No understudy

'Just as a body, though one, has many parts, but all its many parts form one body, so it is with Christ.' 

1 Corinthians 12:12

I'm familiar with this passage in the Bible.  When I was much younger we had all the jokes about who was the armpit and who was the spleen and so on, and now I'm older I'm still not too sure how far the analogy can be taken, but I take the point.

We all have different spiritual gifts. We are all unique, no-one less valuable than any other. A huge diversity of skills, personalities, abilities and talents. Together we make up the Body of Christ, with Jesus at the Head. Together, Paul says, we make up the whole. We are one through the Holy Spirit. If someone is missing, nobody else can do his job, because it is a job made for him alone. Each part needs the others to function and when we are all in concert we make a beautiful sound.

It's the 'all-working-together' thing that's the problem. We all interlock and if one cog gets jammed then sometimes the machine comes shuddering to a halt. I know well that if I have a sore thumb then I can't use the hand properly. If my knee hurts and I limp for too long, my hip starts to hurt too. If I put my back out, there's very little I can do with my day.

Quite often we bicker and squabble and and think we are more important than we are. We think we deserve more than our allocated part and try to be something else. We get resentful or critical and think that we could do a better job than someone else. Why are we never satisfied? 

I find it quite reassuring that the disciples had the same problem. They wanted to know who was the best and brightest. They wanted to know who would be sitting to the right and left of Jesus in Heaven. 

John 21:21

'Peter asked...'Lord, what about him?'Jesus answered, '...what is that to you? You must follow me.' (my emphasis)

What is it to me what someone else does? Why do I jostle for position and wonder if somehow I'm short changed? Why do I worry about what people think of me, of what I do, when I know that I am occupying the place that only I can occupy? Lord, I so want to do with my life what you would have me do. Sometimes I am full of purpose and sometimes I feel as if I'm treading water. Marking time. Vacillating.

Fibrillating. Like the heart does when it gets out of rhythm. Paramedics come crashing in and slap on two paddles and shout 'Charging!' and 'Clear!' and then whoof! the heart gets shocked back into a sinus rhythm (whatever one of those is, but I watched ER for a while). And then all is well again, but it was a close call.

Sometimes I feel as if I'm fibrillating. Immobile. Rabbit in the headlights.

But I have an important job to do because there isn't a redundant bit of the Body of Christ.
(I don't know about the appendix.  But that's probably being facetious.)

Charles Spurgeon took this idea of a collective whole to another level for me the other day. A beautiful level. An eye-opener:

'Each of God's saints is sent into the world to prove some part of the divine character.'

(Charles Spurgeon, The Daily Help devotional for iPhone, 43rd Element.com)

Somehow, just by being me, here, in my little corner of the earth, day by day, I reflect something of your character. Some little tiny aspect of your personality is me. Not somebody else. How amazing is that? 

He goes on:

'In heaven we shall read the great book of the experience of all the saints, and gather from that book the whole manifestation and display of some position or other of God; a different part may belong to each of us, but when the whole shall be combined, when all the rays of evidence shall be brought, as it were, into one great sun, and shine forth with meridian splendour, we shall see in Christian experience a beautiful revelation of our God.'

Can that be possible?  That one day I might have a contribution to make in this awe-inspiring spectacle?  This is going to be an enormous canvas. I can't wait to see it. 

The other day I got a glimpse of the sheer scale of you, God; the vastness and the majesty and glory of you who holds the universe in your hand. Creator of billions of stars in billions of galaxies. If I think of all the people who have known you from the very beginning to the end of time - from Adam and Eve through to all the people who are alive today and love you the world over, beyond and into the future, all those not yet born, until the end of time  - that's a lot of people. 

And we are all unique. If Spurgeon is right (and I so hope that he is) each one of all these children of yours reflects a unique part of you. We each have a little facet completely our own. It needs a glimpse of the enormity of you in order to understand how such a thing might be true. How complex you are. How many different aspects there are to you. 

So I am intensely significant. Not only do I have a role to fulfil down here, now, in my life, but I have a part in this extravagant art project in Heaven too. I have a ray of light to add to the 'great sun' which will shine for eternity and make you smile.

So why do I wish I were someone else? I am made to be me. 

Why do I think that other people matter more than me?  You made me to be me. 

There's no understudy.

What is it to me what they do?  I must follow you.

'Now you are the body of Christ, and each one of you is a part of it.'

1 Corinthians 12:27

Lord, help me to believe not in myself, but in the wisdom of you, who made me. Help me to see the honour that it is to do the job in this life that you have made me to do and not gaze about me wishing that I were an elbow instead of an ankle. Show me what to do. Give me enough light for the step I'm on and the courage to stride into the darkness, knowing that you won't let me fall. 

Give me a glimpse of that spectacular revelation that one day I'll be part of. It's going to be beautiful because it's You.

I'm working on my contribution right now.






Reposted from 2012 because I needed reminding. 

Image credit:  ashton_cogs3.JPG by doctor_bob from Morguefile.com. Used with permission.

Unshakeable

Afternoon, Father God.

I've just had a thought. 

There is only you, isn't there? Only you who is forever. Nothing else.

Everything is subject to change. We have absolutely nothing that could not (and will not) be taken from us, except you.  All the things we hang onto, all the things we think of as precious, living or inanimate - nothing is permanent. Only you.

All the people I love will leave me, one way or another. Young or old, they will drift away, move away, pass away. All the things I hide behind might disappear; my home might be lost or destroyed, my bank account might shrivel and dry up, my job (if I had one) might be taken from me, the diamond in my engagement ring might be lost or sold. The food in my fridge will perish. The plants in my garden will die. The flowers in the vase next to my computer are wilting already. 

Memories fade. Hopes and dreams evaporate. Energy is spent. 

How depressing is that? 

Sigh. 

For someone like me, who hates change, it's a scary thought to consider that everything that I arrange around me to create stability and routine and familiarity might disappear without a moment's notice. 

Charles Spurgeon didn't mince his words:

'We have many things in our possession at the present moment which can be shaken, and it ill becomes a Christian man to set much store by them, for there is nothing stable beneath these rolling skies; change is written upon all things.'

CW Spurgeon, Morning and Evening

Oh great. If my husband updates the operating system on my computer I moan for days until I learn how to use it again. If I change my mobile phone I whinge incessantly since I don't like new things. Every last stage of child development has brought delight and despair in different measures as I always wail that just when I know what I'm doing, it all changes. Is there nothing I can rely upon to be the same always?

You. 

Spurgeon:

'Whatever your losses have been, or may be, you enjoy present salvation. You are standing at the foot of his cross, trusting alone in the merit of Jesus' precious blood, and no rise or fall of the markets can interfere with your salvation in him; no breaking of banks, no failures and bankruptcies can touch that. 

Then you are a child of God this evening. God is your Father. No change of circumstances can every rob you of that.'

You are my Father. You will be my Father whether I have much or nothing. Whether I am healthy or sick. Whether I am happy or sad. Whether I am surrounded by loving family and friends or completely alone. 

Nothing can take you from me. People and circumstances can take everything else, but not you. 

When I have fallen and can't get up
Still you are there.

Take Job for instance. He lost pretty much everything, except his trust in you. He lost his family, his home, his health and reputation and his friends, but you - you stayed unchanging. I'm not one hundred percent sure that I get the book of Job; I have a few questions I want to ask you about it, one day. Like why? and How come? and Wasn't it a little unfair? But that's for another day. 

'The patience of Job'.  I wonder how patient I'd be if you stripped everything away. I'm hoping that you don't listen to me here and decide to give it a try. I imagine I'd be a mess. It would hurt me more than I can imagine. Would I waver and collapse under the strain? I don't know. But I do know that the only thing left would be you.

Quite often I get to feeling a little desperate with the way things are going - poorly children, disturbed nights, headaches, colds, worries, time management problems - and I wallow and whinge and wonder why me?  But I am blessed with so much. With my home, blossom on the apple trees, blackbirds singing in the garden, sun and rain and supermarkets and taps from which clean water comes. I am far from having nothing. 

But all those things are ephemeral in comparison with you. They sometimes get in the way; I sometimes focus on the mountains of things rather than on the things that matter. 

I wonder if the people we see on television who sit on the floor in aid camps waiting for food or waiting for death - I wonder if they see with any more clarity. I wonder if you reach down and lift their heads and make them know that there is one things that cannot be taken away? Where are you with people who have nothing at all? I don't know. Blind because of disease and malnutrition, blind because we can't see past the insignificant to the truth. Which is worse? 

'Our best portion and richest heritage we cannot lose. Whatever troubles come, let us play the man; let us show that we are not such little children as to be cast down by that what may happen in this poor fleeting state of time. Our country is Immanuel's land, our hope is above the sky, and therefore, calm as the summer's ocean; we will see the wreck of everything earthborn, and yet rejoice in the God of our salvation.'

Ouch. I don't want to see the wreck of everything earthborn. I like it here. I like it like this (mostly, except when I'm complaining). It's very hard to imagine a place where everything is so much better since I can only process wonderful as being like the best thing that's ever happened to me. My frame of reference is only this world; I cannot imagine something far superior. Forgive me for being too comfortable here.

So often I don't 'play the man'. Here I take it to mean woman as well, of course. I don't square up to disaster and loss so much as whimper under it. And whilst I know that you are mighty and undefeated and unmoveable, I confess that I sometimes don't find the joy that he speaks of. 

I don't look for it. I look downwards and inwards and I lick my wounds and I exclaim about how hard life is and I feel defeated and hard-done-to and resentful. Joy?  Yeah, right. Yes, I am quite often cast down by the things that happen, fleeting or not. 

The only thing worth hanging on to after a shipwreck is the thing which won't sink. The only thing that won't die, or rot, or fade, or disappear is you. We live in Immanuel's land. I like that. It all belongs to you. It points to you. The very best that we have or perceive down here on earth is a glimpse of what heaven will be like. I need to hold onto what I know.

A friend today asked me some deep theological questions about suffering. I didn't have any answers. I've read a few books by clever people on this subject and they don't know either. All I could come up with is that we need to hold on to what we know. And what we know is that you love us. Very much. Enough to die for us. If you'll do that for us, just because you love us, then why would you not do the little things? If we think that it's out of your control, it isn't. If we don't understand, or don't have the answers, then it's because our brains aren't big enough to understand. 

And in the absence of understanding, I just need to hold on to something solid. 

You.

Lord, help me with this. And by help me, I don't mean give me lots of opportunities to be brave in the middle of trouble, please. I once made that mistake when I asked you to give me patience. What I mean is help me to get things in the right order in my head. Not only with time management, about which I've been bleating lately, but with the importance that I attach to the things in my life. Let me strike a balance between appreciation and dependence, and involvement in the world without wholesale immersion in it. 

'"Though the mountains be shaken and the hills be removed,
yet my unfailing love for you will not be shaken
nor my covenant of peace be removed."
says the Lord, who has compassion on you.'

Isaiah 54:10

Let me hold onto what is unshakeable. When the wind blows and the rain comes and the plagues of boils descend, let me hang on to you. I am standing at the foot of the cross and I am a child of God.

I am holding on to the fact of your unending, unchanging, unparalleled love, and my salvation. 

To the fact that you love me so much that you died for me, so that I will live with you forever. 

To the fact that nothing on earth or in hell can take that away from me. 

To the fact that this is not forever. 

The best is yet to come.

Why would I ever think that anything else in my world might be more important than that? 

Standing still

Oh Lord. And so it continues.  Yesterday I decided I wasn't going to church this weekend and I was encouraged to go, so I did. If I'd known the passages that were going to be explored in the sermon there's no way I would have gone, so I suppose it's good that I went. I'm sure that there were things I was supposed to hear. 

I arrived at church feeling emotionally fragile (I seem to have felt that way for ages now, but the last few days have been like nothing I've ever had before in my life). The band was playing and I realised that the hearing in my right ear had gone completely and been replaced by a distorting noise a bit like static on a radio. (This happens to me sometimes - if you could see your way clear to healing this it would perk me up no end, but that's by the way). I was chatting when someone came to ask me if I was still ok to do a reading; I hadn't realised that I was supposed to be doing a reading. That's never happened to me before. I nearly didn't go at all; and how awful would that have been, just not to turn up on the day I'm down to read. I continue to amaze myself at how far removed I am at the moment from the control freak who has every day timetabled - I'm missing so many things. I'm becoming so unreliable and I hate it. Where is my rota?

So it turns out that the reading is the bit in John's Gospel about Jesus and Lazarus. 'If you had been here my brother would not have died...' and 'Jesus wept.' and then the resurrection of Lazarus. The sermon was about pain and loss and suffering and referred to the part in Revelation where God wipes away every tear.  Eric Clapton's 'Tears in Heaven' was played, which is the sad, sad song full of grief and loss that he wrote just after his four year old son had fallen to his death from a high story window. My goodness, it was an emotional service. The atmosphere was definitely subdued. People carry around such pain, don't they?

Lord, if you needed to break me down a bit more, I didn't need any of that; I started to cry during the opening song, 'Here I am to Worship' and could hardly stop for long enough to scrounge a tissue or four from my friend next to me (to have come to church without any was uncharacteristically shortsighted as well; usually I can be counted on in times like this to have a bagful of hankies). 

The presence of the Holy Spirit moves me at the best of times and this certainly isn't the best of times. How much greater was the likelihood that today of all days I would start to cry?  I managed to do the reading but I don't think I sounded like me. It was very hard to keep it going and try to limit the voice wobbling. 

I know that you are in your heaven and all is right with the world. I know that you are in control, so the way I'm feeling has some reason behind it. I know (or at least, I hope - I believe) that there is light at the end of this tunnel. There is light at the end of this tunnel, isn't there,  Lord? 

I know that you are working on me and I know that there is a battle to be won. I don't flatter myself that I am so important that the fight is on an apocalyptic sort of scale, but I am aware that whatever my immature and skewed interpretation of the battle between good and evil, I am caught in the middle because this year for some reason I have felt that my relationship with you has been developing. 

Maybe it's because my smallest daughter is starting school in September and I am 'waking up' from the preschool years where time is at a premium and headspace is reserved for children and family matters only. I might have some time coming up and I might have the chance to rediscover something about me - make some choices for me...and I decided this year that I want those choices to involve you. I wanted you to show me what I could do for you. I guess that even though I am an amateur in these matters, this doesn't go down well with the opposition. Maybe that's why this year has been a year of climbing ladders and falling down snakes. Maybe that's it. 

Understanding doesn't actually help that much, to be honest.  Knowing that your leg hurts because it's broken and it'll one day mend doesn't stop you reaching for painkillers. I just wish there were painkillers at the moment. 

The reading last night on my little iPhone version of the works of Charles H Spurgeon was just for me, wasn't it?  He quoted Exodus 14:13:

I looked all over for a picture of
Mr Spurgeon smiling. This is
the closest I could find.

'Stand still, and see the salvation of the Lord.'

To paraphrase, he says that this is what God says to his follower (me) when they (me) are in 'extraordinary difficulties'. When I can't go back, and I can't go forward; when I turn about looking for the answer but no answer is to be found, then God says 'Stand still'. 

Alright then. 

Spurgeon tells me that other 'advisers' might tell me something different:

"Despair whispers, 'Lie down and die; give it all up.'"

But if I listen to you I should take courage and rejoice in your love and faithfulness. I haven't contemplated lying down to die, but I have definitely heard that 'give up' voice in the last couple of days.

"Cowardice says, 'Retreat; go back to the worldling's way of action; you cannot play the Christian's part, it is too difficult. Relinquish your principles.'"

But if I listen to you, I cannot do this because I am your child, and I should not allow anything or anyone to divert me. I don't want to. I like who I am in you much better than I like who I am on my own. 

"Precipitancy cries, 'Do something. Stir yourself; to stand still and wait is sheer idleness.'"

"Presumption boasts, 'If the sea be before you, march into it and expect a miracle.'"

Not so sure about these two, as I don't feel much like leaping into action to do anything, let alone do something spectacular and daring. 

Still, Spurgeon finishes well by saying that if in doubt, I should stand ready for your next order like a soldier in an army, and it won't be long before I hear your voice telling me that it's time to go forward again.

'What, if for a while thou art called to stand still, yet this is but to renew thy strength for some greater advance in due time?'

So I am waiting. Still hanging on; I don't really see myself standing with much poise or patience, but I am standing still nevertheless.  I don't have anywhere to go and if I did I don't have the wherewithal to get there right now. So I stand and I wait and I am waiting for you to direct me. Actually I'm waiting for you to come and take my hand and lead me somewhere, but if you did just that I'm sure that you'd find me ready to come with you. 

I'm standing and waiting. 

A life well-lived

Right.

'If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you.'

James 1:5

Good old Charles Spurgeon once again summed this up for me:

"'If any of you lack wisdom.' There is no "if" in the matter, for I am sure I lack it ... for I know I may do very stupid things, even in plain matters, unless Thou dost keep me out of mischief'.

I know that feeling. I have a knack of saying the wrong thing, saying nothing when I should say something (not as often, that one) and putting my foot in it in a dramatic manner on some occasions by doing or saying something stupid.

I want to be wise. Here am I asking you to give me wisdom. The only thing is, I'm not really sure what it is I'm asking for, so I'm not really sure when I'll know if you've given it to me.

What is wisdom then. Here is what I know about wisdom:
Wis-duh'm.
The dictionary definition is 'the quality or state of being wise; knowledge of what is true or wise coupled with just judgement as to action; sagacity, discernment or insight'. Sense, understanding. The opposite is stupidity or ignorance.

Sounds good, then. I'll take all you have of that, please.

It isn't that simple, though. Is wisdom a lifetime thing? Can a middle aged person who has a long way to go in the Spiritual Maturity stakes be wise? Is wisdom a constant thing, as in 'so-and-so is a wise person', or is it something that comes and goes? Do you equip people with wisdom for a specific situation, and then take it away again? That doesn't sound likely. Is it a gift that you give that requires exercising and thus grows?

Is wisdom a combination of spiritual gift and intellect? I know that you've given me a brain to use, and words to express myself, and the ability to consider things rationally, or else I wouldn't be here now wittering on. Can one achieve wisdom by thinking enough?

Surely not, or it wouldn't be a gift. Can people who don't ask you for wisdom not be wise, then? Or is there a sort of spiritual wisdom that is the hallmark of a child of yours, who has been blessed with wisdom of a different nature?

I think wisdom is something that helps with life. I would like to be able to make good choices. I would like to be able to advise people who ask for advice (and refrain from advising those who don't ask for it) and advise them well. I would like to trust myself, insofar as I am sure as I can be that what I am doing is what you would have me do in a given situation. And yes, if I'm honest, I would like people to think, 'Oh, Helen Murray? She's a wise lady'.

Why do I want all that? Oh, I don't know. Loads of reasons. I want a measure of confidence that I can cope with what life throws at me. I want not to feel baffled by life's dilemmas. I want to be more decisive. I want to make good decisions. I want to be sensible. I want to worry less. I want to help more. I want to offer something to my family and also my church family. I want to be in tune with you. I want to understand. I want deeper knowledge and perception and discernment. All those things.

Hmm. Some of those reasons sound like reasons not to give it to me. When I say I want to trust myself, to be confident, secure, decisive, that sounds a bit like my need to be self sufficient sneaking into the equation again. That's not what I meant. Or I didn't think it was. But if I were wise...

Michael Card says: 'Wisdom is not the ability to be correct all the time. Genuine wisdom is concerned with a life well-lived. Wisdom isn't something we know as much as something we become'.
Joy in the Journey

So that bursts my bubble. I would quite like to be right all the time. Just ask my husband. Even with the children I find myself on occasion correcting them and arguing over a ridiculous point of inconsequential trivia because they are wrong and require to be put right. At this point I have to remember something I read once, 'Excuse me, who's the grown up?'

Genuine wisdom is concerned with a life well-lived. I like that idea very much. I only have one of these life-things. I want to do it right.

Aha.

The penny drops.

That's it. I want to be wise because I want to do it right. Being right is one thing, but getting it right is what I long to do. I am desperate not to waste what I have; what I am. This year is an amazing journey into who I am and who you would have me be and I want to get somewhere with it. I want to understand you as much as my limited little human brain can. I want to be what you want me to be, do what you want me to do, achieve what you want me to achieve and live as you want me to live. I know that I can't do any of that without something extra; something from you. I need you to guide me. Make me wise, Lord God, so that I can see with your eyes.

I want to get it right.

I'm actually afraid to get it wrong. I so often feel defeated by life and I know that I would be utterly so if you were not with me. The closer I walk in step with you the closer I know I will get to living my life as you want me to. I guess I'm always going to get it wrong because I am only me, but with you leading me along, I can get through, can't I?

I'm afraid of so many things, and many of them come down to the fear of getting it wrong. I fear being out of control. I fear not reacting the right way when I need to react quickly. I fear trying something and failing. I fear humiliation and embarrassment, and people seeing my inadequacy. There are things I know I don't do well so I don't do them at all. This is why I long to be wise. I sort of hope it might protect me from some of this. Is that wrong? Is my motivation all wrong, then?

But you don't say that I have to be all sorted out and clear about why I want wisdom before I can ask for it; indeed you're probably sitting up there right now smiling to yourself at the heavy weather I'm making about it, aren't you?  Oh alright then.

Yesterday I had half an hour and I sat in a beautiful churchyard on a hillside and drank a cup of coffee (that I just happened to have) and the sun was shining and it was peaceful and quiet. It was a little oasis of calm. I sat with you, Lord, and although I didn't hear you in any clear sort of way - thunderous or still and small - I asked you about wisdom. I asked you what it was about, and whether I could have it. I looked at the graves all around me, old and new and read the names of so many people who have been and gone. I saw the grief of those who inscribed the headstones: 'in loving memory', 'much missed', 'dearly departed'. It made me think about life and death.  And in typical manner it made me realise how much I want to get it right.

Time is short. I don't want to coast through life and realise I wasted it. Spiritually speaking I've already done enough of that. I want my life to mean something and the only way I can make that happen is by listening to you and doing as you tell me. So I need wisdom. More of it. Every day. Because like my friend Spurgeon says, without it I get into so much trouble.

Please, Lord, give me wisdom. Whether I deserve it or not. You are wise. You are the fount of all wisdom, and you have said that you will come to live in me, and so you have. Let the seed of wisdom that you planted grow into something, Lord, so that I can stand in front of you one day and you will say that I have led a life well-lived. Make me grow wise as I grow up in you. I want you to be proud of me.

'If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you.'

Amen. Thankyou. 

You've done the big thing...

Charles Spurgeon pointed out a very simple thing to me. This is it:

Bearing in mind that the Son of God has already done something huge for me - died for me - why would he not do a little thing like help me when I struggle?

He put it more eloquently than that:

'I will HELP thee. That is very little for me to do, to Help thee. Consider what I have done already. What! Not help thee? Why, I bought thee with my blood. What! Not help thee? I have died for thee; and if I have done the greater, will I not do the less? Help thee, my beloved! It is the least thing I will ever do for thee. I have done more, and I will do more. Before the day-star first began to shine I chose thee. "I will help thee". I made the convenant for thee, and exercised all the wisdom of my eternal mind on the plan of salvation. "I will help thee".


You've done the big thing. Why do I doubt that you'll do the little thing?

You died for me. You died to save me from my sin; you paid the price, you were the only sacrifice good enough. You gave your perfect life in a hideous way so that I could be free in this life and the next. I believe that. You are my God and you died for me.

So then why do I have so much fear and anxiety and worry? Why do I accept with such gratitude and awe the Big Thing you have done and yet doubt you over the trivia? You died for me, but you might not help me cope with the day to day troubles of my selfish little life. You died for me, but you might not listen to my prayers. You died for me, but you might choose to let me suffer.

It makes no sense, does it? I make no sense much of the time.

Lord God, my Father, forgive me for being so inconsistent. Forgive me for doubting. Forgive me for trying so hard to sort it all out myself and not trusting you with it.

Thankyou that you brought us through this morning at the hospital where Katy had her dressing changed once again and the stitches out. Thankyou that she didn't need to be sedated. Thankyou for kind, kind nurses and strong, supportive friends, and thoughtful brothers and sisters in Christ who left flowers and chocolate biscuits for when we got back. Thankyou for my Mum who quietly helps with day to day things big and small that I seem to be forgetting at the moment. Thankyou for my wonderful husband who is managing to be all things to all people at the moment and now has his Uncle's funeral to go to later this week.

Lord, I lift before you my family and friends, each and every one of them, because I value them all more than I can say. These last few months when my world has been a complicated and scary one at times you have surrounded me with love and wrapped us up in prayer. I want you to bless them all, Lord God, for they have allowed you to work through them. I see you in the flowers on the doorstep, the pressure of a friend's hand on my shoulder as I hold Katy still for the nurse with tears in my eyes. I see you in the friend who brought a meal round one day because she thought that when we got home from the hospital we might not feel like cooking. I see you in my thoughtful little Elizabeth who made Katy's tea and some pink milk tonight to cheer her up. I see you in my brave little Katy who has no idea how much she comforts me when we hang onto each other after the dressing changes.

I see you in the sun that lifts my heart and the rain that waters my plants. I hear you in the music I sing to in the car and the voice of a wise friend who listens to me and then speaks your word. I feel you as I lie in bed and offer you my day in the too-short minutes before I nod off, exhausted.

I give you such a tiny amount and you give me so very much.

I know all this. You died for me, and every day you help me live. Help me more and more, Lord. Help me to open my fists and allow you to take control of all of me. Help me to see you more and hear you more and feel you more.

Help me to trust you more. You've already done the Big Thing.

Music in the waves

I love the sea. Here we are at the seaside in Suffolk for Mum's 80th birthday weekend and I can see the sea from the hotel window. We've walked along the beach, had fish and chips on the seafront and it's just lovely.  There can be nothing finer in this life, I think, than sitting on a bench at the seaside with your family in the sun eating fish and chips with one of those pointless little wooden forks and throwing bits to the seagulls who can catch a chip in mid air!  How clever is that.

It's been a beautiful day. The roads have been pretty clear, we stopped somewhere lovely for lunch, the children have been patient and good natured in the car (mostly) and the rooms are amazing. You've looked after us today. Thankyou. 


Charles Spurgeon said:

'The old saying is, 'Go from nature up to Nature's God'; but it is hard working up hill.  The best thing is to go from nature's God down to nature; and if you once get to nature's God, and believe Him, and love Him, it is surprising how easy it is to hear music in the waves, and songs in the wild whisperings of the winds; to see God everywhere, in the stones, in the rocks, in the rippling brooks, and hear him everywere in the lowing of cattle, in the rolling of thunder and the fury of tempests.' 

I love the sea, and as I stood there looking at it earlier today I thought of this passage. I always look at the sea and see you, Lord. Maybe it's the vastness, the majesty, the breadth of it; or maybe the depth, the power and the beauty of it.  The way it's ever changing, never the same. Nothing can contain it. It has always been since the day you brought it about, and always will be. It cannot be destroyed, cannot be controlled. It nurtures and it destroys.  It is frightening and beautiful, stirring and soothing. The way it reflects the sunset is a symphony of nature that shows us here on earth a tiny hint of the awe-inspiring wonder of you. Another glimpse.

I love the clearness of the air by the sea, the sound of the waves and the smell of it all.  I love the sea birds and sand and pebbles. I love the way the breakwaters recede into the sea and the beautiful silver texture of the weathered wood. I love the shelving of the sand to the water's edge and I love rockpools full of treasure.  I love sandcastles and buckets and spades and those tiny little flags that you stick in the top. I love the joy on my girls' faces as they find a 'special' pebble or a shell or some small wary creature.

There you are in the stones and rocks on the beach, in the music and rhythm of the waves, in the calling of the birds. It is easy to see you indeed. I love it by the sea. It wakes up a part of me that is sleepy most of the time - the bit of me that fills my lungs with you, breathing in your spirit in long breaths.  The part of me that feasts my senses on you, that can't find words so just smiles and gazes and inhales and listens intently.

This is just what I need. You knew that. I was wondering if I could possibly put aside the rubbish of the last few days and enjoy this weekend at all but I feel blessed to be here, and so grateful that you gave us all these things to enjoy. I'm seeing them all again. It's a breath of fresh air indeed.  You know everything that I have on my plate, Father, because I've laid it all in front of you; I can't process it or analyse it or make any sense of it. So I've just dumped it with you - Katy's lump and hospital appointments and mine as well. You hold all things in your hand. You know me inside and out and have done since before I came to be. You know every word on my tongue before I say it. I cannot hide from you. No point in trying.

As it says in one of my favourite songs:

'I will praise the rock of my salvation
 - all my days are in his faithful hands.'

So I leave it all with you, faithful Lord. Thankyou for this weekend by the sea. You know what the week ahead has in store but I don't want to know right now. Maybe it's nothing and this time next week my mind will be on trivia again; or maybe it's something, and then who knows how I'll be but you? Either way, for now, I'm looking out of the window at the beautiful mysterious dark band of the sea at the end of the street, listening to the quiet as the children have finally settled down and looking forward to  the morning when we'll go looking for 'special' pebbles again.

I have a tradition that whenever we come to the seaside as a family, I find a pebble from the beach that has markings on it that make it look as if it's smiling. Then I draw eyes and a nose on it and label it with the place and the year, and it sits on the bookcase at home to remind me. I don't think I'll have a problem finding one this weekend as all the pebbles are smiling.  And so am I.

I won't let you fall: Psalm 139 part 1

Morning, God.


I've been reading Psalm 139. Wonderful words.

'You have searched me, LORD, 

   and you know me. 

 You know when I sit and when I rise; 

  you perceive my thoughts from afar. 

You discern my going out and my lying down; 

   you are familiar with all my ways. 

Before a word is on my tongue 

   you, LORD, know it completely.' 

There are times when I don't have any words, strange as that may seem for someone who is always wittering on. It has been observed in the past that I'm not a person to use three words when a hundred and fifty might do - but sometimes I find that there's so much I want to say but I have no idea how to start. And that's why Psalm 139 is so wonderful.  One of the reasons. 


You have searched me and you know me. So you'll know right now that I have a headache, I'm looking out of the window at the back garden where the wind has blown over the bird table and our Christmas Tree (Bruce the Spruce) who is still in his pot as he hasn't the advantage of roots, is lying on his side because of the wind. You'll know what sort of week I've had - confusing, frustrating, strange, tiring, disappointing. There were some good points in it, but at this exact moment I don't feel like dwelling on them because I'm feeling a bit pathetic, but you know that too.  And you'll know that I've forgotten the sugar in my coffee, so excuse me for one minute.


That's better. 


So you know everything about me. I can't hide from you, can I?  Even when I shut you out in the mistaken impression that it might make life simpler, you're still there.  It reminds me of when my little girls put their heads behind a cushion and then imagine that because they can't see me, I can't see them. Sometimes you make me uncomfortable and I like to pretend that you're not there. That's what I do; I shut my eyes really tight and shout 'lalalala' so that I can't hear you - but you're still there. Smiling at me, because you love me even when I'm a bit of a prat.


I was reading the other day that watching me gives you pleasure, Lord.  Really? Just as I go to see Lizzie and Katy on my way to bed and I watch them sleep, you watch me. Just as I fill up with love as I look at their beautiful little faces fast asleep, all the rubbish of the day disappears.  All the little bits of disobedience, the squabbles, the cross voices, the conflicts, the wasted food, the spilled drinks, the pulled faces, the refusals to co-operate and the daily bathtime armageddon all evaporate as I gaze at them, looking so tiny and vulnerable and young. 


Do you look at me like that? Does it make it all worthwhile?


That's an idea that blows my mind. All the debris that I accumulate; the hundreds of times each day that I offend you, the vast majority of which I don't ever say sorry for, and yet you look down on me with love. 

'Where can I go from your Spirit?

   Where can I flee from your presence?

If I go up to the heavens, you are there;

if I make my bed in the depths, you are there. 

If I rise on the wings of the dawn,    

if I settle on the far side of the sea,  

even there your hand will guide me,

   your right hand will hold me fast.'

 

So you'll never leave me, either.  Not even when I run to the ends of the earth to avoid you - no problem because the ends of the earth are nothing for the one who made it.  


The last two lines make me think of me limping along, hurt or injured, and you're beside me with your arm round me, helping me, showing me the way. You won't let go. Like that bit in Titanic, 'Never let go!' only I'm not a sinking ship, (even though I do occasionally feel that I'm clinging to the wreckage).


I won't go under, because you're there, with your right hand holding me fast.


Katy learned to climb a climbing frame the other day, and for a while she was very nervous about striking out on her own. She needed me to hold her while she climbed, and then after a while she needed me to just be there.  I heard myself saying to her, 'I won't let you fall'.  That's me, human, mother to a sweet little unco-ordinated thing that was shinnying up a ladder to a slide, assuring her that she was safe because I was there. Brave words.  I would have done everything possible not to let her fall, and she had faith in me. I find myself watching my children on these playframes feeling a bit anxious as I know that I can't be everywhere and accidents lurk around every corner.  I won't always be there to catch her, if she falls off to the left, or the right, or slips out of reach, or does something unpredictable, as small children are wont to do.


But you will be there for me.  When you say, 'I won't let you fall', I can be absolutely sure that you won't.  


Because you said in Psalm 139 that you know what I'm going to do before I do it. You are never too far away to hold onto me.  You will never leave me.  And you keep your promises. You don't just do your best - there's no doubt about it. Your best is a definite.


Today's little devotional reading on my iPhone was from the writings of Charles Spurgeon:

'Ah! What mercy it is that it is not your hold of Christ that saves you, but his hold of you!  What a sweet fact, that it is not how you grasp his hand, but his grasp of yours, that saves you.  The Lord's promise, once given, is never recalled'.

Charles Spurgeon, Daily Help


So no matter how tricky the climbing frame is that I'm clambering up, you'll hang onto me. Maybe I should try out a few more climbing frames instead of worrying about plummeting to the ground and breaking my neck. Because the One who made me and the universe loves me because I am his child, and he won't let me fall.


Maybe your face will light up with delight like mine did when Katy turned round at the top and said with pride, 'I did it!'


I like that idea.