the true story of a small miracle

We've been blessed with good neighbours.

On one side, most weekends you can see Paul up on the roof painting, laying guttering, clearing leaves, and dispensing good advice to his less home-maintenance-savvy neighbours. Every now and again his grandson pops his head over the fence, and shares dreams of wild adventure with our kids.

On the other side, in a gingerbread-brown house with white edging, live David and Lisa with their two sons, Alan and Ian, the same age as our middle two boys. Lisa and I have become friends, and I can talk quite openly with her about my faith: we meet for coffee, we chat on the phone, and our younger sons went to play gym together.

David and Lisa's older son Alan is autistic. Although he's at the milder end of the spectrum, he goes to a school for autistic children, and Lisa devotes hours to teaching him. We've invited Alan over to play with Ben - they are both passionate about mathematics, after all - but it's been difficult for them to form a connection.

A month ago Ben was paired up to do maths at school with an autistic boy called Alan. The teacher knew they both loved maths, and wanted to increase Ben's confidence by entrusting him with Alan's care. Knowing that the boy next door doesn't go to our children's school, I was pleased for Ben, but thought nothing of it.

Earlier this year, in a moment of irrational generosity, I agreed to help with the Red Cross Appeal. Two weeks ago we were asking for donations at local houses. When we reached our neighbours' house, I asked if Alan could possibly be going to our children's school. "No, he goes to a school for autistic children," David answered.

We continued our hot and sweaty walk around the court, knocking on doors and receiving no response, when a voice called from behind me: "Jean! Wait! Alan does go to the local school twice a week! Is that the school your children go to?"

You can guess the rest: even though his teacher didn't know they were neighbours, she paired Ben to work with the boy next door.

What happened next was so lovely, it took my breath away. Alan, who finds it difficult to form friendships, came out of his front door and tried to cross the court to get to Ben. Although he struggles to make eye-contact, he was glancing up at Ben, smiling a slight smile.

Our school was the last one David and Lisa tried, since it didn't claim to have an integration program - but it turned out to be the only local school interested in welcoming Alan. He will probably be in Ben's class full-time next year, and his brother Ian may well be in Thomas' prep class.

How wonderful our God is! How he weaves the circumstances of our lives, small happenings as well as large, and links us with other people for their blessing and ours! He knew where we would live, he knew who our neighbours would be, he knew how the details of our lives would mesh together.

How grateful I am for the small miracles which scatter our lives.

Names have been changed in this post.

the God of small things

It was the kids' first day back at school yesterday. Five minutes before we had to leave, and I was desperately searching the house for the Pokemon stickers I had promised to help Ben (7) put on his red lunchbox.
I looked in places likely and unlikely, noticing in passing the layers of dust on top of the fridge and the mess in Ben's desk drawers.

In the background I could hear the anguished cries: "I'm not going to school without stickers on my lunchbox! I'm not putting any other stickers besides Pokemon ones on there!" (the irresistable force meets the immovable object).

And I prayed "God, please help me to find them! I know Ben needs to learn to cope with disappointment, I know it's not important, but it's important to Ben, and I want his first day back at school to be a happy one."

In desperation, I eventually opened a small packet of what I thought were Pokemon tattoos in his drawer, only to discover that they were stickers. Problem solved, lunchbox decorated, one happy child off to school.

And this morning I unzipped the pocket on Ben's Pokemon backpack (an obvious place I failed to look yesterday) to discover the stickers I had been praying to find - but they were actually tattoos.

God knew what I was looking for, even if I didn't know myself.

a divine wink

Have you ever had one of those moments when you feel like God has tipped you a divine wink?

As you know if you've been reading this blog, I've been working very hard on my godliness when it comes to greed and over-spending. An overloaded credit card has provided the impetus, but the main motivation is to learn to obey God in my use of money. So there are many small moments when I resist the temptation to buy something we don't really need.

The other day I saw a little book in the newsagent with clever home hints about removing difficult stains. Having recently fought a prolonged battle with rust on Lizzy's white pants, I noted the cheap price, and had a look inside, but thought "I could save the money and look this information up on the internet" so didn't buy it. Another tiny victory in the battle with self.

Well, the time has arrived for Christmas raffles at school and kinder. You know the ones: where you pay $10 for 10 tickets and watch as huge baskets of goodies are handed out to other families, in yet another Christmas moment of generous giving (don't worry, I am going somewhere with this).

When we don't win a prize, I'm disappointed for the kids, but slightly relieved myself. What do people do with all those miniature Christmas puddings, Santa teatowels, and packets of shortbread? Last year at our school, one family staggered home with first and second prize, including an entire laundry basket full of stuff to add to their waistlines and give to friends and relatives to share the joy of extra padding.

We've never won anything apart from a small Easter basket containing a chocolate bunny and a pink stuffed rabbit when Lizzy was in kinder. So I was surprised and pleased when Thomas' name was pulled out at the kinder Christmas party today, and he won third prize, a basket of goodies large enough to be exciting but not obscenely huge.

We're waiting until the older kids get home to plunder it, but I've peeked through the cellophane (who could resist?) Imagine my surprise when, among the chocolate Santas, Christmas mugs, lolly-filled plastic candy canes and M&M alarm clocks, I saw a small, thin blue volume called Super Stain Remover, a rather unlikely inclusion in a Christmas hamper.

A reminder that God gave us, his miniature images, our sense of humour; that his care for us is kind, tender and gentle; that his providence is an excellent example of micro management; and that he loves to encourage us to keep going in our quest for godliness. And a tiny reflection of the sparkle of joy in the universe.