Anecdote: Pine Cone

Sometimes, God does things for no other reason than to make us smile. Don't you think so?

Take the other day, for instance. God knows that I love pine cones. He knows that I can't walk past a pine cone without picking it up, and if it's in good condition I can't help but bring it home.  As a result, we have a pile of pinecones in the rockery, more on the bookshelves and still more hanging about on various window sills.

There's something about a pine cone. Long ones, thin ones, fat ones, big round ones - they're just lovely. The shape of them, the shadows, the texture, the fragrance. Some of them remind me of the place I picked them up; sentimental value. Yes, I have a thing for pine cones. 

Let me tell you a little story.

I was small, maybe six or seven, and I was on holiday with my family. Where, I don't remember. We were walking along a path and there were pine-cone-trees right and left. There was dappled sunlight and lots of pine cones on the floor, and as I skipped along I remarked,

'Wouldn't it be strange if  a pine cone fell from a tree, right in front of me, right now?'

And do you know what?  One did. 

Continued over at the Association of Christian Writers' blog, which is called More than Writers.

I post there on the 23rd of every month.

Click here to find out what happens next.

Roll on Spring

Today's one of those days where spring seems a long way away.

It's a dark, dank day with wind that seems to be coming from every direction and throws cold rain in my face. The children have been bickering and fighting and I'm digging deep for reserves of patience that I can't find. Our house is particularly wintry today.

Lord - here you are. I'm dumping today in front of you because it's only eleven o'clock and I've had enough of it already. Last night I had one unsettling dream after another - about having experiments performed on me, about everyone laughing at me, about collapsing in front of a crowd of people. Getting up time seemed like the middle of the night, which is never a good thing. 

It's funny how the glass seems sometimes half full and sometimes half empty, isn't it? The other day we were marvelling how some of last years apples are still clinging onto the trees in the garden despite the fierce weather we've had recently. We commented on how they glowed in the light of a low winter sun, looking like little orange lanterns in the trees. Today they just look brown and rotten and even the birds don't want them.  The trees themselves seem more gnarled and covered in lichen than they usually do. I have been reliably informed that there are two snowdrops out in the garden already and it's a sign that Spring is on it's way - but you can't see them from the kitchen window and I can't be bothered to put on a few more layers to go out and have a look. Spring seems a long way away. 

Grump grump grump. 

I've said that the children can do whatever it is they do on their gadgets; some mindless game that causes hilarity and squabbling in pretty much equal measure. I know I should be playing games with them or doing a jigsaw or baking or designing a family mural for the stairwell or finding a cure for world poverty or something, but I haven't the energy. I just need five minutes. Or more. Five years, maybe. 

I've got a cup of coffee here but it went cold while I was adjudicating in the lengthy argument about the blue felt tip pen. I put it in the microwave a moment ago only to find already in there was a coffee from earlier and for some reason I burst into tears. 

Lord, you know what? There are times when I don't want to be with my children. 

There. I've said it. 

I feel very guilty that I said it and even guiltier that I think it from time to time. It's supposed to be different from that, isn't it? I'm supposed to be delighted with them twenty-four hours a day and constantly thinking up new ways to celebrate our family-ness. I don't think I'm very good at that. Sometimes it all gets to me and I want to run away and hide and not come out again. And then I feel guilty for not revelling in the undoubtedly precious gift of my girls. If I'm honest this happens quite a lot. Is there something wrong with me? 

You know that I love them. You know how much I love them. You know my strengths and weaknesses and you'll know that my current state of being is down to a mixture of lack of sleep, a cold, the time of year, hormones and good old self indulgent bad mood. 

I can't do anything about the first four and I don't want to do anything about the last one. It would take too much effort to be cheerful right now. 

I don't suppose it's any co-incidence that I haven't been talking with you much for a while. I find that when I stick close to you, hanging onto you, following in the footsteps like the page following King Wenceslas, then I feel better. Safer. More secure. But maybe gradually I've dropped back until the snow covered the footprints, and then for a bit I tried to find them so I could catch up, and then I stopped trying because it got too hard and so I sat down in the snow and felt sorry for myself. 

So I'm a bit adrift. Help me. I don't think I'm doing so well at anything today. At being a mummy, at being me. At being your child. 

I'm going to see if I can find those snowdrops. 

***

Brr. Cold out there. But there are indeed, just as Mum said, two little snowdrops that are just in bud. They'll flower in the next few days. A little bit of hope in this miserable, colourless season. A little bit of purity and beauty creeping up on us out of the mud and dead plants and fallen leaves of the season left behind. A bit of the future; a bit of promise. 

That's what I'm needing today. A bit of something positive. A little bit of peace.

I feel like a child today. I feel like howling and stamping and saying, 'But what about me? What about what I want?' but I'm a grown up and I'm not allowed to any more. And I probably should have feelings like that under control by now, but they bubble up to the surface sometimes and it's all I can do to sort of squash them so that people don't know how juvenile I can be. How selfish. 

I don't want to be like that. 

Thankyou for letting me get this off my chest. I do feel a bit lighter since I had a moan. 

I'm going to hang onto those little snowdrops. I'm going to go and see them again tomorrow. I shall watch as they unfurl into that tiny intricate little bit of early Spring. I hope that the snow doesn't come and cover them up. I hope that the crocuses and daffodils aren't far behind. I hope that the sun comes out soon.

Lord, I don't know if you ever just got out of bed the wrong side but thank you that you understand the whole range of human emotions and you don't condemn us for experiencing any of them. 

Thankyou that there's always another chance. Thankyou that even when I wallow in self pity for no real good reason you always care enough to help me up and brush me down. Thankyou for forgiving me and loving me all over again. 

I'm going to go and see if the girls will make room for me on the sofa. 

New Year: raising my game

Everywhere I look there are people setting goals, making resolutions and girding their loins as, inexorably, the New Year rolls in once more. The New Year's apathy of the old familiar days where the mood came down with the Christmas decorations doesn't seem to prevail any more; there is purpose and determination and energetic insight right, left and centre.

I've been asked a couple of times what the New Year looks like for me. What does 2015 have in store?

Well. On one level, I wish I knew. As usual, the New Year stretches ahead of me like a blank page, pristine in its unsullied whiteness, waiting for my footprints, scufflings and scribblings. I have hopes and dreams and fears and expectations, but ultimately there is only One person who has already familiar with this year and all the others and knows how the plot unfolds, and it's not His way to give too many clues. I have a tendency to want to know things up front so that I can prepare myself, but even that's all a bit of a fallacy; a grappling for control over things that are in nobody's control but His. But - He has never let me down.

Last year was a vintage year for me - one that I'll remember as a Great Year. Not easy by any means, but I have changed more profoundly in the last twelve months, I think, than in any similar period in the whole of the rest of my life. I have done things that I never would have had the courage to have done because I have chosen to trust that God will never let me down; and He didn't. I have asked Him to make changes in me that I have, all my life, been unable to make in myself, and then trusted Him to do it, and He has begun a process that is making a fundamental difference to who I am.

I didn't see any of it coming. This time last year I was doing the 'blank page' bit and bemoaning that I couldn't see what was ahead and God smiled and said, 'All in good time,' and so I am learning, slowly, that it's better that I don't know. Things unfold in their own time - His - and He knows what I can handle and when.

So, I don't have the first idea of what might happen this year, and for that it turns out that I'm grateful.

However, I can see a couple of things coming in my direction this new year; thundering ominously toward me like oncoming trains.

My eldest daughter, Elizabeth, is a talented swimmer. She dives in, starts swimming, and quite often gets to the other end of the pool a way ahead of everyone else. She loves being in the water and in training can often be found doing a somersault in the middle of a lap just because she's happy. We have had a fantastic year watching her begin her transformation from swimming lessons to competitive swimming and the inevitable has happened a little earlier than we anticipated.

She's been promoted to the next squad. This is brilliant!  Her hard work, commitment and talent have been recognised and it is indeed time for a new challenge as her current squad had little left to offer her. Time to move on. Time to raise her game.

And mine.

Time to move on to a much more rigorous training schedule that involves five sessions of swimming a week plus land-training, plus travelling to different pools to train, plus weekend galas, to say nothing of the hours spent rinsing swimsuits, drying towels and producing bananas and muesli bars from handbags and glove compartments.

The piece de resistance? Two of these sessions (mercifully only two - the next squad up has five of these) are scheduled for 5.30am. AM meaning 'in the morning'. Five o'clock. Oh-five-hundred hours.

Most people grimace when I tell them this, but I have met nobody who has reacted with the same unbridled panic that I did on first hearing that this was imminent.

There is nobody in the world who likes their sleep more than I do. Nobody. Not a soul. So, I think it is with some amusement that God has put me in this position, and I think I know why.

I am afraid of not getting enough sleep. 

I never used to be; back in the pre-children days I was like anyone else in that occasionally I had a late night, went to work the next day and the world didn't end. I got tired, I carried on, I had an early night, it was all ok. But then I had a baby and found that first year as a mother so, so difficult.

I don't know why exactly - probably many reasons. Elizabeth was a baby who wanted to be held constantly, not the self-sufficient kind that could be placed in a cot to gurgle contentedly.  I was freshly bereaved (my Dad died the week before she was born) and deeply depressed; I am the kind of person to make heavy weather of everything... all these things and the completely normal new baby stuff make tiredness inevitable - but I reached a level of exhaustion that I hadn't dreamed of in my wildest nightmares.

I don't make any claims to being the only person in the world ever to have been tired, and it slowly improved a little only to happen again when Katy was born. Crippling exhaustion that took control of me and made the world a hostile place and me incapable of functioning properly in it. Now that the girls are nine and seven respectively I have a deeply held conviction that I am in possession of a ten-year sleep deficit that may not be corrected until the kids have left home.

Joking apart, I live in fear of ever getting that tired again.

So does my husband, and by that I mean that he lives in fear of me ever getting that tired again. I was horrible to live with, and even now, if I'm in need of sleep, he is careful to give me opportunities to nap rather than turn into the miserable, brittle, despairing, snarling woman that I can be when I've had insufficient sleep.

I was mulling this over with a friend a few months ago and I concluded in hushed tones (so that God wouldn't hear) that there was a chance that I had put sleep in such a position of importance in my life that  I'd elevated it to the status of god.

I'd made a god of sleep. Oh, shush.

So here I am, mother of a nine-year-old who wants to be a swimmer, and so I need to get her to the pool at silly o'clock twice a week. Do I think God heard that conversation?

God, are you smiling? Are you planning something?  Last year, with your help, I conquered several lifelong fears. Is this next on the agenda?

I'm really not looking forward to it, but I can see that from your point of view, it's necessary.

I'd love to be unafraid of being tired. Seriously, it has a hold over me, the fear of insufficient sleep. I lie awake sometimes watching the clock and worrying that there are not enough hours left before morning and there's no chance of tomorrow being a Good Day; it's already too late. There are things that I don't do because it would mean a late night or an early morning. Sleep isn't just something necessary that happens at the end of the day; I spend far too much time thinking about it, planning it, and probably too much time doing it, though it rarely feels like it.

Tomorrow morning, I'll be climbing out of bed at 5am to wake my slumbering nine-year old, cajole her to eat a banana and a muesli bar while being unable to stomach anything myself, drag my hands through my hair before scraping ice from the windscreen to get her on the poolside for 5.20am to do her thing with her team-mates. 5am holds no fear for her - indeed she's beside herself with excitement and can't wait to start the new programme.

The cafe isn't open until 8am so I'll have to take my own coffee.

We said that as long as she's enjoying herself, win or lose, we'd get her where she needs to be, when she needs to be there.

She needs to be there early.

So, that's one of the things that this year holds.

Last year I trusted God and He did amazing things. I'm still trusting Him.

Family Rules

There's a plaque on the wall in my kitchen; one of those cheery wordy ones with an inspiring message that are so popular at the moment. It's even made to look distressed, as if it's old, thus lending it more gravitas, I suppose.

It would be easy to fill my house with words on the walls but one can certainly overdo it. Even with just the odd one here and there it's so easy to become so familiar with them that I no longer read the words.

However, I find myself examining this one afresh, because I have changed the way I do things. For the sake of my back and the proximity of the radiator now that the nights are drawing in, I've moved my primary spot for writing to the kitchen table, rather than my perch on a stool at the island unit. Here, the chair may be hard, but it has a back on it, and the fridge is no longer at arms length. This can only be a good thing. Now, from this 'desk', I am straight opposite the plaque. 

FAMILY RULES, it says. 

Yes, one of those. Bought with the children in mind, because children need rules, don't they?  Children need reminders of what's right and what isn't. The problem is that as I sit here nursing my coffee I realise that I need reminding too; possibly more than they do. After all, they're only seven and nine, and I'm supposedly all grown up.

Family Rules. 

'Keep your promises'

Right. Problems here right away. I don't like promises, for a variety of reasons. First of all, it says in the Bible,

 'All you need to say is 'yes' or 'no'. Everything beyond this comes from the evil one.' NIV (Matthew 5:37)

I want my children to grow up trusting my word; that if I say I'll do something, I'll do it. I can see the sense in being very careful what you say you'll do. On a practical level, I learned very quickly that small children have highly selective memories that are totally incapable of retaining information about likes and dislikes ('Yesterday you liked bananas!') but perish the thought that you should blithely say 'yes' to some outrageous plan one evening only to find it impossible (or impractical) to follow through the next day.

Mum, you promised. Then you're left in the no man's land of 'well, I didn't technically promise...' and I hate that sort of wriggling. So I say annoying things like, 'We'll see.' or 'I'll think about it.'  A distinction without much difference, perhaps. But I don't promise, and I tell the children not to make promises, but to let their word be enough. If they say they'll do something, do it. Don't swear on anything, don't bargain, just say yes or no. I'm not sure they see it quite as simply as this.

Under 'Keep your promises' is:

Share

Oh my word, there's a can of worms. My daughters are sometimes remarkably generous with their things, and other times meaner than Scrooge.

'Can I borrow your green crayon?'
'No. Get your own.'
'Mine's broken.'
'Tough.'

That kind of thing. I find large portions of my life spent brokering peace deals about who has the gadget for how long before having to hand it over in order to avoid A having possession of it for a nanosecond longer than B. Also removing said gadget from both as a potentially expensive tug-of-war begins. So the 'Share' part is definitely for the kids, then.

Or not. I recall just the other day becoming rather animated (shall we say) when my favourite pen was missing from the pen pot on my desk for the millionth time when I wanted it. On numerous occasions have I retrieved it from wherever it turned up but this time it was Gone For Good. I made dire pronouncements about nobody ever begin allowed to touch my pen pot again, ever. The following day my mum handed me a package containing a replacement pen. Ahem.  The kids so far have been afraid to touch it.

Good sharing, then.

Think of others before yourself.

Haha.

This is written rather small, and is easy to miss. This is quite convenient as quite often I would rather pretend that I haven't seen it.

I have to say that having children is a painfully good way of finding out how selfish you are, should you want to know, and I can't say that I did.

Since my babies came along it's been a long, drawn out battle between their needs and my desire to please myself. They won't/can't give in, and I don't want to, so the battle continues to rage. I want the house the way I want it, I want to spend my time the way I want to spend it, I want to eat when I want to, sleep when I want to, and so on. I don't want to wipe bottoms, make endless meals and find an inordinate number of replacement batteries for things that beep.

I love my family more than I can possibly put into words, but it is not easy to think of others before yourself. It isn't. And when I get a good run at it, and keep everybody happy for a while, the little voice in my head might pipe up with things like, 'So what about you? Who's making you happy?' and spiky little things called Resentment and Self-pity and Irritation dig in.

St Paul knew it would be like this. He said:

'Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, rather, in humility, value others above yourself.' (NIV) Philippians 2:3

It's hard to put others first. It's dead easy some of the time, because I love my family and I want to make them happy, and I love it when they are happy, but consistency is key and that's downright difficult. I like peace, and giving in and choosing your battles and letting go of control-freakery and so on are ways of keeping the peace. But sometimes, just sometimes, I throw all this up in the air and inwardly shout, ME ME ME.

Moving on...

Say I love you. 

This part is easy. We say 'I love you' lots. Several times a day. I am blessed beyond measure to have a family that loves each other and I tell my husband and he tells me, and I tell my girls and they tell me, and he tells them and they tell him... and so we are pretty much loved up most of the time. So we nailed that one, didn't we?

Well, it occurs to me that there are times when those words are the furthest thing from my head, and sometimes that's when they're most needed. When I've locked horns with one of the girls over something vital to their wellbeing - like whether it's cold enough for a coat, perhaps - how much I love them is not foremost in my mind. When my daughter is in the  middle of a tantrum because the same shoes she's worn for three months suddenly 'feel weird' and can't be worn today, the last thing on my mind is to tell her how loved she is. Perhaps that's when she most needs to hear it.

Listen to your parents

Of course. This is 'a no-brainer' as they say. Most of what I say is definitely worth listening to. Children should always listen to their parents. Just like I did.

Hmm. I'm not sure whether the most senior member of my household might agree with that one. I remember a conversation from way back when that went something like this:

'Have you done your homework?'
'It'll get done, mother.'

Still, I grew up pretty well, didn't I?  Maybe they will, too.

Do your best

We do our best, in this house. Most of the time. One of my daughter's teachers at parents' evening a while ago said, 'She does her best, usually, except when she doesn't.'  I can understand that. Sometimes we cut corners. Sometimes it's too hard.

We do our best to do our best.

Say please and thank you.

Last night, an exchange in our house:

'WILL YOU GET YOUR WELLIES OFF THE TABLE RIGHT NOW!' (Not actually a question)

'Mummy, you didn't say 'please'.'

The conversation didn't end there, but we'll draw a veil over the next bit.  My example might not be perfect, but I have been known to offer a plate of biscuits to random visitors to the house and automatically say, 'Thank you, Mummy' when they take one, before clamping a hand over my mouth. Parents of my daughters' friends tell me that they are polite and remember their please-and-thankyous when they're out and about and so I think we do okay. Always room for improvement, though.

'Please, if it's not too much trouble, would you mind removing your wellies from the table?' might have been better, I suppose.

Always tell the truth

Oh, another can of worms. Straightforward and black and white?  Yes, on one level, it certainly is.
Witholding the full horror of the truth from a small child is sometimes required, however, as it was on the day some years ago when my littlest girl asked me how much I loved Scruffy Barney (her favourite, special toy). I said that I loved him very much, because she loved him. She then went on to ask me if I had to save either Scruffy or her sister from a dinosaur, who would I save?  She was devastated by the answer and cried for about half an hour.

Always tell the truth?

Always tell the truth to your mum, that's what I say. I have always known when my daughters are telling lies, but as they get older it gets harder and harder, as does making them believe that Mummy always knows when they're not telling the truth.  There's a felt tip pen scribble on the bookcase and both of them deny having anything to do with it. Was it Daddy? Or Grandma? Or maybe I did it by myself without realising? All these were serious suggestions.

I still don't know who did it. I moved the lamp six inches to the right and now you can't see it any more. Sometimes moving on is the best thing you can do.

Laugh at yourself

For someone like me, among the most self-conscious souls in the world, this isn't an easy one. I'm better than I was, but still not that good. My daughters take after me - or maybe it's just because they're little - but we need to work on not taking things so seriously.

They have such a wonderful sense of humour (when it's not bottom jokes, or cackles over Uranus and its gassy atmosphere) and sometimes a very clever wit. Quite often, though, one of them will say something funny and we'll all laugh, and they'll be embarrassed and cross. Laughing is good, we say, it's a gift to make people laugh. We're laughing with you, not AT you; 'But I wasn't laughing,' they say.

Ah, well, that's where we come unstuck, then.

Hug often

This is a bit like 'Say I love you'. We hug all the time. We have different levels of hugginess, but we are a fairly tactile family. One daughter creeps onto my lap at any excuse and the other needs to be sneaked up on, but I love that we hug. There are moments when a hug is exactly what's needed, however, and it's the hardest thing. The mean times, the irritable times, the tantrum times. The refusing-to-admit-I'm-wrong times. Hug then, too. That's when a hug really does say more than words.

Use kind words

Sigh.  For someone who loves words, who enjoys playing with them and trying to get them to do what I want them to do, I sometimes get it spectacularly wrong. Words can build up or destroy, and I know how easy it is to disregard the dozen nice things someone says and remember only the bad thing.

Whoever said that 'Sticks and stones can break my bones but words can never hurt me,' had no idea how words can penetrate the heaviest armour and wound on a profound level. I have been guilty of saying terrible things to the people I love and have carried that guilt for a long time. Controlling my temper and making sure that in the middle of the anger and the confusion and the excesses of emotion harsh and hurtful things don't slip out is very difficult indeed.

I need a lot of help here.

And finally:  Love each other

And this is what reassures me. Most of the prescriptions of the plaque look straightforward enough in theory, only to turn out to be complicated in practice. Most of them I fail at on a daily basis: we all do. It's hard to share, to do your best, to be unfailingly truthful, to use kind words. It's just hard.

So is loving each other, but we do.  And because we do, we try, and we keep on trying. It was very easy to buy this little plaque and choose where to hang it, and indeed, I showed it to the girls and got them to read it out loud. They weren't that keen, and I can see why. It's a lofty ideal to have words like that on the wall, and I need to remember that I don't live up to them any better than my little girls do. It's good to have them in front of me to remind and inspire me; to have them there on the wall to say, 'This is what I'm aiming for. This is what I want to be like - a person who does these things' . And then I can try, and keep trying.

I know I get it wrong, and often, but I am not crushed or discouraged by the distance by which I fall short.

The reason I'm not is that I know that I am loved anyway, just as I am, with all my failures. Just as I don't stop loving my girls when they are caught out in a lie, or when they don't do their homework, or when they fight over a crayon, I am loved. Even when I snap at my husband, or do what I want to do at someone else's expense, I am loved.

A long time ago Moses had a different plaque with ten Family Rules and they're downright impossible to live up to.  There's only ever been one man in the history of the world who managed it. Moses even hurled them on the floor until they smashed into small pieces because he was so frustrated at the people's disobedience, but God never stopped loving His people.

Even though I have the Rules before me and I forget them and choose to do something else over and over again, even so, I am forgiven. Even when I try to reinterpret them and wriggle out from underneath my failure to keep to the rules, I am forgiven, and I am loved.

There's so much to learn.

Keep Forgiving. That should be on the plaque as well.

Keep trying. 

There is always another chance.
It's never too late to try again.

Amen to that.

A gentle bump

So here I am again after a long break.

Busyness, holidays, minor illnesses, small emergencies, life events, daily distractions: the sort of time-consuming hamster-wheel kind of family life that consumes all in its path.  Not all bad things, not all good things, just things. For someone like me, who needs periods of space and solitude in order to function properly, the summer is a stressful time too full of people and activity, even though they might be my favourite people in the whole world, and much of the activity is stuff I've been looking forward to for months. It's exhausting and non-stop.

There have been times when I thought my head might explode.

You'd think I'd need the peace that only God provides even more than in my normal term-time routine, where I build in periods of withdrawal where I can, wouldn't you? Well you'd be right. I  need Him more than ever.

Funny that I seem to lose my grip on Him at the very time I need Him the most. It happened last year, and probably the ones before that as well. I get stressed and overwhelmed and instead of clinging more tightly, I let go and drift off. I'm the first to admit that it makes no sense.

Even the odd time I have had where I could have slunk off with my journal to find a little oasis of the kind of peace that only He gives, I've found myself reading paperbacks, checking social media or frittering away precious moments of peace on trivia.

Then this thing happened.

On holiday at the seaside. I had been in the sea with my husband, swimming back and forth, enjoying the waves, the sparkle of the sun, the cool of the water, the warmth on my back, and I'd just decided to get out and join Grandma and the girls on the beach. I wasn't in deep water; I put my legs down on the sand and stood; it was about chest level. Something bumped into my leg. Gently, but a definite bump. Not like seaweed, which would have made me yelp, given my irrational fear of seaweed, but I thought, maybe a fish? Sharks are pretty rare off the north Norfolk coast, I believe.

I began to wade back up the gently shelving beach, towards my youngest daughter who was happily hopping about in the surf. As I turned to let my husband know I was heading in, there between us was a Grey Seal. It looked right at me, turned, and looked right at him. We watched it for a long moment, before it dived back underwater and swam off, resurfacing occasionally to have another look round.

What about that?

On my way up the beach I found my oldest daughter squatting over a rock pool near the beach groyne that leads down into the sea. She'd found a little starfish. A few paces later and there was a feather on an untouched area of sand. A perfect grey and white flight feather.

As I stood on the beach on that beautiful warm summer day, blue sky, shimmering sea, soft sand, surrounded by my family, all (at that moment) content and occupied, I had one of those the penny-drops moments.

A seal, a starfish, a feather.

God keeps on giving, even when I'm not receiving. He goes on laying His gifts in front of me, even when I'm not looking out for them. His generosity does not depend on my willingness to receive, any more than it depends on my behaviour, whether I've earned it.

He just keeps on giving.

It blew my mind.

How pleased God must be when we do notice something, and stop what we're doing to smile and marvel and thank Him for the little bit of loveliness He has placed in our path. For years now I've prayed for eyes to see and ears to hear, and I know that God has answered that prayer, but I now realise that I have the ability to turn it off, as well. It's hard to fathom, but I can choose to be blind, and deaf, and ungrateful. I must miss so much.

But there's more, too. God never stops giving, and He never stops loving, either.

He just keeps on loving me.

You know that old thing that we've heard, 'There's nothing that you can do to make God love you more, and nothing that you can do to can make Him love you less'?  Well, it suddenly made sense.

I do things that pull me away from God all the time. It might not be a huge great sin that I commit that lands me in the lowest place possible, knowing me, it's more likely that it's a slow drift that takes me away from His side, just like the insidious little currents that slowly and imperceptibly pull you away from the shoreline if you swim out too far.

And yet, His love for me doesn't change. Not one bit. He still loves me enough to lay beauty in my path just to make me smile.

Then the third thing in this trilogy of personal revelations: He doesn't want my guilt.

He just wants me.

God waits patiently for me to remember who He is, who I am, and to look up into His face once again. He is there, where He's always been, waiting for me to come back. And when I do, He holds out His hand for me to take and He is just pleased to see me.

No recriminations. No stern talking to. No rehashing of my failings, no comment on how long I've kept Him waiting or how many of His treasures I missed. No ground to make up. Just pleasure that I'm back.

My daughters are at that age when quite often one of them stalks off on their own if we've had a confrontation or I've failed to live up to expectations in some way. When they come back our relations are sometimes strained for a while. Hurt feelings on both sides, ruffled feathers. It would be unwise for one of them to ask me for something at a time like this, when I'm feeling raw or annoyed. Grumpy and disinclined to co-operate. We need soothing words and a period of reconciliation.

Not so with God. He throws open His arms and welcomes us while we are still far away.

I am not in disgrace. I don't have to work my way back into His good books. No probationary period.

How He loves me.

So I stood there on the beach, looking at my daughters happily jumping in the waves, my husband relaxing in the sea, my Mum watching us all from a deckchair with a smile, and I realised that my Heavenly Father loves me so much that He keeps giving me gifts, even when I'm miles away from Him.  And on top of all that, He's so tender when He reaches down to touch me. Like the grey seal - a gentle bump.

And that night I intended to get some of this down in my journal and spend some time thanking Him for this amazing generosity, but it didn't happen. I was busy, distracted; believe it or not, my mind was once again elsewhere. It turns out that I am capable of turning away even after such precious and loving insights.

Days later I opened the devotional that I'm reading (intermittently) and found this:

"Gently bring your attention back to me, whenever it wanders away. I look for persistence, rather than perfection, in your walk with Me.  I not only accept you as you are, I love you as you are...You can easily fall prey to self-rejection if you have unrealistic expectations of yourself. I want you to bring your focus back to Me gently, without judging yourself... I always welcome you back with unfailing love." *

He doesn't want my guilt. He doesn't want me to waste time and energy berating myself for having the attention span of a begonia. He doesn't want me to feel bad that I let Him down. He just wants me to try again.

He waits, and welcomes, and keeps on loving.

Father God, thank you for your unfailing love. Love that keeps no record of wrongs, holds no grudges. Love that never changes.

Thank you that you know me better than I know myself, and yet you love me still. I want to stay close to you. I want to see and hear all that you have for me; I don't want to miss a thing, and yet I am easily distracted.

Help me to bring my attention back to you and place my hand once again in yours. Thank you that you are always there waiting for me.

Amen.

Reference: 

*Dear Jesus, Sarah Young, 2007, Thomas Nelson

Mud pies and me too

Morning, Lord.

***

...and that's where I left it. Nearly two weeks ago.

Struggling to come here and struggling to talk to you and then clearly it's no surprise that I've got nothing to say. So, because I have nothing, I don't come here and I don't talk to you and the whole thing goes over and over and gets bigger and bigger. I become more and more self-conscious and more and more inhibited and I wonder if it's worth it at all.

Lord, I've got myself in a mess.

I know that you're with me always. I know that you're with me through thick and thin and I know that any progress I make comes from you. I know that you have given me gifts, and that you want me to use them. I know that you have a Plan for me and I know that your timing is perfect.

So, I reckon that you're used to me panicking when things go wrong; I moan and I complain and I cling onto you harder. I am there every time you turn round and when you do, you trip over me, I'm so clingy. I need you and I know it. But what's surprised me recently is how I panic when things go right.

It's only a little thing. Only small, and for some people I know who are way past where I am in this little journey of ours, it must seem tiny. Here it is (and I'm cringing as I write it):

I come and spend time with you, and for a couple of years now it's been my habit to have a waffle with you and then press a small orange button that says 'publish' and let other people in on my meanderings. Sometimes people tell me they liked what I shared. Sometimes there's a deafening silence. Sometimes it makes my heart swell when people tell me that you moved them to tears or to laughter through the words I tapped out. The best thing of all is when someone says, 'Oh, me too!' Then - that's when I know that you are smiling. There's nothing you like more than to see your children reach for each other in encouragement and love. That's when I know that there is nothing else that I want to do, other than this.

So over the last few months I've known that you were smiling. I've felt it, and so have others. People are joining in our conversations and maybe - who knows but you? - my dream is starting to come true and they are seeing you, hearing you, and joining their voices with mine, their prayer and praise with mine. It's wonderful.

People are so kind with words of encouragement, and then occasionally someone is unkind because the things I say about you make them angry and offended and they hit back with hurtful criticism. You don't leave me alone to handle it; you're there when they're mean as well as when they're nice. I have read it, worried about it, debated what to do with it and moved on past it a few times now. I know full well that not everyone will agree with me. I know that not everyone accepts what I know about you. Some people might some day; some never will.

It's the way it works.

But what I'm not used to is a growing audience. I'm not used to writing guest posts for other people's websites and then seeing visits here from a whole new set of people; family from around the world.

Chicken.

I know where you are when I'm in trouble, but these last few weeks I've lost sight of you when things go well.

I don't mean that I'm off doing my thing, basking in the sweetness of success, thinking that I can do it all alone; no. It's not that. It's as if it was so much easier when there were only a few people listening, and I knew almost all of them. I remember when I pressed the 'publish' button for the very first time. I wrote in my journal, 'Will anyone read what I've written? Why should anyone care?' and it was such a quiet, intimate thing. It was just me and you.

Nothing has changed. No, nothing. It's still just me and you. But in my head, I'm all self-conscious again. What on earth do people think?

In that first post-publish journal entry I said that it was up to you, Lord. Up to you whether anyone came by or not. Up to you whatever happened.

Nothing has changed.

I once had a friend who was always there for me when my life was in a mess. Broken up with a boyfriend? There she was with tissues and a bottle of wine. Struggling with exams or poorly or lamenting about the failure of the latest diet? She was there with sympathy and a listening ear and a bag of marshmallows.

But when things were going right? Nowhere to be seen.

She was my rainy-weather-friend and she didn't like to see me when I was happy. She didn't like things to be going well. I never really got to the bottom of why, as we drifted apart during a phase of my life when I was doing ok. She didn't return my calls and didn't come to drink coffee when there were no tears involved.

I feel as if I'm a bit like that right now. When it's you and me against the world (or when it feels like that) I am here all the time and I stay close, but when things start to go right; when you start to give me a little of what I've so badly wanted - I am off like a rat up a drainpipe. Off. Maybe it's safer to stay where things are familiar, anonymous.

What do I want, if not for people to read what I write? I firmly believe that if you have given me a gift, I should use it. If you want me to write, then you must want people to read what I write. So I should be pleased when people do, shouldn't I? Instead of panicking and going into a flat spin before running off and hiding. I should be happy instead of filled with anxiety. Encouraged and enthused instead of oppressed by it.

I have often wondered where I'm heading with all this, and I've chafed at what I perceive to be slow progress. I think I now understand why the brakes have been on - when you take them off, even for a moment, it rattles me so much that I stop in my tracks and start to sabotage the whole thing by standing in the road like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.

People come to see what you and I talk about. So... if I don't talk to you, then they won't come any longer.  All subconscious, you know, but horribly effective. If there's nothing to see, they don't come. Why would they?

I've tried to work out what to do about this, and the only thing I can do is the same as I've always done. I lay it all in front of you.

Here it is. Here am I, with all my strange neuroses and unpredictable panics. It would be funny, if it wasn't so discouraging. I am used to failure, but give me something that goes right instead and I don't know what to do with it.

The amazing thing is that I laid this all in front of you and you smiled that slightly amused, indulgent smile that you smiled and you said, 'It's alright'. You found a handful of your best encouragers and you placed them where I'd find them. You linked me up with a few people that I may never meet in this life, who have become friends in the most meaningful sense of the word. Wise people whose words lift up, not destroy. People who are open and honest about the ups and downs of life and don't try to preach but just tell it like it is.

The Internet is a strange place. Some people criticise it for being shallow and trivial but I have found it exactly the reverse. There are people around the world who have helped me when I needed helping in just the right way. Other people who write who know how insecure it can make you feel. People who know that a word or two of encouragement - even when limited to 140 characters or a comments box - can change someone's day. Stop someone from giving up. Assure someone that they're not alone. Raise a smile when tears have been the order of the day.

I've said, 'I'm struggling,' and people said, 'Me too.'
I've said, 'This is hard,' and people said, 'It is. But you can do it.'
I've said, 'I don't know if I can do this,' and people said, 'Me neither, but He helped me, and He'll help you too'.
I've said, 'I worry that I'm not good enough,' and people said, 'We're not, but He is.'

Who'd have thought it? I've learned that if I stick my head above the parapet, the things that have hit and hurt the most haven't been thrown by anyone else but me.  I can talk myself out of the wonder and pleasure of any experience and find that it's easier to stay crouched down low, hiding, than risk going somewhere where the air might be cleaner and the view so much better.

CS Lewis once said:

'It would seem that Our Lord finds our desires not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about ... when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday by the sea. We are far too easily pleased.'

Maybe I'm too easily pleased. I told you that it was alright if only half a dozen people read what I write, and it was ok if lots of people read it. Then when you move me away from a) towards b) I scuttle off back to my mud pies. I know where I am with mud pies. What do you mean, the seaside? That sounds very open and exposed to me...think I'll stay where I am...if you don't mind...

But no. That's not how it's going to be.

I just want to say, once again, that I am along for the ride. I just want to keep doing what we do together, Lord, you and me.

I want to notice you in my life, I want to tell people about what you're doing and I want to encourage and inspire.

I want people to see you and see how wonderful you are.

I want to be honest enough that people say, 'Me too,' because that connection is invaluable. I don't feel anywhere near such a failure when someone says, 'I feel that way too,' and I have such hope when someone says, 'I felt that way - and things are better now'. That's the power of connecting with people. Little words on a screen can pack such a punch.

I'm sorry that I've been all over the place lately. I'm sorry for the uncertainty and doubt and anxiety when you have always looked after me and you have always been the one who gives me words and there's no reason for that to change now.

It isn't about me. It isn't about me.

Thank you, Father, for your gentleness and compassion in this latest strange lesson in my life. Thank you for the honesty and vulnerability of those people whose struggles they've shared with me this past week. Thank you that you have introduced me to family scattered all over the world who are so different and yet all love you and are willing to reach out and be reached by brothers and sisters who need encouragement.

Thank you that you are a God who has no problem moving with the times and working  as powerfully through twenty-first century social media as you do through the pulpit and the printing press.

Thank you for every person who visits here and reads about you and about my limping, imperfect journey. Thank you (gulp) for stats and comments and guest blogs and 'Me too,' moments.

And, Lord, thank you for the words.

Thank you.

Away in a manger

Hello, God.

Is it Spring soon?  In the last week we've had subzero temperatures, heavy frost, treacherous ice, torrential rain and high winds. Today is dank and dreary. Spirits are in need of a lift, please. 

I know, I'm not going to spend the next few months complaining about begin cold and unstable (on my feet, I mean) until the first green shoots show their faces. I'm not, really. 

Well, it's the shortest day soon so a small celebration is in order, don't you think? Not that I'm ungrateful for wintry days where it's so cold that my chin gets left behind and I can't stay upright. No, not at all. 

Not much, anyway. 

I've had a good weekend, thank you. Church this morning was good; our little nativity, under-rehearsed and beset with dodgy microphones and howling PA but lovely and touching and heartwarming as always. The Christmas story, told with a tableau of small children, choreographed manfully by hardworking Sunday school leaders. 

So simple. My two girls were angels (again! Got great value out of that angel costume. I reckon it's been used at four nursery nativities, four church ones, one at school and a couple of parties, and is only slightly unravelled in the wing department). They sat looking somewhat bemused and largely unsmiling on a bench at the back of the tableau but their Mum and Dad were proud of them nonetheless.  Of all the congregation only we know how incongruous a pair of halos are on my daughters! Only joking. Well, a bit. 

The Christmas story is so familiar, isn't it? I mean familiar to us. I can't count the number of nativities I've seen or been involved in or heard about in church, in schools and in playgroups and nurseries.  The shops are full of costumes - Mary, Joseph (usually interchangeable with the shepherds), Wise men, even stars, cows, donkeys and camels. Many a doll or new baby have played the title role and little girls always want to be Mary and sit looking suitably serene. 

The two smallest,
most bemused angels are my daughters.

So familiar that I send Christmas cards with a nativity scene on (if I can find them in the shops among the snow-scenes and robins and Santas). All the plays and tableaux and advent calendars and so on just wash over me because I'm so used to them, and then one day there's something that stops me in my tracks. This weekend it was the home-made manger on the stage in church with a bundle of hay in it and an elderly Tiny Tears doll. 

I have no idea how accurate a representation of the Holy Manger this one was, but it's roughness and simplicity and unsuitability for a real baby struck me as something new.

When my girls were born I had all the stuff that you need when you're going to have a baby. I had a small wardrobe full of tiny clothes (mostly in yellow and white as we didn't know if we'd need pink or blue), nappies, wipes, baby oil (what exactly was that for? I don't think I ever knowingly used baby oil and yet I must have been given a dozen bottles, some of which I still have), muslin squares, toys, mobiles, baby type sleeping bags and the softest of soft blankets. And that brings me to the cot. 

Our cot was pale wood, varnished with a clear lacquer that was considered safe and suitable for babies, with a plastic protective bit over the top to stop the remote possibility of splinters where tiny gums might gnaw as teeth emerge. The side lowered in a convenient way so that no discomfort was caused to my back as I bent to pick up the baby. The cot had a sprung mattress with a chemical-free waterproof fabric coating and then a couple of warm, brushed cotton fitted sheets to make it snug and comfy. 

When I was kitting out our nursery cot bumpers were not considered the thing to have for health and safety reasons but I know many people then and now position soft and pretty padding all round the cot so that baby won't bump his head and is even cosier. My baby was swaddled in the softest of baby blankets for a few months and then when a little older she slept in a custom made sleeping bag. I monitored the room temperature carefully and adjusted her tiny, well-fitting sleep suits and vests accordingly. A jungle animals mobile in pastel colours dangled over her cot and when we wound it up it played a soporific little tune (that was never particularly successful in inducing sleep but nonetheless sounded nice). Stuffed toys were arranged all around the perimeter of the cot and the room was tastefully decorated with 'Elizabeth Lucy' and two years later 'Katherine Emily' on the walls, a chest of drawers just for her things and changing mats and accessories all co-ordinated. We had everything.

That was how my child came into the world. 

No crib for a bed

Yours was born in a stable and slept wrapped in a cloth on top of a bundle of uncomfortable straw in an unhygienic feeding trough for animals, in a cold, grubby and draughty stable, surrounded by smelly cows and sheep. 

Wow. 

Now, my daughters are very special to me, and to a few other people too, but they are distinctly human. They may be children of God in one sense, but not the actual, factual sense. Your son was born into circumstances that were beyond normal - he was positively poor. I imagine that even in those Biblical times not many children were born in a stable. When I was small I used to sing, 'no crib for a bed' and think that the word 'crib' meant money in the olden days and Mary and Joseph didn't have any cash for a decent bed. Well, the idea has merit, I think, but it isn't quite what it means. You didn't have any of the home comforts, did you, Lord?

The Son of God came to earth in such a way. I've heard the nativity story over and over and yet the little wooden manger in our church play brought home to me the truth of it. You certainly did lay aside your majesty. The King of Kings, the Lord of all Creation, tiny and vulnerable and human. 'No crying he makes'? - I bet you did cry. You must have been prickled by the hay even if you were OK about the cows peering at you and wondering where their dinner was. I bet Mary had a nightmare trying to settle you sometimes. 

And then there's Mary, the mother of Jesus Christ, giving birth in such a cold, uncomfortable, inappropriate place for something so personal, so difficult, so scary, so momentous. It's a Big Thing when a woman has her first baby - how much more when the mother is a virgin, no more than a child herself and the baby the Son Of the Most High?  Nowhere in the Bible does it say that Jesus' birth was any different from any other birth - it was probably painful and messy and risky and undignified, and to do it without any health and safety advice or gas and air or glucose tablets or towels and hot water, or the benefit of a midwife and a bath and a comfy bed, or even your own Mum - this was basic, wasn't it. 

You wanted it that way. I cannot fathom it, other than that you wanted to demonstrate that you were fully, fully human. You came to us without any of the benefits of the world and with no advantage. You related to the lowest, poorest, most unsophisticated. You were really one of us.

Lord, it amazes me. So much does. So much that I take for granted then my eyes open for a moment and I see something and it amazes me. You showed me. You made the earth and everything in it. You understand all that there is to understand. You are there outside time, looking back on history and forward to the end of the story; you are the beginning and the end and you are the Almighty God, and you arrived on earth in such a simple, understated way that many, many might have missed it. 

I don't want to miss it, Lord. I want to see and understand and marvel. God become man. A tiny baby in a stable more than two thousand years ago, born to a young girl and a simple carpenter without fanfare or news flash. An eternal door opened up wide, light flooded out and heaven and earth saw each other clearly for the first time. 

The world changed beyond imagination on that day; history hinged, and yet most of the population of the world went about their business without any inkling. Without sensing the shift. 

Without understanding that nothing would be the same again.

The angels, however - I bet it was a different story. 

 'Sing, choirs of angels

Sing in exultation

Sing, all ye citizens of heaven above

Glory to God in the highest

Oh come, let us adore him

Christ, the Lord'

Amen.  God with us. The new story was beginning.


Edited and reposted from December 2011. They were angels again this year, they were still bewildered, it still moved me to a little tear, and the PA played up just the same. Thankyou, Lord. 

A boat called Joyful

I am grumpy, God. 

Just had a horrible bedtime with my two girls who were so worked up and hysterical that it all went wrong and they ended up in bed early with no story. I've been up and tucked them in and we're finally all friends again but I feel like a chewed piece of string. 

That noise was the sound of a glass of wine being poured. I'm hoping it'll help. 

I'm going to think about other things. I'm going to tell you about that day last week.  You know the one I meant. The one with the sea and the boats and the seals and the crabs and the sunshine. That one. Are you smiling?

I woke up that morning when Bryan brought me a cup of coffee in bed. That automatically gets the day off to a decent start, but what clinched it was that while I drank the coffee, I had time to read a couple of devotional posts on my email and also to write in my journal. I have noticed such a vast, enormous difference in my day when I can meet with you first thing, before I have to encounter anyone (especially the children) and before I have to start on the daily round of things-that-drive-me-crazy. Life doesn't necessarily work like that, mind you, but when it does, it's precious. 

I remember that I chatted with you for a while that morning, Lord. It was the last day of our holiday and I was anxious that it went well. I have an over-developed sense of responsibility for stuff like that and I was a bit on edge feeling that it was all down to me to make sure that the sun shone and everything should go tickety-boo and everyone should be happy. I was pleased to have a chance to spend some time with you at the start of the day. 

This is what I wrote:

'Lord - it's your day. You made it. Help me to see all the things that you put in it. Today, Father, I want to notice you. To really see you, and give you my thanks and praise. For you are my Lord and my God.'

You know what?  You answered my prayer. Father I have no idea how many more gifts you left in my path that day that I missed but I saw enough of them to marvel at your mercy and to praise you for your generosity to me.

We went to a seaside village up the coast from where we were staying and we went on a boat trip to see some seals. Our timing was perfect in terms of not having to queue on the jetty when we got to the landing stage for the boat, but in terms of picking good seats, it wasn't so good. We were just in time, and the last people onto the boat. Now, as you know, and  for the life of me I don't know why you made me this way, but I get anxious about things like this. We got the last spaces. To begin with we weren't even sitting together at all and needed to do some seat-exchanging with another family as we left the dock, and then the children couldn't see, so some more jiggery pokery was required, and finally, I ended up in the middle of the boat sitting on a cross-piece rather than a seat, with a rivet right underneath me, my view obstructed by the girls' heads. 

Grr. 

Now, what would be the thing to do in such circumstances?  Ideally, not notice that I was in such a duff position, because my girls were happy, the sun was shining, we'd managed to get on a boat in the first place and we were heading off on a little adventure. And I've seen seals before, after all. Of course that would be the thing to do. After all, I'm a grown up. Aren't I?

Ahem. 

I wasn't very happy. I wanted to take photographs not only of the seals, but also of the light on the waves, the other boats, the sky, the horizon, whatever came up. I wanted to bring back some shots to enlarge and perhaps put on the wall. I sat and scowled. I told the children to sit down, not to speak as loudly, not to lean out of the boat, to stop complaining. 

As we made our way to the island where the seals were basking, I chilled out a bit. Bryan took my hand. The girls were laughing as we whizzed along. The sun was shining down on us, the water was sparkling and the wind in my hair was massaging the grumpiness out of me. I started to enjoy myself. I was hoping to take some pictures of the beautiful sailing boats in the marina to one side but realised that we were on the wrong side of the boat. I decided that it didn't matter, since we'd be coming back the same way. 

We saw seals. We saw a lone seal pup on a sandy beach and we all enthusiastically took photographs of him, before rounding a bend and seeing a million seals of all shapes and sizes on another beach including huge bull seals and tiny babies. They swam close to our boat, they popped their heads up to say hello and they waved their flippers at us from the shore. It was lovely. I managed my photos without incident and even steadied the camera for long range shots by leaning on Lizzie's shoulder. So it was quite helpful to sit behind her after all. I thought of you and thanked you for the glimpse of wildlife so rarely seen and for the opportunity to ride in a boat and feel the sun and wind on our faces as we sailed. I saw your creativity and inspiration and the wonder and variety of your handiwork. 

We to-ed and fro-ed for a while to make sure everyone had their fill of the seals and we set off back. 

The sun was dancing on the waves and they sparkled like diamonds. Now and again the boat kicked up spray and we laughed with exhilaration. 

As we approached the marina, with all the beautifully photogenic boats with sails billowing in the breeze, beautiful little white caps on the waves, blue sea, blue sky... the sun went in. And as everyone knows, the pictures aren't anywhere near as nice without the sun. I put the lens cap on. 

I was just lowering the camera after replacing the lens cap, feeling disappointed and a bit cheesed off when we passed by a lovely little white boat with a bright red sail. Painted on the front of the boat was its name. 

Joyful. 

A boat called Joyful. 

Lord God, I saw you face to face at that moment. You caught my mood in your hands as it sank and you buoyed it up again.  You said, 'No. Don't do that. Don't do what you're doing. This is no time for dissatisfaction. Look at my world. And look at the gifts I give you.'

'...yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will be joyful in God my Saviour.'Habbakkuk 3:18

Too late to take a picture of the boat called Joyful. Moments after, while I was still craning my neck to look at the little red and white boat as it receded into the distance, the sun came back out. I got some pictures. Nothing breathtaking, but some photos that capture the sparkle and shine of that morning. But the one I remember is the picture I didn't take. 

Joyful. 

'...but may the righteous be glad and rejoice before God; may they be happy and joyful.'
Psalm 68:3

So much to rejoice about. In that few minutes, the vastness and power of the sea, the beauty of the sunlight on waves, the exhilaration of spray on my face as we danced along in a boat, the laughter of the children, the privilege of seeing the seals close up, the skill of those sailing boats in and out of buoys, sails billowing in the breeze, the deep blue of the sky, the seabirds wheeling around above and diving for fish, the fact that the God of Heaven reached down and communicated with me.

'...and giving joyful thanks to the Father, who has qualified you to share in the inheritance of his people in the kingdom of light.'Colossians 1:12

The Kingdom of Light! Oh my goodness. I spend my holiday marvelling at the special sort of light by the sea and trying to take the perfect photograph that will somehow capture forever the essence of the seaside and I find that one day beyond this life I will find myself with you in your Kingdom of Light? 

Joyful. 

That wasn't all, Father, was it?  I wonder how many blessings I missed that day, but I know there were more. The joy on my girls' faces when they caught lots of crabs and the wonderful pride on little Kate's face when she managed to land the largest crustacean of them all that morning. The finest bacon sandwich in the world sitting on a bench watching them with their crablines and soaking up the sun, camera cradled in my lap. 

Later on that afternoon we were at the beach, strolling along in the surf, and towards us came a man wearing a T-shirt that said, 'Keep Psalm and Carry On'.  At the moment that old 1939 Government Poster seems to be incredibly popular with no end of spin-offs but I've never seen this before. We passed by on the beach and exchanged greetings but my smile was wide because I know that my unknown brother there was carrying a message from you, for me. You were there. 

'Worship the Lord with gladness; come before him with joyful songs.'Psalm 100:2

Lord, I was glad. Every holiday I make sure that I find a pebble with a smile on it - I bring it home and draw on eyes and a nose and mark it with the year and destination of our holiday and that afternoon I found the perfect pebble. A broad smile. 

A joyful smile. 

Lord, I want to thank you for the sun and the waves, for the man on the beach and his T-shirt. 

For crabs and crab-lines and bacon butties. 

For weathered wood on the beach, for the sound of waves breaking on the shoreline and for family and holding hands and clifftop cottages and fresh air. 

For the way that the standing on the promenade looking down at my children on the beach I noticed the breakwater was in the form of a cross. 

And when I looked at my feet, there was another one, in the stone of the path. 

Thanks too for a boat called Joyful. Bless all who sail in her. I pray that they see what I saw.

Most of all, for being my Lord and my Saviour and my Friend who answers prayers. Teach me to see you more and more. Each day that I live may I miss less of your open-handed goodness and capture more of it in my heart. Don't let the moments slip through my fingers because I see the clouds. 

'They celebrate your abundant goodness and joyfully sing of your righteousness.'Psalm 145:7

Oh yes. You are good. You are good in ways beyond my imagination. You are righteous and I want to sing a song that people will hear. 

Lord God, thankyou for answering my prayer. 

Anecdote: Pine Cone

Dear Lord.

Sometimes you do things just for fun, don't you?  Just to be nice.  Just because you know it will make me smile.

Take the other day, for instance. You know that I love pine cones. You know this because you put this thing in me that loves pine cones; you know that I can rarely walk past a pine cone without picking it up, and if it's in good condition you know that I can't help but bring it home. I haven't even been put off by the odd creepy-crawly emerging from a pine cone. As a result, we have a pile of pinecones in the rockery, more on the bookshelves and still more hanging about the kitchen and in the fruit bowl.

The newcomer is on the right.

There's something about a pine cone. Long ones, thin ones, fat ones, big round ones - they're just lovely. The shape of them, the shadows, the texture, the fragrance. Yes, I have a thing for pine cones. 

So, cast your mind back a few decades. I was little, maybe seven or eight, and I was on holiday with my family. Where, I don't remember. We were walking along a path and there were pine-cone-trees right and left. There was dappled sunlight and lots of pine cones on the floor, and I remarked how strange it would be if a pine cone fell from a tree, right in front of me, right now.

And do you know what?  One did. 

Just like that. A pine cone fell from a tree and landed on the path right in front of me! What are the odds of that?  I was amazed and delighted. I was just happily walking along, thought what a coincidence it would be if a pine cone fell off a tree directly in front of me, and to my intense surprise, one did. 

Or so I thought. For thirty-five years or so, that's what I thought. 

Then came the day when it all fell apart. The conversation was on the subject of pine cones. My brain did a little riffle through the files labelled 'Anecdotes: Pine Cones' and came up with this story. I retold it, with due dramatic emphasis on the wonder of the falling pine cone, and my Mum dropped a bombshell.

'It was Dad.'

In the silence that followed I grew up.  My innocence lay on the floor in tatters. All these years I had believed in the wonderful mystery of the Pine Cone and it turned out that my Dad nipped around behind me, picked up a pine cone, and dropped it in front of me, to my childish astonishment. And then the secret was kept, year after year. Everyone knew but me. I continued to wonder at the marvel, but alas, it was all built on deception.

Hmmph.

You'd think it would have been enough to put me off pine cones, wouldn't you? When I finally did discover the magnitude of the deception I think I might have been forgiven for purging my house of all pine cones and refusing to have one near me ever again. I might have been scarred for life. But no, the humble pine cone was not at fault. My great affection for them remained.

One afternoon last week I was walking back from school with my two girls and they were behind me, negotiating with Grandma about a trip to the ice cream shop on the way home. I paused to let them catch up, and as I stood, looking idly across the road, what should happen but a pine cone. 

Dropped off a tree right in front of me. 

And this time, it did. 

With a small sound, a tiny brittle thud, a little pine cone fell in the middle of the road and lay there, looking at me. We looked at each other.

The fulfilment of thirty-five years of misapprehension and a few subsequent years of disillusionment. Lying in the middle of the road.  I wanted that pine cone.

Of course, at that very moment, that leafy little road became as busy as the M1 as car after car went past, slaloming in and out of the parked vehicles by the kerb. I didn't take my eyes of my pine cone, quite sure that after it's wondrous and timely appearance it was destined to be squashed beyond recognition by the school traffic. Children and mums I knew from school passed by and looked at us quizzically and I fear I led them to believe that it was one of the children who was insisting on retrieving the fallen pine cone.

'We need the pine cone!' I said by way of explanation, with a wry smile and just a hint of eye rolling. They laughed and nodded in amused recognition at the whimsy of a small child. Yes, we did need the pine cone, but I needed it, not the small children. Ahem.  We waited for the cars to pass, perilously close to my pine cone. 

As the exhaust fumes cleared, it was lying intact. 

Miracle upon miracle. 

So I am the proud owner of another pine cone. This one fresh from the tree. It dropped right down in my line of sight, co-incidentally and in an entirely random way. Nobody reached over my head. I even checked behind me this time. Nobody was there.

Except you. You were there, all around me. You knew about my relationship with pine cones and you knew about Conegate all those years ago. You knew that it would make me smile. You just gave me a present. It cost nothing but it made me smile. I was healed! 

Thank you. For laughter and jokes and family and for pine cones. 

Especially this pine cone. 

You'll never walk alone

Thankyou-thankyou-thankyou.

I'm smiling.

Lord God, today we took the girls to see Joseph and his Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat at the theatre and it was such a treat to watch them singing away and dancing to the encore songs at the end. Katy was getting very much involved in the story - she looked at me with big wide eyes when Joseph is dragged off to prison after his run in with Potiphar's wife.  'But he didn't do anything, Mummy! It's not fair!' and then, emphatically with a pointy finger, 'She is a bad lady'.

I love the way that they don't do anything by halves, my children. They are either uninterested or totally immersed. Lizzie almost let her interval ice cream melt because she was so absorbed in Pharoah's song. It was wonderful. Great tunes, dancing, singing, colours; a real spectacle. And a treat at a little town like ours that rarely gets the big shows. 

I love that my girls favourite story of all time is a Bible story. I love that I know the story of Jacob and his sons and the story of the dreamer who came good. I love that I can say to the children, 'Yes, it's a true story; it's in the Bible', though whether Pharaoh was an Elvis Presley lookalike only you will know. I think it'd be great if someone wrote a catchy musical about the rest of the Bible. Let's all sing along.

Most of all I love that we all went to see this wonderful bit of entertainment together. Mum sat in the middle (as Grandma was Highly Favoured by small people) today, and Bryan and I flanked the girls and exchanged proud glances when they started joining in with such enthusiasm. We all clapped along and joined in the choruses at the end and it was one of those freeze-frame moments that I need to pin down and remember. 

It's been a good day. Morning spent behind the counter of the coffee shop in the church centre as the local Food Fair took place which is always good fun. We are so much more efficient than the day we opened when the Archbishop of Canterbury came for tea and a date slice (Living Stones and Cappucinos). I love it when it all comes together and the cafe runs smoothly and people get their coffee quickly with the right amount of froth. Afternoon at the theatre watching the show and watching my little girls faces light up with joy.

Now it's the FA Cup Final and Bryan is hoping that Liverpool might win the football. Hmm. 

Well, we might have to settle for success in the morning and the afternoon and not so much the evening.  But who knows? The Reds might prevail. 

I'm not too worried about the football. I'm going to get the girls' tea ready in a minute so I'll miss the kickoff. What I wanted to do right now was to sit down for a few minutes and check in with you.

Today has been a smiley sort of day and I wanted to say thank you. Thankyou for fun and coffee and company. For Bible stories and music and football teams.

I know that all that is good comes from you. Without you there would be no companionship or achievement or laughter or song. There would be no celebration or excitement or fun. 

I noticed. I've been taking it all in. 

I want to look away from it all for a moment; away from my family and the songs and the cheerful optimism in my living room right now as we watch Bryan's home town football team square up to the other team like David before Goliath. Just look away from all that towards you with a smile. These may look like simple pleasures but I know better. They are little moments to treasure.

Liverpool Football Club's anthem is a song called 'You'll Never Walk Alone', though fans come and go. If they win today they'll have a lot more fans than if they lose.

Me? I never walk alone either. Win or lose, you are with me. 

Thankyou.