Renew my strength

So, God.

It seems we're back to where we were a year ago, when we found the lump on Katy's neck for the first time. In my diary for twelve months ago, it says, 'Found bump on Katy's neck. Went to Dr.'

This year it says, 'Found two bumps on Katy's neck. Went to Dr.'

I am a master of understatement. In those few words lies seven months of uncertainty and worry and pain. That first time we went to the doctor mildly concerned about a lump but blissfully unaware that  that it was anything to worry much about. The doctor would sort it out. Medicine. We hoped that it wouldn't taste as bad as the flucloxacillin Katy had put up with for tonsillitis and that was pretty much the extent of it. 

We didn't realise that we were starting on a roller coaster that took us through countless hospital appointments, drugs, scans, needles, two operations, dressing changes and more appointments. We learned a whole new vocabulary of anatomy and physiology and which-nerve-serves-what. 

Discharged late last year with a neat scar healing well and no bump. 

Breathe sigh of relief.

Didn't last long enough. 

We've found two new bumps and the doctor thinks that the old problem is back. In two places this time. Insult and Injury.

So here we are awaiting an appointment at the Children's Hospital instead of our local District General and a new Consultant. New reception, new clinic, new nurses, new snack bar. Some distance from home. Notoriously bad car parking. 

Katy so far hasn't been forthcoming about her take on this but she has consistently surprised us all with her grasp of situations and so she probably knows exactly what's going on and is storing it all away. She sat on my knee for the whole of yesterdays consultation with the doctor where she will have heard us talk about treatment options and operations and hospitals and so on. It's so hard to know what she makes of it but I'm waiting to find out. Some bedtime soon she'll ask me and it breaks my heart that I won't be able to tell her it's nothing, that Mummy and Daddy will make it better. It's my job to make it better. To make it go away. To make sure that nobody hurts her and I can't. 

I couldn't last time and I can't now. I had to watch while they hurt my beautiful little girl. 

It broke my heart.

So, I would love to know what's going on, Lord. Why this is happening. I know that if I ask 'Why us?' the counter is, 'Why not us?'  I know that bad things happen and I know that the sun shines and the rain rains on us all. I just wish I knew why you don't make it go away. You're our Heavenly Father, aren't you? I know that it hurts you when we hurt so why don't you stop it happening again, please? 

I suspect you've been asked this question before. 

You could make these lumps vanish right now, poof, just like that, if you wanted. I will never understand why you don't. It's not me that needs a miracle, it's Katy. I'm not asking for me. Well, I am, I suppose. But she's only five. Only just five. Could we please not do this again?  We did it once and I didn't like it and I don't want to do it again.

I had a moan to a wise friend of mine the other day and I said, 'I can't cope with all that again.'  She looked at me for a long moment and then asked me what it looked like, me not coping. I realised what she was saying. If I've done it once then I can do it again. What choice do I have? If Katy needs hospital appointments, blood tests, surgery - then I'll bring her through it again. I can't do anything else. I'm her Mummy. It's what I do. I cope.

What I meant was that it frightens me to think about doing it again. I know how hard it was. I know how much sleep I lost, how painful it was. I remember the tears (hers and mine) and the anxiety and the awfulness of the anaesthetic room. How small she looked. How afraid. How afraid I was. We all were. 

I know that people go through much worse. I know that some people lose their precious little ones. I know that our situation is better than many and for that I am so, so thankful.  I know that you are there. I know that you will walk with us and hold our hands and lift us over the obstacles and that you'll be there, faithfully, awake when we sleep, watching over us. I just don't want to go there again.

So here it is. 

'But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.'

Isaiah 40:31

Holding your hand

I hope in you. That's me. I need new strength. I'm all out of the sort of emotional energy required to do this again. I thought it was finished. I'm all out of the physical sort of energy required to drive to a hospital in another city and find a parking spot and make appointments on time and hold Katy still for blood tests when she's terrified and screaming. I'm all out of all of it. 

Soar? That implies freedom and grace and lightness and happiness. I can't imagine it. I'm stuck down here. Heavy. Weighted down. I am weary and I am fainting in the face of what I'm called upon to do. 

But I hope in you. You never lied to me and you won't lie to me now. If you say that you will renew my strength, you will. If you say that you will give me so much more than I'll need so that I can soar when all I can hope for is to plod, then I believe you. I'll take all you have of that. 

I'm going to claim this promise now. That and all the others where you say that you will never leave us. That you will always be there. 

Needing you to hold my hand.

Healer, heal my Katy. 

Comforter, comfort us all. 

Counsellor, show me what what to do. 

Father, hold my little poorly baby close in your arms.  And me too.  

Friend, come with us wherever we have to go.

God Almighty, be in all of this. 

I want to be an eagle so badly but I feel like a mole. I'm buried. I'm in the dark. I can't see. 

Just give me light for the next step. You always have, haven't you?

'Those who hope in the Lord...'

Amen. 

Here comes the sun...please

Did you see what happened this morning, God?

It couldn't have been a greater contrast from yesterday. And that's a good thing.

Yesterday at 6.20am I was rudely awoken by the sound of conflict in one of the girls' rooms and it turns out that someone wouldn't surrender the fourth wheel for a Lego model they were making saying that it wasn't fair that one person should have all four wheels. This hadn't gone down well with the other, who didn't have it in mind to create a tricycle, but some sort of moon buggy or something that required a wheel at the end of each axle. You'll note that I'm not giving names to the combatants in this little drama, but the truth is that I'm not entirely sure who was in which corner. Only that it was 6.20am, the alarm wasn't due to go off for another hour, and I Like My Sleep.

I refereed as best I could, which means that I was probably a bit shouty and a bit narky and definitely squinty. Then I got back in bed and put the pillow over my head. By getting up time I had a headache and the children were cross and the morning had the odour of one that wasn't destined to go that well. The rest of the day wasn't brilliant either, and by the time I went to bed, having discovered the second of two suspicious lumps on Katy's neck, it had nosedived further. 

Today I heard the children up and about and it was a blessed 7.30am. If I'm allowed to wake up on my own I go into the day in a whole different frame of mind. By the time I was showered and dressed (and still miraculously unmolested by small people), I was feeling reasonably positive, but a bit heavy of heart after the previous evening's events. I went in search of the children to brush their teeth. 

Not my favourite job. Lizzie is much better these days but Katy hates having her teeth done and she makes it very difficult.  It's like brushing them through a letterbox. A wriggling, complaining letterbox. But that's by the way.

I called them from the landing and there was no response. This is not unusual; they often 'don't hear' me call them at teeth time. So, feeling gracious, I went in search. I got almost to their bedrooms when a little head popped out of Katy's room and Elizabeth informed me that they couldn't come just yet, they were busy. 

Busy dancing. 

Elizabeth and Katy have just discovered The Beatles. Elizabeth's favourite song is 'Yellow Submarine' and Katy's, until this morning, was 'Ob-la-di Ob-la-da'. The song they were dancing to was 'Here Comes the Sun'.

Here comes the sun...

I love that song. It's possibly my very favourite Beatles song, though I have a habit of changing my mind according to whichever track I'm listening to at the time. It must be a close thing as I adore 'Penny Lane' as well; Bryan was living in a flat in Penny Lane in Liverpool when we met. We stood at the window and watched a rainbow in that flat in Penny Lane. We watched films on a tiny black and white telly and drank cheap red wine in that flat. Nostalgia...

I'm getting off the point. 'Here Comes The Sun' was playing and the children were dancing around the room. Katy had her eyes shut and her hands in the air and she was wiggling and gyrating and skipping. Elizabeth (with the slightly better rhythm of a nearly-seven year old) was grooving away and they were both laughing and singing along.

'Here comes the sun 

Doo doo doo doo

Here comes the sun and I say

It's alright...'

It made me smile. And for someone who'd got up with the gritty residue of a poor night's sleep worrying about Katy and her new lumps on her mind, smiling was good. 

'It's alright...'

For Katy it was alright - she was smiling with joy and singing the 'Doo doo doo doo' bits at top volume. For Lizzie it was alright because she was falling about laughing when Kate lifted her hands above her head because her nightshirt rode up and she could see her bottom. 

It was alright for me too.  It was not a moment for insisting on oral hygiene as a matter of urgency.

'...and I say it's alright...'

I shimmied into the room and joined in with uncharacteristic abandon until the end of the song and then it was time for teeth brushing. (The next track was 'I Am The Walrus' and I'm not entirely sure that it lends itself to dancing anyway). 

I just wanted to tell you about it because it was one of those moments. One of those little special, precious moments where you wish that life had a pause button. Strange for me to experience many of those moments before breakfast, and that's another reason that I think it was from you. 

Thankyou. 

My daughters laughing with delight. A cheerful song with a message about coming Spring. 

'Little darling

It's been a long, cold, lonely winter...'

Spring is almost here. The sun is coming.

The Son is coming. Easter is only a few weeks away. 

'Little darling

The smiles returning to the faces...'

The three of us were smiling. Dancing. Worries notwithstanding. With morning teeth. 

Thankyou for a little message. 

Thankyou for a moment with my girls that I won't forget, even though it only lasted for a minute or two. 

Thankyou for the sun, which indeed has made a brief appearance today. 

Thankyou for music and inspiration and the capacity to find a spark of joy in our morning routine.

Thankyou for a little bit of relief from the anxiety of waiting to find out what the story is with Katy's neck. 

Thankyou for reaching down and giving me a hug when I needed one. It changed my day.

'Here comes the sun.'

Amen, Father. Yes please. 

Time will tell

Evening, Lord.

I am not panicking. 

I am trying to hang on to what I know and not speculate on what I don't. I am not going to editorialise or exaggerate or go off on a disastrous trip into fear and anxiety.

I'm not. I don't want to. Don't let me.

We've found another lump on Katy's neck. Actually, two lumps. The second one I found today at bath time; well, Katy did. She told me, 'Mummy, when I put my head on one side I think I can feel a bone. There's a hard bit on my neck, but it's not another lump.'

My heart did a little fluttery thing.

Nearly two weeks ago we found a lump, a little slippery thing about the size of a large pea, just below her scar from surgery last year. At some angles I could see it but others it disappeared. Nothing like her Special Bump from a year ago but since we only found that when it was big, who knows how it started out?  I took her to the doctor, who said that it felt like an enlarged lymph node. In any other child the doctor would be sure it was a lymph node, nothing to worry about, happens all the time, and after all Katy had had a chest infection two weeks prior to the appointment.

But this is Katy who had surgery twice last year because of a tumour on her neck and the surgeon thought he'd got it all but time would tell...

I'm praying that time isn't telling. Not telling us this story, anyway. I don't want to hear it. 

So the doctor made us another appointment for two weeks hence, and that will be the day after tomorrow. Today we found another lump. So that makes two. So the first one is still there and now there's another. Both within an inch of her scar. 

Please, God, don't let this be a recurrence of her thing from last year. Please, please please, just take away the lumps and let her get on with growing up. Let her get on with learning to read and playing in the playground and going to parties and jumping in the swimming pool and laughing and fighting with her big sister and having tantrums and being the sweetest, cleverest, quaintest, most affectionate, perceptive, infuriating, funny, most beautiful little five year old girl in my world.  

Lord, I'm struggling with fear again. That same shard of something sharp that seems to stab at me and make it a bit hard to breathe. I'm sitting here and I keep breathing heavily - a big sigh every few minutes because I'm fighting against panic or anxiety or depression or all three. My head is full of static since I saw and felt the second lump on Kate's neck earlier on and I'm trying to turn down the volume enough to hear you over the racket. 

Here's what I know.

Katy has two new lumps on her neck. No, she has two lumps on her neck that we haven't noticed before.

You love Katy. 

We have an appointment with the doctor in two days time and she was confident a couple of weeks ago that the (then single) lump was nothing worrying. 

You love Katy. 

The doctor thought the lump would go in two weeks.

It hasn't. In fact now there are two. 

(See what happens? You know where I'm going with this.) Stop. 

You love Katy. 

I don't know what these lumps are. 

Might be nothing. 

It might be nothing, mightn't it? Please?  A rogue lymph node or two? Maybe Katy's going down with another infection of some description (but by this I mean a sore throat, or a cold, not anything weird and unusual). Come to think of it she was a bit brittle and tired today. But that could just as easily be explained by the fact that she and Lizzie were up just after six this morning despite being told to go back to bed for an hour.

Lord, I should stop this. I should stop surfing the internet for information about recurrences of Katy's Special Bump because I'm frightening myself. Last time the surgeon told us that if the lump did recur we should consider drug therapy but it might be for more than two years on a combination of powerful drugs that are usually contra-indicated for use with children. List of side effects (including liver failure and blindness) as long as your arm. Well, my arm, anyway.

I'm off again. My head is full of operations, blood tests, hospital beds, anaesthetic rooms, needles, bandages, dressings, fear, pain, worry. The heartbreak of not being able to stop it hurting. How brave she was last time. 

We thought it had gone away. Lord Jesus, please don't make me have to tell my little girl that it hasn't gone away.

You love Katy more than I do, even though that's not an idea that I can grasp. You love her so much that you died for her and you have promised to look after her no matter what. You also love me and you know how prone I am to worry and fear and stupendous feats of anxiety and jumping to conclusions and my tendency to pessimism. 

Help. 

Lord, let me know that you're there. I know that you are because I know that you never leave me, but just now, let me feel your arms around me. As I go in to see Katy tonight on my way upstairs I'm going to sit on the edge of her bed and lay my hand on her little sleeping body and I'm going to lift her to you. She doesn't belong to me anyway, she is your child, just on loan. I'm asking you to protect her, keep her safe, don't let anything bad happen to her. 

Bring peace on this house, Father, and on us all. I'm praying that you're there, shaking your head with a wry smile and muttering, 'Here she is all worked up over a lymph node or two.'

I trust you. I trust you to bring good out of any situation and I trust you with my little girl. 

It's probably nothing, isn't it, Father? 

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)

Created to create

Hello, God.

I have a friend who writes poetry. I have laughed and cried while reading her poems. She inspires and moves me; the heartfelt beauty and economy of her words often leaves me without words.

I have another friend who sketches. Another friend can create amazing things in the kitchen with an instinct for which I have profound admiration. I have neighbours who paint in watercolours and my friend's sister in law produces and sells breathtaking oils. An old friend at church revealed lately that she is a skilled artist. I have a painting of hers that brings me pleasure every time I look at it.

Stained glass,
Ashford in the Water, Derbyshire

Other people I know knit and stitch, design greetings cards, sew cushion covers, create carpentry marvels from reclaimed wood, beautiful original jewellery, wall hangings and textiles, intricate original shoulder bags, soap, manage bees and make honey, produce jams and chutneys until the tables groan under the weight of the jars. It's years since I have bought my marmalade anywhere else.

A friend across the sea creates scarves out of old T shirts, arranges beautiful new mantelpiece displays with the season changes and has a gift for inspiring photography. Today I saw a man who makes marvellous things out of glass and gold leaf. A lady who upholsters and restores. I saw lovely stained glass in a church I visited.

We create. We seem to have an instinct to create.

I've been thinking recently about your glory. The way I see you in the natural world - in flowers and sunsets and birds and the weather. The way you open my eyes to notice things that I might simply walk past. It struck me earlier that the people around me reflect you as well, and not just the people that I love. People have a desire to create. You gave that to us.

I'm sure that it doesn't have to be arty/crafty type creating that we do; I know people who can welcome, who can reassure, who can create a warm and positive atmosphere just by being there. I know people who can choose words with such ease and inspiration that a chat with them is a blessing. I know people who can tell a story, sing, dance or make me laugh. They can take nothing and make it something. It's creativity just the same. 

We create. We make things. We produce. We are made to bear fruit; on many levels.

Not least the breathtaking piece of delegation that is having a baby. Creation indeed. Sometimes I stand with my husband and stare at our sleeping daughters and smile, 'We made that!' How did we do that?  How did we make something so precious, so beautiful, so perfect?

We are creative because we are made in your image and you are the Creator. A wise friend today suggested that we are co-creators in the world, as the world is something that you began but is not yet finished. You handed us the means to change things - to add to the world. To contribute. To make it different for having lived.

I love the idea that I might create something that changes the world slightly. Something that adds beauty, or inspiration. If someone smiles as a result of what I've done - and it doesn't need to be anything monumental or eternal, just a fleeting smile of amusement or recognition or appreciation. A flicker of insight. A spark of an idea. A laugh. I know that nothing goes unnoticed by you, Lord - I know this because you created the crocuses and snowdrops and daffodils that are lifting my spirits this Spring and they are the most ephemeral of flowers and yet you lovingly made them for such brief glory. Something doesn't have to be permanent or long lasting to have value.

I watch my daughters draw and paint and colour and I watch them make wonderful imaginative things out of paper and sticky tape. They snip and stick and pretend and build and design and it comes easily to them. They don't doubt that they can do it. They have confidence that they can put down on paper their ideas and they love making. If we don't have the materials they need they are quick to improvise. They are full of hope and confidence and creativity.

Sometime in the future someone might say that their dinosaur doesn't look like a dinosaur, or a clumsy art teacher might give them a 'D' for the still life fruit bowl they laboured over and the idea might creep in that perhaps they're not such a good artist as they thought they were. Likewise a music teacher might not pick them for the choir and they quickly conclude that they can't sing. How come all children can sing without inhibition and present their pictures to us with pride and confidence that we'll know what they are and yet by adulthood so many of us can't sing and can't draw?

Life beats it out of us. Dancing. Making up stories. Imagination. By the time we arrive in adulthood we have hangups and chips on our shoulders and we are too self conscious. My friend who writes beautiful, heartfelt poetry finds it hard to let people read it. Another friend shows me a painting and tells me she doesn't think it's any good.

You are like I am with my children. I show you my creation and you bend down to me and you take it from me and hold it to the light and you turn it this way and that and you smile and marvel and your eyes are full of pride and pleasure that I brought it for you. Made it for you.

I create.

I have the instinct to create. I'm sure that every last person who says that they don't have a creative bone in their body just haven't looked in the right place, or else they have forgotten how to find it. Whether it's cake decoration or restoring vintage motor bikes or gardening or flower arranging or dry stone walling.

I love the way that you open my eyes to see the beauty in your creation. Help me always to see the beauty in our creations, too. To see the Creator in everyone. To appreciate our God-given yearnings to make and build and add and embellish. It's beautiful.

It's an offering.

One of your
many
masterpieces

As I write this a daffodil is lolling over the top of the screen of my computer from the vase in front of me. Your handiwork. It is perfect in every way. Crisp and bright and delicate and yet robust enough to push its way through the hard earth in March. Triumphant. Singing of Spring.

You are the Master. I look at you and I look at the world around me and I realise my offering is small and imperfect, but then I remember you crouching to receive it with the delight and love of a Father and I am inspired to make you something new.

Because you made me that way.

Just for you.

Show me now your glory

Morning, Lord. 

For a couple of days I've had a couple of lines from a song in my head. It's not a song I know very well, and the tune doesn't really grab me, but it's on my worship CD in the car and I hear the start of it sometimes when I put the music on. That probably explains why I only know the opening two lines - I tend to flick to the next track because I don't like this one much (is that wrong? Are you put out that I ignore a song that praises you? Oh dear. Hadn't thought about that much.)

'Show me your ways, show me now your glory.

I want to know you more.'

It's been going round in my head. I was humming it to myself and I found that I was starting to consider what it actually means. I can't argue with the second line - I would love to know you more. It's the demanding tone of the first line that I shrink from, a bit. It sounds a bit stampy to me. 

Show me. Now. 

I know that Moses said these very words to you in Exodus 33: 18

"Then Moses said, 'Now show me your glory.'"

...and you did. You passed by Moses and he got a glimpse of you. Not a hypothetical glimpse, or a symbolic one, but he saw you. Just the back of you, as a full gaze in the face would have blown his mind, but you showed your glory to Moses. He asked you to (or told you to, really - I mean, how did he dare to lay down the law like that? 'Now show me...')

So this song.

'Show me your ways, show me now your glory.

I want to know you more.'

I was walking back from taking the children to school and I noticed the first blossom on a tree on our road. 

Now, you know how much I love Springtime. I love the hope and the newness and the life emerging from things that look old and brittle and dead. Here's the blossom. As I turned into our drive I found more.

It's very beautiful. The light was lovely; it was a very cloudy day but the light was that bright whiteness that sometimes helps to draw my attention to the small things when sunlight and shadow might distract me.  Thankyou for the cherry blossom. I can't wait until the whole of the tree is smothered with it and the sky is blue behind and the world is waking up again and we can shed a layer of clothing and I can start to potter in the greenhouse.

I went home and started to load some photographs from my camera and phone onto the computer and I was still humming the lines,

'Show me your ways, show me now your glory.

I want to know you more.'

The new pictures flashed up on the screen and here was my little girl getting ready for a fancy dress party. Elizabeth had on a princess costume and she was feeling very elegant in it. My little girl, six years old, but all of a sudden with a new demeanour because she was dressed in a beautiful outfit with her hair taken back and ribbons. 

I realised what you were doing. 

Your glory is all around me. Everywhere I look I see you. I see you in the delicate fragility of the cherry blossom and I see you in the innocence and femininity of my lovely girl who's finding out more and more about who she is every day. What she is. A breathtakingly beautiful creation. Unique and precious and loved. My love for her pales into insignificance compared with yours. My daughters are such special gifts. Your glory is reflected in everything, isn't it?

More photos and I kept on meeting you. Sunset from a week ago.

One of those moments where I was out in the garden with the children and glanced up and then ran for the camera and a good vantage point. The sun had set already but the reflection on the clouds was the radiance of you. Glory indeed.

Then it was back to the intricate and detailed again.  Here was my poinsettia from Christmas and I have to say that I have known for a while that it is nothing short of a miracle that my Christmas poinsettia is still with me in March. It is still thriving despite me (though I do make sure that it's water is lukewarm when I give it a drink. Fussy plant...)

Its new leaves, so brightly, vividly green with red veins. Little tiny baby leaves just unfurling. Doing its thing over there on the windowsill as the bustle of family life in the kitchen happens in front of it. As I write this the sun is behind it and it is glowing. Beautiful is an over-used word. It's wonderful.

While we're on the subject of plants, thank you for the little gift you gave me. The cyclamen that I got for my birthday back in September gave its all for me for months and although it still looks green and lush it's been without flowers for a while now. I thought it had done its best but finished for the season and yet all of a sudden, look. A little last flower. It made me smile. It made me think of you. 

It was Katy's birthday the other day. Five years old. Now, I could go on for days about how bewildered I am to be Mummy to two daughters growing up so fast. Katy is five, Elizabeth six, nearly seven. Kate was so excited to be five and her favourite present was a Batman T shirt.  Elizabeth has come over all girly lately with her princess outfit and her baby doll, but Katy is still firmly in the Superhero phase and a real, proper, grownup Batman T shirt hit the spot beautifully on her birthday.

'Show me your ways, show me now your glory.

I want to know you more.'

My little girl was so happy. She felt so brave and dynamic and confident in her Batman T shirt. Watch out world, here comes Katy. Leaping tall buildings in a single bound. Or was that Superman? No matter. She can do that as well.  

Lord God, thank you so so SO much for my girls. How much I can learn from them. From their energy and optimism and imagination. The way that they can find joy in things. Here was my lovely child in a photograph that I love. Her expression a mixture of pride and excitement and happiness. 

 The park on a Sunday afternoon. The joy of a roundabout and rainbow gloves. Hold on tight and feel the wind in your hair.  I thought my heart might explode, I loved them so much. 

Bryan took a day off to be at home for Katy's birthday. It was a great surprise for the girls who thought that he wouldn't be back until Friday as usual and it was such a treat for us to have a day out, just the two of us. Usually Bryan takes holiday when the children are off school so when he's here, usually we're all together. I like it when this happens but on Katy's birthday while she was at school (wearing her birthday badge and Batman T shirt and apparently attracting loads of followers in the playground - the Batkids - don't you just love it?) Bryan and I headed out for the countryside. It was like the old days. When we first moved back to Derbyshire we used to get in the car and drive and stop when there was a good view, or for a bit of a walk, or more often, for coffee and cake. 

Today it was a drizzly, windy sort of day where the moors look somewhat threatening and the cliffs and crags of the High Peak are a bit intimidating; but there was one moment when we were ambling along a country lane with no other people to be seen and suddenly the clouds parted and the sun came out. I stopped the car and rolled down my window and took a picture of what I saw. 

It's not a special scene; dry stone walling is all over Derbyshire and the grass is not very green, the trees bare - but it was a special moment. Seconds earlier it had been unremitting rain under dark, low clouds and then suddenly it was glorious. Grey to gold in a moment - and then back again. This was the moment. Your glory shone through the drizzle.

It was on the news this week that there have been solar flares that meant that it might be possible to see the Northern Lights at lower latitudes than usual. I am a big fan of the Northern Lights, as you know. Bryan and I went on a flight a couple of years ago where the plane put out all its lights and we had talks on the star constellations over the North Pole and we saw the Aurora from the sky. It was breathtaking.

I have always wanted to go to Norway or somewhere and sit outside with a Thermos or two of coffee (or something stronger) and wait for the Aurora Borealis and see it from the ground.  The leaps and swoops and the dancing lights that are a mysterious and joyful present from you, the God Almighty. The one who created all things. Awe-inspiring indeed. Majestic and strange and exciting and spiritual. 

So, there was me the other night hoping to see something if I looked skywards after dark. I popped out into the garden a few times (once forgetting to change out of my slippers and getting them all wet and muddy on the grass) and gazing up into the sky in case of - something - I wasn't really sure what I'd see but I didn't want to miss it. 

What I did see last night took my breath away and I pointed my camera at it in case I could keep it forever. 

Oh God, it was a little glimpse of you. 

The moon with a halo of colour and the clouds like a mountain range. The glow of moonlight lit everything. It changed from moment to moment and then a thick bank of cloud hid it again. Again, mystery. Again, silent but awe-inspiring. You shone through.

'Show me your ways, show me now your glory.
I want to know you more.'

I am running out of words to describe your glory. Indeed the words don't exist. They didn't for Moses, who had to hide behind a rock to be safe from the awe-ful wonder of you, and they didn't for me last night leaning a perilously long way out of my bedroom window to take photograph after photograph of the moon as it rose inexorably into the sky and the clouds changed the picture moment by moment.

All I had to do was look up. How easy it would have been to have missed this spectacle? It was over so quickly and I had to be looking up to see this amazingly precious thing. I spend so much of my life looking down, or inwards, or with my eyes stubbornly closed but this night I looked up - you lifted my head until our eyes met.

I asked you to show me, and you did. I got a glimpse of your majesty. Your beauty. Your creativity. In the blossom and the weather and in my plants and my daughters the complexity and humour and detail and perfect beauty that only the Creator can bring about.

Thankyou from the bottom of my heart. I sat on the windowsill smiling.

More, please. 

When I need you

Hello God.

I want to ask you something.

The other day a friend of mine was telling me about a tantrum that her little boy recently had. He shouted and stamped and cried and cried until he was completely out of energy and tears and he finally let her hold him in her arms. She cuddled him and rocked him and prayed for him and he hugged her back until he slept. 

My friend told me with wonder that those minutes in each other's arms as she held him and prayed and rocked him to sleep were special moments indeed. She said she felt privileged to be his Mummy and it was almost worth the shouting and the anger and the tears in order to be able to be part of the healing. 

I wonder if all Mums have this experience from time to time. I know that with my girls, Katy in particular, I have done it too. Katy is the tantrum queen in our house. She's getting better as she gets older (she's five tomorrow, you know) but over the past couple of years here the windows have vibrated with the sound of Katy's screaming. She would stamp, throw things, kick, hit out with little fists and shout until she was hoarse. She would expend every last bit of energy.  Over time I came to know when I should approach her and when to leave her alone, because trying to pick her up before she was ready would only result in a renewed fury and the possibility of bruises. 

There'd be a sort of tipping point. There was (and still is, though the tantrums are less violent now) a point at which Katy would lose control and had fought herself into a place where she realised that she needed help. If I watch her these days, she might look at me through her tears and sort of raise her arms a little; not  going so far as to reach out or signal for a hug, but we know, my little girl and me, what she means. She wants me to come and hold her. When I do, she might still be stiff and unyielding, and almost certainly she'll carry on wailing for a while, but we know that we're at the beginning of the end. 

What happens is that she clings onto me and I gather her up and wrap my arms around her. I hold her to me and she pushes her face into my neck. She sobs and heaves and her little body shakes as the tension slowly subsides. I whisper to her and rock her and I stroke her hair and I inhale the wonderful fragrance of her and I push her fringe away from her hot, teary little face. After a while her body melts into mine and she usually snuggles into me and holds tight. It's all gone. She doesn't have anything left. 

Just like my friend's little boy needed her to be there, my Katy needs me sometimes just to be there when she's run out of herself. Run out of fury, fear, energy and tears. And although the tantrum is frustrating and uncomfortable, those moments when I get to help her come back are precious indeed. I know she'll grow out of tantrums, but I hope that I can still hold her and rock her now and again for a while longer, because I love it. I love that she turns to me when she's at the end of herself and I love that I can help. I love that we fit together and feed from each other and the result, after the tumult and rage, is peace and renewal. 

If I try to intervene too soon, Katy hasn't yet come round to needing me. She's still too full of whatever disturbing emotions are driving her for me to get close. I have to wait until the arms go up. Wait until she sobs 'Mummy'. Then, that's my cue. I can pull her to me and we can let our love even out our feelings. I would never, ever, turn her away at that point. I couldn't do it. I love her far, far too much. 

My friend is very wise. She told me about her little boy and the blessing of holding and praying for him as he found his equilibrium again and softened into sleep and then she said, 'Is God like that with me?'

Wow.

Oh, Lord, is that it? Are you like that with me (and her)?  Do you wait, patiently, watching the tantrum progress in all it's impotent fury until I reach the end of my tether, and then do you open your arms for me? I know that you don't intervene too early - you don't stop me from raging or from wallowing in my self pity, but when I do, finally, eventually, run out of options and run out of energy and strength - there you are. 

When I have nothing left, you hold me. 

Only then, when I've exhausted all alternatives, that's when I lift my arms to you. That's when I lie in bed and let my tears dampen the pillow and I cry out to you. It's usually the point when I have no more words than my four year old daughter who can only say, 'Mummy'. 

Abba. My Daddy. 

Does it give you the same pleasure that it gives me as a Mummy?  The same feeling of intensity and something even approaching joy that I get when I hold Katy so close that she melts into me? I don't mean a joy that she has been so distressed, or that she's cried until she's spent, but a joy that she has at last let me help her. A joy that I had something to give that helped?

Do you feel like that? Do you ache to hold me but I won't let you near? Do you love me so much that your arms long to fold around me and bring healing?

It's an amazing thought. I don't quite know what to do with it. 

I wonder why I have to be so far away before I turn around to come back. I wonder why I can't run into your arms sooner and spare myself the trying and failing to run things under my own strength. You think I'd learn. I'm just like Kate in that I can only accept your embrace when I've tried everything else. Got it all out of my system. 

I'm just a child. And a little one at that. 

Thankyou, Father God. For all the times that you wait for me with your arms open. For all the times that you hold me when I cry even though it's a hurt of my own making. All the times that you love me enough to bring me back into you even though I've stamped and thrown things and shouted at you and held you away until I have nothing left. 

Thankyou for a glimpse of your love, Lord God. 

Abba. My Daddy. 

I'm needing a hug. 

The smileyness of daffodils

Hello God.

Things to thank you for.

In list format, as my brain isn't feeling up to putting in all the little joining and describing words. I know that I've been down in the dumps lately and I need to look up at you for a while so that I can get a refill of joy.

Oh thank you thank you thank you. There are signs of Spring! Daffodils are coming out. I love daffodils. I love the determined cheerfulness, the extravagant shape of the flower, the vivid colour against the fading Winter greys and browns. I've got a glassful of daffodils right in front of me now and behind them is a bowl of fruit; red and green apples and oranges and the yellow of the daffs. It's beautiful. Daffodils are smiley. They make me feel smiley. Daffodils spread smileyness. You can't look at daffodils and not smile, can you? Did you plan it that way?

I bet you did.

Thankyou for blue skies and sunny days and the promise of time spent outdoors. For wellies and muddy gardens and not bothering to look after the lawn because the sound of my children having fun is more important.  Thankyou for big trees and tiny little green buds on the bare skeletons of hedgerows. All full of promise and hope and newness and potential.

Thankyou for showing me.

Thankyou for families that take care of each other when they're poorly. Thankyou for Mums who produce Poorly Person Biscuits just when needed and who give permission to go and lie down just when needed as well. 

Thankyou for my little apple swan (Bramley) who made his way out of the fruit bowl and into our lives via a YouTube clip that someone sent me. Something so simple can be so magical. The children were impressed at my prowess with a kitchen knife. So was I, actually. 

Thankyou for the rainbow against a marvellous purple sky right now as I look out of the window with the sun behind me and the fine rain coming down. All the colours of the paintbox and more in a fleeting display that lasts only minutes. Just because you could. 

Thankyou for the artwork stuck to the kitchen cupboards made for me by my little girls who wanted to say Get Well Soon to Mummy. Lizzie did a wonderful house and garden scene with a huge slide and Katy did a picture of her favourite meal to tempt me to eat when I was off my food. (It's sausages and chips with peas and tomato ketchup, if you couldn't tell.) They make me smile every time I see them. And since they're stuck to the door of the cupboard where the biscuits are, that's quite often. Convalescence, you know. Got to give in to the biscuit cravings. Ahem.

Thankyou for the beauty and innocence of their faces asleep last night when I looked in on them at bedtime. For some reason Elizabeth looked breathtakingly lovely last night. I don't know if it was the tilt of her head or the way her hair framed her face but she looked wonderful. I could have gazed at her forever. 

Thankyou for my husband who as I type this is bent over a disemboweled computer explaining the component parts with infinite patience to our eldest daughter and letting her fit the bits in as he mends it. 

I'm going to go to the toyshop now and choose a present for Katy, who'll be five on Wednesday. Five years since I had my smallest baby; how did that happen? That little one who snuggled into me and fed for those long hours in the night when there was only the two of us in the world?  That little one whose cuddles I love so very much suddenly become a child who can read a little and write a little and even spell?  How is it that they grow up so fast? What sort of toy can we buy her that might stimulate her, entertain her and yet keep her little a while longer?

Well, Saturday afternoon and lots to do. I'm glad we talked. 

Thankyou for teaching me to look around and see how wealthy I am. How many blessings. How much I have. How rich I am in every way that matters. 

The sun is out. The daffodils are yellow. Bramley the apple swan is going brown and his head is drooping.

Best eat him, I think.  

The peace of the Lord

Evening, Lord. 

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

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

That was your doing. 

Who else? The Prince of Peace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Philippians 4:7

Amen. 

Thankyou.

 

Made to praise you

God, I'm not having a good day.

I don't feel very positive.

I don't feel very much like talking to you, if I'm honest, and I certainly don't feel full of praise. I feel like moaning on about how bad I perceive things to be, how miserable I am, how hard life is. I think I could go on about this at length, and, as you know, I have form in this area. I'm quite good at it. This is what I feel like doing right now.

So I'm not going to. 

I am going to praise you because you are my God and deserving of praise. You died for me; making the effort to praise you when I don't feel like it is a small thing to do. 

Psalm 145

'I will exalt you, my God the King;

I will praise your name for ever and ever.'

Lord God, who made the sun that's shining on the side of my head as I'm talking to you now, I want to praise your holy name. You are the only God, King of Kings. I don't offer you my worship because you need it or because it is required of me - it's because I was made to worship you. 

'Every day I will praise you

and extol your name for ever and ever.'

Every day. Whether I feel like it or not. 

'Great is the Lord and most worthy of praise;

His greatness no-one can fathom.

One generation commends your works to another;

they tell of your mighty acts.'

You are great indeed. Great seems to be an over-used word in our culture where a nice meal is 'great' and pop stars from twenty years ago are known as 'The Greats'.  Your greatness is different altogether, Father. Yours is a greatness that no-one can fathom; it is beyond us. You are above all things. You have done mighty things; never made a mistake. You are eternal and everlasting and unchanging and I want to tell my daughters how wonderful you are. I want them to know what I know and grow and grow.  

'They speak of the glorious splendour of your majesty - 

and I will meditate on your wonderful works.

They tell of the power of your awesome works - 

and I will proclaim your great deeds.'

I only have to look around me to see the glorious splendour of you. It's late February and although cold weather might well return for a few more weeks at the moment the sun is out, the sky is blue and there's a freshness that makes me think that Spring is coming. The sun is shining into the room I'm in and the dust motes are dancing in the shaft of light. Outside the window is a bed of snowdrops and a couple of crocuses with delicate purple veined petals are just opening up. Beauty.

I'm looking at my two daughters as they laugh together (is primary school toilet humour a topic for praise, Lord? I find it a bit wearying after a while I must confess and I'm eagerly awaiting the day when they grow out of it...Anything you can do about that?) but I digress. My girls are so beautiful, so innocent, so full of life and enthusiasm. They learn so fast, they smile so readily. They're unselfconscious and extravagant and full of love. What a breathtaking act of delegation is parenthood? What a miracle that two people can create such wonders. I see Bryan in Katy's smile and in Lizzie's physique. I see my own father in the girls' dimples and the way Kate lifts her eyebrows sometimes.  I see myself as a child in Elizabeth's school photos. I look at my girls and I see you.

Your works are indeed wonderful. 

'They celebrate your abundant goodness

and joyfully sing of your righteousness.'

I need to do more celebrating and less commiserating. I am surrounded by beauty and wonder and miracles and gifts and blessings. I will sing of your goodness and your righteousness. Lord God help me to open my heart to the joy that comes from praising you. You are good to me. I'm sorry for all the times that I take your abundant goodness for granted and choose instead to focus on the negatives.

'The Lord is gracious and compassionate,

slow to anger and rich in love.

The Lord is good to all;

He has compassion on all he has made.'

I know that you will forgive me because it is your nature to forgive. I know that you are gracious and full of compassion. I know that you are slow to get angry. Not like me; I flare up all too easily. I am often on a short fuse and my irritability knows no bounds. Thankyou that you are not like me. Help me to be more like you. 

You are good to me. Thankyou for your kindness and unfailing compassion. Thankyou that no matter what I've done, how I'm feeling, I know that because you are full of grace and kindness I can come to you without fear of being turned away or consumed and destroyed by your holiness. Thankyou that no matter how many times I mess things up, I can still turn around and see your arms open for me to return to. 

'All your works praise you, Lord;

your faithful people extol you.'

Amen. I am your creation, your work - and I lift my eyes and my hands and praise you, glorious Lord. I stand in the ranks of your children and I praise you. I lift you high. You are the Lord. 

'Your kingdom is an everlasting kingdom,

and your dominion endures through all generations.

The Lord is trustworthy in all he promises

and faithful in all he does.'

You are unchanging. Your kingdom will never be destroyed. It will last forever; beyond anything this world can offer and beyond our imaginations. You will never be defeated. You are the same God who spoke to Moses, to Abraham, to David, to John and to Peter. You are the Lord who showed his hands and side to Thomas. You are the God who inspired the great churchmen of the ages and you are my God too. You are the God who walks beside me in my small, imperfect journey through life. 

I love you.

You keep your promises. You never change your mind, or change the goalposts. It is as you say. I can trust you absolutely with the big things and with the little things of my life. You are faithful. Praise you, Lord God, creator of the world. Thankyou for loving me.

'The Lord upholds all who fall

and lifts up all who are bowed down.

The eyes of all look to you,

and you give them their food at the proper time.

You open your hand

and satisfy the desires of every living thing.'

Amen.  I know that this is true. I have been weary and I have leaned on you. I have fallen and you have gently helped me to my feet again. You have lifted my head when I have been weighed down with selfish troubles and you are always there for me. You know what I need and when I need it and if I only trust you then I will never be without. Help me to trust you for the things that I need and not run after so many things that mean nothing at all. 

The other morning I lay in bed and listened to the song of a blackbird outside the window. It occurred to me that the bird was doing what it was made to do. It was singing because it was a blackbird and that is what blackbirds do. It wasn't worried (to the best of my knowledge) about where the next worm was to be found, or whether the next door's cat might one day get too close for comfort; it just sang in praise of the living God that made it. 

If I, too, am made to praise, what would it be like if I did wholeheartedly what I am made to do? What a perfect sound could I make? How pleasing it would be to you, Lord God, if I could lay aside everything superfluous and sinful and simply live to praise you? 

'The Lord is righteous in all his ways

and faithful in all he does.

The Lord is near to all who call on him,

to all who call on him in truth.'

Yes, Lord, I know that you are near. I know this because you have said that you will be with me always, and you are righteous and faithful. I know that you will never let me down. I know that you are near even when I don't feel you - I know because earlier on this morning I felt as if you were a million miles away and now I know that you were there all the time. You don't move. You don't walk away when I offend you. 

I call on you, Lord God. I cannot hide anything from you. I lay before you all that I am, all the bits I'd rather stuff into a dark corner as well as the bits that I quite like. I am who I am - you know because you made me. You know what stage I'm at in my journey towards you. Here I am. 

Hold me close by your side. I want to stay there, I really do; it's just that I can't seem to do what I want to do. I keep wandering off. I keep getting distracted by other things. My eye is caught by something and suddenly I realise that I have strayed off the path. Thankyou that you are always there to guide me back. Lord, thank you for your love and faithfulness. 

'My mouth will speak in praise of the Lord.

Let every creature praise his holy name

for ever and ever.'

Amen and amen. 

I believe that there will come a day when the whole of creation past, present and future will praise you, Father God. Everybody will see your glory and will worship you. There will be no-one who denies that you are who you are. It won't be possible. Every knee will bow and every tongue confess that you are the Lord. 

I'm looking forward to that day. 

Thankyou, God. 

I feel better. 

It won't always be dark at six

So how is my Lent going?

Is that you asking, Lord?  Why would you ask if you already know?

I am sort of blurred at the moment. 

Can't concentrate on anything. 

Including you. 

Going to stop writing in staccato sentences now.

I'm not feeling well. My cold has turned into a cough which has turned into a chest infection which saw me trudge up to the doctor this morning in defeat; with a following wind I should be on the mend tomorrow thanks to some little green pills. Part of me wants to assure you that my Lent will go better when I'm better.

But I'm thinking that this time last year you allowed me to be slowed to a stop as well. (You sat down next to me) Last year I stabbed myself in the eye with a document wallet (I know, I know, it still makes you smile) and the week was going to be so busy... I learned then that the world keeps turning without me and then again, this week, I've had to get off for a while again and strangely enough, life goes on. I can't help thinking that the one-eyed me this time a year ago might have made better of the hiatus in the speed of life than the coughing and complaining me this time around. 

But everything has been cancelled. I haven't even shopped so the meals are getting a little bit eccentric and freezer driven. Or they would be if it were not for my Mum, who once again (and again, and again) has been wonderful. I am sure that I'm more trouble to my mother now, as a forty-one year old with husband and children than ever I was as a teenager when I was supposed to be a hassle. 

I have read two and a half books and I have slept a lot. I have cried with self-pity and I have coughed until my ribs feel as if they've been run over (hence the self-pity). Have I spent more time with you in all this time when I couldn't do anything else? Well...

It's been unseasonably mild outside.

I think I just changed the subject.

Yesterday I went out in the garden for ten minutes and I saw three purple crocuses. A host of snowdrops. The weather has been mild and sunny and for a little while there I started thinking about when to clean out the greenhouse, what I would plant and where. I walked around and noticed which plants have (so far) survived the winter and which I never got around to pruning last autumn. The children came and went crazy in the sun for a little while. They got muddy and they swung on the swings and they kicked around a football. I sat with a couple of fleeces on huddled round a mug of tea and it was lovely. 

Spring isn't here yet but I can see it coming. I'm waiting for the daffodils. I love daffodils. When the daffs come I know that Spring is here. Soon, please. 

Of course, it's February and this is the England and so the chances are we'll have four feet of snow in the next week. Indeed, a frost is forecast for tonight. Good job I didn't take the fleece off the yucca.

Today I read a story about being happy. About choosing happiness. About not waiting for happiness to happen but to decide to be happy. It lifted my spirits momentarily until something happened to squash them again. I need to seize those moments and bury my nose in them. Close my eyes and ears to everything else that is going on around and immerse myself in a moment that is purely of you. I'm finding that it's hard to do right now.

The doctor told me today that the antibiotics will start to make a difference in about 24-48 hours but I might not be better for a couple of weeks. He told me to give myself time to get over the chest infection; to be gentle with myself. I think I am already too gentle with myself - I let myself off too many hooks. Things that are difficult I tend to shy away from. 

Like choosing happiness. Just for a moment there I pick happiness up and then something crashes into me and knocks me off balance and instead of clinging tight to the happiness in my hand it my fingers open reflexively and I drop it. And it's gone.

Too often I take the line of least resistance.

Sigh.

I'm feeling a bit rough and not thinking straight. I'm finding my promise to find the positive in every day a bit of a challenge at the moment. 

• My little girls gave me cuddles today.
• My Mum changed an appointment so that she can take Katy to her swimming lesson tomorrow so I don't have to get up early.
• My husband brought me a mug of tea in bed. 
• Every day this week I've had a text message from a friend asking how I am and saying that she's thinking about me.
• My Mum bought me freesia. My favourite flowers.

Thankyou for all those things and doctors and chemists and comfy beds and sleep. Thankyou that I'm not seriously ill and that you are a God of second chances.

Thankyou that the nights are getting lighter. As my Mum says, 'It won't always be dark at six'.

I'm holding onto that at the moment.

It won't always be dark at six.