Tag Archives: Salvation Army

Our Spiritual Journey…

It’s not very often that I even touch on the spiritual side of my life…my beliefs, my faith or Christian community. That’s not because they aren’t an important. Rather, it’s just that I often see too many shades of grey, and wrestle with so many aspects of my own faith, that  it’s not easy to package it up and present it to anyone else in a vaguely coherent state.

I guess that’s what happens when you’re “beyond the flow”. You’re not usually the sort of person who walks into a place and immediately feels comfortable in that empty seat. Indeed, you bring your own. Ask questions. Wriggle. Don’t quite feel comfortable and look around at all the people who belong and ask: “What about me? Where’s my place? Will I ever belong?”

Above: Barney’s back in my day before it was destroyed by fire and rebuilt. Although I really struggled within myself while I was there, I was very happy there too if that makes sense. Found my place for awhile.

When I was in my twenties, I moved from the small Lutheran Church where I’d grown up and didn’t have many people my own age, and started going to St Barnabas Broadway. “Barney’s” was the Anglican Church aligned with Sydney University, where I’d literally swung from the chandeliers as an undergraduate, loving and being fully immersed in virtually all aspects of campus life. Barney’s was jam-packed with hundreds of young people, and I thought I’d hit the jackpot. That was until I struggled to run into the same people week after week and missed the intimacy of my home Church. Yet, I persevered and went to home groups and formed a really tight group of friends who were also mostly on the fringe of things to some extent. For example, the women among us weren’t real good at wearing floral dresses, which were a kind of uniform at the time. Over time, we came to see ourselves as the “black sheep”.   Indeed, a friend of mine and I wrote this incredibly sad, cynical story of sheep drowning in their own tears abandoned by the shepherd. This wasn’t so much a comment on Barney’s, but more a sense of the individual getting lost and overlooked. Of course, that’s nothing new, but when you feel yourself drowning in sorrow, it can feel like you’re the only one who has ever been there. However, with the exception of mental illness, it is often something everyone experiences from time to time. Moreover, your teens and twenties can be particularly turbulent as you try to launch yourself out into the so-called real world and search for love. It is difficult for most people to respond to drowning souls. However, if you know anything about life saving, you’ll know that you’re not meant to drown yourself saving someone else. Rather, they recommend using props like a broom, which enable you to save a life and not go down in the process.

Anyway, as it turned out, my sense of drowning in my own tears, wasn’t far off the mark. While I was turning to spiritual and psychological sources of help, I was actually battling the effects of undiagnosed hydrocephalus (or fluid on the brain) where the cerebral spinal fluid (CFS) was building up inside my head and squashing my brain. I didn’t have trouble with headaches, but I was clumsy right through high school  and with the pressure on my frontal lobe, wasn’t just extroverted. Stress was also quite disabling. After all, my brain was already under the pump.

When I was 25, I moved to Western Australia thinking a more relaxed lifestyle would be better. However, I was diagnosed with the hydrocephalus a few months later when I couldn’t touch my nose in a basic medical check up. Six months later, after a serious and sharp decline, I had brain surgery in 1996 where they inserted a VP Shunt from my brain under the skin through to my peritoneum. I moved back to Sydney to recover. The shunt blocked and it was decided I had to stay put and I moved back home with mum and Dad and did six months rehab to get back on my feet. I was off work for six-twelve months and went from being a Marketing Manager in a serious relationship to moving back in with my parents with my life squeezed into my bedroom cupboards. While I was grateful for their support, becoming a dependent child again was devastating. It wasn’t part of my plan, ambition and contradicted every little aspect of how I saw myself as a intelligent,  independent career woman.

Then, the shunt blocked, and my bad luck appeared terminal. Not in a life and death sense, but in terms of my morale. I remember talking to a friend and thinking I’d never get married and have kids. That I “couldn’t even take care of a goldfish”. These were gruelingly difficult days, extending into months which kept crawling along. 

Clearly, I’ve come a long way sense then. I met my husband Geoff on NYE 1998, while I was still in the recovery phase from that surgery. He took me on when I was still pretty much a rough diamond, and loved me regardless. Was part of the ongoing journey which saw me continue to recover and extend myself even to the present day. Thanks to what we are still finding out about neuroplasticity, I started rising back up and getting back into the land of living, even if I wasn’t quite back in the fast lane.

Anyway, I’ve taken you on a massive detour from where I intended to take you today.

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Praying for our son after the baptism.

The reason I’m touching on the spiritual, is that our fifteen year old son, who is known as on Beyond the Flow as the inimitable “Mister”, got baptised yesterday. When I asked him why he got baptised yesterday, he told me today that the baptisms were on so he might as well do it. However, his face told a different story yesterday when he was bursting with excitement, glowing and clearly being touched and immersed not only in the water, but also in the Holy Spirit and God’s love. Please don’t ask me for an explanation. This was clearly supernatural. I live with this character and experience the ups and downs, highs and lows and the clean versus messy bedroom. I know he’s not a saint, and yet he is. Somehow, so am I. Yet, I feel incredibly ordinary even if I’m no longer that lost, black sheep drowning in my own tears.

I am incredibly proud of our son for choosing to get baptised now. He turned 15 on Friday, and clearly this is an age group renowned for making other choices. Fantastic!

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Our family after the baptism

The other thing I was really stoked about, was that despite the last minute notice, we had a good contingent of family there. That even included Geoff’s sister and her boyfriend from Queensland, who just happened to be down. It was actually a very rare situation where Geoff’s family outnumbered my side. With my Dad being one of seven, that doesn’t happen often. Mister also had a few of his friends along and our Church (Hope Unlimited Church) also has a strong youth group and they were there literally cheering him along. Indeed, four of the youth were baptised yesterday.

Haebich Bible crop

 

Lastly, although it spent the service out in the car, the family Bible made it inside afterwards and I managed to share it with a few people. It was published in 1872/74 in Philadelphia and originally belonged to my grandfather’s grandfather, Heinrich August Haebich who was a blacksmith in Hahndorf, South Australia. His wife’s family included the Hartmann’s and Paech’s who were among the first German immigrants to come to South Australia. They migrated to under Pastor Kavel, because they didn’t believe in changes to the liturgy back home.  On one hand, you could say they were very devout and fought to defend their faith (which for Pastor Kavel included going to prison at the time). On the other hand, you could describe them as stubborn and resistant to change.

Papa's Retirement

My grandfather photographed at his retirement service.

My grandfather became a Lutheran Pastor. A shepherd in the very meaning of the word, he told stories of driving out through the mud to reach families and connect them with Church and salvation. He and my grandmother worked tirelessly in a ministry capacity, but also as what we’d today would view as social work. While serving in Wollongong in the 1950s, their congregation was mostly made up of European migrants known as “New Australians” who were struggling to adjust to a new country, language and culture and deal with having to start over again with perhaps little more than the shirt on your back. These legendary heroics of migrant Australia, didn’t come without a cost. My grandparents and their kids, lived in a tiny matchbox-sized manse next to the Church where their door was always open and they gave more than really was a good idea. My grandfather would marry a couple. My grandmother would be the bridesmaid and my mother or aunt would play the organ. At the larger weddings, the family would have to leave before the dancing could start. These were interesting time, so different to how I have grown up.

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The Walker Family after their release from the Japanese. 

This is just my Christian and spiritual legacy to our son. Meanwhile, Geoff grew up in a Seventh Day Adventist Family in Scottsdale, Tasmania. In his twenties, he moved to Sydney where the home group he attended broke away, becoming Dayspring Church. Going back in time, his family included a Methodist lay preacher and another branch of his family, the Walkers and Brookers were active in the early days of the Salvation Army. Indeed, his grandfather Herbert William Brooker played the cornet in the band which we’ve inherited. Actually, I just found out last night that Herbert William’s cousin, George Walker, was a Lieut.-Colonel in the Salvation Army and was interred by the Japanese during WWII while serving as a missionary in China.  Geoff’s Great Great Grandfather, Robert Sleightholm,  actually built much of the historic Church of the Good Shepherd at Hadspen in Tasmania. I know that’s different to pastoring a Church, but he was still a Church builder. Incidentally, that’s far better than being a Church seller and wrecker. The Anglican Church has put  the Good Shepherd up for sale. Read here. What did I say about the shepherds and the sheep?

While we are very proud of our strong Christian heritage, that is not to discourage people my kids refer to as first generation Christians. While it can be quite encouraging to come from a Christian family and there can be that internal cohesion, it can also be quite different if your Christian walk goes off on a tangent to your family. Christian communities have seemingly become more tolerant in recent years, there are tensions between different expressions and interpretations of faith. This legacy might not always leave you with a blank slate or room for your own faith to grow unimpeded and without perhaps being pruned too harshly. So, whatever your family situation might be, that’s okay. We are all God’s children and valued members of God’s family. Jesus loves us.

Funny I should write all of this, because I usually don’t speak up and it’s been really hard for me to feel an ongoing sense of belonging and commitment to Church. As you’re probably aware since my battle with the hydrocephalus, I was dealt another whammy when I became progressively immobile following the birth of our second child, Miss, and was diagnosed 18 months later with dermatomyositis. For awhile there, I felt like God didn’t love me any more and had channelled his wrath my direction and was zapping me with thunderbolts. I was really angry, hurt and just bereft that I had a second very rare, unpronouncible disease and I hadn’t even turned 40. Of course, I was mad. Mad with God. Mad with life, but mostly petrified of dying and leaving my then three and 18 month old children without their mum, especially when they were too young to even remember their mother or what it was like to have a mum.

My ongoing struggles with chronic health and disability also made it difficult to get to Church regularly and build those ongoing, continuing relationships where I could be a part of things. Me being me, I was also radically overthinking everything. Plus, I was fighting to stay alive, particularly after the dermatomyositis started causing fibrosis in my lungs. I developed bronchitis, pneumonia. I really should wear a mask out in public during fly season, but I am who I am and that isn’t me. I want to be with people, not behind a wall of any sort.

So, life is complicated and as frustrating and exhausting as it might be, I have to keep rising back to the surface and being not only part of community, but being something of a shepherd and caring for the flock from my seat somewhere out the back and not quite out the front. That’s my place. Meantime, Geoff can be found either up the front playing base, setting up and packing up chairs often with our son in tow. Our daughter went to her first meeting of Church dancers last week. That’s quite development compared to when my Mum was growing up.

Well, although this is the extended version of the baptism, it really is very much a fleeting overview of our spiritual journey and we’d love to hear from you. Moreover, if you have written any posts along these lines, please include links in the comments below. I’d love to read them.

Love & God Bless,

Rowena

Lt-Col George Walker Dies

Lieut.-Colonel ‘George Walker, commander of the Newcastle Division of the Salvation Army, died in Newcastle last night at the age of 61. Lieut.-Colonel Walker became an officer in the Salvation Army’s Burwood Corps 37 years ago, and then joined the China and India mission service. During the Second World War he was interned by the Japanese, and is remembered by many prisoners as welfare officer in a number of internment camps around Peking. After the war, he served as a travelling evangelist in New South Wales and Queensland, before taking up his Newcastle post a year ago. Newcastle Sun (NSW : 1918 – 1954), Wednesday 16 April 1952, page 3

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Train Trip: Surry Hills to Gore Hill, Sydney.

A train trip there, requires a train trip home.

To read about the journey there, click here: https://beyondtheflow.wordpress.com/2015/08/19/me-myself-i-writing-a-complex-character-profile/

However, I’m not returning home quite yet. I am yet to get to my doctor’s appointment at Royal North Shore Hospital, which was actually the reason for my trip. Despite star billing, Surry Hills was a detour, not the destination. So typical of me that I get so caught up in the detour, that I almost forget the main event.

There I was wandering along Crown Street, camera round my neck practically photographing anything at all, as though I had somehow transcended time. Meandering in and out of shops and still fully intending to stop off at the Vegan Mary Cafe for my much anticipated Coconut Chai Latte. Popping into the Salvo Store buying a bride doll for my daughter, huge turquoise, chenille bedspread (only $3.00…what a bargain!) and a recipe book from the 1st Series of Masterchef.

Turning into Albion Street, I’m now lugging a huge Ikea bag in addition to my bulky camera gear and writing journals. I look like I’ve been away for a week, not simply on a day trip. That said, how many middle-aged women go away for a week with a bride doll? Not many but I can sort of get away with that. After all, she’s a gift for my daughter.

I knew the sands had been flowing through the hour glass. That it was time for a much needed reality check.

What’s the time Mr Wolf?

Checked my diary. Checked my watch. Yikes!! 3.00 had become 2.30 and suddenly I had 45 minutes to walk to Central, catch a train and lug myself up Gore Hill to the hospital. As much as I love that John Lennon quote: “Life is what happens while you are busy making other plans,” somehow I don’t think the Gastro Specialist would appreciate that. He’d much rather:

“I’m late, I’m late. For a very important date. No time to say “Hello.” Goodbye. I’m late, I’m late, I’m late.”
– Alice in wonderland

Not for the first time, I wished I was Superwoman and could leap tall buildings in a single bound and suddenly get from Surry Hills to Gore Hill as the crow flies, instead of relying on the vagaries of public transport.

Moreover, although Gore Hill mightn’t be Everest, it must be close. I’ve had several near-death experiences tackling that hill heading to appointments and you’ve really got to wonder who decided sick people needed to become mountain climbers to access treatment?!

It wasn’t me.

Gum trees in Albion Street.

Gum trees in Albion Street.

So there I am running incredibly late for an appointment, which I’ve had to reschedule 3 times and I really need to get the results of the endoscopy I had a few months ago and yet I’m still in Surry Hills. I still have my camera and there is just too much temptation to ignore. I’m pulling and tugging at the zipper on my camera bag almost ripping the damn thing open to prise out the camera in my desperate haste. I’ve spotted what must be some kind of Supermodel gum tree with incredible white branches soaring upwards into the deep azure sky. The branches almost appeared to be dancing and I was captivated. Mesmerised. Photo opportunity!!! It was like a siren in my head eeeore eeore.

Time stood still for those few precious moments. At least, it did for me!

“I’m late, I’m late. For a very important date. No time to say “Hello.” Goodbye. I’m late, I’m late, I’m late.”
– Alice in wonderland

Humph! I did mention in my previous post that I am both the protagonist and antagonist in my story and as this case in point illustrates so well, I have a brilliant aim when it comes to shooting myself in the foot!

Anyway, my justification for such apparent procrastination was that the doctor kept me waiting for 1.5 hours for my last appointment and is more than likely going to be late again. Being quite the egalitarian, I also feel that if the doctor can run late, so can I. The door swings both ways.

The Clock Tower at Central Station, viewed from Surry Hills.

The Clock Tower at Central Station, viewed from Surry Hills.

Fortunately, I manage to get to Central Station in record time and see that a train arrives in 4 minutes but I’ve still got to get down the concourse, up the stairs and somehow still be breathing. I don’t know how I managed to pull it off but I make it with a minute to spare and as I collapse into my seat feeling my heart about to burst through my chest, I notice an elderly lady peering into my bag…the doll. She’s not the only one looking either. There are at least 8 sets of eyes staring in there. Her golden hair is flowing over the edge of the bag and her eyes are closed. She’s so life-like and with her eyes shut, she almost looks dead. Like I’m carrying a small, dead bride in my bag. Call the cops.

The bride doll on the train.

The bride doll on the train.

“She’s for my daughter,” I explain.

That seems to satisfy the curious glances. I’m not some crazed mad woman, after all.

Well, I am but they just don’t know it yet.

The Doll Bride.

The Doll Bride.

Anyway, not that I’m on the homeward journey, I need to get back to thinking about character development and getting back to the “book project”. Time to put my ruminations about Surry Hills on hold, as we return to working on character…the protagonist, antagonist….myself.

Soon the train is clattering over the Sydney Harbour Bridge, not that I notice. My heart’s still racing!

I arrive at St Leonard’s Station with just ten minutes to spare. That’s almost possible but I’m not the world’s fastest walker. Indeed, I have a walking stick and it’s more likely to take half an hour. I’m starting to think about catching a taxi but there isn’t a taxi in sight. I’m heading up the hill and spot what could be a shortcut and in my desperation, decide to give it a go. This path doesn’t seem quite so steep and might just save me from a heart attack and a quadruple bypass.

However, this shortcut takes me via a building and if you know anything about how they design hospital buildings, it’s to maximise confusion. They’re always such a maze. Fortunately I see a hospital volunteer I know and she kindly points me to the lift and I’m out. A lift strikes me as a great alternative to climbing Everest. Perhaps this detour wasn’t such a bad idea after all. I was lost but now I’m found but already late.

Onwards and upwards.

Phew! I arrived and there’s a queue at reception.

That’s why I’m late.

xx Rowena