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!