Category Archives: Deep and Meaningful

‘Catching the bus’ – how I stopped ‘existing’ and finally began ‘living’


It was the 1st of June 2012.
The hardest year I’ve ever had just ended on the farmers calendar.
My husband and I had been sharemilking business owners for a year… working every single day and steadily approaching burnout.
It was like nothing else we’d ever experienced.
It was difficult looking beyond the next day let alone being able to even look further down the track to see what we were actually working toward.

The most important things to us (Church, family, friends) had become luxury items.
The things that were of most importance to us, the things that made us ‘us’ in most ways were unintentionally put on the back burner – any spare time was needed for rest.

I was going through an identity crisis.
My spirit was withered.
My creative wells were dried up (explaining my giant blogging absence).
I’ve always known my creativity comes from God and I was so tired I was distant… distant from the creative source.
Life was miserable and we were forced to question ourselves in every way you could.

Why are we doing life like this?
Why do you believe what you believe?
When you come up with an answer.. why do you believe that answer?

Questioning is painful and at times ugly – but pushing through to find an answer is liberating.
I found myself asking why I even ‘needed’ to go to Church?
Why did I believe in Jesus?

The truth is, the root of my belief in God does not come from the influence of my Christian parents, nor by listening and believing someone else’s account or ‘interpretation’ of Him.
The heart of my belief in God – the thing I draw from, is I experienced Him for myself.
It was simple, I gave God a chance to reveal Himself to me and He didn’t fail to show up.
His presence overwhelmed me and filled me. The Bible says that those who seek, will find – and it is true.
I am a walking testimony to that.

Dan and I always knew we couldn’t do all the work ourselves – we needed to employ someone to take the load off.
We sacrificed the finances so we could be freed up, even if it meant individually taking time off.

July 2012.

I was finally able to go to Church without feeling like I needed to sleep all day again
One of my biggest loves and passions is worship through music. I don’t have to be involved in the making of it, just give me an opportunity to sit in it and I easily get lost in it.

I’m a believer that if you believe in something or if you are going to be involved in something – don’t do it in half measure. Be authentic to the true meaning of that ‘thing’.
So I found myself one morning, sitting in the back row at Church in the middle of the musical worship set.
I wanted to dance.
To physically express my worship to God.
To dance because he is good.
To dance because of his ultimate sacrifice in my honour.
The thing holding me back was the fear of what the person next to me would think.
I saw that my ‘worship’ wasn’t authentic to my own real definition of worship – true reverence and adoration of God with spirit, soul and body.

For the first time in my life, I saw I was stuck and had only ever been giving God a half measure.
I saw that I was fearful of what people would think of me. Bound.
It was like a light switched on and revealed a shadow internally – I would do everything to see myself ‘freed’ – to see the shadow dissipate with a brighter wattage.
I knew if I wanted this, I had to step out and do something, anything, at the next opportunity – I’d better ‘catch the bus’ while it was stationed or I might never do it. So I did all I knew I could physically do.

The next Sunday, with my heart threatening to bust out of my chest, I put one foot in front of the other, and walked the five rows from where I was sitting to the stage during the worship set. Our Youth Pastor was thrashing about, so I joined him.
Abandoning any thought about what others might think.

That moment was the beginning of the journey that has changed my life completely.
It came with a decision of wanting freedom, then reaching and grabbing for it.
The feeling of ‘stepping out’ in such a way was a taste of freedom.
It was like I realised I was living a life like being a prisoner ‘in the hole’ – and then being given the opportunity to become a part of the general population by being allowed yard walks.
I could feel the air for the first time in a long time, I could see the sun, but there were of course still brick walls and barbed wire fences still keeping me in.

With that taste of freedom, I started seeing God like my favourite dessert. Chocolate mousse.
When I eat chocolate mousse, I don’t want one teaspoon today, another teaspoon tomorrow.
I want to eat THE WHOLE THING… and I want it all the time.
I could go for some right now actually. (Not pregnant)
On that day, I didn’t just want a teaspoon full, I wanted to be on the outside of the prison.. in chocolate mousse heaven (like that old Cadbury ad, except everything was mousse, not dairy milk chocolate).

The very next Sunday, I had my first prophetic word (a word inspired by God) to give during the prophetic time – ME. Little Elizabeth from Whangarei. The girl sinner with the dirty face.

I still remember wanting to vomit – not wanting to even get in my car to make the trip to Church. I felt some sort of stirring that I didn’t understand as I was hammering and chiselling (putting makeup on), but I knew I wanted and needed to ‘catch the bus’ if there was going to be one stationed.

Catching the bus is another expression for taking a ‘window of opportunity’. If you don’t catch the bus, you’ll miss it. Another bus might come, but it could be late. There might even be detours. You’re not even guaranteed that the next bus will even come at all.

So I caught the bus. I decided to be obedient to what I felt was Gods voice. The way I saw it, even if I wasn’t sure of myself – I would ‘catch the bus’. I’d rather put myself out there and risk looking like a fool if it was a chance to show God my love. So that He would entrust me with more. So I could keep the rhythm of putting one foot infront of the other. So I would grow. So I could be free. So others could therefore enter the grace of walking in that freedom too.

Bringing me to November last year. I had an incredible hunger to go deeper.
I got to the point where I didn’t know what to do with myself. So I did what I could, I pictured myself in the throne room.
Jesus sitting on His throne, me on my knees before Him.
I had a large quantity of packing boxes infront of me, some tattered, some dirty, some new… in those boxes were everything that made me, me.
There were boxes filled with the ‘shameful’ things, another one with the ‘dirty’ things, another with the ‘best’ parts, ‘dreams’, ‘hopes’, ‘faithful’ things, a box labelled ‘family’, etc.
Everything that made me me, had it’s own box.

With every box, I pictured myself ever so vividly pushing it to Jesus’s feet.
With each box I pushed, his arms opened and scooped them up.
There were tears in his eyes like He’d been waiting throughout eternity for this moment.
Every last box I pushed and gave to Him – telling Him that every last part of me belonged to Him.
I was at the last box labelled “family”. I followed suit with the ones before and pushed it thinking that was it. I looked up and saw that He was waiting. I didn’t understand! Didn’t I just give you everything?

I looked around and saw tucked behind me was a box I was subconsciously protecting. It was a box that I then noticed my right hand was handcuffed to. It was the one labelled “Eva” – my daughter.
For the first time, I saw this for what it was.
I was holding this box back from Jesus. This part of me I wasn’t letting him have.
I didn’t want to give it because I was terrified. I held fears over this box. I didn’t want the circumstances that surrounded my life as a youngster to happen to her.

My heart ripped. I loved Jesus with all my heart, I loved my daughter with all my heart. I had to make a decision, keep doing things in my own strength, or handing them over completely? I sat and cried, and then I made my decision.
With much pain and fear, I pushed the “Eva” box to Jesus… my mothers heart weeping before Him as I said to Him, “Your will be done… I choose to trust You more with her, then I ever could with myself”. It was like a soundwave went through the room…every link in the chains that bound me at the wrist exploded as pieces were thrown about the floor. I was filled with an overwhelming sense of security. All fear in an instant was blown apart.

He scooped me up and He had me.
I was not mine anymore.

From there on out, whether or not people were willing to ‘catch the bus’ with me, I knew that He was in me. I was certain of His ownership over me. I was certain that where I was going was the right direction. I had true heart knowledge that I was His and that He was mine.

It’s 9 months on from that very first day I stepped out, and I’m still moving! – I can’t count how many times I’ve put my hand up in a prophetic time or have had a spontaneous or prophetic song or have in one way or another, ‘stepped out” (everytime I still feel the urge to vomit)… all because I see my journey as just that… a journey.
You progress, you put one foot infront of the other, you get scared at times, you’re uncertain at times, but you carry on.
You go up hard hills, you run down the easy sloping otherside, you keep the rhythm up through the plains.
You keep your fire stoked, especially in the dark. You throw fuel into the fire to keep it burning (in my case it’s the distractions in my life).
You feed healthily, you watch what is going in, you protect He who is within you. You keep going!!

So here is my prayer for you:
Regardless of your beliefs, I pray that you truely are able to question yourself. That you are brave enough to ask the tough questions and face the true answers. That you wouldn’t settle for doing life mediocrely. That you would be authentic. That today is the day you choose step out in uncomfortable and scary ways so that you grow, produce fruit and can share the fruit with those around you.
That you would surrender and realise you don’t have to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders.
That you can enter the grace of walking in freedom too.
That you would catch the bus and you would catch it on time.


Love always,




A New York Memoir – Part 4 (*WARNING* a lengthy finale)


It’s 3.30am, Sunday the 21st of October.

The sunroom I’m sleeping in becomes illuminated by the alarm blaring from my cellphone. I didn’t really need the alarm, I didn’t sleep anyway.

My husband will be getting up in an hour for work… it’s strange not being woken by the same alarm together. I’m thinking of my daughter who is still in bed. I can almost see those deep blue eyes she was given from her daddy, closed with a deep sleep, tucked up in her new red puppy pyjamas. I bet shes dreaming about singing or dresses or washing her hands or the colour purple. Those things are what preoccupy her every day.

I’m two hours from home at Aunty Lyndas beach house in Manly, which is located on the Whangaparoa Peninsula. Seashores, craft stores and Italian restaurants are in abundance.
I’m homesick but I’m gonna do this. I know all it takes is to follow my footsteps. I get up in a dewy foggy morning and make the hour trip to the airport.

About 6.20am and I’m on the otherside of customs. I thought I’d be able to stomach breakfast but water is the extent of it. I sit down at the nearest table and burst in to tears. I’m doing this, I really am. I’m doing it alone. Do I want to get murdered? – “God is telling you to step out of the boat” – I’m reading this over and over from my journal.

Even though it’s not the last time I cry, it’s here I decide I need to enjoy every moment.

As hard as it is being on my own, I need to shut that emotional tap off or it’s going to sabotage everything.

3.5 hours later I’m in Sydney. An hour after that, I’m boarding the biggie. The one that takes me to the U. S and A. Seat 64K – right on the window side of a wing.

An elderly couple in their 70’s sit next to me. Americans. He’s in the middle and his knees are touching the seat infront. Poor guy. He would’ve had movie star looks back in his hey day.

He sits hunching forward to see the screen infront and watches Men in Black 3 on the inflight entertainment. Every now and then giggles and holds his lady-loves hand. I can’t help but wonder about their lives. How old were they when they married? How many children do they have?

I imagined their names were Howard and Ann. That it was the 50’s when they met at a local dance made up of shiny shoes, Brylcreem, ribbons and little white gloves. That they were married before Anns twenty first year and managed to buy the house of their dreams with Howards paycheck. He was a mechanic in the army after all. There were hand written love notes, picnics by the lake, vacations to Chippewa Falls in Wisconsin. Now here they were, in their 70’s, a lifetime of laughs, loves and lessons littering their wake…flying home from the trip of their dreams down under. More memories to their love story.

13.5 hours on a Qantas plane in Cattle class, and then another 5 hours on a Qantas plane in Cattle class – It’s kind of like child birth. In the moment, its the worst experience your body could ever go through. The cramps, the claustrophobia, someone constantly kneeing you, the gas… but this time not gas that comes in a bottle, its coming from the trouser cough of the woman in front of you.

You get out on the other side of it all, and see the sunshine and you forget exactly what it was all like. Only moments earlier you’d sworn to yourself that you would never put yourself through this pain again – but then you find yourself thinking, “Oh, it wasn’t that bad…I got a beautiful baby out of it… infact, I think I WILL do this again.”

This time I wasn’t getting an 8lb 11oz bouncing baby with dimples. Instead, I was taking my first few steps on to American soil, and from a billboard – I was being welcomed by big beautiful Barack Obama and his ears.

I’d just completed 26 hours in transit and I’d done it.
It was 10.30pm and I was in New York City!
The lights… the lights of New York City at night… it was magical. Approaching the city and over the Brooklyn Bridge, I get my first glimpse of an illuminated icon, the Empire State building! I’m here! I’m really here!

My hotel is on Broadway, THE Broadway from the movies. I know that my accommodation isn’t anything to be excited about, but its somewhere to sleep in a safe area at least. It’s on a sleepy street in the Upper West side of Manhattan that is lined with sweet gum trees slowly losing their yellowed leaves with the New York “Fall”. There is a Deli at one end, a Laundromat in the middle and a Diner with three dollar omelettes at my end. The actor Chevy Chase has an apartment here and four streets down, Matt Damon has a townhouse.
I’m on the 10th floor in room 2010.

When I opened the door for the first time, I’m smacked in the face by the smell of stale cigarettes. It’s a smokers room and the windows are taped shut.
The decor is from the 80’s, the carpet is sticky, but the room is spotless. The tv is a giant box from the 90’s, the remote glows in the dark, the cabinet has a broken door, but the bed is amazing. I climb in and cry for the last time. I’m far from home, I’m exhausted and now I have to sleep with my mouth open. I pray… and then I know tomorrow will be a better day.

The next day and the days to come were like a dream. I walked. I took everything in. One moment I can smell hotdogs from sidewalk vendors, then the smell of laundry detergent from a Laundromat, and then pee… it was always like that… if it wasn’t hotdogs or laundry detergent… it was pee.
I did so many different things (< click this link!)

Did I ever tell you about Canal Street?

Canal Street is a place that is notorious for replica designer bags, belts and sunglasses. Extremely popular with tourists and residents alike.

My guidebook tells me its legal to buy them, but it’s illegal for someone to sell them. Go figure.

I have a good nosey around the place – there are bags, framed photos of New York, scarves, sunglasses, cellphone cases, belts, mini Statue of Liberties, snow globes, a guy standing with a sign that reads “Need money for weed”, you-name-it everywhere.

It’s about 2.30pm and I think its time I head off to explore other places.

I read that you may walk past someone and they will whisper under their breath “Chanel, Louis Vuitton, Coach”, all the while keeping their eyes to the streets, looking out for the police. These guys sell the better quality fakes. I also read to not be surprised if you are led to a room where they lock the door behind you. All of their ‘goods’ are in makeshift locations ready to move in an instant incase they catch wind of a raid.

I begin walking toward a good looking black guy standing with his wife next to a bus stop. Just as I get within earshot I hear the keywords “Chanel, Louis Vuitton, Coach”. I laugh and just go with it, “Okay”.

He tells me to go with his wife, her name is Lisa and she walks me over to the window of a shoe store. She flips open her cellphone and shows me a gallery of the replica bags in their possession. I point to a quilted ‘Chanel’ with a gold chain, and with that, she closes her phone and tells me to wait for her at Starbucks in the next street.
I wait for ten minutes before she walks in with a black rubbish bag tucked under her arm. She takes out the ‘Chanel’ and with a naked flame from a lighter, she lets it lick against the surface of the bag to show me the materials are good quality.

I say okay, hand her a Benjamin and we go our seperate ways  –  I’m walking away feeling like I just participated in a drug deal.

On the Friday, I decide to just walk and see where I end up. By now I’ve got the staring through people thing down pat. You have to. EVERY single street you have people standing by trying to engage you in conversation to give money for something, to do a cruise, a tour, a halloween special, presidential propaganda, comedy show tickets, happy hour specials, takeaway deals, we buy gold pamphlets, give money to this charity, that charity, greenpeace – EVERYTHING.

I got fed up and picked up some tips from the every day New Yorkers I observed: put ear phones in and keep your eyes forward, don’t stand around too long, don’t carry a camera bag, DO NOT wear a “I heart NY” shirt – you might as well have a lit sign with “VULNERABLE TOURIST” flashing above your head.

Horns in cars aren’t a warning, they are to let everyone know you need to change lanes. When someone bumps in to you, you need to immediately check for your wallet. “Do not walk” signs are a suggestion. Eye contact is a sign of aggression. If you think you might want to sit down somewhere to rest your feet, you’d better plan that little break in before hand because there are no benches found street to street, that what the parks are for.

As much of a culture shock as this place is, I don’t want to leave. I imagine what it would be like living in a one bedroom apartment paying $600 a week like they all do. Little do I know, that within the next few moments, I’ll be heading down a track to cut my trip early and to fly home the next day.

I’ve just finished shopping for cosmetics at a drugstore in midtown. I exit the front door, turn right to continue on down town with the other masses when I spot a familiar face. The Kiwi woman who sat behind me on the Plane from Sydney and again in LA! We briefly talked in L.A, about our plans, where we were from and then wished eachother the best in our endeavours. Then in a city of over 8 million people, we run in to eachother again!

We’re chatting like we’re old friends, what we’ve thought of the city so far, the food, the bargains we purchased etc., then she says something that changes my thought track entirely, “I’m really freaked out about the hurricane rolling in”. At this point I hadn’t even turned the TV on. I was still jet lagged and by night time, I was well and truely ready for bed. “What hurricane?” I ask. She gives me a bewildered stare, “Have you not even turned a TV on?”.

She was talking about Hurricane Sandy. I was supposed to fly home the day it hits.

I get back to my hotel at around 6pm, this time I turn the TV on. Every single channel programmed to that TV was dedicated to tracking the hurricane. It was pretty eerie. They showed footage of home owners in Jersey sandbagging and boarding everything. They closed all the parks. The Mayor was declaring a state of emergency, they were calling this thing “A storm of a lifetime” and were setting up halls and emergency accommodation for people in vulnerable areas to stay. I called the airlines and according to the Qantas lady, I had booked THE VERY LAST SEAT on the VERY LAST FLIGHT out of New York. And that was it, I was going home the next day.

I slept well that night and wake up around 11am the next day and go to grab some breakfast from the Diner across the road. I begin noticing all the sandbags lining footpaths and set outside doors ready for use. I notice plywood going over grates to the subway, plywood going up over windows. I notice people leaving wholefood grocers with bags packed full of canned goods and water.

I can’t help but feel so protected and free. Of all times to go to New York and have the experience of my dreams, a thing like this happens at the very end of my trip that shows me Gods faithfulness and favour. That of 8 million plus people, I run into a woman I’ve met… and she warns me of the coming storm. I learn that regardless of the scary things that happen in the world, if God gives you a dream, He will fulfill it…. if a hurricane is coming, it won’t stop Him. I can see that we need to stop putting Him in a box labelled “God” and expecting Him to only move within the confines of that box…that He doesn’t want to be in a box…He wants room in our lives to be Himself. When we allow Him that room, He blows our mindsets apart and blesses and guides our every step in ways that we would had never believed.

I can see so clearly that faith without deeds is dead. We need action to show our faith – when we actually do put action to it, things begin to happen and we inspire others to set off chain reactions in their own lives. You have one life to live, you might live it and do it in freedom.

“Step out of the boat”.


(When I finally got home, my story has made the front page of the paper!)


A New York Memoir – Part 1.

Did I ever tell you about the tale of the young married mother of one that defied all the rules and flew on three planes to New York city without her husband or child in tow… doing it only to holiday solo for 10 days?


This is that story.

And it’s about me.


May 1996.

My mum, my brother and I are walking to the park some 1/2 a kilometre from home. A rickety bach situated among flashy mansions littered along the waterfront in Point Wells, Matakana, New Zealand. I’m 10 years old with crooked teeth, my brother Lenny is 14 with a gross wispy moustache, my mum is stunning at 39 with 90’s permed hair, a perfect smile and an amazing hour glass figure.

The day was beautiful. We had fish and chips by the sea, I had raw hands from playing on the swings all afternoon, dirt on my knees from jumping off on to the bark and tomato sauce on my D&T shirt – the very one I’d worn twice already that week, because Ryan Armstrong spoke to me one day when I was wearing it, and even though he was a year younger than me, he was ‘cute’ and he had a nice house with a computer, so for goodness sake I was going to do everything I could to recreate the conditions so that he would talk to me again.

We watched the sun go down and heard the flickering of the lamp posts coming to power with the nightfall… Mum and Lenny have the swings while I stand facing them having some meaningless conversation, the details of that moment are funnily enough pretty blank in my mind, but the next conversation rocked me in my little world at that point. Five years earlier, our Dad died in a car accident. Here we were five years later still trying to do life without him as best we could, I have other brothers, but because of the age differences, Lenny and I grew up in what was like a household with only two children.

What came out of that conversation was the information that my Dad wasn’t Lennys biological Dad.

His biological Dad was an African-American man called Grady that Mum had met when she was only 24.

My little 10 year old heart was broken. I don’t know why, it just was. I didn’t have the understanding at that moment that he wasn’t any less my brother, or that years later I would find myself with an unrelenting urge to visit the country he has blood ties to.

Little did I know that from there on out, ‘America’ would be my number one destination.


September 2001.

I’m 15 years old living in Sydney Australia. I’d just woken up on a muggy morning trying to mentally prepare myself for a double period of  yawn worthy ‘Computer Studies’ with Mr Silver (who totally had it out for me), when I hear Mum yelling “O my gosh!!” from the lounge room. I walk in to see her and my Dad (step) watching the repeated footage of two planes hitting two towers I’d never heard of.

Within those first few weeks of September, I’d learned what a Terrorist was,  I had learned that there was a man called Osama Bin Laden and I had become a veteran of bomb threat drills at School. If there was an exam, one of the naughty boys from the naughty group would ring and say there was a bomb planted somewhere on School grounds, thus putting the exam off for the next day. I actually can’t count how many times this happened.

With the weeks to follow, I had collected every clipping in the papers of the people that had lost their lives and put it in to a scrapbook. I couldn’t believe that there were people in the world willing to sacrifice their own lives in order to kill so many others. It didn’t make sense to my 15 year old mind.

My eyes were being opened to the World I was living in, that there was much more to life than living on the central coast of NSW. When Dad died – because of certain circumstances, we practically lost everything, including our house. We’d become a family needing food grants, Mum and I shared a bunk bed with my cousin at one point, we went from borrowing rooms in the houses of friends and family, to almost living in luxury in Australia… I thought it was the ultimate end. Not having a need or a care in the world, my Parents had awesome jobs, we had a huge house, a brand new car, a pool, I was doing great in School, I had heaps of friends. And then September 11… something shifted in me.

My scrapbook was something I’d look at almost everyday… I was drawn to the faces that stared back at me. My heart was broken for humanity, it was broken for the American people and even more so because I had a blood tie that had a blood tie to the land.

This was the beginning of my desire to oneday see where the towers stood.


June 2012.

It’s the start of a new farming season and I’m looking back on the previous year, all the hard work, all the stress and tears that followed our very first year  of running our own business Sharemilking 270 odd Cows in Northland, New Zealand. I have a daughter who is 2 and a half, I’m the ripe old age of 26, Dan (Husband) is 28, we’ve finally got all the creases ironed out in our job.

Regardless of all the successes in our business, I feel undone.

There is something within me that just wont shut up. There is a part that is telling me I need to defy all the rules laid out for women of young children, for wives of hard workers, for people with important responsibilities and to actually stop and listen to my heart.

I want to go to New York City.

I’m a person that believes in the ultimate Creator, I cried out to Him. I know because He created me, He knows me better than I know myself, He knit me in my mothers womb after all… He knows my biggest frustration is that articulation isn’t my strong point. I feel half alive and half dead. I feel like travel is essential to my soul – but I’m remembering those rules, how mothers of young children and wives of husbands don’t pack suitcases and go to places like New York City. I’m remembering the money, I’m remembering how this is just CRAZY.

By this time I’ve been married for 6 and 1/2 years. One day I just say to my husband, “I really really want to go to New York, I can’t stop thinking about it”.

Dan has heard me go on and on about my desire to breathe in New York. To eat that giant slice of pizza, to share a kiss on top of the Empire State building, to eat off a sidewalk vendor, to walk down Fifth Avenue like Sting, to journal in Central Park, to wolf down a genuine red velvet cupcake and to visit the World Trade Centre site for years and years at this point.

He’s making a ham sandwich for his lunch when he says without even looking up, “Okay, we’ll go together in January.”

I hardly slept that night.


October 2012.

This is happening. I’ve only got three months to mark off on my calendar.

To cut a long story short, Dan pulls out of the trip, and he books MY tickets for two weeks time. HE is making me go because he knows it is my dream. HE is the one telling me its essential to my soul. HE is the one telling me I’m going to be fine. HE is the one telling me I need to defy the rules. HE is the one telling me life is short.

New York. Me. Alone. In two weeks.

This was my dream and the reality was kicking in fast.

I was going to New York City alone for 10 days.

I didn’t know a soul.

I started Googling how not to get mugged and murdered, the crime rates, how safe it was to go solo as a woman… yknow, just the usual. I started freaking out because it was then apparent that even though it was only for 10 days, it was 10 days with a massive half world between me and my little girl. It wasn’t like I could get into the car and see her in a few hours, it was getting on a plane and flying 5.5 hours to L.A then 13 hours to Sydney, then 3.5 hours to New Zealand, then driving 2 hours to see her… oh and the stop over times in between.

I’d read about a kid almost dying because he swallowed one of those really small circular batteries and the acid began eating away at his stomach. Nevermind we don’t actually have any in the house but what if she swallowed one and it started eating away at her insides when I was in New York?

I was letting fear get the better of me. My husband told me I needed to see that I was letting the enemy rob kill and destroy. “Don’t let him rob your joy”, was something I’ll always remember him telling me. This was my dream and again, my husband was needing to encourage it. My dream man.

The Sunday before I left, a travelling ministry was coming through town (Benny Tan), and without knowing my circumstances or any details, he tells me “God is telling you to step out of the boat – He has given you big dreams and desires, and He doesn’t give them to not deliver them”.

I was stunned. I then remembered when I was 19 I had two other seperate travelling ministries come through town and say the same thing to me! Why did I forget!?

Israel K from Africa: “God has given you big dreams and He will birth them”

Norm McLeod: “God has given you huge dreams and He will bring them in to being”

All this was about New York? Was this whole thing so much bigger than I initially thought? I knew I wouldn’t realise the enormity of it all for a while. Maybe I never will realise just how big this whole thing was.

I knew I had to suck it up and do this thing. I had to do it for me. I had to “step out of the boat” in obedience. I had to do it for the little girl that copies everything I do, the little one who wears all Mummies jewellery and trinkets and things. I had to do it for my hard working husband. I had to do it for all who couldn’t do it. For all those who were bound by the rules. For all those who were bitter toward me (I had some true opposition). For all those who thought I was having a crisis. For those who actually thought I must’ve met a man online (yep someone ACTUALLY thought this). For those that didn’t get it. Life has to be lived. I had to live this moment.

So I did.

and the galavanting is over….


First blog entry in six months.

Where have I been?

October 2nd, 2010, my body shut down in many different ways.

I haven’t been able to commit myself to anything or turn up to much that requires me to exert myself.

I’m on medication and will need to be for the next year.

That’s it.

That’s where I’ve been.

I keep my cards and secrets pretty close to my chest, so of course only my immediate have been aware of my situation.

One day I’ll tell you about it.

But for now, the important thing is… I’m Baaaack!!!

♦ cause things are still beautiful 2nd time around ♦

Media Machine

Recently I had someone tell me I looked good which was then closely followed by “you almost look anorexic”. The gesture wasn’t to offend me and was purely made to be taken as a compliment, but it was four weeks ago now, I obviously still haven’t forgotten about it.

Since having Miss Laurie, I’ve become more aware of the shallow things that distract this place. The surface things that dont at all help with depositing your treasures in the bank of heaven.

The things that have loose foundations which in turn rob, kill and destroy us of true potential and amazing opportunities…. if only we could get beyond our insecurities.

I was at church on Sunday, during the worship time, I could have danced.

Key word: “could”.

I was held back by my perception of what others might have thought of me and maybe looking like an over-spiritual holy roly.

In the end I realised, why does it matter what they think of me?

It actually doesnt.

I now realise I lost an opportunity.

How big of a role do your insecurities hold in your life? do they affect your faith?

Think of all the things you could have done if only you werent held back by what others views or opinions may be of you.

Someone decided skin and bones is attractive. Someone with status then got behind it, and along followed all the sheep – next thing you know.. BOOM! a mainstream explosion. Looking borderline ano is now totally hot. Travelling the world in an envelope is all of a sudden something to attain to.

We are told through the media machine what is beautiful.
We then believe and eat up every honey dripping word.

Why dont we believe every word of the Bible?

Isn’t that what were saying?…
We’re letting our insecurities get ahead of what is written about us?

Are we telling God that we believe more in what others say, than what He says? Are we telling the Creator that we believe more in the created? Nevermind He made us.

Botox is intended to help slow the aging process, to fill the wrinkles.
Personally, I love weathered hands.

I love old womens hands, thinking of all the meals they prepared for their families on a wintry evening, all the tears they have wiped back, all the stories that are written on them.

I love old mens hands, the cracks and lines that tell of working the land for provision, the kind acts of service they speak of, the assemblies of ache and the romantic secrets they keep with their significant others in an earlier and more innocent time….

I think the same about a face….

I think its sad we feel we have to hide the stories and the lessons learned.

All in all – I am not aiming to speak against anything here or make anyone think I am targeting a specific audience, cause it really isnt my intention … I just wish we wouldnt judge ourselves so much and in turn become judges of the world. It wastes our time. It hurts other peoples feelings. It gives the less important stuff more status than it deserves.

At times we think if ONLY God made me *insert applicable word or words here*, things would be so much better. Life would be so much better.

You know better than that, so because you know better, do better.

You are given one body. You are given one life.

Treat them well.

Don’t stuff up what God gave you.


Live a clean life.

Laugh and have fun.

Dont associate with toxic people.

Give to others.

Dont be afraid to love something incase it is taken from you.

Seek the truth.

Dont let the media machine decide on your beliefs. Make them yourself.

*You are the only *you in this world. Make sure *you isnt determined by the **me’s of this world.

*You are an enchanting, captivating, mesmeric and alluring *you.

Dont become a second grade version of **me.

Oh and next time, dance during worship.

*You – you

**Me – me and anyone other than you

♦ cause things are still beautiful 2nd time around ♦