Empty hands

I had coffee last week with someone who has just finished treatment for cancer. 

It was an incredibly uplifting conversation. It's clear that God really can bring something wonderful out of the most depressing and ominous of circumstances. The cancer was stage three - it had spread to lots of lymph nodes and the doctors have no way of knowing whether it has crept further on still in the bloodstream. Time will tell. 

Isn't that the human condition? Time will tell. We don't know. Technology doesn't know. Modern medicine doesn't know. The best that we can offer is 'time will tell.' And we think we're really clever. 

And yet, in that inexplicable way that we hear about occasionally, it's not all bad news.

The cancer has brought this lady closer to her family. She understands her body more than she did before and has learned to listen to its needs with more care. She has been forced to reassess her priorities; both in terms of tasks that need doing with limited energy, and also on a larger scale, not knowing what the rest of her life looks like; what is really important? She has been in receipt of such care and kindness from the people round her that she now knows that she is loved after years of doubting it. 

All these things are precious gifts. I wonder, is it possible to receive these gifts without the imperative of grave illness? 

I found myself nodding in agreement as she spoke of priorities, of understanding the important and the trivial and learning to tell the difference, and yet I wonder if it's really possible to see such things as they are from a position of full health (as far as I know; time will tell). 

Is it? Is it possible?

We spoke of those moments where something that you've always 'known' becomes real heart knowledge - the moment that the penny drops. The eyes widen slightly; something falls into place. You turn to another person and tell them of the mini-revelation you've just had and they look at you, bemused, because yes, they've known that too, but they don't see like you do. It's obvious... and yet it suddenly means something wholly different and more profound. 

The realisation that this is not all there is.

This life can be full of joy, or full of pain, or a mixture of both and many other things, but when you're in a place of grief and loss and fear and helplessness, it's a tremendous comfort to know that this is not all there is. CS Lewis said in his Narnia book 'The Last Battle', I think; this life is only the cover and the title page of the story of our experience. It's only when we reach heaven that the real story begins. A lifetime seems long (though only time will tell) and yet it is just fleeting in comparison with eternity, where the story will begin in earnest, and each chapter is better than the last... 

The realisation that any sense of control we have in this life is an illusion.

When all is well and life is trundling along uneventfully, we think we have everything sorted. All is well. I know what today is like, what tomorrow is likely to bring. I have plans. I know what I'm capable of, and I am full of hopes and dreams and expectations.  I want to be in control more than anything. I want to be able to decide what I do, what will happen and when.And then... I am not well. The doctors will do their best and my body will do it's best to handle the medicine that might be worse than the illness itself, but suddenly tomorrow is not guaranteed after all. Suddenly the hopes and dreams might have to be shelved. Suddenly I can do nothing about any of this. I am even too weak to climb the stairs unaided. 

When I open my hands to Jesus because there is no-one else, and nothing else to do (because I've looked around for something else - anything) I find that my hands are empty. They've always been empty. I've been grasping tight in my fists... nothing. Holding on to something that never existed.

My hands are empty. 

I am trying to be fit. I am trying to lose weight, to eat healthily, to get exercise to feel and look better. I think it's working a little bit - last night at swimming I paused at the end of my lane to catch my breath and I put a hand on my heart and felt it beating so, so fast - and I thought to myself how grateful I am that it can do that. I ask it to pump oxygen around my body faster, faster, more, more.... and my heart rises to the occasion. That is a miracle, and I can't do a single thing about it. One day it will stop beating completely, and I can do nothing about that either.

(I hope I'm not in the pool at the time.)

I'm not trying to be morbid or focus on the inevitability of death, though I imagine perhaps that's how it sounds.  As we had our coffee and my friend told me how different the world looks when you have a diagnosis of cancer, it was not a pathetic, frightening thing, though both fear and sadness were things we discussed. The 'penny-drop' moments that she described made me realise one thing, and it's a good thing, a reassuring thing, a very, very precious thing. Really, it is. 

Our lives are in His hands. 

In His hands, and there is no safer place. They are not our own, and we take every breath because of Him. 

I read somewhere one of those pictures with inspiring words on it that someone created, and it said, 'When Jesus is all you have, that's when you realise that Jesus is all you need.' 

When you have no certainties left - when your very life is threatened, none of the things we chase after in our affluent western world; wealth, position, influence, comfort... those things don't seem important. Not even the good, wholesome things like health, family, love. None of them will help when we glimpse death, and told that he might be coming soon. No, only one thing comes into clear focus, and that is Jesus. 

The only decision we make that truly matters is this. To open our empty hands and lift them to Him. And, as my friend testifies, the treasure that He fills them with makes us realise that we have never before known true riches.

That's what's real. 

Water into wine

Morning, Lord God. 

I have in front of me the remains of the finest cup of coffee ever made. It isn't a Costa bucket of vanilla latte, or a sophisticated restaurant's after dinner dark and splendid filter something or other with bite size dark chocolate mint. Not even one of those wonderful hot hot coffees with a generous dash of Amaretto and half an inch of cream floating on top that give you a comedy moustache. 

Nope.

It's made with a simple domestic kettle, circa 2009, (Breville, to be precise). Jar of instant, dash of granulated, splash of semi-skimmed. Yet somehow, this morning, sitting on this same stool, in front of the same computer, from the same mug, this particular cuppa is transcendental. I know that if I make another straight away, as I will be compelled to, because this mug is nearly finished, the second will be sadly inadequate in comparison.

Still. Carpe diem. Seize the moment. This coffee is just what I needed. Mm. 

Thankyou. For kettles, coffee and tastebuds. 

I'm going to put the kettle on again now. It's bound to be a triumph of hope over experience but I shall do it anyway.

That's just by the way. I wanted to share a little moment's joy with you; you share so many with me. 

Well, my thought for the day is about that bit in the Bible where you turn water into wine, Lord. Remember that? I wonder if you're smiling at the memory. Their faces must have been a picture. But I get ahead of myself. 

Your Mum knew you, didn't she? She saw. Well, that's obvious - from before you came along she knew she wasn't having Joe Average as a baby boy, but this story of the wedding in Cana makes me smile. 

I like that she knew the hosts were going to run out of wine, and she wanted to fix it. She wanted to save them the embarrassment of an early end to the party and she knew just the way to do it. I might have nipped down to the Off-licence for a bottle or three but she knew a better way. 

She knew you.

'When the wine was gone, Jesus' mother said to him, 'They have no more wine.'
Jesus said, 'Woman, why do you involve me? My time has not yet come.'
John 2:3,4

I like that you put up a bit of token resistance. Keep me out of it, Mum. I don't want the limelight just yet... oh alright then. She went ahead anyway. Do as he tells you. My boy will sort it out. 

'His mother said to the servants, 'Do whatever he tells you.'
John 2:5

And you did. How you did. I love that you didn't let your Mum look daft by sticking to your guns, and most of all I love that your first miracle was turning water into wine so that people could party. Why did you do it? So that they could have fun. So that the party could go on. So you could dance and drink and laugh and celebrate. My God, why on earth do people think that you are a spoilsport god who wants to drain the fun out of life?  You were anything but subdued. I like to think of you dancing and mingling and throwing back your head laughing, loading your plate from the buffet and enjoying a glass or two of the finest wine ever produced. 

'Nearby stood six stone water jars, the kind used by the Jews for ceremonial washing, each holding from eighty to a hundred and twenty litres.
Jesus said to the servants, 'Fill the jars with water,' and so they filled them to the brim.
John 2:6,7

Here's what struck me. You told the servants to fill the big stone jars to the brim with water. They did. You changed the water into wine. Job done. 

If they'd filled them half-full with water, you'd have changed that water to wine, but there would have been less of it. 

You ask us to give you what we have, and what we give you, you transform. If I give you a bit of my life, then that's what you have to work with. If I give you all of it, full to the brim, every last drop, then you will take all of it and make it all into something wonderful that brings glory to you. 

If those servants had been disobedient or held back, maybe because the huge stone jars were too heavy, or they couldn't be bothered, couldn't see the point - then there would have been no wine, or only a little. They did as they were asked and they were witnesses to something dramatic. 

'Then he told them, 'Now draw some out and take it to the master of the banquet.'
They did so, and the master of the banquet tasted the water that had been turned into wine. He didn't realise where it had come from, though the servants who had drawn the water knew.'
John 2:8,9

You, your mother and the servants were the only people at that party that knew what you'd done (as far as we know; maybe word got round, because the disciples found out) but those servants must have been wide-eyed with awe. They were honoured with the first glimpse that the carpenter from Galilee had something special. Did you smile? Did you wink? Did you take them aside and introduce yourself? Or did you just leave them mystified but impressed? 

'Everyone brings out the choice wine first and the cheaper wine after the guests have had too much to drink, but you have saved the best till now.'
John 2:10

Lord God, I want to give you my life brim full. I want to make sure that you have every opportunity to change it into something wonderful that I could never achieve on my own. The problem is that the jars are heavy and I am weak, and I am also lazy and doubtful and although I know in my head that you want nothing but good for me, sometimes I think I know best. I find myself thinking that this particular bit of my life, that sensitive issue, that thing that I know is wrong but I sort of like it the way it is; those bits I hang on to. I admit that my jar isn't full. 

Help me, Lord. I don't want to be half-hearted. I don't want to be half-full-half-empty. The wine you made was better than the stuff that the family had bought in for the wedding. It was good wine. Why would I hang onto my half-empty jar of water instead of bringing it to you?

So, here I am. I'm standing by the empty jars. That's me, watching you, worrying about the wine, wondering what to do, wishing I dared. Come over and smile gently and show me which bits of me I'm holding back. The bits that I, in my self-absorption, think that I can take care of better than you. Then let me fill those jars to the brim, so that you can perform the miracle you promise for me; to transform me into the person you always intended me to be. 

Yes, please, Lord.

To do, or to be?

Morning, Father.

And what a beautiful morning. The sun is shining, the sky is a cloudless blue. There's a breeze to blow the washing and cool me down when I start to get too hot sitting on the bench with my coffee. 

I could sit there for hours. I don't have a problem being still.  I do it very well. I've even got a good book at the moment that I'm looking forward to getting back to. When I fell asleep last night the hero was in a tight spot and all was very tense. 

What to do. Hmm.

I have a few hours this morning before I need to be somewhere this afternoon. I am waiting for the washing machine to be finished on it's second load of the day (nice weather, so I'm catching up while I can) and so I have half an ear waiting for the pingpingping that tells me it's finished. 

This is Great Britain. Nice weather today doesn't mean nice weather tomorrow (or even this afternoon). There's a sense of urgency every sunny day; I need to make the most of it, because it may be rainy, frosty, windy or sleeting tomorrow. So I should be out in the garden, should I? Plenty needs doing in the garden. Dandelions are driving me mad, and I confess I became a little snippy with my daughters the other day when I saw them blowing dandelion clocks near the flowerbeds. Not that they're not already overgrown with weeds.

So gardening it is. But then I have some projects on my computer that need attention as soon as possible. Deadlines. I need to concentrate. Find somewhere peaceful to work. Get out my papers and notebooks and settle down. And then when I do sit down and open the lid of my faithful little machine, I find that I want to come and pass the time of day with you. So the project gets a bit sidelined while I come to chat. 

From where I'm sitting I can see a layer of dust on the bookshelf. I've just been in the bathroom and although I wiggled the toilet-brush round and squirted the squirty stuff where it needs squirting the job isn't done. The mirrors need polishing and the floor mopping. The bath has a bit of a ring round it if I look closely, so I do my best not to look. 

Priorities. I have no idea where they should be. I have tomato, cucumber and pepper seedlings on the kitchen window sill but if you walk about barefoot you'll probably step on a rice krispie or three.  I have fresh flowers in a vase but they will probably still be right where they are now when they're dead and dry.  The stair carpet is ageing prematurely because I don't vacuum it often enough, but it's so difficult with a heavy vacuum with a long bendy hose that's difficult to manoeuvre...and that sounds suspiciously like an excuse. 

I have two bathmats so that one can be in the wash while the other is on duty. Quite often the second bathmat is in dire need of a clean and the other is still curled up waiting for its turn in the machine. I have some beautiful pictures framed and in a pile waiting to be hung on the wall but they've been there a month and are likely to be there in another. 

There are many things in our house that don't have a place to live, and so they flock together to make piles in a few prime locations.  The kitchen table. The counter where the filing lurks. My bedside table. The little shelf under the coffee table. That's a good one. Out of sight, out of mind. Whole families of plastic animals have colonised that spot, unnoticed. Important paperwork has remained there until dates have expired and opportunities lost. The wings from Katy's fairy costume were there for months until one day she discovered them and fluttered away. I have no idea where they are now.

Look at Mr Gorgeous. 

There was a wonderful dragonfly on the wall basking in the sunshine in our front garden the other day. If I'd been in the house tidying I'd have missed him completely. 

I am not the sort of mother who spends the afternoons cooking amazing meals from scratch for their children's tea. I have no idea what we'll eat tonight. I need to survey the contents of the fridge and see what I can put together in a hurry. Since it's a nice day we might picnic in the garden. They love to have tea in a lunchbox and eat it sitting on cushions on the grass. If I throw together a carrot, some salami, some grapes, cucumber, apple, a bread roll and some blueberries they call it 'Bits and bobs' and it's among their favourite meals. They have it far too often as it's so easy. 

The beds need making. Some stay-at-home mums do a round of the house as soon as they return from the school run. They clean and they tweak and they straighten and they tidy.  Most often my girls climb into the same bed in the same state that they left it in that morning. I put clean clothes away each evening but discarded socks can roll around the floor like tumbleweed sometimes before I scoop them into the washing basket.

I clearly have my finger on the pulse of family life.

The clock in the hall died more than a year ago and tells the right time at 12.45 in the afternoon and then again in early morning. It needs repairing. The double glazing on the front window needs some attention as there's condensation between the panes. The gravel needs raking and weeding before we disappear behind a giant dandelion. I bought some beautiful heather plants from a garden centre about six weeks ago and they have yet to be planted. I think they've already flowered in their little pots. 

Sigh.

Lazy?  Yes, partly. I'm sure that's it. If I got more exercise I'd be more energetic. I don't get much exercise because I haven't got much energy. That's true.

It's not just that. The dust always seems ok to wait until another day. The plants need planting but before I can plant the soil needs preparing and the weeds are knee high in places, which is a totally different job and nowhere near as much fun. I love to see the children enjoying a meal I've cooked but I so often don't want to spend precious quiet time preparing it. I like seeing them eating a picnic too. 

Priorities. 

I like spending time with you. I come to you and start to chat and at the end of our conversation I feel different. Better. Sometimes challenged, sometimes convicted, but always better. I feel better able to take another step. 

In need of weeding.
Friend to wildlife. that's me.

I like to sit and look at what's around me. From where I'm sitting now I can see the blue sky and the clothes on the washing line dancing in the breeze. The birds are feeding on a net of sunflower seeds that mum has put out for them. Sparrows and blackbirds and starlings and collared doves and the odd thug jackdaw to scatter them all. The hawthorn tree is laden with white blossom and the cherry that we transplanted from our old house finally looks healthy at home after two and a half years. 

I love to sit with a coffee and let a ladybird wander over my finger. I love to see the bumble bees on the aubretia. The forget-me-nots are taking over. 

Elizabeth tied a ribbon to the clothes post and it gives us the wind direction like a weathervane. I like to potter in the greenhouse and see my little seedlings poke their heads above the parapet. I love to plan what to do in the garden; and at the time of planning (coffee in hand) I firmly believe that it will all come to pass...

Maybe I need to intersperse more 'should do' between all the 'like to do', do I, God? Does anyone do it all? Those mums with clean houses and sparkly children who fingerprint and don't seem to mind the mess, who eat home-cooked-from-fresh-organic-ingredients meals each day and have such a varied diet that trips to restaurants don't entail a nightmare or menu-scrutiny; do they have daily wrestles with themselves about how to spend a precious uncommitted morning? Or do they just get on with the bed making and dusting selflessly and without hesitation like the generation before us? 

I don't know the answer. I am not that house proud. Oh, don't get me wrong, when it's house group night my kitchen, living room and cloakroom are spotless. All other doors are closed. What a ridiculous thing to do. Maybe I do my bit also to perpetuate the myth that we can all do everything. Maybe I should let the vulnerable, dusty, untidy underbelly of my housekeeping show once in a while, just to make everyone feel better. But what if, horror of horrors, they don't need to feel better because their houses are spotless and their beds all made and children buffed and beautifully presented without toothpaste or marmalade on their school faces? 

My house isn't so filthy that we are likely to get ill from it. In any case, a bit of grubbiness is good for the immune system, isn't it?  If there's fruit and vegetables and carbohydrates and protein in their Bits and Bobs meals they are reasonably healthy, aren't they?  If there are wild areas of the garden it's nice for the butterflies and bees, isn't it? 

I like spending time with you. I like looking. I like noticing. I like telling you about it. 

To do, or to be?  Probably there's a balance to be found. Somewhere...

I could do with losing the guilt, but then perhaps nothing at all would get done. If I got that clock mended then maybe I wouldn't be late everywhere. 

Well, food for thought. Thankyou. 

I'm going to make a fresh cup of coffee because this one has gone cold. And then I'm going to go outside and sit down and close my eyes and turn my face up to the sun. 

Or maybe I'll look for ladybirds.

 

You'll never walk alone

Thankyou-thankyou-thankyou.

I'm smiling.

Lord God, today we took the girls to see Joseph and his Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat at the theatre and it was such a treat to watch them singing away and dancing to the encore songs at the end. Katy was getting very much involved in the story - she looked at me with big wide eyes when Joseph is dragged off to prison after his run in with Potiphar's wife.  'But he didn't do anything, Mummy! It's not fair!' and then, emphatically with a pointy finger, 'She is a bad lady'.

I love the way that they don't do anything by halves, my children. They are either uninterested or totally immersed. Lizzie almost let her interval ice cream melt because she was so absorbed in Pharoah's song. It was wonderful. Great tunes, dancing, singing, colours; a real spectacle. And a treat at a little town like ours that rarely gets the big shows. 

I love that my girls favourite story of all time is a Bible story. I love that I know the story of Jacob and his sons and the story of the dreamer who came good. I love that I can say to the children, 'Yes, it's a true story; it's in the Bible', though whether Pharaoh was an Elvis Presley lookalike only you will know. I think it'd be great if someone wrote a catchy musical about the rest of the Bible. Let's all sing along.

Most of all I love that we all went to see this wonderful bit of entertainment together. Mum sat in the middle (as Grandma was Highly Favoured by small people) today, and Bryan and I flanked the girls and exchanged proud glances when they started joining in with such enthusiasm. We all clapped along and joined in the choruses at the end and it was one of those freeze-frame moments that I need to pin down and remember. 

It's been a good day. Morning spent behind the counter of the coffee shop in the church centre as the local Food Fair took place which is always good fun. We are so much more efficient than the day we opened when the Archbishop of Canterbury came for tea and a date slice (Living Stones and Cappucinos). I love it when it all comes together and the cafe runs smoothly and people get their coffee quickly with the right amount of froth. Afternoon at the theatre watching the show and watching my little girls faces light up with joy.

Now it's the FA Cup Final and Bryan is hoping that Liverpool might win the football. Hmm. 

Well, we might have to settle for success in the morning and the afternoon and not so much the evening.  But who knows? The Reds might prevail. 

I'm not too worried about the football. I'm going to get the girls' tea ready in a minute so I'll miss the kickoff. What I wanted to do right now was to sit down for a few minutes and check in with you.

Today has been a smiley sort of day and I wanted to say thank you. Thankyou for fun and coffee and company. For Bible stories and music and football teams.

I know that all that is good comes from you. Without you there would be no companionship or achievement or laughter or song. There would be no celebration or excitement or fun. 

I noticed. I've been taking it all in. 

I want to look away from it all for a moment; away from my family and the songs and the cheerful optimism in my living room right now as we watch Bryan's home town football team square up to the other team like David before Goliath. Just look away from all that towards you with a smile. These may look like simple pleasures but I know better. They are little moments to treasure.

Liverpool Football Club's anthem is a song called 'You'll Never Walk Alone', though fans come and go. If they win today they'll have a lot more fans than if they lose.

Me? I never walk alone either. Win or lose, you are with me. 

Thankyou. 

Blue sky and Autumn leaves

God, today has been my sort of day. I'm feeling rather smiley.

It's October but the sun has shone as if it were August and the turning leaves against a deep blue sky backlit by a low sun right now in my garden are just beautiful. We've had a barbecue and the children have played outside and in a minute I'm going to take my coffee outside and enjoy the last rays before it's time to get the children ready for bed. 

I know that I moan about how I don't like Autumn, but if it were all like this I reckon I could change my mind. How about it?

It's been a very lovely week. Pottering in the garden, walking round to pick up the girls from school or doing the usual mundane errands and jobs have all been made so much nicer by the unseasonable weather. A bit of sun and a blue sky really lifts my spirits. The children thrive on being outside riding bikes, making dens, getting dirty or running about involved in some wonderful imaginary game. I love the space and the air and sun on my face. I love watching the children and I love the peace and quiet when they're indoors and I'm out. 

I need to work on this level of appreciation when the weather is more Octobery, or Novembery, and so on. My mood seems so closely linked to the weather and that's not good I'm thinking. Alright when it suits me but I turn into Ms Grumpy when it rains or when it's dark and dank.

Help me to see the wonders of every season, Father God. Whether it's the little green shoots in Spring, or the flowers in Summer, or the leaves in Autumn, or...or...the frost? in Winter. I need to find things to celebrate. I need to learn contentment, and learn how to give thanks in all situations like good old St Paul. 

'Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus.'

1 Thessalonians 5:16-18

It's easy to rejoice when it's a day like this. When I've spent the day with my family and my church family; watching the children swim, working in the church coffee shop with my new friend the Espresso Machine, chatting to people I know, looking round a Food Fair and then coming home for a barbecue on a warm, sunny, deep blue skied October day. Next week or next month when the wind is cold and there's a frost that upsets my plants and condensation inside the windows; when I don't want to venture out to take the girls to school and come back cold and soggy - then I'll remember this bit. 

'Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus.'

I think rejoicing has to be an act of will sometimes. Paul didn't tell us to rejoice when we feel so moved - we should rejoice always. Rejoice when the sky is blue and when it's grey and threatening. Rejoice when life is going my way, like today, and when it isn't, like a couple of weeks ago. Pray when I feel like praying and still pray when I don't. Give thanks when I'm full of gratitude and also when I'm cross and grumpy and feeling hard done to. Easier said than done I reckon, but I'm going to try. 

But for now, thankyou.

Today has been a Very Good Day. It's been full of good things and I've felt very happy indeed. 

It's been a surprise gift from you, my Father in Heaven and I will give you thanks.

Living stones and cappucinos

Well. 

Lord God, you have rained down blessings on us just recently, haven't you?  I don't mean to say that it's only recently, you understand, but these last few days have really been amazing. You have given us so much.

St Thomas' Centre

We've just opened our new Church Centre. It's been a long time coming; plans drawn up decades ago and things just never seemed to get moving, but now it's here, it's built, it's beautiful and finally, the doors are open. And who opened them? None other than the Archbishop of Canterbury his very self.  Dr Rowan Williams. And I got to make him a pot of tea. Ha!

Last Saturday the sense of your presence was really strong. It was a wonderful, joyful day where the sun shone despite the previous week's rain and gales and the crowds came and enjoyed themselves and drank coffee in our new coffee shop.

Which is really what I wanted to talk to you about. 

I didn't see much of the celebrations on Saturday because I was working in the coffee shop, and it has to be said that about a million people came in to the coffee shop for cake and a drink and so we were flat out all day. I made coffee after coffee and filled tray after tray and was for the most part completely unaware of who the coffee was for. It was hot and crowded and noisy. Old friends came by and I only had a chance to wave. My family came in and the girls told me excitedly what they'd been doing outside but there was no time for me to go and see for myself or watch them bounce on the bouncy castle. The queue seemed endless and there was real pressure to get people's orders to them as quickly as possible even though it was only the second day that we'd been open for business. It was hard work. By the end of the day I was shattered. My back was aching, my feet were aching and somehow I'd taken a lump out of my right thumb which is still a bit sore.

But none of that mattered. 

It was fantastic. The group of us that were working in the coffee shop did an amazing thing. We had been open for a few hours the previous day and only tinkered with the big espresso machine a couple of times. None of us had become acquainted with the till, and yet people came all day with vouchers for special offers on coffee and cake. We'd never worked with each other before Friday afternoon and didn't have any previous experience in cafes.

But none of that mattered. 

There he is.
With a cuppa and a date slice.

It was really great to be part of a team. We each had a job to do and we depended on each other.  If something went wrong we helped each other. I loved the way we fitted together to get all the component parts of the service done and for the most part it went beautifully. I am sure that we'll get better; the coffee will get better and the service too, but to serve up more than 250 hot drinks in a four and a half hour window with the pressure of the Archbishop of Canterbury and hundreds of expectant punters checking out the new place was a pretty special achievement.  Thankyou that I am now intimately acquainted with the coffee machine. We are friends. Thankyou that I got to be part of it all, Father God. 

Thankyou that you gave us a job to do and then equipped us with all that we needed to get it done.  Thankyou that when we asked for crowds you heard our prayers. And they were all in the coffee shop! Thankyou that we worked together so well and you gave us joy of each other as we helped and contributed and fitted ourselves together to make something happen. It was uplifting and inspiring. I went home with a real buzz. 

Snip. Open! 

I listened to the Archbishop making his speech as he blessed our centre and cut the ribbon at the door. He spoke of welcome, and of community, and of service. The church should be at the heart of the local community, not separate from it. We want to invite everyone into our centre and we want them to come. To meet us, and to meet you. And you were there on Saturday. You really were. I could feel you. I felt your blessing. 

I've been back in the coffee shop a few times since Saturday and each time my sense of blessing grows. Today was a quieter day; brisk business this morning and quiet this afternoon. People from church dropped in for a coffee and a cake and found friends to chat. A group of Mums with small children pulled some tables together and talked while their little ones played. For a long time I've had a vision of a place where you could come if you had half an hour to spare and the chances were there'd be someone to talk to. Do you watch the soaps, Lord? Well, you know in Coronation Street or Emmerdale or Eastenders people turn up at the local pub and there's always someone to sit next to? Well, our coffee shop could be like that. Only with less fighting and scandal, maybe. 

Just imagine. If you feel lonely or if you have news to share, if you fancy a chat, you can pop down to the coffee shop and find someone. I know that this is inward-looking but the value to the church I think might be huge. This sort of sense of community could nourish us so much. But what if we could extend that sense to all who come in - that we could create the sort of atmosphere where people feel noticed and cared for? That the feeling of belonging might not depend on existing relationships but on the warmth of the welcome. We are a church coffee shop and we might not have a Michelin starred chef but we do have the Holy Spirit. We might not have an endless budget but we do have our eyes fixed on something more valuable than profit. Please help us make it so. Not just the staff and volunteers in the cafe but everyone who drops in. 

This afternoon when it was quiet I saw how wonderful this place could be to come and sit and be quiet. We have a wonderful outdoor space with trees and grass and fresh air. I could imagine myself sitting with coffee and a book and just being. A place away from the hurry for a little while. A place to stop and get off just for a bit. 

Of course, the new cafe is only part of the Church Centre and the cafe is only going to be open certain hours. Many, many groups are going to be using the different meeting rooms and the hall and the kitchen and lots of different activities will be taking place. People will come for many reasons. So much potential for opening our arms and reaching out to bring people in to meet you. 

Inspiring stuff.  It helps that today has been warm and sunny and the doors have been open and the breeze gentle. It's just been wonderful. So much potential. So many possibilities. We've been entrusted with something; please don't let us waste it. Thankyou that the last few days have been so busy that I've had little time to think about me. I've been far too inward-looking lately and I know that you want me to concentrate on looking out much more. Looking up to you I'm still working on; why do I find it so hard to get my daily prayer life in order?  More on that soon I'm quite sure. 

I just wanted to say thankyou. Thankyou for this place, for being with us on Saturday and for making your presence felt as you did. Thankyou for the sunshine, for the archbishop, for cake and coffee. Thankyou for trusting us with these resources, Father. Help us to enjoy them but not hold them tight in our fists but bring people to taste and see how good you are. 

And I wanted to say that I get it. In my small and naive and limited way, I get it. I get that we have something special. I get that we have been given much, and from those who have much, much is expected. Help us rise to the occasion, Lord God. Years ago you drew our attention to a passage in 1 Peter and now the physical bricks and mortar are in place. Our house is built. What about us?

'...you also, like living stones, are being built into a spiritual house to be a holy priesthood, offering spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God through Jesus Christ.'

1 Peter 2:5

Amen, Lord. 

Now, do you fancy a cappucino?  Or would you rather have tea, like the Archbishop?

A shower of blessings

Evening, Father God.

I need an early night.  I know this because my eyes feel like I'm squinting, I keep yawning, and most compellingly because I am grumpy.  So here I am sitting up in bed with three pillows, a warm wheaty, (I know, thankyou Lord for a few beautiful days of sunny weather; but when it gets to teatime it's still a bit parky round here, it's only March remember), a decaf coffee (with a generous snifter of amaretto added for medicinal reasons), preparing to snuggle down and get a few hours in before midnight.

My Grandma always used to say that an hour's sleep before midnight is worth two after. 

But I couldn't resist bringing my little computer and before I log off for the day I want to tell you how great you are.

What a day it's been. Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou.  

Today my best friend and I sneaked off for a guilty morning away from all the things we should be doing and just enjoyed ourselves.  I know that there's no reason that we should have felt guilty, but we did.  Or I did, anyway.  It felt as if we were getting away with something. I think both of us are so used to days crammed with commitments, or small children to consider all the time that time actually free, to be grown ups, to choose what to do... we were quite breathless at the prospect.

And a bit bewildered. As you are aware, we nearly blew it. 'Shall we do this?' 'Shall we go there?'  'What about this?' 'No, you decide...' so we went where we first thought of quite quickly lest the morning disappear before we'd made our mind up where our coffee was coming from.

So we went to the first place we'd thought of. So beautiful there. I feel very fortunate to live ten minutes' drive away from a place so lovely. There was nobody there when we got there just after the school run and when we got to the highest point we stood and looked out at the hazy view and breathed you in. 

There's so much I love about you, Lord.  We talked about you, and I had tears in my eyes as I said that one of a dizzying number of things that I love about you is that you made our world so beautiful just because you could. 

I know you are a God who is mighty, majestic, powerful, awesome... maybe I need to get my head around all those aspects of you, but I love the side of you that scoops me up in your arms and gestures around us, delighting in your creation.  

You are excited, enthusiastic, saying, 'Look what I've done! Isn't it great? Share it with me. Let it lift your spirits. Stop a while and be part of it because I made it for you to enjoy!'

I hope it made you happy that two tired, hassled Mums struggled to get out from under for a few hours today and then spent it gazing at the scenery that you made with your hands. I could hear birds singing, I could see the sun burning away the mist, I could smell fresh air, I could feel the coolness of a Spring morning. 

I stood there with a friend that I love and talked about our wonderful God and how we were learning, moving on in our lives, looking to the future, and it was lovely. 

The odd car came around the bends in the roads down in the valley and I wondered who those people were in those cars.  Whether they were seeing; whether they were seeing us at the top of the rocks, or whether they were seeing the beauty around them.  Maybe they had their troubles, maybe they were thinking about their worries, their plans, their busy days. Maybe the radio was playing. Maybe a baby was crying in the back seat. They were going somewhere and we'd stopped for a little while. It was great.  

My little world stopped for a time and I climbed off and I can't say that I was that bothered about getting on again.

What did it was the thought of coffee and perhaps a little something or other in a lovely cafe not a million miles away.  Speaking of which...

(My coffee is going cold faster than usual.  I suppose that must be because the amaretto was in the fridge. That's just by the way).

So a hot latte and a slice of apple pie and a morning spent talking with someone on my wavelength from whom I learn so much. It was very happy - a real treat.  After that we picked up our youngest little ones and they played together while we talked some more (yes, we are very good at talking.  Words never seem to dry up). 

Sunday night in church the worship was Spirit filled and the atmosphere full of you. Once again you gently spoke to me in the songs that were sung, the words spoken and the people I met. You are the Everlasting God who won't grow weary; you are the Lord, the lifter of my head. The sermon had the power of your Spirit and people shared thoughts and readings and messages.  For me, I sang and I praised and I marvelled at your love, and a calm, gentle voice in my head said to me, 'You don't have to do this alone' and straight away after that, 'You don't have to fight on your own'. 

My life feels a bit like a fight at the moment.  So much is happening and the pattern of events seems to be:

1.  Good Thing happens. Conversation, experience, thoughts, ideas, prayers, encouragement, step forward... and then

2.  Bad Things happen. Illness, injury, argument, anxiety, disappointment, fear, loss, confusion, weariness. 

...and over again. I've been increasingly aware of the non-random nature of these little dances; I've spoken to wise people and I've read my Bible and I'm onto it, and I will not take a step back. I'm often tired, occasionally exhausted, often confused, sometimes daunted, occasionally choked and frequently frustrated but I am having the time of my life walking with you and I won't give up.  

I won't be defeated despite the battles because you have won the war. And on Sunday you told me that I don't have to do it alone, and I don't have to fight on my own. 

I have you.  And I have friends. 

Today I looked at all you have given me, and I opened my eyes and saw it properly. I stood side by side with a special companion alongside whom I can walk in my journey with you. I inhaled the fragrance of you on the breeze as we cleared our heads of the everyday fumes of busy lives. It was only a morning but it's going to stay with me for a while. 

Blessings indeed.  Friendship, beauty, exercise, fresh air, wildlife, coffee, apple pie, freedom, choice, company, silence, discussion, laughter, belonging, love.  

One morning in Derbyshire and you showered us with blessings. 

Thankyou.