My wife and I have both lived quite hectic lives and so we’ve decided to make 2009 a year of rest. We can’t rest entirely, of course: we need to earn a living! But we are resting from ministry. Having both been involved in preaching, music and writing ministry over many years, 2009 is a year for us to restore strength, regain energy and find rest for our souls. And we’re both looking forward to it a great deal.

It will mean we will have to deliberately say ‘no’ or, at the very least, be very selective about what we say ‘yes’ to. There is much we want to know - there are areas of ministry we want to continue or pursue, but they are not for this year. It is good to rest; there’s a strong biblical precedent for it; and it’s good for one’s health.

It will also serve as a very good - and constant - reminder that who we are is not defined by what we do, but that we are children of God, loved by our Creator, and clothed daily by the grace and mercy of Christ. And therein is reason enough to rest.

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The year thou gave us Lord has ended. Well, in just over a week it will have ended and what a year it has been. I moved house, got married, travelled to three different countries (and to one of those countries, twice), wrote a book, got a new desk at work, got a new computer at work, moved churches, had a significant birthday and got married to my Significant Other. A very good year, indeed.

Planning a wedding is not something I would want to do ever again if I can help it. The logistics of wedding planning aren’t all that tricky, but dealing with conflict, expectation, people, people, people, that can be demanding and difficult and can require more diplomatic skills than one is always willing to bring to bear. But we got through it in the end and we’re going to spend the next year recovering. And unpacking presents.

This blog has been somewhat neglected in recent months, as all the spare time I had was taken up with all-things-wedding, but now that is behind us, hopefully they’ll be more time to devote to this small portion of my writing world. If anyone still out there reads this, then thanks for sticking with it despite the resounding silence.

There’s much this year that I wanted to do but never quite had the time to do - long walks, long books, long movies. I’m hoping that my Significant Other and I will find time to do all of these things and more over our brief respite from work and longer as this summer continues for a few months’ yet.

But now I am a married Mr and really enjoying a great deal being married - it is everything it is meant to be and more - and I look forward to spending lots of time with my Mrs in this our first Christmas together.

So Merry Christmas my friends and I hope you enjoy the break, the season and all that it means.   

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My new book Bring in the New Day: Discovering the Hope that is God is available now. Contact me at andrew@andrewbutcher.org  if you would like a copy: NZ$25 plus p + p.

I was recently interviewed about it on Rob Holding’s show on Radio Rhema and reviews will feature in the NZ Baptist and Daystar magazines in 2009. You can also read a brief article that summarises the book in the latest (Nov 2008) Stimulus journal - go to www.stimulus.org.nz to find out how to access a copy.

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My next book Bring in the New Day: Discovering the Hope that is God (you can see the draft cover to the right) is now available for pre-order. It will be published in December 2008. Pre-ordered copies sell for $25.00 - let me know if you’d like to order a copy at this special price. Believe me when it goes into the shops (it is being sold by University Bookshop, Dunedin) it will be more than $25.00.

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You have to admire the gall of the Wellington Rail Network, Trans Rail, Kiwi Rail, On Track, Thomas the Tank Engine and Friends, or whatever they’re called now that they’ve been bought and sold and bought back and sold again more time than a Christmas gift on Trade Me.

Recently they increased rail fares by twenty percent. Proportionately, they have decreased service by the same amount.

This morning, after running to catch the train, a train pulled up to the station and was so full of people, so packed to the gunnells, that people were becoming very familiar with one another’s body odour, underarms and morning breath. The train was so full when it pulled up that those of us standing on the station looked at the doors as they opened, realised that to actually board the train would mean that we would be squished by the doors when they closed, and so stayed on the platform as those on the train looked at us in quiet desperation and we looked at them in quiet delight. The doors closed and the train departed.

Not a minute later another train came to the station, but did not stop. This train, I kid you not, was empty. There were no people on this train. There was enough space to seat a small village of people, their pets and all their worldly belongings, but the train did not stop. Those of us on the platform looked at the train as it whizzed past us with bemusement.

And then a third train came along, not quite as full as the first train but, like the second train, didn’t stop but kept on going. We began looking for signs that said “this station is now closed. Do not board here.”

And then, about five minutes later, as quite a crowd was gathering on the station, a fourth train arrived, slowed down, stopped and opened its doors. It was not empty, but nor was it so full that we would be so close to one another that we’d start breeding. And so we boarded the train and we went on our journey.

And I spent at least ten minutes of my life this morning looking at trains going past and wondered whether that whoever owns the railways now should perhaps spend less time finding a new owner for tomorrow and putting the prices up on tickets and more time ensuring that trains stop on time, where they should and with enough room to at least sit down and not become too familiar with the man next door.

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It was time to pay a visit to the department of hatching, matching and dispatching. I had a duty to do: make sure I would be legally married in November. It only occurred to me recently that there would be paperwork for getting married. No good just turning up to the church, walking down the aisle, kissing the bride and then when it comes to signing the register realising that the “register” wasn’t there at all and that they’d be this awkward moment when somebody, or several people, rushed around looking for something that could be a “register”.

 So I had to apply by filling in a form that asked me all sorts of questions about me, my wife-to-be, my parents, my in-laws-to-be, my pets (none), my address, date of birth, occupation etc. The form had an interesting box at the end about whether this marriage was actually legal and lawful and checked that I wasn’t marrying my cousin.

But it wasn’t enough to tick the boxes.  I actually had to make a verbal declaration. I waited in line to be called and thought all I’d have to do would be to present this form to the lady behind the glass, sign my name, part with money and be done with it. But, no. This was going to be a veritable production. First, she had to check that everything I had written was kosher. So she did that by reading out what I had written down and asking me whether it was a true and accurate record (and asking me in such a way that if it were not a true and accurate record, I would be getting very familiar with a part of the world called Siberia).

This process struck me as a slightly odd way of verifying the facts; since I was the one who wrote it I was hardly going to say ‘oops, sorry, no, that’s not the name of my fiancee; her name is Sally or Jill or Maureen, not Yvette. What was I thinking? Thanks so much for showing me the error of my ways’. I mean, really! It’s a little like those arrival forms when you’re travelling on a plane that say ‘tick this box if you’re a terrorist’.

And then the woman behind the glass (who moonlighted as a travel agent for Siberian Travel Ltd) read a section at the end of the form in very sombre tones. I seriously had to withhold laughter. She asked me whether either Yvette or me were eighteen (despite, earlier in the form, I both wrote down and verbally agreed to the dates of our births; and if she thought I looked eighteen then my new haircut really does make me look younger!).

She also asked whether there was any legal impediment to us getting married. And before I could answer ‘no’ she turned over the page to the list of all the relatives you’re actually not allowed to marry (mother, sister, niece etc.) so I could be sure that marrying someone to whom I am not related (yet) was legal. I also had to state that I was not already married or had any aspirations toward bigamy at all. So having established that I was neither a bigamist nor unhealthily close to members of my own family, I said there was no legal impediment to getting married to Yvette, signed my name and then the lady behind the glass went to print me my receipt. At which point the printing machine jammed and she had to manually take it apart, piece by piece until, several hours later, she printed my receipt, and wished me good-day.

And so, having established that I wasn’t marrying my sister, I went on my way, out into the blistering southerly, content in the fact that, come November 22nd I will be legally married and that they’ll be a bit of paper that I can sign to make it so. But also, frankly, a little worried about the reasons behind the long list of types of people you’re not allowed to marry (and believe me, this is a four column list in small print). I mean, how many people really go fill in the form, roll up to the desk and say ‘I’d like to marry my sister. Is that okay with you?’ Well, perhaps people that listen to talkback radio, come from Tasmania or Invercargill and speak real slow. Perhaps those people. But, for the rest of us, well, for me anyway, I can say that truly I am marrying Yvette, she is not my sister, doesn’t look anything like me, is over eighteen, and is not married to somebody else.

 I can only imagine how difficult it must be to register a birth or death: “were you really born? You sure you didn’t just dream it?”, “so, you say you’re ‘born again’; does that mean you weren’t actually born the first time?”, ”how do you know the deceased has really died? I mean, are you sure? Did you check his pulse?” So, it seems, such is life (death and marriage) at the department of hatching, matching and dispatching.

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You can now order Walking the Emmaus Journey online through University Bookshop, Dunedin at http://unibooks.barcode.net.au/product_info.php?products_id=16484

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Walking the Emmaus Journey received a Highly Commended Award in the Binding & Finishing section of the New Zealand Print national annual Pride in Print Awards. You can see its entry on the first page of this PDF file.

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Some years ago I heard the English preacher Charles Price preach at the Waikanae Easter Convention at El Rancho on Wellington’s Kapiti Coast. I heard him again a few years later. I found him to be an extraordinary bible teacher, an excellent communicator, and someone worth listening to.

In 2001, Price moved from England to Canada where he is now pastor of Living Truth Ministries. I was excited to find that his sermons are available to download to read, listen and watch (at the top of the page) at the Living Truth Ministries page. I’m listening through his sermon series on Abraham: fantastic, challenging, well worth listening to. The price is right.

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Without them we may have never eaten our vegetables. We would never have had the story of Oedipus. Freud may never have been so popular. We never would have had someone pack our school lunches, or get up to us in the middle of the night when we were children and scared of the boogey-monster under the bed or in the wardrobe.

We never would have had someone to tell about our school day or get excited for us when we went on our first date. At weddings, there wouldn’t be any one proud, wearing a hat. At the cross, there would have been no-one at all watching their son die.

We wouldn’t have had someone to teach us how to cook and bake and boil an egg. We wouldn’t have had someone give us advice about girls or interpret for our father: ‘what your father meant to say’.

We wouldn’t have had someone to tie our shoe-laces or ferry us from music practice to swimming practice and home again. We wouldn’t have had someone who would worry if we were home late from school or stay up until we came home after an evening out. We wouldn’t have someone who would ring us several times a week once we’d left home and bring baking when she came to visit.

We simply wouldn’t be here without them, and today we salute them, whether they are with us still or passed away, near or far, we say ‘Thanks Mum. Happy Mother’s Day’.

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