Into Australia

Sleeping in caves

This weekend, Eric, the kids and I on a last minute whim, loaded up and headed for the hills, or to be exact, The Blue Mountains.  I browsed the Internet late Thursday night and came up on Hatter's Hideout.  It advertised a house that came with a cave, and a discount for last minute bookings.  That would be us. 

So Friday, I packed up the kids and clothes and a cooler, and after a harrowing drive through downtown Sydney where, I found myself driving the wrong way on a one way street, then yelling to Eric, "If you will just run, you can jump in at the next stop light!" we made our way out of the mad rush of Sydney's Friday afternoon traffic.  Finally the landscape contained fewer and fewer office buildings and used car lots.  Less warehouses and more 1920's federation style homes.  And finally we began to come upon quaint downtown areas centered around train depots with all the charm of Norman Rockwell paintings.  I stopped in to a local grocer for eggs, coffee, and milk.  The cashier showed me a several pictures of her grandchildren.  It was nice. 

Then we headed down to the Hatter's Hideaway which consisted of a wonderful house the mad hatter, aka, Mark O'Carrigan constructed himself and a cave.  Both were equally impressive.  The house ran on solar power and used rainwater that was harvested from his roof and then stored in a 17,000 gallon cistern below the home.  The cistern acted as a heat sink keeping the house cool, and the house was designed after Mark had collected enough doors and windows from homes or offices that were being demolished in the area.  Made entirely out of corrugated Tin, it could have looked rather industrial, but the house had a wonderful cottage feel, and Caleb loved sleeping in the attic loft. 

The next night we stayed in the Cave.  Mark, who'd lived in the area for about 20 years came upon the cave while bush walking one day.  He supposes he's only the third white man to have ever seen the cave.  A large tree stump at the cave's entrance indicates that loggers were in the area, and you can see Aboriginal graffiti on the cave walls.  One such marking is a of a child's hand print.  The child would have made a type of red dye from rock found in that area, put his hand on the wall and then spit the red dye onto the wall leaving the hand imprint for us to see hundred of year later.  The cave was the shape of an upside down amphitheater.  It had a grill, a fire pit, a giant swing, running water, and then out of eye-sight, but close enough to race to in the middle of the night was a Rota-lu--A composting toilet.  When we weren't listening to the lyrebirds call to one another across the canyon we played the drums! Mark had placed a couple of plastic drums, each with a plastic wire attached to the end of a broom handle.  The idea was to straddle the drum, hold the broom handle in front of you so that the tip without the wire rested on the edge of the drum making a triangle.  It's sides being the top of the drum, the string and the handle.  Then you could pluck the string and adjust it's pitch, making it go higher by pulling the handle towards or you.  I thought I did a pretty good job of Stairway to Heaven and YMCA, but Eric was never able to tell what they were.  He's tone deaf.

It took Elise all of five minutes to look like one of those children you might send your coffee money to (in the days when a cup of coffee was forty-five cents.)  The bottom of the cave was composed of dust from the sandstone.  Elise took it for beach sand.  She made dust angels, she tried to bury herself in dust.  She absorbed all the dust kicked up in the wake of the Tonka dump truck she pushed around as a ride for Baby Anna.  Caleb faired a little better but only nominally so, by the next day Caleb's blond hair and Elise's brunette had turned the same color--sort of sandstone grey.  We still managed to eat hamburgers and apple pie.  And after a "spit bath" we lowered them down gently into their pj's and without letting their freshly scrubbed feet touch the ground, laid them gingerly into their sleeping bags.  Eric and I cleaned up around the campfire, poured ourselves a couple of glasses of wine and before we could finish our drinks the kids were asleep.  Come to think of it, we never did finish that wine ourselves.    

Klouda and 1 Timothy and SWBTS

I think I'm a little bit late to the presses on this one, but it did catch my eye.  For those who do not want to click on the link, Sheri Klouda was a professor in the School of Theology at Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary in Fort Worth.  She taught Hebrew.  She was hired and chose the job because it allowed her to be on a tenure track.  She is the primary breadwinner in the family, her husband, due to a heart condition is not able to work full time.  A year after being hired, Paige Patterson was hired as President of SWBTS.  A few years later the school went back on its word and told Klouda that she would not be eligible for tenure.  The only reason cited was her gender.  Paige Patterson believes that everyone in the School of Theology should be able to be a pastor even if they are language professors.  He does not believe she can be a pastor because she is a woman and 1 Timothy 2:12 forbids a woman to teach or have authority over men.  In actuality he holds a more restrictive view than that as evidenced by the following quote that he gave The Baptist Press,

“Oftentimes, the answer of the evangelical world is that a woman cannot serve as a senior pastor.”

“Would somebody please find that in the text? It is not in the text. That is not said. There is no mention of occupation in this text at all. This is not a question of occupation. It is a question of an assignment from God, in this case that a woman not be involved in a teaching or ruling capacity over men,” Patterson said. “It is a prohibition of a woman teaching or ruling over a man in the church,” which would necessarily mean that women cannot serve as pastors, he said."

Paige Patterson believes that the scores of women who preach in the church but do not hold the office of pastorate are disobeying God, this includes Beth Moore.  Now, I actually have a tremendous amount of respect for someone who takes the word of God and says, "well the Bible said it, I believe it, and now I will act on it."  I know women who hold so firmly to the belief that the Bible says that life is sacred that they do not use birth control on the slight off chance that they might have a very early miscarriage.  I know women who do not believe in braiding their hair because Paul specifically says that women are not to do so.  I know women who stay in rotten marriages because they believe that even separating from the man they vowed to obey is wrong.  Agree or disagree with their actions, they deserve respect.

But the entire directive to women in 1 Timothy 2 says (I'm bullet point paraphrasing)

• Women should dress modestly, with decency and propriety.
• Women should not braid their hair
• Women should not wear gold or pearls
• Women should not wear expensive clothes
• Instead women should wear good deeds appropriate for women who worship God.
• A woman should learn in quietness and full submission
• A woman should not teach a man
• A woman should not have authority over a man.
• If you are a woman you will be saved through childbearing, if you continue in faith, love and holiness with propriety.

Now, Patterson says he believes in a very literal translation of the Bible (of course, some passages are poetic and not to be taken literally, but I'm pretty sure Paul was not speaking poetically here) I would say that I try to do what the Bible tells me to do as well, but he and I would arrive at very different conclusions.  But even while Patterson mitigates some of what Paul says, he does not give his methods or reasons for believing women should strictly obey some directives while allowing them to ignore others.  My questions are these:

• which ones of these directives do you believe women should follow? 
• which ones do you not? 
• If you do not believe that all of these should be obeyed then what method of critical intrepretation(Biblical exegesis) do you use to determine the rules that you should (or should not) obey?

And then of course, what was Paul talking about, being saved through childbearing?  That is weird.

 

On Elise

Elise keeps me humble.  She's stubborn, funny, at two can maintain a grudge, and a downright daredevil except at swimming lessons and where she morphs into clingwrap.  She's also persistent, independent, and did I say stubborn? 

Caleb has learned to ride a bike and Elise, not to be outdone, has taken her trike riding up a notch.  Her favorite activity at the moment is to traipse, pink doll bunny in hand, up the hill to almost the end of our cul-de-sac, she then sits on her little trike, Fred Flinstone's it two or three times until she reaches speeds approaching those acheived in a freefall, then just as she is about to hit the curb she slows herself down with her feet just enough to jolt her out of her seat when she slams into the curb without flipping herself over the handlebars of the trike.  She's done this about a hundred times.  We'll ask, Elise was that fun?  She, still wobbly from the crash, always replies, Yeah, that was fun!

Now we are sort of entertaining the thought of potty training.  Last night Elise pooped in her little blue training potty with the removable container after making pooping noises.  She learned about pooping noises after a bout with gas a couple of nights ago.  This is our little princess.  Today she sat on her little training potty with the little removable container again to see if she could make any "water" go into it.  She sat down, nothing came out.  She wanted to get up, but I pleaded, Elise, there's no pee in it, no water.  Can you make water in the toilet.  She took out the container, inspected it herself (it sort of irritates me that she won't trust me on this) then she inserted it back into the potty, leaned over the container and spat in it and said, Water!

I'm going to keep diapers on the grocery list for now.

   

Off with the training wheels

Caleb learned to ride a bike today. 

He is growing up so fast.

I thought I'd pass the "secret" on to the rest of the world.  Before we moved to Australia someone mentioned that they taught their daughter to ride a bicycle by taking off the pedals (most of them unscrew at the pedal).  Kids just sort of push themselves along and learn how to balance on two wheels.  So about a week ago we took Caleb's pedals off and let him push himself along on the bike.  When I saw him push off then place his feet on the bar between the seat and the handlebars.  I figured he was probably ready for pedals, so we put the pedals back on and I took him to a nearby park that has really short grass.  I put Caleb and his bike on the hill, helped him sort of get started the first few times and then he was riding just fine.  That was this afternoon.  By this evening he was riding in circles around the street in front of our house.

School in Oz

Our first day passed without much fanfare on Caleb's end.  Eric and I both went with him on his first day.  He had dressed himself and seemed more excited by the fact that he'd learned to tie his shoes than the fact that we were on the threshold of a major lifestyle change in the Miller household.  I should have known this.  In a period of six months we've essentially moved twice, once to the other side of the world, made three 20 hour plane rides, and Caleb has generally adapted just fine.  So when Caleb was told by the principal that he was in the orange classroom he responded that that was his favorite color (as Aggies we are hoping he gets over this).  He then told her he liked, blue, red and gold as well.  The principal then directed Caleb to a line of year six students who had been quietly oohing and aahing over the tiny kindergartners in their big hats and bigger, though empty, backpacks.  "Well Caleb, Jenny will take you to the orange classroom."  I'm not sure if that was her name or not, but I was impressed that without a name tag the principal knew her.  Jenny took Caleb's hand and Eric and I followed.  She led us down the hall and out to the portables and the fact that Jenny looked so young made Caleb look even tinier.  We walked in, there was a brief introduction to the teacher and Caleb hung up his backpack and took out his morning tea and lunch boxes and put them in his cubby hole and then sat down to play legos.  And that was it, over in less than ten minutes.   

A mom was telling me that her daughter attends Saint something-or-other which has a morning tea for the parents of kindy kids called "champagne and tears" for those mom's who were left so bereft from the "first day of school" experience they needed to self medicate.  Honestly, Eric and I could understand the sentiment, but since we also have strict rules against drinking before 10:00 a.m. we went to the local deli/coffee shop where instead of a cappuccino I ordered a mocha.  Extra hot.      

Over coffee we were free to browse the school newsletter.  I can volunteer to help with the school bank, the school uniform shop, or the school canteen.  All of these are run by volunteers.  I can either send Caleb with lunch or morning tea or I can send him with two brown paper bags labeled with his name and his order with money inside each.  Someone (a volunteer) will collect the bags and more volunteers in the school canteen fill the orders in time for morning tea or lunch.  Then more volunteers distribute the meals at tea and lunch time.  The newsletter included a menu as well.  No nachos with orange cheese, no soft drinks, no Hostess Twinkies.  Instead, the canteen serves a vast array of mostly healthy offerings including Sushi (but only three days a week), Vegemite sandwiches on wholemeal bread or roll, Corn on the cob, or "gingerbread people" (school's attempt at avoiding gender based stereotypes?)  Caleb could also order a Berry or Troppo flavored sports drink called "Thorpedo" after Ian Thorpe the Australian swimmer. 

Picking up Caleb was a bit more satisfying.  Caleb was glad to see me.  I asked him if he liked school to which he replied, "I loved it!  I loved it!  I loved it!"  When I asked him of his favorite part, he quickly replied recess and lunch.  When I asked him if he made any new friends he said yes.  When I asked him their names he said he didn't know.  Later that evening Eric called.  He had caught a plane earlier in the day to Melbourne, but had returned to his hotel room early for a chance to Skype with Caleb.  Unfortunately Caleb was engrossed in a heated game of Candyland and could not be bothered.  When I insisted that Caleb needed to talk to his dad, Caleb broke away long enough to say, "Dad, I tied my shoes all by myself."

Starting School

Today Caleb goes to school for the first time.

Monday we went to the uniform shop to pick out school uniforms. We bought a couple of polo shirts with the school emblem on the front.  A couple of pairs of grey socks with blue stripes around the top.  We bought two pairs of grey curdoroy shorts.  A sweatshirt.  A rain coat.  A hat.  And a backpack that makes him look like a Sherpa ready to climb Mount Everest. 

Since the uniform shop was little more than a walk-in-closet and a cash register, Caleb and Elise had gone out to play in the school grounds.  Emerging from the shop (about $250 lighter and that did not include the winter uniform) I found them sitting side by side, Caleb intently watching a group of children playing tag. 

"Caleb whatcha doin'?"

"I'm thinking."

"What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking about how I can make friends with those kids over there."

The kids were clearly engrossed in their game, all knew one another, and Caleb in contrast looked so alone.  I nearly cried. 

When I began to offer a suggestion, he said.  "But, I'm a bit shy."

Up until this point, I'd not been the least bit apprehensive about Caleb's starting school.  But now that the moment is drawing closer, I'm realizing how much our lives will change.  In the past, we've made plans without a thought of a school calendar.  But now our holidays will be dictated by it.*  I watched Elise follow Caleb around the school grounds yesterday.  And I thought again about how much she would miss him.  When Caleb is the knight, she's the dragon (so much for the princess dress she got for Christmas.)  And while I will not miss the bickering that does occur at our house over McDonald's toys, I will miss the sound of weapons fire as Caleb and Elise take on the "baddies" with their swords and whatever will suffice for a gun. 

For the past couple of days we have been playing school.  He's the student, I'm the teacher.  I wanted to go to the award winning playground we recently found.  Caleb wanted to stay at home in our unairconditioned house and play school.  I wanted to walk down to the little beach by our house.  Caleb had rather practice his letters.  He's been calling me ma'am for three days because we won't know who his teacher is until we arrive today.  If I respond to him in a tone of voice that does not sound "teachery" Caleb reminds me, "Mom, your the teacher.  Remember?"  Yesterday Caleb and Elise and I went to morning tea at the park to meet with about 50 other kids that will be starting school tomorrow.  They played games and had relay races.  One of the women mentioned that they played games at school, so we came home and walked around the front yard carrying around eggs with soup spoons.  Note:  Important to boil the eggs for kindy egg and spoon races.

I think I hear Caleb getting up.  He's putting on his uniform.  We still have two and a half hours before school begins.

*(One note:  Australia is far less stringent about missing a week here and there than Texas.  We live in a fairly international area and I hear parents regularly take children out for trips back to their native countries.  Our neighbors will miss the first week of school for that reason.)

Pray for Jaymun

You can read about him HERE.

It's not an owl

It is a Tawny throated frogmouth.  And though it hoots like an owl, is nocturnal like and owl, and sort of looks like an owl, it has weak talons and, therefore is not an owl.

Caleb and I were walking back from the beach on the trail to our house in the middle of the day when we saw three of them sitting on a tree not three yards away from us (This is not a picture of the ones we saw.)  Two were just furry fledglings that blinked at us with wide tawny colored eyes.  They must have had their days and night's mixed up, and I felt immediate sympathy for the adult birds.  The adult was sleeping and blended in almost perfectly, but not nearly as well as the fourth bird that I'd mistaken for part of the tree.  I had been looking at them for five minutes or so, when Caleb finally convinced me that there were actually four.

It is amazing what lives down at the end of our street. 

Don't call me Honey!

Dad:  Oh, honey, don't roll around in the sand.

Elise:  Daddy, I not Honey!  I Elise!

Aussie sports

Update:  This is a revised version.  I forgot to spell check, and I left out some important cricket info.

Sometimes I have to remind myself I'm in a foreign country.  The accent has become familiar, and if I'm at say a school auditorium listening to a reading teacher list good books for preschoolers, it feels very familiar.  The books are largely the same.  Mem Fox, being Australian, is big over here.  Moms ask about the schools approach to reading instructions--whole language vs. phonics, etc.  I could be in any suburban setting in the U.S. 

And then I'm confronted with the odd idiosyncrasies of Australia--Christmas and flip-flops, Swimming lessons and Santa, and then the strangest of all:  Cricket.  My understanding of Cricket is limited, but to me it seems to be a baseball game that has overdosed on Quaaludes.  This time of year we often see grown men dressed in white shirts, white vests, white knickers, white socks milling about watching a guy run full speed from what would be center field in baseball (relatively speaking) with a white ball that at the last second he hurls at a guy with a white paddle.  After that, they usually have tea.  Seriously, afternoon tea is part of the game.  Short cricket matches last an entire day, and at the end of the day their uniforms are still white.  But cricket can often go one for three to five days and right now that is what we are witnessing at the moment.  It is the Ashes Series here in Australia, and in the last go around for the first time in something like twenty years the Aussies lost.  It is a tense time here in the antipodes.   

The Ashes series began in 1882 when Australia, went to England and beat the "barmy army" at their own game.  The Sporting News, after a humiliating loss to a bunch of convicts and the descendants of former *sniff, sniff* English peasantry, declared that English cricket had died and that the body would be cremated.  Eventually an Australian, in a gesture entirely characteristic of Aussie humor, presented an urn carrying the English cricket remains, and to this day this is the "cup" that they play for.  It's a tiny little thing and looks a lot like the trophy I won when I spent one summer on a wooden bench watching my softball team place third in the fillies league.  

And if you are like me and you wonder why NBA finals are best of seven games instead of five or three, then you'll be simply bowled over by the Ashes series:  Five games, each game lasts five whole days.  So of course, why not break for afternoon tea. 

I can understand why such a sport goes over in the UK.  Mainly because there are a whole host of items (the British version of The Office, Borat, the Royal Family) that entertain the British (called Pommies here, and often spoken of with good humored disdain) that elicit a yawn in the States as the T.V. channel is switched to NASCAR,  My Name is Earl, or even celebrity poker.  But I don't understand why Australians find it so appealing.  This is, after all, the country that introduced the world to the Crocodile Hunter, Crocodile Dundee, and Mad Max.  I doubt the Man from Snowy River ever dressed in white nickers, polo shirt, and v-neck, then played a sport that breaks for tea.  But cricket is serious business over here and I heard on the radio that two bowlers had been expelled from the league after having taken steroids.  It took me a week to realize they weren't talking about lawn bowling, but still, I think the irony remains.  Steroids make sense in baseball where the outfield is so far away you can begin to see the curvature of the earth, but in cricket?

This is a foreign country.