Those Final Fifteen Mintues

It seems that as far as writing goes I am a little constipated! There is stuff in the brain ready to be disgorged but there is a bung up in the system. There is a box of (unused) Senokot in the medicine box for the physical kind, but nothing that aids the written kind!

May Day has, in the early days, always been about May poles, May Queens and pageantry. I am sure there are lots of pagan rituals embedded in there if you go back far enough, but our village was ignorant of them. It was just a day off school and a chance to poke around the Manor House gardens once a year.

More recently, May Day has been our sailing weekend. My boss used to hire a sailing boat on the West Coast, cobble together a crew of friends and associates willing to help fund the adventure, meet together for a few nights to practice knot tying and assign chores and then head off into the sunset leaving the port behind. Sometimes, because of calm seas we didn’t actually do much sailing and merely bobbed about keeping out eyes peeled for evidence of a breeze somewhere else on the water. We recited the phonetic alphabet in case of emergencies. (That skill comes in handy for quiz nights, incidentally).

This year, May Day found us back on the water. Not on a sailing boat this time but a ferry. It was the last of my birthday treats – a proper day out, preferably not taking the car (but we did) exploring some of the places we had not yet been. Someone said Mallaig and we found ourselves on the “Road to the Isles”.

We had two hours on Rum. It’s not a very big island but when one walks as slow as we do, size doesn’t always matter. At one end of the bay is the ferry terminal and at the other end of the bay is the village and somewhere in the middle, closer to the village than the ferry port is Kinloch Castle. It has been restored some five or six years ago and there was a tour laid on. Our slow walk meant that we wouldn’t have had time for our picnic lunch if we went on the tour. We decided to eat our lunch at just take slow walks around the place. The village hall was set up to serve teas and coffees.

The trouble started about halfway back to the ferry port. About half way back round to the ferry port, I discovered I hadn’t got my jacket. It had been looped over my bag, thrown over my shoulder. It could have fallen anywhere.

The voice in my head did a quick inventory of things in the pocket. The car keys were not in the pocket, or the keys to the hotel. My school keys, usually cocooned in a nest of tissues, were definitely not there as I had deliberately left them at home. That left just the tissues – I could live without them. But could I live without the jacket? My mother, on our recent visit, liked the jacket and harped on about how she would like a jacket just like it. She was put out, perhaps, when I didn’t magnanimously hand it over. I felt that I had battled to hold on to the jacket, that to leave it abandoned somewhere on Rum was not an option. The voice in my head said, “Leave the jacket – buy a new one!” Instead I left Joe to make his way back to the ferry port and I headed back to the village hall.

There must be a rule somewhere – the distance between one place and another expands according to the time required to travelit! The ferry port seemed a lot further away and from the village end of the island I could see the approaching ferry.

Jacket retrieved, I headed back to the ferry port. I ran, I hopped, I skipped, I slowed down for a bit, I walked quickly, I trotted for a while, I stopped to let the heart beat slow and I sweated. I heard the ferry signal as the car ramp lowered. I had just passed the castle and I was…not going to make it.

The inner voice chastised me for retrieving the jacket and for believing that I had had enough time to do so.

Salvation came in the form of a car. Up went the thumb as I flagged it down. She stopped and I explained that…well, I didn’t explain anything. The red face, the sweat, the heavy breathing said it all. She invited me to climb in and drove me to the ferry port.

Joe was rounding the final corner so I asked the kind lady to drop me off next to him. I wasn’t in a fit state to hold a conversation so we walked the last hundred yards in silence.
He told me later of his plans to hold up the ferry until I arrived. We sat quietly in the cafeteria reading books and papers while the sun set on Rum.

My quiet time reading yesterday was…

“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? (Matthew 6:25)

I was reminded of Rum, and the jacket, and how different my last fifteen minutes there could have been.

Virtual Farms

On the BBC breakfast programme earlier this week they had a story involving a virtual farm in Cambridgeshire. For a modest fee a person with no experience of farming gets to make decisions about what crops to grow, what food to feed to pigs and all sorts of interesting things on a real farm. The idea was inspired by Facebook’s Farmville.

Obviously you are one of ten thousand or more people who have paid the fee, so it is not down to one single person making the decisions. It is a community vote. I am sure that the community will be given sufficient information to make a sensible decision – but even so, the fate of a farm in the hands of a non-farming community doesn’t sound so good to me.

The farm is owned by the National Trust so perhaps they can afford to underscore possible losses where a single farmer can’t afford that luxury.

The farmer and some prospective on-line investors were interviewed. It was all very noble – they both wanted people to get their hands dirty (or just their virtual hands) and learn where their meat comes from and where the wheat comes from to make the bread. A connection to the soil, however remote, would be made. Being involved in the decision making of the farm would make people better shoppers perhaps and more appreciative of the food chain. The farmer promised to abide by the decisions of his on-line community, and encouraged his investors to visit the real farm and see the cows they had fed.

I am glad that I am not a farmer with 10,000 people making my decisions for me about what I plant in my fields. It is all down to trust. Do the investors trust the farmer to guide them towards the right decision? Does the farmer trust the investors to make the right decisions based on the guidance he has given?

I got to thinking about other people making decisions on my behalf - telling me what to do and I do it. Could there be a Virtual Mel?

I don’t have 10,000 people emailing me, or voting on a list of moment by moment decisions – the clothes I wear, the food I eat or the way I spend my evenings. Actually, now I think about it – I could do with a few people at least doing so. They might make a better job at living my life than I do!

It did occur to me that I have one person – not a virtual team – to help me. God helps me live my life the best way that I can. He doesn’t make all the decisions for me demanding my obedience to His orders without allowing me to think for myself. Rather, He works with me and I work with Him in order to make decisions about living the best life that I can. We are in partnership.

He is wise enough to know what decisions I can make without too much supervision – the clothes I wear, the food I eat etc. He also knows that there are some decisions that I need to make where I don’t have all the information I need. He is the expert and in those times He asks me to trust Him.

When it comes down to trust, God is trustworthy.

Stones

I am sure that we have all been to those places, tourist sites that tell you not to pick up things up and take them home. Imagine if everyone who visited the Coliseum in Rome pocketed a stone. The famous building would soon be dismantled. There is a reason why people are told not to pick up things and take them home.

If I could find the right coat hanging up in the closet, and find the right pocket – the one full of crumpled up Kleenex tissues, nestling at the bottom of the pocket would be a stone. It didn’t come from the Coliseum or the Acropolis or any other ancient monument. It came from an uphill path of a nature trail in the Cairngorm mountains. I don’t think for a moment that the stone is native to the mountain. It was just part of a bag of loose gravel poured over the path so that people didn’t have to squelch through mud, or bounce from one patch of heather to the next.

I picked up the stone because it glistened in the sunlight. It was a pretty stone. I had walked up the hill, felt my heart pounding, wiped the sweat stinging in my eyes and the stone was a memory marker of the day. There were no ominous notices about not taking the stones home. There will always be another bag of gravel to repair the path is people pick up stones along the route.

Not all the stones that I possess have been picked-up ones. A few years ago, the last time I attended Weightwatchers, the leader handed out small polished stones to commemorate every stone of weight that a member lost. I earned two stones before I fell by the wayside and chocolate crawled back onto the menu.

The other stone I remember being given was a small white stone. The pastor in my church had been preaching a sermon based on Revelation 2:12-17.

“To the one who is victorious, I will give some of the hidden manna. I will also give that person a white stone with a new name written on it, known only to the one who receives it.” (v17)

He had a basket of stones and encouraged us all to take one as an object lesson to what he had taught. I would like to say that I know where my white stone is but I don’t. I haven’t thrown it out – it has just become lost in one of the cups, jars or vases that hold stuff that I hoard. Although I may not have the stone to hold in my hand, I have the memory of it and all that it reminds me of.

Last night, in amongst a whole plethora of dreams, most of which were about re-writing paragraphs of the current book I was reading, I dreamed about the cross of Jesus. I don’t think it was the crucifixion itself but the concept of going to the cross as in laying down your burdens, of nailing your sin to the cross. In my dream the disciples were looking for a hallmark, something to identify that someone had done that. Some people who came were just spectators. They didn’t come in response to a call but merely a curiosity. The disciples decided that when people came to the cross, to Christ, they would give them a stone. It kind of ties in with Revelation 2:17

I remember feeling a sense of panic at the time because I didn’t have a stone. I didn’t remember being given one. Did that mean that I hadn’t ever really gone to the cross at all? I was told that I had a stone, I had just forgotten where I had put it. I got the sinking feeling inside that I would need to be able to show my stone to someone in authority before I could enter into heaven, or access the resources of heaven. I would probably have spent much of the rest of the dream searching through the cups, jars and vases looking for the stone…but I woke up at that point.

If only it was as easy as having a stone to hold – that hallmark of someone who has been to the cross.

Colossians 3 has much to say about hallmarks:-

”Since, then, you have been raised with Christ, set your hearts on things above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God. Set your minds on things above, not on earthly things. …Put to death, therefore, whatever belongs to your earthly nature: sexual immorality, impurity, lust, evil desires and greed, which is idolatry…Therefore, as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience. Bear with each other and forgive one another if any of you has a grievance against someone. Forgive as the Lord forgave you. And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity…Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, since as members of one body you were called to peace. And be thankful.”

I may not know where my stone is, but I am working with God to show that coming to the cross of Christ has changed me - and continues to change me.

Run the Race

I can’t actually believe that I had the audacity to preach a sermon last year based on the runners of previous day’s Grand National. It came to mind this morning as I was thinking about which horse would carry my hopes of winning not a huge sum of money but something.

Hebrew 12:1 was my starting point - “Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us”

For the uninitiated the Grand National Day is one of the few times of the year when the nation digs into their pockets to put a bet on. Sometimes it can be an office sweepstake where you hand over your £1 and put your hand into the hat and pull out a name. There are 40 horses charging around the course jumping over thirty fences of differing sizes and shapes and there is always a lot of controversy, a lot of action and so on. Animal Rights campaigners get very agitated with the race because they think it is animal cruelty with the length of the course, the conditions under which the race is run, the kind of jumps and the likelihood of horses being injured or killed. But as my sister says - if the horses don’t like the look of the fences they won’t jump them and any good trainer will not send out a horse onto the course if it is not adequately trained.

I found my notes - here are snippets from the sermon, posted because it's Grand National Day, and because it was a good sermon! The truths, you might say, are straight from the horse’s mouth.

King Johns Castle –It was a warm day yesterday and a number of jockeys once they had reached the starting line got off their horses to give them a break from carrying them before the race began. As all the horses gathered for the start of the race, they climbed back on and lined up – except for King John’s Castle. It took a few minutes to get the jockey remounted. The horses were all away except for King John’s Castle. He stood stock still. He didn’t want to race.

What do you think the trainer is going to do with the horse when they get back to the stable? The horse is not going to be destroyed and made into burgers! King John’s Castle came second in the Grand National in 2008. Yesterday he had an off day. It happens.

We have off days. We have times in our lives when we just don’t seem to be moving anywhere. We don’t seem to take up the opportunities that come our way and perhaps we are inclined to beat ourselves up about it. We are not judged by God on the basis of one race moment and we shouldn’t judge ourselves on that either.

God has an eternal perspective on things.

Joe Lively - About half of the races in Britain each year are handicaps. In a handicap race the better horses in the race are given the extra weights to carry. It gives the not so good horses a chance to run against the better ones. Joe was one of those better horses carrying heavier weights.

Only the best horses get to carry the weights – if this applied in a spiritual application that only the best Christians get to carry weights, you might find some comfort in that if you felt specially burdened – but it doesn’t apply. Everyone at some time in their life has burdens to carry. How heavy the burden isn’t really the issue – but how we carry, or how we cast that burden. God does put burdens upon us, but carries them anyway because He carries us.

“Throwing off everything that hinders” – what might be some of those things that hinder?

Joe Lively was a finisher – he came tenth.

Big Fella Thanks – Things didn’t quite go as expected. Ruby Walsh, the jockey, broke his arm in the previous race. It wasn’t planned. It was one of those things that life throws up. It’s not ideal, it’s not what the trainer wanted – but how do some people cope with unexpected changes?

The horse didn’t get put back in the trailer and driven home because the jockey broke his arm. The trainer found another jockey – not just any other jockey, but someone who was familiar with the horse. He swapped around the riders on his other horses, he got creative, switched about. Changes might surprise us…but they don’t surprise God.

Big Fella Thanks finished the race and came fourth.

Black Apalachi ran the race last year and fell at one of the fences the second circuit, the previous year he also fell at the second fence – not a great track record, perhaps.

How much do we allow past failure to dictate our future success?

Driving down to see my family involves a ten or eleven hour drive. The last drive back from Warwickshire had involved a tyre blow-out on the M6. The AA had come to the rescue and when I got home the tyres were replaced – BUT there was something inside that couldn’t be fixed as easily as the tryes – my imagination. Suddenly all long car journeys carried with them the possibility of a tyre blow out. I would have been happier if I could have hired a newer, more reliable car for the journey – but in the end Joe, the Daeoo and I made it.

Black Apalachi led for much of the race, didn’t fall over, battled for a while with the eventual winner and finished the race and came second.

Dont Push It – this is not so much about the horse this time around, but the jockey. “Let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us.” The dictionary defines perseverence as “Steady persistence in adhering to a course of action, a belief, or a purpose; steadfastness.” A P McCoy had up until yesterday rode in some 3,000 races, broken arms and legs numerous times, rode in the national fourteen times before and never won – but yesterday he did it. He said in an interview afterwards, "If you get enough goes at something and you keep going, once you're in there you've always got a chance.”

Comparing the “race” that scripture talks about with the Grand National has its limits. In the world of horse racing it is not part of the race to stop your horse, dismount, go over to a fallen jockey, get him back onto his feet, give him a leg up back on to his horse, encourage him on his way, before remounting and getting on with the race. In the world of the Christtian race – it is compulsory. We should not be riding on when someone else has taken a tumble.

The Song of the Stars

There was an item on the news this morning that caught my imagination and has stayed with me for most of the day.

So much of what passes for news often debunks the Bible and faith. It’s nice when science “discovers” something that the Bible writers already knew!


Nasa's Kepler space telescope has picked up sounds emitted by stars light years away from Earth. Sound waves are sent out as the activity of the star causes it to vibrate. The sound, perhaps just a single note a star creates, can tell someone about a star’s size, age and brightness.

Imagine all those millions of stars vibrating and each note being a part of a symphony. We may not be able to hear the music with ears – but it’s there!

The stars could not be silent
The day the Maker stirred
Throughout the vaults of heaven
Their song of praise was heard

God spoke light into being
And called the darkness night
And the stars sang of His wonders
As they echoed His delight

He said, “Let there be water
And the deepest bluest sky.”
And the stars in sweetest harmony
Sang anthems from on high

He called forth flowers and grasses
The tallest straightest trees
And the chorus of the stars’ song
Drifted on the breeze

A mighty light to rule the day
At night a sickle moon
And the stars sang their approval
With a glad and joyful tune

The sea was thick with fishes
The sky with birds o’erhead
And the stars’ uplifting melody
Across the heavens spread

God made so many creatures
That moved across the ground
And the stars sang out a symphony
A splendid, glorious sound

At last, his best creation
In his image, God made man
The stars sang on in wonder
As a precious love began

The Maker joined the stars’ song
And roared with deep delight
His music filled the heavens
And set the earth alight

Job 38: 3 – 4, 7 “Brace yourself like a man; I will question you, and you shall answer me. "Where were you when I laid the earth's foundation, while the morning stars sang together and all the angels shouted for joy?"

Choosing Joy

It was a conversation with my sister that started it all. I had bought, if not sent, a Mother’s Day card and I wasn’t quite sure where to send it. Mum had been in hospital a while ago and I didn’t know whether she was back in her sheltered housing flat or in some convalescent home.

My sister was on her way to a day out with swimming, massage and drinks by the pool. It was her Mother’s Day present. She and her daughter (both mothers) and a friend (another mother no doubt) were being treated by husbands and children to a day of fuss and pampering.

Not being a parent, I don’t get Mother’s day treats. I don’t get cards or flowers or a day of fuss and pampering. I am on the outside and excluded and sometimes I find Mother’s Day a bit of a trial. Last night I took a mood dive downwards and grizzled for a while.

“I know it's Mother's Day tomorrow but please take some time out to think about some of us ladies who aren't mothers - not through choice, but flawed biology. It can be a rough day sometimes.” I wrote on my Facebook status.

This morning my Bible reading instructed me to “Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice!” (Phil 4:4) and to “Rejoice in the LORD and be glad, you righteous; sing, all you who are upright in heart!” (Ps 32:11). It wasn’t quite the direction my heart was willing to travel but as I read my perspective changed. It wasn’t so much the Bible verses that touched my heart, but the devotional from Lucas on Life. I am a few days behind (on account of being rather enthralled with my new kindle) and I am reluctant to just miss a few days out to catch up just incase there is treasure to be had. I should have read the words on Wednesday, not this morning – but they were designed for today.

The opening sentence of the devotional began with “in my past battle with depression” and went on to comment on the “snap out of it” advice. This is a person who has been there. It is not always possible to snap out of anything leastways depression. He went on to say “I have discovered there are times when we can choose joy…We can make decisions about the way we will think and act…We are not called to be victims of our thoughts but rather to take authority over what we think and focus on.”

Psalm 32 begins “Blessed is the one whose transgressions are forgiven, whose sins are covered. Blessed is the one whose sin the LORD does not count against them and in whose spirit is no deceit.” The Message puts it this way “Count yourself lucky, how happy you must be— you get a fresh start, your slate's wiped clean. Count yourself lucky - God holds nothing against you and you're holding nothing back from him.”

I can choose to focus on what I don’t have…or think about the things I do have and be grateful about those things. If I choose to consider “things true, noble, reputable, authentic, compelling, gracious—the best, not the worst; the beautiful, not the ugly; things to praise, not things to curse” (Phil 4:8 The Message) there is a good chance that joy will colour my day.

I choose joy.

Cloudy with Outbreaks of Rain

It may be the weather forecast for the day but it is also an apt description of how I feel right now. I am aware that it is coming close to holiday time and a million deadlines are not just looming on the horizon but are passing over me like birds flying south.

The clouds in my sky are mostly paper ones – newspaper articles that seem to have been dipped in poison, rolled up into little spit balls and carefully aimed at me with an elastic band stretched between two fingers.

I have a habit of scanning papers for interesting articles with religious content. It’s an on going challenge to demonstrate to the young people that I encounter that religion isn’t dead and that it still has the power to turn the world upside down. Too often all I find are articles about church buildings being sold or which church minister is having an affair with one of his parishioners. It is a sad testimony.

Last week there was a plethora of articles few of which were encouraging. Religion might not be dead, but according to a mathematical formula, it’s dying and will be dead in at least nine different countries. The formula was something along the lines of how many people express religious beliefs and whether they do so in an interesting and attractive way. A small group of boring people was basically how religion was summed up.

I followed a link – definitely a bad idea – to another article about a poll commissioned by a Humanist organisation to research people’s attitudes towards religion. Now, it seems to me that a humanist organisation is hardly going to publish evidence from their poll to state that religion is on the increase. You get what you pay for – and forget the whole notion of not being biased. I took it as said they would find “evidence” that religion is on the decline. I took that with a pinch of salt. What really got to me were the comments people had emailed in. Not one of them had anything positive to say about religion. They vented spleen leaving the reader in no doubt where they stood on the issue. Some of them came up with the usual suspects – religion causes war.

Another article was about the handsome, attractive young man on TV who unravels the mysteries of the universe before our very eyes on BBC2. He looks too young to be a professor. He professes himself to be a humanist, but lacks the axe-grinding gene. In fact, I think the article made a comment about him showing too much “wonder” about the universe. I don’t mind old, ugly professors dryly unlocking secrets but this man’s very youth and enthusiasm seem to have a special appeal.

I know there is a distinction between religion and faith, that one can have a name tag of “Christian” or “Muslim”. It is just a name tag and no indication of a vibrant faith walk. That kind of religion was never alive to begin with. Most people don’t really make my kind of distinction. Religion is just religion. I can also appreciate that when people talk about religion it is often prejudice speaking, uninformed and without the relevant experience.

The final cloud in my sky came through yet another article. I would stop reading newspapers but I happen to think it’s important to know what is out there, so I know what to pray about, and perhaps respond to.

This was about Religious Education in schools. Apparently there has been an increase in pupils taking certificated courses. Something at last to applaud! Read on, sir. The slant of the article was not so uplifting suggesting that RE was an easy qualification to get. The only reason it pupils opted for it was because they would get an A without the same effort as History or Geography. It was a soft option and the qualification gained wasn’t on par with the other subjects. I won’t go into detail on the comments posted about that.

So…that’s my cloudy day! My faith being diagnosed as terminal and my vocation labelled as “the soft option”.

A choice or rather a number of options present themselves. To swallow the spit balls and choke on them. To consign them to the waste paper bin where they belong! Or because I have already done the former – to take it to God, vomit up the spit balls and let Him douse me with disinfectant!

I am doused!

I think I see some blue sky!

On Yer Bike!

This morning while eating my breakfast I caught the tale end of TV programme where a 53 year old musician was challenged to participate in a cycle race in America. It was something he always wanted to do and now he had the chance.

The point at which I joined the programme the narrator was explaining the dangers of the race. It wasn’t about doing a million laps around a velodrome circuit, but a route that took in over a thousand miles of normal US highway. Apparently one could get knocked over by a huge truck that came up from behind.

The RAF team consisted of four riders. I’m not sure if they each did just a part of the route or they did the whole route together. The musician was part of a cycling club, so it wasn’t like learning from scratch how to ride a bike, but his cycling club were perhaps not so driven as the RAF folk. They wanted to win – as did the musician – but it was apparent that he wasn’t anywhere up to their level and there was a man waiting for a call to step in at the last moment who would “bite your arm off” for the chance to be in the race.

A lot of the film footage was men on bikes going up hill or down hill or along canal paths – lots of bikes. There was also a lot of interview footage commenting on the progress of the musician. Certain phrases were repeated about his motivation, ambition and desire – mostly not in the positive. He had done one time trial of how many minutes it took him to ride a certain distance and he was slower than the other three riders who were probably half his age and couldn’t play a musical instrument between them. He was required to come back in six weeks and do the trial again to see if he had improved or not. He had improved a little bit but not a lot – but they took him on because he showed promise.

Once they got out to America and started training to get used to the heat it became apparent that he wasn’t coping with the heat, or the hills or the pressure of knowing that he was slowing the team down and there was a man willing to bite off his arm to take his place.

The rest of the team put in extra hours to help with training and motivation. While they were with him shouting instructions and bullying him onwards, he was fine, but left on his own, he would just put in his 100% where they were looking for 150%.

One thing that struck me was the level of their commitment – they lived and breathed the race. They pushed themselves to the edge of injury. They were focussed on the route, the uphills and downhills and adjusted their life accordingly. Every aspect of their being served the race. The musician wasn’t at that place. He didn’t want to push himself to the edge of injury.

I was thinking of Paul’s comparison of the Christian life being like a race. I am not sure that he had bikes in mind and open roads with trucks coming up behind you. He did make the same kind of points about motivation, perseverance and training. I find that I am not one of the three RAF men on the team – I know people who are like that. I am much more like the musician. I don’t want to push myself to the edge of injury. I want to be like the three RAF men but I also want to play safe – two incompatible standpoints. I know that I AM safe because I am in God’s hands throughout, but I also want to FEEL safe. Knowing should be sufficient but feeling seems to hang on and drag along too. I know that the race matters. And is there someone out there who would “bit my arm off” for the chance to do what I am commissioned to do?

I admit to being convicted about playing safe.

My life luke-warm, no power or clout
So God in Heaven spits me out

I am encouraged that God has not yet reached the stage of spitting me out! He knows my life’s path and while I might not think that I am making headway right now, His perspective is not mine. It is His work – not mine. He just asks me to cooperate with His Spirit.

I will be there at the finishing line – and not pushing my bike.

A Song In The Night

I’ll tell of a song that I heard once
A song to make prison walls fall
I’ll hum you the melody gladly
And tell you of what I recall

I’ll tell of a man in a prison
The darkest and deepest foul place
He sat in the stench bruised and battered
Shrouded with shame and disgrace

I’ll tell of a night and the stillness
And into the silence a song
He sang of his precious redeemer
His shepherd so gentle and strong

I’ll tell of the longing that stirred me
A light in that dark place blazed bright
I glimpsed unseen worlds, things eternal
And I who was blind gained my sight

I’ll tell of the prison walls crumbling
Of chains that were severed apart
But whilst in the midst of the maelstrom
A peace settled over my heart

I’ll tell why I stayed, did no running
No walls and no chains kept me bound
The words of his song had ensnared me
A treasure eternal I’d found

I’ll tell of a vision so glorious
A kingdom that outlasts them all
A song that the saints will be singing
Of the King before whom all men fall

My Beautiful Place

I was in the Christian bookshop yesterday. I had a half hour to kill before meeting up with the husband. It was cold and wet and window shopping didn’t have its usual appeal. I had spent a quarter of an hour putting a salesman through his paces. It’s my birthday tomorrow and an e-reader hadn’t quite made it on to the birthday list but I have been flirting with the notion of possessing one for quite a while. I am still flirting.

The Christian bookshop had moved premises last week and I had bought a book then – it was on sale. “God’s Gentle Whisper” – with the tag “Developing a responsive heart to God.” So, yesterday I was back in the shop, checking out the shelves just n case I had missed something from my last visit.

“Why are you here?” said God. We both knew the answer to that one – I was sheltering from the rain and the wind.

“You are not planning on buying anything?” It was less of a question and more of an instruction. At the time I was holding a book in my hand and reading the back cover.

“There is nothing in THAT book you don’t already know the answer to. In fact, there is nothing in any of these books that right now you will find the least bit helpful.”

God knows, this is not a ban on all Christian bookshops – this is a very individual “Mel” ban. It’s not a for-the-rest-of-your-mortal-life ban either. I have a habit of assuming that because it is written in a book, the contents on the pages have a special authority about them. I think that the author of the book has some special revelation on a subject – that they know more about it than I do. In some cases that might be true. The assumption that what someone has written it in a book has more authority than the notes that I write in a jotter is flawed.

Take “God’s Gentle Whisper” – the book I bought last week. I settled down to read the first chapter this morning. It was about someone else’s grandmother’s prayer life. Right from the start I am making no connections – I never knew either of my grandmothers – not deeply.

The author’s grandmother had a beautiful garden. Even less connection – my garden could not be called beautiful by any stretch of the imagination. In the book people passing by the garden stop and smell the fragrance and feel their spirit lifted and their world is that much brighter for listening to the birds in the trees. That doesn’t happen to people who pass by my garden. They probably mentally mow my lawn and do the weeding and the word “eyesore” features somewhere in their mind.

The author’s grandmother is often seen walking around her garden praying. OK – I stopped at this point. This is not a woman I know…This is not me. If I have to have a beautiful garden and walk around it praying in order to develop a responsive heart to God I am a lost cause. No doubt as I read further I will find something that connects – but from the start there is nothing that says to me “That could be me…”

This is entirely God’s point. I bought the book thinking the answer was somewhere in the pages – that someone else had done all the research and knew the answer, and all I needed to do was to read it and follow the instructions.”

“If you want to know how to get a heart that is responsive to Me – ask Me!” said God.

My heart is my heart – it’s not author’s heat, or her grandmother’s heart – it’s mine.

I think about my prayers. They are not spoken as I walk about a beautiful garden smelling flowers and listening to bird song. Most of the time they are fired from the battle lines of my work place. Sometimes they are poured out over a cup of tea when I get home from work. Or while I am clanking pans in the kitchen as I wash up. They are busy, part of life, on the go, moving about, filling in the empty spaces of a full up day kind of prayers.

I thought for a moment that one of us – the grandmother or I – had got it wrong. I don’t live in a world that has the beautiful garden. I’m not even sure I have the time or the skill to create a beautiful garden that I can walk about and pray in. Maybe when I retire…

Then I realsed that it may not be a garden but I have created a beautiful place to pray. It’s not a physical place at all. It is my relationship with God that is my beautiful place. I talk, He listens, He talks, I listen – sometimes.

Any Questions?

"One of the teachers of the law came and heard them debating. Noticing that Jesus had given them a good answer, he asked him, “Of all the commandments, which is the most important?” (Mark 12:28)

He hadn’t just heard them debating – he had listened.
He hadn’t just listened - his heart was stirred.
He walked away from his friends.
He walked away from the trick questions.
He walked away from the suspicion and distrust they told him to harbour.
He had listened.

He knew a good answer when he heard it.
He knew truth when it was spoken.
He drew near.

He asked his question.
He asked the question that had burned like a fire in his heart for so long.
He wasn’t seeking a word battle or a debate or an interesting discussion.

He needed the answer.
He needed to know.
He wanted to know how to please God
He wanted to know his part in it all.
He wanted to be able to tell the difference between what mattered and what didn’t.

He wanted someone to tell him the answer.
He wanted to know.

He asked his question
He received his answer and
He discovered
He wasn’t far from the Kingdom of God

Any questions?

Little Bits of Something

A little seed
A little soil
A little sweat
A little toil

A little waiting
A little weeding
A little compost
A little feeding

A little sunshine
A little shower
A little miracle
A little flower

It was such a lovely day yesterday – sunshine without the threat of clouds or rain so I did a little bit of gardening – it was a little bit! If one were to walk around the garden, one might not be able to spot what little bit of gardening I did do – but I did.

I think it was The Great Gardener that chivvied me outside. It had been a difficult week and I had been feeling quite low. As a Christian I felt I was making a mess of things – I hadn’t quite reached Elijah’s low point and his “it would be better if I died” speech, but things hadn’t gone well. I was paying more attention to the wrong voices than the right one.

As I dug, weeded and filled up the brown recycling bin the Great Gardener gave his assessment – not so much on my garden but the state of my inner man.

On gardening He had two things to say.

“It’s good job you are tackling this now, Mel. In a week or two, those dead grasses and dandelion leaves would put up more of a fight. The snowdrops might have worked out that it’s spring and are thriving so well…but these weeds haven’t caught on yet!”

True. I had been surprised out how easy the weeds had surrendered to the mighty garden gloved hand. I had anticipated much more sweat and a few blisters. The weeds are still in sleep mode. Now they have moved to dead mode and about-to-be-recycled mode.

“This is looking all good. I can see the rhubarb now! You need to plant something into all this weed free soil. It’s not enough to get rid of the weeds…we need to replace them with something you want to be there. Empty space doesn’t stay empty for long.”

True. I had enough history of weeding and clearing ground to know that dandelion seeds, airborne, like World War 1 parachute troops dropping on French soil, would be tugging on the ropes to land on my patch of cleared land. There was only a rhubarb plant to contend with. A few inches and they would land next door where they would be hunted down and eliminated.

On me and my current state of spirit He had a couple of things to say.

“Get out more.”

My world is slowly getting smaller. Keeping on top of housework is proving time-consuming. Actually it has been a long time since I have been on top of anything! I think I will invest in paper plates or something. Work takes a big mouthful of the day and tends to follow me home. I just need to sift the must-do from the ought-to-do and need-to do from the would-like-to-do and so on.

Having messed about in the garden for a couple of hours, I feel the benefit of being outside and doing something other than the usual.

“Sop trying so hard.”

I am sure that just as you can put too little effort into the Christian walk, I am as equally sure that you can also put too much effort into it. Maybe it’s not so much too much effort as effort into the wrong things. Maybe not even so much as the wrong things, but not the right things – the better things. There are good things and then there are better things – I might be doing the good things but I am not always doing the better things.

So, getting out more and pursuing and directing my energy towards the better things should see a turn around in my current frame of mind.

Signatures

My signature
Written in sins that ripped
And tore and crushed
Signed Your death warrant

Your signature
Written in body broken
And blood shed
Signed my release papers

You died
That I might live

Thank you, Jesus

Excited and Glowing

Thursday and Friday nights had been earmarked as opportunities to see the northern lights. Some kind of unusual activity on the surface of the sun had erupted and sent a wave of energy to Earth. They promised interesting things happening to satellites and also a glimpse of the northern lights. They also promised vast amounts of cloud so the chances of seeing anything were always going to be rare.

It had been a sunny day on Thursday and I didn’t see why the evening should not remain cloudless, but as the hours ticked by, the cloud cover increased. Friday was a cloudy day, but I’d had a bit of a challenging day and thought God might be good to me by blowing away the clouds to make up for it, and I would see them at last. I even trailed out to Culloden Battlefield where the observatory is, thinking I’d join the sky watchers. They didn’t have my faith that God was going to blow the clouds away and stayed at home.

I went and stood, but did not see
The northern lights shine down on me
Too many clouds got in the way
Sadly nothing on display.

I’d done some homework. I read up on anything I could find about the northern lights. One website informed me that red and green lights meant there were oxygen particles up there and that blue and purple lights meant there were nitrogen particles. I also noticed that the pictures used to illustrate pages of UK sightings of the northern lights most often came from Sweden or Norway or Iceland or Canada. We didn’t seem to possess UK pictures!

BBC site had this to say about it all – “The phenomenon is caused by charged gas particles that flow away from the Sun as a "solar wind" interacting with the Earth's magnetic field. The particles "excite" gases in the atmosphere and then make them glow.”

I think it is the use of the word “excite” that captured my imagination. A woman on BBC Breakfast was talking about the northern lights and used the same terminology. She probably wrote the website content. She waved her arms around in circles to demonstrate to “exciting” part – so I am none the wiser about just how these particles are excited.

So often what happens in the natural has a correlating truth in the spiritual. I thought about the activity of the Son, as opposed to the sun. When Jesus is active and making connections with people, there is an excitement that happens and something begins to glow – faith perhaps.

God wants to interact with us. He wants to excite us. He wants to see us glow.

Crucifixion

I saw the blood stained hands caress the wood
The fingers traced the path of knots and grain
He did not move, in quiet solace stood
And braced his tender heart to bear the pain

The path He walked was coming to its end
He would surrender to this ugly death
His battered limbs to wood and nails would bend
And seen by all He’d yield his final breath

Some other son, spoke to his father’s ear
“We have the wood, but have no lamb to give”
God has supplied and all has been made clear
This is the lamb that dies that we might live

The cross that He embraced must be my own
If I would stand as His before His throne

The Final Step

The sky outside has darkened. Through the bars of the cell the pinpricks of the stars grow stronger. The air is warm and moist. The smell of burning wood from the outside brazier seeps down to where I stand. I long to stop my ears and erase the pitiful sound of weeping from another cell, but my heart stirs with compassion.

“Father, who fills the darkness with light, comfort your child and grant peace of heart and courage of spirit.” Without conscious thought, I lift my hand towards the sound, sketching the sign of the cross in the air. Quietness descends.

I stand beneath the window, casting about, uncertain of my next move. Should I spend the night in prayer, knees scuffed on the hard earth? Perhaps like Paul and Silas, in the Holy Scriptures I should rouse my spirit to sing a stirring hymn and witness my chains fall off as the walls of my prison crumble. I could spend the night in confession, but He knows more of my sins than I will ever know of. Should I simply gather my cloak about me and seek solace in slumber?

This is my last night. Death awaits me with the coming dawn. I confess that my heart yearns to be with my blessed Father. Soon I will be enveloped in His warm embrace. In just a little while I will gaze upon the face that gazes upon my own. I will hear Him speak to me. Will we stroll together along the streets of gold in His heavenly kingdom? What joy will fill my heart! Tomorrow, my Master, I will be home with You.

The final step – some say it will be the hardest. What if the blood of the martyrs does not run through my veins? I am not brave, or courageous and fear that in the end I will cry out and bring shame on my Saviour – He who spoke not a word. I hope to speak gentle words of forgiveness, but I fear that bitter words will spill from my mouth.

Suddenly my cell is transformed by a gentle light. The walls melt away and find myself standing in my old church. The familiar frescos on the wall greet me. The sweet smell of incense permeates the air. I see the shadowy figures standing just in front of the altar. A young woman clothed in a simple robe with a garland crowning her head in a halo of white flowers stands next to an awkward, tall young man. I can tell that he is nervous, his fingers twitching constantly, smoothing out his tunic. His eyes stray to the door, but return to the quiet face of the woman he loves. There – standing just in front of them – I am dressed in my bishop’s robe. Which wedding is this one? Julienne and Castor? Or Ariadne and Felix? I have married so many couples, whispering the solemn words of the ceremony, as candles blaze in their sockets during the watches of the night. I have listened to vows quietly spoken, love witnessed in the exchange of a shy kiss.

The vision fades and I return to the prison. Something scuttles in the dark corners of my cell, but in my heart there is a confident light.

“Oh Claudius..” My words echo in the emptiness of my cell. “How foolish you are. When a man has a wife and a family to protect he will fight against any army to defend them. You cannot stop love just as you cannot stop the tide flowing, or the sun rising, or the stars from shining. Do not think by silencing me that you can silence the marriage vows that lovers make. What God brings together, you cannot keep apart.”

A scraping sound by the window interrupts my thoughts. Something is pushed through the bars and falls. A rose lies on the floor, two of its petals torn away. A small scrap of vellum flutters to the floor like a broken moth.

“Courage, dear Valentine – there’s one more wedding for you to attend. Tomorrow angels will flank your right and left hand as you walk towards the altar.”



Valentine was a bishop at Rome and he secretly married couples against the demands of Emperor Claudius II. He was captured, imprisoned and on 14th February in the year 270 beaten to death with clubs and decapitated.

Nothing's Gonna Harm You

A couple of weeks ago I treated myself to a new, reasonably cheap, CD/Radio for the kitchen. We had a double cassette player in there for ages. These were the days before CDs were invented. I had a collection of cassettes to get me through the piled up washing up, and those very rare days when I would actually spring clean cupboards. A little music helped.

I used to make tablet in the old days. I timed the boiling and simmering and stirring to perfection using one side of a cassette tape.

The CD player is a little bit smaller that the old cassette player, so it doesn’t take up much space on the counter. Some of the CDs have been decanted into the kitchen. One of then is Jamie Cullen’s “The Pursuit”. I like his kind of music and not just the music, but the man too.


One of the tracks is called “Nothing’s Gonna Harm You.” The piano arrangement is just wonderful – all those arpeggios (?). In googling the lyrics, I have to confess to a bit of a disappointment – Sweeny Todd? Is he not the barber that kills people and then the baker down stairs makes them into pies? It just seemed that they song was out of place – until I youtubed it and listened to it in context.

Nothing's gonna harm you, not while I'm around.
Nothing's gonna harm you, no sir, not while I'm around.

Demons are prowling everywhere, nowadays,
I'll send 'em howling,
I don't care, I got ways.

No one's gonna hurt you,
No one's gonna dare.
Others can desert you,
Not to worry, whistle, I'll be there.

Demons'll charm you with a smile, for a while,
But in time...
Nothing can harm you
Not while I'm around...

Long before I goggled and youtubed, I listened to Jamie Cullen and his piano arrangement, and I thought about someone singing personally to me that nothing was going to harm me…not while he is around – not Jamie Cullen. I have a habit of reading God into many things and this was an easy read.

Someone can say, or sing the words, like the boy in the film singing to Helena Bonner Carter and no matter how sweetly they sing – they are often powerless to actually do anything to prevent harm from happening. However nice the words, and comforting – they remain just words when most people sing them or say them.

Not so if God were singing those words. When He says “Nothing's gonna harm you, not while I'm around,” we can be sure that He means it and nothing can harm us.

However, God chooses when to sing it, and He doesn’t sing it in every situation that we face. He does not wrap us in cotton wool and protect us from every knock and fall. Harm happens because we like in a broken world – but in every situation He does say, regardless of whether we whistle or not, “I’ll be there.”

For the Sake of Peace

For the sake of peace –
Pilate
In a turbulent town
Under the constant threat of rebellion
Chose not to look too carefully
At the rebel
He washed his hands in water
And his heart in convenience
And
For the sake of peace
He had Jesus put to death





For the sake of peace
Caiaphias
In a glorious temple
Busy with activity but dead at heart
Chose not to look too carefully
At the blasphemer
He held firmly to his precious laws and traditions
His heart asleep to the Spirit
And for the sake of peace
He had Jesus put to death

For the sake of peace
Jesus
In human flesh
The invisible God made plain
Chose to show love unconditional
As the Lamb
He surrendered his body to the lash
His heart submerged in all men’s evils
And for the sake of peace
Reconciled men to God through His death

Such a Man

On Saturday Joe and I saved our local library from being closed down. We were responding to an email that was fired out to everyone encouraging us to visit the library and borrow as many books as we were entitled to. I don’t know whether Saturdays are normally busy days anyway, but there were a lot of people there.

Joe doesn’t possess a library card. He has a history from way back of unreturned books and huge fines. We are not talking about unreturned books from in Inverness library, but from Guilford where he lived in the 1980s. He is convinced that he is blacklisted, although I am quite sure that his crime has been forgotten. I am sure that records don’t go that far back, and since everything went computerised he has nothing to worry about.

It has been a while since I went to the library. I am a book lover – but not a very good book borrower. Yesterday afternoon, a friend of ours was evicting cyber bugs from the laptop for us. He was admiring the bookcase behind him and commenting on the fact that there were a lot of books. Then he remembered a book that I had borrowed from him – a biography of a climber. I am not sure how many years ago I borrowed it. Returning books is not my forte – but people know me well enough to know I will not be offended if they ask for it back. It’s only the library that charges me for retuning books late!

So, we borrowed books. Joe borrowed a non-fiction book about the truth behind movie making. I am trying to wean myself off Dan Brown type religious conspiracy who-dun-its, and off novels with high body counts. I have enough angst in everyday life so true to life emotional train wrecks are also off the menu. I have started to read a thriller “The Dying Light”. It began with a bomb going off near a Columbian restaurant and the death of a government worker. They’ve just attended the funeral – a event that seems to be devoid of sorrow and mourning, however, a friend from his past has erupted with a very emotional eulogy. Whereas everyone else seems to be content to let the deceased person leave this world without due celebration of his life, this man speaks passionately about his friendship. The congregation are swinging between nodding their heads in agreement and cringing out of embarrassment that someone is breaking the rules of keeping it all civil and calm.

The man talks of his friend in such glowing terms and then ends with the line “Such a man makes you think God is possible.”

I have said to many people the words “There is a God”. I have dived into deep conversations persuading people through argument and rhetoric that there is a God. One can say the words but not necessarily live a life that demonstrates that there is a God. God is more than the words spoken. He should inhabit every act.

I am not going to say that it would nice if someone could say that about my life – that I lived in such a way as to make people think God was possible. It’s too passive – I can live that kind of life. And not just that God was possible – but beyond the “maybe” to “God really is.”

Worship

Let me lift my face
And reflect Your radiant light

Let me raise my hands
And say that I surrender

Let me close my eyes to the visible
And fix my gaze on the unseen

Let me loose my lips
And free my heart to sing

Then will I join with angels
And worship You

Opposite Truths

I once knew a man who knew a man who used to turn scripture on its head. One truth, for him, always had an opposite truth.

This morning I was reading the opening chapter of Romans. Reading from Romans 1:18-23 is not really encouraging stuff. It may be a sober description of the state of mankind in rebellion against God, and it may be an accurate description of “me” before Christ called me…but it is depressing reading. I thought I would have a go at turning it on its head to find some opposite truth.

“The mercy of God is being released from heaven upon all the godly and righteous people, who demonstrate the truth through virtuous living. What may be known about God is plain to them, because God has made it plain to them. For since the creation of the world God’s invisible qualities—his eternal power and divine nature—have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so they refused to hide behind excuses.

Because they knew God, they glorified him as God and gave thanks to him, and they began to think the way God thinks and their hearts were flooded with light. They abandoned any claim to be wise, becoming fools in the eyes of the world. They refused to surrender the glory of the immortal God and they scorned images made to look like a mortal human being and birds and animals and reptiles.”

Not bad. I don’t think there is anything there that Paul would complain about!

I was wondering about the invisible qualities of God and whether they can be clearly seen in today’s world. It seems to me that there has been a lot of muddying of the water with all the different “isms” around, and by the denominational nit-picking that goes on in the Christian faith. And of course, there is science adding its own “truth” to the mix.

I guess there were “isms” around when Paul wrote his letter, and the nit-picking in the Christian faith was happening even then.

It is encouraging to know that “What may be known about God is plain to them, because God has made it plain to them”.

What ever the “isms” and nit-picking, what may be known about God is made plain because God makes it plain.

Turning the Turners

I learned to swim late on in life. I was not a water baby, or even a water preschooler, or water infant– more like a water adolescent. The venue was the swimming pool at secondary school. Arm bands and polystyrene swimming floats got me from one end of the pool to another. It wasn’t a big pool, but when a person can’t swim, the size of the pool is pretty much irrelevant. I am not sure that it was a deep pool either but I am sure there is a statistic out there that one can drown in six inches of water.

I watched an amazing swimming feat the other day on a wild life documentary. The programme in general wasn’t so much about wild life but wild habitats and how the human population who lived there managed to survive. They lived in the arctic circle. Halloween trick and treat night was made that much scarier by a polar bear roaming the streets!


One family were reindeer herders. For part of the year the reindeer migrate to new pasture. To get to the new pasture there is a two and a half kilometre swim for the herd to complete. There were three thousand of them stretched out in a line and the camera under the water showed a picture of many hooves pumping away, the reindeer version of the doggy paddle.

The herd were being followed by the herders in a dinghy. They were there to make sure that the herd made it to the other side.

For the older members of the herd, they had done it all before. They were big enough and strong enough to deal with the current. For the youngsters of the herd this was the first time – perhaps not the first time they had been in the water swimming, but certainly the first time they were swimming such a long distance. It was the younger reindeer that the herders were watching. Somewhere, out in the middle of the water, where the land is far off no matter which direction you are swimming in, the young animals begin to panic. Although they are swimming next to mum or dad, and close enough to rest a neck on another animal’s back, they suddenly get frightened. Maybe it’s that moment when they realise they can’t touch the bottom! They turn around and start to swim back the way.

The herders are there to turn the turners back to forward. They lean out to the boat, grab the head of the reindeer swimming the wrong way and force them to turn around and continue swimming in the right direction.

“Even if one reindeer turns around to swim back the other way…the whole herd will turn around and join them.” The commentator commentated.

This is a great illustration of solidarity! In this case, it’s not good solidarity. The herd even if they made it back to the shore unharmed would have to do it again some other day. Suitable days are not everyday and I suppose you have to do something to build up their fitness and energy levels for a second attempt. It is better to turn the turners.

The ones who turn are the young reindeer. They lack the stamina and strength of the older animals. They lack experience and the task becomes too big.

This idea of the whole herd turning because of the actions of one animal is just amazing. If one animal in a herd of three thousand turns, they all turn.

It’s nice to know, in some ways, that the one who turns isn’t cast adrift to allow the rest of the herd to go on its way. They swim together…in one direction, or they don’t swim at all.

Where they were headed to was new pasture – essential for their survival. It’s not something they can afford to swim away from – but they will if one of them swims in the opposite direction.

There is so much challenge in living a vibrant faith life. At times it feels like a two and a half kilometre reindeer swim. There is always a challenge just out of reach to stretch towards. The Christian faith was never meant to be limited to the four walls of a church building, or the lyrics and melody of a hymn. It is daily.

There are things of God, not always reasonable things, or safe things, or comfortable things, or easy things - and sometimes quite scary things. Much better, it seems to head for the familiar and the known – so we turn around. Maybe the rest of the congregation don’t follow – maybe some do – but we are no longer going in the direction that is essential for our faith the grow and mature. The rest may go on without us – indeed, some of us may wonder of anyone would notice our absence at all! What I am sure of is that their faith cannot grow and mature the way God intended because our input into their lives is not present.

Better not to turn. Better to rest our heads on someone else’s shoulder for a while. Better to remind ourselves that God provides all that we need for life and godliness through his great and precious promises. Better not to fight God when he grabs us by the heart, and not just the head, and turns us around.

The Haggis Addresser and One of the Mels

I never got around to reading the BBC’s cyber advice on how to conduct a Burns' Night celebration and I suspect that MacCallums didn’t either.

Joe and I met after work with no fixed plans in mind. We walked past an Indian restaurant and decided to retrace out steps if nothing else appealed. There was a restaurant around the corner that was hosting a fiddler, but looking in at the window it was very packed, standing room only.

“We could pop around to MacCallums.” He showed me the ticket. It promised haggis, neeps and tatties and live music. It was in aid of a charity. If the food was merely a mouthful or two, there was always the chippy to visit afterwards.

I wouldn’t say that we are experts at Burns' Nights. We have done s few – mostly low key, without speeches. I think we have the edge on MacCallums.

A work colleague of Joe’s was holding up the bar, clutching a brace of Burns' poetry books. He didn’t just read them, but knew a few by heart. He was looking a bit doleful as the woman behind the bar was doubtful that anything “cultural” was going to happen. The juke box was blaring out music and lights pulsated around the dance floor.

It wasn’t the biggest of public bars and seating was kept to a minimum, so we stood at the bar. There wasn’t anywhere to put a jacket and a scarf so I kept them on. I suppose I had all the appearance of someone not staying.

Joe and his work friend swapped Burns' trivia while I stood nearby. I was hot and working my way through a glass of the guest whisky – not a single malt, I suspect. I hadn’t eaten since lunchtime and the whisky had nothing to mop up. The trials and tribulations of the day were becoming fuzzy around the edges.

An hour or so later, the barman asked Joe is he was willing to address the haggis. There would be a piper, the haggis would be paraded around the room, Joe was to wipe the wee sword on a napkin, address the haggis and then kill it. This was all new to Joe. An hour and a half ago we were looking in the window of a restaurant and addressing haggises was not on the agenda. It says something about the confidence that Joe exudes – he is a man that steps in.

Joe’s work friend lent one of his books to Joe. It had the address to the haggis in it, and Joe took a while to read through and practice.

He stood beside the table while the piper piped and the haggis was taken around the room. Then, with the barman holding the microphone, Joe did his bit.

He was impressive. No one looking on would have known that…an hour and a half ago we were looking in the window of a restaurant and addressing haggises was not on the agenda.

He did the business and was wildly applauded. He caught the tone perfectly. He has a tendency to rush through things when he has an audience and a microphone – but the boy did good.

Not a mouthful, but piled high, the haggis, tatties and neeps were wonderful. I passed on the red wine and onion gravy because I have a habit of missing the mouth sometimes and hitting the front of the jumper.

We were off…live music? Apart from the piper, there was still nothing. The juke box was back to blaring out music.

Someone really needed to step up and take the night by the horns and give it a good shake. It was all rather a bit disorganised. Joe’s friend volunteered to recite a Burn’s poem. Perhaps “Tam O’ Shanter” was not the best choice. It’s a bit long. I don’t know whether there is a link between how much alcohol you consume and how quickly your attention span deteriorates – but the crowd were not really listening. I thought that just the feat of reciting the poem was awesome, but there was a lot of talking. The longer the poem went on, the less confident he was in his delivery. He cast a couple of desperate glances in our direction. I think he regretted stepping forward. But he reached the end and was applauded – not quite the rapturous applause that Joe got.

Half an hour later, the live music began. There was a man and a guitar and a microphone and a well known folk song that people could dance to and join in the chorus. That, to my mind, was the right time to introduce “Tam O’ Shanter”. He would have got a hearing then. It’s all about timing.

So, what about “One of the Mels”?

Big George is a friend of ours. He works at the recycling centre. A week or two ago Joe has been in MacCallums after a day away in Edinburgh at a union meeting. He and another colleague, Joan, had just arrived back in Inverness on the train. They stopped off for a quick drink before heading their separate ways.

“Hi, Joe…Hi, Mel,” said Big George, assuming it was me standing there, with glass in hand.

Tonight I was introduced to Big George as “one of the Mels”. I guess you had to be there to appreciate the humour.

And...

A very good night was had by all...apart from the friend of Joe's who recited the poem.

Laughing at Nonsense

My old Weight Watchers leader would turn in her grave – if she was in her grave, which she isn’t. I broke a cardinal rule – something that has been drummed into me over sporadic attempts at loosing weight.

Food should not be used as a reward for good behaviour!

Indeed, I was tempted and gave in. Someone at work said she was going into town during lunchtime and asked if anyone wanted anything bringing back. I was drowning at the time – under a sea of test papers - the contents of which were rather dismal. I had reports to do and groups of people to organise later that day…a little incentive was required.

We talked about the size of the bar. I marked out with my hands – so wide, so long – and assumed that we were both thinking about the small bars – five or six squares. She misunderstood the hands and came back with a much bigger bar than I anticipated.

I laid down a few ground rules as per consumption of the bar. I resisted the urge to tear off the wrapping and stuff the whole thing into my mouth. I carefully doled out one square for every four or five reports written, or bits of test paper read, digested and commented on. I was strict with myself. The sea of paper diminished slowly and I reached the dry land of the desk.

The comfort gained from the taste of chocolate melting in my mouth took the edge off the disappointment of the test papers. It seemed that more than a few of my learners had departed from the path of learning and had fallen into the pit of “dunno”.

I swatted a few accusations batting about the brain, that it was my fault, somehow, that they hadn’t learned the stuff. I had faithfully done my bit – and more. Truth to tell they were the faithless ones and hadn’t done their bit. Such truth didn’t bring that much comfort.

“Don’t you just laugh at some of the nonsense people write?” someone asked.

I probably would laugh if there were no league tables or targets to meet.

I got to musing about the whole “laugh” thing. It seems to me that sometimes laughing is not always appropriate. I am not talking about funerals and sad occasions. I am not talking about humour at all really.

When I went to secondary school I was placed in a middle stream of ability. Looking back, I was perfectly placed in terms of ability. The trouble is, my best friend at the time was in a top stream, and I wanted to be in her class. There were no transfers in those days until you took your options at the end of fourth year. I worked hard. I worked hard to get out of the middle stream and prove I was top stream material. Failure was not an option and low pass marks were not laughed at but mourned.

Kids today….rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb…I suppose that just because I am met with shrugged shoulders and, what can only be classed as “celebrating the failed test”, doesn’t mean that when they are on their own, out of the limelight of their friend’s approval, they don’t actually mourn the fail. I suspect not. But the joy of failure annoys me. It is not part of my mental make-up.

The opposite of laughing is probably crying. Maybe I don’t laugh at the things people write, but that doesn’t mean that I should be crying either - making myself responsible for the things they didn’t write that they should have. They chose to write what they did, just as they chose to forgo revising and chose throughout the year not to apply themselves to work.

You may take the student to the book, but you can’t get them to read it! You may present the material with technicolour powerpoints and a few dozen interesting five minute youtube extracts but whether they learn it or not…

Laughing at the nonsense suddenly seems a good idea.

Make way for a dozen light titters, a loud ho ho, a playful ha ha or two, a sprinkling of hee hees and a snorting honk.

I'll try not to sound too unhinged!

Down There...Somewhere

I stand at the edge of the cliff
Looking down
Dizzy

I think I just pushed our friendship over

Just because I didn’t hear
It shatter and break
On the way down
Doesn’t mean it didn’t fall
Just because I cannot see
Fragments or
Clouds of dust
Doesn’t mean it’s not
Down there
Somewhere

I am left desolate
I can’t imagine a day
A moment
A single breath
Without you
The knowledge that
I failed to cherish
Something precious
Leaves me devastated

Saying sorry is inadequate
But I say it anyway
And more

Tell me, I plead
That there is something to salvage

Forgive me, I cry

Your word promises that
What’s broken
Can be restored

I beleive Your promise




(Inspired by Psalm 51)

Undiminished Enthusiasm

I received a book journal for Christmas this year. It has all the appearance of an address book, with the alphabetical tabs along the edge. I am encouraged to fill a whole page with the book title, the name of the author and his or her nationality, the day I read the book and whether the book has any awards or was translated from another language. There is a huge space for a quotation and another huge space for my opinion of the book along with a five star rating system.

I have made just the single entry so far – “The Winter Ghosts” by Kate Moss. It’s a very well written, but very sad ghost story.

Our bookshelves are turning into a library – sometimes with multiple copies of the one book. You see, I love browsing the book shelves of charity shops. I will pick out a book, read the blurb on the back cover, allow my imagination to be ignited and buy the book – and then find that I bought the book a number of months ago – or years – perhaps even read it. My memory, never that great at its peak, is an inconsistent beast.

I am not quite ready for my next entry but I have found a quotation. The blurb on the back is about a shooting at a Salvation Army concert in the middle of a Norwegian city centre where the assassin realises he shot the wrong man. I am just about half way through the book and the shooting – and the realisation he has the wrong man – has just happened. Yes, it is slow moving.

“Harry had once said that what separates a good detective from a mediocre one is the ability to forget. A good detective forgets all the times his gut instinct let him down, forgets all the leads he that he believed in that led him nowhere. And pitches in, naive and forgetful again, with undiminished enthusiasm.”

As much as my memory forgets sometimes the essential things, the things that it seems to hold onto, with a fierce tenacity, are the not so good things. I remember the things people have said that have upset me or criticised me. I remember injuries done, deliberate or accidental. I remember disappointments and failures. The trouble is that I have gone over things in my mind, reconstructing conversations – the truth as I saw it – without realising that I have been revising it in subtle ways. My recollection of what happened that day is probably not what happened at all! Don’t call me for a witness at a trial – I will crumble at the cross-examination.

“The ability to forget” is something that is not just good for good detectives, but for us all. I am not sure when, perhaps as a teacher, my enthusiasm diminished. I dare say it wasn’t one single event, but the steady, slow drip of years of dealing with difficult classes, or teaching lessons that I had never really got my head around. I struggle with the ability to forget.

I think about all the areas of my Christian life and whether my enthusiasm is undiminished. I am not sure that I am the one to ask. If I say “No” you will perhaps say, “Show me the evidence!” If I say “Yes” you may perhaps seek to encourage me by sympathetically patting my hand.

My enthusiasm may not always be demonstrated in being the first to volunteer of something, or be shown in my presence at every meeting that happens. I may not always pray in the prayer meeting, or sing in the worship sessions, or take reams of notes as the preacher speaks – but those things are not indicators of my enthusiasm.

I have a desire to draw closer to God and invite him into my waking, eating, walking, working, cleaning, reading, writing, talking, resting, sleeping parts of my life – not just the singing, praying and reading the Bible bits.

Giving God unlimited access to my life means there will always be new challenges that will call me to “pitch in, naive and forgetful again, with undiminished enthusiasm.”

God sets the ultimate example in forgetting by placing my sin as far away as the east is from the west. Maybe forgetting is the wrong word. God chooses not to remember these things. His enthusiasm to see His purposes come to pass will always be undiminished

Tatoos

I have been thinking of getting a tattoo – just thinking, mind. I am not half way to the tattoo parlour with an image on my mind and a place on my body where I want it put. It is purely a mental exercise that will never be translated into action.

I know a lot of people who have tattoos – I’m related to a few of them. It has never been something that I have wanted to do. There is nothing that I want to have written or drawn permanently on my skin. It’s not like you can rub it off when the novelty wears off.

I have a friend who has a tattoo down the front of her leg. It is some kind of flower. It cost a lot of money – money that she can ill afford. She is now saving up to have the flowers coloured in.

Another friend who is well on to her seventh or eighth tattoo, rather than going for a picture this time round, or some kind of hieroglyphics in a long dead language, is heading for a quotation written on some untouched part of the body.

The idea of a quotation has rather caught my imagination. I have been thinking of short but apt Bible quotations. After over thirty years of being in the faith, I am sure that I am not going to defect the dark side so I won’t need to think about removing the tattoo.

“Fearfully and wonderfully made” is my current favourite.

Maybe there is a company that does dabbities – the ones you lick and stick on to your skin for a less permanent effect.

Of course, the next question is where to put my quotation. Shoulders and bums seem to be the popular places. There is plenty of space on the bum right now – we could go for some fairly big lettering and still have room for a tasteful illustration. However, I think I want to be able to read it. What’s the point of having a tattoo where you have to do contortions in front of mirror to see it? Why should I be the only one not to be able to read my inspiring quotation?

“Rather than proclaim that you are “fearfully and wonderfully made” in neat black ink on some part of your anatomy,” said God in His still small voice, “why don’t you proclaim it through the way that you live your life? Live life gloriously because you are fearfully and wonderfully made!”

So I guess I’m not getting a tattoo after all.

The Duties That Are Ours

I am into the last few days of my Christmas holidays. Work is peeking around the corner and the relaxed pace of life that I have enjoyed over the last couple of weeks will be cranked up to “manic”. Suddenly life will take on the appearance of a white knuckle fair ground ride, with weekends to catch my breath.

Did I start the holiday with a “To Do” list to work my way through? Not really. The house was clean for a while. The school reports never got written. Only today did I get round to phoning a joiner to replace the bathroom door. We are having visitors in February and I suppose we can’t expect them to put up with all the little inconveniences that have become part of our lives – like singing loudly in the bathroom to let someone know it’s occupied. There’s no lock on the door and it doesn’t close securely either.

There is a thing that is hovering in the background waiting for my attention. It’s not exactly tapping impatient feet, or pointing to its watch – but it is there, expecting some kind of action. I hesitate to spell it out, to give it a name, or describe it in any detail because then it would know that I know it’s there. Right now, I’m playing peek-a-boo.

A couple of days ago I was following some links from a friend’s blog. She had posted a link to an article at www.peaceforthejourney.com - "Entrusted - Word for 2011"

Something in her opening paragraphs caught my eye:-

We all need jobs that belong to us… need a focus and a reason to stir our hearts into action each day that we live on this earth. Without our attachments along these lines, we default to couch-livin’ and ample tears. We pass on the duties that are supposed to be ours rather than living out the responsibilities that are within our reaches and tethered closely to our hearts. God made our hearts for good work—for putting our hands to the plow and breaking up the unplowed earth beneath our feet. He understands that faith is best preserved when faith is liberally sown. Thus, he’s given each of us a job.

“We pass on duties that are supposed to be ours”. I find that to be extremely challenging.

Later on in the week, listening to UCB radio while cleaning the living room, the same truth was expressed in a song – “I refuse” by Josh Wilson

I don't want to live like I don't care
I don't want to say another empty prayer
Oh, I refuse to sit around and wait for someone else
To do what God has called me to do myself
I could choose not to move
But I refuse

I am stuck on the line “I could choose not to move”. I make that choice in so many ways, and I want to move on to “But I refuse”.

I know far too many people who seem to move on. What they do is not what God calls them to do, because for many they don’t know God yet. They recognize and respond to something that tugs at them. Maybe for a while was hovering in the background waiting for their attention. Maybe they played peek-a-boo with it for a while…but then there came a time when they stopped playing.

I don’t want to pass on those duties that are mine and say to God, “I chose not to move.”

Marching Out His Army of Stars

At about 7.30 this evening, I stuck my head out of the front door and glanced upwards. I wanted to check that there was a clear sky. Then I scuttled back into the house, made a thermos of hot chocolate and put on a second pair of socks. The plan was to go stargazing.

Earlier on in the day, while listening to the local radio, I heard the invitation to join the Astronomical Society in looking at the stars. There were other things on offer to do on a Friday night – a local church was hosting an evening of top class bands. Created by “Open Doors Youth” – it seemed aimed at a younger generation, and even if the older generations were also invited along, I was sure it would be loud and throbbing. The stars were calling to me!

Isaiah 40:26 “Lift up your eyes and look to the heavens: Who created all these? He who brings out the starry host one by one and calls forth each of them by name. Because of his great power and mighty strength, not one of them is missing.”

The Astronomical Society has a website. I took a while looking through the gallery of the photographs of the stars they had taken. I even watched a two minute video of the stars in the sky. Nothing moved – I thought maybe they had caught a shooting star or something. It was the same patch of stars – for two minutes.

I read the page about “Star Gazing Etiquette”. I could do the dressing in layers, the hot chocolate and walking around waving arms to keep warm. I worried a little bit about parking beside the gate if I wanted to leave early. There was a 300 metre walk that required a torch. It was the torch that worried me. They were very insistent that the torch had a red light rather than a white one because it took the eyes twenty minutes to adjust to darkness and if you shone a white light, no one would see the stars quite so well for the following twenty minutes. I decided to just blunder around in the dark.

It seemed as if everyone and his next door neighbour took up the invitation. I arrived on time to discover the small observatory and its compound teeming with people and telescopes. Those that didn’t have telescopes had binoculars, and they were all looking upwards, pointing out various constellations to the uninitiated.

I have to admit that even without a telescope or a pair of binoculars, the sky with all the stars was just glorious. There were so many of them, and the more you looked, the more stars there seemed to be.


There was a slow moving queue to look at the big telescope inside a small observatory. The lens was fixed on Jupiter. I thought it was slightly out of focus, but the expert assured me that the problem was not the telescope but the atmosphere. I am used to seeing photos of stars and planets multi-coloured and dramatic. I guess I have seem too many episodes of Star Trek spin offs. My momentary anti-climax at seeing this small pale ball, with a dark band around the middle – Jupiter – was overtaken by a sudden realization that I was seeing something that was far, far in the distance. I thought about all those stars out there, and how some of them probably no longer existed. The light I was seeing in that spot was hundreds and thousands of years old. Amazing!

This is the handiwork of the God that I know.

In the words of The Message, He (God) marches this army of stars out each night, counts them off, calls each by name - so magnificent! So powerful! - and never overlooks a single one.”

It’s a big army!

And yet...

The One who takes the stars and flings
Them wide for all to see
Creation balanced on His palm
Yet still He cares for me

If I really Knew

If I really knew
If I had carefully listened
And understood
The things that I have been told
From the beginning
I would know
That You sit enthroned above
The circle of the earth
That the rule of politicians
Prime ministers and presidents
Is fleeting, just a sigh
It’s Your power that
Puts the stars in the heavens
Each one named and placed and known
And what you do for the stars
You do for people
Each one named and placed and known
If I really knew
This
Would I complain?
Would I insist
My way is hidden from You?
If I really knew
You are the everlasting God
The Creator of the ends of the earth
Who doesn’t weary or tire
Who alone understands the deepest things
I would reach out
To grasp the strength You offer
To feel the power surge
Of connection
Then I would soar
Competing even with the eagles
I would run
Not stopping to hold my knees and snatch at air
I would walk
Secure and unassailable

These things I should know
These things I should understand
These things that I have been told from the beginning
These things…

I know.

A Delight and a Joy

My husband moved into a new job earlier on in the year. The old job had been handed over to another branch of the Scottish Office to do, and, although he had the opportunity to move with the old job, he opted to take on a new challenge. I think the problem was that management, to be honest, didn’t really have another job for him to move into. So they created a new job for him. His new boss, a lawyer commissioned by the Commission, needed an administration assistant, but hadn’t really sat down and worked out exactly what assistance Joe could offer. As it was, the old job connections were proving more than a little challenging to close down. The other branch of the Scottish Office was new to Joe’s old job and the old job connections preferred dealing with someone who wasn’t new to it.

Eventually, my husband sat down and wrote out his own new job description and the goals he intended to cover in the coming year. The new boss nodded his approval and Joe settled into meeting his goals.

For about six months he had felt like a rudderless boat – drifting and directionless. Once he knew what it was he was aiming towards, he relaxed in his mind.

I do have a rudder to my boat in life’s ocean, although I act as if I am rudderless. I have a direction to head towards, but sometimes it requires me to row against the tide, and so I am inclined to drift.

Thinking about New Year’s resolutions I planned to make them vague enough so as not to put myself under pressure and to make them achievable at different levels too

1 Tim 3:1 holds my first one - “Here is a trustworthy saying: Whoever aspires to be an overseer desires a noble task.” I aspire not to be an overseer, but simply “to aspire to be” something. All the “aspiring” was taken out of the equation a number of years ago when someone confusing the church with a rapidly expanding business venture had us fill out forms and on the basis of the results, assigned us to a task that made best use of our skills and talents. At the time I aspired to join the worship team, but because my results didn’t swing that way I was denied access. I was firmly put into the teaching team – my day job was stretched to cover Sundays too.

The form filling has since been thrown into the bin and doors opened wider to aspire to something other than what the results say you can be. So “aspiring” is back into the mix.

I don’t think I want to aspire to one single thing in particular at the moment. I think I just want to have a “will do” kind of attitude, that doesn’t look around the room to see if there are any hands up from other people first before I make my move.

Isaiah 65:18 is my second plan. God speaks of creating a new heavens and a new earth. “But be glad and rejoice forever in what I will create, for I will create Jerusalem to be a delight and its people a joy.” The delight and joy refer to Jerusalem and its people, but the two words struck a chord. I have known people who have been a delight and a joy to be around. I wouldn’t say that I am quite the opposite with misery and heartache – but there are times when I am not a delight or a joy. I am somewhere in between. It is God that will do the creating in me, but I need to cooperate in His work.


My final plan comes from the chapter of a book by John Orthberg “When the Game is over….”. The title is a lot longer than that. The book is a comparison between the “Christian” game of life and principles about playing games generally. He is an entertaining writer. The chapter “Be the kind of player that people want to sit next to,” talks about monopoly. It’s not a game that I enjoy playing because I am not ruthless enough to win. However, he suggests that it is not the ruthless player that really wins in the end. They may win the game, but lose in the winning. Monopoly players, apparently, don’t like to lose to “browbeaters, insulters, know-it-alls and inconsiderate players”. I am not that kind of a winner – if I win at all, I feel very guilty. To win, someone else has to lose. The book recommends being a person that others don’t mind losing to because they don't rub anyone’s nose in it. It’s about living life graciously and dealing with people in a gracious way. It also includes losing graciously too and not bearing resentment and grudges.

I want to be that kind of a person.

What exactly did I say about vagueness and not being put under pressure? What I have written looks very sharp and precise and I see "pressure" stamped all over it.

BUT I don’t do this alone! It is God that will create these things in me if I will surrender to His hands.