I came across something that I think is pretty mind blowing yesterday. On Saturday, Joe and I took Shona, Patrick and Shannon to see some friends of ours. Archie and Sandra manage a croft, or small farm, just outside Dingwall, some fifteen to twenty miles from Inverness. They keep sheep, and the last few weeks have been filled with helping the ewes give birth to lambs. There are one or two orphan lambs and one or two ewes that have difficulty feeding their offspring, so the family are helping the smaller lambs by feeding them with bottles of milk. We thought that Shannon and Patrick would enjoy feeding lambs.
The phrase "Feed my lambs" really struck a chord with me, and I took out my bible to read the account of Jesus' resurrection appearance to his disciples when they had gone fishing, caught nothing and followed his instructions to let the nets down on the other side of the boat. Later on in the passage Jesus and Peter have a conversation about love, and Jesus prophesies about Peter's death. Right at the end of all of that are the words, "Then he said to him (Peter), "Follow me!"" (John 21:19)
This was not the first time that Jesus had challenged Peter to follow him. Three years ago, in pretty much the same place, "As Jesus walked beside the Sea of Galilee, he saw Simon and his brother Andrew casting a net into the lake, for they were fishermen. "Come, follow me," Jesus said, "and I will make you fishers of men." At once they left their nets and followed him." (Mark 1:16-18)
Peter had no idea what he was letting himself in for. He had no idea what the next three years or so would hold - seeing people healed, demons cast out, the dead raised. It was new, and exciting, and the high was higher than any catch of fish from his BC life. It was an adventure.
The second "Follow me!" challenge comes three years later. It comes after the greatest disappointment, not with Jesus, but with himself. For all the miraculous signs that Peter had witnessed, what stood out in his mind was his betrayal. He had boldly proclaimed that even if the other disciples ran away, he would stay the course. He didn't. What Peter can offer Jesus now is not sacrificial love, but the love of a friend - a watered down version of what Jesus is asking for. Jesus accepts it, knowing that the friendship will deepen and the commitment will be to the death one day.
So when Jesus says, "Follow me!" it is like he is saying, "The first time I asked you to follow me, you didn't know what was going to happen. You thought you could climb mountains, and that you couldn't fail. Now you know just how weak you really are, but I still want you on my team. In fact I want you more than ever, because you know just how much you have to lean on me. I am entrusting my lambs, my precious ones, into your care."
We all have those first "Follow me!" challenges, and like Peter we end up face down in the mud, tripping up over our own pride and confidence. We feel that we have written ourselves out of Jesus' plans by our failure. But…there is another "Follow me!" challenge that Jesus gives us. For those of us who have been a Christian for a long time, we have a history of mistakes and misunderstandings and downright rebellions, and we have an experience of the hard times that sometimes takes the shine off our Christian life. Jesus repeats his challenge - "Follow me" - He still wants us on His team, more than ever, because we know how much we need to lean on Him.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Monday, March 27, 2006
Praying with the big boys
We have experienced a wonderful weekend. Friends and leaders from the Wrexham Church travelled up to have fellowship with us. We have strong links with the church there, and Tony Howson provides us with apostolic covering.
They were with us all day Sunday - for the morning meeting, the fellowship lunch and in the evening for a prayer meeting. The teaching in the morning meeting was really challenging, about Moses and the Israelites crossing the Red Sea. Doing things the way God wants, at just the right time is so much more effective than coming up with our own strategies. The fellowship lunch was also good - I played endless games of Connect 4 but only managed to connect once! I was too concerned plotting five moves ahead to notice my opponent just slotting them unchallenged and unhindered by me! There is a mind set that I don't possess!
It was the prayer meeting that really set me alight! I have always thought that corporate prayer meetings are important, but very often, although we are all in the same place, the way we pray tends to be very individual. The prayers are like self contained episodes in a TV series - you don't really need the episodes that come before and after to set the scene or work out what is going on. We are listening and agreeing to what has gone before, but last night they introduced an element of honing and refining and sharpening.
Imagine prayers as arrows. Sometimes what is let loose is a very blunt arrow and it doesn't really penetrate the target. It is a nice enough prayer but something is missing. It is not to do with the words, but to do with the Spirit or the heart or something. Or imagine the bow. If the bow is not strung tight enough, the arrow isn't given the surge of speed to perhaps even reach the target. Sometimes what is needed is someone to recognise the blunt arrow and sharpen it, or see the loosely strung bow and tighten it. You don't bring down strongholds with blunt arrows and loosely strung bows.
Last night was different. It wasn't just firing off as many arrows as we could muster in the time allotted. It was scary prayer - the kind that the devil really runs from!
We began by reminding ourselves that there was a difference between prayers of the flesh and prayers of the spirit. Only the prayers of the spirit bring life. One of the reasons that so many prayers go unanswered is because we are not praying the heart of God, but our own hearts, which sadly do not always beat together! Our pastor had a picture of an egg and the bird inside the egg breaking out. There is a right time for the chick to emerge. It has to reach the point where it is strong enough and developed enough to stand up to life on the outside of the egg. I am not sure where the egg metaphor was going. I don't always listen as well as I ought. What came to mind was the constriction of the egg - the space is just too small and the chick feels it is suffocating and is desperate to get out. Maybe as the shell gets thinner, there are aromas from the outside world that filter through that are too enticing! I just happened to mention about the discomfort the chick felt, and the desperate need to break out. I am sure that it’s a case of "If you stay in here, you are going to die!"
Well, the theme of breaking out prevailed. When it came to confessing areas where we needed to break out - someone else revealed what was on the tip of my tongue as regards how I have felt hemmed in and bound up. My workplace is challenging to say the least. It seems that with some classes they draw the lines through the things that they say and the way that they behave, that push me against walls and into corners where I act defensively. Suddenly I feel exposed and rush to protect myself any way possible. Earlier in the week God had been reminding me about putting on armour, and I had said to Him that I shouldn't have to, that it shouldn't be a battlefield - and that is how things have felt.
It was just like this man, Paul, had read my mind. There was an attempt to reason the whole thing out - if he knows that I am a teacher, he probably knows what kids are like these days…it's bound to be tough. But that really wasn't cutting it - I tried desperately to keep my thoughts under control. The thought of someone knowing what I was thinking was very unsettling.
I had a picture which I kept to myself of a tool box. The workman had particular tools for particular jobs. Each tool fits perfectly in his hand because it has been carefully chosen. When it comes to needing a certain tool, it might not have been used for a while and has got a little bit rusty, so he carefully cleans it and sharpens it ready for the job. It is not broken, but if it is, he fixes it. He doesn't just replace it, because this tool is irreplaceable. There is just not another one like it.
I am speaking faith to myself here in that God has got a specific job in mind. I am the tool that he wants to use to get the job done. He has rooted around the toolbox to get me, notices that I am a little stained around the handle and not as sharp as I could be, so he has sharpened me in readiness! That is how I feel - sharp and held perfectly in the hand of God ready for the task!
You know, in some ways I have been in this place before. It is not a spiritual high, where circumstances will be a pin prick and let all the air out so I get deflated. It is the place of revival. My appetite, my hunger, my feeding not just on the word of God but on vibrant fellowship with the Spirit is what will sustain it.
They were with us all day Sunday - for the morning meeting, the fellowship lunch and in the evening for a prayer meeting. The teaching in the morning meeting was really challenging, about Moses and the Israelites crossing the Red Sea. Doing things the way God wants, at just the right time is so much more effective than coming up with our own strategies. The fellowship lunch was also good - I played endless games of Connect 4 but only managed to connect once! I was too concerned plotting five moves ahead to notice my opponent just slotting them unchallenged and unhindered by me! There is a mind set that I don't possess!
It was the prayer meeting that really set me alight! I have always thought that corporate prayer meetings are important, but very often, although we are all in the same place, the way we pray tends to be very individual. The prayers are like self contained episodes in a TV series - you don't really need the episodes that come before and after to set the scene or work out what is going on. We are listening and agreeing to what has gone before, but last night they introduced an element of honing and refining and sharpening.
Imagine prayers as arrows. Sometimes what is let loose is a very blunt arrow and it doesn't really penetrate the target. It is a nice enough prayer but something is missing. It is not to do with the words, but to do with the Spirit or the heart or something. Or imagine the bow. If the bow is not strung tight enough, the arrow isn't given the surge of speed to perhaps even reach the target. Sometimes what is needed is someone to recognise the blunt arrow and sharpen it, or see the loosely strung bow and tighten it. You don't bring down strongholds with blunt arrows and loosely strung bows.
Last night was different. It wasn't just firing off as many arrows as we could muster in the time allotted. It was scary prayer - the kind that the devil really runs from!
We began by reminding ourselves that there was a difference between prayers of the flesh and prayers of the spirit. Only the prayers of the spirit bring life. One of the reasons that so many prayers go unanswered is because we are not praying the heart of God, but our own hearts, which sadly do not always beat together! Our pastor had a picture of an egg and the bird inside the egg breaking out. There is a right time for the chick to emerge. It has to reach the point where it is strong enough and developed enough to stand up to life on the outside of the egg. I am not sure where the egg metaphor was going. I don't always listen as well as I ought. What came to mind was the constriction of the egg - the space is just too small and the chick feels it is suffocating and is desperate to get out. Maybe as the shell gets thinner, there are aromas from the outside world that filter through that are too enticing! I just happened to mention about the discomfort the chick felt, and the desperate need to break out. I am sure that it’s a case of "If you stay in here, you are going to die!"
Well, the theme of breaking out prevailed. When it came to confessing areas where we needed to break out - someone else revealed what was on the tip of my tongue as regards how I have felt hemmed in and bound up. My workplace is challenging to say the least. It seems that with some classes they draw the lines through the things that they say and the way that they behave, that push me against walls and into corners where I act defensively. Suddenly I feel exposed and rush to protect myself any way possible. Earlier in the week God had been reminding me about putting on armour, and I had said to Him that I shouldn't have to, that it shouldn't be a battlefield - and that is how things have felt.
It was just like this man, Paul, had read my mind. There was an attempt to reason the whole thing out - if he knows that I am a teacher, he probably knows what kids are like these days…it's bound to be tough. But that really wasn't cutting it - I tried desperately to keep my thoughts under control. The thought of someone knowing what I was thinking was very unsettling.
I had a picture which I kept to myself of a tool box. The workman had particular tools for particular jobs. Each tool fits perfectly in his hand because it has been carefully chosen. When it comes to needing a certain tool, it might not have been used for a while and has got a little bit rusty, so he carefully cleans it and sharpens it ready for the job. It is not broken, but if it is, he fixes it. He doesn't just replace it, because this tool is irreplaceable. There is just not another one like it.
I am speaking faith to myself here in that God has got a specific job in mind. I am the tool that he wants to use to get the job done. He has rooted around the toolbox to get me, notices that I am a little stained around the handle and not as sharp as I could be, so he has sharpened me in readiness! That is how I feel - sharp and held perfectly in the hand of God ready for the task!
You know, in some ways I have been in this place before. It is not a spiritual high, where circumstances will be a pin prick and let all the air out so I get deflated. It is the place of revival. My appetite, my hunger, my feeding not just on the word of God but on vibrant fellowship with the Spirit is what will sustain it.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Waking thoughts
"Be Thou my Vision, O Lord of my heart;
Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art
Thou my best Thought, by day or by night,
Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light."
(Mary Elizabeth Byrne, 1905)
My first thought this morning was not a pleasant one. It was about how much I was not looking forward to the day in school. Perhaps it was not so much the thought as the sinking feeling I had in my stomach. It has been a long while since I have felt this way.
It was brought on by a combination of things. The percentage pass rate for our third year classes was set quite low in our departmental meeting, but even so, I think I may been struggling to make it. I was fretting. Last week I had a very difficult encounter with one particular third year group - things just got really blown out of proportion and it was making me anxious about our next encounter.
A friend at work asked me what I did about my sinking feeling and whether it was still with me. My comment was extremely trite and casual and not at all accurate. I said that I just "slapped myself around a bit and told myself to get on with it and stop grizzling." I missed a golden opportunity to witness. There was no slapping around. I just knelt before God and poured out my concerns.
I want my waking thought to be about the goodness of God. That doesn't happen by accident. I can't be thinking about the goodness of God if my mind rewinding and reviewing the bad encounters of the day. There is a need to settle things and close things down, to allow God to bring something to an end, where I can't seem to do it alone. Only when I am still can I hear God's voice. If I refuse to be still, then I miss out on his affirmation and encouragement.
After spending more time with God when I came home I began to write a poem;-
Too often I forget, Lord
That I belong to You
That in this cold and empty world
I'm merely passing through
Too often I forget, Lord
That You direct my way
The world with all its hollow words
Just shouldn't have a say
Too often I forget, Lord
To gaze upon Your face
To walk in Your anointing
To stand, clothed in Your grace.
Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art
Thou my best Thought, by day or by night,
Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light."
(Mary Elizabeth Byrne, 1905)
My first thought this morning was not a pleasant one. It was about how much I was not looking forward to the day in school. Perhaps it was not so much the thought as the sinking feeling I had in my stomach. It has been a long while since I have felt this way.
It was brought on by a combination of things. The percentage pass rate for our third year classes was set quite low in our departmental meeting, but even so, I think I may been struggling to make it. I was fretting. Last week I had a very difficult encounter with one particular third year group - things just got really blown out of proportion and it was making me anxious about our next encounter.
A friend at work asked me what I did about my sinking feeling and whether it was still with me. My comment was extremely trite and casual and not at all accurate. I said that I just "slapped myself around a bit and told myself to get on with it and stop grizzling." I missed a golden opportunity to witness. There was no slapping around. I just knelt before God and poured out my concerns.
I want my waking thought to be about the goodness of God. That doesn't happen by accident. I can't be thinking about the goodness of God if my mind rewinding and reviewing the bad encounters of the day. There is a need to settle things and close things down, to allow God to bring something to an end, where I can't seem to do it alone. Only when I am still can I hear God's voice. If I refuse to be still, then I miss out on his affirmation and encouragement.
After spending more time with God when I came home I began to write a poem;-
Too often I forget, Lord
That I belong to You
That in this cold and empty world
I'm merely passing through
Too often I forget, Lord
That You direct my way
The world with all its hollow words
Just shouldn't have a say
Too often I forget, Lord
To gaze upon Your face
To walk in Your anointing
To stand, clothed in Your grace.
Saturday, March 18, 2006
The wise and foolish builders
The dictionary defines wise as " possessing or showing the ability to make good judgments, based on a deep understanding and experience of life."
It also defines foolish as "unwise, ridiculous or lacking in judgment."
A paraphrase of Matthew 7:24-27, based on my activities last night might read along these lines:-
"Therefore everyone who hears these words of mine and puts them into practice is like a wise man who purchased a flat pack office from MFI. The screws were many and varied; the pieces of wood were large and cumbersome but well labelled; the instructions were, I hate to say it, quite clear and easy to follow. The bookcase and the filing cabinet went together without significant problems because the man asked for help. But everyone who hears these words of mine and does not put them into practice is like a foolish man - err, woman - who tried to put the desk together alone. The screws were many and varied; the pieces of wood were large and cumbersome but well labelled; the instructions were, I hate to say it again, quite clear and easy to follow. (On the very first page of the instructions was a clear symbol - two people standing side by side - just how clear do you need to be?) The evening wore on, the sweat poured, the patience waned and the desk fell with a great crash, causing damage to various holes, screws and the laminate finish."
My husband - every optimistic - believes that the pastor of our church - a man with an engineering degree - will make everything better!
I never said that my sweet spot was anything remotely practical! I was fed up with not having a desk to write on. It was all there in bits and I thought I could do it! It wasn't big and unwieldy like the bookcase - or so I thought. I have a degree! I can read instructions! I know how to use a screwdriver! They were very serious about that little symbol with the two people standing side by side - I just didn't realise how serious!
I too can be every optimistic. I however believe that the pastor of our church - a man with an engineering degree - might not be able to make everything better in this particular case!
It also defines foolish as "unwise, ridiculous or lacking in judgment."
A paraphrase of Matthew 7:24-27, based on my activities last night might read along these lines:-
"Therefore everyone who hears these words of mine and puts them into practice is like a wise man who purchased a flat pack office from MFI. The screws were many and varied; the pieces of wood were large and cumbersome but well labelled; the instructions were, I hate to say it, quite clear and easy to follow. The bookcase and the filing cabinet went together without significant problems because the man asked for help. But everyone who hears these words of mine and does not put them into practice is like a foolish man - err, woman - who tried to put the desk together alone. The screws were many and varied; the pieces of wood were large and cumbersome but well labelled; the instructions were, I hate to say it again, quite clear and easy to follow. (On the very first page of the instructions was a clear symbol - two people standing side by side - just how clear do you need to be?) The evening wore on, the sweat poured, the patience waned and the desk fell with a great crash, causing damage to various holes, screws and the laminate finish."
My husband - every optimistic - believes that the pastor of our church - a man with an engineering degree - will make everything better!
I never said that my sweet spot was anything remotely practical! I was fed up with not having a desk to write on. It was all there in bits and I thought I could do it! It wasn't big and unwieldy like the bookcase - or so I thought. I have a degree! I can read instructions! I know how to use a screwdriver! They were very serious about that little symbol with the two people standing side by side - I just didn't realise how serious!
I too can be every optimistic. I however believe that the pastor of our church - a man with an engineering degree - might not be able to make everything better in this particular case!
Monday, March 13, 2006
Behind a locked door
Having been a member of Faithwriters,com for quite a while now, I have notched up a number of entries in their weekly challenges. Just lately, if I don't have the inspiration, I just give the week a miss. I thought this was one of those weeks. The topic was "Lock" and I was mulling it over in my mind. The whole week has been rather busy - I am determined to prepare properly for the third year reports coming out shortly. Sunday was packed full with the church meeting, the fellowship lunch afterwards and a chance to catch up with friends we hadn't seen for a while. By Sunday evening I had nothing to submit.
At lunchtime today, I checked out the Faithwriter's website. They have set the number of entries at 180 as anything more than that is hard for the judges to read in the week. There were still a few spots left to fill, and it was the last challenge of the year's quarter so I donned on my thinking cap and came up with a poem. I made the deadline with about 20 minutes to go. There wasn't really time to tweak - but here is a more polished up version. I think it is still in a state of flux. There are one or two lines that still need to be tightened up - but I like it.
Behind a Locked Door
We hide behind a door that’s locked
Our hearts pursued by fear
Is this our fate - to die like Him?
The One we held so dear?
Our ears attuned to catch the sound
Of steps upon the stair
Our enemy with sharpened sword
Is surely standing there.
All at once the room is filled
With white and radiant light
Our Master stands before us now
A most amazing sight
“Be still, fear not,” His gentle words
He speaks as we bow low
“My peace I give to you my friends”
And joy begins to grow
His hands, his side, to us he shows
The wounds He did endure
He draws us close, and asks we touch
To know Him and be sure
How could this be, that He is here?
This man that we adored
The empty tomb, it was no lie
To us He’s been restored
And yet not man, but God divine
Who else could cheat the grave?
He took our debts and shameful deeds
And all our sins forgave
Faith explodes and life anew
In empty hearts is poured
Fear no longer ties us down
Love-loosed spirits soared
We stand beside an open door
Our lips a message bear:-
That resurrection power is ours
Our transformed lives declare
At lunchtime today, I checked out the Faithwriter's website. They have set the number of entries at 180 as anything more than that is hard for the judges to read in the week. There were still a few spots left to fill, and it was the last challenge of the year's quarter so I donned on my thinking cap and came up with a poem. I made the deadline with about 20 minutes to go. There wasn't really time to tweak - but here is a more polished up version. I think it is still in a state of flux. There are one or two lines that still need to be tightened up - but I like it.
Behind a Locked Door
We hide behind a door that’s locked
Our hearts pursued by fear
Is this our fate - to die like Him?
The One we held so dear?
Our ears attuned to catch the sound
Of steps upon the stair
Our enemy with sharpened sword
Is surely standing there.
All at once the room is filled
With white and radiant light
Our Master stands before us now
A most amazing sight
“Be still, fear not,” His gentle words
He speaks as we bow low
“My peace I give to you my friends”
And joy begins to grow
His hands, his side, to us he shows
The wounds He did endure
He draws us close, and asks we touch
To know Him and be sure
How could this be, that He is here?
This man that we adored
The empty tomb, it was no lie
To us He’s been restored
And yet not man, but God divine
Who else could cheat the grave?
He took our debts and shameful deeds
And all our sins forgave
Faith explodes and life anew
In empty hearts is poured
Fear no longer ties us down
Love-loosed spirits soared
We stand beside an open door
Our lips a message bear:-
That resurrection power is ours
Our transformed lives declare
Saturday, March 11, 2006
Happy Endings
Joe and I went to the cinema earlier this week. George Clooney won a best actor Oscar for his role on the film "Syriana". It was billed as a political thriller and was exactly that. It was about the big companies securing oil interests in the Middle East. They had the power and the connections to carve things up they way they chose without regard for the needs of the local people. The king had two sons - sounds like the beginning of a parable. One son was very determined to bring progress to the people. He was a good egg. The other son was in it for as much money and profit as he could get. Which one was going to be the next king? Which one does the big company want as the next king? How are they going to protect their interests? Guess which one gets blown up? It was not a happy ending.
Muslims were portrayed not as off-their-heads-fundamentalists, but people pushed to the limits. They were on the receiving end of so much abuse from the oil companies that I gained an inkling and a sympathy for the two Muslim suicide bombers who were driven to ram a boat loaded with explosives into the oil terminal. I don't think the teaching to love your enemy or turn the other cheek features in the Qur'an. It was not a happy ending at all.
The big company doing all the manipulating (American of course, but I don't suppose Britain has clean hands it can boast of in the real world) was under investigation but made a deal with the investigators to drop it all in the lap of someone fairly high up in the pecking order, but the top dogs got away with it. It went beyond "not a happy ending" to "evil wins over good".
I can remember watching the film "Braveheart" many years as part of an audience of Scots. There was cheering and clamping and foot stamping as the English got their just deserts in one of the battle scenes and even though Mel Gibson was gutted at the end, you never felt that he lost. OK, technically it wasn't a happy ending for him, but you never felt that he was defeated. At the end, one could sense that if a group of those film goers had met an Englishman on the way home from the cinema, the outlook would not have been pretty. I felt that way about Americans the other night, although I recognise that it's only some of them!
This whole idea of carving up the world to suit me and my needs, and carving up people's lives in the process is just plain wicked! I know that they will not necessarily have their own happy endings when they face God and His judgement seat - but what about NOW?
Muslims were portrayed not as off-their-heads-fundamentalists, but people pushed to the limits. They were on the receiving end of so much abuse from the oil companies that I gained an inkling and a sympathy for the two Muslim suicide bombers who were driven to ram a boat loaded with explosives into the oil terminal. I don't think the teaching to love your enemy or turn the other cheek features in the Qur'an. It was not a happy ending at all.
The big company doing all the manipulating (American of course, but I don't suppose Britain has clean hands it can boast of in the real world) was under investigation but made a deal with the investigators to drop it all in the lap of someone fairly high up in the pecking order, but the top dogs got away with it. It went beyond "not a happy ending" to "evil wins over good".
I can remember watching the film "Braveheart" many years as part of an audience of Scots. There was cheering and clamping and foot stamping as the English got their just deserts in one of the battle scenes and even though Mel Gibson was gutted at the end, you never felt that he lost. OK, technically it wasn't a happy ending for him, but you never felt that he was defeated. At the end, one could sense that if a group of those film goers had met an Englishman on the way home from the cinema, the outlook would not have been pretty. I felt that way about Americans the other night, although I recognise that it's only some of them!
This whole idea of carving up the world to suit me and my needs, and carving up people's lives in the process is just plain wicked! I know that they will not necessarily have their own happy endings when they face God and His judgement seat - but what about NOW?
Saturday, February 25, 2006
The family of God
I had a dream last night. Actually I had a number of dreams and the one just before I woke up featured a red blob that swallowed people up - but we will leave that one aside!
In my dream I had three children - girl and two boys. The house was a wreck because Joe was doing some DIY. He had taken out the shower cabinet in the bathroom. The wee girl was the youngest in the family and every time she came into a room where I was my heart just filled with love. I just delighted in her presence - she didn't have to do anything - but just be there for this overwhelming love to flow through me. I don't remember much about my oldest son, but the youngest son - I had a parent's evening to attend. He was seven. I was extremely angry with his teacher. At seven years of age she had already decided what he was capable of doing and what he couldn't do- she had labelled him, boxed him in and limited the things he was allowed to do. I can remember being so angry that I couldn't speak. My tongue was stuck in my mouth. The teacher bristled in front of me and said, "If you have anything to say to me, then just say it." I remember my tone of voice being very soft and of very little volume, but incredibly frightening. I don't remember the words I said, but just knew that it came for the heart of a mother who was standing up for her child.
In real life, I don't have any children. All through the dream, I knew it was a dream. There was a voice inside telling me all along, "But, Mel, you don't have any children."
For some people not having children is a choice. Maybe a married couple look at the state of the world and think that it is wrong to bring yet another person into a world where the resources are already stretched, and the world is not a pleasant place to be with threats of terror and war.
For Joe and I, that wasn't the case. We married fairly late in life - our mid thirties - discovered that natural means of child birth were not possible- endured a few years of fertility treatment - and a few miscarriages. The treatment seemed to become more difficult each month, and the emotional rollercoaster we found ourselves on seemed always to come close to derailing. I wanted to be a parent so much. I had so many people praying for me. One couple went up to the front of a big church meeting that Joe and I didn't get to, to be prayed for on our behalf. People brought words of prophecy that one day I would hold a child in my arms, and that they could see Joe pushing a baby around in a pram. I look back from where I am now and it was heart-breaking. In the middle of it all I held down a job, led worship and participated in the everyday life.
At the age of 40 I decided to draw a line and stop treatment. I don't believe that any woman had a right to motherhood. It happens to most, but not to all - but there comes a time when it all becomes selfish. I didn't want a child to have to grow up to have her parents collect their pension before they had time to stretch their wings. Joe and I are young at heart, and loving and just as much as those things are essential, I think the generation gap can get too wide.
For a number of years afterwards I just lived with the anticipation that God would do it anyway - that He would intervene anyway and that all those words and prophecies would come to pass.
People's hearts are not made to ride that kind of rollercoaster of feelings, and there just came a time when another line was drawn. To feel that there is no fruitfulness in your life apart from having children and grandchildren is to severely limit what God has in store for us. God opened up a different creative avenue for me - writing.
When I woke up, I mourned the loss of my "dream" family. There is no daughter who walks into a room and my heart thrills. I don't have a son to defend against a narrow minded teacher. All those things that parents do with their children - making sure that they brush their teeth, reading the same bedtime story for the millionth time, parent's evenings - I have none of that. Sometimes when I am standing in a shop queue, and listening to a mother shout at her child for some small and insignificant crime - I want to tell her what a privilege she has, that she shouldn't abuse. I don't say anything though.
Where is all this heading? On Sunday, after church we had a bring-and-share pot luck lunch at our house. Most times I don't need to worry whether I can find enough forks or mugs that are not chipped to go around! I was surrounded by generations of people. Two girls sat on my sofa in the front room and wove scoubies into elaborate patterns while a handful of men worked together to put a flat-packed bookcase together and it was so good.
I guess that being without children, I worry one day that I will be alone. There are no generations of family to "visit grannie". If Sunday did anything for me, it was to show me a picture of my future. I have a wonderful church family that surrounds me and involves me the vibrant life of the church. That is something to be nurtured and protected.
In my dream I had three children - girl and two boys. The house was a wreck because Joe was doing some DIY. He had taken out the shower cabinet in the bathroom. The wee girl was the youngest in the family and every time she came into a room where I was my heart just filled with love. I just delighted in her presence - she didn't have to do anything - but just be there for this overwhelming love to flow through me. I don't remember much about my oldest son, but the youngest son - I had a parent's evening to attend. He was seven. I was extremely angry with his teacher. At seven years of age she had already decided what he was capable of doing and what he couldn't do- she had labelled him, boxed him in and limited the things he was allowed to do. I can remember being so angry that I couldn't speak. My tongue was stuck in my mouth. The teacher bristled in front of me and said, "If you have anything to say to me, then just say it." I remember my tone of voice being very soft and of very little volume, but incredibly frightening. I don't remember the words I said, but just knew that it came for the heart of a mother who was standing up for her child.
In real life, I don't have any children. All through the dream, I knew it was a dream. There was a voice inside telling me all along, "But, Mel, you don't have any children."
For some people not having children is a choice. Maybe a married couple look at the state of the world and think that it is wrong to bring yet another person into a world where the resources are already stretched, and the world is not a pleasant place to be with threats of terror and war.
For Joe and I, that wasn't the case. We married fairly late in life - our mid thirties - discovered that natural means of child birth were not possible- endured a few years of fertility treatment - and a few miscarriages. The treatment seemed to become more difficult each month, and the emotional rollercoaster we found ourselves on seemed always to come close to derailing. I wanted to be a parent so much. I had so many people praying for me. One couple went up to the front of a big church meeting that Joe and I didn't get to, to be prayed for on our behalf. People brought words of prophecy that one day I would hold a child in my arms, and that they could see Joe pushing a baby around in a pram. I look back from where I am now and it was heart-breaking. In the middle of it all I held down a job, led worship and participated in the everyday life.
At the age of 40 I decided to draw a line and stop treatment. I don't believe that any woman had a right to motherhood. It happens to most, but not to all - but there comes a time when it all becomes selfish. I didn't want a child to have to grow up to have her parents collect their pension before they had time to stretch their wings. Joe and I are young at heart, and loving and just as much as those things are essential, I think the generation gap can get too wide.
For a number of years afterwards I just lived with the anticipation that God would do it anyway - that He would intervene anyway and that all those words and prophecies would come to pass.
People's hearts are not made to ride that kind of rollercoaster of feelings, and there just came a time when another line was drawn. To feel that there is no fruitfulness in your life apart from having children and grandchildren is to severely limit what God has in store for us. God opened up a different creative avenue for me - writing.
When I woke up, I mourned the loss of my "dream" family. There is no daughter who walks into a room and my heart thrills. I don't have a son to defend against a narrow minded teacher. All those things that parents do with their children - making sure that they brush their teeth, reading the same bedtime story for the millionth time, parent's evenings - I have none of that. Sometimes when I am standing in a shop queue, and listening to a mother shout at her child for some small and insignificant crime - I want to tell her what a privilege she has, that she shouldn't abuse. I don't say anything though.
Where is all this heading? On Sunday, after church we had a bring-and-share pot luck lunch at our house. Most times I don't need to worry whether I can find enough forks or mugs that are not chipped to go around! I was surrounded by generations of people. Two girls sat on my sofa in the front room and wove scoubies into elaborate patterns while a handful of men worked together to put a flat-packed bookcase together and it was so good.
I guess that being without children, I worry one day that I will be alone. There are no generations of family to "visit grannie". If Sunday did anything for me, it was to show me a picture of my future. I have a wonderful church family that surrounds me and involves me the vibrant life of the church. That is something to be nurtured and protected.
Friday, February 17, 2006
The smell of ink
I really thought the publishing world had caught up with me today. Every writer gets exited when they read an email from someone who introduces themselves as "publishers of fiction and nonfiction works by new and established authors today" and go on to say, "Recently, I had the pleasure of reading the poetry that you have had published in the United States." I think they may be referring to my profile of poems and articles at Faithwriters, although other internet sites also have some of my poems. I have also made it into one or two anthologies published by Faithwriters. They were asking permission to publish a poem in anthology called "Songs of Honour". The letter went on to tell me about the quality of the paper, the size and style of the font and the fact that I had a page all to myself in the anthology and there was room for some author's notes about the poem.
The book itself would be over 200 pages, hard backed, and cost me £26.18. I have had offers like this before and in one book, which I did not buy, there is one of my poems called "The Fly" submitted many years ago.
Some of my friends from Faithwriters tend to keep their distance from these kinds of offers. I think it is partly due to not knowing what other kinds of poems will appear in the anthology. When it comes to the Faithwriters anthologies, I have read many of the other articles and poems on line. I want to be associated with the high quality, not just of the standards of grammar, but the inspirational subject matter.
I am not sure I have the same confidence with other publishers. Do they really think my work is that good or do they have a few pages they would like to fill, and the chance of another customer buying the book? They don't want to pay me for my poem and I don't receive any royalties.
But then I also think about the chance to witness. Many of my poems are a response of faith. That someone might read the poem, in amongst a whole lot of other kinds of poems, and be encouraged, or read my author's notes and be built up would be a good thing. I don't loose copyright of the poem, and it costs me nothing.
Can offers like this do more harm than good? The jury is out at the moment!
The book itself would be over 200 pages, hard backed, and cost me £26.18. I have had offers like this before and in one book, which I did not buy, there is one of my poems called "The Fly" submitted many years ago.
Some of my friends from Faithwriters tend to keep their distance from these kinds of offers. I think it is partly due to not knowing what other kinds of poems will appear in the anthology. When it comes to the Faithwriters anthologies, I have read many of the other articles and poems on line. I want to be associated with the high quality, not just of the standards of grammar, but the inspirational subject matter.
I am not sure I have the same confidence with other publishers. Do they really think my work is that good or do they have a few pages they would like to fill, and the chance of another customer buying the book? They don't want to pay me for my poem and I don't receive any royalties.
But then I also think about the chance to witness. Many of my poems are a response of faith. That someone might read the poem, in amongst a whole lot of other kinds of poems, and be encouraged, or read my author's notes and be built up would be a good thing. I don't loose copyright of the poem, and it costs me nothing.
Can offers like this do more harm than good? The jury is out at the moment!
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Four times a day
There used to be a time when I attended four meetings on a Sunday! I think that is a bit over the top for anyone!
It was when I lived in Cyprus. I had moved there in 1982 and stayed for five years. I moved because of a promise of a job teaching the junior department of an English speaking church based school in Limmasol. It turned out that there was not an opening for me teaching juniors, so I joined the senior school staff teaching RE, English and Drama.
The school was funded by the Brethren Church, and as a member of staff I was expected to attend services at the Brethren Church on Sunday - morning and evening. My first year there was quite a struggle. They took the command in the Bible for women to be silent in church quite literally, and I found that quite difficult! I probably didn't want to say anything anyway, but being forbidden to speak made me want to talk! It is like the old "Keep off the Grass" signs - had the sign never been there, the idea of stepping on the grass might not have occurred, but knowing that you couldn't do it, made you want to!
Limmasol was a base for the head quarters of a number of missionary organisations working throughout the Middle East, one of which was Operation Mobilisation. One of the OM families was a member of the Brethren Church, but they also had a meeting later on in the morning at about eleven. It was billed as a time of fellowship and worship. They invited me along to join in.
Remembering those meetings, I think they were times that came closest to the way Paul describes worship meetings in 1 Corinthians. Everyone brought something - a song, a testimony, sometimes a prophecy or a word. Everyone just contributed. The numbers grew steadily and there was a tangible presence of God that I felt was lacking from the Brethren Church. Not being able to contribute anything there, and having the freedom to bring words of encouragement at the OM meetings - it was chalk and cheese. My heart thrived on these meetings.
We got to the stage where we suddenly needed to decide just what exactly we were. If we were a church then we should be a church, and become committed to each other. But if we weren't a church, then perhaps we aught to stop pretending we were, and channel our gifts into the "real" churches that we were members of. I suppose it is like having an affair - not that I have had one. Our own churches should have been meeting our spiritual needs. The fact that we were getting our needs met outside of our own churches felt like we were committing spiritual adultery. Maybe it was that we recognised that did not have a spiritual covering of an apostle, and that no one was willing to take on the role of being an elder or a pastor. The meetings stopped.
My heart was still inclined towards something free and less restricting than the Brethren Church. What was inside was leaking out in the brethren meetings, and although I was supposed to be silent, I couldn't be. There was no place to safely let off steam.
After the evening meeting at the Brethren Church, I began to go along to another meeting. A charismatic church had started up in one of the down town hotels, and I began to attend regularly.
After a few months I was convicted that I was tearing myself in two, that I couldn't have a foot in both camps and that I needed to decide one way or the other. Either I needed to be fully committed to the Brethren Church or to the charismatic church, but not both. It was not an easy decision. Breaking with the Brethren Church also meant that I gave up my teaching post at the school - but that is what I chose to do.
I don't know how Christians can grow the way that God wants if they are not planted in a local church body. My 100% commitment to a specific group of God's children is part and parcel of being a Christian. I don't exist as a Christian just with a network of Christians from various churches, but not joined to one local church body. I don't think it is biblical. That does not men to say that I don't have friends from other churches, who speak into my life because I do.
Church is bigger that the denominations we insist on boxing ourselves into. I think we need to be more flexible and allow movement across the borders that separate us. I sometimes wish that we could borrow a couple of musicians from another church when ours go away for the weekend.
It was when I lived in Cyprus. I had moved there in 1982 and stayed for five years. I moved because of a promise of a job teaching the junior department of an English speaking church based school in Limmasol. It turned out that there was not an opening for me teaching juniors, so I joined the senior school staff teaching RE, English and Drama.
The school was funded by the Brethren Church, and as a member of staff I was expected to attend services at the Brethren Church on Sunday - morning and evening. My first year there was quite a struggle. They took the command in the Bible for women to be silent in church quite literally, and I found that quite difficult! I probably didn't want to say anything anyway, but being forbidden to speak made me want to talk! It is like the old "Keep off the Grass" signs - had the sign never been there, the idea of stepping on the grass might not have occurred, but knowing that you couldn't do it, made you want to!
Limmasol was a base for the head quarters of a number of missionary organisations working throughout the Middle East, one of which was Operation Mobilisation. One of the OM families was a member of the Brethren Church, but they also had a meeting later on in the morning at about eleven. It was billed as a time of fellowship and worship. They invited me along to join in.
Remembering those meetings, I think they were times that came closest to the way Paul describes worship meetings in 1 Corinthians. Everyone brought something - a song, a testimony, sometimes a prophecy or a word. Everyone just contributed. The numbers grew steadily and there was a tangible presence of God that I felt was lacking from the Brethren Church. Not being able to contribute anything there, and having the freedom to bring words of encouragement at the OM meetings - it was chalk and cheese. My heart thrived on these meetings.
We got to the stage where we suddenly needed to decide just what exactly we were. If we were a church then we should be a church, and become committed to each other. But if we weren't a church, then perhaps we aught to stop pretending we were, and channel our gifts into the "real" churches that we were members of. I suppose it is like having an affair - not that I have had one. Our own churches should have been meeting our spiritual needs. The fact that we were getting our needs met outside of our own churches felt like we were committing spiritual adultery. Maybe it was that we recognised that did not have a spiritual covering of an apostle, and that no one was willing to take on the role of being an elder or a pastor. The meetings stopped.
My heart was still inclined towards something free and less restricting than the Brethren Church. What was inside was leaking out in the brethren meetings, and although I was supposed to be silent, I couldn't be. There was no place to safely let off steam.
After the evening meeting at the Brethren Church, I began to go along to another meeting. A charismatic church had started up in one of the down town hotels, and I began to attend regularly.
After a few months I was convicted that I was tearing myself in two, that I couldn't have a foot in both camps and that I needed to decide one way or the other. Either I needed to be fully committed to the Brethren Church or to the charismatic church, but not both. It was not an easy decision. Breaking with the Brethren Church also meant that I gave up my teaching post at the school - but that is what I chose to do.
I don't know how Christians can grow the way that God wants if they are not planted in a local church body. My 100% commitment to a specific group of God's children is part and parcel of being a Christian. I don't exist as a Christian just with a network of Christians from various churches, but not joined to one local church body. I don't think it is biblical. That does not men to say that I don't have friends from other churches, who speak into my life because I do.
Church is bigger that the denominations we insist on boxing ourselves into. I think we need to be more flexible and allow movement across the borders that separate us. I sometimes wish that we could borrow a couple of musicians from another church when ours go away for the weekend.
Friday, February 10, 2006
Spikey Boy
This article is commissioned! My husband didn't exactly ask me to write it, so I suppose it is not commissioned exactly, but we had a conversation yesterday when he came home from work. The previous night he had been reading through my blog and expects something to appear in the blog!
Joe is a dog man. Some people are cat people. Joe's sister Margaret had a cat called Snoops and he would probably rate as the only cat in the entire world that Joe liked. He was a nice cat. But Joe's heart is for dogs. Throughout much of his life, his family have always had a dog. Laddie dog 1, Laddie dog 2, Laddie dog 3 - if you like the name - why change it? I think there was also a Lady dog in there somewhere. We had a cat, a tabby cat called Tabitha and a series of dogs, budgies and hamsters. The most memorable budgie was called Marti, (alias Houdini), who marvelled us with his cage escaping exploits. However, I think there is one day when he rued escaping. He landed on the carpet, feathers bustling with pride that he had yet eluded us when, from underneath the sofa, that cat jumped on him and bit his head off - in full view of the family!
I digress. This is not about any of the Laddie dogs, the cat or the headless budgie. With Joe and I both being in full time work, we just don't have time for a dog. It is Joe's ambition in life to talk me into agreeing that he takes early retirement, so while I am at school whipping my third year rebels into some semblance of order, he and the dog (which we will then be able to have), will meander slowly down to the paper shop and along to the betting shop to place a small wager on a horse in the 2.50 race at Cheltenham. Sounds good?
Well, knowing that I will hold out on the early retirement thing, when a man knocked at my door looking for dog sponsorship, I was all picked up ears and wagging tail. The charity is called "Dog's Trust" and our dog who lives in Ilfracombe is called Spike (or Spikey Boy to his friends). He is a terrier. We don't know much about his background only that his owners were so bad to him that he can't live with people anymore.
Spikey Boy sends us letters - hey, who else has a dog that can write?? His latest missive was a valentine card, telling us that he loved us very much for sponsoring him. He also told us a little about what he gets up to in the day - playing with a ball on the beach!
Joe is over the moon with the card. He took it into work yesterday to show the girls. Joe is one of the nicest people ever and is liked by everyone. (Mostly everyone - his work with the union in fighting for the little people against the big bosses is not always looked on with fondness by some members of the management team). Well, the girls in his department liked the valentine card so much that they wouldn't let him bring it home.
This is where my small-mindedness comes into play. I am aware that this might seem petty and ungracious, but I think I have a point to make here. Spikey Boy's sponsorship is coming out of my bank account. It seems to me that if they - the girls - want to hold on to Spikey Boy's card then they ought to contribute to his sponsorship. It just doesn't seem fair that they get to keep the card in the office, where I don't go very often, and I am the one paying the sponsorship. Yes, Mel, written down like that, in black and white, that really does sound petty and ungracious!
I do feel very strongly about this! I also feel incredibly foolish too - when you compare it to issues like third world poverty and global warming, it is a very small issue!
The picture above is of Spikey Boy, copyright belongs to the Dog's Trust.
Friday, February 03, 2006
The Prodigal's Father Explained
I am aware that I just slapped up a poem without any explanation of where it came from. I am the author and I wrote it on Wednesday. I am due to preach this Sunday and the theme is about the Father heart of God.
My father died of cancer when I was quite young, so for me the whole theme of "father" was just somewhat outside my experience. My views of fathers came from watching "Little House on the Prairie" and "The Waltons". I recognised that the fathers portrayed were not real, though for some people that might be exactly what they experienced - but for me, fathers were people who were just not there. I wouldn't say that I felt abandoned or anything. I don't feel "angry that my dad died and left me" - it was something that happened and my mum stepped in to be both parents. "Dads" to me were irrelevant. I had a mother who was wonderful to me, who provided for my needs, assured me of her love - all those things that dads also do.
I often wonder what my dad would have thought about how I turned out. Would he be proud that I am a teacher? Would he be proud of my marriage to Joe? Would he be pleased that I left the Roman Catholic Church and headed in a different spiritual journey? Would I be the same person that I am now had he been around to exert an influence?
The only idea I had when I thought about God's father heart was the prodigal son. I have read and re-read, and meditated on the story in Luke. In times past I have preached the story from the point of view of the younger son (the whole repentance thing) and from the point of view of the older son (the whole non-judgemental and acceptance thing), but at the end of day, the story is about the father (the whole love thing!).
I am trying to get to grips with the generosity of the father, and the cost of his letting go. I am not a parent, but I recognise that we want to protect out children from the harm that life inflicts. To step away and allow the child to fall has got to be hard. The father is wise enough to know that some things can only be learned from the pigsty. Too often we want to cushion the fall - but in doing so we deny our child the chance to "come to his senses". God is no different.
What the father had to trust was that all the learning that had gone on in the home, before the child left, would be there for that moment.
So that is where the poem came from!
My father died of cancer when I was quite young, so for me the whole theme of "father" was just somewhat outside my experience. My views of fathers came from watching "Little House on the Prairie" and "The Waltons". I recognised that the fathers portrayed were not real, though for some people that might be exactly what they experienced - but for me, fathers were people who were just not there. I wouldn't say that I felt abandoned or anything. I don't feel "angry that my dad died and left me" - it was something that happened and my mum stepped in to be both parents. "Dads" to me were irrelevant. I had a mother who was wonderful to me, who provided for my needs, assured me of her love - all those things that dads also do.
I often wonder what my dad would have thought about how I turned out. Would he be proud that I am a teacher? Would he be proud of my marriage to Joe? Would he be pleased that I left the Roman Catholic Church and headed in a different spiritual journey? Would I be the same person that I am now had he been around to exert an influence?
The only idea I had when I thought about God's father heart was the prodigal son. I have read and re-read, and meditated on the story in Luke. In times past I have preached the story from the point of view of the younger son (the whole repentance thing) and from the point of view of the older son (the whole non-judgemental and acceptance thing), but at the end of day, the story is about the father (the whole love thing!).
I am trying to get to grips with the generosity of the father, and the cost of his letting go. I am not a parent, but I recognise that we want to protect out children from the harm that life inflicts. To step away and allow the child to fall has got to be hard. The father is wise enough to know that some things can only be learned from the pigsty. Too often we want to cushion the fall - but in doing so we deny our child the chance to "come to his senses". God is no different.
What the father had to trust was that all the learning that had gone on in the home, before the child left, would be there for that moment.
So that is where the poem came from!
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
The Prodigal's Father
My son, I watched you walk away
My heart began to grieve
I prayed that you might stay with me
But then I let you leave
I knew the path that you would take
And where that road would end
I knew the hurt, the emptiness
You couldn't comprehend
The world so bright and colourful
With sweetest siren song
Lured you with beguiling words
It's cloying fragrance strong
I cannot catch you as you fall
Or wipe away your tears
I cannot smooth the path ahead
Or soothe your troubled fears
Your freedom bids I leave alone
And watch the scene play out
The downward spiral to the end
That's sure to come about
I trust the word I've birthed in you
I trust the love I've shown
To bring you to your senses soon
And light your pathway home
For now, dear son, I search the road
I watch so patiently
I know one day that I will see
You coming home to me
My heart began to grieve
I prayed that you might stay with me
But then I let you leave
I knew the path that you would take
And where that road would end
I knew the hurt, the emptiness
You couldn't comprehend
The world so bright and colourful
With sweetest siren song
Lured you with beguiling words
It's cloying fragrance strong
I cannot catch you as you fall
Or wipe away your tears
I cannot smooth the path ahead
Or soothe your troubled fears
Your freedom bids I leave alone
And watch the scene play out
The downward spiral to the end
That's sure to come about
I trust the word I've birthed in you
I trust the love I've shown
To bring you to your senses soon
And light your pathway home
For now, dear son, I search the road
I watch so patiently
I know one day that I will see
You coming home to me
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Long night, lively poems and lots of whisky
I am feeling a little bit hung over from last night. It was Burn's night, which is a evening to celebrate the life and poetry of Rabbie Burns, a famous Scottish poet. It was also our church house group night and we have a tendency to celebrate all things Scottish. No one was up for the traditional meal of haggis, tatties and neeps, or for the formal speeches. We decided that we would choose favourite pieces of poetry - not necessarily Christian poetry - just anything that stirred our spirit.
I write poems, but confess that I read too few of them. Mindful that the way to improve my poetry writing is to read more, I had asked Joe one year to buy me a poetry book for Christmas. It was a collection of 20th Century poems, absolutely none of them familiar, and some of the poems quite heavy to wade through. On the end I resorted to reading a few of my own poems.
Joe shared a war poem, "In Memoraim" by Ewart Alan Mackintosh. Joe is really interested in World War 1. When we visited Belgium one year, he made appoint of visiting Ypres and the cemeteries there. It is very moving that in the midst of the horror of war, that men find themselves expressing their feelings in such beautiful poetry.
Our friend, Jeanni, shared a few poems written by Steve Turner, a rock biographer and journalist, who has been writing poetry since the 1970s. The book she brought with her had been given by an ex-boyfriend many years ago. The poems are very modern and open verse. They are very hard hitting and cut deep. Here's one I found earlier:-
The Crucifixion
You were one with the Father.
Then the Father turned his back on you.
You felt forsaken,
hanging there between heaven's thunder
and the dank spittle of earth.
For that moment you belonged nowhere.
You were love, cut off from love;
truth nailed down by lies.
You must have wanted to explode, to disintegrate,
to disappear into a void.
But that was forbidden.
And that was the test.
Your blood burst through your skin
and ran down like sweat.
Your sweat ran cold
and drained into your heart.
The universe caught hold of your pain.
The sun went blind with grief.
The earth shivered in shock.
History was torn in two.
I stood at a distance,
my collar turned up,
like a murderer witnessing
a wrongful arrest.
Jeanni's daughter, Ziz, writes poetry. She pours all of her emotions into her poetry and it is very raw stuff. I don't think I do raw emotion. Poetry expresses feelings, but I think I sanitise it.
Another friend, Jenny, brought with her poetry book published by her grandmother! It was a small red book - a collection of poems that spanned the early 20s and 30s. She confessed that although she had been given the book, it was more of a keepsake than something she had read. The poems that she picked out were wonderful. One of them was just a few lines long about a motor car - (she believed that they would never catch on!), another poem was about a pet dog. Jenny remembered the dog from when she was about six or seven. Thinking back over the small red poetry book - it really prompted me to do something about publishing my poems. Just imagine fifty years or so from now, my nieces and nephews digging out a book to find a poem that a family member had written!
It really was a great evening. The poems were interspersed with a lot of personal anecdotes and comments and the conversation was lively. We also managed to polish off two bottles of whisky between us all - not full bottles I hasten to add!
It seemed that most people were reluctant to bring the evening to a close, but seeing as I was giving people lifts home, and had a heavy school day the next day, I ended up chucking people out! As it was Jeanii stayed till half past twelve - her husband phoning to find out where she had got to!
It was a memorable night - learning so much about people's lives and just enjoying each other's company.
I write poems, but confess that I read too few of them. Mindful that the way to improve my poetry writing is to read more, I had asked Joe one year to buy me a poetry book for Christmas. It was a collection of 20th Century poems, absolutely none of them familiar, and some of the poems quite heavy to wade through. On the end I resorted to reading a few of my own poems.
Joe shared a war poem, "In Memoraim" by Ewart Alan Mackintosh. Joe is really interested in World War 1. When we visited Belgium one year, he made appoint of visiting Ypres and the cemeteries there. It is very moving that in the midst of the horror of war, that men find themselves expressing their feelings in such beautiful poetry.
Our friend, Jeanni, shared a few poems written by Steve Turner, a rock biographer and journalist, who has been writing poetry since the 1970s. The book she brought with her had been given by an ex-boyfriend many years ago. The poems are very modern and open verse. They are very hard hitting and cut deep. Here's one I found earlier:-
The Crucifixion
You were one with the Father.
Then the Father turned his back on you.
You felt forsaken,
hanging there between heaven's thunder
and the dank spittle of earth.
For that moment you belonged nowhere.
You were love, cut off from love;
truth nailed down by lies.
You must have wanted to explode, to disintegrate,
to disappear into a void.
But that was forbidden.
And that was the test.
Your blood burst through your skin
and ran down like sweat.
Your sweat ran cold
and drained into your heart.
The universe caught hold of your pain.
The sun went blind with grief.
The earth shivered in shock.
History was torn in two.
I stood at a distance,
my collar turned up,
like a murderer witnessing
a wrongful arrest.
Jeanni's daughter, Ziz, writes poetry. She pours all of her emotions into her poetry and it is very raw stuff. I don't think I do raw emotion. Poetry expresses feelings, but I think I sanitise it.
Another friend, Jenny, brought with her poetry book published by her grandmother! It was a small red book - a collection of poems that spanned the early 20s and 30s. She confessed that although she had been given the book, it was more of a keepsake than something she had read. The poems that she picked out were wonderful. One of them was just a few lines long about a motor car - (she believed that they would never catch on!), another poem was about a pet dog. Jenny remembered the dog from when she was about six or seven. Thinking back over the small red poetry book - it really prompted me to do something about publishing my poems. Just imagine fifty years or so from now, my nieces and nephews digging out a book to find a poem that a family member had written!
It really was a great evening. The poems were interspersed with a lot of personal anecdotes and comments and the conversation was lively. We also managed to polish off two bottles of whisky between us all - not full bottles I hasten to add!
It seemed that most people were reluctant to bring the evening to a close, but seeing as I was giving people lifts home, and had a heavy school day the next day, I ended up chucking people out! As it was Jeanii stayed till half past twelve - her husband phoning to find out where she had got to!
It was a memorable night - learning so much about people's lives and just enjoying each other's company.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Not forgotten
I had a parent’s evening last night. One essential ingredient missing – the parents! Despite having arranged appointments, no one came! I had spent a considerable time gathering together the information I thought they were looking for regarding next year’s courses – but in the end, there was no one to pass the information on to!
However, it was not all a waste of time. The Gaelic teacher had a steady stream of parents to talk to, and one lady after she had been talking to her, came over to talk to me. The conversation began with a very hesitant, “Mel?” (Very few people in school call me Mel. It is usually the whole name – Melanie.)
The conversation continued with my reply…”Avril?” I am not sure if it was a lucky stab in the dark, or just God being good to me at that moment in time. There are very few people I know with red frizzy hair! Avril and I had known each other fifteen or sixteen years ago. When I was working full time in church evangelism, Avril had stopped one time in town to watch a street drama organised by our church. We had coffee together and talked about faith. She was a member of a church down by the river and involved in Sunday School teaching, but confided in me that she wasn’t sure what she really believed.
That first meeting led to many others, mostly round at her house, helping out with household tasks as we chatted. I think I was brash enough in those days to think that my church was the only church that had got it right and I think I badgered her, trying to get her to leave the church she was going to and come to mine. With our church being on the charismatic fringe, she wasn’t sure. We lost touch – mostly because I got a job, got married and suddenly things change. I am challenged about how easily I seem to let some friendships go.
What really encouraged me last night was that she had remembered me – I could not have been that bad! And almost as soon as she had introduced herself, she mad a point of telling me that she had really found her faith, and was confident in God. She was still with the same church, teaching the youth group! I went home thinking how encouraging it was to have someone see me, remember me, and be determined to tell me that they are moving on in their faith. I imparted something into their lives and they remembered!
However, it was not all a waste of time. The Gaelic teacher had a steady stream of parents to talk to, and one lady after she had been talking to her, came over to talk to me. The conversation began with a very hesitant, “Mel?” (Very few people in school call me Mel. It is usually the whole name – Melanie.)
The conversation continued with my reply…”Avril?” I am not sure if it was a lucky stab in the dark, or just God being good to me at that moment in time. There are very few people I know with red frizzy hair! Avril and I had known each other fifteen or sixteen years ago. When I was working full time in church evangelism, Avril had stopped one time in town to watch a street drama organised by our church. We had coffee together and talked about faith. She was a member of a church down by the river and involved in Sunday School teaching, but confided in me that she wasn’t sure what she really believed.
That first meeting led to many others, mostly round at her house, helping out with household tasks as we chatted. I think I was brash enough in those days to think that my church was the only church that had got it right and I think I badgered her, trying to get her to leave the church she was going to and come to mine. With our church being on the charismatic fringe, she wasn’t sure. We lost touch – mostly because I got a job, got married and suddenly things change. I am challenged about how easily I seem to let some friendships go.
What really encouraged me last night was that she had remembered me – I could not have been that bad! And almost as soon as she had introduced herself, she mad a point of telling me that she had really found her faith, and was confident in God. She was still with the same church, teaching the youth group! I went home thinking how encouraging it was to have someone see me, remember me, and be determined to tell me that they are moving on in their faith. I imparted something into their lives and they remembered!
Sunday, January 22, 2006
Stepping into another world
One day last summer I spent the day with my sister Sharon and her boyfriend Malc. They own a small steading with half a dozen or so horses. There are lots of places like that round about Leicestershire - a few fields of grass, a few horses, a stable and a small horse riding business.
Maybe it is because of the horses, but they are also into country and western festivals. I suppose the right word is Hoe-down! They would normally saddle up a couple of the horses and ride out to wherever the festival is, provided it is not a million miles away.
The week that I was visiting the folks, there was a country and western event a few miles away and Sharon and Malc invited me along. There was a line up of singers and bands, perhaps not household names in my world - but known in theirs! No riding was suggested, so we piled everything we could think of in the back of a truck, and off we drove.
I imagine that it must be something like Star Trek conventions. Not only do people dress up as cowboys, and cowgirls - and even the occasional Indian - but they also have other names. Suddenly everyone is Ike or Mary-Lou, and out come the Stetsons and the spurs. Even the dogs walk with a slouch!
Not only is there a big tent and a stage with half the floor roped off for line dancing, but around the big tent there is a mass of satellite tents housing everything Country and Western that you could possibly need! Apart from getting yourself a gun - just about everything else was possible. Malc had a gun in a holster hung about his hips. In previous festivals they had shoot-outs, re-enacting great scenes from American history.
There were hundreds of Ikes and Mary-Lous dressed in an assortment of fringed waistcoats, jackets and skirts. Some of them looked like they had just stepped out of The High Chaparral! The bands were OK - Country and Western does not hoist any of my flags. The one man that I enjoyed was pretty much the first up, and he did his own stuff - but most of the bands did what were obviously popular C and W songs that everyone could sing along to. I attempted to line dance with people around me hissing -"left, shuffle, right, shuffle, turn..." with me a few "shuffles" behind and turning in the wrong direction.
It was like I had stepped into another world and after a few hours, doing the rounds of the tents a dozen times, and mumbling the words to a song that I thought I knew - I kind of got used to it. It was a world apart from my normal life, and yet in some ways it seemed more real to some of the Ikes and Mary-Lous than the real world was. It was safe and accepting.
Our church meets in local primary school assembly hall. For a number of weeks the heating has been temperamental. At sometime in the meeting, usually within the first half hour, the fan heaters begin chugging out cold air. This would be ideal on a hot summer's day, but in the middle of winter it is not appreciated! Sometimes it is warmer outside the hall than inside! The school janitor lives nearby. Sometimes we prefer not to call on his help, and just don on the coats and loose touch with our extremities - but not today. Rather than tinkering with the boiler and leaving us to it, Jim the Jannie carefully placed his keys on a chair and joined in. Looking back, I think he was just sticking around for a while to check that the boiler wasn't going to switch itself off.
He must have felt pretty much like I did at the Country and Western festival. It was not his natural habitat. He at least got the words to the songs on an OHP which I didn't have.
The whole church environment must be alien to so many people. As a church body we are so at home and comfortable that I think we sometimes forget what it is like for people like Jim. There is so much we just take for granted and accept so readily that for people who are not church-literate, it is just another world. For many people it is just as much escapism as the cowboy world of Ike and Mary-Lou. Being a Christian isn't a hobby and going to church isn't escapism. It is important for us to live our lives in such a way that we demonstrate the reality of our faith in our day to day lives.
Maybe it is because of the horses, but they are also into country and western festivals. I suppose the right word is Hoe-down! They would normally saddle up a couple of the horses and ride out to wherever the festival is, provided it is not a million miles away.
The week that I was visiting the folks, there was a country and western event a few miles away and Sharon and Malc invited me along. There was a line up of singers and bands, perhaps not household names in my world - but known in theirs! No riding was suggested, so we piled everything we could think of in the back of a truck, and off we drove.
I imagine that it must be something like Star Trek conventions. Not only do people dress up as cowboys, and cowgirls - and even the occasional Indian - but they also have other names. Suddenly everyone is Ike or Mary-Lou, and out come the Stetsons and the spurs. Even the dogs walk with a slouch!
Not only is there a big tent and a stage with half the floor roped off for line dancing, but around the big tent there is a mass of satellite tents housing everything Country and Western that you could possibly need! Apart from getting yourself a gun - just about everything else was possible. Malc had a gun in a holster hung about his hips. In previous festivals they had shoot-outs, re-enacting great scenes from American history.
There were hundreds of Ikes and Mary-Lous dressed in an assortment of fringed waistcoats, jackets and skirts. Some of them looked like they had just stepped out of The High Chaparral! The bands were OK - Country and Western does not hoist any of my flags. The one man that I enjoyed was pretty much the first up, and he did his own stuff - but most of the bands did what were obviously popular C and W songs that everyone could sing along to. I attempted to line dance with people around me hissing -"left, shuffle, right, shuffle, turn..." with me a few "shuffles" behind and turning in the wrong direction.
It was like I had stepped into another world and after a few hours, doing the rounds of the tents a dozen times, and mumbling the words to a song that I thought I knew - I kind of got used to it. It was a world apart from my normal life, and yet in some ways it seemed more real to some of the Ikes and Mary-Lous than the real world was. It was safe and accepting.
Our church meets in local primary school assembly hall. For a number of weeks the heating has been temperamental. At sometime in the meeting, usually within the first half hour, the fan heaters begin chugging out cold air. This would be ideal on a hot summer's day, but in the middle of winter it is not appreciated! Sometimes it is warmer outside the hall than inside! The school janitor lives nearby. Sometimes we prefer not to call on his help, and just don on the coats and loose touch with our extremities - but not today. Rather than tinkering with the boiler and leaving us to it, Jim the Jannie carefully placed his keys on a chair and joined in. Looking back, I think he was just sticking around for a while to check that the boiler wasn't going to switch itself off.
He must have felt pretty much like I did at the Country and Western festival. It was not his natural habitat. He at least got the words to the songs on an OHP which I didn't have.
The whole church environment must be alien to so many people. As a church body we are so at home and comfortable that I think we sometimes forget what it is like for people like Jim. There is so much we just take for granted and accept so readily that for people who are not church-literate, it is just another world. For many people it is just as much escapism as the cowboy world of Ike and Mary-Lou. Being a Christian isn't a hobby and going to church isn't escapism. It is important for us to live our lives in such a way that we demonstrate the reality of our faith in our day to day lives.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Trembling in the Presence of God
I first encountered the whole "spiritual gifts" thing - baptism in the Holy Spirit and speaking in tongues - way back in 1982. I was working in London, teaching in a city school in the North east area - the last stop on the Victoria line of the underground, at a place called Walthamstow. I was involved in a Methodist Church at the time, very much a part of the youth group, although at 24 years of age I was one of the older "youth".
I think it must have been the Easter of 1982 when all the youth went off to Spring Harvest. I have been to big national get-togethers since, but this one really sticks out in the memory. I had never encountered anything remotely Charismatic or Pentecostal up until that point. As far as my church background went, I had been brought up in a Roman Catholic home, and for a few short weeks after I asked Jesus to come and live in my heart, I went to a Plymouth Brethren church. For the three years up until this particular holiday, I had been pretty much settled in the Methodist Church. Nothing really prepared me for the Holy Spirit.
It happened right at the end of a worship meeting. I had been used to hymns - twice through and then you sit down. In the youth group we sang choruses - twice through and then you sit down. At the end of this meeting, however, people began to sing in the Spirit, and in tongues - a language only God could understand. There was just this rising wave of a melody that was unplanned.
It totally freaked me out! The music, the singing - I could handle, but the sense of God's presence was so strong that I was literally pushed to my knees. People talk about the fear of God and use words like respect and honour. That afternoon, I was terrified. I was just waiting for this bolt of lightning to hit, so conscious that God could see all of me, nothing hidden, everything exposed.
For weeks afterwards I couldn't step over the door of the church, or open my Bible at home without this same fear just flooding through me. I was seriously frightened. I had lived a "normal" safe Christian existence up to this point, entirely comfortable with church and hymns and order and ritual (for want of a better word), and all that seemed to be gone. I didn't know what to do and friends just advised me to "let it happen" and see where "it" took me.
I didn't take my friends' advice. It was too scary and I hated feeling out of control. So I ran away, basically. The chance of a job in a church based primary school in a Cyprus came up and I snatched it. There were other things that I was running away from too - but I was certainly running away from that level of intimacy with God.
I guess God had made up his mind that I wasn't going to get away. After three safe years tucked away in the Plymouth Brethren church, (where the activity of the Holy Spirit is very carefully managed), this thing started up again. My mother had become a Christian and the activity of the Holy Spirit in her life was just phenomenal. Under His care she blossomed and flourished and didn't seem to stagger from one crisis to another like I did.
Well to cut a long story short, eventually the Holy Spirit caught up with me, and I embraced, very timidly, everything that was on offer. I am not saying that I was a lesser Christian before then, and a more spiritual one afterwards - I just found a new love, a new way of relating that was vibrant.
There have been few occasions as compelling and awesome as my Spring Harvest encounter. I don't think I could handle it is it was an everyday experience.
Having said that, yesterday I came close. I was spending time in the presence of God. We were chatting about gifts and talents, and the next step of faith. I can't explain exactly what happened next - but I began to sense a real excitement - not in my heart, but in God's - He was getting excited about something. There was this sense of expectation, like when people suddenly go silent and hold their breath. God was holding his breath. I got the impression that spiritually - all the "planets" had lined up - that the right conditions needed for something monumental to happen had just occurred. His excitement boiled down to one thing - my next step of faith.
At this point I got scared - the same sense of fear, the same falling onto my knees as before. I know some people have a desire to see into the heavelies - they see spiritual beings whether angels or demons. I know that this particular step of faith was to allow God to peel back the heavens, not to frighten me, but to reassure me that there is a very real heavenly realm and that He is seated on his throne. In His hands I am entirely safe, and the future that He wants to lead me into is prosperous and full of hope. It is a good future - but a little bit scary - and so I got up and went to make a cup of tea!
I haven't made the step yet. I recognsie that my vision is limited - it is to self centred and small. I believe that at that moment, God was ready to let me see a little more. I don't think the moment is gone - it wasn't just that once in a life time - miss it and it is gone kind of expereince. Just like for weeks after my Spring harvest encounter I was hounded - I have to admit to being a little bit wary of opening my Bible, or stepping into God's presence! What is stopping me? It is probably something to do with hating to be out of cantrol. I don't really know - but I know that something has already changed in me. I sense it. I am freaking myself out just thinking about it, so i think I might just go and make myslef another cup of tea.
I think it must have been the Easter of 1982 when all the youth went off to Spring Harvest. I have been to big national get-togethers since, but this one really sticks out in the memory. I had never encountered anything remotely Charismatic or Pentecostal up until that point. As far as my church background went, I had been brought up in a Roman Catholic home, and for a few short weeks after I asked Jesus to come and live in my heart, I went to a Plymouth Brethren church. For the three years up until this particular holiday, I had been pretty much settled in the Methodist Church. Nothing really prepared me for the Holy Spirit.
It happened right at the end of a worship meeting. I had been used to hymns - twice through and then you sit down. In the youth group we sang choruses - twice through and then you sit down. At the end of this meeting, however, people began to sing in the Spirit, and in tongues - a language only God could understand. There was just this rising wave of a melody that was unplanned.
It totally freaked me out! The music, the singing - I could handle, but the sense of God's presence was so strong that I was literally pushed to my knees. People talk about the fear of God and use words like respect and honour. That afternoon, I was terrified. I was just waiting for this bolt of lightning to hit, so conscious that God could see all of me, nothing hidden, everything exposed.
For weeks afterwards I couldn't step over the door of the church, or open my Bible at home without this same fear just flooding through me. I was seriously frightened. I had lived a "normal" safe Christian existence up to this point, entirely comfortable with church and hymns and order and ritual (for want of a better word), and all that seemed to be gone. I didn't know what to do and friends just advised me to "let it happen" and see where "it" took me.
I didn't take my friends' advice. It was too scary and I hated feeling out of control. So I ran away, basically. The chance of a job in a church based primary school in a Cyprus came up and I snatched it. There were other things that I was running away from too - but I was certainly running away from that level of intimacy with God.
I guess God had made up his mind that I wasn't going to get away. After three safe years tucked away in the Plymouth Brethren church, (where the activity of the Holy Spirit is very carefully managed), this thing started up again. My mother had become a Christian and the activity of the Holy Spirit in her life was just phenomenal. Under His care she blossomed and flourished and didn't seem to stagger from one crisis to another like I did.
Well to cut a long story short, eventually the Holy Spirit caught up with me, and I embraced, very timidly, everything that was on offer. I am not saying that I was a lesser Christian before then, and a more spiritual one afterwards - I just found a new love, a new way of relating that was vibrant.
There have been few occasions as compelling and awesome as my Spring Harvest encounter. I don't think I could handle it is it was an everyday experience.
Having said that, yesterday I came close. I was spending time in the presence of God. We were chatting about gifts and talents, and the next step of faith. I can't explain exactly what happened next - but I began to sense a real excitement - not in my heart, but in God's - He was getting excited about something. There was this sense of expectation, like when people suddenly go silent and hold their breath. God was holding his breath. I got the impression that spiritually - all the "planets" had lined up - that the right conditions needed for something monumental to happen had just occurred. His excitement boiled down to one thing - my next step of faith.
At this point I got scared - the same sense of fear, the same falling onto my knees as before. I know some people have a desire to see into the heavelies - they see spiritual beings whether angels or demons. I know that this particular step of faith was to allow God to peel back the heavens, not to frighten me, but to reassure me that there is a very real heavenly realm and that He is seated on his throne. In His hands I am entirely safe, and the future that He wants to lead me into is prosperous and full of hope. It is a good future - but a little bit scary - and so I got up and went to make a cup of tea!
I haven't made the step yet. I recognsie that my vision is limited - it is to self centred and small. I believe that at that moment, God was ready to let me see a little more. I don't think the moment is gone - it wasn't just that once in a life time - miss it and it is gone kind of expereince. Just like for weeks after my Spring harvest encounter I was hounded - I have to admit to being a little bit wary of opening my Bible, or stepping into God's presence! What is stopping me? It is probably something to do with hating to be out of cantrol. I don't really know - but I know that something has already changed in me. I sense it. I am freaking myself out just thinking about it, so i think I might just go and make myslef another cup of tea.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
A cry of my heart
I am a member of the musicians group at church. I lead worship sometimes. A couple of years ago I began to have piano lessons as I was very keen to write songs. The words have never been that much of a problem to come up with, but I really don’t do tunes. I thought that if I could play an instrument, I would come up with the tunes. I am not the most disciplined of folk, but I actually did practice quite hard. My music teacher used to reward me with coloured stickers, to put on my music folder, if she thought I had done really well. The minute she introduced the stickers, getting the sticker became the focus of my lessons. I would try to get note perfect and put myself under intense pressure to get the sticker.
You know how it is with teachers – they are constantly raising the hurdles. Once a pupil gets one thing right, the teacher moves them on to something more challenging. It was the same with the stickers. Suddenly they were not being given away like sweeties! I was required to do much more to get the sticker! Of course, I just piled on the pressure! It was unreal. Learning to play was no longer fun – not because of my teacher, who was wonderful, but because of my being so “reward” orientated. I wasn’t enjoying the experience and it wasn’t helping me to find my tunes. So I decided to stop taking lessons. I admire those people that stick at these things – but for me, I don’t think it was something God called me to do. It was not a gift. Maybe it will be in a few years time. I think that gifts have times and seasons for some people and some situations.
Last night at musicians, we were practicing worshipping spontaneously. Sometimes we sing hymns and choruses in a very rigid manner. Perhaps it is all the way through twice and then we move on to the next song. What I want to see is the songs or the choruses being like an airport runway – just the starting point on the journey of worship. As I read the words of the song, I look to see what God wants to say to me, or find the response that is in my heart to the words. Often in our worship there is an opportunity as the musicians play to do that.
Yesterday I discovered that I have built safe areas, predictable responses. I begin to sing that God is worthy of worship, that there is no one like Him and I bow before His throne. All of this is very true – but for me it is safe stuff that I have sung about before. The sentiments expressed are "normal fare", the content of my songs is "the usual stuff". I think it is almost done without thinking – it is my “worship mode”.
I was particularly challenged last night to not do that. The minute I heard the usual words slipping out, I felt God saying that I was being lazy. I was not really exploring just how the words of a song had really affected me. I made myself really think about what it was I really wanted to say. What came out was a cry of my heart. God is easy to love but loving God with all our heart and soul is just the first step. Loving people is the next step. I was asking God in my song to give me His heart, that I could love and reach out to the lost, the way that Jesus did, the way that I was called to. Powerful stuff! It was very different, and unique and…my heart’s response!
You know how it is with teachers – they are constantly raising the hurdles. Once a pupil gets one thing right, the teacher moves them on to something more challenging. It was the same with the stickers. Suddenly they were not being given away like sweeties! I was required to do much more to get the sticker! Of course, I just piled on the pressure! It was unreal. Learning to play was no longer fun – not because of my teacher, who was wonderful, but because of my being so “reward” orientated. I wasn’t enjoying the experience and it wasn’t helping me to find my tunes. So I decided to stop taking lessons. I admire those people that stick at these things – but for me, I don’t think it was something God called me to do. It was not a gift. Maybe it will be in a few years time. I think that gifts have times and seasons for some people and some situations.
Last night at musicians, we were practicing worshipping spontaneously. Sometimes we sing hymns and choruses in a very rigid manner. Perhaps it is all the way through twice and then we move on to the next song. What I want to see is the songs or the choruses being like an airport runway – just the starting point on the journey of worship. As I read the words of the song, I look to see what God wants to say to me, or find the response that is in my heart to the words. Often in our worship there is an opportunity as the musicians play to do that.
Yesterday I discovered that I have built safe areas, predictable responses. I begin to sing that God is worthy of worship, that there is no one like Him and I bow before His throne. All of this is very true – but for me it is safe stuff that I have sung about before. The sentiments expressed are "normal fare", the content of my songs is "the usual stuff". I think it is almost done without thinking – it is my “worship mode”.
I was particularly challenged last night to not do that. The minute I heard the usual words slipping out, I felt God saying that I was being lazy. I was not really exploring just how the words of a song had really affected me. I made myself really think about what it was I really wanted to say. What came out was a cry of my heart. God is easy to love but loving God with all our heart and soul is just the first step. Loving people is the next step. I was asking God in my song to give me His heart, that I could love and reach out to the lost, the way that Jesus did, the way that I was called to. Powerful stuff! It was very different, and unique and…my heart’s response!
Saturday, January 07, 2006
Chocolate heaven!
OK, here's question? Where in the world would you most like to live? My answer, after this afternoon's jaunt has got to be Stathepeffer. It is a very small town tucked away in the Highlands. It is a Spa town, complete with pavilions gushing with water that stinks like rotten eggs on account of a high level of sulphur. That is not much to attract anyone - but just take a right turn and walk up the road and just on the right hand side is a chocolate shop!
Joe and I were visiting friends who own a croft, or a small farm, between Dingwall and Strathpeffer. We were completing the New Year circuit of visiting friends. They are in the process of building a new house and have spent the last couple of years living in a caravan on site. They have hens and dogs and sheep and cows and a quad bike. Joe had fun driving the quad bike all over the field chased by the dogs.
It was our friends that told us about the chocolate shop. The owners are genuine Belgian chocolate makers. Nothing factory produced but handmade.
Another friend and I drove out to investigate further. Living in the Highlands, we get used to many towns just closing down for the winter. Those that rely on the tourist industry tend to be open between March and October. However, the shop was open for business. The smell was just glorious, though perhaps if I worked there I might not enjoy it every single day - Yeah right! It is a café that serves drinks, as well as chocolates, but the most requested drink is hot chocolate. Not the frothy stuff that every other café sells with the marshmallow floating on top, but thick, sweet, dark chocolate. They serve you a tray with a mug, a small bowl of sugar and a tiny plate with one handmade chocolate on it. Then the waiter comes round with a jug of the hot chocolate, stirring it with a spoon, and fills your mug. I think if you left it to go cold it would just solidify. It was off this planet - a real taste sensation not to be missed. Any other mug of hot chocolate gets relegated to the taste and consistency of hot brown coloured water.
Perhaps it is as well that I am going back to work on Monday.
Joe and I were visiting friends who own a croft, or a small farm, between Dingwall and Strathpeffer. We were completing the New Year circuit of visiting friends. They are in the process of building a new house and have spent the last couple of years living in a caravan on site. They have hens and dogs and sheep and cows and a quad bike. Joe had fun driving the quad bike all over the field chased by the dogs.
It was our friends that told us about the chocolate shop. The owners are genuine Belgian chocolate makers. Nothing factory produced but handmade.
Another friend and I drove out to investigate further. Living in the Highlands, we get used to many towns just closing down for the winter. Those that rely on the tourist industry tend to be open between March and October. However, the shop was open for business. The smell was just glorious, though perhaps if I worked there I might not enjoy it every single day - Yeah right! It is a café that serves drinks, as well as chocolates, but the most requested drink is hot chocolate. Not the frothy stuff that every other café sells with the marshmallow floating on top, but thick, sweet, dark chocolate. They serve you a tray with a mug, a small bowl of sugar and a tiny plate with one handmade chocolate on it. Then the waiter comes round with a jug of the hot chocolate, stirring it with a spoon, and fills your mug. I think if you left it to go cold it would just solidify. It was off this planet - a real taste sensation not to be missed. Any other mug of hot chocolate gets relegated to the taste and consistency of hot brown coloured water.
Perhaps it is as well that I am going back to work on Monday.
Friday, January 06, 2006
Outside of church hours
Over the last three days it feels like we have spent more time at our pastor's house than we have at our own! It came to mind this morning that our church has been behaving very much like the church in Acts chapter 2 - meeting together in each other's homes for fellowship everyday.
Part of it is down to us all being on holiday and having no work commitments as such. We have the time to spend with each other and are making use of the opportunities we have right now. It has been relaxing to meet together outside of a structured church meeting, just to have no specific church task to do or "spiritual" agenda, but just enjoy each other's company.
I was praying this morning that we would find ways to keep it up! I am conscious that once work kicks back in that we may fall back into the usual pattern of Sundays and mid-week meetings. Time suddenly gets allocated to work orientated stuff, and the fellowship that we share stops being so relaxed and casual and becomes very focussed.
I am more than the sum of what Bible verses I have been reading recently, or what worship songs I have been singing and sometimes that becomes all that I share with people. I need to make time available to visit people outside of church hours - a cup of tea after the school day ends and be normal!
Part of it is down to us all being on holiday and having no work commitments as such. We have the time to spend with each other and are making use of the opportunities we have right now. It has been relaxing to meet together outside of a structured church meeting, just to have no specific church task to do or "spiritual" agenda, but just enjoy each other's company.
I was praying this morning that we would find ways to keep it up! I am conscious that once work kicks back in that we may fall back into the usual pattern of Sundays and mid-week meetings. Time suddenly gets allocated to work orientated stuff, and the fellowship that we share stops being so relaxed and casual and becomes very focussed.
I am more than the sum of what Bible verses I have been reading recently, or what worship songs I have been singing and sometimes that becomes all that I share with people. I need to make time available to visit people outside of church hours - a cup of tea after the school day ends and be normal!
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Time out to tune in
Last night I found myself with an evening all to myself. Joe had been mumbling about watching a football match and I assumed that he would just take over the TV for the night. He decided he would rather see the game on a big screen in one of the pubs in town.
At this point I would have a good flick through the TV magazine and find a good movie to watch and perhaps even raid the wardrobe for a pile of coat hangers and make a dent in the ironing pile. What came to my heart was spending the time with God. Jonathan Edwards’ resolutions have been almost haunting me – not specifically for any one resolution, but just the idea of being much more pro-active in his pursuit of God, and in his resolution to deal with the things that got in the way of his relationship with God. I thought it might be a good time to get serious with God, sort myself out and get back on track.
I thought about soaking as an option. I didn’t really enjoy the last episode of soaking – I drifted rather aimlessly. I wanted something more structured, something that got you somewhere. I am not saying that soaking is bad, but last night I was looking for something else. I didn’t particularly know what it was I wanted – I didn’t want to get sidetracked down in interesting alley in a Bible study. Sometimes, like in the physical we can overeat – I think that also applies to the spiritual too. I have been disciplined about reading the Bible and setting aside time to prayfully take on board principles and truths that I uncover.
I was looking for some kind of guided meditation and downloaded something from the internet. It was something about renewal, about confession and surrendering to God anew. My life with God is not off the rails, but it does need tweaking. In the gospels, when Jesus wants to wash Peter’s feet, Peter demands that Jesus wash him from top to bottom. Jesus says that it has already been done and doesn’t need to be repeated – it’s only his feet that need a clean. The feet, the bits that walk though all the dust and the dung of daily living, that is what needs to be refreshed.
The meditation took the form of lots of questions, much like stocktaking. Some questions were easier to answer than others. There were times when I did not trust my judgement on an answer and asked God what he thought – always a dangerous option. There were too many answers that should have been a clear “Yes” or a confident “No”, but I squirmed rather.
One question – “Have I neglected the Word of God?” – I could give a clear “No.” to, but then had to do a double take. I read the word of God, but I don’t always put it into practice, so there is a sense of neglect there.
Another question had me thinking – “Is all resentment out of my heart?” I had to answer “No” to that. I think I resent the quality of the walk with Christ that some people have. Their lives shine a light on my own life that shows up the flaws in my own walk. I am not sure that I resent them having that life. Maybe resentment isn’t the right word. All I am aware of is that the feeling inside of me isn’t always gladness that they are doing so well!
“Do I have anything in my possession which does not rightly belong to me?” Immediately what came to mind there was a friend’s copy of the complete works of Shakespeare I borrowed years ago! On today’s to do list is a visit to return it!
“Do I really believe in the power of God to cleanse any sinner? Change my life? Take care of any situation? Guide me in my decisions?” I loved the confidence with which I could boldly shout “YES!” I have no doubt that God is the only source of help that I have to change.
It took an hour and a half to complete the meditation. One thing that struck me, that also to some extent bothered me, was that I didn’t cry. I felt that there were so many areas of my life that were out of order. I had every reason to mourn, but remained dried eyed. I thought that perhaps I was just too hard hearted, or failing to see the extent of my failings. Part of it was to do with what I prayed at the beginning – I didn’t want to be torn apart by what I discovered as I read through the meditation. The world does a good job of tearing people apart. I needed a cool look, not being over emotional, but being sober. Sometimes tears can be a defence mechanism. If someone cries, you instantly go into comfort mode, and perhaps leave addressing serious issues to another time. Tears are just one indication that something is having an effect – it is not the only indication, and in some situations not the best indication.
Am I any different? Have I changed? There is a definite sense of responsibility and that I am accountable for how my Christian life turns out. There is a line in one of my favourite films, The Scarlett Pimpernel, where the hero declares his love for the heroine. Her answer is “You move too fast.” His reply is “My heart dictates the pace.” I want my heart to beat a little faster when I come into contact with God, and when I am involved in His business.
At this point I would have a good flick through the TV magazine and find a good movie to watch and perhaps even raid the wardrobe for a pile of coat hangers and make a dent in the ironing pile. What came to my heart was spending the time with God. Jonathan Edwards’ resolutions have been almost haunting me – not specifically for any one resolution, but just the idea of being much more pro-active in his pursuit of God, and in his resolution to deal with the things that got in the way of his relationship with God. I thought it might be a good time to get serious with God, sort myself out and get back on track.
I thought about soaking as an option. I didn’t really enjoy the last episode of soaking – I drifted rather aimlessly. I wanted something more structured, something that got you somewhere. I am not saying that soaking is bad, but last night I was looking for something else. I didn’t particularly know what it was I wanted – I didn’t want to get sidetracked down in interesting alley in a Bible study. Sometimes, like in the physical we can overeat – I think that also applies to the spiritual too. I have been disciplined about reading the Bible and setting aside time to prayfully take on board principles and truths that I uncover.
I was looking for some kind of guided meditation and downloaded something from the internet. It was something about renewal, about confession and surrendering to God anew. My life with God is not off the rails, but it does need tweaking. In the gospels, when Jesus wants to wash Peter’s feet, Peter demands that Jesus wash him from top to bottom. Jesus says that it has already been done and doesn’t need to be repeated – it’s only his feet that need a clean. The feet, the bits that walk though all the dust and the dung of daily living, that is what needs to be refreshed.
The meditation took the form of lots of questions, much like stocktaking. Some questions were easier to answer than others. There were times when I did not trust my judgement on an answer and asked God what he thought – always a dangerous option. There were too many answers that should have been a clear “Yes” or a confident “No”, but I squirmed rather.
One question – “Have I neglected the Word of God?” – I could give a clear “No.” to, but then had to do a double take. I read the word of God, but I don’t always put it into practice, so there is a sense of neglect there.
Another question had me thinking – “Is all resentment out of my heart?” I had to answer “No” to that. I think I resent the quality of the walk with Christ that some people have. Their lives shine a light on my own life that shows up the flaws in my own walk. I am not sure that I resent them having that life. Maybe resentment isn’t the right word. All I am aware of is that the feeling inside of me isn’t always gladness that they are doing so well!
“Do I have anything in my possession which does not rightly belong to me?” Immediately what came to mind there was a friend’s copy of the complete works of Shakespeare I borrowed years ago! On today’s to do list is a visit to return it!
“Do I really believe in the power of God to cleanse any sinner? Change my life? Take care of any situation? Guide me in my decisions?” I loved the confidence with which I could boldly shout “YES!” I have no doubt that God is the only source of help that I have to change.
It took an hour and a half to complete the meditation. One thing that struck me, that also to some extent bothered me, was that I didn’t cry. I felt that there were so many areas of my life that were out of order. I had every reason to mourn, but remained dried eyed. I thought that perhaps I was just too hard hearted, or failing to see the extent of my failings. Part of it was to do with what I prayed at the beginning – I didn’t want to be torn apart by what I discovered as I read through the meditation. The world does a good job of tearing people apart. I needed a cool look, not being over emotional, but being sober. Sometimes tears can be a defence mechanism. If someone cries, you instantly go into comfort mode, and perhaps leave addressing serious issues to another time. Tears are just one indication that something is having an effect – it is not the only indication, and in some situations not the best indication.
Am I any different? Have I changed? There is a definite sense of responsibility and that I am accountable for how my Christian life turns out. There is a line in one of my favourite films, The Scarlett Pimpernel, where the hero declares his love for the heroine. Her answer is “You move too fast.” His reply is “My heart dictates the pace.” I want my heart to beat a little faster when I come into contact with God, and when I am involved in His business.
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