A feeling for things

'Six days before the Passover, Jesus came to Bethany, where Lazarus lived, whom Jesus had raised from the dead. Here a dinner was given in Jesus' honour. Martha served, while Lazarus was among those reclining at the table with him. Then Mary took about a pint of pure nard, an expensive perfume; she poured it on Jesus' feet and wiped his feet with her hair. And the house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume.'

John 12: 1-3

I knew from the first time I met Jesus that he was special. 

No, I knew before then - I’d only heard about him but I knew in my heart. I have a feeling for things, and the older I get the more I’ve learned to trust that feeling. I heard about this teacher and the way that he stunned crowds with his words and I felt a longing to be close to him, to know him. I wondered for a while if it was the usual longing that a woman might have for a man, but disregarded that idea; it was more than that. It was something about the essence of him. I felt as if being close to him would feed me on a fundamental level, as if he were the answer to a question I’d never known to ask. It was as if my soul was reaching for him. 

I knew when he came to our house that everything in my life until that day had been unimportant up to that point. I didn’t want to miss a single word. I knew that my sister was rushing around preparing the food and arranging the table, and I understood what she was doing - we’d enjoyed making those plans together only the day before. We wanted it to be just right, and yet here was I discarding our timetable and abandoning Martha - to sit at Jesus’ feet. Nothing else seemed important. At first I wanted to catch hold of her sleeve as she swept past and whisper to her to stop, stay; but soon even that thought was lost, so captivated was I with my Lord. 

Jesus saw me; he saw my very heart. He knew all about me - all about the rubbish in my past that I don’t speak about, every hope, disappointment, dream and hurt. He saw every shadow in my soul and still he loved me. 

I think I knew then that Jesus was the Son of God, but I didn’t know what to do with that knowledge and while I held it in my heart, turning this this way and that, events just took over. 

There was the awful day that my brother died. We were beside ourselves, Martha and I. He was so ill, we knew that Jesus could help. We tried and tried to get a message to him, but still he didn’t come, and then.. it was too late. Ah, but it turned out that it’s never too late, didn’t it?  Not for him. 

Not for Jesus. 

My beloved brother had died, and we were lost in grief. We were overwhelmed. And then he came. You know what happened then - can there be anyone who denies that Jesus is Lord?

And here he was again at our table. I couldn’t grasp how blessed we were that Jesus would call us friends. That he would treat our home like his own and relax at our table. I watched Mary pour his wine, and I saw the light in her eyes as he laid a hand on her arm in thanks. I saw my brother  - the one who was dead and yet lives! - I saw him lean towards Jesus in concentration. I watched my Lord as he gestured, as his brow furrowed and smoothed, as his eyes twinkled and became serious, as he laughed, taught, teased and looked into the souls of these men who believed in him. 

I drank it all in, and I saw Him. I saw how precious he was, not just to me, but to the whole world. I saw that he was our Saviour, whatever that might mean. I understood something at the deepest level - I knew that time with our friend was drawing to a close. I felt the urgency, a foretaste of awful grief to come, yet mingled with deep excitement and hope. A sense of something terrible and mysterious. 

I had to do something. It had to be something big, something extravagant to demonstrate how much I loved him. I felt as if my heart would burst. Without really thinking, I took hold of the precious jar of perfume that we were saving and I broke its lid. Immediately the fragrance began to fill the room. It was delicious and ominous, that scent of spices. Sweet and heavy. I had often brought this jar to my cheek to try to smell the contents but it’s only when a jar is cracked that the fragrance can spill out. 

Quickly I sank to my knees at Jesus’ feet. All eyes turned my way, but I didn’t lift my head. Cradling his feet on my lap I poured the perfume over them. I was outside myself, watching as I did this crazy thing, and yet never more in the moment. Swiftly, trying to catch all the rivulets of oil as they flowed over his feet, I massaged with both hands. I used my thumbs, my palms, the tips of my fingers.  I felt the callouses of a man who has walked for many miles in sandals that have not always fit well. His feet were hot and dusty and the sweet oil smooth and refreshing. I will remember that moment all my life - the intimacy of it. I knew that Jesus was staring at me, and I knew that all conversation had stopped, and it was for those precious moments as if there were only the two of us in that place. I knelt and massaged my Lord’s tired feet with my best perfume. 

Tears ran down my face. This was all I could do for him. It was the best I could offer. The most profound demonstration of love and recognition. This man was heading to Jerusalem. Time was short. I had no words, only this moment. 

Who was I to even touch his feet? Yet here was the Son of the living God at my table, with his tired eyes and calloused feet. How I loved him. I didn’t stop to think of the consequences - that perfume was more expensive than anything else we had in the house and I had used it all up on my Lord. But he was beyond price. It was worth it; I would do it again if I could. 

The tears fell and the oil soaked into his skin and my hands stilled. I bent over and wept and tears dripped onto the feet I had just anointed.  My hair had come loose from its braid and fell forwards over my shoulder and I used it to wipe away the splashes.  My breath was ragged and the scene blurred as I cried. I smoothed my hair across his feet, spilled more tears on his toes, bowed low in front of him and kissed his feet as I wept. I was undone.

My Lord and my God. 

Even when Judas, the keeper of the purse, spoke harshly about me, I didn’t raise my eyes. It made no difference to me what anyone thought but he whose feet I cradled in my lap. When I heard his voice it was as if he had reached and lifted my chin so that my eyes met his.

‘Leave her alone,’ he said. 

‘She has anointed me for burial.’ 

He understood. I laid my cheek against his perfumed feet and I knew that one day in this manner I would cradle his lifeless body.

Matthew 26:6

John 12:1

Mark 14:1




Linking with Ruth Povey and Sabrina Fowles for the Unprompted link-up. Every second Tuesday. 

Climbing to get nowhere

I’m climbing. 

Hand over hand, trying to find footholds and holding on so tightly that my knuckles are white and my fingers hurting from gripping the cold metal.  I am halfway up a telecoms mast of some sort. It’s on the very top of a tall skyscraper, the part that reaches up beyond the concrete and glass almost into the clouds making the very highest point.  It’s an aerial, a mast to pick up a signal or something. It’s thin and sways in the wind – and there is quite a wind up here.

I’m afraid I’ll fall. I’m using the narrow rungs and handles that fearless maintenance men use, but I am not fearless; I am terribly afraid. My breath is coming in shudders and gasps and my progress is painfully slow as I have to check each cold, rusty handhold and foothold before I can raise a leg or an arm to get higher.

I know that if I fall, it’s a very, very long way down.

God is with me. He’s right there, and I know that He won’t let me fall, but this is not a comforting security as it was when we stepped through the door marked Fear and flew together miles above the earth. He is watching me carefully. He is on a level with me – I don’t know if He’s standing on thin air or floating somehow, but he is a few feet away, watching me as I struggle to climb the mast.

He isn’t pleased with me. He’s not angry, He’s sort of sad - He doesn’t like what I’m doing. He watches, protecting me, but He is not approving.  I know that He won’t let me fall, but He has withheld the sense of safety and peace from me.

I climb. Ragged breath, painful hands, cold against the rough and sharp edges of the metal. I have no gloves and insufficient clothes in the bitingly cold wind that threatens to blow me off.

I am high. I am almost at the highest point, the tip of the tallest building. The view should be breathtaking from up here, but I am so full of fear and looking for the next step, the next rung, that I cannot look around. It’s a technical climb and it takes all my concentration. I have climbed this high to see all that I could see, but now that I’m here, I am too preoccupied to take it in.

I am exhausted.

God is showing me that it’s a fruitless climb. I am as high as it’s possible to get climbing in my own strength up a man-made structure. I am as high as I can get and yet it is frightening, risky and unsatisfying. He will never leave me, but the enormous effort I am putting in to climb so high is ultimately fruitless.

With God I flew, high up in the clouds – much higher than this. Holding His hand I stepped through a door that frightened me, and with His arm around me I was no longer afraid. We flew, glided, soared, and it was effortless. It was exhilarating and the view was so, so beautiful. Time stopped still so that I could appreciate the sunlight glittering on water, birds flying in formation, fields in a patchwork of green and yellow. There was a gentle breeze, but it was cooling, refreshing.

I was free.

Contrast that with this. I am worn out and in pain, trapped on the mast. I am frustrated and afraid and so, so cold. Far from that feeling of weightlessness, I know that my own body weight is causing the thin tower to bend and I hug the mast close to me, fearful of the swaying movement of the metal.

The wind fills my ears with loud, distracting sound.  I worry that I couldn’t hear God’s voice up here even if He chose to speak to me, but He is silent. In any case, I am too preoccupied with holding on.

God is still there, just as He was when we flew together, but there is no joy in the way we relate to each other. He looks at me with sadness and concern in His eyes, and my glance is resentful; that He is watching but not helping me. In the sky, when I trusted Him completely, He looked at me with delight and we laughed together. Now, He seems resigned, disappointed.

My experience in the sky with the Lord God was characterized by freedom, joy, peace. A sense of space, of being able to breathe. Climbing on my own up the mast above a skyscraper I am terrified, vulnerable, hurting, and I cannot catch my breath. Up there, with Him, the clouds we sailed through were refreshing, stimulating. Here, on this tower, they are deadening. I feel suffocated.

He is showing me that when I am with Him, I can go so much higher than I can on my own. No matter how hard I try, how high I climb using my own energy, my own skill, my own strength, it will never bring me the satisfaction I want. On a man-made structure I will sway dangerously in the wind, I will hurt myself trying and still I won’t get very far. The view from up there will always be disappointing.

He will not leave me, but I will not see the things I long to see. I can only do that if trust His strong arm around my shoulders and hold tightly to His hand and go where He leads.

I cannot do it on my own.

I want to fly, free and effortless, with my God, not try and try to climb and wear myself out trying. I want the peace, the freedom, the breathtaking beauty of the view on His terms, not mine. I want to hold His hand, and when He is by my side, when I have His strength coursing through me, replacing my own flimsy courage with something perfect and invincible, I can do anything.

‘I can do all things through Him who gives me strength.’

Philippians 4:13

See also The door marked 'Fear', January 2014 for the one about flying with God.

Image credit:  Top_of_The_Rock_IMG|_6522.JPG by rose vita, courtesy of Morguefile.com. Used with permission.

The door marked 'Fear'

I was in a room. A square room like a line drawing, painted beige. Like an illustration from a corporate manual for fire drills or something. A square room with no windows and no furniture. But there was a door. 

The door was the door to Fear, and it stood wide open. Not inviting but threatening. From where I was standing, I could see that out there was nothing. Well, I could see sky, wispy, high clouds, but nothing else. A void. Empty space. It was so frightening that I backed away as far as I could until my back was pressed against the opposite wall. I desperately didn't want to go anywhere near the doorway. 

Then I realised that God was in the room with me. He was a man, but I can't describe his face. He was tall, and strong, wearing a cable-knit sweater. He smiled at me, and walked over to the door. He looked out, and I called him to come back away from the edge. It's dangerous, I said. He half turned to me and smiled. He leaned against the door frame, and held out his hand to me. 

Shall we go? He said.

He wanted me to walk through the doorway with him. I refused, shaking my head vigorously, eyes wide. I pressed myself harder against the wall. He held out his hand again and leaned towards me. 

I won't let you fall. We won't fall, we'll fly. 

Really? I asked, doubtful.

We won't fall, we'll fly. 

Moments went by. The room was still. Me, pressed tight against the wall full of fear and anxiety; God, relaxed and patient, encouraging, his hand outstretched. I wanted so badly to trust him. My heart was pounding and my head ached. 

I walked towards him a few small steps and he met me in the middle of the room. I took his left hand and it closed around mine, big and warm and rough. I held on tightly. We stood on the threshold of the door for a second and then simultaneously we stepped out.

My eyes were tightly closed.

I fell forwards as if I'd tripped over something, until I was in a lying position, my left hand held out in front of me as if to break my fall. God held onto my right hand. We didn't fall. 

We were flying. 

I opened my eyes. I could see the world far, far down beneath us. I could see fields and forests, towns and lakes. The sunlight glinted on the rivers and we flew over hills and cities and over the edge of land and over the sea. I could see everything. It was very beautiful. 

I was still tense and anxious. I was afraid that God would let go of me. I was afraid that he'd pull his hand away and leave me to try to fly on my own, or to fall. He understood, and he pulled me towards him until he could reach over me, arm around my shoulders, and hold both hands, one in each of his. 

Is that better? he asked.

Yes, I replied. I could feel the warmth and strength of his body alongside mine. I was close to him - under his arm. I felt safe. 

God looked at me and laughed at the relief and wonder he saw on my face. He was delighted that I was enjoying myself. He squeezed my hands and I squeezed back, nestled close. 

The air was cool and clear, refreshing. When we flew through wisps of cloud they were made of sparkling droplets. I felt exhilarated, thoroughly alive. Free. Gliding, soaring, somehow flying. It was effortless. I was so relaxed that I could take in the earth-scene below, I could look around - look into the laughing eyes of God, full of love and kindness; I could look up into the patterns that the clouds made far above as the sky became a darker shade of blue. 

I could breathe. I was filling my lungs with clean, pure air. The wind was in my hair but it was silent, gentle, invigorating. I was laughing with the sheer joy of freedom. 

With God beside me, I could fly. 

I looked behind me to see if the door was still there; it was. There was a box hanging in the sky some distance away. The door was now closed - there was no way back even if I'd wanted to go back into the square room. I didn't want to go back there. How could I ever have thought that I was safer in there? A small box, hanging in space thousands of feet above the earth? 

I realised how small and claustrophobic that room had been. How stifling, suffocating; hot and oppressive. And out here, holding onto the hand of the living God, soaring and gliding in the open air among the clouds, cool and fresh and free. 

I would never go back there. I glanced back once more to see the sealed door, but it had disappeared. 

I looked at God, and he smiled and held me closer. 

We laughed, and we flew. 

The other side of the bongs

So, Christmas is over and the New Year is lurking perilously close, just out of sight but definitely there.  Waiting. The conveyor belt that is life is carrying me helplessly nearer the end of this old year and towards the yawning opening that is the New one and there's nothing I can do to stop it. Hence 'helplessly'. Nice bit of redundancy there.

This is an anxious time of year for me, as you might have gathered. You know me inside and out, Lord God, and so nobody will be more aware than you that my discomfort levels rise round about now. 

I have always thought that the New Year has such potential, but in my experience it rarely lives up to it. I have spent many years trying to find the perfect way to spend New Year and as the 31st bong-bong-bongs into the 1st with Big Ben's chimes it has found me in a variety of places.

I have been in pubs counting down the 10-9-8 with a few hundred other inebriated individuals looking for fun and company; I've been on London Bridge for the Millennium celebrations packed tightly together with a few million other cold and squashed people looking at the fireworks reflected in the Thames and the flashing blue lights of an ambulance as it tried in vain to reach a man whose heart chose the worst time ever to stop. 

I've been at parties with paper hats and party poppers poised for explosion as Big Ben chimes the big chime, and I've been on the sofa with one other precious person and a glass of champagne watching celebs act silly on the telly.

I've even tried going to bed at ten and sleeping through it more than once. I've found that this particular course of action actually has the most positive effect on mood on 1 January. It may be that it's to be recommended, but then it's a shame to miss it if New Year has such potential, isn't it?

The best one? I was once in Antarctica sitting on the deck of a ship on honeymoon with my husband (who else?) and we sat, party clothes bundled up underneath huge puffy jackets, hair squished under woolly hats and hands buried in pockets.

We were the only ones outside as a party went on below.

The icebergs loomed pale in the light from the windows and the only sound was the wind. The sea was inky black, the sky inkier still, with more stars than I've ever seen. The milky way was there in all it's cloudy glory and the stars of the southern hemisphere fascinated my amateur astronomer husband used to different sky.  Fireworks forbidden because of pollution, as the year turned into the next one, the Captain sounded the ship's horn - a long, melancholy wail that must have made the penguins jump. It was moving. That was probably the best way to see in the New Year that I've tried. 

But whatever I do, the moment passes and there's what to do next. The old year has gone and the reality is that it's the middle of the night - a night like any other - and the next day is inevitably an anti-climax. It's  now January, still winter, still cold/wet/windy/bleak/dank and there seems nothing to look forward to. The festive season is well and truly over and the decorations look out of place. 

What, then? 

Why does the New Year depress me and make me anxious? I think it's about letting go. As one year rolls into the next, I have to let go what's past. 

I'm not very good at this, am I? 

As the sort of woman who replays every significant (and, often, insignificant) conversation in her mind for hours afterwards wishing she'd said it differently and wondering what the other person thinks, letting a whole year slip from my hands is hard. 

For me, with a tendency to live too much in the past, New Year feels like the loss of something. A familiar year. Better the devil you know (Ahem. Sorry). The outgoing year feels like a battered old comfy sofa and I sort of want to stay sprawled on it rather than get up and walk through that dazzlingly bright doorway to who knows where.

I tend to favour licking the wounds of the outgoing year than looking forward to the new one. A new year is full of possibility, yes; but if your glass is half empty instead of half full then it's also full of hurdles and challenges and difficulties. It's a scary blank page, a white space. Unsullied. Perfect in it's untouchedness. And I'm about to stumble all over it and reach out with sticky fingers and mess it up.

See? I've just splurged out all my New Year angst. It's going to happen whether I'm all ready for it or not. That conveyor belt that I'm riding has no manual override. Well, there is, but only you control the button. 

'Blessed is the man who trusts in the Lord, whose confidence is in Him.'
Jeremiah 17:7

And that's it, really, isn't it?

I trust you. 

I trust you to lead me into the New Year and I trust you that there is nothing waiting the other side of those bongbongbongs that we can't handle together. There's nothing there that you haven't seen already and there's nothing there that will surprise or shock you, even if it frightens the pants off me.

My confidence is in you, not in me. On my own I rush things, I speak too soon and too much, I make mistakes, I break promises, I don't do what I should do and I do what I shouldn't. When my confidence is in me, I come unstuck.

This coming year - I will trust in you.

This year I want to go where you want me to go. I want to put one foot in front of the other in the full knowledge that your footsteps are there already and there is no safer way to go than when I'm matching my stride with yours. There's no other certain way of getting where you want me to go.

Lord, the last few years have begun with a wonderful sense of anticipation and you haven't let me down. The anticipation is still there, but this year I feel a bit different; there's a scoop of trepidation too. I don't feel as if I'm leaping into the new year with much enthusiasm even though I have a strong sense that you're taking me somewhere. Part of me is excited but I'm a little wary as well. There seems so much to do. So many mountains to climb. Such a long way to go.

The dreams I have, even the ones that I am convinced that you've blessed, they seem so far away.

This morning in Sarah Young's 'Jesus Calling' I read:

'Enjoy the adventure of finding yourself through losing yourself in Me.'*

I read this and the New Year felt a little less scary.

I do have plans and hopes and dreams and ambitions and I know that you know what they are because you planted them in my heart. I know that your timing is better than mine even when I'm annoyed with you for not getting me there fast enough. I know that nothing is achieved without commitment and hard work and that nothing worthwhile ever comes easily. I know all those things. I believe that you'll take me a step closer this coming year.

But maybe the destination is not as important as the journey. The last few years it's seemed to me that you and I have been on a warp-drive trip together; you've been teaching me so much that at times my head has spun.  I know that you have more in store. I know that before I get where you want me to go, or do what you want me to do, you want me to be the person you want me to be.

So maybe the destination is not as important as the journey. At least not right now. Perhaps I can limp over the threshold of the new year holding onto your arm and leaning into you. Maybe I can fix my eyes on you so that your glory shows me the way and lights up the dark places on the way and shows me the potholes so I don't come crashing down. If the new year is a blank page then perhaps with you by my side you will give me the words to write on it.

I like the sound of an adventure if you are coming with me. I like the sound of finding myself - the me you created me to be. I like the sound of losing myself in you. In being so close to you that you rub off on me.

So close that I can reflect your light to a world that has too many shadows. I like the sound of inhabiting you, and you in me. Yes please, Lord God. I want all you have of that.

I'm wondering if starting a new year with quietness and deliberation and a confidence in something unshakeable is better than with a bang and a grand gesture and a flurry of dynamic resolutions.

You are the God of fresh starts. Help me to take off the fear and hang it up this side of the threshold, before I deliberately step through.

We're off on an adventure, you and me, aren't we?

I trust you.

Maybe the New Year is full of potential after all.



* Jesus Calling by Sarah Young, 2007 Integrity Publishers.

Edited and reposted from 2012 because it seems more relevant than ever. I trust you, Jesus. 

Come and worship

I've always loved Carol Services. 

If I can hold a candle and the church is nicely decorated and there's a choir and a band and so on, so much the better. The other night I walked down the road to church and on the way I asked you if you'd speak to me. If I could spend time with you - and feel your Presence there with me in the candlelight. 

Oh, Lord, you answered that prayer. 

The carols weren't just carols. They weren't the same over-familiar tunes and words that we trot out each year and know by heart because we dust them off each Christmas. For me, in row six, sitting next to a man who didn't sing a single word - not a single word! - it seemed fresh and new. 

Hark! The herald angels sing

Glory to the new born King

Oh, Lord Jesus. It was as if those angels were singing with us. The glorious company of heaven was watching the miraculous events in a small middle eastern town way back when and they were proclaiming the wonder of it for the very first time

.

Joyful, all ye nations, rise

Join the triumph of the skies

The very angels of heaven were singing to say, 'He's there! He's come to you! Can you believe it?'

As we sang the weariness of the day full of Christmas preparations melted away and I realised that I found a little bit of that joy deep inside. It's not a fluffy, light as a feather happy sort of feeling; no, it's a deep, weighty, full-bodied overwhelming thing. 

Light and life to all He brings

Risen with healing in His wings

Light. Life. Healing. Don't we all need those things? How I need them; I am broken in so many places. And you are the balm to my hurts, the light in my darkness, the answer to my question. 

As the candle flame in my hand flickered and people's faces were lit up and made beautiful with the soft light, the music soared and my soul reached for you. 

Born that man no more may die

Born to raise the sons of earth

Born to give them second birth

Born that we might live and not die. Born to lift us to heaven to be with you rather than strike us down and leave us where we deserve to be.

Oh, Father. What mystery is it that you came to earth and poured deity into a tiny wriggling body. How amazing that a young girl heard your voice and said 'Yes, let it be as you say', instead of 'You want me to do WHAT?' 

How wonderful that a good man stood by his faithful young wife and raised a baby that wasn't his?  

He came down to earth from heaven

Who is God and Lord of all

and His shelter was a stable

And His cradle was a stall

And the Saviour of the world had his birth day among animals and shepherds and other odd visitors? (Yes, I know, the wise men came some time later, but you know what I mean).

There isn't a palace in the world that man could make beautiful enough for you. There isn't a cathedral or a landscape or a crown of jewels that befits your majesty - but you chose a little known town in the back of beyond for your entry. 

Why? Because you had a Plan. 

God rest you merry, gentlemen

Let nothing you dismay

For Jesus Christ our Saviour

Was born upon this day

To save us all from Satan's power

When we were gone astray

Yeah, let's stay merry, people! Let's not let anything dilute or diminish the amazing thing that happened. You came to rescue us. You loved us too much to leave us in the mess we'd created, were creating, and would go on to create (and it's quite a mess). You came to bring us home to be with you, because you loved us. 

O, tidings of comfort and joy

Comfort and joy

O, tidings of comfort and joy

If that's not good news, I don't know what is. 

My God, it seemed amazing to me. Emmanuel - God with us. 

God. With. Us. Sing about it. 

Sing, choirs of angels

Sing in exultation

Sing, all ye citizens of heaven above

Glory to God

In the highest

O come, let us adore Him

Christ, the Lord. A tiny baby. 

Why exultation? Exulting? Lively, triumphant joy. Celebration of success, not just happiness. This is a triumph, and the angels could see how profound it was. Everything would be different, now. It was a game-changer. The earth was transformed that night and most people down here were completely oblivious to it, but the angels weren't. 

It was a big deal.

Ding dong! merrily on high

In heaven the bells are ringing

Ding dong! verily the sky

Is riven with angels singing

Gloria 

Hosanna in excelsis!

Riven! The sky was split across with the sound of the angels. Torn apart with the pealing of bells and heavenly host worshipping and celebrating. That must have been some sound.

Ye who sang creation's story

Now proclaim Messiah's birth

Come and worship

Christ the new-born King

We came and we worshipped. The choir sang in harmonies that must have pleased you. The band played music that lead us into your presence and the old songs meant something new.

We got to play a small part in the anniversary of that earth-shattering day in history.

E'en so here below, below...

Even so, here below. In my church, at Christmas 2013. Me. Even me. 

Now to the Lord sing praises

All you within this place

And I closed my eyes (making sure that my candle was still vertical and not dripping wax on the floor or setting fire to anyone's hair or anything) and I remembered the way I saw you on your throne with the scenes of glory and majesty and power and gentleness and unending, dramatic love playing out in your heart and I lifted my small, substandard, stained one to you. 

I think maybe even if we manage to see beyond the turkey and tinsel and gifts and Christmas telly sometimes we get too wrapped up in the tiny baby in a manger and no-crying-he-makes and all that. Even with the benefit of more than two thousand years we might miss the big picture - this baby was God. The Creator and sustainer of life, in a bed made of straw born to a normal girl who believed and her bemused husband. 

Christ by highest heaven adored

Christ the everlasting Lord

Adored by the angels of heaven and adored by me.

The Word made flesh. God with us. 

Oh, God, thank you for my glimpse past the familiar and into the realms of worship. Thank you that I heard an echo of the angels song and you let me add my poorly tuned but enthusiastic voice to the heavenly host.

Glorious now, behold him arise

King and God and sacrifice

Heaven sings, Alleluia!

Alleluia the earth replies

God with us. 

Jesus, our Emmanuel.

Amen and Alleluia. 

I saw you

I saw you. 

I haven't a clue whether what I saw was a glimpse given to me by you yourself, or a construct of my own from all the imagery and art I've seen - but it doesn't matter. One minute it wasn't in my head and the next, it was, in all its detail.

I saw you. 

You were sitting on your throne. I couldn't properly see because the light was so bright, so dazzling, but I knew it was you, and I was on my knees. 

Your throne was huge. Vast and endless. From behind and around it flowed the train of your robe just like this:

'...I saw the Lord, high and exalted, seated on a throne; and the train of his robe filled the temple.'

Isaiah 6:1

Your robe flowed like a river flowing over stones. It rippled and moved all around me and off in all directions. It was a deep, deep red, a King's robe made of velvet or something. Rich and luxurious and constantly moving; a living thing. 

Looking up, (I was so tiny in this picture) I could see your hands on the arms of your throne. Relaxed fingers curving over the arms, short nails and callouses. A proper man's hands. When you lifted them in an open gesture of peace and welcome, I could see the scars on the paler skin of your palms. 

The light was coming from all around you and I could not make out your face. You were not silhouetted, even though the light was behind you - it was streaming from you. White light, dazzlingly bright, with refracted beams of all colours. I could feel the warmth coming as if I was bathed in sunlight, and as you moved the rays of sunlight danced, making patterns on the rippling robe all around me almost like sunlight through water. 

I could not see your face, but I could make out your shape. I caught glimpses of a crown of glistening white metal with jewels of all colours, but no detail. You were seated on your throne and your glory was all-encompassing. I wanted to fall on my face but I could not take my eyes from you. Indeed, your proximity rocked me back on my heels. I opened my arms wide and knelt, watching. Absorbing. 

And then I realised that there was so much more than an outline. I saw pictures in the light at about chest height - it was as if I was seeing your heart. I wish I was an artist and could draw what I saw, because I'm not sure that words are enough. I wish I could make a film with CGI and special effects, because it was constantly shifting. 

I saw a rapidly changing picture. The different scenes flashed past so fast that they were almost subliminal and so describing what I saw is difficult. 

There was an endless sea with the sound of crashing waves. I saw a million starts in a night sky, a sunrise, a desert with twisting sand-dunes, a jungle with brightly coloured exotic birds. I saw forks of lightning in a dark, threatening sky, with great claps of thunder, a roaring lion, an eagle soaring, a huge oak tree, a single red rose.

I saw a couple kissing, a field of corn, a newborn baby crying, a rainbow over rolling hills. There was a little girl in a red dress twirling underneath a shower of apple blossom. I saw waterfalls and towering cliffs and a dandelion clock, heard birds singing, the sound of wind in a silver birch. Icebergs calving, starlings swirling,  leaping flames, drops of dew, rapid cloud formations and shoals of fish in the depths of the ocean. 

It went on and on. It was awe-inspiring, frightening, welcoming, wonderful. I was delighted and unnerved. You drew me in, showing me your immense power, consummate gentleness, your creativity and strength. 

You were all-consuming. Endless and boundless.

There was a sense of life. Hard to pin down - but it was vivid; a living scene. You were giving me a glimpse of who you were; your very nature.

I thought I was the only one there, but I realised that I was in a vast, immeasurable space with countless other people all gathered round you. I was on the front row, and yet there were thousands in front of me and all around. All eyes were fixed on you. Some people were smiling, others with tears streaming down their faces, others eyes closed, basking in the warmth radiating from you.

I felt a flood of emotions. Awe, hope, fear, delight, joy, excitement, peace - but most of all I felt at home. 

I could stay there forever.

A letter to fill you in. Or not.

I'd like to fill you in, but I can't. I don't know what's going on myself. 

I haven't been able to write for ages, and in normal circumstances not feeding the BlogMonster regularly isn't a great idea.  I've long since let go of the blog stats - sort of given 'em up as a bad job. That in itself is something, I think, as a year ago I used to check several times each day, hungrily waiting to see the spikes get higher per day, week, month. These days I rarely bother checking, and the spam robot things keep the numbers ticking over. 

It's been a combination of busyness, other unwelcome things occupying head space and eating away at the opportunity to write, and then an overwhelming absence of inspiration when I do have time. The lack of inspiration thing is generally new to me as I have gone for almost three years now constantly on the lookout for things to write about and usually find that ideas queue up to be explored. 

It's not as if I'm in a dark place, spiritually. 

I went to a conference a week or two ago and it was amazing; a mountain top experience, I think you call it. God showed up and made His presence felt. It was awe-inspiring, beautiful, challenging, reassuring, moving, wonderful - and yet I haven't a clue how to write about it. 

It's too big. 

So I'm letting the words fall out in any old order and not worrying too much about how elegant it is or how much sense I make. I hope that by trying to explain, I might start to understand a bit more.

I've taken a song away from the conference as my song for now. It's by Hillsong, and it's called 'Oceans (Where feet may fail)'.*

You call me out upon the waters

The great unknown where feet may fail

And there I find You in the mystery

In oceans deep

My faith will stand

And I will call upon Your name

And keep my eyes above the waves

When oceans rise

My soul will rest in Your embrace

For I am Yours and You are mine

Your grace abounds in deepest waters

Your sovereign hand

Will be my guide

Where feet may fail and fear surrounds me

You've never failed and You won't start now

Spirit lead me where my trust is without borders

Let me walk upon the waters

Wherever You would call me

Take me deeper than my feet could ever wander

And my faith will be made stronger

In the presence of my Saviour

And somewhere in there is my current confusion and why I'm struggling to write anything at the moment. 

At the beginning of the conference, I asked God in the pages of my journal to show me something new about Him, and something new about me. He answered my prayer. 

We sang.

'Spirit lead me where my trust is without borders - 

let me walk upon the waters wherever you would call me...' 

Tears streamed down my face. He gave me a glimpse of how much my soul longs for Him; I could barely sing the words, so full was I of yearning, reaching to go further, deeper after Him. I tend to tie myself in knots about my motivations, my commitment, whether my heart is in the right place. The strength of my own longing overwhelmed me.

Lead me where my trust is without borders...

My trust definitely has borders. It has a clearly defined perimeter, I think. I think God showed me that my trust in Him is not complete. At the same conference, Danielle Strickland spoke to us powerfully about living outside our comfort zone, about waking up and choosing a boundless life, and there it is again. Boundless. Unconstrained. Unlimited. 

I've been reading a book with a friend for a while now; we read a chapter and meet each week to discuss it. We're reading Lysa Ter Keurst's book, 'What Happens When Women Say Yes to God?' It's been an uncomfortable read, and we're only on chapter three. Over and over again I've said 'Yes' to God, but I wonder if my yeses have been measured, limited. 'Lord, show me where you're proposing to take me, and I'll tell you if I'm following.'

Another wise lady whose words I usually devour as food for the soul wrote the other week about Heidi Baker, and called her 'possibly the most surrendered woman in the world.'  I mentioned this to someone and they said they saw Heidi speak recently. She related an anecdote about the time she asked God why so often when she tried to speak to Western audiences she found herself so overcome by the Holy Spirit that she fell down, unable to say anything, and yet at home in her ministry in Mozambique, it rarely happens?  She said:

'And God answered me. He said, 'In Mozambique they don't have a problem with pride.'

Hmm.

My trust has borders. I sometimes come crashing into the edge of my trust in God. And then what? I panic. I stand still. I pull up the duvet. I turn to my own plans and efforts, to a friend, to food.  

I want to walk upon the waters, but do I? 

I'm comfortable, and I don't really want to be uncomfortable. I like my life, in the main, apart from the usual everyday sort of niggles, and I know that I should complain a lot less and be thankful a lot more. I want more of God - I know I do - but I think maybe I'm counting the cost and backing away in case it turns out to be expensive.

I think my boat is pulled up high on the beach.

I ask Him to lead me wherever He wants me to go, but I am reluctant to set off unless I have a map and a guide book and an assurance that it won't get too choppy out there. I have my own ideas of where I want God to lead me and I fear that I interpret everything through the lens of my hopes and my dreams. I try to manipulate Him into my plan as if faith were a charm to be invoked.

Lord, lead me wherever you want me to go - as long as it's where I want to go. 

In the West, we have a problem with pride. 

I want to get out of the boat and walk towards Jesus' outstretched hand. I want to be whole, full, overflowing. I know that the trivia that I cling to is nothing in comparison with the riches that God would like to give me. I know that my own plans are dwarfed by what He would have me do with my life.

And yet... 

I'm afraid. My trust is not without borders. I wonder how much it might hurt; what I might have to let go of, to lose. And I'm comfortable. 

And this is where a blog post like this ought to end with an inspiring conclusion. A breakthrough to share and encourage. Some wisdom along the lines of: '...and that's when I realised that... and now it's all brilliant! My confusion is a thing of the past!'

Yeah. 

You know what I'm hanging on to? At the conference I went to a workshop about prayer and prophecy. We got into small groups and prayed for each other, asking God to give us a word or a picture to encourage each other. The room was full of the Holy Spirit. 

There were four in my group, so we each ended up with a card with three things from the Lord. I was moved to tears (again) by people's words for me. How could strangers have known those things that spoke to very specific circumstances in my life?  God is so gracious. 

But there was one word spoken to me by a lovely gentle lady that made no sense to me at all just then. She said that there was conflict in my life. She didn't know how or if it would be resolved, she said, but there would be peace. Shalom-peace, she called it. 

There would be peace, and victory. 

So I'm laying all this before God, and asking Him for the Shalom. 

The walking on water, the following, perhaps opening my hands and laying down the dreams that I am oh, so invested in and believing that He knows best. He knows me. He sees me. He loves me anyway. 

He knows what I will do already. He knows the beginning and the end. He will never give up on me and He won't let me sink; He'll keep my eyes above the waves. 

At the moment I just see a tangle of conflicting ideas, a mess of confusion and fear and the seemingly impenetrable borders of my trust. 

He sees a daughter who loves Him, who overthinks and worries, who lifted her hands with longing in her heart and tears on her face at the thought of walking across the waters to take His hand. 

Shalom. 

*Oceans (Where Feet May Fail) 2013 Hillsong Music Australia

Linking with Ruth and Sabrina in the return of 'Letters To...' 

No understudy

'Just as a body, though one, has many parts, but all its many parts form one body, so it is with Christ.' 

1 Corinthians 12:12

I'm familiar with this passage in the Bible.  When I was much younger we had all the jokes about who was the armpit and who was the spleen and so on, and now I'm older I'm still not too sure how far the analogy can be taken, but I take the point.

We all have different spiritual gifts. We are all unique, no-one less valuable than any other. A huge diversity of skills, personalities, abilities and talents. Together we make up the Body of Christ, with Jesus at the Head. Together, Paul says, we make up the whole. We are one through the Holy Spirit. If someone is missing, nobody else can do his job, because it is a job made for him alone. Each part needs the others to function and when we are all in concert we make a beautiful sound.

It's the 'all-working-together' thing that's the problem. We all interlock and if one cog gets jammed then sometimes the machine comes shuddering to a halt. I know well that if I have a sore thumb then I can't use the hand properly. If my knee hurts and I limp for too long, my hip starts to hurt too. If I put my back out, there's very little I can do with my day.

Quite often we bicker and squabble and and think we are more important than we are. We think we deserve more than our allocated part and try to be something else. We get resentful or critical and think that we could do a better job than someone else. Why are we never satisfied? 

I find it quite reassuring that the disciples had the same problem. They wanted to know who was the best and brightest. They wanted to know who would be sitting to the right and left of Jesus in Heaven. 

John 21:21

'Peter asked...'Lord, what about him?'Jesus answered, '...what is that to you? You must follow me.' (my emphasis)

What is it to me what someone else does? Why do I jostle for position and wonder if somehow I'm short changed? Why do I worry about what people think of me, of what I do, when I know that I am occupying the place that only I can occupy? Lord, I so want to do with my life what you would have me do. Sometimes I am full of purpose and sometimes I feel as if I'm treading water. Marking time. Vacillating.

Fibrillating. Like the heart does when it gets out of rhythm. Paramedics come crashing in and slap on two paddles and shout 'Charging!' and 'Clear!' and then whoof! the heart gets shocked back into a sinus rhythm (whatever one of those is, but I watched ER for a while). And then all is well again, but it was a close call.

Sometimes I feel as if I'm fibrillating. Immobile. Rabbit in the headlights.

But I have an important job to do because there isn't a redundant bit of the Body of Christ.
(I don't know about the appendix.  But that's probably being facetious.)

Charles Spurgeon took this idea of a collective whole to another level for me the other day. A beautiful level. An eye-opener:

'Each of God's saints is sent into the world to prove some part of the divine character.'

(Charles Spurgeon, The Daily Help devotional for iPhone, 43rd Element.com)

Somehow, just by being me, here, in my little corner of the earth, day by day, I reflect something of your character. Some little tiny aspect of your personality is me. Not somebody else. How amazing is that? 

He goes on:

'In heaven we shall read the great book of the experience of all the saints, and gather from that book the whole manifestation and display of some position or other of God; a different part may belong to each of us, but when the whole shall be combined, when all the rays of evidence shall be brought, as it were, into one great sun, and shine forth with meridian splendour, we shall see in Christian experience a beautiful revelation of our God.'

Can that be possible?  That one day I might have a contribution to make in this awe-inspiring spectacle?  This is going to be an enormous canvas. I can't wait to see it. 

The other day I got a glimpse of the sheer scale of you, God; the vastness and the majesty and glory of you who holds the universe in your hand. Creator of billions of stars in billions of galaxies. If I think of all the people who have known you from the very beginning to the end of time - from Adam and Eve through to all the people who are alive today and love you the world over, beyond and into the future, all those not yet born, until the end of time  - that's a lot of people. 

And we are all unique. If Spurgeon is right (and I so hope that he is) each one of all these children of yours reflects a unique part of you. We each have a little facet completely our own. It needs a glimpse of the enormity of you in order to understand how such a thing might be true. How complex you are. How many different aspects there are to you. 

So I am intensely significant. Not only do I have a role to fulfil down here, now, in my life, but I have a part in this extravagant art project in Heaven too. I have a ray of light to add to the 'great sun' which will shine for eternity and make you smile.

So why do I wish I were someone else? I am made to be me. 

Why do I think that other people matter more than me?  You made me to be me. 

There's no understudy.

What is it to me what they do?  I must follow you.

'Now you are the body of Christ, and each one of you is a part of it.'

1 Corinthians 12:27

Lord, help me to believe not in myself, but in the wisdom of you, who made me. Help me to see the honour that it is to do the job in this life that you have made me to do and not gaze about me wishing that I were an elbow instead of an ankle. Show me what to do. Give me enough light for the step I'm on and the courage to stride into the darkness, knowing that you won't let me fall. 

Give me a glimpse of that spectacular revelation that one day I'll be part of. It's going to be beautiful because it's You.

I'm working on my contribution right now.






Reposted from 2012 because I needed reminding. 

Image credit:  ashton_cogs3.JPG by doctor_bob from Morguefile.com. Used with permission.