Jeff Healy's dead?????????

My goodness - and I almost killed him mysef over 15 years ago!!

Wow.

Jeff Healy, seminal Toronto rock god and blind guitar great, apparently died in March of this year.

Nobody told me.

I was young, gorgeous, talented (ahhh... the delusions of youth!) and had just written the core songs for my debut album "Open Heart and Cautionary Tales". Of all of them, "Jericho" was my favourite musically, "Shine" lyrically; "By the Sea" harmonically and I just really liked "My name is Jack" because it was a complete Sinead O'Connor rip off, and while I could sing it, I was no Sinead O'Connor.

No, I was sane.

But I digress.

I took the album (recorded at GREAT expense at 3am at the studio used by Toronto's famous-ish "Pardon Beggars") to David Bendeth, then the A&R rep at BMG Music. His father had been our family doctor and friend since I was born, and his sister sold fancy perfume, as I recall.

Well, Dave had wonderful feedback for me, and gave me advice I will never forget: "You suck" was the essential nature of his criticism, and he was right; yet, oddly I left his office tears.

Go figger.

BMG was located in Toronto right at the corner of Queen St. and Much Music (who knows, or cares, what the intersection was, except for the fact that there's a rather nice crepe shop on the opposite corner now.)

Furious with David's lack of vision (hell, he was only the discoverer of the Cowboy Junkies) I ran headlong across the street in the rain into the donut shop to call my then lover, musical collaborator and friend, Patrick, to blame him for my existence, among other things. But there was someone in the way at the intersection. I shoved him brutally aside in my haste to make my phonecall and purchase a double sprinkle Maple Wonder glazed donut; and lo and behold, the b@stard I had shoved into traffic was none other than Jeff Healy - no doubt on his way to see David "You Don't Get It" Bendeth.

Wow.

Small world, huh????

:-D

They are just made of sugar, aren't they??

In a place as "rural" as Samford, wildlife abounds.

We have possums sleeping in the balconies, crows and noisy miner birds handling the lunch morning tea clean-up, wild dogs hunting down and mangling local sheep and horses, and feral cats living in the school drains.

Anyone who knows cats knows they don't like being wet; and today we had a flash thunderstorm. The drains began to overflow, and that brought out the feral kittens in force. They huddled miserably in the drains, hiding in the barely concealed pipes, whingeing and moaning about the wet; and attracting hordes of our young students, eager to know what was making that pathetic mewling sound under the storm grate.

When I first started at Samford, we had a bit of an adventure with our fera cat population: a kitten became trapped under the building housing the infirmary, and eventually the wainscotting had to be ripped off to gain access to the wee thing. The story does, of course, have a happy ending as the kitten was adopted by a specialist teacher; but the wilderness adventure at our school goes on...

As a cat lover, and one who has lived with over 4 kitties at a time, I am at once concerned about the feral cat population at school, and reassured that they are doing just fine. But today, during the sudden and violent rainstorm, the local cats rebelled and attracted quite a bit of attention to themselves.

The kids at school, particularly our grade 5 class (the one outside which the drain in question is located) adopted a whining, well-concealed kitten as their "cause celebre".

In fact, they even lowered a TOY into the drain, stuffed with ham and cheese:






I have to say, these kids at school are a loving, caring bunch of monsters........

Safety First!

Signage is so important at a school the size of Samford....


...and the Frankensteins are particularly vocal, as they walk everywhere..........

Ahhh, the country life!

Last weekend was "the Samford Show". Its what in New Zealand (I am told) is called a "P&A" show (a pastoral and agricultural show). Despite the fact that having a Chaplaincy presence there meant that I have been working every day since school resumed a week ago last Monday, the show was great fun.

Some of the highlights for me were the entertainment (naturally):

There's almost nothing a woman enjoys more than the delicate strains of a massed pipe and drum tattoo at 8:30 on a Saturday morning is there? Well, maybe sparkly nailpolish, but don't quote me on that....

Then there were the competitions. I don't know about you, but I have never seen a prize winning zucchini before. And, if, like me, you too are new to the world of competitive vegetabulary, allow me to share....


How awesome. How rare! So THIS is what a gold-medal zucchini looks like!!


Then there were the champion citrus fruits:




And of course, Mrs.Robertson's prize-winning ginger cookies:




I have to admit, I have no idea why the judges were so hard on these custard apples, but I can only share the pain they must feel at having been damned with the faint praise of an "honourable mention"


Did they say something wrong? Were they the underdog - training in secret and praying for glory but falling short at the last moment? And yet were the judges moved to support them in their quest for the gold anyway?

Did they fail to slip the commitee a fiver???

We may never know.

Still, Bruce managed to put his marksmanship skills to the test:




I was lucky to escape with my life. I suppose our game of "Lenin and the Bolshevik Maiden" might have ended badly, but I digress...

Fortunately, Bruce's attempts to teach his son to drive were someting of a success....


.... they both lived.

How I look forward to next year..............

Oh how I've missed blogging!

Its been busy, I'll admit, but life is full and rich and spicy, so I am not complaining.

But where were we?? Oh yes, a rich, busy and spicy life....

Over the school holidays, Bruce took me away for a romantic getaway to the Gold Coast. He was lavish and oh so romantic.....

We stayed a the Crowne Plaza Hotel (and you simply have not lived until you have had a bath in a room with a panoramic view of the Gold Coast at night. I rather liked the way the lights from Jupiter's Casino glittered on my toenail polish)

Bruce and I took in all the sights. We did some shopping in the finest of shoppes; and delightfully, I discovered that secret little nook where the residents of the Gold Coast get their Medieval Daggers:
What a find!

And we found the most charming little "discount" shop with toys for the most discerning of grown-ups (titter)!




I probably shouldn't share the intimate details of Bruce and my...intimate life... but there's almost nothing we enjoy more than a rousing marital game of "Lenin and the Bolshevik Maiden" (delicate giggle). Thank goodness we know where to go on the Gold Coast to make that happen!

Then we took some time to sample the local cuisine:

Mmmmm...



No wonder I can't lose weight!

My poor husband. He took one bite of these and immediately grew breasts and became surly and uncommunicative. When I asked him what was wrong he said "nothing............."

Well, I suppose that puts an endo to our Gold Coast adventures............

And then there's the days you hate to be you....

It was bad enough that a lovely lady I knew, one that worked in our office, was coming to see me to continue a conversation about leaving the husband that beat her, abused her and her children, and was deeply concerned that God would condemn her for it.

But then that afternoon, one of our Prep teachers stumbled across a suicide note from an ex-student. It had been hidden in her brother's bag, and had fallen out of his locker.

I'm not sure that there is anything in life more heartbreaking than a suicide note penned by a twelve-year old. The teacher, Jane, that had discovered it, had actually come to me not for suggestions on how to deal with the letter, but rather to be consoled after reading it. I am so glad she did, because it was only after she had passed on the letter to me that we realized that a formal suicide intervention was required.

Now, as far as we know, the child is safe, but I am still awaiting word from her mother.

What can I say? Some days are harder than others in this job............

Oh oh

So I'm sick at home.

Again.

I have been off work more for illness since I started at the school than I think I have ever been in my life. I am told this is not unexpected: that until your immune system catches up, you will take home every last germ that the little ones cough, sneeze and wipe on you.

Bless their little hearts.

And there are some pretty wicked germs out there. Apparently, the two weeks I walked around feeling "rotten" were actually a serious middle ear infection. Last Friday, I went to the doctor and was prescribed antibiotics.

They did not work. In fact, the bacteria infecting my ears seemed to find them quite amusing, dancing around the antibiotics with glee, calling them names and occasionally ritually taunting them.

So on Tuesday I went back to the doctor, who confirmed that the antibiotics he had initially prescribed had been about as useful as tits on a bull (pardon my french) and gave me a different kind of antibiotic: one that is usually prescribed to people whose immune system has collapsed.

These are serious drugs. The side effects alone are terrifying. According to the product insert, side effects can include:

• fits, seizures and convulsions
• confusion
• nightmares, hallucinations and psychotic behaviour (even progressing to self-endangering behaviour)
• visual disturbances
  
• severe watery or bloody diarrhoea
  

So basically, the side-effects are "homicidal mania", only with severe bloody diarrhoea.

In fact, the insert goes on to say "the tablets may cause dizziness or faintness in some patients, especially after the first few doses." This was certainly true, and explained why I woke up this morning feeling like I'd spent the night drinking Cuba Libres. Now normally, I like that feeling; just not over breakfast, you understand.

And, as an aside, the walls of the house seemed to have shifted to the left, which is the only reason I can think of for my repeatedly walking into them all day.

They aren't where they're supposed to be, you see.

And that "confusion" side effect is a doozy. "Babbling idiot", which I apparently succumbed to last night, would have been a more apt description. Bruce tells me that when he got home from work, I was sound asleep and yet apparently had a complete - if largely incoherent - conversation with him. Later, at 11pm, when I regained consciousness, I once more babbled as though my brain had given up the controls to my mouth, only this time I was aware of it.

It is a disturbing feeling to not be lucid, and yet to be aware that you aren't making sense. I am not sure that 'homicidal mania' with violent diarrhoea is not the more desirable side-effect.

So, if I stop writing suddenly, and you don't hear from Bruce in a few days, you'll know what happened.

If the infection didn't get me, the cure did.

Kids forum

Today, the kids of our school, and two others (P.o.P Lutheran and Paddy's Street - where my stepson Josh goes) held their annual "Kids Forum": a forum where grade 6 and 7 students could discuss world issues that concerned them for local notables - politicians, activists, chaplains.

They talked about global warming, underage drinking, childhood obesity and the spread of malaria, as well as an informal discussion about how KFC treats its chickens.

You have to admire their spirit, if not their racial sensitivity.......





Ask not for whom the taco bell tolls.....

An open letter to a professor I had in seminary....

The Heartbreak Kid, part infinity....

Hello Dave, and thank you so much for your concerned response. God has moved powerfully in the situation I approached you about already, so I think I can give you the gist – and ask my questions – in writing, and see where we go from there, if that is OK.

I will try to be succinct, but it is a bit involved:

Six weeks ago, we had a ten-year old boy dropped on our school from DOCS (Department of Child Safety). His natural Aunt, Ingrid, who had been awarded emergency custody, was in the office in tears, telling us the most horrific tales of abuse that this boy had suffered: sexual, emotional and physical. She said he had been neglected, dangerously over-medicated, abused emotionally, beaten and “rented out” to a family friend overnight, and was “the most unloved boy” we had ever met. Naturally, we were aghast, and incredibly moved to help this child.

Well, Joe proved to be the most difficult child most of us had ever met. Joe came from a family that was quite candid about the fact that they had a long and involved history of mental illness. He could not read, could not write and had no numeracy skills to speak of. He was completely unsocialized, unable to function in a classroom setting, disruptive, violent, self-harming, overly-sexualized and hyper active. He was disobedient and disorderly and put himself and other children in danger. At times, he would run away, or had to be physically restrained. We suspected that he not only had ASD (Autistic Spectrum Disorder), but was intellectually impaired and had short-term memory problems. He also had a fetish for knives and guns. Yet when he was good, he was as sweet as cherry pie. In fact, the only thing he really seemed to relate to and focus on was the bible I gave him (a GREAT kid’s version of the Gospel of Mark put out by the Bible Society) (his whole family are Jehovah’s Witnesses).

Joe spent some time with his foster-family (his natural aunt and uncle) who shortly after obtaining custody of him filed abuse charges against Leilani, Joe's natural mother. We were told by Ingrid that Leilani was “making trouble” by preventing Joe from receiving medical and psychiatric care, and that Leilani herself was dangerously unstable, and disrupting their lives “because she could”. Joe had some good days when he was almost normally behaved – and he was indeed learning to read and write - but whenever there was contact with his mother, Leilani, Joe’s behaviour deteriorated to the point where he was uncontrollable, and last week we had to remove him from the premises. We were told that the family had wanted to remove Joe from Leilani’s care since he was 2 weeks old.

Joe was unfortunately sent to live with his aging grandparents (after it came to light that he might have been molesting his younger female cousins – Ingrid’s daughters), who absolutely could not control him, and who – with deep regret – refer to him as “a nightmare”. The communication between the two sisters that have care of Joe– his natural mother, Leilani, and his foster mother, Ingrid – had broken down to the point where each felt the other hated them and was deliberately withholding information about Joe from the other out of spite (it turned out that DOCS was preventing the free exchange of information). At the school, we had reached the point of sending Joe away, as we simply were not equipped to deal with a child like that.

When I contacted you, the situation was tragic, and I will admit I had no idea how to pray for this child and his family.

Spiritual Warfare is a concept I have only recently been introduced to – and through deeply disturbing circumstances involving my own family. To an Anglican, it’s theoretically theological, but we really don’t go in for that sort of thing, do we? But as a practicing Baptist now, and one with many friends in AOG circles, I have come to rethink that.

I know that praying for healing for the family is a big part of the prayer support we want to offer them; but there is so much going on there I don’t know how to pray for them. I have so many questions: what if this is some sort of spiritual battleground and there is more here that meets the eye? How do you pray when you don’t even know what to pray for? Who do you involve? How do you involve your prayer team and still respect confidentiality?

This situation has raised so many challenging questions about prayer and prayer support; and though Bruce, my husband – a man with a real gift for prayer – and I talked about it at length; as I say, I was deeply moved to contact you and seek your experience and understanding of specialized prayer (if there is such a thing).

CAVEAT:

We were told last Thursday that Joe’s natural mother was coming to visit the school to see Joe compete in the Cross-country races we hold each year. There had been an incident the previous Saturday where Joe spent the day with his mother, and then had to be forcibly removed by DOCS as he would not get out of his mother’s car.

We, at the school, were on high alert, and even considered having DOCS or the police standing by in case the mother tried to manipulate Joe as we were all told was her “sick” way of treating him.

Well, Leilani showed up as planned, and we were in for a real surprise. Far from being the manipulative witch we’d all imagined, she was a quiet, soft-spoken gentle woman who was very candid about herself: that she herself was struggling with bi-polar disorder, that they were in government housing, that she really was at her wits end with Joe (he had broken one of her ribs, pulled a knife on her and attacked his younger brother with a knife), that she was heartbroken at what had become of her family, that she felt deeply disrespected by her sister and that she was frightened of what might happen to Joe, yet thrilled that he was learning to read and write. She was quite “on board” with everything we explained about Joe, and when she related her side of the story, much that had been tragic became more so.

For example: Ingrid and her husband had based their accusation of Joe’s abuse on sudden changes of mood and attitude; night terrors, repetitive behaviours and fixations (such as washing his backside), and sudden inexplicable violence and tantrums. Those were all things that could be explained by molestation, true – but they are also things common to ASD sufferers. There had never been a single allegation of abuse before that, but now Joe’s mother must stand trial next month for abuse; and Ingrid, by her own admission, has no experience with ASD.

We began to realize that Joe’s behaviour deteriorated each time he spoke to his mother because he missed her so much and wanted to go home, not because she was manipulating him. We saw that Joe quite liked the attention that he got when people thought he was being victimized, and so we believe he began to play it out for his own advantage – hence the allegations of sexual abuse. We have since heard that neither the police nor DOCS has any credible evidence to back up the allegations, and in talking candidly to Joe– well, he’s hasn’t got any details either. Just a smug and disturbing smile….

Many other allegations took on a different light when Leilani weighed in with her side, and we began to see just how utterly tragic this situation was. We saw a Leilani’s side: low-income family with a history of mental illness, struggling with a child they couldn’t cope with; who were forced to involve DOCS because they could not afford the treatment and intervention Joe would need, to their enormous detriment.

We saw the well-off (but also bi-polar) sister try to do what was right by her family, and apparently mis-interpret Joe’s situation to the point where she filed child-abuse charges against her own, struggling, sister.

We saw the parents of the two daughters, torn between them, trying to do right by both and at once cope with a child that no-one could control.

We saw a child protection agency make an already bad situation worse.

And we saw a child with an untreated mental illness play both sides against the middle.

How do you pray into that situation??

Anyway, I thank you so much for getting this far. I would be deeply appreciative of any suggestions and insights that you might have in terms of how you care pastorally for an pray for a family in this kind of crisis, and how – if it is possible – you discern if there is more going on spiritually than meets the eye….

Thank you and God bless

A

The Bicycle

This is something Bruce wrote last night after our church's homegroup meeting. He was kind enough to let me share it..... I think its so beautiful, and so true.


The Bicycle

There was a small village, in a distant and remote part of the world. This village consisted primarily of simple village folk, most of them honest, but poor. Living in that village was a young man. He lived in a run down dwelling with his mother and younger brothers and sisters. Every day he would ride his bicycle to the local town, where he would do whatever manual work he could find for a little pay, so he could buy some modest amount of supplies to take back to his family that evening. He was not especially clever, but he didn't mind. He was honest, and a good worker, and he loved his family dearly. His clothes were not expensive, but his mother kept them clean and presentable. His bicycle was old and worn, but it was necessary for him to take the long journey into town every day.

One day, as he was about to leave, he noticed he had a flat tyre. He had heard of a man in town, who owned the bicycle shop, and decided that he needed to visit him to get his tyre fixed. That day, before work, he went to the shop to see how much the new tyre would cost. He couldn't afford to get it fixed at the shop, but perhaps he could buy the tyre and the man would tell him how to fix it himself. The shop owner could see the young man was not wealthy, and agreed. After working in town that day, the young man went back to the bicycle shop, and bought the tyre. He realised that he did not have as much money left to buy food for his family afterwards, but reasoned that he needed his bicycle to get to and from his home, and to get work at all. He tried to repair the tyre himself, and it worked, in a fashion, although he noticed a few days later that it kept going flat, and he needed to keep pumping it up. And so he did exactly that. Every day he would ride a few miles, stop to pump up the tyre, and then carry on. It took a little longer to get to the town, and that left him with less time he could work before he had to begin his journey home, but he reasoned that he could not afford to have the bicycle shop owner fix the tyre properly, so this would have to do.

The roads he had to travel every day were rocky and rough, and a few days later, the young man noticed the other tyre on the bicycle was also in need of replacement. Again, he decided he could not afford to have the man at the shop fix it properly, especially now that he was not earning quite as much money as he used to, and so he would again buy the tyre and try to fix it himself. This time something went wrong when he was fitting the tyre, and the wheel on the bicycle wound up a little bent. This made the journey into town slower again, as he struggled with the handlebars that kept pulling one way, and then the other. And of course, every few miles he had to stop to pump up the other tyre.

Soon, with all the wobbling of the bent wheel, the handlebars became loose. The young man was becoming frustrated with the ride into town every day, but he knew that he must do it if he was to earn any money. He needed the bicycle. He had no idea how to fix the handlebars, but again went to visit the shop owner to ask for instruction on how he might try. The shop owner suggested that the young man might want to leave his bicycle at the shop, but the young man felt it would cost him more than he could afford, and besides, he could not be without the bicycle as he needed it for the long journey into town every day.

Well, with the roughness of the roads, and poor condition of the bicycle, other things started to wear out or break. The condition of the bicycle became so bad, that when the young man went to the shop owner to ask for instruction on how to fix it, the shop owner would just shake his head, and say, "Please, leave it here."

"No," the young man would argue."I need this bicycle to ride every day, or how can I do what I must do?" Soon the condition of the bicycle was so bad, that the young man was too embarrassed to even go by the bicycle shop. He knew the shop owner had helped him so much, and he had no money to repay his kindness, so he would just carry on as best as he could.

One day, the chain on the bicycle broke, and with it, the heart of the young man. He knew that the bicycle was not in any state to be fixed any more, and without it, the journey into town would take so long, that he would not be able to work enough to support his family. The young man sat down in the dust, and wept. He decided he would go to the shop owner, and plead with him to help him fix it. When he arrived at the bicycle shop, the owner shook his head, and said again, "Please, leave it with me." The young man thought, "I have no money to pay this man, and I feel like I already owe him so much. I will give him the bicycle. Perhaps he can use it for parts, or for scrap. I will not be able to support my family, and we shall all perish."

It took him hours to walk home that evening, and he arrived tired, thirsty, hungry, and exhausted.

The next morning, the shop owner was waiting outside the young man's dwelling. The young man sheepishly walked up to the the shop owner. "Have you come to tell me how to fix my bicycle now?", he asked. "No son," the shop owner replied, smiling. "It's not yours any more. The truth is that I never wanted to tell you how to fix it. I wanted to give you this for it, instead."

There, standing a few metres away, was a brand new bicycle.

Our lives, and the things in our lives, are much like the young man's bicycle. We become so attached to them. We can't be without them. We need them. When things start to break and go wrong, we want to fix them ourselves. We're afraid of what God might ask of us to make things right. Sometimes, we ask him to help us fix it, and we ask, and we ask, and we feel like we're doing the right thing. And sometimes we're successful in making small improvements that we feel we can live with. Meanwhile, other things keep breaking and going wrong with our lives. And so the cycle continues. But when we finally decide to dump our broken and incomplete lives at his feet, we find what he wanted to do all along, was to give us a brand new life instead. A life he has crafted, especially for us.

B.C.
07/05/08

Required Accoutrements for the "Now" Chappy

Are these not THE most fly glasses you've ever seen?

Heartbreak 2: Electric Boogaloo

Joe’s done a runner and I don’t think I have the strength to deal with him for another day. The deputy principal’s out chasing him, and so is his poor grandfather, who spends most days with him at school too.

*sigh* And things had seemed to be on the upswing. I had introduced Joe to the Bible, and he ate up the copy I gave him. We talked about his having been rescued from his terrible circumstances by God, and he seemed to get it. He even had great questions about it, and toted his bible around for days.

He was more polite, and spent almost entire days in class, slowly becoming socialized and learning to sit attentively and even learn a bit in class. He was doing fine in his special reading and math classes. He was playing with other kids, and no fights broke out; and yesterday he even taught me to play handball.

That in itself is quite miraculous.

But Joe has been spending the week with his elderly grandparents. Why? Because his 7 year old sister has gone “crazy”. She’s begun exhibiting sudden mood swings, unexplained bouts of rage, and had begun destroying Joe’s things in her hysteria. For those of us familiar with the symptoms of sexual molestation – that’s set alarm bells ringing right left and center. And the cruel tragedy is that she won’t be the first little girl he’s hurt in this way.

Joe’s begun to tell me about his drug use – both the forced overdoses of his prescription medication at his biological mother’s hands; and his own illegal use of inhalants. He’s still on about knives, and how he misses his flick knife. He waxes rhapsodic about his bio-father’s immense hunting knife, and the really cool fish paring knife his Uncle Wayne has. He tells me that he hopes that someone will give him a knife as a present.

Joe’s begun to make disturbing comments about wanting to go back into his natural mother’s care, and even asking if he can phone her from school. He tells me that she’s “changed” since his bio-father has taken a job up north as a trucker; and that her voice is now ‘nice’ where it always used to be ‘nasty’ to him. He tells me that she’s promised him a PSP if he comes home; and she’s already given his 8-year old brother his own phone. To Joe, that’s the coolest thing in the world. His foster-mother tells me that when he talks to his bio-mum on the phone, he tells her that he’ll be home ‘soon’, when ‘all this is over’.

But Joe’s really made me think about love and God’s love, especially. I’ll admit there are times I have walked away from Joe in complete anger and frustration. There have been times I have been unable to love him – not even as God loves him – because he is so difficult, obnoxious and incredibly time-consuming. And I realize that as a spiritual failing that I need God’s help to close.

And Joe highlights something for me I have always struggled with: it’s so easy to love the children that have been truly victimized, that are helpless in their pain and want to be helped out of their darkness by the kindness and love of those around them.

But what happens when that little victim isn’t so innocent? When he too becomes the monster? When you can see the poison and darkness in him, mingled with the rage and the shame of what was done to him?

Well, I will admit I am not finding that so easy. I find the smugness with which he talks about “kissing” girls, and getting into fights, reprehensible. I find his descriptions of his bio-mother video taping him wearing her underwear repulsive. I find his unwillingness to participate in his own salvation to be baffling; and I find the pain and shame that he is putting his family through to be appalling.

And yet, he’s not even 11. What ever did this to him was not of his choosing, and the monster in him was something that was forced on him, I believe.

But how do you love the monster?

See, this is why I never went into prison ministry – although there are aspects of children’s ministry that aren’t very different.

Drewsome stories from the Crypt...

Drew is not one of my charges at School. Actually, he’s the delicious and incredibly intelligent three-year-old son of dear friends of ours. I have the pleasure of babysitting Drew occasionally, and a pleasure it truly is. He’s about the funniest, most entertaining kid I’ve ever met, and I am so glad he’s not mine!  I’d never keep up.

But there’s never an evening I spend with him that I am not blessed with a side-splittingly funny incident to share with his parents and with Bruce. I’d like to share a couple with you.

Drew’s only recently been potty trained. That in itself has been an exercise in hilarity, I am told by his awesomely patient mum. But I had my own “Drewsome potty adventure” too.

As his parents were leaving one evening (Drew is fond of telling them to “go away” when the babysitter shows up, even telling his mum once to “go talk to daddy”) I noticed a rather… erm… funky smell emanating from our little Drewie.

“Drewie” I asked, “Did you make a poo, honey? Do you need a new nappie?”

Drew, intent on playing with his cars by the living room couch, shook his head.

“No. No poos now.”

The smell continued, and even intensified as he stood up to fetch a truck from the love seat. I waved my hand in front of my face to clear the smell.

“Drewie, sweetheart,” I persisted, “Are you sure you didn’t make a poo?”

Drewie looked peeved and shook his head again, wafting yet more of that pong in my direction.

“No poo Annie. Not yet. I not make poos yet”. He turned his attention back to the cars.

“Ok, Drewie. You didn’t make a poo yet? That’s good. Will you tell me when you need to make poos?”

He nodded his head, but I wanted to be sure.

“Drewie, will you tell me when you are going to make poos?”

“OK, ok Annie!” he said, clearly annoyed at my badgering. And with that, he dropped into a squat and his face contorted. He grunted and strained as the blood drained from my face. Then he turned that angelic smile on me.

“Ok, Annie! I made a poos!!”

I should have been more specific….

My First Anniversary in Oz

Well, believe it or not, today marks the first anniversary of my permanent arrival in Australia. Bruce and I were laughing over it this morning: It had been a heckuva day: I’d had a brutal 31 hour trip, he was as sick as a wallaby (ha! ha! How charmed I still am by the Australian turn of phrase)

Still, today was an amazing day, and my first anniversary was celebrated with style.



First off, at about 10:00am, a helicopter from Channel 7 news arrived, to cover the event. They even sent along their celebrity Weatherman, John Schluter, to lead the event. How fortunate it was that our Grade 5 students were studying “Weather” as part of their term studies too!


The helicopter circled, then landed on the oval, to the sound of cheering children. I was asked to pose for a photo op by the helicopter, and happily obliged.



Anything for the punters.

I had a wee chat with John Schluter, and he personally wished me well on this auspicious anniversary. Then we all retired to the hall where John made and awesome speech about me and all of my accomplishments and how wonderful it was to have me here at Samford and how I could heal the sick and make homework disappear and how he hoped that I would never leave and that he sincerely prayed that all the children gave me lollies and chocolate.

Oh, and he gave a wee talk on “weather” for the grade 5’s too.


What an amazing first anniversary its been….

There's one in every school, I suppose...

He’s shares a name with a very famous blues singer, so I will call him BB (as it’s not that famous blues singer); and he’s the school pervert. I know that because he’s the one that told me.

BB is in grade 6, and is a difficult child. He’s a difficult child to relate to, a difficult child to “click with”, and a difficult child to like. He is undergoing psychiatric testing to seek a diagnosis, and part of me is praying they find something they can treat.

Well, God never said everyone was a dream come true, and to be a Christian is to truly love the unlovable.

I suppose, if I had to describe him, I’d say that he reminds me of the goofy, socially awkward, comic relief that you’d find in 1960’s sitcoms.

He’s tall and lanky, and wears his hat pulled floppily down over his head so that his ears stick out. He spits when he talks. He farts for fun. He stares at your breasts when you’re talking to him.

He’s sort of like Eb Dawson or Jethro Bodine as a child, only darker. Creepier.

There’s something sinister about this kid… kinda like Travis Bickel lite

The other day he came to my room to “talk to me about stuff”, so I asked him what was troubling him.

He plopped himself down into the beanbag chair and said without preamble, “I’m tired of everyone calling me a pervert.”

I was a bit taken aback. It still comes as a surprise to me when children are the victimizers, and not the victims; but it is part of life at a very large State school, I suppose.

“Why do they call you a pervert?” I asked, tentatively, rolling the word around in my mouth to see how it fit. Knowing this kid, it did.

He shrugged, fidgeting with one of the gazillion toys in the room.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, why do you think they say that, BB?”

“Well,” he whined, “everyone thinks that I look up the girl’s shorts and culottes during PE (physical education).” There was no hesitation in his telling, no embarrassment. Indeed, on his face was a hint of a smirk.

“And do you?” I asked, trying not to rush to any sort of judgment.

“Well,” he exploded, throwing his toy across the room. “It’s not MY fault if they don’t wear clothes that cover their rudey-tootey bits!!” He crossed his arms and sank into the beanbag chair, sulking, one eyebrow cocked insolently.

“Soooo…” I said, slowly, thinking quickly, “you can see their underwear?”

“Oh yeah,” he said, brightening. “Pink ones and orange with little flowers…”

He caught himself.

“It’s not MY fault they show off their rudey-tootey bits!!”

Then he went back to sulking.

What ensued, of course, was a conversation about “the truth” versus “the appearance of truth”; and that while he might not actually deliberately be looking up the girls culottes he might be giving the impression that he is. We talked about averting his eyes, or even turning his back; but none of those ideas seemed to please him. They spoiled the fun.

“How does everyone know, by the way, that you’re a “pervert”, honey?”

“The girls in my class told on me. Mr. M had a chat with me about it.”

“I see, and what did he say?”

BB just shrugged, and fidgeted some more with his toys, that sulky smirk etched on his face.

Kid Fan Mail

Kids express emotion in simple ways. They know “angry”, and they know “happy”. They understand “sad” and even “mean”.

And they certainly know “love”. Kids, up until about grade 5, see emotion in primary colours. After that, of course, it gets complicated….

But I digress.

Any primary school chaplain worth their salt will be flooded with little love notes from their charges (and talking to my primary school colleagues certainly bears this out). When you help a child, or lift their spirits or encourage them emotionally, they will often interpret their feelings as “love”. And they love you for being kind to them, and for helping them, and for making them feel special.

So they will unabashedly tell you that they love you. And they will write it out in pretty colours and draw you pictures, and bring you presents of melted chocolate, or wilted flowers, or a sandwich that they made for you that their brother accidentally took a bite out of not knowing it was a special sandwich for the Chappy; or a favourite toy that they accidentally dropped in the toilet once but now want you to have. They will hug the stuffing out of you. They will tell you that you smell.

The challenge for the Chaplain is to reframe that in its actual context: that it is not you that they love, it’s what you’ve done to help them – or more correctly, what the Lord has done through you to help them. Those love letters are for God.

And so I have a file tucked away at the back of the cabinet into which these love notes go so that a) I am never tempted to believe the hype, and b) I can always find them when the child says “Where’s the picture I drew for you?”

Recently, though, I have been flooded with requests to join an online game called “Club Penguin” – sort of a Disney-owned version of ‘Second Life’… only for kids and with penguins. I’m sort of interested, as I’ve never actually considered a penguin alter-ego until now; but my stepson, Josh, is dead keen.

Last Tuesday, when Josh – a cute and smart 10-year-old with a whip-sharp sense of humour – came to visit for the afternoon, I brought home several of these letters encouraging me to join this online club and chucked them on the kitchen table while I grabbed some dinner. The covers of these letters were decorated with sayings like “Annie you are the best!” and “We love you please join club penguin” and “You are the best Chaplain ever!”

Josh walked into the kitchen and spied these notes on the table. His eyes widened in surprise and he grinned.

“Wow, Annie,” he said. “You got kid fan mail!!”

The Heartbreak Kid

What can I say about Joe?

He’s one of the reasons we exist, and one of the reasons we sometimes resent our own existence.

As you know, for reasons of confidentiality, I can’t tell you Joe’s real name; nor can I tell you the details of his life. But there are things you need to know, so I will fill you in as best I can, without breaking any confidences.

Joe’s biological mother, I am told, is mentally ill, though she’s never been diagnosed. I understand the situation perfectly as I have a sister in the same situation – but she, in a rare moment of thoughtfulness, chose not to breed.

Joe’s mother was not so compassionate.

Joe has been abused – in every conceivable manner – since he was a child, and he’s only eleven now. He is not only the victim in an ongoing sexual abuse case, he also has sexual assault charges pending against him; that’s how bad it is. He’s a beautiful, solidly-built boy with a shock of black hair and deep, dark eyes that hold secrets that no child should ever hold. He has a fondness for guns and knives; and came to us as functionally illiterate, unteachable, ASD, schizophrenic and bi-polar.

He’s none of the above.

He’s a smart cookie, and he’s learned to read and write in record time. He can be polite and charming, sweet and good natured; he can also be suicidal, violent, abusive and savage.

I’ve never met anyone like him. Recently, Joe’s aunt – his natural mother’s sister – stepped in and took the family to court for custody. DOCS (the Department of Children’s Services) now has custody of Joe, thanks to her battle. But it’s only a six month custody situation. No-one can promise Joe that he’s never going to be sent back to the hell that he was rescued from.

I spend the bulk of every day with Joe – he’s never been in a classroom setting, so I am the one that sits with him in class and teaches him the basics: spitting and squirting water on the floor is unacceptable behaviour; keep all four legs of your chair on the floor and don’t make suggestive gestures to the girl you like that sits across the room from you.

I help him learn to read and write, supporting the Special Education teachers that do such an awesome job of teaching him. I come to fetch him from class and spend time with him on the playground when he can no longer cope with the routine of life at school. I am there when his foster mother (and biological aunt) – Ingrid – breaks down in tears because she is torn between loving this wounded child, keeping him from hurting himself or molesting her daughters, and convincing her husband that this terrible lot that God has given them will pay off.

Joe begs me to take him home with me at the end of the day, in case he upsets Ingrid and her husband and they decide to send him back to his natural mother. He comes up with convincing arguments about how he’d be a great part of my family, and would get on really well with my husband’s son. He’s so desperate, so hurt… so lost.
I’ve been asked to accompany him to police interviews, court appearances and psychiatric evaluations. He’s told the police as much as he can, but still can’t tell them about the really “yucky stuff” that was done to him. The police have encouraged him to share that “yucky stuff” with me, and he’s been dancing around it for some time. It will have to come out some time.

Poor Joe’s family is under tremendous pressure: his aunt and uncle are in a marital crisis because they can’t cope with Joe’s behaviour. Joe’s biological mother is making trouble for the family simply because she can and takes pleasure in it; Ingrid’s two young daughters are in very real danger from Joe, her parent’s can no longer take Joe on the weekends and Ingrid is facing the very real, very terrible fact that this child may be to big a threat for her family to absorb.

And poor Joe is terrified of going back to his biological mother. He begs me to intercede on his behalf, but I can’t. I have to keep the health of the whole family in mind; and as long as Joe is so deeply emotionally damaged, he is a cancer in that family no matter how young he is.

And the trouble is that he doesn’t even see that it his behaviour – and the fact that he endangers people around him – that is at the root of this problem. Indeed, he’s been so deeply victimized that he has no concept of “his own fault”. “Personal accountability” isn’t even on his radar – and until he understands the problem, there is no way to fix it.

And the clock is running out. If Joe can’t make any meaningful progress in managing the hurt inside him and not turning his rage and violence outwards, his family will break under the strain and we will lose him……

Satan's favourite plaything

Bruno is an odd child. And apparently “odd” is the official diagnosis. He’s difficult to manage, becomes overly focused on trivia and reacts quite… well… oddly to things at times.

But he’s sweet and endearing, as they all are in grade 1, with big brown puppydog eyes and knobby knees that magically attract scrapes and cuts.

The other day, I was sitting in the playground during morning tea, when a desperately melancholy Bruno wandered up, scuffing his shoes in the dirt, a lone tear trickling down his face, fists jammed into his tiny pockets. He plopped himself disconsolately beside me on the bench and heaved a sigh full of pathos and misery.

Ever the loving and helpful Chappy, I wiggled closer to him and leaned in.

“What’s up, Bruno?” I asked gently. He looked at me with such melancholy, such eternal sadness, that my heart ached for this poor, lost child. His lip trembled as he revealed to me the pain in his soul:

“I miss my pets.”

Well, I thought, here is a wonderful opportunity to minister to this little, heartbroken child; to apply thoughtful and insightful questions, to sprinkle the conversation liberally with messages of love and God’s kindness and to draw him out so that he would share his feelings with me. And so I said the magic words…

“Tell me about your pets”.

That was my first mistake.

For thirty five minutes, I sat and listened as Bruno told me how desperately he missed his four dogs (one had just been run over by a car), three cats (two had been eaten by the dog), two horses (none eaten or run over), eighteen chooks (all with names), nine ducks, four guinea pigs, three budgerigars (a yellow one had died and mysteriously come back to life a few days later as a blue one), six fish, two parrots, three bunny rabbits, a skink and a family of possums that lived behind the shed.

Thankfully, Scripture Union and my training as a minister allowed me to listen thoughtfully and with intent even though my eyes had begun to glaze over as he named all eighteen chickens for me, described in minute detail the differences in the ducks’ personalities and pondered the mysteries of a budgie’s afterlife.

My second mistake was inviting him to tell me more, to let me in on whatever else was troubling him (as something clearly was); to pour out his heart to me and to share the secrets of his soul.

“What else, sweetie?” I said, my voice tinged with just enough care to elicit more of his story.

He looked up at me thoughtfully, cocked his head in the way that only a grade one student can and said “I can control my father’s mind…”

It was a looooooong day, I can tell you…..

Who wants to be baptimized??

I am certain, at times, that I am going straight to hell for the spiritual atrocities committed in the Chaplain’s room here at Samford…..

Steffi is a lovely ten year old girl: she came to my notice early on when her step-mother became concerned that Steffi was not talking about her feelings regarding her biological mother’s hospitalization for mental and emotional issues. We spent a good deal of time talking, walking together and just ‘hanging out’, and Steffi has become my “right hand man” at Samford – whether I like it or not.

She’s a tough but sweet Chiquita: she loves to dance and sing, paint, and is friends with everyone. She puts sparkles in her hair, writes me long letters and draws lovely pictures for the Chappy's room.

She also drinks straight from the sink, farts like a sailor and has announced that when she grows up she wants to be a stripper.

Oh, and she has a boyfriend; though I’ m not sure he’s as keen as she is. See, he has lots of girlfriends. Steffi’s not too happy about that.

Ahhh…. Grade 5. Was there ever so happy a time? But I digress….

The Chaplain’s room is filled to virtual overflowing with toys, beanbag chairs and arts and crafts materials (and when I say “filled to virtual overflowing”, naturally I mean “looks like a bomb hit it”). One of the more unusual items, left (I later discovered) by one of the Roman Catholic members of my LCC (Local Chaplaincy Committee – the group that raises funds to pay my salary), is a small collection of vials: one containing Holy Water, one containing consecrated oil, one with Frankincense and one with something called “Holy Earth”. Oh, and a “mini bible”.



Recently, Steffi found them and asked what they were. I explained as best I could, that they were consecrated tools of the Roman Catholic priest. Then I explained what ‘consecrated’ meant. Then I explained what a Priest was. Then I explained what Roman Catholic meant.

*sigh*

Finally, she got the idea that the Holy Water and Oil were used in the baptism ceremony; dabbed on the forehead to mark one off as God’s own. She was delighted.

Well, Steffi, never one to let a good idea go, waited until the Chaplain’s room was bursting at the seams with kids (as it usually is during Morning Tea and Big Lunch). She then proceeded to chase the children around with the vial of Holy Water, poking them in the forehead and gleefully shrieking “You’re a Christian! You’re a Christian!” until they wrenched the vial away from her and began chasing each other shouting “You’re Christian! No YOU ARE!!!”

John 11:35, I thought with a mental sigh.

Shortly thereafter, she lined a section of chairs up and hopped on, raising the mini bible high and shouting at the top of her lungs “OK, WHO WANTS TO BE BAPTIMIZED??????”

Bizarrely, and yet thrillingly, about three students stepped forward to be poked in the forehead with Steffi’s grimy finger, read to aloud from random sections of scripture and to have her pronounced that they had officially be “Baptimized”.

Somebody ordain this kid…….

The School Goblin

Tracey, one of our year lovely young teachers, came tumbling into my office with Lorelle, the deputy-principal (and my supervisor), grins lighting up their faces like Christmas; and what a story they had to share!

It turns out, they related with giggles of glee, two young girls had approached Tracey on the playground earlier that day and asked if she had seen "Miss Annie".

Well, we have a new teacher named Annie as well, so naturally Tracey was confused as to which "Miss Annie" the girls were looking for, so she asked who they were looking for.

"You know," said one of the girls, with more than a hint of exasperation (I am told), "Miss Annie, the new school goblin!"

*sigh*

That's the sort of thing that sticks to a person.....

Redux

Chaplaincy really is part of the backbone of God’s front-line work, as I am told, and as I am coming to believe. This is where God’s work is really done: in the midst of people – people that know God, people that want to know God, people that only have the vaguest impression of who God might be. It is working amongst the young, the old, the troubled and the uplifted; it is being a part of the lives of a community in a way that the priesthood can’t be. Here, in the chaplaincy, there are no denominations, no complex theological or political imperatives, no ecclesiastic issues to cope with: there is only God, His Word and the journey that both you and your community are on.

In the priesthood, you are stationed in a church, and your drive is to get more people into that church.

In chaplaincy, your call is to bring God out to the community as it stands: to model His love, to do His work and to spread His work where the people are at. This make you a critical part of any community-based ministry team, as you are working hand in glove with the local churches without being bound by any of them.

As I move more firmly into this position, I am struck by just how deeply embedded in the community it is: I cannot go to our local supermarket, chemist or fish and chip shop without meeting up with at least a half dozen children from the community (and their parents); and I am struck by our interconnectedness, and the fact that Holy Spirit is a part of us all, a guide to us all and the foundation of our community – regardless of our “declared faith”.

What an incredible privilege this job truly is.

Godsmacked

Yes, well, I never intended to be a primary school chaplain in Australia, you see.

I had such wonderful plans to remain in my native Toronto; to finish my studies at Wycliffe Anglican Seminary and be ordained as an Anglican priest, along with all my friends, into a neat and tidy, and yet forward-thinking, Gospel centered and world-changing parish in downtown Toronto that happened to be located near the best coffee shops, Turkish restaurants and one or two humble, yet newsworthy, Anglican homeless missions (for authenticity, of course).

Ha. Ha.

Morgan Freeman is killing himself laughing.

I suppose its because He had other plans.

God, not Morgan Freeman, of course. You follow?

So one day in 2007, as I was completing my seminary practicum (read: cheap and politically expeditious turn in the Anglican Church), God threw a gorgeous, smart, spiritual astute and compassionate Aussie at me. The only hitch was that I had to pick up stix and move to Australia to marry Bruce; and may I say right now it was worth every second of the angst, upheaval and uncertainty that is immigrating to a foreign country.

In short order, I found myself with a new husband, a weird family situation, an Anglican Church with rheumatoid arthritis of the spirit, culture shock, and an entirely new way of looking a the world.

The Aussie Way, which isn't as glamorous as Nicole Kidman, Heath Ledger and Isla Fisher make it out to be.

But that's not my point. My point is that God (as He does), smacked me in the head, overturned every one of my cherished dreams and threw something so awesome at me, so life changing, that I never even considered it. I'll unpack this more later, but filling you all in will take time, so please bear with the story....

My point is only to give you enough background to understand that God is doing awesome things through Scripture Union in Australia - and I am honoured, humbled, and utterly bewildered to be a part of it.

What follow here are some of the stories that I've been privileged to be involved in. I hope you enjoy, and are as surprised by them as I was...