Singing my heart out

I'm having one of those lovely moments when I can see you in everything. 

I've just been out to the greenhouse to water my little baby plants before I get ready for bed and in the space of a day a little row of seedlings have poked their heads up. Little tiny radishes and lettuces and spring onions and tomatoes and cucumbers and peppers; all the little seedlings all looking pretty much the same until they develop their second pair of leaves and identify themselves. Of course I've got everything labelled in rows, because the order appeals to me and it's the only way I can do things - some might call it a smidge neurotic - but despite me, the seeds grow all on their own, because they're little living things.  Tiny little living things. From a dry, dead looking little brown pip in my hand, they turn into lush, green sprouts of new growth. Hopeful. 

I've got some poppy seeds to sow and they have to be among the smallest seeds that there are and yet they grow into something so arrestingly beautiful. If that doesn't point to you, I don't know what does. I love poppies. The big blowsy red and black ones and the papery pastel pink and purple ones; they are spectacular and yet the seeds are so tiny that it's hard to pick up just one with our big clumsy fingers. 

There was a blackbird sitting on the topmost branch of a conifer singing it's little heart out. It was in profile and I could see his beak opening and closing as he made this lovely happy sound. I checked on some plants that I bought and planted the other day and they're starting to settle in and spread out in the soil.  I love it when you look carefully at new plants and it's obvious that they're going to be ok in your soil, and that they've found the new environment comfy enough to start to spread out their roots. 

One of the big plants in my garden that died over the cold winter has been sitting, dead and twig-like in it's huge pot, waiting to be evicted so that I can reuse the plantpot sometime soon.  Recently I noticed that right at the bottom of the stems, almost in the soil, the plant is shooting again. There are small, bright green leaves among the old woody branches that are dry and dead. It's worth planting him back out somewhere and maybe he'll make it after all. A phoenix from the ashes. A little botanical resurrection!

I've been up to see the girls asleep in bed and to see if I can have a look at the lump on Katy's neck, about which she's getting increasingly protective.  She was lying on it, so I didn't manage to see it but I could touch it, and I think it's getting smaller.  I'm sure it's getting smaller.  Whether it'll go before the operation date I don't know, but I do know that you're looking after my little girl. She and her big sister both looked so small, so delicate, so innocent. So beautiful daughters.

I feel I am surrounded by wonderful things.  Surrounded by beauty and gifts and so many blessings that it's impossible to notice them all.  I want to thank you, Lord, for showing them to me. Thankyou for this marvellous world where tiny seeds wake into life and grow into enormous plants giving fruit and flowers. Thankyou that you give us a role to play sometimes so we can tend these little representatives of you. 

Thankyou for sunny days, green grass, watering cans and seedlings. Thankyou for flowers and birds and  blue sky and the sound of my girls laughing as they swing on the swing. Thankyou for this glass of wine, a picnic or a roast dinner. Thankyou for my family as we all drink coffee together in the garden on our new garden bench.  Thankyou that I can speak to you now and be assured that you are hearing me. Thankyou that this morning in church I could worship you openly without fear of someone coming to arrest me or hurt me for doing it. Thankyou that I am your daughter and you love me. 

I feel as if I might never stop if I start on the list of wonders that you have done and are doing in my life. Thankyou that you think I'm worthy of more work; that I might grow from a small dull-looking seed into a flower that blossoms.  Thankyou that you see my potential and know how to develop it in me. 

I want to sing of you like the blackbird on top of the tree, singing a beautiful song with joy and abandon. 

I want to spread my roots out wide and strong like the lavender just arrived from the garden centre. 

I want to send out fresh, strong new shoots each time you show me how to, no matter how devastating the winter before. 

I want to rest safe and child-like in your arms tonight  like my babies in their beds, secure in the knowledge that they are loved and cared for. 

So much to be thankful for. Such a skilful and imaginative Creator God you are. Help me see, Lord. I don't want to miss a thing. 

Knowing when to keep my mouth shut

I talk a lot. Or at least, I think I talk a lot.  I usually have something that I want to say, and the likelihood of me saying it pretty much depends on the level of comfort I feel in any given situation.  For example, at a governors' meeting at school I am quiet.  Silent, I would say.  Whereas at home group I can hold forth with the best of them.  I like talking. I like expressing myself. I like discussing. I like debating. I like sharing and confiding and encouraging and joking and telling stories and anecdotes.  It has occurred to me more than once in my life that should there come a day at the end of my life when it turns out that we were all allocated only so many words to last us a lifetime, then at the rate I'm using them up then the last few years on earth are going to be pretty quiet ones. 

So, the first thing that this confession brings to mind is that I probably talk when I should be listening. I think this is certainly the case when I'm thinking about you, Lord.  I can witter on, whether I'm complaining or praising, reflecting or sobbing, and then as soon as I'm done there I am, gone. I wonder if sometimes you're just about to open your mouth with a reply and I'm away and I miss it. This is definitely on my list to work on.

The second thing that's got me thinking about it all is in connection with my Ninth Commandment revelation. The less I say, the less likely I am to make a mess. 

'When words are many, sin is not absent, but he who holds his tongue is wise'. Proverbs 10:19

So there was my idea, only expressed quite a while ago and by someone who knew more than I do. 

Here's Bill Hybels again:

Are we serious about truth-telling? Then let's talk in practical terms. You want to sin less with your words? Then talk less. 

The less I talk, the less I exaggerate. The less I talk, the less I say things I regret. The less I talk, the fewer promises I make that I can't keep.'

So I imagine that some people might struggle more with this than others. Don't think I can't hear you chuckling. 

While I know intellectually that not everyone needs to hear my opinion, in practice that's not necessarily in the forefront of my mind when I feel like offering it. The urge to give my three penneth is sometimes overwhelming. Actually, rarely is it overwhelming because I've usually given into it before it gets a chance to overwhelm me.  Why do we always want to be heard? Is it some innate and deep seated fear of being overlooked?  Or are we always looking for the approval that comes when you are agreed with, or the boost to the self esteem that we get when someone is interested in what we say?  Because for me, having something to say and not saying it is quite hard. 

So I need a few things from you, please. I need more wisdom, to know when to speak and when to shut up. I need wisdom to separate the stuff that I should say, that's helpful and positive and useful from the stuff that I sometimes feel an equally strong urge to share with folks that's unhelpful and negative and wrong.  I need discernment to try to work out the difference before it's too late. Sometimes it's obvious - critical things, whingy things, mean things, sarcastic things, gossipy things - these all wave red flags at me and I quite often choose not to see them and go ploughing ahead anyway, but it's the times when I reflect on a conversation that I've already had and I realise the implications of something I said and I spend the next few hours/days/weeks cringing and wishing I'd kept my trap shut.  You know what I mean, Lord, because I usually come running to you at this point. If I'm not too embarrassed.

Then there are times when I have no idea what the implications might be of what I'm saying. It might be meant with the best of intentions but I am speaking into a situation that I don't understand and yet keep on talking.  I don't want to do damage with my words, well intentioned or not. So wisdom and discernment please. 

Back to the shopping list. Tact.  Diplomacy. Sensitivity. For those occasions when a white lie would normally come tripping out. A wise person advised me today that when you resolve to be truthful even when lying might be easier, then these situations become less regular. I hope so, because thinking on my feet is going to become an issue. There are so many times when it seems tactful to bend the truth, or to just slip away from it rather than say what is true. I can't believe that to be honest means stalking through life leaving a trail of hurt feelings and offended souls right and left, so help required here too, please. 

Oh, and self control. I'm going to need rather a lot, please.  A lot more than I've got already. 

'For the heart of the righteous weighs its answers, but the mouth of the wicked gushes evil.' 

Proverbs 15:28

That doesn't pull it's punches much, does it?  

So teach me to weigh my answers and not to gush, please.  To think, and to listen, and to think more, and talk less.

And if I can master it it might mean that I don't run out of words before I've said everything I need to say.

The ninth commandment and me

I was lying in bed a while ago sleepily reading my daily bits of Bible on my iPhone and, I suppose, looking more for inspiration than conviction, when something Bill Hybels said in one of his incredibly perceptive pieces stopped me in my tracks.

He said:

'The ninth commandment makes it clear: don't give false testimony. In other words, don't lie. So the only reasonable choice for an of us is to stop lying. Now. Completely. If we have even the slightest tendency to distort the truth - and who amongst us doesn't? ..... Enough. No more half-truths. No more exaggeration. No more verbal twisting of reality. No more lies!'

Ah. I'm not liking this. I read it through a few times, even pressed the button on the iPhone that puts a little bookmark in it so I can find it again, and then I got on with the day and didn't do anything about it.

Here's the thing; I don't feel as if I have a big problem with lying. I haven't!  I'm not a liar. I don't habitually invent things, mislead people or practice acts of deceit. Generally speaking, if asked a question, I come up with an honest answer.  I like to think that my yes is yes and my no is no. Or at least mostly.  And there's the rub.

What about all those occasions where you don't want to hurt someone's feelings, so you skirt around the truth?  What should you do then?  What about the little white lies that seem so inconsequential but sort of smooth over those tricky situations?  These are the occasions that I have in mind when I find myself using words and phrases like 'generally speaking' and 'mainly' with reference to my own truthfulness. But there isn't much you can do about those times, is there, Lord?

And then there's the story telling aspect of it. I suspect I am prone to exaggeration. Just a bit. If it makes a story funnier, more dramatic, more interesting, which of us isn't?  It's very hard. And it's hard not to try to justify it.  Or those times when you just sort of re-interpret something to make it what you want it to be - maybe more comfortable, or more in keeping with how you see things?  I love words and it's usually easy to make them do what I want them to do; and sometimes things come out slightly differently from how they might have technically, actually been ... is that lying?  Maybe it is.

What do politicians say - they are 'economical with the truth'?  As if there's only so much truth to go round so cutting corners and skimping now and again is ok. Frugal, in fact. Virtuous, in some ways. You make things fit if it helps you make a point.  Now when it comes to journalists and politicians I'm definitely critical of such manoevrings but I bristle when I read that Bill Hybels might think that I do the same thing. I'm not a liar.

I don't want to be a liar. I don't want people to think I'm a liar, and I don't want you to think I am. But it is unavoidably true that only you are the source of all Truth.  Being a liar seems a sort of binary position if you think about it in those terms; you either are, or you're not. And since you are the only one who isn't, by virtue of the fact that you are God, and thus perfect while the rest of us fall short, then perhaps it's time to face up to the fact that I'm not perfectly honest, one hundred percent of the time, so that makes me in the other camp.

Feeling disgruntled about this. Feeling a bit reluctant and narky about it in the same way I felt when I started to realise that you wanted me to give up Facebook for Lent. I was lying in bed not properly woken up and feeling comfortably complacent and I don't want to be challenged about something like this. My reaction is a negative one - can you tell?  I don't want to think about this, much less do anything about it because I don't particularly want to change anything.  Not anything that will make me feel less comfortable, anyway.  But look how you blessed me in my Lent efforts and look how I've been so sure that it was the right thing to do. Sigh.

That was a heavy sigh. A resigned one. I'm not grasping this new awareness with alacrity and exclaiming in eager anticipation of the next lesson you have for me. Hooray! Turns out I'm not as honest as I thought I was.  Hmm. I've got to think some more about this. Be gentle, please. I don't like being criticised. Show me what you want me to do, Lord. What you want me to think about. Draw my attention to the bits of me that you want to change.  Help me to think more about what I say so that I speak the truth.

I want to be worthy of people's trust. I want to be an honest person. I want it to be known that if I say something, then it's true. I've always assumed that this is the case with me but perhaps it's not. I don't want to be the one whose words are taken with a pinch of salt, or examined for alternative meanings or motivations. I want to be honest. Trustworthy. Even if everyone else in the world believes every word that comes out of my mouth without question, you will know if I bent the truth, or exaggerated, or played with words in order to mislead.  I want to be worthy of you. I don't quite know how this will pan out in those delicate 'white-lie' situations that crop up so often, but I'm hoping that you'll show me how to get it right. And while I'm at it I realise that I need to say sorry that I let you down so frequently. Just another one of the ways, hey.

So, here's what Bill Hybels says I should say:

'From this day forward I purpose in my heart, with the help of God, to speak only the truth, always and in every situation, for the rest of my life.'

That sounds quite a claim. I feel as if I might be messing it up right now as I say this with doubt in my heart that it's possible, but I want to be better at this. I want to get it right. I have no doubt that getting this right will improve my relationship with you so I want to do it. I'm just going to need your help.

What a surprise.

Thy will be done, but could you do it this way?

So Katy has to have an operation to remove her special bump. Or at least, an operation is scheduled; I'm still of the opinion that before 3 June there is plenty of time for you to do your thing and get rid of the offending lump without the need to resort to anaesthesia and scalpels. I could say that a bit louder, if you like, if it would help? I would very much like to resolve this one without any doctors, however skilled, cutting chunks out of my beautiful daughter.

She was so brave, again.  Even after last time when she trusted the lady consultant who went on to stick a large needle in her neck and rummage around a bit.  I was so proud as she sat so still, let a variety of doctors poke and prod and squeeze her bump. Then she snuggled silently into me as they talked about consent forms and overnight stays and the risks of what felt like a million and one things that could go wrong, and then politely said 'Thankyou, bye bye' as we left.

What a well brought up little girl.

Of course, I could go on to mention that this was the same child who liked a picture of a butterfly in a Reader's Digest in the waiting area and made to tear it out, or the same child who showed her pants to another child across the aisle, or the same child who announced in a loud voice that 'traffic wardens are smelly!' (we have a game in the garden where they ride their bikes until 'the traffic warden' tells them to stop, and they don't, so they have to go to 'prison'...)

Maybe not that well brought up then.  But that's not the point. Not right now, anyway.

I hate the idea of my little Katy being unconscious while someone cuts into her little neck. I have trust in the medical professionals and in the skill of anaesthetists and so on, but I know the statistics and I know that there are people who are the 'one' in a ratio of 'one in X thousand' who don't wake up after surgery. My beautiful daughter will have a scar on her neck that might or might not heal well, and about which she might or might not feel self conscious when she's older. She's going to be scared and sad and in a strange place.  And so am I.

Every fibre of me wants to scoop her up and say that I won't let anyone hurt her, but I can't do that. Well, I have done it, and it turns out to be an empty promise. In fact, I am so complicit with those that hurt her that I hold her still against her will as they hurt her with needles. I have signed a form to say that they can administer drugs that will render her helpless while they cut out this bloody lump. Sorry about that.

It would be so much easier if it was me or Bryan that had this lump.  They'd whip it out under a local anaesthetic and we'd be a bit sore and grumpy and expect some extra sympathy and then it'd be done with. We have greater understanding and bigger necks. No awkward proximity to the Accessory nerve so no potential implications about shoulder impairment, no worry about anaesthetic complications, no worry about anxiety and fear and bad dreams.

Anyway, I'd better stop complaining because this is what we're stuck with.  I have been assured by a doctor (a Clinical Fellow, no less) that this lump will not go away on it's own having stuck around as long as it has already but I reserve the right to disagree with him and if you don't mind, this is still my preferred option, please.  But for the sake of argument, we'll assume that Katy is going to have her operation.

I'm not sure how much she understands, but I know from experience that I shouldn't underestimate her.  She was there when they looked at her bump and talked to me about Nightingale ward and excisionand an overnight stay and the Accessory nerve and scarring and swelling. She hasn't said anything about it and since we have appointments for another scan and a clinic check before we go for the pre-op and look round Nightingale ward, I'm just going to give it some time and wait till I really have to before we explain things to her.  And that gives you a chance to intervene...

She's been so brave.  Last night she was upset because her bump had a little bleed and a little weep and she was afraid to lie down in case something nasty came out of her bump onto her pillow. She wouldn't let me near it and wouldn't be comforted until she was exhausted and she let me push her down onto the pillows and lie down next to her.  At one point she sobbed, 'Why do I have to have a bump, Mummy? Can't you take it away?' and I thought my heart would break.  How do people manage with children who are much more seriously ill?  How do they cope with terminal diagnoses or terrible pain?  Oh God I know how blessed we are, honestly. I know that we'll come through this alright, honestly I do. I'm not wallowing in self pity because I know that this is a minor hurdle in comparison with some.

Actually, I have to say that I feel strangely cushioned from all this anxiety at the moment; and as a chronic worrier this is unusual. I can only assume that we are wrapped up in prayer because so many of our family at church are praying for us.  It is a lovely thing that among so many other (many more serious) calls for prayer, many people care enough to lift Katy and the rest of us to you. I feel it, definitely. I think it's a big part of why I'm not beside myself and unable to sleep at the thought of surgery on my youngest daughter, and why I still feel quite strongly that surgery might end up unnecessary. And why, if she does have the operation, I am convinced that it will be alright.

I'd rather that Katy didn't have this bump, but she does.  When I ask 'Why us?' I know that the answer is 'Why not us?' I'd rather she didn't have to have it taken away, but it seems at the moment that she does.  So here it is, Lord. With all the other heaps of rubbish I keep laying down in front of you and taking back and laying down again, I lay down all my fears and worries and questions and sadnesses and inadequacies about The Bump and its implications. You can have it.

I know that you'll look after my littlest girl and keep her from harm.  I know that you'll hold her close when I can't be with her when the surgeons are doing their thing and I know that you'll give them skill and wisdom in doing what they do. I know that you'll put your arms around her and stroke her hair if she's afraid without her Mummy and Daddy.  But it's hard.

And for me, teach me how to give my family to you, because they are yours already.  Thankyou that you have given them to me because they are so precious to me. Teach me how to stop agonising that I can't solve all their problems and take their hurts away because I know they have to learn to live, and having hurts and problems are part of life.  If I have to, help me when I have to stand back and let them take my Katy away and then sit and picture what they're doing as I wait for her to come back.  Give me ever more faith, Lord, and show me more of your love each day.

And thankyou for today's portion of love, Father God. Thankyou that you care about Katy and nothing I can say will make you take more care of her because your love is perfect as it is.  Your will be done.

But if your will was to get rid of this lump before the third of June, that'd be just great.

A place to belong

A friend sent me a text message with a prayer, and it was a prayer for our church; for all the brothers and sisters we have in Christ because we are part of a church family.  It's made me think.

I read somewhere a long time ago that no matter where in the world you are or what faith, if any, you have, or what sort of culture you live in, the one thing that all mankind have in common is the need to belong.  Everyone is searching for belonging - a place where they belong. I don't know if this is true; it strikes me that there might be genuine loners out there, but I don't know.  If a cleverer person than me has come to that conclusion then I'm happy to go with that.  What I do know for sure on this subject is that I have always wanted to belong.  I've always wanted to be the one who has a place, not on the outside looking in, but a niche where I am able to relax being me - not forever trying to be nicer, wittier, more interesting, more attractive -  and secure in the knowledge that I am worthwhile, and that for no other reason than that I am me, I have a place.  A reason to be. To be accepted.  Welcomed.  Valued.

So I've been looking for a place to belong.  And here I find myself part of a church family where this is exactly the case. I have been adopted into a new family and I find that I have brothers and sisters all around me that for years I never knew about, but we gather on a Sunday morning and we worship you together and we talk and we share and we laugh and we cry and we plan and we bicker and we apologise and we hug and we share a sign of peace and we stand side by side to take the bread and wine and we come together in worship of the One True God.

I'm not expressing this particularly well.  Lord, but I want to thank you that you have given us to each other. I want to thank you that you have led me to a place where I am finally accepted, valued, welcomed.  I belong with my family; the family of the church. We meet in your name and you are amongst us and that makes us different.

I know that we are far from perfect. I know that we don't always make you proud in the way that we relate to one another; we fail to notice each other, we fight amongst ourselves, we act selfishly where we should put others first.  That's something different - I'll think about that another day, because for now I'm just marvelling at the generosity that you show us in surrounding us with other people who love you so that we don't have to do this on our own.  We are never alone.  Just like the time I was in A&E feeling sorry for myself, you were there with me already, certainly, but you sent a special friend from the family of the church, my sister in Christ, to sit down next to me and represent you because I needed a hand to hold and a shoulder to cry on.  And a lift home.

We need to do better.  We need to pray for each other so much more, and not just arrow prayers so that we don't break a promise when we assure someone that they we will pray.  We need to be closer, more perceptive, more trustworthy.  We need to be more responsible, more accountable, more approachable, more welcoming. More inward looking and more outward looking. All of that and so much more I'm sure.  But isn't it marvellous that we are a family?  That we can be a body, each of us unique and special?  A place to belong?

Charles Spurgeon said:

  "It is here, among the household of his faith, he deigns to let me say it with sacred reverence to unbend himself, and hold familiar intercourse with those round about him whom he hath adopted into his family. He may be a consuming fire abroad, but when he comes into his own house he is all mercy, mildness and love. Abroad he does great works of power; but at home in his own house he does great works of grace".

Grace indeed.  It has to be your grace that changes us so that we fit together better than a couple of hundred disparate people might normally fit together.  It's more than a common purpose; it's the love of one family member for another.  I write this with people from church going through my mind one after the other and we are all so different! We are all so very different, and yet we are all in the same family. And the family resemblance is that you are at work in each one of us.  Not turning us into clones, so that we all think and act the same way, for that isn't your plan, but to make us each as good as we can possibly be.  To be the full-colour, fully-functional version of ourselves.  And we each have a job to do that even together, the rest cannot.  We each have value, worth.  We each belong.

And you come amongst us and just occasionally, we feel you and we praise you and there it is again, the glimpse of Heaven. The door opens a crack and the light and the music stream out. You talk to us, teach us, correct us, laugh with us and cry for us, but you are always there.  We are your people.

It's a wonderful thing that you have done for me. I am constantly amazed by you, Lord God.  If I did a word count in this blog I wonder how many times the word 'Amazed' comes up? I should use a thesaurus more I think.  But you amaze me.  You leave me open mouthed and on my knees when I see a little bit of your vast incomprehensible love; the way that you look after us so completely - not one of our needs goes unmet.  You've thought it through to the last detail, haven't you?  You see what we need and you provide it for us.  We need you, we need each other, and at our best in each other we find you all over again.

Thankyou that we belong.  Thankyou that I've found a place I belong. Thankyou that all the individuals in our church - and the wider church too - thankyou that we all belong.  Thankyou that no matter where we're from, our background, education, job, outlook, language, we all fit together as a family.  Thankyou that you have given us all something unique.  We are chosen.  Even if we never got picked first for the netball team (there it is again, that chip on my shoulder), we are chosen for  team much more important.

I don't really care how often I use the word 'Amazed'.  It fits.

The weight of unforgiveness

Here's something that happened to me.

I know someone who is an atheist and pretty outspoken and aggressive in his views. It's not the only thing he and I disagree on, and over the years we've got better at managing our differences than we used to be.  I should say at this point that we do have much in common and for the majority of the time we spend together, we enjoy each other's company and have a great time. Our families get on really well too.  However, when we do find ourselves in conflict he's not known for pulling his punches. 

On Palm Sunday when he was visiting with his family he shocked me with an attack on what I believe, and was very personal and vicious in what he said. He also made really offensive comments about my friends. At the time I was so taken aback that I made very little defence; I was so astonished that I left the room in silence. Normally I'm pretty quick with words but I have to say that over recent years I haven't had to respond to a situation where I've been directly insulted so vehemently and so I was well out of practice.

Some time later he and his family left for home and I found that although I managed to act pretty normally, this time he'd hurt me on a much deeper level than all the other times that he'd put over his views in a less than tactful way.  He'd damaged the heart of me; the most precious thing in my life. I couldn't get it out of my head.  I was furious at what he'd said and bewildered as to why on earth he would have said it when he knew full well that it would upset me. I had told him he was being offensive and he replied that he knew he was, he was trying to be.  I was deeply upset that he would want to hurt me, and I was frustrated and angry at myself that I hadn't said much.  Over the following days I went over and over it in my head, each time thinking of things that I should have said back to him.  Things that were cutting, defensive, assertive or just downright nasty in return.  I hated what he'd said, and found myself hating him too.  I resented his words and his attitudes and the fact that he was enjoying my hospitality while he said them.  I felt guilty that I hadn't been quick enough to defend my friends as I felt I should have.  I was consumed by the fact that he'd really managed to penetrate my defences this time in a way that he never has before in many many years. I considered phoning him up to continue this nightmarish conversation and get in a few barbs of my own but Thankyou God!  I decided against it.  I doubt very much whether it would have helped.

So it went on. It made me cry, it made me sad and it made me angry every time I thought about it. It was on my mind as I tried to sleep and when I woke up and it kept coming back to me all week.  I couldn't get it out of my head.

On Easter Sunday night I came to the Songs of Praise service at Church and felt the presence of the Holy Spirit very strongly. It was a wonderful evening and I was loving the chance to worship and dwell on God's love and what he did for us that first Easter.  It was a happy time. Then Ruth stood up and said that she wondered if anyone present felt that there was a stone that needed rolling away in their life; something that was blocking the way, something too heavy to move on our own. I considered this for a moment or two and very quickly this person and his hate-fllled words came to mind.  I knew because of an immediate and powerful emotional response in me that God was speaking to me and so I went forward, prayed and told Ruth in a few words what was going on. 

I said, 'I think I need to forgive.'  

She gave me some words to say to forgive him, assured me that it had happened and anointed me with oil, prayed for me, and I sat down again.

It was simple; the next day was the first day in a week where his words weren't going round in my head. I was no longer planning responses and hating that I hadn't been quick enough to say them. 

I felt lighter. 

I had space in my head again, rather than the dark, heavy unhappiness and resentment that I'd been picking apart and feeding. I felt freed from my anger and hatred and guilt and although I still feel sad that it happened, and more aware than ever of his bitterness, I don't hate him for what he said and I know that next time he comes to visit I'll be able to welcome him in the same way I always have. The memory of it hasn't disappeared but it doesn't pack such a punch any more.  I realise that I love him and he needs my prayers, not my own hate-filled response.

You did a wonderful thing for me, Lord God. A small thing but a huge thing, all the same.  

It was damaging me - he was unaware of the devastation he left behind.  I wonder if he would have been surprised, or amused, or perhaps even sorry to have cut so deep?  But whatever his response, it would not so much have scratched the surface of the situation as it really was.  He would be incapable of understanding. Yes, I needed to forgive him for the sake of our relationship.  Yes, I needed to forgive him so that I could shed the load of bitterness and hurt, but most importantly I had to forgive him because you told me to. 

"Forgive us our sins, as we forgive those who sin against us." 

It doesn't get any clearer than that.

Lord God, my Heavenly Father, who forgives so much more than I will ever have to, thankyou that I stand forgiven. 

Show me if there are any other areas in my life that need your special touch; if there are other people or situations that I need to let go of and give to you as you taught me this Easter.  Teach me to forgive as a matter of course; to forget and to keep on loving as you do, even though it sometimes hurts.  

Thankyou that you showed me the weight and shape and colour of unforgiveness because in this tiny way I have taken another step towards understanding what you did for me on the cross. 

What an Easter present you gave me this year.   

That end of holiday feeling

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

Yes, that's it.

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

You know what it is?  Two things:

1.     I think I'm getting a cold.

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

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

Sigh.

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

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

So cheer me up, then. 

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

I'm going to put the kettle on. 

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

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

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

Here's what I'm going to do:

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

Alright then. you've probably got a point. 

Bath, wine, early night. See you tomorrow.

You rolled the stone away

I'm hurt and I want to hurt back

I am wounded and I lick my wounds

I am bitter and resentful

and full of anger.

How hard it is to forgive

Even though I am forgiven

I find that I don't want to let go

Of all the bitterness inside.

It's somehow easier to hold the hatred

in my hand and examine it closely

Each day to take it out again 

and turn it over and over

To think and reframe and analyse

To plan the nasty retorts

and counter attacks and volleys

of putdowns and missiles of my own.

But you tell me to lay it down

to put it at your feet 

to give it all to you and back away

leaving it there in front of you.

You want me to be free of the hardness

and hurting and scowling -

the darkness and hatefulness and spite

to let the breeze of your spirit blow through me.

To stop clenching and holding the hurt

to stop brooding and probing

but open my fists and allow you 

to take it from the palm of my hand.

So I lay my anger at your throne

take doubtful steps backwards

but I itch to take it up again

to snatch it back so that I can plot revenge

In words or deeds or thoughts

Just to be even, to stick up for myself

Not to be a victim, hurt, defeated - 

Why do I care so much?

You tell me I am different

I don't need to win.

Leave it with you

The battle is not mine but yours

So here it is.

The hurt and the anger and the resentment

I lay it before you

Have it. Take it away

I don't want it any more

I don't want my hands to be so full of rubbish

that I can't hold the gift you want to give me;

my forgiveness. 

For I need to forgive

as you have forgiven me

and suddenly it is clear

I need to find a way to let it go.

Because you forgave me. 

You died for me when I didn't care

I hurt you far more than I am hurt

Yet you go on forgiving.

So I give up my rage

and you take it from me

I say 'I forgive'

and you help me keep my word.

It turns out I don't miss the hatred

and the bitterness I was gripping

so tightly that my knuckles were white

I don't miss it at all.

Where it was is light and open and bright

in red and orange and yellow and green and blue

instead of black and grey and brown

There's warmth and sun instead of hard and cold.

A small transaction 

And they will never know it

Not that they would understand if they did

Or care the slightest bit.

But for me it is a gift

Another blessing from my God

who teaches me to live my life

differently.

Thankyou for helping me forgive.

It was a big thing for me.

I had no idea how big

but you knew.

Unless the sun explodes

I'm very tired today. Feeling lethargic and sleepy.  Possibly some of this is down to a day out with Bryan and the girls and a long drive, but mostly I'm sure I could just do with a Good Night's Sleep.  The elusive aspiration of parenthood.  Every Mum or Dad longs for one, some more than others, depending on the way that their little ones are made. The fact that Elizabeth is an early bird is something for which I blame you, by the way. I'm just waiting until my girls hit their teenage years and then with any luck they'll be in bed till lunchtime and I can catch up on some of the sleep deficit that their preschool years have left me. Please don't let me down here.

I remember when I used to go to bed when I felt tired; if there was a late film it didn't put me off that it continued after nine o'clock and quite frequently the time changed till tomorrow and there I was on the sofa, alert and still able to follow a plot. Secure, indeed complacent in my knowledge that I could sleep till I woke up in the morning. Now it gets to half nine and I start to calculate how many hours are left until I need to get up, taking into account getting ready for bed, time taken to nod off, nocturnal visits to the bathroom and the likelihood of disturbances from small people in the small hours. Rarely does that equation reassure me.

So here I am writing this with an eye on the clock and knowing that I am so tired I could sleep for a week, but I haven't brushed my teeth yet, Katy is still whimpering in bed (we went to the National Space Centre today and although we all had a lovely time Kate is now lying awake afraid that the sun will explode) and I am in no doubt that I'll need to go and see her again before Sleep time.

Sigh.

I wish I were designed to be cheery, energetic and function smoothly on 5 or 6 hours a night.  I'm not. I reckon I need about nine to be ok, more to be feeling in great form. I seem to remember the last time I took this for granted was around the end of May 2005.  I might have had difficulty getting comfy being nearly nine months pregnant but once I had myself surrounded with pillows and dosed up with indigestion remedies I could stay in bed till lunchtime if I felt the need.

Sigh.

Funny how black everything looks when I'm tired.  I know that right now I'm bad tempered and cross.  I know that I'm scowling even as I type this.  I'm just feeling irritable and I thought I'd mention it to you. In the mood I'm in right now, it feels as if nothing's going my way, I can't see an answer to any problem I think about and there isn't anything that's going to cheer me up. And if you were having a good day so far then you can stop because if I'm not, you can't either.

Well, I didn't mean that exactly how it sounded, Lord.  Well, I did, but it was just an expression of frustration, really, not meant to offend. I don't suppose you have good days and bad days, do you?  Only good days?  From what I know about you it seems unlikely that occasionally you get out of bed the wrong side - it's just a human thing.  When you were here as a man, Jesus, did you have bad days?  Cross at the world days?  Days when you couldn't be bothered?  No, I thought not.  Or if you did, you must have risen above them in a way that I rarely find myself capable.  I snap at my family, I contradict everyone, I refuse to be cheered up, I pick holes in everyone's plans and criticise and generally spread gloom and dissatisfaction.  What a lovely person I can be sometimes.

Sigh.  Here's where you could interject with something reassuring and helpful, if you wanted.

Now I'm feeling guilty.  I should apologise to everyone, really, but everyone's asleep.  Even Katy. It's hard comforting a four year old who has been spooked by news that the sun will explode in several billion years when she doesn't understand what a billion is.  Could you give me the inside word on that one, please, God?  Then I can tell her definitively.  The scientists just have an idea that it will one day explode but you know exactly what your plans are for the sun. Perhaps it wouldn't put her mind at rest if I told her that there was a chance the sun and the earth and everything in it (including us) might end much sooner than a billion years.  Maybe I'd best not go there. We said a little prayer, Katy and I, and we asked Jesus to come and help her feel happy and sleepy and give her lovely dreams, and so I'm sure you will.  Take away from her little head the fears that she's found. It's so strange the things they find to latch onto. You can never predict what will capture their imagination.  I sort of thought the section on how astronauts use a toilet in space might have been the most memorable part of the day for my two little girls but it seems not.

I pray that you would take away her fears and worries. And from me, take away all the rubbish that I'm hanging onto right now. Help me, too, to stop poking at hurts and irritations and worries, step away from the computer and get some much needed sleep.  Help me to leave with you the minor annoyances of this evening and not store them up.  Help me to sleep till morning and start tomorrow fresh and bright, not hung over from a night's worth of analysis and over-thinking.  Take away my self pity and self absorption and selfishness and give me self control and self awareness.  Help me to look outwards instead of inwards; to look after other people and not so much myself. Help me to love more and unconditionally. I haven't been the person you want me to be tonight, Lord.  I'm sorry.

Well, time to go to sleep.

Tomorrow's another day. Well, it is unless the sun explodes.

Over to you, Lord.

.

My Lord and my God and my Friend

There's this thing that's been going round and round in my head for a while now and I want to ask you what you think about it.

It was suggested to me that my way of talking to you, God, is a bit irreverent.  Not reverent enough. Requiring more reverence.  Hmm.

I've said before that since I've become a parent, I can see the 'Father' side of you with much more clarity; the Abba, Daddy bit, and I suppose it's with that in mind that I come to chat to you and I just lay before you what's in my head, muddled or annoyed or happy or sad.  I've always thought that it's better out than in, that you're always more than capable of coping with my confusion and bewilderment, and I've always believed that you'll make allowances for my clumsiness if I step out of line. Maybe that's a bit presumptuous. What do you think?

I know that you are so much more than my Heavenly Father; I know that you are my Saviour and my Light and my King and my God. I do get the awe thing - indeed over Easter I've been floored by it at times. I don't think I diminish you with my familiarity, do I?  

AW Tozer said:

'We do God more honour in believing what he has said about himself and coming boldly to his throne of grace than by hiding in a self conscious humility!  Those unlikely men chosen by the Lord as his closest disciples might well have hesitated to claim friendship with Christ. But Jesus said to them, 'You are my friends!'


And you are mine. You are my friend.  I can't explain why; it's underserved and unthinkable that the Lord of the Heavens should want me for a friend, but you do.  I know that you love me, I know that you died so that I could be friends with you. I don't want to wrap up my words in language that doesn't come instinctively - it makes no sense to me to do that because you know what's in my mind, and how I would speak if you were right here, now; so where's the point in translating my thoughts and ideas into something more deferential, when you can see the before as well as the after?

One day I shall see you face to face and I have no doubt that I shall fall down on the floor in front of you. I know you are the Lord of the Universe. I know that you are the Creator God and in comparison I am insignificant - but you have made me significant.  You have invited me to come before you with confidence as a member of your family. I'm not going to turn away from an invitation like that - I want to grab it with both hands. You know me inside and out.  You know when I'm being disingenuous and you know when I'm being honest. You know when I struggle to find words and you know when I have so many that I can't get them down fast enough.

You also know when I lose sight of what I'm saying because I get wrapped up in the process of writing. Sometimes I like what I write and forget who I'm talking to, and I think that's more of an issue than the tone of voice in which I talk.  I know that I like to create; I know that I love words, and sometimes, just occasionally, I get pleased with what I've written. I start to think, 'Ooh, that sounded good,' and become more self conscious about it all. It starts to be too much about the process and not about you. More about how I say it and less about what I say. I don't want to do that, either, I really don't. I've tried for years to write something that's 'good' and I've never managed it. Just trying has been hard work and no fun and I've always given up. This is different for the very reason that it's not dressed up or over-thought. Sometimes that might mean that it's raw or poorly thought out, or ungrammatical (hope not) but I have come to the point where I think it's better just to be me, in front of you, and tell you what's on my mind.  And I do want to hear from you. I'm trying to learn to be expectant. If you wanted to use the 'comments' bit underneath here, that'd be fine; but any response in any form makes my day. If there's something you want me to change, let me know.

I want to reflect you.  To notice what you're doing in my head, my heart and my life; to notice what you're doing around me in my family, my church, my world.  I want to show these things to people and I want to honour you by noticing and marking and remembering so that not one thing that you do for me goes unnoticed.  I can't even take a breath without your will so I know that I miss many many more things than I see, but I'm learning. This last few months has been eye opening to the point at which so much of life seems a distraction.

So I'm coming boldly to the throne. I'm taking you at your word and I trust you to show me if there's something I should do differently. I am learning so much.  I'm learning how to match my stride with yours for a second or two, though I'm not so good at it yet and I soon fall behind. I'm learning about priorities, though that still needs so much work too.  Everything needs a lot of work, but I know that you won't leave me and I know that when you start something that you finish it.  So here I am. On a journey and you're at the wheel.  I know I'm a back seat driver and I keep leaning forward with helpful suggestions and duff map reading, but I do know that you're in charge and that's the best way to get where I'm going. I want to make sure that I don't miss a thing en route.

I'm loving it.  I love you, my generous, creative, loving, inspiring, beautiful, patient Daddy. My Lord and my God, and my Friend.