Thorny Gorse

Two sides of the wet field are fringed by neon-bright gorse bushes. The flowers glare a warning – the thorns are not to be messed with. I rarely walk in that boggy field, but when I do, I enter and exit through the gate.

There are so many unjust things going on in the world right now. Perhaps the lock down due to the pandemic has given many of us more time to reflect; perhaps that reflective time has contributed to the global outrage against racism which is sweeping the world as a result of the brutal racist murder of George Floyd in Minneapolis. It’s past time for such outrage to effect real change.

We are all called to walk through that boggy field. I have only recently become more aware of the historic horror of racism which has persisted despite the Emancipation Proclamation, despite the outcome of the American Civil War. It feels like a virulent virus which has been under my radar in many ways, for most of my life, and now I am awaking to the despicable truth that slavery was never really abolished: it just expressed itself in a different form which has kept our black sisters and brothers oppressed and justifiably fearful.

I am moving into that boggy field now, joining other protesters with placards saying Black Lives Matter, determined to do what I can to make a difference. There are thorns around that field, thorns which need to be tackled, but for me it is important to enter through the gate. Jesus is the gate through which we pass. I look to him for guidance on how I can make a difference. I’m sure there will be a time when we tackle the thorns, together.

Tweets

As we retraced our steps along the wooded lane, Mhairi remarked how green and lush it looked: with an old tumbledown shed to the front of us, it resembled a painting by Constable or another artist. The rain was beginning to drizzle onto us, fine and light.

Passing on to the paved drive through farming fields we became aware of a bird – perhaps a pied wagtail – ushering us onwards, darting forward and back, calling out with apparent agitation. We wondered if there were a nest nearby and he was warning us off. We speculated that once we’d departed his neighbourhood, he might have bragged about the way he saw off the intruders before they could do any real damage.

We were passing through, with no intentions towards the bird, obviously. It made me wonder, though, how often in life I see issues or people, giants, who are ‘passing through’, and I imagine them to be threats. Sometimes, I imagine that my actions prevent the threat from occurring, when, in fact, there never was danger or risk.

Sometimes an issue or a person can be a risk, though, and again, I might be the one to prevent the situation but, more likely, as I’ve agitated and worried, it’s God who has protected me from a negative result. I congratulate myself later for having accomplished something significant, when, in fact, my tweets from the sides made no difference at all.

James, the brother of Jesus, wrote that if we lack wisdom, we should ask God, who ‘gives  generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to him.’ In these days, there are many situations, real and fearfully imagined, which require wisdom. I don’t know about you, but I feel a little like we’re careening down a steep hill in a go-cart with nobody steering. But of course, somebody is steering. Perhaps the lack of great leadership will expose more clearly the divine leadership which will guide us all home.

We will be most effective when we stop tweeting from the side, and start praying on our knees.

Feel the Father's Embrace

A blustery wind ruffles my lengthening hair as I patrol the garden, checking the condition of spinach and rhubarb, peas and beans, apple trees and blueberry bushes. I particularly note the flowers opening on the strawberry plants.

It is still cold in this corner of Scotland. Colder than May should be. Dry and sunny many days, overcast and dry other days, but cold. One thinks that plants flower because they are teased into activity by a warm sun, a balmy breath of wind.

But no. The strawberries are in bloom despite the chill. It’s part of their DNA. Hopefully as the blossom transforms into strawberries, a warm sun will bring a sweetness to the fruit which is borne.

Paul wrote to the people in a town in Asia Minor (Turkey), a town called Colossae, and told them that he was praying for their endurance and perseverance, patience and joy, during tough times, so that they might bear fruit.

During these chill days of lockdown and pandemic fear, may I endure and persevere patiently and with joy, allowing the flowers of kindness, peace, love, joy, patience, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control to form and be expressed through my words and my actions. In due season, may these flowers become fruit to nourish those who have yet to give their lives to Jesus. May eyes be opened as the fruit of the Spirit is seen and tasted.

May we be more eager than ever to share the reason for our hope during these days when many are sinking into despair. It is in our DNA as Christians. God is good. In the world there is plenty of trouble, but we can take heart because Jesus has overcome the world. And he has gifted us with the indwelling Holy Spirit, and it is this wonderful Spirit who grows the fruit in us as we abide in Jesus.

Feel the Father’s embrace today, and be thankful. xx

Baguettes

Baguettes. Four rises. Four punches down and kneads before division and shaping and two more rises.

The baker online says that adds to the flavour. I don’t quite see how, but I’m trying it.

Then he recommends a pan of boiling water at the bottom of the oven, to make for a crustier crust. And precise scoring of the crust, again to add to the experience of eating it.

I don’t get it. But he’s the expert.

This lock down is full of rises and punches down. Significantly more than four as we head into our eighth week. Globally there is so much pain and anguish. For each of those deaths recorded daily, there are loved ones in abject grief and shock. Many homes feel more like cells than havens by now. Many children are confused and perplexed as they miss their pals and long for some freedom.

We may hear of a bit of a rise tonight. Maybe a relaxing of some of the restrictions. But many of us are bracing for another punch down, if infections begin to rise as a result.

There is a global groan as this pandemic reshapes the world. It will not be as it was. In the pain, though, there  is opportunity. Opportunity to shape a world order informed by compassion. A world where ambitious self-interest gives way to seeking after the greater good, for environment and society.

In this world we have trouble, Jesus confirmed. But we can take heart, for he has overcome the world. Only he knows the best way out of this crisis in which we are flailing. May we emerge from this painful period trusting in God to help us shape a better world.

Up the Tree

The pheasant flew up to a low branch on the huge larch tree outside the window of the living room. We were startled. Usually pheasants flap and rise up briefly before settling back on the ground and running. We’d never seen any fly up into a tree.

Awhile later, as the darkness deepened, we could see that this beautiful bird had worked his way up, higher, onto a branch safe from predators, where he could sleep in peace.

We are in testing times. Predators circle, taking pot shots at our courage, at our love, at our faith. Scripture tells us that we are helpless without Jesus. Without Jesus, we are ‘sitting pheasants’, easy pickings for sin’s attacks. Though we have been raised from death to life, we slip back into the darkness daily, in our thoughts, in our words, in our deeds. Trusting Jesus for everything is the definition of life itself.

I am like that fat pheasant. I don’t fly very well. But I can just about get myself onto the lowest branch of trust in Jesus (with a boost up from the wind of the Spirit). Then, as I recognise where I am, and that I am, indeed, safe, because of his protection, Jesus helps me inch higher up, further in, where he restores courage, renews love, revives faith.

He is light and life. We don’t understand fully, but as we lean in, he reveals more. May this testing time have an outcome that we are all more aware of our absolute dependence on Jesus our Saviour.

Life Strategy

A curtain of fog hung over the land this morning, obscuring all in its swirling raw dampness. We could not see beyond the nearest point in the fields. Yet the birds were singing; above the cloud, the sun was shining, and before long warm rays broke through and beamed a light down. Gradually, the mist dissipated and the view returned.

Every news report seems to lead with the most recent 24-hour death count, draping a pall of doom over us all. But yesterday on Facebook I saw the smiling faces of dear young people in Illinois, welcoming the birth of their fourth baby with exclamations of joy. An atmosphere of death cannot stifle the power of life. Life, light and love will break through. God is the Lord of Life.

It was a quiet Easter, but a powerful one. Living through the chaos of this pandemic, where nobody has suggested a strategy which guarantees a safe exit from the lock downs, it is comforting to know that God has a strategy. Even at creation, he recognised that a pall of death would threaten us and would require his personal intervention as the Lord of Life.  

Remain in me, Jesus told his friends, and I will remain in you. Nothing can separate us from the Lord of Life. Rooted in Jesus, may we all bear the fruit he is bringing at this time, whatever that may look like.

Peace

I have time to stop and stare, out the kitchen window, watching as the wee birds house-hunt. One, perhaps a blue tit (I’m hopeless at identifying birds), clings to the perch outside the red birdhouse that nestles in the holly bush. His wee head bobs this way and that as he – I assume – checks out the safety of this place. Then he pokes his head into the hole, and disappears for a moment or two.

Meanwhile, at the multi-story pink bird house, a different sort of bird is performing some sort of dance routine on one of the perches. Suddenly a second bird pops out of the hole and flits to the nearby bush. The dancing bird pops over to her but she’s not in the mood, I guess…

My peace I give to you, Jesus said. In the midst of this pandemic, those who, like me, have time to stop and stare and receive the peace of Christ, are privileged beyond belief. How can we complain of anything? It is relatively straightforward for us to receive Jesus’ peace.

My prayer this morning is for the key workers on the front lines, exhausted and emotionally spent, frightened and distanced from their loved ones. I pray that in the midst of their exhaustion they will receive the peace of Jesus, that his peace will overwhelm and comfort and encourage them.

My prayer is also for those who are isolating in small flats, those who are penned in with abusive partners or parents, those who are vulnerable physically and mentally, and for those whose financial security has been ripped away from them. May the peace of Jesus Christ overwhelm them, a peace that the world cannot understand, a peace that makes no sense in the middle of the distress and fear.

May those of us who are so privileged, use our isolation well. May we write encouraging letters, make friendly phone calls, campaign for change and justice, and pray for a vaccine and an effective treatment of Covid-19.

Hero of Heroes

I stood on the porch and clapped. Our nearest neighbour is a quarter mile away. My clapping was hollow and unheard. Or was it?

The Butterfly Effect says that when a butterfly flaps her wings in New Mexico, a hurricane happens in China. Or in this case, a miniscule virus infecting someone in China causes a global pandemic.

I clapped to show my gratitude for the thousands of frontline workers who are risking everything moment by moment. I clapped to join the chorus of clapping, bagpiping, bell-ringing, and shouting rising right across the nation as a thank-you to these heroes.  

Then I came in to pray. Whatever this night holds, Jesus is in it with us.

Today we remembered the night when he was betrayed by his friend, and then abandoned by the rest of his friends as the ruling powers took him into custody. Tomorrow we will remember his lonely walk to Calvary, the agony of his crucifixion and the depth of his separation from the Father. True isolation.

He hung there alone. He might have been tempted to think that his sacrifice was a fruitless gesture which wouldn’t make any difference. But if he was tempted, he didn’t yield to it. He hung there hour after hour, and then he died.

With his death, and even more so with his resurrection, he changed the world. I am so grateful that he didn’t think one man dying on a cross wouldn’t make any difference. He knew the truth.

The truth that he is the way, the truth, and the life. He made a way for us because he is the way.

I’ll maybe go back out on the porch, and clap again. For the hero of heroes. The king of kings. Jesus.

New Nest

A pale blue sky is scattered with individual white clouds, like a Monet painting. The flowering cherry tree is full and heavy with blossom. There is no wind this morning, just the lightest of breezes.

We watch a robin fold himself into the birdhouse opposite the kitchen window. The birdhouse nestles amongst a holly bush, planted there by a bird or the wind. He’s out again. Then she emerges and darts off. They are busy arranging their nest for the new life they expect any day.

Walking through this week with Jesus. Walking towards the cross. Death, not life. But Jesus didn’t hesitate to embrace the cross, because of the ‘joy set before him’. His focus was not on the death and struggle but on the life and glory beyond.

He had been busy for three years, preparing the nest for those who would believe and love him.

In these dark days of lock-down and endless news coverage of pestilence and death, when fear of becoming one of the statistics sits heavy on our minds, may we focus instead on the joy set before us. Because Jesus endured the cross, and entered glory after he was powerfully raised from death to life, so we, having endured whatever we are called to bear, can be assured that eternity in his glory awaits.

Jesus has gone ahead to prepare a place for us. His was an eternal perspective. As we share in that perspective, joy overwhelms and peace fills us. There is no room for fear. Only love, deep love and gratitude.

Angel with a Trolley

I emerged from the grocery store unscathed (I think), but couldn’t open the boot of the car. Don, waiting in the car for me, got out. We’re not going anywhere, he said.

The battery had died. On a hybrid car, it’s not quite straightforward, and we stood considering our options. Call the neighbour to come and take us home where we could get our other car and the jump leads, and Don could consult YouTube to locate the hybrid’s battery.

Ah. We hesitated. The neighbour is nearly 80, taking isolation very seriously. He is so helpful; it would not be fair to put him in such a predicament. Who else could we ask for help? Who else could we even approach to speak with, as everyone is keeping their social distance and approaching a stranger in a car park seems akin to an assault?

I had seen Fiona from church inside the store. Just then she emerged, smiling. What can I do to help? she asked, unhesitating. She made room in her boot for our purchases; we got into the back seat and she drove us the three miles home. Then messaged later to see how we got on.

The angel with the shopping trolley, Don called her.

Where do we draw the line in social distancing?

The familiar story told by Jesus, of the man robbed, beaten up and left for dead, comes to mind. Two religious folk kept their distance. They had their reasons, no doubt. There were dangers inherent in helping someone – the muggers might still be around, the religious leaders would need to purify themselves – self-isolate – before carrying on with their agendas. An innkeeper would need money to look after the injured victim. They averted their eyes and kept on the path.

The Samaritan didn’t hesitate. He went to the aid of the injured man, using what he had to dress the wounds, lifting him onto his donkey and paying for his care at a nearby inn.

In the beginning, the word was with God and the word was God. Through him – through Jesus – everything was created. He looked at it and pronounced it good. But then evil muscled in, insinuating himself into humanity, and Jesus saw his creation mugged and robbed and left for dead. And he didn’t hesitate. He stepped in as a vulnerable human being, carrying our load of sins to the cross and thereby paying for our return to spiritual health and everlasting life. His intervention cost him dear. Physical agony. Humiliation. Profound isolation.

Yesterday we marked his triumphant entry into Jerusalem, at the beginning of this short week ending in him hanging on a cross. My Jesus, my saviour. Our Jesus, our saviour. Thank you.

United

Having been away so much last year, I’m still trying to clear up the autumn leaves, stacked in the flower beds, as well as twigs and branches and pine cones thrown down by wild winter winds. The twigs come from the larch, the Norwegian elm, the damson, the cherry trees … a rich mixture.

The night before he died, Jesus asked his Father to keep his disciples safe. He had protected them while he was in the world, but as he prepared to leave the world, he wanted the Father’s protection to continue to cover them. Not just for their own sakes, but for the sake of the church, ‘so that they may be one as we are one.’ (John 17:11)

As the winter winds of pandemic rage round the world, I’m praying that all of our roots of faith in Jesus – whatever our tradition, be it larch, elm, damson or cherry – go deep. Deep so that they join in Jesus and we are one, as Jesus and the Father are one. Praying that unity in the church would be a beacon of light in this dark world, that as we work together as we have never worked before (largely digitally!) the world will see Jesus in us.

I know for myself, I don’t want to let go of Jesus like an autumn leaf, nor be swept away from Jesus as the winter’s broken twigs and branches.

Jesus self-isolated on the Cross. He suffered a loneliness we can’t even imagine. But it led to resurrection, new life. As we self-isolate, may we not lose heart but see the joy set before us, the new life as church emerges, perhaps looking different, but united as never before.

May we bring glory to Jesus. Amen.

Seeds of Hope

We’ve had our morning exercise. A brisk walk down the road, picking up litter in one bag, shovelling up horse manure in the other.

The litter went into the bin. Lifeless and decayed, sterile and unable to nurture or feed anything.

The horse manure went into the vegetable patch. What passed through the horses and came out as waste is rich in nutrients to boost the growth of new life, new plants.

In these days of lock down, perhaps many are thinking they are days like the litter, long and good for nothing but discarding. But they don’t need to be. They may feel like ****, but there is life and growth in them if only we allow ourselves to learn lessons and build bridges.

On our walk, we met neighbours who we rarely see. Keeping our social distance, we caught up with them. Briefly. I was so touched when one offered to drive to Heathrow if we needed help getting our daughter home. We hardly know him.

There are green shoots of new life everywhere. Words of kindness and encouragement. Offers of help and words of hope. Connections being made online, on the phone, across the garden fence at a safe distance.

Our vegetable garden will look different in a few months’ time. We hope it will be full of fruit and vegetables to feed our bodies. The wintry garden we are living in during isolation will also look different in a few months’ time. If we take care to nurture relationships now, they will be lush and blooming when we can resume social life again. We are already talking about a neighbourhood BBQ.

Jesus came to give us life in the full. We have yet to experience the fullness he died to bring us. But just as spring is the season of hope, so this awful pandemic carries in it the seeds of hope for a more caring, more connected, less broken world.

In this season of Lent, I am more aware than ever of the faithful love of Jesus as he headed towards the cross for me. The horrible cross carried with it seeds of hope and life, as Jesus was fully glorified as he rose again, triumphant over death and disease. He is still triumphant over death and disease, even in this pandemic. Hallelujah.

Hugs

I am wearing an Arran knit jumper which I bought in 1971 in Jenner’s, a wonderful department store in Edinburgh. Sadly the store is no longer there, but in its day it was exceptional for its quality.

This jumper has kept me warm over many years. A few threads have broken. One cuff is frayed. But basically, it is still keeping me warm. Quality lasts.

In the cupboard in my bedroom, on the top shelf towards the back is a cardinal sweatshirt. It is a men’s size large, with Trojans emblazoned across the front. It was my dad’s, from his alma mater USC, and of all the touchstones I have with him, this is the one I go to when I am feeling sad and in need of my dad. I put it on, zip it up, and, swamped in it though I am, I sense his protective arms around me. And I am comforted.

We are living in uncertain days. We are all concerned for our loved ones. Those in my age group long to help our children and grandchildren as they struggle to home-school, work from home, survive as health service workers, make do on reduced incomes. They refuse to be helped, fearful that they will infect us and we won’t survive an infection. We long to wrap our arms round each other, but we can’t. There is an invisible enemy preying on us, and we are all just doing our best.

Come to me, Jesus invites us. I will gather my loved ones into my embrace. He’s got the whole world in his arms, as the beautiful spiritual goes. Receive his hug, his loving, powerful hug. He’s closer than you think.

Windy Again

The wind is howling round the house, again. It feels like it hasn’t paused for days. Whining at the windows, rattling the doors, branches scratching like fingernails on a blackboard.

I find the wind exhausting. Here in Scotland it’s rarely a gentle caressing breeze, more of a piercing blast with a bitter edge to it.

The Holy Spirit is likened to the wind, among other images. Is this why he is often ignored or disregarded? We don’t like to have our comfortable seats roughed up. We don’t like our ingrained prejudices buffeted by truth. We don’t like the unpredictability of the wind. We like to make our plans and follow them through.

I’ve got my plans, and the wind of change threatens to disrupt and dismantle them.

Jesus beckoned Peter out of the boat, to walk on the water when it was still turbulent because of the strong winds. Peter responded, and only sank when he became distracted by circumstances.

May I not be distracted by circumstances, but be focused on the face of Jesus and step out of the boat, to go wherever he would take me, today and in the days to come.

Set Aside

Set aside.

I feel better; I feel fine, in fact. But the effects of that pernicious cold linger. There is still too much congestion. Still the stubborn frog in the throat when I awaken. So I hesitate. I hesitate to resume swimming, to resume walking in the icy winds, to mingle with others.

I feel set aside. I am trying to redeem the time. De-cluttering (a bit). Creative writing (a bit). Reading. Lingering longer in the prayer window.

There are worse things than being set aside. That’s for sure.

Responsibilities don’t fade away, though, as I rest. Care for my mother: there are always things to check, things to think through, things to arrange. I’m not really doing them like I normally do. It’s as if I’ve set them aside, too.

Trust in me, Jesus instructs. Don’t be lukewarm in your love or trust. Fully trust. Fully love.

There is a new gap opening in Mom’s care and there could be anxiety developing in me, but I know the gap is right, and I know God can fill it. So as I sit and contemplate, I sense His love, I sense His care, I sense His calling me deeper into Him. He has never let me down and He’s not going to start now.

A new chapter. A new horizon. Expectation and anticipation rise as I recognise much of it is out of my control: over to you, God. I can’t wait to see what you’re going to do.

Set aside, so God can be set free to fully operate.

Rights and Responsibilities

It’s blowing a hooley out there, as they might say here in the northeast. It has been for days.

So I spent the morning exercising my democratic right – voting in the US Presidential Primary – and fulfilling my democratic responsibility – filling in the dreaded US tax forms.

With rights come responsibilities; with responsibilities come rights. That sounds good: just and balanced. Even if it isn’t lived out in practice.

The original writers of the Declaration of Independence declared that  "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness." Notice that it was men who were accorded equality, and that by many men who denied their slaves liberty. Those slaves, and women and indigenous people and other minorities, had many responsibilities but no rights.

Jesus came to a warped world to trailblaze the way. He came to declare that the creator of the world and everything in it calls us to ‘act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with our God’. His follower Paul wrote that in God’s kingdom there is no Jew, nor slave, nor male or female. All are equal; all are born with truly unalienable rights, and among them is forgiveness of sins and everlasting life in Jesus Christ.

I pray that my vote may help to bring us a step closer to a just society. I have exercised my responsibility; now I trust God to make something beautiful out of the many votes which will be cast. 

And I know that whatever the outcome of the election, through it all, Jesus walks with us.

No Shade

An old-fashioned sundial rests in our vegetable patch, shaded by an acer tree. Not best-placed to catch the full sun, when it’s out. We have plans to redesign the garden, so hopefully we will find a more exposed position for it to sit.

I don’t always place myself in the best position to bathe in the fullness of the Son. Carelessness; laziness; contrariness perhaps. Today I want to take more care to be in a place where I can receive him fully.

Jesus advised us to be alert to the times. I don’t want to be found sleeping, or distracted. I want to be fully engaged, aware of the fronts he is calling me to fight, aware of the folk he is calling me to stand with, aware of the places he wants me to bring his peace.

May nothing shade me this day.

New Life

A blanket of black, slimy leaves lies on the flower bed, covering what lies beneath. Tangled with the leaves are limp stalks of last year’s flowers, spotted with decay, broken and dead.

The weather yesterday was spring-like, so when I got a few moments, I wheeled the barrow beside the flower bed and clipped away the stringy stalks, scooped up the dead leaves. As I worked, I uncovered the shoots of new life. I stepped gingerly on the ground in order to reach the back, wary of wounding any of the tender daffodils, crocus and snowdrops breaking through the earth.

These onion-like bulbs lie brown and dormant most of the year, but time and season are beginning to draw them out of hibernation. From what seemed dead, new life is sprouting. Fed, protected even, by what lay above for the last few months.

The miracle of life. God’s gracious gift to us all. May he use that which is dead in us to feed new shoots of hope and faith. He is good. He is faithful. He is at our right hand. He will not leave nor condemn. May I – may you – focus on him. His ways are not my ways, but his ways are right. May I humble myself before him, and follow, repentant and forgiven, rejoicing in the one who made me, who died for me, who lives in me. Without him, there is no life.

May he use my failures, use my disappointments, use my hurts to make more room within me for his Spirit to live. May my brokenness reveal his light. May his joy be my strength, today and every day.

Jesus, all for Jesus. All I have and am, and evermore will be.

Thank you

Sunlight streams from a white-washed sky this morning, its weak wintry rays penetrating the windows, spotted and smeared with muddy cat paws.

We have all sinned and fallen short of God. My attention can be drawn to those smears and spots, lying between me and the Light, and I can forget that when we were still sinners Jesus chose to die for us.

I can feel unworthy and make more effort to earn my way into the Kingdom, but God reminds me that it’s not by works but by faith that we are saved. He has washed us clean.

Lord, this day help me to look beyond the smears and spots which stain my life. Help me to look to you. You have forgiven. You have moved on. Help me, Lord, to accept your forgiveness and move on, not imprisoned by memories which condemn but set free by the word that declares, ‘there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus, because through Christ Jesus the law of the Spirit of life set me free from the law of sin and death.’ (Romans 8:1)

Though I am indeed unworthy, yet you love me, Jesus. Thank you. On this wintry day, thank you.

It is well

I’m lingering over the picture of Don and Gregor, hand in hand on the clifftop path. It’s intriguing that despite his great love for his granddad, when Gregor was in trouble he turned back to Daddy. He trusted Daddy to pick him up, to carry him and keep him safe.

Sometimes I can fall into step with the world. That might look like me going along with worldly ways. Or it might look like me arguing, despairing, anxious and concerned over the direction of our politics or the plight of the environment. Keeping up with the world is exhausting.

Like Greg, I eventually give in and turn to Jesus and let his presence bring peace, restoration, and hope. Since Jesus is master of the universe, hope never dies. He is faithful. He will do what he has promised. I can trust in that, as I wait in him.

Take heart, he advised his followers. In the world there is all kinds of trouble. But I, Jesus, have overcome the world.

All will be well. All manner of things will be well.