Writer, author and educator Ann Rennie.
By Ann Rennie
I believe in laughter in the rain.
I believe in the first soft footfall and the thud of jellybean legs flailing as a child learns to walk.
I believe in open arms; the entreaties of encouragement that are the refrains of a lifetime; the open arms of acceptance and welcome and refuge.
I believe God is, was and will be.
I believe in families: of blended configurations, the strange and strong tie of blood, the family circle of humanity, all God’s children with their quirks and sparks and fitfulness and infinite variety - and my family of six siblings, grown now, and vastly different, held together by the glue and grace and grit of the shared history of rambunctious childhood and the benignly neglectful parental permission to be just who we were always going to be.
I believe in small ecstasies and everyday wonders; the ordinary and dailygift-wrapped with joy when dawn breaks in violet and gold sabresof light and birds chortle their canticles of gladness.
I believe in Grace.
I believe in acts of faith, big and small.
I believe in epiphanies and surprises and the cosmic knockout of God’s grandeur as the night sky, embroidered with distant winking stars, invites me to gaze at worlds beyond my ken and the moon is my friendly neighbourhood nightlight.
I believe in the bunch of flowers picked with love from the garden; brave suburban jonquils, soft blushing pink camellias, big bossy gossipy hydrangeas, modest forget-me-nots.
I believe in myths and mermaids and miracles; the things that can’t be quantified or held or dissected, the things that defy data and measurement and labelling and ranking and pigeonholing, the things that enrich imagination and possibility, the outliers that provoke mystery and awe.
I believe in God, the artist, and the infinite palette of Creation.
I believe in prayer; small beseechings, giant gratitude, the susurration, gentle as the flutter of angels’ wings, of hope-filled breathings towards God.
I believe in the same old stories; retold, embellished, mythologised, in the sacred circle of family and the bigger circle of friends, stories that evolve into the folklore of membership and belonging and tribe and community.
I believe in old things: my mother’s bald, glassy - eyed teddy who holds the secrets of her childhood and mine and my daughter’s; books, dog-eared and tea-stained with strange illegible inscriptions as prizes for attendance at long ago Sunday schools; my grandmother’s escritoire which holds and hides the memories of lives past; the me, who is not so far away, a mere half-century, from the freshly-laundered girl in the black and white Communion photo, beaming and buck-toothed and lit with hope.
I believe in new ideas - and old ideas, refreshed in the fluency of the zeitgeist, ready for another iteration, a new awakening.
I believe in the good left behind by devoted sisters and brothers of various religious orders; the holy-picture past of huge classes with rapscallion kids who learnt their catechism by heart and knew their tables and spelling lists and dreamed beyond the confines of the wooden desk of those long-ago classrooms.
I believe in favourite things; sad movies, puns, crumpets drowning in honey, the homeward-bound clatter of the train on a Saturday night, Elvis in black leather, the nourishing broth of good words, my daughter’s hobgoblin laugh, middle-aged rock’n’rollers, rainbows.
I believe in children who share their lunches on the asphalt at lunchtime with the kids who don’t have much.
I believe in the promise of the playground, the seedbed of the future.
I believe in blessings, bliss and Beatitudes.
I believe that God is on my side.
I believe in calloused and careworn hands, their years of work pressed into whorls of destiny and duty; hands, like my father’s, who gently delivered babes into the arms of new mothers; the hands of my sister who can bring a canvas to life with a few deft stokes; helping hands and healing hands and the hands-up of my eager Year 9 students; my mother’s hands that nursed and stroked and applauded; my husband’s firm clasp; hands softly kneading rosary beads; the hands of salon and scullery, of making and doing, of clenching and holding and grabbing - and reaching beyond their grasp.
I believe in revelation, redemption and Resurrection.
I believe in the little bit of Heaven in a kind word, a hug, a secret shared; in the thousands of I love yous that are whispered or shouted every day in the streets of our city.
I believe in quiet strength and gentle resistance and the occasional surge of outspoken audacity that breaks open closed minds.
I believe in the Church; sinning, shamed, chastened, diminished - unavoidably flawed and human.
I believe in forgiveness.
I believe in the Spirit – holy, encompassing, energising, lifting us to be better than we are.
I believe in good news and the Good News.
Ann Rennie is a Melbourne writer and educator who explores the intersection of faith, life and culture in her columns and contributions to mainstream media. Her most recent book is Blessed: Meditations on a Life of Small Wonders (2021) Laneway Press, Abbotsford. Ann co-authored with Dr. Bernadette Mercieca, Witness, Specialist Moderator-the critical role of Catholic educators in a changing world (2023) Garratt Publishing, Mulgrave.