A - Z Challenge: Q - Questions

The older I get, the less I know. 

I could leave this blog post there, actually, as that's the upshot of this little entry. You can stop reading if you want. Alternatively, stick around if you feel you might have a 'Me too' moment; perhaps you too have begun to have more questions than answers when it comes to things of faith. 

I used to be so sure! Back in the days of my youth, when I went away to university for the first time after a few years of church youth groups (back then it was Pathfinders and CYFA - anyone go back that far?) things were pretty straightforward. My home church put me in touch with some people at a church in my university town so I transitioned seamlessly between two churches of the same ilk, I suppose. After university I went to work for that church, so more of the same. 

And then, blah blah, the missing years, the distant years, busy years, baby years, back to the church where I started out. Older, but not much wiser. 

Still kidding myself that I had answers. 

Then...recent years... I think it safe to say, life has been dark. Covid was a mammoth disruptor and, as my P post indicated, I've only just made it back into the church fold, and I'm not the same person that I was. I look back at some of the posts I've written on this blog and while in some of them I find comfort, sometimes challenge, sometimes even a strange and poignant 'Me too' moment with the me of years ago, quite often I marvel at the naivety and platitudes of my former self. 

Without going on forever, the tip of my huge Question iceberg looks like this: 

• if God loves us, why doesn't he stop bad things from happening? 
• if God is with us always, where is he when these things do happen? 
• if God is a strong tower providing shelter under his wings (and all those mixed metaphors), how come there are times in life when there is no respite, no safe place?
• when we need him, how come it feels as if God doesn't show up? 
• when we know that God can answer prayer, why doesn't he?

These questions have overwhelmed me. I've worried that there have been more negatives than positives - that so much of the church thing is built on platitudes and glib answers that only stand when they're unchallenged by any strong wind. I've genuinely wondered if I've lost my faith. 

The truth is, unanswered prayer is only a problem if you have faith. And it is a problem for me. 

I just don't know the answer. Where was God when life went horribly wrong? When I cried out for him, why was it that he seemed not to be there in any way that was meaningful to me? 

Nope, I'm still drawing a blank. A wise friend of mine points to the book of Job, where, when poor Job finally gets the chance to ask God what it was all about, instead of ranting and shouting and demanding answers, he just says, 'I'm sorry, I didn't understand'. 

Well, I don't understand either. Does it matter? Yes, and no. I have so many questions - I've been hurt and disappointed and angry with God and I've such a list of things I want him to explain me. Maybe when I get there I will get a chance to ask? Or, maybe when I get there it won't matter any more. Maybe I'll suddenly see the vastness and perfection of God's Plan and it all falls into place. Maybe when I get there I will be so overwhelmed and in awe that my gripes no longer matter. After all, his ways are not my ways; his thoughts not my thoughts.

I don't know. I would love to understand, because that's the way my mind works. I am frustrated when I don't get it. I am a hoarder of knowledge, a chronic accumulator of ideas and facts and thoughts and concepts. When I am at a loss I feel unbalanced and unsafe; when there are no books or people or Google searches to ask. Even AI has nothing to contribute here. Wiser people than me have considered this and have come to no safe conclusions.  There are no answers to be had, are there?

But something changed. Rather than losing my faith, I realised that I've lost many of the trappings, much of the ballast which has surrounded my faith. It is as if the training wheels have fallen off way before I was ready but miraculously the bike keeps on going. I have enough balance, even if it feels unsteady. 

Here's what I'm left with:

• Jesus.

As Christmas approaches, I find some songs hard to sing. The ones that make it sound easy, this Christian life, the ones where prayers are always answered (don't give me 'Yes, no or not yet'!), the ones that make it sound as if there is always light at the end of the tunnel, that God will always make it better. I don't know that he will, this side of the pearly gates. And yet, Jesus. 

So that's it. There's no startling piece of wisdom or even a coherent conclusion to this post. I don't know anything that will help if there's someone out there needing help. I have way more questions than answers. But my faith seems a little stronger for having shed the veneers that don't work. A little purer, maybe. 

If someone came to me with the awfulness of life and asked for something that might help, I do not know what I would say, but I do know, now, what I wouldn't say. I might share that I don't know either, but somehow I find that not knowing doesn't matter as much as it did. 

A - Z Challenge: P - People

Well, this could have gone several different ways. Given that my blog productivity moves at the pace of a glacier, if I say that it's taken me longer than usual to decide what to write about for the letter P, you'll understand the magnitude of my dilemma. I had a more than a few ideas (P for prolific). Here are the runners and riders:

P for Pain. Hmm. People wiser than me have not got to the bottom of this one. Theologians and philosophers have mulled it over but I've not heard of anyone who has come to any conclusions that actually help the average, normal person who wants to understand why there is so much sadness around. On the road I live in (and it's small) in recent times there have been frightening diagnoses, bereavements, mental health issues, chronic illness, broken marriages, accidents, devastating family news, violence and loneliness. Should I attempt to explore why God lets this happen? 

P for Prayer. Bit like the last one. Where is God when I need him? When I know that he CAN answer prayer, why doesn't he? Is there any point?

P for Purr. One cat post in an alphabet is probably enough for the average person, but I was tempted to mention once again what a delight and comfort my furry family members are. Bean is my special cat. Yes, I love all three, but Bean is the one who has chosen me, and when she curls up in the crook of my arm or on my chest and purrs (as she is right now), I purr back.

P for Progress. Should I ramble on into the ether about the fact that I am doing a bit better these days - getting out and about a bit more after the hermit-like retreat of the last few years? 

P for Painting. In an effort to increase my creativity levels, I decided this year to do something creative every day. This could be writing, doodling, gardening, or indeed, painting. I got myself a water colour set and quickly became frustrated that I couldn't make things look how I wanted them to, and then bought a cheap set of acrylics that seem to be more my thing. I like painting pebbles. P for Pebbles! 

There were more. P is a good letter for inspiration, it seems, and so my P was held up while I vacillated. 

Until today. Today I went back to church, for the second time since pre-covid days. Steady on. 

There are a number of reasons why I haven't been, not all of which I can go into, but suffice it to say that there have been times when I would not have been able to cope with lots of people asking me how I was, how things were, where I've been etc. Habits change, and one of my daughters is now away at university, the other took on a voluntary job teaching swimming on Sunday mornings and my husband works Sundays now to allow him to take time off in the week. Result - not been to church in years, and the longer I was away, the harder it felt to go back. I do want to say that I never thought I'd actually left church, still read the newsletters, felt as if it was my church; it was just the actual going on a Sunday morning that was problematic. P for problem. 

I was quite nervous walking down the road this morning. 

Would I still feel as if I belonged? Would I be left too far behind? Had I been forgotten? Would I still know anybody? This building that I used to feel was home, a safe place: would it still feel that way? 

Oh, my word. What a gift God had for me this morning. Before I'd chosen a seat, a friend came over and invited me to sit with her. Someone on the row behind hugged me and told me how good it was to see me. We chatted as the band warmed up, at the start of the service. Someone waved extravagantly to attract my attention in the first song and gave me a huge smile. Another dear friend blew me a kiss as she came in late and walked past to a spare seat. Someone else winked, another did a double take when he saw me and grinned broadly. 

The sermon was about the promises of God. P for Promises. About God's faithfulness when his people are unfaithful. About his nearness, his patience (P for Patience) and his unfailing love. His willingness to seek us out and bring us home, to bering about restoration. It was about hope. Exactly what I needed, having been lost in my own wilderness for what feels like a long time. 

Afterwards, I had given myself the option of sneaking out during the final hymn so that I wouldn't have to make conversation (and negotiate those awkward questions) if I didn't want to. And then when it got to that point, it turned out that the final hymn was one that was very special to me, with words that have given me hope to hold onto in recent years. When it was over, some people sought me out for hugs and said some lovely things to me. 

'How wonderful to see you!'

'I've been praying for you.'

'I'm so glad you came!'

For the first time in my life, I was one of the last few people to leave the church building. Never happened before. I even have plans! P for plans! I am meeting a friend for coffee on Tuesday, and another on Thursday, and next week another two for a catch up over a glass of wine one evening. You know that feeling where you see someone you haven't seen in years and it's exactly as if you've never been apart? That. 

I walked home in the cold drizzle with a smile on my face, and smiles have been in short supply for quite a while. 

So, this post is about people. P for People. It's also about prayer, about pain, about peace, about God's presence, about a sense of place, and about progress, but most of all it's about people. 

The people of God, and my people. 

A - Z Challenge - O: One (Opinion)

Years ago, I wrote an angst-ridden blog post called 'An Audience of One', reminding myself that the only opinion that matters is God's. I clearly needed a lot of reminding; as I read that post now I hear my somewhat shrill voice worrying about what I look like, what I sound like, what people think, what I should do, what I should say... in fact, who I actually am. I use italics a lot. I repeat myself a lot. 

I'll give 2013 me a lot of credit for being honest about things, and for pouring it all out in an authentic way - I remember people got in touch because of this post and used those wonderful words, 'Me too', so I'm not going to be too disparaging. But what struck me as I read that old post was how some things change, and some don't. 

I am ten years older, and what a decade it's been. I am thankful that I didn't know what the future held back then; indeed how glad I am that I don't know what still lies ahead; I have less curiosity than ever. Since I wrote that post I have nursed my lovely mum through increasing infirmity and held her hand as she drew her last breath. I have cleaned up pools of blood, spent days and nights in hospitals and waited on ambulances that never came (I have voted in general elections, you can be quite sure of that). I have made phone calls that I never wanted to make, heard news that I had been dreading. I have walked alongside (and continue to support) loved ones who have been through some of the worst trauma that you can imagine. I have witnessed terror and confusion, despair and fear, but also hope, resilience, and peace and healing, in lots of different forms, and not always the kind of healing that we want. 

I am greyer than I was, with crows feet and jowls that I never used to have and no amount of 'upward massage' and night cream is going to take away the frown lines between my eyes. I am heavier than I was, and I worried about the way I looked even then. My eyesight is worse, my knees hurt more and I get more indigestion. 

Do I still worry about other people's opinions? Maybe, but not so much. Not because I'm getting things right that I used to get wrong, but because I care a lot less what people think. With the exception of a very few people, I try to take no notice. They don't know me. They don't see the world as I do. And if I wouldn't go to someone for advice, I will not accept their criticism. 

I don't spend a lot of time making small talk with people I don't want to be with. My world shrank as Mum needed more and more care, and now I am free to push back the boundaries again, I find that I am choosing which things I want to reinstate, and that is liberating. My time and energy are limited.

Do I still rehash conversations and phone calls and worry about whether I got it right? Sometimes, a little, I think, but after years of fighting for support services, making arrangements and appointments, legal enquiries and advocating for one person or another I worry less about the small things. 

That's what it comes down to: the small things. Working out what really matters, and what doesn't. I suppose by the time most people get to their fifties they have had their share of sadnesses and hurts, and I hope that I have tried to begin to learn what there is to learn from the way that life changes you, and adjustments that must be made, though I know that I still have a way to go. Sometimes you can only reflect on something when it is in the rear view mirror, so to speak, and some of the heavy stuff is still very much current. 

Here are a few disorganised thoughts about things that matter (and maybe things that don't).

I loved my Mum, and she knew that she was loved. My care for her in those last months, weeks, days, hours, minutes... it was imperfect, but I did my best. She died comfortably in her own bed with her family around her, and that's what she wanted. I am proud that I managed to give that to her. 

We have been, and are going through some tough times that most people don't have to navigate. It is hard and I am doing my best. The first time someone said that to me, I cried. Since then, I have been able to pass that wonderful bit of wisdom along to others, and it often elicits the same response. 

"This is hard, and you are doing your best." 

I try to forgive myself when I get things wrong. I get tired, I get irritable, I get overwhelmed. Sometimes I don't know the answer. I need time to myself even when other people think I should be available for them. If I can't do it, I can't do it. 

It's ok if someone doesn't think well of me. People are capable of handling disappointment and I will manage to survive someone's scowl or sulk. If I say the wrong thing in a conversation in the frozen food department of the supermarket with someone I haven't seen in a few years, well, it'll probably be a few more years before I see them again. And I do most of my shopping online now, anyway. 

I cannot control everything. Not everything is my fault. It's ok to say no. These days I say no more than I say yes, to be honest, and I'm alright with that. Would ten-year-ago-me be alright with it? I don't know, but I suspect not. Am I happy about what I had to go through to learn about saying no? No, certainly not, but let's celebrate that I got there at all. 

Every cat is a therapy cat. I have three black rescue cats, Noodle, Spike and Bean. They were sent from God to make me smile. When Spike tries to catch a fly and falls off the windowsill, or when Bean curls up on my lap and purrs, those are moments that matter, I am sure of it.

So I think I was right to remind myself that the only opinion that matters is God's opinion. I had the right idea. What's different is that I worried about such a lot of small things that don't seem very important or relevant any more. It's all a matter of perspective. 

Yes, I play to an audience of One, but the audience is not dissatisfied and giving me a slow hand-clap; he is cheering me on. He is proud of me. This is hard and I am doing my best. If God wants more from me, then he'll have to give me what I need to deliver more, but I am persuaded that he knows how hard it's been, how hard I've been trying, how tired I am. 

In the words of the wonderful Adrian Plass, God is nice, and he loves me. I don't think he cares about a lot of the small stuff. And, maybe, just as my ten year old blog post seems a bit lightweight and trivial (but it really didn't feel that way at the time), maybe an awful lot more of life is smaller than we think.

Lord God, teach me what actually matters.

A - Z Challenge - N: Noticing

Today is the first day of Spring, my favourite season of the year. Today is rainy so I am staying inside, but yesterday was the very best sort of day, the kind with sunshine and blue sky and little shimmers of colour in the corner of your eye wherever you looked. Remarkable really, as only seven days previously we'd been making snowmen. Only in England. 

This year the Spring Inspection is difficult for me. It's much lonelier, as my mum isn't here to see it and enjoy it with me; it was her favourite season too. We'd count down the days, stand by the window willing the weather to take a turn for the better and snuggling into blankets and throws while we waited. At the earliest opportunity we would carefully step outside to take a walk around the garden, latterly with mum leaning heavily on my arm and me always with an eye to the nearest bench or bit of wall on which to have a rest if she'd been on her feet too long. 

We'd wander round (always clockwise, for some reason) and hunt for signs of new growth. Tiny buds, leaves, shoots - any signs of life after the dullness of the winter hibernation.

Nothing went unnoticed as we gently cradled buds, avoided stepping on the crocuses and aconites, picked up fallen twigs from the silver birch or made mental notes of Things That Need Doing. 

Yesterday, Mothers' Day, I walked around the garden on my own and life was waiting for me. The snowdrops are nearly finished, the crocuses still spectacular and at their peak, daffodils just beginning. The hyacinths smell gorgeous, the muscari just beginning to bud and the currant bush looking as if it can't contain itself much longer.  

What undid me was the magnolia flower. Just the one flower on the stellata at the moment, although other buds are forming. The reason I stared at the single flower for so long with tears running down my face was that my Mum loved this little magnolia bush. It was a present from my brother and myself many years ago, but we had to move it from it's original spot  because of building work, and all gardeners know that magnolias are particularly grumpy about being moved. 

The star of the show

I was all for ditching it and buying another, to be honest, but Mum wouldn't have it, and she was in charge. So, we dug the biggest hole we could, took as much root as we could (it took two of us to lift it) and we planted it in a place far away from diggers and builders' feet, and we tended it as best we could. For years, the stellata sulked. No flowers for many a spring, then a handful of weedy, sickly looking  droopy flowers more like wilting splats than stars. In recent years it has looked definitely alive and doing ok, if not actually thriving, but I thought that maybe it was as good as it got. 

Every year there were the jokes about the magnolia that I wanted to kill, the one I didn't care about, the neglected one, the plant with hurt feelings - and here it was, one big, fat, happy-looking flower, and no Mum to see it. And, looking at the rest of the bush, this year looks like the year that I am forgiven. I'll post some more pics if I remember. 

I am reading a book at the moment about the importance of noticing things. Noticing the small things, the minute glimpses of joy and mystery and beauty. I realised that I used to write about it too - how the little things matter (sometimes vastly more than the so-called Big Things) and how the little things are vital for your soul. For my soul. I am determined to start noticing again.

It has been hard. I don't blame myself for shutting myself away from the world, withdrawing into myself and my small, insulated place of safety, because things have happened to us that meant it was the only way I could cope. I'm not sure there was another way, to be honest. But here, it's spring, with its newness and hope and it's sparkling, indomitable spirit, and, like that magnolia stellata, I must stop licking my wounds and harbouring my grievances and see if I can muster a flower. 

I have no idea if this is possible. If it turns out that it isn't, then alright, maybe some other time. I'm done with making promises (and this A-Z challenge is testament to that!) and I'm not ready to set goals. I just feel that I want to put it out there that this spring, heartsick as I am that Mum isn't here to see it, maybe I want to push towards the light with a new green shoot. 

Maybe nobody is looking, and that's alright. Maybe I am the only person to have noticed that immaculate stellata flower, but it would have opened its petals even if nobody ever saw it. It blooms because that's what it does. 

God notices. He doesn't miss a thing. 

And just as I gently lifted the magnolia flower between my fingers and lifted it to gaze full in its face, so He gently lifts my chin so that I can look in His face and notice that He is still there. 

A - Z Challenge - M: Murmuration

We went to see a murmuration of starlings. You know, the thing where a vast number of starlings collect in the air in one place and swoop and dance about in wonderful formation at dusk before settling to roost in trees? Also known as flocking (but that doesn't begin with M). Well, we went to see one.

A good friend of ours, a lifelong birdwatcher, nature lover, tree expert and all-round knowledgeable soul had good intel that starlings were doing their thing at this particular location at this particular time, and so we layered up well, laced up the walking boots (well, laced up the boots first in my case as I'm finding that it's increasingly difficult to reach my boots when I'm bundled up) and we climbed in the car full of expectation. 

We were there, but the starlings turned out not to be. Actually, that's not true - a few turned up ('Oh look! Here they are!') but were clearly either lost or discouraged by the absence of the Main Flock and went to bed early, and unspectacularly. Just enough to cause a short-lived ripple of excitement. 

Or not.

We stood in a field  in the Derbyshire countryside at dusk, on a February evening, in barely above zero degrees with only half a bag of mint imperials between us for sustenance, and the birds didn't show up. But you know what? It was fun. 

We walked up and down a bit. We stamped our feet and fumbled with mint imperials in thick gloves. We discussed which trees were which and saw a rabbit (or was it a hare? No, it was a biggish rabbit). We made up stories about abandoned farm buildings and secret drug rings and us on a hillside with binoculars.   We found a camera lens cap on the ground and decided it was definitely encouraging evidence that we were in the right place. We shared ideas about what we would do if we decided to do One New Thing each month that we had never done before. We chatted briefly with a fellow murmuration-hopeful who had seen a wondrous display only days previously! It was marvellous! Bad luck that when we turn out they have a day off. 

We trudged back down the path while we could no longer feel our feet and I did my best to climb into the car with knees that didn't want to bend, without muddying the white upholstery. Apparently the front seats are heated, but my husband had bagged the passenger seat. Still, I had the 'perials*. 

Home before we knew it and our friend was apologetic that it had been a wasted trip. But it hadn't been. 

We did something different. Speaking of 'One New Thing', I've never been to look at a murmuration before though I've seen them on Countryfile and often said that it's something I'd like to do. I'd like to see a murmuration one day. Maybe to see one you have to go and not see one quite a few times first. I gather it's bit like that in the birdwatching world**. 

We spent a happy couple of hours doing something. The last few years have been pretty awful and we haven't really done very much, so it was unusual. It was good to look outside for a while - outside ourselves and physically outside, despite the cold and the mud and the barren, bird-free landscape. It may not have been much but it was something, and something is better than nothing, and it's been nothing for quite some time. 

So I call that a win. 

*    When I was a kid, I thought these little round sweets that my mum always had (to aid digestion) were called Mintim Perials. So in our house they are still 'perials. 

**  Though my very limited experience of birdwatching has been different. When I was 17 I went out with a keen birdwatcher who invited me to come with him to look for nightjars in Clumber Park. (This was with the local chapter of the birdwatching society of which he was a member, before you see euphemisms everywhere.) We went, we sat in some bushes for hours on end and yes, a nightjar gamely turned up. It was summer, so not cold. Job done! Did it give me a taste for birdwatching? No.