a pillar of wisdom and a sea of compassion and encouragement. What a farce. The revelation that this desire not to appear weak is rooted in pride has broken upon my realization like a kick to the stomach. My strength and wisdom without God's? The idea is laughable, yet I try to live like it.

How much I identify with Paul.

But there is another power within me that is at war with my mind. This power makes me a slave to the sin that is still within me. Oh, what a miserable person I am! Who will free me from this life that is dominated by sin and death? Thank God! The answer is in Jesus Christ our Lord. So you see how it is: In my mind I really want to obey God’s law, but because of my sinful nature I am a slave to sin.
- Romans 7:23-25 NLT

Wretched person that I am in these moments of weakness, I sigh to myself. I feel so much less "Christian" in the times I want to sit down and quit. But wait - what else did Paul say about these moments?

But He said to me, My grace (My favor and loving-kindness and mercy) is enough for you [sufficient against any danger and enables you to bear the trouble manfully]; for My strength and power are made perfect (fulfilled and completed) and show themselves most effective in [your] weakness. Therefore, I will all the more gladly glory in my weaknesses and infirmities, that the strength and power of Christ (the Messiah) may rest (yes, may pitch a tent over and dwell) upon me!
- 2 Cor. 12:9 AMP (emphasis mine)

Huh. Would you look at that. It seems to me, that should I want to give God the greatest glory and the most room in my life, I ought to boast in my weaknesses. After all, if I'm boasting in my strength, what is there to boast about? Nothing at all. I can't do anything by myself. But God - Oh, those incredible, unfathomably awe-inspiring words! - God can use my weaknesses and display His amazing, fantastic power through them, transforming me into something I could never have seen in my fits of low spirits, bad temper, or hasty impatience.

Do you know, I did no research at all for this post. Aside from taking that hideous passage from my journal, I sat here and wrote the whole thing in one stint, feeling strangely as though it were really God with the keyboard, writing me a lesson to read. The discovery of my pride, the new understanding He has brought to me through those Scriptures... Do you have any idea how good the God is you serve? The same God whom I serve?

This God who knows all of this about me - and much, much more - yet He chooses to cherish me as the apple of His eye; that His smile is continually upon me and His thoughts turn towards me more times than all the sand. I did nothing to deserve this love. This perfect love. Why should I be so consumed by my imperfection, when I can receive this perfect love in spite of it? Doesn't that really make your problems shrink? Doesn't that just make you feel small? God knows you inside and out, back to front, yet He loves you! He loves me!

I drink up my own realization, and the words run like a stream through the desert of my own heart. Though tears sting my eyes, I feel bold, reckless, courageous. Who cares about weaknesses when you've got the strongest God in heaven who loves you and is perfecting you, each and every day? I've not arrived, but praise God I've left. I am a weak person, but I have a strong God. Care to walk with me to His gates?

'Is there anyone that fails?
Is there anyone that falls?
Am I the only one in church today
Feeling so small?'

 -- Stained Glass Masquerade, Casting Crowns

Our leaky rowboat turned out to be beached, so I made use of it.

I had fun throwing feathers in the water and watching them blow to the other side.

Gumleaves.

This short story was inspired by some recent conversations and written for a friend, however I do know quite a number of people who have also dealt with this issue, including myself. As you may already be aware via one of my latest blog posts, this is a subject I am most passionate about. Many of the Christians I know today struggle in one or more areas of insecurity, and my heart sincerely goes out to them with overwhelming compassion. To be completely honest with you, no one has any idea how much it pains me to learn that my fellow siblings in Christ feel insecure about the way they were made. I so wish I could wrap each and everyone these people in a big hug and tell them that they're awesome. If you are reading this, please let me assure you, right now, from the bottom of my soul - you are amazing. You are wonderful, cherished, treasured, and loved, just the way God made you, flaws and all. The Lord is doing a new thing in you; He is making you the best "you" you can be, and He values you more than life! I pray this story blesses you.


The allure of the switchboard was tantalizing.

Its shining array of buttons and dials made my fingers twitch with anticipation and temptation. What did all of them do? What function did they perform, and for what purpose did they exist? I would soon find out.

For many years, this expansive board of switches had been kept under my master’s most vigilant guard and – for a time – I had had no questions or doubts in my mind concerning it. The master always kept everything in perfect running order, and every one of the dials, switches and buttons were in their correct place. However as the years went by, I grew restless in my lot as his assistant. Helping was one thing, but knowing how the machines worked was another.

To be sure, I could keep their hydraulics oiled, and their outsides rust free. I could mend broken bolts and rewire minor circuitry. But I knew nothing about how these monstrosities were made, how they were run, and what their purposes were. I wanted to know, so I asked.

“I’m the only one who can know,” the master told me. “If I’m in control, you’ve no need to worry.”

But that was not enough for me. I wanted to be in control, I wanted to understand the way my master did.

So one day, whilst the master was attending to business elsewhere in the factory, I slipped my stolen key into the lock and opened the switchboard door. Peeking through the opening, I peered into the room. There was the switchboard – a glittering bank of controls humming quietly, all alone. Tingling with excitement, I approached the glowing panel of tiny lights, trying to decide just how I would run the machines all by myself.

Sitting down at the bench, I pulled the chair up close to examine the labels beneath all of the dials. I frowned at them. Some were listed under “personality”, others under “character” and still more beneath “Likes & Dislikes”. These bizarre labels confused me, and I puzzled over what they could mean. What kind of things such as these did mere machines need in order to be run? What exactly were these machines I helped to maintain?

For a brief moment I hesitated. Maybe the master really did know how best to run everything correctly… But curiosity overpowered my conscience, for I had come too far now to leave without discovering what some of these switches would do. Picking “humour” under “Personality”, I flipped the switch off, and watched the light die behind it. That seemed like a safe choice. I also switched off “shyness” and “generous”. I glanced down a list of knobs to my left, and noticed some dials set to varying degrees of high and low. Picking “confidence”, I twisted the knob all the way up to the highest setting with a sense of satisfaction. Confidence never went astray, did it? I became bolder, and flipped more switches, watching the lights die behind “humility” and “joy”. What did a machine need with those, anyway?

As I single-mindedly worked away at my task, I failed to notice a small screen light up on the opposite wall of the room. A wavering line tracked a slow course across the face of the glowing panel, and – with every switch I flipped – the line became more and more jagged; its erratic path taking on a hint of desperation as it did. I was unaware of it though, and I continued to recklessly alter apparently insignificant buttons and dials that I was certain the machines could not possibly need.

It was then a shrieking alarm suddenly blared from behind me, and I jumped out of my chair to turn and see a flashing light above the panel in the opposite wall.  The raucous alarm continued to blare and I knew that I should make my escape before I was discovered, but my eyes caught something familiar on the screen, and I stepped towards it to examine it more closely. As the red bulb pulsed its dull light across my face, I squinted at the writing displayed. With a jolt of shock, I realized that the recognizable words on the screen were my own name. It was flashing urgently, and the crooked line weaved all over the screen like a deranged heartbeat monitor. What had I done?

Suddenly a heavy hand fell upon my shoulder, and I cringed beneath it, knowing instantly who it was. I turned, and the master looked down at me sadly before moving to the switchboard. With the greatest of care, he readjusted all of the switches I had moved until the alarm finally died, filling the room with a dreadful silence I couldn’t bear.

“Why was it flashing my name?” I whispered meekly.

He looked at me quietly for a moment. “Because you changed yourself.”

I stared. “What – myself?  I thought I was controlling the machines–”

“The machines are merely metaphors – representations – of the different parts of who you are.” He walked to a window next to the switchboard and lifted the shade. I drew near and peered out. I gasped at the sight of a large metal monstrosity that was seething voluminous amounts of steam and smoke. Beyond it, I could see several smaller machines that were leaking oil, had radiators overheating, or had otherwise crashed into each other causing all manner of wreckage to their exteriors.

“They are… me?” I squeaked. “Why didn’t I feel it?”

“You would have, in time. You see,” the master explained, “each facet and intricate piece of you I designed a specific way for a specific purpose. The same way every part of these machines need to be designed exactly so to make them run smoothly, so you also need everything I have given you to live this life effectively.” He smiled a little.  “Remember when you chose me? I allowed you to work with me in honing those very parts of you to their fullest potential. But you wanted control I couldn’t give you.”

I hung my head, and let my gaze fall to my feet. “Why not?” My voice came out in a defeated, yet still accusing whisper.

“If I asked you to get into a vehicle you didn’t know how to drive and asked you to go to a place you’d never heard of, would you get there?”

Understanding began to dawn on me. “No,” I replied quietly.

The master ran his hand gently over the knobs and switches on the bank of dials. “I know how to drive,” He said softly, “and I know where your life is going. But if I told you how to do it yourself, the magnitude of the task would surely daunt you, and you would be unable to stay the course on your own.”

He continued. “Your place on this earth, your purpose, the way you were made; I designed uniquely for you. Changing yourself, and straying from who I created you to be only impedes your performance.” He pointed at the now quietly glowing line upon the screen that had been flashing my name moments before. “You cannot be who I created you to be if you turn your switches off. You cannot fulfil the destiny I have planned for you without everything I have put in you, the way I set them to be. The alarm sounded because your life had gotten off course.”

I watched the slow line, and silently thought over what the master had told me, deeply wondering in my heart about myself, and who I was inside. There were many things I so wished I could change in me… I hated that I was often shy, or that my joyful spirit often came across as silly or childish. I didn’t like my lack of confidence that always left me feeling insecure and doubtful about myself, and I loathed my self-centeredness that so frequently chose to overlook the needs of others. I longed to be more outgoing, or the kind of person who found it easy to be sensible and mature.

“Why… couldn’t I be more like I want to be?” I whispered, a single tear rolling down my face.

He smiled. “Because then you wouldn’t be you. I don’t need another someone else.”

I couldn’t help but smile a little. He was always telling me I was special because I was the only one of me.

“Do I have a purpose, just the way I am?” I asked, still seeking reassurance about myself.

The master’s eyes sparkled. “A most glorious one, haven’t I always said so?”

He had. I marvelled how I could have doubted the maker who had made me the way I was. Did not the maker know his creation better than anyone else – better than the creation itself?

I still puzzled over the things in myself that I felt weren’t right; my character traits and sinful habits that I knew were far from perfect... Were they a part of me too?

“Can I be a better ‘me’, and still be who I was created to be?” I so wanted to be more than I was. Not different… but the best me I could be.

His soft chuckle made me look up. “Only if you’re willing to let me drive, and let me help you become all you are destined to be.” He lifted his hand and held out an oil can with a loving smile. “And – if you’re willing to assist me.”

Joy filled my heart as I looked into his eyes – the eyes of my master. Who better to trust with who I was, and where my life was going? Had he not proven himself over and over again? Profound gratitude flooded my soul, and I felt something release inside me; relief washing over me as I reached out and took the can with shining eyes. “I am willing.”

We both left the switchboard room together, and I didn’t look back as the master closed and locked the door behind him.


There are some parts of our lives that need the rust scraped off them; some parts that need oiling, other parts that need replacing. There are those intricate pieces that need polishing so that they will function at peak performance, and there are other parts of our lives that are have been shattered and deeply buried; brokenness that affects our entire lives and must be rooted out and mended before our lives can run on track again.
There are some rooms in our lives that need de-cluttering:  rooms that need scrubbing, dusting, sweeping, or rooms that simply need to be lived in. There are rooms that need the shades to be lifted so that the Light can shine in; rooms that need to be prepared and ready for the future. But some rooms – like the switchboard room – should never be entered by anyone but the Master. He alone knows the right settings that will achieve our purpose in life, and only He knows the way home.