Show me now your glory

Morning, Lord. 

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

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

I want to know you more.'

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

Show me. Now. 

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

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

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

So this song.

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

I want to know you more.'

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

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

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

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

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

I want to know you more.'

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

I realised what you were doing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I want to know you more.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh God, it was a little glimpse of you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

More, please. 

When I need you

Hello God.

I want to ask you something.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wow.

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

When I have nothing left, you hold me. 

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

Abba. My Daddy. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thankyou for a glimpse of your love, Lord God. 

Abba. My Daddy. 

I'm needing a hug. 

The smileyness of daffodils

Hello God.

Things to thank you for.

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

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

I bet you did.

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

Thankyou for showing me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Best eat him, I think.  

The peace of the Lord

Evening, Lord. 

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

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

That was your doing. 

Who else? The Prince of Peace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Philippians 4:7

Amen. 

Thankyou.

 

Made to praise you

God, I'm not having a good day.

I don't feel very positive.

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

So I'm not going to. 

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

Psalm 145

'I will exalt you, my God the King;

I will praise your name for ever and ever.'

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

'Every day I will praise you

and extol your name for ever and ever.'

Every day. Whether I feel like it or not. 

'Great is the Lord and most worthy of praise;

His greatness no-one can fathom.

One generation commends your works to another;

they tell of your mighty acts.'

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

'They speak of the glorious splendour of your majesty - 

and I will meditate on your wonderful works.

They tell of the power of your awesome works - 

and I will proclaim your great deeds.'

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

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

Your works are indeed wonderful. 

'They celebrate your abundant goodness

and joyfully sing of your righteousness.'

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

'The Lord is gracious and compassionate,

slow to anger and rich in love.

The Lord is good to all;

He has compassion on all he has made.'

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

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

'All your works praise you, Lord;

your faithful people extol you.'

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

'Your kingdom is an everlasting kingdom,

and your dominion endures through all generations.

The Lord is trustworthy in all he promises

and faithful in all he does.'

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

I love you.

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

'The Lord upholds all who fall

and lifts up all who are bowed down.

The eyes of all look to you,

and you give them their food at the proper time.

You open your hand

and satisfy the desires of every living thing.'

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

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

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

'The Lord is righteous in all his ways

and faithful in all he does.

The Lord is near to all who call on him,

to all who call on him in truth.'

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

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

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

'My mouth will speak in praise of the Lord.

Let every creature praise his holy name

for ever and ever.'

Amen and amen. 

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

I'm looking forward to that day. 

Thankyou, God. 

I feel better. 

It won't always be dark at six

So how is my Lent going?

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

I am sort of blurred at the moment. 

Can't concentrate on anything. 

Including you. 

Going to stop writing in staccato sentences now.

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

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

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

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

It's been unseasonably mild outside.

I think I just changed the subject.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too often I take the line of least resistance.

Sigh.

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

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

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

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

I'm holding onto that at the moment.

It won't always be dark at six.

Good intentions

I'm running late, Lord.

A day or two behind schedule. I've been ill and I'm not keeping up very well. 

But here I am. 

Shrove Tuesday this year was a bit of an effort, if the truth be known.  The children wanted pancakes (because it's Pancake Day, not because they particularly like them) and I was keen to do the talk about why Pancake Day and Ash Wednesday and what Lent is all about, not that I do it particularly well, I think).  So I ate paracetamol and ibuprofen and cough medicine and inhaled menthol and decongestant sniffy things and there I was with my frying pan and milk and flour and a box of eggs. 

I love making pancakes. I'm sure that's part of my motivation too, but it's not as noble as the one I mentioned first. Both are true. 

I love the way that the pan has to be so hot - almost smoking; and then I love the noise that the batter makes as it sizzles into the pan. I love the twisty turny manoeuvre that you have to do with your wrist tilting the pan to make the small, thick puddle of batter spread out into a large, thin one, while keeping it's shape. I love the way the edges rise slightly to let you into the secret that it's time to flip and I love the delight on the children's faces as it lands again. I love that one side is swirly and the other is spotty. I love that the best filling is lemon and sugar despite everyone's attempts to make it more sophisticated. 

Miraculously, I had lemons, even though I haven't been shopping for days. 

So we ate our pancakes (or played with them) and we talked about Lent and I did my best to explain but I suspect not much of it penetrated the minds of a six and four-year-old who were intrigued with the proximity of Easter. 

The idea of giving something up for Lent certainly seemed to capture their imaginations, however. 

Elizabeth has decided (and persuaded Katy) that they are going to give up for Lent:

• Chocolate, sweets and all food that has no nutritional value
• Being mean to each other
• Forgetting their manners

Forgive me if I'm a tad sceptical. 

Touched, but sceptical. 

I suspect that my daughters have bitten off more than they can chew. Don't you? In a manner which I hope was encouraging and appreciative and approving and nurturing I suggested that perhaps just one thing, one achievable thing, might be a better bet than three whopping resolutions,  but it fell on deaf ears. They were set. 

How much nicer was an Easter Egg going to taste if they had fasted from chocolate for the whole forty days? I agreed that it would indeed. 

And how much happier would they be if they were nice to each other instead of being mean and hurty?  Of course, how could I disagree?  

And how much happier would I be if they were polite and well-mannered for the next forty days?  Indeed. And less naggy. 

Their faces were alight with good intentions. At that moment they were ready to take on the world. How could I dissuade them? Should I have tried? 

So they are off. Ships in full sail. Rocks a-waiting just offshore.

I love them. Maybe some people's six and four-year-olds are more tuned into Lent and grasp the concept better than mine; I don't know. Perhaps I haven't been consistent in my explanations - or my modelling of appropriate Lenten behaviour - over the years. Still, I have to start somewhere. 

Nobody asked me what I was doing for Lent. 

I've had trouble deciding, to be honest. Last year I gave up Facebook for Lent and I rediscovered lots of time, some of which I gave back to you, didn't I? (Logging off for Lent) It was a humbling experience. I learned a lot. This year the same thing doesn't jump at me as it did last year when I knew from the moment someone suggested it that I had to give it a go. So I've been searching.

I've decided to do something, rather than not do something. I'm feeling poorly and vulnerable and not very brave so I wanted to make it small, achievable and meaningful. Something that I had an outside chance of managing. 

I'm going to write in my prayer diary every day. Each day I'm going to write something positive from that day. It might be a short thing - a list, or it might turn into a prayer. It's like half the Examen; the life-affirming half. For someone like me who tends to the negative, the pessimistic, it should be good for me. 

I am so poor at a regular prayer time that I toyed with saying that I would make sure I had a time with you every day, but I haven't really solved the problem of when and where to find peace each day with any sense of regularity or rhythm. I have resolved this so many times over the past year or so that I feared that it would simply be a meaningless echo until I find the thing that's missing (discipline? energy? insight?)  that means I can do it. So my aim got smaller and that's what I came up with.

I will visit my prayer diary each day and tell you what the best thing of the day has been. 

With your help, I will.  Without it, I'm incapable of even the little things.

I shall try to steer my girls away from the inevitable shipwreck and when it happens I shall preach never mind, let's try again (maybe just with the chocolate?). When my own personal shipwreck happens, I will climb back on the horse straight away (now there's a lovely mixed metaphor) and try again. 

I am emotionally and physically frail at the moment. I feel as if I'm not capable of much. 

Bless our little attempts, Father. Even those destined for failure. Hold my little girls close to you, please. Give me the words to be much better at telling them about you. 

As Lent starts, Lord God, give me your hand to lift me out of this place of ill health and inertia and claw my way up through the low cloud to a place where I can see a bit more clearly. 

I know from experience that when I manage to give you just a little, you give me so very much. Bless my attempt to open my hands this Lent, Lord. 

Prepare my heart for Easter. 

I give myself away

Hello, God.

I was wondering what to say. Whether to say nothing, or whether to draw to your attention (not that you'd have missed anything so momentous, ha ha) that this will be the two-hundredth time that I've sent you a little letter/prayer/bit of waffle while sitting here at this computer.

I have let it all out two hundred times, or will have when I've finished here today.

I have giggled and wondered and complained and sighed and grumbled and cried and even on occasion I've SHOUTED. I have come to you in every mood that I have experienced and you have always been here next to me. You've never told me that you're too tired to listen to me, or that I'm annoying you, or that I bore you. You've never been anything but supportive and interested and even if now and again I amuse you, I've always felt loved.

200
Made from smiley stones
from the beach

I know that this milestone doesn't mean anything to anyone but me, who wondered if I could stick at this writing thing. There's no reason why it should.

The thing is, I want to make sure that I don't wander too far from the path with this.

I want to make sure that I don't begin to think that this is mine, my thing. That I'm actually quite good at it, and wasn't that a good idea? And how nicely I put that. And that was quite a cool photograph, wasn't it? And all those sort of self-congratulatory things.

I want to say here at two hundred just as I said at one hundred, and when I first started out, that this is yours. I'm not quite sure how, but this is my little offering and I want to bring glory to you.

I know that you wanted me to do it.

I know that I can't do it without you. I know that I wouldn't experience a single moment's insight, or have a solitary idea without you. I know that it is only because of you that I can make sense of things that I read, or express myself to explore what it is that I think, or feel, or believe. I know that it's you that gives me the words and I have long understood that the reason that I quite often start out in one frame of mind while writing this and then finish feeling so completely different is because of you.

I know that you know me better than I know myself and I understand that my meanderings don't benefit you in any way and yet you are generous enough to bless me through them.  I have made new friends, I have learned from other people and I have learned so very much about myself. Better than any of that I have learned so much about you. I have grown enormously because of your hand on me as I sit here and tap tap away.

I wanted to say thank you but I wasn't sure how to say it and then in church on Sunday we sang this lovely lovely song that I haven't come across before. It says exactly what I wanted to say to you and it seems like a good song to sing to you right now.

I Give Myself Away - William McDowell

Here I am
Here I stand
Lord, my life is in your hands
Lord I'm longing to see
Your desires revealed in me
I give myself away

I give myself away

I give myself away

So you can use me

I give myself away

I give myself away

So you can use me.

Take my heart
Take my life
As a living sacrifice
All my dreams, all my plans
Lord I place them in your hands.


My life is not my own
To you I belong
I give myself, I give myself to you


I give myself away.

Lord God, thank you for all that you give me, all that you teach me, all that you are. Thankyou for the glimpses I see of you, the things you want to show me. I pray now that I might never be so wrapped up in words and ideas or too inward looking to gaze up at you.

I give you all my dreams and plans. The delicate, fragile hopes that don't often get brought out into the daylight; you know them. I lay them down in front of you, because they are yours already. You gave me my life, Lord, and I want to give it back to you. I give you all that I am, the good bits and the bad bits. The bits that I'm proud of and the bits that I'm ashamed of. If I wait until it's all clean and polished to a high shine than I'd wait forever. Also if I wait until I'm willingly surrendering every last bit of my life then I would still be hanging back when I breathe my last. You know the parts that are hard to let go of, Father, there are no surprises for you; you know what I'm like.

And you love me anyway.

You know what I hope for, what I long for, what I'm afraid of. You made me this way. I'm a work in progress. I know that I'm not finished yet, but I also know that you can use me just as I am. I don't have to attain heights of holiness to do something for you and that's why I can echo the words of this song - 'I'm longing to see your desires revealed in me.'

Lord, show me new things. Teach me to find you in everything. To see things as you would have me see them. To hear your voice in the commonplace and the extraordinary alike. To praise you, to show your glory to other people. If ever I'm starting to think that it's because of me, remind me who you are again. I want to be useful to you.

It's all for you, Father God.

Who do I think you are?

Who are you, God? 

Who do I think you are? 

Reading Margaret Silf's book on prayer again (The Gift of Prayer: Embracing the spiritual in the everyday) and she makes a good point. 

Who do I think that I pray to? What is it that I think you're going to do? What do I expect of you? 

Who are you? 

Are we looking for a satisfier of our shopping list requests?

Are we looking for a fireman to rescue us from 

an emergency?

Are we looking for a parent figure to tell us what

to do next?

Yes, yes and yes. Sometimes someone who'll solve some problems for me in short order. Make people that I care about better. Make it so that we get home before my daughter is sick in the car. Help me get to sleep. Help me say the right thing in that conversation. 

Sometimes I want to shout for you and for you to come running, please. Like the Fireman. Or an ambulance blue-lighting me to hospital.  Or like Daddy when a small child wails with a grazed knee. 'Lord, something awful has happened! Lord, help me! Lord, I'm stuck! I'm afraid! I'm angry! It's an emergency. Need you now'.  I want you to scoop me up and make it better. Make it un-happen. 

And then I want my Father to sit down and listen to my dilemma with rapt attention and tell me what the best course of action might be. So that then I can go off in peace and do as I'm told without the responsibility of it. Without having to be the one who made the choice in case it's wrong. If I'm doing your will, it will be ok, won't it? So tell me what to do because I'm afraid of making mistakes, of getting it wrong. Of looking silly. Of doing the wrong thing. I don't want to use my brain, or try to work it out - I just want you to tell me. If you were to make it all clear, Lord, then the chances are that I wouldn't come running to you to put it right when it goes wrong, would I?  So easier all round in the long run. 

Do what I want you to do, when I want, will you? 

Do it quickly when it's an emergency. And I'll decide what constitutes an emergency, ok?

Tell me what to do next when I need to know. Of course, there are times when I already know, so if you could just incorporate what I think is best into your plan as well, we'll all be happy. Won't we?

How did Margaret Silf get in my head, then? How did she know that I think this way? Could it be that other people think this way?

Is God an operations manager 

who puts our plans into effect in the way we desire?

Oops. I think I just said pretty much exactly that, didn't I? Ahem. I didn't mean it quite like that...

Is God a policeman or a strict teacher,

always on the watch for us

to make a mistake

and lay ourselves open to punishment?

Clocking up our good and evil deeds

to decide whether we get through the entrance exam

for heaven?

Ah. Now this I can relate to. I know it's not right but sometimes I do find myself thinking that you're there to catch me out. That when I mess up it's a black mark against me and you won't forget. Even though I know that you not only forgive me but you have promised to remember my sins no more I still wonder if things happen to me that I deserve. Maybe it's payback time... maybe this is why this happened... what goes round comes round...

I am so glad that I keep coming back to your promise that if you wash us, if you cleanse us with your forgiveness, that we will be clean. Properly clean. Justified. Redeemed. Invited to approach you as friends. As your children. As heirs in the Kingdom of God. This doesn't sit well with the image of you as a nitpicking judge who is never satisfied with our behaviour. I know you better than that. 

Yet still I fall for it from time to time. Still the little insinuating voice of the other guy penetrates and I find myself wondering if I've blown it this time. If there's a way back. If I've offended you so properly this time that you won't listen to my prayers any more...

Or perhaps God is an employer,

who drains the last ounce of energy from us 

and demands our unpaid overtime

in our efforts to 'do God's will'?

Ha. This is the chasing my tail thing. The feeling that I'm a hamster on a wheel and I can't move fast enough for there is so much that needs doing; good things. Committees to be on, projects to help with. Things to volunteer for. Rotas, ideas, innovations. Arrangements to make. Commitments to make. 

I've learned this lesson. I'm sure that won't stop me needing to learn it again every so often but at least it's still familiar. I know that you don't want me to be so busybusybusy for church, for life, for you that I never get a chance to stop and think. Stop and pray. Stop and be. I know that I need to say 'no' once in a while. I'm getting much better at it, to be honest. If I get to the point when I should say 'yes' now and again, give me a prod, will you? 

Or is God the fixer,

who keeps us safe, 

solves our problems,

rearranges creation

too suit our needs?

Now I'm a bit confused. You are sort of like a fixer, aren't you? Is it wrong to ask you to keep me safe? When I have a problem I do come to you. Shouldn't I come to you? I'm not convinced about the rearranging creation bit, though I have to say that at times it might seem like a good idea to me. Bit like praying in a geography exam that Mt Everest might turn out to be in England because I chose b) rather than d). 

You know what I think? I think that maybe you are a tiny, tiny bit of all these misconceptions. You do keep me safe. You sometimes fix things. You sometimes ask me to push myself more than I want to. You sometimes call me to account and let me know that I've displeased you. You do guide me and rescue me and above all you hear every last prayer that I pray, whether it's misguided or childish or perfectly formed and theologically on the ball. 

To subscribe to any one of these misconceptions is to skew our view of you, I know. To believe that you are a policeman or a magician or a sticking plaster is to try to pin you down and make you small and understandable and to get it wrong. But hey, I'm human, aren't I? If I got a grasp of who you really are I guess it would blow my mind.

These are caricatures of course,

and yet, how easily, how subtly, we slip into

one or other of these false and damaging images of God.

One or other, or all, at some time or another...

Because we are human, this will always be so, to some extent.

But to recognise the limitations of our images of God

is an important step to going beyond them. 

Sometimes I get a glimpse of you, Lord. Sometimes I get a second's sense of how vast and brilliant you are. How brightly you shine. The beauty of you. But I'm not equipped to hold a thought like that. So I try to bring you down to my level. To ask you to do what I want you to do. 

I try to assert my independence even in prayer, don't I? 'Not my will be done, but yours...but if you could make your will a bit like mine that'd be great.'

Lord, forgive me when I behave as though you were something that diminishes your glory. Forgive me when I want you to be something other than you are; for anything else is inferior. My imagination can't create anything worthy of you. 

Teach me to pray again, Lord. Help me to take it apart and build it in the way you would want it built.

Margaret Silf 'The Gift Of Prayer: Embracing the sacred in the everyday' 2004, Lion Hudson, Oxford, England. 

Continued... next day....

Well, thank you Lord for a little word in my ear this morning.

We sang this song in church today and I love that I heard you speak through this special lyrics.

You are For Me by Kari Jobe

So faithful, so constant and so true
So powerful in all you do
You fill me, you see me
You know my every move
You love for me to sing to you

So patient, so gracious, so merciful and true
So wonderful in all you do
You fill me, you see me
You know my every move
You love for me to sing to you

I know that you are for me, I know that you are for me

I know that you will never forsake me in my weakness

And I know that you have come now even if to write upon my heart

To remind me who you are.

Lord, yesterday I was asking who you were. I was exploring misconceptions that I fall for so often about you. I get it wrong. I make you into something less than you are. My image of you as my loving father gets all skewed and I get confused and scared and diminish you. I wanted to see you and hear you and understand something of what you're like and today you told me, 'alright then, this is me'.

Faithful, constant, true, powerful, fulfilling, all-knowing, all-seeing, loving. Patient, gracious, merciful, wonderful. The main thing that I need to remember, though, my loving Father who smiles when I sing to you with all my heart - I need to remember that you are for me. You are on my side. You will never turn your back on me, no matter how wrong I get it.

I know that you are for me.

And when I wonder, when I search, when I look for you, you lean down and write on my heart.

To remind me who you are.

Love you, Lord. Thankyou.

Fear and dismay

'So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.'

Isaiah 41:10

You tell me not to be afraid. God in heaven, Creator of the world, eternal Father, you bend down to me here in my little life and you whisper 'Don't be afraid.'  How then, can I worry and fear and fret about things?  And yet I do. When I read a verse like this and really read it; read it over to myself and emphasise different words each time, that's when I am taken aback at the enormity of it. 

'So do not fear, for I am with you'

Because you are near. You are here, you are near. I read something the other day and the author of the book at one point says, 'He is closer than you think.'  I can't get my head around it; I can't see you and I've never 'heard' you in an ear sort of way. I sometimes sense you, and I am sometimes overwhelmed by you, so I know that it's true, but how happy those people who saw you with their eyes, sat with you and shared a meal. 

How blessed to have drunk the wine that you made from jars of water. How happy to have danced with you at a wedding feast. Wow. What a thought! Suddenly I'm sitting here smiling because I can see you laughing and singing and enjoying yourself at that wedding in Cana. Feeling for the hosts when the wine ran out, doing as your mother asks and making more simply so that the party would go on. That people would have fun at a wedding. Having a good time. Celebrating. You knew joy, didn't you? When I open a bottle of wine later this evening I will think of you.

I've got tears in my eyes. 

'Do not be dismayed, for I am your God.'

You are my God. You are my God!  

You have given me permission to call you mine. If that's not an amazing thing, I don't know what is.

Dismay is a good word. Makes me think of that facial expression which is a combination of surprise and anxiety and disappointment. I often feel dismayed. When things don't go my way and when I can't control what is happening. When things go wrong. When I get unwelcome news. When I've just turned over to a comfortable spot in bed with a cool bit of pillow and the alarm goes off. No, actually, that's more like horror than dismay - but I'm being flippant. 

Dismay peppers my life, sometimes. Punctuates the sentences of my day, even a good day. Dismay at the bathroom scales, dismay at the weather, dismay at the spilled drink, dismay at the news. Dismay at the trivial and the serious. But you have said that not only are you here, but you are my God, and that should be enough to quell fear and banish dismay. I need to lean on you more heavily, I think. Turn to you, for you are right here, not to friends, or the internet, or food, or anything or anyone else. You are right here. God is here. I don't need to be dismayed.

'I will strengthen you and help you'

I am weak but you are strong. You have strength to spare. You see my weakness and you don't let me fall over and lie still; you give me strength to get me through. You help me. I am not enough on my own, but with you at my side, I cannot lose. I have nothing to fear, not even fear itself, for you are my God and you are nearer than I can dream. 

You understand my problems and you know how I feel. You know my temptation to give up and you know when I run out of whatever it is that I need; courage, patience, determination, strength, resolve, commitment, self control. You are here and you will help me. 

I am never alone. 

'I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.'

The same hand that made the universe and everything in it, that created the first man and woman, the hand that was nailed to a cross, the hand that triumphs in battle - you reach out to hold onto me. You stop me from falling. When my legs go from under me, you are there. 

It gives me a picture of me, leaning heavily on you on a battlefield, injured or exhausted or faint or something, and you, mighty warrior, gently leading me to a safe place. Your righteous right hand. A hand that never makes mistakes. A hand that always does what is right. 

Worthy, honest, righteous. The things I'm not, and yet you reach out to me. 

Lord God, I don't know how many times in the Bible you tell us not to be afraid. (Yes I do; I've just Googled it. Seems that 'Do not fear' or words to that effect are in the Bible around 365 times).

You tell us not to be afraid once for every day in the year. It sounds as if it was a message that you wanted to get through to us. Something that you wanted us to understand. A message that you keep telling me, over and over. Help it to sink in, Lord. 

Help me to remember when I go about my intermittently fearful life that you are here. You are with me. I am your child and you are my God. You will strengthen me and you will uphold me with your righteous right hand. You told me so and you don't lie.

I don't need to be afraid. Help me translate that into my life so that it shows. In a world full of fear and dismay, help me to lean on my God's arm. With you at my side why on earth should I creep through this world apologetically and fearfully? It makes no sense. 

Thankyou for being with me. Help me to be aware of your presence every minute of every day. Every breath that I take may I breathe you in. 

'The Lord is with me; I will not be afraid.'

Psalm 118:6

Amen.