“May today there be peace within. May you trust God that you are exactly where you are meant to be. May you not forget the infinite possibilities that are born of faith. May you use those gifts that you have received, and pass on the love that has been given to you. May you be content knowing you are a child of God. Let this presence settle into your bones, and allow your soul the freedom to sing, dance, praise and love. It is there for each and every one of us.”
"... follow your heart. I know it sounds trite, but it's the only thing to do. Because at the end of the day your heart will stop beating, and it will be too late to regret that you didn't go where it prompted you to go." (Berthea Snark, "A Conspiracy of Friends", Alexander McCall Smith)
God knows what He's doing. It's a truth I find it hard to hold on to sometimes, especially when nothing seems to be going the way I'd like it to, but it's an unshakeable part of what I believe and therefore of who I am. It doesn't mean that bad things don't happen, or that life isn't full of disappointments and unfairness. But it does mean that when I remember to stop being such a type-A control freak, I have the exquisite luxury of knowing that the guy in the driver's seat knows where we're going and how we're going to get there. All I have to do is go on the journey - and try to remember to enjoy the ride.
I have spent most of my life fighting my own heart. I am used to putting everyone else's expectations before my own desires, everyone's wants before my own needs, other people before my self. Not because I'm particularly good or kind, but often because I have felt that is precisely what I am not. I have a terror of being selfish, and so I find it very hard to say "no". I have been conditioned to put duty and responsibility above all else, and certainly above that pesky little ego and id - my super-ego reigns supreme.
Don't get me wrong, duty, responsibility and moral obligation are important. There are far too many people with no sense of how what they do affects the people in their lives - or who just don't care. But how do you take care of the people you love if you won't even give yourself permission to breathe?
Rob Bell, writing in Velvet Elvis, puts it better than I can ever hope to:
"I started identifying how much of my life was about making sure the right people were pleased with me. And as this became more and more clear, I realised how less and less pleased I was with myself. What happens is our lives become so heavily oriented around the expectations of others that we become more and more like them and less and less like ourselves. We become split.
...I had all this guilt and shame because I wasn't measuring up to the image of the perfect person I had in my head.
...I meet so many people who have superwhatever rattling around in their head. They have this person they are convinced they are supposed to be, and their superwhatever is killing them. They have this image they picked up over the years of how they are supposed to look and act and work and play and talk, and it's like a voice that never stops shouting in their ear.
And the only way not to be killed by it is to shoot first."
The very first time I read this passage, a few years ago now, I felt the power of what Rob Bell was saying. It scared me how close to the bone this man, who had never met me and didn't know me from Eve, had come. I read this, and I saw myself, and I knew that he was right. If I didn't stop living this way, I was going to end up dead.
I knew this, and still I could not, or did not, or was not quite able, to stop myself. And so I kept going. I fought it, and I tried, but I kept going. I didn't want to, but I kept going, because that is how I am. I am a perfectionist, and I try hard, and nothing is ever good enough. I am never good enough. Way to miss the point, huh?
And finally, finally, it has almost killed me. It has almost, quite literally, ended my life.
There is a story that's been doing the rounds for years, told as a joke but with a serious point to make:
A religious man is on top of a roof during a great flood. A man comes by in a boat and says, "Get in, get in!" The religous man replies, "No I have faith in God, he will grant me a miracle."
When the water is up to his waist, another boat and rescuer come by but once again the man responds that he has faith in God and God will provide a miracle. With the water at chest height, another boat comes to rescue him, but he turns down the offer again because "God will grant me a miracle." Finally, as the man is almost completely submerged, a helicopter throws down a ladder and they tell him to get in. Mumbling through the water in his mouth, he says - you guessed it - he believes God will come to his rescue. Of course, he drowns. He arrives at the gates of heaven with broken faith and says to Saint Peter, I thought God would grant me a miracle and I have been let down." St. Peter chuckles and responds, "I don't know what you're complaining about, we sent you three boats and a helicopter."
I have turned down several boats, but there is no way I am not getting on that helicopter. It means letting go of a lot, and leaving people behind. It means having to fight a lot of learned behaviour. It means giving myself permission to be the person I really am, instead of struggling to be the person I am expected to be - which, horror of horrors, means accepting that maybe, just maybe, who I am is enough. No, not good enough, which has nothing to do with anything; just enough. It is the hardest, most terrifying thing I have ever done (and this is a lawyer speaking). But it is better by far than the alternative.
It is going to be a struggle, and I am going to need help - most of you will have no idea what it took for me to recognise and admit that, to myself much less to anyone else. But at this point I have nothing to lose. So I choose not to let the floodwaters close over my head. I choose to be free. I choose life. And it doesn't really matter that I don't know what I'm doing, where I'm going or how I'm going to get there, because God does, and I have found, in some of my darkest hours, that I really do trust Him. So, don't worry about a thing, 'cause every little thing's gonna be all right.
For a wonderful start to your week, play this video! These amazing people are the Soweto Gospel Choir, and in this particular clip, they are singing Oh Happy Day, a song I have always loved. The SGC are a 52-strong choir that was formed purely to celebrate the power of gospel music, particularly African gospel. They are dedicated to sharing the joy of faith through music, and that is exactly what they do. It is impossible not to feel God, and therefore joy, in the room when they perform. They are uplifting, not just because of the beauty and exhilaration of their music, but because of what they stand for. Their repertoire is sung in English, but also in six of South Africa's eleven official languages - a labour of love, faith and unity. I've been listening to them pretty much since they first performed at a 46664 concert for Nelson Mandela in 2003, and I was lucky enough to see them live in Singapore a couple of Christmases ago.
I've been living in London for the last 10 years, but I spend every Christmas in Singapore with my grandmother. I have never missed one, and as she gets older, each Christmas is that much more precious. On the 21st of December 2009, I arrived at Changi Airport and phoned her as usual to let her know I'd landed. She has always been waiting by the phone, anxious for that call, so when she didn't answer, I knew something was wrong. And I was right. My mum turned up to collect me an hour late, bringing the news that Mama had had a heart attack and was in the hospital. She had been in intensive care for 24 hours, but hadn't wanted me to be told because she didn't want me to spend the flight worrying about her. She was waiting to see me before she would agree to have surgery. I went straight to the hospital, and a few hours later, Mama was having a stent put into one of her arteries. My Mama raised me; we are very close and I love her more than anyone or anything, so of course I spent the entire time in floods of tears and on my knees in prayer.
A couple of months before, we'd made plans to see the Soweto Gospel Choir on the 23rd - which now turned out to be just about 48 hours after her procedure. When Mama came out of the sedation, the first thing she said was, "We're still going to that concert." Those of you who've met my granny will know that while she seems like (and indeed is) a nice old lady, you really don't want to cross her. She's very much a fist of steel in a velvet glove. Characteristically, she would not budge. The doctor was forced to give her permission to leave the hospital for a few hours so she could go to this concert. She wasn't too pleased that he insisted we take along an oxygen tank and a portable defibrillator, but she accepted that was the only way she was getting her way.
So we went, and the joy she got out of that evening was worth it all. She clapped, she sang along, she gave thanks to the Lord, and somehow, the spark within her grew brighter. I'm sure the Spirit filled her. She was uplifted, and she made a quicker recovery than anyone expected - in fact, she was home for Christmas.
The SGC is special to me because their music speaks to my soul, and because of that night two Christmases ago.
They make my heart sing, and I hope yours will too.
