A boat called Joyful

I am grumpy, God. 

Just had a horrible bedtime with my two girls who were so worked up and hysterical that it all went wrong and they ended up in bed early with no story. I've been up and tucked them in and we're finally all friends again but I feel like a chewed piece of string. 

That noise was the sound of a glass of wine being poured. I'm hoping it'll help. 

I'm going to think about other things. I'm going to tell you about that day last week.  You know the one I meant. The one with the sea and the boats and the seals and the crabs and the sunshine. That one. Are you smiling?

I woke up that morning when Bryan brought me a cup of coffee in bed. That automatically gets the day off to a decent start, but what clinched it was that while I drank the coffee, I had time to read a couple of devotional posts on my email and also to write in my journal. I have noticed such a vast, enormous difference in my day when I can meet with you first thing, before I have to encounter anyone (especially the children) and before I have to start on the daily round of things-that-drive-me-crazy. Life doesn't necessarily work like that, mind you, but when it does, it's precious. 

I remember that I chatted with you for a while that morning, Lord. It was the last day of our holiday and I was anxious that it went well. I have an over-developed sense of responsibility for stuff like that and I was a bit on edge feeling that it was all down to me to make sure that the sun shone and everything should go tickety-boo and everyone should be happy. I was pleased to have a chance to spend some time with you at the start of the day. 

This is what I wrote:

'Lord - it's your day. You made it. Help me to see all the things that you put in it. Today, Father, I want to notice you. To really see you, and give you my thanks and praise. For you are my Lord and my God.'

You know what?  You answered my prayer. Father I have no idea how many more gifts you left in my path that day that I missed but I saw enough of them to marvel at your mercy and to praise you for your generosity to me.

We went to a seaside village up the coast from where we were staying and we went on a boat trip to see some seals. Our timing was perfect in terms of not having to queue on the jetty when we got to the landing stage for the boat, but in terms of picking good seats, it wasn't so good. We were just in time, and the last people onto the boat. Now, as you know, and  for the life of me I don't know why you made me this way, but I get anxious about things like this. We got the last spaces. To begin with we weren't even sitting together at all and needed to do some seat-exchanging with another family as we left the dock, and then the children couldn't see, so some more jiggery pokery was required, and finally, I ended up in the middle of the boat sitting on a cross-piece rather than a seat, with a rivet right underneath me, my view obstructed by the girls' heads. 

Grr. 

Now, what would be the thing to do in such circumstances?  Ideally, not notice that I was in such a duff position, because my girls were happy, the sun was shining, we'd managed to get on a boat in the first place and we were heading off on a little adventure. And I've seen seals before, after all. Of course that would be the thing to do. After all, I'm a grown up. Aren't I?

Ahem. 

I wasn't very happy. I wanted to take photographs not only of the seals, but also of the light on the waves, the other boats, the sky, the horizon, whatever came up. I wanted to bring back some shots to enlarge and perhaps put on the wall. I sat and scowled. I told the children to sit down, not to speak as loudly, not to lean out of the boat, to stop complaining. 

As we made our way to the island where the seals were basking, I chilled out a bit. Bryan took my hand. The girls were laughing as we whizzed along. The sun was shining down on us, the water was sparkling and the wind in my hair was massaging the grumpiness out of me. I started to enjoy myself. I was hoping to take some pictures of the beautiful sailing boats in the marina to one side but realised that we were on the wrong side of the boat. I decided that it didn't matter, since we'd be coming back the same way. 

We saw seals. We saw a lone seal pup on a sandy beach and we all enthusiastically took photographs of him, before rounding a bend and seeing a million seals of all shapes and sizes on another beach including huge bull seals and tiny babies. They swam close to our boat, they popped their heads up to say hello and they waved their flippers at us from the shore. It was lovely. I managed my photos without incident and even steadied the camera for long range shots by leaning on Lizzie's shoulder. So it was quite helpful to sit behind her after all. I thought of you and thanked you for the glimpse of wildlife so rarely seen and for the opportunity to ride in a boat and feel the sun and wind on our faces as we sailed. I saw your creativity and inspiration and the wonder and variety of your handiwork. 

We to-ed and fro-ed for a while to make sure everyone had their fill of the seals and we set off back. 

The sun was dancing on the waves and they sparkled like diamonds. Now and again the boat kicked up spray and we laughed with exhilaration. 

As we approached the marina, with all the beautifully photogenic boats with sails billowing in the breeze, beautiful little white caps on the waves, blue sea, blue sky... the sun went in. And as everyone knows, the pictures aren't anywhere near as nice without the sun. I put the lens cap on. 

I was just lowering the camera after replacing the lens cap, feeling disappointed and a bit cheesed off when we passed by a lovely little white boat with a bright red sail. Painted on the front of the boat was its name. 

Joyful. 

A boat called Joyful. 

Lord God, I saw you face to face at that moment. You caught my mood in your hands as it sank and you buoyed it up again.  You said, 'No. Don't do that. Don't do what you're doing. This is no time for dissatisfaction. Look at my world. And look at the gifts I give you.'

'...yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will be joyful in God my Saviour.'Habbakkuk 3:18

Too late to take a picture of the boat called Joyful. Moments after, while I was still craning my neck to look at the little red and white boat as it receded into the distance, the sun came back out. I got some pictures. Nothing breathtaking, but some photos that capture the sparkle and shine of that morning. But the one I remember is the picture I didn't take. 

Joyful. 

'...but may the righteous be glad and rejoice before God; may they be happy and joyful.'
Psalm 68:3

So much to rejoice about. In that few minutes, the vastness and power of the sea, the beauty of the sunlight on waves, the exhilaration of spray on my face as we danced along in a boat, the laughter of the children, the privilege of seeing the seals close up, the skill of those sailing boats in and out of buoys, sails billowing in the breeze, the deep blue of the sky, the seabirds wheeling around above and diving for fish, the fact that the God of Heaven reached down and communicated with me.

'...and giving joyful thanks to the Father, who has qualified you to share in the inheritance of his people in the kingdom of light.'Colossians 1:12

The Kingdom of Light! Oh my goodness. I spend my holiday marvelling at the special sort of light by the sea and trying to take the perfect photograph that will somehow capture forever the essence of the seaside and I find that one day beyond this life I will find myself with you in your Kingdom of Light? 

Joyful. 

That wasn't all, Father, was it?  I wonder how many blessings I missed that day, but I know there were more. The joy on my girls' faces when they caught lots of crabs and the wonderful pride on little Kate's face when she managed to land the largest crustacean of them all that morning. The finest bacon sandwich in the world sitting on a bench watching them with their crablines and soaking up the sun, camera cradled in my lap. 

Later on that afternoon we were at the beach, strolling along in the surf, and towards us came a man wearing a T-shirt that said, 'Keep Psalm and Carry On'.  At the moment that old 1939 Government Poster seems to be incredibly popular with no end of spin-offs but I've never seen this before. We passed by on the beach and exchanged greetings but my smile was wide because I know that my unknown brother there was carrying a message from you, for me. You were there. 

'Worship the Lord with gladness; come before him with joyful songs.'Psalm 100:2

Lord, I was glad. Every holiday I make sure that I find a pebble with a smile on it - I bring it home and draw on eyes and a nose and mark it with the year and destination of our holiday and that afternoon I found the perfect pebble. A broad smile. 

A joyful smile. 

Lord, I want to thank you for the sun and the waves, for the man on the beach and his T-shirt. 

For crabs and crab-lines and bacon butties. 

For weathered wood on the beach, for the sound of waves breaking on the shoreline and for family and holding hands and clifftop cottages and fresh air. 

For the way that the standing on the promenade looking down at my children on the beach I noticed the breakwater was in the form of a cross. 

And when I looked at my feet, there was another one, in the stone of the path. 

Thanks too for a boat called Joyful. Bless all who sail in her. I pray that they see what I saw.

Most of all, for being my Lord and my Saviour and my Friend who answers prayers. Teach me to see you more and more. Each day that I live may I miss less of your open-handed goodness and capture more of it in my heart. Don't let the moments slip through my fingers because I see the clouds. 

'They celebrate your abundant goodness and joyfully sing of your righteousness.'Psalm 145:7

Oh yes. You are good. You are good in ways beyond my imagination. You are righteous and I want to sing a song that people will hear. 

Lord God, thankyou for answering my prayer. 

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. 

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.

The peace of the Lord

Evening, Lord. 

The other day I had the sort of day where everything goes wrong. It was a depressing day full of illness and poor communication and disappointments and plans falling through. Full of tension and doubt and anxiety and self pity.

The surprising thing was that at the end of this very long day, when I finally slithered down under the duvet and reached for the lamp to put out the bedside light, the word in my head was 'Peace'.

That was your doing. 

Who else? The Prince of Peace.

I can't explain it; there wasn't a formula for why the day ended on an unexpected positive. All I can say is thank you. 

I had choices to make that day and I agonised about them and I tried to do what you would want me to do rather than take the line of least resistance as I so often do. It didn't turn out well but I wonder if you blessed me for trying. I wasn't feeling well and didn't have anything left in reserve for a night spent ill-at-ease with my husband, with myself, with you - so perhaps you took pity on me and touched me with peace. The following day, as it turned out, was a pretty poorly day as well so maybe you were preparing me with a good night's sleep. 

I don't know. All I know is that sometimes, out of the blue, I feel you so close that I could touch you and simply the fragrance of you is enough to fill me with peace.

I mean, I really went to sleep with the word, 'Peace' on my mind. It made me smile. I didn't spend an age getting to sleep as I usually do and I slept well. Bryan and I both woke in the night at one point and agreed that we both were feeling a bit better. The children didn't shout until morning. It was indeed a peace that passes understanding. 

I'd been reflecting, as I sat with a coffee at bedtime, that lately I have been focusing too much on everything that I do wrong, everything that I mess up, all the stuff that I wish were different and spend so much time dwelling on. It struck me that you died to free me from all this stuff; you didn't do all that you did for me to spend my life picking over the debris, downcast and discouraged. You died to make me free. 

To forgive me all the rubbish. All that I have done, that I do, and that I will do. You died for the sins I haven't even committed yet. You did it once, and for all. You took care of it. Yes, I get things wrong. Yes, I often choose the wrong thing. Yes, I fail in many and varied ways. I am selfish and critical and unloving and I worry and get angry and I interrupt - but I am forgiven. It doesn't mean that I don't need to make changes in my life and I know that sometimes it doesn't hurt to become aware of the scale of my need for forgiveness, but I need to remember that it is finished, as well. 

There's no point in sitting down by the side of the pile of rubbish and wrongs and broken things and examining it from every angle day in, day out, absorbed in the landfill, never looking up. 

If the pass mark for an exam is 100%, and I get 25%, I fail just the same way that I would fail with 99% or nothing at all. It doesn't matter. Since you are holiness itself and you cannot allow anyone less than holy into your presence, then Heaven would have been a pretty lonely place without Jesus, who came to make us holy. Because of him I am clean and shiny and new. I am able to come to you because of him. It is a done deal.

For me it's desperately discouraging that it takes me so long to learn a lesson and change the way I think and speak and act, but my striving is a response to you, not an attempt to earn my ticket to the party. I won't become any more righteous, any more deserving, the longer I live, or the harder I try, or the more I beat myself up about failing.  There aren't even degrees of righteousness - I either am or I'm not, and there is only One who is - that's you. 

And you loved me enough to forgive me. So that I could be with you. At immense cost to yourself, you made me whole. Made me new.

The peace came to me because I realised that you love me. Now. Even the way I am. I need to stop poking the wounds with a stick and let them heal. There will, no doubt, be plenty more. I need to get up and dust myself down again and carry on walking, and I'll need to do this today and again tomorrow and again the next day but you have said that you will never leave me or forsake me and you will always offer me your hand when I stumble and need help back to my feet. 

I need to leave the pile of trouble and rubbish at the foot of the cross, with all the others, and walk away. You tell me that I don't need to carry it all about with me. 

I am forgiven. I am loved. You made me free and yet I keep carrying this weight around with me instead of leaving it behind and walking with a lighter step. You don't want me to drag it round with me.

Peace. The peace of knowing that it won't always be a struggle. It won't always be confusing and unsettling. The fight won't last forever. 

The peace of knowing that the one who truly knows me, good and bad, inside and out, the past and the future, you love me right now, today, despite everything. 

'...and the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.'

Philippians 4:7

Amen. 

Thankyou.

 

In search of a punchline

So, another year is nearly over.

Do the years go by in the blink of an eye for you, Lord? Being outside time, what does it look like to you? Do you see us rushing about like ants? Always unaware of how much time we have left. Still searching, hurrying, trying to fit in all the things we want to fit in before some unknown deadline...

What a year it's been. I don't know whether to do a review of the year, or to look forward expectantly to the next one, or just have a bit of a ramble about New Year's Eves past and present - I guess I'll end up doing all of them, being a fairly introspective, slightly obsessive sort of person, but one thing has become clear to me over the course of this turbulent year and I wanted to run it past you.

I feel as if at the end of the year there should be some sort of momentous conclusion, some punchline, but there isn't, is there? It just sort of goes on.

The way that time is broken up into years is only our construct, isn't it? For you, regarding us, your creations, the span of time that matters is our lifetime; and that's only because you know how long that is. We don't. I don't honestly know if this coming year will be my last on earth or whether I'll still be here wittering away in another three or four decades. Perish the thought, hey?

At the beginning of this year I told you very earnestly that I had a sense that it was going to be a significant year. You smiled indulgently. Most of the way through the year I was still thinking that there was a point to it - a lesson to learn, or something to do, something to understand.  Although I think that I was partly right in thinking that, because there have been a myriad of lessons and ideas to absorb this year - what has dawned on me is that there is no end to the ride until you decide that It's Over.

Just as today ends and tomorrow begins whether there are fireworks and Big Ben strikes or not, the journey doesn't end because the year does.

Yes, we mark out our time with dates, festivals, hinges in a year so that we can stop momentarily, maybe; so that we can pause and get our breath back. Maybe that's it. Maybe we need to build in some things to look forward to. Maybe we need to reflect.

New Year is all about reflecting, it seems to me. It always makes me look back on a year and look forward to the new one. This time last year I was full of excitement and anticipation. I 'knew' that something was afoot - I sensed that you had something in store for me but naively I thought that it was something to do with 2011 and vaguely I thought that the something would be complete by the end of the year.  Now, on 31 December, I can honestly say that I did know that something was afoot. I was right. Something was. You have a plan for me, and this year not only have I had the penny-dropping moment when I realised that it was so, but I have begun to take a couple of little tiny baby steps towards it, with your help. That might not sound like much of an achievement for a whole twelve-month period but, God, you know how momentous it's been for me!

So, yes, I am going to look back on my year and try to distil what I've learned from it. I'll do that because, as someone pointed out to me recently, I am a 'completer/finisher' or something like that and I am obsessed with details and I like things wrapped up. It has to be done properly. I will also look ahead to a completely new, as yet pristine year ahead and try to determine what of this year I want to take with me and what I'd like to leave behind in the smoke and debris of 2011.

What I want most to do, though, is learn how to pause more regularly. To stop and watch and listen and learn to hear you. To reflect on a daily basis (is that too ambitious?) - anyway, more often then just once a year.

Ha.

I feel all smiley. Just thinking about the potential and the hope and the promise of going forward with you holding my hand and showing me where to go. This year has been hard but it's been wonderful and I want to go a bit further, please. You know what I'm capable of. Show me, so that I know too. Is that alright?

I want to praise you, Lord. For the snow and the blossom and for Easter and the sunshine and the seaside and the falling leaves and the Christmas story. For your constancy and ingenuity and beauty and mercy. I could go on and on.

Thankyou for the company we've had this evening. For fun and laughter and small children staying up beyond their bedtimes having had too much sugar. Thankyou for friendship and love and for the wonderful people you've arranged around me that teach me, inspire me, support me and care for me. It's a gift of such generosity and these people are so, so precious to me. Thankyou for my husband and a glass of champagne and a comfy sofa. I might not make it till midnight tonight but I will go to bed happy.

Thankyou for this year, Lord God. Thankyou that I survived it, that those I love are still around me and in pretty good health, and that you have never left my side; that you never, ever will. Thankyou for looking after me, for listening to me, for humouring me, for playing with me, for answering me, for loving me. For all the blessings that you've so generously given me. For all the glimpses and the revelations and the questions and the wonders.

Thankyou, my Father.

Here's to starting all over again, a bit further on, in a different place.

Cheers.