A - Z Challenge - N: Noticing

Today is the first day of Spring, my favourite season of the year. Today is rainy so I am staying inside, but yesterday was the very best sort of day, the kind with sunshine and blue sky and little shimmers of colour in the corner of your eye wherever you looked. Remarkable really, as only seven days previously we'd been making snowmen. Only in England. 

This year the Spring Inspection is difficult for me. It's much lonelier, as my mum isn't here to see it and enjoy it with me; it was her favourite season too. We'd count down the days, stand by the window willing the weather to take a turn for the better and snuggling into blankets and throws while we waited. At the earliest opportunity we would carefully step outside to take a walk around the garden, latterly with mum leaning heavily on my arm and me always with an eye to the nearest bench or bit of wall on which to have a rest if she'd been on her feet too long. 

We'd wander round (always clockwise, for some reason) and hunt for signs of new growth. Tiny buds, leaves, shoots - any signs of life after the dullness of the winter hibernation.

Nothing went unnoticed as we gently cradled buds, avoided stepping on the crocuses and aconites, picked up fallen twigs from the silver birch or made mental notes of Things That Need Doing. 

Yesterday, Mothers' Day, I walked around the garden on my own and life was waiting for me. The snowdrops are nearly finished, the crocuses still spectacular and at their peak, daffodils just beginning. The hyacinths smell gorgeous, the muscari just beginning to bud and the currant bush looking as if it can't contain itself much longer.  

What undid me was the magnolia flower. Just the one flower on the stellata at the moment, although other buds are forming. The reason I stared at the single flower for so long with tears running down my face was that my Mum loved this little magnolia bush. It was a present from my brother and myself many years ago, but we had to move it from it's original spot  because of building work, and all gardeners know that magnolias are particularly grumpy about being moved. 

The star of the show

I was all for ditching it and buying another, to be honest, but Mum wouldn't have it, and she was in charge. So, we dug the biggest hole we could, took as much root as we could (it took two of us to lift it) and we planted it in a place far away from diggers and builders' feet, and we tended it as best we could. For years, the stellata sulked. No flowers for many a spring, then a handful of weedy, sickly looking  droopy flowers more like wilting splats than stars. In recent years it has looked definitely alive and doing ok, if not actually thriving, but I thought that maybe it was as good as it got. 

Every year there were the jokes about the magnolia that I wanted to kill, the one I didn't care about, the neglected one, the plant with hurt feelings - and here it was, one big, fat, happy-looking flower, and no Mum to see it. And, looking at the rest of the bush, this year looks like the year that I am forgiven. I'll post some more pics if I remember. 

I am reading a book at the moment about the importance of noticing things. Noticing the small things, the minute glimpses of joy and mystery and beauty. I realised that I used to write about it too - how the little things matter (sometimes vastly more than the so-called Big Things) and how the little things are vital for your soul. For my soul. I am determined to start noticing again.

It has been hard. I don't blame myself for shutting myself away from the world, withdrawing into myself and my small, insulated place of safety, because things have happened to us that meant it was the only way I could cope. I'm not sure there was another way, to be honest. But here, it's spring, with its newness and hope and it's sparkling, indomitable spirit, and, like that magnolia stellata, I must stop licking my wounds and harbouring my grievances and see if I can muster a flower. 

I have no idea if this is possible. If it turns out that it isn't, then alright, maybe some other time. I'm done with making promises (and this A-Z challenge is testament to that!) and I'm not ready to set goals. I just feel that I want to put it out there that this spring, heartsick as I am that Mum isn't here to see it, maybe I want to push towards the light with a new green shoot. 

Maybe nobody is looking, and that's alright. Maybe I am the only person to have noticed that immaculate stellata flower, but it would have opened its petals even if nobody ever saw it. It blooms because that's what it does. 

God notices. He doesn't miss a thing. 

And just as I gently lifted the magnolia flower between my fingers and lifted it to gaze full in its face, so He gently lifts my chin so that I can look in His face and notice that He is still there. 

In the night and in the morning

I like sleeping, and I'm good at it.

The secret to my success is practice. I practice often, and for as long as I can. I hope that when the time comes for me to depart this world the end might come while I'm asleep, and then those who know me well will wipe away a tear and say, 'Well, she died doing what she loved doing most...'

The thing is, sleep has not been going well, lately. I've lost my mojo. Most often it goes like this: I wake in the night for no obvious reason and my head is so cram-jam full of things that I can't get back to sleep again. I lie and watch the red digital numbers on my bedside clock as they flick closer and closer to the awfulness of Getting Up Time and try in vain to empty my mind of all the stuff that's clogging it up and stopping the dreams from coming.

Here's a little story from the other night.

2:26am. Desperate shrieks from Katy's room.

Read the rest over at The Association of Christian Writers' More Than Writers blog. I post there on the 23rd of every month. They're a friendly bunch.

The thunder of great waters

I did a little musing as I sat on a railing watching the sea do its thing back in the middle of summer when there was time for sitting on railings and watching the sea.

The tide was in, and there was a strong breeze that gave the waves white tops and blew spray at me from time to time. The sun was in and out from behind fluffy clouds and there was nobody else about.

Dear God,

The sea is like you.

It is eternal. Always there, never stopping, never still. It never rests, never sleeps. Shifting, multi-faceted, unpredictable, wild and untameable. Breathtakingly beautiful in all its moods, whatever the weather. That beauty is a complex mixture of light and shade, a million colours; shimmering, sparkling.

It engages all the senses - the blue, the green, the sunlight and reflected sky, the sound of crashing, thundering - and the soft and reassuring sound of surf on shingle.

I sit with my eyes closed and feel cool spray on my face; I swam and was embraced by its silky coolness, lifted off my feet by the swell.

I taste salt on my lips and inhale the fragrance that you only find at the seaside: freshness, brine, the smell of open space and freedom. I find that I breathe more deeply at the seaside in moments like this, luxuriating in solitude; just me and the vastness of you.

There is another sense that the sea touches, for me; the thing inside me that longs for you; the thing that is more than imagination, that comes from the deepest part of me.

My soul reaches for you, because you seem more tangible to me at the seaside.

I watch the ocean and see my God.

The sea is relentless and powerful. You cannot keep it out, you cannot keep it in. It will go where it will. The sea demonstrated its power when the tidal surges engulfed our coast a few months ago; I have seen the destruction left behind. The strongest man-made structures - concrete, iron bars as thick as my wrist, bent and broken like matchsticks, and discarded with the next wave. Flooding, overcoming defences, washing away things that we cling to.

The fury of the sea in a storm; deafening and intimidating. Restless, ruthless, threatening...and yet. that same sea reflecting a cloudless blue sky, soothing and welcoming, splashing on sand and shells, gently caressing my daughters' feet as they play at its edges.

Glory and majesty - the sea reflects the sunrise and the sunset, the beginning and the end, and will still be there, churning, shifting, waiting for the next day. It was made on the second day and will be there on the last. What are we, in comparison?

"Have you journeyed to the springs of the sea, or walked in the recesses of the deep?"   Job 38:16

The sea shows us our smallness, our frailness. It allows us to interact with it in a small way; it gives up some of its treasures and allows us to form a relationship with it but it demands respect. It gives life and sustains life and can take it away in a moment. We try to harness it, to subdue it for our own ends, but it will only allow us so far. We hover at its edges, gazing awe-struck into its depths, and it is pleased to show us some of its wonders, but we are never in control.

It has hidden depths that we cannot imagine.

Underwater mountain ranges that we have never seen. We don't know how deep it is - it is unfathomable. We cannot draw maps or chart the seabed. We are too small, too weak; our most impressive technology falls short of something so primeval.

We see the surface, and the things it permits us to explore, but it leaves us in no doubt that we are quickly out of our depth. There are things impenetrable, places we can't go, experiences we'll never have, whole ecosystems that we know nothing about, creatures never seen, photographs that will never be taken.

A mystery. Pre-historic, vast, sheltering, nurturing, secretive.

We are so small. We make mistakes; whole aeroplanes are swallowed without a trace in the depths. We are reminded of our fragility, and it's power.

Endless contrasts. I held in my hand the tiniest of crabs from a rock pool, a starfish. The seas are home to countless microorganisms too small for us to see - and then huge and powerful creatures like whales and sharks, seals and fish too large to land in a fishing boat. The delicate and the vast. Floating, mystical jellyfish, shoals of translucent fish, and predators with row upon row of lethal teeth. Things that we eat, things that would eat us. All life is here, and death, too.

"There is the sea, vast and spacious, teeming with creatures beyond number, living things both large and small." Psalm 104:25

Dangerous, yet healing. The sea helps to heal wounds, sterile and soothing. Life-giving, life threatening. Hidden currents, lurking dangers play alongside soft surf and exhilarating swell. It supports us, keeping our boats afloat and our bodies buoyant.  Full of joy and fun, beauty and possibility, yet we misjudge it at our peril.

"You rule over the surging sea; when its waves mount up, you still them." Psalm 89:9

Only Jesus had authority over the sea. There has only ever been one man who was unafraid, who spoke to the waves and they obeyed him.

I sit here and lift the camera to my eye and realise that the sea cannot be captured.

No wonder that throughout history we have been fascinated by it. We have tried to copy it, to halt it, to pin it down on canvas or film, to recreate it to take away for those of us who live inland, but we cannot, for no sooner have we frozen a moment in time, than that moment is gone and the sea is completely different.

It is only now. It was, it will be, but it is always the present. No two waves are alike. They each hit the seawall differently, throw different fountains of spray. There is no pattern, no predictability. It does its own thing, regardless of time, of me, of everyone.

There is so much to see. It whispers, shouts - booms an insistent invitation to tiptoe at the edges, come a little deeper, discover something new, dive in, explore, immerse yourself.  Be brave, get used to the coolness, the movement; enjoy the ride. Know who you are, and who the sea is; don't forget. Don't take it for granted, have respect, but come and enjoy.

Be washed clean. Be lifted off your feet.

Inspiration is here. Beauty is here. Refreshment, restoration, healing, strength are to be found here.

There is no barrier that you cannot break down,
There is no space you can't flood,
No door can keep you out,
No defences you can't breach.

"Mightier than the thunder of the great waters, mightier than the breakers of the sea - the Lord on high is mighty." Psalm 93:4

You are here.

On my own with Him

And finally...

I'm walking in a meadow, on a cliff top, on a beautiful summer day. 

There are flowers everywhere. Blues, reds, yellows, grasses as high as my waist in places, swaying in a breeze with a gentle shushing sound. It's restful, like a lullaby. 

The sun is warm and the sky blue with wispy summer clouds high above. I can't see the sea because I'm a few hundred yards inland from the edge of the cliff, but if I listen carefully I can hear the sound of the waves and now and again as the wind blows I feel refreshing misty spray against my face. I breathe it in, remembering that was how the clouds felt when I flew with God.

I knew it was the Holy Spirit in my lungs then, and it is now.

I am walking, slowly, shoulders relaxed, swinging my arms, a smile on my face. I am wearing a dress, which is unheard of, for me. I never wear dresses. It's a pretty floral print with short sleeves and a full skirt and I am comfortable in it. I'm not pulling at it self-consciously. It's not too tight or scratchy or clinging; it's cool and pretty. Bare legs, sandals, hair blowing back as I walk into the breeze and inhale the sweet, fresh air.

I am transformed. I am beautiful and confident and carefree. I am light and peaceful. 

I know that God is with me, even though I am alone. He is with me in the meadow just as he was with me in the sky and with me as I tried to climb the mast on the tall building. He is right here, and I smile to myself, knowing that I am walking with my Lord, that He will never leave me.

I am happy, on my own with Him.

I walk and I breathe deeply, I take in the beauty of all that is around me. I am completely content. Surrounded by the breathtakingly intricate beauty of His creation, accompanied by the Creator, who points out His wonders to me as we stroll along; breathing in the fine sea-spray mist of the Holy Spirit.

I can walk alone, and still be with Him. I can have my feet on the ground, and still breathe in the spirit. I don't know where I'm going, but it doesn't matter. He is with me and I am just enjoying the walk. There is no better company.

I am home. I am safe. I am alive.

There is freedom and space. All is well.

I am His daughter. 

Feeling sort of gorgeous

I did Katy's hair differently this morning. 

She wants to grow out her fringe. I said yes, because when her hair is wet and away from her face after a shower she looks even more beautiful than she does with those big eyes peeping out from under. 

She has short, dark, naturally glossy hair in a vaguely bob-like shape but she hates me brushing it. She loathes having it messed with and yet she was blessed with a double crown which means that her natural parting is like a donkey's hind leg. Her resistance to brushing and styling mean that quite often she goes to school with her hair pretty much as it got out of bed.

Wow. This is a profound post, isn't it? 

Anyway. The fringe. I said yes, because the more of her lovely face that I can see, the better. Today we crossed a bit of a Rubicon in that it became clear that it's now long enough to need the heavy fringe kept out of the way if she is to continue to see out. Let's see whether she's going to grow it out or have it trimmed back in again, then. Time will tell. 

I carefully separated out the fringe, brushed it together, put a twist in it and clipped it on top of her head with no less than three hairclips. Two blue and a pink. Some wispy bits came down immediately and I'm quite sure that the whole lot will be out on the playground by lunchtime, but she looked just lovely. 

I said so, Daddy said so, Grandma said so. Big sister sort of grunted, which Katy took for agreement as well. On the way to school, a neighbour complimented Katy on her hair and another Mum commented, 'Great hair, Kate,' as we passed by. Katy stood tall and flipped her hair about a bit, looking pleased. I checked her clips. 

Leaning down close, I whispered to her, 'You are gorgeous. Are you feeling gorgeous?'

Pink cheeked, she whispered back, 'Sort of.' 

We squeezed hands and walked in the school doors. 

A tiny moment. Nothing earth-shattering, nothing important in the eternal scheme of things. But I thought my heart would burst and I wanted to say thank you. 

I look at my daughters, both of them, and I am amazed at how beautiful they are. I suppose that I have to take into account that I am their mother, and so I would see their gorgeousness whether it was really there or not, and so I count myself lucky that they are actually gorgeous, and so I do not have to delude myself. But my point is, I love them with a ferocity that I didn't think was possible before I had babies of my own. 

I look at my children and I see their beauty.

I am your child, Lord God. I know that you look at me and think that I'm beautiful. You know how hard that is even for me to type, because for all I know about your endless love, and your inability to make mistakes, I think that you're wrong.

I'm not touting for compliments or asking for reassurance. I know what there is to know from a head-perspective. I tell my girls that the world's definition of beauty is not real and they should never measure themselves against it. I tell them that they shouldn't compare themselves to anyone else because everyone is unique and special and no two people are alike. I tell them that beauty is far more than good skin and good hair and slim thighs and a narrow waist. I tell them that they are beautiful just how they are and they should stand tall as princesses, for you are their Daddy.

This applies to me, too. I know it does, I know. I just can't seem to move the knowledge from my head to my heart. I look in the mirror and I don't like what I see. I compare myself with others and find myself wanting. I see the airbrushing and elongating of models on the magazines, the billboards, the television and still, I wish...

There's just a huge hole in me that needs filling. A deep, old wound that needs healing.

You are the Healer. In your time, Lord. 

I wonder if you ever try to whisper to me, 'You are gorgeous. Are you feeling gorgeous?' and I plug my ears, shake my head and turn away. For I am your little girl just as Katy is mine. And strange as I might find it, I know that you love me with a ferocity that makes mine for her look half-hearted. 

I'm glad that Katy started today feeling sort of gorgeous. Long, long, long may it last. I suspect she'll come out of school with her hair in her eyes and two out of three clips (if I'm lucky - we get through hairclips faster than biscuits round here) and we'll have to start again tomorrow, but I like that she went into school this morning feeling special. 

I bet you want that for me. I know that you love me, and you approve of me, and you look at me and see beauty. 

Abba, Daddy?

I would like to feel sort of gorgeous.

Washing my spirit clean

Good morning, Lord.

I have a diary. You see, there are all these days and I need to keep track of them. No sooner one finishes than another starts and I hate just letting them slip away without being marked. 

Actually, I have several diaries. I have a calendar in the kitchen for dates and arrangements; one of those with four columns so that I can keep track of the children's social lives as well as my own. On the whole, they're doing better than me, but since any event in their column also has to go in mine, I look pretty busy. 

That calendar isn't very portable, so I have a little diary that I transfer from handbag to handbag which has a copy of the important stuff so that I can flip efficiently through it when scheduling something and say, 'Sorry, can't do Wednesday, I'm at Little Monkeys Play Centre from four till six...' and so on. The problem with this is that I found that appointments from the calendar didn't make it into the diary and vice versa, which just made life even more complicated than it was before. So the small diary languishes redundant.

And then there are other diaries. Electronic ones that I can never be bothered to programme. My prayer journal where I chat with you about my day, flap about what might be and work through what might have been. There's my 'Happy Book' where I write down anecdotes, answered prayers, good things that happen and funny things the kids say. There's my lovely desk calendar with a picture and a scriptural quotation for me to take into the day. 

And then there's my Beautiful Diary. 

I'm not sure what to call this one. It's a gorgeous thing to behold; a large square thing full of wonderful full page photographs so beautiful is perhaps the best word. 

It's from the John Muir Trust, promoting its work in wild land conservation. The photos are by some of the best wildlife and landscape photographers in the country and they are honestly amazing. 

From the preface, by John Beatty:

'In March 1867 John Muir suffered a serious accident that caused him to be completely blind for several months, believing he may never recover his sight. The subsequent return of his sight was an epiphany in his life that led to a lifelong commitment to experience the natural world. 

He wandered for years in the wilds absorbing the richness of all life forms, seeing the world with increased intensity, reflecting its wonders through the written word.' 

I stood with this beautiful book in my hands in the shop and read about John Muir and his appreciation of the natural world and I thought, 'Yes.' 

I want to do that. I want to notice, and record, and give thanks. 

I decided to buy this diary and write in it every day, but not use it for appointments at all. Each day I make a note of a glimpse of you that happened that day. Some days I see you everywhere and I have lots to write and there are other days when I'm so wrapped up and inward looking that I've missed you completely. I know that you were no less there all around me on those days, and I'm starting to see the correlation between my 'What can I write today?' days and my prevailing mood. 

One day there was a buzzard in the garden; a big majestic looking bird with a bright yellow eye and big claws. Another day it was the way the low morning sun shone golden on the church clock as we walked past on the way to school. Early this year we saw tiny shiny ice crystals on the car roof, and the other evening the sunset between storm clouds lit the world up in orange and purple. 

Other days it's different; it might be me on my own in the car with the music turned up so, so loud, singing along to Phil Wickham:

'I give you all my life, I'm letting it go
A living sacrifice, no longer my own
All I am is yours, all I am is yours...

It might be a special hour over coffee with a friend, but you're right there with us, because we meet in your name. It might be holding hands with my daughter on the way to school, holding hands with my husband on the sofa in front of a film or holding hands with you as I realise all over again that I can't do any of it without you.

Ann Voskamp wrote down A Thousand Gifts and people all over the world are inspired and making their lists. I know that if I write one thing a day I'll only have 365 in a year, but it's a start. I'm adding between the pages little things that I want to remember; a note from one of the children or a page from the desk calendar with a scripture that jumped at me. I'm making a year of Thank Yous.

John Muir wrote:

'...keep close to nature's heart...and break clear away, once in a while, and climb a mountain or spend a week in the woods. Wash your spirit clean.'

I would so love to disappear off into the wilderness once in a while. I used to be afraid of silence but now I long for it. To stop the hamster-wheel and find a remote little windswept cottage on an island in the Hebrides, perhaps, just me and a kettle and my journal and some custard creams. And my computer. (And an internet connection...ha!... alright, just a notebook!) But to find solitude. No noise but the wind and the birds. Peace, quiet. Undisturbed nature. Sky and landscape and freedom and air to breathe. To wash my spirit clean.

Not so fussed about climbing a mountain.

So in the absence of such an opportunity I want to make a note of the moments that allow my soul to breathe, even if only for a moment. 

I want to see them, appreciate them, savour them and store them up for the times when I can't remember how it feels. Because I can't just disappear into the wilderness for years like Mr Muir, I want to pin down and bottle the bits of you that come my way so that I can take off the lid and inhale when the walls seem to close and claustrophobic. 

Waking up to the sound of birdsong.

Mist and sunshine on the moors.

Photograph memories of my girls as babies.

Two planes vapour trails crossing in the sky like a heavenly kiss.

Vanilla latte and a good friend. 

A sky full of stars.

Wonder on my daughter's face as we watch the sunset.

So this is my project, Lord. 

Give me eyes to see and ears to hear the wonders that you place in my path just because you are a God who delights to delight. 

Don't let me walk past the gifts that you give me. 

Please don't ever let my eyes be so focused on the dirt under my feet that I don't see the vastness and beauty of your creation. 

John Muir again:

'Everyone needs beauty as well as bread, places to play in and pray in, where Nature may heal and give strength to the body and soul.'

Amen. 

The John Muir Wild Nature Diary 2013, published by the John Muir Trust:

The dress

At the back of my wardrobe is a dress. It’s dark green and it’s perfect for my skin tone and makes my eyes seem deep, deep blue.  It’s silk and it has a flattering neckline with just the right amount of cleavage. It has cap sleeves and a full skirt to ankle length and it’s the sort of dress that floats around your legs as you move and makes you feel elegant and beautiful.

I wore it years ago to a ball at university and afterwards I kissed the man who is now my husband for the first time.

My flatmates and I, we got ready with loud music and giggles and a cloud of perfume. I have a photograph of us all together and my hand is behind my back, holding spare fabric in a bunch to show off my waist. The beautiful dress was a little too big.

I was something else that night. My make-up was right, my hair was right, and even after a hot and happy night dancing and talking and flirting and smiling up at him under my eyelashes and over a glass of wine I was still gorgeous. Pink cheeks and the sheen of perspiration and the tendrils of hair at the nape of my neck making ringlets.  In the restroom with my girlfriends comparing notes and ruling the world.

And the dress, back on its hanger with a reverent stroke of it’s softness.

It’s years later. Another ball, another university, the same dress. Plastic cover lifted off, skirt shaken loose to float around my legs again. This time, a little bit more of me. The neckline still flattering but a little more cleavage. The cap sleeves a little tight on the arms. The bodice – there’s no gentle way of putting it – straining at the seams.  Girls in the restrooms together and this time, standing sideways, sucking in my breath, not eating dinner because there’s no room in my beautiful dress. Wondering if anyone notices the way the fabric strains across my midriff. The way the green of the silk turns slightly darker where sweat trickles down my back. Self-consciousness.

Still, a glass or two of wine, the dance floor beckons. Good friends and goodnight kisses.

Years later. I take the dress in its plastic to a lady who makes wedding dresses. Can we do it in white?  On my Big Day I want it to float around my legs and make me feel special. I want the neckline to plunge and flatter but not boast. I want the sleeves longer, this time, to cover the tops of my arms.

We search and search for fabric and I settle for something a little different. The pattern changes incrementally and I settle for something a little different. The lady lines the silk with another inferior fabric and it hangs stiff, no longer floats. I settle for something a little different. It’s a gown, not a dress, she tells me. For your wedding you must have a gown.

I do.

Years later. A wedding invitation. An evening reception.  I lift the cellophane and smooth out the silk. The seams a little strained. The sleeves a little short. The skirt so full and swirly. The fabric so very soft and just my colour.

I slip it over my head and pull up the sleeves. Flesh overlaps at the upper arms and my bra strap shows at the shoulder in a way it never did. I twist and I turn but the zip won’t come to the top. The fabric strains across my middle. The skirt still swirls soft against my legs.

The dress is doing its best but the body inside isn’t the body that took to the dance floor at university with flushed cheeks and fabric to spare.

That wedding reception, the evening one – we didn’t go. We stayed at home on the sofa with our glass of wine. 

I couldn’t face the dress, the shopping, the size on the hangers. I couldn’t face the dance floor.

Lord, this body that I’m in; I know that it only tells a small part of the story. This is the body that nurtured and birthed two beautiful girls and the ribcage that spread out to accommodate them. This is the heart that moved upwards and sideways to make room for the little growing bodies that it still beats for.

The bust that strains the fabric of my green silk dress is the same that suckled two hungry babies until they no longer wanted mummy milk. The arms that won’t fit the little cap sleeves carried my 8lb, 9lb, 10lb babies everywhere and rocked them for long hours praying for sleep. The hips that sashayed on the dance floor swayed with swaddled newborns on shoulders late at night and padded themselves to seat toddlers.

I know all this and I believe it and I salute the body that did it all and still I long for the green dress days. When I look at the photographs and know that I was self conscious and diffident then, and yet look at me now. I know that my value isn’t related to my dress size. I know that my beauty isn’t found in necklines or cleavages or the ability to wear cap sleeves and swirly skirts.

Father God, somehow will you take that knowledge from my head to my heart? Make it real to me? Make it make a difference?

Give me a glimpse of myself through your eyes. I am your child and you love me, just as I am. I am a princess and I am made for your kingdom. I am spotless, stainless, glowing perfect because your Son, Jesus Christ, valued me so highly that he died for me. He doesn’t care about green dresses or stretched seams.

Give the green dress to a charity shop. Someone might love it; someone with toned arms and without a spare tyre. They might make it swirl again instead of hanging in cellophane collecting dust. I am a mother, I am a wife, I am a completely different shape from the body for which the green dress was designed.

Forget the green dress. Life is not about green dresses.

Lord, I’m not ready. I’m not ready to say goodbye to my green dress and the dance floor days and the naïve beauty that comes from being young and unselfconscious. I long for those days and there's a part of me that still hopes that I might feel those soft skirts swirl around my legs one day even now. I so want to feel beautiful again.

Special.

My head hears your words of love and acceptance and nods in understanding, in faith. It does. My heart still beats inside the bodice of a beautiful floaty silk dress that made me feel special.

I know there is freedom in you. Free me, Lord God. 

Free me from myself. 




Linking today with Tanya Marlow at Concrete Words:  http://tanyamarlow.com
Expressing the abstract through the concrete.

Magnets and vegetables

Hello, Father God.

Katy is learning about magnets at school. This weekend she's been creeping round the house with a large magnet stabbing it at random metal items to see if they'll stick. Radiator, yes. Teaspoon, yes. Grandma's glasses, no. Thankfully.

This thing happened, and you were right there.

My husband got out a very sensitive set of kitchen scales. He placed a key on the scales and then slowly lowered the magnet over the key from above.

The key weighed 17g. As the magnet got closer, closer, the key weighed less and less.

14g...11g... 9.25g... 5.67g...

At 4.3g, the key jumped up to meet the magnet. Whoof. Just like that.

He kept the magnet and key hovering over the scales and the weight registering on the scales started showing minus numbers.

-0.3g... -2g... -3.55g...

The metal plate on top of the scales was being pulled upwards by the magnet.

There was a force acting on the metal key and the metal scales that we couldn't see. Completely invisible, but it was there nonetheless and its effects were obvious. Electromagnetism.

We don't know what electromagnetism is, but we know that it IS. We know what it does, but not really how or why. Apparently people think that it has something to do with spinning electrons but we're not sure. Personally if I've ever known what an electron was, I've forgotten. All I know is that a magnet pulls things towards it. I can see it doing its thing.

It made me think of you. I see you even when you don't come and sit on the end of my bed and chat with me. I can see you in the force of a magnet. Irresistible, subtle, powerful, insistent, inexplicable. I can see you in the uniqueness of snowflakes and in the joy of a five year old making brand new footsteps in freshly fallen drifts of snow. I see you in dew on a spider's web and in orange evening sun on a bare tree. I see you all around, even when I can't see you at all.

You know what I mean because I'm supposed to see you in all these things. I see you pulling like a magnet. I see the power of you, pulling. I am drawn towards you.

 We had this vegetable on Sunday. Part of lunch. It was called Romanesco Broccoli. Sort of like a bright green cross between a cauliflower and broccoli, and as vegetables go, it was the most beautiful vegetable I've ever seen. It's a natural approximation of a fractal.

A fractal is a geometric shape that has symmetry of scale, which means that it's a shape that keeps doing the same thing over and over again. If you were to zoom in on a part of it, it would still look the same. I'm told this is called, 'self-similarity', but I fear I might get sucked into something equation-like and quite complicated if I go much deeper. I am a bear of very little brain when it comes to this stuff. Perhaps that's why I'm so easily astonished?

But look at this breathtaking vegetable and tell me, who wouldn't be impressed?

The romanesco broccoli swirls round in an intricate pattern repeated over and over again, smaller and smaller. A vivid, surprisingly bright green. Beautiful. And when cooked, rather tasty on my plate with some roast chicken, mash and gravy. It wasn't easy to cut into it and serve it up. Such a shame to spoil it.

I contemplated the swirly vegetable and I wondered at a God who would make a vegetable fascinatingly intricate, geometrically beautiful. Why? Because you could.

For the same reason that it pleased you to make a metal key jump three inches towards a lowered magnet. For the same reason that you decided that every snowflake should be different. Just Because You Could.

I see you all around. I'm looking at the flames of the fire. The way they dance, give out heat and light and comfort. In the rainbow picture that my daughter made for me and slipped inside my laptop for me to find. She knows that I love rainbows - and I love them because they remind me of you.

As I glance down from the screen to see my own fingers taptaptapping at the keyboard I get a glimpse of the wonder of you. An observation turns to a thought and forms an idea which translates to words which make their way via synapses and ganglia to bones, muscles, tendons, ligaments, blood vessels, fingernails, skin until they are constructed using learned knowledge of a keyboard layout to transfer to a sentence on a virtual page.

Blows my mind.

Take a drop of water.

As if there were not enough magic in a drop of water - essential, life-giving, beautiful, refracting light, beading on a leaf after rain, cleaning and refreshing - when you drop a single drop of water onto more water a crown appears. A crown! A crown made by a King.

Makes me smile.

And here's another thing that takes my breath away. All these miracles and magical tricks were just waiting for us to find them. Hidden away until such a time that we invented or discovered the means to see. We didn't know that a water droplet makes a crown splash until we invented high speed photography. We didn't know about magnetism until someone discovered it.

As Louis Giglio points out in his 'Indescribable' *talk it wasn't until we had telescopes powerful enough to see that we found out that in the outer reaches of space is found the Whirlpool Galaxy and in the very centre of that is the shape of a cross. Just waiting for us to find it and stop still in awe.

A crown, by the King.
A vegetable fractal, just because you could.
A key jumping to meet a magnet, pulled by an invisible force.

You created these things because you're the Creator and you added in all the hidden wonder that astonishes us just because it pleased you to do it. The equation is much simpler than the fractal geometry one that I was baffled by earlier.

You are beauty, and so the things you make will be beautiful.
You are infinitely complex and creative and beyond understanding, and so your Creation will be just like you.

We think we're getting there, don't we? We think that we are so clever with ever scientific breakthrough and discovery but the truth is that there is so much that we don't know. So much undiscovered wonder out there. We don't even know how much there is that we don't know.

You must be there watching us and waiting with a big smile, impatient for the day when we can see further, beyond the limits of our technology and our imaginations.

Microscopes that can see smaller.
Telescopes that can see further.
Human minds that need to be so much more open.

You're not remotely concerned that we will find you, guess all your secrets, become threatening in our growing knowledge and understanding - there is always more; we will never catch up. Always more treasure to find, delights to uncover. It goes on forever.

Beauty is evidence of you. You are Goodness in its purest form and I see you when big sister comforts little sister when she drops her ice cream. The force for good is from you, just like the force that pulls metal to a magnet. Invisible, but we can see it.

It seems easy to me. You are there. I see you. I can see you at work; I can see the things that you have done. You speak to me as clearly as a little note left on my keyboard, a message spelled out painstakingly on the other side.

I love you.





*Check this out: Louis Giglio 'Indescribable' 


Photographs all mine except:
Water crown image 114345352538.jpg by stuartjessop
From Morguefile.com. Used with permission.

The skater

Hello, God.

I want to run something past you. I asked you to show me something the other day and I think you did, but, you being you, it was sort of oblique and mysterious so I've been turning it over in my mind.  Days later, I think I get it, but I just want to check. 

I don't feel so bad about being a bit dense; the disciples used to nod knowingly when out and about and then ask, 'Lord, what were you on about?' when you were back at the camp, didn't they?

As I say, I've been pondering.

A group of us were praying about what sort of shape a ministry to women might take at our church. We all have a longing to do something to support and encourage and equip the ladies in our church - between us we seem to have more than our fair share of brokenness and sadness - but we're not sure what to do or where to start. Over the months it's become clear that you are with us, but until we can discern what direction you want us to take, we don't want to start going anywhere at all. Best just keep asking, and keep listening. 

So we sat in a room and we asked you to speak to us. Scripture, words, pictures, impressions, a glowing neon finger writing on the walls, anything. And speak you did. You confirmed in a lot of ways that our ideas were in accord with each other, and you seem to be saying 'Don't worry; it's all good'. 

One picture that came into my head continued to puzzle me for ages after the meeting, though. Suddenly, waiting for Elizabeth outside her school among a sea of Mums huddled in overcoats and scarves in the drizzle, it came to me. 

I saw an ice-skater. She had dark hair piled up on her head and she was wearing a bright pink gauzy skating dress that flowed around her in layers. The background was darkness, the ice bright white. She skated. She danced across the ice with grace and elegance and exuberance, leaping and dancing. Twirling and swooping. She was skilled and confident, her footwork deft and sure. She was happy and uninhibited and she was skating for the sheer joy of it. This was her thing and she knew that she was good at it. Full of energy, she danced lightly across the ice, beautiful and smiling, her vivid pink dress standing out against the pristine white of the ice. A spotlight followed her around the ice, never leaving her, anticipating her every move. She was comfortable in the spotlight, comfortable with herself; unafraid. 

Here it is. I think. 

The skater is one of your children; she's a woman who knows you. 

You hold the spotlight, and she dances for you. For you and for herself. She is happy to be in the spotlight; she knows that that light goes with her wherever she goes. She loves to skate for you and show you the new things she has learned and she's fearless in breaking new ground, knowing that you're always there when she falls. She loves to do her thing and you love to watch her. The two of you enjoy each other. 

I don't know whether there's an audience in the darkness surrounding the skating rink, but I don't think it matters. She dances for you only. People might watch, or they might not, but she doesn't care because she dances for you; your approval is all that she needs. If the audience is there, they see her doing her best, giving it her all. They may see her fall, but they'll see her get up again as well. She skates to a tune that only she can hear and the steps are choreographed by you; it's a dance that shows off the gifts you have given her.

This woman is free. She's full of potential and she grows every day; becomes more daring and more innovative. She's free to express herself and she knows how proud you are of her. You move the spotlight as she glides around the skating rink and you ensure that she is never in darkness; she is always illuminated by your light. The far side of the rink is in darkness but she knows that she will always have enough light for the move she's making. Your timing is perfect and the two of you are in synch. She might falter, but you never turn away and leave her in shadow. She wants to please you and she knows that to use the skill she has makes you smile. 

She brings you glory by celebrating all that she is. 

I think that this is what you want for your children. You want your people to reach for you, to enjoy you and enjoy the blessings you love to give us. You want us to be all that we can be. 

This woman, she knows who she is. She knows that she is yours and that you're pleased with her. She is light and free and not weighed down by anything. She carries nothing with her. She has all she needs. 

She is not limited by her own opinion of herself and is not afraid to step out in faith to try something new and difficult if you ask her to. She smiles; she dances for you, and that's enough. She doesn't care if anyone else is watching, or what they think of her body, her style, her ability, the way she expresses herself - she looks only to you, and she feels your pleasure. She doesn't compare herself with swimmers or artists or singers, because she was made to skate, not swim or sing or draw. She doesn't compare herself with other skaters because they all have a different style and a different routine, and in any case she has a spotlight all to herself. 

She has learned to listen to your voice above all others, even her own. She knows she is wonderfully made; that she is some of your best work, and that watching her skate makes you smile. 

She is not bound in by fear of failure, because you have taught her not to worry, only to do her best. She doesn't shrink from a difficult manoeuvre, tricky footwork or starting from scratch with a new routine because she trusts the teacher and she hears his voice, challenging and encouraging. 

I don't know what this lady looks like, but I know that she is beautiful. She glows. She is radiant. She has the look of a woman who is comfortable in her own skin; she knows who she is and she knows what she is for. She loves to dance across the ice because she was made to dance. She has all that she needs.  She is exhilarated and excited every time she glides on the ice. She has confidence and security. 

She is in love. She skates for her lover, knowing that he finds her captivating. She wants to please him. She dances for an audience of One.

This is what you want for us. 

I'd like that too. 

Autumn heart

I struggle with this time of year, God.

I suspect that's not news to you. I've been banging on about Autumn and how much I prefer Spring for quite a while now. I am surrounded by people who love the autumnal colours in the trees and have a great affection for Halloween and just see the dark nights and dark mornings as an excuse to cosy up in front of the fire with home made pumpkin pie and so on, but I don't get it.

Thumbs up to Autumn like this

I see piles of soggy leaves that I drag the children out of because we don't know what lies beneath them. I see dark mornings which make getting out of bed a million times harder than it usually is (and usually it's pretty hard) and I don't like pumpkin. 

I quite fancy a huge pot or two of copper-coloured crysanthemums outside the front door but alas I forgot to plant any and they're going for about £16 each in the garden centres so it'll be make do with the straggly begonias a bit longer I think. 

I am, this morning, what my Mum refers to as 'a cross-patch'. 

So, I am persuaded that autumn leaves (heavy sigh) do look quite nice against a blue sky. Yes, I quite like walking the girls to school amid a shower of orange and red leaves on a sunny day. But why does it have to be dark by 4pm so that we have to draw the curtains and crank up the heating so early? And anyway, I can't always have a blue sky, can I?

Kick through this at your peril

So this morning, I lay in bed at silly-o'clock just before the alarm went off and listened to the sound of rain hammering on the windows. I was warm and snuggly and my pillows were just right (how come they refuse to settle into that perfection at bedtime?) and I did not want to get out of bed. I rarely do, as you know, but the sort of day that entices me to the window is the type where there is a brightness from outside creeping around the curtains. A little sparkle on the ceiling that promises sun. My bedroom faces east-ish and if there's a sunrise the ceiling above me glows pink or orange. That's worth opening my eyes for.

This morning, nope. Dark. It could have been 2am or 4am or 6am. Time for eye-shut. 

I'm having a little complain, Lord. 

As I type this the sky is blue, the sunshine is making the few apples that we can't reach shine yellowy orange at the top of the appletrees. The japanese maples are red, gold, orange, pink. The tree-with-the-name-that-I-always-forget is a deep, rich red. 

Ok, it looks pretty. I'll give you that.

This is the day that the Lord has made...

Here's the thing. I've been trying to start my day more positively. I was reading that starting a brand new day with a heavy sigh, multiple jabs at the snooze button and the thought, 'This is going to be a bad day,' is probably a self-fulfilling prophecy. ('What a faithful God have I' Sept 2012) 

I've been trying to start the day with a word or two from you, and when my mind is struggling to shake off sleep and I'm dragging myself upright with bad grace, the line of scripture that comes to mind is:

'This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.'

Psalm 118:24

Oft said through clenched teeth, too early in the morning.

Today I found rejoicing beyond me. I was thinking about the school run in heavy rain. I was thinking that today was the day that the children were having school photographs taken, and they would likely be somewhat bedraggled on arrival at school. I was thinking about how warm and comfy my bed was and how cold and wet it sounded outside. I was thinking about how nice it would be not to have to pull back the curtains. Today is cancelled through lack of interest.

And yet....

There are two words I find myself saying quite often when you and me get together, Lord God.

By the time we actually left for the dash to school, the rain had stopped and the clouds were drifting apart. By the time the photographs had been taken and my two girls were deposited at respective schools with hair gleaming and toothpaste smears spitwashed off their cheeks, the sun was sending bright rays out from behind the chimneys of the houses opposite the playground. By the time I was putting the key in the front door, the sky was blue, the sunshine dazzlingly bright and the reds and oranges and golds of the falling leaves looking, yes, alright, quite pretty.

Ahem.

I didn't think I'd get a picture like this today

This is the day that the Lord has made. Now, I'll rejoice and be glad in it.

Before it was a bit of a struggle.

Sorry.

The thing is, each new day that I wake up is a gift you've given me. I'm sorry that sometimes I unwrap my present and drop it again with a scowl. Every day that you have made is a masterpiece even if it's not to my taste. I know quite well that a bit of gratitude wouldn't go amiss. I'm sorry that I'm just like a child who puts in an order for a birthday present and then gets something else from Aunt whatever who's sent something that they need instead of something that they want.

It's that time of year that everything seems to be dying. All the plants seem to be shrivelling, dropping, retreating. Even the ones that I expect to see next year are curling up and starting to hibernate. There's a finishing feeling about it all that I find hard. In the Spring I love to see the signs of new life; the bright, vivid greens that on a painter's palette might even seem unnatural. The shoots and buds and little cheerful heads pushing up through the claggy soil. Spring seems full of hope and life and Autumn is death and a shaking of the head.

But without death there can't be rebirth, I guess. You know what the cycle of the seasons is all about; I only have a rudimentary knowledge that the plants die back for a season in order to conserve energy until the new growth is triggered by the thaw and the warmth of a Spring sun.

Do I die back for a season in order to grow afresh at a later date?

This is just how it is. To live a life with my Lord God as my Saviour I have to let the me-me-me parts of me die. To come alive in this world right now I need to change the way I think and the way I behave, which is to put to death a big part of me. To come to be with you and enter into the Life that will last forever, I'm going to have to die. Without death there is no life.

In the Book of Common Prayer it says, 'In the midst of life we are in death,' but also in the midst of death we are in life. Without Autumn and Winter there'd be no Spring.

Loving you loving me

So bring on the Autumn, Father God. You know what you're doing. Let the leaves fall, let the birds eat the berries and let the hedgehogs hibernate. Can I hibernate too?

That was just a joke.

If I left Britain for sunnier climes I think I might miss the seasons. It's no wonder we British are obsessed with the weather when there are days like today. Heavy rain, strong wind, bright sunshine in the space of an hour. Frosts in the mornings already and the occasional mild afternoon where people wait outside school in a Tshirt (not me). Golden Autumn, snowy, icy Winter, bright, bitter Spring and, well,  damp and unpredictable Summer. That's what you do well in this neck of the woods.

It's the work of your hand, and it's good. It's always good, not only now and again. I'm sorry I'm ungrateful. I've just been admiring a wall not far from here with Virginia Creeper all over it. The new leaves are shaped like hearts; beautiful strings of red and orange hearts. Almost as if you were telling me something.

'This is the day that the Lord has made. I will rejoice and be glad in it.'

Amen.

Next time I'll try to say it without a pillow over my head.