Circle of Bruising

I notice a small circle of bruise on my wrist, and wonder where that came from. Being on a blood-thinner, it is probably just a broken vessel which has leaked a spot there. Nothing of concern.

As the lock-down continues into the foreseeable future, with ominous comments about it stretching forward for months or even a year, we may notice signs of brokenness in our own lives that we didn’t know were there. This morning I noticed a slight malaise, a vague dissatisfaction as I awoke after a good night’s sleep. No reason for it that I can identify.

This is where our free will comes in. I can choose to go with the malaise. I can blame it on the disruption in relationships because of the lockdown. Missing sons and daughters-in-law and grandchildren. Anxiety for Mom. I can blame it on fear of the future and catching the virus. The brief brush of the forehead to see if I have a temperature. The swallowing to check my throat isn’t sore after all. I can blame it on dissatisfaction with Zoom meetings, which are great and yet a torture at the same time, reminding me of what we have lost through this isolation. Missing hugs. Missing spontaneous laughter.

Instead, I am choosing to be reminded of Jesus’ death on the cross, and I am using the tiny circle of bruising as a touchstone with that. Every time I see it, I am going to say, Thank you, Jesus, for saving me. I choose to chase after a more thankful heart. I choose to renew my mind through Holy Spirit immersion.

I am only human…but I AM human. Filled with the Holy Spirit of God. Saved for eternity with him.

Thank you, Jesus.

The Blueberries and the Frog

Two blueberry bushes in the garden have been there for two years. Previously there were never any berries ripening to maturity because I didn’t cover them, and the fat birds had a feast. This year I reckoned it was my turn for a feast. So I stretched a green plastic netting over the top to allow them to ripen in the sunshine.

Last week Don found a bird dead in the netting, strangled. We hated that, but I was still eager to bring in a berry harvest so left the netting on.

Today I went out to bring in what might be ready and noticed something which I took to be a mushroom having grown up through the netting. It’s been wet on and off the last few days. I flicked the netting up and realized how heavy this brown blob was, and then it started to flail about.

To my horror I recognized a wee frog entangled in the plastic netting. I zipped into the house for scissors and spent a quarter of an hour gently snipping green plastic, first freeing his feet, then his body. Poor wee thing was desperate to escape and began trying to hop, which made me fear for its safety as it too might have strangled itself.

Nothing else for it. I had to gently cradle the frog’s body in my left hand and snip away at the tangled mess under its heaving chest, finally releasing the last bit of plastic gripping his neck. And he was free. 

I was delighted to see him hop away, first rather tentatively. Maybe he was just exhausted. Who knows how long he had struggled in the trap of mesh. Once he’d regained his breath, or his strength, he clambered off into the undergrowth fringe of weeds. 

Our heavenly father often finds us trapped in sin, strangling as we struggle to escape. We must look a bit like frogs (in other words, not exceptionally beautiful!) but our father gently picks us up (without garden gloves, too!) and tenderly disentangles us, bit by bit, until we can stagger off to live another day.

I’m still enjoying the sense of success from freeing the trapped frog. I hope that our heavenly father has a moment now and then to savour the sense of satisfaction from freeing another of his children from the grip of sin. 

We are so blessed. And I am thankful.

Coal in June

It is a depressing comment on the warmth of our summer to note that for the first time ever, we took a delivery of coal this morning, two days ahead of the Longest Day – midsummer. The midges were out in force at 7.30 am, but the coal man assured me that meant the temps were rising. So. Is it a choice then? Freeze or be devoured?

It paints a dismal picture of Scotland, but perhaps I should ameliorate it by noting that now, just after lunch, the sun is out (though the grey clouds still scud across the sky) and the midges are taking a siesta. After I write this I plan to do a little work in the garden, although it may in fact be raining again by then ...

Raining again. Dusty and I walked round our local hill this morning and I noted that on the steep slopes there was clear evidence that torrents of rainwater had carried forestry detritus downhill, now strewn in gullies that streak the hillsides. Evidence of storms past.

The storms of life also carry away detritus. Some of it we’re glad to lose, but sometimes we feel bruised and broken after a tumultuous time of trouble. We may feel gouged and gutted and just plain weary. A storm can steal our sparkle and joy, and we feel scarred.

Jesus invites us to come to him and he’ll refresh us, look after us, and help us rest. 

All I have to do is go to him. All I have to do is sit still and rest in him. All I have to do, is just be.

I am thankful that I can afford to buy coal. I am thankful that I have a fireplace in which to burn it. I am thankful that I have a beautiful dog who thinks I’m wonderful, and I’m thankful that I have a God who thinks I’m wonderful, although clearly I am bruised, scarred and broken. 

Gratitude lifts my attitude, and the clouds of depression are blown away. For the moment, anyway.

Friday's Feast

It’s a glorious summer day here, unbelievably on the last day of September. In a t-shirt, all the doors open and a million flies filling up the house. 

The dog is flaked on the couch – it’s not her kind of weather. But it is mine, and like it or not, she’ll be heading out with me on our afternoon jaunt in a minute.

Spent the morning in the kitchen, doing some prep for the weekend’s social calendar. A dinner party tonight, a tea party tomorrow, and B&B guests over the weekend as well. So a bit more of the dusting is required, a few flowers to be brought in, more cooking to be undertaken. 

What a blessing it is to have a house, and a kitchen, and the money to buy enough food to share with others. What a blessing to prepare food for others, and to anticipate good, stimulating conversation over a glass or two of wine.

I’m thinking of others round the world, suffering for their faith, suffering for reaching out to the injured and helping them, suffering for lack of food. And I am thankful.