Introduction

When I was a child my mother would unravel an old sweater that no longer fitted properly, then she would re-knit it into a lovely snug fitting new garment for me.

 When I turned thirteen my mother taught me to knit aron sweaters, (fancy, patterned wool sweaters.) We would knit them for the New Zealand tourist industry.

 I got the impression through knitting these, that the average tourist resembled a gorilla, great big bodies and huge long arms, I didn’t complain however, as we were paid by the pound. We would weigh the gorilla skins on Mums tin kitchen scales. The further the hand of the scales went round, the more elated I grew.

You see, I nursed the dream of most thirteen year old girls, I wanted a horse.

How many of the wool monsters I knitted to gain the eighty dollars I needed, I don’t recall, but I remember vividly the day I took possession of my eighty year old horse.

 Experts say horses don’t live that long, but then they had never seen Wuzzel.

Wuzzel had wrinkles and hollows around her eyes. Her bottom lip sagged into a little pouch and one leg didn’t work too efficiently. She could walk and canter but her inefficient leg eliminated trotting. She was not beautiful but I loved her and lavished time and attention on her.

When it became apparent that she was lonely and needed a paddock mate, Mum answered an add in the paper and won a free-to-good-home horse.The free horse was a young sixty.
 She was a big gentle ex-stock horse, whose thick tail was a strange little fuzz when she arrived. The calves she mothered had chewed off most of the hair, in a similar way a toddler loves the fur off a favourite teddy bear.

 My sister and I had a wonderful time playing with the old geriatrics. We would plat their manes and tuck flowers behind their ears, ready for the tea party of carrots and apples and chopped up grass we had prepared for them on the outside table.

 Their rumps made good slides and backs perfect platforms to climb trees from. Sometimes we would pack a picnic lunch and Linda and I would amble off for the day, the two of us doubling on Pretty Lady (who had four sturdy legs) and leading Wuzzel (to spare her rickety ones)

From time to time we would hold horse shows.

For days, we would make red or blue rosettes out of scrap ribbon and cardboard, labouring over them to make them as realistic as possible. Then in the old quarry we would hold our shows. The high side bank made a great grandstand for the judge, (uninterested-in-horses sister number three.)

We didn’t really need a judge as the outcome was always the same. (Pretty Lady won the trotting class and Wuzzel won the three legged race.) But we wanted one because we wanted to be as like the real shows as possible.

 Every year in summer the big Agricultural and Pastoral Show would be held. All the farmers from around the district would come with their goats and pigs and cows, vegies and preserves.

The horses, (always stars of the show) were not owned by the farmers. Most farmers wouldn’t have them
“too rough on the fences and eat too much.”
 The few that did keep horses, used them as quads, to work the steep difficult country.

 A stock horse is in a totally different class to the fancy highly bred animals that made it to the A and P show. These sleek beauties were the domain of the professional breeder and the serious competitor.

 No pottering around paddocks and picnics for these ponies or kids. The focus of adults and children alike, was winning. In summer they would load up their big trucks and head off to whatever town was hosting a show that weekend, The days in between the shows were devoted to training.

They took everything connected to horses very seriously and nursed dreams of the Olympics. We didn’t even own a saddle, but these families often had more than the value of a house invested in equipment and animals.

In those days my sister and I would sit on the side lines in our homely pink sun hats and envy those professional looking riders on their professional looking horses. Funny how age changes your perspective, I don’t believe they had a fraction of the fun we did with our old girls.

 The western church needs unravelling and re-knitting.

 Scratch just below the surface of any Mr and Mrs Average Christian and you will find dissatisfaction. Women are burdened and men are bored.

 From New Zealand to America pastors and laymen are searching for a make over, Churches have become like A and P shows where only the best perform, using equipment worth more than most families will ever own.

Even the spectators on the side lines have not escaped the pressure to perform. Bible studies, teaching, seminars and SUPPORTING THE PROGRAM leave little time for fellowship and friendship building.

Marriages are breaking up, families are falling apart and nobody has time for the plain old hanging out together and having fun that builds relationships.

 We are all huffing and puffing and training for the heavenly Olympics.

Who are we trying to impress? It’s time to unravel the smart business suit and knit up something more homely.

 The following stories tell what we did in homemade churches in New Zealand, and why we did it. These stories have little or no scripture references in them as there are enough books emerging to deal with the left brained, doctrinal, basis for house churches.

 Neither are they intended as yet another model to follow, but rather a right brained attempt to provoke thinking people to re-examine some of the current teachings and traditions that have us locked up in brief cases.

 Let’s stop competing in shows but instead start building relationships and playing with picnics, in make-it-up-as-you-go, DYO churches.