No Need

 

Final prep for a trip to see Mom. I’ve decided to travel light, and will take just a carry-on bag which I’ll check in, so I won’t find myself heaving a 50-pound suitcase anywhere. As I consider each item I pack, I’m finding it liberating to think, ‘No, don’t need it.’ Going somewhere warm helps, doing away with the need for cosy jumpers and so on.

Jesus came to set us free, free indeed. When we’ve yoked ourselves with Jesus, invited him into our lives, we can jettison all the baggage we’ve been lugging around – the shameful secrets, the guilt, the anger, the fear. He is our liberator, our Saviour. He bears the weight of all that previously weighed us down, and we can be filled with joy and peace.

No need for cosy jumpers when you’re in Jesus’ arms.

 

Harmonies

 

This morning I was encouraged to think about the music of the gospel. I had a real revelation. As a cellist, I have never reached a degree of musicality where I could fly free from the printed sheet. Occasionally I work out a slight harmony or variation, but I am not confident with my keys and chords and therefore, to take off on a flight of creative musicality is not possible. I once felt I was getting close to being set free to do that, but the group I was in encountered problems with finding a time to practice together, and so we disbanded. Practice, for me, would have been key to unlocking the sense of freedom to fly.

This morning I thought about how wedded to tradition, or, dare I say, even our preferred version of the Word, we can be. We can become so focused on the printed music of our religious tradition that we are unable to experience the freedom Jesus came to give us, the freedom the gospel sings out.

I think that Jesus’ teachings are the scaffold on which our faith is built, and within his teachings we are given freedom of expression. That’s why I love The Source translation of the New Testament, which revisits the originals and comes up with new understandings of, in particular for me, the difficult bits concerning women. Some translations seem to fly in the face of the dignity and respect Jesus raised women to, whereas The Source harmonises beautifully with his teachings.

May we all be set free from a slavish adherence to man-made rules, regulations and translations, set free to sing uninhibited love songs to our Saviour through all we are, do and say.

One day (it may not be until I’m in heaven…) I will be able to soar free with my cello, allowing it to sing its heart out as I praise the Lord with it. I pray that we will all be set free here on earth to soar in faith and love, living out the spirit of the word Jesus is.

Maranatha.

 

Christmas Wildflowers

 

I’m soaking a Christmas card from Gary and Louise. The paper is speckled, and small print on the reverse advises that if one soaks it for 24 hours and then plants it in a pot, wild flowers will spring up.

Had we not saved the cards to revisit them at a time calmer than the pre-Christmas rush, we’d not have realised that their card was more than cardboard. I wonder how many of the cards they sent were discarded in the recycling? Maybe some are blooming in landfills.

How often do we miss the wildflowers, because we are in too great a rush to do this or that? There is something particularly special about wildflowers. For a sporadic gardener like me, I think it’s the fact that nature does the work rather than me.

I love the tangential thoughts that come from this Christmas card impregnated with flower seeds: Jesus was sent as a baby, planted into the world, and though he was steeped in and saturated by the cruelty of powerful humans, he grew into a man pure and perfect, fragrant and beautiful. He brought – he brings – light and life. Sown by the divine gardener, he grew amongst us, full of grace and truth.

Oh, how we need him now! And he is here. We see him blooming in the lives of those cowering in cellars of fear and danger in Ukraine, where believers cling to him through faith and his word. We smell his fragrance in the lives of the persecuted, whose eyes glow with love for the very real saviour who never left nor forsook them during times of trial and tribulation. We see him in the lives of those stricken with disease and living with pain.

The wildflowers of God, sown with love and sacrifice. ‘I will never leave you nor forsake you.’

May he bloom in you and me today. Maranatha.

Woods Down

 

The still blue of a new spring day drew me outside for an early morning walk. I was delighted to see the wild primrose blooming beneath the detritus of tangled twigs and branches walloped by the winter winds. Circling back round the stand of trees, I breathed deep as once again I took in the damage left by Storm Arwen last November. As well as cutting our power for nearly a week, it decimated the woods all over Scotland.

As I approached the point where the forest fringes the field, I was surprised by my thought: ‘It’s just like Ukraine.’  Some of the trees, large and small, have been toppled, uprooted totally. The remaining skirt of roots rises in the air, drying out, dying slowly even while providing new habitats for insects and small animals. Some Ukrainians have fled the approaching army, taking with them whatever they could carry. Refugees in foreign lands, they grieve all they have lost, a chunk of themselves dying slowly, while new life sprouts unseen.

Some of the trees were snapped off in the middle of their trunks. Broken and bare, their stumps stud the ground and their roots remain secure. Perhaps they will sprout again, but they will always bear the scars of the massacre. Many Ukrainians who have chosen to remain in their country will be broken physically, mentally, and emotionally. Rough shards of memories of brutalities seen and experienced may one day be softened by new growth, but may never really heal.

Finally, other trees, both sturdy and slender, remain rooted and stand tall, isolated now where once they shared their neighbourhood, communicating through the network of fungi. Some trees support others which were partially uprooted and lean heavily, precariously on them now. Some stand alone. There are, no doubt, some Ukrainians who may look unscathed by the conflict, but their outer strength may shroud an inner brokenness.

I will never pass that wood again without remembering, and praying for, our brothers and sisters in Ukraine whose land is being blasted by a vicious north wind.

When you saw me hungry…thirsty…naked…sick…in prison… and you helped … you cared for me, you demonstrated your love for me, Jesus told those on his right. To those on his left: When you refused to help one of these, you refused to help and honour me.

Woods are damaged globally: in Yemen and Eritrea, Myanmar and China, North Korea, Syria, Afghanistan and Venezuela. Change the minds and hearts of those who would hand a one-way ticket to Rwanda to the wounded and traumatised asylum-seekers, Lord, and may this nation be found with hands extended in friendship and peace when you come in glory, I pray.

Undeserved

 

I sit in the prayer window. The Norwegian elm has changed, seemingly overnight: what were bare branches now bear the yellow-green sheen of spring as leaves sprout.

Clothed from within. The glory of nature’s spring fashion show is that the couture reflects the health and beauty of what lies within the trees and shrubs, rather than what has been added from without.

Man looks at the appearance, the Lord told Samuel as he sought the right son of Jesse to crown King, but God sees the heart.

Our clothing may not reflect the beauty of our nature (most of mine seems to have succumbed to nibbling by moths!) but the beauty is seen in the eyes, the smiles, the demeanour.

May God clothe us all in the white garments bought with the blood of Jesus, robes which are fashioned within our hearts, minds and spirits as we are still before him.

Ragtag Bunch

 

It was a ragtag bunch who followed the cross through Banchory this morning. A small group, by previous years’ standards: two years of lockdown interrupted this tradition, and maybe the word just didn’t get out.

A young man walking his dog looked surprised as he found himself striding into a small group of pretty old folks gathered round a wooden cross listening to a story. I wonder how he described his surprise later to his friends, his family.

As I followed in silence, I reflected on the things I think, say and do which, in their way, nail Jesus to the cross. Holy Spirit reveals only as much as we can bear at one time, peeling us back like onions. One day we shall stand in the presence of the Holy One, washed and dressed in the robes Jesus provides.

May I be a disciple who follows close on the heels of Jesus, not one who wanders off, who drops back, whose mind entertains critical or ungracious judgments. I am so grateful that, when I do stray, he is faithful to find me and bring me back into his fold.

A somber day of reflection today. So grateful for Jesus. So grateful to Jesus. So grateful.

Out of the Canvas

 

I’ve mentioned the paint-by-number I was given for my birthday last year. Now, on the eve of my next birthday (where did that year go, then???), I can report that I have finished it.

It’s been fun to see what looked like a tangled web of lines become recognisable tiny human beings, riding tricycles in the back yard of the home I grew up in.

I had to pay attention to the detail. Some of the spaces were so tiny the corresponding number was unreadable. Many of the colours were very nuanced gradations of tone, and it would have been easy to mix them up and end up with a different picture.

The paint pots are not numbered individually; rather, they are wedged into a cardboard palette on which the numbers appear. Carelessness could have resulted in disaster if I’d removed more than one pot at a time, and then mixed them up in putting them back.

I’ve been wondering if God has designed life like a paint-by-number. He’s created each of us, outlined us in the most intimate and tiny details. But as we grow, as we make choices, we choose the colours which create the light and shade, which distinguish and identify us. Personalities and passions emerge. Mhairi and Jamie, riding their trikes out of the canvas into my living room, have been making choices since they were born, and those choices have coloured who they are today. What amazing choices they have made: brave, creative, compassionate and loving choices.

I look at that painting and see my oldest two playing as innocent children. I couldn’t be prouder of the people they are because of the choices they have made, painting them in colours of love and generosity, of faith and trust, of hope and peace.

A mother’s is a privileged job. We see the canvas and imagine the possibilities, provide the paint pots and encourage faith. Then we sit back and watch the human beings grow in grace and truth.

May Justice Flow

 

The wind buffets the garden, bending the trumpeting daffodils so they kiss the earth. Tentative tulips unfurl their leaves but hold back opening their more fragile petals. Yesterday snow sprinkled the grass and verge; today it is gone, washed away by the rain, melted by the winds.

Springtime in Scotland. A fortnight ago we were outside clearing up the detritus of last autumn, the dead leaves, the extending shoots of the strawberries, the rampant growth of the mint. Outside without coats and hats. Basking in a warmer sun.

All around the world, winter winds of violence and injustice blast and damage fragile life. I see case after case of appalling injustice. Of innocent people suffering violence, assault, incarceration. As King David begged, ‘Arise, Lord, in your anger; rise up…Awake, my God; decree justice.’

Lord, this is the day that you have made. May it be a spring day, a day of vindication, of rejoicing, of freedom from oppression for many round the world. May justice roll on like a river, righteousness like a never-failing stream. Extend your mighty hand today, Lord, and save.

Sweetener

 

Back to squeezing lemons, chopping ginger and making the drink with honey to try to banish a nasty cold.

Of course, in these days there is no such thing as ‘just a cold’ until the test has been taken. Negative. Whew. Ten-day quarantine averted again.

The lemon and ginger would be undrinkable were it not for the honey. ‘Just a spoonful of sugar…’ Mary Poppins sang. How true that is with so much in life. There’s nothing wrong with sweetening the pill a bit, is there?

How sweet the sound of Jesus’ Name in a believer’s ear. We used to sing that. Just the sound of his name brings light into the darkness, sweetness into the sour situations: and it is there in every need. I often find myself just breathing his Name as I listen to horrific news items, or hear of sad stories of abuse or need, or am in the middle of situations I have no way of fixing.

Jesus. Name above all names. He sweetens the most bitter of pills.

Now back to the lemon and honey.

Fostering Fun

 

 

Found a treasure trove of past published prayers, so thought I'd share this one:

Oh Lord God, break through the crust of broken dreams and revive in me the heart of a child. Restore my instinct for fun; give me an irrepressible smile and an infectious laugh. May I shrug off the pressures which flatten the joy that longs to bubble up from deep within. May I detour into the lay-bys of life, taking time to enjoy you and your creation, taking time to delight in my friends and family, taking time to participate in activities which cleanse the mind and inspire the heart. Give me eyes to discern divine delight, ears to catch a godly guffaw, and a mouth to express merriment. Help me to enjoy you and revel in your creation. May I never take myself too seriously; secure in your love and care, may I be set free to frolic in the shadow of your wings. Tease out the threads of laughter, which, with age and anxiety, have become knotted and shredded within. Restore unto me the joy of my salvation. Your blessings are the light of my life, oh Lord. Thank you, Jesus. Amen.

The Road was Iced

 

The road was iced this morning, too slick for Mary and me, so we opted to take Abbie the energetic German shepherd on a run (her, not us) round the field. I’ve not yet broken in my new walking shoes so wore the old – forgetting the waterproofness has worn off.

An hour later, I was back with soaking feet and dripping socks.

How lovely on the mountains are the feet of the person who brings good news. Too often my feet are tramping through the mire of global news, bogging me down in the fetid waters of worldly wickedness and carelessness, chilling my spirit and depressing my mind.

My feet are now dried and cosy in dry socks. May I walk through the Word and soar through the worship of my Saviour, so that I might spread the peace and hope that are in Christ alone.