A - Z Challenge: P - People

Well, this could have gone several different ways. Given that my blog productivity moves at the pace of a glacier, if I say that it's taken me longer than usual to decide what to write about for the letter P, you'll understand the magnitude of my dilemma. I had a more than a few ideas (P for prolific). Here are the runners and riders:

P for Pain. Hmm. People wiser than me have not got to the bottom of this one. Theologians and philosophers have mulled it over but I've not heard of anyone who has come to any conclusions that actually help the average, normal person who wants to understand why there is so much sadness around. On the road I live in (and it's small) in recent times there have been frightening diagnoses, bereavements, mental health issues, chronic illness, broken marriages, accidents, devastating family news, violence and loneliness. Should I attempt to explore why God lets this happen? 

P for Prayer. Bit like the last one. Where is God when I need him? When I know that he CAN answer prayer, why doesn't he? Is there any point?

P for Purr. One cat post in an alphabet is probably enough for the average person, but I was tempted to mention once again what a delight and comfort my furry family members are. Bean is my special cat. Yes, I love all three, but Bean is the one who has chosen me, and when she curls up in the crook of my arm or on my chest and purrs (as she is right now), I purr back.

P for Progress. Should I ramble on into the ether about the fact that I am doing a bit better these days - getting out and about a bit more after the hermit-like retreat of the last few years? 

P for Painting. In an effort to increase my creativity levels, I decided this year to do something creative every day. This could be writing, doodling, gardening, or indeed, painting. I got myself a water colour set and quickly became frustrated that I couldn't make things look how I wanted them to, and then bought a cheap set of acrylics that seem to be more my thing. I like painting pebbles. P for Pebbles! 

There were more. P is a good letter for inspiration, it seems, and so my P was held up while I vacillated. 

Until today. Today I went back to church, for the second time since pre-covid days. Steady on. 

There are a number of reasons why I haven't been, not all of which I can go into, but suffice it to say that there have been times when I would not have been able to cope with lots of people asking me how I was, how things were, where I've been etc. Habits change, and one of my daughters is now away at university, the other took on a voluntary job teaching swimming on Sunday mornings and my husband works Sundays now to allow him to take time off in the week. Result - not been to church in years, and the longer I was away, the harder it felt to go back. I do want to say that I never thought I'd actually left church, still read the newsletters, felt as if it was my church; it was just the actual going on a Sunday morning that was problematic. P for problem. 

I was quite nervous walking down the road this morning. 

Would I still feel as if I belonged? Would I be left too far behind? Had I been forgotten? Would I still know anybody? This building that I used to feel was home, a safe place: would it still feel that way? 

Oh, my word. What a gift God had for me this morning. Before I'd chosen a seat, a friend came over and invited me to sit with her. Someone on the row behind hugged me and told me how good it was to see me. We chatted as the band warmed up, at the start of the service. Someone waved extravagantly to attract my attention in the first song and gave me a huge smile. Another dear friend blew me a kiss as she came in late and walked past to a spare seat. Someone else winked, another did a double take when he saw me and grinned broadly. 

The sermon was about the promises of God. P for Promises. About God's faithfulness when his people are unfaithful. About his nearness, his patience (P for Patience) and his unfailing love. His willingness to seek us out and bring us home, to bering about restoration. It was about hope. Exactly what I needed, having been lost in my own wilderness for what feels like a long time. 

Afterwards, I had given myself the option of sneaking out during the final hymn so that I wouldn't have to make conversation (and negotiate those awkward questions) if I didn't want to. And then when it got to that point, it turned out that the final hymn was one that was very special to me, with words that have given me hope to hold onto in recent years. When it was over, some people sought me out for hugs and said some lovely things to me. 

'How wonderful to see you!'

'I've been praying for you.'

'I'm so glad you came!'

For the first time in my life, I was one of the last few people to leave the church building. Never happened before. I even have plans! P for plans! I am meeting a friend for coffee on Tuesday, and another on Thursday, and next week another two for a catch up over a glass of wine one evening. You know that feeling where you see someone you haven't seen in years and it's exactly as if you've never been apart? That. 

I walked home in the cold drizzle with a smile on my face, and smiles have been in short supply for quite a while. 

So, this post is about people. P for People. It's also about prayer, about pain, about peace, about God's presence, about a sense of place, and about progress, but most of all it's about people. 

The people of God, and my people. 

Unappetising sandwiches and thin places

Forrest Gump's life was famously like a box of chocolates. Mine's more like a sandwich.

All the bits of my life are like layers: family, friends, health, work, church, and so on. It's a good sandwich. A well-filled, appetising one, most of the time. It's when something is off that it all goes wrong. 

My problem is my inability to compartmentalise. When something is wrong - a sandwich component is bad or absent - whether it's a touch of blue mould on the bread or a tang of rancid butter - the whole thing is inedible. No matter that the cheese is my favourite, and there's just the right amount of pickle, or the perfect crispy bit of lettuce, I can't enjoy the sandwich because part of it is not right. 

In times of stress or confusion, it's as if I've dropped the sandwich and it's landed on the floor in a heap of component parts. In accordance with the five-second-rule I scramble to pick it up, hastily reassembling it on my plate, but it doesn't really work. Now there are bits of carpet fluff and nothing is where it should be. It's not appetising any more. (And perhaps the metaphor is stretched a bit thin).

So, I find myself reflecting on what has gone wrong with my sandwich in recent months, or even years. 

Continued over at the Association of Christian Writers' blog, More Than Writers. 

Come over and say hello and have a look round. We're a talented bunch and no mistake. 

Broken Trust

My Trust is broken. 

It fell off the wall and landed awkwardly and even though it's been glued, it's wonky.

I can't help thinking that this is deeply significant. 

My word for last year was 'Trust', and, as I did the year before that, I had my word cut out of MDF by a gentleman who cuts things out of MDF for a small fee. 

There's a little space just above the wardrobe in my bedroom that is just made for fixing MDF words to - and so that's where my words live. 

I can see them from my bed, which is one of my favourite places in the world. I see them before I put the light out at night and I see them when I wake up in the morning. 

But 'Trust' fell off. Thud. It landed at an angle on the last 'T'. Bent, cracked, now glued, but (as they say in this neck of the woods) it's all skew-whiff. 

A metaphor for my life. I trust - yes I do - but it sometimes slips. I come unstuck, and on occasion I fall and land badly, and that hurts. I bruise. I mend, but I have scars. 

My trust in God is hugely variable. I wish it were not so, but I know that I do not have the staying power to stick closely to Him. When I am there, right by His side, holding on tight, I am safe, I am secure, I am right where I should be; but then I get distracted and I loosen my hold, and - there - I get pulled away and a gap yawns between us. When there is distance between God and me, it is easy to pick me off like a pack of hyenas with the slowest buffalo left behind by the herd. 

I am a slow buffalo, sometimes. 

However, good news. 

My Trust is back up there. 

It's been glued, but it's not quite straight. It will always droop a little now, following it's fall, but it's back where it belongs. The damage is subtle, but definite. However, because of the strength of the glue, it will never break in the same place; it's stronger than ever. 

Funny, that - the area of fracture is now stronger than the surrounding bits of MDF - a bit like bones. Bone callus is denser than normal bone and so it's rare for a fracture to take place where there's already been one. There are other weak points, but this one is healed. A little uglier now, a little smudgy, a little out of line, yet tough and resilient. 

My trust keeps taking knocks. There are days when I scribble urgently in my journal, 'I trust you, Jesus' and 'I trust you - I'm trying to' and there are days when I don't write in my journal and I forget to trust at all. Those are the days when my tenuous hold is weakening, weakening.... Lately there've been a few occasions where my need to trust has been overwhelming and yet I realise how poor I am at it. 

But, He is endlessly patient.  He soothes the hurts, heals the wounds and puts me back where I am safe. 

This year's word is 'Peace'. I've ordered my word in MDF from the man who makes things out of MDF but it hasn't come yet. I've been hoping peace will arrive very soon for quite a while, now. I am waiting for my Peace.

That's another post, I think.  

Cans of worms

Well, here's an update. Last week I was bravely announcing that I had a Plan for Lent. 

I was going to work through a list of '40 Things to Give Up for Lent' that I found online, and I was going to journal and pray through each one, telling God what was on my mind when I considered each particular word, and then listen to what God might say back to me. I thought it would be a learning experience, a little soul-searching, a little offloading, then perhaps some word of affirmation and determination.... 

That was the plan. 

You're expecting me to confess that I haven't been doing it, aren't you? That I got to Day 3 and tripped up, or that it's all become a little bit too difficult and I'll finish some other time. 

That's not it. I've done it every day. Thirty-four pages of journal and quite a few hours, actually. That's not the problem.

The problem with my Lent plan is that it seems to be having quite an effect.

The routine of doing it I've found quite easy; it's the things that I'm realising that are making it difficult. I've found that thinking and writing about these words causes stuff in my head to spill out that I either a) thought I'd dealt with years ago or b) didn't realise was there at all. Cans of worms, long shut up tight, and I'm levering the lids off. There's quite a mess. 

My word for this year is 'PEACE', and I am anything but peaceful, and this Lent '40 things' thing isn't helping. How can an examination of my heart on topics such as 'fear of failure', 'comparison' and 'your comfort zone' cohabit comfortably with PEACE?

So, in this short update, I bring you the news that there is work to be done, indeed, and I haven't even got to 'negativity' (day 16) or 'distraction' (day 22) or - gulp - 'worry' (day 30). 

Lots to consider, lots to confess. I'm just struggling to know how to deal with the things that are coming up. Over and over again I'm writing, 'I'll just leave this with you, Jesus.' 

I can't think of any other way of dealing with it. It feels right; some of the bad stuff had leapt back on board over the past few months anyway, and so the opportunity to confront what's going on seemed both necessary and God-led. I suppose that I thought there would be a sense of closure as I skipped through the forty things. And there isn't. No heavenly box ticked, no huge sigh of relief. No feeling of 'Right, that's done with.'

So, I conclude this is closely linked to my word for last year, that I was reluctant to replace as I chose My One Word 2015. My word for last year was TRUST, and as the year went on it became more and more precious to me. I know now that it is really my word for last year, this year and all the years that come until I run out of years down here on earth. 

TRUST is pretty much all there is. 

So, I trust you, Jesus, with my struggle with comparing myself with other people. I trust you with my fear of getting things wrong. I trust you when I put a wary foot outside my comfort zone, and I trust you that you will be there as I think about all the other terrifying things on the list. You haven't ever let me down. 

I trust you, Jesus. That must be the path to peace. There isn't another way. 

Ok, I'm ready. Day 9. What's it to be? 

Oh. 'Guilt'. 

Right. 

Easy like Sunday morning

One day I'd like to get to church on a Sunday and not get whiplash from the change in pace.

The other week I was doing one of the readings in church and so was meeting with others in the vestry just before the service to pray. I couldn't think of a thing to say, and I stood, mute and unfocused, managing the occasional 'Amen'.

The whirlwind of Sunday morning had one again left my head full of static, and it was going to take me longer than the distance between the main doors at the back of church and the vestry at the front to calm it down, and this was not an unfamiliar feeling. I usually arrive at church in that state.

Whoever said, 'Easy like Sunday morning,' clearly didn't have children to get to church. My two require endless nagging to get them dressed, brushed and in their coats and shoes round about the right time to leave. We're inevitably just stumbling out of the front door five minutes before the service is about to start, with the church a ten minute walk away. On the day when I'm reading, or doing the prayers, it has been known for me to form an advance party to scuttle down the road ahead of my husband who undertakes to herd the children there when the missing shoe has been located, or the correct toy selected to accompany them. Sometimes when I appear from the vestry in my state of calm serenity (ahem), they're there sitting buffed and alert in church (haha) and other times they appear, grim-faced and pale during the first hymn.

It's not only the children that make Sunday mornings so fraught, however. Some of it may be down to my keenness to extract any last moments in bed on the only day free from school runs or (now) early morning swimming training, and I always underestimate how long things are going to take to get ready.

So much for the practical things, and I'm sure we're not unique - but the real chaos is going on in my head, and that's the thing that perplexes me the most.

I come into church, and it feels different. Whether it should or not is another debate, but I find that eventually, after I've calmed down and soaked up the atmosphere, listened to the liturgy, sung some worship songs, closed my eyes to pray, heard God's word read aloud.... I am in a different place from where I was when I shrugged off my coat and sat down, out of breath. I have slowed; refocused. I am outside myself, for once, and my eyes are on Him.

It feels so much better.

I want there to be less of a difference between that feeling that the breathless avalanche that is my arrival at church. I want there to be less of a difference between one state and the other - my outside church state of mind and my in-church state of mind.

I don't want my head to be so full of things that to slow down and seek God is such a stark contrast from my normal way of being.

I want Him to seep into my normal, everyday consciousness more and more. I know that family life and circumstances are always going to raise the likelihood that the trip down the road on a Sunday morning might be more hairy and exhilarating than serene, but taking that into account, I would love there to be less of a contrast between the spiritual and the secular. Let's face it, it's me that makes the distinction in the first place, isn't it? God doesn't think that I should be in one frame of mind for an hour and a half on a Sunday morning and a different one all week, does He? It's not as if school runs and supermarket shops and sitting at the poolside are beneath Him and He's only interested in me between 11am and 12.20pm on a Sunday.

I am not generally someone who compartmentalises things. I know people who have one pigeonhole for family stuff, one for relationships, friends, work, health etc., but I am not like this. My life has always been more like a sandwich - my children are one layer, my marriage another, work and health and so on the other layers - if one of them is bad, the whole thing tastes wrong. One part will infect all the others and so if all is not well in an area of my life, the whole of me is upset.

I think this is why I am uncomfortable with the feeling that sometimes I put worshipping God in a compartment only to be accessed on Sundays. Because I've done this, the rest of my life has to be awkwardly contained in the same framework and it just won't do it. So the other jumbled-up compartments labelled 'The Rest Of My Life' all swish about and froth up and overflow all on top of the 'Sunday morning' compartment and it gets swamped. And then in the vestry I find that I am waiting for 'Life' to drain away so that I can find God.

Perhaps it's not always like this. I suspect there have been times when my Life Sandwich is liberally spread throughout with spirituality and the whole thing is much richer and tastier and more satisfying because of it. Every bite has God in it.

Maybe I've just lost that at the moment; after all, Christmas is a huge and ironic distraction from one's spiritual life, isn't it? I find that I am all on to focus on the nativity advent calendar with the children once a day in the maelstrom of preparations and purchases in December. I missed the Carol Service this year, my annual advent devotional got pushed out as life got too busy and no sooner were the Christmas festivities over than I succumbed to a chest infection and sort of opted out of everything for the next week, which meant that my usual New Year musings and preparations were somewhat truncated.

That's probably not a bad thing. I over-think most things.

So, here I am in January and I am feeling a little out of sorts. Breathless from the speed with which I've found myself in another New Year and a bit reluctant to embrace it as I liked the old one.  Head spinning a little, trying to find something to focus on that isn't moving, something that will stay the same even when everything else is constantly shifting shape.

That'll be you, then, God.

Spread through my sandwich, will you?  I'm inviting you in - access all areas. Be the main filling, be the crusts, the salad, the pickle, the condiments, the mayonnaise on the side of the plate. Overflow and affect everything.

Peace, please.

A letter to fill you in. Or not.

I'd like to fill you in, but I can't. I don't know what's going on myself. 

I haven't been able to write for ages, and in normal circumstances not feeding the BlogMonster regularly isn't a great idea.  I've long since let go of the blog stats - sort of given 'em up as a bad job. That in itself is something, I think, as a year ago I used to check several times each day, hungrily waiting to see the spikes get higher per day, week, month. These days I rarely bother checking, and the spam robot things keep the numbers ticking over. 

It's been a combination of busyness, other unwelcome things occupying head space and eating away at the opportunity to write, and then an overwhelming absence of inspiration when I do have time. The lack of inspiration thing is generally new to me as I have gone for almost three years now constantly on the lookout for things to write about and usually find that ideas queue up to be explored. 

It's not as if I'm in a dark place, spiritually. 

I went to a conference a week or two ago and it was amazing; a mountain top experience, I think you call it. God showed up and made His presence felt. It was awe-inspiring, beautiful, challenging, reassuring, moving, wonderful - and yet I haven't a clue how to write about it. 

It's too big. 

So I'm letting the words fall out in any old order and not worrying too much about how elegant it is or how much sense I make. I hope that by trying to explain, I might start to understand a bit more.

I've taken a song away from the conference as my song for now. It's by Hillsong, and it's called 'Oceans (Where feet may fail)'.*

You call me out upon the waters

The great unknown where feet may fail

And there I find You in the mystery

In oceans deep

My faith will stand

And I will call upon Your name

And keep my eyes above the waves

When oceans rise

My soul will rest in Your embrace

For I am Yours and You are mine

Your grace abounds in deepest waters

Your sovereign hand

Will be my guide

Where feet may fail and fear surrounds me

You've never failed and You won't start now

Spirit lead me where my trust is without borders

Let me walk upon the waters

Wherever You would call me

Take me deeper than my feet could ever wander

And my faith will be made stronger

In the presence of my Saviour

And somewhere in there is my current confusion and why I'm struggling to write anything at the moment. 

At the beginning of the conference, I asked God in the pages of my journal to show me something new about Him, and something new about me. He answered my prayer. 

We sang.

'Spirit lead me where my trust is without borders - 

let me walk upon the waters wherever you would call me...' 

Tears streamed down my face. He gave me a glimpse of how much my soul longs for Him; I could barely sing the words, so full was I of yearning, reaching to go further, deeper after Him. I tend to tie myself in knots about my motivations, my commitment, whether my heart is in the right place. The strength of my own longing overwhelmed me.

Lead me where my trust is without borders...

My trust definitely has borders. It has a clearly defined perimeter, I think. I think God showed me that my trust in Him is not complete. At the same conference, Danielle Strickland spoke to us powerfully about living outside our comfort zone, about waking up and choosing a boundless life, and there it is again. Boundless. Unconstrained. Unlimited. 

I've been reading a book with a friend for a while now; we read a chapter and meet each week to discuss it. We're reading Lysa Ter Keurst's book, 'What Happens When Women Say Yes to God?' It's been an uncomfortable read, and we're only on chapter three. Over and over again I've said 'Yes' to God, but I wonder if my yeses have been measured, limited. 'Lord, show me where you're proposing to take me, and I'll tell you if I'm following.'

Another wise lady whose words I usually devour as food for the soul wrote the other week about Heidi Baker, and called her 'possibly the most surrendered woman in the world.'  I mentioned this to someone and they said they saw Heidi speak recently. She related an anecdote about the time she asked God why so often when she tried to speak to Western audiences she found herself so overcome by the Holy Spirit that she fell down, unable to say anything, and yet at home in her ministry in Mozambique, it rarely happens?  She said:

'And God answered me. He said, 'In Mozambique they don't have a problem with pride.'

Hmm.

My trust has borders. I sometimes come crashing into the edge of my trust in God. And then what? I panic. I stand still. I pull up the duvet. I turn to my own plans and efforts, to a friend, to food.  

I want to walk upon the waters, but do I? 

I'm comfortable, and I don't really want to be uncomfortable. I like my life, in the main, apart from the usual everyday sort of niggles, and I know that I should complain a lot less and be thankful a lot more. I want more of God - I know I do - but I think maybe I'm counting the cost and backing away in case it turns out to be expensive.

I think my boat is pulled up high on the beach.

I ask Him to lead me wherever He wants me to go, but I am reluctant to set off unless I have a map and a guide book and an assurance that it won't get too choppy out there. I have my own ideas of where I want God to lead me and I fear that I interpret everything through the lens of my hopes and my dreams. I try to manipulate Him into my plan as if faith were a charm to be invoked.

Lord, lead me wherever you want me to go - as long as it's where I want to go. 

In the West, we have a problem with pride. 

I want to get out of the boat and walk towards Jesus' outstretched hand. I want to be whole, full, overflowing. I know that the trivia that I cling to is nothing in comparison with the riches that God would like to give me. I know that my own plans are dwarfed by what He would have me do with my life.

And yet... 

I'm afraid. My trust is not without borders. I wonder how much it might hurt; what I might have to let go of, to lose. And I'm comfortable. 

And this is where a blog post like this ought to end with an inspiring conclusion. A breakthrough to share and encourage. Some wisdom along the lines of: '...and that's when I realised that... and now it's all brilliant! My confusion is a thing of the past!'

Yeah. 

You know what I'm hanging on to? At the conference I went to a workshop about prayer and prophecy. We got into small groups and prayed for each other, asking God to give us a word or a picture to encourage each other. The room was full of the Holy Spirit. 

There were four in my group, so we each ended up with a card with three things from the Lord. I was moved to tears (again) by people's words for me. How could strangers have known those things that spoke to very specific circumstances in my life?  God is so gracious. 

But there was one word spoken to me by a lovely gentle lady that made no sense to me at all just then. She said that there was conflict in my life. She didn't know how or if it would be resolved, she said, but there would be peace. Shalom-peace, she called it. 

There would be peace, and victory. 

So I'm laying all this before God, and asking Him for the Shalom. 

The walking on water, the following, perhaps opening my hands and laying down the dreams that I am oh, so invested in and believing that He knows best. He knows me. He sees me. He loves me anyway. 

He knows what I will do already. He knows the beginning and the end. He will never give up on me and He won't let me sink; He'll keep my eyes above the waves. 

At the moment I just see a tangle of conflicting ideas, a mess of confusion and fear and the seemingly impenetrable borders of my trust. 

He sees a daughter who loves Him, who overthinks and worries, who lifted her hands with longing in her heart and tears on her face at the thought of walking across the waters to take His hand. 

Shalom. 

*Oceans (Where Feet May Fail) 2013 Hillsong Music Australia

Linking with Ruth and Sabrina in the return of 'Letters To...' 

Letter to the Brave: No, I have the Lord

Dear Helen

Did you think I didn't see? 

I saw you gazing with such longing at the future version of yourself and I understood what you were going through. On your face I saw pain and envy and so much sadness. I saw the things you worked hard to hide, too - I looked into your heart and I saw the depth of your shame, and the bitterness that you still suffer while this woman is free. I see everything, you know. I see the hidden things. 

My daughter, I know you so well. You know that, but you still get angry with me sometimes because you think that I don't understand you. You ask me why I don't step in and sort out all the troubles that you hold so tightly in your fists and you question my love for you. No, don't protest - I hear you say that you accept my love but you think that love is a frail, pathetic, limited thing. 

I love you with a love that existed from before the beginning of time. My love has survived much greater challenges than anything you throw at it and still I go on loving. I am Love. You don't believe how much I love you because your capacity to give and receive love is tiny in comparison with mine. You limit it still further by refusing to believe the truth about yourself. 

I made you. I am the Lord, and I made the lions and the trees and the penguins and the pine-cones and all the things that you find so appealing, beautiful and awe-inspiring - and I made you. I made every bone in your body, every cell and hair on your head, and I was pleased with what I made. I didn't look at my daughter Helen and have the smallest regret. I smiled when I saw you, and as you sleep at night I gaze at you and I kiss your forehead and I smooth your hair from your forehead with the same tenderness that I see you doing with your daughters. 

I love you, precious one. I love you just as you are. You remind me of my Son; you're more like him all the time. Don't keep batting my love away with polite thanks and disbelief. Let it sink in and transform you. It will transform you, you know. If you were to grasp just an inkling of the breadth and depth of my love, it would change your life.

You do not disappoint me. I love you with a love that will not let go. Not ever. Don't compare me with the people who have let you down in the past. You don't have to be wary of me. You don't have to protect that sore place deep in your heart; let me in. When I touch it, I will heal it. I am the Healer. 

I know that you're not perfect, my precious one. I know that you've made mistakes and I know that you will make more. You can't put any of it right on your own - that's what my grace is for. Listen to me, there is enough grace to go round. My Son took care of that. There's always enough to cover you. I don't keep any record of the rubbish in your life; on the contrary, the things I pin on the walls of heaven are my snapshots of your face turned towards me, your hands reaching for heaven, your baby steps, your love-notes. Not one of those moments is lost - I treasure them all.

I grieve for the pain you put yourself through. I see how hard you try and I know how hard on yourself you are when things go wrong. You panic and lose your focus and if you can't do everything perfectly you are tempted to give up and not to bother trying.  You listen to the voices in your head when they tell you that you're worthless and inadequate and you believe the lies. One of those lies is that you would be more acceptable to me if you were thinner. My Spirit in you will soon teach you to hear how ridiculous that belief is, and you will take your first steps to being the woman you long to be, but there is more that we must do before then.

Don't let the voice of the evil one overpower the hope that you have. You let that hope be eroded by self-doubt and self-accusation and perfectionism. I don't expect you to be perfect; I can use your imperfections! In your world people are desperate to give the impression that they are completely in control, but control is as much an illusion as self-sufficiency. Again and again I see the relief on people's faces when they find that they are not alone. Be open with people and show your struggles and triumphs and the things that you learn because it is in such honesty that people see me and believe.

You fear failure, but I am not limited by your definition of success. Every time you fall I reach down and offer my hand and every time you take it and get to your feet again the angels sing, and, my love, it's a beautiful, beautiful song.

Don't keep worrying about that other woman. I showed her to you to give you peace; to help you believe that I am not finished with you yet. I have a plan for you, my daughter, and I will not give up on you. There is so much that we can do together.  

Don't worry about what might happen tomorrow, next month or next year. Don't worry about the road ahead, because I'll walk with you. In good times we'll celebrate together, and believe me, I'm a good person to have at a party. In bad times I'll hold you tight and carry you in my arms, but you and me, we'll keep on walking. Don't look at the woman you'll one day be and despair of ever getting there. We'll do it one step at a time. I know you can do it. 

Be brave, little one. 

Here's what I want you to do. I want you to focus on joy. You have it in your reach but too often you turn inwards defensively and lick your wounds. You have all you need. You are fully equipped. If I think that you need something else, something new, then I will give it to you. I will never see you go into battle poorly armed. You have all you need, and I'm coming with you anyway. I will never leave your side; you are not alone. When the voice in your head tells you that you are lonely, overrule it. Again, I say, you are not alone. I am here. 

I am all you need. 

Let my Holy Spirit in your mind and heart take control and resist the worry, the anxiety and the fear. 

Say, 'No. I have the Lord.'

Say it after me: 'No. I have the Lord.' 

This is truth. 

With my love. Believe it. 

God

This is a response to a previous post - Letter to a Stranger. 

Linking up with Sabrina and Ruth, this time at Just Keep Singing for the second in the 'Letters To...' series. This week the prompt was 'Letter to the Brave'. 

The Lord bless you and keep you...

Morning, Lord.

I'm quoting Moses:

'The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make his face shine upon you and be gracious to you; the Lord turn his face toward you and give you peace.'

This is from Numbers 6:24-26.

I didn't know where that beautiful couple of verses was from but I am entirely familiar with it as quite often our church services close with those very words. I like the sound of it. I like the blessing. The other day for some reason when I came upon it in its natural habitat in the early bit of the Bible (I can't remember why I was poking around in Numbers) it suddenly became three dimensional instead of a stock phrase to send us on our way just after midday on a Sunday (in the name of Christ - Amen).

You know what? Moses was talking to me. I'm going to ask him about this when I track him down in Heaven. I'm going to ask him if he had any vague idea of the momentousness of these words. If he suspected at the back of his mind that we would bow our heads as they were spoken over us centuries later.

The Lord bless you and keep you...

Yes, you do, don't you? I am blessed in more ways than I know. I am blessed to be your child, I am blessed materially beyond the dreams of most of the world. I am blessed with health, with family, with ideas, with clean water and eyes to see the way the low winter sun glows orange on the tree branches outside my daughter's school.

I am blessed with every new day that I wake up once more and blessed with opportunities to do something new for you. I am blessed with choices, freedom, the ability to think and speak and the permission and safety to do it knowing that no-one is going to come knocking at my door to take me away for saying that I love you, Jesus.

Blessed? I am.

You keep me. I firmly believe that if you forgot about me for a moment I would cease to be. I am because you made me and you look after me. You know me inside out and you knew the course my life would take from the moment two cells joined together. You know exactly what I'm going to say before I say it and you know the efforts I make to please you and the times when I don't. You keep me safe. You keep me close. You keep me under your wing. You don't miss a single thing.

The Lord make his face shine upon you...

I love this. I love that light shines from you, because you are the origin of light. I love that to see you face to face will be the day when there is no longer any darkness, because there can be none when there is light. I love that with your light is warmth and life; you are the Sun. When I turn towards you, I am lit up, but I will always have a dark and cold side so long as there is part of me that faces away. Too often I turn away from you, hiding, retreating, recoiling.

You are beautiful. Transcending male or female, beyond my imagination, beyond handsome or pretty or anything that I can get my head round; you are the source of all that is beautiful.

Psalm 50:2
'From Mount Zion, the perfection of beauty,
God shines in perfect radiance.'

Your face, it shines radiant. You are the source of all life-giving light. I want to bask in that light, soak it up so that my bones are warmed through.

...and be gracious to you...

You are endlessly gracious. In the words of Ann Voskamp* 'All is grace.'  Every new day, every ray of sunlight, every shower.

'But you, Lord, are a compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness.'  Psalm 86:15

Every time I hear the birds sing, the children laugh, the congregation lift its collective voice with the angels. Every snowflake, ice crystal, drop of dew on a spider's web.

'The Lord has caused his wonders to be remembered; the Lord is gracious and compassionate.'  Psalm 111:4

Each time my little girl slips her small hand into mine, every little love note that she writes, every time my head sinks into a soft pillow.

'The Lord is gracious and righteous; our God is full of compassion.' Psalm 116:5

Every time you forgive me for some laziness, selfishness, meanness; a raised voice, some critical remark, a hurtful act.

'The Lord is compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in love.'  Psalm 103:7

All is grace. You cannot but be gracious.

The Lord turn his face towards you...

Sometimes when I'm concentrating on something and my daughters want me they grasp my face with their two hands and turn my head towards them. Since my eyes face forwards, my gaze is torn away from whatever it was that I was intent upon and rests on them. They have my attention. I don't need to do that with you; you're never distracted, never focused somewhere else at my expense. You are always there, always noticing.  Your face is always turned towards me, loving, forgiving, expectant.

Like a smiling Daddy when his children want to tell him something, I see you stooping low to hear. Down on one knee, beckoning. Looking intently, listening carefully, encouraging, caring. Your face is towards me. I feel your gaze. I can't live without it.

...and give you peace.

Ah. Peace. Elusive peace. I do have your peace, sometimes. I love that feeling; it's the best thing in the world - beyond the world. Sometimes I get a glimpse of what life might be like if I could somehow stop worrying completely and rest in your arms. I sense that there is a whole new way to live out there beyond the anxiety and self-consciousness and need to be accepted. Peace. Rest.

'My peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.'  John 14:27

You give it to me and what on earth do I do with it? I let it slip through my fingers as I reach for the familiar; 'what if...?' and 'if only..'. I long for peace and then walk past it because I don't stop long enough to find it, or I don't recognise it because I'm so used to stress and anxiety.

You would have me live quite differently, wouldn't you?  You encourage me to leave my problems with you, to take each day as it comes, to live right here and right now instead of regretting yesterday and worrying about tomorrow. You would infuse me with peace instead of striving, peace instead of fear, peace instead of apprehension.

There's an endless supply of peace for me. Every time I let it slip away, you are there to give me more if I could just learn how to accept it. If I could just trust you more, take you at your word instead judging you by the standards of the world, if I could just open my clenched fists and drop all things of no value that I clutch so tightly so that you could give me this most precious of gifts - then I would have peace.

I hear the blessing and I whisper 'Amen' and I turn and leave church, shouldering my hassles at the door. How perverse am I?

I have a long way to go. At times like this I realise that although I am making progress, I have so much to learn. I am an adolescent in when it comes to spiritual maturity, but I can say this:

You are my God. I am your child.

The Lord blesses me and keeps me.
He makes his face shine upon me and he is gracious to me; the Lord turns his face towards me and gives me peace.

Yes he does.



* One Thousand Gifts, Ann Voskamp 2011, Zondervan

Peace please

Afternoon, God.

I have half an hour with a cup of tea. This is not going to be a long, exploratory conversation. It's more of a quick check in because I'm feeling all over the place. 

I need some peace. The world isn't giving me any; you were right there. I need your peace. As your child I'm supposed to be equipped with it all the time but there seems to be something wrong. It's going wrong.

There's so much I need to learn. I know your method of getting me to learn is to give me many opportunities to learn a particular lesson and I'd just like you to know that I'm not enjoying it much. I'd really appreciate it if I could just wake up one morning (tomorrow? Please?) and it's all been assimilated and I am a New Person. 

I need to learn that I can't do everything. That my attempts to please everyone are inevitably going to fail. That in wanting people's approval so badly I'm relying on them much more than is healthy, or necessary. It ain't going to work. 

I need to stop looking to other people to shore up my confidence. Only you can do that. If someone disapproves of me, but you don't, then who cares? (Little voice says, 'Me'.) If I disappoint someone who had unrealistic expectations of me, or expectations that are different from yours - but you're not disappointed, then what does it matter? (Little voice: ...but it does seem to matter.)

I need to stop looking to other people to dictate my mood. If someone else has a black cloud following them round, then nowhere does it say that I have to climb under it as well. I don't have to adopt someone else's attitude. That's so, so hard. I can be absolutely fine first thing in a morning if the circumstances are right, and as soon as I lock horns with any other member of the household who may have got out of bed the wrong side, my sense of wellbeing sort of crumbles. How can I keep my own equilibrium when people around me are spoiling for a fight, or flopping about miserably, or looking for reasons to complain? It's fine when I can soak up their sunshine, or bask in their rainbow, but I'd rather have my own little peaceful microclimate, please. This might sound trivial but it's getting me down.

I need to stand firm whatever the season. When it's sunny and when it's raining. When the gales blow and my leaves are blown off, I need to stand vertically, looking only up at you. When skies are blue and when they're grey and lowering. Lord, I feel as if my roots are not strong enough and I'm not sucking up enough of you to keep me steady. I feel frail and wishy washy. I so want to be strong. 

I need to learn to lean on you and you only. I'm not self-sufficient. People say that the only person you can trust is yourself, but I know that I come to grief when I do that - I can't rely on me any more than I can rely on someone else. Other people are great, but there are times when they're not there. Friends aren't on the end of the phone. People have their own worries and troubles and sometimes, with the best will in the world, they're not there. They might be right there, but not there.

You know what I mean.

So I need you. The only One who'll never let me down. The only One who is always there. The only One totally, completely, wonderfully, powerfully on my side. Father, I have a knot in my stomach. 

John 16:33
'I have told you these things so that you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world!'

Thankyou God that you've overcome the world. I can't imagine that this is how it's supposed to be. What was it like before Adam and Eve messed it up, Lord?  Because right now the world that I live in is indeed in trouble. On a big scale and a small one. My life sometimes seems to be a mess of human relationships which have sparks of absolute wonder and joy and troughs of confusion and misunderstanding and hurt feelings and resentment. I'm tired.

I'm needing that peace you told me about. The peace that I've tasted before, but in my struggling and failing and falling I keep letting go of it. Thankyou that you are endlessly merciful. You keep on loving and forgiving and topping me up.

I will take heart because you have overcome the world.

Romans 15:13
'May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.'

Yes, please. Peace, please. So that my stomach doesn't get knotted up and so that my heart doesn't feel heavy in my chest. Joy - that would be wonderful. Sometimes just keeping on keeping on seems to take up so much of my energy that joy seems too much to hope for.  And hope too? I have a hope. A hope of a day when all the rubbish is a thing of the past.

I'll take all you have of that.

My God of hope, joy, peace. I trust you. 

The Lord is near

Morning, God.

Somebody said something to me ages ago; maybe a year ago. It's been sitting in my head ever since. The other day, I read this same thing again and had one of those 'Oh' moments. You know, one of those times where my eyes stop in their tracks when I'm reading and I just sit and stare for a bit while the penny drops. 

One of my favourite bits of the Bible is the book of Philippians. Upbeat, encouraging, reassuring.  All about living as a Christian in a non-Christian world. I like that Paul isn't very deep or theological in this book, but he knows that the Philippians are finding things hard and he wants to lift them up. Of the book of Philippians, one of my favourite bits is the bit about not worrying. As you are well aware, Lord, this bit could have been written just for me; indeed I think it probably was. You had me in mind when you had Paul write it down. 

'Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.'Philippians 4: 6-7

I like it. I'm not very good at it, but I think that because of you, I'm better at it than I was. Not as good as I will be - with your help I'm going to crack this, more or less, this side of heaven. Maybe. But that's not the point. 

The point is that I need not be anxious because you are for me. You are looking after me. You know what I need, and you want me to trust you with all my anxieties. You want me to come to you and talk to you. Offload. Communicate. And in exchange for me dumping my worries on you, you'll give me peace; a peace that the world doesn't know about, something that we can't imagine or understand. You will wrap me in this peace and keep me safe. 

Sounds like I get the best of that deal. I give you the rubbish, you give me peace. Why don't I have peace? Because I don't give you the rubbish. I just cart it round myself, now and again show it to you, maybe even push it your way, but I fail to leave it with you. As a result, I am not particularly peaceful. 

So right now, here it is. My bag of anxieties. The stuff you know about. The stuff that's in my head, worrying me, dragging me down, making me feel heavy of heart and furrowed of brow. You know how all these situations turn out, Father God, don't you? Sometimes things are in my control and I need you to help me sort them out, but more often than not the stuff that wakes me in the night are things that I have no control over at all. I cannot be responsible for other people's decisions and how they affect others. I cannot make people do what I want. 

'Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.'Philippians 4:6

So I present my requests to you. I try to be thankful. I am getting better at noticing you in my life - in each day you are there; I get glimpses. I know that you don't come and go - nipping down to say hello in this morning's spectacular rainbow and then disappearing off for an appointment elsewhere. I know that you're there all the time - here right now - I just need the eyes to see. If my eyes are always focused on my problems, my troubles, the sackful of anxiety that I lug around with me, then I miss you so often; I miss you so much. 

If I could see you as much in the recycling and cooking and shopping and laundry as I see you in the rainbow and the dew on a spider's web and the golden sunrise, I might be freer, less anxious. More Saint-Paul-content-whatever-life-throws-at-me. Sorry if that sounded a bit flippant. 

The Lord is near.

So this is where the stop in my tracks moment came in. Philippians 4:6 is everywhere, isn't it? Don't worry. Pray. And God will give you his peace. Good advice. The best. I have it on a bookmark and it's in my journal and I have it on a little prayer card in my Bible. But you know what I found out about this? It's always been there but unobservant me missed it. 

The verse right before this wonderful passage is:

'The Lord is near.'Philippians 4:5b

The Lord is near. Then, 'Don't be anxious...' 

I've often wondered how amazing it was to be one of your followers, Lord Jesus. How it seems to me, with the benefit of hindsight and a million explanatory works of literature and a local church and so on, that it must have been so much easier to understand what you said, so much easier to look to you as an example, when you were Right Here. If you were sitting next to me right now I'd have so many questions for you. After you help me up off the floor, and after we'd made a coffee, I would love a long, long chat. And if you'd then come with me all the places I need to go, the phone calls I need to make, the people I need to see, the daily stuff that I have to do - then how much easier would it be? How much more confident I'd be. How empowered would I be if you were right next to me? If every time I falter or start to get anxious you whisper in my ear?

I'm here. Don't worry.

I've always thought I'd love to have been with you for those three years when you did your thing. I like to think I'd have poured my perfume on your feet. I'd like to think I'd have baked a cake for you and sat and listened to what you had to say as well. I'd be Mary and Martha and the woman at the well and the one who touched your cloak and the one who was devoted enough to find your tomb at first light to take care of you, only to find you risen.  I'd like to think you'd have had my heart in that way. In reality, I don't know. It must have been pretty scary back then. 

So, suddenly, it struck me. The 'don't be anxious about anything' is one of the hardest battles I fight in my life, and through two people, a year or so apart, you've reminded me that you are right here. You're walking alongside me. You're there. You're near. And in that context, don't be anxious. 

'I'm here. Don't worry.'

When my daughters wake in the night with a bad dream and shout for Mummy. I gather them up and I hold them close and I say, 'It's alright. I'm here.'

'The Lord is near. Do not be anxious about anything...'

It's alright. You're here. 

I want you to be here. I don't want to be strong. I don't want to have to make decisions. I don't want to be brave and independent and all those things. And here you tell me that I don't have to do any of it by myself. You're near. And that's why I shouldn't worry. 

It makes a difference to me. It makes a difference to how I read this incredibly familiar passage. I know that there are other ways of thinking about these two sentences; that 'The Lord is near' might be a reminder to the Philippians that they should behave well towards others because you are soon to return, is another interpretation, but I'm not going into all the theology. I don't know very much. What I do know is that something has changed for me.

If you are here, near, then it's easier not to be anxious. If you were sitting next to me right now, I'd be in the safest place in the world. 

And you are. 

The Lord is near. 

You're never far away. The rainbow, the vase of lilies in front of me, the joy of my little girl as she danced down the road this morning with her Winnie-the-Pooh umbrella. You're in all those things, but you're in the empty room and the sound of the tumble dryer and the rain on the window as well. 

So, thankyou to the two wise ladies that drew my attention to these few words. Thankyou for lighting them up so that I can see, even when my eyes are half closed. 

Thankyou for the rain and the sun and the rainbows. Thankyou for coffee and words from friends, even friends-across-the-sea that I've never met, but who reach out with wisdom that you use so powerfully. Thankyou for a handful of Bibles and the freedom to read them, where St Paul and the Philippians were being persecuted for living as Christians and so many still are, today.

Most of all, thankyou for being right here, right now. 

Let's swap, as you suggest. Here's my worry. No, really, here it is. 

Can I have the peace now? 

Waterfall

I am weary and burdened 

 and I want that rest you mentioned.

My burdens are trivial:

daily stuff, detail stuff,

motherhood and marriage,

women and worry.

Who I am and what I'm for;

when to pursue the dream 

and when to stop trying.

All too difficult.

Tiring.

I know that burdens come much heavier than mine:

dirt and drought and death,

fear and fighting,

bombs and bloodshed.

Add guilt to my burden

because life is difficult right here

And yet I have nothing to complain about.

I am blessed but broken.

I'm feeling small.

Inadequate and fearful.

Still I come.

I come because I know your grace

and you know my dissatisfaction.

You love me anyway.

I come because I'm thirsty 

and the water that you give brings life;

heals and restores

gives energy and hope.

I bring hurt and wounds

and you give me water

to drink and bathe and swim.

I can stand under the waterfall of peace

naked but somehow unashamed.

Washed and nourished.

You see me.

I can't hide from you,

and so I approach;

just as I am.

You are the God who sees.

You see it all.

You see my weariness and weakness,

ingratitude and pride -

and instead of anger 

you pour out never ending love.

The peace of the Lord

Evening, Lord. 

The other day I had the sort of day where everything goes wrong. It was a depressing day full of illness and poor communication and disappointments and plans falling through. Full of tension and doubt and anxiety and self pity.

The surprising thing was that at the end of this very long day, when I finally slithered down under the duvet and reached for the lamp to put out the bedside light, the word in my head was 'Peace'.

That was your doing. 

Who else? The Prince of Peace.

I can't explain it; there wasn't a formula for why the day ended on an unexpected positive. All I can say is thank you. 

I had choices to make that day and I agonised about them and I tried to do what you would want me to do rather than take the line of least resistance as I so often do. It didn't turn out well but I wonder if you blessed me for trying. I wasn't feeling well and didn't have anything left in reserve for a night spent ill-at-ease with my husband, with myself, with you - so perhaps you took pity on me and touched me with peace. The following day, as it turned out, was a pretty poorly day as well so maybe you were preparing me with a good night's sleep. 

I don't know. All I know is that sometimes, out of the blue, I feel you so close that I could touch you and simply the fragrance of you is enough to fill me with peace.

I mean, I really went to sleep with the word, 'Peace' on my mind. It made me smile. I didn't spend an age getting to sleep as I usually do and I slept well. Bryan and I both woke in the night at one point and agreed that we both were feeling a bit better. The children didn't shout until morning. It was indeed a peace that passes understanding. 

I'd been reflecting, as I sat with a coffee at bedtime, that lately I have been focusing too much on everything that I do wrong, everything that I mess up, all the stuff that I wish were different and spend so much time dwelling on. It struck me that you died to free me from all this stuff; you didn't do all that you did for me to spend my life picking over the debris, downcast and discouraged. You died to make me free. 

To forgive me all the rubbish. All that I have done, that I do, and that I will do. You died for the sins I haven't even committed yet. You did it once, and for all. You took care of it. Yes, I get things wrong. Yes, I often choose the wrong thing. Yes, I fail in many and varied ways. I am selfish and critical and unloving and I worry and get angry and I interrupt - but I am forgiven. It doesn't mean that I don't need to make changes in my life and I know that sometimes it doesn't hurt to become aware of the scale of my need for forgiveness, but I need to remember that it is finished, as well. 

There's no point in sitting down by the side of the pile of rubbish and wrongs and broken things and examining it from every angle day in, day out, absorbed in the landfill, never looking up. 

If the pass mark for an exam is 100%, and I get 25%, I fail just the same way that I would fail with 99% or nothing at all. It doesn't matter. Since you are holiness itself and you cannot allow anyone less than holy into your presence, then Heaven would have been a pretty lonely place without Jesus, who came to make us holy. Because of him I am clean and shiny and new. I am able to come to you because of him. It is a done deal.

For me it's desperately discouraging that it takes me so long to learn a lesson and change the way I think and speak and act, but my striving is a response to you, not an attempt to earn my ticket to the party. I won't become any more righteous, any more deserving, the longer I live, or the harder I try, or the more I beat myself up about failing.  There aren't even degrees of righteousness - I either am or I'm not, and there is only One who is - that's you. 

And you loved me enough to forgive me. So that I could be with you. At immense cost to yourself, you made me whole. Made me new.

The peace came to me because I realised that you love me. Now. Even the way I am. I need to stop poking the wounds with a stick and let them heal. There will, no doubt, be plenty more. I need to get up and dust myself down again and carry on walking, and I'll need to do this today and again tomorrow and again the next day but you have said that you will never leave me or forsake me and you will always offer me your hand when I stumble and need help back to my feet. 

I need to leave the pile of trouble and rubbish at the foot of the cross, with all the others, and walk away. You tell me that I don't need to carry it all about with me. 

I am forgiven. I am loved. You made me free and yet I keep carrying this weight around with me instead of leaving it behind and walking with a lighter step. You don't want me to drag it round with me.

Peace. The peace of knowing that it won't always be a struggle. It won't always be confusing and unsettling. The fight won't last forever. 

The peace of knowing that the one who truly knows me, good and bad, inside and out, the past and the future, you love me right now, today, despite everything. 

'...and the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.'

Philippians 4:7

Amen. 

Thankyou.