On Being Carried August 27, 2008

Once, I lived in a student house. It was interesting, in the way that only student houses can be, complete with the seemingly inground aroma of old takeaways, with battered furniture that never would have passed the Ikea durability standards, and bedecked with curtains fashioned from creatively cut dustbin bags. It fit all the stereotypes.

It wasn’t, perhaps, the most salubrious place I’d ever stayed in my life. Especially as it was summer and the student types who inhabited number 58, Colwyn Road with me had long since departed, back to mothers who would do their washing and feed them more than the obligatory supernoodles. I was lonely and frightened.

It was in this house that I learned that falling down cellar stairs will always hurt, that adventurous wasps will always swim in open cartons of apple juice, that, unfortunately, yoghurt will not always stay fresh (and importantly, connected to this, one should always look in the pot before eating a spoonful). I do, however, have one lasting good memory from that house.

Sleeping was hard those days. In fact life, in general, was not a bundle of joy and excitement. One evening, when my youth leader drove me ‘home’, he gave me a tape of music. It was a recording of the latest Hillsongs album. When I got in, I put it straight into my cassette player, in an attempt to drown out the fact that I was rattling around in a (slightly mouldy) empty house, and the fact that this freaked me out a little.

That tape got so much play that summer. I found that, if I played it at night, I could drift off to sleep peacefully, with the worship sinking into my subconscious and calming my anxious thoughts. Looking back I wonder if it was what helped me make it through those days.

One of the songs stuck in my head especially, and even now, six years later, I am still reminded of God’s presence and faithfulness back then, every time I hear it. I am reminded how He kept promises I wasn’t even aware He had made me, and how He really did make me glad, even through a path of pain and suffering. The lyrics are as follows:

I will bless the Lord forever
And I will trust Him at all times
He has delivered me from all fear
And he has set my feet upon a rock

And I will not be moved
And I’ll say of the Lord….

You are my shield
My strength
My portion
Deliverer
My shelter
Strong tower
My very present help in time of need

Whom have I in Heaven but you?
There’s none I desire beside you
You have made me glad
And I’ll say of the Lord….

(Darlene Zschech – Hillsongs Music)

The thing that sticks in my mind most was that, during that time, I was unable to fight for myself. I knew hardly anything about prayer or spiritual warfare, I wasn’t even that certain that God was in the situation with me. Even from that place, something in me reached out to Him through the words of the songs. Something in my spirit responded to His touch through the truths contained in them. I was carried, soothed, comforted, and shielded by Him, though I hardly recognised it at the time.

My life today is so different to what it was back then. My house may still smell of supernoodles regularly (ick), but the darkness of those days has long since dissipated.

My circumstances may have changed, but the God I love and serve hasn’t. And His call to me is the same: Sometimes, it is right to battle, to employ the weapons he has given me and be militant in my praying. Sometimes, I am surrounded by the noise of conflict, making daring raids on enemy camps, defying what is in the way of what God has promised and fighting hard. Often, this comes more naturally to me.

Sometimes, though, it is right to let God do the battling. To fall into Him and find that His strength is more than enough and so much more powerful then I could ever be. To trust that He knows what needs doing, and that the battle on will rage on without me, while I rest in the safety of His healing presence. In those moments, I find Him in a fresh way. I find Him as my portion, deliver, shelter, strong tower, my ever-present help in times of need.

It is when I let Him carry me, that I am reminded I should do this more often.

It is when I let go and let Him fight for me, that I truly find rest and peace.

It is when I surrender, that I find that this is not failure, but a journey deeper into adoration and intimacy with my Father God.

When God says what you don’t particularly want to hear… August 27, 2008

Let go, let yourself fall.
I will catch you.
I know you feel like you can’t keep holding on, you can’t fight anymore.
I know you’re exhausted, and I’m here to tell you that you can trust in me.

I know it terrifies you – the possibility that you could fall and fall,
The surrender of your life into my hands,
Taking your hands off the reigns.
The thing is, you can’t grasp how precious you are to me
and that it’s safe to let go, because I’d never do anything to harm you.
I only have your best interests at heart.
I won’t let you fall too far.
I won’t let you plummet into the pit.
I will catch you, and we will soar together.

I’ve seen your resilience, I made you a fighter and and have fought well.
But I long for you to learn that you don’t have to always be the strong one,
That you can rely on my strength,
That your gritted teeth determination often puts distance between us
I want to fight for you, but you are battling so hard to survive.

Child, I hurt for your hurts.
Your every bruise tears my heart.
I weep for your sorrow, your confusion, your fear.
And I long to lift every burden from your tired shoulders.
Once and for all.

Falling isn’t failing. You don’t need to measure or compare yourself,
Don’t worry about ‘doing it right’, just take this time to feel what you need to.

Daughter, there’s going to be a morning so much brighter than these.
Joy will wash away these tears of pain.
You belong to my family, and my plans are for hope, redemption and abundance.
We’ll dance in celebration, on a day not too far from now.
But you can leave the timings with me, before you ask!

For now, you can let go.
Open your fists, release those tightly held fears,
And you’ll see how faithful I am.
Go against every coping mechanism you’ve ever learnt and allow me to carry you through.

You’ve learned the lessons of militance, and learned them well.
You’ve laid a foundation for truth.
But now I want to show you a different kind of strength:
Strength that appears vulnerable, broken, handed over.
Life that looks veiled by defeat.
Power that chooses to submit itself to a cross.
Sovereignty silenced for three days in a tomb.Suddenly that scene means a lot more.

I’m not going to abandon you.
You can be messy, uncertain, fragile and dependent.
You don’t have to hold it together.
You’re allowed to be angry and honest
Your rawness doesn’t faze me in the slightest.
You can say anything you need to here.
You can be you here.

Go on, take the risk,
Though it costs all you have,
Though the surrender terrifies you, let go, fall into me.
Find me: faithful, ever-present, more than enough.
Find me your Comforter.
Find me your Healer.
Find me your Strength and Shield.
Find me your Light and Hope.”

Weave Coloured Threads August 13, 2008

King stripped of royal robes
Over-flowing One poured out.
Father’s precious Son so far -
From light and hope and joy.

 

Holiness sullied by my mistakes
Hanging there, the weight of the world
On innocent shoulders
Redemption wasn’t cheap.

 

Great light of the world, Speak life to my darkness
Weave coloured threads into the grey of my shame
Transform my petulant scribbling into glory words
Create a landscaped garden from this scrap-heap of sin.

Answered Prayer August 13, 2008

Last night I marvelled as a prayer was answered in front of my eyes. It sounds like a small thing, but I was amazed to watch it unfold.

For about eight weeks, we’ve been looking for accommodation for someone who is coming to join us at Wandsworth for a year. It’s been a bit of a mission, finding places for people to stay often is, and we were all a little nonplussed, so we just prayed and prayed and hoped something would come up. Last night, we were sat in a prayer meeting, and the following conversation ensued:

Prayer Meeting Leader: We need to pray for accommodation for Person A too, because it’s proving tricky.

Prayer Meeting Attendee 1: Oh… I have a spare single room, will that help?

Prayer Meeting Leader: Oh… Yes… Wow, well that would be cool.

Everyone Else: Huurah!

I love it when stuff like that happens

Thoughts from Mark 5 August 12, 2008

I watch the procession from a distance at first, too frightened to get too close. What if someone recognises me? What if they can tell just by looking at me?

I’ve felt so different for so long, I’m sure it must be obvious. Is it written all over my face, – the label, this experience, my suffering?

Shame whispers its familiar suggestions, tormenting my bruised spirit: I shouldn’t be here. I am unworthy. He will reject me. He will look upon me and despise me. They will all know. I should be hiding, not out here in the noonday sun, not amongst these people, not daring to even glance in the direction of this Rabbi. Hope is not an option. I should turn back.

But it took everything I had just to get here; just to get close to him.

He was the one they were all talking about, rumours of his miracles filtering into desperate conversations, his name infiltrating the camps of the broken, the isolated, the dispossessed. Our hearts, long closed to the possibility of anything except barren survival, were roused by unfamiliar wonderings. We tried to pretend we weren’t bothered, we didn’t need anyone, we were fine just as we were, but secretly we saw him in our dreams and longed for him to find us.

Jolting back to the present, I remind myself that dreaming is futile. What was I doing here? Was this just another foolish whim? I try to squash the unwelcome bloom of desire deep within me. What if this was like before? Unbidden, the memories return: memories of a still hopeful-me, believing their promises, handing over my money, my dreams, myself, in a desperate search for wholeness. I did what they asked. I followed the steps. I drank their potions.

But it was never enough.

Hope is a dangerous thing.

Self-condemnation taunts me: I’m not good enough to be healed. I’m being punished for my sins. Obviously God knows how bad I am. I deserve to be alone. Maybe I should just accept my fate. Walk away from this man, this crowd, this last chance.

But I’ve got nothing left.

If this doesn’t work, I’m not sure how long I can fend off the flames of despair that persistently lick at the dry pages of my existence.

Hope is fragile. I’m hanging on by a thread.

Someone told me I was plucky, once, which is why I’m here. It’s why I snuck away from the only people who have ever shown me any acceptance: the unclean, the unloved, the other unworthy ones. It’s why I left before the sun rose, walking lonely miles battling with the thoughts in my head and the war in my soul. I guess it’s why I’m standing here, feeling so sullied and unworthy and degraded, amongst these- the normal the righteous, the whole.

But I didn’t walk all this way to turn back now.

Even as fear runs fluid through my veins. I must step forward.

Even if they discern my state, see my shame.  

Even if they push me aside, reinforcing my worthlessness.

Even if I am crushed into the ground for attempting such a thing, At least then I’ll know I tried everything.

Even If they stone me to death, what could be worse than what I am living now, anyway?

Hope is persistent. I’d spent days attempting to quieten the nagging conviction that he could make the difference, to no avail. And now, only metres from him, the belief is stronger than ever. I don’t understand it. Belief is something I’d tried to abandon: belief leads to hope, hope leads to vulnerability, vulnerability leads to disappointment. I knew this bitter cycle well.

I’ve tried everything, every route available. I’ve tried to heal myself; I’ve tried to pretend I don’t need healing, but I could never quell my desire to be like everyone else, to know love, to feel clean.

It’s now or never, and I’m not feeling so plucky now. My head screams at me to run, to turn back and slink away. A thousand ‘what-ifs’ taunt me with their consequences. I’m frightened.

Head-bowed, I step forwards, steeling myself with my familiar mantras:

Get it over with quickly.

Don’t make a fuss.

Don’t let anyone know how you feel.

Concentrate on the task at hand.

The jolting of the crowd shakes my lonely core. Physical touch is a sensation long forgotten. Trying not to think about those who crash against me, I must push forward. As for him, the Rabbi, I can’t speak to him, I couldn’t touch his hand, or look in his face, or let him see me. He would see, he would know, and, now I’m here, I’m not sure I could bear his wrath.

His rejection might just smash through the fragile dam holding back the agonising pain of every other rejection, all the loathing and hatred and despair of these twelve long years. I’m frightened that he will see the depths of the blackness in my soul, the clamouring fear and pain and disgust.

The noise frightens me, the pain nags consistently, the pushing and shoving threatens to overwhelm me. But it is just a few steps now, just a little further and then I will be able to touch his cloak. I can’t give up now. I can’t let the terror swamp me. I have to shut it all out, focussing only on touching that hem, that fabric, that life-line. I reach forwards.

I touch the dusty tassles of his cloak, and, in an instant, I am changed! I feel the fabric in my hand and the change in my body. It feels like everything happens in seconds and, at the same time, like all of time stands still. The bleeding stops. I am well. My heart swells but I won’t let myself cry out. I have to shrink away before anyone spots me.

But, to my horror, the Rabbi stops walking. He turns around, sweeping the crowds with his gaze. I look downwards, contempt creeping up the back of my neck, my face flushed with shame. He knows.

He says that power went out of him. There is noise, confusion, but I can’t hide, I’ve been caught. I brace myself, knowing there is no escape. Flinging myself down on the ground, like the nothing I am, I resort to the one option available. Falteringly, I tell the truth, spilling out why I came, what had happened, why I’d done it. Then I wait, face-down, for his rage.

But nothing happens, and I dare to look up then. I look someone in the eyes for the first time in years. The shouting crowds and their loud cries are silenced in those moments, as I look into eyes of pure love, pure compassion, pure mercy.

“Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace.”

This time, it’s not a physical sensation that takes my breath away, but the feeling of the self-hate and shame that near-consumed me, uncurling its tight grip from my heart. It is a peace I have never known seeping down into the depth of my soul, washing away the muddy residue of rejection, resentment and pain. It is the warm rays of love spreading into places long deadened by rejection and abandonment. It is hope unfettered, crowding out the decay of years of captivity, speaking of a fresh beginning.

I am astounded, awe-struck. He called me daughter. He accepted me. He made me well.

In that instant, my darkness is dispelled by a deep sense of cleansing and release. I feel whole, I feel renewed, I feel like there are colours in the spectrum I couldn’t see before. I feel shalom.

I know then it was worth the struggle, worth the jostling and uncertainty, it was worth fighting for this. On my knees before him I know he has transformed my broken life into something that reflects glory and light and purity.

Standing to my feet, with my head no longer bowed, I know where I need to go from here, now my shame has been taken away. It’s back to the others, back to those still bent double with despair and contempt. I’m desperate for them to touch his hem, to find that he will stop, pick them up, look them in the eyes and bring about a wholeness they could never have imagined.

A Beautiful Weekend August 11, 2008

Often my weekends seem to pass in a non-descript blur, or a flurry of work-related busyness. This weekend was a real exception though, and I loved it. It reminded me that God knows exactly what we need and when we need it. This weekend, I needed to kick back, to laugh and to relax, and I am so thankful that the last few days involved all of these.

My weekend kicked off on Thursday night, with a trip to see Mamma Mia, at the cinema. I had been a little cynical about all the hype, but pretty much as soon as the film began, I was loving it. I don’t think I’ve laughed that much for a long time, and I don’t think I’ve ever come out of a cinema feeling so cheered, so hopeful, so certain that life is good.

On Saturday I travelled to Canterbury to see a friend performing in a production of West Side Story. He did marvellously, navigating some complex costumic swapping, some daring dashes onto stage, and a battle with some young ruffians, which involved the loss of his hat. I really enjoyed the show, and was glad I’d gone. I love theatre, so this was a brilliant experience.

On Sunday we went to the seaside. It was gloriously sunny, we meandered along the lovely seafront, beveraged in a lovely bandstand, lunched on lovely fresh seaside fayre, wandered around a lovely harbour, and procured lovely ice cream. The seaside is one of my favourite places to be, and yesterday reminded me why.

The day ended with a service back at the church I attend on a Sunday evening. The worship was great, the sermon impacting, communion was intimate, and the whole experience felt like a really fitting end to a weekend that reminded me how abundant the gifts God lavishes upon us are.

Here are some of my favourite photos from the day:

Books & Films August 4, 2008

Somehow, amidst some rather circuitous dashing around the country last week, I managed to read two books and see one film. All of them impacted me in different ways, and so I thought I’d attempt to write about them here. These count as recommendations, by the way. Go read…

Firstly is a book called ‘The Declaration’, by Gemma Malley.

This book reminded me a lot of The Handmaids Tale, by Margaret Atwood. It’s the classic ‘Utopia gone wrong with severe consequences for a certain section of society’ story, but as it’s written for teenagers it’s not quite as dark as others I’ve read.

The thing that struck me most about this story was the way truth can pervade into the darkest of places and change someone’s life. I love what the story has to say about love. My fave quote has to be this one:

 ”Surplus meant unecessary, not required. You couldn’t be a Surplus if you were needed by someone else. Youn couldn’t be a surplus if you were loved.” 

The end was a little rushed, but it paves the way neatly for the sequel. It’s a little unemotional in places too, but it was definitely worth the read, and it made me think a lot (and cry too, somewhere between Doncaster and Leeds!!).

My second book of the week was, ‘On Chesil Beach’, by Ian McEwan.

Now, If I had a pound for every time I’ve nearly picked this book up to read, I’d be quite rich by now. I’m not sure what’s stopped me before, but last week I decided to go for it, and I’m really glad I did.

The story is quite intense, it covers just one evening. Although a lot of the background goes much further back, into the murky depths of what makes the two main characters (Edwards and Florence) who they are, and how their relationship develops and flounders.

I think what shocked me in this story was the lack of honesty the newly-wed couple were able to share. McEwan paints a historical picture well, you can almost visualise the staid confines of propriety and expectation. There is much unspoken, too, which adds to the sense of mystery and lack of communication. It’s a short book, but there is a depth of description and relational observation which makes it feel like a much longer book. Combining depth and brevity strikes me as a gift in writing.

This made me cry too (I promise I didn’t spend the whole weekend sobbing piteously!). And I can’t really explain why without giving the plot away, but I will say that it had me thinking and praying a lot afer I’d finished.

After all that reading, and with an afternoon in Bradford to kill. I decided to head to the cinema (if only to celebrate the £2.10 saving I made compared with cinema prices in London!). I decided to watch the new X Files movie, ‘I want to believe’.

I struggle with films if I can guess how the plot is going to pan out, so this was a refreshing change. (I decided against going to see Mamma Mia because I couldn’t face anything quite so cheery and saccharine). Again this made me think a lot.

Predominant themes running through were the nature of belief and forgiveness, so that was interesting from a Christian perspective. Some of the scenes were a little too gruesome for my liking; I went expecting aliens and unexplained phenomena, but the plot was very definitely about human nature, and the darkness within it!

It’s worth watching just to see Billy Connolly playing the part of Father Joe. Very creepy, very believeable. Very thought-provoking.

I should read books and watch films more, I forgot how much I like it.