Chapter 4 ~ Becoming Undone

There were very few "older" single people in my early childhood. I have a faint recollection of widows and widowers, left somewhat "hollow" without the presence of the one with whom they had shared so many seasons. Left behind, to see the winter out alone. I remember two spinsters who lived together in a small apartment. Their conversations and habits were bent towards the little things that made up the lives of old women who never had families to dote on. They were odd, amusing, "apart". We mimicked their strong dialect and quaint sayings when they weren't near. But I do not recall one divorced man or woman... It was not a concept or word that I was  familiar with. It was scandalous, and was not talked about. Well, at least not in front of little children.

There were Fathers and Mothers. Aunts and Uncles. A Grandmother and Grandfather. Older people came in two's. The "he" of the two went to work and returned home at a predictable time and the "she" kept the house and cared for the needs (and whims) of the family. "He" kept the purse and "she" got an allowance for daily expenses. Until death parted them. Families were a unit, and I don't remember my own Pappa and Mamma ever taking "time out" from us. They could have probably done with it, had it been a conceivable thing to do. But I firmly believe that it wove our family together in a tight and steady weave, regardless of the tangles and frays in places.

My brothers found sweethearts and girlfriends and there was a steady stream of admirers and suitors vying for the attentions of our pretty sister. My father watched over it all with steely grey eyes, and did not endear himself to many of these. He had no time for charm or tact. The suitors especially, were weighed, measured and most often found wanting. He was unflinching in what he believed to be right, even when he was wrong (which obviously did not happen often...). I am certain that he wanted what was best for us, even if he did have a tough way of showing it at times.

When divorce hit our family and much later my own marriage - it scared and derailed us. We were not prepared. And how would you prepare for such a tearing from the one person to whom you once bound yourself before God? Vowed to see out a lifetime. In particular, we probably all shuddered at the thought of "Pappa's" wrath as a result. But this is where he proved his heart to be malleable after all. At the time when I had to face him with the dreadful message, his words to me were simply: "Hou jy maar je hoofd omhoogd..." (Keep your chin up). Few words for a young woman who has always had endless monologues in her head.

But it was enough.

BECOMING UNDONE

We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair... - 2 Cor 4:8)

I was now comfortably single, but slightly bored. Apparently a dangerous combination. Our Vineyard pastor announced the possibility of a mission trip to Morocco. Morocco... The name melted on my tongue. My spirit quickened at the mere thought of it. It seemed so right. Images of the exotic were simply intoxicating to a dreamer, hungry for adventure.  I’ve heard people say rather knowingly: “hindsight is an exact science”. A rather apt theme for many lives, (including my own) rife with wrong turns and decisions.

Looking over my shoulder, I could see myself “bounding like a calf let out to pasture”. It was painful to realise how I excluded God from this decision. How I never stopped and prayed about it, never considered that perhaps this was my mission, not His. My enthusiasm was mistaken for a passion for the gospel. A desire to support Christians in a hostile environment. But truth be told, my need overruled theirs. This had excitement and escape from my own inertia written all over it. By a deceitful hand, it appears.

I skimped and cut on my expenses wherever I could, and in a relatively short time I had saved up the funds needed to afford the fare and expenses. My place in the outreach was secured. We met as a group, watched video footage on the country, the predominant Islamic religion, and the missionaries working there. I felt a slight guilty stirring, but put it down as nervous apprehension about the unknown.

A part of me realised that I was not joining a tour group, that the needs of these people were real. Some of them laid their lives down for Christ on a daily basis, lived in dire uncertainty about their future. I took it all in, but secretly relished the aroma and textures of this place in my dreams.

The “Kingdom of Morocco” - a constitutional monarchy - is one of only three countries in the world to have both Atlantic and Mediterranean coastlines. At the Strait of Gibraltar, the tips of Spain and Morocco very nearly kiss. Compared to northern Africa’s orange-coloured deserts, Morocco shows up verdant along its northern coastal corner, spreading to the rugged Atlas Mountains that flank the Mediterranean coastlines of northern Algeria and Morocco.

Throughout history, Morocco has hosted almost as many beliefs as it has ethnic groups and races. From the local Berbers to Phoenicians, Arabs, Romans, Vandals, Spanish Andalusians – both Muslim and Jewish. Christianity, Paganism, and Judaism are practised, but the state religion is Islam. Interestingly enough, Christianity had been present before Islam arrived, and the King of Morocco claims his legitimacy as a descendant of the Islamic prophet Muhammad...

Here you have a "plate" steaming with a mix of Mediterranean, Arabic, Andalusian and Berber flavours. I could taste it.

I dreamt of lanterned markets, where the heady scent of spices swirled between veiled woman and swarthy men. My mind's eye drowned in a myriad of of colour and textures, richly dyed fabrics and carpets, exquisite pottery and ceramics of intricate designs. The faces of those in need grew dim.

Just over a week before “take-off” I crashed. Literally. I have retold this story so often, that I thought it best just to give a summary here.

Towards the end of April 2003, on a crisp clear Sunday morning, I returned home after fellowship. The house was so quiet. My precious Oriental Havana cat and dear companion Cleo, appeared to be “stuck” near the top of an avocado tree in on the border of my back garden. My neighbour was a retired army Sergeant-Major, with a quick gun and a distinct dislike of cats.  I was still quite adept at climbing trees, so up I went, a thirty something woman in her Sunday best and lace-up boots, about to rescue a feline in her natural habitat. About six meters up, I spotted her pointy little face through the leaves, wide green eyes so close, but just out of reach. I stretched out on the tips of my toes, reaching up as far as I could, and finally felt my fingers close over the velvety fur of her front paws.

Relief gave way to unbelief as I felt the branch under my feet snap and give way. I was falling, falling... My body seemed to slam into the solid earth underneath the tree with a thud which reverberated through my jaws through into my brain. I lay just inches away from a very large boulder... Ironically, I landed catlike on my feet before the backward collapse. Shattered the second last vertebra in my middle spine, broke various bones in my feet and damaged both knees.

But this only came to light much later, after extensive x-rays and hushed examinations by both a neurologist and an orthopedic surgeon. In my mind, I was still getting ready to pack. Just as soon as I got over the shock and was able to suppress the pain and worry with a few tablets and a glass of wine.

Reality and the severity of my condition left me reeling. The only way my mind could deal with it was through denial. I managed to get hold of our young pastor, and he tip-toed up to my hospital bed close to midnight of that same day. He prayed fervently and I fell asleep peacefully, certain of the miracle which would rock the hospital the next morning. The specialist arrived bright and early with the x-rays and a smile. I felt elated. I think he said something like “You are lucky – we can operate tomorrow morning”. Not what I wanted to hear.

The day passed in a blur. The next morning I was taken into theatre, had bone sawn from my right hip and implanted into the shattered part of my lower spine. Two titanium brackets were secured into place on the adjoining vertebrae, fusing the spine together and taking the pressure of the delicate piece of fresh bone sculpture in my back.

Everything had happened so fast – seemed so surreal. The days and months that followed were a whirl of pain, locked in emotions, dull acceptance and finally surrender. This analogy by Charles Spurgeon sums up this time for me: “Hope itself is like a star- not to be seen in the sunshine of prosperity, and only to be discovered in the night of adversity.”

I often reflect over at it all with a sense of longing almost. Never before had I felt so vulnerable, yet so protected. I “convalesced” for three months, and the support, care and goodness of family, friends and dear neighbours during that time, was like a warm embrace. I surrendered. My vulnerability was a scary thought at first. I felt like the “bruised reed” of Isaiah, but God held me fast, more than my stiff composite body brace ever could. Miracles and milestones of recovery marked the days. I healed, slowly, but in oh so many ways.

One deciding moment during that time, which I only recognised as such many years later, was a visit from a friend, accompanied by a quiet man, who had very recently become my colleague. It turned out to be one of those intricate pieces of a puzzle, which seemed so insignificant at the time, but in hindsight (once again) proved to be very significant.

Three months after the accident, I returned to work. My spine had kindly accepted the bone from the hip and healed. Even though the scars were still fresh, I felt like I had been given a second chance at life. I had become deeply aware of my own mortality. Just crossing a busy street filled my mind with visions of being crushed under a truck or knocked down by a speeding car. Or I imagined simply tripping over an uneven surface and ripping the brackets from my still fragile back. But God continued to surround me with His protection and His angels, who literally “lift(ed) me up in their arms, so that I would not strike my foot against a stone”. (Psalm 91:12).

I developed an interesting friendship with a work colleague. He was an agricultural economist who had recently secured his position with the company I worked for, after I had mentioned the vacancy to a friend, who mentioned it to his friend, and the friend decided to apply...

He was a married man, and the friendship was comfortable, predictable and based mostly on shared interests and a love for the same genres of music. I was genuinely upset and saddened when I learnt that his marriage was failing. I understood the pain of divorce, and most of all how God “hates” for two people joined in His name to separate.

It was during this time that I realised (with a shock) that I had started caring for this friend - more than I should. I felt cheated. All this time I had waited patiently for God to bring someone into my life, and now I discovered that I cared too much for a married man. I pushed it down and forced myself to pray for their marriage to survive, but it did not ease my confusion. It seemed only intensify it.

The only words of comfort God gave me during that time, were: “Trust Me”. Slowly I became peaceful again. I accepted that God wanted to test my willingness to surrender to His will, even if it felt like my own heart was being torn apart.

The rest of our love story is enveloped in one word - “GRACE”. In a little more than a month from this day, we shall celebrate our tenth anniversary, and Jesus’ saving grace and renewal, still marks each and every day.

Oh yes, in case you were wondering  – my husband is the same man who visited me with a mutual friend, so many moons ago, after I had taken a “tumble from grace” from the limbs of an old avocado tree...

Chapter 3 ~ Becoming a Woman

I grew up surrounded by "proper" woman. They wore nylon's, slips or petty-coats and "vormdrag" (such as step-ins and wired underthings.) They donned hats for church, had their coifs coiffed at the salon for high days, and kept at least two pairs of soft gloves in the wardrobe. They had embroidered handkerchiefs, tucked into neat and stylish handbags. (Unlike the bottomless hold-all that I prefer). They wore low-heeled leather pumps or sensible shoes for house-wear. They did not take strong liquor except for dainty spoon fulls of homemade "advocaat" (Dutch eggnog - much like a rich creamy brandy custard). They did not wear make-up except for face-powder. The scent of talcum powder still takes me back to Sunday mornings in the church pew, surrounded by powdery ladies and Brylcreemed, cologned gentlemen. A woman did not wear the pants and generally no pants, slacks or jeans either. The marks that the passage of time left on them were accepted, and little or no attempt needed to be made to hide it.

Earlier today, while I was wiping the kitchen table, I noticed once again the tell-tale marks embedded in the wood. I traced them with my finger, remembering. There are some small half-moons made by our firstborn, where he used to sit in his feeding chair beating out a rythm on the table with his bowl, singing at the top of his voice. All curls and dimples and sweetness. A mark were a hot iron pot was dumped in haste as I slid on a toy car on the floor... I could sand and oil them away. But they are mementos of precious moments in time. Lending character. Making our old table unique.

These woman of my childhood days, did not have the luxury nor inclination to hide the marks of a hard but rich life. Theirs was a closed world of  mysterious workings. And not at all as boring or limited as it may sound. There was just a definite divide, and most (if not all) woman felt safe in it.

Much has been said about womanhood and femininity. The arrival of a girl's first menstrual cycle used to be celebrated as the physical "rite of passage" into womanhood. But no one has ever been able to capture when the "crossing over" actually takes place. Probably simply because it is so gradual, and not necessarily something which merely takes place in the body. Rather intended as a gentle awakening and awareness. It is so sad to see little girls dressed in woman's clothes with knowing eyes.  A woman’s distinctive, unique and captivating female person-hood is not incidental, it is a Godly design. For a Godly purpose.

Somewhere in my childhood, I had come to the conclusion that the curse(s) in the garden of Eden was the woman's burden. Her fault. She allowed herself to be beguiled by the serpent, then enticed her man to become an accomplice in the deceit. I imagined it must have been her muliebrity which caused the fall of man. In retrospect, it seems that some of the confusion about my own femininity stemmed from the fact that I did not realise that I (like Eve), had a Godly purpose as a woman. Regardless of her (and my) foolish disobedience.

The vulnerability that I so guarded and suppressed, was the one thing I had to embrace, to be able to surrender to that gentle strength, which can only flow from a soft core.

BECOMING A WOMAN

"Because of your great compassion you did not abandon them (me) in the wilderness."(Nehemiah 9:19)

I finally overcame the desire to control my weight and appearance after I was given a second chance at love and marriage. I felt totally accepted, admired and adored and I did not want to taint it in any way. At the time, it felt as if some part of me had been “unlocked” and I stepped over the cliff, happily falling in love with love and with the man whom I thought was the answer to all my doubts and longings.

It was during this sweet time that I came to a deeper understanding of what it feels like to be completely content with being feminine. Vulnerable. Soft. I had become so proud of being “tough”.

Prior to this, I had been living on my own for about four years and had taught myself (as far as possible), not to depend on anyone. I had two wonderfully goofy Dalmatian dogs as companions - emotionally undemanding and uncomplicated. My tough act probably scared away quite a few pre-arranged and well-meaning "suitors". But I distinctly disliked the idea of being “set up”.

Even though my relationship with God was sporadic at the time, I knew that He would choose a life partner and friend for me when the time was right. Rather than just someone to "do" life and be seen with.

I realise now that even if I did appear to have a relationship with God at that point, it was based on a sense of duty and a need for meaning in my life. Much like the yoga classes I attended, and the belly dance lessons that made me feel beautiful and sensual. Daily bible reading and prayer gave substance to each day. It was something to cling to, but it was not based on total acknowledgement of what was sacrificed for me at the cross. I did not know Jesus as my Saviour, the true lover of my heart. All roads do not lead to Rome as the "older" people liked to say. Even though the saying is based on the fact that the early Roman Empire’s excellent road system radiated from the capital like the spokes of a wheel, I came to a clear understanding that this is not the case with the Kingdom of Heaven.

I used to sit very serenely with my legs crossed in the lotus position; listening to how the system of Karma and reincarnation was used to explain the suffering in the world, even by some who claimed to be Christians. My heart knew that I had this one life to live as a woman with a purpose, but I was not quite sure how.

Over the years, I leaned towards so many deceptions myself, that I cannot even remember which I favoured when. The one thing that I have often heard people say who used to be “marginal” Christians, (but came to be saved through Jesus much later in life), is: “I wish I had not not waited so long”. This would be my own regret too – only, I realised that there was a path I had to walk.

As a result of these times in "the wilderness", I received more compassion and understanding for others who have to go through similar trials or have strayed into a wilderness of their own.

And then there was the sweet promise of becoming a bride...

My beloved spoke and said to me, “Arise, my darling, my beautiful one, come with me." (Song of Solomon 2:10)

Some years before meeting my second husband, I joined a Vineyard fellowship on invitation of a very dear friend and mentor at the time. I was not sure what to expect. My Reformed background and brush with the Methodist church had left me with a fairly solid basis, but it lacked heart (or maybe I did), and I had stopped attending formal church for many years.

The first thing that stood out from that Vineyard gathering was its informality. People laughed out loud and little ones ran unchecked between the chairs while we sang. I was used to hushed, structured and predictable gatherings. People nodded their greetings and peppermints were dolled out to stop you from coughing or nodding off; (although this did not work on everyone..).

The young preacher was amusing and had a passion for the gospel. The second surprise came from the message at that first Sunday meeting – “We are saved into community” (“And let us consider how to stir up one another to love and good works, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day drawing near.” – Heb 10:24-25).

It pointed out the error of my own comfortable philosophy. I had convinced myself that I did not need a church or a fellowship of believers to draw near to, to authenticate my walk with God.

A turning point for me, was when the young pastor fixed a tape line on the wooden floor of the school hall which was their meeting place. (He was rather fond of using props in his sermons.) This was to represent the dividing line between the old and the new. We were encouraged to come forward if we had “old lives” which we wished to leave behind, and wanted to step into a new live with Christ.

I felt a pull to go to the front, but at the same time a leaden weight in my legs which prevented me from doing so. My friend gently put her hand on mine and the weight lifted. I walked gingerly to the front, and with a few others from the small fellowship, stepped over the imaginary dividing line, vowing in my heart never to look back. This proved harder than I imagined at the time, but a seal had been placed over my heart and I felt new hope, and a sweetness in my spirit.

A few months later, at a social gathering of this Vineyard family, the same young pastor walked over to where I sat, my mouth full of chocolate cake and a mug of steaming coffee burning a ring on my knee. He knelt down in front of my chair. My face started burning like the hot spot on my knee. It was an awkward moment. Especially, since the pastor was a married man. And a very young married man indeed!

He was obviously feeling as awkward as I, but he had a message to give me, so regardless of his uncharacteristic moment of “shyness”, he took my hand (still sticky with icing) and announced: “Maria, you are a beautiful woman and you are very ready to be married...” I cannot quite recall my response. I remember feeling flattered, confused, a little exited, but also quite apprehensive. I’m pretty sure I was itching to ask: “But who?”, but thought it best not to...

Looking back, I can see that the real meaning of this encounter, apart from alluding to my readiness to trust another man into my life, was that I was ready to accept Jesus as my bridegroom; and enter into a bridal love and relationship with Him. But I was too focused on my single state, which was by then starting to feel very empty.

From that day on I would view just about every man who came into my company as a potential husband. In hindsight it was actually quite funny. We all know how a desperate woman (or man), seems to flash a large warning light to the opposite sex. My two closest friends at the time set out on a search for “the man”. After a disastrous attempt at partnering me with a Slavic doctor (a bit of a "dark horse"), who seemed to think the way to a woman’s heart was through the bottom of a wine bottle, my sister in law stepped in. A work colleague of hers was volunteered. In a rather broken English, he tried to impress on me the intricacies of marketing photo-copiers through analysis of the human spirit, over a plate of pasta and more wine... Just as disastrous. After that my own sister stepped in, and a Roman Catholic vestment maker entered the scene. He was the most favourable of the candidates up to date, and my interest was piqued (and the flashing warning sign activated I imagine). Everyone thought he was a gentle soul, a poet, a man in touch with his feminine side... But he was clearly not interested in me. I was invited to poetry evenings, (which the handsome maker of liturgical garments obviously also attended). I even managed to impress everyone with two of my own profound poems, (or so I thought at the time). The poetry was rather stirring, but my hopeful heart was left wanting.

When I finally realised that he was definitely not the man for me, I settled on being content with my life, unwedded, uncomplicated and nonthreatening as it was. Thus, another chapter opened. I realised that I had lost perspective and forgot to trust God with every detail of my life. That included waiting on Him to bring the right man and husband into my life.

But as is often the case when we become too content or comfortable, my serene little boat sailed right into the rapids and I was caught, sails down, quite unprepared...

Chapter 2 ~ Becoming a Girl

My family before me

I recently asked myself the question: "Why do I write?" In a time when we are so bombarded by information, scores of both inspirational and confusing messages, muddled quotes etc., should I still be adding to the mire of thoughts, opinions, and reflections "out there" with yet another "blog"? The answer to the first question was answered quite simply: Because I enjoy doing it. I have finally come to accept that it is a God given ability/talent, and in practising and honing this skill, I am not being self-indulgent. If done for His glory and in line with the priorities of each day.

So I continue, apprehensively, with this "backward glance". It has helped me gain fresh perspective and I trust that by grace, it may also be edifying to those who choose to read it.

BECOMING A GIRL

.. "My thoughts are not your thoughts, and my ways are not your ways," declares the LORD... (Isaiah 55:8)

I was a surprise. From what I could gather, the nest was full, my father’s salary was stretched taught to provide for a family of five, and the addition of another "dependent" was not timely. Yet there I was. A little alarm in my mother’s abdomen, duly diagnosed as an infection by the family doctor. (Up to this day an oft-repeated family joke...). But the infection grew and became me. And in the early hours of a high summer morning, I was born, wailing out my arrival to the world.

Growing up, I developed a theory that my parents were unnerved by my arrival, and what was more, expected me to be boy. Therefore, perhaps unwittingly, they raised me as one. I have no recollection of frilly party dresses or pony tails and plaits. I was dressed mostly in shorts and T's, straight lined Twiggy-style dresses, or sturdy pants and jerseys. Hair was kept short for less fuss. In a way I think it suited me that way, since I preferred the limbs of a tree or the large dovecote in the back garden; to doll’s houses and miniature tea-sets. I had those too, but I just felt more free and daring in my self-proclaimed role of tom-boy.

Since I had managed to convince myself that I was a bit of a shock to the family, I was unable to see how much I was truly cherished. By both parents and siblings. Even indulged at times. When I showed an interest in sports, "Pappa" put up a netball ring and a tall unsightly gym bar in the back garden. I have memories of him playing with me on the lawn after an exhausting day on a building site. Still dressed in his dusty work clothes and "grasshopper" shoes.

He was a hard-working, strict and practical man. But then there was this undeniable sense of fun, which would always surprise and delight us. I found a faded photograph of him standing at attention, clutching a pink beach umbrella, dressed in khaki shorts, socks and sandals, and a grandpa vest. Playing the clown. From the same shoe box I drew a snapshot of our dad peering out from behind a giant Pink Panther, with smoke from a "braai" fire swirling about their heads...

"Mamma" let me while away the hours in our old Jacaranda tree, in the turtle dove's aviary, or in the "parkie" bordering our property - submerged in a book. She would turn a blind eye to the torch under the blankets when I was supposed to be sleeping. Secretly brought me a plate of food when I'd been sent to my room without supper for some or other mischief. Braved the narrow steps to the top level of a double decker bus, so that I could have a wondrous wide-angled view of the suburban life below. We'd do "people watching" at the bus stop in town, and she never spoke an unkind word about any of our "subjects" of scrutiny.

Ever so often, even my brothers let me into their alluring masculine world. I felt safe in this rough and tumble environment. At home in the thrill of  motorcycle rides and loud soccer matches. Or content at just being allowed to hover on the fringes of their "manly pursuits".

Lees-lees...

From my scruffy girl's perspective, my beautiful sister was wrapped up in the mystery of womanhood. There was a softness about her and her glamorous friends, which awakened in me a longing to experience femininity. She took me shopping, let me wear some of her clothes and actually listened to my childish prattling. Our times shared, made feel accepted and "grown up". I came to understand that even though contrasting in outward appearance, our hearts beat in accord.

It was a time when children played in the streets, roamed, explored. Finding adventure, rather than needing to be entertained.

As with many pubescents, “confusion” describes most of my teen years. Shifting between wanting to be accepted, and at the same time wanting to be left alone. It suited me to think of myself as an outsider. Hovering slightly above the rest, aloof and unaffected by those around me. Secretly I knew, and I suspect my mother did to, that I was not cool and detached. I was shy and awkward, insecure, blotchy-faced, overweight and unattractive (in my eyes).

Eating disorders followed, and shortly before becoming totally anorexic, my desperate parents took me to a psychiatrist. I remember lying on a drab corduroy couch, with the drone of a man's voice luring me to a wide white beach through the process of hypnosis. And consequently, to my early childhood. I resisted with every fibre of my being. I would not be lured to a dreamy shore. Oblivion felt threatening and did not want to lose control. So, as with so many other things over the years, I faked it. He seemed to be fooled, or also pretended to be.

I still have a distinct distrust of psychiatry, psychology, secular therapy and counselling. Perhaps unfairly so, but I have yet to meet someone who walks totally free of his or her disorders, addictions or mental disturbances as a result of clinical treatment alone. Only Jesus can completely heal mind, body and soul, and I am close witness to such healing, to my growing amazement, each day.

How can one fallible human ever plumb the depth of another? Attempt to analyse and categorise "deviations from the norm. And then brand or conform, depending on the diagnoses. Each human embryo which receives the breath of life from God has a "oneness", which is unlike any other who ever lived, or is still destined to be born. He alone knows every nuance, each minuscule cell of my being. Who has ever been able to contain or understand the "likeness" of God? Diverse and unfathomable as the stars in a vast night sky and the teeming life of an ocean deep.

De sandbak

I wasted so much time and energy trying to understand myself. And realised only much later, how unhealthy too much introspection can be. Recently I read an analogy that sums it up quite well. It likened the growth of a Christian to a carrot. If it is constantly “dug up” to inspect how it is doing, it can never flourish.

My brush with “therapy” made me feel abnormal, freakish and inadequate. It felt like I was being watched, especially my eating patterns. So I ate. And as my appetite grew again, so did I. Soon I discovered a way to cheat again. I watched my mother relax as I emptied my plate, not sneaking it to the dog under the table and not feigning a sore stomach as an excuse not to eat.

At the time I did not even know that a dangerous condition such as bulimia nervosa existed – an eating disorder affecting the nervous system. It is nine times more likely to occur in women than men. Even though it is less life-threatening than anorexia nervosa, the occurrence of bulimia is higher. It leads to potassium loss, with depressive symptoms that are often severe and carry to a high risk of suicide...

I only knew that I had to find a way to stay thin – acceptable and loved. So the inevitable followed. I found various ways of “purging” myself of the food I felt forced to eat. For a while, I felt rather impressed by my own cunning. I ate all I wanted, but found a way to keep my weight controlled at the same time. My parents left me alone and I relished the attention I received, clad in tight jeans and skinny tops.

My new-found confidence and boldness gave it away. I was found out. I felt hurt by the anger and disappointment, especially from my father. I remember him coming into my bedroom and admonishing me for wasting the food that he worked for each day. I felt double-cheated. Not only was the ugliness of my habit exposed, it felt as if my father cared more about the “waste” than about my well-being. I realise in hind-sight that he was dealing with what he could – the practical aspect of the situation. He never knew how to access the strange and unpredictable workings of his youngest daughter’s heart. I was often reprimanded with the phrase: “Doe tog gewoon!” (Just act normal!).

Family Kooi + "infeksie"

My parents came from a generation of victims. They fled post World War II Europe, and the depression and economic decline that followed. They were the survivors, allowing themselves few luxuries, especially indulgence in emotions and self analysis. They must have faced so many challenges, together and individually. Family life was spartan, yet secure. They did what each parent sets out to do – their best, flawed and limited as it may have been.

Over the years that followed I shifted between eating “normally” to not eating at all to binging and purging (bulimia). It stayed with me to a lesser degree as I reached my twenties and thirties, but was always reverted to as a “way out” when I felt guilty about what I’d eaten.

I was one of the “lucky” ones. A Higher Hand stayed my debilitating habit from getting out of hand. Guilt and self-loathing would haunt me when I reverted to these old ways, but I did not know the way out. The lie that I would be loved and wanted less if I gained weight, had lived with me for so long, that I did not recognise it for what it was.

Coming to the understanding of who I am in Christ as His holy and beloved, my body a temple for his Spirit, and every inch of my being adored by Him, finally set me free from the lie I was living. Writing this down has not been that easy. I pray that it would perhaps serve as a warning to mothers and daughters or those who feel valueless. But above all, as a confirmation of our intrinsic worth in Jesus Christ, through the unequalled price payed at the cross.

Chapter 1 ~ Through a Child's Eyes

Opa en Oma

When you set out to write a "book", I have been told that you should begin with something like an outline, a concept. Then you go back and "colour" in the framework until you have something that flows and has a pleasing structure to it. When I sat down to write "the book" - I did it all upside down. It started with the idea to write about motherhood. But then I had to admit that six years experience hardly makes me an "expert". Then I thought that since I have have been a woman for quite a bit longer than I have been a mother, that I should rather write about womanhood. This also seemed a bit daunting, since I have never quite felt that I fitted into the feminine mould, which other woman seemed to fill so effortlessly... 

Writing about "me" suddenly seemed rather vain, and writing a "story" seemed much too complicated. I hardly had my own story "figured out". So I simply took a deep breath and started to write down memories, beginning with my own mother. Digging deep. Many a time smiling through the tears as I remembered.

But I have calmed and quieted myself, I am like a weaned child with its mother; like a weaned child I am content.. (Psalm 131:2) 

One of my earliest memories of my mother, is of her building jigsaw puzzles. After seeing older siblings off to school and my father to work, she would shut the door softly, sigh, and sit down at the dining room table. Where our breakfast crumbs had barely been wiped away. Wrapped in a quilted pink paisley gown, her head bent low, squinting intently at the fragmented landscape. And then escape into it. It was stolen time, a secret pleasure – a place that was hers and hers alone. 

I have favourite snapshots of her in my mind – with daisies in her beach curls on a summer holiday, with tears streaming down her cheeks, clutching one hand over her mouth and with the other holding her stomach - laughing – uncontrollably. With half-closed eyes, telling me a bedtime story, much nearer to sleep than I. With her hands and fore-arms in soap-suds, singing in perfect harmony with my young voice.

She had a little transistor radio, which went just about everywhere she did. Perched next to her pea-soup green sewing machine, balancing in the kitchen window-sill. Tilting on a wire garden table, helping to break the monotony  of hanging the never-ending stream of washing. It was her connection with the world out there. But safe, undemanding.

She loved things like a ballad well sung, purple violets, paisley print, dark chocolate, figure skating on TV, the early animated Walt Disney movies. She gave us peppermints in church, flat Coke when we were nauseous and hot sweetened lemon juice to prevent winter colds. She felt and loved deeply, but learnt to hold back on both, once she realised how vulnerable it made her.

There are two incidents that stand out, which in retrospect, reminded me of how easily her anger could be quenched. How much she loved being "light". I had done something naughty and she was standing with her fists on her hips, hauling me over the coals for my misdemeanor. Suddenly she gasped, grabbing her throat with a look of horror. I was frozen to the spot, unsure of what to expect."Ik heeft voorwaar een vlieg ingeslukt" (I've just swallowed a fly), she said. To which we both collapsed in a heap of giggles; the offence forgotten.

The other is of the family gathered in front of the TV on a Satuday afternoon, watching an important soccer match. The curtains were drawn. There was a serving basket filled with "droge worst" (dried wors/sausage)on the table. Pappa (my dad) had a "pilsje" (beer) in his hand. Tradition... It was a tense match and we all knew better than to break the silence. I was bored. Older siblings were occupying the couch and I was sitting at the foot of my mother's reclined "lazyboy" chair. I was pushing up against the base of the foot-rest with my back, tilting the chair ever so slightly. I must have pushed just a bit too hard. I felt the chair tilt, but it did not come back down. It tipped over backward, leaving my mother hanging precariously in midair. I cringed, waiting for the wrath of the room to come crashing down around my ears. Instead I heard a light sobbing from my upside down Mamma. She was laughing, one those overwhelming, tearful bouts of laughing, which render you utterly helpless (slappe-lag). My Dad was grumbling and mumbling something about woman and soccer and why they should be kept separate. But we were too far "gone" to be able to do anything about it.

Sadly, in many of these memories of my mother, I find her looking tired. With four children of diverse ages, demands and temperaments, a house to keep and a husband to placate, she had neither the luxury of time, nor the inclination to question her “plight”. She did what her hands found to do. She cherished and enjoyed each of her babies, kept her home immaculate and fed her family the best she could, within a limited budget. She sacrificed, but did not see it as such. Her dreams where wrapped up in her family and her inner world and desires mostly kept hidden.

Her closest friend and confidant was her own mother. A diminutive lady with kind brown eyes, nimble hands and an ample bosom. During the aftermath of the Great Depression years (Crisisjaren) in the Netherlands, their small family of five, bravely set out for South Africa, the land of opportunity. Arrived as strangers and remained that way. Like the odd stitches in a tapestry, their lives remained woven together, until Opa and Oma were called home.

Mamma

I recall the two woman talking softly over strong cups of percolated coffee, the dialect wonderfully odd to a little girl's ears. I learnt very early to become "invisible", and picked up many fragments and morsels of family history this way. Which I then embroidered on according to my own whims. They seemed fully content in each other's company. Housework and children faded away. For a while a mother and daughter could share their fears, doubts and joys. Reminisce about an even land of polders, green pastures and a rich language which lies on your tongue like salmiak. (A distinct Dutch "sweet", which could be described as salty liquorice).

Life had a predictable pattern. My parents tried to adapt, to "fit in", and the strong Dutch accent had faded somewhat. They worked hard. The speckled floored kitchen was always fragrant and busy. Mamma was not a cordon bleu cook, but her meals were sustaining and hearty. We lived simply, but well. I had the luxury of a sheltered childhood, and the emotional throes that I perceived, were most often of my own making. 

It was only when I stumbled into my teen years, that I remember Mamma becoming irritable with us. Later we could understand that for all those years, multiple sclerosis had been slumbering and growing inside her, and she suffered unexplained symptoms for a long time before it was diagnosed.

I had resolved not to become like her - strung out and emotional. She threw things when angry, cried noisily when she was happy, and worst of all (in my eyes), did not stand up for herself. I saw all those things as sure signs of weakness. I had different plans for my future. Especially after my own marriage, which my parents had gently opposed, failed.

I was certainly not the first daughter, nor will I be the last, who had made up her mind to be everything but what she had witnessed her mother being.

Looking back, sometimes smarting, sometimes smiling, I realise - I am my mother’s daughter, even though I do not have an inch of the humility and gentle strength that she lived and still lives out, regardless of her circumstances.

Intro ~ The Why...

I begin a new journey of writing on a misty rainy day.

Many months ago I started writing a "book". As many others who love putting their musings to paper, I thought this journey had to lead to this... But I have since realised that this is not necessarily so. My love for writing started when I was little, and writing a book, would not mean that I have now arrived. Writing will always be part of my journey, I hope. So rather than feeling pressurised to publish something significant into book-form, or to leave some kind of a legacy, I have decided to put parts of what I "grinded" out at the midnight hour into this here blog. With no pressure to get the message exactly right or being inspirational. Just to share my journey so far. And perhaps honour those who have influenced, inspired, brought colour and meaning, and are still doing so.

"God is looking for imperfect men and woman who have learnt to walk in moment-by-moment dependence on the Holy Spirit. People who have come to terms with their inadequacies, fears and failures. Believers who have become discontent with “surviving“, and have taken the time to investigate everything God has to offer in this life." – Charles Stanley

I have not learnt, but am still learning to to this. Walk in moment-by-moment dependence on the Holy Spirit. And surrendered to the will of the Father and in a precious relationship with His Son Jesus.

I will start with what I labelled those many months ago as my "Introduction". And then take it from there.

ON BEING A WOMAN

If we reduce womanhood to physical features and biological functions, and then determine our role in the world merely on the basis of competencies, we don’t just miss the point of being a woman, we diminish the glory of Christ in our own lives. True womanhood is indispensable to God’s purpose to display the fullness of the glory of his Son. A woman’s distinctive, unique and captivating female person hood is not incidental. It exists because of its God-designed relationship to the central event of history, the death of the Son of God. (From a blog by John Piper).

The mystery lies not in how beguiling a woman is, but in how willing she is to let the beauty of Jesus unveil the depth of her design. To surrender, fall in love with the Lover of her heart and be content. Fearfully and wonderfully made, through Him, for Him. For from Him and through Him and for Him are all things. To Him be the glory forever! (Romans 11:36)

ON BEING A MOTHER

Motherhood is not an essential part of womanhood, nor is it a hobby. It is a calling. You do not have children because you are bored or because you find them cute, or you need to fill a void in your life. It is not something you do if you can squeeze the time in. It is what God gave you time for.

Christian mothers carry their children in hostile territory. When you are in public with them, you are standing in a society that values how adorable, capable or clever they are. But you testify that you value what God values. You stand with the defenceless in front of the needy. You represent what our culture opposes, because you represent laying down your life for another – which ultimately represents the gospel.

Our culture is simply afraid of death. Laying down your own life, in any way is terrifying. Strangely, it is that same fear that drives the abortion industry: fear that your dreams will die, your future and your freedom will die – and trying to escape that death by running into the arms of death. (Based on a blog written by Rachel Jankovic)

When a mother immerses herself in the Life which is found in Jesus, the life of a child is given a new eternal value. Children are the fruit of a loving relationship with your earthly husband. Just as the fruits of the Spirit are the result of a loving relationship with our eternal husband, Jesus Christ.

Motherhood is given a new meaning, however messy and “un”-valued it may seem. With Jesus the paradigm shifts. You lay down your hopes, lay down your future, lay down your petty annoyances. Lay down you desire to be recognised. Lay down your ideas of a romantic marriage relationship. Lay down your irritability and fussiness with your children. Lay down your need for a perfectly clean house. Lay down your grievances about the life you are living. Lay down the imaginary life you could have had by yourself. And you let go.

And in this free fall of surrender, a wide angled reality opens up in front of your tired eyes: I have been chosen to be this – a woman, a wife, a mother. Not by chance or choice, but for His glory!