R and R and awe

Well, I think that my shoulders have relaxed.

This holiday has been just what the doctor ordered. It took a few days to get going; to get me to chill out a bit and stop thinking too much, but we just have one day to go and I’m loving it. I don't want it to end.

It helps that the sun has been shining (my nose is definitely pinkish) and it helps that the sea is sparkly. It helps that the children are having a whale of a time (though not so much sleeping in their exciting bunk beds!) and it helps that this is a beautiful place with loads to do and my extensive research and meticulous (some would say pedantic) eye for detail has paid off, even if I do say so myself. None of the traditional holiday vacillating and time wasting for us - we've had trips out and days on the beach and it's all gone beautifully. 

Not remotely control-freakish. Honest. Clearly the success of this holiday is all down to me. Ahem. 

Thankyou for the outstanding beauty of this little planet that you’ve put us on. Today we went on a speedboat ride out in the bay and the sky was blue, the sea was blue and the sun sparkled off the waves as they broke. The driver of the motorboat drove us in concentric circles to make a whirlpool effect and then pulled up so that the boat jumped and splashed and the spray glittered like diamonds in the sun. I could taste it. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and Elizabeth was sitting between Bryan and I and she was laughing with exhilaration and excitement. We all were. I can’t remember the last time that I laughed for joy but today speeding round the bay I was shouting to you and praising your name. In my head. Still a little bit too uptight to do that out loud, mind you.

When you were on this earth, Lord Jesus, did you have moments of exhilaration that took your breath away?  You experienced the whole range of human emotions – what did you enjoy so much that you laughed with happiness? I suspect it wasn’t a speedboat on a sunny day. I'd love to know what it wast that you did that made you shout with joy.

113 steps to the top 

I started the week crying uncontrollably and begging you to save our holiday when on Sunday things seemed to be going so wrong. Today I closed my eyes and loved you for the blessings you rained down on me and my family. Thankyou.

We have spent time on the traditional hunt for pebbles with smiles (got a few contenders for this annual holiday title) and we’ve made sandcastles with varying degrees of success. We’ve paddled and splashed and eaten far too much, from fish and chips to barbecues to cream teas. We’ve negotiated an eight acre maize maze and climbed to the top of a lighthouse. We’ve explored the enormous church built in fourteen hundred and something and we’ve bought postcards. 

Maize maze. Amazing.

We’ve seen sunrises and sunsets and a myriad of stars and taken hundreds of photographs. We’ve caught crabs, been on a rowing boat ferry and walked for miles. It has been wonderful and to be honest I’m not that bothered about going home and picking up the reins again – the inevitable attention to the problems that await me. They came with me on holiday to start with but after a day or two I persuaded them to head off home early but I know that they’re waiting for me.

How can I take this lighthearted feeling with me and not become weighed down with it all again? On holiday I don’t have the same responsibilities. We concentrate on enjoying ourselves. We indulge. We don’t work (any more than cooking and shopping and looking after the children and so on is work – but even that seems less of a grind.)

Well, that’s for another day. We have one more day here and we’ve decided to do again some of the best bits of the week. I was up before 5am this morning to watch the sunrise over the bay and so I’m having an early night so that I’ll be bright eyed and bushy tailed tomorrow.

All my own work.

I’m going to enjoy tomorrow and not think about the drive home. I’m going to soak up the sun and listen to the waves and watch the sparkling sea and not contemplate money or pensions or the future. I’m going to postpone thinking about the diet for another day and have an ice cream and a hot chocolate. I’m going to absorb the joy on my children’s faces as they run with their buckets and spades and hunt for shells. I’m going to be a child myself as I locate the perfect pebble with a smiley face and shake sand out of my shoes.  

And I am going to thank my God in Heaven for giving it all to me.

Lord God, I can never thank you enough. Help me to notice the beauty of your world and remember it so that I can fetch out those memories when it’s raining next week and I’m worrying about Katy’s first day at school, or her next clinic appointment, or Elizabeth in her new class away from her friends. Help me to look at my smiley face pebble and think back to the blessings of this week when I start to fret about life and the future. Help me to remember how close I felt to you today.  

Lord of the sun and the sea and the sky, how generous you are with good things. 

I've had a nice holiday.

Thankyou. 

The skies proclaim your handiwork

Are you there, God?

Well, life isn’t easy, is it.  I come away on holiday and I love being by the sea and the sun has shone and the stars last night were truly spectacular.  All the family is here and we’ve spent time sitting on the beach and had a lovely meal out and watched the children play and looked at the sunset over the marshes. It has been beautiful and awe inspiring and just lovely.

It's just me that's the problem.

My head is all over the place and it just goes to show (not that I didn’t already know this) that I take my problems with me wherever I go. I had hoped that I’d be able to leave them behind at home (with the cotton trousers, hairbrush, boules set and flip flops that I meant to bring with me, grr) to come away and feel a lightness of spirit that has been eluding me recently. Indeed, a lightness of spirit that I felt last time we were here in this very place. That time, I had the spectre of impending investigations into a sinister-looking breast lump hanging over me and I still managed, with some miraculous input from you, to feel more lighthearted than I do right now. How come?

Well, it doesn’t really matter how come, does it.

Lord, I’m still going round in circles. I want to leave my baggage with you but I seem to tell you about it and then just pick it up and take it away again.

‘Don’t you want to leave it with me?’  you’re asking.

‘Yes, yes, I’m leaving it!’ I say, as I haul it off the ground in front of you and hoist it onto my back.

I need some help, please. Don’t I always? Oh dear.

Let me tell you about last night.

‘The heavens declare the glory of God;

The skies proclaim his handiwork...'

Psalm 19:1

From where you are, do you get a perfect view of the stars every night? Or all the time? Do you still admire your handiwork or are you a bit blasé these days?  Because last night they blew me away. There was less light pollution out here right on the coast and we’re about fifty yards from the sea. The sky was dark and the stars were out. My God, were they out. There were more than I’ve seen before and after a while, when my eyes became accustomed to lying in the garden in the dark I could see the Milky Way like a cloud down the middle of the sky. It was spectacular. Vast. Majestic. And you made it. Stars in the sky and grains of sand on the beach. You know how many there are. You are great.

I saw it once before, years ago when I poked my head out of a tent in the middle of the night in a place called San Pedro de Atacama, in the Atacama desert in Chile. The dark was dark as this little village didn't have electricity and it was in the middle of nowhere. A friend and I had backpacked there and we were due to get up before dawn to see the sunrise over the El Tatio geyserfield. The stars took my breath away then and they did last night. I never thought I'd be anywhere that I'd see them again. Fancy that. The back garden of a rented house on the Suffolk coast and you pulled back the curtain again for me. 

Awesome.

Now there’s an overused word. But what I mean is something magnificent, mindblowing. Something of such beauty and wonder that it it stills me.  It's that awe that leaves me open mouthed with a sense that my head is struggling to grasp something enormous.

There’s a song by YFriday that has a line:

'Glorious, incredible, above our thoughts, immeasurable

Beyond the far horizons of our dreams...'

(Ken Riley and Andrew Neve, 2008 Thankyou Music)

That came to mind tonight as I gazed at the stars, over and over. Making me realize that I can’t even imagine your glory. It's far, far too big for me. I'm very, very small.

The heavens declare...

Today I was lying on the beach and the sun went behind a cloud for a second before it emerged again. The cloud formation was breathtaking and the sun’s rays radiated from behind this cloud before it lit up the sky again.  Yesterday as we were driving here we followed a thunderstorm for a while – the sun was shining but the sky ahead was purple and dark and for miles everywhere we went was soaked through as if we’d just missed a heavy rainshower. A few times we saw lightning forking in the purple of the low cloud even though we were in bright sunshine.

There were ladybirds on the beach. My girls kept catching them and examining them closely before they took off again. The seagulls can swoop to catch a chip in mid-air as you throw it to them before they whirl away again.  Our bedroom overlooks the marshes down to the harbour and there are rare birds there if you know where to look - avocets and bitterns and marsh harriers. 

I'm surrounded by wonders and beauty and majesty. I need to raise my game a bit I think.

I hope that I am just feeling like this because I’m tired – and I am so tired after last night’s bunk-bed-excited-children palaver. Late to bed and early to rise doesn’t do much for my state of mind. Maybe tomorrow we’ll all feel better and the sun and the sky and the sea and the rest of the beauty around me might get inside me and lift me out of myself.

‘Be of good courage. And he shall strengthen your heart. All you who hope in the Lord.’

Psalm 31:24

This was today’s little meditation on my (increasingly on-the-blink – do you ever heal mobile phones? If so, can I put a word in?) iPhone.  I read it at a moment in the day when I was feeling a little desperate and greatly in need of some strength. I do hope in you, Father God. I cling to you and I take refuge under your wing.

Strengthen my heart, Lord. It feels a bit weak and wobbly at the moment.

Still on the mountain

Well, Lord, I haven't covered myself in glory today, have I?

Here I sit slouched on the sofa after a glass of wine on a week night (I know, but it felt like a Friday night so we gave it honorary weekend status and opened a bottle. And very good it was too) and I'm so tired that my eyes are all squinty. I've had a pretty crap day and I've not been very nice to be around.

You know what? I have just realised that I'm scowling. I'm staring at the computer and I'm actually scowling. I have just made a conscious effort to relax my forehead and let my shoulders drop a couple of inches. Sigh.

It's raining, too.

We're going on holiday tomorrow and I'm at that point where I wonder if a week at the seaside is actually worth the monumental hassle of organising people, clothes, toys, toiletries, food, bedlinen etc to take away, pack the car, drive all the way there, unpack, do everything that I normally do in a week but without the benefit of a routine or familiar surroundings or home comforts then do it all again in reverse arriving home with three days of unpacking and a dozen loads of washing.

There's ingratitude if you like.

Lots of people don't have holidays. I know. In the current financial climate I suppose even fewer will be treating themselves. Indeed, if we'd known then what we know now regarding finances I suspect we wouldn't have booked this one. So a lot is riding on us Having a Really Good Time on this holiday. I have packed buckets and spades; cold weather gear, hot weather gear, in-between weather gear, rainy weather gear and miscellaneous other items of clothing and we will be paddling and eating fish and chips on the pier whatever the circumstances.

Pause here while I retrieved the girls' wellies, which I realised I hadn't packed. Was that a divine revelation?

Am I still feeling under the weather following the stress of Katy's surgery, or do I have to come to terms with the fact that this grumpiness and intolerance and short-temperedness is my default position? Do I just need a holiday? And if so, will a week on the Suffolk coast with two small but demanding children count as a holiday? I remember with nostalgia those days when Bryan and I used to take a fortnight's leave from work and go away on holiday, just the two of us, doing what we wanted...getting enough sleep, going to films or the theatre or just driving until we saw something we liked then stopping and walking. Now I need to pack entertainment for the car to try to keep the girls occupied so we've at least got to the end of the road before they ask if we're there yet.

I'm just getting it off my chest, Lord. Is that ok?

Look, I'm tired. I've spent all day today organising things and my head is full of lists. Katy has just had a tantrum over something she needed more than anything else in the world which has already been packed and is in the car (a matchbox car among scores of the things but it had to be this very one) and as I type is refusing to settle down. I have a list of things that I still need to think about and an early start tomorrow (never something that fills me with joy).

I love the sea. I'm really looking forward to seeing the sea. I am hoping for some fine weather so I can walk along the beach and skim stones with the girls and make sandcastles and wander on the pier and gaze at the vastness and majesty of the ocean in front of me. I always feel close to you at the seaside and, Lord, I really feel in need of that now.

Where are you? I know you're there but I can't feel you. I feel consumed by my own self-pity and bad temper at the moment.  Earlier on I was struggling with a duvet and duvet cover upstairs and it was all twisted and I had hold of the wrong corners (I know you know what I mean) and no-one offered to help me and I felt temper rising up just as I imagine Katy does when she doesn't get what she wants and then stamps and screams with frustration. I could have done the same. I stood in the middle of the room and thought, 'Self control. Self control.'  And then I hurled the duvet to the floor, which, as I'm sure you witnessed, didn't help much as you can't make a satisfying crash with a duvet. Still, the rest of my family remained unaware that I'd just thrown a small muffled wobbly in the bedroom and that can only be good news. You saw it, though. Self control? Yeah, right.

So the Fruit of the Spirit then. I think I'm catching on. I ask for patience, and you give me opportunities to be patient. I ask for self-control and you offer me tangled duvets and screaming children. I ask for peace, and you give me turmoil - but the opportunity to find you?  I feel as if I'm going round and round on this one. No wonder the Israelites wandered around the desert for forty years if they were doing this. I read somewhere recently that their journey should only have taken a couple of weeks but they went round and round in circles because they didn't learn... and then you said:

'You have stayed too long on this mountain.'

Deuteronomy 1:6

It was time to move on. To enter the promised land.

Lord, don't let me go round in circles for years before I can take the next step on this journey I'm on. Even though I'm thick and lazy and slow to learn help me so that I can get to the promised land.

Give me a break, Lord. Please speak to me so that I can hear you. When you're with me tomorrow as I drive to the seaside with two excited children help me be patient and self-controlled. When I see the sea please fill me with a sense of your presence. Keep me going, Lord. I need your Holy Spirit; I need a top-up. I need energy and inspiration and fun and a bit of joy, if you could see your way clear, Father God. I'm tired and in need of a pick-me-up. Let the sun come out.

Thankyou for families and holidays and the seaside. For cars and picnic lunches and duvets and small toy cars. Thankyou for opportunities and second chances. And third chances. And so on.

I'm going to bed now, Lord. Tomorrow I'm going to look at the sea and breathe you in. I'm going to stand on the beach, whatever the weather, and praise you for the wonder of your world.

See you in the morning.

St Bartholomew

Good Evening, Lord.

I have just found out that St Bartholomew was flayed and beheaded for telling people about you and I have to say that it's upset me a bit. 

Really - flayed? I mean, the beheading bit is one thing, but flaying?  Sounds completely uncalled for if you ask me, and I speak as someone who has in my time watched plenty of gory films and unflinchingly read the most horrible of horror stories. I hasten to add that in the recent clearing out of my head I have realised that I no longer choose to fill my mind with nasty things, and so a consideration of things gruesome has been consigned to the past. But this is different.

It really happened, and it happened to someone that I have read about in the Bible and it happened because this person preached the Gospel. People didn't like what he said and so they killed him and made it particularly unpleasant for him as well. That's what they did to you, isn't it? And St Peter, who if tradition is to be believed, was crucified upside down - unspeakable things have happened to people who have stood up for you.

How easy it is for me to be a Christian. Here, in a safe place, surrounded by civilised people (I know, that's a whole other discussion) and in a country where my right to believe what I want and say what I want are protected by law. I suppose the ins and outs of that statement could also form the basis of a whole other conversation as well, but it's pedantry to argue that we are not free when you compare our lot to some of our brothers and sisters in other countries who love you just as much or more than I do, and yet if they were to go out in the street and say so they might be arrested or imprisoned or worse.

So do I often take advantage of my cushy number to go out and tell people in the street about you? I think you and I both know the answer to that. I wear a cross round my neck. I go to church on Sundays. I write this blog. I tell my children about you and I try (and quite often fail) to live in a way that shows you to other people but my track record in passing on the Good News is pretty pathetic.

St Bartholomew by Michaelangelo.
Holding his skin. Blimey. 

So Bartholomew met a nasty end because he travelled around preaching your Gospel and showing people the way to you.  When I meet him in Heaven I shall be in awe. I won't have a word to say to someone with such courage. In comparison with such technicolour faith mine is faded and monochrome. Of course, he knew you - he met you and he looked in your face and he heard your voice. That might have been a small advantage, don't you think? You saw him for the first time and knew who he was. You chose him for something special and he did what you asked. Even to his death. Amazing.

People do such wonderful things in your name even today. Of course, that's not to say that people haven't done some pretty awful things in your name as well, but when I hear of stories where someone has died for another in the name of Jesus Christ, in Auschwitz or in the trenches or even in Afghanistan or China I see that your Holy Spirit is still doing his thing just as he did in Peter or Paul or Bartholomew. People through history have done amazing things motivated by the desire to do what you want them to do. Do you ask any less of us now? Any less of those of us who trundle along day to day living a fairly pedestrian Christian life, all wrapped up in our own sorrows and anxieties and triumphs and concerns? Expecting you to answer our prayers about life's comforts or trivialities? And yet you do, such is your love for us.

I don't flatter myself that you have a Great Role for me to play in the history of Christianity. I don't imagine that I am so special that my name would have a particular place in history, except that I am your child and my significance lies entirely in the fact that I am yours and you love me. I know that I am unique and you have a job for me that only I can do. I have no aspirations to be a St Paul or a St Bartholomew and to be honest, the idea frightens the life out of me, but I know that the hairs on my head are numbered and you are proud of me. I know that you have hopes for me. I know that you want me to be all I can be. When I read about your people who knew you and loved you so much that they gave you everything it makes me realise how miserly I am with my energy and my time and every other thing I have. How half hearted. How easily distracted.

I'm sorry that I ask you what it is you want me to do and then qualify my wanting to know with my own restrictions and provisos. I'm sorry that I so often don't hear you because the voice of my own hopes and fears is too loud and drowns you out. I'm trying to learn how to listen to you, Lord. I want to do my individual little job for you and I want to do it well. As long as I don't have to die, or step outside my comfort zone, I mean.

See? I am afraid of what you might ask me to do. I know that you love me and want the best for me - you are for me - so why do I always expect it to hurt?  Why do I assume that the thing you ask me to do will be alien to me and difficult and unpleasant? To the best of my knowledge and understanding I don't think of you as a hard, cruel taskmaster. I can't explain it.

All I can do is give you what I have right now. All I have right now I lay down in front of you. Fearful and anxious and full of reservations but with a little part of my heart that wants to do your will. A little part of my heart that wants to be bigger.  I want to be what you want me to be because I know that I cannot be properly fulfilled any other way. I want to do what you want me to do because anything else is meaningless if it doesn't make you happy. I want my life to have meaning and reason and I want my life to have significance in your eyes. I want to fall in front of you one day and hear you say that I was a good and faithful servant. That I did my best.

That's what I tell my daughters - that if they do their best Mummy and Daddy will be proud of them no matter if they win or lose. If they do their best there is nothing more that I can ask of them. Most of the time I know that I'm not doing my best, Lord, and I'm sorry. I take the line of least resistance and I take the easy route and it's because the hard way scares me. I know that you love me. I know that you won't ask me to do anything that you haven't equipped me for. I'm just a bit of a coward.

Please, take what I have and make it better. Bigger. Braver. More receptive and wiser. More discerning and more intuitive. Take the faith I have and make it bigger.

What's next, Lord God?

(My) nature abhors a vacuum

Hello God. It's me again and I'm in a funny mood.

Sunday afternoon and I've just spent an hour sorting through the girls' underwear drawers and marvelling at how much larger their feet are than I think they are. I pick up a pair of socks, think to myself, 'Those will still fit' only to find that they are way too small when it comes to comparing size with an actual four or six year old foot.  Likewise pants. Children get taller, feet get bigger and bottoms grow too, it seems. I don't think I've sorted out their underwear drawers since underwear became appropriate for them so it's no wonder that they've outgrown so much.

I'm sitting here looking at the sunny afternoon outside and any minute now I hope to locate a burst of energy and go and repot Mum's yucca plant that keeps blowing over in its current pot.  I shall then plant out forty-four poppy plants that I've grown from seed that are now big and strong enough to go and live in the garden ready to flower next year. I've done so little in the garden this summer that I think I'll do well to find enough weed-free areas to plant them out but we're away for a week soon and anything left in the greenhouse will have to fend for itself for a week so best evacuate while I can. 

I'm rambling, aren't I?  

Truth is, I'm not feeling very switched on today. I didn't get up early, it's been a pretty relaxing day so far but I'm still feeling tired and unmotivated to do anything. Except perhaps eat. That tells me a lot about my state of mind as eating is inextricably linked for me with emotions so if I'm eating too much or too much 'comfort food' then I know that all is not well in my head. 

I think that deep down I should be feeling joyful and exhilarated following Katy's surgery; she is happy and bouncing back in the way that only small children can.  As I type she's ricocheting round the house with an armful of teddies (all of whom are sporting a pair of pants that have been rescued from the 'too small' pile). She is smiley and her shoulder works and her wound is healing well and she's sleeping ok and she is as bright and affectionate as ever. Good job, then? Of course. 

So how come that the enormous space occupied by the worry I felt about Katy's operation seems still to be occupied by things that weigh me down?  It's as if the vacuum created by the relief of one sizeable worry was immediately filled by others, before I even had a chance to stretch out and feel the cool of an empty space. Nature abhors a vacuum, I'm told. Well, I can vouch for that. My nature certainly does. One worry to strike off the list?  Great! Let's find another one right now, before I get used to having the space in my head.

I suppose that's down to me then. Never satisfied.  One of my teachers once told me that I wouldn't be happy if I didn't have something to worry about. Maybe that's it. 

But I thought that I've been doing so much better, lately, haven't I, Lord?  I've really felt as if my anxiety levels are lower than they used to be. I've felt as if I've been better at leaving them with you. I'm reading my Bible more, reflecting on daily readings more, talking to you more. A bit. Admittedly there's a long way to go. 

Maybe I'm just tired. That old chestnut. I do feel as if I could sleep for a month at the moment. Everything seems an effort. I need to clean and bake and I need to stock up the freezer with cooked meals again and I need to start washing and packing for our holiday next week but it's all I can do to flop out of bed into the shower and get everybody fed. Whinge, whinge.

Pause here while I made coffee, ate several ginger snaps (I'm not even a great fan of ginger snaps) and repotted a yucca, feeling very grumpy.

Then you showed up again and stuck in your three-penneth. I realise that I do a good line in complaining, don't I? You've just done a wonderful thing for me in keeping my little girl safe and bringing her through an operation that seems to have gone well, and I have my family about me and all the good things that you've given me and exciting times ahead but all I can do is focus on me. Me, tired. Me, worried. Me, confused. Me, self-absorbed.

Sorry.

I'm reading things at the moment that are sticking in my mind but I need to think some more. I need to complain less, because I can't imagine that you're going to shower me with more blessings until I learn to appreciate the ones I already have, are you? That's how it works with my daughters. They play with a toy for five minutes, discard it and then badger for something new; I respond with irritation at their lack of gratitude. That sounds a lot like me. In the role of petulant child, I mean.

Also, I need to stop going on about how hard life is, don't I?  People have lives much harder than mine. People find out that their children have terminal illnesses and face a future full of illness and surgery and uncertainty. People have so much less than I do and yet perhaps are more satisfied than I am. I am starting to feel very bad about this. No-one said life was going to be easy, and no-one (particularly not my Mum and Dad) told me that life would be fair, so I should stop complaining about it being hard. As I did some reading tonight you told me:

'Now what I am commanding you today is not difficult or beyond your reach...'

Deuteronomy 30:11

So I should stop making heavy weather of things and get on with them. But before I turn over my new leaf, just got a bone to pick. I've often wrestled with Jesus' words:

'Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.'

Matthew 11:29-30

How come I find it such hard going then? How does the 'yoke is easy' bit sit with the other bits of the gospels where you tell us that we will have trouble in this world because of you? That we should put on our armour and fight? That we will meet much opposition and so on? I need to think about these things. I don't understand. And until I have thought about them and gained some considerable wisdom I need to stop complaining about life being hard. I think I make it so much harder than it need be sometimes because my brain is not my friend.

You have done marvellous things for me. You have saved me and you have blessed me and you have answered prayers. You never leave me. I'm so sorry, Lord.

As you can tell, I'm all mixed up at the moment. I'm not thinking straight. Do I ever? I need to find some peace, Lord. I need to focus again. Please help me to calm down and pick up life again after the hiatus of the last few months where I've been focussed on Katy and her lump and the surgery. I have things on my mind, yes, but it doesn't help that I can't seem to get my thoughts in order at the moment.

I would really like to get into a habit of spending quiet time with you. To find space to think clearly, to read and learn and write.

I would really like to learn how to listen to you. To hear you. To let you get a word in edgeways.

I would really like to hand over my troubles and leave them with you instead of picking them up again as I leave. Is this a life's work?

I would really like to be wise. I would like to get it right. I would like to be the person you would like me to be.

I need some help, please.

My brave girl II

Thankyou God.

For so much. But specifically:

That my Katy is back home safe and sound.

That she is still my Katy.

For the surgeon's skill in taking away the tumour in her neck but leaving the bits that mattered.

That Katy can move her shoulder which means that her muscles are working which means that her nerve is working.
That only one nerve was affected and it wasn't the one that might have been life-threatening.

My brave Katy

That she is cheerful and not in too much pain.

That she doesn't seem traumatised by her experiences.

That she doesn't have to have endless dressings and that her wound is healing really well.

That the stitches are dissolvable and so she doesn't have to have them taken out.

For the kindness of the anaesthetist who told me that he has three small girls under 6 years himself and he can imagine how hard it must be to walk away from your little one before an operation.

For the same anaesthetist who touched me on the shoulder as I left Katy in the anaesthetic room and said to me, 'I'll take care of her.'

For the nurse who handed me tissues as I left the theatre suite.

For the wonderful, awe-inspiring courage that you gave to my little girl as they put her to sleep. She was so frightened and yet so brave. She didn't cry once. Just like last time.

That she was still excited at the prospect of a ride on a bed from the ward to the theatre.

For the chocolate and other items of junk food that I consumed while waiting for surgery to be over.

In recovery

That it was possible to learn from last time; that this time they took off the sticky ECG pads from her chest before she woke up; that she was horribly sick last time from the anaesthetic and from morphine so this time they gave her an anti-emetic in her theatre drip.

That this time she didn't feel sick at all.

For the kindness and gentleness of the staff on the children's ward at the hospital.

For cold drinks with ice cubes on a hot ward.

For medicine and treatment and surgery and hospitals available to us for nothing.

For lemon squash with ice and buttered toast that were to Katy nectar and ambrosia after she woke up.

That she was able to eat and drink within hours of a 2hr 40min operation on her neck.

For a private room with a bed for me so that I could stay with my daughter while she recovered.

That she felt that staying up late and eating toast 'in the middle of the night' was a special treat.

For innocence and joy in the smallest of things.

That I got to hold my precious daughter as she fell asleep in my arms. I stayed there for ages. 

That she said to me, 'Mummy, I'm glad I got to sleep in a room with you. Are you glad that you slept together with me?'  Oh yes, my little love. It was very special.

That you made me in such a way that the wonderful fragrance of my two girls is so special to me; I could inhale them all night long.

For Big Sister who made Get Well cards and missed Katy terribly.

Big Sister reading to Little Sister

For Little Sister who missed Big Sister terribly and for the smile on her face when Elizabeth came to visit.

For clever Big Sister who read stories to Little Sister when she didn't have the energy to play in the playroom.

For the play therapists who organised painting, games, craft activities and lego for the girls.

For the sunshine over the last few days - rain would just have been so much more depressing.

For Grandma who brought biscuits and milk for coffee and looked after Lizzie at home.

For a church family who wrapped us up in prayer.

For friends and neighbours who worried and supported us.

For a sea of stuffed toys surrounding my small girl and making her feel better.

For Hospital Teddy, Arnie the Aardvark and Scruffy Barney who looked after Kate in hospital.

Arnie the Aardvark recovering
from surgery.

For Posh Barney who was inadvertently left behind in hospital and remains there until we can go to pick him up.

For the nurse that phoned us urgently because she thought that Katy had left her precious Barney behind and realised what a disaster that would be.

For the nurses who were so impressed with Katy that they didn't believe that she was only four.

For Mozart, who composed a piece of music that Katy loves (Fur Elise) and for the stuffed dog that plays Mozart tunes when you press his paw. Kate played this every time she woke the first night after her operation.  I will forever associate that tune with hospitals now.

For the miracle of healing.

For your never ending love and constant company.

That you were so close to me as I waited for the operation to finish and that you let me feel your presence.

For the generosity and humour of theatre staff who put an oxygen mask on Arnie the Aardvark and bandaged him up so that when Katy woke up she would think that he'd had an operation too.

For the resilience of children.

That lunch the next day was Katy's favourite meal (sausages and chips).

That you protected us. I called on your name and you hid us under your wing. You said that you would keep us from harm and you did.

So small

That Katy understood what I meant when I whispered 'Circle Katy, Lord' in her ear in the anaesthetic room.

For painkillers.

For technology that allows doctors to do such amazing things to mend us when something goes wrong

For disposable contact lenses.

For ginger biscuits.

For children's television.

For good friends who have called or texted or come round to see how we're doing.

For bubble mixture.

For the moment when Katy woke up confused and disorientated and saw her Mummy and Daddy and smiled. And for the relief that I felt when she woke up again.

For the enormous overwhelming powerful love that you put inside me for my daughters. 

That you love me (and them) even more than I am capable of loving.

That you did all this for us.

For your compassion and humour and patience.

For your generosity in giving me so much when I give you so little.

For so, so much else. 

Thankyou.

The Lord is my refuge

Hello again, Lord.

You're round and about today, I can tell. It's nice to have you here. I know that you're always here, but what I mean is that it's nice to feel you here. Nice to feel you close. 

Why is it that sometimes I don't realise how I'm feeling until I come into church? It's as if the Holy Spirit sees beyond the front that I put up, the 'How are you?' 'Oh I'm fine, thanks!' thing that we all do and says, 'No, I'm not having that. That's not how you are.'

Today I was fine. A bit mithered, perhaps, this morning having been allowed a small lie-in (I never refuse a lie-in, being chronically sleep deprived; any hour to catch up and I'm in) and so getting ready for church was a bit of a rush. For one reason and another by the time I arrived at church I had a head full of things and I was doing the prayers this morning too, which always makes me a bit preoccupied. So it wasn't until the first song that I stopped and thought and that was when I choked up. 

Here I am to worship. It's as if I finally look away from the things I'm juggling, or away from the detail of my anxiety and preoccupation and I lift my eyes to you, and when I do, I'm overwhelmed by you. Just lifting my words and my voice to you, just saying 'Here I am' was enough to bring tears to my eyes. Even when I hadn't realised that I was feeling tearful. 

It stands to reason that I should be a bit wobbly, I suppose. Tomorrow Katy goes in to hospital for her operation and I know that deep down I am dreading it. I've had a taste of what it's like to leave the child that you love defenceless in the hands of someone else and I didn't like it. I bet you didn't, either, did you, Lord? You knew what we were going to do to your beloved son and it was for our good, not his, that you sent him. For me, here I am trusting my lovely little girl to an experienced surgeon, and it's for her own good. Clearly the analogy breaks down here, but you know what I mean. I'm not keen on doing this again and the stakes are higher this time. So I come into church this morning thinking I'm fine, thankyou, and I'm not fine. 

Good talk, this morning. All about being rooted in Christ. 

'So then, just as you received Christ Jesus as Lord, continue to live your lives in him, rooted and built up in him, strengthened in the faith as you were taught, and overflowing with thankfulness.'

Colossians 2:6-7

It reminded me of a picture I had long, long ago in a period of spiritual joy and celebration, maybe as far back as April this year, or roundabout then. Certainly before things started to go wrong.  I saw myself as a tree. A big, solid oak tree with spreading branches. Sturdy and strong. With deep roots. I read somewhere that a tree's roots are as big as the branches and the tips of the roots reach out further than the canopy of the tree so that they can soak up rain as it falls. If the roots were shorter, they wouldn't reach out far enough and the tree's own canopy would stop them from getting any moisture. So roots have to reach a long way. They have to anchor the tree so that it doesn't blow over, no matter how big and heavy the tree or how strong the wind. 

How I want to be that big tree. I want to be eternal, secure, reliable, standing tall and reaching wide. Always the same, yet ever-changing. Growing. Living. Flourishing. How easily I am knocked over when the wind blows. I am rooted in you but quite often my roots aren't hanging on tightly enough. They don't go deep enough to stop me from swaying dangerously. I look for other people to hold me up instead of reaching into you and letting you plant me firmly. I am fed by what I surround myself with, by what I read and what I do and some of these things are good, worthy, and they keep me going but they don't nourish me as you would, if only I reached my roots out beyond the canopy to suck up your moisture. 

I was singing and I found myself praising you and saying, 'You can do this, Lord. You can do this for me, can't you?'  And the tears came because I know that it's true. You'll help me through the next few days. You'll take care of my little girl and you'll take care of me. Because you're faithful. You never fail.

Faithful one, so unchanging

Ageless one, you're my rock of peace

Lord of all I depend on you

I call out to you, again and again

I call out to you, again and again

You are my rock in times of trouble

You lift me up when I fall down

All through the storm

Your love is the anchor

My hope is in you alone.

Brian Doerksen

So then you spoke to me in this song, as you tend to do, presumably because you can't get me to hear in many other ways, but you know that I like to sing, so I'd probably be paying attention.

You are my rock, Father God. In times of trouble indeed; and in any other time. I'm holding onto you in these times when life is difficult and I'm feeling overwhelmed and you don't move. You're steady. You don't change. Without you as an anchor I'd be swept right out to sea and I'd sink beneath the waves. My hope is in you, Lord God. 

I managed the prayers with only a few wavery moments and I got myself back together in time to smile brightly and leave without a meltdown. I was moved that you had met me and spoken to me. 

My hope is in you. You can do this for me.

On the way out of church a wise friend caught me and said that the Lord had given her a word; Psalm 91 was for me. She didn't know why, but that you wanted me to read Psalm 91. I said thankyou, a little bewildered, and carried on home. 

Psalm 91

Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High

will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.

I will say of the Lord, 'He is my refuge and my fortress, 

my God, in whom I trust.'

Well, I did. I do. You are my Rock. My hope is in you. I know that you can do this for me.

Surely he will save you 

from the fowler's snare

and from the deadly pestilence.

He will cover you with his feathers,

and under his wings you will find refuge; 

his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.

I love the idea that I can hide under your wings like a baby duck. I love the image that it gives of safety and comfort and trust. I want to wriggle under your feathers and snuggle up close to the warmth and safety of your body so that I can feel your heartbeat. I can shut out the world and know that I am protected.

You will not fear the terror of the night

nor the arrow that flies by day,

nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness

nor the plague that destroys at midday.

Why would I fear anything if I am protected by you? You only can make promises like this. I feel that ill health is all around me at the moment - I'm going to be spending the better part of this week in hospital with my little girl and we've been fighting the illness that's troubling her for nearly six months. I know that there are so many people who are much more seriously ill but I am drawn to the idea that we need not fear illness. I don't know if I'm reading too much into this but, hey, I feel better because of it.

A thousand may fall at your side,

ten thousand at your right hand,

but it will not come near you.

You will only observe with your eyes

and see the punishment of the wicked.

Ah. Not sure what to say about this bit. I just like the 'It won't come near you' bit. 

If you say, 'The Lord is my refuge,'

and you make the most high your dwelling,

no harm with overtake you,

no disaster will come near your tent.

Oh my Lord I say 'You are my refuge'. Where will I go if not to you? I want to live in you, and I want you to live in me. I want you to make me into a place fit for a King to live. I want to be part of you. 

For he will command his angels concerning you

to guard you in all your ways;

they will lift you up in their hands,

so that you will not strike your foot against a stone.

Amen. Thankyou Lord. Thankyou for your loving care and your protection. I've been fighting battles for ages, it seems, and I can carry on because I know that you stand with me. Thankyou.

You will tread on the lion and the cobra;

you will trample on the great lion and the serpent.

'Because he loves me,' says the Lord, 'I will rescue him;

I will protect him, for he acknowledges my name.

I do love you. You are the Lord. The Holy One. You are the Creator of Heaven and Earth. You are my God.

He will call on me, and I will answer him;

I will be with him in trouble,

I will deliver and honour him.

With long life I will satisfy him

and show him my salvation.'

I called on you and you did answer me. I can't do anything but you can. You hold my days in your hand, and those of my four year old daughter. I can't tell you how much this has comforted me and shored me up today. Well, I don't suppose that really matters, because you already know. 

Well. 

You meant that for me? You are speaking those words to me? I am amazed. To say that I read those words and was blown away is a bit of an understatement. Lord God, you'd do that for me? I can understand that you spoke like that to David or Moses, or whoever wrote this powerful psalm, and that these Heroes of the Bible were probably used to hearing you like this. But me? I'm a Mum and I do the school run and I can't hang a picture and I talk too much and I struggle with my quiet time and I like church but I have family politics and a short temper and I'm very bad at being consistent and prayerful. Yet you would bless me with huge words like these?

I am humbled indeed. 

You are my refuge and I want to dwell in you. I'm just not good at staying there; I keep running to you and hiding under your wings and then when the rain stops and the weather clears I creep off out again and think I can manage on my own, just me. Then it starts again and there I am, clamouring for help. And sometimes I turn to you only after I've looked everywhere else, and yet still you are loving and forgiving enough to send a message to me to say 'Don't be afraid, you're safe. I'll keep you safe.'

I am humbled indeed. 

 

The circle prayer

Hey.
God Almighty. Loving Lord. 

Just before I go to bed I've got to tell you this. 

Not that you don't already know. After all, you were there.

You were very much there. 

Tonight Katy had a hard time settling at bedtime. She wasn't being naughty, or even shouting a lot, she was just awake. At bedtime I lay down next to her and we snuggled and I just love the way she cuddles into me and I love the way she smells, and I love the way she adopts a quiet little confidential voice as she tells me what Barney has been up to and so on. Tonight she wanted me to tell her something. 

There's this thing we do. I do it with both girls. It goes like this:

Me:     Katy Murray, does your Mummy love you?

Katy:  Yes.

Me:     How much does she love you?

Katy:  All round the world and back again.

Me:     More than that. 

(insert bit where we exaggerate more and more until we move on)

Me:     Why does she love you?

Katy:   Because I'm Katy.

Me:     That's right.  When will she stop loving you?

Katy:   Never. Not ever. Not never nohow.

Me:      That's right. I love you very much and I always will.

Then tonight:

Katy:   Like Jesus.  And God. 

Me:     That's right. God loves you even more than me, if that's possible.

(Katy is drawing a circle on the palm of her hand with the other index finger)

Katy:   Will you do the circle prayer?

Now, as you'll remember, the last time Katy went into hospital a good friend of mine loaned us Hospital Teddy to come with us. Hospital Teddy's job is to accompany children on trips to hospital, and he was at Katy's side for her last operation. He's with us and packing his overnight bag for another trip. (Actually, he never went home owing to having been temporarily assimilated into Katy's stuffed toy collection.)

Hospital Teddy's owner said a special prayer for Kate on the morning she went into hospital back at the beginning of June.

Circle Katy, Lord

Keep comfort near

and discouragement afar.

Keep peace within

and turmoil out.

Circle Katy, Lord.

Keep protection near

and danger afar.

Circle Katy, Lord.

Keep hope within

and despair without.

Circle Katy, Lord.

Keep light near

and darkness afar.

Circle Katy, Lord

Keep peace within

and anxiety without.

The eternal Father, Son and Holy Spirit

shield Katy on every side.

Amen.

Katy had remembered the prayer and the circles drawn on her hand as it was read. She made the connection between one operation and another and she made the association between the love of her Mummy and the love of God. 

Can you really love her more than I do?

I was in awe. I bet the angels were singing. 

Disaster.

I couldn't find the prayer. I have a copy somewhere but I couldn't find it. I made up something from what I could remember but it wasn't the same. She snuggled down to sleep but she didn't get off. 

I sent a message to my friend asking if she'd send over the circle prayer for Katy. She did, straight away.

A while later she was still awake. I took the prayer up to her and she had me say it twice, while drawing little circles on the palm of her hand. She smiled and when I said, 'Amen' she nodded with a big smile. Then she snuggled down into her pillows and mountain of soft toys and as I got to the door she said to me:

'Mummy, when you're sad, I'm going to ask Daddy to read you the circle prayer, and then you'll feel better too."

And she closed her eyes and put her thumb in her mouth and held Scruffy Barney close to her cheek.

Ah.

Loving Lord, there are so many things about this that blow my mind. She remembered the prayer and she associates it not only with going into hospital but with feeling better.  She must be thinking about her hospital visit on Monday and she must be worrying.  Tonight the prayer helped. You helped my baby girl.  She's only four, but she knew what she wanted to help her and when I found it for her she was comforted. 

So much more.  She knows that you love her. She knows that you will never stop loving her and she knows that there's nothing she can do to make you love her less and there's nothing she can do to make you love her more. Praise you, my wonderful Lord. You have given her the gift of faith. 

She wants me to find the same comfort that she found on the occasions that I'm upset or worried. She wants me to hear the circle prayer and then I'll feel better. Thankyou Lord for her faith and for her love for me. 

Who says that ministry to small children is all one way? Tonight she was the one with the wisdom; I was humbled. She was troubled and she knew what would help. She asked for it and it was as she believed it would be. She was comforted. She told me that it would help me too. I can learn from that. 

Amen Amen Amen. 

Lord, thankyou for the wonderful thing that happened tonight.
Thankyou for wise and perceptive friends who gave us this little prayer when it was needed.
Thankyou that this friend picked up my message and responded immediately, that Katy was still awake and that she felt better.

May she know your presence more every day. May the little fire of faith that is clearly in her heart burn ever brighter. 

Thankyou. From the bottom of my heart. 

Anaesthetics and answered prayers

Morning, Lord. 

So here we are again.

Two days from now my little girl will be going into hospital again and she'll be having another operation. A different surgeon, this time, and a different operation involving the dissection of the posterior triangle of her neck (it says on the consent form) and the excision of a tumour which is wrapped around one nerve, right next to another and possibly involved with a third. Not the third one, please, Father God. The third one is the Phrenic nerve and it controls movement of the diaphragm, which means her breathing, and makes it a more serious proposition to go near it with a sharp scalpel. We'd just as soon opt out of any complications in that direction if that's all the same to you.

I can feel the knot in my stomach again. Recently I've been thinking I've not been doing too badly this time; less anxiety maybe. Perhaps all the stuff that's happened since the last operation has taught me something; or maybe my head is in a slightly better place this time. 

Or not.

Today I'm feeling heavy and weighed down by it all.  Yesterday we went to the pre-op appointment at Nightingale ward and so Katy had to find out about the new operation. Strangely out of the blue the other day she started talking about how sad she'd been when she'd needed all the dressing changes and Elizabeth piped up, 'Well, Katy, that's all over and you won't need to go to the hospital again, will she, Mummy?'  I replied that she did need to visit the hospital again and we had an appointment on Thursday, and Lizzie said, 'Never mind Katy, at least you won't have to have another operation.'

Oh dear. 

I couldn't think what to say and the moment passed as they saw something out of the car window that distracted them. I thought that another couple of days without the weight of it on her mind was a good thing. Later on in the week when we had to go for her pre-op ti was time to tell her and never has she looked so small and her eyes so big and welling up with tears.

I know how she feels. This time round I know how awful it is to walk away from her in the anaesthetic room. I know how awful it is to see her eyes roll back in her head as she goes to sleep. I know how awful the wait is until they tell us we can go and see her in the recovery room and this time it will potentially be five times as long.

Oh Lord, take care of my daughter because I love her so much. Please give her back to me healed of this illness and still the same little girl as she is now. Please protect her from anything harmful; accidents, mistakes, miscalculations or problems. Please wrap her in your Holy Spirit like the Ready Brek man so that nothing can harm her physically, emotionally, developmentally or spiritually. Or any other way.

It was funny, the things that she immediately thought about when she learned she was going to have another operation. It wasn't the anaesthetic, or even the being sick afterwards that scared her, it was the sticky electrodes on her chest that were hard to remove. It was the plaster on her hand to keep the anaesthetic cream in place so they could put in the cannula, not the cannula itself. On the plus side, she is still liking the idea of a ride on a bed (to theatre - only a child could appreciate the journey and block out the destination. We so often do the opposite, don't we?) and bizarrely, she still likes the idea of hospital toast.

As the Americans say, go figure.

It's hard that as a parent you can't make all the bad go away. It's hard when you want to say that you won't let anyone hurt them that all you can promise is to be there with them when it does hurt. Do you find it that way? Is this the whole life-thing? That it's in our interests for life to hurt us and while you can't (don't) stop it, you promise to be there with us? There are masses of analogies available to me as I think about my lovely daughters and the turns life takes; probably more than I care to explore at the moment. The only thing I want at the moment is for Katy to be well again and free from this thing that's been plaguing us since we found it in March.

I'm trying to block out the voices that tell me what might go wrong with this operation. I'm trying to drown them out with positives. You love Katy more than I do (so that's going some) and you don't want her to be hurt either. It's like sitting on a plane at 37,000ft and experiencing turbulence, having a panic and then thinking that the pilot has a vested interest in getting us there safely too. The surgeon doesn't want anything bad to happen to Katy, even if it is for a different set of reasons.

Other stuff is happening, Father. Financial worries, health worries, those unanswered questions about the future that I started the year with are still unanswered. I suppose you want it that way. I suppose there's a reason for it all.  I know that there hasn't been another year in my life where I've learned so much, been through so much, heard from you so much and longed for so much. Emotionally and spiritually I've been in high places and low places. Please slow it down for a little while Lord, and let me get my breath back, hey?

Keep talking, Father, and help me to listen. Keep reminding me of your Word when I need it most. This morning I woke up worrying and asking questions about the future and a friend sent me a text:

'Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on  your own understanding.'

Proverbs 3:5

I can't work it out myself. I don't have the answers and no amount of reading books or surfing the internet or indeed talking to people who are wiser than me will ultimately help. I need to learn to give it to you.

The other day I had a call from Katy's consultant to tell me that he needed to move the operation from the planned date (Tuesday) because of two urgent cases that needed doing. He offered me either a date that would mean we'd have to cancel our much-looked-forward-to holiday in a couple of weeks or Katy would miss her first two weeks at Big School.  I didn't like either of these two options and had a panic.  I told him that I understood the need to move Kate's surgery, but was there not a third option? He said he would find one. I heard him riffling through his diary pages as he hung up.

I spent that evening tearful and worried casting gloom everywhere and panicking myself and everyone round me. I rang Bryan in London and it was a far from positive conversation as we didn't agree on the best course of action. I unloaded to my Mum, then made some phone calls, then a friend came round to talk me down and discuss the situation with me.  Just before bedtime, I sent an email asking the church family to pray about it, and then, last of all, as I lay in bed with the light off, I gave it to you.

Why didn't I do that earlier? I need to learn from this, I really do, because in the morning I took a phone call from the doctor's secretary to say that the op had been moved forward by one day only. Was that alright?

Or course it was. It was the third option. A bed had been found for Katy where supposedly there was no bed available. You sorted it out. And I could have saved myself a whole evening's tears and arguments and worry and heartache if only I had cut to the chase and trusted you first, before I shared my anxiety with a whole host of people. I cast around for someone to support me and comfort me and you were last on the list. I'm sorry.

Even so, you answered my prayer. Even though I tried everything I could think of before I tried you, you still answered my prayer. It might not have huge repercussions if you hadn't answered it; indeed I know that there are thousands of families facing more awful dilemmas than a lost holiday or missed start of school, but you are loving and merciful and you answered my prayer.

You are trustworthy and you are good. You love me. You love Katy. You love Elizabeth who is worried about her little sister and you love Bryan who is trying to take care of all of us and be responsible for so much more besides.

Help me to trust you. And in exchange for trusting you, then I will know your peace. When I lean on my own understanding, all I find is anxiety and confusion. I'd rather have the peace, but being human and perverse, even though I know the way to peace I still take a detour through chaos. I'd like to change this, please.

Hold my hand as I hold Katy's little hand, Father God. I know you won't let me down.

Our black and white stripey friends

Hello God.

What were you thinking when you created badgers?

Had it been a long day? I imagine that you'd been creating the animals for several hours and by the time you got to the badgers, you moved to a new level of creativity and decided that unusual was the order of the day. You were bored of ordinary. Bored of the average. A long black and white stripey nose was the very thing for this new type of creature. Let's distinguish him from all the normal-looking animals. Let's give him a touch of the comical. Let's call him 'Badger'. Or did you name them all in Latin? 'Let him be known as Meles meles.' And, behold, it was so.

The other night there were two badgers in our garden snuffling about and digging up divots of turf, and I had the chance to watch them for a good half hour. They had triggered the outside lights and so they were beautifully floodlit but they didn't care. They snuffled and sniffed and dug and probed (they must have tough noses as they were using them to dig bits of garden baked hard by the sun). I watched them for a long time. As luck would have it I even happened to have a cup of coffee in my hand when I discovered them so I had refreshment as well as a ringside seat.

Beautiful, strange, surprisingly large creatures. I'd always thought of a badger as a smallish, cutish sort of animal, but Mr and Mrs B from the other night were by no means dainty. Big dog sized, though with short stumpy legs. They could get a move on when they wanted, though, their little flappy tails waggling as they shambled off to destroy another area of my lawn. I'm not going to go into the downside of badger occupation; suffice it to say that I'm quite glad that they're just visiting rather than setting up home in my garden; I suspect that being permanently embadgered might bring about certain inconveniences, but to sit in your kitchen for one night with a coffee and watch them being badgers (and then going away again) was just wonderful.

It was a special, enchanting half hour. I tried to take a photograph as they were so close but my camera couldn't focus in the dim light, or at least I imagine it might have, if I'd known which setting to use, but I didn't, and I didn't want to risk the flash going off and cutting the show short.  So all I could do was sit with my coffee and watch the badgers.

I want to notice things. I don't want to miss anything that you want to show me. I spent time the other night trying to get the camera to work, but I think that you just wanted me to sit and watch and simply have it in my head rather than on the computer. I said to you some time ago that I wanted to notice, and understand and communicate the things that I'm learning. The wonder of you, whether the beauty of your creation or something that you say, something that I read, or hear or realise. Something surprising, or confusing, or wonderful or interesting.

There have been a lot of things so far this year and Mr and Mrs Badger doing their thing not ten feet away from me the other night was one of your little marvels.

Thankyou.