Cooking is not my strong point. If you have followed me on Facebook or
Twitter for any length of time you will know that. Some months ago I
posted a photo that shows how unabashed I am in flaunting my flops! I
had decided to roast a chicken breast with root vegetables in a
roasting pan. I even made a concoction of olive oil, balsamic glaze,
and a touch of honey, covered the whole lot by hand, (because I don't
trust myself to "drizzle" olive oil over anything), and popped it into
a pre-heated oven. It should have been so easy. It SHOULD have been,
but I was the chef, which meant that I forgot about it until I saw the
smoke. The photo showed my burnt offering, and some of you were kind
enough to commiserate and even to encourage me. Thank you. It didn't
work. Today I came home from church, thanking God for Woolies, because
I had a ready-to-microwave-in-2min 30seconds pot meal in the fridge.
While other families went home to roast lamb feasts, I came home to
Woolies duck hoisin. Hot on my heels came Sid and Christie. They asked
if we could watch a Criminal Minds DVD together as soon as they had
prepared their lunch. Not too many minutes after my duck was ready,
they arrived bearing sandwiches. Enough said!
I am no good at cooking, but I have a terribly active social
conscience that I have passed on to my daughter. This is the fault of
my paternal grandmother who lived with us. She taught me to arrange
flowers, set tables correctly, love art, and be polite and punctual.
Punctuality is a family affliction. We have never yet learned that
when people invite you for dinner at 7.00p.m., they don't expect you
to be standing at the door at 6.55! Politeness was drilled into me
more than my other siblings because my grandmother spent more time
with me. When guests arrived I was expected to come into the sitting
room (we didn't "lounge"), shake hands, look the guests in the eyes,
smile, and politely enquire how they were. I then had to "converse"
for a few moments. I never imposed this regime on Christie, but I
assume that children learn by observation. So when we go for full-body
Swedish massages or pedicures or any ritual designed to relax, and for
which we pay a fair amount of money, I feel duty bound to be polite
and converse. I had no idea that I had raised a child with the same
social conscience, as neither of us has ever been around the other
during these occasional treats. I found out from Crystal, one of my
pastors and Christie's best friend, that she is similarly afflicted.
"Good grief, Boss," said Crystal one day after the two of them had
spent a girlie afternoon at the spa, "your child is EXACTLY like you!"
She then gave me a lively description of Christie in an adjoining
cubicle. Crystal and I have travelled to Israel and America together,
and have had massages together, so she knows my routine. She mimicked
Christie greeting her therapist, asking her name, where she lived, and
other questions designed to get the girl talking about herself. "What
is wrong with the two of you?" she demanded. "You are there to RELAX.
I lie down and don't say a single word to them but the two of you hear
their life stories!"
Along with an inability to cook, a social conscience that is a severe
affliction, I have the kind of face that people talk to. I cannot even
begin to guess the numbers of times I have been accosted in shops by
people who want my advice, or to ask directions, (very bad move as I
seldom know where I am), or just to chat. I have been asked to
accompany someone to a changing room to see if a dress looks all right
from the back. I have been roped in to decide which colour looks
better, or to read a label for someone, or to hear some other person's
story in the pill section of a pharmacy. I have been advised by a
total stranger to use a particular shampoo. The problem is that I am
incapable of being "rude" to anyone, even to people who should be
avoided at all costs. To me, being rude means not responding to a
request. "They see you coming Mom," declares Christie bitterly, after
a quick pop in to get coffee turns into a major counseling session of
some person standing in line behind me. The very worst of these
encounters happened in Washington DC in a tour bus. Tasha was with me,
and giggled her way round the streets of the city. We had barely been
on the bus, the hop-on, hop-off type of tour bus, for more than ten
minutes when the strangest looking man hopped in, and as there was no
available seat, he squatted on his haunches directly opposite me, made
eye contact which he kept up the entire journey, and regaled me with
the weirdest information I have ever heard. He was wearing a knitted
cap pulled low over his forehead with straggly black hair sticking out
from under the cap. He cannot possibly have washed his hair recently.
He had protruding black eyes, an unkempt beard, and I was his new
friend. The rest of the bus load of people, other than Tasha,
studiously avoided looking at either of us, especially when he made me
look out of his side of the bus, while pointed out a gargoyle on the
cathedral that he insisted was modelled on Darth Vader. Did I see the
resemblance, he wanted to know. I lied and said yes indeed, and how
amazing. I heard all about his uncle who had a security pass to
deliver things (I forget what things), to the White House. It was a
trying trip!
The worst thing my grandmother's doctrine of politeness ever did to me
happened in the labour ward when Christie was being born. She was ten
days overdue so the gynecologist decided to induce her birth. The
previous week the ante-natal teacher at the hospital had asked if she
could bring her class through on their scheduled visit to the labour
ward while I was there. I had happily agreed, having no idea what I
was agreeing to. I had been in strong and terrible labour since 7 in
the morning, with no pain relief - I had spent several months of my
pregnancy in America where I had been brainwashed into believing that
having pain relief during childbirth was a devilish invention of the
twentieth century, to be avoided at all costs - and it was now 2.30 in
the afternoon. The moment arrived and the teacher appeared, smilingly
enquiring if all was well, and could her class come through now? I was
NOT all right! I didn't want to see anyone except this baby who was
delaying her arrival. But, shades of my grandmother, I propped myself
up, pinned a VERY strained smile on my face, and said OF COURSE they
could come through. All I could think at this hideously inconvenient
moment was that I couldn't let them see how awful it was, or they
would dread childbirth. So as the heavily pregnant women traipsed
through, eyes wide as they took in the sights and sounds of the labour
ward, I tried to breathe and speak simultaneously, and to assure them
that everything was going to be fine. I don't know who I succeeded in
fooling, but I tried.
One of the things I love so much about God is the way He has made
people unique. Another is His sense of humour. We wouldn't be able to
laugh and find things funny if God Himself didn't endow us with His
own attributes. This resurrection Sunday it dawns on me how much value
God places on each of us. Jesus died in agony as a convicted criminal
for each one of us, the angry little man I wrote about last month, the
strange self-appointed tour guide on the bus, me with my inability to
cook and an equal inability to rebuff people, and you with your own
idiosyncrasies and your own sense of humour. The children sing,
"Jesus loves the little children,
All the children of the world,
Red and yellow, black and white,
All are precious in His sight,
Jesus loves the children of the world!"
Yes He does. And He loves the adults too. He loves YOU so much that He
sent Jesus to die for you. I had a few women watching me try to
overcome the pain of labour to spare their fears. Jesus hung naked and
in agony on a Roman cross, with crowds of onlookers mocking and
heckling Him, so that we could have our sins forgiven. Then three days
later He rose from the dead. God wants US to know that we never have
to fear death. He has been there for us and there really is no fear
for those who trust Him.
God bless you and I pray you have had a beautiful day.
Twitter for any length of time you will know that. Some months ago I
posted a photo that shows how unabashed I am in flaunting my flops! I
had decided to roast a chicken breast with root vegetables in a
roasting pan. I even made a concoction of olive oil, balsamic glaze,
and a touch of honey, covered the whole lot by hand, (because I don't
trust myself to "drizzle" olive oil over anything), and popped it into
a pre-heated oven. It should have been so easy. It SHOULD have been,
but I was the chef, which meant that I forgot about it until I saw the
smoke. The photo showed my burnt offering, and some of you were kind
enough to commiserate and even to encourage me. Thank you. It didn't
work. Today I came home from church, thanking God for Woolies, because
I had a ready-to-microwave-in-2min 30seconds pot meal in the fridge.
While other families went home to roast lamb feasts, I came home to
Woolies duck hoisin. Hot on my heels came Sid and Christie. They asked
if we could watch a Criminal Minds DVD together as soon as they had
prepared their lunch. Not too many minutes after my duck was ready,
they arrived bearing sandwiches. Enough said!
I am no good at cooking, but I have a terribly active social
conscience that I have passed on to my daughter. This is the fault of
my paternal grandmother who lived with us. She taught me to arrange
flowers, set tables correctly, love art, and be polite and punctual.
Punctuality is a family affliction. We have never yet learned that
when people invite you for dinner at 7.00p.m., they don't expect you
to be standing at the door at 6.55! Politeness was drilled into me
more than my other siblings because my grandmother spent more time
with me. When guests arrived I was expected to come into the sitting
room (we didn't "lounge"), shake hands, look the guests in the eyes,
smile, and politely enquire how they were. I then had to "converse"
for a few moments. I never imposed this regime on Christie, but I
assume that children learn by observation. So when we go for full-body
Swedish massages or pedicures or any ritual designed to relax, and for
which we pay a fair amount of money, I feel duty bound to be polite
and converse. I had no idea that I had raised a child with the same
social conscience, as neither of us has ever been around the other
during these occasional treats. I found out from Crystal, one of my
pastors and Christie's best friend, that she is similarly afflicted.
"Good grief, Boss," said Crystal one day after the two of them had
spent a girlie afternoon at the spa, "your child is EXACTLY like you!"
She then gave me a lively description of Christie in an adjoining
cubicle. Crystal and I have travelled to Israel and America together,
and have had massages together, so she knows my routine. She mimicked
Christie greeting her therapist, asking her name, where she lived, and
other questions designed to get the girl talking about herself. "What
is wrong with the two of you?" she demanded. "You are there to RELAX.
I lie down and don't say a single word to them but the two of you hear
their life stories!"
Along with an inability to cook, a social conscience that is a severe
affliction, I have the kind of face that people talk to. I cannot even
begin to guess the numbers of times I have been accosted in shops by
people who want my advice, or to ask directions, (very bad move as I
seldom know where I am), or just to chat. I have been asked to
accompany someone to a changing room to see if a dress looks all right
from the back. I have been roped in to decide which colour looks
better, or to read a label for someone, or to hear some other person's
story in the pill section of a pharmacy. I have been advised by a
total stranger to use a particular shampoo. The problem is that I am
incapable of being "rude" to anyone, even to people who should be
avoided at all costs. To me, being rude means not responding to a
request. "They see you coming Mom," declares Christie bitterly, after
a quick pop in to get coffee turns into a major counseling session of
some person standing in line behind me. The very worst of these
encounters happened in Washington DC in a tour bus. Tasha was with me,
and giggled her way round the streets of the city. We had barely been
on the bus, the hop-on, hop-off type of tour bus, for more than ten
minutes when the strangest looking man hopped in, and as there was no
available seat, he squatted on his haunches directly opposite me, made
eye contact which he kept up the entire journey, and regaled me with
the weirdest information I have ever heard. He was wearing a knitted
cap pulled low over his forehead with straggly black hair sticking out
from under the cap. He cannot possibly have washed his hair recently.
He had protruding black eyes, an unkempt beard, and I was his new
friend. The rest of the bus load of people, other than Tasha,
studiously avoided looking at either of us, especially when he made me
look out of his side of the bus, while pointed out a gargoyle on the
cathedral that he insisted was modelled on Darth Vader. Did I see the
resemblance, he wanted to know. I lied and said yes indeed, and how
amazing. I heard all about his uncle who had a security pass to
deliver things (I forget what things), to the White House. It was a
trying trip!
The worst thing my grandmother's doctrine of politeness ever did to me
happened in the labour ward when Christie was being born. She was ten
days overdue so the gynecologist decided to induce her birth. The
previous week the ante-natal teacher at the hospital had asked if she
could bring her class through on their scheduled visit to the labour
ward while I was there. I had happily agreed, having no idea what I
was agreeing to. I had been in strong and terrible labour since 7 in
the morning, with no pain relief - I had spent several months of my
pregnancy in America where I had been brainwashed into believing that
having pain relief during childbirth was a devilish invention of the
twentieth century, to be avoided at all costs - and it was now 2.30 in
the afternoon. The moment arrived and the teacher appeared, smilingly
enquiring if all was well, and could her class come through now? I was
NOT all right! I didn't want to see anyone except this baby who was
delaying her arrival. But, shades of my grandmother, I propped myself
up, pinned a VERY strained smile on my face, and said OF COURSE they
could come through. All I could think at this hideously inconvenient
moment was that I couldn't let them see how awful it was, or they
would dread childbirth. So as the heavily pregnant women traipsed
through, eyes wide as they took in the sights and sounds of the labour
ward, I tried to breathe and speak simultaneously, and to assure them
that everything was going to be fine. I don't know who I succeeded in
fooling, but I tried.
One of the things I love so much about God is the way He has made
people unique. Another is His sense of humour. We wouldn't be able to
laugh and find things funny if God Himself didn't endow us with His
own attributes. This resurrection Sunday it dawns on me how much value
God places on each of us. Jesus died in agony as a convicted criminal
for each one of us, the angry little man I wrote about last month, the
strange self-appointed tour guide on the bus, me with my inability to
cook and an equal inability to rebuff people, and you with your own
idiosyncrasies and your own sense of humour. The children sing,
"Jesus loves the little children,
All the children of the world,
Red and yellow, black and white,
All are precious in His sight,
Jesus loves the children of the world!"
Yes He does. And He loves the adults too. He loves YOU so much that He
sent Jesus to die for you. I had a few women watching me try to
overcome the pain of labour to spare their fears. Jesus hung naked and
in agony on a Roman cross, with crowds of onlookers mocking and
heckling Him, so that we could have our sins forgiven. Then three days
later He rose from the dead. God wants US to know that we never have
to fear death. He has been there for us and there really is no fear
for those who trust Him.
God bless you and I pray you have had a beautiful day.
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