Keith the Lonely Shark

Well, it's been a while since I've been here; much longer than I'd thought, to be honest. A whole year since I last posted any of my ramblings. Does 'I've been busy...' sound a bit lame? Yes, I thought so too. 

Well, I am back. And I say that with the full knowledge that life is no less busy than it was last year when writing got pushed off the agenda, but I am here with the very best of intentions to get back to this lovely little corner of the internet that gives me life. I am starting to learn (belatedly, having waited until middle age for the penny to drop) that I need to do more of the things that give me life and less of the things that suck life from me. Having said that, a lot of the life-sucking things can't really be removed or delegated...

But that is life, isn't it? 

Anyway, here's a bit of nonsense just to get my fingers taptaptapping again. 

Keith the Lonely Shark

[A word of explanation:  This story is set in 2018 on the Suffolk coast, where we were holidaying with our buckets and spades. My daughters, both keen competitive swimmers, were wearing their flippers to swim in the sea, and early in the holiday, one of Lizzy's slipped off her foot and a wave took it away. Days later, that same flipper was found on a different part of the beach!  On the same morning walk upon which we discovered the Lost Flipper, we also found a small, deceased fish that looked a bit shark-like. I'm still not sure what kind of fish it was, but we named it a shark, and speculated on how it ended up on a sandy beach in Suffolk, England.]

Keith was a baby shark. He was only little, and still learning about shark life so he had to follow his mummy everywhere. His brothers and sisters were happy to stay close to Mummy but Keith wanted to explore. He wanted to make friends with the other ocean dwellers and couldn't understand why he never caught more than a quick glimpse of them as he swam past with his Shark family. They always seemed to be swimming away from him, or even hiding. Keith asked his mummy why the other fish didn't want to be his friend. She smiled at him, revealing row upon row of sharp, jagged teeth.

'It's because we're sharks, sweetheart. We don't have friends; we eat them."

Keith was shocked. As his mummy explained that all the other fish were afraid of sharks, and were trained by their mummies to rush and hide whenever the Shark family came near, Keith became more and more sad. He blinked away a tear, which was immediately lost in the saltiness of the ocean. 

He carried on following his mummy, listening to all she told him as a good shark should, but his heart was heavy. He so wanted a friend, but his mummy was right. As soon as the Shark family wafted past, all the other fish fled into the distance, behind rocks, among the weeds. He pointed this out to his siblings, but they didn't seem to mind, Indeed, they seemed to relish being scary and laughed as all the other fish darted away. 

Keith began hanging back a short distance from his family as they swam. He tried to catch the eye of other sea creatures before they disappeared and he gave them what he hoped were warm, encouraging smiles, but he soon realised that, like his mummy, when he opened his mouth, he showed his razor sharp teeth and frightened the other fish even more.  He began to swim with his lips closed tightly. 

'I must be the loneliest shark in the world,' he thought, sadly.

One day, just like any other, Keith was listlessly wafting along behind his family as they terrorised the seas near the beach when he saw a new fish that he had not seen before. This fish seemed different. Strangely, despite being small and delicate-looking, it seemed unafraid of the Shark family. It was quite relaxed, bobbing about on the current, this way and that, with its strangely-shaped dorsal fin sometimes uppermost, sometimes facing the sea bed. The fish was bright pink; the most beautiful shade of pink that Keith had ever seen in the grey sea that was his home. He paused and smiled shyly at the small pink fish. To his delight, it didn't swim away in alarm as all the other sea creatures had. 

Keith was filled with happiness. He circled the small pink fish, smiling broadly. It twirled lazily in the water and smiled back. Had Keith made a friend?

"Why aren't you afraid of me?" asked Keith, as the small pink fish floated elegantly past him. 

"Why should I be?" she asked. 

Keith was amazed. "Because I'm a shark!" he explained. "Everyone swims away and hides from us in case we eat them."

"Well, you can't eat me!" laughed the small pink fish. She seemed to find his puzzled expression amusing. "I'm not like the other fish. Your sharp teeth don't scare me. You see, I'm made of rubber. I'm a Flipper-Fish."

"A Flipper-Fish?" Keith's mummy had never told him about Flipper-Fish. 

"Yes. A Flipper-Fish. I live in the sea now, because my dry-land mummy, a little girl called Lizzy, lost me some time ago. I've been looking for a way to get back to the beach ever since."

"Can't you swim back?" asked Keith, still confused. 

"I can't swim at all without Lizzy," explained Small Pink Flipper-Fish. "Now I'm alone I have to go with the flow and see where the currents take me."

Keith pondered this strange tale as he swam around her in smaller and smaller circles, until he was close enough to to nudge her with his pointy nose. The Small Pink Flipper-Fish giggled. 

"You're tickling me!" Keith was delighted. He did it again, and was rewarded with another beautiful peal of laughter. 'How wonderful!' he thought to himself. 'I've made a friend!'

For the next couple of days Keith and Small Pink Flipper-Fish went everywhere together. They worked out that if Keith propelled her along by pushing her with his nose, he made her squirm and giggle, and they had lots of fun but didn't get very far, or he could hook his dorsal fin inside the opening on her tummy and pull her with him, riding on his back. She loved the thrill of swimming at Shark-speed and would laugh with joy. Keith felt wonderful. He was so happy. 

One day, Keith and his friend were in shallow water Small Pink Flipper-Fish seemed distant and wistful. Keith asked her what was wrong. 

"The sandy seabed reminds me of the last time Lizzy took me swimming. Before that day I'd only ever known a sea very different from this. It was warm and crystal clear, not salty at all, with no seaweed, and the seabed was smooth and white, with a black line that always showed us the way to go. I miss Lizzy so much." 

Small Pink Flipper-Fish looked so miserable that Keith felt sad. He wanted to help her and make her smile again but didn't know how. Suddenly she turned to him with an urgent, excited look in her eyes. 

"Oh Keith. I've had an idea. You're so strong and brave and kind. Will you help me get back onto dry land? If could only get back onto the beach Lizzy might find me and take me back to where I belong!"

Keith didn't know what to say. He was filled with confusion. If he helped Small Pink Flipper-Fish to get back to the beach he would lose her and be lonely again. He was so happy having finally found a friend. But on the other hand, if he didn't help her, she'd be sad and lost forever. He agonised over his decision. Small Pink Flipper-Fish searched his face with anxious, hopeful eyes. Suddenly Keith knew what he had to do. 

" Of course I will." he said, determinedly, blinking away the tears that threatened to fall. Small Pink Flipper-Fish's face lit up. 

"Oh, lovely, lovely Keith!" she cried. "You are my hero!" 

Keith had never been a hero before. He smiled back at her sadly, but proudly. 

It was decided that Keith would carry Small Pink Flipper-Fish on his dorsal fin and swim as fast as he could toward the beach, aiming to catch a breaking wave for added momentum to try to get her as high as possible onto the sand. Her excitement grew and grew and Keith quickly realised that she wanted to try their plan straight away. As the two friends swam into deeper water in order to prepare for their run at dry land, Small Pink Flipper-Fish suddenly turned to Keith.

"Come with me!" she said, urgently. "Come back to the crystal clear ocean far away. I'll introduce you to my twin sister, and all my friends. Come with me, Keith! Lizzy won't mind, I know she won't!" 

"I don't think I can," replied Keith, sadly. "I can't survive on dry land. And I'm not sure, but I think I need salty water. I would love to, but I can't come with you."

Small Pink Flipper-Fish gazed at him in despair. "Then this is goodbye," she whispered. Keith was too choked up to reply. 

At that moment there came the swell of a big wave headed straight in to the shoreline. It was time. Keith scooped up Small Pink Flipper-Fish with his distinctive dorsal fin and swished his strong tail. They picked up speed in no time, combining Keith's powerful swimming action with the momentum of the huge wave. The water rushed inland. Faster and faster Keith swam, and Small Pink Flipper-Fish rode breathlessly on his back. the sea grew shallower and shallower. Still faster they swam, faster... and then the wave crashed onto the sandy beach and the two friends saw how close they were to dry land. With a muscular flick of his caudal fin, Keith leapt onto the sand. Small Pink Flipper-Fish squealed with delight as she tumbled off his back and bounced on the sand before coming to rest high on the beach on a soft bed of powdery yellow sand and small pebbles. 

Keith slowed to a halt and felt smooth, wet sand beneath his tummy. He was several feet away from Small Pink Flipper-Fish but able to see her basking in the sun, back on dry land, with a delighted grin. He had helped his friend get back where she belonged. It was a good feeling. Small Pink Flipper-Fish caught his eye and blew him a kiss. 

"Keith, you are wonderful! How can I ever thank you? You are the kindest, loveliest, most generous shark in the world!" 

Keith blushed. He felt so many emotions: joy at his friend's obvious happiness, relief that he'd managed to help her, hope that Lizzy would soon come back and collect her, and a deep, deep sadness that he would soon have to return to his own home. 

Keith let out a deep sigh as he moved his tail to turn around and head back to the deep water and his family. But something was wrong. He moved his tail again, more urgently, but he couldn't feel the water at all. He was higher up the beach than he had anticipated. He thrashed from side to side but although he could see it over his shoulder, the water was not reaching him.

He'd have to wait for the next big wave. His mother had told him that every seventh wave was bigger than the others. He counted - four, five, six...but the seventh wave, bigger though it was, only lapped gently at his caudal fin and was nowhere near enough to lift him from the sand so he could swim. 

The tide was going out. 

Small Pink Flipper-Fish watched helplessly as Keith grew weaker and weaker, drowsier and drowsier.  She called to him. 

"Keith! Hold on! The sea will be back later today!" 

But Keith had been right. He could only live in the sea, and Small Pink Flipper-Fish's voice was getting fainter and fainter, as if she were further and further away. His eyes slowly closed. Small Pink Flipper-Fish sobbed in despair. 

"Keith, I love you! You are my hero! I'll never forget you. My true friend." 

These were the last words Keith heard as he drifted off into a sleep from which he would not wake up. 

He was a hero. 

He was loved. 

He was a true friend. 

He was not lonely any more. 

"No-one has greater love than this: to lay down one's life for one's friends." 

John 15:13 NRSV

Treasures everywhere

At the writers' weekend at Scargill this year we had the opportunity to write a parable. A narrative that held a deeper meaning; one that could be read on different levels, allowing the reader to pull out truths as they saw them, embedded in story. Here's my attempt:

Come and say hello over at the Association of Christian Writers' blog, which is called, 'More than Writers'. I post there on 23rd of each month, all being well. 

All the colours combined

 A while ago I went 'prayer weaving'.

No, I hadn't heard of it before, either. There's a little loom which consists of a series of removable prongs in a wooden base (five, in our case - just weaving something small). You take a ball of wool, or strips of fabric, ribbons - whatever you can make into strands - and weave it in and out of the prongs across the loom and back again. Knot two pieces together to change wool or texture, and then when the loom becomes almost full, pull the prongs out, threading the attached piece of wool through your creation. You can do this several times in order to make a piece that's as long as you want.

By the end, my piece of woven fabric was about eight inches long and about four wide. After removing it from the loom for the last time, you cut the warp threads (the vertical ones) and tie them off, and there you have it.

It's supposed to be a prayer.

The idea is that you have a conversation with God as you weave. You choose your colours instinctively and without too much deliberation in order to allow God to speak to you in whatever way He sees fit; through colour, through texture, through metaphor, through ideas or thoughts or words in your head.

I went along to the session feeling quite down; a prevailing mood for a while now. If I hadn't committed myself to begin there I suspect I might not have gone at all, and to be honest, I wasn't particularly up for having a conversation with God. I wasn't in the mood for more pep talks about persevering, or about counting my blessings. I was making up the numbers and, if nothing else, I'd decided that an hour spent doing something crafty might be a bit of relaxation time, and since my creativity isn't doing so well at the moment, I'd give it a go.

God started work a little bit before I did.

Continued over at the Association of Christian Writers' More Than Writers blog, which you can find by clicking HERE.

I write something on the 23rd of each month. Come and have a look round. 

On sticking your head above the parapet

Not for the first time, I've read a blog post by Deborah Jenkins and she has inspired me to write my own post. Not for the first time, this little nudge has come at exactly the right time; and not for the first time, it's been when I've been feeling very much in need of a bit of encouragement. 

I make heavy weather of things, I know. Life in this 'season' for me is definitely more like a slog than a gambol and writing, while very precious to me indeed, is regularly elbowed out by the mundane and the immediate. When time and head-space are both acutely limited I have to make sure that I read the Bible daily and spend some time writing in my journal because I have found these to be life and sanity savers. For long periods it's the only writing that I do, but I've kind of made peace with that. Anything over and above is a bonus.

I got something written a few months ago. I was pleased with it. When it was all finished I knew that it wasn't perfect, but so much work had gone into it that it was as good as it could be. I was satisfied. I was happy to say that it was mine. Every writer knows how difficult it is to let the world in and risk what they might say or think. It's very hard to be so vulnerable.

I showed it to a trusted friend. 

Continued over at The Association of Christian Writers' Blog, More Than Writers where I post on the 23rd of each month. Come and visit. There's some good stuff. 

Aggressive lemons and divine reassurances

I had an idea the other day.  I was in the middle of writing something and an additional idea at that moment was inconvenient.  I was completely focused, and then this idea sneaked up and wanted my attention. I swiped it away, fobbing it off with 'In a minute...' and it was so offended that it disappeared and hasn't been back.

I knew I should have written it down. I should have humoured it. I should have made a mental (better still physical) note of what I was doing, suspended that thought process for a moment or two and scribbled down the idea before resuming task one.

Silly me.

Continued over at the Association of Christian Writers' blog, which is called, 'More Than Writers'.https://morethanwriters.blogspot.co.uk/2018/03/aggressive-lemons-and-divine.html I post there on the 23rd of every month - come and check it out. 

Swimming in the Ocean - a penny-drop moment

Well, January not yet done, so is it alright still to be mulling over New Year Resolutions, do you think?

My New Year Resolution, if you can call if that, is to love God more. I thought I'd go for something big this year. Specifically, to try to see what it means to love Him with all my heart and with all my soul and with all my mind. I suspect this is a life's work, if not more than that, but the last few years have led me here, and I think that everything that's important kind of stems from this, the first and greatest commandment.

Years ago, I read a book by Margaret Silf, called  'The Gift of Prayer: Embracing the Sacred in the Everyday'. I've no idea why but my eye was drawn to it again the other day. I had asked God what I could do to love Him more, and I think He began to answer me my reminding me of the wisdom in these pages.

The author talks about prayer as a belonging, a coming to stillness; it's about listening and learning to live reflectively. Each of the little sections is beautifully expressed but the one that stopped me in my tracks was the heading:

'Prayer is a Gift, not an Achievement'



Continued over at the Association of Christian Writers' blog, More Than Writers, where I post on 23rd of every month.  Come over and say hello? 

Metaphor for life

Have you a picture of what life is like? A metaphor or an image? St Paul thought it a race; Ronan Keating a few years ago thought that life was a rollercoaster (just gotta ride it!). A friend thinks that life is a series of tests (interesting discussions there). It seems that so many of us think in metaphors. I do. 

This is my metaphor: life is like kicking a carpet.

Bear with me. 

Continued at The Association of Christian Writers' Blog, 'More Than Writers' where I post on the 23rd of each month. Come and say hello? 

One for the To Read pile - 'Undivided Heart' by Lucy Mills

Today I'm delighted to let you know about a book written by my friend and fellow ACW member, Lucy Mills.  It's on my To Read pile.  Having enjoyed and been challenged by her first book, 'Forgetful Heart', I didn't hesitate to order myself a copy. 

Lucy has a wonderfully engaging style of writing and has an eye for finding little nuggets of truth that you may not have noticed in passages that you think you know well. And the best bit is that she's gentle, honest, wise - and most important, very readable.  

Here's what her publisher has to say about the book: 

Undivided Heart is a book about identity and what drives us to do the things we do. Lucy explores what motivates and inspires (and worries) us, what we really want in life, and what makes us who we are. Along the way, she discusses a wide range of topics, including fear and pain, doubt and trust, possessions and money, hope, suffering, encouragement and expectation, ideas of heaven, and the nature of love. 

She looks at helpful and unhelpful patterns of behaviour, the concept of fixed and growth mindsets, how ‘labels’ have the ability to make idols or prisons in our lives, and how the selfie culture and age of instant feedback brought about by social media can encourage us to project selective images of ourselves.

As someone who suffers from M.E. and chronic fatigue syndrome, Lucy knows the importance of pacing herself and taking life one day at a time – and realising that things don’t always turn out as you had expected or hoped. 

In this wonderfully honest and open book, she draws on her personal experience, alongside Bible passages, quotations from a wide range of writers and her own original poetry, inviting the reader to join her on the journey to ‘reassemble the far-flung pieces’ of our hearts. 

Here's a taster:

 'Undivided Heart'. 

Recognising the risen Jesus

Jesus said to her, ‘Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?’ Supposing him to be the gardener, she said to him, ‘Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.’ Jesus said to her, ‘Mary!’ She turned and said to him in Hebrew, ‘Rabbouni!’ (which means Teacher).

John 20:15-16

The risen Jesus was both familiar and unfamiliar. He revealed himself with a word to Mary Magdalene; in the speaking of her name, she recognised the rabbi she loved.

On the Emmaus road, Jesus walked with two of his disciples. They didn’t realise who was speaking to them until he gave thanks and broke bread (Luke 24:13ff). It was an action he had made to feed thousands; one he made in the upper room, mere hours before his arrest; an action he had, presumably, performed with his disciples in a myriad of mundane, marvellous moments.

Was it that Jesus in his resurrection body was changed in appearance? Or was there something different going on – a kind of deliberate hiddenness and then unveiling, a picture of a journey from limited knowledge to full understanding?

Continuing in Luke’s account, after Cleopas and his companion rushed back to Jerusalem, Jesus then appeared to his gathered disciples. They thought he was a ghost, even though he had already ‘appeared to Simon’. In their worldview, a physical body could not just materialise. Jesus responded to their fear and disbelief by saying: ‘Touch me and see; for a ghost does not have flesh and bones as you see that I have.’ His body was corporeal – it had substance. He then ate some fish to reassure them further (Luke 24:36-41).

In John’s gospel, we’re told of Thomas – poor, heartbroken Thomas – who wanted to follow Jesus anywhere, but had missed seeing his risen Lord. How would that feel? He was already living with the fact that he who had said he would die with Jesus (see John 11:16) had, instead, fled like all the others. So deep-set was his grief and incredulity that he refused to listen to the others proclaiming they had seen the Lord: ‘Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.’

These are the words of a grieving man. I dislike the term ‘doubting Thomas’ – for he was not the only disciple to display doubt in Jesus. Jesus, all grace, met him on his terms, offering his wounds for Thomas to touch – but in that moment all Thomas can do is fall at Jesus’s feet, proclaiming: ‘my Lord and my God!’[1]

Such is the worship engendered by an encounter with the risen messiah. We remember Thomas by his doubt, but he has such a stunning line in the story – my Lord and my God.

No longer just his Lord. His God.

There is another account in John, a beachside encounter where, again, the disciples do not initially realise who it is they are seeing. Jesus is recognised in the act of provision – a catch of fish, where they had previously caught nothing. ‘It is the Lord!’ Peter yells, jumping out of the boat and splashing to shore – although he does pause to put some clothes on first![2]

We may grieve, like Mary, as we search for our living Christ, then find him standing next to us, calling our names. Like those on the road to Emmaus, we can have our eyes unveiled, our hearts set aflame, Jesus revealed to us.

We may not ‘see’ as Thomas did, but we are called to a deeper belief in our resurrected Lord. We learn from Jesus’ response to Thomas: ‘You believe because you have seen. Blessed are those who believe but have not seen…’ (John 20:29, NIV)

We can splash through the waves as Peter did, delighted when we recognise our Lord. This Jesus – this crucified and risen Jesus – is the true definer and motivator of our lives, calling us from death into life.

---

[1] John 20:25- 28

[2] John 21:1-14

Amen to that. I think this is going to be worth a read. 

*

To get your copy of 'Undivided Heart', check out Lucy's website:

www.lucy-mills.com/undivided-heart 

You'll be able to find a copy of 'Forgetful Heart' there as well. 

Butterfly wings and big jumpers

The other day I was surfing aimlessly - I mean, writing something profound - and I was distracted  by a ping from my inbox. As every writer knows, a ping from the inbox requires immediate attention, so I answered the call.

It was an alert to say that there had been a message from the child we sponsor in Uganda.

His name is Brian, he's ten years old and he likes football and animals. He's doing well in school, and passed his exam last year. He wants to be 'an army man' when he leaves school. Or maybe a doctor.

***

Continued over at The Association of Christian Writers' Blog, which is called 'More Than Writers' I contribute on the 23rd of each month. 

Come and say hello and have a look around. 

Dreams and dead things

I don't like autumn. I know, every time I say that (and I have mentioned it before) there's a collective groan from the autumn-lovers.  They speak of vibrant oranges and yellows and reds and the exhilaration of kicking their way through piles of gorgeousness on brisk, bright mornings and they eat pumpkin and make chutney and so on.

I don't do any of that. Today the rain keeps on coming down and it's mid-morning but still hasn't become properly light. It's dank and miserable. My world is getting darker. Death is all around me. The few leaves that weren't blasted into next week by yesterday's storms are swirling into brown drifts. The plants need cutting back to clear away the dead stalks, spent seed pods and rotting foliage, and I'm not tempted to go and do some gardening.

Autumn is a time of decay, shrinking, dying. 

I sit here with both hands round a cup of coffee and I listen to the rain on the roof and contemplate the long months until the days start to get longer. 

I know, it happens every year. You'd think I'd be used to it. Perhaps I should stare at a white screen for a while until I get my share of daylight. Alternatively perhaps I should shut up and look on the bright side. 

It'll soon be Christmas. 

Anyway, I think I'm growing up. I've realised something about autumn. 

Leaves are falling from the trees onto my flower beds. They will eventually make a blanket over all the sleeping shrubs and bulbs and the blanket will help keep moisture in and protect the ground from frosts until it slowly composts down into the soil. The drifts of fallen leaves will dissolve into leaf mould, leaving my heavy, clay-ey soil richer and conditioned. 

Underground, I imagine the roots and bulbs snuggling down for a winter sleep and taking on board the nourishment from the soil around them. Undisturbed by footballs and footsteps, the garden rests. Takes a deep breath and sighs. Relaxes before the brighter sun, warmer temperatures and longer days start to signal that it's wake-up time. Spring rise-and-shine time. 

But autumn is for snuggling down. Putting on the heating and digging out the woolly socks.

The tree lets the leaves fall to protect itself from the relative dryness of winter - it's a survival mechanism. The dead stuff that falls and decays and is so often the focus of my autumn grumpiness is essential to the cycle of the plants in the garden. 

Things fall and die. As a result of their death and decay, something new can grow.

And if that's not a life lesson, I don't know what is. 

I'm ready for the new growth, that moment in spring when you look around you as if you were seeing for the first time and suddenly there are bright, impossibly green shoots everywhere you look. I want that. 

Rapid growth, dramatic development, shoots and buds and blooms. Colour, not darkness. Not the leaf-mould, mulchy, sodden ground wait, wait... it's a slow process. 

Maybe it's all a slow process. Maybe there's a place where dreams go to die and as they fall, limp and lifeless, they start to enrich the soil around them. Perhaps God is saying that something has to die for something to be born. The dead thing isn't lost, wasted, useless; it's a catalyst for something new and beautiful. I didn't realise that my plans were the leaf-mould of the future and it has been no fun to watch them curl up and slowly turn to compost, but I believe His way is best. 

His dreams are bigger than mine. 

So the soil of my life is being forked over by the Gardener. He's digging in some of the leaf-mould as things die and decay. He's digging deep, and it's not comfortable. If I am the soil, then my instinct is to stay dense and full of clay, but things don't easily grow in soil like that. The good stuff needs to be worked in until the whole texture of the soil changes. Until it is transformed into something fertile. 

Who'd have thought that the good stuff turns out to be the stuff that gets thrown away? 

So I am soil, and I am in need of nourishment. I am claggy clay, but partially leaf-mould and I am waiting. I am changing, slowly, imperceptibly, into soil in which God will make something grow. 

All in His good time. 

It turns out that there's a reason for autumn.




This is an edited version of a post from 2014 but I was walking back from the post office a moment ago in horizontal rain and trying very hard to concentrate on the yellow and red leaves beneath my feet rather than the cold, the wet, the slippery pavement, the sluggish mornings, the dark evenings.... 

Still working on this.