The road less travelled

Lost again. Where am I?

Father God, I am always asking you for directions.

I keep asking you where I'm going and when will I get there? 

I'm asking you to show me the next step, which path to take, to show me which door should I push.

Which way should I go? What route would you like me to take?

Where will you lead me if only I am willing to be led?

I should stop asking, and just wait for you to show me. Maybe in the waiting there's more to see than there is in this chase,  where I am concentrating only on the road in front of me, pounding footsteps, breath coming in gasps.

Maybe I could sit here for a while, by this crossroads, and feel the sun on my back, and the breeze in my hair, listening to the birds and noticing the small things. The ladybird that lands on my arm, the wild flowers that grow at the roadside. The way the leaves on the trees look so breathtakingly beautiful against the bluest of skies.

Stop. Is that alright?

Maybe that's better than tearing down the road without glancing left and right, backtracking when I realise I'm lost, only to set off at a gallop in another direction. Running, running, not stopping to drink in the view or notice that you're there, waiting for me to sit down next to you. Waiting to show me something.

Enough.

I want to take the road less travelled. 

The road that is hardly noticed because the entrance is narrow; the one that's just for me, not for anyone else; the one that you're waiting patiently to take me down. My path.

You know this road so well - you know every bump and camber, every hill and valley. You know that there are place where the road leads perilously close to a sheer drop, where I'll need your arm to steady me, and you know secret places where there are still waters and lush meadows to rest in. You know when to stop to admire the view from the best angle and you know when how to guide me through the steep and treacherous parts where I'm scared to go alone and it's easy to lose my footing.

You want to walk this road with me, not just wave me off on my own. You want to point out the spectacular sights and you want to be there when I stumble.

You just want me to put down my maps and SatNav gadgetry and stop trying to do it myself.

To stop peering off down roads I'm not supposed to investigate. Those roads might lead someone else exactly where they're supposed to be going, but they're not for me. Those other roads often look easier than mine - prettier, more exciting; but you're waiting for me to stop looking longingly at the signposts or at other people's receding backs and look into your eyes. 

I'm going to sit here for a bit because I'm tired. Lord, I'm so, so tired.

I'm going to lean against this tree and watch the insects on the flowers and the sunlight filtering through green leaves and dappling the ground. I'm going to feel how soft the grass and the moss and I'm going to breathe in and breathe out slowly and deeply. Clean, cool, unpolluted air. I'm going to wait until the muscles of my shoulders relax and stop aching with tension and the noise in my head grows quieter and quieter. Until the peace that emanates from you washes over me, calming, soothing, comforting.

And I'll rest, leaning on you. I'll wait. 

And, Lord, when you're ready; when you think I'm ready, and not before, I'm going to take the hand that you offer me and let you pull me to my feet. And then you'll show me where to go, and I'll match my stride with yours.

We'll go somewhere, me and you.

Fog in June

June is a busy month. I should really learn to expect it, but it creeps up on me every year.

June is that no-man's-land between Spring and Summer, starting with a half term and ending with the rabbit in the headlights realisation that the Long Summer Holiday is looming. June for me means my husband's birthday, Fathers' Day and my eldest daughter's birthday, as well as some painful anniversaries: my Dad died nine years ago on the day before hubby's birthday, and his funeral was two days before Elizabeth was born. Nine years ago, June changed for me from just another month to an emotional cocktail that seems to pack a more powerful punch every year.

So I should see it coming, perhaps, but I didn't. 

May ended on a bit of a high. A Writers' Weekend in the beautiful Yorkshire Dales, old friends, new friends, time spent laughing, crying and soaking up inspiration. It was one of those minor mountain-top experiences. Not an Everest of mountain-tops, but bigger than Ben Nevis. A Mont Blanc of weekends, maybe. I got some glimpses, scribbled notes and tried to pin down ideas, and came back home itching to explore further some of the things that God had whispered to me.

Some things about who I am/who we are as women of God, something about self-esteem and trusting the One who made us/about another way to live...freedom...peace...healing.

Big things, hey? Exciting! I was excited and energised. I felt as if I was on the edge of clarity. Not finding out the answers to all life's problems, but almost understanding that there was a place that I might get to where things are better than this. Where things I've struggled with for three-quarters of my life might start to be untangled and leave me a freer person; living in that peace that Jesus promised, that I've never been able to find. 

And wouldn't you think that right there would be the recipe for a period of great productivity, growth, spiritual exploration?

Some really good blog posts? 

Nope.

Just couldn't get going. I have a myriad of excuses; I was very tired by the weekend itself, the drive there and back, the early mornings and late nights, the emotional energy of all the processing, and of being surrounded by people, however engaging... I needed a bit of down time. A few days away from the computer. Too much to do, so little time. 

I find that I work through things best when I write. So often I start a blog post in one state of mind and finish in another; I understand things better when I write. I pick things apart and work out what's really going on and sometimes I surprise myself. I do this in my journal as well as on the computer, and so you'd expect that I'd be scribbling away madly after the high point of the weekend, wouldn't you?  As my computer gathered dust my notebooks would be jumping off the shelf? I'd need more ink? 

Nope.

That seemed impossible, too. Concentrating on anything seemed impossible. It all became terribly complicated until it was just too much.

Enthusiasm and energy leached away into lethargy. I put down my devotionals and started reading an old thriller. When I found out I'd read it before I carried on reading it anyway.

That just about sums up the last few weeks.

'Just too much' characterised June this year. Nine years ago I wept and wept and from a fog of shock and grief begged God not to let me go into labour and miss my Dad's funeral, and this year I've shed tears and begged God to help me fight my way out of another fog. He answered my prayers then, and I believe that in time He'll answer them now.

I don't know what's happening, but I know something is. I guess that sounds very odd.

I know there are lots of people who would advise me to stop thinking so much and get on with the everyday stuff, and I know they're right. I am a Myers' Briggs INFJ and I make heavy weather of everything.

I am not waiting for God to show me what He wants me to do with my life, I should get on with doing the things that He has already shown me I should do with it. I have a family, a home, school stuff, church stuff, writing stuff. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other. Yet I can't shake the feeling that it's a time of waiting, too. Active waiting, as a good friend said to me. Stopping, listening, trying to be still and wait until the swirling thoughts settle into something that I can see. I know He won't let me down.

So I'm trying to put something down, words on a screen, taptaptap on my little keyboard, fully aware that I make very little sense. I know that God won't leave me here. He is doing something - Aslan is on the move! - and perhaps He put His finger into the waters of my mind and heart and stirred them up until the pool is swirling cloudy so that in time something of worth that might rise up to the top.

I need to stop asking 'What? When? Why?' and just focus on who He is. There is peace in His presence, and I should nestle up close. Stop trying, and let Him get on with whatever He's doing. He'll tell me what's going on when He's ready.

I hope so. I do hope that the confusion and frustration of this month hasn't been for nothing; but He said that nothing is wasted. Not even the tears.

Well, there have been plenty of those.





Image credit:  whirlpool.jpg by pippalou
Courtesy of Morguefile.com. Used with permission

Darkness and fog

Oh, God.

It's been a horrible few weeks. Not life in general, horrible, but the me-and-you thing; coming here and exchanging the time of day, having something to say - it's just not been there. 

It still isn't. I've been sitting here for more than an hour and I am tap tapping at the keyboard right now just trying to hang onto the fact that you're still exactly where you've always been, even though I'm not quite sure where I am. 

Lord, I was in church on Sunday and we sang a song together and I can't remember what the song was or how it went, but it had a line in it about darkness. 

Something like, 'The darkness shall fear', I think. 

Darkness in this context clearly meant satan, the devil, evil in general or an absence of you. (I think I hedged my bets nicely there). What occurred to me, is that I am all too familiar with darkness. 

Darkness can be a comforting thing, I think. At night, I like it dark. I don't sleep well in light - I'm a thick curtain sort of girl. We used to live in a wonderful barn-conversion with a roof window right over the bed and it drove me mad. There was no blind or curtain and I resorted to draping my dressing gown over a roof beam to try and blot out some light so that I could sleep past dawn in the summer months. 

No, dark for sleeping is good. 

It's darkness at other times that I struggle with, and there seems to be a lot of it about at the moment.

It's autumn, and I make no secret of the fact that I find this time of year depressing. Yes, I can appreciate the beautiful colours, and I have my fair share of lovely photographs. I like the days when it's bright and crisp and there's a blue sky and some sun and a nip in the air (though I like days like that better in spring).

I know all about things having to die back to rest and gather strength for new shoots etc etc but look, I'm just not an autumn person. It's dark too early in the evenings, it's cold and dank and death and decay are everywhere. And I don't like draughts or Halloween. And orange is my least favourite colour. 

Did I come across just a bit petulant, there? 

In church on Sunday there was something more than the time of year on my mind. I've been struggling to concentrate, recently. It's as if my mind has been full of fog. Countless times in the last month I've been sitting here in front of the same computer that has been my close friend for several years and all of a sudden it's been cold and unwelcoming. I've done far more Facebooking and general surfing than I've done in ages. I've stared at blank documents until my eyes have stopped focusing and I've given up and gone to put the kettle on. 

Fog. Darkness. Confusion. Inability to concentrate. I look at the time I've wasted and become discouraged and depressed.

This darkness is a dense, insidious thing that wraps itself around me like the softest of shawls. It snuggles in close and at first look it seems to be a safe, insulating thing. It muffles and envelops. It's constantly moving and shifting shape and after a while I realise that I'm not hearing anything external, only the voices that are in my head already, that seem to be best mates with the fog on the outside. They whisper and nag and point out things to me.

There are several voices in there. 

Sympathetic:

'You've got too much on your mind, no wonder you can't concentrate.'

'Just give up for now. You're not in the right frame of mind.'

Accusatory:

'You're pathetic. You'll never get anything done.'

'Have you seen how much time you've wasted?'

Discouraging:

'There's no point starting now, there's not enough time left.'

'You have no ideas, no inspiration.'

Defeated:

'May as well give up. This is never going to work.'

'Why did you even think you could do it?'

...and others. But they echo in the darkness inside my head and I can't hear anything else. There used to be voices that encouraged me, cheered me on, made me hope for the best, believe, dream big dreams, but when the deadening darkness is there with it's arms wrapped around me, those voices can't make themselves heard. 

Yes, I realised all this as I stood and sang that forgotten song on Sunday morning. I saw the darkness wrapped around me. Soft and fluffy and even a little bit inviting - to start with, and then after a bit it penetrates deep to my bones and makes me cold and shaky and uncertain.

It's not black, this darkness. It's more grey, like storm-cloud grey. It's constantly moving, hugging, shifting, enveloping. 

I have a very bad habit of chewing my fingers and they're bad at the moment. I've been wanting to get a grip on what I eat but I'm feeling the need for comfort food more than ever. I have always found writing is a freeing thing, a wonderful way of working through problems, of capturing ideas and pinning down memories and, most importantly, meeting with you, Lord God, and yet for weeks now it's been oppressive and fearful. It has always brought me clarity, and yet when I'm in most need of it, I can't do it. 

Writer's Block? Ha. It's such a cliche, isn't it? Someone suggested to me that I had 'Writer's Block' and they even said it in inverted commas. Maybe that's it, but I think it's more than that. Here's what I think, in my foggy, muddled way:

I had an idea. I want to write something, and I want it to be for your glory. I want people to read it, and be encouraged and inspired. I told a few people about my idea and they were interested and told me that I should go ahead. I should go ahead and write it, and they would help in any way they could.

I felt excited and expectant and energetic. Full of hope, I had a new purpose and so many ideas that I couldn't get them all down fast enough. I have books and Post-It notes and notebooks and scraps of ideas all over the place. 

I thought I might actually do something.

Then the fog rolled in. 

I don't think that's a co-incidence. I don't think it's by chance that a million little jobs that have surfaced that need attending to on the days that I had set aside to get on with my idea. 

But then the voice (I think it belongs to 'Accuser', though it might be 'Discourager' - they're all the same), it says, 'You've got a big opinion of yourself, haven't you? Why would you or your writing be any sort of threat?'

And I'm back to square one. 

Why bother?

Lord, please tell me that I'm not the only person this happens to? I've read part of this little rambling back and I think I sound quite mad. 'Voices' in my head and the arrogance to put my own lamentable lack of discipline down to demonic interference... 

But I think I know about the fog.

Take it away, Father God.

May your light shine so brightly that it burns away to nothing like mist after sunrise.

Help me to shake it loose, Lord, and think clearly.

I want to hear your voice - the one that builds and creates and encourages and enables and equips, instead of those that make me feel bad.

I think that the fog is robbing me of tools that you put into my hands. It saps strength and corrodes determination. Steals confidence. Takes all these things and replaces them with heaviness, weariness and confusion.

It muffles, stifles. Lord, it stops me from seeing you, hearing you, sensing you here right next to me. 

'He wraps Himself in light

And darkness tries to hide

And trembles at His voice

And trembles at His voice...'*

Speak, Lord God, and the darkness will tremble.

Rescue me, as you have so many times before. I'm sorry that it's taken me so long to get to this place. I've been immobile, wrapped up for too long listening to the wrong things, letting them seep into the heart of me and sap my strength. 

I'm not going to stay here any longer. 

I'm going to get moving. 

'How great is our God

Sing with me

How great is our God'*

Amen.

* 'How Great is Our God' by Chris Tomlin, 2004 Sixsteps Records/Sparrow Records

Do what you do

Dear God.

Everyone has something to say about what's happened in Oklahoma. The way a tornado flattened an area miles wide with so little warning that some people didn't have time to find a safe place, not that there were any if  The way some were safe in a vault at the bank, customers huddling with staff. The way a lovely old lady wept in thanksgiving when her little dog scrambled out of the wreckage of her home. 

The way schools was destroyed and children were trapped and crushed and drowned. 

In the world of social media everyone has something to say. I suppose I do, too, because I sort out my feelings when I write them down, and after half an hour reading about this disaster on the internet news I'm a bit of a mess of feelings. I haven't got anything to say that is helpful, or wise; I wonder if there's anything that anyone can say that helps. 

Nobody told me when I was expecting my first baby that I would one day only have to think of another mother an ocean away one day and find tears running down my face. Nobody told me that a picture of a mother desperately waiting for news would break my heart. 

I've always been a bit of a softie, and I know that even before my babies came along I'd have watched this footage with horror and shock, but when I went into a hospital as somebody's daughter and came out somebody's mother, something shifted. Suddenly there was a little life - and nineteen months later another little life - more precious to me than mine. 

There were mothers and fathers standing in rubble as the emergency services lifted debris, waiting to know if their child would come home that night. Someone with a megaphone started shouting the names of the kids who were alright, who still had breath in their body to say who they were. Imagine waiting to hear your baby's name, waiting and waiting as people around knelt in relief and scooped up their battered, wounded but living-and-breathing child and your little just didn't come out?  

They must have been so frightened, those little boys and girls. They must have cried and shouted for their mummy or their daddy and they didn't come. 

Oh, God. 

The other night my little girl Katy was so tired that she thought of something that upset her and she thought of it so much that she dissolved into tears and she couldn't get herself right again until we'd cuddled and snuggled for a long time. Other people's mummies were to go on a school trip with them next month but I wouldn't be going. Lots of reasons for this, (the main one being that I didn't want to go; I didn't sign up to go) but Katy suddenly, surprisingly, decided that the most important thing in the world was that I would be with her when she went on the school trip. Alas, too late. The class teacher had been inundated with offers of parent helpers (why? I don't understand it) and so it was too late. Katy, for reasons that escape me, inconsolable. She so, so wanted me to be there. 

And this is only a school trip. I felt so guilty. Guilt that I wouldn't be with her on a lovely school visit. That I should be there for her. That in not being there I was letting her down. 

How much more could a heart take - not to be there when your little one is terrified in the midst of a hugely powerful hurricane? When the winds are blowing at over two hundred miles an hour and the roof is torn off and the walls are collapsing and cars are flying through the air? When they're lying contorted and hurt under the rubble of a collapsed building?  Gasping for air before unconsciousness and suffocation?

Nobody told me the all-consuming love that I have for my children. Yes, they get me down sometimes. Yes, I find the job of being their mummy relentless and frustrating and overwhelming sometimes - much of the time. But not to be there when they needed me?  

Far away there are mummies and daddies who will somehow have to find out if peace is possible again the other side of something like this. Like the time a man walked into a school and carelessly took the lives of all those small children and their brave teachers. Like the time a huge factory collapsed in Bangladesh and more than a thousand people lost their lives, some of them barely old enough to operate a sewing machine. The time that we saw on our televisions scenes of skeletal mothers and babies in Somalia in the last stages of malnourishment sitting on the parched ground, waiting for death. 

Why do we think that those mothers love their children less than we love ours? 

I breastfed my babies and I had excess milk that I froze for convenience. I eat so many calories that my hips are well padded for carrying my well-fed children. What must it be like to have a baby knowing that you have no way to feed it, to keep it alive?

What must it be like to send my little one to school with a lunchbox with a cheese and ham sandwich (Elizabeth's favourite) and a bag of raisins and a chocolate biscuit. To put a little 'I love you' note in the lunchbox - or that morning was I too busy to write one? - and then to find out that today was the day she wasn't going to come home? 

What must it be like to wait in the twisted remains of a building for news of my whole family and then the building starts to burn?

It's all misplaced, of course, the guilt, but it goes with the territory of motherhood. To protect and nurture and kiss it all better. To be there to make things right when knees are grazed or bullies say the mean things. It's so deeply ingrained in me that to deny me that need to respond is to rob me of something fundamental. I can't imagine the pain that those mothers must be going through. 

Where were you, Lord? I think you must have been there; surely you couldn't have stayed away. I pray that you were there with those little ones as the roof was ripped off. There when the teacher shielded their little bodies from the bullets. There when the factory collapsed like a house of cards. 

There as every mother cradles her baby and feels the raw power of the new love in her heart.

You must be. It comes from you.

Oh, God, what's it all about? I've read blog posts about comfort and about your tears falling as rain. I've read articles about why there's suffering in this broken, dysfunctional, terminal world. I've seen people railing against your injustice and hard-heartedness and others thanking you for your mercy and never-ending love. 

I just can't get the images out of my head. The mothers waiting for news. The sure knowledge that I would a million times rather die with my daughters in my arms than live knowing that they needed me and I wasn't there. 

I haven't anything to say. It makes no sense to me.

Well, I have one thing. I don't understand it one bit, but from the very deepest part of me, all I can say is that I know you, Lord Jesus. 

I know that you are love. You are compassion. You are the healer.  I know that you loved those children of yours in Oklahoma, in Connecticut, in Bangladesh and in Somalia. I know that you loved the five little souls who died in Derby in a house fire set by their own father and the little girl murdered in Wales whose body they have never found...and so on, and so on. 

I know that you care. 

I know that we are not lost. Somehow, and don't ask me how, as we stand in the middle of grief and horror in this beautiful and terrifying world, we aren't consumed, for you stand with us. 

You won't be defeated by evil in any of its forms. 

You say that you can bring good out of the most desperate circumstances, but I'm guessing those mothers don't want to hear that right now. There isn't any good, surely. 

When they wake up tomorrow morning and the next day and the days after that and for just a fraction of a moment they can't remember what immense, towering grief it is that looms over them - Lord, do what you do. Comfort, soothe, protect, heal. 

Loving Lord, do what you do.  

Image credits:

IMGP3231.JPG by spiroll

Katrina_LynnMeadows_2.jpg by msand39

downedtree.jpg by taliesin

all from Morguefile.com. Used with permission.

To sleep, perchance to dream

I had a dream the other night, Father God.

It was one of those dreams that is somehow so different in the way it feels, so vivid, so high-quality that I think it's from you. I've only had a few such dreams in my whole life and I've had two in the last month or so. Thankyou. I'm hugging them to me because they're so special. 

Also, I wonder if you could see your way clear to sending me something that maybe clarifies a couple of things?

In my dream, I was standing at the front of church with two or three people standing in front of me. We were in a loose circle (I know, if there were two others, we'd be a triangle, if there were three, we'd be a square, but you know what I mean). I was speaking and I was full of the Holy Spirit. Overflowing. I was talking to these few people, not to the whole congregation, though the church was full. I was emotional and excited and somehow I was carried away with what I was doing. It was intensely spiritual. I began to speak in tongues (which I've never been able to do) and I was full of praise and delight and wonder.

Oddly, even in the depths of this powerful dream where I was praying aloud in the spirit, I said to myself, 'Am I dreaming?' and answered 'No! It's not a dream!' and then, bizarrely, 'I can't wait to tell my friend about this!'. Once again I asked myself, 'Am I dreaming?' and concluded that no, it was real. 

It was real.

Of course, I woke up and it had been a dream. 

It was amazing, God. I loved it. I'd like to do it again, please. Any time you feel like it I'm ready; indeed I settle down to sleep these days with a sense of excited expectation. But the thing that concerns me slightly is that I am very, very sure that you were telling me something in this dream and I'm afraid of missing the point. You know me - I worry about getting it wrong.

So please may I have a sequel? Or a replay with subtitles? Slow motion?

I love that you communicate with us. You're not a God who sits aloof up there and just watches impassively but that you do speak to us in a myriad of ways. You are endlessly creative in how you reach out to me. You know me so well that you know the ways to get my attention, and you keep on surprising me. You speak to me through people, through things I read, through music, through art. You speak to me in pictures and words. In the beauty of creation and in ideas that pop into my head for no apparent reason. You have even embraced the digital age with enthusiasm - I have heard your voice in a text message from a friend.

I've heard it said that you are communicating all the time, yet I only tend to hear you from time to time. There are days when you're everywhere and days when I can't (or won't) find you. It's as if I only intermittently pick up the frequency. Teach me to tune myself in better, Father God, so that I can listen closely and more often.

So, back to my dream. I like very much that you chose to come and have a little chat while I was doing what I love doing the most: sleeping. I'm good at it, but I rarely get the chance to get the sort of practice that would keep me in peak fitness in that area. Do you think I should try to do more of it in order to be more available for anything that you want to say? Please?  The Lord told me that I should stay in bed. Hmm. I'm not sure that there's a Biblical precedent for that one, sadly.

Thankyou. For reaching into my life. The picture you gave me is deeply embedded in me. It couldn't be otherwise; it was unlike a normal, common-or-garden dream where I can suddenly fly, or find myself naked in Sainsburys, or anything like that. It was from you. I like it. In my dream I was ecstatic. I was fully myself and it was easy. I was full of your Spirit. I want that very much - who wouldn't?  All I need now is the wisdom to understand what you want to say, or the patience to wait until you make it clear. I want to hear you clearly, Lord.

And I want to be overflowing with your Spirit too.

Silence and chaos

Me again, Lord.

You'll never guess what I'm doing tomorrow.

There's a stupid thing to say, since you knew before I did.

Well, I'm going on a Quiet Day. From morning till mid afternoon I shall be quiet. I can sense you smiling.

This isn't the first time I've had a chance to do this, but it's the first time I've said yes. I think the reasons I've shied away from a quiet day several times before are that I'm a bit frightened by the idea.  I'm not very good at being quiet.  Being the mum of two small children with a To Do list as long as my arm means that I often long for peace and quiet, but what I mean by peace and quiet is perhaps not the same as Quiet. I like to have an early night where I sit here in bed like I am now, with my little laptop, a coffee and my wheaty. I like to sit and read. I like to listen to music and I like to fall asleep. All of those things are peaceful for me, but all except the last one require a prop of some sort. I am not the sort of person who spends much time alone with my thoughts, and I'm afraid that I don't spend much time with you in prayer, either. So, five hours of quiet. And I'm not supposed to take my computer with me. Or spend time checking email or Facebook or playing games on my phone.

I have no idea what I expect to get out of this day. I have long thought that I need some space; what tends to happen to me when I get too stressed is the feeling that things are closing in on me. I get a stifled, trapped sort of feeling. The opposite sensation from the 'spacious place' feeling which is when I feel free and relaxed. The claustrophobic feeling I get is when problems crowd in on me and my shoulders are tense and raised up a few inches. My emotions are much closer to the surface and although I can be alright superficially, I am not equipped to cope with stuff that might happen. I am fine, and I seem fine, but let something go wrong and I have no reserve.

Like church on Sunday. The children weren't particularly badly behaved but they were giggling and generally acting like four and six year olds and whether I was or not I felt observed and disapproved of in my inability to get them to sit quietly or join in the singing. I couldn't hold back tears and ended up dragging them outside. Their behaviour, while not great, didn't warrant being whisked out of church but I was brittle enough to have cracked with a bit of pressure.

That's how I am at the moment. A veneer of 'I'm fine, thanks'ness and beneath that, a bit of a mess. So I am coming to get away from the place I usually am to come and sit with you in the hope that you might restore me a little.

The other reason I'm coming is to try and see if I can sit with you a while and listen. And maybe I'll come away feeling clearer. All year I have been at some sort of crossroads without really understanding where or why or which way next. I have felt you calling me to a deeper relationship with you, and since Katy has started school I've wondered what you want me to do with my time. Maybe you've been telling me all this time and I've been too busy with...what? to listen. I want to try again tomorrow.

A few days ago I wrote about crossing a river, like the Israelites. About having the courage to put a foot in the rushing water without knowing when the torrent will stop, but just having the faith to step out. Maybe tomorrow you'll give me some idea of what this means for me.

Lord, I would love it if you would speak to me as you do to some people I know who seem to have a hotline. I know a couple of folks who ask you questions and then seem to get answers from you. Those who say things like, 'The Lord told me this...' and 'I feel that God is telling me that....'

I ask and ask and hear nothing in particular.  My answers always seem to be hindsight-type answers where your purpose might become clear months, years down the line. I would love to be the person who could hear you. To know you so well that your voice was clear despite the background noise. I suspect that it might take more than a Quiet Day to get there, though, Father. It might well be a life's work.

So anyway, I am off on a Quiet Day. With mixed feelings, really. Part of me is relishing the idea of quiet and peace and slowness. Another side of me is worried that there is so much I should be getting on with that I'm wasting time and won't be able to focus or relax anyway because of the lists in my head. Back to the optimistic part of me and I want to find some peace, proper peace, an active thing, not just the absence of chaos. The pessimistic side of me counters by saying that that is impossible as the chaos will come with me because it's in my mind. It might take weeks of silence to let the noise and confusion settle a bit.

But I don't have weeks. I have a day, to start with; five hours of silence in which to try to be still, to slow down my mind which is so often racing and full of jumbled things. To try to break through the fog in my head and find a bit of clarity. To listen for your voice in case you want to say anything, but to sit a while on the riverbank with you and enjoy your company.

This is exciting and scary and daunting and appealing and challenging all at the same time. Oh, listen to me. How hard can it be? It's only a day. I'm not going on a remote retreat for six months with only a camel for company. Lunch is provided. I can smuggle in my phone if I want; I doubt if this thing is policed. I'll get out what I put in, I'm sure. And I do want to get something out of it. I'm just not sure what.

Help me to find you, Father. I'm not good at looking for you and I'm terrible at waiting and being still. Five hours seems like a long time. I just want to give you this day. Take it and use it, Lord. Help me to be open to whatever you want. Lead me wherever you want me to go. Whether it's to think, to pray, to listen, to write or even to sleep, lead the way. I've got such a long way to go and I can only take baby steps. I'm tired and confused and fragile and I want to let go and let you.

I'm off to sleep now. I'll see you in the morning.

Looking forward to it. 

(My) nature abhors a vacuum

Hello God. It's me again and I'm in a funny mood.

Sunday afternoon and I've just spent an hour sorting through the girls' underwear drawers and marvelling at how much larger their feet are than I think they are. I pick up a pair of socks, think to myself, 'Those will still fit' only to find that they are way too small when it comes to comparing size with an actual four or six year old foot.  Likewise pants. Children get taller, feet get bigger and bottoms grow too, it seems. I don't think I've sorted out their underwear drawers since underwear became appropriate for them so it's no wonder that they've outgrown so much.

I'm sitting here looking at the sunny afternoon outside and any minute now I hope to locate a burst of energy and go and repot Mum's yucca plant that keeps blowing over in its current pot.  I shall then plant out forty-four poppy plants that I've grown from seed that are now big and strong enough to go and live in the garden ready to flower next year. I've done so little in the garden this summer that I think I'll do well to find enough weed-free areas to plant them out but we're away for a week soon and anything left in the greenhouse will have to fend for itself for a week so best evacuate while I can. 

I'm rambling, aren't I?  

Truth is, I'm not feeling very switched on today. I didn't get up early, it's been a pretty relaxing day so far but I'm still feeling tired and unmotivated to do anything. Except perhaps eat. That tells me a lot about my state of mind as eating is inextricably linked for me with emotions so if I'm eating too much or too much 'comfort food' then I know that all is not well in my head. 

I think that deep down I should be feeling joyful and exhilarated following Katy's surgery; she is happy and bouncing back in the way that only small children can.  As I type she's ricocheting round the house with an armful of teddies (all of whom are sporting a pair of pants that have been rescued from the 'too small' pile). She is smiley and her shoulder works and her wound is healing well and she's sleeping ok and she is as bright and affectionate as ever. Good job, then? Of course. 

So how come that the enormous space occupied by the worry I felt about Katy's operation seems still to be occupied by things that weigh me down?  It's as if the vacuum created by the relief of one sizeable worry was immediately filled by others, before I even had a chance to stretch out and feel the cool of an empty space. Nature abhors a vacuum, I'm told. Well, I can vouch for that. My nature certainly does. One worry to strike off the list?  Great! Let's find another one right now, before I get used to having the space in my head.

I suppose that's down to me then. Never satisfied.  One of my teachers once told me that I wouldn't be happy if I didn't have something to worry about. Maybe that's it. 

But I thought that I've been doing so much better, lately, haven't I, Lord?  I've really felt as if my anxiety levels are lower than they used to be. I've felt as if I've been better at leaving them with you. I'm reading my Bible more, reflecting on daily readings more, talking to you more. A bit. Admittedly there's a long way to go. 

Maybe I'm just tired. That old chestnut. I do feel as if I could sleep for a month at the moment. Everything seems an effort. I need to clean and bake and I need to stock up the freezer with cooked meals again and I need to start washing and packing for our holiday next week but it's all I can do to flop out of bed into the shower and get everybody fed. Whinge, whinge.

Pause here while I made coffee, ate several ginger snaps (I'm not even a great fan of ginger snaps) and repotted a yucca, feeling very grumpy.

Then you showed up again and stuck in your three-penneth. I realise that I do a good line in complaining, don't I? You've just done a wonderful thing for me in keeping my little girl safe and bringing her through an operation that seems to have gone well, and I have my family about me and all the good things that you've given me and exciting times ahead but all I can do is focus on me. Me, tired. Me, worried. Me, confused. Me, self-absorbed.

Sorry.

I'm reading things at the moment that are sticking in my mind but I need to think some more. I need to complain less, because I can't imagine that you're going to shower me with more blessings until I learn to appreciate the ones I already have, are you? That's how it works with my daughters. They play with a toy for five minutes, discard it and then badger for something new; I respond with irritation at their lack of gratitude. That sounds a lot like me. In the role of petulant child, I mean.

Also, I need to stop going on about how hard life is, don't I?  People have lives much harder than mine. People find out that their children have terminal illnesses and face a future full of illness and surgery and uncertainty. People have so much less than I do and yet perhaps are more satisfied than I am. I am starting to feel very bad about this. No-one said life was going to be easy, and no-one (particularly not my Mum and Dad) told me that life would be fair, so I should stop complaining about it being hard. As I did some reading tonight you told me:

'Now what I am commanding you today is not difficult or beyond your reach...'

Deuteronomy 30:11

So I should stop making heavy weather of things and get on with them. But before I turn over my new leaf, just got a bone to pick. I've often wrestled with Jesus' words:

'Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.'

Matthew 11:29-30

How come I find it such hard going then? How does the 'yoke is easy' bit sit with the other bits of the gospels where you tell us that we will have trouble in this world because of you? That we should put on our armour and fight? That we will meet much opposition and so on? I need to think about these things. I don't understand. And until I have thought about them and gained some considerable wisdom I need to stop complaining about life being hard. I think I make it so much harder than it need be sometimes because my brain is not my friend.

You have done marvellous things for me. You have saved me and you have blessed me and you have answered prayers. You never leave me. I'm so sorry, Lord.

As you can tell, I'm all mixed up at the moment. I'm not thinking straight. Do I ever? I need to find some peace, Lord. I need to focus again. Please help me to calm down and pick up life again after the hiatus of the last few months where I've been focussed on Katy and her lump and the surgery. I have things on my mind, yes, but it doesn't help that I can't seem to get my thoughts in order at the moment.

I would really like to get into a habit of spending quiet time with you. To find space to think clearly, to read and learn and write.

I would really like to learn how to listen to you. To hear you. To let you get a word in edgeways.

I would really like to hand over my troubles and leave them with you instead of picking them up again as I leave. Is this a life's work?

I would really like to be wise. I would like to get it right. I would like to be the person you would like me to be.

I need some help, please.

Finding space in my head

Hello, Father God.

As I'm sure you're aware, right now my mind is a jumble of things. Opposing things. Church this morning was great - the children were reasonably well behaved (given that we were sitting on the front row!) and the talk was excellent. Has made me want to go and read the rest of the book of Colossians as soon as I can get some peace and quiet. The music was uplifting; so good that at the end of the final hymn there was a spontaneous ripple of applause. I love that. Sometimes it feels so natural to clap in appreciation; of the music, of the sound, in appreciation of you and the way we can celebrate together. I chatted with some very wise people afterwards and came home to a Sunday roast lunch cooked by Grandma. 

Those are all the positives. 

This afternoon I desperately wanted a nap. I had a job to do on the computer and it went horribly wrong so I needed to sit patiently while my computer-expert husband sorted it out for me and I'm never very good at that. Very ungracious, I suspect. Bryan and I tried to put up a picture on the wall this afternoon only to find that our nails are not masonry nails and so now we have no picture, a number of bent nails and a hole in the wall that requires covering with a picture...and also two disgruntled people who hate to admit that they can mess up something as simple as putting up a picture. 

The children have no doubt felt my disgruntlement and have been cross and argumentative all afternoon and Bryan is back to London full time this week (as he's taking so much time off for Katy's op next week), so no doubt that has cast a shadow over today as well. Started out so well...

That's the superficial dimension.  So much else is going on in my head as well on different levels. I am reading several books at the moment on subjects ranging from listening to you, prayer, spiritual warfare and the gifts of the spirit.  Believe it or not, they're fitting together quite nicely and I'm amazed at the number of overlaps and the same Bible references.  I am frustrated with how little time I can spend reading at the moment; and I'm also feeling that I should try a journal. I write this, and I have a book where I write down answered prayers, good things that happen, things I want to remember, meaningful conversations etc - I call it my Happy Book; but it's not a journal. I want to try to write more of what I want to pray about in a way that I can read back and see progress. I want to try to listen to you more. For the first time in my entire life, Christian and not, I find myself longing to learn how to listen to you. Not just talk at you - listen to you and hear you. 

It's the school summer holidays and quiet time to read or write or reflect (or even think) is almost non-existant. Only those ten minutes between climbing into bed and nodding off...most frustrating. I'm waiting, waiting...

I read in the Bible that you spoke to your people in the Old and the New Testaments; you appeared to them, you sent angels, you spoke aloud to them and in dreams and visions. You inspired them to do great things. I look at characters like Abraham, Noah, Moses, Elijah, Paul, Peter and I find myself believing that they existed, but that they were a different sort of creature. They were people, but they were special people. Not like me. They were Your Chosen Ones. 

Now, here's the bit that doesn't add up: 

I believe that the Bible is true.

I believe that the promises in the Bible are not just for the folks that were alive right then.

I believe that you can take an ordinary person and help them do extraordinary things. 

I believe that Moses and Elijah and the others were ordinary people (because the Bible tells me they were) and that you helped them do extraordinary things.

I believe that you are the same God of the Bible and you have not changed.

I believe that you are still able and willing to do amazing things just as you were then.

I believe that I am an ordinary person.

But...

I find it hard to believe that you would help me to do extraordinary things. 

Why?  According to your word, Heaven is full of normal people who did extraordinary things. One day I might be able to have a chat with Abraham and ask what was in his mind as he prepared to sacrifice his son. I might be able to ask Elijah how come he did all those courageous things then ran away from Jezebel when she was narked with him. I don't have a problem believing that I will be there. I just have a problem in believing that you might have something big for me. 

So here I am feeling as if I need to qualify that by saying that of course I don't imagine that I'd be likely to go and part the Red Sea or command armies or even stand up in front of a hall full of people and preach your gospel.  I feel presumptuous to even equate myself with these Biblical Greats. But there it is.

If no-one ever believes it and shies away; if everyone smiles wryly and shrugs and leaves it to someone else, if everyone makes it a joke, who will do your thing?  If nobody ever...let's stop with the everyone thing... if I never believe that I can do anything, then I'll never try. If I assume that you'd pass over me in an instant when you want something done, then I might miss out on my chance to do it. If I always assume that you'd be asking someone else, someone Chosen, I wouldn't be listening if you did come and tap on my shoulder. And I do want to be of use to you.

So here's what I want to do. Please feel free to change this as you will. I'm hoping that you'll put me on the right track because I'm sort of working on enthusiasm and little else at the moment.

I need to work on emptying my mind of all the rubbish that has accumulated over the years. I've been working on this and made a start but there's lots left.  Then there's my need always to try to work things out myself instead of letting go and letting you handle it. Then I need some help still with the mental and emotional energy I spend worrying and being anxious about things - I need to learn to trust you more. I need to understand more about spiritual battles and how to protect myself. I need you to show me my spiritual gifts and I need to learn how to use them. I need to find a time and a space that I can know is special and dedicated to you and I need the discipline to visit and stay a while. I need to learn to listen and hear. And that's just the tip of the iceberg. 

If I make space in my head I reckon that there would be more room for you. If my head were less chaotic and more peaceful, then I might actually be able to hear you. At the moment the background noise level is so loud that you could be standing right next to me and cupping your hand round my ear to shout and I don't even realise it. 

Maybe I'm barking up the wrong tree. Am I? I have a feeling that I'm not. I have a feeling that I can't possibly do any harm by working on these things and I might even do something right. It's a huge thing; a lifetime's thing, maybe, or maybe it's not; maybe it's a revelation from you and you can help me with it all. I don't know. I admit, I don't know. 

There's so much I don't know. It's a good job that I can't grasp it how far away I am because I'm sure it would depress me. What doesn't depress me though is that you know, and it doesn't stop you from loving me. It doesn't stop you from having a plan for me. 

I feel excited. I feel a sense of anticipation. I have felt this since this year began and although it's occasionally been swamped by other things, I still feel it. I don't expect to be Moses or David or St Paul, but I'm excited about being me, for once. I'm excited because I am your daughter and you are pleased with me. You have a plan. I want to be all I can be. 

Amen.

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.

Installing a hotline

I'm feeling confused. I'm wondering what to do. I have a couple of decisions to make and I keep asking you what you think but you don't seem to be committing yourself. 

Other people seem to be guided by you but  I'm not hearing you. I know people who seem to have some sort of hotline to your Divine Ear, and seem to chat with you in a talking/listening sort of way but I don't. Well, I know that you do communicate with me; I know that you do let me know your thoughts sometimes, but I've never asked you a question and felt that you gave me an answer.

Now, I am aware of my lack of insight here and this may very well be one of those Daddy/child moments where you are shaking your head in amusement at my failure to grasp how very much you do for me. Is this like my daughter saying to me,

'Mummy, you don't listen to me!' ?

I have my suspicions but the more I think about it the more I can't think of a time when I said,


'God, what should I do? A, or B?'

and you actually told me.

Is it always me asking the wrong question? Is it your modus operandi to simply stay quiet until I realise that the real question is something completely different? If so, can you let me know so that I can back off a bit and stop pestering you and stop myself from agonising about it? I have time sensitive decisions to make (or at least they seem time sensitive to me) and if you don't think that I should be concerning myself with either of the possible outcomes, then you could, if you were so inclined, save me the waking up in the night and wondering?

Go on. You know you want to.

I'm just not by nature a decisive person. I don't find decision making easy. You made me that way! I need to explore options, check out alternatives and have all the facts before I feel comfortable making a decision. If I have to make a decision quickly I invariably make the wrong one. But this time, like so many others, I'm asking you, 'Should I do this, or this?' and you're maintaining a dignified silence. Or some sort of silence, anyway. A wise silence. Is it that you think I can make this one on my own? Do you have confidence in me to do the Right Thing? Or are you testing me to see if I choose the Right Thing? Or is there no Right Thing and you don't mind which direction I go? Or is it all irrelevant and you know something I don't?

Now there's a daft thing to say. Of course you know something I don't.

Look, I know you do a good line in the hindsight thing. I know that so many times in my life I have seen your hand in the way things turned out, the decisions I made, the people you put in my way - but most of those are years down the line when events have played themselves out already. I don't want to be looking over my shoulder in a decade's time and saying, 'Ah. So that was what God wanted me to do, ' because quite probably, with my confidence levels right now, the next sentence would be, 'Pity I didn't do it.'

I'm floundering around throwing down fleeces, ('If such and such a person says such and such to me tonight in church I will do such and such') and waking up in the small hours wondering what to do for the best. I'm wondering what will happen if I just avoid making a decision at all; how many people will I let down, what will I miss out on, what will I do wrong? If I make the wrong decision, how difficult will it be to undo? I realise I'm dwelling on the negative, but what do you expect? I wouldn't be me, otherwise, would I?

I understand that the world will go on turning if I don't get it right. I understand that I could make a complete mess of the next year of my life and you would sort it all out without shouting at me. I know that I can rely on you whatever the outcome. I just want to get it right, is that OK?

Teach me to hear your voice, Lord God. Not just to see your majesty in the rainbows and sunsets and your creativity and beauty in the birds and the scenery, not just your comfort in the sleep you send for me and your love in my friends and my family. Help me to hear your voice of guidance. Give me more faith. Give me more perception. Give me more wisdom. More discernment.

More whatever it takes to install that hotline.