Meet the Author's Author

Meet the Author's Author
Live for Jesus! That's what matters! That you see the light in me and come along! :)

Saturday, June 29, 2013

Bare Feet on Gravel

I laughed half of the way home.

It had been a completely rubbish day. I should've been expecting it after the G+ Hangout OYAN prayer group starting up the night before, but somehow I keep forgetting that Satan attacks whenever we unite in spirit to draw close to the Lord, and usually (for me) in that way.

I woke up at 6am to see my Mom off, went back upstairs, set my mobile phone alarm in CASE I fell asleep, sat down and picked my laptop up. Looked up at the clock; 8:30am.

I have to leave the house at 7:30 to reach my two connecting buses. OUCH. I begin work at 9, in a city twenty to thirty minutes away by car.


I threw clothes on at lightning speed, brushed my teeth in ten seconds, bolted down the stairs, tried to push the dog outside for the toilet but he didn't want to go, grabbed my handbag (Mom had done my lunch the night before), the nearest pair of shoes and my birthday money to buy a ticket with, locked the door and headed for the train station.

Mom called; said she'd ring back on the train.
Rang Jess to check that she knew it was dress down, and explained.
Phoned my manager Steve and apologised profusely.

First miracle of the day; he thanked me for my honesty and said not to worry about it, just to get there as quickly as I could.

Mom rang me back on the train to inform me that one of my friends was going around backbiting me - someone I had trusted. Consequently, a lot of emotional pain.

The train was late. They had to wait for a train and a platform at New Street.

I finally got into work at 9:36.
Praise God, I could've been much later. feet were covered in blisters. Four large blisters, one of which ballooned into doubling my toe size by home time. The shoes I had picked up were new, tight and plastic. I'd been avoiding wearing them since the last time they'd cut into my feet...and now I'd had to force myself to continue at a fast pace, through gritted teeth and exploding moans, to get to work as quick as I could.

I collapsed into my seat at work, and applied the plasters...then had to spend ten minutes searching for a phone headset that worked, ending up using my manager's.

Tears were near.

Krissy (deputy call centre manager) called me over, and asked what was wrong. Arrggghhh. The whole day. She told me not to worry about being late, as it happened to everyone, and since I was rarely to never late (getting to work on time is a matter of pride for me) just to put it behind me and carry on.

Day continues. It was a good day, surprisingly - workwise. I got 11 surveys on my own little project, although I was moved back to the main project (ESS) for the final hour and got nothing.

But God was good. As usual. People were good to they usually are there. I loves my colleagues and the managers. :P

Then it came time to go home.

I wrapped up the huge balloon Jayne had bought me with the big card earlier in the week, and put the string in my handbag so it was trailing behind me.
Forced my feet into those plastic shoes, with fresh plasters/bandaids on from work.
And walked out.

About two metres down the street, I stopped, took my shoes off and put them in my handbag. No. Way. I couldn't walk in them; I was doubling over every step.

Then my sweatshirt was too hot, but could I take it off? No, cause the nearest jeans I'd snatched up that morning were two sizes too big, and I have to walk with my fists in the pockets clutching handfuls of material to hold them up. Plus the tshirt didn't meet the top of the jeans because they were so loose.

I walked around the corner, barefoot and down the road with a twisted smile. People that looked down looked away, uncertain how to take it.

It must've been a right hobo appearance. A girl with unbrushed hair and half-applied mascara, walking down the road with earbuds in, an oversized sweatshirt, jeans flapping and dragging on the floor, a huge balloon trailing wildly behind her in the wind, and bare feet scuffing determinedly along, through the puddles and the mud.

I couldn't help laughing. It had been so bad in some ways, and so blessed in others. I love doing crazy things anyway, from time to time, just to gauge people's reactions to breaking the formal code of behaviour.

I walked from work, through Birmingham, through the train station, onto the train (where this little boy leaned down to stare at my feet for several minutes), off the train, down the street and towards home.

Then I hit the gravel path.

Now those of you that walk shoed most of the time, know that bare feet are really sensitive to sharp things. Yeah...ouch. It took me a full five/ten minutes to get down a path I could walk down in two/three minutes, wincing and limping, plasters flopping off.
My feet. Hurt. And it was raining quite steadily.

Then I got home, and Mom rang. And life went back to being weird but relieving.

It was funny how few people noticed my feet. And it was also funny, because I knew the way I could distract them from noticing. If you act confident and sure of yourself, like everything is normal, you can carry off a lot of things. I looked people in the eye and smiled and talked normally; walked past the guard at the station like nothing was wrong, just flipped the cuffs on my jeans a bit lower and walked confidently.

Life is like a gravel path, and we are young barefoot children learning to walk on it. We fall. We hurt. We hurt so much. And we tip our chins back, and take the next step with a determined confident grin.
Because everyone's on a gravel path.
And everyone is so lost in the barefoot pain and trying to keep that confident stride that they don't want to notice that the charade isn't real.

So when you see someone out there doubled up hurting on a gravel path, that can't hide the pain any more, don't just walk past because you don't want to see. Put your arm around them. Hold them close.
Remind them there are bandages for the blisters, that God is there. He may not take the gravel path away, but He can and does ease the walking on it.
And never let them forget, Home is just five minutes away.

~Mademoiselle Siân

Monday, June 17, 2013

I Hate Father's Day...

Father's Day.

Used to be a day when I'd go out and find a card and a present. Heh...dads. Men. They're so difficult to buy for.
We'd usually buy him a tie.
A shirt.
Then this "Best Dad in the World" mug. Blue and white thick stripes with a "Forever Friends" bear face on the front with this blue bow tie.

Then I grew older.

I realised that my Mom had a lot of truth in what she said to my dad. I realised a lot of Dad's faults - and they weren't "general weak" faults. It grew harder to find a card for a man that wasn't...a real good daddy. But that showed caring and respect without eulogising him above the stars.

Then everything exploded three years ago.

I wasn't buying cards any more. I wasn't buying presents any more. Suddenly, I didn't even have a daddy any more. My flight lieutenant was the closest father figure I had and was very supportive during that time.

But I had to handle Dad's birthday. People wanting his very existence cleared from the planet.
And my heart was very sore.
Because every little girl is a Daddy's girl.

I was when I was younger. Then I kinda realised who he was. (Sorta.) Then I struggled to last on my own without a father figure. And I've kinda patched together an existence without him. I had to manage without a true father's influence from early teens. Then I had to get through the last part of my teens without him and everyone wishing him dead.

So it's been difficult figuring out ways to cope with it. Without bursting into tears when you hear other girls talking about their dad in a loving, appreciating way. When hearing them talk to him. When watching a dad reach out and touch his daughter's shoulder or hair, or hug her close lovingly.

I hate Father's Day. I wish...sometimes. I wish people would spare a thought for the girls without fathers today. For the girls who sit there and watch loving father-daughter interaction with sad, or hurting, or angry, or tearful eyes and watch for the girls that turn quickly away and watch for the girls with the blank faces.

For the girls whose fathers are dead and the girls whose fathers abused them and the girls who never knew who their father was and the girls with bad fathers.

I guess maybe it's a good way to reach past my shrinking from Father's Day. To see other girls hurting from this. To understand other people's broken hearts. To write this and share a few shards from my heart so others understand.

Don't...pity me.
God uses bad for good.

I can see the shards of other's hearts. I can feel their pain.

I can know that God is very close to the widow and the orphan today and I can know He's holding my broken pieces.

I can be so thankful that I can see good men even if I don't trust them, and know that someday, perhaps, someday, I might maybe have daughters whose father will love them truly and well and right.
That there will be girls who can know what I cannot.

I pray so. I pray God will put father figures into these girls' and boys' lives. Father figures who know that they are broken and will pray them back to healing.

Thanks to the good guys out there. It's hard to see you but I know you're there. Thanks to the guys who are growing into good men who have prayed me and many others through this.
Happy Father's Day.
Happy future Father's Day.

God bless.
Mademoiselle Siân

Wednesday, June 05, 2013

The Heartbreak of Knitting

"Mom, how do I cast off?"
She came over and took the needle from me, the mass of knitted red wool hanging limply from one final strand.
"You do this, and this."
She knotted the thread through the loop and gave it back to me.
"You can knot it again if you want."

It was a weird feeling, standing there holding the work of two and a half months completed in my hands. I've been knitting this steadily, every spare moment I had where I wasn't doing anything else - or sometimes, when I could multitask, when I was doing something else.

It's almost funny, really. That knitting has become a part of me.

It's been knitted on trains, buses, car trips, street corners, in work, on work breaks, in castles, in church meetings, while watching films, babysitting, practising singing, etc.

It's been washed by snow, rain, and my tears before being finished with machine washing.

It's part of my life. I've knitted into it my sorrows, tears, happiness, poetry, love, song and prayers. I've whispered words and thought thoughts and dripped tears into it. For me, it's an incredibly special scarf. So I'm giving it away to someone special.

Life is a piece of knitting. It's one steady thread, knitted and tangled and knotted and dropped and picked up and pieced together and worked on and on. It holds our whispers and our thoughts, our breath and our dreams and our joys and pulls them all together into one. And God makes us into booties or caps or gloves or scarves. It isn't easy. But it's totally worth it. All those tangles to one perfect article.

One day we'll slip the final thread through the loop and cast off and fall into His lap, complete and done with it all. And every single thing we've gone through will be purposeful.

It's kinda funny really. Except it's real. So it's not.