Dreaming Beneath The Spires

An Autobiography in Blog Posts: IV. Oxford Redux.

2012-03-08T14:00:00.002-08:00

A picture of our house from the back garden

1 An Autobiography in Blog Posts I. Childhood, Boarding School, a Novice at Mother Teresa’s Convent!

2 An autobiography in blog posts--II. Oxford, America, Marriage, Writing

3An Autobiography in Blog Posts: III. Williamsburg, Virginia, and a Desert Experience

Okay, then, we left to England,ostensibly for 9 months, but I had plans and schemes and dreams… and hoped neverto live in America again. We were all excited, including the girls who lovedand laughed and wept and thrilled and chilled over Harry Potter.

We went to Manchester in 2004,where Roy was a distinguished visiting fellow at the University of Manchesterfor a year. It was a lovely interlude. We arrived with 8 suitcases, and sohousekeeping was easy. Then Roy visited America, and returned with 2 suitcases--housekeepinga little harder--and then, the shipment he’d sent arrived. Never again got ontop of things. Lesson: Declutter, declutter, declutter—and housework is easy. Istill have weekly decluttering sessions—as I have been doing for the last fouryears!!

We lived in Didsbury, Manchester,and found a good welcoming church, Ivy Manchester, and a good school, DidsburyC of E: an oasis of a year, friendly, open people, and lots of reading andwriting.

And then Roy got another dreamfellowship—an inter-disciplinary fellowship from the US National ScienceFoundation, to study a new discipline, anywhere he liked.

And well (of course) we pickedOxford—the Mathematical Institute at Oxford University, where he studiedMathematical Biology.

And then he was offered a chair,a Professorship of Applied Mathematics at the University of Birmingham in 2006.

And I flatly refused to move toBirmingham.

I had found a dream house where we still live, in Oxford,which I love. “Have no interest in Birmingham, won’t live there,” I said,dreading another 12 years in a place in which I’d rather not live. So, Roy sadlyshrugged and agreed to commute.

* * *

And so I buy the dream house, though,after using the proceeds from our house in America as a down payment, the mortgagewas six times Roy’s then salary. And we put both girls in an expensive all girls’private school, Oxford High school.

And so I guess for the first timein my life, I needed to work to finance this expensive life-style we hadcommitted ourselves too.

So, were these two financialdecisions, the too expensive house and the too expensive school errors?

Lol! I don’t know if I wouldrecommend them to anyone else. But as Roy will tell you with great sorrow, Ican be a bit of a holy fool where money is concerned. You see, I truly believethat God owns the cattle on a thousand hills, that he is a loving father, thathe will release money for the home which is just right for a family; the schoolwhich is just right for children. (Yeah, maybe you shouldn’t turn to me to mefor financial advice. Or, perhaps you should!)

* * *

I am convinced that God has asense of humour. He always has the last laugh.

In Williamsburg, where I wasbored and lacking stimulation and full of self-pity, I was able to read andwrite (albeit not very much since I was depressed). In Oxford, one of the mostliterary cities in the world, for the first 3.5 years in business, I was not ableto read or write, because I was consumed by business. Yeah, have done morereading and literary writing in Williamsburg, Virginia, than in literary Oxford,England, irony of ironies.

(Come on, Lord, this is not humour. This is irony! What are you tryingto teach me? To rely on you alone for the fulfilment of my dreams? And well, if heartbreak be the pencil to teachme that, then heartbreak is worth it. )

I did however join Writers inOxford, a social organization founded by Philip Pullman, yeah, 140 writers, andwent to fortnightly drinks parties and social events, including one he hosted.Met several interesting, stimulating writers. Going there reminded me that Iwanted to be a writer—ontologically wasa writer--and sometimes made me cry that I was not writing.

Ironically this September, I decidedto focus on my blogging and writing, and so each evening became precious, and Idropped out. “Mum, why have you dropped out of Writers in Oxford now thatyou’ve become a real writer?” Zoeasks. Yeah, one can never get conceited in this family!!

* * *

I didn’t think I could raise thekind of money I needed in a salaried job, and since I needed serious money,I decided to start a business. We are natural entrepreneurs, and have alwaysbeen toying with ideas for businesses. I thought having a bookshop would be socool, so I founded an online one, selling antiquarian books.

Well, the romance of books neverdied for me, even over that exhausting 14 months, though my hands quiteliterally gave out with all that typing, pricing and repricing.

Eventually we transitioned fromworking hard to working smart. I read RichDad, Poor Dad (which stresses the importance of creating assets which keepgiving, rather than working for a salary, which gets spent up and needs to bere-earned). And The Lazy Man’s Guide toRiches which stresses that the way to work smart in business is to leverageyour time, your money, your talents, or your products (create books or iPadswhich sell millions of times over through third parties, rather than sellthousands of Apple’s iPads…)

So I decided to found apublishing company and publish the best of the antiquarian books I was selling.Okay, founding business #2, while running business #1=exhaustion. I would talkabout my life, and cry, like a silly weepy woman, which I then was.

My predominant thought in themaelstrom of the complexities of publishing was, “I just want life to be easier” though I knew it should be “I justwant Jesus.” That was the greatest period of stress I’ve ever known--financialstress, work stress, and health stress, since my immune system unhelpfullybuckled, and I developed a stress-related illness, now cured. It’s given me agreat understanding and sympathy for other people in financial stress.

* * *

Yes, yes, it’s getting high timefor this dire tale to have a fairy tale ending, and thankfully it does. 15months into publishing, we got our break with an author which did well, and we paidoff our business loan, and were well into profit.

We thought we would stop publishingand go back to Math and writing, but in early 2009, a hugely popular BBCserial, The Victorian Farm keptmentioning a poetic, long out of print Victorian Farming manual called The Book of the Farm. I read that every second-handcopy available was snapped up even as the credits rolled on the first evening.

Roy said, “Let’s publish it.” Isaid, “But we have retired from publishing. We are going to be a writer and amathematician again. Remember?” Roy who, like me, is an entrepreneur at heart,said, “Let’s publish it!” And so we did.

Magical days! I had been prayingfor a conservatory since October. We were quoted £21,000 for a classy one.Didn’t have a penny extra, but still prayed faithfully. We published this threevolume book in mid-Jan, sold hundreds, then thousands of copies, and signed acontract for that 30 square metre, sunny, four season longed-for conservatoryin February. It is my favourite room, my proof that miracles do happen.

Irene's (in red) 12th birthday party in our conservatory

It's flower-filled here after my birthday party!

The business grew rapidly!! “It’slike being on a fast-moving train,” a friend who worked with us said. We got agroup of 12 friends from church and Oxford to work with us, some full, somepart time. And in July 2010, Roy at last retired from mathematics--obsessive,consuming work so incompatible with family life (so much like, err… err…serious writing!) and decided to run the company, and the home, and thechildren, and well, me, if he could! And I gradually stopped workingin the business.

** *

Taking up writing again was noteasy. I had got out of the habit, had forgotten what was in my book.

I had “churts,”church-related hurts at that church, which talking to other friends who’veleft (okay, not a reliable control group) was indeed toxic for them too. I hadled three Bible studies there, and while leading one fell out my co-leader andthe Rector’s wife, and was unfairly and sadistically untreated. The sadness andanger caused a kind of creative paralysis, and so, unable to start writingagain, I mechanically went on working in the business and making money, past thepoint at which we needed it to pay bills.

The sadness of not using that onetalent which is death to hide was affecting my health. My wonderful GP referredme to an NHS therapist who thought she could break the writers’ block in 5sessions. In fact, it took 4.

I realized that the unforgivenessover the way I was unjustly and cruelly treated wascreating a block in my creativity and my spiritual life and my happiness, Iwent through the hard work of forgiving and asking blessing on those who harmedme. And the streams of creativity beganflowing again

* * *

On a walk on a beach in Royan,France, I felt God calling me to blog, and I have always felt God’sblessing on it, though I don’t know what he is going to do with it.

And, not really aware of how manypeople in that church were following my blog through our facebook friendships,I write an experimental series of satires on church leaders who are ambitious,cynical, manipulative, ego-driven, neurotic, insecure, concerned with growthover shepherding. It was called “The Screwtape Lectures,” and Screwtape adviseshis acolytes to do the very things I had observed over the last six years.

“You are saying we run the churchas the Devil would advise?” thepriest asked me in shock. Well, actually, Screwtape was (and satire needsexaggeration to work). I am told not to blog about the church if I want tostay, even in the form of allegory!!

And sothree years after I should have made that decision, I decide to leave. A vicar I know through blogging wrote to me,“à la Elijah, 'You're likely to starve there. Time to move onto somewhere safe.'

I moved to a normal healthy church, St.Andrew’s, Oxford .

I found a lovely supportive group of kind, intelligent,educated, successful women, a group I am now co-leading. I felt so happy in both this group and our couples’group. And desperately wished I had left that unhappy toxic church three yearsearlier. Though I do believe in the value of desert experiences, and being in thewrong place at the right time.

Who isthis who comes out of the desert leaning on her beloved? (Song ofSongs 8:5). My desert experience in thatchaotic, badly run Charismatic church deepened my relationship with Christ. Ispent more time with him in the anonymous quietness of the desert, and got to knowhim and hear his voice far more clearly.

Challenges ahead: Creatively, to learn tocombine blogging and literary writing. Physically: by exercise and healthy eating to recover the physicalhealth which has been compromised over several sedentary, stressful years. Emotionally and spiritually, I am happy afterseveral turbulent years, and for that I am grateful!!

Some Web Treasures to Share: Six good links

2012-03-07T15:02:00.001-08:00

Millions of Australian Spiders Gather and Spin New Webs to Escape Flooding: 22 Words

1 The Best Way to Find Missing Objects

2 Donald Miller--How not to Make Other People's Emergencies your Emergencies.

3 Chuck Smith of Calvary Chapel on how God gave them new music for a new generation--WOW!!

Smith's church began attracting musicians from bands like Love Song and Children of the Day, who wrote new hymns and worship songs in a different style than before.

"I was sitting in the church one afternoon, and of these guys introduced themselves and said we are a rock band and live in Laguna Beach and we accepted the Lord and he's been giving us some Christian lyrics," Smith remembered about Love Song.

"They had the long hair, beards, and you just wondered, they're new Christians, what kind of lyrics would they have? So I said, 'Well, I would like to hear something.'"

Grabbing their guitars, they began playing what eventually turned into their first debut album, leaving Smith in tears. He allowed them to play.

During the Jesus movement, Calvary Chapel had approximately 15 different bands that hosted concerts around the country, setting a whole generation of young people on fire for the Lord.

"It was so radical at the beginning," Smith told Laurie during the hour-long interview.

"The church was sort of stuck in a rut you might say as far as the music was concerned. We were singing a lot of Fanny Crosby and these were all written in past generations and they didn't really relate to the everyday environment that the kids were in and so the Lord began inspiring their hearts with music and it was just so exciting."

"It was great because it was so fresh, so alive, and so today," he added. "It wasn't singing someone's experience from years ago, but up to date and modern and it just really touched the hearts of the young people."

4 Donald Miller again--Shape your life into a Good Story.

5 Christian, do not mistake "Fellowship" for "Friendship." Prioritize friendship over fellowship.

Admirable, Excellent, Praiseworthy, Lovely Links

2012-03-06T14:41:00.001-08:00

Charades with theologians

1) Do you want to grow as a blogger and Christian. Read.

Trevin Wax: John Wesley on Reading.
And perhaps, by neglecting reading, you have lost the taste for it. Hence your talent in preaching does not increase. It is just the same as it was seven years ago. It is lively, but not deep; there is little variety, there is no compass of thought. Reading only can supply this, with meditation and daily prayer. You wrong yourself greatly by omitting this. You can never be a deep preacher without it, any more than a thorough Christian.

O begin! Fix some part of every day for private exercises. You may acquire the taste which you have not: what is tedious at first, will afterwards be pleasant.

Whether you like it or not, read and pray daily. It is for your life; there is no other way; else you will be a trifler all your days, and a petty, superficial preacher. Do justice to your own soul; give it time and means to grow. Do not starve yourself any longer.

2 The Guardian: The Best Way to Lose Weight
People who manage to keep weight off eat breakfast, weigh themselves once a week, watch less than 10 hours of television a week and exercise about an hour a day. If you do all of those things as well as cut your calorie intake, you won't need to measure if your diet is working or not. You'll know that it is.

3 Tanya Marlow is one of my favourite new bloggers. I love her post, Learning to Trust. Tanya learns as I did, again and again--and as we all do--that trusting in God is trusting in GOD, not trusting that he will give you your desired outcome, no matter how good and sensible this is. Her post is both beautiful, and heartbreaking.

4 Joanna Dobson writes so well, I didn't know which post to choose. But have settled for Pierce Penniless and the Vegbox.

I LOVE Tanya and Joanna's slow, leisurely, thoughtful essayistic blog posts--the kind of writing that's worth reading a year, or five years on, and the kind of writing that's worth doing. Slow down, I tell myself, and write like they do!!

5 Ouch, ouch and ouch. Is Martin Luther King a Christian? Can Obama be a Christian? And other face-palming statements by white evangelicals. Lisa Sharon Harper in Sojourners.

I could go on, but would you read them if I put a sixth? Seriously, I'd love to know.

Incredible, Edible Todmorden: The Yorkshire Town in which you can pick your five a day on your walks (A Guest Post by Joanna Dobson)

2012-03-06T00:18:00.001-08:00

Incredible EdibleTodmorden

The first time I arrived in the west Yorkshire town ofTodmorden, I saw something rather remarkable on the station platform. Plantersfull of herbs. And, sticking out of the compost, a little sign saying ‘helpyourself’.

The idea is that commuters on their way home from work canpick just what they need to finish off a delicious meal. The sign also suggeststhat if you are just hanging around waiting for a train, you could perhaps do aspot of weeding.

Those planters are still there today, and if you take a walkround the town in the growing season, you will see more and more evidence ofthis innovative approach to growing. Thereare runner beans in the cemetery, tomatoes along the canal path and broccolistems at the bus stop. You can pick your five a day from the fruit treesoutside the health centre, or pop round the back to find some more herbs in theapothecary’s garden.

Eventhe local bobbies are in on the act. The raised beds outside the police stationboast some splendid sweetcorn, along with many other fine crops. And no, theywon’t arrest you if you take some; they’d actually rather like it if you did.

Planters with sweet corn and other vegetables outside the police station in Todmorden.

Thissimple but radical action of growing food in public places for everyone toshare is transforming Todmorden. It began when two local women, Mary Clear andPam Warhurst, became convinced that a food crisis was looming – one thatwould directly affect their children and grandchildren.

They were determined to take action but suspected words like‘peak oil’ and ‘transition’ would make people switch off rather than getinvolved. On the other hand, everyone is interested in food. Food could be thecatalyst that got people thinking about what they could grow and what thatmeant for their whole environment.

So Mary did something drastic. She knocked down the wallthat separated her garden from the street. The garden was full of roses, apassion of hers, but, as she likes to point out, ‘you can’t make jam fromroses’. So she dug up the flowers and her husband Fred built some raised bedsinstead. They planted salads and herbs, fruit trees and vegetables. And they put up a sign saying ‘HelpYourself’.

That got people talking. Mysteriously, more and morevegetables began to spring up around the town. Propaganda planting was takingoff.

Eventually, a public meeting was held and the volunteermovement that is Incredible Edible Todmorden was born. Now every primary school inthe town is growing some kind of food, and the secondary school not only has avast polytunnel overflowing with organic veg for the school dinners, it’s evenbuilding a fish farm with a grant from the lottery.

There are cookery courses for everyone, a campaign to make‘every egg a local egg’, and another to encourage more beekeeping. Farmers arereporting an increase in sales and have been inspired to create new productssuch as cheeses, and sausages from rare breed pork. Recently, volunteerstransformed a large piece of donated land into a centre to train people in theskills of sustainable food production. There are also plans for an edible‘green route’ through the town.

Of course I only ever go to Todmorden as a visitor andcannot know the inevitable tensions and difficulties that arise when a changeof this nature is underway. But the evidence that this is working iseverywhere, from the children who no longer think carrots come in plastic traysto the social housing tenants who are opening their homes to be used forcookery classes.

Incredible Edible Todmorden emphatically does not fly underany religious banner. However, as a Christian, I find it challenges my faith. Isee the transformation that began when someone was prepared to give up theirrights to their own garden produce for the good of the whole town and I askmyself whether I would have the courage to do the same. I fear the answer isno, despite the fact that the Bible is bursting with instances of God urginghis people to be generous with what they have, and especially their land.

I also think that IET’s attitude to growing is prophetic –and by that I mean that it’s a clear demonstration of a right approach tostewarding land (which is not the same as saying that they have all theanswers). Many of us Christians have been very slow to grasp the urgency of theenvironmental crisis that faces the world, let alone take any action. InTodmorden I see a group of people who are not prepared to sit back and let thingsgo from bad to worse, leaving their grandchildren to cope with theconsequences.

What should this say to those of us who claim to worship theOne who created the environment in the first place?

*******

Joanna Dobson

Joanna Dobson is a mature student, writer-intraining and mother of three who lives with her husband Julian in the wonderfulcity of Sheffield. Aside from books and her family, she loves walking, knittingand growing things and is always looking for ways to live more sustainably. Sheblogs at http://joannadobson.wordpress.com/

I will restore to you the years the locusts have eaten (Joel 2:25): A Guest Post by Penelope Swithinbank

2012-03-05T02:32:00.000-08:00

I canremember how it felt – that walking across the Square, arms stretched long withshopping bags.

I canremember how it felt - that looking atour church, heart stretched hard and cold with unbelief.

I canremember: before coming to that church the years of losing everything – the businessI had started, homes and cars and income, all lost; the worldly stuff I hadheld so dearly, gone. Taken by God, vindictivelyit seemed.

But then came this church. Its large draughty VictorianRectory. My life turned upside down and not in the way I wanted. For I hadenjoyed my status: 20^th century vicar’s wives did not usually head uptheir own nationwide company. Gone. All gone.

I wastired, so tired of it all.
* * *

Butthen I remember: that clergy wives’ conference, days after crossing the Square.The reluctant going, the fear of being thought an abject failure, the hesitancyin case someone uncovered my unbelief. A speaker – who was she? And what did shehave to say? Lost in time. But then, oh then, another speaker, who spokecreatively, humourously, and who then asked us to stand so the Lord couldminister to us.

STAND?My hesitation – what was this about? My desire to melt away and not be part ofthis. And then finding myself standing, pulled by the Unseen Presence. HisLight, flooding the room. His Warmth enveloping me in ways I could notcomprehend. His Voice, unheard, speaking into my poor stretched heart: I amhere, I am true, I am your strength. IAM.

Theirprayers for me, surrounding me. My tears falling. Shaking with the overwhelming sense of Hisbeing with me. One stood back, pondered, allowed Him to speak through hervoice.

"Iwonder," she said, "if this verse might be for you? Somewhere in the OldTestament I think. Words from the Lord. I will restore to you the years the locusts have eaten."

Theyprayed some more. He took those words deep into that cold stretched heart. Hepromised restoration, things that would replace what was lost, devoured anddevastated. A swarm of things new and above what was lost.

So Iclung to that verse over the years that were to come. Years with ups and downs,but years of fruitful ministry just as He had promised. A book was published, aninternational speaking gift confirmed, a ministry ordained. The years lostthrough unbelief were more than made up for. Always I remembered that verse. Hehad restored the years the locusts had eaten – and more.
* * *

Andthen.

Seventeenmonths ago, my mother died. Swept away. One moment she was there, a feistyninety-year-young who cared ceaselessly for others, drove old ladies to church,talked non-stop on the phone to her friends and family whenever she could. Prayed for us all, every day.

Andthe next she was gone, swept away under the wheels of an out-of-control car.

And Istood there, frozen, helpless. Stunned from having been hit by the same carjust a few moments before. Deafened by the shouts and screams and sirens.Deafened by the silent scream inside. And my tears turned to ice and my screamfrozen deep within.

Shewas gone.

Istood at her feet and I tried to pray for her, aloud. Tried to thank God for all she was and hadbeen to me and others; tried to ask Him to take her to Himself; committed herto the One who loved her the best. And the paramedic had tears in hereyes. “I’ve never heard anyone pray outloud before,” she said. “Would you likeher teeth? And her watch?”

Itook the watch and turned to thank the paramedics and the police and thepassersby. People were so kind; so verykind.

But Iwas frozen.

For seventeenmonth now, I have been frozen. Unable to work or to play, to read or to write.Lost, barren, devoured by locusts.

Butnow. A slow greening of tiny shoots again.

Adecision to be grateful in the brokenness.*

A monthlyHappiness Project.+

Andconfirmation from He whom my soul loves, that what has yet again been devouredby locusts will be restored to me.

Theverse remembered.

Thatdecision to have a monthly project – for March, to write again.

Hepromised. And there was the verse, myverse: on Anita’s tweet. Her invitation on February 29 to write a guestblog. And on March 1^st anoffer of a freelance writing project – very small but it’s writing and it’spaid! Unsought, it brought with it His Voice of Promise: I will restore to youthe years the locusts have eaten.

Confirmationthat my ministry years are not over, as I had feared.

Hewho has promised is faithful and He will do it. Again and again, whenever it isneeded:

“Iwill restore to you the years the locusts have eaten.” Joel 2:25

* One Thousand Gifts. Ann Voskamp. Zondervan

+ AHappiness Project. Gretchen Rubin. Harper

*******

Penelope Swithinbank

The Revd Penelope Swithinbank is a widely recognized international conference speaker, both for Alpha and for retreats and pilgrimages. Author of “Women By Design,” she has been involved in ministry for over 30 years, as pastor’s wife, volunteer, and now as a member of the ordained Anglican clergy. As a young mother she started her own business, “Bumpsadaisy” which she developed into a successful national franchise across the UK, hiring out designer maternity wear. Later, whilst working virtually full time as a volunteer in the church, she ran a flourishing Bed & Breakfast business to help pay the bills! She has three children and six grandchildren.

Penelope and her husband lived in the USA for six years. Whilst there, Penelope was firstly Director of C2 Ministries (Community & Connections) at The Falls Church in northern Virginia, and then Interim Rector of The Church of Our Saviour, Johns Island in South Carolina. Now based in London, she runs “Ministries by Design” and leads Retreats and Pilgrimages regularly, and is an Ignatian Spiritual Director, and mentor to younger women clergy.

Penelope has a Master of Theology from St Andrews University Scotland, and degrees in both Education and Pastoral Theology from Cambridge University, England. Find full details on the website or follow her on twitter:

www.ministriesbydesign.org
@minstriesbydsgn

When Cambridge Poets jam the Photocopier with Poetry: A Guest Post by Malcolm Guite

2012-03-04T01:57:00.001-08:00

Malcolm Guite Image Credit

‘We’re Jammin…’a Confession!

It’s an honour and a pleasure to be invited by Anita to posta ‘guest blog’ here. I'd like to share with you, if I may, some reflections onthe ‘genesis’ of a new poem, its first seeds and beginnings, and then flowingfrom that some thoughts on what it is that a poem, any poem, might be trying toachieve. It’s a story that starts with a confession and takes you on a journeyfrom the apparently ordinary world of an office photocopier, back to a momentof vision in front of a burning bush, a chance to see things anew.

So, first the confession: I am sorry to say that I amresponsible for having broken a college photocopier! It happened like this. Iwas giving a talk about poetry, in particular about how poetry can cleanse andrenew our vision, help us see the familiar in a new way, kindle again thehidden light that God put in the hear of all things, and deep in our ownhearts, the ‘light that lightens everyone who comes into the world’. Well thatwas the plan.

As always I was in a hurry and had forgotten to photocopy thepoems in advance. Just minutes before the lecture I rushed into the adminoffice, hoping the kind lady there would help me with the fearsomely complicatedphotocopier. It’s one of those machines that has so many extra trays, feedersand blinking lights that it looks like a cross between a combine harvester anda spaceship! But the office was deserted; the lady was on her coffee break. Indesperation I decided to have a go myself, and just put the sheaf of poetryinto a random feeder tray, picked a number, pressed ‘go’, and hoped for thebest. Sure enough multiple copies started spewing out the other end, but as Istarted to gather them, I heard a horrible graunching noise, warning lightsflashed, and the whole machine ground to a halt with a clutch of poems halfwayin and half way out.

The bell was going for my class! I glanced guiltilyaround, wrenched as much poetry as I could out of the crippled machine andheaded for my lecture. But I had left my jacket in the office and when I creptback to get it afterwards, the door opened, an accusing finger pointed at meand a stern voice said : ‘Your poetry is jamming my machine!’ I was in trouble!

Well I apologised of course, and explained I’d had to rushoff, but between us the secretary and I managed to free the jam and remove thecrumpled remains of some of my poems from the machine. Just as I was leavingthe office I glanced back and noticed that she was unfolding one of thecrumpled pages and starting to read…

When I got home and thought about it all two things becameclear; first, what a great line of poetry the phrase ‘your poetry is jamming mymachine’ would make, why it even scans as a five-stressed line of ‘iambicpentameter’, and second, I owe that Lady something, maybe she would like apoem. The two thoughts coalesced and stirred me on to this:

On being told my poetry wasfound in a broken photo-copier

My poetry is jamming your machine

It broke the photo-copier, I'm to blame,

With pictures copied from a world unseen.

My poem is in the works -I'm on the scene

We free my verse, and I confess my shame,

My poetry is jamming your machine.

Though you berate me with what might have been,

You stop to read the poem, just the same,

And pictures, copied from a world unseen,

Subvert the icons on your mental screen

And open windows with a whispered name;

My poetry is jamming your machine.

For chosen words can change the things they mean

And set the once-familiar world aflame

With pictures copied from a world unseen

The mental props give way, on which you lean

The world you see will never be the same,

My poetry is jamming your machine

With pictures copied from a world unseen

Luckily she liked this poem indeed it turned out that alittle more poetry was just what she needed in her life, which in a way is whatthis poem is about.

We get trapped in what we think is humdrum until somethingor someone opens our eyes and lets us see the wonder around and within us.Mount Horeb was just part of Moses’ daily commute, in the humdrum dead-end jobhe had looking after his father-in-law’s sheep until one day it all changed,one of the scrubby little bushes that dot the mountain side to which he hadhardly given a second glance, was suddenly lit from within, alive and dancingwith a coruscating light of joy and holiness that illuminated the bush and allaround it and yet didn’t consume it, just let it continue to be its own newlyglorious self. So Moses stopped, took off his shoes on Holy ground, and hislife and our lives, changed forever…

The poet Elizabeth Browning said ‘earth’scrammed with Heaven and every common bush ablaze’, and she’s right, if only wehad eyes to see. The priest-poet George Herbert put it perfectly in a poem thatwe sometimes sing as a hymn:

A man that looks on glass

On it may stay his eye

Or if he pleaseth through it pass

And then the heaven’s espy.

Well that’s my confession; they say it’s good for the soul.I’m happy to say that the photocopier got fixed, and last time I was in there Isaw my poem had been pinned above it on the office wall!

*******

Born in Nigeria and raised inAfrica and Canada, Malcolm Guite is a poet and singer-songwriter living inCambridge, where he also works as a priest and academic. He is the author ofFaith Hope and Poetry (Ashgate 2010, paperback 2012) and has published poems inRadix, The Mars Hill Review, Crux,Second Spring and Christianity and Literature. He is alsoa singer-songwriter and is currently front man for Cambridge rockers Mystery Train. His CDs The Green Man and Dancing through the Fire are out on Cambridge Riffs and iTunes. www.malcolmguite.com

Full of joy, overflowing with thankfulness

2012-03-03T12:31:00.003-08:00

About 15 years ago, I was on a women's retreat at which we were asked to write down what we wanted our lives to look like in 5 years.

Along with ambitious, pipe-dream goals which have not come to pass, I included this, which has not come to pass either, but to which I am closer,

"I want to be full of joy, overflowing with thankfulness."
* * *

A couple of years ago, at Christmas, we were visiting my mother-in-law and grandmother-in-law in New Zealand at Christmas. They both were rather depressed, so we did all the shopping, cooking and cleaning up.

So we go to the grocery store, planning to buy duck which is what our family eats at Christmas, but was apparently not what Kiwis eat at Christmas. They apparently do not eat turkey either. So, another spanner in the works.

But then I looked around at all the amazing things they did have--crayfish, paua (abalone) and kumaras, chinese gooseberries, South Island wines--and lamb, lots of lamb, very cheap. It's the country in which there are more sheep than people after all!

And it was one of those watershed moments. If I were ever going to be full of joy, overflowing with thanksgiving, well, I would just need to start practising right now. Giving thanks for my blessings, in that unfamiliar crowded Christmas Eve grocery store in Gisborne, New Zealand.
* * *

"Full of joy, overflowing by thanksgiving,"--that describes a very attractive person, doesn't it? The sort of person you would love to spend time with, to be with.

And I guess we get to be that kind of person, arithmetically, by just counting one blessing after another.

For a quiet Saturday evening, thank you, Lord, and for Lesley and Alan Crawley coming for lunch tomorrow, thank you, Lord, and for the peaceful evening service at St. Andrew's after which Bridget and I will be discussing the small group we're leading, thank you, and for the girls happily and quietly reading, thank you, Lord, and for your goodness in the land of the living, thank you, Lord!!
* * *

And the beauty of being a person "full of joy, overflowing with thankfulness" (Col. 2:9) is that it's an equal opportunity thing.

As Jesus said, God sends his sun and rain on the good and evil alike, shares his good gifts open-handedly (though unevenly).

So anyone, rich or poor, clever or not, young or old, naturally cheerful (as I am) or naturally low-key, can choose to count their blessings, to be thankful for the goodness of God, nature, the world, and people, can become a person overflowing with thankfulness.

Tasting the Goodness of God in the Land of Motor Neurone Disease: A Guest Post by Michael Wenham

2012-03-03T02:17:00.001-08:00

View from the window

Anita sends me a message on Facebook.Would I think about a guest post on her blog: “Perhaps on how you saw anddiscovered God's goodness (if you did) amidst the unexpected disability. So itwill sort of sum up ‘My Donkeybody’ in a blog post...”?

And I sit at the tablegazing out of the window, wondering, “What have I got to say?” I was diagnosedwith a Motor Neurone Disorder in 2002, and expected to go the way of the vastmajority of MND patients and to be dead within a couple of years, after a rapidand distressing loss of muscle control.

Of course, I was a vicar at the timeand had had a Christian faith as long as I could remember. That meant,according to some people, that it was especially incomprehensible and unfairthat this random disease had hit me and, according to others, that I had anunfair advantage over others having the crutch of faith to soften the blow.

As it happened, evidently, I don’thave the usual ALS but the rare PLS (Primary Lateral Sclerosis) - if you like Ihave the protracted rather than the accelerated form. One of my friends withthe same type was unsure which was preferable, a quick dying or a slow one.Personally, I’m glad still to be alive. However, I am 100% dependent on othersfor my survival. From getting up in the morning to getting undressed at night,I need help; getting fed, using the toilet, having a shower, going out - all requirea carer, which in my case means Jane, my wife, unless she breaks hercollar-bone as she did recently. Do I enjoy it? No.

I wish I was able to walk on the Welsh hills with Jane and thedog, to feel the wind and jump the streams. I wish I could chat to mygrandchildren without sounding monstrous. In 2010 I wrote a book with a youngmum in South Africa, Jozanne Moss, who also had MND (‘IChoose Everything’). Her first section is “I wish...” in which shevividly lists the things that she misses or knows she won’t be able to do inthe future: “I wish... I wish...”. In her conclusion she says, “I might not beable to be the mother I always wished I could be, but I am the mother that Godintended for me to be for Luke and Nicole, in order for them to know and loveHim.” It’s heart-wrenching. She died on 6th February. No, I don’t enjoy thefrustrations. I regret what I’ve lost.

In one way, I envy Jozanne now,because presumably she sees clearly what she previously held on to by faith. AsI look out through the french windows, the far side of the road is virtuallyinvisible. I can just distinguish the outlines of the estate houses through thefog. But at a quick glance you wouldn’t know they were there. Even the otherside of the garden, which isn’t big, is misty. Only the trough right next tothe window retains its vibrant colours. As I reflect on Anita’s challenge,which is how it feels (“how you saw and discovered God's goodness”), it seemsas though this view is a metaphor for my perceptions at the moment. It feels asif a fog has descended on my old certainties.

Of course I know that the estate isthere. Only yesterday I was winding my way in my wheelchair through itssnickets in the warm sunshine to Cornerstone, the café where I’m alwayswelcomed. Nothing’s changed about the estate, but my view of it has changed.

Some years ago, God came and strangely warmed me. “Falling in love again” isn’tan adequate description for what that did to me, but it left its indeliblemark. Perhaps that’s why I don’t doubt that God’s love is there; and yet now itis shrouded in mystery. Lovely friends with MND have died, and I can’t give ananswer as to why they had it, anymore than why God who is love permits all the natural catastrophes and any of thepersonal tragedies which bedevil our world. If “all shall be well and allmanner of thing shall be well”, which I’m still convinced is true, please don’task me to begin to explain how. Thatlove is huger and more mysterious than the measures of my mind.

And yet I have evidence, even in thefrustrations and physical limitations of my disease, of that love. A few weeksago, on Ski Sunday, there was aremarkable interview with disabled skier, Peter Dunning, who lost his legs inan IED explosion in Afghanistan. "People may think it's the most strangestthing that I'm saying, but I think that getting blown up is one of the bestthings that's happened to me. I'm such a different person than I was. Before Iwas a bit of a lads' lad; now I'm more focused, more determined, andeverything, to achieve what I want to achieve, like getting to the Paralympics,and progressing on from there." I can understand that. I’d prefer not tohave MND. I’d rather not have the prospect of gradual decline and eventualfall. But what a gift to discover, for example, that, as I become more of auseless “burden”, it doesn’t even occur to my family and friends to stop lovingme! In fact they want to carry me.And it’s incredibly liberating to discover that my value lies not in what I do,however impressive, but in what I am, warts and all.

I once made a list of where I’d foundGod’s love in my disability. It began at home with the unconditional love of myfamily, and continued with the faithfulness of friends and the kindness ofstrangers; the care of professionals and MNDA volunteers. There’d beeninstances of unexpected provision over and above my needs. Then I recalled momentsof beauty, like dew-bejewelled spiders’ webs, and moments of truth, when theBible seemed to speak. And cruciallythe gift of bread and wine received as Christ’s body and blood given for me came to rescue me when my mindstaggered and gave up.

I, like Peter Dunning, am a differentperson from who I was. I’m conscious of the mist, of the mystery that is God’slove. I wouldn’t now insist that everyone takes my route to Cornerstone. Thereare more paths than I’ve explored. I’ve found his love in unexpected people andpaces. In fact, in a profound way, life has become more exciting, more of anadventure. I suppose I focus on what’s within my range, like the flowers in thetrough, harbingers of spring, bursting with hope, those eight signs of God’slove given to me. Meanwhile I love Tennyson’s pilot, guiding his boat intoharbour, whom he hoped to see face to face, when he had crossed the bar. StPaul spoke of love: “Fornow we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part;but then shall I know even as also I am known.”

*******

Michael, Jane, and their friend.

Michael Wenham has a rare form of Motor Neurone Disease (PLS – Primary Lateral Sclerosis). He is author of My Donkeybody – living with a body that no longer obeys you(Monarch, 2008) and co-author with Jozanne Moss of I Choose Everything (Monarch, 2010). He is retired and lives in Oxfordshire, with Jane his wife. He has four adult children and three grandchildren.
He blogs at Diary of a Donkeybody and at Room with a View.

An Autobiography in Blog Posts: III. Williamsburg, Virginia, and a Desert Experience

2012-03-02T11:59:00.001-08:00

Part I--Childhood, Boarding School, a Novice at Mother Teresa's Convent

Part II--Oxford, America, Marriage, Writing

And so to Williamsburg, we returned, mourning, mourning, mourning.

* * *

It was a wildernessexperience. I once walked in OxfordUniversity Parks on a bleak December, and saw a scarlet macaw hop along. No,not kidding. Well, that’s how I felt in Williamsburg. I could not findsoulmates. I was very lonely.

I cried; I was furious with Roy.We were living there because he worked in a very esoteric area of mathematics,and the premier cluster of mathematicians in his area were at William and Mary.

I said, “Please quit, so we canlive where we wish. Breed dogs. Let’s buy a farm. A Christmas tree farm. Anasparagus and blueberry farm. Train bonsai!” (Yeah, creative, aren’t I?)Anything that will get us out of being chained to this materialistic,house-proud backwater, where everyone looks immaculately groomed, their housesand cars are immaculate, and few have read a book all year. Or written one.

And the latter category, sadly,included me.

* * *

And then, and then, the manuscriptwhich I had sent the New York editor and agent did not interest either of themin the final draft. I lay face down on my carpet, and wanted to die.

Oh, I was so mad at Roy for notproviding more help with child care and housework so I could write a goodmanuscript. The sadness caused weight gain, constant colds and coughs, debilitatingallergies, insomnia, depression. The house was a mess.

A desert experience!!

Spiritually, the desert is themost richly blessed of places. I am certain of it. It may not be rich—willnot be rich socially, or in terms of approbation, attention, success,friendship, perhaps not even economically. Ah, but spiritually, you can grow fat when the rest of your life is thingruel.

I was sick, I decided--spiritually,emotionally, even psychologically, since I was then on high dose ofanti-depressants!! I needed the great Physician. I committed to spending 90minutes a day in prayer in Bible study in 1996. I did not transformimmediately, by any means. If anything, this commitment which I fulfilled beforewriting and which soaked up nervous energy, made me tireder, crosser, moreanxious, highly-strung and frustrated in the short, even medium, run.

* * *

I could diagnose my spiritualplight, but was powerless to do anything about it.

  Jeremiah17 “Cursed is the one who trusts in man,
   who draws strength from mere flesh
   and whose heart turns away from the LORD.
⁶ That person will be like a bush in thewastelands;
   they will not see prosperity when it comes.
They will dwell in the parched places of the desert,
   in a salt land where no one lives.

⁷ “Butblessed is the one who trusts in the LORD,
   whose confidence is in him.
⁸ They will be like a tree planted by the water
   that sends out its roots by the stream.
It does not fear when heat comes;
   its leaves are always green.
It has no worries in a year of drought
   and never fails to bear fruit.”

(I am delighted to declare that verses 7-8describe me now).

Some trust in chariots and some in horses, Psalm20:7. I was putting all my hope andfaith in chariots and horses. In editors, in agents, in having a writers’ groupas I did in Minneapolis, in networking. In living in a place with goodtheatres, visiting writers, literary festivals. In the stimulation of friendswho read and wrote, and the creative exchange of ideas.

I taught Creative Writing atWilliam and Mary with a friend, a writer who lived on a farm in the boondocks, and juststeadfastly wrote books whereas I, putting faith in networking and the bigbreak was successfully applying for fellowships to, and dashing around toidyllic writers colonies, the Vermont Studio Centre and The Virginia Centre forthe Creative Arts in Sweet Briar. And to writers’ conferences: Bread Loaf, Wesleyan,Chenango Valley, Mount Holyoke. I should have just been writing!!

Just write, just write. Lots of wisdom to that. But Iguess I was stuck.

It took a long period of dreamsbeing crushed and broken for me to trust in God and no one else, not even,especially not, myself for the fulfilment of my dreams.

* * *

Eventually, eventually…littlemiracles began to happen, and my life began to change.

Well, I laid the manuscriptaside, and through 1997, writing for an hour a day, wrote a tight, contortedstory of early childhood, here and here, which won a National Endowmentfor the Arts award of $20,000. In this writing I did to take my mind off my stymiedmanuscript, my writing style came together, became instinctive.

I began to win writing prizesagain, fellowships to colonies and conferences, and to publish all over: The Washington Post, London Magazine, Commonweal,The Christian Century, my pieces were picked up by The Best Spiritual Writing annual anthologies. I taught CreativeWriting at William and Mary, though did not find it compatible with writing.Well, have never yet found anything that is!!

And life went on. I had two lovelyhappy girls. We bought a beautiful house in a lovely neighbourhood, Kingsmill,and lived there for 9 years. We travelled extensively—I craved the old world,art, culture, history. We visited Japan, Israel, New Zealand, Switzerland, CostaRica, Italy, Spain, Ireland, Holland, leaving Williamsburg as much as we could.Roy was earning well enough, and we were doing well enough through shrewdinvesting!

* * *

And surprisingly, what God usedto help me out of the pit when I struggling with marriage, and with keeping upwith the basics of running an orderly house (in which I was desperately failing!)was a teaching and speaking ministry.

I was asked to speak at eventslike women’s breakfasts, and evening banquets! I was asked to teach Biblestudies, and taught four long, exhausting Beth Moore studies, which, with theirsaturation in Scripture, were an important part in turning my life around.

And why should someone strugglingherself with the basics of marriage, being an attentive mum, and running anorderly house grow through teaching others? God’s mercy and sense of humour!! Adepressed woman sharing her Prozac of the Word of God!

And I was sharing what was mostprecious to me--my time and intellectual, spiritual, and emotional energy. In return,I was blessed with stability in my life, emotions and faith; good friends; anddeepened roots in God’s word. That isever God’s way. Share your limited oil and flour, your limited loaves andfishes, and they will be multiplied.

Another way I was blessed bysharing out of my poverty was that Paul Millersuggested an editing for discipling trade. And this discipling over five yearswas absolutely life-changing. I was also mentored by a retired pastor’s wife, LollyDunlap. As a couple they had done 4 or 5 people’s work, running a church, aradio ministry, schools, centres of learning disability, a ranch for youth, butnow she lived in Scripture and got great nourishment from it. That wasinspiring.

And I started gardening. Plantedseveral fruit trees, thousands of spring bulbs, hellebores, hostas, a rarespecimen garden. I so enjoyed watching them come up stronger each year in thatgarden I had for 9 years that I almost made peace with staying in Williamsburg.

* * *

I went on a retreat in November2003 to a retreat centre called Richmond Hill, and picked up a book called I Lift up my Eyes to the Hills,coincidentally the same title as the unfinished book I was drafting. I realizedthat I had found my answer and abruptly left the next day.

It was about praying with faithfor every area of one’s life. Praying, not hoping!! Though it was my writing Iworried about, old dreams came uncovered. As beached whales long for immensesalty seas, so in America, too fast, too new, too scary for me, I longed forancient, low-key, gentle, literary Oxford, and began to pray about movingthere.

I prayed for soul mates; the booksuggested that you offer friendship to those God has placed in your life as youwait for the “glorious friends” you might want, and I did just that, made somegood friends, and was, I was guess, happy.

I started praying veryspecifically for creativity like a rushing river, a prayer answered a littlelater than the other two.

* * *

In God’s time, miracles happen.

Roy wrote a brilliant paper that heworked on off on for 10 years. It won two prestigious prizes, one of them forthe best paper in his area in the last 3 years. And finally fellowships and joboffers poured in. (Well, just as well he didn’t become a dog breeder!)

One in Manchester.

And one—yay—in Oxford!!

Without desert experiences. onewould never learn to lean, rather than run in one’s own strength and exhaustoneself.

Who is this who comes out of thedesert, leaning on her beloved? (Song of Songs, 8:5). Yeah, it was me!

Some Admirable, Lovely, Excellent, Praiseworthy Links

2012-03-01T15:12:00.000-08:00

Fickleness Towards Famous People

2. Challies.com--The best way to teach Scripture or preach it or blog it
From Charles Spurgeon's All Round Ministry
Let us, dear brethren, try to get saturated with the gospel. I always find that I can preach best when I can manage to lie a-soak in my text. I like to get a text, and find out its meaning and bearings, and so on; and then, after I have bathed in it, I delight to lie down in it, and let it soak into me. It softens me, or hardens me, or does whatever it ought to do to me, and then I can talk about it. You need not be very particular about the words and phrases if the spirit of the text has filled you; thoughts will leap out, and find raiment for themselves. Become saturated with spices, and you will smell of them; a sweet perfume will distill from you, and spread itself in every direction; — we call it unction. Do you not love to listen to a brother who abides in fellowship with the Lord Jesus? Even a few minutes with such a man is refreshing, for, like his Master, his paths drop fatness. Dwell in the truth, and let the truth dwell in you. Be baptized into its spirit and influence, that you may impart thereof to others. If you do not believe the gospel, do not preach it, for you lack an essential qualification; but even if you do believe it, do not preach it until you have taken it up into yourself as the wick takes up the oil. So only can you be a burning and a shining light.

3. Writers and their Libraries

4. Michael Hyatt--Becoming a better conversationalist

5. If you were insulted by Martin Luther, the master of insult, you'd shrivel. Check here. See what I mean.

6. Diane Stortz--How to Have Perfect Peace.

7. Memoirs of Algeisha--Forget-me-not.

The Leap Years of My Life

2012-02-29T14:50:00.002-08:00

The Leap Years of my Life

2012—Happy. Blogging happily, in Oxford, England.

2008—Oxford, England. Leading a Bible study with two otherinsecure, neurotic women (which makes 3). Huge stress.

The first year of running my little publishing company. HUGEstress and insecurity and uncertainty. Am not writing at all, and am very sad.

2004—Williamsburg, Virginia. We are moving to England inApril, supposedly for 9 months. I am in total denial and keep writing till acouple of days before, and leave the house a total mess. We had planned to rentit out, and my friend Kathy kindly got it super-pretty and eminently rentable.

2000— Williamsburg, Virginia. The millennium year. Irene isone year old, Zoe starts kindergarten that year.

1996— Williamsburg, Virginia. Zoe is two. I am readingmassively, listening to books on tape every chance I get, writing a lot. Ratherdepressed since my book manuscript was turned down the previous year. Travel alot—2 weeks in New Zealand, a summer in England, a visit to India, winter inMadrid.

1992--Minneapolis, Minnesota. Ah, that was a memorable year,and happy. I loved living in Minneapolis. On the 29^th Feb. we wereinvited to a posh dinner by Gene Golub, Roy’s post-doctoral adviser atStanford, who turned 15 on that day, being born on Feb. 29^th. Wegave him a wrapped present, which began ringing as he accepted it. It was theUniversity of Leuven, Belgium calling on his new mobile phone, offering him ahonorary doctorate.

1988—Columbus, Ohio, First year in America. Masters studentin poetry. All I talk, live, breathe and write is poetry (not very good poetry,alas).

1984—Oxford, England. Orwell gets his predictions so wrong,thank goodness. And it’s an amazing year for me. I come to Oxford to studyEnglish, and love it.

1980—Calcutta, India. Believe it or not, I was a nun then,at Mother Teresa’s convent. I was a postulant, loved my postulant mistress,Sister Ruby, who loved me too, and was, sort of, happy!!

1976—Nainital, India. Good year, enjoyed studying andreading.

1972—Nainital, India. A very naughty ten year old, but witha talent for writing. I would write totally fictitious accounts of prizes I wonto visit Paris, and what I did there, and my teacher would ask seriously, “Howlong did you spend there?”

1968—Jamshedpur, India, Funny year. The headmistresssuddenly decided I was a genius, and in the middle of a class, and a year, Iand my books were moved up a grade. Academically, I kept pace except in Hindi,where I missed vital steps, and never recovered self-confidence. Fanatic stamp-collectorespecially of 1968 Mexico City, Olympics.

1964—Jamshedpur, India. The year would turn traumatic withthe birth of my sister, but I was an indulged only child then, my first leapyear on this earth.

Thanks for inspiration to Emma Major.

An autobiography in blog posts--II. Oxford, America, Marriage, Writing

2012-02-29T09:42:00.000-08:00

This continues my attempt to write an autobiography in 4 blog posts
1 Childhood, boarding school, a novice at Mother Teresa's Convent

Like many young Indians, Idesperately wanted to leave India for wider, more adventurous and excitinghorizons. When praying about where—the US, Canada, Australia, New Zealand or England,I heard an inner voice—which I was somehow certain was God’s, though it was thefirst time I had heard it--say quite clearly “Just apply to Oxford.” So, I did,no contingency plans, and scrambled together scholarships from the university—theRadhakrishnan fellowship for Indians to study at Oxford and the Eckersley Trustfellowships for students of English at Oxford. I believe that Oxford is part ofmy destiny and God’s plan for me—though I still don’t know why!!

I earned have a BA and an MA inEnglish from Somerville College, Oxford. My years in Oxford were intense andformative. I read a lot, learnt a lot, made mistakes, made life-long friends. Ihad been accepted for a Ph.D in English at Oxford, but didn’t get a First. Ispent another formative year in Oxford after my degree, reading, and trying towrite, and applying to America.

The nuns of the Sacred Heart inNorth Oxford had opened up their old novitiate to Christian (or barelyChristian, as I was then) students, and living there was an intensely formativeexperience. In a place like Oxford, where many people are formidably clever,you learn as much from your fellow students and reading as from classes—and soI did!

I then moved to America to do afunded Masters in Creative Writing from Ohio State University. Didn’t care muchfor Columbus, but learned loads from the writing programme, especially from theDirector, David Citino, who wasn’t then (though he bloomed later) a hugelytalented poet, but one who had a formidable work ethic, the writers’ greatestasset. He woke at 4 a.m. and wrote, producing a prodigious output, but riskinghis health, and driving himself to an early grave.

And yeah, at the end of mydegree, my faith which over those years at university moved from anactivated-only-in-crisis SOS mode, to dormancy to near-death now revived. Irecommitted myself to following Christ. That sounds grand, doesn’t it?--butbecoming a Christian for me has never been the way a caterpillar becomes abutterfly, all in a summer’s afternoon, but the way an acorn becomes an oak.Very slowly.

I moved on to do a Ph.D inCreative Writing at SUNY-Binghamton, with permission to hand in a volume ofpoetry for my Ph.D as I did for my masters. I enjoyed the classes, but I wasteaching two sections of undergraduate classes for tuition and $620 a month. Nokidding! And all I wanted to do was read and write.

And so rather sooner than we hadplanned, after a four week engagement, I married to clever sweet Roy, who isalso rather saintly (well, most of the time!)

Having earned a Ph.D in Mathsfrom Johns Hopkins, he was then doing a post-doc in Computer Science atCornell. He had a sweet fellowship, good anywhere, so once my Ph.D inBinghamton no longer tied him down, we moved to Stanford, Palo Alto,California, where he continued his post-doc in Computer Science. And I stayedhome and read and wrote.

Then we moved to Williamsburg,Virginia, in 1990. I was a fish out of water there, and hated it.

A year later, Roy won anotherpost-doctoral fellowship to the University of Minnesota. I agreed to followhim. I basically felt any city would be better than Williamsburg, which offeredno stimulation, no interesting writers, barely any cultural life.

And Minnesota was another ofthose incredibly fertile, blessed periods in my life. I was reading all thetime, my head was buzzing with ideas.

I had been writing poetry duringthat first year of marriage, and had pretty much written out all my ideas.(Wow, can’t imagine that happening with blogging or prose.) Around Jan 1991, Istarted reading women’s memoirs, Patricia Hampl, Annie Dillard, “Frost in May”Mary MacCarthy and a spring opened up within me, as I saw the deep buried worldof childhood again, and saw the magic and poetry in it.

And as luck or providence had it,the Twin Cities, Minneapolis and St. Paul, had the largest concentration ofmemoirists and creative non-fiction writers in the US. I took an excellent,seminal creatively mind-expanding class in Creative Non-fiction from Charlie Sugnet. The work I did in his classduring that term won a Memoir award of $6000 from the Minnesota State ArtsBoard. I also won an award from the Jerome Foundation which paid for a researchtrip to India. And an award from the Loft Writing Centre which linked me with amentor. I took courses with Phillip Lopate, David Mura, and one on one with CarolBly one on one, over several months.

It was one of those periods whenmost things I touched and tried turned to gold. Cash grants, essay prizes, fellowships to writers’ conferences, a jobteaching creative nonfiction at the Loft. I found a great writers’ group, whobecame my friends, loved church. And just before we left Minneapols, I went toa writers’ conference at Squaw Valley where I found a very well-known editorand agent Ted Solataroff and Ginger Barber interested in my manuscript.

I was so desperate not to returnto Williamsburg that I persuaded Roy to buy a house in Minneapolis, figuringthat if we had bought a house, God wouldn’t have the heart to move us. Yeah,sure. He’s not a tame lion. He’s wild and unpredictable. You can’t reallycontrol or manipulate him. All you can do is bow the knee.

We worshipped in John Piper’schurch when then had a sign painted on its walls, Hope in God. “Yeah, hope inGod that you’ll be able to stay in Minnesota,” I said to my soul. God smiledand replied, “No, no, Anita, hope in God because God is good.” But I did nothear him.

And then every job Roy applied toin industry, in academia turned him down—except for the professorship inWilliam and Mary, which remained open.

And so to Williamsburg, we returned,mourning, mourning, mourning.

And stayed there for twelveyears!

* * *

Next post--Williamsburg: A Desert Experience

An Autobiography in Blog Posts I. Childhood, Boarding School, a Novice at Mother Teresa’s Convent!

2012-02-29T06:44:00.002-08:00

Sister Josephine, IBMV

St. Mary's Convent, Nainital

Nainital in winter

Looking at my stats, I’ve realized that my readership has increased by 350 percent since September, so I thought I would rewrite my About Me page. Well, it grew... so I am doing a series of four autobiographical posts, tentatively covering
I. Childhood, Boarding School, a Novice at Mother Teresa’s Convent,
II. Undergraduate days at Oxford, graduate school in America, Marriage
III. Minneapolis and Williamsburg, motherhood, writing
IV. Back to Oxford, business, blogging. So…

About Me

I was born in India and was born a Catholic, which was odd. My grandparents were born in Mangalore, a town converted by the Portuguese in the 16^th century.

My childhood, I guess, could be summed up in two words: “reading,” a lot, precociously, and “mischief”. I was known as the naughtiest girl in the school and was expelled from my first school, aged 8.

I then went to a Catholic boarding school run by Irish and German nuns, St. Mary’s Convent, in Nainital, a beautiful pristine hill-station in the Himalayas. It gave me a solid academic foundation.

The nuns required almost the same devotions of us as of themselves: daily Mass; Benediction: a cascade of hymns every Sunday evening; Adoration: silent prayer before the “Blessed Sacrament” every first Sunday; Confession, Rosary, and choir-practices.

One highlight of school was reading. We had 2.5 hours of silent study a day & I finished my homework quickly, then sat and memorized—poems, speeches, whole Shakespeare plays, passages of luscious prose. I had (probably still have, haven’t tested it) a freak verbal memory, and know a poem or scripture passage pretty much by heart after a few readings. But perhaps I wouldn’t have discovered this if we didn’t have to sit and study, all fiction banned, but not poetry or drama

The other highlight of school was my relationship with Sister Josephine, an Irish nun who invested in me, and said she loved me best of all the girls she had taught over the last 40 years. She would get me books from the nun’s library or the senior classes, train me in elocution, and discuss Scripture with me for hours, because I had dozens of sceptical questions. She was an Irish Protestant convert to Catholicism, and I think I absorbed a Protestant world view (the centrality of Jesus) from her. She quietly ignored all the add-on aspects of Catholicism (the dear departed in purgatory, saints, rosaries, novenas, making it easier to shed them later).

I was rebellious, an atheist, “the naughtiest girl in the school”, but after a sudden conversion experience decided to enter Mother Teresa’s convent and become a nun.

It followed the ancient Benedictine model, a mixture of work and prayer. Since I was still in training, we spent mornings in classes on theology, Scripture and their constitution, and in prayer. We worked in Mother Teresa’s homes in the evenings-- in the home for dying destitute, orphans, and the mentally handicapped. (I’ve written about my work at Kalighat, the home for dying destitute in Zaleski’s Best Spiritual Writing series.

The recitation of the Liturgy of the Hours--laud, none, vespers and compline, a melange of psalms and traditional prayers--ring-fenced the day in prayer. In addition, there was Mass; an early morning half-hour of silent meditation on scripture; an hour of “adoration,” or contemplative prayer; and a half hour of spiritual reading. A total of 3.5 hours in various spiritual activities. I did gain much familiarity with Scripture, which has been a blessing to me.

When I was there, 1979-1980, it was a young religious order, and eccentric, shaped by a visionary, who was revered, and apparently unquestioningly obeyed.

One of her dearly-held ideas was that one needed to voluntarily share the hardships of the poorest of the poor to have empathy for them.

The deliberate quest for extreme poverty meant that we were put 25 to a room, and there was a constant time-consuming shifting and re-arranging as the room became a refectory, a classroom, and a dormitory.

There was no running water which meant we spent half an hour every day in a crocodile, drawing buckets of water from the wells and transporting it to the bathrooms and kitchen. We had just 2 sets of white sarees, which meant daily hand-washing...

The food was simple, and nutritious enough, but, another peculiarity: there were large fixed quantities one had to eat, which were quite extreme: 5 chapatis for breakfast, and five ladles of rich for lunch and dinner. After a couple of her sisters caught TB on her original diet of salt and rice, rice and salt, she imposed this as a safeguard against disease.

Everything, even the pettiest details--subjects to meditate on as one dressed, mending sarees from thread unravelled from scraps, eating the skin of papayas-- was controlled by rules. It was high-control, almost like a cult, legalistic and judgmental. After a while, it becomes easier not to think for yourself, and instead do whatever would get you praised, or avoid what would get you judged.

We slept at 10, and woke at 4.40 a.m. for church, with a half hour mid-day nap. Since I was 17 when I joined, I was perpetually tired and felt constantly sleep-deprived. Sleep deprivation (used by cults, and authoritarian systems: labour camps, prisons) makes it easy to go along with authority and not question. My first thought on waking and predominant longing was for naps and bedtime. It wasn’t sustainable.

The first three years were a kind of boot-camp, deliberately harsh. The novice-mistresses had complete power over us (one of the vows was obedience) and I struggled with perceived injustice, and the authoritarianism with no recourse of complaint.

The nervous intensity of prayer, and scripture study and meditation can ironically heighten irritability, and the rub of community life 24/7 with 25 people sharing a medium sized room.

Two people had breakdowns when I was there. One just sat and giggled helplessly. Another was sent home and attempted to jump out from the bars of the train. Leaving the convent once you join was viewed as disgraceful in Indian Catholic society.

Eventually, I saw an image of myself in a train going ever further in the wrong direction, but afraid to get off for fear of looking foolish. I conquered my adolescent fear of looking foolish and asked for permission to leave.

And, in fact, my health was shattered, though no one realized this while I was in the convent. I returned home, deeply exhausted, and within the month was diagnosed with both early stage TB and hepatitis!

Continued--Oxford, America, Marriage, Writing

Seeking God in the storm of a marital quarrel

2012-02-28T14:14:00.002-08:00

St. John Vianney, the Cure of Ars, saw a French peasant visit his church every day at lunch, and sit motionlessly for an hour.

“What do you do?” he asked curiously.

"I look at him, and he looks at me," the peasant replied.

* **

My prayer life moved from lists, intercession andbusyness to a more contemplative resting after taking a “Catching the Fire”course with John Arnott (of the Toronto Airport Fellowship and TorontoBlessing) in Oxford, in May 2010. He taught us “soakingprayer” which really, really resonated withme, and felt natural.

And so now, I look at Him, and He looks at me. AnnVoskamp describes in One Thousand Gifts, how she cradled her plump 5year old sleeping curly-headed daughter, feeling her warm, calm breath, feelingoverwhelmed with love. And then the realization falls on her that that’s howGod felt about her.

Yes, sometimes, when I am unreasonably delighted bysomething rather small in the big scale of things, I can almost see Jesus lookat me, and laugh in delight, for he’s given it to me. I see him smile at me. Isense his love, affection and attention.

* * *

And sometimes, I sense him look at me withseriousness and

sadness, and I squirm.

Like today.

Today was not a good day. I was exhausted by9.30p.m. yesterday, but between excitable teens, emails, tweets, blog comments,social media, bubble baths, arranging tickets to Istanbul in April, reading,hanging out with Roy, it was past 1a.m. by lights out—without anythingsubstantive being done.

Our pet ducks woke us up by quacking at 7 a.m. Wewere grumpy and friable, so I should have given Roy space and credit.

You know how when you’re tired small arguments canspiral out of control? Ours was about investing. Not the amount, or theinstrument, but the frequency.

I handled both the company’s and our family’saccounts until last August, when I decided to focus more on my blog. It wassilly me doing accounts, because Roy has a Ph.D and 3 post-doctoral degrees inMathematics, and I—I dropped Maths at 15 (though I was rather good at it.)

But I doubted Roy would invest with steadiness,consistency and discipline--so I did the books!

I enjoy the things money can buy—travel, plants,being able to entertain friends, books, music, art, experiences—so I am not anatural saver. Knowing that, every week, I put some money into the mortgage,and twice that into savings and retirement, with a huge amount of pride andself-congratulation.

Roy is a naturally prudent spender and saver, andtime-obsessed. He saves without thinking about it because he hates waste andunnecessary expenditure. He cannot see the point of this weekly squirreling.

“Let’s just put in a lump sum at the start of themonth,” he said.

Me, “Oh, but then we’ll tie it up, and we mightwant a weekend away, or to catch a ferry to France, or we might have time tofinally upgrade the sofa.”

He, “Well, don’t!”

Yeah, simple!! Whoever said men are fromMars, women are from Venus got it wrong. Yeah, women are indeed from Venus. Butmen, men are from Pluto, or some perfectly dreadful distant planet.

“Do it my way, Roy,” I say, magisterially. “Slowand steady….”

Well, I don’t get to finish that sentence.

An explosion!

Now I get cross too, but it’s like a summer shower,heavy, and over in minutes.

He is generally quiet and patient, but when he’shad enough, well, it’s thunder, lightning, hail, the deluge all at once. Andthese atmospheric conditions are rather prolonged (until he gets his way).

Note the snarkiness of the last comment!
                                                             ** *

Ironically, I was working on a poem which flowedbeautifully yesterday, which I almost felt Christ speaking to me, until theintensity of writing it exhausted me. I did not want to fight over trivia, andwas annoyed by the fight. I wanted to get back into the zone, and overhearChrist dictate the rest of that intense, passionate poem.

So I kept my temper, and said quiet, calm butmildly sarcastic, mildly snarky things, which, of course, heightened Roy’stemper.

Okay, we are now factoring in New Year’s Evefireworks to the thunder and lightning and hail which prevailed.

And eventually, the fireworks and weather die down.We reach a compromise on some of the thorny issues which have emerged, but noton investing. (“Come on, Roy, do it my way. Weekly,” I urge my blog, but not the Fearsome Man himself).

And I have quiet time. I look at Him and He looksat me. Sadly.

Oooh, and I repent.

I used to be a fiery girl. When did I become passive-aggressive--the coward’s behaviour, which, above all others, Ihave the most contempt for?

So I kept my temper, but was as provocative as Ihad lost it. Didn’t fool Roy. Didn’t fool Jesus.

“Keep calm,” I tell myself, when Roy loses histemper. But that is not the right word to say to myself.

The right word, sigh, is

LOVE.

And if your blood is boiling, and you want to throwsomething at this infuriating stranger you loved last night, and this morning,and you now momentarily feel no love for? Well, say LOVE as a mantra, becausethat is what Christ would say to you, if he were physically present,counselling you.

And if you cannot say it, if you say, “If I haveto love him NOW, I’ll burst”—well say other things. Say, “Have mercy on me, O God, have mercyon me, for in you my soul takes refuge. I will take refuge in the shadow ofyour wings until the storm has passed. (Psalm 57:1)

Or Whoeverdwells in the shelter of the Most High
   will sing in the shadow of the Almighty.
I will say of the LORD, “He is myrefuge and my fortress,
   my God, in whom I trust.” (Ps 97.1)

Yes, I will hide in Jesus in future, take refuge inJesus, until the storm has passed. I will love if I can. I will not exacerbatematters with gently spoken snark, but speak the gentle words which turn awaywrath.

Sounds good, doesn’t it? And not so easy when oneis angry. And so I need to add, “So help me, God.”

* * *

Don’t you love the air after a thunderstorm? Soclear, so full of promise. The birds and crickets sing.

So, our marital blowup has cleared the air…. Thoughthis is not the best way. There has be a better one. We will seek it.

And okay, the next time that infuriating, adorable,clever, wrong-headed, exasperating and good husband of mine provokes me, hopefullyI will be loving, rather than just controlling my temper; speak words of gentlelife, rather than gentle provocation; and hopefully, the next time I look atother Man who loves me, I will look at him, and he will look at me, and therewill not be reproach in his eyes.

God in the cracks: A year in an earthquake zone: Christchurch, New Zealand. (Guest Post by Claudia McFie)

2012-02-28T00:23:00.000-08:00

Beauty among the ruins
Photo by Ross Becker, photographer

24 February 2011, I was sitting beside a ruralroad near Christchurch, New Zealand, hugging my knees to my chest and trying tocry.

Two days earlier I had been running for my life asmy city came crashing to the ground around me. For the first two days I'd been concentrating so much on survival –walking 2 hours home, part of the way barefoot, then boiling rainwater we'dcollected for using in the garden so we had something to drink, walking 5km tothe only supermarket that was open to buy milk and bread.

On this day, the emotions finally startedcatching up with me.

I sat surrounded by open fields and empty sky, yetevery time I closed my eyes all I could see was the wall of a three storybuilding toppling towards me in slow motion. There is still gritty dust through my hair, ears and fingernails. There is still no water supply, so no chanceto wash, only hand sanitiser.

Sitting beside that farm gate, my guts ached withgrief. It was a raw, bleeding, emptykind of feeling, like some part of my soul had been ripped out. I was seeking solitude to cry and pray, buttears wouldn't come, all I had was an aching pressure behind my eyes and atightness in my chest.

I tried to pray, but words wouldn't come, and allI could feel was the pain in my spirit. All my mind can do is replay again and again my mind replayed the joltyjerky feeling in my stomach as the ground lurched beneath me.
* * *

I remembered a day in my late teens, more than 20years ago, when I had also sought solitude, this time walking and sittingbeside a river. There I had prayed forthe first time, “God, I can't do this. I've made a mess of my life, so I'm handing my life over to you.” A promise came into my mind “Don't beafraid. I will never leave you orforsake you. No matter where you go orwhat happens I will never leave you.

In February 2011 I couldn't connect to God'spresence, but I held onto the promise that he was still with me, carrying methrough this valley of the shadow of death. Everything else has stripped away, but I cling onto Faith.

Since September 2010, my city has been experiencingan ongoing seismic event. Some 10,000aftershocks, 41 of them have been greater than magnitude 5. The most recent “big” one was a magnitude 6on 23 December 2011. Even as I'm writingthis I feel a vibration rumble past beneath me. I inhale and my stomach clenches, then it passes. (That was a magnitude3.4, at 3km depth about 10km south of my house). Prior to September 2010, there had not beenany significant earthquakes in the region for more than a century.

The past year, I've experienced the anxiety ofgoing about life, never sure when the “next one” will come. I would go into shopping malls, and scanaround to work out where the best “safe place” would be. I avoid brick walled buildings, crossing thestreet if I need to.

I've experieced watching the cranes and diggersand “munchers” demolish my city. Nearly1400 commercial buildings either have been or are being deconstructed, many ofthem heritage buildings. The Cathedral thatwas the heart of my City lies in ruins, as the debate continues among bothbelievers and non-believers for its future. 6,500 homes in the suburbs havebeen abandoned, the land unable to be rebuilt on. Others still await the assessment of theirfate.

As the days and weeks went by. The tears came in their time, and I learnedto grieve and lament. But prayerremained beyond my reach. I offered mytears as prayers, but the emptiness within me remained. “I know there is more than this. I've experienced God's presence in the past,and I long to find that again.”

And the quakes kept coming.

Winter came, and our house was not weathertight –our chimney had collapsed leaving us without heating, and our roof covered by atarpaulin. Rainwater dripped through theceiling.I was so thankful that our chimney was replaced bya steel flue and our woodburner repaired in time for the “once in 50 years”blizzard that hit mid year. A monthlater we lived through a “once in 70 years” snow storm.

I strived to pray. I tried to find my soul again, but the sense of connecting with God wassimply not there. I still felt hollow,like a part of me was missing. Then Irealised I was trying to find God with my own effort. It's like trying to pull myself up with myshoelaces. “Lord, I can't dothis. Only you can. I'm letting go. I am here, and I trust you.”

I was burnt out and exhausted. I had run out of “cope”. I went to work, I looked after my children,then once they were in their beds I would curl up on the sofa or on mybed. I'd try to lose myself in readingfiction. Anywhere but the here andnow. I didn't even want to log onto mycomputer. I stopped writing andblogging. Everyone else I spoke to inChristchurch was experiencing the same kind of fatigue.

Recovery has come slowly. It has taken over a year since that daybeside the rural road. Counselling hashelped, as has asking as many people as I can to please pray for me. The difference came as I found myself spaceto be quiet and still. As I stoppedtrying to pray, I just sat and waited. “Iam here, Lord.” In the stillness, Istarted to feel the smallest flicker, no more than a whisper of life within myspirit again. I found that I could prayagain, and feel the response within my spirit again.

2012 is the year my city will begin itsrebuild. It will never be the same as itwas before the earthquakes, and tears come as I write that sentence, but whatit will be is stronger, and better. Mylife will never be the same again, but God has stayed true to his promise. He never left me, and I know I will comethrough this stronger and better.

How you can help Christchurch recover:

1. Pray. Pray for those who grieve for the 185 liveslost on 22^nd February 2011. Pray for the injured, who are still recovering. Pray for those traumatised, the emotionalwounds that for many are still raw. Those burnt out and exhausted. Pray for those struggling with insuranceissues, and uncertaintity about their future.

2. Donations can bemade through:

* The ChristchurchEarthquake Mayoral Relief Fund provides funding toward projects that contribute to therebuilding of the social and physical infrastructure of Christchurch followingthe earthquakes.

* The Red Cross2011 Christchurch Earthquake Appeal is focused on welfareissues providing emergency & hardship grants as well as bereavement grants.

* The Christchurch Earthquake Appeal (NZ Government) will help rebuild those things that are atthe heart of Christchurch communities, the places and services that make a cityworth living in; community facilities which took decades of fundraising to putin place, such as sports fields, parks, community buildings and historicbuildings, which were ruined within hours.

*******

Claudia McFie

Claudia is a working mother of threechildren (aged 3, 5 and 8) living in Christchurch New Zealand. She started blogging in 2010 as Adulcia – Beneath the Surface. You can see news footage of her experiencesin the Christchurch Earthquake of 22^nd February 2011 here.

When your Blog is not on a Blogroll

2012-02-27T08:32:00.000-08:00

The Lamb's Book of Life (Image credit)

You know that awkward moment, whenyou check a blogroll, kind of hoping you’ll be on it, and well—you’re not?

And your heart sinks.

And you say….

* * *

Well, 20 years ago--forget that, 2years ago, if I were blogging then--I would have heard the word of torment, theword of the accuser of the brethren, the word of demand: MORE.

Blog more, comment more, network more. Getyour name out there more.

Demon whispers.

I hear them, I hear them, and asOdysseus poured wax into the ears of his sailors so they’d be proof against thesong of the sirens

I pour honey into my ears,

The honey of truth.

* * *

And this is what the Lover of Anitasays.

“Who gave human beingstheir mouths? Is it not I, the LORD? ¹² Now go; Iwill help you speak and will teach you what to say.” Exodus 4:11-12

And I still say More, butit’s not a fist-clenched anxious more.

It’s a hands open, humble one.

More of your spirit, Lord, more ofyou. Help me believe more deeply foryou said:

Whoever believes in me, as the Scripturehas said, streams of living water will flow from within him."(John 7:38).

Ah, give me that, Lord. Streams ofliving water flowing through my blog, flowing to find readers to bless. And ifmy blog blesses people, well, I guess I don’t deeply care about blog-rolls.

Ah, let me swim, oh Lord, in thewaters from your sanctuary. For it is written of the river which flows fromyour sanctuary: Fruit trees of all kindswill grow on both banks of the river. Their leaves will not wither, nor willtheir fruit fail. Every month they will bear fruit, because the water from thesanctuary flows to them. Their fruit will serve for food and their leaves forhealing.” (Ezekiel 47: 12).

To grow in thewaters of Spirit which flow from your sanctuary, and to bear fruit each month,fruit for food and leaves for healing—fruit from the Spirit!! And when you areswimming in the waters which flow from the sanctuary, when the tree of yourlife grows in it, and bears fruit every month—well then, blogrolls aresecondary.

* * *

And I bring youagain the two loaves and five fish of my talent. And I see you bless it. And,ouch, I see you break it.

And it doesn’tresemble the way I hoped to write, the way I planned to write, the way I wastaught to write, the way I used to write.

And you—YOUdistribute the loaves of words which have come from brokenness and quietness,words you have whispered to me in my distress—and seeing them read, I amsatisfied.

I smile if I am on ablogroll,

And am stillsatisfied if I am not,

Because hearing,overhearing and recording your whispers, Lord,

That is the greatestwork you have ever given me!!

“Laying Out”: A Guest Post by Jennie Bishop

2012-02-27T01:05:00.000-08:00

Jennie Bishop, author of
The Princess and the Kiss

My husband and I are worshipleaders—him by position and career, me by example—and thus have come to knowthe human ego intimately. The best musicians are always those who know how andwhen to “lay out.” They can step back and let someone else take the solo, orrecognize that their particular instrument’s voicing isn’t adding to the songduring certain measures.

It’s not always easy to take yourhands off a guitar when you’re itching to play a screaming solo, but theresults are more satisfying to the audience. All it takes is the willingness torecognize that serving on the worship team is a privilege, not a right. We areinstruments of service, and not stars in the making.

I know that I struggle similarly withwriting. There have been many times when I haven’t been willing to “lay out.”My identity has been too fiercely tangled with my story making. I published myfirst compilation on the school ditto machine in sixth grade. I wrote my first(bad) novel in high school. I signed my friends’ yearbooks “Great Author of theFuture.”

When I’m not working on a newproject, I tend to be anxious. My discipline is worry, and I have a GeneralAnxiety Disorder and medication to prove it. A few years ago, God mercifullyexposed my anxiety issues by allowing me into a chaotic, unpredictable life inOrlando. This year He has turned the tables to the extreme by gifting myhusband with a wonderful position and our family with a small condo on thebeach in Daytona.

You would think life here is idyllic.My writing desk looks right out the window onto the Atlantic. I can count thedolphins or pelicans as they make their way up and down the shoreline. Thewaves provide a constant, mesmerizing background of music, even worship.

But since October, I’ve barely sat atthat desk.

God, in His desire to stretch andform me in yet another direction, made it clear upon my husband’s acceptance ofthis new position that I was to separate myself from writing for a time tosimply be a mother and wife. My tenth grader was making a hard schooltransition, and my graduate moved home to work and prepare for college. Myhusband needed my support at home and in his position.

I am aware of the daily need to bewilling to scrub floors or sing a solo at a moment’s notice. I concur withBrother Lawrence in the necessity of practicing the presence of God,in prayer, dish-doing and laundry-folding. But the long season of non-writingbecame difficult, especially with a finished manuscript on my desk, awaiting ahome. I began to ask what all that work had been for. I wondered if I wassimply being lazy or my rest was actually a gift of God. I slippedintermittently back into worry, even depression.

One day I discovered a blog fromAnita when I was searching for information unpacking the “weaned child” passagein Psalm 131. How I longed to rest this way, satisfied in my Father’s lap,without the anxiety of analyzing every moment of my existence.

Anita’s “Working Restfully” blogspoke deeply to my heart as God assured me, again, that my writing Sabbath wasgood, that I did not need to push and shove my way into a publishing situation.
* * *

About the same time, Randy asked meto lead a song, one of my favorites, in a coming worship service. I hadagreed—until practice, when I tried out the key. I wanted to sing with passion,but instead was distracted by uncomfortable notes in my lower range. I waved theinstrumentalists down.

“Um, I think Tiffany should singthese verses,” I suggested. I knew Tiffany had sung the song beautifully atanother service when I had been absent.

“But this is your favorite song,” myhusband reminded me.

“It is,” I agreed. “But just becauseit’s my favorite doesn’t mean I’m the best one to sing it. I’m going to layout.”

Tiffany was delighted, and so wasI—the results were so much better. I’ve removed a distraction that would haveaffected not only me, but possibly our whole congregation. Now the way is openfor us all to freely worship.

Godliness with contentment is greatgain. This is my quest: not to long for “star quality,” in singing, in writing,in speaking or in homemaking (is that possible?) … but to be fully contentto “lay out,” to wait, to relax like a weaned child in my Father’s arms. Thereis the only place where any lasting satisfaction can really be found. There isthe place of constant rest, as I find my identity fully safe and complete inChrist.

***

Jennie Bishop is the author of the best-selling children's book, The Princess and the Kiss. She is also the founder of PurityWorks, a not-for-profit that provides resources for the development of good hearts in small children as preparation for them to embrace sexual purity as they grow.

First Things First

2012-02-26T14:57:00.000-08:00

C.S. Lewis in his essay Firstand Second Things says, “When first things are put first, second thingsdon't diminish, they increase." Youcan't get second things by putting them first; you can get second things onlyby putting first things first.

In other words, it’s the counter-intuitive paradox at the heartof the Christianity.

Want success as a blogger or writer? Put God and your duties aswife and mum first; run an orderly home; contribute to the happiness of yourhusband and children; take responsibility for your physical health, and you aremore likely to be able to write and blog at full steam with God’s blessing.

Want friends. Again, put God, and your family first. A sense ofpeace, order and happiness will pervade your life, and friendships will beeasier to form.

It’s the same with money or a career. Put them first, ahead ofyour spiritual life, health, family and friendships, and you will quite likelyjeopardise all of these. But if the foundations are firm, you are free to setabout making money with all your imagination and strength—and there are timesin life when extra money has to be made!!

"Seek first the kingdom of god, and all these things will beadded unto you."

In other words, First Things First.

Putting second things first is a recipe for disorder in one’s finances, housekeeping,or personal and life organization.

Even in the micro-level of a day by doing our most importanttasks first, relative peace and order pervades our life, and we have moremental peace for second things. It is the foundation of successful time-management.

(And as somebody, who is not naturally highly organized anddisciplined, I can testify from the experience of failure that this is trueJ)

Forgiveness and Forgetfulness, a guest post by Tanya Marlow

2012-02-26T03:13:00.000-08:00

Forget-me-not
by bill_canada

Last night I told my husband (slightly sheepishly) that I had boughtsome MORE children's books.

I like to buychildren's books and my boy likes to read them. It is not just a purchase, itis an Investment. So I am reasonably sure that although we didn't discuss thispurchase together beforehand (as we are accustomed to doing) that Jon won'tmind.

"Do you mind?" I asked.
"Well, no - except that - do you remember the discussion we had where Iasked you to stop buying books and you agreed?"
My face fell. I had forgotten that conversation.

He was right. We had agreed not to buy any more books just at the moment. Afterthe last belletristic bundle (Dr Seuss! How can you say no to Dr Seuss?) I hadpromised to restrain my trigger-happy internet-purchasing finger. I hadpromised - and then I had forgotten.

He smiled. (I think, deep down, he agrees that they are anInvestment).

We are a forgetful people.

*********

The Israelites hated their slavery in Egypt, but they had forgotten that by thetime they reached the desert. "At least in Egypt we had meat!" theycomplained. Already they had devalued their freedom.

Peter denied Jesus three times, and then wept when the cockerel crowed. He hadforgotten the loyalty he had sworn just hours before.

In the time of the Judges they forgot about the Lord, and served other Gods. God executed judgement; they remembered. Then they forgot that they hadforgotten, and did it all again.

We are a forgetful people.

********

Every time I write in my spiritual journal I find I am writing the same thingsagain and again. Why have I not learnt this lesson? Why do I always fallinto the same sin, the same patterns?

I wonder if I amthe only one who always seems to return to the same place with God, repentingof those same sins I was battling a year before.

We are a forgetful people.

********

I watch my boy playing in the kitchen. He opens the cupboard, and I ampoised, rebuke at the ready. He looks at the cupboard, looks at me; hiseyes glinting with defiance and hope. I return his gaze withsteadfastness and warning. Then he reaches a hand in -
"No, darling. You're not allowed to touch."

He closes the door and plays elsewhere. Two minutes later he returns;opens the cupboard, reaches inside.
"No darling - what did Mummy say?"

I don't get too cross. We are a forgetful people.

********

So much of my sin is tied up in forgetting; forgetting who God is, what He hasdone for me, who I am before Him. I forget His nature, His goodness, Hiscommands. I forget my vows, my resolutions, my debt of gratitude. Iforget the break-through revelation I had last month, the one that would makeall the difference to my spiritual discipline and restore my enthusiasm andfervour. I forget the sermon that I heard this morning.

I am grateful for the repetition of the Bible. I need to hear theconsistent cadence of fall, grace, atonement, redemption that recurs throughoutthe symphony of His revelation, reiterating time and again the promises of agenerous God.

I am glad that I have a God who remembers. I am glad that I have aGod who reminds me.

But I am also glad, that for some things, I have a God whoforgets:

"For I will forgive their wickedness
and will remember their sins no more" (Jer 31:34)

For those days when I am more aware than usual of my wickedness, my fallenness,my foolishness, it is a relief to know that God is not sitting keeping score ofmy failures. He has promised to forgive them and wipe them out. Hehas forgotten them.

We are a forgetful people. We need a forgetful God.

Over to you:

- What are the ways that you see sin and forgetfulness intertwinedin your life?

- What things help you to remember God's character?

*******

Tanya Marlow

Tanya Marlow is passionate about teaching the Bible, answering tricky questions of faith and training others to do this. In the past she has done this in student and church ministry and as Associate Director of the Peninsula Gospel Partnership (PGP) Bible training course. Right now she does it by reading Bible stories to her toddler, as she learns what it means to be a stay-at-home mum who is also housebound with severe M.E. Her blog is called Thorns and Gold: on the Bible, illness, emotions, life.

Please check out these scintillating, amusing, inspiring and interesting links!!

2012-02-25T15:20:00.000-08:00

Stephen Sawyer

1Michael Hyatt--How to tell a wise man from a fool.
A fool is defensive, will not accept responsibility, and is unwilling to change.

2 The Obesity Map. A complex interaction of many, many social, educational, emotional, psychological and physiological factors.
With men, conquering obesity may be hard, but not with God, for with God, all things are possible.

3 Matthew Parris in The Spectator, Let's hear it for the fundamentalists. We've heard enough of the ‘Nerd King, preening master of self-promotion, slippery old silver fox, “disco don” of the Dark Side, God-slayer and pompous champion of the Atheist Delusion’ (Professor Dawkins, by the way.) Now let's answer the great question, IS IT TRUE?

One of the reasons we can be pretty sure Jesus actually existed is that if He had not, the Church would never have invented Him. He stands so passionately, resolutely and inconveniently against everything an established church stands for.

As an unbeliever my sympathies are with fundamentalists. They seem to me to represent the source, the roots,
the essential energy of their faiths. They go back to basics. If a faith is true it must have the most profound consequences for a man and for mankind. If I seriously suspected a faith might be true, I would devote the rest of my life to finding out.

Is it true? — that is the question. It was the question when I was 12 and the question when I was 22. Forty years later it is still the question. It is the only question.
(Yes, Matthew Parris, it is true, this most amazing tale of all.)

4James Prescott's mother miraculously wakes up from a coma of several days, and airily explains, “Oh, I’ve been walking with Jesus by Galilee and He’s sent me back”

5

Yes, I didn't include it in the Ten Commandments, but it was kind of understood. "Thou Shalt not be a Jerk."

6 The Jobs Peril

7 Do you want to blog really well, with gripping content. Blog naked.

And the most popular on my own blog

1 Can 140 Characters Make Anything Happen?

2 Christ says, I will let nothing be wasted.

The Hound of Heaven takes on Dave Roberts—and wins (Guest Post)

2012-02-25T00:36:00.000-08:00

Dave Roberts

I wasraised to be a sceptic/agnostic/ atheist, always warned “Churches aredangerous places.” So, as a teenager, I decided if they are so dangerous, let’sgo for a bit of danger! So I rebelled, became a Christian and started attendinga local Christian youth group.

Well,I came to the UK from Australia for 6 months travel around Europe! Or so Ithought! That was in 1990 - 22 years it will be on the 26th of February 2012! Iview it as God having a sense of humour. He knows I don’t like rain,cold—particularly together! He has even given me the most beautiful of women asa wife, but she doesn’t like hot weather!

7years ago I had a minor stroke and I view that as God giving me a clip roundthe ear to stop being stubborn and to listen to Him for direction. So insteadof moving north with my job at Royal Mail, I took redundancy and went off toMoorlands College where I graduated in 2007.

‘Partakers’

I setup Partake Ministries up in 2007. I had recorded some audio files as part of ablock placement during my 3rd year at Moorlands. 6 months later I looked backon the site and discovered that the 16 audio files had been downloaded severalthousand times, mainly in a country where evangelical Christians arepersecuted. It was also part of my dissertation investigating if Virtual Churchcould be part of the universal church—the one, holy, catholic and apostolicchurch.

Istill took the normal route post-Bible college and applied for pastor jobsaround the UK. I often was interviewed but the two main reasons given when Iwas successful were that I was too radical (as in application and use ofinternet/digital space etc), too much of a teacher or both! It was like “Youcan’t seriously use the internet to evangelize and disciple others!” Bit likewhen the printing press came out and the church’s collective bellybuttonpuckered and said “You can’t give the bible to people; they may actually readit!” So, I continued doing the Podcasts.

Ihave an accountability team set up by the church we attend, for mentoring,prayer, guidance, advice and accountability. I also have people on Facebook& Twitter to keep an eye on what I say and do to see that those things arewithin biblical confines.

The digital media tools I use

Blogging,podcasting, Youtube, Facebook and Twitter… I consider Facebook my online churchand have many opportunities to encourage the Christian family as well as havegood dialogue and friendships with many non-Christians who would never darkenthe door of a church. Yetthose same people, message me prayer requests and ask questions which they knowI will answer honestly.

Podcastingis what I do mainly, but as with all the other things, I don’t do them formyself. Rather, I do it to share what God has given me to others, both those Iknow and those I don’t know, so that when I stand before Him, He will say “Welldone, good and faithful servant. You have bought me much honour with the thingsI gave you.”

Thoughts on the nexus of digitalmedia and Christianity

TheNew Testament church was relevant to their community, radical in applyingScripture in those efforts and were willing to take Spirit-led risks – the 3R’s if you like. I am passionate that the 21st century church should be thesame and using digital media and digital space is one way to do that. I am sureyou have heard me say this before, but with the advent of digital space andsocial networking, the only real barrier to practically loving others is a limitedimagination. Moltmann once said that the church needs to embrace a creativityfor doing the impossible and with social networking and digital space we can dojust that.

Myexperiments with getting the Bible online

Firstlythere was POD or Psalms On Demand. With the help of St Pixels, the church Iattend and a few other people around the globe, we have managed to get all thePsalms recorded. Including Psalm 119 which was done by a Los Angeles YouthGroup and Psalm 117 which was recorded by the 9 year old autistic daughter of afriend of mine! As I said previously, using digital media allows almost anybodyto use their talents and gifts for the glory of God!

Secondlythere is BAM! Which is Bible Book a Minute, where I summarise the key point ofthe book and offer 2 key verses! As I usually speak about 180 words a minute itis possible! Plus there have been several series including a set of 25 studies“Scriptural Delights” based on Psalm 119; a series 18 studies called JOG (JesusOverview in the Gospels) and a 12 module discipleship course with 6 studies ineach module.

Where I see Christian work indigital space going over the next few years

Theworld is rapidly changing and church history shows us that where the localchurch fails to adapt and be relevant to their local community, they eitherbecome merely a local cultural curiosity or they simply close up. By embracingthese new technologies and using them for God’s glory alone, churches andChristianity can thrive and continue to thrive.

Thereare people in our communities who can’t get to a church – such as thehousebound and geographically isolated. Using Digital Space is one way to showthat the church is radically caring for these people. Poets, artists,photographers have talents which can be shared through digital space. Theability to help somebody, even if we don’t know who it is, is no longer limitedby distance or geography, but only by our imagination.

Technology is only going to increasingly develop and we can use it for the glory of God – the originator of imagination and sciences!

DaveRoberts is the founder of Partakers http://www.partakers.co.uk/ (2007) and has beeninvolved as a Christian in digital space for 17 years. Originally fromAustralia, he came to the UK for 6 months travel – back in 1990! Formerly aworker with the Royal Mail, he is an honours graduate from Moorlands College,with a pioneering interest in virtual ecclesiology. Partakers website has hadover 300,000 visitors; part of its vision is to use digital technology toenhance Christian discipleship and the extension of God’s Kingdom, and toenvisage how churches and Christians can unite the offline and online worlds.Part of Partakers is a WOWClinic to help churches and Christians do just that.

From Fatness to Fitness: Doug Black shares his inspiring story (Guest Post)

2012-02-24T11:50:00.000-08:00

It finally hit me one night after the youth ministry we were in charge of. I was about to put my fist through the wall.

You see, we were having a couple major changes in our lives. My beautiful wife and I were expecting our first child. The company we worked at was about to be sold to the biggest hospital in the area, bringing us from a small company of 100 to 7000. We were struggling with figuring out if we could go to one income and make life work. The church we were leading at was struggling, and I had just heard about a student who was leaving home to move in with her boyfriend who she was newly impregnated by.

It was either me or the wall. Gladly, I decided on me.

You see, I have been avoiding getting fit for a long time. I had tried running in college a little bit, but was bored to death. Rather than work out when I got married, I decided to eat emotionally. It was my one of my only outlets in full-time ministry, as well as when I went bivocational (working full-time and doing ministry "part-time"). I have given up exercise in favor of video games and work.

In fact, I had never been health conscious. My family never worked out, or pushed me toward sports. I did ten push-ups as a punishment in 5th grade, but couldn't do one today. I became a "Fast Food-ie", and could tell anyone the location of the nearest fast food chain of their choice (on multiple occasions, we drove 2 hours to a White Castle).

But it was time for me to die. At least, a big, tubby part of me.

I had to change. For my own mental health. For my family. For my soon-to-be-born baby. For my ministry. To glorify God with my body. And this Wednesday night was the straw that broke the camels back.

I got up the next morning, weighed in at 255 lbs, and ran two miles. Did I say ran? What I meant was crawled, huffing and puffing, and dying.

Then, my affluent landlord put out two weight benches for the trash. I said, "Thanks for the heads-up God". I quickly snatched them off the street, and guessed at how to rebuild them from scratch. I then researched like crazy on every muscle group and lifting exercise to work them.

Slowly but surely, the muscle started showing, the fat started going. Three years down. 75 pounds gone. For the first time in my life, I feel like I'm honoring God with my body. I decided to eat more vegetables, yogurt, healthy food options.Rather than taking anger out on others, I take it out on my heavy bag. I could do a push-up, and even more than one! I started pull-ups, and sit-ups, and strange combinations of them all. I can enjoy running with my daughter (though, for a 3 year old, she's surprisingly faster than me).

I feel like I took my life back.

So, there have been some crazy lessons I had to learn on the way:

1) Exercise Is Terrible (At First): The first couple weeks of exercise was awful. My running was belabored at best. My push-ups were on my knees. My weightlifting was light. BUT, it gets better...if you keep going. You may even *gasp* enjoy it someday.

2) Find Something You Like To Do: Part of the reason I never wanted to exercise was that I hated everything I did. I have a pretty bad case of ADD on top of it, so I get bored very easily. So, whenever I get bored, I change up the routine. I learned quick that the more fun you are having, the further you go. So find a partner. Take up a sport. Do Zumba. MMA.

3) Set Fun Goals: Do an adventure race. Set a rep-number goal. Win a championship. Aim for the most fun thing imaginable, and enjoy as many steps as you can along the way. My current goal is to enter the 2013 Crossfit games; let the training begin!

Doug Black is a Christ follower, family man, simple church planter, mental health case management supervisor, and CrossFit enthusiast. Follow him on Twitter @dougblackjr

Turning a grey plot into wild spirals of colour

2012-02-23T10:36:00.002-08:00

When the stream of our lives

Seems to vanish into desert sands,

and we wonder if we've lost our way,

When between our talent and output,

Between our aspiration andachievement.

Falls the shadow

When we have planted much and finishedlittle

And we wonder if we’ve bequeathed ourchildren

A durable compass for this whirlingworld.

There is still hope. A lever

Which can reverse things

And revise the plot:

Prayer which can take the story of alife

Which seems hopelessly entangled,contorted

Unpromising and bleak

Oh, and just reverse the wholething!!

Making it burst into colour,

Twists and turns, whirls and spirals

When we call out to the Lord in ourdespair

He comes,

Helping us see ourselves

Scouring our spirits with repentance

Filling them with his Spirit

And newness.

New ideas, new vision, new courage,

New hope. Fresh grace, freshstrength,

Fresh fire.

* * *

And again and again, when my life

Seemed stymied, and my dreams

Had crashed, and sadness surroundedme,

When I seemed unable to do thesimplest things,

Run an orderly house,

Balance my budget

Or—as now--figure out how to shedweight

And be fitter and stronger

And I cried out to you in my despair,

You came, you came,

Rocking me with tenderness

Bestowing new ideas, new grace!

* * *

Oh Lord, we see so little ofreality:

We see the caterpillar,

Not the dazzling peacock butterfly,

The acorn, not the oak.

But the puny, drab apple seed

Is never the end of the story.

Help me remember, Lord,

That you take seeds, or 5 loaves and 2fish

And transform, multiply.

So I give you my puzzlement,

My lack of discipline,

My sadness and frustration with it

Take it, Lord, breathe on it,

Transform it, bring fruitfulness

And beauty from this little seed!!

The Lowest Bar there ever was

2012-02-22T14:36:00.000-08:00

Image Credit

"Abraham believed God, and it wascredited to him as righteousness, and he was called God's friend" James2.23.

Cool!

Isn't that the lowest bar there ever was?

All one needs to do to be the friend

Of Him who dwells in high places

Is believe what He says!

And it is one of life's cooler experiences

when your thoughts naturally turn towards Him,

through the day, and in wakeful nights,

until you realize that, incredibly, mysteriously,

God is your friend.

The First Rumours of Spring in my garden!

2012-02-22T13:06:00.000-08:00

Bluebells (wood hyacinths) popping up

These snowdrops have been in flower for several weeks.

Tiny yellow flowers on this shrub.
Please identify!!

Winter aconite in the leaf litter

Arum italicum -- just leaves at the moment, but produce white or pale green flowers
and luscious poisonous red seedhead

Hellebore hybrid from Ashwood -- this one is called "Dusky Grape"

This hellebore has been in bloom for several weeks

Dwarf nectarine in flower. It was a birthday gift -- see the ribbon and card.