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Tuesday, 30 July 2019

Five Loaves, Two Fish and a Mum (Who was Probably Sick of Making Lunches)


Cereal is my friend in the mornings. School lunches are not. 

Not that I hate making lunches or anything but, well, between the nut-free rule cutting out my kids’ favorite spreads, the Queensland heat knocking out a bunch more options and plain fussiness knocking out the rest, finding something (read that as anything) to put in the kids’ lunch boxes five days a week is a serious challenge. 

So yeah, not my favourite part of each morning. But, something that has to be done because, hey, kids need to be fed. 

I was thinking about school lunches when I read the story of Jesus feeding the five thousand last week (John 6:1-14). I know, I know, I should have been focused on reading my Bible but in this case, my distraction actually led to a big spiritual moment for me so it was probably good. 

Instead of thinking of the miracle, all I could think of was the mum who’d probably packed that boy’s lunch. Probably the same thing she did every morning. I don’t know what mums were like in Jesus’ time but I’m guessing their lists of things to do each day (every single day, over and over again) weren’t all that different from my own.

Cook dinner, make kids’ lunches, change nappies, do laundry, clean the house, wrack their brains for a thousand answers to, “Mum, I’m bored…” Day in, day out. 

I imagine that morning for her went something like mine… get up before everyone else, wake up kids, convince them breakfast really is a good thing, find their missing socks (in the sock basket, believe it or not), get lunches sorted, send them off to school, remind them again not to forget their lunch as they run out the door… 

She probably sat down, once her son had left, and tried to find a moment for herself amidst the craziness of the morning and her never-ending to-do list. I doubt she thought, even for an instant, that her faithfulness in making her son’s lunch that day and making sure he took it would impact so many people. 

I know, I’m probably being totally fanciful and, for all I know, the boy packed his own lunch. But what if it was his mum? What if she did it every single day? What if she was feeling down about her to-do list which just replenished itself every single day, never to be complete no matter how many hours she spent on it? 

What if, that day, Jesus didn’t only feed over five thousand people? 

What if he encouraged one mum that what she does every single day is important? The things she thinks are just another thing on the to-do list. Just another thing she does every single day which nobody notices because she really does do them every single day. That lunch she made, that moment of faithfulness, used not only to feed a multitude but be astounded over, told and retold by people the world over for millennia to come. All because she did her one little thing. Because she was faithful in the little things God had given her to do. 

Romans 12:1, The Message version, puts it like this: 

“So here’s what I want you to do, God helping you: Take your every day, ordinary life – your sleeping, eating, going-to-work, and walking-around life – and place it before God as an offering. Embracing what God does for you is the best thing you can do for him.”

That every day life. Those things which don’t seem important. They’re worship too. God can use them. God does use them. Nothing you do is unimportant. 

The laundry you hung. The cushions you picked up. The rooms you tidied which were messy again the instant the kids breathed in them. The floor you swept, and swept, and swept and was still covered in crumbs at the end of the day. God noticed. He saw you. The first time, and the second, the third and the fiftieth. He noticed and he cared. About you. About every single one of those moments of faithfulness at the job he’s called you to do. Those little things you do for your kids, they matter. God can and does use them all. 

Even those dreaded school lunches.







Tuesday, 2 July 2019

If I Were a Butterfly...




I’ve sung it a thousand times. Anyone who grew up in Sunday School or has taught young kids probably has. One of those oldies which we’ll probably still be singing kids for decades to come. Yep, The Butterfly Song. 

If I were a butterfly, I’d thank you, Lord, for giving me wings.
If I were a robin in a tree, I’d thank you, Lord, that I could sing.
If I were a fish in the sea, I’d wiggle my tail and I’d giggle with glee,
But I just thank you, Father, for making me me.

For you gave me a heart and you gave me a smile,
You gave me Jesus and you made me your child
And I just thank you, Father, for making me me.

It goes on to list other animals – elephants, kangaroos, an octopus and that crazy fuzzy wuzzy bear – and what they’d thank God for, but always comes back to the main chorus. That I thank God for making me me. 

Like I said, sung it a thousand times with probably a thousand different kids, but for some reason the truth of it just hit me last week. I think it was due to a combination of things – a verse I underlined in my morning Bible reading, an announcement I really wanted to be excited about on Facebook (and was, alongside the jealousy and wishing it was me) and a giant butterfly photo on a wall. Strange how they’d all come together to leave me praising God. 

The verse was Psalm 9:1-2. “I’m thanking you, God, from a full heart. I’m writing the book on your wonders. I’m whistling, laughing, jumping for joy. I’m singing your song, High God.” (The Message) 

Funny how up and down emotions can be. I was so excited when I read that verse and underlined it in the morning. Yes! I thought. That’s exactly me! I’m so awestruck by your wonders, God, and everything you’ve done and are doing in my life that I can’t keep it to myself. I’m writing the book on your wonders. Whistling, laughing, singing. What an incredible privilege to be able to write and have that book published and share with others the incredible hope you’ve given me!

And, not two hours later, I’m down again. Wishing that friend’s announcement was mine. Wishing I was in their shoes, with their story, praising God with their words. Kind of pathetic really. 

And then my family and I went to the museum and I saw that butterfly on the wall. I called my daughter over for a photo first, loving how she was the perfect height to stand right in the middle and ‘become’ the butterfly. Then my little, not quite tall enough but still totally cute, son wanted a go and my other daughter and then, just as we were leaving, I went back for a photo of my own. It was sweet. I liked it. And started singing the butterfly song to myself because, well, it was pretty engrained in my head after all those times singing it. 

But as I was singing it in my head, smiling at the photo of me pretending to be a butterfly, the words got to me and I realized just how thankful I really was to be me. That God hadn’t created me to be a butterfly with giant wings or a robin, singing its heart out in praise. That God hadn’t made me my friend, with her particular story, journey and beautiful book cover. I really was, right to the heart of me, singing and jumping for joy, thankful that God had made me me. 

Me, with my story. My journey. My family. My publishing house. My way of looking at the world. My way of praising God. My heart, my smile. The ones that God gave me. Not them. Me. 

God already has that person’s praise. He already has butterflies and robins and fuzzy, wuzzy bears praising him in their particular way. What he doesn’t have, if I’m too busy trying to be someone else or comparing myself to them, is me. My praise. The thousand reasons he’s given me to worship. 

If I were a butterfly, I’d thank you, God, for giving me wings… But I’m not. I’m me. Hannah Currie. And today, and always, I’m incredibly thankful that God made me me. 

What are you thankful for today? What has God given you that you alone can praise him for? 




Tuesday, 25 June 2019

Almost There (But Not There Yet)



One of the most memorable, challenging, shoot-right-to-the-heart-of-me-challenging talks I’ve ever heard was given by Mike Pilavachi at Hillsong Conference one year. It was at an elective for youth leaders and I honestly don’t remember what the actual topic was and whether this was part of the talk or the whole of it but it impacted me that day and has almost every day since – especially since I started pursuing my dream of becoming a published author. 
He talked about Nehemiah and the wall of Jerusalem that he rebuilt. Or, more specifically, the challenges along the way. See, Nehemiah set out to rebuild a wall. Not a little retaining wall but a giant one. Picture one of those ones that go around old cities and castles. Huge. Solid. Thick. The town’s first and best defense. It was supposed to be protecting Jerusalem. Instead, it was a pile of rubble.
But God put a passion in Nehemiah’s heart to see it rebuilt. So, he left his prestigious job, travelled back to Jerusalem, convinced its people to help and got to work. 
And straight up, faced opposition. 
Before he’d even started laying the first bricks, the naysayers came. Three guys who didn’t believe in God, didn’t believe in Nehemiah and definitely didn’t want that wall rebuilt. 
“Do you really think you can do this?”
“You think you’re all that?”
 “You’re crazy, you know that, right?”
But Nehemiah shook them off. “God will help us succeed. He gave me the dream, he’ll see it through.”
And the wall started going up. Section by section, it grew and grew, alongside the faith and enthusiasm of its people, until it was halfway done. 
And the outsiders, those naysayers and their friends, got angry. I can just see them, arguing back and forth between themselves, pointing fingers. “You said they’d fail. You said it wouldn’t go up. Now look. It’s halfway done. We have to do something about this. Words aren’t working.”
Giving up on their taunts, they started attacking. The builders were spending as much time fighting as they were building. The people grew discouraged. But, back came Nehemiah, reminding them God was on their side. Stationing warriors alongside the builders. Holding a spear in one hand and a trowel in the other. Fighting for what was right. 
And the wall kept rising. 
Until it was done.
Well, almost. 99 percent. The whole wall, so solid it was watertight, but not the gates.   
And in one last ditch attempt, the enemies came back. Not an attack this time, not even taunts. An invitation. “Come, meet with us. You’re pretty much done. Good job.” And when that didn’t work, they started first one rumor, then another. All trying to get the work to stop. 
Nehemiah saw through their ploys, prayed for strength, and at last the wall was done. Finished. One hundred percent. God’s people were safe again. Nehemiah saw with his own eyes the fulfilment of the vision God had given him. 
Mike talked about the different points in which the enemy attacked and the different ways he does it. 
At the beginning. When you’re just starting out. Full of faith and excitement but also wondering if this giant, often humanly-impossible, dream God has given you is even real or you’re totally deluded. That’s when the doubts come. The questions. “Are you sureGod gave you this dream? You think you’rethe one to do this? Seriously? You? Who do you think you are??”
In the middle. When you’re halfway there and tired. Worn out from the work. You’ve fought through the doubts and questions and you know this is where God wants you but you’re physically tired and it all just seems too much. You don’t know where you’re going to find the energy to keep going. 
And at the 99 percent mark. When it’s pretty much all done. Not totally. There are a few more bits and pieces to finish off but, really, you’re pretty much there. Surely, there’s time to celebrate. After all, you’re there. You’ve done it. You fought through all the opposition, kept fighting through the weariness and you’re done.
Almost.
It’s the last one I’ve always struggled with the most and the place I think the enemy will always try to hit the hardest. When we’re almost done. The end is in sight, and this is his last chance. 
It’s the place I’m alternately fighting from and struggling in today, three months out from my debut book being published. 
For almost a decade now, I’ve been fighting for this dream. Through a barrage of self-doubts, rejections, characters that won’t behave, physical pain and sickness, dreams which seemed dead, others’ doubts and a bunch of stuff which should have stopped me. But didn’t. Because I held on to the fact that God could do this, even if I couldn’t. 
And then the book was written. The contract came. The edits were done. The date was set. And all of a sudden, just over three months out, when the book could pretty much do itself now without any more of my help, I’m tired. Doubting. Wondering what I was thinking to think I could do this. Wondering what I was thinking to think this book was any good and that anyone other than family would want to read it. 
It’s a scary place to be because I know it’s not real. I know it’s a last ditch attack. But it feels real. The doubts are there, every day, eating away at my faith. The despondency creeps in. And I have to remind myself, day by day, minute by minute, to look up and not out. To keep my eyes on God and his purpose, rather than what I see, or don’t see, around me. 
To, like Nehemiah, beg God for one last bit of strength. 
To do what God’s called me to do.
And finish the wall. 






Sunday, 19 May 2019

Learning to Fall - Lessons from the Wall: Part Two



We were in the middle of Brazil, surrounded by palm trees, bamboo and humidity so thick you could touch the water in the air. Our boots were coated in mud, so much so that they looked like platform shoes, and weighed twice what they would clean. Most of us had just as much mud on us, having run through it, crawled through it and fallen into it. But we kept on, knowing that the timer ticked on – and two hundred Brazilian teens and their leaders were watching. We'd been through our own Boot Camp and now were helping run theirs. 
We’d been here before – not in Brazil but through Boot Camp’s Obstacle course, even if this one was on the other side of the world. We knew how it worked. We’d done a countoff (this time in Portuguese), climbed a giant ladder, run through tires, crawled through a tunnel made of palm leaves, swung on a rope over water. All that was left was the wall. By this stage, we were pros at this obstacle.  
So, hands up, eyes up, we began. First one team member, then another. Over the wall. Someone called my name – “Hannah! You’re next!” – and I pushed to the front, put hands on two teammates’ shoulders and stepped up on their clasped hands, felt them push up and grabbed for the hands of the two guys sitting up on top. So far, so good. There was yelling around me – leaders reminding us to keep our hands and eyes up, the Brazilian teens cheering us on, my own teammates calling out encouragement and advice – but all I was focused on was keeping my mud-coated boots flush up against the wall. Lean back, walk it up. Trust their hold. 
And then, I don’t know what happened, whether the humidity made the guys’ hands slip or whether one of my boots did, wrenching me out of their grasp but, almost to the top, I fell. 
And, for the time it took me to fall backward two metres, I totally panicked. Actually, panicked isn’t quite the word. More my brain rushed a few thousand times faster than it should thinking through every worst-case scenario it could come up with. Which was a lot given how little time it had. 
I was going to break a leg. A compound fracture, of course. In the middle of the Brazilian jungle. Forever away from a hospital. 
Land on my tailbone, jar my back out of alignment, partially paralyze myself. 
Hit my head on a rock. Lose consciousness. For days. 
Crush those beneath me. Wipe out the team. 
Silly things. Completely ridiculous now I think of it but fear has a way of making the ridiculous sound real. 
Of course, none of those happened. Not even close. I didn’t even get a scratch. Why? 
Because my team caught me. I didn’t even hit the ground. And less than a minute later, I was up again, walking up the wall. This time, making it over. 
I’d been with that team for almost four weeks already. We’d run Obstacle Courses, done classes, screamed out warcries, worked together, spent two days on a bus and two and a half on planes/in airports, prayed together, put up tents together, washed my hair in buckets and brushed my teeth alongside them. I knew these people. I loved these people. But I never realized how deeply I could trust them – with everything I had – until that day I fell off the wall and they caught me. That moment was such an incredible turning point for me. To trust to the point of letting myself fall. 
And has been such an incredible challenge to me ever since. One I really hate. One I still fail at.  
I hate the feeling of being weak and out of control. I’m pretty sure most people do. I want to be independent and strong and enough. All on my own. I want to have it all together.  I hate it when people see my weakness. I’ve gotten really good at letting people see what I want them to see. Which isn’t weakness. Or if it is, it’s once I’m past it. Once I’ve gotten through whatever it is and can stand proudly and say I did it. I – with God’s help – got through. I’ll accept God’s help – how can I live even a day without him?? – but other people? No, thanks. I’m good. I can do it myself. 
Just like a silly toddler. “Do it myself, Mummy.” Yeah, sure. 
Want to know something? I’m forcing myself to write this post. Why? Because I haven’t conquered this one yet. I’m not writing from the end, when I’ve learnt the lesson and can encourage you all to do it too. I’m still in the middle. Still failing every day to trust those around me to catch me when I fall. Still struggling hugely to let them even see that I’m falling. Still clinging to control till my fingers bleed. 
All these people around me with their hands up, eyes up. All these people wanting to help. Already praying. On my team. Who love me. And here I am, struggling up the wall myself, determined to get up there alone. Clinging to the illusion of control. Too full of pride to let myself fall. 
The thing is, I know they’re there. I know God has sent them to help me, but I struggle so much with pushing my pride away enough to let them. 
But here’s the thing – and I’m telling myself this as much as I am you reading this – you’re not alone. Maybe it’s time to let yourself fall. Let them see that you’re not okay. Give them the opportunity to bless you. Be there for you. Be Jesus to you today. 
It wasn’t climbing the wall which showed me the power of team. I’d done that a few times already. It was falling off it. And having them catch me. 
But they didn’t stop there. They didn’t just lower me to the ground and say, “nice try, Hannah, guess you’re not strong enough after all”. The lifted me again. Grasped my hands again. Pushed me up to try again. And this time, I succeeded. Because of them. Because of the people around me. 
Like I said, this is a lesson I’m still learning and, with my stupid pride, probably will be for the rest of my life. It’s a tough thing to write about because I know how often I fail at it. But maybe you, like me, need to be reminded that you’re not alone. That there are people around and underneath you who are on your side. On your team. With their hands up and eyes up. Ready to catch you. Ready to help you up again. You can’t do this alone. You were never meant to.  





Thursday, 9 May 2019

Hands Up, Eyes Up - Lessons from the Wall: Part One


When I was a teenager, I went on a couple of short term mission trips with Teen Missions International, first to Thailand, then Brazil. Talk about life-changing! Both of them were incredible experiences and ones I couldn’t more highly recommend. But, before we got to go overseas, we had to go through Boot Camp. 
And, every morning, each team had to make it through the dreaded Obstacle Course (or OC, as it was affectionately, and not-so-affectionately, known). Think big. Team-building to the extreme. Rope swing over a three-metre-long moat. Giant hill of tyres. Rope ladders. More hills. Climbing, crawling, swinging, ducking, running. 
And, The Wall. 
Ah, The Wall. 
The final challenge. A four metre high wall. Straight up, straight down. The aim being to get as many team members over it before the time runs out. The ultimate team-builder. Because there was no way someone could do this one alone. 
Picture a bunch of sweaty, tired yet hyped up teens, some (like me) soaked from their daily fall into the moat, looking up at a wall, the glare of the sun in their eyes, yelling back and forth about who’s going up next and how they’re going to get there, cheering each other on. You’d send up the two strongest guys first usually. The ones who, with a boost, could pull themselves up to sit on the top. Then one by one, other team members would get boosted up by those on the ground, reaching high enough to grab the hands of the guys on top and walk their way up. There was many a debate later on as to what was the best method – bracing yourself and walking up or being pulled, monkey grip or hand clasp, gloves or bare hands – but one by one, we’d all go over. 

And around it all, the continual cry of ‘hands up, eyes up!’ Over and over. Hands up, eyes up. 
Because, inevitably, there would be people who fell, and the last thing you wanted was for them to fall from four metres to the ground. Every team member who wasn’t either boosting someone up, on top of the wall or climbing, had to have their hands up ready to catch if need be and be looking up. It was a safety measure which became our catchcry. 
A cry as much a part of the wall as climbing it was.  
Hands up, eyes up. 
It’s been fifteen years since I last climbed that wall but that cry is still stuck in my head. Yes, because I heard it so many times, but also because it’s become something more since then. A daily, sometimes minute by minute, reminder. 
Not to hold my arms up in the air in case someone falls down on top of me (thankfully, that doesn't happen all too often in everyday life!) but to hold my hands up in worship and surrender. Not to keep my eyes on the top of the wall and those climbing it but to keep my eyes on God and what he’s doing. Even when I can’t see from the glare of my own limitations. 
Hands up, eyes up. Hands up, eyes up. 
To keep my focus not on the mess and noise around me but on the God above me. Not on how tired I am or the fact that I’m dripping wet and wondering how I’m going to find the strength to walk to breakfast, but on the way God has carried me this far and will again. As far as he needs me to go. That he is bigger than my weakness and stronger than my pride. Greater than my plans and wiser than my worries. That God is God and I am not. 
Hands up, eyes up. 
It’s tough and downright draining keeping your hands and eyes up for a long time. Believe me, I know. Your arms get tired, they burn with the ache. And that glare, so bright your eyes turn to a watery mess. Staying in that attitude of worship and surrender is just as difficult. I want to do it my way. Wallow in the pain. Complain. Point out to God all the ways none of this makes any sense. 
But – hands up, eyes up – it’s in the surrender, the tear-filled faith, the choosing to trust, that God pulls us close. Those moments when we look above the pain that we see God. 
Hands up, eyes up. 



Monday, 15 April 2019

Astounded by the Power of a Romance



I love story. Not surprising, given I’m a writer, but even before I started writing seriously, I loved it. I was one of those kids who read their way through the fiction shelves of the school and public libraries, borrowing the books out over and over until I could pretty much quote them. I read non-fiction too, biographies especially, but it was fiction I loved. 

Not much has changed (although I don’t read too many Saddle Club or Sweet Valley High books anymore!). I still read far more fiction than non-fiction. I’ll read around 75 books a year these days, and at least seventy of them will be fiction, most of those with some element of romance. Because they’re easier to read, because they capture my heart but also because I find myself changed by them. 

I learn from non-fiction – amazing biographies, the insights of Max Lucado, John Ortberg, Christine Caine and so many others – but it’s fiction which changes me at a heart level. There's something in me that gets defensive when someone tells me I have to change and how I should do it. But fiction, it doesn't set out to change you. It simply tells a story. The characters aren’t real, I know that (although, funny story, I have twice (at least) claimed to have a friend who does something only to realize later it was a fictional character…oops…) but as I read their stories, I find myself relating to them, laughing and aching with them, going on their journeys, and being changed. 

I was astounded, again, by how powerful fiction can be last weekend as I read two books in particular. P.S. Goodbye, a novella by Tari Faris, and I’ll Be Yours, by Jenny B Jones. Both of them were romances, both of them ended with the boy getting the girl, and yet both times, upon finishing them, I found myself changed. Yes, by a simple romance. Because they were so much more than just a romance. Amidst the love story, there was pain – an ex-soldier dealing with PTSD and feelings of failure, a woman who’d been hurt by the past and was clinging with every plan and post-it note she could to her dreams for the future, a high-school senior being both brother and father to his two little sisters while trying to hold everything together, a sixteen-year-old girl who’s known far too much rejection and doesn’t know how to trust. But, alongside the pain, there was hope. Friends who wouldn’t let them walk alone, moments of clarity and healing, love in unexpected places, God breaking through. 

Fiction changes me because I get to walk alongside these characters and get inside not just their heads but their hearts, growing my own heart in the process. Grant, Caroline, Ridley and Harper might be fictional characters but their struggles are real. There are people in this world and maybe even in my life who struggle with the same things they do. Who come from the same places they do. Alongside the author’s heart, I get a glimpse into God’s. His heart for these people. I find myself praying for people around the world in those situations right now, knowing that, even though I don’t know them by name, God does. 

It’s funny, knowing this, how embarrassed I am sometimes to admit that I write romances, especially Christian ones. People are all impressed when you say you’ve written a book only to have that respect take nice plunge into ‘oh, one of those’ territory when you say it’s a romance. Yep, one of those. Predictable storylines where the guy gets the girl and they all live happily ever after. Airy fairy froth filling women’s heads with unattainable heroes. 

And yes, many of them are. But not all of them. There are so many that are so much more. I wish I could tell those people who look down on them how many have changed my life. Stories by Becky Wade, Melissa Tagg, Robin Jones Gunn, Kristi Ann Hunter, Rachel Hauck, Kara Isaac, Susan May Warren, Roseanna M White, Karen Witemeyer, Liz Johnson and so many others. They don’t set out to get a message across, they simply tell a story. And through that, change lives. 

I hope one day, people say the same thing about my books. My humble Young Adult Inspirational Romances. I hope they remind people that there is hope, that God can use anyone, how amazing grace truly is, that it’s never too late for a second chance (or third, or fourth) and, above all, that God loves them. The first and greatest romance ever to be written. 









Friday, 29 March 2019

3 Things I've Learnt about God-Given Dreams


I never set out to be a writer. When I was asked as a child and all through my teens what I wanted to be when I grew up, the answer was always the same – a missionary. I can’t remember exactly when God first planted that dream in my heart but I remember, vividly, as a ten-year-old deciding it was high time I started preparing. I figured it was something practical I could do until I was ‘old enough’ to actually go somewhere. I borrowed books out of my primary school library on different countries and religions, raided the church library for mission biographies, made friends with missionaries from my church, went to mission conferences and even stuffed envelopes with newsletters for a missionary friend, thinking it was good practise.

I went on my first short term trip just a month after I turned 16 and loved it. The next was at 18 and I couldn’t wait to go again. I waited a whole two weeks upon returning home to sign up for another one. 

And then everything changed. My dreams crashed in a pile when I was diagnosed with Rheumatoid Arthritis just before my 19th birthday. I very quickly learnt what pain, stress, anxiety and depression were. I became accustomed to regular doctor visits, blood tests and daily medication to keep my disease under control. I went on a few more trips during that time but to say they were tough feels like a giant understatement. For so many reasons, I’m thankful I went on them but came home really sick each time and knew it wasn’t something I could do long term, not without taking my entire support network with me. As far as I could see, my dream was dead. 

In spite of that, life continued, as it does. I relished mentoring a group of teenage girls as a youth leader, stayed involved in my church, got married to an amazing man, had children of my own. And found a new dream. Two, actually. Being a mum, and writing. 

Those few hours a day while my kids slept, I wrote first one novel, then another. And I loved it. Pouring my heart for people and God out onto the pages of a book. Hoping that God might teach someone something through it like he’d taught me through so many of the books I'd read over the years. And the dream didn't stop there - I dreamed of being published. 

So, I got back to researching and sent proposals to the few publishers and agents accepting them. And got soundly rejected. 

So, I read a stack of books on writing, re-edited my manuscript and sent it out again. And got rejected again. 

Strangely though, much to my surprise, the rejections didn't faze me in the slightest but just made me more determined. All of the authors I knew had been rejected countless times so each one I received just made me feel more like a 'real' author. 

I signed up for a whole heap of writing and publishing blogs, read more books, kept writing and re-writing and editing and sent out more proposals, got rejected but encouraged by the few who replied, put one family of characters aside, fell in love with another, entered some writing competitions, won one, further encouragement that I was on the right track. 

And somewhere along the way, I realised that my dream as a ten-year-old to be a missionary wasn't dead. Even without being published, God was speaking to people through the stories I wrote and the connections I was making. I wanted to tell people about God and how incredibly much he loved them, and I was. From the platform of my couch at home, I was reminding people there was hope. 

I spent my whole life asking God for the chance to be a missionary. And here I was, being just that. My dream didn't die, just my version of it. 

Almost a decade to the day after I sat down to write my first novel, my debut book is being published by WhiteFire Publishing. To say I’m excited at the thought of holding a book with my name on the front seems a gross understatement but more exciting is looking back and realising that God did it. 

He gave me a dream and he made it happen. 

So here’s what I’ve learnt along the way about the dreams God gives:

1. God knows what He’s doing - even when we think all is lost. I thought my dream was dead. Turns out it was just different. 

2. God gives us the right circumstances to see them through. Getting arthritis slowed me down and forced me to give up some things I really loved, but it also gave me the time I needed to write and the desire to make each moment and relationship matter. It's meant fighting my way through depression, anxiety, pain and a whole heap of doubts about whether God even cared anymore, but has also given me a far greater compassion for others going through the same thing. It made me weak, which just proved over and over how strong God was, and is. He's given me the chance, day by day, hour by hour, to have a front row seat to his incredible faithfulness, something I don't think I'll ever stop thanking him for. 

3. A God-given dream will fill you with passion. I should have given up on this writing dream years ago. The more I read and learnt about the publishing industry, the more I realised how impossible it was to be traditionally published, especially for an Aussie to break into the US publishing market. And yet, despite hundreds of hours of writing and years’ worth of rejections, it never crossed my mind to give up. I knew that if God had given me the dream, he was big enough to make it happen. And he has. He is.

Rapunzel said it in Tangled, Mother Superior in The Sound of Music - find your dream. Find your God-given dream, and do whatever it takes to see it through. Believe me, it's worth it. 



(This post updated from Till You Find Your Dream, first published January 2015)