Reflections on a Facial

Never mind what my skin looks like (within reason...), the pleasure of being pampered with a facial and head massage because people who love me gave me this oasis as a gift was wonderful. I rushed into the salon having taken a sick cat to the vet first. Since snow was a possibility, I was wearing my usual heavy layers of clothes – vest, two jumpers, gloves, scarf, the lot. To peel that all off in a warm environment, with some sort of meditative music softly playing, was liberating. Then to have the beautician tell me to relax for the next 45 minutes gave me liberty not to make conversation. I could just lie there and receive. 

It may be better to give than to receive, but receiving can be pretty nice, too! A grateful heart, and some rehydrated skin.

Anti-ageing

‘Any worries about your skin’s appearance?’ the beautician asked. I was about to enjoy a Christmas present, a facial and head massage.

Now if I had lesions or suspicious moles or something, I might be worried. The beautician continued with a question: is your skin dry or oily: I had no idea. Combination sounded safe. I obviously don’t spend a lot of time looking at my skin.

She proceeded with the facial. After the luxurious treatment with oils and potions and even coconut oil in my hair, I was relieved when the young Spanish woman did not hit me with a big sales pitch, but just explained their ‘deals’ if I wanted to come back. She particularly highlighted the anti-ageing collagen treatment for a mere £60. I smiled and left.

People check out each other’s appearance, God says in the Bible, but he looks at the heart.

Bagging dead leaves

Stirrings of hope through a blanket of dead leaves

Last autumn, I spent a few hours bagging dead and dying leaves to provide mulch in a couple of years. But inevitably there remains a thick rug of dark brown mouldering leaves on some of the flower beds.

Because I see the snowdrops budding and opening on the grass in the ‘orchard’, I know that beneath those rugs of leaves on the flower beds sprout bulbs which will display a variety of colours as spring begins to reveal herself. The snowdrops will be pushing hard to reach the light. Time for me to get out there and clear away the detritus of last season, so that the new shoots have space and light and air. 

Hope. Hope sometimes gets overwhelmed, buried by words of discouragement or unrealised plans.

What detritus of disappointment or dead dreams lies heavy on my expectations and hopes today? 

Time to clear it away, whatever negative experiences, encounters, fears and anxieties disfigure and stunt my hopes. Time to prepare myself in expectation for new opportunities, new ideas as creation bursts forth in reaction to the reliable rhythm established by our loving heavenly Father.

God is not surprised by the sometimes grinding litany of personal, national and global negativities. He saw them coming, and he has a plan, a plan for good, a plan that will bring about justice for all.

Hope. Today I want to bubble with joy as a woman of hope, hope in the God who is faithful. So with his help, I will again work to root out any bitterness and fears, and clear the way for a new season of faith to blossom forth, fragrant and beautiful, so that Jesus can draw others to himself through me.

Hope in our loving heavenly Father is never misplaced.

Let it shine!

Driving on a winter’s night in Scotland can be awesome. I avoid that over-used word but sometimes it is warranted. Saturday night was clear and cold. Orion could be easily identified amongst the other constellations, and a half moon shone down on the twinkling frostiness below. 

Arriving home at the ‘hillock, the only sounds to be heard were the occasional calls of owls in the woods beyond the fields. No light pollution nearby, the stars stretched from one horizon to the other.

Night seems to be falling on our world, but rather than focus on the darkness, I want to focus on the light. ‘In Jesus was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.’ 

Despite the pollution oozing everywhere, the light can still be seen. I see it in my friends and family and strangers. I saw it in church yesterday, breaking in through the worship, through the preaching, through the communion. Light in the darkness.

Let there be light, God commanded in the beginning. In the words of the children’s song, ‘This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.’ Like the moon: reflecting the light of the sun. May we all reflect the light of the Son.

Let it shine.

Friends come and friends go ...

Friends come and friends go, but a true friend sticks by you like family. (Proverbs 18:24, The Message)

This is my oldest friend. She has been with me since I was about 8 or 10 years old and travelled the world with me, now living behind the couch in Scotland. We were separated for five years when I was first married, because I couldn’t afford the air fare to get her here from California. Then, returning to Scotland one January in days when planes were not always full, we audaciously carried her on without having purchased her seat. A helpful air hostess put her in a closet on board, and my cello and I were reunited at last.

I don’t play my cello often enough, and when I do, I recognise that I have slipped since the days of daily practice. Yet still much of it comes back to me and I soon get lost in the resonance and beauty of her sonorous voice. 

I of course value my human friends above my cello, but my cello has been with me singing her heart out in great orchestras playing some wonderful music, in small string quartets and in occasional solo spots. She has felt the nervous perspiration on my fingers at times and responded to my sorrowful or joyous heartbeat other times. 

When words fail, there is nothing like my cello.

Music is a gift. A universal gift for which I am grateful.

Miss Havisham's Roses

There is a poignant beauty in Miss Havisham’s roses. (see Dickens, Great Expectations).

They still speak of a love which was strong. But in Miss Havisham’s case, it was a love without sacrifice, a love without commitment, a love that ultimately wavered, leaving Miss Havisham a Miss for all of her life.

I always refer to roses at this state as Miss Havisham’s roses, but in fact mine came from a husband who has loved sacrificially, totally committed, unconditionally. So they are not, strictly speaking, anything like her roses.

The beauty of the Cross is that it speaks of a love that is so strong, so unconditional, so sacrificial, so committed, that it never wilts nor dies but just remains there for us all. As we cling to the Cross we cling to the Lord who gave his all for the whole world, whose love transcends time, nationality, religion and gender, unconditional, eternal.

I love Miss Havisham’s roses, and fresher ones too, but even more, I love the Cross. Full of gratitude to the God who died for me.