Emerald Rainbow

 

What a blessing we were treated to this morning. When I glanced out the prayer window, in the flurry of children donning coats in prep for the school dash, there, sprouting from the neighbour’s garden, was a glorious rainbow. A full rainbow, arching over the field and planting its other foot on the Hill of Fare. A vibrant, dazzling bow of intense colours. It remained a few minutes, and then disappeared, leaving the landscape looking earthly, not divine.

I know I wrote about a rainbow yesterday, but following that early sighting this morning, I came to my daily reading. It was Revelation 4, where I read that John’s vision of heaven included God seated on a throne which was encircled by an emerald rainbow.

An emerald rainbow? That seems an oxymoron to me. How can a rainbow, the splitting of white light into its component colours, be emerald, just one colour? Turning to the 21^st century guru, Dr Google, I scanned a sermon from 1871, delivered by Archibald G. Brown at Stepney Green Tabernacle: a sermon entitled An Emerald Rainbow.

A couple of thoughts from it have distilled in me: that the rainbow, as a sign of God’s covenant with man, is the prism through which he views us, and it is a prism of grace, a covenant of grace. It is the filter through which we view him, too, through the covenant of grace. And that in heaven, it is never separated out and broken, either into different colours or as an arc, but instead is a complete circle. From whatever vantage point we look at God, we see him, and he sees us, through the covenant of grace. His promise. Jesus’ sacrifice.

May we emerge from the storms of the last year trusting in the faithfulness of God to keep his covenant with us; may we bring rainbows of light and promise wherever we go, trusting that even though our ‘rainbows’ are broken and incomplete, an emerald rainbow of promise encircles the throne of God. In him we trust and in him we put our hope.

Rainbows

 

I gazed gratefully out the prayer window at the dappled sky, while the sun played tag with the rain-heavy clouds. As I watched, a faint rainbow appeared on the horizon, growing fatter, more vibrant as I watched, but not extending further than a third into the arc. Gradually, it disappeared and left a canvas of greys and blues and shades of white.

I am gazing gratefully at the day ahead. There are things in it which shine like a rainbow; there are other things which loom like a deep grey cloud.

God is in them all. Before a prayer is on my lips, he has heard it. He knows the desires of my heart. He is faithful. His rainbow is his reminder, his seal. He is so good.

May there be rainbows in all of our lives today, linking the tears with the joy. In every teardrop, there is a rainbow. His promise.

River roads

 

What better way to follow another blood test than to walk along the beautiful River Dee and take in the beauties of that arterial system bringing life to the countryside? With the peekaboo sun glinting on the bubbling waters, and the fishermen standing waist-deep along the banks, a brisk walk was so restorative. There is something life-affirming about the sound of water rushing and dancing over and around rocks in its way. It provides habitat and shelter for so many aquatic creatures, moves debris and particles around in an act of constant creativity. It satisfies our thirst and restores our well-being.

Just like the miracle of blood, carrying oxygen to my brain, transporting the building blocks of good health from one bit of my body to another. So grateful to God for the miracle of his creation.

There is such an inter-connectedness in our world, and we will only create a healthy world when we finally cooperate rather than compete, when greed gives way to generosity, and when love sweeps away the last vestiges of hate. Maranatha. Come, Lord Jesus.

Languishing

 

Languishing. I read an article the other day which suggested most of us, at this point in the pandemic, are languishing, and we should be confident to say that when folks ask us how we are. We don’t need to be polite and say, ‘Fine’. There will be some of us who are definitely not fine, and others who may be soaring, but probably most of us are bobbing along, having left behind the erstwhile joy of forward planning and now settled into a rather boring routine of not looking too far ahead, just taking one day at a time.

Languishing.

A better word which has settled down in me these last couple of days is the ancient Hebrew word, Shalom. Peace. Not just the peace the world gives, but the peace of Jesus Christ, that deep, inner peace which carries us through the highs and the lows and stokes our hope boilers with faith in the God for whom nothing is impossible.

Shalom, that even when we are languishing, there is good in that. Shalom, trusting that as we put our trust in God for the future, he is with us, guiding our thoughts, leading us forward, walking beside.

Shalom to you today, whether you are languishing or flying or face down in the mud, may God fill you with his peace and faith to believe that with God, all things are possible. He loves us with an everlasting love, and therefore I can say with confidence, it is well with my soul.

 

Old-Fashioned Projectors

 

Those of a certain vintage will remember the reel-to-reel projectors which ran the movies at the cinemas. Dad had a home projector when we were growing up, and Don had one as our children were going up. There was a clickity clackity noise as the tape fed through the projector and the image appeared on the wobbly screen on the other side of the room. We laughed to see each other, and ourselves, actually moving.

Occasionally, the tape would jam, its threading through the projector having been faulty or loose. If not dealt with immediately, the film itself would begin to disintegrate, the heat of the lamp melting the fragile tape. When that happened, a new connection had to be made to splice the broken tape together, causing the action to jump from one thing to another.

Up praying in the night, I sensed God making a link between that image, and the tired old narrative that plays through my mind. A narrative that casts me in a certain position of responsibility, which makes me anxious, which makes me sad, which makes me intervene when I shouldn’t. I found myself asking God to let the light of Jesus burn a hole in that tape, breaking it off, so that he, the Great Projectionist, can set me free of false expectations and responsibilities. He can splice a new vision into my psyche, a new narrative which will shine through me and project Him wherever I go. I want to be out of the picture. I want him to be the one everyone sees.

God can renew our minds; he can heal our spirits; he can make us new. To him I surrender. I surrender to his will, to his purpose in me, to his Holy Spirit.

As lockdown lifts and we begin to gather again, may I walk to a different drum, may I live out a new narrative, may there be more of Him, and less of me.

 

Divine Palette

 

I’ve been painting new plasterboard with a watered-down emulsion paint, to seal it before applying the colour. Some marks and plaster tapes still show through the weak wash, making the job tedious and unsatisfying. After it’s dry, the cover is slightly better, but during the application it looks scrappy and patchy.

I’m thinking about a line from Philemon, where the writer prays that the reader will ‘put into action the generosity that comes from your faith as you understand and experience all the good things we have in Christ.’

How well do I understand and experience all the good things I have in Christ, I wonder? Is my life like the plasterboard I’ve been painting, washed with a basic understanding of my faith, but missing colour? Am I vibrant, popping with colour, revealing Jesus through action and conversation? Or …

Painting the sealing coat onto plasterboard, I kept wondering if it was fully covered, or if I needed to go over it again, do more.

The Holy Spirit is our seal; we don’t need to wonder if we can do any more to earn acceptance. We’ve been prepped for the colours God has in mind for us. As we understand and experience all the good things we have in Christ, he uses the infinite colours of his palette to reveal his love and grace to a monochrome world.

Neighbours

 

Last time I saw this lady, she was adopting her grandsons, who were 5. In the post-vaccine recovery area yesterday, where we all waited in case we had adverse reactions, all masked and socially distanced, somehow she recognised me. Her grandsons are now 16. We caught up on the eleven years…

Then I noticed another woman, a mum of kids who were at primary school with my younger ones. We shared our experiences of navigating the covid lock-downs. I hadn’t seen her in ten years at least. Along came her brother and sister-in-law, who I know through my sister-in-law. I hadn’t seen them for yonks, as they say. And so it went. A couple of women from church and Bible study groups, from food bank.

A host of Crathes-area 70-year-olds, eager for their second injections so life can open up again. These people are near-neighbours; friends from past days, not seen for years.

Today I am grateful for being settled in this area for so long, being part of the community. I am grateful for so many kind and caring people. I am grateful for the NHS, and their care in ensuring this vaccine would be safe (probably!) for me, given my conditions. I am full of gratitude to the God who is faithful, and so I bring him the burdens on my heart, too, this morning, for situations other friends are enduring. I make my petitions to him, with thanksgiving in anticipation for what he will do.

God is love; he is good and his mercy never fails.

Reservoirs

 

Today, clouds overhead are leaking a fine mist of rain over the earth, falling onto the thirsty ground.

The sweet peas we planted a few weeks ago sprouted and grew quickly in the warmth of the conservatory, so the other day, I moved them out to the cooler greenhouse. It’s too cold yet to plant them outside. I also potted the dahlias which were sheltering inside over winter, and put them into the greenhouse to sprout. They all need water.

Watering is something I struggle to remember. Having lived for years in a land where the clouds usually provide enough moisture for everything that grows, I just forget. If I don’t get out there and water the dahlias and sweet peas, though, they will wither and die.

Spending time in God’s presence is a little like standing in a fine mist of rain. It is especially noticeable when I am struggling with issues or tasks; when I remember to stand or sit in his presence, the fine mist of his Spirit revives my spirit and restores my soul, strengthening me to keep going and to experience the fragrance of his flowers and the fruitfulness of his life all around me.

I love the deep watering that comes from gathered worship, from challenging sermons and encouraging scripture. But the deep watering, as saturating as it feels, evaporates, and I need to spend daily time letting his presence sprinkle life and grow love, peace, joy, kindness, patience, gentleness and self-control in me.

It’s my number one priority, because I’ve learned the hard way, that without his water sprinkling down, there is no reservoir of water springing up within me.

Our eyes are on You

 

We take a newspaper once a week: we like struggling to do the Saturday Times crossword. It takes us most the week and we don’t always finish. We marvel at the people who whip out the answers during a morning commute on the Tube. Better brains than ours.

Of course we do more than just engage with the crossword. We read the news, and these last three weeks I have been shocked by stories of the ‘rape culture’ in schools. Other stories have saddened me, but these stories lead me to conclude that the days are evil.

Lord, we don’t know what to do, but our eyes are on you.

I remember this morning two tiny events which God used to open up the life I have been blessed to live. First, the way I met Don, being directed by the hotel receptionist to ask my question of the handsome young man in the kilt, coming down the stairs at that moment. I did ask him my question, and I’ve been married to him now for over 45 years.

Second, as we looked for a new home when we moved from Huntly, the paper on which I had pasted the possibilities I’d seen in local newspapers during the week rested on the car’s dashboard. I picked Don up from the overnight train from London on that Friday morning, a glorious morning.  As we headed out past Hazelhead Park, he rolled down his window (days before electric windows…) The paper was sucked outside, and despite our wild searching all over the vicinity, we could not find it. All we had was that day’s newspaper, and the one house that we suspected might tick our boxes. It hadn’t been lived in for three years; it was smaller than the flat we’d just sold and didn’t have a shower. It didn’t actually tick many of our boxes, but somehow, we knew it was the place for us.

We’ve lived in that house now for over 40 years, and it has enabled us to raise four kids in rural freedom, to take in refugees, to enjoy B&B guests, to welcome home family, and watch grandchildren play happily in safety. Our boundaries have fallen in pleasant places.

God is love; he is forgiving; he knows what to do. He holds so much power: he doesn’t need to do much to change the disastrous direction in which we as a ‘civilisation’ are headed.

Lord, we don’t know what to do, but our eyes are on you this morning. We desperately need your help, Father, and we put our trust in you.

Lord You have my heart

 

‘Oh, there’s my nail scissors,’ Don said, picking them off the mattress as he crawled into bed after a day that had its fair share of moments of stress. I burst out laughing.

On day 7 of our gratitude exercise, we were to transform every incipient negative thought into a positive one. We’d awoken to the news that overnight, Prince, the new-cat-on-the-block who moved in with Doug and Joey, had attacked Indy, our little scaredy-cat, and now Indy was nowhere to be found. As we spread out and searched, I sought the positive.

On our way to Aberdeen (yes! For haircuts!), Doug sent a message and picture. Found, cowering in the back of the barn, one back paw obviously injured. We all worked our way through our thoughts of how to prevent this trauma happening again, each of us coming up with different suggestions. We had honest words, loving words, deepening relationships.

This is a big house. We will keep doors shut, and designate outdoor time for one feline at a time. We all want it to work.

Other issues percolated through this film throughout the day, as each of us seeks the way forward. I think I generally managed to turn each issue to a positive. It was an eventful day, beyond just having two appointments to make.

Hence my hilarity. We might have ended the evening at A&E with a pair of nail scissors embedded in a thigh, or worse, but no, that calamity was averted. We sank onto the pillows with a sigh of success.

My God is my rock…my shield…my place of safety. Some days land softer than others, but in all of them, this is the truth. Jesus is there, picking up the pieces, whispering love and encouragement.

Today is a new day, sunny and calm. Thank you, Lord; you have my heart.

Re engagement

 

Two appointments today, after months of freedom to order my day as I determine. I’ve missed meeting up with people, true enough. But I have enjoyed the freedom of timelessness: today, I’m watching the clock.

As lock-down loosens slightly here in Scotland, I want to take forward a freedom from constructing my day on an artificial scaffolding of time-keeping. I pray that my mind will remain free of constraints, free to engage with God at a micro level. I pray that the peace of Christ might rule in my heart and mind so that as I glance at the clock and get in the car, I go out with joy.

This pandemic has been awful on so many levels. May we not discard the good lessons we’ve learned, though, when we re-engage with the world.

Mirror, mirror

 

An accidental bump broke off the passenger side mirror. A minor impact. Maybe glue it back? It can’t be that hard …

Turns out, it can. The side mirror is more than it would seem to be. There are wires and bits of plastic, necessitating the removal of the inside of the car’s door panel, some welding, some new bits.

Live without it? That compromises safety: not a good idea.

Jesus told Peter, ‘follow me’. Three times he said it, after eliciting declarations of love for him. Follow me. On that traumatic night, while Peter crouched by a fire and awaited news of his arrested Lord, he was challenged. He was charged with being with Jesus, the prisoner. No, he swore. Not me. You’ve got the wrong man.

Jesus, heading at speed towards his dreadful death, checked his mirrors. He saw that Peter, who had been following, had dropped back into a lay-by, taken a detour. And that bothered him. The author of the parable of the lost sheep came back, met Peter on the shore, and gave him another chance.

If you love me, you’ll follow me, he told him.

He’s checking his side mirrors today. He’s headed one way in my life, another way in yours, and encouraging us to follow him. Because he keeps his eyes both forward and back, he won’t lose any of us dithering cowards. He keeps his mirrors working. He knows what’s going on, and he asks each of us today: Do you love me? Follow me.

And he’s off.

I’m so grateful that if I falter by the wayside, if I (or maybe that should read, ‘when I’) stop for a picnic and am distracted by the world, Jesus will circle back and, with mercy and grace, get me back on the path. Again.

Grace and Mercy

The sun glistened and shimmered on the sea, and this week, the wind had dropped. The clifftop walk from Stonehaven to Dunnottar was not precipitous, but an easy stroll along breathtakingly-beautiful scenery. What a birthday gift! Where Don and I had cautiously gone last week, this week Mhairi, Don and I strode out with a gaggle of other walkers enjoying the hint of spring warmth in that sunshine.

The same scenery but a completely different feel to the day. Both days, we walked the same path, and we walked with God, but the sense of safety differed vastly.

Do not be afraid, God advises. 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. Deut 31:8 This was a word I read in my daily readings yesterday, and one that sustained me years ago when I was a new and very homesick Christian. Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight. Prov 3:5-6

I head into my second three-score-and-ten years, leaning in and hoping to grow in trust and obedience. Grateful to so many well-wishers yesterday who enrich my life; grateful to the Lord who is full of grace and mercy. Amen. 

Gratitude

The spring sunshine blazes forth from the blue sky, making the newly fallen snow twinkle and shimmer on the cars and the grass verges. April in Scotland.

It is my 70^th birthday and I am feeling overwhelmed with gratitude to God for blessing me with mercy and grace and love, pressed down and overflowing. To be able to head out for a walk with loved ones, feeling strong and able and nursing no pain, is a blessing not everyone has. To be able to count so many friends and family in my life who are so precious and special, who have shown me grace and love and who have walked with me through the good and the bad times, is a blessing I am very aware of and grateful for. To be part of a rich community of believers, to be part of the family of Jesus-followers the world over: does it get any better?

Yes, I am continuing the gratitude exercise but there is no effort in feeling gratitude today. Thank you to all of you who have modelled Jesus to me in so many ways through the years. Thank you to all of you who have helped grow my patience. Thank you to all of you who have opened my eyes to the magic of the creator and the created. Thank you to all of you who have held my hand, hugged me, dried my tears, cried with me, laughed with me and made me laugh.

Blessed beyond measure. May I, in turn, share these myriad blessings, today and every day. Thank you, God. 

Gratitude

 

The sun is up early and there is no whining wind squeezing through the window gaps this morning. The conservatory is already warming up. The sweet peas have sprouted and are shooting upwards.

Yesterday I speed-read a book suggesting a plan for practicing gratitude. Before reading it, I might have thought I was a pretty grateful person. Now, however, I recognise that although I have frequent moments of gratitude, my over-all attitude can reflect a negative thought-pattern which is indicative of complaint and even self-pity.

So, today I have started her 28-day plan of practicing gratitude every day until it is truly embedded in my life. I hope that others will notice a difference. Already, I noticed a difference, having started the day by counting ten blessings, saying why I was grateful for them, and thanking God for each one three times. That is a daily routine so I will be looking in depth at the blessings in my life. Instead of rushing back to my room to have a quiet time with God, after breakfast I spent half an hour with one of my blessings, Felicity, making an aqua-beads unicorn with her. I seized the moment before they left to meet up with friends (outside, socially distanced, masked, etc etc).

Then when I read the account of the walk on the road to Emmaus, I thought about Jesus walking alongside me always, and how often I don’t recognise him or even acknowledge him. Although that is a story about a walk, I thought about the marathon we’ve all been running during this pandemic. I know I have been flagging, and I sense that has been coming through in what I’ve posted.

Today, I have been given a second wind. That wind is the breath of God, without which I would have no hope. What am I thankful for? A million things, but most of all, our loving God.

I’ve never been a runner, but maybe even I can sprint now…

Hope

 

Blossom is opening on the flowering cherry tree. Despite freezing temperatures, snow and icy, gale-force winds, the tender pink flowers are beginning to display.

Hope that spring is on the way. Faith that it will come. The lovely blossom provides nectar for the pollinators who are starting to hatch and search for food.

We are all inter-connected. A gloomy face signals despair. This is the day the Lord has made. This is the day. Jesus is alive. When I connect with him, the gloom lifts, the sun shines and hope brings smiles and laughter.

He has risen indeed.

Still we wait

 

Out of a spring sky, snow flurries are whisked along by a brisk wind. They land lightly, twinkling on the bowed daffodil trumpets, glinting on primroses, melting on pavements. The showers pass, the sky clears and a watery sun shines through, its warmth penetrating the conservatory windows and raising the temperature, gradually, in that small room.

Springtime. It is the season for warmer weather. All creation waits in this northern country, waits for the tender touch of sunbeams on skin. As a second year of pandemic commences, the world waits wearily for the tender touch of loved ones, for family gatherings, for congregational worship and cultural events.

It is the season, but … still, we wait.

Peace to you, Jesus said as his friends gathered fearfully in a closed upper room. Peace to you, he says to us today wherever we are, as we wait, as we wait. Peace to you.

Milestones

 

Milestones.

We took a day out to celebrate Don’s birthday. Parking at Stonehaven harbour, we hiked the mile on the coastal cliffs down to Dunnottar Castle. Sometimes the path was protected from the 50 mph gale-force winds by hillocks or humps of land. More frequently, though, we battled through the full force of the strong winds, either straining not to be lifted off the cliff from behind, or pushing into the headwinds, holding hands.

Sometimes the sun shone, sparkling on the white horses and crashing surf below. At other times, we watched as a wall of misty black sky swarmed across the sea, throwing snow and sleet and hail into the spring surf.

The rat-runs of neural pathways which have bedded into our brains during the pandemic’s lockdown were broken as our thoughts were drawn elsewhere. The bitter winds blew off the cobwebs of routine; it lifted thoughts into different paths, new realms.

Back in Stonehaven, we found a coffee shop serving take-away food and got a cup of rich French onion soup, which we ate sheltering in the car. Then we headed south to St Cyrus beach, a nature reserve we’d never visited, and explored the dunes awhile.

‘He has risen from the dead,’ the angel told the disciples, promising them that they would see him. We saw him in the wind and the waves, in the sun and the snow, in the eyes of each other.

Thank you, Lord, for the milestones which lift us from ordinary routine and give us space and a moment to consider, to breathe in your love, to just be.

How long?

 

Gathered to worship. Gathered together, a few of us, socially distanced, masked. I didn’t expect to react with such emotion, but tears sprang to my eyes as soon as we approached the church for this Holy Week service.

It’s hard to wipe away the tears when the mask is just below the eyes, I found.

Greeted inside by Mike, by Mary, and the tears were harder to hold back. How long, Lord, I felt myself groaning inwardly. It’s been a year, but now, how long? How long until we can see each other’s welcoming smiles, hug our friends, sing our praises to God?

Bill greeted us and advised we were to hum along to the hymns, not sing. But dear Sandy, mid-90’s, didn’t quite catch the instruction, and his strong voice rang out through his mask as the piano led us in ‘Beneath the cross of Jesus’. More tears. Precious faith in one so old: I had feared we might never worship with him again, and here we were, hearing his voice declaring his love for Jesus. A golden moment.

Reflections on the last words Jesus spoke from the cross. Reflecting on the love of Jesus for us. His courage. His forgiveness. His faithfulness. His compassion. His agony. More tears.

Final song which came too soon. ‘Thine be the glory’. Humming, in time to Sandy’s singing, longing to stand and belt it out. Instead, my hands raised high, as did my heart.

And then it was over. The gathered people of God began to scatter, ushered out in a socially-distanced fashion, everyone reluctant to leave. More tears.

How long, dear Lord, until you pronounce over this pandemic, ‘It is finished’. How long?