The Face of God

Green wands with a yellow end, rubber-banded together: each child clutched a bunch and offered them, excitedly, to us. One bunch for Don; one bunch for me. There was nothing remarkable about them.

‘For you, Gramma!’ came the joyful shout. ‘For you, Groucho!’

Flick helped me choose the right vase and we put these green sticks into the water. As the day passed, the daffodils responded to the warmth of the room, opening into the promise of spring.

As I sit here this morning, this spray of glorious yellow trumpets brings a smile to my face. I love this time of year. We stand on the threshold of spring, and everywhere there are signs. Birds sing a new tune. Bulbs spike the ground as they stretch towards the warming sun.

Never mind that the wind carries an icy edge to it today. The promise still stands.

Great is God’s faithfulness. Day follows night. Spring follows winter. Good times follow challenging times. And through it all, God is with us. He is there in the spring and there in the winter.

As I look at these cheerful daffodils this morning, I see the beautiful faces of precious grandchildren, excited to give us gifts. In those dear faces, I see the face of God.

New Life

A blanket of black, slimy leaves lies on the flower bed, covering what lies beneath. Tangled with the leaves are limp stalks of last year’s flowers, spotted with decay, broken and dead.

The weather yesterday was spring-like, so when I got a few moments, I wheeled the barrow beside the flower bed and clipped away the stringy stalks, scooped up the dead leaves. As I worked, I uncovered the shoots of new life. I stepped gingerly on the ground in order to reach the back, wary of wounding any of the tender daffodils, crocus and snowdrops breaking through the earth.

These onion-like bulbs lie brown and dormant most of the year, but time and season are beginning to draw them out of hibernation. From what seemed dead, new life is sprouting. Fed, protected even, by what lay above for the last few months.

The miracle of life. God’s gracious gift to us all. May he use that which is dead in us to feed new shoots of hope and faith. He is good. He is faithful. He is at our right hand. He will not leave nor condemn. May I – may you – focus on him. His ways are not my ways, but his ways are right. May I humble myself before him, and follow, repentant and forgiven, rejoicing in the one who made me, who died for me, who lives in me. Without him, there is no life.

May he use my failures, use my disappointments, use my hurts to make more room within me for his Spirit to live. May my brokenness reveal his light. May his joy be my strength, today and every day.

Jesus, all for Jesus. All I have and am, and evermore will be.

The Path Unclear

The yellows of spring popped out at me as I walked a familiar path I’ve not walked for awhile. Gorse beginning to blossom. Wild daffodils. Primula. Only the birds disturbed the quiet. Two geese chatting as they flew overhead. Pigeons cooing from deep in the woods. The staccato tap of a woodpecker seeking his breakfast.

I turned down a path but found it blocked by a section of wire fence, put there by a farmer guiding his cows into the correct field. A few hundred feet further and my way was totally blocked by the tops of two pine trees, broken and felled by a strong wind.

I was seeking guidance. I heard no voice, but a way forward was blocked. Sometimes the path through life is not very clear. I can’t see the horizon. I can only listen for my Saviour’s voice and take one step at a time. Totally dependent.

May I rest in the ‘not-knowing’, secure in the love of the Saviour.

New life!

At some point last autumn, I abandoned the garden to its own devices. I let the fallen leaves lie wherever they fell and moulder away happily. Most seem to have landed in the flower beds. I left the dying flowers to cling on over winter, brown and shrivelled and ugly.

Occasionally, I noticed. And I thought, hmm, better get out there.

Today I took half an hour or so – positively balmy out there in the high 30’sC – and trimmed back a couple of the shrubs and voila! Beneath some of the fallen stalks and piles of slimy leaves, brave crocus opened purple and vibrant. New life, not just promised but already presented!

It’s easy to miss the signs of new life, of blossoms opening anew, in myself and in others close to me. It’s easy to become so accustomed to the detritus of past bad attitudes or unhelpful habits or harsh words that I can overlook the new life growing inside.

Coming into spring now – hurray! Time to spring clean soon – not just the house or garden but also the character. Time to uncover new life which God might just be nurturing in my heart and the hearts of others, new, positive outlooks, new hopes and dreams. Time to clear away the mouldering rubbish and let in the light, let in the air, let in the warmth.

Bare trees and pruning

The trees outside my window stand denuded, prepped for winter’s icy grip. Bare branches twist and intertwine: they’ve lost the beauty of the autumn finery that now lies mouldering on the damp ground.

For several months, my vision has been circumscribed by those leaves, and now that they are off, I can once again see Scolty and Clachnaben, two distinctive hills to the southwest of us. 

Sometimes our vision is limited by pleasant surroundings which draw our attention, and we miss the grander picture. 

One of my tasks today, if there is time, is to chop the beautiful rose bushes in half. I hate doing it because they are still in bloom, but the forecast is for snowy winds later in the week and I don’t want them buffeted and blown about, loosening the roots which anchor them in tight. Pruning isn’t pleasant, for rose bushes or for people, but un-pruned we are more vulnerable and weaker.

And there is the promise of spring. Renewed life. The bigger picture.

Happy Monday.

Stormy Weather

Stormy weather ... the worst has passed, though still the winds blow. The sun is out, yet still the winds blow. The sky is blue, yes, but still the winds blow.

Life is like that. Someone close to me has had an operation, desperate for it to be the answer to the pain. The operation has passed, the worst is over, but still the pain persists. 

Life is like that. A loved one dies, the agony of watching them fade away and take their final breaths is over, but the grief ensues. 

Life is like that. A relationship hits crisis point, it breaks and paths diverge, but the loneliness hits like a wall of water.

Life is like that.

Through it all, Jesus never leaves us. He is not a fair-weather friend but a steadfast lover. When there is nothing else to be said, he stands with us and weeps, sharing our grief, bearing our pain if we will let him.

It is January, the month of stormy weather. Spring is coming. It is just around the corner. Even now, the bulbs are breaking through the frozen earth. How do they do that? How do they have the strength in their flimsy stalks to penetrate rock-solid dirt? 

That, perhaps, is the subject of another day’s blog.

Spring is the Season of Hope

Spring is the season of hope. Gardeners hope for a summer of weather which is perfect for growing flowers and produce. Farmers hope for weather conducive to bountiful crop production. Students hope to pass their exams. Lovers hope their feelings will not go unrequited.

Sometimes it can feel as if we live in perpetual spring, always hoping, never quite seeing our hopes realized. Hope springs eternal, my mother-in-law was fond of saying; hope deferred makes the heart sick, the Bible says. Empty hope.

Empty hope. It doesn’t have to be that way.

Those who hope in the Lord shall renew their strength, the Bible also says. Hope in the Lord, because he is the only one who is 100% trustworthy. Hoping in him – in his provision, for his healing, for his blessing – is always a good idea. 

Hoping in the Lord encourages our faith and grows our love for him. As we carry on hoping, persevering in prayer, drawing near to him, we see all sorts of good things we didn’t expect. 

Instant answers may sometimes be like instant mashed potatoes – all fluff and no nutrients. Waiting in hope strengthens our spirits, and feeds our souls.

Today, I am going to ask again, in good heart, hoping in the Lord and being watchful for his answers, which may come in any number of ways.

Nip it in the Bud!

I may be running the risk of losing readers who have no interest in gardening if I keep banging on about gardening metaphors for life but ... just one more. 

I’ve been talking about God the Father being a divine, gentle gardener pruning us of negative emotions, attitudes, memories even. This morning I was thinking of the phrase ‘to nip it in the bud’ and its relevance for what God the gardener does. Sometimes there is a temptation to entertain a thought which grows into a concern which swells into a worry which overwhelms into anxiety which can oppress us into depression, and which we can’t seem to shake. 

This often dark and dreich time of the year can be an incubator for such thoughts.

I am praying this morning that any such incipient ideas in me – and in you – will be nipped in the bud by our loving Father. 

I pray that even if we haven’t the wisdom ourselves to dismiss a thought which could easily grow into a giant of an anxiety, the Lord will reach down with his divine secaturs and snip.

Spring is coming, and I’m looking forward to voluptuous blossoms and nourishing fruit.

Cuckoo

What’s happened to the first cuckoo of spring? I know it’s been unseasonably, unreasonably cold this ‘spring’, but surely the migrant cuckoo should be back again by now?

I know that in some areas the cuckoo has ceased to return, and hope this isn’t one of them.

It’s funny how, among the beauty of the dawn chorus, I am listening out for the raucous, distinctive call of the cuckoo. I couldn’t identify the song of many of the birds I hear, but I can identify the cuckoo. It’s due to more than just the clock my sister brought back from Germany one year!

The cuckoo has a unique voice which rises above the rest.

Last night I was reading Revelation 4, and it occurred to me how loud it’s going to be in heaven. All that shouting praise and singing at the top of their voices, from millions of angels and creatures and people who love the Lord. It’s probably loud there already.

Yet the Lord is listening out for my voice, and yours, to be raised in praise to him. He may be surrounded by a host of worshipers singing and praising with all their might, but when my weak voice says ‘I love you Jesus’, he hears it and responds. I know he does. I can feel him. Very close. Loving me back.

Isn’t it amazing? I probably have the same discordant voice as a cuckoo among nightingales, and yet the Lord is listening out for me.

Wow.