So much to thank you for

I have so much to thank you for.

This list is in no particular order and is certainly not exhaustive:

Thankyou that the sun is shining and the girls didn't make too much fuss when I lathered them in sun cream.

Thankyou that we've just been to the hairdresser and both Elizabeth and Katy sat beautifully still so that their fringes are straight and then they got a lolly to eat as a reward.  Katy did not, on this occasion, get her lolly tangled up in another lady's hair.

Thankyou that Bryan is on holiday and has just built us a new seat to sit on in the garden and very comfy it is too.

Thankyou that my beautiful girls are happy and healthy and as I speak are playing nicely together.

Thankyou that over the past two weeks we've had visits from both sides of the family and it has been so lovely to see the children playing together and catch up with brothers and sisters and sisters in law.

Thankyou that Katy was not traumatised by her hospital appointment yesterday. Thankyou that although the doctors don't yet know what her lump is all about, they have ruled out some nasty things that it might have been.

Thankyou that you hear my prayers.

Thankyou that we live in a country where we are free to think for ourselves, to say what we think and have ideas that might be different from other people's.

Thankyou that we are free to worship you openly without threat of persecution.

Thankyou that I am loved.

Thankyou that the blossom is out, the birds are singing and the neighbours cats have not left any obvious presents anywhere in the garden.

Thankyou that we have a lovely house, food in the fridge and enough money to pay the bills.

Thankyou that the local coffee shop does an amazing latte and croque monsieur.

Thankyou that we have doctors to make us better when we are ill.

Thankyou that I have some lovely supportive, perceptive and encouraging friends and a wonderful church family.

Thankyou that I have all my senses and I'm learning to use them better to perceive you.

Thankyou that I have a brain and can think clearly. Most of the time.

Thankyou that I have the ability and means to express myself so that I can write down some of the wonderful things that you say to me so that I won't ever forget.

Thankyou that in the greenhouse my seedlings are sprouting and there's a chance to start getting the garden organised (when I'm not sitting on the new bench).

Thankyou that I live in a climate where it's sunny and it rains and the plants are able to grow so that we can eat tomatoes and cucumbers and beans and lettuces and radishes and carrots and beetroot and blueberries and gooseberries and rhubarb and strawberries and whatever is produced by the mystery plant that Elizabeth and Katy planted at the last Messy Church.

Thankyou that I have so much to look forward to.

Thankyou that I have a gracious God who gives me wonderful gifts.

Thankyou that tomorrow is Good Friday; the day that we remember your most awesome gift; that of your perfect Son Jesus Christ.

Thankyou that you died for me.

Thankyou that you died for me.

Thankyou that you died for me.

Learning to fly

I have so much to thank you for. 

Family.  The last two weekends we've had visits from family; brother, sisters in law, nephews... the girls have loved it, having exciting people to play with in the garden, and we've had barbecues, takeaways and bottles of wine so it's been pretty good for the grown ups too.  It's lovely to see people that you love that live a distance away and therefore don't see much of.  Texts and emails and phone calls and, dare I say it, Facebook - are not a decent substitute for sitting in the garden together with a coffee, chatting and watching the children play together. 

I'm so tired. I've been staying up late and getting up early (ish) and the children have been so excited that they've slept poorly and got up at silly-o'clock the last few mornings.  Today our guests went home and I took the girls to the park to work off any remaining energy in the hope that they might let me sleep a bit tonight.  We met up with some friends and although our intention to have a natter didn't work out exactly as we'd planned (with five children between us they always managed to want to do different things requiring adult attention, so in an hour and a half our talking time was approximately fifteen fractured minutes); it was a good afternoon. 

My Elizabeth can ride a bicycle!  Not just a faltering few yards before an emergency landing - she can ride and ride and ride.  Her own bike was donated some months ago and suffers from a chronically flat tyre (can't find the puncture no matter how hard we try) and a broken spoke.  Another bike we were given has two dodgy tyres and one broken brake handle thingy, so her delight in finding that her older friend had a beautiful, sleek new machine was lovely to behold.  With permission, she was away. Well, you know all this; you were there. I was so proud. I imagine you were too. 

I watched her sail around the playing field with a look of intense concentration on her beautiful little face.  Did you see her, Father God?  Fast and slow, straight and cornering, wobbling occasionally but righting herself, until she came to a stop where we were, flushed and triumphant.  My little Lizzie is five, and she can ride a bike! What a star. 

Elizabeth has always been quick to learn things physical.  You've given her gifts in that department. She is tall and lean, well muscled, streamlined and athletic, with the figure of a swimmer or a gymnast. (She certainly didn't inherit all that from me!)  She took her first steps at eleven months and walked confidently within days.  She took to swimming and loves her lessons at the pool.  She is never still.  She runs, jumps, climbs, dances and swings.  Physical things come easily to Elizabeth.  I have no idea where she gets that from, either. Not my genes, and I might be doing him a disservice, but I don't think they were in Bryan's, either.  I think you must have seen what was necessary there and intervened, Lord. 

Today she was so pleased with herself.  Her little face was glowing, and earlier on she came downstairs after bedtime and overheard me telling Bryan on the phone how wonderful she'd been; I was so glad.  There are many things a child can overhear but I was so glad that she listened to me telling him that she was great, impressive, fabulous before I realised she was there. Fortunately I sensed a little shadow behind me before I suggested that perhaps a new bike might be in order for her birthday in a few weeks time... 

At teatime today we regaled Grandma with stories of expert bicycle-riding and my generous little Katy nodded solemnly when asked if she thought her big sister was amazing. My Lizzie. She felt good today. A while later she sidled over to me and asked me if I liked the poems she brought home before the holiday - they'd been in the workbook that I was shown on parents evening.  Her teacher was most impressed and so was I.  She really can write little poems. She can paint a little word picture. I'm so glad. 

We've encouraged her and made much of her efforts and I liked that tonight, in the light of her bike triumph, she was thinking of another recent success. I long for my daughters to see that they are special, talented, gifted, full of potential.  I want them to be comfortable in their own skins, happy to be who they are. I want them to understand that they cannot be good at everything, but that they have been blessed with a unique arrangement of skills and attributes that no-one else has in quite the same way. Also that they don't have to be the best to earn our love or approval; that trying hard is what we value, not always being a winner. 

I want them to feel confident. Not arrogant, not superior, but assured.  Clear in the knowledge that they are loved, by their family and especially by you, their Heavenly Father. I don't want them to doubt themselves, to fear failure or ridicule and so not to try. I want them to have faith in themselves, because you don't make rubbish, and if you think they are of immeasurable value, then what the world thinks is immaterial. When they are older I hope that they will come to realise that you sent your Son to die for them - and there is no greater legitimacy than that. 

You've been trying to teach me that little lot for decades, Lord, haven't you?  

Funny how motherhood has taught me so much about you. Just as I want it for my girls, you want these things for me, don't you?  You want me to have faith in myself because you don't make mistakes, and I am me for a reason.  I am built this way, with these talents, these flaws, these hopes, these dreams, these fears.  You want me to fly, and yet in adulthood I am only just peering over the side of the nest. I pray that it doesn't take my daughters as long to stretch their wings, because I am beginning to learn that you won't let us fall to the ground. 

I give my little fledgelings to you, Father. My brave, clever Elizabeth who can ride her bike, and my sweet, fiesty Katy who is going to hospital on Wednesday. Father, hold them close right now as they sleep and protect them. 

And thank you.  For family, for friends, for sunshine, for good food and laughter and bicycles. 

Riding on a donkey

Palm Sunday.  I always find it a bit melancholy, actually; the celebrations don't feel right to me. Jesus rode into Jerusalem on a donkey to fulfil prophecy, and the crowd went wild.  They cheered and waved and praised and sang.  He must have looked around and seen the happy, welcoming faces of the crowd and marvelled at their fickleness.  Less than a week later they would be screaming in hatred and baying for his blood. 

My Lord, what did you feel?  I want to say that if I'd been there, I wouldn't have been like that.  I would have cheered you and welcomed you and then stayed faithful even when things went bad in a few days time.  I want to assure you that my love would have been more constant than that. I would have stood by you. 

But we both know that isn't the case, don't we?  No doubt I would have been scared and fearful and the instinct for self preservation would probably have kicked in for me just as it did for the others. I would have smiled and cheered and praised you that day and then turned away and cowered and hid when the going got tough. There's no way that I would have spoken up for you. I would have been as bad as all the rest. Perhaps that's why I feel so uneasy on Palm Sunday.  Perhaps it's too close to home.  The ease with which 'Hosanna!' turned to 'Crucify!'  I feel bad that you had to go through it all.  You looked about you with a smile on your face and accepted praise with grace and mercy and at the same time you knew how shallow it all was.  We didn't understand. We're good at not understanding.

It can't have been easy; you were a man after all.  Your humanity must have loved the celebrations, the recognition, the welcome. There must have been an element of enjoyment in it for you. Who doesn't love being loved? But then you are God as well.  You saw beyond the shouts of praise and saw the emptiness of the hearts and the fear and the betrayal. It makes me weep for you. I'm sorry that we did that to you. You, who are honesty, truth, beauty, mercy, forgiveness, grace, peace, straightforwardness, love. You were clean and bright and sinless and you were lauded by those who were dark with hypocrisy. You loved them anyway, because these were the people you came to save. 

How amazing is that. 

Next time, you won't be riding on a donkey, will you? There will be no subtlety about your Triumphal Entry next time round. It won't be open to interpretation.  You will leave us in no doubt.  People will not ask, 'Who is this?' because they will know. You will come in all the majesty and dignity that you chose to set aside on Palm Sunday. 

Every knee will bow.  

I am a tree

I think that I might grow into a tree.  

That's what I think.  With your help, and lots of time (because my sort of tree doesn't grow quickly - I'm not a conifer hedge),  I think I might be a tree. 

I'm trying to write a Life Mission Statement.  What I'm about.  What I'm for.  Now you might think that this is a bit of a laugh, Lord, as I've been bothering you repeatedly with that very question, but along comes this opportunity to try to pin down the answer and I'm thinking that rather than sit here tap tapping away and waiting for an angel to appear at the door with a letter from you containing the answer, I might try and sort it out myself.  Give you the chance to help me work it out, I should say. I'm pretty sure you're the one with the plan, not me. 

Hence the tree.  A book I'm reading, called 'The Path: Creating your Mission Statement for Work and Life' by Laurie Beth Jones, has lots of exercises in it to try to tune into the way I'm made. One of them is to think of a thing that I identify with.  When a picture comes to mind of a thing, be it a banana or a daffodil or a sponge, I go with it and think about characteristics. 

I thought of a tree. A big tree. 

There are a few characteristics here that I think I have, some that I'm working on, and many more that I would like, please. Maybe your list is different from mine; and maybe there are some on one list that you think belong on another; that's up to you. It's a bit mixed up, to be honest. But this is why I like the tree thing.

The tree I have in mind is strong.  It stands tall and does not cower or try to hide. It's happy being a tree, unapologetic for the things it is not, and proud of what it is. It is unique.  There is not another tree like it in the world. It spreads its branches wide like welcoming arms.  It sways in the wind and occasionally loses a branch to gales but does not bend and does not fall over. It can be wounded and it heals. It is beautiful, firmly rooted - in fact the roots of this majestic tree reach out unseen underground as far as the canopy does above ground. A little further, even, so that those roots might collect and take in the rain as it falls to earth. It is self sufficient - it doesn't depend on someone to come and give it plant food; it simply trusts in the sun and the rain to keep it going. It is mighty, secure, beautiful.

Rooted in you.

This tree is maternal - it embraces and reassures. It offers refuge to a host of different creatures; whole eco-systems thrive in the environment it creates. It sustains, protects, nurtures, feeds.  It is deciduous; it goes through a cycle of growth and rest. It sleeps, it wakes, it buds and produces new green leaves which flourish, mature and fall, just as it is supposed to. It is steadfast, contemplative.  Such a tree stands and looks, observes, misses nothing.  Not a thing goes unnoticed. It inches closer to the heavens every year but does not shoot up dramatically.  All change is considered, controlled, incremental, studied. It is not a static thing, unmoving; it is constantly moving on, reaching, developing, but it does so imperceptibly, with dignity and understated power. 

There is something eternal about this tree. It is wise. It is reliable. It will be where it was last time you saw it, familiar and recognisable and yet it will be different in some undefinable way. It creates a striking silhouette against the sunset and you can find shelter under it when it rains and shade when the sun is hot. It makes subtle yet glorious music when the wind stirs the leaves, and if you lie on your back beneath it and look up at a summer sky the shifting colours are breathtakingly beautiful.  

I make no claims to breathtaking beauty, Lord, but day by day I pray that on the inside the seeds of beauty that you yourself have sown in me might be watered and grown into something that pleases you; something that flourishes.  I want to be that tree with all its attributes.

If I need pruning, prune me.  If I need feeding, feed me.  If I am so young a sapling that I need support, let me lean on you. I want to grow into something mighty and majestic with the brand name of your nature clearly visible on me.  I want to spread my branches and sustain those around me. I want to thrive, cared for by you. Guide and secure my roots, shine your life-giving warmth on me and water me so that I can one day tower and protect and stand firm and be eternal.

I want to be what you made me to be.

Snakes and ladders

Bear with me here, Lord.  I know it might seem as if I'm overdoing the CS Lewis thing at the moment, but things keep jumping out at me. 


I'm sitting here waiting for three eggs to hard boil as Elizabeth has to take a hard boiled egg into school tomorrow for her Easter Egg Rolling competition, and I forgot to boil one till now.  I'm wanting to be in bed but as I watch the pan I thought I'd check in with you. Not that I'm just filling time; you know what I mean. 


I'm mulling over the fact that I just snapped at Lizzie as she tiptoed into the kitchen earlier when I was on the phone to remind me of the need for hard boiled eggs and I scolded her for being out of bed and assured her it was in hand when actually it's a good job she came down as otherwise I'd have been hard-boiling eggs at the crack of dawn tomorrow and she'd be rolling a hot one. Poor Lizzie. I'm feeling bad for not admitting that I'd forgotten. I've been reading recently about the need for absolute honesty and the ease with which I assured her that I was onto the hard boiled egg thing is somewhat startling... still, that conversation is for another day. Today it's CS Lewis again.


I'm perilously close to a full bar of Galaxy chocolate, too, so I need to keep my hands occupied.  Bryan brought it into the house at the weekend and then was inconsiderate enough to leave it there when he went back to London.  What can you do? I can't even get up to make a coffee because if I open the fridge for the milk, there it is, looking at me. 


Anyway, CS Lewis. 


He said:


"Relying on God has to begin all over again every day as if nothing had yet been done."
 (Letters to Malcolm: Chiefly on Prayer)


Ain't that the truth.  I feel I'm getting somewhere and then I do the two steps forward, one step back thing.  So much is happening at the moment that I am excited and full of anticipation, then along comes a juggernaut and knocks me flying.  I'm shaking sixes and climbing ladders only to land on whopping snakes that take me back to the beginning.  I look at the children at my bedtime and I sit on the edge of the bed (or on their foot, as I did inadvertently last night with Lizzie which sort of ruined the moment) and I put my hand on them and I pray and I kiss them and I wonder at their beauty and innocence and smallness.  I invariably think to myself, 'How could I possibly have been so cross with you earlier on today?' and I promise, I promise that I'll do better tomorrow.  Tomorrow comes and I've usually mucked it up by breakfast time. 


I'm hard boiling three eggs in case they crack.  I've just looked at them and two of them have cracked.  Lord, look after the third one.  I do want to get to bed this side of midnight.


So I try and I fail.  Or I don't try very hard, and I fail. Each morning I need to start again.  No matter what insights I have on one day, no matter how uplifting the worship on a Sunday, no matter how powerful the sermon, how loving the friendship, how outstandingly patient I am at the children's bathtime (ha!); I need to begin again every morning.  A new page. 


How wonderful is it that you allow that.  That you don't say, 'Well, you've really blown it this time. You were impatient/crabby/hurtful/distant/mendacious enough to ruin it completely.  It'll be a while before I'm helping you again.'


Thankyou that you don't pick up your ball and go home with it every time I don't play nicely.  Thankyou that you give me a clean page each day even though you just know I'm going to make a mess of it. Thankyou that your shoulder is there for me to lean on, your hand to hold and your footsteps to follow each new day. 


Today's coming to an end and tomorrow will start all too soon. I'm going to give it to you; I'm going to lay tomorrow before you and rely on you all over again. No matter what has happened today, I shall be here tomorrow night agonising about the same things, no doubt. Help me to change that, bit by bit, over time, will you, God.  Help me stop thinking I can do it, and teach me to let you do it instead. 


Let there be more ladders than snakes. 

It's only in your will that I am free

My head is spinning. So much is happening at the moment and I am coming to believe that your journey for me at the moment is not so much travelling on the way to somewhere else, but an internal exploration; insight into who I am, where I am, what I am and why I am...what I am for.  Months ago I asked the question, 'What next?' and wondered what I should do when my littlest girl goes to school in September; how my roles in life were shifting slightly.  A wise friend advised me that I am simply 'waking up' after the early years with babies and young children where a woman tends by necessity to retreat from the world to a degree to concentrate on being a mother.  'Waking up' and re-engaging with the world after a 'sleepy' period of inward looking to build a family and take care of it. 

So at the beginning of this year I asked, 'Who am I?' if I'm no longer an occupational therapist, soon to be no longer required as a full time Mum.  I started this year with a keen sense of anticipation, excitement and promise.  I knew you were doing something, leading somewhere, but I had no clue what or where or how. 

Three months down the line and in many respects I'm no wiser, but in a few areas I am sensing what you are about.  It's about me, isn't it?  I have so far to go to be the me that you planned for me.  I am becoming more aware of the distance yet to travel, the work to be done, the heights and depths to be explored, but at the same time I am starting to grasp that you think I'm worth the effort.  I have always doubted that I'm as good as the next person; always felt vaguely apologetic, always taken criticism to heart and deflected compliments, unable to let them land.  Then when I get to this stage of my life, suddenly you take me gently on one side and tell me that you love me, that I'm great, that now's the time to sort it all out - that you have a Plan and before you tell me your Plan you want to make sure that I understand the truth about myself.

So that truth - I don't know what it is yet.  But I am learning that I am unique, that I have something to offer.  Something to offer by being me.  Nobody else can occupy the space that I occupy, and while I'm here, I need to learn to do what it is that only I can do. No point in apologising; no reason to apologise.  I have gifts and talents that are designed for just the job that you have in mind for me.  A quiver of arrows! An arsenal of weapons.  I need to learn what they are and how I can use them, and then I have no doubt that you'll send me out on my mission.

As part of the course I'm doing I'm trying to write my Life Statement.  A Mission Statement, if you like. A sentence or so that sums up what I am about.  Why I Am Here.  It will give direction to my footsteps and guide my every decision.  I can't remember which song it's from but the words:

'For it's only in your will that I am free'

keep going through my mind. The only way I can fulfil my potential is to follow the instructions, and it's taken me this long to rummage in the packet and find them, unfold the booklet and have a look exactly how I'm supposed to work and how to get the best out of me. 

And you're not letting me down. I've had insight after insight; idea after idea and whispers and chuckles and shouts and songs from you. I'm in turn amazed, taken aback, overwhelmed, comforted, challenged and excited. I can't wait for the next thing. I want to be all I can be, and then I want to show those I love how to do the same.  I want to be the person you made me to be and not some distortion of that person, or some pale, faded, listless version.  I want to shine for you; to reflect you.  I want to know, deep in my soul; to understand, to delight in what I see around me and in me, and in other people.  I want the wisdom to see, properly see what you have given me to see, and I want to notice it, to express it, to mark it so that it cannot be overlooked or forgotten, so that I can always remember and other people will see as well. 

What a journey. I can't believe I've even set out. So unlike me to have this courage or determination. So much easier to take the line of least resistance and opt out of any struggling.  So much easier to be flippant and say that my mission in life is simply to get through the week in one piece. I feel as if you're spending time with me, drawing my attention to things, reassuring me, equipping me, loving me.  And when you're all done you'll pat me on the shoulder and say, 'Ok then, off you go.'  And off I'll go, because then I'll be sure of the direction, and I know that there's nowhere you can send me that you haven't been, and won't go again at my side.

Ha. 

I've remembered which song that line came from. It's 'All For Jesus'.  How perfect is that?  What a sense of humour you have, my gracious Lord. 

Jesus, all for Jesus,
All I am and have and ever hope to be.
Jesus, all for Jesus,
All I am and have and ever hope to be.

All of my ambitions, hopes and plans
I surrender these into Your hands.
All of my ambitions, hopes and plans
I surrender these into Your hands.

For it's only in Your will that I am free,
For it's only in Your will that I am free,
Jesus, all for Jesus,
All I am and have and ever hope to be. 

It's all for you, Lord Jesus. All that I am, all that I'm discovering about myself, you can have it all.  It's all yours already.  All I ever hope to be is the person you want me to be. All of my ambitions, hopes and plans don't mean a thing unless you are in them; they will matter for nothing unless you breathe life into them. It's all for you. 

Fancy you doing all this for me. For me. My God, that you have such patience with me as I faff and hesitate and make excuses.  I'm so thick sometimes that you need to teach me the same things over and over, and yet you never run out of innovation to get your point across. It leaves me reeling. And so thankful. 

Onwards, inwards, upwards, forwards!  What's next?!  I want the next thing. I am champing at the bit. I want to know what you have for me next.

What a day. 

The place where the beauty comes from

It's the wonderful CS Lewis again.  Really, I must read more of his stuff, and not just 'The Screwtape Letters' and Narnia. The way he seems to drop wonderful gems of wisdom and insight so effortlessly  into his letters and musings delights me. What about this one:


"The sweetest thing in all my life has been the longing — to reach the Mountain, to find the place where all the beauty came from — my country, the place where I ought to have been born. Do you think it all meant nothing, all the longing? The longing for home? For indeed it now feels not like going, but like going back."
— C.S. Lewis (Till We Have Faces: A Myth Retold)


What did you think when you heard him say that, Father?  I bet you smiled.  And now this exceptional man is with you; he's home.  I wonder if it's just as he thought it would be. 


I love this picture.  'The place where all the beauty came from...the longing for home.'
There are days when I really understand what he means; CS Lewis just sums it up for me. The days where things are too hard, require too much effort; when failure seems inevitable, and the simplest task is daunting.  Days like that make me long for a world where the struggling stops.  I don't mean that I have a desperately hard life - I know that I don't.  I know that there are many millions of people in this world who'd swap with me in an instant and I wouldn't want to swap with them.   What I'm talking about is the hamster-wheel feeling that I get occasionally where I feel that I'm running to stand still, and most of the stuff that I'm struggling with is trivia that's getting in the way of the important stuff.  


John Keats said in his poem, 'Ode to a Grecian Urn':


'Beauty is truth, truth, beauty - that is all
ye know on earth, and all ye need to know'


...and I think he got it right, didn't he?  Because you are Beauty, you are Truth, and you are all we need to know.  You are the source of all that is good, lovely, beautiful, awesome, impressive, true. I should look up more, instead of looking down.  Instead of watching my feet in case I trip or step in something, I should look up towards your beauty.  Instead of concentrating on where I am, or where I've been, I should concentrate on where I'm going. I spend so much time looking over my shoulder, down at the ground, or in at myself that I sometimes don't see what CS Lewis saw.  I get an occasional glimpse; those moments when I'm tired, despairing, defeated - those are the times when I am immensely comforted that this is not all there is.  But to live in this world, patiently, while knowing that I'm not at home here, that home is somewhere else, where one day I'll be; that's amazing.  I'm not there yet.


I hang onto the things of this world too much.  I like being here.  Today the sun is shining and the plants are growing and the sky is blue, and it's a Friday and in about half an hour I'll be going to pick Bryan up from the station - so in my world things are generally ok.  Pretty good, even.  I'm planning which wine we'll open, what we'll watch on the telly and what I'll cook for tea.  The children are in the garden with a picnic and at the moment they're not squabbling.  When all is well, I think I can cope.  I think I can do it on my own, and that's where I come unstuck.  That's where I forget CS Lewis' vision of Home and actually I've made myself comfy here, living my little life with only occasional reference to you. I have so much that I rate so highly and yet in your eyes it amounts to nothing. I surround myself with things and people and opinions and ways of passing my time and yet there's a much much bigger picture that CS Lewis saw that I only glimpse occasionally. All my 'stuff' isn't worth anything in comparison. 

And then there are times when it all goes wrong and I turn to you, anxiously searching for you like a toddler who looks up to realise that the legs next to her are not her Mummy's legs after all. I can't handle it because I am not equipped; all the 'stuff' isn't worth anything when I need real help. Only you will do, and I run to you from whichever outpost of my life I've been exploring.  I dash back home out of the rain. I find my shelter in you and wonder why I ever left, only to set out again without a backward glance when the sun comes out next time.   I am such a Rainy Weather Friend. 


There's a place, isn't there.  A place where I'll be one day and I'll stay.  I imagine it might be like holding a baby in your arms for the very first time after giving birth - this little miracle held close, smeary and slippery and screaming and screwed up; you meet for that momentous first time, never held in your arms before, never heard, never seen, but this little creature is oddly familiar.  It feels familiar, it smells familiar; it's as if you've known each other all your life even though you've only just met.  I reckon that might be how it is in Heaven.  When I get there I'll look about and recognise it from the glimpses; from the moments that you left the door open a crack so I could see in.  It will be the source of all beauty; how could it be other, since it is where you are? 


And as CS Lewis said, it'll be like coming home.


Amen, Lord Jesus. 

Lonely at playtime

Lord, listen.


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


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

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

Lord what a responsibility it is to bring up children.  


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

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

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


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


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


How hard it is being a Mum. 

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

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


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

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


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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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


Build them up and show me how to do it. 


Make them smile. Please. 

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

My anxious heart

Oh Father.

Today is a day full of worry. I'm trying not to worry as much, and recently I think I've been doing quite a good job but today it seems to be defeating me. I've got a list of things to do as long as my arm and some awkward conversations that need to happen, but that's not it. I think I can distil it down to two things. 

Katy has something wrong with her. It might be nothing; it's probably nothing. I hope it's nothing.  But there is definitely something at the moment. 

It's a lump on her neck.  It's quite big - about 3cm in diameter and sticks out quite a way, and she only has a little neck. It's not bothering her, it's not hurting, it's not getting in the way, it's not embarrassing her, but it's there and the doctor doesn't know what it is. 

We went to the GP when we found it, and to be honest it was acutely embarrassing as the lump was so big and I'd only just found it. The doctor was reassuring and gave Kate some antibiotics which she took regularly and without complaint, but alas no reduction in size and no change. So now the GP seems less reassuring and has referred Katy to a paediatric maxillofacial expert at the hospital and the idea is that he/she can examine it, assess it and treat it and make it better. Surgery is one option (no idea at the moment what the others might be). So the only option I know about is one that I don't like even one little bit. 

Now, I have thought and discussed and prayed about the idea that the devil throws stuff at us to distract us from doing something for you, Lord, and in the last few weeks I can recognise that he's been at work in and around me. But this is the thing: me is OK (well, it's not, actually, but I can understand it; and I can fight it) but messing about with my children is not OK.  

I am not alright about it at all.  

Is this what's going on?  Because if it is I want you to do something about it, please.  Well, if the truth be known, I want you to do something about it whatever the cause, if that's alright with you. 

This lump. I don't need to know what it is, what it was, or why it was there, or why it went.  I don't care how you do it, whether it diminishes gradually or it's there one day and not the next. I don't care whether it pops or flattens or whether a doctor gives her cream or tablets or whatever.  I don't mind if it's a bit embarrassing that by the time our appointment with the consultant comes round the lump might no longer be there. Just take it away, please. Without hurting my little girl. Without having to put her to sleep and cut it out because I don't like that idea at all. 

So that's got that straight.  I'd be grateful if you'd get onto it at your earliest, as they say. 

Moving on. I've got a Governor's meeting tonight. It's been a while since my first one and I've worked very hard to put it all out of my mind since I found it such an uncomfortable and confidence-sapping experience.  In fact, I've worked so hard to put it out of my mind that I haven't read what I'm supposed to have read and I'm no more prepared than I was last time which is counter-productive as it's only by understanding what's going on and having an inkling of an opinion I might actually hold that I'm going to get any more comfortable with it all.  Sigh.


Got some reading to do before tonight.  Sigh.  Still no wiser about why I'm doing this, Lord.  I've said it before and I'll say it again; I felt as if it was something that you wanted me to do, and I don't know why. Seemed like a good idea at the time.  I think I'll use that as the title for my autobiography.  'Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time: The Life and Anxiety of Helen Murray'. 


So they're the main points.  Other bits of rubbish cropping up this week too, little bits and pieces that need resolving, but these are the main things.  And of these two, it's my Katy, please.  Governors' meetings matter very little in comparison with the health of my baby girl, Lord, so please don't think that I'm putting them on a level.  


I'll leave it with you, then, shall I?  I know that you have an enormous in-tray, but I know that you don't get overwhelmed like I do.  I know that you love Katy and want the best for her, and I know that you'll protect us from bad stuff.  I know that you can use me in any situation and you can bring good out of my reluctant and irritable presence at a Governors' meeting of the local infant school. I pray that you would look after Katy; heal her. Take away anything that might harm her, physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually.  Make that lump go away. 


And with the other thing - hold my hand, Father God.  Be in my head all the time. Help me remember that I am your child and with you in my corner no-one can harm me. Help me to behave like your representative and speak when I should, be silent when I should. If I'm going to be there, I may as well be some use.  Show me what it is you want me to do and help me rise to the occasion. 


1 Peter 5:7
'Cast all your anxiety on the Lord, for he cares for you'


Alright then. Here you go.

Love and apostrophes

God, you know all things.


Grammar does not floor you, and punctuation is no doubt a doodle. 


Ok, then, where does the apostrophe go on 'Mothers' Day'?  I've always assumed that it was a day for all mothers (plural) and therefore the apostrophe goes at the end, but today I got a card on which it was written, 'Mother's Day', as in the day that belongs to mother.  My day. I don't suppose it matters, since both sentiments seem right - but I particularly like the My Day idea. 

It has been my day, actually. I'm feeling very smiley.

This morning I was allowed a small sleep in while Bryan got up with the children (which was a sacrifice not to be sniffed at as Katy had been shouting many, many times in the night), and then my children arrived with cards and presents, and Bryan arrived with a cup of coffee.  


I had beautiful home made cards from the girls and one from Bryan, who also gave me a beautiful little mother of pearl cross for my charm bracelet. The children had organised a lovely fragranced candle in a holder and some smelly soap, a home made bookmark and a framed portrait of me for the wall.  Wonderful wonderful treasures.  The home made things are all the better for their smudges and imperfections. Those cards with their glitter and little tie-dyed flowers will capture this day today where Elizabeth is five and a half (nearly six!) and Kate is just four for ever and ever (because I never throw anything away.)

My daughters are so different. Katy is so affectionate and loves cuddles and hand holding; she's never happier than when we're curled up together with a book or watching the TV.  She'll mould herself to me and I can hold her and cuddle her and inhale the wonderful  of her.  She climbed on me today and gave me Mother's Day hugs and kisses and was jumping from foot to foot with excitement.  


Elizabeth came across with the hugs and kisses too, but her real delight was that she had gifts to give.  It has to be said that she'd been trying to give me my Mothers' Day gifts since the early hours of the morning, and by 9am she was beside herself with excitement. 


She just loves giving gifts.  Lizzie can labour for hours over a card or a picture if it's a present for someone.  She loves the whole bit; the choosing/making, the wrapping, the giving, the unwrapping.  For a typically acquisitive five year old there's an extravagant generosity about her which makes my heart swell as she waits for me to unwrap my gift, watching my face carefully and giving away what it is with little hints and clues. Before I opened my card I knew that it was pink and purple, that it was tie-dyed, that it had a bit of glitter on it, but not too much, and that it had taken her ages to make and she'd done her best writing inside and her teacher had said well done. 

Katy shows her love for me in hugs and kisses and cuddles and 'I love you's.  Elizabeth shows it in little notes and messages and presents. It was overwhelming today to be on the receiving end of such a shower of love. I have such beautiful, clever, generous, warm and loving daughters. On Mother's' day, (with a bit of help from my own Mum and Bryan), they made me feel like the most appreciated Mummy in the world.

I have put my new cross on my charm bracelet between a heart that Bryan bought me to say, 'I love you' and another heart that says, 'Mum' that was a present from Elizabeth and Katy last Christmas.  The cross is right at the centre of the bracelet and that's its rightful place as it reminds me of you. To either side are charms that remind me of Bryan and the girls.  You are at the centre of my life, and I am constantly trying to make sure that you can take your place in the centre of my family too. 


You are first, in the middle, the centre, the point of symmetry. All things come from you.

We went to the Mothering Sunday service at church and had a lovely time.  I love having my family around me in church, and those services where the children are involved and occupied are just wonderful.  We sang and we did actions (well, Katy did, Lizzie is already too self conscious for that, sadly) and we played and we prayed. It was an hour filled with colour and happiness and you.  


Elizabeth is getting so good at reading that she likes to try and sing the songs as they appear on the big screen, and Kate is up for getting involved in any way she can, the little exhibitionist. They enjoy being there and that fills me with gratitude and praise for you, Father, that my little girls can come and climb on your knee and you smile and welcome them and hold them tight.

Elizabeth's joy at giving, Katy's warmth and affection, their childish excitement and love of celebration; it all comes from you. Grandma produced a cake to celebrate today, and Elizabeth insisted that we found candles (shaped like little astronauts and space shuttles) to blow out and everyone shouted 'Happy Mother's Day!' as Mum, my sister in law and I blew them out. The girls clapped and laughed and peeled the icing off. Lizzie is anxious to know whose birthday is it next, so that she can start to plan another party. 

Today has made me think.  I am blessed to have a lovely family. I am blessed to have my Mum, who is my friend. I am blessed to have two inspiring, beautiful daughters who give so much without even knowing it. I am blessed to have such a warm and loving husband who takes such good care of us. I am blessed to have a Heavenly Father who gives such good gifts and takes such joy in our joy. 

Today the sun shone a bit, the thunder thundered a bit and the rain rained a bit. I chatted with my Church family, caught up with some people I haven't spoken to in years and I spent time with my God.  


The children played out in the garden, my brother and sister in law dropped in briefly on their way back from a wedding and surprised my Mum with a Mothers' Day visit.  I got some jobs done, had a lovely roast dinner and blew candles out on a cake. 


The daffodils are in a vase and also just starting to bloom in the garden, there's green on the trees and the birds are singing. The children are just about to have a bath and go to bed and then Bryan and I are going to open a bottle of wine and watch a film together. We're going to hold the week ahead at bay for a little while and get the last bits of loveliness out of today.

Thankyou for so much. My cup overflows.

Today has been a Good Day. 

God is in his heaven and all is right with the world. 


Amen.