A Beautiful Morning

The glow of a golden dawn tinged the delicate pink blooms of the flowering cherry tree, giving them a richness and depth. The cherry tree was a gift from a friend thirty-four years ago when my sister died. The colour is a beautiful reminder of the gentle touch of the Father on our deepest griefs; his love doesn’t take away the pain but reminds us that whatever challenges we face, we never walk through them alone.

Sitting in the prayer window, I watch as a pair of geese fly low over the field. In silence. Usually I hear them coming, but this pair were perhaps just enjoying the beauty of the awakening spring morning. Aware of each other’s companionship.

Our precious daughter is on the flight from LA this morning, on her way to London. Tomorrow she should be making her way home to Scotland. Thanks be to God. It’s a beautiful morning.

Change

Lights flashing, engines roaring, the huge green behemoth crawls through the ripe grain, its paddlewheel nose cutting and separating, storing and discarding, bringing in the harvest. The noise wails out that summer is drawing to a close, that lows and rains, gales and ice lie ahead. But today – today the sun is shining from a cloud-scattered sky and in that sun is warmth.

We always live on the cusp of change, though we don’t always notice. Day follows night and we get into a rhythm, almost oblivious to the changes all around. There are annual changes, and there are forever changes. When we were expecting our first baby, we looked forward to a time when life would get back to normal. Of course, we soon found ourselves embracing a new normal.

Today I choose to live in the joy of the moment, swollen cheek and all. I see signs of change and pray that I’ll be enabled to embrace change with grace and hope, always trusting in our loving Father.

The Beach

What a fabulous day on the Moray coast with Flick and Greg! There is something so precious about being allowed to share in some of the innocent delight of a child discovering the beauties of God’s world. After jumping wildly over the waves as they lapped the shore, multiple times, Flick wanted to walk out to the boat moored off the coast, not realising that actually, the water there would be well over our heads. New horizons. New understandings.

We are all spiritual babies/toddlers/teenagers … maybe a few have reached their middle age spiritually but most of us are just waking up to the beauties of the supernatural world in which we live. Our naivete and innocence as we explore spirituality with Jesus must warm his heart. No wonder our Father longs to take us deeper into him, where he can laugh with us as we discover new horizons spiritually, as our understanding expands and our love grows.

We count ourselves blessed to have the health and strength and resources to enjoy the special grandchildren with whom we have been entrusted. Can’t wait to take Callan and Eliott to the beach, too.

Recycled

The unalloyed joy on a baby’s face, as he sees his mummy or daddy again after a few days’ absence, is just beautiful. He recognises someone who loves him, who looks after him and plays with him and comforts him when he needs it. 

God the Father doesn’t take work-trips or holidays. He is always with us: one of his promises repeated frequently in the Bible. But because he isn’t a physical presence in our lives, it is easy to begin living independently and not recognise he’s there. It’s easy to imagine that we can ‘do life’ independently. 

Nearly forty years ago now, I was pretty much lost in a life choice which was both wonderful but also required a big self-sacrifice. After a couple of years trying to go it alone, struggling to adjust, I was in danger of being sucked under into full-blown depression.  Then I was born again. I was like a baby who suddenly sees his father. The Father hadn’t ever left me, but in my own self-sufficient arrogance I’d been trying to go it alone. The Holy Spirit in me acted like a lightning rod drawing in God’s love and grounding it deep inside, changing me forever. The joy was just like that of a baby, unalloyed, spontaneous, total. I was, and am, so grateful, knowing I couldn’t have done it myself. I was a helpless baby, and finally as I cried out in my heart for help, God came. And I recognised him. 

The joy of the Lord is your strength, the Bible says. There is so much junk in the world, stirring anxiety and fear; there are challenges and obstacles ready to overshadow us and obscure the light and steal our joy. 

I read that plastic can be recycled into road paving, re-using something which will never degrade and also relieving the dependence on petroleum. It made me think of the junk in our lives, all the stuff that has gone on which was unhelpful, even terrible, and which can never go away. God is the great creator, and he can gather up all that junk, like plastic, and use it in our lives for good, in ways we can never imagine. All that hurt and pain that so hinders can be recycled into positive products which can be put to good use in our own or in other peoples’ lives.

God’s presence restores the joy. Placing ourselves in positions where we can recognise and receive from him, where we can be reminded of his unconditional love for each one of us, refreshes our souls. 

May you make time today to marinate in Jesus, who came to give us fullness of life and who loves us beyond anything we can ask or imagine. Such a gift. Such a saviour.

Beauty from ashes

This morning I was one in the crowd. One in a somber procession of believers following the cross through Banchory. It was early, but some folk were busy going about their business, as they would have been that first ‘good’ Friday. Some probably barely noted us; others had their own thoughts. I wondered if as a result of the silent demonstration of faith, one or two who walked counter-current to us, will one day turn and join the pilgrimage. That was one prayer.

Silence is powerful. No pressure to fill a void with empty words. Time and peace to consider Jesus. As I appreciated the colourful spring flowers along the way, I wondered if Jesus was able to take in any flashes of beauty as he stumbled through the streets of Jerusalem. Then I thought of the woman who mopped his brow, and of Simon of Cyrene who was impressed into service but then carried the cross and was never the same again. Or at least his sons weren’t, as their names show up in some of Paul’s letters. Snatches of beauty amongst the horror.

I thought of what it means to carry our own crosses today. I asked Jesus for insight and heard ... silence. Sometimes when our crosses are the heaviest and we long for a word from him, it seems we hear only silence. But his promise that he never leaves us assures me that though I don’t hear his voice, he is my silent companion, as I was his, this morning. Saying nothing, just trudging along in love.

When the Father was silent as Jesus hung on the cross, he must have longed for his voice. Instead, there were others around Jesus – not many, but a few – John, Mary his mother, some of the other women. Despite their bewildered horror and grief, perhaps some strength and encouragement was communicated to Jesus in his agony. Praying that we all may be the silent companions, or be the mouthpiece for a few words of divine encouragement, to others who struggle beside us along the way today.

If you are struggling, may you be filled with hope – a confident expectation that good is coming – and peace as you wait for Easter.

Sunset Song

Maybe I would love the sky anywhere, because it is kind of a window on God’s grandiose creation. 

Mhairi reported back that the Saharan sunsets were superb and that yes, indeed, African skies are magnificent. I’ve heard that about Montana skies too. And southern California coastal sunsets are breathtaking.

But there is something about the daily grandeur of a Scottish sky which fascinates me. This week the dawn and dusk of the days have been pretty awe-inspiring.

Through it all, when life is tough in the wider world and tough on the home front, I lift my eyes to the sky and, to borrow a phrase from my family’s favourite psalm, ‘from where does my help come? My help is in the name of the Lord.’ 

Yes indeed. Thank you Father for your love letter – in the sky and in the book.

Transatlantic Phone Calls

Transatlantic phone calls used to cost about £1/minute, so they were rare. We would call California at birthdays, Christmas, Thanksgiving ... and not many other times. I often missed the sound of loved-ones’ voices and longed to hear them. 

I remember a few times when family life was full here, during a conversation with ‘home’ my Dad would say, ‘You’re tired, aren’t you? I can hear it.’ I never thought I sounded any different, but to a Father whose daughter’s voice he knew well, he heard the sag in my voice. And he no doubt felt so far away, unable to give me a bear hug of encouragement.

I’ve just skyped my Mom, and I heard the sag in her voice. Usually she is upbeat and perky, embracing her more restricted life at 92 and making the best of it. Today I could hear a flatness and I felt bad for her difficulty in downshifting into this season. And I felt so far away, unable to give her a bear hug of encouragement.

Our Father in heaven loves us, and can hear the sag in our voices when life is heavy or challenging. He is not constrained by geographic distance, though, and if I draw in close to him, I can sense his nearness and ‘feel’ his hug – through his Words, through praise music, through the presence of others. 

In the shadow of his wings is my security. In the embrace of his love is my life. And in faith I trust that he is able to give Mom that bear hug of encouragement today, lift her spirits and strengthen her core. So grateful to Jesus.

Waiting

Waiting

A child is born ... or will be, soon. 

Not without hours of anguish and pain. Not without moments of self-doubt and discouragement. Not without apprehension.

Others watch and wait. The parents and the child go through it on their own, cheered on from the ether sidelines.  Ethereal sidelines?

Through one of the nights of wakeful prayerfulness, I thought of the Father watching his beloved son give birth to the Spirit living in us as he hung in pain on the cross. Did the Father feel helpless? Or did he feel excited about the new life coming into his creation? Did he want to take the pain himself instead? Or was he, somehow, taking the pain as well? Did he long for the hours to shorten and be over? There’s no time in eternity they say, so maybe not... Can’t quite get my head around that one.

New birth doesn’t come without pain. But after the anguish the joy, the celebrations, in heaven and on earth. Praise the Lord for the renewal of life.