Child's play

Last Sunday I took B-boy to visit my father at the columbarium as it was Fathers' Day and I wanted to wish my father.

As we stopped at the niche where my dad's ashes were, I said, "Hi Dad, Happy Fathers' Day" earning me a look from the five-year-old who clearly thought there was something wrong with his aunt who spoke to a photograph in the wall, but was too polite to say so. Good training, A.

I then proceeded to take him to visit my grandparents and aunt who were a wall away. As I pointed out the people I knew and told him stories of how some of them died, what they did, he soon thought I knew every soul in the columbarium.

He started asking me about other strangers "Who's this?" Running ahead and pointing to a niche "What happened to this person?" I had to spoil the excellent impression I had made on him by admitting "I don't know". Darn!

A child like B-boy readily accepts the authority of an adult for he thinks all adults are there to teach him about the world, not realizing that adults have much to learn from him.

How to be naive, innocent, to trust that the world is a safe and wondrous place, put there solely for his or her enjoyment and pleasure.

How to explore life with no fear, pushing the boundaries, testing limits to gain a better understanding of how the world works.

How to play. Be creative. Let the imagination roam free.

Believe that there is something, someone greater out there to be acknowledged and appreciated every day.

So, for a moment, stop being the responsibility-loaded adult you are and become a child again.

And play!

Father & child

It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon. A perfect day to be outdoors. Father and son walked onto the field to practise catching a baseball.

Father, a lithe figure, who moved with athletic grace and power, son a slender eleven-year-old, brimming with excitement at the opportunity to show his father how well he could catch a baseball.

"Keep your eye on the ball and place the mitt up to catch it," instructed Pa, who then threw a slow ball.

Ron cheered, "I caught it! I caught it!"

"Good," said his father smiling with approval, "Now throw it back to me and get ready for the next one."

Ron threw the baseball back to his father and Pa pitched another slow ball. Ron dropped it but caught the one after. Soon he was catching most of the balls that came his way.

"Alright, now I am going to throw a little harder, a little faster," warned Pa.

"OK, Pa."

As the afternoon progressed, the father began pitching hard, fast balls.

Soon Ron's hand was smarting from the impact of the ball as it hit the glove. Each time he caught a ball he winced.

"Does it hurt, Ron?" Pa asked.

"No, Pa," the boy replied, tossing the ball back at his father.

Soon it was time to go home and by then Ron's hand was tender and bruised.

"Well done, son, I am proud of you," smiled Pa.

Ron's heart filled with happiness at his father's words.

This afternoon would remain in his memory as a special day, a day where he and his father did something together, just the two of them. A day where his father told him he was proud of him.

Such days were indeed rare, for there was a war going on and with nine mouths to feed, Pa did not have the time nor the disposition to play with his seven children. Survival was foremost on his mind.

When Ron became a father, he honoured that memory by taking time to teach his children how to swim, how to play table-tennis, how to kick a soccer ball.

After all, this is what fathers the world over do, play with their children. From one generation to the next.

The simple life

I've been enjoying a lull in my teaching hours for it's the June hols and many clients with kids have gone away.

While it's a little worrying for income is taking a dip, I'm also glad for the chance to spring-clean and chuck things that are no longer relevant or necessary in my life. (I also get to spend more time with Mum and cook more which are good things.)

It's mentally very empowering although the sentimental streak in me does mourn the departure of some article of clothing or a treasured book that has given me much pleasure in the past.

I've grown quite merciless in getting rid of stuff for there is just too much clutter from my past lives and my environs must now keep pace with my outlook on life, which has been for the last several years to simplify.

Just looking at the amount of junk I've acquired through the years, I marvel that I do not need or crave for 'things' like I used to.

I suppose it helps when I've been there, done that and do not need to buy that bag just because it's so me and too simply to-die-for.

I've also come to the conclusion ("Finally!" my mum would exclaim - if you saw the amount of stuff I have you would understand where she is coming from) that happiness does not lie in acquiring or possessing material things or wealth.

And, there are other means of getting a buzz besides retail therapy.

Anthony Bourdain maintains that the poorer the country, the more inventive and delicious tasting the cuisine. From basic and usually discarded ingredients, a wonderful meal can be conjured.

So living a material-poor life does not mean I get any less pleasure out of life but rather I am more appreciative of what I already have, and I enjoy exercising my creative juices in gaining maximum output for minimum financial investment.

And yes, I've even created some simple, nutritious and delicious meals for two that cost under $5. While Bourdain may not concur on the latter description, he would have to concede on the former two.

As the psalmist proclaims in Psalm 4: "You, O Lord, have put joy in my heart; more than by giving me wine or food."

So with joy in my heart, I go back to pruning the excesses of my past.

Rock solid

It's easy to lose perspective when life looms enormous, pressing up against you suffocatingly, crushing you under its inexorable weight.

It's easy to be caught in depression's powerful undertow and be sucked under, never to surface again.

It's easy to feel like you're all alone in the world in the endless night, no one out there who will help you, even if they could.

I used to give in and let the darkness overtake me.

Stay away from God even though I know that prayer, talking to Him, would be my saving grace.

I use to question His existence and His omnipotence, disbelief oozing from every pore of my being.

Now I know that I had built my house on sand. My faith a frangible, brittle thing, unable to withstand any of the elements.

I succumbed to worldly distractions and settled for less. Wrestled with my demons and lost which resulted in massive amounts of self-pity and self-loathing.

So what transformed me? Perspective.

Watching my father valiantly fight a losing battle with lung cancer - a horrific, yet heart-wrenchingly beautiful spectacle.

As the disease gained control of his body, he found tremendous psychological and spiritual healing. He reverted to the faith of his childhood - rock solid was his belief in Jesus.

His faith was God's parting gift to him and it enabled him to live out his last days with such grace that it called to something deep within me.

The most precious thing my father bequeathed me was this house of faith built on rock.

And so I began to build my own house on the bedrock of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

Before I placed the foundation, I had to tear down the house of lies and distortions that I had sought shelter in for over 30 years.

I had to face and slay the monsters of my childhood with the sword of Truth and reclaim the delightful, precious and beloved little girl living inside of me.

In accepting the gift of who I am, I began to build the house I was called to design with the talents I had been bestowed.

Erecting walls of love and truth, with sturdy doors of forgiveness, sparkling windows of beauty to allow the light to shine through, topped with a roof of goodness.

So when the storms of life batter the exterior of my house and rattle the windows, I am safe in the knowledge that my ever-growing faith will sustain me through the most destructive of hurricanes.

For Christ is my rock. My lodestone in life.