Trying to reconnect

Trying to reconnect.

These are words you don’t want to see when you open your email account. We’ve had several months of amazing, fast internet, working off a 4G mast. Last week, the company ‘upgraded’ the 4G mast, and now our internet is on again, off again, totally unreliable.

Trying to reconnect.

There is so much to manage right now, in most of our lives. There are times I feel overwhelmed, like I want to hunker down, pull the blanket up over my head and check out for awhile. Anyone else?

This morning, that thought led me to think of Jesus. Overwhelmed by crowds of folk needing help. People who were lost, and were hanging on his every word, counting on his healing touch. He took his friends and hopped into a boat and said, ‘Let’s get away by ourselves for awhile’. Let’s hunker down under a blanket and just BE. I can relate to that.

But when the boat landed on the far shore, the crowd was there waiting. They’d run round the edge of the lake to meet him on the other side. If I’d been Jesus, I might have told the disciples not to land the boat, but take off for a more remote spot altogether. But no. He landed and went back into the fray.

Trying to reconnect. Jesus managed to reconnect with his heavenly Father during that short boat ride. He managed to grab enough spiritual sustenance so that he had something to give the crowds that were thirsting for him.

Whatever this day holds, I am praying that I can have a steadier signal than my internet has, and I can walk in the ‘unforced rhythms of grace’, like Jesus did. Praying that for you, too. 

Abiding

 

For the first time in a YEAR, I was in a church today. I was there with twenty others, registered and masked, to pray for and mark the life of a dear, very private woman, a loved member of our Thursday Bible study group. It was a Requiem Mass in the tiny Roman Catholic church, and most of us there were protestants. The music was pre-recorded, sung beautifully by her niece, and the cross was shrouded in a purple veil.

It is, after all, Holy Week.

I grew up in an Episcopal church, so seeing the cross veiled, and the palm crosses at the door of the church, took me back. When Abide with Me was played as the coffin was carried out, I was taken back again, to the funeral of my dear dad, over ten years ago now. It was one of his favourites.

There are problems all around, it seems. Our internet is playing up, temperamentally being on sometimes, and then, stubbornly, giving us no connection. Totally unreliable. Fixing it isn’t straight-forward, and meanwhile there are two people here relying on the connection for their livelihoods, and others relying on it for other reasons. Tensions mount.

But for a blissful hour, I sat, stood, listened and prayed. I thought of Elizabeth, and thanked God for her. I basked in the presence of the other 19 in the church. I’ve only seen most of them on Zoom, for a whole year. So good to be gathered together.

Abide, the song advised. Abide with me, Jesus said. In the midst of the pandemic debacle, in the midst of private insecurities and constantly-changing vistas, in the midst of griefs and anxieties and sorrows and loss, we sat together for an hour, abiding. Abiding in Jesus.

Come, he said, and I will refresh you.

Mary sat at Jesus’ feet while Martha wore herself out. Help me, Lord, to choose the important over  the urgent, every time, and to choose to abide.

Resurrection Day

 

Unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies…

Standing on tiptoe, scanning the horizon for signs of new life. Watering the toilet rolls, searching the black earth for signs of a sprouting seed. Watching. Waiting.

Jesus turned his face to Jerusalem. He rested his tired body on a borrowed donkey and received an ecstatic welcome from a parched and weary populace, beaten down by a ruthless empire and the rigid rules of religiosity. Weary people, scanning the horizon. Watching. Waiting.

As he approached Jerusalem, their hearts soared. They glimpsed their redeemer king. But as the week wore on, their perception was distorted. They saw Jesus, as it were, in fun-fair style mirrors. Caricatures of who he was. It only took a few days until some of them were shouting for his death.

Unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies …

I will not let covid-19 define my life. Politicians scatter like ants in a squashed anti-hill, searching for safety, searching for something that will restore life as we knew it.

The grain of wheat is planted. Maybe we will see a new plant sprout, different but carrying life. Standing on tiptoe, scanning the horizon for signs of new life.

Watching. Waiting. Assured that God’s with us, and that his timing is perfect. Resting in his peace. Knowing that Resurrection Day is coming.

Grounded

 

The outsize container ship, loaded with fuel, ‘went dark’. It lost all power, leaving its rudder useless, and it drifted onto the sandbank on one side of the Suez Canal. Its length exceeded the width of the canal, and as it swung helplessly, the aft was driven onto the sand on the other side. This morning’s news reports that there it sits, completely blocking the Suez Canal, as six tugs try to pull it free without it sagging and breaking under the weight of its cargo.

Meanwhile, fifty ships a day are prevented from entering the busiest canal in the world and delivering their cargoes. Fifty ships loaded with goods ordered in far corners: vaccines perhaps, medicines of all sorts, food, manufacturing materials.

There is pressure on those struggling to free the ship and re-open the canal. Pressure to make the right decisions as to how to accomplish it. Pressure to stay focused.

A life well-lived is one lit and powered by the Lord our God. If the connection is lost and power is lost, we can easily drift onto sandbanks which not only stall our own progress, but may block the spiritual progress of others.

I had a disappointment yesterday when the book I’ve long laboured over was turned down, again. The light flickered as I felt the disappointment deep in my heart, as I questioned my calling, my ability, even my understanding of what I believe God said to me about this book, years ago. I drifted towards the sandbank.

Family gave me hugs. Sent me words of encouragement by text. Sent me links to uplifting spiritual songs. Friends commiserated.

This morning I sat with God. The lights flickered on again as hope began to rise. Whatever the purpose for my writing this book, God will accomplish it if I just keep moving with him, one step at a time. His purpose may not look like my purpose, so I need to surrender it to him again and allow him to work his purposes out. I’m smiling wryly, as I have a commission to write Bible notes on the topic of perseverance.

The Lord has a sense of humour. And a purpose. As I allow him to fire me up again and get me moving forward, I expect he’s got a few things to teach me. And I may yet share a laugh with him about it all. Today, though, I’m spluttering forward, powered by faith in the God who never forsakes.

A little bug

 

Because a little bug went kerchoo! This children’s book has been read and re-read to our children and grandchildren, and is such a fun exposition of how one little thing can set in train a whole host of consequences. The butterfly effect.

This morning I am filled with gratitude and joy as I look back and remember. Some of my dearest friendships were formed during years when a certain professor in Aberdeen, Professor Torrance, inspired a following of theology students from the US to come and study for their PhD under him. For several years, we enjoyed the richness of the backwash from that wave of students, as several young families moved into Banchory and became part of our community for three or four years. Their children became friends with our children as they became friends of us.

Miles now separate us from these dear friends, but the love is still there. They enriched our lives and transformed our local church experience, challenging and breathing new life into our faith as they walked with us on the Christian journey.

My lock-down project has been to revise, yet again, the historical novel I wrote a few years back which tells the story of Onesimus, the runaway slave of Philemon. Now, as I begin to reach out to find an agent, I am so blessed to have friends from those Torrance days who are willing to endorse the book when (I say by faith) it is published.

My heart is full of gratitude and joy, and faith in the God who has counted the hairs on my head, who knows what each of us needs and who delights in orchestrating friendships which transcend distance and time. To him be all the glory and praise.

The Joy of the Lord

 

The tubular conduit curves under the wall of the steading, carrying electricity cables. It has been in place several years, and during those years, it turns out, roots from the elder and the apple trees have penetrated the plastic and clogged the pipe. The blockage is tight and impossible to loosen, impossible to shift.

Jesus’ first recorded miracle, according to John, was performed quietly at a wedding, when the wine ran out. He turned the water into wine, so that the hosts would not be shamed, and so that the people could rejoice.

Joy is a fruit of the Spirit. Joy is a gift of God. Life can clog our inner spirits. Hard things happen, and they, in turn, can harden us. Jesus taught his disciples that the kingdom of God belongs to little children – and little children are characterised by joy. They notice the little things and marvel. Their sharp eyes perceive the world around them and receive it with faith and love and joy.

I don’t think the pipe outside can be cleaned out – it may need to be replaced. My inner being, on the other hand, can be cleared, by the miracle of the Holy Spirit living in me, turning water into wine. He can blast through all the negatives that have hardened within me through the years. He can clear away all the debris and detritus which makes me rigidly cynical and old. Unless you become like little children, Jesus said…

I commented to one of my sons last night in a WhatsApp message that there is so much sadness in the world right now. His response was, yes, but also joy, so much joy. And he attached a couple of short videos, one of his 4-year-old playing with his little brother, giggling away, and then of the nearly 2-year-old twins sliding through the room, each one wearing one of the parents’ pairs of slippers. Simple, unadulterated joy.

As we walk towards the Cross during these next two weeks, I ask the Holy Spirit to sweep into me once more, clearing away all that would prevent the joy of the Lord from flowing through me. The joy of the Lord is our strength. The joy of the Lord is a gift of God. May we all be cleansed and filled today with the joy of the Lord.

Mating Toads

 

We were tramping our usual trail, the three-mile walk we take most days after lunch. Setting the world to rights as we went, or sharing our concerns, or enjoying a laugh. I paid scarce attention to what lay underfoot, apart from trying to avoid the puddles.

Suddenly, one of the little bubbles of lumpy earth through which we were walking, moved.

‘Frogs!’ Mhairi cried. Or, possibly more accurately, toads. Toads glorying in the warmth of an early spring sun and doing what animals the world over do in spring. Playing Leapfrog but not going completely over. Mating.

‘I think I stood on one!’ I cried out, concerned and tiptoeing forward. Mhairi looked and confirmed that yes, perhaps I had. I couldn’t look.

Inadvertently, I may have injured or even killed one of these amazing creatures.

Yesterday morning, I had participated in a Zoom seminar on Migration, Refugees and Climate Change. Our attention had been drawn to the plight of millions of people affected by drought and flood and other natural disasters, as well as human injustices. Climate change is driven by profligacy in using resources and developing lifestyles which harm the planet. Most of that profligacy comes from the rich nations, where most of the inhabitants have choices. Also, I have been following a Lenten reflection on modern-day slavery and considering, this week, the exploitation of children in the production of chocolate.

Two man-made problems. Climate change, and slavery. Hidden within my lifestyle choices are victims of those choices.

Inadvertently, I have been stepping on mating toads. Inadvertently, I make choices which rob the hidden poor of their own choices.  

What does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God. (Micah 6:8) Today, may all of my actions be informed and inspired by motives of justice and mercy. May I tread softly through this day, and may all of my steps be guided by God, so that I squash no more toads, so that I do not squash the hopes and dreams of any of God’s children, anywhere. Light of the World, be my guide, transform my mind, soften my heart, and strengthen my voice to speak for those who have no voice.

Blackbird Singing

 

One way and another, it’s been a busy week, with its highs and lows. I awoke in the night. It was still dark, but a blackbird sang its heart out. ‘Blackbird singin’ in the dead of night’ dropped onto the turntable in my head, and it’s been there ever since.

Waiting in the car to be called in for a blood test, I thought about that phrase from Paul McCartney’s song. I thought of the beautiful song of the blackbird, singing her heart out in the darkness. Not waiting for dawn to break. Maybe they’re the warm-up band for the dawn chorus.

It feels like the dead of night to me. Signs of the dawn coming, but morning hasn’t broken yet (that’s another record…) As a follower of Jesus, I should begin my song of joy now. My hope is built on an unshakeable rock, and I trust in him. I trust that day follows night, as he designed it to do. I trust that he is with us in the dark, in the tedium, in the confusion, in the grief.

Blackbird singing. This is our moment to be free. (Listen to the song. It’s still great.)

Gracious Generosity and Gratitude

 

My newest grandchild’s name begins with a G. Gabriel. As I signed a card for him, I smiled to think of all the G’s in my life: God, Gregor, Gabriel, Groucho, and to some I am known as Gramma, and to others my mother is known as Gramma, or Gramma-Lyn.

This morning I’ve been reflecting on generosity, and its opposite number, greed. Two more ‘g’s. One special and God-given, the other a temptation we need God’s help to resist.

The widow of Zarephath shared what she thought would be the last meal she would ever make for her son and herself. She fed the stranger, Elijah, first, and then her flour never failed and her oil never ran out. Jesus commended the widow who quietly gave her last two coins to God, trusting him to provide for her.

I look at the state of the environment, ravaged by our greed. Inspired by God, may we all live generously today, and, focused on the God of grace, may we refuse to carry grudges and resist the pull of greed.

Help me, Lord, to trust you as did those two exemplary widows.

Turn the Tide

 

King Cnut, in a famous anecdote, tried in vain to hold back the tide. I saw a headline this morning about a $50 million plan to protect Louisiana’s coastline from erosion and rising sea levels due to climate change.

Call me a pessimist, but I think Louisiana’s expenditure could be as effective as King Cnut’s effort.

There is no point in addressing the symptoms and outcomes without fixing the causes. Hopefully, COP26 in Glasgow in November will persuade the movers and shakers in the nations to commit to serious reductions and changes in order to rein in the environmental emergency.

Meanwhile, we can continue to do what we can. Plant more flowering bushes and trees in order to encourage biodiversity; switch to environmentally-friendly cleaning products or make our own from vinegar, soda, etc; change our eating habits to be less reliant on animal products; drastically reduce our use of plastic and lobby for change. It may sound like tinkering at the edges, but as the cargo shifts internally, the juggernaut will alter its course. I also read that the state of Wyoming, which has been a coal-producing state, is switching to harvesting its other abundant resource, the wind, because the call for coal is declining.

Jesus calls us to follow him, to challenge tradition and confront injustice, and to bring light and life into the situations we encounter. We are all affected by climate change; we all bear responsibility for our consumer habits and our selfish lifestyles. It’s easy to become overwhelmed at the size of the problem, but as the little boy said to his critic as he threw another starfish back into the sea, ‘I made a difference for that one.’

We can’t hold back the tide, but Jesus working in us can. When it comes to the power of Jesus, I am an eternal optimist.

 

Hope Rises

 

I look at the bare brown branches, searching for the first yellow-green dots that will grow and sprout and bedeck the world with a fabulous spring show. Nothing yet, but the signs are there. Ends of branches on the rhododendrons are swelling, hinting at the colours that lie within. The flowering cherry has lumps and bumps where there will soon be pink blossom. Daffodil stems continue to grow and swell, a hint of yellow promise. Spring is on its way; new life pushing back against the death throes of winter.

Hope rises. Hope rises as we watch the roll-out of vaccines around the world. Hope rises as the numbers of covid patients decline; as hospital admissions fall off; as mortality reports record a drop. Hope rises as we anticipate the end of this dreadful pandemic which has overwhelmed the world.

It’s not over yet, though, we are reminded by the scientists. We may be in the home stretch, but we have not yet crossed the plate.

My soul waits for the Lord more than watchmen wait for the morning, more than watchmen wait for the morning.

 

Faithful Always- Semper Fidelis

 

A few moments of pause. I slip into the prayer window to share the seat with Indy. She welcomes me with a purr, which rattles her frame with warmth and a quiet joy. I have no agenda; my Bible notes are in the bedroom. I am just here. Just here to connect with God.

My eye is drawn to the old tennis ball, lurid green, which has sat for days on the grass verge beside the drive. And that draws my thoughts back to Dusty, such a delight, such a companion, so missed still, even six years after her death.

I smile as I think of her dropping that ball at my feet, at anyone’s feet, raising hopeful, pleading eyes as she settled into a starter’s position. Ready. Always ready.

So much joy that pooch brought. So much laughter. She didn’t have to do anything. She just had to be herself. We all loved her for the gentle, loving canine she was.

I drop my heart at the Saviour’s feet. My eyes search for his face; my ears strain for his voice; my voice begins to praise. My Jesus. My Saviour. Lord, there is none like you.

I don’t have to do anything today to earn his love. I just need to be all that he made me to be. Creative. Loving. Compassionate. Joyful. Trusting. With his help, I will try to manage that.

Navigating the Storms

 

In 1989, Tracy Edwards skippered an all-female crew competing in the Whitbread Round the World Yacht Race. The documentary, Maiden, tells this riveting story of courage, skill and tenacity in the face of male prejudice and disbelief.

Early in the journey, Tracy realised that her navigator and she could not work together. The navigator left the crew in South America, and Tracy then taught herself to navigate the fastest routes, while also skippering the boat and keeping everyone’s spirits and courage up during the testing voyage.

Today is International Women’s Day. Most of us won’t be competing in global yacht races. But whatever we are doing today, we are making decisions that affect the course we take. Whatever our stage of life, we need courage to navigate our journey.

When I am feeling wobbly, a bit unsure of my direction, I go to the source of all courage. I lean into God. Decades ago, I sat on a plane on the runway in Los Angeles. It was a wintry night there, wind- and rain-swept. I had a four- and a two-year-old with me, studying my face. We had just said an emotional farewell to my parents and sister. I was trying to hold it together, as these two little ones searched my face for comfort and strength. I knew that if I cried, they would be inconsolable.

‘God,’ I breathed silently, weeping inside. ‘Help me!’ I had recently experienced a life-changing encounter with God, and was just discovering the reality of his living word in Scripture. I sensed he was guiding me to read Deuteronomy 31:7-8. I had no idea what was in that passage; I could barely locate it, but I thumbed through the new pocket Bible I carried and found it near the front.

‘Be strong and courageous…The Lord himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged.’

He calmed my pounding heart. He brought an encouraging smile to my lips as I looked, dry-eyed, at Mhairi and Jamie. He wiped away the inner tears and gave me courage, vision.

May I never grow so self-assured and cocky that I think I can find my own way. The Lord is a light to my path, in the big and small decisions of life.

As long as he is my navigator, I am safe and all will be well.

 

Broken Branches

 

I started my day in the prayer window. Now that schools are back, it’s quiet in the living room at that time of day. I hadn’t slipped in there, contemplatively, for awhile, so it was with curiosity that I looked out at the familiar scene beyond the glass.

My attention was caught by the dead stump left dangling after a delivery lorry tore a branch off, months ago. It swayed slightly in the breeze, held on to the mutilated branch by a finger or two of bark.

As we begin to emerge through the mists of the battlefield of covid-19, many of us – maybe all – are maimed by loss. We have lost time with precious grandchildren, moments of their young lives which can never be recovered. We have lost time with our precious elderly mothers and dads and aunts and uncles, moments of sunset beauty which are fleeting, fading away before the long night. We have lost loved ones to the virus or other ailments, and have lost the precious moments to share our grief with others who loved them, watching on YouTube from afar. We have lost momentum and direction, lost jobs, lost travel plans, lost celebrations, lost our own health.  Children have lost social skills, education; students have lost the heady freedoms of university life.

It has been a season of profound loss. (It has also been a season of unexpected, hidden blessing. But that’ll be a subject for another blog.)

That branch was torn off by a delivery truck, but the tree still stands. Soon, new leaves of spring will sprout and grow. What was asleep will awaken again and there will be beauty. It’s time for the fingers of bark to release their hold of the broken stump, and to focus on new life. It’s time for hope to rise, for joy to return.

Whatever was torn away from us, whatever we have lost, it’s time to cut away the scar tissue that keeps the pain dangling in the winds of life. It’s time to drop the ache and despair. New life is coming. The vaccines are working. The promise of spring is just around the corner.

Together, we emerge from the very real battlefield on which we have all been for a year. Together we encourage each other as we recover our joy, as hope inspires smiles and tentative expectations are birthed.

Together we lean into Jesus. Some of us will look back at these days like the writer of the famous Footprints poem, and we’ll see just the one set of footprints. When we couldn’t take another step, Jesus has carried us.

 

Splinters in Eyes

 

As much to myself as to anyone in earshot, I sighed and lamented: ‘If I don’t wash those windows, I won’t even be able to see the sun streaming out of that clear blue sky!’ Joey, in the kitchen, heard me. When I returned from the grocery store an hour later, it was to find her up a ladder, polishing and shining the large conservatory windows. With real stick-to-it-iveness, this dear daughter-in-law worked her way round all the ground floor windows, then did them inside, too, including the glazed doors, and then she headed upstairs. I never would have had the energy to do them all over a weekend. A real gift of love, for which I am deeply grateful.

Deeply grateful, because it has sharpened the views from every perspective. I can see clearly now. The sun (when it comes out again…) can shine through unimpeded. My attention is no longer drawn to the swipe of bird dropping that splatted here, or the spots of fly dirt left there. Instead, I see beyond to the world God has created, to the snowdrops and crocus, the freshly dug earth and the tangle of twigs and branches from every tree.

Jesus advised not to judge another person or attempt to remove a splinter from their eye, without first removing the plank in your own eye. Splodge, a cat we had years ago, lived rough in the woods for several months when the arrival of a puppy put her nose out of joint. When we finally found her and brought her home, she had a thorn embedded in one of her eyes. The vet pronounced it inoperable, because time had caused the injury to heal with scar tissue which blinded her. It was too late to remove the ‘plank’. I am so accustomed to the plank in my own eye, that I don’t even realise it has blinded my vision. Jesus, may your gentle touch remove the plank which is there today, so that I can see clearly, with love and kindness, who and what you want me to see today.

Hope Rising

 

Yesterday, I spent some time gently raking dead leaves from some of the flower beds. Removing the mouldering leaves and wilted flowers revealed new shoots straining to break through. Tiny snowdrops. Purple crocus, twisted and malformed because of the weight of death pressing them down.

We’re coming out of winter. We’re coming into spring. The weight of the last several months presses us down. We can be twisted by fear, dwarfed by loss, hidden from the sun by the disappointments and burdens.

March is coming in like a lamb today. Gentle and quiet, yet thrilling with an incipient joy waiting to be expressed. Hope is rising as we welcome spring, however hesitantly, however cautiously.

I think of the Lamb, who faced the trials of his life with love. He welcomed everyone, full of promise, of understanding, of hope. As we begin to stretch up into warmer days, may hope rise within us, based not on circumstance but based on the truth. Based on the Lamb. Based on Jesus.