A letter to tuck in your pocket

One and a half more weeks of holiday and school starts again. You can tell that my two girls' minds are beginning to turn to the new term because sometimes out of nowhere comes a little remark that reveals a hidden iceberg of thoughts and worries.

Katy is going back into year two, her last year at the little local infant school just around the corner. Her year one class has been split into two and she isn't with any of her friends. I held my breath as she handed me the paper, waiting for anguish and gnashing of teeth, but she was philosophical. 

'Mummy, there'll be all those new friends to make.'

What about that. 

I can't tell you how much I admire her. Six years old and fearless in the face of a daunting situation. Of course, she has her insecurities, but in the playground she's relaxed and confident of her own welcome and as a result the other kids want to play with her. How wonderful that is. I would love to be more like that. 

Her big sister, on the other hand, has moments of excitement about going back into year four, but mostly she's apprehensive and as September draws closer I can feel her happy holiday mood slipping a little. Last term didn't go particularly well and the troubles and tears multiplied until we were just nursing her through the last days before the long holiday. It's all been on the back burner but now it's time to turn up the heat again...

I encourage and reassure and comfort and advise, but the bottom line is that they both need to work out what to do to get through school and friendships and so on for themselves. What works for Katy might not work for Elizabeth, and what has worked all along might not always go so well. They are unique little bodies and personalities and neither of them is me. They're not going to handle it as I did (and that's probably a good thing; I made a complete hash of friendships for much of my school career). 

So, I will walk them to school and I'll buoy them up with words of encouragement. I shall tell them that they are warm, kind, beautiful, clever, interesting and fun to be with. I shall advise them on letting others go first, winning and losing with grace and happily playing games suggested by other children even if they feel they have a better idea.  

They have new school uniforms, (rats, socks. Forgot socks) and shiny new shoes. They'll have new haircuts and pencil cases. They'll be as ready as I can make them, but when I've waved goodbye, they'll pretty much have to sort it out for themselves.

Here's what I'd like them to remember:

Beautiful daughter of mine,

You are loved. 

More than you know, you are loved. You are loved by all your family back here at home; by me, watching the clock for school pick up time and anxiously searching out your face in the exodus of children passing through the school doors, and you are loved beyond imagination by your heavenly Father. 

He made you just as you are. He made you deliberately, not accidentally. You were designed by a Master craftsman who never, ever makes mistakes. When He finished making you, my little one, He sat back and smiled, delighted with the little girl He had made. He knows every hair on your head and He sees every breath that you take. He promised a long, long time ago that He would never leave you, and He is always at your side. Even when Mummy goes back home, He walks through those doors right next to you. He sits by you and cheers you on, and He puts His arms around you when things are tough. 

He is so proud of you. We all are, my lovely, but your heavenly Daddy knows the things that we can't know. He knows how fearful you are of new situations and He sees how difficult you find school, sometimes. He understands that now and again things go wrong and He smiles with pride when you don't give up; when you say sorry, when you try again.

You are loved. Let that sink in really deep, my darling, so that you can find that knowledge quickly when you need it. Try to understand those three little words so that they build you up. Things knock you down, sometimes, and I know that you feel fragile and vulnerable at school. It hasn't been easy so far and I know that you're sometimes overwhelmed and uncertain how to handle things. When you're feeling left out or insignificant, remember those three words: you are loved. Remember that you are loved just for who you are, not for anything you can do. That love doesn't falter when things go wrong, or you make a mistake. 

You are loved, all the time, no matter what. Just think: the Creator of the world loves you. He loves you so much that he smiles as He thinks of you. He is delighted with you, just as I am. 

I want to say it again, because I know how easy it is to listen to things but not to really hear them.

Those other girls? The ones that say mean things and hurt your feelings?  Oh, my love, there will always be girls like that. I'm forty-two and still they're around, only now they're at the school gates instead of whispering at the back of the classroom. It's not going to change because you're a year older. It's something that has always been, will always be.

Don't be one of them. I know there will be times when you'll be tempted to try to fit in by laughing with the mean girls; how membership of their circle seems a coveted prize, but don't do it. Friendship acquired at someone else's expense isn't friendship at all, and all too soon it'll be you on the outside again, for truth and companionship aren't built on secrets and sneering, but on compassion and honesty. 

And when you've been rejected or hurt and you want to lash out and hit back; don't. Close your eyes and count to ten, or breathe deeply and walk away, but don't play their game. Jesus taught us to love those that are not our friends. It's hard - even for grown ups - but He told us that we must be kind to those who aren't kind to us. And that means her, my lovely girl. Yes, you know who I mean. The one that you don't see to eye to eye with, and yet part of you longs to be part of her crowd.

Time and time again you've left school with her spiteful words ringing in your ears and before we've even walked home you've had tears on your cheeks because of this girl and her friends. Don't return meanness with meanness, because the momentary satisfaction that it brings quickly evaporates and leaves a guilty residue that only damages you. Better to return spite with kindness. Then you keep your integrity and the whole of heaven rejoices, because it's not an easy thing to do. 

I'm doing my best with that one myself, love, because I hate to see you hurt. Forgiving those that hurt you, even if they're only little themselves - well, I'm doing my best with that too. And one day, when you have children of your own and you know the fierceness of the love that you feel for your baby, you'll know how hard it is.  

Be brave, my little one; the world has plenty of people like her, but more that are not. Don't judge the whole world by the standards of the mean kids.

Seek out the children who are kind to you, who make you laugh, who make you feel happy, and do the same for them. Be a good friend, and you'll find good friends. I pray every day that you will find someone lovely to do life with; a girl who will link arms with you in good times and bad, who'll encourage and comfort and cheer you on. But until you find her, sweetheart, don't give up. Don't give up on friendship, or on the other girls, or on yourself. When you find that precious girlfriend who understands you, who accepts you and loves you it will be worth all the troubles. 

Remember, you are loveable. You are precious and unique and special. You are beautiful, inside and out, and you are loved. 

There is no-one like you. Don't compare yourself with anyone, because you don't know what it feels like to be them. Just be yourself. You were created to be you, just where you are right now, surrounded by the people you're with. There is no mistake. It's all in His hands. He's watching over you so, so carefully, and He will keep you safe. 

And I'll help. I'll be there in the morning, waiting by the gates in case you turn around for another wave. I'll be there when you come out, negotiating my own way among the grown up girls who chat and gossip in groups just as they did in this same playground when I was in your shoes. All day my mind will return to you, my lovely, and I'll wonder who you're sitting with in class, whether there'll be anything you like for lunch, who you're playing with in the playground. 

I'll be talking to Jesus about you and asking Him to hold you close, to help you, and He'll be saying to me, 'Don't worry. I've got her.' 

He's got you.  

With love

Mummy

 Linking up with Sabrina and Ruth at 'Letters To...' 

This time we're at Learning (one day at a time) and the prompt was: 'A letter to tuck in your pocket'. 

Give me Jesus

God, I'm exhausted. 

You know what this week has thrown at me and it's no surprise that I'm ready to call it a day. I'm tired and tearful and probably hormonal and at least I know that you're the one person who won't roll their eyes and put all this angst down to hormones; you invented them. You know what they can do to a person. 

Lord, it's been a crap week. Not to put too fine a point on it. Sorry.

I haven't even got the energy to tell you all about it - but that's alright because you know already. You were there. You think I can handle it. You're probably right, I suppose - what choice do I have? But I'm going to need some help. 

I came across this picture on the Internet. I love it. It's a beautiful picture of a sunrise and the caption is:

'In the morning, when I rise, give me Jesus.'

It turns out that it's a quote from a traditional spiritual song that I don't know which was famously arranged by a lady called Alma Blackmon. The words are very simple, and beautiful and the refrain: 

'You can have all this world

Just give me Jesus'.

That's about it. 

There have been a handful of times in my life, Lord God, when I've run out of... well, everything. Energy, ideas, patience, peace of mind. This week is pretty much one of those times. Bad news has piled on top of bad news and anxiety and worry linked arms and barged their way back into my head where they set up camp and made themselves comfortable. Fear crept in quietly and ominously and now huddles with them round the camp fire and depression and defeat are waiting in the shadows for an invitation. 

Give me Jesus. 

Lord, give me Jesus when I rise, and before that, when I lie in bed and stab at the snooze button and try to stay asleep because it's easier being asleep than awake. Give me Jesus when I come downstairs and start to nag the children about eating breakfast, brushing hair, brushing teeth, getting dressed, finding bookbags and finding shoes. 

Give me Jesus on the school run. Give me Jesus as I walk away into the grown-up bit of day which this week hasn't been a whole lot of fun. As I spend time with people I love, give me Jesus so that they can see Him, not me. 

Give me Jesus as I collect the kids and make tea. Give me Jesus as I run baths and find pyjamas. Give me Jesus as I put them to bed and then do it all over again. And again. 

Lord, Give me Jesus. You can have all this world, just give me Jesus. 

Lord, you can have all this world. I don't want it at the moment. It's a world full of broken marriages and pain and illness and hospitals and doctors and X rays and bad news and low self esteem and tears and waiting on hard chairs and lying awake at night not-knowing and filling the gaps with imagination that just loves to paint everything bleak and grim. 

It's a world full of shadows that are so dark that sometimes it's hard to see you.

It's a world where you are visible in the huge extravagant beauty of the first poppy blooming in my garden and in the promise of the flowers on the tomato plants and in the baby radishes peeping potential above the soil. It's a world of purply-grey stormy skies and lashing rain then watery sunshine and subtle rainbows and the smell of wet dusty ground. 

It's a world where those that have eyes to see and ears to hear can find you all everywhere - and all that's just lovely and great but right now it's not enough, Father God. I don't want to discern you in subtleties, I want to run actually, not figuratively, into your real, solid, faithful arms and feel the weight and strength of your embrace. To let my legs go as wobbly as they feel and let you pick me up effortlessly and hold me close like a little girl. 

Daddy, I'm tired.

I don't want to be strong. I want to give up. I want to stay asleep. 

I don't want to keep trying to communicate when I don't have words. I don't want to persevere with the goals you've set me, I want to sit down and not move. I don't want to make decisions and I don't want to explain bad things to small children and I just don't want to do any of it any more. 

I don't want to run the race, I'm tired and I want to rest. 

You can have all this world. Just give me Jesus. 

Amen. Just...amen.

Back to basics

Morning, God.

I've wondered what to say. I've been sitting here long after my coffee's finished and I've been reading the brilliance of other people's thoughts and ideas and feeling totally inadequate and I've been chewing the side of my left thumb until it's bleeding and I'm not going to mention that to anyone here because hubby hates my finger-chewing and little Katy has started doing it too and I'm held responsible for that bad habit. 

As inspiration and good grammar are concerned, that was a pretty duff start.

I'm going through one of those phases (this is the second this year) where coming here and talking to you has become a difficult thing. I'm not sure why. 

Part of it is that it feels a bit as if I have nothing to say, yet too much all at the same time. I know that you've been speaking to me recently and I'm trying to translate some of those words into something that I can talk about and clarify and develop, but I'm finding it hard to nail down. Some is deeply personal and very important to me and I need to sit for a few hours, just you and me, and try to understand. I know that you're waiting, patiently for me to do just that. 

Thank you, Lord, that the invitation to talk, to listen, to lean, to sink a bit deeper into you doesn't expire. Thank you for not taking umbrage and withdrawing your offer of help and healing just because I'm too wrapped up in things to take you up on it. 

My train of thought is still boarding at the station.

I have a myriad of reasons and excuses; the children have been on holiday, my husband is working from home, the (somewhat unwelcome) change in my routine (oh, my precious routine. I read somewhere that routine can become an idol, and I found myself wincing...) All these things have disturbed my rhythm and I'm finding it hard to get it back.

I want to scream. Or cry. Or go back to bed. 

What I should do is just lay it all down - there - and leave it with you. 

Right. Here's back to basics. Profound insight is beyond me. Intricate word play also out of my reach. Humour - no, not so much, today. So, then, what shall I say?

Someone once taught me the structure of prayer, years ago, and it sort of stuck on a basic level. 

ACTS.  Adoration, Confession, Thanksgiving, Supplication.

When in doubt...

Adoration

Lord, it's a beautiful day and you are everywhere. 

You are in the sunshine and shade, the birdsong and the neighbour's cat stretched black and glossy, lazy on our garden bench. 

You are in the vivid, improbable green of the trees and leaves, chlorophyll singing health and new growth and bright June potential. 

You are in the church bells chiming ten, reminding me that one of my favourite places in all the world is just down the road from here; worship is not just for Sunday, but here, now, in my back garden, at this keyboard, in that greenhouse, that shed, that kitchen. 

You are in the blue sky, the pompom white clouds, the daisies and buttercups and irrepressible clover that makes my lawn very unhealthy but oh, so soft to bare feet. 

You are in the beautiful faces of my two girls smiling at me from last year's school photo propped against the fruit bowl and you are there in the sheen of ripe pears and apples. 

You are in the wind blowing the washing on the line and you there in the fragrance of clean sheets. 

Oh, my God, you are sitting on the spare stool to my right and you have your arm around my shoulders and you care not a bit if my words are profound or well chosen or even spelled correctly; you just revel in the fact that your precious daughter wants to talk to you. 

Lord, I do. I do. I love you.

Confession

My heart sinks when I realise that I don't know where to start. 

Alright, how about yesterday when I was so angry with my oldest daughter, seven-going-on-fourteen, who sulked and grumped around on a beautiful treat-day out and did her best to spoil it for everyone? I cajoled, I encouraged, I sympathised and eventually I threatened. I said things that crushed and wounded and I'm sorry. 

I can make excuses by saying that I don't know what I'm supposed to do when faced with incessant whining and whinging and rudeness, but it's no defence. 

I was mean, and I'm sorry. 

I'm sorry for the things I thought as well; I demolished her in my head. I'm sorry for the things that are in my head that nobody knows about but you. I stoke up the negative things in my mind until they glow hot and spill over into words. 

I am full of self. I'm sorry that I turned my back on you last night when you waited for me to come and chat at bedtime; I said, in a minute, in a minute, while I checked Facebook and Twitter, then my email, then Facebook again. I played a game on my phone, read the news headlines and dipped in and out of YouTube until I was slouched so low in bed that sitting up with my journal and a pen and comparing notes with you was too much for me. Maybe I always knew it would be. 

I'm sorry. I don't understand why I do that because I know for a fact that meeting with you at the beginning and end of each day makes things so much better on every level. 

Thanksgiving

So, so much to give thanks for. 

For days like today when the view from the kitchen window is full of colour. 

For the days when it rains so that I don't have to go round with my watering can in the evening. 

For bees and garden chairs and books and notepads and ideas. 

Thank you for my girls' painted handprint pictures that freeze in time the smallness of their palm-prints for sentimental people like me. 

For the nothing-like-it feel of a small hand in yours as you walk along to school. 

For sausages for dinner and for mayonnaise, because there is no food that is not enhanced with the addition of mayonnaise. 

Thank you for your faithfulness, for your mercy, for your fun; thank you for swings and roundabouts and shouts of joy. 

Thank you that as I sit here with the windows open I can hear the sound of children in the playground at Katy's school; it's a happy sound. 

Thank you for all the blessings of our comfy existence - for education and freedom for children to play and not have to work, for running water, for plentiful food and for medicines when we need them. 

Thank you for being there, always, no questions asked, without fail, always loving, always forgiving, always loving some more, asking from me nothing and everything at the same time. 

Supplication

Right now, what's it to be? What should I ask you for in the state of mind that I'm in right now? 

Peace.

Help me to find peace whatever the circumstances, will you, Father? 

I know that true faith and trust in you would mean that I'm not at the mercy of the prevailing mood of the household, whether that mood emanates from me or anyone else. I want to depend on you so absolutely that it doesn't shake me or throw me if someone else is walking round with a thundercloud of discontent or anger. 

I want to be someone who has her own microclimate of peacefulness and calm. Is that too much to ask? 

Unlikely this side of heaven? Surely not. 

Lord, help me get a better grip of the things I say. Irritation and bitterness spill out of me sometimes and I can't stop it - or I choose not to. I talk to other people too much and to you not enough. 

I read somewhere recently one of those little illustrated ideas that do the rounds on the internet and it said:

Have you prayed about it

As much

As you've talked about it?

...and the answer is no, rarely do I pray about things anywhere near as much as I talk about them. And on the odd occasion where I put serious prayer (by my standards, I note your wry smile), I realise that prayer does change things. 

So change me, Lord. Teach me to control what goes on in my head so that I can control what comes out of my mouth. Help me to grab onto you when I want to grab someone by the throat. 

Help me cultivate calm and find peace, rather than stoking up my temper and doing the devil's job for him, for I know that he would have me constantly irritated, annoyed, criticising and lashing out. 

Above all, don't let go of me, for without your hand on me I'm in freefall. 

Don't stop talking to me. Make me listen. Remind me, call me, tug at me. 

Make me more like you. 

Amen. 

Let it be.

The tantrum queen

Morning, Lord.

Well, I absolutely haven't got anything helpful or uplifting to say this morning. I haven't got any insights or messages or ideas to communicate. I'm not here to encourage or inspire or any of that today. Just haven't got anything. 

Father, what am I supposed to do about my youngest daughter?  She is beautiful, clever, funny, charming, articulate, affectionate, helpful and loving, and she has the most breathtaking temper. She throws tantrums that would stun you. 

Well, I suppose nothing stuns you. Nothing surprises you, does it?  You know her inside out and you love her very, very much. Lord if I could just sneak a look inside her head for ten minutes sometime, surely it would help me cope with these tantrums, would it? I just don't know what to do. 

I'm following all the advice that I can get. We've tried star charts to earn rewards, we've tried deducting pocket money from £1 in 2p increments (10p for a tantrum; the week's not over and Katy's down to 8p) I've tried taking toys away (she still loses the ones she throws) and I've tried taking her to her room and leaving her there, which is only possible if we are a) at home and b) have lots of time. Nothing has made any difference, and you know how we've tried. Some tantrums I can head off, if I see them coming, but what about the ones that are because she's been told, 'No'? 

The other day she wanted a biscuit at bedtime just after she'd cleaned her teeth. No. I thought she might grumble, or whine, or even (happens occasionally) just shrug as if to say, 'Oh well, I tried'. Nope, this time: light blue touch-paper and retire to a safe distance. 

She screamed, she hit, she kicked, she pulled at me, she pulled the bedclothes off the bed, she threw her pyjamas, slippers and water bottle across the room and she swiped things off the bedside table. I left her on her own and went into the bathroom. She beat on the door, so I turned the lock. She hammered on the door and kicked it so hard that it flew open, hit me on the back of the head and bounced back, trapping her bare toe underneath it. 

Her furious screams changed instantly to howls of pain as her big toe nail had been torn and pulled back by the door. Her toe was sort of scuffed, but the blood was coming from the nail bed. 

Ahh. My anger dissolved, I scooped her up and held her on my lap as she wailed. The injury scared her, but still she was on about the biscuit. Still no. With poorly foot in one hand she thumped the bed and myself until she was worn out. 

What on earth do I do? It's so hard to control my own temper when this happens. I struggle to keep my voice from rising to banshee volume myself and I itch to manhandle her and give her a good smack. How can that possibly help? Katy, you're not allowed to hit, but Mummy is...? And yet I find myself thinking that this is exactly what would have happened to me if I behaved like that. What have I done to my daughter; how have I brought her up that she behaves like this?

And yet I know that it's something that some children do. I know from recent conversations that in this respect Katy's not unique.  From the moment we brought her home from the hospital she had something different about her; sometimes, when she cried, there was a fury in her crying that could frighten her big sister (then 20 months). Elizabeth would recoil in fear and start to cry herself when Katy was angry. Slowly we learned to distinguish Katy's hungry or tired or sad crying from her 'I Am Not Happy' cry. She would go red and scream so loudly that she coughed. Perhaps we should have known that she'd be the tantrum queen. 

So why? She's just made like that? A combo of genes that's so different from Elizabeth's? Both her daddy and I have tempers; and indeed when I'm in a rage I too have the urge to throw things and slam doors. I have been known... so maybe it's not so surprising. Most of the time these days I've got a grip on it. Grown up tantrums just look different, don't they? We might not stamp and sweep the things off the bedside table (though we might...) but we might throw around words that hurt or looks that bruise or hit back with petulant cancellation of nice plans or sweeping generalisations that can crush. I have been guilty of all those things. 

Lord Jesus, I once asked you for patience. You blessed me with two small children so that I could learn it. I don't know that I'm doing very well. I love them so, so much, and yet taking care of them is the hardest thing I have ever, will ever, could ever do. I am so often at a loss. So often so completely out of my depth, and they're only five and seven. How on earth will I cope with the teenage years? With two girls in a world so different from the one in which I grew up?

I feel defeated by it, today. Don't know why - I always blame it on being tired, but I slept well last night. Had a dream that an old man was showing me a book, and it was a commentary on the Bible book of Revelation. Was that a sign from you, Lord? Should I nip over to Amazon right now? 

But I'm off the point. Amazon is enough of a distraction. Talk to me about Revelation later, will you? 

Father, you are a parent. I don't suppose Jesus ever had tantrums, did he? Ever throw his cutlery at Mary? Ever sweep Joseph's tools off the work bench in a temper? No, thought not. What would you do?

Love her. Alright, that's a given. I don't stop loving her. I really don't. I look at her as she drags on my clothes and kicks my leg and beats her hands on my hip and I don't like her very much, but I don't ever, ever stop loving her. 

So if Jesus never threw a wobbly, where does your experience with tantrums come from? 

Ah. Ahh. 

I walked into that. 

You're giving me that look. That look that says, 'Ha. The penny drops.'

Get the log out of my own eye before I try to remove the splinter from Katy's? Is that it? Well it's not fair. Hers is a log too. It is!

Hmm. So here I am, I'm railing at you and accusing you of unfairness or favouritism (just as Katy does to me - see? Nothing changes).

Do you look at me with compassion and pity as I wail and clutch at my injuries when the door I hammered on bounces back to hurt me? Do you quietly help me pick up the pieces when I throw my pride-and-joy Lego model on the floor in a temper and then grieve over the loss of it? 

You don't shout back. You don't hit or scream or cause lightning to strike me dead because you're angry and fed up of me. No, you are peaceful because you are peace. You are calm because you invented the concept. 

You could calm the storm if you wanted, but sometimes you let it rage. You don't intervene, you let me wear myself out with the internal shouting and the static in my head and the inability to rein myself in or the refusal to come and tell you about it. And then, when my angry tears give way to tears of pain, or self-pity, or remorse, there you are with a hanky and a cuddle. 

Is that it? Is that my job? To ride out the tantrums I can't avoid? To be there, just the same, loving, loving, forgiving and loving some more? 

But there are so many practical considerations too. It's not an abstract concept, Lord. She damages things, including people, she makes messes, she hurts herself. It's not only about standing by calmly with a beatific expression of love and unruffledness until she's ready for a reassuring hug, but hey, maybe that's a start. When we need to leave for school, or when we're in a shop, or when big sister can't get far enough away and she's worried by Katy's outbursts, I need another strategy. 

I need that patience that you've had me work on. I'm not there yet. I need to keep my own temper well under control. I need some inner peace that can't be scuffed and crumpled up by small fists that seek to destroy it. I need to keep things in perspective; this thrashing creature yanking my scarf into a noose is the same loving little girl who wrote me a note telling me that I was the bestest Mummy in the world and who stroked my arm when she found me in tears over a sentimental clip on YouTube. I need to remember how much I love her. 

She's looking to me to help her because she's lost control of herself. The last thing that will help is me losing my own control. That will just make things worse on so many levels. I need self-control. I need gentleness and self control. 

Ah. Do you spot a theme?  I do. Reluctantly.

'But the Holy Spirit produces this kind of fruit in our lives: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self control.'
Galations 5:22-23

So here's the thing. I need more of you. I am not up to this. Left to myself I will shout back, be rough and angry, irrational and, yes, even cruel. I will say things I don't mean, hit back, if not with blows, with words. I will threaten and crush and be generally the last thing you had in mind when you said, 

'Let your gentleness be evident to all.'
Philippians 4:5

Lord, I need you. I notice that the next words after this short quote from Philippians are:

'The Lord is near.'

Lord, be near next time Katy throws one. So near that you might nudge me. Hold up a warning finger when I go to shout back, when I reach to jostle her into her coat. When I look at her with coldness and rage in my eyes. Don't, please, don't let me respond in a way that makes things worse, that leaves scars on her little soul. Let me soothe when soothing is possible and necessary, let me heal when she'll let me heal, let me comfort when she needs comfort. I can do those things. And before that, when the storm is raging and I fear for my doors and my shins and my sanity, hold me close and let my gentleness be evident to all like yours is.

Is that possible? 

With me, no. I know it isn't. I'm not built that way. But you - you can do the impossible. 

Today I cried about Katy's tantrums. I'm crying about my own inadequacy as a mother too. My own lack of resources to change things, my own flawed responses and mixed messages, my hopes and fears and dreams for the women that my daughters will grow into and the crushing worry that I am not helping and guiding them and setting the example that I should.

I can't do it, but you can. Heal any wounds that I've inflicted, will you? Put right any damage that I've done. Guide them where I fail to. Equip me to be the mother you want me to be - the mother that you thought I could be when you entrusted these two little people into my care. You thought that I was the best mummy for my two girls. Help me hang onto that on the days when I think that the neighbour's cat could do a better job than I do. Help me to learn to live up to your faith in me.

Lord Jesus, help me with this thing that I'm sure is small in the eternal scheme of things but is looming large in our house at the moment, as Katy's pocket money pot looks emptier and emptier and we're all warier and wearier. 

Thank you for calming me down. 

Thank you for being there, always the same, always gentle. 

Draw me closer to you so that some of you rubs off on me, please, Father God.

Brick wall

Morning, Lord.

Today didn't start well. It began at 6am with a small child getting all stampy and shrieky at the bottom of our bed, and continued in the same vein pretty much until said child was deposited in her classroom at school. Where, I might add, she magically became smiley and co-operative; a model pupil.

What channel is she on? How can I tune in?

I don't know how to get through to her. We've used a star chart; added stars, taken stars away. She doesn't have any left now. She's had toys taken away, she's had rewards in the form of biscuits and trips to the park. We've asked, reasoned, shouted, cajoled, joked, persuaded, pleaded, ignored, commanded, walked away, plonked her unceremoniously in her bedroom and listened to the sound of the door being kicked and books being thrown. Stood there wondering how other parents manage. Are their children so intractable? Is it just me?

Brick wall.

I'm up against a brick wall.

I've taken on a project recently that sounded exciting and interesting; right up my alley. I was feeling full of hope and promise and since I started it I've been beset with technical problems that I don't have the skill to overcome and confidence problems that have knocked me over.

Brick wall.

All I can see are walls.  Sometimes it seems as if every way I look there's a wall. So close that I feel claustrophobic. I can see blue sky if I look up, but the walls are closing in on me. Downwards I see only mud and shadow and cold, tall, stone walls that I can't get over.

On occasion I feel as if I've found a handhold and pulled myself up a bit, and then I get hopeful that I might get to the top and climb over, but I can never get very far. Always I slip off again and land at the bottom feeling defeated. I feel trapped.

Trapped is the word. I'm finding being a Mum hard at the moment and there are added complications that I'm trying to do something (other than being a Mum) for the first time since the children came along. That's fine - I don't for one minute wish that I'd done things differently over the last few years but I'm coming to realise that it's been a while since I've tried to do anything other than parenthood and housework. I think I can do this; indeed I think I should do it. I believe you want me to do it, but I don't half feel ill-equipped to do it right now.

I can't even get my five year old daughter to get her clothes on in a morning.

Sigh.

'Jesus looked at them and said, "With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible."'

Matthew 19:26

Now here I find myself wondering if you're looking at me and saying that, or if feeling defeated by one's five year old daughter is ridiculous, and sorting it out should quite clearly be well within my remit as mother, and shouldn't be elevated to the position of 'impossible for man'.

She's only five. She can be a delight. I love her so much that my heart swells when I see her run towards me in the playground after school. She has a will of iron.

The fact is that we have good days and bad days, and days when we seem to lock horns more than on other days. Today is looking like the second type of day but who knows what it'll be like when she gets home from school. I need some help. I don't know how to make things better, and the stack of parenting books on the landing bookshelf are not helping.

I've hit a brick wall.

A while ago I sat in church and listened to a sermon about brick walls. At the time I didn't feel as if you were speaking into a situation I was in, but I remember that I felt it was significant.

What I heard was: when I can't find a human answer, maybe there isn't one. Maybe you are the answer, God. Maybe you have the answer, or maybe you are it.

So where are you in this? Where are you when my computer doesn't do what it should do and I lose precious time not knowing how to fix it? Where are you when I don't want to get angry with Katy, and I'm trying desperately hard not to shout but I do need her to put on her clothes and get ready for school? Where are you when I want to step out in faith but every time I choose a direction a wall appears in front of me?

I know you haven't forgotten me. I know you are there. You know that I feel bricked up and trapped. You know that I'm battling with confidence issues - I'm not good enough as a mother, not good enough as anything else. Why try to do something special? No point in trying.

I can't find a human answer. I need you.

The walls of Jericho came tumbling down. Daniel walked around in the fiery furnace even though he should have been burned to a crisp. Jesus died on a cross and yet three days later he was walking and talking, vividly alive. You have a habit of beating the odds.

You are with me.

Just because it looks like a brick wall doesn't mean it isn't insurmountable. I can't get over it, but you can. You might give me a leg up and a crash mat at the other side, or you might demolish it, but you alone can get me past it. It's only insurmountable for me. On my own.

So I want things right now. I don't want to wait and learn from my difficulties and change into someone more patient and wise and steady through hardship. I want you to rescue me straight away. Make it all easy, because when things are hard I get cross and frustrated. I start to doubt myself and you too. I start to be discouraged and wonder where you are in all this. Why you're not moving the walls.

I don't want to develop perseverance. I want it right now. Stamp.

I sound a bit like Katy. I don't want to put my clothes on. You put them on for me.

The devil wants me to focus on the wall. He wants me to stare at it and realise how big it is. How impossible to climb. Look at me, I can't even find a toehold. It's too big. Too well-built. Too much for me. You want me to look up and focus on you.

You say, 'I am with you.'

Genesis 26:24 With Isaac:

'Do not be afraid, I am with you.'

Genesis 28:15 With Jacob:

'I am with you and will watch over you wherever you go...I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you.'

Psalm 73:23 With David:

'Yet I am always with you; you hold me by my right hand.'

Isaiah 41:10 With the people of God:

'Do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you. I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.'

Jeremiah 1:8 With Jeremiah:

'Do not be afraid of them, for I am with you and will rescue you.'

Haggai 1:13 With your people:

"Then Haggai, the Lord's messenger, gave this message of the Lord to the people; 'I am with you' declares the Lord."

Matthew 28:20 With your disciples:

'...and surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.'

Helen 1:1 With me:

'Stop moaning and get on with it. I am with you.'

You were with Joshua and the walls of Jericho came tumbling down. Joshua didn't do it himself. He didn't figure it out. He called on you and kept on calling. He was faithful and you brought the walls crashing down when the time was right.

And the walls came tumbling down.

So, two things:  Faithfulness. I am so often not faithful. I pray about something, and I forget about it. Only when I get to the very end of my tether do I pray in the earnest, wholly surrendered sort of way that you want me to pray. So often I secretly (or even subconsciously) think that I can probably do this on my own, and so my prayers are half hearted, if indeed I pray at all. You can see my heart and you know my thoughts. You know me better than I know myself. There's no dissembling with you. I can't pretend to be faithful in prayer.

The other thing is timing. Your timing is not the same as my timing. I know what I think I need and when I think I need it My timing is a 'give it to me right now' sort of thing, but you know what is best for me. In the same way that I can see a bigger picture with my children you can see a bigger picture than I can. I don't let them have snacks too close to mealtimes because I want them to have an appetite for the things that are good for them.

I'm beginning to suspect that there's a lesson here.

Sigh.

What I want is to have the sort of faith that knows that you can smash the walls down and that you are with me, but faithfully trusts without knowing the answer. Like Daniel:

'If we are thrown into the blazing furnace, the God we serve is able to save us from it, and he will rescue us from your hand, O king. But even if he does not, we want you to know, O king, that we will not serve your gods...'

Daniel 3:17-18

There's faith. You can do it, I'd quite like you to do it, but if you don't do it, I'm OK with that too.

'Even if he does not...'

Wow. That's hard. I have such a long way to go.

Lord, there are walls that I don't know how to climb and I could do with being on the other side of them. I'm not liking where I am right now.

When the time is right please, would you help me? Show me the way out, show me where the handholds are, or send the bricks flying, will you?

Bring harmony to our house and help me meet deadlines?

Let the walls come tumbling down.

And could it be soon, please?

Until the time is right, Lord, take my right hand and hold me tight.

Amen.

'Hotblack 20070715_brick' photo by Scott Liddell.  (www.scottliddell.net) 
'Crossbricks' photo by Mary R Vogt.
Pile of bricks photo by bosela.
All used from www.morguefile.com with permission. 

Renew my strength

So, God.

It seems we're back to where we were a year ago, when we found the lump on Katy's neck for the first time. In my diary for twelve months ago, it says, 'Found bump on Katy's neck. Went to Dr.'

This year it says, 'Found two bumps on Katy's neck. Went to Dr.'

I am a master of understatement. In those few words lies seven months of uncertainty and worry and pain. That first time we went to the doctor mildly concerned about a lump but blissfully unaware that  that it was anything to worry much about. The doctor would sort it out. Medicine. We hoped that it wouldn't taste as bad as the flucloxacillin Katy had put up with for tonsillitis and that was pretty much the extent of it. 

We didn't realise that we were starting on a roller coaster that took us through countless hospital appointments, drugs, scans, needles, two operations, dressing changes and more appointments. We learned a whole new vocabulary of anatomy and physiology and which-nerve-serves-what. 

Discharged late last year with a neat scar healing well and no bump. 

Breathe sigh of relief.

Didn't last long enough. 

We've found two new bumps and the doctor thinks that the old problem is back. In two places this time. Insult and Injury.

So here we are awaiting an appointment at the Children's Hospital instead of our local District General and a new Consultant. New reception, new clinic, new nurses, new snack bar. Some distance from home. Notoriously bad car parking. 

Katy so far hasn't been forthcoming about her take on this but she has consistently surprised us all with her grasp of situations and so she probably knows exactly what's going on and is storing it all away. She sat on my knee for the whole of yesterdays consultation with the doctor where she will have heard us talk about treatment options and operations and hospitals and so on. It's so hard to know what she makes of it but I'm waiting to find out. Some bedtime soon she'll ask me and it breaks my heart that I won't be able to tell her it's nothing, that Mummy and Daddy will make it better. It's my job to make it better. To make it go away. To make sure that nobody hurts her and I can't. 

I couldn't last time and I can't now. I had to watch while they hurt my beautiful little girl. 

It broke my heart.

So, I would love to know what's going on, Lord. Why this is happening. I know that if I ask 'Why us?' the counter is, 'Why not us?'  I know that bad things happen and I know that the sun shines and the rain rains on us all. I just wish I knew why you don't make it go away. You're our Heavenly Father, aren't you? I know that it hurts you when we hurt so why don't you stop it happening again, please? 

I suspect you've been asked this question before. 

You could make these lumps vanish right now, poof, just like that, if you wanted. I will never understand why you don't. It's not me that needs a miracle, it's Katy. I'm not asking for me. Well, I am, I suppose. But she's only five. Only just five. Could we please not do this again?  We did it once and I didn't like it and I don't want to do it again.

I had a moan to a wise friend of mine the other day and I said, 'I can't cope with all that again.'  She looked at me for a long moment and then asked me what it looked like, me not coping. I realised what she was saying. If I've done it once then I can do it again. What choice do I have? If Katy needs hospital appointments, blood tests, surgery - then I'll bring her through it again. I can't do anything else. I'm her Mummy. It's what I do. I cope.

What I meant was that it frightens me to think about doing it again. I know how hard it was. I know how much sleep I lost, how painful it was. I remember the tears (hers and mine) and the anxiety and the awfulness of the anaesthetic room. How small she looked. How afraid. How afraid I was. We all were. 

I know that people go through much worse. I know that some people lose their precious little ones. I know that our situation is better than many and for that I am so, so thankful.  I know that you are there. I know that you will walk with us and hold our hands and lift us over the obstacles and that you'll be there, faithfully, awake when we sleep, watching over us. I just don't want to go there again.

So here it is. 

'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

Holding your hand

I hope in you. That's me. I need new strength. I'm all out of the sort of emotional energy required to do this again. I thought it was finished. I'm all out of the physical sort of energy required to drive to a hospital in another city and find a parking spot and make appointments on time and hold Katy still for blood tests when she's terrified and screaming. I'm all out of all of it. 

Soar? That implies freedom and grace and lightness and happiness. I can't imagine it. I'm stuck down here. Heavy. Weighted down. I am weary and I am fainting in the face of what I'm called upon to do. 

But I hope in you. You never lied to me and you won't lie to me now. If you say that you will renew my strength, you will. If you say that you will give me so much more than I'll need so that I can soar when all I can hope for is to plod, then I believe you. I'll take all you have of that. 

I'm going to claim this promise now. That and all the others where you say that you will never leave us. That you will always be there. 

Needing you to hold my hand.

Healer, heal my Katy. 

Comforter, comfort us all. 

Counsellor, show me what what to do. 

Father, hold my little poorly baby close in your arms.  And me too.  

Friend, come with us wherever we have to go.

God Almighty, be in all of this. 

I want to be an eagle so badly but I feel like a mole. I'm buried. I'm in the dark. I can't see. 

Just give me light for the next step. You always have, haven't you?

'Those who hope in the Lord...'

Amen. 

Holding your hand

I think I've been asking all the wrong questions.  I don't suppose there's any reason to expect that I would understand why things are happening as they are, really, is there? From experience you don't announce something, then wait for questions and explain yourself before proceeding. If understanding comes, which it often doesn't, then it evolves over time and doesn't dawn on me like a light going on.

So I should stop wasting your time and mine in trying to work it all out. Katy has a lump on her neck and surgery seems likely. I have a lump in my breast and I don't know what it is or if anything needs doing about it. So today, as I wait for Katy's appointment time to arrive, and mine in a few hours, I am going to concentrate on not dwelling on the 'why?' and just focus on putting one foot in front of the other.  I don't think you want me to do anything more than that. 

I spent yesterday evening with two of the loveliest friends a person could have. Another wise and kind and perceptive person came round to drop off a meal for tonight because she thought that when I got in from the two hour breast clinic appointment I probably wouldn't fancy cooking.  Bryan arrived home late last night having caught a train from London to be with me and Katy today. Mum has been quietly helping out and doing what needs to be done to keep things running smoothly. This morning already I have had a host of text messages from friends who are remembering what today holds for me. I feel blessed indeed to be surrounded by such wonderful warm, kind people. Thankyou Lord. Your family is an amazing thing. I feel as if I have loving people all round me and if my legs go wobbly they'll help to hold me up. 

I'm holding your hand today. I'm holding it tight and letting you lead me just as I hold onto Katy and steer her across a road. I'm not going to let go because I don't want to lose you, and I know that you have no intention of letting go of me. I won't slip out of your grasp. I know that sometimes just like Katy, I lean back and dig my heels in and you can feel me resist as you pull me along, complaining and whining. Even at those times I don't want to let go. 

I don't feel like a grown up today. I know that when I have Katy on my knee and the doctor is telling me what needs to be done to make her better I will be in parent mode, and I know I will look after her and be calm and reassuring and everything she needs me to be, but today, underneath, I feel as if I want to sit on your lap and just be held and have you stroke my hair and whisper that it's alright, there's no need to be afraid, because you will look after me. You'll make it alright.

My feelings are all over the place. One minute I am resolute and strong, the next crumbling with fear of the unknown. To be honest it's not fear of the unknown at all, it's fear of what I perceive to be the worst case scenario this afternoon or whenever I get the results of whatever tests they do. Fear that I'm going to have to learn to live with the shadow of something hanging over me, forever wondering if some day soon it's all going to be over for me in a few months of misery and illness.

That was a little wallow, wasn't it? I'm sorry. I'm sitting here looking out of the window at the sun on newly cut grass, and sparrows and blackbirds on the bird table, some beautiful poppies just opening out. From here I can't quite see all the weeding that needs doing or the annoying bird poo on the new bench. In a bowl in front of me are the pebbles I brought home from our exquisite weekend at the beach, including all the smiley ones.  We found so many, and I didn't have the heart to discard any. I've got a cup of coffee; another couple of encouraging texts have arrived since I have been writing this.  I have so much to be thankful for. 

I have you. I have a God who loves me. I have a God who has defeated the worst that this world can do to me, so that no matter what, I will not be crushed. I am afraid, but you are not, and a tiny part of me hears you when you tell me that I don't need to be afraid either. I can hold onto you and shelter behind you and you will take care of me. I don't know what form that will take, and though I keep trying to persuade you to do it my way, I know in my heart that you know best, and I have chosen your way.  In my small, weak, faulty way, I know that it is the only true way.

Here's today, Lord. Thankyou that I'm not alone. 

Thy will be done, but could you do it this way?

So Katy has to have an operation to remove her special bump. Or at least, an operation is scheduled; I'm still of the opinion that before 3 June there is plenty of time for you to do your thing and get rid of the offending lump without the need to resort to anaesthesia and scalpels. I could say that a bit louder, if you like, if it would help? I would very much like to resolve this one without any doctors, however skilled, cutting chunks out of my beautiful daughter.

She was so brave, again.  Even after last time when she trusted the lady consultant who went on to stick a large needle in her neck and rummage around a bit.  I was so proud as she sat so still, let a variety of doctors poke and prod and squeeze her bump. Then she snuggled silently into me as they talked about consent forms and overnight stays and the risks of what felt like a million and one things that could go wrong, and then politely said 'Thankyou, bye bye' as we left.

What a well brought up little girl.

Of course, I could go on to mention that this was the same child who liked a picture of a butterfly in a Reader's Digest in the waiting area and made to tear it out, or the same child who showed her pants to another child across the aisle, or the same child who announced in a loud voice that 'traffic wardens are smelly!' (we have a game in the garden where they ride their bikes until 'the traffic warden' tells them to stop, and they don't, so they have to go to 'prison'...)

Maybe not that well brought up then.  But that's not the point. Not right now, anyway.

I hate the idea of my little Katy being unconscious while someone cuts into her little neck. I have trust in the medical professionals and in the skill of anaesthetists and so on, but I know the statistics and I know that there are people who are the 'one' in a ratio of 'one in X thousand' who don't wake up after surgery. My beautiful daughter will have a scar on her neck that might or might not heal well, and about which she might or might not feel self conscious when she's older. She's going to be scared and sad and in a strange place.  And so am I.

Every fibre of me wants to scoop her up and say that I won't let anyone hurt her, but I can't do that. Well, I have done it, and it turns out to be an empty promise. In fact, I am so complicit with those that hurt her that I hold her still against her will as they hurt her with needles. I have signed a form to say that they can administer drugs that will render her helpless while they cut out this bloody lump. Sorry about that.

It would be so much easier if it was me or Bryan that had this lump.  They'd whip it out under a local anaesthetic and we'd be a bit sore and grumpy and expect some extra sympathy and then it'd be done with. We have greater understanding and bigger necks. No awkward proximity to the Accessory nerve so no potential implications about shoulder impairment, no worry about anaesthetic complications, no worry about anxiety and fear and bad dreams.

Anyway, I'd better stop complaining because this is what we're stuck with.  I have been assured by a doctor (a Clinical Fellow, no less) that this lump will not go away on it's own having stuck around as long as it has already but I reserve the right to disagree with him and if you don't mind, this is still my preferred option, please.  But for the sake of argument, we'll assume that Katy is going to have her operation.

I'm not sure how much she understands, but I know from experience that I shouldn't underestimate her.  She was there when they looked at her bump and talked to me about Nightingale ward and excisionand an overnight stay and the Accessory nerve and scarring and swelling. She hasn't said anything about it and since we have appointments for another scan and a clinic check before we go for the pre-op and look round Nightingale ward, I'm just going to give it some time and wait till I really have to before we explain things to her.  And that gives you a chance to intervene...

She's been so brave.  Last night she was upset because her bump had a little bleed and a little weep and she was afraid to lie down in case something nasty came out of her bump onto her pillow. She wouldn't let me near it and wouldn't be comforted until she was exhausted and she let me push her down onto the pillows and lie down next to her.  At one point she sobbed, 'Why do I have to have a bump, Mummy? Can't you take it away?' and I thought my heart would break.  How do people manage with children who are much more seriously ill?  How do they cope with terminal diagnoses or terrible pain?  Oh God I know how blessed we are, honestly. I know that we'll come through this alright, honestly I do. I'm not wallowing in self pity because I know that this is a minor hurdle in comparison with some.

Actually, I have to say that I feel strangely cushioned from all this anxiety at the moment; and as a chronic worrier this is unusual. I can only assume that we are wrapped up in prayer because so many of our family at church are praying for us.  It is a lovely thing that among so many other (many more serious) calls for prayer, many people care enough to lift Katy and the rest of us to you. I feel it, definitely. I think it's a big part of why I'm not beside myself and unable to sleep at the thought of surgery on my youngest daughter, and why I still feel quite strongly that surgery might end up unnecessary. And why, if she does have the operation, I am convinced that it will be alright.

I'd rather that Katy didn't have this bump, but she does.  When I ask 'Why us?' I know that the answer is 'Why not us?' I'd rather she didn't have to have it taken away, but it seems at the moment that she does.  So here it is, Lord. With all the other heaps of rubbish I keep laying down in front of you and taking back and laying down again, I lay down all my fears and worries and questions and sadnesses and inadequacies about The Bump and its implications. You can have it.

I know that you'll look after my littlest girl and keep her from harm.  I know that you'll hold her close when I can't be with her when the surgeons are doing their thing and I know that you'll give them skill and wisdom in doing what they do. I know that you'll put your arms around her and stroke her hair if she's afraid without her Mummy and Daddy.  But it's hard.

And for me, teach me how to give my family to you, because they are yours already.  Thankyou that you have given them to me because they are so precious to me. Teach me how to stop agonising that I can't solve all their problems and take their hurts away because I know they have to learn to live, and having hurts and problems are part of life.  If I have to, help me when I have to stand back and let them take my Katy away and then sit and picture what they're doing as I wait for her to come back.  Give me ever more faith, Lord, and show me more of your love each day.

And thankyou for today's portion of love, Father God. Thankyou that you care about Katy and nothing I can say will make you take more care of her because your love is perfect as it is.  Your will be done.

But if your will was to get rid of this lump before the third of June, that'd be just great.

Lonely at playtime

Lord, listen.


My little girl Elizabeth has had a bad day, I think. 


Tonight at bedtime she was tired and upset and things were weighing heavily on her little heart I think and so we talked for a while and I tried to make her see how special she is and it doesn't mean that there's something wrong with her if one little boy has decided that he no longer wants to be her friend, and how proud we are that she got her 50m badge at swimming at the weekend even though another child got their 75m; no, it doesn't mean that she's hopeless at swimming.  I'm sure that someone will play with her at playtime tomorrow; they do like her, why would they not?  

It nearly broke my heart. I know she's tired and tearful and I know that I do the same; late at night when I'm tired and overwrought things look worse than they do in the sunshine.  I've just been in to see her and she looks so small and so heartbreakingly beautiful with her little pigtails, her arms wrapped round her cuddly pig.  Katy is asleep with Barney on her face, the lump on her neck sticking out at the side, and Elizabeth is snuggled up with Pig, her lonely and anxious tears dried on her cheeks. 

Lord what a responsibility it is to bring up children.  


I know I can't do it without you; even with your help I feel as if I'm not really holding my end up.  Please show me how to help my little girls to grow in confidence.  Not arrogance, not self-satisfaction, but self esteem.  Show me how to nurture in them a knowledge of how special they are; how unique and gifted. I don't want them to compare themselves with other children any more than is necessary and I don't want them to feel they have to win, to be the best, to get it right every time to be a success.  

And help me not to overreact.  It's parents' evening on Thursday and I don't want to be the Mum who is always fussing. I want my beautiful, vivacious, imaginative, energetic, fun-loving Elizabeth to be equipped to fight her own battles - as far as any five year old might be - and not have her Mummy anxiously consulting the teacher every time something might be amiss.  

I get it so wrong sometimes. I cut one of them off as they try to tell me something when they're eating their dinner and then I realise how important it was to them. Tonight I declared it was a race to see who could get upstairs to bathtime first and Katy stood at the foot of the stairs and howled as she will never in a million years win a race against Lizzie.  She sobbed to me that she was tired of always being last.  


'When I'm five, (sniff) Lizzie will be (sniff) six, won't she?  And when I'm (sniff) seven, she'll (sniff) be eight. I'm always behind.  I'm never fast enough.  I can't ever win anything.'  


When will I learn?  I cuddle her and tell her that it's not always about being fastest or first and so on and so on.  How hard it is being a little sister.  How hard it is being a big sister.  


How hard it is being a Mum. 

Lord Jesus, you were human; you came here and lived as we did.  Did you ever feel inadequate?  I can't imagine it; you are God, after all.  Did you ever feel lonely?  We know that you did.  You were rejected in such devastating terms that I can't compare our small and superficial hurt feelings to your experiences in any way; that line of thought isn't really helping me.

You know my Lizzie.  You know how wonderful she is. You've made her bright with all the gifts that she has; please, Lord Jesus Christ, help her to shine. Help her to understand the wonder of herself so that she isn't cut so deeply by another child's careless rejection, that she has the confidence to walk away if someone is being unkind to her, that she might approach a new friend with her self esteem intact and not worry that she might not be good enough.  


Father, hold my little girl close and assure her of her worth, her loveability.  Am I not doing it well enough? 

I get so cross with her sometimes.  I am not good in the mornings and she is bouncy, excitable, silly.  I would say that more often than not we are cross with each other at breakfast time. I'm irritable.  I'm always snapping at her; clean teeth, brush hair, get dressed, eat breakfast, get books, stop messing about, find shoes, put on coat, why so late to mention that she needs something, don't be silly, walk faster, settle down, quick, quick... 


I leave her at school and then walk home with the same regret and guilt that I feel last thing at night when I go in and see them angelic in sleep - how come I could have been so cross with you such a short time ago?  I am impatient and critical.  Maybe her diffidence and low self esteem is my fault.  Can I have done such damage?  

Lord heal my girls. Heal them of any damage that I have done unwittingly in my heavy handed, clumsy, galumphing parenting. I love them so, so much that I write this with tears in my eyes at the idea that I have sown seeds that might grow into attitudes that might dog them into adulthood.  


You know that I, of all people, find it horrific that I might do that to them. I'm working through some of these things myself at 40 and I am terrified that I see it all in Lizzie aged five. I've wasted years that I don't want her to waste. 

I want her to be comfortable being Lizzie. To be proud of it, not apologetic.  To know that when she's done her best, she's done well, whether she's top of the class or bottom (not that in this day and age they let the children know their rankings in the class).  I want her to be kind, gentle, lighthearted and open minded in her choice of friends and her treatment of them.  I want her to be resilient and secure, not devastated when things go wrong. 

Maybe she's just tired tonight and focusing on the negatives. Maybe I am tired tonight and focusing on the negatives.  

Let my girls sleep in your arms tonight, Father God.  Keep them safe from anything that might harm them physically, emotionally, spiritually, intellectually, or any other way. Heal them of anything that threatens to take root and hurt them, please.  Wash away the wounds and pains of being little and unsure and worried.  Assure them of your love in a way that they can understand, please.  And of mine too. 

Help me to be a better mother to my children. I need more patience, loads loads loads more patience.  I need a stronger grip on what I say and how I say things.  I need to stop and look more and hurry and chivvy less.  I need to let them be little more and stop expecting them to grow up.  One day they will have grown up and then what?

I'm going to go to sleep now and I hope that tomorrow we can all start afresh. Make it alright, Lord. I feel so unequal to the task of being a Mummy right now. Will you do it, please?  Show me really clearly what to do, what to say. Tomorrow, help me put you right in control. Give Lizzie a great day at school and Katy a great day at nursery. 


Build them up and show me how to do it. 


Make them smile. Please. 

Take the tears that have been cried in this house today and turn them into something special.