Category: life

For Claire

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I believe in life. I believe in hope. I believe in joy. And yet there are days when believing is hard. When the reality of sin and its consequences hit home in sad ways. Having an illness makes you feel the pinpricks of life often. There isn’t a day when I’m not reminded of illness and sadness, of pain and discomfort. And sometimes, some days I feel those pinpricks harder and bigger than before.

Today I learned of the death of a friend with Cystic Fibrosis. I didn’t know her very well but I knew enough to be amazed at her life, at her hope and at her joy. She fought for over 30 years, she ran the race and crossed the finish line into the arms of the Saviour she loved. She will have a new body one day, a body made perfect, a body with lungs that can breathe long and deep breaths, a body with energy enough to run marathons.

And I weep. Not for Claire. She has found Glory. But for her family and friends. For the fight they will have to believe in life and hope and joy. For my own struggles yet to come. And for my own fight to believe.

But in the sadness, the Life Giver is there. He knows the pinpricks. And he knows the nail wounds. And he tells me that life is eternal, that hope is here and that joy can be found. It’s our job to trust.

It gets harder…

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It’s always a sign that things aren’t going well when the baby steps you take get even harder. Foetus steps isn’t a phrase and there’s a good reason for that! Marathons get harder and feel longer when you slow up.

Things took a turn for the worse in our house recently. It was pretty grim. It ended with a GP’s visit, a hospital appointment and a hospital bed. We found out a couple of days ago that if we hadn’t gone through the GP and had a hospital appointment, I would have been put onto a 5 week long waiting list. God never ceases to amaze.

And yet it makes me so ashamed that when God was sorting out my not having to wait for 5 weeks, I was complaining. ‘God, why am I so ill? What is this? Can’t we just have a year of marriage when things go smoothly? Ok, 3 months? Even better, just take CF away, Lord. I don’t want it. It’s not fair, surely you can see that.’ I’m called to trust in the small things and so often I’m blind and so often I’m ungrateful.

This little bout of illness has done two things, taken me into two phases.
The first is the realisation that life will never again be easy. I used to think it was. But I’m older now, a tiny bit wiser. And I know. I know when things aren’t going well. I know when life gets harder.
The second is the realisation that life will never be as wonderful as what’s coming. I watch people having babies and it hurts. Look at the King, Ruth. Look at his Glorious Kingdom. That’s where you’re going. Now go and have fun playing with the baby. I watch people playing sports and having fun and it hurts. Look at the King, Ruth. Look at his Glorious Kingdom. That’s where you’re going. Now go and have fun being a cheerleader. I watch people advancing in careers and it hurts. Look at the King, Ruth. Look at his Glorious Kingdom. That’s where you’re going. Now go and have fun listening to people’s stories and encouraging them.

There’s a reason we’re told that God does all things for our good. It’s because it’s true. And in tiny ways I’m being allowed to see this truth. Come and look through the cracks in life with me. Light seems brightest when it’s shining through a small crack. Walk into its glare and you’re dazzled. Better yet, sit down in the ray and bask in the warmth and light of our Father’s choices for us.

There’s a lot I can’t do. I can’t run, some days walking is hard. But I will outrun my illness. For now I can run metaphorically into the arms of my Saviour. I look forward to the day when I will physically run into Glory taking deep gulps of breath. And maybe even yell ‘Hooray!’ at the same time.

On housewives, birds and life

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A housewife’s work is never done, so they say. I would like to tell them that that isn’t the end of the story. A quick, smart sentence summing things up. Or so they think. But surely they’ve missed the second part of the sentence: ‘And that’s what makes it beautiful.’
I get so many chances at life. One pink wash makes me better, one wrongly bleached surface makes me better, one burnt meal makes me better. And I get to wash and clean and cook again. I get to work hard at beautiful things and I don’t even have to leave the house to do it.
Sure, it feels small. And, sure, in one way it is small. But doesn’t God himself tell us that if we are faithful in the small things we will be entrusted with big things? Every time I wash, every time I clean, every time I cook, I make baby steps forward, I cover tiny pieces of ground. And those baby steps, those tiny bits of ground matter. They are the building blocks for bigger things.

A tiny, brown bird hops along the wall outside my window. His head is tilted, his gleaming black eyes watching. I stay as still as I can and stare at him. He stops hopping and stares back. Here we are, two creatures observing each other. With a flick of his tail and a flutter of wings, he disappears. Where to? I don’t know. It’s Spring. Perhaps he has a nest to feather, a worm to take back to his family. He has his song to sing. So different and yet so similar to mine.
Experts estimate that there are 100 billion birds on this planet. All singing their songs. And 7 billion people. All singing theirs.

And so it continues. Life, with its seemingly random pattern. Twisting, jumping, flying, diving, soaring. You can’t predict the ups and downs. You know they’re coming but, like a rollercoaster, your stomach still does roly polys in both the steep climbs and the sheer drops. Patterns, colours, textures, noises all whiz by. You strain your ears to hear, stretch out your hand to touch, open your eyes to see but only manage to hear, touch and see a tiny part of the Glory that has gone before. And it’s gone. At the speed of light. Or perhaps even faster. And all you’re left with is the lingering last moment before the light goes out.

But that seems defeatist. And no one wants to be defeatist. At least, not anyone who truly wants to live. Life tastes good. Life sounds good. Life looks good. Life feels good. There are flowers and cakes, cups of tea and comfy armchairs, good books and clever sitcoms, people to talk to and children to play with, beds to fall into when you’re tired and beds to fall into when you’re in love, the smell of roast beef and the taste of roast potatoes, snowflakes and sunshine. And the list goes on. You have your list and I have mine. Our lists might have the same things on them. They might be different. But they are both celebrations of Life, glimpses of Glory, lyrics of the Song, brush strokes on the Picture. And for that I’m grateful.

Dancing With My Washing

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Rain is in the air. I can feel it, feel the dampness around. I can see it, see the huge, dark clouds rolling in overhead. I can almost taste it. It’s there. A few moments ago the sun was brightly shining, making me believe in Spring. Now it has gone. I sit and watch the washing bounce around. It was sunbathing, now it is engaged in a swift, moving dance. I’ve learned things in life. I know that if I leave the washing, it will get wet and need to be done again. Blessed experience! Saving work, saving time, saving my temper for something more worthwhile.
But I haven’t really learned. I sit for just a moment longer. Just one more moment, savouring my comfy chair, my tasty fruit drink, my book and the images that fly before me, my washing’s crazy dance. And then I see it. The darkening of tiny spots on the patio. More appear and I leap up, abandoning my comfort for practicality. I do my own crazy dance, joining the washing in creating movement. Perhaps it’s not stageworthy but it adds to my own dance of life. It’s in, mostly dry. And I go back to my chair, my drink and my book. Adding more washing to the pile and more experience to my life.

Why Write?

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Wordle: Untitled

I’ve been thinking about writing. About the process. About the reasons. And about the wisdom. As so often happens, when I start thinking seriously about something that topic comes up in a variety of different places. Today alone I’ve heard or read these things. They are not only challenges but encouragements.

– We need to be passionate about words. Why? Because God is all about Words. The Father speaks the Word. The Son is the Word. And the Spirit helps us to understand the Word.
– We need to be masters of our language. Why? Because we are to speak to the world. We present the gospel in words. And because words are a gift and a tool to be used and wielded.
– A writer can come from anywhere. Someone with the right words can make a boring day more interesting than an intrepid explorer who can’t string two words together.
– Writing changes the world. Every word spoken changes the world. How much more will the written word do so? Even if only one person reads something, their life will be changed by it.
– Writing can help people to access things inside themselves they didn’t even know existed. It can also help to remind people. 
– We write for future generations. Peter Leithart says this (and more): ‘We fix what we know in a written text so that the unborn will have cause to worship.  Every written text is a prayer book, a missal and a breviary for the future.’

As Christians, seeing the beauty and power of the written word is so important. It’s a great gift and one, like all gifts, that we need to strive to master for the glory of the King.

6 months.

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New world, new people, new purposes. A lot changed six months ago as we said ‘I will.’ 2 little words changed us, changed our lives, changed our identities. And it’s a lot to get to grips with. Six months in, I still haven’t got it. Maybe it’s because I’m a slow learner, I’ll be the first to admit that. Maybe it’s because these changes are hard. Or maybe it’s because these changes never really stop still, never give you a minute to get used to them.

There have been hard changes. I always knew that would happen. I sat in a hospital room with a wall between me and my husband. A wall of physical pain and emotional pain with the question Why? written all over it in capital letters. I watched relationships change and knew that I’d never be able to get the old ones back. I had my daily schedule interrupted, my habits questioned and my property shared. Petty, perhaps, but still harder than you might think.

But I’ve tasted goodness in new ways. God pronounced his creation to be very good. And so do I. This thing works. We’re still babies. We can’t colour in the lines. We can’t look after ourselves. We can’t even walk without falling over. But we’re growing. We’ll never get there, whatever ‘there’ might be, but we’re noticing the growing and that counts. I believe in God’s grace now more than ever. I understand Jesus’s death now more than ever. I feel the Spirit working now more than ever. In just six months.

It’s funny how you think you know what’s coming and yet what actually comes is so different and so much more glorious than you thought. It’s funny how small our minds are. I’ve been given a glimpse of something more and something greater. I’m living this bride thing in a more tangible way than I was. And the beauty of it scares me. How can I do this? This bright, beautiful, wonderful, pure thing? And yet the very one who asks me to be his bride helps me to become his bride. I see love lived out in front of me and it helps me become lovely. I see purity lived out in front of me and it helps me become pure. I see strength and kindness and laughter and weeping and prayer and in those things I am changed.

It is a new world. I have a new calling. I’m to be a new person. I have a new person to die for and a new one to live for. I’m to breath a new breath of life and live it out. Here I am.

Thank you, David.
I love you.

On parenting. Or not.

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I know, I know. I’m a young girl who’s been married for all of 5 months and I have zero children and therefore know nothing about parenting. If that’s what you’re thinking, you’ve almost got it. I certainly don’t claim to know much about being a parent. But I know an awful lot about not being one. I’ve had 22 years experience. 6 of those have been in the knowledge that in all likelihood I’ll never know about being a parent from first hand experience. And, to be honest, that stinks. I’m not talking about a little bad smell here. I’m talking gut-twisting stink. Since I was 16 I’ve had to face up to the fact that I’ll probably never hold my own child, never hear anyone call me Mummy, never be able to make my husband a Dad, never get to use the list of favourite baby names I’ve had stored up for years and all the rest. 

Since getting married it’s got both harder and easier. Easier because I never thought I would be married and so being given this gift is good enough for me – I certainly don’t expect any more. Easier because I’ve been a lot more ill and so the reality of how I simply couldn’t care for a baby hits home more. Harder because I have a real, great person to add into the sentence ‘never be able to make my husband a Dad’. Harder because having babies is what married people do. Harder because people make comments about it now. 
There’s not many situations I like less than the one in which I’m having a conversation with a parent and they’re trying to make me feel better by telling me how much money or time or energy or effort their children cost them. It’s not fun for me and it’s not fun for the child standing beside them. 
I suppose one of the biggest things about being a mother is the giving love. I suppose that in every woman/person there’s a desire to give giving love. There are ways to live giving love to other people but in no way are those comparable to the way in which you live giving love to your child. Maybe that’s why there’s an emptiness in childlessness. They say that you have to love to feel pain. Maybe giving love hurts as much when you can’t express it. 
I don’t know. I don’t have solutions. I don’t have answers. I know there’s hard things about being a parent and hard things about not being a parent. I can’t sort those out. Stuff hurts sometimes. But I guess the important thing to remember is that it’s ok for stuff to hurt. We can be sad. We can cry. As long as we do it with Jesus in sight. But the best thing is that he doesn’t let us be sad and cry on our own. He’s there with us. And he knows what it’s really like for stuff to hurt. 

Baby Steps

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‘When a baby takes its first steps, everyone celebrates. They don’t ask why he’s not jogging round the park. In the same way, instead of beating ourselves up for what we can’t do, perhaps we can celebrate the things we can: no matter how insignificant these appear.’

Emma Scrivener makes a whole lot of sense. Read the rest of her blog post here.

It’s a simple enough rule…

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1 Samuel 6 – The Philistines are struck down with plagues after capturing the ark of the LORD. They can’t deal with it so send the ark to Beth-Shemesh. This is a Levitical town and so these folks should really know what to do and not do with the ark. But they don’t: vs 19 – ‘And [God] struck some of the men of Beth-Shemesh, because they looked upon the ark of the LORD.’
It’s a simple enough rule: don’t look into the ark of the LORD. In those days, to look at the mercy seat was to ensure death. Now to look at the mercy seat (Jesus) ensures life. It’s a simple enough rule.