Skipness Brambles

 

Sunlight shimmered on the flat calm of Loch Fyne. We poked around the ruined castle at Skipness, across the sound from the isle of Arran. The lightest of breezes teased our hair.

We moseyed along to explore the nearby cemetery, reading the headstones which had not yet been scrubbed flat by years of weather. So many died so young. So much heartache behind the names of children who died in infancy. So many tears shed in this place, over lives lost, lost to the sea, lost to disease, lost to hardship: lives known to God alone now.

In the far corner I spied a bramble bush, laden with ripe, sweet, juicy fruit. We had no bag with us, so I emptied a section of my ridiculous handbag and started to fill it. There are crumbles to come, and jam.

Unless a seed falls into the ground and dies, Jesus taught, it will bear no fruit. In this remote corner of Scotland, people have come and gone: the Picts, early Celtic Christians, conquering kings from Denmark, Viking raiders. Ordinary people, too, living the lives God gave them to live. Lives with their challenges and sorrows and joys. All gone now into the compost of history, but still alive in the heart of the Almighty.

And in the corner of that walled garden of remembrance is a cluster of bramble bushes bearing a crop sweet and juicy, available to anyone with eyes to see, and a ridiculous handbag waiting to be filled.

Audacious

 

Found: one tiny bat, hanging upside down under the bathroom door. Fortunately, Doug found it, and he has removed the odd bat from the house before. It is now resting outside, hopefully preparing to swoop off as night approaches.

Bats have such a bad rep. Mom used to say they carried rabies. I don’t know. I do know Covid could have come from them. So, not a creature welcome inside, for sure.

Still, this one looks cute, in a weird sort of way.

Walking with my neighbour this morning, we had to pause as the farmers moved a herd of cows, mothers and babies, a couple of which were the long-haired Highland cows seen in pictures. Aw. So cute, in a cuddly sort of way.

Two types of creatures, both created by God.

I’ve just read 1 Timothy 2:2. ‘Pray…for kings and all who are in authority so that we can live peaceful and quiet lives marked by godliness and dignity.’ The world is watching the horror unfolding in Afghanistan, and I am convicted that we’re not praying enough for those in authority, because our leaders are failing dramatically.

Today I am praying for leaders. I am praying also that the Lord will change the hearts of the Taliban. Is that too much to hope for? Nothing is impossible with God. He turned Saul around.

I’m praying protection for all those who have been marked for punishment by the Taliban, for taking on western values or collaborating in some real or imagined way. Is that too much to hope for? I’m praying to the Almighty God who released Peter from chains and sent angels to lead him to safety.

Two types of humans, both created by God.

May the Lord show mercy to Afghanistan. May he deliver the long-suffering residents of that beleaguered nation. May your prayers join with mine, and we all be given faith to believe these audacious prayers are rising even now to the throne of grace.

 

Gratitude Gap

 

I reversed the new-to-us car into the parking bay, concerned that my water bottle had leaked onto the passenger seat. I uncharacteristically slipped the gear into neutral and turned off the engine, distracted by the wet spot on the seat. I didn’t put on the hand brake.

Fussing needlessly over the seat, I was startled when the car suddenly crunched into the perimeter grille of the parking building. I had rolled across the line of traffic coming into the structure, through an empty parking bay and … crump.

It didn’t look too bad. Until Doug looked at it when I got home, and noticed a tear, an impact result and a few more scratches.

First time I’d driven the car. A moment of carelessness and a resulting saga of body shop repairs and bills.

This morning, though, I’m thanking God for what didn’t happen. I didn’t broadside some unsuspecting driver looking for a parking space. Nobody broadsided me. I didn’t mow down a sick or elderly patient staggering towards the hospital (that’s where I was). Or a child.

Trying to get my head into the gratitude gap this morning rather than the if-only mode. I do thank God for his grace and mercy, for the protection he affords daily, even when unfortunate events happen.

It’s only metal. Could have been so much worse. Thank you, Lord.

Pack up your Troubles

Weeds canopied the carrots and parsnips. In a summer where fruitfulness has been compromised by the weather, I waded in yesterday to try to give these struggling root veggies a fighting chance.

Turned out, it looked worse than it was. The weeds entangled the crop with gangly arms of tiny, once pale blue flowers, now dead and brown. The weeds lifted out easily, only very occasionally dragging a tiny carrot with them. In under an hour, the rows of vegetables were once again visible and open to the sun. They were granted a fighting chance to mature into something substantial, hopefully.

There are times when it is easy to feel overwhelmed by life. Thinking may be muddied. Emotions may run high. Fears may proliferate, and paralyze.

I was blessed to be in a worshiping atmosphere on Friday night. To hear inspired teaching, speaking into my life. As I received Spirit-filled prayer, those spindly fingers of anxiety which so easily entangle my thinking and attitude were rooted out. I was refreshed and renewed, able to lift my head and see the Son clearly. To feel his touch. To hear his voice. To respond.

I was reminded of a strategy I already knew, but had neglected following. Every morning, package whatever is on my mind and heart in the form of a worry or burden, and give it to the Lord. He is already carrying them anyway, but this reminds me I can let go. I can release the weight and be released into joy, trusting him.

He who flung stars into space is more than capable of sorting out my areas of concern. It’s as I trust him to do that, that I might bear fruit. I am so grateful. 

Use your power carefully

 Just listened to a powerful and profound message from a friend, Mary Haddow, who ministers in the beautiful village of Pitlochry. If you have twenty minutes, or even if you don't, take the time to listen to what she has to say. https://fb.watch/7nWouw3hye/

Sunflower Seeds

 

The sunflower head drooped heavily. Its last petals wavered, then dropped. ‘Oh no,’ Flick cried. ‘My sunflower!’

Planted in her Primary 2 classroom, brought home and replanted in the rose bed, that sunflower has been carefully tended and watered in dry spells. Flick has asked for help to support it, and delighted in it as it opened its full face to the sun.

She’s been gathering seeds to start a seed shop, so we consoled her that this gigantic head will now provide product for the shop. We googled what to do to prepare the seeds. They need to dry, so the bloom was cut off, to more cries of dismay.

Nothing stays the same.

It’s painful to watch life age and decay. But what seems like the end is, of course, only the beginning. ‘Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone, but if it dies, it bears much fruit,’ Jesus taught.

Only God never changes. The rest of us are moving along on that continuum. I pray that I might sow as many seeds as that sunflower is carrying, and that each might sprout and grow into a star bringing light into this dark world.

Jesus taught that the smallest seed of faith can grow into an impressive tree of life. May we all be encouraged to believe that even though our efforts, influence or visible results may seem miniscule, God has the last word.

Go Figure

 

The garden soft fruit, cultivated so carefully, has been disappointing this year. The canes which used to yield juicy, sweet raspberries, have barely produced. Not enough for jam, that’s for sure.

But the wild ones! Yes, admittedly, it took me over an hour to collect a couple of pounds of the tiny red rasps on a walk the other day, but I’ve got them now, and I’m about to head to the kitchen to make the resulting jam. Those tiny berries, so time-consuming to pick, so sweet and juicy.

Go figure, as my American friends say. Same weather, within a mile of our garden. Rubbish dirt never fed nor watered, and yet the wild ones proliferate and the husbanded ones wither.

Sometimes our most carefully cultivated friendships, or even our diligent efforts to raise Christ-centred children, don’t seem to yield results. We look around, crestfallen, to see wild shoots bearing fruit for eternity. As Tennyson wrote, and my dear dad often quoted, ‘ours not to reason why; ours but to do and die’.

I can’t make sense of it, but I know someone who can. Over to Him. I’m off to make the jam.