Finding a spacious place

Morning, Lord. 

And a miserable rainy one it is too, if  you don't mind me saying. I have heard it said that there is no bad weather, only inappropriate clothing, but I disagree. My mood seems to be closely linked with the weather and the time of year and today it's windy and rainy and dark and it feels as if summer is over and here comes the slow, grumpy slide into winter. Hmmph.

I need to get past this as it's September now and a long way till spring; I can't be harping on about dark nights and dark mornings and the cold and the wet and the leaves falling off the trees for the next six months. If I have to shut up about it I'd just as soon find a way to feel better about it, if it's all the same to you. I need to find joy every day whether the sun is out or if it's hidden behind impenetrable banks of cloud.

On holiday I saw the sunrise a couple of times. It involved getting up before dawn and making my way to the beach (less than two minutes walk) and then walking along or sitting and waiting for the sun to come up. 

Yes, me. I bet you were surprised to see me up and about at that time of day, weren't you? This is the 'me' who is constantly complaining about lack of sleep or interrupted sleep or the necessity of getting up too early. Funny what holidays can do to me. The chance of seeing something special and taking a few good pictures and there I was climbing out of bed at 5am.

You didn't let me down. It was a special time. Nobody else about. Seagulls and rabbits on the green and on the beach. Only the sound of the waves and the shingle and the slow majestic emergence of the sun. The light before the sun rose was beautiful. Soft and  pinkish; turning each everyday object into a thing of beauty. There was a moment when the first rays shot forwards towards me across the sea in a glittering orange stripe before becoming more diffuse as the sun climbed over the horizon. It almost could have been accompanied by music, it was such a startling moment. 

As every minute passed everything changed. The sky, the light, the reflections, the atmosphere. From the muted half-light to the glow on the horizon to the bold splash of orange and gold and red to the yellow and white and silver. 

On the second time out I met another human being; a man with a camera. I said good morning and made to walk past and as I did he commented that he had thought that this morning would be an amazing sunrise, but it failed to materialise and he was disappointed. I smiled politely as I lifted my own camera again and I marvelled that it was possible to look on the spectacle and be disappointed. I don't get to see enough sunrises to make many comparisons - until this week my experiences of dawn have consisted of desperate wishes for day to arrive as I've sat up all night with a newborn baby. This was quite different. 

It was very very beautiful. Words are too small to try and capture the hugeness of your sunrise over the ocean. I'm quite sure that many and more articulate people than I have tried to pin it down but when it comes to it there's nothing to do but watch. Even staring at it through a camera lens doesn't do it justice, although I had a good try! 

It made me think about my Dad. He was a photographer; it's what he did. He loved taking photographs and he was never seen without a camera over his shoulder. I used to take my photographs to him when they were developed and if he admired one then I felt a particular sense of achievement. A compliment from my Dad about the composition of a photograph was high praise indeed. I wanted to be as good as he was at spotting the good angle, composing an exceptional shot. I have a long way to go, but as I was crouching on the beach to put a sea groyne in silhouette in the fore ground of a photo or changing the focus to make the picture different he was in my mind and I wished that he could look at my photos and tell me where they could be better. He would have loved it. 

I found on both mornings that I went out early that I walked along the seafront taking pictures and then took the same ones on the way back because things looked so different in the new light. If I'd been there an hour previously when it was dark I guess they would all have looked different again. I'm sure there is a metaphor for life in there - darkness and murkiness and shadows and the scene looks one way, then the promise of light casts a much warmer more positive glow; a sense of anticipation before the grand event where light breaks forth and makes everything shine and sparkle - blasts away the shadows and shows us the beauty and truth of what we have only half seen in the pre-dawn half-light. 

I'm living somewhere between the murk and the half-light. Definitely some point after dawn has dispelled the darkness but the full glory of the sun hasn't lit everything up yet. Sometimes I can see the glow on the horizon and even a dramatic, attention-grabbing streak of gold across the sky heralding some wonder to come but mostly I am walking in the soft light of promise, beyond blackness but not quite at the point of sunrise. 

So...is sunrise just when we get to Heaven? Or can I somehow grow up out of the haze (subtly beautiful though it is and well worth a few photos) and find myself bathed in sunlight in this life? I don't know. 

Maybe that analogy was a load of rubbish. What do you think? Are you listening to me with an indulgent smile as I fiddle about with words and ideas? Do I ever get closeish to the mark or are you planning to nudge me back into the fold at some point?

The sunrises were beautiful. Breathtaking. Awe-inspiring. Simply inspiring. Spirit lifting. Our holiday was so good - I had numerous opportunities to feed off your wonder-full creation and let it nourish my soul. Thankyou. And thanks that I have a good camera and a decent eye and that my Dad taught me enough to capture tiny parts of it to gaze at when I need to refill. 

Lord, I need to find a way to let my spirit dance as it did watching the sun come up over the expanse of the sea when a) I'm not on holiday, b) I'm not in a relaxed and optimistic frame of mind already and c) when I'm not near the sea. I love the sea and when I drive to the coast my heart lifts when I can see it. Coming home was a problem for me as I felt as if my world was shrinking again. I watched the ocean in the rear view mirror for longer than I should have done. 

So here I am in Derbyshire and I love the scenery. I love the hills and the rocks and the moors and I love that it's my home. I'm not complaining. Maybe I love the sea so much because you can't get much further inland than Derbyshire and so all my life a trip to the seaside was a treat, but I do know how blessed I am to live in a county so rich in beauty of its own. I need to get out more, don't I?

I need to find a way of finding the space in my head as I did watching the sunrise on the beach. To find the spacious place. To find room to breathe and focus on you. Not to get so bogged down again in everyday life that there's no elbow room. Things get too claustrophobic. I only had a week at the seaside and after it took me a couple of days to unwind and relax I only had a few to enjoy the relaxation - it would be a shame to throw that away so soon.  

Please would you teach me how to find that peace without requiring a vast seascape and a 4.45am start? 

'He reached down from on high and took hold of me;

He drew me out of deep waters.

He rescued me from my powerful enemy,

from my foes, who were too strong for me.

They confronted me in the day of my disaster,

but the Lord was my support.

He brought me out into a spacious place;

he rescued me because he delighted in me.'

Psalm 18:16-19

 

R and R and awe

Well, I think that my shoulders have relaxed.

This holiday has been just what the doctor ordered. It took a few days to get going; to get me to chill out a bit and stop thinking too much, but we just have one day to go and I’m loving it. I don't want it to end.

It helps that the sun has been shining (my nose is definitely pinkish) and it helps that the sea is sparkly. It helps that the children are having a whale of a time (though not so much sleeping in their exciting bunk beds!) and it helps that this is a beautiful place with loads to do and my extensive research and meticulous (some would say pedantic) eye for detail has paid off, even if I do say so myself. None of the traditional holiday vacillating and time wasting for us - we've had trips out and days on the beach and it's all gone beautifully. 

Not remotely control-freakish. Honest. Clearly the success of this holiday is all down to me. Ahem. 

Thankyou for the outstanding beauty of this little planet that you’ve put us on. Today we went on a speedboat ride out in the bay and the sky was blue, the sea was blue and the sun sparkled off the waves as they broke. The driver of the motorboat drove us in concentric circles to make a whirlpool effect and then pulled up so that the boat jumped and splashed and the spray glittered like diamonds in the sun. I could taste it. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and Elizabeth was sitting between Bryan and I and she was laughing with exhilaration and excitement. We all were. I can’t remember the last time that I laughed for joy but today speeding round the bay I was shouting to you and praising your name. In my head. Still a little bit too uptight to do that out loud, mind you.

When you were on this earth, Lord Jesus, did you have moments of exhilaration that took your breath away?  You experienced the whole range of human emotions – what did you enjoy so much that you laughed with happiness? I suspect it wasn’t a speedboat on a sunny day. I'd love to know what it wast that you did that made you shout with joy.

113 steps to the top 

I started the week crying uncontrollably and begging you to save our holiday when on Sunday things seemed to be going so wrong. Today I closed my eyes and loved you for the blessings you rained down on me and my family. Thankyou.

We have spent time on the traditional hunt for pebbles with smiles (got a few contenders for this annual holiday title) and we’ve made sandcastles with varying degrees of success. We’ve paddled and splashed and eaten far too much, from fish and chips to barbecues to cream teas. We’ve negotiated an eight acre maize maze and climbed to the top of a lighthouse. We’ve explored the enormous church built in fourteen hundred and something and we’ve bought postcards. 

Maize maze. Amazing.

We’ve seen sunrises and sunsets and a myriad of stars and taken hundreds of photographs. We’ve caught crabs, been on a rowing boat ferry and walked for miles. It has been wonderful and to be honest I’m not that bothered about going home and picking up the reins again – the inevitable attention to the problems that await me. They came with me on holiday to start with but after a day or two I persuaded them to head off home early but I know that they’re waiting for me.

How can I take this lighthearted feeling with me and not become weighed down with it all again? On holiday I don’t have the same responsibilities. We concentrate on enjoying ourselves. We indulge. We don’t work (any more than cooking and shopping and looking after the children and so on is work – but even that seems less of a grind.)

Well, that’s for another day. We have one more day here and we’ve decided to do again some of the best bits of the week. I was up before 5am this morning to watch the sunrise over the bay and so I’m having an early night so that I’ll be bright eyed and bushy tailed tomorrow.

All my own work.

I’m going to enjoy tomorrow and not think about the drive home. I’m going to soak up the sun and listen to the waves and watch the sparkling sea and not contemplate money or pensions or the future. I’m going to postpone thinking about the diet for another day and have an ice cream and a hot chocolate. I’m going to absorb the joy on my children’s faces as they run with their buckets and spades and hunt for shells. I’m going to be a child myself as I locate the perfect pebble with a smiley face and shake sand out of my shoes.  

And I am going to thank my God in Heaven for giving it all to me.

Lord God, I can never thank you enough. Help me to notice the beauty of your world and remember it so that I can fetch out those memories when it’s raining next week and I’m worrying about Katy’s first day at school, or her next clinic appointment, or Elizabeth in her new class away from her friends. Help me to look at my smiley face pebble and think back to the blessings of this week when I start to fret about life and the future. Help me to remember how close I felt to you today.  

Lord of the sun and the sea and the sky, how generous you are with good things. 

I've had a nice holiday.

Thankyou. 

That end of holiday feeling

Well, here I am.  I'm sitting here in front of the computer and I haven't got a clue what I'm going to say to you;  that in itself is not particularly unusual, since I quite often witter away without much purpose, but I haven't really thought out what I want to say. I think I'm here for a moan. 

Yes, that's it.

I'm not feeling great. I've got a headache, my sinuses are feeling narky and my joints ache, particularly my hands.  I've just taken two painkillers that were lying next to my computer with a cup of coffee.  The problem here is that I got out the tablets a few hours ago and then forgot to take them and now I feel worse I can't remember if they were paracetamol or ibuprofen and so I can't risk taking any more for four hours in case I overdose and end up being carted off to A&E in an ambulance and everyone thinks that it's all been too much for me... or not. Any clues?  Because I know you were looking when I got them out of the packet earlier.

You know what it is?  Two things:

1.     I think I'm getting a cold.

2.     Tomorrow is a Bank Holiday and after that the children are back to school and Bryan is back to London and the holiday is over.  

These things are making me feel sorry for myself.  It's been lovely having Bryan at home for nearly two weeks; and so much has happened in the last fortnight.  We've had joy on Palm Sunday and silence on Maundy Thursday and sadness on Good Friday and awe on Easter Day. We've had hospital appointments, launched rockets, slept late and watched a royal wedding. My brother and sister in law have visited, Bryan's sister in law and nephew have visited, we've been to parties and barbecues, we've toasted marshmallows, ingested greenfly, been swimming, bounced on bouncy castles and laughed and played. We've been out with friends, visited Chatsworth, the National Space Centre and Crich Tramway Museum, ridden bikes, crashed into trees, paddled and sunbathed, had picnics and gone for walks and redesigned a bit of the garden. Planted plants and sown seeds. We've eaten far too much and been a smidge more liberal than usual regarding bottles of wine.  All this and then... the diet starts again on Tuesday and the wine will once again be banished until the weekend. 

Sigh.

I'm psyching myself up for being on my own again; well, not really on my own as my Mum is here and she helps me loads, but it feels a bit alone sometimes when the children are shouting in the night or I'm taking Katy to see yet another doctor about her lump.  I suppose I'm not on my own at all as I know that you are with me - you never leave me.  But you know what I mean, don't you?  You don't get up in the night to chase away bad dreams or find a lost Barney, do you?  Oh alright then. I suppose that's a bit unfair.  

I'm not complaining, honestly. I like my life and I know how fortunate I am to have a wonderful family and friends, a husband with a job and healthy children. I know.  I just feel a bit sad that we've had two lovely weeks enjoying being all together and now it's nearly done. Back to the hamster wheel on Tuesday getting up far too early, packing Bryan off for his train and shoehorning the kids into clothes/shoes/breakfast/car before running about with this and that until it's time to pick them up again.  

So cheer me up, then. 

(At that point Bryan walked into the kitchen, reached into the cupboard and produced a packet of Pringles which he then flourished while informing me that a single Pringle is a perfect example of a hyperbolic paraboloid.  Since he then walked off with the Pringles makes me think that this was not a heaven sent cheer up message). 

I'm going to put the kettle on. 

Oh Lord, sometimes I just feel a bit miserable even though it's been a Good Day with blue sky and sunshine.  Church this morning was fine; I know that you were there and watching baptisms always makes me happy.  The building was full and even though I suspect there were more than a few members of the baptism party that were less than comfortable in a church environment, it was great to see all the seats with people in them.  If only it was always like that and at the same time every heart was lifted to you.  We'd have to organise more services to accommodate everyone.  Our church centre would be full of people on a Sunday and all week.  We'd have such ideas, such energy, such commitment. The whole area would know that our church was a place blessed by you and they'd all want to be part of it. 

Let it be, Lord Jesus.  In fact, I'm only just starting.  So many things on my Wish List.  Please heal the lump on Katy's neck.  Take it away; let it just disappear or give the doctors skill and sensitivity to treat it.  Find Bryan a job that means he can be here each evening and morning, so that he doesn't miss the children growing up. Soften the hearts of members of my family who don't know you so that they might not be lost in this world or the next.  Give my girls confidence and security, knowing that they are unique and special.  Bless them with good friends.  Show me what you want me to do with my life.  And indicate to me in some way whether the pills I just took were paracetamol or ibuprofen so I can take the other ones and perk up a bit for this evening. 

Oh well, no good wasting the last day of our holiday being miserable. Tomorrow's a day for finishing a few projects that were started with gusto a fortnight ago and then tailed off because of the necessity for hard work to get them finished.  I might have a bath tonight with a snifter of something and my book for half an hour and then I'll be right as rain. 

Here's what I'm going to do:

I will appreciate the things I have and stop dwelling on the things I don't.  I will try to see the cup as half full instead of half empty.  I will cherish the time my family are together and not bemoan the time we are apart. I will thank you for your many blessings and try not to instruct you on the things that I perceive you have not granted me. Yet. I will look for you in the everyday and try to hear you in the commonplace rather than keep my eyes shut and complain that you are not there. I know that you are my Heavenly Father and there's possibly a time and place for telling your beloved daughter to pull herself together. 

Alright then. you've probably got a point. 

Bath, wine, early night. See you tomorrow.