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.

Squirrelling

It’s that time of year.

When Dusty was alive, I would always carry a bag with me on our walks. I would gather pine cones and twigs to use for lighting fires once the winter set in. I felt like a squirrel, busy storing nuts for those cold winter days.

Summer doesn’t last forever. So important to store up for the days which may be bitter and cold. Nourishment from a storehouse is never so tasty as that freshly picked, but nevertheless, it is nourishment, and it can sustain life.

Heading off soon for two weeks of busyness and emotional challenge, moving Mom again. Mostly I will be drawing on the nuggets of wisdom and encouragement gathered now.  Living close to others, there is little privacy to draw near to God and listen. Only during the nights, when jet lag will probably enable me to snuggle in to my heavenly Father and know his love and peace.

Perspective. I will keep the cross in full view. All else then retains its correct proportion.

Easter Eggs

The Lindt Easter egg looks beautiful. Wrapped in gold foil, nestled above small red Lindor eggs, a moulded plastic cover holds all in place inside an outer cardboard wrap. (This isn’t going to be a rant about the environmental impact of all our Easter egg packaging, though it does make my heart sag…)

The egg looks lovely. I know it will taste delicious, from past experience. But until I open the box, extract the packaging and unwrap the egg, and actually bite into it … it’s all theory, memory, probability.

The cross does not look lovely. It’s an instrument of torture of the most cruel and barbaric kind. But the man who hung there … Jesus, who triumphed over death and rose from the grave … he is beautiful. I can look at the story, and see how beautiful his love and grace and mercy are, but unless I engage with him, unless I enter into the intimate relationship he invites me into, unless I confess that he is Lord … it’s all theory. A nice story, but one without impact on my life.

Taste and see that the Lord is good. Better even than the Lindt Easter egg.

Everlasting Screed

The joiner was in bright and early to pour some ‘levelling screed’ before returning tomorrow to put the wooden floor on top of it. Without the screed, the new floor might wobble and break as pressure is put on it.

Underneath are the everlasting arms. God is the great ‘levelling screed’. Without his arms underneath me, I might very well wobble and break under the various pressures falling on me at the moment.

I am so grateful for the everlasting love of God. I am so grateful for the unconditional love of the Cross, of the terrible cost to Jesus of our sins and his willingness to pay the price for us. I am so grateful for the Holy Spirit, that small voice within which quietens and strengthens me. So grateful.

Eternal Peace

Great weather is a great distraction, in every sense of that. With weeks of sunshine sans showers, our grass is brown and most of our usually-overgrown flower beds are weed-free. A new playhouse has been constructed and stands proudly in the corner of the garden having been inaugurated by happy grandchildren last week. We’ve been working hard in the sun but having fun in it too.

Meanwhile, more sedentary work has been ignored. Today, with a grey sky overhead and cooler temps, I plan to shift my attention, but feel slightly panicky that there is so much to do. Where do I begin? There is even more to do than I thought.

Jesus went to the cross focused on ‘the joy set before him’, not the pain of the cross. Not that I am facing a cross, but I pray that my focus today is on God, and that my perspective is eternal and not imminent.

Peace. Eternal peace.

Beauty from ashes

This morning I was one in the crowd. One in a somber procession of believers following the cross through Banchory. It was early, but some folk were busy going about their business, as they would have been that first ‘good’ Friday. Some probably barely noted us; others had their own thoughts. I wondered if as a result of the silent demonstration of faith, one or two who walked counter-current to us, will one day turn and join the pilgrimage. That was one prayer.

Silence is powerful. No pressure to fill a void with empty words. Time and peace to consider Jesus. As I appreciated the colourful spring flowers along the way, I wondered if Jesus was able to take in any flashes of beauty as he stumbled through the streets of Jerusalem. Then I thought of the woman who mopped his brow, and of Simon of Cyrene who was impressed into service but then carried the cross and was never the same again. Or at least his sons weren’t, as their names show up in some of Paul’s letters. Snatches of beauty amongst the horror.

I thought of what it means to carry our own crosses today. I asked Jesus for insight and heard ... silence. Sometimes when our crosses are the heaviest and we long for a word from him, it seems we hear only silence. But his promise that he never leaves us assures me that though I don’t hear his voice, he is my silent companion, as I was his, this morning. Saying nothing, just trudging along in love.

When the Father was silent as Jesus hung on the cross, he must have longed for his voice. Instead, there were others around Jesus – not many, but a few – John, Mary his mother, some of the other women. Despite their bewildered horror and grief, perhaps some strength and encouragement was communicated to Jesus in his agony. Praying that we all may be the silent companions, or be the mouthpiece for a few words of divine encouragement, to others who struggle beside us along the way today.

If you are struggling, may you be filled with hope – a confident expectation that good is coming – and peace as you wait for Easter.

Miss Havisham's Roses

There is a poignant beauty in Miss Havisham’s roses. (see Dickens, Great Expectations).

They still speak of a love which was strong. But in Miss Havisham’s case, it was a love without sacrifice, a love without commitment, a love that ultimately wavered, leaving Miss Havisham a Miss for all of her life.

I always refer to roses at this state as Miss Havisham’s roses, but in fact mine came from a husband who has loved sacrificially, totally committed, unconditionally. So they are not, strictly speaking, anything like her roses.

The beauty of the Cross is that it speaks of a love that is so strong, so unconditional, so sacrificial, so committed, that it never wilts nor dies but just remains there for us all. As we cling to the Cross we cling to the Lord who gave his all for the whole world, whose love transcends time, nationality, religion and gender, unconditional, eternal.

I love Miss Havisham’s roses, and fresher ones too, but even more, I love the Cross. Full of gratitude to the God who died for me.

Water-based Workouts

Water-based workouts are gaining in popularity. While balancing on floating mats, participants go through the exercises demonstrated by the teacher. This requires serious engagement of the core muscles to maintain balance on an unstable platform. I imagine there is a lot of hilarity and frustration as participants regularly plunge off the bobbing base.

We live life on a bobbing base. Storms of uncertainty, of sorrow and grief can seriously rock the mats on which we balance. Jesus told a story about building our lives on the rock of faith in him, but even when our lives are built on the rock of Jesus, we can still be threatened by choppy waves of circumstances and events. 

Though alarming and unwanted, these waves of life can help strengthen our spiritual core. We don’t really welcome trouble but Jesus also told us in this world we would have trouble. Jesus had trouble. He had the cross. 

The cross is our spiritual core. Tsunamis of grief and pain may threaten to sweep us off our rock of faith in Jesus, but as we cling to the cross we discover that we are anchored forever in him.

Autumn Crocus

Standing in my window on another glorious autumn morning, I noticed the few purple crocus struggling through the weedy undergrowth. These valiant wee flowers have survived sporadic lawn mowings, car or truck tire incursions, and general neglect. They haven’t proliferated and spread, but neither have they died. I had to rush out (brrr!) and take a picture of them.

I read in Philippians today that it is God who is at work in us to help us want to be the people he created us to be. Sometimes we are all hemmed in like those crocus on the drive, our roots nearly strangled by the aggressive competition. But we can still bloom and bring colour and beauty into the broken-down landscape we may inhabit.

We can only do this as we rely on God. He in us. Changing our minds, transforming our brains so that we become the best we can be. It doesn’t matter if we’re part of a carpet of crocus blooms offering a breathtaking wash of colour along a river bank, or one of a few stragglers hanging on in the verge of the road. If we allow God to help us be all we have in us to be, we will brighten the landscape, bring joy to others who may be struggling, and move closer to experiencing the shalom of God.

A lot is spoken of mindfulness these days, mostly extolling its benefits as its practice proliferates into the classrooms and boardrooms. Much more effective than focusing on myself, though, and on my breathing or my position in the chair or the sounds around me at that moment is focusing on God, the source of all possibilities, the one whose answer is always YES. 

The one who gave up his life for me.

As I sat silent and still in my window ledge, I waited to hear his voice, to sense his presence, and I did. Maybe today I can be a little more like one of those crocus blooms, bringing colour and beauty (as Christ shines through me) into any situations I may encounter.

Wet

Woke up to a dripping landscape out my window. The sound of water splashing from the sky onto the earth, shrubs, cars, puddles, windows (clean or otherwise!) below. 

I stood in the prayer alcove, as usual, gazing at God’s world, enjoying the changes despite the harbinger they are of winter, appreciating the vibrant green. It is only that colour because of the rain falling from the sky. I come from a drought-prone patch and so I appreciate the shocking hue of green which to me shouts life.

As much as I have loved the clear blue skies and balmy temps we have enjoyed for a few weeks, when I went to the road verge to pick brambles I was disappointed at their meagre size. No plump berries. Just little hard balls of colour. Not enough refreshment from above.

When I worked in the rasp patch the other day, I was surprised at how dry the earth was. I developed an out-of-season sneezing fit of hay fever due to the flowering grass – it shouldn’t be flowering in October! So the rasp canes which I moved should be drinking in this moisture this morning, and I will hope again for next year’s crop.

I guess there are a few lessons to be drawn from this wet day. Most of them obvious. One I haven’t mentioned, though, is that because the sky is a uniform grey and the air is unremittingly moist, I am set free from the urge to get outside and tidy the garden before winter. Instead I can hunker down and work on some writing.

Change. Only God never changes. Jesus is the same yesterday, today and tomorrow. But as for everything else, there is a rhythm of change which is both welcome and feared. (Who wants to grow old?) 

Well, nobody wants to grow old of course, but the climax of the piece, the hope of every believing Christian, is that we don’t stay old, but are born again into the Kingdom which never ends.  A heart full of gratitude to Jesus for his work on the cross.