Jewels

After my mother died, we sold her pearls.

Actually, over several years, we have gradually sold most of the jewellery she left me.

When I first went through all the jewels - and I use the term advisedly - it was quite overwhelming. There were things I'd forgotten she owned - and things I'd never seen. There were more rings than one person could reasonably wear, all set with precious gems (mostly sapphires, either blue or yellow). There were earrings to match, along with a string of glowing amber beads, watches and gold chains, and the pearls. 

"Why have all this stuff if you never wear it or enjoy it?" This was one of my indignant questions, feeling angry, baffled and saddened all at once.

Some of the things were familiar. She wore them often, and they reminded me of her and of her love for showy jewellery. Some things were old, like her engagement ring and a small, pale purple amethyst pendant I remember her receiving one Christmas when I was a child. Others came from the years she and my dad spent in Saudi Arabia - flashy settings, heavy with the gold that everyone bought on an almost weekly basis. It was what you did: you visited the Gold Souk [market] on a Friday night, spending the dollar-based salary you were earning. It was generally seen as an investment. For my mother, her gold was a kind of insurance policy, making sure she got her share of what my dad was earning.

It was also her way of showing the world that she'd arrived, that she was somebody. I could see a pattern to her buying: she'd start out with a small version of what she aspired to - tiny tanzanite earrings, for example - but then buy a larger, more expensive version as soon as she could afford it.

This need to "show off", to display her wealth, was in constant conflict with the fear of being burgled or even attacked on the street and robbed of her jewellery. As time went on, she wore less and less of her jewellery when going out. It remained in a safe-box in the bank. I think even my mother forgot some of what she owned.

It has taken us several years to gradually sort through what I inherited - first getting it valued; then finding out how little of that value it can actually realise if sold; and then finally finding reliable buyers.

Each time we sorted, it was a process of keeping what we love, giving some away, selling some... Each time there was a loss, a connection gently untied, a goodbye said. Each time I grieved for the woman who owned it.

And with each piece I keep, each time I wear it, I remember her.

Unpicking the past

This time last year, I listened to a spokesperson discussing the huge challenges facing the country. He was positive about overcoming them - “like we overcame or solved Apartheid” were more or less his words. 

Solved Apartheid? Is it SO simple? Surely we have come nowhere near... It no longer exists on paper; but its spread, its consequences, are everywhere. 

The image came to mind of how one unpicks a seam or thread in a garment or other piece of fabric. Sometimes the seam is easy to see, and one can cut the thread and give a quick tug and much of it pulls away in one go.

But other seams are harder to see; too tightly sewn or with thread the same colour as the garment, so the seam is near-invisible. It is hard to cut the thread without damaging the cloth; and the stitches must be pulled one by one, painstakingly.

I am reminded of a fingerless glove I recently knitted. It is just a simple rectangle, really, sewn up to leave just one space for the thumb. However, on sewing it up, I forgot to leave a space for the thumb. I've tried several times to unpick it, but I simply can’t find where the seam ends and the glove begins. To rectify it, I will have to sew each end of where the opening should be, then cut it open and then secure any loose threads. The task is so daunting that I have not tackled it - and the glove remains unworn.

I am not deprived of just one glove, either; its completed partner lies idle, waiting for the other to join it to make a usable pair. 

Yet surely we must begin, one careful stitch at a time, to unravel the past without damaging the present, so that we can create a future we all can "use".

And if unravelling seems too hard,

and "solving" seems impossible,

then we must create another way, together.

Thankful

After being ill for the whole of June this year (2020), with what turned out to be pneumonia, I'm very thankful to be well again. In fact, I realise just how many people there are to thank, and how many things to be thankful for. I recently spoke about all of these in a short video for our online church meetings (live.urbanvoice.org.za), and I thought I'd recap them here.

I'm grateful to be part of a church family: a group of people who prayed for me and messaged and phoned both me and my family with encouragement and support.

Within that church family is a smaller group, my Life Group, who arrived with meals (from sausage and mash to beef stroganoff!). They also kept a check on how my family was managing, as well as praying for me.

Another part of the church family is the Worship Team of which Steve and I are a part. They sent an extravagant, gorgeous bunch of flowers. Every time I looked at it, I was reminded of God's love for me, and their love and care too. The flowers lasted for weeks, unfolding and blooming.

Something I didn't add in the video (I had a time-limit) is how I couldn't work for about six weeks - yet finances where taken care of. One job paid me generous sick-leave, while from another came some back-pay owed to me; and a royalty payment came through.

At home, my husband Steve took over most of my chores, from laundry to cooking, and nursed me as well. In the context of current affairs and COVID-19, we could be thankful that he was still working from home, and so was able to manage all this. My two teenage boys carried on as normal, and even brought their Mom tea a few times!

There's a song that says, "What a friend we have in Jesus" - and indeed I found this to be true. While I was ill, I had no energy for anything, even reading; and there were long periods of just lying still, or waiting. During these times, I remembered all the dark days that Jesus has walked me through - and the good and joyful times too.

The Holy Spirit brought to mind bible verses and songs to encourage or soothe me; and there were special moments of comfort and help. One in particular happened when I went for an MRI scan:

In the MRI, you lie completely still while your brain is scanned. This means your head is immobilized in a kind of vice. To make sure there's no movement, a kind of "sponge" is also wedged in on each side of your head. At the time I had the scan, I'd had a fever and unrelenting headaches for several weeks - and that day was no different. The grip of the head-hold could have been frightening and claustrophobic and almost unbearable. Instead, into my mind dropped the image of two hands holding my head firmly but lovingly. What is more, I knew whose hands they were: the hands of a school-friend whom I hadn't seen for years. I hadn't even been in touch with her recently - yet I had a clear picture and tangible sense of care and compassion. I can only describe this as a special gift from God in that moment.

That's my "thankfulness" list. I'd like to end with a kind of summary to encourage you:

• if you are sick, allow others to help and bless you
• turn to God in whatever way you can
• whether sick or well, pray for one another
• if you are praying for the sick, pray for faith and peace along with healing
• give thanks

Our God Reigns

This song is on an album I've had for a while, but I only listened to it recently - on the first of April, in fact, when South Africa was just into the first few days of "lockdown" against the Corona virus/ COVID-19. As I write, we've just listened to the President announce a partial lifting of lockdown, with strict conditions still in place.

I've copied the lyrics here, but the part that really struck me was the chorus - Hallelujah our God reigns - where Jenn Johnson encourages us to "sing it out" - to "sing out Hallelujah," God's sovereignty, over a solid, comprehensive list of things, from our families to those who are homeless.

Even if you don't listen to this kind of music, I hope you'll take a listen and be strengthened and reassured by the chorus in particular. Link: God I look to You

God I Look To You (Bethel Music)

God I look to You, I won’t be overwhelmed
Give me vision to see things like You do
God I look to You, You’re where my help comes from
Give me wisdom; You know just what to do

I will love You Lord my strength
I will love You Lord my shield
I will love You Lord my rock forever
All my days I will love You God

Hallelujah our God reigns
Hallelujah our God reigns
Hallelujah our God reigns
forever all my days Hallelujah

Why you should use cash

Cash keeps you honest.
Honest with yourself; honest with your spouse; honest with the person or business whose money has been entrusted to you.

In Dan Ariely's Predictably Irrational, he relates several sets of experiments that he and his colleagues run to test people's honesty. Students answer some questions, add up their scores, and are rewarded a small amount for each correct answer. There is a control group; a group who can cheat to some degree; and a group who can cheat completely if they wanted to. Those who can cheat, do - but not by very much. Then the researchers add in other factors.

They begin with finding out whether an honour code helps reduce cheating - and it not only reduces it, it eliminates it altogether:

So we learned that people cheat when they have a chance to do so, but they don't cheat as much as they could. Moreover, once they begin thinking about honesty - whether by recalling the Ten Commandments or by signing a simple statement - they stop cheating completely. In other words, when we are removed from any benchmarks of ethical thought, we tend to stray into dishonesty. But if we are reminded of morality at the moment we are tempted, then we are much more likely to be honest.

Now comes the factor of cash versus objects. They repeat the same experiment, but this time, instead of rewarding correct answers with money, they reward participants with tokens, which they then exchange for money. In other words, the cash is at one remove.

The results are salutary: when given the chance to cheat and the reward is in tokens (not real money), the average rate of cheating doubled. Not only this, but a proportion of those in the token group cheated all the way or as much as was possible (claiming all correct answers).

This means that not only did the tokens "release" people from some of their moral constraints, but for quite a few of them, the extent of the release was so complete that they cheated as much as was possible.

Ariely discusses a number of possible uses for this research, along with the broad caution that our current trend towards a cashless society might hold some distinct disadvantages.
His finding also translate into our everyday relationship with money: it is easier to cheat ourselves when we deal in credit or bank-account-numbers, not cash. Before you convince yourself that you can spend your savings on that new TV, or that adding the extra magazine and chocolate won't add too much to the grocery bill, try paying for that desired object in cash (or even just picturing the cash). I guarantee you will see the purchase differently and, if you are saving for something else, it might just stop you cheating on your own goals.
I'm considering trying it out on my boys: keeping their pocket money in cash so they can see how much they've saved - or how much they plan to spend. Watch this space... 

Reading right to the end

I finally finished reading a book that's been on my shelf for a few years. Called "Incognito", it has the sub-title "the secret lives of the brain" and its author David Eagleman sets out to address such questions as why (or how) your foot hits the brake-pedal even before you are consciously aware of danger ahead.
Some of the material is reasonably straightforward and easy to grasp; other parts - especially where science meets philosophy, as in one section about blame and justice - well, other parts are harder and require concentrated swathes of reading-time that I don't often have. I just couldn't seem to manage to get to the end.


The strange thing was that, when I picked up the book again, determined to finish it, I discovered that I had almost finished; in fact, the final chapter was left, and it was a true "concluding" chapter in that it summed up all the key ideas in the book. I felt both relieved and pleased, and at the same time a bit annoyed at myself: I had stopped just before the end. As I write that down, I realise it's something - a phenomenon - I've read about elsewhere: that we sometime give up just before we are actually about to reach our goal.

That's quite a strange discovery: in completing the book, I not only received a re-cap of all the main points, but I received a reminder of a quite different lesson altogether.

Your brain is much, much more complicated than you realize.
And you are much, much closer to your goal than you think you are.

Disquieting reassurance

An alarm system is supposed to make me feel safer, isn't it? Why then does part of me feel less secure?

We had an alarm system installed today, and after the installers had tested it and showed us how it worked and driven away, I found myself feeling upset and a bit shaken.

I have never felt the need of an alarm system - still do not, actually. Our area is very safe and quiet, and I never feel anxious when on my own at home. We do have burglar guards on the windows (lovely "clear bars") and security gates on the doors; but you can open our garden gate and walk up the front door, which I like. More and more, we are cut off from each other behind gates and walls and electric fences, so I like bucking the trend and staying accessible.

What changed? My dear husband had the opportunity to travel overseas, and arranged for an alarm system to help protect his precious family while he is away. After some debate and after downsizing the original quote, we agreed on a simple, effective system and he boarded his plane, leaving me to see to the installation of the system and learn how to operate it.

So why the negative emotions? I feel it goes something like this:

If I have an alarm system, it must mean there is something to be alarmed about - something against which I and my family need to be protected. Admitting an alarm system admits too that the world is not as safe as we like or pretend. It doesn't quite go so far as to invite attack; but it admits the possibility.

It is this admission that has me uneasy and sad when you might expect me to feel relieved and reassured. I am alarmed, dear friends, by the alarm.