The appeals of becoming a hermit

Don't get too worried about me, but there's something that really appeals to me about becoming a hermit. This feeling is usually stronger after a l o n g  d a y listening to people who are in pain. Or when someone constantly sings 'Call Me Maybe', the most annoying song in the world (not official, just my opinion). Or just about any time that I feel jealous or misunderstood or judged or let down.

That's when I think life alone would be easier

When I moved to South Africa, and again a few years later when I moved to New Zealand, I convinced myself that I could survive without friends, that I'd be quite happy to live on my own, do my own thing, do what I want. But the more I go through life, the more I realise how much we need people.

When you’re not surrounded by people, you are much less likely to get hurt. People will not be able to leave you because they are not there in the first place. There will not be anyone to get annoyed or angry with. There will not be anyone to break promises and let you down. There will not be anyone to be jealous of or to have to be patient with. Just you.

Sounds wonderful, right? Wonderful and terrible.

We are not designed for being alone. We are built for love, accountability, laughter, giving and receiving support, authenticity. We are designed for growth. 

We start off rough around the edges and much of the process of smoothing those edges out comes as the result of relationships and the community we are made to be in. As we bump into each other, clash, hurt each other, bring out the worst in each other, our roughness becomes all smooth and shiny.

Without people, we would never learn patience, never know love, never learn how to pick ourselves up after we’ve been knocked down, smile less, laugh less, have fewer memories, less joy. We would be stagnant, never changing, never developing. Maybe life would be easier without people. Easier, but so much darker.

People hurt us, but people also heal us. Turns out people are actually pretty cool. 

And that's when I know I am blessed to have people around me

Pancakes

Mac was one of my favourite people.


Mac was funny, often inappropriately, which of course, made him funnier. He was kind, valuing and including the people he met, whenever and however he met them. He made great pancakes. He was, by no means perfect, which he would be the first to admit. He was determined, at one stage holding the world record for the longest drumming marathon. He was strong, even right at the end. 

I've been wanting to write about Mac for a long time, because he had such a big influence on me. This week would have been his birthday. He always manages to sneak into my thoughts in mid-April, even though it's been nearly four years since he died. The memories just keep popping up. The time he taught me 'Afrikaans', of course, using my ignorance to make me say stupid things. All the times he, and his wife, Diane welcomed me into their home. The two day car trip from Port Shepstone to Cape Town with five of us in the car. The time we raced home from town through the gorge after Diane had found a snake in the house. All the times he, very convincingly, mocked my accent (get owyt naowu, wynd yer neck in). The many Sunday evenings we would gather at Di and Mac's house for pancakes. 


Mac was diagnosed with lung cancer in 2007 and died a year later after fighting hard. For a long time, I weighed up whether I could and should make the trip back to South Africa to see him. I can't explain how glad I am that I did. Di and Mac picked me up at the airport before one of Mac's hospital appointments. The first thing he said to me was, "You're so white! I'm not even as white as you, and I have cancer!" Ah, the old Mac humour. That week I spent with them was incredibly blessed as I got to share a small part of the journeys of two incredible people. 


Despite all the circumstances, what I witnessed that week was hope and life. Naturally, there was a lot of sadness, but also real joy. Every day was seen as a blessing by the man who carried on with his life right till the last day. He wasn't the same Mac then as the Mac I'd met 4 years previously. He had an amazing serenity and wisdom about him. I remember one night, just after he'd taken the morphine that allowed him some mild relief from the pain, he gave me better advice about boy dramas than anyone who wasn't in a morphine induced daze. His attitude was inspiring - often he would be the strong one, while everyone around him was fighting to hold it together. He had faith that he could be healed, but if not, there was a better place for him anyway. Those weren't just words for him. You could tell he knew they were true. 


I had a lot of questions when Mac got sick. It didn't make any sense to me. Why would God take someone like Mac? Mac, who had so much to offer the world. Mac, who had impacted so many people. Mac, who was talented, funny, kind, generous. I guess, if anything, I learned that it doesn't always make sense, but even when it doesn't, God is still good. And if we only trust him and worship him when times are good and all our prayers are answered, He's no more than a genie in a bottle, controlled by our whims. I don't want to worship a God like that. 


Death is never easy. It was never meant to be easy. Maybe it was never meant to make sense. And I miss Mac, but the end isn't what I remember. What I remember is his journey, his life, his hope. It was a privilege to be a part of it.


And I'm sorry if you never got to eat his pancakes. 

You can take the girl out of the ghetto...

This post may not be super interesting for 95% of you, but I've just about moved out of the flat I've been in for over three years and I'm reminiscing, so just humour me as I take a little trip down memory lane into the depths of the ghetto to share some of my favourite memories...

Alice: Did you know that if you hold a cat over a glass of water, it'll start to move its legs like it's swimming? 
Pip and Kelly: Really? Let's try! 
KJ: Meow, meow, wriggle, wriggle, smash glass, run away
Alice: Hmm, maybe it was dogs

An epic win in the flat photo competition. Let's take another look at the winning entry:

Irish Potball - the great game invented by the great Jonny Shaw. It's pretty sad when you invent a game and the girls in your flat keep beating you at it though. 

My first birthday in the flat when Kelly, Alice and Brook filled my room with green balloons. I kept thinking I'd got rid of them all, but no, somehow more would always appear!

Discovering we could fit all four flatmates in the HUGE bath (fully clothed and just to prove a point, not because we bathed together)

Flat missions to the dairy in the dark to get ice creams...sticking close together in a group of 4, making sure none of us are wearing blue or red. 

The quote board. Some highlights for you (some are far too inappropriate (Kelly Tuck) to share publicly).
"The best thing about being a leopard would be being able to kill your prey and drag it up a tree"
"We need to figure out a way to figure things out"
"I see naked people all the time and I don't care!"
"If church was today, it would be 11am by tomorrow's time" (Hannah trying to explain daylight savings.

Oh good times! It really has been a treat. Alice, Kelly, Brook, Hannah, Ed, Jonny, Pete, KJ - a treat I tell you!

Who'd have thought?

For some reason, this time of year has often been significant for me. It's when me and my whole family have their birthdays. It was this time of year when I moved to New Zealand, when I travelled overseas with a sports team for the first time. And it was this week two years ago that I left my first job in NZ having been made redundant...

Without doubt, that week 2 years ago was a turning point. If you had told me before I came to New Zealand that I would be on the other side of the world, without a job and therefore, that my visa would be in doubt, I probably would have never left home. Before it happened, I would have said it was one on the scariest things that could happen.

The reality of it was very different. I never would have predicted the incredible peace I felt. Maybe not for the first couple of days after I found out. Those days brought feelings of
     fear 
           rejection
                        sadness
                                   anger
                                            hurt
but it still amazes me how quickly those feelings gave way to the peace.

I'm not even sure I can describe it adequately. I just knew it was going to be ok. External circumstances did nothing to encourage me - physios all round me were losing jobs or having their contracts changed. It wasn't a happy time to be a physio in NZ, especially not an unemployed one. But, for the first time since I had arrived in the country, I just had this feeling that I was meant to be in Hamilton and a faith that if that was true, that a job would come up.

So, I got to work, sending out my CV, hoping to get maybe a few part time hours after a couple of weeks or months. I never would have thought that I wouldn't have one jobless day. I never would have thought that I'd be able to carry on working with my rugby team or that I would find a job that I could walk to. But that's what happened. That and so much more. Timing was perfect for me to get some temporary part time work to fill in until I could start a new job, that again, came up with perfect timing. New jobs, new opportunities, new learning, new friendships, new visa! It was more than I had hoped for.

Looking back on the last two years, since that change, I'm so incredibly, abundantly, amazingly thankful for what happened. The scary thing, the huge change, the complete loss of security, it brought me faith, confidence, hope. I never would have thought it could be the blessing it was...I'm glad someone knows better than me.