Water into wine

Morning, Lord God. 

I have in front of me the remains of the finest cup of coffee ever made. It isn't a Costa bucket of vanilla latte, or a sophisticated restaurant's after dinner dark and splendid filter something or other with bite size dark chocolate mint. Not even one of those wonderful hot hot coffees with a generous dash of Amaretto and half an inch of cream floating on top that give you a comedy moustache. 

Nope.

It's made with a simple domestic kettle, circa 2009, (Breville, to be precise). Jar of instant, dash of granulated, splash of semi-skimmed. Yet somehow, this morning, sitting on this same stool, in front of the same computer, from the same mug, this particular cuppa is transcendental. I know that if I make another straight away, as I will be compelled to, because this mug is nearly finished, the second will be sadly inadequate in comparison.

Still. Carpe diem. Seize the moment. This coffee is just what I needed. Mm. 

Thankyou. For kettles, coffee and tastebuds. 

I'm going to put the kettle on again now. It's bound to be a triumph of hope over experience but I shall do it anyway.

That's just by the way. I wanted to share a little moment's joy with you; you share so many with me. 

Well, my thought for the day is about that bit in the Bible where you turn water into wine, Lord. Remember that? I wonder if you're smiling at the memory. Their faces must have been a picture. But I get ahead of myself. 

Your Mum knew you, didn't she? She saw. Well, that's obvious - from before you came along she knew she wasn't having Joe Average as a baby boy, but this story of the wedding in Cana makes me smile. 

I like that she knew the hosts were going to run out of wine, and she wanted to fix it. She wanted to save them the embarrassment of an early end to the party and she knew just the way to do it. I might have nipped down to the Off-licence for a bottle or three but she knew a better way. 

She knew you.

'When the wine was gone, Jesus' mother said to him, 'They have no more wine.'
Jesus said, 'Woman, why do you involve me? My time has not yet come.'
John 2:3,4

I like that you put up a bit of token resistance. Keep me out of it, Mum. I don't want the limelight just yet... oh alright then. She went ahead anyway. Do as he tells you. My boy will sort it out. 

'His mother said to the servants, 'Do whatever he tells you.'
John 2:5

And you did. How you did. I love that you didn't let your Mum look daft by sticking to your guns, and most of all I love that your first miracle was turning water into wine so that people could party. Why did you do it? So that they could have fun. So that the party could go on. So you could dance and drink and laugh and celebrate. My God, why on earth do people think that you are a spoilsport god who wants to drain the fun out of life?  You were anything but subdued. I like to think of you dancing and mingling and throwing back your head laughing, loading your plate from the buffet and enjoying a glass or two of the finest wine ever produced. 

'Nearby stood six stone water jars, the kind used by the Jews for ceremonial washing, each holding from eighty to a hundred and twenty litres.
Jesus said to the servants, 'Fill the jars with water,' and so they filled them to the brim.
John 2:6,7

Here's what struck me. You told the servants to fill the big stone jars to the brim with water. They did. You changed the water into wine. Job done. 

If they'd filled them half-full with water, you'd have changed that water to wine, but there would have been less of it. 

You ask us to give you what we have, and what we give you, you transform. If I give you a bit of my life, then that's what you have to work with. If I give you all of it, full to the brim, every last drop, then you will take all of it and make it all into something wonderful that brings glory to you. 

If those servants had been disobedient or held back, maybe because the huge stone jars were too heavy, or they couldn't be bothered, couldn't see the point - then there would have been no wine, or only a little. They did as they were asked and they were witnesses to something dramatic. 

'Then he told them, 'Now draw some out and take it to the master of the banquet.'
They did so, and the master of the banquet tasted the water that had been turned into wine. He didn't realise where it had come from, though the servants who had drawn the water knew.'
John 2:8,9

You, your mother and the servants were the only people at that party that knew what you'd done (as far as we know; maybe word got round, because the disciples found out) but those servants must have been wide-eyed with awe. They were honoured with the first glimpse that the carpenter from Galilee had something special. Did you smile? Did you wink? Did you take them aside and introduce yourself? Or did you just leave them mystified but impressed? 

'Everyone brings out the choice wine first and the cheaper wine after the guests have had too much to drink, but you have saved the best till now.'
John 2:10

Lord God, I want to give you my life brim full. I want to make sure that you have every opportunity to change it into something wonderful that I could never achieve on my own. The problem is that the jars are heavy and I am weak, and I am also lazy and doubtful and although I know in my head that you want nothing but good for me, sometimes I think I know best. I find myself thinking that this particular bit of my life, that sensitive issue, that thing that I know is wrong but I sort of like it the way it is; those bits I hang on to. I admit that my jar isn't full. 

Help me, Lord. I don't want to be half-hearted. I don't want to be half-full-half-empty. The wine you made was better than the stuff that the family had bought in for the wedding. It was good wine. Why would I hang onto my half-empty jar of water instead of bringing it to you?

So, here I am. I'm standing by the empty jars. That's me, watching you, worrying about the wine, wondering what to do, wishing I dared. Come over and smile gently and show me which bits of me I'm holding back. The bits that I, in my self-absorption, think that I can take care of better than you. Then let me fill those jars to the brim, so that you can perform the miracle you promise for me; to transform me into the person you always intended me to be. 

Yes, please, Lord.

Trusting your holy name

The children are in bed, dinner is cooking and I have a glass of Pinot Noir to hand. It's Friday night, Bryan's home, there are no immediate hospital appointments, the fridge is full, there's another bottle in the wine rack and it's nearly eight o'clock and still light. 

How can I worry with all that going for me?

Today I listened to a worship CD in the car on the way to the supermarket and although I didn't feel lifted to a higher place, you were there with me. I had a sing to a couple of songs and I felt so much better by the time I got there. I got out of the car at Sainsbury's and had a little smile. I just had a feeling that everything was going to be alright.

Psalm 33: 21
'In Him our hearts rejoice, for we trust His holy name.'

I trust you, whether I get the emotional response to your love or not. I will praise you, whether I feel I can sense you nearby or not. I love it when you reach out and touch me but I know that you don't love me any less when you just stay where you are and care for me.

I suppose it isn't you that has moved away from me, anyway. I don't know why some days I feel close to you and others I don't. I just want to learn not to rely on my feelings, not to falter and wonder and look about me anxiously like a child does when he loses sight of Mummy for a moment. I want to trust that I am rooted in you and despite the wind blowing I will stand firm. I want to trust that even though I don't feel transported to another place or basking in a glimpse of you. Those moments are wonderful but I know that they can't be there all the time.

I know that they're gifts and they're precious.

Help me to keep walking, Lord. When things are good and when they're bad, help me to keep walking. Mature my faith, I pray, so I don't fall into the trap of wanting things to be spectacular and personal and emotional all the time. I know that you will never leave me.

So cheers, here's to you, my Lord and my God and my Friend. I'm rejoicing in you because I trust your holy name. Thankyou for family and nice food and a glass or two of wine. You've given me so much.

That end of holiday feeling

Well, here I am.  I'm sitting here in front of the computer and I haven't got a clue what I'm going to say to you;  that in itself is not particularly unusual, since I quite often witter away without much purpose, but I haven't really thought out what I want to say. I think I'm here for a moan. 

Yes, that's it.

I'm not feeling great. I've got a headache, my sinuses are feeling narky and my joints ache, particularly my hands.  I've just taken two painkillers that were lying next to my computer with a cup of coffee.  The problem here is that I got out the tablets a few hours ago and then forgot to take them and now I feel worse I can't remember if they were paracetamol or ibuprofen and so I can't risk taking any more for four hours in case I overdose and end up being carted off to A&E in an ambulance and everyone thinks that it's all been too much for me... or not. Any clues?  Because I know you were looking when I got them out of the packet earlier.

You know what it is?  Two things:

1.     I think I'm getting a cold.

2.     Tomorrow is a Bank Holiday and after that the children are back to school and Bryan is back to London and the holiday is over.  

These things are making me feel sorry for myself.  It's been lovely having Bryan at home for nearly two weeks; and so much has happened in the last fortnight.  We've had joy on Palm Sunday and silence on Maundy Thursday and sadness on Good Friday and awe on Easter Day. We've had hospital appointments, launched rockets, slept late and watched a royal wedding. My brother and sister in law have visited, Bryan's sister in law and nephew have visited, we've been to parties and barbecues, we've toasted marshmallows, ingested greenfly, been swimming, bounced on bouncy castles and laughed and played. We've been out with friends, visited Chatsworth, the National Space Centre and Crich Tramway Museum, ridden bikes, crashed into trees, paddled and sunbathed, had picnics and gone for walks and redesigned a bit of the garden. Planted plants and sown seeds. We've eaten far too much and been a smidge more liberal than usual regarding bottles of wine.  All this and then... the diet starts again on Tuesday and the wine will once again be banished until the weekend. 

Sigh.

I'm psyching myself up for being on my own again; well, not really on my own as my Mum is here and she helps me loads, but it feels a bit alone sometimes when the children are shouting in the night or I'm taking Katy to see yet another doctor about her lump.  I suppose I'm not on my own at all as I know that you are with me - you never leave me.  But you know what I mean, don't you?  You don't get up in the night to chase away bad dreams or find a lost Barney, do you?  Oh alright then. I suppose that's a bit unfair.  

I'm not complaining, honestly. I like my life and I know how fortunate I am to have a wonderful family and friends, a husband with a job and healthy children. I know.  I just feel a bit sad that we've had two lovely weeks enjoying being all together and now it's nearly done. Back to the hamster wheel on Tuesday getting up far too early, packing Bryan off for his train and shoehorning the kids into clothes/shoes/breakfast/car before running about with this and that until it's time to pick them up again.  

So cheer me up, then. 

(At that point Bryan walked into the kitchen, reached into the cupboard and produced a packet of Pringles which he then flourished while informing me that a single Pringle is a perfect example of a hyperbolic paraboloid.  Since he then walked off with the Pringles makes me think that this was not a heaven sent cheer up message). 

I'm going to put the kettle on. 

Oh Lord, sometimes I just feel a bit miserable even though it's been a Good Day with blue sky and sunshine.  Church this morning was fine; I know that you were there and watching baptisms always makes me happy.  The building was full and even though I suspect there were more than a few members of the baptism party that were less than comfortable in a church environment, it was great to see all the seats with people in them.  If only it was always like that and at the same time every heart was lifted to you.  We'd have to organise more services to accommodate everyone.  Our church centre would be full of people on a Sunday and all week.  We'd have such ideas, such energy, such commitment. The whole area would know that our church was a place blessed by you and they'd all want to be part of it. 

Let it be, Lord Jesus.  In fact, I'm only just starting.  So many things on my Wish List.  Please heal the lump on Katy's neck.  Take it away; let it just disappear or give the doctors skill and sensitivity to treat it.  Find Bryan a job that means he can be here each evening and morning, so that he doesn't miss the children growing up. Soften the hearts of members of my family who don't know you so that they might not be lost in this world or the next.  Give my girls confidence and security, knowing that they are unique and special.  Bless them with good friends.  Show me what you want me to do with my life.  And indicate to me in some way whether the pills I just took were paracetamol or ibuprofen so I can take the other ones and perk up a bit for this evening. 

Oh well, no good wasting the last day of our holiday being miserable. Tomorrow's a day for finishing a few projects that were started with gusto a fortnight ago and then tailed off because of the necessity for hard work to get them finished.  I might have a bath tonight with a snifter of something and my book for half an hour and then I'll be right as rain. 

Here's what I'm going to do:

I will appreciate the things I have and stop dwelling on the things I don't.  I will try to see the cup as half full instead of half empty.  I will cherish the time my family are together and not bemoan the time we are apart. I will thank you for your many blessings and try not to instruct you on the things that I perceive you have not granted me. Yet. I will look for you in the everyday and try to hear you in the commonplace rather than keep my eyes shut and complain that you are not there. I know that you are my Heavenly Father and there's possibly a time and place for telling your beloved daughter to pull herself together. 

Alright then. you've probably got a point. 

Bath, wine, early night. See you tomorrow.