Washing my spirit clean

Good morning, Lord.

I have a diary. You see, there are all these days and I need to keep track of them. No sooner one finishes than another starts and I hate just letting them slip away without being marked. 

Actually, I have several diaries. I have a calendar in the kitchen for dates and arrangements; one of those with four columns so that I can keep track of the children's social lives as well as my own. On the whole, they're doing better than me, but since any event in their column also has to go in mine, I look pretty busy. 

That calendar isn't very portable, so I have a little diary that I transfer from handbag to handbag which has a copy of the important stuff so that I can flip efficiently through it when scheduling something and say, 'Sorry, can't do Wednesday, I'm at Little Monkeys Play Centre from four till six...' and so on. The problem with this is that I found that appointments from the calendar didn't make it into the diary and vice versa, which just made life even more complicated than it was before. So the small diary languishes redundant.

And then there are other diaries. Electronic ones that I can never be bothered to programme. My prayer journal where I chat with you about my day, flap about what might be and work through what might have been. There's my 'Happy Book' where I write down anecdotes, answered prayers, good things that happen and funny things the kids say. There's my lovely desk calendar with a picture and a scriptural quotation for me to take into the day. 

And then there's my Beautiful Diary. 

I'm not sure what to call this one. It's a gorgeous thing to behold; a large square thing full of wonderful full page photographs so beautiful is perhaps the best word. 

It's from the John Muir Trust, promoting its work in wild land conservation. The photos are by some of the best wildlife and landscape photographers in the country and they are honestly amazing. 

From the preface, by John Beatty:

'In March 1867 John Muir suffered a serious accident that caused him to be completely blind for several months, believing he may never recover his sight. The subsequent return of his sight was an epiphany in his life that led to a lifelong commitment to experience the natural world. 

He wandered for years in the wilds absorbing the richness of all life forms, seeing the world with increased intensity, reflecting its wonders through the written word.' 

I stood with this beautiful book in my hands in the shop and read about John Muir and his appreciation of the natural world and I thought, 'Yes.' 

I want to do that. I want to notice, and record, and give thanks. 

I decided to buy this diary and write in it every day, but not use it for appointments at all. Each day I make a note of a glimpse of you that happened that day. Some days I see you everywhere and I have lots to write and there are other days when I'm so wrapped up and inward looking that I've missed you completely. I know that you were no less there all around me on those days, and I'm starting to see the correlation between my 'What can I write today?' days and my prevailing mood. 

One day there was a buzzard in the garden; a big majestic looking bird with a bright yellow eye and big claws. Another day it was the way the low morning sun shone golden on the church clock as we walked past on the way to school. Early this year we saw tiny shiny ice crystals on the car roof, and the other evening the sunset between storm clouds lit the world up in orange and purple. 

Other days it's different; it might be me on my own in the car with the music turned up so, so loud, singing along to Phil Wickham:

'I give you all my life, I'm letting it go
A living sacrifice, no longer my own
All I am is yours, all I am is yours...

It might be a special hour over coffee with a friend, but you're right there with us, because we meet in your name. It might be holding hands with my daughter on the way to school, holding hands with my husband on the sofa in front of a film or holding hands with you as I realise all over again that I can't do any of it without you.

Ann Voskamp wrote down A Thousand Gifts and people all over the world are inspired and making their lists. I know that if I write one thing a day I'll only have 365 in a year, but it's a start. I'm adding between the pages little things that I want to remember; a note from one of the children or a page from the desk calendar with a scripture that jumped at me. I'm making a year of Thank Yous.

John Muir wrote:

'...keep close to nature's heart...and break clear away, once in a while, and climb a mountain or spend a week in the woods. Wash your spirit clean.'

I would so love to disappear off into the wilderness once in a while. I used to be afraid of silence but now I long for it. To stop the hamster-wheel and find a remote little windswept cottage on an island in the Hebrides, perhaps, just me and a kettle and my journal and some custard creams. And my computer. (And an internet connection...ha!... alright, just a notebook!) But to find solitude. No noise but the wind and the birds. Peace, quiet. Undisturbed nature. Sky and landscape and freedom and air to breathe. To wash my spirit clean.

Not so fussed about climbing a mountain.

So in the absence of such an opportunity I want to make a note of the moments that allow my soul to breathe, even if only for a moment. 

I want to see them, appreciate them, savour them and store them up for the times when I can't remember how it feels. Because I can't just disappear into the wilderness for years like Mr Muir, I want to pin down and bottle the bits of you that come my way so that I can take off the lid and inhale when the walls seem to close and claustrophobic. 

Waking up to the sound of birdsong.

Mist and sunshine on the moors.

Photograph memories of my girls as babies.

Two planes vapour trails crossing in the sky like a heavenly kiss.

Vanilla latte and a good friend. 

A sky full of stars.

Wonder on my daughter's face as we watch the sunset.

So this is my project, Lord. 

Give me eyes to see and ears to hear the wonders that you place in my path just because you are a God who delights to delight. 

Don't let me walk past the gifts that you give me. 

Please don't ever let my eyes be so focused on the dirt under my feet that I don't see the vastness and beauty of your creation. 

John Muir again:

'Everyone needs beauty as well as bread, places to play in and pray in, where Nature may heal and give strength to the body and soul.'

Amen. 

The John Muir Wild Nature Diary 2013, published by the John Muir Trust:

You are with me

Well, God. 

Been a busy few days, what with Jubilee things happening right, left and centre and the children on holiday. It's been a couple of days full of people and laughter and good things going on. It's been a happy time. I could go on and on about family - immediate family and church family and the wider church, or I could go on about the Queen and her sixty years of reign and how cold she looked on her barge on the Thames yesterday watching an endless flotilla with impressive dignity and stoicism despite the dismal weather.

But I won't. Or at least, I may well witter on about all those things at some point but there's one thing that happened in the last couple of days that stands out for me. It pressed all my buttons. It was only a little thing (actually, very small indeed) but it was a Big Thing for me. 

We were at the Jubilee picnic at church, which turned out to be a bit of an indoor event, thanks to incessant rain for an entire day, but at least we got to watch the events in London from the warmth of the church centre instead of a freezing boat in the middle of a river. I do admire the Queen. At no point was she seen with a Thermos or a thick blanket, and where the younger Royals were hopping from foot to foot and shivering she stood her ground with head held high. A bit of a grim expression from time to time, but she didn't knock off early and call it a day because she fancied a warm bath and a glass of wine. If a job's worth doing... Amazing stuff. 

Anyway. 

We watched some of the coverage indoors and we ate our picnics and we made bunting (how British is that?) and we painted faces and we did quizzes and we cheered on the little ones as they stumbled about in three legged races and the egg and spoon. When it came to the sack race, however, health and safety common sense dictated that we should brave the drizzle and nip outside so that the kids didn't fracture skulls on the wooden floors. So that's what we did. 

I didn't see any of the sack races at all, even though my own little girls took part in at least two races and had such a good time that they were full of it later. As they lined up at the starting line I went to stand under a tree to get a bit of shelter (didn't work, actually; the tree dripped on me) and there he was. 

A little tiny bird. Tiny. Little fledgeling. Sitting in the grass underneath the tree cheeping away at my feet.

Not sure what sort of little bird - bluetit, maybe. Someone suggested a chaffinch, but I think chaffinches are sort of pinky, aren't they? 

Well, you know what sort of little bird he was because not a sparrow falls without your knowledge, and I assume that counts for very small baby birds of undetermined species as well.  I think he must have fallen. He was small and damp and fluffy and had a very plaintive sort of cheep cheep in a small voice. 

He looked at me.

I wondered what to do. Knowing that there's no point in doing anything, really, if the poor little fella had fallen out of his nest then we busybody human beings can only make matters worse by interfering. Let him get on with it, maybe. Still, I stood next to him admiring him at my feet for a while indecisively. 

One of the teenagers picked him up and cradled him in his palm. The others came to admire him and he sat with a bit of a tremble and looked about him. Cheep cheep. Then the older kids' sack race was called and the boy looked about for someone to offload the little bird to. I held out my hand and the tiny little thing stepped onto it. He was so light that I couldn't feel any weight at all. Just his little cold toes and pointy little claws. He walked up my arm and settled in the crook of my elbow and there he stayed for a while. He looked around, he made the little cheep cheep sound that broke my heart as he called for his mummy. 

He was so beautiful. So tiny and so fragile. With his feathers all fluffed up he appeared at least five times bigger than he was, and still he was minute. His little eyes were bright and alert and he was taking everything in. He regarded me with a beady eye and I stared back at him. 

He was young enough not to be afraid of things he should be afraid of. I was soaking him up when he opened his little wings and flapped them in an unsynchronised sort of way. He didn't take off. He sort of jumped and fluttered and climbed his way up onto my shoulder where he sat for another few minutes before walking round the back of my neck to the other shoulder and eventually hop-fluttering onto the tree behind me. 

By this time my little friend had a small crowd of admirers. We took pictures and he posed for us beautifully. The rain got heavier, the sack races finished and we straggled back indoors for the quiz results and coffee and Jubilee buns. We left little beaky to cheep cheep for his mummy. Maybe she came and took him home. I don't really know how his story ended. I hope he was alright.

Here's the thing. A tiny little baby bird came to sit with me for ten minutes the other day. How often do wild birds come to say hello? How often do we get the chance to examine your astounding handiwork so closely? His tiny, tiny feathers in blues and greys and yellows. His little yellow beak. His bright little black eyes darting around. Sharp claws. No weight at all. He was absolutely beautiful. 

A breathtaking piece of nature in my hand. 

It was a piece of you. Even as I held his little feathered body I realised that it was the most special thing that was going to happen to me that day, even though it had been a great day. You know what? I was so pleased that this little bird chose me to walk about on for a few minutes. Me. 

It was a blessing from you.

I've decided it was a blessing from you. I know it was. I don't really know about random events, or the fact that I just happened to be the closest person when the senior boys sack race was called. I was just amazed and very glad that I got to hold him for a little while. It was a privilege. 

You were with me. 

You were there. Whether you were smiling down to see me open mouthed at your creation, or whether you sent a little bird to say 'Here I am - look at me!' or whether that little bird was a little bit of you to tell me 'I'm with you' at a time when I sort of need to hear it, I don't know. I don't know what or why or how, but I know you, my God, and I know that this was from you.

It doesn't matter to me if nobody else who was there would agree with me, but I know. I knew as he sat on my arm and when he fluttered his ungainly way onto the tree. It was a special moment. 

Thankyou. 

It was about his beauty and fragility and the strangeness of such a close encounter with wildlife, and it was about a little bit of unlikely trust that this amazing creature had in a few people who came close and said hello and marvelled at him. 

He was lovely. He made me think of you; it was an awe-inspiring few minutes. I'm sorry if I'm going on about it. 

I wonder where the little bird is now. I hope he was reunited with his family and I hope he got a good meal and a few more flying lessons before it was time for him to go it alone because he wasn't ready. But you know all that. You care about every feather on his back, because that's the kind of God you are. 

Thankyou for a few minutes on Sunday afternoon in a light drizzle underneath a tree while my children thundered about in wet grass and hessian sacks. 

Thankyou for the joy of children crossing the line in the egg and spoon race. 

Thankyou for the joy of sitting with a big group of brothers and sisters who just enjoy being together and sharing in your blessings. 

Thankyou for our Queen who has been steadfastly faithful to you despite a relentless job that must at times be very difficult indeed. 

Thankyou for red, white and blue bunting and iced buns and songs and nostalgia and for cold, wet days in June. 

Most of all, thankyou for the feel of tiny claws in my hand and the flutter of tiny wings as a small, wild bird climbed my arm onto my shoulder and made a cheeping sound.

Thankyou that you are with me. 

You are with me. 

Blessed on a Monday

I want to say something.

I like pine cones. I have two of them sitting in my fruit bowl (don't ask me why) and over the past week they've gone from fully closed to fully open with a beautiful symmetry,

I saw a bird of prey today. A big buzzard-like bird with a sharp looking curved beak and hooded yellow eyes and  big, strong looking wings. No idea what it was. I was driving at the time and didn't want to risk veering into a ditch or through a hedge so only got a fleeting glimpse. A glimpse is good, though.

Apples and pine cones

Today the clouds were huge and while and fluffy and lit from behind so that the edges were gilt and the sun's rays shone around them like a fan.

I had a cup of tea today in a teapot with an old fashioned knitted tea cosy on it. Kept it warm beautifully. I like tea cosies. The old ways are the best...

It was the first day back at school today after the Easter Holidays and both my girls skipped into school happily, full of tales of things we had done for their morning work books. I like it when they're happy. 

Elizabeth had a home made coloured wool hair slide entwined in her hair today and she felt pretty.  She looked so lovely. A boy-friend had brought her a present back from his holiday and she was in raptures. Her face was lit up. 

Katy's hair shone beautifully as she bent over her work in the classroom this morning. I waved goodbye through the window as I passed and she blew me a kiss. I like blowing kisses.

The sun shone today over the Derbyshire Dales as I drove on little country lanes past dry-stone walls and hedgerows in bud.

Good chats with a friend who understands me and shares so much of the ups and downs of life with me. Today I took some good advice and feel better for it. 

Late last night I remembered that I'd forgotten to water the seedlings in my greenhouse. Nipped out in the dark to water them in my dressing gown, flip-flops and woolly hat, accompanied by similarly attired husband to protect me from any aggressive badgers in the garden. Laughed a lot. 

Drove through Matlock and admired the silhouette of Riber Castle up on the edge above. I'm so glad it's still there and it's profile hasn't been changed by the developers.

St John's Church,
Ashbourne, Derbyshire

During our country drive I saw several magnificent pheasants and managed to avoid squashing any of them even though they did saunter across the road carelessly in a manner asking for trouble.

This afternoon I was shown a beautiful drawing by my proud five year old daughter. I admired it extravagantly only to be told, 'It's not for you. It's for Auntie Rachel'. Katy then patted me on the arm consolingly and gave me a small chocolate egg left over from Easter and said, 'Here, Mummy. You can have this instead.' I like chocolate.

A lady opened a church specially for us today so that we could look round inside. It was kind of her.

A book I ordered arrived today. It's about the 23rd Psalm. I read the first few pages as I waited for the girls' tea to cook and I'm looking forward to the rest of it. 

As I write this the children are laughing and laughing and laughing. I haven't a clue why and as a grown up who doesn't speak their language that well I probably wouldn't understand if I did but it's a good sound. I like it.

All this and most of the week still ahead of me.

I am blessed indeed. 

Thankyou, Father God.

Blessed be your glorious name

Afternoon, Lord God.

I'm feeling smiley. It's been a good day. Actually, a succession of good days. I found when I was a teenager and I kept a diary daily for years and years that when I had a bad day, I wrote pages and pages reporting what had happened, analysing it from every angle and moaning excessively, yet when I had a good day, I would write. 'Had a good day.'

Why the need to wallow in misery and negative emotions, but to gloss over good ones? Does picking apart the scab make something heal quickly, and by the same token examining happiness diminish it somehow? 

Maybe I'm just a pessimist at heart. Perhaps I just notice the duff things and not so much the things to celebrate. 

Well, no more. 

My good day(s) have been full of children, laughter, family, food, wine-and-sofa-time, gardening, countryside, smiles and time to relax. 

Lizzie laughing

Take yesterday. My sister in law and a couple of nephews were visiting and the children were so excited to see their cousins. The boys were so lovely; playing with my girls despite being much older and they were patience personified. Elizabeth and Katy were enraptured by this big grown up boy who lifted them high, acted silly and let them teach him their playground games with incomprehensible rules - and then let them win. At one point they were tearing round and all I could hear was laughter.  Elizabeth was laughing so hard I thought she might be sick, and the big boy cousins were laughing too. It made me laugh.

I got to spend some time in the greenhouse potting up a big tray of baby begonias and watching the children as I bedded the seedlings down into small pots to grow a bit bigger before I fill the troughs by the front door. It was warm and sunny and everything felt happy. You were there too - I know you were smiling. You must have been sitting on a bench at the bottom of the garden and watching; feeling the sun on your face, legs stretched out in front of you watching the joy of your children. Listening to the happy sounds. I felt content deep down. 

My tiny begonias could have sighed with pleasure as I planted them with more room to spread out their roots and I love seeing them in their little rows of pots on the bench in the warmth. You know each seedling. You made it. From the tiny, brown seed, through the first pair of leaves to the flourishing of a sturdy little flowering plant that soldiers on all summer long, none of it happens without your breath of life. 

You are all around me.

Michael Card writes this:

'A young Chinese woman told me of the spiritual struggle of growing up in the shadow of communism, where official doctrine dictated against any belief in god. She said that ever since she was a little girl, her heart had resonated with the beauty of nature. First a sunset caused a deep stirring in her soul that she could not put into words. Then the beauty of the flowers in her mother's garden spoke to her of a simplicity for which her heart yearned. By observing the beauty in nature she became convinced of the existence of not simply a benign god, but a loving, caring Father.
With tender, moist eyes and a brilliant smile she said, 'Imagine the joy I experienced when I learned that he had a name and it was Jesus.' 

(Michael Card, iPhone app: 'Joy in the Journey through the year'.

I know your name. I know you. I don't always notice you, but you're always there. I have days when my eyes seem to see and days when they seem to be out of focus, but that's me, not you. 

Baby begonias.
Destined for great things

You are there in my tiny green seedlings and you are there in the sun warm on my shoulders. You are there in the companionship of my husband and his sister, and in the kindness of a nineteen year old youth for his small, adoring nieces. You are there in the joy of their laughter and in way that the sunlight made Elizabeth's long hair into spun gold. You are there in the ladybirds and in the huge, beautiful bumble bees that seem to abound this year. You are there in the grace of the neighbours cats, and in the variety of birds that visit our bird table. Though it has to be said that the presence of all of us in the garden yesterday afternoon meant that most wildlife wisely made itself scarce. 

You are there in the countless resurrections that remind me of you at this time of year: things that seemed dead and twig-like a few weeks ago are bursting into life in bright greens and yellows. You are there in the Spring rain that sends us dashing for the washing and yet is over before we've collected it in. You're there in breeze that blows the clothes dry (again) and you're there in the bolts that hold the swing safe to the crossbeam so that my little girls can close their eyes and swing up the sky in safety. 

You are in my heart. You have opened my eyes, and keep doing so even though I close them. You are endlessly patient, forgiving, full of humour and love. 

Yesterday the children were playing some sort of game that involved dashing around and the girls were squealing and shouting. Suddenly something made me look up from my seedlings and it was my Katy, singing. She was singing:

'Blessed be the name of the Lord! Blessed be your name!
Blessed be the name of the Lord! Blessed be your glorious name!'

My heart was so full that I thought it might just rupture. I glanced at the other grown ups but I don't know if they heard, they were deep in conversation. I'm not sure what their reaction might have been. The children were running around and Katy kept singing, 'Blessed be the name of the Lord!'

The angels must have been smiling, weren't they, Lord? From your vantage point (for I know that you miss nothing) you must have blown a kiss in her direction, did you?  Blessed be your glorious name, Lord God, and bless her heart.

Father, I am so blessed as well.  I am blessed that like that lady from China who knew who you were before she knew your name; I am privileged to know you. To see you in the sunset, in nature, in the song of a five year old who was happy and that happiness burst forth in unconscious praise of you. Or maybe it was conscious; I don't know what she was thinking (you do) but I do know that you would have accepted that bit of worship with joy. Honest, open, uncomplicated, unpretentious, uninhibited praise. I can only aspire to that. 

Later that day Bryan and I sat with our feet up on the coffee table and a glass of wine each and we watched a film on the television after the small girls had crashed out into bed after their exciting and energetic day. I think you were there as well. I reflected on how much I like sitting with my husband and feeling relaxed and at ease. You were there in the wine and in the good humour and in the bond that we have. 

You are the best of me.

'The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands.'

Psalm 19:1

And so does the earth. So does the greenhouse. So does my living room when all is right with our family.

I want to as well. I want to declare the glory of you.  

I go on so much about the times when things are not right. I bemoan my lack of patience and my troubles and my worries and I come running to you when someone hurts me. I wallow in my guilt and my shortcomings and that of other people, but there are snapshots of my life when the sun is out and the birds are singing and those times need remarking on as well. At length.

You are beautiful and glorious and you allow us to be part of that. You gave Bryan and I a part to play in the creation and nurturing of our wonderful girls. You let me plant out those tiny seedlings so that they'll fulfil their potential. You give me words and the ability to express myself. You give me so very much. 

You give me beauty in the darkest corners if only I look.

Thankyou Father God. 

You are good. 

The smileyness of daffodils

Hello God.

Things to thank you for.

In list format, as my brain isn't feeling up to putting in all the little joining and describing words. I know that I've been down in the dumps lately and I need to look up at you for a while so that I can get a refill of joy.

Oh thank you thank you thank you. There are signs of Spring! Daffodils are coming out. I love daffodils. I love the determined cheerfulness, the extravagant shape of the flower, the vivid colour against the fading Winter greys and browns. I've got a glassful of daffodils right in front of me now and behind them is a bowl of fruit; red and green apples and oranges and the yellow of the daffs. It's beautiful. Daffodils are smiley. They make me feel smiley. Daffodils spread smileyness. You can't look at daffodils and not smile, can you? Did you plan it that way?

I bet you did.

Thankyou for blue skies and sunny days and the promise of time spent outdoors. For wellies and muddy gardens and not bothering to look after the lawn because the sound of my children having fun is more important.  Thankyou for big trees and tiny little green buds on the bare skeletons of hedgerows. All full of promise and hope and newness and potential.

Thankyou for showing me.

Thankyou for families that take care of each other when they're poorly. Thankyou for Mums who produce Poorly Person Biscuits just when needed and who give permission to go and lie down just when needed as well. 

Thankyou for my little apple swan (Bramley) who made his way out of the fruit bowl and into our lives via a YouTube clip that someone sent me. Something so simple can be so magical. The children were impressed at my prowess with a kitchen knife. So was I, actually. 

Thankyou for the rainbow against a marvellous purple sky right now as I look out of the window with the sun behind me and the fine rain coming down. All the colours of the paintbox and more in a fleeting display that lasts only minutes. Just because you could. 

Thankyou for the artwork stuck to the kitchen cupboards made for me by my little girls who wanted to say Get Well Soon to Mummy. Lizzie did a wonderful house and garden scene with a huge slide and Katy did a picture of her favourite meal to tempt me to eat when I was off my food. (It's sausages and chips with peas and tomato ketchup, if you couldn't tell.) They make me smile every time I see them. And since they're stuck to the door of the cupboard where the biscuits are, that's quite often. Convalescence, you know. Got to give in to the biscuit cravings. Ahem.

Thankyou for the beauty and innocence of their faces asleep last night when I looked in on them at bedtime. For some reason Elizabeth looked breathtakingly lovely last night. I don't know if it was the tilt of her head or the way her hair framed her face but she looked wonderful. I could have gazed at her forever. 

Thankyou for my husband who as I type this is bent over a disemboweled computer explaining the component parts with infinite patience to our eldest daughter and letting her fit the bits in as he mends it. 

I'm going to go to the toyshop now and choose a present for Katy, who'll be five on Wednesday. Five years since I had my smallest baby; how did that happen? That little one who snuggled into me and fed for those long hours in the night when there was only the two of us in the world?  That little one whose cuddles I love so very much suddenly become a child who can read a little and write a little and even spell?  How is it that they grow up so fast? What sort of toy can we buy her that might stimulate her, entertain her and yet keep her little a while longer?

Well, Saturday afternoon and lots to do. I'm glad we talked. 

Thankyou for teaching me to look around and see how wealthy I am. How many blessings. How much I have. How rich I am in every way that matters. 

The sun is out. The daffodils are yellow. Bramley the apple swan is going brown and his head is drooping.

Best eat him, I think.  

Just because you could

Hi God.

I made us late for Katy's swimming lesson this morning by stopping to take photographs of the frost on top of the car. She was lucky that I did it with my phone camera rather than going back in the house for the proper camera, actually, as the sun was about to melt it and I thought it was so beautiful that I'd better steal the moment straight away as it would be just drops of water by the time we got back. It was very beautiful. 

How come ice makes such wonderful patterns?  You did that just because you could, didn't you? Just for fun. You thought,

'When it gets really cold and all those people are walking around in multiple jumpers and having to scrape their windscreens, I'll give them a little treat if only they look closely. It'll be something amazing. It won't last long; when the sun comes it'll melt and if they've missed it, they've missed it, but if they catch it, they'll be transfixed. And then they'll look at the sparkles and the patterns and the clear, cold sky and the sunshine and they'll give me glory.'

Was that it?

The glory is yours. There are so many amazing things to see around me when I actually open my eyes to see. It's funny that there are times when I feel very close to you and I see you all around and little things that happen teach me lessons about my life with you and songs remind me of you and things go round in my mind that focus me on you. My life seems filled with you and I'm absorbed in you. Those are the times when I have lots of ideas and I'm reading lots and I'm engaging at church and talking about you with other people who help me. I like those times.

Other times I find that I feel a million miles away from you and then I struggle to see you anywhere. Flowers are just flowers and I don't think to go outside to catch the sunset. I just see tiresome ice that needs scraping from my windscreen before I can go anywhere and my head isn't full of you it's full of the mundane and the depressing and all the things that worry me.

So how does it happen? How come some days it all comes together and other days it falls apart? I'm quite sure that it's me; my frame of mind or whether I've spent any time with you or something like that. The sort of thing I fill my mind with must definitely have an impact on my outlook on life. But then sometimes out of the blue comes a day full of blessings when you just seem to have reached down and touched the everyday and made them outstandingly beautiful.

Next this afternoon we went for a walk (yes, alright, and a coffee) in the beautiful Derbyshire countryside and there was a sprinkling of snow on the tops - enough for Elizabeth to comment that it looked as if you had emptied icing sugar all over everything. We crunched through snow, broke the ice on puddles and squelched through mud. We saw a wonderful low golden sun shining off a lake. A tiny yellow flower was peeping through the snow - incongruous in the frozen ground. How did that little flower come to be there? Did it survive from last year or is it early for this year? Either way it seemed like a little miracle to me. On the way home the sky became orangier and orangier and we stopped to watch the sun go down. It was spectacular; a marvellously extravagant sunset.

We had a beautiful afternoon out and about  - it was a lovely time; an afternoon full of treats. It's a beautiful part of the world that we live in. We are blessed indeed. And tomorrow, if things don't go so well, I am still here in the same part of the world, I am still surrounded by beauty, and I am still blessed beyond measure. I need to remember that.

Thankyou, Father God. For all the blessings that we take for granted as well as the ones we see. For planting perception in us that enables us to see you in the beauty around us. For making it all so intricate and exciting and beautiful and awe-inspiring just because you could.

Help me to show my girls the wonder of you. Help me to keep my eyes open to notice and not be so wrapped up in myself to see.

Help me to give you the glory that is yours because you are the Creator God who brought all this about. You took care with each petal, each refracting sunbeam, each snowflake, each ephemeral little swirl of frost on top of the car. You are Beauty itself and everything that you make just has to be beautiful.

Does that mean me, too, then?  Hmm. That's a thought for another day.

Well, for now, the children are in bed, I have a glass of wine, I'm waiting for the delivery of a Chicken Tikka Biryani and maybe a couple of poppadoms and my day will be complete.

Life is good.

Thankyou.

The skies proclaim your handiwork

Are you there, God?

Well, life isn’t easy, is it.  I come away on holiday and I love being by the sea and the sun has shone and the stars last night were truly spectacular.  All the family is here and we’ve spent time sitting on the beach and had a lovely meal out and watched the children play and looked at the sunset over the marshes. It has been beautiful and awe inspiring and just lovely.

It's just me that's the problem.

My head is all over the place and it just goes to show (not that I didn’t already know this) that I take my problems with me wherever I go. I had hoped that I’d be able to leave them behind at home (with the cotton trousers, hairbrush, boules set and flip flops that I meant to bring with me, grr) to come away and feel a lightness of spirit that has been eluding me recently. Indeed, a lightness of spirit that I felt last time we were here in this very place. That time, I had the spectre of impending investigations into a sinister-looking breast lump hanging over me and I still managed, with some miraculous input from you, to feel more lighthearted than I do right now. How come?

Well, it doesn’t really matter how come, does it.

Lord, I’m still going round in circles. I want to leave my baggage with you but I seem to tell you about it and then just pick it up and take it away again.

‘Don’t you want to leave it with me?’  you’re asking.

‘Yes, yes, I’m leaving it!’ I say, as I haul it off the ground in front of you and hoist it onto my back.

I need some help, please. Don’t I always? Oh dear.

Let me tell you about last night.

‘The heavens declare the glory of God;

The skies proclaim his handiwork...'

Psalm 19:1

From where you are, do you get a perfect view of the stars every night? Or all the time? Do you still admire your handiwork or are you a bit blasé these days?  Because last night they blew me away. There was less light pollution out here right on the coast and we’re about fifty yards from the sea. The sky was dark and the stars were out. My God, were they out. There were more than I’ve seen before and after a while, when my eyes became accustomed to lying in the garden in the dark I could see the Milky Way like a cloud down the middle of the sky. It was spectacular. Vast. Majestic. And you made it. Stars in the sky and grains of sand on the beach. You know how many there are. You are great.

I saw it once before, years ago when I poked my head out of a tent in the middle of the night in a place called San Pedro de Atacama, in the Atacama desert in Chile. The dark was dark as this little village didn't have electricity and it was in the middle of nowhere. A friend and I had backpacked there and we were due to get up before dawn to see the sunrise over the El Tatio geyserfield. The stars took my breath away then and they did last night. I never thought I'd be anywhere that I'd see them again. Fancy that. The back garden of a rented house on the Suffolk coast and you pulled back the curtain again for me. 

Awesome.

Now there’s an overused word. But what I mean is something magnificent, mindblowing. Something of such beauty and wonder that it it stills me.  It's that awe that leaves me open mouthed with a sense that my head is struggling to grasp something enormous.

There’s a song by YFriday that has a line:

'Glorious, incredible, above our thoughts, immeasurable

Beyond the far horizons of our dreams...'

(Ken Riley and Andrew Neve, 2008 Thankyou Music)

That came to mind tonight as I gazed at the stars, over and over. Making me realize that I can’t even imagine your glory. It's far, far too big for me. I'm very, very small.

The heavens declare...

Today I was lying on the beach and the sun went behind a cloud for a second before it emerged again. The cloud formation was breathtaking and the sun’s rays radiated from behind this cloud before it lit up the sky again.  Yesterday as we were driving here we followed a thunderstorm for a while – the sun was shining but the sky ahead was purple and dark and for miles everywhere we went was soaked through as if we’d just missed a heavy rainshower. A few times we saw lightning forking in the purple of the low cloud even though we were in bright sunshine.

There were ladybirds on the beach. My girls kept catching them and examining them closely before they took off again. The seagulls can swoop to catch a chip in mid-air as you throw it to them before they whirl away again.  Our bedroom overlooks the marshes down to the harbour and there are rare birds there if you know where to look - avocets and bitterns and marsh harriers. 

I'm surrounded by wonders and beauty and majesty. I need to raise my game a bit I think.

I hope that I am just feeling like this because I’m tired – and I am so tired after last night’s bunk-bed-excited-children palaver. Late to bed and early to rise doesn’t do much for my state of mind. Maybe tomorrow we’ll all feel better and the sun and the sky and the sea and the rest of the beauty around me might get inside me and lift me out of myself.

‘Be of good courage. And he shall strengthen your heart. All you who hope in the Lord.’

Psalm 31:24

This was today’s little meditation on my (increasingly on-the-blink – do you ever heal mobile phones? If so, can I put a word in?) iPhone.  I read it at a moment in the day when I was feeling a little desperate and greatly in need of some strength. I do hope in you, Father God. I cling to you and I take refuge under your wing.

Strengthen my heart, Lord. It feels a bit weak and wobbly at the moment.

Two cathedrals

Hello God.

I want to say thankyou for the beautiful day it's been today. The sun has shone, we found a lovely little picnic spot in spectacular scenery, we went to two places that are testament to your glory and ate scones with clotted cream and jam and good coffee. My cup runneth over. 

I love living in Derbyshire. I love that I can drive for just five minutes to find beautiful countryside. Rolling hills, heather moorland, peaks, cliffs, limestone gorges, viaducts, caverns, rivers, streams and enough open sky to make me feel I am indeed in a spacious place. Even a short drive on the tops can lift my spirits. I love discovering new roads, little villages that I've never visited before, new views and new tea-shops and little shops with interesting things. I love that I can visit the quaint and pretty and the fierce and majestic in one afternoon; experience nature as calm and friendly and also powerful and raw. Today we've done all that and it's been wonderful.

So, what are your views on the christening of one of the caverns near Castleton, 'The Devil's Arse'? Apparently this has a wonderful story behind it (ha ha) in that the cave-dwellers who lived and made ropes in the enormous Peak Cavern in Victorian times used to hear the water in a narrow underground passage being sucked back and forth by changes in air pressure and it made a loud and somewhat rude sound, and so the little opening (about six feet by three feet) became known as The Devil's Arse. I wonder if they all sniggered when they first heard it, or whether it was too scary?  Lots of sniggering going on during our guided tour, it has to be said. Now, here's the thing. You are all-knowing, right? So you knew that this particular bit of the cave would make a farting noise and that generations of people after the ones who found it scary would find it amusing and still you left it in the plans. Who says that you're a dour old God who wants to spoil our fun?  I know different. 

When Queen Victoria visited she made them change it back to 'Peak Cavern' as she didn't think it appropriate that she should grace The Devil's Arse with her presence. Quite right too.  OK for us though...we all sniggered. Except Elizabeth and Katy who didn't get the joke. That made me love them even more.

So this cave, then. What were you doing? Did you just think, 'Here we go. In this bit of hillside, how about a vast, impressive cavern graduating to a series of smaller caverns with breathtaking rock formations, the odd stalactite and mysterious underground streams...and just enough little openings to make daft people like potholers want to squeeze themselves through small spaces. And when they do I'll reward them with huge and majestic caverns just to reward their efforts.' Hmm?

I can't see why you did it, except to be wonderful. Look what you can do. Is that it? And why not.  If I were the Creator of the world I'd have a little fun sometimes soon. But you made such extravagant beauty and set it in places that nobody might ever see. Only in 1999 a couple of cavers swam through a narrow, water-filled passage way and emerged to find a cavern so large that it could swallow up St Paul's cathedral with veins of shining minerals and rock formations that took their breath away. And you did it. You are amazing. Not that I'll ever see that; the idea of going underwater with only rock above me fills me with a special sort of horror. 

You know what I liked? I liked that in the vast face of the rock in which this fantastic opening is set, trees have grown out of cracks. Whole trees. Flowers. Tiny purple and white flowers were flourishing hundreds of feet up and seemingly out of sheer rock. Devil's Arse or not, the angels were smiling too. 

You are awe-inspiring. I can look around my county and I see you everywhere. I see you in the enormous rocks in the middle of nowhere and people theorise that they were left there in the last ice age, or when the land in this country was just a giant reef, or something. I'm not big on history and science and things but I must say it doesn't matter much to me how you did it; just that you did. Just to be glorious. So that people like me could scramble through shoulder high ferns and then climb onto a rock the size of a small house and gaze at the vastness of the scenery. A spacious place. 

We went to the church at Tideswell today as well. 'The Cathedral of the Peak'. Another monument to your glory - this time a man made one and not on the same scale as your canvas, but nevertheless it's a place that feels full of you. Beautiful windows. I'm starting to realise that I love stained glass. I was lifting my camera to capture a lovely window in the church when I heard my two girls giggling and running up and down the central aisle of the church, feet slapping on the stone. Other people were in the church too, and the atmosphere was one of quiet, calm contemplation. I hurried over to them and told them urgently that they needed to stop running and calm down because this was a place that people came to be quiet. They assured me that they would before thundering towards the back once more, and with an anxious glance I returned to my window. The words on the stained glass were part of this:

'Suffer the little children to come unto me and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of God.'

Mark 10:14 King James Bible

Two little children in question were having lots of fun crawling around in the pews (each pew has a door at each side, so they could hide from each other very easily) and coming up with the odd squeal and giggle and walking with footsteps that echoed around the hallowed walls like a herd of bison. I hope that my girls made you smile this afternoon, Lord Jesus, because I don't think that the other couple of people in the church were that impressed with their exuberance. I'm not sure where we stand on this; I know that you had and have a special place in your heart for small children but I also know that I need to teach them respect and reverence. Help me out, Lord, because it's hard to tell sometimes what is childish enthusiasm and joy and what is inappropriate. Happens most Sundays, to tell the truth, but in my own congregation I feel that we are a church family, and families include the tiny ones who can't be quiet all the time, and who want to visit the toilet at inopportune moments, and who ask questions like, 'When can I have my cake?'  or 'If I say 'Amen' will it finish?' in the middle of the prayers.

Elizabeth in the pulpit.

Help us to be tolerant. Help those who long for silence to find it and not to come head to head with the noise of children as they worship. Help those who can't concentrate for long to feel your presence just as much as those who can meditate for hours. Help those who try to keep the small ones quiet and still to get a look in at the worship from time to time. And help those who do the childrens' work during the services to understand that they are loved and admired and have the immense gratitude those of us who have a chance to listen without juggling for a little while during the Sunday School times.

So, the cathedral of nature and the Cathedral of the Peak. Both awe-inspiring places that made me think of you with a smile on my face. I love that you are endlessly creative. Endlessly imaginative. You are full of surprises and I don't want to miss a single one. In my life, Lord, please help me to notice every flower that grows from a rock face, every stained glass window that speaks to me when my children are making me feel embarrassed. Every blossom and unique snowflake and miraculous word out of nowhere. I want to see it and hear it and notice it and remark upon it and remember it and communicate it. Just show me how, my magnificent Lord.

Today was lovely. A picnic and a cream tea and a drive through this county that I love so much. A day full of blessings. Beauty and awe and laughter and food and family and your inspiration around me. 

Thankyou thankyou thankyou. 

Music in the waves

I love the sea. Here we are at the seaside in Suffolk for Mum's 80th birthday weekend and I can see the sea from the hotel window. We've walked along the beach, had fish and chips on the seafront and it's just lovely.  There can be nothing finer in this life, I think, than sitting on a bench at the seaside with your family in the sun eating fish and chips with one of those pointless little wooden forks and throwing bits to the seagulls who can catch a chip in mid air!  How clever is that.

It's been a beautiful day. The roads have been pretty clear, we stopped somewhere lovely for lunch, the children have been patient and good natured in the car (mostly) and the rooms are amazing. You've looked after us today. Thankyou. 


Charles Spurgeon said:

'The old saying is, 'Go from nature up to Nature's God'; but it is hard working up hill.  The best thing is to go from nature's God down to nature; and if you once get to nature's God, and believe Him, and love Him, it is surprising how easy it is to hear music in the waves, and songs in the wild whisperings of the winds; to see God everywhere, in the stones, in the rocks, in the rippling brooks, and hear him everywere in the lowing of cattle, in the rolling of thunder and the fury of tempests.' 

I love the sea, and as I stood there looking at it earlier today I thought of this passage. I always look at the sea and see you, Lord. Maybe it's the vastness, the majesty, the breadth of it; or maybe the depth, the power and the beauty of it.  The way it's ever changing, never the same. Nothing can contain it. It has always been since the day you brought it about, and always will be. It cannot be destroyed, cannot be controlled. It nurtures and it destroys.  It is frightening and beautiful, stirring and soothing. The way it reflects the sunset is a symphony of nature that shows us here on earth a tiny hint of the awe-inspiring wonder of you. Another glimpse.

I love the clearness of the air by the sea, the sound of the waves and the smell of it all.  I love the sea birds and sand and pebbles. I love the way the breakwaters recede into the sea and the beautiful silver texture of the weathered wood. I love the shelving of the sand to the water's edge and I love rockpools full of treasure.  I love sandcastles and buckets and spades and those tiny little flags that you stick in the top. I love the joy on my girls' faces as they find a 'special' pebble or a shell or some small wary creature.

There you are in the stones and rocks on the beach, in the music and rhythm of the waves, in the calling of the birds. It is easy to see you indeed. I love it by the sea. It wakes up a part of me that is sleepy most of the time - the bit of me that fills my lungs with you, breathing in your spirit in long breaths.  The part of me that feasts my senses on you, that can't find words so just smiles and gazes and inhales and listens intently.

This is just what I need. You knew that. I was wondering if I could possibly put aside the rubbish of the last few days and enjoy this weekend at all but I feel blessed to be here, and so grateful that you gave us all these things to enjoy. I'm seeing them all again. It's a breath of fresh air indeed.  You know everything that I have on my plate, Father, because I've laid it all in front of you; I can't process it or analyse it or make any sense of it. So I've just dumped it with you - Katy's lump and hospital appointments and mine as well. You hold all things in your hand. You know me inside and out and have done since before I came to be. You know every word on my tongue before I say it. I cannot hide from you. No point in trying.

As it says in one of my favourite songs:

'I will praise the rock of my salvation
 - all my days are in his faithful hands.'

So I leave it all with you, faithful Lord. Thankyou for this weekend by the sea. You know what the week ahead has in store but I don't want to know right now. Maybe it's nothing and this time next week my mind will be on trivia again; or maybe it's something, and then who knows how I'll be but you? Either way, for now, I'm looking out of the window at the beautiful mysterious dark band of the sea at the end of the street, listening to the quiet as the children have finally settled down and looking forward to  the morning when we'll go looking for 'special' pebbles again.

I have a tradition that whenever we come to the seaside as a family, I find a pebble from the beach that has markings on it that make it look as if it's smiling. Then I draw eyes and a nose on it and label it with the place and the year, and it sits on the bookcase at home to remind me. I don't think I'll have a problem finding one this weekend as all the pebbles are smiling.  And so am I.

Singing my heart out

I'm having one of those lovely moments when I can see you in everything. 

I've just been out to the greenhouse to water my little baby plants before I get ready for bed and in the space of a day a little row of seedlings have poked their heads up. Little tiny radishes and lettuces and spring onions and tomatoes and cucumbers and peppers; all the little seedlings all looking pretty much the same until they develop their second pair of leaves and identify themselves. Of course I've got everything labelled in rows, because the order appeals to me and it's the only way I can do things - some might call it a smidge neurotic - but despite me, the seeds grow all on their own, because they're little living things.  Tiny little living things. From a dry, dead looking little brown pip in my hand, they turn into lush, green sprouts of new growth. Hopeful. 

I've got some poppy seeds to sow and they have to be among the smallest seeds that there are and yet they grow into something so arrestingly beautiful. If that doesn't point to you, I don't know what does. I love poppies. The big blowsy red and black ones and the papery pastel pink and purple ones; they are spectacular and yet the seeds are so tiny that it's hard to pick up just one with our big clumsy fingers. 

There was a blackbird sitting on the topmost branch of a conifer singing it's little heart out. It was in profile and I could see his beak opening and closing as he made this lovely happy sound. I checked on some plants that I bought and planted the other day and they're starting to settle in and spread out in the soil.  I love it when you look carefully at new plants and it's obvious that they're going to be ok in your soil, and that they've found the new environment comfy enough to start to spread out their roots. 

One of the big plants in my garden that died over the cold winter has been sitting, dead and twig-like in it's huge pot, waiting to be evicted so that I can reuse the plantpot sometime soon.  Recently I noticed that right at the bottom of the stems, almost in the soil, the plant is shooting again. There are small, bright green leaves among the old woody branches that are dry and dead. It's worth planting him back out somewhere and maybe he'll make it after all. A phoenix from the ashes. A little botanical resurrection!

I've been up to see the girls asleep in bed and to see if I can have a look at the lump on Katy's neck, about which she's getting increasingly protective.  She was lying on it, so I didn't manage to see it but I could touch it, and I think it's getting smaller.  I'm sure it's getting smaller.  Whether it'll go before the operation date I don't know, but I do know that you're looking after my little girl. She and her big sister both looked so small, so delicate, so innocent. So beautiful daughters.

I feel I am surrounded by wonderful things.  Surrounded by beauty and gifts and so many blessings that it's impossible to notice them all.  I want to thank you, Lord, for showing them to me. Thankyou for this marvellous world where tiny seeds wake into life and grow into enormous plants giving fruit and flowers. Thankyou that you give us a role to play sometimes so we can tend these little representatives of you. 

Thankyou for sunny days, green grass, watering cans and seedlings. Thankyou for flowers and birds and  blue sky and the sound of my girls laughing as they swing on the swing. Thankyou for this glass of wine, a picnic or a roast dinner. Thankyou for my family as we all drink coffee together in the garden on our new garden bench.  Thankyou that I can speak to you now and be assured that you are hearing me. Thankyou that this morning in church I could worship you openly without fear of someone coming to arrest me or hurt me for doing it. Thankyou that I am your daughter and you love me. 

I feel as if I might never stop if I start on the list of wonders that you have done and are doing in my life. Thankyou that you think I'm worthy of more work; that I might grow from a small dull-looking seed into a flower that blossoms.  Thankyou that you see my potential and know how to develop it in me. 

I want to sing of you like the blackbird on top of the tree, singing a beautiful song with joy and abandon. 

I want to spread my roots out wide and strong like the lavender just arrived from the garden centre. 

I want to send out fresh, strong new shoots each time you show me how to, no matter how devastating the winter before. 

I want to rest safe and child-like in your arms tonight  like my babies in their beds, secure in the knowledge that they are loved and cared for. 

So much to be thankful for. Such a skilful and imaginative Creator God you are. Help me see, Lord. I don't want to miss a thing.