The weight of the world

Good Friday.

Good because we know the wonder that happened on that lonely hill outside Jerusalem, but I can't imagine there were many people there who thought that what was going on was good.  There might have been some, perhaps, who thought they'd got rid of you, solved a problem, but when it came down to it even the soldiers holding the hammer and nails looked and listened to you on the cross and concluded that you were something special.

What must you have gone through?  The agony of rejection, the agony of crucifixion, the agony of the moment that God the Father had to turn away from you. How is it possible that you went through with it at all?

Nobody has ever surpassed the Romans for devising a more excruciating manner of execution; indeed, that's where the word comes from. What a thing to be renowned for: straight roads, plumbing, torture.

Gasping for breath.  Pushing up on the nails in your feet to relieve the dislocating pressure on the shoulders and hands before sinking down again when your muscles betrayed you. Blinking blood and sweat out of your eyes, lifting your head a moment and feeling the thorns pressing into your scalp. the torn and raw skin and muscles of your back against the splintered wood of the cross.  The exhaustion and loneliness. The humiliation of nakedness in front of your mother, your friends, your enemies. And then the dark, dark emotional anguish when your isolation became complete; the Father, with whom you had always been completely in tune, was nowhere to be found. 

You had the weight of the world on your shoulders at that moment and you must have been desolate.

Everything that was bad, corrupt, evil or rotten was laid upon you when you became the perfect sacrifice; the sacrifice to end them all.

You hung there and asked forgiveness for the people that did that to you even as you suffered.

You were afraid - you were human. In Gethsemane you came before the Father and asked if there was another way, could there be another way? - and yet you went through with the Plan because you knew that there wasn't.

What can I say?  There's nothing I can do that is enough to thank you, and you know that. You did it anyway. There's no way that I can repay you - and you know that. You died for me anyway. I am forever in your debt. 

Lord Jesus Christ, thankyou for that Good Friday. 

When I see a film or read a book that tells of your passion I am moved to tears. I can't stand to watch because they are torturing and murdering someone I love. And what adds another layer of awfulness is when I realise that you allowed it to happen, for my sake. You didn't have to do it; at any time you could have called in an army of angels who would have lifted you back to your throne and struck down those who hurt you. You could have called down fire and hail and razed Jerusalem to the ground but you let them drive nails through your hands and feet before they lifted you up and mocked you. You chose to go through with it.

Lord, never let me reach a place where those scenes don't move me. I never want to feel that it is not the world-changing thing that it is. I never want it to be familiar, routine.  I want to hold this feeling of awe and wonder - and horror - in my heart forever.

I want to remember that I was responsible for what happened to you so that I can never forget the magnitude of the forgiveness that you have given me. If I no longer feel the awfulness then I can no longer feel the astonishment. If I don't perceive the depths of my need for forgiveness then I can't appreciate the vastness of your love. 

You died for me. You loved me so much that long before I even turned to you, you thought me worthwhile enough to die for.

'Can a mother forget the baby at her breast

and have no compassion on the child she has borne?

Though she may forget

I will not forget you.

See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands'.

(Isaiah 49:15-16)

My name is on the palms of your hands. They were pierced by nails and bled because of it.

I give you my tears and my wonder and my awe and my love. My guilt I don't have to give you because you lifted it from me on the day that you died. It was heavy, I know, but you are strong. 

My God, you did that for me. 

Needing a miracle: letter to the hungry

I’m feeling a bit peckish. 

In the cupboard there are no biscuits that I like, because I don’t buy biscuits that I like, because then I would eat them. I buy biscuits that the children like, because they eat biscuits, being normal people with normal appetites and because I’m desperate that they don’t develop the same sort of subtly distorted relationship with food that I have.

Food cannot be inherently ‘Good’ or ‘Bad’. It’s food. Everything in moderation; except I’m not very good at moderation. There’s no point in one biscuit.

The thing is, it’s not beyond the realms of possibility that I might eat biscuits I don’t much like, just because they’re biscuits, and they’re there. My levels of self control fluctuate between negligible and non-existent.

Being hungry has very little to do with it.  I saw a scene in a film recently when a man offers a huge box of doughnuts to a lady in an office.  She declines, saying that she isn’t hungry. Confused, the doughnut man asks what that has to do with it?

And that’s the thing. I don’t have to be hungry to say yes to a doughnut, or a scone, or a bit of flapjack. I just have to be… needing one. To those who don’t consider that nobody really needs flapjack, I say I understand, I know what you mean and how, oh how I wish I saw things that way.

I like eating, and I’m good at it. The reason I’m overweight is that I ingest more calories than I expend, and it’s as simple as that. I can’t argue that it isn’t. I don’t have anything wrong with my ‘glands’, my genes seem to be predominantly thin ones and so I have no excuse. My metabolism is slow because I don’t do very much to perk it up. 

I like meals, and I don’t like getting out of breath.

The only thing is, it isn’t as simple as all that. There are lots of layers in this equation.  The obvious ones are food choices (I love all the hearty stuff like lasagne and pizza and pasta and shepherd’s pie and biscuits) and portion size (what do you mean, I should have less on my plate than my 6’4” husband has on his? That wouldn’t be fair.)  But there’s other stuff. More insidious stuff that I just do not know how to deal with.

I eat when I’m happy:  ‘ You know what would make today absolutely perfect? Cake.’

I eat when I’m sad:  ‘Cake will cheer me up.’

I eat when I’m  anxious:  ‘I can’t be worrying about my weight on top of everything else. I’m going to have some cake.’

I eat when I’m overwhelmed. ‘Don’t think about it. Have some cake.’

I eat when I’m celebrating:  ‘Hooray! Let’s have cake!’

I eat when I’m commiserating:  ‘Oh no. What a disappointment. Still, we have cake.’

I eat when I’m bored:  ‘What shall I do? I know, I think I’ve got some cake.’

I eat when I’m tired: ‘I can’t be bothered cooking tonight. Let’s order pizza.’

I eat when I’m procrastinating: ‘I’ll get this done when I’ve had some cake.’

I eat when I associate two unrelated things:  ‘Let’s watch a film. What is there to eat?’

I eat when I drink coffee (this is a killer – I drink a lot of  coffee) – but what’s a cup of coffee without a biscuit?

And so on. Believe it or not, I’m not even finished. Whatever you can find in the way of emotions, there’s a reason to have something to eat.

People who don’t get this just say, ‘Well, don’t eat for those reasons. Cheer yourself up with a bubble bath, or a massage or something instead’. I have a couple of things to say about that.

One: Has anyone ever celebrated something with a bubble bath? 

Two: Anyone like me who has longstanding problems with overeating probably has a body to match, and the idea of someone laying their hands on it and kneading all that flesh, no matter how therapeutic it might be in principle, is a horror that might well drive them to cake.

So the cycle continues. The mirror and the scales only pass on bad news which causes misery and embarrassment and worry, and the overwhelming urge is to have something nice to eat to take away the pain.

The diet can start tomorrow. Or next week. Or after the cake is finished.

I have tried, or at least considered, every diet known to man, and some that I made up myself. I understand people who eat and then make themselves sick; it makes perfect sense to me. If I ‘d been able to do it when I was fifteen, who knows what awful direction my life might have taken. 

I’ve been this way since I was very small – or rather not small – young.

I remember at primary school being terrified that the kids in my class would make the connection between a fictional fat kid called HT and my (then) initials.  They did.

I remember kids – and the PE teacher - at senior school calling me names that hurt badly. 

I remember being crushed when someone realized that my name rhymed with ‘melon’.

I remember the lady fitting my wedding dress urged me to try extra hard to get thin because ‘It’ll be worth it to feel beautiful on the day.’  I didn’t. I couldn’t….and I didn’t.

Fat isn't beautiful, is it?

I know all the tricks – the ones that work and the ones that don’t. Pulling a cardigan tightly round in front to cover as much as possible (not really; just makes you look defensive). Wearing dark colours and long lines to elongate the body. Wearing multiple layers so people might not be completely sure what shape you really are. Sitting with legs on tiptoes so that thighs don’t spread out too much.  Control pants (just push it all upwards). Control shorts (just push it all downwards). Control polo-neck-to-knee underwear (if only…) Never, ever, ever, sitting on anyone’s knee (though the older I get the less this is an issue.)

And now I'm middle aged and it all gets a little more serious. It's not only about dress sizes and how I look in a swimsuit. It's about clogged arteries and joint pain and breathlessness; the ability to exercise if I wanted to. It's about running around with my children and walking round to sightsee on holiday. It's about getting to old age with enough energy to actually do some living. 

Several times in my life I’ve tried hard to get thin. I have never managed it, but I’ve lost a significant amount of weight on three or four occasions, before putting it all back on again with a bit more besides.  Nothing seems to work for long. Herculean efforts at self control eventually evaporate and the momentum subsides, leaving me in front of the cake once more, a fork in my hand.

If I lose some weight, people tell me how good I look (comparatively) and they’re being lovely, encouraging. But what my distorted mind wonders is what they used to think when I was even bigger. Thin equals approval, acceptability; fat equals disapproval, rejection.

I hate it. There aren’t words for exactly how much I hate it. I hate that I have no control. I hate that my clothes are getting bigger and bigger and that I acclimatize myself to shopping for a larger and larger size each time I need something new. I hate that I hate shopping.

I hate that I didn’t feel beautiful in my wedding dress.

I hate that I look in the mirror with disgust, and I hate that I am powerless to do anything about it.

It’s not just about eating.

It’s even less about being hungry.

Here’s where I’m at.

I’m 43 years old and I love Jesus Christ. I try to live my life as He wants me to live it.  And this is not it.

He came to set me free, and I am not free.

He came to give me life in abundance, not the half-life that I’m living.

He thinks that I am beautiful, but I think He’s wrong.

He speaks only Truth, but I have believed lies.

I have believed that it’s all down to me. That other people don’t have this problem, and so there’s something wrong with me, because I emphatically do. I’ve believed that I’m fat and ugly and there’s nothing that I can do to improve matters; I should just get used to it – be the jolly fat lady, only I can’t be jolly.

I’ve believed that everyone sees me the way I see me, and so everyone is looking at me, assessing me, judging me.  That I am no good the way that I am; I am unacceptable. Strengths, gifts, achievements - I know that they're there, but they pale into insignificance next to this thing that I can't do. I believe that the only thing others see is the fat, the lack of self-control, the self-indulgence, the weakness.

Sometimes I get a glimpse in my head that those things are not true, but, oh, God, it’s been a long, long time believing them and it’s going to take a miracle to think any differently.

So, I need a miracle.

I need the Almighty Creator who made me to reach down and heal me. I need the God who loves me to breathe something new into my lungs, into my mind. I need my heavenly Father to take away thirty five years of defeat and self-doubt and bring health and restoration.

I know that He can do miracles. I do.  But for some reason, for all the things I’ve tried, I’ve never laid all this ugliness in front of Him.

I don’t know why. It’s not as if it hasn’t occurred to me before that He’s the only one who can help me, that God is my last chance. Maybe deep down I’ve known that if asking Him for help ‘doesn’t work’, then there’s no hope for me at all. As if Jesus were a genie in a lamp, but He might not come out when I rub it.

He’s never let me down, not once. When I’ve trusted Him with something, He’s always been there. Not always in the way I wanted Him to be; I don’t for one minute expect that He’d arrange it for me to wake up one moment a size twelve with no joint pain and a wardrobe full of clothes that fit, though that’d be fine by me. I know that He works in a quite different way and I know that His timing is perfect, even if I do want all this sorted out yesterday.

I trusted Him with a long standing problem with anxiety, and although I’m a work in progress, I am much less anxious.

I trusted Him with my tendency to lose my temper with the children (especially at bathtime) and again, He is not done with me yet, but I am better than I was.

‘…in all these things we are more than conquerors through Him who loved us.’Romans 8:37

You see?  He can do things that I can’t do.

He can.

So maybe He’s waiting for me to give it all over to Him, not holding anything back. Not expecting Him to do all the work, but by the same token, not trying to do it all myself. Just admitting that I cannot do anything about this. I can’t. Nope.

Because here’s the thing. I need a fundamental change in the way that I think, feel, handle emotions, and I cannot do that on my own. When I am tired and lonely and worried and scared and all those other reasons I eat – what I need is not cake, but Jesus.

‘Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.’Romans 12:2

I’m looking for comfort, and there is none to be had without Jesus.

Maybe I’m hungry for Jesus.

He is the only One who satisfies. He is the only One who has what I need.

I give up.

I can’t do this any more.

Renew my mind, Lord Jesus, I like food, and I don’t like exercise. I’m not healthy, and I’m far from happy.

I hate this. I’m ready to change whatever needs changing to find the freedom and life that you promised me.

I need you, not cake.

I need you more than cake.

You are the God of hopeless cases and you are the God who heals.

So, I’m going to get some exercise. I’m going to try and say no to the biscuits more often than I say yes. I’m going to try and live a life that doesn’t revolve around food. I don’t want to put anything in your place but I know that I am not strong enough; I’ve proved it over and over again... and yet:

‘I can do everything through Christ, who gives me strength’.Philippians 4:13 (NLT)

When I can’t help myself, I need you to help me.

I'm on my knees.

I’m giving it all to you, Lord Jesus.

Joining with Ruth and Sabrina for Letters To...

(because they seem to get into my head). 

As poor as it's possible to be

Happy Birthday, my friend. 

I've been thinking about you today. Yes, in church this morning, with 'Hark, the Herald Angels Sing' and 'O Come, All Ye Faithful', and yes, when the vicar gave us his talk about brussel sprouts and you, and yes, when the Queen gave her speech which, thankyou my God, spoke of service and inspiration and giving our hearts to you this Christmas.

But also, when I saw the little crib in church. It's been there for a whole run of Christmas services with what appears to be an elderly Tiny Tears doll wrapped up inside, but today it spoke to me. Again.

I was born in poverty, too.

Not the sort of poverty that speaks of cold and deprivation; oh no. I have, all my life, been warm and looked after and well fed (just look at me) and I had my own Tiny Tears and all the accessories. No, not that sort of poverty.

When I was born, the birth that I'm talking about, I was as poor as it's possible to be in every way that matters. I had nothing, and the day I realised that was the day that I was born. That should be my birthday, really; that was when life began for real. I realised the lack - the void. The gut-wrenching poverty. The absence. The emptiness. The need.

For me, I didn't have to live with that feeling of poverty too long, for no sooner had I realised that I did not have the only thing that mattered, that I longed for it, asked for it - then it was given to me. You are endlessly generous like that.

How much more awful for those who know, and feel the desperation but don't know where to come to find it, this the new birth. It must break your heart, Father God.

That day you stripped everything away from me to reveal what actually mattered. I had nothing, and my birth in poverty was yet an elevation for me. For you - you had everything, Everything, and you chose to lay it aside to come to this place of filth and cold and hurt to be close to us. You laid aside your majesty indeed, and chose the sweat and smells and roughness of humanity.

You were rich, and you became poor. I was poor, and you gave me riches.

You and I, reborn - humble, vulnerable nakedness. For you, the vastness of Almighty God, shrunk to inhabit a tiny kicking, feeding baby. For me, the smallness and pettiness of a created being expansively given another chance by the grace of the One who reached down and lifted up my chin so that He could look into my eyes with love.

I am a baby as you were. I have all that I need only because you provide it. Mary fed you, cleaned you, dressed you, sang to you and loved you into childhood, adulthood, to execution and beyond. I live because you sustain me. Everything that I have comes from you. If you forgot about me for one second I am sure that I would cease to be. I am hopelessly dependent.

I am uncomfortable in my manger of hay; it prickles. I'd like it to be more comfy. Sometimes I don't feel at home because you have given me that longing for my eternal home, and yet you, you lived among us naturally, freely, as if you never felt homesick for the heaven that you had left behind to come here to us. I sense the Somewhere Else, sometimes; me, insensitive and short-sighted as I am, and yet the King of Glory walked purposefully away from that place; you chose to become small. The limitless in a limited body. The transcendental made finite.

I am lifted gently out of the dirt to be called a Child of God. A crown has been placed on my head and a robe around my shoulders even though there is no way that I can prove myself worthy. I live honoured as your daughter, heir to a wonderful place in your Kingdom. You, the very Son of God, fought your way down the birth canal of a peasant girl and landed in straw, surrounded by livestock. With the hands that arranged the stars in the heavens and created the animals and the birds you'd have brushed against the roughness and splinters of an animal's feeding trough. With your first breaths you would have inhaled the odour of cattle. Me, I'm used to the stench of life down here - it seems normal to me, but to you, it must have been strange indeed. You came from a place of peace, beauty, power and honour and put yourself in the hands of two poor, bewildered kids, far from home, who had only the faintest idea of the magnitude of what was happening.

My rebirth opens up miraculous doors of wonder and possibility; you became confined in a tiny, frail body, kicking and wailing, feeding and sleeping.

You were born so that I could be born again.

And I've realised by staring at that roughly-made trough-cradle, that it is when I stand with nothing, without anything at all, just me as you made me, unable to conceal a single thing, a single part of me - that's when I am most blessed. I am a new creation.

You had it all, just as you have once again; you turned your back on your glory to become one of us.

You were exalted, and you became weak. I am weak, and you raise me up. I can't get my head around it. You know what it feels like to be poor, to be vulnerable, to be human.

Lord Jesus, baby Jesus, King of Kings, Redeemer, Saviour.

Thankyou. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

Happy Birthday.

Love notes in the rain

Afternoon, God.

Yesterday I was lying in bed doing that thing I do where I play with my phone rather than go to sleep. Sometimes I find myself picking it up even when the light is off (no matter, phone backlit) and plugged in for the night (no matter, long cord). I might pick it up ostensibly to check that the alarm(s) are set, but actually it's to faff. I love sleeping, but because I am the Queen of Procrastination I even put that off too.

Quick check of the news headlines (do I think that's going to lull me to sleep? Unlikely) and a quick game of Bejeweled Blitz (can that trigger adrenalin? Surely not. Possibly). Maybe there'll be a browse of my daily devotionals if I haven't explored them in the course of the day, but more often than not it's a quick check on Facebook.

Ha! That old chestnut. Habit firmly under control these days, but still a mighty pull when a spot of timewasting called for.

So, someone's done this, someone's done that, someone's posted a great picture, someone's having a birthday - oops, it was yesterday - someone's painting their toenails. You know the score. Then, my scrolling finger stopped and hung in the air. Joyce Meyer had something to say.

Joyce has lots of things to say, and most of them speak sense to me, but this one stopped me in my tracks. My eyes stopped moving from left to right quite abruptly.

She said, 'God is not mad at you.'

Oh.

I know you're not mad at me.  Are you?  Why did that short sequence of six words pull me up short?

You know, I think I've been feeling that you are mad at me. Not for any specific thing (though there are many, many reasons why you might be justified) but something deep down in my heart, or in my brain, or somewhere long buried, is a feeling that somehow you're not a kind, loving, accepting, forgiving God at all, but a hard taskmaster who likes to pounce on mistakes and transgressions and make a Big Deal of them. Tally them up. Roll your eyes and frown at all the shortcomings.

Hold it all against me.

Really? Do I think that? Maybe I've had this idea that you're hard to please. That nothing I do will be good enough. As you know, I've felt that way for much of my life; always trying, striving, proving, attempting to win approval in a whole host of ways and feeling constantly bad about myself when it doesn't work. Maybe I feel as if I need to perform in order to win your approval; reach a certain standard. Do I?

I think somewhere deep inside I've been frightened of you. Not in a respectful, 'fear-of-the-Lord' awestruck way, either, but in a you're-angry-and-I'd-better-make-myself-scarce sort of way. I don't know where that comes from, but I sense that it's there.

Images of God: Angry.

I'm sorry about that. It must hurt your feelings to be so misrepresented, even if it's on some buried level. These days I know you, and it couldn't be further from the truth. You are Love.

I wax lyrical about your love, your forgiveness, and I believe it. I don't have any remote problem in accepting that you are compassion itself. You are the source of peace and hope, not criticism and despair. I do not have to shrink from your presence; quite the reverse. You invite me to come in.

'Therefore, brothers, since we have confidence to enter the Most Holy Place by the blood of Jesus... let us draw near to God with a sincere heart in full assurance of faith, having our hearts sprinkled to cleanse us from guilty conscience and having our bodies washed with pure water.'
Hebrews 10:19-22

Lord, I want to thank you that I can approach you with boldness and confidence. Show me today what an amazing thing this is, because it seems as if I sometimes don't understand the magnitude of it. I am forgiven! I am thoroughly cleansed from al the wrong and all the grubbiness of my life. I don't have to be ashamed. I don't have to be full of regrets. I don't have to be weighed down by guilt any more... but quite often you wouldn't know it to look at me.

You are not mad at me. You are actually quite pleased with me.

'For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb.
I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
Your works are wonderful, I know that full well.'
Psalm 139: 13,14

You made me and you're pleased with your creation. You've known me since long before I was thought of and you will be there with me, loving me, long after I've turned up my toes down here. You don't make mistakes, so I conclude that I am just as you planned me. You wanted me this way. You knew what you were getting when you organised those groups of chromosomes and cells to get together. You don't look at me as I am and feel disappointed.

'I have loved you with an everlasting love; I have drawn you with loving-kindness.'
Jeremiah 31:3

You don't stop loving me when I mess up. Because of Jesus, I am forgiven. More than that, I am holy. When you look at me, you see Jesus - and he's perfect. My little brain struggles to hold onto this, but I know that it's true.

You're not mad at me.

'As a father has compassion on his children, so the Lord has compassion on those who fear him.'Psalm 103:13

If we parents are kind to our children; me with my impatience and over-critical nature, and my irritability and perfectionism, if I can look after my children with compassion, how much more will you look after me? You are tender, gentle, ever-patient.

You are not mad at me.

'The Lord longs to be gracious to you; he rises to show you compassion. For the Lord is a God of justice. Blessed are all who wait for him!'Isaiah 30:18

My God. God of grace. Compassion. Justice - but not the sort of justice that serves me right. No, no. Blessings.

You are not mad at me.

Father, there's a lesson for me here, but I'm not sure what it is. Maybe it's about what lurks deep down in me - the misapprehensions and long-abandoned beliefs that rise to the surface when I least expect them. If so, take them and wipe them away, Lord. Heal the little raw place that they came from, will you? I know you. You love me just as I am.

All day I've had a line from an old song in my mind. I woke up with it. It was in my head when I brushed my teeth this morning and it's still there. It's your word to me for today. It's your comfort; it's you holding me close because you knew I'd have a moment when I saw that post by Joyce Meyer. It goes like this:

'I'm accepted, I'm forgiven

I am fathered by the true and living God

I'm accepted, no condemnation

I am loved by the true and living God

There's no guilt or fear as I draw near

To the Saviour and Creator of the world

There is joy and peace as I release

My worship to you, O Lord' *

You love me enough to send me presents. Things that can only come from you, for no other purpose than to let me know that you are there, right now, right here, and you love me. You pursue me. You remind me.

Yesterday I walked home from school with Elizabeth in the drizzle and the world was grey and dreary. Leaves on the ground in puddles, all sticky and squashed. Hoods up, umbrellas up, heads down. And suddenly, there, a vivid orange flower between someone's garden fence and the wall.  A lone flower in Autumn, startlingly bright in the rain.

I stopped and called Elizabeth.

'Lizzie, look!' She looked. Briefly.

'Yeah. Pretty.'

I handed her her book bag and water bottle to hold. She rolled her eyes.

'Mum, take a photograph and let's go.'

She didn't get it, but I did. It was a little love note from you to me.

You made me smile.

You're not mad at me.

You love me.






*Rob Hayward 1985 Kingsway/Thankyou music

Twenty-five years: my story

God, you know all this.

I'm just feeling like telling my story, but feel free to interject if you'd like to add anything.  Clarify it, maybe, or if you just want to put in your four penneth.  There's a good chance that you have a different perspective from me.

This is my testimony.

I once heard somebody say that for some people, coming to faith in Christ would be a Damascus Road experience - a blinding flash, something that stops you in your tracks and convinces you, pooff! of the truth of the Gospel.  For other people the path to knowing Jesus is a series of links in a chain. For me it was sort of both.  There was a flash, then a fizzle, then a chain along which I groped my way back to the light.

In my teens I had a great friend; we were inseparable. We went to different schools at 11 years old and it didn't matter; and even now I haven't seen her for about three years but I know that when we do meet up, it will be easy to pick up where we left off.  I think friends of that nature don't come along that often, and in life you're blessed if you have one or two. Anyway, she used to go along to church CYFA group (Church Youth Fellowship Association) which took place after the 6.30pm service on a Sunday night. She invited me, and I went along.

St Thomas' Church

I can't remember exactly what my thought process was in agreeing to go but I seem to recall that at least part of it was a very good-looking boy who also went. I used to sit on the wall outside church swinging my legs and waiting for her to emerge before joining the gang on their way to the curate's house round the corner. This went on for some time. I was sixteen years old. I enjoyed the group, made some friends, (didn't get anywhere with Mr Gorgeous) but didn't really take in the reason they had for being there.

One day a group of the CYFA people were going to Cliff College, which is a Bible college not far from here that holds a big conference/festival type thing each summer with visiting speakers and so on.  I tagged along, and found myself sitting on a bench in the sun on a very very hot day in a huge outdoor space with thousands of other people.  People were using their programmes as fans. There was singing, about which I don't remember anything at all (but I have the programme, all bent out of shape, so I know that there was singing) and then a man called Eric Delve came onstage and started telling us about Jesus.  I don't have much recollection about what he said, though I have since heard him speak to a similar audience on similar occasions so I'm pretty sure I know what it must have been.

He was speaking just to me.

You know how in films, or on the news, when they want you to focus on one person in a crowd, and they sort of fade out everyone else, putting a clear circle around the subject, and everyone else goes grey? Well, Eric Delve was clear, and I was clear, but the crowd round me, including my friend and her parents in whose car we'd come, were grey and fuzzy. I have no idea of their reaction to what they were hearing. Of course, they'd heard it before, and understood it.

I hadn't.

Speaking just to me. It was the most amazing thing I'd ever heard.

Jesus Christ died for me.  You died for me. I know at one point Eric showed everyone a Roman nail - they type that they used for crucifixion. It was in a little perspex tube and he held it up to show us. It was huge. I knew about the crucifixion, of course I did - any self respecting teenager has a grasp of gory things - but on that day it was as if I was hearing the story as it happened to one of my dearest friends, or a family member.  It happened to someone that I love. How could you have done such a thing voluntarily,  for me?

Tears were streaming down my face and I didn't care.  I was then, and am now, one of the most self conscious people you'll meet, and yet when Eric asked for anyone who had been touched by the message he'd given to stand up and go to the front where the stage was, I got up straight away. I think my friend came with me; I'm not actually sure. But I squeezed past the knees of some folks on the bench and there I was, crying and crying, and standing with a small crowd of others while Eric prayed for me.  No idea what he said.

Someone came afterwards and gave me a copy of John's Gospel and a leaflet of some description. To be honest, nothing else is remotely memorable about that day.  I don't know if anyone else was on stage after Eric Delve, or how long it took my friend's parents' car to get out of the car park, or what I said to my Mum and Dad when I got home, or what I had for tea.

I just remember that it was the day that I gave my life to Christ. It was 27th May 1987.  Twenty five years ago. 

So hooray! That was the day I was saved!  So life must have turned around and become wonderful, now I was one of the flock. I must have had a special Ready Brek glow about me, didn't I?!

Not really.

Nothing much changed. I started going to the 6.30pm service at church instead of waiting outside.  I wanted to go, and I liked the people and the singing, but the sermons didn't mean that much to me. I went away on CYFA camps to the Lake District in the summer as a member, then a helper, then a leader. I finished school wearing a little dove 'Christian' badge and went to University where I was put in touch via contacts at CYFA with a good church that welcomed students.  I joined the Christian Union, but it wasn't very inspiring.

I went to work for the same church after I graduated and found it a very testing time for one reason and another, but I did learn a lot about church politics (the internal manoeuvrings of a very big and growing Evangelical Anglican church). It wasn't always a warm and fuzzy place to be.

I had a few ups and downs; well, largely downs, actually. I broke up with a longstanding boyfriend, the flat where I lived (alone) was broken into in the middle of the night and I met the three hammer-wielding burglars in the sitting room; a good friend of mine who'd stayed on after university moved away. I wasn't happy and to be honest, at that time, working for a church was turning me off church-related things. 

Then three things happened.

I hadn't been sleeping.  On the night of the burglary (which happened at 3.14am, I remember very clearly), I had colleagues from work coming round in the middle of the night, friends from up the road who I called in a panic, and a couple of police officers who eventually arrived 45 minutes after my 999 call and 15 minutes after the burglars had left.  When they had secured my broken door and done their paperwork, everyone left, and I started shaking.  I had assured them that I was alright, but I wasn't. It was so, so cold, and no amount of hot water bottles and blankets got me warm. I sat up all night. 

I went to work the next day and everyone was solicitous, the door was speedily replaced and people forgot about it. But I couldn't sleep.  I was alarmed at every tiny noise, and I started sleeping in the sitting room as my bedroom at the back of the house seemed particularly creepy. This went on for weeks, until one day I was desperate enough to go for prayer after a healing service at church.  I told a lady something of what had happened and she prayed for me.

That night, I climbed into my bed (well, sofa) and picked up the Bible in a Year that I'd been reading, day by day.  If the truth be known, I was about a month or more behind.  So I picked up the Bible in a Year and I opened it where the little ribbon was, which wasn't the correct day.

Psalm 4, verse 8. 'I will lie down and sleep in peace, for you alone, Lord, make me dwell in safety'.

And I did, and You did.

It was the first good night's sleep I'd had since the break in. You had my attention.

The second thing also happened in that flat (I know, it probably wasn't the most sensible place for a girl on her own to live) was that one day I was standing washing up at the kitchen sink, and in front of me was a huge window. It opened onto a little road - an alley, almost, dividing two long rows of gracious four storey Victorian terraced houses. The window was about ten feet tall, with thick obscure glazing in a swirly sort of pattern. It was divided in two - you know, the sash window sort.  A friend of mine was in the sitting room, and we were talking and laughing about something. She said something, and I took a step backwards and sideways with my wet hands dripping on the floor to answer her. At that moment, a brick came through the window and the whole bottom pane smashed.  Five feet by three feet of thick glass. There was so much broken glass that six and eight inch shards of it were sticking out of the cupboards on the opposite wall of the kitchen.  

Not one bit touched me. I had stepped out of the way just in time. Thankyou God.

'Thing number three' was perhaps the last thing that happened before I left that job at the church.  There was a University Mission.  My job had not really been to work with students and neither was it my strength; my responsibilities were really to the Mums and Toddlers, baby groups and visiting teams and I didn't spend much time in the universities, but it was all hands on deck, so I was made an assistant missioner. I was responsible for encouraging and working with a CU small group as they planned and carried out Mission events at the University. I didn't enjoy it very much and I fear I wasn't that good at it.

Eric Delve was the Missioner; the primary speaker and leader of the whole shebang. It was good to see him again. I sort of felt the significance of it, even though I was mixed up and feeling very low about my faith. I knew I would leave my job as it didn't seem to be right for me, but listening and talking to Eric helped me separate a negative experience of church from my experience of God. He sort of changed the points so that my little engine wasn't derailed. Him again.

You weren't about to let me go. 

I went travelling, then went to a different university to study Occupational Therapy. I had a Christian boyfriend (for a while) and was excited about a new direction. This experience of university was veryf different. I had a whale of a time. I made some great friends, got involved in things in a way I didn't have the confidence to do at university the first time round, and in my first year met the lovely man who would eventually become my husband. We didn't start to see each other until my final year. Things went well for me.  I had fun. I had confidence. It was a great time.

I didn't join the Christian Union. I never even looked to see if there was one. I never found a church to go to, though somehow my flatmate and I wangled regular invitations to lunch with the vicar of our nearest church; though we only darkened the door of the church itself a handful of times. Mind you, I do have a memory of singing a song to the tune of 'Match of the Day' at one service.... funny, that. So my years there were pretty dry, spiritually.  Intermittently I kept a prayer diary, which I still have, and reading it back makes me cringe.

My boyfriend broke up with me, but I had pretty much got used to being without him as he couldn't visit very often.  I was much more resilient and managing pretty well on my own.  Bryan and I started seeing each other, I was captain of the archery club and I won a National Tournament, I loved my course, was doing well, life was good.

Somehow I learned that Eric Delve had moved to be vicar of a church on the other side of the city and I went out there one Sunday evening to a service because it seemed an incredible co-incidence that we both found ourselves in Liverpool. I can't say that a bright light shone on me that evening, or that he said something that struck me like a thunderbolt, but nevertheless I remember that evening clearly. I remember his inner-city church with metal grilles on the windows, and I remember it rained heavily and there was a cold, cold wind.  I remember that I couldn't find a bus back and ended up spending a fortune on a taxi, but I remember feeling that it had been worth the effort. This man seemed to crop up as a reminder to me that you were there. Still there. Unwilling to let me turn my back on you. 

Waiting. 

Fast forward a few years, and things had happened.  Bryan and I got married, we lived in London, I worked my way up the ladder in Occupational Therapy and Hand Therapy, moved house and had babies.

My first little girl, Elizabeth, was born nine days after my Dad died and two days after his funeral; we moved house back to Chesterfield to be near my Mum three months later and I was struggling. On top of the usual new baby exhaustion came depression and guilt and frustration and grief and a whole host of other, largely negative emotions; I hadn't managed to grieve for my Dad and I hadn't managed to celebrate the arrival of my daughter. I felt as if I'd messed up both events. I couldn't do anything properly. I wasn't able to be there for my Mum who needed me and I needed her in an unprecedented way. My little Lizzie was a terrible sleeper for the first six months (who am I kidding, for the first year) and when she was awake she insisted on being held all the time. I mean, all the time. I was at the end of my tether.

We were planning to get Elizabeth baptised, so we started going to the same church that I went to as a new Christian and where we'd got married.  Someone perceptive from the congregation saw a pale, desperate, struggling Mum and invited me to the Mums and Toddlers group on a Monday. Uncharacteristically, I plucked up some courage and started going. Another mum asked me if this was my church - did I come here regularly?  Embarrassed, I said no, not really. 

Things went slowly. We came to church occasionally, but it was hard work with a baby who wouldn't be quiet and demanded feeds at awkward times. Other people's babies lay sweetly asleep in their car seats but mine never did. I would jiggle and rock and cajole and whisper and snuggle and all to no avail - I'd end up going outside or attempt to feed self consciously at the back of church. 

To cut a long story shorter, over the next few months, Elizabeth was baptised, I started going to a home group that met weekly and I made some wonderful friends. Twenty-one months later my Katy came along and although life was hard getting to grips with two small people to look after, things got better.  Nothing dramatic, just things got better as they tend to do as your babies get a bit older.

My closest friend gave me a pile of 'Christianity' magazines to look at and I opened the top one at random. Before me was an article about Eric Delve. I'm sure you smile when you do little things like that, don't you, Lord?  All of a sudden the years disappeared and that afternoon from 1987 was back in my mind. The feeling that Jesus went through all that for me. He died for me. I was reminded of 1991 in Newcastle upon Tyne. I was reminded of 1997 in Liverpool. I have no idea why you chose this particular guy to reach out to me, but it seems as if you did. 

You weren't going to give up on me.

There was one day in particular when a new friend came to visit me, and conversationally she asked questions that are quite normal in a Mum to Mum sort of way. To my horror, out of the blue tears came and wouldn't stop for ages; it was quite embarrassing. But you were at work again and a sequence of events began that led to much more talking and healing and a wonderful display of wisdom and compassion from some special people.  It was a very precious experience for me of your tenderness and forgiveness that has freed me from the past and opened up a future that I thought could never happen for me.

You really do love me no matter what, don't you?

Over the last two years wonderful things have happened to me. Little incremental pieces of love and encouragement have built me up so that I can say now, at 41 years old, I feel happier being me than I ever have before.  I've had enough confidence to get involved in some things at church and those have given me a feeling of belonging. I have never felt part of anything before, really; I've always felt on the outside looking in, the first one too late, not in the popular crowd, not chosen for the netball team; but now I feel that I occupy a place that is valuable, because you value me.  I don't feel so apologetic for being me, like I used to.  This feeling sneaks back sometimes but it isn't the way I identify myself any more. I know deep down that it isn't true, whereas I used to believe it completely.

I have a large and wonderful church family on whom I can rely if I need to, and I'm sure that the year ahead has challenges that mean I'll probably need all the help I can get. I have several wonderful friends who love you, who care about me and we build each other up, come together to learn more about you and hope to become more like you.

I have one particular friend without whom I'd be absolutely lost; you introduced us at a life stage where we are going through the same things at the same time; from life events to celebrations to disasters and even tricky dental appointments.  I've never had such a friend before, Lord, and I really believe that you brought us together for a purpose.  She is a woman of God indeed.  I've learned so much, leaned so much, laughed and cried so much. What a blessing she is.

I am part of a team of people who work for you, Father God, and the job you have for me is one that only I can do. I don't really know what it is yet, in full, but I am looking, learning, trying to listen, and excited about the next chapter. I have such a long way to go but I do feel that I am for once on the right track.

I didn't think I had much of a story. I've listened to people whose testimony consists of something dramatic; rescued from gangsters or healed from addiction, saved from a life of crime... but reading this back I can see that through all the ups and downs there is You running through it all like a pattern with a thread of gold right from the beginning.

The very very best thing for me though is to see that you never left me through all those years when I wasn't paying attention to you at all, when I was steadfastly looking the other way, making my own plans. You were patient and compassionate and faithful. Even when I wasn't looking for you, you were looking out for me. You were loving enough to remind me periodically that you were still there, still waiting, still loving me. - I know now that you keep your promises. You never leave me.

My Lord and my God.

I know that you have a plan for me. You keep showing me the next step when I need to see it and there are days when I think I'm getting better at trusting. Better at handing my life over to you one day at a time. There are days when I think I've taken big strides backwards as well, but let's focus on the positive, hey? 

Lord, I know that you have a plan for me. It's a part to play in your magnificent screenplay for the whole of humanity, and only I can play me. Nobody else can do what I can do. Nobody else is meant to. If I don't play my part, then nobody else will. I am unique.

I am loved by the true and living God. His Spirit lives in me.

I don't know what you have in store for me, but I know that I will only be where I should be if I'm following you. I want to follow you. 

Bring it on.

***

I've got a postscript to add to this. It's a year later and I can add that a few months ago I was having a conversation and someone recommended a book to me. I looked for it on Amazon and the author was Eric Delve.

I decided to email the man himself with a (don't worry - heavily abbreviated) version of this narrative (really, I distilled it down to just a few lines) and I told him the story of one of the multitude of people whose lives you have touched through him.  To my delight, he mailed back. He said to me:

'I think that God's dream for you is only just beginning.'

Amen.