I like my job

I like my job. I really do.

Day 1:
I arrive half an hour late. Hey, it wasn’t my fault. John(1) and I were watching the soccer. We left the house when the extra time began. I couldn’t leave before my boss could I?
Also, I’d parked my car under some trees overnight and was quite pleased to find it hadn’t frosted over. It was -5degC in the morning when I set off at 8.30am, but a clear, crisp day. Driving at 100km down the gravel road, somebody smart decided to clean their windscreen with the squirty water and wiper function. That somebody suddenly found that whilst she could still see past the dirt on the glass before, she now could not see through the thin layer of ice that immediately formed. Pulling over, she smartly tried to pour over more water from her drink bottle to get it off (may I point out that this smart somebody managed to pass vet school)…and ended up scraping it off with a bit of tissue.
That’s also partly why I ended up late. No one cared though; I was welcomed with open arms.

Day 2:
I was late again, but that wasn’t my fault either – blame my chauffer. I noticed the linemen working outside out clinic.
Natasha(2) burst into the treatment room. ‘Guys, the power’s going to be turned off today at 9!’
We looked at the clock; it was 9.10am.
Oh no, what are we going to do? Can we do a bitch spay with no power? The dog will freeze! What about the patients already here for treatment? How will I toast my bagel for lunch? (that was the somebody smart)
Before we could do anything, there was a click. And the lights, computers, heaters – not the heaters!! – were all gone. We’re going to freeze, we’re going to freeze, we all cried, donning beanies, gloves, scarves and hoods. Like a bunch of eskimoes, Craig(3) commented. Excuse me? We are vets thankyou very much.
Lets do zuumba to keep warm, Ive got the DVD at home. How will we watch it? I’ll bring my lap top. We could move the clinic to your house for the day.
Hayley(4) ran to fill hot water bottles for the dogs. Natasha returned dancing round with a headtorch. This is for using when in the toilet.
I spent most of the day out on farms. Wasn’t exactly much warmer, but at least we were outside in the freezing sunshine. And got sweaty searching for a cow that was apparently ‘sitting down by the gate’ of a big (I mean big) paddock. The farmer wasn’t around, and neither, to our knowledge, was the cow. But there were trees, dead logs, an old car, a stream, lots of mud and many overgrown blackberry bushes. Ouch.
Do you charge a visit fee for something like that?

Day 3: I would’ve been on time, had I factored in the 10 minutes needed to back my new work vehicle down the driveway and out the gate. It’s slightly bigger than my baby corolla (and doesn’t have a tennis ball on the towbar).
Today I actually felt useful. There was power, and there were animals to attend to. At 2pm I took over a dental from poor Sarah(5) who had not had lunch and was already late to see an injured horse. I extracted no less than 6 teeth from this dog’s mouth, brushed the remaining ones, then stitched up a wound on the leg of a greyhound (who showed no intentions of waking up from his anaesthetic even at 5.30pm - thus I was not only late to work but late leaving too).

Day 4: My first day punctual. So early, in fact, that no other vets had arrived yet. It was a beautiful iceblock of a day again, and I walked across the crunchy grass to take photos of the newborn lambs in the adjacent paddock. Hayley, suspicious of this hooded figure sneaking round the building, stuck her head out the smoko room. ‘Good morning!’ I greeted. ‘I am your resident Asian tourist’.
Hayley had half the day off, and bid us goodbye at 12pm. There are some people you miss, and there are some you really miss. Picture four of us standing around the anaesthetic machine trying to work out which bits go where. And manually polishing a dog’s teeth because we couldn’t get the electric equipment going.
That night I was already in my PJs when the phone rang. It was John, enquiring about Fido (not his real name), a dog who had had surgery that morning. His owner had called, saying he was agitated and not happy. Since they lived less than 2 mins around the corner from me, I said I could go and attend to him. Thus I did my 1st after hours call, without actually being on call. Somewhat exciting, I thought, as I got back into my PJs.

Day 5: Had my 1st patient die. Well, technically Fido wasn’t my patient as I hadn’t been the one to operate on him; nevertheless I had been the last vet to see him before he passed on in the night. Though we now know it was the fault of the tumour he'd had, its not a good look for a new (or any) vet.
Sarah got called to see another horse, and was out of a drug that I knew I had in the back of my truck. The problem was I couldn’t get into the back of my truck. The frozen locks gave the keys grief. Once unlocked I find the whole window – hinges and all – frozen solid, even with water poured over. Yes, I can assure you that work vehicles are very safe places to keep drugs. Sarah managed without.
‘Just to let you know’, said Annabel(6) (who I’d inherited this beast off) later that day, 'your euthanasia equipment is in the glove box’. Cheers, I said. It wasn’t until driving home that night that I realised the glove box was where I’d stored all my muesli bars and other emergency food…

So, even without consuming her drug-contaminated emergency food, it was a very sleepy somebody that climbed into bed that night. A very sleepy somebody who fell asleep thinking
I like my job. I really do.

References:
1. Boss, whose family I stayed the 1st night with.
2. Receptionist
3. Practice manager
4. Vet nurse
5. Fellow vet
6. Fellow vet

Sachsenhausen part 2: Faith on trial

It changes things a bit, you know, having been to places like this.
Such atrocities contrived, carried out, gotten away with. I have to admit, it does challenge my faith.

Somehow, the emotive worship songs and psalms of praise seem a bit superficial; a bit detatched from this reality. I mean, its not like you’d go up to a prisoner on the way to the gas chamber and say ‘sing to the Lord a new song…His love endures forever..’ and then run off back to church. Its not that I don’t believe its true. I think it just takes a bit of thought to form convictions as to why its still true, in the face of suffering. And for that, we must get back to basics:

The existence of suffering and God are not mutually exclusive. The reason for human suffering can be traced back to the fall; a consequence of sin that is in all of us. What I can’t tell you is why God allows suffering such as Sachsenhausen. But I know I don’t know everything, so trust He has His reasons.

And its not like He doesn’t do anything about suffering. On the contrary, He gave everything to solve the problem. For God see’s things a bit differently to us – which is no surprise since, after all, He is God and we are not. Its not that He is blind to human anguish – on the contrary He is most fully aware. Its just that He knows that the worst anguish is found not in concentration camps but in Hell, separated from His goodness, under His holy wrath. But what if I don’t believe in Hell? You ask. There are those that deny the Holocaust too.

Ok,to be fair, we know the suffering of war. And sure we wont find history books or survivor stories from Hell. But the result is that we ask why God doesn’t do something about suffering on earth rather than why doesn’t He do something about the eternal suffering to come. And if we did ask the latter, we’d realise that he already has. Thus giving at least hope (if not an explanation) for the suffering on earth now.

And that changes things.

Sachsenhausen

19 April 2010, Germany.

I went to a former WWII concentration camp yesterday. ‘How was it?’ you ask. Im not sure what to answer.
Sobering. Sickening. Anger-inciting.Unbelievable.
It was a labour camp, as opposed to a death camp, so never designed for mass murder. Still, tens of thousands lost their lives there;its still mass murder to me.

We walked through the main gates: ‘Work makes you free’, it said.
We saw the barracks that housed up to 400 people at a time. People would just die on the toilet floors covered in excretement.
We saw the electric barbed wire fence, which many a prisoner, losing all hope and courage, ran into: suicide.
We saw the running track, where prisoners would run around and around, to test out army boots made by fellow prisoners at the factories. Sometimes they carried sacks of sand and ran, up to 70km a day, day after day.
We saw the prison (even though the whole camp was a prison) where inmates were subject to years of solitary confinement , torture and interrogation. Two British officers were chained to the centre of a concrete cell in darkness for 5 years. At the end they were transferred to another camp and then shot.
We saw the pathology building where prisoners with medical training would carry out autopsies. Often they would contract fatal Typhus or other infectious diseases from the corpses in the process. We didn’t have time (nor the guts) to see the infirmary where medical experiments, forced castration and racial research was carried out.

Even more disturbing to hear about was the relationship of the surrounding community to the camp. We read about the SS guards attending dances and social events, acting like ordinary family men. The townspeople would see the emaciated prisoners marching to and from work each day – was just a normal sight. A fine layer of ash would settle over the town when the corpse burning began to increase - did they not stop to wonder? One commander of the camp had been a church elder. Imagine! He let a pastor from town minister to a Bishop who was an inmate. And what did that Pastor think about it all?

I walked through that place thinking ‘God, where are you in all of this?’ I'll bet im not the only one to have wondered. ‘Seeing this is one of the reasons I cannot believe in God’, Michael told me as we walked back to the car. I understand what he means.
This camp by no means proves God - But I still believe in one. Many look at think 'There must be no god'. I look at it and think ‘There must be a God’, because if there’s not, and this is the state of human beings, then we are all doomed.

What God did and didnt say

I attended the Lutheran service at the Berliner Dome last Sunday. It was rather elaborate and traditional. What does God think of all this, I wondered...

Well, God never told us to build big churches with tall steeples. He never said to hang up paintings of Jesus or install stained glass windows. He never suggested we light candles, have wooden pews or a crucifix on the front wall. He didnt require and organ to accompany hymns (or a worship band either, for that matter).

But He did command us to love Him first and foremost. Then to love each other deeply, serve our neighbours and our enemies. To be patient and humble. To uphold justice and defend the cause of the fatherless. To be joyful always, to devote ourselves to prayer, to be filled with thanksgiving.To train up our children in His ways, to preach the word, to take the bread and wine in remembrance of Him. To be still and konw that He is God.

And so, I guess, whatever helps with (and doesnt distract from) any of the above, I'm OK with (and think He is too)

Good to be back

I'm back in the West - The wild wild West.

Where traffic is civilised and crossing the road isn't short of suicide
Where rubbish is found in rubbish bins and houses aren't grilled up
Where dogs are on leashes and cats, too, have owners
Where the price printed is the price paid
Where busses run on schedules (or heck, there exists a schedule),
appointments are made and appointments are kept.

Its not that I didnt like the East or that I couldnt live there.
Just noticed that, though Im still on the other side of the world,
Its nice to be back.

The most popular girl in school

'You speak english very well' (leally? churs bro!), 'tomorrow you will follow Kholoud to school and speak english with her students.'

I have never been so popular in my life. By now I'm used to everyone staring (apparently their mothers never taught them its rude to stare). But at school,they didn't just stare, they followed. Followed me out the staff room, down the hall, up the stairs and to the classroom. Now Ive been swarmed by children in different countries before, but Im telling you: this was extreme. They crowded around the door, ignoring Kholouds orders to disappear. She shut the door; one girl got up and locked it. So there I was on one side of a locked door with 40-odd giggling, whispering fans and another mob of the same the other side...the only difference to me was that on this side the teacher was there for crowd control. So they all stared and smiled and asked me about myself and I drew a horrible map of Australia and NZ to show them where our noble country was and then Kholoud got on with her lesson. They were learning about 'Medieval Spain': 'Muslim scholars made many discoveries' 'Astronomers built many observatories to watch planets and stars' 'Nothing matched this knowledge until the 17th Century...'. What amazed me was that they could read and write all this, but then struggled to ask me the simplest of questions: 'Is you have brothers and sisters?' 'How you Jordan like?' 'Do you love you like?' (couldnt answer that one...) One girl raised her hand 'I love love you'.

The next few classes weren't as crazy, ie it was safe to leave the door unlocked. Though every 2 mins there would be a knock: 'Miss do you need chalk?' 'Miss, can I speak to my friend?' 'Miss, a message for so and so...' Oh they'd to anything to get a peek at me! The other teachers realised this too, after letting the same girls out 'to the toilet' multiple times. 'Haven't you ever seen a chinese before?' I asked them. They have many tourists in Madaba. 'Yes, but we haven't talked to one before or had one visit our school! ' Glad to make your day then.

I'm sure I'll be the subject of conversation in days to come, but I don't mind. Under the white head scarves and green jackets are young, cheeky, curious minds. I hope they don't lose them when they grow up. And though it was amusing to see the mania I thought it rather sad. All they've ever known are white headscarves and green jackets: the community here is very closed, Kholoud said. I didn't do a dance, make a speech, score a try or win the Lotto. The everyday me in my everyday clothes and everyday unbrushed hair fascinated them so. How I wished I could've shown them more of the things I've seen. I'm realising we've got a lot to learn about this world, but I think we also have a lot to give.

Nearly killed by kindness

Yesterday I went to Salt (pronounced 'Salit'), a town near Fuheis. ALL by myself (big girl now). My host mother told me how to take the bus there and back again...I desperately tried to understand her instructions. So, armed with my Lonely Planet and Rough Guides books, my notebook of Arabic words and numbers and a piece of paper with 'Salt' 'Amman' and 'Fuheis' written in Arabic, I set off....

The shortest route to Salt involved a changeover of buses in Swaheleh. There, I stopped to top up my phone card and ask where ‘Malgef Salt’ (bus station for Salt) was. I expected to be pointed in the general direction, but instead found myself following one of the shop workers down the street, across the road and at the doorstep of the correct bus. ‘If you need anything, come back’ he said, and disappeared.

In Salt I wandered around the old streets lined with market-style stalls and small shops. Pausing at one, I asked what the pancake-like pancake things were. I forget their name in Arabic, but the nice old guy gave me one to try. How good his hygiene standards were I guess I’ll find out in a few days. He started chatting away in broken English. Where are you from? What are you doing in Salt? Come in, have a seat, do you drink tea? And so, in his little store by the stove we sat and chatted for at least a good half hour.

Two teenage boys came in to change the gas tanks for him. They too spoke broken English.‘Beautiful,’ one said. ‘Inti (you) beautiful’. I rolled my eyes. Probably the most beautiful Asian tourist he’d today. Saleh (the pancake seller) said I was the 1st Chinese (‘Number one!’) he’d actually properly talked to. I didn’t see any tourists – Asian or otherwise - all day, though he said a decent number could usually be found in Salt. They'd probably be more common in peak seasons, and I imagine there'd be quite a few Chinese (Chinese are everywhere, right?). But to be the 1st that he’s talked to in 10 years of selling pancakes! Makes me think that tourists – or maybe just Asian tourists - are content to just buy, smile and continue on 'exploring the culture'. They get the pancakes, but the real feast they miss out on.

‘Anytime you want help, tell me’ he said, giving me his number. I know what you’re thinking. Naive girl! Dodgy guy! But I’m telling you: I’m not and he’s not. You can’t make that judgment without being here; one day you must come and see what I mean. How sad it is that, in this day and age, we can’t accept genuine, no-strings-attached kindness for what it is – our skeptic minds are always scanning through the possibilities of what may be the ulterior motive.

‘Excuse me,…uh…Fuheis?’ ‘No, to Fuheis not here’ she said. ‘Tali’ (come). And although the correct stop was a good 5 mins walk away, she led me there, made inquiries and passed me on to a group of students bound in the same direction. I walked in disbelief and I felt so bad. I don’t know where she was going or what bus she was catching, all I know is that this lovely covered- up English-speaking lady went quite out of her way to make sure I was ok, and there was no way I could repay her.

The bus was full of University students. The girl next to me helped me pay the correct fare (40 piastre – like 80cNZ!!). ‘I'm sick…’ she told me. ‘Influenza.’ Cough cough. Not something you tell to a stranger when you 1st meet them. Whether she’s contagious or not I guess I’ll find out in a few days. ‘Where in Fuheis are you going?’ she asked. I hadn't learnt the name of my small street – I just knew the intersection and landmarks. Popping my head out into the aisle to look for them drew much attention. ‘Wen?(where?)’ ‘Wen?’ ‘Hon?(here?) ‘Hon?’ 'Inti?' And so though uncalled for, I quickly had half the bus, including the ticket officer and driver helping me get off at the right stop. I’m sure I amused them, for they were all laughing as I jumped off and headed up the road behind the cloud of dust.

Walking down my quiet road on Tuesday a car drove past and, as one is used to doing in NZ, I waved. The man pulled over and wound down the window. 'Do you need something?' he asked politely. Did I look needy? 'you waved,' he explained. 'Oh,' (did I?) 'just saying hi...' And with a slightly confused look on his face and a mental note to myself not to do that again, we continued on our merry ways.

Us Kiwis pride ourselves in being of the friendly, helpful kind. But the kindness of Jordanians to strangers (foreigners or of their own kind) is unsurpassable. I’ve never come across any of the sort in any of my travels, anywhere. Despite being the ultra orang asing here, I feel much safer compared to Malaysia. ‘Welcome!’ ‘Welcome to Jordan!’ they all call to me. Even the smaller residential streets seemed safe enough – the only attacks I got were from children 'Hello!' 'How are you?', offering me chips (not for sale, the packet she was eating) and giving me big smiles.

I can't help thinking that this was the kind of hospitality, kindness and care that Jesus (standing somewhere not too far away from where I am) meant when he said 'Love your neighbour as yourself'; the kind that God continually exhorted the Israelites to show to the aliens and in their (this) land. To be on the receiving end is inspiring and most humbling. And how ironic that in this place now full of headscarves, mosques, supposed unrest and holy wars, this is what I'm shown. I think we in the West have a lot to learn.

Angels from Avis

Sun 28 Feb 10

18 hours worth of flights, the 13 hour layover in Frankfurt and very little sleep were all expected. What wasn't was the lack of a welcome party when I reached Amman airport. Our plane arrived in good time. I bought a visa on the spot for 10JD (oh the beautiful sound of those stamps...) I passed security with no problems. My luggage was there to greet me, but no-body else was. I scanned the name placards like a lost kid 'are you my mummy?' in vain. Oh well, perhaps they're running late. But as the people slowly dribbled away I had the that feeling punctuality wasn't the problem. Hmmm...one stranded at 2am in a foreign airport is in need of help.

Help came in the form of 2 guys manning the Avis car rental booth. As there was no payphone or internet access in the arrival hall, they kindly let me use their phone and internet (for free even!Jordanians aren't out to make a buck unlike those in other countries..) The problem was that although I could reach my host family (poor Dana, waking her up at that hour only to worry her!), they weren't the ones responsible to pick me up - my exchange organisation was, and I couldn't get through to them.

The airport was all but deserted - no flights arrived after mine. There's only so much people watching you can do before it gets boring (particularly when everyone leaves and the remaining subjects go to sleep). And reading with a jetlagged brain is non-productive. Thus, with the reassurance of my Avis Angels that they (and their phone) were there anytime I needed, I bunked down on a bench.

I actually managed to catch a couple of hours of sleep, despite the repeated announcements 'We regret to announce that flight _____ from Bangkok has been delayed..' (no ones there waiting anyway, lady...);' May I have your attention please. This is a non-smoking airport' (whilst all the shop owners, security guards and taxi drivers are piping away inside...); 'Please do not leave your baggage unattended' (is unconscious attendance ok?). The 5am prayers blasted from the prayer room woke me up.

At 7.30am I tried the Exchange office and cell phone numbers again, to no avail. Well, one can't wait forever, and besides, my angels were finishing their shift at 9am. (I bought them coffee to say thankyou then thought O shoot, do muslims drink coffee?) Finally, with some good thinking and communication with Dana they put me into a taxi bound for Fuheis (Dana's place). I recruited a Brit tourist to accompany me and we dropped him off at his 'Palace Hotel' (corner backpackers) in Amman city on the way. The taxi driver was also a nice, chatty guy, seemingly oblivious to the obvious fact that neither of us spoke Arabic. The ride was 40JD ($80NZD), which apparently was too much, but there were many worse things he could have done to me so being overcharged was the least of my worries. Oh the relief to pull up at a drive way and my host mother to welcome me with a kiss on each cheek! I tipped the driver 0.70 JD in coins and a complimentary lolly from Changi airport - it was all I had to give.

I was fed with pita bread, eggs, plum jam (made from their homegrown plums), olive oil (pressed from their homegrown olives),fresh thyme (from their garden), dukkah (homemade from the thyme), goats cheese (no goats, unfortunately) and tea. All prepared by their maid who, by the way, is Indonesian. So here I am, supposedly teaching English, desperately trying to learn Arabic yet digging up my Malay I thought I'd laid to rest 3 days ago.

Life brings the unexpected, doesn't it?

Could we with ink the ocean fill,
and were the skies of parchment made,
were every stalk on earth a quill
and every man a scribe by trade,
To write the love of God above,
would drain the ocean dry;
nor could the scroll contain the whole
though stretched from sky to sky

~from the hymn 'The Love of God', Frederick M Lehman

Dont you love our english language?

A Banana's thanks

14 Feb 2010

Today I awoke and thanked the Lord I was Chinese. No, it wasnt a sigh of relief 'thank GOD Im Chinese and not some other inferior race....' but a simple appreciation for who I am.
Yesterday I had had a 'reunion' (though I just met them)lunch of duck, fish, sharkfin soup, paua and brocolli stir fry with my bf's* family, then for dinner I went over to my other bf's* place for a 'reunion' dinner of duck, fish, sharkfin soup, paua and brocolli stir fry. Now only the Chinese could put on a feast like that.
Last night the streets were alight with firecrackers;I've never seen such an abundance of colour in the sky. It sounded like a war zone, and I wouldnt be suprised if a few auditory aparati are now damaged. Only the chinese could put on such an illegal display like that.
Today Im in a goergus red top (too goergus to be my own); downstairs they are preparing an open house. The fridge is obese and the tables overflowing with a most impressive array of cookies. Im convinced few people are so concerned about their palates as the Chinese.

We thank God for the lovely day, we thank Him for our food. We thank Him for friends and family, yet how often does one thank God for his race? In fact, how often do us Christians talk about race? A bit, I suppose. Christians shouldnt be racist. There is no distinction between Jew and Greek. Jesus is the Saviour of ALL nations. Unreached people groups.
But in terms of celebrating different races - your own race - well, I dont think we do it enough.

Does God want us to celebrate Chinese New Year? I think yes. Sure, its shrouded in superstitial practices, and it can be so difficult to separate them from just 'culture'. Superstition disgusts God - but Chinese culture He delights in. After all, the Chinese were His idea. Im sure He had our black hair, flat noses and glorious food in mind at creation. I dont think we're meant to be less Chinese at conversion. On the contrary, being Christian should cause us to embrace Chinese-ness even more, as a God-given gift. We must seek to bring God into culture - for Christ died to reconcile every aspect of life to its Creator.

If this banana can thank God for her skin colour, then surely you can too. For in being, and being thankful for, who were are, we reflect some of who He is.

Gong Xi Fa Cai, God.


*internal joke. Just to clarify: I dont have a boyfriend (or two, for that matter). But I received ang pows from both families like I was attatched... ;) don't you love Chinese New Year....

Lost and a lesson

So we so nearly almost got lost in Mt Kinabalu Park. I wont try to explain exactly what happened (heck, we don't even really know exactly what happened) but I know that we were, ok, pretty much lost. It would have been ok if it weren't already evening.

The light was fading fast, and we wouldnt have made it out if we hadnt had cellphone reception. If we hadnt taken Peng's bag when we split up, and if Peng hadnt packed a torch. If we didnt turn back when we did after following futile pipes for quite some time. If Eugene hadnt made a stand and stopped us following red trees ('they're boundary markers!!'). If Jono hadnt checked out the right fork while Fi was on the phone before we headed up the left fork ('hey, a bridge!' he said). If Peng and Buz hadnt stayed put. If the thunder didnt just threaten rain. If we hadnt checked out what we thought was a dead end gate....

You get to a point where you have to stop asking 'what if ____ hadn't....?' and face the facts: it did. And surely somebody made it happen. Somebody who knows the forest tracks (and the lack of them), and the time of sunset. Someone who knows our intentions, limited abilities, and cares enough to lead us out.

It makes me wonder, you know: we can't even trek 5k without Him - why do we think we can go through life all by ourselves? There are too many unseens out there, too many close calls, too many people (and signposts) that let you down, too many miscommunications and misinterpretations. And though there are many who seemingly manage to navigate their way through life without Him, I wouldnt want to be in their shoes.

All ears

This is my Father's world,
and to my listening ears
all nature sings, and round me rings
the music of the spheres.
This is my Father's world:
I rest me in the thought
of rocks and trees, of skies and seas;
his hand the wonders wrought.

This is my Father's world,
the birds their carols raise,
the morning light, the lily white,
declare their maker's praise.
This is my Father's world:
he shines in all that's fair;
in the rustling grass I hear him pass;
he speaks to me everywhere.

This is my Father's world.
O let me ne'er forget
that though the wrong seems oft so strong,
God is the ruler yet.
This is my Father's world:
why should my heart be sad?
The Lord is King; let the heavens ring!
God reigns; let the earth be glad!

The message of this hymn is clear – nature testifies about God. But I want to take the idea a little further. If this is my Father’s world, then what about the humans he put on it? Can humanity and all that it is (and isn’t) somehow point towards God too? But man is fallen, you say. The world is proud, worships idols and is self serving. True.

But although this hymn portrays nature in all its glory and emphasises its beauty let’s not forget that creation is fallen, along with man. Sure, creation may not worship idols, but my cat still takes pleasure in catching, mutilating and they playing with baby mice. Horses will die horrible deaths from mosquito-borne viruses and it only takes one fungus to destroy a whole crop of fruits.

The whole of creation, man and beast included, is sin-infected. Yet this is our Father’s world, he is the ruler yet. And I believe that we can hear him – in the songs of nature and the symphony of humanity…. If we listen hard enough.

Behind the shutters

Waiting for the lavatory on the plane to South East Asia, I opened the shutter and looked out the window. The stream of light that poked through suprised me - so many people had their shutters closed that I hadn't realised how bright it was outside (perhaps that was why they had their shutters closed). It was beautiful out there: tufts of clouds meandering across the perfectly blue sea. I could have stared out the window for much longer if I didnt have to stay in line. Flip, Ive been on this flight for 7 hrs already and I never noticed whats outside, I thought. I had been too fascinated with the 994 media channels at my disposal and all the food choices; too occupied with learning mandarin, playing with the lights and scoring free cards and cocktails. But on seeing that incredible view, everything dimmed in comparison. A bit like life, you think? How often are we so strapped in our own little airplane seats - study, work, friends, family, the rat race that we cant see the end of - that we fail to notice the sun shining? Sometimes its good to get out of our seats and lift the shutters to see where we really are. Sometimes what we see isn't so glorious. Haiti has an earthquake and suddenly all the world knows of its existence. Its the poorest country in the western world - but for much of the western world its been behind the shutters until now. I guess thats part of my reason for travelling. I dont know enough about the world out there - mine is terribly small. Whether it be storming or sunny, I want to open the shutters.

Just to prove Hillsong and I have no hard feelings

‘Being more broadly human and less narrowly Christian’*

I’ve been a Christian ever since I can remember. I associate God with family, church, OCF, daily devotions and Hillsong music. Oh and maybe study if you’re lucky. But if‘the earth is the LORD’s and everything in it’, surely he can be found in other contexts? In other types of music, in other non-western cultures? If ‘the world is the LORD’s and all who live in it’, can He be learnt of from other people (irrespective of their religion), observing their way of life? Can travel and everything it involves grow me as a disciple? I suspect yes; I go to find out.

Thus I travel to find God ‘over there’, to seek him in contexts I’ve never seen Him in before. I don’t want to be a Christian that forever sees God in only church, ministry, bible studies and Hillsong music. By no means are they not important – on the contrary (bar the Hillsong music) I believe they are fundamentals. But not the limits of His revelation to mankind.

*quote stolen from Mark Grace

To travel

I came to Massey to study. And I like to think I have not only studied well, but learnt and lived out what it means to study for His glory. To integrate my faith into my studies, ministry aside. A Christian student, rather than a student who –by the way - happens to be a Christian. Next year, provided the great depression II hasn’t set in, I will enter the work force. I want to work for His glory. Serve Him with the veterinary skills and ability he has gifted me with. I want to integrate the gospel into my work, approach it from a worldview different to that of my colleagues. But in between graduating and working, I want to slip something else in. I want to travel. Whilst studying and working is a given, travel isn’t. Should Christians travel? Is it important? What eternal significance does it have? I’ve struggled with whether to go or not, where and why. So why travel? I think travel can be seen as ‘ungodly’ (no one would ever say that, but if they could, I'm sure they would) because Christians have never stopped to think about it deeply – how it relates to what Christ has done, where it fits with into our worldview and how it can be something more than just ‘a holiday’. So this is I want to do. I’m convinced that Christ died to reconcile every aspect of life to God. I want to explore what it means to travel for His glory, because I think it’s possible.