Vows

A week ago, or more, in our Bible study, one of the ladies mentioned that she regularly looked at the vows she had made to her husband to check that she was on track.  I was very ashamed to have to admit that I couldn’t remember exactly what it was that I had promised to do.  I think most people can come up with some vague phrases like “in sickness and in health” and “for richer for poorer”, but in my day, as well as the official vows, we were encouraged to write our own vows to make it personal.  It was these promises that I had forgotten.

I would like to say that I rushed home to look for my them, but I didn’t.  However, a week or two on, I have found them whilst looking for something else entirely.

Feel free to go “Ahhh”:-

Joseph, I love you.

You are the one my heart loves,

And in you I have been given
A man of God to share my life with.
In giving you to me, God has been faithful in giving the best.
I have full confidence in you as my husband
And I am proud and honoured to be your wife.

We no longer live separate lives, but are joined together.

I do not lose my life and personality in yours,
But I find fulfilment as your helper, companion and best friend.
I acknowledge and accept my responsibility,
And with God’s help, grace and strength I will strive to be worthy of God’s trust.

Joseph on this day, and forev er, I commit all that I am and all that I have to you.

More Than Just Stoppers

I am kind of glad it is raining at Wimbledon.  Without any current matches being played on any of the courts, the BBC showed a replay of last night’s match between Rafael Nadal Rafael Nadal and Rafael Nadal Lukas Rosol.  It should have been a stroll in the park as far as Nadal was concerned – but it didn’t work out that way.  I knew the score, I’d been listening to the radio early this morning, but it did not stop me from cheering on Nadal – maybe “this” time it wouldn’t end in defeat!

Much was made of Rosol’s age and previous match experience and the fact that he wasn’t overawed by the occasion.  Did the man not realise that he ought to be losing?  It was centre court at Wimbledon and it was Nadal fresh from his French Open championship title.  They watched, the commentators, for the inevitable decline in performance – but it never came, and they concluded that they had never seen the like of it before.  Yes, there had been other upsets in other Wimbledon years, but not like this one.

Comments were made about the much more attractive path it all made for our man, Andy.  There is no semi-final with Nadal to haunt him, but one wonders whether he would fare any better against Rosol.

Rosol may have taken out Nadal in spectacular fashion, but the radio pundit this morning, labelled him a “stopper”.  There were some players, he suggested, that could stop the Nadals and the Federers but that’s all they did.  They didn’t move on any further in the championship.  The next game they were unable to recapture the moment and sank into oblivion.

The concept of a stopper has remained with me much of the day.  Stoppers just stop whoever happens to be in their way, but they don’t progress any further. 

Most times I don’t claim to be a stopper.  Too often I am the “stoppee” – the one being stopped.   It’s not someone the other side of the net with a big serve and powerful cross court forehand and “lovely hands” with the drop shots.  I am thinking more of circumstances that stop me, or the voice in my head that I shouldn’t listen to that tells me I can’t do it, that deep down I am just ordinary with no spark of genius flashing.  I know better! 

I was thinking about prayer.  Ephesians 6:10-11 remind us to ^“Finally, be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power.  Put on the full armour of God so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes.”  That’s us being “stoppers” in the Kingdom. 

Sadly some of us think that this is all that’s required.  And even more sadly, some of us never really do that. 

We are not just stoppers!  We progress even further – taking from our adversary, the devil, the things that he’s claimed to be his own.

Our prayers must be more that those that would stop injustice, and greed and cruelty.  We move on to pray that God will “throw open the floodgates of heaven and pour out so much blessing” that there will not be enough room to store it. (Malachi 3: 10)

I am not sure that want Rosol to be more than a stopper.  There is always the next person to stop and somewhere down the line Andy Murray stands in his way.

It would be nice is this year no one stopped Andy.

The Middle Stream

There’s to be a shake-up in the education system south of the border.  The ConDems (or, perhaps more accurately the Cons part of the ConDems, since the Dems part of it object strongly) are plotting the scrap the GCSEs which they deem to be too easy and bring back something like “O” levels and CSEs. 

I am the product of a two tier system.  While the gifted and able strutted their stuff quoting Shakespeare, conjugating verbs and solving quadratic equations, the less gifted and unable were given a less challenging syllabus.  

I was ungifted and unable – apparently.  Not a label I would attach to myself, it was given to me on my arrival at secondary school (High School).

In Primary School (Elementary) I hadn’t really had the chance to shine.  The headmaster, Mr Cobbly, operated a system whereby he identified the high fliers and pulled them up a year to his class.  That required some of the low fliers to surrender their tables and take a seat next door.   It was like being demoted. 

It was something you actually volunteered to do.  You were not told to move class but the request was issued.  I didn’t want to go, but my friend at the time was a very giving and generous kind of child and I found it hard to make friends in those days so when she stuck up her hand I followed.  Imagine asking a ten year old to make decisions like that about their education.

So, I never made it to Mr Cobbly’s class.   When the time came to allocate pupils to streamed classes in secondary school, I was placed in the middle stream.  Mr Cobbly’s class mostly made it into the top stream.  I was not in his class so I didn’t make it.  Yes, it rankles. 

Being in the middle stream we were denied access to “O” levels.  We took CSEs which were designed for the less able.  An “A” in a CSE was the equivalent to an “O” level pass.  The only “O” level I sat and passed was Religious Studies.  The RE teacher refused to play by the rules.  He took us on to do “A” level over the next couple of years.

I really don’t know if I was working at the right level.  I know that I hated the label. 

At the start of fourth year we were reorganised into two streams rather than three, and I worked my socks off to make sure I was not in the bottom stream.  Getting into the top stream really meant the bottom of the top – not just the top.  I was still barred from “O” levels.  Being at the bottom of the top the CSE path was my only route to qualifications. 

I suppose that I didn’t really help my cause.  I wasn’t the best student for the most part.  My biology jotter was filled with stories I wrote instead of the required notes on the life of plants or diagrams of the innards of frogs.  Homework was just something I rarely did. 

Sometimes when we look back at things we have a tendency to say that it didn’t really do any harm.  There are some things that may not have any harm – but neither did they do any good.

I came through the system relatively unscathed.  My CSEs and my one “O” level and one “A” level were made to work for me in getting into teacher training college.   I wore blinkers when it came to what I wanted to be when I grew up.  A part of me wanted to prove that I was both gifted and able.  After over thirty years of teaching I seriously doubt at times that I am either gifted or able! (Hail the wisdom that comes with age.)

It must have been about half way through my teacher training course I discovered the sheer delight of learning.   Something cerebral took place – neurons fired possibly for the first time.  Old habits of memorising things gave way to pulling information apart to find its heart and build it back up in a way that I could relate to it, make sense of and pass it on to others.

I would like to think that the middle stream made it.  I’d like to think that we surmounted the hurdles and exceeded expectations.  I’d like to think that the labels came off in the washing machine of life. 

From the other side of the desk I think that going back to those days really isn’t a good idea.

Things to Tell Myself

She’s never read a newspaper
She boasts
She’s never had black ink
Stain her fingertips
She’s never had dark stories
Stain her mind
She already knows
How far humanity has slipped
She says

She’s never watched the news
She declares
She’s never had pictures
Of hurricanes and floods
Drag her eyes open
She’s never heard the screams
From exploding bombs
Echo in her ears
She already knows
How far humanity has slipped
She says

She’s never voted in an election
She claims
She has never put her cross
Decisive and firm
In any box
She’s never listened
To party political broadcasts
She is waiting for a better world
Than this
She already knows
How far humanity has slipped
She says

Humanity slipped and
You stood and watched
I tell her

You’ve wasted the authority
God gave you
I tell her

Your prayers
Stirred by the stories
Like an arrow loosed at a target
Directed and purposeful
Could have felled the enemy
I tell her

Your prayers
Fuelled by the images
Sown with tears
Pleading for the lost, the blind and the lame
Lifting their names to heaven
Applying the precious Blood
To the blows and the bruises
Could have brought healing
I tell her

You could have closed the door
On the tyrants
And on the small men
Who sit on big thrones
And tear down the walls that protect
The poor
I tell her

The better world
Is this one
When we take the authority
God has given
And pray
I tell her

Then I tell these things
To myself

Dancing

As I am sure I’ve told you before I am a very vivid dreamer.  Sometimes it can be like watching a film – it’s all very organised, scene by scene, and it makes sense.  It’s a proper story.  If only I would sit down and turn them into books, I might have a few best sellers!

Other times they are just disconnected scenes of a very bizarre nature.  There’s no sense or reason and they don’t lend themselves to any kind of useful interpretation.  Most of last night’s offerings were like that – just nonsense.

There was one scene, however, that was fairly normal.  A group of us decided to walk down to the village chip shop.  “Us” comprised of no one I knew in real life.  It was a nice evening for a walk and the company was pleasant. 

I remember having problems with my shoes laces.  They were really, really, really long.  I had wrapped them around the shoe dozens of times, under the arch of the foot, before tying them up, but they kept coming loose and I was forever tripping over.

I told people to go ahead.  I would catch them up once I had sorted myself out.  Someone offered to stay and wait, but I waved them on.

That’s when I realised that the problem wasn’t the shoe lace – it was the shoe.  It wasn’t a trainer, or a walking boot or anything sensible at all.  I was wearing a pair of highland dancing pumps.  The laces threaded through the holes on either side of the pump and then criss-crossed around and up the calve.  The laces were supposed to be long.  They weren’t supposed to be wrapped around the shoe half a dozen times.

I woke up at that point. 

It was while I was having my morning wash that I felt the Spirit say, “You should be dancing!”

“Huh?”  I am not at my brightest before my first cup of tea.

I had been reading a story in the gospels – the story of the crippled woman who is healed on the Sabbath day.

“On a Sabbath Jesus was teaching in one of the synagogues, and a woman was there who had been crippled by a spirit for eighteen years. She was bent over and could not straighten up at all.  When Jesus saw her, he called her forward and said to her, “Woman, you are set free from your infirmity.” Then he put his hands on her, and immediately she straightened up and praised God.”  Luke 13:10-13.

I don’t think I am crippled, but bits of me take a little bit more time to move than they used to.  People may not look crippled on the outside, but if you could peel away the physical bits and look at their heart, or their soul or their mind, maybe they would be stooped over.  The infirmity is not visible, but unseen.  They are crippled just the same.

Jesus put her hands on her and set her free.  She straightened up and praised God.

I remember, yesterday, or whatever day it was that I read the story, acknowledging that on the outside I may appear to be standing upright, but on the inside in my heart, my soul, and my mind, I am sometimes a little crushed.  An anxiety or worry is plaguing me, and inside I am stooping under the weight of it all.  I prayed for Jesus to touch me and set me free that I could straighten up and praise him.

I guess I didn’t linger long enough to know inside that a change had happened.  I just tossed the prayer heavenward and headed for work.

I didn’t feel particularly plagued with worries or anxieties.  It had been a good day. 

I suppose this morning, before the first cup of tea, or the morning’s quiet time, my internal posture of heart, soul and mind had taken on the customary stooping.  Although there were no worries and anxieties, I had been so used to carrying them around that the inner Mel had adapted to accommodate them.

“You should be dancing!”

That quiet whisper of the Holy Spirit broke through.  The shoes and the very long laces of the dream made perfect sense.

Throughout the day it has been the constant whisper to my spirit.

My heart, soul and mind have been dancing all day.

Seven Times Purified Words

“The words of the Lord are flawless, like silver refined in a furnace of clay, purified seven times.” Psalm 12:6

The phrase “purified seven times” struck a chord. 

The psalmist felt himself to be on the receiving end of someone’s lies or flattery, or someone’s deception or their boasting.  People around him were using words to twist the truth a little.  God’s words stood in stark contrast – flawless, like silver refined…purified seven times.

I cannot claim that my words are like God’s words.  I might give them a cursory thought to make sure they were not dishonest or hurtful (most of the time), but “seven times purified” they are not.

A number of years ago, Joe and I went to Ireland for a week’s holiday.  We split our time between Dublin on one side of the country and Galway on the west coast.  I enjoy a wee dram of whisky so I made it a point to go on a whisky tasting tour.  Joe, being more of a beer man, opted to visit the Guinness distillery. 

I wouldn’t say that there is a pleasant haze about that afternoon, but I remember smiling a lot as the afternoon went on.  I might have been a little less upright and a little less uptight!

The difference between Scottish and Irish whiskies is in the amount of distilling. Scots distil twice where the Irish distil three times.  It all makes for a lighter end result.  At the time I hadn’t really put enough work into developing my whisky tongue and training my taste buds so I have to confess that the distinction was lost on me.  I know what whiskies I like and which ones I don’t. 

There was, apparently, a difference between the twice distilled and the three times distilled. 

I wonder whether, just as the trained tongue can tell the differences in the whiskies, whether the ear can tell the difference when it comes to words.

We can, for the most part, distinguish the obvious lies from the less obvious.  We can, perhaps tell when we are being flattered and that what is being said to us is not sincere.  Most of us know when the wool is being pulled over our eyes. 

How many of us seek out “seven times purified” words to share with others? Words without any side, or hidden agenda or strings attached.  

When I have the opportunity to use such words, too often I opt for something diluted rather than distilled.  I may not cause harm by what I say, neither do I do the good that God intends.

Holy Spirit, distil Your word in me, seven times purified,  that the words I speak transform lives – my own, as I speak faith to myself – and the lives of others, as I declare what I know to be true.

Scary Places

The Jubilee Weekend gave Joe and me the opportunity to go away for the weekend to Glasgow.  With the extra day at the end it didn’t feel as rushed as usual.  Spending time with the family was not a clock watching activity.

 Sunday morning we decided to check out the cinema.  I suppose we could have checked out the churches, and we have done so in the past, but this time we opted to go and see “Prometheus”, the prequel To “Alien”.  All I have seen of Alien and its sequels have been short snatches – aliens exploding out of peoples’ innards.  I’m challenged enough dealing with the real world and some of our not-so-alien explosions.

 I was not that impressed.  I might have coped better if the film had not been 3D.  My own prescription glasses did not take well to being climbed all over by another pair of glasses.   They didn’t sit well.  Maybe only certain sections of a 3D film lend themselves to 3D technology – I remember ducking just the once when alien ships flew over my shoulder.

 There was simply too much about the film that was not believable.  The aliens and their fiendish plan to conquer the earth – I had no problem with that.  It’s what they do.  The mutation of a good looking human into an alien – that happens.  I can even swallow that half a dozen humans fighting the entire alien race, with their less superior weaponry, come out on top.

 What I really found unacceptable was the irresponsibility or the arrogance of the human race – pushing buttons to open doors and having absolutely no idea what’s on the other side.  Or waving to alien snakes lurking in black oily stuff and saying “Hello, buddy!”  Or trying to take the mutating human being, who is fast becoming an alien, back on the spaceship.  What are they thinking?  They seem to have misplaced their common sense.  I cannot believe there aren’t any safety protocols in place to deal with alien snakes, mysterious buttons and mutating human beings.

 I acknowledge that you have to take risks.  It’s hardly good film fare if everyone stays on the ship and strange buttons don’t get pushed and aliens are kept at arms-length.  One needs a few explosions and mucus squishing between one’s fingertips.  It just seemed to me that a voice of caution coming from someone somewhere was much needed and very absent.

 You can see where the irresponsibility comes in – but what about the arrogance?  We are always being told that we are the most highly developed species on the planet.  We are the top of the food chain and the decisions we make affect all manner of life on the earth.  It seems we carry this top dog mentality about with us – that we have the right to do what we like, where we like, to whom we like and no one can stop us.  We press the button because it’s our right to press it, no one can stop us from finding out what’s on the other side.  We have a right to satisfy our curiosity.  The alien snake is somehow inferior to us because, after all, it’s just a snake.  It doesn’t carry a stun gun.

 So, that was my take on “Prometheus”.  Not the movie of the year as it promised to be.

 Incidentally, while waiting in the queue to buy the tickets I was musing.

 I was assuming that “Prometheus” was going to be scary, because “Alien”, the bits I had seen, had been scary.  I was thinking about my usual Sunday mornings when I was at church.  They were very different activities – watching a scary film on a Sunday morning compared with sitting in a safe pew in a church.

 “Safe pews?” said the still small voice, “If any church has safe pews there is something wrong with the church!”

 Yes, churches are places of safety – but they should also be places of danger.  When you start listening to a word that that is God breathed, and you let it fill you, you are like the mutating human being – changing not into a scary alien, but into the likeness of Christ himself.  Instead of pushing a button and having no clue to what’s on the other side, you claim promises, trusting that God will do what He says – secure in your faith that what happens next will be God’s good will for you.  You say, “Hello, buddy” not to alien snakes swirling in black oil, but to friends, neighbours and strangers you meet throughout your day. 

 No, church can be a dangerous place – when you are serious about God.

 As long as you are serious about God though, you are always safe!

The Victory Lap

Yesterday afternoon was not great.  It was a weather thing.  And a hot stuffy room thing.  And a room full of people thing.  And an every window open thing that made no difference.  And a boiling point thing. And an eruption thing.   And then an overflow of heated words thing.

Whoever had the nonsense to say “words will never hurt me” obviously hasn’t come across some of the words that were spoken yesterday.  After the torrent of words ceased to flow, the speaker picked up his bag and left the room.  

I wasn’t asking for the moon.  Or the stars.  I wasn’t being unreasonable.  It was just a simple word puzzle to aid revision of some interesting ideas we had been discussing over the last few weeks.  I’d even provided the pencil. 

The pencil and the puzzle never really came in contact with one another.  The brain never really engaged, and head rested gently on the table.  Eyes were closed.  There was no sign of life.

Touching his shoulder was much like pressing a detonator on a bomb. 

I remember a visiting speaker talking about stress management.  She brought with her a bottle of coke or some such fizzy concoction.  She talked us through a typical “bad” day.  With every unkind comment said, or target not met, or every time the photocopier jammed, or cup of coffee spilt or toe stepped on – she shook the bottle just a little.

“Do you want to open the bottle?”

I was on the receiving end of someone else’s shook up bottle – and the lid was off.

I can never just shake these moments off.  I run the incident over and over in my head, trying to come up with some scenario that didn’t end with angry words and a storming out of the room.  I look at faces of other people, higher up the management scale, to see if they think I could have handled it differently.  The boy, apparently, is a nice boy and nice boys don’t do that kind of thing.

I wasn’t up to my usual body stretching class at the end of the day.  The invisible bruises were throbbing.  I went home and made a cup of tea.  Rather than perform an autopsy on the afternoon, I  opened my Bible.  I have been reading slowly through Jonah and felt myself to be a tossed into stormy seas with no whale in sight to rescue me.

My soul was seeking comfort and solace and I found myself reading the last few lines of Isaiah 40. As I read the phrase “they will run and not grow weary,” the picture came to mind of a Olympic medal winner with his country’s flag draped around his shoulders running a victory lap.

Running the actual race and running a victory lap are very different kinds of running.  There are times when the faith walk is the race – with all the training beforehand, and the speed and the stamina of running the race.  Other times we have to run the victory lap – we have to remind ourselves that the medal is already won for us.  We clothe ourselves not in a country’s flag but in the robe of righteousness given us by God.  It’s not the national anthem that is blasting out of the speaker – but the applause of a whole host of witnesses in the heavenly relams.

I will not say my way is hid
Or that You do not see
I will not say You close Your eyes
To things that trouble me
I know…I’ve heard, Creator God
A truth that will not die
Times when the world would wear me down
This is my battle cry
Strength and power are mine to claim
I fix my hope in You
Refreshed, I soar and run and walk
I'm blessed in all I do

What Is God?

My friend Jeanni shared this mediation with our fellowship last Sunday.

What is God?

1)    God is a spirit – infinite, eternal and unchangeable in His Being

I am who I am and what I am – this is My Name forever.

Ex. 3:14

Never and nowhere will God cease to be: never and nowhere will God change.

2)    God is a spirit – infinite, eternal and unchangeable in His Wisdom.

…and the wisdom from above is first of all pure; then it is peace-loving, considerate and gentle; reasonable, full of compassion and good fruits;  it is wholehearted and straightforward, impartial, steadfast and sincere.

Jas. 3:17

Never and nowhere will God cease to be: never and nowhere will God change.

3)    God is a spirit – infinite, eternal and unchangeable in His Power.

You are the One,

O Lord my God, who covers Yourself with light as with a garment,

who stretches out the heavens like a tent;

who lays the beams of the upper room of His abode above the firmament,

who makes the clouds His chariot,

who walks on the wings of the wind.

Ps. 104:2-3

Never and nowhere will God cease to be: never and nowhere will God change.

 

4)    God is a spirit – infinite, eternal and unchangeable in His Holiness.

Who among the gods is like You, O Lord?

Who is like You –

majestic in holiness, awesome in glory, working wonders?

Ex. 15:11

Day and night they never stop saying,

”Holy, Holy, Holy, is the Lord God

Almighty, who was, and is, and is to come.”

Rev. 4:8

Never and nowhere will God cease to be: never and nowhere will God change.

5)    God is a spirit – infinite, eternal and unchangeable in His Justice.

The Lord reigns forever;

He has established His throne for judgement.

He will judge the world in righteousness;

He will govern the peoples with justice.

Ps. 9:7-8

Never and nowhere will God cease to be: never and nowhere will God change.

6)    God is a spirit – infinite, eternal and unchangeable in His Goodness.

One generation will commend Your works to another;

they will tell of Your mighty acts.

They will celebrate Your abundant goodness

and joyfully sing of Your righteousness.

The Lord is gracious and compassionate,

slow to anger and rich in love.

Ps. 145:4, 7-8

Never and nowhere will God cease to be: never and nowhere will God change.

7)    God is a spirit – infinite, eternal and unchangeable in His Truth.

The Word became flesh and made His dwelling among us.

We have seen His glory, the glory of the One and Only,

who camefrom the Father,

full of grace and truth.

Jn. 1:14

Never and nowhere will God cease to be: never and nowhere will God change.

As it was in the Beginning,

Is now,

And ever will be,

Amen

Flea

Flea
Small of size
Large of leap
Undisputed
High jump champion
Of the insect world
I know how
To nail your feet
To the floor
Take away the
Empty space above
And
Let you
Bang your head
On the lid of the jar
Pain discourages
And you stop
Jumping

Faith
Small as a mustard seed
Large as God’s promise
Undisputed
Mover of mountains
In the heavenly realms
The enemy knows how
To nail your feet
To the floor
Take away the
Word from your heart
And
Let you
Bang your head
On uncertainty
Doubt discourages
And you stop
Expecting

Vending Machines

We have a vending machine at work.  It just serves a variety of bottled water – still, sparkling and various flavours of both.  Not that far from the vending machine is a water fountain with an ever-present puddle around its base.  Bring your own bottle and it costs you nothing.

Other things one can buy from a vending machine, like crisps and chocolate, were discussed but dismissed as not conducive to a healthy lifestyle.  So, it’s just water.

A newspaper article last week stirred my imagination.  I hadn’t really thought one could be so creative with vending machines.  A cupcake vending machine seems to be all the range.  Opening times at bakeries are no longer an issue with a machine servicing the sweet tooth at any hour of the day and night.

Apparently it doesn’t stop at cupcakes.  Mobile phones, gold, shoes and bikes are also “vendable”.  You can even get does of heroin substitutes in a prison if you have a pin number.  Amazing!

Yes, we want things quickly and we want things at any time.  We don’t appear to want to wait.

The last items on the vending machine list were crockery.  The journalist suggested that access to crockery might be useful in stressful situation – you know, those moments when you would like to break something and someone’s neck is not really an option.

I thought of the extra cleaning up that the janitors would have to deal with if we had one of those vending machines in our workplace. 

I have never thrown crockery before.  I have dropped it accidentally.  I used to have recurring nightmares set in a school canteen where I would have a tray of food and the tray would always slip from my hands and crash to the floor.  The scene would repeat itself over and over.  No matter how firmly I held on to the tray or how carefully I placed items on the tray for equal weight and balance, the tray would always fall. 

My only real foray into stress release strategies in my early teaching days was to wait until the end of the day, when the classroom was empty and in that space between pupils leaving the room and cleaners arriving, I would write swear words on the blackboard and then rub them off quickly!  What I couldn’t say to a person, I could at least write it, and even though no one else read it, it was as if it was spoken and acknowledged in some way.  It helped.

I don’t write swear words on boards anymore, and given the opportunity to smash crockery, I would probably decline.  It’s not that I don’t get angry or stressed – I just try to deal with it in a much more effective way.

God allows me to take it to him.  We sort through all the rubbish and see if there isn’t a lesson or two to learn or a strategy to employ that produces less anger and stress in the first place.

I’m still wondering though if there isn’t a case to be made to management for the cupcake vending machine!

The Days Ordained For Me

Someone at Faithwriter’s has started reading through some of my early poems and commenting on them.  This means that I get an email every so often that doesn’t relate to anything current but something written 7 or 8 years ago.  As I read the new comment, I find myself also reading the old ones.  One of them advised me to collect my poems together and publish a book.  Thanks to the generosity of my church family I have the resources made available for me to do that.

I would be lying if I didn’t say that I felt under pressure – which is not a bad thing.  I didn’t realise that I had so many poems.  Collecting them together, arranging them, editing them and producing something that someone else would want to read – I always knew that was going to be a big job.

I made a start last weekend.  Most of the poems are on a flash drive and I have started looking through them.

I wish there would be an audible “ping” in the ear when I come across a poem that should make it into the book.  That’s not happening.  I haven’t yet reached the stage of agonsing over a poem. 

I also made an attempt at editing.  Some poems don’t need to be touched.  They say exactly what I want them to say with the right choice of word and meter.  Others need a more serious overhaul.    

The Pencil written a couple of years ago, fell into that bracket.  Here’s the new version.

The Days Ordained For Me

The days you have ordained for me
Are written in your book
If I could wield the pencil, Lord
How different things would look

I’d bypass tears and sorrow
en only days of smiles
I’d write of glorious victories
Avoiding toil and trials

My days would burst with laughter
And nothing would go wrong
No bruising disappointments
Just light and lilting song

You’d soon reclaim the pencil
And show me days of pain
You’d trace the stains from teardrops
And lovingly explain

There’s treasure in the trials
And strength forged in the fight
And through the days of darkness
You’d be my one, true light!

It was based on Psalm 139:16.  I like the new version.  It is much tighter and I like the meter.  It doesn’t mean, however, that the poem makes the grade.

I was reading it through, again. 

“The trouble is”, said God, “That’s not what you would write at all.  Yes, in all likelihood you wouldn’t write days of tears and pain.  No one would.  Yes, you would avoid disappointments if you could.  Yes, there would be days of laughter and singing – but most days, if you wrote them yourself would be days of routine.  You might write about getting to grips with the ironing pile, or finally mopping the kitchen floor.  A pile of marking, a set of reports written

“Think about every to-do list you have ever written.  That’s you writing the day for yourself.  Even if you included a few “spiritual to-dos” like having a quiet time or really connecting in prayer – it’s still…earth-bound.

You wouldn’t write – “Go and find a ladybird and watch it climbing up a blade of grass” or “Make some cupcakes and take them around next door.”

“Your days, if you wrote them would be days of doing things that have to be done, or need to be done or ought to be done. 

“Your days, when I write them…they have some of those things too – the “have to be”, and “need to be” and “ought to be” done.  But sprinkled in among those things are a few “you probably don’t want to do this but it’s good for you” things and “you probably don’t think you can do this but try it anyway” things and a “you are really going to like this” thing.

“Your days, when I write them, are the best days you can have.  Even the bad days are the best days when they are shared with Me.”

Narrow Road

This is what the LORD says: “Stop at the crossroads and look around. Ask for the old, godly way, and walk in it. Travel its path, and you will find rest for your souls. But you reply, ‘No, that’s not the road we want!’ (Jeremiah 6:16)

I have come to a crossroads. It’s not on a major route. Nothing bad will happen of I take the wrong road. I might get just a little bit lost, and waste a few miles getting back on the right road – but it’s not a life and death decision.

I am looking around. I am mostly looking back the way that I have come. I am wondering if I have missed a turning. I am trying to see if I can spot any familiar landmarks. I guess that I don’t know this area well enough.

I don’t have a satellite navigation system in the car. I have a map book or two. Some of the pages have come loose and there’s a coffee stain just north of Birmingham. I’m not entirely sure where I am. I suppose I could drive back to that village I passed through and ask someone. I could flag down a passing motorist and ask them for help. Or I could phone Kenny. He’s a lorry driver. He knows all the roads.

Finding the right road is only part of the problem. Just because I know where I am and where I ought to be, doesn’t really mean that I want to go there.

I actually don’t need a map book, missing pages and coffee stains, to get me to where I need to go. Kenny can’t help me on this journey. I know exactly where to go. It’s an old godly path that requires humility and self-sacrifice from the traveller. I have walked the path long enough to have experienced rest for my soul.

But just sometimes the other road looks a little bit more enticing. It has neon lights and bright shiny shop windows.

Sometimes, when the road I’m on gets a little steep and asks for more than I really want to give…I think about that other road.

But I stay where I am because I am not willing to surrender rest for my soul

White Noise

Just before we went down to Englandshire to see the family, Joe and I treated ourselves to new mobile phones.

I wasn’t too keen on a contract, but I didn’t have enough money to buy a smart phone outright. I wanted something that had a camera and I wanted apps. My last foray into contracts had not been my best move. There were no cameras and apps in those days and I hardly ever used it. Texts seemed to take forever to compose and I just couldn’t compromise the English language and settle for text-speech. Just as I had got used to one phone the company sent me an upgrade.

So, now I have a new contract, and a new smartphone with a camera and access to a million apps – or a dozen or so at least.

Yesterday, after watching Celtic lose their semi final to Hearts through a dodgy penalty claim, I settled down to explore the world of apps. The lass behind the counter had downloaded a few “must-haves”. I found a Bible app – my equivalent of baptising the phone. Facebook was already there.

PC World and other websites listed the Top 10, or 20 or 60 apps and I added BBC News to the phone, and Google Sky. I have a fascination for stars – not sufficient to invest in a telescope. Now I can point my phone at the heavens and find out the names of stars and constellations.

Listed among the 60 or so was an app called White Noise. I can’t really remember a time when I didn’t have some kind of ringing, buzzing or hissing in my ear. It’s called tinnitus. For most people it is something they may suffer from for a day or two, a week perhaps. It’s my constant companion. First stop in heaven, after I have hugged the Father, will be an empty room and silence.
I did some research a number of years ago to see if there was cure. There are operations if things get very bad. A change of diet was suggested and listening to white noise – something you get is your radio isn’t tuned into a proper station. It’s a real buzzing and hissing to mask the buzzing and hissing that isn’t real.

So, I got the app. I plugged myself in to “Ocean Waves” and began to unwind. It worked. There were reviews on the website from happy users declaring that they had not slept so well in ages and they couldn’t imagine how they had managed so long without “White Noise”.

Once in bed, I listened my way through all the options. I passed by “Light Rain”, which made me want to go to the bathroom, and “Tibetan Bowl”, an “ooee” noise that got on my nerves. “Vaccum” reminded me of the poor state of the house, and “Boat” made me feel a little bit sea sick as one felt compelled to rock from side to side. “Cat purring” was very realistic. I could almost feel the cat’s whiskers tickling my cheek. It brought back memories of our cat Tabitha. It also reminded me of old wives tales of cats sitting on babies faces and smothering them while they slept. I am not a baby, but I have a face vulnerable to being smothered. I couldn’t rest easy with a cat in the room. I couldn’t settle to “Clock” – ticking clocks seriously do my head in.

In the end I opted for the “Crickets”.

I’m not sure whether you are supposed to use headphones, or just put the phone quite close to you head. The headphones proved to be most uncomfortable, so I put the phone close to my head and prepared to fall into a deep and refreshing sleep. The husband was downstairs watching TV and I thought the crickets would do their stuff and switch themselves off once I was asleep.

I confess that I toss and turn quite a bit in bed. I had always known that one ear was slightly deafer than the other. I discovered that night that “slightly” is the wrong word. Rolling to the left with the right ear exposed, the crickets were barely buzzing. Rolling to the right with the left ear exposed they were raucous. Adjusting the volume up or down depending on which side I was laying seemed to defeat the object. I didn’t gently fall into sleep at all.

I switched the phone off, made a final trip to the bathroom, settled back under the covers and, with the usual hisses and buzzes in place, I fell asleep.

A Sister’s Example

I was very impressed when my sister told me that she had written a letter to the Prime Minister, David Cameron. Writing strongly worded letters is often on the to-do list but never gets done. A verbal diatribe directed at the TV or at the husband is usually as far as it goes.

She was writing about the aid money given to some countries that probably don’t need our help and are possibly richer than we are right now – they are certainly not as debt ridden. I think I have fallen into a “presumption hole”. I suppose that teaching a course on poverty issues I have done a lot of research on the subject of developed and developing nations, who has money and who doesn’t. The trouble is I am beginning to think that no one is really telling the truth. Information, whether it comes from a newspaper or a website is often skewed or biased in some way. Statistics are flung at me from every angle and we all know that 55% of statistics are made up.

I didn’t launch into an opposing view from my sister or point out that poor in this country is nothing like poor in a developing country. I didn’t play around with terms like relative and absolute poverty or point out who has a welfare system and who doesn’t, and who can claim benefits and who can’t. I was impressed that she had become sufficiently concerned to write to the Prime Minister.

I was impressed that her letter merited a reply. The letter she received wasn’t from David Cameron. He had passed it on to someone perhaps a little bit more informed than he was. He tried to explain why it was necessary to give money to Somalia. I didn’t like the letter. I didn’t like his reasoning at all. It wasn’t about helping the Somalis. Any aid given was given for selfish motives – for “our interests” in the region. He wrote about terrorist threats and seemed to imply that giving money to Somalia would mean that in some way we were protected from terrorists, much like the owner of a small corner shop in a really rough end of town might pay protection money so the baddies wouldn’t raid the till or trash the shelves.

It was a very condescending letter. It showed too little respect for the person who wrote to them – my sister. It was a written version of a pat on the head and a “There, there, dear…we know what we are doing and we really don’t have the time to explain it in terms you could understand.”

She showed me the letter sh had sent – the pre-sent version in her journal.

As much as I was impressed by the letter and the heart response that had caused it to be written – I was uber-impressed with the journal itself. It was a diary with a double page for each day. Each page, for each day, was written neatly and in detail. Where she had run out of space, she wrote along the bottom, or the edges. There was no wasted space – and no empty day.

I didn’t read the entries, except for the letter but I caught glimpses of Bible verses written out. There was her own commentary on the verse and anecdotes that the verse brought to mind.

The journal spoke to me of discipline and of time spent in the Bible, with God, listening to Him. It put me to shame. I can congratulate myself, sometimes, on a vibrant relationship with God – but I am undisciplined. I have note books everywhere, and I do a lot of thinking about things – but my written record of my encounters with God are, at best, patchy. I write volumes when I am happy and inspired. I write nothing when life is a difficult climb. Not so my sister – every day, mountain top or mire pit, is recorded.

It’s not legalistic. It’s not done simply so she can say that she did it and it’s out of the way. It’s about a relationship with the living God and how she invites him in to her everyday life.

I went back to my hotel later than evening and determined to follow her example. I am still following…

Palm Sunday

In just less than a week I can reintroduce my body to chocolate. I have had just one or two slip-ups. Once happened at a Bible study. The chocolate biscuit was in the mouth before the spirit kicked in to remind me that I was keeping a Lenten fast. The second time I was offered a sweet at work. I didn’t know it was a chocolate until it was in the palm of my hand and I couldn’t really hand it back.

I am wondering whether anything was achieved over the last thirty something days. The aim was to draw closer to God – and I wonder if I have done that. And did the absence of chocolate help in any way?

If it was just giving up chocolate and nothing else – a demonstration of will power and nothing else – then, yes, it would have been a waste of time. Will power has been involved for sure. There have been one or two times when I have stood too close to the sweet counter in the local supermarket, breathing in the Cadbury fumes, much like someone giving up smoking might breath in someone else’s cigarette smoke.

In those throwing-in-the-towel moments, I have heard God tell me to come and talk with Him instead. The conversations have not always been comfortable ones, but full of truth and challenge.

It being Palm Sunday yesterday I was reading the account of Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem, comparing it with a section from Zechariah 9. Jesus was fulfilling prophecy. It didn’t happen by accident or coincidence but by Jesus making preparations. Jesus made plans ahead of time. He had made arrangements to make use of the donkey so that all the disciples needed only to collect it.

Jesus made it happen. He knew what the scriptures said and he lined his life up to meet those scriptures.

Triumphal Entry

He is not a man who
Plays his cards close
To his chest
Some think him reckless
As he boldly shows his hand
A King is revealed

The crowd cheers
And waits in eager anticipation
For him to claim the jackpot

Not a King, but a Knave
His opponent insists
And calls security to
Have him arrested

The prize waits
Unclaimed on the table

But not for long