Where's Wally?

It was a busy weekend in Glasgow. Someone said that Daniel O’Donell was in town which might explain it! We spent hours on the internet trying to book somewhere to stay, having left things to the last minute as usual. We ended booking a hotel that overlooked Queens’ Park.

Seeing as we were that near, and there was a Farmer’s Market on near the entrance, we decided to “do” Queen’s Park. Glasgow is not called the “dear green place” for nothing! We took a stroll around the park and visited the glasshouse. It is a huge greenhouse with subtropical plants and fish and things.

One of the exhibition rooms is dedicated to amphibians, spiders, little furry animals and birds. While Joe tried to hold a whistled conversation with a mina bird I pushed my nose up against the glass walls of the various lizards and things. Some were very easy to spot. Others had me just about convinced that there was nothing there. There was plenty lot of grey sand, grey stones, a plastic skull and couple of insects crawling up the side of the glass, but no skink! Another exhibit had a mass of green branches, but the chameleon was well camouflaged! It was like “Where’s Wally?” except you know for sure that Wally is somewhere on the page, but less convinced that there is a skink in the tank!

The last time we were down in Glasgow, we had the chance to walk around Tollcross Park, near where Joe used to live. He was lamenting that the council had let things slip over the years. There was, apparently, so much more to see and do in the good old days. It came as a surprise to discover a section of the park given over to farm animal – sheep and goats and llamas! It would appear that there had been a re-investing in the park – with flower beds and picnic tables. A baseball team was limbering up in one corner of the park, but apart from that the park was almost empty.

It comes as no surprise that we are told that our children are overweight and unfit. Where are they? Not out in the parks kicking a ball around, but sat in front of computers or televisions.

Who am I to point the finger? I have been wrestling with Weight Watchers for over a year! I certainly did not put on my weight by running around the field, kicking a ball!

The last brick in the wall

I have had a very chequered church history. My upbringing was Roman Catholic, my moment-of-salvation, I suppose, was Plymouth Brethren, a lot of my student life was spent in the Methodist Church, then it was back to the Plymouth Brethren for a while, until my planting into the Charismatic/Pentecostal/House Church movement.

Two of the years spent in the Methodist Church happened in the early eighties. I had my first teaching job in north east London in Walthamstow. I lived in Chingford and was very involved with the youth group at the Methodist Church. They were less hostile to women ministers and someone suggested to me that I might like to train to become a Methodist minister. At the time I was totally focussed on teaching and only a classroom would do – and only a primary one at that, although I was teaching in a secondary school at the time.

The brethren Church in Cyprus had a different attitude to the role of women. They took Paul’s comments literally that women were to be silent in church, and not to be given authority over a man. I found it difficult to say the least – part of it being that I had a theology degree and knew a lot but wasn’t allowed to say anything! As a teacher I have always been a good communicator, but in the church environment I kept quiet.

The church drummed into me all the Bible teaching of the place of women in the church. Eve was portrayed as deficient in some way. She had been deceived by the serpent and because of that women on the whole were labelled as easily led astray, gullible and incapable of exercising leadership.

I just accepted it, although I had read enough about the debate that I knew there were other ways of interpreting the various passages. In some ways I took a very back seat and passive role in the church. There was no avenue to share my insight. I went to Bible studies and prayer meetings and didn’t vocally participate! I listened and I learned and I thought a lot, but I wasn’t allowed to say anything. I wasn’t quiet on the inside – I wanted to speak. God was doing something inside, opening up His word and I was getting revelation, but I couldn’t talk!

Well, what is inside has a habit of spilling out sometimes! I couldn’t help myself! So often I sat in a meeting with my hand over my mouth trying desperately to keep it all in. All it would take would be a question from the front – “Has God been good to you?” and the floodgates would break open. I knew I was supposed to keep silent – but I just couldn’t! I didn’t want to break the rules, but my spirit wouldn’t let me stay silent. I left the church because I could see that my behaviour was undermining everything they believed about silent women.

The Charismatic Church was the opposite extreme. I had freedom to say what I wanted, but I was wary of the freedom. It had been drilled into me about keeping silent and even though I had the freedom now I hesitated. I was worried that I had inherited this propensity from Eve to be led astray. I didn’t trust that my words were not seeped in heresy and error. I distrusted that I could hear God clearly – because Eve was deceived!

Although I was encouraged to take on leadership roles, the responsibility hung heavy – not because I wasn’t capable or gifted or even called to do what was asked. I worried that I was building a shaky foundation in the lives of people in my study group.

In all the debates going on about the role of women, and ordaining women ministers, I have never really come down on either side of the fence, but swung my heels sitting on the fence. I don’t want to disrespect any woman that is called to ministry – who am I to say she is not called. I think that Dawn French in “The Vicar of Dibly” has portrayed such a positive image. I was glad to be in a church set-up where I didn’t have to face the question of women elders or leaders.

The boat was sorely rocked a few years ago when our apostle talked about his changing perspectives on the role of women. Suddenly it was there! The possibility of a woman elder! There are women leaders in every arena in the world – but the church? Our church? I thought my only option, should it happen, was to move churches.

The wall I have built up has been slowly dismantled. I just can’t maintain my distrust over women leaders. Part of it is due to a wonderful woman that I meet for Bible study each week. She demonstrates wisdom and insight in the word. She has compassion and kindness. I trust the word she speaks. I try to follow to advice she gives. I am more open with her than with anyone else I know. She is not flighty, or given to mood swings. She is truly a woman to aspire to be.

The final brick in the wall fell on Thursday night at a Bible study. We were looking at the story of Adam and Eve. Four little words have changed my perspective on the story about even being tempted – “Adam was with her.” I always thought eve was isolated and on her own. Under the serpent’s grilling she lost her footing and, yes, she allowed herself to be convinced of something other than the truth. I always thought Adam was a million miles away and unaware of her conversation. I thought that once she had eaten the apple, she set out to search for Adam to “drag him down to her level.” That he was standing right next to her all the time appalled me! He watched. He kept silent. He did not intervene. He did not correct the serpent’s lies. He did not protect Eve. He just stood beside her and let her fall!

Maybe I have got it wrong! What I had been told about Eve kind of almost paled beside what I read about Adam. Neither of them did the right thing. Eve is no worse than Adam. One of them does not come out of the story better than the other – they both ended up naked and ashamed. They both hid.

Where that quite leaves me in my views about women leaders, I am not entirely sure. Not hostile! Not out to look for another church! More ready to embrace the leadership role I have been called to with more confidence.

Change from within?

Someone posted a comment on one of my earlier entries responding to what I had written about attending a Gaelic mass a number of weeks ago. I was invited to consider going back to the Roman Catholic Church seeing as I had gone through all the rites of passage. My husband is of the firm belief that once a Catholic always a Catholic.

I am not sure about this, and I apologise if I have got it wrong, but there seemed to be an impression that because I was a member of a non-denominational church I was somehow less sincere about my faith. I suppose there are people that think is terms of real churches as having buildings and traditions that can be traced back, or a specific kind of hierarchy. Anything less formal in terms of structure is just playing at faith, or faith on your own terms as opposed to on God’s terms, according to what it says in the Bible or in church tradition.

If you know me, and some know me well, you will know that I am entirely serious about my faith. Some indeed would say that I am too serious and need to lighten up!

I can think of two times, two clear times, when I have been challenged about the church I belonged to.

The first time was when I lived in Cyprus. I was teaching in a small private school with very strong links to the local Brethren Church. The main denomination in the Greek side of Cyprus is the Greek Orthodox Church. I went to one or two church services – an Easter Service and a baptism, but for the most part I attended Sunday mornings and evenings at the Brethren Gospel Hall. It was incredibly strict with women wearing hats and keeping silent in church. It was what I needed at the time. It taught me some valuable lessons about discipline which perhaps in another setting would not have been so effective!

I can remember meeting a fairly lively lady who was a Christian. She came under some criticism because she attended the local Greek Orthodox Church. It was commonly held idea by the Brethren Church at the time, and expressed quite strongly, that there weren’t any “real Christians” in the Greek Orthodox Church. Those that went merely did so out of tradition and they did not have any saving knowledge of Jesus. “Real Christians” went to the Gospel Hall!

The woman was not persuaded by the argument. She agreed that perhaps not everyone who went through the door of the Greek Orthodox Church had a saving faith, but then the same could be true for any church. She believed that if she lived her Christian life inside what everyone was labelling a “dead church” perhaps she could change it, rather than abandoning it and finding a “lively” church. (There is an oxymoron if ever there was one when applied to that particular Brethren Church at the time!) My companions at the time were quite convinced that she would eventually die for lack of life within the church. She felt it was her calling to stay within the Greek Orthodox Church and change it from within through a faithful testimony. If everyone was like us, withdrawing from the established churches top set up “our own” new thing, it is inevitable that the established churches end up dying! It is our obligation to change things from within.

The other incident takes place a few years later. I spent a year on a gospel outreach team in Inverness. We were really keen to get into schools – do assemblies or RE lessons and meet with the young people. Being an ex-RE teacher at the time, I advised the leaders to consult with the area RE advisor, a nice elderly gentleman. Seeing as I obviously knew the system, I was elected to meet with him and discuss our “vision”.

The man had a Church of Scotland background. He seemed more interested in why I had abandoned the denominational churches to be a part of something less traditional, or settled, or old. The house movement, or charismatic churches were new to Inverness at the time and people had impressions that they were off the wall – the lunatic fringe as it were. He asked me why I did not remain within the established church and try to change it from within!

I suppose it is uncomfortable when people poke holes in traditions that have been going for many years, decades, centuries or millennia. I don’t poke holes in something just because it has been going for such a long time. I don’t jump on bandwagons, or grab hold of the latest craze. Ask my friend Mark!

I just think about the quality of my Christian life in the church I belong to and I know I am in the right place. I don’t think it panders to my way of thinking or feeling or worshipping – I just see God there week in week out. Maybe I would see God just as clearly in any other church, but I believe that God has called me to be where I am. It is not an easy church at times, and I don’t always agree with everything that is said at the front. There are times when it is hard work – my faith is hard work – my spiritual muscles get stretched. I am not saying that it wouldn’t happen in any other church – but right now I am where I God wants me to be.

Greasy Joe's

Along time ago, in our courting days – see how no one today uses the term courting? – Joe and I used to cook each other meals. I used to do very elaborate three course meals, with table cloths and cutlery and flowers. I even constructed a menu card labelled “Chez Mel” – the front room of the house where I lived turned into a posh restaurant for the night! I always thought that if in the remote distant future I ever won the lottery – millions as opposed to mere thousands of pounds – I would buy a restaurant, get my sister to do the cooking and it would be called “Chez Mel”. Quite how I was going to persuade my sister to move house to Inverness I hadn’t quite worked out. I thought the lure of running her own kitchen might be enough. She is now into horses and I think I have lost my window of opportunity!

Joe’s meals were possibly just as complicated – the Marks’ and Spencer packaging hidden well away. He also had a menu scribbled on a sheet of lined paper and labelled “Greasy Joe’s”.

This morning we resurrected “Greasy Joe’s”. On the last Sunday of the month our church suspends the usual morning meeting to have breakfast together. Sometimes we invade, on masse, a local restaurant, or at other times, members of the church volunteer to host the breakfast. It was our turn! Do we actually take it in turns? I don’t think so. Whatever, we volunteered to have every one around our house and cook breakfast.

I was determined that we would not fail in the task of making sure that every need was catered for. If it could be eaten for breakfast, it was on the menu – even kippers!

Joe and I launched into a flurry of cooking – every pan bubbling away on the stove and the grill sizzling with sausages. The George Foreman grill was out if the box and also sizzling away with bacon in it. It was like a well oiled machine – not just the George Foreman grill, but the whole breakfast cooking process. Everything turned out perfect – although I did see the lady who ate the kippers later on in the afternoon and she wasn’t feeling so well!

Afterwards we sat on chairs on the patio, drinking tea, mopping up the last of the pancakes, soaking up the sun that has been absent for most of the summer, and having fellowship.

It is at these times that we really connect. We behave like a real family and talk about everyday life. We laugh together and don’t hide behind a songs and sermons.

A good time was had by all!

Who turns the world?

Every year I hand out a homework task to the new first year groups. I ask them to find a news paper article that has something to do with religion. I give them a week to do it! It forms part of a lesson where we consider why we study religion in school, and one of the reasons why is because it forms a part of every day life for some people. “It is often in the news” is this throwaway comment in one of the workbooks!

I have always been confident that it is do-able. I am convinced that there are newspaper articles out there – but I have to admit that these days I am not so sure of myself! We have a blue recycling box at home which hasn’t been emptied for a while, so there is a good supply of papers. I spent a few minutes flicking through a couple.

The first paper contained nothing at all. I learnt more than I wanted to know about some of the celebrities and their cellulite problems, I learnt a bit about the best fashion accessories for the season, about which “animals” were locked up for committing which crimes – but nothing religious occurred! Then, in the second papaper, I found it! It couldn’t have been much more than two sentences, lodged in a side panel next to a much more sensational piece!

Apparently a priest in Holland was being taken to court for ringing the bells in his church too loudly! That was the single noteworthy comment about the religious and spiritual state of the nation! Not even our own nation!

I am trying to tell a new generation that religion is important, that it has an impact on the world around us – and all I can show for that statement is a guy in Holland being told off for ringing bells too loud!

In the New Testament, the comment made about the early church and the apostles was that they “turned the world upside down”. Where are the world-turners today? Maybe the church turns the world but because it is good news, as opposed to bad news, no one wants to know! Maybe the church turns the world turns but no one thinks it is that special so it doesn’t get reported. Or maybe it’s the politicians and not the church that turns the world now.

See my previous blog. Maybe it is not just me as an individual Christian who is struggling with the abdication of my responsibilities!

(The Scotsman and the Herald saved the day! I popped into a newsagent this morning to pick up a couple of papers. They both came up with the goods – the Muslim community doing a Live-Aid-like concert to raise money for charities and a prominent church leader withdrawing support from Amnesty International because of their change of view about abortion.)

Don't abdicate!

To abdicate means “to renounce or relinquish a throne, right, power, claim, responsibility, or the like, esp. in a formal manner.”

Let’s get rid of some of the sub phrases. We will keep “relinquish” and “responsibility”.

I am involved in a number of activities in our local church – leading worship, preaching, teaching the children among other things. There are mid week meeting for people involved in some of these activities. Monday’s meeting was an opportunity for the preachers/teachers to meet. Part of the meeting was given over to thinking about our Thursday meeting which we called “Connect” with the idea of connecting more with each other and with what God wanted to accomplish through us.

Before the meeting, between coming home from Weight Watchers (Yeah – I’m still going!), and going to the meeting I took time out to pray and prepare my heart. I am not sure of the content of the prayer – but I am sure of God’s word for me. He simply said “Don’t abdicate. Don’t relinquish the responsibility I have given you!”

Like many people I really feel that I don’t give God enough time. School work fights with the ironing pile, washing up fights with mowing the lawn, watching TV fights with settling down to a Bible study – and I never feel that I have quite the cutting edge that I ought to have. I am all too aware of my inadequacies and feel unqualified to do some of the things I am asked to do. I make assumptions that other people are spending more time with God and hearing him more clearly and better qualified to speak.

I have some very creative ideas, but sometimes I lack the confidence to share what I think. I sit there quietly in a meeting internally kicking myself because my tongue seems to be stuck to the roof of my mouth and I can’t shift the words out.

As much as this frustrates me, I reckon it must frustrate God too at times! During that time before the meeting God assured me that I had been given responsibility, and gifting, and equipping and it wasn’t about minutes and hours but heart attitude. I shared with the church on Sunday that I believed I had been given a picture of who God wanted me to become and it wasn’t something unachievable and remote. If I want to be that person God want s me to be it requires that I work with him. I need to take an active role and stop being so passive.

As ever, when I choose to obey, God does something wonderful! It wasn’t just that we had a very dynamic discussion, but that it was so easy! The ideas flowed without anyone having to winkle them out of me. We enjoyed each other’s company, laughed together, expressed our concerns about things, prayed together – all in a really comfortable environment. I went home feeling very encouraged.

Tell me about Jesus

I had an interesting dream last night. At the time it had a very cohesive storyline, but on waking I remember only a few particular scenes.

I don’t think it was set in this country. Joe and I were walking along a road. There was a huge metal fence on the right hand side. It ran the whole length of the road, and beyond the fence there were houses. We were trying to get to the houses, but there were no breaks in the fence. It wasn’t something you could climb over. A young boy was on the road just ahead of us. Suddenly he was the other side of the fence heading out towards the houses. There was a very narrow gate that if you had not been searching for, you would easily have missed it. Joe seemed to have no problem getting through the gate, but I had to really suck in the gut to get through!

We headed towards one of the houses. Joe knew exactly where he was going and he knocked on one of the doors. It was a shanty town and the houses were small one roomed affairs, cobbled together with cement and corrugated iron. Joe knew the woman who answered the door and she let him in. I don’t know why, but she was extremely angry with him. I told her that Joe helped people. He stood up for people who were being railroaded over in their workplaces. She shouldn’t be angry because he could help her.

There were two other people in the room apart from the woman. Her husband was lying on the bed and her mother was sat on a chair in the corner of the room. The woman told us that because her husband was ill, she was the sole bread winner in the family and she was paid very little money for the work she was doing. They were not able to make ends meet and struggling to keep from starving.

It appeared that her husband had been attacked by two vicious dogs. He was severely bitten, and the flesh on his back had been badly gored. They either didn’t have money to get medicine, or because they were so poor, the doctors had taken advantage, charging them money for medicine that was no use. The wounds had become infected and he was getting worse.

The man crawled off the bed and come over to where I was standing. He took off his shirt and showed me the wounds. Then he asked, “Will you pray for me?”

I have prayed for people in real life to be healed, and I suppose, like many other people, I am never sure that my prayers are very effective. The times when I have prayed for myself to recover from debilitating colds, I have not noticed much of a change. In the back of my mind was the haunting question, “What if I pray and nothing happens?”

As I prayed for the man, I thought about myself as a child going to her daddy. (I rarely think of God in terms of daddy!) I had this picture, I suppose, of a child with a broken toy, taking it to daddy to fix it, entirely convinced that he would fix it. Even entertaining the idea that he couldn’t or wouldn’t fix it was unimaginable. I remember closing my eyes – thinking perhaps that not actually looking at the man’s torn back might, in some bizarre way, prevent me from doubting that God would heal him.

The prayer itself was interesting. I can’t remember the words, but I began worshipping God. The opening phrases were confident declaration of His love and compassion. When I got to the bit about healing, I was almost whispering. There was no rebuking of demons or anything, but just an urgent whisper that God would act. I kept thinking I shouldn’t be whispering, but loudly proclaiming God healing to the man, but it was like I had no voice.

However, despite the lack of volume, the man was healed. There was no sign that he had ever been hurt. The wounds and the infection were gone and the skin on his back was smooth and clean. I disappeared to the toilet to praise God in my own way, and noticed that the house that had just the one room suddenly was much bigger. It had a kitchen and bedrooms that were not there before.

The man’s next request was “Tell me about Jesus.”

I am not sure what I said. I have a feeling that I got bogged down trying to explain the trinity! I was totally dissatisfied that I couldn’t come up with something clear and to the point! He wasn’t put off though and asked me to come back the next day to tell him more.

Joe and I went back to wherever we were staying. Somehow we managed to get a hold of three or four Bibles to take with us. I am not sure that I persuaded Alan Scotland, a leader in my mother’s church to come with us, or whether he insisted on coming anyway. When we returned to the house the next day the house was packed out with people.

Alan Scotland stood up to start preaching and the healed man gestured him to sit down.

“We have come to hear what you have to say,” he said to me.

And then I woke up! (Much to my relief)

There are people that take delight in dissecting prayers – feel free to do so – but for me the challenge was all about that question “Tell me about Jesus.” I have been with people over the last couple of weeks who, like the woman in my dream, are finding life difficult. Like the man, they are injured and incapacitated in some way. They didn’t say the words “Will you pray for me?” or “Tell me about Jesus” – but that is what their lives were crying out! I didn’t see it then. I have prayed since!

The question, “Tell me about Jesus” is provoking my spirit. I have walked with Jesus for many years and I should be able to tell people about Him and not struggle to say what people need to hear! I perhaps feel that other people, like Alan Scotland, would do the job better than me. Much as I would like to pass the buck to a more gifted person, there are people who want to hear the Good News from me. I just need to make sure I have a clear message.

Angry

A bible story that I come back to time and time again is the story of Jesus healing the leper in the opening chapter of Marks’ gospel. I once wrote a short story based on the incident. I imagined that the touch of Jesus went a little further than just a hand on the shoulder. While the man had leprosy, or whatever the skin condition was, he was barred from physical contact – so I wanted to communicate how Jesus goes beyond the basics. I opted for an embrace rather than just a touch.

There was nothing tentative or hesitant about his touch. He raises me to my feet and wraps me in his strong embrace. I inhale the clean smell of his robes and feel the roughness of the fabric against my cheek. The sun glistens off the pale hairs on his arms. I can feel his warmth seeping through his clothes and through my rags. Long forgotten sensations cascade over me as I stand enfolded. Just as the open sores of my leprosy break and bleed, my heart breaks and my hurts bleed out. He holds me close as I am drowned in a torrent of my pitiful and wretched tears. After a while I am still. I hear his heart beat in the peace after the storm. And we stand.

As I was checking out commentaries and what other people had blogged, or sermoned, about the story, I discovered that there is some debate about Jesus’emotions. All the various version of the Bible I possess read that Jesus full of compassion, or pity, reached out to touch the leper. It would appear that some of the early manuscripts replace the compassion or the pity with anger. Jesus, being angry, heals the leper.

The anger is not directed at the leper. Jesus wasn’t angry that a man who knew the rules concerning lepers broke them. He wasn’t angry that in coming so close, the leper was putting Jesus’ health at risk. Jesus’ anger was directed at the illness, the conditon that man found himself in and the whole social isolation thing. He was angry because sin had destroyed a person’s physical being, and all his social relationships and left him less than human. This was not the world that He brought into being. He did not plan for people to live under sickeness and death.

Some commentators dismis anger and stick with compassion. Some commentators suggest that anger was softened to compassion to fit in with people’s understanding of Jesus. I am challenged by anger. Like most people I get angry about things – usually the wrong things! I can remember a few weeks ago getting very angry with a minor celebrity who said that her misscarriage was a punishment from God!

I have just returned home from a family visit. My mother isn’t doing so well. She is slowly, but surely, physically falling apart – wear and tear in just about every bodily system. In one of her many hospital visits, the doctor was doing some kind of scan and suggested they look lat her gall bladder to see if she didn’t have gallstones. My mother, ever the humourist, reminded him that the doctor s had removed her gall bladder many years ago so quite where the gallstones were hiding out might prove a mystery!

My mum is fragile. It is not just the physical body that is being eroded, but courage and confidence is also being dismantled.

This is not the world that Jesus planned for her. It’s not punishemnt from God for sin. It is just the fallen world falling on her and crushing her at times.

It’s no wonder Jesus gets angry!

Seeds and weeds

My husband is not much of a Sci-Fi fan, but one of his favourite films is “Blade Runner”. It’s all about a policeman chasing replicants – people who look and act like human beings, and are totally convinced that they are humans, but they are not. The great mystery is whether the policeman, played by Harrison Ford, is himself a replicant, but just doesn’t know it. The secret, so my husband insists, is in the origami animals.

I was reading one of the parables this morning – the one about the farmer who sows good seed, and then the enemy comes along and sows weeds. When the workers realise what has happened they ask whether they should pull out the weeds. The farmer tells them to wait until harvest time. If they start pulling out the weeds now, chances are they will end up pulling out the good plants by mistake.

When it comes to working out who is a Christian and who isn’t, it is pretty much like “Blade Runner” – according to the parable, it is hard to tell.

I can remember a few weeks towards the end of term. It was not a good time for me. I felt that I was being assailed on every side. I know that 2 Corinthians:8 talks about being pressed on every side by troubles but not being crushed and broken – well, that might be many people’s experience, but it wasn’t mine. I was feeling well crushed and broken. I was reacting in a less than positive manner!

Being a teacher of Religious Education, I am often asked about my own faith. In this incident, the question was whether I was a Christian or not. I generally feel that if I am asked about my faith, I have an opportunity to witness – I have not initiated the conversation. Sometimes, it is not appropriate to talk about my faith. In this particular incident, all I could think about was how bad a testimony I had been giving. I was missing the mark by a long way. It mattered that God’s name was honoured, and I wasn’t doing that through my actions.

The word “Sometimes” crept out of my mouth. The minute I said it I was overwhelmed by a sense of shame. My intentions were good in that I did not want my faithless behaviour to be associated with God. I had badly let God down. I felt I was doing more harm than good to His kingdom, and perhaps until I sorted myself out, I should not claim to be His citizen.

God’s reaction came to me so clear - “Do you seriously think that I would ever disown you just because right now you have a lousy testimony? If I refuse to disown you, I expect that you will not disown me.”

Anyone looking over my life in those weeks would have been hard pressed to believe that I was a Christian, based on the way that I was living my life – and yet, I was. I looked pretty much like a weed – and had those workers come along, I would have been pulled up without a second thought.

Right back from the time Eve looked on that apple and took a bite, we have been inclined to be swayed by what we see. We look on the outward actions of people where God looks at the heart.

I have nurtured too many weeds in my garden and pulled up too many genuine flowers to know that I really don’t know enough to make judgements about who is or who isn’t a seed or a weed. God knows!

Custard pie on the walls

My husband seems to be under the impression that I need projects to occupy my time during the summer holiday! Some projects crop up year in year out and never shift off the “to-do” list – like the garden and the decorating. Amazingly enough I have made serious inroads into both. I guess the fact that it is permanently raining does not make for nice days out and picnics, or stretching pasty white limbs out of the patio chair trying to persuade my skin to accept a tan.

The garden project saw me digging out the borders, spending quite a bit of savings money on some plants and battling with the beetles and creepy crawlies. God has been kind enough to take over the watering part of it! Sadly though, one small bedding area seems to have attracted something that eats the plants. All I have left is a few stalks – not leaves and no flowers!

The decorating project is also in hand – though not mine I have to add. I combed my way through the local directory for someone who knew what they were doing and owned a set of ladders to do the hall, landing and stairs! It would appear that summer is a busy time, and, although many were quite happy to have a look and send me a quote for the work, it would be sometime in September before they could start filling in the pocks and crevices with Polly filler.

One man assured me that if anyone could do my hall, landing and stairs in the immediate future, I would have to ask some serious questions about why he was not already busy with other jobs! That man, when I eventually found him – I didn’t ask any questions at all. I liked him! He talked about painting and decorating the way I would talk about writing poetry. Although he had only been in the business three years – as in turning professional – he loved it! Three years? The other man would be totally freaked out with that – him being in the business for three decades! I just liked him, instantly trusted that he would do a good job.

We are going for “Powder Blue” in the bathroom – did I mention that we are having the bathroom done too? We had a new bathroom put in a few months ago, and on account of a hole in the wall where the pipes used to run but no longer do, and even though we have done the bathroom before, we decided to leave that to the expert too. And for the walls of the hall landing and stairs we are going for “Custard Pie”. Why don’t they just say a nice pale terracotta shade? “We have custard pie on our walls.” Doesn’t quite make the grade!

They started today. The nice man bought his nephew with him – his apprentice. I had a quick check to see if he had ever sat in my classroom in a previous incarnation – but no, he was an unknown. I popped out the house to buy a packet of Tunnock’s Caramel Wafers for the men and, on my return, settled down with the laptop in the front room.

I pretty much left them to it. I suppose if I had a hankering to be a painter or decorator I might have watched them, but they seemed to know what they were doing – filling in pocks and crevices with Polly filler.

It was at the end of the day, Just as they were leaving, that the apprentice worked himself up sufficiently to ask the question that had been burning inside all day.

“The Bible upstairs? Do you…are you…a Christian?”

It turned out that he had just recently moved to Inverness. He went to one of the town centre churches. He fair beamed on discovering a fellow walker on the Way. If I was a little concerned about the lack of experience of the two of them, I know now that the apprentice at least will be doing the best job possible – because I am not his boss, but Jesus is! I suspect that his uncle might also be a man of God – which is why I liked him from the start.

Oh Bhoy!

Joe and I went to Glasgow for the weekend. There were the usual family visits to slot into the days, but we were also sightseers!

Having his roots in Parkhead in Glasgow, my husband is a Celtic man and we joined a guided tour of the football ground taking in the behind the scenes rooms and corridors. The Board room was quite impressive with a wall long trophy cabinet. The guide talked her way through the various cup and shields. She just oozed a love of Celtic from every pore. It was almost like listening to a mother talk about her child’s achievements and showing you the handprint pictures on the fridge door – it was that kind of love!

We then progressed up the stairs to the Press Room to watch a short DVD presentation of the history of the club. Neil Lennon was narrating. The golden years of Jock Stein and the 1967 team were praised and the years of not much silverware in the cabinet were glossed over. Again the pride in being a part of Celtic came across strongly.

Next we went outside to sit in the dugout alongside the pitch. We were not allowed to step onto the grass. It was mowed to perfection! Don’t tell anyone, but I sat in Rod Stewart’s seat! He and Billy Connelly have seats for life. Joe was telling me that for a long time, Billy Connelly, or Rod Stewart, one of the two, kept his love of the Celtic quiet and fooled the world into thinking they were a Partick Thistle man(?). Football supporters are fiercely tribal – but none more so than the Old Firm. To have admitted to being a Celtic man would have involved a drop in music or concert sales. Of course, once you are secure, then you can come out of the closet.

I also sat in the “naughty bhoy’s” seat. When the manager is getting a bit too involved in the match and the referee thinks he is misbehaving, he gets sent off out of the dugout. There is a seat just below Billy’s seat where he had to sit and watch the remainder of the game. Joe was telling me that on one of the matches when the manager got sent to the chair, he chose to stay there although the referee said he could come back, because he got a better view of the game from the naughty seat!

We didn’t see any of the players – they were away playing friendlies in other parts of the country. Apparently on the tour it is not unknown to bump into them, even though the places where they hang out, like the changing room, are off limits.

That gets me to Shaun Malony. It was a throw away comment that the guide made that caught my spirit. The difference between a good football player and a great football player is not always about natural abilities and skills. Apparently after the usual training sessions that all the players attended, Shaun Malony would always stay on for two or three hours afterwards practicing. The Japanese striker whose name I can’t spell, Nakamura, or Makamura – he also stayed on for hours afterwards practicing shots. I think it is those extra hours that makes the difference between being good and being great.

What makes you want to stay on for another two or three hours after an already gruelling practice session? I suppose that when a manager has a wide range of players to choose from, you want to be his choice! You don’t want to sit on the reserve bench, or watch the game from stands. You want to give yourself every advantage possible when it comes to fitness and skill – so you stay behind and practise! To want to play that much…you stay on and practise.

As a Christian I am challenged by that. I could just do what is required of me – even then, that is a challenge if you think of those words in Micah 6:8 – or I could be the best that I could be. It is what I do with those extra hours! To want God’s glory demonstrated in everything that you do – that much! “How much do I want that?” I should be asking myself, before I switch of the TV, or mark the page of the book I am reading – and go into the prayer closet, or the Bible, or to the house of a struggling friend and practice!

Be that "me"

I had a very stirring dream last night. It was a Sunday morning and I was leading worship. It was worship such as I don’t think I have ever experienced in the real world. It was incredibly dynamic and powerful. Although there was familiar songs coming up on the screen, and the keyboard players were people that I knew – there was a kind of reckless indulgence in God. We just knew that we were there not to sings songs that flowed, but that we were there to worship God and to usher in His presence.

There were lots of familiar faces and lots of unfamiliar ones too. One of the unfamiliar faces was an older woman sitting on the front row. As we worshipped, the Holy Spirit moved powerfully and she was just knocked off her feet.

Some of the familiar faces were people who had moved to another church in the city a number of years ago. Although we keep in touch, the connection is always tenuous and never the spiritual bond it used to be. Part way through this meeting, one of these people, a man, started to sing prophetically. I can’t remember any of the words of the song just that it was powerful stuff. It felt like we were enacting the passage in Corinthians that relates to worship – everyone coming with something to share.

At the end of the meeting, a rota sheet was being circulated among the worship team. Included among the names were some of the moved-away crowd.

I woke up. I was still there for a while, surrounded by a group of people simply focused on God. I could sense that all those thoughts like “What will people think if I say this?” or “Have I really got this right?” were just put aside. Honouring God was at the forefront of our hearts and minds. I thought about church unity and although to some extent I can understand how different denominations have grown out of one body of people – it just seemed so sad. It is sad that many people, myself included, are unwilling to dismantle differences. People leave one church to go to another and take with them grievances and hurts. People will always get hurt by other people, but sometimes those hurts become the directing force in our lives. God takes second place to our comfort.

The biggest thing though about the dream was the sense of shame that it provoked. There was a corporate shame in the church being so disunited – but there was also a personal shame involved for me. That kind of worship meeting should be a reality and not a dream. I should be an every Sunday experience – not a once in a while, or a Spring Harvest occasion – but every Sunday. Why limit it to a Sunday? Every encounter with God should be dynamic and powerful – and yet, speaking personally, my encounters with God are pale in comparison.

It’s more than whether I am prepared on a Sunday to bring my contribution. Whether I lead worship or not, I still participate. I think it is about where, not just one a Sunday, but every single moment of every day, God is placed in my life.

I am ashamed to admit that too often I am at the centre of everything I do. If I do something, it’s because I want to do it, or I enjoy doing it, or I get something out if it. I am ashamed that my heart is a lot cooler than I realised.

The “me” I saw in the dream was simply sold out for God and making the assumption that everyone else was just as sold out as I was. The “me” in the dream was not “me-conscious” but totally God conscious. The “me” in the dream was not hesitant or cautious but out on a limb. I liked the “me” in the dream.

I think that all God has got to say on the subject is “Be that ‘me’!”

Fierce love

I have spent part of the morning leafing through my collection of worship songs, preparing for Sunday worship. In amongst all the new songs, there are a few hymns, some of which are simply handwritten on the back of another sheet.

I tend not to pick them. Because they have such regular meters they can often come out quite pedestrian and uninspiring. I know that there are those who would take the words and rework the melody but I like the hymns the way that they are! They stir my spirit and tend to be the songs that I sing for the rest of the day.

I think because of my time in the Brethren Church, hymns tend to me my natural worship language. I like order – clear melodies and structured verses appeal to the poet in me. I have just spent the last few days with Stephen Fry’s book “The ode less followed” and have just written pages of iambic pentameters.

I haven’t sung many of them for a long time, but I am amazed at how well I know the words.

“Living, He loved me
Dying, He saved me
Buried, He carried my sins far away
Rising, He justified
Freely forever
One day He’s coming, Oh glorious day!”

This is a chorus from a favourite. It is creed and sums up so perfectly what Christ has done for me. It is the gospel in a nutshell.

The hymn doesn’t have any verses in it that relate to what I do – only what Jesus did for me. As I sing the chorus - “Living. He loved me” – how does that make a difference to the way I live my life? To be loved unconditionally by Almighty God – wow!

I was thinking about God’s love and the Spirit spoke to me and said, “Do you know that you are fiercely loved?” He kept repeating the word “fiercely”.

The dictionary defines fierce as “violent in force, intense, passionate, strenuously active or resolute.” God does not demonstrate a love that is anything less than these things. How He demonstrates that love might be with the utmost gentleness – but He is passionate and resolute.

Reading Psalm 18 this morning, I could see some of this fierceness in the words. I can fully sympathise with David feeling overwhelmed and weak and being confronted with enemies that are far too strong for him to deal with. He call out to God – and then see what happens – verse 7 – the earth quaked and trembled, the foundations of the mountains shook…Smoke poured from God’s nostrils…fierce flames leap from his mouth….the brilliance of His presence breaks through the clouds…He thunders from the heavens…He shoots arrows and scatters His enemies.” That is fierce!

No wonder so often God tells us not to be afraid! When we get that response from God when we are overwhelmed and cry out to Him – pity that we often cry, but that is all we do – we just cry. Sometimes we just allow ourselves to be overwhelmed without crying out to God and we never give Him the chance to be fierce.

Then sings my soul

A week or two ago I watched a programme called “Why birds sing.” A man was setting out convince a number of scientists that birds sang for the pure pleasure of singing and not just for either attracting a mate or warning off rivals. He insisted that birds sang long after they had found their lady birds and the rivals had flown away. Birds just sang too much for that to be the only reason. One scientist stated that birds with the largest repertoire of songs get the pick of the ladies – they attract more attention. It is not just plumage or nest building that indicate a good gene pool, but also whether the male birds can sing a selection of songs. All these extra songs were just for practice.

At one point, our non-scientist man took a clarinet into the local zoo and settled down in front of one of the bird cages. It sounded pretty much to me that he and the bird were having a jamming session. He would start a musical phrase and the bird would bob his head up and down and join in. I suppose the scientists would say that the bird thought the clarinet player was a very shy lady bird to attract, or a very stubborn rival who wouldn’t fly off.

At another point in the programme he had persuaded a friend of his to re-enact a famous musical duet. In the early days of wireless, the radio people had recorded a duet between a lady on a cello and a nightingale in a wood. He had another cellist set up in a wood playing the same music and hoped that the nightingale would join in. After three hours of playing, the nightingale showed up and added his warble! But again, is it just for the sheer joy of singing or because he perceived the mate or the rival?

The scientists remained unconvinced.

In so many areas of life what happens in the natural world has something to say about what happens in the spiritual world. As people we sing for a million different reasons. In worship we often think about singing, with the words of a song, as a way to draw closer to God. OK, it is more than just the singing – it is the heart attitude, the desire to worship. We seem to use worship to draw close to God - but what about the chasing away rivals? What about worship to send the enemy packing? I am not sure that the lyrics of many of the current worship songs are up to it!

I can remember many years ago, a worship leader recognising that we were all tired and battle weary in the meeting. There are songs that you could choose that I class as “comfort songs”. They assure you that you are the Father’s child, that God is your strength and such stuff. Rather than do that, he specifically chose lively songs about victory and insisted that people dance. There was no stopping between songs with aptly chosen Bible verses or homilies – just one pounding song followed by another. At the end of it the tiredness had gone, the sense of battle weariness had lifted. It was an episode of using worship in a war I suppose.

Incidentally nightingales, like most birds have two voice boxes. They can harmonise with themselves!

She is about to blow!

It must have been two or three weeks ago that I received an email from a friend that after many years of a marriage that seriously wasn’t working she had decided to seek a divorce. She wasn’t walking away easily and had been fighting for a long time, and perhaps there was a turning point where things might have improved, but it came too late. I have had friends that have not struggled so hard to keep their relationship alive, so I kind of breathed a sigh of relief for my friend. They had tried and it had not worked out and it was perhaps better to walk away and be happier part than miserable together.

She sent the email to a block of friends. I have never really learned how to do that and doubt I have a block of friends I would want to say the same thing to.

Last week, one of the “block” replied. It might have been intended to be solely for my friend, but the way the person had replied, the “block of friends” received the email. I should have stopped reading long before the end of the first paragraph. I am not sure that it wasn’t deliberate, that the sender intended us to get it.

I was not pleasant stuff. That is an understatement!

I can think of only one time when I replied to something far more quickly than I should have. Someone on FW had written a poem that in my opinion glorified war and the mood I happened to be in was “righteous indignation”. I didn’t wait for the fires of passion to cool a little and I rattled off a paragraph of criticism. It wasn’t kind, or constructive, or anything I would normally want to put my name to – but I was wound up and hit the send button. I don’t think my finger had lifted from the keypad before I felt regret. I was ashamed of myself – I had just become so blind to anything but anger about her, that I had shelved reason. I think straight away I wrote an apology – it was stronger than an apology. I asked for her forgiveness. She wrote back eventually, apologising for writing something that I had been so seriously offended by.

I reckon this must have been the position that the replier was in. He was a lot closer to the couple than I was and knew much more of the history than I did. But that said, he said more than he should have. When we are angry or hurt, sometimes it is not the issue of the moment that spills out but every other little injury, bruise and scar we think they may have caused us along the way. So many things he had probably bitten his tongue over in the past just spilled out. It was like a volcano erupting.

I was thinking about it this morning –about volcanoes erupting, and how every little resentment gets thrown out like uncontrolled molten lava. God said to me, “These things will come out. What is inside a person’s heart, in certain circumstances, will come out like that, and it isn’t always pleasant. When the pressure in a volcano builds up, weakness in the rock structure allows the neat and the liquid rock find a way out. In people it is no different – those angry words, unless dealt with will find a way to the surface.”

He was telling me all this for a reason. This morning, I felt like a volcano that was about to explode! I am frustrated about many things – some personal, some not so personal. Things are changing and I am finding it difficult to adapt. It is a battle ground. There are a million skirmishes – some I win, most I don’t. It all became a bit too much and just before we left for church this morning, there was spillage. As ever it was over a small thing, but some of the bigger things slid out too, and with my stiff upper lip I just about managed to contain the worst of it. I thought maybe the best strategy to employ was to go and sit at the back of a Catholic mass and let the liturgy wash over me. God had other plans!

It happened that a friend at church had planned to wash people’s feet. He was talking about serving and imitating Jesus, and out came the bowl and the water and a towel. I had a dream years ago of this same scenario, and all the details came flooding back. It was all very emotional. Although we were given the option of passing on the feet washing, I didn’t really feel it was an option. I felt that my feet were fine, but that state of my heart was a bit of a mess. If someone had told me that the basin held acid, I think I would have still complied!

Something happened – apart from totally collapsing into sobs. It wasn’t so much about what came out – I didn’t think I said anything coherent. It was about what went in. The man’s humility and love for me released a peace that I hadn’t felt for a while.

That doesn’t mean that my problems are solved. A concerned friend spoke to me later on in the afternoon and I was able to share some of my troubles.

I have no wish to explode. I don’t want to make things so bad that they can’t be mended. I don’t want to wish that I could take my words back. I long to do the ostrich thing but I won’t. I will try to allow all the people who love me to help me.

Iambic Pentameters

If Joe asks me tonight what I was doing to today I can tell him that I was writing iambic pentameters!

I started to work my way through the first chapter of Stephen Fry’s book. The first chapter was about meter, that is the rhythm of the poem, and iambic pentameter which is a particular regular rhythm of ten syllables made up of five pairs with the stress being on the second syllable in each pair. Do you have any idea just how much I have always wanted to know that? Seriously! I have probably written poems that follow that pattern, but never known the technical name.

Once all the explanation has been clearly set out, he lets you loose on exercises. You have to write on the book. He has this to say about defacing books – “You may wish to use a pencil so that you can rub out your marks and leave this book in pristine condition when you lend it to someone else – naturally the publishers would prefer you to buy another copy for your friends – the important thing is to get used to defacing this book in one way or another”. I guess the library should be glad that I did not borrow their copy!

The first exercise was identifying the pairs of syllables and the stresses on the second syllable. It wasn’t as easy as it looked and the important thing was reading it out loud. The next exercise was writing some iambic pentameters of your own. He gave a few of his own examples – it is amazing what slips out.

“There’s nothing you can say to ease my pain.”

I once watched a TV program following Stephen Fry interviewing different people who were manic depressive. I watched it because I have a friend who suffers from that condition and I thought maybe he would give me some insight in how to simply be a better friend to her. Stephen Fry was diagnosed with the condition a while back, but it was only after suffering for a long time that anyone sought to identify his condition. I can remember him being asked that if he had the chance of being “normal” would he want that. He thought about it and said “No”. For all the agony that he went through, he didn’t want to give up the ecstasy.

“You sharpness rips my paper heart in two.” That’s another one of his examples. My own were less deep, but then the point wasn’t to be poetic or deep, but just to feel the rhythm.

The man who walks through cowpats often stinks. (That sounds like something Confucius might have come up with)

My cup of tea has gone completely cold. (Very true!)

Graffiti scrawled upon a white washed wall. (I am quite proud of that line – it sounds quite poetic)

The dusty spiders’ webs speak of neglect. (No guessing where the inspiration for that one came from)

Little Faith

Little faith falters at “suddenly”
Demanding notice
In good time
For hurdles and obstacles along the path
To prepare the heart
Plan strategies
And accumulate resources.

Little faith focuses on storm clouds
Assesses the speed
With which they form
Measures their darkening hues
And predicts the force of the downpour
Mental equations worked out
To the detriment
Of the spirit

Little faith feels
The uneasy shift of the boat
As waves swamp
The sides
And as water levels rise
Fear is fed
And faith seeps away

Little faith fastens an eye
On Jesus sleeping
Unaware and uncaring
Unable to deliver
The captain going down
With the ship
Lost
With all souls on board
No future but
A watery grave

Little faith fears
Shrieks and shouts
Above the squall
“We are going to drown”
Blind to other possibilities
Eyes closed to hope
Salvation invisible


Little faith finds
Jesus
Stirring him from slumber

He stands
He rebukes
Dreadful waves
And dread-filled men
And little faith
Fixed on Jesus
The author, the source
Of all faith
Begins to grow

Three bought, three borrowed

I can’t remember the last time I went to the library. It must have been a very long time ago as the lady at the desk insisted on up-dating my card and checking that I had not moved home or changed my name or anything. I didn’t find what I was looking for but never the less came away with things – a leaflet with details of a poetry contest and three books. The book that I was looking for, according to the computer the keeps a cyber eye on what is where and with whom, was on a shelf in the library at Fortrose, and another copy was due back some time this week in the library at Fort William.

At the creative writing weekend, someone recommended Stephen Fry’s “The Ode Less Travelled – unlocking the poet within.” It was on the shelves at Waterstones and I had neough money in my purse. I find that I am not content to lament that I can’t write poetry as good as Omar Khayyam. I can give up when faced with the masterpieces that other poets write, or I can do something to sharpen the tools that I already possess and become a better poet. So… I no more excuses, I will see where Stephen’s insights and challenges takes me.

A second book I bought, this time from the Christian bookshop was “The Gospel Centred Church” by Steve Timmis and Tim Chester. As much as some of us don’t like to embrace change, our church is changing. In my quiet times and prayer times with God this week, I am being made aware that I am changing too. I was reading the opening couple of chapters of Nehemiah yesterday. From the time he heard the news from Jerusalem to the moment he shared his concerns with the king, there is a period of four months. The study I was reading suggested that during that time, God was building into Nehemiah the vision and resources he would need to be the man for the job of rebuilding the wall. God has a role for me in the church that is perhaps different from what it used to be and I want to be prepared. God would like to build into me a vision of my place and resources i will need. So…having a clearer picture of what church can be all about might help.

Third book bought doesn’t qualify as a book. I sometimes get tired of following a daily Bible study and give myself a break, or swap studies. I have had just such a break and feel the need to get back to structure, so my third purchase was Bible study notes that stretch from July to September.

The borrowed books? One is a children’s Scottish poetry book. I am into poetry at the moment. Adult poetry can be a bit too cerebral.

The second – Stephen King “On Writing”. It must have been Monday morning, fresh from the weekend, with a list of “must have” books that I went on line at Amazon. I compiled an order and was about to hit the confirm button when I noticed the post and package charges – I could have bought another book for what they were intending to charge me. Many of the titles I had foraged through the “used copies” button and none of the qualified for free delivery. Seeing Stephen King sitting on the shelf (his book, not himself)– that is one less book to buy. But will I want to give it back in four weeks time?

The third book – Nigel Tranter “Columba”. As part of the Highland Year of Culture we explored the life of Columba. I was inspired by some of the episodes – his meeting with and scaring off the Loch Ness monster being one of them. We learn a lot about the faith by looking at the lives of heroes.

Just a minnow

Ah love! could thou and I with Fate conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire!
Would not we shatter it to bits - and then
Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire!




I grew up in a mostly book free environment, but one book I seem to remember was a small poetry book – “The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam” I sounded very exotic and I would dearly like to say that reading the book ignited a love of poetry – but I didn’t read it. I looked at the pictures, but poetry never made that much sense to me.

I went for a walk today, high up in the woods that look down on Loch Ness. Following a path marked out with yellow arrows, I climbed higher and higher towards a viewpoint. Some kind soul, in loving memory of a dear wife and mother, planted a bench and engraved on a small silver label were the words of Omar Khayyam. I am sure that if Joe had been with me he would have recognised the words and the source, but I wrote them down in my notebook and googled them when I got home!

A rubaiyat is a quatraine – a four line verse and although Omar Khayyam’s complete work may have many verses, each one stands alone and complete.

I swam around in a small pool at the creative writing weekend and thought I was a big fish because I could string together a few lines that rhymed while others in the group struggled. Then I read Omar Khayyam’s lines on a bench and I was cut right down to size. I am nothing more than a minnow! I am in awe of you, Mr Khayyam!

Sitting this one out

I suppose that when you don’t particularly hold strong religious views, or even fairly mind ones, there are things that you would not give a second thought about that someone else might agonize over. The lady who was leading the creative writing course thought she had just found another source of stimuli for creating story scenarios and characters but the pack of tarot cards really didn’t go down so well at the creative writing course I attended at the weekend.

For the most part, most of the attendees were able to look at the cards objectively and use them as a starting point for a story, much as they had been using postcards and photographs earlier on in the day. The tarot cards proved to be a serious problem for one of the ladies. She had been a missionary out in Kenya fro thirty years and although she appreciated that no one was going to put the tarot cards to any occult-ish use, she didn’t feel comfortable handling one of them, studying it in any literary manner and excused herself from the activity. Her sister showing solidarity went with her and they sat out side on the patio while the rest of us struggled to write anything half decent from the pictures on the cards.

I have to confess that I struggled. I had no problem with the tarot cards as such. It was a piece of card with a picture on it. If anyone had set up an ouija board and told me to use the words it spelt out in an opening sentence to a story, it might have been a different matter. Perhaps if I had some knowledge of how to use the cards to tell someone’s fortune, that might have been a problem too. They were just cards with pictures on them and without the power to scare me.

The struggle was in how the two sisters might have perceived my actions as an act of compromise. I hadn’t gone out of my way to share my faith or anything, but in introducing myself I had mentioned that I was a Christian and had written inspirational poetry that had been published in Christian anthologies. They did not look at me with any kind of expectation that I would join them on the patio and “sit this one out”. I toyed with it. Part of the reasoning behind staying was that I had paid money to come on the course. I didn’t want to spend an hour sitting on the patio. I also didn’t want to give the tarot cards any power over me. I wanted to prove them to be just pieces of cards with pictures on them and nothing more. Sometimes a person’s perception of Christianity is based on what Christians don’t do or what they disapprove of. It becomes very negative and very narrow. There was a kind of wave of not-quite-tutting from the rest of the attendees, although one lady, not me, tried to defend their stand. I am really not sure whether I had made the call. (I had had very little sleep the previous night because of other things on my mind!)

I admired the two for sticking to their guns and I wondered about whether that passage in Romans about not eating food sacrificed to idols might apply to using tarot cards as literary aids. The task was not a good one and provoked not good opening paragraphs for a short story – so I might well have preferred the patio.

The leader the following day must have been aware of the feelings of the two ladies, but that did not stop her trying something similar with horoscopes this time. I caught the eye of the ex-missionary, expecting her to yet again absent herself from that activity, but she just contented herself with shaking her head in despair!

I had more trouble with the horoscope than with the tarot card surprisingly enough, but managed to come up with a wonderful opening paragraph for a story from it!

Young love

I know the summer holiday began on Thursday afternoon and I spent it watching Tim Henman claw his way back into a fifth set in a second round Wimbledon match where he eventually lost to a Spaniard in need of a decent haircut. It is always the Monday that the holiday becomes a reality! That is today! So now I can say to myself and actually believe it that I am on holiday for the next six weeks!

Friday, the technical start of the holiday, was spent in a flurry of cleaning. I usually take a week to work my way to clear the mess accumulated over the last few months but we had guests staying and beds needed to be made ready. A daughter of a friend was home from university and her bed at home had been booked by a more organised pen-friend. We know Dani well – she was our cleaning lady when she was much younger, with her menagerie of pets to support: she was also my piano teacher for a short while until I put myself under too much pressure to earn colourful stickers for playing pieces well; she occasionally gate crashed our Bible studies with her enthusiastic and youthful perspectives. Yes, we know her well – but we didn’t reckon on the new boyfriend coming with her! We have enough bedroom and beds to accommodate quite large families – but I was rather anxious about whether they would use enough bedrooms and enough beds!

Earlier on in the week there had been a conversation about whether the boyfriend would get the grilling from the father – the inquisition that normally comes when romance stirs in the daughter’s heart. The folk there talked about trust and seemed to agree that they trusted the daughter enough for her to make the right decision about the boyfriend – so they didn’t need the grilling.

However, they didn’t have the daughter and the boyfriend staying with them. I felt under pressure to act as parent-in-absentia and although I knew their views on boyfriend grilling, they are not my views! It is fine to say “She’s trustworthy”, or “She sensible and mature”. She is also in love right? He is accessible right? It seemed to me that sometimes being mature and sensible and trustworthy really go out of the window when romance comes into the equation! I am speaking as a woman who has gone through it. You really don’t get as trustworthy and sensible and mature as I was then – but I battled to stay that way when Joe walked into my life.

So as they went out for long romantic walks in the evening I watched the second hand on the clock and hoped they would be home before long. As they sat in the front room at two in the morning, I hoped that talking was all they were doing! I found it hard to draw a line between giving too much space and too little.

In the end, yes – it was about trust. On one of the mornings that the daughter and I had a little time before I drove away to my creative writing course, and she went for a scavenger hunt round Rogie Falls, she told me that they had talked so much. He wanted to know everything about her – and yes, she liked kissing him!

What the two of them really did was to remind me what is was like to be romantic. In the busyness of school and church and home, of ironing clothes, washing dishes and mowing the lawn, sometimes married life gets a little pedestrian. It is like you are oiling the wheels of an efficient machine – and marriage is not supposed to be like that! I am not sure I can physically do a two in the morning chat having discovered quite a bit about the man I am married too. The romantic evening walks might prove a bit much for his dodgy knees and vie with the programmes on TV that we both like to watch. I am sure there is a web-site dedicated the fifty ways to be romantic!

Watch this space I will keep you appraised of my latest moves and chat-up lines.

Silent Prayers

Silent prayers

Guilt gnaws
I don’t pray enough
Coins in my pocket
A candle in my hand
The gaze of Jesus
Safe in his mother’s embrace
Looks down upon
A rippling wave of flames
Candle stubs
Clustered together
Dripping wax
My own
Tall and virgin
Bows to the flame of another
A bright tongue of fire
Licks
And strains upward
A thread of smoke
Spirals
Silent, my candle speaks
Saying what I will not wait
To put into words

In heaven

In Heaven

There is a door I heaven
A door thrown open wide
There is an invitation
To me to come inside

Upon a throne of gemstones
I see a mighty king
Beneath a brilliant rainbow
That circles everything

Four and twenty elders
Stand dressed in robes of white
I hear the rumbling thunder
And lightning flashing bright

The Holy Spirit dances
A purifying flame
His sanctifying presence
Burns away my shame

Four living beings rise up
With wings spread out in flight
They gaze upon the Father
Their hearts filled with delight

They never stop declaring
“Holy is the Lord”
Lifting praise forever to
The One to be adored

I stand beside the elders
And kneel before my King
My golden crown surrendered
And with it - everything

Gaelic Mass - the sequel

After the mass Joe and I were invited to stay for a cup of tea. The only denominational school in Inverness is St Joseph’s primary school and St Mary’s is next door, so it was the school hall that the venue of the tea. It wasn’t just tea. There was a whole evening of entertainment planned, part of which was a ceilidh. The priest who had conducted the mass was a good friend of Joe’s, father John Angus. A few years ago, while Joe and a friend from work had been visiting him in Glasgow, the three of them had drank their way through a couple of bottles of whisky!

Entering the hall, I was greeted with a chorus of embarrassed giggles, a few waves and one or two “Hello, Miss”s. Seated around one table, and lined up against one of the walls were an assortment of pupils from many of my classes.

It is always interesting to see people in a place other than the environment that you associate them with. Whereas in the confines of a prefabricated hut, forced to learn something they may have no interest in, surrounded by like minded people, they might form a fairly hostile mob, here in the church setting – they were different. They had cast off the hostility. They were just really nice kids! They are bound to say something to me next week!

The evening was a feast of fiddle music, Gaelic songs and ceilidh dancing. There were a few other things thrown in for good measure. One of the parishioners was an Italian opera singer, so he did a couple of songs. One of the fiddle solos brought a group of the kids to the floor to line dance to! A man and his guitar busked through another couple of songs.

Joe had been to Tyree a few weeks ago and the islanders had hosted a similar kind of entertaining evening – although on a slightly bigger scale.

There was a break in the middle for a buffet of sandwiches and sausage rolls.

Joe and I later danced our way through a couple of reels. One of them was quite chaotic with everyone swinging each other around. – an Orcadian “Strip the Willow”. The young people knew what they were doing and generally pushed us in the right direction!

It was a thoroughly pleasant night – most unexpected. Joe felt totally at home from the moment he entered into the church, and he recognised many people that he knew from his work and from travels around crafting country – and he knew Father John Angus. I wasn’t so sure about feeling so settled as I felt like I was intruding into another world. I wasn’t sure just how happy some of the children were to see me there! Quite a few parents crossed to room to introduce themselves!

However, we got invited back to the next one – along with some interesting bait - poetry readings being included next time round.

Gaelic Mass

A number of years ago I went to a teacher’s In-service meeting. One of the activities was to highlight reading problems from the perspective of the student. The lecturer handed out a passage to everyone – much like we would hand out a worksheet or a book, and then asked certain people in the room to read – much like we would. One of the “volunteered” said that she had left her glasses at home and couldn’t read it. The lecturer’s eyes lit up with delight. It turned out that he had given her a copy of the passage typed out in Greek and rather than make a stumbled effort to plough her way through it, she had thought up some excuse. For those of us who had the English version – it had been no problem. To some pupils in school – the passage might as well be in Greek for all that they can read it, or understand it.

Last night Joe and I were invited to a Gaelic mass! Roman Catholic mass I can probably remember from my childhood days. I know that for some people the idea of a written liturgy is stifling, but for me there is a certain comfort in the words – I affirm my faith as I listen to the words of the priest and speak my responses.

Having a Gaelic order of service handed to me – was like being given the Greek passage at the In-service day! Even trying to follow my phonetically stumbling over the words doesn’t work either because the letter that are written and how you think they might sound as a word don’t always match up. So I just remained silent throughout. Can you imagine how frustrating that can be?

I contented myself with looking around and trying to match my Roman Catholic memories with my current surroundings. They didn’t match!

St Mary’s Church is beautiful inside. I think it is the simplicity which makes it so beautiful. I cut my spiritual teeth as it were in a small chapel in a village two miles from where I lived. It was a wooden hut – you don’t get more simple than that. The two proper churches I remember were one in Rugby where I took my first communion. The place was very grand, quite gloomy, with a distinct smell of incense and crammed with statues posted at every pillar. The other one was in Northampton next to a convent we were “visiting” while my mum was in hospital. That was even more imposing. It was ditto to the nth degree.

The walls of St Mary’s are white and the ceiling is blue. There are windows down each side of the aisle – some of them are stained glass but most are just plain frosted glass. The window opposite where I was sitting was of Jesus carrying a sheep with the words “I came to serve” written beneath. I was reminded that Jesus has given me the same commission – to serve, to follow in his footsteps. I am not here to build my own house, or have my own troubles sorted out – but to serve others.

Another window – when the meeting was over and we had a chance to meander – was just awesome. I could have stood beneath it just gazing upwards! It was Jesus walking on water reaching down to grasp Peter’s hand. Peter’s head was above the water, the rest of him was underneath with the fishes! There was a rainbow in the sky stretched between the clouds. It was a really beautiful window. How often have I felt like Peter? He was not just ankle deep in water but his head about to disappear beneath the waves – about to be overwhelmed. Sometimes I feel like that. Sometimes I feel that I shouldn’t feel that way and I hear in my ears “You of little faith.” Sometimes I feel that I shouldn’t share with others that I feel that way because I am expected to be a pillar in the church. I am sure that no one would actually deny me my moment of weakness. My church body would gather round to support and pray for me if they knew I was feeling that way. But it is what I do that counts – so calling out to Jesus – “Lord, save me!” – and he does.

I have been thinking a lot about remembering our weaknesses. Talking in a meeting a number of weeks ago with some of the teachers in the church I broached the idea of confessing weaknesses. We seem to encourage one another to confess strengths and build one another up that way. We speak of victories and positive testimonies – which I am not denying that we need to do. I don’t think we treat our weaknesses in the same way. Maybe it is a matter of pride that we don’t tell people about them – bit it all leaves an impression that we are strong and that we don’t have our crushing doubts and uncertainties. I am not sure that I am looking for rallying prayer support at those moment either. I want to be accepted with all my bumps and bruises. Do I want to wallow in my sorrow? No. I don’t want to wallow – but to rush away from weaknesses, and cast off suffering as quickly as we are inclined to do – I am not convinced that is beneficial either.

I guess the window has made me think. In my mind Peter may sink in the water – but never to the point where his head is about to disappear beneath the waves. To have him gulping almost a last breath before he cried for help – I never pictured that kind of desperation. To have Jesus leaving it until that last breath to pull him out – I never pictured that kind of heartlessness, if that is the right word. Because I know the end of the story I think “He was never really in any real danger.” That’s not what his face on the stained glass window showed!

Is it a mind-set of Christians that they think they will never be in any real danger simply because they are Christians?

A "Barry Manilow" moment

Barry Manilow occupies a very unique place in my life. It was a long time ago, when I was at university. I think it might have been in Woolworth’s that I happened to be browsing at the time – I was a poor student, so actual shopping was a rare event! They were playing a record over the loud speakers. It was Barry Manilow. I loved the timbre of his voice – I still do. I bought a cassette tape – just because I listened to the songs and I liked what I heard. I played that cassette over and over again until it became all warped!

This afternoon, on the way home from work I had a “Barry Manilow” moment. I thought it was the Lighthouse Family. I have a couple of their CDs – but it turns out to be someone called Simon Webbe. I was just suddenly aware that my ears were listening to the words.

Grace is an amazing word! It is not just an amazing word – but an amazing experience! God’s Riches At Christ’s Expense – G R A C E. I have been given so much that I don’t deserve.

Why do I find it so difficult to extend that same grace towards other people? I am on the receiving end of grace, yet sometimes I feel that I make people jump through endless hoops before I will show kindness. And then it is so quickly withdrawn at the first sign that the person doesn’t deserve it! And God never withdraw his kindness towards me!

Grace

Reaching out, looking for some way to escape the crowd
You whispered words that I’ve been searching for
Somehow you answered my call
Reaching out I feel I’m rising up

[Chorus]
You give me (grace)
In a world that doesn’t sleep at all
You give me (grace)
It’s a place I’ve never been before
You give me (grace)
And in all of the confusion you’re the peace in my soul
That’s why I will never really be alone

Suddenly, I’m up on the surface now where I can see
And picture the person who I need to be
And I know, yes I know I can make it
See me now, I’m slowly rising up

[Chrous

Well yeah, these are difficult times
These are difficult days
But I know we can face it
Ours are difficult lives
In a difficult place
Oh you give me grace to say when I got it wrong
The grace and the will to carry on
Reaching out I feel I’m rising up

lyrics from ALLYRICS.NET

Appraoching the King

Last night I caught just a small bit of “Marco Polo” on Sky One. I had not ear-marked it as something to watch – I was channel hopping at the time.

Marco and his companions had reached Genghis Khan (I think) and were being given instructions about how to enter the presence of the ruler. They were to crawl in on their hands and knees, and not look directly at the leader. It all looked very humiliating.

In today’s western culture we place such an emphasis on equality and dignity that no one is allowed to feel subservient or inferior. I am not saying that we should return to an era where we take off our hats and salute the upper classes, but we have lost our sense of awe. Even the queen no longer gets the curtseys and bows when she meets member of the public.

We feel so equal to everyone that I think that it affects the way we enter into the presence of God. What Isaiah experienced in Is Ch 6 is so remote from our own experience that very few of us relate to it. At best we can only imagine what it feels like.

At the end of the day, God does not expect us, or even want us, to come crawling into his throne room. He has, through the cross, restored to us our dignity as sons. The devil would love us to come crawling in, overwhelmed by a sense of our unworthiness, the litany of our sins played on the screen for all to see, but not God. We have access to His throne room and He welcomes us.

He does not wait for us to clean up our act, but embraces us, even though we reek of the pigsty. He covers us with a robe of righteousness.

I just don’t think God is looking for “high fives”. He is not looking for “best buddies”. We may be sons receiving the Father’s love, but we are also servants doing the master’s bidding, and subjects approaching the King.

I just think that sometimes we’re a little too casual.

Open the eyes of my heart

I began writing a poem this morning. My husband knows when I am thinking of rhyming words – I get a glassy look in my eye! It is not the finished article, but just the stirring of something.

You say, “Son of David
Have mercy on me.”
You cry, “I am blind
And I want to see.
I’m trapped in a world
Of darkest night
Lead me, Sweet Jesus
Into the light."

But what will you focus
Your gaze upon
In the light of day
With the darkness gone?
Will you see the things
That break My heart
That grieve my soul
And tear me apart?

Will you see the tears
The needy cry
Or gaze on clouds
That scud the sky?
Will you see the scars
That people bear
For those who hurt
Will you be there?

I am mindful that I don’t always see things. A week or two ago, we employed a man to cut back the tree in the garden. It was big enough to scrape off the pebble-dash on a neighbour wall. We also asked him to remove a couple of conifer stubs. Last year we had hacked away at two conifers, but the roots went deep and we did not have the right equipment.

I noticed the tree cut back, but walked right past the missing conifer stubs! There was a space in the garden that I had not noticed!

I was reading the opening chapters of the book of Acts. The story where Peter and John see the lame man sitting at the Temple gates always challenges me. The man was there everyday, Peter and John were there everyday – but they never saw him. Even more so, if the man was there everyday, then Jesus also would have seen him – the day he overturned the tables in the temple. Jesus did nothing, Peter and John for a while did nothing.

Here is my speculation on it. Jesus saw the man and he left him alone because he knew that Peter and John would one day see him and act in faith. Jesus could have healed the man, but he chose not because he trusted Peter and John to follow in his footsteps and do the things he himself did. The man was marked for healing – but not right then.

What made Peter and John turn and look this time around was the man’s appeal for help. We have been given all of our senses – our sight, our hearing, our sense of touch – all from God that he might make his appeal to us through any one of them.

Jesus has trusted each one of us to follow in his footsteps and to do things that he himself did. The plea to “Open our eyes” isn’t so we can see the light at the end of our dark tunnels, but that we can see the light at the end of dark tunnels that other people inhabit.

Too often we live with blinkers on, self absorbed and in-ward looking. God want us to use our eyes to see more than the clouds scudding across the sky. He wants us to see what He sees – be broken by it – an act to bring things in line with His word.

The A to Z of Mel

A few months ago I joined something similar to My Space. I hate the phrase “social networking” but that is what it is all about. I joined because I wanted to read a friend’s blog, but they don’t let you just read stuff. There were lots of boxes to fill in to give a full profile. I skipped that so accessing my profile tells you absolutely nothing worthwhile! It amazes me that I keep getting requests from people to “be my friend”. Why do they keep asking? They know next to nothing about me and yet they still want to be my friend. I put out no feelers whatsoever. I am sure that there are some people that just blast out an invitation to all and sundry and they don’t pick out people as such.

I thought I would kind of remedy the lack of a profile by doing an alphabet of my likes and dislikes.

Ankles – this is a dislike. A number of years ago I had a DVT – a deep vein thrombosis. It has left bruising around the ankle. Even without the bruising – they are not slender.

Bananas. I am very choosy about the kind of bananas I buy. They have to be Fairtrade. Teaching a unit on justice in the world and poverty issues has altered my shopping habits.

Chocolate – It was Dianna Troy on Star Trek that said she had never yet met a chocolate she didn’t like. Ditto, Dianna!

Dark mornings – My serotonin levels take a dive during the winter. Apparently bananas and exercise are the solution.

Elegance – no matter what I wear, or how much time I take over my make-up, I just never hit “elegant”. I am not clumsy and I’m not frumpy – just not elegant. I put it down to the lack of a decent length of neck!

Frodo Baggins – is he not one of the saddest characters in literature? “Sad” in the dictionary definition sense of the word. He goes through so much hardship and he doesn’t really come out at the other end blessed.

Gardens – my neighbours have wonderful gardens. The grass is green, the borders are free of weeds and they have such a magnificent display of colour and fragrance. And then there is my wilderness in the middle!

Help – something I should ask for and offer more often than I do.

Independence – the reason why I don’t ask for help. For the first few years of my Christian life I wasn’t nurtured, but left to fend for myself – I have just got used to doing it, and not inclined to invite other people in to solve my problems.

Joseph – my wonderful husband is the perfect partner for me. He’s my toy boy! He keeps me grounded and real.

Knitting – I have recently joined the knitting club where I work. I used to knit a lot, and quite complicated patterns. I am rediscovering my knitting passion but with all these new yarns available it is confusing. Why don’t they say that it knits up like double knitting?

Loosing weight – I have been a member of Weight Watchers since September. My body is a battle ground. My will power is being eroded by the smell of fish and chips!

Melanie – I love my name. I have never wished to have another, more interesting name. It means “dark and mysterious” and I try hard not to live up to it.

Nun – I think I may have missed my calling! Every Catholic girl who ever watched “The Song of Bernadette” wanted to become a nun!

Orbo – he is a character in a book I have not yet written. He is not actually a person but a planet with a consciousness – deep, huh?

Poetry – once upon a time I would have insisted that I was not a poet – a writer perhaps, but not a poet. I was wrong!

Quiz nights – our team is called “Jams” and consists of Joe, Archie (Joe’s friend from work), me and Sandra (Archie’s wife). We are almost unbeatable – almost.

Rhubarb – best fruit on the entire planet!

Silence – something that I will never experience in this life. I suffer from tinnitus – ringing in the ears. It is there all the time and I have got used to it. I try to avoid loud noisy places as they tend to make the ringing that much louder.

To do lists – I love writing them out. It gives the impression that I am well organised. I even manage to do some of the things on them!

Unravelling – I love untying knots!

Vimto – not the fizzy variety, but the diluting stuff. I used to get through bottles of it when I was at university.

Writing – words are the paint that this particular artist uses to create pictures.

Xmas – I hate the whole X bit of it – taking “Christ” out of Christmas. I also hate Christmas decorations and Christmas music appearing in October!

Yellow – I once shared a house with lots of other girls, and the bedroom that was mine had yellow gingham wallpaper. It was hard to feel downhearted for long surrounded by yellow walls.

Zeal – the kind displayed by Phineas when he speared the Israelite man and his Canaanite floozy. I don’t particularly want to spear anyone, but I would like to be that passionate about honouring God’s name.

How does your garden grow?

If I knocked on your front door to ask if I could sit on the bench in your garden would you let me?

It is not so much on the way into work that I notice the bench, but on the way home it looks so inviting. The garden in question runs alongside the golf course. All that separates the bench from one of the holes is a wire fence over grown with some climbing variety of rose, a fast slowing burn and, on each side of the burn knee high nettles! The bench doesn’t have a back to it and is painted green.

It is not so much the bench that attracts me, but the even lawn and the border of brightly coloured flowers. The time that I am walking past is just at that moment when I am far enough on the way home to feel tired after a day on my feet. The garden is bathed in tranquillity and I would just like to soak a bit of it up.

As I was looking lovingly at the bench, and eyeing up the doorbell on the front door, it came to me that the garden didn’t just happen by accident. The owner of the property didn’t just wake up one morning and there it was all in place – the bench, the grass and the flowers. It was planned and it was planted. Borders were dug over, seeds scattered and watered and nurtured. It didn’t just happen. A lot of work went into producing the tranquillity!

You have to plant a flower in a garden to get a flower to grow – it doesn’t just happen. (Alhtough I once had a most exotic looking mushroom that grew entirely of it's own accord, and according to the book of mushroom I looked at later, that particular mushroom tends to favour "rubbish tip" conditions!) You have to build a bench and place it in the garden – it doesn’t just appear. And once it is planted, it takes time and effort to maintain. Ignore it for long enough and everything gets overgrown as it is as it was in the beginning.

What is true for the garden – the whole process of digging the soil, removing the reeds, planting flowers, watering and maintaining – is true of my spiritual life. It is no use looking on the vibrant life of another Christian and longing to “sit in the bench” and soak up his or her tranquillity. If I have the annoying weeds of bad habits and critical attitudes – I have only myself to blame. If I want to see patience and gentleness and kindness – I have to plant them and nurture them.

Joe and I are about to do the whole garden thing – last year we had someone build up a patio. This year we are brining in someone to cut back the tree. We bring in the experts to do the things that we are not able to do. Who better that the Holy Spirit to bring in to do a bit of the spiritual pruning?