The road less travelled

Lost again. Where am I?

Father God, I am always asking you for directions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stop. Is that alright?

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

Enough.

I want to take the road less travelled. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We'll go somewhere, me and you.

Carpet diem: back again

Dear God,

Hello. I wrote this more than a year ago but it's been in my head since I was nobbut a bairn. Recently it's been very real to me; in fact I start taking a metaphor further and further and I've started describing how I feel to a friend in terms of carpets - threadbare, or deep pile, and so on...this is what I mean:

Updated from 20 January 2011

Here's this thing that I thought up when I was little, and I still love it today. It comes to mind so often that I've had chance to colour it in and embroider it many times over the years.

Last night at home group we discussed how we saw life; a rollercoaster, a journey, a test...and so on. I wasn't sure I had a picture of what life is like, but I was fascinated by other people's ideas. It seems that so many of us think in metaphors. It came to me much later yesterday evening when we'd changed subject that I did have an idea, and it was the one that'd been with me since I was small. I didn't immediately realise it because it's been part of the texture of life for so long.

It's this: life is like kicking a carpet.  Bear with me. 

There's this roll of carpet - only about two or three feet wide, sort of like a stair carpet, that I unroll ahead of me as I walk along. Everyone has one. There's some artistic licence here as the carpet never gets any smaller and doesn't start out that big, it sort of magically unrolls in front of me in a CGI sort of way. I do have to put some effort in but it's not actually as hard as actually kicking an actual carpet, if you see what I mean. How hard it is seems to vary a bit. I've had a go at unrolling carpet in my house once or twice and it's not like that. It comes naturally. It's living. 

I suppose you think I'm off my rocker.  Still, I shall press on...

Life is a carpet
Just got to unroll it

So this carpet has a pattern and everyone's pattern is different - my own is very familiar, even when the pattern changes as it does at different times in life.  Sometimes it's a brightly coloured, cheerful, intricate pattern, and at other times it's dull, muted, made of dark colours or plain with blocks of different shades.  Sometimes it even has strands of gold and silver in it, like shining threads. Sometimes the pattern has a symmetry, sometimes it's muddled up and abstract. Sometimes I like it, sometimes I don't.  Likewise the weave of the carpet varies - for a time it's thick, lush and rich in it's pile, and then later worn, threadbare, sparse.  Smooth and then knobbly.  Silky and bristly. Sometimes my toes luxuriate in the softness and warmth and other times it hurts my feet. As I go through life the carpet changes from day to day, hour to hour, and yet I keep going, kicking it along in front of me. I can do this without breaking stride.  

There are times when I'm running, even dancing along, full of songs and laughter, and the carpet is unrolling effortlessly. Other times when I'm plodding, trudging with my head down watching the way the tears make little dark marks as I walk, and those times keeping it moving in front of me seems almost impossible, but I carry on. I can never see where I'm going; it's as if I'm unrolling my carpet through space - three dimensional space, where there are ups and downs - uphills and downhills.  Bits of the journey are brightly lit and other bits so shadowy that I can barely make out the shape of my feet on my carpet. 

The destination is unknown but I keep walking towards it. There's no stopping; there's no choice. Keep going, keep going. 

It will be worth it when I get there.

The interesting thing is that I'm not alone during this walk - I can see other people unrolling their carpets, too. Everyone in the world has a carpet. Some are in the distance - a long long way away, and they're obscured, blurry - I can't see much of their carpet so I don't know what colours or patterns they have; I just get a glimpse.  These are the people who I might encounter for a brief moment.  Sitting on a train whooshing past and then I glimpse someone walking their dog in a field beside the track. Driving past someone in a window of a house. They're the people who come in to view for a second and then they're out of sight.  I see a stranger and wonder about their life - who are they? What are they worried about? Are they happy?  Their carpet comes near mine just for a moment and then they're gone and I never know. Other people come alongside for a while - they walk alongside me for a time, or we meet and we overlap, and then they're gone in a different direction. Sometimes I see the same person back again. Sometimes I know that I've seen them before but can't place where...

Then in this journey I'm on, one or two people kick their carpets along with me. They're alongside, and they stay there.  Their carpet is so close that the edges of theirs and mine touch - sometimes they're so close that the edges wrinkle up against each other making a ridge.  But there might be a special person whose carpet fits mine perfectly. You're pretty much in step.  The weave and pattern on the carpets side by side are synchronised with each other. Sometimes you can't tell where your carpet ends and theirs starts, and sometimes they look very different. Sometimes they leave me behind and I struggle to catch up, and sometimes they're dawdling when I want to skip. But they're parallel with me. 

There's a special sort of blessing in a carpet buddy. Because their carpet looks and feels so much like mine communication is easy. There's an understanding. They look down and see what I see. They know when the going is heavy and when I'm flying. It's as if they can reach across to me and help me with the weight of my carpet as I unroll it. They can point out the finest of bright threads in the weave when I can see only darkness. Sometimes their presence alongside me brings light to show me there's beauty in the pattern when I've been unable to see. A carpet buddy is a very special gift. Thankyou so much for mine.

Occasionally it seems as if someone's carpet is nicer than mine.  They seem to have an easier time getting theirs to unroll. Their pattern seems brighter, prettier, more interesting. It seems thicker, nicer to walk on. Likewise, sometimes other people's carpets appear inferior to mine; I'm glad I'm on my carpet and not theirs. I can't swap - I can't even step off mine onto theirs - so I can never really tell what it's like on their carpet, and they can't possibly know what it feels like to be on mine. 

Now and again I notice that someone I was used to travelling with isn't there any more. I'm so used to seeing them there but one day I realise that they're gone. Their carpet has run out. I know it has gone but I still can't tell what's at the end. I look back and crane my neck but the carpet just ends in space. I don't know what happens to the person kicking it along as I never seem to witness the exact moment it ends, I just see that it is no longer unravelling. What happened to the person whose carpet it was? Did they realise that it was going to end when it did? Maybe they noticed that the carpet was finally getting smaller?  Maybe it just vanished.  Then what?  I don't know.  Haven't got this bit figured out in my little fantasy. Neither do I know what's at the end of mine - or when it might end.  It seems to me that there's plenty of carpet left at the moment... who knows, but you?

But I imagine. 

I think the end of the carpet might be quite ornate - like something fantastic and awe inspiring from a  Renaissance tapestry.  Or maybe just a bit of brocade and a tassle.  Or it gets thinner and thinner until it's no longer there.  

But it's what happens when I finally step off the carpet that I want to know about. I know it's not thin air - there'll be ground beneath my feet that is more solid than it has ever been when I've been unrolling my carpet through space. Maybe I'll no longer walk but jump and fly...maybe I'll have a grace that I never had in my life... maybe there'll be a pattern that is so beautiful that it defies description.   

My imagination isn't big enough.

So that's life. It's a journey, yes.  It goes up and down like a rollercoaster, yes.  I sometimes feel I'm in a race, yes. But it's a carpet, unrolling, unrolling. Inexorably leading me somewhere. 

A beautiful, unique carpet that only I can walk on. I've got to keep it going. 

Till one day it will stop. In a heartbeat. Done. 

And then I'll know what's beyond the carpet.  It's going to be amazing. 

You're beautiful

Hello, God.

It's getting busy now; all the Christmas things. Tomorrow we've got people coming to visit and I am a blur as I seek to get all the housework done that I put off on a day to day basis. A fairly grumpy blur, if the truth be known, as I don't like dusting, cleaning, vacuuming, tidying. It wouldn't be half such an onerous job if I did a little bit more a little more often but hey. There's always something better to do. 

In amid the list making, rushing about and planning of the last few days you have sent me some little gems, Lord.  A few things recently that have made me smile; even brought tears to my eye. Things that have comforted, encouraged, inspired. Gifts from you.  

I have so much to be thankful for.

On Friday I went to a wedding. I love weddings at the best of times but this was special. It didn't matter one bit that outside the weather was freezing and sleet was pelting down sideways.  Our lovely church was full, the flowers were so pretty, it was beautifully organised, the music lovely, the singing raised the roof. The bride looked gorgeous, the vows were heartfelt and emotional and the pride and love on the groom's face as he walked down the aisle with his new wife on his arm made my eyes fill up all over again. All those things were lovely but the most overwhelming thing was that you were there. You, who enjoyed a good wedding enough to turn water into wine, of course you'd be there. The two young people getting married know you and love you and made sure that you were invited. Not that you wouldn't have turned up anyway, because you love them - but you filled the place. The wedding was an offering to you and it felt to me as if you were smiling with pleasure and raining down blessings. 

Relatives and friends and many of our church were there and it felt as if the bride and groom were held tightly in the love of their family. It was just lovely. Lovely is too boring a word. 

And something else happened for me. The final hymn was a song I'd never heard before and it blew me away. You really spoke to me through it. It has a wonderful melody line which has been in my mind constantly since then, and the words are so powerful.

You're Beautiful: Phil Wickham (2007)

I see your face in every sunrise

The colours of the morning are inside your eyes

The world awakens to the light of the day

I look up to the sky and say

You're beautiful.

Lord God, this year I have learned so much. So much about myself, so much about you. I have learned that you are all around me and I just need eyes to see. This song reminded me straight away about the times I saw the sun rise on holiday this year on the east coast and the way that the light changed moment by moment, from glory to glory. (Finding a spacious place).

I saw you in the sunrise just as the writer of this song did. I look at the majesty and subtlety and wonder of the sun emerging over the sea and I am looking into the eyes of the Lord. My God, you're beautiful. 

I see your power in the moonlit night

Where planets are in motion and galaxies are bright

We are amazed at the light of the stars

It's all proclaiming who you are

You're beautiful.

.

I saw that too. 

I lay on my back with Bryan on the same holiday and we saw the Milky Way in a clear and unpolluted night sky and I was amazed indeed. (The skies proclaim your handiwork.) There were more stars than I've ever seen. You put every one of them there and it was breathtaking. Awe-inspiringly beautiful. This song was meant for me, wasn't it?

I see you there hanging on a tree

You bled and then you died and then you rose again for me

Now you are sitting on your heavenly throne

And soon we will be coming home

You're beautiful.

Lord at Easter I was struck in a new way with the enormity of what you did for me. It was very powerful and it knocked me for six. (The weight of the world) and (How marvellous, how wonderful). I was amazed at what I saw for the first time about what you did. For me. For me. You didn't have to but you did, because you loved me. I sat here at my computer and I tried desperately to make words describe what you were doing in my heart pretty much as I am now, and failed, I suppose, pretty much as I am now, because it's too big a thing. It's too hard to express it adequately when God says something to you. When the Lord of creation tells you that he died for you because he loves you so much there aren't words for it. 

And then came the last verse of Phil Wickham's beautiful song and I choked up again.

When we arrive at eternity's shore

Where death is just a memory and tears are no more

We'll enter in as the wedding bells ring

Your bride will come together and we'll sing

You're beautiful.

I think this is the song of my year, Lord. It sums up so much of what I've thought and felt. It's been a special time for me. You've given me the odd glimpse of the hope I have in the last few months and although I'm just a small child with such an incredible long way to go you've been gracious enough to encourage me with tiny glimpses of the promise that I have in you. (The place where beauty comes from). Lord God, I've said it before; I give you so little and you give me so much back. 

I find this last verse spine tingling. You have grown in my heart this year a real longing to know you. To notice you and to see you and hear you and experience you and reflect you and tell people about you. This little thing that's growing - it's small and incomplete and faulty and quite often gets drowned out by much less lofty desires but you've planted a seed and I am stooped over it, protectively, trying to give it water and light and help it to grow into something. I want it to, honestly.  

A little devotional reading on my iPhone the other night told me of an alpine plant that has a tiny, tiny flower, yet three feet of root to anchor it into shallow soil and reach between rocks to make it safe from strong winds and erosion and yet supply it with the nutrients it needs to survive and bloom. Lord, make me like that plant. Sometimes I can find rich, hearty soil but sometimes I find myself without any depth to reach into. Sometimes I find that I'm blowing in the wind and in danger of becoming uprooted but I'm hanging on. Give me three feet of root, Father God, even when beneath me is just rock. Even if my flower is minuscule, help me to blossom and show the beauty you've given me even if no-one is around to see. 

My devotional goes on to say that meditating on your word, and learning to appreciate your presence in the world around us is how we can put down longer and firmer roots. To anchor ourselves in you. 

I have such a long way to go, Lord, but you've been showing me all this, this year, haven't you? (The sacred that surrounds us). I hear songs like 'You're beautiful' and I read about meditation and opening my eyes to see you and hear you around me and I have come to recognise that I can see you. I so often shut you out because my vision is narrow and selfish but I can, when you help me, take a long look at the wonder of you. 

Lord what a loving God you are. You made me how I am and you know how much I like symmetry; how much I like things to be complete and orderly. You know how bad I am at listening to you and yet you've placed in my heart a little spark of something that delights me and leads me closer to you. You've sent me so many little gems this year; so many new ideas and glimpses and you've been patient enough to reinforce each one and send me reminders in so many ways. In books, in devotionals, through friends, sermons and the things I find around me. You've made connections where there were none and have fed and watered the little seed that you planted.

It is just wonderful, Father. 'You're Beautiful' doesn't begin to cover it, but I offer you what I can. What I have. Thankyou. 

Just as the young couple on Friday left the church to start their life together, I feel I've set out on a journey with you this year. I've taken some steps and it feels as if this trip could last a lifetime. I have no idea how long that might be, but I'm limbering up for the next leg of the journey. 

I love it. 

I don't know where you're taking me

Father God, I have no idea what you are doing in my life this year - all I know is that the year is barely half over and I have been to the top and bottom of my emotions already. I have been in wonder at the things I'm learning and had glimpses of you that I will treasure for a lifetime. I have been lower than I've ever been and felt so lost and so cut off from you that it was hard to breathe and I didn't have the first idea what to do. 

I am on some sort of fast-track to a different place and I don't know where you're taking me. All I know is that I am hanging on and I have more faith that you will take care of me than I had at the beginning of the year. I am not as wildly enthusiastic as I was a few months ago; more cautious. I am tired but I am not defeated; I am humbled and I have a better idea of the extent of the forgiveness that I have received. It's only a step forward - I have such a long way to go. 

So all this time life goes on. We saw Katy's consultant the other day and he's talked to the other consultants involved in her treatment and they've decided that the best way to proceed now is to operate again to try and excise all of her bump.  Since it's come back and they've finally made a diagnosis they've been talking about several possible treatment plans and every route to take has had potential problems. Long term drug therapy might result in damage to Kate's eyes or to her liver. Further surgery is problematic as her tumour is wrapped around one nerve and close to another two, but this is the preferred option. 

So they've told us that her surgery might take 2-3 hours and to be prepared for a hospital stay of 3-4 days. It's more involved than last time. If it recurs I'm told that there's no option but to explore drug therapy with or without its side effects. 

Lord, here I go again.  My little girl is going to have another ride on a bed, another needle in her hand, another anaesthetic, more painkillers, more dressing changes. This time the consultant tells me that she won't need to have a wound packed as he'll close it with a line of sutures.  He tells me that she won't need to have her stitches out as he'll use dissolvable ones. He tells me that it'll heal quickly because the bacterium will have gone. After all, her surgery was on 3 June and it's now the end of July and her last surgical wound hasn't healed yet because of the little bug that has beset us.

I can feel a knot in my stomach when I talk about it although her surgery date is still a couple of weeks away. I can feel myself start to get anxious and I remember the anguish of walking away from her as she slept in the anaesthetic room all over again. I'm not looking forward to it. Please take care of my Katy, Father God. I know that you will. I know that you will watch over her and over all of us. Any chance that you could do something miraculous before then so that surgery isn't necessary? 

How do I find the faith that can move mountains, so that such faith might move her bump?

So life goes on. We're in London at the moment and tomorrow we're going to have a day in London; the children are so excited. Katy doesn't need her horrid medicines any more so that's a good thing. We're going to meet up with some family and go to see dinosaurs in the museums, and see where Daddy works and go to the park and maybe a ride on the river. The children just love being down here. It's almost worth the long drive down the M1 with the children asking, 'Are we nearly there yet?' every thirty seconds. 

Are we nearly there yet, Lord?  Am I nearly there?  I can't tell because I don't know where you're taking me. I might have a long way to go or I might be nearly there; I guess there's a long way because every day I have a better idea of how far I am from the person you want me to be.

But I'm learning. I want to move on. I still want to be some use to you. It's joyful and painful and amazing. Every time you bring me through something, I understand a tiny bit more. Only a tiny bit. Another bit of the jigsaw is in place - but it's a big, big puzzle, isn't it?  A lifetime's work. 

I can't even begin to see the picture yet, I know that you can, and I know that if you've made it, then it's a beautiful, matchless, awe-inspiring picture. 

It's a privilege to be part of it. 

Carpet diem

Here's this thing that I thought up when I was little, and I still love it today. It comes to mind so often that I've had chance to colour it in and embroider it many times over the years.

Last night at home group we discussed how we saw life; a rollercoaster, a journey, a test...and so on. I wasn't sure I had a picture of what life is like, but I was fascinated by other people's ideas. It came to me much later yesterday evening when we'd changed subject that I did have an idea, and it was the one that'd been with me since I was small.

It's this: life is like kicking a carpet.  Bear with me. 

There's this roll of carpet - only about two or three feet wide, sort of like a stair carpet, that you unroll ahead of you as you walk along. There's some artistic licence here as the carpet never gets any smaller and doesn't start out that big, it sort of magically unrolls in front of you. You do have to put some effort in but it's not actually as hard as actually kicking an actual carpet, if you see what I mean. 

I suppose you think I'm off my rocker.  Still, I shall press on...

So this carpet has a pattern and everyone's pattern is different - your own is very familiar, even when the pattern changes as it does at different times in life.  Sometimes it's brightly coloured, cheerful, intricate pattern, and at other times dull, muted or dark colours or plain with blocks of different shades.  Sometimes it even had strands of gold and silver in it, like shining threads. Sometimes the pattern has a symmetry, sometimes it's muddled up and abstract. Sometimes you like it, sometimes you don't.  Likewise the weave of the carpet varies - for a time it's thick, lush and rich in it's pile, and then later worn, threadbare, sparse.  Smooth and then knobbly.  Silky and bristly. As you go through life the carpet changes from day to day, hour to hour, and yet you keep going, kicking it along in front of you. You can do this without breaking stride.  (There's that licence again).

There are times when you're running, dancing along, and the carpet is unrolling effortlessly, times when you're plodding, trudging with head down, and those times keeping it moving in front of you seems almost impossible, but you carry on. You can never see where you're going; it's as if you're unrolling your carpet through space - three dimensional space, where there are ups and downs - uphills and downhills.  Bits of the journey are brightly lit and other bits so shadowy that you can barely make out the shape of your feet on the your carpet. 

The destination is unknown but you keep walking towards it. It will be worth it when you get there.

The interesting thing is that you're not alone during this walk - you can see other people unrolling their carpets, too. Everyone in the world has a carpet. Some are in the distance - a long long way away, and they're obscured, blurry - you can't see much of their carpet so you don't know what colours or patterns they have; you just get a glimpse.  These are the people who you might encounter for a brief moment.  Have you ever sat on a train and seen someone walking their dog in a field alongside the track? Or driven past someone in a window of a house? They're the people who come in to view for a second.  You see a stranger and wonder about their life - who are they? What are they worried about? Are they happy?  Their carpet comes near yours just for a moment and then they're gone and you never know. Other people come alongside for a while - they walk alongside you for a time, or they meet you and overlap, and then they're gone in a different direction.   (The analogy sort of comes unstuck in places as in this flight of fancy you can turn corners more easily than you'd be able to if you actually were unrolling a carpet).  Sometimes you see the same person back again. 

Then in this journey you're on, one or two people kick their carpets along with you. They're alongside, and they stay there.  Their carpet is so close that the edges of theirs and yours touch - sometimes they're so close that the edges wrinkle up against each other making a ridge.  But there might be a special person whose carpet fits yours perfectly. You're pretty much in step.  The weave and pattern on the carpets side by side are synchronised with each other. Sometimes you can't tell where your carpet ends and theirs starts, and sometimes they look very different. Sometimes they leave you behind and you struggle to catch up, and sometimes they're dawdling when you want to skip. But they're parallel with you.

Occasionally it seems as if someone's carpet is nicer than yours.  They seem to have an easier time getting theirs to unroll. The pattern is brighter or more to your taste. It seems thicker, nicer to walk on. Likewise, sometimes other people's carpets appear inferior to yours; you're glad you're on your carpet and not theirs. You can't swap - you can't even step off yours onto theirs - so you can never really tell what it's like on their carpet, and they can't know what it feels like to be on yours. 

Now and again you notice that someone you were used to travelling with isn't there any more. You're so used to seeing them there but one day you realise that they're gone. Their carpet has run out. You know it has gone but you still can't tell what's at the end. You look back and the carpet just ends in space. I don't know what happens to the person kicking it along as you never seem to witness the exact moment it ends, you just see that it is no longer unravelling. What happened to the person whose carpet it was? Did they realise that it was going to end when it did? Maybe they noticed that the carpet was finally getting smaller?  Maybe it just vanished.  Then what?  I don't know.  Haven't got this bit figured out in my little fantasy. Neither do I know what's at the end of mine - or when it might end.  It seems to me that there's plenty of carpet left at the moment...

But I think the end of the carpet might be quite ornate - like something fantastic and awe inspiring from a  Renaissance tapestry.  Or maybe just a bit of brocade and a tassle.  Or it gets thinner and thinner until it's no longer there.  But it's what happens when you finally step off the carpet that I want to know about. I know it's not thin air - there'll be ground beneath my feet that is more solid than it has ever been when I've been unrolling my carpet through space. Maybe there'll be a pattern that is so beautiful that it defies description; or maybe I'll no longer walk but jump and fly!  

My imagination isn't big enough.

So that's life. It's a journey, yes.  It goes up and down like a rollercoaster, yes.  I sometimes feel I'm in a race, yes. But it's a carpet, unrolling, unrolling. A beautiful, unique carpet that only I can walk on. I've got to keep it going. 

Till one day it will stop. In a heartbeat. Done. 

And then I'll know what's beyond the carpet.  It's going to be amazing.