It is difficult for me to re-live the scenes of February 2011. This programme was broadcast shortly after the earthquake, and we watched it air whilst the threat of aftershocks was still ever present.

I worry that, regardless of their liking, many people will be urged today to revisit these trying moments of the yesteryear, and I know that it is never a comfortable feeling to have to commemorate the memory of a loved one or even to contemplate that of total strangers with whom you may have crossed paths once, or twice, or never.

But if the events of February 2011 have taught us anything, it was that there are no strangers in Christchurch, or indeed anywhere in this world.  Amid the ashes of any given tragedy, it seems we are all united by a common urge to show love, to receive kindness and to reciprocate compassion.  Humanity is strange in the way that it never really learns to value things before they are gone.  We never realise what we do or say until damage has already been done, only to regret it later when it’s too late — as if to salvage broken artifacts from the rubble of their stores and repositories of foregone times.

The 2011 earthquake, amongst other things, has left me pondering the delicate fragility of life, and it has taught me to live life as if this day were my very last.  I had a brush with what could have been a potentially fatal injury that day — and am indebted to sheer luck to have escaped relatively and physically unscathed.

There will be others whose suffering I cannot bear to comprehend, nor pretend to understand.  My heart and thoughts go out to those who are bereft of their loved ones or have suffered loss in any other way.  Today will no doubt be a difficult day for many Cantabrians, but as always we will continue to put one foot in front of the other, and more importantly we will do so knowing that we are in the company of our good neighbours, colleagues, siblings, parents, spouses, strangers and friends.

Just this week, I have been the leader of two Bible groups for kids and teenagers, reading mainly from the book of Acts and Mark’s Gospel.

It was a task which I had no prior intention of undertaking, and would abhor if it ever were forced upon me, but under the strangest of circumstances I did find myself agreeing to it, and thinking that the children would somehow be better off, so long as I was there to suffer it with them.

Turns out I was wrong.

On both these occasions, I spent most of my time sitting with the kids whilst my faithful friends stood up front, reciting, if you will, the holy messages of God.   For two hours I was in silent protest against practically everything they did or said, so much so that it disgusted me to the pit of my stomach, that by the time it was my turn to finally speak, I had already felt so disconnected from the whole of humanity that I was sensing a certain numbness falling over my entire body.

The feeling of being the only nonbeliever in any particular room at any particular time is something I am and should be well-accustomed to, but it was the reality of sitting amongst impregnable children who were trapped under the spell of indoctrination carried out by teenagers who had been indoctrinated as children themselves that sickened me to the very core.  If I had a gun, truth be told, I would have blown first my own head off, and then everyone else’s in that room who I thought was, in any way and shape and form, responsible for this unforgivable act of mental cruelty and abuse.

Of course, son.

But first, will you promise not to be angry?

I won’t be angry.

Dad… I don’t think I’m a Christian anymore.  It’s just that… I don’t believe in God anymore.

What makes you say that, son?

Well, I’ve been doing a lot of studying and thinking for myself, Dad… and… I don’t know.  It’s just that I don’t think there is any evidence to support the claims of the church, much less the existence of an all-loving and omnipotent god.

And… how long have you been a nonbeliever?

About five years, Dad.

Five years?!  And all this time you’ve been going to church every week — you’ve never thought perhaps you should tell us?

I wanted to, Dad.  But I didn’t want to upset you.

Upset me?

Yes.  I didn’t want you or Mum to worry.

Why should we be worried?

Because you’ve always wanted me to be a good Christian.

Is that what you think, son?

Yes.  I suppose so.

Son, all your mother and I ever wanted was for you to be a good person.  You can believe whatever you want, so long as you’ve thought it through properly… we would be happy for you, and would always love you.

Really, Dad?

No. Get the fuck out of the house, you fucking heathen.

The Bishop of Tenerife provided an interesting explanation for the vast numbers of children raped by Catholic priests: They asked for it.

In 2007, when the American Catholic Church was reeling from sex abuse scandals but not so much Europe, the Bishop of Tenerife, Bernardo Álvarez, made some interesting Christmas holiday comments.

In a Christmas Eve interview with La Opinión de Tenerife, Bishop Alvarez said that there are children who want to be abused:

“There are 13 year old adolescents who are under age and who are perfectly in agreement with, and what’s more wanting it, and if you are careless they will even provoke you.”

Old news, but read more at Secular News Daily.

Case. Meet Rest.

Thought I’d share this old recording I recovered of me playing the famous Intermezzo by Brahms!

An Intermezzo is a:

a term used since the early 19th century for movements or sections, generally within larger works; also for independent pieces, often for piano solo and predominantly lyrical in character.

via LOL Happens

The first day or so was spent at Sentosa.  My memory of it is that of sitting excitedly in the monorail and traversing the vast underwater world — every kid’s dream, to put it simply.  The next morning we went on what I believe was to turn into a day-long shopping spree, which was every kid’s nightmare (mine especially), but Mum was wise to promise us a visit to the toy-shop afterwards, and that alone must have kept us shuffling along nigh uncomplainingly.

The shop was Toys R’ Us, but only if my memory serves me correctly.  Whatever it was, it was the most impressive depository of playthings I ever saw, and I must have been as excited as any nine-year-old boy could have been.  Now one of the things I was obsessed with as a kid was Army Men.  In our living room I used to build up massive battlefronts of ‘little green men’, and my childish imagination would lead me to believe that I was the general commander of the ‘good guys’, that we were somehow poised on the brink of defeat, yet against all odds I would manage to save the day… despite the grimmer fact that friendly casualties very often numbered in the dozens.

So by chance, or possibly by fate, as it would then have occurred to the nine-year-old me, I stumble across this shiny squad of Army Men which, once it had caught my attention, wasn’t so willing to let go of it too easily.  I was quickly mesmerised by it, and immediately made it my mission that I wasn’t going to leave the shop without it.  But extraordinary toys come at extraordinary prices, and Dad was unconvinced that it was entirely worth the money, or that I was sincerely attached to it rather than just being premature, as the nine-year-old me must often have been.  (If you happen to wonder how a squad of Army Men could be so costly, it was that it came ready with tanks and artillery and many other shiny gadgets, all of which seldom looked plastic, well, at least to my boyish eyes).

But it was apparent at the time that unless he bought it, I would surely leave the store pouting, and possibly pout all the way back to the hotel, which must have been in itself quite a grim prospect, but he did allow it to happen.  He hinted to me that it was too expensive a toy, and that I should pick something else in its stead, but overwhelmed with disappointment as I was, I didn’t, and I did pout all the way back to the hotel.  I even recall to have said something to my mum along the lines of “I don’t want any presents for Christmas,” which was at best a punchline craftily devised to get my parents’ attention, or perhaps to get them to feel a little guilty, but nonetheless, they seemed wholly unaffected by this whole matter.

Then came Christmas, and I must have felt a little queasy at the thought of getting absolutely no presents, and worse, the fact of it was that I had brought it all upon myself, and so deep down inside I probably knew I deserved the misery.  My brother sat with his playthings in his lap; and I imagine that I, sitting by him, would have felt secretly overwhelmed with a sense of being left out, bordering on unwitting jealousy.  It seemed like the worst feeling a boy can experience, and I must have tried my best to hide it from the family, although probably unsuccessfully.

The hotel room we stayed in was more like a little studio in that it had a small lounge area where there was a (green) sofa and a TV in the corner.  I vaguely recall to have been sitting in this lounge area, possibly watching TV, when Dad approach me with this wrapped present tucked under his arm, and he handed it over to me.  Words fail to describe how surprised I would have felt.  I can imagine my nine-year-old self scrambling to unwrap the present, and I would have been speechlessly transfixed with awe to see what was inside, beneath the ever-obscuring veil of wrapping paper.

It was exactly as I had hoped it to be.  I don’t quite know if Dad had sneaked back to the shop to buy it, or whether he actually bought it on the day behind my back, or what, but it was there now resting on my own lap, and just like that, I had transformed from the sad sod I was earlier, to becoming possibly the happiest boy out of this planet.  I began furiously tearing apart the rest of the wrapping paper, but was also nimble and delicate when it came to the actual unboxing process, making sure not to damage them precious little things which were tidily nested inside.

The tanks and stuff came with projectiles which they would fire out if you pushed the right buttons, and one of the artillery unit would disassemble itself if you pulled this tiny lever on its back, which I thought was thoroughly amazing.  But it wasn’t only me who was thrilled to the marrow by this entire experience.  I remember my little brother was so excited (I imagine he would have been peeking out from behind my shoulder and watching me unbox the present with unblinking eyes) that he even distanced himself from his own toys to sit by me on the carpeted floor, as one by one I unveiled these precious little figurines.

But it was my present, and not his.  As always, he began fooling around with the little bits and pieces, all the while I probably worried that things would get lost underneath the sofa and whatnot, so I told him to stop.  He didn’t.  He went up on the sofa and took some of the figurines with him, and started playing with them.  Then I caught him sort of pushing one of the Army Men into the little crevice between the sofa cushions (for whatever reason, I don’t know — possibly to simulate the trenches of the Great War?!), but it made me snap — and so I socked him one.

Needless to say Mum and Dad were shocked and angry at what I did, because my brother was crying, as it was the hardest punch I had ever given to anyone or anything in my life (and so you know, I used to kickbox as well).  I on the other hand was dead convinced I had done the right thing, and stood by this conviction even as I was being told to apologise or threatened with all kinds of punishments… punishments which I probably eventually received.  But for all I cared the boy fully deserved what he got.

I  don’t remember much of what happened next, but my brother didn’t talk to me again for a long time (probably the rest of that day, though it did seem long, at the time).  I don’t think I ever did apologise to him, or if I did, it would not have been a sincere apology, because I’d indoctrinated myself to believe that it was anything but my fault.

But all he was — was that he was excited for me that I got the present I so desperately wanted for Christmas, and all he wanted was to play it with me.  He wouldn’t have thought I was capable of hurting him in such a way, and I wouldn’t have known it myself, had it not been for Christmas, Army Men and sofa crevices.

I sometimes wonder if he ever forgot the incident, or whether he ever forgave me for it.  It wasn’t the way I would want him, or anyone, to remember me by, if it was the last thing I ever did.

The greatest gift you could ever give to someone is the gift of love, and of kindness.

Don’t keep it hidden away under your own tree, for too long.