The Ultimate Connector

 

The teeth of the digger bit into the pile of large stones, dragging them away from the entrance to the field. A herd of cows in the next field thundered over, curious to get a better look. The friendly operator gave me a wave, slid open his window and started to chat.

Turns out his brother dug out our new septic tank a couple of years ago. Yesterday, coming out of the church, I heard a cheery voice behind me. ‘Hi Michele,’ June said, pushing a pram with a grandchild sleeping quietly in it. A blast from the past: our kids were at school together here, from P1 onwards. Haven’t seen her for years, but there was laughter, there was joy in the meeting. This morning, leaving the garden centre with my neighbour, a grey-haired lady beamed a smile of recognition at me. ‘Pauline!’ I exclaimed, grateful to remember her name. She, too, had children the ages of mine, and she proceeded to fill me in on the recent travels of a mutual friend, Judi.

That’s what I love about a small community. Connections.

Years ago, as a newly born-again Christian, I sometimes went to prayer retreats where I didn’t know anyone, yet as soon as I met the others, I felt as if I were embraced into a family.

Jesus is the ultimate connector.

 

Bluebell cottage

 

This morning, I took the trail through the enchanted forest. The grass was long and the path overgrown, and soon the moisture was creeping up the legs of my jeans. The walk leads past what our family nicknamed the ‘haunted house’, and came back onto a paved drive at the back of ‘bluebell cottage’.

During the pandemic, this old broken croft was on the market, and there was cheerful speculation round our dinner table about buying bluebell cottage as an investment. But nobody had any spare cash to invest.

Well, somebody did, and while I wasn’t looking or walking that way, they have transformed it into two separate structures, their glazed upper floors looking south across the valley. They look idyllic, set in a haven of peace and tranquillity.

Except. If the big business boys get their way, the windows will look across the wooded landscape to the Hill of Fare windfarm, which will be 16 giant wind turbines, the biggest in Europe. And towering above bluebell cottage will be the monster pylon scheme proposed for carrying offshore-generated wind energy south for sale.

‘I have seen all the things that are done under the sun; all of them are meaningless, a chasing after the wind,’ says Solomon in Ecclesiastes 1. I am reading Glen Scrivener’s Reading Between the Lines daily readings, and his remark is that the word for wind is the same as the word for Spirit in the Bible, and Solomon’s descriptions of the futility of chasing after worldly gain encourage us to chase after the Holy Spirit instead.

The world is full of surprises, not all of them good. Only God is good.

 

The Scent of Beauty

 

The lilac tree boasts a profusion of blossom this year. The fragrance is intoxicating. I cut a few blooms, along with some Jacob’s Ladder and some little white pom-pom flowers and fashioned a basic flower arrangement. Floral art is not my gift.

This morning, I noticed that it is as the flowers fade, that they open and release their pungent aroma. The beauty of the young flowers pleases the eye; the fragrance of the older flowers pleases the nose and brings a smile to the lips.

May this season of my life release a powerful scent of Jesus, bringing joy and comfort, peace and hope, to any struggling souls I may encounter today. May the fragrance of Jesus surround and emanate from my being today.

 

Rats!

 

So, rodents are attracted to untidy gardens, where ‘No Mow May’ has created a waving wilderness of long grass in which they can feel safe. They love to cadge the food slopped out of the bird feeder by messy, voracious birds.

Thankfully, Don, a great enthusiast for No Mow May, cut the long grass over the weekend. Revealing no evidence of rats or mice. Warmer weather has prompted us to stop feeding the birds for a few months.

Not that I’ve noticed any rats, but the headlines scream out that this island is heavy with rats making hay, and babies, while the trash collection reduces to fortnightly and the population tries to balance rewilding with keeping things clean.

I’m conscious that areas of my thought-life can become a jungle of tangled ruminations and twisted ideas. My mind needs a daily tidy-up of truth from the word of God in order to recognise lies from the world. I don’t want to feed on wrong ideas dropped carelessly or mischievously or even malevolently; may I hunger and thirst more for you, Lord, than for any junk-food thoughts I may pick up through news sources, friends and family.

This is the day the Lord has made. I will rejoice and be glad in it.

Cuckoo!

 

I strolled out into the gloaming, to soak in the end to a glorious spring day. A cuckoo called from the nearby woods. Repeatedly. Incessantly.

Memories carried me back over half a century ago, when my sister Judy returned from a summer’s exchange to Wolfsburg, Germany, proudly bearing a cuckoo clock for our parents. They excitedly mounted it on the panelled wall of the living room, which was just behind the wall of our bedroom. My sister then went off to university, leaving me with a nocturnal reminder of her visit to Germany.

As an insomniac teenager anxious about French and trigonometry exams, most nights I got out of bed, stamped down the hall and into the living room to stop the swing of the pendulum and silence the cacophony of the cuckoo’s call blurting out the hours. For years, my parents teased me about hearing my deep sigh of irritation as I marched down the corridor.

There was no stopping the pendulum on the cuckoo last night. His call went on and on as he desperately reached out to connect with a female of his species. I was grateful not to be camping nearby. I started the record function on my phone’s WhatsApp and sent a sample to the family.  I thought.

Later, when I played it back to myself, I realised that my mic is so poor that all it picked up was my hushed voice whispering a description of the call of the cuckoo. Funnily enough, none of the family has so far pointed that out to me…

So on this morning’s walk, I heard that same frustrated cuckoo starting a new day of calling out.

Jesus advised, those with ears to hear, let them hear. May the inner mic of my spirit pick up the whispers of His Spirit today, confident that nothing of God is ever ‘cuckoo’, and that when his urging is persistent I am wise to listen and obey.

Burger bun or Croissant?

 

No visit to Paris could be complete without going to Notre Dame. As we approached, we saw the barrier fences encircling the cathedral, and the cranes busy on the reconstruction after the devastating fire. We’d expected to see that: we hadn’t expected to see a tented enclosure with signs inviting us to a Fete du Pain. Hundreds, if not thousands, of visitors queued up to buy breads. Only in France would a Bread Festival seem so interesting!

Bleachers faced the tent, bleachers busy with bread-eating visitors. Clustering round the display of breads from the world, we stood enthralled to watch pâtissiers speeding round the kitchens, competing with one another as they produced croissants and other delicacies.

I was amused, and a little chagrined, to see that the bread identified as being the most identifiable from the USA was a hamburger bun! Not even a cinnamon roll, or a donut, or cornbread. A humble burger bun. Sigh.

The Fete du Pain was a sophisticated presentation of the staple of most societies. Visitors’ attention was focused on the bread we consume, and though this temporary structure crouched in the shadow of the iconic towers of Notre Dame (which didn’t burn), there was no mention of the true Bread of Life.

All the rolling and buttering and rerolling and more buttering of the fanciest and most delicious

croissants does not produce something which satisfies like Jesus. Sometimes we make the gospel so complicated when, in fact, Jesus’ message is simple. ‘I am the bread of life. Come to me and you will not hunger…’

More of a burger bun than a croissant?

No Avatar

 

As the attendant fitted the VR headset to my head, I slipped back in time 150 years. The avatar, Rose, invited us to follow her across a dusty street, where a passing horse-drawn carriage splashed through a puddle and people in 19^th-century dress moved to and fro about their business. We ‘entered’ a salon where we eavesdropped on conversations between the now-famous, then-obscure, French impressionist painters.

We heard their struggles to be taken seriously as they sought to break from traditional art subjects – classical or biblical themes – and create their masterpieces ‘en plein air’ – outdoors. As they sought to portray the real world as they saw it, the way the light played on rippling waters or trembling leaves.

Ghostly avatars glided round me, visible so that I could avoid bumping into them. Only Don’s avatar bore his name, so we could experience this amazing exhibition together, sometimes even finding one another’s hand to hold.

As Rose led us across a slightly raised plank set over a stream, she slipped and splashed her long skirt and buttoned boot into the water, exciting Monet’s avatar to cry out to the others to notice the way the light played on the flying droplets. I stepped tentatively ‘onto’ the plank, cautious not to fall in myself, surprised to find my foot found, not a raised plank at all but the solid ground of the room in which we moved.

It was, indeed, an immersive experience. Reflecting on it this morning, I am thinking of how often Jesus told his followers to keep alert and be aware. How often we move through life, seeing it through the VR headsets constructed from the ideas we adopt from social media and news, from friends and family. Today, Lord, I ask you to remove the headset which blinkers and blinds me, so that I can perceive the truth of your word as you express it in your world and through your children. Humbly, I extend my hand, Jesus, to take hold of yours, that you might lead me forward, through the dusty streets, the splashing puddles, and the distractions of this day.

I am so grateful that you, Jesus, are no avatar, ghostly and unreal. So grateful that when I reach out my hand, yours is there to guide, to reassure, to encourage me.

 

Train to Rouen

 

The train to Rouen was crowded. Double-decked, high-speed, we made just two or three stops before we reached our destination: Giverny.

We’d mis-timed our morning. The metro took longer to navigate than we’d imagined. We missed a train by minutes and then had a two-hour wait for the next one.

As we glided to a stop at Vernon-Giverny, it seemed the entire train of passengers disembarked and began searching for transport to Monet’s gardens. Eventually we took our seats on one of three buses. We couldn’t quite believe the crowd.

Arriving at a packed car park, we took our picnic lunch into a field and enjoyed the sunshine for half an hour before heading towards the gardens. There, we were confronted with a serpentine line disappearing round a corner. Inching forward, we began to doubt. Would we get in? Was it worth the wait and the crowds? We’d made such an effort to get here.

Being in Paris on France’s long, VE-Day and Ascension Day holiday, we had met with hordes of visitors at all the sites we’d visited. But we hadn’t been prepared for the Disneyland-esque mob at Giverny.

Realising we had a long, two-hour wait, just to see the waterlilies and iconic bridge so often depicted in Monet’s paintings, we gave up, left the line and wandered into the village. Quaint, charming, and quiet. We slipped into the former school building, where a cartoonist and his partner, who specialised in animation, were holding an exhibition. Francois Guibet: look him up on Facebook. He’s got buckets of talent, but he and his partner sat alone, chatting quietly, as we watched their animation. There was a QR code for any who wanted to support him. We still use euros.

Later, sitting on a bench in the sun while Don lingered inside, it struck me as sad and almost surreal that these living artists are struggling to survive and pursue their art, while the world pays money to walk around a dead painter’s garden. (On the return train to Paris, we learned that the water lilies were not yet out, anyway.)

It is so easy to get our values wrong. Easy to run with the crowd, to celebrate those who often also lived in penury in their lifetimes, unaware that one day their work would be valued. Van Gogh, for instance, whose despair caused him to end his life. But while our attention is focused on what went before, we miss what is going on now.

Lord, may I live this day with my senses alive, willing to change course as you guide me. May I not be so focused on the highly-acclaimed dead that I miss out on the obscure living. Give me understanding, Lord, and a correct balance in my scale of values.

Mostly, Lord, I am so overwhelmed by the beauty of your world, by the incredible talent and creativity you have poured into your people, and grateful to you. So grateful to be alive, and to be your child.

Hatched!

 

Every time I entered the greenhouse, I was aware of a flutter and a whoosh and a small bird exiting through the broken pane of glass. Eventually I realised it was a mother bird who had built her nest in an unused plant pot, and was busy sitting on her three eggs.

Yesterday, Don peeked, and saw 3 gaping beaks, silently awaiting the food they were expecting from their mother. We are praying she is not the blackbird he found lying dead in the garden yesterday, possibly a casualty of our sweet but lethal cat.

Time will tell.

Life is full of joys and woes. Sometimes the woes seem to obscure the less dramatic joys which are, nevertheless, there.

Who is this coming up from the wilderness, leaning on her beloved? As I continue to work through the NHS sleep app, trying to recover a sustainable rhythm of sleep, I feel a bit like I am coming up from the wilderness, definitely leaning on Jesus.

I am so grateful that in everything he is there. His mercies never end and no problem is too big or too small. And as I write this, I hear the spring call of the cuckoo, and smile. His mercies never come to an end.

Have a blessed day, alert to the loving touch of God, in the big things and the small.

Fallow ground

 

Into the night the tractors roared, their lights defeating the darkness. Working as a team, the two farmers skilfully drove their powerful machines as they ploughed, spread muck, injected fertiliser, and planted seed in the field surrounding our house.

Where three days ago there was a bucolic scene of grazing cows and their cavorting calves, today there stretches a brown, apparently empty wasteland. My lone cock pheasant picks his way across the terrain towards our bird feeders. A few days ago, he could have enjoyed some tasty morsels along the way; today all life is gone. The wee field mice have scattered. The worms have taken a deep dive; the insects have nothing there to feed on.

Yet.

But under the apparently arid soil, seed will be stirring into life already. Unseen. Invisible. But real.

Break up your unploughed ground, God told Hosea, for it is time to seek the Lord, until he comes and showers righteousness on you.

Where is the unploughed ground in my life this morning? Has a long season of caretaking hardened me into an unproductive wasteland? Have global events dried up compassion so that seeds of promise cannot take root? Has environmental disaster silenced hope for the future?

Break up your unploughed ground, God tells me. It is time to seek the Lord.

I look at the barren field beyond my window and know that in a few days, green sprouts will spring up, bringing the promise of new life, of nourishment for a wide range of life forms.

Where the soil of my heart has hardened, Lord, help me to break it up. Soften my soul to receive all the divine energy you have for me, so that I might be a beacon of light, life and hope, in the apparent wasteland of the world today. May the Spirit fall soft on this broken-up ground inside me, Lord, teasing out new life in unexpected places. May my life become a place of nourishment and truth, as I wait for you, Lord.

Be blessed today with grace and peace.

Purrfect

 

It’s 9 pm as I sit in the conservatory, in the gloaming. I love this time of year.

Indy, disappointed that the laptop already occupied her preferred evening napping place, has found a soft spot on top of the seat back, and is purring contentedly in my ear.

There is so much trouble and strife in this world, so much environmental degradation and anxiety, so much political confusion: it is good to declare that the earth is the Lord’s and everything in it. It is good to proclaim that God loves the world so much that he sent his only son, Jesus, to redeem the sins of the whole world. It is good to know, deep in my heart, that Jesus will never leave nor forsake me, that he is the alpha and the omega, the beginning and the end, and that one day he will be back and we will see his face as we live with him in his world which he will put right.

I just need to bring those desperate needs which are on my heart to Jesus, and leave them at the throne of grace. And receive his peace, which is beyond understanding.

I can feel a purr rising up in my throat already.