Everlasting Infrastructure

 

I was told that the potholes in the roads round our house, at one point, are so deep that ancient cobbles have been revealed. An old Roman road, or a medieval track, still intact beneath the crumbling asphalt of modern technology.

Our midday walk came at a time when roadbuilders had completed just half the task, finally patching some of the many cracks and crevices in the surfacing. What a half-baked job, we complained. Why didn’t they fill them all in? One of us took a picture to send along with a further complaint to the council.

Fortunately, before that email was sent, we saw the workmen return to complete the task. It’s still just patched, and not completely resurfaced, but at least, I think, all the holes are filled in now. No more blown-out tires and bent axles. Hopefully.

The Lord is slow to anger and abounding in mercy. May I also be slow to anger today. May I be spared from jumping to premature conclusions and firing off complaints. May I show grace to those who are trying to repair the broken infrastructure of our society, and be ready to encourage efforts even when they appear ‘half-baked’. I do not always see the whole picture.

Though our global society is cracking and pot-holed in many ways, I put my trust in the Lord today, knowing that underneath are the everlasting arms, like the ancient, unseen cobbles.

Ghosts from the Past

 

The ancient projector whirred into life. Don threaded the film onto the empty spool and started it ratcheting its way through the machine. White screen soon gave way to an amazing blast from the past.

The film was one my dad took. 1960. My hair was still in ringlets or a pony tail. Still naturally dark brown. At one point, there was my nine-year-old self playing with paper dolls (remember those?) with my big sister Judy. Sweet memories of carefree hours.

The film included a compilation of events during that year. Christmas dinner with Dad’s side of the family. So many no longer with us. A silent film, we could imagine the banter, hear the laughter. Both my Grandma and Grandpa were there, and Aunt Norma, Uncle Gordie and Aunt June, and all six of their children, one still in a high chair. Six of them have gone before us. There was Dad, capering, and Mom, looking like a film star with her striking dress and scarf. Judy and I, giggling with our cousins, just before the slide into awkward tweenager years. Now only Mom and me left.

The film segued into New Year’s Day, gathered with Mom’s side of the family, Aunt Wynne, Uncle Nobby, and their three boys. Three have preceded us into the Lord’s presence.

I smiled through the tears. In every tear there is a rainbow. Happy memories of times long gone. People we can no longer see. Places we can no longer go.

Beside the bereaved Martha and Mary, Jesus wept. But then he revealed his power over sin and death, raised Lazarus, and continued his ministry.

So this day, may I be inspired by the lives of loved ones now gone, and move on in my calling to follow Jesus. May he strengthen my weak knees and help me to reveal his image today.

‘Since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us.’  

Don't Blow your Top!

‘Don’t blow your top!’ my mom used to admonish my sister and me if we were in danger of over-reacting and getting angry.

The earth itself seems to be blowing its top in the Canaries just now. And it’s shaking up Melbourne. Honey bees are killing penguins in South Africa. Covid continues to kill thousands.

Nature seems to be imitating human activity. Afghanistan and Haiti are in melt-down; Tigray and Eritrea, Syria, Lebanon, Palestine, and so on…

Like the lava flows in La Palma, rivers of refugees flow out of disaster zones seeking peace, seeking safety, seeking acceptance. In Belorussia, they are being treated like tennis balls, being shoved across the borders into neighbouring EU countries, only to be pushed back into Belorussia. In the US, enforcement officers on horseback brandish whips against Haitians cowering beneath a bridge. In the Med and the English Channel, desperate people board flimsy boats, first parting with all their cash, and are often welcomed into internment camps before facing deportation.

‘Are you tired? Worn out?’ Jesus asks. ‘Come to me…I’ll show you how to take a real rest…Learn the unforced rhythms of grace.’

I pray today for all those whose lives on earth are a daily challenge to survive. May those of us who love Jesus be Jesus to the traumatised, the exhausted, the frightened and the lost, wherever we meet them today. May we, with our own challenges, walk in the unforced rhythms of grace, inspired and strengthened by the Holy Spirit.

May I have learned the lesson my mom tried to teach me all those years ago, and not blow my top, but instead sink back into the loving arms of Jesus and trust him to direct my words and actions. 

Treasure!

  

I was doing the mundane. Wiping the ledges in the conservatory, where tomato plants soar and collapse, nearing the end of production. I was clearing away the corpses of numerous dead flying insects.

We had noticed that one of the tomato plants shared its pot with a rogue vine. We’d admired some pretty yellow flowers it bore as it entwined amongst the geraniums. We’d wondered if it were perhaps a cucumber or courgette that had somehow been left in the compost.

Yesterday, though, my intention was clearing up the tangled mess. As I unwound the vine from some geraniums, I realised it carried weight. I looked again.

Treasure! There in the corner of the windows sat a melon. A small melon, true, but unmistakably a melon. Suddenly I realised I needed to keep watering! How exciting to harvest a melon! What a surprise!

It’s in the midst of the mundane, everyday that we sometimes unearth the gold, the treasure. A routine conversation can suddenly light up when something precious is shared.

A routine quiet time with God can be transformed into holy ground as he sweeps in with words of encouragement or comfort, calling you into a new season or re-anointing you to persevere in the season you’re in.

‘Your name is like honey on my lips,’ we sang a decade or so ago. ‘Your Spirit’s like water to my soul; your word is a lamp to my feet.’ Jesus, we love you.

May we all discover the treasure which lies concealed in unexpected places today.

A time for everything

 

Seed pods pop in the autumn sunshine, as I lean past the broom and gorse to pick yet more brambles. The freezer is pretty crammed with the tasty fruit. We’ll be glad of it in a few months’ time.

A light breeze flutters through the gently fading leaves. Victoria plums continue to provide a daily harvest – for about four days.

The house is a mess. Who can bear to be inside tidying when the sun blazes out of the sky?

There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven. It can be heartbreaking to move from one season to the next, to leave behind something which is rich and fulfilling and move on into an unknown future.

But God has made everything beautiful in its time. Enjoy this day.

The Joy of Bramble Mousse

 

I made a bramble mousse for the first time the other day. I made it in honour of my sister-in-law, who was celebrating her Golden Wedding Anniversary: it reminded me of my early years here, when we spent a good amount of time together and every year she made bramble mousse.

It was the first time I have ever used gelatine. It seems there is a knack to it.

I didn’t use quite enough, as I was doubling the recipe and only had enough gelatine leaves for one recipe, used the powder for the second amount, which fell short by 1/5^th. I reasoned that I don’t like things too solidified, but what in fact happened was that it split slightly, with the bottom layer being more like jelly and the top majority a little on the soft side.

Tricky to get the right proportion of gelatine: something that will give the pudding cohesive body so it doesn’t remain runny, but not so much that it hardens.

Awake in the night, I was drawn to read a passage which spoke of the anointing of joy. Hebrews 1:9 talks of the anointing of the oil of joy setting Jesus above all others.

Is it too wild a flight of fancy to think of the oil of joy as a sort of gelatine in the Christian life? In the challenging times in which we are living, it is natural and tempting to be hardened into cynicism and / or pessimism. Filled with the Spirit of God, though, we can receive the anointing of the oil of joy which can balance us and keep us filled with peace, hope and love.

In a world rocking with violence and environmental upheaval, joy is a rare thing.

May the Lord anoint us all with the oil of joy, so that we can sit at God’s table in the presence of our enemies, fully focused on Jesus and trusting in his promises.

Joy is at the heart of the gospel.

Under our Noses

 

‘We had a great three-day break in Edzell,’ our neighbours enthused as we paused to chat this morning. ‘Did you know there was a great little museum in Forfar?’

Edzell? Forfar? Aren’t these just places you pass through on your way to somewhere more interesting?

Not in Covid times! How many of us have discovered treasures in our neighbourhoods that we didn’t realise were there?

And again. There they were! Right at the end of our driveway, turning to the right instead of our usual route left: clutches of big, juicy brambles begging to be picked. We nearly missed them.

And again: right in the garden itself, behind the scaffolding slide the grandkids play on: more ripe, juicy blackberries.

Why is it that we can be so eager to rush off in search of sweet things far away, when they are often right there under our noses?

I am so enriched by the wisdom of the women in my Bible study group. So well-fed by them and other dear sisters in Christ. May I never be guilty of overlooking or taking for granted the beauty that surrounds me, while seeking beauty far away.

God has created a beautiful earth for us to enjoy, wherever we are, and he provides for us day by day. May we learn to harvest the bounty without destroying the matrix.

Made for More

 

So I joined the first day of a 12-hour, 3-day webinar. Led by a Christian, she promised to teach the secrets of how to get your God-given vision published and out there. Monetised, actually. Taking what you believe to be a vision or calling from God and putting that into a formula which would yield six-figure incomes within weeks. Guaranteed.

I didn’t stay the course. Interesting, for sure, but also sad. Sad, as I read the comments on the chat line, where other participants encouraged one another to trust God to provide that four-figure sum that the woman charges to join the special group hand-picked to be moulded by her ideas.

Don’t think of yourself more highly than you ought, I just read. Thinking of some of the things said at this seminar, which often returned to a declaration that ‘I was made for more than this!’ by someone longing to step out of a tedious, low-paid job and into a lifestyle where the money dropped into the bank account while the person was off enjoying herself somewhere else.

I was made for more than this.

The Eyes Have It

 

The eyes have it! Blue, green, brown, grey, hazel, and all shades in between. Aren’t they one of the best bits of a human body?

Too much light, or long life, and cataracts can form, clouding vision. As years go by, the macula can degenerate and the damage is irreversible. A stroke can pinpoint the eye and steal vision. These are the three enemies I know of and mention: there are many ways vision can be diminished or taken away altogether, plunging a person into darkness.

The eye is the lamp of the body, Jesus said. If your eye is clear, your whole body will be full of light. Many whose physical eyes have failed have a clear inner vision which guides the rest of us home.

Lord, make my eyes clear today, both physically and spiritually, so that my life reflects you. May the words of my mouth, and the meditations of my heart, always glorify you, Lord Jesus Christ.

Grace to Flourish

 

Hearts and flowers. Don and I have just celebrated our 46^th wedding anniversary. We went to the V&A in Dundee; celebrating Scottish designers and their global pioneering leadership in many areas, I came away wondering why there is often such a lack of national self-esteem here. So much talent in such a small nation!

It’s good to step back and take stock. In the midst of busy lives, it is hard to see the success sometimes. An anniversary is a great time to pull out of the usual and take note of where we’ve been. We look back, and see the hand of God and his great grace bringing us to where we are now.

A visit to the V&A is a great way to encourage national self-esteem. St Mungo is reported to have prayed, ‘Let Glasgow flourish by the preaching of the word’. ‘Let Glasgow flourish’ is the shortened version in the city’s coat of arms. A connection perhaps to the flourishing of Scottish creativity and innovative design over the years?

May God continue to give us all grace to flourish, in relationships and in life.

Extra Time

 

Extra time. In a football match, (as I understand it), when the score is tied – or maybe it’s when they’re making up for injury time (I don’t understand it well, obviously) – they add on extra time at the end to try to achieve a resulting win.

It’s a defined period of time. I think 15 minutes. I imagine that concentrates the minds of the players  to go at it even more energetically, running as fast as they can, targeting the goal as well as they can.

This year, I turned three score and ten. In the Bible, that is the allotted time we have. Now I am in extra time.

I sense that same urgency that the players in a major match must feel. I hope I can use any wisdom I’ve somehow gathered through the years to be a more effective witness to the love of God, to bring hope to the despairing and joy to the despondent and faith to those who stumble in the dark, seeking the light.

It’s an exciting time to be alive. I am grateful for being granted extra time, for being healthy and enjoying many blessings. May I ‘play’ well during my allotted final period of time – which I do hope is longer than another 15 minutes!!

Wild and productive

I’ve found a kindred spirit. Doug is a squirrel, too, eager to store up the bounty we find in the wild. Our lunchtime walks just now include carrying a couple of tubs in case we can’t resist another profusion of brambles.

Another kilo of brambles came in yesterday, and now sit, ready to be turned into jam. They are big, juicy and plentiful this year. So abundant that in a week or two I may be satiated totally, but I doubt it.

Our own vegetable and fruit garden has not been so fruitful this year. All our effort and toil have not brought much of a harvest. Yet out there on the edge of the woods, untouched by human hands, these beautiful fruits have grown. Tended and husbanded by our Father the gardener.

Thinking about the fruits of the Holy Spirit. In my own strength, I am no good at achieving inner peace, bucketloads of patience or self-control. As I trust in Jesus, though, the Spirit can bring out a harvest of fruit that I don’t even see. But others sometimes glimpse these fruits, often lying quiet and plump under a canopy of thorns and spiderwebs in the shade. These divine fruits can revive the weary heart and encourage the crest-fallen.

Some aspects of my life are wild and untamed. I am challenged daily in managing my Mom’s affairs, for instance, and if there is any fruit growing in this tangled undergrowth, it is all nurtured by God. I know that if I can just keep taking one step at a time, trusting in him, all will be well. All things will be well. He will weed out the bad and water the good. I pray that someone else, equally challenged and feeling ill-equipped for a task, will see the faithfulness of God revealed, and will be encouraged and fed, as if on plump, juicy brambles.

I am always finding God’s fruit in the lives of my friends and acquaintances. I am so grateful that the heavenly gardener knows exactly what type of soil and fertiliser each of us needs. I am so grateful for the family of God.

 

  

Harvest

 

The weather is soft. Brambles swell and blacken in the warm sunlight. Seedpods from gorse and broom are popping. A gentle breeze ruffles the leaves and dries the sheets. Round haybales rest in the harvested fields, beckoning kids to climb on and play. The local farmer tells me it’s a rare year when the harvest is in by the end of August, and this is one of those years.

Life is demanding, hectic, sometimes chaotic. The news harvested from around the world is dire. Many feel anxious, understandably, for the future.

Be still and know that I am God. He is a good God. He is still bringing a harvest of goodness. Weeds of violence and disrespect grow among the tares of kindness and love. Lost in the middle, our gaze needs to rise to his throne room. Focusing on the tragedies and disasters leaches our hope in the God who is the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end. He doesn’t sleep. He is our refuge and hope in times of trouble.

He will bring in a harvest of righteousness. He will usher in an age of peace. We have a sure hope in the Lord, because of what Jesus did for us. So grateful.

 

 

 

Spider Hammocks

 

Overnight drizzles led to spider hammocks in the gorse bushes this morning. I love the way the moisture picks out the intricate, lacy patterns woven by the spiders. The webs look inviting, but are of course deadly to those insects caught in them.

I wonder if the entrapment rate declines when the webs are revealed. Do flying insects notice and avoid the otherwise fairly invisible webs, when they are highlighted in droplets?

I made a decision about Mom’s physicians a few months ago, which I now regret. At the time, I was being encouraged to go for the change, and there were sensible reasons to do it. But as I explored the option, each step presented a challenge and my instinct was to walk away, and to keep the doctor she already had. But I went ahead and worked through and made the change.

Bam. Now we are caught in the web. It isn’t deadly (I hope) but it is presenting challenges in getting out of.

I should have followed by instincts, despite the apparent common sense of making the change.

Even though the Lord goes before and behind and within me, I can still miss is still small voice. Not that every instinct is God’s leading, but I think at least some of them are.

Be still and know that I am God, the psalmist wrote. God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. May we all hone the hearing of our inner ears, and recognise his voice today.

 

 

Knotted Wood

 

It’s one of the decorating jobs that doesn’t require a perfectionist: painting over the knots on the new pine wood so that they don’t bleed through the paint after a few years. So there I was yesterday afternoon, wiping down the wood which Don has so carefully sanded, and painting over the knots.

The stuff works pretty well, but there are some spots in our house where, despite my best efforts, the tell-tale brown of a knot beneath is bleeding through.

I can stuff things down in my life; I can try to cover up my feelings or minimise the effect something has had on me. I can paint over the wound. Sometimes I can do that successfully. But sometimes, like the knotted wood, the hurt or the fear eventually bleeds through.

Only God can clear up the knots in my life. Only when I completely surrender them to him and wholly trust him to make me new, can I live in the freedom Jesus died to give us.

May trust in the promises of God outweigh any hesitation in me, so that my faith in his love releases me to be all that he made me to be. May the same be true for you, today and every day.

As Job eventually declared, ‘I know that you can do all things; no plan of yours can be thwarted.’ Praise God.

Painting by Number

 

A cylindrical package sits propped in the window ledge, awaiting my attention. It was a birthday gift, a paint-by-number canvas. When completed, it will recreate a photo of my two eldest children, playing in the backyard of my childhood home in Long Beach. Happy memories of happy days.

It’s been waiting since April, as summer gardening and activities took over. Now I’m looking forward to doing it.

I am no artist. But my sister and I spent hours of together time in our bedroom in Long Beach, working on various masterpiece paint by numbers. My mother still has two of them on her wall: a Rembrandt and a Gainsborough. Happy memories of happy days.

I am not gifted to paint a recognisable picture free-hand. But I can paint within the lines.

God has created a canvas of my life. He knows the way I should live, the attitudes I should have, the choices I should make, to bring out a perfect picture. I have not always lived within the lines. I have slopped over some slightly, and pushed the boundaries of others in a major way. But our Father is a dynamic creator, who never scrunches up or discards anyone. As I return to him, he cleans up the mess I have made. At the end of my life, whatever I am will be a partnership of his design and my execution of it.

He makes everything beautiful in its time. I can trust him with the finished product, knowing that even if my life has become a piece of abstract art, in his eye I am beautiful, and he loves me all the same. Don’t we have an amazing God?