By Kiri Groeneveld
GOD is Our Father.
He is a leader and a listener, a captain and companion. God is a teacher. God is a friend.
God is also a comedian if you are open to His humour. I’ve personally experienced it on several occasions.
At university, I remember a particular film assessment that was turning out to be the assignment from hell. It was just problem after problem in getting in finished, particularly in the editing.
One day I was making the two-hour journey to uni – on a weekend – for the sole purpose of using the editing suites to finish this assignment.
In the car, on the train, on the bus, the entire way there I was praying to God, “Please God, let today be good. Please let today go smoothly and help me stay positive and happy, and not get upset by any editing issues that come up. Just, please, please, let today be good.”
I reached campus and trudged up the hill to the editing building.
I climbed the three flights of stairs to where the suites were.
I dragged my feet down the lengthy hallway only to find … Every editing suite was closed for maintenance – every single one.
I could have cried.
Instead, I laughed.
All morning I was asking God for today to be a good day, and He told me the only way for that to happen was to go home and not worry about uni at all.
There was also the time on World Youth Day.
Traditionally on the Saturday before WYD, everyone makes their pilgrimage to the site for the main WYD celebrations, where they participate in a vigil, sleep out under the stars and wake the next morning for the Papal Mass.
In Sydney 2008, this location was Randwick Racecourse.
I walked with six friends and we had decided we didn’t want to rush the pilgrimage; we wanted to im-merse ourselves in it.
Although thoroughly enjoyable, it took us all day to finally reach Randwick and our feet and backs were definitely feeling it.
When I say we had reached Randwick, we had only reached Gate 1.
Our entry passes were for Gate 13.
Looking beyond Gate 1, 2 was a mere blur on the horizon and we could barely see 3 at all.
Gate 13 was still some unknown distance away.
Off we trotted, each painful step bringing us closer and closer to our gate and where the rest of our pilgrimage group were already inside with a spot saved for the sleep-out.
Except, there was no spot.
Finally making it into the racecourse, we learnt our group had set up their sleeping bags, leaving no room for us.
Upset and annoyed, we heard a cheer go up from over our shoulders.
We turned to see our Jamaican friends – who we had the pleasure of getting to know in the days leading up to WYD – waving their huge flag, signalling for us to come over.
They told us they’d heard there was no room for us among our own group, so they had made room smack bang in the middle of their camp for us to squeeze our sleeping bags into.
Just when we were feeling at our lowest all day, God laughed and said “Do you really think I wasn’t going to look out for you?”, as we ended up staying amongst the funniest and most positive group of pilgrims around.
The funniest lesson I’ve learnt from God was the time I lost Charlie.
It was another WYD – Madrid.
Charlie the Chicken is the Project Hatch mascot, and I took him along on my travels.
He came with me to Rome, to Pedro Abad, and he had now made it to Madrid.
He was by my side the entire journey and I always looked out for this rubber chicken lassoed to my bag, afraid something would happen to him.
I had made friends with a special group of people in Madrid, and it was on one of our last days that we were able to go see some of the sights, visiting the cathedral and palace and even a spot of shopping.
By the afternoon we were joking and laughing and having such a good time, Charlie had completely slipped my mind.
I looked down to find my bag was chickenless. Charlie was no longer attached.
I spun around, assuming he would be nearby, but alas, he was nowhere to be seen.
I retraced my steps.
Nothing. I even tried asking a poor cleaning lady in very bad Spanish if she had seen a toy rubber chicken. “Jugar Pollo? Jugar Pollo?” (which was probably wrong) as I rubbed my hands together to try to demonstrate “rubber”, all the while my friends were clutching their sides in hysterics.
God’s humour, I tell you.
Losing Charlie, we not only gained an hilarious story to tell back home, but we actually came closer as a group.
I still keep in touch with those beautiful people now, three years later.
Trust me, God is a comedian.
Be open to the humour.
You can follow Kiri on Twitter and Instagram @KiriGroeneveld
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