Serendipity

 

Carol sent me a picture of herself with Mom, who she visited again yesterday. She sits with her, speaking into Mom’s good ear words of life and encouragement. Mom responds, declaring that Jesus has always been her best friend. At 101, limited in so many ways, Mom isn’t wavering. Praise Him for such a role model. I am truly blessed.

Carol and I only met in June at an ice cream stand near the home where Mom lives now. We recognised the Spirit in each other, were drawn together and though we barely know each other I am sure that our relationship will span eternity.

I met Don over fifty years ago, while checking out of a hotel in Stirling. Here we are, still loving each other after all the ups and downs of life. We know each other well, and I am sure our relationship will also span eternity.

Ours is the God who delights in creating serendipitous situations, where he brings people together who would normally never meet. May I be open and alert to any such situations I encounter today.

Preserving faith

 

Still thinking about apples.

Don helped me the other day to trim the trees and bring in most of the rest of the apples. I’ve given away bags of them. I’ve made another apple cake, apple juice, and apple butter, but yet more bags of apples sit on the kitchen floor.

The clock is ticking. If I don’t find ways to deal with them in a few weeks, they will spoil.

Years ago, Billy Graham came to Aberdeen for a three-night outreach. I was there, (freezing even in June in Aberdeen’s outdoor stadium, Pittodrie). Each night, people poured onto the field after his message, giving their lives to Jesus. The fields were ripe and the evangelist harvested them into taking a public step of commitment to Jesus.

But then what? Billy Graham flew away. Many local churches just sailed on in their customary, traditional way, welcoming new visitors but perhaps not going much further than that. There were some believers who invited the new Christians in to their homes, in to small groups, to disciple them. But I suspect there were not enough of us tending the harvest of new believers, discipling them. Turning them into apple pies, apple butter, apple juice, apple muffins … according to their gifts.

This is an imperfect metaphor I know. Messy with the apples so much on my mind, and messy with young believers who come into faith without knowing much about Jesus.

But as darkness and lies pervade the airwaves and the internet these days, I believe the fields are increasingly ripe unto harvest. Alpha courses are better attended. Teens are serious in their search for truth and life. People are open to the gospel, hungry for God.

May we all be alert to those who are taking tentative steps into the Kingdom, aware that as we come alongside them, the Holy Spirit will guide our witness and our conversations, bringing rich rewards for the world to feed on.  May no one be left languishing untended and undiscipled.

Abundance -

 

Apples in abundance. Apple butter. Apple cake. Apple pie. Apple cider? Apple cheese? Apple juice ?

We have four types of apple tree. Two are small and yield a few delicate, tasty eating apples. The Bramley cooking apple tree is big and loaded, as is the one which I think could be Golden Delicious.

If you want any apples, please speak to me!

Most of the apples are not perfect. Many are spotted, which makes them unsuitable for storing but perfect for using right now. Some have bruises from having fallen; some have brown spots; some have been attacked by wasps.

The fields are white unto the harvest, Jesus tells his friends. But where are the workers to bring it in?

I do not have a gift of evangelism. I become knotted up if I have to explain the finer points of faith. I am more able to write what I believe than to say it. I hope I am living it.

In my lack of confidence, I am prone to excuse and explain my silence as I look at non-believers through a lens of judgmentalism. Perhaps I conclude that they have been so bruised and hurt that they are hardened to receiving my words. Perhaps I think their attitudes and actions reveal an apathy towards the saving grace of Christ. Maybe I suspect that their inner core is so damaged by parasitic worms that it will take more than I can say to bring healing and restoration.

Father, you are the gardener. May I be open to your voice today, alert to your guidance and obedient to your commands to follow you into the fields and reach out to pull in the harvest. May I truly trust you to be enough, to take the little I can offer and transform it into all that is needed.

Jesus declared that he was here to give us the abundant life. As we give ourselves to him, he transforms us. He can take the most bruised of us and make us like apple butter, spicy and warming. He can peel away our spots of injury and neglect and help us become like apple sauce, basic and nourishing for all. He can cut out the wounds inflicted by others and make us sweet like apple pie.

Thank you, Lord, that you have taken my imperfect life and are making me like new.

May my wholehearted trust in you express itself in joyful gratitude which nourishes the spiritually hungry and draws them into your orchard today.

Haunting hymns of heaven

 

We perched on the wooden pews in the cavernous church, listening to Paul Anderson’s virtuosity on the fiddle, astonished at his masterful handling of his instrument, his strong fingers finding precision in drawing the notes out with speed or sweetness. Then his wife Shona’s lovely voice rose and fell with haunting melodies sung by generations of Scots in the northeast and further afield.

My third great-grandfather left Perthshire in 1852 for the USA. Some of these tunes were in circulation in the 18^th century. Before he left. Perhaps Andrew Scobie knew some of them. The Scobies were a singing family. Perhaps Andrew and his wife Jane sang some of them. Maybe they found comfort in them as they adjusted to the rigours of life in Wisconsin.

I’ve lived in Scotland for over fifty years now. I am a dual citizen, but perhaps one’s deepest sense of identity comes from the place of birth and childhood. Changes in the political landscape of the US, as well as revelations of past injustices sanctioned there, have jarred me. I’m not identifying with a lot of what is said and done.

As the Scottish fiddle and voice embraced me last night, I sensed a connection, an older connection perhaps.

And then this morning. Praise the Lord. I sat waiting on his word and he guided me to Romans 8:16. ‘The Spirit of the Lord testifies with our spirit that we are God’s children.’

Yes. My connection is solid; my identity is ancient and sure. In this world we will have trouble and tribulation, but we don’t belong to this world. We are aliens here, awaiting the Kingdom of God. We belong to God, with Jesus as our Lord.

Praise him. Praise him for his sacrifice so that on this beautiful autumnal morning I can declare with assurance, ‘I am a child of God. My identity is in Him, and Him alone.’

Nothing can steal that from me.

Overload

 

Overload. A constant drip-drip diet of news and information hardens my heart and grows my appetite to congratulate or condemn, to judge among the nations and the leaders and those who follow.

Judge not, Jesus commanded. Don’t judge others, because the way you judge them is the way you will be judged. Leave it up to the Lord.

I’m finding this tough.

May I increase my diet of Scripture today, Lord. May I seek your face; may I search for the signs of grace and mercy in those I meet. May I, like the child Jesus, grow in grace and truth. Renew my mind by the transforming power of your Holy Spirit, that my default reactions, thoughts and emotions, are those of Jesus, and not those of my own base humanity.

May I nurture my relationships today, Jesus, taking care of those I know and love, learning from you, the seeker of the lost and hurting. In my personal relationships, I can make a difference, however small. Thank you, Lord.

Soften my heart and deepen my hope: the expectation that you, o Lord, will enable and empower me to be all that you want me to be in this day.

Priorities

 

I sat holding the wee baby who had finally fallen asleep. She wasn’t feeling well, maybe a virus coming on, and just couldn’t settle. All around me was strewn the detritus of a busy young family. Clothes at various stages of the laundering process were piled in baskets awaiting attention. Other things needed doing.

‘The poor you will always have with you,’ Jesus told the crowds.

Those laundry piles can wait. They will always be there.

I don’t have that many opportunities to nurse a wee granddaughter, sit in peace in the sunshine coming through the windows, and cover them all in a blanket of prayer.

I am blessed.

 

Sit with Me

 

The door clicked shut behind me. I looked around the transformed room, one which I had helped to lay out the day before, when it was just a church meeting room, but in which now, as I stood in it alone, I was embraced by peace in my deepest being.

The door on the world would remain closed to the world for the hour I had booked the prayer room. The first time I went in, I had a plan. I had a prophetic word which had been spoken over me which I wanted the Lord to further unpack for me. I went to the art table and listened as I doodled.

During that week, I ran to the prayer room five times. Ran. Eager to meet with the Lord again. Every time, I encountered God in a different way. Every time, I was enriched and comforted, refreshed and encouraged. Strengthened for whatever lies ahead.

I confess that I am a Martha, desperately grasping to be a Mary. Surrounded by a big house and garden, a big family, a big group of friends … I am easily distracted out of my prayer window and back into the fray.

The prayer room gave me space and time and no distractions. The different stations invited me into various ways of contemplating God, looking at my journey with him, crying out and longing for and sitting silent.

I want to know the permission … the delight … of the Lord, to linger in my prayer window. I want to grow blind and deaf to the untidy house (well, that’s an easy one), food to cook, tasks to be done. Not permanently, but for an hour every day and not just the fifteen minutes I usually carve out with one eye on the diary.

I hear the Lord sighing. ‘Michele, Michele, you are easily distracted. You are worried and upset about many things, but only one is needed. Choose the best way to live. Choose to linger with me, listening, learning, loving.’

May I take this word seriously and apply it. May my longing to sit with Jesus overpower any other senses of duty and responsibility, distraction and call.

The Inner Eye

 

‘I’m not much good at imagining how that little swatch of fabric will look spread all over a reupholstered chair,’ I said to Mo, who we’ve turned to for help in re-covering some old furniture.

My mom always knew exactly what sort of lamp she wanted for one of the corners of her living room, and she waited until she found it. I never know what I want until there’s a lamp there, for instance, and then I know if I like it or not.

I’d love to have a creative inner eye.

Yesterday, riding in a bus up to the Braemar Gathering, I daydreamed out the window. I’m made in God’s image: the creator God. The One who created everything out of nothing. I’m made in his image. I must have some imaginative creativity inside me … I’d love to be able to see what’s not there, as if it were.

So I prayed. Lord, help me to see what is not there. Help me to imagine how that chair will look covered in those various swatches of fabric we have chosen to consider.

We snaked our way through the purple heathers of Scotland in September, approaching Braemar, and suddenly I found myself expanding that prayer to life events – globally, individually.

Lord, help me to see what is not visible to the human eye. Help me to see what is really going on. In 2 Kings, Elisha’s servant was terrified as they were surrounded by a hostile army. Elisha asked God to open his servant’s spiritual, inner eyes. His servant then saw what Elisha did – that they were protected by God-sent horses and chariots of fire.

Lord, in these days of deep fakes, of lies from the mouths of leaders, may I discern what is really going on. Show me your power, Lord, and give me a vision of the truth.

May none of your sincere followers be duped by the enemy. May we live with eyes wide open to the truth of who you are and what you are doing in these days.

Punching through the sin that entangles

 

Stretched between the thorny spikes of the gorse in the fallow field, intricate spider webs shimmer in the morning sun, their lines picked out in overnight dewdrops. They resemble a field of trampolines, tempting the unwary flies and insects to land, and then be caught by the wily spiders.

In my mind’s eye, I see an empty wooden cross, anchored in the soil beneath but stretching, breaking through the network of sticky webs, soaring through clouds overhead into the beautiful blue of beyond.

The cross of Jesus, anchored in the

righteousness of God, punctures and perforates the sin that so easily entangles us, lifting us soaring into the heavenlies where we can sit in Jesus at the Father’s right hand.

I am so grateful that no schemes of the enemy are beyond the power of God to shred. I am so grateful for the mercy and grace of the Lord who loves his world so much that he was willing to be sacrificed for our sakes. How can I not be filled with joy and thanksgiving, even in this time of turbulence and uncertainty?

Praise to King Jesus, who died for the sins of us all.

Nothing is Wasted

 

Nothing is wasted.

The field is reduced to stubble. Round bales of straw line up like children outside a classroom, like sports fans outside a stadium, like concert-goers outside a venue. The bales all look alike, and yet each one will be unique in some way.

The crop – barley, I think – has been taken away to be used, and these straw bales are the left-overs. They will be useful to the farmer during the coming winter. Nothing is wasted.

May I, too, be a good steward of whatever I am in charge of today. Right now, it looks like my time. May I make good use of the spare minutes between one appointment and another, not scrolling mindlessly but looking up in wonder and awe at the majesty of the Almighty God.

In Him, nothing is wasted.