Aug 22, 2011 | South Africa, Stories
The Southern Cross and her companions are still twinkling around a sliver of a moon as we load up the car for our final trip into the park. We’ve spent two days in the Kruger already and seen game aplenty, but on this last day we’ve decided to race daylight and arrive in time to watch the bush wake up with the sun.
After everything is loaded into the car, HH loads the Bear into my arms, still in pajamas and wrapped in a heavy blanket. He lays a sleepy head against my chest and stares out the window, up at the stars he asked about counting the night before. He comments on a star he sees and we decide to name it the Goeie Môre star, the Afrikaans for Good Morning, {pronounced HWEE-yuh MOR-uh}.
Mr. Potato Head grumbles along the two dozen kilometers to the entrance of the park, and the sky closest to the horizon starts to change from dark into a lighter shade of blue. There’s just enough backlight to watch the silhouettes of the trees along the road, leafless on this cool winter morning, their wiry branches arching in every direction like spiny, weathered hands. We pass a bus that will take people from the outerlying settlements into town for a good day’s work.
The sky that’s touching the land begins a beautiful transition, deep red, then yellow, then orange layers slowly stretch toward the stars above, and I wonder how you pinpoint that beautiful moment when night is actually day again. A few dozen silhouettes surprise me, standing along the roadside, and I realise they must be waiting for the bus we passed a wee way back.
With our entry ticket on the dashboard, the diesel engine hums us through the gates and we peel our eyes, ready to see the animals of Kruger National Park waking up. The baby has fallen asleep in his car seat, the sleepy Bear is now ready for the action to begin.
We drive for a while, trees and tall grass out the window, areas where fire has burned the veld, then dense bush where you wonder if you’ll see anything at all. Suddenly we spot three giraffes enjoying their breakfast, their graceful necks stretching toward the high branches of thinly covered trees. One is eager to cross the road, so we back up when we realise we’re blocking the path he would like to take.
He has a bad knee and is limping a little as he goes. We watch with a little sadness, knowing he’ll be easy prey if a predator takes note of his disability.
After we have a handful of snapshots in our minds and the camera, we move on to look for more. We ride mostly in silence until someone spots an elephant — no, two — no three! And then we’re enjoying a beautiful moment with these ships of the bush.
With the engine turned off we listen as they crack branches with their dextrous trunks — they munch and browse and are always eating. Pictures just can’t capture their magnitude — those graceful tusks protruding on either side of a trunk with deep grey skin. They look weather beaten, even the youngest among them.
The morning slowly drives on and by half past eight we’ve spotted lots of buck, smiled up at more ellies and giraffes, discussed which birds are perching on nearby branches, seen rhinos at a distance and more up close in thick bush. We pause at a rest camp called Skukuza for a leg stretch and a bathroom break, and a glance at the sightings board in hopes of gaining a tip about where the lions that have been eluding us might be seen.
Vervet monkeys bring a bright smile to the Bear’s face, a large troop of baboons causes me to hurriedly roll up my window. A hornbill flies past the window and makes me think of Zazu in the Lion King.
We’ve decided to head home for brunch today, and we choose a route that will keep us inside the park an hour longer before our exit. On that last road on our way out, the Hubs suddenly sees a tail on the side of the road. The striped rings of it make him think of the lemurs we love to talk about, which are only indigenous to Madagascar. Perhaps it’s a wild dog…
No, it’s a leopard.
The least spotted of the Big Five…an animal that one should feel privileged to see in the wild…there he is alongside the road. This strong and majestic cat has a mission in mind, and he decides to cross the road right in front of our car.
The Hubs captures shot after shot after shot, we grownups are silent and watch in awe. Wow. After two minutes of practically holding our breath, as quickly as he appeared, he is gone again. Through straw-coloured grass about as high as the tail he carries in the air, he disappears.
As we start along the road again we excitedly chatter about what a magnificent leopard sighting we’d just enjoyed. They are such silent and majestic creatures…stealthy and strong and beautiful. We grow silent again, mindful of the little one sleeping in my arms, until HH pipes up again:
What is that?
Another leopard is travelling along the road, headed in our direction, and once in a lifetime is now twice. Mom and I are craning our necks from the backseat to see, and there he is, momentarily shaded by a small tree on the roadside. In the heat of the day, on the move.
Another two or three minutes of wide eyes and fast photo fingers, and the big cat is off into the bush again.
By the time we leave the park for brunch, grins are stretching across our faces from ear to ear. This isn’t a zoo — you don’t get directions on where to go to find what you want to see. We feel privileged to have seen so much, and look forward to a second trip into the park after brunch…
xCC
Aug 15, 2011 | Stories, The Parenthood
The idea occurred to me around one a.m. At least I think it was one a.m. — you reach a point when you stop wondering what unpleasant hour in the middle of the night it is that your children have you out of bed after a while. The Hubs, the Tank and I were asleep on a blow-up mattress in HH’s sister’s place, and the Bear was tucked into his tent at the foot of our bed.
He woke up with a frightful holler: Mom-muhhhhhhh! Mom-meeeee! And I got up and grabbed him, with the expectation that I’d be comforting him back to sleep because he’d had a bad dream. Instead, once he was in my arms he uttered two simple, but very profound words:
“I feel.”
He wimpered and then repeated them: “I feel.”
And before I had a chance to make sense of what it was exactly that he was feeling, I had an unexpected feeling: the feeling of his dinner of sausage and mashed potatoes, which made a second appearance on his shirt, all over my shirt, and in my hair.
Bummer.
Hero Hubs began the arduous task of tip-toeing into the master bedroom and giving the Bear a bath while I began the equally arduous task of rinsing all of the items that had been so gracefully baptized with bangers and mash.
We’d been in the Kruger National Park looking for game for a few days prior to this incident, and the only animal out of the Big Five we’d failed to catch a glimpse of was the lion.
The last article of clothing I was busy rinsing chunks from at that delightful hour when all is well if all are asleep, was the Bear’s little pajama top. That little pajama top was decorated with a little lion in his own pajamas. I felt certain at that moment, in the middle of the night, that it was some strange twist of fate — here is my lion, wild, and messy, and smiling at me with a knowing smirk, as if he knew all along we’d meet here, just like this.
Can I say I saw all of the Big Five in the wild on this trip now?
As I finished rinsing his murky mane, I pondered why it is exactly that these are the moments when I feel most like a mother. Some thirty-six hours before the Bear and I had our heads leaned out the window of Mr. Potato Head as his diesel engine grumbled us through the Kruger. We giggled as we tracked animals by looking at pawprints along the dirt road, and we felt certain that a particular type of poop we were consistently spotting was poop that belonged to a Gruffalo. It was a magical moment — a special memory.
But one a.m., at the gorgeous oversized basin of my sister-in-law’s guest bathroom, rinsing puke from blankets, a sheet, two t-shirts and my hair, why does this feel like motherhood?
I decided at that moment that Parenthood deserves its own system of special merit badges. The first badge that came to mind, of course, was the I Got Puked On in the Middle of the Night and Can’t Wash My Hair Until Morning Badge.
Screaming Child in the Grocery Store and Child Throwing Tantrum on the Floor in Public would have to be on the list. My Kid Figured Out How to Unlock the Bathroom Door and I Was Publicly Viewed While Sitting on the Toilet, My Kid Pulled Up My Skirt in Front of Strangers and My Kid Ran Off in Public and I Freaked Out Trying to Find Him have to make the cut.
And of course, there are many other Merit Badges we parents can aspire toward earning:
I Peed into a Diaper on a Long Road Trip Rather Than Stop the Car With Sleeping Kids
My Toddler Wailed Loudly From Take-off to Landing on a Three-Hour Flight (Extra merit: Longer Flight)
My Kid Used a Swear Word in Front of the Pastor (Extra merit: During His Sermon)
We Spent the Night In the Emergency Room Once a Week for Two Months Because of Minor Household Accidents
I’ve Made a Personal Apology to Every Woman in a Changing Room After Realising My Son Crawled Under Each and Every Door
My Daughter Pulled Up Her Dress and Flashed the Church During the Christmas Pageant
I’ve Pretended to Not Know Whose Kids My Kids Were to Avoid Public Embarrassment
My Son Punched a Public Figure in the Crotch in Front of a Large Crowd (Extra merit if it’s A Well-Known Celeb)
I Was Pooped On Just Before Boarding a Plane For an Eleven-Hour Flight (Extra merit: With No Change of Clothes)
I’ve decided a talented graphic designer should come up with the style and design of the badges, and like everything else these days, they’ll be printed as stickers and stuck to our cars. That way, friends and strangers alike can be impressed by what successful parents we are.
Don’t even try to steal this idea, I’m getting a trademark next week and stickers will be in print soon.
Got any badge requests?
xCC
Jul 28, 2011 | Scotland, Stories
Six years ago today I boarded a plane in Atlanta with my big brother. Since we’d booked our tickets separately, we weren’t seated together — he was in the row in front of me in a bulkhead seat. I decided to ask the interesting character of a lady beside me if she would be willing to switch seats with my brother so that we could sit together. With the extra leg room and a little bit more space, it seemed like a no-brainer.
She turned to me, and with such poise and calm I wouldn’t have been more surprised if her teeth had fallen out in my lap, she answered:
“Absolutely not.”
Besides the surprising answer, the manner in which she responded left me so aghast I just quietly turned to stare at the back of the seat in front of me. I sat still and quiet long enough that I think remorse got the better of her, and she eventually turned to me again and said,
“Well you can at least read the paper or something.”
Ten or fifteen extremely uncomfortable minutes later, the guy sitting in front of her (beside my brother) realised his TV was broken and ended up being bumped up to business class. I then had the pleasure of moving up a row, just in time to avoid the interesting lady’s evening routine, which included changing to sleeping attire in the restroom and carefully putting her waist-length hair in a humongous bun directly on top of her head.
That flight was bound for London, and a day later my brother and I were on a train to Edinburgh, where another surprise awaited us. After a warm morning and a good breakfast in London, we moseyed on over to King’s Cross train station, and I was dressed in jeans, a t-shirt and flip-flops.
We arrived in Edinburgh that afternoon, some friends of mine doing us a great favour by bringing the majority of the luggage up with them by car that evening. My landlord, David, a wonderful gent who’d soon become a great friend, met us at the train station.
{A view from the School of Divinity in Edinburgh}
As we waited and looked for David at the train station, I realised all my warm clothes were in those suitcases coming up from London, and though it was the 29th of July, I was convinced that the rain falling outside was freezing and would be turning to snow at any minute.
After settling in to the temporary digs in Gorgie where I’d be staying for my first month in Auld Reekie, we turned up the heating and went out to the pub across the street to enjoy some impressively poor renditions of Oasis’s Wonderwall while waiting for the flat to warm up.
We returned to a freezing cold flat, and figured out that the gas had run out. I knew nothing about topping up the gas. I knew nothing about the five pounds of emergency credit available if I’d pushed the right button. I just knew it was cold, I hadn’t bought bedding yet, and it was going to be a long night.
While I pulled on half the clothes in my suitcase, my friend Julie was sleeping in the other room, and decided to boil the kettle and then cuddle it on the couch to try to keep warm through the evening.
{Warning: Don’t try that at home.}
The next morning was the beginning of life in Edinburgh: trips to the big Tesco for the necessities, getting denied a bank account, getting caught in the rain without an umbrella, getting denied a phone contract, getting caught in the rain without an umbrella again, and catching the bus headed in the wrong direction.
It was also the beginning of discovering what I’ll forever hold in my heart as the most beautiful city in Europe, finding a little shop that served Chocolate Soup, exploring the fantastic finds waiting to be had in charity shops, and studying for a Master’s Degree (and half a PhD) at a university so exquisitely located, I never once left the Divinity School without savouring the incredible view — Edinburgh Castle to my left, Princes Street below, the Firth of Forth, broody in the distance, sun streaming onto the yellow rapeseed meadows of Fife on the other side.
Those days marked the beginnings of these six years of life, thousands of miles away from the place that never stopped feeling like home, though I tried hard to set up shop wherever I was. And though this season has been full of good surprises, and bad ones, it seems I could’ve taken note of what was to come in the foreshadows of those first few days.
Though that simple moment of surprise on the plane made me think the chances of enjoying my brother’s company on the nine-hour flight was no longer a possibility, beside the closed door was an open window, just a little further along. And though the heat-less night in Gorgie was a tough start, the memories my brother and I share from Robertson’s Pub and Julie hugging the kettle make the inconvenience worthwhile.
Indeed these six years have gone rather differently in many ways from how I expected when I boarded that first flight, but I’ve continuously seen glory in the triumphs and the failings, especially in the times where things happened differently from how I hoped or expected.
Among the many lessons tucked into my heart for the journey home, another I’m holding onto is the realization that it’s easy to get discouraged when things aren’t going according to plan, but we can hold onto faith that even disappointments and trials can work out for good, when we love our Creator and are willing to wait on Him.
So hold on to hope, whatever you’re facing today. No matter where you are on the journey of life, tomorrow is pregnant with possibility, and it’s an adventure that’s just beginning.
xCC
Jul 27, 2011 | Stories, The Good Word
There are moments in life when, if you’re paying attention, you’ll see Biblical truths actively happening right before your eyes. I love taking the opportunity to stop and take notice. The Truth found in the Scriptures is woven into the very fabric of our universe, but, as the saying goes, only he who sees, takes off his shoes.
Yesterday, the Hubs and I decided to do a quick workout and have a special treat afterwards. We popped into a little Italian restaurant near the gym, and it was in my mind that Italian and coffee would probably be a good combination.
We ordered two cappuccinos and a slice of cake to share, and sat in the sort of indoor-outdoor area the restaurant had inside the mall. With cosy little tables, cream-coloured tablecloths, low light and Christmas lights overhead, they’d created a sweet little space, very inviting if you’re a passer-by, perhaps especially a female one.
Our coffees arrived, and the taste was reminiscent of the powder-based coffee drinks you get from those big press-button machines at gas stations, only weaker. I dumped in a few sugar packets and was willing to drink it anyway, but the Hubs just couldn’t, spoke to the waitress about it, and then again in answer to another waiter who stopped by to ask how things were.
{cappuccino not pictured above}
The waiter took HH’s “cappuccino” away and wasn’t planning on making a second attempt. So, we ate our mediocre slice of cake whilst wondering how old it was, and then spent a few minutes trying to make eye contact in order to settle the bill.
You might be catching on to the fact that this special treat was a bit of a disappointment.
We eventually went up to the till to pay, and discovered that we were still supposed to pay for the bad coffee that had been taken away and not replaced. Out of principal we began to discuss the issue, and the waitress explained that in order to remove something from the bill, she needed her boss’s fingerprint on the finger scan thing attached to the cash register’s computer, and he wasn’t there. We also noticed that they’d charged us more for each cappuccino than the price listed on the menu.
The aforementioned waiter came over to discuss the issues regarding the bill, and insisted that we would have to pay the new price, which his boss had just entered into the computer that morning, even though it was not reflected on the menu. The waitress disagreed but sort of seemed disempowered in the situation. As the discussion continued it became apparent that their boss {whom HH is acquainted with from his college days in Bloemfontein} treats his staff so badly that they cannot employ the old adage the customer is always right for fear of losing their jobs.
We were willing to pay the new price for the cappuccino I drank, and willing to pay for the lackluster cake, but paying for the second one, which had been taken away and not replaced, seemed to be asking a little much.
Eventually it worked out that we paid for the cake and one coffee, but the manner in which all of the issues were handled left much to be desired.
Any hopes I’d had of returning there for a charming little slice of pizza with the Hubs were completely dashed, and as we hurried back to Mr. Potato Head in order to arrive at home in time for the Tank’s next feed, these words came alive in my mind:
The generous soul will be made rich, and he who waters will also be watered himself. {Proverbs 11:25}
The owner of this establishment’s unwillingness to be generous (making weak and sorry coffee, hiking prices without notifying customers appropriately, serving old cake and training staff to be penny-pinching — or rand-pinching — instead of generous) will hinder his prosperity and perhaps eventually close his restaurant.
We would’ve been willing to overlook a sorry cup of coffee and return for a meal if the mistake had been rectified, but the situation if you’ll pardon the pun, left such a bad taste in our mouths, that we won’t return to the restaurant again.
Mind you, we’re not going to go on a campaign to speak badly of the establishment (notice I’m being careful not to mention the name!) but the truth is, good news travels fast and bad news travels faster.
In our own lives, desiring to do (and not just hear) this Scripture, we recently made the decision to aim to be generous whenever possible. Within a month of that decision, we’ve seen miraculous provision come our way.
(Can you say RIDICULOUSLY AWESOME tax refund? Thanks Uncle Sam! And, INCREDIBLE AND AMAZING friends and ministry partners? WE LOVE YOU!)
Every day we have the opportunity to look at what the Bible says and choose whether or not to apply it to our lives. And as I continue be an observer of the life happening all around me, I understand more and more truth from these words:
My son, do not forget my law,
But let your heart keep my commands;
For length of days and long life
And peace they will add to you.
Let not mercy and truth forsake you;
Bind them around your neck,
Write them on the tablet of your heart,
And so find favor and high esteem
In the sight of God and man. {Prov. 3:1-4}
Have you seen the fruit of doing the word in your life?
xCC
Jul 23, 2011 | Stories, The Good Word
I have trouble loving the now. When now seems more temporary than usual, it’s hard for me to embrace it. Knowing that we now have less than two months, here and like this, does something strange in my heart.
There’s a constant voice, in the back of my mind somewhere, whispering the reminder that next time. Next time the Bear will no longer be two. Next time the baby won’t be so baby. And the reminder hinders my ability to just sit still in the now, and enjoy what is, even though it won’t be like this again. Because falling in love with a season so temporary — it feels like I’m the character on the TV show House, who married a man with a terminal illness.
I find myself keeping my heart at arm’s length instead.
I no longer hoard junk that takes up space in a closet or an attic, but I am a hoarder of moments, wishing I could somehow collect them all and store them in a recess of my mind.
When I was a kid, I used to collect tennis balls for my brother. We had a ball shooter, and he’d practice with it for hours. I’d collect balls as he smashed them strategically over the net, {occasionally in my direction} and put them back in the shooter so that he could keep going. But inevitably, I’d fall behind, and his shots would come too quickly. I’d get overwhelmed that they were coming so fast, and I’d give up trying and wait for him to stop and help me.
These days, in this place, precious moments feel like they are coming at me that quickly. The baby is standing in Goo-Goo’s lap, drooling and smiling, reaching for his nose. The Bear is outside, rolling a toy car around the table on the patio, and Goo-Goo with another car in tow, follows Him. Gammy tickles a four-month-old tummy, he laughs and both their faces are alight. The living room is chilly but filled with light in the early Bloemfontein mornings, and three of us have breakfast at the table while the little one looks on from his stroller.
So teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom. {Psalm 90:12}
It is the eve of four months becoming five for the new addition in our family. These days he pauses nursing just to look up at me. He looks up, his whole face changes with a big smile, and then he laughs at me as a tiny stream of bright white milk rolls down his cheek. I love it, and yet it makes my heart so sore.
I struggle at the thought that these moments can’t all be captured. I can’t pick up the tennis balls fast enough. He won’t remember me holding his finger and us giggling together in a bedroom in Bloem. I might not remember either.
But maybe somewhere down the line, ten years from now, he will be a more secure and peaceful individual because when he was a baby his mother held him and loved him and laughed with him and treasured his smiles, and his father cuddled him and rocked him and played with him until he squealed with baby delight. And his grandparents held and snuggled and walked and loved him, too.
Which would mean the moment isn’t gone or forgotten, it’s stored inside somehow. Captured in a way that megapixels can’t. Stored in a place that doesn’t have a hard drive.
And even the parts of life that are too brief to recount or even remember — a smile from a stranger, the first coo of your firstborn — those parts you might not always be able to hold onto, there’s still so much value in them. In the now, which is all we really have, after all.
I realise I can’t decide not to show up just because now isn’t forever, and can’t be held onto forever. Why drive to the beach and decide not to get out of the car just because you forgot your camera?
It seems my greatest challenge is learning to live right here, right now. If you number your days, I suppose you’ll begin to realise the best one to focus on living is this one.
xCC
Jul 13, 2011 | South Africa, Stories
In the days leading up to our departure, we sometimes felt like the town was bidding us goodbye. The friendly neighbourhood seal, whom I hadn’t spotted for ages, swam past the night before we left, putting a bright smile on my face. The day before he’d waved flipper to the Hubs to bid him farewell, too.
Those last few days were full of smiles and tears and prayers and well wishes — like life, often challenging, but sweet, and good.
Our last morning in Gordon’s Bay was a busy one. The folks moving in arrived promptly at 9 am, and we weren’t quite ready for them. We scrambled to get things together and complete some last minute errands, and finally departed the last address we’ll have in South Africa for the foreseeable future after noon.
A friend treated us to lunch and pancakes, and relaxing briefly on her couch our brains swirled in circles with all the things we’d completed, and the things we hadn’t. After lunch we needed to pass through the village again on one last errand before heading to Hermanus.
Throughout our time in Gordon’s Bay, if we were ever out after dark, we’d see this big cross, lit up and shining bright, about halfway up the mountain. During the daytime, we’d look for it, but we were never able to spot exactly where it was.
As Mr. Potato Head grumbled into the village for one last stop, for the first time ever, there we spotted the cross on the mountainside. It was as if the Lord was telling us — I was here before you, I who am and was and ever shall be, and I have always been here with you, even when you didn’t see. I will be here when you’ve gone.
Lord, bless Gordon’s Bay and watch over her.
We’ve always embarked on our day trips to Hermanus quite early in the day, and the sun shines bright on the mountains along the way. As a passenger in a right-hand drive car, I’m on the far left side of the road, and I stare out my window with them stretching skyward above me.
Mountains to the left, rocky cliffs and ocean to the right — I can’t think of a drive more beautiful than the coastal route we take to get to Hermanus.
With Gordon’s Bay in the rear view mirror, this time we were leaving in the late afternoon. The mountains were still beautiful, but different in the late afternoon sun. Their shadows stretched on ahead of us, as if they were leaning up the road, lingering as long as they could before saying goodbye.
We trust we’ll be back this way again, but only the Lord knows when. I turned to look back, through the dusty rear window of the car, and warmly stood our sweet village on the harbour, the sun’s red glow a backlight to the buildings in shadow.
I longed to turn back for just one more moment, one more sunset, one more walk with the boys. But like the water beside us that keeps on flowing — life, she keeps moving on.
xCC
I create resources to help people find deeper, more meaningful relationships with God through pursuing, pondering, and prayer. The "Shop" link above will take you to the home of many of the lovely resources I’ve created to help you keep walking one day deeper with Jesus.