The Marvels of Mandy September 22, 2008

I’ll start this post with a confession – I’m not very good at being ill. And definitely not very good at the ‘not being able to get out of bed to crawl to the door’ type of ill. My usual style is to pop a few ibuprofen and get on with it. But this weekend I couldn’t. I’m also not very good at asking for help. But this weekend was a marvellous example of how fantastic my friends are, and how they so often display love and compassion to me.  

At this point, let me introduce you to Mandy. Mandy is great – her place of residence is the beautiful town of Halesowen, she works as a social worker, and she has been a willing accomplice in many SA prayer adventures over the past three or four years. As a friend Mandy has joined me in many an escapade – our fantastic birthday trips this year being a noteworthy example.

This weekend, Mandy excelled herself. She jumped in her car, spontaneously driving from Birmingham to London at a moments notice, stopping only to go via Tescos to pick up much-needed supplies. She turned up at mine with a cheery smile and copious carrier bags.

Even in my slightly woozy and disorientated state, opening the bags I was a bit like a kid at Christmas. I won’t bore you with the whole list of goodies, but there was copious amounts of soup (yum… vegetables), chocolate mousse, latte, yoghurt, pureed fruit, and chocolate. I couldn’t think clearly enough to fix a meal, but Mandy dealt with all of that, and I quickly felt restored.

Sometimes, when you’re feeling poorly, a good natter makes a world of difference. And natter we did, about some of the bumps and intrigues of the past four weeks, about home and work and church, about our hopes and dreams and questions.

Yesterday we took it easy. Mandy took me to Sainsburys and filled my cupboards with more restorative delights. I now have plentiful supplies of lucozade, and tonic… (which is like this liquid stuff with loads of vitamins in, and it tastes amazing), plus more soup. Mandy even chose the flavours, as I just stood staring, overwhelmed and mute at the multiplicty of options. Then we went to starbucks, where Mandy returned with two cups of hot chocolate, piled high with more cream than I have ever ever seen.

One of the things I love about Mandy is her willingness to get ’stuck in’ to whatever is happening at the time. And last night was a supreme example of that. Church in Wandsworth is never dull, and last night was no exception. Mandy helped, cheered me along, and was generally marvellous until normality was restored. I was blessed that she would help like that, in a church she didn’t know and with people she’d never met before.

Mandy deserves much credit for ignoring my stubborn attempts to be independent and giving and serving selflessly. She didn’t complain at sleeping on slightly manky sofa cushions on my floor, and she genuinely turned what would have been a very difficult weekend, into one that was enjoyable and funny.

Dancing in my bedroom September 20, 2008

Often I like to dance in my bedroom
No-one can see me, and that’s fine. I’m not trained in dance, but that’s fine too.
Because it really isn’t about what it looks like.
But it’s about being alive. And able to move
And putting my hands in the air
And feeling the sun on my face
And twirling around
And having so much to celebrate.

Redemption & Expired Poets September 20, 2008

Being a somewhat studious teenager, I managed to avoid a lot of those films that were seminal to my peers. I am still regularly ridiculed for not having seen Grease, or Dirty Dancing etc.Over the last few weeks, I have been steadily rectifying this, and working my way through some of the backlog. This has been a joyous education (‘Oh, so that’s where that quote came from’…. ‘ahh, now I understand that joke’… etc).

Last Saturday night’s offering involved The Shawshank Redemption. I’ve seen clips many times, I’ve even used them in a sermon or two, but I’d never sat down and watched the whole thing. I wasn’t disappointed, although I did spend significant bits of it hiding behind a cushion with my fingers in my ears. Tee Hee.

I think the thing I liked most about Shawshank was its lessons about hope and perseverance. I was struck by the power struggle. A lot of the time it looked like injustice would triumph. It looked like there was no way to buck the trend or to maintain dignity. I loved the ending, the way everything was turned around. And it showed that victory wasn’t won overnight, it was planned, literally chipped away at day by day for thirty years. That’s patience!

One of the bits that struck me most was that, at the end, having dug a tunnel and crawled through it, the last leg of that crawl was 500m through a tiny sewage pipe. How often is that ‘last bit’ of any challenge seemingly the worst bit and the moment when the temptation to quit is strongest? But it’s all worth it when he is out of that pipe and feeling the rain on his chest and experiencing the scent of freedom, and that’s true in our lives too.

Last night I watched Dead Poets Society. I knew nothing about it, but as the film began, I was soon engrossed. I laughed, I cried, I was inspired.

Two quotes I thought especially marvellous were:

“I went into the woods because I wanted to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life … to put to rout all that was not life; and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”

“Now I’d like you to step forward over here. They’re not that different from you, are they? Same haircuts. Full of hormones, just like you. Invincible, just like you feel. The world is their oyster. They believe they’re destined for great things, just like many of you, their eyes are full of hope, just like you. Did they wait until it was too late to make from their lives even one iota of what they were capable? Because, you see gentlemen, these boys are now fertilizing daffodils. But if you listen real close, you can hear them whisper their legacy to you. Go on, lean in. Listen, you hear it? — Carpe — hear it? — Carpe, carpe diem, seize the day boys, make your lives extraordinary.”
With hindsight, I notice that the themes were actually pretty similar to Shawshank. Take a repressive situation, add some characters who will shake that up a bit, throw in a devastating plot twist or two so it looks like they will be utterly subjugated, and then have hope and freedom triumph at the end.

In Dead Poets, that freedom is marred by pain. It is hard won, and tinged with a real sorrow. By the end, I was sat on my friend’s sofa, amazed again by the strength of individuality, and yet raging against those situations which seek to oppress and force people to conform.

And that’s perhaps why I don’t watch many films. Because I can’t bear to see a situation played out on screen that I know happens, in real life, all too often. Maybe without the 1950’s music and the standing on tables, but in homes and schools and workplaces and dare I say even churches across this city. And I want to stand on a table then. To say it doesn’t have to be this way. To encourage people to stand up, to face whatever would seek to repress them, to hold on in those situations where it feels like all life and colour is being drained out of their world, to wait for that moment when the back door is left unlocked and God says, ‘Go… run now. This is your time for freedom’.

And I want to find those who have run from those situations, only to find themselves in worse captivity. Prisoners to substance, or sex, or despair. And I want them to know that freedom is possible. That rescue is on the way. That there is a God who loves them desperately and has a plan for their redemption. And that they too, can live boldly, can rise above all that life has thrown at them, can find hope and joy and experience the rain falling on their faces and the scent of freedom turning everything around.

Hope, Vulnerability, Intimacy September 16, 2008

The question? How can I develop a healthy self-image when every formative influence in my life taught me half truths, or worse, complete fallacies?

It’s one of those, ‘if I had a pound for every time’ moments. Maybe it’s worded slightly differently, maybe it’s not so bold an admission, but the confusion and longing in the words is the same. And I’m looking beyond, beyond a girl with her nails manicured immaculately, beyond the teenager hidden in swathes of baggy clothes, beyond the studious violin virtuoso who practices to drown out the discordant insecurity in his heart. Their cry is the same.

What hope is there? For those of us who didn’t have the cosy luxury of 2.4 security? For those who had to scratch and scramble their way to survival. Those of us from the ‘wrong’ side of town, with the ‘wrong’ surname, with opinions and experiences alien to the status quo? How do we ‘make it?’

It’s in conversations like that where I wish there was a book that spells it out. Where I wish there was a neat 2+2 formula: read these Bible passages, add 3.6 hours of prayer, divide with the square root of forgiveness and all will be well. I’m an organised person and, so often, I find myself wishing there were rules, patterns, a neat path through what sometimes seems insurmountable terrain.

But wishing doesn’t answer the question. Wishing doesn’t encourage the person sitting in front of me. Wishing doesn’t comfort anyone in the middle of the night when sleep is elusive. What can be done? What does make the difference? How do you begin to chip away at the pesky suggestions of unworthiness? How do you start to silence the whispers of shame, blame and condemnation?

I love the line in the ‘wear sunscreen’ song, where Baz Luhrman talks about the basis for his advice being solely his own meandering experience. I find myself thinking that walking this journey out gives you a clearer picture than the even best textbook could. It is meandering, imperfect, unfinished but honest.

Sometimes my answers are more coherent than other times. But they usually centre around a few factors.

Hope
Where do we get it, if we have none? And worse, what about those times when we have dared to gather up the fragile flakes of it, from the edges of our existence, only for them to be smashed and crushed? Job puts it like this: “when I hoped for good, evil came; when I looked for light, then came darkness. (ch 30:26). For me, hope is a bit like a tow rope: it looks limp and insignificant, but it connects you to something that can pull you onwards, even if your own engine is corroded and broken. When you’re being towed, you can do little else but cling on and trust that the vehicle towing you is strong enough (Is it obvious here that I had some unfortunate childhood experiences with an ageing Lada?). You can’t necessarily see what’s in front but you will make it to your destination. It is God’s responsibility and strength that will direct us into truth, but it is our choice to hope, even when it seems futile, that connects us to him and pulls us away from a life stranded on the hard shoulder with no packed lunch. Determination, persistency, hanging in with gritted teeth even when it feels like we have no fight left; it all works together for good in this stuff.

Vulnerability
I spend a lot of time thinking about the relationship between fight and surrender, strength and weakness, what is victory and what is not. I’m loving the Message translation of 1 Corinthians 1:25: “Human wisdom is so tinny, so impotent, next to the seeming absurdity of God. Human strength can’t begin to compete with God’s ‘weakness’.” The ‘seeming absurdity of God’… yeah, I see that. In this stuff it’s the moments where he asks us to give in and let ourselves need Him and other people, the times we’re called to trust, even though it has got us into deep and dangerous waters before, the challenge to admit that we don’t have all the answers neatly scribed in a perfect paperchase notebook… that’s so opposite to what the world (and the church?) would call strength sometimes. Jesus’ greatest victory was won through torture, death and seeming defeat, Often we learn the most vital truths about identity when it looks like we are broken beyond repair.

Intimacy
Hmmm, this one’s a bit of a paradox. Struggling to understand our identity makes it hard to believe that God would want to spend time with us. The pesky whispers suggest that everyone else can connect with him effortlessly, but for us it’s like trying to carry out a mobile phone call on a cross country train – erratic, interrupted, and broken up by repetitive tunnels. And then I think of Peter… Insecure, hotheaded, outspoken… And I love the whole exchange after Peter has denied Jesus. He doesn’t just brush over the embarrassment, and he doesn’t flay Peter for his betrayal… Jesus’ reaction brings redemption to the situation. And, in asking Peter to affirm his love, there springs out something of destiny. When we can hold, even briefly, the brave thought that our stumbling and inconsistencies do not exclude us from his love or his plan, when we find we can whisper, ‘you know I love you’, even if we speak with stuttering uncertainty, I believe something exciting happens.

I think I used to think that some of us had the advantage of a healthy grasp of our identity and some of us had to do without it. But I am increasingly sure that it isn’t this black and white. I’m finding we’re all more murky shades of grey. We are all more secure in certain areas than others, we’re all on a journey where we can find out a little bit more of this truth every day. It isn’t an obstacle we jump over and then forever count as conquered. Most of all, I feel like it is an adventure. Like those scratch-cards where you have to rub away the silver coating with a coin to see what is hidden underneath, we’re all in a state of ‘mid-uncovered-ness’… but our value is greater than any figure even the most shiny one could ever state!

Meandering Thoughts September 15, 2008

“Divorced from the brilliant light, we live in a type of exile from our true selves and from what is deepest in creation. Forgetful of our nobility we live in ignorance instead of wisdom, fear instead of love, fantasy instead of reality. The gospel is given to restore our memory of what lies deepest within us.” (Philip Newman)

This has to be one of my favourite quotes. I heard it in a teaching seminar years ago. Now it is tacked to the side of my pc screen. So, in theory, I see it every working day. But mostly, I don’t notice it. I’m used to it, you see. Just like I’m used to the post-it Bible verses stuck to the disk drive, the smattering of prophetic words pinned to the desk-divide, and the cut out songwords that reminded me of a once striking truth.

The irony of that amuses me. The quote speaks about how easy it is to forget who we are, how loved we are, the value of our existence, and there am I overlooking it, transfixed instead by fleeting words on an email or something.

It isn’t just the forgetting that strikes me as a problem. Sometimes life throws stuff at us which is expressly designed to cause us to forget who we really are. We get bogged down by guilt, regret, shame or condemnation. Some friends of mine have an older car. When you turn the windscreen wipers on they just smear the water around, until it’s harder to see than before you did it. Often we’re trying to see through a windscreen thats splattered and smeared and our visibility is restricted.

And then I lie awake at night thinking… But, what if we remembered? What if the windscreen got cleared? What if the scales fell off our eyes and we could truly see ourselves as God does? What if fear and fantasy fell away? if shame and secrecy became a thing of history? What if we woke up knowing? 

What lays deepest within us is not the decisions we have made. It is not the paths we have choosen or those we were led kicking and screaming down. It is not the smattering of skills we have managed to attain or the fragile relational structures we hide within. It is not the information we fill in neatly on census-forms, or the way we see ourselves when we gaze mutely into the mirror. It is not the mistakes we made and then franticly tried to cover-up. It is not the whispered fears that plague our sleepless moments.

What lies within us. All of us. Is good.

The image of a creator, treasure unmarred by circumstance, hope that will beat away unbreakable. It is the knowledge that this is temporary – this hurt, this struggle, this loneliness is not for keeps. It’s the capacity that grace awaits to fill. It’s forgiveness, that can clear a path through the thickest, most choking weeds, and find the garden blooming away unhindered behind secret doors. It is what it means to be a child of the Most High. He who never slumbers or sleeps, guarding every step, counting every tear. It’s the yearning for home, the pull towards redemption, the truth that who we are does not amount to what we have done. It is the capacity to love, even when all we have known is the opposite. It is the breath of I AM, bringing us to life.

Psalm 33:20-22 (MSG) September 14, 2008

 We’re depending on God;
      he’s everything we need.
   What’s more, our hearts brim with joy
      since we’ve taken for our own his holy name.
   Love us, God, with all you’ve got—
      that’s what we’re depending on.

Runaway September 10, 2008

Unsafe, she grabs a T-shirt and runs.
She doesn’t think where she is going, just away.
Away from the noise and tension and instability.
Away from rules she doesn’t understand and love that shifts like shadows.
Away from hope that rises up, only to be dashed again.
She is bold tonight, adrenalin making her brave as she bolts for freedom.
She has been waiting for this for so long, and nothing will stop her now.
Irrepressible from the start, her spark never could be shut out.
Maybe it was the gritty east-end DNA, or the fire of the spirit burning away unrecognised in her veins, but it burns defiant from her eyes.
And she keeps getting up; no matter how hard the knocks, she bounces right back, hopeful.
She doesn’t stop to lick her wounds but runs ahead, plumbing the depths of a future designed.
Now she is running through dark September streets.
She is frightened but there is no need to look over her shoulder now.
An angel army camps alongside her.
Promise beats steadily in her scarred heart speaking of life in fullness.
Abundance.
Joy.
Hope for captives in dark dungeons.
Beauty instead of ashes, and a garment of praise in place of heaviness.
She will take the chance.
She will push to see the transformation she has dreamed of for so long.
She won’t stay in the places where visions are locked behind iron bars, but will run till she finds ground where they can flourish.
She is dangerously optimistic.
Even the worst bruises fail to subdue her belief in a happy ending.
She does not advertise her misfortune or seek vengeance but holds tightly the hand of her Redeemer.
She gazes into His eyes, encountering tenderness.
Her guarded heart dares to peek around its barricades and begins to open up.
She looks up at the stars and focuses on their beauty.
Sleeping on friends floors she breathes safety in deeply.
Towers fall and it seems her world has crashed down too, but she is resolute.
She will hold on until spring comes again.
She will paint the watercolour of grace over the smudged pastels of despair.
She will compose symphony from the jangling discord of her loss.
There is an intimacy that will blossom up from this soil.
And she will look back and marvel at its tenacity.
The grace pulsating through the years since that cold night, unchanging.
Keeping her going as she learns to fall into her Saviour’s arms.
Loving her back when she chooses distance.
Speaking consistently as she bends to hear.
She revels in Him.
And He desires her.

Prayer Day thoughts September 9, 2008

Saturday morning dawned, grey and drizzly, as I lugged a bright pink stuffed suitcase round the corner. The time: 7am, the purpose: a prayer day at a SA church not far from the town I grew up in.

Bleary-eyed, we navigated our way to the M1, which was in a state of roadwork-related disarray but thankfully not too busy. It was at this point that I realised I had brought pages 1,2,3 and 5 of 5 of the directions, but that the all-important page 4 of 5 had dematerialised.

(We wondered why it always seems to be the vital page that disappears at a moment like this. We didn’t need to know how to get from Wandsworth to the M1, but having an idea what to do once we turned off the motorway would have been useful. Anyway…)

Once we made it to the church building (with only a bit of creative directional improvisation), we were swiftly ensconced in set up: laying craft items out on a table, tearing up sheets of newspaper for under chairs, distributing pots of play-dough, putting Jelly Babies in bowls at the front. When the first delegates came in, they were heard to wonder whether they had walked into a playgroup… musing that made me smile a lot.

Helped by some coffee, we got into the swing of teaching: I expounded wildly about how we pray most comfortably in different ‘styles’, according to our personalities. The lovely delegates made collages, practised centring prayer, went on a short walk, found newspaper articles to pray about, and made models from the aforementioned play-dough depicting, something/someone they were praying for at the moment.

Then we had soup… amazing soup - leek and potato of the highest variety. I love meal times at days like this, just to be so mixed into the life of a church, hearing the conversations, sharing some of their journey, learning of their hopes, dreams and struggles. Laughing with people I’ve just met, though feeling as if I’ve known them for years.

After lunch the teaching fun continued. This time we thought about our distinct roles in prayer – as intercessors, watchmen, spies, armour-bearers, prophets and overseers. It was so exciting to see lights going on in people’s eyes, and to hear the buzz of excited conversation as people with the same role gathered in small groups and chatted, dreamed and prayed together.

Later in the day, we gathered in a restaurant, debriefing about the day and continuing some of the conversations that we’d begun. We learned about each others lives, we shared our joys and pain, it felt like family. We didn’t feel like visitors, but like we were at home. Over our free salads we discussed ways forward, and how to build on those conversations. Then we travelled back to the main church building, wandered around seeing all the different rooms, hearing about the different ministries that take place in them, again feeling privileged to hear some of the energy and inspiration behind them.

After this it was back on the road, back up the motorway, back through the sleepy streets of London and back to our homes. I was left marvelling again at the exciting things God is doing in the Salvation Army in the UK, how prayer is still steadily pulsing away on the agenda and what a privilege it is to be able to catch glimpses of how that looks in practice.

Lament for the Bride September 8, 2008

God of Good News
See these ruins surrounding us.
Observe the chains of our captivity.
Give ear to these songs of bereavement.Father of Light
This night has been long now.
Dawn, just a fading rumour.
We’ve stumbled in the bitter dark.

Lord of hosts
See these crumbling citadels.
We have been plundered.
The gold of our inheritance exchanged for iron bars.

Give ear to us,
You who love justice.
Come quickly to our aid,
As we groan under the load of exhaustion.

Forgive us our many sins.
We lie, face down in the ashes.
Wash away the stains of our idolatry
In your mercy, restore our purity.

God of grace, we long
For a crown of beauty, for ashes.
For the oil of gladness, instead of mourning.
For the garment of praise, for this spirit of heaviness.

A girly moment! September 5, 2008

Recently I have found a new outlet for my creativity. About a month ago the lovely Mandy and I went to Hobbycraft (a.k.a Vicki’s favourite shop in the world). We brought some beads and when we got back to her house we spent the evening making earrings, bracelets and necklaces. I got the bug!

Since then I have been messing around with beads and hooks and pliers and have really got into creating earrings. They’re all a bit amateur at the mo but I’ll get there.

Thought I’d share some pictures of my first creations!