tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83542792129124695092024-03-05T21:09:23.012+00:00Are we nearly there yet? Because I'm just a child on a long journey. Helenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05559604728716256864noreply@blogger.comBlogger496125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8354279212912469509.post-36625808229536739882024-01-14T14:06:00.000+00:002024-01-14T14:06:10.652+00:00A - Z Challenge: R - Ready<div>R has always felt to me like a late letter in the alphabet; a sign that the end is in sight. There's a good reason for this, I suppose: it's the 18th letter out of 26, so if I'm on R out of A-Z, I'm almost there! It's only taken me three years... </div><div><br /></div><div>Funnily enough, this latest impetus to limp over the finish line was prompted by someone at the Association of Christian Writers who posted that they had just signed up for the 2024 A-Z Challenge! I have given myself the task of finishing off the 2021 A-Z Challenge before the new one begins. Whether I embark on another one (officially, or unofficially) will depend on levels of enthusiasm and inspiration. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, R for Ready. This is my Word for 2024. </div><div><br /></div><div>At the beginning of each year I choose a word to help me navigate the year ahead. Being me, I consider and cogitate and research and over-think it for quite a while before I commit myself, and this year was no different on that score. Last year's word was 'Free' and I found it to be quite a powerful one. More on that another time, perhaps (the annoying little voice in my head has suggested that I save this for next time I need something beginning with 'F'). Forget that for now, though. This is supposed to be short, and we're talking about the letter R.</div><div><br /></div><div>R for Ready. </div><div><br /></div><div>I decided that this year my word should be something less introspective and more dynamic than in previous years. I want this to be a year where I reclaim some ground, DO some things, be more active on every level than the past few, which have largely been characterised by having been knocked flat on my backside and having lain there immobile as life steamrolled over me. </div><div><br /></div><div>But no more, I thought. I am back.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieojwmj1mW5iY9vDPOOvgCncxzZvzXPlUkSSsVq7pQqIQF8IJM0ZpAIOYu_e8O5b6JISaUG89LCx6kK7VBM03DSPihav6GfPYL99op7x_CkbzMGquH-9C2F1UOrf83eM_Hl1jJ2QzTzg3sfJ3s58QGtCrJkmNOvF_iWUi9SB32FbYIx4Ui7KmD0z4Gh9xW/s2048/IMG_2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieojwmj1mW5iY9vDPOOvgCncxzZvzXPlUkSSsVq7pQqIQF8IJM0ZpAIOYu_e8O5b6JISaUG89LCx6kK7VBM03DSPihav6GfPYL99op7x_CkbzMGquH-9C2F1UOrf83eM_Hl1jJ2QzTzg3sfJ3s58QGtCrJkmNOvF_iWUi9SB32FbYIx4Ui7KmD0z4Gh9xW/s320/IMG_2014.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div>So, what kind of word encapsulated this? The sense of determination, forward motion, promise? The feeling that I am wanting to turn a corner, begin something new? I deliberated over 'Courage' and 'Forward', 'Strong' and 'Purpose', before diving into the thesaurus and deciding that 'Ready' seemed to be a part of all of them. To face something with courage requires readiness. To move forward involves being ready to step out. Being strong implies preparedness and firmness of spirit. If you have purpose, you have direction and confidence. The words seemed to support each other and at the same time, pointed me to the one word. </div><div><br /></div><div>Ready.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, Ready I am. I am Ready. </div><div><br /></div><div>Ready for what? That's up to God, isn't it? </div><div><br /></div><div>As in other years, I've fought the vague creeping fear that I might in some way 'tempt fate' by choosing a bold word that might come back to bite me. The God I know doesn't work like that, even if I am unnerved by a couple of challenging things that waited barely until the dust had settled on the New Year parties before rearing their heads. </div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe this year will require me to be ready to face trouble, but maybe it'll turn out to mean ready for other things too. I'm hoping it will be a year of progress, of pushing back the darkness, of discovering new things or rediscovering old ones. Of finding some confidence, some purpose, some joy. Maybe finding myself again. </div><div><br /></div><div>We shall see. But I am daring to say that I'm ready.</div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: repeat rgb(243, 253, 254); margin-left: 60pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo3; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; tab-stops: list 36.0pt; text-indent: -18pt;"><span style="color: #757575; font-family: Roboto;"><span style="color: #37afc0;"></span></span></p></div>Helenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05559604728716256864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8354279212912469509.post-17193194838267142032023-12-12T16:21:00.000+00:002023-12-12T16:21:35.790+00:00A - Z Challenge: Q - QuestionsThe older I get, the less I know. <div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>Still kidding myself that I had answers. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIe2Nklm2YraAApB1XQ8hkx6DYqF3tpT-xb8OOkhy7R8YwdlWX5YaLcSPLCfE9aj7OeBMsS7-h1xJ7HeMxXHCXuL0kDkWVOAE0db6QsqVwj6vRnPd1i3Tw-7LbVon7Wrly5inMgSUBcEtt_faVwHlIknXOTCAnpLJvIGk9u0CAfOR_fRwvnMbp6UUlMoqk/s1024/WhatsApp%20Image%202023-12-12%20at%204.16.25%20PM.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIe2Nklm2YraAApB1XQ8hkx6DYqF3tpT-xb8OOkhy7R8YwdlWX5YaLcSPLCfE9aj7OeBMsS7-h1xJ7HeMxXHCXuL0kDkWVOAE0db6QsqVwj6vRnPd1i3Tw-7LbVon7Wrly5inMgSUBcEtt_faVwHlIknXOTCAnpLJvIGk9u0CAfOR_fRwvnMbp6UUlMoqk/s320/WhatsApp%20Image%202023-12-12%20at%204.16.25%20PM.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>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 '<i>Me too</i>' moment with the me of years ago, quite often I marvel at the naivety and platitudes of my former self. </div><div><br /></div><div>Without going on forever, the tip of my huge Question iceberg looks like this: </div><div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>if God loves us, why doesn't he stop bad things from happening? </li><li>if God is with us always, where is he when these things do happen? </li><li>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?</li><li>when we need him, how come it feels as if God doesn't show up? </li><li>when we know that God <i>can</i> answer prayer, why doesn't he?</li></ul><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>The truth is, unanswered prayer is only a problem if you have faith. And it is a problem for me. </div><div><br /></div><div>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? </div><div><br /></div><div>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'. </div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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?</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>Here's what I'm left with:</div><div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Jesus.</li></ul></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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 <i>wouldn't</i> 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. </div><div><br /></div></div><div><br /><script type="text/javascript">
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</script></div><div><br /></div><div>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?</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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? </div><div><br /></div><div>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! </div><div><br /></div><div>There were more. P is a good letter for inspiration, it seems, and so my P was held up while I vacillated. </div><div><br /></div><div>Until today. Today I went back to church, for the second time since pre-covid days. Steady on. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW2fIJ-sCaouAMeQo7myqjdRB2S4t2CpYF3Bh6g0r4w9thDg-7d5XZqEUh2h_S-dq8HBMaASgxBwJd2jnKsOFq47nEHOEYfjguNbyJVsBioOIr8avzzmTAD7Wm5EWBwiD4A1grUoh5X8C4XbdnRAJAFznl-1LLoRxtbXFjLQyybDrxhdHtQYm767jtF0x2/s3264/Image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW2fIJ-sCaouAMeQo7myqjdRB2S4t2CpYF3Bh6g0r4w9thDg-7d5XZqEUh2h_S-dq8HBMaASgxBwJd2jnKsOFq47nEHOEYfjguNbyJVsBioOIr8avzzmTAD7Wm5EWBwiD4A1grUoh5X8C4XbdnRAJAFznl-1LLoRxtbXFjLQyybDrxhdHtQYm767jtF0x2/s320/Image.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>I was quite nervous walking down the road this morning. </div><div><br /></div><div>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? </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>'How wonderful to see you!'</div><div><br /></div><div>'I've been praying for you.'</div><div><br /></div><div>'I'm so glad you came!'</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>I walked home in the cold drizzle with a smile on my face, and smiles have been in short supply for quite a while. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>The people of God, and my people. </div><div><br /></div>Helenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05559604728716256864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8354279212912469509.post-88170233962150467632023-05-02T17:44:00.000+01:002023-05-02T17:44:03.210+01:00A - Z Challenge - O: One (Opinion)Years ago, I wrote an angst-ridden blog post called '<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/8354279212912469509/4241283498728693565" target="_blank">An Audience of One'</a>, 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 <i>italics</i> a lot. I repeat myself a lot. <br /><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Z_4k6BZhDXCXHZ0PBcxb_QOkcn3B_8IQB-D3-ESR4X51qV1byMVy4UNrBEXrYydpnbTNAU8LWU71vnLna2A3WzqzflLHis-Ca4S4linidvezHmmRu7av1G1dKXy85p7-4795wwTH2WnnZ-A0NvXWzoRTU2W9Ny2N1DI0bbSrf4LEWiUYwRWC1xPM9w/s2048/file00026290007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Z_4k6BZhDXCXHZ0PBcxb_QOkcn3B_8IQB-D3-ESR4X51qV1byMVy4UNrBEXrYydpnbTNAU8LWU71vnLna2A3WzqzflLHis-Ca4S4linidvezHmmRu7av1G1dKXy85p7-4795wwTH2WnnZ-A0NvXWzoRTU2W9Ny2N1DI0bbSrf4LEWiUYwRWC1xPM9w/s320/file00026290007.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>Here are a few disorganised thoughts about things that matter (and maybe things that don't).</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div><blockquote>"This is hard, and you are doing your best." </blockquote></div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div><div>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.</div></div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>Lord God, teach me what actually matters.</div>Helenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05559604728716256864noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8354279212912469509.post-64542185609454725852023-03-20T11:34:00.000+00:002023-03-20T11:34:00.746+00:00A - Z Challenge - N: NoticingToday 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. <div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe2QrMKem1YlG2lT4FpCAllUvn1gHydJaSy3eQtFpRX1VeQx24gJhYt41Dg1HG77dYcaDUmxSq3UH6LXfRRrzjpSSRqlxwzjCRwscTLc2FPYdkw9KjoEa1oheJbaWZ30Xd_tuHgBZK7i77fMXmabfOGruluLlxgWd6yImBsmWI6I0CuK7St9RzVGFaEQ/s640/IMG_9819.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe2QrMKem1YlG2lT4FpCAllUvn1gHydJaSy3eQtFpRX1VeQx24gJhYt41Dg1HG77dYcaDUmxSq3UH6LXfRRrzjpSSRqlxwzjCRwscTLc2FPYdkw9KjoEa1oheJbaWZ30Xd_tuHgBZK7i77fMXmabfOGruluLlxgWd6yImBsmWI6I0CuK7St9RzVGFaEQ/w150-h200/IMG_9819.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCgJieX6vsiu7t6OxP0EJSc2xEcTFpgmoMDYDC-imt1e9UziXP7pOMroC8fKlLKPxFN87uP10KaSXYFISwTjhjGJMweigYdZ7RXQa1d7YKvhBk9WHyqrVNa3vE47YS3aQz2CTNSbj2PXX4Od021aNR640Qz5DgVG8JDAIkXn3OrPHMH3NnJ6NR0qvKiw/s640/IMG_0046.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCgJieX6vsiu7t6OxP0EJSc2xEcTFpgmoMDYDC-imt1e9UziXP7pOMroC8fKlLKPxFN87uP10KaSXYFISwTjhjGJMweigYdZ7RXQa1d7YKvhBk9WHyqrVNa3vE47YS3aQz2CTNSbj2PXX4Od021aNR640Qz5DgVG8JDAIkXn3OrPHMH3NnJ6NR0qvKiw/w150-h200/IMG_0046.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><span>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. </span><span style="text-align: center;"> </span></div><div><span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Uivg7uGIpHgo72Xlu3_nB4Z-YHLM5zhnV9wFEYlTD1YX2V3m6dBgOUSoDZRjvSaE-adhu7NJkbtSpmC1iiXjX-hYfxQo1mPPb4YPjLHmHx5EK9jt0uwIxq4FKn6ut_ZetCiZwfaLegvwUv7g0iK-NoYkq9dclmejr4m-3MDrwgqwGJD02MDsDdbfLw/s640/IMG_0053.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Uivg7uGIpHgo72Xlu3_nB4Z-YHLM5zhnV9wFEYlTD1YX2V3m6dBgOUSoDZRjvSaE-adhu7NJkbtSpmC1iiXjX-hYfxQo1mPPb4YPjLHmHx5EK9jt0uwIxq4FKn6ut_ZetCiZwfaLegvwUv7g0iK-NoYkq9dclmejr4m-3MDrwgqwGJD02MDsDdbfLw/w150-h200/IMG_0053.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqeviW5ImY11Zte8yDVu3mwzvaHO8ctjPwgLMUgZfeoHZMvKlVENT0IdwRlqXXpgdFy-BkAbxFe1tOM6t7QiQG-nj5OJgiKWoRcGn7eHVBX6JmW--jwpNtq_Zt2gLhV1ycbHZ2Ex_8iGc3B9xTAqhgOrux36F6R1UWSnWL_Pn9lQvaJHT4mhfHUoL6AQ/s640/IMG_0038.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqeviW5ImY11Zte8yDVu3mwzvaHO8ctjPwgLMUgZfeoHZMvKlVENT0IdwRlqXXpgdFy-BkAbxFe1tOM6t7QiQG-nj5OJgiKWoRcGn7eHVBX6JmW--jwpNtq_Zt2gLhV1ycbHZ2Ex_8iGc3B9xTAqhgOrux36F6R1UWSnWL_Pn9lQvaJHT4mhfHUoL6AQ/s320/IMG_0038.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The star of the show</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqo0YiXuOYK5egBhmGdw33cKZaLzDnXPWnO2bVHYEh9ud1kvFCll-Zwh3XXJ2L8Dk8XsJTXt2SdekIcm1xDKEdVVHdQklR-nSTjrqjb8Mz993Jd-byLkhFcM4lyFXot8e0n9D77iM3DtsXURHFDdxALmbP8JREk86B9uxmluDGZS7NEguWojlo-kwnbg/s640/IMG_0041.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqo0YiXuOYK5egBhmGdw33cKZaLzDnXPWnO2bVHYEh9ud1kvFCll-Zwh3XXJ2L8Dk8XsJTXt2SdekIcm1xDKEdVVHdQklR-nSTjrqjb8Mz993Jd-byLkhFcM4lyFXot8e0n9D77iM3DtsXURHFDdxALmbP8JREk86B9uxmluDGZS7NEguWojlo-kwnbg/w150-h200/IMG_0041.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjahurK1kiPw1tRktwvelvEsVHSe6OiFlhHOVe4yiiPuo303g3o4oyZJPftS_YSQcmRD-wjfCs6kowueEUnq-7ttWbOBoWTzkjJ1AehQXd1-_n7rGhiAUDwlExMnx12tdi3hviWRRHof00wfDV9GyQDRnV1vMMT4tydprubS-tmDQoK3sKvoGuijJtbTg/s640/IMG_0059.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjahurK1kiPw1tRktwvelvEsVHSe6OiFlhHOVe4yiiPuo303g3o4oyZJPftS_YSQcmRD-wjfCs6kowueEUnq-7ttWbOBoWTzkjJ1AehQXd1-_n7rGhiAUDwlExMnx12tdi3hviWRRHof00wfDV9GyQDRnV1vMMT4tydprubS-tmDQoK3sKvoGuijJtbTg/w150-h200/IMG_0059.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8lGofZSb9vu_QRlogDmbg-o47kFv6wBfWRd43r4epmNgiMUJ0Lo78_ozDC4V_MmJTfjiJcv8jfHM9MasEbq8V7l0WtwVjNuhqxVYzv-UxSJmk8tNLgMNID31nCxeZ7yn2KFhYNx7nU9JtOOb_cvvlAeJKnuxB9sQTS024J6JY13CzJECFvNCAMFzGtA/s640/IMG_0043.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8lGofZSb9vu_QRlogDmbg-o47kFv6wBfWRd43r4epmNgiMUJ0Lo78_ozDC4V_MmJTfjiJcv8jfHM9MasEbq8V7l0WtwVjNuhqxVYzv-UxSJmk8tNLgMNID31nCxeZ7yn2KFhYNx7nU9JtOOb_cvvlAeJKnuxB9sQTS024J6JY13CzJECFvNCAMFzGtA/w150-h200/IMG_0043.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>God notices. He doesn't miss a thing. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Helenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05559604728716256864noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8354279212912469509.post-30006867122234286382023-03-06T11:36:00.000+00:002023-03-06T11:36:12.039+00:00A - Z Challenge - M: MurmurationWe 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.<script type="text/javascript">
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</script><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>Or not.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ-8tWVEDoVWOoy8umcpiKQn4aBZixdMHFoV956pzgYIpPEdgHw8mbZSUbrlNqaNhAoGM0nv-Xp9kw6xaYbWUyCXu5owMEz2HBLQXsMLOgAxm_4tzT7KMzJv932sMfGoQJ3wloc9YYLL1c9qCcfxvV038hwiRkisW2CghqP9aDzoClg0FkLfjpAck9pg/s640/IMG_8878.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ-8tWVEDoVWOoy8umcpiKQn4aBZixdMHFoV956pzgYIpPEdgHw8mbZSUbrlNqaNhAoGM0nv-Xp9kw6xaYbWUyCXu5owMEz2HBLQXsMLOgAxm_4tzT7KMzJv932sMfGoQJ3wloc9YYLL1c9qCcfxvV038hwiRkisW2CghqP9aDzoClg0FkLfjpAck9pg/s320/IMG_8878.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>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*. </div><div><br /></div><div>Home before we knew it and our friend was apologetic that it had been a wasted trip. But it hadn't been. </div><div><br /></div><div>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 <i>not</i> see one quite a few times first. I gather it's bit like that in the birdwatching world**. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>So I call that a win. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>* 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. </div><div><br /></div><div>** 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.</div>Helenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05559604728716256864noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8354279212912469509.post-47573403475549415192022-09-20T16:29:00.001+01:002023-03-01T12:23:48.485+00:00A - Z Challenge - L: LoveI've a feeling that this blog post might be a short one, but it's one of the biggest I've ever tried to write. I could have called it 'Loss' or 'Lost' or 'Lonely' or 'Lament', or any number of words beginning with L that signify the sad, broken feeling that permeates life at the moment. Ha. Maybe I should just have called it 'Life'. <div><br /></div><div>The last few years have been hideous for our family. On top of the strains and stresses of a global pandemic which knocked everyone for six and the disaster that is Brexit that ruined the family business, we have had other serious stuff that's not my story to tell, my job only to try and help others through. All this is ongoing. Then, on 16 April, Easter Saturday, my Mum (90) fell in her bathroom and hit her head on the floor. </div><div><br /></div><div>We thought she was getting better to start with - she was remarkably alert despite the trauma and the blood loss, and the doctors and nurses checking her over and dressing her wounds were optimistic that she would be back on her feet in a few days. To cut a long, painful, day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute story very short, she never did get back on her feet. </div><div><br /></div><div>My Mum died on 21 May 2022 at 10.25pm. Oh, God, I miss her. </div><div><br /></div><div>I was there at the end. We had time to sit around her bed and play her favourite music and hold her hand and tell her how much she was loved and what a wonderful Mum she'd been. I hope she could hear us. </div><div><br /></div><div>I hope she knew who we were, because latterly there were times when she didn't know us at all. My heart broke over and over as she slipped further from us into confusion and I did everything I could to comfort and reassure her, but I wish it had been more. It was exhausting and devastating and although I know that I was not capable of anything else, I am tortured by the idea that she was anxious and I was not there, and I am haunted at the memory of every moment of panic when she did not recognise her surroundings. </div><div><br /></div><div>But I was there all that day, all evening and at the very end, when her breathing slowed, and then there was a long, long pause. I leaned my forehead on her shoulder and wept. She took one more deep breath, sighed, and she was gone. Just like that.</div><div><br /></div><div>I thought in my youth that when I finally lost my Mum I would be self sufficient with a family of my own and I wouldn't feel the devastation I contemplated when I was a kid. I thought that having taken care of her for twelve years since my Dad died and having felt the strain of being a full time carer in recent years, that there might even have been an element of relief. I thought that because by the end we knew that she wasn't going to get better, I might have been a bit prepared for the day when she left me. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjhqc7nQ2iqSfLXrHDctVM7vhkcyxTBbkRwdPPF7wcviSCBAUAHnGN2aJm594YdHbtre3G5BQSMEhobcd2hswyr3g_s7cX9PRz8u3kJvStr_RVF3NEeI9-UcKEGdI2fRPfvcgbzg4cZwLaZHLX3xF6zIcX72ASN55BdMF6bYxrAnKLUKhpTxNOTqixvQ/s640/IMG_7253.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjhqc7nQ2iqSfLXrHDctVM7vhkcyxTBbkRwdPPF7wcviSCBAUAHnGN2aJm594YdHbtre3G5BQSMEhobcd2hswyr3g_s7cX9PRz8u3kJvStr_RVF3NEeI9-UcKEGdI2fRPfvcgbzg4cZwLaZHLX3xF6zIcX72ASN55BdMF6bYxrAnKLUKhpTxNOTqixvQ/s320/IMG_7253.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div>On all counts, I was wrong. </div><div><br /></div><div>Yes, she was 91 years old, yes, she was frail and struggling and the subdural haemorrhage that was the final straw could not be treated. Yes, I'm in late middle age myself and my husband is the best of all of them and my two daughters are the lights of my life. But, oh, Lord God, I want my Mum. </div><div><br /></div><div>I thought I'd tell you about her. Maybe share some stories about walking on the beach together, about sharing Sherbet Fountains, about laughing when her ice cream melted everywhere on holiday last year. About our shared inability to go for a coffee at a garden centre cafe without coming home with rockery plants. About her delight in her grandchildren, her pride in her family. About how badly she missed my Dad after his death in 2005. </div><div><br /></div><div>I don't think I can do it. </div><div><br /></div><div>She was my Mum. My biggest ally; nobody is ever as completely on your side as your mum, are they? If the whole world was against me, she would still be in my corner. Even in her last months I would go in and flop down on her sofa and tell her the things that were bothering me. She would listen, she would sympathise , she would give me a hug. </div><div><br /></div><div>I remember one time; I didn't even need to say anything. Mum was drying dishes at her kitchen sink and I came into the room. She took one look at my face and put her arms around me. As I hugged her back she felt so small, so slight, so fragile. I kissed the top of her head and helped her to her chair before she got tired or lost her balance. I put the kettle on. </div><div><br /></div><div>I go in there now and she's not there. Her chair is empty. I've sorted out some of her clothes and given them to charity shops, and I've cleaned out cupboards and put them to new uses but there are some things that I can't tidy away. Her favourite cardigan still hangs in the wardrobe because I can't let go of it. Her glasses are still on her chest of drawers by the mirror. The book she was reading still has her bookmark in it.</div><div><br /></div><div>And I can't tidy away the love that I still have for my Mum that now has nowhere to go. I've looked after her for the last few years but she looked after me for my whole life. I sometimes think that I was more of a worry to her as an adult than I ever was as a teenager. Every day I think of things I want to tell her. I see things that I know would make her laugh, bits of gossip about people I see at the shops. I looked through a photo album I'd never seen before and I need to ask her who some of these people are. </div><div><br /></div><div>Who else knows what to say when I ask, 'Have a grape'? (the answer is 'I don't want a grape, either!', and then we both laugh - it's a long story). </div><div><br />Nobody holds up the other end of our shared jokes any more. <script type="text/javascript">
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</script></div><div><br /></div><div>Watching all the pomp and ceremony regarding the death of Queen Elizabeth these last couple of weeks has been like scratching off a scab on a wound that is still painful. Mum was an ardent Royal supporter. She would have been so sad that the Queen was dead and also fascinated at the splendour of the funeral and loving the glimpses of the Royal Family. We would have watched it together with a packet of biscuits and lots of cups of coffee. It would have been another shared experience. </div><div><br /></div><div>Mum's funeral was not much like the Queen's, as you can imagine. We all had Covid at the time, so hardly anyone came, even though the funeral directors were very skilful in keeping the poorly people away from the healthy ones. It was over in half an hour without any need for gun carriages or orbs or sceptres. On the night they came to take Mum's body away I took off her wedding ring, grown loose as she became more and more frail, and I slid it on the ring finger of my right hand where it's stayed ever since. Her ashes have been scattered in the same place as my Dad's. We planted roses. 'Peace' and 'Remembrance'.</div><div><br /></div><div>She's gone, and it really hurts. I don't know what death is, really. I know what Jesus told us about it, and I hang onto the things that I believe to be true. I hope that on that night in May when she left here she found my Dad waiting for her. I hope that maybe she was part of the reception committee for the Queen when she arrived a few months later. I hope that she's okay. </div><div><br /></div><div>I hope she knows how much I loved her. </div>Helenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05559604728716256864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8354279212912469509.post-33213059332355838612022-08-17T11:30:00.017+01:002022-08-17T11:49:46.277+01:00A - Z Challenge - K: KettleHiya. <div><br /></div><div>How many times have I let my blog gather dust for a lengthy period of time and then announced a comeback that doesn't happen? Several times I have declared that I'm back, announced that this time I'm here to stay, <i>definitely</i>, watch this space because great things will happen and... and... then, nothing. Fade back into oblivion until the next burst of enthusiasm. Or guilt. Or something.<div><br /></div><div>Well, no more. Never let it be said that I am not a creature with the ability to learn. It might just take time.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, yes, I am back, <i>right now</i>. </div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2PoAe5wE9zSAmn0JHgAKMl18nCCJlBKBJDV4erQ9q6KHZ0LF1e0nZYTYnR5LC-pNtnxqlw8RDR5zAzXp_c0F0o-ceteYObXnpjXrQJl8xtXUZO_berr5kUpAJ1y7AcGXFIKpDdaxMTsUT_a2fF-Z9LXdE-2wwwsw2rL9mrvcVDWWDFxMGH1BTQbw-vg/s320/IMG_7874a.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2PoAe5wE9zSAmn0JHgAKMl18nCCJlBKBJDV4erQ9q6KHZ0LF1e0nZYTYnR5LC-pNtnxqlw8RDR5zAzXp_c0F0o-ceteYObXnpjXrQJl8xtXUZO_berr5kUpAJ1y7AcGXFIKpDdaxMTsUT_a2fF-Z9LXdE-2wwwsw2rL9mrvcVDWWDFxMGH1BTQbw-vg/s1600/IMG_7874a.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div><div>Tomorrow? Who knows? </div><div><br /></div><div>The A-Z Challenge that I started has long finished, slept for a year and finished again, but I am choosing not to care. Not to focus on the yawning gaps, but just embrace the fact that I'm here now, not making any promises to anyone; not to God, not to my faithful reader, not to myself. </div><div><br /></div><div>I shall put the kettle on. As my teenage daughters might say, BRB.*</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>* Be Right Back. 😉</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><script type="text/javascript">
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Some things do not change, do they?<br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimvc_yOYdvKusXGnk-cO81H-vteXNldKLNCHe8Js7BqZZqo_altugw0se-xYgF-uiBAyg9z90rVelbkOA5bmmOKQNUxgsz2XwvvJd2Jqw_ZCQcQGxoOgeT6f5SzCVDhggMUlxXbO9ZQNwJ/s1600/IMG_4007.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimvc_yOYdvKusXGnk-cO81H-vteXNldKLNCHe8Js7BqZZqo_altugw0se-xYgF-uiBAyg9z90rVelbkOA5bmmOKQNUxgsz2XwvvJd2Jqw_ZCQcQGxoOgeT6f5SzCVDhggMUlxXbO9ZQNwJ/s320/IMG_4007.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>'In the morning, when I rise, give me Jesus.'</i></div><div><br /></div><div>This is a quote from a traditional spiritual song that I don't know which was famously (apparently) arranged by a lady called Alma Blackmon. The words are very simple, and beautiful and the refrain: </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>'You can have all this world</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Just give me Jesus'.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>That's about it. </div><div><br /></div><div>There have been a handful of times in my life, Lord God, when I've run out of... well, everything. Energy, ideas, patience, peace of mind. This week is pretty much one of those times. It's been a week in which anxiety and worry linked arms and barged their way back into my head where they set up camp and made themselves comfortable. Fear crept in quietly and ominously and now huddles with them round the camp fire and depression has taken a step out from the shadows and is asking to join in the conversation.</div><div><br /></div><div>Give me Jesus. </div><div><br /></div><div>Lord, give me Jesus when I rise, and before that, when I lie in bed and stab at the snooze button and try to stay asleep because it's easier being asleep than awake. Give me Jesus when I come downstairs and try with as much tact and diplomacy and thick-skinned-ness to communicate with my teenage daughters who have their own sizeable problems at the moment. </div><div><br /></div><div>Give me Jesus as I exercise to try to loosen my aching joints and fight on against the accumulating excess pounds. Give me Jesus as I make phone calls and check for sad messages that are surely coming soon. Give me Jesus as I break news, as I make arrangements, as I try to think of things to say. Give me Jesus when I'm on the brink of saying things I should not say. </div><div><br /></div><div>As I spend time with people I love, give me Jesus so that they can see Him, not me. </div><div><br /></div><div>Give me Jesus as I try to find a meal that everyone will eat at a time when everyone is free to eat it. Give me Jesus as I head off to bed before my daughters and try to sleep not knowing when they'll go to bed and if they'll be able to get up in the morning. </div><div><br /></div><div>Lord, <i>Give me Jesus</i>. You can have all this world, just give me Jesus. </div><div><br /></div><div>Lord, you can certainly have all this world. I don't want it very much at the moment. It's a world full of broken marriages and pain and illness and hospitals and doctors and shaking heads and bad news and low self esteem and tears and waiting and lying awake at night not-knowing and filling the gaps with imagination that just loves to paint everything bleak and grim. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's a world full of shadows that are so dark that sometimes it's hard to see you.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's a world where you <i>are</i> visible in the huge extravagant beauty of the magnolias blooming in my garden (well, the ones that survived last week's sub-zero temperatures) and in the promise of the flowers on the tomato plants and in the baby radishes peeping potential above the soil. It's a world of purply-grey stormy skies and lashing rain then watery sunshine and subtle rainbows and the smell of wet dusty ground. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's a world where those that have eyes to see and ears to hear <i>can</i> find you all everywhere - and all that's just lovely and great but right now it's not enough, Father God. I don't want to discern you in subtleties, I want to run <i>actually</i>, not figuratively, into your real, solid, faithful arms and feel the weight and strength of your embrace. To let my legs go as wobbly as they feel and let you pick me up effortlessly and hold me close like a little girl. </div><div><br /></div><div>Daddy, I'm tired.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't want to be strong. I want to give up. I want to stay asleep. </div><div><br /></div><div>I don't want to keep trying to communicate when I don't have words. I don't want to persevere with the goals I've set myself - who am I kidding? I abandoned them long ago, but they haunt me still. I want to sit down and not move. I don't want to make decisions and I don't want to explain bad things to small children and I just don't want to do any of it any more. </div><div><br /></div><div>I don't want to run the race, I'm tired and I want to rest. </div><div><br /></div><div>You can have all this world. Just give me Jesus. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><script type="text/javascript">
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But - maybe that makes this post altogether more relevant to Right Now as well as Then. </div><div style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;"><br /></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;">Maybe.</div><div style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;"><br /></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;">(First published as '<i>How to be a Small, Inadequate, Mighty Warrior'</i>).</div><div style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;"><br /></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;">Gideon had a word with me the other day.<br />I'm sure you've met Gideon. His story can be found in the Book of Judges in the Bible. </div><div style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;"><br /></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;">I am drawn to Gideon. He felt small and inadequate, and I know that feeling.<br /><br />Judges 6:12. God sent an angel to chat with Gideon and the first thing the angel said was, '<i>The Lord is with you, mighty warrior.'</i><br /><br />At this point I imagine Gideon looked behind him, because clearly there must be a mighty warrior nearby that he hadn't noticed. He wasn't feeling very mighty, or warrior-like; he was feeling defeated and weak and insignificant. What's more, he didn't feel particularly that God was on his side, but he rallies and very politely comes over all cynical:<br /><blockquote class="tr_bq" style="color: #212121; font-stretch: normal; font-style: italic; line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><i>'If the Lord is with us, why has all this happened to us? Where are all his wonders...?'</i></blockquote>Gideon was quietly doing his thing, minding his own business, and God came and told him to stop doing his thing, and go do a <i>great</i> thing.<br /><blockquote class="tr_bq" style="color: #212121; font-stretch: normal; font-style: italic; line-height: normal; text-align: center;">'<i>Go in the strength you have and save Israel out of Midian's hand. Am I not sending you?' </i></blockquote>What about that? The clue is in <i>'Am </i>I<i> not sending you?'</i> If Mighty God was telling Gideon that he was equal to the task of fighting the Midianites, then he probably was. Of course, this is easy for me to say. I'm not the one hiding from these same people and wondering what on earth is going on.<br /><br />Gideon argues:<br /><blockquote class="tr_bq" style="color: #212121; font-stretch: normal; font-style: italic; line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><i>"'But Lord,' Gideon asked, 'How can I save Israel? My clan is the weakest in Manasseh, and I am the least in my family.'</i>"</blockquote>You've got the wrong guy.<br /><br />But God is patient and reassuring.<br /><blockquote class="tr_bq" style="color: #212121; font-stretch: normal; font-style: italic; line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><i>'Pull yourself together, Gideon. Blimey, how many times do I have to tell you? I am GOD. If I tell you you're going to be Superman, then you're going to be Superman. For Pete's sake, man up.'</i></blockquote>Or not quite like that. God tells him that he would be <i>with him</i>.<br /><br />Time and time again Gideon asked for proof that it was God, proof that God definitely was talking to <i>him</i>, proof that he'd heard God correctly. Did God get impatient? No, God humours him. Did God get a bit annoyed that he kept asking for a sign? Nope. God gave him signs.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglecYZQMBCU0NaPFTacCHkitAxnYqx26rsbSvPuQk7nvNZ2LxU-qXU7g_dx0KLQNZ7N948KdS4Jo068F5DX1e8L25N7vc_onxN4UekLO8gQUyFl6BHNtLl4yi7oVeP4aHjwdffx6MJRHYW/s1600/02012009123.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; color: #37afc0; display: inline-block; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglecYZQMBCU0NaPFTacCHkitAxnYqx26rsbSvPuQk7nvNZ2LxU-qXU7g_dx0KLQNZ7N948KdS4Jo068F5DX1e8L25N7vc_onxN4UekLO8gQUyFl6BHNtLl4yi7oVeP4aHjwdffx6MJRHYW/s320/02012009123.jpg" style="border: 0px; height: inherit; max-width: 100%;" width="240" /></a></div>God is endlessly patient. But that isn't the whole story. Of course, there's the bit about Gideon's defeat of the Midianites, the ongoing chronicles of the people of God and the glory of the Almighty shining through humble servants, there's that. But the thing that struck me is how God stoops down to choose ordinary people to do the extraordinary. When those ordinary people have hangups (<i>'But I'm weak! How can I do this thing for you?</i>') or insecurities (<i>'I am the least in my family!')</i> He reassures and equips.<br /><br />God says: I will be with you. I'm going to hold your hand.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Go in the strength you have</i>.</div></div><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;" /><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;">God didn't make Gideon feel strong. He didn't double the size of his muscles, or give him a couple of tanks and a huge army - He simply said, '</span><i style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;">Go in the strength you have. Am I not sending you</i><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;">?'</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;" /><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;">If God is sending us, we'll be alright. He wanted Gideon to trust that he would be equipped when he needed equipping. Not right up front, able to see how things would play out, no surprises; to step out, just as he was, knowing that the Lord was fighting with him.</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;" /><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;">God wasn't talking to the person behind him who had bigger biceps and a bit more charisma. I don't think it's any different today. God says to me and you, </span><i style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;">'I am with you.'</i><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;" /><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;">Doesn't He say to us, '</span><i style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;">Go in the strength you have?</i><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;">' and, '</span><i style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;">My power is made perfect in weakness.' (</i><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;">2 Cor 12:9) Doesn't He ask us to step out in faith, no knowing all the answers, with the knowledge that He is beside us and will give us what we need when we need it?</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;" /><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;">Forget the woman on the other side of church who is more beautiful than I am, more confident. Forget the other folks who are publishing their books and getting great reviews. Forget the guy who writes the blog that has so many more hits than mine. God has something else up His sleeve for them that's none of my business.</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;" /><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;">There is a plan just for me. God knows what He's doing when He asks someone to do something.</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;" /><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;">Sounds straightforward, doesn't it?</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;" /><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;">Funny how the Bible has been around so long and yet nothing changes. I compare myself with others just as Gideon did and I find myself wanting, just as he did. I wonder why I should try anything when that mean little snipy voice tells me that it's been done better by someone else already. I wonder why I should even entertain the possibility that God has a calling for me, little me, pathetic little me... just as Gideon did.</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;" /><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;">I'm not saying that I am a spiritual giant of the stature of the Old Testament heroes. But what I heard as I read the story of Gideon this morning is that the Biblical Big Guns had cold feet too. Even they doubted themselves and felt small and insignificant sometimes.</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;" /><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;">I so often feel ill-equipped for the task of living as God would have me live just on a day to day basis. If God has something for me to do, or say, or write, or tell people about, then I'm quite sure I'll worry about that too. Why me? How, me? And yet the answers are right here.</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;" /><blockquote class="tr_bq" style="color: #212121; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-stretch: normal; font-style: italic; line-height: normal; text-align: center;">'<i>Am I not sending you?</i>'</blockquote><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;">If the Lord God Almighty is asking, then I'm dancing. If He's sending, then I'm going. Because He also says, </span><i style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;">'I'll be with you.'</i><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;" /><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;">There's no safer place than where God is. Even on a battlefield (and my life sometimes feels just like a battlefield). But look what Gideon did. He defeated the Midianites, just as God said he would, even if he </span><i style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;">was </i><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;">from the weakest tribe, even if he </span><i style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;">was </i><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;">the least in his family. </span><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;" /><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;">God was right. How 'bout that?</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;" /><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;">So when I feel defeated by circumstances and inadequate and afraid, I should remember that God's power is perfect in weakness. Well, that's something I can do: if weakness is required, I can provide it! In buckets. When I am weak, He are strong. If God is by my side, and I am hearing His voice, then I have sufficient strength for the next step. He will provide all I need.</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;" /><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;">I need faith, Lord. Always more faith. Sometimes believing is hard.</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;" /><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;">I need to hear the voice that told Gideon, '</span><i style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;">Go in the strength you have. Am I not sending you?</i><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;" /><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;">Amen, Father.</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><script type="text/javascript">
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</script>Helenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05559604728716256864noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8354279212912469509.post-4026007435116715852021-04-13T10:35:00.000+01:002021-04-13T10:35:00.094+01:00A - Z Challenge - H: Home<div>Well, I'm behind already. I suppose it was inevitable. But still, onwards...</div><div><br /></div><div>This is an edited version of an old post that I wrote in answer to the question, 'Where's home?' and 'What does home mean to you?' Bit of a lengthy answer; it's more of a potted biography I suppose. But home is many things, and not always geographical. </div><div><br /></div><div>Home</div><div><br /></div>I am from Derbyshire, a town with a crooked spire and Roman history, celebrated market and too many Tescos. Peak District hills and dales and moors and crags. I am from the county furthest from the sea in a small, crowded island that can sometimes feel big. <br /><br />I am from 1930s bay window, back garden photographs, chunky legs and a scowl in front of the conifers in the garden, tiny then, towering last year, now gone. I am from endless summers, droughts and ladybirds, watering the vegetables with bathwater. From snowmen and snow-in-your-wellies and cocoa in blue and white striped mugs. <br /><br />I am from bucket and spade, hunt for seashells, run from seaweed, cool wind off the North Sea beach holidays. Caravans and car journeys and endless photographs. I am from pub-lunches and motorbike rides and leapfrogs and awful school dinners. <br /><br />I am from 'Jesus' sandals, sensible shoes, gabardine raincoats, falling down white socks, wonky fringe, cheese and beetroot sandwiches, skipping ropes, grazed knees and space hoppers. From shoe buckles snagging on the sofa cushions, wax crayons and writing stories in tiny notebooks. From beans on toast, pikelets with melted butter and canned fruit and blocks of ice cream in the freezer compartment. My mum's rice pudding; the best in the world. <br /><br />I am from Sunday lunch at Grandma's, chicken and gravy and endless grown up conversation and rhubarb-from-the-garden suet pudding (lines your stomach). I am from rocking chairs and setting lotion and cigarette smoke and bags of sweets and leaving my blanket behind and insisting that Daddy goes back to fetch it. I am from please-and-thank-you, kiss-it-better and it-won't-always-be-dark-at-six and if-at-first-you-don't-succeed... I am from reserved and English and stiff-upper-lip and a-smile-costs-nothing.<br /><br />I am from Enid Blyton and Helen Dore Boylston and Nancy Drew and Jill's Gymkhana. I am from Bunty magazine, and my brother's Beano and then Just Seventeen and Mizz and Cosmopolitan. From shopping with Mum, saving up for things, giving things to Dad to mend rather than buy new. <br /><br />I am from Listen with Mother and Magic Roundabout just before the news with Dad and Andy Pandy after lunch with Mum and Mary Mungo and Midge. From longing for a Blue Peter Badge and from (the innocence of) Jim'll Fix It and Why Don't You...? Jacques Cousteau's Undersea World and the dull bit at the end of The Two Ronnies that grown ups found the funniest. From staying up late on New Year's Eve watching The Sound of Music for the very first time. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdnlg_2NqVxbkI7SRHceZFrYgei6Tczg_4lKCcxW1jlP90ga1YoXIcEUd8xRIyFtXgsWNGse5uacTPnH0xwoKxYEmjissEp20iuMDucKrdlDO14nlf0qXYis6TWsDMpm8LKjSMP3DUcBPj/s1600/IMG_9637bw.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdnlg_2NqVxbkI7SRHceZFrYgei6Tczg_4lKCcxW1jlP90ga1YoXIcEUd8xRIyFtXgsWNGse5uacTPnH0xwoKxYEmjissEp20iuMDucKrdlDO14nlf0qXYis6TWsDMpm8LKjSMP3DUcBPj/s320/IMG_9637bw.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>I am from eager to please at school, english lessons easy and maths lessons hard. I am from too much homework and ice on the inside of the bedroom window above my desk. <div><br /></div><div>I am the bullied, the insecure, the prize-winning, the fearful, the prefect, the distrustful. I am from adolescence in the company of boys, not girls (much more straightforward that way). <br /><br />I am from hotbrushes, big hair, hairspray and Sodastream. From rolled up jacket sleeves and 'Flashdance' and 'Pretty In Pink' and 'The Breakfast Club'. From Slinkies and Sindy dolls and Pippa and thinking that ET was not remotely cute and being unmoved when he nearly died. <br /><br />I am from Atari tennis blip-blip electronic games and wishing for a Donkey Kong. From three TV channels and no video. From the girl with the teddy and blackboard and the National Anthem when the telly was finished. I am from the days when we had our first phone installed and it went <i>bring bring</i> and we sat on the stairs in a draught to talk. <br /><br />I am a teenager in the middle of a crowd on a hot, hot day listening to an evangelist talk about Jesus Christ. I am the only one there. I am lost and I am found. I am one of those stumbling past rows of knees to get to the aisle, self-consciousness forgotten, to turn my tearstained face upwards and say <i>yes, please</i> to the One who really saw me. <br /><br />I am from church youth group, boyfriends, church camps in the Lake District, exam-passing, teacher-pleasing (mostly) and the first in the family to go to university. I am from Bronte, Hardy, Clare, Keats and Shelley. From Shakespeare, Chaucer, Jonson, Rosetti, Milton and Byron. <br /><br />I am from churchy, goody-goody, black and white, right and wrong, finding out about the grey the hard way. I am from broken heart, church work disillusionment and faith on the back burner. From broken friendships, loneliness and confusion. I am from knowing what I want, not knowing what I want, changing my mind, changing direction, worrying my parents. <br /><br />I am from leaving the country, seeing the world, running from decisions, backpacking, bewildering long haul flights and sleeping on coaches, brushing teeth out of a window, getting by with language, camping under the stars; geyser fields and sunrises, waterfalls and air so thin it's hard to breathe. Condors and sloths and llamas and butterflies and cockroaches. From the beauty and the grime and the wonder and the riches and the poverty. <br /><br />I'm from Derbyshire, Newcastle, Liverpool, London. From old friends, new friends, new town, new university, new dreams. Anatomy, physiology, sociology, psychology. More exams, romance, wedding magazines, diamond rings and flowers. I'm from happy, holding hands, holidays and freedom. I'm from uniforms, paperwork, hospitals, making splints, holding hands, mending bodies, teaching skills, ticking boxes, climbing the ladder, striving, achieving, trying so hard but wondering what else there must be. <br /><br />I'm from sentimentality, memories, diaries, journals, fragments of stories. Creative writing, photography, bereavement, childbirth. I am from fractured sleep and crying babies and confusion and despair. I am from post natal depression, lost and lonely and fearful, and then found once again and comforted and held tight.<br /><br />I am from coming home to church and finding that it was not God who went away but me. I am back to live in the house with the beautiful back garden with the people who mean the world to me. <br /><br />I'm from middle age and aching joints and calorie counting and calorie ignoring, comfort-eating and exercise regimes started and discontinued. I am from self-conscious and struggling, from the land of low self-esteem and distorted self-image; but I am awake again to the truth of how much I am loved, and I want to tell the world: if I am loved like this, then you are too. <br /><br />I am from gratitude and awe and tearful thanksgiving. I am from hands-in-the-air worship and head-bowed in prayer. From day-by-day, hour-by-hour keeping going, carrying on, doing my best, starting again, not giving up. </div><div><br /></div><div>I am from closed-fist to open-palm, from rags to riches, from darkness to light.<br /><br />I am wife and mother and daughter and sister and friend. <br /><br />I am a child of God. <script type="text/javascript">
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</script></div>Helenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05559604728716256864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8354279212912469509.post-6584926819319802602021-04-08T20:02:00.000+01:002021-04-08T20:02:40.860+01:00A-Z Challenge - G: Gospel (choir)<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">Well, this is a little tenuous, I admit, but it's almost bedtime and I've only just sat down with my computer so I'm afraid this offering is a repost of </span><span style="font-size: 17.33333396911621px;">something</span><span style="font-size: 13pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 17.33333396911621px;">previously</span><span style="font-size: 13pt;"> published as 'Joy, Sister'. So to file it under G is a bit of a cheat, really. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">But it is about a Gospel choir. It's about Gusto. It's also about God. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">Here's a little anecdote. A true story. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">New York city, nineteen ninety something. Backpacking with a friend. The Empire State building, the Twin Towers, the Staten Island Ferry and the Statue of Liberty in one weekend and then, before we caught a train somewhere else, Sunday worship at a cavernous and very well known New York church.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 13pt;">It was held in a huge theatre right in the heart of Manhattan. There were thousands of people swaying to music and and the service hadn’t even begun. </span><span style="font-size: 13pt;">A vast gospel choir in red and purple robes with big white collars straight out of the Blues Brothers had a band with guitars, keyboards, a five piece rhythm section and more brass than you could shake a stick at. Swirl</span><span style="font-size: 17px;">ing</span><span style="font-size: 13pt;"> spotlights played on the congregation as the music got louder.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 13pt;">Then, without warning, a small, bald man with an impossibly shiny head trotted out from the wings, bowed to the assembly and began to convulse. Nobody bat an eyelid; indeed the band started to play - it turned out that he was conducting, and with such energy that it looked as if he’d been electrocuted. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 13pt;">The place erupted. Everyone was on their feet, reaching for the heavens, calling out, and dancing with breathtaking abandon. They were full of the Spirit and He was most certainly bursting out all over. I could only gaze in awe at the uninhibited celebrations all around me – I was overwhelmed by something I’d never seen before (or since, actually); something so wonderful but a galaxy away from church back home. No, further than that. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); clear: both; color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuI-vg8dyrSPcb1G4YExEChsZwkpgGVUpoFQWnKIakEYGQu0sQgGf7iQe3q80cVX0Js13PLIt1iYjtVb20HUtkxGgvaL-mUJJ-CJ7M7et53U8uMMaby1wC8pG2adfBUtzYeh1diFCiSZ-N/s1600/Blue_Frenzy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #37afc0; display: inline-block; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuI-vg8dyrSPcb1G4YExEChsZwkpgGVUpoFQWnKIakEYGQu0sQgGf7iQe3q80cVX0Js13PLIt1iYjtVb20HUtkxGgvaL-mUJJ-CJ7M7et53U8uMMaby1wC8pG2adfBUtzYeh1diFCiSZ-N/s320/Blue_Frenzy.jpg" style="border: 0px; height: inherit; max-width: 100%;" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 13pt;">Worship here was a whole-body experience. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 13pt;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 13pt;">Fingers outstretched, arms waving, hips gyrating, eyes tight shut and expressions of ecstasy or pain – it was hard to tell which. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 13pt;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 13pt;">The aisles were full and so people danced even in the confines of their rows. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 13pt;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 13pt;">For me, trapped mid-row, twenty oblivious, ecstatic bodies between me and the aisle at either side, I felt my personal space somewhat invaded. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 13pt;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 13pt;">Despite being stuck in the middle, I was definitely on the outside looking in. You might say that I was significantly outside my reserved, Anglican comfort zone.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 13pt;">Not knowing the unfamiliar songs I hummed along. I had my hands very firmly in my jeans pockets. I have to admit that I became <i>so</i> carried away with the music that I may or may not have <i>perhaps </i>been tapping my right foot.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 13pt;">They were singing a song about the joy of the Lord. At last! I knew this one! I could remember the words and with what, for me, passes for great gusto, I added my little warble to the beautiful harmonies and counter harmonies that were so effortlessly and energetically offered all around me. I began to enjoy myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 13pt;">Until.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 13pt;">The very large orange and purple clad lady gyrating to my left nudged me in the ribs with a meaty elbow and leaned over to bellow in my ear:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 13pt;">‘I don’t see that joy, sister!’<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 13pt;">Well. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 13pt;">I don’t know if she expected me to switch it on like the Oxford Street Christmas Lights, maybe, but what joy there had been – and there <i>had been</i> some, actually, easing nervously out of its hiding place, limbering up for something a bit special - like a bit of swaying from foot to foot, maybe - well, that bit of fledgeling joy panicked, elbowed his way through the crowd and fled the theatre right then. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 13pt;">She didn’t see the joy. Well, I can understand that. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 13pt;">It would take a trained eye. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-size: 17px;">It was there, though. Honest. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><span style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></div><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /><script type="text/javascript">
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</script>Helenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05559604728716256864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8354279212912469509.post-85462578582364876252021-04-07T15:08:00.002+01:002021-04-07T15:08:29.347+01:00A - Z Challenge - F: Friend<div><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">This is a little something I wrote as an exercise on a writers' weekend. We had to write a parable; a</span><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"> narrative that held a deeper meaning. Something that could be read on different levels, allowing the reader to pull out truths as they saw them, embedded in story. Here it is.</span></div><div><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><b>My Friend </b>(first published as 'Treasures Everywhere')</span></div><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><div><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><br /></span></div>This afternoon I went for a walk with an old friend. We haven't spent time together for quite a while - I'm not sure why. He's always good company but I've kind of got into the habit of walking with other people, or even just by myself. That's when there's time for things like that at all, of course; everything is such a rush these days! Anyway, my friend seemed a little surprised to be asked but as soon as he heard my voice he was full of enthusiasm. So delighted was he to hear from me that my pleasure was tinged with a little guilt, if I'm honest.</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">Anyway, we went for a stroll on a beautiful sunny summer's day. It was very pleasant. We chatted about this and that - or at least I did; he didn't say very much and so I felt a bit as if I needed to fill the gaps in the conversation. I probably went on a bit but if he found my monologue tiresome he didn't let on. He just listened and smiled encouragingly.</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4JhW8qySW_V7yiKyfR0HIrdhWe6LhwbkRY6_fSWtwNUp8v8ob6HaJk535Yz7SXBwT0DGJeu6tK6_SznwBBVyGdfWbAF1xBMvUuQYhXeZQDpWNJM5FBAAZWGY0ooyd8Hu7Cp8ZysKhmojN/s1600/IMG_2366.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #37afc0; display: inline-block; float: left; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="1600" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4JhW8qySW_V7yiKyfR0HIrdhWe6LhwbkRY6_fSWtwNUp8v8ob6HaJk535Yz7SXBwT0DGJeu6tK6_SznwBBVyGdfWbAF1xBMvUuQYhXeZQDpWNJM5FBAAZWGY0ooyd8Hu7Cp8ZysKhmojN/s320/IMG_2366.JPG" style="border: 0px; height: inherit; max-width: 100%;" width="320" /></a><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">We reached a point where the path forked into two. Left or right? I hesitated.</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">My friend knew the area much better than I did, so I asked him which was best. He shrugged and told me it was my choice. I felt a pang of irritation at his reticence, but quickly rallied.</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">After scrutinising each path, I chose the one that looked easiest walking. I was only wearing my battered old flip flops; not the best choice for a walk in the woodland, as it turns out.</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">I chided myself that I should have been more prepared. I hadn't really given much thought to what I'd need before I set off.</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">Easy walking indeed! Before long the path took a sharp and rocky upward turn. I set off up the steep gradient somewhat hesitantly as it would have been very easy to slip in my inadequate footwear. A couple of times I felt the reassurance of my friend's hand on my elbow, which was very welcome. I was soon out of breath and stopped talking to him completely. Again, he didn't seem to mind but stayed beside me as we climbed. Later I realised that when we got to the top and flopped down for a much-needed breather I should have thanked him for his assistance, because I'm not sure I'd have made it without him, but embarrassingly, it didn't cross my mind.</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">Funnily enough, it was the downhill section where I nearly had an accident. Feeling more confident, I had taken the lead and my friend did not call me back as I strode off ahead. He followed not far behind, but let me do my thing. I very nearly came unstuck as my bare foot slipped on some loose rocks and I stumbled badly. After that rush of adrenalin I slowed my pace a little and stayed closer to my sure-footed friend. The experience had also taught me to pay closer attention to the path to try to avoid another mishap.</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">I was so focused downward that I would not have seen the baby rabbits playing in a clearing, if my friend had not gently stopped me and pointed. What a delight! He encouraged me to slow down and not worry so much about each single step, or what was round the next corner. I resolved to follow his advice and go at a more leisurely pace so that I didn't miss any other wonders along the way. It is too tricky to concentrate on one's feet and take in the scenery at the same time.</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">After a while, we had a welcome rest on a bench. My friend produced a bottle of cool water and handed it to me. I looked at him in astonishment; he seemed to know just what I needed! I drank deeply - almost forgot to leave him any if I'm honest - and felt much revived. I sighed happily as we took in the vista below our vantage point.</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">The woods opened out below onto a lush meadow of wild flowers bordering a small, still lake. It was the perfect spot - so very beautiful. I could feel the gentle breeze cooling my forehead and hear the whisper of the trees and the song of the birds. I slipped off my sandals, felt the soft grass soothe my sore feet and inhaled the fragrance of honeysuckle. What a treat! I smiled broadly at my friend, who seemed to be taking pleasure in my relaxation.</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><div class="separator" style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); clear: both; color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYqYCuLxHDx63Z9XQcdZNLlmOZGUTYaObrklx6kw-1ld65uhJpifp4jQCZyAkLfiJFIGDPMvlRqh83YFGN2KJ1dh1MI_t3thWhXqgZ077uFUFjl1krQY2CskdUMnr5syBSsS7sRZwPlyrv/s1600/file0002048876496.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #37afc0; display: inline-block; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1073" data-original-width="1432" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYqYCuLxHDx63Z9XQcdZNLlmOZGUTYaObrklx6kw-1ld65uhJpifp4jQCZyAkLfiJFIGDPMvlRqh83YFGN2KJ1dh1MI_t3thWhXqgZ077uFUFjl1krQY2CskdUMnr5syBSsS7sRZwPlyrv/s320/file0002048876496.jpg" style="border: 0px; height: inherit; max-width: 100%;" width="320" /></a></div><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">Much restored, we resumed our walk at a much gentler pace. Neither of us said very much; conversation seemed unnecessary.</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">We walked companionably side by side, stopping often to admire a flower, a leaf, a ladybird. My friend had the gift of spotting nuggets of interest that I would have walked past, but as I paid attention and fell into step with him, I began to notice more and more for myself. Each time I paused to examine something, my friend encouraged me with his delighted response to my observations.</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">We rounded a corner and I realised that we were almost at the spot where the path had divided earlier. The sunlight filtered through the canopy of trees lighting up the leaves in more shades of green than I had known existed. I remarked that it had not really mattered which route we took through the woods; there were treasures to be found everywhere! My friend laughed affectionately and I felt full of gratitude toward him. His company had made all the difference.</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">It had been such an agreeable afternoon that we made plans to meet again for another wander in the woods. My friend somehow seemed to have all the time in the world and would have agreed a date and time immediately; he seemed a little disappointed as I flicked through the pages of my well-worn diary for the next few busy weeks and drew a blank. I promised to telephone him at my earliest convenience. </span><div><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">We said our goodbyes and I left him leaning on the stile at the end of the path to the woods watching my departure with a strange look on his face.</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">Glancing at my watch I realised that a number 62 was due from the high street any moment. If I got a wriggle on I could be home in time for the prayer meeting at church.</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><span style="background-color: #f3fdfe; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">I hurried towards the bus stop.</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><div style="caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); color: #757575; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"></div><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /><script type="text/javascript">
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Nothing to do with Scrooge, other than that Scrooge was named after one of these, I guess, but an intriguing word indeed. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Let me point you towards 1 Samuel 7:12.</span></p><p></p><blockquote></blockquote><p></p><div class="bible-item-text" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Noto Sans", sans-serif, Arial; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 24px; min-width: 0px;"><blockquote style="font-weight: bold;">Then Samuel took a stone and set it up between Mizpah and Shen. He named it Ebenezer, saying, “Thus far the <span class="small-caps" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: small-caps; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal;">Lord</span> has helped us.”</blockquote><div>A stone named Ebenezer. </div><div><br /></div><div>Samuel set it up to mark God's faithfulness so far on his journey. 'Lord, you have helped us get this far'. In the song, the same. The writer of the song is saying that in some way he is marking this point in his journey, and thanking God that it is because of His help that they have reached this point. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdhnV_UIoKptwbm1nMR2Tr4evOUo79vCbVzMvPd9MrDBk1eegJTxMhOZCJP0hRkKKwdUvgnAC3n4vp2REsp51y2_CBDVBn7qhKVpo6sx4O_IJ2Rbao-mI30-jKNh87ILiRqlKNxAWsDsAa/s3264/Image+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdhnV_UIoKptwbm1nMR2Tr4evOUo79vCbVzMvPd9MrDBk1eegJTxMhOZCJP0hRkKKwdUvgnAC3n4vp2REsp51y2_CBDVBn7qhKVpo6sx4O_IJ2Rbao-mI30-jKNh87ILiRqlKNxAWsDsAa/s320/Image+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div>As I said at the beginning of this little A-Z expedition, I am setting the bar low on my blog posts - a lot has happened since the days I used to be a prolific poster and I've had numerous false dawns where I've intended to get back into it and failed. So, nothing earth shattering happening here, if you happen to be reading. </div><div><br /></div><div>No profound conclusions or inspiring reflection. </div><div><br /></div><div>Just this: I wonder whether this blog post, eleven years since I started writing, is a kind of Ebenezer for me. </div><div><br /></div><div>I <i>am</i> still here, I <i>am</i> still following Jesus, I <i>am</i> still trying to communicate the wonder, awe and comfort that He gives to me. </div><div><br /></div><div>I could neither have begun this journey, continued to walk it, nor found the path again all the times I've wandered from it, without his help. </div><div><br /></div><div>A metaphor for life, indeed. </div><div><br /></div><div>The song goes on: </div><div><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="caret-color: rgb(32, 33, 36); color: #202124; font-family: arial;"></span><blockquote><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="caret-color: rgb(32, 33, 36); color: #202124; font-family: arial;">And I hope by Thy good pleasure</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(32, 33, 36); color: #202124; font-family: arial;" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="caret-color: rgb(32, 33, 36); color: #202124; font-family: arial;">Safely to arrive at home</span></blockquote><p>Amen, Lord. </p><p>And Just like Samuel, I am saying to anyone who is listening: If He's brought me safe this far, I think He'll bring me home. </p><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="caret-color: rgb(32, 33, 36); color: #202124; font-family: arial;"></span></div></div><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">'Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing' by Robert Robinson, 1758. Words and music in the public domain. </span></p><div class="bible-item-text" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 24px; min-width: 0px;"><br /></div><script type="text/javascript">
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</script><div><br /></div><div>Hello, God. I just want to run something past you.<br /><div><br /></div><div>You know when Peter was miraculously released from prison? I know it in terms of Acts 12 in the Bible, but I imagine you remember it as if it were yesterday. </div><div><br /></div><div>Peter was in prison and then it got all dramatic; an angel appeared, chains fell off, doors opened by themselves and Peter walked free. I know he was pretty confused because it tells us so. At first he thought it wasn't actually happening to him, but just a vision, and then as the angel left and Peter is standing in the street gaping. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>It says that '.<i>..when he came to himself...'(Acts 12:10) </i>he makes his way to where he knew his mates were hiding. I wonder what he was thinking. Amazed, scared, awestruck, confused, overjoyed, excited? I'm quite sure that he couldn't wait to find his friends and tell them what had happened. Then maybe a glass of wine or two?</div><div><br /></div><div></div><div>So he knocks on the door and Rhoda answers it. </div><div><br /></div><div>'<i>Peter! Wow! We thought you were in prison! It's a miracle! Come in and tell us all about it.'</i></div><div><br /></div><div>Nope. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>'Peter knocked at the outer entrance, and a servant named Rhoda came to answer the door. When she recognised Peter's voice, she was so overjoyed she ran back without opening it and exclaimed, 'Peter is at the door!'</i></div><div>Acts 12:14</div><div><br /></div><div>The disciples and Rhoda debate this for a while. Surely not. Peter is in prison. He's not at the door. Maybe it's his angel? (Seems to me that the disciples at this point were much more used to angels than we are these days. Why is that? If I'd been there I'd have suggested that it wasn't Peter at all but perhaps someone who <i>sounded</i> like him, but no, <i>his angel).</i> </div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, Peter's still at the door. Ahem. Knock, knock. </div><div><br /></div><div>It is Peter. It isn't Peter. Yes it is. No, it can't be. And so on. </div><div><br /></div><div>Knock, knock.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>'But Peter kept on knocking, and when they opened the door and saw him, they were astonished.'</i></div><div>Acts 12:18</div><div><br /></div><div>When they eventually open the door, Peter can get in. I'd love to have been there. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>'Of course it's</i><i> me, you halfwits. I've been out there twenty minutes!'</i></div><div>Acts 12:18b (my version).</div><div><br /></div><div>How wonderful, the tale he tells. A miracle indeed! Saved from Herod and secure in the knowledge that God Almighty is watching out for him and has a job for him to do. I bet the wine flowed and they talked into the night, even after Peter left (it says, '... <i>for another place</i>.' Where? That sort of thing intrigues me. Where did he go?) </div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA-9qkOi3LyYH2_v_NbtCX9rVu5fL8acXi_8GnUUCEPDBd19BzoisHvK209GZ-VK6-Iay8RY9vp5n3C7zohW6I5LBVWlrzqqClbzy6kJBKPiv8qLLQit26itvPqS_mLNCRbcwxU1Cqn7Xu/s1600/file0001102396750.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA-9qkOi3LyYH2_v_NbtCX9rVu5fL8acXi_8GnUUCEPDBd19BzoisHvK209GZ-VK6-Iay8RY9vp5n3C7zohW6I5LBVWlrzqqClbzy6kJBKPiv8qLLQit26itvPqS_mLNCRbcwxU1Cqn7Xu/s320/file0001102396750.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /></div><div>Anyway. It was a night to remember indeed. I bet songs of praise were sung.</div><div><br /></div><div>The thing that made me think was this: the disciples had been praying and praying for Peter. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>'So Peter was kept in prison, but the church was earnestly praying to God for him.'</i></div><div>Acts 12: 5 NIV</div><div><br /></div><div>They prayed earnestly. They prayed, presumably, that he would be alright, that he wasn't having too nasty a time, and that <i>he might soon get out of prison. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>So they pray that he might be released, and he is. And yet, when he arrives at the door, they don't believe it. To the extent that Rhoda leaves the poor bemused man standing in the street knocking and knocking and looking over his shoulder for prison guards while she gets a bit high pitched in the living room with the disciples. </div><div><br /></div><div>They prayed fervently and their prayers were answered. And yet they were astonished. </div><div><br /></div><div>Nothing changes, does it? How incredibly reassuring that the disciples were taken aback and disbelieving when their prayers were answered just like I am. </div><div><br /></div><div>I pray about something (how often can I actually say I pray 'earnestly'? Feeling a bit uncomfortable about that) and then, sometimes, I am aware that you have answered my prayer. Of course, I suspect that you answer them much more often than I realise, but on the occasions where I see it and recognise it, what do I do? I run about like Rhoda telling people, '<i>You'll never guess what's happened! It's amazing!'</i></div><div><br /></div><div>So I pray in faith, and yet I don't expect an answer. I'm sorry. The faith part is a bit thin, hey? </div><div><br /></div><div>Is it a sign of spiritual maturity when answered prayer, even the dramatic type, <i>doesn't</i> send me into a flat spin? When I'm not 'astonished' as the disciples? When I can say, '<i>Of course God answered my prayer. I'm not surprised; I knew he would'</i>. Hmm. Is that faith, then? </div><div><br /></div><div>I think so.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>'"Jesus replied, 'Truly I tell you, if you have faith and do not doubt...you can say to this mountain, 'Go, throw yourself into the sea,' and it will be done."'</i></div><div>Matthew 21:21</div><div><br /></div><div>Ah. It's about the measure of faith, then. Is it possible for me to have a faith that can move mountains? I pray and I<i> think</i> I'm not doubting... but I'm wavery and wondering and I can't honestly say that I'm particularly earnest, much of the time. I'm in good company, because the disciples (who clearly did a better line in <i>earnest</i>) were astonished and doubtful when it came to answered prayer. Thank you for their humanity; they were the very foundations of the Church and yet were reassuringly slow on the uptake.</div><div><br /></div><div>Of course, the bottom line is that it is <i>always</i> a breathtaking, awe-inspiring wonder that the God of the universe would listen to me at all, let alone answer a prayer in my little life? I can't imagine taking it in my stride, or being unimpressed. </div><div><br /></div><div>I think for now I'll go on trying to practice praying <i>earnestly, </i>and I shall be on the lookout for answers in an expectant kind of way. </div><div><br /></div><div>Help me to notice more of the answered prayers that I know are heaped up all around me. Help me to be more sensitive to your hand in my life, Father. Show me how to pray with expectation, not just with a vague hope, for insurance, on the offchance. </div><div><br /></div><div>Give me more faith, Lord. I want to be faith-full. I want to hear from you so often that your voice is familiar to me. I want to chat. I want to listen. I want to pray in such a way that your will is done, here on earth, as it is in heaven. I want to bring a little bit of your Kingdom right here. </div><div><br /></div><div>You said that when I knock, the door will be opened. Help me to believe that. </div><div><br /></div><div>Help me to believe that. </div><div><br /></div><div>My God is good. He answers prayers. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: "Charis SIL", charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div></div></div>Helenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05559604728716256864noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8354279212912469509.post-40749361104998861072021-04-03T15:28:00.003+01:002021-04-03T15:30:47.985+01:00A-Z Challenge - C: CatOur furry friend came to us completely out of the blue. I was sitting on a garden chair in a socially-distanced kind of way last summer with an old friend who was telling me the sad story of her Mum, who had been taken into hospital after a series of falls, and was unlikely to regain her independence. We sat and mused for a while, and then she asked me if I knew anyone who might be able to take care of her Mum's cat.<div><br /></div><div>I didn't immediately leap at the chance - having been so used to resisting the children's petitions for a pet (dog, hamster, snake(!), rabbit, rat, tropical fish; one sleepy morning I almost adopted a Bearded Dragon until I realised what I was agreeing to), it didn't actually occur to me that the homeless cat might come to live with us. </div><div><br /></div><div>And then it did occur to me. Maybe (like many, many others) the Covid 19 lockdown made me feel in need of furry comfort, or distraction, or perhaps I was just ready for something new, but within days the little black cat came home with us. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYk8LPx4TS-5i28c39eh7oM3aapZcd5u3874uBP6W3wSklyL9aKxSM1AUXjw4Pk_M4Z5seqvXfCO_XRjJcBS991mwTXf6Zt9qVkKU4zi-IZBda_Ws76TjrsibCoDrsHeE3bGGB3l-jarQh/s640/Noodle1.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYk8LPx4TS-5i28c39eh7oM3aapZcd5u3874uBP6W3wSklyL9aKxSM1AUXjw4Pk_M4Z5seqvXfCO_XRjJcBS991mwTXf6Zt9qVkKU4zi-IZBda_Ws76TjrsibCoDrsHeE3bGGB3l-jarQh/s320/Noodle1.jpg" /></a></div>Her name is Noodle*, and she is just lovely. She is very small, delicate, mainly black with a little white patch on her chest and another even smaller one on her tummy. She has the highest pitched miaow that you've ever heard - a very cute little squeak. </div><div><br /></div><div>She is a rescue cat, abandoned when tiny, so she's a little bit wary and reserved after such a tough kittenhood, but after six months she is warming up to us, and is increasingly affectionate. <br /><script type="text/javascript">
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</script></div><div><br /></div><div>*Noodle. Yes, I know. Believe me when I say it could have been worse; you should have heard some of the suggestions. It is less than fortunate that 'Noodle' often gets shortened to 'Nood' or 'Noo', or (shudder) 'Nudders', but mostly she is 'Cat' or 'Little One'. </div><div><br /></div><div>She is a little furry life-changer. </div><div><br /></div><div>After initially thinking that she'd be good for the children (now 14 and 15), it has become increasingly clear to me that the main beneficiaries of Noodle's arrival are Bryan and I. We love her to bits. She has us absolutely wrapped around her paw and we love it. She walks all over us (literally) and we don't mind. </div><div><br /></div><div>She is soft and warm and endlessly fascinating and has been so, so good for us at a time when so much in life has been turned upside down. A creative and unexpected answer to prayer. </div><div><br /></div><div>Yes, I think that Noodle is a God-send. My friend and her Mum are happy that she's loved and looked after, and we are besotted. </div><div><br /></div><div>She seems to know when someone is upset, and while she is definitely not a lap-cat, she will butt against you, purr in your ear and make it so clear that she wants petting that it's a therapeutic distraction. She likes company (on her terms, of course) and will follow me room to room just to settle down and nap nearby. She likes it when you scratch her head, her ears or under her chin but just because she lies on her back with her legs in the air and her tummy exposed does by no means mean that she is inviting you to stroke it. She prefers fishy food to meaty food and is more or less impossible to resist when she begs for treats. </div><div><br /></div><div>A simple little thing, but transformational for our us. For me. A new focus, a sweet and beguiling new personage to get to know and look after. Interesting and absorbing, I find myself reading books about cat psychology and interpreting feline body language, much to my daughters' amusement. We are beginning to understand each other a bit, Noodle and I. It is an amazing thing when a creature gradually learns to trust you, to allow herself to relax and be vulnerable. </div><div><br /></div><div>I think I am learning a lot from her. </div>Helenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05559604728716256864noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8354279212912469509.post-46877519212991693712021-04-02T08:00:00.001+01:002021-04-02T08:00:00.491+01:00A-Z Challenge - B: Breathe<div>This is a bit of a cop out as it's a repost from 2016, (seems a lifetime ago!) but it's as relevant to me now as it was all that time ago. Funny how I never seem to learn. </div><div><br /></div><div>The year I posted this, My One Word for the year was 'Alive'. This year, it's 'Breathe'. Once again, I have been underwater too long, and I feel as if I've just surfaced and taken a huge breath. It might be dark and cold and featureless here, but it's so much better than down there. It's enough just to be able to breathe, isn't it? </div><div><br /></div><div>Or is it....?</div><div><br /></div><div><b>'Alive' and 'Breathe' </b></div><div><br /></div>This is a thing that happened in my head while during a one-to-one prayer session a while ago. I don't really know what you might call it - a vision? A picture? A prayer-journey? All I know is that it was real in my head; I watched it as if I were watching a film. Some of it was from my perspective, and other parts were from a camera overhead kind of filming the action. Close-ups and panoramas. <script type="text/javascript">
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</script><br /><div><br /></div><div>Just my imagination? Well, yes and no. When someone asked Joan of Arc if the interactions with God were just her imagination she said, <i>'Of course. How else would he talk to me?</i>' I had driven past a reservoir on the way to this prayer meeting so perhaps it came from there, but I am convinced that God used the tools in my head to tell me something that I needed to hear. </div><div><br /></div><div>I had just said, '<i>My word for this year is 'Alive' and I am anything but.'</i> The lady praying with me suggested we asked Jesus why I don't feel alive.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is his answer:</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I am cold. I don't know why I'm cold, but I am cold. I don't feel properly alive, and I say so. I feel stifled, suffocated. I long to breathe deeply but I can't. </div><div><br /></div><div>I ask Jesus why I am so cold. </div><div><br /></div><div>I realise I'm at the bottom of a lake. Not drowning, just sitting. The water is cold and murky, and the lake-bed is sandy and stony. There are a few wisps of weed and particles floating but there isn't much to see. Everything is grey and brown, bare and barren. Only a little light penetrates to where I'm sitting, knees drawn up to my chest. I sit. My feet are covered in sand.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm not afraid, just inert. I am not awake, not asleep. It's a half-life.</div><div><br /></div><div>I realise that Jesus is there with me. I discern a light near me and I realise that it's him. He tells me that I can move if I want to. I show him that my feet and ankles are buried and I say that I can't. </div><div>Jesus gently replies that I can, but I am afraid to push off. </div><div><br /></div><div>Jesus sits down next to me until I'm ready to try to move. He is patient and does not hurry me. In time, with his encouragement, I make a big effort and I push off from the stony bottom of the lake and swim through the grey murk to the daylight above. </div><div><br /></div><div>As my head breaks the surface I take in huge lungfuls of air. I gasp and cough and laugh with the exhilaration of breathing again after so long underwater. I breathe deeply, sculling with my arms and kicking my legs to keep afloat. Looking round I realise that I am in the middle of a large lake high up in some mountains. The lake is surrounded by hills covered in heather and bracken. The sun is not shining; there are heavy clouds, although it's not raining. There is little to see, barely any colours other than grey, brown, dark purply undergrowth. The only sounds are the splashes I make. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzlALn8lhGXQfV6N_1AXiaGMaTZ0ZRPpn-NbUu7rj3msWTCoOyEAuZFtKnyWDb1whWM6GhHb8qUZTdpdAdbqUn5orXPhZXF4DAc3zD-NdWo8pgJb7kNYzAeNcnZef30MujybDk1R7ndZxn/s1600/lightwater.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzlALn8lhGXQfV6N_1AXiaGMaTZ0ZRPpn-NbUu7rj3msWTCoOyEAuZFtKnyWDb1whWM6GhHb8qUZTdpdAdbqUn5orXPhZXF4DAc3zD-NdWo8pgJb7kNYzAeNcnZef30MujybDk1R7ndZxn/s320/lightwater.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div>I become aware that I am still cold. The water is cold and the air is cold. A wind blows. I move to float on my back and I laugh again as I breathe the fresh air but my laughter is a little forced. I look at Jesus, treading water next to me, and he smiles at me. He understands my confusion. I am happy to be able to breathe but I am still not at ease. I smile and turn away and look up at the grey sky. </div><div><br /></div><div>Is this all there is? </div><div><br /></div><div>Jesus quietly tells me that when I'm ready, there's more to see. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm not ready. This is so much better than the place in the darkness under the water. There's air to breathe and I can lie back and see the sky and so perhaps I should stay here. Better than before is enough, isn't it? I splash about in the lake and Jesus stays with me, waiting. After a while he begins to swim towards the head of the lake, beckoning me to follow. </div><div><br /></div><div>I am reluctant to leave my spot in the middle of the expanse of water, even though I'm cold. I don't want to be rude, so I swim slowly after him, wishing he would stop. </div><div><br /></div><div>We get to the top of the lake. There's a gap between the bottom of two mountains rising above us and water is flowing down into our lake over a cascade of boulders from a source higher up. Jesus holds onto one of the rocks and turns to me. </div><div><br /></div><div>He wants me to follow him up the waterfall. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's only a trickle, not a torrent of water. There are plenty of rocks to hold onto and easy footholds, but I shake my head. I don't want to leave the lake. I know this lake. It might be cold and murky and dull but now that I have come up from the depths and I can breathe, it's so much better than what I had before that my impulse is to stay here. It feels safe. </div><div><br /></div><div>Jesus says there's another lake at the top of the waterfall, and it's so much better. </div><div><br /></div><div>I look doubtful. He says there's no hurry. </div><div><br /></div><div>Jesus takes a few steps up the waterfall and turns to me. Follow me, he says. </div><div><br /></div><div>I really do not want to. I am familiar with the lake I'm in and afraid to leave it behind for the unknown. I do trust Jesus but.. but... </div><div><br /></div><div>I climb after him. It's not a difficult climb, although I'm trembling. He does not get too far ahead and he is encouraging me step by step. I am slow and anxious but he is patient. </div><div><br /></div><div>Jesus gets to the top of the waterfall and he is standing on the last rock, which is broad and level. As I approach, tiny step by step, he crouches down to take my hand. One more step, he says, and I will be able to peer over the top of the waterfall. I take another faltering step, clinging onto the rock with my right hand and Jesus with my left. My eyes are level with the water and as I straighten, I see a beautiful scene in front of me. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's another lake, but so, so different from the one behind me. This lake is clear and reflecting the blue of the sky ahead. The sun is shining and the water is full of silver sparkles. Around this lake are still mountains but instead of the featureless brush and bracken there are flowers of all colours and meadows of lush grass. There are birds and butterflies. A warm breeze stirs the leaves of trees and carries a wonderful fragrance that makes me inhale deeply. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisSLwHQRPKfruFyWceRGfEv-l__9C2zVDK_E7OyXRTF-FGv4WoKFNra_ScQzman2FbyfpPGOg5tHV-fxEtp5bd91DYhzpw7apK9QeKJrihxGHLoE7wnbDGRxYcfrAAjqvFrPlzOEe7AXcK/s1600/IMG_8322_2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisSLwHQRPKfruFyWceRGfEv-l__9C2zVDK_E7OyXRTF-FGv4WoKFNra_ScQzman2FbyfpPGOg5tHV-fxEtp5bd91DYhzpw7apK9QeKJrihxGHLoE7wnbDGRxYcfrAAjqvFrPlzOEe7AXcK/s320/IMG_8322_2.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div>I am astonished. Jesus laughs at my wonder and pulls me to stand on the rock with him. We gaze around for a time and then he asks me if I'd like to swim. He puts his toe in the water and then he is swimming for the middle of the lake on his back, telling me to come on in. I want to catch up with him.</div><div><br /></div><div>I dive into this new lake without hesitating. The water is pleasant and as clear as crystal; I can see all the way to pretty pebbles on the bottom. It tastes sweet and pure, not like the brackish water of the lake that I have left. As I surface in a mass of sparkling bubbles I feel the sun warm on my head and back. Out in the middle of the lake we stop and float, enjoying the sunshine, the beautiful blue sky, the sound of birds singing, the fragrance of blossom. I don't ever want to go back to the other lake. </div><div><br /></div><div>And yet I'd have been happy to stay. I didn't want to be left under the water, but breathing again was so much better than before that I'd have settled for staying the first lake. I was content with greyness, coldness, colourlessness. I was reluctant to follow Jesus even though I knew he could be trusted. I resisted and hung back. </div><div><br /></div><div>Jesus tells me that this is what trust is, sometimes. It might not be dramatic and daring or even decisive. It might be incremental, cautious, even fearful. I <i>did</i> climb the waterfall, step by step, without knowing what lay at the top. I may have been hesitant and doubtful but eventually I did follow him. it's not always easy, and he doesn't expect me to be enthusiastic all the time. He is patient. He will hold my hand.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was stuck in sand, blind and lost deep, deep down under the water, dark and cold. Jesus came to find me, brought me light and helped me to surface, but he had so much more for me than that. I would have missed out on so much if I'd stayed in the lower lake. I would have lived and breathed but that was all. I would not have experienced the beauty and vibrancy of the upper lake.</div><div><br /></div><div>He doesn't want me <i>just</i> to be alive.</div><blockquote class="tr_bq">'<i>The thief comes to only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come so that they might have life, and have it to the full.'</i><br />John 10:10 NI</blockquote><div>I sense that there is yet more to see, but this is where Jesus has brought me. </div><div><br /></div><div>He is here with me still, as I laugh and splash and swim and explore to my heart's content. The sun is warm on my face and I am relaxed and happy. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Images</span></i></div><div><span style="font-size: x-small;">Light and water DSCF0268.JPG by Ryudei2442 from Morgefile.com with permission</span></div><div><span style="font-size: x-small;">Sun and sky my own photograph.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><script type="text/javascript">
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</script>Helenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05559604728716256864noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8354279212912469509.post-75456923946763957072021-04-01T14:45:00.004+01:002021-04-01T14:45:52.479+01:00A-Z Challenge - A: AgainBack after a lengthy absence, I am going to have a crack at the A-Z April challenge, which is to write something each day, going through the alphabet to come up with prompts. <script type="text/javascript">
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</script><div><br /></div><div>I am setting the bar low. I haven't been around for so long that I've forgotten how things work, and I have no idea if I'll remember/find the time/have the energy to crank up the computer every day, even for a month, but I shall try. Might be short and sweet, might be a link to something older, but still, every journey starts with a single step. </div><div><br /></div><div>So here's Day 1. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>Again</b></div><div><br /></div><div>Here I am again. Making another new start, again. I might not have posted anything on my blog for more than a year, but in my heart I've never actually given up. This is, for me, a special place, and I know I'll get back into it one day. Maybe this is it! </div><div><br /></div><div>Day one. I am learning how to use Blogger again. I'm remembering that I need to trim my fingernails before I can comfortably use a flat laptop keyboard. While I'm doing this I'm not doing something else, but maybe I need to have a go at this again. My brain feels as if it's an old machine that has been fetched out of a dusty garage and coaxed reluctantly into life, coughing out fumes. Whether it'll run long enough to get the job done, I don't know. It's quite a while since it's been well-oiled.</div><div><br /></div><div>So here I am again. Telling anyone who happens upon this long forgotten space that I'm back, again. I was here for a long time, then for a while I visited intermittently, and then I disappeared for a long stretch. But I am here now, and I am inclined to concentrate on that, rather than on the reasons why or why not, or speculating on the future. </div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt5noNGdQmW3hTa3IGD8JgdZ6yD97DEnBJ5YDDViZpbGfkYBgeQRZ2oVZYrsIVqzVGnXYvLA6OXr4jThRDF1LyuenSLVZmtfky7PBeCEnI58xy0ZiKX45bLuldqq0fzobs9l-6PvP5cfav/s1600/file000874028411.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt5noNGdQmW3hTa3IGD8JgdZ6yD97DEnBJ5YDDViZpbGfkYBgeQRZ2oVZYrsIVqzVGnXYvLA6OXr4jThRDF1LyuenSLVZmtfky7PBeCEnI58xy0ZiKX45bLuldqq0fzobs9l-6PvP5cfav/s320/file000874028411.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div>Again. Another chance. This is my space, my tiny corner of the Internet, so I can come and go as I please. Nobody tells me that I've blown it (other than the Google stats!) or that I can't come back. I have a tendency to catastrophise about things, and to think in the black and white about stuff like this: 'If I don't do it now I never will', or 'I tried once, and it didn't work' and so on. </div><div><br /></div><div>But it's not the case. The older I get, the more I realise that. </div><div><br /></div><div>Life is a series of second chances. </div><div><br /></div><div>As we approach Easter, I find myself looking at my friend Jesus dying on the cross and feeling a little bit overwhelmed, because it's all because of him - he bought me my second chance, and the one after that, and the one after that. I have blown it in all manner of ways so many times, but thanks to that day many years ago, there is always another chance. Another opportunity, another go. </div><div><br /></div><div>Let's start all over again. </div><div><br /></div><div>So here is my Day 1. My 'A'. </div><div><br /></div><div>Always</div><div><br /></div><div>Another</div><div><br /></div><div>Again</div><div><br /></div><div>Amen.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #545559; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #545559; font-size: x-small;">Picture credit: 1. Cenetaph003.jpg (sic) by LittleJack </span></span></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #545559; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #545559; font-size: x-small;">Courtesy of Morguefile.com</span></span></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #545559; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #545559; font-size: x-small;">Used with permission.</span></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Helenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05559604728716256864noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8354279212912469509.post-13314539367815286112019-09-01T09:28:00.000+01:002019-09-01T09:28:03.199+01:00Keith the Lonely Shark<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, it's been a while since I've been here; much longer than I'd thought, to be honest. A whole year since I last posted any of my ramblings. Does 'I've been busy...' sound a bit lame? Yes, I thought so too. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, I am back. And I say that with the full knowledge that life is no less busy than it was last year when writing got pushed off the agenda, but I am here with the very best of intentions to get back to this lovely little corner of the internet that gives me life. I am starting to learn (belatedly, having waited until middle age for the penny to drop) that I need to do more of the things that give me life and less of the things that suck life from me. Having said that, a lot of the life-sucking things can't really be removed or delegated...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But that is life, isn't it? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Anyway, here's a bit of nonsense just to get my fingers taptaptapping again. </span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Keith the Lonely Shark</span></b></h3>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">[A word of explanation: <i>This story is set in 2018 on the Suffolk coast, where we were holidaying with our buckets and spades. My daughters, both keen competitive swimmers, were wearing their flippers to swim in the sea, and early in the holiday, one of Lizzy's slipped off her foot and a wave took it away. Days later, that same flipper was found on a different part of the beach! On the same morning walk upon which we discovered the Lost Flipper, we also found a small, deceased fish that looked a bit shark-like. I'm still not sure what kind of fish it was, but we named it a shark, and speculated on how it ended up on a sandy beach in Suffolk, England.</i>]</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Keith was a baby shark. He was only little, and still learning about shark life so he had to follow his mummy everywhere. His brothers and sisters were happy to stay close to Mummy but Keith wanted to explore. He wanted to make friends with the other ocean dwellers and couldn't understand why he never caught more than a quick glimpse of them as he swam past with his Shark family. They always seemed to be swimming away from him, or even hiding. Keith asked his mummy why the other fish didn't want to be his friend. She smiled at him, revealing row upon row of sharp, jagged teeth.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">'It's because we're sharks, sweetheart. We don't have friends; we eat them."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Keith was shocked. As his mummy explained that all the other fish were afraid of sharks, and were trained by their mummies to rush and hide whenever the Shark family came near, Keith became more and more sad. He blinked away a tear, which was immediately lost in the saltiness of the ocean. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He carried on following his mummy, listening to all she told him as a good shark should, but his heart was heavy. He so wanted a friend, but his mummy was right. As soon as the Shark family wafted past, all the other fish fled into the distance, behind rocks, among the weeds. He pointed this out to his siblings, but they didn't seem to mind, Indeed, they seemed to relish being scary and laughed as all the other fish darted away. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Keith began hanging back a short distance from his family as they swam. He tried to catch the eye of other sea creatures before they disappeared and he gave them what he hoped were warm, encouraging smiles, but he soon realised that, like his mummy, when he opened his mouth, he showed his razor sharp teeth and frightened the other fish even more. He began to swim with his lips closed tightly. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">'I must be the loneliest shark in the world,' he thought, sadly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One day, just like any other, Keith was listlessly wafting along behind his family as they terrorised the seas near the beach when he saw a new fish that he had not seen before. This fish seemed different. Strangely, despite being small and delicate-looking, it seemed unafraid of the Shark family. It was quite relaxed, bobbing about on the current, this way and that, with its strangely-shaped dorsal fin sometimes uppermost, sometimes facing the sea bed. The fish was bright pink; the most beautiful shade of pink that Keith had ever seen in the grey sea that was his home. He paused and smiled shyly at the small pink fish. To his delight, it didn't swim away in alarm as all the other sea creatures had. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Keith was filled with happiness. He circled the small pink fish, smiling broadly. It twirled lazily in the water and smiled back. Had Keith made a friend?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Why aren't you afraid of me?" asked Keith, as the small pink fish floated elegantly past him. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Why should I be?" she asked. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Keith was amazed. "Because I'm a shark!" he explained. "Everyone swims away and hides from us in case we eat them."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Well, you can't eat <i>me</i>!" laughed the small pink fish. She seemed to find his puzzled expression amusing. "I'm not like the other fish. Your sharp teeth don't scare me. You see, I'm made of rubber. I'm a Flipper-Fish."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"A Flipper-Fish?" Keith's mummy had never told him about Flipper-Fish. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Yes. A Flipper-Fish. I live in the sea now, because my dry-land mummy, a little girl called Lizzy, lost me some time ago. I've been looking for a way to get back to the beach ever since."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Can't you swim back?" asked Keith, still confused. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"I can't swim at all without Lizzy," explained Small Pink Flipper-Fish. "Now I'm alone I have to go with the flow and see where the currents take me."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Keith pondered this strange tale as he swam around her in smaller and smaller circles, until he was close enough to to nudge her with his pointy nose. The Small Pink Flipper-Fish giggled. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"You're tickling me!" Keith was delighted. He did it again, and was rewarded with another beautiful peal of laughter. <i>'How wonderful!</i>' he thought to himself. <i>'I've made a friend!'</i></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzCMf7Tao9vyN1shWg5wXQ0XOLbo698DBBohkoUOpqXKbKR15qBy2umsf_5h5IbNr2Rn-qhNJ7r7VZODf4yTPnoM4zmjqGENfzMABZZX4WTlR1NpQ12nfzdDqVs3JA0yxLOq_umtbjBEFO/s1600/IMG_1140.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzCMf7Tao9vyN1shWg5wXQ0XOLbo698DBBohkoUOpqXKbKR15qBy2umsf_5h5IbNr2Rn-qhNJ7r7VZODf4yTPnoM4zmjqGENfzMABZZX4WTlR1NpQ12nfzdDqVs3JA0yxLOq_umtbjBEFO/s320/IMG_1140.HEIC" width="240" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For the next couple of days Keith and Small Pink Flipper-Fish went everywhere together. They worked out that if Keith propelled her along by pushing her with his nose, he made her squirm and giggle, and they had lots of fun but didn't get very far, or he could hook his dorsal fin inside the opening on her tummy and pull her with him, riding on his back. She loved the thrill of swimming at Shark-speed and would laugh with joy. Keith felt wonderful. He was so happy. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One day, Keith and his friend were in shallow water Small Pink Flipper-Fish seemed distant and wistful. Keith asked her what was wrong. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"The sandy seabed reminds me of the last time Lizzy took me swimming. Before that day I'd only ever known a sea very different from this. It was warm and crystal clear, not salty at all, with no seaweed, and the seabed was smooth and white, with a black line that always showed us the way to go. I miss Lizzy so much." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Small Pink Flipper-Fish looked so miserable that Keith felt sad. He wanted to help her and make her smile again but didn't know how. Suddenly she turned to him with an urgent, excited look in her eyes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Oh Keith. I've had an idea. You're so strong and brave and kind. Will you help me get back onto dry land? If could only get back onto the beach Lizzy might find me and take me back to where I belong!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Keith didn't know what to say. He was filled with confusion. If he helped Small Pink Flipper-Fish to get back to the beach he would lose her and be lonely again. He was so happy having finally found a friend. But on the other hand, if he didn't help her, she'd be sad and lost forever. He agonised over his decision. Small Pink Flipper-Fish searched his face with anxious, hopeful eyes. Suddenly Keith knew what he had to do. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">" Of course I will." he said, determinedly, blinking away the tears that threatened to fall. Small Pink Flipper-Fish's face lit up. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Oh, lovely, lovely Keith!" she cried. "You are my hero!" </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Keith had never been a hero before. He smiled back at her sadly, but proudly. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was decided that Keith would carry Small Pink Flipper-Fish on his dorsal fin and swim as fast as he could toward the beach, aiming to catch a breaking wave for added momentum to try to get her as high as possible onto the sand. Her excitement grew and grew and Keith quickly realised that she wanted to try their plan straight away. As the two friends swam into deeper water in order to prepare for their run at dry land, Small Pink Flipper-Fish suddenly turned to Keith.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Come with me!" she said, urgently. "Come back to the crystal clear ocean far away. I'll introduce you to my twin sister, and all my friends. Come with me, Keith! Lizzy won't mind, I know she won't!" </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"I don't think I can," replied Keith, sadly. "I can't survive on dry land. And I'm not sure, but I think I need salty water. I would love to, but I can't come with you."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Small Pink Flipper-Fish gazed at him in despair. "Then this is goodbye," she whispered. Keith was too choked up to reply. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At that moment there came the swell of a big wave headed straight in to the shoreline. It was time. Keith scooped up Small Pink Flipper-Fish with his distinctive dorsal fin and swished his strong tail. They picked up speed in no time, combining Keith's powerful swimming action with the momentum of the huge wave. The water rushed inland. Faster and faster Keith swam, and Small Pink Flipper-Fish rode breathlessly on his back. the sea grew shallower and shallower. Still faster they swam, faster... and then the wave crashed onto the sandy beach and the two friends saw how close they were to dry land. With a muscular flick of his caudal fin, Keith leapt onto the sand. Small Pink Flipper-Fish squealed with delight as she tumbled off his back and bounced on the sand before coming to rest high on the beach on a soft bed of powdery yellow sand and small pebbles. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Keith slowed to a halt and felt smooth, wet sand beneath his tummy. He was several feet away from Small Pink Flipper-Fish but able to see her basking in the sun, back on dry land, with a delighted grin. He had helped his friend get back where she belonged. It was a good feeling. Small Pink Flipper-Fish caught his eye and blew him a kiss. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Keith, you are wonderful! How can I ever thank you? You are the kindest, loveliest, most generous shark in the world!" </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Keith blushed. He felt so many emotions: joy at his friend's obvious happiness, relief that he'd managed to help her, hope that Lizzy would soon come back and collect her, and a deep, deep sadness that he would soon have to return to his own home. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Keith let out a deep sigh as he moved his tail to turn around and head back to the deep water and his family. But something was wrong. He moved his tail again, more urgently, but he couldn't feel the water at all. He was higher up the beach than he had anticipated. He thrashed from side to side but although he could see it over his shoulder, the water was not reaching him.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqbT62t2I256NuQg9K9miJPrG3_i0ckzm3mFHZN6jq7REG9FlS6L-GWdQxzzeRg9W_7BhYc-2qqZfd0Rc0eNK0lC0brZP9f3vMZjgWN4DH-AiRpQmdCgtqHoJs1YXntsNhSrx-AqX9ggtt/s1600/IMG_9037.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqbT62t2I256NuQg9K9miJPrG3_i0ckzm3mFHZN6jq7REG9FlS6L-GWdQxzzeRg9W_7BhYc-2qqZfd0Rc0eNK0lC0brZP9f3vMZjgWN4DH-AiRpQmdCgtqHoJs1YXntsNhSrx-AqX9ggtt/s320/IMG_9037.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He'd have to wait for the next big wave. His mother had told him that every seventh wave was bigger than the others. He counted - four, five, six...but the seventh wave, bigger though it was, only lapped gently at his caudal fin and was nowhere near enough to lift him from the sand so he could swim. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The tide was going out. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Small Pink Flipper-Fish watched helplessly as Keith grew weaker and weaker, drowsier and drowsier. She called to him. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Keith! Hold on! The sea will be back later today!" </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But Keith had been right. He could only live in the sea, and Small Pink Flipper-Fish's voice was getting fainter and fainter, as if she were further and further away. His eyes slowly closed. Small Pink Flipper-Fish sobbed in despair. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Keith, I love you! You are my hero! I'll never forget you. My true friend." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">These were the last words Keith heard as he drifted off into a sleep from which he would not wake up. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He was a hero. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He was loved. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He was a true friend. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He was not lonely any more. </span></div>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>"No-one has greater love than this: to lay down one's life for one's friends."</b></span> </blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">John 15:13 NRSV</span></blockquote>
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</script>Helenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05559604728716256864noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8354279212912469509.post-35909450907629522062018-08-23T17:32:00.000+01:002018-08-23T17:32:46.833+01:00Treasures everywhereAt the writers' weekend at Scargill this year we had the opportunity to write a parable. A narrative that held a deeper meaning; one that could be read on different levels, allowing the reader to pull out truths as they saw them, embedded in story. Here's my attempt:<br />
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Come and say hello over at the Association of Christian Writers' blog, which is called, '<a href="https://morethanwriters.blogspot.com/2018/08/treasures-everywhere-by-helen-murray.html" target="_blank">More than Writers'.</a> I post there on 23rd of each month, all being well. </div>
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</script>Helenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05559604728716256864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8354279212912469509.post-40377766578096624062018-05-23T10:51:00.001+01:002018-05-23T10:51:38.809+01:00All the colours combined A while ago I went 'prayer weaving'.<br />
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No, I hadn't heard of it before, either. There's a little loom which consists of a series of removable prongs in a wooden base (five, in our case - just weaving something small). You take a ball of wool, or strips of fabric, ribbons - whatever you can make into strands - and weave it in and out of the prongs across the loom and back again. Knot two pieces together to change wool or texture, and then when the loom becomes almost full, pull the prongs out, threading the attached piece of wool through your creation. You can do this several times in order to make a piece that's as long as you want.<br />
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By the end, my piece of woven fabric was about eight inches long and about four wide. After removing it from the loom for the last time, you cut the warp threads (the vertical ones) and tie them off, and there you have it.<br />
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It's supposed to be a prayer.<br />
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The idea is that you have a conversation with God as you weave. You choose your colours instinctively and without too much deliberation in order to allow God to speak to you in whatever way He sees fit; through colour, through texture, through metaphor, through ideas or thoughts or words in your head.<br />
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I went along to the session feeling quite down; a prevailing mood for a while now. If I hadn't committed myself to begin there I suspect I might not have gone at all, and to be honest, I wasn't particularly up for having a conversation with God. I wasn't in the mood for more pep talks about persevering, or about counting my blessings. I was making up the numbers and, if nothing else, I'd decided that an hour spent doing something crafty might be a bit of relaxation time, and since my creativity isn't doing so well at the moment, I'd give it a go.<br />
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God started work a little bit before I did.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Continued over at the Association of Christian Writers' <i>More Than Writers</i> blog, which you can find by clicking <a href="https://morethanwriters.blogspot.co.uk/2018/05/all-colours-combined-by-helen-murray.html" target="_blank">HERE</a>.</div>
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I write something on the 23rd of each month. Come and have a look round. </div>
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</script>Helenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05559604728716256864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8354279212912469509.post-72825735555343275282018-04-23T08:36:00.000+01:002018-04-23T08:37:34.221+01:00On sticking your head above the parapetNot for the first time, I've read a blog post by Deborah Jenkins and she has inspired me to write my own post. Not for the first time, this little nudge has come at exactly the right time; and not for the first time, it's been when I've been feeling very much in need of a bit of encouragement. <script type="text/javascript">
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I make heavy weather of things, I know. Life in this 'season' for me is definitely more like a slog than a gambol and writing, while very precious to me indeed, is regularly elbowed out by the mundane and the immediate. When time and head-space are both acutely limited I have to make sure that I read the Bible daily and spend some time writing in my journal because I have found these to be life and sanity savers. For long periods it's the only writing that I do, but I've kind of made peace with that. Anything over and above is a bonus.</div>
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I got something written a few months ago. I was pleased with it. When it was all finished I knew that it wasn't perfect, but so much work had gone into it that it was as good as it could be. I was satisfied. I was happy to say that it was mine. Every writer knows how difficult it is to let the world in and risk what they might say or think. It's very hard to be so vulnerable.</div>
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I showed it to a trusted friend. </div>
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Continued over at The Association of Christian Writers' Blog, <a href="https://morethanwriters.blogspot.co.uk/2018/04/upon-sticking-your-head-above-parapet.html#comment-form" target="_blank">More Than Writers</a> where I post on the 23rd of each month. Come and visit. There's some good stuff. </div>
Helenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05559604728716256864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8354279212912469509.post-9752456787770135142018-03-23T10:51:00.000+00:002018-03-23T10:51:41.747+00:00Aggressive lemons and divine reassurances I had an idea the other day. I was in the middle of writing something and an additional idea at that moment was inconvenient. I was completely focused, and then this idea sneaked up and wanted my attention. I swiped it away, fobbing it off with '<i>In a minute..</i>.' and it was so offended that it disappeared and hasn't been back.<br />
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I knew I should have written it down. I should have humoured it. I should have made a mental (better still physical) note of what I was doing, suspended that thought process for a moment or two and scribbled down the idea before resuming task one.<br />
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Silly me.<br />
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Continued over at the Association of Christian Writers' blog, which is called, 'More Than Writers'.<a href="https://morethanwriters.blogspot.co.uk/2018/03/aggressive-lemons-and-divine.html" target="_blank">https://morethanwriters.blogspot.co.uk/2018/03/aggressive-lemons-and-divine.html</a> I post there on the 23rd of every month - come and check it out. </div>
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</script>Helenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05559604728716256864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8354279212912469509.post-41894880276015961932018-01-23T16:52:00.001+00:002018-01-23T16:52:33.437+00:00Swimming in the Ocean - a penny-drop momentWell, January not yet done, so is it alright still to be mulling over New Year Resolutions, do you think?<br />
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My New Year Resolution, if you can call if that, is to love God more. I thought I'd go for something big this year. Specifically, to try to see what it means to love Him <i>with all my heart and with all my soul and with all my mind.</i> I suspect this is a life's work, if not more than that, but the last few years have led me here, and I think that everything that's important kind of stems from this, the first and greatest commandment.<br />
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Years ago, I read a book by Margaret Silf, called <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Gift-Prayer-Embracing-Sacred-Everyday/dp/0974240575/ref=sr_1_7?ie=UTF8&qid=1327435249&sr=8-7">'The Gift of Prayer: Embracing the Sacred in the Everyday</a>'. I've no idea why but my eye was drawn to it again the other day. I had asked God what I could do to love Him more, and I think He began to answer me my reminding me of the wisdom in these pages.<br />
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The author talks about prayer as a belonging, a coming to stillness; it's about listening and learning to live reflectively. Each of the little sections is beautifully expressed but the one that stopped me in my tracks was the heading:</div>
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<i>'Prayer is a Gift, not an Achievement'</i><br />
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Continued over at the Association of Christian Writers' blog, <a href="https://morethanwriters.blogspot.co.uk/2018/01/swimming-in-ocean-penny-drop-moment-by.html" target="_blank">More Than Writers</a>, where I post on 23rd of every month. Come over and say hello? </div>
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</script>Helenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05559604728716256864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8354279212912469509.post-14197573291283286532017-11-23T11:00:00.000+00:002017-11-23T11:03:50.284+00:00Metaphor for life<div style="margin: 0px;">
Have you a picture of what life is like? A metaphor or an image? St Paul thought it a race; Ronan Keating a few years ago thought that life was a rollercoaster (just gotta ride it!). A friend thinks that life is a series of tests (interesting discussions there). It seems that so many of us think in metaphors. I do. </div>
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This is my metaphor: <i>life is like kicking a carpet.</i><br />
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Bear with me. </div>
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Continued at The Association of Christian Writers' Blog, <a href="http://morethanwriters.blogspot.co.uk/2017/11/carpet-diem-by-helen-murray.html" target="_blank">'More Than Writers'</a> where I post on the 23rd of each month. Come and say hello? </div>
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