Gritty Eyes

Four am and gritty eyes, not just dry. Nine am and the optician and chemist diagnose: conjunctivitis in both eyes. What? Praise the Lord for such good health care, available when we need it. God bless the NHS.

I’m eager to see what the Lord has planned for us on this pilgrimage. There are so many impediments to our comfort and travel; perhaps the opposition doesn’t want us to be open to God, but feeling sorry for ourselves.

Nope, it won’t work. I’m excited to draw nearer to Him and rely on Him to get us over the mountains and down onto the plain.

Chaucer's Backpack

I learned the hard way that a cup of flour does not weigh 8 ounces, but 4. A cup of sugar weighs 8. Those Christmas cookies I made for my prospective in-laws when I first was engaged to Don, did not raise any expectations of culinary delights to come. With twice the amount of flour needed, the ‘dough balls’ fell apart and tasted more like sawdust than buttery delicacies.

He married me anyway.

Not every burden carries the same weight. Some press more heavily on our shoulders, or hearts, than others. Some drag us down, while others ‘ain’t heavy’ because they are carried with love. When I see a young father, or mother, carrying a child on his/her shoulders, I know the weight of that child is not negligible, but the parent isn’t thinking of the weight but of the child that is so loved.

Banking and online issues are real burdens. People I carry in my heart are not.

Yet Jesus doesn’t expect, or even want, us to carry anything. He invites us to cast all our cares onto God, to get yoked up with Jesus and let him bear the weight. I love the invitation and the imagery; I’m not always so good at letting go.

Packing a back pack. Every item in needs to be weighed in my thoughts: is it going to be worth the pressure on my shoulders, over hill and down dale, or will I be ready to jettison it at the first opportunity? Tricky to know, given the vagaries of spring weather.

Chaucer probably only had one pair of shoes, and they wouldn’t have been cushioned and padded. Perhaps he spent more prep time thinking up cracking tales to tell along the way, tales that would entertain for centuries.

Hmmm.

Buon Camino!

Surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses, Paul writes. Witnesses cheering us on. Life is a pilgrimage but we don’t go it alone. Jesus is true to his promise, that he never leaves our side. How amazing is that? Like the disciples headed for Emmaus, we don’t always recognise him but if we take the time to engage with that stranger next to us today, on the bus, in the waiting room, at the school gate, we might just catch a glimpse of him.

And then there is the community of saints: family, friends and other believers we fellowship with in church and Bible studies, prayer groups and FB groups. Cheering each other on. Sharing burdens, supporting in prayer, travelling with us in spirit.

Then there’s that cloud of witnesses, which I take to be the saints that have gone on ahead, round the corner and further in to Jesus’ presence. Out of sight, but somehow aware of our journeys. Praying us forward.

May the Lord bless each reader who so kindly cheers me on through the blog. Though I am not very good at acknowledging ‘likes’, I do notice and am encouraged. Thank you.

As  they say in Spain, Buon Camino!

Backpacks and Dodgy Knees

Backpacks and sleeping bags at the ready. Wardrobe carefully thought out. Prayerful approach to pilgrimage. Looking good to go … except …

Bodies aren’t co-operating. Colds and coughs that have lingered for weeks and refuse to shift. Now a dodgy knee. Physio tomorrow. Help!

Preparation is everything, and it’s easy to overlook a part of the prep which turns out to be critical.

Paul advises we train ourselves spiritually, that we are well-prepped for eternity. It’s easy to overlook some things which turn out to be critical.

Nutritious

Fresh orange, lemon and good Scottish honey. I’ve been told that honey is often adulterated with other products of dubious quality, so it’s worth the extra £s for the good stuff.

There have been some nasty bugs around this winter, tenacious little guys who don’t want to let go and who, just when you think you have them licked, keep staging a comeback. Don continues to cough and I am determined not to give those bugs in me a foothold.

So I’m working with my body. Feeding it plenty of good nutritious produce and encouraging it to fight back.

Good nourishment is important for health. Spiritual as well as physical.

Signal Strength is Great

Signal strength for our mobiles is erratic at best, non-existent usually, in our home. But today we had to use the mobile to call and renew, or renegotiate, our contract. It’s not quite as daunting as phoning for broadband help, but still presents a challenge to baby boomers.

Having identified a square near the window in the study where one of the phones had a signal, we made the call. After the usual filtering by a computerised receptionist and the obligatory ‘music’ whose sole purpose, I think, is to reassure you that you are still connected, we spoke to Aneesha. She tried to sell us more data and popped us through to an upgrade salesgirl, Lindsey, at which point we lost the signal and were disconnected.

We started again, this time connecting with Katy who assured us we could just renew what we already had, for the same price and same loyalty discount. It seems the choices vary depending on the operator you get.

That’s the great thing about God. Signal strength is always good, no matter where in the world you are. He is always the same, for everyone. He doesn’t change his mind, or give one of his children a better deal than another. He loves every one equally, stands by each one and never abandons anyone. There is no need to renegotiate a contract every year.

Sign up with God and you’ll never want to change eternity providers.

Soles or Soul?

Which part of the pilgrimage is going to be more critical – the state of my soul or the state of my soles? Appointment with a podiatrist – that’ll be a first for me and I’m not looking forward to it because I have been blessed with extremely ticklish feet…

I don’t think there is a podiatrist for the soul, who can trim off the callouses which may deafen me to the cries of the weak, cushion the tender spots where previous hurts have made me over-protective and unwilling to be vulnerable, and tidy up any neglected nails of errant belief or arrogant opinion.

I guess that is what a pilgrimage could be all about, if I give God free rein. I sense there could be some pain in this, but it’s sure to be better for me in the long run. Right?

Three WRI Ladies

Three lovely WRI (Women's Rural Institute) ladies from the top of Scotland stayed with us last night. They came in late in the evening, sporting colourful, complicated-looking handknit sweaters. They’re off to compete against other WRI bowling teams today, hoping for victory and to take home the cup and not the wooden spoon.

Listening to their voices last night as they laughed and talked over tea and shortbread was a delight. One might think that after six hours in a car together, they would have exhausted every possible topic of conversation. But no. There were times when I clearly heard two voices speaking, though only three ladies were there. Who was the hapless listener, trying to follow two conversations at once?

How on earth does God handle all the competing voices? How does he follow our fears and delights, our anguish and our joy, not only participating but also guiding and consoling and encouraging?

We do indeed have a wonderful God. What a wonderful name it is, the name of Jesus. The heavens are roaring, for Jesus is alive, no rival, no equal: He reigns. I am so grateful.

Blood is Thicker than Water

They say that blood is thicker than water. Just back from a regular blood test to ensure mine isn’t too thick, which can and has caused problems in the past. So grateful for the NHS.

One of the signs that Jesus was really dead was that the spear thrust into his side, while he still hung on the cross, caused an emission of blood and water which had separated. I understand this is a sign that a body sustains life no longer.

Jesus did die. Yet he lives again: I know that because without his strength sustaining me, there are many situations in my life which would cause me to buckle. He reminds me that he is there, alongside, holding the reins, and all I need do is accept his gifts of life, love, peace and joy, and relish the journey.

The separation of his blood at his death shows that Jesus was, indeed, human like us. The presence of him, by his Spirit, in my daily life shows me that he is, indeed divine. So glad that we are all part of his family. Blood is thicker than water.

Maranatha!

The sun is out and the conservatory is warm! Spring is here, and so is my birthday. I thank God for the blessing of life, for the gift of a wonderful husband, children, family and friends, for drawing the boundaries for me in very pleasant places. I thank him for the joy of church family, the blessing of his presence in my life and for his incredible patience with my sometimes chaotic walk with him. I am excited for the next chapters.

Life is a gift, though for so many today it may not feel like one. Thinking about and praying for all those in the firing lines of super powers and tin-pot dictators, whose suffering is unimaginable and heart-breaking. We need the Prince of Peace now more than ever.

Praying he comes in our hearts, in our churches, in our communities, in our countries, today, in new and maybe surprising ways. Keeping my eyes peeled. Maranatha!

Over to You

If I were an artist, I would attempt to paint the picture the Lord gave me a couple of weeks ago, of the stagecoach being dragged wildly over rough terrain, pulled this way and that by six or eight untamed horses, with a driver crazily distracted and aware that there was a cliff somewhere up ahead. Suddenly Another was beside him, taking the reins, calmly taking charge and reassuring the driver that He knew where the cliff was and He was in charge. That picture so filled me, the erstwhile driver, with peace for the day’s tasks.

This morning He reminded me that this is the day that he has made. Last night a message came in for something for Mom which filled me with fear and required midnight Skypes. With Mhairi’s help, it is resolved this morning, though there remains in me a frisson of unease because there is another element to the story which remains unresolved.

But this is the day that the Lord has made. He is in charge of my circumstances, of Mom’s circumstances. He has the reins. If I allow him to drive this, I should be able to enjoy an exhilarating ride and not be driven by fears and forebodings.

I have said that if I have a regret, it is that I am not more adventurous and less timid and easily frightened by heights, speeds, water, whatever. Perhaps this is the day, when the Lord is inviting me to enjoy the adventure with him, not anticipating disaster, but revelling in the moment.

Thank you, Lord, for entrusting this to me, and may my squeals be ones of delight and joy, not fear. Over to you.

Stains

I replaced the Christmas table cloth still on Mom’s dining room table with a plain white cloth, popping the red one made years ago by my aunt into the wash. Later that day, setting the table for a light supper, I put a full bottle of red wine onto the table, forgetting that there was an uneven place underneath the cloth. The bottle tipped, glugging red wine onto the cloth, but fortunately I caught it before it splashed onto the beige carpet!

So that table cloth got treated and into the wash. I put on another table cloth, a pretty white and blue one. As Mhairi poured the wine, I reached for a napkin to dab away the drips … too late. A drip of wine spread on the final table cloth, which went into the wash right after dinner.

Stains are always easiest removed when tackled immediately. Those left too long can become ingrained and impossible to wash out.

Of course, the Lord can get our clothes whiter than white. That’s the promise we have from him. I am so grateful.

In Training

We strode out in some of our new hiking gear, headed up Scolty as part of our training for the pilgrimage walk we will be making in a few weeks. We needed to catch our breath a couple of times on the ascent, enjoyed the view briefly, and then headed down. Four km in an hour. Could we do five times that length, day after day? Hopefully so.

I remember hearing golf described as a good walk ruined. A pilgrimage is more than the physical exertion of journeying. It should provide mental and spiritual space for rest, contemplation, and renewal. For that to happen, we need to be strong and have the stamina to endure the physical challenge so that our minds and spirits can soar, and not be tethered to the ache of our thighs or the rubbing of blisters. I don’t want our pilgrimage to end up being a good meditation ruined.

Paul talks about the spiritual life requiring training and discipline. It’s tricky building those elements into our already busy schedules, but hopefully as we discipline ourselves to undertake regular physical and spiritual training, we will position ourselves to benefit from a close encounter with our Lord.

Buon camino!

Birdsong in the City

I awoke early to the sound of tweeting ... Not from a sleepless president but from an exotic bird. In the heart of Los Angeles, a mile or two from the famous Hollywood sign, the predominant sound at 5 am was neither traffic nor siren, but birdsong.

Three hours later, when Mhairi  required silence in order to record a job from her tiny sound studio, the street sweeper roared up the street, water sloshing and brushes sweeping and engine grinding. A frustrated driver revved his engine impatiently. A helicopter crept past, hovering, rotor swirling noisily. A neighbourhood dog barked and the neighbour shouted at it. In the cacophony of an awakening city, the birdsong was lost.

I hear God's voice most clearly when I sit and wait on him in the silence of my room. When I look for his highlighted message in the Bible reading I am doing. When I walk out in nature and observe, guided by the Holy Spirit.

As my day roars into action, His voice can be drowned out by the demands of others, by mindless activity or even tedious news reports on the radio. But his voice, like the birdsong, continues to sing over me, guiding me in the way I should go, if only I will take the time to discern him.

Now I sit in the hubbub of Los Angeles International Airport departure lounge, awaiting a call to board the flight to London. As I walk among the crowds, settle into a seat, prepare for takeoff, I ask for sharp spiritual ears, so I don't miss anything from my Saviour.

Secured

I don't do much sewing anymore, but I grew up making my own clothes. My dear Mom was a talented seamstress and taught us well. It was in the era of gathered skirts, and I remember that once the three lines of basting stitch had been sewn, we carefully pulled them, gathering the full skirt and finally securing it, wound round a pin until we sewed it down securely.

I've been busy here, handling a variety of different threads of Mom's life and trying to make sense out of sometimes tangled situations. Today I am packing and starting my return home, feeling sad to know Mom feels safe and secure when I am here, and anxious when I go. I am praying that the threads which I have pulled into place are securely sewn down now, and that Mom will recognise that she is safe.

Jesus must have felt that he was torn from all that he was working on, when he was nailed to the cross. But he came back, he rose, and he spent time securing the threads. He walked the road to Emmaus and explained things; he appeared in the upper room; he spoke with the women and the men, the crowds and those on their own. What he had gathered, he secured.

We are safely secured in Jesus, the perfect craftsman. Mom is safely secured in him, and as I reluctantly hug and hold her and then leave, I give her to him in trust, knowing he is faithful, and he never lets us down. Even though it is hard.

Hallelujah!

He is risen! He is risen indeed! Hallelujah!

Where do the bunnies fit into this story? All I see at doors and desks are pastel coloured eggs, cute yellow chicks and lots of cute bunnies, in hats and overalls, dresses and bonnets. Many today will be lost in the chocolate cutieness of the day and the global, stratospheric significance will be lost in the haze.

But many others today, in situations wildly different, will be worshiping the one who died and rose again, so that we might be saved and live with him forever.

Happy Easter. He is risen indeed.