Grandpa took the hit

Grandpa was playing with his two-year-old grandson, ragging around on the couch. He lifted the wee boy aloft and leaned back, misjudging the placement of pillows and backrests, and suddenly found himself rolling right backwards and off the couch onto the floor beneath. The wee boy giggled wildly, thinking it was all part of the game. Grandpa grimaced as his rib hit the wood, but he didn’t say anything.

The bruise was deep, invisible to the naked eye. He ignored its soreness and ache, so happy was he that his grandson came through unscathed. And they continued to play.

Jesus took the hit for us. He didn’t complain, either. He chose to be hurt in order to save us. He still takes the hit for us, every time he intervenes, stepping into our messes and helping us sort them out. There is a price to pay, and Jesus pays it. Because of his love for us. For you. For me.

Thank you, Jesus, from the depth of my being. Thank you.

No Room

Gradually, step by pain-wracked step, we ascended the Pyrenees, though my ‘puir-knees’ were screaming STOP with every step. One was taped and had begun the ascent with significant issues, and I guess the other was coming out in sympathy.

I thought we’d never reach the top. Every bend in the road was sure to be the last, I would think, only to be greeted by the sight of another stretch of ascending terrain. The skies seeped a steady drizzle, but that was the least of my concerns.

At last we arrived in Roncesvalles, 5.45 pm, 9 hours after we’d set off. With a huge monastery and an overflow dorm in the town, in addition to other accommodation, we’d never imagined that there would be ‘no room in the inn’, but that was what we found.

Resourcefully, Don signlanguaged a taxi driver, who booked us the last two bunks in a hostel six miles away. Rather un-pilgrim-like, we sank gratefully into the cab and were whisked away to our overnight bunks.

I thought of another couple, two thousand years ago, struggling into a town which was totally ‘complet’. No taxi came to whisk them off. They settled down in a draughty cave with the lowing cows, rather than in an airless room with snoring pilgrims.

I thought of others today, on the run from violence, carrying everything they own. I remembered ‘our’ own dear Bosnian family who came to us like that, all those years ago.

Overwhelmed by gratitude to God for our privileged situation. Today’s Syrian, Eritrean, Afghan, Rohingya refugees are on my heart. Lord, have mercy.

Hot Cookies

I must have touched a hot cookie sheet during the Christmas baking, as I notice the line of a burn-scar on my thumb. 

It is a reminder of happy days, baking Christmas cookies with Mhairi, Doug and Felicity. Does it bother me that the trigger for the memory is the mark of a painful burn? Not at all.

Sometimes things which bring us pain, serve to remind us of good moments. I don’t remember the burn, but I do remember the laughter as Flick merrily dumped most of the coloured sugar onto one or two cookies. I do remember the chat as we rolled out the candy canes. I do remember the smiles as we rolled out another batch of pecan crisps. Good memories.

All things work for good for those who love God, Scripture tells us. Not all pains are as inconsequential as the burn on my thumb, though, and I’m conscious that some pain is searing and carries anguishing consequences. But my trust and hope are in the loving God who is with us in every pain, major or minor, who weeps with us and who then works to create something beautiful from within the new normal. 

Praying that 2017 will bloom with beauty as it unfolds for us all, whether germinated in joy or pain.

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.

Limping Home

A wild wind is howling round the Hillock today, and there are teeth in it.Welcome home.

Just before leaving Long Beach, I made my usual stop at Simone’s for the dozen old fashioned buttermilk donuts I always bring back. They are special and we’ve been carting these things back now for twenty years or more; Mom and Dad started the tradition. 

So intent was I on purchasing these calorific treats, I failed to notice a concrete sleeper in the parking lot. My foot caught on it and I propelled alarmingly towards a concrete pole supporting the awning of the shops. Somehow I managed to regain my balance – my guardian angel’s hand perhaps? – but something wrenched in my left foot. 

Not good, when you are about to drag heavy cases through endless corridors and up and down escalators at LAX and Heathrow. 

What a trip. The panic of the first cancelled flight at the beginning. The pain of the injured foot at the end. In between, though, lots of fun, eating, and laughter.

Stretching it, I might find an allegory in there for the journey of life – starts in a panic for the parents, ends in pain, but in between, lots of fun, eating and laughter.