A new era, a new age,
This trembling finger turns the page.
A new sound, a new song,
Finally I can sing along.
A new hour, a new time,
Summer dresses, sparkling wine.
A new sun, a new day,
Night’s sorrows seem to fade away.
A new path, a new stride,
Walking with You by my side.

But with all things great and all things new,
I have found true life in You.

i was reminded this morning of a phrase that i had often used when talking or thinking about God’s commandments.
‘protection, not punishment.’
i find that i easily and frequently fall into the trap of looking with dismay at the narrow road, grumbling and moaning about the things i feel i am missing out on, or complaining about how difficult the Christian walk can be.

i need it written on my heart that God’s laws are for my protection, not to punish me.

this passage that i read this morning made me realise that God’s laws do not only protect me, but they seek to bless me too. Frances Roberts writes:
‘I have asked you to give, in order that I may bless you more. I have challenged you to pray, so that I may respond and help you. I have asked you to rejoice, in order to keep you from being swallowed up by anxieties. I have asked you to be humble, to protect you from the calamities that fall upon the proud. I have asked you to forgive, in order to make your heart fit to receive My forgiveness. I have asked you not to love the world, for I would have you released from unnecessary entanglements, free to follow Me.’ (Come Away My Beloved)

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pseudomathematics)

When I stand at this point on the earth, I am within the twenty-metre vicinity of at least seven other people. In fact, approximately twelve and a half hours of my day are spent extremely close to these people. At times, I estimate that I am within three metres distance, and at the farthest I am at forty-six. I recorded that it would take me the following amounts to come into contact with these people: five second walk, one metre jump, two and a half second dial-up and then four second ringing time, twenty one stairs or a moderately loud yell. If my calculations are correct, it would cost me $2.80 to call one of these people, $3.50 in costs of food and drink to replace the consumed energy, $325 of repairs to the walls or roof or $3.99 for Strepsils Extra Blackcurrant Lozenges if the moderate-yell were to be a continuous-moderate-yell.

My name is George Gregson-Williams. I am twenty-six years old and enjoy time alone. I live in an 8-house unit on the outskirts of town. I own number three. I spend most of my time behind a computer screen, whether at home or at work, and have a zeal for the mathematics behind programming and functional analysis. My conviction is shared with my computer, whom has acquired exceptional upgrades to assist in my learning. I particularly enjoy pseudomathematics, a branch of mathematics rarely understood by the elite and always misconceived by the dull-brained.

I hardly talk to anyone except my aging mother, who bores me senseless with her fortnightly calls. My unit neighbours appear to be uninteresting and unintelligent, and I have found that the effort required to talk to them increases the cost of replenishment food to $5.75. However, I have only ever attempted conversation once before, so a reliable figure of increase cannot be determined until I have a standard control and three repeats.
This conversation took place nearly seven months ago, and because I have the instilled brilliance of sustained memory, I can recall the exact moment in time. I was walking to my front door, and she to hers. At this point we were approximately 2.76 metres from each other. From my records I had assumed that this was the closest visually that I had ever been with one of the residents. I had been closer through the divide of walls or floors and rooves with the units above, below and either side of mine, but half a foot of wood, brick, wires and insulation prevented the resident and myself from having to partake in an inevitably dismally insipid conversation. I can remember her face well. She was attractive, in a worldly sense, so I automatically assumed that she was dim.
‘Hi there, I’m Jenna.’ She was polite, British, high pitched.
‘Hello.’
‘I haven’t seen you around before – are you new?’
‘No, I have lived here for nearly 58 months.’ I was tricky, that way, telling her my residence in months. She, however, did not look surprised.
‘Ah, I moved in only a few weeks after you, then!’ she continued. ‘I love it here. This apartment has been so fantastic.’
‘The walls are too thin,’ I replied. ‘To reflect and absorb the sound level appropriate to a residential area, the walls must be at least 15.4 centimetres thick. These walls are 12.38.’
She paused and smiled at me. ‘What’s your name again?’
‘George.’
‘Would you like to come in for a drink, George?’
I was taken aback, but only slightly. One with incomparable intelligence can only expect to be envied and thus often in danger of physical or verbal abuse. She was a classic case, I knew it immediately. Envious of my astuteness and determined to drug me under the pretence of a friendly drink.
‘No. No I wont. Pseudomathematics is a task that requires extended amounts of uninterrupted time.’
‘Ok then, George. I have no idea what Pseudomathematics is, but I’ll let you get back to it. You’re more than welcome to pop round any time you need a break.’ She smiled and turned the key in the lock of her door. She raised a hand and that was the last I saw of her. She was dull-brained of course – she asked what Pseudomathematics was – yet I couldn’t help but feel dissatisfied with the completion of my studies following my conversation with Jenna.

And now, as I stand at this point on the earth, I am within the twenty-metre vicinity of at least seven other people. One of those people is called Jenna, and I estimate that I am eleven metres away from her. It would take me a five second walk from my point here to her door, or a three second dial up and four seconds of ringing to speak to her. It would cost me very little because there are no stairs on the path from my door to hers, and the task would not require me to smash through walls to reach her in the shortest amount of time possible.
In total, I think that I could be standing in front of Jenna in twenty seconds – fifteen for further evaluation in my mind and five for travel. That’s ten now.

Five. Step.
Four. Step.
Three. Step.
Two. Step.
One. Knock.

She is.
She is convinced that she is different.
She is convinced that she feels out of place.
She is convinced that her blood is blue, and no one has ever bothered to tell her otherwise. (Blood is red.)
She is convinced that if she cuts her skin, the blue blood would never stop flowing and she would flail about in a pool of blue blood, and no one has ever bothered to tell her otherwise. (Blood clots and bodies heal.)
She is convinced that she belongs somewhere in the sky, in a realm of blue, and not on the ground, in a sea of red.

Boxing bag, a pack of cards, cricket ball, love heart.

She has.
She has breathed three-million-one-hundred-and-fifty-three-thousand-six-hundred minutes in and out of her (red) lungs, and her (red) heart has pumped litres and litres of (red) blood around her little body.
She has convinced herself to believe and imagine and think many things. And so she is destined to walk a perpetual cycle of convincing and correcting. (Blood clots and bodies heal.)
Year six of life will teach her that (red) blood is not blue. (The sky is blue. But blood is red.)

Traffic light, glass of wine, falling leaves, stop sign.

She will.
She will walk to school today, convinced that her mother does not love her. Perhaps she is right. She walks alone, with a messily made cheese sandwich wrapped flimsily in cling-wrap. It sits at the bottom of her backpack, along with three coloured pens, a broken (red) pencil, a notebook and a thin novel.
She will gaze at the insides of her wrists, staring at the (blue) veins, tracing the (blue) lines, comparing them to the (blue) sky.
She will think quietly to herself that her mother does not love her, that her sandwich is being squashed, that she needs a new (red) pencil and that she doesn’t belong in this (red) world. She belongs up in the (blue) sky.

Lips and tongue, bubblegum, apple skin, the price of sin.

She looks.
She looks around, fascinated, mesmerised, addicted to the colour (red). It’s everywhere. It’s everywhere she looks. She looks everywhere and there it is.
She looks back at her wrists, shaking her head, baring her teeth, scolding her veins for being so blue.
She looks down at the ground, little feet kicking red dirt behind heels as she walks in time with her heart beat. (Blood is red.)

Pencil shavings, new-born babies, heavy lipstick, bursting blisters.

She goes.
She goes home after six hours at school. A perpetual cycle of convincing and correcting.
She goes home less hungry than yesterday, the hunger replaced by the guilt of having stolen from a friend’s lunch. She had wanted that (red) apple so much.
She goes to her mother, who is calling from the living room. She stares three feet into the air to meet eyes with the woman she is convinced does not love her. The woman sends instructions through (red) lips and leaves the house, winking carelessly and closing the door.
She goes to her room, opens her bag and removes the crumbed cling-wrap, the three coloured pens, the broken (red) pencil, the notepad and the thin novel.
She goes to the bathroom, clutching the thin novel between thin fingers, and leans closer to the glass, inspecting. She can feel the raised line of the (blue) veins on her temples. (Blood is red.)

Curtain call, Christmas hall, embarrassed face, a warm embrace.

She feels.
She feels so lost.
She feels so distant and so removed from the (red) earth. She does not like her red blanket anymore and she does not want to sleep in a bed where she feels she cannot belong.
She feels ashamed when the woman comes home, (red) lipstick smudged at the corners of her (red) lips.
She feels scared of waking up each morning, in a bed with a red blanket, to a glorious sun glittering the earth in a delicate coat of red. The autumnal leaves are painted red and she feels so out of place.

Tomato slice, a sacrifice, angry man, strawberry jam.

She learns.
She learns about the planets at school today. They are fascinating. It amazes her how a sky so blue can suddenly turn into a sea so black. She looks at her (blue) wrists. Perhaps she does not even belong in the sky.
She learns that Pluto is too blue, and was thrown out of the same solar system as Earth. She feels a bit like Pluto. Too blue to belong.
She learns that her blood is red, after asking her teacher.
She learns that adults sometimes don’t tell the truth, because she is convinced that her blood is blue. (Blood is red.)

Red rose, winter nose, fast car, beating heart.

She is.
She is walking home from school, fiddling with a new (red) pencil.
She is only six, yet the weight on her shoulders brings her closer and closer to the red ground.
She is looking at her (blue) wrists, fiddling with her (red) pen, kicking dirt behind heels.
She is starting to run, wanting to run away but unsure where.
She is running so fast, faster than she has ever run, moving more than she has ever moved, breathing air that she has never breathed.
She is falling, and she falls. Her knees hit the ground and she skids across dirty pavement and red leaves.
She is bleeding. Her heart is beating.

Red, red, red.

The flow is gentle. A gentle ooze of heat spreading over her knees.
It is red.
Her wrists are blue.
When the blood stops (blood clots), the skin tightens (bodies heal).
She is confused, but no longer convinced. Corrected.
(Blood is red.)

~

i wrote this piece as a creative for english.
in hindsight, i found it interesting to draw parallels between the girl’s experience and my own.

i know i do not belong to this world. i am in the world, not of the world. like the girl, i know that my home is not here, for i am not home yet.

everywhere i look, the world is there; it is attractive and i often find myself wanting what it has to offer. but then i look at Jesus’ wrists, and i can see the scars that bought my salvation, i can see the blood that gave me life. as my heart beats my own blood around my body – an intricate and beautiful design of cells and organs and bones and muscles – i know that i am fearfully and wonderfully made!

yes, the road is narrow, and i often feel the weight on my shoulders pulling me down, but his burden is light; i can run into my Father’s arms, run faster than i’ve ever run.

finally, i am convinced. not that my blood is blue. but, in the words of paul, ‘i am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.’

the sky was particularly beautiful tonight.
and it made me think.
it made me think that humans are like shooting stars.
we love to shine. we love to shine brightly and boldly, despite the fleeting glitter as we shoot across the night sky.
we will the sun to go away, because others can see us shine when the sun seemingly does not.

unlike the sun, we like to think we flash in a moment of ephemeral brilliance.
it does not last.
is it real?
but the sun is the constant, enduring, overpowering light, deserving of our praise as the creator and sustainer of life. let us instead be moons, reflecting the sun’s light instead of trying so desperately to create our own.

this was sent to mum earlier today:

“Why Did Jesus Fold the Napkin?
Why did Jesus fold the linen burial cloth after His resurrection?

The Gospel of John (20:7) tells us that the napkin, which was placed over the face of Jesus, was not just thrown aside like the grave clothes.

The Bible takes an entire verse to tell us that the napkin was neatly folded, and was placed at the head of that stony coffin.

Early Sunday morning, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb and found that the stone had been rolled away from the entrance.

She ran and found Simon Peter and the other disciple, the one whom Jesus loved. She said, ‘They have taken the Lord’s body out of the tomb, and I don’t know where they have put him!’

Peter and the other disciple ran to the tomb to see. The other disciple outran Peter and got there first. He stooped and looked in and saw the linen cloth lying there, but he didn’t go in..

Then Simon Peter arrived and went inside. He also noticed the linen wrappings lying there, while the cloth that had covered Jesus’ head was folded up and lying to the side.

Was that important? Absolutely!

Is it really significant? Yes!

In order to understand the significance of the folded napkin, you have to understand a little bit about Hebrew tradition of that day. The folded napkin had to do with the Master and Servant, and every Jewish boy knew this tradition.

When the servant set the dinner table for the master, he made sure that it was exactly the way the master wanted it.

The table was furnished perfectly, and then the servant would wait, just out of sight, until the master had finished eating, and the servant would not dare touch that table, until the master was finished.

Now if the master were done eating, he would rise from the table, wipe his fingers, his mouth, and clean his beard, and would wad up that napkin and toss it onto the table.

The servant would then know to clear the table. For in those days, the wadded napkin meant, ‘I’m done’.

But if the master got up from the table, and folded his napkin, and laid it beside his plate, the servant would not dare touch the table, because…

The folded napkin meant, ‘I’m coming back!’

He is Coming Back!”

~

this reminded me, once again, that God’s kingdom needs to be priority over anything and everything else in my life. Jesus is coming back again. there are still lives to be changed, hearts to be moved, souls to be saved. we are his hands and his feet, so let’s get out there and work hard for his glory.

yet, as we moved onto religion, i began to see the differences.
the ‘book of the dead’ was a religious text, often enscribed onto the walls of the tombs to assist the deceased in their journey to the afterlife. the most common appearance on tomb walls was the ‘negative confession’, which was to be read out by the deceased before the god of the underworld in the hall of judgement.
it reads like this:

I have not done crimes against people,
I have not mistreated cattle,
I have not sinned in the Place of Truth.
I have not known what should not be known,
I have not done any harm.
I did not begin a day by exacting more than my due,
My name did not reach the bark of the mighty ruler.
I have not blasphemed a god,
I have not robbed the poor.
I have not done what the god abhors,
I have not maligned a servant to his master.
I have not caused pain,
I have not caused tears.
I have not killed,
I have not ordered to kill,
I have not made anyone suffer.
I have not damaged the offerings in the temples,
I have not depleted the loaves of the gods,
I have not stolen the cakes of the dead.
I have not copulated nor defiled myself.
I have not increased nor reduced the measure,
I have not diminished the arura,
I have not cheated in the fields.
I have not added to the weight of the balance,
I have not falsified the plummet of the scales.
I have not taken milk from the mouth of children,
I have not deprived cattle of their pasture.
I have not snared birds in the reeds of the gods,
I have not caught fish in their ponds.
I have not held back water in its season,
I have not dammed a flowing stream,
I have not quenched a needed fire.
I have not neglected the days of meat offerings,
I have not detained cattle belonging to the god,
I have not stopped a god in his procession.
I am pure, I am pure, I am pure, I am pure!

as we read through that in class, i could not help but feel slightly overwhelmed. and slightly overjoyed. i am pure, i am pure, i am pure, i am pure… not through the things i have done, or not done, but through ‘the precious blood of Christ, a lamb without blemish or defect’. i know that there is ‘one who speaks to the Father in my defense’, one who has paid the price and given me new life.

so i do not wait in fear. i have a hope everlasting, ‘an anchor for the soul, firm and secure’. and i will not read the negative confession in front of the ruler and supreme judge of the universe on the last day, because my sin has been dealt with and death has been defeated.

a great sinner, and a greater saviour.
thank you, Jesus.

it all started when i couldn’t read the board one maths lesson. lines were blurred and letters began to look like squiggles. i then began to notice that i couldn’t read number plates or distant road signs as i drove. i didn’t want to accept that i may have a problem with my sight, so i struggled through class and i embarrassed myself as i waved to random cars thinking they were someone else.

i finally gave in. mum took me to the optometrists and i was taken through the general procedures of looking at the letters. after a lot of strenuous exercises and bright lights being shone in my eyes, he moved the big machine in front of my face and flicked a lens forward.
i could see. so clearly. everything!
a few days later, my glasses arrived and the change was unbelievable! how could i have ever managed without them? i could see every blade of grass, i could read book spines from the other side of the room, and the outline of objects became a well-defined line. almost like i’d upgraded to HD tv.

and now that i could see properly, how could i ever go back?

that night, i read through john chapter 9… (i love God’s sense of humour). Jesus makes the blind man see. He gives the beggar sight, and he gives the beggar truth.

it made me think of my glasses in a whole new way. i thank God that he’s given me the simple blessings of being able to buy glasses, and i thank God that he’s given me the greatest blessing in his Word. my eyes have been opened, and i pray that, just like my glasses help me overcome my physical shortsightedness, his Word helps me to overcome my spiritual shortsightedness.

i found this as i was searching through old files (written in 2002!). i have many short/unfinished/strange/hilarious stories that i wrote when i was younger. i was thinking about putting the correct spellings in brackets, but i think it’s more fun to try and work it out

i especially love the ‘blah, blah, blah’. i hate kesha’s song with a passion, but it looks like she stole the idea off me…

Home alone.

Down in the country lived a little family. Well they weren’t really little but I sometimes call them little because there last name is Little. In fact it was quite a big family with a mum, a dad, three boys and one and a half girls. You’re probably thinking how could there be one and a half girls in the family well it’s because the mother was in hospital giving birth to a girl. The oldest in the family was dad who was 43, second was Mum who was 40, third was a boy his name was Nick he Was 16, forth was another boy his name was Tom he was 14, fifth was another boy his name was Edward he was 10, sixth was a girl her name was Elly she was 9 and last of all is Sophie who was 15 minutes old. Of course everyone was busy Nick finding a car for a test drive, Tom working for his H.S.C, Edward finding his new uniform (because he had grown out of his old ones,) Mum feeding and looking after Sophie and Dad at work. But what about Elly she had nothing no school (because it was school holidays,) no fun, no fun.

On the 24th of January was Nick’s birthday today it was the 23rd of January and still everyone was busy. Mum buying presents and visiting people’s houses to show Sophie, Dad Of course was at work, Nick at a friend’s house, Edward and Tom were going for a walk in the bush and Elly at home with a few ideas. Once everyone had gone she crept into the kitchen and made herself a honey sandwich, turned on the TV and thought what she could do. After 10 minutes of thinking she had an idea. She would pull of Tom’s blanket and put it under his bed, put Edwards’s pillow under his bed and make a happy birthday sing for Nick. It was Nick’s birthday tomorrow so she didn’t want be mean to him. Elly walked into her room took of her shoes and through herself into her bed. After about 5 minutes she heard a knock. Mum said to never open the door when I’m out. To the side of each door were windows. So Elly had a quick sneak to see who it was. It was… Emily, Elly’s best friend. So she opened the door. After half an hour of watching TV and eating the girls got up and made them selves another honey sandwich. Each of the girls had a little diary witch they took everywhere. Everyday they would write in it. This is what Elly said…

23rd January

Dear diary,
Today has been OK. The best part has been now. Emily has come over. Everyone is busy. Blah, blah, blah.

The thing about Elly is she writes short things and the thing about Emily is she writes very long thing (and her writing is much neater you can say that again.) This is what Emily said…

23rd of January

Dear Diary,
Today’s been brilliant. We won our tee-ball match tomorrow I’m coming for Nick’s birthday and I might have a sleep over at Elly’s. This morning at 5:30 I had a gym consort and came runner up from first. In two weeks time I am going to tennis camp. I am so excited that I had to write it in now. The only problem is that my mum’s been mean, my dad wiped me and my brother chucked me in the pool when it was 10 tigress. That’s why I have run away to Elly’s. I just hope the day gets better.