Journal 2014

Vyf weke was te lank. Vyf weke was te kort. Vyf weke weg was genoeg. Ouers oor die waters moes versorg word.

Toe sy die stem hoor, het ons Dolla hoorbaar “gepappa” en nog ‘n toon hoër, koppie skeef gedraai om seker te maak sy hoor reg en toe sommer gegil, “pappaaa, pappaaa”, op en af gespring met Bella hond wat sommer gek word van blygeit! Eindelik was hy weer tuis.

Na ‘n koppie tee met gekoopte Hollandse appeltertjies (die oond is stukkend en het ook vyf weke geduldig gewag) en al die onmiddellike vrae van hoe vol die vlug was en of hy lank moes wag en hoe gaan dit met pa en ma en met die en daai, pluk Handsome (boet) die tas nader en begin uitpak…

Alles sorgvuldig toegedraai, vasgeplak en in plastieksakkies en tussen die hemde, drafklere, broeke ingepak. Sommer klein goedjies want by Sus kom mens nie verby nie. ‘n Pakkie word altyd saamgegee en vir elkeen is daar ietsie want “dis sommer net lekker om so ‘n ou ietsie saam te gee”:

‘n warm dik wol sjaal vir Dolla wat sy self gebrei het, maar ek moet tog net fraiings aansit want haar wol het opgeraak; ‘n lekkerruik roompie vir die lyf en die bad; ‘n paar ou tydskrifte want daar is spesifieke idees oor pakkies toemaak en goedkoop klein geskenkies om te gee want Kersfees kom; ‘n ou tydskrif oor iemand wat ook skryf…

‘n oefenlappie met ‘n sierlike flinder geborduur want sy het ‘n kursus gedoen oor masjienborduurwerk en miskien kan ek nou ietsie moois maak met die flinder; ‘n groot pak ‘Jelly Tots’ vir Handsome se soettand; ‘n kleurvolle huisbroek wat apart gewas moet word want die kleure loop; Top Deck van Cadbury’s misvormd van die warmte want toe hy daar weg is, was dit begin van somer; handsakgrootte pers batterywaaiertjie vir die leeftydgloede van hom af want hy wou iets spesiaal vir my kry; die handgemaakte kraleman-en-vrou van die straatkind vir die toiletdeur; ‘Old Spice’ spuitgoed vir Handsome en pienk ‘Ballet’ spuitgoed vir Dolla

en…

Alles sommer klein.

Maar klein is groot.

Want groot begin altyd klein.

Maar klein kan misgekyk word.

As klein raakgesien word,

is klein sommer groot, baie groot!

Today, thirteen years ago with a few suitcases and boxes to start a new season of life, we stepped off the plane in Belgium.

We had words. We had vision. We had dreams. We were excited. We came to give.

Soon, very soon, it.all.died.

And we held on to The Only Word.

Harsh, angry words uttered the vision to survive only one more day, one more year, haunted by tempting dreams of where we came from, into the pit of depression and we had no-thing to give.

But God!

‘All new life comes out of the dark places’ says Ann Voskamp.

Thirteen years later…

We came

and received.

We have words! We have vision! We have dreams! We are excited!

We know God is always good.

We know we are always loved.

We know all is grace.

We know all can be redeemed.

And God!

Coffee after the traffic around the Ring (high way around Brussels) and through the yellow and orange-brown forest started the lesson with paper, brushes and paint. Focus for a few hours on sketching, mixing paint, enough water to fade out strong colour and we are on our way to creating with the master demonstrating.

“Put the detail where you want the focus to be. The eye goes to where the colour is the strongest and where the most detail are,” he says. And my eye wants to have detail on the petal at the top and under the other leaf and the shadow on the pot and behind and then there is the…

“Look,” he says. I stand up and look from a distance, squinting the eyes. Focus.

Then I see and I add a darker colour mix, delicate nerves, more shadow. And the eye goes… Other petals and leaves are vaguely there supporting the focal point.

What a bland, boringness with too much all over and no focal point with gorgeous colour and delicate detail.

Focus and the eye goes…

Focus and see…

Focus and see beauty.

Focus and see the Beauty!

“don’t fight it. just go with it.”

eleven of us, and baby keziah, started off this class with hans on a friday morning.

aquarelle painting.

some had experience and some not at all. in the process of letting go of paint and insecurities, we found the joy and fun of learning new skills and looking at creation with new eyes. daring greatly was the challenge, making mistakes our friend – with this wonderful medium of painting (aquarelle having somewhat its own mind) and making new friends around the coffee break. (zuza even treated us with home baked cake!) only too soon the six sessions were over and we all exhibited our masterpieces on the floor, deciding which ones to put up on the wall.

with a good dose of encouragement and step by step guidance from master hans, we all confirmed that aquarelle was the medium teaching us to stop the fight and to go with it, whether it was on paper or on the canvas of our own lives. freedom! fun!

On Wednesday our friend of thirty something buried her husband, the father of their two year old son and unborn baby.

No words. Nothing.

Only a deep groaning inside as we received news last week…

This morning,

C.R. Snyder who did research on hope, had a theory. People who have hope (hope is no feeling but a way we think)are able to set goals, cultivate pathways to achieve these goals and have a sense of agency, meaning, they believe they can do it. Author Brene Brown spoke these truths while I was running this morning.

Hope is a function of struggle.

Hope is a function of struggle.

Hope is a function of struggle and in Petra’s case, suffering.

So Petra, I know this will come, the hope, because you have the tenacity in you. You’ve set that goal (even before you met Tom) of loving your Father and allowing him to embrace you, moving in and towards the destiny he has for you. You’ve cultivated those pathways through focus, worship and prayer as a way of life, joining the community in Germany and helping others to see. So that sense of ‘I believe I can do it’ will come with the help of his Spirit. It will come. We wait for it patiently.

Hold on dear Petra.

It.will.come.

I know it.

(Romans 8: 24-26)

breathe

live

look, listen, smell, feel, taste

live

people places things

observe, hear, detect, experience, savor

play, laugh, work, cry, rest, stand, fall

live

no one-man-answer

no quick

no shortcut

walk on

time

live

Master Artist

commune with Art

immersed in Art

inspired by Art

SEE!

live.

be

an artist.

2 in 85 = 29

yes, there were cameras, guests smiling, a dress which sister lovingly made, music, pink roses, a cake which mum baked and decorated, gifts, a message from the pulpit, the gold band and a slim man in a suit. and i was late, very late and i cried. that was 29 years ago when we said ‘yes’- now only pictures in a book.

said ‘yes’ to what? applauds for award-winning glossy hollywood real romantic love and happy ever after?

today i live with another man…

he says it with flowers and buys me pretty magazines. he sleeps on the smelly old couch in the second hand store while i search for cheap treasures. he’s the one puked on in the middle of the night when the boy had too much to drink. he’s the real man who stands in line at the check-out with only sanitary pads in his shopping basket because his wife had an unexpected emergency. he’s the one to put his hands down the pipes to clean out the blocked toilet and catches a spider in a bottle before she completely freaks. and he chooses to trust and trust again when a boy struggles to be honest. he’s the one running in the forest with a stone in the hand, breathing heavily, speaking to his creator about the boy. he runs the home for a week, taking care of the handicapped girl while his wife indulges in the art of words at a writing course. that slim man in the suit (now a few sizes larger) now puts his arm around a soft, full waistline and whispers into wrinkling and greying, “you are so beautiful”.

so love, this messy-gritty-everyday-dying-to-self love is boring.

but, this boring-messy-gritty-everyday-dying-to-self love is real.

it is eternal.

you kiss your family and friends good-bye

and put miles (a continent – my words added) between you,

but at the same time

you carry them with you in your heart, your mind, your stomach,

because

you do not just live in a world

but a world lives in you.

(frederick buechner)

the message reads: he’s in a lot of pain and growing weaker

she asks about the welfare of ‘my little ones’ (25 and 20 years old)

they moved to another town

brewing silence from one

he left his lazy-boy-chair for his terminally ill brother

she has multiple sclerosis; he’s going for tests for the liver and the little one of seven has a tired kidney

they just separated

there’s no water, no electricity

the voice breathes weariness because of caring

she struggles to make ends meet and still have a life

crying, when in her arms, for a moment she held the three day old baby of a complete stranger. this frail little lady nearing the end of her journey. my mother. like a prophetess called anna, ages ago in a jewish temple. anticipating Life and recognising Hope. our Hope.

the train took us there. we followed the cobblestones… to the bronze statue of the dead Jesus – touched shiny by people walking by hoping for a miracle of sorts, a touch from heaven. we spotted them and the teacher went real african – he whistled… they turned around.

we sat down close to the fireplace. the white aproned waiter placed hot chocolate, cherry and apple pie slices in front of us. the gentleman in the corner had a glass of red wine and the morning paper. then we celebrated life and friendship.

celebrated I AM, our being created in the image.

of an empty house and more questions than answers and missing our dear friend that passed on. of travels to the holy land and divine appointments. of an altar of sorrow becoming an altar of worship. of frail parents in africa. of facing fears, pain. (i saw the tears.) of writing. of a white clay pot baked a second time in a fire made of papers with burning why-questions. the pot came out stunning! it took more fire. she showed us the picture of her pot.

more hot chocolate. the youngsters squeezed in at the table next to ours – messaging, laughing.

celebrated I AM.

of presence in the moment, breathing heaven. of joy fountains and the wonder of the Mystery. of believing, asking help in our unbelief. hope.

until we meet again.

the living Jesus touched us.

the train took us home.