Strength will rise

Evening, God.

Very tired tonight, so forgive me if I stop making sense after a few minutes. You must be used to it by now.

Today has been a strange day. One of those days when I've felt as if I've been outside my body watching myself. It started way too early with a small girl with an upset stomach wailing that she'd had an accident. One which turned out to involve carpet cleaner and a variety of detergents. Poor little Katy couldn't go to school; and indeed couldn't go to the appointment with the consultant that we'd been gearing up for. We've had to postpone finding out the plan for her neck and her lumps (still there) for a few weeks until the next available appointment. 

Poor poorly girl. 

I felt sort of deflated - we'd planned the journey, we were all ready to find out the scan and blood test results and (please please) we've been hoping that we might not have to go back again. Tomorrow was the day we'd find out, and now it's not for another two weeks. Sigh. 

Poor Mum also ill today - the girls made Get Well Grandma cards and I hovered anxiously with offers of cups of tea, bread rolls and Poorly Person Biscuits. 

Not much got done today. I sat with Katy and watched 'Joseph and his Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat' twice, 'Barney at the Seaside' twice and 'Charlie and the Chocolate Factory' just the once, mercifully. We curled up on the sofa and many times my arm went numb, but that's what you do when your little girl is poorly, isn't it? Cuddle until you can't feel your arm.

I managed five minutes dusting while I brushed my teeth (not until 11.40am) which consisted of wiping down the chest of drawers and bookshelf with an old sock from the washing basket on my hand. I managed a quick nip to the shop to buy fresh bread to try and tempt people to eat (not very successful, but now the bread bin is overflowing). I managed a quick surf of Facebook but no writing as I only had my left hand (right trapped under Katy). 

Yesterday I flapped about how much I have to do and ask for your help in prioritising, today I am forced to slow down to a full stop. 

Co-incidence? 

I don't know. What I do know is I spent the day with my arms wrapped around my littlest baby girl and able to kiss her whenever I wanted and inhale the wonderful fragrance of her hair all day. It took me a little while to stop lamenting the demise of the plans I'd had for today, but I came to terms with things eventually. About half way through the second Joseph, I think. I was still chafing all the way through Barney, but hey - whose teeth are not on edge during Barney?

My beautiful Katy. She missed her big sister today. She was worried that she should be doing her reading at school and she was concerned that everyone would forget about her. She couldn't even eat a fish finger at teatime so to be honest I'm not holding out much hope for tomorrow. We'll see.

The house was warm as everyone was feeling shivery. There was a bit of a poorly-person odour in our part of the house after Katy's early morning accident. I'd spent most of the day on the sofa and I was feeling so sleepy that I could barely keep my eyes open. Bleary and stuffy and a bit sorry for myself. 

I had a little break when I walked round to school at 3pm to collect Elizabeth and I put on my headphones as I walked. There's just enough time for one song, and I put it on shuffle to surprise me. 

'Strength will rise as we wait upon the Lord

We will wait upon the Lord, we will wait upon the Lord.'

(Brown/Riley 2006 Survivor records)

Strength. Oh yes. 

This is something that other people have. 

I need more strength, and I haven't got any in reserve at the moment. The past few days I've been planning all that I need to do and I even commented to a friend last week that it's all very well having my week planned out, but when something goes wrong I may as well rip up the schedule. My little girl is poorly and I spend the day on the sofa with arms wide and eyes half open watching the TV. Brain pretty much switched off - you don't need a brain for Barney. Indeed it's a positive disadvantage.

The world doesn't stop when I get off for a day. I guess I have an inflated idea of my own importance if I think that my input in various things is so necessary to the wellbeing of those around me. Today I was stressed out that a poorly child meant my plans went by the board, and yet yesterday I'd asked you to help me with prioritisation.

There you have it. 

I need to wait upon you. I need to do that because unwittingly I've started worrying about time, again. I've been much better at it recently but it's so easy to slip back into old habits. I need to wait upon you because that is the number one important thing in my life. Without time with you, nothing else means anything. Nothing else will ever come to anything. 

And strength will rise when I wait upon you. And after a disturbed night, a very early morning and an un relenting child-full day I could do with topping up tonight, Lord God. 

'But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.'

Isaiah 40:31

I think this is an everyday strength as well as a strength that you give us for the uncommon events and challenges that life throws at us. A daily, or hourly, or minute-by-minute renewing of the strength just to keep putting one foot in front of the other. I don't know about soaring on wings like eagles; I'd love to do that, but at the moment, if it's not selling you short, I'll settle for a Good Night's Sleep and a reasonable start to tomorrow, if that's alright with you? 

I walked to school and the sky was blue, the sun shining and a crispness in the air more like March than May, but it didn't matter, as the house was hot and stuffy. I looked at the greenness after all the rain we've been having and the signs of Spring slowly turning summery and I looked at the clouds and the older children pouring down the road from the senior school and the faces of the little ones looking for Mummies and Daddies as they came out of the infant school - and I saw you. You are all around me. There in the evening song of the blackbirds in our garden right now as I sit up in bed with my window open onto a beautiful evening. There in the weight of my gorgeous poorly girl on my tingling right arm. There in the sun and the sky and the forget-me-nots taking over the flowerbed that I haven't weeded. 

And there with me as I scrub smelly stains in the carpet and there as I frown, trying to work out when I can fit in things I want to do for you. 

You've got this one, haven't you? You know what you're doing. 

Priorities. 

I hope in you and you will renew my strength. 

Father God, whose ways are so far above mine that I can't keep up, thank you for the gentle reminder today that I should get things in order.

Thankyou for the chance to cuddle my little girl. Thanks for the chance to sing the words to Joseph with her (again). Thankyou for the chance to fast forward to the best bits in 'Charlie'. And thanks for the chance to watch Barney. No, scrub the last one. I'm not that thankful for that bit. Sorry.

Lord, I need to start from the beginning again. Here it is: my time. I only have so much of it, and since you designed it that way, I can assume that I have the right amount. Help me to use it wisely. 

'You are the everlasting God

The everlasting God'.

Everlasting. That's you. I never get to the end of you, like I get to the end of me, sometimes. I'm pretty much there at the moment. But you? You go on forever.

You do not faint, you won't grow weary'.

But I do. Never enough sleep. Never enough energy. Never enough patience, or unselfishness, or generosity. I grow weary alright. 

You're the defender of the weak;

You comfort those in need

You lift us up on wings like eagles.'

That's me, my God. I feel weak and in need. I could do with lifting up right now. Show me how to spread my wings. 

Amen. 

Pure joy and relentlessness

It's a beautiful morning, Lord.

The sun is out, the birds are singing, the magnolia buds are looking fat and pink and full of promise against the blue sky. The children went off to school happy as they're having their 'Mini-Olympics' today and are allowed to wear sports clothes for the day, and I have a little time to potter on my computer and check in with you. 

Two things have happened. Possibly three, but I need to work it out in my head and then I'll decide. 

(*actually, more than three.)

Magnolias in Spring

I walked back from school today and the world seemed in vivid colour. I put my headphones on as I walked and I chose a song that I like. However, as I put the iPod in my pocket, it jumped to another track. It was 'My Troubled Soul (Praise the Mighty Name of Jesus)'. This song has resonance for me as I've long been a worrier and I do believe you spoke to me through it some time ago. 

'My troubled soul, why so weighed down?

You were not made to bear this heavy load

Cast all your burdens upon the Lord

Jesus cares, he cares for you'.

(2001 Kingsway Thankyou Music / EMI)

I am so often weighed down and at the moment my anxieties are particularly burdensome. I've gone on and on about my worries so I know that you're aware of them; I know that it isn't your plan for me to stumble about here trying to carry something that's too heavy for me. How come I can't leave them with you when I do believe that you are there waiting, and I can trust you?

'...and all your worrying won't help you make it through...'

I can't make Katy better. I can't do anything on my own - I rely on you for every breath. I do indeed need to trust again in the promise of your love. 

'So I will praise the mighty name of Jesus

Praise the Lord the lifter of my head

I will praise the rock of my salvation

All my days are in his faithful hand'.

Lord, you really did lift my head. This morning as I walked back I noticed the magnolia buds against the blue of the sky. I noticed little green shoots on a bare hedge just starting to come to life again. If I hadn't looked up I would never have seen them. 

little green shoots of Spring

Lord my days are in your hand. So are my little Katy's and those of everyone I care about. I switched the computer on and a daily devotional by Max Lucado was in my email inbox. He was talking about just this. Everything is in your hand. It's under control. You've got this one. 

There's no point in fighting and kicking and objecting. 

'Trust again in the promise of his love'. 

It seems to be something that I need to do over and over again. I think I do trust you, then I realise how knotted up with worry and confusion I am and then you gently remind me and I understand that I've taken it all back. All the responsibility. All the heaviness. I can't stop Katy's illness. I can't even look after her as completely as I'd like. Only you can do that. Only you are all-encompassing. Only you will never let us down. It's only you. 

'I will praise the rock of my salvation.'

There's so much more going on this morning. I read a Bible verse first thing on my phone and I confess that I pressed the little 'next' button quite quickly because it wasn't what I wanted to hear. 

'Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance.'

James 1:2-4

My initial response was 'Ha.' And I don't mean I laughed in a happy sort of way. Who can think to themselves, 'Hooray! Things are going badly at the moment! Praise the Lord! My life has come crashing down around me!'  Who? 

I don't get this one. So I pressed the button and found another verse that was a bit more to my liking for the day. I forget what it was. Perhaps that's significant.

But about an hour later a friend sent me a text with this very verse. She said, 'Courage and strength, my friend.'

Trials, yes. Joy? No. Testing of my faith? Seems likely. At this point I know that it would be perfectly possible to say that I don't understand why this is happening to Katy and I don't think you're being fair. But I can't do it without you. Where would I go, if not to you?  What shall I do, if not persevere? What choice do I have? 

Run away? It's tempting but it's not an option. Go to bed and refuse to move? Yeah, right. Also tempting, but I can't do that either. All I can do is keep putting one foot in front of the other. Courage and strength. Yes please, give me courage and strength. 

Next in my eventful little hour was yet another little touch from you via technology. You are a God who moves with the times, are you not? 

I was browsing on the computer and I read the blog of a friend of mine who lives many miles away across the sea and yet I feel as if I know her. She is my sister in you. We're family. She pointed me to you this morning.

Dwelling in the House: Relentless

'Over the last few months, God has been teaching me about belief in the face of

unyielding circumstances.

Faith boils down to this: do I just believe in God - 

or do I believe God?

You see, I've got some stuff in my life that is not.

More than once, I have cried out in prayer, 'Lord, this situation won't end. It is relentless!'

His answer:

So am I.'


(Ginger, December 2010)

This made me sit back in my chair. Well, actually it's a stool, so I didn't sit back as such, but I straightened up and took my hands off the keyboard in a sort of 'pause' moment. 

Katy's lump is back and now there are two. This disease seems relentless. The surgeon told us that if he hadn't got it all, it might come back, and getting it all was difficult as the tumour was wrapped around a nerve in her neck. He must have left some. And it started growing, relentless. Slowly at first, perhaps it was a little stunned following four hours of surgery attacking it. It hadn't been beaten. Slowly, determinedly, then picking up pace, but relentless. 

So are you. You are bigger than the universe, let alone bacteria. You are bigger than anything, and our troubles are so small in comparison that they should be nothing to you, and yet you reach down to reassure me. You reach down to hold Katy's heart so that in church on Sunday when our Rector asked, 'Who will let Jesus into our homes?' Katy's hand shot up and she said 'Yes! Open the door!'

The illness might be relentless, and so are you. You won't give up on us, will you?

You cannot be beaten.

I might not understand why or when or anything much at all, really, but then you tell me that I don't have to understand. Just trust. 

Trust again in the promise of your love.

I have lots of stuff in my life that is not trusting you. Help me parcel it up and leave it in front of you. Leave it with you. 

Thankyou for lifting my head to see the magnolias against the blue sky. 

Thankyou for good, good friends who have wisdom to share and for obedience to you when you prompt them to share it. 

Thankyou for your word, and I'm sorry I sort of snorted at it this morning.

I'm struggling a bit with the 'pure joy' part. 

Help with this would be gratefully received. 

Your love is the anchor

Evening, God.

I don't know where I am at the moment. Either up or down and not very much between the two. I suppose it's to be expected but I'm not that keen on the roller coaster feeling. I didn't realise that we never got off the roller coaster last year when Katy's neck looked to be healing well and the consultant at the hospital discharged us. It turns out that it hadn't stopped after all. It had paused back at the beginning but the seat belts never clicked undone and it was so still that we didn't notice. Now we're off being dragged along and I don't want to do it again.

Got to stop being so maudlin. Onto more cheerful things.

The other day was Katy's birthday party and we had sixteen children at a local soft play centre for a disco and games and food and climbing and sliding and lots of noise. Katy had on her Batman T shirt and thoroughly enjoyed being Queen Bee. She danced with abandon and blew out her candles and it was lovely. No sign of any worries. I wonder if they're lurking, things she's heard from the doctor or from me that are planted in her mind ready to grow into something.... but there I go again. I'm trying to be positive.

Positive.

She's opened her presents and waved her musical magic wand and shared her new Barbie doll with her big sister (a bit) and now she's sitting on the sofa with Peppa Pig as the exertions of the weekend seem to be catching up with her. Thumb in mouth, eyelids heavy. In church on Sunday she asked me at 11.40 am how long it was until bedtime.

I'm finding positive hard.

Forgive me, Lord. I'm struggling to find words today.

A list is called for. Always seems to fill a gap when I'm short of joining words.

Here we go.

Good Things:

• Elizabeth nearly doing the crab in her second gymnastics class this weekend and so triumphant.
• Katy walking along the beam (low to the ground) all on her own and so triumphant.
• Daffodils. May have mentioned them before but I just love daffodils.
• Good cup of coffee. Like this one. (Scraping the barrel here).
• Friends. I am truly blessed with friends who care. (Not scraping the barrel here).
• You. You're the only thing that never changes. The only thing in my life that's permanent and unshifting and solid and always there. 

In church we sang Brian Doerksen's song 'Faithful One'.  I cried. 

'Faithful one, so unchanging

Ageless one, you're my rock of peace

Lord of all I depend on you

I call out to you, again and again

I call out to you, again and again'

You are faithful and you are unchanging. You are the only thing that is steady enough to cling onto. Lord, I sometimes hate being so helpless. I can't make my daughter better and I can't do anything about so many situations that upset me. I just can't heal and I can't mend and I can't break down barriers. You can do all these things. It mystifies me when you can and you don't. 

But I depend on you. A large part of me doesn't want to because I want to get along by myself. I want to have the answers and I want to be self-sufficient. I don't want to have to surrender control because without it I feel at sea. I feel insecure and uncertain. They've told me that Katy's ill again and every fibre of me wants to make her better. To make it go away. To say, 'No, we're not having this.' To go to the counter and complain and say that we won't put up with this.

But I can't. All I can do is open my hands and depend on you. 

I feel a bit like a child beating my hands against your chest and crying and wailing only to run out of energy and collapse  into your arms and sob. I can stamp and I can ask you, 'Why? Tell me why?' but you don't have to explain yourself to me and you won't. 

Will good come out of Katy's illness? I don't know. Will you see us through it? You did before and you will again. Why? Because you love Katy and you love me. You love our family. Will you be with us all the way through? I know, I know. I know you will. 

'You are my rock in times of trouble

You lift me up when I fall down

All through the storm

Your love is the anchor

My hope is in you alone'

You are my rock. I'm clinging on again. Last year I did a lot of clinging. A lot of waiting and holding on and there were a lot of tears. It was a year where I found you in a new way at the same time as going through some of the toughest times of my life. I fell over again and again and you did indeed lift me up. The storm raged and you did indeed hold me fast. I said that I was adrift - well, you were my anchor. Without you I'd be lost in the ocean and it wouldn't be long before I could tread water no longer and I'd sink. 

You are my anchor. You show me where home is. You keep me afloat. You stop me from drifting. You are secure and faithful. 

Where else could I put my hope? My faith is so small, sometimes. I know parents right now who are going through agonies with their children who may not survive the illness they have. I know Mums for whom Mothers' Day was acutely painful since they are no longer a Mummy to anyone, or for whom motherhood just won't seem to happen. I am so blessed with my two wonderful girls. A husband who loves us. A Mummy of my own for whom a card and chocolates on Mothers' Day just isn't enough. 

I have so much to be thankful for. But still this song started in church and my throat closed. Tears started. 

You are my rock in times of trouble.

I've got trouble again, Father. I need you. I need a hug from my Daddy. I need a good night's sleep. I need to think clearly. I need to hold onto the anchor. 

Lord, I'm sorry if I'm going on about this. I'm just going to say this and then I promise I'll try to focus elsewhere. 

Heavenly Father, heal my little girl. Take away any worries that she has that she hasn't articulated, any half-formed thoughts or confusion that she might have. Make them go away. 

Heal her physically and emotionally and spiritually and any way that needs healing. Leave no scars. 

Don't allow her to sense fear or anxiety in me. It isn't me who's ill. It's not my neck, my lymph system, my body. She doesn't understand that when people hurt her with needles or even sticking plasters that they're doing it for her own good. How frightening must it be to be small and have such trust; depend on your all-powerful parents and then find that they don't stop the bad things from happening after all? Even when you scream, 'Mummy, make them stop! They're hurting me!'  I didn't make it stop and I can't now. I let them take blood and I let them dress her wound but my littlest girl didn't understand. What a betrayal.

Be with my Elizabeth too, Father. I don't know what she thinks about all this. She's kind and tender and vulnerable. She understands more and more as she gets older but she's only so small and having a little sister who's poorly must be so hard to cope with. Last time she was beside herself with worry about her little sister and spent hours making get well cards and pictures and kept asking if Katy was alright. Lizzie is a worrier. She gets anxious and stores things away to worry about (I wonder who she gets that from?). Please place your hand on her and take away anything bad that's planted in her mind or her heart. Don't let it grow and take hold. 

Please don't allow us to focus so much on Katy that we don't notice Elizabeth's struggles. Make sure that Lizzie knows how special she is as well as her little sister. Give us eyes to see and ears to hear and perception to know what needs saying and when. And what should go unsaid. 

Sigh.

Be there, Lord. Come into the middle of all this and bring peace of mind. Circle Katy, Lord. Keep darkness out and peace inside. 

Thankyou for all that you've given me and for the assurance that you will never leave. 

Lord of all, I depend on you

I call out to you, again and again.

It won't always be dark at six

So how is my Lent going?

Is that you asking, Lord?  Why would you ask if you already know?

I am sort of blurred at the moment. 

Can't concentrate on anything. 

Including you. 

Going to stop writing in staccato sentences now.

I'm not feeling well. My cold has turned into a cough which has turned into a chest infection which saw me trudge up to the doctor this morning in defeat; with a following wind I should be on the mend tomorrow thanks to some little green pills. Part of me wants to assure you that my Lent will go better when I'm better.

But I'm thinking that this time last year you allowed me to be slowed to a stop as well. (You sat down next to me) Last year I stabbed myself in the eye with a document wallet (I know, I know, it still makes you smile) and the week was going to be so busy... I learned then that the world keeps turning without me and then again, this week, I've had to get off for a while again and strangely enough, life goes on. I can't help thinking that the one-eyed me this time a year ago might have made better of the hiatus in the speed of life than the coughing and complaining me this time around. 

But everything has been cancelled. I haven't even shopped so the meals are getting a little bit eccentric and freezer driven. Or they would be if it were not for my Mum, who once again (and again, and again) has been wonderful. I am sure that I'm more trouble to my mother now, as a forty-one year old with husband and children than ever I was as a teenager when I was supposed to be a hassle. 

I have read two and a half books and I have slept a lot. I have cried with self-pity and I have coughed until my ribs feel as if they've been run over (hence the self-pity). Have I spent more time with you in all this time when I couldn't do anything else? Well...

It's been unseasonably mild outside.

I think I just changed the subject.

Yesterday I went out in the garden for ten minutes and I saw three purple crocuses. A host of snowdrops. The weather has been mild and sunny and for a little while there I started thinking about when to clean out the greenhouse, what I would plant and where. I walked around and noticed which plants have (so far) survived the winter and which I never got around to pruning last autumn. The children came and went crazy in the sun for a little while. They got muddy and they swung on the swings and they kicked around a football. I sat with a couple of fleeces on huddled round a mug of tea and it was lovely. 

Spring isn't here yet but I can see it coming. I'm waiting for the daffodils. I love daffodils. When the daffs come I know that Spring is here. Soon, please. 

Of course, it's February and this is the England and so the chances are we'll have four feet of snow in the next week. Indeed, a frost is forecast for tonight. Good job I didn't take the fleece off the yucca.

Today I read a story about being happy. About choosing happiness. About not waiting for happiness to happen but to decide to be happy. It lifted my spirits momentarily until something happened to squash them again. I need to seize those moments and bury my nose in them. Close my eyes and ears to everything else that is going on around and immerse myself in a moment that is purely of you. I'm finding that it's hard to do right now.

The doctor told me today that the antibiotics will start to make a difference in about 24-48 hours but I might not be better for a couple of weeks. He told me to give myself time to get over the chest infection; to be gentle with myself. I think I am already too gentle with myself - I let myself off too many hooks. Things that are difficult I tend to shy away from. 

Like choosing happiness. Just for a moment there I pick happiness up and then something crashes into me and knocks me off balance and instead of clinging tight to the happiness in my hand it my fingers open reflexively and I drop it. And it's gone.

Too often I take the line of least resistance.

Sigh.

I'm feeling a bit rough and not thinking straight. I'm finding my promise to find the positive in every day a bit of a challenge at the moment. 

• My little girls gave me cuddles today.
• My Mum changed an appointment so that she can take Katy to her swimming lesson tomorrow so I don't have to get up early.
• My husband brought me a mug of tea in bed. 
• Every day this week I've had a text message from a friend asking how I am and saying that she's thinking about me.
• My Mum bought me freesia. My favourite flowers.

Thankyou for all those things and doctors and chemists and comfy beds and sleep. Thankyou that I'm not seriously ill and that you are a God of second chances.

Thankyou that the nights are getting lighter. As my Mum says, 'It won't always be dark at six'.

I'm holding onto that at the moment.

It won't always be dark at six.

Church towers and poorly person biscuits

God, I am not feeling well. 

Haven't I been a picture of stoicism?  I am writing this from my sickbed (well, actually, I've made it down to the kitchen but I carry with me an aura of unwell-ness.)

If I'm honest, I'm feeling a lot better. I don't think this particular tummy bug is going to see me off. Not that it wasn't particularly unpleasant while it lasted, but I am soldiering on and am pleased to be here after all the last thirty-six hours have had to offer. 

Ugh.

Did you know, I can see our church from my bed?  I imagine you did. Languishing there today, when I was finally well enough to draw the curtains back (can you see how brave I've been?) I found myself looking at the church tower over the roofs of the houses between here and there.  I like that I can see it from here; not sure why, but it comforts me. There's definitely an emotional attachment. Thankyou for that. 

I like that I can see the church that means so much to me, where I find my church family each week; as special place I go to be with you. Where I go to worship you. Your house. And I can lie in bed and see the very top of it and I like that. I often find that my eyes are drawn to it; and I have to say that funnily enough (and significantly) a while ago when I was feeling a long, long way away from you I didn't want to look at it at all.  Clearly the state of my spiritual health can be reflected in the feelings I have looking out of the window at the tower. 

I can hear the bells as well. If I wake in the night I can hear the bells chime the hour and I like that as well. They're not loud enough to keep me awake, though. Might have different feelings towards them if they did...

I've been very well looked after while I've been poorly. I've had get well cards and presents from my little girls (fridge magnets from my fridge, small fluffy toys, items half-inched from Grandma's and brought as little loving offerings to cheer me up); I've had cups of tea and glasses of water and warmed wheaties and lots of sympathy from my husband who was similarly afflicted a few days ago (and is therefore clearly to blame) and practical assistance from my Mum, who took the girls for a haircut when I wasn't able to, did some shopping and delivered plain biscuits to try to tempt me to eat something.  

In our house plain biscuits (Rich Tea) are known as 'Poorly Person Biscuits'.  Easy on the stomach, not too rich, nice to nibble. Today they did the trick just as they did when I was tiny.

So, here we are. A lost day lying in bed feeling poorly. Didn't manage much in the way of prayer because I was mainly asleep, but I was not unaware of you, Lord. As well as the church tower, from my bed I did admire the beautiful blue Autumn sky and the sun shining off the wet roofs between here and church. I think it's been a lovely day.  I am very grateful for my family, who have somehow managed to get along mostly without me for a day and a half (and who knows, I might just manage to stretch that into tomorrow if I play my cards right?) and as I lay in bed I did think more than once how fortunate/lucky/blessed I am to have a comfy bed, a warm duvet, a nice house, enough to eat and drink, indigestion tablets and paracetamol and warm wheaties and small girls to deliver Get Well wishes. And so much more. 

Well, I'm getting better. Feeling like something to eat now. You know I'm poorly when I'm off my food, and now I'm feeling peckish, I must be on the mend. 

Make it alright

"We are not necessarily doubting that God will do the best for us; we are wondering how painful the best will turn out to be." 
— C.S. Lewis


I like this little quote, and for the most part it's true for me, but I could do with some explanation as to how stuff that's going on at the moment is exactly the best for me. Or for Katy, or for Bryan or Elizabeth or my Mum. It doesn't seem to make sense to me at all. I don't want it to be painful. Why does it have to be painful?  Does it have to be? Why is it, sometimes?


We went to the hospital for a scan, Katy and I, this morning, and the consultant sonographer, if that's his title, pored over the grainy little image of her bump and declared that it was smaller (hooray!) but still needed removing, in his opinion (hmmph). It has changed shape and now might have a fistula which heads somewhere deeper in her neck, but looks as if it might be an abscess, now, not a lymph node or a gland or a cyst. The truth is they still don't know, and despite it's slightly shrunken appearance they're taking no chances.  We see the consultant maxillofacial surgeon tomorrow and she has the final say. The surgery date is booked for June 3.


What will be the state of play with other things by June 3, Lord?  Will all be well, and all we have to concentrate on is little Katy and her operation? Or is life going to come crashing down again tomorrow? How many worries am I going to have to cope with all at once?


What is it all about?  Character building?  I know that you can bring good out of any situation but I just don't see why we have to have so much crap for you to bring good out of. I know that you can manage it from a standing start so you don't have to allow all this to go so wrong just to bring about something good. To be honest I thought that this year was trundling along just fine and I was making progress without the necessity for adversity to toughen me (or my family) up. There's been so much that's gone wrong this year and I've done so well so far, haven't I? I thought I had, anyway. But it's just getting a bit much for me now.


You know that bit in the Bible about sharing in your suffering? Of course you do, you wrote it. How can anyone want to share in your suffering?  I don't understand.  I don't want to suffer.  If I have to, I will, as I have no choice, and I'll go through it clinging as tightly to you as I can, but to stand up and say, 'I want to share with you in your suffering,' - I don't understand it. I am considering the possibility of impending suffering right now and I want no part of it. I want you to sort it out; take it away. Does this show you how inadequate I am as a Christian? Isn't it normal? I am apprehensive, pessimistic, anxious. I might have something wrong with the body in which I live and I'm afraid. I'm not embracing it with any enthusiasm. Surely that's not possible. 


I know that you are my friend and that you love me. I know that you love Katy even more than I do, and you want the best for us all. I just don't like it very much right now. I've just run into my two lovely ceramic penguins with the vacuum cleaner and smashed them into several bits and it felt like the last straw. 


While we were away it was easy to put all this on a back burner because life in a hotel near the sparkly sea with the sun shining and all the family around isn't real life in so many ways.  I knew as we drove away and left the sea behind that coming back was going to be a bit difficult but these three days since we got back have been interminable.  And now it's Wednesday night and tomorrow is Katy's appointment and then mine and I don't know what happens after that and the fact that I don't know leads me to explore the possible outcomes far too much for comfort. 


I met up with an old, old friend for coffee yesterday; someone I hadn't chatted with in maybe twenty-five years; and before then when we were both at school we had a somewhat stormy friendship at times.  We had a lovely time talking and found experiences in common over the last few years, and she told me that she, too had had scans for breast lumps and also had one removed.  And both had been fine. You work in mysterious ways, Lord God. To bring someone like this back into my life and for me to receive some comfort from that source particularly is a wonderful thing. Healing. 


It brings me back to the 80% of breast lumps are benign thing. That leaves one in five that are not benign. The likelihood is that it's nothing. I'm even starting to bore myself.


I'm tired and snappy and I've just broken a couple of ornaments that were special to me. My youngest daughter is going to see a doctor tomorrow who stuck a needle in her last time and may well do it again, before making arrangements for her to be anaesthetised while they operate on her. And then me - tomorrow has the potential to be a reason for great celebration, deepening anxiety, or who knows what?  Forgive me for being cross and argumentative.


I don't think that this is my finest hour. I'm not accepting my lot with stoicism and grace, am I? I know the 'Why me?' thing could just as easily be 'Why not me?' but I don't like it. I'm not having a good time. 


Take it away, Lord, will you?  Make Katy better so she doesn't need surgery and when they see this lump of mine tomorrow just make it clear that it's nothing to worry about. Then I can get on. I can go away this weekend with Ruth and everyone and concentrate on you. I won't let you down. Well, I probably will, but I'll try not to. Oh dear, I'm bargaining now.


I give you all my anxiety and worry and sleeplessness and fear and uncertainty and melodrama and patheticness.  I give it all to you because you know what's coming and you will be at my side when I find out for myself. Father, please hold me up and give me your peace; the sort of deep, deep peace that isn't shattered to smithereens if someone tells me something devastating. Hold Katy close as the doctor prods and pokes and talks about her over her head to me. I know she understands so much more than we think; she must be anxious and worried and frightened too. She doesn't know what's coming, and neither do I. We're in the same boat, my Kate and me. So walk alongside just as you always do and I might dare to say it'll be alright. Let us feel you with us, please. I'm Katy's mummy but I'm your little girl too.


Because I do trust you. I know that you love me and my daughters. I know that you love my Mum and Bryan and my family altogether. I know that there's nothing I could go through that you haven't been through. You did it without doubting and without whimpering. Help me to do that too. 


You know, if its alright tomorrow, Lord, don't let me forget this. Don't let me forget this feeling of uncertainty and helplessness; I don't just want to throw off my reliance on you because I feel in some mistaken way that I'm back in control. I want to continue to hand it all over to you when the day is sunny as well as when it's raining. I want to be what you want me to be. 


I just want to be well and take care of my children and get us through all this so we can move on to the next thing. 


Lord, here's Thursday. Make it alright.

Keep taking the pills

Thankyou God!


Spring is here - milder weather, blue sky (howling arctic gale, but we'll overlook that), crocuses and daffodils coming up, little tiny bits of green on the trees and hedges.  It's almost time to plant tomato seeds and put them on the kitchen windowsill and forget to water them, and the children are wanting to go outside to play again even though the garden is muddy. Because the garden is muddy.


It's usually the time of year that really energises me; makes me feel hopeful and optimistic (within the parameters of my characteristic pessimism, I mean) and generally cheers me up.  This year it's not happening.


I stood outside Elizabeth's school today being buffeted by an icy wind (why does her class always come out last whenever it's cold or raining?) and contemplated how not happening my Springness was this year. I could see the daffodils they'd planted along the side of the classrooms and the crocuses in neighbouring gardens and little bright green things on some bushes, and it was sunny and yet I just felt like waking up from hibernation, opening one eye and then closing it again and deciding to give it another month or so.


This time last year I'd already cleaned the greenhouse and organised the plant pots and had smiled a lot more and written about how wonderful it was to see clothes drying on the clothes line again after a winter in the tumble dryer.


Why am I so apathetic?  I put it down to three things:


1.  I am definitely not a picture of health at the moment.  I've got a season ticket to the GP, who smilingly informed me that I was 'chronically viral' the other day and this very morning added encouragingly that my immune system must be pretty much knackered (as you know, that wasn't the word he used. His was slightly less polite, to my surprise).  I am at present attacking three separate ailments with antibiotics and I ran out of paracetamol the other day - and you know how obsessive I am about having crates of painkillers ready for every eventuality.


2.  I have given up Facebook for Lent. This might sound trivial and somewhat frivolous, but I am definitely missing the company and support of my online mates.  Today I would have posted that I'm not a happy bunny, and they would have doubtless been supportive and sympathetic and encouraging and made me feel loved. Hmmph.


3.  Something else.


I feel as if things are going wrong for me.  One thing after another is breaking, crumbling, aching, becoming troublesome. Is this the co-incidence thing that we've talked about recently?  The more I step out in faith, the more difficult things get?  The more I try to do for you - the more excited I feel about my walk with you, the more I find obstacles in front of me?  Maybe my giving up my prodigious Facebook habit in order to concentrate more on you is making (ahem) The Enemy feel uncomfortable, so he's throwing in my way circumstances that would normally have me running to my support network?  That sounds a tad melodramatic to me, but as you know, I haven't really got this devil thing sorted out. 


CS Lewis (who spoke so much sense) said that it makes the devil happy when we underestimate him but I still feel a bit uncomfortable about giving him credit for all the duff things that are going on right now. I must get to grips with the idea of spiritual warfare. That's for another day.


To continue my whinge, I'd like to bring it to your attention that this week I've missed two church meetings I really wanted to go to, am even as I chat with you now I'm missing the lovely acapella group that lifts my spirits so much. I've had to cancel a coffee date that I've been looking forward to for weeks as I've got something stressful that has to be done in the afternoon and I know that I can't fit in both things either time-wise or energy wise and I'm unprepared for both.  I have spent much of the time that I should have been busy doing this week sleeping instead, which in itself is a blessing but doesn't seem to have given me the boost I would have expected.


Oh I just need to get a grip, don't I?  


I can see you nodding, only you do it in such a way that I can't take offence.  You've got that lovely indulgent, loving expression on your face so that I don't feel got at, I just feel like my Daddy is amused by me, but loves me too much to take the mickey.  


What do I do, Lord?  What do I do to feel full of energy and expectancy and enthusiasm again?  Can you see your way clear to just filling me with it while I sleep tonight so that tomorrow I start the day feeling great?


Or maybe I just have to keep on keeping on.  Be a brave soldier.  Learn to be a bit more self sufficient without my Facebook buddies?  Or better still more dependent on you. Look at you when my instinct is to look to them.  Listen to you when I'd be seeking advice in cyberspace.  These are fundamental things, aren't they, Lord?  I am such a spiritual baby sometimes.


Psalm 121

'I lift up my eyes to the mountains—
   where does my help come from?
My help comes from the LORD, 
  the Maker of heaven and earth.'


So if I lift my eyes up I might see you. 


Or at least, if I'm lifting my eyes then I'm not focused on the ground, on the problems, on the puddles and the mud, unable to see the vastness of the sky, and the sun, and you.  If I lift up my eyes I'm not looking inwards, or at myself and my problems and hurts and anxieties.  I know that you won't let me down.  I've been here before, when I'm feeling bewildered and hurt that you're letting these things happen to me and maybe I'll never get to the bottom of why.  But, as I've said before, what I do know is that you will never leave me.  And if I can't feel you next to me, that doesn't mean that you're not there.


'The LORD will keep you from all harm—
   he will watch over your life;
the LORD will watch over your coming and going
   both now and forevermore.'


You always have, and you are still watching over me. 


So why is all this rubbish happening and why do I feel so low?  I don't know.  Maybe when I'm wiser and more mature as a Christian I might understand what it's all about; or maybe not.  Maybe that saying is true, that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger.  


Maybe I knew that when I started to do new things for you, when I gave you a little tiny bit more of me than I'd done before, when I just opened another little door of my life and let you in, a bit that I'd been withholding, maybe I knew that I would meet with opposition.  Maybe as the angels celebrate, in another place there are demons grinding their teeth (now I do sound like CS Lewis).  


Well, I'm going to keep on with this, I'm going to keep on talking to you, and leaning on you heavily.  


I'm going through this week with my worship CD on in the car, my devotions applications on my iPhone, my Rick Warren book and the new one by Eric Delve on my bedside table next to my Bible, and the distraction of Facebook absent for once.  


Ok then.  I'll keep taking the pills.