Blessed on a Monday

I want to say something.

I like pine cones. I have two of them sitting in my fruit bowl (don't ask me why) and over the past week they've gone from fully closed to fully open with a beautiful symmetry,

I saw a bird of prey today. A big buzzard-like bird with a sharp looking curved beak and hooded yellow eyes and  big, strong looking wings. No idea what it was. I was driving at the time and didn't want to risk veering into a ditch or through a hedge so only got a fleeting glimpse. A glimpse is good, though.

Apples and pine cones

Today the clouds were huge and while and fluffy and lit from behind so that the edges were gilt and the sun's rays shone around them like a fan.

I had a cup of tea today in a teapot with an old fashioned knitted tea cosy on it. Kept it warm beautifully. I like tea cosies. The old ways are the best...

It was the first day back at school today after the Easter Holidays and both my girls skipped into school happily, full of tales of things we had done for their morning work books. I like it when they're happy. 

Elizabeth had a home made coloured wool hair slide entwined in her hair today and she felt pretty.  She looked so lovely. A boy-friend had brought her a present back from his holiday and she was in raptures. Her face was lit up. 

Katy's hair shone beautifully as she bent over her work in the classroom this morning. I waved goodbye through the window as I passed and she blew me a kiss. I like blowing kisses.

The sun shone today over the Derbyshire Dales as I drove on little country lanes past dry-stone walls and hedgerows in bud.

Good chats with a friend who understands me and shares so much of the ups and downs of life with me. Today I took some good advice and feel better for it. 

Late last night I remembered that I'd forgotten to water the seedlings in my greenhouse. Nipped out in the dark to water them in my dressing gown, flip-flops and woolly hat, accompanied by similarly attired husband to protect me from any aggressive badgers in the garden. Laughed a lot. 

Drove through Matlock and admired the silhouette of Riber Castle up on the edge above. I'm so glad it's still there and it's profile hasn't been changed by the developers.

St John's Church,
Ashbourne, Derbyshire

During our country drive I saw several magnificent pheasants and managed to avoid squashing any of them even though they did saunter across the road carelessly in a manner asking for trouble.

This afternoon I was shown a beautiful drawing by my proud five year old daughter. I admired it extravagantly only to be told, 'It's not for you. It's for Auntie Rachel'. Katy then patted me on the arm consolingly and gave me a small chocolate egg left over from Easter and said, 'Here, Mummy. You can have this instead.' I like chocolate.

A lady opened a church specially for us today so that we could look round inside. It was kind of her.

A book I ordered arrived today. It's about the 23rd Psalm. I read the first few pages as I waited for the girls' tea to cook and I'm looking forward to the rest of it. 

As I write this the children are laughing and laughing and laughing. I haven't a clue why and as a grown up who doesn't speak their language that well I probably wouldn't understand if I did but it's a good sound. I like it.

All this and most of the week still ahead of me.

I am blessed indeed. 

Thankyou, Father God.

More than words

Here's a thing. 

Its a bit hard to concentrate right now as the children are playing some game that involves the playing of a rather irritating little electronic tune over and over again. I am rising above it, but I just thought I'd mention it in case you think I'm a bit distracted. 

My head is full of things. I'm reading several books at the moment and I'm running out of bookmarks to remind me of interesting things that I am pondering. I have hit a vein reading books by Max Lucado; he writes in a wonderfully simple way and yet manages to surprise me. Bless him, Father God. Whatever he's doing, right now, reach down and touch him and make him smile, will you?  Because someone on the other side of the world is able to draw closer to you because of the gifts you gave him that he faithfully exercises. 

I am still finishing 'In the Eye of the Storm' by Mr L, but I've just been rootling on Amazon's second hand shelves and another of his books arrived yesterday. I flipped through it at random as I climbed the stairs to put it on my 'To Read' shelf and a sentence jumped out at me.

'Pray all the time. If necessary, use words.'

(Max Lucado, 'Fearless' 2009, Thomas Nelson)

My heart leaped. That's no exaggeration. This has made a big difference to me.

I've been thinking about prayer a lot recently. Thinking about it, you'll note, not so much doing it... I've been trying to work out why I find it so difficult. Things have been flying about in my mind; lack of discipline, the idea of getting up early in the morning (No! No! No! Please?), how to come to you more often, for longer, without trying to make lists, quiet time, silent retreats, using objects to help meditation, falling asleep before I get to 'Amen' (sorry about this. Happens all the time).

So, the implication that prayer doesn't have to be formal, doesn't have to be in words - that's freedom. 

Freedom to come to you without my vocabulary. To come to you without knowing how to say what I want to say, or even what I want to say in the first place. The other day I was telling you that I sometimes can't find any words when I'm having a panic about Katy and the lumps on her neck and I sit on the edge of her bed at night and just lift to you all the stuff that wells up in my heart that I can't find words for.  Hope and fear and love and praise to you, the God that made my girls and made knowing them possible.

Made knowing you possible. Who am I to make that more difficult than it needs to be?

I have been thinking that prayer was words. Written words, read words, words in my head. Prayers written by me, prayers written by other people. Prayers had form and shape and meaning. I know that prayer should contain worship and confession and thanksgiving and supplication but sometimes it's hard to structure my prayers in that way. Sometimes they're coming at me too fast to tick all the boxes. Sometimes it feels like I don't have the building blocks to make a prayer. And on those times instead of staying silent with eyes averted, those are the times when I can offer you the spontaneous, the undefined. The things that won't fit into a sentence.

A while ago little Katy said to me, 'I want to make a prayer but I don't know how,' and I told her that if she said what she wanted to God then that was a prayer. What happens if you don't know what you want to say or how to say it? If I can pray without words then that's the answer.

Tears can be prayers. Sighs and groans can be prayers. Stillness can be a prayer. Longings and thrills and exhilaration and shock. Undefined feelings of gratitude, or awe, or wonder. The way my heart responds to beauty or sadness or compassion.

I don't know for certain because I'm not a theologian or a priest or someone who knows these things, but I wonder where the line is between prayer and praise. If we should give our lives as a daily offering to you then what we do can surely be worship. What we offer to you can be prayer, or praise... you decide. Suddenly I feel freer and less obliged. Less stressed out by the prospect of 'getting it right'.

In telling the story of the feeding of the four thousand (Matthew 15:29-32) with regard to worship, Max Lucado says that after Jesus had healed many, 'They praised the God of Israel.'

He goes on:

'I wonder how they did that? I feel more certain of what they didn't do rather than what they did do. I feel confident that they didn't form a praise committee. I feel confident that they didn't make any robes. I feel confident that they didn't sit in rows and stare at the back of each other's heads.
I doubt seriously if they wrote a creed on how they were to praise this God they had never before worshipped. I can't picture them getting into an argument about technicalities. I doubt if they felt that it had to be done indoors.
And I know they didn't wait until the Sabbath to do it.'

(Max Lucado, 'In the Eye of the Storm', 1991, Zondervan)

How wonderful. He states the obvious but how trapped I sometimes feel when I think I have to get it right. How many times do I 'fail' at prayer because it's too hard to do it properly. So often I leave it until the end of the day when I have nothing left and then offer you the dregs of my consciousness before I slip off into sleep.

Yesterday in the garden, when Katy was singing to you and I was potting plants I smiled and my heart swelled and I felt you near me. Things were vivid and beautiful and I registered that a blossom of happiness was spreading through me. Could that have been a prayer, Lord? My soul was reaching for yours. Surely we connected. I'm not sure that I can ever do any better than that.

When I go to see my children last thing at night and they look so innocent, so small, so young in their sleep and the frustrations and raised voices and irritations of the day are smoothed away like a wave on the sand - that's when I offer you the love that I have in my heart for my little girls. My hopes for them, my fears, my dreams and my gratitude.

Even when I'm lying in bed just sliding into drowsiness and I feel the softness of my bed, the warmth of the bedclothes, the quiet of the house and it's such a feeling of comfort - physical and emotional - I lift to you the relief of relaxing the muscles of a weary body in safety. Is it a prayer? Or am I going to far in trying to make my love of my bed into a holy thing?

The wonderful Mr Lucado continues, speaking still of the crowds who worshipped you, Jesus:

'In all probability, they just did it. Each one - in his or her own way, with his or her own heart - just praised Jesus. Perhaps some people came and fell at Jesus' feet. Perhaps some shouted his name. Maybe a few just went up on the hillside, looked into the sky, and smiled.'

Now, I know that looking into the sky and smiling isn't adequate if my entire prayer life consisted of it, but I am thrilled to read that it might be part of it. I think often I miss the point. Often I get bogged down in routine and in form and in expectation. I like words and I like using them, but when I run out of the ability to do that, I've been floundering.

And now I have something else.

Praise to you, Lord. You're not a hard taskmaster. You're looking for ways to communicate. Not that you find it hard, but because I do.

Thankyou, thank you, thank you.

'Worship is when you're aware that what you've been given is far greater than what you can give. Worship is the awareness that were it not for his touch, you'd still be hobbling and hurting, bitter and broken.'

I'd like to think I'd have been there when I heard that this man they call Jesus was healing people. I'd like to think that I'd have recognised my need to be mended and gone along to have a look. I expect it might have depended on whether anyone I knew was going - I can be a proper sheep like that. But I hope I'd have been there. I hope that when your eyes met mine and I knew that I was healed, I hope that I might have fallen down in front of you. I might have thanked you from the bottom of my heart. I might have called your name to heaven in amazement. I might have gone home and told people what you had done for me.

I know that what I've been given is far greater than what I can give. I'm so sorry that even what I can give I sometimes hang onto for myself.

'We have tried to make a science out of worship. We can't do that.'

No, we can't. And I wonder if, in trying to pin down exactly what worship is, or prayer, then I miss the point, and miss it spectacularly. I wonder if prayer and worship are so much bigger than I have realised? A huge bracket term that encompasses so many different ways of meeting with you.

I think that you never meant it to become as small and prescribed as it has. I'm sure that you never meant well-meaning people who long to know you to feel that unless they can do it right, they'll do it wrong, and so perhaps it's better not to try.

If I can pray to you by lifting my heart to you, or reaching out with my very soul to offer you...something...something that I need to tell you, then perhaps that's ok with you?  If I can see a glimpse of you in the wonder of your creation, or in the funny words of my children, or in a tender moment in my marriage, or in a hairy caterpillar going about its business, and that glimpse causes me to close my eyes tight and feel the beauty of your Spirit within me, then maybe that's ok with you too.

I think there's a place for sung worship with a guitar or an organ in church - I'm not saying anything particularly revolutionary - and I need to get better at talking and listening to you. Giving you the last few bleary minutes of my day isn't the best way to show you that I love you. But I wanted to share with you the little epiphany that I had today.

I think you're closer than I thought. I think you love me, and want me to come to you more often. I think you like it when I see you and you love it when I turn to you with delight and recognition in my eyes. I don't think that you need me to be able to report what's happened in my heart; you see it clearly already. You are the master of my heart. You know me intimately. I can't fake my moments with you; the most genuine gifts I could give you come straight from the heart without the need for words.

I feel liberated.

I need to pray all the time. Sometimes I will need to use words, but hey, sometimes it's still alright if I don't.

Thankyou.

Blessed be your glorious name

Afternoon, Lord God.

I'm feeling smiley. It's been a good day. Actually, a succession of good days. I found when I was a teenager and I kept a diary daily for years and years that when I had a bad day, I wrote pages and pages reporting what had happened, analysing it from every angle and moaning excessively, yet when I had a good day, I would write. 'Had a good day.'

Why the need to wallow in misery and negative emotions, but to gloss over good ones? Does picking apart the scab make something heal quickly, and by the same token examining happiness diminish it somehow? 

Maybe I'm just a pessimist at heart. Perhaps I just notice the duff things and not so much the things to celebrate. 

Well, no more. 

My good day(s) have been full of children, laughter, family, food, wine-and-sofa-time, gardening, countryside, smiles and time to relax. 

Lizzie laughing

Take yesterday. My sister in law and a couple of nephews were visiting and the children were so excited to see their cousins. The boys were so lovely; playing with my girls despite being much older and they were patience personified. Elizabeth and Katy were enraptured by this big grown up boy who lifted them high, acted silly and let them teach him their playground games with incomprehensible rules - and then let them win. At one point they were tearing round and all I could hear was laughter.  Elizabeth was laughing so hard I thought she might be sick, and the big boy cousins were laughing too. It made me laugh.

I got to spend some time in the greenhouse potting up a big tray of baby begonias and watching the children as I bedded the seedlings down into small pots to grow a bit bigger before I fill the troughs by the front door. It was warm and sunny and everything felt happy. You were there too - I know you were smiling. You must have been sitting on a bench at the bottom of the garden and watching; feeling the sun on your face, legs stretched out in front of you watching the joy of your children. Listening to the happy sounds. I felt content deep down. 

My tiny begonias could have sighed with pleasure as I planted them with more room to spread out their roots and I love seeing them in their little rows of pots on the bench in the warmth. You know each seedling. You made it. From the tiny, brown seed, through the first pair of leaves to the flourishing of a sturdy little flowering plant that soldiers on all summer long, none of it happens without your breath of life. 

You are all around me.

Michael Card writes this:

'A young Chinese woman told me of the spiritual struggle of growing up in the shadow of communism, where official doctrine dictated against any belief in god. She said that ever since she was a little girl, her heart had resonated with the beauty of nature. First a sunset caused a deep stirring in her soul that she could not put into words. Then the beauty of the flowers in her mother's garden spoke to her of a simplicity for which her heart yearned. By observing the beauty in nature she became convinced of the existence of not simply a benign god, but a loving, caring Father.
With tender, moist eyes and a brilliant smile she said, 'Imagine the joy I experienced when I learned that he had a name and it was Jesus.' 

(Michael Card, iPhone app: 'Joy in the Journey through the year'.

I know your name. I know you. I don't always notice you, but you're always there. I have days when my eyes seem to see and days when they seem to be out of focus, but that's me, not you. 

Baby begonias.
Destined for great things

You are there in my tiny green seedlings and you are there in the sun warm on my shoulders. You are there in the companionship of my husband and his sister, and in the kindness of a nineteen year old youth for his small, adoring nieces. You are there in the joy of their laughter and in way that the sunlight made Elizabeth's long hair into spun gold. You are there in the ladybirds and in the huge, beautiful bumble bees that seem to abound this year. You are there in the grace of the neighbours cats, and in the variety of birds that visit our bird table. Though it has to be said that the presence of all of us in the garden yesterday afternoon meant that most wildlife wisely made itself scarce. 

You are there in the countless resurrections that remind me of you at this time of year: things that seemed dead and twig-like a few weeks ago are bursting into life in bright greens and yellows. You are there in the Spring rain that sends us dashing for the washing and yet is over before we've collected it in. You're there in breeze that blows the clothes dry (again) and you're there in the bolts that hold the swing safe to the crossbeam so that my little girls can close their eyes and swing up the sky in safety. 

You are in my heart. You have opened my eyes, and keep doing so even though I close them. You are endlessly patient, forgiving, full of humour and love. 

Yesterday the children were playing some sort of game that involved dashing around and the girls were squealing and shouting. Suddenly something made me look up from my seedlings and it was my Katy, singing. She was singing:

'Blessed be the name of the Lord! Blessed be your name!
Blessed be the name of the Lord! Blessed be your glorious name!'

My heart was so full that I thought it might just rupture. I glanced at the other grown ups but I don't know if they heard, they were deep in conversation. I'm not sure what their reaction might have been. The children were running around and Katy kept singing, 'Blessed be the name of the Lord!'

The angels must have been smiling, weren't they, Lord? From your vantage point (for I know that you miss nothing) you must have blown a kiss in her direction, did you?  Blessed be your glorious name, Lord God, and bless her heart.

Father, I am so blessed as well.  I am blessed that like that lady from China who knew who you were before she knew your name; I am privileged to know you. To see you in the sunset, in nature, in the song of a five year old who was happy and that happiness burst forth in unconscious praise of you. Or maybe it was conscious; I don't know what she was thinking (you do) but I do know that you would have accepted that bit of worship with joy. Honest, open, uncomplicated, unpretentious, uninhibited praise. I can only aspire to that. 

Later that day Bryan and I sat with our feet up on the coffee table and a glass of wine each and we watched a film on the television after the small girls had crashed out into bed after their exciting and energetic day. I think you were there as well. I reflected on how much I like sitting with my husband and feeling relaxed and at ease. You were there in the wine and in the good humour and in the bond that we have. 

You are the best of me.

'The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands.'

Psalm 19:1

And so does the earth. So does the greenhouse. So does my living room when all is right with our family.

I want to as well. I want to declare the glory of you.  

I go on so much about the times when things are not right. I bemoan my lack of patience and my troubles and my worries and I come running to you when someone hurts me. I wallow in my guilt and my shortcomings and that of other people, but there are snapshots of my life when the sun is out and the birds are singing and those times need remarking on as well. At length.

You are beautiful and glorious and you allow us to be part of that. You gave Bryan and I a part to play in the creation and nurturing of our wonderful girls. You let me plant out those tiny seedlings so that they'll fulfil their potential. You give me words and the ability to express myself. You give me so very much. 

You give me beauty in the darkest corners if only I look.

Thankyou Father God. 

You are good. 

Turning to you

My eyes are open

Looking, searching, gazing

But not seeing

Not realising

I have already found you.

My ears are open

Listening closely

To an internal melody

Turned up loud

With a beat of me, me, me.

My mind is closed

Knowing everything 

All the answers

Narrow, oblivious

To the vast glory of you.

My mouth is open

Always saying something

Convinced I'm right

Not thinking first

Imparting my wisdom.

My fists are closed

Holding tightly

To the rubbish

Worry and fear and regret

Preoccupied with misery.

Blow your Spirit through me

Fling wide the doors

Closed and cobwebbed

Clear out the rubbish

Stacked in corners.

My heart is open

Deep down - I know

I long for you

Feeling my need

I turn to you, my Father.

Opening my hands

I don't have any words to celebrate Easter.

I like words and I usually enjoy playing with them. Searching for the right one. Quite often I can't make my mind up and I use more than I need to use. 

Today I'm feeling subdued. Yesterday was Easter and I didn't manage to find any quiet to come here and talk to you and by bedtime I had already been asleep on the sofa and any offering I might have made at that point would have been pathetically inadequate. 

It's a bit of a challenge right now. 

We've had visitors over Easter and they've gone. It was good to have them here and the children are missing their cousin badly. They've had company and stimulation and games to play but now the visitors have gone and taken their computer game with them (should we get one? Or would that be a bad idea for small girls who already have so much? More screens to stare at? But on the other hand... Divine guidance much appreciated on this one). Anyway, the children need extra attention and I would rather crawl into a little hole and have some time just me. 

On my own. With you. Though I can't guarantee that I'll be very good company.

Lord, yesterday morning at church it was just lovely. The building was full, the music was good, the atmosphere was festive and the message was the most incredible, breathtaking, amazing thing that there is. You rose from the dead. And if you did that two thousand years ago, that means that you're still alive. 

Alive. Not dead. Alive. Living. 

Nothing that they did to you could defeat you. It was lonely and awful and painful and you did it for me. You did it for me so that the way to God was open and clear and not blocked by piles of dirt and debris and rubbish. You did it. I thought my heart would explode, it was so full. 

Yesterday I raised my hands and praised you and the angels were singing too. He is risen! Alleluia! 

Today the first day of this year's post Easter life begins and I'm wondering what will change now. What can I do that's different because of Easter this year? What is my response?

We have chocolate to eat. We have a holiday this coming week; Bryan is at home and the children are off school. We will do nice things in the name of the Easter holiday. But my life should alter as a result of what I have seen this Easter.  I have spent Lent looking inward, and it's time to change gear. 

The Lord is here. He's not dead. Stop looking for him in his grave.

I am tired. I have things on my mind. Yesterday I felt lighter than I do today, and I know that a Good Night's Sleep will help.  Some space. But I feel troubled.

One thing keeps coming to mind. A friend and I often say this to each other when we find ourselves having trouble in life. We both have a tendency to control-freakery. We both frequently feel responsible for things that we can't do anything about. We both worry; probably me the most. But we've found something that helps - a bit. When we let it help. 

We need to open our hands. I need to stop holding on with fists clenched tight and I need to prise my fingernails out of my palms because only then can I take what you're holding out to me. If my hands are full, I can't accept anything. And that's such a shame because my hands are usually full of concerns and anxieties and worries and regrets and the things that you want to give me instead are peace and rest and hope and joy. Who would cling to the darkness when offered such light? 

Me, it seems. 

Yesterday at church I said some things and I've been acutely uncomfortable about them ever since. Three people have contacted me to say that what I said struck a chord with them. At the time it felt important that I say it; my heart was thumping in my chest, my palms were cold and sweaty and I felt that I should say it, then afterwards my mind was flooded with doubts. Big, hot, tearful doubts. I'd made a fool of myself. I shouldn't have said it. It didn't make sense. I didn't express myself very well. People would think badly of me. How embarrassing. And so on and so on. 

I have no idea what was going on, there. I trust you, Lord. I trust that you had a plan and that you can use even my obscure stumblings. But as I talk to you now I know that my feeling ill at ease today has something to do with yesterday. 

I need to do something.  Forgive?  Perhaps. It's a rolling programme. Give it all to you? Certainly.

Max Lucado says in his book 'He Chose the Nails: What God did to win your heart' which was my unofficial Lent reading this year, that the cross demands a response. A new examination of the cross demands a new response. He says: 

'May I urge you to leave something at the cross? You can observe the cross and analyse the cross. You can read about it, even pray to it. But until you leave something there, you haven't embraced the cross.'

What am I going to leave?

Right.

I'm going to carry my normal load of baggage and worries and anxieties and fears and regrets up the hill until I'm right in the shadow of the empty cross.
I'm going to make a pile of the boxes and rucksacks and carrier bags right in front of it. The little things and bits and bobs that I never let go of, I'm going to find an empty box left over from moving house and I'm going to fill them up and then get parcel tape and tear it off with my teeth in that way that makes my Mum wince and I'm going to seal the box and pat the tape down tight so I can't easily reach inside for something that I'm having second thoughts about.

Actually, there might be more than one boxful of sundries. Several, even. I'm going to stack them up on top of each other. I'm going to make a pile.

It's neatly stacked but it's still a great ugly heap.

I'm going to label them with the same efficiency with which I started to pack when we moved house.

Worries: the future, what people think, health, the health of those that I love, finances, jobs, that crack in the ceiling in the hall, the damp behind the living room radiator...

Fears: that something bad will happen. That people will die. That if I take my eye off the ball something will go horribly and irrevocably wrong. That I'll make some disastrous mistake in bringing up the children that their lives are ruined...

Bad things: my tendency to think I'm right, laziness, irritability, being critical, withholding forgiveness, superstition, temper, selfishness...

Regrets: things that I've said, things that I haven't said, perfectionism, the times I've messed things up, mistakes, things that I find hard to forget...

...and so on. And what am I going to do next?

I'm going to walk away. I know I'll be back because my hands fill up very quickly. No doubt before I get to the bottom of the hill I'll have things that I should come back and throw on the pile. But I'm not going to do what I usually do, which is to grab everything I can carry as if I'm on a trolley dash and run away with them again rather than leave them with you.

I'm walking. I'm not looking over my shoulder. I know that the cross is there, dark and silhouetted against the brightness of the sun.

I'm climbing down.

I want my hands to be empty so that I can grasp what you offer to me. Give me eyes to see what you are holding out and the sense to understand that what I have in my hands now has no value in comparison with a gift from you.

Thankyou for dying for me, Lord Jesus.

Please don't let me gaze at the cross and lift my hands in praise, but do nothing.

I want it to change things. Change me.

I'm sitting still. I'm relaxing my shoulders, which have a tendency to creep up towards my ears when I'm tense and anxious. I'm leaning on you. I'm remembering my pile of debris.

My eyes are closed but my hands are open.

Empty day

It's Saturday afternoon but it doesn't feel like a normal Saturday. 

It's different for a few reasons; we have company at the moment, the normal Saturday routine is temporarily interrupted, but for me there's definitely something else. Suspense. 

Waiting. A friend asked me earlier what we were doing today and I said I didn't know; it was a sort of 'limbo day'. She described it as 'an empty day', which I took to mean that she had no plans, but it might just as well have been a sense that something is missing. There's a void. A void of activity at church after the past week of services to remember Holy Week. Yesterday we went to the Hot Cross Bun service and looked again at the cross. Tomorrow we'll celebrate your resurrection, but today we wait. We feel the lack of something. Emptiness. A hole. 

We miss you. 

This was the day-in-between. I wonder what the disciples did that day. It was their Sabbath - did they go to the Temple and go through the motions? Did they stay in a room together and weep and try and work it out? Did they blame each other? Did they realise that they abandoned their Lord when it came to the end?  Did they go their separate ways? Merge into a crowd? 

They missed you. 

Max Lucado points out in his book 'He Chose the Nails' that you told the disciples three times that you would be executed and then on the third day you would rise from the grave. Three times. How many of them were waiting at the graveside that first Easter to see it happen?  None. Did they believe it? Did they not hear? Would I? Something so amazing? Even if I'd seen Lazarus peel off his own grave-clothes?

But hey, they were only human. They were scared. That first middle Saturday they must have been beside themselves with grief. You were their friend. You gave them purpose. You changed their lives. You showed them what to do and you had gone.

They missed you. 

So I'm sitting here with a cup of tea and it feels a bit like marking time. I, of course, know what happens tomorrow. I'm looking forward to it. I love Easter day. Even so, today is a forgotten day. A lost day. I had a little smile of satisfaction when I learned earlier on that historically this middle day of the three is considered a limbo-sort of day. 

A friend from church sent me an email all about today. 

I learned that 'Holy Saturday' (in Latin, Sabbatum Sanctum) is known as 'the day of the entombed Christ'. It is 'the Lord's day of rest' as this was the day that you were lying in your tomb. (Or were you? Were you getting your breath back? Were you off dealing with the devil on that day? Wiping the smirk off his face? Raising up the saints who had been waiting and waiting for you to arrive? I wonder what you were doing.) 

It goes on, 'We recall the Apostle's Creed, which says 'He descended to the dead.' It is a day of suspense between two worlds, that of darkness, sin and death, and that of the Resurrection and the restoration of the Light of the World.'

Suspense indeed. A no-man's-land. Christ has died, but Christ has not yet risen. We wait. We are holding our breath. 

And also, I didn't know that, '...for this reason no divine services are held until after the Easter vigil begins that night.'

Funny, that. I had only commented this morning that there should be something at church today to fill the gap. To save me from the feeling of blankness. Empty day. Limbo-day. Since that very first Easter people who love you have felt the oddness of today. The emptiness. 

There's something more powerful, though. Tomorrow you rise again, all over again. We celebrate and we sing and we lift our hands in praise and worship to the Risen Lord. We celebrate your resurrection. Back from the dead. But it's also the beginning of something totally new. 

'This day between Good Friday and Easter Day makes present to us the end of one world and the complete newness of the era of salvation inaugurated by the resurrection of Christ.'

You changed things. Nothing was the same any more. You cleared the way so that we could approach your Father. You redeemed us. You paid the price so that we were not held responsible for all the rubbish that had piled up and blocked the way from us to you. That first Easter Day was the first day of the new order. The first day that things were different. The Era of Salvation. 

So something momentous happened yesterday. Something momentous happens tomorrow. Today we wait. We feel the absence of you. Today we hold our breath in suspense. We get ready. 

Come, Lord Jesus. We're waiting at the tomb.  

Poured out like water

Jesus Christ, you died for me.

You poured yourself out. To lay down your life for a friend is one thing, but to die for those who rejected you?

To go through so much for so little in return?

The physical agony of crucifixion - the Romans knew how to kill a man. They knew how best to inflict pain. They knew just how to do it so that death was long, drawn out, dying one agonising breath at a time. They knew where to put the nails, the angle to bend the legs, the way to suspend a body so that every moment was a lifetime of misery. 

The emotional pain that you went through. The humiliation of nakedness and helplessness in front of your enemies, your friends, your mother. Being an object of ridicule and mockery. Being spat at. Beaten. The religious leaders and the Roman cowards thought that they'd won and you hung on a cross, bleeding from your wounds and you let them think that. The devil was laughing.

No-one was there. Where were the disciples? Where were all the people you'd healed, helped, transformed; the many whose lives were changed beyond recognition because of you? Where were they all when you needed a friendly face, someone to stick up for you? They had gone. You were going to die and nobody was there. 

The spiritual pain. Now this is hard for me to grasp, but I know that you lived your whole life in complete communion with your Father. I know that you never took one step away from the path that God wanted you to tread. You never once ignored him, or decided that you knew better, or did something for the hell of it, or because you wanted to, no matter what. 

You were sinless. So you never knew what it felt like to be guilty. To be dirty. To be ashamed. To feel unworthy and fearful and worthless. To be condemned. 

Me, I know what it feels like to do what I know to be wrong, and then to stand there with regret and shame in my heart. I know what it feels like to mess things up and know that I've messed them up. I know what it feels like to have a conscience weighed down by rubbish and know that I deserve every last bit of heaviness in my heart. You never did. 

Until that first Good Friday. Until the nails were hammered home and you were lifted high and the cross thudded down into it's hole and every joint was wrenched and the drops of blood and sweat showered down onto the earth that you created. You knew then for the first time what it felt like to be wrong. To be full of selfishness and pride and hatred and anger and guilt. You understood the consequences of sins that you'd never committed. It all came crashing down on you, as if you didn't already have enough to put up with. Physical pain, emotional pain, and now the pain of the world's filth.

You knew what it was like to have your Father, holiness itself, unable to look at you, unholy for the first and only time in your life. 

'My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?'

Matthew 27:46

Your Father turned away. Darkness fell and a storm whipped up and at that moment it looked as if darkness had triumphed. The sin of the world was on your shoulders. The final sacrifice.

And you did it for me.

You paid the price. For me and for all those like me, then, before then, ever since and everyone who is still to be born. You were the only one who could have. But the weight of those hours must have been unbearable. Cut off from your heavenly Father. The agony must have been intolerable. 

At any point you could have called it a day. You could have brought angels rushing to your aid. You could have climbed down from the cross and ascended into heaven in a blinding flash of light. You could have brought lightning down to strike the soldiers who stripped you and stole your clothes, but you did none of these things. You knew the Plan and you stuck to it. I wonder if you knew how hard it would be.

But you tell me it was worth it. You tell me that you would have done it had I been the only sinner on the planet. You died for me. 

My God. 

The people back then would have known the scriptures. The psalms back then didn't have numbers, people knew them by their first lines. 

' My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?'

Psalm 22:1

You told your disciples in Gethesemane to put away their swords - the soldiers were coming for you so that the scriptures would be fulfilled. You knew the Plan and you stuck to it. You had enough presence of mind as you hung their dying to recall the word of God as given to the psalmists and you told us who you were. Those who heard must have been amazed.

'My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?

Why are you so far from saving me,

so far from my cries of anguish?

...

But I am a worm and not a man,

scorned by everyone, despised by the people.

All who see me mock me;

they hurl insults, shaking their heads.

'He trusts in the Lord,' they say,

'let the Lord deliver him, since he delights in him.'

...

I am poured out like water,

and all my bones are out of joint.

My heart has turned to wax;

it has melted within me.

My mouth is dried up like a potsherd,

and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.

You lay me in the dust of death.

Dogs surround me, 

a pack of villains encircles me;

they pierce my hands and my feet.

All my bones are on display;

people stare and gloat over me.

They divide my clothes among them

and cast lots for my garment.'

Psalm 22:1-25

Lord Jesus, I can remember the first time I read Psalm 22 and realised that you knew exactly what was coming. That you were the fulfilment of the Scriptures. That every detail was correct and you knew. It blew me away. The whole of creation points towards you and yet as you died you spelled it out for me.

'I am poured out like water...'

You did it for me. What would I be without you? 

I am so thankful that the story doesn't end with your death. On this Good Friday we think about only part of the story. Gethsemane is part I of a trilogy, Golgotha part II. I should wait for part III until Sunday - but I can't stop there. It just isn't right. I know that the disciples had to; they ran and retreated and hid and wept and wondered and worried, but they weren't reading far enough in the scriptures. I know it's easy for me to say with the benefit of hindsight and easily available Bibles and blessed enough to have people who will teach me and point it out to me in words of one syllable.

You died for me. You paid the price that needed paying. And then... (sneak preview)...

You. Rose. Again. 

'Posterity will serve him;

future generations will be told about the Lord.

They will proclaim his righteousness,

declaring to a people yet unborn:

He has done it!'

Psalm 22:30-31

At the moment you died, you called out, 'It is finished!' (John 19:30)

'He has done it!'

You did it. That was the Plan. Complete. 

Done. 

My Lord and my God. 

Thankyou for dying for me. 

  

   

The meaning of loneliness

Maundy Thursday.

Tonight we remembered the Last Supper and the events that followed in Gethemane. It was quite a sombre affair towards the end when we sat in subdued lighting in (a very cold) church and listened to the account of your betrayal. 

Nobody waited with you. They fell asleep. They didn't understand what was happening. I can't imagine  that they would have nodded off if they'd known. You asked them to stay with you, to be there, but they couldn't. You were truly on your own. My heart goes out to you. 

It must have been terrifying. You knew what was coming. You knew what had to happen. You were waiting for the start of a chain of events that would result in agonies for you - physical, emotional and spiritual, but the loneliness must have started right here. Minutes and hours ticked by while you waited. 

One of your chosen friends betrayed you with a kiss.

Those same men who had sworn that they would never leave your side - they fled. Peter was aghast at the thought that he might disown you but he ran away. They were afraid for their lives and despite their claims that they would stand by you and even die for you they made themselves scarce in case it might be their turn next. 

You were alone. 

God, what was it like to watch your Son that night? To hear him ask if there was another way, and shake your head? To watch his sweat fall like blood, to see him on his face on the ground with sorrow and fear?  To see these weak men who were his friends run away and deny him? 

Were you proud? Were you tempted to abandon the Plan? 

He did it all that scripture might be fulfilled. It had to happen this way. There was only One who was good enough. 

Tonight we had a meal together and we shared bread and wine and we watched as the altar in church was stripped. It always moves me, to see the front of church bare and unadorned. No candles, no altar-cloth, no crucifix. It doesn't seem right. Where you are there should be majesty and glory and richness and beauty but tonight there is just a wooden table. A cloud in front of the sun. Shadows instead of streaming, golden light. 

They took you away and you knew what was to come.You were human enough to pale in the face of this last horrible chapter but God enough to go ahead with it. You asked for company and support and the comfort of friends and nobody gave it. 

You were totally alone. Jesus Christ, Son of God, led away like a criminal as your friends abandoned you. But here's the thing; I know the end of the story. I know that it doesn't end with your death. From my little vantage point in history I know about your death and I know about the resurrection. I know that your team is still the only team to be on even though right at this moment in Gethsemane it looked totally defeated. You are victorious. It all works out alright in the end. 

I have an advantage over the disciples. And yet...

Would I have run away? I'm sure that I would. 

Would I run away now if they came for me, because of you?  Oh, Lord, I hope not. 

I am like Simon Peter. I don't flatter myself that I am any more loyal, brave, steadfast than the Rock upon which you built your church. I love you, but I am easily frightened. Easily cowed. 

And yet you did all this for me. 

Even without the adornments, you are beautiful. Without the gold and the tapestry and the candles, you are still the Lord of Light. 

Walking away with your captors, allies nowhere to be seen, you are not diminished. 

I am in awe. 

You are here.

Your spirit is with me.

I lift up my heart. 

I give thanks to the Lord my God. 

It is right to give Him thanks and praise.

Thankyou, Jesus. 

Waiting and seeing

Morning, Lord. Actually, afternoon. 

Today is flying by. Lots to do. Family coming to stay for Easter. Shopping to do. Food to prepare. House to clean. Children to entertain. All that sort of stuff. 

It's frustrating that I'm having to move so fast today. I want to stop and think and rest a bit. I have a lot I want to say to you and it's not easy to say it in the supermarket with two shopping lists and crowds of people anxiously buying everything in sight because a Bank Holiday is approaching and perish the thought we should run out of food! 

I'm still thinking about yesterday. It was a full day and a long one. I went to bed last night with a head full of things. 

We went to the Children's Hospital yesterday with Katy and saw our new Consultant who was very nice. She examined Katy and started from the beginning with a history. She scrutinised the photos we have which chart the progression of Katy's illness and she agreed with the original diagnosis and was anxious to reassure us that everything had been done correctly last year. No-one was to blame for the recurrence. I hadn't actually considered that someone might have been to blame, to be honest, but still, it was nice to hear that we couldn't have done any better had different decisions been made. 

We are awaiting an appointment for another scan, and a very skilful phlebotomist took blood with a gadget that quickly made a small hole in Katy's thumb (while she was still inspecting the Monsters Inc. characters on the walls!) and then managed to squeeze enough red stuff out of it to fill two little vials for testing. Much better than the terrible performance we had finding a vein with a needle last year which was one of the more distressing events. 

We're waiting and seeing. The doctor wants to see us again in six weeks when she'll have scan results and blood results and we can see if the lumps have grown. At that point we'll need to discuss treatment options but she says that she does hold out some hope that they might not progress into the full blown tumours they were last time. Last time they started in lymph nodes and so far they are still lymph node size... 

Please, please, please, Lord, please can we call it a day here? It would be fine with me if the lumps just vanished in a miraculous sort of way. Or even a gradual sort of way would do. Imperceptibly smaller. Going, going, gone. Take them away. Back to normal. Nice neat scar, lots of lessons learned about depending on you, about how much I love my daughters, about waiting and trusting and not being in control - all those things, but not this again. No dilemma about surgery or drug therapy. No time off school. No tears, no pain, no dressings, no doctors. 

How about it?

The consultant seemed to think that the situation was inconclusive. Waiting and seeing was in order. 

I can wait and see. I have six weeks of hope and I'm going to try not to check Katy's neck twice a day in the meantime. 

Breathe. 

Katy and Scruffy Barney

Father, thank you for yesterday. For looking after us as we trekked to Sheffield in blizzard-like conditions. Days earlier we'd been sitting in the sun in the garden and I'd been liberally applying sun lotion onto the girls and yesterday two inches of snow fell. When we were on our way to the appointment it was falling horizontally. The girls were amazing - just when I think they'd have reason to be cross and whiny (trudging up a hill in driving sleet and a howling gale) somehow they seem to dig in and find a stoicism and perseverance for which I am full of admiration. Drop a lollipop on the doorstep, however (as has just happened) and it's time for a meltdown. Mystery.

The children loved the train journey even if it was only twenty minutes. They loved the ride in a big black cab and that was when the mood changed. Katy lost her buoyancy and started hugging Scruffy Barney close and told me that she didn't want to go to a hospital, please. Could we just to back to the train? Poor little love, she looked so small. She was very brave as we read stories in the waiting room and she answered questions and co-operated with the nice doctor (whose name was also Katherine). I was proud of her. Elizabeth was a lovely concerned big sister who pulled faces at a video camera in the waiting room when she knew that Katy could see it in another room.  

It wasn't too bad, but I'm not bothered about doing it again, if that's alright.

Thankyou for keeping us safe, for getting us there on time (early enough for a coffee and a toasted teacake in the cafe, actually) and for finding us a nice, kind, clever doctor who has given us a bit of hope. Thankyou that we got home alright, that Bryan got his train back to London in time and that we all got to bed last night. 

Big sister, little sister.
Also Froglet and Scruffy

Thankyou very much most of all for all the people who held us together yesterday. So many people sent texts and emails and called to tell me we were in their thoughts and prayers. Just like last year, I felt wrapped up. It's a wonderful blessing to know that people were caring.

People have realised that it wasn't just about Katy and her illness but how we're all knocked a little bit sideways by it all. How hard it is on Elizabeth who must watch us focusing on her little sister and wonder why it has to be all about Katy. I remember Lizzie once last year dissolving in tears because she didn't think she could be as brave as Katy. I could only guess at the complexity of emotions behind that. I'm especially sensitive to Elizabeth and her needs since the disaster the other night. I desperately don't want her to feel sidelined. It's hard.

Bryan and I and my mum all cope in different ways and it's inevitable sometimes that each of us must think that the others should be more like us. We're all anxious and tired. It's hard to think of everything. To make sure that everyone is looked after. 

And then, last night, a friend rang to ask how things were. She has a gift for having just the right word at the right time. Last night was just the right time for me and as I lay in the dark in bed later thinking about her words I felt the peace that comes from you settling on me. She passed it on to me. 

She told me that she had been praying for us all and was continuing to pray. She asked me how things were between me and you. That took me aback a little; it's not a question people ask very much. How are things between you and me? I'm not really sure. Maybe I haven't really checked that much lately. I've been finding it hard to pray; hard to find the words, the energy or the focus. I go in to see each of the children last thing at night before I go to sleep and for years now I've tried to say a prayer for each of them as they sleep. Lately I've found it difficult and on a few occasions all I could do was sit at their bedside and offer to you what's flooding my heart.

Lord, I know that you don't need me to tell you what is needed in a situation. I know that you already understand all that's going on in our little lives. You know Katy, you know how she is; you know me and you know our family. You know what I hope and what I fear. I know that prayers don't always have to be made of words and so I sit on the edge of their beds and all the things that come welling up - the love and the worry and the helplessness and the frustration and the guilt and the fear and the longing - all I can do is hold it out to you. It usually makes me cry. 

So my wise friend asked me how I was doing and I didn't have an answer. I tried to think of something to say. I rambled a bit. I talk too much when I'm under pressure, as you know. Then she told me that it was alright. That this was what intercessory prayer was all about. 

She told me that she, and other people were praying for us. That they were standing in my place to pray to you because they knew I might need help. To free me to do other things that needed doing in a time like this. Her words were to release me. Release me to organise or sort out the children or make arrangements or simply to put one foot in front of the other. 

Her words struck home with me as I've been feeling so guilty about how little I am praying. My daughter is ill and potentially needs more surgery and you'd think that I'd be praying all the time for healing and for strength and comfort for her. For guidance for us; for so many things. After all, I love her so very much - how come I'm not on my knees round the clock? Even what little I offer you I struggle with. And here was someone who knows about poorly children and the guilt of motherhood and she told me that it's alright; if I can't, other people will do it for me. 

I was speechless. People would do that for me? People are doing that for me? Then no wonder yesterday went well. I am blessed beyond measure to have people who care so much. People who see what's needed in such a perceptive way. It was overwhelming. Just thinking about it now brings tears to my eyes.

The wonderful thing was to hear someone say that it was OK to feel as I've been feeling. It's alright to be a bit lost. To be getting on with things without thinking much. Not because I'm managing to overcome my tendency to worry, but because I'm so tired and sleep evades me and because I can't seem to focus on things. It doesn't matter why. I'm doing my best. I'm caring for my girls and I'm shopping and I'm cleaning and I'm preparing for visitors. I'll be waiting and seeing until the next clinic appointment. 

But I'm not on my own. I know that you're there and I know that you always have been. I know that you want me to spend time with you and I know that you're waiting for me to turn and lean. I also know that I have friends who understand and can tell me that it's alright to be a bit mixed up and a bit tired and it's alright not to be able to do everything. They're praying for me. 

Bless them, my Father. Bless them for the wonderful thing that they're doing for me that in my book is more precious than gold. Thankyou for the doctor, the skilful phlebotomist and the taxi driver who stopped when he saw us soaked through and trudging in sleet down a main road searching for a tram. Thankyou for every wonderful person who sent a text or an email or made a phone call. For everyone who thought of us and said a prayer because I'm not doing too well in that department. 

Thankyou for the reassurance. It came like a great big wonderful hug. Some of the guilt evaporated and peace took over. 

Thankyou. Wait and see with me, will you? Even though you know the punchline. You know what I want you to do about those lumps. 

New every morning

Goodnight, God.

I'm so tired. So tired that I'm all mixed up. I can't think straight. 

Last night I wanted to get an early night because I was tired and by bedtime I'd developed a muscle spasm in the big muscles of my neck that I couldn't lie down. For hours I tried different constellations of pillows and painkillers and kept getting up to re-warm my wheaty so that I could sort of poke it in between my shoulder and my neck but the result was a terrible night. Coupled with a mini Katy-tantrum at about 5.50am I'm sure that you could tell that today wasn't going to be a great one. 

I started it with a scowl. A stiff neck and a scowl. 

I feel as if I haven't done too badly in the circumstances, but you might have different ideas. This morning Mum and I took the children to get their feet measured and buy new shoes and Elizabeth ended up with some trainers that I think are awful. She, of course, loves them. Glitter, different colours, shiny bits...ick. Sigh. They were the only ones that fit. I wanted to stamp, but I didn't. We had lunch in a cafe and they barely touched their meals. We came home and I wanted half an hour's peace before we went to a party for one of Katy's classmates' fifth birthday. I didn't get it. Spent two hours in a packed soft-play place bouncing between Katy who was involved in the party and a whiny Lizzie, who wasn't. Refereed on the way home as they picked on each other in a tired and crabby sort of way and then delivered them through bath time and a bed time with many false starts (well, false finishes, actually - I kept thinking they were settled and they weren't) and I haven't shouted. Have I? No, I haven't shouted. 

I didn't actually shout. I felt like it. Well, maybe internally, a bit of shrieking. For those amongst us that could see in my head, (that's you, then) I don't suppose I acquitted myself that well, but at least I didn't demolish either of my children by bellowing at them. The odd snap, maybe... And I did do a bit of an angry dance after taking Katy back to bed for the fourth time, but it was out of anyone's line of sight. Except yours. 

Ah well. I think that maybe I'll settle for that. 

A quote for the day on my iPhone this morning:

'Because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed,

for his compassions never fail.

They are new every morning;

great is your faithfulness.'

Lamentations 3:22-23

Oh, God, thank you for that. New every morning. They need to be, because I crumple them up and throw them aside so often. I am saved, but so often I fail to find any joy in it. I know that you love me and want only good for me, and yet I turn away because in my creature-wisdom I think I see things more clearly than you. I know that I am never alone, and yet I complain that I can't feel you. 

CS Lewis said:

'Relying on God has to begin all over again every day as if nothing had yet been done.'

Doesn't it just. I trust you. I do. Then I don't. Then I try to but I don't manage it. Then at a moment of Spirit-led prayer or worship it all comes together for a nanosecond and I get a glimpse of how life might look if I did, actually, completely, let you take my troubles from me - and then it evaporates into a sticky slick of anxieties clutched in my sweaty little palm. 

When it comes down to it, what can I do, though? 

Who can I rely on, if not you?  I can't rely on me because I constantly disappoint myself. I can't even keep up to my own standards, let alone anyone else's. I let myself down. Who else? Who will take care of Katy?  The doctors? Well, maybe, but they tried twice last year and her tumours are back. Tomorrow we'll take her to a new hospital to see a new consultant and, who knows, make plans for a new operation or try a new treatment. Perhaps it will solve the problem, I don't know, but I'm wary and I'm scared and every fibre of my being resists entrusting my precious daughter to a doctor or an anaesthetist who doesn't care for her as I do. 

But you do. You love Katy more than I do. Not sure about that, but I read it in the Bible and so it must be true. Father, I'm relying on you. I'm going to have to. I'm going to put out the light in a minute and lie down and I'm going to try to leave it all with you. Try and open my tightly clenched hands and let you take the worries from me: my anxiety about getting up at the crack of dawn and getting us all out of the house in time. My worry that there's a forecast of snow for tomorrow and we're travelling to another city for a 9am appointment. My concerns about finding the place, getting there on time, the cost of train tickets, tram tickets, getting wet and cold on the way, finding somewhere for lunch, getting back in time to prepare for visitors over Easter. 

All of which are satellite worries around the main one, which is all about what is wrong with my beautiful daughter and what can be done about it? Will it hurt her? Will she get better? Will she be frightened? 

How strong do I have to be?

'Because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed,

for his compassions never fail.

They are new every morning;

great is your faithfulness.'

Amen. Your compassions are new every morning.  I'm going to be needing tomorrow morning's, Lord. And if tonight is anything like most nights for the last three weeks my doubts and fears and panics start to creep back overnight so I'll need to rely on you all over again in the morning.

Don't let me be consumed, my God. I'm frightened for my little girl and I'm frightened for me. 

Right, I'm needing sleep. 

Come with us tomorrow. Give the doctor wisdom and compassion and gentleness, please. 

Let's get this thing over with, can we, this time?