Author: Amanda Viviers

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her negative

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The optimist in me seems to have left the building lately. I am struggling to hope, I am thinking the worst and I have been a slave to fear.

Hi, my name is Amanda and I have been crazy negative.

This morning in the midst of yet another grapple with fear, I saw a post on instagram from my friend from the book of Romans 4: 17

Speaking what isn’t as though it is.

And then I was walking around the house trying to find my hope under the couch, the rug or in my wool stash next to my favourite antique chair and a impression lead me to this scripture from Psalm 18

He brought me out into a spacious place; he rescued me because he delighted in me.

Then I was flicking through my music collection and this song took my breath away…(press play and then keep reading, Im sure it will take your breath away as well)

My negative has been weighing me down lately.

Today however, I seem to be turning a corner and trusting the One who knows more than I could ever know.

My greatest struggle has been the not knowingness of it all. I want to plan, I want to hang my hat on something, I want to take meditated steps towards our goals but some seasons just don’t give us the gratitude of clarity. There are some seasons where we just need to leap, we just need to let go, we just need to trust.

The waves and wind still know His name.

We need to step into the unknown even if we feel hemmed in on every side. I am believing that He is carrying us into wide open spaces. Into new seasons of discovery, purpose and great reward. I believe in Him and His promises.

And when I start to speak life her negative shrinks away.

When I start to speak truth her negative shuts up.

When I start to sing loudly her negative shrivels under the weight of purpose.

When I start to believe and hope her negative is unravelled by the power of presence.

It is well.

It is difficult,

but it is okay.

If your negative has been ruling the roost lately my dear friend, then I hope these three things that gave me courage today will tell her to be quiet.

I am believing for Mountains to be moved in both mine and yours today.

Much love and a touch of tiredness

Amanda

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her hands

her hands

I was driving early this morning to another surgeons appointment and the weirdest thing happened, I heard myself on the radio in my car. Every day Kinwomen has little segments on radio that are recorded months in advance. As soon as I heard my voice I wanted to turn the radio off, but something in me compelled me to listen.

Imagine me driving worrying about said appointment and then me from the past comes on the radio, speaking specifically to me in the future.

Gosh.

My life is a little crazy and weird often.

Anyway, My past self was telling my future self to hope. To take the difficulty in my today and to trust, hoping in the possibility of the future.

In that bizarre little moment, with me talking to myself in the car by myself, I had this little revelation.

Every single one of us is fighting a battle that many of us don’t see. Most women have their hands wrung out in worry, praying for breakthrough in some form.

I started to think through the lives of my nearest and dearest friends, fellow Mums, girlfriends I’ve known for decades, family and life companions and each and every one of them has difficulty that requires breakthrough today.

I remembered the recent moment when I was sitting in a hot, stuffy room in Nepal and I watched the hands of a group of Mums telling us their stories about the community bank that they had formed. I watched their hands, and saw line after line, story after story, of prayers that had been prayed, fires that had been stoked, floors that had been swept and produce that had been formed in those hands.

I thought of the hands of my Mum and the times that she had wrung those hands together, worried about my future.

I prayed for friends whose hands are clasped today wanting so desperately to be holding a test with a pink line formed across its possibility.

I thought fondly of friends who were holding “for sale” signs in their hands, praying desperately for the real estate agent to place the sold sticker on their inheritance.

I prayed for friends hands clasped in hospital waiting for results.

I smiled at the thought of my dear friend holding her precious son in her arms as she prepared to take him home from the hospital today.

When we look at a pair of hands, we can see so much story and history. A ring that is worn with pride or one that is worn down by difficulty and stress. A tan that shows a white band where the ring has been removed after years of care. Spots and wrinkles that tell the tale of hard work and difficulty. Nails that are broken and peeling. Stains from dinner cooked for families, who forget to say thanks.

Every pair of hands tells the tales of everyday use and wear. Hands that hold, hands that type, hands that clean and hands that despair.

Today as I listened to myself (hilairous) I became overwhelmed by you and your story. I prayed for women, after women in my world and the breakthrough that is needed for the difficulty she was holding in her hands.

I reflected on the difficulty of novice motherhood and the changing seasons of the early years of marriage, with often one income and lots of sleepless nights.

I was compelled to pray for your breakthrough.

A breakthrough that was profound and clear.

That today would be a day of great grace and freedom.

That prayers that had been prayed for years upon years would be answered.

That hands would be lifted in praise today, that freedom would be declared over you and your house.

Today.

That release would come to her hands.

Amanda

 

 

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her messy

the cross

We have a major problem in our house right now. We have a creative, colouring in mad eighteen month old, who is expressive, delightful and messy. At the same time, we have a freshly painted white beach house ready for sale in the next couple of weeks.

These two have been colliding a lot in the last week. Every single time I turn my back, a crayon, a texta or something, anything she can express herself with is unearthed and she sprays our freshly painted walls with colour.

As much as I am frustrated with her and she has sat in the corner for quiet time, over and over. I am realising that it is just a phase of expression and her messy is okay. It is normal, it is productive and it is okay.

I like clean.

I like white.

I like my house to be styled and perfect for our home opens.

but that is not everyday, real life.

We are all a little messy.

We all have our seasons of expression, seasons where we just need to let out the built up emotion that has been brewing internally.

We all have our mess.

grief

Yesterday I was quietly scrolling social media after a couple of days phone free and I came across a song posted by my dear friend about our friend who passed on just a few short months ago. Out of the blue, unexpectedly I found myself crying whilst singing to this song.

Grief may seem like it has stages, but honestly it can just be downright messy. One day we are coping, the next day we are undone for no particular reason. Grief comes and goes, grief finds us happy, angry and depressed. Our grief can be caused by death, disappointment, unmet expectations or betrayal. We are all a little messy, but the journey of recovery is how we express those emotions that overwhelm. The problem is not whether we are feeling, the problem is the way that we layer our feelings onto others.

How are you going with your messy?

Are you finding places to express your colour, your thoughts, your questions and your dismay?

I am realising if I don’t find space and time to bring these parts of my messy to the fore, I will explode with fury and spray my colour over those closest at the most unexpected times.

Ways that I am learning to express my messy, is just the same as I would with my little artist. I am determined not to just hide away all the texta’s, paints and crayons from her little hands. I am finding ways to channel her colour into proactive ways, for her to get her messy on paper.

The ways that I am learning to express my grief is with long cups of coffee with friends, telling the truth even when it hurts, writing lamenting words, long cuddles on the couch, walking the beach and asking God the questions that frustrate me. Sitting on a therapists couch, loud music and long drives shouting into the sky. Forrest walks with my lover and listening to his questions. Not making myself so busy that I ignore all the warning signs that the messy parts of me are drowned out by busyness. Creating space for expression.

The greatest comfort to me through this season of loss, is the wait of the story of Easter. A place of in-between. A place of grief. The Easter story is full of the same mess that I am experiencing in this season of pain.

As I reflect on the story of the cross and the places where those who were so close to Jesus in this season, how they had questions and they expressed their disbelief at the pain of the Saturday waiting place. As much as I am disappointed in the journey of grief and have questions about whether prayer even makes a difference I am learning to do what Isaiah 55 invites me to…

“Come, all you who are thirsty, come to the waters;
and you who have no money, come, buy and eat!
Come, buy wine and milk without money and without cost.
Why spend money on what is not bread, and your labor on what does not satisfy?
Listen, listen to me, and eat what is good, and you will delight in the richest of fare.”

What is your messy?

Are you scribbling your colour all over walls, in inappropriate ways or are you learning to express yourself in helpful, nurturing ones?

The question is not whether you are feeling all them feels, the question is the way that they are exploding over those who are closest and most vulnerable to your expressions.

Why, when we know that there’s no such thing as perfect, do most of us spend an incredible amount of time and energy trying to be everything to everyone? Is it that we really admire perfection? No – the truth is that we are actually drawn to people who are real and down-to-earth. We love authenticity and we know that life is messy and imperfect.

Brene Brown

Your messy is okay.

Your expression of its colour and depth may need a little alteration.

I am finding ways in this season to alter my explosion of expression.

How about you?

Life’s a little bit messy. We all make mistakes. No matter what type of animal you are, change starts with you.

Zootopia

Amanda

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her feet

her feet

It was at the end of a long day, all I wanted was my own bed and a hot shower. Our host encouraged us towards another house visit, to sit and listen to stories of loss, gain and strength in the midst of the greatest challenge and my eyes rolled.

I am ashamed to say the line of enough had been drawn and I knew the trip back down the mountain would be as harsh as its traverse up. I just wanted to be safe. I just wanted comfort and I was at the very end of my rope.

It has been funny this week when people have asked me about Nepal, “How was it?”, “Was it amazing?”, “Was it life changing?” and I have not had any words all week.

Zero. Nothing. Nudda.

Nepal was uncomfortable. Little electricity, long, windy, dangerous four-wheel drive trips. I had to borrow the money for the air ticket from my sister and I saved each and every dollar possible in the lead up so I could buy something small for my babes. Whilst I was standing trying time after time to get through to my husband on the phone from Kathmandu, in broken reception he told me that we needed to sell our little seaside shack. My trip was steeped in challenge.

My leg was still raw with infection, from two surgeries in a few months, the dust, the broken buildings and limited internet. Nepal was deeply uncomfortably and challenging. My little man had surgery two days after I arrived home and hasn’t slept much since. We have had home opens, real estate valuing and emptied two thirds of our belongings into storage. Two weeks back on the ground and I am still recovering. I just want to sleep away my days and forget what I saw.

Back to the beginning…

I walked down the side of a mud brick house, walking carefully through a path that winded precariously around the edge of a cliff and I sat down, crossed my arms and wanted the day to be over.

Out of the cutest little hut, came two well dressed children, with two neighbourhood children running close behind. “The visitors had arrived, the visitors had arrived.” As I sat on their rickety bench, I realised they had waited the whole day for us to come visit. The little pre- teenager, had straightened her hair with perfection and they were wearing their Sunday best.

I sat and listened about the business the Mumma had launched and peace flooded my weary soul. I sat and listened, but mostly watched. I immersed myself in their world and was spellbound. Here we were together, up the top of a mountain, I felt like I was so far away from everything that bought me comfort and I was rocked to my very core.

If she can be thankful and generous in the midst of her challenge, so can I.

If she can wake to work hard for another day, so could I.

If she can serve her family with deep, sacrificial love, then so could I.

Her story compelled me, that in the midst of pain, suffering and discomfort, we have a choice to announce peace.

How lovely on the mountains
Are the feet of him who brings good news,
Who announces peace
And brings good news of happiness,
Who announces salvation,

And says to Zion, “Your God reigns!” (Isaiah 52: 7)

I looked to the ground as I was full of shame from my lack of fortitude in the midst of courage and I saw her feet. Bruised, dusty and servant-ed. Her feet told more of the story than any part of her words could. She had an old pair of sandals, they were faded pink. Her littles sitting now beside her had simple jogging shoes, that looked well worn but quite new. However Mumma Bear, her sandals were broken and she had fixed them with a piece of string.

This simple hack broke me on the inside. I was so unsure whether my eyes and heart would ever recover.

Her thongs told me a story of sacrificial love. When I started to walk in her shoes, my heart exploded with compassion.

Today we all step into the final chapter of Lent and the Easter story, a journey of sacrifice, fortitude and community. As I woke this morning ready to retrace the steps of Jesus in his final hours, the image that rocked my soul was the image of her mountain feet.

Dusty,

Damaged,

A piece of string holding her shoe together.

As I walk the stations of the cross today, I will be remembering my mountain friend and the life of sacrifice. As a mum it is hard to imagine my life like that of Jesus, carrying a cross towards a brutal death. What I can step into though, is the life of another Mum. Her waking early to prepare the house for the day. Getting my children ready when they scream and tantrum. Walking into dusty places as I try to clean the mess of my home that seems to break my will repeatedly. We each carry a daily cross, that looks so different, but the depth of the courage required to pick it up still has the same cost.

I will remember her feet.

I will remember the dusty place.

I will remember her life of sacrifice.

Because this is the way of the cross.

I will remember, I will not forget

Amanda

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who is my hero?

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One week ago today I stepped into a dusty place, a heady atmosphere and oh so vulnerable. As I drove from the airport that was swelling with faces as we arrived, I had so many questions in my heart about suffering.

Fresh from a season where I had seen grief first hand, I wasn’t sure whether my heart could possibly be broken again.

Can a heart that is already in pieces possibly break anymore?

My mind was replaying the recent loss of friends so close and I was unsure whether my weary heart could be revived again.

With dust filling our lungs, still falling as an after effect of the earthquakes, with a people who are so kind, (yet asking similar questions as my own) together we walked a little tentatively as we said Namaste, with heads bowed.

When you look in someone’s eyes, no matter the make up, the clothes they wear, the windows of our souls are exposed and together we exchanged questions without words.

Yesterday we drove for hours around rocky cliff faces, bumping and screaming as we saw the mountains demanded attention in the distance. I watched young children scamper up the dusty roads, dressed carefully in their school uniforms, hair plaited with refined perfection.

I watched
I breathed in
I exhaled
I felt deeply afraid

My fear was palpable and more than being afraid for my own life, I was afraid that I would come here and return home without any answers.

“No intellectual answer will solve suffering. Perhaps this is why God sent his own Son as one response to human pain, to experience it and absorb it into himself. The Incarnation did not ‘solve’ human suffering, but at least it was an active and personal response.” Philip Yancey

As we stepped out of our four wheel drive and walked up the muddy hill, an endless sea of little blue shadowed faces, showered us with bright pink flowers and welcomed us to their school.

We sat on their carpet, that had been sewn together over and over from little feet that tripped over its pile.

Stories of kids club meetings where they petitioned for climate change, they together went into villages and educated their elders about child brides, over and over they surprised me with their tenacity.

As I sat on the floor, my leg was aching and my heart was tiring and leaning back I saw a little sign on their wall and I got my answer.

You see every time we venture into unknown places, meeting people who place us on pedastools that are not warranted, we feel like we are the heroes.

There is something about our upbringing, our culture, our pride that gives us this unspoken status that we are the knights in shining mission armour.

As I sat there uncomfortable and dirty, I knew so deeply that these little warriors in front of me, the future doctors, the teachers, the presidents, as they walk up mountains for hours, with dust filling their lungs; they are the heroes.

So every time we reframe ourselves and our works to help another, I want to be reminded of that little classroom, full of personality and life, on the top of a mountain in Nepal.

I want to remember the mothers who are desperately trying to learn to read and write so they can keep up with their children.

I want to feel the discomfort when I listened to a mother tell me it takes her two hours to walk to get water for her household.

I want to help people know who are actually the heroes in our world.

They are not the movie stars, the presidents, the kings, the wellness warriors and social media gurus. The heroes of the world are those who get up again after being knocked down, the children who keep hoping after they have lost their parents, the mothers who sit in self help groups saving one dollar a month to change their families future, those who go for days without food, those who save strangers in the midst of disasters even when their own family is at risk.

Reframing who I look up to, who is my hero and I hope to remember that it will be the least of these.