micro-memoirs

“Dad, what’s this song called?”

This is the question my son Hugo asks when he’s hearing a new song and he likes it and wants to add it to his playlist.

Hugo loves to choose the songs in the car – “Dad, can I have your phone?” – with the playlist songs being repeated over and over. Even the good songs he can wear thin – last week we had 16 hours of road trip and he was thrashing Fast Car, Feel It Still, King, Wellerman, and Between Wind and Water. At least they are not kids songs, but after dozens of listens each I’m over them.

We had another long drive today – about 3 hours, and I found packing for camping and getting the two boys out the door quite stressful. I’d hoped to be ready to go when I picked them up at 10:30, but at 1:30 the car still wasn’t packed and I was hungry and irritable and they were struggling too. When we finally got in the car I texted Casey and asked her to pray for me. I knew I was wearing thin, and I wasn’t being a patient dad. They’d started to ask why I was angry. I didn’t feel angry, but I was irritable, I was stressed. I felt overwhelmed. I asked for prayer because I wanted an infusion of grace to help – to help me feel peaceful, to help me love them well.

Eventually we got in the car and I told Hugo I’d need to choose a few songs – “to help me find my peaceful spot” – some church songs first, and then he could run his playlist favourites.

I queued the songs and started driving, letting go of the stress and easing into the start of the holiday. As we pulled on to the highway we were feeling calmer and they saw the freight rail tracks next to us, running in between us and the bush land. I pointed them out – the boys love trains. Around then, the second song I’d picked kicked in – “In this place” by Taya,. And it was then that he spoke up.

“Dad, what’s this song called?”

“It’s called In This Place.” I decided to open up a conversation. “Do you know what that means?”

Through the rear view mirror I could see him looking at me, interested.

“It means God is in this place, in this car. And God is in Busselton for camping, and even back at our Woodbridge house.”

“Because God is everywhere.”

We’d talked about this a bit recently, he understood.

“Yeah that’s right! Everywhere we go, God is there, and God wants to be your friend. God is in Esperance where we were last week too.”

“How can God be in two places at once?”

“Maybe God’s just really big?!”, I offered.

Satisfied with the answer Hugo decided to start exploring the truth of it.

“God is in the car. God is at Woodbridge house, and Caversham house.” His smile grew. “God is at camping in Busselton and Dunsborough.” He started to pick up steam, joy in his excited voice. “God is on the roof of the freight train! God is climbing a tree! God is sitting in the tree! God is walking through the bush and finding things!”

It was hard not to smile at that child-like picture of a child-like God. I kept smiling and we kept driving.

I’d found my peaceful spot.

Hugo asked for my phone and started picking songs from his playlist.

Remembering my Uncle Brendan

My uncle, Brendan Eaton (Bung) passed away in January. Here’s the story I shared at his funeral today.

The story I want to share of uncle Brendan is about one of the most frightening moments of my childhood, and how he was there for me in that.

In the hospital a few weeks ago I heard the stories of Brendan, Rosey, and the hill trolley. Building a kart to race downhill at a breakneck pace, and then loading your little sister in it. It sounds like even as a kid Brendan had a love for vehicles, and maybe a respect, but definitely a need for speed. But it was more than the hill trolleys and motorbikes and cars – he also liked to help others experience the thrill and adventure of it.

So if as a kid for him it was hill trolleys and his little sister, by the time he was older and my uncle, he’d graduated to bigger toys. Quad bikes, specifically. And he even got a farm to ride them on.

So together with my sister Clare and brother Aaron we’d get dropped off to Toodyay for a day with Bung and Mush, and the quad bikes. I day dreamed about it, easily the highlight of every school holidays. He taught us how to ride, about safety, respect for the vehicle. But he also taught us – and showed us! – how to have fun. Nothing like that sense of adventure and thrill seeking as a kid.

That’s the first thing l want to remember Brendan for: teaching and modelling and giving us that sense of adventure.

The second is what happened on the day I crashed the quad bike. We’d been having fun in the paddocks for a few hours already, and were coming back in for the end of the afternoon. Brendan was on one bike in front, I was driving the other with my brother riding on the back, chasing him back through the gates and to the house. As we came to the corner where the gate was, there was something I didn’t see – a guy wire from a nearby pole. I hit it, at speed. The bike lifted, my brother went flying and landed on the barbed fence, and I ended up pinned underneath the bike. My memory of the moment is dark – I can’t remember seeing anything. I remember hearing myself screaming, and my brother screaming. I remember feeling trapped. The burning heat. And I remember Brendan shouting, the shouts coming closer.

See the flip side of adventure is that sometimes the risks eventuate. And in that moment, as an eleven year old, it felt like it was all over for me. But it wasn’t. Uncle Brendan was there in a moment, lifted the bike off, and got me and my brother to safety.

And that’s the second thing I want to remember Brendan for. That incredible strength, loving strength, that was there to help pick up the pieces, and let us know we would get through this.

And those two things have shaped me – willingness to live large and take risks. And the knowledge that when it does fall, there’s loving people who’ll be with you on the other side, as he was then, and as he has been even up until this last year.

Bung, I am so grateful.