I do not like being mad.
I do not like it. Han I am.
But we don't always get what we want, and I am currently mad.
Much too long and too many intricate details to explain fully, but basically a friend of mine today very clearly expressed to me that he doesn't appreciate in the slightest what my family and I do for him. And by 'my family' I don't just mean my parents and I, because my grandparents help him out too.
I shouldn't be mad. I don't like the way it feels inside me and besides, anger gives me a headache. But sometimes, don't you want to just grab somebody by the shoulders and shake some sense into them? I shouldn't judge. I should get over this anger right now. But I won't.
[Slash sigh.] I suppose the only way to get over it is to consider that although I don't purposefully go around trying to irritate people, I must annoy someone out there. It puts into a different light when you think about it that way. Whoever it is that I annoy, if I ever found out who it was I would want to go and apologise to them. So I suppose that instead of listening to the words from my friend's mouth, I should listen to God. Because He and I both know that deep down somewhere in my friend, he cares about me a lot, and would apologise if I told him I was fuming.
*more relaxed now* My lesson for the day= Anger gets us nowhere, and when we get frustrated we can rely on God to take away the anger and fill us up with marshmallows instead.
[Marshmallows are my sillybilly metaphor for happiness/enthusiasm/love/strength (whatever it is we need)]
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Friday, February 20, 2009
The worst days of my life.
Continuing on from last night's piece.
Deciding to become a Christian was easy for me. Very simple indeed. However, for a long time God was never my top priority and rarely even made it into the top 5. I believed but I didn't care all that much. Two events, one while I was 15 and one while I was 16, changed this.
On May 7th 2007, I came home from school and went about my usual afternoon routine of raiding the refrigerator. But when Dad came home my parents called my sisters and I to the dining room for a 'family meeting.' Because this does not happen very often in my home, I was immediately frightened.
Mum and Dad sat us down and told us that Mum had gone to the hospital week before, for some tests, and the doctors had confirmed a tumour in her brain. My parents calmly explained to us that it wasn't a cancerous tumour, but still a nasty one as its location meant that there was no way to remove it without killing her.
Because, in my family, we never discuss our feelings very openly I don't know how my sisters are coping with this. I assume that they are coping well. For me, it simply added to my already mountainous pile of 'burdens'.
At the beginning of last year a self-leadership program came to our school and I was involved in it. While it was fun to have an excuse to eat fast food and wear casual one day a week, by the end of the program I was thouroughly confused. I was beginning to hear from others around me that God should be my top priority, and this seemed sensible enough to me. However, the program I had been involved in taught that we were the most important things in our lives, in our universes.
So in my state of confusion and because I was becoming overwhelmed by my 'burdens', I broke down. I pushed those I cared about most far away from me in an attempt to cling to God with my all. This 'not-so-ingenious' plan didn't work though. I caused myself alot of hurt.
I am still patching some of the things I broke, but overall it was an important event in my life. It was during that period that I went to church for the first time (all alone and I rocked up an hour early, :P) and God did become my top priority, and now an hour doesn't pass without my thoughts falling into prayer, amazement or just general wondering. I am learning more and more about God/Christ (the same, but different, :S) as time goes on and it always makes me fall that bit more in love.
With Jesus Christ as my lifeboat, I am not a victim, but a survivor.
Deciding to become a Christian was easy for me. Very simple indeed. However, for a long time God was never my top priority and rarely even made it into the top 5. I believed but I didn't care all that much. Two events, one while I was 15 and one while I was 16, changed this.
On May 7th 2007, I came home from school and went about my usual afternoon routine of raiding the refrigerator. But when Dad came home my parents called my sisters and I to the dining room for a 'family meeting.' Because this does not happen very often in my home, I was immediately frightened.
Mum and Dad sat us down and told us that Mum had gone to the hospital week before, for some tests, and the doctors had confirmed a tumour in her brain. My parents calmly explained to us that it wasn't a cancerous tumour, but still a nasty one as its location meant that there was no way to remove it without killing her.
Because, in my family, we never discuss our feelings very openly I don't know how my sisters are coping with this. I assume that they are coping well. For me, it simply added to my already mountainous pile of 'burdens'.
At the beginning of last year a self-leadership program came to our school and I was involved in it. While it was fun to have an excuse to eat fast food and wear casual one day a week, by the end of the program I was thouroughly confused. I was beginning to hear from others around me that God should be my top priority, and this seemed sensible enough to me. However, the program I had been involved in taught that we were the most important things in our lives, in our universes.
So in my state of confusion and because I was becoming overwhelmed by my 'burdens', I broke down. I pushed those I cared about most far away from me in an attempt to cling to God with my all. This 'not-so-ingenious' plan didn't work though. I caused myself alot of hurt.
I am still patching some of the things I broke, but overall it was an important event in my life. It was during that period that I went to church for the first time (all alone and I rocked up an hour early, :P) and God did become my top priority, and now an hour doesn't pass without my thoughts falling into prayer, amazement or just general wondering. I am learning more and more about God/Christ (the same, but different, :S) as time goes on and it always makes me fall that bit more in love.
With Jesus Christ as my lifeboat, I am not a victim, but a survivor.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Becoming a Christian
Hi. If you are reading this, thank you for letting me share my stories with you.
Honesty is usually my policy but right here and now anomity seems to over rule it. So each person and place in my heart and in my life has their name changed (myself inclusive), while their stories, and mine, remain the same.
My name is Johanna (or Hannie). I am 17 years old. I like to think that I am a peaceful and cheery kind of girl. My favourite colour is green. My favourite food is a tie between my dad's Spaghetti Bolganese and BananaBerry milkshakes from the cafe.
To me, my story does not seem an inspirational one, but to those around me it seems it is. So for that reason, I will share it with you and hopefully lift your heart as well. People tell me I am strong. I tell them they mustn't have seen me try to open the Vegemite jar.
Growing up, I was never in a poor home. I had two parents who loved and cared for me. My two sisters and myself were always clothed, washed and fed. As a child I was always very cheerful, but ashamedly I, even as a child, judged others. If I had a classmate who lived with a single parent, between divorced parents or with step-parents, I secretly thought to myself that they were not as good as me, because I lived with both my mother and father. In all honesty, I have never shared that secret with another person before. Usually I try to hide it from even myself.
This secret never hurt anyone. I was always equally kind to all my classmates as a child. I only judged them in my head. However, when I was twelve years old, my world was turned on it's head. My mother used to deliver catalogues of local companies to houses in our neighbourhood, and I often walked about with her. One day, we had to deliver in a nearby neighbourhood, to help the lady who usually did this area. As we walked past a rather nice looking house, my mother commented that her boyfriend lived in that house when she was 18. Being particularly good at maths, I calculated in my head that my mother was 18 when she had given birth to me.
For a picosecond I brushed the idea away, but then reality flooded and drowned my mind. I was and am a bastard. At that point I stopped walking and refused to move. I stood, mouth hanging open, glaring at my mum. First she looked puzzled, but then as something clicked inside her brain she turned the palest white. She had never realised that I never knew.
That night and for weeks after that, I played a charade. I pretended to have forgotten. I also pretended to be eating. It was only for a month that I ate little, and thankfully it did not impact my health the way it might have if I continued. Regardless, I despised myself. I found myself battling between wanting to know whoever was my biological father and equally being repulsed by the idea. I still pretend that I have forgotten. The only time the matter was ever discussed was between my angry eyes and my mother's frightened pair.
Although this did turn my mind on itself, my 'daddy' never stopped being just that. 5 years later I still say 'Good night. I love you Daddy' and irritate him until he gives me a lift to where I need to go, the way most daughters treat their fathers. This is perhaps the reason why, although at the time I despised myself and was very upset, I pulled through in mere months.
As I was emotionally recovering, I had no idea that my dad's health was falling. He was diagnosed with Chrone's disease, which is an inflammation of the bowels. It is rarely terminal but does put the sufferer through agony. Although, at almost 13 I could understand that he wasn't going to die, it still crushed me; the idea that the dad who I loved and loved me in return, could be taken away. I fell again.
This was around the time I was starting high school. I became good friends with two boys and we would often wag school together. Always being a 'perfect' and well-behaved kid before, my parents were absolutely shocked when they found out that I had turned so rotten. I went through 'boyfriends' (nothing serious, nothing longer than a month) and fell into drugs a few times. 'Only' marijuana. Only is a stupid word. My parents still don't know anything about my drug use but they soon caught onto my new found interest in wearing so many bracelets that I couldn't lift my arms. I was self harming.
One of my closest friends, Cass (I've known her since we were kids and we did gymnastics together), would often tell me that I was being a complete idiot, and while I knew that she was right, I just didn't care.
A new chaplain moved to our school during my rebellion. I'm not sure why I did it. I suppose it might have been how much I enjoyed the 'Kid's Club' at my local church that I usually attended on a Thursday night. Whatever the reason, I joined the new 'Christian Group'. I wasn't really sure about it but my (now) best friend, Leah, kept me still going. After a few weeks of 'Christian Group' I fell out of drug use. My self harming became dramatically less often. The only drawback, was that Cass had an issue with Leah. Perhaps she was jealous that Leah was seeming to help me where she couldn't. Cass stopped talking to me for two months. After around two weeks of induring the cold shoulder, I decided to give prayer a go. I figured it was worth a shot.
Every night for over a month I would pray for Cass. I prayed she stop ignoring me, that she was going okay (because I couldn't tell how she was). One night I prayed for my sister, rather than praying for Cass. In my mind I could hear the words 'Don't worry about her.' I knew it was God and I knew it referred to Cass. The next day Cass said hello to me. The next day she asked me a question about an assignment. At this point I decided to become a Christian.
Honesty is usually my policy but right here and now anomity seems to over rule it. So each person and place in my heart and in my life has their name changed (myself inclusive), while their stories, and mine, remain the same.
My name is Johanna (or Hannie). I am 17 years old. I like to think that I am a peaceful and cheery kind of girl. My favourite colour is green. My favourite food is a tie between my dad's Spaghetti Bolganese and BananaBerry milkshakes from the cafe.
To me, my story does not seem an inspirational one, but to those around me it seems it is. So for that reason, I will share it with you and hopefully lift your heart as well. People tell me I am strong. I tell them they mustn't have seen me try to open the Vegemite jar.
Growing up, I was never in a poor home. I had two parents who loved and cared for me. My two sisters and myself were always clothed, washed and fed. As a child I was always very cheerful, but ashamedly I, even as a child, judged others. If I had a classmate who lived with a single parent, between divorced parents or with step-parents, I secretly thought to myself that they were not as good as me, because I lived with both my mother and father. In all honesty, I have never shared that secret with another person before. Usually I try to hide it from even myself.
This secret never hurt anyone. I was always equally kind to all my classmates as a child. I only judged them in my head. However, when I was twelve years old, my world was turned on it's head. My mother used to deliver catalogues of local companies to houses in our neighbourhood, and I often walked about with her. One day, we had to deliver in a nearby neighbourhood, to help the lady who usually did this area. As we walked past a rather nice looking house, my mother commented that her boyfriend lived in that house when she was 18. Being particularly good at maths, I calculated in my head that my mother was 18 when she had given birth to me.
For a picosecond I brushed the idea away, but then reality flooded and drowned my mind. I was and am a bastard. At that point I stopped walking and refused to move. I stood, mouth hanging open, glaring at my mum. First she looked puzzled, but then as something clicked inside her brain she turned the palest white. She had never realised that I never knew.
That night and for weeks after that, I played a charade. I pretended to have forgotten. I also pretended to be eating. It was only for a month that I ate little, and thankfully it did not impact my health the way it might have if I continued. Regardless, I despised myself. I found myself battling between wanting to know whoever was my biological father and equally being repulsed by the idea. I still pretend that I have forgotten. The only time the matter was ever discussed was between my angry eyes and my mother's frightened pair.
Although this did turn my mind on itself, my 'daddy' never stopped being just that. 5 years later I still say 'Good night. I love you Daddy' and irritate him until he gives me a lift to where I need to go, the way most daughters treat their fathers. This is perhaps the reason why, although at the time I despised myself and was very upset, I pulled through in mere months.
As I was emotionally recovering, I had no idea that my dad's health was falling. He was diagnosed with Chrone's disease, which is an inflammation of the bowels. It is rarely terminal but does put the sufferer through agony. Although, at almost 13 I could understand that he wasn't going to die, it still crushed me; the idea that the dad who I loved and loved me in return, could be taken away. I fell again.
This was around the time I was starting high school. I became good friends with two boys and we would often wag school together. Always being a 'perfect' and well-behaved kid before, my parents were absolutely shocked when they found out that I had turned so rotten. I went through 'boyfriends' (nothing serious, nothing longer than a month) and fell into drugs a few times. 'Only' marijuana. Only is a stupid word. My parents still don't know anything about my drug use but they soon caught onto my new found interest in wearing so many bracelets that I couldn't lift my arms. I was self harming.
One of my closest friends, Cass (I've known her since we were kids and we did gymnastics together), would often tell me that I was being a complete idiot, and while I knew that she was right, I just didn't care.
A new chaplain moved to our school during my rebellion. I'm not sure why I did it. I suppose it might have been how much I enjoyed the 'Kid's Club' at my local church that I usually attended on a Thursday night. Whatever the reason, I joined the new 'Christian Group'. I wasn't really sure about it but my (now) best friend, Leah, kept me still going. After a few weeks of 'Christian Group' I fell out of drug use. My self harming became dramatically less often. The only drawback, was that Cass had an issue with Leah. Perhaps she was jealous that Leah was seeming to help me where she couldn't. Cass stopped talking to me for two months. After around two weeks of induring the cold shoulder, I decided to give prayer a go. I figured it was worth a shot.
Every night for over a month I would pray for Cass. I prayed she stop ignoring me, that she was going okay (because I couldn't tell how she was). One night I prayed for my sister, rather than praying for Cass. In my mind I could hear the words 'Don't worry about her.' I knew it was God and I knew it referred to Cass. The next day Cass said hello to me. The next day she asked me a question about an assignment. At this point I decided to become a Christian.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)