A Parable of our Times

 

A parable of our times.

A man sat with his laptop in the train station. People with purpose strode through the concourse, rushing to make a train or get home to dinner and bed. Threading through the people with purpose were the wanderers, those who had fled the war and were desperately seeking safety.

A young woman struggled past, two children in her care. She looked distraught, lost, hopeless. The man spoke to her, gave her his contact details, and she wandered off to the place allocated for refugees.

A couple of months passed. One night the man, back in Scotland, received a phone call from the distraught young woman. She had managed to get into the UK with her husband and two children, but they were housed in a hotel with other refugees, where they had been for two months. The children could not access school without a proper address; there were no possibilities locally. This couple, torn from successful careers by an invading army, were eager to find a place of security where they could resume careers and their children could progress with their education.

Help, please, she said to the man. We are stuck. Help us. Please.

And so they came north, hundreds of miles, hoping for help. The man worked for hours to find a way forward. It was so unclear. With their skills, where should they live? With school starting, time dictated the cadence. And so, down a labyrinth of possibilities that turned into cul-de-sacs, through tunnels of doubts, they sought the way forward. After a few days and many changes of direction, hopefully they have found their best next step.

Meanwhile, those scared young children who arrived so quiet, have found their voices. They have rediscovered the release of squeals of laughter. They have explored the toys set randomly out for visiting grandchildren. It is so poignantly wonderful to hear them racing round the garden in the sunshine, chattering, laughing, jumping and … and, being siblings, arguing.

My Bible study group set ourselves a challenge for tomorrow. That we would each look for the hand of God in our week, to share with each other tomorrow morning. So often we miss what God is doing in our lives, with things big, things small.

I haven’t had far to look.

Toboggan Run

 

I was about 16 years old, and had gone up to Big Bear Mountain for a church youth group retreat. It was one of the first times I had been in snow. We found a slope to sled down.

My friend Carole had a toboggan. She and her family had lived ‘back east’ where they had plenty of hills and snow. She knew how to control a toboggan, as it’s all in the leaning (maybe like a motorcycle?) rather than a steering device. I didn’t know anything.

Carole instructed me to get on the toboggan in front, and she would get on behind me. I clambered on. It was a very steep slope, and Carole couldn’t hold it. I shot off alone, gathering speed down the hill which was peppered with soaring pine trees and ended in a two-foot drop onto a lay-by, and then the main road.

I did what came naturally. I closed my eyes. By the grace of God, I didn’t slam into a tree. I shot off the short drop as if it were a ski-jump and landed, clunk, in the lay-by. By the grace of God, I didn’t slam into a car, or skid into one’s path. I had a jarring thud to my spine, but nothing worse.

Life is often like that scary slide down the mountain. While it is tempting to do what comes naturally, and just close my eyes to world events and climate change, it isn’t an option. I need to keep my eyes open to be able to pray knowledgably and do what I can. Like the boy with the starfish on the shore.

And so yesterday I did some craft with a 7-year-old Ukrainian refugee, who speaks no English. She watched me soberly as I tried to remember how Flick showed me to make a Chinese fan. After one mistake, I managed. Then we tried to make a yarn doll. Years since I did that, and it wasn’t a great success. But at the end of the day, she gathered her treasures, some crafted creatively by herself, and in amongst them, were the things I’d made with her. This morning she made a bracelet for me, delivered in silence, without a smile. It’s on my wrist.

This poor traumatised wee girl. I didn’t do much, but I hope that she has felt safe, and sensed the love and kindness of God through my clumsy attempts to connect.

I pray this terrible war will finish, by the grace and mercy of God. And that by his grace and mercy, he will protect the young and vulnerable ones from slamming into a tree.

 

Brambles in the Ditch

 

Some of the juiciest, sweetest brambles grow in the ditches. Don and I went on a reccy to see if the bramble bushes which lined the dirt road to what we call the ‘forest of Endor’ had survived the loggers.

I approached with caution, having disturbed the beautiful badger there a few weeks ago. (The beautiful badger which Flick and Greg and I buried a few days later, as it had been struck down on the road.) I didn’t want to disturb badger refugees who may have relocated in that ditch.

No sign of any badgers, and the brambles are there in profusion, many still red and ripening, many plump and black and sweet. We picked two boxes, and I’ll be back there soon.

A few jars of jam later, I can attest to their rich flavour.

With sorrow, I heard this morning that Don’s god-daughter, not yet 50, has been moved to a hospice. She is a sweet-natured, spiritual young woman, and my prayer today is that in the cancer ditch, she and her loving family might be blessed with divine sweetness and consolation.

And that anyone else in a worldly ditch of despair might today encounter the loving Saviour.

Glum

 

What’s the day like, Don asked as I opened the curtains.

Glum.

The grey mist hangs heavy, swirling round the tops of the trees which weren’t felled. Generous drops plop into swelling puddles on the driveway outside the prayer window. Cows graze ‘our’ field, content to hunker down, some of them lying in the grass chewing their cuds while the rain falls.

I was surprised to encounter my own writing this morning. I’d forgotten that I’d contributed a reflection on my favourite psalm in a selection by other writers in BRF’s Day by Day with God. My favourite psalm is 63; it was my spiritual crutch in the grieving months after my sister died.

I opened my Bible and re-read the familiar psalm. Then I looked at the words I’d written. Quoting from the psalm, it is printed there ‘in a dry and parched land where there is no water.’ Parched, not weary. Both my NIV translations say weary. Weary is such a rich word, redolent with layers of feeling. Much richer than parched, which only conveys a physical lack: thirst. In those grieving months it was a weariness I felt, not a thirst.

I don’t know where the word got changed, or by who, but at the risk of being labelled as pedantic, I prefer ‘weary’. I know when I first clung to that Psalm, my condition was one of weariness, weariness with the sorrowful condition of this fallen world, and not thirst.

So as the raindrops cascade all around this morning, I think of my description of the day. Glum. It’s possible to be weary even in the rain, even when not parched. Go with me on this. I think that it is possible to be standing in the midst of a spiritual shower of blessing, and still be glum, still be weary. And I concede there is a sense of thirst in that, in that if only one turns her face towards the heavens and opens her mouth, her thirst will be quenched. The water Jesus gives satisfies right down to our deepest need, but it’s possible to stand wearily in the divine rain, head hung and gaze turned inward, and still feel parched.

I don’t actually feel weary or glum or parched today, but I know that this Psalm has the thirst-quenching solution for the next time I do. Look up, turn your face to the Lord, open your mouth and praise him. As the praise flows out, so the water of life flows in, refreshing, restoring, and satisfying the deepest need.

Because Your love is better than life, my lips will praise you.

Help!

 

I sank onto the couch the other night, looking forward to losing myself in a book while YouTube played worship music.

Suddenly it stopped. I was surprised to see an error message – something about running short on memory. I tried to track that one down, and as I attempted to delete cookies I somehow signed out of Google altogether. Aargh.

When my feeble attempts to tackle a computer problem only compound the problem, I send out a HELP message to Doug. He is always kind, makes himself available, and yesterday corrected the situation in about ten minutes.

‘Come to me,’ Jesus encourages us. Come to Me when things don’t work out, when you are lost and confused, when you’ve done what you could and the problem is just getting worse.

I am so aware of my limitations with computers. Why, then, can I be so presumptuous and arrogant when it comes to other things in life? Why do I push on in my own strength, thinking I know how to solve things, rather than throwing my hands in the air and the problem to God?

I don’t like to admit failure. But as I look at the global situation this morning, I continue to reduce and recycle but I also fall on my knees (metaphorically speaking – not sure how these old knees would react to a sudden lurch onto the tiles) and cry out to God. Help!

Our arrogance and presumption, our pride and greed, have shaped this world, Lord. Forgive us, and please, come fix it. Amen.

 

A tumble and tangle of vines

 

A tumble and tangle of vines creep round the conservatory window ledge, sprouting from numerous pots. Most hold cantaloupe, and I am delighted to see a few of these tiny, perfect melons forming. One pot holds three cucumber plants.

We’ve enjoyed two cucumbers so far, but yesterday, as I took a paintbrush to the flowers in case they needed help with pollination, I was concluding that it was a disappointing harvest. Then, as I stood and stared, I suddenly spied there, partially concealed by a geranium, a fully formed cucumber.

What delight! I got Flick and Greg in to try to see it, and they spotted it much quicker than I had.

The fruit of the Spirit – love, joy, patience, peace, kindness, virtue, faith, gentleness and strength of spirit – grows like that, I think. Our lives – at least mine – can be a tangled mess, and it can be discouraging when a harsh word leaps from my lips or faith falters, but the promise of God is that he is the gardener, working in each of us like a bespoke designer, nurturing these fruits of the Spirit to feed an increasingly hungry world.

One of the challenges of church should be to encourage one another as we see those fruits growing. It can be hard to see growth in ourselves.

May I be quick to encourage and slow to be disappointed. And despite the outward mess of life, may I trust in the divine gardener who knows exactly what he is doing.

Unlike me.

Drought

 

A drought is declared in England. It hasn’t been so dry since 1976.

Scotland is not yet in drought, but the ground is dry as dust, the grass is parched and yellowing, the fields are stagnant and the cattle are being fed hay which should be kept until later in the year. There is little nutrition in the grass in the field which they are grazing, because there has been no rain.

I had an ice cream tub in the shower to collect some of the water, which I poured this morning onto a thirsty apple tree. The dry earth sucked in the moisture instantly.

A spiritual drought prevails in this world created so lovingly by the God who died for us. Even the church is dry and thirsty, thirsty for the gentle rain of the Spirit, thirsty for his presence to fall gently and steadily on us.

Jesus invites us to come to him, the water of life, promising that whoever drinks of him will never thirst again. Lord, may I drink deeply of you today. Pour out your Spirit on me, refreshing the parts that nothing else can reach, satisfying the thirst that is so, so deep.

Pour out your Spirit on your church universal today, your church which looks to you with increasing intensity and desperation. Lord, without you, we are just dry and desiccated, and can offer nothing to the world which is lost and parched. May the everlasting water flood us to the depths so that when we are squeezed, we overflow with the love and patience, the wisdom and kindness and grace of the Lord. Forgive us when we presume to run on empty, operating from a place of drought rather than resting in the refreshing rain of the Holy Spirit.

Renew us – renew me – this day, Lord Jesus. Renew your church, that you might bring blessing to all through us. In Jesus’ name.

Badgers!

 

The end of a rare summer’s day treat here (84F!), and I went roaming in the gloaming through the devastated wood beside us. As I strolled down the lane cleared for logging lorries, there was a sudden kerfuffle in the bushes at the side of the track. I paused, expecting to see a deer emerge and lope away into the field.

To my surprise, out waddled, with effort and at speed for such an ungainly creature, a large badger. He didn’t glance my way but hustled towards what our family call the ‘Forest of Endor’, which is still standing despite Storm Arwen. I watched with delight as this heavy, cumbersome animal swished its bushy tail, which appeared more golden than black or white, its short legs rushing along.

Before the loggers came in to remove the trees felled by the storm, as well as the rest of that surrounding wood, there had been a badger sett in one corner. Perhaps this was a refugee badger from the devastation, seeking shelter and a new home.

Our world is one of millions of displaced people suffering terrible deprivations and trying to recover from the trauma they have witnessed and survived. Seeing the badger reminded me of the millions of animals under threat from our encroaching ‘civilisations’.

Jesus said that not even a bird falls from the sky without his knowing about it. He loves us, remarkably considering the evil we do, and he loves his creation and the many and varied creatures.

May I be willing to modify my demands and my lifestyle so that I don’t encroach on the fragile habitats of his kingdom. May I respect all that he has made today, even the buzzing and biting flies, the swift spiders, and the long-tailed rodents.

And the badgers.

 

Disappointment to Opportunity

 

As our convoy of cars drew up to park at the beach, the heavens opened and a heavy shower pounded down onto the earth. That beach was a mile’s walk from the road, a long walk for little 3-year-old legs, so we all piled back into cars and drove on to another beach some had discovered. There, coffee could be purchased, and the stony beach offered opportunities for curious kids to encounter weird and wonderful creatures in the many rock pools.

What seemed a disappointment opened up into an opportunity.

The second beach was littered with clam shells, many lying open and empty, still hinged. In the fringe of shore-line, some discovered that many shells were not only firmly shut, but still filled with clams. Having some trained chefs in the family is such a blessing, as Jamie was able to pull together some clam chowder later on as part of our dinner.

My heart is overflowing with gratitude to God for the week just passed, when all 17 of us were able to step out of our usual hectic lives and congregate in a big house on the west coast which afforded activities for all ages, from the well-used hot tub and sauna to the much-used trampoline and table football and snooker.

The weather did not impact our laughter and silliness, our discussions and reconnections, our cocktails and cake, and the opportunities to build relationships with young grandkids/nieces and nephews.

The occasion was a belated Big Birthday for me, postponed by a year due to Covid. The collective embrace of love from my family as they donned the sombreros they randomly found in a cupboard, hung balloons and lit candles was the biggest gift of all.

Thank you seems lame when my heart is this full. God is good, and his blessings never fail.