Railway Lines and Electricity Poles

Walking along the railway line (disused, I hasten to add, with no remaining tracks!) in Newtyle yesterday, enjoying the spring sunshine in between the wintry downpours, I noticed the electricity poles on either side of the embankment. Their tops were below the height of the embankment, and the wires disappeared underneath my feet. 

A bit further on, I realized that the tree branches stretching towards the path were actually at the tops of majestic trees, rooted in the ground fifteen feet below. It struck me as kind of weird that whoever constructed the railway thought it a good idea to raise it above the surrounding fields, rather than keeping it on the level.  Why?

Many times our eyes scan a landscape and miss the detail. How many hours were spent deliberating and considering where to carry the power or lay the tracks? How many heated discussions took place? How many friends and colleagues found their opposing views were vindicated when problems arose around the chosen method or route?

Years later, and here I was walking along the peaceful path. The ground on which I walked would have once reverberated under the weight and power of steam trains puffing along. The tree branches would not have reached that height, perhaps, and if they did, they might have been forcibly pruned by each passing engine. A very different landscape from what was there fifty or a hundred years ago.

Every day we walk through terrains where once there would have been drama and confrontation, violence and coercion, joy and sorrow. Not far from our home is a hill where Mary Queen of Scots watched her troops defeat the Duke of Gordon and his troops. Today it is peaceful. Deserted. 

Places of conflict today will one day fall silent, hopefully, because peace will return to the land. Places where horror and brutality send shivers up our spines may one day ring again with the joyful laughter of children. 

Life is a journey. We walk through our every day, sometimes aware, sometimes oblivious, of the history of our locations. 

We are told at the end of the Bible that there will come a time when God will live amongst us here, as heaven is revealed and as all tears are washed away, all sorrows comforted, and death is no more. 

One wonders if there will always be an atmosphere of remembrance, though, a sort of sense of the traumas and dramas once played out here.

Just as my gratitude to Jesus is cemented in an appreciation for what he did for me by hanging on that cruel cross, perhaps there is a sense where the sacrifices of history form a foundation for the joys of heaven to come. To have such memories erased somehow cheapens the price that others have paid to see God’s kingdom come, and his will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.  Does that make sense?

Live Large

I have had an unusual day, hitting one of the sales and replenishing some of my tired wardrobe (will that help my tired body?). I was also looking for a special wedding present which I didn’t quite decide on, but it was a very pleasant morning.

Came home and did a bit of sprucing up of the pots of flowers for the winter, and while throwing out the detritus I ended up by Dusty’s last resting place. It is a lovely spot, overlooking the field but the long view takes in the hill over Banchory called Scolty. The Hill of Fare also looms large-ish and grounds this area in Scottish history. Maybe Mary Queen of Scots stood here while watching the rout of the Catholic faction in a decisive battle a few hundred years ago.

But I digress.

While pausing by Dusty’s grave, I reflected on the joy she brought me during her life. She was a dog who lived large. Undeterred by a particularly nasty leg break at 7 weeks old, her speed when chasing a ball (or a deer for that matter ;-( ) was remarkable. She derived ecstatic happiness from leaping with complete abandon into any body of water into which someone obligingly threw a stick or two. 

I have spent many happy moments laughing like a lunatic perhaps as she raced and sprang into the loch at Crathes Castle or the River Dee. She didn’t pause to consider any possible reasons for not leaping with such commitment, to her shocked bruising one winter when a certain person who shall remain unnamed mischievously tossed a stick onto the frozen loch...ouch!

Factoring in the ice, or any other hazards, just did not occur to nor hinder Dusty. Just a week before her death, she managed half a walk at Crathes Castle, wading in after sticks with the same determination but with an unobliging body which gave her much grief for a couple of days afterwards in the form of stiffness. Her spirit remained strong and her joie de vivre only evaporated over her last weekend.

It’s a bit odd taking a lesson from your dead dog, perhaps, but I am. I want to live my remaining days LARGE. I want to throw myself into whatever project I feel called to do with total commitment. I don’t want to hang back hesitating, considering the possible problems. I don’t want to live by the guidelines of proper Health & Safety procedures but by the guidelines of God, whose Word (the Bible) is a lamp to my feet, guiding me through the sometimes dark present into the unknown future. 

His Word confirms that we have been given a spirit of boldness and not timidity. 

So, thank you Dusty for living so large and leaving the memory of that as a real legacy for me. I just need to keep receptive to other sources of joy and laughter which abound in each of our lives.

Thank you God, for such a gift of life, and thank you Jesus for coming so that we might live life to the full in the power of your indwelling Spirit.

Footprints on the Path

No drought up here in the northeast of Scotland. Out walking Dusty this morning, my attention was drawn to the number and variety of prints in the soft muddy path. Hoof prints from cows and deer. Paw prints from rabbits and dogs. Three-toed pheasant prints. And wellies or walking shoes of varying sizes and sole-shapes.

Dusty and I were the only ones out walking, but obviously this has been a busy track over the last several hours. 

About two miles from our house, the Battle of Corrichie was fought in the sixteenth century. Mary Queen of Scots was present at this battle, so it’s not fanciful to imagine that her footprints may have once marked this very path. Not so far back as that, former inhabitants of Barehillock no doubt walked this path, driving their flocks or herds in front of them. 

History could be told from the footprints along the path.

There is a history of folk who have walked this way before me, and perhaps when God looks from his position of eternal timelessness he sees the whole lot of us at once, crowding along that path, leaving our footprints.

Yesterday in church the preacher remembered the contributions of now-deceased members of the congregation to the life of this particular church. He thought not only of their financial legacies, but also of their spiritual legacies in terms of the prayers they prayed over long years, behind closed doors and without anyone really knowing.

Also yesterday in church we were blessed by the presence of at least three young people who spent time with us in significant ways. They were visiting from Seattle, Hong Kong and Glasgow. They once contributed to the life of our congregation, and yesterday, for a moment or two, we rejoiced in seeing the wonderful young women they’ve grown into, and hearing about the meaningful ministries in which they are involved. 

They have left footprints on the path. Older, passed on into glory, and younger, moved on into ministries across the world, all have left a legacy at the West Church. They have left imprints on the spiritual soul of the place. To us it may look like a confusion of footprints stepping in various directions and at various times, but to God there is a cohesion and a continuity. 

May the footprints that you and I leave today lead others to a closer walk with God.