Ev'rything I Own

According to a newspaper article I read some time last week, an earworm is “a piece of music that sticks in one's mind so that one seems to hear it, even when it is not being played.”

I have an earworm infection.

“I would give anything I own
Give up my life, my heart, my home
I would give ev'rything I own
Just to have you back again”

I know where my particular worm came from. It didn’t just arrive out of the blue like some other earworms that I know. It was my birthday a couple of weeks ago. You might not have sent me a card but I will not hold it against you. I must have mentioned on a previous birthday or Christmas list that I would like a Bread CD. My best friend at school was given the LP and we played it many times. My husband acknowledged that he was a closet Bread fan when he was younger too.

I got it for my birthday this time around and last weekend while driving over the bridge to Skye for a weekend break it was playing in the car. It has also been playing on my laptop.

So, yes, I know my earworm history.

Songfacts.com tells me that it was written by David Gates as a tribute to his father. It is not hard to perceive a spiritual comparison to some of the lines. 'You sheltered me from harm, kept me warm, gave my life to me, set me free,' – perfectly describes what God has done for me – the giving life and the setting free.

The earworm isn’t singing that bit – just the chorus.

What would I really give up “my life, my heart, my home” for? The answer tumbles out, just as swiftly as a bar of chocolate from a vending machine when you have put in the right money and pushed the buttons. It’s a given. God!

It’s like the string you pull at the back of the baby doll to get it to say “Mama”.

But saying the words and living the words can be two entirely different things. Sometimes I am just giving lip service. I say that “my life, my heart and my home” belong to God – but then I ration them out sparingly for His use.

“Ev’rything I own” is a very lavish response. It is extravagant. It is not carefully measured out. It reminds me of a poem that I wrote many years ago.

Broken

A passion burns within my heart
That words fail to describe
I yearn to find a better way
To show you what's inside

A priceless jar, with precious oil
Held in my trembling hand
I break and empty at your feet
And know you'll understand

As fragments fall, I'm broken too
And what's inside spills out
That you accept this worship act
I have no cause to doubt

The jar cannot be mended or
What was inside restored
I cannot claim the treasure back
Upon your feet I poured

A sweet and fragrant perfume now
Pervades this holy place
And You, the source of my delight
Will meet me face to face

Only Passing By

I was very surprised to see my poem claim the top spot for the weekly writer's challenge at Faithwriters.

Only Passing By

So much to do
No time to spare
A festive meal
I must prepare
But I’m only passing by

Wine to buy
Unleavened bread
Crossed off the list
Inside my head
But I’m only passing by

A choking crowd
Swarms like flies
Stings my ears
With noisy cries
But I’m only passing by

A push, a poke
A gasp, a grunt
Soon I’m standing
At the front
But I’m only passing by

A cruel parade
A brutal show
Crooks with crosses
Moving slow
But I’m only passing by

A slip, a stumble
A crashing fall
And people stare
Don’t care at all
But I’m only passing by

Exposed, uncovered
Caught and tagged
From the crowd I’m
Drafted, dragged
But I’m only passing by

‘Twixt hawk and buzzard
I am caught
A fearful plight
I never sought
But I’m only passing by

To bear his cross
I’m called to do
Step by step I’ll see
This journey through
But I’m only passing by

His blood excludes me
From my feast
I’m bread polluted with
Leaven, yeast
But I’m only passing by

I hold resentment
In my hand
Complain that I
Don’t understand
But I’m only passing by

They see this man
And now see me
I’m linked to Him
For all to see
But I’m only passing by

He stops to comfort
Those that weep
Into my heart His
Warm words seep
But I’m only passing by

I hear His words and
See a face
The Lord of Heaven
God of Grace
But I’m only passing by

His breath on me
My spirit stirs
His blood on me
New hope confers
But I’m only passing by

I’ll walk Him home
My dying friend
And know that on the cross
All curses end
I’m no longer passing by


Based on Mark 15:21-22

Lost Phone - Lost History

I thought I had lost my mobile phone. It wasn’t in the usual places – the school bag, the handbag, on top of the DVD player or on the shelf of the display cabinet.

This is not the disaster that most people would experience. It’s not an object that is glued to my hand and held up to an ear twenty four seven. I don’t walk around a supermarket giving a running commentary on the price of fresh pasta. I don’t stand in a queue spilling my conversation in a room-wide radius.

My fingers have never really been taught to text and Orange 241 is probably the most used number – and that just once a month or so. It’s a pay as you go phone and a £20 top up lasts more than a few months.

I seem to have a vague memory of putting the phone in the pocket of my jacket. It’s not a deep pocket and I have even vaguer recollections of putting it elsewhere.

Yesterday I was reconciled to buying a new phone. There was a little shiver of excitement about getting one with a camera, an MP3 player, access to the internet and finally being able to dive into a whole world of apps.

Deep down, I just wanted my old phone back.

It wasn’t the loss of the phone so much as the saved text messages. They span a number of years and take in a whole spectrum of events.

“Biggles flies today!” March 2005 relates to a birthday present of an hours flying lesson with a friend from Joe’s work.

“Get praying – half time. Celtic losing 1-0” July 2005 was somewhere in the Rangers long run of league wins. Joe seemed to link Celtic’s string of losses to being married to me.

“Mel, am gutted about Henbaeu – luv Jobeau” – June 2007 Tim Henman had reached the semi finals in Wimbledon that year and lost. It might have been the Ivanisovich one where he clawed himself back from two sets to love down and match point down to two sets all and…you know the kind of thing.

Then there are a whole series of texts beginning with my sister, Linda being admitted to hospital , tracing her downward spiral to this point:-

“Been trying to call you. Lin died 3 am. Will ring after work” – that from my sister Carla in April 2009.

There is a lot of history to be gleaned from my text messages.

You have probably guessed that I found my phone. It wasn’t in a place I would normally look – inside a shoe!

The Lonely Road

I am preaching this morning. Our church tends to shy away from the whole notion of someone preaching. We "share" or "bring" the word which sounds a lot less intimidating. I don't aim to intimidate - but it happens sometimes when a person is confronted with what's written in the Bible.

I am preaching on Simon of Cyrene. I have a poem that intend to read at the end. This is not that poem, but one, in Blue Peter fashion, I prepared earlier.


The Lonely Road

I aided and abetted in
The killing of a man
I became entangled in
An evil, ugly plan

Just merely a spectator
Pulled from the crowd around
They pushed me t’wards a beaten man
Just lying on the ground

“Pick up his cross and carry it!”
A Roman soldier screamed
I then became a player
In an act I’d never dreamed

His cross was placed upon me
No light and easy yoke
I felt His blood upon it
Into my shoulder soak

Small sharp splinters pierced my skin
I saw my own blood shed
Side by side I walked with Him
This man soon to be dead

The pace was slow and anguished
He stumbled on the path
A vicious whip descended
To show the soldier’s wrath

I could not stop from crying out
I felt such shame and hurt
That no one would show mercy
And lift Him from the dirt

Each step such bitter torture
My arms began to throb
We walked a lonely road that day
Jeered by an angry mob

We reached our destination
Away upon a hill
The crowd had gathered round us
The air was cold and chill

The cross I then surrendered
My part came to a close
I watched them nail Him to it
With heavy brutal blows

It seemed I could not walk away
And leave this savage scene
That I would want to see the end
Of someone’s life? Obscene

I touched His blood upon my cheek
I felt its awesome power
And somehow knew His sacrifice
Destroyed sin’s curse that hour

Yes, standing ‘neath His wretched cross
I came at last to see
What precious gift to walk beside
A man so great as He!

Fannig Into Flame

I read these words from 2 Timothy yesterday:-

“For this reason I remind you to fan into flame the gift of God, which is in you through the laying on of my hands. For the Spirit God gave us does not make us timid, but gives us power, love and self-discipline.” (2 Timothy 1:6-7)

Or as The Message puts it:-

“And the special gift of ministry you received when I laid hands on you and prayed—keep that ablaze! God doesn't want us to be shy with his gifts, but bold and loving and sensible.”

I suppose there are a lot of people out there who really have no idea what their gift or ministry is.

When someone first identified poetry as one of my gifts I was very quick to dismiss the idea. I wrote short stories not poems. And writing short stories was just a hobby or an interest. I didn’t see it in terms of a gift.

Last Easter I spent the first week of the holidays collecting my Easter poems together, selecting and editing them to make a small booklet. I photocopied a few and gave them out to close friends and family. And then I photocopied a few more as friends and family asked for extra copies to give to their friends. With just days to go to Easter Sunday there wasn’t time to seek a bigger market. Even if there was a bigger market to be exploited, I did not have the faith to chase it down.

Yesterday God reminded me of the poetry book.

“This year we have a few weeks before Easter…more than enough to seek a bigger market.”

We quibbled for a moment on just whose book it was “we” were planning to distribute. God firmly claimed the book as His seeing as He had been the inspiration behind it. However, the line between what was mine and what was His was very blurred, if not altogether non-existent. He conceded that the book was perhaps “ours” as opposed to His or mine. He made it clear that this year we were going beyond friends and family.

Last year I had stood outside the Christian bookshop in town with a dozen copies in a carrier bag but never quite plucked up the courage to go into the shop and thrash out a deal.

This year was different.

I arranged for more than a few to be photocopied and then went round to the Christian bookshop. The last time I had tried to ply my poetry there had been about the time of the Scottish Open Golf competition up at Castle Stuart. The Christian bookshop had a magnificent window display featuring a sailing ship. I had an equally magnificent poem entitled “My ship of Faith”. My poem and their ship seemed destined to be together – but it didn’t happen. The shop manager was on holiday. The poem was tucked under the counter until their return. I suspect it is still there.

The manager was away on holiday.

This time I wasn’t about to let the book get tucked away under the counter. I told the assistant behind the counter about last year and the positive reception of the poetry books among friends and family. I suggested a price for the book if they wished to sell it, and how easy I thought it would be to sell and agreed that I even giving the book was a possibility. I was a little more proactive but not overbearing.

She seemed to think that what I was asking was possible. Although the bookshop is a branch of a national organisation there were always opportunities for local authors.

So…there you go. I fanned into flame the gift of God.

What happens next isn’t entirely out of my hands – there is a return visit to the bookshop and an some kind of selling script to work on. I still have my part to play.

The book and I are in God’s hands.

Amelia and I

I was reunited with old friend last week – Amelia Peabody.

It happened in the context of the England-Wales rugby match was last weekend.

Who better to watch the game with than Welsh friends? We hadn’t visited in a while. We phoned ahead and turned up at their house with a deflated rugby ball, a couple of carrier bags with nibbles and juice and settled down to watch the game. The rugby ball, emblazoned with a Welsh dragon, was bought last October on a visit to Rugby. It wasn’t deflated when we bought it. The intention was to take it straight round when we got back home, but things happen…you know how it is.

Talking and watching TV at the same time has always been a bit of a mystery to me. Saturday afternoons as a child were dedicated to watching wrestling and listening to the sport’s round-up – in silence. Apparently not everyone thinks the way I do. I have had to learn to stop hissing at people to be quiet.

It could have been in the interval that Alyson and I swapped “book stories”. She is an avid reader and a member of a book reading club. It’s a library run thing and some of the books are not what Alyson would naturally read.

I dug out my Kindle. It wasn’t so much the Kindle I wanted to show her but the purple knitted cover I had made for it. She admired the cabling and the striped purple and cream buttons. She flicked though the list of books I had downloaded. There is an anthology in amongst them, a fund raiser for a charity called Euippe. The publishers have included a short story of mine. She read it and made appropriate complimentary comments while I preened. She also read sections from the book of Romans in a Bible I have downloaded.

Then Amelia joined the conversation.

Amelia and I met a few years ago long before I bought the Kindle. Second hand bookshops were my sources for used books. I bought the first in a series of detective novels written by Elizabeth Peters who introduced me to Amelia Peabody in Egypt. As Publisher’s Weekly on the back of the cover of a later book in the series said, “If Indiana Jones were female, a wife and mother who lived in Victorian times, he would be Amelia Peabody”. She had joined the very select list of my heroines.

I have read just the first three in the series. Second hand book shops are not the best places to track down series of books in numerical order. The first hand book shops weren’t either. They may have catered to other readers on the fifteenth and sixteenth in the series but the early books were to be found only in the big cities. Borders in Glasgow had them all. It was a treat to by the next couple in the series when we were visiting family.

Then Borders closed down.

Amelia and I lost touch.

I am surprised that we didn’t bump into each other in the Kindle store at Amazon where I am known to loiter.

Alyson had the series. She opened the doors of the Wiltshire Library – but allowed me only one book at a time. I think it is her plan to make sure I come and visit often. Welsh International Rugby matches are not regular event on TV.

Amelia and I have been reunited.

I might have had my Kindle to boast about, but Alyson also had a nifty little device. It was an electronic bookmark. Not only does it mark the page, but there’s a little qwerty keyboard where you type in a unfamiliar word and it tells you the meaning.

A very useful device!

I settled down later than evening to join Amelia and her sleuthing.

Page 1. “Ardour” underlined. “great enthusiasm” written in pencil along the edge of the page.

And so it goes on.

Many of the words Alyson had underlined were familiar ones. There were a few that I didn’t know and I was glad to have the definition handy. There were also a few underlined with no pencil explanation. The book mark didn’t know them either I suppose.

It occurred to me as I read through the chapter, noting the underlined words and their meanings written in pencil, that I used a limited vocabulary when I write. There is such a rich variety of words that create a vivid picture but I find myself sticking to the usual familiar few.

I congratulate myself on the wide range of vocabulary that I know and use – but it is not really a growing range. I know lots of words and I use lots of words but I rarely use new words.

As a writer I am challenged by that.

As a Christian I am also challenged by that.

I may have a wide range of “Christian experience” – but is it a growing range of Christian experience?

The Truth About Chocolate

I confess
I have done it once
Only
Standing in the checkout queue
Sugar level dropping through the floor
Queue moving snail speed
Yes, I confess
I ate the chocolate bar
And handed over an empty wrapper
To be scanned

Lent
Forty days of sacrifice
A wilderness journey
I want to do more than just
Go through the motions
Chocolate is off the menu
But I fret about
Withdrawal symptoms
After all
I am an addict

A memory surfaces
A documentary not so long ago
An experiment exposing
The truth about chocolate
A volunteer
An MRA scan
Exposed to pictures
Then fed melted chocolate
Through a tube
I wish it was me

Brightly coloured spots
Vivid red and orange
In some part of the brain
Registers
The delights of
Seeing and tasting
Brain scans show
There is no greater delight
In the tasting
Than in the seeing

Nothing in the ingredients
The cocoa beans
The sugar or milk
Lecithin or vanilla
Is addictive
A picture is sufficient
To stimulate the
The pleasure centres of the brain
Taste is irrelevant
Says science

The truth about chocolate says
Seeing is enough
Tasting is unnecessary
A picture is as powerful
As the personal encounter
The truth about God
Seeing is never enough
Tasting is essential
The personal encounter
Far outweighs any picture

Popping the Question

Today is the last day of February and whoever it is who hosts Radio 2 was encouraging women in general to pop the question if they were at that stage in their relationships.

It reminds me that 1992 was also a leap year. I wasn’t married to my husband at the time but we had been courting for quite a while. We were of an age when all the wild oats had been sown and we had done our own stuff and were ready to settle down. We were also more mature age-wise than many people who get married. The biological clock might have been ticking, but I wasn’t desperate.

It was a leap year. I adored Joe. He was everything I wanted, everything I needed. I was, and still am, convinced that he was God’s gift to me.

The church was travelling down one weekend to Aviemore. Our sister church in Glasgow was coming up to join us for fun and fellowship. Rather than everyone taking cars or catching a train, we had hired a bus. It wasn’t a big church. We could all fit quite comfortably on one bus. The journey wasn’t a long one either, not much more than half an hour, but we indulged in non-musical chairs, enjoying fellowship with each other.

It was a leap year. I was in love. I was settled on Joe. I was waiting for a proposal. It was coming close to the end of February and I was giving serious thought to proposing myself. I wasn’t sure whether it was scriptural or not.

I sat next to the pastor of our church, Charlie. I shared with him my plans to propose to Joe and asked him if it was OK.

He didn’t raise any specific objections. There was nothing in the Bible that said I couldn’t propose. I don’t think he was entirely happy with the idea. Charlie was quite a traditionalist when it came to the roles of men and women, but he also recognised that Joe and I were not teenagers with out of control hormones. That we would marry he had no doubts.

Apparently Charlie had made it his business to go and visit Joe as soon as possible. February was into its last week and “the day” was fast approaching. Joe knew exactly why Charlie was there. I don’t think I had shared my plans with Joe about proposing – but he knew me well enough to guess what I was intending to do.

It was an awkward conversation. Charile was quite adapt at talking to young people who didn’t always know their mind. Clear infringements of the rules were easy to deal with – but leap year proposals didn’t fit into that category. Joe wasn’t about to make Charlie’s job any easier!

There was a lot of beating about the bush before Charlie took the plunge.

“Charlie,” said Joe, “The champagne is in the fridge. I’m on to it.”

As it was, over the next couple of days, Joe was poorly and off work. “The day” was drawing nearer still. He couldn’t see how he could get to me before I got to him.

I turned up on his doorstep, like Florence Nightingale, with a tin of soup. We sat down in front of the TV with bowls of soup in hand. I think it was one of the Star Trek spinoffs that he detested but knew I liked. He switched off the TV, much to my annoyance, left the room to go into the kitchen and returned with the champagne and two glasses.

Question asked, answer given, moment marked with a sip of champagne and the TV was switched back on…but neither of us were really watching it.

The Bear Said, "No!"

There had been an office shuffle at Joe’s work. Maybe, like turning a mattress to even out wear and tear, it was all about the carpet that was being worn thin on the route to Joe’s desk. He’s a man who knows, and those who know he knows, travel the well-worn path to his desk. People who perhaps should be pursuing questions through a line manager take it to Joe instead because even if he doesn’t know, he will find out.

His new desk makes him more accessible than he used to be. There are more visitors than before and more questions that people need to ask. This means that the normal routine gets interrupted. He has his own tasks to complete and sometimes, once he has been dealing with someone’s questions, he tries to get back to what he was doing and can’t remember what it was he was doing. There was some moment of genius that he just can’t recapture.

Who came up with the bear? I don’t know.

Someone placed a bear on his desk.

If Joe was busy and needed not to be interrupted, the bear was turned around so its back was to the rest of the office. The bear and Joe were in conference and not to be disturbed.

If Joe was not so busy, the bear was turned back around, facing outwards, its face to the rest of the office. The bear and Joe were open for business.

The system was working well. There were clear signals about good times to approach the desk and not so good times. Joe could pursue his moments of genius, bag the good ideas and move on. The bear did a good job of fending off visitors.

All was going well. Joe was in a meeting with another colleague and the bear was facing away from the rest of the office.

The meeting ended. The bear should have turned around, but it didn’t. It remained facing Joe. Everyone respected the bear and left Joe alone.

Joe had another meeting planned. The man was hopping about, waiting for the bear to turn around so he could approach the desk and have his meeting.

The bear sat still.

Joe worked on.

The man kept hopping about.

The bear sat still.

Joe kept working.

The man approached the desk hesitantly, clearly agitated. Joe looked up from what he was doing and suddenly remembered the meeting.

“You should have said something.”

The man pointed to the bear, its back firmly turned away from the rest of the office.

“The bear said, ‘No!’”

The Road to Elsewhere

The snow that has been falling elsewhere in Britain finally hit Inverness today. We are located on a fairly sheltered part of the Moray Firth and tend to miss out on a lot of the extreme weather that happens elsewhere.

It was “elsewhere” that worried me last weekend. It was a long weekend, so we had booked into a hotel somewhere along the River Dee. It was a quiet village not that far from Balmoral Castle. Getting there was a concern. I had printed off a map from the AA Route planner. I was informed that it would take me about two and a half hours to get there and the red line on the map wasn’t exactly a straight line. What the instructions failed to tell me was about the steep hills and hair-pin bends. Going down seemed to be steeper than going up, so I wasn’t looking forward to the journey back.

A friend of mine had been out that way, maybe not so far out that way, a while ago when it was snowing. These roads are not the kind of roads that snowploughs tend to clear. The road with all its snow had proved impossible to drive up the way – so he turned the car around and reversed up the hill.

So…here I was, in a hotel in a small village, with a couple of very steep hills between me and home. I wouldn’t say that I am a confident driver. I was praying fervently for a snow free weekend because the idea of perhaps reversing up a steep hill if it was very snowy was beyond my capabilities. I envisioned us leaving the car parked in front of the hotel until spring and taking a taxi to the nearest train station!

As it turned out, there was no snow. We drove past the Lecht ski centre and caught glimpses of very determined skiers coming down the slopes on slush.

We had a different kind of hazard to negotiate – pheasants. It was the end of the hunting season and they were flaunting their stuff. One little fellow stood in the middle of the road and struck up a pose. Had he been able to talk I am sure he would have said, “Dig out the camera, lassie. Take a picture. You won’t find a better specimen than me.” I wasn’t about to pander to his aim to be the February sweetheart of the game bird calendar. Did he not know that this was a single track road with passing places and hair-pin bends and a 20% uphill gradient? He was certainly a game bird. I tried to drive around him – an impossible feat on a single track road.

There was a lorry coming down the hill, the pheasant was still posing in the middle of the road and there was no passing place in sight. The pheasant sauntered off the road and the lorry and I danced close to the camber to pass each other.

Arriving at the top of the hill, we pulled into a passing place to take a photo. It was very windy. The passenger door was impossible to open. I was buffeted about as I tried to take a photo. It’s good job I never joined the Weightwatcher class in the New Year!

Once over the top, the road snaked down the way – single track with hair-pin bends and passing places with a 20% downhill gradient. There was one pheasant corpse on the road home. Obviously he had struck up a similar pose to the previous pheasant and the vehicle hadn’t stopped.

If you ever watch something like golf, sometimes before the man hits his tee shot, there is an overview of the next hole. The camera, in a helicopter I presume, flies over the fairway and up to the green pointing out where the bunkers are. You know what is coming.

Had there been something similar – a camera in a helicopter flying over the hills and pointing out the single track road, the hair-pin bends, the passing places and the posing pheasants I am not sure if I would have not found another, easier way home. I would have counted myself as not really competent to tackle to road. Throw in some snow and ask me to reverse up the road – no way would I have attempted it.

Even without the pheasants, I thought I couldn’t do it.

It is amazing what you think you can’t do – but you can really if you just get on with it.

A Goldilocks Moment

I have been very busy of late – not busyness that has achieved nothing, but necessary busyness. One item ticked of a very long To-do list was to phone the cleansing department of the council to make arrangements for them to uplift on old mattress. It’s currently living in the spare room.

In the January sales we decided to replace the mattress. For more than a year or two the springs were finding their way to the surface. Turning the mattress over or around just gave you a different set of spring to deal with rather than solving the problem, and I had taken to covering the worst offenders with a spare duvet but it made for an uncomfortable night.

One Saturday we toured the bed shops. It was like a re-enactment of the story of Goldilocks without the bears, or the chairs or the porridge. We skipped straight to the beds. One shop operated a scale from one to five. One was rock hard – you might as well be sleeping on the floor. Five was very soft – the sinking sand equivalent of a mattress.

There was an invitation, almost an order given by the sales person that you lie down on the bed. The bottom part was covered in plastic so no one expected you to remove your shoes. Children were gleefully jumping one some mattresses given such freedom and encouragement.

We did the tour and like Godlilocks pointed out the ones too soft and the ones too hard. We swithered over a memory mattress but the price was higher than we had budgeted. It was down to a couple of “just right” ones.

We made our choice, filled in the right forms for delivery and surrendered the debit card.

Swapping the mattresses over should have been an easy affair. It is not rocket science to take the old one off and put the new one on. We didn’t factor in the dust bunnies lurking under the bed. They were clearly visible.

Joe left me to hoover the carpet.

I am not sure whether these dust bunnies were a fiercer breed than most bunnies – they hadn’t been tackled in a while and had perhaps had the chance to evolve into another life form or whether there was something up with the hoover. I had dismantled it to clean it a while ago. Putting all the bits back together in the right order could have been a MENSA entry examination. Whatever the problem, the hoover whined on an unhealthy note, overheated and the emergency cut-off safety thing kicked in.

The dust bunnies laughed. I think one or two mooned in celebration.

For the next half hour or more there was hand to hand – or rather bunny to brush skirmishes - under the bed. The dust bunnies were not laughing anymore.

Finally the new mattress took its place.

What was “just right” in the shop was transformed into “more than alright” on the bed. After the battle with the bunnies and then with the duvet cover, the urge to crawl into bed was strong.

We have entered a new phase of sleeping. This mattress should have come with a government warning – once in bed, it is soooooo comfortable that, like Goldilocks, one can’t help but fall asleep. Even the arrival of bears would have little bearing on whether Goldilocks would have left the bed and jumped out the window.

Joe and I are more than amazed that we put up with the past mattress for so long. We just applied the spare duvet to the worst of the springs and moulded our bodies to the dips and fell asleep.

I am just thinking about the things in life we put up with – the uncomfortable springs of trials and tribulations that poke through our faith. Maybe we find a word from the Bible to cover them over, to make things a little more comfortable. Maybe we just mould our Jesus walk around these things.

If that is the case…it’s time for something new.

Panda Mania

The narration was done by David Tennant and the subject matter of the documentary was about pandas – a dream combination if ever there was one.

My experience of zoos is limited. I can notch up a couple of safari parks and a wild life park with a small selection of not very exotic animals (apart from Kangaroos) but zoos are a bit of a mystery. I have never really lived anywhere that has had a zoo. I lived in Cyprus for a few years and there was a zoo but it wasn’t a pleasant experience. Not much had been done to create habitats for the animals that mimicked their natural environment. The animals didn’t look happy and contented, but rather distressed.

That was not the case for the two pandas that took up residence at Edinburgh Zoo. I never appreciated the amount of preparation involved. I knew that they had to build something special for the pandas, but it never occurred to me to wonder where they would get all the bamboo shoots from.

There’s a joke doing the rounds, that absolutely delights my husband, that there are more pandas in Scotland now than there are Conservative Members of Parliament.

Somewhere between the weeks spent being trained to look after pandas in China and the specially chartered Fex-Ex plane touching down on the runway in Edinburgh (and all the panda merchandise in the zoo shop)a thought occurred to me. I know it is good to look after the planet, and do something to stop pandas from becoming extinct – but if only the same care was given to looking after people!

I know that pandas can’t really look after themselves and they are really cute and cuddly looking and they are an endangered species with only a thousand or so in the wild, and people can look after themselves and very few of them are cute and cuddly and they are far from being extinct but it does seem out of balance.

The government hasn’t been given the pandas, or even bought them. We are just renting them for a few years. Lots of money has been spent on bringing them here and training people to look after them and feed them.

It seems a bit unfair to spend so much on a couple of animals, cute as they are, while at the same time clawing back money from the welfare system and pushing a huge percentage of people into poverty and debt.

To think that I rate lower than a panda in the scheme of things doesn’t bring me much comfort.

I’d like to be a panda
With fur that’s black and white
So when I lose my habitat
You’ll step in, make things right
You’ll scour the towns and hamlets
And bring me things to eat
And build a lovely home for me
A tranquil, calm retreat
My every need provided
My comfort guaranteed
So petted and so pampered
A favoured life indeed
But I am not a panda
I’m just a quiet soul
Lacking those essential things
That make a person whole
My job pays peanut wages
My home a soulless box
I cannot pay the fuel bills so
I’m wearing thermal socks
The fridge is all but empty
The cupboards almost bare
I look upon the panda and
And I think it isn’t fair!

A Touch of Tartan

It was Burn’s Night on Wednesday. We had the invitation to join friends for a marathon haggis, neeps and tatties night but I had too much homework to do.

The school is hosting a Burn’s Night celebration tonight. To get us all in the mood, and to raise money for a group of young people going to Romania in the summer, it was a dress down, or dress up, day. “A Touch of Tartan” was the theme - but as long as you paid your pound, you could wear just about anything.

Most people opted for something comfortable and casual. I saw at least one kilt during the day. Most “touches” were just that. A group of girls sported tartan fingernails!

I had trailed around the shops last night – having just been paid, looking for something tartan in the sales. It had to be something in the sales, not particularly expensive and something that I would wear again. There are too many things in the wardrobe worn once, or waiting for a slimmer me. Nothing took my eye sufficiently for me to dig out my money.

In the end I settled for a tartan ribbon. It had been tied on to one of the kitchen chairs many years ago. A box of chocolates, a presentation box of toiletries or some such other object had been tied with the ribbon. It was too nice a ribbon to throw away.

Sporting the ribbon tied in my hair I went to work.

The last time I can actually remember wearing a ribbon in my hair I must have been ten or eleven years old. Ribbons were not part of my growing up. Hair was tied with elastic bands.

I associate ribbons in my hair with a Roman Catholic orphanage. My brothers and sisters and I stayed there a couple of times in our childhood when my mother was very ill. It’s not a place that I associate with happy memories – but I loved the ribbons.


Nazareth House

The headline in the paper, bold and black stands out.
A nun, in an orphanage, knocking kids about.
My memory, like a tape, pressed to fast rewind,
Stops some thirty years ago to somewhere in my mind.

Nazareth House was hell behind a hedge
Smelling of carbolic soap, boiled cabbages and Pledge.
"It's only just for two weeks," Father Patrick said,
"While your mum recovers in a hospital bed."

Unlike "The Sound of Music", these nuns looked rather mean.
No compassionate expressions on their faces could be seen.
All black and white and waddling, like penguins in a zoo,
If they had a sense of humour, it wasn't getting through.

For their first "act of kindness" they took away my clothes
I wore someone else's dress, tied with someone else's bows.
The person that was "me" were they trying to rub out?
Was I just another kid to them, among thirty round about?

Some kids taught me skipping songs, and Irish jigs as well
I joined in complex clapping games that taught me how to spell.
I hid among the rose bushes in a game of hide and seek.
I counted up to twenty and I promised not to peak.

Some kids came to tease me. "Your mum is really dead.
You're never leaving here. Just get it in your head.
You'll not be leaving soon, You'll be here for quite a while.
If you want to be adopted, you must learn how to smile."

If days I could endure, the nights I never could.
Dormitories with many beds, and panelling of wood.
Embroidered in an ornate frame, and hung upon the wall
"God is watching you" - a grim reminder to us all.

Familiar sounds were absent, the creaks and groans I knew
Fears so small in sunlight, in darkness slowly grew.
Was it true, what they'd said, that mum was really dead?
Fear and dread surrounded me, and then I wet the bed.

I like a happy ending, two weeks was all I stayed.
On the outside I was fine, but on the inside rather frayed.
To be just one of many, neither special nor unique,
A thought that's quite unsettling, uncomfortable and bleak.

Should I jump upon the bandwagon, and sue those nuns in black?
The security I lost back then, can I ever get it back?
They never meant to harm me, they forgot one thing that's true
To know you're loved, that someone cares - that's important too.

Taking the Later Train

The radio in the car switches between Radio 2 (for the Breakfast Show with Chris Evans), Radio Scotland (for the local news) and a medium wave channel that covers football matches.

Yesterday it was on Radio 2 with Graham Norton and a guest. A listener had either phoned in, or twittered, or e-mailed or written in to share an experience. Apparently a new person had started at her office and the two of them shared a train journey to get to work. At first the woman quite liked the company and the conversation. After a week or two, the woman realised that it was basically the same conversation each morning. Obviously not happy in her marriage, the new person settled down each morning to criticise her husband.

Graham Norton and the guest were invited to give advice on what to do about it. I have no idea who the guest was. Her advice was to take a later train, or an earlier one, so as to avoid sitting next to the woman.

Graham’s advice was to tell the woman straight that she needed to stop criticising her husband. If things were so bad between husband and wife may be they ought to think about separating. She didn’t need to be cruel about it, or aggressive, but simply not put up with being someone else’s dumping ground for what was wrong in their life. It was time to encourage the person to move forward, move on, and make changes and climb out of the rut.

I have been thinking on and off about the comment about Enoch in the book of Genesis.

“Enoch walked faithfully with God; then he was no more, because God took him away.” Genesis 5:24

Imagine if it wasn’t walking, but taking the train every morning to work(for 300 years?). Suppose God was sitting next to Enoch and the two of them talked. How soon might God have decided to get a later train, or an earlier one, if all Encoh did each morning was regurgitate the same conversation bemoaning his lot in life, or pointing out the faults of fellow passengers or just complaining about the price of a season ticket on the train?

What was it about Enoch that made God allow him, encourage him, invite him to walk beside him each day?

I think there might have been days when Enoch might have bemoaned his lot in life, or pointed out the faults of fellow passengers or just complained about the price of, not exactly a season ticket on the train…but something. Enoch was a human being. If that is all he did I am not sure that God would have enjoyed their time together…and you kind of get the impression that He did.

Maybe it wasn’t so much about what Enoch said at all, but about what God was able to say to Enoch and how Enoch responded. God found in Enoch someone who would listen to Him.

It challenges me to know that God allows me, encourages me and invites me to walk beside him each day. The Bible says that I can cast all my cares upon God because he cares me for me – so, I can, to some extent, make God the dumping ground for all that is wrong in my life.

If that was all I did, I am not sure that God wouldn’t want to take the later train to avoid me some days!

God has so much to say to me moving forward, moving on, making changes and climbing out of my ruts. He would like to find in me someone who will listen to Him and respond.

Does he?

Walking Faithfully With God

I have been mulling over the life of Enoch – just the part of it described in a few short verses in Genesis. I know that his name crops us elsewhere in the Bible, but I am not inclined to hunt down the references.

“When Enoch had lived 65 years, he became the father of Methuselah. After he became the father of Methuselah, Enoch walked faithfully with God 300 years and had other sons and daughters. Altogether, Enoch lived a total of 365 years. Enoch walked faithfully with God; then he was no more, because God took him away.” (Gen 5:21-24)

I confess myself to be fascinated with those first 65 years.
It is not until his son comes into his life that Enoch changed and began to walk faithfully with God for the next 300 years.

Another Son has come into my life. Not my own personal chromosomes and DNA reproduced in the next generation of human flesh – but the Son.

Can anyone say of me that I have walked faithfully with God in the 35 years I have known Him? It is unlikely that I will get 300 years of His company here on earth – but there will be a day when I will be no more because God takes me away and then I will have an eternity to be with Him.

I am not inclined either to do the mathematics to work out how old Adam was when Enoch was born. Or how old Enoch was when Adam died. But I will dig out the calculator and have a go.

Adam was somewhere in the region of 627 (feel free to check my adding up, I won’t be offended if you correct me) when Enoch was born. So, he and Enoch had some 303 years to get to know each other. Enoch was well on his way to walking faithfully with God when Adam died.


I wonder as Adam watched Enoch walking faithfully with God whether he thought about his own walks with God in the cool of the day.

I wonder whether my own walk with God challenges anyone to think about theirs.

I think, perhaps, that Adam and Enoch talked about it. I think, perhaps, that Adam encouraged Enoch in his walk and warned him not to make the same mistakes he had made. I think Enoch encouraged Adam to seek God out to fall in love with Him afresh.

I think, perhaps, there is much that I could say to encourage those in the faith younger than I. There have been so many conversations God and I have had in the cool of the day (and in the heat of the battle!).

There could never be a Garden of Eden for Adam or Enoch to walk in – but walking anywhere with God makes any place paradise.

A Thousand Origami Cranes

I have in my possession 366 squares of coloured paper (A friend reminded me that it's a leap year). Each square is exactly the same size – 15 cms by 15 cms – and they all fit into a plastic holder. Yes, it’s a calendar. By the end of the year, assuming I will not miss a few weeks and toss the paper into the recycling bin, I will have 365 paper sculptures!

Three of my squares have embraced their destiny with an assortment of folds and creases. The motor sail, which will never take to the high seas, is on the desk just beside me. The nightingale, which will never sing a tune, is next to it. Today’s creation, a ladybug (that’s a lady bird to residents in the UK) is downstairs. She is unlikely to fly away home.

Three days in July are ear marked for frogs according to the index. For Christmas Day next year I have a Santa finger puppet to look forward to!

We are talking origami – the traditional Japanese art of paper folding.

I seem to remember that one Chinese New Year celebration many years ago fell on the day our Church house-group met. Ever looking for ways to build relationships, in among the Chinese takeaway, I issued everyone with a square of coloured paper and led them through the mechanics of making an origami crane. (According to my calendar index the crane is scheduled for a day in August.) I had been practising for days and it was no problem to me to fold, crease and twist the paper as instructed but it proved a little more difficult to those trying to keep up with me. I think there was only one person with the determination to produce her own crane. The other cranes remained in various states of incompleteness.

According to one article on the web “The crane is auspicious in Japanese culture. Japan has launched a satellite named tsuru . Legend says that anyone who folds one thousand paper cranes will have their heart's desire come true.”

The article goes on to tell the legend of a young Japanese girl named Sadako Sasaki. While she was just an infant she was exposed to radiation during the bombing of Hiroshima and became very sick. By the time she was twelve in 1955, she was dying of leukemia. She heard about the legend and decided to fold one thousand origami cranes so that she could live. However, she realised that the other children in her ward were also dying and she couldn’t fold cranes for them too. She wished instead for world peace and an end to suffering. According to some versions of the story Sadako folded 644 cranes before she died. Her friends at school completed the task in honor of her. She was buried with a wreath of 1,000 cranes to honor her dream.

I have no intention of folding a thousand cranes in hope that I will be granted my heart’s desire. There is a better way – a way that is guaranteed to work.

“Delight yourself in the LORD and he will give you the desires of your heart” (Psalm 37:4)

The Absent Voice

I was reading Psalm 148 this morning. It is the psalmist’s call to praise God and he calls not just to people sitting in a pew on a Sunday morning to praise God, but to the whole created cosmos. The heavens and the earth are summoned to join the song of praise.

“Praise the LORD from the heavens;
praise him in the heights above.
“Praise him, all his angels;
praise him, all his heavenly hosts.
Praise him, sun and moon;
praise him, all you shining stars.
Praise him, you highest heavens
and you waters above the skies.” (Psalm 148:1-4)

There are many examples throughout the Bible of angels praising God. Some of them are before God’s throne constantly singing His praise and declaring His holiness. It’s not so easy to see how the sun, moon and stars praise God. Not all praise is audible, although that doesn’t mean that the stars are silent by any means.

“The heavens declare the glory of God;
the skies proclaim the work of his hands.
Day after day they pour forth speech;
night after night they reveal knowledge.
They have no speech, they use no words;
no sound is heard from them.
Yet their voice goes out into all the earth,
their words to the ends of the world.” (Psalm 19:1-4)

In the praise that rises from heaven and earth to God’s throne – God hears every distinct voice. He hears the song of a single star in a galaxy of millions many thousands of light years away from earth. He hears the single note struck by one raindrop in the melody of a shower. He can identify the tune of a single sparrow in the dawn chorus. He would know if it was missing.

In among the cacophony of angels and stars, whale song and dolphin clicks, lightning and storms, lambs bleating and dogs barking, nightingales and song thrush – God hears my voice – my own distinctive song of praise.

He listens out for me.

Among the angel anthems
And songs from stars on high
And melodies from deep sea whales
And birds that fill the sky

He listens for my single voice
Unique among the throng
That soars throughout the heavens
To sing salvation’s song

My soul why are you silent?
My tongue – why are you still?
Where is the praise that tumbles out
To heaven’s temple fill?

My eyes so fixed on circumstance
His splendour cannot see
He shifts my gaze toward the Cross
It shouts its victory

I sing, His precious sparrow
In sunlight or in shade
The glories of the Great I Am
Through heaven and earth displayed




(c) Mel Kerr Jan 2012

A Tall Oder For a Short Person

I have been looking for a Bible verse to lead me into 2012. I know it sounds super spiritual and maybe a tad legalistic – but it is neither. 2011 whizzed by in a bit of a blurr. Maybe the older one gets, the quicker these things pass by. I would like 2012 to pass at a more sedate rate and for me to not stand at the end of it and wonder where they days went.

I suppose I could churn out the resolutions that I made last year and the year before that and see if I get beyond January with them still intact. I could think that maybe this year will be different. History tells me that it won’t.

It’s not the New Year yet, but according to the Bible Notes I bought the other day, it’s 4th January. I thought I would get a head start. Once work crashes in, and it will crash, things will get busy, and one or two days may get missed. We are looking at 2 Corinthians – a letter that I am not so well acquainted with. Paul has this to say in verse 12.

“We can say with confidence and a clear conscience that we have lived with a God-given holiness and sincerity in all our dealings. We have depended on God’s grace, not on our own human wisdom. That is how we have conducted ourselves before the world, and especially toward you.” 2 Cor 1:12 NLT

Wouldn’t that be quite something to say at the end of 2012?

This is not a Bible verse to lead anyone through just one year. It governs not just a year, or Paul’s dealings with just one church. It’s a hallmark stamped upon the whole of a faith-walk from start of finish.

• I have a God-given holiness that should be seen in all of my dealings.

• I want to be sincere – but not to be sincerely wrong. (It seems a measure of humility is needed here.)

• I want to put aside my own human wisdom, with all of its successes and failures. (Sometimes the successes of human wisdom are more dangerous than the failures)

• My faith-walk began with God’s grace and should continue that way. (I will not switch suppliers!)

• The way I conduct myself between the world and the church, my home and my neighbourhood shouldn’t vary. (The end of “work Mel” and “holiday Mel”)

If I put these things in place, the other things, will fall into place.
I would say that it’s a tall order for someone not like Paul – but then Paul probably found it a tall order too but did it anyway.

A Sticky Situation

I made myself a promise yesterday and almost wrote it on a pink sticky so I wouldn’t forget. After work I promised myself to visit the police station. I wasn’t going to confess to some horrible crime, but to ask if someone, a taxi driver, had handed in a walking stick in the last month or so.

There might have been a flicker of de javu in the eyes of the woman behind the counter. I’d asked her the same question a couple of years ago – a different walking stick, but just as lost. Her reply gave me hope when I was asked to describe the stick. It would have been nice if she had done a line-up of recently handed in walking sticks and asked me if I recognised any. It would have been nice to say “The second one from the end,” but the conversation didn’t go that way. My description didn’t match the one stick she had in the locker room. Red, metal and folding was not my stick. There was another ray of hope when she said that things not claimed after six weeks are given to the Highland Hospice charity shop.

I had a parking ticket to see me through the next couple of hours so I decided to stroll along to the shop to see if the walking stick, not the current lost one, but the previous lost one, was there somewhere. The door was in the process of being locked and the bolts drawn when I got there, but pulling a sad face seemed to do the trick. I was informed that there were no walking sticks.


I have done this charity shop crawl before looking for walking sticks, but the Highland Hospice had slipped through the net. I navigated a route around the town taking in the rest of the charity shops, trying to make sure I didn’t cross my path, or walk down the same street twice – quite a feat after a long day and trying to reach the shops before they closed.


• PDSA - new ones, black, metal and folding with pretty red flowers.
• Care in the Community – no sticks.
• Heart Foundation – no sticks.
• Oxfam – there were a couple of ski sticks, white with red flames on them
• Barnardos – no sticks, but directions to the mobility shop who sold new ones.
• Children First – “Yes”, said the woman confidently, “We have a stick!” She scoured the shelves and had to admit that they must have sold it.

As I was leaving the shop, I saw something in the window. It was a hybrid of sorts – a walking stick/umbrella combination. My husband’s friend had lent him something similar on the day of the Unions’ Day of Protest last month. There was no way Joe would have made it through the picketing and marching without something to lean on. He showed it me. It was a little smaller that was comfortable but better than nothing.

I picked it from the window display. It was just like the one his friend had lent him. Smaller than was comfortable but it was better than nothing. The price tag seemed a little steep for a charity shop and I swithered.

“Are you going to buy that?”

I turned to find a small aged gentleman standing beside me. I’m usually the smallest person in any meeting of two people over the age of ten.

He looked longingly at the object I was swithering about.

I surrendered it to him to try out, hoping that he didn’t really want it. They were obviously meant for each other. They matched size-wise and the umbrella part of it was even colour co-ordinated to match his dark coat.

“If you want to buy it…I mean, you did see it first…”

I did want to buy it, but it would have felt like some kind of robbery to deny him his prize.

“You take it,” I said.

I confess that I walked around the block, back around to the shop just in case he decided not the buy it, but it was gone.

A final stop on the way back to the car was in order. My parking ticket may have been good for another hour but the charity shops were closing quicker than I could get to them, and my boots were not made for walking. I decided to stop off at the railway station. We had checked the lost property office just day after the loss of the stick. I could picture it then lounging in the overhead luggage rack on the train from Glasgow to Inverness, blending in with the surroundings, ignored by the cleaners. It could have gone unnoticed for weeks.

“Any walking sticks handed in over the last few weeks?”

“Not recently…but…” The man went on to say that they had lots of lost property including lots of walking sticks. What kind of stick was I looking for? So high, dark wood with a curved handle I told him. He disappeared for a while and returned some time later with two sticks that fitted the bill, except that one was white and obviously used to belong to a blind person. The other wasn’t my lost stick either. It was black metal and folding but without the pretty red flowers. It was very sturdy looking and just the right height.

It had been rattling around the lost luggage locker for a long time unclaimed.

As I jauntily walked back to the car, imagining myself wielding the stick to defend myself against muggers in a poorly lit alley way on the way to the car park, I wondered whether to wrap it up and make my husband wait until Christmas, or just hand it over.

I handed it over. I couldn’t wait for Christmas to see his delight!

A Christmas Recipe

Some poems are worth re-posting particularly at this time of the year. I wrote this three years ago and I still love it! Enjoy.

A Christmas Recipe

Begin with a night, so silent and still
Across the expanse a million stars spill
Cast into the heavens a star really bright
That fair draws the eye, with radiant light

Stir in a stable, a mother with child
A manger to lay him with hay freshly piled
A father to watch them, a smile on his face
Amazed to be part of God's glorious grace

Fold into the mixture a trio of kings
Complete with their camels and valuable things
Empty the gold, frankincense, myrrh
Hearts full of worship and gently stir

A pinch of shepherds, and handful of sheep
On a Bethlehem hillside sharp and steep
Blend in a choir with a heavenly tune
In the warm silver glow of a cold winter moon

Generously spread a dollop of joy
Lashings of laughter for a Saviour boy
Sprinkle with wishes for peace on the earth
Liberally douse with a belly of mirth

Cook in a prophecy, a secret foretold
Wrapped in a promise, spoken of old
Simmer and watch tepid hearts start to glow
Bear witness as mustard seed faith starts to grow

Dole out a portion to each hungry soul
That fills hollow hearts and makes all men whole
A dish to remember as each year goes by
The taste in our tongues no money can buy




(c) Melanie Kerr 2008

£16,000 or Nothing

It has been a while since I have slept the night through. Last night was no exception. I woke up perhaps two or three times. I don’t remember long stretches of wakefulness between times. If I need to go to the bathroom, I make it a policy to keep my eyes shut, and not turn on the bathroom light. I don’t want my brain to wake up so no sensory stimulus is permitted.

Last night, just before the last sleep of the night, I wouldn’t go as far as to say it was a prayer, but I thought it would be nice to have an uplifting dream – a God-revelation inspired one, rather than a Mel-stress generated one.

I dreamt I was sitting with a group of friends having a cup of coffee. The table was strewn with newspapers and we were having a lazy morning, reading papers, drinking coffee and chilling out together.

Suddenly someone pointed out a page of poetry. It was one of the big daily papers, not a local rag. They were honouring new poets on the literary scene.

“It’s one of your poems! You are in the paper!”

There were just two poems on the page, and mine took up a small section of one column – so it wasn’t a long poem. There wasn’t any critical evaluation next to it – it was just my poem. Now that I am wide awake, I don’t remember which poem it was – just that I knew it was mine.

I was aware that the radio was playing in the background. It was one of those programmes where there were two people doing the show. They were singing a song making the tune up as they went along. The words were familiar – it was yet another one of my poems.

Neither the newspaper editor, nor the radio hosts, had said anything to me about using my poetry. I felt that I was owed some kind of royalties. It was my material they were making use of, without my permission.

I got into a taxi and headed off the radio station. I spoke to the head of broadcasting and pointed out that they were breaching copyright laws by singing the words to my poem without my permission. He didn’t seem particularly worried and wrote a five figure sum on the back of an envelope. £16,000 or nothing. I could take it or leave it. If I wanted to make an issue of it I could see him in court,

At that point I woke up. I could still hear the tune playing in my ear and see the back of the envelope with £16,000 written on it.

It felt so real that, I wouldn’t go so far as to say it was a prayer, I found myself asking God whether it was a prophetic or not.

If God could be said to have eyebrows, He arched one rather dramatically.

And said nothing at all.

Skin to Skin Immanuel

I long to see your face
Without the tears
Each time I touch you
I long to see your joy
And not feel your sorrow
Every time I draw near

Once
We met in a garden
In the cool of the day
And walked
And laughed
And loved

I want to speak
Gentle words and
Throw away my angry men
Spilling rage and
Warning words and
Dire threats

Once
We talked in a garden
In the cool of the day
Devoted lovers
Sharing secrets
Cherishing communion

I want to stop time
Stay the passing
Of minutes, hours and days
Lest you forget forever
What life was like
When you loved me

Once
There was only me
And my voice
And my presence
To fill your days
And flood your heart

I want to stop
The past between us
Forever staining the future
I want to stop
The future we will share
Forever following the path of the past

Once more
We will meet
No garden rendezvous
No mystery, no majesty
But skin to skin
I will be Immanuel





Inspired by Amos 9:5 "The Lord, the LORD Almighty, he who touches the earth and it melts, and all who live in it mourn..."

Piggy Banks and Pension Schemes

On Wednesday afternoon, crammed into the function room of the used-to-be-called Caledonian Hotel in Church Street, a few hundred union members taking a day of strike action, listened to more than a few stirring speeches.

Earlier in the day I had dropped off my husband to join his picket line and we had arranged to meet outside the Calley Hotel at lunchtime. There was a mass rally, speeches and a march through the town centre.

I arrived at the appointed hour and the crowd outside the hotel was just a few dozen. The word “mass” was an inappropriate term. What I had failed to realise was that it was all happening at the back of the hotel, in the car park. There was a “mass” back there. Apparently the Fire Brigade was handing out soup and sandwiches and the outside door to the function room was open.

Three hotel receptionists of club bouncer physique told people the meeting in the function room was full, so I believed them and waited patiently outside for Joe to come and find me, unaware that he was scanning the crowd in the car park looking for me. At this point a mobile phone would have been useful. Joe’s was at home. Mine was in the handbag with a dead battery.

Cold and slightly miffed that I was not allowed inside I used the excuse of needing the toilet to get past the bouncers and slipped down the stairs to the function room. It was full, but there was standing room. I listened to the tail end of the speeches while looking for Joe. He had retired to the bar at this point – I should have guessed!

I have never been on strike before. The last time teachers went on strike I was out of the country teaching in a small private school in Cyprus. I am not sure that had I been in the country I would have been on strike. In those days I was a political dummy. I was a union member but not really convinced my subs were money well spent.

So there I was, leaning against the wall, scanning the crowds for a glimpse of Joe, listening to speeches, some stirring, some not so stirring.

Then, out of the blue, a picture came to mind, a memory of something that I saw months, if not years, ago. I was standing in the queue at the local Co-op. I don’t know what time of day or what I was buying. I dare say there was chocolate involved. The man in front of me was buying a bottle of alcohol. If it was whisky, it wasn’t an expensive label. It might have been a bottle of wine. To pay for the bottle, the man tipped out a bag containing lots of very small coins, one penny, two pence and the occasional five pence coin. It was a fair pile and it took a while for the checkout assistant to count them all. Once the transaction was done, he left with the bottle tucked in his pocket.

I am not the most patient of people in checkout queues, and I might have had a look on my face that indicated as much.

The assistant looked at me and said, “I know him…he lives nearby. Those coins…he has raided his sister’s piggy bank to get them. It’s really sad...” I wasn’t sure who to be sorry for – the man who could not get through the day without alcohol or the sister with an empty piggy bank or even the checkout assistant who became almost an accessory to the crime.

So there I was, on Wednesday, leaning against the wall in the hotel function room, scanning the crowds for a glimpse of Joe, listening to speeches…and I remembered the man and the bottle of wine and the money taken from someone else’s piggy bank.

There was something of an echo. It feels like it’s my piggy bank that is being raided by the big brother. It’s not a huge pile of money – not gold plated like they say.

They do know, don’t they, where the real money is? In the pockets of the fat cat bankers!

Wearing Jesus

Whenever I am in Glasgow I always make a point of visiting the Pauline Bookshop. It’s a Roman Catholic Christian bookshop. You might be able to take a person out of the Roman Catholic church but you cannot take the Roman Catholic church out of the person. My days of first confession and first communion may be long gone but that does not mean that I have ceased to confess or commune with God – I just do it elsewhere.

I picked up a small book of advent devotionals exploring the thoughts of the saints. We are all saints, of course, but these saints are the RC designated ones.

Although it may be devotions for Advent – I can’t wait, so I’m dipping in. Romans 13:11-14 was among the opening verses to meditate on.

“The hour has already come for you to wake up from your slumber, because our salvation is nearer now than when we first believed.” (Romans 13:11)

It’s an advent book, so one would expect passages to think about Jesus and the salvation that he brought with him, but it was the last sentence that caught my imagination

“Dress yourselves in Christ, and be up and about!” Romans 13:14(The Message)

What are you wearing today? I am wearing Jesus.

Jesus isn’t really a made to measure garment so at times throughout the day, wearing Jesus got to be rather uncomfortable at times. Jesus isn’t only gentle, meek and mild – perhaps not even rather than not only. Jesus wasn’t any of those things when he challenged the hypocrisy of the religious leaders of his day. He wasn’t any of those things when he said to Peter, “Get behind me, Satan.” (Meekness, BTW, is not weakness. The dictionary defines it as “the feeling of patient, submissive humility” – in Jesus’ case it was the submissive humility directed towards God. It was precisely because he was submissive to God that he challenged unrighteousness the way he did.)

“The Spirit of the Sovereign LORD is on me,
because the LORD has anointed me
to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,
to proclaim freedom for the captives
and release from darkness for the prisoners” (Isaiah 61:1)

Wearing Jesus is not about being soft and fluffy. Just ask Oscar Romero when you see him in heaven.

One particular encounter during my day was unpleasant. It’s quite possible that Jesus slipped off my shoulders somewhere in the conversation. It was not my best moment and I was left feeling rather mangled.

“Forgive them.” The Holy Spirit told me that if I was wearing Jesus then forgiveness was not an optional extra. As much as I would like to have replayed the conversation, adding the things I never said, and colouring the tone of what I heard and stirring myself up to sow and nurture a grudge – if I am wearing Jesus, forgiveness not an option.

An Effing Disgrace

“Yobs should not be punished for hurling obscenities in public – because swear words are now so common that they no longer cause distress,” said Mr Justice Bean.

I seriously object to someone making pronouncements about what should or should not cause me distress. Yobs are apparently being given the freedom to hurl abuse at policemen and policemen are told swearing at them is not causing them any alarm or distress.

I beg to differ.

I have been on the receiving end of verbal abuse. It wasn’t a yob, but some woman in a car driving out of a car park.

I discovered quite early on in the visit to see my mum that the wheelchair was too big for the boot. Maybe there was some screw that unlocked and folded wheels or footrests more compactly – but in the end, pushing the wheelchair into town was the only option. She was not a heavy woman, but the pavements were not even, and wheelchair was demon-possessed.

As I said, the woman was coming out of the car park. She was travelling very slowly and I judged that I had time to cross the entrance to the car park in plenty of time, and seeing me crossing, pushing a wheelchair, she would stop. She stopped. She must not have seen me because she acted like she had just performed an emergency stop. There was no squeal of tyres, no smell of burning rubber. She was travelling at less than five miles an hour. She just wasn’t looking, but she stopped in time.

She wound down the windows and a stream of abuse came pouring out. “Silly cow” was in there somewhere accompanied by expletive after expletive. She made a right turn to a set of traffic lights. I was still in view so a second stream of abuse flew at me. She made another right turn at the traffic lights, leaving me with a final stream of insults. It was over-kill. It was unnecessary. Did she really think that I hadn’t got the message the first time?

Obscenities were hurled in public. Just because they were common swear words did not mean that I wasn’t distressed. I got back to my mum’s house and promptly burst into tears. I pride myself on not being silly, or being a cow – but some manic driver had accused me of both – in public!

Swear words may be common and they may not offend some people but they offend me. I realise that sometimes people litter their conversation with them and they really mean nothing. They don’t set out to be offensive. They are more than happy to keep a check on their language if they know someone is offended.

Do you know, I actually wrote a swear word in a short story once? I struggled over the “f” word. I agonised. I sweated. I searched the thesaurus for an alternative, until I finally surrendered and let it stay there – because it was perfect. My creative writing tutor raised an eye brow. I was a nice girl who didn’t swear – but he knew why I had written it, and agreed it was perfect. There are some situations that simply require a well-chosen swear word. They are not everyday situations and swear words should be used sparingly.

Giving anyone the green light to swear at any time and in any place seems to me like some kind of surrender. In some way we have given over ground that we should have held on to.

Verbal abuse isn’t something that we should get used to. It shouldn’t come with anyone’s territory.

I Blog Therefore I am

I cannot live from birth to death
From day to day and year to year
Where no one knows, or thinks or cares
That I am really here

I must leave footprints where I’ve trod
Deep and crisp and clean and clear
To show a man, his wife, his dog
That I am really here

I have a voice and words to say
Precious views, opinions dear
Like seeds cast on the wind to say
That I am really here

I choose my words and weave my world
Secrets spill to lure you near
Drama drawn from dull days just to say
That I am really here

I deal out details, pictures post
Of people, places quaint and queer
My endless commentary that says
That I am really here

I write the words you want to read
My life, to you, to best appear
So scrubbed and speckless who’s to tell
That I am really here?

I know The Father looks at me
He reads my heart leaves nought unclear
His whispers stir my soul to know
That I am really here

Deeply Troubled and Greatly Distressed

“While Paul was waiting for them in Athens, he was deeply troubled by all the idols he saw everywhere in the city. (NLT)

“While Paul was waiting for them in Athens, he was greatly distressed to see that the city was full of idols.” (NIV)

The longer Paul waited in Athens for Silas and Timothy, the angrier he got—all those idols! The city was a junkyard of idols.” (The Message)

Now while Paul was awaiting them at Athens, his spirit was grieved and roused to anger as he saw that the city was full of idols.” (Amplified)

Acts 17:16 - words and phrases like “deeply troubled”, “greatly distressed”, “angry” and “grieved” leave me…well, just that - deeply troubled, greatly distressed, angry and grieved because the things that should leave me deeply troubled, greatly distressed, angry and grieved all too often don’t.

Free and Clear Speech

I have a whiteboard discussion starter for a unit on Freedom of Speech. Clicking on coloured boxes reveal photographs of people associated with issues to do with freedom of expression. Most of the photographs are rarely easily identified by this generation – Mary Whitehouse for one.

I try to update it every so often to keep it relevant and interesting. A couple of years ago Russell Brand made it on to the board after he and Jonathan Ross got involved in unpleasant telephone conversations with Andrew Sachs. It is always interesting to debate where the lines should be drawn between what you can say and what you can’t. Last year, we waved goodbye to Arthur Scargill and Fred Phelps took his place. He was the church leader who encouraged his flock to wave banners at the funerals of soldiers insisting that God was punishing America for its attitude to homosexuality.

Who shall I kick off the board this time to make way for a photo of either Dr Rowan Williams or simply a picture of St Paul’s Cathedral?

I confess that I haven’t been keeping up to scratch with what the protest is all about. Interim reports have kept me busy for a while. Protestors have pitched tents outside the Cathedral to draw attention to the greed of capitalism, the fat cat bonuses of bankers and the way in which the ConDem’s cuts are unfair and discriminatory.

There was an article in the “I on Saturday” about driving the protestors away from St Paul’s and how such a move has divided the Church of England. The people that should be saying something – like the Archbishop Dr Rowan Williams – are keeping silent on the issue. Silence is often a bad move where the church is concerned. Silence equates to agreement and approval - not something the church should be doing.

What really bugged me about the article in the “I” was their additional fuel thrown onto the fire in the form of “What the Bible says…” It is never a good idea to rip a verse out of context to make a point. “Render to Caesar the things that a Caesar’s” (Matt 22:21) was never the focus that Jesus was saying. That seems to some to be written in capital letters while the “Render to God the things that are God’s” seems to be in the small print at the bottom of the page!

“If any would not work, neither should they eat” 2 Thess 3:10. The same group of young people that discussed freedom of speech issues this week, discussed poverty issues this time last year. Where do people get the idea that poor people don’t work? The problem is not that they don’t work – they do, and often very long hours in very poor working conditions. The problem is that get paid crappy wages! There is another verse somewhere that says that the worker is worthy of his hire. Pay people a working wage! If you, Mr Cameron, want people to work for their unemployment benefit – stop calling it unemployment benefit – call it a job and pay a proper wage for it!

But what REALLY bugged me apart from the verses taken out of context was the version of the Bible they had used. There are so many accessible versions of the Bible. Did the journalist pick the “New International Version” or “The Message”? In favour of the protestors Proverbs 22:16 was quoted. “He that oppresseth of the poor to increase his riches, and he that giveth to the rich, shall surely come to want.” “Want” what? Recognition? A fat bonus? Beautiful as it may be in language and poetry the King James Version was the wrong choice.

“He who oppresses the poor to increase his wealth and he who gives gifts to the rich— both come to poverty “ is how the New International Bible put it.

“Exploit the poor or glad-hand the rich—whichever, you'll end up the poorer for it,” warns The Message.

It seems to me that by using the King James the writer is creating an impression that the Church of England, or the Church universal, is out of date and archaic, and has no relevance to today’s world, and has nothing to say about current issues that anyone can understand clearly.

I beg to differ.

The Lost Letter "G"

Earlier in the week I read an article tucked away in a corner of a newspaper. The Scrabble World Championship in Warsaw had a Thai player insisting that an English player be strip searched to prove he had not hidden a missing letter “G” on his person.

The incident begged some kind of poetic response.

I insist you disrobe
So that I can see
You haven’t concealed
The lost letter “G”

A sleeve or a pocket
I’m sure you’d agree
Are perfect for hiding
The lost letter “G”

Just think of the triple
Word score that could be
If you would surrender
The lost letter “G”

I think you have cheated
The prize denied me
I’ll never get over
The lost letter “G”

Making the Connection

We have just returned from visiting family south of the border. Normally I try to make sure that the house is left reasonably tidy – I wouldn’t want a burglar to complain that I am a lousy housewife. This time however, there were so many jobs about the house, and workmen to do them (or not do them as in the case of the loft insulation because of asbestos fibres) I just didn’t find the time or the inclination. I still don’t have the time or inclination but the house needs to be clean for visitors at the weekend.

It can be quite a hectic time visiting everyone and we NEVER manage to get round everyone. Sometimes it can feel very un-holiday-like and we miss out on just being tourists, so we plundered the box of tourist leaflets at the
B & B.

In all the years of living in Warwickshire, only a couple of months involved driving a car, so I have never really got to know the roads. I confess that I even got lost in the village of Crick where I grew up. There are one or two new housing estates that have sprung up, with a complicated warren of col-du-sacs. My brother in law sniggered as I phoned for directions to his son’s house. Lost in Crick ought to be an oxymoron, but apparently isn’t.

Joe and I headed out to Compton Vereny - “Warwickshire's award-winning art gallery, opened in 2004, delivering an exciting international programme of exhibitions and events in the setting of a Grade 1 listed Robert Adam mansion located in 120 acres of spectacular parkland.”

The art exhibitions didn’t just begin once you entered the building and paid for your admission but the” spectacular parkland” contained things too. Art means different things to different people. A giant spider web woven out of raffia might make one person think of art – it made me think of giant spiders!

A current exhibition inside the building was “What the folk say”. Presumably upstairs, where we didn’t go, there is an exhibition of folk art – not your classic poses in the usual medium in ornate frames, but lots of wood carvings and papier-mâché objects. Artists had been invited to take something out of the folk collection and place it alongside of an object or picture in the other collections and then write a paragraph to explain how the two were related. One object might bring out a truth about another object that wasn’t at first glance obvious. Some of the connections they made left you thinking “Oh Yes!” while others left you thinking “Duh?”

There was a huge picture of the battle of Troy and one of the main men involved had taken an arrow to his thigh. He was surrounded by women trying to extract the arrow and bind up the wound. An artist had teamed up that picture with a picture from the folk exhibition where a boxer with a black eye was being tended by his trainer reaching out with a cold flannel. Whether the battle is a big one with a cast of thousands, or a small personal one – injuries happen and people step in to try to help.

Another exhibit from the folk exhibition was a very large bullet. It was made out of metal and had ammunition stamped on it. It wasn’t a real bullet, but a kind of cartoon type bullet. It has been placed in the middle of a room dedicated to portraits of politicians. The artist was drawing the link between war and politics. Even on a non-war level words can be used like bullets to injure people. I have seen glimpses into parliament debates and the way words are used – not just the words, but the tone can be very damaging.

The whole thing was certainly thought provoking. One pair of objects that I found quite offensive involved a wooden carving of the resurrection scene. You could see the crosses in the background and Jesus in the foreground and a few witnesses. The artist had chosen to team it up with a knitted egg cosy. The egg cosy was in the form of a king’s head with a crown and it was placed over the head of Jesus. Yes, Jesus is the King – but the egg cosy over Jesus’ head seemed irreverent in some way. The egg cosy wasn’t even well knitted. What is was doing in the folk collection to start with beats me.

I was thinking of the idea of putting one thing next to another where one object reveals a hidden truth about the other object. That is essentially what a parable is – using the known truth in one story to reveal an unknown truth in another.

Swap the art of objects for scenes from the Bible and just a single word instead of the object from the folk exhibition and allow the imagination to ignite!

See in your mind, perhaps, the Calvary scene of Jesus on the cross, the nails, the blood, the darkness and Jesus’ cry of abandonment. For many people their word would be “death” or “defeat” but God writes a different word – “life” or “victory”.

See in your mind, perhaps, Paul and Silas in a prison at midnight, beaten and bloody, manacles biting into wrists and the sewer smell in their nostrils. What one word would moat people write? Maybe “misery” or “hopeless”, but again God writes something different – “freedom” and “praise”.

I never quite made some of the connections that the artists were making at Compton Verney – and sometimes I never make the connections that God makes with events that happen in the lives of people. To make the artists’ connections require me to think like the artist. To understand the connections that God makes I need to think like God.

Thankfully God doesn’t stick an egg cosy over His thoughts to conceal them!

Treasure in the Attic

I have long suspected that my husband has a picture of Dorian Grey in the attic – well not exactly Dorian himself as that wouldn’t really work, would it?

I have not read the book, but I have seen the film where Dorian Grey commits all kinds of crimes, leads a less than honourable life and the picture in the attic takes all the depravity leaving the man untouched and beautiful.

I am not saying that Joe is a low life criminal and there’s a picture in the attic soaking it all up. What I mean is Joe is just as young and handsome as he was the day we married. He hasn’t aged. I tease him about a Dorian Grey picture in the attic – but there is no such picture.

I know this for sure because the contents of the attic are spread across a number of rooms in cardboard boxes of all shapes and sizes. Some of the boxes might have been in better shape when they went up however many years ago, but are a little less sturdy now.

A man landed on the doorstep a few weeks ago asking if he could look at our loft insulation. I am not actually sure if he went into the loft, or just poked around the area near the door. It’s not an accessible loft. The ladder is a few rungs short of actually reaching the door and loft itself is an obstacle course of hot water tanks, beams and boxes.

He came back down with a page full of measurements and informed us that the insulation was way below the minimum and that we were entitled to a grant to pay towards adding a few more inches. The government may be clawing back the pennies in other places…but not in people’s loft insulation. Of course we would have to move the boxes out, or neatly pile them in a corner somewhere and they would insulate round them.

Neatly piling them into a corner would require one of us going into the loft. It was actually far easier to stand on the top step if the ladder, and reach in to extract them.

I thought it was all Donald’s stuff - our lodger from way back who was a photography man. We have boxes that never made it up the ladder into the attic of his car collections and his artwork given to us instead of rent money.

The boxes were all our stuff…and such stuff.

Joe’s old stereo system was up there. He has a collection of records that no doubt he will start revisiting now.

A box of folders from his college days has his notes on his business management and economics courses.

Another box of folders, this time mine, contained my old Gospel Outreach scrapbook – a commentary of life spent knocking doors and asking people if they were saved! It was a real trip down memory lane. I looked much younger then, much slimmer and looked like I was having fun.

There was also another scrapbook, less pages, covering just a few months. It covered our early days of dating – when Joe and I started to go out together! So cute…

And there was a box of letters. I don’t write many letters today, but then, sometime back in 1992 I was a prolific letter writer. A number of months ago I had sent a cyber blood hound into the cyber world to see if it could track down a pension account I had opened a long time ago and lost track of. I had opted out of SERPS, the teacher’s pension scheme and set up something else. I stopped teaching and closed the account and the scheme and I lost touch. I thought I ought to look for it, hence the cyber blood hound, but the scent was long gone.

Tucked in among the letters was a bunch of brown envelopes – my long lost pension scheme was less lost than it had been. I had an account number and a last known address and a tidy little sum sitting doing nothing.

So…attics…well worth looking into the boxes up there! Who knows what reassure you will find?

Finding lost treasures reminds me that there are other treasures that I need to dig around to find. The words given to me by God through sermons and quiet times are sometimes like my lost pension scheme with its tidy little sum of money sitting around doing nothing. God didn’t intend His word to do nothing, but to work for Him and produce a harvest.

“Every teacher of religious law who becomes a disciple in the Kingdom of Heaven is like a homeowner who brings from his storeroom new gems of truth as well as old.” (Matthew 13:52}

A Joe-ku

It was National Poetry Day on Thursday. Joe was in the kitchen making East-West chips. The fridge door is littered with words from a magnetic poetry kit he bought me years ago - so he got creative.

you are honey
raw yet cool
but only the tongue
can pant and drool
delicate chocolate

As well as the writing the poem he has invented his own poetry form too calling it a joe-ku.

Rest

Bone weary and dog tired
My heart-spring scorched and dry
I cannot feel the sunshine
For the clouds that fill the sky

I listen in the darkness
There’s a voice says “Come to Me”
A promise of a quiet rest
He bids me come and see

He asks that I will walk with Him
Work with Him by my side
And as I watch and learn from Him
In His grace I’ll abide

He offers me a gentle yoke
A burden that is light
And as I keep in step with Him
There’s joy and rich delight

Matthew 11:28-30