Back to basics

Morning, God.

I've wondered what to say. I've been sitting here long after my coffee's finished and I've been reading the brilliance of other people's thoughts and ideas and feeling totally inadequate and I've been chewing the side of my left thumb until it's bleeding and I'm not going to mention that to anyone here because hubby hates my finger-chewing and little Katy has started doing it too and I'm held responsible for that bad habit. 

As inspiration and good grammar are concerned, that was a pretty duff start.

I'm going through one of those phases (this is the second this year) where coming here and talking to you has become a difficult thing. I'm not sure why. 

Part of it is that it feels a bit as if I have nothing to say, yet too much all at the same time. I know that you've been speaking to me recently and I'm trying to translate some of those words into something that I can talk about and clarify and develop, but I'm finding it hard to nail down. Some is deeply personal and very important to me and I need to sit for a few hours, just you and me, and try to understand. I know that you're waiting, patiently for me to do just that. 

Thank you, Lord, that the invitation to talk, to listen, to lean, to sink a bit deeper into you doesn't expire. Thank you for not taking umbrage and withdrawing your offer of help and healing just because I'm too wrapped up in things to take you up on it. 

My train of thought is still boarding at the station.

I have a myriad of reasons and excuses; the children have been on holiday, my husband is working from home, the (somewhat unwelcome) change in my routine (oh, my precious routine. I read somewhere that routine can become an idol, and I found myself wincing...) All these things have disturbed my rhythm and I'm finding it hard to get it back.

I want to scream. Or cry. Or go back to bed. 

What I should do is just lay it all down - there - and leave it with you. 

Right. Here's back to basics. Profound insight is beyond me. Intricate word play also out of my reach. Humour - no, not so much, today. So, then, what shall I say?

Someone once taught me the structure of prayer, years ago, and it sort of stuck on a basic level. 

ACTS.  Adoration, Confession, Thanksgiving, Supplication.

When in doubt...

Adoration

Lord, it's a beautiful day and you are everywhere. 

You are in the sunshine and shade, the birdsong and the neighbour's cat stretched black and glossy, lazy on our garden bench. 

You are in the vivid, improbable green of the trees and leaves, chlorophyll singing health and new growth and bright June potential. 

You are in the church bells chiming ten, reminding me that one of my favourite places in all the world is just down the road from here; worship is not just for Sunday, but here, now, in my back garden, at this keyboard, in that greenhouse, that shed, that kitchen. 

You are in the blue sky, the pompom white clouds, the daisies and buttercups and irrepressible clover that makes my lawn very unhealthy but oh, so soft to bare feet. 

You are in the beautiful faces of my two girls smiling at me from last year's school photo propped against the fruit bowl and you are there in the sheen of ripe pears and apples. 

You are in the wind blowing the washing on the line and you there in the fragrance of clean sheets. 

Oh, my God, you are sitting on the spare stool to my right and you have your arm around my shoulders and you care not a bit if my words are profound or well chosen or even spelled correctly; you just revel in the fact that your precious daughter wants to talk to you. 

Lord, I do. I do. I love you.

Confession

My heart sinks when I realise that I don't know where to start. 

Alright, how about yesterday when I was so angry with my oldest daughter, seven-going-on-fourteen, who sulked and grumped around on a beautiful treat-day out and did her best to spoil it for everyone? I cajoled, I encouraged, I sympathised and eventually I threatened. I said things that crushed and wounded and I'm sorry. 

I can make excuses by saying that I don't know what I'm supposed to do when faced with incessant whining and whinging and rudeness, but it's no defence. 

I was mean, and I'm sorry. 

I'm sorry for the things I thought as well; I demolished her in my head. I'm sorry for the things that are in my head that nobody knows about but you. I stoke up the negative things in my mind until they glow hot and spill over into words. 

I am full of self. I'm sorry that I turned my back on you last night when you waited for me to come and chat at bedtime; I said, in a minute, in a minute, while I checked Facebook and Twitter, then my email, then Facebook again. I played a game on my phone, read the news headlines and dipped in and out of YouTube until I was slouched so low in bed that sitting up with my journal and a pen and comparing notes with you was too much for me. Maybe I always knew it would be. 

I'm sorry. I don't understand why I do that because I know for a fact that meeting with you at the beginning and end of each day makes things so much better on every level. 

Thanksgiving

So, so much to give thanks for. 

For days like today when the view from the kitchen window is full of colour. 

For the days when it rains so that I don't have to go round with my watering can in the evening. 

For bees and garden chairs and books and notepads and ideas. 

Thank you for my girls' painted handprint pictures that freeze in time the smallness of their palm-prints for sentimental people like me. 

For the nothing-like-it feel of a small hand in yours as you walk along to school. 

For sausages for dinner and for mayonnaise, because there is no food that is not enhanced with the addition of mayonnaise. 

Thank you for your faithfulness, for your mercy, for your fun; thank you for swings and roundabouts and shouts of joy. 

Thank you that as I sit here with the windows open I can hear the sound of children in the playground at Katy's school; it's a happy sound. 

Thank you for all the blessings of our comfy existence - for education and freedom for children to play and not have to work, for running water, for plentiful food and for medicines when we need them. 

Thank you for being there, always, no questions asked, without fail, always loving, always forgiving, always loving some more, asking from me nothing and everything at the same time. 

Supplication

Right now, what's it to be? What should I ask you for in the state of mind that I'm in right now? 

Peace.

Help me to find peace whatever the circumstances, will you, Father? 

I know that true faith and trust in you would mean that I'm not at the mercy of the prevailing mood of the household, whether that mood emanates from me or anyone else. I want to depend on you so absolutely that it doesn't shake me or throw me if someone else is walking round with a thundercloud of discontent or anger. 

I want to be someone who has her own microclimate of peacefulness and calm. Is that too much to ask? 

Unlikely this side of heaven? Surely not. 

Lord, help me get a better grip of the things I say. Irritation and bitterness spill out of me sometimes and I can't stop it - or I choose not to. I talk to other people too much and to you not enough. 

I read somewhere recently one of those little illustrated ideas that do the rounds on the internet and it said:

Have you prayed about it

As much

As you've talked about it?

...and the answer is no, rarely do I pray about things anywhere near as much as I talk about them. And on the odd occasion where I put serious prayer (by my standards, I note your wry smile), I realise that prayer does change things. 

So change me, Lord. Teach me to control what goes on in my head so that I can control what comes out of my mouth. Help me to grab onto you when I want to grab someone by the throat. 

Help me cultivate calm and find peace, rather than stoking up my temper and doing the devil's job for him, for I know that he would have me constantly irritated, annoyed, criticising and lashing out. 

Above all, don't let go of me, for without your hand on me I'm in freefall. 

Don't stop talking to me. Make me listen. Remind me, call me, tug at me. 

Make me more like you. 

Amen. 

Let it be.

A gentle answer turns away wrath...

Aaaagghh.

Oh, hello God.

I am cross. I am scowling. My shoulders are tense. If I wasn't typing my fists would be clenched.

Everything in my world is conspiring to annoy me. Someone is going to get a piece of my mind, as they say. If the children don't settle to sleep soon, it's going to be them.

I read this, the other day:

'A gentle answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger.'

Proverbs 15:1

That might be the case. I'm sure it is. If you say it is, then it is. Sorry. I'm sounding very crabby, aren't I?

It's just that it's hard sometimes. (Crabby, and now whiny.) It's hard not to retaliate, to snap back when someone snaps at you. It's hard not to be sarcastic. My mum has always said that if I can't think of anything nice to say, then I shouldn't say anything at all, but that is also not easy. It's very hard to maintain a dignified silence, sometimes. Jesus, when you were around here, did you ever get so fed up with people that you wanted to shout at them? Point out their shortcomings? Get them off your back? Put them down?

I don't suppose you did, did you?

I do. Often. Usually with my family. When I feel that people aren't doing what they should do, when my children won't co-operate, when they come up with a million reasons why they can't do as they're told - that's when I get a bit snippy. There's no merit in being able to silence a small child with nasty words, is there? No prize for stirring up a husband's temper by being sharp and critical?

Oh dear.

You see, I'm good with words. Sometimes. I think in words and I can usually make them do what I want. It's very satisfying and it's a gift that I love. I have a need to express myself and for the most part that's a good thing. But occasionally it's bad. I can think quickly and I can articulate my ideas and sadly, the flip side is that I can come out with something really cutting or hurtful if I'm provoked and angry before I can stop myself.

Being a words sort of person has a down side. Several, in fact. I often bore people with long winded explanations or flights of fancy that incorporate imagery or extended metaphors; that's one. Another, and a bigger down side is that I'm nifty with words when it comes to being nasty, as well. I don't blow my own trumpet when I say that I have a way with the cutting phrase. The mean remark. Something quick and cold. I'm not proud of it, and as I get older I try harder and harder not to indulge this side of me.

I say 'indulge', because a gentle answer may well turn away wrath, but a harsh word is so satisfying. Someone winds me up, or irritates me, and carries on doing it, and it is so, so tempting just to say something to shut them up. To wipe the smile off their face.

It's something that I battle with. My two daughters are beautiful, clever, creative, imaginative, wonderful and sometimes endlessly frustrating. A hundred reasons why they can't put away their crayons. A thousand reasons for not cleaning their teeth. A million why they can't settle to sleep at night. How easy is it for Mummy to close their bedroom door abruptly with a sharp word. How often do I come downstairs and after a cool-down period - usually only ten minutes or so - I'm back up there feeling remorseful and hoping they're not asleep yet so that I can put the record straight with a cuddle. How many times have my crossness at teeth-cleaning time only served to make Katy clamp her lips closed more firmly?

Words are my friends and also sometimes they turn on me.

'A gentle answer turns away wrath'. It does. I used to work in a busy clinic at a hospital and when people had to wait for their appointment they were often angry and critical. I found that an explanation and apology given gently and honestly diffused a situation where meeting their anger head on with defensiveness led to a bigger explosion. It's so much easier with people I don't know. Somehow it's here at home that it's hardest to handle conflict.

There have been flash points in conversations sometimes in this neck of the woods where the whole evening ahead hinges on a gentle answer...or a harsh word. There have been times when no sooner are the harsh words out of my mouth than I wish that I could take them back and replace them with the gentle answer. Wrong choice. Was it worth it, to get that off my chest, that sharp remark that I just couldn't bite back?  Nope. Too late... so much harder to pick up the pieces than never to smash it in the first place.

It's a temptation. For a brief, fleeting second, it's good to hurt. The darkest side of me that hits out when upset or wounded or furious wants to land a good punch.  Some people would throw one physically, but I might just lob in a bit of sarcasm or a cutting comment. There. How do you feel now?

You know all this. You made me this way! (See? It's your fault). You've seen me in action on numerous occasions. You've also seen the times when I do manage to control myself and bite back the bitterness or the rage. Those times aren't as numerous as I'd like them to be, Father. I want to be someone known for her gentleness and her encouragement, not the hurtful stuff. And I want to be known that way in my own house. It's said that you always hurt the ones you love; I think that's the case. The people that I love so much that I would die for, the ones that I spend all my time with, the ones that see me at my best and worst - they are the ones who bear the brunt of the overtired me, or the irritable me, or the hormonal me. Bless them, Lord, for their patience and forgiveness.

I read this verse from Proverbs and I didn't like it much. I didn't like it because I know that far too many harsh words come from me, and nowhere near enough gentle ones. Help me, Father. One of the fruits of the Spirit is self-control, and I need more, please. Lots more. I want to build people up, to instil confidence and contentment, not tear down self esteem and bring fear and uncertainty.

I don't like to admit any of this. It's fairly easy to hide from the outside world, but you know, don't you, Lord. I'm needing some help with it all. Forgive me all the times that I get it wrong, Father. Heal the wounds that I leave behind me when I say things that are harsh. Help me do it all so much better.

More gentleness, please, less harshness. More wrath turned away, please, and less anger. More massaging and less stirring. Building up, not tearing down.

And for now, I'm going upstairs to see my children, who have kept quiet since I left them in no uncertain terms that I didn't expect to hear from them again tonight. Elizabeth's little face was sad when I snapped at her. I'm hoping they're not asleep yet as I want to give them hugs and kisses and snuggle them down and wish them good night with gentle words.