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.

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.   

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.

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.

 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.

Closer to home, I read the New Zealand Herald, and stuff, as well as the Sydney Morning Herald, the Melbourne Age, and the blog of the think-tank the Lowy Institute for International Policy, the Interpreter.