I like to cycle up the bush tracks & fire breaks between Yanchep and Two Rocks. It’s pretty hard going in places with some steep soft hills, but its also a really good cardio workout. Eventually you arrive at the Breakwater Estate and if you follow the fence-line for long enough you find a gap that lets you out onto Breakwater Drive.

This morning I was cycling parallel with Breakwater Dr and along the fenceline when two roos came busting thru the bush on the road side of the fence. It all happened very quickly, but i saw one bound off, while the other lay still on the ground, her tail and leg twitching. Extending from her pouch were the paws of a decent sized joey.

I felt like for better or worse I had stumbled in on the scene of an accident and I was the ‘first responder’. As best I could make out ‘mum’ had been hurt so bad she couldn’t move, the other roo had left the scene and the baby was there on it’s own. It seemed heartless to simply hop back on the bike and let nature take it’s course.

I stayed on my side of the fence for around 10 minutes – remembering that it’s not the first roo you should worry about. If her mate was in range I could be in trouble. With no sign of the other I jumped the fence and drew a little closer.

She was twitching a little – but it was also clear that whatever had happened (probably clipped by a car) she was in her final moments of life. She was immobile and just waiting for her time to come. There was something poignant about this roo just crashing into my life in the final moments of hers. I would go so far as to say i actually felt a sense of responsibility to sit with her and stroke her neck until she died. I’m not sure what level of sentience kangaroos possess, but for a mum to be dying with her baby on-board must surely be traumatic no matter what species.

While sitting with her I rang Danelle who got in touch with Wildlife Services. They arranged for one of their staff to attend the situation. In the meantime, I was sitting on the side of a firebreak with a mum who was dying and a baby about to be on her own. Given death has visited our lives significantly over the last year I was probably a lot more patient and attentive than would normally be my form. The joey stuck his head out and I stroked his ear for a bit. I popped him out to see if he had been injured but he seemed ok – just scared – and eager to find his way back into the safety of mum – even if mum could offer no solace other than her last residue of warmth.

With the wildlife guy 3 hours away I decided to get back on the trail and trust that joey would stay safe inside mum for the next little while. As I rode home listening to David Kessler narrate his own book – Finding Meaning – The Sixth Stage of Grief, I wondered again about how the experience of death has shaped and formed me. His thesis is that after (or while) all the ‘grieving’ is done we can move forward more effectively if we can find ‘meaning’ in the madness.

One thing I know death has changed for me is my empathy and willingness to engage with another person’s tragedy. It’s still not my sweet spot – but having ‘been there done that’, I get it. And I don’t know many people who really do. So this morning as this roo landed in front of me, a different series of connections were triggered in my heart and mind. Previously I know I could have quietly chosen not to get involved – none of my business – and this is how things work in the wild. I also wouldn’t want to cool down and risk pulling a muscle when I start back in. It’s no big deal really – to sit with a dying roo and her child, but it was something I probably wouldn’t have done this time last year. It’s no big deal really – but I just wanted to recognise and acknowledge one way grief and death has impacted my life

There are other ways grief has formed me and where I have found ‘meaning’, but they can be for another post. For now it’s enough to know that the wildlife guy called 5 minutes ago to say he had found joey safe and well and she was now with the carer.

And life goes on.

I’ve been trying to describe what it’s like every time I have to look back at the day Sam died. It’ a searing, burning pain that I don’t feel from any other source. Like accidentally running your hand over the gas flame on the stove – ‘OUCH!’

There are times when we simply have to talk about the whole experience and I deliberately try not to avoid it. While I was walking the dog at the park last week I bumped into one of my retic clients from a few years back – a job Sam and I worked on together. ‘And how’s your son?’ she asked ‘He is a great lad!’ I could only give one answer, ‘Gail he died earlier this year in a free-diving mishap.’ Now no one’s having fun in this conversation – but it’s the day to day reality we just have to manage. This lady was amazing – spoke with me about him for several minutes with a lot of compassion and then told me she felt she needed to hug me – was that ok?

When I cast my mind back to that day it always begins with the initial voicemail that all was not well – I remember my calm, measured walk back from the camp toilets because I don’t panic as a rule and I try to always assume the best.

I then remember the utter panic on Danelle’s face as she heard the voicemail – I still wanted to believe he had passed out and would be revived, but her anxiety gave me cause to wonder if it might be more significant.

There was the raw fear that smacked us in the face as we stopped everything and drove out of Busselton towards Mandurah to meet him – the quiet praying – hoping – surely not us?… Then the news somewhere on the road a few minutes out of Busso that he didn’t make it – the bizarre surrealness of thinking is this really happening to us?.. Followed by the initial grappling with the news as we drove back to Busselton – somehow trying to accept the reality – knowing that somehow we needed to call Ellie who was in Noosa on day 1 of a surfing holiday…

Just recalling those moments right now feels like looking at the sun. You can only do it for so long before you need to look away again. It burns. It sears. What is to be served by looking back other than to keep being reminded of reality. But some days you have to look. You have to relive the story.

That day went on – packing up the caravan while in shock and grief – leaving the campground and driving to the marina all the while ringing family and friends to let them know… Answering Ellie’s call to tell us how well her first day of travel had gone and then giving her the news – it was like a bomb had gone off on the other side of the country… Meeting friends at the Marina and seeing his body… having the shortest time to ‘view him’, not allowed to touch because it might contaminate the body…

Driving home – somehow letting the reality sink in. Feeling desperately sad and utterly bewildered while also knowing that we had so many people around us who would care, step up and be there… Going to bed that night and then waking up to the immediate reality of Sam’s death hitting you like a sledgehammer in the face.

Recalling that day is also like walking from your car to the beach on a very hot day when you think you can do it barefoot and halfway there realise you are burning up but you have to keep going. There is no way out and no turning back – you just have to push on and make it. We can’t avoid these conversations – nor do we want to.

Now 9 months later there is the first Christmas with him not around, Danelle’s birthday with his absence so very notable. These realities keep crashing into us at different moments and I sometimes wonder if I am ok or if I need to go see a counsellor. I don’t have an answer for that. I just don’t know.

Most days I can get on and do whatever needs doing. I haven’t been crippled by the grief, and then some days I wonder if I’m dodging it. How would you know?

And who wants to stare into the sun anyway – or walk barefoot on scorching hot ground?

I can relive the day, tell the story to people who ask and I don’t shy away from speaking of his death, yet it’s hard to do any of that without an inner wrenching that you know can never be eased.

And along the way there have been people I have met who have had similar pain – they too have lost a son. I look at them in a different way now. It feels like we have ‘been to war’ together and we ‘know’ what no one else can know until you have experienced it.

Some days I am glad I’m 60 years old and might only have another 20 to go… I miss this kid desperately and continually, daily, accepting that he is not gonna ever show up again is so difficult to comprehend.

And then the other (left) side of my brain kicks in and I give myself a loving boot up the bum and a few things to do. Paint the gate, walk the dog, wash the car… just keep going.

The image in this post is of a piece of art Danelle and Ellie gave me for Christmas. It depicts the 3 of us (Sam, Ellie and I) in the surf together. It’s a stunning piece of work and so nice to have, but it’s another thing I can only look at for so long before reality begins to erode the joy. We will never do that again.

Lately I’ve listened to a few podcasts that focus on the nature of God. One was with Tom Ord, who suggests God is all loving, but not all powerful. In his framing of love he argues that real love is completely un-controlling and does not coerce any action. And therefore God – if he is ‘love’ – is unable to control any of his creation. He didn’t have much in the way of biblical framing for his argument and I would immediately contest the idea that love is completely un-controlling. I have controlled my kids at times because it is in their best interests. There is also plenty of evidence of God exerting control in scripture so I can’t buy his thesis. And the worst part of it all is that there can be no future hope of a new creation – because his God does not hqve the power to bring this about. As I listened to the final comments from the podcast hosts it was clear they shared his perspective, but were suddenly feeling the loss of hope that goes with a completely un-controlling God. If there are no guarantees of how this world will end or whether God will be able to establish his new creation then moments of loss just get darker and darker.

That is the one thing I feel we do have – hope. And that hope is precious and sustaining. The more I have looked into the afterlife, heaven etc the more mysterious it all seems to be, but I am happy to believe that this 80 years (or 21 in Sam’s case) is not the sum total of our existence. Otherwise we simply are evolutionary accidents and I find that way harder to accept than a belief in God.

While the dust continues to settle in my mind and heart I hold onto a hope I believe has solid grounding and is to be trusted. One day we will see him again and while the details are certainly sketchy I envisage a family reunited – sharing the love and joy we once had.

For now our tiny family feels like a 3 legged dog – still alive and able to function – but having to learn how to function in the middle of a life we would never have chosen. We will get there eventually, but never without the limp that comes from losing as beautiful a presence as Sam was.

(And if you are an English teacher reading this – I know these are not technically metaphors – but the title rings better than mixing similies 🙂 )

While we’re in the Christmas season and focusing on the incarnation I have been wondering whether Jesus made mistakes.

It’s a question worth asking especially when you consider the story of the Canaanite woman in Matthew 15 or Marks’ version in Ch 7 of his gospel.

I’ve been chatting with ‘R’ who is new to faith and trying to make sense of it all. (We do take a lot of stuff for granted in churches). He asks the simple question, ‘why is Jesus rude to her?‘

It’s a good question. It’s a question someone new to faith would ask because we have been conditioned over the years to screen out those errant thoughts.

But Jesus sure does seem rude. He begins by ignoring her in v. 23, then when his disciples want to get rid of her they call him over and ask him to step up. ‘Shoo this woman away Jesus!’

Jesus responds that at this point his mission is to the ‘lost sheep of israel’. I can wear that response, as he is speaking of the focus of his mission at that point (although his time at the well in John 4 doesn’t sit so well with that thinking.)

The woman doesn’t allow him to fob her off. She comes back and asks very simply ‘Lord help me…’ Her daughter is demon possessed and she is desperate. She has already acknowledged him as the Messiah, when she said, ‘Lord, son of David have mercy on me.’ She knows who she is speaking to.

V. 26 just sounds like Jesus was tired and frustrated. ‘It is not right to take the children’s bread and toss it to the dogs.’

Was he just having a bad day? For a person known for compassion and kindness to outsiders, why is he giving this desperate woman a rough time?

Everything I have explored around this section of scripture refers to the woman’s persistent faith as the notable point. No one seems to engage with Jesus’ words here or if they do it is utterly unsatisfying. 

My friend, R, has concluded that Jesus got it wrong here. He was off script and missed the mark. It doesn’t seem like a social blunder (getting their pronouns wrong…). We don’t even need to translate the words into our vernacular to make sense of it, as a reference to a woman as a dog is always offensive. Yeah maybe he was referring to all Gentiles, but still not cool.

Which of course raises the question as to whether Jesus can get it wrong without sinning. We believe in a sinless Jesus – which I will admit is tricky when we consider him as a child/teen – but perhaps then the  question comes as to what we consider ‘sin’. If we start with the premise of Jesus as sinless then we have to find an explanation for his behaviour here. My friend didn’t know we hold that view so he is wondering how we reconcile it with the Jesus in this story.

In the end Jesus does accede to her request and heals her daughter but the path there feels a bit awkward at best.

So there is a genuine question – love to hear your reflections.

This week I attended a ‘Solace’ service at Riverview church, where Ellie attends, a reflective space to acknowledge that for some of us Christmas will be a difficult time and the celebrations will be somewhat dimmed because of the pain we are carrying.

It was a valuable hour of sitting quietly and tuning in to the reality of where we are at – and acknowledging that it is hard. Sam’s death has smashed our lives in so many ways and even now 9 months on we are still regularly blind-sided by emotion and devastation.

One of the questions we were invited to reflect on during the evening was ‘where was Jesus in the pain?‘

My first thought was that my sense of connection with Jesus didn’t change during the week immediately after Sam died. When we got the news we had just finished speaking at a church camp. The day after we were home in Yanchep. I didn’t instantly feel surrounded by angels and overwhelmed with divine connection. I sensed Jesus pretty much the same the day after as the day before.

So Jesus didn’t ‘show up’ more significantly in my own time alone with him. Initially I felt a bit disappointed with that. And then I began to ponder where he did show up;

• In the first responders both onsite with Sam and Cosi and over east where Ellie had literally just set up camp at Noosa at the start of a 3 week holiday.Within minutes Danelle’s sister Janene, had booked plane tickets to the Gold Coast and was gonna bring Ellie home. Friends who lived in Murwhillumbah in northern NSW hopped in their car and drove to Ellie to be with her – a 3-4 hr drive?… Jesus was there in those people who jumped right in without thinking – who loved us enough to drop their plans and run.
• In the people who flooded us with love and support and comfort. Nothing could fix where we found ourselves, but the family, close friends, the church and the community were overwhelming in their care. Had you told me that this would be the case I would have told you to tone it down a bit. I know we are loved by plenty of people – but I had no idea just how many… We felt loved beyond what you could ever imagine. Jesus showed up in people who simply loved us
• In the meals people either brought to us, or in the uber eats vouchers we were sent. I have never been in a situation like this before so I hadn’t realised just how valuable the logistical help was. We were cared for practically and it eased the load we carried each day. Jesus showed up every day with food for over a month!
• In the Sunday gathering of our church in Quinns. Sam died the week before Easter Sunday, so the very first time we gathered was on resurrection Sunday. It was the saddest Easter Sunday I have ever been part of – because what I sensed was people ‘mourning with those who mourn.’ We acknowledged the hope of the resurrection, but in that moment the immediate reality was the loss of someone we all loved and who had been so much a part of the community. When people genuinely grieve with you Jesus is present.
• In my close bloke friends who have been able to navigate the line between genuine care and intrusion into my world. I have appreciated both the conversations over coffee and the briefest text messages – both mediums say ‘we see you and we are here.’ I have never felt like I have had no one I could speak to – in fact if anything I have been blessed with a crew of men in my life who I have been able to speak very honestly with at different times. Jesus showed up in the men who got around me and in whom I knew I could trust.
• In the people who still check in – who are happy to walk with a family thru one of the worst times of their lives. Jesus keeps popping his head up and we never feel alone.

I’ve been pondering a lot lately, but struggling to put any of it into words. Sometimes even the best words still don’t communicate the heart break and wrenching that goes on day to day. But this was something that hit me on that evening and I felt was worth sharing – as much to say thank you to those who have shared the road with us, but also to acknowledge the very tangible presence of Jesus in the community.

I dunno about you, but I have used that throw away line all too often – ‘it’s ok because God is in control.‘

When you fail an exam you needed to pass – ‘it’s ok God is in control.’

When half your church leaves because they feel like your preaching is dodgy – ‘its ok because God is in control. He is working out his plans.’

When you miss out on a job you applied for and thought you were sure to get – ‘its ok God is in control. We just haven’t found God’s best for us…’

When you have just bought a house and interest rates suddenly rise – ‘it’s ok God is in control (at least I hope he is…)’

Add your own scenario, but I’m sure if you have grown up in evangelicalism you have probably heard this and maybe said this. It seems to suggest that when things go wrong, it’s ok because God has a bigger plan that we just can’t see as yet. So if all is not going your way, don’t stress because ‘God’s got this!’

The ‘don’t worry God’s got this’ line seems best applied to first world problems and minor life disruptions. It doesn’t work so well for world poverty, devastating wars or other kinds of systemic injustice – which me wonder if it actually holds true whatsoever.

I can see that God has a trajectory on which he has set creation and that we anticipate the second coming of Jesus and the new creation as the end game – but in between I’m not sure God’s ‘got’ much at all.

It’s not to say God doesn’t interact in the world and he doesn’t influence and speak to us. I believe he does and my own experience would speak to that. It’s more to say that when it all comes down to it, he has created a natural world with laws and systems and he has either given us a free will or he hasn’t. If we aren’t completely free then it isn’t really a free will…

It’s not a deist view – more a perspective that tries to grapple with the reality of our experience in this world, while acknowledging the presence and reality of God within it.

I grew up in the era that preached ‘God loves you and has a wonderful plan for your life.’ I’m not sure if that plan was ever as simple as relationship with him. It often felt like we were being encouraged to find God’s (very specific) plan for our lives – God’s ‘perfect will’ – ever heard that phrase? Again, that framing works much better in an affluent western context. I wonder how a child in Gaza would feel hearing that today? ‘God loves you and has a wonderful plan for your life.’ It might sound a bit rich.

So perhaps before you toss that phrase around consider what you are saying by it, what it says about God and what it may therefore imply about you…