Sludge

Yesterday my son was having some 'independent play time' (which basically means I had put some toys out and was lying on the sofa with one eye closed).  Glancing across, I saw him giving me a weird smile.  No teeth, mouth very firmly closed.  The longer I stared at him the more intense his smile became until suddenly he started to drool.  Nothing too unusual about that for a teething toddler, except this time his drool was dark grey.  And slightly sludgy.

I don't need parenting books to know that multi-coloured drool is not good and so I went in to investigate.  Eventually I managed to prize his jaws apart and discovered a fairly sizeable piece of grey chalk.  Nice.

As I cleaned my hands and disposed of the aforementioned chalk, I realised that this was the perfect illustration for something that had recently been bothering me.

I judge people.  A lot.  I don't say it out loud, and I don't even think I do it consciously.  I'll just be walking along and see something and suddenly this thought pops into my head.  Take this morning.  We were cycling back from swimming (see the previous blog entry for a visual picture) and passed another lady and her little girl on a similar bike seat.  This lady wasn't wearing a cycle helmet and nor was her daughter and immediately - even as I was returning her smile - the thought entered my head, 'Honestly!  How irresponsible.  What is she teaching her daughter?  And what if she falls off and the girl dies?  Seriously, some people.'  All that - just from a passing glance.

And I find myself going, 'Bekah where is this coming from?  You have no idea why they weren't wearing helmets.  And frankly it's none of your business anyway. It's not like you're a perfect parent - yesterday you let the bike fall over with Toby still on it! [true story and one for another blog post]'

So.  What's going on?  Well there's something that Jesus said which I think sheds some light on my judgemental behaviour: 'For the mouth speaks what the heart is full of.' Luke 6:45  Like my son and his chalk you can only hold so much rubbish inside you before it's going to come out and make itself known.

I am immensely self-critical and I judge myself all the time.  For most of the day I'll have this inner dialogue going on:

- 'He's only had one outing today.  How is he going to pass his developmental milestones?  Maybe that's why he was a late walker - I've not been stimulating him enough...'
- 'That's the second biscuit I've given him today - all the books say that childhood obesity starts young... what if I'm encouraging an unhealthy interest in sweet food?'
- 'Charlie and Lola again?  He's going to associate screaming with getting a reward.'
- 'Spaghetti hoops do not count as a vegetable, no matter what the label says.'

I'm slowly realising that if this is how I treat myself, of course it's going to subconsciously come out as I watch other parents.

Jesus wisely said 'do to others what you would have them do to you' Matthew 7:12 but I think I also need to do to myself what I would want to do to others.  i.e cut myself a little slack!  Show myself some grace. Realise that parenting is UNBELIEVABLY HARD WORK and frankly as long as my son knows that he is loved and has food and clothes (not even clean ones) HE WILL BE FINE.

And hopefully by replacing my judgemental inner dialogue with a more grace-filled one, I am less likely to ooze grey sludge on those people who, like me, are doing the very best that they can.

Trust

The weather's been so nice recently that my son and I have been cycling everywhere (the photo was taken last Autumn, but just imagine us without so many layers.  Although the cycling hats remain.  Safety first, people, safety first.).

Anyway, as we pootle along and I narrowly miss parked cars, ferrell children and try and navigate the stupidly small gaps that cyclists are supposed to squeeze through on the 'cycle paths', I've been pondering the nature of Trust.

My son is amazing. No matter how close we come to oncoming traffic, he never winces.  Nor does he yell, 'Mum the postbox!  Seriously, it's BRIGHT RED.  How on earth could you not see it?  Even I saw it and I don't even know my primary colours yet!'.  Quite the opposite.  He giggles.  And points.  And dings the bell (which is very cute but occasionally embarrassing when he does it and pedestrians automatically jump.  Even when they're miles from the road.)

My son trusts me.  He literally puts his life in my hands every single time we get on the bike.  He has no control over where we're going, how fast we're going or the route we take.  He just has to sit there and watch it all unfold.  Whether he knows it or not, he is trusting me to get him safely where he needs to be.  All he has to do is sit back and enjoy the ride.

I find it hard to trust God.  Especially when life doesn't seem to be going the way I hoped it might.  All too easily I question and grumble and try everything to snatch back control.  And yet I just wonder if God's a bit like me on the bicycle.  Firmly in the driving seat, encircling me with his arms and with a clear route mapped out - even if it's totally different from the one I would choose to take.

Perhaps trust isn't so much an emotion as it is an attitude.  Saying, 'I might not understand what's going on here, but I'm choosing to trust that you do God.  And so I can relax.  And enjoy the journey.  And maybe even ding the bell."

 '... those who trust the Lord will be joyful.' Proverbs 16:20

Gratitude

'Gratitude bestows reverence, allowing us to encounter everyday epiphanies, those transcendent moments of awe that change forever how we experience life and the world.' 

Sarah Ban Breathnach

I've been reading a book about gratitude ['One Thousand Gifts' by Ann Voskamp].  It is beautifully written.  And inspirational.  In brief, a friend challenged Ann to write a list of 1000 things that she was thankful for - she did so, and along the way encountered Jesus in a powerful new way.

Inspired by this I am trying to be more thankful.  Here's how my 'attitude of gratitude' (nice) looked last week:

- Thank you Lord that it's 6.30am and I have ears that can hear my son's cries.  Thank you that he has working lungs and vocal cords.  And thank you that it's not 5.30am. Or indeed 4.30am.

- Thank you Lord that I have enough food to feed my son.  Thank you for his skills in learning to eat it.  And thank you that Weetabix doesn't stain walls too badly.

- Thank you Lord that my son takes an interest in may things.  Thank you that he didn't manage to pour the entire packet of Museli over the floor and thank you I can afford to buy more.  Thank you for his legs and his ability to climb.  Thank you that he didn't hit his head too badly when he fell off the sofa, and thank you, oh THANK YOU, for Calpol.

- Thank you for play groups.  Thank you that my son is learning how to interact with other children and thank you for his wonderfully stoic nature, especially when that big boy hits him and that other girl gets him in a head lock.  Thank you for the opportunity to witness through my patience and grace.  And thank you for your forgiveness when I fail to show it...

- Thank you for nappies.  Thank you that they mostly work brilliantly.  And thank you that, when they don't, I have Vanish and a washing machine.  That works.  A lot.

- Thank you for nap time.  Thank you, thank you, thank you.  Thank you for a chance to switch off and be still.  Thank you for the garden and the peace it brings me.  And thank you once again for my ears which are able to hear my son's cries.

- Thank you for this glorious weather. And for sun cream.  Thank you for all the greenery and flowers in bloom.  And thank you for hayfever tablets, tissues and a house I can escape to when it all gets too much. Thank you that I have working tear ducts. And thank you for how complex you've made my skin and how it very clearly tells me when I need to leave the grass.  Thank you for trousers to cover up the hives.  And thank you that they are not a life-threatening illness.

- Thank you for friends to commiserate with, laugh with and cry with.  Thank you especially for those who are at the same age and stage and understand completely what I'm going through.  Thank you for the ability to multi-task and maintain a fairly deep conversation whilst chasing each other's children, changing nappies, wiping noses and yes, applauding their 77th hand-clapping of the day.

- Thank you for the chance to slow down and appreciate other people's gardens, a fallen leaf, a sleeping cat and that old crisp packet.  Thank you for my son's eyes which notice all these things.  And thank you that I don't have anything in the diary that I need to rush back to.  Thank you for the gift of time.

- Thank you that I can feel my legs and my back and that despite the stress I place them under daily, they still work.  Thank you for my osteopath when they don't.  Thank you for hot water and bath toys.  And thank you for nursery rhymes when tempers run fraught.  And thank you that my son doesn't care when I forget the words.

- Thank you for the many, many talented authors out there who use their gifts to write thoroughly engaging children's stories.  And thank you for all the other authors too.  Even the one who wrote this book.

- Thank you for a safe space in which to lie my son down to sleep.  Thank you for sleeping bags, cotton sheets and black out blinds.  And thank you again for Calpol.

- Thank you for my husband who works exceptionally hard and who comes home ready to ask about my day.  Thank you that he doesn't blink at my occasionally bouts of hysteria.  And thank you for hugs.

- And Lord finally thank you for wine.  And a sofa.  And the latest episode of The Apprentice.

Known

I've been a Christian for nearly all of my life (I reckon I was about 5 when I made a conscious decision to follow Jesus).  You'd think that after 25 years of doing this I'd have pretty much got it worked out.

Unfortunately this is most definitely not the case.  Here's a few example why:

I'm rubbish at telling people about Jesus.  I know, I know.  I totally want to be That Person (the one who seems to convert someone every time they get on a plane) but I have never, ever, EVER started a conversation with a total stranger and included the line 'It's funny you should mention that because I'm actually a Christian.  Let me tell you why...'.

I totally get that God has a heart for the poor and oppressed and whenever I hear a talk about sex trafficking or war orphans or Christians in North Korea I get fired up and think 'I must help them!' and 'Lord, sent me!'.  And then I get home and forget everything in the panic of thinking, 'Bother.  I forget to buy more milk...'.  Even the one very small thing that I am doing - sponsoring a girl in Uganda - I'm pretty rubbish at because I forget to pray for her and pretty much never write.  I then feel incredibly guilty when she sends me letters saying, 'God bless you and your family.  I pray for you every day...'  Gulp.

I fit any Bible reading I need to do in to the time it takes me to eat a bowl of cornflakes (and even that gets shortened when my son decided to throw his bowl on the floor and I rush to clean it up).  I pretty much never memorise Bible verses, the phrase 'meditate on the Word' scares me (any form of silence and I'm pretty much asleep) and don't even get me started on fasting.  I do pray.  But it tends to veer towards crisis-management style prayers.  "God, I have no idea what I'm doing here.  Should I make him eat his scrambled eggs or just let him get down and play?  Help!'.  Whilst I find it commendable that the Apostle Paul seemed to pray for every Christian individually and by name in the ENTIRE province of Asia but I suspect he wasn't the primary carer of a 15 month old.

I am really, really good at developing the gifts of the Holy Spirit.  Providing I am on my own. And I've had more than 7 hours sleep.  And I've been well-fed.  Stick me in a car in rush hour traffic with an irritated toddler who wanted his dinner 30 MINUTES AGO and any thoughts of kindness and peace, let alone patience, vanish in a puff of smoke.  Especially towards other drivers who CUT IN AND IGNORE THE FACT THAT I HAVE A "BABY ON BOARD STICKER".

I could get depressed about this.  Actually sometimes I do.  But, by enlarge, I've been encouraged of late.  My life looks considerably less holy than it did when I was a single 23 year old with ample time to spend on quiet times and sleep.  But that's okay.  God knows that this is a tough season.  He knows I'm perpetually exhausted.  He knows I love my son - even when my voice is going up an octave and I'm shrieking "Why on earth would you want to throw your porridge on the wall?  Why??!!'.

He knows me.

"My sheep listen to my voice; I know them, and they follow me." [emphasis mine] John 10:27

I recently read this, 'Any first century listener would've recognised the nuances of a shepherd calling his sheep.  A shepherd was intimately acquainted with every single sheep in his flock.  He knew their habits, their personalities, and their tendencies.  In fact, he developed a specific call for each sheep. A shepherd could stand outside the flock and make a particular call, and that one sheep would separate from the flock and come to him.  Every sheep had its own special language with the shepherd.' (Out of the Spin Cycle by Jen Hatmaker)

Throughout the constant noise that is my current life, I'm realising that the Shepherd is still talking to me.  I may not always hear him, but he is there.  Guiding me.  Laughing with me.  Holding me.  And most of all teaching me.  He still knows how best to get important life lessons drilled in, and he still knows what's the best way to teach me.  He has a specific language for me and a specific call for me - in spite of my many, many failings.  And for that I am immensely thankful.

Gardening

Before I got married I had a dream that one day I'd live in a big house with a fabulous garden.  Roses, peonies, lilies, a meadow, possibly a stream and lots of nooks and crannies to sit and read.  The lot.  I imagined myself in a floaty summer dress (probably from Boden or some other such English institution) strolling through the garden at dusk with my wicker basket and scissors gently picking roses for a vast floral display which I'd artfully design similar to those featured in such heady publications as Country Living.

I married a man who is passionate about gardening.  One of the reasons we brought our current home is because we both loved the garden.  It is, by town standards, vast.  However his understanding of the verb 'to garden' and mine differ somewhat.  That is because his is rooted in Reality.

Within a week of moving in any thought of Boden, peonies and wicker baskets had vanished.  In their place were wellies (nope, not even pink), mud, rubbish piles, trips to the local Tip and basically Death.

You see much of gardening is about Death (stay with me, I've not lost it).  The garden we moved in to hadn't been properly gardened in years.  Which meant (she writes, eager to demonstrate her newly acquired Gardening Knowledge) that the soil lacked nutrients, the plants were stunted and there were A LOT of weeds.  Some of them even looked pretty.  But they were weeds nonetheless.  So we spent the first year digging up everything.  And I mean Everything.  There was many a time when I'd beg my husband, 'Oh please not that one!  Look at it's gorgeous purple flower!".  To which he'd reply, "Bekah, it's a thistle.  Get out of the way."

At the end of the first year our garden looked like.. well the term mud pit is probably too kind.  As I stared out at this barren wasteland I thought, "Ah well.  At least I can now get planting my flowers."

Nope.  Turns out that was Not A Good Idea.  "Vegetables!" cried my husband with a slightly terrifying gleam in his eye.  "We need vegetables!  Lots and lots.  They'll help break up the soil, return the nutrients and we can live off them too!  Can't say that about roses can you?"  For a man who hates shopping, he managed to spend an alarming amount of time and money at our local gardening centres.  And the result was a field of potatoes.  Different varieties, mind you, but potatoes nonetheless.  There's not too much beauty surrounding the common garden spud.  I'd like to say I got quite proficient at creating new and exciting dishes using our produce.  But that would be a lie.  Anyone visiting our house during that time left struggling under the weight of our excess vegetables.

Anyway, whilst this is all very therapeutic for me you might be wondering a) whether we actually have any flowers now and b) what this has got to do with... well, anything really.

Okay, a) we do now have flowers.  Lots.  And grass.  And a very small enclosed space for the odd vegetable.  But no potatoes.  If Sainsbury's is good enough for the rest of the population, it's good enough for me.  And every time I step out into our garden, my spirit soars.  And I've learnt so much that I'm now tackling our front garden All By Myself.  Yep, there's absolutely no planting going on.  Just lots of death and destruction.  For now.

b) which is partly what got me thinking.  Gardening is hard work.  I mean, I had no idea (clearly).  Roots go down deep.  And it takes a LONG TIME.  Digging, sifting, levelling... it's an investment.  The easier option would definitely be to leave it all alone.  But I have a vision for my garden.  Although it's overgrown I can see all it could be.

God is invested in us.  He sees all that we could be.  And he's not prepared to stop digging and uprooting and challenging and killing stuff in us until we're made more and more like Jesus and growing pretty awesome fruit in our lives (Galatians 5:22-23).

But when God's working on a particular part of our lives it can feel incredibly painful.  Stuff has to die.  We realise we're not as great as we thought we were.  The landscape can look barren and the timescale indefinite.  But if you're experiencing that, I want to encourage you.  God's not a random gardener and he doesn't get things wrong.  He's clearing the ground ready for something far more beautiful and life-giving and fruitful than you could ever imagine.

Up!

On Monday we visited Anglesey Abbey.  It's a great National Trust property (yes, I've reached that age) with acres and acres of grass, trees and even the odd quasi-classical sculpture (which is irrelevant to this post, but I just fancied using the word 'quasi').

My mother-in-law trotted off to admire the gardens.  Her knowledge of Latin plant names is vast and she very sweetly asks my opinion every time she's identifying a plant: 'Do you think this could be a platanthera chlorantha, Bekah?  Or maybe a cardamine pratensis?'  Whilst I'm flattered that she asks, I am wondering when she'll realise that my furrowed brow and 'mmmm' noise actually don't mean I'm genuinely thinking about the puzzle...  But I digress. My son and I stayed to play on the grass.

He is still learning to walk and gestures impatiently for my hand whenever he wants to explore somewhere new.  So together we trotted through the daisies, played peekaboo round the fir trees and then he discovered a narrow alleyway.  On one side was a wall.  On the other was a very large, very spiky fir tree.  He adopted his 'I am determined to go this way' face and pulled me toward it.

The sharp branches were exactly the same height as his eyes and he very quickly realised that he was In Trouble.  Still holding my finger in his vice-like grip he looked up at me and gestured: Up.  I want to go up.  So I picked him up and we walked through together.

You probably won't be surprised to hear that this got me thinking.  The reality of his situation hadn't changed.  The gap was still very small.  The branches remained thorn-like. But his position and perspective had shifted.  He was still going through the gap, but he was being carried.  And he could now see that what had seemed like an indeterminate tunnel of pain was actually just a short gateway beyond which lay more green grass.

Recently there have been some things in my life that have very much had the potential to be overwhelming and fear-inducing.  And one of the ways I've been trying to deal with them is to remind myself of God's perspective.  His plans.  His power.  And I suppose in a way the root of my prayer has been like that of my son's request: Up!  Father, lift me up.  Help me to see things as you see them.  Carry me through this patch.  Remind me that it won't last.  Up!

We often cite Isaiah 43:2 when people are in difficulty:
'When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;
and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you.
When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze.'

It's a comforting verse, but what struck me recently was the picture of being carried.  The only way a river is not going to sweep over you is if you are above it, safely being carried by One who has the power to stand in the face of sweeping rivers and all the horror they can bring.

To return to Monday, on our return home I noticed that my son hadn't escaped his trial unscathed.  He had several rather large scratches on his face but then, so did I.

God doesn't promise a life free from obstacles and suffering.  But he does promise to carry us through them.  We just have to ask.

Pride

If you'd have visited my house yesterday afternoon this is what you would have found: My son eating his dinner with relish and managing to keep most of it off the floor.  The kitchen perfectly tidy: washing up done, roast chicken ready to be put in the oven, potatoes peeled and the floor swept.  Later you would have seen my son and I engaged in fun, educational play with a hand made toy.  Then you would have observed my son happily playing by himself whilst I sent some emails and generally got organised with my life.

And I hope, on seeing all those things, you would have been Impressed.  I was. I confess that the thought even popped into my head, 'If only someone would call round now.  Just so they can see how competent and together I am.'

However, yesterday morning was a different story.  If you'd have come round then you'd have found my son standing up in his cot screaming and refusing to have his nap.  You would have seen me still in my pyjamas sobbing that it was all too difficult and that I'd had enough.  The sitting room covered in toys and Weetabix.  Mountains of washing up to be done.  And I suspect that you would have been Concerned (especially if you don't have children of your own).

It can be hard allowing people to see that we don't have it all together all the time.  One of the biggest hindrances to me going up to get prayer at the end of a church service is the thought, 'What if people think I have a porn addiction or a problem with self-harming or am just really struggling with life?'  Basically what I'm worried is that they'll move me from the category of 'strong and got it together' to 'weak and vulnerable and (heaven forbid) needy'.  And at the root of that is pride.

It's humbling to let people see your struggles.  It's humbling to admit, 'I don't have it altogether'.  But whilst the process of learning humility can be painful, it can have incredible consequences.  I've read many different definitions of humility but the one I like most is 'Humility means to think less about yourself and more about others'.  When we have the humility to admit that we are far from perfect - no matter how things might appear - it creates a safe space for others to take off their masks and admit that there are areas that they too find hard.  As C S Lewis wrote, 'Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another, "What? You too?  I thought I was the only one!"

Demonstrating humility can be costly, but it becomes easier when our identity is sorted.  Jesus demonstrated extraordinary humility.  In Philippians 2 Paul describes the depths that Jesus was willing to go for others.  He put aside all vestiges of his glory and power and became a human in a remote, enemy-occupied, poverty-stricken part of the world.  He died an excruciating death.  And he left himself vulnerable to misunderstanding, abuse and wrongful judgement - and still does.  But the reason he that he could take the menial job of foot-washing - as well as the vast job of human salvation - is because he was certain of his identity.  He knew what God thought about him, 'This is my Son, whom I love' - and that left him free to demonstrate humility.

I am God's child.  He loves me irrespective of whether my house is perpetually in chaos or whether I raise the next Einstein.  And that means I can stop trying to be perfect, start showing humility and hopefully allow others the chance to be free from the stifling expectations that they carry - whether placed there by society or themselves.