Saturday 1 June 2024

~ 10pm ~

 

Source

For my cheerleader, my confidant and the only person who keeps me sane some days.
This is a old poem, and still just as relevant today.


Cigars and cider help the words flow

Easy from my mouth to his

We draw in fast, let out slow –

Drink the smoke to breathe the fire

And we’ll ask the gods what they require.


I lean back and grasp the air

Watch it passing though my hand

As fleeting as a teenage care

We are no Romeo and Juliet –

Yet it feels like us against each threat.


He talks of travel, I of pain

We both want to run away

“Would you ever try cocaine?”

Then he relights, puffs into the flame

The ash at our feet like our family name.


Our child rests and so do we

Awake, sleeping on our own

Wishing for times always this carefree

“I can’t stand any people, except you –

Because you are me, through and through.”


He leans in close to tell another’s joke –

Knowing we are the punch line –

I laugh, like a dragon puffing smoke.

“Don’t be bitter darling, they don’t know what they say –

‘Live quiet, do well’, and now, pass me the ashtray.”

Sunday 31 March 2024

The Harrowing of Hell

Source


Into Sheol He strode, dauntless

Though blood was thick upon His brow

The brass gates behind lying twisted

Like His crown of thorny boughs.


Screaming foul fury and terror 

Legions fled before His bleeding tread

For this one moving strong among them

Was God of the living, and not the dead.


From the bosom of Abraham He took

And turned once more into the night

In the darkness of cold Earth above 

He would be the first resurrected light.


The firstborn of the dead led them forth

Triumphant, Hades was harrowed for New Zion

And who could ever dare stand against Him?

For this Aslan was never a tame lion.



S.K.Downes

Sunday 4 June 2023

Swan Song

 

Source


One woman tried to cut her wrists -

She hid it from the gossips and they said 

Goodbye - there's not been enough dinners 

for us to stay -

You must pay for our friendship with your bread.


One man camps at night in the pouring rain

He wants to save a few more dollars today 

But when he gets home, he hears how they

told his wife how he -

Spends all his time away on drink and play.


Look at the swan, gliding there

Every graceful, ever fair

She sits serene on a sea of glass -

But underneath, the feet are paddling fast.


One woman had a friend, dark and disturbed 

And the darkness could not bear to gaze upon the light 

So she told her she was ugly, broken and unformed, tore

her down until -

That once shining beauty disappeared into the night.


One man has a wife who dies a little every day

He carries the weight of both their worlds forever 

And others watch and wait and say that he's too sombre

for them to ever agree -

Never knowing he's given up praying for her to be set free.


Look at the swan, gliding there

Every graceful, ever fair

She sits serene on a sea of glass -

But underneath, the feet are paddling fast.



'But the tongue can no man tame; it is an unruly evil, full of deadly poison.' 

James 3:8


Friday 2 December 2022

Dried Bean Christianity (and why I am not a fan)


Invariably, as we enter the Christmas season, a specimen of holy sanctification will loam mightily upon the horizon. Karen, resplendent in her ankle length denim skirt and thrice-year-washed hair stands triumphant before us, a warm and ever-so-slightly condescending smile appearing upon her face as she, beholding the tree in the lounge room and (horror!) the wrapped presents underneath (bonus 12 victory points to the devil if you've used holly or mistletoe to decorate), unloads a barrage of reasons why she, (as someone who only exists to please God and who has studied His word extensively) does not celebrate Christmas, but instead, chooses to spend the day on quiet contemplation and private prayer. We listen, smile and nod, and feel guilty that we, carnal sinners that we are, were so very eager to taste the eggnog and pop crackers around the table with family, when God would be clearly more honoured by this more sparce take on holiness. Perhaps we remove a few presents from under the tree and then tell Aunt Mary that no, we won't be bringing a dessert to Christmas lunch after all. Karen is mollified by this, and so we feel better. Then we see the empty places where our gifts have been, and the (less) empty stomachs where our dessert was meant to go and we feel guilty again. Year after year, this cycle continues, until we are just about ready to throw the towel in and refuse to celebrate anything, ever again. "Come to church!" we petition strangers on street corners. "We eat dry beans in the corners of empty rooms and God makes us like it! It's a blast - you don't know what you're missing out on!" Unfortunately for us, the unrengerate pagan is not as big a fool as we would require, and with a belly full of fornication, fat and feasting, it would be a mighty fool indeed who trades such immediate pleasures for the promise of 'perfect heavenly happiness and utter earthly misery.' 

 I am not arguing here about which festivals, celebrations or enjoyable occasions a Christian should or should not celebrate. That would be silly. God gives us each a conscience and the ability of exercise it. Some of us have a guilty conscience if we partake in anything enjoyable, and that is a stumbling block to which we much pay particular care, while others of us could blow a house deposit on deep fat fryers and firecrackers and then act indignant when the fun police choose to pass out a warning. Each of us has a temptation to fall off a narrow path with deep ditches either side. But I have observed a strange phenomena in my short years as a foolish, frail and female christian (this is a list of reasons why you, a superior Christian, can forgive my offensive opinions) - that those who refuse to celebrate anything not explicitly mentioned in the Bible (Jesus drinking wine doesn't count, He was just trying to show grace to those around Him *wink*) are by far the most bitter, joyless and un-spiritual religious monstrosities that I have ever come across. 

 When I look at my own life and the blessings that God has poured like whipping cream all across my history, I am struck by a dangerous truth - that a blessing only multiplies if I choose to use it. What kind of          Christian would I be, if when a gracious Father gives me eggs, I choose to hide them under a basket rather than making a cake to share with my friends and family? (Because a cake has sugar and sugar is evil, and ancient societies made cakes to offer up to their demon infested totem pole mayan statues. Make quiche. Quiche is acceptable Christian food.) When I look upon a celebration of light and grace being poured out upon an undeserving and uncaring world, and all I can do is mourn the fact that all this celebration takes away from the 'reason for the season' then that says far more about the fragile state of my own spiritual journey than anyone else's. Year after year, I hear the horror stories from those who grew up in an un-feasting, un-celebrating home. 'Trauma', they call it. Now they burn sage and recharge crystals to feel the warmth that God never showed them. They never felt the velvet slick of fresh rolled gingerbread under their skin, never cut down a fir tree like St Boniface, never stayed up late on Christmas Eve to finish a handmade gift, never set the table with gold and silver for a family feast, never felt the giddy rush of joy when another gave so that they could have. Their experience was a list of 'cannot's rather than a list of 'by the grace of God, we can.'  

 When God walked this earth in human form, He attended the weddings (heck, He dished out the wine!), He joined in all the traditional feasts and celebrations that were part of His cultural calendar - feasts and celebrations occurred so God's people could gather together and celebrate the wonderful things that He had done, and which probably were not celebrated on the exact day that they historically occurred.

 I think it's telling that in the garden of Eden, it was a world of 'yes' and a single tree of 'no'. And before someone objects, remember that God is a perfect Father. And by His Grace, and His covenant, He is ours! Why wouldn't we want to model Him, perfect in all abundance, overflowing with grace, goodness, warmth and gifts that we do not deserve? 

 So this is my request, this Christmas season. Regardless of whether you choose to celebrate or not (frankly, my dear, I don't give a - ), do not begrudge those who choose to give of themselves to bless others. Strange as it may seem, some of us like presents, candy canes and fairy lights. If you are the weaker brother who cannot touch the meat that you think may have been sacrificed to idols, that's fine. But for the love of God (and I mean this with all honesty and goodwill) take those dry little beans of miserly holiness, grind them up, run warm water through, add a dash of cream, and drink and be amazed at the abundance of a generous Father. Taste and see that the Lord is good.

Friday 15 July 2022

To Flounder {an investigation}

Via Pinterest
 I sip long and hard from the stained coffee mug before me. I think I'm on my third cup now, but the tension between my eyebrows is only growing thicker, and I feel lightheaded whenever I stand. I'm tired. My eight month old doesn't believe in sleeping long stretches during the night and my body clock doesn't believe in falling asleep any time before 11pm (a completely trainable fault on my part), so I medicate with strong coffee and a myriad of pills from a side shelf in my kitchen. "It's a balanced diet," I tell myself and down a token silverbeet leaf. 

 Outside, the ground is damp and cloying, the earth sticking to my boots like a persistent lover whenever I head across the yard. Clumps of grass seem to slip away from its surface, creating unsightly divots, and, quickly forgetting the sweat-ridden mowing that seemed to last all day, I longingly remember the smooth, green surfaces of Spring and Summer. The sun seems as reluctant as I myself to venture into this sleepy, cold world. Day after day he barely peaks over the hill, often shrouded in mist and more often than not, extremely lacklustre in warmth. Thanks to him, my seasonal depression is in full swing, and I swallow four times the recommended dose of vitamin D in the hope that this might provide a mental bandaid until the days begin to lengthen. I'm not sure it it helps or not, but I google 'Aztec sun worship' and 'solar powered t-shirt' to make myself feel better.

 It's tough to deal with exhaustion when your burnout is the birth child of blessing. I sit in the seat of incredible opportunity, but I also feel responsible for the most mundane and stupid of tasks. I take each scarred divot in my lawn as a mental neck twitch, each dirty paw print on the carpet as an itching scab - how much more do I feel that I sink under the weight of goats, beehives, horses, large vegetable gardens and two persistent, small children? And yet, through it all, I know that I am blessed. Maybe that blessing sends me deep under the bedsheets at 4pm, damp and salty while my three year old brings himself and his sandpit toys to join me, but that blessing, which feels like it dives under the covers for a moment's respite through the dark months of winter, will surely emerge - like me - hopeful after a floundering respite. 

Friday 10 June 2022

~ Futile ~ Poem

 



Why do I still stand before this mirror
And strive thus to cleanse my soul 
My eye, impatient, shall not see it clearer 
For all my fret and weary toil.

Inward, I cower and faint in heart
Yet somehow appear as valient as indeed,
I so surely shall shake apart 
As with my wounded mind I plead.

Inward still, I must seek to find
Some virtue hidden in mortal mire
An unmined gem burried deep in mind
Yet all is but coal for my pyre.

-S.K. Downes

Sunday 30 May 2021

In Praise of Mothers

(This was intended for Mother's Day, but life, as it is oft prone to do, 'got in the way.')


 I am currently sitting on the couch in my living room, surrounded by small children playing ferociously at my feet and often, on top of me. A slow cooker bubbling in the background (never mind the fact that it's mainly filled with packet sauce and cheap potatoes) and a pile of freshly washed dishes on the sink might give you the erroneous belief that things are under control here, but the truth, if I am honest, is far from that. 

 I currently only have one child earth-side, though his passionate, independent view of life make him quite unlike any other child I encountered in the long years spent as a reluctant babysitter for frazzled homeschooling mothers, and subsequently, I like to think of myself as already having reasonably full hands. (Those who have more children might see fit to disagree!) However, a large extended family makes for a full house more often than my sanctification's comfort zone might like, and so, I find myself here.

 One child has already ingested a great deal of red crayon, another is missing a chunk of hair thanks to a heightened disagreement over who got the pleasure of using the balance bike, and right now one is running around the kitchen table with the dog and two toddlers in hot pursuit while another reliably informs me that I can be a bridesmaid at her wedding tomorrow and proceeds to bombard me with questions about her future husband. I had to explain that maybe she shouldn't be marrying a man who needs me to tell her whether he prefers pear or blueberry juice.

 In the chaos, in the beautiful, ugly, necessary chaos (written as my toddler lovingly leans over and wipes his nose on my sleeve), I cannot help but by struck by my mother's example. If a dollar landed in her bank account for every stranger's pitying utterance of "You sure do have your hands full!", she would have spent her life perpetually holidaying in the Bahamas. It wasn't without reason, either. She bore eight children, one after another in such a monotonous succession, that I struggle to remember a clear time when she wasn't pregnant or nursing. Neither were we tame. Sugar and spice might make the occasional appearance a Sunday morning but otherwise slug and snails were the traditional order of the day. Whether jumping off the highest point of the concrete tank, weeing off the steps of the minivan or using the drive on mower to ferry one another around (may all the trees that J hit rest in peace), we most certainly did our best to keep her hands full. And yet, a tired sigh or a self-serving, bedraggled response was never her go-to reply. Instead, she'd face them, bright eyed and bushy tailed and say something like, "Yes! I am blessed!"or, "I wouldn't have it any other way."

 I have always admired that response. Some of my richest childhood memories invoke such tangible recollections, like the smell of fresh baked bread every day or the selecting of spring bulbs for the garden, and yet, as an adult and a mother myself now, I realise that my mother's joyful response is one of the greatest memories that I have. I was never made to feel like a burden, not matter how burdensome I or my siblings strove to be. 

 Now in our culture, the facebook wine mummy reigns supreme, her indulgent self flagellation broadcast for all to see and pity. There's an almost perverse delight in sharing how much you have failed in your duty to die to self, take up your cross and follow Him faithfully; to publicly broadcast how much you hate the simple and yet all encompassing task He gave you to do -"Feed my sheep." 

My mother in law couldn't be further from the above. A jeans-wearing, fantasy-reading mother of *shocked gasp* only two children, she often incurred the scorn of the bobby socked, long skirted homeschooling mothers around her. While spending the majority of her life bed bound and in constant pain, she managed to raise two boys into strong yet tender men, surviving off a shoe string budget and constantly moving in and out of 'fixer-uppers'.  You might forgive her the self-centred venting of a modern day 'wine mommy'. And yet, while she never denies the sacrifice taken to get there, she turns to me now and smiles joyfully whilst saying, "Now is the time of harvest."

They're everywhere, women like this. Hidden from public view, they do their duty, day after monotonous day, and rise again each morning to do it again. Like my sister-in-law, raising three small children and building a family home with her bare hands, or the lawyer turned stay-at-home mother of two who never stops learning and developing her skills, no matter how temping the desire to stagnate might be.

I am in awe of women like these. Forget your Jacinta Arderns, your Beyonces, your best friend from down the road who lives in a million dollar home with 2.5 children and a flourishing career. Give me the women who live it out every day, through the blood, sweat and numerous tears, the split milk and overflowing nappies, and who can still turn to a stranger at the supermarket and say, "Yes, my hands are full! But God help me, may they never be empty."