Reclaiming Eden

"I've done what I set out to do
His image in them marred.
They leave this paradise of His
With lives forever scarred"

The glorious snake with glinting scales
Slid sinuously on the ground
A crafty reptile, sleek and sly
He moved without a sound

"I've soiled His love for human kind
I've wrecked His precious plan
Can Eden ever be reclaimed?
Oh No! It never can!"

Then fluttered down a peaceful bird
A pure and gentle dove
"You foolish snake, you cannot see
You're wrong about His love"

"Before this world came into being
He saw this tragic day
And in His mind conceived a plan
To wash this sin away"

"The woman's seed will crush your head.
A promise, firm and true
He will reclaim the lives you stained
Despite all you can do."

"His love bars them from Eden's tree
This tree - the Tree of Life
To eat this fruit their lives would be
Unending, full of strife."

"Some day they will return with joy
And take their rightful place
And gaze on Him with wondrous love
And know His awesome grace"

Mel, why are your hands so soft?

Those of us that are old enough can remember the old Fairy Liquid adverts that include the question, "Mummy, why are your hands so soft?" In this day of political correctness, they don't show them anymore just in case gender roles are stereotyped and Daddy doesn't help with the housework!

My hands are soft right now. For my birthday, Joe bought me a tub of hand cream from Lush. The product is called "Smitten" and contains almond oil. It is a very rich cream. The tub sits on the coffee table in the front room and I suppose that because it is not tucked away on a bathroom shelf it is getting used. I sit down after I have done the washing up, or finished doing something on the cleaning front, and the tub is right there. Sitting down to watch TV, the tub is right there, accessible. Using the stuff often during the day, has gradually built up a softness in my hands that wasn't there before.

This morning as I was rubbing in the usual blob of cream, the Holy Spirit brought to mind something that had been mentioned in church months ago. Shields in Roman times were made of leather and were protected by oil being rubbed into them. Without the oil, the leather dried out and cracks appeared. The protection the shield offered was no longer reliable.

As I was rubbing my hands together, I just imagined the Holy Spirit massaging my inner self. I imagined the Spirit rubbing in His joy, His peace, His kindness - those essential fruits of the Spirit into the very heart of me. I wanted it not to be just a surface wipe over, but a deep kneading - to get below the surface.

My hands are soft because I often dip into my tub of hand cream. A single application does not last forever! I don't think a once only application of the ministrations of the Holy Spirit will do that much lasting good either. His work needs to be repeated over and over again. I have got into a habit of rubbing the cream into my hands - how much more would the Holy Spirit like to get into a habit of rubbing in his oil of joy to prevent my heart drying out and cracks appearing?

Currently I am wading through writing third year reports, with first year reports waiting in the wings. It is a busy time of the school year. I want to make sure that I don't neglect time spent with God. Now is not the time for cracking up!

With rings on her fingers...

The ring on my little finger is made from Venetian glass. It is not tiny or delicate or conservative, like the kind of jewellry that I would usually opt for, but loud and big and very purple. It began the day on the little finger of my right hand but got in the way of writing, so I moved it to the little finger of my left hand, next to the tiny, delicate and conservative engagement and wedding rings. I don't think it has become comfortable on my hand but I am determined to wear it!

You see, Joe bought it me on his recent trip away to Orkney and Shetland. He likes buying me interesting things that are not run-of-the-mill. I was thinking when he gave it to me, with an enthusiastic flourish of a little orange bag that it came in, and an eager expression on his face, that very often the things he buys me stay safely tucked away in the boxes and the bags in a drawer somewhere and very occasionally see the light of day.

If you are a giver of gifts, when you give someone something and then never see them wear it, or use it, it has got to be quite soul destroying. So I determined to wear the ring. It is purple so that does put a limit on when I can wear it. It is a lovely ring and a wonderfully rich colour. Joe bought it me so I wear it!

I can remember once going through a difficult spell I was just keeping my head above water and seriously feeling like I was coming close to drowning once or twice. During a quiet time with God I had the impression that God was saying that I was making life much more difficult than it needed to be. Imagine if someone had all the resources that you needed to make your way through the day and it was all there just laid on the table for you to freely take and use. At the end of the day - all that stuff is still there, untouched, unused and ignored. You sit there moaning about how difficult life is and yet you never touch the stuff that would not just sustain you through the day, but give you the upper hand. That is what I felt that God was trying to tell me - the He had given me all the resources I needed and yet I was trying to manufacture something in my own strength to help me through the day. The bottom line is that by turning my back on his resources I was insulting God.

Maybe that is why I hi-jacked the prayer meeting the other night - there was too much stuff laid on the table that was in danger of being ignored! God is gracious in giving us all that we need for life and godliness - but are we humble, or desperate, or hungry enough to take hold of it and use it?

His answer

I stand alone imprisoned here
My thoughts a downward spin
My fears in solitude grow large
And turmoil swirls within

A question asked, an answer sought
I wait as death steals near
I must know I fulfilled my task
My doubts must disappear

He is the chosen man of God
I saw the white dove's flight
And as the man shed water's cloak
On him it did alight

I heard the voice, a thunderous roar
That rent the heavens apart
"This is my son, the one I love"
So God reveals His heart

But was I wrong? Is He the man?
This humble gentle soul?
Can He restore this shattered world?
Make what was broken whole?

His words are wise, and full of power
He speaks and strongholds fall
Men cast aside their fishing nets
To hearken to His call

"The demons run, and blind men see
The crippled stand and walk
The deaf hear praise from lepers cleansed
And silent tongues? They talk"

His answer comes, and peace bursts forth
My task, His herald, done
My mission ends, my task complete
While His has just begun.

Questions and answers

I have just been writing my entry for the FW weekly challenge. I have gone up a level in the competition - up to Level 4 called "Masters". It sounds entirely like a golf or snooker tournament to me.

The topic was "Fulfilment" and I had a number of ideas creeping around my head before I settled on something completely different.

The article was based on John the Baptist's question sent via his disciples to Jesus - "Are you the one who was to come, or should we wait for someone else?" It put me in mind of other great questions in the Bible - and why the answer matters. In no particular order:-

God's question to Adam - "Where are you?" To think that we can hide from God, or to think that there is ever a time when God doesn't know exactly where we are is to make a big mistake! I am sure that Adam didn't really know at all where he was - in the time it took to bite an apple the scenery and landscape changed. Everything familiar faded as fear swept in.

God's question to Cain - "Where is your brother Abel?" It is bad enough working out where we are in life - but God also expects us to know where other people are too! We don't get asked the whereabouts of strangers - but family is a different matter. God expects me to know where they are. He has made me accountable for aspects of their life and their walk with Jesus.

Jesus' question to a blind man - "What do you want me to do for you?" Sometimes you think it is kind of obvious what people want - but people are complicated. Jesus takes his cue from the blind man, knowing perfectly well how much he can transform the man's life in so many ways. Maybe the question would be better phrased - "What will you allow me to do for you?" Hmm...

Jesus' question to Simon Peter - "Do you love me?" Somewhere Jesus talks about a man who says that he did miracles in Jesus name, and that he cast out demons in Jesus name. Jesus went on to call that man a stranger who he did not know. It is not what we do that counts - or what we can't do that counts against us. It is why we do what we do - what motivates us should be our love for Jesus.

Jesus' question to God - "Why have you forsaken me?" Jesus spent his whole knowing the presence of God. There had not been one single moment up until then when Jesus did not experience God's intimacy. Jesus must have experienced something similar to Adam in that the relationship with God that he known all his life was no longer there. We know what it is like not to live our lives in God's presence, and sometimes we allow that intimacy to slip away. Because of Jesus, I can be sure of God's promise that he will never leave me, or abandon me.

King Xerxes to Queen Esther - "What is your request? Even up to half the kingdom, it will be given you." I have been reading the book of Esther over the last week or so. My imagination was captured by the idea of Esther clothed in royal robes, standing in at the entrance to the King's palace. As he extends the sceptre to her, he invites her into his presence. I am reminded that I too am clothed in royal robes, and that I have access into the throne room of my King, to make known the things on my heart.

Love engraved in my life

I was out exploring the other end of the Caledonian Canal, where it leaks out into Loch Ness. The outdoors just called to me yesterday, so I collected a bag full of breadcrumbs and headed off to Dochgarich where there are a couple of locks on the canal and a path to amble along.

The canal runs parallel to the river for quite a while. On my left was the canal, very tranquil and quiet, with the occasional boat motoring up or down it. On my right, a mere few yards away was the river - very noisy, and lively, with swirls and eddies. I was amazed to discover that the canal was flowing in the opposite direction to the river - I checked it out with Pooh-sticks! Which one would I prefer to be out in a canoe on? The canal would probably be the safest, except when motor boats came along. The river, infinitely more challenging I would imagine, and more interesting. Actually, I think I would prefer not to be out in a canoe at all!

There were lots of interesting trees along the side of the canal. I don't know varieties of trees, but some had multiple trunks that wound round each other, very think and very twisted and probably very old. Most of them had been marked in some way, not by the passage of nature, but by the penknife of man! There were weathered dates and initials but one trunk bore the words - "JESUS LOVES YOU, CHRIST DIED FOR SINNERS"

Is vandalism always vandalism no matter what has been written? I remembered a time when I was a young Christian reading the graffiti written on the back of a toilet door. Some of it was witty, but most comprised of who loved who and who "waz ere" and when. I thought about adding my own contribution along the lines of "Jesus loves you", but then vandalism is vandalism, damage to someone else's property is still damage not matter what your intentions are. I put my pen away.

The words on the tree reminded me of something I knew to be true. Being reminded is a good thing. For someone who did not know Jesus - would the words have meant anything? I think people learn about the love of God through the love his people show. Christ would want to engrave each of my words and each of my actions with a message of his love. In each encounter I have with people they need to be able to read the love of God written into my life.

A last walk with Spike

On Friday we had the sad news that Spikey Boy had passed away. It was very sad. He was not a young dog anyway, but recently he had developed a heart condition that lead to him being put down. I know that he was in a dog's home in Ilfracombe and we just sponsored him, but yesterday I decided to imagine that I was taking him for a last walk along the Caledonian Canal - I was there for real, but Spike was there in my imagination!

It was a lovely morning, and last Sunday one of the things spoken about in my breaking free was about the need to get out and enjoy nature. I don't want people to speak into my life and not put it into practice, but it has rained throughout the week. Yesterday was a bright and dry morning. Because of the wet days beforehand, it was quite muddy, with lots of puddles for Spike to trail through.

There were no other dogs, and very few people. One couple we met were armed with binoculars trained on a huddle of seagulls squatting on an empty pontoon in the marina. Seagulls are just seagulls to me, and I don't differentiate between the varieties - guillemots and such. The other couple were canal workers. It must have been low tide as they were able to wade ankle deep at the edge of the canal picking up rubbish and putting it in black bags. They were chatting as they paddled along.

We saw two swans. The one piece of information that always surfaces about swans comes from watching a film with Drew Barrymore in it. Swans mate for life. They remain faithful to one another throughout their life span. These were very elegant swans. They always remind me of sailing boats with full white sails. Your ducks and things are like the motor boats chugging along, but swans - they sail.

One of the saddest things we saw, on the bank of the canal where the workers had not yet reached, on a stone step leading down to the water, was a single empty syringe. I guess that Inverness has its fair share of drug takers, but it seemed sad to me that the quiet and the beauty of the place was not enough to restore someone's inner peace. The Beauly Firth was stretching our in front, with shifting ripples of water, all against a backdrop of hill and snow capped mountains. If nature was enough to restore peace in people's lives, there would be no need for the cross of Jesus.

It was such a quiet spot. On the road to Beauly, on one side of the firth you could see and hear cars and lorries trundling along. On the other side, the far distant bank of North Kessock, you could catch glimpses of light reflecting off windscreens of cars along the road, but right where Spike and I stood, at the entrance to the canal, everything was still. It just brought back to me that in the hurry and scurry of life, we need a quiet and tranquil place - a quiet place. For me that time is about being with God and allowing him to put back together what the world would tear apart.

A place of peace
Where struggles cease
Where striving ends
And rest descends

To float, to sail
To breathe, inhale
Your Presence sweet
I'm made complete

"Follow me - again"

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.

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.

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.

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!

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

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?

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.

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!

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.

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.

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!

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

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.