On sticking your head above the parapet

Not for the first time, I've read a blog post by Deborah Jenkins and she has inspired me to write my own post. Not for the first time, this little nudge has come at exactly the right time; and not for the first time, it's been when I've been feeling very much in need of a bit of encouragement. 

I make heavy weather of things, I know. Life in this 'season' for me is definitely more like a slog than a gambol and writing, while very precious to me indeed, is regularly elbowed out by the mundane and the immediate. When time and head-space are both acutely limited I have to make sure that I read the Bible daily and spend some time writing in my journal because I have found these to be life and sanity savers. For long periods it's the only writing that I do, but I've kind of made peace with that. Anything over and above is a bonus.

I got something written a few months ago. I was pleased with it. When it was all finished I knew that it wasn't perfect, but so much work had gone into it that it was as good as it could be. I was satisfied. I was happy to say that it was mine. Every writer knows how difficult it is to let the world in and risk what they might say or think. It's very hard to be so vulnerable.

I showed it to a trusted friend. 

Continued over at The Association of Christian Writers' Blog, More Than Writers where I post on the 23rd of each month. Come and visit. There's some good stuff. 

A letter to tuck in your pocket

One and a half more weeks of holiday and school starts again. You can tell that my two girls' minds are beginning to turn to the new term because sometimes out of nowhere comes a little remark that reveals a hidden iceberg of thoughts and worries.

Katy is going back into year two, her last year at the little local infant school just around the corner. Her year one class has been split into two and she isn't with any of her friends. I held my breath as she handed me the paper, waiting for anguish and gnashing of teeth, but she was philosophical. 

'Mummy, there'll be all those new friends to make.'

What about that. 

I can't tell you how much I admire her. Six years old and fearless in the face of a daunting situation. Of course, she has her insecurities, but in the playground she's relaxed and confident of her own welcome and as a result the other kids want to play with her. How wonderful that is. I would love to be more like that. 

Her big sister, on the other hand, has moments of excitement about going back into year four, but mostly she's apprehensive and as September draws closer I can feel her happy holiday mood slipping a little. Last term didn't go particularly well and the troubles and tears multiplied until we were just nursing her through the last days before the long holiday. It's all been on the back burner but now it's time to turn up the heat again...

I encourage and reassure and comfort and advise, but the bottom line is that they both need to work out what to do to get through school and friendships and so on for themselves. What works for Katy might not work for Elizabeth, and what has worked all along might not always go so well. They are unique little bodies and personalities and neither of them is me. They're not going to handle it as I did (and that's probably a good thing; I made a complete hash of friendships for much of my school career). 

So, I will walk them to school and I'll buoy them up with words of encouragement. I shall tell them that they are warm, kind, beautiful, clever, interesting and fun to be with. I shall advise them on letting others go first, winning and losing with grace and happily playing games suggested by other children even if they feel they have a better idea.  

They have new school uniforms, (rats, socks. Forgot socks) and shiny new shoes. They'll have new haircuts and pencil cases. They'll be as ready as I can make them, but when I've waved goodbye, they'll pretty much have to sort it out for themselves.

Here's what I'd like them to remember:

Beautiful daughter of mine,

You are loved. 

More than you know, you are loved. You are loved by all your family back here at home; by me, watching the clock for school pick up time and anxiously searching out your face in the exodus of children passing through the school doors, and you are loved beyond imagination by your heavenly Father. 

He made you just as you are. He made you deliberately, not accidentally. You were designed by a Master craftsman who never, ever makes mistakes. When He finished making you, my little one, He sat back and smiled, delighted with the little girl He had made. He knows every hair on your head and He sees every breath that you take. He promised a long, long time ago that He would never leave you, and He is always at your side. Even when Mummy goes back home, He walks through those doors right next to you. He sits by you and cheers you on, and He puts His arms around you when things are tough. 

He is so proud of you. We all are, my lovely, but your heavenly Daddy knows the things that we can't know. He knows how fearful you are of new situations and He sees how difficult you find school, sometimes. He understands that now and again things go wrong and He smiles with pride when you don't give up; when you say sorry, when you try again.

You are loved. Let that sink in really deep, my darling, so that you can find that knowledge quickly when you need it. Try to understand those three little words so that they build you up. Things knock you down, sometimes, and I know that you feel fragile and vulnerable at school. It hasn't been easy so far and I know that you're sometimes overwhelmed and uncertain how to handle things. When you're feeling left out or insignificant, remember those three words: you are loved. Remember that you are loved just for who you are, not for anything you can do. That love doesn't falter when things go wrong, or you make a mistake. 

You are loved, all the time, no matter what. Just think: the Creator of the world loves you. He loves you so much that he smiles as He thinks of you. He is delighted with you, just as I am. 

I want to say it again, because I know how easy it is to listen to things but not to really hear them.

Those other girls? The ones that say mean things and hurt your feelings?  Oh, my love, there will always be girls like that. I'm forty-two and still they're around, only now they're at the school gates instead of whispering at the back of the classroom. It's not going to change because you're a year older. It's something that has always been, will always be.

Don't be one of them. I know there will be times when you'll be tempted to try to fit in by laughing with the mean girls; how membership of their circle seems a coveted prize, but don't do it. Friendship acquired at someone else's expense isn't friendship at all, and all too soon it'll be you on the outside again, for truth and companionship aren't built on secrets and sneering, but on compassion and honesty. 

And when you've been rejected or hurt and you want to lash out and hit back; don't. Close your eyes and count to ten, or breathe deeply and walk away, but don't play their game. Jesus taught us to love those that are not our friends. It's hard - even for grown ups - but He told us that we must be kind to those who aren't kind to us. And that means her, my lovely girl. Yes, you know who I mean. The one that you don't see to eye to eye with, and yet part of you longs to be part of her crowd.

Time and time again you've left school with her spiteful words ringing in your ears and before we've even walked home you've had tears on your cheeks because of this girl and her friends. Don't return meanness with meanness, because the momentary satisfaction that it brings quickly evaporates and leaves a guilty residue that only damages you. Better to return spite with kindness. Then you keep your integrity and the whole of heaven rejoices, because it's not an easy thing to do. 

I'm doing my best with that one myself, love, because I hate to see you hurt. Forgiving those that hurt you, even if they're only little themselves - well, I'm doing my best with that too. And one day, when you have children of your own and you know the fierceness of the love that you feel for your baby, you'll know how hard it is.  

Be brave, my little one; the world has plenty of people like her, but more that are not. Don't judge the whole world by the standards of the mean kids.

Seek out the children who are kind to you, who make you laugh, who make you feel happy, and do the same for them. Be a good friend, and you'll find good friends. I pray every day that you will find someone lovely to do life with; a girl who will link arms with you in good times and bad, who'll encourage and comfort and cheer you on. But until you find her, sweetheart, don't give up. Don't give up on friendship, or on the other girls, or on yourself. When you find that precious girlfriend who understands you, who accepts you and loves you it will be worth all the troubles. 

Remember, you are loveable. You are precious and unique and special. You are beautiful, inside and out, and you are loved. 

There is no-one like you. Don't compare yourself with anyone, because you don't know what it feels like to be them. Just be yourself. You were created to be you, just where you are right now, surrounded by the people you're with. There is no mistake. It's all in His hands. He's watching over you so, so carefully, and He will keep you safe. 

And I'll help. I'll be there in the morning, waiting by the gates in case you turn around for another wave. I'll be there when you come out, negotiating my own way among the grown up girls who chat and gossip in groups just as they did in this same playground when I was in your shoes. All day my mind will return to you, my lovely, and I'll wonder who you're sitting with in class, whether there'll be anything you like for lunch, who you're playing with in the playground. 

I'll be talking to Jesus about you and asking Him to hold you close, to help you, and He'll be saying to me, 'Don't worry. I've got her.' 

He's got you.  

With love

Mummy

 Linking up with Sabrina and Ruth at 'Letters To...' 

This time we're at Learning (one day at a time) and the prompt was: 'A letter to tuck in your pocket'. 

Hurting

Evening, Lord.

Blimey. It never rains but it pours, hey. As Shakespeare said, 

'When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.' 

Hamlet Act IV scene 5

Is there anything in the Bible along those lines? Possibly Proverbs? I'll look into it. 

We've got an appointment to see the new doctor who'll be looking after Katy over at the children's hospital next week. In the last few days I've had appointments with doctors, nurses and dentists and I feel a bit as if I'm falling apart. In a physical, literal sort of sense. Bits of me don't work properly. Last night the children behaved badly at bedtime and I confess, so did I, in a angry and shouty sort of way, and we all ended up in tears. Katy crept onto my lap and whispered 'Sorry Mummy' and we had a cuddle. Lizzie handed me a note that told me that she knew in her heart that I didn't love her.

I went to pieces. It was late, I was very tired, it had been a hard day. I wasn't feeling well. My tooth ached. The children were being horrible. 

My oldest daughter told me that she thought I didn't love her. She said that she could see it in my face and she could hear it in my shouts. 

I don't think anything has hurt me so much in a long time. It took my breath away. A tidal wave of feelings overtook me. Intense emotional pain. Guilt. Despair. Shame. Fear. Self-pity. More guilt. I had been so angry with them. They wouldn't listen. More bath water ended up on the floor than in the bath. They wouldn't be still so that I could brush teeth. They wouldn't get into their pyjamas. They were silly, then they fought with each other. I narrowed my eyes and I glared and I shouted. We all cried. Katy came for cuddles and Lizzie hit back. 

She hit her target, I think. I didn't know what to do. I struggled to find words. Me! I talked with her and I hugged her but she wouldn't look at me and just kept saying, 'It doesn't feel like you love me.' Then she asked me if I'd mend a toy that she'd broken earlier. She didn't want to talk about it.  

Lord, does she really not know that I love her? I'm so, so sorry. She and Katy are the most important, most precious things in my life. I've said to them over and over how much I love them, that I love them even when I'm cross with them. I've said I'm sorry for shouting and I've told them that Mummy doesn't always get it right. What am I to do when they are impossible? I know, not shout. Not throw the towel on the floor. 

Sigh. I need to pull myself together. I know that she's six, and perhaps she doesn't understand the power of her words, but nevertheless, they broke my heart. I know the difference between conviction and condemnation and I'm still working on which this is. Both, perhaps. I know that I should have had more self control, more patience, more kindness. But I love my girls to the end of the world. I have never, ever, felt like such a complete failure as a mother.

She told me that she didn't think I loved her. 

I have tears welling up just thinking about it. 

So after a terrible evening full of tears and worries and regrets I went to bed. Best thing to do. I read a bit of a book by Max Lucado about Easter. It's called He Chose the Nails: What God did to win your heart. It has a chapter in it that tells a story of a young girl who turns away from her father to go her own way. It speaks about rebellion and how we have all at some point rejected your love. 

It made me think.  

Now, this is where I don't know if you spoke to me through the few pages of this book that I read last night, or if my imagination was working overtime, or if I'm even making any sense, really, but it occurred to me that I might have hurt you just like Lizzie hurt me. 

Have I ever told you, 'It doesn't feel as if you love me?' 

All the time. 

Recently, I've been asking (or rather, not asking, as I haven't really been talking to you that much, have I?) whether you love me enough to look after my Katy. I've wondered if I can trust you if 'your will' might not be to my liking. After all, you do allow people to die, don't you? People who love you lose people they love, don't they? Bad things happen to good people, don't they? 

So I know that I have doubted your love. Perhaps I never stamped my foot or wrote you a hurtful little note, but you knew it was in my heart. 

'It doesn't feel as if you love me.'

Sometimes, it doesn't. 

But, like me with my beautiful little girl, maybe it doesn't mean that you don't. 

So what is there to say? 

Lord, I don't know if this analogy goes any further; Lizzie and Katy had been badly behaved at bedtime and I lost my temper. I don't think that you're punishing me for something with all the stuff that I have on my plate at the moment. Health issues, Katy's health issues, (and now Lizzie's health issues, as she's been home today with gastro-enteritis, poor love). Yesterday I had done some nice things for people. I'd been helpful and thoughtful and done my best. I wasn't looking for a disaster at bedtime. Katy's been having nightmares and I'm a bit sleep deprived. I was vulnerable and I lost control and it all went wrong. 

Lizzie didn't feel like I loved her. 

Poor darling. I do. I do. I love her so, so much. But life doesn't always permit me to smile and let it go. Her behaviour was terrible. I shouldn't have shouted, but I didn't deserve that little note, did I?  

I don't always feel as if you love me. 

Are you saying, 'I do. I do. I love you so, so much'?  Do I have the power to hurt you, God? 

I'm so sorry. You shower me with blessings and I doubt that you love me. Things don't go my way and so I become petulant and spiteful. I might wrap it up with more sophisticated phraseology but what I mean is, 

Sometimes I don't feel as if you love me.

I know that you do. I just want to feel it more. I like feelings. I like it when I feel you smile at me. I like it when things go my way. 

Elizabeth likes those things too, and I love to give them to her. There's nothing I love more than to see her happy little face and feel her affection and make her happy. There really isn't. But she's unlikely to get them when she's naughty. 

Now I don't mean that I'm proud of the shouting and the towel flinging and the angry face because I'm not. It wasn't good. But I wonder if I'm just as bad. 

Father, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for hurting my little girl and I'm sorry for hurting you. 

Make it alright, will you, Lord? Please? 

I wrote Elizabeth a note last night. I said I'm sorry that we were cross with each other and I'm sorry I shouted. I said I'm sorry she didn't feel I loved her but that I do love her so, so much. She didn't mention it but I know that she read it. Today I spent much of the day with my arms wrapped round her as she felt poorly. I held her when she was sick and I sat with her when she was in the bathroom ill with cramps. I have stroked her hair and read stories and kissed her over and over. I would go to the end of the earth for her. 

You sit with me when I cry in my sleep. You give me strength to wait for my daughter when she is in surgery. You have touched me with love when I needed it most. I shouldn't doubt you. 

Lizzie knows that I love her. I'm sure she does. I will try harder to make sure that she doesn't doubt it.

I know that you love me. I'm sorry if I hurt you. If it was anything like that note last night it hurt an awful lot. 

I have forgiven Lizzie.

I hope that she has forgiven me. 

Forgive me. 

Thankyou for second chances. And the ones after that. 

Heal us, Lord. Heal us when we hurt each other. 

Amen.

The weight of unforgiveness

Here's something that happened to me.

I know someone who is an atheist and pretty outspoken and aggressive in his views. It's not the only thing he and I disagree on, and over the years we've got better at managing our differences than we used to be.  I should say at this point that we do have much in common and for the majority of the time we spend together, we enjoy each other's company and have a great time. Our families get on really well too.  However, when we do find ourselves in conflict he's not known for pulling his punches. 

On Palm Sunday when he was visiting with his family he shocked me with an attack on what I believe, and was very personal and vicious in what he said. He also made really offensive comments about my friends. At the time I was so taken aback that I made very little defence; I was so astonished that I left the room in silence. Normally I'm pretty quick with words but I have to say that over recent years I haven't had to respond to a situation where I've been directly insulted so vehemently and so I was well out of practice.

Some time later he and his family left for home and I found that although I managed to act pretty normally, this time he'd hurt me on a much deeper level than all the other times that he'd put over his views in a less than tactful way.  He'd damaged the heart of me; the most precious thing in my life. I couldn't get it out of my head.  I was furious at what he'd said and bewildered as to why on earth he would have said it when he knew full well that it would upset me. I had told him he was being offensive and he replied that he knew he was, he was trying to be.  I was deeply upset that he would want to hurt me, and I was frustrated and angry at myself that I hadn't said much.  Over the following days I went over and over it in my head, each time thinking of things that I should have said back to him.  Things that were cutting, defensive, assertive or just downright nasty in return.  I hated what he'd said, and found myself hating him too.  I resented his words and his attitudes and the fact that he was enjoying my hospitality while he said them.  I felt guilty that I hadn't been quick enough to defend my friends as I felt I should have.  I was consumed by the fact that he'd really managed to penetrate my defences this time in a way that he never has before in many many years. I considered phoning him up to continue this nightmarish conversation and get in a few barbs of my own but Thankyou God!  I decided against it.  I doubt very much whether it would have helped.

So it went on. It made me cry, it made me sad and it made me angry every time I thought about it. It was on my mind as I tried to sleep and when I woke up and it kept coming back to me all week.  I couldn't get it out of my head.

On Easter Sunday night I came to the Songs of Praise service at Church and felt the presence of the Holy Spirit very strongly. It was a wonderful evening and I was loving the chance to worship and dwell on God's love and what he did for us that first Easter.  It was a happy time. Then Ruth stood up and said that she wondered if anyone present felt that there was a stone that needed rolling away in their life; something that was blocking the way, something too heavy to move on our own. I considered this for a moment or two and very quickly this person and his hate-fllled words came to mind.  I knew because of an immediate and powerful emotional response in me that God was speaking to me and so I went forward, prayed and told Ruth in a few words what was going on. 

I said, 'I think I need to forgive.'  

She gave me some words to say to forgive him, assured me that it had happened and anointed me with oil, prayed for me, and I sat down again.

It was simple; the next day was the first day in a week where his words weren't going round in my head. I was no longer planning responses and hating that I hadn't been quick enough to say them. 

I felt lighter. 

I had space in my head again, rather than the dark, heavy unhappiness and resentment that I'd been picking apart and feeding. I felt freed from my anger and hatred and guilt and although I still feel sad that it happened, and more aware than ever of his bitterness, I don't hate him for what he said and I know that next time he comes to visit I'll be able to welcome him in the same way I always have. The memory of it hasn't disappeared but it doesn't pack such a punch any more.  I realise that I love him and he needs my prayers, not my own hate-filled response.

You did a wonderful thing for me, Lord God. A small thing but a huge thing, all the same.  

It was damaging me - he was unaware of the devastation he left behind.  I wonder if he would have been surprised, or amused, or perhaps even sorry to have cut so deep?  But whatever his response, it would not so much have scratched the surface of the situation as it really was.  He would be incapable of understanding. Yes, I needed to forgive him for the sake of our relationship.  Yes, I needed to forgive him so that I could shed the load of bitterness and hurt, but most importantly I had to forgive him because you told me to. 

"Forgive us our sins, as we forgive those who sin against us." 

It doesn't get any clearer than that.

Lord God, my Heavenly Father, who forgives so much more than I will ever have to, thankyou that I stand forgiven. 

Show me if there are any other areas in my life that need your special touch; if there are other people or situations that I need to let go of and give to you as you taught me this Easter.  Teach me to forgive as a matter of course; to forget and to keep on loving as you do, even though it sometimes hurts.  

Thankyou that you showed me the weight and shape and colour of unforgiveness because in this tiny way I have taken another step towards understanding what you did for me on the cross. 

What an Easter present you gave me this year.   

You rolled the stone away

I'm hurt and I want to hurt back

I am wounded and I lick my wounds

I am bitter and resentful

and full of anger.

How hard it is to forgive

Even though I am forgiven

I find that I don't want to let go

Of all the bitterness inside.

It's somehow easier to hold the hatred

in my hand and examine it closely

Each day to take it out again 

and turn it over and over

To think and reframe and analyse

To plan the nasty retorts

and counter attacks and volleys

of putdowns and missiles of my own.

But you tell me to lay it down

to put it at your feet 

to give it all to you and back away

leaving it there in front of you.

You want me to be free of the hardness

and hurting and scowling -

the darkness and hatefulness and spite

to let the breeze of your spirit blow through me.

To stop clenching and holding the hurt

to stop brooding and probing

but open my fists and allow you 

to take it from the palm of my hand.

So I lay my anger at your throne

take doubtful steps backwards

but I itch to take it up again

to snatch it back so that I can plot revenge

In words or deeds or thoughts

Just to be even, to stick up for myself

Not to be a victim, hurt, defeated - 

Why do I care so much?

You tell me I am different

I don't need to win.

Leave it with you

The battle is not mine but yours

So here it is.

The hurt and the anger and the resentment

I lay it before you

Have it. Take it away

I don't want it any more

I don't want my hands to be so full of rubbish

that I can't hold the gift you want to give me;

my forgiveness. 

For I need to forgive

as you have forgiven me

and suddenly it is clear

I need to find a way to let it go.

Because you forgave me. 

You died for me when I didn't care

I hurt you far more than I am hurt

Yet you go on forgiving.

So I give up my rage

and you take it from me

I say 'I forgive'

and you help me keep my word.

It turns out I don't miss the hatred

and the bitterness I was gripping

so tightly that my knuckles were white

I don't miss it at all.

Where it was is light and open and bright

in red and orange and yellow and green and blue

instead of black and grey and brown

There's warmth and sun instead of hard and cold.

A small transaction 

And they will never know it

Not that they would understand if they did

Or care the slightest bit.

But for me it is a gift

Another blessing from my God

who teaches me to live my life

differently.

Thankyou for helping me forgive.

It was a big thing for me.

I had no idea how big

but you knew.