Nineteen miles upstream

And the rain comes down. It's very hard to feel motivated to do anything on a day like this.

Karen Carpenter sings:

'Talking to myself and feeling old

Sometimes I'd like to quit

Nothing ever seems to fit

Rainy days and Mondays always get me down.'*

I never knew Karen, but she was on my wavelength. 

Here's a thing. I found myself exploring the book of Joshua in the Bible. I started out searching online for cuddly walruses (surprisingly hard to find) and then, link by link, I found myself reading the book of Joshua online. Walruses to the Ark of the Covenant.

It reminded me of some sermon notes I made quite a while ago, and when I looked them up, well, you've done it again. Something I learned three years ago, and I need to learn it again. 

Joshua 3 and 4. The Israelites are crossing the River Jordan to take possession of the promised land.

Now, I've never really given much thought to crossing rivers. It's dead easy. There are bridges. Big bridges to drive over, railways, viaducts, footbridges, ferries... most of the time I don't even need to get out of my car. But the Israelites didn't have these luxuries and an immense rushing torrent of water maybe a mile across might well have looked like an insurmountable barrier. So that puts a different complexion on it.

Still, Joshua knew that you wanted them all on the other side of the river. And he told them what to do.

The priests carrying the Ark of the Covenant set their feet in the water of the river, which has overflowed its banks because it's in flood. It's a big, wide, fast river. Joshua has prophesied that you will stop the water from flowing so that they can cross. So they step into the water. I imagine they're not that keen.

'You first.'
'No, after you.'
'No, I insist.'
'I went first last time.' 

But, Joshua said that you would take care of it, and they believe him. So they step in...

And take care of it you did. But you didn't stop the water right there, like the parting of the Red Sea - you stopped the water nineteen miles upstream.

So, they stepped in, carrying this precious, heavy load, and they wouldn't have known immediately that they weren't going to be swept off their feet. They went in anyway. Surely the waters would have taken a while to subside as there must have been quite a lot of water in nineteen miles of Jordan, but they stood in the river and waited.

You didn't let them down. The waters subsided until there was dry ground. The priests holding the Ark of the Covenant stood there until every last one of the Israelites had passed by onto the other bank. That would have taken some time as there were getting on for three-quarters of a million of them, I'm told. They stood there, presumably in the mud, heavy burden on their shoulders, but standing firm.

This is what I scribbled down:

1.  I have to trust that you will do what you've said you'll do. 
The priests had to step into the water before the flood waters stopped. They had to commit themselves. Joshua said that you would hold back the flow and they trusted in you. They wouldn't have known that you'd honoured your side of the bargain for quite some time, but you had. You said you would.

So - all those times when I think, 'Where are you in this? I asked for your help and you're not helping me', it could be that you have built a dam nineteen miles upstream and I just haven't felt the effects of it yet. You may have done the work, but I am just not yet in a position to know.

Oh, Lord, so much of this year is about TRUST. It's my word for the year and, blimey, you've taken me at my word indeed. I'm trying, Father, I'm trying.

2.  Am I standing in mud with the tide against me, holding on to a heavy burden? I have to stand firm.
I have to just keep upright and be strong because relief is coming. Perhaps you have given me a job to do and I'm wavering and uncertain that I can carry on doing it - I should stand firm. Maybe the priests were tired and aching and needing a rest but there were still a few thousand Israelites still to cross. They stood firm.

It's hard work, and I'm not very good at suffering in silence, am I?

3.  Maybe I'm still on the river bank and I'm scared to put my toe in the water. Time to climb in.
Time to step out in faith.

So here I am contemplating where I am in this scenario.  Maybe all three? I definitely feel as if I should be taking a step somewhere but I've long been asking you which direction.

Are you telling me that I should just step off the edge in some way? What does that mean, exactly? I'm good with metaphor and analogy, but not so good at applying it in any concrete way.

I've had so many questions about what you want me to do with my life and I've had ideas, some of which have just evaporated, some of which seem to be coming to nothing, and some of which (the most precious and fragile dreams I have) I have not properly explored yet for fear of failing; in case they don't work and I make a fool of myself. In case I have to discard hopes that I've had for a long long time.

So maybe now's the time to put my foot in the water. And not in a dangly-what's-the-temperature-like-shall-I-shan't-I sort of way, but a wholehearted step-off-the-edge-into-the-torrent sort of way, if only you'll show me what that actually means.

But I'm afraid, and I have so little energy.

You've said that whatever my own personal promised land, you'll get me there if I follow your lead. You've planned something for me and if I can only hear your voice, you'll guide me. So if you are with me, who can be against? If I hold onto you, you'll keep me upright until the waters abate. After all, you've made a dam upstream, if only I can wait for relief. If only I can trust that you'll do what you said you'll do.

Like they did, back in the book of Joshua.

And then at the same time as hesitating on the bank, I am stuck in the mud.

At times lately I've felt as if the burden I'm carrying is far too heavy and I shouldn't have to carry it on my own. I've felt misunderstood, resentful, frustrated and angry at things and I've felt isolated and hurt. I've felt that the anxieties building up around me have grown to monstrous proportions and I'm no better equipped to cope than I've ever been.

I hear you telling me that I should stand firm.

Sometimes movement is not required; I only need to stand firm and hold onto my precious burden, and fix my eyes on you rather than down at the mud. I'm playing to an audience of one.

Stand firm until the job is done and then I can lift my feet out of the mud with a satisfying squelch and climb onto the bank. (Where, presumably, the priests had a bit of a break from carrying the Ark of the Covenant. Surely they sat down and put their feet up and had a snack while someone else took over then? The Bible is strangely quiet on these details.)

So here's the thing. I know that I'm vacillating a bit at the moment. I know that I've got some things wrong recently. I know that I'm filling my time with so many things that there is so little left for you. I know that I have so many unanswered questions and I'm constantly complaining that you don't speak to me when it's quite likely that you're there, just where you've always been but I just can't hear you over the background noise of my life.

I need to stop and listen.  And then I need to get on with it.

Give me strength, Lord, and courage. Help me to believe more than I do now that I can step into the current and not be swept off my feet. Help me to believe that upstream you have made a dam and even if it doesn't feel like it straight away, you have honoured the step I've taken.

I just need to find the courage to climb down off the safety of this riverbank.

Even though this bank is the wrong side of the river, and I can see where I want to be, and you've promised to see me safely across, I am hesitating. I'm not sure. I keep making excuses. I'm scared of committing myself. What if it goes wrong? What if I can't do it? What will people think? What if...

'And there they stood; those priests carrying the Chest of the Covenant stood firmly planted on dry ground in the middle of the Jordan while all Israel crossed on dry ground. Finally the whole nation was across the Jordan, and not one wet foot.'Joshua 3:17 The Message

Well, not one wet foot, apart from the brave souls who stepped out first, now standing with their feet planted in the mud, Ark in their arms, thinking, "Get a move on. This thing's heavy and my feet are freezing."

I'd love to have seen that.

I wonder how this translates into what you want from me in my life. I wonder what my River Jordan is. I wonder what you want me to carry across. I wonder what you are doing upriver.

Show me, Father, because I want to know. I want to have the courage.

I want to get to the other side.





*Rainy Days and Mondays, The Carpenters, 1971, A&M Records

Collar up, chin down

Alright, God.

So there's a howling gale blowing outside. It's whistling around the corner of the house and the silver birch is bending, bending and whipping its bare branches back and forward.

The sun is shining for now but the sky is that purply black that says rain is on its way. And when it comes it'll be heavy. Combined with the wind, that means the rain will be horizontal right about the time I'm leaving to collect my girls from school. 

Oh joy.

Today is one of those days that an umbrella is no good whatsoever. They haven't invented a brolly that will deal with the high-wind-and-precipitation combo. Certainly not the handbag size miraculously opening out one like mine that wobbles about on a stick that's hard to hold and flips inside out at the drop of a hat. 

Great. 

There are days when all I can do is pull my collar up a bit higher, tuck my chin a bit lower and resign myself that I will be the woman with no hairstyle by the time I arrive at the playground. Even more so than usual, that is. Might even plug in a set of earphones and crank up the volume on a bit of something inspiring as I trudge along. 

I have days like this. Sometimes life feels like this on days where the sun shines, the air is still and the sky a peaceable blue. Sometimes it's a collar up/chin down day even then. 

I've been having a few of them lately. To the outside observer there's nothing particularly wrong; only the usual low-key day-to-day stuff like aches and pains, over-thinking and not enough sleep, a handful of children's problems ranging from mysterious repetitive throat clearing and rashes to playground friendship issues and then there's demise of my favourite pair of boots. Sigh. 

Still, nothing earth-shattering. All in a day's work. 

So that's not it. 

Something in my head says it's hard at the moment, that's what it is. I'm just collar up/chin down instead of chin up and defences down. I'm trudging rather than dancing. My hands are holding my coat close rather than swinging by my sides. 

So here it is. When the wind is whistling around my ears in a little while, this is what I'm hanging on to:

'Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten by God.' 

Luke 12:6

I am not forgotten. When life is grim and bleak and it all comes crashing down, you are there. 

When life is wonderful and exhilarating, you are there. 

And when life is humdrum and monotonous and I feel like a hamster on a wheel, there you are still. 

"'For I know the plans I have for you', declares the Lord, 'Plans to prosper you and not to harm you. Plans to give you hope and a future.'" 

Jeremiah 29:11

There is a Plan. Whether I sense it or not, whether I'm on board or not, whether I have the energy or not, there is a Plan which is best for me, which is what you want for my life.

'For great is your love, reaching to the heavens; your faithfulness reaches to the skies.' 

Psalm 57:10

I am loved. Even when I feel all alone and solitary, I am loved. When I feel unlovable, I am loved. When I bow my head because I don't want to meet anyone's eye, I am loved. When those skies are full of rain, my hair is plastered to my face and my nose is running, I am loved. When I'm the size of a house in my winter coat and jumpers and I know the diet must start before spring, I am loved. 

'I, the Lord, have called you in righteousness; I will take hold of your hand.' 

Isaiah 42:6

You think I'm great. Even when I'm more inclined to dwell on all that I'm not than all that I am, you see all that I could be. You think I'm worth working on. You will take hold of my hand and lead me. 

'...being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.' 

Philippians 1:6

You are at work. I have come a long way, following you. There is a way to go, but you have promised to carry on changing me into the person you want me to be.

'Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.' 

Joshua 1:9

You will never leave me. When my hands are thrust in my pockets, and my head down against the wind and rain, eyes focused only on putting one foot in front of the other, you are there, right with me, waiting for me to lift my eyes to you. 

You are the God of all weathers. The God who calmed the storm, the God of the still, small voice. You are in the rain and the wind and the sunshine. The rainbow and the thunder. You walk with me on the school run as I bend into the gale and you smile when a small hand slips into mine and asks if there's any chance of nipping to the sweet shop. 

I'm walking with you, Lord. 

Collar up and chin down, maybe, but my heart is whole, for you're holding it in your hands. 

There's no safer place.




Picture used:
kr015118_034.JPG by Krosseel
From Morguefile.com withpermission

A ray of sunlight

Whoa! God!

The sun has come out! For the first time in four months! Well, actually, more like four days! 'Tis time for celebration. And looking at those black clouds just knitting together in time for the school run, I'd better be quick.

What to do first? Hoover the car (job waiting for the rain to stop)? Get some gardening done? Clean the windows? Nip to the shop?

Since the sun has lit up a billion little dust-motes floating in the air, maybe I'd better dust.

Or I could just sit here and admire the sun on the flowers on the windowsill.  There are pink and yellow alstroemeria lit from behind and the dark red veins on the petals are standing out dramatically. I didn't know (until I just googled 'alstroemeria' to find out how it was spelled) that it is considered a symbol of friendship. Apparently the leaves grow upside down out of the stem, then twist until the top faces upwards. (This nugget of information actually had me leave the sofa to look more closely - and it's true!)

After all the rain we've been having, the garden looks so, so green. Jewel-like. A bit of sun on the apples remind me that they need picking soon and they're big and yellowy red and although a bit sharp for all but the most robust eater of apples, they make a great crumble. Now, there it is. One great thing about Autumn: apple crumble. I knew you'd cheer me up.

Since the rain has stopped (I know what you're doing there. It may have stopped now but in a few minutes when I put on my coat for the school run, you've got another humorous cloudburst planned, haven't you?). Since the rain has stopped, the birds are all over the garden. An area newly dug by my husband is a rich source of worms and the blackbirds and sparrows and robins are all over it. On the bird table jackdaws and magpies are bullying the tits away for the bread that Mum put out this morning. The neighbours' cats lurk under the bushes, tempted out through the catflap by the birds but they don't like it much because of the shower they get when they brush up against the branches.

I see you. I see you when you open my eyes to see. Just lounging here on the sofa with my computer and a ray of sunlight dazzled me for the first time in days and days. You just dropped in to say hello, didn't you?

You smiled. You wanted me to look up and see the beauty. After the rain the colours are always more vibrant, sharper, more vivid. While the rain tips down as heavily as it has recently everything is grey. For a moment this afternoon the colour came back.

Gone again now, because it's time to collect my girls from school. Time to put on the raincoat and retrieve the damp umbrella from the cloakroom sink. Find my boots and haul them on. Zip up, wrap up, head down.

Ah well.  It was a little moment. A ray of sunlight fell across my keyboard and I saw a little bit of light in a dull, dreary day. Thankyou. Thankyou that you reached down and lifted my head to see the light on the flowers, the birds, the glistening rain on the leaves. Thankyou that you never leave me, even when it's dark as dark and I'm feeling dismal.

Better go.

The first drops are on the window again. Here comes the rain.

What a sense of humour you have.

What a faithful God have I

Lord, I know you made this day like all the others, and here am I telling you that I'm not as keen on this  one as I am on some of your other masterpieces. 

This one is dark, dreary, wet and cold. Everyone is depressed. I've had text messages from people who are down in the mouth today and I'm not immediately coming up with encouraging, upbeat things to text back. 

I wanted to stay in bed today. I put the alarm on snooze three times. I could hear rain heavy on the roof and I could see that it was dark outside. The children were still asleep and I maintain after all these years of trying to get the children to sleep and stay asleep, to wake them in the morning is against nature. I was warm and comfy in my little duvet-nest. 

But no. Not to be.

Rainy day.

I've been reading about positive thinking, recently. Not the self-help mantra type positive thinking, but the need that I have to fill my mind with something positive first thing in a morning. It makes a difference. I used to check the news headlines on my phone app but came out of that more often than not worried and miserable about the state of the country and the world. I used to check my email - but that's an emotional lucky dip and more often than not my mind just started making 'To Do' lists before my eyes had even properly focused. I used to post on Facebook each morning but realised two things:  my first-thing-in-the-morning posts were never among the most positive and upbeat status reports and by writing them I just solidified my own grumpy feelings and was therefore hardly likely to encourage or uplift anyone else.

Now and again, on a particularly tired and disgruntled morning one of these posts still slips through the net, I have to confess. 

I don't want the tone of my day to be set before I even put a foot out of bed. I don't want to stand in the shower with my eyes still shut thinking about who's hurt who, who's in prison for violence or fraud, who's fighting about what. I don't want to brush my teeth gazing in the mirror at the person who just reinforced her negative outlook by posting it on social networking sites for everyone to comment about. 

'Today's going to be a bad day.'

I'm thinking that's probably a self-fulfilling prophecy.

'Please can I stay in bed?' 

Just the same. I don't want to engage with today, no matter what wonderful things you have planned for me. I don't trust you to bless me today. I'd rather stay here with my head under the covers and avoid today completely.

Hmm.

So I've been thinking about what I put in my head in those first few minutes as I'm waking up.  War and murder and crime and recession (BBC headlines)? No. Dissatisfaction and complaining and self pity (first-thing-in-the-morning Facebook status)?  Nope. Even if there is occasionally a sort of strange satisfaction in having a moan. 

I want you. 

First thing in a morning I want the tone of my day to be set by you. 

I want to stand in the shower with my eyes closed and your words in my head. I want to look in the mirror at a woman who has already had a chat with the Creator of the Universe (who happens to be her friend) even though the toast isn't even on for breakfast yet. I want to be a woman who responds to the children with a smile and an even tone of voice rather than a snarl and a shout when they crash through the bedroom door in the middle of some squabble or other; and I know - I know - that I am completely one hundred percent unable to be that woman unless I've met with you first thing. 

Today I didn't feel like waking up. I didn't want to get up. I didn't want to pull back the curtains and let in the faint and watery daylight. I didn't want to haul myself up to sitting and reach for my journal. You helped me, and I did. 

Ok, if I'm honest, I had a moan. A little one, as time was moving on, but I told you that I didn't like the look of this day too much, thank you and sorry about that. I also told you about something I had on my mind in the night and an ongoing thing that's been worrying me. There's a problem that I have that I thought was sorted out and now I'm no longer sure that it is. I told you about it. Again. 

Listen, God, I tried. I said: 

'This is the day that you have made. I will rejoice and be glad in it.'  I will. I-will-I-will-I-will. 

Psalm 118:24

I got in the shower and turned the water up hot. 

On the way to school, Elizabeth was a delight. She wants to own a sweetshop when she grows up and she was talking about which sweets she'd have, and what the shop would be called. There's going to be an ice cream stall outside, apparently. It's going to be lovely. She skipped in and out of puddles under her Winne-the-Pooh umbrella and she laughed and her little face was lit up as she dreamed about sweets and independence and ice cream and painted shop signs with her name on. The rainy walk to school wasn't bad at all. After I dropped Lizzie at the gates I put some music on and selected a random track from a random playlist. As I tucked the second earpiece in place I heard your voice. It was a little word from you. 

'What a faithful God have I; what a faithful God
What a faithful God have I; faithful in every way'

(What a Faithful God, Robert Critchley, 1989 Thankyou Music) 

You are faithful. You promise; you deliver. You say, 'I'll take care of it'; you do. The thing I thought was sorted is still sorted. You said you would sort it and you will. It's just that your timing is not like mine. It's in your hands. I keep taking it back from you and thinking that it's down to me, or to someone else, but no, it's in your hands. 

'Lord, I come before your throne of grace
I find rest in your presence, and fullness of joy...'

I did. I only had a few minutes but I came, just as I was, tired and reluctant, but you are endlessly patient and when I give you such a little, you give me back so much. Rest for my anxious heart and the joy of my little girl splashing in the puddles on a morning when there didn't seem to be much to be joyful about. 

I need to remember this. I need to make time to come before your throne of grace even when I have to drag myself there because the voices in my head are saying 'press snooze again. Go on, just one more time...' and 'you can't be bothered today, God won't mind...' No, the chances are that you won't mind. You don't hold it against me when I don't drop in for a few days. It's me that misses out. It's my day that is the worse for it. The days when I miss my five minutes with you are the days that I miss the splashes of silver in the muddy puddles and the pink-cheeked joy of the seven year old jumping in them. I miss the messages and the gifts that are just for me. It's me that doesn't hear the voice of my God, and I don't hear because I'm not listening.

'Lord of mercy you have heard my cryThrough the storm, you're the beaconMy song in the nightIn the shelter of your wings hear my heart's replySinging what a faithful God have I'

You heard me. You heard what I said and what I didn't say. You can hear my heart. 

You're right there when it's raining as you are when it's sunny. You're there as we slip into Autumn and  my heart is heavy because I hate the dark and the dank and the cold. This is the day you made; my job is to be glad in it. 

When I'm worried that I can't see what the future holds, you are the beacon. All is in darkness but you alone shine. You're all there is to see; I just need to keep my eyes fixed on you. 

When I wake in the night and I wonder what's going on, when I get anxious about losing control, being uncertain and fearful, you are my song. What a faithful God have I? He is faithful in every way. Don't doubt him. 

Ah, Lord. In the shelter of your wings. Yes, please. If I were tucked under your wings I would be warm and dry and safe. Held tight against your body I can feel your warmth and hear your heartbeat. Where you go, I go. I am protected - I am in the only safe place. I am loved. I am in the shelter of your wings.

And my heart does indeed sing to you, on this dark, dismal day, as I sit here with cold fingers and half a cold cup of coffee:

'What a faithful God have I; what a faithful God
What a faithful God have I; faithful in every way'.

Amen. Ain't that the truth. 

Just because

Here I am, Lord. 

I know that you don't forget about me for a second, but I'd understand if I sort of make you jump a bit by suddenly dropping in like this. It's been a while. I bet you're getting used to my absence, are you? 

My head's been full of things, both inspiring and uplifting things that require close examination, and also big bags of rubbish that need leaving by the bin for the next collection. It's all been in there. 

It still is, really. I'm doing my best to work through some of it. The last few days have just been jam-packed with things that require filing somewhere in the immense, disorganised filing cabinet in my head. At the moment they're just a pile. I need to label them either 'Important; action required' or 'File: to consider later' or 'Shred'.

So, there's a job for later. I took my inspiration for that little bit of imagery from the towering pile of paperwork accumulating in my kitchen, which is also on the 'To Do' list. Only much, much further down.

So, why am I here? You're bracing yourself for the punchline, aren't you? Not that you don't know what I'm going to say...

I'm here just to be here. 

I'm here to say hello. To smile up at you. To tell you that I love you.

You know what it reminds me of? The other day I found Katy rummaging through the cupboard under the sink in the kitchen where I keep vases for flowers. Alarmed at the energy with which she was moving glass and crystal out of the way I offered to help and after a lengthy process of elimination she found what she wanted. A small, squat glass pot.

Minutes later she appeared at my elbow beaming up at me.

'For you, Mummy. Because I love you.'

Four buttercups in a pot. A little offering. Made my day.

So here I am to offer you my buttercups. Well, your buttercups. Or the equivalent of buttercups.

I love you. 

I haven't got an agenda.

Well, of course, I do have an agenda but you know it already. You know the myriad of unanswered questions in my head and you know the anxieties and puzzles and complaints that are on the tip of my tongue, but you'll also know that I am putting them on one side right now because it's a long, long time since I just came to say hello.

Hello, God. How's things where you are? 

What are you thinking right now? What do you want to tell me? Can you make yourself heard through the noise in my head? 

Teach me to still myself, Father. I want to learn to grab the peaceful time I can get while the children are occupied and manage to make the most of it without waiting until I have an entire morning or a whole hour to myself. If I tell myself that I can only come to spend time with you when I have a decent stretch of quiet time to spare I'll never come. If I need peace, and solitude, and a few hours all to myself with no stress and no obligation and no phone ringing or need to be somewhere - then I'll find precious few times that fit the bill. You and me will end up waving to each other from a distance for months until I grind to a halt because I'm so depleted that I involuntarily drop all the things I'm carrying. 

So I'm here. I realise that I haven't even been able to come into your presence for two minutes without asking you for something despite my protestations that it's my intention just to be. All that 'please, God' and 'show me...' and 'teach me...' and 'will you...'  It's endless.

Sorry.

Lord God, I think you're great. I do. I don't know what I'd have done without you this last week. On Wednesday I spoke at a friend's thanksgiving service and I was so anxious about whether I'd be able to do it without breaking down. I knew that you wanted me to; I knew that you had your hand on the whole thing right from the start, and so deep down I knew that if you'd brought me this far you wouldn't desert me as I tried to do it. You didn't desert me; you were there and it was fine. Hard, but fine. You held my hand and I felt your presence as clearly as if you were standing next to me. Thankyou. So much. 

It's been raining for days. Heavy rain that makes a wonderful sound on the roof windows and light rain that makes you think you might not get wet as you nip out for a loaf of bread and then soaks you through before you get out of the drive. The grass is so green that it's almost an unnatural colour; it's emerald green. Glowing green. And growing fast. It's the sort of grass that makes me want to take my shoes off as it looks so lush. But it's a bit chilly too so I'll just admire it from the window. The baby begonias planted in the troughs outside the front door are thriving; they are vividly green and starting to flower even though they're tiny. The reservoirs are filling up after dire warnings about drought. 

Today I met a friend and we took about thirty children to a soft play place that was heaving with people because it's the half term holiday and it's raining, so where else would you take the kids when they're desperate to use up some energy? Actually, there were only six children but it felt like many, many more. I'm not complaining. It was a good morning. Lots of things went wrong, stress levels were occasionally quite high; it seemed that at no point in the morning were all six children happy at the same time, but it was a good morning. I realise that I'm not much different from the children myself. They spent the whole time at the play centre offloading grievances about each other; 'He hit me!' 'She said I was a baby!' 'He wouldn't let me go first!' and then the minute we climb into the car to come home they're telling me what a fantastic time they've had.

It was a morning full of interruptions and irritations but I got to spend it with a friend, and even though it was noisy and hot and even though we have a million conversations hanging in the air still, it wasn't a bad way to pass a morning. I think you knew that we needed topping up a little bit - I know it sounds trivial (it is trivial!) but there was a point when we had six irritable children, rain beating down and the possibility of a lengthy wait to get into a packed play centre in the middle of nowhere and I said, 'Please God, we need a little miracle.'

You provided one. We got in pretty much in the time it took to take off six pairs of wet shoes. We found a table, we got coffee. How's that? 

You're a God who cares about the little things. You cared about our stressful morning. You cared about small children with too much energy for a half term holiday of wall-to-wall rain. You cared about me and my friend getting a glimpse of each other and the chance to share the moments between bouts of refereeing, encouraging, commiserating, feeding and soothing. You were there. 

Lord, I just want to praise you because you are worthy of praise. I give it all back to you because it's yours already. You are faithful in the small things and in the big things. On Wednesday night at the thanksgiving service, and on Friday morning at the overcrowded play centre. You are there in the form of a tiny bird cheeping away on my arm and in the form of a friend with a smile when the rain is heavy and the skies are dark. You are there in coffee and hugs and green, green grass. 

So I wanted to drop in and tell you that it hasn't gone unnoticed. Well, I bet lots of things have gone unnoticed, because you rain down your blessings in quantity and quite often I'm oblivious to so many of them. But I noticed a few, and so here I am to tell you thank you. It means a lot.

May I soak up your blessings up as the flowerbeds are soaking up the rain right here. I pray that my own spiritual water-table is filling up nicely. I don't want a drought around here. 

Thankyou, Lord God. 

You are good. 

All the time.