A - Z Challenge - E: Ebenezer

All day today I've had a line from that beautiful song, 'Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing'* going through my head: 

Here I raise my Ebenezer
Here by Thy great help I've come

My Ebenezer. Nothing to do with Scrooge, other than that Scrooge was named after one of these, I guess, but an intriguing word indeed. 

Let me point you towards 1 Samuel 7:12.

Then Samuel took a stone and set it up between Mizpah and Shen. He named it Ebenezer, saying, “Thus far the Lord has helped us.”

A stone named Ebenezer. 

Samuel set it up to mark God's faithfulness so far on his journey. 'Lord, you have helped us get this far'. In the song, the same. The writer of the song is saying that in some way he is marking this point in his journey, and thanking God that it is because of His help that they have reached this point. 

As I said at the beginning of this little A-Z expedition, I am setting the bar low on my blog posts - a lot has happened since the days I used to be a prolific poster and I've had numerous false dawns where I've intended to get back into it and failed. So, nothing earth shattering happening here, if you happen to be reading. 

No profound conclusions or inspiring reflection. 

Just this: I wonder whether this blog post, eleven years since I started writing, is a kind of Ebenezer for me. 

I am still here, I am still following Jesus, I am still trying to communicate the wonder, awe and comfort that He gives to me. 

I could neither have begun this journey, continued to walk it, nor found the path again all the times I've wandered from it, without his help. 

A metaphor for life, indeed. 

The song goes on: 

And I hope by Thy good pleasure
Safely to arrive at home

Amen, Lord. 

And Just like Samuel, I am saying to anyone who is listening: If He's brought me safe this far, I think He'll bring me home.  

'Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing' by Robert Robinson, 1758. Words and music in the public domain. 

Psalm (of Helen) : A mission statement

Gentle readers, may I beg your indulgence with this post; I set out to write a psalm, without first making much of a study on how the psalms were written, and I know that there are scholars among you who know and understand things like structure, metre, the little couplety thing that many of the psalms have and so on.  This will clearly fall far short.

My offering below is probably neither a psalm nor a poem, but a kind of outpouring from the heart in the rough style of the psalmists at their most raw and un-poetic. I don't think God is offended by the awkward and unskilled, and this felt important to me. It just wanted to be said.

As a writer who has - and is - struggling to understand what I am called to do, to find a niche, so stop speak, this seems the very bottom line in why I keep opening my laptop and stringing words together even when frequently I feel like giving up for good. I have tried so many different things, nothing seems to fit, and I come back time and again to this one truth: I want to write about Jesus.

I promise I won't often try to do it in verse.

This is what happened when I splurged it all out. I wanted to share it with you.

Continued over at The Association of Christian Writers' Blog, which is called More Than Writers. Please come and have a look around. There are things that are really worth reading. 

Come and worship

I've always loved carol services. I love lots of things about Christmas, but carol services are one of the very best bits. In recent years, however, I've found myself so exhausted with December and all the Christmas preparations that by the time the carol services come round I've been tempted to skip it or trudged there with only a sense of duty. I remember with fondness the days when it was something to look forward to, not just another thing to cram into the pre-Christmas madness.

The other night I walked down the road in the rain to church and on the way I asked God if he'd please come with me. I was so weary that if I hadn't been reading one of the lessons I'd probably have run a bath and climbed into my PJs instead. It went something like this:

'Lord, I've been to countless carol services, and while they're nice and everything, I am so tired that this feels a bit like a chore. Same songs, same readings, same mince pies. I know what there is to know about the nativity - is there something new you want to say to me?'

And there was. 

Continued over at The Association of Christian Writers' Blog, which is called More Than Writers. Come over and have a look around.

Wishing everyone a very Happy Christmas. It's Jesus' birthday, you know. 

He lives! (with an exclamation mark)

A friend sent me a picture from the internet. It was a picture of Jesus bursting out of the dark tomb into bright sunlight. Strips of grave-cloths flying everywhere, it is a picture full of energy and movement.

I love the idea of Jesus' resurrection as a dramatic, triumphant thing, not something serene and subtle. I think He would have emerged from that tomb exhilarated, breathing deeply of delicious fresh air. He'd have had enough of the suffocating claustrophobia of death, the crushing sensations of tightly bound grave clothes, the airlessness of a dark tomb, the cloying fragrances of embalming spices and ointments. 

He'd have stretched and flexed his muscles and thrown back His head and gazed at the starry sky - or the sunrise, or whatever time of day it might have been. He'd have lifted His hands and praised His Father in Heaven. He'd have smelled the grass and the dust and the flowers and felt the breeze in His hair and He might have smiled or even laughed to have conquered death so decisively.  He would have been wonderfully, thoroughly alive. 

He wouldn't be floating six inches above the ground with blond curls beautifully coiffed, hands folded in the sleeves of His pristine white robes and eyes downcast demurely. He wasn't a ghost, or an apparition; He was real. 

Jesus was a man. He was a carpenter, and then He was constantly on the move, so I reckon He'd have been in pretty good shape. He'd have had wonderfully strong arms and capable, calloused hands. He'd have been lean and well muscled (maybe even a six-pack, though that might be going too far).

He might not have been particularly tall; it seems that middle-eastern men in that era weren't particularly tall, and He'd have had olive skin, dark hair and brown eyes. We know from the Bible that He was not an especially handsome man - nothing that would turn heads if He walked past. 

I have an idea that if you looked into His eyes - if He was talking to you, if you had His attention - that perhaps that might have been another story. I think you'd have seen in His eyes something that you'd never seen before; you'd struggle to take your eyes from His. 

I bet He had the kindest eyes you've ever seen. Warm and intelligent and sincere. Eyes that could see into your soul; that could understand all the things you could never say, the good and the bad, the hopes and dreams and fears and regrets - and yet still you would know that He loved you. I think you'd have seen fun in His eyes; a joy of being alive alongside the sadness and compassion He had for the poor broken creatures that lived alongside Him. 

I think that Jesus was a man before and after His resurrection. Afterwards He was one hundred per cent alive, just as He was before. Blood was being pumped around His body, lungs filling with air, feet on the floor and all His senses keenly awake. I think He'd have enjoyed those days after His resurrection; He'd have been triumphant and joyful. He'd have known there was a job still to do, but He would surely have had a sense of satisfaction. He had done it, after all.

I have no idea at all where He spent those three days after they lifted Him down from the cross and placed Him, bathed with tears, in Joseph's tomb. A friend of mine mused: 

"Easter Saturday fascinates me, as one of those "between things" times, which is neither one thing, nor yet quite the other. Schroedinger's Saviour lies in the tomb (or does he?), resting for the Shabbat, and yet Peter hints that Jesus was already roaming the underworld freeing prisoners and causing his usual mayhem. Why not both? Why not be in three places at once? My God is beyond comprehension, wrapped in grave clothes whilst dancing at the pinnacle of heaven mantled in new authority and descending to the depths to set the captives free."  Karen Dibbens-Wyatt, April 2015

Why not all three places? It's a mystery beyond any human comprehension that a man could come back to life after he was categorically dead, and so all bets are off, I reckon. He might have disappeared from that tomb magically and turned up on the other side of the stone, or He might have pushed it away with superhuman powers. He might have vanished moments after He was laid in the tomb and visited Heaven and hell and all places in between, since God is outside time; there was no clock-watching throughout those three days. Who knows? I wonder if one day I might hear Him tell the story.

I like the picture of Jesus bursting from the tomb with untold power and energy. I see Him standing outside in the morning sunlight anticipating Mary's arrival and smiling to Himself as he relishes breaking the news. I think He enjoyed appearing amongst His disciples and looking with affection at their astonished faces.

'...he showed them his hands and feet.  And while they still did not believe it because of joy and amazement, he asked them, ‘Do you have anything here to eat?’ Luke 24:40-41

I think that He'd have smiled gently at Thomas as He offered proof of His death and His life.

Because, obvious as it sounds - the penny drops - if Jesus died, and rose from the dead, He is still alive today. Normal human rules do not apply to Him. For us, there is nothing so certain that we will one day cease to live, but for Him: been there and done that. It didn't work.

He lives! And He didn't sneak out of the tomb apologetically, it would have been a momentous moment. The whole of the universe would have changed forever.

That's worthy of an exclamation mark, and I use them very sparingly.

He knows what death is like, and He knows what lies beyond. He says it's safe for us to follow; more than that - it's glorious and beyond our wildest dreams. He says that He's prepared a place for us to be with Him for eternity. But if He's battled death and won, He is not waiting for us in the place beyond death, He is here on this side too. He can go where He wants.

'And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.’ Matthew 28:20

If that doesn't blow your mind, I think nothing ever will.

Back to basics

Morning, God.

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

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

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

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

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

My train of thought is still boarding at the station.

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

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

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

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

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

ACTS.  Adoration, Confession, Thanksgiving, Supplication.

When in doubt...

Adoration

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Confession

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

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

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

I was mean, and I'm sorry. 

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

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

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

Thanksgiving

So, so much to give thanks for. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Supplication

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

Peace.

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

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

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

Unlikely this side of heaven? Surely not. 

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

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

Have you prayed about it

As much

As you've talked about it?

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

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

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

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

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

Make me more like you. 

Amen. 

Let it be.

The Lord is near

Afternoon, God.

Did you know, one of my favourite bits of the Bible is the book of Philippians. Upbeat, encouraging, reassuring, even though Paul was languishing in prison when he wrote it. How amazing is that?

The other day I was moseying through Philippians and I had one of those moments where the penny dropped. One of those moments that must make the angels giggle where I stop in my tracks and stare into space for a while until the new idea finds a place to live in my head.

It's 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 Paul knows that the Philippians are finding things hard and he wants to lift them up. 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 getting better and better. Maybe. But that's not the point. 

The point is that I need not be anxious because you are for me.  On my side. 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, if necessary. 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.

Would people describe me as a peaceful sort of person? Me, with my chewed fingers and frown lines?

I'm thinking no.  But I'd like to be a peaceful person. I'd like people to see the way I live, not weighed down with worry even in a recession, even in ill health; peaceful even at those times when life throws messy stuff at me. 

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 appear to be 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? People wouldn't intimidate me if you were standing by my side all the time. 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 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 have to do this life thing on my own. 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.

Always near. Even then. 

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, 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, no matter where I am or what I'm doing. 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 rain on the window as well. 

Thank you for the rain and the sun and the rainbows. Thankyou for coffee and words from friends that you use so powerfully. Thank you for my Bible and the freedom to read it, where St Paul and the Philippians were being persecuted for living as Christians and so many still are, today.

Most of all, thank you for being right here, right now. 

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

The peace of the Lord.






Edited and reposted from last year.

Grown up but still cute

So, God, my little Katy is six. 

Six, and very proud of her sixness. On the morning of her birthday she announced that she did indeed feel different. She had been concerned, she went on, that it might turn out slightly disappointing, like her fifth birthday last year when she realised that she didn't feel any different at all. I hadn't realised that she'd had a disappointing fifth birthday; her disappointment on the day manifested itself as excitement and delight, and so I am not going to worry about it. 

Daddy and I had festooned the house with Happy Birthday banners and her presents were arrayed on the kitchen table next to a house-sized helium balloon in the shape of a number 6. She'd picked out her birthday clothes, and mercifully her school decided not to celebrate World Book Day by insisting on dressing up as a favourite character because her chosen look was Grown Up But Still Cute. Her words.

She sported a badge telling the world that she was six, had on her lovely red and blue knitted dress with a big flower  and she went off to school the proudest, smiliest little girl in the world. My heart swelled as she waved bye bye, secure in the knowledge that the world was waiting to celebrate with her, and that she was indeed, grown up but still cute. 

As an extra-special treat, Bryan and I spent the morning tidying her desperately chaotic bedroom. For a child who is careful and painstaking in so many ways, she has a mental block when it comes to putting things away.

Around this age big sister Elizabeth decided that a tidy room was essential to her emotional wellbeing and these days is obsessive about a place for everything and everything in its place. She takes this to the extent that any new toys bought for them to share are quickly allocated a spot on Katy's floor, rather than upset the status quo in Lizzie's. So, when I go in to kiss Katy goodnight I sort of have to feel along the floor with my feet to avoid snapping antennae off aliens (now on Daddy's gluing pile) or setting off the siren on a fire engine (she didn't even wake up). 

It looked lovely. The sort of room that I would have loved when I was little. Bright, child-friendly accessories were rediscovered and colours that weren't invented when I was five. Katy came home from school and declared it her best present. She's played up there in her room ever since.

Result.

Meanwhile, back at party HQ, I shopped for party food. It always makes me wince, this twice-yearly trip to the supermarket in March and then again in June, where I approach the check out with a too-full basket full of treats and party-fare that has no nutritional value whatsoever. Still, there were grapes.  And cucumber. Ahem.

Party tea for family, more presents and cake and candles. Sausage rolls and chicken nuggets and popcorn and crisps and hula hoops on fingers and chocolate crispies and choruses of Happy Birthday. Oh, and grapes and cucumber. 

Lovely, lovely. It just was lovely. Katy went to bed saying that it was her best birthday ever, and she still had the party with her friends to look forward to on Saturday. I breathed a sigh of relief that today was Thursday and Friday stood like a blessed oasis of calm between today and Saturday. 

Saturday dawned bright and sunny in all the Enid Blyton books I've ever read, but this one was breathtakingly cold and wintry. Frosty morning, moving through drizzle into steady sleet by mid afternoon. I have never been to the bowling alley when it's not been raining, you know. How weird is that?  Is it some sort of sign?

Party morning was not my finest hour. Tired and overwhelmed at the prospect of all that needed doing. I still needed to shop for ingredients and bake buns for the Happy Birthday slot, put together twelve all important party bags while making a curry from scratch with my older daughter for a school project and chauffeuring Katy to swimming lessons. I found myself limping tearfully to the church coffee shop for vanilla lattes and a quick panicky offload and snivel to a friend who understood. It helped. Reassured and armed with coffee I went back into the fray.

It all got done.  I was ready. 

Ready as I'd ever be.

Twelve small children for a bowling party. Lots of background noise, a million kids' shoes to exchange for natty bowling shoes (what proportion of five year olds know their own shoe size?) and orders for party meal to be taken. Bowling screens to be programmed by our party helper who kept misplacing the list of names and panicking more than I was.

A has to be on the same team as B because they're best friends, but C can't be because she used to be best friends with A and isn't any more. D is from a different class so had better be with Katy so he feels involved but then that leaves E as the only boy on team Lizzie so best rethink that one. A to G have all bowled before, except C, who only watched her big brother. J has a poorly finger but hooray! It turned out to be on her non-dominant hand! Crisis averted. Turns out that all the kids who could bowl ended up on one team and all the delicate feminine young things were on the other. Hmm.

Elizabeth inadvertently took someone else's turn and scored a strike which was a reason for great delight until she discovered her mistake and then there was great gnashing of seven-year old teeth when the strike was recorded in someone else's column. I accidentally mixed up the names of two similarly solemn five year old girls and got them in the wrong order but no matter - they both scored six and so I breathed a sigh of relief.  We had highs and lows and now and again even managed to miss all ten pins despite the bumpers at the sides of the lane. 

I spent an hour cheering, high-fiving, feeling slightly embarrassed at having my high-five proposal ignored by disgruntled bowler (alright, it was a score of two, but still...) and perfecting the lunge onto one knee to be on a level with a small person. Almost without exception they found it hard to put three fingers in the bowling balls and instead tended to heft it two-handed down the lane with an almighty thump where it moved at a glacial pace towards the pins. I perfected the art of encouraging commentary:

'Great! It'll get there eventually!'

'Good shot. I think that ball might bounce off this side...then that side...yep, there it goes... then it might just glance off that bit and... look! You knocked one over!'

'Well.  Look at that. Would you believe it? Unlucky. Let's try again! We've got plenty of pins left!'

...and so on. My thighs were screaming at me by the end of that session from kneeling down and getting up again. I am not a lightweight person and a million lunges in the space of an hour without any training meant that when it came to the exodus to the cafe for tea my knees wobbled.

The following day I could barely stand and I still can't walk down a flight of steps without wincing. Of course, Katy is full of her new Wii 'Just Dance' game and trying to boogie away rhythmically to Boney M or Bob Marley without bending one's legs is quite a challenge, I'll tell you. Ever tried it?

So, food for twelve at a long table with balloons. Minor catastrophe when children found themselves seated next to the wrong person and Best Friends Forever were inadvertently placed adjacent to Previous Best Friends Forever. Some minor adjustments were necessary before chips could comfortably be consumed. Tomato ketchup was squirted on plates, juice distributed and mopped up. Coffee was drunk by some but I was already on to the next thing; I hastily arranged the slightly smudged buns (icing hadn't had time to dry) onto a plate and stabbed them with six candles. 

K-A-T-Y-6 spelled out in those little pink edible ball bearings that you can break a tooth on. Made a mental note to select one of the naked ones from the bottom row, should any survive. None did.

Happy birthday, dear Kay-teee, happy birthday to you.

She looked so made up at being the centre of attention. So delighted with her friends, with the ten-pin bowling (she got a strike! 'So. Did. I.' spat big sister, only Katy's strike counted towards her own score...). Delighted with her pile of freshly baked buns, with blowing out her candles for the second time - even if the little girl next to her did blow out the nearest three before she'd taken a breath. There's my little girl. All grown up and six. 

And then we were quickly into party bag and goodbye mode. Each bag painstakingly packed with cheap craft activities, sweets and small bun with icing unset. Lots of sweet prompted thank yous and goodbyes. And then it was just us. 

In the car on the way home, little sister smiled out of the window, cheeks bulging, with cake in one hand and chewy sweet in the other. Big sister negotiated the exchange of chewy sweets for the Kinder egg (don't do it, Katy! - ah, but how magnanimous...)  Mummy and Daddy planned feet up, takeaway and the early opening of a bottle of wine. 

So much to thank you for. So much.

That the children were so, so tired that night that they were asleep before our takeaway arrived.

For my gorgeous girls and the inexplicable fact that they're already six and seven years old.

That they are bright, funny and beautiful. That twelve children can come together in a noisy place and throw heavy objects down a runway and nobody was hurt. That it's been a day of generosity and fun and laughter, even if hard work.

That you have given me a love for my children that is so out-of-proportion huge that I will tidy rooms, buy balloons, wrap presents into the night, place little flowers in bud vases, bake last minute buns, put together dubious curries and over-use my long-forgotten quads just to make them smile.

Thank you that we can celebrate. We should celebrate! Just look at all we are blessed with. Thank you for all that we have, physically, emotionally, intellectually, spiritually. Thank you for bowling balls and chicken nuggets (I think). Thank you for high fives and delicate little girls hopping from one leg to another in excitement. For Batman birthday cakes and candles.

Lord, most of all thank you for being there. For watching the bowling balls hit the pins and cheering or commiserating along with us. Thank you that you and the angels sang happy birthday to my little angel and smiled down at her with an infinite love that leaves mine standing, no matter how hard that is for me to understand.

Thank you that you're a God who likes parties. Who turned water into wine just because you didn't want to see the party finish prematurely. A God of joy and celebration. And what's not to celebrate?

Whether we're six, seven, forty, sixty, eighty. Life's to celebrate whenever we get the chance, and usually there's an opportunity if we open our eyes to it. How often I forget that and dwell on the difficulties and disasters when the banners are there to get out and pin up and Spring is on its way even if there's a cold, cold wind today. Katy comes home with a Clean Plate sticker from the lunchtime supervisor (that's a dinner lady to you and me) or Lizzie gets a Star of the Day award - we should celebrate! If I survive another children's party without my head exploding, we should celebrate!

We should blow up balloons just for the sake of letting them zoom round the room with a farting noise.

There's always the possibility of opening a bottle and raising a toast. There's always a reason somewhere.  Laughter and family and fun are worth celebrating as well as good school reports and the first daffodils and a pound or two less on the scales.

I'll let you know when we can do that last one. Don't hold your breath.

Until then, remind me often. When the helium balloon has drooped and Bryan has done the silly voice thing and the Happy Birthday banners are back in the cupboard, help me to celebrate the children, the weather, the fact that I get to wake up another day.

Celebrate that I know and am known by the God who placed the stars in their places, the One who calmed the storm.

Known by the God who knew me when I was just two cells on their way to meet each other.

The One who watches over me, loves me, forgives me, loves me some more.

The One who died for me.

Thank you for my six year old daughter who delights me.

Grown up but still cute. She makes me smile.

Thank you. 

Stoicism and icebergs

Morning, Lord God.

I'm thinking that it's a long time since I said thankyou. I soak up blessings each day as if they are my due and focus on the grumbles and complaints. I think I've been doing a lot of that this week. It seems to have been a hard week, though nothing truly disastrous has happened....

I've got a cold. Now, perish the thought that anyone would suggest that I've been anything less than stoic, because when my husband has a cold I am quick to identify 'man-flu' or worse, a touch of 'manthrax' and pass him the paracetamol without shovelfuls of sympathy.When it's my turn to be afflicted, as it has been this last week, all that needs to be said is that I suffer in silence. I am sure that for those around me, the only evidence of a desperately serious head-cold has been the proximity of a box of tissues. Nobody would have noticed, I'm sure...

Ahem.

Just clearing my (slightly sore) throat. 

So, I admit that I've been less than my usual sunny self this week. 

Since my headache is resulting in some difficulty in stringing together coherent sentences, I'm going to go for the automated bullet-point format, if it's all the same to you, Lord God. Got to save my limited energy for the coughing and sneezing, you understand.

• Thankyou for a bright sunny day where the sky is blue and the air crisp. Not so crisp that I had to scrape the car windscreen, though. Just the right level of crispness. Thankyou.

• For coffee and a toasted teacake with a young friend of mine preparing to go to University next year. She's an inspiration to me. 

• For coffee and toasted teacakes. What's the received wisdom? 'Feed a cold and starve a fever?'

• For the hospital appointment with Katy a few days ago in which we arrived late but found the clinic too was running late. Where I dropped off Katy with Daddy and fought my control freak instincts to risk not being there at the appointment as I went off to park the car, only to find that they were still waiting when I got there. Might sound like not much, but for me that was a huge and compassionate answer to prayer.

• For the wonderful fact that the lumps on Katy's neck * are smaller. The doctors don't know why they came, or why they're going, but two have disappeared and the largest one is shrinking. Thankyou thankyou thankyou. I can't thank you enough that we're not having a repeat of last year's nightmare.

• For Katy, who really could teach me what stoic means.

• For family members who are always there, no matter what mood I'm in.

• For paracetamol and decongestants. Did I mention I've had a bit of a cold?

• For Christmas plays at primary schools. Yesterday was Katy's dress rehearsal and I had to shoe-horn her into her angel costume on arrival at school. She was greeting her classmates and admiring the new decorations and I kept hissing, 'Katy! Concentrate! Put your foot in here!' and 'Stop messing around! Will you take off your other trainer before you try to put on your tights!' and then she was transformed into a little white and gold angel and my tune changed. 'Oh, my little love. Come and give me a hug.'

• Thankyou for little throwaway lines such as, 'Mummy, how come I'm always at the back of the queue when they're handing out haloes?'

• For warm beds, squishy pillows, warmed wheaties and bedside lamps for early nights with books when the rain is raining and the wind is blowing.

• For friends who text encouragement and support just when I'm overwhelmed and discouraged.

• For music that lifts the spirits when the spirits need lifting.

• For your Spirit that picks me up and carries me whenever I let him. It's just that sometimes I push him away in order to have a good wallow. I don't know why; it makes no sense at all. Thankyou that you are always still there when I come to my senses.

That's the tip of the iceberg of thankyous. The other nine-tenths, or eight-ninths or whatever - the larger bit - is pretty much entirely made up of you. 

Christmas is coming and I am realising what a huge thing it is that you did. Christmas trees are nice and pretty and presents are nice and the food is wonderful, but the truth of Christmas is that you sent your Son as a tiny, vulnerable baby, born with every disadvantage, when he should have entered the world in a blaze of glory and fanfare. You knew the end from the beginning; did you weep as you saw him laid in a trough with straw around him? Did you wonder what it was that you'd started? 

A tiny baby boy. Bewildered parents. Harassed innkeepers. Displaced cows. Confused shepherds and amazed astronomers. An oblivious world.

How blessed am I that I know something of the meaning of that first Christmas? That I have the chance to look beyond the fairy lights and the wrapping paper and receive the biggest and best present that anyone has ever given?

This Advent, as I'm waiting for your birthday, Lord, tip my iceberg upside down, will you? Show me what really matters. 

You sent your Son to save me.

Thankyou for that.

*The story so far:

My anxious heart (4 April 2011)

Thy will be done - but could you do it this way? (6 May 2011)

My brave girl (4 June 2011)

Needing my friend (23 June 2011)

Microscopic but annoying (14 July 2011)

My brave girl II (19 August 2011)

L O V E

Hi, God.

My head is all over the place. One minute I'm in world-beating mode, full of I-can-do-this! and nothing's-going-to-stop-me! and the next I'm full of it's-not-happening and why-bother? Tigger to Eeyore in a matter of moments. And all this takes place while sitting in front of my computer with my fingers on the keys. To a casual observer, nothing is taking place at all, other than I'm intermittently chewing the skin down the side of my right ring finger and I keep shooting glances towards the kettle. 

Isn't it strange that my brain does this to me?  I have conversations with myself without ever saying a word. The voices in my head are not always my friend; sometimes I wonder if they're me at all. I need to sweep them all out and fill the vacuum quickly with you.

Sigh.

That's what I shall do. Where to start? Well, since you are who you are; since you are God, Lord of my life and you've given me so much, saying thankyou might be a good place. It's not really so bad, being me, you know. Yes, really. 

Right now, right here, things for which I'm thankful. 

Thankyou, my ever-generous Friend, for:

• ...being here right now. Right here. 
• ...toast. Nice thick seedy bread with butter. 
• ...the last few bright yellow leaves on the apple trees as we slide into Winter
• ...fluffy slippers.
• ...my kitchen table. Right now it has on it: a small pile of coins (Katy emptied her moneybox to see how wealthy she was), a stuffed monkey (Elizabeth's) and a stuffed dachshund (Kate's), spelling sheets from school, a mugful of pens, a basket of colouring books, notebooks and craft items, a small bag of marbles, a pair of swimming goggles, and a small glass heart. 

This tells me so much. The first thing it says is that the place needs tidying, and that, sadly, is the voice that often shouts loudest. Not loudly enough for me to do much about it, granted, but I don't like mess. The sort of disarray caused by children often grates on my nerves, and I know this is not good. But if I stop and look properly while I drink my coffee there's more to see. 

Katy has a moneybox with coins in it. She is five years old. A five year old has enough money to buy a paperback book, or a big bagful of sweets, or enough food to feed a family of six in a place like Chad for two months. That needs some thinking about. 

Lizzie and Katy have roomfuls of stuffed toys. They cuddle them and play games with them, give them names and personalities and take them on adventures. My two girls are warm and loving and imaginative and energetic and full of ideas. 

The spelling sheets (one filled in, one not so filled in) tell me that they go to school, that they're making progress and they have good brains and they enjoy learning. 

Colouring books and pens and notebooks remind me that we are all made to create. There's a half-coloured picture in the book that's mine; I like to sit with the girls and colour things in. The only problem is that I come over all perfectionist about it and when Katy decides that she wants to help me on my picture rather than persevere with hers I become a bit too protective... oh dear...

Both girls love to write. They like to write little messages to each other and to me and Daddy and they are the most precious things to me. They both have little bags on the door handles outside their rooms with signs that say, 'Letters for Lizzie/Katy' and an arrow. I put notes and little special things in the bags last thing at night. In the morning they check their mail and reply with their own little bit of love (usually delivered by a small girl landing on my chest at the crack of dawn). 

We communicate. Thankyou for that. 

Last night Elizabeth arrived in my room after bedtime with a poem that she'd written. It was an acrostic. Down the side it had four letters: L O V E.

Love you Mummy

Over the hills the sun rises

Very bright the sky is!

East, west, north and south it shines and I think of you MUMMY!

 

I will keep that little note all my life. 

Marbles. Kids don't change, do they? Children have always given their teddies names and they still do. They still play imagination games, and I'm so glad they do. Who says they need all the computer games and electronic toys? They're nice, but I am so, so happy that my girls can play with a bag of marbles. Even if they do quite often play with them on the stairs. Hmm.

They both love swimming, and now that Katy can sort of swim underwater a bit, if the wind is in the right direction, with much encouragement, she's graduated to a pair of goggles. This has caused much excitement. They're bright pink and new and she's so proud that she wears them much of the time, especially in the bath. Thankyou God that they're healthy enough to swim, that we are in a position to take them to a pool and that they can learn in a safe and encouraging environment. We take so much for granted.

My girls.

A small glass heart. Oh, Father God. I love my daughters and they love me. I am blessed beyond measure, even when they're loud and squabbling and doing all those nerve-shredding things that children do. What more can I say? 

So, pushing on... thankyou for:

• ...my two beautiful girls who trotted off to school happy this morning
• ...lunch out with Mum - going in a bit. Bit of shopping and a bit of cafe-time. 
• ...my husband and technical advisor who talked me through setting up the wifi again after a powercut in the night.
• ...absolute quiet. Right now even the fridge isn't humming. (Why isn't the fridge humming?)
• ...waking up with the words from the song, 'Blessing and honour, glory and power be unto the Ancient of Days' in my head.
• ...waking up at all. I get another new day. No guarantees.
• ...nice coffee in a nice mug
• ...a pheasant in a field in the Derbyshire countryside even on a murky day like today.
• ...your Word. This morning I found this:

'Bless the Lord, O my soul and all that is within me,

bless his holy name.

Bless the Lord, O my soul, and do not forget his benefits.

Who forgives all your iniquity, 

who heals your diseases,

who redeems your life from the pit,

who crowns you with steadfast love and mercy,

who satisfies you with good as long as you live

so that your youth is renewed like the eagle's.'

Psalm 103:1-5

Thankyou for the reminder. You do so much for me and so much goes unnoticed. So often the things I do notice I don't thank you for.

Bless you, Lord.

I'm just getting into Dietrich Bonhoeffer. Today I read this on the subject of thanksgiving and it shot straight to whichever bit of my early morning brain that can process Things Of Note.

'We pray for the big things and forget to give thanks for the small (and yet not really so small) gifts we receive daily. How can God entrust great things to those who will not gratefully receive the little things from God's hand?'*

Yes. I am so often asking for the big. The dramatic. The breakthrough/turnaround moments, aren't I? I am always champing at the bit, wanting to move, to go somewhere. I say I want to be in your will but then I tell you what I think that will should be. 

Can I do it? Nope. But you can. If you want to. 

So I'm leaving it with you. Maybe when I petition you over and over to know the next thing, to find out where I'm going and maybe get there a bit quicker you're telling me not to worry about the next thing, why not focus on this one? This moment right now. 

Now, where were we?

Thankyou:

• ...for pinecones.
• ...for a beautiful bunch of green grapes in a green bowl looking all tempting.
• ...for technology like smartphones and texting and mobile internet and social networking and also for OFF buttons and good old fashioned turn-the-pages books.
• ...for the way that you are Almighty God but you bend down tenderly to speak to those who listen.

Lord, I don't want to miss a single thing. I want to see you, and I want to know that what I'm seeing is you. Open my eyes and my ears, Lord. 

Give me a heart of thanks that swells with gratitude when I see all that you have done for me, and all that you give to me. Don't let me walk around blind and deaf and missing all this glory. 

In the words of Dietrich B, once again:

'Lord, open my eyes so that I might see the giftedness of my life and let my life be a hymn of praise and thanksgiving.'*

Oh yes, Lord God. Yes please. 

Thankyou for your L O V E. 

Amen.

(* 40-Day Journey with Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Copyright 2007 Augsburg books, imprint of Augsburg Fortress)

It's not about me

Well, Lord, we've reached another round number.

I have been coming here and chatting to you as my fingers taptaptap on the computer keys for nearly two years, and I have pressed 'Publish' three hundred times.

Actually, many more than three hundred times as I quite often press 'publish' and then 'edit' and then 'publish' again. And then there've been the times when I've inadvertently pressed 'publish' and then had to scrabble about attempting to retrieve technologically a pageful of notes to myself...but what I'm getting at is: there are three hundred posts.

Three hundred conversations. Three hundred moans, giggles, rants, triumphs or sobs. And every hundred I remind myself that it isn't about me.

It's Not About Me. No, it isn't.

I love to write, Father God; you put the longing in me. All my life I've written things, from diaries (can't bring myself to destroy them but their existence makes me cringe) to poems and short stories to lengthy and self-conscious attempts at novels that didn't go anywhere. I always wanted to write but could never quite get anywhere with my writing. Teachers encouraged, friends were kind, but the purpose was just never there. Ideas never translated into anything real; it never felt sustainable. And then about three years ago someone from church told me that they enjoyed the prayers that I wrote for the family service intercession and maybe I should write them down.

After that some other people said the same, and someone suggested I should start a blog. I had to google 'blog'. Being me, I thought about that for a few months, started one in September that year and didn't write a word in it until January the following year. And then I found that I couldn't stop.

That was three hundred posts ago, and I know that the words don't come from me. I'm not suggesting that I speak with your voice, or have any sort of inspired wisdom or anything, but I do know that this is a place that you and I come to chat and you are the wind in my sails, so to speak. I know that you sit next to me as I write and I know that you help me get the mess that's in my head down onto paper (so to speak). Time and time again I find that I start out feeling one way and by the time I finish chatting to you I feel different. I ask a question only to find the answer. I have a cry, and I find your comfort. I complain and you point out blessings.  I praise you, and I feel your pleasure.

I think that you like to meet me here just as much (if not more) than I like to come. I suspect that in many other ways you struggle to get my attention. But this... I want to communicate with people. I want to encourage and inspire. I want to notice you around me every day, in the extraordinary and the ordinary. I don't want to miss a single thing.

You have given me a brain that thinks in pictures and likes to play with ideas. You've given me the ability to witter on endlessly and arrange and rearrange words and I have a computer and a little place perched in the kitchen where I can come and chat to you while the children rollerskate round me, or while the kettle boils, or the chilli bubbles and becomes spot-welded to the bottom of the pan.

I have everything that I need.

It's not about me.

Lord God, it's about you. It's all about you. About knowing you better, about showing where you are to people who don't know where to find you, about bringing you glory. It's about using the gifts that you've given me so that they grow and develop and don't just sit there gathering dust. It's about doing as I'm told.

It's a hard thing to say, 'I think I'm good at this' because I leave myself open to people who might say, 'I think you flatter yourself.'  Some days I think I can do it, some days I wonder why I bother. Some days I think I'm one of the servants with a whole bagful of talents - the world is my lobster! -  and the next I'm convinced that I should run away and bury what little pathetic thing I have because I don't want to show it to anyone for fear of ridicule or contempt.

When I look to left and right at all the wonderfully skilled and talented people there are out there with God-given inspiration and ability I become distracted and discouraged. If it's all been said before and so much better than I could say it, where's the point? But you tell me not to compare myself.

'So what if they have a prodigious talent and a million followers? You do your thing. Let them do theirs'.  There are many different jobs in your Kingdom. Nobody does the same as anyone else.

It's when I keep my eyes focused on you that it all works best. When I do that it all flows. It's the most natural, effortless thing in the world. It's a source of joy and relief and comfort for which I can never, ever thank you.

I write because it helps me come into your presence and not to get sidetracked. I write because it helps me think and work through the muddle that's in my head. I write because I want to tell the world that you are my God and I love you. I write because you showed me how and because you want me to.

It's not about me. It's all about you.

Forgive me, Father, for the times that I get that the wrong way round. When I get self-indulgent and self-absorbed. For the times when you can't get a word in edgeways and you're just waiting for me to stop banging on long enough to tell me 'It's alright', or 'It's not like that', or 'Will you just pull yourself together?'

Forgive me for the times when I get a little bit too pleased with myself, or a bit too absorbed with the statistics. For the times when I focus too much on what other people think and long for approval from them rather than you. I play to an audience of One.

This place is a part of me, now. I would miss it immeasurably if I couldn't come here any more. I realise that it's become something so special to me; a place to talk and, yes, to listen; to explore and learn and grow.

It's all for you, Father. It always will be.

Hard hats and the Holy Spirit

Morning, Lord.

You know that bit in the Bible where it says, 

'...being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.'
Philippians 1:6 NIV

Of course you do. Well, I'm wanting to tell you a couple of things this morning.

1. You've started something.
2. I'm looking forward to the finished article. I think. 

Katy and I tidied her bedroom some weeks ago.  Well, I tidied Katy's room and she sort of followed me around complaining, removing items that I put in a black bin bag and disagreeing with me in my definition of 'rubbish'. The point I am making, however, is that the room was dreadful. It was a mess, and needed work. About an hour into the job, it looked much, much worse than it did to start with. No choice but to push on. Can't leave it like this.

And that's a bit how I feel. 

I am a work in progress.

I know that you are at work. I know it beyond any doubt; I know that things are considerably different from the way they were three years ago, two years, one year. I know that you're working in different areas of my life and I accept that work is needed. Many bits of me are as messy as Katy's bedroom floor. And yes, I'm the one who follows you round reinstating the bits that you want me to throw away. 

It came to me a few days ago that your Holy Spirit lives in me. I have known that in a brain sort of way, but the other day it just clicked into place in my heart. I know the Holy Spirit is there not because I prophesy or speak in tongues (The Tongues of Men and Angels) but because of this:

'...no-one can say, 'Jesus is Lord,' except by the Holy Spirit. 

1 Cor 12:3 

And you know what? I can say Jesus is Lord. Oh yes, I can. And I know it in my heart more every day. Thankyou Holy Spirit.

I love it when the first words in my head in a morning are in praise of you. I love it when I have a line of a song going round in my head all day and it's a worship song. I like filling my head with things like this. A few days ago I woke up with a line from Matt Redman's song, 'Once again' in my head:

'Thankyou for the cross, thankyou for the cross, thankyou for the cross, my Friend'

Today it was from Phil Wickham's 'Cannons':

'All glory, honour, power to you, Amen...' 

It makes me smile. I think it makes you smile too, and that's good. I want to make you smile.

I woke in the middle of the night a few days ago and glanced at the clock. It was 3:16am.

'God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, so that whoever believes in Him shall not perish, but have eternal life.' 

John 3:16

3:16. A few years ago would I have made a connection like this? I don't think so. Is it a bit cheesy? Are there Christians out there that would roll their eyes if I shared this little nocturnal nugget? Maybe so, but I like it. It's only since I've been spending more time with you and learning to listen as well as rabbit on that I've started seeing so much more. I see you all around me, when you give me eyes to see and I manage to keep them open. I see you in the rain droplets on a scarlet Autumn leaf. I see you in a man on a train reading a book about prayer. I see you in the double rainbow above my daughter's school at pick-up time. I see you in the low, orangey shafts of sunlight against a dark, purpley stormy sky right now.

I know that my Redeemer lives, and that he lives in me.

I am a work in progress. I come complete with notices advising steel toecapped boots and a hard hat. Danger lurks within; I am not finished yet. Authorised access only; all visitors please check in with the site manager before coming any further. And what I thought was a small renovation project turns out to be a fairly sizeable building site. I read this from CS Lewis and there was more than a small spark of recognition:

'Imagine yourself as a living house. God comes in to rebuild that house. At first, perhaps, you can understand what He is doing. He is getting the drains right and stopping the leaks in the roof and so on; you knew that those jobs needed doing and so you are not surprised. But presently he starts knocking the house about in a way that hurts abominably and does not seem to make any sense. What on earth is He up to? The explanation is that He is building quite a different house from the one you thought of - throwing out a new wing here, putting on an extra floor there, running up towers, making courtyards. You thought you were being made into a decent little cottage: but He is building a palace. He intends to come and live in it Himself.'

CS Lewis, Mere Christianity

I don't know if I'm going to be a palace or a block of flats but the 'knocked about abominably' bit rings some bells. I think it's because I'm pretty sure you're working on lots of different bits all at the same time. My temper, the things I say and how I say them, what I think; things that I dwell on, the priority I set on spending time with you, learning how to concentrate on your Plan for my life and not get sidetracked by everything else, tackling my need for approval and desire to please other people... and so much more. Then, of course, there's patience (blimey, asking you for patience isn't quite what I'd hoped it would be. I wanted to wake up one morning effortlessly unruffled and serene, not find that my life is littered with opportunities to develop blessed patience).

For your own safety...

You're not just ripping out the fireplace, you're digging deep and you're rewiring, re-plastering, knocking down and rebuilding, re-roofing and landscaping simultaneously.

I'm looking forward to the furnishing. Cushions. Lamps. Decor. Maybe that'll be a bit more comfortable?

The only thing that I disagree with CS Lewis about is the last line of the quote above. You're not waiting until it's all finished before you move in; you're here already. You must have a sleeping bag on the dusty living room floor, I think. It's certainly not a house fit for a King just yet, but that's the wonderful thing about my God. You're not waiting for the throne room and the chapel to be gilded and frescoed. You're happy to step over the threshold while the roof is still leaking. You're happy to walk around touching the walls affectionately and reassuring and making plans, making yourself at home even when it's grubby and draughty and you get your hands dirty.

Why? Because you love this little house. Even in its neglected state, you love it. You looked at it and took in all the many inadequacies and problems and you still thought immediately that it was worth saving. You could see which walls to knock down to let in more light. As soon as I opened the little battered door, you sent in your best team.

So, Father God. As Project Manager, how's it going? No, don't tell me. I'm not really that keen on knowing that we're only on Phase One of a lifetime's worth of construction. Come and build. Find the locked doors in secret corridors and help me to open them up so that you can renovate those rooms too. Even when it's painful - because I want to be a palace fit for the King of Kings.

I don't want to aim small. I want to be all that I can be, and for your glory. I want everyone to know that you are the architect and designer and the builder. I want people to look at me and see you.

Let's just take it one day at a time.

This might take a while.

Pictures used:

hardhat0001.jpg by MConnors
constructionsite.jog by wallyir

both from Morguefile.com 
Used with permission