Narrow Road

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

White Noise

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the end I opted for the “Crickets”.

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

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

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

A Sister’s Example

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Palm Sunday

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

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

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

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

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

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

Triumphal Entry

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

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

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

The prize waits
Unclaimed on the table

But not for long

Making Inroads

All it took was a few sunny days and the next door neighbours were out with the lawn mowers and the hedge clippers.

Not wanting to let the side down and acting the certain knowledge that the good weather wouldn’t last, I hauled our mower out of the shed.

Had Joe been around, he might have laid bets on who would finish the mowing first.

The man on the left of us was sporting a pair of crutches, so I didn’t fancy his chances. His wife took on the job. She had a head start of about fifteen minutes. She also had a much smaller lawn to mow, and was cheered on by her husband, her son and another man. Quite why the son and the other man couldn’t have done the job, I don’t know. The husband and his crutches took a slow walk around the edge of the lawn with a pair of long handled edge clippers.

The man on the right had an electric mower – one of those mowers that left neat lines up and down the grass. He took his time. He is a stickler for order. I remember years ago he had his daughter working in the garden putting in plants. She had almost finished when he handed her a ruler and told her to take them out and start all over because the plants were not equally spaced out.

The man on the right and I started about the same time – he with his electric mower and I with our non-electrical cylinder job. Whoever had been the last to use it – I suspect it was me – didn’t think about cleaning it up afterwards. Last year’s grass and grime had to be scraped away before I could begin. This being the first sunny day, in early spring, the grass wasn’t its usual knee high state. It didn’t take long to zip up and down the lawn. I didn’t have any long handled clippers to tidy up the edges.

I came a respectful third – my neighbours amazed that I had actually participated in any way.

Later on in the afternoon I settled down to a cup of tea and a spot of newspaper reading. It is not just the gardeners that the sun brings out, but the articles written by the gardeners. I know that some papers, like the Sunday Post, which some consider not to be a real paper, always have a gardener's article, but I never usually read them as they talk about plants that I don’t have, and pruning that I don’t do and compost heaps that I think about investing in but talk myself out of as I wouldn’t really know what to do with compost if I made it.

The article ended with tips. One of them I couldn’t do if I tried. The writer suggested that if the job that needed to be done was a really big task – “aim to do a set fraction of it, such as, clip 50% of the front hedge". Now, I couldn’t do that. I can’t mow half my lawn, or weed half my border, or clear half the patio. It’s all or nothing – most usually nothing. Half? Please show me a gardener, or any human being that can leave anything half done!

The final tip was more to my liking. It involved setting a timer and not going beyond it. The only timer is on the cooker, so I bought a cheap one from the supermarket. I set the timer for an hour and set about rescuing the rhubarb. I confess it was very big job and after an hour I was nowhere near done with that bit of the garden but my hour was up so I downed tools and made a cup of tea just like the article suggested.

I have since done a couple more hours. The rhubarb is stretching out luxuriously without having to fight off the dandelions and thistles. The patio has been de-mossed and the back lawn has been mowed. The sunny days are not set to last so I don’t expect to do much more.

The timer has been a great idea. I don’t start off overwhelmed, thinking about the size of the job. It is challenging to step away with something not finished at the end of the hour – but little by little I am making inroads.

I am thinking that I need to apply the timer strategy to inside the house! I have a tendency to go over board when I get into the housework groove.

“Little by little making inroads” is certainly the way to make changes in my faith walk. I might have mind-blowing revelation that pushes me to my knees on occasion, but working out what that looks like in everyday life is little by little. I might look at where I am in life and where I need to be and it seems that getting there is impossible. I think in terms of big changes over night when what is required is lots of little changes over days, weeks, months and years.

Little by little I am making inroads.

Ev'rything I Own

According to a newspaper article I read some time last week, an earworm is “a piece of music that sticks in one's mind so that one seems to hear it, even when it is not being played.”

I have an earworm infection.

“I would give anything I own
Give up my life, my heart, my home
I would give ev'rything I own
Just to have you back again”

I know where my particular worm came from. It didn’t just arrive out of the blue like some other earworms that I know. It was my birthday a couple of weeks ago. You might not have sent me a card but I will not hold it against you. I must have mentioned on a previous birthday or Christmas list that I would like a Bread CD. My best friend at school was given the LP and we played it many times. My husband acknowledged that he was a closet Bread fan when he was younger too.

I got it for my birthday this time around and last weekend while driving over the bridge to Skye for a weekend break it was playing in the car. It has also been playing on my laptop.

So, yes, I know my earworm history.

Songfacts.com tells me that it was written by David Gates as a tribute to his father. It is not hard to perceive a spiritual comparison to some of the lines. 'You sheltered me from harm, kept me warm, gave my life to me, set me free,' – perfectly describes what God has done for me – the giving life and the setting free.

The earworm isn’t singing that bit – just the chorus.

What would I really give up “my life, my heart, my home” for? The answer tumbles out, just as swiftly as a bar of chocolate from a vending machine when you have put in the right money and pushed the buttons. It’s a given. God!

It’s like the string you pull at the back of the baby doll to get it to say “Mama”.

But saying the words and living the words can be two entirely different things. Sometimes I am just giving lip service. I say that “my life, my heart and my home” belong to God – but then I ration them out sparingly for His use.

“Ev’rything I own” is a very lavish response. It is extravagant. It is not carefully measured out. It reminds me of a poem that I wrote many years ago.

Broken

A passion burns within my heart
That words fail to describe
I yearn to find a better way
To show you what's inside

A priceless jar, with precious oil
Held in my trembling hand
I break and empty at your feet
And know you'll understand

As fragments fall, I'm broken too
And what's inside spills out
That you accept this worship act
I have no cause to doubt

The jar cannot be mended or
What was inside restored
I cannot claim the treasure back
Upon your feet I poured

A sweet and fragrant perfume now
Pervades this holy place
And You, the source of my delight
Will meet me face to face

Only Passing By

I was very surprised to see my poem claim the top spot for the weekly writer's challenge at Faithwriters.

Only Passing By

So much to do
No time to spare
A festive meal
I must prepare
But I’m only passing by

Wine to buy
Unleavened bread
Crossed off the list
Inside my head
But I’m only passing by

A choking crowd
Swarms like flies
Stings my ears
With noisy cries
But I’m only passing by

A push, a poke
A gasp, a grunt
Soon I’m standing
At the front
But I’m only passing by

A cruel parade
A brutal show
Crooks with crosses
Moving slow
But I’m only passing by

A slip, a stumble
A crashing fall
And people stare
Don’t care at all
But I’m only passing by

Exposed, uncovered
Caught and tagged
From the crowd I’m
Drafted, dragged
But I’m only passing by

‘Twixt hawk and buzzard
I am caught
A fearful plight
I never sought
But I’m only passing by

To bear his cross
I’m called to do
Step by step I’ll see
This journey through
But I’m only passing by

His blood excludes me
From my feast
I’m bread polluted with
Leaven, yeast
But I’m only passing by

I hold resentment
In my hand
Complain that I
Don’t understand
But I’m only passing by

They see this man
And now see me
I’m linked to Him
For all to see
But I’m only passing by

He stops to comfort
Those that weep
Into my heart His
Warm words seep
But I’m only passing by

I hear His words and
See a face
The Lord of Heaven
God of Grace
But I’m only passing by

His breath on me
My spirit stirs
His blood on me
New hope confers
But I’m only passing by

I’ll walk Him home
My dying friend
And know that on the cross
All curses end
I’m no longer passing by


Based on Mark 15:21-22

Lost Phone - Lost History

I thought I had lost my mobile phone. It wasn’t in the usual places – the school bag, the handbag, on top of the DVD player or on the shelf of the display cabinet.

This is not the disaster that most people would experience. It’s not an object that is glued to my hand and held up to an ear twenty four seven. I don’t walk around a supermarket giving a running commentary on the price of fresh pasta. I don’t stand in a queue spilling my conversation in a room-wide radius.

My fingers have never really been taught to text and Orange 241 is probably the most used number – and that just once a month or so. It’s a pay as you go phone and a £20 top up lasts more than a few months.

I seem to have a vague memory of putting the phone in the pocket of my jacket. It’s not a deep pocket and I have even vaguer recollections of putting it elsewhere.

Yesterday I was reconciled to buying a new phone. There was a little shiver of excitement about getting one with a camera, an MP3 player, access to the internet and finally being able to dive into a whole world of apps.

Deep down, I just wanted my old phone back.

It wasn’t the loss of the phone so much as the saved text messages. They span a number of years and take in a whole spectrum of events.

“Biggles flies today!” March 2005 relates to a birthday present of an hours flying lesson with a friend from Joe’s work.

“Get praying – half time. Celtic losing 1-0” July 2005 was somewhere in the Rangers long run of league wins. Joe seemed to link Celtic’s string of losses to being married to me.

“Mel, am gutted about Henbaeu – luv Jobeau” – June 2007 Tim Henman had reached the semi finals in Wimbledon that year and lost. It might have been the Ivanisovich one where he clawed himself back from two sets to love down and match point down to two sets all and…you know the kind of thing.

Then there are a whole series of texts beginning with my sister, Linda being admitted to hospital , tracing her downward spiral to this point:-

“Been trying to call you. Lin died 3 am. Will ring after work” – that from my sister Carla in April 2009.

There is a lot of history to be gleaned from my text messages.

You have probably guessed that I found my phone. It wasn’t in a place I would normally look – inside a shoe!

The Lonely Road

I am preaching this morning. Our church tends to shy away from the whole notion of someone preaching. We "share" or "bring" the word which sounds a lot less intimidating. I don't aim to intimidate - but it happens sometimes when a person is confronted with what's written in the Bible.

I am preaching on Simon of Cyrene. I have a poem that intend to read at the end. This is not that poem, but one, in Blue Peter fashion, I prepared earlier.


The Lonely Road

I aided and abetted in
The killing of a man
I became entangled in
An evil, ugly plan

Just merely a spectator
Pulled from the crowd around
They pushed me t’wards a beaten man
Just lying on the ground

“Pick up his cross and carry it!”
A Roman soldier screamed
I then became a player
In an act I’d never dreamed

His cross was placed upon me
No light and easy yoke
I felt His blood upon it
Into my shoulder soak

Small sharp splinters pierced my skin
I saw my own blood shed
Side by side I walked with Him
This man soon to be dead

The pace was slow and anguished
He stumbled on the path
A vicious whip descended
To show the soldier’s wrath

I could not stop from crying out
I felt such shame and hurt
That no one would show mercy
And lift Him from the dirt

Each step such bitter torture
My arms began to throb
We walked a lonely road that day
Jeered by an angry mob

We reached our destination
Away upon a hill
The crowd had gathered round us
The air was cold and chill

The cross I then surrendered
My part came to a close
I watched them nail Him to it
With heavy brutal blows

It seemed I could not walk away
And leave this savage scene
That I would want to see the end
Of someone’s life? Obscene

I touched His blood upon my cheek
I felt its awesome power
And somehow knew His sacrifice
Destroyed sin’s curse that hour

Yes, standing ‘neath His wretched cross
I came at last to see
What precious gift to walk beside
A man so great as He!

Fannig Into Flame

I read these words from 2 Timothy yesterday:-

“For this reason I remind you to fan into flame the gift of God, which is in you through the laying on of my hands. For the Spirit God gave us does not make us timid, but gives us power, love and self-discipline.” (2 Timothy 1:6-7)

Or as The Message puts it:-

“And the special gift of ministry you received when I laid hands on you and prayed—keep that ablaze! God doesn't want us to be shy with his gifts, but bold and loving and sensible.”

I suppose there are a lot of people out there who really have no idea what their gift or ministry is.

When someone first identified poetry as one of my gifts I was very quick to dismiss the idea. I wrote short stories not poems. And writing short stories was just a hobby or an interest. I didn’t see it in terms of a gift.

Last Easter I spent the first week of the holidays collecting my Easter poems together, selecting and editing them to make a small booklet. I photocopied a few and gave them out to close friends and family. And then I photocopied a few more as friends and family asked for extra copies to give to their friends. With just days to go to Easter Sunday there wasn’t time to seek a bigger market. Even if there was a bigger market to be exploited, I did not have the faith to chase it down.

Yesterday God reminded me of the poetry book.

“This year we have a few weeks before Easter…more than enough to seek a bigger market.”

We quibbled for a moment on just whose book it was “we” were planning to distribute. God firmly claimed the book as His seeing as He had been the inspiration behind it. However, the line between what was mine and what was His was very blurred, if not altogether non-existent. He conceded that the book was perhaps “ours” as opposed to His or mine. He made it clear that this year we were going beyond friends and family.

Last year I had stood outside the Christian bookshop in town with a dozen copies in a carrier bag but never quite plucked up the courage to go into the shop and thrash out a deal.

This year was different.

I arranged for more than a few to be photocopied and then went round to the Christian bookshop. The last time I had tried to ply my poetry there had been about the time of the Scottish Open Golf competition up at Castle Stuart. The Christian bookshop had a magnificent window display featuring a sailing ship. I had an equally magnificent poem entitled “My ship of Faith”. My poem and their ship seemed destined to be together – but it didn’t happen. The shop manager was on holiday. The poem was tucked under the counter until their return. I suspect it is still there.

The manager was away on holiday.

This time I wasn’t about to let the book get tucked away under the counter. I told the assistant behind the counter about last year and the positive reception of the poetry books among friends and family. I suggested a price for the book if they wished to sell it, and how easy I thought it would be to sell and agreed that I even giving the book was a possibility. I was a little more proactive but not overbearing.

She seemed to think that what I was asking was possible. Although the bookshop is a branch of a national organisation there were always opportunities for local authors.

So…there you go. I fanned into flame the gift of God.

What happens next isn’t entirely out of my hands – there is a return visit to the bookshop and an some kind of selling script to work on. I still have my part to play.

The book and I are in God’s hands.

Amelia and I

I was reunited with old friend last week – Amelia Peabody.

It happened in the context of the England-Wales rugby match was last weekend.

Who better to watch the game with than Welsh friends? We hadn’t visited in a while. We phoned ahead and turned up at their house with a deflated rugby ball, a couple of carrier bags with nibbles and juice and settled down to watch the game. The rugby ball, emblazoned with a Welsh dragon, was bought last October on a visit to Rugby. It wasn’t deflated when we bought it. The intention was to take it straight round when we got back home, but things happen…you know how it is.

Talking and watching TV at the same time has always been a bit of a mystery to me. Saturday afternoons as a child were dedicated to watching wrestling and listening to the sport’s round-up – in silence. Apparently not everyone thinks the way I do. I have had to learn to stop hissing at people to be quiet.

It could have been in the interval that Alyson and I swapped “book stories”. She is an avid reader and a member of a book reading club. It’s a library run thing and some of the books are not what Alyson would naturally read.

I dug out my Kindle. It wasn’t so much the Kindle I wanted to show her but the purple knitted cover I had made for it. She admired the cabling and the striped purple and cream buttons. She flicked though the list of books I had downloaded. There is an anthology in amongst them, a fund raiser for a charity called Euippe. The publishers have included a short story of mine. She read it and made appropriate complimentary comments while I preened. She also read sections from the book of Romans in a Bible I have downloaded.

Then Amelia joined the conversation.

Amelia and I met a few years ago long before I bought the Kindle. Second hand bookshops were my sources for used books. I bought the first in a series of detective novels written by Elizabeth Peters who introduced me to Amelia Peabody in Egypt. As Publisher’s Weekly on the back of the cover of a later book in the series said, “If Indiana Jones were female, a wife and mother who lived in Victorian times, he would be Amelia Peabody”. She had joined the very select list of my heroines.

I have read just the first three in the series. Second hand book shops are not the best places to track down series of books in numerical order. The first hand book shops weren’t either. They may have catered to other readers on the fifteenth and sixteenth in the series but the early books were to be found only in the big cities. Borders in Glasgow had them all. It was a treat to by the next couple in the series when we were visiting family.

Then Borders closed down.

Amelia and I lost touch.

I am surprised that we didn’t bump into each other in the Kindle store at Amazon where I am known to loiter.

Alyson had the series. She opened the doors of the Wiltshire Library – but allowed me only one book at a time. I think it is her plan to make sure I come and visit often. Welsh International Rugby matches are not regular event on TV.

Amelia and I have been reunited.

I might have had my Kindle to boast about, but Alyson also had a nifty little device. It was an electronic bookmark. Not only does it mark the page, but there’s a little qwerty keyboard where you type in a unfamiliar word and it tells you the meaning.

A very useful device!

I settled down later than evening to join Amelia and her sleuthing.

Page 1. “Ardour” underlined. “great enthusiasm” written in pencil along the edge of the page.

And so it goes on.

Many of the words Alyson had underlined were familiar ones. There were a few that I didn’t know and I was glad to have the definition handy. There were also a few underlined with no pencil explanation. The book mark didn’t know them either I suppose.

It occurred to me as I read through the chapter, noting the underlined words and their meanings written in pencil, that I used a limited vocabulary when I write. There is such a rich variety of words that create a vivid picture but I find myself sticking to the usual familiar few.

I congratulate myself on the wide range of vocabulary that I know and use – but it is not really a growing range. I know lots of words and I use lots of words but I rarely use new words.

As a writer I am challenged by that.

As a Christian I am also challenged by that.

I may have a wide range of “Christian experience” – but is it a growing range of Christian experience?

The Truth About Chocolate

I confess
I have done it once
Only
Standing in the checkout queue
Sugar level dropping through the floor
Queue moving snail speed
Yes, I confess
I ate the chocolate bar
And handed over an empty wrapper
To be scanned

Lent
Forty days of sacrifice
A wilderness journey
I want to do more than just
Go through the motions
Chocolate is off the menu
But I fret about
Withdrawal symptoms
After all
I am an addict

A memory surfaces
A documentary not so long ago
An experiment exposing
The truth about chocolate
A volunteer
An MRA scan
Exposed to pictures
Then fed melted chocolate
Through a tube
I wish it was me

Brightly coloured spots
Vivid red and orange
In some part of the brain
Registers
The delights of
Seeing and tasting
Brain scans show
There is no greater delight
In the tasting
Than in the seeing

Nothing in the ingredients
The cocoa beans
The sugar or milk
Lecithin or vanilla
Is addictive
A picture is sufficient
To stimulate the
The pleasure centres of the brain
Taste is irrelevant
Says science

The truth about chocolate says
Seeing is enough
Tasting is unnecessary
A picture is as powerful
As the personal encounter
The truth about God
Seeing is never enough
Tasting is essential
The personal encounter
Far outweighs any picture

Popping the Question

Today is the last day of February and whoever it is who hosts Radio 2 was encouraging women in general to pop the question if they were at that stage in their relationships.

It reminds me that 1992 was also a leap year. I wasn’t married to my husband at the time but we had been courting for quite a while. We were of an age when all the wild oats had been sown and we had done our own stuff and were ready to settle down. We were also more mature age-wise than many people who get married. The biological clock might have been ticking, but I wasn’t desperate.

It was a leap year. I adored Joe. He was everything I wanted, everything I needed. I was, and still am, convinced that he was God’s gift to me.

The church was travelling down one weekend to Aviemore. Our sister church in Glasgow was coming up to join us for fun and fellowship. Rather than everyone taking cars or catching a train, we had hired a bus. It wasn’t a big church. We could all fit quite comfortably on one bus. The journey wasn’t a long one either, not much more than half an hour, but we indulged in non-musical chairs, enjoying fellowship with each other.

It was a leap year. I was in love. I was settled on Joe. I was waiting for a proposal. It was coming close to the end of February and I was giving serious thought to proposing myself. I wasn’t sure whether it was scriptural or not.

I sat next to the pastor of our church, Charlie. I shared with him my plans to propose to Joe and asked him if it was OK.

He didn’t raise any specific objections. There was nothing in the Bible that said I couldn’t propose. I don’t think he was entirely happy with the idea. Charlie was quite a traditionalist when it came to the roles of men and women, but he also recognised that Joe and I were not teenagers with out of control hormones. That we would marry he had no doubts.

Apparently Charlie had made it his business to go and visit Joe as soon as possible. February was into its last week and “the day” was fast approaching. Joe knew exactly why Charlie was there. I don’t think I had shared my plans with Joe about proposing – but he knew me well enough to guess what I was intending to do.

It was an awkward conversation. Charile was quite adapt at talking to young people who didn’t always know their mind. Clear infringements of the rules were easy to deal with – but leap year proposals didn’t fit into that category. Joe wasn’t about to make Charlie’s job any easier!

There was a lot of beating about the bush before Charlie took the plunge.

“Charlie,” said Joe, “The champagne is in the fridge. I’m on to it.”

As it was, over the next couple of days, Joe was poorly and off work. “The day” was drawing nearer still. He couldn’t see how he could get to me before I got to him.

I turned up on his doorstep, like Florence Nightingale, with a tin of soup. We sat down in front of the TV with bowls of soup in hand. I think it was one of the Star Trek spinoffs that he detested but knew I liked. He switched off the TV, much to my annoyance, left the room to go into the kitchen and returned with the champagne and two glasses.

Question asked, answer given, moment marked with a sip of champagne and the TV was switched back on…but neither of us were really watching it.

The Bear Said, "No!"

There had been an office shuffle at Joe’s work. Maybe, like turning a mattress to even out wear and tear, it was all about the carpet that was being worn thin on the route to Joe’s desk. He’s a man who knows, and those who know he knows, travel the well-worn path to his desk. People who perhaps should be pursuing questions through a line manager take it to Joe instead because even if he doesn’t know, he will find out.

His new desk makes him more accessible than he used to be. There are more visitors than before and more questions that people need to ask. This means that the normal routine gets interrupted. He has his own tasks to complete and sometimes, once he has been dealing with someone’s questions, he tries to get back to what he was doing and can’t remember what it was he was doing. There was some moment of genius that he just can’t recapture.

Who came up with the bear? I don’t know.

Someone placed a bear on his desk.

If Joe was busy and needed not to be interrupted, the bear was turned around so its back was to the rest of the office. The bear and Joe were in conference and not to be disturbed.

If Joe was not so busy, the bear was turned back around, facing outwards, its face to the rest of the office. The bear and Joe were open for business.

The system was working well. There were clear signals about good times to approach the desk and not so good times. Joe could pursue his moments of genius, bag the good ideas and move on. The bear did a good job of fending off visitors.

All was going well. Joe was in a meeting with another colleague and the bear was facing away from the rest of the office.

The meeting ended. The bear should have turned around, but it didn’t. It remained facing Joe. Everyone respected the bear and left Joe alone.

Joe had another meeting planned. The man was hopping about, waiting for the bear to turn around so he could approach the desk and have his meeting.

The bear sat still.

Joe worked on.

The man kept hopping about.

The bear sat still.

Joe kept working.

The man approached the desk hesitantly, clearly agitated. Joe looked up from what he was doing and suddenly remembered the meeting.

“You should have said something.”

The man pointed to the bear, its back firmly turned away from the rest of the office.

“The bear said, ‘No!’”

The Road to Elsewhere

The snow that has been falling elsewhere in Britain finally hit Inverness today. We are located on a fairly sheltered part of the Moray Firth and tend to miss out on a lot of the extreme weather that happens elsewhere.

It was “elsewhere” that worried me last weekend. It was a long weekend, so we had booked into a hotel somewhere along the River Dee. It was a quiet village not that far from Balmoral Castle. Getting there was a concern. I had printed off a map from the AA Route planner. I was informed that it would take me about two and a half hours to get there and the red line on the map wasn’t exactly a straight line. What the instructions failed to tell me was about the steep hills and hair-pin bends. Going down seemed to be steeper than going up, so I wasn’t looking forward to the journey back.

A friend of mine had been out that way, maybe not so far out that way, a while ago when it was snowing. These roads are not the kind of roads that snowploughs tend to clear. The road with all its snow had proved impossible to drive up the way – so he turned the car around and reversed up the hill.

So…here I was, in a hotel in a small village, with a couple of very steep hills between me and home. I wouldn’t say that I am a confident driver. I was praying fervently for a snow free weekend because the idea of perhaps reversing up a steep hill if it was very snowy was beyond my capabilities. I envisioned us leaving the car parked in front of the hotel until spring and taking a taxi to the nearest train station!

As it turned out, there was no snow. We drove past the Lecht ski centre and caught glimpses of very determined skiers coming down the slopes on slush.

We had a different kind of hazard to negotiate – pheasants. It was the end of the hunting season and they were flaunting their stuff. One little fellow stood in the middle of the road and struck up a pose. Had he been able to talk I am sure he would have said, “Dig out the camera, lassie. Take a picture. You won’t find a better specimen than me.” I wasn’t about to pander to his aim to be the February sweetheart of the game bird calendar. Did he not know that this was a single track road with passing places and hair-pin bends and a 20% uphill gradient? He was certainly a game bird. I tried to drive around him – an impossible feat on a single track road.

There was a lorry coming down the hill, the pheasant was still posing in the middle of the road and there was no passing place in sight. The pheasant sauntered off the road and the lorry and I danced close to the camber to pass each other.

Arriving at the top of the hill, we pulled into a passing place to take a photo. It was very windy. The passenger door was impossible to open. I was buffeted about as I tried to take a photo. It’s good job I never joined the Weightwatcher class in the New Year!

Once over the top, the road snaked down the way – single track with hair-pin bends and passing places with a 20% downhill gradient. There was one pheasant corpse on the road home. Obviously he had struck up a similar pose to the previous pheasant and the vehicle hadn’t stopped.

If you ever watch something like golf, sometimes before the man hits his tee shot, there is an overview of the next hole. The camera, in a helicopter I presume, flies over the fairway and up to the green pointing out where the bunkers are. You know what is coming.

Had there been something similar – a camera in a helicopter flying over the hills and pointing out the single track road, the hair-pin bends, the passing places and the posing pheasants I am not sure if I would have not found another, easier way home. I would have counted myself as not really competent to tackle to road. Throw in some snow and ask me to reverse up the road – no way would I have attempted it.

Even without the pheasants, I thought I couldn’t do it.

It is amazing what you think you can’t do – but you can really if you just get on with it.

A Goldilocks Moment

I have been very busy of late – not busyness that has achieved nothing, but necessary busyness. One item ticked of a very long To-do list was to phone the cleansing department of the council to make arrangements for them to uplift on old mattress. It’s currently living in the spare room.

In the January sales we decided to replace the mattress. For more than a year or two the springs were finding their way to the surface. Turning the mattress over or around just gave you a different set of spring to deal with rather than solving the problem, and I had taken to covering the worst offenders with a spare duvet but it made for an uncomfortable night.

One Saturday we toured the bed shops. It was like a re-enactment of the story of Goldilocks without the bears, or the chairs or the porridge. We skipped straight to the beds. One shop operated a scale from one to five. One was rock hard – you might as well be sleeping on the floor. Five was very soft – the sinking sand equivalent of a mattress.

There was an invitation, almost an order given by the sales person that you lie down on the bed. The bottom part was covered in plastic so no one expected you to remove your shoes. Children were gleefully jumping one some mattresses given such freedom and encouragement.

We did the tour and like Godlilocks pointed out the ones too soft and the ones too hard. We swithered over a memory mattress but the price was higher than we had budgeted. It was down to a couple of “just right” ones.

We made our choice, filled in the right forms for delivery and surrendered the debit card.

Swapping the mattresses over should have been an easy affair. It is not rocket science to take the old one off and put the new one on. We didn’t factor in the dust bunnies lurking under the bed. They were clearly visible.

Joe left me to hoover the carpet.

I am not sure whether these dust bunnies were a fiercer breed than most bunnies – they hadn’t been tackled in a while and had perhaps had the chance to evolve into another life form or whether there was something up with the hoover. I had dismantled it to clean it a while ago. Putting all the bits back together in the right order could have been a MENSA entry examination. Whatever the problem, the hoover whined on an unhealthy note, overheated and the emergency cut-off safety thing kicked in.

The dust bunnies laughed. I think one or two mooned in celebration.

For the next half hour or more there was hand to hand – or rather bunny to brush skirmishes - under the bed. The dust bunnies were not laughing anymore.

Finally the new mattress took its place.

What was “just right” in the shop was transformed into “more than alright” on the bed. After the battle with the bunnies and then with the duvet cover, the urge to crawl into bed was strong.

We have entered a new phase of sleeping. This mattress should have come with a government warning – once in bed, it is soooooo comfortable that, like Goldilocks, one can’t help but fall asleep. Even the arrival of bears would have little bearing on whether Goldilocks would have left the bed and jumped out the window.

Joe and I are more than amazed that we put up with the past mattress for so long. We just applied the spare duvet to the worst of the springs and moulded our bodies to the dips and fell asleep.

I am just thinking about the things in life we put up with – the uncomfortable springs of trials and tribulations that poke through our faith. Maybe we find a word from the Bible to cover them over, to make things a little more comfortable. Maybe we just mould our Jesus walk around these things.

If that is the case…it’s time for something new.

Panda Mania

The narration was done by David Tennant and the subject matter of the documentary was about pandas – a dream combination if ever there was one.

My experience of zoos is limited. I can notch up a couple of safari parks and a wild life park with a small selection of not very exotic animals (apart from Kangaroos) but zoos are a bit of a mystery. I have never really lived anywhere that has had a zoo. I lived in Cyprus for a few years and there was a zoo but it wasn’t a pleasant experience. Not much had been done to create habitats for the animals that mimicked their natural environment. The animals didn’t look happy and contented, but rather distressed.

That was not the case for the two pandas that took up residence at Edinburgh Zoo. I never appreciated the amount of preparation involved. I knew that they had to build something special for the pandas, but it never occurred to me to wonder where they would get all the bamboo shoots from.

There’s a joke doing the rounds, that absolutely delights my husband, that there are more pandas in Scotland now than there are Conservative Members of Parliament.

Somewhere between the weeks spent being trained to look after pandas in China and the specially chartered Fex-Ex plane touching down on the runway in Edinburgh (and all the panda merchandise in the zoo shop)a thought occurred to me. I know it is good to look after the planet, and do something to stop pandas from becoming extinct – but if only the same care was given to looking after people!

I know that pandas can’t really look after themselves and they are really cute and cuddly looking and they are an endangered species with only a thousand or so in the wild, and people can look after themselves and very few of them are cute and cuddly and they are far from being extinct but it does seem out of balance.

The government hasn’t been given the pandas, or even bought them. We are just renting them for a few years. Lots of money has been spent on bringing them here and training people to look after them and feed them.

It seems a bit unfair to spend so much on a couple of animals, cute as they are, while at the same time clawing back money from the welfare system and pushing a huge percentage of people into poverty and debt.

To think that I rate lower than a panda in the scheme of things doesn’t bring me much comfort.

I’d like to be a panda
With fur that’s black and white
So when I lose my habitat
You’ll step in, make things right
You’ll scour the towns and hamlets
And bring me things to eat
And build a lovely home for me
A tranquil, calm retreat
My every need provided
My comfort guaranteed
So petted and so pampered
A favoured life indeed
But I am not a panda
I’m just a quiet soul
Lacking those essential things
That make a person whole
My job pays peanut wages
My home a soulless box
I cannot pay the fuel bills so
I’m wearing thermal socks
The fridge is all but empty
The cupboards almost bare
I look upon the panda and
And I think it isn’t fair!

A Touch of Tartan

It was Burn’s Night on Wednesday. We had the invitation to join friends for a marathon haggis, neeps and tatties night but I had too much homework to do.

The school is hosting a Burn’s Night celebration tonight. To get us all in the mood, and to raise money for a group of young people going to Romania in the summer, it was a dress down, or dress up, day. “A Touch of Tartan” was the theme - but as long as you paid your pound, you could wear just about anything.

Most people opted for something comfortable and casual. I saw at least one kilt during the day. Most “touches” were just that. A group of girls sported tartan fingernails!

I had trailed around the shops last night – having just been paid, looking for something tartan in the sales. It had to be something in the sales, not particularly expensive and something that I would wear again. There are too many things in the wardrobe worn once, or waiting for a slimmer me. Nothing took my eye sufficiently for me to dig out my money.

In the end I settled for a tartan ribbon. It had been tied on to one of the kitchen chairs many years ago. A box of chocolates, a presentation box of toiletries or some such other object had been tied with the ribbon. It was too nice a ribbon to throw away.

Sporting the ribbon tied in my hair I went to work.

The last time I can actually remember wearing a ribbon in my hair I must have been ten or eleven years old. Ribbons were not part of my growing up. Hair was tied with elastic bands.

I associate ribbons in my hair with a Roman Catholic orphanage. My brothers and sisters and I stayed there a couple of times in our childhood when my mother was very ill. It’s not a place that I associate with happy memories – but I loved the ribbons.


Nazareth House

The headline in the paper, bold and black stands out.
A nun, in an orphanage, knocking kids about.
My memory, like a tape, pressed to fast rewind,
Stops some thirty years ago to somewhere in my mind.

Nazareth House was hell behind a hedge
Smelling of carbolic soap, boiled cabbages and Pledge.
"It's only just for two weeks," Father Patrick said,
"While your mum recovers in a hospital bed."

Unlike "The Sound of Music", these nuns looked rather mean.
No compassionate expressions on their faces could be seen.
All black and white and waddling, like penguins in a zoo,
If they had a sense of humour, it wasn't getting through.

For their first "act of kindness" they took away my clothes
I wore someone else's dress, tied with someone else's bows.
The person that was "me" were they trying to rub out?
Was I just another kid to them, among thirty round about?

Some kids taught me skipping songs, and Irish jigs as well
I joined in complex clapping games that taught me how to spell.
I hid among the rose bushes in a game of hide and seek.
I counted up to twenty and I promised not to peak.

Some kids came to tease me. "Your mum is really dead.
You're never leaving here. Just get it in your head.
You'll not be leaving soon, You'll be here for quite a while.
If you want to be adopted, you must learn how to smile."

If days I could endure, the nights I never could.
Dormitories with many beds, and panelling of wood.
Embroidered in an ornate frame, and hung upon the wall
"God is watching you" - a grim reminder to us all.

Familiar sounds were absent, the creaks and groans I knew
Fears so small in sunlight, in darkness slowly grew.
Was it true, what they'd said, that mum was really dead?
Fear and dread surrounded me, and then I wet the bed.

I like a happy ending, two weeks was all I stayed.
On the outside I was fine, but on the inside rather frayed.
To be just one of many, neither special nor unique,
A thought that's quite unsettling, uncomfortable and bleak.

Should I jump upon the bandwagon, and sue those nuns in black?
The security I lost back then, can I ever get it back?
They never meant to harm me, they forgot one thing that's true
To know you're loved, that someone cares - that's important too.

Taking the Later Train

The radio in the car switches between Radio 2 (for the Breakfast Show with Chris Evans), Radio Scotland (for the local news) and a medium wave channel that covers football matches.

Yesterday it was on Radio 2 with Graham Norton and a guest. A listener had either phoned in, or twittered, or e-mailed or written in to share an experience. Apparently a new person had started at her office and the two of them shared a train journey to get to work. At first the woman quite liked the company and the conversation. After a week or two, the woman realised that it was basically the same conversation each morning. Obviously not happy in her marriage, the new person settled down each morning to criticise her husband.

Graham Norton and the guest were invited to give advice on what to do about it. I have no idea who the guest was. Her advice was to take a later train, or an earlier one, so as to avoid sitting next to the woman.

Graham’s advice was to tell the woman straight that she needed to stop criticising her husband. If things were so bad between husband and wife may be they ought to think about separating. She didn’t need to be cruel about it, or aggressive, but simply not put up with being someone else’s dumping ground for what was wrong in their life. It was time to encourage the person to move forward, move on, and make changes and climb out of the rut.

I have been thinking on and off about the comment about Enoch in the book of Genesis.

“Enoch walked faithfully with God; then he was no more, because God took him away.” Genesis 5:24

Imagine if it wasn’t walking, but taking the train every morning to work(for 300 years?). Suppose God was sitting next to Enoch and the two of them talked. How soon might God have decided to get a later train, or an earlier one, if all Encoh did each morning was regurgitate the same conversation bemoaning his lot in life, or pointing out the faults of fellow passengers or just complaining about the price of a season ticket on the train?

What was it about Enoch that made God allow him, encourage him, invite him to walk beside him each day?

I think there might have been days when Enoch might have bemoaned his lot in life, or pointed out the faults of fellow passengers or just complained about the price of, not exactly a season ticket on the train…but something. Enoch was a human being. If that is all he did I am not sure that God would have enjoyed their time together…and you kind of get the impression that He did.

Maybe it wasn’t so much about what Enoch said at all, but about what God was able to say to Enoch and how Enoch responded. God found in Enoch someone who would listen to Him.

It challenges me to know that God allows me, encourages me and invites me to walk beside him each day. The Bible says that I can cast all my cares upon God because he cares me for me – so, I can, to some extent, make God the dumping ground for all that is wrong in my life.

If that was all I did, I am not sure that God wouldn’t want to take the later train to avoid me some days!

God has so much to say to me moving forward, moving on, making changes and climbing out of my ruts. He would like to find in me someone who will listen to Him and respond.

Does he?

Walking Faithfully With God

I have been mulling over the life of Enoch – just the part of it described in a few short verses in Genesis. I know that his name crops us elsewhere in the Bible, but I am not inclined to hunt down the references.

“When Enoch had lived 65 years, he became the father of Methuselah. After he became the father of Methuselah, Enoch walked faithfully with God 300 years and had other sons and daughters. Altogether, Enoch lived a total of 365 years. Enoch walked faithfully with God; then he was no more, because God took him away.” (Gen 5:21-24)

I confess myself to be fascinated with those first 65 years.
It is not until his son comes into his life that Enoch changed and began to walk faithfully with God for the next 300 years.

Another Son has come into my life. Not my own personal chromosomes and DNA reproduced in the next generation of human flesh – but the Son.

Can anyone say of me that I have walked faithfully with God in the 35 years I have known Him? It is unlikely that I will get 300 years of His company here on earth – but there will be a day when I will be no more because God takes me away and then I will have an eternity to be with Him.

I am not inclined either to do the mathematics to work out how old Adam was when Enoch was born. Or how old Enoch was when Adam died. But I will dig out the calculator and have a go.

Adam was somewhere in the region of 627 (feel free to check my adding up, I won’t be offended if you correct me) when Enoch was born. So, he and Enoch had some 303 years to get to know each other. Enoch was well on his way to walking faithfully with God when Adam died.


I wonder as Adam watched Enoch walking faithfully with God whether he thought about his own walks with God in the cool of the day.

I wonder whether my own walk with God challenges anyone to think about theirs.

I think, perhaps, that Adam and Enoch talked about it. I think, perhaps, that Adam encouraged Enoch in his walk and warned him not to make the same mistakes he had made. I think Enoch encouraged Adam to seek God out to fall in love with Him afresh.

I think, perhaps, there is much that I could say to encourage those in the faith younger than I. There have been so many conversations God and I have had in the cool of the day (and in the heat of the battle!).

There could never be a Garden of Eden for Adam or Enoch to walk in – but walking anywhere with God makes any place paradise.