A - Z Challenge: P - People

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was quite nervous walking down the road this morning. 

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

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

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

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

'How wonderful to see you!'

'I've been praying for you.'

'I'm so glad you came!'

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

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

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

The people of God, and my people. 

A - Z Challenge - M: Murmuration

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

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

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

Or not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

So I call that a win. 

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

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

Together

People have told me that when they meet me for the first time, I come across as being a very 'together' sort of person. 

I appear (I'm told) calm, self-assured and relaxed. 'Quietly confident' was how one person put it. 

Ha. 

I have no idea how this illusion came about, but an illusion is what it is. It has always been so. Teachers at school complimented me on my calm and orderly attitude and over the years, I've started to accept - indeed rely on - this impression that I give. 

Inside is a different story. If on the outside I'm cool blues and mauves and soft and reassuring tones of green, inside I'm a jumbled mix of clashing colours and pessimistic purple and grey overtones. 

I don't like crowds. Or at least, I don't mind crowds, if I am allowed to be anonymous in them, it's when I'm supposed to interact with them that I have a little internal panic. I don't much like groups of people ('Now, get into groups of about six or eight,' is a phrase guaranteed to strike fear into my heart) because such a group discussion makes necessary a degree of engagement. I don't know what to say to people I have only just met. I am not good at small talk.

A friend of mine will vouch for the truth of this as I am often found, limpet-like, at her side in territory that demands skills that I don't have (but she does, in spades). She introduces me, gets a conversation going, and then I'm sort of ok, but left to myself there's a good chance it'll founder.

I like one to one, and then usually with people I know. I am a creature of habit, routine, familiarity. My comfort zone is my well-worn groove. If I have to climb out I am looking from left to right for predators but it's unlikely that you'll notice. I appear to have it together. I can try hard and hold my own. I can do what is necessary. I can do it, but it wears me out.

So, the knowledge that I come across as together even when I am falling apart, is reassuring in a world where it is not always possible to retreat to a small room with a big window, books, coffee, and a computer with WiFi and stay holed up there indefinitely. 

I'm hoping one day to find that I've grown into my togetherness. I'll wake up one morning feeling just the same as always but I'll walk into a crowded room and find it easy - no - joyful to plunge into getting to know people. I will relish social situations. I shall be as together as I appear.

Until then, it's my secret.




Linking up with Five Minute Friday in a better late than never sort of way. 

The meaning of loneliness

Maundy Thursday.

Tonight at church we will remember the Last Supper and the events that followed in Gethemane. It will be quite a sombre affair as we listen to the account of your betrayal. 

That night in Gethsemane. My heart breaks for you. Nobody kept you company as you prayed and waited for the inevitable. They fell asleep. They didn't understand what was happening. I can't imagine  that they would have nodded off if they'd known what was about to happen. You asked them to stay with you, to be there, but they couldn't.

You were truly on your own; lonely in a way that no-one else before or since could possibly understand. My heart goes out to you. 

It must have been terrifying. You knew what was coming. You knew what had to happen. You were waiting for the start of a chain of events that would result in agonies for you - physical, emotional and spiritual, but the loneliness must have started right here.

You asked the Father if there was another way. Oh, Lord Jesus, how I thank you for that moment of - what? fear? weakness? doubt? I don't know, but my heart hurts for your humanity just then. You put yourself aside and chose the necessary path.

Minutes and hours ticked by while you waited. 

And then, one of your chosen friends betrayed you with a kiss.

Those same men who had sworn that they would never leave your side - they fled. Peter was aghast at the thought that he might disown you but he ran away and denied he ever knew you.

They were afraid for their lives and despite their claims that they would stand by you and even die for you they made themselves scarce in case it might be their turn next. 

You were alone. 

God, what was it like to watch your Son that night? To hear him ask if there was another way, and shake your head? To watch his sweat fall like blood, to see him on his face on the ground with anguish and fear?  To see these weak men who were his friends run away and deny him? 

Were you proud? Were you tempted to abandon the Plan?

Were you torn apart by grief?  Did you, even for a second, wonder if saving us was worth it? 

He did it all that scripture might be fulfilled. It had to happen this way. There was only One who was good enough. 

Tonight we will share bread and wine and we will watch as the altar in church is stripped.

It always moves me, to see the front of church bare and unadorned. No candles, no altar-cloth, no crucifix.

It doesn't seem right. Where you are there should be majesty and glory and richness and beauty but tonight there is just a wooden table. A cloud in front of the sun. Shadows instead of streaming, golden light. 

They took you away and you knew what was to come.You were human enough to pale in the face of this last horrible chapter but God enough to go ahead with it. You asked for company and support and the comfort of friends and nobody gave it.

You were totally alone.

Jesus Christ, Son of God, led away like a criminal as your friends abandoned you.

But here's the thing; I know the end of the story. I know that it doesn't end with your death. From my little vantage point in history I know about the agonising death and I know about the resurrection. I know that your team is still the only team to be on even though right at this moment in Gethsemane it looked totally defeated. You are victorious. It all works out alright in the end. 

I have an advantage over the disciples. And yet...

Would I have run away? I'm sure that I would. 

Would I run away now if they came for me, because of you?  Oh, Lord, I hope not. 

I am like Simon Peter. I don't flatter myself that I am any more loyal, brave, steadfast than the Rock upon which you built your church. I love you, but I am easily frightened. Easily cowed. 

And yet you did all this for me. 

Even without the adornments, you are beautiful. Without the gold and the tapestry and the candles, you are still the Lord of Light. 

Walking away with your captors, allies nowhere to be seen, you are not diminished. 

I am in awe. 

You are here.

Your spirit is with me.

I lift up my heart. 

I give thanks to the Lord my God. 

It is right to give Him thanks and praise.

Thankyou, Jesus.




Edited and reposted from 2012

The meaning of loneliness

Maundy Thursday.

Tonight we remembered the Last Supper and the events that followed in Gethemane. It was quite a sombre affair towards the end when we sat in subdued lighting in (a very cold) church and listened to the account of your betrayal. 

Nobody waited with you. They fell asleep. They didn't understand what was happening. I can't imagine  that they would have nodded off if they'd known. You asked them to stay with you, to be there, but they couldn't. You were truly on your own. My heart goes out to you. 

It must have been terrifying. You knew what was coming. You knew what had to happen. You were waiting for the start of a chain of events that would result in agonies for you - physical, emotional and spiritual, but the loneliness must have started right here. Minutes and hours ticked by while you waited. 

One of your chosen friends betrayed you with a kiss.

Those same men who had sworn that they would never leave your side - they fled. Peter was aghast at the thought that he might disown you but he ran away. They were afraid for their lives and despite their claims that they would stand by you and even die for you they made themselves scarce in case it might be their turn next. 

You were alone. 

God, what was it like to watch your Son that night? To hear him ask if there was another way, and shake your head? To watch his sweat fall like blood, to see him on his face on the ground with sorrow and fear?  To see these weak men who were his friends run away and deny him? 

Were you proud? Were you tempted to abandon the Plan? 

He did it all that scripture might be fulfilled. It had to happen this way. There was only One who was good enough. 

Tonight we had a meal together and we shared bread and wine and we watched as the altar in church was stripped. It always moves me, to see the front of church bare and unadorned. No candles, no altar-cloth, no crucifix. It doesn't seem right. Where you are there should be majesty and glory and richness and beauty but tonight there is just a wooden table. A cloud in front of the sun. Shadows instead of streaming, golden light. 

They took you away and you knew what was to come.You were human enough to pale in the face of this last horrible chapter but God enough to go ahead with it. You asked for company and support and the comfort of friends and nobody gave it. 

You were totally alone. Jesus Christ, Son of God, led away like a criminal as your friends abandoned you. But here's the thing; I know the end of the story. I know that it doesn't end with your death. From my little vantage point in history I know about your death and I know about the resurrection. I know that your team is still the only team to be on even though right at this moment in Gethsemane it looked totally defeated. You are victorious. It all works out alright in the end. 

I have an advantage over the disciples. And yet...

Would I have run away? I'm sure that I would. 

Would I run away now if they came for me, because of you?  Oh, Lord, I hope not. 

I am like Simon Peter. I don't flatter myself that I am any more loyal, brave, steadfast than the Rock upon which you built your church. I love you, but I am easily frightened. Easily cowed. 

And yet you did all this for me. 

Even without the adornments, you are beautiful. Without the gold and the tapestry and the candles, you are still the Lord of Light. 

Walking away with your captors, allies nowhere to be seen, you are not diminished. 

I am in awe. 

You are here.

Your spirit is with me.

I lift up my heart. 

I give thanks to the Lord my God. 

It is right to give Him thanks and praise.

Thankyou, Jesus. 

Waiting and seeing

Morning, Lord. Actually, afternoon. 

Today is flying by. Lots to do. Family coming to stay for Easter. Shopping to do. Food to prepare. House to clean. Children to entertain. All that sort of stuff. 

It's frustrating that I'm having to move so fast today. I want to stop and think and rest a bit. I have a lot I want to say to you and it's not easy to say it in the supermarket with two shopping lists and crowds of people anxiously buying everything in sight because a Bank Holiday is approaching and perish the thought we should run out of food! 

I'm still thinking about yesterday. It was a full day and a long one. I went to bed last night with a head full of things. 

We went to the Children's Hospital yesterday with Katy and saw our new Consultant who was very nice. She examined Katy and started from the beginning with a history. She scrutinised the photos we have which chart the progression of Katy's illness and she agreed with the original diagnosis and was anxious to reassure us that everything had been done correctly last year. No-one was to blame for the recurrence. I hadn't actually considered that someone might have been to blame, to be honest, but still, it was nice to hear that we couldn't have done any better had different decisions been made. 

We are awaiting an appointment for another scan, and a very skilful phlebotomist took blood with a gadget that quickly made a small hole in Katy's thumb (while she was still inspecting the Monsters Inc. characters on the walls!) and then managed to squeeze enough red stuff out of it to fill two little vials for testing. Much better than the terrible performance we had finding a vein with a needle last year which was one of the more distressing events. 

We're waiting and seeing. The doctor wants to see us again in six weeks when she'll have scan results and blood results and we can see if the lumps have grown. At that point we'll need to discuss treatment options but she says that she does hold out some hope that they might not progress into the full blown tumours they were last time. Last time they started in lymph nodes and so far they are still lymph node size... 

Please, please, please, Lord, please can we call it a day here? It would be fine with me if the lumps just vanished in a miraculous sort of way. Or even a gradual sort of way would do. Imperceptibly smaller. Going, going, gone. Take them away. Back to normal. Nice neat scar, lots of lessons learned about depending on you, about how much I love my daughters, about waiting and trusting and not being in control - all those things, but not this again. No dilemma about surgery or drug therapy. No time off school. No tears, no pain, no dressings, no doctors. 

How about it?

The consultant seemed to think that the situation was inconclusive. Waiting and seeing was in order. 

I can wait and see. I have six weeks of hope and I'm going to try not to check Katy's neck twice a day in the meantime. 

Breathe. 

Katy and Scruffy Barney

Father, thank you for yesterday. For looking after us as we trekked to Sheffield in blizzard-like conditions. Days earlier we'd been sitting in the sun in the garden and I'd been liberally applying sun lotion onto the girls and yesterday two inches of snow fell. When we were on our way to the appointment it was falling horizontally. The girls were amazing - just when I think they'd have reason to be cross and whiny (trudging up a hill in driving sleet and a howling gale) somehow they seem to dig in and find a stoicism and perseverance for which I am full of admiration. Drop a lollipop on the doorstep, however (as has just happened) and it's time for a meltdown. Mystery.

The children loved the train journey even if it was only twenty minutes. They loved the ride in a big black cab and that was when the mood changed. Katy lost her buoyancy and started hugging Scruffy Barney close and told me that she didn't want to go to a hospital, please. Could we just to back to the train? Poor little love, she looked so small. She was very brave as we read stories in the waiting room and she answered questions and co-operated with the nice doctor (whose name was also Katherine). I was proud of her. Elizabeth was a lovely concerned big sister who pulled faces at a video camera in the waiting room when she knew that Katy could see it in another room.  

It wasn't too bad, but I'm not bothered about doing it again, if that's alright.

Thankyou for keeping us safe, for getting us there on time (early enough for a coffee and a toasted teacake in the cafe, actually) and for finding us a nice, kind, clever doctor who has given us a bit of hope. Thankyou that we got home alright, that Bryan got his train back to London in time and that we all got to bed last night. 

Big sister, little sister.
Also Froglet and Scruffy

Thankyou very much most of all for all the people who held us together yesterday. So many people sent texts and emails and called to tell me we were in their thoughts and prayers. Just like last year, I felt wrapped up. It's a wonderful blessing to know that people were caring.

People have realised that it wasn't just about Katy and her illness but how we're all knocked a little bit sideways by it all. How hard it is on Elizabeth who must watch us focusing on her little sister and wonder why it has to be all about Katy. I remember Lizzie once last year dissolving in tears because she didn't think she could be as brave as Katy. I could only guess at the complexity of emotions behind that. I'm especially sensitive to Elizabeth and her needs since the disaster the other night. I desperately don't want her to feel sidelined. It's hard.

Bryan and I and my mum all cope in different ways and it's inevitable sometimes that each of us must think that the others should be more like us. We're all anxious and tired. It's hard to think of everything. To make sure that everyone is looked after. 

And then, last night, a friend rang to ask how things were. She has a gift for having just the right word at the right time. Last night was just the right time for me and as I lay in the dark in bed later thinking about her words I felt the peace that comes from you settling on me. She passed it on to me. 

She told me that she had been praying for us all and was continuing to pray. She asked me how things were between me and you. That took me aback a little; it's not a question people ask very much. How are things between you and me? I'm not really sure. Maybe I haven't really checked that much lately. I've been finding it hard to pray; hard to find the words, the energy or the focus. I go in to see each of the children last thing at night before I go to sleep and for years now I've tried to say a prayer for each of them as they sleep. Lately I've found it difficult and on a few occasions all I could do was sit at their bedside and offer to you what's flooding my heart.

Lord, I know that you don't need me to tell you what is needed in a situation. I know that you already understand all that's going on in our little lives. You know Katy, you know how she is; you know me and you know our family. You know what I hope and what I fear. I know that prayers don't always have to be made of words and so I sit on the edge of their beds and all the things that come welling up - the love and the worry and the helplessness and the frustration and the guilt and the fear and the longing - all I can do is hold it out to you. It usually makes me cry. 

So my wise friend asked me how I was doing and I didn't have an answer. I tried to think of something to say. I rambled a bit. I talk too much when I'm under pressure, as you know. Then she told me that it was alright. That this was what intercessory prayer was all about. 

She told me that she, and other people were praying for us. That they were standing in my place to pray to you because they knew I might need help. To free me to do other things that needed doing in a time like this. Her words were to release me. Release me to organise or sort out the children or make arrangements or simply to put one foot in front of the other. 

Her words struck home with me as I've been feeling so guilty about how little I am praying. My daughter is ill and potentially needs more surgery and you'd think that I'd be praying all the time for healing and for strength and comfort for her. For guidance for us; for so many things. After all, I love her so very much - how come I'm not on my knees round the clock? Even what little I offer you I struggle with. And here was someone who knows about poorly children and the guilt of motherhood and she told me that it's alright; if I can't, other people will do it for me. 

I was speechless. People would do that for me? People are doing that for me? Then no wonder yesterday went well. I am blessed beyond measure to have people who care so much. People who see what's needed in such a perceptive way. It was overwhelming. Just thinking about it now brings tears to my eyes.

The wonderful thing was to hear someone say that it was OK to feel as I've been feeling. It's alright to be a bit lost. To be getting on with things without thinking much. Not because I'm managing to overcome my tendency to worry, but because I'm so tired and sleep evades me and because I can't seem to focus on things. It doesn't matter why. I'm doing my best. I'm caring for my girls and I'm shopping and I'm cleaning and I'm preparing for visitors. I'll be waiting and seeing until the next clinic appointment. 

But I'm not on my own. I know that you're there and I know that you always have been. I know that you want me to spend time with you and I know that you're waiting for me to turn and lean. I also know that I have friends who understand and can tell me that it's alright to be a bit mixed up and a bit tired and it's alright not to be able to do everything. They're praying for me. 

Bless them, my Father. Bless them for the wonderful thing that they're doing for me that in my book is more precious than gold. Thankyou for the doctor, the skilful phlebotomist and the taxi driver who stopped when he saw us soaked through and trudging in sleet down a main road searching for a tram. Thankyou for every wonderful person who sent a text or an email or made a phone call. For everyone who thought of us and said a prayer because I'm not doing too well in that department. 

Thankyou for the reassurance. It came like a great big wonderful hug. Some of the guilt evaporated and peace took over. 

Thankyou. Wait and see with me, will you? Even though you know the punchline. You know what I want you to do about those lumps. 

Pure joy and relentlessness

It's a beautiful morning, Lord.

The sun is out, the birds are singing, the magnolia buds are looking fat and pink and full of promise against the blue sky. The children went off to school happy as they're having their 'Mini-Olympics' today and are allowed to wear sports clothes for the day, and I have a little time to potter on my computer and check in with you. 

Two things have happened. Possibly three, but I need to work it out in my head and then I'll decide. 

(*actually, more than three.)

Magnolias in Spring

I walked back from school today and the world seemed in vivid colour. I put my headphones on as I walked and I chose a song that I like. However, as I put the iPod in my pocket, it jumped to another track. It was 'My Troubled Soul (Praise the Mighty Name of Jesus)'. This song has resonance for me as I've long been a worrier and I do believe you spoke to me through it some time ago. 

'My troubled soul, why so weighed down?

You were not made to bear this heavy load

Cast all your burdens upon the Lord

Jesus cares, he cares for you'.

(2001 Kingsway Thankyou Music / EMI)

I am so often weighed down and at the moment my anxieties are particularly burdensome. I've gone on and on about my worries so I know that you're aware of them; I know that it isn't your plan for me to stumble about here trying to carry something that's too heavy for me. How come I can't leave them with you when I do believe that you are there waiting, and I can trust you?

'...and all your worrying won't help you make it through...'

I can't make Katy better. I can't do anything on my own - I rely on you for every breath. I do indeed need to trust again in the promise of your love. 

'So I will praise the mighty name of Jesus

Praise the Lord the lifter of my head

I will praise the rock of my salvation

All my days are in his faithful hand'.

Lord, you really did lift my head. This morning as I walked back I noticed the magnolia buds against the blue of the sky. I noticed little green shoots on a bare hedge just starting to come to life again. If I hadn't looked up I would never have seen them. 

little green shoots of Spring

Lord my days are in your hand. So are my little Katy's and those of everyone I care about. I switched the computer on and a daily devotional by Max Lucado was in my email inbox. He was talking about just this. Everything is in your hand. It's under control. You've got this one. 

There's no point in fighting and kicking and objecting. 

'Trust again in the promise of his love'. 

It seems to be something that I need to do over and over again. I think I do trust you, then I realise how knotted up with worry and confusion I am and then you gently remind me and I understand that I've taken it all back. All the responsibility. All the heaviness. I can't stop Katy's illness. I can't even look after her as completely as I'd like. Only you can do that. Only you are all-encompassing. Only you will never let us down. It's only you. 

'I will praise the rock of my salvation.'

There's so much more going on this morning. I read a Bible verse first thing on my phone and I confess that I pressed the little 'next' button quite quickly because it wasn't what I wanted to hear. 

'Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance.'

James 1:2-4

My initial response was 'Ha.' And I don't mean I laughed in a happy sort of way. Who can think to themselves, 'Hooray! Things are going badly at the moment! Praise the Lord! My life has come crashing down around me!'  Who? 

I don't get this one. So I pressed the button and found another verse that was a bit more to my liking for the day. I forget what it was. Perhaps that's significant.

But about an hour later a friend sent me a text with this very verse. She said, 'Courage and strength, my friend.'

Trials, yes. Joy? No. Testing of my faith? Seems likely. At this point I know that it would be perfectly possible to say that I don't understand why this is happening to Katy and I don't think you're being fair. But I can't do it without you. Where would I go, if not to you?  What shall I do, if not persevere? What choice do I have? 

Run away? It's tempting but it's not an option. Go to bed and refuse to move? Yeah, right. Also tempting, but I can't do that either. All I can do is keep putting one foot in front of the other. Courage and strength. Yes please, give me courage and strength. 

Next in my eventful little hour was yet another little touch from you via technology. You are a God who moves with the times, are you not? 

I was browsing on the computer and I read the blog of a friend of mine who lives many miles away across the sea and yet I feel as if I know her. She is my sister in you. We're family. She pointed me to you this morning.

Dwelling in the House: Relentless

'Over the last few months, God has been teaching me about belief in the face of

unyielding circumstances.

Faith boils down to this: do I just believe in God - 

or do I believe God?

You see, I've got some stuff in my life that is not.

More than once, I have cried out in prayer, 'Lord, this situation won't end. It is relentless!'

His answer:

So am I.'


(Ginger, December 2010)

This made me sit back in my chair. Well, actually it's a stool, so I didn't sit back as such, but I straightened up and took my hands off the keyboard in a sort of 'pause' moment. 

Katy's lump is back and now there are two. This disease seems relentless. The surgeon told us that if he hadn't got it all, it might come back, and getting it all was difficult as the tumour was wrapped around a nerve in her neck. He must have left some. And it started growing, relentless. Slowly at first, perhaps it was a little stunned following four hours of surgery attacking it. It hadn't been beaten. Slowly, determinedly, then picking up pace, but relentless. 

So are you. You are bigger than the universe, let alone bacteria. You are bigger than anything, and our troubles are so small in comparison that they should be nothing to you, and yet you reach down to reassure me. You reach down to hold Katy's heart so that in church on Sunday when our Rector asked, 'Who will let Jesus into our homes?' Katy's hand shot up and she said 'Yes! Open the door!'

The illness might be relentless, and so are you. You won't give up on us, will you?

You cannot be beaten.

I might not understand why or when or anything much at all, really, but then you tell me that I don't have to understand. Just trust. 

Trust again in the promise of your love.

I have lots of stuff in my life that is not trusting you. Help me parcel it up and leave it in front of you. Leave it with you. 

Thankyou for lifting my head to see the magnolias against the blue sky. 

Thankyou for good, good friends who have wisdom to share and for obedience to you when you prompt them to share it. 

Thankyou for your word, and I'm sorry I sort of snorted at it this morning.

I'm struggling a bit with the 'pure joy' part. 

Help with this would be gratefully received. 

Having a really bad day

Lord God, this is the first time since I started this blog that I can't really find anything to say. I suppose this is to be expected considering the state of my prayer life in general at the moment, but I have to admit that I've surprised myself by finding that I can't string some words together. I'm not usually lost for words.

I've had lots of interesting daily readings recently, but today I'm finding that inspiration isn't striking even by reading them back. Recounting the day's events wouldn't help as it's been a day completely devoid of positivity, on my part at least. It's the first day of the summer holidays, the children have played nicely (mostly) and Bryan is home, it's Friday night, but it's not helping today. 

I feel I've let you down, Father. I feel as if today I should be on top of the world because some wonderful things have happened to me in the last couple of days, and I have some great friends who have been so kind and generous with their love and their acceptance and their time; and above all I know that you are my loving, forgiving heavenly Father and I am your child. But I don't feel free and I don't feel as if I can get rid of the weight of stuff I'm carrying round. 

Today I've been short tempered and miserable. I had a cry earlier and thought that I might not stop but I had to pull myself together as I was in danger of frightening the kids.  I've forgotten to pick up Katy's new medicine today from the chemist despite my reminder system that has worked ok so far. What a terrible mother. Katy's tantrums haven't been anything out of the ordinary but today I've struggled to cope. I had to go outside earlier on because I thought my head would explode as she was shrieking so loudly and for so long. I got some gardening done this morning and Elizabeth has been lovely helping me shop this afternoon but my capacity for delight today is zero. I should be feeling happy and unburdened and light as a feather but I'm not; that familiar little voice in my head is telling me that I can't even get that right. Is there any wonder that I'm still a mile away from you? 

What is it, Lord? I believe the right things, I say the right things. I have renounced and I have declared and I have confessed and I have cried and I have prayed. I know that you are who you say you are and I want to be more like you. I don't want to struggle to keep up all the time. I don't want to feel destined to fail all my life. I just don't know how to give you all the rubbish in my life and leave it with you. I'm starting to think I'm going mad. 

I know that the negative voices in my head aren't real; or alternatively that they are real but they are not to be listened to.  They're lies. Some months ago I was feeling invincible and I asserted that there was nothing in the world or beyond it that could stop me from being who you want me to be, or stop me from winning the battle that is all around us, since I fight in your name. The following day I found a breast lump that the doctor thought was serious. It turned out not to be, but not until it'd shaken me profoundly. After that Katy had her operation that didn't work and one problem has followed another.  I haven't felt invincible since then, and it feels as if the day I asserted those things I was writing cheques I can't cash. I should feel invincible, because we have the victory in you, I haven't felt that confidence since that day. I've just been slowly sinking with the weight of  things on top of me. 

People have shown me how to overcome all this and it still isn't helping. I feel pathetic. I feel as if I can't even be honest about how I feel because it's getting silly.  There comes a point when people feel that they've helped all they can and there's something wrong with you if all their help hasn't helped, and I feel today as if that's where I am.  It's embarrassing to admit that people have talked and prayed and yet I can't seem to do my bit. Maybe there really is something wrong with me.

So, give me a hint, Lord. Is this hormonal, or am I just tired? The Holy Grail of the good night's sleep has eluded me recently, it's true, and since I've had the children I am all too aware of how a lack of sufficient sleep can distort things and make everything much darker. Maybe an early night and all will be well.

Is this the devil? All the thoughts that I have that bring tears to my eyes afresh each time; things like, 'You can't do this' and 'You can't get anything right' and 'why do you think this will be any different?' - they are not good thoughts. They are not your voice. How do you do that 'Take every thought captive' thing? I'm sorry - I can't seem to get the hang of it. 

I don't know how to. I want it to stop, because I can't seem to learn how to beat it myself.  I can't get control of it. I can't replace something that is obviously untrue with something true in time to stop the untrue thing from hurting me. I hear 'You can't get anything right' and although I can rationalise this and tell myself that it absolutely isn't true, in my life I have got lots of things right, there's a part of me that soaks it up and winces anyway.  It hurts me. If I don't believe it, why does it hurt? This is sounding increasingly bizarre, isn't it?  I need to get a grip. I'm going to stop.

Father God, I know that you can do anything, and I need you to do something here because I can't do it. I feel weighed down and I don't know how to shrug it off and leave it with you. I don't know how to put on the armour you've given me and I don't know how to use it in a fight. I know that you have the victory but I'm struggling to believe I have any chance of winning in this particular skirmish. Do I settle for just plodding along and being me? Just getting by? Meeting you in heaven and hearing, 'You could have done so much more?' 

Am I over-thinking this whole thing?  It's not beyond the realms of possibility that this whole thing is much simpler than I'm making it, but you know that from inside my head things don't look simple. I don't have to tell you how I'm feeling in order for you to understand and for that I'm so grateful because I don't feel as if I can explain properly. Just help me, will you? Tell me.

Well, I said I didn't have any words today. Turns out I found some after all.  Pity that none of them were particularly positive. 

I'm sorry about that too.

You've done the big thing...

Charles Spurgeon pointed out a very simple thing to me. This is it:

Bearing in mind that the Son of God has already done something huge for me - died for me - why would he not do a little thing like help me when I struggle?

He put it more eloquently than that:

'I will HELP thee. That is very little for me to do, to Help thee. Consider what I have done already. What! Not help thee? Why, I bought thee with my blood. What! Not help thee? I have died for thee; and if I have done the greater, will I not do the less? Help thee, my beloved! It is the least thing I will ever do for thee. I have done more, and I will do more. Before the day-star first began to shine I chose thee. "I will help thee". I made the convenant for thee, and exercised all the wisdom of my eternal mind on the plan of salvation. "I will help thee".


You've done the big thing. Why do I doubt that you'll do the little thing?

You died for me. You died to save me from my sin; you paid the price, you were the only sacrifice good enough. You gave your perfect life in a hideous way so that I could be free in this life and the next. I believe that. You are my God and you died for me.

So then why do I have so much fear and anxiety and worry? Why do I accept with such gratitude and awe the Big Thing you have done and yet doubt you over the trivia? You died for me, but you might not help me cope with the day to day troubles of my selfish little life. You died for me, but you might not listen to my prayers. You died for me, but you might choose to let me suffer.

It makes no sense, does it? I make no sense much of the time.

Lord God, my Father, forgive me for being so inconsistent. Forgive me for doubting. Forgive me for trying so hard to sort it all out myself and not trusting you with it.

Thankyou that you brought us through this morning at the hospital where Katy had her dressing changed once again and the stitches out. Thankyou that she didn't need to be sedated. Thankyou for kind, kind nurses and strong, supportive friends, and thoughtful brothers and sisters in Christ who left flowers and chocolate biscuits for when we got back. Thankyou for my Mum who quietly helps with day to day things big and small that I seem to be forgetting at the moment. Thankyou for my wonderful husband who is managing to be all things to all people at the moment and now has his Uncle's funeral to go to later this week.

Lord, I lift before you my family and friends, each and every one of them, because I value them all more than I can say. These last few months when my world has been a complicated and scary one at times you have surrounded me with love and wrapped us up in prayer. I want you to bless them all, Lord God, for they have allowed you to work through them. I see you in the flowers on the doorstep, the pressure of a friend's hand on my shoulder as I hold Katy still for the nurse with tears in my eyes. I see you in the friend who brought a meal round one day because she thought that when we got home from the hospital we might not feel like cooking. I see you in my thoughtful little Elizabeth who made Katy's tea and some pink milk tonight to cheer her up. I see you in my brave little Katy who has no idea how much she comforts me when we hang onto each other after the dressing changes.

I see you in the sun that lifts my heart and the rain that waters my plants. I hear you in the music I sing to in the car and the voice of a wise friend who listens to me and then speaks your word. I feel you as I lie in bed and offer you my day in the too-short minutes before I nod off, exhausted.

I give you such a tiny amount and you give me so very much.

I know all this. You died for me, and every day you help me live. Help me more and more, Lord. Help me to open my fists and allow you to take control of all of me. Help me to see you more and hear you more and feel you more.

Help me to trust you more. You've already done the Big Thing.

Looking for level ground

I woke up to these words this morning. I went tap tapping on my little iphone to find my daily reading and there it was:

Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love...Show me the way I should go, for to you I lift up my soul...Teach me to do your will, for you are my God; may your good Spirit lead me on level ground.

Psalm 14:8,10

Level ground indeed, please. I've been climbing mountains and falling over cliffs for ages and I want to walk a little while with you feeling the sun on my back and your hand in mine, please. If that would be alright.

I read it three or four times and smiled (which is an achievement after a bad night where Katy shouted piteously at 2am because she'd got herself wedged down the side of her bed and took some extracting and consoling) and then I opened another reading:

Blessed is the man who perseveres under trial, because when he has stood the test, he will receive the crown of life that God has promised to those who love him.

James 1:12

Well, I feel less confident about this one because I am not so much persevering as getting on with it because I have no choice. But nevertheless, I know that you are there, even when I can't feel you. I know that you are caring for me even when you don't physically lift me out from where I'm stuck down the side of the bed. I know you will never leave me because you said you wouldn't and I believe you.

You are good to me, Father God. By the end of every day I am so tired and discouraged and worn down by it all that I get grouchy with you as well as with my family, but I do know that you are good. I know that I need to grow up in so many ways and it's hard work. I suspect deep down that you are teaching me something, or changing me, or hammering out the metal so that it's stronger and more useful but when I'm in the middle of the hammering I have to say it's not much fun.

CS Lewis put this idea so brilliantly. Why does anyone else ever try to write everything when he has expressed things so perfectly?

'Imagine yourself as a living house. God comes in to rebuild that house. At first, perhaps, you can understand what He is doing. He is getting the drains right and stopping the leaks in the roof and so on; you knew that those jobs needed doing and so you are not surprised. But presently He starts knocking the house about in a way that hurts abominably and does not seem to make any sense. What on earth is He up to? The explanation is that He is building quite a different house from the one you thought of - throwing out a new wing here, putting on an extra floor there, running up towers, making courtyards. You thought you were being made into a decent little cottage: but He is building a palace. He intends to come and live in it Himself'.

CS Lewis, Mere Christianity

Come and live in me, Lord God. Make me a house fit for a King. Just be gentle when you can be, and if there's any way of explaining it to me as you go along so I don't feel so bewildered, that would help no end. Help me get over the fear. All the fears, including the fear of being worked on.

I do want to be of some use to you, Lord. I don't want to be mediocre. I don't want to live life on a nice even keel with no troubles at the expense of any progress closer to you; I don't want to arrive in front of your throne one day and have you say, 'Oh, there you are. Well, alright then, come in.'  I don't want a place in your Heaven on a technicality, I want you to be there because I was faithful.

Thankyou for moments of insight. Thankyou that we saw the consultant this morning at the hospital and Katy's dressings are every other day now rather than every day. Thankyou that you have given me some wise, kind, friends who love you. I have so much to thank you for.

Thankyou thankyou thankyou

Oh thankyou thankyou thankyou.  You made it alright. You did, didn't you?

It turns out that the lump was nothing to worry about. I might be imagining it but I think I can hear you shaking your head with fatherly amusement and saying, 'I told you so!' - is that right? 

It was nothing. I don't have breast cancer. I don't need chemotherapy or surgery and my hopes of living to see my girls grow up are alive again. We're opening a celebratory bottle and cooking the very fine looking dish that was given me last night and there's a large Toblerone in the fridge that might not be there later. 

I am so relieved that I am exhausted. Katy's appointment went as well as can be expected with a four year old who doesn't trust doctors who propose to poke her bump any more; the consultant suggested trying to aspirate her bump again, Katy politely declined (or something like that) and so surgery is scheduled for 3 June, as it was. I still feel that there's time for the bump to disappear in a miraculous manner, though, if you're up for it, but after this afternoon's get out of jail free card I feel awkward about trying to guilt you into anything else.  

Oh, my God, you were there with me today. When I was being poked and prodded and squashed and manipulated and examined you were right there next to me. I felt a bit nauseous, scared, but not overwhelmed. The doctor I saw, the technicians and nurses and even the reception staff were just lovely. Welcoming, reassuring, kind, respectful (and I found myself in some pretty undignified situations) and when the doctor told us the news at the end they seemed genuinely happy that they were giving us good news. 

I don't really have the words to say thankyou. Especially not after a couple of glasses of wine. All I can say is that I've spent the last couple of days contemplating the worst that could happen and it hasn't. It's alright. I don't know what this experience means; does it mean anything? Is there something profound?  If there is, please show me because I want it to mean something; something that I can take with me.  If there's anything about my life that I should change in the light of this last week which has been spent  wondering if I'm seriously ill, then I want to make sure that I notice it. I don't want to wake up tomorrow feeling so much better and pick up the trivia again and forget the soul searching and the deep, deep emotions that I've been grappling with this last week.

I don't want to forget that you were there when it was grim, just as you are there when the birds are singing and the sun is shining. Maybe next time I'll be quicker to turn to you; to trust you. Oh, I don't know. I'm too tired. I can hardly keep my eyes open.  Today I've spent nearly five hours in the hospital and wondered if things would ever be right again. I went from fear to euphoria, from depression to elation. It was a Big Thing for me. Help me to grow and not to just turn my back on this. Give me more wisdom, Father God. 

Thankyou for loving me, Jesus. Thankyou that you never let me down. Thankyou that you surrounded me with warmth and love from my family and friends. Thankyou for a wonderful husband who loves me so much. Thankyou for my gorgeous children. Thankyou for a sunny day and doctors and sonographers and a health service that takes care of us in an emergency. Thankyou for my health and my life. May I never take it for granted. 

Thankyou for wine and pasta and meatballs and chocolate. 

Thankyou my Friend.  

'Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good

His love endures forever.

When hard pressed, I cried to the Lord; 

he brought me into a spacious place

The Lord is with me; I will not be afraid.'

Psalm 118; 1, 5-6

My Lord and my God and my Friend

There's this thing that's been going round and round in my head for a while now and I want to ask you what you think about it.

It was suggested to me that my way of talking to you, God, is a bit irreverent.  Not reverent enough. Requiring more reverence.  Hmm.

I've said before that since I've become a parent, I can see the 'Father' side of you with much more clarity; the Abba, Daddy bit, and I suppose it's with that in mind that I come to chat to you and I just lay before you what's in my head, muddled or annoyed or happy or sad.  I've always thought that it's better out than in, that you're always more than capable of coping with my confusion and bewilderment, and I've always believed that you'll make allowances for my clumsiness if I step out of line. Maybe that's a bit presumptuous. What do you think?

I know that you are so much more than my Heavenly Father; I know that you are my Saviour and my Light and my King and my God. I do get the awe thing - indeed over Easter I've been floored by it at times. I don't think I diminish you with my familiarity, do I?  

AW Tozer said:

'We do God more honour in believing what he has said about himself and coming boldly to his throne of grace than by hiding in a self conscious humility!  Those unlikely men chosen by the Lord as his closest disciples might well have hesitated to claim friendship with Christ. But Jesus said to them, 'You are my friends!'


And you are mine. You are my friend.  I can't explain why; it's underserved and unthinkable that the Lord of the Heavens should want me for a friend, but you do.  I know that you love me, I know that you died so that I could be friends with you. I don't want to wrap up my words in language that doesn't come instinctively - it makes no sense to me to do that because you know what's in my mind, and how I would speak if you were right here, now; so where's the point in translating my thoughts and ideas into something more deferential, when you can see the before as well as the after?

One day I shall see you face to face and I have no doubt that I shall fall down on the floor in front of you. I know you are the Lord of the Universe. I know that you are the Creator God and in comparison I am insignificant - but you have made me significant.  You have invited me to come before you with confidence as a member of your family. I'm not going to turn away from an invitation like that - I want to grab it with both hands. You know me inside and out.  You know when I'm being disingenuous and you know when I'm being honest. You know when I struggle to find words and you know when I have so many that I can't get them down fast enough.

You also know when I lose sight of what I'm saying because I get wrapped up in the process of writing. Sometimes I like what I write and forget who I'm talking to, and I think that's more of an issue than the tone of voice in which I talk.  I know that I like to create; I know that I love words, and sometimes, just occasionally, I get pleased with what I've written. I start to think, 'Ooh, that sounded good,' and become more self conscious about it all. It starts to be too much about the process and not about you. More about how I say it and less about what I say. I don't want to do that, either, I really don't. I've tried for years to write something that's 'good' and I've never managed it. Just trying has been hard work and no fun and I've always given up. This is different for the very reason that it's not dressed up or over-thought. Sometimes that might mean that it's raw or poorly thought out, or ungrammatical (hope not) but I have come to the point where I think it's better just to be me, in front of you, and tell you what's on my mind.  And I do want to hear from you. I'm trying to learn to be expectant. If you wanted to use the 'comments' bit underneath here, that'd be fine; but any response in any form makes my day. If there's something you want me to change, let me know.

I want to reflect you.  To notice what you're doing in my head, my heart and my life; to notice what you're doing around me in my family, my church, my world.  I want to show these things to people and I want to honour you by noticing and marking and remembering so that not one thing that you do for me goes unnoticed.  I can't even take a breath without your will so I know that I miss many many more things than I see, but I'm learning. This last few months has been eye opening to the point at which so much of life seems a distraction.

So I'm coming boldly to the throne. I'm taking you at your word and I trust you to show me if there's something I should do differently. I am learning so much.  I'm learning how to match my stride with yours for a second or two, though I'm not so good at it yet and I soon fall behind. I'm learning about priorities, though that still needs so much work too.  Everything needs a lot of work, but I know that you won't leave me and I know that when you start something that you finish it.  So here I am. On a journey and you're at the wheel.  I know I'm a back seat driver and I keep leaning forward with helpful suggestions and duff map reading, but I do know that you're in charge and that's the best way to get where I'm going. I want to make sure that I don't miss a thing en route.

I'm loving it.  I love you, my generous, creative, loving, inspiring, beautiful, patient Daddy. My Lord and my God, and my Friend.

A shower of blessings

Evening, Father God.

I need an early night.  I know this because my eyes feel like I'm squinting, I keep yawning, and most compellingly because I am grumpy.  So here I am sitting up in bed with three pillows, a warm wheaty, (I know, thankyou Lord for a few beautiful days of sunny weather; but when it gets to teatime it's still a bit parky round here, it's only March remember), a decaf coffee (with a generous snifter of amaretto added for medicinal reasons), preparing to snuggle down and get a few hours in before midnight.

My Grandma always used to say that an hour's sleep before midnight is worth two after. 

But I couldn't resist bringing my little computer and before I log off for the day I want to tell you how great you are.

What a day it's been. Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou.  

Today my best friend and I sneaked off for a guilty morning away from all the things we should be doing and just enjoyed ourselves.  I know that there's no reason that we should have felt guilty, but we did.  Or I did, anyway.  It felt as if we were getting away with something. I think both of us are so used to days crammed with commitments, or small children to consider all the time that time actually free, to be grown ups, to choose what to do... we were quite breathless at the prospect.

And a bit bewildered. As you are aware, we nearly blew it. 'Shall we do this?' 'Shall we go there?'  'What about this?' 'No, you decide...' so we went where we first thought of quite quickly lest the morning disappear before we'd made our mind up where our coffee was coming from.

So we went to the first place we'd thought of. So beautiful there. I feel very fortunate to live ten minutes' drive away from a place so lovely. There was nobody there when we got there just after the school run and when we got to the highest point we stood and looked out at the hazy view and breathed you in. 

There's so much I love about you, Lord.  We talked about you, and I had tears in my eyes as I said that one of a dizzying number of things that I love about you is that you made our world so beautiful just because you could. 

I know you are a God who is mighty, majestic, powerful, awesome... maybe I need to get my head around all those aspects of you, but I love the side of you that scoops me up in your arms and gestures around us, delighting in your creation.  

You are excited, enthusiastic, saying, 'Look what I've done! Isn't it great? Share it with me. Let it lift your spirits. Stop a while and be part of it because I made it for you to enjoy!'

I hope it made you happy that two tired, hassled Mums struggled to get out from under for a few hours today and then spent it gazing at the scenery that you made with your hands. I could hear birds singing, I could see the sun burning away the mist, I could smell fresh air, I could feel the coolness of a Spring morning. 

I stood there with a friend that I love and talked about our wonderful God and how we were learning, moving on in our lives, looking to the future, and it was lovely. 

The odd car came around the bends in the roads down in the valley and I wondered who those people were in those cars.  Whether they were seeing; whether they were seeing us at the top of the rocks, or whether they were seeing the beauty around them.  Maybe they had their troubles, maybe they were thinking about their worries, their plans, their busy days. Maybe the radio was playing. Maybe a baby was crying in the back seat. They were going somewhere and we'd stopped for a little while. It was great.  

My little world stopped for a time and I climbed off and I can't say that I was that bothered about getting on again.

What did it was the thought of coffee and perhaps a little something or other in a lovely cafe not a million miles away.  Speaking of which...

(My coffee is going cold faster than usual.  I suppose that must be because the amaretto was in the fridge. That's just by the way).

So a hot latte and a slice of apple pie and a morning spent talking with someone on my wavelength from whom I learn so much. It was very happy - a real treat.  After that we picked up our youngest little ones and they played together while we talked some more (yes, we are very good at talking.  Words never seem to dry up). 

Sunday night in church the worship was Spirit filled and the atmosphere full of you. Once again you gently spoke to me in the songs that were sung, the words spoken and the people I met. You are the Everlasting God who won't grow weary; you are the Lord, the lifter of my head. The sermon had the power of your Spirit and people shared thoughts and readings and messages.  For me, I sang and I praised and I marvelled at your love, and a calm, gentle voice in my head said to me, 'You don't have to do this alone' and straight away after that, 'You don't have to fight on your own'. 

My life feels a bit like a fight at the moment.  So much is happening and the pattern of events seems to be:

1.  Good Thing happens. Conversation, experience, thoughts, ideas, prayers, encouragement, step forward... and then

2.  Bad Things happen. Illness, injury, argument, anxiety, disappointment, fear, loss, confusion, weariness. 

...and over again. I've been increasingly aware of the non-random nature of these little dances; I've spoken to wise people and I've read my Bible and I'm onto it, and I will not take a step back. I'm often tired, occasionally exhausted, often confused, sometimes daunted, occasionally choked and frequently frustrated but I am having the time of my life walking with you and I won't give up.  

I won't be defeated despite the battles because you have won the war. And on Sunday you told me that I don't have to do it alone, and I don't have to fight on my own. 

I have you.  And I have friends. 

Today I looked at all you have given me, and I opened my eyes and saw it properly. I stood side by side with a special companion alongside whom I can walk in my journey with you. I inhaled the fragrance of you on the breeze as we cleared our heads of the everyday fumes of busy lives. It was only a morning but it's going to stay with me for a while. 

Blessings indeed.  Friendship, beauty, exercise, fresh air, wildlife, coffee, apple pie, freedom, choice, company, silence, discussion, laughter, belonging, love.  

One morning in Derbyshire and you showered us with blessings. 

Thankyou. 

Halfway there but a long way to go

Well, Lord, any time now I think Lent is about halfway through.  Is that right?  


Are we half way to Easter?  It seems like ages since I last looked at Facebook. I've channelled all Facebook related email into one email account and although I haven't checked the messages the little icon on the screen told me how many there were and when the messages were arriving; but after a few days they seemed to dry up completely, so I suspect that my little corner of FB world is quiet and desolate.  


If you don't talk to people, they don't talk to you.  I guess that's fair. It was quite sobering to note how quickly the gap I left healed up, mind you.


I never had any idea that giving up Facebook for Lent was going to be so controversial, Lord.  When I said I was going to do it a few people said that I'd never manage it, others objected because they didn't want to have fewer people to talk to, and I do believe a few people really thought they'd miss me. While being reluctant to give up my online support network and major daily source of entertainment, it didn't really cross my mind that I might not be doing the right thing.


You see, I saw it as the temporary removal of an obstacle; something that got in the way of the me-and-you-ness that should occupy the number one spot in my life.  Sometimes, though I'm embarrassed to admit it, Facebook was the first thing I checked in the morning before I read my Bible, and the last thing I checked at night before I put the light out (or indeed just after that, sometimes). 


Since it was available on my phone as well it was easy to have a quick look when waiting for an appointment, or at the school gates, or even a bit of a browse while watching TV.  A beep alerted me to a new post, and so I was always only a couple of clicks away from my Facebook buddies.  That's how committed I was; or obsessed, or addicted...whichever way you want to look at it. 


I wanted to put you back in your rightful place at the beginning and end of the day, and if I wanted to fill my head with something, I wanted it to be you.  


Also, as I found Facebook to be such a wonderful support network I'd become accustomed to posting something if I'd had a bad day, or was worried about something - and my first call should have been to you.  I know that the support offered by friends on FB has been great; I don't for one moment think that it is wrong, or bad, and that's why giving it up for Lent isn't something that I think everyone should be doing.  I don't believe that for a minute.  


But for me, it's about getting things in proportion.  Re-ordering. Remembering life before Facebook and making sure that my emotional crutches are the right ones.  I do need something to lean on, and that someone should first and foremost be you.


I'll be back on Facebook after Easter, and I hope I won't immediately go back to my old ways.  I don't think I will as I've noticed the time I have gained by keeping away and I've been spending more of that time with you.  I've spent more time reading the Bible, reading things that wise and devout men and women of God have said about the Christian life and thinking about you, and about me, and about you-and-me.  


I've spent more time in prayer (perhaps not as much as I should - am still working on this) and more time writing here.  I feel as if this time is some use to me.  


It's like a mini-retreat; retreating from Facebook.


I was concerned lest I became a news addict instead of the FB addiction but I have to say that I've found it too depressing and so it's been easy not to click the news icons when I'm surfing the net or fiddling with my phone.  


I've run out of 'coins' to play my favourite online game and since you can only get more by logging on to Facebook that's been packed away for the duration too.  


I find that a Bible verse or a thought from one of the devotion apps might stick in my mind all day and in those moments waiting for the children outside school or lying in bed I'm mulling it over.  Facebook never quite gave such food for thought. Pondering my next status update never fed my soul in the same way.  Funny, that. 


So I'm glad that I'm doing this, and at the same time looking forward to coming online again and sending out a few virtual hugs, should anyone still want to talk to me.  I'm missing the ease with which you can catch up with someone; with a few words you can offer support, love, sympathy - share joy or humour or sadness with someone.  That's harder to do without this medium.  Indeed, I know that there are some people who've been wanting support that hasn't been forthcoming because of this.  I don't know what to think.  Can it be the case that in doing something that's good for me, I'm hurting someone else?  Surely not.  It isn't the only way someone might ask for help, is it? There's still email, the phone, the mobile, a postcard, the doorbell?  


But these last few weeks I have felt moderately guilty on several occasions.  I've had criticism for this thing that I'm doing. I'm perhaps not picking up the slack as I should; maybe I've whipped away another person's emotional crutch, albeit temporarily, and I haven't replaced it with something else.  Should I have?  Could I have known? 


In church I've been finding that I've wanted to stay longer; to linger after services to chat to people, whereas I've always thought, 'Ah well, I can catch up online later'. Maybe the replacement of virtual chats with real ones is something special!  But if someone isn't at church, it was so easy to send a quick message to say, 'hello, are you alright?' but to make a phone call seems that bit more trouble and is easy to find that you've timed out and it's no longer appropriate.  


Some people have argued that Christians should not be giving up Facebook at all as their voice should be heard, and especially heard in this run up to the most important Christian festival of the year.  We should be proclaiming our faith, broadcasting what we believe, instead of retreating from the scene to look inwards.  What do you think, God?  


I feel mildly convicted that I don't very often make reference to my faith in my status reports on Facebook.  I do honestly try never to say anything that I feel is incompatible with my faith, but having the Vicar and several other clergy-people as Facebook Friends tends to help with that.  I never get involved in the odd online bickering session I've come across and have been known to decline an offer of friendship with someone that I know would be a negative presence. I hope that I have an integrity which is in keeping with what I know you would want. No reason to behave online any differently from the way you would face to face.  


I'm learning. I'm learning lots about communication, about hurt feelings, and support networks, and how one person's actions affect other people like ripples on a pond.  


I'm learning that you can do something with the best of intentions, and yet still find that other well intentioned people oppose you.  


I'm learning that technology can indeed facilitate relationships, and not impede them. 


I'm learning that some people find online relationships much easier to manage than real ones, and can be far more open and honest when not face to face.  


I'm learning about my own somewhat addictive personality and my tendency not to do things in moderation. 


I'm learning that people care and are missing me. 


A learning curve indeed. I found the first few days hard; my fingers were itching to check Facebook. I missed the humour and wit that often made me smile on a grim day. I missed having my four penneth on many and varied subjects that I knew something or nothing about. I'll be glad to be back. 


But you can see in my heart, Father God, and you know that this little exercise is all for you. 


I'm learning that you honour any effort made to spend more time with you. If I don't waste time, you don't waste time. I'm learning more and more about how you love me, how you want me to learn, how you want me to experience you for Real, and not in a virtual way. 


I'm halfway there. Still seems a long way to go.