A letter to tuck in your pocket

One and a half more weeks of holiday and school starts again. You can tell that my two girls' minds are beginning to turn to the new term because sometimes out of nowhere comes a little remark that reveals a hidden iceberg of thoughts and worries.

Katy is going back into year two, her last year at the little local infant school just around the corner. Her year one class has been split into two and she isn't with any of her friends. I held my breath as she handed me the paper, waiting for anguish and gnashing of teeth, but she was philosophical. 

'Mummy, there'll be all those new friends to make.'

What about that. 

I can't tell you how much I admire her. Six years old and fearless in the face of a daunting situation. Of course, she has her insecurities, but in the playground she's relaxed and confident of her own welcome and as a result the other kids want to play with her. How wonderful that is. I would love to be more like that. 

Her big sister, on the other hand, has moments of excitement about going back into year four, but mostly she's apprehensive and as September draws closer I can feel her happy holiday mood slipping a little. Last term didn't go particularly well and the troubles and tears multiplied until we were just nursing her through the last days before the long holiday. It's all been on the back burner but now it's time to turn up the heat again...

I encourage and reassure and comfort and advise, but the bottom line is that they both need to work out what to do to get through school and friendships and so on for themselves. What works for Katy might not work for Elizabeth, and what has worked all along might not always go so well. They are unique little bodies and personalities and neither of them is me. They're not going to handle it as I did (and that's probably a good thing; I made a complete hash of friendships for much of my school career). 

So, I will walk them to school and I'll buoy them up with words of encouragement. I shall tell them that they are warm, kind, beautiful, clever, interesting and fun to be with. I shall advise them on letting others go first, winning and losing with grace and happily playing games suggested by other children even if they feel they have a better idea.  

They have new school uniforms, (rats, socks. Forgot socks) and shiny new shoes. They'll have new haircuts and pencil cases. They'll be as ready as I can make them, but when I've waved goodbye, they'll pretty much have to sort it out for themselves.

Here's what I'd like them to remember:

Beautiful daughter of mine,

You are loved. 

More than you know, you are loved. You are loved by all your family back here at home; by me, watching the clock for school pick up time and anxiously searching out your face in the exodus of children passing through the school doors, and you are loved beyond imagination by your heavenly Father. 

He made you just as you are. He made you deliberately, not accidentally. You were designed by a Master craftsman who never, ever makes mistakes. When He finished making you, my little one, He sat back and smiled, delighted with the little girl He had made. He knows every hair on your head and He sees every breath that you take. He promised a long, long time ago that He would never leave you, and He is always at your side. Even when Mummy goes back home, He walks through those doors right next to you. He sits by you and cheers you on, and He puts His arms around you when things are tough. 

He is so proud of you. We all are, my lovely, but your heavenly Daddy knows the things that we can't know. He knows how fearful you are of new situations and He sees how difficult you find school, sometimes. He understands that now and again things go wrong and He smiles with pride when you don't give up; when you say sorry, when you try again.

You are loved. Let that sink in really deep, my darling, so that you can find that knowledge quickly when you need it. Try to understand those three little words so that they build you up. Things knock you down, sometimes, and I know that you feel fragile and vulnerable at school. It hasn't been easy so far and I know that you're sometimes overwhelmed and uncertain how to handle things. When you're feeling left out or insignificant, remember those three words: you are loved. Remember that you are loved just for who you are, not for anything you can do. That love doesn't falter when things go wrong, or you make a mistake. 

You are loved, all the time, no matter what. Just think: the Creator of the world loves you. He loves you so much that he smiles as He thinks of you. He is delighted with you, just as I am. 

I want to say it again, because I know how easy it is to listen to things but not to really hear them.

Those other girls? The ones that say mean things and hurt your feelings?  Oh, my love, there will always be girls like that. I'm forty-two and still they're around, only now they're at the school gates instead of whispering at the back of the classroom. It's not going to change because you're a year older. It's something that has always been, will always be.

Don't be one of them. I know there will be times when you'll be tempted to try to fit in by laughing with the mean girls; how membership of their circle seems a coveted prize, but don't do it. Friendship acquired at someone else's expense isn't friendship at all, and all too soon it'll be you on the outside again, for truth and companionship aren't built on secrets and sneering, but on compassion and honesty. 

And when you've been rejected or hurt and you want to lash out and hit back; don't. Close your eyes and count to ten, or breathe deeply and walk away, but don't play their game. Jesus taught us to love those that are not our friends. It's hard - even for grown ups - but He told us that we must be kind to those who aren't kind to us. And that means her, my lovely girl. Yes, you know who I mean. The one that you don't see to eye to eye with, and yet part of you longs to be part of her crowd.

Time and time again you've left school with her spiteful words ringing in your ears and before we've even walked home you've had tears on your cheeks because of this girl and her friends. Don't return meanness with meanness, because the momentary satisfaction that it brings quickly evaporates and leaves a guilty residue that only damages you. Better to return spite with kindness. Then you keep your integrity and the whole of heaven rejoices, because it's not an easy thing to do. 

I'm doing my best with that one myself, love, because I hate to see you hurt. Forgiving those that hurt you, even if they're only little themselves - well, I'm doing my best with that too. And one day, when you have children of your own and you know the fierceness of the love that you feel for your baby, you'll know how hard it is.  

Be brave, my little one; the world has plenty of people like her, but more that are not. Don't judge the whole world by the standards of the mean kids.

Seek out the children who are kind to you, who make you laugh, who make you feel happy, and do the same for them. Be a good friend, and you'll find good friends. I pray every day that you will find someone lovely to do life with; a girl who will link arms with you in good times and bad, who'll encourage and comfort and cheer you on. But until you find her, sweetheart, don't give up. Don't give up on friendship, or on the other girls, or on yourself. When you find that precious girlfriend who understands you, who accepts you and loves you it will be worth all the troubles. 

Remember, you are loveable. You are precious and unique and special. You are beautiful, inside and out, and you are loved. 

There is no-one like you. Don't compare yourself with anyone, because you don't know what it feels like to be them. Just be yourself. You were created to be you, just where you are right now, surrounded by the people you're with. There is no mistake. It's all in His hands. He's watching over you so, so carefully, and He will keep you safe. 

And I'll help. I'll be there in the morning, waiting by the gates in case you turn around for another wave. I'll be there when you come out, negotiating my own way among the grown up girls who chat and gossip in groups just as they did in this same playground when I was in your shoes. All day my mind will return to you, my lovely, and I'll wonder who you're sitting with in class, whether there'll be anything you like for lunch, who you're playing with in the playground. 

I'll be talking to Jesus about you and asking Him to hold you close, to help you, and He'll be saying to me, 'Don't worry. I've got her.' 

He's got you.  

With love

Mummy

 Linking up with Sabrina and Ruth at 'Letters To...' 

This time we're at Learning (one day at a time) and the prompt was: 'A letter to tuck in your pocket'. 

The place where beauty comes from

Hello, God. 
It's the wonderful CS Lewis again.  Really, I must read more of his stuff, and not just 'The Screwtape Letters' and Narnia. The way he seems to drop wonderful gems of wisdom and insight so effortlessly  into his letters and musings makes my day. What about this one:

"The sweetest thing in all my life has been the longing — to reach the Mountain, to find the place where all the beauty came from — my country, the place where I ought to have been born. Do you think it all meant nothing, all the longing? The longing for home? For indeed it now feels not like going, but like going back."
— C.S. Lewis (Till We Have Faces: A Myth Retold)


What did you think when you heard him say that, Father?  I bet you smiled.  And now this exceptional man is with you; he's home.  I wonder if it's just as he thought it would be. 

I love this picture.  'The place where all the beauty came from...the longing for home.'
There are days when I really understand what he means; CS Lewis just sums it up for me. The days where things are too hard, require too much effort; when failure seems inevitable, and the simplest task is daunting.  Days like that make me long for a world where the struggling stops.  I don't mean that I have a desperately hard life - I know that I don't.  I know that there are many millions of people in this world who'd swap with me in an instant and I wouldn't want to swap with them.   What I'm talking about is the hamster-wheel feeling that I get occasionally where I feel that I'm running to stand still, and most of the stuff that I'm struggling with is trivia that's getting in the way of the important stuff.  

John Keats said in his poem, 'Ode to a Grecian Urn':

'Beauty is truth, truth, beauty - that is all
ye know on earth, and all ye need to know'

He's right.  Because you are Beauty, you are Truth, and you are all we need to know.  You are the source of all that is good, lovely, beautiful, awesome, impressive, true. I should look up more, instead of looking down.  Instead of watching my feet in case I trip or step in something, I should look up towards your beauty.  Instead of concentrating on where I am, or where I've been, I should concentrate on where I'm going. I spend so much time looking over my shoulder, down at the ground, or in at myself that I sometimes don't see what CS Lewis saw.  I get an occasional glimpse; those moments when I'm tired, despairing, defeated - sometimes you show me something that stops me in my tracks; those are the times when I am immensely comforted that this is not all there is.  But to live in this world, patiently, while knowing that I'm not at home here, that home is somewhere else, where one day I'll be; that's amazing.  

I'm not there yet.

I hang onto the things of this world too much.  I like being here.  I like being snuggled with my family in front of the fire with a glass of wine on a cold evening. When Spring has at last arrived and the sun is shining and the plants are growing and the sky is blue - when the children are playing and I'm getting dinner ready and there's music on...  in my world things are generally alright.  

When all is well, I think I can cope.  I think I can do it on my own, and that's where I come unstuck.  

That's where I forget CS Lewis' vision of Home entirely and actually it turns out that I've made myself pretty comfy here, living my little life with only occasional reference to you. I have so much that I rate so highly and yet in your eyes it amounts to nothing. I surround myself with things and people and opinions and ways of passing my time and yet there's a much much bigger picture that CS Lewis saw that I only glimpse occasionally. All my 'stuff' isn't worth anything in comparison. 

And then there are times when it all goes wrong and I turn to you, anxiously searching for you like a toddler who looks up to realise that the legs next to her are not her Mummy's legs after all. 

I can't handle it because I am not equipped; all the 'stuff' isn't worth anything when I need real help. Only you will do, and I run to you from whichever distant outpost of my life I've been exploring.  I dash back home out of the rain. I find my shelter in you and wonder why I ever left, only to set out again without a backward glance when the sun comes out next time.   

I am such a Rainy Weather Friend. 

There's a place, isn't there.  A physical place, the Bible says, where I'll be one day and I'll stay.  I will be there with you. I imagine it might be like holding a baby in your arms for the very first time after giving birth - this little miracle held close, smeary and slippery and screaming and screwed up; we meet for that momentous first time, never held in my arms before - in any arms but yours, God -  never heard, never seen, but this little creature is oddly familiar.  She feels familiar, she smells familiar; it's as if I've known her all my life even though we've only just met.  

I reckon that might be how it is in Heaven.  When I get there I'll look about and recognise it from the glimpses; from the precious moments that you left the door open a crack so I could see in, just for a second.  I'll know it, because I was made for it. There's a special spot that's waiting just for me, because you prepared it yourself, and you've been waiting for me. 

It will be the source of all beauty; how could it be other, since it is where you are? 

And as CS Lewis said, it'll be like coming home.

Amen, Lord Jesus. 




From the archive:  edited and re-posted from April 2011. 

Pink cheeks and shifting shadows

So here's the verse for the day.

'Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.' (New International Version)
James 1:17

Every good gift is a gift from you, my God. 

Even on a day which started perishing cold because the boiler took a morning off, I am surrounded by presents from you.

Evidence of your love is everywhere. I miss so much more than I notice, I am sure, but today I have been aware of your presence.

• Waking a sleepy daughter this morning, only the top of her head visible from under the duvet. 'Mummy, you smell nice. You smell sweet, like flowers and ice cream.' 
• Ice crystals on the metal of the gate at the side of the house. 
• Foxes in the garden before school, playing in the snow, unafraid.
• The first miniature daffodil bud on a pot of bulbs given to me by a friend who knew that I needed a little piece of spring in my kitchen. 
• Small children bundled up in hats and scarves and mittens and ski-suits so puffy that they can't bend in the middle. Wellies so tiny that the feet inside can barely be walking.
• Pink cheeks and holding hands tightly on the icy pavements. 
• Another daughter, on the way to school, 'Mummy, when can we get the paddling pool out?' and we laughed. 
• Bright berries in a world of white.
• A fieldfare in the garden this morning for more than an hour eating his way hungrily through the rotten orange apples still on the trees. Beautiful bird. 

You give gifts for the sheer delight in giving; in seeing your children delighted. You shower us with blessings that we don't even notice. You leave us love-notes to remind and reassure us. 

Thankyou.

The Father of heavenly lights. 

The source of all light. The author of light. Creator of the sun and the stars. Origin of all that is good. Banisher of darkness. 

The dark is only the absence of light, and where you are, there can be no dark. no shadow. Black is an absence of colour, and you are the source of colour. 

You are the rainbow, the blue of the sky and the green in the chlorophyll. 

You are the red of the rose and the yellow of the corn, the purple of the thundercloud and the silver of the spray of the sea. 

You are the sunrise and the sunset, the eclipse and the full moon.

You are the blanket of snow making the mundane beautiful. 

Oh, God. 

You are present everywhere; you are the Presence of light and colour, where darkness is the absence. When you arrive, everything is illuminated, darkness is banished. Dark and light cannot co-exist, and you will always prevail.

You do not change like shifting shadows...

Shifting shadows. I'm sitting underneath a tree at the height of summer, grass thick and soft and lush. There's a feat of imagination. It's -4 degrees outside, snow is still lying thick on the windowsill, the roads are treacherous and I'm here wearing three jumpers and a throw around my shoulders, hunched over the steam from my coffee. 

Anyway, where was I? 

Ah yes. Under a tree on a hot day. In the shade, lying back looking at the deep blue of the sky through the green leaves, the sound of a gentle breeze stirring the branches. The light is dappled, shadows of the countless leaves dancing and flickering. Ever-changing. Nothing the same from one moment to the next. Shifting shadows, impossible to pin down and capture. 

Not like you. You are constant. You are steady. You are eternal. 

So much in life is like shifting shadows. So much that I think is secure is really just momentary light through leaves. 

• I lean on people and they are bound to let me down, because they are human too. 
• I lean on things, only to find them eroded, destroyed, unstable, stolen. 
• I find comfort in food, only to find that the reassurance I was looking for is too elusive and I am more damaged than ever. 
• I try to build myself up with roles that I play; committees I sit on, rotas, jobs - but then I miss a meeting because of illness and I find that nobody is indispensable after all. 
• I retreat under the bedclothes and go to sleep to escape my anxieties, but I wake up again, and they are unresolved. 

Nothing is safe, but you. Nothing constant, but you. Nothing eternal, unshifting, solid, reliable, dependable. Nothing heals, but you.

Older translations of the Bible say, '...there is no shadow of turning with thee.' (King James Version) 

I'm not sure why, but this makes me think of a huge ocean liner slowly changing course so that the sun behind it slowly casts a different shadow on the waves of the sea as the boat moves round. You don't change course. You know the way - the only way. There will be no re-plotting of co-ordinates and reversing of the propellors with you. 

Alternatively it could mean that there is no suggestion of turning; that there is not even an illusion of change. You never give the impression that you might. You are unshifting, constant.

You do not change. Everything else does - I just have to look in the mirror to see that everything changes. The whole of life is simply a montage of shifting shadows, but you are the Sun. The world might spin, slowly alternating who feels the warmth of the sun, but you shine without stopping. Where the sun shines, things that are frozen melt.

Teach me to depend on you, Lord Jesus, and not cast about for things down here to prop me up. Not to look for meaning or satisfaction from any other source than you. To fix my eyes on what is steady, not shifting.

When I try to balance I need to focus on something that doesn't move, something unwavering. That's you. When I try to steady myself by gazing at something that wobbles, I fall over.

Thankyou for the gifts. For the beauty and whimsy and humour and majesty. For the little things and the big things. For health and family and laughter and snowflakes. 

Great is thy faithfulness, O God my Father

There is no shadow of turning with Thee

Though changest not, Thy compassions they fail not

As Thou hast been, though forever shalt be.

Amen. 

Lyrics: Thomas Obediah Chisholm (1866 -1960)

Music: William Marion Runyan (1870 - 1957)

How's that for a couple of good middle names? 

Rock of ages

'Hello again, Lord.

This morning I was feeling sad. Cross and sad. Hard done to. Unappreciated. You know the sort of thing. It was all people stuff. Hurt feelings and so on. It might all have been trivial but it was painful and I was sad. It felt very bad at the time.

I lay on my bed and had a little cry. I tried to read some of my devotional book but I wasn't really paying attention and had to keep starting the paragraph again. I was just feeling worse and worse. I decided to go off by myself for a little while.

I thought I'd find somewhere out in the countryside on my own and sit down and see if I could find you. As I drove off I wasn't sure where I was going and I had tears streaming down my face. I couldn't go anywhere in civilisation. I turned the worship music off because I didn't want to hear anything upbeat. 

Got where I was going. Parked the car. Bought a drink from the ice-cream van because I didn't have any change for the car park machine. Wondered if it was worth it as I only had half an hour. Placed ticket in window of car, locked up, trudged along path to find a place away from the myriad of hikers. 

Tear-stained and sniffly. Red-eyed and red-nosed, clutching a handkerchief. Everyone else there seemed to be kitted out with hiking boots and gaiters, rucksacks and walking poles. Those little transparent pockets with maps in. All organised and purposeful. 

Rock of ages, cleft for me

My favourite place. I left the path and began to meander among the rocks on the Edge. I kept stopping and looking about me for the right spot. I asked you to find me a place. It didn't take long. 

It was a hollow. A little rocky, grassy niche between a few mammoth boulders strewn there for centuries. I could sit on a smooth rock with my back against another and a few feet away more enormous stones sheltered me from the breeze and from anyone else. 

I could have been the only person in the world. 

I felt as if I was protected. Tucked away. Hidden. Surrounded on three sides. Enveloped. And not by rocks but by you. 

Safe. 

You know what came to mind?

This: 

'Rock of ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in thee.'

I hid myself in you.  It wasn't for very long, because I had to get back, but for a short space of time this morning I left my little world and sat with you in yours. Apart from some hikers miles away in the valley there was no-one in sight but I was not alone. You were all around me. All around me, just as you always are, but I was aware of your presence in a wonderful way. You were with me. You showed things to me. You were tapping my shoulder and pointing and saying, 'Look. Use your imagination.'

I could hear the birds. Countless voices, different calls.  I must find out about birdsong so that I know whose voice is whose. Sweet twittering and chirruping and the low call of the wood-pigeon. Swifts swooped and danced in the air. A kestrel hovered. A couple of bees buzzed in front of me. The wind whispered in long grass. A bird flew past level with the rocky edge and I could hear its whistling wing-beats. Another came to land close to me but was surprised to find me there and took off in a flutter of feathers. A dog barked and I heard its owner's whistle.  

So beautiful but so easy to miss.

The rock I was leaning against had horizontal striations which might tell a geologist something about its history. Not me; it just said to me that it had been around an awful long time. Millstone Grit. Different shades of sandstones in layer upon layer. 

Roses of lichen in a palette of grey and white flowered across the surface and soft green moss on the sides in the damp and shade. Rabbit pellets by my feet, heather in white, brown, cream and the palest of pink. A tiny spider made its way across the rock face. 

Down in the valley where the road curled round and back on itself the odd car went past. The irregular shaped fields, marked out with Derbyshire dry stone walls, were home sheep or cows, or horses, or crops. I was high enough looking down that huge oak and beech trees seemed small, dwarfed by the landscape of ridge and rocks. In the distance a forest of birch. 

Occasionally there was a small break in the clouds and sunshine played on the greenness for a moment or two until it disappeared again. 

Immediately to my right was a deep crevice in the rock. Dark enough for me to prevent me from seeing how far it went back into the hillside. At such an angle that the light was dim. In this crack in the rock was growing a fern. A small plant, sturdy and healthy-looking, growing in a most inhospitable spot. Damp and  hidden from view unless you were sitting exactly where I was sitting. I would never have noticed it if I were just walking past. You knew it was there. You showed it to me. 

Look, in the darkest places, life. Not just surviving, but flourishing. 

The fern was thriving in the darkness of it's little crevice. Unfurling it's fronds in the space it had taken root. 

'Rock of ages, cleft for me.Let me hide myself in thee.'

It was beautiful. Bright, improbable green against the grey and brown of the rock.  You can bring life out of darkness. Hope out of despair. Beauty out of ugliness.

As I leaned back the rock was hard behind me and cold underneath me. Each side of me there was rock. In front of me opened out a vista to gaze at for hours. Openness and space.  Unyielding stone behind and yet in front, a vision of your glory.

When my back is against the wall, there you are in front of me. With beauty and majesty and glory spread out to breathe new life into my soul.

When I was suffocating, there you were with fresh air.

Deep breaths.

A safe place. A few moments of stillness. Solitude. A space where my lungs could fill. I thought I was finding a place to have a cry and lick my wounds; maybe tell you all about my hurt feelings and upset, but instead you took my hand and led me to a place where you could soothe me. A spacious place.

'You brought me out into a spacious place...'

2 Samuel 22:20

Rock of ages. From the beginning of time you have been unchanging. All else fades or evolves or shifts. I know that the seemingly permanent landscape of the countryside that I love so much would alter unrecognisably before you will change even a tiny bit. You are firm and solid, reliable and faithful. Everlasting. Eternal. A safe harbour. A place to run to.

My refuge.

'Oh Lord, my strength and my fortress
my refuge in times of distress.'

Jeremiah 16:19

My rocky fortress indeed. Hidden from view.

I was distressed and you took me away to a place I could breathe. You held my hand and showed me your treasures and you smiled on me. My refuge indeed.

I may have missed church this morning but I still visited your sanctuary. I met you and we sat together a while. It was a holy place where I could worship.

Thankyou, my God.

On the way home I turned up the worship music and sang.

When I need you

Hello God.

I want to ask you something.

The other day a friend of mine was telling me about a tantrum that her little boy recently had. He shouted and stamped and cried and cried until he was completely out of energy and tears and he finally let her hold him in her arms. She cuddled him and rocked him and prayed for him and he hugged her back until he slept. 

My friend told me with wonder that those minutes in each other's arms as she held him and prayed and rocked him to sleep were special moments indeed. She said she felt privileged to be his Mummy and it was almost worth the shouting and the anger and the tears in order to be able to be part of the healing. 

I wonder if all Mums have this experience from time to time. I know that with my girls, Katy in particular, I have done it too. Katy is the tantrum queen in our house. She's getting better as she gets older (she's five tomorrow, you know) but over the past couple of years here the windows have vibrated with the sound of Katy's screaming. She would stamp, throw things, kick, hit out with little fists and shout until she was hoarse. She would expend every last bit of energy.  Over time I came to know when I should approach her and when to leave her alone, because trying to pick her up before she was ready would only result in a renewed fury and the possibility of bruises. 

There'd be a sort of tipping point. There was (and still is, though the tantrums are less violent now) a point at which Katy would lose control and had fought herself into a place where she realised that she needed help. If I watch her these days, she might look at me through her tears and sort of raise her arms a little; not  going so far as to reach out or signal for a hug, but we know, my little girl and me, what she means. She wants me to come and hold her. When I do, she might still be stiff and unyielding, and almost certainly she'll carry on wailing for a while, but we know that we're at the beginning of the end. 

What happens is that she clings onto me and I gather her up and wrap my arms around her. I hold her to me and she pushes her face into my neck. She sobs and heaves and her little body shakes as the tension slowly subsides. I whisper to her and rock her and I stroke her hair and I inhale the wonderful fragrance of her and I push her fringe away from her hot, teary little face. After a while her body melts into mine and she usually snuggles into me and holds tight. It's all gone. She doesn't have anything left. 

Just like my friend's little boy needed her to be there, my Katy needs me sometimes just to be there when she's run out of herself. Run out of fury, fear, energy and tears. And although the tantrum is frustrating and uncomfortable, those moments when I get to help her come back are precious indeed. I know she'll grow out of tantrums, but I hope that I can still hold her and rock her now and again for a while longer, because I love it. I love that she turns to me when she's at the end of herself and I love that I can help. I love that we fit together and feed from each other and the result, after the tumult and rage, is peace and renewal. 

If I try to intervene too soon, Katy hasn't yet come round to needing me. She's still too full of whatever disturbing emotions are driving her for me to get close. I have to wait until the arms go up. Wait until she sobs 'Mummy'. Then, that's my cue. I can pull her to me and we can let our love even out our feelings. I would never, ever, turn her away at that point. I couldn't do it. I love her far, far too much. 

My friend is very wise. She told me about her little boy and the blessing of holding and praying for him as he found his equilibrium again and softened into sleep and then she said, 'Is God like that with me?'

Wow.

Oh, Lord, is that it? Are you like that with me (and her)?  Do you wait, patiently, watching the tantrum progress in all it's impotent fury until I reach the end of my tether, and then do you open your arms for me? I know that you don't intervene too early - you don't stop me from raging or from wallowing in my self pity, but when I do, finally, eventually, run out of options and run out of energy and strength - there you are. 

When I have nothing left, you hold me. 

Only then, when I've exhausted all alternatives, that's when I lift my arms to you. That's when I lie in bed and let my tears dampen the pillow and I cry out to you. It's usually the point when I have no more words than my four year old daughter who can only say, 'Mummy'. 

Abba. My Daddy. 

Does it give you the same pleasure that it gives me as a Mummy?  The same feeling of intensity and something even approaching joy that I get when I hold Katy so close that she melts into me? I don't mean a joy that she has been so distressed, or that she's cried until she's spent, but a joy that she has at last let me help her. A joy that I had something to give that helped?

Do you feel like that? Do you ache to hold me but I won't let you near? Do you love me so much that your arms long to fold around me and bring healing?

It's an amazing thought. I don't quite know what to do with it. 

I wonder why I have to be so far away before I turn around to come back. I wonder why I can't run into your arms sooner and spare myself the trying and failing to run things under my own strength. You think I'd learn. I'm just like Kate in that I can only accept your embrace when I've tried everything else. Got it all out of my system. 

I'm just a child. And a little one at that. 

Thankyou, Father God. For all the times that you wait for me with your arms open. For all the times that you hold me when I cry even though it's a hurt of my own making. All the times that you love me enough to bring me back into you even though I've stamped and thrown things and shouted at you and held you away until I have nothing left. 

Thankyou for a glimpse of your love, Lord God. 

Abba. My Daddy. 

I'm needing a hug. 

Light at the end of the tunnel

Well, Lord, there is light at the end of the tunnel, and although I know that you were fully aware of it, this has come as a bit of a surprise to me, to be honest. I know that tunnels usually have light at the end of them, but this one has been unlike any other tunnel that I've been in. It's been darker and more unfamiliar and frightening than anything I've known before. The last few days have been dark indeed, and for a few days there I couldn't see even a speck of light in the distance.

Turns out the tunnel had a bend in it. The other side was there, and closer than I thought, but I just couldn't see it.

My God, what a few days it's been. I've been so down. Today I feel better; I wouldn't say I have a spring in my step, but I definitely feel a bit better. I sat here in front of my computer earlier on and suddenly thought, 'Do I feel better?'

Coffee mug halfway to my mouth, I stopped and considered it and to my surprise, it turns out that I did feel better, yes.

So what happened? (Do you want to say, or shall I?)

I've got to hand it to you; this prayer thing works. You answered my prayer and I can only thank you and thank you and thank you. I've been frightened and you came to rescue me. I was like a rabbit in the middle of a road and it felt as if I were paralysed in the face of a juggernaut coming to flatten me.

Five days ago I took hold of my life and decided that things were going to be different. I wasn't going to live in the shadow of fear and doubt and anger and dissatisfaction and half-heartedness any more. I prayed with some very patient, wise people and I committed myself to some pretty profound changes. Some of the stuff I was trying to get rid of has been troubling me since childhood, so it went pretty deep. So that was then.

The following day, as you know (because you were watching) I woke up feeling dreadful. I was so, so depressed that I felt knocked sideways and that hopeless feeling persisted for the next three days. Tearful and defeated, all the negative thoughts that I'd been trying to banish were back only much worse. Why did I think that this would work for me?  I couldn't do anything right. I was just a failure. I couldn't pray because I couldn't find any words. I didn't want to read my daily notes or look at the Bible and I very strongly didn't want to listen to the worship music in the car, which I usually find really helpful. I felt claustrophobic and panicky and I actually found it hard to breathe once or twice. And I couldn't find anything that I was capable of doing about it.

I didn't do anything at all to help myself until last night I managed to read out loud some Bible verses that I found in a book to help with exactly what I was going through. In floods of tears, again, I lay in bed and cried out to you and you heard me. I managed to pray a bit. Only a bit, but you really do take my meagre little offerings and honour them with riches, don't you, my God?

This morning it felt like dawn. I just felt lighter. Not euphoric, or ecstatic, but the misery had lifted. I feel bruised, but not mortally wounded, as I did. I feel vulnerable and a bit fragile, but not defeated. I am not defeated after all. You answered my prayer.

Whatever battle was going on in my head might not yet be over, but I know that I am on the winning team, and the darkness is receding. My Saviour came for me. I know this sounds dramatic, but it was. It is.

I don't know what it was all about. A wise friend of mine said that such an experience is like the death throes of the old ways of thinking; the negativity and fear that I'd renounced wasn't taking it lying down; the enemy wasn't going to give up easily. A tug of war was taking place and I was the poor unfortunate hosting the competition. Is that it? I still have so much to learn in this area. I feel so uncomfortable talking about it at all.

I don't think that I'm out of the woods yet; I have some pretty difficult things coming up and I don't feel particularly robust emotionally. Soon I have another appointment with Katy's consultant where we'll decide on her new treatment programme and I don't really like either of the options we're so far presented with. I need to be strong because if I feel like this I think I might cry on the nice man who's only trying to help us. I am stronger than I was a few days ago. What an eternity has happened for me in the last few days.

I don't want to go through that again.

The thing is, I have had a glimpse of something. If anything positive can come out of the awful way I've been feeling since last week (other than the obvious), it's that I've had a chance to see how appalling it must be to wake up every morning feeling this way, with no end in sight. Once I had spoken to someone who had done this before me, I was reassured that if I hung on in there, there was an end to it. The light at the end of the tunnel. I needed to stick it out. But what if there is no light? What if there's only unrelieved misery as far as the eye can see?

I had a chance to taste the darkness of depression. After my children came, both times I think I probably had mild post natal depression; the sort of tearful, exhausted, despairing gloom that perhaps many new mums go through. It was horrible; I didn't enjoy it a bit, but it was nothing on the scale of this. This was bleak, and after a comparatively short while I had a glimmer of hope when I was told that it was temporary. What if someone has no such assurance?

Not knowing how far you have to travel by feeling your way before light illuminates the path again, if it ever will? Feeling blind and fumbling along. Merciful Lord Jesus, bring the people I know about who are depressed out of their dark tunnels. I understand a little bit better how they feel and it breaks my heart. No-one can see the world through someone else's eyes, or think their thoughts, or feel their emotions, but I had a try at something in the last few days that just gave me an idea of what it might be like.

You know, the sense of being cut off from you was terrible. I was casting about for help - my closest friends away on holiday, my usual props - my Bible, my daily readings, my music just didn't feel accessible to me. You were too far to see, let alone reach.  I was separated from my Father. Is that how you felt as you suffered on the cross, Lord Jesus? How much worse it must have been for you than for me. The light of my relationship with my heavenly Father is like a little candle stub at best; it burns brightly or dimly, but it's small and insignificant in comparison with the floodlit, dazzling day of your communion with your Father. And because of us, because of me, that light was extinguished for a time.

How terrible must that have been for you? I cannot imagine the sheer weight of it. All I know is that for me, it was awful. I cried, and I was afraid, and I was desperate. My God, what you did that first Easter is huge, isn't it? Bigger than my imagination.

So I'm back. And I have learned. Oh yes.

I belong to you.

Thankyou for rescuing me. I'm glad to see the light again. Do you remember that some months ago I said, 'Show me what you want from me. Make me the person you want me to be.' Of course you do. Nothing gets past you, does it?

I think I can definitely conclude that you have been working on me, aren't you? Even I can see that I am not the person I was six months ago. I said, 'Bring it on!' and you took me at my word. And, I think, so has the other guy.

So here I am, bruised and tear-stained, but not beaten, and I'll say it again:

I am your child and the devil cannot touch me.

Learning to fly

I have so much to thank you for. 

Family.  The last two weekends we've had visits from family; brother, sisters in law, nephews... the girls have loved it, having exciting people to play with in the garden, and we've had barbecues, takeaways and bottles of wine so it's been pretty good for the grown ups too.  It's lovely to see people that you love that live a distance away and therefore don't see much of.  Texts and emails and phone calls and, dare I say it, Facebook - are not a decent substitute for sitting in the garden together with a coffee, chatting and watching the children play together. 

I'm so tired. I've been staying up late and getting up early (ish) and the children have been so excited that they've slept poorly and got up at silly-o'clock the last few mornings.  Today our guests went home and I took the girls to the park to work off any remaining energy in the hope that they might let me sleep a bit tonight.  We met up with some friends and although our intention to have a natter didn't work out exactly as we'd planned (with five children between us they always managed to want to do different things requiring adult attention, so in an hour and a half our talking time was approximately fifteen fractured minutes); it was a good afternoon. 

My Elizabeth can ride a bicycle!  Not just a faltering few yards before an emergency landing - she can ride and ride and ride.  Her own bike was donated some months ago and suffers from a chronically flat tyre (can't find the puncture no matter how hard we try) and a broken spoke.  Another bike we were given has two dodgy tyres and one broken brake handle thingy, so her delight in finding that her older friend had a beautiful, sleek new machine was lovely to behold.  With permission, she was away. Well, you know all this; you were there. I was so proud. I imagine you were too. 

I watched her sail around the playing field with a look of intense concentration on her beautiful little face.  Did you see her, Father God?  Fast and slow, straight and cornering, wobbling occasionally but righting herself, until she came to a stop where we were, flushed and triumphant.  My little Lizzie is five, and she can ride a bike! What a star. 

Elizabeth has always been quick to learn things physical.  You've given her gifts in that department. She is tall and lean, well muscled, streamlined and athletic, with the figure of a swimmer or a gymnast. (She certainly didn't inherit all that from me!)  She took her first steps at eleven months and walked confidently within days.  She took to swimming and loves her lessons at the pool.  She is never still.  She runs, jumps, climbs, dances and swings.  Physical things come easily to Elizabeth.  I have no idea where she gets that from, either. Not my genes, and I might be doing him a disservice, but I don't think they were in Bryan's, either.  I think you must have seen what was necessary there and intervened, Lord. 

Today she was so pleased with herself.  Her little face was glowing, and earlier on she came downstairs after bedtime and overheard me telling Bryan on the phone how wonderful she'd been; I was so glad.  There are many things a child can overhear but I was so glad that she listened to me telling him that she was great, impressive, fabulous before I realised she was there. Fortunately I sensed a little shadow behind me before I suggested that perhaps a new bike might be in order for her birthday in a few weeks time... 

At teatime today we regaled Grandma with stories of expert bicycle-riding and my generous little Katy nodded solemnly when asked if she thought her big sister was amazing. My Lizzie. She felt good today. A while later she sidled over to me and asked me if I liked the poems she brought home before the holiday - they'd been in the workbook that I was shown on parents evening.  Her teacher was most impressed and so was I.  She really can write little poems. She can paint a little word picture. I'm so glad. 

We've encouraged her and made much of her efforts and I liked that tonight, in the light of her bike triumph, she was thinking of another recent success. I long for my daughters to see that they are special, talented, gifted, full of potential.  I want them to be comfortable in their own skins, happy to be who they are. I want them to understand that they cannot be good at everything, but that they have been blessed with a unique arrangement of skills and attributes that no-one else has in quite the same way. Also that they don't have to be the best to earn our love or approval; that trying hard is what we value, not always being a winner. 

I want them to feel confident. Not arrogant, not superior, but assured.  Clear in the knowledge that they are loved, by their family and especially by you, their Heavenly Father. I don't want them to doubt themselves, to fear failure or ridicule and so not to try. I want them to have faith in themselves, because you don't make rubbish, and if you think they are of immeasurable value, then what the world thinks is immaterial. When they are older I hope that they will come to realise that you sent your Son to die for them - and there is no greater legitimacy than that. 

You've been trying to teach me that little lot for decades, Lord, haven't you?  

Funny how motherhood has taught me so much about you. Just as I want it for my girls, you want these things for me, don't you?  You want me to have faith in myself because you don't make mistakes, and I am me for a reason.  I am built this way, with these talents, these flaws, these hopes, these dreams, these fears.  You want me to fly, and yet in adulthood I am only just peering over the side of the nest. I pray that it doesn't take my daughters as long to stretch their wings, because I am beginning to learn that you won't let us fall to the ground. 

I give my little fledgelings to you, Father. My brave, clever Elizabeth who can ride her bike, and my sweet, fiesty Katy who is going to hospital on Wednesday. Father, hold them close right now as they sleep and protect them. 

And thank you.  For family, for friends, for sunshine, for good food and laughter and bicycles. 

Love and apostrophes

God, you know all things.


Grammar does not floor you, and punctuation is no doubt a doodle. 


Ok, then, where does the apostrophe go on 'Mothers' Day'?  I've always assumed that it was a day for all mothers (plural) and therefore the apostrophe goes at the end, but today I got a card on which it was written, 'Mother's Day', as in the day that belongs to mother.  My day. I don't suppose it matters, since both sentiments seem right - but I particularly like the My Day idea. 

It has been my day, actually. I'm feeling very smiley.

This morning I was allowed a small sleep in while Bryan got up with the children (which was a sacrifice not to be sniffed at as Katy had been shouting many, many times in the night), and then my children arrived with cards and presents, and Bryan arrived with a cup of coffee.  


I had beautiful home made cards from the girls and one from Bryan, who also gave me a beautiful little mother of pearl cross for my charm bracelet. The children had organised a lovely fragranced candle in a holder and some smelly soap, a home made bookmark and a framed portrait of me for the wall.  Wonderful wonderful treasures.  The home made things are all the better for their smudges and imperfections. Those cards with their glitter and little tie-dyed flowers will capture this day today where Elizabeth is five and a half (nearly six!) and Kate is just four for ever and ever (because I never throw anything away.)

My daughters are so different. Katy is so affectionate and loves cuddles and hand holding; she's never happier than when we're curled up together with a book or watching the TV.  She'll mould herself to me and I can hold her and cuddle her and inhale the wonderful  of her.  She climbed on me today and gave me Mother's Day hugs and kisses and was jumping from foot to foot with excitement.  


Elizabeth came across with the hugs and kisses too, but her real delight was that she had gifts to give.  It has to be said that she'd been trying to give me my Mothers' Day gifts since the early hours of the morning, and by 9am she was beside herself with excitement. 


She just loves giving gifts.  Lizzie can labour for hours over a card or a picture if it's a present for someone.  She loves the whole bit; the choosing/making, the wrapping, the giving, the unwrapping.  For a typically acquisitive five year old there's an extravagant generosity about her which makes my heart swell as she waits for me to unwrap my gift, watching my face carefully and giving away what it is with little hints and clues. Before I opened my card I knew that it was pink and purple, that it was tie-dyed, that it had a bit of glitter on it, but not too much, and that it had taken her ages to make and she'd done her best writing inside and her teacher had said well done. 

Katy shows her love for me in hugs and kisses and cuddles and 'I love you's.  Elizabeth shows it in little notes and messages and presents. It was overwhelming today to be on the receiving end of such a shower of love. I have such beautiful, clever, generous, warm and loving daughters. On Mother's' day, (with a bit of help from my own Mum and Bryan), they made me feel like the most appreciated Mummy in the world.

I have put my new cross on my charm bracelet between a heart that Bryan bought me to say, 'I love you' and another heart that says, 'Mum' that was a present from Elizabeth and Katy last Christmas.  The cross is right at the centre of the bracelet and that's its rightful place as it reminds me of you. To either side are charms that remind me of Bryan and the girls.  You are at the centre of my life, and I am constantly trying to make sure that you can take your place in the centre of my family too. 


You are first, in the middle, the centre, the point of symmetry. All things come from you.

We went to the Mothering Sunday service at church and had a lovely time.  I love having my family around me in church, and those services where the children are involved and occupied are just wonderful.  We sang and we did actions (well, Katy did, Lizzie is already too self conscious for that, sadly) and we played and we prayed. It was an hour filled with colour and happiness and you.  


Elizabeth is getting so good at reading that she likes to try and sing the songs as they appear on the big screen, and Kate is up for getting involved in any way she can, the little exhibitionist. They enjoy being there and that fills me with gratitude and praise for you, Father, that my little girls can come and climb on your knee and you smile and welcome them and hold them tight.

Elizabeth's joy at giving, Katy's warmth and affection, their childish excitement and love of celebration; it all comes from you. Grandma produced a cake to celebrate today, and Elizabeth insisted that we found candles (shaped like little astronauts and space shuttles) to blow out and everyone shouted 'Happy Mother's Day!' as Mum, my sister in law and I blew them out. The girls clapped and laughed and peeled the icing off. Lizzie is anxious to know whose birthday is it next, so that she can start to plan another party. 

Today has made me think.  I am blessed to have a lovely family. I am blessed to have my Mum, who is my friend. I am blessed to have two inspiring, beautiful daughters who give so much without even knowing it. I am blessed to have such a warm and loving husband who takes such good care of us. I am blessed to have a Heavenly Father who gives such good gifts and takes such joy in our joy. 

Today the sun shone a bit, the thunder thundered a bit and the rain rained a bit. I chatted with my Church family, caught up with some people I haven't spoken to in years and I spent time with my God.  


The children played out in the garden, my brother and sister in law dropped in briefly on their way back from a wedding and surprised my Mum with a Mothers' Day visit.  I got some jobs done, had a lovely roast dinner and blew candles out on a cake. 


The daffodils are in a vase and also just starting to bloom in the garden, there's green on the trees and the birds are singing. The children are just about to have a bath and go to bed and then Bryan and I are going to open a bottle of wine and watch a film together. We're going to hold the week ahead at bay for a little while and get the last bits of loveliness out of today.

Thankyou for so much. My cup overflows.

Today has been a Good Day. 

God is in his heaven and all is right with the world. 


Amen.

Yours and yours alone

Well, Lord, it's a cold, cold day and I can't get warm.  


The day has been fine - not too stressful at any point and with definite Good Things happening (my lovely Katy feeling fabulous in a Buzz Lightyear costume complete with helmet and wings at nursery, Elizabeth gone up a group at school for reading, afternoon spent drinking coffee with friends) but I'm feeling low and as the day has gone on I'm sinking.


But.


I thought I'd put that on it's own to get your attention, Lord.  This isn't just another moany, gripey, whingy post in a long list of them.  No. Because I am determined to do this differently.


I am going to worship you anyway, despite not feeling great, despite not being able to go to my lovely singing group tonight as I can't sing without coughing (I know, I tried hooting away to a CD in the car earlier, of which more shortly) and I am feeling so cold that I need a hot bath and a warm wheaty and some paracetamol.  


I just couldn't stop myself, could I?  That whinge sort of sneaked in there. Sorry.


Earlier on I flicked over to the CD in the car as the song on the radio was 'Whiter Shade of Pale', which I have always hated.  I don't know why I felt moved to tell you my dubious motivation for switching to a worship CD, but I guess you already knew, didn't you?  It wasn't from any great desire to worship at that moment; I'd have turned it over even if it had been 'The Wheels on the Bus' on CD.  Actually, maybe not.  It's a close thing, 'Whiter Shade of Pale' or 'The Wheels on the Bus'... but I digress.


Anyway, the next song was 'Abba, Father'. 

'Abba Father, let me be Yours and Yours alone. May my will for ever be Evermore Your own. Never let my heart grow cold, Never let me go. Abba Father, let me be Yours and Yours alone'.

Dave Bilbrough 1977, Kingsway/Thankyou music


I remember this song from so long ago.  It's from my early days in Church when I was 16 and 17 when life seemed so much more complex but actually was infinitely simpler... and this is a simple song. 


God, my Daddy, make me more like you.  Keep me from ambivalence about whether I please you or not. Keep me focused on you.  


Recently I've felt as if life is either an up or a down - I've been wondering to what extent things that go wrong in my life are down to (ahem) The Enemy - and I've been longing for the moments that only come every so often when I see something or hear something that opens my eyes wide and I get a glimpse of you in all your glory.  


There's all that middle ground, though; the less-than-highs and more-than-lows and the times when life is just humdrum.  That's when I need to praise you when I don't feel all full of the Spirit.  I need to because you told me you want me to.  In 'The Purpose Driven Life'  Rick Warren tells us that worship from a place of not feeling like worship is profound worship indeed.


So I sat in the car and thought about it and I sang along with 'Abba Father'. And coughed a lot, and examined my troublesome tonsils in the rear view mirror (I was at a red light at that point, I hasten to add, not hurtling along at 40mph) and I realised two things:  


One:  You are my Heavenly Father and you are there whether I 'feel' you or not. 
Two:  I won't be going to the wonderful acapella group tonight as I feel too ill and wouldn't be able to sing anyway. (There I go again.  Feeling sorry for myself).


I'll try again. 


Two:  When I feel as if there's not much to be thankful for, I need to give thanks for the wonderful things that you have done.


I want to make you happy, God.  I want to get to your throne one day and have you say, 'I noticed all those times when you were full of praise when you didn't feel like it and that was good; that pleased me'.


I'm a fair weather friend and a foul weather friend, I think.  When the going is great, and I am surrounded by you - when the sun is sparkling on the water and I can see both ends of the rainbow, when my little girls delight me, when music stirs me, when you make yourself known during prayer - I am there with my arms in the air.  And when everything's awful and I'm in bits and I can't think where to turn or what to do - when it's dark at 5pm and the wind is howling and the children are fighting and I'm so, so tired, then I am there, pulling at you and asking you for help.


I want to be a faithful friend.  I want to hold onto your Name because I am your child and That Is What I Do, not because I feel as if I've received something, or because I want something.  I want you to be in my mind all day because that is where I allow you to live, not because I'm emotionally aware of you, or I'm clinging onto you because I perceive my ship to be sinking.

'Abba Father, let me be Yours and Yours alone. May my will for ever be Evermore Your own. Never let my heart grow cold, Never let me go. Abba Father, let me be Yours and Yours alone.'

I wondered the other day why you speak to me often in songs, Lord.  I thought about it and then imagined you saying with a smile, 'Well, you've not yet really learned to listen to me but you do know how to put a record on'.  I guess you can speak to us in a million different ways.


I want to be your child, Lord.  I want people to look at me, listen to me, and see and hear you.  When this is all over I don't want to get to Heaven on a technicality; I want to be some use to you now. 


At the back of my mind I know I might be asking something scary, and it does scare me.  


A question on my Spiritual MOT is, 'What's the scariest thing that God could ask you to do?' and to be honest being asked by you to do anything is scary.  But I don't have any option because you made me, you know what I'm for, and that's the only thing that matters. Being who you want me to be.

'Abba, Father, let me beYours and yours alone.'

So I will praise you, Lord.  I will lift up your Name because you loved me enough to send your Son to die for me, so that I could live; so that I could sit here with you and tell you that I love you. 


I will praise you when my tonsils hurt and when they don't.  When I walk home from singing with your Spirit fresh in my heart and a smile on my face, and when I can't go singing and I'm sad that I have to miss it, and that little frown line is etched deeply between my eyes.  


I will remember the precious things that you told me in the light even when it's dark, because I know that they're true.


So the other guy has no power here. I won't lose sight of you even when I can't see you clearly. I know you've told me that you're there, and that's enough. 


I believe you. You'll never let me go.