All day, storm clouds have bubbled and billowed beyond my window, thundering and flashing, before rolling on, revealing swatches of blue sky.

My soul often feels like that sky. Turbulent, unsettled, yet not without moments of respite.

And it is endlessly frustrating to me how unstable it seems to be human.

I can wake in the morning with giddy contentment, filled to the brim with happiness and gratitude, yet by nightfall find myself somber and ponderous, at odds with the world and all its injustice, or worse still, at odds with myself and my many failures.

This emotional pendulum swing feels like a theme park ride with no end and an undercurrent of exhaustion sweeps through the rhythms of my life.

And when I’m carried off into that current, I find myself wondering: how can God love one so changeable? So moved by mood and circumstance?

Then I recall a story. A story of Jesus and a storm.

In the story, I see Jesus at rest — assured of His Father’s goodness — on an ancient fishing boat in a tumultuous storm on the Sea of Galilee.

I see his disciples — the very friends who had watched Him preach of the Kingdom of God and witnessed His miracles — cry out in the fear of losing their lives: ‘Teacher, don’t you care if we drown?’

Their words rouse Him. He rises up and speaks first to the wind and the waves.

“Peace, be still!”

The storm immediately subsides.

I find it beautiful that Jesus calms the physical storm first. He provides the conditions in which His friends can truly pay attention what He has to say. Only then does he address the storminess inside the hearts.

“Why are you so fearful? How is it that you have no faith?”

This gentle rebuke was not meant to shame them for their faithlessness. These words pulled their focus to He who is always faithful.

In resting in the storm, Jesus demonstrated His steadiness.

In silencing the storm, Jesus demonstrated His sovereignty.

In being Jesus’ friend, it is His steadiness and His sovereignty, upon which I can always rely. It is He who quiets the storms around me, and more importantly, He quiets the storms of my soul.

The day is rapidly slipping away. 

I am searching for what I want to say before the clock strikes midnight and my neat little plan to memorialise my thirty years in the thirty days until I turn thirty turns into the proverbial pumpkin. 

And I type and retype, trying to acknowledge the indulgence that such a plan seems to be. Trying to acknowledge that yes, the world is cracking and crumbling around us, yet all I feel impressed to do is tell my story. It’s a tension I feel pull tight whenever I sit down to a keyboard.

But this is my corner of the internet, my small sphere of influence, and if the words here can bring any light, any levity, or any goodness into the brokenness then I will write what’s on my heart, and I will write with all my heart.

I am happy.

Words I’m scared to say out loud. Scared that if they leave their home inside my mind they’ll be attacked along the road and exist no more. Scared that happiness only lasts as long as I keep it safe and quiet.

But this happiness has been long in the asking and hard in the wrestling. And such a thing demands celebration.

I’m celebrating the unadulterated joy of games nights with friends; school camps and the company of my students; late nights with my cousins; afternoon naps; watching live musical theatre; croissant sandwiches on slow Sunday mornings; and the perfect peace rooted deep in my soul that my life is held safe in the hands of a loving God.

I’m celebrating because I’m not so naive to believe that this feeling will be constant – this world is a little too broken for such assurance. I’m letting this happiness leave loud from my mind, so I can come back to it during the inevitable days of sorrow and be reminded of the hope I have beyond the boundary of this life:

Happiness is coming to stay for good.

I gaze upon the humans suspended in the blue of the afternoon. Some in hang gliders, others in paragliders, all wafting through the air above those of us traversing the solid surfaces of earth, concrete or metal. In a way I envy them their flight, wishing myself to be removed from the ground to see things from a different perspective.

And isn’t that so often the way of humans? To long to experience life from a different angle, another perspective.

What would life look like if I stayed in Victoria instead of moving to Queensland?
Or if I said no instead of yes, or yes instead of no?
Or if I’d never had my heart broken?
Or if I chose to quit my job, or move towns, or travel, or study?

It’s easy to live life with the ifs, and I confess to often lingering with them a little longer than is productive. But there is contentment to be found when I allow my ifs to guide me into appreciation.

I moved to Queensland and I am so grateful to be close to my family.
I said yes and I am gaining a wealth of experience. I said no and gave myself time to rest.
I had my heartbroken and now I have a deeper, more intimate understanding of love and He who is Love.
I am wondering about the future and isn’t it marvellous to have options and hope for what comes next?

I raise my eyes to look into the sky at my fellow human beings gliding through the golden afternoon and think: how grateful am I to be sharing the same setting sun over a beautiful city.

There is a certain magic in wandering the city alone. A certain wonder in walking streets that are brimming with the untold stories of such a vast number of people.

The kind woman who massages my work-weary body into a state of relaxation has a lilt in her voice that hints towards a life before or beyond Australia. Where has she come from? Does she like it here? Has she made good friends? What are her ambitions for the future?

A young man holds up a book to a friend standing behind an iPhone camera in the Dymocks on George Street. The way he interacts with the book and the camera suggests that he is the author. How did he become a writer? What challenges did he face to get a book published? Who inspired him?

In the Lush store in Sydney’s QVB an employee with a friendly face enthusiastically compliments my autumnal dress as I search for a bath bomb. His brief kindness warms me and makes me wonder who has shown him kindness so that he passes it on with such generosity. Or does he give out kindness to spite the unkindness shown to him in his life?

In the Fantasy/Sci-Fi aisle of Kinokuniya Books I overhear a conversation between two friends who are discussing the complexity of attracting a romantic partner. I would love to jump into the conversation and ask: where do you think the desire for love comes from? What is the best love you have known in your life? What made it good?

I catch the train home – yet another vessel filled with stories unknown to me – and allow my unanswered questions to sink me deeper into empathy and love for my fellow humans.

The honest thing on my heart tonight is this:

I know who I am. 

For all my forgetfulness and frailty, and my doubting in the dark, I know. 

I am deeply loved by God. 
I am flawed and often faltering but forgiven, dusted off, and always lovingly set back on my way.
A way in which my eyes are wide open for wonder.

And that is the beauty of having an identity buried in Jesus Christ. 

There is nothing about my worth that I have to strive for. I have inherent value because of how God loves me and because of Jesus’ magnificent display of that love on the cross. 

And after every restless day and every fitful night, it is the truth to which I always return.

“I write about the things that are on my heart and I try to do it honestly.”

My own words about my own writing on the ‘About’ page of this blog.

But tonight there are too many things on my heart and I can’t sort out the important from the unimportant. I can’t figure out what I need to say. Perhaps in moments like these I shouldn’t say anything. Perhaps I should let my fingers lay quiet for another night or two until my uneasy mind settles. But tonight there are too many things on my heart and I can’t stop them from spilling out into words.

In my heart tonight there is sorrow for Ukraine and Russia; heartache for those who are still in wars forgotten by the West; grief for those whose livelihoods have been swept away by murky, unfeeling waters; frustration for the ongoing fight against inequality for so many different groups of people; weariness in the wondering if some wounds ever completely heal; lingering sadness for the loneliness felt by so many during so many months of pandemic; a longing for love; a quiet hum of hope for the future; plans, and ideas, and worries for my eighteen precious students; a restless expectation for more…

And it is one of those nights where the chaos of my thoughts makes me wonder whether I even know myself. And if I don’t even know myself how can I be of any possible use?

Thankfully, when I don’t know myself, when I can’t untangle the thoughts swirling around in the mysterious realm of my mind, there is Someone else who knows me and understands me. Someone else who loves me. And there is nothing I have to do except rest in the knowledge of that love. It’s the knowledge of that love that allows me to be gentle with myself during these troubled nights. It’s the knowledge that makes me sure that I will wake up in the morning ready to give myself to my sphere of influence.

And honestly?

Tonight that’s enough for me.