X-rated

Recently I've had a couple of people ask me whether or not I watch Game of Thrones. When I replied that I don't, they both responded with absolute astonishment. "But Bekah, you're into fantasy and all that stuff. You'd love it! Why on earth haven't you been watching it?"

I'm not sure that cow horns qualify as 'fantasy' fancy dress but maybe when worn with this expression whilst looking at a toy plane.... Incidentally, it was the Chinese New Year of the Bull. Not just a random night out. In case you're wondering.

Now whilst it's true that I am a HUGE Terry Pratchett fan (Tom found this out after we were married. It was fine: his vow to love me 'for better or worse' kicked in and we worked through it), I have no plans to watch Games of Thrones anytime soon.

When pressed by both people as to why I wasn't going to I replied:

'So as I understand it Game of Thrones has lots fighting and then lots of sex. And then more fighting. And then more sex. So basically it's soft porn. Would that be a fair summary of it?'

Both paused then nodded. 'Yep, that about sums it up. And it's brilliant!'

And clearly they're not the only ones to think so. Games of Thrones has been credited with taking the fantasy genre mainstream and making it cool and, well, sexy.

I've always been a sucker for a good new TV series - particularly since my children arrived and I now rarely see the outside world after 7pm.

So why my hesitation?

Well, put simply, I'm not sure that I need to see that much sex.

I'm not the prude I once was (when my mother advised against a career in midwifery because I couldn't even cope with the word 'naked' let alone the reality of it).

I think sex is great and a very, VERY good thing.

But I don't need to see other people engaging in it, even if they're just actors.

Why?  Fake sex is just that: it's fake.

It aint real people. And just like how spending too much time comparing yourself to Hello! magazine beauties can make you feel a bit rubbish about your own body/life/house (see my blog post here for more), so too can spending too much time watching fake sex scenes.

Real life sex is much messier, funnier and complicated than TV script writers make out. AND THAT'S OKAY! But it can be hard to remember that when you see actors writhing around in ecstasy apparently unconcerned about their wobbly bits or whether the children are going to wake up next door...

And for those who argue, 'Bekah, lighten up. It's just a bit of harmless escapism', can I suggest that maybe sex is an area that we shouldn't try to mentally escape from?

Great sex requires work and commitment. It requires us to give of ourselves. To become vulnerable with each other. To be present in all senses of the word. 

The costs of 'real' sex are great. But then, so are the rewards.

Saga

For those regular readers of my blog (hello mum) you'll recall that I've had a few problems with my ear recently (I believe that's known as an understatement).

My amazing GP had me referred to a specialist ear clinic at Addenbrookes and on my first visit I was told that a) I have pretty darn good hearing (it was like a warm hug - affirmations of any kind are rare when you're a mother...); and b) I had had an infection which had caused fluid to build up. In short: you're fine, stop wasting our time. However my doctor took his job very seriously and scheduled me in for a follow up appointment just to check that the fluid was draining away.

Two weeks later the great day dawned and so the Saga of the Trip to Addenbrookes began.

My appointment was scheduled for 3.45pm and they asked me to get there half an hour early for another hearing test (and there was no way I was missing out on yet more exclamations of amazement as I passed with flying colours...) so I got Toby up early from his quiet time and we headed for the bus.

Taking a toddler on a bus is a really good way to get rid of any social inhibitions you may have.

Toby likes to ask questions. A lot. About everything. And often just a fraction louder than anyone else's conversations. So we got to talk about why 'is that man in that [wheel] chair?', and 'who that [frankly terrifying-looking] woman is' and why mummy doesn't know her name. We also discussed the relative merits of various diggers and cranes and rubbish trucks and dogs.

Half way through the journey a student got on the bus crying and gripping her stomach in obvious pain. As you can imagine, Toby was fascinated by this and watched her intently. He, most understandably, wanted to know why she was sad. But kept checking that my answer of 'she's poorly' remained unchanged every five minutes.

I think we were all relieved when we arrived at the hospital.

We escorted the poor student to A&E and then trotted off to clinic ten.

Like any wise parent of a toddler I had Come Prepared. We sat down to eat our snacks and watch some previously downloaded Bing! on the iPad. Within five minutes of arriving we were summoned for my hearing test.

This went well although I fear that my marks weren't as quite high as they could have been because Toby wanted to press the button indicating that I could hear a bleep. Even when I couldn't.

We headed back to the waiting area for more Bing!. 

Two hours and 15 minutes later we still hadn't been seen for our appointment.

Everyone else - including the receptionists - had left the clinic and the cleaner had arrived.

Somewhat miraculously I had brought a picnic supper for Toby thinking that if we were really late home we could eat it on the bus.

Imogen, a people person if ever there was one, was getting seriously disgruntled by the lack of people  to grin at.

And I was just very, very tired.

Finally a nurse came in to apologise that the clinic was 'running a bit late' (she and I both glanced around the deserted waiting area at this point) but assured me that the doctor would see me 'soon'. And, with a hollow laugh, she shuffled off [okay, so I may have added the last bit for dramatic effect, but still].

By 6pm (which, incidentally is my children's bath time) I was finally summoned into the doctor's room. She was deeply apologetic and leapt up with a torch to check my ear. Then as Imogen whimpered from exhaustion and Toby sat on a chair with a glazed expression she announced, 'Yep, that all looks good. I'm happy to discharge you. If it's still sore just chew some chewing gum.' And 30 seconds after we walked into the room, we walked out.

We struggled into our winter coats and dashed out for the bus. The terminal sign indicated that our bus was due in 15 minutes so I balanced Toby on the bench and whipped out bottle to feed Imogen. 15 minutes later our bus arrived, but we were told that it actually wasn't going where we wanted it to. Back at the terminal the sign indicated that another bus would be along in 20 minutes.

It started to rain.

After 10 minutes Toby announced, to a now full waiting area, that he needed a poo.

People began to edge away.

'What... now?' I asked weakly, fully aware that my son was newly potty-trained and when he said 'now' he very much meant 'in the next 10 seconds otherwise there will be Consequences'.

I plonked a half-fed Imogen back into her buggy, grabbed Toby's hand and, glancing at the sign which said that I had 10 minutes before my bus arrived, ran back into the hospital.

Eventually we found some toilets that weren't locked and we scurried inside.

Now before my son 'performs' he likes to feel entirely comfortable in his surroundings. And for Toby that means understanding what each and every thing inside the cubicle is. So our conversation went as follows:

'Mummy, what's that?'

'That's the emergency cord darling.'

'We must never, never pull that right?' 

'Right. Because remember that time when you did pull the cord and how the alarm went off? So we never, never pull the cord.'

'Mummy, why two toilet rolls?'

'Because... some people need a lot of loo roll.'

'Mummy, what's that?'

'That is a bin. For.... stuff. Which women use. Now are we going to concentrate and do a poo?'

[pause whilst we all concentrate and I begin to relax thinking that we will surely make the bus. Then footsteps and someone else enters the toilets...]

'Mummy, who's that?'

ARGHHHHHHHHHHH

Eventually Toby finished and we ran back to the bus terminal and discovered that we'd missed our bus. At this point I seriously began to contemplate phoning my mum who lives 30 minutes away and asking her to come and collect us.

Then the bus arrived and I nearly wept with joy. We clambered on board and sat down with some other weary looking mums and their buggies. Toby sat in silence and Imogen snored. And I just started to relax when both the other mums begin talking on their phones loudly, 'Yep no we're just on our way back from the hospital. He's got whooping cough basically...' Ah good. That highly contagious disease that I think my 4 month old baby has been vaccinated from, but am not entirely sure.

4 hours and 15 minutes after we left home, we arrived back.

Weary, possibly contagious and a WHOLE LOT grateful that a) my ear is fixed and b) I don't have to spend that amount of time in Addenbrookes on a regular basis. Which many, many parents do.

Enough said.

Happy Christmas y'all.

Looking good...

I am a total sucker for Hello! magazine. Give me a latte, packet of peanut M&Ms and copy of this week's Hello! and you've pretty nearly provided me with paradise. What can I say? I'm a cheap date.

The other week I was reading about Tamara Ecclestone who, for those of you with better things to do than read about the lives of other people, is the daughter of the billionaire Bernie Ecclestone. Tamara has recently had a baby girl and so the 14 page photo shoot was full of delightful  shots of Tamara and her daughter dressed in 'casual' cashmere and lounging around at their £60 million London town house (yes, £60million).

As much as I love Hello! you do have to be a teensy bit careful as you read it, especially if you're sleep-deprived, not back to your pre-baby weight and have just noticed a Weetabix stain on the sleeve of your favourite jumper...

In short, looking at photos of an exceptionally glamorous woman holding her baby and dropping such gems as '"People think I have everyone doing everything for me. I don't. We don't have a cook, I cook. We don't have a nanny, we have me. I do absolutely everything with Sophia." isn't always wise.


So for those of you who, like me, find it a tad dispiriting when you hear celebrities croon that it's 'simply breastfeeding' which accounts for their phenomenal and near-instantaeous pregnancy weight loss whilst frolicking along a beach dressed in the merest hint of a bikini two weeks after giving birth, I thought I'd provide a nice reality check.

Here is a picture of me taken five years ago when I was living in China:

No, I hadn't fallen asleep. I was apparently looking 'mysterious'. Don't ask.

And here is me attempting to recreate said photo this afternoon:

Okay, so in this one I may actually have fallen asleep, albeit briefly...

It's the same subject matter, so why the huge difference in photos? Here's a couple of reasons:

1. I do not have a professional photographer, lighting technician, studio, make-up artist and wardrobe mistress following me around in normal life. I do everything by myself (including take selfies which feature my shower curtain in the background).

2. I am no longer 25. I have't had an uninterrupted nights sleep in approximately three years. I regularly forget when I last brushed (let alone washed) my hair. If I wear mascara I feel like I've made an effort.  And I simply don't have six hours of my life in which to spend striking an alarming number of poses in order to find my 'best side' (this photo shoot took about five seconds).

Hello! is fun only as long as I view it as escapism. I am not looking at real people. I am looking at people who have an entire team employed to make them look good. 

And that's fine. But how good we do (or don't) look is only part of the story. Our appearance doesn't explain what's going on below the surface. It may hint at it (or, in the case of my under-eye bags, scream at it) but our appearance isn't the total sum of who we are. Thank goodness.

There's a rather fabulous verse which comes in the Old Testament. God sends the prophet Samuel to anoint a new king and the moment Samuel sees the eldest son of the family he thinks, 'That's him. That's our guy. Strong. Sexy. Self-assured. Everything about him screams 'Follow me!' '. But God said, 'Nope. That's not the guy.' 

So then the next son turns up. And Samuel thinks, 'Okay. Less braun but clearly more brains. He's wearing glasses so must be clever. Smart tailoring, clearly successful in business. A self-made man. This is our next king.' But again God says nope.

Finally after viewing seven sons, the youngest is brought before Samuel. His father had nearly forgotten about him. But the moment Samuel sees him God says, 'That's him. That's my guy.' 

And God's reason for choosing this chap (David of in case you're wondering) is this, 

'The Lord does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.' 

So when others see a tired mother in slightly shapeless clothes (or casual cashmere - I don't want to assume...), God sees your passions, talents, secret desires and so much more. God sees the real you. And whilst others will undoubtedly be making judgements based on your appearance, can I suggest that the only judgement worth caring anything about is God's. 

Pain

It is 1.38am and I am awake. There's not anything too unusual about this - I am, after all, the mother of a baby.

What is unusual about this morning is that she is happily snoring next door.

I am awake because I have acute earache. And by acute, I mean toe-curling, pillow-pounding, silent tears streaming earache. And I've now had this pain for over a week. Despite being prescribed a selection of antibiotics and taking a cocktail of painkillers, nothing seems to be able to stop the relentless pounding in my inner left ear.

As a generally well person I've never really had much cause to think about illness or pain. Whenever the odd cold or strained shoulder has entered my life I've gobbled a couple of paracetamol and happily trotted on with my life.

Now I don't profess that my current week-long, non life threatening earache in any way compares to the millions of people currently suffering serious illnesses, but it has given me cause to pause and reflect on their lot. Here are some of my thoughts:

- illness is a lonely thing. Not only can others simply not understand the pain that you're feeling, but, very often, they don't really want to. No matter how well meaning, when someone asks 'How are you?' they don't want a graphic description of the agony that you currently feel. It puts them in an awkward situation: what do they say? What should they say? And so you start minimising what you're feeling saying things like, 'Oh I'm okay. Bit sore. But mustn't grumble.' All of which builds barriers between you and them.

- illness strips you of hope. In my rational, pain-free moments I know that earache is a generally fixable problem. It really won't last forever. But at 3am when the pain overwhelms, dark thoughts so easily creep in. 'What if this is it? What if I never get better? What if the doctor's can't fix it?' And you begin to resent those who apparently have pain-free lives.

- illness really ruins good theology. The moment I'm in pain I start to question whether God really loves me. 'Why would he let this happen? Aren't I a good person? Is he punishing me? Why doesn't he cure me?'. I no longer want to debate the now and not yet of the Kingdom, I just want to get better.  End of.

- it's hard to be a nice person when you're ill. I have lost my temper so often in the past week simply because I am in so much pain. Grappling to put on my toddler's shoes isn't just irritating, it's agony. And so I snap and verbally lash out and then feel overwhelmed by guilt.

Which is all well and... depressing, frankly. So what now?

To be honest I'm not in the mood to 'learn' anything from my earache. Ending with a cheery, 'And so the lesson of this story is...' would be far too false and take too much effort.

But deep down (in those moments when my pain killers are taking the edge off the throbbing) my hope is that this experience would soften me. Make me more compassionate to those that are ill. I hope that in time I would insist on an honest response to my question of 'How are you?' and then not shy away from the answer.

Essentially I hope that I will learn to 'weep with those who weep' and, in doing so, become in some small way more like the One who is with me in the early hours and who weeps with me.

No big thing...

If you are a parent of a pre-schooler you will, in all likelihood, recognise this chap:

His name is Flop and he is the companion of a young bunny named Bing. This TV show revolves around everyday occurrences such as going to the park or baking cakes and is absolutely adored by my two year old. [Actually my three month old finds it pretty riveting too, but I suspect that's more for the colours than the plot...]

Anyway I find watching each episode both relaxing and troubling in equal measure. It's relaxing because, for five minutes, I can switch off and outsource the job of parenting to the TV. [Less of the judgment people, I've yet to meet a parent who doesn't do this...]

The troubling element comes from watching Flop at work. This is a man/sack thing who never, ever looses his temper. It doesn't matter what Bing does, Flop remains calmly in control.

So far I've seen Bing break several of his favourite toys, cause the bath to overflow, have a toilet-related accident and offend at least two of his friends. And yet throughout it all Flop keeps his calm. He never raises his voice. Never snaps. Never even grumbles. Instead he offers wisdom such as , 'Don't worry Bing, it's no big thing...'  [To which my sarcastic inner dialogue responses, 'Really Flop? REALLY? Is causing a bath to overflow really no big thing? Clearly you don't pay the bills...']

Suffice to say that I've come to the only logical conclusion: the show's creator obviously intended Flop to be a Christ-like figure. Either that or an alien. He is clearly not human.

I'm lucky if I make it to breakfast without loosing my temper. And a whole day? Nope. And I defy anyone with a toddler to say otherwise.

A large part of the problem comes because I so often feel unappreciated. I suspect that I'd be a lot less inclined to snap if I had people - including my children - saying to me on a regular basis, 'Thank you for all you do as a stay at home mother. You are amazing.' And a salary probably wouldn't hurt either.

But then two days ago I read this:

'If I'm willing to do something in church as 'my ministry', but won't do it at home, then I have to question myself and find out what is making the difference. Many times at church someone is usually kind enough to tell me how wonderful I was for what I did... How much quicker are we to do something if there's a little something in it for us -  a little recognition, a little bit of money, a little bit of a promotion... If you want to measure your love life [and by this she means how good you are at showing love to others] watch and see how you treat people that can do you no earthly good [i.e. who can't say thank you].'

*sigh*

My job is to show as much love as I possibly can to my children. And often that love will be expressed through serving them, dealing with the mess they create and yes, sometimes saying (like Flop), 'Don't worry darling, it's no big thing'. Even when it really, really is.

Treasure

Oh my, it's good to be back.

I see that my last post was in August last year. 

This picture explains two of the reasons why I've been away:

Time flies when you're renovating a house (I left the practical stuff to professionals), having your second baby (unfortunately I had to do that one by myself) and generally just doing life with a toddler, commuting husband and new bairn (that's Scottish for baby. I'm trying to include some Scots in my everyday vocabulary now as it seems that she has inherited my Scottish ancestors' fiery locks. We love her nonetheless...).

So why the reason for my re-entry into the world of blogs?

Holy reason: I found a cool verse I'd like to share.

Unholy reason: I miss sharing my opinions about life and watching how many people read my blog. Did you know that every time some unsuspecting person stumbles across my musings I can see them? Not literally. Just, you know, as a number on a chart. But still. It's pretty exciting. And a welcome distraction from Everyday Life.

So. This verse. You ready?

'Even those who lived among the sheepfolds found treasures - doves with wings of silver and feathers of gold.' Psalm 68:13

Yes, yes I know it's not quite got the same lyrical quality as Psalm 23 but I do think it offers a rather lovely bit of encouragement to People Like Me.

In the previous verses David (of Psalm 23 fame) describes a great victory won by the Israelite army. As was the nature of these events, the winning army got to plunder the losers. All fairly standard. But what wasn't standard was that even those who weren't on the front line got treasures too. 

Being a shepherd was a menial, thankless, lonely, dangerous and often boring job. Yes it was essential - people need sheep (who doesn't love a nice bit of roast lamb?) - but no-one actually wanted the job of looking after the sheep. There ain't no glamour to be had at 3am sitting on a hillside listening to the snores of your flock as you keep a look out for wild animals...

Let's just say that I can relate to shepherds.

Raising children is hard work. I know I've said it before, but it really, really is. Really. [watch this video if you don't believe me. Or even if you do. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HB3xM93rXbY]

Yesterday I got hit in the face, puked on, screamed at and sat there throughout feeling guilty. And this was all before 9am.

Having children and caring for them full time is an amazing privilege, but there are times when you wonder if the world's passing you by and all the treasure is being taken by those on 'the front line'.

This verse reminds me that in God's kingdom there's treasures to be found by everyone - even those doing the unseen and unglamorous jobs away from the action.

This verse was my treasure for today. As was my son declaring that 'maybe next time you should draw a cat and not a mouse mummy'. This from the boy who said about five words six months ago.

There's masses of treasure out there. The challenge for all, irrespective of circumstance, is to look for it.

Copycat

Following the carnage of breakfast this morning I settled down on the floor with a book as my son engaged in his usual 'Independent Learning' slot.  He's at the exploratory age.  So far this week I've fished farm animals out of the bin, nappies out of the shower, swiftly rescued a glass mixing bowl from being thrown across the room [mental note: keep breakables in a higher cupboard] and watched my mother run round after him in the garden frantically repeating, 'Darling they're bees.  They don't like being picked up.  Let's just put them back on the flower.'

Anyway, today's activity was 'remove all the books from the bookshelf, carry them across the room and give them to mummy'.  But after a while my son grew bored of this, so settled himself on the floor next to me, picked up the nearest book and started to 'read'.

I'm a firm believer in gender-neutral clothes - besides, the bottoms aren't pink.  They're salmon.

Engrossed in my book I didn't really think too much about this and murmured, 'Good reading poppet.  Well done'. But eventually it dawned on me: he was simply copying me.  He didn't really know why he was doing it or to what purpose, and I doubt whether he really enjoyed it - after all N T Wright is fairly readable, but there's a surprising absence of pictures... But he saw me reading and thought, 'Hmmm.  Maybe I'll give this a try'.

That's how a lot of learning is done (so I'm told).  Simply seeing other people do things and copying them.  We're not born instinctively knowing how to read or walk or tell a joke.  We need to learn.

The same is true when we become Christians.  The moment we embrace Jesus and all that he's done for us we become new people - but we still have the same personalities and life challenges.  We need to learn how to become more like Jesus.  And each new stage in life requires new skills to be learnt.  I got pretty good at living a Christian life as a young singleton, but now that I'm a mother I've suddenly got a whole new heap of challenges: how do I do this with a young person attached to me 24-7?  What does  grace look like in the face of a bedtime tantrum? How can I have time alone with God when my son needs constant entertaining?

Much of what I've learnt about how to be a Christian has come from watching other Christians who've been doing this a lot longer than me.  Here's a few examples:

- I used to work as an assistant to a vicar.  One of the things that stuck out most from my time working with him was his asking me to cancel his Saturday newspaper subscription because he felt he was wasting too much time at the weekend reading it.  He wasn't saying that all weekend papers are bad, rather demonstrating that he was prepared to take drastic steps - no matter how counter-cultural - in order to totally pursue all that God wanted for him.

- as a teenager I got to know a young family at my church.  Her parents weren't Christians and so whenever the boys went on sleepovers to Grandma's house they would take with them a teddy that said prayers to play before they went to sleep.  This couple managed to navigate the tricky path of not asking her parents to do something they weren't comfortable with, alongside their desire to raise their children knowing and loving Jesus.  They kept their integrity.

And the lessons I've learnt have not always been from Christians alive today.  I love the story of Susanna Wesley.  She had 19 children (including John and Charles who went on to found the Methodist movement) and had a rule that if she sat down with her apron over her head it meant that she was praying and didn't want to be disturbed, thus proving that time with God can be made no matter how many children you have!

We wouldn't expect our children to learn everything without help, nor should we expect ourselves to get everything right the first time.  We need to watch how others do it.  As the Apostle Paul said, 'Follow me as I follow the example of Christ' 1 Corinthians 11:1  He wasn't saying that he'd got it all sorted, but simply that he'd be doing this stuff longer and therefore the Christians in the church at Corinth could learn stuff from watching his example.

We don't need to have all the solutions.  We can copy others.

Elijah's top tip

If you asked me who in the bible offers great advice to parents, the prophet Elijah would not have been my first choice.  Or second.  Until this morning.

Yesterday I read about one of Elijah's greatest triumphs.  After correctly predicting a three year drought, Elijah invites the entire nation of Israel to a spiritual show-down.  Tired of their flitting between the pagan gods Baal and Asherah, Elijah throws down the gauntlet.  "Let's build two altars", suggests Elijah.  "The prophets of Baal and Asherah can build one and I'll build the other.  We'll then put meat on the altars and pray.  Whichever god answers with fire, will be the true god of the nation of Israel."  After a lengthy blood bath (literally: the 800 other prophets spent a long time cutting themselves in an attempt to have their god answer) Elijah prays to the Lord and he is answered with huge amounts of fire.  The people repent, turn back to God and a spiritual revival happens courtesy of Elijah and his faith.

You'd think that Elijah would be feeling pretty good about himself.  And pretty secure in his faith.  Here was absolute proof that God heard him and was alive and active.

And yet.  On hearing that her 800 prophets had been killed following their failure to call down heavenly fire, Queen Jezebel sends a death threat to Elijah.  And what does he do?  Runs off in to the desert, throws himself on the ground and asks God to kill him (I'm serious - read 1 Kings 19:3-4).

Why on EARTH was Elijah behaving so irrationally? God had just proved that he could do anything - even send down fire.  The ENTIRE nation was on his side.  And yet at a single sentence from a woman, he buckles physically and emotionally.

I think the clue to Elijah's behaviour lies in the previous chapter.  Elijah was ABSOLUTELY EXHAUSTED.  He had just survived a three year drought and famine.  Whilst hiding in a desert.  And being continually hunted by the king.  Add to that the fact that he'd just completed a 17 mile run in record breaking time (and in a rainstorm), and you've got one bone-weary prophet.

I can relate to Elijah.  Not in the calling-down-fire from heaven sense, but just in the 'I AM ABSOLUTELY EXHAUSTED ALL THE TIME' bit.  For the past 25 months my body and my life has not been my own.  I have been pummelled, stretched (literally and metaphorically), sleep-deprived and on an emotional roller coaster.  Every day I lift about 12 kilograms every few minutes.  And to top it all off I can no longer watch or read anything which has children/pets/emotional music/or references to parents without completely breaking down and sobbing.

So what did Elijah do?  He got on his own and poured it all out to God.  Everything that he was feeling.  And he didn't try to hide anything, justify anything or even apologise for anything.  He just said, 'This is how I'm feeling God.  And it absolutely sucks.'

Elijah realised that God alone has the wisdom to fully understand what we're feeling and to know what we need.  In Elijah's case is was magnificently simple: take a nap and have some food.  Then take another nap and have some more food.  He didn't offer Elijah theological treatise on why he didn't need to be afraid of Jezebel.  He didn't rebuke Elijah for his lack of faith.  And he didn't offer commiserations.  Sleep and eat.  Sleep and eat.  And that so revived Elijah that he was able to set off for 40 days on a pilgrimage!

So that's Elijah's top tip to parents (and actually to everyone).  Be honest with God.  He knows just what you need.  And remember: it's often alarmingly simple.

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.

Stairs

My son's current 'thing' is stairs.  Loves them.  If a room contains something even remotely resembling a step he's able to gravitate towards it with alarming speed and persistence.

Yesterday I was preparing his lunch in the kitchen.  Despite being left in a room full of toys, he gripped the stair gate for 10 minutes and screamed.  And screamed.  I think he may have even hit the gate at one point - it was certainly Tested.  As was I.

'Why,' I thought as I waited for the microwave to ping (because I am a domestic goddess), 'on earth isn't he enjoying all the things he has got instead of the one thing he hasn't?  He has toys beyond number.  Crayons, chairs, a bookcase that he usually loves to empty and access to the garden.  There's a whole world out there! He's missing out and wasting a huge amount of energy.  All because he wants the one thing he can't have.'

I ridicule but so often I act in the same way.  I so often focus on what I haven't got that I fail to enjoy all I have got.  At various points in my life I've wanted the following: to be married; to be married to that boy (and then that one, and then that one....); to be thinner; a job; a better job; more money; for the baby to just arrive because I'm tired of pregnancy and feeling tired all the time... for the baby to be somewhere else because I'm tired of being tired all the time; for the baby to sleep through the night; for the baby to eat solid food...  Some of these things became real obsessions for me and I missed out on so much!

Psalm 118:24 says, 'This is the day the LORD has made; we will rejoice and be glad in it.'  Today - with all it contains - has been given me by God.  Some things are not as I would wish.  Others are beyond anything I could have imagined.  But instead of focusing on what I don't have I need to focus on and enjoy all I do have.

Getting my son to sleep through the night was a really big deal.  I'm basically not a nice person when sleep-deprived.  I remember one night when he woke up yet again and I remember the horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach.  'Grief.  Why can't he just sleep?  WHY???!!!'  I pulled on my dressing gown, staggered into his room and picked him up.  And then suddenly - and I'm still not really sure why - the thought popped into my head, 'This phase won't last.  He'll grow up.  And then you won't get the chance for these night-time cuddles.  So why not enjoy them?'  So instead of pacing round his room rocking him I just took him back into our bed.  We sat with him and played together for half an hour.  I stopped worrying about his not sleeping and just enjoyed the moment.

And now looking back that is one of my favourite memories.  A tiny bundle of awake-ness and his two doting parents, all huddled together in the pitch-dark of 1am giggling away while the rest of the world slept.  For the briefest of moments I was able to turn my mind from what I didn't have to what I did.  And it was awesome.

Psalm 91

This morning as I gulped down my cereal and made sure my son ate his (rather than throwing it on me) I glanced at Psalm 91.  "Very nice," I thought.  "Now, what's next on my agenda?  He needs a nap, the washing needs to go on, I probably should get dressed and sort tonight's meal and..."  All too quickly Psalm 91 and all it's niceness got swept away on a tide of busyness.

But I felt a bit sad about that.  It seemed like such a rich Psalm.  So later in a moment of quiet I sat in the sun and read it again.  Here are some of my thoughts on verses one and two (yes I only managed the first two verses - that was the amount of time I had before the washing was ready to be hung out... but I digress.)

'Those who live in the shelter of the Most High will find rest in the shadow of the Almighty."

- this is not talking about people who occasionally stop by and give the odd 5 minutes to God.  This is a promise for those who make a conscious decision to spend the whole of their life in His presence.

- 'shelter' is apparently a reference to the Temple.  The place where God's glory dwelt.  Again a place where people had to make a conscious decision to visit.

- they 'will' find rest.  A promise not just a hope.  A certainty which is true irrespective of feelings and circumstance.

- 'find rest'.  Something we need to actively seek when in his presence?  Rest: stillness, peace, restoration.  A state of being where we don't need to do or be anything.  And rest, presumably, from all the things which cause our exhaustion.

- 'Most High' and 'Almighty' are both names which remind us of who God is and what he can do.  Because he is the Most High and because he is Almighty we can trust him.  We can rest.

"This I declare about the LORD: He alone is my refuge, my place of safety; he is my God and I trust him."

- 'I declare' indicates a decision not a feeling.  I choose this, again irrespective of my feelings or what's going on in my life.

- 'He alone is my refuge' - not money, not my career or my intellect, not my achievements or my status or my family.  My refuge is God.  Refuge: a place of safety from danger.  No indication that belief in God results in a life free from danger.  But rather that within the danger and worry and fear we experience, God stands as a shelter.

- 'He is my God'.  This is a personal decision.  A decision made and a relationship formed.

- 'and I trust him' and there are consequences to this decision.  Trust: reliance upon and confidence in. Trust is a decision and an action.

Banana skins

A few weeks ago I was sitting reading my book when I suddenly realised I couldn't hear anything.  This is never good in a house containing a toddler.  I jumped up and found my son sitting on our kitchen floor surrounded by the contents of our bin and happily munching a banana skin.

Sighing I reached out to remove it from his mouth.  He found this unacceptable.  And I would imagine the following thoughts (were he capable of thinking in coherent sentences) went through his mind:

"Why would mummy not want me to eat this?  It looks like a banana.  It tastes like a banana.  Bananas are good.  Why can't I keep this one?  Why is mummy being so mean?  Doesn't she love me?  Doesn't she pander to my every request and voluntarily give me bananas?  Doesn't she want me to be happy?  She is a mean mummy.  And I intend to express my displeasure now by screaming, then going rigid and then sulking.  And nothing is going to stop me from demonstrating - ooh?  What's that?  A wooden spoon AND a saucepan lid?  How exciting!  I wonder what will happen if I..."

What my son couldn't understand is that whilst he found something that looked like it might satisfy in the same way his breakfast bananas do, it was actually merely a shell.  It contained very little of substance and it was never going to give him what he actually wanted.  It was never going to build him up and, if chewed on for too long, would have made him feel pretty ill.

It seems so obvious and yet all too often I find myself behaving in the same way. Being a stay-at-home mum is pretty exhausting.  In those rare moments when my son is napping or otherwise occupied by kitchenware, it can be so tempting to metaphorically (and literally) snack on anything that's going to give me a bit of light relief.  When I feel lonely, I turn to Facebook.  When I want escapism I browse i-player or dig out an old Agatha Christie.  If I feel my life lacks glamour (a pretty perpetual problem when you're usually covered in food or snot) I whip out Hello! magazine. And yes, when I want a shot of energy I reach for a chocolate bar.  Or two.

These things all have their place.  And I'm certainly not suggesting these things are bad - sometimes they're just the ticket to keep us sane.  But I know that if I live on these things alone pretty soon my energy levels are going to fail and I'm going to feel disillusioned about life.

And so at present I'm trying to occasionally slip in some nourishing 'real banana'.  Instead of always watching a film when I iron, I might occasionally watch a sermon (it's not that holy - there are some really good ones out there.  Honest.  Try HTB's website as a starting point...).  Sometimes I'll read something other than a novel - previous posts will tell you that I'm a big fan of Eugene Peterson.  And then of course there's always the Bible as a good antidote to the fake glamour of Hello!...

It's slow going.  [And just in case you're rolling your eyes imagining that I'm some holier-than-thou idiot, I spent this morning at the cinema while my son was at the childminder.  It was amazing.  Even if I did get some strange looks from the rest of the school-age cinema goers...]  Banana skins are easy and accessible and sometimes downright fun.  But you know what?  I find I'm a better mum when I'm not so ravenous.  And that's true both metaphorically and literally.

Sheep pens

I read these verses from Psalm 78 this morning:

'He chose David his servant

    and took him from the sheep pens;

from tending the sheep he brought him
    to be the shepherd of his people Jacob,
    of Israel his inheritance.

And David shepherded them with integrity of heart;
    with skillful hands he led them.'

Sheep pens are smelly, generally fairly unpleasant places.  And being a shepherd was considered a job so menial that it was fobbed off on the lowest and the least.  Being the youngest of eight brothers, meant that this task fell to David.

I suspect that as David spent day after day after day watching the family flock he probably wondered what on earth his life could amount to.  There was little hope for promotion or even change.  That was his lot.  And so he had a decision to make.  Was he going to spend his life frustrated and angry, or was he going to embrace his role and do it to the best of his ability?  He went for the latter, little knowing that God was waiting for him to develop all the necessary skills he'd need for the astonishing plans God had in store.

One day, on a day like any other, his life suddenly changed.  He went from being a shepherd of sheep to a shepherd of men.  He was anointed King.  A nobody to the biggest Somebody.  

If you're a mother then your days will probably be spent like mine: clearing up toys, cleaning food from walls (my son's latest 'trick'), putting the washing on, taking it out, changing nappies...  It's fairly unglamourous work, but it needs to be done.  And yet we have a choice about our attitude when we do it.  Singing 'Yippee!' as we face the fifth nappy of the day might be a tad unrealistic, but thanking God that our child has a working bowel system (even as we wrinkle our nose) might not be (and if you snort then watch Born to be Different on 4OD).  

And who knows what these days are preparing us for?  God has plans for our lives and you never know when the ability to change a nappy whilst preventing a small child from crawling away might just come in very handy... 

It's a trust thing...

Last night in bed (at 9.25pm - I live a crazy life) I read this:

'We are not made to live in cramped conditions.  We are not so constructed that we can be satisfied with feelings of impotence and insignificance.  We are made 'little less than God' [Psalm 8]' Eugene Peterson 'Travelling Light'

I can relate to this.  One of the biggest daily battles I face is, 'Is what I'm doing important?  Does it matter?'

Peterson goes on to talk about the different ways that we seek to get in control of these feelings.  We buy an outfit in the hope that it will make us feel more glamorous (and, in my case, look a leetle bit more like the effortless French mummies I see around the place - how do they wear heels and chase toddlers?  HOW??).  We read the latest self-help book, go on the latest diet, post a photo on Facebook in which we look particularly yummy and yes, some of us may even blog about our lives (ahem!).

It's not that any of these things are wrong, but our motivation behind them might be.  Ultimately it's a trust issue.  Do I trust that God knows what he's doing in placing me here and do I trust that God can get me to where he wants me to be in the future?  Do I trust that he can be trusted with my life so I don't have to have all the answers?

Yes blog (in my case), but if no-one reads it, don't panic.  Buy the dress, but know that your beauty and importance come from who you are not what you wear.  Diet if you must, but realise that the answer to 'do I have significance?' will never be found on the dial of your bathroom scales.

When we trust we gain freedom.  Freedom from the fear of impotence and insignificance.  Freedom from trying to have it all sorted.  Freedom from comparison with others.  Freedom to enjoy the now rather than worrying about the 'what's next?'.

I'll give the last word to Peterson: 'Freedom comes from trusting, not from manipulating, from leaving matters to God rather than trying to be in control.'