Turning to you

My eyes are open

Looking, searching, gazing

But not seeing

Not realising

I have already found you.

My ears are open

Listening closely

To an internal melody

Turned up loud

With a beat of me, me, me.

My mind is closed

Knowing everything 

All the answers

Narrow, oblivious

To the vast glory of you.

My mouth is open

Always saying something

Convinced I'm right

Not thinking first

Imparting my wisdom.

My fists are closed

Holding tightly

To the rubbish

Worry and fear and regret

Preoccupied with misery.

Blow your Spirit through me

Fling wide the doors

Closed and cobwebbed

Clear out the rubbish

Stacked in corners.

My heart is open

Deep down - I know

I long for you

Feeling my need

I turn to you, my Father.

Opening my hands

I don't have any words to celebrate Easter.

I like words and I usually enjoy playing with them. Searching for the right one. Quite often I can't make my mind up and I use more than I need to use. 

Today I'm feeling subdued. Yesterday was Easter and I didn't manage to find any quiet to come here and talk to you and by bedtime I had already been asleep on the sofa and any offering I might have made at that point would have been pathetically inadequate. 

It's a bit of a challenge right now. 

We've had visitors over Easter and they've gone. It was good to have them here and the children are missing their cousin badly. They've had company and stimulation and games to play but now the visitors have gone and taken their computer game with them (should we get one? Or would that be a bad idea for small girls who already have so much? More screens to stare at? But on the other hand... Divine guidance much appreciated on this one). Anyway, the children need extra attention and I would rather crawl into a little hole and have some time just me. 

On my own. With you. Though I can't guarantee that I'll be very good company.

Lord, yesterday morning at church it was just lovely. The building was full, the music was good, the atmosphere was festive and the message was the most incredible, breathtaking, amazing thing that there is. You rose from the dead. And if you did that two thousand years ago, that means that you're still alive. 

Alive. Not dead. Alive. Living. 

Nothing that they did to you could defeat you. It was lonely and awful and painful and you did it for me. You did it for me so that the way to God was open and clear and not blocked by piles of dirt and debris and rubbish. You did it. I thought my heart would explode, it was so full. 

Yesterday I raised my hands and praised you and the angels were singing too. He is risen! Alleluia! 

Today the first day of this year's post Easter life begins and I'm wondering what will change now. What can I do that's different because of Easter this year? What is my response?

We have chocolate to eat. We have a holiday this coming week; Bryan is at home and the children are off school. We will do nice things in the name of the Easter holiday. But my life should alter as a result of what I have seen this Easter.  I have spent Lent looking inward, and it's time to change gear. 

The Lord is here. He's not dead. Stop looking for him in his grave.

I am tired. I have things on my mind. Yesterday I felt lighter than I do today, and I know that a Good Night's Sleep will help.  Some space. But I feel troubled.

One thing keeps coming to mind. A friend and I often say this to each other when we find ourselves having trouble in life. We both have a tendency to control-freakery. We both frequently feel responsible for things that we can't do anything about. We both worry; probably me the most. But we've found something that helps - a bit. When we let it help. 

We need to open our hands. I need to stop holding on with fists clenched tight and I need to prise my fingernails out of my palms because only then can I take what you're holding out to me. If my hands are full, I can't accept anything. And that's such a shame because my hands are usually full of concerns and anxieties and worries and regrets and the things that you want to give me instead are peace and rest and hope and joy. Who would cling to the darkness when offered such light? 

Me, it seems. 

Yesterday at church I said some things and I've been acutely uncomfortable about them ever since. Three people have contacted me to say that what I said struck a chord with them. At the time it felt important that I say it; my heart was thumping in my chest, my palms were cold and sweaty and I felt that I should say it, then afterwards my mind was flooded with doubts. Big, hot, tearful doubts. I'd made a fool of myself. I shouldn't have said it. It didn't make sense. I didn't express myself very well. People would think badly of me. How embarrassing. And so on and so on. 

I have no idea what was going on, there. I trust you, Lord. I trust that you had a plan and that you can use even my obscure stumblings. But as I talk to you now I know that my feeling ill at ease today has something to do with yesterday. 

I need to do something.  Forgive?  Perhaps. It's a rolling programme. Give it all to you? Certainly.

Max Lucado says in his book 'He Chose the Nails: What God did to win your heart' which was my unofficial Lent reading this year, that the cross demands a response. A new examination of the cross demands a new response. He says: 

'May I urge you to leave something at the cross? You can observe the cross and analyse the cross. You can read about it, even pray to it. But until you leave something there, you haven't embraced the cross.'

What am I going to leave?

Right.

I'm going to carry my normal load of baggage and worries and anxieties and fears and regrets up the hill until I'm right in the shadow of the empty cross.
I'm going to make a pile of the boxes and rucksacks and carrier bags right in front of it. The little things and bits and bobs that I never let go of, I'm going to find an empty box left over from moving house and I'm going to fill them up and then get parcel tape and tear it off with my teeth in that way that makes my Mum wince and I'm going to seal the box and pat the tape down tight so I can't easily reach inside for something that I'm having second thoughts about.

Actually, there might be more than one boxful of sundries. Several, even. I'm going to stack them up on top of each other. I'm going to make a pile.

It's neatly stacked but it's still a great ugly heap.

I'm going to label them with the same efficiency with which I started to pack when we moved house.

Worries: the future, what people think, health, the health of those that I love, finances, jobs, that crack in the ceiling in the hall, the damp behind the living room radiator...

Fears: that something bad will happen. That people will die. That if I take my eye off the ball something will go horribly and irrevocably wrong. That I'll make some disastrous mistake in bringing up the children that their lives are ruined...

Bad things: my tendency to think I'm right, laziness, irritability, being critical, withholding forgiveness, superstition, temper, selfishness...

Regrets: things that I've said, things that I haven't said, perfectionism, the times I've messed things up, mistakes, things that I find hard to forget...

...and so on. And what am I going to do next?

I'm going to walk away. I know I'll be back because my hands fill up very quickly. No doubt before I get to the bottom of the hill I'll have things that I should come back and throw on the pile. But I'm not going to do what I usually do, which is to grab everything I can carry as if I'm on a trolley dash and run away with them again rather than leave them with you.

I'm walking. I'm not looking over my shoulder. I know that the cross is there, dark and silhouetted against the brightness of the sun.

I'm climbing down.

I want my hands to be empty so that I can grasp what you offer to me. Give me eyes to see what you are holding out and the sense to understand that what I have in my hands now has no value in comparison with a gift from you.

Thankyou for dying for me, Lord Jesus.

Please don't let me gaze at the cross and lift my hands in praise, but do nothing.

I want it to change things. Change me.

I'm sitting still. I'm relaxing my shoulders, which have a tendency to creep up towards my ears when I'm tense and anxious. I'm leaning on you. I'm remembering my pile of debris.

My eyes are closed but my hands are open.

Empty day

It's Saturday afternoon but it doesn't feel like a normal Saturday. 

It's different for a few reasons; we have company at the moment, the normal Saturday routine is temporarily interrupted, but for me there's definitely something else. Suspense. 

Waiting. A friend asked me earlier what we were doing today and I said I didn't know; it was a sort of 'limbo day'. She described it as 'an empty day', which I took to mean that she had no plans, but it might just as well have been a sense that something is missing. There's a void. A void of activity at church after the past week of services to remember Holy Week. Yesterday we went to the Hot Cross Bun service and looked again at the cross. Tomorrow we'll celebrate your resurrection, but today we wait. We feel the lack of something. Emptiness. A hole. 

We miss you. 

This was the day-in-between. I wonder what the disciples did that day. It was their Sabbath - did they go to the Temple and go through the motions? Did they stay in a room together and weep and try and work it out? Did they blame each other? Did they realise that they abandoned their Lord when it came to the end?  Did they go their separate ways? Merge into a crowd? 

They missed you. 

Max Lucado points out in his book 'He Chose the Nails' that you told the disciples three times that you would be executed and then on the third day you would rise from the grave. Three times. How many of them were waiting at the graveside that first Easter to see it happen?  None. Did they believe it? Did they not hear? Would I? Something so amazing? Even if I'd seen Lazarus peel off his own grave-clothes?

But hey, they were only human. They were scared. That first middle Saturday they must have been beside themselves with grief. You were their friend. You gave them purpose. You changed their lives. You showed them what to do and you had gone.

They missed you. 

So I'm sitting here with a cup of tea and it feels a bit like marking time. I, of course, know what happens tomorrow. I'm looking forward to it. I love Easter day. Even so, today is a forgotten day. A lost day. I had a little smile of satisfaction when I learned earlier on that historically this middle day of the three is considered a limbo-sort of day. 

A friend from church sent me an email all about today. 

I learned that 'Holy Saturday' (in Latin, Sabbatum Sanctum) is known as 'the day of the entombed Christ'. It is 'the Lord's day of rest' as this was the day that you were lying in your tomb. (Or were you? Were you getting your breath back? Were you off dealing with the devil on that day? Wiping the smirk off his face? Raising up the saints who had been waiting and waiting for you to arrive? I wonder what you were doing.) 

It goes on, 'We recall the Apostle's Creed, which says 'He descended to the dead.' It is a day of suspense between two worlds, that of darkness, sin and death, and that of the Resurrection and the restoration of the Light of the World.'

Suspense indeed. A no-man's-land. Christ has died, but Christ has not yet risen. We wait. We are holding our breath. 

And also, I didn't know that, '...for this reason no divine services are held until after the Easter vigil begins that night.'

Funny, that. I had only commented this morning that there should be something at church today to fill the gap. To save me from the feeling of blankness. Empty day. Limbo-day. Since that very first Easter people who love you have felt the oddness of today. The emptiness. 

There's something more powerful, though. Tomorrow you rise again, all over again. We celebrate and we sing and we lift our hands in praise and worship to the Risen Lord. We celebrate your resurrection. Back from the dead. But it's also the beginning of something totally new. 

'This day between Good Friday and Easter Day makes present to us the end of one world and the complete newness of the era of salvation inaugurated by the resurrection of Christ.'

You changed things. Nothing was the same any more. You cleared the way so that we could approach your Father. You redeemed us. You paid the price so that we were not held responsible for all the rubbish that had piled up and blocked the way from us to you. That first Easter Day was the first day of the new order. The first day that things were different. The Era of Salvation. 

So something momentous happened yesterday. Something momentous happens tomorrow. Today we wait. We feel the absence of you. Today we hold our breath in suspense. We get ready. 

Come, Lord Jesus. We're waiting at the tomb.  

Poured out like water

Jesus Christ, you died for me.

You poured yourself out. To lay down your life for a friend is one thing, but to die for those who rejected you?

To go through so much for so little in return?

The physical agony of crucifixion - the Romans knew how to kill a man. They knew how best to inflict pain. They knew just how to do it so that death was long, drawn out, dying one agonising breath at a time. They knew where to put the nails, the angle to bend the legs, the way to suspend a body so that every moment was a lifetime of misery. 

The emotional pain that you went through. The humiliation of nakedness and helplessness in front of your enemies, your friends, your mother. Being an object of ridicule and mockery. Being spat at. Beaten. The religious leaders and the Roman cowards thought that they'd won and you hung on a cross, bleeding from your wounds and you let them think that. The devil was laughing.

No-one was there. Where were the disciples? Where were all the people you'd healed, helped, transformed; the many whose lives were changed beyond recognition because of you? Where were they all when you needed a friendly face, someone to stick up for you? They had gone. You were going to die and nobody was there. 

The spiritual pain. Now this is hard for me to grasp, but I know that you lived your whole life in complete communion with your Father. I know that you never took one step away from the path that God wanted you to tread. You never once ignored him, or decided that you knew better, or did something for the hell of it, or because you wanted to, no matter what. 

You were sinless. So you never knew what it felt like to be guilty. To be dirty. To be ashamed. To feel unworthy and fearful and worthless. To be condemned. 

Me, I know what it feels like to do what I know to be wrong, and then to stand there with regret and shame in my heart. I know what it feels like to mess things up and know that I've messed them up. I know what it feels like to have a conscience weighed down by rubbish and know that I deserve every last bit of heaviness in my heart. You never did. 

Until that first Good Friday. Until the nails were hammered home and you were lifted high and the cross thudded down into it's hole and every joint was wrenched and the drops of blood and sweat showered down onto the earth that you created. You knew then for the first time what it felt like to be wrong. To be full of selfishness and pride and hatred and anger and guilt. You understood the consequences of sins that you'd never committed. It all came crashing down on you, as if you didn't already have enough to put up with. Physical pain, emotional pain, and now the pain of the world's filth.

You knew what it was like to have your Father, holiness itself, unable to look at you, unholy for the first and only time in your life. 

'My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?'

Matthew 27:46

Your Father turned away. Darkness fell and a storm whipped up and at that moment it looked as if darkness had triumphed. The sin of the world was on your shoulders. The final sacrifice.

And you did it for me.

You paid the price. For me and for all those like me, then, before then, ever since and everyone who is still to be born. You were the only one who could have. But the weight of those hours must have been unbearable. Cut off from your heavenly Father. The agony must have been intolerable. 

At any point you could have called it a day. You could have brought angels rushing to your aid. You could have climbed down from the cross and ascended into heaven in a blinding flash of light. You could have brought lightning down to strike the soldiers who stripped you and stole your clothes, but you did none of these things. You knew the Plan and you stuck to it. I wonder if you knew how hard it would be.

But you tell me it was worth it. You tell me that you would have done it had I been the only sinner on the planet. You died for me. 

My God. 

The people back then would have known the scriptures. The psalms back then didn't have numbers, people knew them by their first lines. 

' My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?'

Psalm 22:1

You told your disciples in Gethesemane to put away their swords - the soldiers were coming for you so that the scriptures would be fulfilled. You knew the Plan and you stuck to it. You had enough presence of mind as you hung their dying to recall the word of God as given to the psalmists and you told us who you were. Those who heard must have been amazed.

'My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?

Why are you so far from saving me,

so far from my cries of anguish?

...

But I am a worm and not a man,

scorned by everyone, despised by the people.

All who see me mock me;

they hurl insults, shaking their heads.

'He trusts in the Lord,' they say,

'let the Lord deliver him, since he delights in him.'

...

I am poured out like water,

and all my bones are out of joint.

My heart has turned to wax;

it has melted within me.

My mouth is dried up like a potsherd,

and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.

You lay me in the dust of death.

Dogs surround me, 

a pack of villains encircles me;

they pierce my hands and my feet.

All my bones are on display;

people stare and gloat over me.

They divide my clothes among them

and cast lots for my garment.'

Psalm 22:1-25

Lord Jesus, I can remember the first time I read Psalm 22 and realised that you knew exactly what was coming. That you were the fulfilment of the Scriptures. That every detail was correct and you knew. It blew me away. The whole of creation points towards you and yet as you died you spelled it out for me.

'I am poured out like water...'

You did it for me. What would I be without you? 

I am so thankful that the story doesn't end with your death. On this Good Friday we think about only part of the story. Gethsemane is part I of a trilogy, Golgotha part II. I should wait for part III until Sunday - but I can't stop there. It just isn't right. I know that the disciples had to; they ran and retreated and hid and wept and wondered and worried, but they weren't reading far enough in the scriptures. I know it's easy for me to say with the benefit of hindsight and easily available Bibles and blessed enough to have people who will teach me and point it out to me in words of one syllable.

You died for me. You paid the price that needed paying. And then... (sneak preview)...

You. Rose. Again. 

'Posterity will serve him;

future generations will be told about the Lord.

They will proclaim his righteousness,

declaring to a people yet unborn:

He has done it!'

Psalm 22:30-31

At the moment you died, you called out, 'It is finished!' (John 19:30)

'He has done it!'

You did it. That was the Plan. Complete. 

Done. 

My Lord and my God. 

Thankyou for dying for me. 

  

   

The meaning of loneliness

Maundy Thursday.

Tonight we remembered the Last Supper and the events that followed in Gethemane. It was quite a sombre affair towards the end when we sat in subdued lighting in (a very cold) church and listened to the account of your betrayal. 

Nobody waited with you. They fell asleep. They didn't understand what was happening. I can't imagine  that they would have nodded off if they'd known. You asked them to stay with you, to be there, but they couldn't. You were truly on your own. My heart goes out to you. 

It must have been terrifying. You knew what was coming. You knew what had to happen. You were waiting for the start of a chain of events that would result in agonies for you - physical, emotional and spiritual, but the loneliness must have started right here. Minutes and hours ticked by while you waited. 

One of your chosen friends betrayed you with a kiss.

Those same men who had sworn that they would never leave your side - they fled. Peter was aghast at the thought that he might disown you but he ran away. They were afraid for their lives and despite their claims that they would stand by you and even die for you they made themselves scarce in case it might be their turn next. 

You were alone. 

God, what was it like to watch your Son that night? To hear him ask if there was another way, and shake your head? To watch his sweat fall like blood, to see him on his face on the ground with sorrow and fear?  To see these weak men who were his friends run away and deny him? 

Were you proud? Were you tempted to abandon the Plan? 

He did it all that scripture might be fulfilled. It had to happen this way. There was only One who was good enough. 

Tonight we had a meal together and we shared bread and wine and we watched as the altar in church was stripped. It always moves me, to see the front of church bare and unadorned. No candles, no altar-cloth, no crucifix. It doesn't seem right. Where you are there should be majesty and glory and richness and beauty but tonight there is just a wooden table. A cloud in front of the sun. Shadows instead of streaming, golden light. 

They took you away and you knew what was to come.You were human enough to pale in the face of this last horrible chapter but God enough to go ahead with it. You asked for company and support and the comfort of friends and nobody gave it. 

You were totally alone. Jesus Christ, Son of God, led away like a criminal as your friends abandoned you. But here's the thing; I know the end of the story. I know that it doesn't end with your death. From my little vantage point in history I know about your death and I know about the resurrection. I know that your team is still the only team to be on even though right at this moment in Gethsemane it looked totally defeated. You are victorious. It all works out alright in the end. 

I have an advantage over the disciples. And yet...

Would I have run away? I'm sure that I would. 

Would I run away now if they came for me, because of you?  Oh, Lord, I hope not. 

I am like Simon Peter. I don't flatter myself that I am any more loyal, brave, steadfast than the Rock upon which you built your church. I love you, but I am easily frightened. Easily cowed. 

And yet you did all this for me. 

Even without the adornments, you are beautiful. Without the gold and the tapestry and the candles, you are still the Lord of Light. 

Walking away with your captors, allies nowhere to be seen, you are not diminished. 

I am in awe. 

You are here.

Your spirit is with me.

I lift up my heart. 

I give thanks to the Lord my God. 

It is right to give Him thanks and praise.

Thankyou, Jesus. 

Waiting and seeing

Morning, Lord. Actually, afternoon. 

Today is flying by. Lots to do. Family coming to stay for Easter. Shopping to do. Food to prepare. House to clean. Children to entertain. All that sort of stuff. 

It's frustrating that I'm having to move so fast today. I want to stop and think and rest a bit. I have a lot I want to say to you and it's not easy to say it in the supermarket with two shopping lists and crowds of people anxiously buying everything in sight because a Bank Holiday is approaching and perish the thought we should run out of food! 

I'm still thinking about yesterday. It was a full day and a long one. I went to bed last night with a head full of things. 

We went to the Children's Hospital yesterday with Katy and saw our new Consultant who was very nice. She examined Katy and started from the beginning with a history. She scrutinised the photos we have which chart the progression of Katy's illness and she agreed with the original diagnosis and was anxious to reassure us that everything had been done correctly last year. No-one was to blame for the recurrence. I hadn't actually considered that someone might have been to blame, to be honest, but still, it was nice to hear that we couldn't have done any better had different decisions been made. 

We are awaiting an appointment for another scan, and a very skilful phlebotomist took blood with a gadget that quickly made a small hole in Katy's thumb (while she was still inspecting the Monsters Inc. characters on the walls!) and then managed to squeeze enough red stuff out of it to fill two little vials for testing. Much better than the terrible performance we had finding a vein with a needle last year which was one of the more distressing events. 

We're waiting and seeing. The doctor wants to see us again in six weeks when she'll have scan results and blood results and we can see if the lumps have grown. At that point we'll need to discuss treatment options but she says that she does hold out some hope that they might not progress into the full blown tumours they were last time. Last time they started in lymph nodes and so far they are still lymph node size... 

Please, please, please, Lord, please can we call it a day here? It would be fine with me if the lumps just vanished in a miraculous sort of way. Or even a gradual sort of way would do. Imperceptibly smaller. Going, going, gone. Take them away. Back to normal. Nice neat scar, lots of lessons learned about depending on you, about how much I love my daughters, about waiting and trusting and not being in control - all those things, but not this again. No dilemma about surgery or drug therapy. No time off school. No tears, no pain, no dressings, no doctors. 

How about it?

The consultant seemed to think that the situation was inconclusive. Waiting and seeing was in order. 

I can wait and see. I have six weeks of hope and I'm going to try not to check Katy's neck twice a day in the meantime. 

Breathe. 

Katy and Scruffy Barney

Father, thank you for yesterday. For looking after us as we trekked to Sheffield in blizzard-like conditions. Days earlier we'd been sitting in the sun in the garden and I'd been liberally applying sun lotion onto the girls and yesterday two inches of snow fell. When we were on our way to the appointment it was falling horizontally. The girls were amazing - just when I think they'd have reason to be cross and whiny (trudging up a hill in driving sleet and a howling gale) somehow they seem to dig in and find a stoicism and perseverance for which I am full of admiration. Drop a lollipop on the doorstep, however (as has just happened) and it's time for a meltdown. Mystery.

The children loved the train journey even if it was only twenty minutes. They loved the ride in a big black cab and that was when the mood changed. Katy lost her buoyancy and started hugging Scruffy Barney close and told me that she didn't want to go to a hospital, please. Could we just to back to the train? Poor little love, she looked so small. She was very brave as we read stories in the waiting room and she answered questions and co-operated with the nice doctor (whose name was also Katherine). I was proud of her. Elizabeth was a lovely concerned big sister who pulled faces at a video camera in the waiting room when she knew that Katy could see it in another room.  

It wasn't too bad, but I'm not bothered about doing it again, if that's alright.

Thankyou for keeping us safe, for getting us there on time (early enough for a coffee and a toasted teacake in the cafe, actually) and for finding us a nice, kind, clever doctor who has given us a bit of hope. Thankyou that we got home alright, that Bryan got his train back to London in time and that we all got to bed last night. 

Big sister, little sister.
Also Froglet and Scruffy

Thankyou very much most of all for all the people who held us together yesterday. So many people sent texts and emails and called to tell me we were in their thoughts and prayers. Just like last year, I felt wrapped up. It's a wonderful blessing to know that people were caring.

People have realised that it wasn't just about Katy and her illness but how we're all knocked a little bit sideways by it all. How hard it is on Elizabeth who must watch us focusing on her little sister and wonder why it has to be all about Katy. I remember Lizzie once last year dissolving in tears because she didn't think she could be as brave as Katy. I could only guess at the complexity of emotions behind that. I'm especially sensitive to Elizabeth and her needs since the disaster the other night. I desperately don't want her to feel sidelined. It's hard.

Bryan and I and my mum all cope in different ways and it's inevitable sometimes that each of us must think that the others should be more like us. We're all anxious and tired. It's hard to think of everything. To make sure that everyone is looked after. 

And then, last night, a friend rang to ask how things were. She has a gift for having just the right word at the right time. Last night was just the right time for me and as I lay in the dark in bed later thinking about her words I felt the peace that comes from you settling on me. She passed it on to me. 

She told me that she had been praying for us all and was continuing to pray. She asked me how things were between me and you. That took me aback a little; it's not a question people ask very much. How are things between you and me? I'm not really sure. Maybe I haven't really checked that much lately. I've been finding it hard to pray; hard to find the words, the energy or the focus. I go in to see each of the children last thing at night before I go to sleep and for years now I've tried to say a prayer for each of them as they sleep. Lately I've found it difficult and on a few occasions all I could do was sit at their bedside and offer to you what's flooding my heart.

Lord, I know that you don't need me to tell you what is needed in a situation. I know that you already understand all that's going on in our little lives. You know Katy, you know how she is; you know me and you know our family. You know what I hope and what I fear. I know that prayers don't always have to be made of words and so I sit on the edge of their beds and all the things that come welling up - the love and the worry and the helplessness and the frustration and the guilt and the fear and the longing - all I can do is hold it out to you. It usually makes me cry. 

So my wise friend asked me how I was doing and I didn't have an answer. I tried to think of something to say. I rambled a bit. I talk too much when I'm under pressure, as you know. Then she told me that it was alright. That this was what intercessory prayer was all about. 

She told me that she, and other people were praying for us. That they were standing in my place to pray to you because they knew I might need help. To free me to do other things that needed doing in a time like this. Her words were to release me. Release me to organise or sort out the children or make arrangements or simply to put one foot in front of the other. 

Her words struck home with me as I've been feeling so guilty about how little I am praying. My daughter is ill and potentially needs more surgery and you'd think that I'd be praying all the time for healing and for strength and comfort for her. For guidance for us; for so many things. After all, I love her so very much - how come I'm not on my knees round the clock? Even what little I offer you I struggle with. And here was someone who knows about poorly children and the guilt of motherhood and she told me that it's alright; if I can't, other people will do it for me. 

I was speechless. People would do that for me? People are doing that for me? Then no wonder yesterday went well. I am blessed beyond measure to have people who care so much. People who see what's needed in such a perceptive way. It was overwhelming. Just thinking about it now brings tears to my eyes.

The wonderful thing was to hear someone say that it was OK to feel as I've been feeling. It's alright to be a bit lost. To be getting on with things without thinking much. Not because I'm managing to overcome my tendency to worry, but because I'm so tired and sleep evades me and because I can't seem to focus on things. It doesn't matter why. I'm doing my best. I'm caring for my girls and I'm shopping and I'm cleaning and I'm preparing for visitors. I'll be waiting and seeing until the next clinic appointment. 

But I'm not on my own. I know that you're there and I know that you always have been. I know that you want me to spend time with you and I know that you're waiting for me to turn and lean. I also know that I have friends who understand and can tell me that it's alright to be a bit mixed up and a bit tired and it's alright not to be able to do everything. They're praying for me. 

Bless them, my Father. Bless them for the wonderful thing that they're doing for me that in my book is more precious than gold. Thankyou for the doctor, the skilful phlebotomist and the taxi driver who stopped when he saw us soaked through and trudging in sleet down a main road searching for a tram. Thankyou for every wonderful person who sent a text or an email or made a phone call. For everyone who thought of us and said a prayer because I'm not doing too well in that department. 

Thankyou for the reassurance. It came like a great big wonderful hug. Some of the guilt evaporated and peace took over. 

Thankyou. Wait and see with me, will you? Even though you know the punchline. You know what I want you to do about those lumps. 

New every morning

Goodnight, God.

I'm so tired. So tired that I'm all mixed up. I can't think straight. 

Last night I wanted to get an early night because I was tired and by bedtime I'd developed a muscle spasm in the big muscles of my neck that I couldn't lie down. For hours I tried different constellations of pillows and painkillers and kept getting up to re-warm my wheaty so that I could sort of poke it in between my shoulder and my neck but the result was a terrible night. Coupled with a mini Katy-tantrum at about 5.50am I'm sure that you could tell that today wasn't going to be a great one. 

I started it with a scowl. A stiff neck and a scowl. 

I feel as if I haven't done too badly in the circumstances, but you might have different ideas. This morning Mum and I took the children to get their feet measured and buy new shoes and Elizabeth ended up with some trainers that I think are awful. She, of course, loves them. Glitter, different colours, shiny bits...ick. Sigh. They were the only ones that fit. I wanted to stamp, but I didn't. We had lunch in a cafe and they barely touched their meals. We came home and I wanted half an hour's peace before we went to a party for one of Katy's classmates' fifth birthday. I didn't get it. Spent two hours in a packed soft-play place bouncing between Katy who was involved in the party and a whiny Lizzie, who wasn't. Refereed on the way home as they picked on each other in a tired and crabby sort of way and then delivered them through bath time and a bed time with many false starts (well, false finishes, actually - I kept thinking they were settled and they weren't) and I haven't shouted. Have I? No, I haven't shouted. 

I didn't actually shout. I felt like it. Well, maybe internally, a bit of shrieking. For those amongst us that could see in my head, (that's you, then) I don't suppose I acquitted myself that well, but at least I didn't demolish either of my children by bellowing at them. The odd snap, maybe... And I did do a bit of an angry dance after taking Katy back to bed for the fourth time, but it was out of anyone's line of sight. Except yours. 

Ah well. I think that maybe I'll settle for that. 

A quote for the day on my iPhone this morning:

'Because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed,

for his compassions never fail.

They are new every morning;

great is your faithfulness.'

Lamentations 3:22-23

Oh, God, thank you for that. New every morning. They need to be, because I crumple them up and throw them aside so often. I am saved, but so often I fail to find any joy in it. I know that you love me and want only good for me, and yet I turn away because in my creature-wisdom I think I see things more clearly than you. I know that I am never alone, and yet I complain that I can't feel you. 

CS Lewis said:

'Relying on God has to begin all over again every day as if nothing had yet been done.'

Doesn't it just. I trust you. I do. Then I don't. Then I try to but I don't manage it. Then at a moment of Spirit-led prayer or worship it all comes together for a nanosecond and I get a glimpse of how life might look if I did, actually, completely, let you take my troubles from me - and then it evaporates into a sticky slick of anxieties clutched in my sweaty little palm. 

When it comes down to it, what can I do, though? 

Who can I rely on, if not you?  I can't rely on me because I constantly disappoint myself. I can't even keep up to my own standards, let alone anyone else's. I let myself down. Who else? Who will take care of Katy?  The doctors? Well, maybe, but they tried twice last year and her tumours are back. Tomorrow we'll take her to a new hospital to see a new consultant and, who knows, make plans for a new operation or try a new treatment. Perhaps it will solve the problem, I don't know, but I'm wary and I'm scared and every fibre of my being resists entrusting my precious daughter to a doctor or an anaesthetist who doesn't care for her as I do. 

But you do. You love Katy more than I do. Not sure about that, but I read it in the Bible and so it must be true. Father, I'm relying on you. I'm going to have to. I'm going to put out the light in a minute and lie down and I'm going to try to leave it all with you. Try and open my tightly clenched hands and let you take the worries from me: my anxiety about getting up at the crack of dawn and getting us all out of the house in time. My worry that there's a forecast of snow for tomorrow and we're travelling to another city for a 9am appointment. My concerns about finding the place, getting there on time, the cost of train tickets, tram tickets, getting wet and cold on the way, finding somewhere for lunch, getting back in time to prepare for visitors over Easter. 

All of which are satellite worries around the main one, which is all about what is wrong with my beautiful daughter and what can be done about it? Will it hurt her? Will she get better? Will she be frightened? 

How strong do I have to be?

'Because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed,

for his compassions never fail.

They are new every morning;

great is your faithfulness.'

Amen. Your compassions are new every morning.  I'm going to be needing tomorrow morning's, Lord. And if tonight is anything like most nights for the last three weeks my doubts and fears and panics start to creep back overnight so I'll need to rely on you all over again in the morning.

Don't let me be consumed, my God. I'm frightened for my little girl and I'm frightened for me. 

Right, I'm needing sleep. 

Come with us tomorrow. Give the doctor wisdom and compassion and gentleness, please. 

Let's get this thing over with, can we, this time?

Crowded with you

Hello, God.

Your old friend CS Lewis said this:

'We may ignore, but we can nowhere evade the presence of God. The world is crowded with Him. He walks everywhere incognito.'

I think this is true. I don't have a big brain, and so I can't quite get my head around it, this thing about the Creator of the universe who is so unimaginably huge that holds the galaxies in his hand, yet wants to know me. Wants to share in the minutiae of my life. In the same way I don't really grasp what it means that you are everywhere.

I saw you.

You are...everywhere. 

The thing is, I have noticed that some days I have eyes that see you and some days it's as if I'm walking round with my eyes shut. Some days you're everywhere and others you're nowhere to be found. I've come to realise that the former is true, even on the other sort of days. Sometimes I want to see you and my eyes and my mind is open and ready and eager to experience you, and then there are the times when I have my eyes screwed shut and my fingers in my ears and I'm shouting 'lalalala' rather than risk bumping into you. It doesn't mean that you're not there, though. 

And when I do see you all around me, I realise that the days when I ignore you are days when I miss out on so much. 

Hairy Caterpillar

This week we've had unseasonably warm weather. I had the opportunity to sit in the garden and do nothing because my older daughter was home from school poorly. We saw a dozen different types of bird on the bird table and splashing in the bird bath and we saw ladybirds and caterpillars and the most enormous bumble bee I have ever seen in my life. Spring is appearing all around me and in the last seven days the bare brown branches of trees have a haze of green on them. The magnolias have budded and blossomed and the leaves are starting to emerge. Shoots of plants that I'd forgotten about are starting to push through the heavy soil that desperately needs a bit of a dig. The grass was cut for the first time this year. The greenhouse is clean (ish) and I have packets of seeds that I'm looking forward to sowing. Soon, when the risk of frost is gone I'll pot up my bedding plants and wheel out the big yucca again and the front of the house will be in its summer plumage again. 

It's not just the signs of Spring that make me think of you. This week has not been a great one for me and yet you have been close by my side and I've been aware of you. Even at the moments that I've been least loveable, I have known that you have loved me. 

On Tuesday night my daughter Elizabeth told me that she didn't feel as if I loved her. This was after a particularly explosive bath and bedtime where we were all upset and angry but it hurt me very much. I cried and cried. I felt like an utter failure as a mother. The next day and the next, Elizabeth was poorly and we got to spend lots of time together. She needed her mummy and I was only too pleased to be needed. On Friday Lizzie made it back to school, a little pale and wraith-like, perhaps, but it was her class assembly and the last day of term before the Easter break so I said yes. 

We went to see her assembly and it was lovely. In typical Lizzie fashion she hadn't told us what her part(s) were in the assembly and it turned out that she read some bits, held up some pieces of work and then was the dove that left Noah's ark and came back with the olive branch to show that the waters were receding. She was a beautiful little dove in her pretty summer dress doing a fluttery dance around the 'ark'. 

I was very proud. 

Healing indeed. I hope I don't drop the ball again too soon. 

You are indeed everywhere.  In the darkness and the light. In the colour and the shadows. In happiness and misery. In success and failure. 

You're there in the Spring blossom and you're there when a child is sick. You're there in the middle of the night in the bathroom and you're there in the sun in the back garden. You're there loving me when we are ashamed of ourselves and you're there loving us when we think we're doing alright. There's forgiveness and acceptance and love. 

Thankyou for being there.

Thankyou..

for my family

for healing - physical and emotional

that Spring comes after Winter

for bumble bees and hairy caterpillars and ladybirds

that dead things come alive again

Thankyou...

that there's nothing I can do to make you love me more

that there's nothing I can do to make you love me less

Lord, keep my eyes open. The world is a darker place when I can't see you. Keep me looking and finding and noticing. 

Amen.

The joys of motherhood

I have slowed down, God. 

Once again, I've had to cancel some things and change plans and it's actually been alright. 

Yesterday was one of those days where my heart goes out to a poorly little one as my Lizzie was ill with a tummy bug. She is usually so energetic, never still, always doing something, interested in everything, constantly on the go, but yesterday she just was.  Not like her at all. 

So she lay with her head in my lap, or Grandma's, and she dozed a little, but mostly she just lay. I stroked her hair and read her stories and held her when she was sick. I whispered to her, and kissed her and cuddled her. She's usually too fast moving to be much in favour of snuggles and so it was a treat, to be honest, to sit still with Elizabeth. She wanted Mummy, and that, too, was a treat after the debacle of the night before. 

My little girl was poorly and we spent a day together. I couldn't make her better and neither could the doctor - though we've had the palaver of getting a stool sample up to the surgery so that they can determine which evil little bug is making her sick. That was fun. The joys of motherhood. 

My poorly Elizabeth

Actually, the joy of motherhood is sitting with your little girl's head on your knee or on your shoulder on a bench in the garden on an unseasonably hot day in March. We read fairy stories and a bit of Enid Blyton (what a trip down memory lane that was) and we played I-Spy and we sat quietly. The night before I'd hit the bottom of the motherhood experience; the sense of utter failure and defeat, and then yesterday and today I got to claw it back a bit. Maybe make up a bit of ground. I'm not sure who needed who the most these last two days but I think it might have been a close thing. 

Today Liz was much improved though still a pale, thin-looking wraith with no appetite. We went to the supermarket this morning and she made my shopping list and ticked off items for me. We laughed that the list appeared to say, 'hairy-way' instead of 'hairspray'; for a six year old this was hilarious and I'm sure we haven't heard the last of this joke. And you know what? Every time she asks me if I need 'hairy-way' I will joke back. I promise. For as long as it makes her laugh, I will make the effort. To make her smile. It won't be long before she doesn't laugh at my jokes. That laugh is precious. 

In the shop a kind lady on a promotions desk gave Lizzie a tiny pot of ice-cream and she even grated a smudge of chocolate on it and added a strawberry when she heard that Liz was recuperating from a tummy upset. Elizabeth was tempted enough to eat it and declared it delicious. The most wonderful ice cream ever. 

Beautiful Lizzie

We bought a tub to bring home. A winner every time. 

Afterwards we went to the coffee shop for a drink and I'd have bought her cake if she'd wanted it. She was helpful and thoughtful and lovely company and it was good. I love her so much. 

Thankyou Father. Thankyou for healing after hurting. 

I'm not sure if I overlook Lizzie sometimes. She's the older one and the attention has been on Katy, I think. Katy is smaller, more affectionate, more vulnerable in some ways. Or maybe that's just how I see her because over the past twelve months she's had surgery twice and more appointments at the hospital than I could count. She's the one we're worried about all over again and we're psyching ourselves up for more appointments, blood tests, scans, treatments, surgery. Maybe Lizzie gets left out. I didn't think so but maybe she does. Maybe Katy is the baby and Lizzie the more self-contained older sister. I don't know, but I worry.

Oh dear. 

It's so hard, God. It's so hard to anticipate all these needs and respond to them when I'm so tired and when my head is full of so much stuff. I have two small people who depend on me for so much - physically and practically and emotionally and spiritually, and I have a horror of letting them down. What scars will I leave when I do let them down, which I'm certain to do. I let Elizabeth down the other day and she let me know about it. I feel that the last two days have been a gift to bring us closer again and I will always be grateful for that. 

But I'd rather have not got it so badly wrong in the first place. 

I am not a perfect Mummy, and neither are my girls perfect children either. I know that. They are so different from each other, and so different from me. They're not going to do everything the way I want them to, no matter how much I want them to. I don't want to try to make them into something that they're not. I just want them to grow up knowing that they are loved, that they are special. That they are capable and valued and unique and loved, just as they are. I can't do it on my own. Bryan and I can't do it between us. We all can't do it, all the family and friends and church together. We need you. 

You loaned me my two girls to look after for a while. They are your children. You don't have grandchildren - we are all your little girls and little boys. You think I can do this job, or you wouldn't have given these two beautiful little people into my care. You seem to think that I can do a good enough job. I doubt it sometimes, but whether I do or not, the job still needs doing.

Please give me again what I need to make sure that they grow up ok. Please heal them of any hurts that are planted in their little hearts. Don't let anything negative thrive in their minds, Lord. Cleanse the two of them of any ideas that might damage them in any ways. Protect them from doubt and insecurity and jealousy and fear. Lord God, who knew each one of them even before they were in my tummy, mould them the way you want them to be so that they won't have to unpick years of worry or confusion or rejection in the years to come before they can be all that they were made to be. 

Help me, Father. 

• Prop me up when I don't have any more energy. 
• Give me patience to stop the exasperated sigh when they spill their drinks or their cereal or the paint. 
• Give me grace to smile when I feel like snarling. 
• Give me self-control to keep back the cutting words when they're too silly for my grown up way of thinking and my sense of humour is AWOL. 
• Lord of compassion, give me wisdom to find the right words when I need to correct them without crushing them. 
• Prince of peace, show me how to break up a fight with justice when there's no earthly way of knowing who was in the wrong. 
• Show me how to comfort a child who has been pinched, or pushed, or cheated out of the last biscuit. 
• Help me to forgive, and show them how to do it too. They're going to need a lot of practice. 
• Give me buckets and buckets of love so that when my tankful comes to an end I can run on your reserve supply. 
• God of mercy, give me the grace to hug a child who's covered in vomit because they need a hug and it can't wait until they're bathed.
• Show me how to bring joy and contentment into their lives instead of dissatisfaction and envy.
• Creator God, help me to show them the wonder around them; to see you everywhere. To teach them that the world is a beautiful place, not a scary one.
• When they wake in the night with unnamed fears or needs give me the grace to soothe them even when I'm desperate for sleep myself. Even when it's the fourth or fifth time that night.
• When the world is too much for them, help me to help them cope. Show me how to build them up, not demolish them. How I long for my girls to have more confidence than I've had, to be comfortable with themselves. Not arrogant or boastful, but at peace
• Give me understanding when I can't work out what is needed. 
• Lord God, equip me to show my little girls the way to find you for themselves. I'll never ever do that when I shout and glare at them. Light of the world, help me to shine brightly, not bring darkness and shadows.
• Help me to quiet the insistent, selfish little voice that constantly complains, 'But what about me?'
• And anything else I need that I've left out. I could go on forever but I need to get to bed tonight. 

Above all, save me from thinking that I have to do all this on my own. 

The prayer of St Francis of Assisi

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.

Where there is hatred, let me sow love;

Where there is injury, pardon;

Where there is doubt, faith; 

Where there is despair; hope;

Where there is darkness, light;

and where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master, 

Grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console

To be understood as to understand;

To be loved as to love. 

For it is in giving that we receive;

It is in pardoning that we are pardoned;

And it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. 

Amen. Oh yes, amen. 

Hurting

Evening, Lord.

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

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

Hamlet Act IV scene 5

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I have tears welling up just thinking about it. 

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

It made me think.  

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

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

All the time. 

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

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

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

Sometimes, it doesn't. 

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

So what is there to say? 

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

Lizzie didn't feel like I loved her. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Make it alright, will you, Lord? Please? 

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

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

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

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

I have forgiven Lizzie.

I hope that she has forgiven me. 

Forgive me. 

Thankyou for second chances. And the ones after that. 

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

Amen.