Just Because...Don't Presume

Just because

You have closed your eyes

And stamped on the spirit within

Just because

You have listened to the lure

Of reason and placed it on a pedestal

Just because

You believe you have evolved

Beyond the need for God

Just because

You cannot see heaven among the stars

Or hear His voice in the wind

Don’t presume

There is something wrong with me

Because I choose to pray

Don’t presume

I have laid aside all intellect

And embraced superstition

Don’t presume

My faith has built a prison and

I need to be liberated

Don’t presume

I want to be just like you

Blind and deaf to an unseen world

Know this

I choose to chase after God

And He graciously allows me the catch Him

PInk Window Frames

I can just imagine the conversation going on at the office after Gary put the phone down.

“Poor bloke,” says Gary, “married to a bloody dragon like her…”

“Yeah,” says his pal, “No wonder he’s never at home…”

My husband is the “poor bloke” and I am the “bloody dragon” and, yes, office hours since his promotion, are erratic.  Please be assured that he is not a poor bloke and I am not a bloody dragon – often.

You see, I don’t normally answer either the phone or the door during the morning or afternoon because I am usually at work.  Being declared not fit for work right now due to a viral infection I can answer the day time phone calls and watch afternoon TV.

The call started off not as a call at all but a cold calling doorstep visit.  He was selling something, that with a little tweaking, we were looking for.  I didn’t particularly relish a walk around to Evan Barron Road to see the finished article and took him at his word that that his company did something interesting to roofs.  It’s a coating of some sort, I think, that first cleans tiles and then protects them from mould and moss and seagull droppings.  Before they can do any coating, they repair the roof and replace broken tiles and the felt underneath.  There is more than a possibility of a broken tile or two.
 

The man on the door seemed to think that my husband needed to be present for any negotiations.  Big mistake!  My voice fell a few decibels – nothing to do with the sore throat, but everything to do with the onset of anger.  I asked him to explain why my husband was needed.  I know that in someone’s view of an ideal home, the husband is the breadwinner, sleeps in the entrance to the cave and slaps the mammoth on the table for the woman to cook – but I would like to think that we have moved on from there.

“Oh, so I am speaking to the boss?” said the man at the door with a nervous twitter.

We swiftly moved on to the next phase of sale – a follow-up visit from someone who could measure the roof and explain in more detail what was involved and show  me a colour sample(?) and talk money.  We agreed that 7 o’clock was a good time. 

So the man on the door went on his way.  Five minutes later, or less, there was a phone-call from the office to confirm the time and tell me who I was to expect.  Yet again, the presence of the husband was enquired about.  Could I not give them a time when the husband would be home? She asked.   I could not, said I.  I went on to assure them that I was quite a clever woman.  That I had an “ology” and that they were not dealing with an idiot.  She hummed for a while, obviously dragged out of her comfort zone.

Three hours later, another phone call, from the man I am to expect, coming at 7 o’clock, confirming that I will be there…and my husband? 

This all stinks of pink window frames.

Let me enlighten you.  This goes back years.  It was double glazing that time and coincided with a decision made by us to get double glazing. The wind wasn’t whistling though the house, but we had a small money pot and a house to improve, and bills to reduce.  It was ideal – they had the windows to sell and we had the money to buy.

Then the husband thing came into it.  They wanted to bring their samples and their sales talk and we were to bring out the check book.  The husband was travelling and it was left in my more than capable hands to negotiate the deal.

The sales person didn’t think I was capable.  I assured him that that I was quite a clever woman.  That I had an “ology” and that he was not dealing with an idiot. 

“Oh,” said he, “So I suppose your husband would be quite happy for you to opt for pink window frames?”

Well…there you have it.  This man I presume was still slapping the mammoths down on the kitchen table and sleeping in the entrance to the cave.

Going back to the most recent conversation, the man seemed to have doubts that I could adequately explain to my husband the process they were going to go through to make my roof mould proof, moss proof and seagull droppings proof.  I actually think I might be able to do that.  Communicating simple truths and even quite complicated ones is what I do in my job.  I didn’t like to ask if they thought, in my absence, that my husband would be able to explain the process to me. 

I just wish these people would stop with the stereotypes.  Do I need to burn my bra or chain myself to railings to get the message across? 

Men are just so…prehistoric!

An Argument From Design

About 3.15 this afternoon there was a beeping sound in my ear.  It was a sound that only I could hear, but unlike the sounds in my head that are not real, this was a real beep.  The battery for my hearing aid was about to die and I was being warned that I needed to replace it.

Yes, I have a hearing aid – two actually – one for each ear.

I always thought that if I could just get rid of the tinnitus my hearing would be perfect.  The volume of the buzzes, whistles and rumbles had become so loud that it was no longer a background noise, but had shifted to centre stage.  It was like the child in the school choir who cannot sing standing next to the microphone – a sound that refuses to be ignored.  However, take away the tinnitus and I am not really hearing so well at all.

I had a hearing test which revealed that I am significantly hard of hearing and was fitted for a hearing aid.  I pictured ugly pink slugs nestling in my ear drums and was pleasantly surprised to see something very discreet.  I daresay they are not the top range of hearing aids and there are better deals out there for those who wish to chase them down, but I am happy with the product for now.  Until my brain gets adjusted to filtering out the unnecessary noise, I get to hear everything…and I mean everything.  I turn my head at someone whispering, expecting them to be within touching distance only to discover they are standing at the far side of the room.  Eves-dropping is unavoidable.

Answering the telephone has become just about impossible.  My mobile phone is fine, but the typical hand set with its gentle curve is proving a challenge.  The handset doesn’t fit anymore.  The space beside the ear drum is full of stuff.  I have resorted to pulling out the hearing aid.  That’s what my mum does and she has had hearing aids for a long time.

The whole experience makes me think about William Paley’s argument from design.   He talked about watches and cameras rather than hearing aids, but hearing aids fit too.  Paley compared the complexity of man made things like watches and cameras with the complexity of living things which are far more superior.  Simply looking at watches and cameras leads a person to the conclusion that they are designed by an intelligent being. A watch, or a camera, or a hearing aid for that matter, could not exist without a designer and maker. Paley concluded that neither could living things, more complex than anything man can make, exist without an intelligent designer…God.

Darwin shot holes in Paley’s argument with his theory of evolution and the tiny, miniscule changes that take place over millions of years, but did Darwin ever wear hearing aids?  The best that man can come up with, even in this day and age of rapidly evolving technology isn’t a patch on the original.  My hearing aids amplify volume but find it hard to hear nuances that the natural ear picks up.  How my brain is adapting to the foreign material in the ear is amazing!

At best we can only mimic what God has created we cannot better it. 

Until I had a bit of plastic tubing stuffed into my ear attached to a tiny amplifier, I took my hearing for granted.  I didn’t really think about all the little bits of bone, hair and fluid that make up the ear.  The workings of the inner ear are so small, so intricately balanced, so fragile and yet so robust.

I am, as the Psalmist declared, fearfully and wonderfully made.

Rut-Time, Rest-Time

I picked up a copy of the Times Ed Supplement resting on the coffee table.  There was an article about teachers (only to be expected) and the way in which the first three years of a teaching career is a flurry of learning and trying new things.  After three years, it would appear, teachers lose the ability to learn new things and fall into a rut.  Twenty years or more experience isn’t really twenty years at all – just three years, and then the rest of the time is repeating those first few years over and over again.

The article went on to contrast the life of a teacher with chess players who become Grand Masters and violin players who become professionals.  What makes them the Master or the professional is “practice”.  What makes the difference between the good players and the best players is down to 40% more practice and practising things they didn’t know.  They weren’t necessarily things that they found enjoyable to do, or fun to do, and they were hard work to do – but that’s what they did. 

It’s easy enough, I suppose, to triumph in your safety zone – but to push yourself out of it and do something you have never done before is a lot more challenging.

As a teacher I couldn’t help but reflect a little on whether that description applied to me - three years learning to teach and then repeating it over again and again for the next twenty to thirty years or more.  Did that describe my career?  Not entirely!  I can’t say that every year brings a flurry of new ideas and trying new things because that would not be true.  But neither are the things I am doing now, the same things I was doing thirty or more years ago.  I see it more as a series of jumps or hops – a flurry of activity and a time of rut-time, followed by another flurry and another period of rut-time.  Rut-time is the wrong expression.  If an activity has gone well it gets repeated, tweaked a little here and there.  If the car isn’t broken, don’t take it to the garage to get it fixed. 

More recently I am not in rut-time, but in full flurry. 

As I was reading the article what came to mind is whether the stuff written about teachers could equally apply to Christians.  I can’t think of any Christian that would not look back on the opening years of their life in Christ and see a flurry learning and activity as they explore the new relationship they have come into.  Is there are time when what happens next is simply a rehash of those first experiences?  Do we reach a time in our Christian lives when we have stepped over a line as it were, and we are safe, and as long as we keep going to church, reading our Bibles and praying, we have done our part.   We triumph in our safety zones and perfect our moves.

Does this in anyway describe my Christian life?  Again, I have to say, not entirely.  As much as I would like, not just every year, but every day, every moment to be a flurry of trying new things – actually I am not sure I would like my Christian life to be like that, or whether God would want it that way either.  There shouldn’t be any rut-time – but rut-time and rest time are very different things.  Just looking outside, trees are resting right now.  There are not leaves as yet, but I can see branches puckering and swelling, making way for a bud to explode as soon as the warm weather comes.  The trees are resting in readiness for activity that’s on the way.  

As regards my Christian life I am sure I am not in rut-time, I may have been in rest time but I am sure I am in bud time.

It is the 40% more practice that challenges me – that and practising the things that I don’t know.  I know how to study the Bible, and how to pray.  I know how to go to church every week.  I am learning how to use what I have learnt to bring my life into line with how God says I should live.  I am beginning to love my enemies and pray for those who hurt me.   There are other things that I haven’t even begun to learn to do, but I am going to start to learn to do them.

Delivered From the Tigers

I have only ever heard the pretty version of “I Dreamed a Dream” - you know - the Susan Boyle version. 

It’s a song from the musical “Les Miserables”.

 A couple of nights ago I sat down to watch the documentary about the film version that has recently been released in some places, but hasn’t made it up the A9 as far as Inverness yet. 

The documentary scrutinised the film.  Everything and everyone was pushed in front of a camera and asked to explain themselves.  Having read one or two reviews it seems that the film was faithful to the stage play – a little too faithful perhaps.  They expected something a little more than the stage show on screen.  Choosing actors who can sing rather than singers who can act was also something that was picked up on. 

With the documentary over, I scooted upstairs to find out what was special about Anne Hathaway and why everyone seems to be already giving her an Oscar for supporting actress.  That’s when I tracked down her version of “I Dreamed a Dream” with the lyrics so I could sing along if I was so inclined. 

Every poet who has  ever strung a few lines together must wish that they wrote the words.  Like most people I can warble the first line confidently, busk my way through the second line and hum the rest of it.  It wasn’t just seeing the lyrics that made an impression on me, but hearing Anne sing them in a context I had never heard before.  Like I said, I’d only heard the pretty version.  

But the tigers come at night
With their voices soft as thunder
As they tear your hope apart
And they turn your dream to shame
He slept a summer by my side
He filled my days with endless wonder
He took my childhood in his stride
But he was gone when autumn came
And still I dream he'll come to me
That we'll live the years together
But there are dreams that cannot be
And there are storms we cannot weather
I had a dream my life would be
So different from this hell I'm living
So different now from what it seemed
Now life has killed
The dream I dreamed

The “dreams that cannot be” and the “storms we cannot weather” drew me to the conclusion that this is really something that I can’t relate to. I have had dreams that never made it to reality.  They weren’t dreams that “cannot be” but dreams that, perhaps, were never meant to be.  I can’t think of any storm that I haven’t weathered – not because of any special talent for survival I possess or any closed eyes to the awfulness of the situation.  The storms in my life have been the turbulent, sink-the-boat type, and I have weathered them.   It hasn’t been anything about me at all but everything about God. 

Last week I had the opportunity to speak to someone.  He was on his way home after spending time with some of the Inverness Street pastors on Christmas day.  After a little food, a little company and a little Christmas present he was going home to an evening of drink and roll-up or two of something other than straight tobacco.  I think I suggested that there might be a better way of spending the evening like going for a walk.  I would like to think that I didn’t come across as judgemental.  The walking stick he carried should have clued me in a little as regards walking.   He talked a while with me. The drink and the drugs were his way of dealing with a medical condition that caused him a lot of pain.  I had churned out some easy answer to a situation that really didn’t have any easy answers at all. 

My experience of pain is a real one.  My history of dreams shattered can match the best of them and outweigh more than a few.  My storms are not merely gentle breezes.   I can relate to those things.   There are times in my life that really are the pits.

What makes me different, I suppose, is my response to all these things.  I have flung myself down before the throne of God with heart-wrenching sobs that all but tore my body apart.  My heart had been shredded by some of the things I’d gone through.  I screamed at God about the unfairness of life and stabbed a finger in the direction of people who seemed untouched by suffering demanding to know why they had a charmed life when I didn’t.

I never came to God just to get something off my chest and make myself feel better.  I came crawling onto his lap because I knew only He could do something about it.  Often He chose not to change my circumstances but always He changed my heart response.

I don’t have any tigers that come at night to tear my hope apart.  I have songs that I sing that speak of deliverance from all tigers.  My hope rests securely in God who rescues me and saves me each and every day.