The Examen

Hello, Father God.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For what moment today am I most/least grateful?

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

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

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

When was I happiest/saddest?

What was the high/low point of my day?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hmm.

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

Here I go:

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

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

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

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

Thankyou for bits of insight. 

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

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

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

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

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

The peace of the Lord

Lord Jesus I wish for one minute I could see myself as you see me. 

Just as I sometimes long to get a glimpse inside my children's heads so that I could perhaps for a microsecond fathom how they think, I wish that I could see the bigger picture. 

Am I a child who is dashing about bumping into walls and wailing over the bruises when all that is needed is to slow down and stop?  Am I well-intentioned, but doing the wrong thing? Or am I so far off the mark that I need to change direction?  When I come to you as I am now, full of anxiety and weighed down by things that I'm struggling with and can't control do you shake your head with sorrow and love because it needn't be this way?  Are you willing me to go a step further, to do whatever it is I'm on the brink of doing? Are you saying, 'You're so close! You're doing alright!' or are you hoping that I'll wait and rest and listen and be?

'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 NIV

Lord, where was I when you gave out peace? I feel as if I'm the least peaceful person in the world, though surely that's not the case. There must be people out there who are more chewed up than I am, one would think, but I suspect that hunting for someone worse off than me isn't particularly helpful right now.  I want peace. I want to be peaceful. I want to sail along unruffled, unhassled.  I know that life won't leave me alone, untouched and untroubled, but I want so very much to learn how to cope with the difficulties without being sunk by them. I want to be the one who says, 'Yes, life is hard, but I can cope because God helps me.'  

...and I want it to be so. I want to learn how to leave my troubles with you, because you care for me. 

'Cast all your anxiety on him, for he cares for you.'

1 Peter 5:7 NIV

It's not that I don't believe that you care for me, it's just that I can't seem to let go of things. Or I do for a while but then I pick them all up again. 

I know that some people can compartmentalise their lives much better than I can. Some people can have a troublesome area of their lives and they box it away and get on with the rest without allowing the problems to spill over. My life is much more of a sandwich. If there are layers of bread and butter and ham and salad and the ham is off then the whole sarnie becomes inedible. I can't move on with anything if something is wrong. And if more than one area of my life is in turmoil at the same time then it gets worse and worse. 

Peace. I love the idea that I might have your peace. Peace, calm, stillness. Composure. All of those things and also an absence of turmoil. An absence of thoughts that go round and round in my head, of things that wake me in the night and prevent me from getting back to sleep. 'What if's that form the basis for nightmares. A burden of worry that some days feels physically heavy to carry round. I would like such a peace. How wonderful that would be. 

So, when I know where to get it from, and I know that you keep your promises, so if I ask, I will receive it, what's going wrong?  Are my hands too full of other stuff to grasp the peace that you offer? Am I never still enough to let your peace drip into my soul?  Or something else?

I wish I could see myself as you see me for a minute. Then I'd know what to do differently. 

I think that I plan to spend time with you and then sort of run out of time. Of all the things that need doing in a day for some reason the thing that falls off the bottom of the list is spending time with you. It seems so ridiculous to say that sending an email or watching TV is a higher priority than spending time with the Creator of the Universe, but on a daily basis that's what seems to happen.  I felt peaceful when I went on my Quiet Day the other week  (The Unforced Rhythms of Grace) but how quickly that stillness evaporated when I plugged back into real life. 

How can I make it into real life? How can I amalgamate the two so that it isn't either one thing or the other? Surely it doesn't have to be either peace or chaos? I need to find a way to top up the tank before I'm running on empty. When I was learning to drive my Dad told me that it wasn't good for the car to let the petrol tank get right to the bottom as all the impurities and sludge (is that a technical term?) would cause problems for the car. I can't be any more specific as I don't really understand how a car works but I have an image of a load of thick, lumpy, dirty sludge being sucked into the mechanism of the engine and clogging it up.  I feel a bit as if my life is like that. I'm choking on sludge. 

Maybe I need a week of Quiet Days. Or a month. Ha!

So I need to incorporate a little bit of quiet into each day. This is hardly news, since I've been bleating on about it for so long. I'm going to make a real effort because life without peace is getting harder and harder. 

'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.'

I want your peace, Lord Jesus. I don't like what the world is giving me at the moment - it seems full of uncertainty and confusion and stress and fear. I would rather have your peace. I don't want my heart to be troubled and I am tired of being afraid. It sounds from this quote that you think I have some control over whether my heart is troubled or not; 'Do not let your heart be troubled..' and so the answer must be to draw closer to you. If I were truly sheltering under your wing then I would not be afraid of anything, would I? 

Take me somewhere where I can find your peace. Help me to find time and space to be with you so that the rest and peace I felt in the quiet can be a regular thing and not just something that happens when I can escape to a different place. 

Show me how to grasp the peace that you're holding out to me.

The unforced rhythms of grace

Good morning, Lord.  

I am feeling perky this morning. Just got a job done that has been hanging over me for weeks and weeks and waking me in the night worrying (though that's not an indication of the seriousness of an anxiety; not long ago I woke in the night and couldn't get back to sleep for thinking that I need to clean the bathroom before we have visitors next week - next week! - and 'must add kitchen roll to the shopping list' was going through my head. I'm going mad.) 

So, job done, and as ever, it wasn't as stressful as I thought. Bryan and I went out for a drive in the country and breakfast to celebrate and anywhere with bacon and eggs, toast and free coffee refills is fine by me. All that caffeine is possibly one reason I'm feeling with it today. Ha!

Well, the ups and downs leave me breathless. This week has been a case in point; Monday I was anxious and restless (mid-ground), Tuesday was my wonderful Quiet Day away (more on this in a minute) - high - and Wednesday back to earth with a thud (low). Thursday was a depressed day, miserable and tired (very low) and now today, optimistic, buoyant and caffeine-fuelled (high). Let's stay here for a while, can we?

Tuesday. Ahh. Quiet for five whole hours and no pressure. Sit, walk, pray, write, draw, read, drowse, stare, listen, sit some more. Five hours just disappeared. Poof. It was wonderful. I didn't want to come home. I can understand why some people go on a retreat for a week or more. Much more. I can see why some people go to live on a remote island, actually.  I didn't really have any expectations about the day other than a vague anxiety about the length of time I had to be quiet for, but I needn't have worried. It was such a blessing to have a whole day just to be. To sit and contemplate and think or indeed not think. Lovely lovely.

It was a strange day, really. I started out sitting down by a window and unaccountably started to cry. I'm not quite sure why, other than I felt delicate and emotional. I couldn't put into words how awful I felt and the tears just came instead. I could have dissolved completely but there were other people in the room and I knew that if I let things go there'd be an awful lot of sniffing and nose-blowing involved and there's little chance of achieving that sort of thing with any subtlety on a Quiet Day. So best pull myself together. So I did. I sat and stared and talked to you a bit, sort of awkwardly, and then I started doodling and lost myself in an elaborate doodle for an hour and a quarter. I haven't done that in years. I'm quite pleased with the result at the back of my prayer diary notebook. 

It was a tree. Right outside my window down the garden was a tree. It was a big, big tree with barely any leaves left on it and it was blowing in a strong Autumn wind that was making wonderful noises around the eves of the chapel in which I was sitting. The rain kept coming in gusts on the wind and then the sun would make an appearance and the few remaining leaves on this tree would glow orange. It was bowing and reaching in the wind, yet so big and strong and permanent and such a lovely shape. I didn't really think about what type of tree it was. I started doodling and it was actually only as I was putting my things back in my bag hours later that I noticed a brown, dried leaf from that tree had blown and was stuck to the window sill in front of me. It was an oak tree. 

Earlier on this year I had a picture of a big tree and it's symbolism, (I am a tree) and this week it touched me that I happened to be sitting at a window on a day when I had sought to be with you and listen to you and right in front of me was that beautiful tree. I will always look at big trees, particularly oaks, and think of you. It makes me think of all that I'd like to be. 

So I doodled for a while and relaxed and found that my mind was clearing beautifully. I hummed in my head, I stopped and closed my eyes when the sun came out and bathed me in warmth, and I watched the tree being blown in the powerful gusts of wind but always straighten up as the wind dropped. It looked solid, strong, steady, reliable, safe, patient, enduring, timeless. Beautiful.

Lunchtime was a slightly strange affair as a dozen people ate sandwiches, made coffee and sat together munching away without talking (but hardly in silence - a bag of crisps can't be consumed quietly!) I think if the weather had been nicer I might have taken my sarnie and my drink and disappeared off somewhere in the grounds so that my crunching didn't add to the soundtrack but in the absence of that opportunity I left the crisps where they were and picked a book from the library shelf so that I didn't have to make eye contact in any self conscious way. There was one book that jumped out at me as it was lying flat on a shelf, out of place. It was called 'The Call to Intimacy: Finding Rest in the Love of God' by Tony Horsfall.

I only picked it up as something to occupy me as I ate but you left it there just for me, didn't you? This book was just what I needed. The author speaks about the guilt that people feel taking time out of a busy life full of commitment and 'doing' to stop, contemplate and try to deepen their own individual relationship with you. I know exactly what he meant. I have so many claims on my time, so many things that need doing and so many people to please that even coming away for a Quiet Day from 9.45am-3.45pm necessitated lots of arrangements by other people to help me and consequent guilt on my part. It seemed indulgent and selfish. 

I read that because I am programmed to 'do' all the time that I have a tendency to measure my relationship with God by how much I do for him. The author points out that this is moving me away from grace-based living and into works-based living. Perhaps because my church background is Evangelical Anglican I feel a moral obligation to do; the author quotes John Wesley:

'Love so amazing, so divine

Demands my soul, my life, my all.'

and I've quoted that myself as a response to all that you've done for me.  After all, we go on so much about the need to be an active church; to be doing, reaching out, tirelessly working. We're constantly starting new projects and getting involved because it's the right thing to do - to further your plans; to do your will, to tell people about you. 

Clearly these things are not bad. I think you can't argue that we need to do. People need to learn about you and we have a commission to go and make disciples. But maybe we need to be careful about how much we're doing. How much we can take on and how much we are not doing because our time is full of things. And by this I mean me. I need to be aware not only when it's appropriate to say no, but when I am doing at the expense of being.

I have wittered on and on over the course of this year that when Katy started school and I had so much more free time (ha ha) that I would make a regular space to sit and spend time with you. I gave myself permission that it might not happen every day, at least not to start with, but this term was going to be a new start where I found time for you. To read, to pray, to listen. Particularly to listen. To learn to listen. And what has happened? Half term starts tomorrow and it hasn't happened once. Not once.

What am I doing instead? I am organising things, I am writing, I am volunteering, I am going to meetings, I am planning, I am attending church - I am doing.  On top of doing I have been getting increasingly stressed about commitments, increasingly tired and headachy and low. I wonder if I'm getting the balance a bit wrong?  Seems to be what is referred to as a 'no brainer' don't you think?

This Quiet Day has been the first opportunity to stop and breathe and think since school started. 

Phew. How wonderful it was. Have I said that I could have stayed there indefinitely? Yes, I think so, but it deserves saying again.

Tony Horsfall, in 'Intimacy: Finding rest in the love of God' goes on to say that perhaps we need to rediscover 'The unforced rhythms of grace.' (Matthew 11:29) and he quotes a lady called Dr Pamela Evans who says:

"'Discovering the rhythms of grace' speaks to me of settling into the need to stay in step with Him, neither lagging behind or being driven beyond His call."

Between them, they suggest that it is possible to be doing far more than you require of us. Really? This is a new angle for me as I've been working on the principle that I owe you so much that you deserve everything I have. I know that common sense tells me that you would not have me work so hard for you that I am exhausted and no use to anyone; and I wouldn't suggest for one minute that I do work that hard. My struggle is more a mental one; which thing to do is the most urgent/worthy/necessary/appropriate thing to be doing - and stopping to sit and contemplate, stopping completely to listen and do nothing for a while hasn't even been on my radar, let alone in my plans. 

What would people think? 

I can just imagine. 

'There she is, Helen's off on another Quiet Day. She went off in October to sit and draw trees and loll about all day and she's going to do it again. When there's so much needing doing!'

Going to do it again?  Oh yes. I am. 

And you know what else I learned on Tuesday? That there's a Biblical base for this idea. Oh yes there is!  (I am sensing a bit of eye-rolling here, Lord. Bear with me. I am but a child.)

St Paul (himself) tells us that we should live peaceful lives. Here it is in a few different translations:

'...that we may live peaceful and quiet lives in all godliness and holiness.' 

1 Timothy 2:2 NIV

'...so that we can be quietly about our business of living simply, in humble contemplation.'

1 Timothy 2:2 The Message

'...so that we can live in peace and quietness, spending our time in godly living and thinking much about the Lord.'

1 Timothy 2:2 The Living Bible

See?  The penny drops. Are the angels cheering?

So, I need to find space, peace, quietness. I need more simplicity, more contemplation. I am liking the sound of that. And then if I get this piece of the jigsaw in place, my life should start to reflect you more. It may take a long time, I guess, but the more time I spend with you, the more this should leak out into my life, into all that I do. 

'Make it your ambition to lead a quiet life.'

1 Thessalonians 4:11

I am going to make it my ambition. I know that I am sitting here now writing away with coffee after coffee and full of hope and good intentions and then this afternoon I am going to get a haircut, call at the supermarket (kitchen roll; left it off the list after all, also bananas), then collect the children, cook tea and clean the bathroom and then by evening time collapse in a not-very-contemplative-more-telly-watching sort of mode. I know that I am only taking baby steps and this might not change very quickly.

But I am going to change this. I am going to spend more time with you. I am going to get a grip and stop being swept along on a tide of well-intentioned busyness trying to meet everyone's expectation but yours. 

In 1 Peter 3:4 Peter encourages women with unbelieving husbands to live this way so that they may win them over by demonstrating '...the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit.'

Hmm. Think you'd better ask Bryan about the gentle and quiet spirit. Still, I am a work in progress. May my spirit become ever gentler and quieter!

Mr Horsfall concludes this part of his book (as I was concluding my tuna and rocket sandwich - and very nice it was too) by quoting someone else, Henri Nouwen, in his book 'The Way of the Heart':

'There is always one more phone call, one more letter, one more visit, one more meeting, one more book, one more party. Together these form an insurmountable pile of activities. The contrast between the great support for the idea of prayer and the lack of support for the practice of it is so blatantly visible.' 

My first thought when reading this was that I should get hold of his book as it sounds interesting and then hot on the heels of that thought was that it was just 'one more book'.... I should skip to the prayer bit. 

Just glancing at my To Do list reveals that yes, I need to make two phone calls 'urgently', I have three letters that I'm halfway through writing, several people who are expecting me to visit, lots of meetings on the calendar, more books on the bedside table than you could shake a stick at and, well, not so many parties, but still. An insurmountable pile of activities. 

A quiet life.

Thankyou Father God. 

Thankyou for your endless patience. 

Thankyou for every baby step that you guide me to take. 

Please help me to carry this little revelation on instead of letting it languish under a pile of Things To Do. 

I started my Quiet Day in tears and ended it smiling. I started it with a jumble of thoughts and worries and ended it with a bit of peace and fresh ideas. I started it with despair and ended it with determination. 

When I sat down at the window, the horizon was foggy and blurred where the rain was falling on the hills in the distance and by the time I left the hills were crisp and sunlit. I know this parallel is a bit on the cheesy side but hey, it's true and I like it. 

Thankyou for my tree, my symbol of your permanence, your strength and your steadfast faithfulness. Thankyou for this book and your message to me that I don't have to meet everyone's expectation; only yours. An audience of one. Thankyou that you are not impressed by how much I do, but you want me to be still and listen. To life a quiet life. 

'Be still and know that I am God.'

Psalm 46:10

You are indeed. 

Thanks for the reminder, Lord. 

Silence and chaos

Me again, Lord.

You'll never guess what I'm doing tomorrow.

There's a stupid thing to say, since you knew before I did.

Well, I'm going on a Quiet Day. From morning till mid afternoon I shall be quiet. I can sense you smiling.

This isn't the first time I've had a chance to do this, but it's the first time I've said yes. I think the reasons I've shied away from a quiet day several times before are that I'm a bit frightened by the idea.  I'm not very good at being quiet.  Being the mum of two small children with a To Do list as long as my arm means that I often long for peace and quiet, but what I mean by peace and quiet is perhaps not the same as Quiet. I like to have an early night where I sit here in bed like I am now, with my little laptop, a coffee and my wheaty. I like to sit and read. I like to listen to music and I like to fall asleep. All of those things are peaceful for me, but all except the last one require a prop of some sort. I am not the sort of person who spends much time alone with my thoughts, and I'm afraid that I don't spend much time with you in prayer, either. So, five hours of quiet. And I'm not supposed to take my computer with me. Or spend time checking email or Facebook or playing games on my phone.

I have no idea what I expect to get out of this day. I have long thought that I need some space; what tends to happen to me when I get too stressed is the feeling that things are closing in on me. I get a stifled, trapped sort of feeling. The opposite sensation from the 'spacious place' feeling which is when I feel free and relaxed. The claustrophobic feeling I get is when problems crowd in on me and my shoulders are tense and raised up a few inches. My emotions are much closer to the surface and although I can be alright superficially, I am not equipped to cope with stuff that might happen. I am fine, and I seem fine, but let something go wrong and I have no reserve.

Like church on Sunday. The children weren't particularly badly behaved but they were giggling and generally acting like four and six year olds and whether I was or not I felt observed and disapproved of in my inability to get them to sit quietly or join in the singing. I couldn't hold back tears and ended up dragging them outside. Their behaviour, while not great, didn't warrant being whisked out of church but I was brittle enough to have cracked with a bit of pressure.

That's how I am at the moment. A veneer of 'I'm fine, thanks'ness and beneath that, a bit of a mess. So I am coming to get away from the place I usually am to come and sit with you in the hope that you might restore me a little.

The other reason I'm coming is to try and see if I can sit with you a while and listen. And maybe I'll come away feeling clearer. All year I have been at some sort of crossroads without really understanding where or why or which way next. I have felt you calling me to a deeper relationship with you, and since Katy has started school I've wondered what you want me to do with my time. Maybe you've been telling me all this time and I've been too busy with...what? to listen. I want to try again tomorrow.

A few days ago I wrote about crossing a river, like the Israelites. About having the courage to put a foot in the rushing water without knowing when the torrent will stop, but just having the faith to step out. Maybe tomorrow you'll give me some idea of what this means for me.

Lord, I would love it if you would speak to me as you do to some people I know who seem to have a hotline. I know a couple of folks who ask you questions and then seem to get answers from you. Those who say things like, 'The Lord told me this...' and 'I feel that God is telling me that....'

I ask and ask and hear nothing in particular.  My answers always seem to be hindsight-type answers where your purpose might become clear months, years down the line. I would love to be the person who could hear you. To know you so well that your voice was clear despite the background noise. I suspect that it might take more than a Quiet Day to get there, though, Father. It might well be a life's work.

So anyway, I am off on a Quiet Day. With mixed feelings, really. Part of me is relishing the idea of quiet and peace and slowness. Another side of me is worried that there is so much I should be getting on with that I'm wasting time and won't be able to focus or relax anyway because of the lists in my head. Back to the optimistic part of me and I want to find some peace, proper peace, an active thing, not just the absence of chaos. The pessimistic side of me counters by saying that that is impossible as the chaos will come with me because it's in my mind. It might take weeks of silence to let the noise and confusion settle a bit.

But I don't have weeks. I have a day, to start with; five hours of silence in which to try to be still, to slow down my mind which is so often racing and full of jumbled things. To try to break through the fog in my head and find a bit of clarity. To listen for your voice in case you want to say anything, but to sit a while on the riverbank with you and enjoy your company.

This is exciting and scary and daunting and appealing and challenging all at the same time. Oh, listen to me. How hard can it be? It's only a day. I'm not going on a remote retreat for six months with only a camel for company. Lunch is provided. I can smuggle in my phone if I want; I doubt if this thing is policed. I'll get out what I put in, I'm sure. And I do want to get something out of it. I'm just not sure what.

Help me to find you, Father. I'm not good at looking for you and I'm terrible at waiting and being still. Five hours seems like a long time. I just want to give you this day. Take it and use it, Lord. Help me to be open to whatever you want. Lead me wherever you want me to go. Whether it's to think, to pray, to listen, to write or even to sleep, lead the way. I've got such a long way to go and I can only take baby steps. I'm tired and confused and fragile and I want to let go and let you.

I'm off to sleep now. I'll see you in the morning.

Looking forward to it. 

Suffer the little children

Right, God, I'm needing some advice.

I am a Mum of two small children.  Getting bigger, but still small; they're four and six. This means that they have a limited attention span, lots of energy, no volume control and a low boredom threshold. None of these attributes are character flaws, I don't think; they are four and six. The ability to remain quiet, sit still and concentrate develops in the years beyond four and six - in some cases far beyond. 

I'm setting the scene. 

My children are, to me, endlessly entertaining, frustrating, endearing and irritating. I am quite sure that the casual onlooker would agree with me in varying proportions here, but I do admit that loving my two daughters unconditionally in the way that only parents are able helps me to live with them despite the negatives. The wonder of them tends to outweigh the frustration they cause; is that a bit what it's like for you?  I completely understand if so far this is pretty much how you feel about me. I can be endearing when I try and I have a winning smile, after all...

Moving on. 

We go to the family service at church on a Sunday morning as a family, and the reason we do this is because I love you and I want to worship you, listen to you, speak to you and learn more about you and more about how to live my life as you want me to live it. I very much want my children to come some day to a place where they can say the same. I believe that children have their own spirituality and even though my own witness to you in family life is patchy and sometimes must be a big letdown, they amaze me with their perception and their faith. Remember when Katy asked me for a specific prayer just before her operation?  I had no idea that she'd remembered it, and no idea that it had helped her. And Lizzie too has said things to me that show that she has experienced you in a simple, child-like sort of way. 

I also come to church to see my church family. To meet people who accept me and love me and support me and to offer my acceptance and love and support to them as well because that's what we do. I've had my ups and downs and I find that I need my Sunday visit to church, just like my home group and whatever else I'm involved in at church to keep me going. If Christianity is a crutch for the weak as some have alleged, then I'm weak and I'm limping - I need that crutch. So I come on Sunday needy. 

My girls for the most part enjoy church; they like their Sunday school groups; they like making things, they like it when there's something interesting to look at or listen to, and they like the cake afterwards. What they're not so good at is sitting still when grown up things are going on. They are four and six, remember. 

I want my children to learn about you, Father.  I'd love it if they caught on about you a whole lot earlier than I did. I want them to understand that it's the most important decision that they could ever make. I want them to learn to talk to you, to lean on you, to learn about you and to listen to you. I want them to be able to worship you. So I can understand that to whisk our little ones off to Sunday school at the first opportunity, while undeniably giving hard-pressed Mums the opportunity to relax and concentrate on you not only places a burden on the Sunday school leaders but also denies the children themselves a chance to learn to worship in the midst of the rest of the church family. If they can listen to the music, hear the singing, look around at people lost in worship and feel the Holy Spirit moving, then so much the better. I would like this for my children. 

So I encourage them to listen, to look and, where possible, to sing. Of course, Katy can't read the words and Elizabeth isn't yet quite quick enough with her reading to keep up with the songs, but on rare occasions she has a go at a simple chorus. When she does I love it. I love her little voice and I love that for those moments she is engaged instead of wriggling and asking over and over when she can go to her group. Katy sometimes likes being picked up and now and again she leans on me in a sort of contented trance as I jiggle in time to the music in an attempt to keep her interested. 

How can they sit still?
They're superheroes

The level of engagement that I manage to achieve of course is directly related to the status of the children; if they are sitting or standing nicely without drawing attention to themselves, not talking, shouting, fighting, tickling, crawling under chairs, walking along seats, climbing on radiator pipes, running about or laughing excessively, then I am able to worship (with one eye on the screen and one on the children ready to extract, correct or disentangle if necessary). If they are committing any of the above crimes then I am unable to join in with any sincerity as my mind is occupied with crowd control. I know there are only two of them, but it sometimes feels like many more. I don't know if they look around at other people and see men and women engrossed in your worship but it seems unlikely that they see me that way as I am always keeping an eye on them. 

When the girls come back in after Sunday school brandishing their creations they are always voluble in their enthusiasm. Katy usually announces what she's been doing at top volume whether we are in the middle of a hymn or a prayer.

'LOOK, MUMMY, I'VE MADE A RAINBOW BUT IT'S HEAD'S FALLEN OFF'

She announced, recently.  I love to hear her story and as any Mum would I break off to welcome her back and admire her handiwork. You've been there. I'm sure my lack of attention at that point doesn't offend you. You'd have your arms open too, I have no doubt.

The service ends and after the notices, during which I am asked approximately every eleven seconds how soon the girls can go and get a piece of cake or a flapjack, they dash off for refreshments. They're full of energy, having been sitting nicely during the worship, (ahem, well, as nicely as we could manage) then in their groups doing activities, and then (ahem) sitting nicely again. They are at the back of church like exocets, grab cake, then seek out their friends and then... well, who knows. I gather up bags, coats and craft activities and then try to find them. 

This is not easy, as they could be anywhere. They travel fast after an hour or more of containment. They want to make noise after having been shushed for a long time, and they want to run about and climb after having been urged to sit or stand still for a long time, and they get excited in a large building with other children of their age. They are hungry and are allowed something sugary and what follows is a burst of energy.

Meanwhile, back in grown-up land, I want to chat, or drink coffee, or find people I need to talk to, or perhaps even speak to someone new and welcome them to our church. I might even feel like indulging in a little morsel of flapjack myself. But it isn't as easy as that. 

There are those who feel that children should understand that the church is a your house, and that their demeanour should be correspondingly respectful.  That shouting, squealing, running or climbing on seats is inappropriate and offensive. That children should sit nicely, be encouraged to join in by all means, but parents are responsible for maintaining a level of behaviour in their offspring that doesn't permit the letting off of steam in the church building. Outside the church is a churchyard, where of course we need to make sure that our children don't show disrespect for graves or memorials, and there is a busy road without adequate gates which poses obvious problems. So they can't play inside, and they can't play outside, but they need to play because they are little and they've been trying to behave for an hour or more.

What do you think?

Tell me, because I really don't know. Really.  I can see that children need to learn respect. I understand that there are levels of behaviour that are unacceptable. I know that not everyone looks at my children and their foibles with the same affection that I do. I understand that a noisy child can interfere with someone else's concentration and enjoyment. I can see that a child dashing about after a service with a chocolate muffin in hand might leave a trail of crumbs. I know that you are our Lord God as well as our Heavenly Daddy and you deserve the utmost respect. 

I don't think that small children are showing disrespect when they run about. They just run about because they're children and they can't seem to walk anywhere. I don't think they're being disrespectful when they shout; its just because they're children and they can't seem to speak quietly. We keep telling them and eventually they'll get it. I don't even think they show disrespect when they climb underneath the Holy Table to make a den, though I do understand that for some, even more tolerant people, making a den underneath the Holy Table might be a step too far. One person says that if we worry about children pulling the cloth off the table and thus upsetting the candlesticks, we should just move the cloth, whereas someone else says that it is an outrage that we allow children there at all.

Who is to say who is right, but you?

What do you think?  If you're four, a line of chairs in a row looks like something that needs walking across like a bridge, especially if that means that you are for a while on the level with the crowd and able to see and not at everyone's hip-height. If you're a grown up a child walking on a row of chairs might look like a lack of respect for property and the likelihood that those chairs might be a bit grubby next time someone sits on them.

Who is to say who is right?

So the children need to play, and playing is awkward in the circumstances.  Every parent knows that you can only push things so far and so - we leave. We go home. Elizabeth sets off on her scooter with energy and Katy dances along or wants us to swing her between us as we walk up the road, leaving behind the church family enjoying drinks and fellowship. It's easier that way.

What can I do, Lord, or is it just something that needs time? Someone told me when I had a moan that it was something that all mums go through; just a phase that passes. Someone else told me that there were years when their children were small that they just didn't attend church because it was too hard. Someone tells me don't worry if your children make a noise because they are family too and someone else asks me to quieten them down. Someone says don't worry about chasing them about as we all have responsibility to care, protect and correct our children and someone else says that they are my responsibility and I shouldn't try to abdicate that. Who is right?

Maybe we're all right. Everyone seems well-meaning. Maybe it's a matter of perspective. But what do you think? 

"Then people brought the brought little children to Jesus for him to place his hands on them and pray for them. But the disciples rebuked them. Jesus said, 'Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.'"

Matthew 19:13-14

How wonderful it must have been to be able to bring the children to you in the flesh, to say, 'Here are my little girls,' and then you pull them towards yourself, smile and pray for them with your hand on their shoulders. I know we can still do this now but, like Thomas, I would love for you to do it in the flesh. I do have faith, increasing faith, but I need more. How easy it must have been for those Mums to encourage their children to approach you with a smile. For me, I feel the need to make church attractive to the children, to try not to put them off. I worry that containing them, limiting them, making them try too hard for too long will make them not want to come. Until I can somehow get across to them something of who you are... but then nothing is impossible with you. I just want to introduce them to you, Lord Jesus. I want you to bless them.  To bring them close as your own.

Lord Jesus, how much do you expect of our children? How child-like should they be and how grown-up should they be? What pleases you? That they're there at all, even if they're making a noise, or if they're sitting beautifully without drawing any attention to themselves?  I know that you love them whatever, that's not in question, but how should we get through our services? I know I can't possibly be the first harried Mum to have put the question. Is it me that needs to grow up?

Sometimes I get angry. Sometimes I resent that it's all made more difficult. To those who shrug and say it was difficult for them too when their children were little I feel like protesting that surely it shouldn't be so difficult. It's all about acceptance, isn't it? About families. It doesn't mean that we don't get it wrong, but it means we should encourage, not discourage. Facilitate, not impede. Make it easier, not harder. Include, not exclude.

Children are not the congregations of the future, they're the congregations of now. If they are not welcome to be themselves now then they won't be there at all when they're grown up. If we are a church family, then we're a family, and families include the old, the middle aged, the young. They include those who can be quiet and those who are not very good at it. You can no more penalise a child for being childish than you can an elderly person for being old, surely?

I don't say that we should sit oblivious or indulgent as our children rampage round causing damage and mayhem and disrupting proceedings. Of course we should teach and correct and guide. Of course there has to be a limit just as there is in any other area of life. We should set an example and we should show them what is expected. It's just that I think that we sometimes expect too much.

Perhaps we're all expecting too much. Maybe we're asking too much of children, of parents and of those who like an uninterrupted service. I don't know. I really don't know. This is not a tirade at the unfairness of life, Lord; I just don't know what to do. I think that you understand all this. I think that you understand that the small children can't be quiet and pay attention for long and you love them anyway. I think you understand that parents get stressed by trying to make sure that their kids behave themselves and you love them anyway. I think you understand the people that are upset by what they perceive to be inappropriate behaviour and you love them anyway. I think that it must grieve you that we can't find a path down the middle.

Maybe it's just how it is. We are not perfect, after all. Our church is made up of imperfect people and so things are bound not to run smoothly. We're bound to annoy each other. Is that it?  Sometimes try as we might we can't see things as others see them. We assess and we criticise and we judge. We all do it. We shouldn't but we do.

I'm sorry.

Maybe I should just accept that life is difficult with young children even in the bosom of my church family, and get on with it. Many's the time I've left in tears because of this dilemma. Perhaps my expectations are the ones that require adjustment. Maybe I am looking for too much. Perhaps I should just be thankful for any sparkling moments of true worship that I manage in the middle of it all. Maybe this really is the only way forward. After all, they'll grow up. They won't always be so small and then I know that I'll miss their antics and wish that they were six and four again. Next year and the year after will have it's own challenges.

Maybe we all just have to turn up each week and do our best and smile when we can. And when it gets too much, we can leave, can't we?