Alive

This is a thing that happened in my head while during a one-to-one prayer session a while ago. I don't really know what you might call it - a vision? A picture? A prayer-journey? All I know is that it was real in my head; I watched it as if I were watching a film. Some of it was from my perspective, and other parts were from a camera overhead kind of filming the action. Close-ups and panoramas. 

Just my imagination? Well, yes and no. When someone asked Joan of Arc if the interactions with God were just her imagination she said, 'Of course. How else would he talk to me?' I had driven past a reservoir on the way to this prayer meeting so perhaps it came from there, but I am convinced that God used the tools in my head to tell me something that I needed to hear. 

I had just said, 'My word for this year is 'Alive' and I am anything but.'  The lady praying with me suggested we asked Jesus why I don't feel alive.

This is his answer:

I am cold. I don't know why I'm cold, but I am cold. I don't feel properly alive, and I say so. I feel stifled, suffocated. I long to breathe deeply but I can't. 

I ask Jesus why I am so cold. 

I realise I'm at the bottom of a lake. Not drowning, just sitting. The water is cold and murky, and the lake-bed is sandy and stony. There are a few wisps of weed and particles floating but there isn't much to see. Everything is grey and brown, bare and barren. Only a little light penetrates to where I'm sitting, knees drawn up to my chest. I sit. My feet are covered in sand.

I'm not afraid, just inert. I am not awake, not asleep. It's a half-life.

I realise that Jesus is there with me. I discern a light near me and I realise that it's him. He tells me that I can move if I want to. I show him that my feet and ankles are buried and I say that I can't. 

Jesus gently replies that I can, but I am afraid to push off. 

Jesus sits down next to me until I'm ready to try to move. He is patient and does not hurry me. In time, with his encouragement, I make a big effort and I push off from the stony bottom of the lake and swim through the grey murk to the daylight above. 

As my head breaks the surface I take in huge lungfuls of air. I gasp and cough and laugh with the exhilaration of breathing again after so long underwater. I breathe deeply, sculling with my arms and kicking my legs to keep afloat. Looking round I realise that I am in the middle of a large lake high up in some mountains. The lake is surrounded by hills covered in heather and bracken. The sun is not shining; there are heavy clouds, although it's not raining. There is little to see, barely any colours other than grey, brown, dark purply undergrowth. The only sounds are the splashes I make. 

I become aware that I am still cold. The water is cold and the air is cold. A wind blows. I move to float on my back and I laugh again as I breathe the fresh air but my laughter is a little forced. I look at Jesus, treading water next to me, and he smiles at me. He understands my confusion. I am happy to be able to breathe but I am still not at ease. I smile and turn away and look up at the grey sky. 

Is this all there is? 

Jesus quietly tells me that when I'm ready, there's more to see. 

I'm not ready. This is so much better than the place in the darkness under the water.  There's air to breathe and I can lie back and see the sky and so perhaps I should stay here. Better than before is enough, isn't it?  I splash about in the lake and Jesus stays with me, waiting. After a while he begins to swim towards the head of the lake, beckoning me to follow. 

I am reluctant to leave my spot in the middle of the expanse of water, even though I'm cold. I don't want to be rude, so I swim slowly after him, wishing he would stop. 

We get to the top of the lake. There's a gap between the bottom of two mountains rising above us and water is flowing down into our lake over a cascade of boulders from a source higher up. Jesus holds onto one of the rocks and turns to me. 

He wants me to follow him up the waterfall. 

It's only a trickle, not a torrent of water. There are plenty of rocks to hold onto and easy footholds, but I shake my head. I don't want to leave the lake. I know this lake. It might be cold and murky and dull but now that I have come up from the depths and I can breathe, it's so much better than what I had before that my impulse is to stay here. It feels safe. 

Jesus says there's another lake at the top of the waterfall, and it's so much better. 

I look doubtful. He says there's no hurry. 

Jesus takes a few steps up the waterfall and turns to me. Follow me, he says. 

I really do not want to. I am familiar with the lake I'm in and afraid to leave it behind for the unknown. I do trust Jesus but.. but... 

I climb after him. It's not a difficult climb, although I'm trembling. He does not get too far ahead and he is encouraging me step by step. I am slow and anxious but he is patient. 

Jesus gets to the top of the waterfall and he is standing on the last rock, which is broad and level. As I approach, tiny step by step, he crouches down to take my hand. One more step, he says, and I will be able to peer over the top of the waterfall. I take another faltering step, clinging onto the rock with my right hand and Jesus with my left. My eyes are level with the water and as I straighten, I see a beautiful scene in front of me. 

It's another lake, but so, so different from the one behind me. This lake is clear and reflecting the blue of the sky ahead. The sun is shining and the water is full of silver sparkles. Around this lake are still mountains but instead of the featureless brush and bracken there are flowers of all colours and meadows of lush grass. There are birds and butterflies. A warm breeze stirs the leaves of trees and carries a wonderful fragrance that makes me inhale deeply. 

I am astonished. Jesus laughs at my wonder and pulls me to stand on the rock with him. We gaze around for a time and then he asks me if I'd like to swim. He puts his toe in the water and then he is swimming for the middle of the lake on his back, telling me to come on in. I want to catch up with him.

I dive into this new lake without hesitating. The water is pleasant and as clear as crystal; I can see all the way to pretty pebbles on the bottom.  It tastes sweet and pure, not like the brackish water of the lake that I have left. As I surface in a mass of sparkling bubbles I feel the sun warm on my head and back.  Out in the middle of the lake we stop and float, enjoying the sunshine, the beautiful blue sky, the sound of birds singing, the fragrance of blossom. I don't ever want to go back to the other lake. 

And yet I'd have been happy to stay. I didn't want to be left under the water, but breathing again was so much better than before that I'd have settled for staying the first lake. I was content with greyness, coldness, colourlessness. I was reluctant to follow Jesus even though I knew he could be trusted. I resisted and hung back. 

Jesus tells me that this is what trust is, sometimes. It might not be dramatic and daring or even decisive. It might be incremental, cautious, even fearful. I did climb the waterfall, step by step, without knowing what lay at the top. I may have been hesitant and doubtful but eventually I did follow him. it's not always easy, and he doesn't expect me to be enthusiastic all the time. He is patient. He will hold my hand.

I was stuck in sand, blind and lost deep, deep down under the water, dark and cold.  Jesus came to find me, brought me light and helped me to surface, but he had so much more for me than that. I would have missed out on so much if I'd stayed in the lower lake. I would have lived and breathed but that was all. I would not have experienced the beauty and vibrancy of the upper lake.

He doesn't want me just to be alive.

'The thief comes to only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come so that they might have life, and have it to the full.'
John 10:10 NI

I sense that there is yet more to see, but this is where Jesus has brought me. 

He is here with me still, as I laugh and splash and swim and explore to my heart's content. The sun is warm on my face and I am relaxed and happy. 

Images

Light and water DSCF0268.JPG by Ryudei2442 from Morgefile.com with permission

Sun and sky my own photograph.

A letter to a teacher

To my teacher

I was in your class for English, and English was the first lesson of my first day at senior school.

To start with I sat at the front because I wore my eleven year old enthusiasm right out in the open and I didn't realise that my eagerness to please might be more sensibly hidden somewhere the mean kids couldn't see it. As the school years progressed I chose a seat further back, but the enthusiasm didn't wane, and my goody-goody keenness was justified.  This was my thing, and I loved your lessons. 

You took my appetite for stories and fed it with rich, nourishing food. You introduced me to the big guns of literature in such a way that I was seduced, not overwhelmed. You tempered the giants with new voices, mixed poetry with theatre with prose and left me dizzy with delight.  You took away fear and replaced it with curiosity; you showed me that Shakespeare was funny, scary, inspiring, moving, but above all accessible. You told me that nothing was beyond my reach - that it was up to me to decide. 

You revelled in language and so did I. You made me believe that I, too, could make it work for me, and showed me how to analyse, deconstruct, understand and build marvellous things with words. You insisted we learn poems, passages and soliloquies and I remember them to this day. Walter De La Mare, Richard Kell, Wordsworth.  Lady Macbeth, Richard II, Julius Caesar. Treasures in my head forever. 

You encouraged, criticised, jollied and accepted no nonsense. More often than not your eyes were crinkled into smiles but you were stern when it was warranted. Nobody took liberties in your class, and homework was done on time. We behaved. We listened. We tried hard, and we were rewarded by generous praise given in good measure.

I loved your range of voices, from John of Gaunt strident on his deathbed, Wuthering Heights' Cathy, wild with grief, or Subtle the Alchemist, sleazy and suggestive. You strode round the room with theatrical gesture and your energy fed mine; your lessons gave me life. I read everything I could lay my hands on and stored it up carefully.

I wanted to make you proud. Your advice was heeded, your criticism accepted, your encouragement wrapped up carefully and stored away. 

On the day I picked up my exam results you held my hand for a moment. The world is your oyster, you whispered, and you smiled a wonderful smile. That was a good moment, and I wanted to build on it.

A quarter of a century later, I saw you and we chatted. You'd been gardening and you had leaves in your hair. Smaller, older, greyer, but those eyes still smiled. You remembered me. I told you that I was writing and you clutched my arm with both hands and cried, 'Oh, good!'

That, too, was a good moment.

You did it again. 

I hoped one day to hand you a signed copy of a book I'd written, but that won't happen. 

I was at your funeral a while ago. There was standing room only; the place was packed with people who held a bit of you in their hearts. 

That inspiration that you gave to me? You gave it to others; you gave it away freely, and lots of people received it. People remembered the smiling eyes, the firm-but-fair, the way you threw back your head and laughed. You had many interests and brought joy to so many people. Everybody spoke of your infectious enthusiasm, your energy and your joy. You left behind many, many people who would miss you badly, but when they think of you, they smile. 

What a legacy.

For me? You took the raw and unformed and moulded it into a something that could grow. You saw a mixture of enthusiasm and potential and gave me the tools to make something. You told me that I could do it. You made me believe it. 

What a precious thing is a good teacher. I've been blessed with a few, and they made a huge difference to me, but none as much as you. You were exceptional. You made a real difference to my life. 

I pray that my daughters might find a teacher who sees them in the way that you saw me. Thank you. 

Rest in peace. I look forward to seeing you again. 

With love and gratitude

Helen



Linking up with Ruth and Sabrina at Letters to...
This time the prompt was 'A letter to a teacher'.

Poured out like water

Jesus Christ, you died for me.

You poured yourself out. To lay down your life for a friend is one thing, but to die for those who rejected you?

To go through so much for so little in return?

The physical agony of crucifixion - the Romans knew how to kill a man. They knew how best to inflict pain. They knew just how to do it so that death was long, drawn out, dying one agonising breath at a time. They knew where to put the nails, the angle to bend the legs, the way to suspend a body so that every moment was a lifetime of misery. 

The emotional pain that you went through. The humiliation of nakedness and helplessness in front of your enemies, your friends, your mother. Being an object of ridicule and mockery. Being spat at. Beaten. The religious leaders and the Roman cowards thought that they'd won and you hung on a cross, bleeding from your wounds and you let them think that. The devil was laughing.

No-one was there. Where were the disciples? Where were all the people you'd healed, helped, transformed; the many whose lives were changed beyond recognition because of you? Where were they all when you needed a friendly face, someone to stick up for you? They had gone. You were going to die and nobody was there. 

The spiritual pain. Now this is hard for me to grasp, but I know that you lived your whole life in complete communion with your Father. I know that you never took one step away from the path that God wanted you to tread. You never once ignored him, or decided that you knew better, or did something for the hell of it, or because you wanted to, no matter what. 

You were sinless. So you never knew what it felt like to be guilty. To be dirty. To be ashamed. To feel unworthy and fearful and worthless. To be condemned. 

Me, I know what it feels like to do what I know to be wrong, and then to stand there with regret and shame in my heart. I know what it feels like to mess things up and know that I've messed them up. I know what it feels like to have a conscience weighed down by rubbish and know that I deserve every last bit of heaviness in my heart. You never did. 

Until that first Good Friday. Until the nails were hammered home and you were lifted high and the cross thudded down into it's hole and every joint was wrenched and the drops of blood and sweat showered down onto the earth that you created. You knew then for the first time what it felt like to be wrong. To be full of selfishness and pride and hatred and anger and guilt. You understood the consequences of sins that you'd never committed. It all came crashing down on you, as if you didn't already have enough to put up with. Physical pain, emotional pain, and now the pain of the world's filth.

You knew what it was like to have your Father, holiness itself, unable to look at you, unholy for the first and only time in your life. 

'My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?'

Matthew 27:46

Your Father turned away. Darkness fell and a storm whipped up and at that moment it looked as if darkness had triumphed. The sin of the world was on your shoulders. The final sacrifice.

And you did it for me.

You paid the price. For me and for all those like me, then, before then, ever since and everyone who is still to be born. You were the only one who could have. But the weight of those hours must have been unbearable. Cut off from your heavenly Father. The agony must have been intolerable. 

At any point you could have called it a day. You could have brought angels rushing to your aid. You could have climbed down from the cross and ascended into heaven in a blinding flash of light. You could have brought lightning down to strike the soldiers who stripped you and stole your clothes, but you did none of these things. You knew the Plan and you stuck to it. I wonder if you knew how hard it would be.

But you tell me it was worth it. You tell me that you would have done it had I been the only sinner on the planet. You died for me. 

My God. 

The people back then would have known the scriptures. The psalms back then didn't have numbers, people knew them by their first lines. 

' My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?'

Psalm 22:1

You told your disciples in Gethesemane to put away their swords - the soldiers were coming for you so that the scriptures would be fulfilled. You knew the Plan and you stuck to it. You had enough presence of mind as you hung their dying to recall the word of God as given to the psalmists and you told us who you were. Those who heard must have been amazed.

'My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?

Why are you so far from saving me,

so far from my cries of anguish?

...

But I am a worm and not a man,

scorned by everyone, despised by the people.

All who see me mock me;

they hurl insults, shaking their heads.

'He trusts in the Lord,' they say,

'let the Lord deliver him, since he delights in him.'

...

I am poured out like water,

and all my bones are out of joint.

My heart has turned to wax;

it has melted within me.

My mouth is dried up like a potsherd,

and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.

You lay me in the dust of death.

Dogs surround me, 

a pack of villains encircles me;

they pierce my hands and my feet.

All my bones are on display;

people stare and gloat over me.

They divide my clothes among them

and cast lots for my garment.'

Psalm 22:1-25

Lord Jesus, I can remember the first time I read Psalm 22 and realised that you knew exactly what was coming. That you were the fulfilment of the Scriptures. That every detail was correct and you knew. It blew me away. The whole of creation points towards you and yet as you died you spelled it out for me.

'I am poured out like water...'

You did it for me. What would I be without you? 

I am so thankful that the story doesn't end with your death. On this Good Friday we think about only part of the story. Gethsemane is part I of a trilogy, Golgotha part II. I should wait for part III until Sunday - but I can't stop there. It just isn't right. I know that the disciples had to; they ran and retreated and hid and wept and wondered and worried, but they weren't reading far enough in the scriptures. I know it's easy for me to say with the benefit of hindsight and easily available Bibles and blessed enough to have people who will teach me and point it out to me in words of one syllable.

You died for me. You paid the price that needed paying. And then... (sneak preview)...

You. Rose. Again. 

'Posterity will serve him;

future generations will be told about the Lord.

They will proclaim his righteousness,

declaring to a people yet unborn:

He has done it!'

Psalm 22:30-31

At the moment you died, you called out, 'It is finished!' (John 19:30)

'He has done it!'

You did it. That was the Plan. Complete. 

Done. 

My Lord and my God. 

Thankyou for dying for me. 

  

   

The Examen

Hello, Father God.

The other day I went on another Quiet Day. I think it might be addictive. The first time I was a bit apprehensive for reasons I couldn't quite explain (there are those who thought it was simply because I doubted my ability to shut up for a whole day but that wasn't it) but this time I have been really looking forward to it. 

I must admit that after last time, I had a sense of expectation. Last time you touched me and you taught me some things that were really significant for me and I was hoping that you'd do it again. I have spoken to wise friends about Quiet Days and retreats and the like and received very sensible advice that it doesn't matter if the only thing I 'get out of it' is a bit of peace and quiet, or even a nap, so it's a good idea not to go with any ideas of what I want. 

That's hard. I want to hear you. I want to learn to listen. I want to experience you. To feel you. All that touchy-feely stuff where I go away feeling amazed and blessed and awed. Who wouldn't like that? Maybe I'm still just a baby at heart and I want to cuddle close to my Daddy. 

So there I was with hopes and expectations. You didn't disappoint me. No, you weren't there in a vision or a glowing neon finger pointing to a signpost in my life and you didn't speak to me in a booming voice, or a still, small one, for that matter, but still you did speak. 

It didn't start out so well. I forgot my journal and I'd been planning to bring it up to date and do a bit of writing. I meant to bring another bit of writing to work on as well, and I forgot that too. As I sat in the little service at the start of the day I was a bit narked with myself because it wouldn't all be 'perfect' as I'd planned little activities and I was annoyed by my own lack of preparation in waiting to pack my bag till my lift had arrived. As you know, I don't handle this sort of loss of perfection, self criticism and thwarting of plans particularly well. It was like a dark cloud in my head for the first bit of the day even though I knew that I was being ridiculous. 

Then I started to wonder if it wasn't a good thing. I had come here be quiet. To think, to pray and simply to be. I'd planned to fill the day with activities and maybe this was my way of staying safe and keeping control. So what would I do with the day now?  Or rather, what would you do with it?

So I sat for a while. I wasn't moved to tears like last time, and I gazed at the oak tree that spoke to me last time and although it is still a beautiful oak tree, it didn't say anything else today. I gave the day to you. 

Over lunch I picked up a book to distract me from other people's crunching. (Why do they supply us with crisps on a Quiet Day? Or is it only me that notices? I can't eat crisps in a quiet room despite my love of them, sadly. Far too self conscious.)  Anyway, there I was with my parma ham, cheddar and rocket sandwich and slice of cherry genoa cake and I picked up a book called, 'Sleeping with Bread: Holding What Gives You Life' by Dennis, Sheila and Matthew Linn. 

I read the whole book. That is not an enormous feat as the book is short and there are big pictures and I had a couple of hours. It was easy to read and fascinated me from the outset. The title relates to the plight of some children orphaned in the bombing raids of the second world war who were eventually found and placed in refugee camps where they were so traumatised that they couldn't sleep at night lest they wake in the morning to find themselves lost and hungry again. Someone came up with the idea of giving them a piece of bread to hold as they went to sleep and it worked. The bread reminded them 'Today I ate, and I will eat again tomorrow.'

The authors wrote this book to explain something called 'The Examen' which is a prayerful reflection at the end of each day. What today gave me life, and what took life from me?  

Apparently St Ignatius, in his 'Spiritual Exercises' said that he expected you to speak through our deepest feelings and yearnings - what he called our 'consolations' and 'desolations'. Our 'consolations' are the parts of the day when we feel most 'connected' to the universe, and 'desolations' where we feel most disconnected. 

'Church tradition, religious authorities and the Bible are sources of divine revelation. Our life experience, as expressed through our consolations and desolations is also a source of divine revelation. The examen can help us to be open to all these sources of truth, since the examen helps us to listen to all that life is saying to us. For this reason Ignatius encouraged his Jesuit theologians at the Council of Trent to do the examen each day as a way of listening to God's truth.'

D, S, M Linn, Sleeping with Bread: Holding What Gives You Life, 1995. 56/7

I like this idea of truth. For a while now I've been keen to find my path in life from here onwards by learning how to discern your voice; whether in the world around me, or through other people, things I read, sermons, advice of other people; and now I learn that you can use the day to day things of my own life and the experiences I have to help me find my way.

There are several different ways of phrasing the same question and the idea is that you choose the one that speaks to you:

For what moment today am I most/least grateful?

When did I give/receive the most/least love today?

When did I feel most alive today? When did I feel life draining out of me?

When today did I had the greatest/least sense of belonging to myself, to others, God and the universe? 

When was I happiest/saddest?

What was the high/low point of my day?

What do you think? I must admit, this appeals to the analytical side of me. The bit of me that goes over and over things and tries to extract meaning and significance from things. So that in itself I thought I might find therapeutic. It appealed to me as a way to calm, to find peace and stop dwelling on things. To help me learn to meditate and live reflectively. Also to help me focus on positives more as I tend to see the bad things in a day more than the good. 

Some time ago I started writing down Good Things in my life in a book that I have come to know as my Happy Book - it has snippets of things that made me smile at the time - things the children said, good times, answered prayers, ideas, insights, moments that I want to remember - but I only write in it now and again when it occurs to me. The idea of a routine (another one of my buttons!) appealed. Also the idea of making it a discipline to write down the best bit of the day. To insist on locating the positive and remembering it. To make a daily practice of discerning what I am most grateful for.

The other side of things I was less sure about, but it intrigued me. Should I dwell on the negative? It seems that rather than dwell on it, over time noting the life-giving and the life-sapping components of a day will reveal a pattern, the authors said. 

I like the idea that by allowing you to show me my responses to the bits of my life, you will, over time, give me an insight into the way that I'm made, which will give me guidance of what you want for my life. 

'The Will of God is that we give and receive more love and life,' say the authors. They argue that life itself is divine revelation if only we give you a chance to reveal yourself. If I were to note over an extended period the things that lift me up in a day and the things that weigh me down, I might come to see a pattern of what you have given me a desire for, what my life is about; and what I should do less of. What I am not meant for. Where my heart really is.

I'm not really sure about all aspects of this; I still don't really know where obligation and routine and unselfishness come into this new awareness, or for that matter where the demands of daily life as a wife and mother and daughter and friend and so on tie in... but I am learning that if I wait until I understand it all, nothing will ever be started or tried. So, push on. 

It's about awareness. I want to be aware. I have been saying for a while that I want to notice. To mark. To observe and preserve, be aware. I don't want to miss a single thing that you say to me. I want to find all the clues; to act on all the cues. I want to learn to hear your voice in whatever form it might take and to see you in whichever way you want to reveal yourself. I think I'm going to have a go at The Examen.

So, I find myself thinking, what do I need to get started? The people who wrote this book say that you should do the examen with someone else so that you can reflect and share. There's only me. Never mind, I can write it down. Do I need a new notebook? A dedicated pen?  What about their suggestion that I use a candle to help me focus on you as I ask you to bring to mind my consolations and desolations? I haven't got a candle, or a candle-holder for that matter. Do I need to go shopping? Can I do this in bed at night or do I need to find a special place? If I'm in bed the examen might well go the way of my prayer time - starting out in a comfy position and never actually reaching 'Amen'.

Hmm.

There I go over-complicating things again. Making excuses to put something off because 'I'm not ready'. 

Here I go:

Today I felt most grateful when I got back from an errand and my daughter rushed from the sitting room into the hall when she heard the front door close behind me and threw herself at me with the cry, 'Mummy! I'm so glad you're home!' As I hugged her on my knees on the door mat I closed my eyes tight and thanked you for the moment. God, it was beautiful. I had both my arms wrapped around her little body and she had hers wrapped around me. It was wonderful. It was special. I don't ever want to forget that feeling.

Today I felt life sucked from me when her teacher told me conversationally that the same child is quiet and withdrawn in the classroom, never contributing spontaneously, never volunteering anything. This is so unlike the little girl I have at home. I worry about what's going on in her head. Why is she so quiet at school? Why does she not feel settled? Why do we still have tears sometimes? This made me feel concerned and anxious. I was uncertain of how to respond to the teacher and all churned up in my tummy. This feeling lasted quite a while and I can still feel it if I think about it now.

So. Is that right? Did I do it right? 

I'm not sure if you can make anything of these things or even if I'm getting it right, Lord. It doesn't seem as if this sort of thing could reveal a pattern in my life, just that I love my girls and I worry about them. Still, I've made a start. Notebook or no notebook, candle or lamp. 

Thankyou for bits of insight. 

Thankyou for wise people who write books and for opportunities like this Quiet Day to sit, undisturbed, and concentrate on you. 

Thankyou that when I look for you, you let yourself be found. 

Thanks for Ignatius, for my children and for my comfy bed. 

I'm off there now. Would it be wrong to say that climbing into bed is the most life-giving bit of my day, and getting up in the morning the least life-giving? 

Or maybe that's not what Ignatius had in mind.

The one that came back

God, I've had a nice day today. 

Despite a heavy cold (though far be it from me to complain) I have been out for coffee with friends, and been out with some special people for a birthday lunch. I am full of food and coffee and had a lovely time chatting. Not quite sure why such an indulgent sort of day should leave me feeling exhausted and in need of a good sit down and forty winks, but maybe that's just the particularly bad cold that I have (not that I'm complaining, you understand).

I have so much to be grateful for. I have been reading about gratitude lately, and I definitely believe in counting my blessings - they are indeed too numerous to number. I have been learning that a healthy dose of gratitude is essential to happiness; grateful people are happy people. Ungrateful people will never be happy because they are never satisfied. Gratitude is a Good Thing. 

Thankyou for this...

The other thing I've been reflecting on, recently, is that gratitude doesn't mean much unless it's expressed. 

In Luke 17 Jesus heals ten lepers. He sends them off to show themselves to the priests to get themselves accepted back into society. This is a big thing. Ten are healed, but only one (and a Samaritan at that) comes back to say thank you. Jesus looks at the one ex-leper who throws himself to the ground in front of him and asks:

'Didn't I heal ten men? Where are the other nine? Has no-one returned to give glory to God except this foreigner?'

Luke 17:17-18

Jesus sounds so disappointed. Only one of the ten thought to say thank you. This immense, life-changing thing happened to them and only one came back to say thank you. 

Can it be that in failing to notice your blessings, I can disappoint you like this? Or worse still, by noticing but not saying thank you, I could hurt your feelings?  The 'ingrate' side of gratitude? Or alternatively, the myriad of times that I am truly grateful, but through laziness I don't get round to expressing my gratitude?

Today I gave my friend a birthday present. I hoped she'd like it, I thought she'd like it, and when she unwrapped it, I knew she liked it. She said thank you to me with real warmth. I felt appreciated. But if she'd opened it at home, where I couldn't see, she might still have liked it, but I would never have been sure. She might have felt grateful for the gift but unless she got in touch with me to say thank you, I'd never know. Now, I know that it isn't the same for you, because you know everything, but still I need to be so much better with the thankyous.  If my friend today had unwrapped her present, smiled in pleasure but never said thank you, perhaps I would have smiled back cheerfully but been a little bit hurt that she hadn't spoken her appreciation. I don't know. What I do know is that if you cured me of leprosy today, I feel as if I'd never get up from the floor in front of you for gratitude. 

...and this...

So what leprosies have you healed me from? What have you done for me? What gifts have you given me today? What do you go on giving me day after day after day?  

I don't know where to start, but that's not good enough. A blanket, 'Oh, and thank you for everything, Lord,' doesn't do the trick just like blanket confessions don't do the trick. 'Sorry about everything, Father. You know all that I did wrong, so forgive me all of it without me going into detail, will you?' It's thoughtless and lazy and it won't do. 

But that's so much easier said than done; I know that I need to pay closer attention to this. I really don't want your love and your help and your blessings to pass me by, and I certainly don't want to soak them up, sponge-like and hurt your feelings by not saying thank you. While I've been writing this my friend sent me a text message to thank me again for her present. It's given me a warm feeling and I've been able to say how welcome she is and it's another little blessing on our friendship. 

Is that what it's like with you and me, Lord? When I say thank you, and mean it, does it make you smile? Does it make you think, 'Well, if you're going to respond like that, I'll do it again!' like it does when my little daughters' faces light up when I do something for them and then they run and hug me and shout 'Thankyou Mummy!' How much better do I feel when that happens than when they fail to notice my gesture or my gift? And how bad do I feel when I buy them a new blue jumper and they complain that they wanted the red one? 

I don't want to be ungrateful, either actively or passively. I want to notice, absorb and remember all that you do for me. That might well be beyond my ability or imagination, but I want to try. I want to reflect the blessings that you give me and not just soak them up and hoard them. I want to be the leper that came back and made Jesus smile, and not one of the nine that made him feel sad and unappreciated. If I'd been Jesus I might have had the leprosy come back with a vengeance for their ingratitude  - 'Whoof! Check that out. Now they'll be sorry!' - but I don't suppose he did. And I suppose on reflection I'm glad that he didn't, since I've been the ingrate so many times myself. 

...and these...

Thankyou Lord: for my friends, for good cups of coffee, for the encouragement and laughter and companionship and for the opportunity to eat nice food and chat with people that I care about, who care about me. Thankyou for lovely food prepared by someone else, for mayonnaise, for apple crumble (yes, we had dessert too, what a treat was that?), for the beautiful bright, low sun on the remaining Autumn leaves. For blue skies, lovely Derbyshire countryside, for my car and independence, for my girls running out of school with smiles. For hugs. For music in the car. For my Mum welcoming me home and making me a cup of tea, for the fact that Bryan is on his way back from London. For our little blackbird eating berries only three feet away as we watched him. For a warm house on a cold day and for paracetamol and handkerchiefs for this particularly virulent cold that I am enduring with such stoicism...

There's so much more. 

Lord, I am forever in your debt. I can never give you enough thanks. But please, help me to notice and not just go running off. 

I want to be the one that came back to give glory to you. 

I want to be the one that came back.